...ing of a movie that he had seen when he was being constructed. It was that very movie the 'lab' had on their remote when they had secured his 'eye-balls' into their cavernous sockets. He looked all around. How did he get here? Far above his head there was a roar.

"Hoo boy! These chili dogs sure do give a feller a powerful lotta gas!" Sam Parkhill continued to scan the horizon from atop the dune as he chewed the remainder of his lunch. "Wonder if that Martian feller's coming back today like he said?"

Look over yonder there. Tarnation, that robots going around in circles, now whaddawedo?

(nice scenerioizing Nard)

And moreover, those dang robots are, why, they're robot mice and...even moreso...them are robot men, running round the dang-nabbit robot towns. Why, this is all enough to scare all them Martians to some other far off Dune. And as to a her, (whoever she is) Frankly, Bert, I don't give a damn!

Funny looking mark on the back of Officer Bert�s neck thought the barber. And he hasn�t been acting himself. He glanced up and saw Ernie walking over from his parked cab. The bell rang on the door when he came in and then he just stood there with a zombie-like look on his face with the door open and holding his sax in his mouth. After a moment he pulled something out of his pocket.

�You�ve got to put down the ducky if you want to play the saxophone,� said the barber.

The bell rang as Ernie closed the door and Bert the cop got out of the chair.



[This message has been edited by Chapter 31 (edited 05-17-2006).]

("Hmmm. I wonder if that role on the new western, "Wagon Train" was it? is still up for grabs"), thought Bert. ("Maybe I'll give it another shot. After all, who'd guess Ernie would land that "Herbert T. Gillis" role? Meanwhile, I guess I'll check out that report of some kid's dad getting sucked down into the sand behind his house...")
"Oh, thanks, Mr. Wyneski."
("The back of my neck feels odd. Probably shaved too close...")

[This message has been edited by Braling II (edited 05-18-2006).]

I took the practical approach!

Had to go over it all in my mind one more time. There was that one nagging question: If it's true that the inner sanctum of St. Nick had no phones, how did the cobbler elves fill in the blanks on the naughty or nice lists? That was something that was tearing me apart when I met with my robot lawyer friend in Robot Town. He had some milk and cookies. I settled for a Chianti.

Sure I'm aware that Lewis Clark hadn't been heard from for weeks. And of course I was worried. When his brother Oreo Clark phoned to tell me that the Civil War re-enactment was heading this way, I figured it was my clue to get myself off to Mars. But before I did, I had to find out if officer Bert or Ernie the Cabbie had any other information that would be helpful. Then again, I figured maybe I could wait it out a little while longer. What had I to loose...except my life!?

The sun coming through the blinds was hot on the back of his head as he rolled another cigarette and reflected at the effect the bars of light had on the face of his client. A mouse ran across the desk.

�Eeeeek, a mouse!� she screamed.

�That�s not a mouse. That�s a robot�

�Eeeeeeeeeek!�

He awoke sluggishly in the dimly lit room. It was quite obviously a hospital room of some kind, but the question remained. "How did I get here, and better yet who am I?" He could just discern the sky through a slit in the curtain, gray and crackling with energy. He saw the bricks of the window ledge starting to dot with rain as thunder rumbled. He noticed a small white flower growing from a crack in the mortar. It now was being pelted with raindrops and drooped over the edge. Why he was fixated on this unlikely image, he couldn't say. He carelessly lifted his hand to scratch his head when a blur of shiny metal stopped him cold. It was his hand, his metalic intricate hand. He threw back the sheet and the room was enveloped with his piercing electronic scream...

��I want my Mapo!� God, when had he been programmed with that? Slowly he realized that there was a Holmberg hat on the chair next to the bed and in the corner of the room�someone was standing, staring.

"Who are you?" He asked. The man was well dressed in a gray suit and blue tie. He was older but not elderly, maybe sixty or so. He had an english accent as he said, "I am your benefactor of sorts, my name is Malcolm Drury." "Who am I, or who was I before...this?" "Let's call you Gabriel for now, shall we. I don't want you getting upset like earlier, I want you to rest a bit longer." "And what if I don't choose to calm down, suppose I decide to tear you and this place apart until I get answers?" Malcolm drew from his jacket a small black oblong box with buttons and a short antenna extending from it. "You shall have your answers Gabriel, all in good time, now you must rest." He started to protest as he now understood the situation. He saw him point the object at him and darkness was all he knew. The man picked up his hat and walked from the room whistling.

The theory is obviously true: cell phone rays really do disturb brainwaves!

There isn't enough cells in there to disturb anything let alone brain waves. Maybe a ripple perhaps...

��please be sure that you have dialed the number correctly. This has been a recording, 4162.�

"...that's Gripp! Walter Gripp!"