The Werewolf Principle (5 page)

“We?”

“Why, yes. All the other houses, sir. We are glad they're only to be gone for a short time and will be coming back again. They are such good neighbors, sir.”

“You houses, then, consider yourself neighbors.” spoken to them.”

“Oh,” said the House, “not the people, sir. I wasn't talking of the people. It was the house itself I was thinking of.”

“You houses, then, consider yourself neighbors.”

“Why, of course we do. We visit among ourselves. We talk back and forth.”

“Just exchanging information.”

“Naturally,” said the House. “But now about the decor.”

“It's all right as it is.”

“It's been this way for weeks.”

“Well,” Blake said, thoughtfully, “you might do something about that wallpaper in the dining room.”

“It's not the wallpaper, sir.”

“I know it's not. The point I want to make is that I'm getting a little bored watching that rabbit nibble clover.”

“What would you like instead?”

“Anything you like. Just so it has no rabbits in it.”

“But, sir, we can work out some thousands of combinations.”

“Anything you like,” said Blake, “but be sure there are no rabbits.”

He turned from the window and went into the dining room. Eyes stared out at him from the walls—thousands of eyes, eyes without a single face, eyes plucked from many faces and plastered on the walls. And while there were some of them that went in pairs, there were others that stood alone. And every eye was staring straight at him.

There were baby-blue eyes, with the look of wistful innocence, and the bloodshot eyes that glared with fearsomeness, the lecherous eye, the dimmed and rheumy eye of the very old. And they all knew him, knew who he was, and they stared at him in a horribly personal manner and if there had been mouths to go with the eyes they all would be talking at him, screaming at him, mouthing at him.

“House!” he screamed.

“What is the matter, sir?”

“These eyes!”

“But you said, sir, anything but rabbits. I though the eyes were quite novel …”

“Get them out of here!” howled Blake.

The eyes went away and in their place a beach led down to a seashore. The white sand ran down to the surging waves that came beating in and on a distant headland; scraggly, weather-beaten trees leaned against the wind. Above the water birds were flying, screaming as they flew. And within the room was the smell of salt and sand.

“Better?” asked the House.

“Yes,” said Blake, “much better. Thank you very much.”

He sat entranced, staring out upon the scene. It was, he told himself, as if he sat upon the beach.

“We put in the sound and smell,” said the House. “We can add the wind as well.”

“No,” said Blake. “This is quite enough.”

The waves came thundering in and the birds flew crying over them and the great black clouds were rolling up the sky. Was there anything, he wondered, that the House could not reproduce upon that wall? Thousands of combinations, the House had said. A man could sit here and stare out upon any scene he wished.

A house, he thought. What was a house? How had it evolved?

First, in mankind's dim beginning, no more than a shelter to shield a man against the wind and rain, a place in which to huddle, a place for one to hide. And that, basically, still might be its definition, but now a man did more than hide and huddle; a house was a place to live. Perhaps the day might come, in some future time, when a man no more would leave his house, but live out his life inside it, never venturing out of doors, with no need or urge to venture.

That day, he told himself, might be nearer than one thought. For a house no longer was a shelter merely or a simple place to live. It was a companion and a servant and within its walls was all that one might need.

Off the living room stood the tiny room that housed the dimensino, the logical expansion and development of the TV he had known two hundred years ago. But now it was no longer something that one watched and listened to, but something one experienced. A piece of imagery, he thought, with this stretch of seacoast that lay upon the wall. Once in that room, with the set turned on, one entered into the action and the sense of the entertainment form. Not only was one surrounded and caught up by the sound, the smell, the taste, the temperature, the feel of what was going on, but in some subtle way became a sympathetic and an understanding part of the action and emotion that the room portrayed.

And opposite the dimensino, in a corner of the living area, was the library that contained within the simplicity of its electronic being all the literature that still survived from man's long history. Here one could dial and select all the extant thoughts and hopes of every human being who had ever put down words, trying to capture on a sheet of paper the ferment of experience and of feeling and conviction which welled inside the brain.

It was—this house—a far cry from two centuries ago, a structure and an institution which must be wondered at. And it was not finished yet. In another two centuries there might be as many changes and refinements as there had been in the last two hundred years. Would there ever be an end, he wondered, to the concept of the house?

He took the paper from underneath his arm and opened it. The House had been right, he saw. There was little news.

Three men had been newly nominated for the Intelligence Depository, to join all those other selected humans whose thoughts and personalities, knowledge and intelligence, had over the last three hundred years been impressed into the massive mind bank which carried in its cores the amassed beliefs and thoughts of the world's most intellectual humans. The North American weather-modification project finally had been referred for review to the supreme court in Rome. The squabble over the shrimp herds off the coast of Florida still was going on. A survey and exploration ship finally had touched down at Moscow, after being gone for ten years and given up for lost. And the regional hearings on the biological engineering proposal would begin in Washington tomorrow.

The biological engineering story carried with it two one-column cuts, one of Senator Chandler Horton and the other of Senator Solomon Stone.

Blake folded the paper and settled down to read.

WASHINGTON, NORTH AMERICA—The two senators of North America will square off on the proposal for the much-argued program of biological engineering as the regional hearing on the matter opens here tomorrow. Political fireworks are expected. No proposal in recent years has so seized the public imagination and no matter of greater controversy exists in the world today.

North America's two senators find themselves diametrically opposed, as indeed they have been opposed throughout the greater part of their political careers. Senator Chandler Horton has taken a firm stand in approval of the proposal, which will be submitted at the beginning of next year to a worldwide referendum. Senator Solomon Stone is as firmly opposed to it.

That these two men should find themselves on opposite sides of the fence is nothing new. But the political significance of this issue goes deeper because of the so-called Unanimous Consent rule, whereby, on special issues of this sort, submitted to universal referendum, the mandate of the voters must be unanimously approved on the floor of the World Senate at Geneva. Thus, should the vote be favorable, Senator Stone would be required to stipulate that he would vote to confirm the measure on the senate floor. Failing in this, he would be bound to step aside by resignation of his seat. In this case a special election would be held to fill the vacancy caused by his resignation. Only candidates who made prior pledges to uphold the measure would be eligible to file for the special election.

If the referendum should go against the measure, Senator Horton would find himself in a smiliar position.

In the past, when this situation obtained, certain senators have retained their seats by voting for the proposals which they had opposed. This would not be the case, most observers agree, with either Stone or Horton. Both have placed their political lives and reputations squarely on the line. Their political philosophies are at opposite poles of the spectrum and over the years their personal antipathy toward one another has become a senatorial legend. It is not believed, at this late date, that either.…

“You'll pardon me, sir,” said the House, “but Upstairs informs me that a strange thing happened to you. You are all right, I trust.”

Blake looked up from the paper.

“Yes,” he said. “I am all right.”

“But might it not,” the House insisted, “be a good idea for you to see a medic.”

Blake laid down the paper and opened his mouth—then closed it firmly. After all, officious as it might be, the House had his good at heart. It was a servo-mechanism and its sole thought and purpose was to serve the human that it sheltered.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you're right.”

For there was no question that there was something wrong. Within less than twenty-four hours something strange had happened to him twice.

“There was that doctor in Washington,” he said. “At the hospital where they took me to revive me. I think his name was Daniels.”

“Dr. Michael Daniels,” said the House.

“You know his name?”

“Our file on you,” said the House, “is really quite complete. How, otherwise, could we serve you as we are supposed to do?”

“You have his number, then. You could call him.”

“Why, of course. If you wish me to.”

“If you please,” said Blake.

He laid the paper on the table and got up and walked into the living room. He sat down before the phone and the small vision panel lit up, flickering.

“In just a moment, sir,” said the House.

The panel cleared and in it were the head and shoulders of Dr. Michael Daniels.

“Andrew Blake. You remember me?”

“Certainly I remember you,” said Daniels. “I was wondering just last night about you. How you were getting on.”

“Physically, I'm O.K.,” said Blake. “But I've been having—well, until you find otherwise, I suppose you'd call them hallucinations.”

“But you don't think they are hallucinations.”

“I'm fairly sure they're not,” said Blake.

“Could you come in?” asked Daniels. “I'd like to check you out.”

“I'd be glad to come in, doctor.”

“Washington's bulging at the seams,” said Daniels. “Everything is full. People coming in for the bioengineering show. There's a housing lot just across the street from us. Can you wait while I make a check?”

“I can wait,” said Blake.

Daniels' face disappeared and the fuzzy blur of an office, out of focus, danced vaguely on the screen.

Kitchen's voice bellowed: “One oatmeal cooked and waiting. Also toast. Also eggs and bacon. Also a pot of coffee.”

“Master's busy on the phone,” said the House, disapprovingly. “And all he ordered was the oatmeal.”

“He might change his mind,” said Kitchen. “Oatmeal might not be enough. He might be hungrier than he thought. You would not want it said that we were starving him.”

Daniels came back into the panel.

“Thanks for waiting,” he said. “I checked. There is no space available right now. There'll be one foundation in the morning. I reserved it for you. Can it wait that long?”

“I think it can,” said Blake. “I only want to talk with you.”

“We could talk right now.”

Blake shook his head.

“I understand,” said Daniels. “See you tomorrow, then. Let's say one o'clock. What are your plans today?”

“I haven't any plans.”

“Why don't you go fishing. Get your mind off things. Occupy yourself. Are you a fisherman?”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. It seems to me I may have been. The sport has a familiar sound to it.”

“Things still dribbling back,” said Daniels. “Still remembering …”

“Not remembering. Just the background. Pieces of it falling into shape now and then. But it doesn't really tell me anything. Someone mentions something or I read of something and it's suddenly familiar, a statement or a fact or a situation that I can accept. Something that I've known or encountered at some former time, but not when or how or under what conditions I encountered it.”

“I'd give a lot,” said Daniels, “for us to get a clue or two from that background of yours.”

“I simply live with it,” said Blake. “That's the only way I can get along.”

“It's the only sensible approach,” Daniels agreed. “You have a good day fishing and I'll see you tomorrow. Seems to me there are some trout streams out in your locality. Hunt up one of them.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

The phone clicked off and the screen went blank. Blake swung around.

“As soon as you've finished breakfast,” said the House, “we'll have the floater waiting on the patio. You'll find fishing tackle in the back bedroom, which is used as a sort of store house, and Kitchen will fix you up a lunch. In the meantime I'll look up a good trout stream and have directions for you and …”

“Cut out that yammering!” howled the Kitchen. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

8

The water foamed through the jam of fallen trees and brush that in some earlier springtime flood had been caught between the clump of birch and the high cut bank that marked a sharp curve in the stream—foamed through the barrier and then smoothed out in a quiet, dark pool.

Carefully Blake guided the chair-like floater to the ground at one end of the barrier, close to the clump of birch, snapped off the gravity field as it came to rest. For a moment he sat in the chair unmoving, listening to the churning of the water, charmed by the deep quietness of the pool. Ahead of him the mountain range lifted in the sky.