And then he knew what the noise had been.
The soft purr of caterpillar treads against the floor!
Casually, Mike the Angel moved his hand to the wall plaque and touched it lightly. The lights came on, dim and subdued.
“Hello, Snookums,” said Mike the Angel gently. “What are you here for?”
The little robot just stood there for a second or two, unmoving, his waldo hands clasped firmly in front of his chest. Mike suddenly wished to Heaven that the metallic face could show something that Mike could read.
“I came for data,” said Snookums at last, in the contralto voice that so resembled the voice of the woman who had trained him.
Mike started to say, “At this time of night?” Then he glanced at his wrist. It was after seven-thirty in the morning, Greenwich time—which was also ship time.
“What is it you want?” Mike asked.
“Can you dance?” asked Snookums.
“Yes,” said Mike dazedly, “I can dance.” For a moment he had the wild idea that Snookums was going to ask him to do a few turns about the floor.