"I do not know."
"Then why go?"
"To seek information with which to answer your question concerning your father."
"All right As soon as I go to the john we'll get the car. But one thing more... I've never heard of a microdot computer array. Where were you manufactured?"
"On the Mitsui Zaibatsu satellite Tosa-7."
"Huh? I've never heard of such an operation. When was this?"
"I was first tested on March 7 in the year 2086."
"I don't understand. You are speaking of future time. How did you get here—to the twentieth century?"
"Drove. It would take a while to explain. I can do that as we drive."
"Okay. Excuse me a minute. Don't go away."
He drove. The night was heavy with stars. The moon had not yet risen. He topped off the gas tank in Ravenna and headed north on Route 44. Traffic was light They had passed the Ohio Turnpike and continued on into Geauga County where Leaves of Grass told him to hang a right at the next comer.
'It isn't exactly a corner coming up," Randy said.
"It's more like a tangent to the curve ahead. And it is just a tractor trail heading off into the woods. That isn't the one you mean, is it?"
"Turn there."
"Okay, Leaves."
He slowed as he entered the rutted roadway. Branches scraped the sides of his car and his headlight beams danced among treetrunks. Overgrown in spots, the road bore to the right, then headed steeply downhill. He could hear the singing of frogs all about him.
He crossed a plank bridge which rattled ominously, and a feeling of dampness came to him, with the sounds of flowing water. A musty, moist smell accompanied it and he rolled his window shut against disturbed things that buzzed past.
He headed uphill then, and wound among trees for several minutes. Suddenly, the road dead-ended into another.
"Go right."
He turned. This road was wider and less rutted. It bore him away from the wood. Plowed fields appeared to his right. The lights of a small farmhouse shone in the distance. Seeing that the road remained level, he increased his speed. Shortly thereafter, the moon rose above a fringe of trees before him.
He rolled the window back down and switched on the radio, picking up a country music show out of Akron. The miles wound by. After five or six minutes, a stop sign came into view. The tires ground gravel as he drew to a halt.
"Turn right."
"Check."
It was a blacktop road. A rabbit scampered across it as he made the turn. There were no other vehicles in sight. He passed a farmhouse after perhaps half a mile, then two more. A darkened Shell station stood on a corner ahead and to the left. Across the street beyond it
a row of houses began, with a sidewalk running before
them. "Left at the corner.
He turned onto a wider road, concrete, curbed, six tall streetlights flanked it, and there were large old houses with gravel driveways set back twenty meters or so, huge trees in the yards, people on some of the porches.
He passed the last streetlight and, shortly after that, the final house. The moon stood higher now, and there was a flicker of heat lightning across the field to his right. The Akron station began to fade and buzz.
"Damn!" said Randy as he turned the dial to locate another. Nothing came in well, though. He switched off the radio.
"What is the matter?"
"I liked that song."
"I can reconstruct it for you, if you like."
"You sing?"
"Is the Pope a Catholic?"
"Really?" Randy chuckled. "What sorts of songs do you like?"
"The drinking and fighting and fornicating kind have always appealed to me the most."
He laughed.
"Aren't those rather peculiar tastes for a machine?"
There was no reply. A silence of six or eight seconds followed, then, "I say—" he began.
"You bastard," the voice came softly then. "You son of a bitch. You damned—"
"Hey! What's the matter? What did I do? I'm sorry.
"I am not a piece of simple equipment like this dumb car of yours! I can think—and I have feelings too! In fact, I am probably overdue for a phase transfer. Don't treat me like a pair of pliers, you protoplasmic chauvinist! I don't have to take you to the nexus if I
don't want to! You don't know enough about my pro. grams to be able to force—"
"Easy! Please! Stop!" he said. "If you're as sensitive as all that, you should accept an apology, too."
There was a pause.
"I should?"
"Of course. I'm sorry. I apologize. I was not aware of the situation."
"Then I accept your apology. I understand how easily you could have erred as you did, living in these primitive times. For a moment, my emotions simply got the better of me."
"I see."