The Frankenstein Factory by Edward D. Hoch Page A

house with Hilda—or Hidalga, as Earl now thought of her—the others went off to make another search of the small island. Tony and Vera headed toward the north curve of the horseshoe, while Whalen and Earl went south.
    As soon as they were out of earshot of the others Whalen said, “He’ll probably take her up the beach a ways and screw her behind a bush. Can’t say I blame him, though.”
    “You’re beginning to sound like the late Freddy O’Connor. I doubt if they’d bother with anything so crude when they’re sleeping together every night.”
    “I suppose not,” Whalen agreed. “You married, Jazine?”
    Earl shook his head. “These days in New York nobody under thirty gets married unless he’s going into politics. A wife’s picture is still good for the campaign posters.”
    “How’d you get into police work?”
    “It’s a far cry from police work, I’ll tell you! We have to be experts on computers, lasers, holograms, cryosurgery—just about every phase of the new technology. The purpose behind the Computer Investigation Bureau is to handle crimes the regular police forces aren’t equipped for.”
    “And that’s what brought you here?”
    “There are a number of unanswered questions about ICI’s financial setup.”
    “Hobbes found me back East earlier this year,” Whalen said. “I had a number of questions too, and I figured the surest way to get answers was to come out to Horseshoe Island with him.”
    They walked through the last of the tall grass and came to the tip of the island. “No one here,” Earl said, “unless he’s gone underground.”
    “You don’t believe me about the person I saw last night, do you?”
    “Not especially. Frankly, I think you hoisted the pennant to keep the hovercraft from delivering supplies this morning. Then you fired those shots so we’d all think someone was out there.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “I don’t know,” Earl had to admit.
    They walked back toward the house in silence for a time, feeling the warm breeze on their faces. He had the feeling that Whalen wanted to ask him something, and after a couple of false starts the bushy-haired man said, “I don’t think someone like Hobbes should have a monopoly on this sort of operation.”
    “Certainly not. But I don’t think medical monopolies have ever been much of a problem. In heart transplants, for instance, almost as soon as Christiaan Barnard performed the first operation in South Africa, doctors around the world were doing it.”
    “Correct, as far as you go!” Whalen said. “But while doctors are quick to share operating techniques, certain technological advances are not always so readily admitted. We all know how heart transplants were replaced by the mechanical heart, for instance. But when the mechanical heart proved defective, there was a certain reluctance on the part of surgeons to discuss it, or to reveal their own personal steps for overcoming the defects. Perhaps they feared malpractice suits if the device misfunctioned in one of their patients. Something similar happened a hundred years ago, in the early days of brain surgery. Doctors developed their own special instruments, and it was some years before standard techniques came into being.”
    “Just what are you getting at?”
    “Well, Hobbes chose surgical transplant over the other possibilities—mechanical heart, liver, kidney, and the like. Why?”
    “I’m sure he has a reason.”
    “MacKenzie went along with it. I’ve lived with them here for the last few months, but they have never discussed it with me, never told me a damned thing except what I really had to know. You think that’s fair?”
    “I really couldn’t say.”
    “The knowledge gained here should be made available to all the peoples of the world, including those in other countries.”
    “I see.” The light was finally beginning to dawn for Earl. “And that’s why you wanted to buy a copy of my film record, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Who’s