He replaced the photo and closed the book, hefting it. It was heavier than it looked. In one place where the green binding had worn, it appeared that the cover board was of a light metal. He opened it and paged through again. There was no apparent pattern to the underlinings at first glance. But he began with the first. that he found and moved through the book, reading them aloud, a thing he had not done before. Odd that he had never thought to trace, in these sections, some aspect of his father's sensibilities. What was it that had moved him to mark the passages that he had? Of course, there was always the possibility that it was a used book, purchased in this condition. Still... Something in the sections appealed to Randy beyond the mere tingle of familiarity. There was a wildness, a freedom, a restlessness that seemed to speak to him personally, to reach after some similar place in his own spirit... "Is it only because I am twenty years old?" he wondered. "Would I feel this way if I came across this book ten years from now?" He shrugged and continued reading.
A tiny breeze stirred the curtain. He paused and drew in a deep breath. A small wave of coolness passed him. What was he doing? Reading to forget Julie, or to reopen the case on his father? Both, actually, he decided... Both. But now that he had begun thinking of the search, he wanted to go on with it.
The breeze was the first bit of coolness in two days. He lay there with his finger marking his place, trying to breathe it all in before it was used up. It was a relief and ...
He raised his left hand and regarded his fingertips. He rubbed them against his palm. He touched the book's cover once again.
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."
"I mean, where will we get to?"
"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.