Detain, obtain, what rotten syntax, he thought, the people who program these robots certainly aren't poets. The man just stood and blinked and looked them over, the three of them struggling subtly, he and Margaret trying to pull free of the robot, which was still blinking red and grinding at the carpet. “Cooperate,” squawked the robot. The man in the robe squinted at them, finally smiled. “Please,” said Margaret. “Fountain pens, eh?” the man in the robe said at last. “Yes,” said Margaret desperately, and he heard himself add, “And beer—” “Yes, of course,” mumbled the man in the robe. “How silly of me. Come in.” “Sir, for your safety—” “They're fine,” said the man to the robot. “I'm expecting them. Let them in.” The robot released its grip. The man in the robe turned and shuffled inside. They followed him, all three of them, into poorly lit rooms disastrously heaped with newspapers, clothes, soiled dishes, empty and half-empty takeout packages, but still unmistakably the rooms from his tape, every turn of his head recalling some camera movement and there sure enough was the wall that had held the shadow, the momentary stain of murder. The man in the robe turned and said to the robot, “Please wait outside.” “But surely I should chaperone, sir—” “No, that's fine, just outside the door, I'll call you in if I need you. Close it on your way out, thanks.” Watching the robot slink back out he couldn't help but feel a little thrill of vindication. The man in the robe continued into the kitchen, and gesturing at the table said, “Please, sit, sorry for the mess. Did you say you'd like a beer?” “Well, uh, no, that wasn't exactly — if you drink beer you ought to make it a Very Old Money Lager for full satisfaction — but I've got something else to discuss while you enjoy your delicious, oh, damn it—” “Relax, have a seat. Can I get you something else?” “Food,” he blurted. “Which always goes best with a Very Old Money,” and meanwhile Margaret released his hand and took a seat and started in talking about pens. The man opened his refrigerator, which was as overloaded as the apartment, another image from the tape now corrupted by squalor. “You poor people, stuck with those awful patches and yet I suppose I wouldn't have the benefit of your company today without them! Ah, well. Here, I wasn't expecting visitors but would you like some cheese? Can I fix you a glass of water?” The man set out a crumbled hunk of cheddar with a butter knife, crumbs on the dish and so long uncovered the edges were dried a deep, translucent orange. “So, you were just Advertising and you thought you'd pay a house call? How am I so lucky?” “Well, that's not it exactly—” Margaret took the knife and began paring away the edges of the cheese, carving out a chunk that looked more or less edible and when she handed it to him he couldn't resist, but tried talking through the mouthful anyway, desperately trying to negotiate the three priorities of hunger, Advertising, and his investigation: “Would you consider, mmmpphh, excuse me, consider opening a nice tall bottle of Very Old Money and settling in to watch this videotape I brought with me because there's something I'd like you to see, a question I've got about it—” The man in the robe nodded absently, half listening, staring oddly at Margaret and then said, “By all means let me see your tape — is it about beer? I'd be delighted but no hurry, please relax and enjoy yourselves, I'll be right out,” and stepped into the living room, began rummaging among his possessions of which there certainly were plenty. It was a little depressing how full the once glorious apartment had gotten. Margaret cut him another piece of cheese and whispered, “Do you think he knows something?” “I can't know he seems so nice, well if not nice then harmless, hapless, but I'll judge his reaction to the video, watch him closely when the time comes—” grabbing more cheese quickly while he could and then the man in the robe was back. “Hello, friends, enjoying yourselves?” His robe had fallen open and they both stared but maybe it was just an example of his sloppiness. Certainly there was no polite way to mention it. There was something confusing about this man, who now went to the table and took the knife out of Margaret's hands and held her hand there for a moment and then snapped something — was it a bracelet? — around her wrist. Not a bracelet. Handcuffs. “Hey, wait a minute, that's no way to enjoy a nice glass of lager!” he heard himself say idiotically cheese falling out of his mouth jumping up as the man clicked Margaret's other wrist into the cuffs and he had her linked to the back of her chair. He stood to intervene and the man in the robe swept his feet out from under him with a kick and pushed him in the chest and he fell, feet sliding on papers, hand skidding in lumps of cheese, to the floor. “Thirsty!” he shouted, the more excited the more fervent the Advertising, apparently. “No! Beer!” as he struggled to get up. And Margaret was saying something desperate about Eiger fountain pens “—self-refilling cartridge—” The man in the robe moved quickly, not lazy and sloppy at all now and kicked away his satchel with the tape inside and bent over him and reached behind his ear to tear the patch away, another momentary sting. He could only shout “Beer!” once more before the twilight world of the One-Way Permeable Barrier surrounded him, it was everywhere here, even Margaret was on the other side as long as she wore the patch, and he felt his voice sucked away to a scream audible inside the space of his own head but not elsewhere, he knew, not until he was back outside, on the street where he belonged and why couldn't he have stayed there? What was he thinking? Anyway it wouldn't be long now because through the gauze he saw the man in the robe who you'd have to call the man half out of his robe now open the door to let the robot in, then as the naked man grinned at him steel pinchers clamped onto his arm and he was dragged out of the room, screaming inaudibly, thrashing to no purpose, leaving Margaret behind. And his tape besides.