“Oh.” Jill felt suddenly forlorn. “I guess I had better make arrangements to move him.”

“Oh, no! Not unless you wish, that is.”

“But I thought you said—”

“I said I was not interested in a web of legal fictions. But a patient and guest under my roof is another matter. He can stay, if he likes. I just wanted to make it clear that I had no intention of meddling with politics to suit any romantic notions you or Ben Caxton may have. My dear, I used to think I was serving humanity . . . and I pleasured in the thought. Then I discovered that humanity does not want to be served; on the contrary it resents any attempt to serve it. So now I do what pleases Jubal Harshaw.” He turned to Dorcas as if the subject were closed. “Time for dinner, isn’t it, Dorcas? Is anyone doing anything about it?”

“Miriam.” She put down her needlepoint and stood up.

“I’ve never been able to figure out just how these girls divide up the work.”

“Boss, how would you know?—since you never do any.” Dorcas patted him on the stomach. “But you never miss any meals.”

A gong sounded and they went in to eat. If the redheaded Miriam had cooked dinner, she had apparently done so with all modern shortcuts; she was already seated at the foot of the table and looked cool and beautiful. In addition to the three secretaries, there was a young man slightly older than Larry who was addressed as “Duke” and who included Jill in the conversation as if she had always lived there. There was also a middle-aged couple who were not introduced at all, who ate as if they were in a restaurant and left the table as soon as they were finished without ever having spoken to the others.

But the table talk among the others was lively and irreverent. Service was by non-android serving machines, directed by controls at Miriam’s end of the table. The food was excellent and, so far as Jill could tell, none of it was syntho.

But it did not seem to suit Harshaw. He complained that his knife was dull, or the meat was tough, or both; he accused Miriam of serving left-overs. No one seemed to hear him but Jill was becoming embarrassed on Miriam’s account when Anne put down her knife and fork. “He mentioned his mother’s cooking,” she stated bleakly.

“He is beginning to think he is boss again,” agreed Dorcas.

“How long has it been?”

“About ten days.”

“Too long.” Anne gathered up Dorcas and Miriam with her eyes; they all stood up. Duke went on eating.

Harshaw said hastily, “Now see here, girls, not at meals. Wait until—” They paid no attention to his protest but moved toward him; a serving machine scurried out of the way. Anne took his feet, each of the other two an arm; French doors slid out of the way and they carried him out, squawking.

A few seconds later the squawks were cut short by a splash.

The three women returned at once, not noticeably mussed. Miriam sat down and turned to Jill. “More salad, Jill?”

Harshaw returned a few minutes later, dressed in pajamas and robe instead of the evening jacket he had been wearing. One of the machines had covered his plate as soon as he was dragged away from the table; it now uncovered it for him and he went on eating. “As I was saying,” he remarked, “a woman who can’t cook is a waste of skin. If I don’t start having some service around here I’m going to swap all of you for a dog and shoot the dog. What’s the dessert, Miriam?”

“Strawberry shortcake.”

“That’s more like it. You are all reprieved till Wednesday.”

Gillian found that it was not necessary to understand how Jubal Harshaw’s household worked; she could do as she pleased and nobody cared. After dinner she went into the living room with the intention of viewing a stereocast of the evening news, being anxious to find out if she herself played a part in it. But she could find no stereo receiver nor was there anything which could have concealed a tank. Thinking about it, she could not recall having seen one anywhere in the house. Nor were there any newspapers, although there were plenty of books and magazines.

No one joined her. After a while she began to wonder what time it was. She had left her watch upstairs with her purse, so she looked around for a clock. She failed to find one, then searched her excellent memory and could not remember having seen either clock or calendar in any of the rooms she had been in.

But she decided that she might as well go to bed no matter what time it was. One whole wall was filled with books, both shelves and spindle racks. She found a spool of Kipling’s Just So Stories and took it happily upstairs with her.

Here she found another small surprise. The bed in the room she had been given was as modern as next week, complete with automassage, coffee dispenser, weather control, reading machine, etc.—but the alarm circuit was missing, there being only a plain cover plate to show where it had been. Jill shrugged and decided that she would probably not oversleep anyway, crawled into bed, slid the spool into the reading machine, lay back and scanned the words streaming across the ceiling. Presently the speed control slipped out of her relaxed fingers, the lights went out, and she slept.