and into the creek, but still floating.
He got up, pushed it aside gently this time, and moved out the opening onto the narrow ledge, grasping roots and rocks with one hand, towing the trunk with the other. Five minutes later, it was in the house, upstairs in the room he had slept in. He pressed it to the floor, where it remained when he let go. Smart piece of luggage. A suitcase with a built-in porter beats the hell out of tipping.
He brought the second in without problems, went back for the 810-40.04. ?I'll leave you here, I guess,? he said.
Nothing.
?I mean, if you won't talk-?
Nothing.
He wished he could tap the programmed part, wished he would start moving again with the swiftness and purpose of yesterday. At least, then, he would find out what was going to happen. Vacillating like this, confused, he felt he could easily go out of his mind. But the computer knew that he had a high curiosity index and would not leave it in the cave for fear of missing something. The computer knew everything there was to know about him. Everything
?Damn you!? Salsbury snapped at the computer, tugging on its proffered handle. It floated up to meet him. He walked toward the opening, dragging it behind. When he was nearly to the entrance, he heard the scrabbling noise outside, the sound of stones falling down the embankment. Iron Victor, though dying, flushed terror through Salsbury's body.
He pushed the trunk behind, to the floor, to get it out of his way, then went on all fours against the cave wall. Quite chillingly, he wondered if his usefulness to the plan were up; perhaps another mystery figure in black scuba suit would kill him. Was that why the midget computer was no longer talking? Was he to become another Harold Jacobi?
Nice thought.
And he didn't have a weapon with him.
The only thing good about the situation was that he had had the last traces of hangover frightened out of him. He was clear-headed enough to know not to move. He tried to release control of his body and let iron Victor command. But iron Victor was having none of that. He lay still and waited.
For a while, all was silent. Then stones rattled down the embankment again, louder than before. Then a third time.
Some of his tension began to ebb. Surely, if it was a black-garbed killer out there, he would not be so clumsy. It seemed more likely, on reflection, that it was nothing more than a child playing, a child who did not even know he was in the cave. In that case, it would be better to come into the open immediately rather than wait to be discovered and give the impression he had been hiding here. Cautiously, he moved to the opening, trying to think what to say.
But even that problem evaporated when he looked outside. The intruder was not a playful child nor a black- hearted murderous villain. He was just an overgrown, black and tan mutt. The silly beast looked forlornly at Salsbury, his tongue lolling. He had every right to that expression, for he had worked his way along the narrow ledge to the cave mouth, evidently following Salsbury's trail. Now he had lost his nerve. He could not come farther, for the ledge disappeared for a space of three feet before continuing. Salsbury could step across it, but the dog would have to jump. This beast was a little too smart or cowardly to risk that. Yet he couldn't go back, for there was no room for him to turn around.
When Salsbury made a friendly advance, he found the dog in no mood for disagreement. He picked him up, slung him under his arm, and used his free hand to reach the top of the embankment where he deposited the mutt to the accompaniment of a great deal of whuffing, puffing, whining, and grateful licking. He had gained a friend. He patted the slobbering animal on the head and returned for the computer.
When he came topside again, the dog was waiting for him, followed him to the house. After Salsbury put the computer upstairs with the other trunks, he went outside and found the dog waiting in front of the storm door, his head cocked curiously to one side. It dawned on him then that he might have use for the animal. It could warn him if another black figure came out of the orchard one night.
He spent the rest of the day learning about Intrepid (as he fittingly named the mutt), and satiating his appetite. The mutt had a huge hunger. He was more than a little affectionate and had a habit of whinnying like a horse when he was excited, which sound he would augment with rolling, brown eyes. Salsbury also discovered the dog was housebroken, which was a decided blessing.
Now and then, Intrepid would stop his games and look strangely at his new master, as if unable to find a scent for him. He would not growl or become anxious, merely look confused. Salsbury wondered if the dog sensed the hollowness of his master as his master sensed it in his own psyche. He was not really a man, only a prop created by the 810-40.04.
That night, when he went to bed, Intrepid slept on a furry blue rug at the foot of the bed, his tail curled dangerously dose to his nose. Despite the new comradeship, despite the submergence of the iron Victor Salsbury, he dreamed of Lynda again.
He had the dream over and over as if it were on a film loop. He was grateful when Intrepid woke him.
It was the first time he had heard the mutt bark. Intrepid spat the short, harsh sounds out of his throat as if he were anxious to get rid of something distasteful. When Salsbury called his name-which he was already learning- he stopped barking and looked shamefaced. He did not bark again, but surely did manage a lot of whuffing and whinnying. By that time, Salsbury realized what was upsetting the dog.
There was a throbbing of heavy, singing machinery ringing upwards from the cellar.
CHAPTER 5
Wednesday morning, iron Victor was merely a whisper deep in his mind, a haunting presence that almost seemed not to exist. Yet he was not normal. Despite the fact that he was not moving according to a program, he felt hollow, half-completed. He tried horsing around with Intrepid for a while, but was becoming bored with that, bored with waiting for something to happen, something to put meaning to the killing of Harold Jacobi, the computer in the trunk, and the mysterious distant hum of machinery in his cellar every night. The day could have been a total bust had not Lynda Harvey pulled into the drive in her copper Porsche.
He went down to greet her, called to her. She looked surprised at his conviviality, but smiled. ?I told you Harold Jacobi was my uncle,? she said. ?And I just about left everything in the house: silverware, dishes, sheets and towels. But there are some things in the attic, personal things, I suppose I should get out of here now.? She cocked her head, her green eyes flat with reflected sun. ?Okay??
?Sure,? he said, ushering her into the house, realizing that his actions were perhaps exaggerated compared with his formal iron Victor responses of two days earlier.
He offered to leave as she opened the first of the two cardboard cartons in the attic to sort out what she would leave to be discarded and what she would retain, but she told him that was not necessary. She would enjoy his company. That sounded stranger to her than it did to him, because she had been so irritated with him on Monday. Irritated, yes-but also intrigued. There was no sense hiding that from herself. Mr. Victor Salsbury was certainly an interesting man, big and handsome, supposedly a creative artist, with a personality that suggested a past of much variety and perhaps illicitness. In a way, she felt like a foolish schoolgirl for nurturing fantasies; but then she had to admit he helped them grow with his strange manner.
As they talked now, sitting on the bare attic floor, she realized he had changed since she had seen him. Those short bursts of warmth that had broken his icy facade on Monday were now the dominant trait of his personality. Yet he was still not like other, men. She could touch him with her mind, delve into him, but only a short way. It seemed as if he was a man made of water, and that his outward appearance was merely the shimmering
