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Updated: May 11, 2025
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."
"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?
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.
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.
They came quietly, probably at night, grabbed their model, and moved out fast." "How do you know that?" "Because, obviously, they think all men on earth look alike. Or, at least, we can assume that. Else how did they expect to get away with ten identical androids?" Entman's eyes widened. "I never thought of that," he muttered.
"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?"
And there's one thing I'd give a few years of my life to know." Brent Taber stared moodily into Entman's myopic little eyes and asked, "What's that, Doctor?" "How in hell did they do it?" "Who do you suppose they are?"
"How wonderful," she breathed. Brent Taber was human and his triumph had been a thing of satisfaction to him but only momentarily. Now it had a slightly sour taste. Not that he was unhappy. He was content and almost relaxed as he sat in Doctor Entman's patio and worked on a Scotch and soda. "A nice night," Entman said. "Beautiful. Those stars are about ready to fall into our laps."
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