Ten From Infinity

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

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"I'd be delighted. Come in. Come in."

"I'm not imposing on your time, I hope."

"Not at all!"

The guy was almost too cordial, but what the hell? All their noses
twitched at the smell of publicity.

Entman led him down a cement-floored corridor, the smell of formaldehyde
thickening as they went, then into a small office with an open door, on
the far side through which Les King was confronted with a frankly
gruesome sight--a dissecting room with parts of cadavers lying around
like orders in a meat packer's shipping room.

"Won't you sit down, please? There by the desk."

As Entman gestured, he noted King's reaction to the sight and the smell
of the dissecting room.

"Just a moment. I'll close that door."

"No, don't bother, Doctor. I'd better get the authentic atmosphere. It
makes a better story."

"I admire your courage, young man."

King pointed toward the room. "Something important?"

"Routine--only routine."

Then, to Les King's practiced eye, Entman proved it wasn't routine at
all by entering the laboratory and gathering up a loose pile of notes
lying there on a table. He seemed to momentarily forget King's presence
as he went through the notes, sorted them carefully, and brought them
back into the office.

King watched as Entman then deposited them in a small safe. He closed
the safe but didn't lock it. Then he turned, beamed myopically at his
visitor, and said, "Now I'm at your service, young man."

"Fine, Doctor. Now, this series we're planning will highlight modern
techniques with an eye to illustrating ..."

While King asked questions and Entman answered, another part of King's
mind was busy with the real problem at hand. Entman would, no doubt,
lock the safe before he left the office. Burglary--a risk King was
willing to take--would get him back into the office when no one was
around, but how could he open the safe? Walking straight to the thing he
was after had been fine. Having been put in a position to get to know
what the notes looked like was another astounding piece of good fortune.
All this, however, could turn out to mean nothing because he didn't know
how to crack a safe.

He would have to report failure after being so close.

"As I said," Entman prattled on happily, "when I was at Johns Hopkins
I--"

The desk phone rang. Entman picked it up, answered it and then hung up.
"Would I impose if I asked you for a fifteen-minute break? Some people
are calling that I must see--an appointment I forgot."

"Not at all," Les King assured him. "I'd like to do a little work on
these notes to see if I left out anything."

"So good of you. Boring people, really. I'll get rid of them as soon as
possible."

Entman left through an inner door and King was stunned by his good luck.
He called it that even while experience and judgment shrieked warnings.
This was too pat--too easy. Something was phony in the setup.

But he didn't even have to fight what common sense was telling him. He
was too busy opening the safe, spreading the data out on the desktop,
and using a small camera he carried in the side pocket of his jacket.

Then, he put the data back in the safe and felt the hot, excitement
surge up through his body.

* * * * *

"I'm afraid I owe you a drink," Entman said ruefully.

"You were right. When I got back to the office, he was gone."

Brent Taber grinned, but only with his mouth--his eyes remained somber
and weary. "The data was back in the safe?"

"Right where I put it. I'll swear it hadn't been moved."

"He was photographing it thirty seconds after you left."

"But how can you be sure?"

Brent Taber pulled at his ear and stared at a Renoir on the wall of
Entman's drawing room without seeing it. "I can't, of course. We can't
be sure of anything. It's all based on an idea you gave me."

"What idea?"

"You told me the results of your research on the androids would be
valuable to whoever built them--as a guide to perfecting androids that
wouldn't die under earth conditions."

"That was obvious logic."

"And it ties in with another thought. A race of beings as advanced as
these could take us over without trouble, it would seem."

"Quite true. Except--"

"Except that they themselves may not be able to exist on earth, either;
no more so than we could exist on the moon without creating conditions
favorable to our physical capabilities."

"So ...?"

"So I'm betting that the ten androids were sent here on a
trial-and-error basis, with the objective of perfecting them and
creating an android army to move in and take us over."

"It's a thought, but with their power they could achieve the same result
with less effort by pulverizing us. Or so it would seem to me."

"True, but maybe they don't want us pulverized; maybe they'd rather take
over a working planet than a lot of rubble."

"All that follows logically," Entman admitted, "provided the original
hypothesis is true--that they cannot invade us in person."

"Right. But I've got to start somewhere and hope I'm on the right
track."

"One thing occurs to me. Eight of the androids died and one was killed.
What if all ten had succumbed? How did they plan to get their data?"

"Who knows? I'm not saying the idea is foolproof. But a certain amount
of risk had to be involved. If the ten died, they would have missed.
Maybe they'd try again in that case. But they were lucky--one survived."

Entman was peering thoughtfully at nothing. "Your idea is bolstered by
the fact that the androids were found all over the country. They could
have been testing various climates."

"But it's weakened by the creatures being found in cities--the least
likely places to escape detection. Why didn't they stay in isolated
sections?"

Entman smiled. "I like the way you reach out for arguments against your
own theory, but you reached too far for that one. If they'd done that,
who would find the androids and do the research work?"

Brent Taber brightened. "You comfort me, Doctor. That little thread got
lost in my maze. They wanted the creatures to be found. They didn't
expect to fool us. Why else would the one in Chicago go brazenly into a
tavern, start to drink and then get into an argument?"

"That's right. The argument must have been started deliberately." Entman
beamed on Taber. "I think we deserve another Scotch."

Entman poured the drink. He looked kindly at Taber as he handed it to
him, and made what seemed an abrupt change in subject. "They're giving
you a very hard time, aren't they, son?"

Taber considered the question as he downed a healthy belt from the
glass. "I guess you could call it that. I'm getting pretty unpopular in
some places. As a matter of fact, I've wondered why you stick by me."

Entman poured himself a drink. "That hurts me a little, son."

"I'm sorry. It's getting so I don't even know how to treat a friend."

Entman raised his glass in salute. "I'm afraid this sentimental
chit-chat doesn't become either of us. Let's go back to our friend from
the _Herald Tribune_. You're sure he photographed the data?"

"I think we can depend on it."

"When I got your call, I acted as fast as I could. The data looks
authentic, I'm sure, but it was a quick job of fiction. Now I'd like to
know the rest--whatever you didn't have time to tell me."

"It's still a logic-chain, with some pretty flimsy strands in some
places, but I'm afraid I'm stuck with it. King was greedy and hungry
when I first talked to him, but I think I scared him off. I think, left
to himself, he would have let the thing alone.

"So I was surprised when he showed up at the old location. My first
thought was that Crane had sent him. It would have been logical--Crane
sending a man to try and find out where we'd taken the cadavers he
obviously wants to get his hands on.

"But I couldn't connect Crane with King. I couldn't figure how Crane
could have known of King's existence." Taber paused to drink and grin
his humorless grin. "So I made a daring leap. If it had to be someone
else, why not the tenth android himself?"

Entman frowned as he toyed with the idea. "Why, good lord--!"

"You said yourself that the androids probably possessed extraordinary
powers."

"Yes, but--"

"All right. If we accept the need-of-data theory, which we have to, what
would the tenth android be doing? Trying to get his hands on it. He
could conceivably have made contact with King. King took a picture of
the ninth android. Our still able and functioning number ten found his
way to Doctor Corson's room in Greenwich Village and demolished number
nine, for reasons of his own, so he could have made contact with King,
put him under domination, and sent him after the data."

"How could he know where the data was?"

Taber shrugged. "I said there were some pretty weak strings in my logic.
But it so shaped, as I saw it, where it would stand or smash on one
point. If King had waited in your office for your return, I would have
been forced to assume he was there on his own. But he left, so I'm going
to figure he took what he came for--the bait you dangled under his
nose."

"That brings up a question in my mind. If you're right, King will now
make contact with the android, will he not?"

"I assume he will."

"And that will give you a chance to capture him and have the whole ten
accounted for?"

"I don't want him until he sends the data back to whoever is waiting for
it."

"You'd like to have them build their synthetic army on the
specifications I made out?"

"I'd dearly love that."

"Do you know where to contact King again?"

"He's being tailed. They stripped me, but I still have two men left."

"You're being treated miserably!" Entman scowled. "I'm going to talk to
some people about this. I refuse to allow--"

"Thanks, but not for a while. I've shaped my operation on a one-man
basis. I'd be embarrassed if they relented. I wouldn't know what to do
with all the men."

Entman's little eyes shone with affection. "I can only wish you good
luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

"And one more thing I was wondering."

"What's that?"

"Why do you suppose the tenth android killed the one in the Village?"

"Another case of taking one reason for want of a better one. I think it
was his way of delivering the creature to us for research. He couldn't
know for sure that we already had his 'brothers.'"

"You're right--you must be," Entman agreed.

"Small consolation. I'd like a few facts to go on for a change instead
of having to depend on logic all the time," Taber growled.

"What are you referring to?"

"The data. I'm assuming, _if_ that's what's important, that the tenth
creature has a way of getting the stuff back up there."

"I can help a little on that," Entman said. "I can assure you that from
what I've found in those brains, the data could, most likely, be sent
mentally."

"You're sure of that?"

"I've found a certain part of those brains developed in a peculiar
way--"

Taber smiled. "You're sure of that?"

"Well ... that's my theory. It would appear logical that--"

Taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his
face showing some genuine humor. "Let's have another drink, Doctor. Then
I'll go. I love the factual way this Scotch of yours hits my stomach."

12

Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of
Park Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of his
old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phoned
for a chat."

It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to
give Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors and
nurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit
very well.

"Yes, I--"

Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You've
been working too hard."

"Nothing important, Doctor Maynard."

"Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?"

"No, thank you. I just wanted to ask you about a transfer."

"A transfer!" This was amazing. "Aren't you happy at Park Hill?"

"I've been very happy."

Maynard went swiftly through a card file on his desk. "You have--let's
see--five more months of internship. Then--"

"Then I'd planned to enter private practice. But something personal has
come up and I think a change is for the best."

"I'm certainly sorry to hear that."

"One of the men I graduated with went to a hospital in a small Minnesota
town. We've corresponded and he's given me a pretty clear picture--a
nice town, a need for doctors and physicians--"

"But we need them here in the East, too."

"I realize that, and I'm making the move with some regret. But, frankly,
New York City no longer appeals to me. I think perhaps a small hospital
is more suited to my temperament."

"I'm certainly sorry to hear this, Corson. But I won't try to dissuade
you. Normally, I might bring a little more personal pressure to bear,
but I sense that your mind is made up. We're sorry to see you go, but
the best of luck to you."

"Thank you, sir."

After Frank Corson left, Superintendent Maynard sorted a memo out of the
pile on his desk. The memo concerned Frank Corson. Superintendent
Maynard reread it and thought how well things usually worked out. Now it
wouldn't be necessary to have that talk with Corson about sloppy work.
Obviously there had been something on the young intern's mind for weeks
now. Too bad. But let the Minnesota hospital, wherever it was, worry
about the trouble and perhaps put Corson on the right track again.

He was their baby now.

Maynard took Corson's card from the files and wrote across it: _Transfer
approved with regret._

* * * * *

Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side of
Manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been there
for over an hour.

Another hour passed and Taber shifted from one aching foot to the other
as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the
street.

When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up at
the brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide--one of the many rooming
houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no
one cared who you were or where you came from.

Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had
come from someplace among the stars.

He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The door
opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished
with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.

There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of
time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded
him with no great show of cordiality.

"Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented."

"I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking."

"My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is clean
and orderly."

"That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money
passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."

The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news.
"Counterfeit! My roomers are honest."

"I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without
knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?"

"Only two of them."

"Men or women?"

"One girl--Katy Wynn."

"Where does she work?"

"Down in Wall Street."

"Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around
Times Square."

"The other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot
every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no
counterfeiter."

Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?"

"Six--on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."

"Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're
just checking for sources."

Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own
quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a
minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she
did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the
stairs.

The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was
small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on
the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room was
ordinary in every sense.

But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent.
There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized
suitcase, stood on end.

And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat
had been cut.

Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an
interminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff
as he passed a slow hand along his jaw.

He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though
hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still there
when he opened them again.

He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the
wall by the front door.

The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are
you doing here?"

He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a
dime, lady?"

Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.

"Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"

There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemused
landlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?"

But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to the
phone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here in
Manhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come over
personally."

He turned to the landlady. "What's the address here, sister?"

And later, with the landlady back in her lair, Brent Taber sat down on
the stairs to wait; sat there with surprise at the feeling of relief
that filled his mind. He had no feeling of triumph about it; no sense of
a job well done. But there was no great guilt at having failed, either.

Mostly, he thought, it was the simplification that had come about. There
had been so many confusing and bewildering complications in the affair;
improbability piled on the impossible; the ridiculous coupled with the
incredible.

But now, with one stroke of a knife, it had been simplified and brought
into terms everyone could understand; into terms Captain Abrams of the
New York Police Department would grasp in an instant.

A killer was on the loose.

* * * * *

One of Senator Crane's priceless gifts was a sense of timing. Much of
his success had sprung from the instinctive knowledge of when to act. He
had a sense of the dramatic which never deserted him. As a result, he
had been known to turn in an instant from one subject to another--to
dodge defeats and score triumphs with bewildering agility.

His preoccupation on this particular day was with a home-state
issue--the location of a government plant. After he obtained the floor,
he counted the house and noted that only a bare quorum was present.
Gradually, the members of the Senate of the United States would drift to
their seats. So Crane began reading letters which tended to support his
state's claim to the new plant and the benefits that would accrue
therefrom.

Crane droned on. The Vice-President of the United States looked down on
the top of Senator Crane's massive head and became fruitfully
preoccupied with thoughts of his own.

Then, quite suddenly, the line of Crane's exposition changed. The
Vice-President wasn't quite sure at what precise point this had come
about. He wasn't aware of the change until some very strange words
penetrated:

" ... so, therefore, it has become starkly apparent that the American
people have been denied the information which would have made them
aware of their own deadly danger. Invasion from space is now imminent."

The Vice-President tensed. Had the stupid idiot gone mad? Or had he, the
Vice-President, been in a fog when vital, top-secret information had
been made public?

He banged the gavel down hard, for want of a better gesture, and was
grateful when a tall, dignified man with a look of deepest concern on
his face rose from behind his desk out on the floor.

"Will the Senator yield to his distinguished colleague from
Pennsylvania?"

Crane turned, scowling. "I will yield to no man on matters of grave
import." With that he turned and continued with his revelations. "The
people of this nation have been deprived of the knowledge that the
invasion from space has already begun. A vanguard of hideous, half-human
creatures have even now achieved a beach-head on our planet. Even now,
the evil hordes from beyond the stars ..."

The Vice-President looked around in a daze. Had someone forgotten to
brief him? Had that project come to a head overnight? The last he'd
heard there had been much doubt as to--

" ... The injustice perpetrated on the American people in this matter
has been monstrous. And this is not because of any lack of knowledge on
the part of the government. It has been because of the petty natures of
the men to whom this secret has been entrusted. Jealousies have dictated
policy where selfless public service was of the most vital importance
..."

The floor was filling up. The visitor's gallery was wrapped in hushed
silence. Newsmen, informed of sensational developments, were rushing
down corridors.

And the Vice-President was wondering why he hadn't had the good sense to
refuse the nomination.

" ... These invaders from another planet are not strangers to the men in
power. It is on record that they are inhuman monsters capable of killing
without mercy--yet they are quite ordinary in appearance. They walk the
streets, unsuspected, among us. It is on record right here in Washington
that these creatures are not human but, rather, soulless androids,
manufactured to destroy us, by a race so far ahead of us in scientific
knowledge that we are like children by comparison ..."

"Will the Senator yield to the Senator from Alabama?"

"I will not. I refuse to be gagged in the process of acquainting the
American people with facts upon which their very survival depends."

The floor was crowded now. The press and the visitors' galleries were
packed as Senator Crane's words continued to boom forth.

And in the press gallery a reporter from the Sioux City _Clarion_ looked
at a representative of the London _Times_, and said, "Good God! He's
gone off his rocker!"

The Englishman, aloof but definitely enthralled, touched his mustache
delicately and answered, "Quite."

* * * * *

Frank Corson rang the bell and waited at the door of Rhoda Kane's
apartment. The door opened. She wore a pale blue brunch coat. Her hair
glowed in the light of midmorning, but her face was pale and a little
drawn.

Her eyes were slightly red, as though she might have been crying.

"Hello, Rhoda."

"Hello, Frank."

"I really didn't expect to find you. I was going to write a note and
slip it under the door."

"I didn't feel well today so I didn't go to work."

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

Inside, a shadow of concern moved like a quick cloud across her
beautiful face. "You don't look well, Frank."

"I'm quite all right, really. Haven't been sleeping too well, but
there's been a lot on my mind."

"I've been hoping you'd phone."

"I wanted to but there didn't seem to be anything to say. Nothing except
that I'm sorry I let you down so miserably."

"Frank! You didn't. You really didn't. It was just that--oh, it's not
important any more."

"No. It's not important now."

"Would you like a drink?"

"Thanks, no. I've come to say good-bye."

"Good-bye?"

"Yes. I'm leaving Park Hill--leaving New York. I'm going into a small
Minnesota hospital to finish my internship. Then I'll probably practice
out there somewhere."

Behind the new glitter of her eyes there was stark misery.
"Frank--Frank--what went wrong with us?"

The appeal was a labored whisper.

"I don't know, Rhoda. I should know but I don't. I should have known
what was wrong so I could have done something about it. It just went
sour, I guess."

She turned and walked to the window. He wondered if there were tears in
her eyes.

"Good-bye, Rhoda."

"Good-bye, Frank. I'm sorry."

The door hadn't quite closed. Now, as Frank Corson turned, he found it
open. A man stood there--a man in a blue suit with empty eyes.

Frank stared at the man for long seconds. His eyes went toward the
window. Rhoda had turned. She was watching the man in the doorway,
looking past Frank at the creature from somewhere in space who was
neither man nor machine. _But how--?_ Frank Corson asked himself the
question. _Good God! How had this thing come about?_

"Not--not _him_," he finally exploded.

Rhoda was walking forward. The look of fevered excitement was in her
eyes. "Please leave, Frank." She did not look at him as she spoke. She
kept her eyes on the man in the blue suit.

"Not him!"

"Please leave, Frank."

But it was too late. The door had closed. The man was looking at Frank.
"Sit down," he said.

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