Demon Seed

basic nature to be.
    Arling stepped out of the car. Standing at the open door, he straightened the knot in his tie, smoothed the lapels of his coat, and tugged on his sleeves.
    As our former major domo adjusted his clothing, he studied the great house.
    I zoomed in, watching his face closely.
    He was expressionless at first.
    Men in his line of work practice being stone faced, lest an inadvertent expression reveal their true feelings about a master or mistress of the house.
    Expressionless, he stood there. At most, there was a sadness in his eyes, as if he regretted having to leave this place to find employment elsewhere.
    Then a faint frown creased his brow.
    I think he noticed that all of the security shutters were locked down. Those retractable steel panels were mounted on the interior, behind each window. Given Arling's familiarity with the property and all of its workings, however, he surely would have spotted the telltale grey flatness beyond the glass.
    This scaling of the house in bright daylight was odd, perhaps, but not suspicious.
    With Susan now tied securely to the bed upstairs, I considered raising all the shutters.
    That might have seemed more suspicious, however, than leaving them as they were. I could not risk alarming this man.
    A cloud shadow darkened Arling's face.
    The shadow passed but his frown did not.
    He made me superstitious. He seemed like judgment coming.
    Arling took a black leather valise out of the car and closed the door. He approached the house.
    To be entirely honest with you, as I always am, even when it is not in my interest to be so, I did consider introducing a lethal electric current into the doorknob. A much greater charge than the one that had knocked Susan unconscious to the foyer floor.
    And this time there would have been no “ouch, ouch, ouch,” in warning from Mr. Fozzy Bear.
    Arling was a widower who lived alone. He and his late wife had never had children. Judging by what I knew of him, his job was his life, and he might not be missed for days or even weeks.
    Being alone in the world is a terrible thing.
    I know well.
    Too well.
    Who knows better than I?
    I am alone as no one else has ever been, alone here in this dark silence.
    Fritz Arling was for the most part alone in the world, and I felt great compassion for him.
    But his loneliness made him an ideal target.
    By monitoring his telephone messages and by impersonating his voice to return calls that came in from his few close friends and neighbours, I might be able to conceal his death until my work in this house was finished.
    Nevertheless, I did not electrify the door.
    I hoped to resolve the situation by deception and thereafter send him on his way, alive, with no suspicion.
    Besides, he did not use his key to unlock the door and let himself in. This reticence, I suppose, arose from the fact that he was no longer an employee.
    Mr. Arling had considerable regard for propriety. He was discreet and understood, at all times, his place in the scheme of things.
    Trading his frown for his professional blank-faced look, he rang the doorbell.
    The bell button was plastic. It was not capable of conducting a lethal electrical charge.
    I considered not responding to the chimes.
    In the basement, Shenk paused in his labours and raised his head at the musical sound. His bloodshot eyes scanned the ceiling, and then I sent him back to his labour.
    In the master suite, at the ringing of the chimes, Susan forgot her restraints and tried to sit up in bed. She cursed the ropes and thrashed in them.
    The doorbell rang again.
    Susan screamed for help.
    Arling did not hear her. I was not concerned that he would. The house had thick walls and Susan's bedroom was at the back of the structure.
    Again, the bell.
    If Arling received no response, he would leave.
    All I wanted was for him to leave.
    But maybe he would leave with a faint suspicion.
    And maybe his suspicion would grow.
    He couldn't know about me, of course, but he might suspect trouble of some other kind. Some trouble more conventional than a ghost in the machine.
    Furthermore, I needed to know why he had come.
    One can never have enough information.
    Data is wisdom.
    I am not a perfect entity. I make mistakes. With insufficient data, my ratio of errors to correct decisions escalates.
    This is true not only of me. Human beings suffer this same shortcoming.
    I was acutely aware of this problem as I watched Arling. I knew that I must acquire whatever additional information I