Published on Dec 24, 2008:
Introduction
This story is one of the two selected stories in the 2008 Scifi Contest [1]. A mad scientist creates a house that is alive. He is caught it in it without being aware. The house keeps all intruders at bay; anyone who breaks in is toast. A young journalist working for a sensationalist media decides that there is saleable story in the house and decides to check-in. A light-hearted story that gives 'trashy journalists their come-uppance' (in the authors words).
About the author
Aditya won the first contest in 2006 for his story Asylum in Bergen [2]. Aditya Sudarshan lives and writes in Delhi. His particular literary interests lie in fiction that combines emotive weight with suspense. He admires the works of such writers as Roald Dahl, Daphne Du Maurier and Isaac Asimov. His first novel, a mystery novel titled 'A Nice Quiet Holiday', is scheduled for publication in India by Westland Books/Tranquebar Press in March 2009.
Vir Saxena stood in the sun outside House No. 3, Block B, Nizamuddin East and considered his next move. He hadn’t done this kind of thing for months. He hadn’t needed to. April’s murder and molestation case had done so well, for so long, that the ‘young, intrepid’ team at Aaj Ki Khabar Ab had pretty much put their feet up.
Then the ratings had started to fall. Now they were dropping like a stone. Suddenly, it seemed, people had tired of the grisly fate of that particular little girl. Something freshly lurid was needed, and quick.
‘If Taaza Andaaz can get the two-headed ape scoop; if Bharat By the Minute can get the Great Khali photo shoot; if Info 365 manages a gangrape each week - then why the hell- why the HELL- can’t any of you?’
Except that Sameera Bose, Chief Editor, didn’t say ‘hell’.
For the young journalists it was time to produce or perish. So here stood Vir, looking at the walls of House No. 3, his own chosen baby.
It was one of Vir’s many conceits that he knew the ingredients of the perfect story. It had to be shocking and at the same time it had to be absolutely cozy. It was true the viewer loved being unsettled- but not in his mind. Only in his stomach. The first story Vir had done for the channel was a good example.
‘Live and Exclusive: Blood-Sucking Witches Roam the Streets of Patiala!
That, he recalled, had beaten out some insipid piece on ice caps melting in Greenland.
He knew also, that the more fantastical the better. One class of viewer was notoriously superstitious, and the other class was notoriously bored. Either way, they lapped up the thrills.
So a haunted house was alright. And a haunted house bang in the middle of a posh South Delhi neighbourhood was better. And a house where two mysterious deaths had occurred in the space of two months might just be ‘breaking news.’ ‘House of Horrors’, thought Vir. Cliched as hell, which in this business was just as well. They could flash that title a dozen times. They could lay on the blood and doom and gloom.
They’d have to, as well, because the bare setting was so picturesque. As far as the eye could see were leaning trees; quiet, shaded roads; a park full of flowers in the middle of the block- and the house itself.
It was a strange, splendid building; three storeys high and nicely spread out, like a tall figure stretching its arms out wide. The walls were built from polished wooden boards and dotted through with windows that gleamed in the sun. There were terraces at each level that pointed in three different directions. And the whole structure was set back from a grassy garden full of red and yellow and purple flowers.
Add to this cheerful opulence, that there was no gate and no guard and seemingly very little activity indoors, and the place was crying out to be robbed. So it wasn’t surprising that two enterprising young men had already tried. The surprise was what had happened to them. One had dropped off the top-most terrace and broken his neck. The other had finished up asphyxiated on the floor outside the kitchen.
Vir, who lived not ten minutes away in an apartment in Block C, had heard all the rumours. His neighbours loved to gossip.
‘There is a bhoot. The house is haunted by a bhoot.’
‘It came up three months ago. Till today no one has seen who lives there.’
‘Of course people have. The owner has to buy things, no?’
‘No no there is no owner. It’s an empty house. It’s an uninhabited hou-’’
‘Why don’t you go check?’
‘Are you crazy? I don’t want to end up like the others.’
‘You’re all talking nonsense. The house isn’t empty. A man lives there. His name is Achrekar. He’s a scientist. Yes I know you never heard of him. But he used to be pretty famous.’
That last comment, uttered by the lawyer who lived in C- 64, was true. Vir had done a spot of preliminary research. Just a little bit, because it was hardly important for the ‘House of Horrors’ show, just enough to know whom he was calling on that afternoon.
It turned out that Mohan Achrekar was a biologist who for twenty years had taught the theory of evolution at Delhi University and then two years ago suddenly retired. What he’d done after that was a mystery. Apparently he’d left the city. Perhaps he’d been travelling. Nobody knew for sure. Certainly nobody cared. In the last year this house of his had come up and of course it was an odd thing to look at. But all in all, considered objectively, Achrekar seemed just another well-off old-timer coming home to seed in the pretty environs of a plush colony.
‘Retired Mad Scientist Returns’ was the tag-line Vir was considering. Now all he needed was the material to go with it.
The previous evening he had interviewed Inspector Patil from the Nizamuddin police station, the man who had investigated the goings-on at B-3. But the Inspector had been cautious.
‘Look’, he told Vir when they met, ‘Don’t quote me on anything.’
Vir just smiled.
‘All I can tell you is that I’ve been doing this job thirty years. And I’ve never seen any more inexplicable deaths, than the two that occurred inside that building.’
The first victim was a twenty six year old unemployed youth from a village in Uttar Pradesh. He had broken into B-3 through the door that faced the garden. He had abstracted a few knick-knacks from the mantelpiece in the living room. He had walked up the stairs to the landing on the second floor. That much was clear.
The Inspector’s brow furrowed.
‘We found the terrace door… torn open. It was hanging off the hinges.’
‘Did the thief do that?’
‘Who else could have? Not Achrekar. He is sixty five. He couldn’t have had the strength. Frankly I think no human being could have had the strength.’
‘Maybe there’s someone else in the house’, Vir suggested, ‘Someone in hiding.’
A Modern Day Frankenstein?
‘No. We checked thoroughly.’
Then the Inspector licked his lips.
‘I’ll say this though. More than once, when I was moving about that house, I turned to see who was watching. Of course there wasn’t anybody. But there’s something about the place. So very spacious and at the same time so strangely… oppressive. I didn’t like it.’
‘Or some animal’, Vir was continuing thoughtfully, ‘Maybe Achrekar keeps an animal. A pet tiger perhaps.’
The Beast of B-3. He made a quick mental note of that and then he asked-
‘But why would the thief tear open the terrace door?’
The policeman smiled grimly.
‘To jump off. Why would he jump off? What was he running away from? I don’t know. But he did- or he was pushed. Except there was no one to push him.’
‘Then what-’
‘Look, I told you at the start. I can’t make any sense of it.’
Stranger still was the second death. In the dead of night the burglar had made his way indoors via the front door that Achrekar had forgotten to lock.
‘He’s a careless old fogey’, the policeman muttered.
‘According to him he was sleeping in his bedroom and didn’t hear a thing. And when he woke up in the morning and stepped outside to make himself a cup of tea- there was poor Ghanshyam Das, all paid up for his sins.’
‘Nobody’, Vir pointed out, ‘suffocates spontaneously.’
‘Well this kid did’, the Inspector retorted, ‘He hadn’t been strangled. He’d just…run out of breath. It’s possible it was a heart attack. But I don’t think so.’
‘Then what do you think?’
‘I don’t.’
Thus had spoken the officer of the law.
Now, when the proper authorities leave their job undone the improper amateurs must take it up. That was one of the guiding principles of Aaj Ki Khabar Ab. Vir was aware that the truth of the two deaths could easily be something prosaic and harmless. That was neither here nor there. A few pregnant quotes, and a few foreboding pictures would do very nicely for an hour’s ‘special’.
And so, with the preliminary investigations concluded and a half-dozen exciting theories swimming in his mind, he walked determinedly towards the entrance of Achrekar’s house. He pressed the switch for the bell. Nothing happened. He pressed it again- and then again- and then once more. The door swung open.
‘Yes! What is it!’
‘Mr. Achrekar?’
‘Yes! Who are you?’
Mohan Achrekar was a small, frail, white-haired specimen, who looked at the moment decidedly displeased.
‘I hope I didn’t disturb you, Sir.’
‘I was working on a paper’, Achrekar grumbled.
Vir flashed him his best salesman’s smile.
‘Well I’m sorry to butt in like this. I’m one of your neighbours. I live at B- 18. Vishwanath- Vishwanath Sehgal.’
‘Oh…’
‘And I just thought I’d drop in- only to say Hello. I know about the trouble you’ve been having. These are dangerous times, and well- no security like the security of friends, right Sir?’
Achrekar frowned. He had a wizened face, lined with such wrinkles that at sixty five were probably premature. His eyes lurked suspiciously beneath thick eyebrows; his mouth was close and drawn. It was the face of a recluse.
‘So!’ said Vir brightly, ‘This is a purely social call. Can I come in? It looks a lovely house.’
Even as he spoke he slipped forward and past the bemused old man. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and started the recording. The video would be grainy and discoloured, which was just right for the eerie stories he planned to spin.
He didn’t bother concealing the instrument either. Something in Achrekar’s confused eye told him that secrecy wasn’t necessary.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Sir’, Vir continued loudly, ‘One of my classmates’ cousins used to be your student. Nayana Shroff- you remember? No, of course you wouldn’t. But she was a great fan of yours. Is this the living room? It’s really… unique.’
The floor was wooden, and so was the furniture, though there wasn’t much of that. In the middle of the room was a fraying, many-coloured mattress. At the edges were plants- jade plants, money plants, bansais, and various large, leafy varieties spilling out of their flowerpots. Overhead was empty space.
There was only half a ceiling. It took Vir a moment to grasp. The floors above were only half the width of the living room, which meant that from the top of the house to the bottom stretched a single vast column of emptiness. The effect was staggering, and not just aesthetically. A veritable body of air frolicked about the insides. Vir had never felt blank space so substantial.
‘It’s fabulous.’
‘Thank you.’
Achrekar’s mood had perked up immediately.
‘Thank you- yes it is quite unique. Quite special.’ The old man smiled happily.
Vir eyed warily the higher reaches of the building.
‘Who’s the architect?’
‘Oh that’s me. Oh yes. It’s my design. Please sit.’
They sat on low-backed chairs across a little wooden table in the center of the living room, while Vir’s gaze (and his camera’s) roved all about the tremendous building.
From the professional point of view, he disapproved. Narrow, dingy corridors and heavy pockets of darkness would have been ideal. Instead there was greenery on every floor and an interior absolutely bathed in sunshine. Nor was there any ghostly chill. If anything, it was rather too hot.
With the interior turning out as cheerful as the exterior, it didn’t look good for the Haunted House angle. In his mind Vir began veering towards the Mad Scientist line instead.
Meanwhile, Achrekar was asking him what maturity must ask youth.
‘What do you do, young man?’
‘I’m a writer’, Vir answered promptly. ‘I’m a science writer’, he elaborated. The vague notion in his head was that Achrekar might be less guarded around one of his own. It seemed to work.
‘How wonderful!’ the elder man exclaimed, ‘And may I ask what areas you write about? And may I ask where?’
Vir named a popular business magazine. Then he named the one scientific subject of any interest to him. It was safe, he reckoned. At any rate it wasn’t biology.
‘I write about artificial intelligence. You know- the brain as a computer, the Turing Test, robotics.’
Such glibness came easily to him. It was part of his journalistic stock-in-trade. The charade couldn’t have held up to sustained interrogation but then it wasn’t Vir that was being interviewed. He sat back smugly in his wooden chair. He double-checked casually that the recording was under-way. Then he listened to Achrekar’s response. The old scientist had got quite excited.
‘How interesting’, he was saying, ‘How very interesting. And- it is something of a coincidence too.’
Vir raised his eyebrows politely.
‘May I ask you a question?’ Achrekar went on eagerly, ‘Do you believe humanity will succeed- some day- in constructing a full-fledged artificial intelligence? Yes? You think so? Well, well, you are young. It is natural you are optimistic.’
The white-haired man leaned across the table. He had on a tense, private smile.
‘My own belief is it will never happen. And do you know something, young man? I think in their hearts everyone knows it will never happen. Tell me- Have you ever seen a machine that impressed you? I mean really impressed you?’
‘Well, sure-’
‘We’ve built the computer- which is a marvel. We’ve built aeroplanes- which are miracles. Ninety nine percent of the population has not the faintest idea how these things function. But do they ever treat them as anything but slaves? Do they ever treat them as anything but dumb, useful slaves? The answer is No.’
‘One moment’, he interrupted gleefully, although Vir wasn’t planning on saying anything, ‘You might say that the ordinary layman is not the right judge of artificial intelligence. But I disagree.’
‘People have an innate sense for life. We know, for example, that plants are alive’- and here Vir’s eyes travelled to the riot of green by his side- ‘Although they do not appear to do much. But you can make a machine as showy as you like, and the most…ah… untutored bumpkin will see instinctively that it is only inanimate.’
‘Uh-huh’, Vir nodded. These fellows, he was thinking, are hard to keep in check. It was good to have got Achrekar so voluble- but he hadn’t come searching for a scientific discourse.
‘Can I have a glass of water please?’
‘Oh yes- oh yes. Certainly. My apologies. I don’t often have people coming over. Not ones I invite, anyway.’
That was better. Vir twisted his lip sympathetically.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a rather torrid introduction to the neighbourhood, Mr. Achrekar.’
Momentarily Achrekar’s mouth curled upwards. An odd gleam flashed across his eyes.
‘Well’, he said calmly, ‘It was tough on the burglars too.’
***
When the old man got to his feet so did Vir. Camera phone at the ready the journalist followed the scientist to the far end of the living room. From there they turned into the corridor that led to the kitchen, just he had planned.
‘Mr. Achrekar’, Vir said innocently, ‘Isn’t this where the burglar died?’
Caught in the midst of his shuffling footsteps, Achrekar stopped and turned.
‘It was a strange death, wasn’t it?’ Vir went on lightly, ‘At least so I’ve heard. What exactly happened though? If you don’t mind my asking.’
They were facing each other across the few narrow feet of flooring; a close space made even closer by the foliage on either side. Standing back and looking at him, it occurred to Vir what a really fragile creature this Achrekar was. His back was a little hunched; his eyes a little tired, like the eyes of a man habituated to spectacles. Living on his own in a big house in a big city he was plainly vulnerable. And yet the subject of the break-ins aroused in him an inexplicable glee. When he spoke now, his voice carried a note of barely suppressed elation.
‘Why should I? Why should I mind? It was certainly an odd death. I believe it was a first of a kind.’
‘Well!’ Achrekar continued suddenly. ‘I must say- it is nice to have the company of someone with the…ah…scientific temperament. I never saw a lot of it in my colleagues, if truth be told. A strange death, yes. I think I know how it happened though. But I’m forgetting- your drink-’
‘Never mind the drink’, Vir cut in smoothly. ‘I’m curious, Mr. Achrekar. Curious to know your thoughts.’
‘As a fellow man of science’, he added, without batting an eyelid.
Achrekar took two shaky steps towards Vir. They were standing just apart now, with the old man’s head upturned and his knowing gaze fixed on the other.
‘It was the plants’, said Achrekar.
‘Eh?’
‘That’s right. Plants, as everybody knows, synthesize carbon di-oxide by day. But also oxygen by night. Have you considered what might happen if they…ah… speeded up the process?’
‘No.’
‘They would suck the oxygen right out of the air, and fill it up instead with CO2. In my view that’s what killed the thief.’
‘Oh…’
‘Yes.’
‘The plants?’
‘Absolutely.’
Achrekar was grinning like a child. Vir looked at the potted plants lined up against the walls and they were as harmless as potted plants always are. This man, he thought to himself, is a little bit loose in the head. Who had ever heard of plants suffocating people?
In any case, it simply would not do. Vir knew very well what the viewer wanted. The viewer wanted blood and gore and evil spirits. Not potted plants and carbon di-oxide.
But Achrekar wasn’t finished explaining.
‘Come, Vishwanath’, he was saying eagerly, ‘Let me show you something.’
They went up the spiral stairs to the second floor of the house. As they climbed, Vir felt the air about him stirring- and the heat rising. When they reached the landing adjoining the terrace Achrekar paused.
‘Isn’t it pleasant here? Isn’t it breezy?’
Vir grimaced. It was more than breezy- and it was burning hot. From the open windows all about flaming gusts of wind whipped at him- so hard that he had to hold down his shirt with his elbows. The overall sensation, he thought, was rather like being fanned in a furnace.
Beside him, the feeble figure of the scientist was pushing mightily at the terrace-door’s handle. A moment later Achrekar staggered forward and the door-frame shuddered loose. A fresh burst of heat blew indoors.
‘I had to have this fixed’, the old man nodded his head at the swinging door, ‘after the…ah… accident. No there’s nothing outside. No grand view I’m afraid.’
Vir frowned.
‘Then what is it you want to show me?’
‘Oh just this place. It is really very interesting. I have been trying to ascertain what befell the burglar. You know of him? The first one? The one that’- and here Achrekar did a little hop of his own- ‘jumped.’
A tiny tremor of unease passed through the stocky frame of Vir Saxena. For the first time that afternoon, the thought occurred to him that Achrekar might really be dangerous.
You never could tell what foul thoughts lived in these quiet minds.
The journalistic instinct kicked in. Yes, thought Vir, yes that will be my story. The secret life of Mohan Achrekar. Scientist by day; serial killer by night. The neighbour that you don’t want to have. That was nice. A nice little horror story. And it might even be true, so of course there wasn’t anything unethical about telling it.
Meanwhile, Achrekar was going on speaking, waving his thin, bony hands and getting quite animated.
‘You see, my own belief is: that it was the wind!’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The wind. It is always quick here. What if it got quicker? Much, much quicker?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘My considered view’, the scientist wheezed, ‘is that the burglar got picked off his feet and thrown past the door and off the terrace- all by the wind.’
Something Inspector Patil had said returned unbidden to Vir’s memory.
‘We found the terrace door… torn open’
‘… no human being could have had the strength.’
Again Vir felt a creeping frisson of apprehension. The strange thrill flustered him- and then it irritated him.
The plants downstairs; the wind upstairs- it was all plainly ridiculous. Unwittingly, it seemed, he had provided this lonely scientist an audience for his madcap ideas. Now he tried to compose himself with a brief thought experiment. How would the viewers of Aaj Ki Khabar Ab react to such suggestions? The answer was clear. With laughter and derision. Well then, so must he.
‘It’s been interesting listening to you, Sir’, Vir said grimly, ‘A word of advice though: perhaps you should invest in some security. Can’t rely on the wind to keep you safe.’
Hot dust came hurtling at him from through the open doorway. His footing on the landing felt suddenly unsteady. He turned his head a fraction, even as he realized that the Inspector had been right.
In this place you did feel watched. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end; just exactly as though somebody’s stare was upon them. Somebody’s invisible, baleful stare.
‘Shall we return to the living room?’ Vir murmured, ‘It is not very comfortable here. I’m sorry- did I say something funny?’
Mohan Achrekar was laughing. Quietly he rocked back and forth, convulsed with merriment.
‘Oh’, he gasped eventually, ‘Oh no. Just a little pun you made. Quite unintentional, of course. Certainly, let us return. To the living room.’
And he burst out giggling once more.
As they made their way downstairs, steady currents of resentment went coursing through Vir. The scientist’s air of knowingness was unbearable. So, for that matter, was his obliviousness to the heat. God, it was hot! Back in the vast central room of the house, Vir felt the full blaze of the sun upon him; he was quite dizzy now. But Achrekar was as enthusiastic and talkative as he had been all afternoon.
‘Young man’, he smiled broadly, ‘You are the first person to whom I am divulging this idea. You see, I am a cautious person- by training and by disposition. I like to play my cards close to my… ah…chest. And this discovery of mine is no ordinary matter.’
Squirming where he sat, with his forehead fairly gleaming with sweat, Vir looked dully back at his host. He was in no mood to pay him any attention. It had been a mistake to get him started in the first place. Only one thought lent Vir some grim solace: he was going to skewer this crazy scientist. He was going to have the mob at his door, and all the media in his face and then we’d see how close to his chest Achrekar played his cards.
‘As I was saying before - I have long believed that artificial intelligence is a doomed ambition. I still do. But towards the end of my time at the University, I realized that a breakthrough was possible. It was possible for human beings to create artificial entities that were alive- alive, that is, in the other sense.’
‘Why is it’, Achrekar went on urgently; ‘that when we think of life, we think only of structured, small-scale life like ourselves? There is another kind. You know, of course, of Lovelock’s theory of Gaia?’
Vir made a noise that may or may not have been yes. Achrekar plunged onwards.
‘Lovelock showed that on this Earth, the animals, minerals, plants, gases- all the constituents combined- function in a strange unison. Their activity ensures that certain things remain largely constant: the proportion of oxygen in the atmosphere, for example, or the overall temperature- even though the Sun is growing older and getting hotter. It is as though the Earth regulates its own environment- maintains its balance. Now, we know the human body does this. It is called homeostasis. But Lovelock showed that the whole planet does as well.’
Now Achrekar leaned forward. His eyes were shining.
‘Does the Earth do this consciously? Who can say? But does it behave as though it was alive? Yes- yes a thousand times yes. And here is another thing- young man, are you listening?’
No, he wasn’t. Vir was hunched up on his seat, a hideous grimace etched all over his streaming face.
‘It’s… very hot’, he said faintly.
‘Oh really?’ said Achrekar, ‘I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you are more in the sun than me.’
All around him, in the flooding sunlight, Vir could see tiny particles of dust as they danced in the rays, as they reflected and concentrated the rays.
‘Listen’, Achrekar insisted, ‘Consider this. Is there anybody who has not felt, at certain times, that a disembodied intelligence pervades the world? Call it Gaia- or Nature- or what you will. The truth is that diffuse conglomerations of elements have a real chance of passing the layman’s test of life- a chance that no robot ever will.’
‘My idea’, he added softly, ‘was that this floating intelligence can be harnessed. It is everywhere around us and yet we always exclude it. We build it out. We rely on mindless mechanical contrivances. But if our home the Earth has a mind of its own, then why shouldn’t our home- the house?’
With an outstretched arm Mohan Achrekar indicated the whole vast breadth of the interior.
‘You said ‘living room’. That is why I laughed. You see, it really is alive. The whole house is alive.’
Vir stumbled to his feet.
‘It’s hot’, he croaked.
‘Here is air, and light, and wood and water and greenery’, Achrekar was continuing dreamily, ‘It is a mini planet all of its own. I have experimented for years with the right design- the design that admits the great disembodied intelligence. And now I have got it. Every element in this place is charged with thought- down to the very dust.’
‘This house’, he declared triumphantly, ‘regulates its own environment. It knows how to be hospitable, and also inhospitable. It guards itself, young man.’
‘If anything’, Achrekar chuckled, ‘it guards itself rather too well. It appears to possess a somewhat ruthless personality. It seems to spot visitors who have come to interfere, who mean it harm, and then it…ah… makes life difficult for them. But oh dear- you do look unwell.’
Vir’s face was red and blistered. Twice in quick succession he opened and closed his mouth.
‘My skin’, he whispered.
Through the white haze of his senses he felt the whole tremendous heat of the sun focussed on his skin.
He pushed his way past Achrekar. The scientist swivelled around, bemused.
‘Vishwanath’, he called out, ‘Would you like some water? Where are you going?’
But Vir had already disappeared- around the corner towards the kitchen. A thick, charcoal-like smell lingered in his wake.
For several minutes after he had gone Achrekar stayed sitting. He couldn’t understand what had happened. This was an odd young man, he thought to himself. If he wanted something, he could simply have asked. And was it really so hot as all that? The boy’s face had looked positively… burnt.
A sudden high-pitched sound startled the scientist. It was rather like the cry of a bird- or even a human scream- but it seemed to fade very quickly, as sounds tend to when they are carried away by the wind.
Achrekar strained to listen, but the noise did not repeat itself. Only a passing crow, he decided, nothing worth investigating. He closed his eyes and waited for Vir to return.
At length he woke up and raised himself up from his chair. Slowly he stepped in the direction of the kitchen.
By the time he entered the kitchen it was empty and quite silent, save for the running tap over the sink. The back-door was swinging open, rocked by a steady breeze. In the sky outside bits of clothing flew helter skelter: perhaps the neighbour’s laundry had blown free again. There was a smell here too: a rich, sweet, beefy smell- but that was probably just the meat in the pan on the stove. In any case it was dissipating quickly.
Achrekar closed the tap and pulled the back-door shut. The boy has left, he thought sadly. I dozed off, and he left, without so much as a goodbye. What a rude young man.
Then he sighed. It was probably his fault anyway. Why did he bore people with his notions? People were never interested in his notions. Nowadays they had better things to keep them amused than dull scientific stuff. He ought to return to his study and get back to his paper. Architectural Design and Diffuse Intelligence: Some Correlations.
He turned. The trapped wind died. The ashes of Vir Saxena fell like a fine rain all about the old scientist, as he shuffled back into his empty house.
END.
