"Robots not admitted after dark," a mechanical voice informed him. "Return to your stall in the shed." "Whom do you think you're talking to?" demanded Robert. "I'm not one of your robots!" There was a pause. "Is it Marcia-Joan?" asked the voice-box, after considerable buzzing and whirring. "No, I'm Robert." There was another pause while the mechanism laboriously shifted back to its other speech tape. Then: "Robots not admitted after dark. Return to your stall in the shed." Robert slowly raised both hands to his temples. Lingeringly, he dragged them down over his cheeks and under his chin until at last the fingers interlaced over his tight lips. After a moment, he let out his breath between his fingers and dropped his hands to his sides. He raised one foot to kick, but decided that the door looked too hard. He walked away between the beds of flowers, grumbling. * * * * * Reaching the vicinity of the cottage, he parted the tall shrubs bordering its grounds and looked through carefully before proceeding. Pleased at the gleam of water, he called Blue Two. "Good enough! Put the other robots away for the night. They can trim the edges tomorrow." He started into the cottage, but his major-domo warned, "Someone comes." Robert looked around. Through thin portions of the shrubbery, he caught a glimpse of Marcia-Joan's crimson robe, nearly black in the diffused glow of the lights illuminating the grounds. "Robert!" called the girl angrily. "What are your robots doing? I saw them from my upstairs window--" "Wait there!" exclaimed Robert as she reached the shrubs. "What? Are you trying to tell me where I can go or not go? I--YI!" The shriek was followed by a tremendous splash. Robert stepped forward in time to be spattered by part of the flying spray. It was cold. _Naturally, being drawn from the brook_, he reflected. _Oh, well, the sun will warm it tomorrow._ There was a frenzy of thrashing and splashing in the dimly lighted water at his feet, accompanied by coughs and spluttering demands that he "do something!" [Illustration] Robert reached down with one hand, caught his hostess by the wrist, and heaved her up to solid ground. "My robots are digging you a little swimming hole," he told her. "They brought the water from the brook by a trench. You can finish it with concrete or plastics later; it's only fifteen by thirty feet." He expected some sort of acknowledgment of his efforts, and peered at her through the gloom when none was forthcoming. He thus caught a glimpse of the full-swinging slap aimed at his face. He tried to duck. There was another splash, followed by more floundering about. "Reach up," said Robert patiently, "and I'll pull you out again. I didn't expect you to like it this much." Marcia-Joan scrambled up the bank, tugged viciously at her sodden robe, and headed for the nearest pathway without replying. Robert followed along.