Ten From Infinity

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  SOMETHING WAS WRONG

  It began when a pedestrian got hit by a cab in New York City. No doubtit was the only motor mishap in the history of creation that reached outamong the stars--for far out in space a signal was registered:_Something has gone wrong...._

  And something had gone wrong, for the doctors discovered their accidentpatient had _two_ hearts. It was the beginning of the discovery that theEarth had been invaded by 10 such creatures from Outer Space.

  Every effort was made to learn their purpose. An orbital flight waslaunched to spot alien bodies--only to be destroyed in space. One of thealien men was captured--but no threat of pain or death could unlock thesecret in his brain.

  Something had gone wrong. And somehow, some way had to be found to makeit right--before the threat of danger overwhelmed all mankind.

  AUTHOR'S PROFILE

  Ivar Jorgensen is the pen name of a former topflight magazine editor whois now devoting his full time to free-lance writing.

  He was born in St. Louis and spent most of his early years in theMidwest. Before getting into the publishing field he held a number ofjobs, including those of elevator operator and theater usher.

  Mr. Jorgensen has written numerous science-fiction short stories as wellas several contemporary and suspense novels. TEN FROM INFINITY is hisfirst full-length science-fiction novel.

  * * * * *

  _A Science-Fiction Novel_

  TEN FROM INFINITY

  Ivar Jorgensen

  Cover Painting by Ralph Brillhart

  A Monarch Books Science-Fiction NovelPublished in January, 1963Copyright (C) 1963 by Ivar Jorgensen

  Monarch Books are published by MONARCH BOOKS, INC., Capital Building,Derby, Connecticut, and represent the works of outstanding novelists andwriters of non-fiction especially chosen for their literary merit andreading entertainment.

  Printed in the United States of AmericaAll Rights Reserved

  * * * * *

  1

  It began when a pedestrian got hit by a cab at the corner of 59th Streetand Park Avenue, Manhattan, New York City, U.S.A. No doubt it was thefirst motor mishap in the history of creation that reached out among thestars.

  The pedestrian was walking south on Park Avenue, toward Grand CentralStation. He was looking at the upper skeleton of the vast new Pan AmBuilding which blocked out the sky in that direction. But he should havebeen watching traffic because a yellow cab tagged him neatly and knockedhim across the walk into a clump of pigeons that scattered upward in alldirections.

  The cab driver swore. Citizenry gathered. An alert free-lance newsphotographer who happened to be passing took the most important shot ofhis career. After a while, the ambulance came and the dazed pedestrianwas pointed toward the nearest emergency ward, which happened to be inthe Park Hill Hospital.

  The pigeons settled back. The curious went their different ways.

  And far out in space, among the yellow pinpoints we call stars, a signalwas registered. The signal was of grave import to those who received it.

  The signal said, _Something has gone wrong._

  * * * * *

  From the springboard of this incident, there emerged several occurrencesof note. The first in sequence took place in the Park Hill Hospital. Thetime of that particular ambulance's arrival was 11:15 P.M. Atthat hour the harvest of violence in Manhattan was being delivered toits logical granaries in the form of broken heads, slashed bodies, anddazed, shock-strained eyes. The examining rooms at Park Hill were full,and some cases of lesser import were waiting on stretchers and benchesin the corridors.

  That was where the pedestrian waited. Unlike others, he was verypatient. He seemed to understand that this sort of thing took time; orperhaps he didn't. At any rate, he lay staring up at the ceiling,unmoving, seemingly uncaring, until an intern named Frank Corson stoppedbeside his stretcher and looked down at him in moody-eyed weariness.Then Corson managed a smile.

  "Sorry about the service, mister. Full house tonight."

  "That's quite all--right."

  Corson touched the broken leg. "I can give you a shot if the pain'shitting too hard."

  "It does not--pain."

  "Stout fellow." Frank Corson probed with fingers that were growing moreexpert day by day. "Good clean break. Not swelling, either." He touchedthe patient's wrist, then put a stethoscope to his chest.

  Actually, he was thinking of a different chest and different legs at thetime--the ones belonging to a copper-haired girl named Rhoda Kane.Rhoda's legs were far more alluring. Her chest had added equipment thatwas a haven of rest under trying circumstances, and Corson yearned formidnight when he would quit this charnel house and climb into Rhoda'sconvertible and--perhaps later--do a little chest analysis withoutbenefit of stethoscope.

  Now he sighed, commandeered a passing orderly, and went to work.

  Twenty minutes later he saw his patient deposited in a ten-bed ward. Hetranscribed his data onto the clipboard at the foot of the bed, andlooked guiltily into the hall to see how things were going. He feltguilty because he was tempted to dog it. And he did. He headed for thelocker room where he punched a cup of coffee out of the machine andthought some more about Rhoda's legs.

  Fifteen minutes later, Corson climbed into the convertible and leanedover and kissed Rhoda Kane. "Hi, baby. You smell wonderful."

  "You smell of disinfectant, darling." She wore a yellow print dress thatexposed a lot of healthily tanned skin. "Did you have a rough day?"

  He leaned back against the seat and pushed his legs as far under thedashboard as possible. He sighed and closed his eyes. But then he openedthem again and his face went blank.

  She waited a few more moments and then said, "Honey--I'm here. LittleRhoda. Remember me?"

  The vague, thoughtful look vanished as he jerked his head around. "Oh,sure--sure, baby." He grinned. "A rough one. If I'd known doctoring waslike this I'd have been a nice prosperous butcher."

  "Do you want to drive?"

  "No, you drive. I'll sit here and look at your beautiful profile."

  They drove to Rhoda's apartment--Frank couldn't afford one--and he putRhoda at one end of the sofa and stretched out with his head in her lap.He unbuttoned her blouse, put a hand over her breast, and teased thenipple.

  "Mr. Corson, you're a wolf."

  "Kiss me."

  "Well, I don't know," she teased.

  He pulled her head down and she murmured, "Oh, darling...."

  But he let go of her in the middle of the kiss and, when shestraightened, the blank, thoughtful look was back on his face.

  "Frank--what is it?"

  The look stayed. "I don't know."

  "Something's bothering you."

  "It seems to be. But I don't know what it is."

  "Did it happen at the hospital?"

  He frowned. "I guess it must have. It's been bugging me since--"

  Rhoda showed concern. "Did it have to do with a patient?"

  "Patients are all I work with. Let's see--" He stopped and his frowndeepened. "It was that damned accident case. Broken leg. I set it andput him in ward five. I--"

  His frown deepened as he sat up. "Uh-huh. It was that damned pulse.That's it. There was something wrong. That pulse was even and steadybut, Goddamn it, something was wrong!" He got to his feet. "Baby--I'vegot to go back to Park Hill."

  "Do you want to take the car or shall I drive you?"

  "You drive," he said absently as he got up from the sofa and reached forhis necktie.

  * * * * *

  Frank hurried in through th
e emergency entrance and went to theadmissions desk. A kindly, gray-haired nurse was working with papers andshe dug deep into the pile in response to Frank's query.

  "We didn't find much on him. An identification card with the nameWilliam Matson. Nothing else except a wallet initialed W. M. containingthirty-six dollars in cash."

  "_Nothing_ else?"

  The gray-haired nurse shook her head. "No social security number, nodriver's license, no home or business address."

  "Damned odd, don't you think?"

  "Not at Park Hill. We get them in here without a blessed thing but theirclothing. In fact, two weeks ago the boys picked up a stark-naked blondeout of a car crash on East River Drive."

  Frank grinned automatically, but the grin fell from his face like a maskthe moment he turned from the desk. He went through the locker room andgot his stethoscope on the way to Ward Five.

  The patient known to the hospital as William Matson lay quietly on hisback, staring at the ceiling. Frank checked the clipboard. There were nonotations but his own. He went around the bed and stood looking down atthe patient.

  "Feeling better?"

  "I feel all--right."

  _There's some sort of a speech block here_, Frank thought as he bentover and lowered the sheet. "I'm just doing a little checking," he saidcasually. "No cause for alarm."

  "I am not--alarmed."

  Corson frowned slightly as he concentrated on his work. He went over thepatient's torso, up and down, back and forth. At times he straightenedto rest his back and stared down into the calm, expressionless face onthe pillow.

  Twenty minutes passed, during which time Frank Corson checked andrechecked every inch of the man's torso. When he finished, he slowlyfolded his stethoscope and pulled the sheet back into place. He staredat the patient for a full minute without bringing the slightest changein the empty expression.

  "Sleep well," he said, and walked slowly away.

  Back in the street, five minutes later, he dropped into the seat besideRhoda. She eyed him questioningly and when he did not respond, sheasked, "Everything all right?"

  "I don't know. I guess so."

  "What do you mean--guess so? It is or it isn't."

  "There was something about a patient's heartbeat. I passed it over onthe first examination, but it stuck in my mind. That's why I had to goback."

  "And ...?"

  "He's got two hearts."

  "He's _what_?"

  "He's got two hearts, my beautiful love. One in his chest, where itought to be, and one in the center of his lower abdomen."

  "You're--you're kidding."

  "No, darling," Frank Corson said dreamily. "On this night of nights Ifound a man who is pretty rare indeed. A man with two healthy,functioning hearts."

  "All right," Rhoda asked wonderingly. "What do we do about it?"

  "We go home for the time being, baby--to your nice, private, wonderfulapartment."

  "And ...?"

  "We make love," he said absently.

  * * * * *

  Les King, the free-lance news photographer, surveyed his night's workand was not happy. It had been singularly unproductive. A couple ofsneak necking shots he'd snapped during a stroll through Central Parkhad come through a little too pornographic to be of value. Les threwthem into the wastebasket. A shot of a man leaning out of athirtieth-floor window came to nothing because the man had pulled hishead in and closed the window. He hadn't jumped. There was a picture ofa girl dodging a taxi. He'd caught her with both feet off the ground anda look of surprise on her face, but with her body arced backward andboth hands on her rump as though she'd just been thoroughly and expertlygoosed. Too vulgar. He put the pic aside.

  And the Park Avenue hit? Here it was, a shot of a guy lying where he'ddropped, with the pigeon's rocketing away. Not bad, but it lacked anangle. All that intern had found on him was a name. William Matson. Noaddress. The hell with it.

  Les sighed and dropped the pic into his file case. Then he stopped. Hisface went blank. He pulled the pic out and looked at it again. He feltas if some nagging thought were trying to come to the surface, butnothing clicked, so he dropped the pic back into the file and went tothe cooler where he opened an early-morning can of beer before sackingout. A hell of a life, he thought, wandering through nighttime Manhattanwatching for people to take their mental pants down so he could getshots of their naked inner backsides.

  He finished the beer and went in to take a shower.

  Funny about that hit case. The guy had the damnedest expression on hisface. Kind of like he was thinking, _Okay, so what do I do now?_

  Fifteen minutes later, Les was asleep.

  * * * * *

  There was always a certain tension involved in Frank Corson's visits toRhoda Kane's apartment, with Rhoda usually slightly on edge, waiting forone of Frank's outbursts.

  An outburst consisted of his suddenly springing to his feet with ascowl and announcing: "Goddamn it, I don't belong here!"

  Rhoda always followed the same script at the beginning of these traumasby inevitably asking, "Why, darling? Why must you say that?"

  "Oh, hell, Rhoda! I don't want to hurt you but--"

  "Darling, you know I'll go to your room with you if you'd be morecomfortable there."

  He strode to the window angrily and, for Rhoda, there was thatindescribably sweet and exciting reaction she always got from hisnakedness. _Like a Greek god standing there, she thought_, and itthrilled her even though she knew she was being a little subjectiveabout it.

  She smiled with tender, understanding amusement as she realized Frank'spattern never varied. His outbursts never came until the first fierceneed of her had been assuaged; this was to her liking because her needwas as great.

  Reacting according to current, "broad-minded" thinking and Manhattansophistication, she regarded herself and Frank as having a "goodphysical relationship." Which individual need was the greatest, she hadnever been able to say. But there certainly was something extraordinaryabout it. In analyzing it, she'd arrived at the conclusion that they'dbeen able, on the basis of personal rapport, to function in a completelyuninhibited manner; thus, some of their love-making, when lifted out ofcontext and surveyed objectively, might have been called abnormal. Rhodadid not think so, however; or, if she did, she blocked the ideasuccessfully by telling herself that whatever she and Frank did togetherwas all right because _they_ did it. She told herself it was good forthem because they looked at it with a healthy attitude.

  She could, of course, have gotten this opinion, or one in completeopposition to it, from two different psychologists, but she preferred toplay it as she saw it.

  She had wondered at times just how important the sex relation was in herattachment to Frank. It was of major importance, of that she was sure,but was it the key? If they drifted apart physically, would the otheraspects of the relationship vanish? She thought not, but she certainlywould not have been willing to put it to the test.

  Frank Corson was through looking out the window now and he began pacingnervously. "Sure--so it's fine to be a doctor. It's the sure-fire answerfor later in life. But what about now? What about this crawling up theladder inch by inch?" He turned on her defiantly.

  "Living on your money!"

  "You aren't!"

  "All right. Maybe not technically." He looked around the roomresentfully. "Using your apartment for--"

  "Frank! When I have guests, do they hesitate because my apartment isnicer than--?"

  She knew she'd hurt him even before his head came around and his eyesnarrowed. "So that's what it really is to you!"

  She'd said the wrong thing, but even as she sprang up from the bed shefelt that it made no difference because he would have found somethingelse. "I didn't mean it that way. You know I didn't."

  She ran to him and laid her hands on his chest; his eyes traveled downher naked body and his mind struggled. His expression said it was alittle unfair of her to come so close and stand that way,
nude andbeautiful and eager, in front of him, especially when he had a point tomake.

  "I'm a pauper trying to keep up with the rich."

  She knew how to break his mood now. She smiled and pressed against himlightly and said, "Uh-huh, but what a pauper. And darling, moneywouldn't change that part of it a bit."

  He drew her to him violently. The impact of their bodies hurt her ribsbut she gloried in the pain. She let her knees weaken and sank to thethickly carpeted floor, bringing him down with her.

  She knew Frank's outburst was over--at least for that day.

  Later, on the bed, he opened his eyes sleepily. "What time is it?"

  "A little after ten."

  "That gives us almost two more hours." He looked out over the EastRiver. "It's beautiful."

  "_Isn't_ it?"

  "If I went right into research--took a job somewhere--I could afford togive this to you."

  She thought of saying, _But, darling, I've got it already_, and decideda change of subject would be more judicious and said, "You _were_kidding last night, weren't you?"

  "Kidding?"

  "About the man with two hearts."

  Frank grinned a little sheepishly. He was extremely handsome and totallyunconscious of it, and when he grinned that way it made him look like alittle boy caught stealing jam, and Rhoda always wanted to hug him. Butshe forebore as he said, "It does seem a little silly, doesn't it?"

  "You'd know more about that than I do. Is it silly?"

  "Let's say the chances of such a thing happening are rather remote."

  "You only used your stethoscope last night?"

  "That was all. I went by what I heard."

  "What will you do now? X-ray?"

  "I'm not sure I'll do anything. The idea is so preposterous."

  She regarded him thoughtfully. "It's not like you to lose interest inanything until you know the answer."

  He snubbed out his cigarette. "Let's forget Park Hill and funnyanatomies, baby. Let's sit on the terrace and bathe ourselves in luxurythe way the TV ad says."

  And that was the way things stayed for two hours. The time passedswiftly, and when Frank was finally dressed and ready for the street, herefused Rhoda's offer to drive him to the hospital because she was verylate, too. He kissed her good-bye, went down the twelve floors in theelevator, and hurried out of the building.

  There was no cab in sight and he began to walk. Half a block later heturned a corner and stopped dead. He was facing a man who was coming inthe other direction. He stared. The man stared back. Frank automaticallystepped aside, but the man did exactly the same thing, at the same time,and they did a little dance there on the sidewalk. Then the man veeredaround him and moved on up the street. Frank turned and stared afterhim, then walked slowly in his own direction.

  It was the same man. It was the Park Avenue hit. It was the man he'dleft in Ward Five with a broken leg. It wasn't a brother or a cousin ora chance resemblance. It was the man himself or an exact double. Andwhat were the percentages against attending a patient one night andmeeting his exact double on the street the next morning?

  They were fantastic. Like hitting the Irish sweeps.

  It was the man. It had to be.

  Except that he wasn't broken-legged now. He was walking across the UpperEast Side, wearing that same look that was as good as anyone else's,except that you got the impression of an emptiness behind his eyes.