Perhaps he was rigidly blocking out the cause of his unrest--that he was more or less dependent upon Rhoda Kane for the luxuries that were involved in seeing her, having a relationship with her. He could neither ask her to dine with him on his level, at some place like Nedick's, nor could he refuse to go with her to The Forum or the Four Seasons. He could not take her to his miserable furnished room on East 13th Street, nor refuse rendezvous in her Upper East Side apartment. He was trapped and was thus desperately looking for a way out. And somehow, grotesquely, there were indications that a man with two hearts might help to provide the answer. * * * * * The tape recorder stuck to the bottom of the Taber conference coffeepot had cost Senator Crane a hundred dollars. He had now listened to it four times and was pacing the floor of his office, scowling darkly at the walls. An android! What in hell was an android? What kind of a stupid, impossible thing was this? In a flash of panic, Crane wondered if it was all a diabolical machination of Brent Taber's. Maybe Taber knew all about the recorder. Maybe the whole meeting was an elaborate plant to maneuver an earnest, alert senator into making a public fool of himself. Taber was certainly capable of such a thing. And that was how it had begun to look. Still, that was ridiculous. The Army, the Navy, the Air Force--they were all involved. Only Congress--the true representatives of the people--had been ignored. And, by God, he'd do something about it! Crane stopped pacing but continued to scowl at the wall. Now, what department of research could find him some data on androids? * * * * * Les King was awakened by a knock on his door. He rolled over, blinked and looked at his watch. A little after two in the afternoon, which was equivalent to midnight for Les. He pulled on his robe and went to the door and opened it. He blinked. Sure, no doubt about it. The man standing there was the one he'd snapped on Park Avenue the other A.M., lying among a bunch of pigeons, with a broken leg. But evidently that hadn't been the case because his legs were okay now. It couldn't even have been a sprain, judging by the way he was standing there. He was a fairly tall, good-looking guy in his middle forties maybe--brown hair, blue eyes with a kind of vacant look about them. And there was something else, goddamn it; something that kept evading Les; something that had bothered him when he'd first developed the print. _Let's see, what is this guy's name? The ambulance intern found it in his jacket pocket on a half-torn identification card. William Matson._ But, damn it, there was something else. "Mr. Lester--King?" "Right. What can I do for you?" "I had trouble in locating--you. I wish to make a--purchase." Queer duck. Damned queer. "What can I sell you?"