Ten From Infinity, Paul W. Fairman [intellectual books to read txt] 📗

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-look[Pg 107]ing 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[Pg 108] 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.[Pg 109]

"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."[Pg 110]

"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 senti[Pg 111]mental 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[Pg 112] 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