Blake stood on the patio and watched the red tail lights of the ground car recede swiftly up the street.

The rain had stopped and through the scudding clouds a few stars could be seen. Up and down the street, the houses stood dark, with only the yard lights burning. In his own house a light was burning in the entry hail — a sign that the house was waiting up for him. To the west the mountains bumped, a darker blot against the sky.

The wind that came cutting out of the north-west was cold and Blake pulled the brown wool of the robe tight about his chest and shucked it up about his ears.

Hunched in the robe, Blake turned and crossed the patio, mounted the short three steps up to the door. The door came open and he stepped inside.

'Good evening, sir, said the House, and then, in a tone of reprimand, 'it appears you were detained.

'Something happened to me, said Blake. 'Would you have any idea what it might have been?

'You left the patio. said the House, disgusted that he should expect further information from it. 'You are aware, of course, that our concern does not extend beyond the patio.

'Yes, mumbled Blake. 'I am aware of that.

'You should have let us know you were going out, the House said, sternly. 'You could have made arrangements to keep in touch with us. We would have provided clothing that was appropriate. As it is, I see you have come back with clothing different than you were wearing when you left.

'A friend loaned it to me, said Blake.

'While you were gone, the House told him, 'a message came for you. It is on the PG.