Demon Seed

could before making a final determination as to what to do with him.
    I dared make no more mistakes.
    Not until my body was ready.
    So much was at stake. My future. My hope. My dreams. The fate of the world.
    Using the intercom, I addressed our former major domo in Susan's voice: “Fritz? What are you doing here?”
    He would assume that Susan was watching him on a Crestron screen or on any of the house televisions, on which security-camera views could easily be displayed. Indeed, he looked directly up into the lens above and to the right of him.
    Then, leaning toward the speaker grille in the wall beside the door, Arling said, “I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Harris, but I assumed that you would be expecting me.”
    “Expecting you? Why?”
    “Last evening when we spoke, I said that I would deliver your possessions this afternoon.”
    “The keys and credit cards held by the house account, yes. But I thought it was clear they should be delivered to Mr. Davendale.”
    Arling's frown returned.
    I did not like that frown.
    I did not like it at all.
    I intuited trouble.
    Intuition. Another thing you will not find in a mere machine, not even in a very smart machine. Intuition.
    Think about it.
    Then Arling glanced thoughtfully at the window to the left of the door. At the steel security shutter beyond the glass.
    Gazing up again at the camera lens, he said, “Well, of course, there is the matter of the car.”
    “Car?” I said.
    His frown deepened.
    “I am returning your car, Mrs. Harris.”
    The only car was his Honda in the driveway.
    In an instant, I searched Susan's financial records. Heretofore, they had been of no interest to me, because I had not cared about how much money she had or about the full extent of the property that she possessed.
    I loved her for her mind and for her beauty. And for her womb, admittedly.
    Let's be honest here.
    Brutally honest.
    I also loved her for her beautiful, creative, harbouring womb, which would be the birth of me.
    But I never cared about her money. Not in the least. I am not a materialist.
    Don't misunderstand. I am not a half-baked spiritualist with no regard for the material realities of existence, God forbid, but neither am I a materialist.
    As in all things, I strike a balance.
    Searching Susan's accounting records, I discovered that the car Fritz Arling drove was owned by Susan. It was provided to him as a fringe benefit.
    “Yes, of course,” I said in Susan's voice, with impeccable timbre and inflection, “the car.”
    I suppose I was a second or two late with my response.
    Hesitation can be incriminating.
    Yet I still believed that my lapse must seem like nothing more than the fuzzy reply of a woman distracted by a long list of personal problems.
    Mr. Dustin Hoffman, the immortal actor, effectively portrayed a woman in Tootsie, more believably than Mr. Gene Hackman and Mr. Tom Hanks, and I do not say that my impersonation of Susan on the intercom was in any way comparable with Mr. Hoffman's award-winning performance, but I was pretty damn good.
    “Unfortunately,” I said as Susan, “you've come around at an inconvenient time. My fault, not yours, Fritz. I should have known you would come. But it is inconvenient, and I'm afraid I can't see you right now.”
    “Oh, no need to see me, Mrs. Harris.” He held up the valise. “I'll leave the keys and credit cards in the Honda, right there in the driveway.”
    I could see that this entire business his sudden dismissal, the dismissal of the entire staff, Susan's reaction to his returning the car troubled him. He was not a stupid man, and he knew that something was wrong.
    Let him be troubled. As long as he went away.
    His sense of propriety and discretion should prevent him from acting upon his curiosity.
    “How will you get home,” I asked, realizing that Susan might have expressed such a concern earlier than this. “Shall I call a taxi for you?”
    He stared at the camera lens for a long moment.
    That frown again.
    Damn that frown.
    Then he said, “No. Please don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Harris. There's a cellular phone in the Honda. I'll call my own cab and wait outside the gate.”
    Seeing that Arling had not been accompanied by anyone in another vehicle, the real Susan would not have asked if he wished to have a taxi but would have at once assured him that she was providing it at her own expense.
    My error.
    I admit to errors.
    Do you, Dr. Harris?
    Do you?
    Anyway…
    Perhaps I impersonated Mr. Fozzy Bear better than I did Susan. After