Part 6 (1/2)
”I can sign you out--get you a pair of crutches. By the way, I don't think the hospital got your home address.”
”My home--address?”
”Yes. The place you live.” There was a pause, and finally Frank realized the man wasn't going to answer. ”Your home, man. Where you live.”
”I'm looking for a--home.”
”Oh, I see. New in town?”
”Yes, new in--town.”
”I have a place,” Frank said, and it seemed to him as though someone else were talking from within him--that he was only a listener. ”You can crowd in with me until you get settled somewhere.”
”I can crowd in with--you?”
”Okay?”
”Okay.”
”Fine, I'll see that you're signed out. Ever walk on crutches before?”
”I never walked on--crutches.”
”Nothing much to it. You'll get the knack.”
Frank left the bed and headed toward the office, asking himself as he went, _Why in h.e.l.l did I do that?_ Then he found the reason--or at least a reason that would suffice.
The discovery of a man with two hearts might be worth something. At least, it would put Frank Corson, unknown intern, into the spotlight for a while. This was pretty vague thinking but it made a kind of sense and Frank settled for it in lieu of trying to a.n.a.lyze the strange compulsion, the odd foreboding deep within him.
_Here's a thing that might do me some good_, he told himself. _Why not take advantage of it?_
Perhaps he was rigidly blocking out the cause of his unrest--that he was more or less dependent upon Rhoda Kane for the luxuries that were involved in seeing her, having a relations.h.i.+p with her. He could neither ask her to dine with him on his level, at some place like Ned.i.c.k's, nor could he refuse to go with her to The Forum or the Four Seasons. He could not take her to his miserable furnished room on East 13th Street, nor refuse rendezvous in her Upper East Side apartment.
He was trapped and was thus desperately looking for a way out.
And somehow, grotesquely, there were indications that a man with two hearts might help to provide the answer.
The tape recorder stuck to the bottom of the Taber conference coffeepot had cost Senator Crane a hundred dollars. He had now listened to it four times and was pacing the floor of his office, scowling darkly at the walls. An android! What in h.e.l.l was an android? What kind of a stupid, impossible thing was this?
In a flash of panic, Crane wondered if it was all a diabolical machination of Brent Taber's. Maybe Taber knew all about the recorder.
Maybe the whole meeting was an elaborate plant to maneuver an earnest, alert senator into making a public fool of himself. Taber was certainly capable of such a thing.
And that was how it had begun to look. Still, that was ridiculous. The Army, the Navy, the Air Force--they were all involved. Only Congress--the true representatives of the people--had been ignored. And, by G.o.d, he'd do something about it!
Crane stopped pacing but continued to scowl at the wall. Now, what department of research could find him some data on androids?
Les King was awakened by a knock on his door. He rolled over, blinked and looked at his watch. A little after two in the afternoon, which was equivalent to midnight for Les. He pulled on his robe and went to the door and opened it.
He blinked.