Part 28 (1/2)
”Sounds to me like he wants the same thing as the Senator.”
”Hmmm,” Taber mused. ”Those are mighty popular cadavers, aren't they, Callahan?”
”I'm blessed if they aren't.”
”All right. You tell Mr. King--that is his name, isn't it?”
”You've got good eyesight--reading a blasted press card from clear across town.”
”I'm clairvoyant, Callahan. Tell you what you do--give me fifteen minutes to make a phone call and then send him after the bodies.”
”To the right place?”
”To the right place. And hold out for a good price. Get what the traffic will bear. I'd say maybe fifty dollars. Allow yourself to be bribed real good.”
”I'll do that.”
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 Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. with orders to get his hands on certain data, Les King bolstered his courage by telling himself that, what the h.e.l.l, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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, a.s.sumed a bold front, and demanded: ”Where in the h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l? 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 h.e.l.l 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.