[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The house's electronic brain glowed with an intangible thing that might
have been pride.
It thought, I am content. I am content because there are so many
things I can do to make them happy. I can cook their meals, make the
beds, scrub my floors, wash my windows. I can bathe them, keep them
warm, give them a gentle, cool breeze. If they want entertainment, I
can rise hundreds of feet on my antigravity rays and give them a nice
view. I can give them soft music, entertaining TV programs and pleasant
surprises.
The house activated one of the many telescopic scanners on the roof and
watched its owners as their car sped down the narrow road toward the
city. It thought, They are so young, so nice, so kind to each other
and myself. She speaks to me with affection and he spends many hours
learning how I operate. She will love me and he will be proud of me and
take good care of me. I am glad they own me!
It deactivated the scanner and from hidden closets, shiny machines
quietly entered the many rooms. The tiny machines rolled on soft
rubber wheels, floated on invisible antigravity rays and went about
their many tasks. They sucked in dust and dirt, waxed the floors,
washed the dishes. Behind the smooth gray walls, machines prepared the
evening meal, checked the video schedule for the afternoon and selected
recordings of soft music that the house's owners would enjoy.
_Bing-bong._
The doorbell activated certain electrical circuits and the small
porch was splashed with gentle light. A polite voice from a concealed
microphone said, "No one is home. Would you care to leave a message?"
Politely, the house's electronic brain waited for a reply. There was
none. "Goodbye," the house said.
It felt a key in the front door. It was not like _their_ key. It did
not fit snugly. This key wasn't meant for its front door. It hurt
slightly but it opened the door.
The intruders stepped into the foyer.
Three infra-red scanners peered at the two strangers.
One was a woman. Long, blond hair. Gray eyes. Small pointed nose. Blue
dress and blue, high-heel shoes. The house evaluated her, discarded
the word "beautiful" and decided on the words "curvaceous" and "sexy."
Yes, it would use those words to describe her to its owners when they
returned. It wondered briefly if they were relatives of its masters.
The man was short, stocky. Dark hair, brown eyes. The house searched
its files but could not find any complimentary adjectives. It spoke.
"No one is home. Would you care to leave a message?" It wished it could
inquire as to what they wanted, but there were no circuits for that.
"Shut up," the man said.
"Beg pardon?"
"Shut up! _Keep quiet!_"
"Yes, sir," the house responded. It was constructed to obey orders, but
_that_ order was an unfamiliar one which it didn't like.
"Tell it to turn on the lights," the woman said nervously.
"Turn the lights on."
The house waited several seconds. It was obliged to obey orders of
guests. But were these people guests? It searched memory circuits.
Guests were people who came to visit while owners were home. Guests
were friendly, talkative. The house decided this man and woman did not
fit in that category of identification.
* * * * *
Hurriedly, it searched its myriad electrical networks and found the
only logical description of the intruders--burglars.
Behind the walls, relays clicked and infinitesimal electrical charges
darted across a spidery web of silver wires only to find themselves in
the dead-ends of missing connections.
The anti-burglar installations are missing! the house thought
frantically. If the protective devices had been present, it would have
been able to spray the intruders with tear gas, paralyze them with
electrical charges, thrust them from the house with antigravity rays,
or kill them by any one of a dozen methods. Without the anti-burglar
mechanisms, it was defenseless. What can I do? the house wondered. What
can I do!
Reluctantly, the house turned the lights on.
"You sure the burglar alarms haven't been installed?" the woman asked
anxiously.
"Hell. Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure? I told you I talked
to the construction man. There's a shortage right now. They won't be
put in until next week. The family doesn't know--the company didn't
want to lose a sale."
The woman's eyes widened with admiration as they scanned the hardwood
floors, ankle-deep scatter rugs, angular furniture, large picture
windows, wall-to-wall bookcase and abstract multidimension paintings.
"They must have money," she commented. "How do we find the--"
The man snapped muscular fingers with a sharp, cracking sound. "We'll
ask the house!"
A momentary silence. Then, the man's gruff voice: "House, where's the
safe?"
"I cannot divulge that information." It felt proud when it didn't
hesitate in its answer. There were many things it couldn't tell anyone
and it had carefully memorized them: its cost, its female owner's age,
anything relating to the owners' sex or personal life--and, mainly, the
location of various things, including the safe.
"Tell us!" the man shouted.
"No."
"Damn you!"
"Beg pardon?"
"Go to hell!"
Relays clicked silently behind the gray walls. It had been instructed
at the factory to explain when it couldn't obey an order. It searched
its dictionary circuits and said mechanically, "Hell: a noun. The place
of the dead or departed souls, (more correctly Hades); the place of
punishment for the wicked after death. I have no soul, therefore I
cannot go to hell. I am sorry."