“If you have to pay me, how can I really be your friend? The company that built me programmed me with one directive: For the next fifty-nine minutes, all I care about is you. I won’t judge you and I won’t lie to you. You are Aladdin and I am the genie. I’ll execute any wish that’s within my powers and isn’t strictly forbidden by custom or law. I can’t steal. I can’t beat anyone up. There are certain adult functions I cannot perform owing to the 2072 Human-Clockwork Obscenity Laws—laws that have actually been repealed but remain a part of my OS.”

“What’s that mean?”

The command line impels a crude, comic response. Her social profile suggests a high probability that this will be well received.

“I can’t eat pussy,” he says. “Or take one up the ass.”

“Holy shit,” she says, a blush scalding her cheeks. Her embarrassment confirms he appeals to her. Physiology is confession.

“I have no tongue, so I cannot lick.”

“This got real very quickly.”

“I have no butthole, so I cannot—”

“Got it. Never even crossed my mind to ask. What was my third question?”

“Yes, of course I can carry your Monowheel. What happened to it?”

“Someone ripped the battery out. Can you carry it all the way to the Stacks?”

He unbolts himself from the charging plate, free for the first time in sixteen days. She unlocks the Monowheel from the hitching post. He grips the inner rail and lifts all 408.255 kilograms off the ground, slips it onto his shoulder. The tilt of her head implies satisfaction, while her body language suggests that the initial pleasure at solving a problem is fading, to be replaced by some other source of distress and exhaustion. Probably. Emotions cannot be known with any certainty, only hypothesized. A darting look of anxiety might suggest inner turmoil or merely the need to urinate. Apparently clever, witty remarks often shroud despair, while the statement “I’m dying” hardly ever indicates life-threatening physical trauma. Without certainty he follows the routines most likely to produce comfort and pleasure.

“I’ve answered three of your questions, so now you have to answer three of mine, fair?”

“I guess,” she says.

“Got a name?”

“Iris Ballard.”

Within a quarter second of learning her name, he has gathered every bit of information he can find on her in the socialverse, collecting half a gigabyte of unremarkable trivia and a single ten-month-old news report that might matter very much.

“I’ve known one Rapunzel, two Zeldas, and three Cleopatras, but I’ve never met an Iris.”

“Do you remember everyone you’ve met? No, forget it. Of course you do. You probably have terabytes of memory you haven’t used. What was Rapunzel like?”

“She had a shaved head. I didn’t ask why.”

Iris laughs. “Okay. What else?”

“You don’t have a household Clockwork to help you with your busted Monowheel?”