The robot was obviously a remote-control device. The arms and hands were of the waldo type used to handle radioactive materials in a hot lab—four jointed fingers and an opposed thumb, metal duplicates of the human hand.
But who was on the other end? Who was driving the machine? Who was saying those inane things over the speaker that served the robot as a mouth? It was certainly a woman’s voice.
Mike was still moving backward, toward the door. The machine that called itself Snookums wasn’t moving toward him, which was some consolation, but not much. The thing could obviously move faster on those treads than Mike could on his feet. Especially since Mike was moving backward.
“Would you mind explaining what this is all about, miss?” asked Mike the Angel. He didn’t expect an explanation; he was stalling for time.
“I am not a ‘miss,’” said the robot. “I am Snookums.”
“Whatever you are, then,” said Mike, “would you mind explaining?”
“No,” said Snookums, “I wouldn’t mind.”
Mike’s fingers, groping behind him, touched the door handle. But before he could grasp it, it turned, and the door opened behind him. It hit him full in the back, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps before regaining his balance.
A clear contralto voice said: “Oh! I’m so sorry!”
It was the same voice as the robot’s!