He’d reached the far end of the room and turned around, facing his wife again, and he saw her expression brighten. "You know what we need?" she said. "A Mozo."

"Mozo?" He said it the way she had, with two long-O sounds.

She nodded. "You know what that is?"

"I know it’s worth fifteen points."

Sarah frowned. "It means ‘male servant,’" she said. "It’s from the Spanish. But it’s also the brand name for a line of robots designed to help the elderly."

Don narrowed his eyes. "They make such things?"

"See what I mean?" said Sarah. "You have got to get out more. Yes, they make such things, if by ‘they,’ you mean McGavin Robotics."

He stopped pacing. "Even a low-end bot costs a fortune."

"Sure. But Cody thinks I’ve got some special insight into decrypting the response from Sigma Drac. I’ll tell him I need a Mozo. It wouldn’t be a lie. I could easily get more done with someone to serve as a research assistant, get me coffee, and so on.

And it would mean I’d never be alone. You could go out without worrying about me."

He thought about complaining that the last time they’d taken charity from McGavin, it hadn’t worked out so well. But Sarah was right. He’d go nuts if he had to stay home all the time, and, well, a housebot would make a lot of things easier, wouldn’t it?

It was as though Ikea sold mechanical men. The Mozo arrived disassembled in a cubic crate that measured about a meter on a side. Don found it disconcerting seeing the head in a plastic bag, and it took him a good five minutes to figure out how to connect the legs (which were stored folded in half at the knee). But, at last, it was done. The robot was sky blue trimmed with silver; its body was covered with a soft material like that used to make wet suits. It had a round head about the size of a basketball, with two glassy eyes. And it had a mouth, of sorts. He had seen similar things on some other robots he’d run into: a horizontal black line beneath the eyes that could animate to match speech patterns. Although the market for robots that looked more or less human was small, people did like robots to have some facial expression.

Don couldn’t help comparing their new robot to the fictional bots of his youth. He decided that, except for the mouth, it looked most like one of those from the old Gold Key comic Magnus, Robot Fighter. And, he had to admit, it was way cool having one, and not just because it let him put a check mark beside another of those twenty items on his old high-school list of things to do.

He looked at the Mozo, another modern miracle they couldn’t afford. "Well," he said, hands on his hips, "what do you think?"

"It looks nice enough," said Sarah. "Shall we turn it on?"

Don was amused to see that the switch was a recessed button in the middle of the robot’s torso; their Mozo had an innie. He pressed the switch, and—

"Hello," said a plain male voice. The mouth outline moved in a cartoonish approximation of the shapes human lips would have made. "Do you speak English?

Hola. Habla Español? Bonjour. Parlez-vous français? Konichi-wa. Nihongo-o hanashimasu-ka? "

"English," said Don.

"Hello," said the robot again. "This is the first time I’ve been activated since leaving the factory, so I need to ask you a few questions, please. First, from whom do I take instructions?"

"Me and her," Don said.

The robot nodded its basketball head. "By default, I will call you ma’am and you sir.

However, if you prefer, I can address you any way you like."

Don grinned. "I am the Great and All-Powerful Oz."

The robot’s mouth outline moved in a way that suggested the machine knew Don was kidding. "A pleasure to meet you, Great and All-Powerful Oz."

Sarah looked at the robot with a "see what I have to put up with" expression. Don smiled sheepishly, and she said, "Call him Don. And you can call me Sarah."

"A pleasure to meet you, Don and Sarah. What you are hearing is my default voice.

However, if you prefer me to use a female voice or a different accent, I can. Would you like that?"

Don looked at Sarah. "No, this is fine," she said.

"All right," said the robot. "Have you chosen a name for me yet?"

Sarah lifted her shoulders and looked at Don. "Gunter," he said.

"Is that G-U-N-T-H-E-R?" asked the robot.

"No H," said Don. And then, unable to help himself, "Get the H out."

"My little boy," Sarah said, smiling at Don. She’d said that often enough over the years, but, just now, it seemed to hit a little too close to home. She must have noticed his quickly suppressed wince, because she immediately said, "Sorry."

Still, he thought, she was right. He was a kid at heart, at least when it came to robots.

And his absolute favorite when he was growing up, as Sarah well knew, was the robot from Lost in Space. He got miffed whenever people called that robot Robby, although Robby, the robot from the movie Forbidden Planet, did bear a passing resemblance to the one from Lost in Space — not surprising, given that they were both designed by the same person, Robert Kinoshita. The Jupiter 2’s robot was mostly just referred to as "the Robot" (or the "bubble-headed booby" and a hundred other alliterative insults by Dr. Smith). Still, many hardcore Lost in Space fans called it B-9, which was the model number it gave for itself in one episode. But Don had always contended that the barrel-chested automaton with vacuum-cleaner hoses for arms was actually named GUNTER, because another episode contained a flashback, showing the robot in its original packing crate, which was labeled "General Utility Non-Theorizing Environmental Robot." Despite pointing this out to people for — God, for over seventy years now — Don hadn’t won many converts. But at least now there was a robot in the world who indisputably had that name.

Of course, thought Don, Sarah understood all this. She’d grown up watching Lost in Space, too, although what she’d loved most about it were the photos of real nebulas and galaxies used in space scenes ("Astronomical Photographs Copyrighted 1959 by the California Institute of Technology," the card on the ending credits said). But, he realized sadly, none of this would mean anything to Lenore or anyone else who was as young as he felt.

They continued responding to Gunter’s questions for about half an hour, outlining the sorts of duties he was to perform, whether he should answer the phone or door, advising him not to enter the bathrooms when they were occupied unless he heard a call for help, and so on.

But Gunter’s principal job was making sure Sarah was safe and well. And so Don said, "Do you know CPR?"

"Yes."

"What about the Heimlich maneuver?" asked Sarah.

"That, too. I’m fully trained in first aid. I can even perform an emergency tracheotomy, if need be, and my palms have built-in defibrillator pads."

"See!" said Don. "He is like Gunter. The real Gunter could shoot lightning out of his claws."

Sarah looked at Don with an affectionate grin. "The real Gunter?"

Don laughed. "You know what I mean." He looked at the blue machine. "What do we do with you when we go to bed?" he asked. "Do we turn you off?"

"You may if you wish," said Gunter, and he smiled reassuringly. "But I suggest you leave me on so that I can respond instantly to any emergency. You can also set me tasks to perform while you’re sleeping: I can dust and do other chores, and have a hot breakfast ready for you when you get up."

Don looked around the living room, and his eyes landed on the fireplace. "Do you know how to make a fire?"

The robot tilted his head a little to one side, and, if glass lenses could be said to have a faraway look, Gunter’s did for a second. "I do now," he said.