The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 04

by Anthology

  "I imagine they'd find them quite interesting."

  "Do you think we can assume the tenth android died also?"

  "Perhaps. We have no proof that it killed the one found slain in Greenwich Village."

  "I'm satisfied to assume that. But I'm wondering just what contact those 'people,' as you call them, had with their androids. Could a part of the brain have been a sending and receiving device?"

  "It would be difficult to tell. I delved in far enough to find a mechanical device, if there had been one. It did not exist in those I dissected. There is another possibility though, except that we often make the mistake of assuming that what we humans on earth can't do, can't be done. Consider telepathy. Who's to say they were not made capable of communicating in that way—at whatever distance?" He paused for a moment, deep in thought, before going on. "Has it occurred to you that the tenth android might be a supervisor, the boss, the captain? If he is still alive, why haven't you found him? You have the men and facilities at your command."

  Brent Taber sprang to his feet. "Doctor," he answered, scowling, "Did you ever hear of a project so secret that it couldn't even be given enough personnel to make it work?"

  Entman smiled sympathetically. "Washington is a strange place in some ways, son. Usually it's the other way around. You get so much help they get in each other's way. I'm glad I'm not involved in those phases of it."

  Brent paced the floor, occupied with his own thoughts. It was more than mere frustration. It went deeper. There was his resentment of the dressing-down he'd taken from Authority; the subtle coolness that had begun to permeate his relations with those upstairs.

  He jerked his mind away from such thoughts. Nerves. That was it. He was tense. He was imagining things. They were certainly too well aware of the gravity of this situation to let petty politics interfere.

  Or were they?

  "Okay, Doc," Brent said crisply. "Thanks for letting me pick your brain."

  "Good luck, son."

  Entman went back to his work and Taber left. As he walked down the corridor, he analyzed the cheerful tone of Entman's voice and told himself that even Entman didn't really believe it. Entman had the evidence before his eyes but he still couldn't get the concept of alien creatures from space really taking us over. It was too unbelievable.

  Am I the only one who really believes it? He asked himself this question as he hailed a cab in the street and watched a fat man in a bowler hat slip in and take it away from him.

  "You're slipping, Taber," he muttered. "You're definitely slipping."

  * * * * *

  The bell rang. Rhoda Kane opened the door. The man standing there was not extraordinary in any way. He appeared just short of middle age. He wore a blue suit and a blue necktie. The word for him was quiet. He was a man who did not stand out.

  "My name is John Dennis," he said. "I would like to speak to you."

  The abrupt demand annoyed Rhoda. She frowned and was about to retort just as peremptorily, but an odd bemusement tempered her mood. The man was uncivil enough to be interesting. She said, "I'm busy now," but instead of closing the door, she stepped back into the room. The man came in and it was he who closed the door.

  "I don't wish to alarm you, Miss Kane."

  "I'm not in the least alarmed."

  As she spoke, Rhoda wondered if this was true. But the wondering itself was on such an impersonal basis that it didn't seem to make much difference.

  Also, she was noticing that John Dennis was not quite as he'd first appeared. He was much younger than middle-aged, really—somewhere in his thirties. He was quiet, yes, but handsome, too. There was a rugged individuality about him that was easily missed at first glance. A definite attractiveness.

  "I want to ask you about a friend of yours. Frank Corson."

  This seemed like a logical request. It definitely seemed that way but, at the same time, Rhoda was confused as to why it should appear to be. A man came and knocked on the door and entered and asked a question like that. It shouldn't have been all right, but it was. He probably had the right, she told herself, else he would not have asked.

  "What do you wish to know?"

  "Tell me about him."

  "He is a doctor. Frank is an intern at Park Hill Hospital. After he finishes there he will go into practice. I guess that's about all there is to it."

  "He had a patient named William Matson."

  "William Matson? I don't know. He doesn't discuss his work with me."

  "This was a patient with a broken leg who was taken to the hospital night before last."

  "He did mention one man. I don't know his name, though. A man Frank said had two hearts."

  "What else did he tell you about this man?"

  "Nothing else. Frank had the case in Emergency. We came home—came here—and then Frank was bothered. He went back and examined the man and came out and said he had two hearts."

  "That was all he said?"

  "Nothing else."

  John Dennis looked around. Then, when Rhoda stirred and passed a hand quickly through her hair, he brought his eyes back to bear on hers. Rhoda lowered her hand.

  "Does Frank Corson live here?"

  "No. This is my home. Frank lives in the Village."

  "What Village?"

  "Greenwich Village. It's a part of New York. Are you a stranger?"

  John Dennis did not answer. "Why doesn't he live here with you?"

  "Why—why, we're not married. We are only engaged."

  "That means you will get married later?"

  "I hope to."

  "Does he hope to?"

  "Yes—I'm sure he does."

  "Then he will live here with you?"

  "I don't know. We may find another place."

  "What's wrong with this one?"

  "Why, nothing—nothing at all—"

  Such strange questions, Rhoda thought. Why was he asking them? No doubt he had a reason. It somehow did not occur to her to wonder why she was answering. Her own thoughts on the matter did not seem important.

  "He lives here with you sometimes, doesn't he?"

  "He stays over once in a while."

  "Why doesn't he stay over all the time?"

  "Because we're not married."

  "What do you do when he stays over?"

  "We—talk."

  "Is that all?"

  "We make love."

  "How do you do that?"

  Rhoda hesitated for the first time. "We—haven't you ever made love?"

  His words came a little sharper. "How do you make love?"

  "We lie in each other's arms. We show affection for each other."

  "You lie in the same bed together?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "If you were married, what would you do?"

  "I said—we would live together."

  "Would you make love?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you lie in the same bed together?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there anything you would do if you were married that you don't do now?"

  "Of course. We would live together. We would be man and wife. It would be—well, legal."

  "It is not legal to make love and lie in the same bed together now?"

  "No—well, yes—you see—"

  He was joking, of course. Rhoda was sure of this. She wanted to explain it all to him but he suddenly lost interest.

  "Frank Corson knew nothing else about William Matson?"

  "The man with two hearts?"

  "Only that?"

  "It was all he told me."

  "I think he knows more. I want you to ask him. Then I will come and ask you."

  "I'll ask him if he knows anything more than what he told me."

  "Ask him if he knows of any other men with two hearts. I want to know where they are and what happened to them."

  "I'll try to find out."

  "You must find out."

  "Will you come back soon?"

  "I will come back. You must do as I tell you."


  "I will do as you tell me."

  John Dennis had been sitting by the window so that Rhoda had to stare into the light. He got up and approached her. She stood up and waited for him, motionless. He came close and looked at her curiously. His eyes went up and down her body. He laid a hand on her left breast and pressed gently. She did not move.

  "I will come back. You will not tell anyone I have been here or that we talked." He left without saying good-bye.

  After he was gone, Rhoda stood where she was, motionless, for several minutes. Her mind was on the place he had touched her. She had never before experienced such a reaction. Never before had a man's hand, even on her bare flesh, produced such thrill and excitement. Desperately, her common sense struggled with this new thing. She dismissed with annoyance the callow, schoolgirl thought that this was the way love finally came—in the door, unannounced, to take over a woman's heart and soul and body. Ridiculous.

  The intellectual Rhoda agreed, but the emotional Rhoda continued to toy with the idea, finding it a fascination, a joy. But there was something more than the intellectual and the emotional; a deeper, frightening numbness; a strange paralysis of mind she could not come to grips with; it kept eluding her even as she reached out for it.

  Fear? She wondered.

  But mainly she thought of John Dennis, the strange man who had walked in her door and to whom she had surrendered without a struggle.

  My God. What happened to me? What happened to Rhoda Kane?

  Abruptly she dropped the thought—it did not seem important.

  * * * * *

  Senator Crane sat in the dining room of the Mayflower Hotel. His guest was Matthew Porter, a mystery man, also, of the Brent Taber type, but a little more clearly defined in that he had a title and a department of government. But far more important to Crane, he outranked Taber.

  One other point of importance: Matthew Porter was, in the terms even Senator Crane used, "something of a fathead."

  "Maybe I am a Senator," Crane said jovially, "and maybe we boys up there think we have a hand in directing you fellows—still I'm flattered that you could find time to lunch with me."

  Porter had a thin, aristocratic face, delicate features. His expression was usually benign, but there was steel behind it. He could scowl and hurl righteous invective, for instance, when a policeman questioned his right to park by a fireplug in spite of his official license plates.

  But mainly he was a shy person who nursed his inferiority complex in secret.

  "That's very flattering, Senator. But the truth is quite the opposite. It's we fellows who are honored to put ourselves at your beck and call. After all, you're the ones the people elect to office."

  The flattery boomeranged nicely and put Porter one up on Crane.

  "The people must be served, of course," Crane said, "and that's one of the things I want to talk to you about. The people's interests."

  Matthew Porter cocked an alarmed eye as he bit into a roll. "Have their interests been violated?"

  Crane glanced around and lowered his voice. "There's been too much loose talk going around about that project you've got Brent Taber on."

  Porter laid the roll down very carefully, as though he feared it might go off. "I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, Senator."

  "Your reticence is quite understandable. That I bring it up at all must shock you, but—" Crane hesitated, a touch of sadness brushing across his face.

  "But what, Senator?"

  "You understand, certainly, that I hold the greatest respect for Brent Taber. That's why I hesitated to come to you."

  "It seems to me Halliday said something about calling Taber in. It had to do with a mild reprimand over Taber's attitude on legislative-executive relations."

  "Halliday?" Senator Crane asked innocently. "He's another of the really good men you picked for government service."

  "I trust Halliday implicitly, but he's carrying a big load so I'm glad you came directly to me, Senator. Exactly what is the trouble?"

  "In plain words, there have been some bad leaks out of Taber's office. There is in existence a taped recording of a meeting."

  Porter was aghast. He tried to hide it, which made his greenish expression all the more ludicrous—as though he'd swallowed a worm out of his salad.

  "Impossible."

  "You'd think so, with all the top-secret precautions that have been taken."

  "How did you discover this?"

  Crane held up a restraining hand. "I'd be happy to tell you if it would serve any purpose, but believe me, it wouldn't. I would only tend to eliminate a contact who is extremely loyal to me and—I might add—to good government."

  "I understand. But I certainly can't imagine what has happened to Taber. I would have backed him with my last dime."

  "I actually don't think it was Taber's fault. A man can't personally see to every detail in his department."

  "That's the responsibility of whoever is in charge."

  Crane sighed. "Yes, I guess that's a cold, hard fact of life in this time of danger. But don't be too hard on him. Perhaps there's an explanation."

  "He'll have his chance to explain," Porter said grimly.

  "I'm sure you understand how it pains me to have to—well, put this black mark on the record of a good man. I debated many hours and searched my soul before I came to you. With a man's career at stake—"

  "Men are expendable," Porter snapped. "The nation's safety is not."

  Again Crane glanced around. "Are the Russians really that far ahead?"

  Porter's eyes narrowed just a shade. "The Russians? Did you listen to the tape you mentioned?"

  "Only sketchily. I assumed—"

  "The danger is far greater. A Senatorial committee was briefed on the thing. I honestly think you should have been on that committee, Senator. By coming to me you've done far more toward protecting the nation's safety—and that of the world—than have any of your colleagues."

  "Let's just say I had more opportunity."

  "Your modesty is becoming."

  "And now," Crane said wryly, "now that I've done all I can, I wish I could forget the whole thing. But with the gravity of the situation—"

  "I'll see that you get a complete briefing."

  "Thank you. And I promise I'll be most discreet."

  A little while later, on the way back to his office, Crane smiled. Now maybe that self-important little son-of-a-bitch, Taber, would find out what it meant to insult a United States Senator.

  From there, his mind went to another insult. So they'd passed him up in forming the committee to hear about the damned androids, had they? Well, by God, he'd show them the people of his state wouldn't tolerate that, either.

  The people back home were going to hear about their Senator.

  It probably wouldn't even be necessary to campaign next year.

  7

  "If you've changed your mind about anything—about us, maybe—just say so. I'll understand." Frank Corson felt he had to make this point—at this particular time. There was something inevitable in the need to do so.

  "You're being ridiculous. The old thing about money again," Rhoda parried.

  "There's nothing old about money. The problem is ever new. It's always with us."

  Rhoda Kane wanted to cry. She sat on the floor beside the sofa on which Frank Corson lay, his hands behind his head, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to say, Darling, what's happened to me? What is this thing inside me that keeps blocking me away from you? Why can't I tell you about it?

  But she could not say this. She could only push the tears back and lay her head seductively on his chest. "You're just tired, dear. You've been working too hard."

  He ran his hand petulantly through her hair. "It isn't me. It's you, Rhoda. Half the time you don't even realize I'm talking to you. You're getting such a faraway look in your eyes I'm beginning to think there's another man."

  "That's silly," she said lightly. "Let me make you a drink."
/>   "I don't want a drink."

  The way he responded to her kiss indicated he didn't want to make love, either. Rhoda settled back to the floor and said, "Darling—"

  Suddenly she couldn't go on. Somewhere inside, a dam broke; the strange, bewildering block tottered and began to fall. "Darling—there's something I want to tell you—"

  Frank Corson indicated with a jerk of his head. "The phone's ringing."

  "Let it ring. Darling, I—"

  "For heaven's sake, answer it, Rhoda. It might be important."

  She got up, went to the phone and picked it up. "Hello."

  "This is John Dennis."

  She felt that frightening excitement again—that feeling of dangerous delight at something forbidden. "Yes?"

  "Do you remember what I told you to do?"

  "Yes."

  "Has it been done?"

  "Not yet."

  "Why have you not done it?"

  "I haven't had a chance."

  "You have a chance now. Frank Corson is in your home."

  "Yes. I have a chance now."

  The phone clicked. Rhoda put it down and went back to the sofa. As she sank to the floor, Frank Corson looked at her questioningly.

  "That was certainly a cryptic conversation."

  When Rhoda didn't answer, he scowled and snapped, "There you go again. Into the brown study."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, dear."

  "What was the phone call about?"

  "My hairdresser. It was nothing."

  "Weird conversation to have with a hairdresser."

  "He's a weird hairdresser."

  "What had you started to say when the phone rang?"

  "It just occurred to me—you never told me what happened when that government man talked to you."

  Frank wished she hadn't brought that up. He'd been ordered to keep the incident in his room strictly to himself. That hadn't been too difficult. It had been hard not to look on the thing as a murder. The blood had looked real and so had the body.

  But if that was the way Brent Taber wanted it, all right. Frank was amazed at how smoothly everything had been handled. There hadn't even been a police car at the door—just an unmarked delivery truck and two men carrying out what might have been a rolled-up rug.

  And that had been that.

  "He didn't say much. Actually, there was no point in mentioning it to you."