It was quite a dose. He waited for a moment. “I feel nothing,” he said finally. “I do not believe it is anything more than common lubricating oil.” He was silent for another moment. “There is an ease of movement,” he said.
“No paralysis?” I asked.
“Paral—? You stupid, rusty old robot!” He helped himself to another syringeful of Moon Glow. The stuff brought twenty credits an ounce, but I did not begrudge it him.
He flexed his superbly articulated joints in three directions, and I could hear his power unit building up within him to a whining pitch. He took a shuffling sidestep, and then another, gazing down at his feet, with arms akimbo.
“The light gravity here is superb, superb, superb, superb, superb,” he said, skipping a bit.
“Isn’t it?” I said.
“Almost negligible,” he said.
“True.”
“You have been very kind to me,” MS-33 said. “Extremely, extraordinarily, incomparably, incalculably kind.” He used up all the adjectives in his memory pack. “I wonder if you would mind awfully much if—”
“Not at all,” I said. “Help yourself. By the way, friend, would you mind telling me what your real mission of your party is here on Phobos. The Senator forgot to say.”