"Nestor," said Harry Lowndes to the robot who had entered the study in answer to the pull on the bell cord, "I must have an advance on my allowance."
Nestor stopped just inside the door. He was a small and chunky robot, much older than the slender six-tube types presently in use. His somber clothing, unlike the gaily clad, stupid Cornusian robots, gave evidence that he was a production of the Rotulian era. A blue-serge suit decked his blocky metal frame. A conservative black and white zebraic tie, a type popular with professional men, was knotted neatly into his spotlessly white button-down collar and draped in graceful folds over his aud screen. Thick, horn-rimmed focals perched on his stub nose and magnified his magenta eye sockets.
He was carrying two bulky ledgers, a huge well-worn legal-looking volume and half a dozen much-thumbed copies of the Uni-Worlds Financial Journal. As Lowndes finished speaking Nestor shuffled toward the desk, set the armload down and stepped back, removing his black bowler and exposing to Lowndes' view a worn, blue-gray pate from which tiny specks of aconium flaked—a sign of rapid aging in the Rotulian robot.
"Master Lowndes," said Nestor, "an advance will be impossible. According to the terms of your late father's will—"
Lowndes interrupted, red-faced. He slammed his fist down on the desk top. "All right. All right, Nestor," he growled. "So my father left you, his financial adviser, in charge of the estate. I'm not complaining. You're making kredits. But can't you loosen up a little bit? All I need is a five hundred advance on next month's allowance."
Nestor leaned forward to place the black bowler on the corner of the desk. "I'm sorry, Master," he said, straightening back up slowly. "The will allows you one thousand kredits."
"I know what the will allows me," yelled Lowndes.
"Master," said Nestor, "I am trying to preserve the estate. Your interests are paramount with—"
"Nestor, I've got to have five hundred kredits!"