Agency

39 Stumpy

Verity glanced over at the brown doors. Beyond which Kathy Fang and Dixon supposedly worked their field of mandibles. “Your name’s Will?”

“Wilf. Netherton.”

“What do you do, Wilf?”

“Public relations.”

“Where?”

“London.”

“Who for?”

“Freelance,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Oakland.” She remembered Eunice’s final message. How she should trust the people the barista took her to. “If you’re in London, why didn’t they just put me on a phone?”

“Who?”

“Kathy Fang.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Eunice bought this thing from her. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I know someone who knows Eunice. Or knows of her. It’s complicated.”

One of its feet moved then, or tried to, but was restrained by the lower of the two heavy canvas straps. She took a step back.

“Why can’t I move its foot?” he asked anxiously.

“It’s strapped in.”

“Into what?”

“The kind of trolley you’d use to move a washing machine. Two wheels, balloon tires, handle at the top?”

“I see the handle in the rear display. Hadn’t realized what it was. I’m restrained?”

“Gyros,” she said, becoming aware of the faint hum of their engines as she said it. “You’re top-heavy without them, so they’ve strapped you in to keep you from falling over. Sounds like they’re running now.”

“Could you free me, please?”

She considered the length of the thing’s arms, imagining it reaching up to strangle her, then saw that it seemed handless as well as headless. “And you’re still plugged into the charger but the light’s green now.”

“Would you mind unplugging that as well?”

“Want me to get them in here?”

“Who?”

“Kathy and Dixon. They built it.”

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d rather you did it.”

“Have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen a model of it. In an instructional sim.”

“Stumpy as it is, it’s still intimidating.”

“Stumpy?” He sounded disappointed.

“Might be a meter, a little over?”

“I’d assumed it would be taller.”

“If it weren’t quite as wide as it is through the shoulders, it would look like SpongeBob.”

“Who’s that?”

“You don’t have SpongeBob, in England?”

“No,” he said.

“I’m not even sure I can get these fasteners undone. Don’t move at all, until I tell you to. When I do, move slowly. This is creepy.”

“Sorry,” he said.

Approaching it again, she bent, standing the water bottle on the floor, to study the identical friction-lock devices that held the two straps taut. She caught herself waiting for Eunice’s instructive pictograph hands to appear. “Damn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Let me concentrate.”