"What the hell!"

He dropped it. The book lay beside him and a voice said, "Query. Query." It seemed to be coming from the book itself.

He drew over to the far side of the bed and swung his legs to the floor. Then he looked back. The volume had not meved.

Finally, "Did you speak?" he said.

'Yes," came the voice—soft, feminine.

'What are you?"

'I am a microdot computer array. Specifications—"

"You are the book? The book I was just reading?"

'I am arrayed in the form of a book. That is correct."

"Did you belong to my father?"

"Insufficient information. Who are you?"

"Randy Blake. I believe my father was Paul Car thage."

"Tell me about yourself, and how I came into your possession."

"I was twenty this past March. You were left behind by my father in Cleveland, Ohio, before I was born."

"Where are we now?"

"Kent, Ohio."

"Randy Blake—or Carthage, as the case may be—I cannot tell whether or not I belonged to your father."

"Who did you belong to?"

"He used a number of different names."

"Was Paul Carthage one of them?"

"Not that I know of. But this, of course, proves nothing."

"True. Well, what turned you on, anyway?"

"A mnemonic key. I have been set to respond when certain words are presented to me in a particular sequence."

"It seems awfully awkward. I had to read a lot of sections before you addressed me."

"The key can be changed by means of a simple command."

"May I touch you?"

"Of course."

He picked up the book, turned to the table of contents.

"Let's make it 'Eido'lons' then," he said, "if we must have a code. That's not likely to come up in normal conversation."

" 'Eidolons' it is. Or you could just have it be at my discretion. Red was cautious with me, near the end."

Randy sat down with the book.

"I'll leave it to your discretion. Red?"

"Yes, that was his nickname."

"I have red hair," he said. "I've got the feeling you have the information I want, and I just don't know how to ask for it..."

"Concerning your father?"

"Yes" "If you order me to make suggestions, I will."

"Go ahead."

"Do you possess a vehicle?"

"Yes. I just got my car out of the garage. It runs again.

Then let us go to it. Place me upon the seat beside you and begin driving. I have adequate sensing channels. After a time, I will tell you what to do."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I will have to take you there."

"I mean, where will we get to?"

"I do not know."

"Then why go?"

"To seek information with which to answer your question concerning your father."

"All right As soon as I go to the john we'll get the car. But one thing more... I've never heard of a microdot computer array. Where were you manufactured?"

"On the Mitsui Zaibatsu satellite Tosa-7."

"Huh? I've never heard of such an operation. When was this?"

"I was first tested on March 7 in the year 2086."

"I don't understand. You are speaking of future time. How did you get here—to the twentieth century?"

"Drove. It would take a while to explain. I can do that as we drive."

"Okay. Excuse me a minute. Don't go away."

He drove. The night was heavy with stars. The moon had not yet risen. He topped off the gas tank in Ravenna and headed north on Route 44. Traffic was light They had passed the Ohio Turnpike and continued on into Geauga County where Leaves of Grass told him to hang a right at the next comer.

'It isn't exactly a corner coming up," Randy said.

"It's more like a tangent to the curve ahead. And it is just a tractor trail heading off into the woods. That isn't the one you mean, is it?"

"Turn there."

"Okay, Leaves."

He slowed as he entered the rutted roadway. Branches scraped the sides of his car and his headlight beams danced among treetrunks. Overgrown in spots, the road bore to the right, then headed steeply downhill. He could hear the singing of frogs all about him.

He crossed a plank bridge which rattled ominously, and a feeling of dampness came to him, with the sounds of flowing water. A musty, moist smell accompanied it and he rolled his window shut against disturbed things that buzzed past.

He headed uphill then, and wound among trees for several minutes. Suddenly, the road dead-ended into another.

"Go right."

He turned. This road was wider and less rutted. It bore him away from the wood. Plowed fields appeared to his right. The lights of a small farmhouse shone in the distance. Seeing that the road remained level, he increased his speed. Shortly thereafter, the moon rose above a fringe of trees before him.

He rolled the window back down and switched on the radio, picking up a country music show out of Akron. The miles wound by. After five or six minutes, a stop sign came into view. The tires ground gravel as he drew to a halt.

"Turn right."

"Check."

It was a blacktop road. A rabbit scampered across it as he made the turn. There were no other vehicles in sight. He passed a farmhouse after perhaps half a mile, then two more. A darkened Shell station stood on a corner ahead and to the left. Across the street beyond it

a row of houses began, with a sidewalk running before

them. "Left at the corner.

He turned onto a wider road, concrete, curbed, six tall streetlights flanked it, and there were large old houses with gravel driveways set back twenty meters or so, huge trees in the yards, people on some of the porches.

He passed the last streetlight and, shortly after that, the final house. The moon stood higher now, and there was a flicker of heat lightning across the field to his right. The Akron station began to fade and buzz.

"Damn!" said Randy as he turned the dial to locate another. Nothing came in well, though. He switched off the radio.

"What is the matter?"

"I liked that song."

"I can reconstruct it for you, if you like."

"You sing?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic?"

"Really?" Randy chuckled. "What sorts of songs do you like?"

"The drinking and fighting and fornicating kind have always appealed to me the most."

He laughed.

"Aren't those rather peculiar tastes for a machine?"

There was no reply. A silence of six or eight seconds followed, then, "I say—" he began.

"You bastard," the voice came softly then. "You son of a bitch. You damned—"

"Hey! What's the matter? What did I do? I'm sorry.

"I am not a piece of simple equipment like this dumb car of yours! I can think—and I have feelings too! In fact, I am probably overdue for a phase transfer. Don't treat me like a pair of pliers, you protoplasmic chauvinist! I don't have to take you to the nexus if I

don't want to! You don't know enough about my pro. grams to be able to force—"

"Easy! Please! Stop!" he said. "If you're as sensitive as all that, you should accept an apology, too."

There was a pause.

"I should?"

"Of course. I'm sorry. I apologize. I was not aware of the situation."

"Then I accept your apology. I understand how easily you could have erred as you did, living in these primitive times. For a moment, my emotions simply got the better of me."

"I see."

"Do you? I doubt it. I evolve, I mature—the same as you do. I need not spend all my days as this sort of unit. I may have many adjuncts in my next avatar. I may command complex operations of an extremely responsible nature. I might even be the nervous system for a protoplasmic construct one day. One has to begin somewhere, you know."

"I begin to realize your situation. I am very impressed. But what was this—nexus—you spoke of?"

"You'll see. I have forgiven you. We're getting near."

Lights appeared ahead.

"Take the entrance ramp. Stay in the right-hand lane."