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  "Was it?"

  "Apparently so, in a limited fashion. What they had come up with, to be made part of the initial telefactor loop, was a device which set up a weak induction field in the brain of the operator. The machine received and amplified the patterns of electrical activity being conducted in the Hangman's, might well call it 'brain', then passed them through a complex modulator and pulsed them into the induction field in the operator's head…I am out of my area now and into that of Weber and Fechner, but a neuron has a threshold at which it will fire, and below which it will not. There are some forty thousand neurons packed together in a square millimeter of the cerebral cortex, in such a fashion that each one has several hundred synaptic connections with others about it. At any given moment, some of them may be way below the firing threshold while others are in a condition Sir John Eccles once referred to as 'critically poised', ready to fire. If just one is pushed over the threshold, it can affect the discharge of hundreds of thousands of others within twenty milliseconds. The pulsating field was to provide such a push in a sufficiently selective fashion to give the operator an idea as to what was going on in the Hangman's brain. And vice versa. The Hangman was to have its own built-in version of the same thing. It was also thought that this might serve to humanize it somewhat, so that it would better appreciate the significance of its work, to instill something like loyalty, you might say."

  "Do you think this could have contributed to its later breakdown?"

  "Possibly. How can you say in a one-of-a-kind situation like this? If you want a guess, I'd say, 'Yes.' But its just a guess."

  "Uh-huh," he said, "and what were its physical capabilities?"

  "Anthropomorphic design," I said, "both because it was originally telefactored and because of the psychological reasoning I just mentioned. It could pilot its own small vessel. No need for a life-support system, of course. Both it and the vessel were powered by fusion units, so that fuel was no real problem. Self-repairing. Capable of performing a great variety of sophisticated tests and measurements, of making observations, completing reports, learning new material, broadcasting its findings back here. Capable of surviving just about anywhere. In fact, it required less energy on the outer planets, less work for the refrigeration units, to maintain that supercooled brain in its midsection."

  "How strong was it?"

  "I don't recall all the specs. Maybe a dozen times as strong as a man, in things like lifting and pushing."

  "It explored Io for us and started in on Europa."

  "Yes."

  "Then it began behaving erratically, just when we thought it had really learned its job."

  "That sounds right," I said.

  "It refused a direct order to explore Callisto, then headed out toward Uranus."

  "Yes. It's been years since I read the reports…"

  "The malfunction worsened after that. Long periods of silence interspersed with garbled transmissions. Now that I know more about its makeup, it almost sounds like a man going off the deep end."

  "It seems similar."

  "But it managed to pull itself together again for a brief while. It landed on Titania, began sending back what seemed like appropriate observation reports. This only lasted a short time, though. It went irrational once more, indicated that it was heading for a landing on Uranus itself, and that was it. We didn't hear from it after that. Now that I know about that mind-reading gadget I understand why a psychiatrist on this end could be so positive it would never function again."

  "I never heard about that part."

  "I did."

  I shrugged. "This was all around twenty years ago," I said, "and, as I mentioned, it has been a long while since I've read anything about it."

  "The Hangman's ship crashed or landed, as the case may be, in the Gulf of Mexico, two days ago."

  I just stared at him.

  "It was empty," Don went on, "when they finally got out and down to it."

  "I don't understand."

  "Yesterday morning," he continued, "restaurateur Manny Burns was found beaten to death in the office of his establishment, the Maison Saint-Michel, in New Orleans."

  "I still fail to see…"

  "Manny Burns was one of the four original operators who programmed, pardon me, taught', the Hangman."

  The silence lengthened, dragged its belly on the deck.

  "Concidence…?" I finally said.

  "My client doesn't think so."

  "Who is your client?"

  "One of the three remaining members of the training group. He is convinced that the Hangman has returned to Earth to kill its former operators."

  "Has he made his fears known to his old employers?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it would require telling them the reason for his fears."

  "That being…?"

  "He wouldn't tell me, either."

  "How does he expect you to do a proper job?"

  "He told me what he considered a proper job. He wanted two things done, neither of which requires a full case history. He wanted to be furnished with good bodyguards, and he wanted the Hangman found and disposed of. I have already taken care of the first part."

  "And you want me to do the second?"

  "That's right. You have confirmed my opinion that you are the man for the job."

  "I see. Do you realize that if the firing is truly sentient this will be something very like murder? If it is not, of course, then it will only amount to the destruction of expensive government property."

  "Which way do you look at it?"

  "I look at it as a job," I said.

  "You'll take it?"

  "I need more facts before I can decide. Like, who is your client? Who are the other operators? Where do they live? What do they do? What…" He raised his hand.

  "First," he said, "the Honorable Jesse Brockden, senior Senator from Wisconsin, is our client. Confidentiality, of course, is written all over it."

  I nodded. "I remember his being involved with the space program before he went into politics. I wasn't aware of the specifics, though. He could get government protection so easily…"

  "To obtain it, he would apparently have to tell them something he doesn't want to talk about. Perhaps it would hurt his career. I simply do not know. He doesn't want them. He wants us."

  I nodded again.

  "What about the others? Do they want us, too?"

  "Quite the opposite. They don't subscribe to Brockden's notions at all. They seem to think he is something of a paranoid."

  "How well do they know one another these days?"

  "They live in different parts of the country, haven't seen each other in years. Been in occasional touch, though."

  "Kind of a flimsy basis for that diagnosis, then."

  "One of them is a psychiatrist."

  "Oh. Which one?"

  "Leila Thackery is her name. Lives in St. Louis. Works at the State Hospital there."

  "None of them have gone to any authority, then, federal or local?"

  "That's right. Brockden contacted them when he heard about the Hangman. He was in Washington at the time. Got word on its return right away and managed to get the story killed. He tried to reach them all, learned about Burns in the process, contacted me, then tried to persuade the others to accept protection by my people. They weren't buying. When I talked to her, Doctor Thackery pointed out, quite correctly, that Brockden is a very sick man."

  "What's he got?"

  "Cancer. In his spine. Nothing they can do about it once it hits there and digs in. He even told me he figures he has maybe six months to get through what he considers a very important piece of legislation, the new criminal rehabilitation act…I will admit that he did sound kind of paranoid when he talked about it. But hell! Who wouldn't? Doctor Thackery sees that as the whole thing, though, and she doesn't see the Burns killing as being connected with the Hangman. Thinks it was just a traditional robbery gone sour, thief surprised and panicky, maybe hopped-up, et ceter
a."

  "Then she is not afraid of the Hangman?"

  "She said that she is in a better position to know its mind than anyone else, and she is not especially concerned."

  "What about the other operator?"

  "He said that Doctor Thackery may know its mind better than anyone else, but he knows its brain, and he isn't worried, either."

  "What did he mean by that?"

  "David Fentris is a consulting engineer, electronics, cybernetics. He actually had something to do with the Hangman's design."

  I got to my feet and went after the coffeepot. Not that I'd an overwhelming desire for another cup at just that moment. But I had known, had once worked with a David Fentris. And he had at one time been connected with the space program.

  About fifteen years my senior, Dave had been with the data bank project when I had known him. Where a number of us had begun having second thoughts as the thing progressed, Dave had never been anything less than wildly enthusiastic. A wiry five-eight, graycropped, gray eyes back of homrims and heavy glass, cycling between preoccupation and near-frantic darting, he had had a way of verbalizing half-completed thoughts as he went along, so that you might begin to think him a representative of that tribe which had come into positions of small authority by means of nepotism or politics. If you would listen a few more minutes, however, you would begin revising your opinion as he started to pull his musings together into a rigorous framework. By the time he had finished, you generally wondered why you hadn't seen it all along and what a guy like that was doing in a position of such small authority. Later, it might strike you, though, that he seemed sad whenever he wasn't enthusiastic about something. And while the gung-ho spirit is great for short-range projects, larger ventures generally require somewhat more equanimity. I wasn't at all surprised that he had wound up as a consultant.

  The big question now, of course was: Would he remember me? True, my appearance was altered, my personality hopefully more mature, my habits shifted around. But would that be enough, should I have to encounter him as part of this job? That mind behind those hornrims could do a lot of strange things with just a little data.

  "Where does he live?" I asked.

  "Memphis. And what's the matter?"

  "Just trying to get my geography straight," I said. "Is Senator Brockden still in Washington?"

  "No. He's returned to Wisconsin and is currently holed up in a lodge in the northern part of the state. Four of my people are with him."

  "I see."

  I refreshed our coffee supply and reseated myself. I didn't like this one at all and I resolved not to take it. I didn't like just giving Don a flat "No," though. His assignments had become a very important part of my life, and this one was not mere legwork. It was obviously important to him, and he wanted me on it. I decided to look for holes in the thing, to find some way of reducing it to the simple bodyguard job already in progress.

  "It does seem peculiar," I said, "that Brockden is the only one afraid of the device."

  "Yes."

  "…And that he gives no reasons."

  "True."

  "…Plus his condition, and what the doctor said about its effect on his mind."

  "I have no doubt that he is neurotic," Don said. "Look at this."

  He reached for his coat, withdrew a sheaf of papers from within it. He shuffled through them and extracted a single sheet, which he passed to me.

  It was a piece of Congressional-letterhead stationary, with the message scrawled in longhand. "Don," it said, "I've got to see you. Frankenstein's monster is just come back from where we hung him and he's looking for me. The whole damn universe is trying to grind me up. Call me between 8 & 10…Jess."

  I nodded, started to pass it back, paused, then handed it over. Double damn it deeper than hell!

  I took a drink of coffee. I thought that I had long ago given up hope in such things, but I had noticed something which immediately troubled me. In the margin, where they list such matters, I had seen that Jesse Brockden was on the committee for review of the Central Data Bank program. I recalled that that committee was supposed to be working on a series of reform recommendations. Offhand, I could not remember Brockden's position on any of the issues involved, but, Oh hell! The thing was simply too big to alter significantly now,…But it was the only real Frankenstein monster I cared about, and there was always the possibility…On the other hand, Hell, again! What if I let him die when I might have saved him, and he had been the one who…?

  I took another drink of coffee. I lit another cigarette.

  There might be a way of working it so that Dave didn't even come into the picture. I could talk to Leila Thackery first, check further into the Burns killing, keep posted on new developments, find out more about the vessel in the Gulf…I might be able to accomplish something, even if it was only the negation of Brockden's theory, without Dave's and my paths ever crossing.

  "Have you got the specs on the Hangman?" I asked.

  "Right here."

  He passed them over.

  "The police report on the Burns killing?"

  "Here it is."

  "The whereabouts of everyone involved, and some background on them?"

  "Here."

  "The place or places where I can reach you during the next few days, around the clock? This one may require some coordination."

  He smiled and reached for his pen.

  "Glad to have you aboard," he said.

  I reached over and tapped the barometer. I shook my head.

  The ringing of the phone awakened me. Reflex bore me across the room, where I took it on audio.

  "Yes?"

  "Mister Donne? It is eight o'clock."

  "Thanks."

  I collapsed into the chair. I am what might be called a slow starter. I tend to recapitulate phylogeny every morning. Basic desires inched then: ways through my gray matter to close a connection. Slowly, I extended a cold-blooded member and clicked my talons against a couple of numbers. I croaked my desire for food and lots of coffee to the voice that responded. Half an hour later I would only have growled. Then I staggered off to the place of flowing waters to renew my contact with basics.

  In addition to my normal adrenaline and blood-sugar bearishness, I had not slept much the night before. I had closed up shop after Don left, stuffed my pockets with essentials, departed the Proteus, gotten myself over to the airport and onto a flight which took me to St. Louis in the dead, small hours of the dark. I was unable to sleep during the flight, thinking about the case, deciding on the tack I was going to take with Leila Thackery. On arrival, I had checked into the airport motel, left a message to be awakened at an unreasonable hour, and collapsed.

  As I ate, I regarded the fact sheet Don had given me.

  Leila Thackery was currently single, having divorced her second husband a little over two years ago, was forty-six years old, and lived in an apartment near to the hospital where she worked. Attached to the sheet was a photo which might have been ten years old. In it, she was brunette, light-eyed, barely on the right side of that border between ample and overweight, with fancy glasses straddling an upturned nose. She had published a number of books and articles with titles full of alienations, roles, transactions, social contexts, and more alienations.

  I hadn't had the time to go my usual route, becoming an entire new individual with a verifiable history. Just a name and a story, that's all. It did not seem necessary this time, though. For once, something approximating honesty actually seemed a reasonable approach.

  I took a public vehicle over to her apartment building. I did not phone ahead, because it is easier to say "No" to a voice than to a person.

  According to the record, today was one of the days when she saw outpatients in her home. Her idea, apparently: break down the alienating institution-image, remove resentments by turning the sessions into something more like social occasions, et cetera. I did not want all that much of her time, I had decided that Don could make it worth her, while if it came to tha
t, and I was sure my fellows' visits were scheduled to leave her with some small breathing space. Inter alia, so to speak.

  I had just located her name and apartment number amid the buttons in the entrance foyer when an old woman passed behind me and unlocked the door to the lobby. She glanced at me and held it open, so I went on in without ringing. The matter of presence, again.

  I took the elevator to Leila's floor, the second, located her door and knocked on it. I was almost ready to knock again when it opened, partway.

  "Yes?" she asked, and I revised my estimate as to the age of the photo. She looked just about the same.

  "Doctor Thackery," I said, "my name is Donne. You could help me quite a bit with a problem I've got."

  "What sort of problem?"

  "It involves a device known as the Hangman."

  She sighed and showed me a quick grimace. Her fingers tightened on the door.

  "I've come a long way but I'll be easy to get rid of. I've only a few things I'd like to ask you about it."

  "Are you with the government?"

  "No."

  "Do you work for Brockden?"

  "No, I'm something different."

  "All right," she said. "Right now I've got a group session going. It will probably last around another half hour. If you don't mind waiting down in the lobby, I'll let you know as soon as it is over. We can talk then."

  "Good enough," I said. "Thanks."

  She nodded, closed the door. I located the stairway and walked back down.

  A cigarette later, I decided that the devil finds work for idle hands and thanked him for his suggestion. I strolled back toward the foyer. Through the glass, I read the names of a few residents of the fifth floor. I elevated up and knocked on one of the doors. Before it was opened I had my notebook and pad in plain sight.

  "Yes?" Short, fiftyish, curious.

  "My name is Stephen Foster, Mrs. Gluntz. I am doing a survey for the North American Consumers League. I would like to pay you for a couple minutes of your time, to answer some questions about products you use."

  "Why… Pay me?"