Reardon extended his hand and Polchik exerted enough pressure to make him wince. Polchik was two inches over six feet tall, and weighty. Muscular; thick forearms; the kind found on men who work in foundries. Light, crew-cut hair. Square face, wide open; strong jaw, hard eyes under heavy brow ridges. Even his smile looked hard. He was ready for work, with a.32 Needle Positive tilt-stuck on its velcro fastener at mid-thigh and an armament bandolier slanted across his broad chest. His aura keyed one word: cop.

“The Captain tells me I’m gonna be walkin’ with your machine t’night.”

Nodding, flexing his fingers, Reardon said, “Yes, that’s right. The Captain probably told you, we want to test Brillo under actual foot patrol conditions. That’s what he was designed for: foot patrol.”

“Been a long time since I done foot patrol,” Polchik said: “Work a growler, usually.”

“Beg pardon?”

Summit translated. “Growler: prowl car.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Reardon said, trying to be friendly.

“It’s only for tonight, Mike,” the Captain said. “Just a test.”

Polchik nodded as though he understood far more than either Reardon or Summit had told him. He did not turn his big body, but his eyes went to the robot. Through the grillwork Brillo (with the sort of sound an electric watch makes) buzzed softly, staring at nothing. Polchik looked it up and down, slowly, very carefully. Finally he said, “Looks okay to me.”

“Preliminary tests,” Reardon said, “everything short of actual field runs…everything’s been tested out. You won’t have any trouble.”

Polchik murmured something.

“I beg your pardon?” Frank Reardon said.

“On-the-job-training,” Polchik repeated. He did not smile. But a sound ran through the rest of the station house crew.”

“Well, whenever you’re ready, Officer Polchik,” the whiz kid said suddenly. Reardon winced. The kid had a storm-window salesman’s tone even when he was trying to be disarming.