Chapter 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.”

“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?”