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They
simply hid until their enemies got tired of searching for them. But it didn't really make
sense. If he were a bandit, he'd burn the place down or else occupy it He wouldn't simply
go away because he could find no one to kill. And yet there was no evidence of past
violence in the polished hardwood walls or the deep, soft carpeting.
    In the evenings, the two treated him more as they should the adopted son of a lord. He
was allowed to sit in the main living room and play Celest or chess. The Celest was every
bit as fascinating as the one in Santa Ynez. But he never could attain quite the accuracy
he'd had that first time. He began to suspect that part of his win had been luck. It was the
precision of his eye and hand that betrayed him, not his physical intuition. Delays of a
thousandth of a second in a cushion shot could cause a miss at the destination. Bill said
there were mechanical aids to overcome this difficulty, but Wili had little trust for such.
He spent many hours hunched before the glowing volume of the Celest, while on the
other side of the room Bill and Irma watched the holo. (After the first couple of days, the
shows seemed uniformly dull — either local gossip, or flat television game shows from the
last century.)
    Playing chess with Bill was almost as boring as the holo. After a few games, he could
easily beat the caretaker. The programmed version was much more fun than playing Bill.
    As the days passed, and Naismith did not return, Wili's boredom intensified. He
reconsidered his options. After all this time, no one had offered him the master's rooms,
no one had shown him the appropriate deference. (And no tobacco was available, though
that by itself was something he could live with.) Perhaps it was all some benign labor
contract operation, like Larry Faulk's. If this were the Anglo idea of adoption, he wanted
none of it, and his situation became simply a grand opportunity for burglary.
    Wili began with small things: jeweled ashtrays from the subterranean rooms, a pocket
Celest he found in an empty bedroom. He picked a tree out of sight behind the pond and
hid his loot in a waterproof bag there. The burglaries, small as they were, gave him a
sense of worth and made life a lot less boring. Even the pain in his gut lessened and the
food seemed to taste better.
    Wili might have been content to balance indefinitely between the prospect of inheriting
the estate and stealing it, but for one thing: The mansion was haunted. It was not the air
of mystery or the hidden rooms. There was something alive in the house. Sometimes he
heard a woman's voice — not Irma's, but the one he had heard talk to Naismith on the trail.
Wili saw the creature once. It was well past midnight. He was sneaking back to the
mansion after stashing his latest acquisitions. Wili oozed along the edge of the veranda,
moving silently from shadow to shadow. And suddenly there was someone behind him,
standing full in the moonlight. It was a woman, tall and Anglo. Her hair, silver in the
light, was cut in an alien style. The clothes were like something out of the Moraleses
old-time television. She turned to look straight at him. There was a faint smile on her face.
He bolted — and the creature twisted, vanished.
    Wili was a fast shadow through the veranda doors, up the stairs, and into his room. He
jammed a chair under the doorknob and lay for many minutes, heart pounding.
What had
he seen?
How he would like to believe it was a trick of the moonlight: The creature had
vanished as if by the flick of a mirror, and large parts of the walls surrounding the
veranda were of slick black glass. But tricks of the eye do not have such detail, do not
smile faint smiles. What then? Television? Wili had seen plenty of flat video, and since
coming to Middle California had used holo tanks. Tonight went beyond all that. Besides,
the vision had turned to look
right at him.
    So that left... a haunting. It made sense. No one — certainly no woman — had dressed