“Yes,” said the voice.
“Like Twenty Questions,” said Roger. “You can’t mean it. You brought me all the way from December 3, 1960, just to play a question-and-answer game?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“Now that,” said Roger firmly, “is the most absurd idea I’ve ever run across. What possible good can it do the people of 2138 to bring me all the way here from December 3, 1960, to play Twenty Questions with a mechanical machine?”
“Restricted,” said the voice.
Roger, whose question had been rhetorical, was thrown into momentary confusion by the answer. Once he’d straightened it all out, he said, “All right, then. I’ll play the silly game. Animal, vegetable or mineral?”
“Question incomplete,” said the voice.
“I don’t see what your people hope to gain from this,” said Roger. “They do hope to gain something, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“What?”
“Restricted,” said the voice.
“Oh blast!” swore Roger. “If you say ‘Restricted’ once more, you disembodied monstrosity, I promise you I will break through that wall some way and tear you into so many pieces you’ll look like an Erector set. Do you hear me?”
The voice said, “Yes.”
Roger took a deep breath and held it. It would be such a pleasant relief to go berserk, to rant and rave and kick things and hit faces and break prized possessions. But he couldn’t do it. There were no faces to hit and no prized possessions to break, and he had the feeling he would get the worst of any kick delivered to a fluoryl plastic wall.
The thing was, he told himself, it was patently possible to think one’s way out of this mess. The voice had as much as said so. As soon as Roger figured out for himself what he was doing here, he could go home again. It all sounded rather senseless, but he could only assume that the people who had arranged this had had some sensible motive in mind, and go on from there.
The first thing to do was get calm, and stay calm. Calm and analytical and unemotional, asking, searching, probing, intensive questions, backing this monotoning mechanical slowly but inevitably into the final corner, where at last he would have to Tell All.
Fine. That was definitely the way to do it. Roger folded his arms, took a stance, and glared firmly at the wall. It was time to start asking questions.
What questions? He said it aloud. “What questions?”
“Question incomplete,” said the voice.
Roger gritted his teeth. Calm, he told himself. You’ll never get anywhere losing your temper.
He wished, all at once, that he had done more reading in science fiction. Not that that would have done much good anyway. In this situation, it would be like being murdered and wishing you’d read more detective stories.
He had to think this through, coldly and logically. What did he know so far? He knew that he had been transported, through a time machine, from December 3, 1960, to August 14, 2138. He knew he had been transported for a definite purpose. He knew that it was up to him to find out what that purpose was, and that he could only find out by asking questions of his mechanical.
He had a sudden thought “Is the purpose of my being here,” he asked, “to discover what the purpose of my being here is?”
The voice hesitated. “Repeat, please,” it said doubtfully.
Roger tried, then tried again, and made it the second time. “Am I here to find out why I’m here?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
Roger beamed with relief. “Eureka!” he cried. He leaped onto the bed, composed himself with arms folded across his chest, and announced, “Send me home.”
Nothing happened.
Roger opened one eye, from the corner of which he balefully surveyed the golden wall. “There’s more?”
“Yes.”
“More,” repeated Roger. He closed the eye again, and thought. These people wanted something from him. At least, it seemed that way. He thought he’d better ask, to make sure. “Do the people who brought me here want something from me?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the voice.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” complained Roger. “This is over a hundred years in the future. The people here must know everything I could possibly know, and lots more.” He opened both eyes, “Mustn’t they?”
“No,” said the voice.
“No?”
“No”
“Oh. You mean they’ve lost something, or forgotten something?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“Like the secrets of the Pyramids,” reflected Roger. “How they closed the door and piled the rocks up, or whatever the secrets of the Pyramids were.” He ruminated, then sat up to ask, “Well, why don’t you just ask me, then? I’d tell you, if I knew.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” said the voice.
“You’ve tried?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not the first one. Uh, I’m not the first one. Oh, blast it, all right, am I the first one?
“No,” said the voice.
“Why did you pick me in particular?” Roger asked, struck by the sudden thought that there couldn’t possibly be any answer that made sense.
“No,” said the voice.
That one set Roger back a bit, until he remembered what question he’d asked. But this seemed to be the answer to some other question. Unless — “You mean you didn’t pick me in particular?”
“Yes.”
Another sorting out, and Roger finally had it straight. “I was picked at random,” he told himself. “By chance.” Somehow, that made it all seem much much worse.
He sank into thought, meditatively tapping his fingernails against his front teeth, a practice which had cost him any number of roommates in the past but which seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the mechanical voice. “They want me to guess what it is they’ve lost,” he said aloud. “There must be a reason for their doing things this way. On the other hand, maybe there isn’t. They’ve tried before, other ways. Maybe they’re just trying anything they can think of.” He looked at the wall. “Is that it?” he asked. “Are they trying different methods with different people, hoping sooner or later some method will work?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“How many times have they tried so far?”
“Seventeen,” said the voice.
“And they all failed?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the seventeen people you took before? After they failed, I mean.”
“They died,” said the voice.
Roger yipped. “Died! Good heavens, why?”
“Because they failed,” said the voice.
“Why, that’s terrible!” cried Roger. “None of those people did anything to you. That’s unfair and immoral and… and… and murderous, that’s what it is.” Roger folded his arms in determination. “And I’ll have nothing more to do with it,” he said.
The voice made no comment.
“I suppose you’ll murder me now,” said Roger hesitantly. He glanced at the wall. “Will you?”
“No,” said the voice.
“Well, if you think I’m going to sit here,” said Roger, bounding to his feet, “and wait for you to decide to murder me, you’re sadly mistaken.” He looked wildly around the room, and noticed the silver door again. “I’m leaving.” he said. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” said the voice.