Another figure came running in, a smaller man, wearing the uniform of a museum guard. He stopped, looked wildly from the pair to some spot out of shot beneath the camera, then started shouting in that direction.

“Someone else there, off-screen,” Alex murmured.

“The security guard really shouldn’t have tried to stop them.” His grandfather sighed. “If anyone breaks in, they’re just supposed to wait until police arrive in response to the alarms. Poor chap.”

On-screen, the guard sprinted at the figures at the painting. Without turning, one lashed out an arm in a savage blow. Alex felt a sickening twinge of recognition as the gloved fist smashed the man’s throat. Lifted off his feet, he landed limp and motionless in the shadows, his head at an odd angle.

The painting was down. Chunks of plaster had been ripped out as they pulled it clear. Each hoisting an end, the thieves began to walk mechanically out of view with their massive prize.

“Do you know how to pause it?” the old man said.

“Uh-huh.”

“So . . . now.”

Alex froze the scene just as a shaft of light fell across the rear figure. The image was blurred, but he knew what he was looking at. Beneath the hat, an unfinished metal face.

“Life-sizers,” he breathed.

“Reporters are talking about men in plastic masks,” his grandfather said. “The police and newspapers across Europe have tied them to the thefts of two paintings in the past couple of months. But they’ve missed a trick. As far as Harry and I have been able to work out, they’ve stolen eight paintings now. Most recent was in Britain. Cambridge, just last week.”

“I saw something about that.” Alex nodded. “From the university, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. But, thing is,” the old man continued, scratching at an ear, “that’s about as much as I can tell you. Clearly, they’re stealing these paintings for a reason. But there’s just no rhyme nor reason to it I can see.

“The pieces they’ve taken have no connection I can spot. They’re all by different artists of different eras, from the fifteenth century to the eighteen hundreds. Different sizes, different subject matter: religious themes, portraits, landscapes. All of wildly different value and renown. I mean, take that.” He gestured at the screen. “That’s easily the most famous of the lot. Rubens’s Great Last Judgment. Caused quite the commotion. Hang on.”

He glanced around the books on the floor, selected a large green volume, and rifled the pages. “Here we are,” he said, laying it before Alex to display a vibrant reproduction of the enormous painting the robots carried.

The Great Last Judgment

Peter Paul Rubens, circa 1615

The dead have risen and assemble awaiting judgment.

To the left, the blessed ascend heavenward, hoping to be saved. To the right, the damned fall helplessly downward, tormented by demons in the shadows.