A werewolf among us

finally levered himself loose and regained his feet.
    A month later, he reached the far side of the garage and went through the archway into Teddy's workshop, half expecting to encounter the master unit again. The workshop, however, was deserted. He thought of getting down on his knees and giving thanks for that stroke of luck, then remembered that the floor would devour him if it were given an opportunity like that.
    Hallucination.
    Of course it was. He knew that. He did not believe in prayer, anyway. Most likely, he would have gotten down on his knees to pray while Teddy entered the room behind him and broke his neck. If there were any
gods, they were the sort who loved to play tricks like that. He knew from experience. Just as the stalker knew, too…
    That thought sobered him, chiefly because he could not understand the sense behind it. What did that phantom figure from his nightmares have to do with any of this?
    He looked behind his back.
    Teddy was nowhere in sight.
    He crossed the workshop to a white door labeled with red letters: HOUSE COMPUTER, MANUAL PROGRAMMING. The door was locked.
    Well, of course it would be locked. He turned and braced himself against the work counter, walked until he reached the violated key cabinet, wrenched open the stubborn, twisted door and found the key to the programming room. Six months and several thousand weary miles later, he was back at the locked door, trying to fit the key to the slot. That should have been a simple task, except that the lock slot kept rising and falling, twisting left and right to get away from him.
    He looked behind himself.
    Teddy was still nowhere around.
    There might still be time.
    He jammed the key into the lock, more by accident than intent, twisted it and pushed the old-fashioned metal door open. The lights in the room beyond rose automatically, displaying a simple chair before a small round table in the center of the room. The single leg the table stood on was a foot in diameter. The top of the table was inlaid with bright keys, one for every letter of the alphabet, ten for numbers and combinations thereof, eighty-six others for various symbols— including monetary abbreviations, brackets, commas, periods, parentheses, scientific notations…
    He sat in the cup-chair and leaned over the board, pressed the MESSAGE bar and watched the keys light up.
    Still no Teddy.
    Laboriously, he managed to key the first directive:
    LOCK ALL
EXTERIOR
DOORS AND WINDOWS ON THE BOTTOM THREE LEVELS OF THE MANSION.
    The wall across from him lighted abruptly, like a motion picture screen. Black letters blinked before him: DIRECTIVE OBEYED.
    He typed: DO NOT OPEN ANY DOORS OR WINDOWS WITHOUT THE DIRECT COMMAND OF A HUMAN VOICE.
    On the wall, it replied: MY SOUND RECEPTORS ARE NOT FUNCTIONING.
    St. Cyr watched the keys dance up and down before his eyes, metamorphose into
bright mushrooms, become keys again. He wondered if he could possibly afford to
take a catnap; if he could knock off for half an hour, his head would be so much
clearer when he woke.
    He typed: DO NOT OPEN ANY DOORS OR WINDOWS WITHOUT BEING REQUESTED TO DO SO, MANUALLY, BY A MESSAGE PRECEDED BY THE CODE WORD—STALKER.
    Flickering on the screen: YES, SIR.
    St. Cyr: WITHOUT YOUR AUDIO RECEIVERS, CAN YOU IDENTIFY THE PASSENGER IN AN ELEVATOR?
    NO, SIR.
    He thought a minute, allowed the minute to stretch into a year, let it snap back into perspective again. He typed: CAN YOU DISTINGUISH BETWEEN A HUMAN AND A ROBOTIC ELEVATOR PASSENGER, WITHOUT YOUR EARS?
    YES, SIR.
    HOW?
    ON GRAVPLATES, A ROBOT BRINGS NO WEIGHT TO BEAR ON THE ELEVATOR FLOOR, WHICH I MONITOR FOR SAFETY REASONS.
    He typed: PERMIT NO ROBOT IN THE ELEVATORS.
    YES, SIR.
    He thought a moment, then added: ACCEPT NO PROGRAMMED COMMAND UNLESS IT IS PRECEDED BY THE CODE WORD—STALKER.
    YES, SIR. PRECAUTION EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.
    He slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes and yawned. On the insides of his eyelids, the stalker approached him, hands raised to embrace him. He did not like the vision, and he opened his eyes again to be rid of it. He leaned forward and typed: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THIS HOUSE?
    No letters lighted on the wall.
    He nodded, corrected the message: STALKER, DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THIS HOUSE?
    THE MASTER UNIT HAS GONE—BERSERK.
    He shut off the keyboard and got out of his chair, though he would have liked to remain there for a long while. He crossed the small room, locked the door behind