He managed to eat, despite his ungraceful position and what he considered the scarcity of the food. Just as he finished the last dish, he heard footsteps in the hall.
Marcia-Joan had dressed in a fresh robe, of crimson. Its thinner material was gathered at the waist by clasps of gleaming gold. The arrangement emphasized bodily contours Robert had previously seen only in historical films.
He became aware that she was regarding him with much the same suggestion of helpless dismay as the major-domo.
"Why, you've eaten it all!" she exclaimed.
"All?" snorted Robert. "There was hardly any food!"
Marcia-Joan walked slowly around the table, staring at the empty dishes.
"A few bits of raw vegetables and the tiniest portion of protein-concentrate I ever saw!" Robert continued. "Do you call that a dinner to serve a guest?"
"And I especially ordered two portions – "
"Two?" Robert repeated in astonishment. "You must visit me sometime. I'll show you – "
"What's the matter with my food?" interrupted the girl. "I follow the best diet advice my robots could find in the city library."
"They should have looked for human diets, not song-birds'."
He lifted a cover in hopes of finding some overlooked morsel, but the platter was bare.
"No wonder you act so strangely," he said. "You must be suffering from malnutrition. I don't wonder with a skimpy diet like this."
"It's very healthful," insisted Marcia-Joan. "The old film said it was good for the figure, too."
"Not interested," grunted Robert. "I'm satisfied as I am."
"Oh, yes? You look gawky to me."
"You don't," retorted Robert, examining her disdainfully. "You are short and stubby and too plump."
"Plump?"
"Worse, you're actually fat in lots of places I'm not."
"At least not between the ears!"
Robert blinked.
"Wh-wh-WHAT?"
"And besides," she stormed on, "those robots you brought are painted the most repulsive colors!"
Robert closed his mouth and silently sought the connection.
Robots? he thought. Not fat, but repulsive colors, she said. What has that to do with food? The woman seems incapable of logic.
"And furthermore," Marcia-Joan was saying, "I'm not sure I care for the looks of you! Lulu, put him out!"
"Who's Lulu?" demanded Robert.
Then, as the major-domo moved forward, he understood.
"What a silly name for a robot!" he exclaimed.
"I suppose you'd call it Robert. Will you go now, or shall I call more robots?"
"I am not a fool," said Robert haughtily. "I shall go. Thank you for the disgusting dinner."
"Do not use the front door," said the robot. "Only Marcia-Joan uses that. All robots use other doors."
Robert growled, but walked down the hall to the back door. As this swung open to permit his passage, he halted.
"It's dark out there now," he complained over his shoulder. "Don't you have any lights on your grounds? Do you want me to trip over something?"
"Of course I have ground lights!" shrilled Marcia-Joan. "I'll show you – not that I care if you trip or not."
A moment later, lights concealed among the trees glowed into life. Robert walked outside and turned toward the cottage.
I should have asked her what the colors of my robots had to do with it, he thought, and turned back to re-enter.
He walked right into the closed door, which failed to open before him, though it had operated smoothly a moment ago.
"Robots not admitted after dark," a mechanical voice informed him. "Return to your stall in the shed."
"Whom do you think you're talking to?" demanded Robert. "I'm not one of your robots!"
There was a pause.
"Is it Marcia-Joan?" asked the voice-box, after considerable buzzing and whirring.
"No, I'm Robert."
There was another pause while the mechanism laboriously shifted back to its other speech tape. Then: "Robots not admitted after dark. Return to your stall in the shed."
Robert slowly raised both hands to his temples. Lingeringly, he dragged them down over his cheeks and under his chin until at last the fingers interlaced over his tight lips. After a moment, he let out his breath between his fingers and dropped his hands to his sides.
He raised one foot to kick, but decided that the door looked too hard.
He walked away between the beds of flowers, grumbling.
Reaching the vicinity of the cottage, he parted the tall shrubs bordering its grounds and looked through carefully before proceeding. Pleased at the gleam of water, he called Blue Two.
"Good enough! Put the other robots away for the night. They can trim the edges tomorrow."
He started into the cottage, but his major-domo warned, "Someone comes."
Robert looked around. Through thin portions of the shrubbery, he caught a glimpse of Marcia-Joan's crimson robe, nearly black in the diffused glow of the lights illuminating the grounds.
"Robert!" called the girl angrily. "What are your robots doing? I saw them from my upstairs window – "
"Wait there!" exclaimed Robert as she reached the shrubs.
"What? Are you trying to tell me where I can go or not go? I – YI!"
The shriek was followed by a tremendous splash. Robert stepped forward in time to be spattered by part of the flying spray. It was cold.
Naturally, being drawn from the brook, he reflected. Oh, well, the sun will warm it tomorrow.
There was a frenzy of thrashing and splashing in the dimly lighted water at his feet, accompanied by coughs and spluttering demands that he "do something!"