“Well, what have you?” he asked finally. “Some unusual electrical currents. And, if you want me to be frank -”
“You will anyhow,” Melton said. “Shoot.”
“- a neurosis.”
“Affecting three people?”
“Certainly. A house can do that. Environment is a pretty strong influence. Br-r-rp. Excuse me. I’d be more inclined to suggest a vacation or a doctor than a rewiring job.”
“I had the place rewired. It didn’t make any difference.”
“Well, you’re not crazy,” Garrett said consolingly. “At least not yet. Your skeleton hand in the icebox - you know very well that in a strong light your hand shows translucent. You can see the outline of the bones.”
“Yeah. Every time I look out of a window I expect to see something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Just something different.”
“Do you see it?”
After a pause Melton said, “No.”
Garrett stared. “I wonder. I’d like to run up and take a look at that wiring of yours.”
“Delighted to have you. When?”
Garrett consulted a notebook. “I’m tied up for a bit, but - suppose I phone you?”
“The sooner the better. I’m thinking about moving, anyway, though.”
“Where else could you find a furnace like the one you’ve got?”
“I wish that were as funny as you think,” Melton said somberly. “And I’d like to see you check that wiring for me. I’ve a hunch you’ll be surprised. My brother-in-law has even wilder ideas than I have, so -”
“What?”
Melton went into detail.
Garrett was surprisingly intrigued. “You know, his idea about machines isn’t at all illogical. The further we go, the simpler gadgets get. The klystron, for example - far less complicated than the average specialized vacuum tube. When we deal with electromagnetic energies, neutrons and so on, we sometimes find that the best sort of machine to handle them is - well, a plain metal bar.”
“But - paint!”
“I’ve seen paint that is a machine,” Garrett said. “Luminous. It gathers in sunlight during the day and releases it at night. Not that I take any stock in your brother-in-law’s theories; I’m just riding my own hobby. Eventually the world of the future - I think - won’t be burdened with immense, complicated gadgets. Everything will be so simple - or seem so simple - that a man from the twentieth century might find it quite homelike, except for the results.”
“Yeah,” Melton said. “They’d be a bit different, wouldn’t they?”
“Quite a bit, I expect. Well, I must go. I’ll give you a ring, Melton. And take my advice and have a doctor check you up.”
“Don’t tell me I’m sound as a bell,” Melton said. “You might be thinking of the Liberty Bell. That’s cracked.”
Dr. Farr touched his mustache and apparently liked the sensation, for he began to stroke it rhythmically. “How should I know, Bob?” he asked. “Half of my patients are slightly nuts, and, as long as they don’t know it, they get along fine. Just a matter of compensation and adjustment.”
“Four-bit words.”
“By the tests you may be a bit psychotic,” Farr said, referring to his notes. “Especially on orientation. That’s an especially significant symptom. However, I’ve known you for years, and I’d stake my reputation, such as it is, that this business is objective and not subjective.”
“Then it’s the house?”
“That may be the trigger. A fixation. You could have it about anything. It just happens to be the house. Get out of it.”
“I intend to,” Melton said.
Farr leaned back and looked at his diploma on the wall. “Your friend was right about environment. Lock a kid up in a dark closet, and he’s apt to be afraid of the dark ever after. And why? Because it’s the wrong environment. If the house makes you nervous, pack up and git.”
“What about Mike and Phil?”
“They could catch it from you. Or the other way around. Phil’s a dipsomaniac, anyway. He’ll be heading for D.T.s presently. Too bad; he’s a fine artist.”
Melton said, rather defensively, “You know what would happen to Phil if he didn’t live with us. And he certainly pays his way.”
“When he works. A couple of pictures a year. Ah, well. I’m a doctor, not a reformer. Is he still on his binge?”
Melton scowled. “He hasn’t touched a drop for a couple of days. That’s funny, too. Because he’s high most of the time. I know the signs.”
“Maybe he’s got a bottle cached away.”
“Not Phil. He does his drinking publicly; he’s not ashamed of it. He’ll get tanked any time, without apology. That is funny, now that I think of it.”
“How does he act?”
“As usual. He spends a lot of time in the cellar.”
“Maybe there are some bottles down there,” Farr suggested. “Don’t let him develop any guilt complexes. Get him to drink with you, if he’s got the urge. The psychological angle is pretty important. He trusts Mike and you completely, but - well. Tell him to drop in and see me. I want to check his heart, anyway, and I’ll buy him a drink at the same time.”
“You’re some doctor,” Melton said, chuckling. “Well, I’ve got to do some checking up on a man. See you soon.”
“Move out of that house,” Farr called after Melton’s retreating figure. “It’s probably haunted.”
It wasn’t haunted. Yet, that evening, as Melton paused on the porch, his key out, he knew very definitely that he didn’t want to go in. He remembered a line from de la Mare: “‘Is there anybody there?’ said the traveler … knocking on the moonlit door …” And - how did it go?
“Only a host of listeners … listening … to that voice from the world of men.”
Something like that. Indefinable and intangible, as much so as dust motes in moonlight. Move your hand through the shaft, and there’s no resistance; the motes swirl away and return.
Melton grimaced and unlocked the door. In the living room, Phil was slumped on the couch, half asleep. Michaela dropped her sewing and stood up to greet him.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Nothing new,” Michaela said. “Let me take your coat. I’ll hang it up.” She went out. Melton picked up the cloth Michaela had been sewing on; she hadn’t got very far. He stared at Phil.
“No remarks?”
“I am happy,” Phil said. “No remarks are necessary.”
“Have a drink?”
“Nope.”
“Doc Farr wants to see you, when you’re in town.”
“Why not?” Phil said. “Find out anything about John French?”
“Yes, how about that?” Michaela asked, coming back from upstairs. “You said you were going to check up.”
Melton dropped into a chair. “I did check up. Through an agency. But it’s no use. The guy simply didn’t exist Nobody ever saw him.”
“Naturally,” Phil said.
Melton sighed. “All right. Who was he? Santa Claus?”
“Timeo Danaos - The furnace is still going strong.”
“And it’s still too hot. Why don’t you open a window?”
“They’re stuck again,” Michaela said. “We can’t get ‘em open at all now.”
The lights went on. Melton said, “Did you do that, Phil?”
“No.”
Melton went over to the switch and tested it. The lights stayed on.
“Good old John French,” Phil murmured. “Good old Jack. This is the house that Jack built. And how!” He rose and went out to the kitchen. Melton heard footsteps on the cellar stairs.
“Yeah,” Michaela said. “He’s been going down there all day.”
“He’s high as a kite, you know.”
“Of course I know. And - it isn’t his usual binge.”
“I know it isn’t,” Melton said. “Well, he must get the stuff in the cellar. Maybe Jack - maybe French left some bottles do
wn there.”
“Of what? Uh! Let’s not think about it.”
“What did you do today?” Melton asked.
“Nothing. Literally, nothing. I tried to do some sewing, but time passes too fast here. It was six o’clock before I knew it.”
“Always teatime. What’s for dinner?”
Michaela put her hand to her mouth. “Oh. Beat me, Bob. I forgot about dinner.”
“I think you’ve been in the cellar, too,” Melton said jokingly, but Michaela gave him a look of strained distress.
“No, Bob. I haven’t - not once.” Melton watched her for a moment. Then he got up, went out to the kitchen, and opened the cellar door.
The light was on, and he could see Phil in a corner, standing motionless.
“Come on up,” he said. “We’ll have to drink our dinner.”
“In a minute,” Phil said.
Melton went back to the living room. Presently Phil joined them, weaving a little in his walk. Melton nodded darkly.
“This is the rat that ate the malt,” he remarked.
“Oh, don’t,” Michaela said. “I keep thinking about the man all tattered and torn.”
“I keep thinking about Jack,” Phil said. “Little man who wasn’t there. Out of the everywhere into the here. Look, Bob. If you spent ten years with the Ubangis, what would you do?”
“Give up kissing,” Melton said.
“No, I mean it. If you had to move into a Ubangi hut and stay there. You wouldn’t have anything in common with the natives, would you?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Well, what? What would you do?”
“Change the huts a bit,” Phil said. “Especially if I wanted to pretend I was a Ubangi, too. I wouldn’t alter it outside, but I’d fix it up a bit inside, for my own convenience, and I wouldn’t let anybody else come in. Chairs instead of grass mats. I wonder how French had this place furnished.”
“Just who do you think French was?” Melton asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I could know, even. But I know what he wasn’t.”
“What wasn’t he?”
“Human,” Phil said.
Michaela stirred and sucked in her underlip. Phil nodded at her.
“We’re in the house more than you are, Bob. Mickey and I. And it’s alive. It’s a machine, too. Sort of half and half.”
Melton grimaced. “I suppose it’s been talking to you.”
“Of course not. It wasn’t designed for that. Jack didn’t build this house, but he moved in and fixed it up to suit himself. To suit his special requirements. Whatever they were. He liked - or needed - plenty of heat. That’s not too far off the beam. But some of the other things -
“Like the refrigerator,” Phil said. “There weren’t any marks on the linoleum, and there would have been some, in ten years. I looked. Something else was hooked up to that socket. Rewiring won’t help any, Bob. Jack didn’t need wires. He may have switched ‘em around a bit, for convenience; but I suppose all he had to do was juggle a couple of atoms and - he’d have a machine.”
“A living house. Yeah. Nuts.”
“A robot house, could be. A robot wouldn’t have to look like a man. We’ve got robots now, really, and they’re functionally designed.”
“All right,” Melton said harshly. “We can move.”
“We’d better. Because this house was made for Jack, not for us. It isn’t working just right. The refrigerator’s acting funny, but that’s because it’s plugged into a socket meant for some other gadget.”
“I tried it in some other plugs.”
“Any luck?”
Melton shook his head. “It was still - uh - funny.” He moved uneasily. “Why should French - I mean, why would he want to -”
“Why would a white man live in a Ubangi village? To study ethnology or entomology, perhaps. Or for the climate. Or simply to rest - to hibernate. Wherever Jack came from, he’s gone back there now, and he didn’t bother to put the house in its original condition. Yeah.” Phil rose and went out. The cellar door closed softly.
Melton went over to Michaela, knelt, and put his arm around her slim shoulders, feeling the yielding warmth of her. “We’ll move, darling,” he said.
She stared out of the window. “It’d be so lovely, if - well. The view’s magnificent. I wish we didn’t have to move. But it’s the only thing. When, Bob?”
“Want to start looking for another place tomorrow? A city apartment, maybe?”
“All right,” Michaela said. “A day or so more won’t make much difference, will it?”
He could hear Michaela’s soft breathing beside him, there in the dark. He could hear other things, too. They were not mice, he knew. Within the walls, there was a subtle, slow movement, at the threshold of hearing and consciousness. The house was recharging itself. The robot was preparing itself for the next day’s work.
It was mindless; it was not alive; it had no consciousness or sense of ego. It was a machine. But it was a machine so enormously versatile that only miraculous simplicity made its existence possible. How? A new pattern for electronic orbits? Or something quite unimaginable.
We can see into the microcosm with the electronic microscope, Melton thought. But we can’t see far enough. Beyond …
There was an off-beat, distant rhythm in the quiet movement within the walls.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built …
And so on. Melton followed the nursery rhythm to its conclusion. The inevitable growth, line by line, acquired a sort of horror to him. Yet he could not stop. He finished it and started all over.
Who had John French been?
Or what?
Suddenly and sickeningly, he felt the disorientation. Without looking at Michaela, he sprang from bed, fumbled his way downstairs, and stood motionless in the hall, waiting.
There was nothing.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the rat …
He went out to the kitchen. The cellar door was open. He could not see Phil, but he knew that his brother-in-law was at the foot of the stairs.
“Phil,” he said softly.
“Yes, Bob.”
“Come on up.”
Phil mounted the steps. His pajamaed figure came into view, swaying slightly.
“What’s down there?” Melton asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liquor?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing,” Phil said, his eyes glazed and bright. “I stand in the corner, my head against the wall, and - I - paint.” He slowed down and stopped. “No,” he said after a moment. “It isn’t painting, is it? But I thought -”
“What?”
“The house suited Jack, didn’t it?” Phil said. “But then we don’t know what Jack was or what he wanted. I wonder if he came from the future. Or from another planet. One thing - he certainly came from a place that was rather remarkable.”
“We’re moving,” Melton said. “As soon as I can find a place.”
“All right.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Sure,” Phil said. “Why not? Good night, Bob.”
“Good night, Phil.”
For a long time he lay awake, unable to sleep.
This is the house that Jack built.
I wonder if Jack might come back - sometime.
The house suited Jack.
The house was alive.
No, it wasn’t. It was a machine.
Any house could be such a machine - with a little renovation. By Jack.
The machine suited Jack. Sure. But what effect would it have on human beings? Mutation? Translation, eventually, into another world? Something thoroughly unusual, at any rate.
Melton was not tempted to find out.
I’ll find an apartment tomorrow, he resolved. And, a little comforted, he went to sleep.
“I’ve got an apartment,” Melton announced triumphantly. “We can start packing right away. How does that sound?”
“Swell,” Michaela said. “Can we move tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Jack can have his house back.”
The lights came on. Melton gave them a quick glance.
“Still at it, eh? Well, who cares now? Drink? How about a cocktail, Mike? I’ll even tackle the icebox tonight.”
“No, thanks.”
“Mm-mm. Phil?”
“No. I don’t want any.”
“Well, I do,” Melton said. He went into the kitchen, decided against ice cubes after all, and came back with a straight shot in a tiny glass. “Are we eating out tonight?” he demanded.
“Oh,” Michaela said. “I forgot dinner again.”
“I think we’d better move tomorrow,” Melton said, “if not tonight.” He sat down. “It’s too early to eat now, but we can kill time with a drink or two.” He looked at the clock. It was 4:20.
He looked again.
It was 10:40.
Nothing had changed. But the sky was black outside the window. Outside of that, nothing had altered; Michaela and Phil had not moved, and Melton’s drink was untasted in his hand.
For a moment he thought wildly of amnesia. Then he realized that the truth was much simpler. He had simply let his mind go blank - he could even remember doing it - so that the time had, incredibly, slipped past until -
It was 10:40.
The shock of disorientation came, more slowly this time. It passed and was gone.
Neither Michaela nor Phil moved.
Melton looked at the clock. Simultaneously he felt a leaden, dull blankness creeping over his mind. This is like hibernation, he thought, gray, formless, without -
It was 8:12.
The sky was blue outside. The river was blue. Morning sunlight blazed on green patterns of leaves.
“Mike,” Melton said.
It was 3:35.
But it was not time that had altered. Melton knew that very clearly. The fault lay in the house.
It was night.
It was 9:20.
The telephone rang. Melton reached out and lifted the receiver from its cradle.
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