The front door, he recalled, was around to the left. He circled the other way, and spied a small door at the rear of the building. He strode across the floodlighted lawn toward the alcove where the door was half-concealed. As he passed out of the coverage of the floodlight, a spot-beam blinked on overhead, swiveling to follow his movement. He hesitated in midstride, caught for an instant in indecision, then shrugged and continued forward. The spot-beam tracked him until the overhanging eaves cut it off. Then another series of lights came on, within the alcove, illuminating the steps to the door.
Two glass doors slid aside, and he stepped into a warm but dimly lit room, plush-carpeted. He shivered as the doors whispered shut behind him. The room was a lounge, paneled in wood, and deserted—except for a silver-and-black robot that floated toward him through the air. "Mr. Ruskin, I'm pleased to see you," the robot said. Its voice was a melodic baritone, vaguely familiar. "We were concerned. Are you feeling better after your walk?"
He gazed at the robot in bewilderment.
"Not to pry," the robot added. "Is there anything I might get you?"
He stared, knowing that he knew this robot, and trying to remember its name. And what had it just called him? Ruskin?
"You seem to have torn your jacket and shirt. Have you injured yourself?" A slender arm telescoped out and nearly touched his own arm where the fabric was ripped away. "Shall I alert the medic-unit?"
"No—uh, that's not necessary. I—" His voice caught.
The robot waited.
He struggled to frame his thoughts. "What did you call me?" he asked finally. "What name?"
The robot gazed at him for a long moment, its eyes dark and gleaming. "Mr. Ruskin," it said at last.
"Oh. Yes." He cleared his throat harshly. "I . . . must have misheard you the first time."
Ruskin . . .
The robot made a chuckling sound. "I shouldn't worry about it, sir. I'm at your service. Shall I awaken the kitchen for a late supper?"
His mouth watered. "Yes—please."
"Very good, sir." The robot began to swing away.
"No, wait—don't go!"
The robot rotated in midair. "Sir?"
It was foolish, but he suddenly felt afraid of being left alone by the robot. What was this place, anyway? "Is anyone else up?"
"I don't believe so. It's rather late," the robot answered. "Mr. Broder and Mr. Gorminski retired some time ago."
Broder . . . Gorminski . . . ? He nodded uneasily. "I see. Well, then. Is—that is—do I still have a room?"
The robot's chuckle was soothing. "Of course, Mr. Ruskin."
He closed his eyes, nodding, trying to remember. "Yes—ha, ha—of course." He swayed.
He felt the robot gripping his shoulder, steadying him. He blinked his eyes open and had trouble focusing.
"Sir, perhaps I should escort you to your room."
"Yes. Please—"
* * *
The robot stood by the door as he fumbled at his pockets. "I seem to have—" How the devil do I . . .
"Press your hand to the doorplate," the robot suggested.
"Of course. How could I not—" With a shrug, he touched the cool metal. There was a click. He pushed on the hardwood door and it swung inward. He turned. "Thank you."
"Will you be all right, sir?"
"Yes, I . . . feel better now."
"Very well. Call me if you need anything more."
"Yes, uh—thank you, Jeaves." He watched the robot float away down the hall, and then thought: Jeaves?
Yes. That was the robot's name, he was almost certain.
He took a deep breath and stepped into his room. It was an enormous suite, with a wide variable-grav bed, a stained-wood desk with matching table and nightstands, and a console for reading, music, and cogitation. None of it looked exactly familiar, and yet it all looked . . . right. He knew without thinking which way to turn to find the lavatory, and as he walked through the door, he knew which way to turn to find a gleaming, full-length mirror.
He did not know the man who faced him in the mirror.
The man was a ghastly sight, jacket torn and scorched, trousers stained. His face was a nightmare, darkened with grime on one side only; on the other side, his hair looked half-shorn. He was medium tall, with fair skin, green eyes, and uneven auburn-brown hair. He recalled the feel of his head after waking in the forest: the swollen skin, the softness of his skull. Now, squinting into the mirror, he pushed his hair back to examine the left side of his head. It looked normal enough, except for the fine, clean, short hair on that side.
Mr. Ruskin.
"You're a goddamn mess, Mr. Ruskin," he murmured. "Why the hell don't you get yourself cleaned up?" He shrugged out of his shredded jacket and shirt and stared at his body. Five pinkish spots on his chest and neck were all that remained of the gunshot wounds. He poked at the healed-over skin. It didn't hurt. Shaking his head in perplexity, he switched on the whirlmist shower, peeled off the rest of his clothes, and stepped into the warm, invigorating fog.
* * *
He emerged considerably refreshed and padded naked into the bedroom. From the wardrobe closet, he selected a pair of casual pants and a turtleneck pullover, noting with satisfaction that everything seemed to fit. Then he began to think about food. Should he call the robot, he wondered, or just go looking for the dining room?
The real question, of course, was how long he could walk around here pretending that nothing was wrong. He couldn't imagine that Jeaves hadn't noticed his condition, not if the robot had known him before. Should he take the robot into his confidence?
But someone had tried to kill him. Twice, at least. How often could he be killed and still come back to life? The old story went that a cat had nine lives. How many did that leave him? The assassin might well be right here in this lodge. Could he assume, simply because he had a dim, positive recollection of Jeaves, that the robot would be an ally?
He sighed and touched the call-set. "Jeaves?"
"Yes, Mr. Ruskin."
"Any word from the kitchen? I'm about ready to eat a tree."
"I'm sure we can find you something tastier than that," Jeaves answered. "Would you like to eat in the dining room? Or shall I come around with something?"
He hesitated. He might as well scout the lodge now while he was the only one up. "I'll come there," he said. "Can you rustle up some callfish?"
"I'll have it ready for you in ten minutes."
* * *
The lounge was still empty, the lights coming up only briefly as he paused to look around. Crossing the room, he walked through a set of doors into an interior courtyard. He remembered it at once: The pool, stocked with saucer-shaped floaterfish, with neither heads nor tails but radially arrayed mouths and eyes. The spiral staircase to the solarium above. The murmuring fountain that cascaded down through a long series of planters into the pool. The lighting was muted, underwater lights suffusing the courtyard with an eerie, watery sheen.
The feeling of such luxury made him vaguely uncomfortable. This lodge was clearly no haven for the poor. What, then, was he?
He crossed the courtyard to another set of doors. The aroma of roasting callfish touched his nostrils. He pushed through the doors into the dining room. Jeaves floated out to greet him and showed him to a table in one corner of the room. The lighting over the table was subtly brighter than in the rest of the room. "Would you care for a glass of sherry while you wait?"
He nodded and sat. Jeaves disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a long-stemmed glass filled with a pale violet liquid. The robot lifted the glass from the small service tray, set it before him, and floated away again.
Ruskin gazed at the glass for a moment, twirling it by the stem, watching the sherry run down the sides in rivulets. He raised it to his lips and sipped. The sherry had a sweetness that caressed his tongue. As he swallowed, he felt the alcohol enter his blood almost immediately. How long had it been since he'd eaten? He sipped again, and there was a slightly different burst of flavor in his mouth, and he suddenly thought: Tandesko wine. An image flickered in his mind: drinking another Tandesko wine, in this room—and feeling a peculiar explosion of flavor, and a rush of dizziness, and the world spinning . . .
He set the glass down, his mouth aflame with the taste of Califan grapes and yeast. Tandesko Califan wine. Why did it trigger such an intense recollection? He closed his eyes and drew a hoarse breath. Concentrate. He was on . . . Kantano's World . . . where Tandesko products were almost never . . .
"Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Ruskin?" Jeaves was at his side, balancing a tray laden with steaming dishes. The aroma of roast callfish was intoxicating, dizzying.
"No," Ruskin whispered. "I feel just . . ."
The lights seemed to dim. He heard the sound of glass breaking, somewhere in the distance. Jeaves disappeared, along with the room, into a gray and woolly darkness.
* * *
When Stanley Broder entered the dining room for breakfast at 0730, he knew at once that something had changed. Nevertheless, it took him a moment to recognize what it was, and that disturbed him a little.
He nodded to his heavier colleague, Ilex Gorminski, who was already seated at the side table. With a glance around, Broder said, "Ilex, what is it I'm not seeing?"
"Eh?" Gorminski paused, a spoonful of sugar hovering over his tea.
"There's something—" Broder sniffed the air. There was a rich cooking aroma coming from the kitchen. "Where's Jeaves? There's something cooking that—"
"Mullenberry pancakes," Gorminski said.
"Yes, but that's not it." Broder rose suddenly. "It's yeaston-bread."
Gorminski looked startled, then confused; then understanding grew on his round features. "Ruskin?" he whispered.
"Who else? We don't eat the stuff." Broder strode toward the kitchen. "Jeaves! Where are you?" There was no one in the kitchen except the autocooks, preparing coffee, pancakes—and bread. The smell of the yeaston permeated the kitchen. Possibly it was a programming error; he prayed that it was a programming error. Ruskin, after all, was dead.
At least, that was what Ganz had reported.
He strode back into the dining room. "Ilex, I think we'd better—" He cut himself off as he spotted the robot floating into the room. "Jeaves! What's going on?"
"You called, did you not?" said the robot.
"Don't toy with me, Jeaves. Is Ruskin here?" Broder had his left hand curled around a small sidearm in his pocket; but a lot of good that would do, if Ganz had failed to kill Ruskin.
"Your estimation is correct," the robot answered. "He returned late last night."
"Alive? Under his own power?"
"Somewhat the worse for wear—but alive, yes. And under his own power."
"Why the hell didn't you wake us?" Broder snapped. Gorminski was rising from the table, looking very nervous. "Did you call Ganz in? Damn it—I should have known better than to take Ganz at his word."
"Ganz may have been telling the truth, so far as hir was able," Jeaves said. "Remember, Ruskin is no longer so ordinary as you or I. Short of total annihilation, I don't know—"
"Annihilation! Is that what it's going to take?" Broder felt a chill shuddering down his back. This lodge, and all of their work . . .
"Perhaps not," Jeaves said. "Ruskin's behavior was quite subdued. He seemed to want only to refresh himself, and to sleep. I judged it safe to let him do so."
"You took a big risk. How could you be so sure?"
"I performed several scans—and I took the liberty of offering him some Califan private stock."
Broder scowled. Califan sherry had worked on Ruskin before. But that was in the past. "Did he take the sherry?"
"Indeed, willingly. He seemed to have no memory of recent events."
Broder narrowed his gaze at the robot.
"What was your baseline for judging him safe?" Gorminski wheezed.
"I scanned, I judged, I drew the conclusions that seemed most appropriate," the robot answered. "I did not assume that he was completely safe—however, I do suspect that he has stabilized. I knew that you would want to talk to him, and I was trying to allow you all to be as rested as possible. Is that a sufficient answer?"
"Maybe," Broder said. "Where is he now?"
"Sleeping. My scans indicated that he is recovering remarkably from severe injuries. There are subtle but dramatic changes in his bodily structure."
Broder considered that. "So Ganz may actually have reported accurately." He swallowed. "I suppose we should have explained more to Ganz. If you're wrong about his being stabilized, our only option will be—"
There seemed a trace of sadness in Jeaves's voice as he answered, "Of course, sir."
Broder let his breath out, nodding. "Serve us breakfast, then, and let's be on with it."
* * *
He felt an odd giddiness as he awoke, but it passed as his eyes focused on the ceiling. He felt a lightness in his limbs; it took a moment to realize that he was floating on a varigrav bed. His mind was filled with images: of the forest, of falling, of rising, of falling again. Of staggering through a wood on foot, of coming home to a place he barely remembered.
"Good morning," he heard, a melodic voice interrupting his thoughts. Turning his head, he saw a tall silver-and-black robot floating beside his bed.
Jeaves. He remembered the robot, and speaking with it last night. He remembered going in search of food; there had been the smell of fish roasting, and wine. . . .
"Are you feeling stronger?" Jeaves asked. "I'm afraid the sherry last night put you out. I should have realized that if you hadn't eaten all day, it would be unwise to—"
He waved the robot to silence. Of course. No wonder. "If I haven't learned to hold my liquor by now . . . anyway, I hardly remember a thing from last night." He sighed and rose to a sitting position and blinked, looking around the room. A name popped into his mind. Ruskin. His name.
The robot seemed to study him. "Are you hungry?" it asked. "I brought a breakfast cart."
"Why, yes—I guess I am," Ruskin said. He had memories of ravenous hunger, but just now, oddly, he felt only pleasurably hungry.
Jeaves disappeared, then returned, bearing a large tray. Ruskin climbed out of bed, rocking a little as full gravity caught him. He found a robe and shrugged it on as Jeaves laid plates and saucers on the table.
"I took the liberty," Jeaves said, "of providing you with a mild nutrient infusion after I brought you back here last night. You seemed to need it."
Ruskin nodded and idly rubbed at the red infusion mark on the inside of his wrist. He felt better than he had in—how long? The coffee smelled wonderful. He broke off a piece of yeasty, fresh-baked, whole-meal bread and sank his teeth into it with an appreciative nod.
"Enjoy your breakfast, sir," the robot said. "When you are finished, I believe Mr. Broder and Mr. Gorminski would be pleased to see you in the den."
Ruskin raised his eyebrows and took another bite. "Great." He ran his fingers through his hair; it had almost grown in on the left side. "Before we do that," he asked Jeaves, as the robot was turning to leave, "can I trouble you for a quick trim?" He didn't know what he was about to face, but there was no point in looking as though he'd been ambushed.
The robot murmured, "Of course, sir. As you wish."