"Can you distinguish between human voices and tapedeck constructions?"

The house said that it could.

He hung up again, "Let's go down a level," he said to the others.

The fourth level was clean, the lights burning brightly, the rooms still and deserted.

St. Cyr directed the house computer to lock all of the doors and windows as they left.

"Yes, sir," it said.

It sounded polite and obedient. He knew knew that no one could have gotten to it to make it behave otherwise. Yet... He supposed he would never fully trust another machine. that no one could have gotten to it to make it behave otherwise. Yet... He supposed he would never fully trust another machine.

Illogical.

He was startled by the bio-computer's comment, chiefly because it was the first thing it had contributed since St. Cyr had begun to explain the nature of the crime to the family gathered in the kitchen.

They went down to the third level.

The library was clean.

So was Jubal's den, and Alicia's music room.

When they entered the main sitting room, where they had gathered to discuss the case on St. Cyr's first night in the mansion, Teddy drifted rapidly toward them, a dart gun affixed to the stump of his right arm. But that was impossible, St. Cyr thought. They had left the gun behind them, locked in Hirschel's room.

Teddy fired.

The dart stung St. Cyr's neck.

He plucked it out, though he knew it was too late. Evidently Teddy had been prepared for any contingency: He had manufactured two dart pistols.

Behind him, the others were hit too; they cried out and plucked the darts angrily from their chests and legs and arms, tossed them away. When he turned he saw that Teddy appeared to be a good marksman, for everyone was reacting as if he had been hit.

A second dart bit the detective's thigh. He pulled it loose, wondering: poison this time poison this time?

Hirschel went down on one knee, the rifle already up against his shoulder.

Why didn't I react that fast? St. Cyr wondered. He dropped into the familiar firing position to make up for lost time.

Hirschel pulled off a shot at point-blank range, worked it right into the center of the master unit's body trunk. As he fired, he let out a war whoop; obviously, even though he had been hit by a dart, he was happy to be embroiled in a fight.

Even in the brightly-lighted room, the intense laser pulse was noticeable, like a quick, ghostly flicker of life in another dimension-or like the slit-mouth smile of a native Darmanian impressed upon the air.

Dane fired too.

And Tina.

St. Cyr raised his rifle, sighted, felt the hallucinations. .h.i.t him as his finger went around the trigger. A dozen Teddy master units appeared where only one had been a moment earlier. He did not think he should risk a shot now, for he could no longer be certain that there was no human between him and the robot.

Teddy reeled backwards under the impact of the vibra-beams, then turned and fled toward the window in the far wall.

"Dammit, he's getting away!" Hirschel shouted. He got up, stumbled towards the retreating machine, fell full length as he tripped over some imaginary obstacle.

Teddy smashed through the huge picture window, sent shards of gla.s.s flying in all directions, and disappeared into the darkness.

FIFTEEN: A Desperate Barricade

In the sitting room, while the others fumbled drunkenly with pieces of furniture to make a crude barricade at the smashed window, St, Cyr held onto the telephone link of the house computer, held on with both hands, and said, "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?"

The house did not reply.

"I want you to lock every door and window in the lower three levels right now," he commanded it.

The house did not acknowledge the order.

"You there?" he asked.

The house was not there.

He hung up, leaned against the wall, shoved away when he felt himself sinking into it, the plaster closing around him like b.u.t.ter, greasy and warm. Carefully placing one foot before the other, he plodded to the door, where Jubal was sprawled across the entrance. The old man stared stupidly at the ceiling and mumbled something that St. Cyr could not hear, did not want to hear, and ignored. He stepped over the drugged patriarch arid was about to venture into the corridor when Alicia caught hold of his arm from behind.

"Where you going?" she asked. She was accustomed to the drug, and far less affected by it than they were.

This house computer have a manual programming board?" St. Cyr asked.

She nodded. "But why don't you use the telephone link?"

"I tried that," he explained patiently, though he found it difficult to be patient with a woman whose face constantly changed shape: now squashed and ugly, now flat like paper, now drawn thin and humorous. He said, "Teddy got to the in-house lines as well, sometime just before he jumped us."

"And he had a second pistol," Alicia said, as if St. Cyr were to blame for not having located that weapon when he ransacked the cabinets and drawers in the workshop.

Maybe he was was to blame. to blame.

He didn't want to think about that now. Indeed, he couldn't think about it, because he needed all his concentration to handle the single topic of the house computer.

To a thin-faced, squinty Alicia, he said: "I want to get the electric locks thrown on the bottom three levels, before Teddy has a chance to come back into the house through another door."

"He'll already have done that," she said.

To a round-faced, porcine Alicia, he said: "Maybe; maybe not. The hits the others made with vibra-beams may have stunned him. They may even have damaged or erased memory banks."

"I'll come with you," she said. "The keyboard is in the bas.e.m.e.nt, behind the workshop."

St. Cyr looked at the others, who were toiling mightily but accomplis.h.i.+ng very little in the effort to block up the broken window. "You have to stay here, with them," he said. "Oversee the construction of the barricade. At least, then we'll have one secure room on this level."

She looked dubious.

"Don't look dubious," St. Cyr told her, patting her peaked head. "It isn't becoming to you."

"You'll never make it all the way down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, to the board," she said, her mouth abruptly widening until it stretched from ear to ear.

"I'll make it," he said ."I've got the computer sh.e.l.l to help me weed out the real from the unreal."

"It didn't help you in the garden," she said.

"I wasn't prepared for this then." He stepped backwards, moving away from her huge mouth, prepared to strike her if she attempted to take a bite of him.

Hallucination.

Something crashed behind Alicia, and she whirled to see what had happened. In the instant, she gained two feet in height, a hundred pounds in weight, ballooned out and up like a bespelled giant recovering from sorcery that had midgetized it.

St. Cyr used the distraction to turn and stumble into the corridor, where the floor was rippling gently in a soft warm breeze.

When the elevator door opened for him, he saw that it was a wet, pink mouth waiting to swallow him, and he stepped backwards so fast that he fell.

Hallucination.

Of course, he thought. Hallucination. Still, it was difficult to step onto the wriggling tongue, turn and punch a b.u.t.ton to make the thick lips close in front of him.

He was swallowed...

Then, with a jolt, he was regurgitated. He supposed it was because he contained too many sour memories to please the elevator's palate.

He swayed forward into the garage on the lowest level of the mansion, went painfully to his knees, felt the floor go soft and attempt to suck him down. The tile was halfway up his thighs when he finally levered himself loose and regained his feet.

A month later, he reached the far side of the garage and went through the archway into Teddy's workshop, half expecting to encounter the master unit again. The workshop, however, was deserted. He thought of getting down on his knees and giving thanks for that stroke of luck, then remembered that the floor would devour him if it were given an opportunity like that.

Hallucination.

Of course it was. He knew that. He did not believe in prayer, anyway. Most likely, he would have gotten down on his knees to pray while Teddy entered the room behind him and broke his neck. If there were any G.o.ds, they were the sort who loved to play tricks like that. He knew from experience. Just as the stalker knew, too...

That thought sobered him, chiefly because he could not understand the sense behind it. What did that phantom figure from his nightmares have to do with any of this?

He looked behind his back.

Teddy was nowhere in sight.

He crossed the workshop to a white door labeled with red letters: HOUSE COMPUTER, MANUAL PROGRAMMING. The door was locked.

Well, of course it would be locked. He turned and braced himself against the work counter, walked until he reached the violated key cabinet, wrenched open the stubborn, twisted door and found the key to the programming room. Six months and several thousand weary miles later, he was back at the locked door, trying to fit the key to the slot. That should have been a simple task, except that the lock slot kept rising and falling, twisting left and right to get away from him.

He looked behind himself.

Teddy was still nowhere around.

There might still be time.

He jammed the key into the lock, more by accident than intent, twisted it and pushed the old-fas.h.i.+oned metal door open. The lights in the room beyond rose automatically, displaying a simple chair before a small round table in the center of the room. The single leg the table stood on was a foot in diameter. The top of the table was inlaid with bright keys, one for every letter of the alphabet, ten for numbers and combinations thereof, eighty-six others for various symbols- including monetary abbreviations, brackets, commas, periods, parentheses, scientific notations...

He sat in the cup-chair and leaned over the board, pressed the MESSAGE bar and watched the keys light up.

Still no Teddy.

Laboriously, he managed to key the first directive: LOCK ALL EXTERIOR EXTERIOR DOORS AND WINDOWS ON THE BOTTOM THREE LEVELS OF THE MANSION. DOORS AND WINDOWS ON THE BOTTOM THREE LEVELS OF THE MANSION.

The wall across from him lighted abruptly, like a motion picture screen. Black letters blinked before him: DIRECTIVE OBEYED.

He typed: DO NOT OPEN ANY DOORS OR WINDOWS WITHOUT THE DIRECT COMMAND OF A HUMAN VOICE.

On the wall, it replied: MY SOUND RECEPTORS ARE NOT FUNCTIONING.

St. Cyr watched the keys dance up and down before his eyes, metamorphose into bright mushrooms, become keys again. He wondered if he could possibly afford to take a catnap; if he could knock off for half an hour, his head would be so much clearer when he woke.

He typed: DO NOT OPEN ANY DOORS OR WINDOWS WITHOUT BEING REQUESTED TO DO SO, MANUALLY, BY A MESSAGE PRECEDED BY THE CODE WORD-STALKER.

Flickering on the screen: YES, SIR.

St. Cyr: WITHOUT YOUR AUDIO RECEIVERS, CAN YOU IDENTIFY THE Pa.s.sENGER IN AN ELEVATOR?

NO, SIR.

He thought a minute, allowed the minute to stretch into a year, let it snap back into perspective again. He typed: CAN YOU DISTINGUISH BETWEEN A HUMAN AND A ROBOTIC ELEVATOR Pa.s.sENGER, WITHOUT YOUR EARS?

YES, SIR.

HOW?.

ON GRAVPLATES, A ROBOT BRINGS NO WEIGHT TO BEAR ON THE ELEVATOR FLOOR, WHICH I MONITOR FOR SAFETY REASONS.

He typed: PERMIT NO ROBOT IN THE ELEVATORS.

YES, SIR.

He thought a moment, then added: ACCEPT NO PROGRAMMED COMMAND UNLESS IT IS PRECEDED BY THE CODE WORD-STALKER.

YES, SIR. PRECAUTION EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

He slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes and yawned. On the insides of his eyelids, the stalker approached him, hands raised to embrace him. He did not like the vision, and he opened his eyes again to be rid of it. He leaned forward and typed: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THIS HOUSE?

No letters lighted on the wall.