n't the most important thing in the world, died
automatically as John Dennis stared at him through those strangely empty
eyes.

"Is it something I can handle?"

"Yes." Dennis handed King a folded slip of paper. "I have written down
an address there. It is in Washington, D.C. I want you to enter those
premises--that room--and find some reports that should be there."

"Reports on what?"

"It is a dissecting place of some kind. That's where the bodies of the
androids are. The man who is doing it must have reports. There must be
records that tell what was wrong with the androids. It must be put down
somewhere why they died."

"Does it matter?"

"It is a matter of vital importance. There will be much money for you if
you get those reports and give them to me."

"Who pays the money?"

"I will pay it to you if you get the reports."

The prospect was exciting to King. Later, there could be a story about
how he got vital pictures of the project. His thinking had changed, but
this did not seem odd to him. All thought of functioning in
counterespionage against the Russians had moved into the back of his
mind. He was in the game now for the money. Oh was it that? Maybe he was
in it for the excitement. There was something in the man who called
himself John Dennis that generated excitement. It was like living a
melodrama. It tingled in the blood and took a man out of the drab world
where every day was like the one before it.

"I'll try," Les King said.

"You will succeed."

"I will succeed."

Jesus! This man had a thing about him. He inspired you. When he looked
at you with those weird eyes, you just knew you couldn't fail.

10

The doorbell rang. Rhoda Kane sprang up from the sofa and almost spilled
her drink. She was halfway across the room before she realized she was
almost running. She stopped. The hand that held the cocktail glass
shook.

Resolutely, she steadied, crossed to the liquor cabinet, put down the
glass, and went calmly to the door.

He stood there looking at her through those oddly empty eyes which,
through some contradiction of all probability, warmed her.

He came in and closed the door, saying nothing. A touch of panic rippled
through her. He was so silent, so unbending, so impersonal. Was this a
reflection of her inability to communicate with him? Could their
relationship fail because of this shortcoming on her part? What good was
love if you couldn't communicate it to the loved on