“Really?” She sounded warily amused.

“Indeed,” said the machine. “A mere beachcomber-for example-would not be able to tell you that the gun which you are currently holding in the left hand pocket of your jacket, with your index finger on the trigger and your thumb ready to flick the safety catch, is a silenced FrintArms ten-millimetre HandCannon with eleven ten-seven coaxial depleted-uranium-casing mercury-core general-purpose rounds in the magazine plus one in the breech, and that you have another-double-ended-magazine in the opposite pocket, containing five armour-piercing and six wire-flechette rounds.”

Sharrow laughed out loud, taking her hand from her pocket and swivelling on her heel. She walked away down the beach. The machine lumbered after her, keeping a handful of paces behind.

“And I feel I must point out,” the machine continued, “that FrintArms Inc. strongly recommends that its hand weapons are never carried with a round in the breech.”

“The gun has,” she said tartly, glancing behind as she walked, “a safety catch.”

“Yes, but I think if you read the Instruction Manual-”

“So,” she interrupted. “You’re mine to command, are you?” she said.

“…Absolutely.”

“Wonderful. So who are you working for?”

“Why, you, mistress!”

“Yes, but who hired you?”

“Ah, dear lady, it is with the greatest embarrassment that I have to confess that in this matter I must-with a degree of anguish you may well find hard to credit-relinquish my absolute commitment to the fulfilment of your every whim. Put plainly, I am not at liberty to divulge that information. There, it is said. Let us quickly move on from this unfortunate quantum of dissonance to the ground-state of accord which I trust will inform our future relationship.”