The robot nodded. It pushed the door and came inside, wheeling its trolley. Then it stood there and looked at Mariam.

Mariam stared at the robot. It was patched and old and rusted, and recent sand had scoured its body down to the metal, and there were patches on him of what looked like dried blood.

“I know you,” she said. “You were in the souk when I was selling flowers. A few days ago. I gave you a rose.”

“And I thanked you,” the robot said. It had voice like old sand grinding, and like smoke. It looked at her with what could have been curiosity.

“You get about,” it said.

“I take what work I can.”

The robot nodded. “It is nice to see you again,” it said dubiously.

“You, too. I never asked your name.”

“I seldom give it.”

“My name is Mariam.”

“Mariam,” the robot said, with that same dubious tone. “Yes.”

“What is that?” Mariam said. She pointed at the trolley. Laid out on the trolley were golden body parts. Legs, arms, a torso and a head.

“What does it look like?” the robot said.

“I am sure I don’t know,” Mariam said. “Can I offer you tea?”

“Tea?” said the robot. “Why would I want tea?”

“It’s a custom,” Mariam said. “It’s polite.”

The robot nodded. “Then yes,” it said. “I shall have tea.”

Mukhtar appeared then. He carried a tray with a tea set and some biscuits. He beamed at the robot.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said. “It is rare to see one of you old robots here in Neom.”

“I get the sense Neom is quite happy without us,” the robot said.

Mukhtar inched his head. “It may be so,” he allowed. “They do not like old things here, much. Always with the new. They forget the new becomes the old, and that they will be just as old and obsolete in their turn.”

“Yes,” the robot said.

“Tea?” Mukhtar said. He laid the service down on a low table.

“Yes,” the robot said. It sat down. Mukhtar sat down. The robot sipped the tea. It nibbled on a biscuit.

“Very nice,” it said.

“Yes,” Mukhtar said. He ate a biscuit and took a noisy sip of tea and cleared his throat. “Well, then. You are here to buy, or sell?”

The robot hesitated.

“Both, perhaps,” it said. “Or neither.”

Mukhtar indicated he was listening.

“You know what this is?” the robot said. It pointed to the relics on the trolley.

“Would you mind?” Mukhtar said. He got up to inspect them.

“Not at all,” the robot said.

Mukhtar examined the objects. “A golden man,” he said, almost whispering.

“Yes. You know it?”

“I thought it was a story,” Mukhtar said. “I never saw one.”

“There were not many made,” the robot said. “Maybe there was only ever the one.”

“What is it?” Mariam said. “What was it?”

“It’s a robot,” Mukhtar said.

“I can see that,” Mariam said.