ff the bed. "I do not like making
love."

He began putting on his clothes. She watched him, completely defeated.
"Where do you come from?" she demanded. "Who are you? Why did you want
to know about the man with the broken leg?"

He turned from putting on his shirt and stood motionless, looking down
into her eyes and after a moment or two it did not matter to Rhoda
again. It mattered no more than it had in the beginning. The strange
fire had not been quenched by what had occurred. It was still there, in
her mind more than in her body, but finding its boundaries was not
important either.

"Are you going?"

"Yes."

"Will you come back?"

"I will come back. I want you to find out from Frank Corson what
happened to the androids."

"He doesn't know."

"Have him find out for you."

"I can't do that."

"Then I will not come back."

Somehow, in the part of Rhoda Kane's mind that was beyond her control,
the thought that John Dennis might not return took on the proportions of
a disaster. Her feeling was akin to panic as she said, "I will make him
find out."

"Then I will come back."

"Please. I will wait for you."

* * * * *

Les King answered the knock on the door and broke into a smile. "Well,
talk about luck! I've been looking all over hell for you. Come in. Come
in."

The tenth android was already in. He walked across the room and turned
to look back at Les King with the outside light behind him.

King returned the gaze and wondered if he was afraid. It was an odd
thing to wonder about. A man should know his own emotions. But King
could not quite analyze the ones that struck him at that moment. For one
thing, he'd discounted most of what Taber had said. There was something
going on here, true--something big. When the government could cover up a
murder in Greenwich Village, there had to be a big score at stake. And
there _had_ been a murder--but no cops, no police cars, nothing. Only a
couple of guys in an unmarked truck walking out with what could have
been a rolled-up carpet. They'd swiped _his_ pictures and told him to
keep his mouth shut.

This last was what made Les King mad. He'd found the story. It was his
by every right. But when they were ready to break it they'd do it
through some privileged Washington newspaperman who'd get it on a silver
platter. The hell with that stuff. It would take more than a shadowy
character like Brent Taber to scare him off.

He loo