"But-"

"I'll talk to you later." It was the only way of getting rid of him. "Maybe I will do something."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise we can talk about it."

"Oh, fine. That's enough-enough." He began to back out of the room, almost bowing, his smile firmly in place. "After you're through-through with him."

"Yes," she said.

"Oh, good. Oh, good."

She stood, stepped forward, and kicked the door shut. She sighed and shook her head. Then she went to the closet and grabbed a handful of clothes and threw them on. Turning, she glanced out the window.

From here, she could see very little besides the swimming pool and a corner of the garden. The pool was filled and emptied daily, but except for herself she had never seen anyone make use of it. While she watched, two servants crossed her line of sight. There seemed to be hundreds of them throughout the house, each identical to the others. For all the personality any of them exhibited, they could have been androids.

It was hard getting used to this life: she had never been this rich before. The bedroom, for instance, a huge chamber, was covered with paintings. She could identify most of the artists with considerable ease. The majority were old masters-on one wall alone, neatly arranged, were miniatures of Chagall, Renoir, Lichtenstein, and Klee. There was a massive Pollack too-undoubtedly an original-on the ceiling. In fact, it was the ceiling. But what disturbed Anna about these paintings was not their value but rather the lack of meaning and pattern to them taken as a whole. The paintings were uniformly masterpieces but they did not mesh. It was as if the artist or school was insignificant as long as the work itself was valuable. The contemporary work, most of it by unknown artists, impressed her similarly. She somehow formed the distinct impression that, in a few years time, without exception, all of these paintings would be considered valuable masterpieces.

The bookshelves only confirmed her impression. One half of a wall was covered with first editions. All were well-known books-most were novels. At a glance, she noted Middlemarch, The Princess Casamassima, Howard's End, The Red and the Black, An American Tragedy, Tender Is the Night, Kim. While it was hardly impossible for one man to appreciate such a variety of authors-from Stendhal through James to Kipling and Fitzgerald-it was the manner in which the books were bound that served as her confirmation. Each was bound in uniform scarlet, with gold-leaf lettering. Which meant that the original bindings had been removed, thus reducing the books considerably in value. Didn't that indicate that Ford placed orderliness above authenticity? Or did it simply mean that extreme wealth permitted a person to ignore common attitudes toward value?

But did it matter? She turned away from the books and flopped on the bed. After all, she was a Superior and Ford, no matter how rich, was not. She had determined that during her first meeting with him. It had been, she admitted, a severe disappointment, but she had grown to like him since, even if he was only a human. In person, he was cold and undemonstrative, but his radiations were the opposite-warm and kindly. He was her real father and, if it hadn't been for the awe she felt at the splendiferous mode of life he followed, they might actually have become real friends once the barrier of his diffidence was penetrated. Still, she didn't understand all of it. This house-it was more like a castle than any regular home-the servants, the grounds. She had always been told that taxes had long ago rendered such brazen displays of wealth impossible.

Millionaires were supposedly an extinct breed. The richest men of today were no better off than a moderately well-off man a century ago. If that was true-she laughed-those men of the past must have lived like a bunch of gods in heaven. And Ford lived alone too. All of this for one man alone. During her stay here, she had never met anyone except the servants. If Ford had friends, she had seen and heard no evidence of their existence. He never talked of anyone except him and her, and his thoughts-as she received them-were similarly empty of any outside, human interests. She didn't understand this part at all. In fact, there was a great deal about Ford that seemed to lie just beyond her ability to comprehend. She didn't know-had never asked-exactly how he had managed to acquire and then maintain his fortune.

Nor had he ever really explained his failure to search for her. When she had phoned that first time-struggling to penetrate a thick veil of secretaries and receptionists, automated and otherwise, until at last reaching McCoy at the ranch and then, with little explanation required, Ford himself-he hadn't seemed surprised. She told him about Cargill but he didn't seem to care. He had asked her at once to come to the ranch. And she had. But when, the first evening, she had tried to explain her reasons for wanting to find him, he had carefully changed the subject.

The door popped open. A face peeped through. McCoy, again, grinning. "He's here now, Anna."

"Oh, fine." She got off the bed and straightened her dress. "Please tell him I'll be right there."

Ford awaited her in the living room, a dark cavern so vast and ornate as to defy any attempt to describe it briefly. As she crossed the room, Anna heard the sound of her bare feet amplified enormously, so that the patter seemed to fill the whole room. Ford sat in a chair. She dropped at his feet, smiling. He radiated a calm tranquillity that succeeded in erasing her own tensions with ease.

"What are your plans?" he asked, after a considerable silence between them.

"I'm not sure."

"Will you want to return to San Francisco soon?"

"I should."

"Your husband?"

"I don't know. I think he'd have me back if I came and got on my knees and cried and begged him."

"But you wouldn't do that."

"No, never."

"And you still haven't told him?"

"About you?" She smiled again, trying to reassure him; she knew how important to him his privacy was. "Of course not. I've hardly talked to him-"

"You called him last night."

"But-" How did he know that? McCoy. Of course. She had asked McCoy to place the call. She shook her head. "He thinks I'm visiting old friends in this area. He doesn't know anything about you. I promise."

"I believe you," he said, and the intensity of his faith moved her deeply.

"I'm glad."

"But you do like it here?"

"Oh, I-" she thought she ought to consider before answering the question but the reply escaped her lips before she could begin to think "-I love it."

"Then why don't you stay here for good? I can see that your husband is notified that you have decided not to return to him."

"I'll call him."

"No, I don't think you should. I can take care of it more efficiently. There isn't anyone else, is there?"

"Anyone who would miss me?" This time she did consider. "No, not a soul. But are you sure you want me?"

"Yes. Besides the obvious reasons-you are my daughter and we have seen little or nothing of each other for decades-the international situation worries me. If war does come-and it may be any day now-I think you'll be safer here. This ranch is very well defended."

"Do you really think there'll be a war?"

"Don't you want one?"

In spite of the serenity he radiated, the question disturbed her deeply. Sometimes, like now, he seemed to say something that struck remarkably close to the truth. The one thing she never wanted him to know was that his daughter was a freak, a creature capable of listening to his private feelings and emotions. He had no idea of who or what she was, and she was determined to keep him ignorant. "Should I?" she asked, softly.

"I don't know. I don't even know how I ought to feel. War is a dreadful act, but right now, it seems to me that one can only clear the air."

"If we win."

"Yes. But I'm sure we will. These androids."

"I know all about them," she said, blurting out the words before thinking. "Alec designed them."

"Oh, did he?" But Ford did not seem overly interested, as if he already knew, though this was the first time Anna had mentioned Alec's work.

"Yes, he did. But do you know what's really funny? The androids are all supposed to be so stupid and dense. Well, Alec brought the prototype home and made him our servant-I named him Eathen-spelling it in a funny way so that nobody would think he was human-and Eathen turned out to be completely different. He even managed to develop real emotions, feelings."

"He what?" Ford seemed disturbed. For the first time, the cold, placid mask of his face flickered with real emotion.

"He learned to laugh and cry and be happy and sad. I taught him to appreciate music and painting and literature. He's gone now but, for a time, near the end, we were very close."

"And where is he now?" Ford asked, coldly.

"Maybe I didn't put it right," she said, hoping to ease his anger by backtracking a bit. But what was wrong with him? Some common prejudice she didn't know about? What was wrong with an android developing emotions if it could? She thought Eathen's transformation a remarkable and wonderful achievement. "I mean, the feelings had to be there first. I didn't just-"