After Mr. Schwimmer retired, the firm delegated me the task of representing his last client, a Mr. Simon Polk, who died five years ago.
“It’s really an easy case,” one of the partners, Mr. Colby, said. “You simply have to check on the robot. Make sure she’s taking care of it.”
She’s taking care of it alright. I learned that on my first visit. I sat with the robot in the study, and she served us both hot chocolate.
“Thank you,” I said when she offered me the cup and saucer.
“It’s cold, you miserable cow!” the robot spat, throwing the glass back at her. I was taken aback by how much it sounded like a man of a formidable age.
“It’s Uncle Simon,” she told me after I followed her back to the kitchen and helped her to rub out the stains in her dress.
“He loaded his consciousness into it just before he died,” she said as she stared ahead at nothing. “It was his dying wish to torment me for the rest of my days.”
I gave my report to the partners. “The robot’s taken care of, but who’s taking care of her?” I asked.
“That’s not our concern,” said Mr. Colby. “What has she to complain about? As long as she stays in that house, everything is hers.”
Everything but her life, I feared. I decided then and there that I would free her.
“That’s kind of you,” she said on my second visit as the robot worked in the basement, “but there’s nothing left for me to reap. I’m old. I’m dried up.”
“You’re not,” I said, and then I kissed her. She was stiff at first, but then I saw a flash in her eyes, and it was the confirmation I needed that I could bring her back to the land of the living.
We just needed to get rid of the robot.
“I tried pushing him down the stairs. Now he just walks with a cane.”
“Then we will try something more permanent,” I said. Leaving the property wasn’t an option. She would lose her inheritance. Even if I covered for her, the robot could call someone else from the firm. So then how would one kill a robot?
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