"You are a mischievous and contrary device," Boruelal said to the drone Mawhrin-Skel, floating at her shoulder, its aura field orange with well-being, but circled with little purple motes of unconvincing contrition.

"Oh," Mawhrin-Skel said brightly, "do you really think so?"

"Talk to this appalling machine, Jernau Gurgeh," the professor said, frowning momentarily at the top of Chamlis Amalk-ney's casing, then picking up a fresh glass. (Chamlis poured the liquid it had been playing with into Boruelal's original glass and replaced it on the table.)

"What have you been doing now?" Gurgeh asked Mawhrin-Skel as it floated near his face.

"Anatomy lesson," it said, its fields collapsing to a mixture of formal blue and brown ill-humour.

"A chirlip was found on the terrace," Boruelal explained, looking accusingly at the little drone. "It was wounded. Somebody brought it in, and Mawhrin-Skel offered to treat it."

"I wasn't busy," Mawhrin-Skel interjected, reasonably.

"It killed and dissected it in front of all the people," the professor sighed. "They were most upset."

"It would have died from shock anyway," Mawhrin-Skel said. "They're fascinating creatures, chirlips. Those cute little fur-folds conceal partially cantilevered bones, and the looped digestive system is quite fascinating."

"But not when people are eating," Boruelal said, selecting another savoury from the tray. "It was still moving," she added glumly. She ate the savoury.

"Residual synaptic capacitance," explained Mawhrin-Skel.

"Or "Bad Taste" as we machines call it," Chamlis Amalk-ney said.