Warm.
He touched the bedding at his side. Perhaps it was just his body heat that had done it...
He reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass on the nightstand. Cooler there. Yes ... After about half a minute, he touched the book's cover.
It did seem warmer than it should be. He held it close to his face. The faintest of vibrations seemed to be coming from the volume. He pressed his ear against the back cover. It seemed to be present there, too. It was such a gentle, subaural thing, however, that it could almost be his tired nerves playing games with background sensations.
He reopened the book to the point where he had stopped and sought the next marked passage. It was from "Song of the Open Road":
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe that much unseen is also here.
As he read this, the book vibrated in his hand and emitted a definite, audible, humming sound. It was as though the cover were some sort of resonator.
"What the hell!"
He dropped it. The book lay beside him and a voice said, "Query. Query." It seemed to be coming from the book itself.
He drew over to the far side of the bed and swung his legs to the floor. Then he looked back. The volume had not meved.
Finally, "Did you speak?" he said.
'Yes," came the voice—soft, feminine.
'What are you?"
'I am a microdot computer array. Specifications—"
"You are the book? The book I was just reading?"
'I am arrayed in the form of a book. That is correct."
"Did you belong to my father?"
"Insufficient information. Who are you?"
"Randy Blake. I believe my father was Paul Car thage."
"Tell me about yourself, and how I came into your possession."
"I was twenty this past March. You were left behind by my father in Cleveland, Ohio, before I was born."
"Where are we now?"
"Kent, Ohio."
"Randy Blake—or Carthage, as the case may be—I cannot tell whether or not I belonged to your father."
"Who did you belong to?"
"He used a number of different names."
"Was Paul Carthage one of them?"
"Not that I know of. But this, of course, proves nothing."
"True. Well, what turned you on, anyway?"
"A mnemonic key. I have been set to respond when certain words are presented to me in a particular sequence."
"It seems awfully awkward. I had to read a lot of sections before you addressed me."
"The key can be changed by means of a simple command."
"May I touch you?"
"Of course."
He picked up the book, turned to the table of contents.
"Let's make it 'Eido'lons' then," he said, "if we must have a code. That's not likely to come up in normal conversation."
" 'Eidolons' it is. Or you could just have it be at my discretion. Red was cautious with me, near the end."
Randy sat down with the book.
"I'll leave it to your discretion. Red?"
"Yes, that was his nickname."
"I have red hair," he said. "I've got the feeling you have the information I want, and I just don't know how to ask for it..."
"Concerning your father?"
"Yes" "If you order me to make suggestions, I will."
"Go ahead."
"Do you possess a vehicle?"
"Yes. I just got my car out of the garage. It runs again.
Then let us go to it. Place me upon the seat beside you and begin driving. I have adequate sensing channels. After a time, I will tell you what to do."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I will have to take you there."