He was sitting on the floor in the centre of the room, sitting with his legs pulled underneath him. And it was not right, for he should have been in bed.
The Room began again.
'Where did you go? it bellowed. 'What happened to you? What did…
'Oh, shut up, said Blake.
The Room shut up.
Morning sunlight was streaming through the window and somewhere outside a bird was singing. The room was ordinary. Nothing had been changed. It was all exactly as he remembered it when he had gone to bed.
'Now tell me, he said. 'Exactly what did happen?
'You went away! wailed the Room. 'And you built a wall around you…
'A wall!
'A nothingness, said the Room. 'A blob of nothingness. You filled me with a cloud of nothingness.
Blake said, 'You are crazy. How could I do a thing like that?
But even as he said the words, he knew that the Room was right. The Room could only report the phenomenon that it had sensed. It had no such thing as imagination. It was only a machine, although a sophisticated one, and in its experience there was no such thing as superstition, or myth or fairy tale.
'You disappeared, declared the Room. 'You wrapped yourself in nothing and you disappeared. But before you began to wrap yourself, you changed.
'How could I change?
'I don't know, but you did. You melted and you took another form, or began to take another form, and then you wrapped yourself.
'And you couldn't sense me? That's why you thought that I had gone away.
'I could not sense you, said the Room. 'I could not penetrate the nothingness.
'This nothingness?
'Just nothingness, said the Room. 'I could not analyse it.
Blake picked himself up off the floor, reached for the pair of shorts he had dropped upon the floor when he'd got into bed the night before. He pulled them on and picked up the robe draped across a chair back.
He lifted it and it was heavy and it was brown and it was wool — and suddenly he remembered the night before, the strange stone house and the senator and his daughter.
You changed, the Room had said. You changed and built around yourself a shell of nothingness. But he had no memory of it, not a whisper of a memory.
Nor had he any memory of what had happened the night before in that interval between when he'd walked on the patio and the moment he had found himself standing in the storm, a good five miles from home.
My God, he asked himself, what is going on? He sat down suddenly on the bed, the robe draped across his knees. 'Room, he asked, 'you're sure?
'I am certain, said the Room.
'Any speculation?
'You know very well, the Room said, stiffly, 'that I would not speculate.
'No, of course you wouldn't.
'Speculation. said the Room, 'is illogical.
'You're right, of course, said Blake.
He rose and put on the robe and moved towards the door.
'You have nothing more to say? the Room asked, disapprovingly.
'What could I say? asked Blake. 'You know more of it than I do.
He went out of the door and along the balcony. As he reached the stairway, the House greeted him in its usual cheery morning-fashion.
'Good morning, sir, it said. 'The sun is up and bright. The storm is over and there are no clouds. The forecast is for fair and warm. The present temperature is forty-nine and before the day is over, it will reach more than sixty. A beautiful autumn day has dawned and everything looks fine. Do you have any preferences, sir? How about the decor? How about the furniture? How about some music?
'Ask him, the Kitchen bellowed, 'what he wants to eat.
'And also, said the House, 'what do you want to eat?
'How about some oatmeal?
'Oatmeal! wailed the Kitchen. 'It is always oatmeal. Or it's ham and eggs. Or it's pancakes. Just for once, why not something special? Why not…
'Oatmeal, Blake insisted.
'The man wants oatmeal, said the House.
'OK, said the Kitchen, beaten. 'One oatmeal coming up.
'You must not mind the Kitchen, said the House. 'It labours under a very great frustration. It has all these fancy recipes programmed into its cores and it's really very good at them, but it almost never gets a chance to use a single one of them. Some time, sir, just for the hell of it, why don't you let the Kitchen…
'Oatmeal, said Blake.
'Oh, very well, sir. The morning paper is in the PG tray. But there's not much news this morning.
'If you don't mind, said Blake, 'I'll take a look myself.
'Quite, sir. As you wish, sir. I was only attempting to be informative.
'Just try, said Blake, 'not to overdo it.
'Sorry, sir, said the House. 'I will watch myself.
In the entry hall he picked up the paper and tucked it underneath his arm. He walked to a side window to look out.
The house next door was gone. The platform stood empty.
'They left this morning, said the House. 'About an hour ago. A short vacation trip, I gather. We all are glad…
'We?
'Why, yes. All the other houses, sir. We are glad they're only to be gone for a short time and will be coming back again. They are such good neighbours, sir.
'You seem to know a lot about them. I haven't more than spoken to them.
'Oh, said the House, 'not the people, sir. I wasn't talking of the people. It was the house itself I was thinking of.
'You houses, then, consider yourself neighbours.
'Why, of course we do. We visit among ourselves. We talk back and forth.
'Just exchanging information.
'Naturally, said the House. 'But now about the decor.
'It's all right as it is.
'It's been this way for weeks.
'Well. Blake said, thoughtfully, 'you might do something about that wallpaper in the dining-room.
'It's not the wallpaper, sir.
'I know it's not. The point I want to make is that I'm getting a little bored watching that rabbit nibble clover.
'What would you like instead?
'Anything you like. Just so it has no rabbits in it.
'But, sir, we can work out some thousands of combinations.
'Anything you like, said Blake, 'but be sure there are no rabbits.
He turned from the window and went into the dining-room. Eyes stared out at him from the walls — thousands of eyes, eyes without a single face, eyes plucked from many faces and plastered on the walls. And while there were some of them that went in pairs, there were others that stood alone. And every eye was staring straight at him.
There were baby-blue eyes, with the look of wistful innocence, and the bloodshot eyes that glared with fearsomeness, the lecherous eye, the dimmed and rheumy eye of the very old. And they all knew him, knew who he was, and they stared at him in a horribly personal manner and if there had been mouths to go with the eyes they all would be talking at him, screaming at him, mouthing at him.
'House! he screamed.
'What is the matter, sir?
'These eyes!
'But you said, sir, anything but rabbits. I thought the eyes were quite a novel…
'Get them out of here! howled Blake.
The eyes went away and in their place a beach led down to a seashore. The white sand ran down to the surging waves that came beating in and on a distant headland; scraggly, weather-beaten trees leaned against the wind. Above the water, birds were flying, screaming as they flew. And within the room was the smell of salt and sand.
'Better? asked the House.
'Yes, said Blake. 'much better. Thank you very much.
He sat entranced, staring out upon the scene. It was, he told himself, as if he sat upon the beach.
'We put in the sound and smell, said the House. 'We can add the wind as well.
'No, said Blake. 'This is quite enough.
The waves came thundering in and the birds flew crying over them and the great black clouds were rolling up the sky. Was there anything, he wondered, that the House could not reproduce upon that wall? Thousands of combinations, the House had said. A man could sit here and stare out upon any scene he wished.