Ten From Infinity | Page 3

Frank thought as he bent over
and lowered the sheet. "I'm just doing a little checking," he said
casually. "No cause for alarm."
"I am not--alarmed."
Corson frowned slightly as he concentrated on his work. He went over

the patient's torso, up and down, back and forth. At times he
straightened to rest his back and stared down into the calm,
expressionless face on the pillow.
Twenty minutes passed, during which time Frank Corson checked and
rechecked every inch of the man's torso. When he finished, he slowly
folded his stethoscope and pulled the sheet back into place. He stared at
the patient for a full minute without bringing the slightest change in the
empty expression.
"Sleep well," he said, and walked slowly away.
Back in the street, five minutes later, he dropped into the seat beside
Rhoda. She eyed him questioningly and when he did not respond, she
asked, "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 on
the first examination, but it stuck in my mind. That's why I had to go
back."
"And ...?"
"He's got two hearts."
"He's what?"
"He's got two hearts, my beautiful love. One in his chest, where it
ought 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 I
found 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, wonderful
apartment."
"And ...?"
"We make love," he said absently.
* * * * *
Les King, the free-lance news photographer, surveyed his night's work
and was not happy. It had been singularly unproductive. A couple of
sneak necking shots he'd snapped during a stroll through Central Park
had come through a little too pornographic to be of value. Les threw
them into the wastebasket. A shot of a man leaning out of a
thirtieth-floor window came to nothing because the man had pulled his
head in and closed the window. He hadn't jumped. There was a picture
of a girl dodging a taxi. He'd caught her with both feet off the ground
and a look of surprise on her face, but with her body arced backward
and both hands on her rump as though she'd just been thoroughly and
expertly goosed. Too vulgar. He put the pic aside.
And the Park Avenue hit? Here it was, a shot of a guy lying where he'd
dropped, with the pigeon's rocketing away. Not bad, but it lacked an
angle. All that intern had found on him was a name. William Matson.
No address. The hell with it.
Les sighed and dropped the pic into his file case. Then he stopped. His
face went blank. He pulled the pic out and looked at it again. He felt as
if some nagging thought were trying to come to the surface, but nothing
clicked, so he dropped the pic back into the file and went to the cooler
where he opened an early-morning can of beer before sacking out. A
hell of a life, he thought, wandering through nighttime Manhattan
watching for people to take their mental pants down so he could get
shots 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 his
face. 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 to
Rhoda Kane's apartment, with Rhoda usually slightly on edge, waiting
for one of Frank's outbursts.
An outburst consisted of his suddenly springing to his feet with a scowl
and announcing: "Goddamn it, I don't belong here!"
Rhoda always followed the same script at the beginning of these
traumas by 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 more
comfortable there."
He strode to the window angrily and, for Rhoda, there was that
indescribably sweet and exciting reaction she always got from his
nakedness. Like a Greek god standing there, she thought, and it thrilled
her even though she knew she was being a little subjective about it.
She smiled with tender, understanding amusement as she realized
Frank's pattern never varied. His outbursts never came until the first
fierce need of her had been assuaged; this was to her liking because her
need