l said virtuously.

"He's a skunk. He'll sign anything there's a buck in, and sometimes
he'll do it for fifty cents. He'd be a disgrace even to a park bench,
and why they haven't caught up with him I'll never know."

"A fine man," Charles Blackwell said, "and the paper is as legal as--"

"Oh, it's legal all right."

Brent Taber lapsed into silence and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to
allow him this privilege. _All I need_, Brent thought, _is a
court-defiance rap charged against me. Is that what Crane is trying to
get? Did he expect me to throw this creep out of my office and leave
myself wide open? Maybe, maybe not. If not, what is Crane after? He's
certainly achieved his purpose in getting even with an upstart
government appointee._

"Okay," Brent Taber said decisively. "You can have the body. Come with
me."

He got up, put on his hat, and strode out through the reception room and
into the corridor. Charles Blackwell came scuttling along behind. Brent
ignored the elevators and went through a door marked _Stairway_ and
started down at a fast clip. Charles Blackwell came clopping along
behind.

Six flights lower down, Blackwell gasped, "Why don't we use the
el--elevator?"

Brent ignored him and went down seventeen more flights. Charles
Blackwell was livid when they reached the bottom.

"For Christ sake--!"

Taber walked to the curb and dived out into traffic. Blackwell plunged
out after him, horns snarling and general indignation ruling above the
chaos.

They reached the opposite curb through some obscure miracle, with
Blackwell hanging on grimly until Taber pushed a door open and plunged
into a thick odor of formaldehyde.

"Have you still got that court order?" 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. "What's this all
about?"

Taber jerked a thumb in the direction of Blackwell. "The eleventh
android," he said tersely, and strode out of the laboratory.

Dr. Entman shook his head sadly, certain that Taber had slipped a cog.

* * * * *

Charles Blackwell, a trifle ill from the smell of formaldehyde, stood