Chapter 5

“Doctor Corson. Calling Doctor Corson. Please come to the second-floor reception room.”

Frank Corson got the call as he was leaving the maternity ward. He took the elevator down and found a rather sloppily dressed, middle-aged man sitting on a lounge beside a weather-beaten camera that tended to mark his profession.

“I’m Les King, a free-lance news photographer. You’re Doctor Corson?”

Frank Corson’s reaction was slightly hostile. He wondered why. “I’m Doctor Corson.”

“I’m on the trail of a patient that came here late last night. Name, William Matson. They tell me he was your patient.”

Frank nodded briefly.

“They say he was released.”

“That’s right.”

“A little over an hour ago.”

“Right.”

“They say he had a broken leg.”

“If that’s what they said, it must be a matter of record.”

“Well, they’re wrong on both counts. He came to see me over three hours ago--and both his legs were as good as mine.”

Frank Corson did not volunteer the information that he had personally taken William Matson to his furnished room in Greenwich Village and that Matson was there at this very moment, awaiting Frank’s return.

“I think there must be some mistake on your part,” Frank said.

“No mistake. But something very definitely got crossed up. Maybe we ought to have a little talk--the two of us.”

Anger stirred in Frank Corson. Did this Les King character think a beaten-up camera gave him the right to walk in and make demands. “I’m busy now. And I can’t see what we’d have to talk about.”

“A hell of a lot, maybe. There are some things you may not know about this deal. You might have let a big thing slip through your fingers.”

“Look here, I’m not interested in anything you’ve got to say. And I think you’ve got a hell of a nerve, coming in here and cross-examining me on something that’s--”

King reacted with weary patience. “Take it easy. I’m just trying to get some information that can help both of us, maybe.”

“How could it possibly help me?”

“To make it simple, there’s a standing ten-thousand-dollar reward for knowledge of the whereabouts of a Judge Sam Baker who disappeared ten years ago from a little upstate New York town. Now, if you aren’t interested--”

“Are you telling me that William Matson is Sam Baker?”

“Let’s say a hell of a lot indicates it. Matson left here without giving a home address. If you know what it is, we can do business. If you don’t--”

“I’m off duty in an hour,” Frank Corson said. “Maybe we should talk it over.”

“That’s better. In the meantime, if you’ll tell me where I can find Matson--”

Frank smiled. “Wait an hour. Then I’ll show you. But we’ll talk about it first.”

The tenth android, one of the two so earnestly sought after by Brent Taber, had observed the accident at 59th Street and Park Avenue on the previous night. He’d stood on the curb, lost in the crowd that gathered, and had watched the proceedings carefully. A man who was not a man, a machine that was not a machine, he incorporated, in many respects, the best qualities of both. Now, as the leader of the group deposited from space for a specific purpose, he exhibited these qualities excellently.

He waited. He observed. He added the accident to the several other unforeseen incidents that endangered the project and its objective, and stored them in his memory-bank.

He watched the minor drama as it unfolded, and what was somewhat akin to a danger bell went off in his mind when he saw a bright flash, traced its source to a camera, and carefully studied the man who had taken the picture. Pictures, he knew, could be dangerous. He must get his hands on the picture, if possible.

He waited. He observed. He evaluated. The situation had gotten somewhat out of his control, but he did not blame himself for this. Certain emotions had been made a part of his being, but guilt, a useless one, had been omitted, as had been any ability to react to love, compassion, anger or hatred.

So, with no hope of reward or fear of punishment, he had recorded the facts that he had been unable to communicate telepathically with eight of the units under his command and that, therefore, they were no longer operational. He had no way of knowing what had happened to them. This, however, did not make his work one bit less vital. Even though eight units were unaccounted for, his intelligent handling of the ninth android, and of himself, was still vitally important. It was up to him to see that the project was brought to a successful conclusion.

He watched as the ambulance came, noted the name of the hospital, and recorded the proceedings. But he allowed the ambulance to drive away, keeping his attention pointed at the man who had taken the picture.

When the man moved off down the street, the tenth android followed. When the man entered Central Park, he was observed from a discreet distance. When he came out again, he was followed into Times Square, down into Greenwich Village, back uptown and, finally, to an apartment building in the West Seventies. There he was observed opening a mailbox, and the name thereon was duly recorded.

At this point, temporarily entrusting King to destiny, the tenth android took a taxicab to the Park Hill Hospital where he entered, went to the desk, and inquired about a friend of his, a William Matson.

He was directed to Emergency where a nurse, after checking a record sheet on her piled-up desk, told him that Doctor Corson was with the patient in Ward Five. Unaware that he had been extremely lucky, that very few real people--people with only one heart, and a soul to go with it--would have gotten such specific information out of a receiving-desk nurse, the tenth android began counting wards until he came to the one marked Five.

He looked in through the small window in the swinging door and saw his counterpart in bed, a white-coated man bending over him.

That made the ninth android unapproachable, so his counterpart-leader withdrew to the end of the corridor and waited until Doctor Corson came out. He followed Corson outside and, from the back seat of another taxi, never lost sight of the convertible until Rhoda Kane drove it into the garage under her apartment building. From the street, the tenth android saw Rhoda and Frank enter the elevator. As soon as the door closed, he was in the outer lobby, watching as the numbers progressed upward on the elevator dial. The hand stopped at 21. This was noted and recorded, after which the tenth android called a finish to the night’s activities and retired to the small room he’d rented on a quiet street on the Lower East Side where, if you bothered no one, no one would bother you.

He was back the next morning, however, and that’s when his unavoidable contact with Frank Corson on the sidewalk was made. He noted the surprise on Corson’s face, but the logical situation did not develop because Corson did not make an issue of the meeting. He allowed the tenth android to go on his way.

A nonsynthetic man would have wondered at this and thanked his own good luck. Not so with the android. He knew nothing whatever about luck. He accepted this bit of good fortune in exactly the same manner he would have faced its opposite, and when Frank Corson boarded a bus, a taxicab pulled out of a side street and followed.

The cab waited, in front of the Park Hill Hospital. When Frank Corson and the ninth android emerged, two cabs, not one, wheeled down Manhattan and into Greenwich Village.

Thus it was that some ten minutes after Frank Corson went back to his duties at the Park Hill Hospital, there was a knock on the door of his room in Greenwich Village. The ninth android opened the door. The tenth android entered. The ninth android hobbled back to his chair and waited quietly.

The tenth android looked both ways in the corridor and then closed the door. He walked to the chair and stood looking down. He turned his eyes to the bulky, cast-encased leg. “It will not heal,” he stated matter-of-factly.

The ninth android nodded. “I--know.”

“That makes you useless.”

Another nod. “Why couldn’t they have made it possible for our flesh and bone to become whole again after an--accident?”

“That wasn’t possible.”

The tenth android went to a tiny curtained-off kitchenette and returned with a knife. He put his hand on the head of the ninth android and drew it backward so that the neck muscles were taut. He raised the knife.

Then he paused and looked down with a faint expression of interest in his otherwise empty eyes. “Are you afraid to die?”

“I don’t--know. What is it to--die?”

“You become nonfunctioning.”

“I think I would rather not become nonfunctioning.”

The tenth android cut the ninth android’s throat. Carefully and cleanly, he severed the big artery that carried the blood-fluid back down to the upper heart.

The blood-fluid spouted out and drained down over the chest of the ninth android. He shuddered. His eyes closed. When the tenth android released his grip, the head fell forward.

And from somewhere in the synthetically created mind of the tenth android there came a question: Was it undesirable to become nonfunctioning? The human was afraid to die. He sensed this but not the reason for it, if there was one. The human was afraid to die.

He wondered only momentarily, vaguely recorded it as a mistake to wonder about such things, and then crossed the room and put the red-stained knife into the sink.

After that, he let himself quietly out of the apartment and walked off down the street.

He had much to do. He had to leave town and finish the project alone.

Then, quite suddenly, he stopped, stepped into a nearby doorway and stood motionless. There was no change in his expression except that possibly his eyes became a shade emptier.

After a while he left the doorway and moved on. But it was with new purpose and with new plans.

The new orders, relayed across a light-year of space, were not intercepted by any terrestrial receiving device, however sensitive. But they were received and recorded perfectly in the mind of the tenth android.

Frank Corson and Les King sat in a coffee shop and regarded each other with a certain wariness. “It’s like this, at least from where I sit,” King said. “About ten years ago a small-town judge named Sam Baker--”

“You told me that,” Corson cut in impatiently. “Baker was supposed to have been drowned, but they never found the body. Now, you think William Matson is Sam Baker?”

King pondered the question morosely. “I’ve got every right to think so. But Baker would have aged some in ten years. The man I saw--”

“The man you saw didn’t have a broken leg. I must have seen the same one when I--”

King was instantly alert. When you were on the trail of ten grand you had to be alert, and suspicious of comparative strangers.

“You saw someone who looked like Baker and Matson? A guy without a broken leg?”

“I was leaving an apartment building on the Upper East Side this morning. I met him in the street.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“I’m telling you now.”

King scowled. “I don’t get it. You were the doctor. You left a man with a broken leg in bed in a hospital. You saw a man who looked like--”

“I saw the same man, goddamn it!”

“All right--the same man. And you didn’t do anything about it? You didn’t say Good morning or It might rain or What the hell are you doing out of bed? You just let him walk away?”

“You’re being unreasonable. When you come face to face with something that’s impossible, you don’t treat it as a fact. It throws you off balance.”

King continued to scowl. “We’re not getting anywhere. Let’s face it. It was impossible. Let’s get the hell up to your room and talk to William Matson.”

“All right.”

Frank Corson came half out of his chair, then he dropped back again. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“What’s to like? What’s to dislike? For ten thousand dollars we can ignore both.”

“I have a feeling we’re getting into something beyond our depth.”

“Okay, then let me handle it. I’ll see that you get your cut.”

“Not so fast,” Corson said sharply. “I didn’t say I was backing out. I just said this might be bigger than we bargain for.”