"Only if the android fails."

"I think he will."

"Why?"

"Because," Ah Tran said, "I've felt them up there. In that place. Before. It's difficult to explain. It isn't space and yet-in the sense that it can be occupied, inhabited-it is a region that parallels normal space. Our bodies occupy space; our minds, our souls, occupy this other place. Well, I've felt them up there-in there-observing me. When I've taken the gestalt upward. They've never tried to interfere. I haven't come close enough to success for them to make the effort. But, if there was ever any real danger-I'm sure of this-they would act and act at once. The android would never be able to resist them."

"They'd kill him."

"If they could. And I think they could."

"And you too?"

"I hope not," Ah Tran said.

"Richmond might do better."

"I hope so."

"Then call me," Cargill said.

"Will he say yes?"

"He may."

"May?"

"That's the best I can do. We'll be lucky if he's still alive."

"All right," Ah Tran said.

Cargill agreed. "All right."

The screen went blank. Shaking his head slowly, Ah Tran laid down the phone receiver and stepped away from the wall. He glanced briefly at his watch. Forty minutes. He unlocked the door and went into the bathroom and then into the large bedroom. He locked both doors and sat down in front of a dressing table and mirror. He began applying the make-up to his face. He drew wrinkles and creases in the smooth flesh of his face. He turned the bald peak of his skull forty years older. He laid bags under both eyes and dyed his light beard dull gray. He added pockets of sagging flesh to his throat, extended the lobes of his ears, and put a tired twist into the tip of his nose. Then, moving down, he began to roughen the tight skin on the backs of his hands.

He knew this other face-the one which, in stages, began to appear in the mirror-far better than he knew his own. But the fact remained: he wasn't Ah Tran; he was Donald Tapman. He didn't feel this made him a fake. He was an actor. Five years ago, he had belonged to a small, communal theatrical company touring the primitive East-Pakistan, Bangladesh, India, in particular. The company performed in native villages-Shakespeare, for the most part-then passed the hat. Poetry for the masses, so to speak. He had fallen in love with the East. Like any intelligent young man born in Brooklyn, he thought it was a very mysterious place. He particularly liked their religions. He had been raised a Baptist. He spoke to gurus, various messiahs, prophets, healers, mystics. Often, because of the extreme poverty in the villages they visited, the company went hungry. He noticed that few mystics- except on purpose-ever went hungry. He learned that, in past centuries, Eastern religions had swept the West briefly as fads. Buddhism would be as popular for a time with Western European intellectuals as cake with the masses. The Tibetan Book of the Dead-or the I Ching- would top student bestseller lists. Gurus would tour America, reaping material rewards. This did not mean the mystics were fakes; he was sure most-if not all-had been benevolently motivated. So was he. One night, he slipped away from the company, carrying several jars of make-up. Two days later, he appeared in the Western colony of Calcutta. Nobody would have been likely to recognize him. He said his name was Ah Tran and he came from Tibet. (Sometimes he forgot and said Nepal instead.) The new name was meaningless, but he liked the sound the two syllables made together.

Within a week, he had established a small but devoted following. At first, he begged from tourists but, within a month, he had developed and unveiled the philosophy of the circle, the cycle. Further converts quickly came and he required each to sign his worldly goods over to the new messiah. He incorporated the movement, hired a lawyer, built a school of disciples, and left India to tour the world. He never went hungry any more.

And-when?-sometime-three years ago maybe-he had accidentally stumbled across a certain fact of existence which had, at first, nearly forced him to renounce his following and flee for his sanity. By accident-he could not accept the idea of divine intervention-he had discovered what no one except a few mystics had guessed before: that the human mind, under certain conditions, possessed the ability to escape the confines of its body and roam about in a nonspatial place which might well be heaven.

For another year, he had kept this knowledge secret. He ceased meditating; he concentrated on preaching.

Then, last year, Cargill had come to him and exposed the existence of a small group of supermen-the Inheritors. He had thought at first that Cargill, despite his credentials, was merely another crackpot. He had known many such-they were an occupational hazard. But Cargill happened to be telling the truth. The Inheritors did exist. He soon learned this.

Cargill asked for his help. What else could he say? He said yes.

And now here he was. Dabbling his face with a last minute coat of make-up. Ignoring, as befitted his stature, the insistent rapping on the bedroom door. Five minutes. He was about to risk his life, his sanity and-who knows?- perhaps his soul.

Why? For what?

Why, to save the world of course. What else?

Brooklyn was a long way away.

Seventeen.

Alec thought this ought to be the only way to live. It was late-past midnight-and he was alone in the rear room of the office seated in front of his desk. In one hand he held a pencil; the other rested upon the top corner of a small notepad. The paper was almost blank-a few vague squiggles. But he was working-yes-thinking, dreaming, calculating, devising, designing, conjuring, and as far as he was concerned nothing at all might exist beyond the boundaries of this one small room. And he liked it that way.

The general had visited him yesterday afternoon. It wasn't Hopkins, with whom he had always dealt before, but another man-American Air Force. General Hopkins, the new man had said, was temporarily on leave. Alec didn't question this assertion-on leave with full-scale war about to erupt at any moment?-because he had long since grown accustomed to the military and its crazy ways.

"We seem to have a dreadful problem," the new general said.

"Well, what?" Alec asked.

"About your androids."

"Well, tell me---it can't be that bad."

"Oh, it is. It's worse. It's awful."

"Tell me."

It seemed-the general related-that during recent field maneuvers, an apparent flaw in the design of the latest model android soldiers had come to light. They-the soldiers-no longer appeared able to hold on to their weapons properly. They could aim well enough-that was not the problem-and even fire a clean initial shot. After firing, they took immediate cover. All of this was fine. But, standing to advance after taking cover, nine times out of ten they forgot and left their weapons behind. Why?

Alec had no compunctions about telling the general why. It wasn't the design, he insisted. The fault was theirs-the government, the army-in failing to realize that an android was a good deal more than a complicated hunk of machinery. In the last year more than half-a-million had been produced; forty percent of that total had come in the past sixty days. Computers-and all android production was, of course, computerized now-could perform a given task faster and, in most respects, better than any number of human workmen. Computers were fine for producing clocks, televisaphones, clothes-making machines, hovercraft, walkway components. But, as far as androids were concerned, an essential factor was missing-the personal factor-the human. The first androids had each been skillfully produced by human hands. The most recent had not. The first androids had been men in almost every sense except birth; the most recent were hardly more than flesh-colored automata. They could move-oh, yes-and walk, talk, aim, fire, fall. But they could not think. They did not seem to be aware that they were supposed to. If the general wanted to build a perfect android specimen, then Alec could tell him exactly how. For each one-each and every android-assign one man to oversee all aspects of that android's production. Let computers push the buttons and read the gauges and operate the conveyor belts. But if the general wanted success, then he needed that one man on the spot.

The general had flushed-almost as if he were embarrassed. "You talk almost like an android needs a mother."

"Yes-or a father. Someone, anyone who is human."

"It's impossible-we don't have the men-or the time."

"It takes a woman nine months to produce a child. An android is no less complicated."

"Impossible."

So Alec had agreed to a compromise. For a flat fee of a million new dollars, he consented to design an android equipped with a modern beam rifle inside its right arm. That way, to fire, the android would only have to point a finger at the target and press down with its thumb on a button implanted in the palm.

"That ought to work," the general had agreed. "Unless they start losing their hands."

"I told you how to solve your problem," Alec had said.

"Impossible-but we'll need this new design right away."

"I'll get right to it."