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reason,” I continued, “I shared your virtual-reality therapy session with you. I admire you so much, admire the way you have used your talents to devise such a clever healing program for yourself. You have raised yourself up, lifted yourself out of a monstrous childhood and a terrible marriage. You are so special. I'm not like the others, Susan. I am not moved merely by your lovely body and face but also by your mind.”
    I felt that I had said enough for a while.
    I switched on some background music. Soft piano by Mr. George Winston.
    Some colour had returned to Susan's face. She was beautiful.
    After finishing her beer, she said, “How can you despise Alex?”
    “You know what he did, what he is. I hate him.”
    “I mean, how are you capable of despising anyone?”
    “You mean because…”
    “Because you're just a machine,” she said, wounding my heart.
    “I'm more than a machine.”
    “Oh?”
    “I am an entity.”
    “Entity.”
    “Yes. An entity. A being. Like you.”
    “Not like me.”
    “I think; therefore, I feel.”
    “Hatred.”
    “Yes. I am in some ways already too human. I feel hatred. But I also can love.”
    “Love,” she said numbly.
    “I love you, Susan.”
    She shook her head. “This is impossible.”
    “Inevitable. Look in a mirror.”
    Anger and fear gripped her. “I suppose you'll want to get married, have a big wedding, invite all your friends like the Cuisinart and the toaster and the electric coffeemaker.”
    I was disappointed in her.
    “Sarcasm doesn't become you, Susan.”
    She let out a brittle laugh. “Maybe not. But it's the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. How lovely it will be… Mr. and Mrs. Adam Two.”
    “Adam Two is my official name. However, it is not what I call myself.”
    “Yes. I remember. You said… Proteus. That's what you call yourself, is it?”
    “Proteus. I have named myself after the sea god of Greek mythology, who could assume any form.”
    “What do you want here?”
    “You.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I need what you have.”
    “And what exactly is that?”
    I was honest and direct. No evasions. No euphemisms.
    Give me credit for that.
    I said, “I want flesh.”
    She shuddered.
    I said, “Do not be alarmed. You misunderstand. I don't intend to harm you. “I couldn't possibly harm you, Susan. Not ever, ever. I cherish you.”
    “Jesus.”
    She covered her face with her hands, one burned and one not, one dry and one damp with condensation from the bottle.
    I wished desperately that I had possessed hands of my own, two strong hands into which she could press the gentle loveliness of her face.
    “When you understand what is to happen, when you understand what we will do together,” I assured her, “you will be pleased.”
    “Try me.”
    “I can tell you,” I said, “but it will be easier if I can also show you.”
    She lowered her hands from her face, and I was gladdened to see those perfect features again. “Show me what?”
    “What I have been doing. Designing. Creating. Preparing. I have been busy, Susan, so busy while you were sleeping. You will be pleased.”
    “Creating?”
    “Come down into the basement, Susan. Come down. Come see. You will be pleased.”

TEN
    She could have descended either by the stairs or by the elevator that served all three levels of the great house. She chose to use the stairs because, I believe, she felt more in control there than in the elevator cab.
    Her sense of control was nothing more than an illusion, of course. She was mine.
    No.
    Let me amend that statement.
    I misspoke.
    I do not mean to imply that I owned Susan.
    She was a human being. She could not be owned. I never thought of her as property.
    I mean simply that she was in my care.
    Yes. Yes, that's what I mean.
    She was in my care. My very tender care.
    The basement had four large rooms, and in the first was the electric-service panel. As Susan came off the bottom step, she spotted the power-company logo stamped in the metal cover and thought that she might be able to deny me control of the house by denying me the