Hillary? She was reconsidering the whole operation. The trip, her plan, the very idea of paying homage to her dad. And not just in that moment but in every moment since she left that damned rotten antique store. What had made those twins and their barely veiled threat more frightening to her than the yokel back in Shadow Hills, when all they had was words and he had a high-powered space gun?

Their nonchalance.

If only half of what Dat Vinh had told them of ASP was true, she had expected snarling fangs and bloody muzzles. But it wasn’t like that at all. They weren’t rabid. They were methodical. They weren’t destructive. They were deliberate. They weren’t animals. They were regular, lumpy, and emotionally misshapen people, and that made them far more dangerous.

They were watching her, just as Dat Vinh had warned. They could pounce at any moment because, despite what she may have fooled herself into believing, they were not trailing them. They had been ahead all along. Waiting. Planning.

Playing games.

That’s what the silly little payout to the twins was, wasn’t it? A message to Hillary, and to a lesser extent Sam who could’ve taken or left the whole thing, that she wasn’t safe. Just as easily as they had written a check for Junior and Althea, they could crush Hillary and Sam.

That’s why she had folded. Whatever reservations she had about Dat Vinh seemed much less real, less visceral. Perhaps she ought to have been more scared about the danger in the shadows, the group she knew less about. It might have served her well to keep questioning the stranger who seemed to know so much but offered paltry answers of his own.

But Hillary's more basic instincts kicked in. ASP was a threat coming more and more clearly into focus. The Milieu and whatever it might be was still far out on the horizon whereas ASP wasn’t so squeamish or so proud. ASP was staring her right in the face, daring her to blink.

She blinked.

That’s why she found herself back in Dat Vinh’s car, off to wherever he said they would be safest. She didn’t have the energy to ask many more questions. She didn’t try to parry Sam’s perorations, either. She only wanted the feeling of fear to go away again. Only then would she feel comfortable enough, safe enough, to give careful consideration to the rest of the world around her.

She wasn’t even listening to Dat Vinh as he rambled about the safehouse or whatever it was he was that hid given rise to his sudden excitement. Had she been paying attention, maybe she could have sniffed out his lie. That wouldn’t have done her any good, though. If Dat Vinh were lying, if there were no plan, if she knew he might be delivering them from the mouth of the dragon to the mouth of the lion, well, what good would that have done her?

Hillary willed herself to believe him. He hadn’t earned her trust. He certainly didn’t deserve it. But he had it all the same. It was the last thing Hillary had left to give.

Sam. Let’s not forget Sam. After all, he was there, too. Sitting right next to Hillary, in fact. On the topic of facts, it was also entirely factual that, perhaps for the first time, Sam was much more aware, much more present than Hillary. Her mind was off in the distance, in the past, on another world entirely.

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His mind was right there with them and it was working twice as hard as it usually did. The wheels were turning and the gears were grinding because Sam sensed a rat. Or was it a fish? Things were said to smell fishy, but never ratty. He didn’t even know what a rat might smell like. Then again, you know one when you see one, as they say. Seeing is believing, too. On the other hand, they also say not to judge a book by its cover. Then again, no one was talking about books, were they? It was reasonable enough to judge a rat or a fish by its cover. Or skin, in this case.

He gave his head a good shake.

He was getting off-course. No use in having your head work twice as hard if it's going to go off and work on a little project all its own.

He had to focus.

Though he lacked all the facts and most of the wherewithal, Sam was very nearly positive he had figured Dat Vinh and the whole Milieu situation out. It would have been easier, naturally, if Dat Vinh had followed through with explaining himself. Were it not for Hillary’s sudden about-face, Sam might not even have had to embark on this little mental detective work. But there was no time for hypotheticals or rhetorical situations. Hillary had given Dat Vinh just enough egress to slip away; now it was on Sam to deduce what exactly was going on. And, though again he was working without the necessary prerequisites to reach any kind of conclusion, he was quickly honing in on an answer.

Dat Vinh was a robot.

He wasn’t yet willing to call Dat Vinh out on it. He figured he’d let the noose get a little tighter first. Eliminate any possibility he was wrong and then, when every other possibility had been exhausted and Dat Vinvh had proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, to be made of metal and not flesh and bone, then, Sam would reveal the truth.

To get into the details would belabor the point and uncover several glaring holes in Sam’s theory. Suffice to say, he knew there was something nefarious going on. Robots or not.

Sam let Dat Vinh drone on and on throughout their long drive. Sam wasn’t listening; it was the kind of mindless noise a person doesn’t really have to listen to. It's actually more difficult to listen to than ignore. Harmful to the centers of the brain that regulate normal and healthy brain function. It was akin to the kind of hyperspeed blathering whispered at the end of TPacheco commercials for class action lawsuits. Sam wasn’t the only one not listening, either. Not one of them was. He could tell by the look on Hillary’s face that she was too far gone, too disaffected to listen. By the way the words fell out of Dat Vinh’s mouth with neither purpose nor plan, it was certain he wasn’t listening to himself. The only purpose the talking served was to vanquish the silence. At the rate Dat Vinh was going, the silence was good and dead. Buried, too. Obituary in the local newspaper.

Now and then, Sam would press Dat Vinh for a better explanation of who he kept company with, but it was always the same litany of non-answers and diversionary tactics. Dat Vinh couldn’t be cornered into giving a straight answer and seemed dead set on not saying anything of any consequence.

Sam would have to wait. That’s what he was thinking as Sullivan bored down on the three of them in the Saturn. He would have to wait until this safehouse to find out if Dat Vinh was really a robot, as was most likely the case.

In the meantime, he did let his mind drift a little from the very important issue -- their survival -- at hand. Every few spare moments, he imagined being back home, at the Gentleman Giant commune, mellowing out to a few select tunes with a handful of like-minded spirits. The thought alone put him a little at ease. It brought him a little comfort. Even as metal began tearing at metal, Sullivan’s tank vs. Dat Vinh’s derelict ride, Sam was humming one of his favorite Gentleman Giant songs, Lazy River.