and after a few times the police gave up charging him and advised complainants to settle for compensation and quit trespassing.
"Come on, Marty," Smith said, amused, "it's your old pal, Jonathan Smith."
There was a surprised hesitation. Then: "Approach the front door using the brick path. Do not step off the path. That would activate further defensive measures." The stilted voice disappeared, and suddenly the words were concerned. "Careful, Jon. I wouldn't want you to end up stinking like a skunk."
Smith took the route Marty described. Invisible laser beams swept the entire property. A footstep off the path, or intrusion from anywhere else, would activate God-knew-what.
He climbed to the covered porch. "Call off the watchdogs, Marty. I've arrived. Open the door."
From somewhere inside, the voice coaxed, "You have to follow the rules, Jon." Instantly the disembodied voice returned: "Stand in front of the door. Open the box to the right and place your left hand on the glass."
"Oh, please." But Smith smiled.
A pair of ominous metal covers over the door slid up to reveal dark tubes that could contain anything from paint guns to rocket launchers. Marty had always found childlike glee in ideas and games most people left behind at adolescence. But Smith gamely stood in front of the door, opened the metal box, and rested his hand on the glass plate. He knew the routine: A video camera snapped a digital photo of his face, and instantly Marty's supercomputer would convert the facial measurements into a series of numerical values. At the same time, the glass plate recorded Smith's palm print. Then the computer compared the collected data to the bar codes it kept on file for everyone Marty knew.
The wooden voice announced: "You are Lt. Col. Jonathan Jackson Smith. Therefore, you may enter."
"Thanks, Marty," he said dryly. "I've been wondering who in the hell I was."
"Very funny, Jon."
A series of dramatic clicks, clanks, and thuds followed, and the woodcovered steel door swung open on a creaky track. Maintenance was not one of Marty's top priorities, but theatricality was. Smith stepped inside what was a traditional foyer except for one imposing detail--- his progress was stopped by a walk-in metal cage. As the front door automatically closed behind, Smith waited, trapped by jail-like bars.
"Hi, Jon." Marty's high, slow, precise voice welcomed him from beyond the foyer. As the cage's gate clicked open, Marty appeared in a doorway to the side. "Come in, please." His eyes twinkled with devilment.
He was a small, rotund man who walked awkwardly, as if he had never really learned how to move his legs. Smith followed him into an enormous computer room in a state of utter disorder and neglect. A formidable Cray mainframe and other computer equipment of every possible description filled all wall space and most of the floor, and what furniture there was looked like Salvation Army discards. Steel cages enclosed the draped windows.
As Marty's right hand flopped aimlessly, he held out his left for Smith to shake, while his brilliant green eyes looked away at the left wall of computer equipment.
Smith said, "It's been a while, Marty. It's good to see you."
"Thanks. Me, too." He smiled shyly, and his green eyes made glittering contact and then skittered away again.
"Are you on your medication, Marty?"
"Oh, yes." He did not sound happy about that. "Sit down, Jon. You want some coffee and a cookie?"
Martin Joseph Zellerbach--- Ph.D. D.Litt. (Cantab)--- had been a patient of Smith's Uncle Ted, a clinical psychiatrist, since Smith and Marty were in grammar school together. Far better adjusted and socially mature, Smith had taken Marty under his wing, protecting him from the cruel teasing of other children and even some teachers. Marty was not stupid. In fact, he had tested at the genius level since the age of five, and Smith had always found him funny, nice, and intellectually stimulating. With the years, Marty had grown even more intelligent--- and more isolated. In school, he ran academic circles around everyone, but he had no concept of--- or interest in--- other people and the relationships so important to preteens and teens.
He obsessed on one arcane curiosity after another and lectured at great length. He knew all the answers in many of his courses, so to relieve his boredom he would disrupt his classes with his wild and dazzling fantasies and manias. No one could believe anyone as smart as Marty was not being intentionally rude and a troublemaker, so teachers frequently sent him to the principal's office. In later years,