It is your opinion, then, that if the Hangman exists as a thinking individual today, this is the only possible attitude it would possess toward its former operators: it would want nothing more to do with you?

That is correct. Sorry about your Hermacis complex. But in this case we must look to the brain, not the psyche. And we see two things: schizophrenia would have destroyed it, and a successful resolution of its problem would preclude vengeance. Either way, there is nothing to worry about.

How could I put it tactfully? I decided that I could not.

All of this is fine, I said, for as far as it goes. But getting away from both the purely psychological and the purely physical, could there be a particular reason for its seeking your deaths, that is, a plain old-fashioned motive for a killing, based on events rather than having to do with the way its thinking equipment goes together?

Her expression was impossible to read, but considering her line of work I had expected nothing less.

What events? she said.

I have no idea. That's why I asked.

She shook her head.

I'm afraid that I don't, either.

Then that about does it, I said. I can't think of anything else to ask you.

She nodded.

And I can't think of anything else to tell you. I finished my coffee, returned the cup to the tray.

Thanks, then, I said, for your time, for the coffee.

You have been very helpful. I rose. She did the same.

What are you going to do now? she asked. I haven't quite decided, I answered. I want to do the best report I can. Have you any suggestions on that?

I suggest that there isn't any more to learn, that I have given you the only possible constructions the facts warrant.

You don't feel David Fentris could provide any additional insights?

She snorted, then sighed.

No, she said, I do not think he could tell you anything useful.

What do you mean? From the way you say it ...

I know. I didn't mean to ... Some people find comfort in religion. Others ... You know. Others take it up late in life with a vengeance and a half. They don't use it quite the way it was intended. It comes to color all their thinking.

Fanaticism? I said.

Not exactly. A misplaced zeal. A masochistic sort of thing. Hell! I shouldn't be diagnosing at a distance, or influencing your opinion. Forget what I said. Form your own opinion when you meet him.

She raised her head, appraising my reaction. Well, I responded, I am not at all certain that I am going to see him. But you have made me curious. How can religion influence engineering?

I spoke with him after Jesse gave us the news on the vessel's return. I got the impression at the time that he feels we were tampering in the province of the Almighty by attempting the creation of an artificial intelligence. That our creation should go mad was only appropriate, being the work of imperfect man. He seemed to feel that it would be fitting if it had come back for retribution, as a sign of judgment upon us.

Oh, I said. She smiled then. I returned it.

Yes, she said, but maybe I just got him in a bad mood. Maybe you should go see for yourself.

Something told me to shake my head, there was a bit of a difference between this view of him, my recollections, and Don's comment that Dave had said he knew its brain and was not especially concerned. Somewhere among these lay something I felt I should know, felt I should learn without seeming to pursue.

So, I think have enough right now, I said. It was the psychological side of things I was supposed to cover, not the mechanical, or the theological. You have been extremely helpful. Thanks again.

She carried her smile all the way to the door. *'If it is not too much trouble, she said, as I stepped into the hall, I would like to learn how this whole thing finally turns out, or any interesting developments, for that matter.

My connection with the case ends with this report, and I am going to write it now. Still, I may get some feedback.

You have my number ... ?

Probably, but ...

I already had it, but I jotted it again, right after Mrs. Gluntz's answers to my inquiries on detergents.

Moving in a rigorous line, I made beautiful connections, for a change. I headed directly for the airport, found a flight aimed at Memphis, bought passage, and was the last to board. Ten score seconds, perhaps, made all the difference. Not even a tick or two to spare for checking out of the motel ... No matter. The good head-doctor had convinced me that, like it or not, David Fentris was next, damn it. I had too strong a feeling that Leila Thackery had not told me the entire story. I had to take a chance, to see these changes in the man for myself, to try to figure out how they related to the Hangman. For a number of reasons, I'd a feeling they might.

I disembarked into a cool, partly overcast afternoon, found transportation almost immediately, and set out for Dave's office address.

A before-the-storm feeling came over me as I entered and crossed the town. A dark wall of clouds continued to build in the west. Later, standing before the building where Dave did business, the first few drops of rain were already spattering against its dirty brick front. It would take a lot more than that to freshen it, though, or any of the others in the area. I would have thought he'd have come a little further than this by now.

I shrugged off some moisture and went inside.

The directory gave me directions, the elevator elevated me, my feet found the way to his door. I knocked on it. After a time, I knocked again and waited again. Again, nothing. So I tried it, found it open, and went on in.

It was a small, vacant waiting room, green-carpeted. The reception desk was dusty. I crossed and peered around the plastic partition behind it.

The man had his back to me. I drummed my knuckles against the partitioning. He heard it and turned.

Yes?

Our eyes met, his still framed by horn-rims and just as active; lenses thicker, hair thinner, cheeks a trifle lower.

His question mark quivered in the air, and nothing in his gaze moved to replace it with recognition. He had been bending over a sheaf of schematics. A lopsided basket of metal, quartz, porcelain, and glass rested on a nearby table.

My name is Donne, John Donne, I said. I am looking for David Fentris.

I am David Fentris.

Good to meet you, I said, crossing to where he stood. I am assisting in an investigation concerning a project with which you were once associated ...

He smiled and nodded, accepted my hand and shook it.

The Hangman, of course. Glad to know you, Mister Donne.

Yes, the Hangman, I said. I am doing a report ...

... And you want my opinion as to how dangerous it is. Sit down. He gestured toward a chair at the end of his work bench. Care for a cup of tea?

No, thanks.

I'm having one.

Well, in that case ...

He crossed to another bench. No cream. Sorry.

That's all right ... How did you know it involved the Hangman?

He grinned as he brought me my cup. Because it's come back, he said, and it's the only thing I've been connected with that warrants that much concern.

Do you mind talking about it?

Up to a point, no.

What's the point?

If we get near it, I'll let you know.

Fair enough ... How dangerous is it?

I would say that it is harmless, he replied, except to three persons.

Formerly four?

Precisely.

How come?

We were doing something we had no business doing.

That being ... ?

For one thing, attempting to create an artificial intelligence.

Why had you no business doing that?

A man with a name like yours shouldn't have to ask.

I chuckled.

If I were a preacher, I said, I would have to point out that there is no biblical injunction against it, unless you've been worshipping it on the sly.