  John Dennis showed human surprise as Frank Corson lunged at him. He had either been lax in using the controlling power he'd been given, or else Frank Corson had an exceptional resistance. Dennis released Rhoda, swayed drunkenly under Frank Corson's clumsy football-type tackle, and swung his arm like a pivoting beam. The blow was a lucky one. His fist smashed low on Corson's jaw, numbing the nerves of his neck on the left side. Corson went down and, as he lay helpless, Dennis kicked him twice—once in the side and once, viciously effectively, in the head. Corson rolled over and lay still. Dennis looked down at him in a drunken daze. "They will make an army and bring it here." Rhoda, standing in the center of an emotional maelstrom, watched the struggle from the prison of her own horror. At that moment she was physically, mentally and spiritually ill; a human being caught in the midst of forces beyond her knowledge and control. Dennis laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I want to make love." "No—no. Please—" The drunkenness ebbed slightly and his eyes emptied. They looked into Rhoda's. She shivered. He took the neck of her brunch coat in his fist and jerked downward. She had just come from the shower when she'd first Dennis went clumsily to his knees, his arms around her, and he pulled her to the floor. She sobbed, but the tears were gone now and they were dry, wracking sobs. "Undress me." She fumbled with his jacket and pulled it off while he knelt there in anticipation of he knew not what; wondering, wanting, knowing only an urge he could not understand but which had become a compulsion. She took off his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt. Frank Corson stirred but did not regain consciousness. "Please," Rhoda said, "let me help him." In answer, Dennis put his arms around her and drew her to him. "We will make love." "Yes—yes, we will make love—" The ring of the doorbell was like thunder in the room. Dennis tensed, his eyes widened, and he got to his feet and stood swaying. Looking up at him, Rhoda saw a trapped animal, but the excitement was still there and she wanted to take him in her arms and hold him and protect him from the world. But he had forgotten her. A cunning sneer took the place of the slavering animal look and he ran to the kitchen to reappear moments later with a butcher knife in his hand. The bell rang again. Dennis snarled at the door and, in some kind of sheer ecstatic bravado, emitted a Tarzan roar. Instantly a weight hit the door from the outside. It shuddered but did not give. Dennis crouched, gripping his knife. Frank Corson staggered to his feet and hurled himself groggily at the android. Dennis roared again, pushed away and arced the knife at his throat. Rhoda screamed and lunged at Dennis' legs. "No! No! Stop it! Please!" Dennis teetered under her weight and the knife slanted downward across Frank's chest. It ripped a red gash as the door shuddered a third time. Dennis turned in that direction and crouched. The He leaped over them and dashed down the hall where the elevator man waited uncertainly, not sure whether to dispute the right of way or not. His indecision was fatal. Dennis wrapped an arm around his neck, pulled his head back and cut his throat with one slash of the knife. Captain Abrams' head had hit a doorjamb opposite the entrance to Rhoda's apartment. He stirred and tried to come erect but he was unable to make it. Brent Taber clawed the gun off the floor and came to one knee. He got off one shot as the elevator door was closing and saw the android spin away from the controls as the impact of the slug smashed the bone of his shoulder. Taber lunged to his feet and went for the stairs. There was no one in the lobby when he arrived there—no dead bodies, either. But on the sidewalk, in front of the building, a woman lay dead in a pool of blood. In a sick rage, Taber looked in both directions and saw the android dive through a group of people half a block away. He tipped them over like tenpins and ran on. Taber gripped the gun tight and started in pursuit. He could not fire because there was enough sidewalk traffic to make it dangerous. On ahead, the android's path was blocked by a man. He sought to get clear but the android passed him close enough to jam the knife into his neck and send him screaming to the sidewalk. A uniformed patrolman appeared on the other side of the street, further down. He took the situation in and understood Taber's frantic gesture. A car screamed to a halt as the patrolman raced across the street, drawing his gun. The android, seeing his escape cut off, veered into an areaway. The patrolman got there first and plunged in after him. Taber, gasps tearing at his lungs, arrived thirty seconds later. During that time, he'd expected the sound of shots from the patrolman's gun. But there was silence. He braked on his heels, skidded into the areaway, and saw the android advancing on the patrolman. The latter stood motionless, the gun hanging useless at his side. "Drop! Drop!" Taber yelled. He cursed as he tried to angle in the narrow areaway in order to get a clear shot. The android advanced with his knife raised. In desperation, Taber fired at the lethal fist that held the weapon. And he was lucky. The hand snapped open under the ripping impact of the bullet and the knife rang sharply against the wall as it ricocheted to the ground. Only then, did the patrolman obey the order to drop. He went to one knee and Brent Taber fired three shots into the chest of the android. He hesitated. There was only one slug left in the revolver. If the three didn't spot the android, he planned to wait for closer contact and put the sixth slug into the forehead. The android shuddered. The fire and frenzy went out of him. He tried to lift a leg and was surprised when it didn't move. He looked down at it. Completely bemused, he peered down at his crimson chest. He looked up at Taber without anger, only with surprise. A distinct expression of wistful regret crossed his face as he sank to the ground. The tenth android was dead. The patrolman came shakily to his feet. His face was as pale as death. "I—I don't know what happened. Buck fever. Pure buck fever, and I've been on the force for ten years." "Don't worry about it," Taber said. "Don't worry. All of a sudden I freeze under pressure and he says, 'Don't worry.'" "I meant it. This is no ordinary man. It wasn't buck fever at all. I couldn't have faced him myself if I hadn't rattled him with that lucky shot." The patrolman wanted to believe. He most pathetically wanted to believe. "Honest?" "It's the God's honest truth. No man could have stood in front of that killer and pulled a trigger. He's a master hypnotist. You're all right. We won't say a word about The patrolman shook his head. "Still, I gotta do something about it." "Talk to your psychiatrist," Taber said. "In the meantime, keep that crowd out there from spilling in here." Taber pushed out through the choked entrance to the areaway and went back up the street. It was alive with activity now and he passed unnoticed. No one recognized him as the man who had given chase in the bloody business that would make headlines that evening in every New York newspaper. And yet the radio and TV news commentators gave it no special attention. It went in along with other items of the day's news as a more or less routine big-city happening. One national-hookup headliner stated: "In New York City today, a man identified as John Dennis, address unknown, went berserk in a fashionable Upper East Side apartment. Dennis, wielding a knife, killed a man and a woman, and seriously wounded another man before he was cut down by police bullets. "A jet airliner, down in the North Atlantic today, imperiled the lives of seventy-six ..." Frank Corson lay propped on two pillows in a private room of the Park Hill Hospital. Rhoda Kane sat in a chair beside the bed. She was pale and very beautiful. The fire was now gone from her body and the fever from her eyes. "They say he wasn't human. They say he was an android." She shuddered, looked down quickly, then slowly raised her head. "Yes." "I'll—I'll never understand. I get sick thinking about it. I'll just never understand." "He was human and yet not human. He had extraordinary powers that we don't begin to understand, so that what happened to you is no disgrace." "It's a terrible disgrace." "It happened to me, too. When he told me to sit down I had to do it. I was helpless." "But you fought! You overcame it." Frank Corson smiled wryly. "No, I didn't. It was just that he'd had little time to work on me. It was a single mental blow, so to speak, that laid me out. Like one punch in the ring. Gradually, I came out of it." "I think I tried to fight." "Of course, you did. The disgrace was mine. I acted like a child. I should have realized that something extraordinary had happened. But I nursed my miserable little ego like a three-year-old." "How could you know? My cruelty to you—" "Don't talk like that! I knew about the ninth android, and I met the tenth one in front of your apartment that second morning. I should have associated. Brent Taber did, otherwise we might both be dead." "It's all over now. It doesn't make any difference." "No, it doesn't make any difference." She looked at him in silence for several moments. "You've changed, Frank." "Yes, I guess I have. I guess we all grow up eventually. We all face reality and live with it." "Frank—I think I'm going to cry." He could not turn his eyes in her direction. He looked straight ahead but his voice was soft. "Go ahead, Rhoda. I understand." They were silent for a time, then Rhoda began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. After a while even that sound was stilled. He turned to look at her. She was standing beside the bed. He almost reached out and took her hand, but drew his own back at the last minute. "How soon will you be leaving?" she asked. "The wound was superficial. I really didn't need to be hospitalized. I'm being released tomorrow morning. I'll probably leave immediately." "You'll make a fine doctor, Frank." "Thank you, I'll try." "Good-bye, Frank." "Good-bye—darling." She turned and fled. And judging by the deep sadness in his soul, he knew he had hit bottom. There was no place to go but up. Brent Taber's phone rang. "Hello, Taber. Halliday here." "How are you, Halliday." "Tops, old man. Ragged by the stress of it all, of course, but tops." Taber waited. Halliday waited. Seeing that he would get no help, he said, "By the way, that little ... misunderstanding we had, the Senator Crane thing, I'm sure you realized that our talk was ... well, the words were put into my mouth. I felt the same way about the oaf as you did. But sometimes, in the line of duty, old man ... well, I know you were reading between my lines all the time." "I'm pretty good at that." "I knew we understood each other." "Is that what you called about?" "Yes, but I've got a little tip for you. They want to see you upstairs. I happen to know they liked the way things turned out. Just between you and me, the humiliation of Crane made certain high officials pretty happy. I was queried and I gave you all the credit." "Before or after the good Senator fell on his face?" Halliday laughed. "Okay, pal. You're entitled to your little dig. But you know this—I'm with you and I always will be." "And I'm with you, too, pal," Brent said wearily and hung up. The phone rang again. Automatically, Brent picked up the receiver. "Brent? Porter on this end. How is it with you, old man?" "Ducky. Just ducky." Porter laughed. "Just called to say, 'Good job well done.'" "Thanks." "Want to give you a little tip, too. They want you upstairs. A commendation. Not generally known, though. And you deserve it. You'll be called up tomorrow." "You never know the day or the hour." The laugh came again. "You're humor is priceless, old man." "Isn't it?" "Another thing—I got pretty hot when I got wind of how the ground was being cut out from under you. I made it my business to do something about it. I hate to see a good man pushed around. Of course I okayed the orders cutting you down—a matter of routine—I had to follow through. But then I got busy. A thing like that won't happen again." "Thanks, Porter. It warms a man to know he's got a friend—a friend like you." "Just between us, old man, I'm one of your admirers." Porter laughed and sprayed charm through the phone like perfume from an atomizer. "But if you quote me, I'll deny it." "Oh, I wouldn't think of quoting you, old man," Taber replied in a kindly voice and put down the phone. He sat back and closed his eyes. Three people dead. One person maimed. Blood in the streets. Good job well done. He opened a drawer of his desk and reached for the Scotch bottle. At the Newark Airport he would not trust his suitcase to a porter because the leather loop holding one side of the handle was very thin and he was afraid it would break. Once he had been ashamed of the shabbiness of the bag and had planned to buy a new one, but now there was an affinity between them, a kind of warmth. Were they companions in misery? He asked the question with a quick smile and then realized he was not miserable. A little bleak of mind, perhaps, with Minnesota and what lay ahead affording no glow of But he was not miserable. He went to the counter, checked in, and they told him his plane would take off on time. He glanced at his watch. Thirty-two minutes. He went back to the bench and found Rhoda Kane sitting beside his suitcase. She wore a plain, black suit with a ridiculous little black hat and she was so beautiful he was angry with her. He hated her. This good-bye wasn't necessary. Why had she come? Her face was pale and drawn; her smile was as abstract as the mystery on the lips of the Mona Lisa. She laid a hand on the suitcase. "We had our first quarrel over it, remember? We went to Puerto Rico for that week and I wanted to use mine but you said, 'Goddamn it, if you're ashamed of my suitcase you're ashamed of me, so the hell with it.'" "I remember." He sat down beside her, lit a cigarette, and then dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. They both looked straight ahead. "Take me with you, Frank." "That's impossible." "I know, but take me with you." "There will be no money. I'll live in a stuffy room somewhere." "What difference does that make? Take me." "You have your job. You're on the way up. It would be unthinkable." "I don't have any job. I quit. I was halfway through a piece of copy—very important copy—and I got up and walked into Mr. Frankel's office. I said, 'Mr. Frankel, it's been very nice working for you. I appreciate all you've done but I'm leaving now. The pencils are all sharpened on my desk and the next girl can have the new leather-bound address book in the lower right hand drawer that "I suppose so." "And the way I phrased it. I actually said I'd bought the lower right hand drawer and hadn't used it—take me with you, Frank." "Rhoda, I was so wrong in—" "I was wrong, Frank. I was trying to mold you into my way of life. I wanted you, but only as a part of my own eager little world. I had money so I furnished my apartment. I put this here and that there, and hung a toothbrush over the sink as necessarily functional, and then I decided I needed a man in the same way and so I picked you. "But I found out that the man in the bed was the most important part of it and without him there wasn't anything. Without him I didn't want any of the other. Now ... I want to be a wife. A wife is a person who goes where her husband goes and lives where he lives and shares what he has. You don't barter and trade—this for that—give up this part to get that. You give up everything and yet it isn't like that at all because you're really getting everything." He took out another cigarette. "Oh, Frank, it's all mixed up and I'm going to cry, I think." "It's not mixed up at all," he said quietly. He turned to look at her, half frowning, half smiling. "Now why in the hell couldn't you have given me a little notice? Twenty minutes to plane time and I've got to get another reservation." "I'm sorry, Frank." "Maybe there isn't a seat." "Wouldn't that be terrible?" "Then we'll have to wait over." "Why don't you go and see?" Five minutes later they were walking down the west tunnel to gate twenty-six. Frank Corson grinned. "Come on, woman, I'm going to take you across state lines for immoral purposes." "How wonderful," she breathed. Brent Taber was human and his triumph had been a thing of satisfaction to him—but only momentarily. Now it had a slightly sour taste. Not that he was unhappy. He was content and almost relaxed as he sat in Doctor Entman's patio and worked on a Scotch and soda. "A nice night," Entman said. "Beautiful. Those stars are about ready to fall into our laps." "Menace out there? It seems unthinkable." "Doesn't it?" "The human animal is a strange creature. He's so capable of refusing to believe what he doesn't want to believe." "Maybe he's smarter than we think. Maybe there's no point in looking at a pending disaster from every angle. The what-will-be-will-be attitude isn't necessarily like that of the ostrich which sticks its head in the sand." "Do the people inside really believe?" Entman asked. "It's pretty difficult to tell. Sometimes I wonder what my own real feelings are." "I wasn't completely briefed on how it ended," Entman said delicately. "I think the phony specifications got through." "If they did—if things are really as they appear—" Taber smiled in the darkness. "Are you beginning to doubt, Doctor?" "Oh, be quiet," Entman said with friendly petulance. "I was going to say that I was rather proud of those details. If our hostiles out there follow my specifications, they'll create androids with much smaller lungs and non-porous skin that will give them no end of trouble when they start chasing frightened householders down the streets of the world." Taber chuckled. "I remember a story about the Japanese Navy. They were supposed to have built some ships to specifications stolen in England. When launched, they slid out into the bay and tipped over." Entman sighed. "I wish I could get some of the data "You'd like to make one of your own?" "It would solve the servant problem. Terrible here in Washington." "Labor unions would holler bloody murder." "You can't stop progress." Suddenly Entman got to his feet. He walked to the edge of the patio and looked upward. Taber saw his face in the light streaming from the living room—he seemed frightened. "Brent! It's such a helpless feeling. What do we do?" Brent Taber got up and went over and stood beside Entman. He, too, looked up into the velvet night; the beautiful, quiet, impersonal night. The sinister night. "We watch the stars," Brent said. "And we wait." THE END |
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