Chapter 6

Brent Taber was drawn to Doctor Entman. He found, in the ugly little scientist, a rapport that seemed to exist nowhere else. At the moment, Entman was having a fine, stimulating time dissecting the cadaver of the android. His ugly little eyes were bright. “It’s a miracle, my friend! A positive miracle. The thing these people have been able to do!”

“People? You’ve used that word before.”

Entman waved an impatient hand. “Oh, don’t quibble! Why, the creation of an artificial digestive system alone is awesome--not to mention the creation of a synthetic brain.”

“The brain is what interests me.”

“I can hardly wait to get into that area. Certain aspects are obvious, though. These creatures must have mental powers far beyond ours--in certain areas, that is.”

“Tell me more.”

“That’s merely a matter of logic. We know that homo sapiens--because of his free choice, so to speak--uses, on an average, not more than a tenth of his mental ability. All right. These people have created, to all intents and purposes, a man. They surely had sense enough to remove the free-choice element. The creature surely has judgment, even cunning, but it is no doubt pointed totally and completely toward the objective of its being.”

“Whatever the hell that objective is!”

Entman was mildly surprised by Taber’s exclamation. He held up a warning finger. “Nerves, boy, nerves. You must watch that. As to the objective--I’m sure it’s something pointed at our destruction.”

“What powers were you referring to?”

“Hypnotism, I should think. Any of the mental processes through which one human being strives to assert control over another. We are aware of several of these. They may have found others.”

“You won’t be able to define them by cutting up that brain?”

“I doubt it. We could know them only by watching one of the creatures in action.” Entman sighed. “If we only had other facts.”

“What facts?”

Entman’s smile was almost patronizing. “You’re tired, aren’t you, son? You’re not thinking very well.”

“Goddamn it! Quit treating me like a cretin!”

“Temper, temper! Look at it analytically, son, analytically. Suppose we knew who these people are. What distances have they covered in arriving here? What is their method of conveyance?”

“The distance? Light years, I would assume. The conveyance? A spaceship, or a projectile along basic lines but farther advanced.”

“All right. We know they’ve sent ten creatures to our planet from infinity--that’s as good a word to use as any. The next question is, why?”

“Damnit, that question is obvious.”

“And from my point of view, the answer is obvious.”

“Then I wish to hell you’d give it to me.”

“Logic, man, logic! A race as far advanced as this one could certainly move in and occupy us without trouble. Wouldn’t you think?”

“Certainly. That’s what bothers me. Why all the pussy-footing around with synthetic men who keep dropping dead?”

“I think it’s because they themselves are unable to exist in the climatic and atmospheric conditions existent on our planet.”

Brent Taber’s eyes opened as Entman went on. “They plan to occupy us, certainly--this we must assume--so they’re trying to create an entity through which they can do it. The process is really no different, even though a little more dramatic, than our science creating a mechanical unit that functions to the best efficiency under specified conditions.”

Taber’s finger snapped up. He pointed at Entman’s desk. “They’d like to know why their androids died. Maybe they weren’t alike--at least, not exactly alike. Maybe there were differences you haven’t found yet--maybe they turned out ten models and they want to know which one worked the best.”

“You get the point,” Entman beamed.

“They’d like the data you’re assembling--those reports you’ve got in front of you.”

“I imagine they’d find them quite interesting.”

“Do you think we can assume the tenth android died also?”

“Perhaps. We have no proof that it killed the one found slain in Greenwich Village.”

“I’m satisfied to assume that. But I’m wondering just what contact those ‘people,’ as you call them, had with their androids. Could a part of the brain have been a sending and receiving device?”

“It would be difficult to tell. I delved in far enough to find a mechanical device, if there had been one. It did not exist in those I dissected. There is another possibility though, except that we often make the mistake of assuming that what we humans on earth can’t do, can’t be done. Consider telepathy. Who’s to say they were not made capable of communicating in that way--at whatever distance?” He paused for a moment, deep in thought, before going on. “Has it occurred to you that the tenth android might be a supervisor, the boss, the captain? If he is still alive, why haven’t you found him? You have the men and facilities at your command.”

Brent Taber sprang to his feet. “Doctor,” he answered, scowling, “Did you ever hear of a project so secret that it couldn’t even be given enough personnel to make it work?”

Entman smiled sympathetically. “Washington is a strange place in some ways, son. Usually it’s the other way around. You get so much help they get in each other’s way. I’m glad I’m not involved in those phases of it.”

Brent paced the floor, occupied with his own thoughts. It was more than mere frustration. It went deeper. There was his resentment of the dressing-down he’d taken from Authority; the subtle coolness that had begun to permeate his relations with those upstairs.

He jerked his mind away from such thoughts. Nerves. That was it. He was tense. He was imagining things. They were certainly too well aware of the gravity of this situation to let petty politics interfere.

Or were they?

“Okay, Doc,” Brent said crisply. “Thanks for letting me pick your brain.”

“Good luck, son.”

Entman went back to his work and Taber left. As he walked down the corridor, he analyzed the cheerful tone of Entman’s voice and told himself that even Entman didn’t really believe it. Entman had the evidence before his eyes but he still couldn’t get the concept of alien creatures from space really taking us over. It was too unbelievable.

Am I the only one who really believes it? He asked himself this question as he hailed a cab in the street and watched a fat man in a bowler hat slip in and take it away from him.

“You’re slipping, Taber,” he muttered. “You’re definitely slipping.”

The bell rang. Rhoda Kane opened the door. The man standing there was not extraordinary in any way. He appeared just short of middle age. He wore a blue suit and a blue necktie. The word for him was quiet. He was a man who did not stand out.

“My name is John Dennis,” he said. “I would like to speak to you.”

The abrupt demand annoyed Rhoda. She frowned and was about to retort just as peremptorily, but an odd bemusement tempered her mood. The man was uncivil enough to be interesting. She said, “I’m busy now,” but instead of closing the door, she stepped back into the room. The man came in and it was he who closed the door.

“I don’t wish to alarm you, Miss Kane.”

“I’m not in the least alarmed.”

As she spoke, Rhoda wondered if this was true. But the wondering itself was on such an impersonal basis that it didn’t seem to make much difference.

Also, she was noticing that John Dennis was not quite as he’d first appeared. He was much younger than middle-aged, really--somewhere in his thirties. He was quiet, yes, but handsome, too. There was a rugged individuality about him that was easily missed at first glance. A definite attractiveness.

“I want to ask you about a friend of yours. Frank Corson.”

This seemed like a logical request. It definitely seemed that way but, at the same time, Rhoda was confused as to why it should appear to be. A man came and knocked on the door and entered and asked a question like that. It shouldn’t have been all right, but it was. He probably had the right, she told herself, else he would not have asked.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Tell me about him.”

“He is a doctor. Frank is an intern at Park Hill Hospital. After he finishes there he will go into practice. I guess that’s about all there is to it.”

“He had a patient named William Matson.”

“William Matson? I don’t know. He doesn’t discuss his work with me.”

“This was a patient with a broken leg who was taken to the hospital night before last.”

“He did mention one man. I don’t know his name, though. A man Frank said had two hearts.”

“What else did he tell you about this man?”

“Nothing else. Frank had the case in Emergency. We came home--came here--and then Frank was bothered. He went back and examined the man and came out and said he had two hearts.”

“That was all he said?”

“Nothing else.”

John Dennis looked around. Then, when Rhoda stirred and passed a hand quickly through her hair, he brought his eyes back to bear on hers. Rhoda lowered her hand.

“Does Frank Corson live here?”

“No. This is my home. Frank lives in the Village.”

“What Village?”

“Greenwich Village. It’s a part of New York. Are you a stranger?”

John Dennis did not answer. “Why doesn’t he live here with you?”