“Leave it alone!!”

“A simple 155-0 system,” the robot said. “Fixed temperature unit with heat detectors, only barely exceeding NFPA standard 74 and NFPA 72-a requirements.” The arm snaked up to the panel and followed the break line around the outside.

“Don’t screw with it! It’ll set it—”

The panel accordion folded back. Polchik’s mouth fell open. “Oh my God,” he mumbled.

The robot’s extruded arm worked inside for a long moment, then withdrew. “It is fully operable now.” The panel folded back into place.

Polchik let the pin-mike slip from his fingers and it zzzzz’d back into the wristhand. He walked away down the alley, looking haunted.

Down at the corner, the Amsterdam Inn’s lights shone weakly, reflecting dully in the street oil slick. Polchik paused at the mouth of the alley and pulled out the pin-mike again. He thumbed the callbox on his wrist, feeling the heavy shadow of the robot behind him.

“Polchik,” he said into the mike.

“Okay, Mike?” crackled the reply. “How’s yer partner doing?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Polchik saw the robot standing impassively, gooseneck arm vanished; ten feet behind him. Respectfully. “Don’t call it my partner.”

Laughter on the other end of the line. “What’s’a’matter, Mike? ‘Fraid of him?”

“Ahhh…cut the clownin’. Everything quiet here, Eighty-two and Amsterdam.”

“Okay. Oh, hey, Mike, remember…if it starts to rain, get yer partner under an awning before he starts t’rust!”

He was still laughing like a jackass as Polchik let the spring-wire zzzzz back into the call box.