“My name is not Narcissus,” the robot said reprovingly.
“It’s enough to have to look at you, without trying to remember your name,” Gallegher snarled. “Machines shouldn’t have names, anyhow. Come over here.”
“Well?”
“What is this?”
“A machine,” the robot said, “but by no means as lovely as I.”
“I hope it’s more useful. What does it do?”
“It eats dirt.”
“Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard.”
“There is no back yard,” the robot pointed out accurately.
“There is.”