It righted itself and shot back across the floor with demonic energy, whirling gyroscopically as it came, firing hot, thick globs of shaving cream toward Stepan Arkadyich’s eyes, its straight-razored end-effector swinging in wild, deadly circles. Stepan Arkadyich cowered back into the corner, his arms flung up helplessly before him.

Small Stiva, faster and more complex in his functioning than the smartest of Class IIs, which this simple household sartorial certainly was not, easily intercepted the smaller machine. Holding it at arm’s length with one midtorso effector, Small Stiva flung himself open at the torso, revealing the intensely hot groznium furnace that burned within him. Then, suddenly, he let go of the II/Sartorial/943 and let the thing fling itself forward-the errant Class II flew into the torso furnace, and Small Stiva clanged the door shut behind it.

“My Lord. I have never seen such a severe maltuning in a Class II, to so wantonly contravene the Iron Laws,” mused Stepan Arkadyich, dabbing more blood from his gashed lip with his shirttail. “I am lucky, as ever, that you were here, mon petit ami.”

Small Stiva whistled proudly and stoked his groznium core for one hot instant-and from within him came the hiss and pop of the II/Sartorial/943’s polymers disintegrating. The casings and trim would be destroyed, but the machine’s thousands of groznium parts, indestructible and reusable, would, by a remarkable process, be “internalized” into Small Stiva’s own biomechanical infrastructure.

Stepan Arkadyich struggled to his feet and was casting about for a fresh shirt when Dolichka whirred officiously into the room.

On her monitor was displayed a simple message: “Darya Alexandrovna is going away.” After Stiva had read it glumly and nodded, Dolichka pivoted on her thick metal legs and whirred out. Stepan Arkadyich was silent a minute. Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face.