Ten From Infinity

P >> Paul W. Fairman >> Ten From Infinity

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_Good lord_, Taber groaned inwardly. _This thing is turning into a comic
opera--plain slapstick._

"And why am I the man to see?"

"Because they said you knew about a man with a broken leg who got killed
or something."

"They said that?"

"Uh-huh, and if you'd just let me see the man, I could tell in a jiffy
whether he's Jack or not."

It had been a pretty long speech and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to
get it off his chest. He felt he'd earned a cigarette so he lit one.

Brent Taber watched the match go out and then said, "You're the
Goddamnedest phony I've met this week."

"They said you'd say that, but all I want is to see the man and then
I'll know. I'll tell you in a jiffy if he's my brother."

"All right."

Charles Blackwell gulped a throatful of smoke in disbelief. Evidently
they'd told him it wouldn't be as easy as this. They must have told him
it would be as hard as hell, because he stared at Brent as though the
latter hadn't played fair.

Brent reached into a drawer and took out a glossy photo. He pushed it
across the desk. Charles Blackwell craned his neck, looked, and saw what
appeared to be a man lying naked on a marble slab with his throat cut.

Blackwell swallowed hard and nodded and said, "Yeah, that's Jack, all
right."

"How do you know?"

"I can tell."

"You can?"

Charles Blackwell got a little indignant. "Of course, I can. Don't you
think a man knows his own brother?"

"That depends on which man and what brother."

"I want the body of my relative," Charles Blackwell said.

"I'll see you in hell first," Brent Taber replied pleasantly. "Now get
out of my office before I send for the man who uses the broom around
here."

Charles Blackwell was more comfortable now--more confident. "That's what
they told me you'd say, so they gave me this to bring. It's a court
order signed by a judge who sits in a court and listens to people's
beefs about getting pushed around and does something about it."

Brent Taber took the paper and peered at the signature. "It figures," he
said softly. "It figures right down the line."

"He's a fine judge," Charles Blackwell said virtuously.

"He's a skunk. He'll sign anything there's a buck in, and sometimes
he'll do it for fifty cents. He'd be a disgrace even to a park bench,
and why they haven't caught up with him I'll never know."

"A fine man," Charles Blackwell said, "and the paper is as legal as--"

"Oh, it's legal all right."

Brent Taber lapsed into silence and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to
allow him this privilege. _All I need_, Brent thought, _is a
court-defiance rap charged against me. Is that what Crane is trying to
get? Did he expect me to throw this creep out of my office and leave
myself wide open? Maybe, maybe not. If not, what is Crane after? He's
certainly achieved his purpose in getting even with an upstart
government appointee._

"Okay," Brent Taber said decisively. "You can have the body. Come with
me."

He got up, put on his hat, and strode out through the reception room and
into the corridor. Charles Blackwell came scuttling along behind. Brent
ignored the elevators and went through a door marked _Stairway_ and
started down at a fast clip. Charles Blackwell came clopping along
behind.

Six flights lower down, Blackwell gasped, "Why don't we use the
el--elevator?"

Brent ignored him and went down seventeen more flights. Charles
Blackwell was livid when they reached the bottom.

"For Christ sake--!"

Taber walked to the curb and dived out into traffic. Blackwell plunged
out after him, horns snarling and general indignation ruling above the
chaos.

They reached the opposite curb through some obscure miracle, with
Blackwell hanging on grimly until Taber pushed a door open and plunged
into a thick odor of formaldehyde.

"Have you still got that court order?" Taber asked as though hopeful of
a negative answer.

Blackwell held it up triumphantly. A few minutes later, he was gaping
down at a hasty reassembly of what had once been the ninth android.

He swallowed hard and said, "Nope. It ain't Jack."

"You're sure?" Taber said sarcastically. "It looks just like the
picture.

"Not quite. Anyhow, it ain't Jack."

The mystified Dr. Entman eyed Taber quizzically. "What's this all
about?"

Taber jerked a thumb in the direction of Blackwell. "The eleventh
android," he said tersely, and strode out of the laboratory.

Dr. Entman shook his head sadly, certain that Taber had slipped a cog.

* * * * *

Charles Blackwell, a trifle ill from the smell of formaldehyde, stood on
the corner, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened his
eyes a man in a blue suit was standing beside him.

"I would like you to answer some questions for me," the man said.

Blackwell gulped and blinked. "Sorry, mister, I'm kind of a stranger
here myself."

"That man you entered this building with--what business did you have
with him?"

It should have occurred to Charles Blackwell that this was none of the
stranger's business, but it didn't. That thought came later but, at the
moment, as he looked into the man's oddly empty eyes, his question
seemed entirely justified.

"Well, you see, my brother Jack bothers us, kind of. He gets
manic-depressive spells."

"What did that have to do with Brent Taber?"

"We thought maybe my brother broke his leg and then dropped dead or--or
something. Anyhow, I got this here court order--they gave it to me--and
I showed it to Taber--"

"Who are _they_?"

Blackwell felt strangely excited. He felt as though this man were a
friend, although he didn't know quite why.

"Well, you see I've been around a long time. I run errands and things
for Senator Crane. I'm confidential to him, you understand, because I
never talk. I always keep my mouth shut. So he trusts me and he gave me
this here court order--"

"Who is Senator Crane?"

"You don't know Senator Crane? You new in this country maybe?"

"He is a government official?"

"He's elected to office. He's a United States Senator. Anyhow, Brent
Taber showed me this here guy all cut up and I said it wasn't Jack
and--well, that was that."

"What room did Brent Taber take you to?"

"The damn place smelled like a skunk factory."

"What room number?"

"Ten twenty-six--I think. Yeah, ten twenty-six it was, and I'm telling
you, if you go in there, for Christ sake wear a gas mask. I damn near--"

But Charles Blackwell was talking to himself. The man had turned away
abruptly and was now disappearing around the corner.

"I wonder what the hell he wanted?" Blackwell asked plaintively. Then he
hailed a cab and went to report to Senator Crane.

* * * * *

The tenth android stood with his back to the window in Les King's room
in Manhattan and said, "There is something I want you to do. If you are
very careful, you will succeed. If you succeed, there is a great deal of
money in it for you."

The fear that grew in Les King when they were apart, the uneasy feeling
that maybe money wasn't the most important thing in the world, died
automatically as John Dennis stared at him through those strangely empty
eyes.

"Is it something I can handle?"

"Yes." Dennis handed King a folded slip of paper. "I have written down
an address there. It is in Washington, D.C. I want you to enter those
premises--that room--and find some reports that should be there."

"Reports on what?"

"It is a dissecting place of some kind. That's where the bodies of the
androids are. The man who is doing it must have reports. There must be
records that tell what was wrong with the androids. It must be put down
somewhere why they died."

"Does it matter?"

"It is a matter of vital importance. There will be much money for you if
you get those reports and give them to me."

"Who pays the money?"

"I will pay it to you if you get the reports."

The prospect was exciting to King. Later, there could be a story about
how he got vital pictures of the project. His thinking had changed, but
this did not seem odd to him. All thought of functioning in
counterespionage against the Russians had moved into the back of his
mind. He was in the game now for the money. Oh was it that? Maybe he was
in it for the excitement. There was something in the man who called
himself John Dennis that generated excitement. It was like living a
melodrama. It tingled in the blood and took a man out of the drab world
where every day was like the one before it.

"I'll try," Les King said.

"You will succeed."

"I will succeed."

Jesus! This man had a thing about him. He inspired you. When he looked
at you with those weird eyes, you just knew you couldn't fail.

10

The doorbell rang. Rhoda Kane sprang up from the sofa and almost spilled
her drink. She was halfway across the room before she realized she was
almost running. She stopped. The hand that held the cocktail glass
shook.

Resolutely, she steadied, crossed to the liquor cabinet, put down the
glass, and went calmly to the door.

He stood there looking at her through those oddly empty eyes which,
through some contradiction of all probability, warmed her.

He came in and closed the door, saying nothing. A touch of panic rippled
through her. He was so silent, so unbending, so impersonal. Was this a
reflection of her inability to communicate with him? Could their
relationship fail because of this shortcoming on her part? What good was
love if you couldn't communicate it to the loved one?

She moved into his arms and raised her lips. His arms went around her,
but there was no pressure or affection in them. Their lips were an inch
apart. Her urge was to give full rein to the heady happiness and
excitement within her--to show her love in a kiss.

But she held off and, after a few moments, he drew, back, raised one
hand and passed it through her hair. Not with affection, she thought,
but rather with curiosity; almost as though he were preoccupied with its
composition. He rolled a strand of hair between thumb and finger,
testing it.

"It needs cutting," Rhoda said.

"Do you cut it?"

She laughed nervously. "You don't know much about women, do you."

"I know nothing about woman."

Trying to inject a gay note into her voice, she said, "We eat, we sleep,
we--we're very functional, really."

He rubbed a finger down her cheek. He pressed the flesh on her neck and
watched the muscle spring back as he withdrew his finger.

"Do that to me," he said.

Mystified, Rhoda pressed her finger against his neck until she could
feel a pulse in his throat. She withdrew the finger. "Like that?"

"Did it leave a mark?"

"No. Is there something wrong? Do you have a sore throat?"

"My throat is not sore."

Rhoda's frustration was a pitiful thing. How could she get to him? How
could she break through his shyness?

"I think you're afraid of me," she said lightly.

He did not answer. He took a backward step and regarded her for a moment
with a frown. Then he began to unbutton her blouse.

Rhoda wanted to object. An instinctive protest caused her to draw back.
His only reaction to this was to step forward and continue to unbutton
her blouse. She wanted to resist but the fear of driving him away held
her mute; that and something in his eyes that told of excitement, an
unformed phantom of delight that had never materialized but still held
sway over her through promise.

He stripped the blouse off. She wore no brassiere underneath, and he
regarded her breasts somberly. He pressed a nipple with the tip of one
finger and watched it spring back into place.

"Please. I--"

He ignored her. He pressed the nipple again and then found the zipper on
the side of her slacks. He pulled it down and pushed the slacks down
over her hips. She lifted each foot obediently.

He was on his knees now, running his fingers gently down her thighs.
Rhoda trembled at the touch. Then she realized it was not love-making on
his part--not in any sense. He was preoccupied with the fine hair on her
skin. He studied it closely.

"I should have shaved my legs," Rhoda said uncertainly. He raised his
head, the cold eyes trained into hers. "This hair grows, too?"

Rhoda caught her lower lip between her teeth. Tears were close to the
surface.

_This is crazy. This is utterly insane. I'm mad or he's mad. I don't
know. I just don't know ..._

The last garment was removed and she was naked there in the middle of
the living room. He studied her body again, that passionless,
preoccupied frown on his face. He drew her down onto the floor and, for
a moment, the room spun around Rhoda, her emotional entrapment now the
focal point, the eye of the storm that raged in her being. He went on
with his minute inspection of her person.

_No--no. Please don't. Please don't treat me like this. I'm a woman.
Don't be contemptuous of me. Oh, no--please. Don't degrade and humiliate
me like this._

There was sudden pain. Rhoda's body wrenched and heaved upward. With a
sob, she sank back to the floor.

_I must fight. I must not allow this. I must not let him do these cruel,
degrading things to me. I must fight but I am afraid to. I am afraid
he'll go away and never come back--and if he did that, there would be
nothing left for me._

John Dennis seemed to become aware for the first time that certain
manipulations caused reaction--the jerking of Rhoda's body and her
involuntary cry of pain. He repeated the manipulation with his eyes on
her face.

_I cannot allow this. I must fight. I must resist. Oh, Rhoda Kane, what
has happened to you? Frank, please help, help me. Frank--_

But something seemed to flow out of John Dennis and into her mind and
soul and spirit; something that made the flesh and what was done to the
flesh unimportant.

The touch of John Dennis' hand brought fright as it foretold further
pain and degradation. Rhoda sobbed inwardly and braced herself to
withstand whatever was to come.

_Mad!--mad!--mad!_

But it meant nothing.

* * * * *

The building was not for tourists. It wasn't like the Pentagon or the
White House or any of the other historical or glamour symbols in
Washington, D.C. It was on a side street, and while no one associated it
with governmental activity, it was of a size and importance that
justified a uniformed attendant in the lobby.

He was a hard-bitten old Irishman named Callahan, and nobody got past
him without justification. Also, he was a man of robust hates and great
loyalties; a man whom Brent Taber was honored to call friend.

He was also a man Brent Taber was waiting to hear from.

The call came late in the afternoon of the day following Charles
Blackwell's search for his would-be brother. Taber picked up the phone.

"It's me--Callahan. He's here, Mr. Taber."

"Thanks. I'll be right over."

"And be hurrying right along if you want to get here in time. He's not
one to be restrained indefinitely."

"Tell him the elevator's busted."

Brent Taber slammed the phone down and left. He used an elevator this
time and went across town in a cab. Even then, he was almost too late.
As he arrived at his destination, Senator Crane was protesting loudly.

"It's just plain stupidity. Elevators don't quit running for no reason.
Find a burnt-out fuse. Do something! And do it quick or I'll phone
somebody who will!"

"Well, I'll be blessed," Callahan said, completely crest-fallen. "It
was the switch, Senator. The blessed switch was off."

"Well, turn it on and get me up to ten."

"Good afternoon, Senator."

Crane whirled. "Brent Taber!" He threw a quick scowl at Callahan and was
on the verge of accusing the Irishman of high treason, but he said, "All
right. I'm glad you're here, Taber. We might as well get this thing
into the open. Are you going to take me to room ten twenty-six or do I
have to take steps to force your co-operation?"

Taber stared morosely at Crane's nose. "Why, Senator, where did you get
the idea my department wouldn't help a member of Congress to the
utmost?"

"None of your sarcasm. Let's go upstairs."

"All right, Callahan. Let's go upstairs."

They got off on ten and walked down the corridor. "Ten twenty-eight, you
said?"

"You know damned well what I said."

Taber opened the door. He stood aside. Crane walked in and stopped dead.
He again whirled on Crane.

"It's empty."

"That's right. I could have told you downstairs but you wouldn't have
believed me. What were you looking for? New quarters?"

"Taber, I'll break you for this! If you think you can thwart the will of
the United States Senate--"

"You've been doing a pretty good job of breaking already."

"I haven't even begun!"

"That still doesn't tell me what you thought you'd find."

"Quit being cute. This time yesterday there were cadavers in here. This
was a laboratory!"

Brent looked wearily at his watch. "You're wrong, Senator. This place
was vacated exactly an hour and fifteen minutes after your stooge used
his court order to locate the cadavers."

"Then you admit you defied a court order--"

"Oh, come off of it. The court order said nothing about leaving things
as they were. But that's not important. The important thing is that you
give me some understanding and sympathy."

This obviously astounded Crane. "From you? That from the cocky,
self-sufficient Brent Taber? That's a little different tune from the one
you sang in your office, not too long ago."

"All right. I'll concede that. Let's say you've got me licked. I'll
admit I should have reacted a little less arrogantly. My nerves were
shot. I'd been up late too often. Now I'm ready to be reasonable."

Crane was scowling. "This isn't like you, Taber--not like you at all.
I'm suspicious. Why are you suddenly so agreeable?"

"Because I believe the nation--the world--is in great danger. I think we
should all realize that danger and work together."

"Then why have you been fighting me?"

"Because I honestly felt it was the best thing to do. I've changed my
mind. I'm willing to tell you the whole story."

"I've heard the whole story. I--"

"Then it was you who had my office taped."

"Exactly. I'm not ashamed of it. When I'm fighting for my constituents I
use every weapon at my command."

Brent Taber regarded Crane narrowly. "I underestimated your abilities,
Senator. That was fast work. Twenty minutes after I refused you
permission to attend that meeting, you had your man briefed and in
action. It was the waiter who brought in the coffee, wasn't it?"

Before Crane could answer, Taber gestured and said, "Never mind. That's
not important. You've heard the tape, so tell me--what do you want from
me? How can I earn your co-operation?"

"Quite simply, Taber. By recognizing my authority as a United States
Senator. By keeping me briefed on your progress against this terrible
thing that menaces our people. By accepting my active co-operation in
destroying it."

"What exactly do you mean by _active_?"

"Just what the word implies. Have the men on the senatorial committee
you briefed been at all active in helping you?"

"Frankly, no."

"Then what right have they to expect any rewards--shall we say?--for
their efforts?"

"You may have a point."

"I believe in rewards where rewards are due."

"And you want--?"

"In plain terms, the right to association in the public mind with the
effort to protect the nation."

"You want favorable publicity if and when this matter makes headlines?"

"Is that too much to ask?"

Brent Taber suddenly seemed lost and, in truth, he was wondering why in
hell he'd approached Crane in this way. He felt ashamed for even
considering the possibility of bending to the will of a windbag like
Crane. _Good Lord_, he thought, _I must be tired. I was on the point of
playing the jellyfish._

Abruptly his voice sharpened. "I'm sorry, I can't promise you that."

"Taber, you're a fool! I'll get it anyhow. I told you I'd break you if
you got in my way, and you've been almost discredited already. Don't you
know when to quit?"

"Maybe that's my trouble, Senator. Maybe I'm bull-headed. Anyhow, right
or wrong, I'll play out this string to the end. Good day--and I hope you
enjoy your new offices."

* * * * *

An hour later, back at his own phone, Taber got a second call from
Callahan. "There's another one."

"Another one? I don't follow you."

"A photographer from New York City. He's being real cagey, this one, but
I know the breed. The kind that's so stupid-clever he outsmarts
himself."

"What's he after?"

"Sounds to me like he wants the same thing as the Senator."

"Hmmm," Taber mused. "Those are mighty popular cadavers, aren't they,
Callahan?"

"I'm blessed if they aren't."

"All right. You tell Mr. King--that is his name, isn't it?"

"You've got good eyesight--reading a blasted press card from clear
across town."

"I'm clairvoyant, Callahan. Tell you what you do--give me fifteen
minutes to make a phone call and then send him after the bodies."

"To the right place?"

"To the right place. And hold out for a good price. Get what the traffic
will bear. I'd say maybe fifty dollars. Allow yourself to be bribed real
good."

"I'll do that."

11

As with Rhoda Kane's mind, Les King's seemed to be divided into two
sections. One of these kept him in a state of perpetual uneasiness at
what the other was forcing him to do. He realized that venting your
frustrations against bureaucrats was one thing, but actively engaging in
dangerous snooping was quite another.

In the moments of uncertainty after John Dennis sent him to Washington,
D.C. with orders to get his hands on certain data, Les King bolstered
his courage by telling himself that, what the hell, he'd planned all
along to go right ahead and dig out the complete android through
whatever means possible. Therefore, meeting and teaming up with Dennis
had been a big break.

The rationalization wasn't too comforting, though, because he knew he
could never have gone ahead on his own. Also, he realized he and Dennis
weren't a team at all. Dennis ordered; he obeyed. Still, the sense of
excitement Dennis generated in him had its effect on the other part of
his mind, and this was the stronger; this held sway. Somehow, there was
the certainty that Dennis did not make mistakes; that everything would
work out.

This conviction was jarred a little when he got past the lobby man in
the Washington building--a feat easily accomplished--climbed ten flights
of stairs, and found room ten twenty-eight empty. Obviously, Dennis had
goofed.

King's first instinct was to retreat as quietly as he'd advanced; to get
away from the place and report failure to Dennis. But as he went back
downstairs, the thought of Dennis' disapproval began weighing more
heavily. Maybe something unforeseen had happened. Maybe he could still
pull this one out of the fire.

With this hope foremost in his mind, he went into the lobby, assumed a
bold front, and demanded: "Where in the hell did the people in ten
twenty-eight go?"

And the front worked. The lobby man, a big Irishman, was so impressed he
didn't even ask King how he'd gotten into the building. He blinked
politely and said, "Blessed if I'm not new here myself. This is my first
day. What room was it?"

Then the big Irishman went to a phone to check, and came back with a
Georgetown address written out on a slip of paper. Georgetown seemed
like an unlikely place to find cadavers and, under normal conditions,
King would have been highly suspicious of the whole thing. But what the
hell? Nothing was normal about this project, so why not follow through?

_King, you're crazy. You're out of your stupid mind._

He raised his hand and a cab cut in toward the curb.

When he arrived at the address, he found himself standing on the walk in
front of a large, imposing house. The place still seemed unlikely but
you never could tell. The way things were these days, any house in
whatever neighborhood was a potential location for almost anything. The
way this one was laid out, there could possibly have been a laboratory
in the back. A narrow walk led in that direction and, instead of
climbing the front steps, King followed it around the corner and found a
basement door at the foot of a flight of steps.

He hesitated before ringing the bell. What kind of an approach would he
use? The idea was to get inside and see the layout--spot the office, the
file cabinets. The feature-story bit? It might work, but who the hell
lived here? He'd checked the mailbox beside the front porch but there'd
been no name.

Deciding he could only play it by ear, he pulled in his diaphragm and
rang the bell.

The door opened quickly--too quickly, it seemed--and King realized he'd
struck a pay lode in the myopic-looking little jerk who stood peering
out at him. The guy wore a white laboratory coat with two bloodstains on
it and was holding a scalpel in his hand.

"I'm Doctor Entman. Can I help you?"

Entman--Entman--for Christ sake. Oh, sure, a neurologist. Had to be the
same guy. International authority. The _Times_ once did a feature on his
arrival at Idlewild. UN stuff.

"I'm King of the _Herald Tribune_," Les said, lying easily.
"We're shaping up a feature on the more advanced neurological
techniques--Sunday supplement material. They sent me down to see if
you'd give us some of your views."

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