"I'll see you in hell first," Brent Taber replied pleasantly. "Now get out of my office before I send for the man who uses the broom around here." Charles Blackwell was more comfortable now--more confident. "That's what they told me you'd say, so they gave me this to bring. It's a court order signed by a judge who sits in a court and listens to people's beefs about getting pushed around and does something about it." Brent Taber took the paper and peered at the signature. "It figures," he said softly. "It figures right down the line." "He's a fine judge," Charles Blackwell 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. * * * * *