After a while he left the doorway and moved on. But it was with new purpose and with new plans.
The new orders, relayed across a light-year of space, were not intercepted by any terrestrial receiving device, however sensitive. But they were received and recorded perfectly in the mind of the tenth android.
Frank Corson and Les King sat in a coffee shop and regarded each other with a certain wariness. "It's like this, at least from where I sit," King said. "About ten years ago a small-town judge named Sam Baker—"
"You told me that," Corson cut in impatiently. "Baker was supposed to have been drowned, but they never found the body. Now, you think William Matson is Sam Baker?"
King pondered the question morosely. "I've got every right to think so. But Baker would have aged some in ten years. The man I saw—"
"The man you saw didn't have a broken leg. I must have seen the same one when I—"
King was instantly alert. When you were on the trail of ten grand you had to be alert, and suspicious of comparative strangers.
"You saw someone who looked like Baker and Matson? A guy without a broken leg?"
"I was leaving an apartment building on the Upper East Side this morning. I met him in the street."