"Oh, be quiet," Entman said with friendly petulance. "I was going to say that I was rather proud of those details. If our hostiles out there follow my specifications, they'll create androids with much smaller lungs and non-porous skin that will give them no end of trouble when they start chasing frightened householders down the streets of the world."
Taber chuckled. "I remember a story about the Japanese Navy. They were supposed to have built some ships to specifications stolen in England. When launched, they slid out into the bay and tipped over."
Entman sighed. "I wish I could get some of the data those creatures used in the construction of the androids."
"You'd like to make one of your own?"
"It would solve the servant problem. Terrible here in Washington."
"Labor unions would holler bloody murder."
"You can't stop progress."
Suddenly Entman got to his feet. He walked to the edge of the patio and looked upward. Taber saw his face in the light streaming from the living room—he seemed frightened.
"Brent! It's such a helpless feeling. What do we do?"
Brent Taber got up and went over and stood beside Entman. He, too, looked up into the velvet night; the beautiful, quiet, impersonal night.