The old man considered Alex seriously, as though debating what more to say, then shrugged. “These machines started as a by-product of my father’s experiments into extending life, Alex. He was exploring the possibility of migrating consciousness. Throwing your mind into another body. So if you were near the end, you could just slip your personality into someone else, take them over.

“Trouble with that is, it would take a lot of effort to suppress the mind of whoever’s body it was. Personally, I don’t find the idea appealing on any level. I mean, I find it hard enough getting comfortable staying as a guest in anybody’s house. I like my own space.

“But the robotics line was something Hans Beckman developed, using elements of that technique, and . . . other methods, under my father’s guidance.”

Alex nodded, trying to ignore the disheartening creaks the branch gave out with every movement they made. This was more than his grandfather had ever told him about the tall man’s eerie machines. Despite their precarious position, he was keen to keep him talking.

“So Beckman made them,” Alex prodded, picturing the unsettlingly ingratiating little toy shop owner who had once held them at gunpoint, a man whose eyes were perpetually hidden behind the shining lenses of his glasses.

“Well, the basic mechanics. Beckman was an engineer originally,” his grandfather went on. “Rather clever at it. He investigated creating an artificial body, you see, and transferring the mind into that. That’s how the life-sizers started. I think my father quickly dismissed that idea. But Beckman’s work proved useful.

“They first bought the toy shop in Prague to keep tabs on any discoveries concerning our old toy robot. While he was cooling his heels there, Beckman had the idea to miniaturize his process and started creating the machines you’ve seen.

“As far as this one goes”—the old man gestured at the flier—“I’d guess my father used it to do more than just watch you. He, well, tried to put a hex on you. It took that scrap of material for a focus: something of yours, something close to you. Just be thankful it didn’t get something even closer—hair or nail clippings or blood, y’know. I’d venture he’s been trying to probe your mind, size you up, or wear you down. The attack in the street when I met you was probably an angry surge, trying to get at you before I could.