"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.