Curious, he picked it up, hooked a finger under the Sap, slid it open. The envelope gave off the scent of a familiar perfume.
Inside was a card of garish orange. On its face was a grotesque little gnome saying, “I like you a whole lot — even more’n I like peanut butter.” And on the inside: “And I really like peanut butter!”
The signature was a simple “Annie.” He smiled, reread it, then dropped it into his desk drawer. As he slid the drawer shut, though, he thought better of it and opened it again. He pulled the card out and dropped it into the waste basket He had enough clutter in his desk already. Besides, it was the thought that counted — not the card.
Then he hit the intercom. “Sylvia, is there anything in the mail that needs my immediate attention?”
“Uh, just a note about the Los Angeles Conference — *
“Tell them thanks, but I can’t come.”
“—and there’s a Mr. Krofft here, who—”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t see him now. Was he a scheduled appointment?”
“No, but—”
“Then tell him to make one. Next week.” He clicked off.
The intercom buzzed immediately back to life.
“Yes. What?”
“I think you’d better see him,” Sylvia said. “This is — something different.”
“All right but—” he glanced at his watch, “—three minutes only. And that’s all.” He clicked off again.
Auberson’s first impression of the man was of eight pounds of potatoes in a ten-pound sack. He stood there, blocking the doorway in a rumpled suit. “Mr. Auberson?” he said.
“Yes—?” said Aubie, curiously. The man had a sallow, almost unhealthy complexion and black hair, but thinning and going to gray.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Davidson, actually — but they told me to talk to you.”
“Davidson?” Auberson considered it. “You must be in the wrong department. I don’t know any—”
“A Mr. Harlie Davidson…?”
“No,” Auberson shook his head. “No, there’s no one here by that name—”
And then it hit him. The pun. HARLIE. David’s son.
“Oh no.” He said it softly.
“Oh no what?” asked Krofft.
Simultaneously, the intercom went on again. It was Sylvia. “Carl Elzer wants to know if you’ve taken your phone off the hook again.”
“Yes. No. Tell him — Is he out there now?”
“No. He’s on my phone.”
“Tell him you don’t know where I am.” He clicked off without waiting for her acknowledgement.
Auberson grinned at the man. Weakly. “Uh, look, Mr…?”
“Krofft. Stanley Krofft.” He flipped open his wallet to show a plastic I.D. badge: “Stellar-American Technology and Research.” Auberson peered at the card; it identified Krofft as the Research Division Head.
“I’ve got a letter here from your Mr. Davidson,” said Krofft. “It’s on your company’s stationary, but nobody here seems to have heard of him. There’s something very funny going on — now if there’s some reason why I can’t meet him—”
“Did he invite you here?”
“No, not exactly. We’ve been corresponding for several weeks, and—”
“Mr. Krofft, you don’t know who HARLIE is, do you?”
“No. Is it some kind of mystery—?”
“Yes and no. I’m going down to see him now. Perhaps you’d better come along.”
“I’d like to.”
Auberson rose, stepped around the desk — and the six stacks of printouts — and headed for the door. Krofft picked up his briefcase and started to follow.
“Oh — you’d better leave that here. Security.”
*I’d rather keep it with me. There’s nothing in it but papers.”
“Still, unless you’re cleared, we can’t allow you to bring in anything large enough to conceal a recording or transmitting device.”
Krofft looked at him. “Mr. Auberson, are you aware of the relationship between our two companies?”
“Uh—” Auberson hesitated. “They’re owned by the same holding company, aren’t they—?”
Krofft shook his head. “No. Stellar-American Technology is the holding company. My company owns your company.”
“Oh,” said Auberson. He pointed at the briefcase. “I’d still prefer you to leave it here.”
The other realized it was useless. “Have you got a safe?”
“Not here. But you can leave it with Sylvia, my secretary. It’ll be okay.”
Krofft snorted. “Can you guarantee that? What’s in here is as important to me as whatever you’re—”
“Then bring it with you. Just leave the case behind.”
Krofft made a face, muttered something under his breath. He opened the case and extracted a slim manila folder. “Okay?”
Auberson nodded. “No problem. Security only says ‘no briefcases.’ ”
Sylvia accepted Krofft’s case with a puzzled stare and put it behind her desk. As he guided the man to the elevators, Auberson explained, “We’ve got a crazy security system here, anyway. It’s all right for you to talk to HARLIE, but you can’t take pictures. You can keep your printouts — most of the time — but you can’t circulate or publish them. Don’t ask me to explain; I don’t understand it myself.”
The elevator door slid open and they stepped in. Auberson tapped the button marked H, the lowest one in the column.
“We’ve got the same system at Stellar-American,” said Krofft. “If it weren’t for the fact that the two companies are interlocked, I couldn’t have come here at all.”
“Mmm. Tell me, just what is it you and HARLIE have been corresponding about?”
“It’s a private matter. I’d rather not—”
“That’s all right. HARLIE and I have no secrets.”
“Still, if you don’t mind—”
“You don’t have to worry about your secrecy, Mr. Krofft. As I said, HARLIE and I have no secrets. He keeps me posted on everything he does—”
“Obviously,” snapped the other, “he hasn’t kept you posted on this. Else you wouldn’t be trying to pump me. All big companies have interdivisional feuds and politics. This research that we’ve done, we’ve done it on our own time, and we’re going to protect it. It’s private, Mr. Auberson, and nobody will know what it’s about until we’re ready to tell them.”
Auberson slid his tongue thoughtfully into his cheek. “Um, all right. We’ll talk to HARLIE.”
The elevator doors opened to face a small lobby, fronted by a double door. On it a sign said, HUMAN ANALOGUE ROBOT, LIFE INPUT EQUIVALENTS. Krofft did not realize the acronym. The same hand that had added the card to Auberson’s door had also added one here: BEWARE OF PECULIAR MACHINE.
They pushed into the lab, a longish sterile room flanked by banks of consoles and tall cabinets like coffins on end. White-smocked technicians monitored growing stacks of printout — one end of the room was already filled. Krofft took it all in with a certain degree of familiarity — and puzzlement.
“I should caution you,” said Auberson, “that you are here only on my authority — and on my sufferance. This is an industrial secret and anything that goes on in here does not go beyond these walls. If you wish yours and HARLIE’s secrecy to be respected, then we’ll expect the same in return.”
“I understand,” the smaller man said. “Now if you’ll just point out Dr. Davidson—”
“Dr. Davidson? Hasn’t it sunk in yet?”
“Hasn’t what sunk in? I don’t—”
“Look around you.”
Krofft did so.
“What do you see?”
“A computer. And technicians. Some tables. Some stacks of printouts.”
“The computer, Krofft; look at its name.”
“HUMAN ANALOGUE ROBOT, LIFE INPU — HARLIE?”
“Right.”
“Wait a minute.” Anger edged his voice. “You’ve got to be… This is some kind of… You’re not serious.”
“As serious as I’ll ever be,” said Auberson. “HARLIE is a computer and you’re the victim of a misunderstanding — a self-induced one. You’re not the first, however, so don’t be embarrassed.”
“You mean, I’ve been corresponding with a machine?”
“Not exactly. HARLIE’s a human being, Mr. Krofft, a very special kind of human being.”
“I thought you said he was a computer. Just who or what have I been writing to?”