“I wouldn’t call it amusement,” Park said.

“What would you call it, then?”

“Ignorance,” Park replied. “Or the Freudian impulse to hate what’s different from you.”

Glenn was silent at this. Usually he could keep up with her; Park didn’t know who had developed his positronic brain, but whoever it was had made Glenn so close to human that sometimes she didn’t recognize him in a crowd. If she wasn’t looking closely, the eyes that gazed calmly back at her could have been anyone’s. His body was both warmly familiar to her and as unremarkable as a stranger’s. He seemed to process things just as anyone did—or faster. She couldn’t remember if he’d always been like this, or if he was evolving.

But he didn’t quite understand Freud. Not yet, anyway.

Before the protests, Glenn would pass Park her bag and watch from the gate as she ascended the front steps to school. Sometimes he would stay at his post until class was over; other times he wandered off into the city to run errands or pick up supplies. At least, this was what Park assumed he did: Glenn was mostly self-directing. She didn’t leave him any lists. Things just got done.

But once the picket line appeared, Park had to take steps to ensure that Glenn always quietly broke off from her, several yards from the school entrance. She didn’t think that any of the protesters were disgruntled enough to hurt Glenn—they might not even recognize him as an android, if they weren’t looking attentively—but she couldn’t take any chances. Every morning she read about seething crowds of rioters flooding the city, bearing down on innocent courier androids or the sexbots loitering on the corners. Every morning she saw image-grabs of how the demonstrators had unleashed their fury, tearing their victims apart, scattering their metal limbs to the streets. Wires dangling gruesomely, synthetic skin flapping like loose chicken flesh. They were sending a message, one man told the news. Telling the big robot companies that their products weren’t welcome in the city anymore. It was the only way they could get anyone to listen, to stop them from sending “the clunkers” in. The protesters didn’t want to do it—destroy the robots, that is—but it was their only choice. “Hit ’em where it hurts,” the man said to the cameras, smugly. “Their wallets.”

“They’re idiots,” Park said whenever she watched these interviews. “Why hasn’t anyone arrested them? Destroying androids is illegal.”

“As illegal as knocking over trash cans,” Glenn answered imperturbably. He was also scanning through the newsfeeds, though he downloaded them directly into his processing unit, while Park had to scroll through them on her wrist console. “Most of the perpetrators are issued fines to cover the property damage, but few seem to comply.”

“They’re idiots,” Park said again.

“They’re afraid,” said Glenn. “From my understanding, it’s different. But also, in some ways, the same.”