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Updated: May 2, 2025
Taber asked as though hopeful of a negative answer. Blackwell held it up triumphantly. A few minutes later, he was gaping down at a hasty reassembly of what had once been the ninth android. He swallowed hard and said, "Nope. It ain't Jack." "You're sure?" Taber said sarcastically. "It looks just like the picture. "Not quite. Anyhow, it ain't Jack." The mystified Dr. Entman eyed Taber quizzically.
That means you won't get in trouble at the hospital." King grinned. "Your ethics won't come under scrutiny." Frank Corson flushed and said nothing. King, after a moment's silence, said, "I've been thinking about that tenth android." "Do you think there's as much danger in this thing as Taber says?" King shrugged. "Those guys always think that way. Remember what they said about the atom bomb?
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.
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.
A distinct expression of wistful regret crossed his face as he sank to the ground. The tenth android was dead. The patrolman came shakily to his feet. His face was as pale as death. "I I don't know what happened. Buck fever. Pure buck fever, and I've been on the force for ten years." "Don't worry about it," Taber said. "Don't worry.
The hand snapped open under the ripping impact of the bullet and the knife rang sharply against the wall as it ricocheted to the ground. Only then, did the patrolman obey the order to drop. He went to one knee and Brent Taber fired three shots into the chest of the android. He hesitated. There was only one slug left in the revolver.
"A jet airliner, down in the North Atlantic today, imperiled the lives of seventy-six ..." Frank Corson lay propped on two pillows in a private room of the Park Hill Hospital. Rhoda Kane sat in a chair beside the bed. She was pale and very beautiful. The fire was now gone from her body and the fever from her eyes. "They say he wasn't human. They say he was an android."
In the moments of uncertainty after John Dennis sent him to Washington, D.C. with orders to get his hands on certain data, Les King bolstered his courage by telling himself that, what the hell, 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.
"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?"
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.
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