Mike swung around angrily. “Look, lady, I—”
He stopped.
The lady was no lady.
A few feet away stood a machine. Vaguely humanoid in shape from the waist up, it was built more like a miniature military tank from the waist down. It had a pair of black sockets in its head, which Mike took to be TV cameras of some kind. It had grillwork on either side of its head, which probably covered microphones, and another grillwork where the mouth should be. There was no nose.
“What the hell?” asked Mike the Angel of no one in particular.
“I’m Snookums,” said the robot.
“Sure you are,” said Mike the Angel, backing uneasily toward the door. “You’re Snookums. I couldn’t fail not to disagree with you less.”
Mike the Angel didn’t particularly like being frightened, but he had never found it a disabling emotion, so he could put up with it if he had to. But, given his choice, he would have much preferred to be afraid of something a little less unpredictable, something he knew a little more about. Something comfortable, like, say, a Bengal tiger or a Kodiak bear.
“But I really am Snookums,” reiterated the clear voice.
Mike’s brain was functioning in high gear with overdrive added and the accelerator floor-boarded. He’d been lured out onto the Wastelands by this machine—it most definitely could be dangerous.