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talk.”
    “Was that when she was job-hunting?”
    Maury nodded. “She didn’t get the job, but she did get into the sanctum sanctorum. Louis, that guy can scent out possibilities on all sides, opportunities no one else could see in a million years. You ought to dip into
Fortune
, sometime; they did a big write-up on him around ten months ago.”
    “From what she told me Pris made quite a pitch to him that day.”
    “She told him she had incredible worth that no one recognized. He was supposed to recognize it, evidently. Anyhow, she said that in his organization, working for him, she’d rise to the top and be known all over the universe. But otherwise, she’d just go on as she was. She told him she was a gambler, too; she wanted to stake everything on going to work for him. Can you beat that?”
    “No,” I said. She hadn’t told me that part.
    After a pause Maury said, “The Edwin M. Stanton was her idea.”
    Then it was true. That made me feel really bad, to hear that. “And it was her idea that it would be of Stanton?”
    “No, it was my idea. She wanted it to look like Sam Barrows. But there wasn’t enough data to feed to its ruling monad guidance system, so we got reference books on historical characters. And I was always interested in the Civil War; it was a hobby of mine years ago. So that settled that.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “She still has Barrows on her mind all the time. It’s what her analyst calls an obsessive idea.”
    We walked on toward the office of MASA ASSOCIATES.

4
    When we entered our office we found my brother Chester on the phone from Boise, reminding us that we had left the Edwin M. Stanton in the family living room, and asking us to pick it up, please.
    “Well, we’ll try to get out sometime today,” I promised him.
    Chester said, “It’s sitting where you left it. Father turned it on for a few minutes this morning to see if it got the news.”
    “What news?”
    “The morning news. The summary, like David Brinkley.”
    He meant
gave
the news. So my family had in the meantime decided that I was right; it was a machine after all and not a person.
    “Did it?” I asked.
    “No,” Chester said. “It talked about the unnatural impudence of commanders in the field.”
    When I had hung up the phone Maury said, “Maybe Pris would get it.”
    “Does she have a car?” I asked.
    “She can take the Jag. Maybe you better go along withher, though, in case there’s still a chance your dad’s interested.”
    Later in the day Pris showed up at the office, and soon we were on our way back to Boise.
    For the first part of the trip we drove in silence, Pris behind the wheel. All at once she said, “Do you have connections with someone who’s interested in the Edwin M. Stanton?” She eyed me.
    “No. What a strange question.”
    “What’s your real motive for coming along on this trip? You do have a concealed motive … it radiates from every pore of your body. If it were up to me I wouldn’t let you within a hundred yards of the Stanton.”
    As she continued to eye me, I knew I was in for more dissection.
    “Why aren’t you married?” she asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Are you a homosexual?”
    “No!”
    “Did some girl you fell in love with find you too ugly?”
    I groaned.
    “How old are you?”
    That seemed reasonable enough, and yet, in view of the general attitude she held, I was wary of even that. “Ummm,” I murmured.
    “Forty?”
    “No. Thirty-three.”
    “But your hair is gray on the sides and you have funny-looking snaggly teeth.”
    I wished I was dead.
    “What was your first reaction to the Stanton?” Pris asked.
    I said, “I thought, ‘What a kindly-looking old gentleman that is there.’”
    “You’re lying, aren’t you?”
    “Yes!”
    “What did you actually think?”
    “I thought, ‘What a kindly-looking old gentleman that is there, wrapped up in newspapers.’”
    Pris said thoughtfully, “You probably are queer for old men. So your