Hell's Gate

door, opened it. The ringing sound washed over him, twice as loud now, the sound of heavy machinery masked by the electronic hum. He burped, squinted into the gloom, flicked on the lights, and carefully descended the cellar stairs.
        Standing in the center of the cellar, the noise around him akin to that in a lathe shop, he tried to locate the exact source of the sound. At last, he zeroed in on a section of wall to his right. When he placed his hands on it, he could feel a far-away vibration. He thought he detected a change in the coloration of the wall here, but could not be certain. On impulse, he flicked off the light.
        Immediately, a glowing blue circle, six feet in diameter, appeared on the wall.
        He realized, then, that soft Victor had been in control of this body ever since he had awakened. Now, the iron part of him surged up, radiating fear, and struggled for the reins. Soft Victor shrank into the recesses of his mind.
        He looked at the circle, evenly calculating now, still fearful. The edges of the mark were as perfectly defined as if it had been the terminus of a high intensity flashlight beam. But nothing of that sort was being played on the wall from anywhere in the room. If anything, the light was coming from the other side.
        Then, while he watched it, the circle dimmed, faded, and was gone. So was the ringing. He waited another fifteen minutes, wondering what he was to do. The program seemed to be failing him. Though, whatever was happening, he was sure to be involved in it soon. After all, he had not acquired this particular house merely to live in. He had only to wait, and he would discover what was going to happen.
        As he climbed the stairs again, the iron Victor slipped out of dominance and released control to its alter-ego. Wearier than ever, he returned to bed, fell quickly into sleep after undressing this time. Unfortunately, he had the same dream. The one that began nicely and ended badly. At least it was about Lynda.
        The next morning was no fun. The thing that had died in his mouth the previous night had begun to rot. And even though it was his tongue, he was sore put to retain it rather than throw it away. While he was sleeping, someone had laid his head open with a mallet, and he needed most of the morning to push his brains back inside.
        By noon, as the iron portion of him slightly asserted itself-though not with its previous intensity-he was feeling well enough to go back to the cave to retrieve the trunks. They were all there, three neat strong, closed pieces without locks or keyholes. “Well,” Salsbury said to the computer, “everything went fairly well.”
        There was no answer.
        He detailed his transactions with the house, car, and groceries. The 810-40.04 just stood there, looking like nothing more than a common inanimate clothes trunk.
        “What about the noise in the cellar?” Salsbury asked. “And the light circle on the wall?”
        But there was no reply. He kicked it solidly, then wished he hadn't. The blow sent shock waves up his leg, deep throbbings of pain, while the trunk did not even sport a small dent. He searched through the quiet, iron part of his mind for clues, but that programmed section seemed to be growing more hazy, less well defined with every passing moment, and he learned nothing useful. He shrugged, decided he might as well move things into the house and wait for the pint-sized mechanical brain to get over its sulking.
        He grabbed the first trunk, tested it for weight. Suddenly, it was floating several inches off the floor, doing some absurd Indian fakir's trick. A handle slid out of the end, appearing magically from the smooth metal. He grabbed that, tugged hard. A little too hard. The trunk moved as if it weighed all of three ounces. It knocked him down, sailed over him, and came to rest at the mouth of the cave, tilted as if it would slide down the embankment and into the creek, but still floating.
        He got up, pushed it aside gently this time, and moved out the opening onto the narrow ledge, grasping roots and rocks with one hand, towing the trunk with the other. Five minutes later, it was in the house, upstairs in the room he had slept in. He pressed it to the floor, where it remained when he let go. Smart piece of luggage. A suitcase with a built-in porter beats the hell out of tipping.
        He brought the second in without problems, went back for