rays would eventually kill most animals. So why?”
“Because not all humans are as smart as me.”
“It’s an impoverished world,” continued the Baroni. “What valuables could there be?”
“The usual,” I replied. “Family heirlooms. Holographs. Old kitchen implements. Maybe even a few old Republic coins.”
“Republic currency can’t be spent.”
“True—but a few years ago I saw a five-credit coin sell for three hundred Maria Teresa dollars. They tell me it’s worth twice that today.”
“I didn’t know that,” admitted the Baroni.
“I’ll bet they could fill a book with all the things you don’t know.”
“Why are Men so sardonic and ill-mannered?”
“Probably because we have to spend so much time with races like the Baroni,” I answered.
Mechs Three and Seven rolled up before he could reply.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” said Mech Three in his high-pitched mechanical voice.
“This is a very old robot,” I said, indicating what we’d found. “It’s been out of commission for a few centuries, maybe even longer. See if you can get it working again.”
“We live to serve,” thundered Mech Seven.
“I can’t tell you how comforting I find that.” I turned to the Baroni. “Let’s grab some lunch.”
“Why do you always speak to them that way?” asked the Baroni as we walked away from the mechs. “They don’t understand sarcasm.”
“It’s my nature,” I said. “Besides, if they don’t know it’s sarcasm, it must sound like a compliment. Probably pleases the hell out of them.”
“They are machines,” he responded. “You can no more please them than offend them.”
“Then what difference does it make?”
“The more time I spend with Men, the less I understand them,” said the Baroni, making the burbling sound that passed for a deep sigh. “I look forward to getting the robot working. Being a logical and unemotional entity, it will make more sense.”
“Spare me your smug superiority,” I shot back. “You’re not here because Papa Baroni looked at Mama Baroni with logic in his heart.”
The Baroni burbled again. “You are hopeless,” he said at last.
We had one of the mechs bring us our lunch, then sat with our backs propped against opposite sides of a gnarled old tree while we ate. I didn’t want to watch his snakelike lunch writhe and wriggle, protesting every inch of the way, as he sucked it down like the long, living piece of spaghetti it was, and he had his usual moral qualms, which I never understood, about watching me bite into a sandwich. We had just about finished when Mech Three approached us.
“All problems have been fixed,” it announced brightly.
“That was fast,” I said.
“There was nothing broken.” It then launched into a three-minute explanation of whatever it had done to the robot’s circuitry.
“That’s enough,” I said when it got down to a dissertation on the effect of mu-mesons on negative magnetic fields in regard to prismatic eyes. “I’m wildly impressed. Now let’s go take a look at this beauty.”
I got to my feet, as did the Baroni, and we walked back to the concrete pad. The robot’s limbs were straight now, and his arm was restored, but he still lay motionless on the crumbling surface.
“I thought you said you fixed him.”
“I did,” replied Mech Three. “But my programming compelled me not to activate it until you were present.”
“Fine,” I said. “Wake him up.”
The little Mech made one final quick adjustment and backed away as the robot hummed gently to life and sat up.
“Welcome back,” I said.
“Back?” replied the robot. “I have not been away.”
“You’ve been asleep for five centuries, maybe six.”
“Robots cannot sleep.” He looked around. “Yet everything has changed. How is this possible?”
“You were deactivated,” said the Baroni. “Probably your power supply ran down.”
“Deactivated,” the robot repeated. He swiveled his head from left to right, surveying the scene. “Yes. Things cannot change this much from one instant to the next.”
“Have you got a name?” I asked him.
“Samson 4133. But Miss Emily calls me Sammy.”
“Which name do you prefer?”
“I am a robot. I have no preferences.”
I shrugged. “Whatever you say, Samson.”
“Sammy,” he corrected me.
“I thought you had no preferences.”
“I don’t,” said the robot. “But she does.”
“Has she got a name?”
“Miss Emily.”
“Just Miss Emily?” I asked. “No other names to go along with it?”
“Miss Emily is what I was instructed to call her.”
“I assume she is a child,” said the Baroni, with his usual flair for discovering the obvious.
“She was once,” said Sammy. “I will show her to you.”
Then somehow, I never did understand the technology involved, he projected a full-sized holograph of a small girl, perhaps five years old, wearing a frilly purple-and-white outfit. She had rosy cheeks and bright shining blue eyes, and a smile that men would die for someday if given half the chance.
It was only after she took a step forward, a very awkward step, that I realized she had a prosthetic left leg.
“Too bad,” I said. “A pretty little girl like that.”
“Was she born that way, I wonder?” said the Baroni.
“I love you, Sammy,” said the holograph.
I hadn’t expected sound, and it startled me. She had such a happy voice. Maybe she didn’t know that most little girls came equipped with two legs. After all, this was an underpopulated colony world; for all I knew, she’d never seen anyone but her parents.
“It is time for your nap, Miss Emily,” said Sammy’s voice. “I will carry you to your room.” Another surprise. The voice didn’t seem to come from the robot, but from somewhere…well, offstage. He was recreating the scene exactly as it had happened, but we saw it through his eyes. Since he couldn’t see himself, neither could we.
“I’ll walk,” said the child. “Mother told me I have to practice walking, so that someday I can play with the other girls.”
“Yes, Miss Emily.”
“But you can catch me if I start to fall, like you always do.”
“Yes, Miss Emily.”
“What would I do without you, Sammy?”
“You would fall, Miss Emily,” he answered. Robots are always so damned literal.
And as suddenly as it had appeared, the scene vanished.
“So that was Miss Emily?” I said.
“Yes,” said Sammy.
“And