The boy who had called Robie a turtle jumped in the middle of the path and stood his ground, grinning foxily.
Robie stopped two feet short of him. The turret ducked. The crowd got quiet.
"Hello, youngster," Robie said in a voice that was smooth as that of a TV star, and was, in fact, a recording of one.
The boy stopped smiling. "Hello," he whispered.
"How old are you?" Robie asked.
"Nine. No, eight."
"That's nice," Robie observed. A metal arm shot down from his neck, stopped just short of the boy.
The boy jerked back.
"For you," Robie said.
The boy gingerly took the red polly-lop from the neatly fashioned blunt metal claws, and began to unwrap it.