It had been easy to give the alarm-call then. But surely this was different. It was so hard, trying to understand. Somehow it seemed that now there were things in his memory--things he had seen and heard--that ought to fit together like little widely scattered parts of a difficult order. You had to understand _all_ the parts. He wanted very much to understand, because when he didn't, he made mistakes. It had seemed easy during his training. He wondered why Higgins was giving him parts so much harder to fit together than anything he had ever tried to understand before. The faint sound of Higgins' tread was growing louder. Toory's gaze clung alertly to the staircase as he waited. Presently Higgins was at the top, and coming quietly, swiftly down the padded steps. He was wrapped in a greatcoat with a dark hat on his head. Toory stirred. One of his feet jerked with an impulse to move, but he remained motionless. Surely there was no need to shift to alarm-order, and give a warning cry. Higgins was a member of the household. "Answer me soft, Toory," Higgins said, his voice low and tense. "You and I are goin' out together. You understand what I'm sayin'?" "Yes," Toory answered softly. It was easy to understand. Miss Babs often would tell him that they were going out, and he would wait until she was ready. Toory stood motionless. In the faint red glow of his eye-beams the sweat-beads on Higgins' thin, sallow face glistened with tiny sparkling points of light. "You've learned to take orders from me," Higgins said. "Remember? Even new orders." "Yes, I remember," Toory said. He remembered that Babs had asked him to obey the orders. That seemed to make a difference. Now Higgins was standing a little back toward the foyer wall, away from Toory. He said, "I'm takin' you out with me. We're leavin' by the front door. You go first." Toory's eye-beams swayed, his great burnished body standing irresolute. He could feel his legs and arms trembling because the jangle of confusion was suddenly worse in him. It seemed terribly hard not to make a mistake. Higgins' voice was insistent, even though it remained soft. "Get going, Toory. You'll obey orders, won't you?" "Yes," Toory responded. "Then open the front door." Toory's great measured steps took him to the door. The latch fastenings clanked as he opened them, because his arms and hands were trembling. The heavy door swung wide, and bumped back against the stopper with a thump. "I told you not to make a noise," Higgins murmured sharply. Toory remembered. He always remembered the right response when he had done something wrong. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean to do anything wrong." He stood at the open doorway, trying to stop the quivering in his legs. "You go first," Higgins whispered. "Take the garden path to the side gate. Start now."