Rogers attempted to put his hands in his pockets and adopt a brooding walk, but he found that his pants pockets had been sewn shut. Another archaic rule said that it looked unprofessional to put your hands in your pockets, so apparently Stan/Eval and Supply had gotten together to rob everyone of a place to put anything in their pants. Rogers thought there might have been something philosophically different between not breaking rules and not being given the opportunity to break them, but he realized very quickly that he didn’t care. He missed his pockets.

“CALL FUNCTION [ABRUPTLY GREET]. TARGET [ENSIGN ROGERS.] OUTPUT STRING: GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR.”

Rogers’ arms flailed in the air as he screeched to a halt in the hallway. A few inches from where he stopped stood an older model droid, mostly indistinguishable from any other droid on the ship. It was one of the tracked variety, and from its relatively dirty exoskeleton wafted the distinct odors of talcum powder and alcohol-based cleaning solution.

“What do you want?” Rogers snapped. “What are you doing on the quarterdeck?”

“CALL FUNCTION [STATE INTENTIONS]. OUTPUT STRING: I AM CYBERMAN SECOND CLASS BAR-BR 116. YOU FAILED TO ATTEND AN APPOINTMENT AT 0830 SHIP TIME THIS MORNING.”

Rogers gaped. Then he noticed the droid’s hands; instead of the standard three-clawed grip, the droid was equipped with rotating discs to which were attached various barbaric instruments, such as scissors, razors, a comb, and a tiny welding torch, which Rogers didn’t understand at all.

“So, you’re Barber Bot,” Rogers said, taking a slow step back. “I don’t need an appointment. I didn’t even make the appointment.”

BAR-BR 116 inched forward, its rotating instrument discs clicking ominously.

“CALL FUNCTION [PRESENT EVIDENCE]. OUTPUT STRING: IT WOULD APPEAR THAT YOUR FACIAL HAIR IS NOT IN ACCORDANCE WITH REGULATIONS SET FORTH BY MERIDAN PATROL FLEET STANDARDIZATION AND EVALUATION. YOU ARE REQUIRED TO COMPLY. I AM HERE TO ASSIST YOU. YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.”

The welding torch flared to life for a brief moment.

“Get away from me,” Rogers said. “You’re not touching my beard.”

“YOU MISSED OUR APPOINTMENT.”

“Yeah,” Rogers said, inching closer to his door. “You mentioned that. Look, I’m pretty busy. Why don’t you go take care of all the other customers that are probably waiting for you back in the barber shop? Their hair is growing right now because you’re not there for them. In fact, I should probably report you for dereliction of duty.”

“YOU MISSED OUR—”

Rogers slammed the button to enter his room and ducked inside before the insane barber droid could say anything else about the missed appointment. What a one-track mind! Didn’t he have any other customers? For that matter, how good could a robot be at cutting hair? Rogers had all sorts of cowlicks and lumps. It took a real master to groom his wild locks; he wasn’t about to let some half-sentient machine butcher his face.

Squatting low, Rogers listened intently through the door, making sure the droid had given up. He heard a few more ominous clicks and whirrs, felt the door warm a little bit as BAR-BR 116 presumably tried unsuccessfully to burn a hole in the door.