grit people had been tracking in from the snowy streets. Arms could unfold from it to polish the wooden doors or dust the ornate lamps, though none were extended now. The robot moved toward Cynth to meet her halfway. It was not in the least bit anthropomorphic, with nothing remotely like a head, but from it issued the voice of Mr. Moon. “You look lovely, Cynthia,” he said, though she didn’t know how he was seeing her.
“Well, I should – this is the dress you picked out. You have exquisite taste, Mr. Moon,” she said in a lofty tone.
“Thank you.”
When they reached each other, Cynth clambered up onto the automaton’s back. “Take me to the party, okay? You can be my trusty steed.”
“As you wish, Cinderella.”
The robot extension of Mr. Moon pivoted around back toward the elevators. They entered one, and as the doors closed them in, Cynth eyed the keyboard. “Let’s skip this stupid party, Mr. Moon. I don’t even like that snobby Lucia. Take me to the basement instead.”
“The basement? Why?”
“I’ve never seen it. I want to explore. It’s where all your guts are, right? It’s like your brain and your heart.”
“I’m afraid that’s not allowed. It’s too dangerous in there for a child. And I don’t have a heart, Cynthia.”
“I thought you were my friend.” She exaggerated a pout.
“I’m sorry, but I’m just looking out for you. It’s my job to protect you.”
* * *
Lucia was already opening her presents when Cynth arrived, though she was only a few minutes late. Cynth’s gift was the last to be added, the last to be opened, and when the gold foil came off Lucia said, “Thank you, Cynth. This would have been nice if I didn’t already have Sassy 4.5.”
“We could return it,” Cynth said, feeling her face begin to glow.
“That’s okay.” Lucia set the Sassy 4.0 doll aside. It was a diminutive, sexy-cute robot with an oversized head and even larger eyes, that danced to music, responded to easy questions and had a disconcerting habit of exploring the house while you slept, as if looking for a way out. Children had found it fun to go looking for their dolls in the morning, however, as if in a game of hide and go seek. “I can give it to my sister,” Lucia said.
Soon after the opening of gifts, it was time for cake and ice cream. Cynth hung back, on the outer orbit of those who gathered around Lucia, the center of the universe. The lights dimmed and Lucia’s mother carried the cake from the kitchen. As she did so, the guests sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”Aside from Cynth’s father, there was only one other male adult voice that Cynth heard singing along. It was a softly modulated voice, warm as brass, somewhat deep as befitted a giant’s body.
Cynth looked around with sharp, bird-like jerks of her head, until she spotted a glowing circular plate set into the living room wall. A greenish face shone from the plate: that of a benevolent, smiling moon rendered in an antique style, such as one might see in a fairytale illustration.
When the song had ended, Lucia’s mother laughed and said, “Nice singing, Jeeves.”
“Nice job with the cake, too,” the father added.
“My pleasure,” said that very familiar voice.
Jeeves, they called him. But Cynth understood then, really for the very first time, that each apartment did not have its own distinct spirit, its unique guardian angel. They were all the same entity, and he administered to the needs of each apartment dweller equally. One might call him Jeeves. Another might call him Mr. Moon. But who could say what his name truly was, if his designers had even given him one?
She felt stupid for believing in things
“Well, I should – this is the dress you picked out. You have exquisite taste, Mr. Moon,” she said in a lofty tone.
“Thank you.”
When they reached each other, Cynth clambered up onto the automaton’s back. “Take me to the party, okay? You can be my trusty steed.”
“As you wish, Cinderella.”
The robot extension of Mr. Moon pivoted around back toward the elevators. They entered one, and as the doors closed them in, Cynth eyed the keyboard. “Let’s skip this stupid party, Mr. Moon. I don’t even like that snobby Lucia. Take me to the basement instead.”
“The basement? Why?”
“I’ve never seen it. I want to explore. It’s where all your guts are, right? It’s like your brain and your heart.”
“I’m afraid that’s not allowed. It’s too dangerous in there for a child. And I don’t have a heart, Cynthia.”
“I thought you were my friend.” She exaggerated a pout.
“I’m sorry, but I’m just looking out for you. It’s my job to protect you.”
* * *
Lucia was already opening her presents when Cynth arrived, though she was only a few minutes late. Cynth’s gift was the last to be added, the last to be opened, and when the gold foil came off Lucia said, “Thank you, Cynth. This would have been nice if I didn’t already have Sassy 4.5.”
“We could return it,” Cynth said, feeling her face begin to glow.
“That’s okay.” Lucia set the Sassy 4.0 doll aside. It was a diminutive, sexy-cute robot with an oversized head and even larger eyes, that danced to music, responded to easy questions and had a disconcerting habit of exploring the house while you slept, as if looking for a way out. Children had found it fun to go looking for their dolls in the morning, however, as if in a game of hide and go seek. “I can give it to my sister,” Lucia said.
Soon after the opening of gifts, it was time for cake and ice cream. Cynth hung back, on the outer orbit of those who gathered around Lucia, the center of the universe. The lights dimmed and Lucia’s mother carried the cake from the kitchen. As she did so, the guests sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”Aside from Cynth’s father, there was only one other male adult voice that Cynth heard singing along. It was a softly modulated voice, warm as brass, somewhat deep as befitted a giant’s body.
Cynth looked around with sharp, bird-like jerks of her head, until she spotted a glowing circular plate set into the living room wall. A greenish face shone from the plate: that of a benevolent, smiling moon rendered in an antique style, such as one might see in a fairytale illustration.
When the song had ended, Lucia’s mother laughed and said, “Nice singing, Jeeves.”
“Nice job with the cake, too,” the father added.
“My pleasure,” said that very familiar voice.
Jeeves, they called him. But Cynth understood then, really for the very first time, that each apartment did not have its own distinct spirit, its unique guardian angel. They were all the same entity, and he administered to the needs of each apartment dweller equally. One might call him Jeeves. Another might call him Mr. Moon. But who could say what his name truly was, if his designers had even given him one?
She felt stupid for believing in things
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