"Reach up," said Robert patiently, "and I'll pull you out again. I didn't expect you to like it this much."
Marcia-Joan scrambled up the bank, tugged viciously at her sodden robe, and headed for the nearest pathway without replying. Robert followed along.
As they passed under one of the lights, he noticed that the red reflections of the wet material, where it clung snugly to the girl's body, were almost the color of some of his robots.
The tennis robot, he thought, and the moving targets for archery—in fact, all the sporting equipment.
"You talk about food for the figure," he remarked lightly. "You should see yourself now! It's really funny, the way—"
He stopped. Some strange emotion stifled his impulse to laugh at the way the robe clung.
Instead, he lengthened his stride, but he was still a few feet behind when she charged through the front entrance of the house. The door, having opened automatically for her, started to swing closed. Robert sprang forward to catch it.
"Wait a minute!" he cried.
Marcia-Joan snapped something that sounded like "Get out!" over her shoulder, and squished off toward the stairs. As Robert started through the door to follow, the striped robot hastened toward him from its post in the hall.
"Do not use the front door!" it warned him.