burglar alarms haven't been installed?" the woman asked anxiously.

"Hell. Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure? I told you I talked to the construction man. There's a shortage right now. They won't be put in until next week. The family doesn't know—the company didn't want to lose a sale."

The woman's eyes widened with admiration as they scanned the hardwood floors, ankle-deep scatter rugs, angular furniture, large picture windows, wall-to-wall bookcase and abstract multidimension paintings.

"They must have money," she commented. "How do we find the—"

The man snapped muscular fingers with a sharp, cracking sound. "We'll ask the house!"

A momentary silence. Then, the man's gruff voice: "House, where's the safe?"

"I cannot divulge that information." It felt proud when it didn't hesitate in its answer. There were many things it couldn't tell anyone and it had carefully memorized them: its cost, its female owner's age, anything relating to the owners' sex or personal life—and, mainly, the location of various things, including the safe.

"Tell us!" the man shouted.

"No."

"Damn you!"

"Beg pardon?"

"Go to hell!"

Relays clicked silently behind the gray walls. It had been instructed at the factory to explain when it couldn't obey an order. It searched its dictionary circuits and said mechanically, "Hell: a noun. The place of the dead or departed souls, (more correctly Hades); the place of punishment for the wicked after death. I have no soul, therefore I cannot go to hell. I am sorry."

The woman laughed. "Let's start looking. We got hours."

The house watched as the strangers searched the room. It watched as the man took a knife from his pocket and ripped through the upholstery of a chair.

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