Hell's Gate

He was not really a man, only a prop created by the 810-40.04.
        That night, when he went to bed, Intrepid slept on a furry blue rug at the foot of the bed, his tail curled dangerously dose to his nose. Despite the new comradeship, despite the submergence of the iron Victor Salsbury, he dreamed of Lynda again.
         They were walking along a river, holding hands, making silent love talk with gestures and smiles and coven looks that were not half so covert as they pretended. She turned to him, lips parted and tongue flicking her teeth. He leaned to kiss her. Before their lips could meet, some idiot dressed all in black ran up and shot her in the head.
        He had the dream over and over as if it were on a film loop. He was grateful when Intrepid woke him.
        It was the first time he had heard the mutt bark. Intrepid spat the short, harsh sounds out of his throat as if he were anxious to get rid of something distasteful. When Salsbury called his name-which he was already learning-he stopped barking and looked shamefaced. He did not bark again, but surely did manage a lot of whuffing and whinnying. By that time, Salsbury realized what was upsetting the dog.
        There was a throbbing of heavy, singing machinery ringing upwards from the cellar.

CHAPTER 5
        
        Wednesday morning, iron Victor was merely a whisper deep in his mind, a haunting presence that almost seemed not to exist. Yet he was not normal. Despite the fact that he was not moving according to a program, he felt hollow, half-completed. He tried horsing around with Intrepid for a while, but was becoming bored with that, bored with waiting for something to happen, something to put meaning to the killing of Harold Jacobi, the computer in the trunk, and the mysterious distant hum of machinery in his cellar every night. The day could have been a total bust had not Lynda Harvey pulled into the drive in her copper Porsche.
        He went down to greet her, called to her. She looked surprised at his conviviality, but smiled. “I told you Harold Jacobi was my uncle,” she said. “And I just about left everything in the house: silverware, dishes, sheets and towels. But there are some things in the attic, personal things, I suppose I should get out of here now.” She cocked her head, her green eyes flat with reflected sun. “Okay?”
        “Sure,” he said, ushering her into the house, realizing that his actions were perhaps exaggerated compared with his formal iron Victor responses of two days earlier.
        He offered to leave as she opened the first of the two cardboard cartons in the attic to sort out what she would leave to be discarded and what she would retain, but she told him that was not necessary. She would enjoy his company. That sounded stranger to her than it did to him, because she had been so irritated with him on Monday. Irritated, yes-but also intrigued. There was no sense hiding that from herself. Mr. Victor Salsbury was certainly an interesting man, big and handsome, supposedly a creative artist, with a personality that suggested a past of much variety and perhaps illicitness. In a way, she felt like a foolish schoolgirl for nurturing fantasies; but then she had to admit he helped them grow with his strange manner.
        As they talked now, sitting on the bare attic floor, she realized he had changed since she had seen him. Those short bursts of warmth that had broken his icy facade on Monday were now the dominant trait of his personality. Yet he was still not like other, men. She could touch him with her mind, delve into him, but only a short way. It seemed as if he was a man made of water, and that his outward appearance was merely the shimmering reflection of someone else.
        When she could no longer pretend to be interested in the junk in the cartons, she was reluctant to bring up the other matter that had brought her here. This morning, when the banker, Hallowell, had told her what he had discovered, she had jumped at the chance to break the news to Salsbury. She had wanted to see the blood drain out of his face, had wanted to see him on the spot and stammering. Now, talking with him, her feminine interest had been stirred; now that he had opened himself to her on this new friendly basis, to break this news was almost too cruel. But she had no choice. She had spent a great deal of time talking Hallowell into letting her ask Salsbury about the news clipping. She had to go through with it now