The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue. Pt. 5.

Eight million stories in the naked city. This is just one of them.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

***

Louis Shalako


Olympia Cartier reminded herself that frowning gave one age lines.

“Darryl.”

The servant inclined its head.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Get that policeman on the phone.”

“Inspector MacBride?”

She nodded.

“That’s the one.”

“One moment please.”

Olympia stood uncertainly in front of the panoramic view, the entire floor ringed by glass. It was one of the better views in Manhattan.

“Hello. Gene MacBride here.”

“Inspector.”

“Yes, Mrs. Cartier?” The fellow was desperately trying not to sound impatient, she understood that.

She was desperately trying not to appear impatient with him and the police in general.

If only someone could tell her, for sure, what happened.

“I was just wondering if we had any new information. On Betty.”

“Ah, no, not really, Mrs. Cartier. These things have a way of resolving themselves, one way or another.” He paused. “If the thing fell in the river or something like that, it would float. It has a transponder and emergency beacons. But the opinions we’re getting from the company and other experts is that it looks like some kind of malfunction.”

They had told her, and her husband, the same thing. This was all based on her statements. What she knew—all she knew, really; was that Betty had been there a few minutes before, and then when next she thought of it, Betty was gone.

But why?

And how?

The hallway cameras showed her opening up the door and walking out as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was, and their servants came and went on a routine basis. 

The only problem was that Betty didn't come back.

“The insurance company is going to be a problem.”

“Ah, yes. Why do you say that?” The Inspector was sympathetic, and the Cartiers were important people. “All you can do is to file the report, I mean the claim, and if necessary, get a lawyer. But they’re just looking to cover their—ah, you know, backsides, Ma’am.”

It struck him just what the problem really was.

“It’s okay, Olympia. I understand. You’re worried about her, of course. They're very human in appearance, and it’s no wonder people take a shine to them…am I right?” The caller was very quiet, and her eyes were on the floor between them. “You’re sort of worrying rather needlessly about Betty, don’t you think? And of course there’s all this pressure, right?”

Pressure to settle with the insurance company, pressure to prove a warranty issue with the manufacturer, pressure to sue, pressure to make a complaint, provide information, talk it over with the husband, pick out the new model, maybe with a few upgrades or a new colour or hair-do or something. He understood the situation well enough.

She felt violated.

She didn't know what to do about it, but time healed all wounds.

Put a little spit on there and walk it off, lady.

“Uh-huh.” Inspector MacBride had seen a few little old ladies and their lost-doggy issues, she realized.

There was the hint of humour in her voice when she responded.

“Well, Inspector. It really is kind of a mystery.” Olympia took a deep breath and then made up her mind as to whether to say it or not.

He would think her quite mad.

“But...I mean, why? Why in the blue blazes would she just up and walk off like that?”

“Well. That really is the question, isn’t it?”

And the manufacturers would be asking themselves the same set of questions, and probably not liking the answers too much. Too much at stake—too much market share, too much liability, too much that could go wrong in a hyper-paranoid world that was nevertheless addicted to what people called tech as if they knew how it worked or could actually grind out the smallest and simplest component in their backyard machine shop.

There were millions of lesser robots out there, and there had been recalls in the past. There were the inevitable horror stories making the rounds.

The Inspector’s calm visage nodded thoughtfully in her big screen, as other detectives milled around in the background of the shot.

“That’s definitely one of the questions we’re asking, Olympia. But we’re, ah, you know, a little bit out of our depth, and that’s why we’re talking to all the experts.” When we get a minute, it would be better not to say.

Hopefully she got it in the diplomatic sense.

“I keep wondering if it was something I said…” There was a tone of wonder there.

He suppressed any quick changes in expression as best he could.

Lord, love a duck—and that time, he was afraid he wasn’t quite fast enough in the controlling of his demeanour.

***

“Call from Mister Cartier.”

Olympia looked up from the settee, overstuffed and upholstered in lush red velvet. It carefully replicated a piece that could have graced Versailles at the time of Marie Antoinette.

“Thank you, Darryl.”

“I’m Stephen.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“That’s quite all right, Madame.”

The screen flickered and lit up again.

Her husband, looking long and lean and all of his fifty-seven years at that moment in time, was in the back of his car. It looked to be somewhere on the Turnpike. Any turnpike. In any city of the world, and it probably was.

Quite frankly, she had forgotten where he was today.

“How are you, dearest?”

“Oh, fine. And how are you, lover?”

“Shit. The usual, honey. Gump’s flying in from Rio. He says he has to see me straight away and that it’s, and I quote: important and confidential.”

“I wonder what that means.”

“I wish he wouldn’t call it a loan—it grates on me, that’s all I’m saying. Charity I can understand. Gump just pisses me off with all of his gyrations. So how was your day?”

“It’s still early here. But so-so.” Olympia waved over a servant, pausing theatrically at the archway, the luncheon trolley poised to strike.

“It’s still early there? In other words one of them kind of days. Okay, listen up, Honey. I doubt very much if we’ll get back tonight.” Her husband was on a trade delegation to Sumatra or something, she recalled.

Somewhere like that, but she had her own interests and so she never had to be bored if she didn't want to.

“Yes, not unexpected. We’ll just have to do without you.” Her favourite dwarf, Sylphie, crawled into her lap.

The child had a fetal-alcohol syndrome look about the eyes and forehead, and Olympia stroked her hair as the child looked up in a kind of cheerful worship.

Olympia was allergic to dogs and cats, and for some reason the artificial ones had never appealed to her.

The robotic boys and girls were different, so much more satisfying.

They were like dolls that could talk. And you could switch them off if they became insufferable.

***

Danvers was on the line again. He was pressing them to accept a replacement for Betty and sign off on the claim.

Robots and other chattels were covered under the household policy unless otherwise specified. The Cartiers had top-of-the-line coverage, as he kept reminding her.

“Well, then. Why can’t we let the police have a little more time?” Olympia had always liked Betty Blue.

She was one of her favourites, if not the favourite, among her household servants. That one had always had a kind of personality, not like some of the others. Admittedly, the kitchen and maid staff were less expensive models. They weren’t designed to interact in anything other than the simplest ways. But Betty was a companion, designed and programmed as such.

And she really had been special, Olympia had to admit. Darryl, Stephen, Missy, they were all well enough in their own way. It was true they were very much individuals. Olympia wondered if any of them had ever thought of walking off, but she doubted it very much.

There was that ineffable something about Betty.

Night or day meant nothing to Scott.

Betty asked a question once in a while, and while the others did that too, Betty’s seemed a little deeper.

Betty was looking for meaning sometimes, while the others were just looking for answers and instructions, acknowledgement. It was a kind of artificial neediness. The robots were looking for feedback of an infantile nature.

They were looking for reassurance, so that they would be better able to anticipate—and to serve.

Poor Betty Blue.

Was it something I said?

***

Devon entered the room with a bright and cheerful look on his face.

“Devon! Have you seen James?”

“Ah, yes, Auntie. James is on the kitchen level, polishing silverware.” He stopped there, looking puzzled. “Oh, yes. Scissors.”

“Ah.”

“He should be all right on his own for a while, Ma'am.” Devon went to a side-table and pulled out a drawer.

“Hmn.”

“What?”

“It’s funny how you can never find things when you need them.”

“Ask one of the servants, dear.” Devon was a nephew, and a perennial visitor to the lair, especially when he wasn’t in good odor a the Ivy-League school he had attended off and off over the last eight years.

Some day her nephew was going to be a doctor.

***

Night or day meant nothing to Scott of course, and yet it was ironic.

All that technology. They could give a robot eyes and sell them to anyone with the price of admission.

But you could not teach a blind man to see, and there were none so blind as those who refused to look.

“Well. I really got to hand it to you, Buddy.” The security guy was apologetic. "I admire you, I really do."

What a fantastic sense of humour. The guy really was priceless.

Fucking unbelievable.

The station closed at two a.m. and the man had been sitting there patiently waiting for his girl. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the man had a white cane and a rather forlorn look on his face.

“Well, what are you going to do, anyways?” There was a catch in Scott’s voice, when he realized that this meant the station was closed and they were kicking him out.

Betty had specified this exact place. Hours had gone by. She wasn’t there. Sooner or later, he had to move on.

It was a simple equation, just a few symbols, all in a row inside of your head, a language that anyone could understand..

“I’m real sorry, man. There’s a park just across the street. You can sit and watch the entrance and maybe she’ll show up…” The guard’s voice trailed off. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine. At least it’s not raining.”

The guard had his doubts, as he’d just been out there and the fine pricks of wet coldness were unmistakable. 

Rain was in the forecast, and rain was on the way. He could smell it.

“The street-light is down to the right about fifty yards.” With an arm in the guard’s careful possession, Scott had little choice but to allow himself to be led off into yet another unknown. “I’m really sorry about this, Mister. If you cross at the light and come back down the other side, you’ll find there’s a park bench right across the street.”

For obvious reasons, the guard would be risking his employment for such a simple courtesy as taking Scott directly over there. That would be all of forty-eight feet.

It's a big world.

***

Scott tapped his way along, killing time and avoiding the dreadful thought that Betty would desert him. The alternatives weren’t much better. She might have been caught, she might have given herself up in spite of her statements. She might have simply gotten lost, or detained, or fallen off a roof or something…anything, really.

It was just as the man had said. He found the intersection, listened to the signals, and the cars.

There were few voices about, but the vehicles were idling tamely enough and he set across on the familiar pong-pong, pong.

Fifty yards north, and fifty yards south. He counted his steps. His questioning stick, held in the right hand and then the left, followed the gutter on his left and then hit something on his right.

He stopped, and slowly explored it. It was indeed a park bench. Across the street, he could almost sense the security guard’s benevolent but ultimately impotent watch.

Scott sat down.

Why didn’t Betty show up?

Think in the proper terms.

What I don’t know I can’t reveal under torture.

Scott smiled, for the first time in hours.

It was a bitter smile.

The realization that he could just get on a bus and go home held its own insidious logic.

The trouble was that he wanted to know what happened. And what happens next?

Good question, he admitted.

There was a peculiar whistle from the park behind him, cutting through the noise of cars, trucks, delivery vehicles and always that persistent hum of voices from somewhere.

The whistle came again.

He’d heard that one a million times.

It started off at a certain pitch, and then it went up, and then it went down.

It was like a bosun’s pipe, only electronic.

Scott was being hailed, from somewhere in the darkness.

His heart thudded. It was closer, more insistent now.

Aw, fucking Jesus, what do I do?

How do I know that’s even her?

And yet it did make a weird kind of sense—she’d been watching the area for hours, most likely.

That had to be it. She'd been waiting.

For fuck’s sakes

Ah, fuck it.

I need to fucking pee anyways.

Scott needed to pee anyways.

I might as well get this over with—whatever happens.

He had the sudden urge to cross himself or something, in spite of a strong overall atheism.

Scott clambered awkwardly to his feet, taking his time about it. There were certain to be bushes and trees and arbitrarily-placed bedding plants and herbaceous borders.

Standing there, he sighed deeply.

The whistle came again, twice.

He felt his way into the unknown.

***

Scott disappeared into the forbidding gloom.

The guard tore his eyes off the street and went back to his regular duty of checking all the rest-rooms for stragglers, and then making sure there were no other drunks or druggies hiding away.

He had the coffee-pot and his tablet. What more did he need?

In another few hours, his relief would show up and then he could go home.

END

The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue. Pt. 2.

“You’re tired. You’ve had a long day. Perhaps I could draw you a bath?”

It completely went over his head.

Draw me a bath?

Never mind the obscene parody of the mental picture of someone sketching a tub full of suds and water for the eyes of a blind man—what, was she blind too? What? What?

And why wouldn’t she leave.

He could accept someone helping him home with the groceries, maybe even coming upstairs for a moment, but this. This.

It was like she was never going.

“Miss. I—”

She was in the other room. The taps were turned on, with a squeak and a thud from just inside the wall just as it always did, and then came the sound of running water.

Scott became very fearful.

She was obviously nuts, or bucking for sainthood…? Or what? What?

He heard footsteps, and craned his head to try and get some sort of a clue. Her shoes scraped on the old boards, tapped across the intervening linoleum, and then she was right beside him. Her aroma enveloped him.

“Ah, listen. Ah—Miss.”

“It’s all right, Scott. I don’t mind.” Her hands were on his shoulders. “Everything will be fine, Scott. I’m a friend. And please call me Betty. A little bath is not going to hurt you.”

His guts withered inside. She was serious, and he didn’t know how to stop her.

She could drown him in the bathtub. Something cracked inside of Scott and he was inclined to let her.

For fuck’s sakes, why not, eh? Not after all these years.

It’s not like he hadn’t prayed for death, or at least release, a time or two.

He shoved the chair back a little, putting his hands on the edge of the table, preparing to rise.

“No.” Her voice was gentle and soft, up beside his right ear.

She must be slightly bent at the waist to do it, a simple deduction, one based on old memories. For some reason his eyes watered but he blinked it back and watched his breathing for a moment.

Nary a hint of the longing inside escaped, he was almost sure.

Goose bumps and shivers were beyond his control. It was a kind of electrical shock—what pure fear did to a man. Her hands were on him, up close to his throat.

She began to knead and massage Scott’s shoulders. At first he resisted, and then with a recognition that nothing like this had ever happened in his life, not in his entire stinking life, Scott gave in again.

He sat there and let it happen.

Psychotic or something, he decided. She could have gutted me first thing if that’s what she really wanted to do.

Yeah, but who in the hell is she?

And why.

The realization that she could have done anything she wanted with him was no comfort. Thank all the psycho-slasher melodramas on TV for that. He’d listened to one too many.

He slumped in his chair.

“That’s better. I promise, a nice hot bath will make you feel a whole lot better.”

“Betty.”

“Yes, Scott?”

“Why are you doing all of this? Please don’t think that I’m not grateful—” He left the part about not being a charity case unsaid, hoping that she would get it.

He left out all the stuff about a man’s dignity.

She had done enough for him. He understood and accepted her need to do this, and yes; he needed someone to do something nice for him once in a while. As well. And that should have been that.

“I don’t know why, Scott.”

It seemed like a pretty good answer, all things considered.

Scott hadn’t done the laundry in three or four weeks. He hadn’t actually showered this morning, having slept in a bit and then he was feeling very tired for some reason. Then the cheque came in the mail, and if he was going to the bank he might as well get it over with. His breath was bad after ten smokes and a coffee. His feet stank. Blind as he was he had no illusions of his looks and certainly no unrealistic expectations of the crummy Salvation Army and thrift store attire. The kitchen garbage was beginning to smell. He’d been cramming as much as possible into the bag, which cost six cents each, before taking it out. It was probably the can of grease in there, and his place was often quite warm.

He hadn’t shaved in four or five days, when last it was, he couldn’t quite recall. While he still had a stick of deodorant in the bathroom, it was like he hardly used it anymore. He was trying to make it last a while.

Scott became very aware of all shortcomings in that exact moment. He really had let himself go—and to hell with it.

What in the hell was wrong with this woman?

The one thing he dare not ask was, why me?

Please don’t say it. Please don’t tell me.

***

“Would you…would you please step out of the room, if only for a moment, Betty? Please?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve seen plenty of men’s bodies.”

Scott gave a funny, high-pitched little moan as her strong fingers took his upper arms and spun him twenty degrees to the left or so and then she was unbuttoning his shirt.

“Betty, I mean really…”

“”It’s okay Scott. Don’t worry about it. I’m very glad to help.” He lifted and moved his arms and she got his shirt off.

“At least you’re calling me Betty now.” There was a brightness of expression in there.

He still couldn’t really read her emotional state. She was too new.

He sensed her kneeling, and very fluid and graceful a move it was. This was the brightest room in the place, facing south over the alley and towards a gap in the tall buildings to the southwest. The last of the sunset was coming right in. It was all he could do to keep up with her.

“Lift your left foot.”

“Ah...”

“Come on, Scott. You can do it. Don’t be a fraidy-cat.”

She was chiding him like a little kid or something. His face was suddenly wreathed in a smile.

Just the tone in her voice was what did it. Unbelievable. You really had to admire her gall.

“Oh, God.” He shook his head in despair and submission.

He was a little kid again. Holy, Jesus, who is this girl.

He lifted his left foot and she steadied him with one hand clamped on his other leg while she peeled it expertly off.

They repeated the process with the other foot.

This is where he baulked.

“No, seriously.”

“What, are you shy? But why?”

“Yes!”

“That’s okay, I’m not.” He could almost sense her impatience. “Come on, Scott.”

He could feel the heat of her body, barely a foot in front of him.

Scott hastily backed up and she had to grab him and steady him because he hadn’t been standing exactly where he thought, and he hit the laundry hamper by the door.

“Come to mama.”

“Oh, Lord.” He protested again.

She held him up, steadying him.

She dragged him two steps forward.

Finally he gave up. She was tugging at the top button of his jeans.

“Aw. No. Let me do it, for Christ’s sakes.” He wasn’t helpless.

What had started off as fear had suddenly transformed itself into anger, something he hadn’t felt in a very long while—perhaps too long. His jaw worked back and forth uncontrollably.

So you want to be like that, eh?

You have no idea, baby? No clue? Really?

Face hot and red, although he was completely unconscious of that, he pulled off his jeans, a bit tight but they still fit. He stumbled and hopped for a moment but he did it alone and without help. The exertion and the anger had him gasping for air. There were going to be some consequences.

Little lady.

When what was coming along very well in terms of erections un-snagged from the top of his underwear, and popped up as if to take a long deep breath of fresh air, he stuck his jaw out and kept his mouth stubbornly clamped shut. He threw the underwear aside angrily, but she just ignored it all as far as he could determine by sound.

Fine. Be that way.

He didn’t say it.

What did you expect, anyways?

He wasn’t trying to impress her. He was damned angry, right about then. And yet…he supposed he didn’t want it to end, either. She smelled so good, and what in the hell was she doing here?

“All right, let’s get you into the bath then.”

That was all she said, curiously deflating it was, for which he was grateful in some ways. His boner subsided, only slightly. The edge of the tub was up against the side of the calf of his right leg and he stepped into nearly-scalding water with her hand on his lower back and his lower bicep hard in her other hand.

He found the usual places to put his hands and cautiously lowered himself down into the water.

“There. See.”

“Ah…” The water stung in a ring around him as it rose up on his flesh.

The air was steamy and the room nice and warm. The sound of light jazz came from the radio on the hall table. He hardly ever turned it on anymore.

He heard her moving beside him.

The colour of the water, barely visible to him, and the feel of it, told Scott that she had found some kind of bath foam under the sink. There was some stuff there from a previous tenant, which he had ignored until today. He couldn’t actually read the labels and yet there was stuff in it—he’d opened one and sniffed one, he recalled, a few weeks after moving in.

There was a curiously feminine scent coming up off the water.

“What the hell is that?”

“Pardon me?”

“Sorry. What’s that smell?”

“Oh.” She went over to the waste basket and pulled something out. “It’s called Ginseng.”

He snorted.

“Yeah, right.”

So she said she needed somebody. Or no. She said she didn’t know why…the lady didn’t know why.

He wondered just exactly what the lady meant by that.

She seemed awfully intense, and painfully naive or something. She must be insane.

It was just his luck.

***

Scott bent his knees and eased himself a little deeper into the water. He was a terribly shy man, and what the hell were you supposed to do about it?

Normally he would take a shower, and this was an unaccustomed luxury.

He was just trying to think of what to say when she turned abruptly, opened the door and left.

Betty was in the kitchen. He heard glass clink out there.

She came right back.

“Here.”

“What is it?”

Rather than answer, she lifted his wrist and then something hard and cold brushed his fingertips.

His hand closed on a glass. Bringing it up to his face he recognized it. It was the last of the London Dry Gin of all things. He was sort of keeping it in reserve, as he didn’t usually drink gin.

Gin had to have the proper mixers and he usually just bought a six-pack and drank two or three at a time.

“Thank you. Betty—”

He didn’t get to finish as the sound of her zipper going downwards along the lithe curve of her spine caused his brain to completely lock up on him for ten or fifteen seconds or so.

His ears weren’t fooling him.

He took a quick slug of the gin. It definitely helped.

A bare leg came over the side and her foot probed the foamy blue waters to find where his legs were under the surface.

He sat up and pulled in his feet as best he could and wished he could see what the hell was going on. Betty settled into the water, he thought facing him from the sound of her voice.

“It’s okay, Scott. I just needed somebody.”

His jaw went back and forth in deliberation and his penis went up like a periscope.

“Oh, my God.”

What she did next seemed almost inevitable, judging by the last ten minutes or so, but even then it still came as something of a shock.

There was still that hint of terror, deep down inside, but some other part of his mind retained enough objectivity to realize that what he really ought to do was to try and relax and enjoy himself.

While it was true the building superintendent, Mrs. Jarvis, who lived down below, was a bit hard of hearing, the one thing he must promise himself was not to scream or moan or thrash about too much if he could possibly help it.

It had been so long since he had touched another person, or felt their warmth up close.

***

The first morning was the best, the worst, and in every way terrifying. It was also elevating, exalting even. 

She had transformed his life, if only it turned out to be real. Hell, if only for a moment.

This new love in his life—Scott wasn’t sure if he was entirely justified in calling it that, but he was sure as hell enamored of Betty. He could learn to love her if he wasn’t so damned scared of what was happening to him.

If he could only relax a little.

Who was she?

It couldn’t last. There had to be some kind of a catch. It was all a big mystery.

But to wake up, have your eyes pop open, with a bit of a woodie in your pants, and to see that it was real. 

To realize that last night had not been a dream or a hallucination. There was someone in the bed beside him. 

Someone soft, and warm, and beautiful.

Kill me now while I’m still happy.

Come on, God, you’ve never let me down before—you bastard.

Scott had been afraid to let on that he was awake for fear of ruining the illusion. There came a time when you had to pee and there was no more delaying.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

Betty had the place all cleaned up, not that Scott really cared one way or another, but she seemed to think it was important.

Scott had been alone for far too long. At some point one had to ask some serious questions.

She was in the bedroom airing his clothes, folding laundry and putting his winter clothes away.  They’d been heaped up there for a while, but of course it was a tedious job, one requiring pure feel.

He had the TV on, listening to the on-air personalities talking on the Weather Channel. It was his routine, and routine was the one thing that had saved him from going mad. One of the things, anyway. So what if she was crazy—she was nice, and he knew how close he had been a time or two. Going mad was just one of those things. It could happen to anybody.

There was a rap of knuckles at the door.

“It’s okay, I’ll get it.” His heart thudded in guilt for some reason.

It was probably Mrs. Jarvis, and yet here he was a grown man—he paid rent. She had always been somewhat solicitous, although royally ineffective at it…it’s just that he had so few visitors.

She was governmentally ineffectual.

He pulled the chain and undid the bolt. Turning the little knob on the lockset, he opened the door. He couldn’t quite see who it was, but there appeared to be two of them.

“Yes?”

“I’m Officer Bruce Nyall and this is my partner, Officer Diana Wilson. We’ve been canvassing the neighbourhood.”

“Oh?”

Scott wondered if it was for a subscription to something, raising money for some local charity.

The cops were known to do that from time to time. Then again they could be creeps trying to fake out a blind man, gain his cooperation and then get him in trouble. He’d seen one or two bogus ploys over the years, as often as not someone who had befriended you right out of the blue.

“So, what can I do you for?” Scott played it cool.

All he saw were two vertical blobs, elongated but nothing more. They could be real cops.

“Ah, yes, sir. You are Scott Nettles, and do you reside here?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Okay, sir. We are trying to locate a missing robot. She was last seen a few blocks from here. The robot is described as a blue-skinned female, about five-foot eight, with thick blonde hair and big dark eyes.”

“Ah. Well.”

“Anyway sir, have you seen anyone or anything like that in the neighbourhood?”

“No, but—”

Officer Wilson nudged Officer Nyall with her elbow. She pointed, and following her glance, he noted the long white cane standing just inside the door. It was leaning up against a corner of the small front hall. It helped to explain the man’s odd demeanor, blankly looking off over to one side above their heads and with his left ear lowered to catch the nuances, eyes wide and unfocused.

“That’s okay sir, we’re just checking around. Is there anyone else in the apartment with you?”

“Ah, no—just me and my, ah, girlfriend.”

Officer Wilson’s eyes lit up a little in empathy. It was sort of romantic for the poor guy to have someone. 

She’d never really thought about it. It made her shock at his blindness fade somehow. It wasn’t that bad for the man. Hopefully, maybe. Her heart went out to the more unfortunate of the city’s residents. For her, this in her third full year of being a cop, the duty really meant to serve and protect. It’s why she signed up. She hoped she would never become cynical. Some of her brother and sister officers sounded fairly cynical at times, but she often wondered if that was just some kind of emotional shield.

“All right, sir, we won’t take up too much of your time. Do you have a phone?”

Scott’s mouth was open in a half-witted grin.

“So you guys are looking for a robot?” His belly muscles, shirtless as he was, convulsed at the notion. “Heh-heh-heh.”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Diana spoke up now, with a smile evident in her voice. “Yes, sir. Please call us if you notice anything. Someone might mention something, you know?”

She pressed a business card into his hand, mentally cursing herself as she did so, but he took it readily enough. Maybe he’d be able to read it with his fingertips, she thought, the names and numbers were pretty heavily embossed.

“Officers Nyall and Wilson. Okay, sir?”

He could always get a neighbour or the landlady to read it for him.

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” Scott still had the ludicrous grin on his face.

Realizing a nod, or a tug at the cap brim wouldn’t be of much use, Officer Nyall spoke up.

“Okay. Good night sir. We’re leaving now, and we’ll let you get back at it.”

“Oh. Thank you, officers. Good night.”

Scott closed the door and locked and latched it all up again. Dimly he heard them move on to the next unit, number six, and rap on the door. It was just down to the left and across the hall.

“Hmn. Don’t that beat all.”

Scott turned and headed back to the couch, still shaking his head.

“Betty!”

“Yes, dear?”

“You are not going to believe what just happened.”

She came out of his dingy little bedroom with a white sock in one hand and a black one in the other, and an inquiring look on her face.

“What?”

...to be continued...