The robot turned and went up the winding staircase, with Vickers following him.
"It's a nice night, sir," the robot said.
"Very nice."
"You have eaten, sir?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I could bring you up a snack, if you haven't eaten," Hezekiah offered. "I believe there is some chicken left."
"No," said Vickers. "Thank you just the same."
Hezekiah shoved open a door and turned on a light, then stepped aside for Vickers to go in.
"Perhaps," said Hezekiah, "you would like a nightcap."
"That's a good idea, Hezekiah. Scotch, if you have it handy."
"In just a moment, sir. You will find some pajamas in the third drawer from the top. They may be a little large, but probably you can manage."
He found the pajamas and they were fairly new and very loud and they seemed quite a bit too big, but they were better than nothing
The room was pleasant, with a huge bed covered by a white, stitched counterpane and the white curtains at the windows blew in on the nighttime breeze,
He sat down in a chair to wait for Hezekiah and the drink and for the first time in many days he knew how tired he was. He'd have the drink and climb into bed and when morning came he'd go stomping down the stairs, looking for a showdown.
The door opened.
It wasn't Hezekiah; it was Horton Flanders, in a crimson dressing robe fastened tight about his neck and slippers on his feet that slapped against the floor as he crossed the room.
He crossed the room and sat down in another chair and looked at Vickers, with a half smile on his face.
"So you came back," he said.
"I came back to listen," Vickers told him. "You can start talking right away."
"Why, certainly," said Flanders. "That's why I got up. As soon as Hezekiah told me you had arrived, I knew you'd want to talk."
"I don't want to talk. I want you to talk."
"Oh, yes, certainly. I am the one to talk."
"And not about the reservoirs of knowledge, of which you talk most beautifully. But certain practical, rather mundane things."
"Like what?"
"Like why I am an android and why Ann Carter is an android. And whether there ever was a person named Kathleen Preston or is that just a story that was conditioned in my mind? And if there ever was a person named Kathleen Preston, where is she now? And, finally, where do I fit in and what do you intend to do?"
Flanders nodded his head. "A very admirable set of questions. You _would_ pick the very ones I can't answer to your satisfaction."
Vickers said: "I came to tell you that the mutants are being hunted down and killed on that other world, that the gadget shops are being wrecked and burned, that the normal humans are finally fighting back. I came to warn you because I thought I was a mutant, too…"
"You are a mutant, I can assure you, Vickers, a very special kind of mutant."
"A mutant android."
"You are difficult," said Flanders. "You let your bitterness —»
"Of course I'm bitter," Vickers cut in. "Who wouldn't be? For forty years I think I am a man and now I find I'm not."
"You fool," said Horton Flanders, sadly, "you don't know what you are."
Hezekiah rapped on the door and came in with a tray. He set the tray on a table and Vickers saw that there were two glasses and some mix and an ice bucket and a fifth of liquor.
"Now," said Flanders, more happily, "perhaps we can talk some sense. I don't know what it is about the stuff, but put a drink into a man's hand and you tend to civilize him."
He reached into the pocket of his robe, brought out a pack of cigarettes and passed them to Vickers. Vickers took the pack and saw that his hand was shaking a little as he pulled out a smoke. He hadn't realized until then just how tense he was.
Flanders snapped the lighter and held out the flame. Vickers got his light.
"That's good," he said. "I ran out of smokes after the fourth day."
He sat in the chair, smoking, thinking how good the tobacco tasted, feeling the satisfaction run along his nerves. He watched Hezekiah busy with the drinks.
"I eavesdropped this morning," Vickers said. "I came here this morning and Hezekiah let me in. I eavesdropped when you and some others were talking in the room."
"I know you did," said Flanders.
"How much of that was staged?"
"All of it," said Flanders, blithely. "Every blessed word of it."
"You _wanted_ me to know I was an android."
"We wanted you to know."
"You set the mouse on me?"
"We had to do something to shake you out of your humdrum life," said Flanders. "And the mouse served a special purpose."
"It tattled on me."
"Oh, exceedingly well. The mouse was a most efficient tattler."
"The thing that really burns me," Vickers said, "is that business about making Cliffwood think I had done you in."
"We had to get you out of there and headed back to your childhood haunts."
"How did you know I'd go to my childhood haunts?"
Flanders said: "My friend, have you ever thought about the ability of hunch. I don't mean the feeble hunch that is used on the racetrack to pick a winner or the hunch about whether it is going to rain or not, or whether some other minor happening is going to take place… but the ability in the fullness of its concept. You might say it is the instinctive ability to assess the result of a given number of factors, to know, without actually thinking the matter out, what is about to happen. It's almost like being able to peek into the future."
"Yes," said Vickers, "I have thought about it. A good deal in the last few days, as a matter of fact."
"You have speculated on it?"
"To some extend. But what has…"
"Perhaps," said Flanders, "you have speculated that it might be a human ability that we never developed, that we scarcely knew was there and so never bothered with, or that it might be one of those abilities that it takes a long time to develop, a sort of an ace-in-the-hole ability for mankind's use when he was ready for it or might have need of it?
"I did think that, or at least some of it, but…"
"Now's the time we need it." Flanders interrupted again. "And that answers the question that you asked. We hunched you would go back."
"At first I thought Crawford was the one, but he said he wasn't."
Flanders shook his head. "Crawford wouldn't have done it. He needs you too badly. Crawford wouldn't scare you off. Your hunch on that one wasn't working too hot."
"No, I guess it wasn't."
"Your hunches don't work," said Flanders, "because you don't give them a chance. You still have the world of reason to contend with. You put your reliance on the old machine-like reasoning that the human race has relied on since it left the caves. You figure out every angle and you balance it against every other angle and you add up and cancel out as if you were doing a problem in arithmetic. You never give hunch a chance. That's the trouble with you."
And that _was_ the trouble, Vickers thought. He'd had a hunch to spin the top on the porch of the Preston house and if he had done that he'd saved himself days of walking through the wilderness of this second world. He'd had a hunch that he should have paid attention to Crawford's note and not driven the Forever car and if he'd done that he'd saved himself a lot of trouble. And there had been the hunch, which he had finally obeyed, that he must get back the top — and that one had paid off.
"How much do you know?" asked Flanders.