"Yes, sir," the house responded. It was constructed to obey orders, but _that_ order was an unfamiliar one which it didn't like. "Tell it to turn on the lights," the woman said nervously. "Turn the lights on." The house waited several seconds. It was obliged to obey orders of guests. But were these people guests? It searched memory circuits. Guests were people who came to visit while owners were home. Guests were friendly, talkative. The house decided this man and woman did not fit in that category of identification. * * * * * Hurriedly, it searched its myriad electrical networks and found the only logical description of the intruders--burglars. Behind the walls, relays clicked and infinitesimal electrical charges darted across a spidery web of silver wires only to find themselves in the dead-ends of missing connections. The anti-burglar installations are missing! the house thought frantically. If the protective devices had been present, it would have been able to spray the intruders with tear gas, paralyze them with electrical charges, thrust them from the house with antigravity rays, or kill them by any one of a dozen methods. Without the anti-burglar mechanisms, it was defenseless. What can I do? the house wondered. What can I do! Reluctantly, the house turned the lights on. "You sure the burglar alarms haven't been installed?" the woman asked anxiously. "Hell. Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure? I told you I talked to the construction man. There's a shortage right now. They won't be put in until next week. The family doesn't know--the company didn't want to lose a sale." The woman's eyes widened with admiration as they scanned the hardwood floors, ankle-deep scatter rugs, angular furniture, large picture windows, wall-to-wall bookcase and abstract multidimension paintings. "They must have money," she commented. "How do we find the--" The man snapped muscular fingers with a sharp, cracking sound. "We'll ask the house!" A momentary silence. Then, the man's gruff voice: "House, where's the safe?" "I cannot divulge that information." It felt proud when it didn't hesitate in its answer. There were many things it couldn't tell anyone and it had carefully memorized them: its cost, its female owner's age, anything relating to the owners' sex or personal life--and, mainly, the location of various things, including the safe. "Tell us!" the man shouted. "No." "Damn you!" "Beg pardon?" "Go to hell!" Relays clicked silently behind the gray walls. It had been instructed at the factory to explain when it couldn't obey an order. It searched its dictionary circuits and said mechanically, "Hell: a noun. The place of the dead or departed souls, (more correctly Hades); the place of punishment for the wicked after death. I have no soul, therefore I cannot go to hell. I am sorry." The woman laughed. "Let's start looking. We got hours."