“Red eyes glowing! (She sleeps, unknowing.)
“Claws that rend (is this the end?), paws that break (she starts to wake), teeth that bite—
“And Goldilocks opens her eyes, screams loudly, leaps to her feet and takes flight.”
The woman on the view-wall paused, staring sorrowfully straight into Forrester’s eyes. Her oratorial stance relaxed; her eyes seemed to lose their dramatic glow, and she said conversationally, “Now, you see? What a terrible thing to happen to a little girl, and all because she rejected her parents. She ran and ran and ran and ran, a long, long time, and then she got back to her father/mother and promised never to reject them again, and made a good adjustment. Now please prepare to answer questions on the theme: ‘Is it wise to take chances on going to places your father/mother do not approve?’ ” She smiled, bowed, and vanished.
The joymaker said, “Man Forrester, thank you for waiting. There are certain nexial recursions malfunctioning at the present time, and we regret any inconvenience.”
“What was that? One of Adne’s kids’ bedtime stories?”
“Exactly, Man Forrester. Our apologies. Shall I attempt to display the Taiko tape again?”
“I think,” said Forrester, with a sense of foreboding, “that I am beginning to feel kind of lonesome.”
“That is not due to any malfunction on our part, Man Forrester,” said the joymaker with dignity. “That is due to—”
Silence.
“What did you say?” demanded Forrester.
“That is due to— That is due to—Awk,” said the joymaker, as though it were strangling. “That is due to the flight of many persons to freezing facilities.”
“You sound as though you’re breaking down, machine,” said Forrester apprehensively.
“No, Man Forrester! Certain nexial recursions are not operative, and some algorithms are looping. It is a minor technical difficulty.”
The machine paused, then said in a different tone, “Another minor technical difficulty is that certain priority programs have not been executed on schedule. My apologies, Man Forrester.”
“For what?”
“For not delivering a priority notice regarding your imminent arrest.”
Forrester was jolted. “The devil you say!”
“No, Man Forrester. It is a true message. The coppers are coming for you now.”
Seventeen
The door opened with a thwack, and two coppers plunged into the room. One of them grabbed him, rather roughly, Forrester thought, and glared into his eyes. “Man Forrester!” it cried. “You are arrested on sufficient charges and need make no statement!”
As if he could, thought Forrester, whirled off his feet as the coppers flanked him, one on each side, and half carried him out into the corridor and down to the fly-in, where a police flier was waiting for him. He shouted to them, “Wait! What’s it all about?”
They did not answer, merely thrust him in and slammed the door. It must be the Sirian business, he thought sickly, staring back at them as they watched the flier bear him away. But why now? “I didn’t do anything!” he cried, knowing that he lied.
“That is to be determined, Man Forrester,” said a voice from a speaker grille over his head. “Meanwhile, please come with us.”
The “please” was totally sense-free, of course; Forrester had no choice. “But what did I do?” he begged.
“Your arrest has been ordered, Man Forrester,” said the quiet, unemotional voice of the central computation facility. “Do you wish a precis of the charge against you?”
“You bet!” Forrester stared around fearfully. There was no one at the controls, but there didn’t seem to be a need for anyone; the car was sliding rapidly through the air toward the lake front.
“Your arrest has been ordered, Man Forrester,” repeated the computer voice. “Do you wish a precis of the charge against you?”
“Damn it, I just said I did!” They were over blue water and moving fast. Forrester hammered the fleshy part of his fist against a window experimentally, but naturally enough the glass did not break. It was just as well, of course; there was no place for him to go.
“Your arrest,” said the computer voice calmly, “has been ordered, Man Forrester. Do you wish a precis of the charge against you?”
Forrester swore furiously and hopelessly. They were approaching a metal island in the lake, and the aircraft was dropping toward it. “All I want,” he said, “is to know what the devil’s going on. Joymaker! Can you tell me what this is all about?” But the mace clipped to his belt only said, “We are all the same, Man Forrester. Do you wish a precis of the charge against you?”
By the time the aircraft landed, Forrester had regained control of himself. Obviously something was wrong with the central computation facilities, but equally obviously there was nothing much he could do about it now. When two more coppers, waiting on the hardstand for the police car to alight, seized his arms and pulled him out of the door, he did not resist. The coppers’ grip was quite unbreakable, their strength far greater than his own.
He saw no human being and no other automata, while he was herded like livestock down through underground passages, under the lake waters, until finally he was pushed into a door that locked behind him.
He was in a cell. It held a bed, a chair, and a table, nothing else. Or nothing that was visible; its walls were
