CHAPTER 37

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stunningly, a giant mobile gantry started to roll westwards on several roads simultaneously with the robot standing on it, supported within the gantry. Westward it crawled, like a strange carnival buzzed around by its servants and helicopters and news coaches, scything through the land until at last it came to Bournemouth, where the robot slowly freed itself from it transport system’s embraces and went and lay for ten days on the beach. It was, of course, by far the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Bournemouth.

Crowds gathered daily along the perimeter which was staked out and guarded as the robot’s recreation area, and tried to see what it was doing. It was doing nothing. It was lying on the beach. It was lying a little awkwardly on its face.

It was a journalist from a local paper who, late one night, managed to do what no one else in the world had so far managed, which was to strike up a brief intelligible conversation with one of the service robots guarding the perimeter.

It was an extraordinary breakthrough.

“I think there’s a story in it,” confided the journalist over a cigarette shared through the steel link fence, “but it needs a good local angle. I’ve got a little list of questions here,” he went on, rummaging awkwardly in an inner pocket, “perhaps you could get him, it, whatever you call him, to run through them quickly.”

The little flying ratchet screwdriver said it would see what it cold do and screeched off.

A reply was never forthcoming.

Curiously, however, the questions on the piece of paper more or less exactly matched the questions that were going through the massive battlescarred industrial quality circuits of the robot’s mind. They were these:

“How do you feel about being a robot?”

“How does it feel to be from outer space?” and

“How do you like Bournemouth?”

Early the following day things started to be packed up and within a few days it became apparent that the robot was preparing to leave for good.

“The point is,” said Fenchurch to Ford, “can you get us on board?”

Ford looked wildly at his watch.

“I have some serious unfinished business to attend to,” he exclaimed. 115