Nevermind the door. It's just an obstacle, and as easily removed by chiming the bell as by doing it himself.

Clu arose out of standby this morning with no way to tell, without hard access to his own code, but with mounting certainty: Zuse brought him Flynn's disc. That is lucid, vivid, rich and exact--the promise of all their perfect tomorrows, balanced delicately in his grip.

He remembers the bright warmth of it in his palm, the way the ice rattled in the drink as Zuse caught it in trembling fingers, clutching his exchange.

But Clu does not remember how.

How it happened. How he got there.

Programs do not, cannot forget--unless they're edited or wiped or glitched--or if they stray too far, too long, from their discs.

Clu is forgetting, and that means he is already running out of time.

So he stands there, meekly, swallowing his impatience and clenching his fist around the urge to slam it through the doorbell.

Alan looks as though he hasn't recharged in an ungodly long interval, personage vaguely rumpled, vocals gritty with fatigue.

"Greetings," quietly. "I'm thrilled to see you, too, but I don't have long to chat. Mind if I come in?"

He's coming in. But he'll wait on the mat just a moment more, out of courtesy.

After all, he needs a monumental favor.