“Flying platforms, flying platforms,” yelled Cyborg.
The robots charged out of the hub . . .
Verruca, mid lubricating the Helmet’s joints, looked up. “Flying what?”
“A small board,” yelled Cyborg, “mid trial stage.”
“Oh, that,” said Verruca, wiping her hands.
The robots watched a fourth flying platform appear and begin to circle in a tipsy fashion. With two sniffers and a bag of toothbrushes strapped to the back, balancing looked to be a serious issue.
The packing had been done in a rush, shoved onto a fourth flying packer platform by a sniffy footman who was not too impressed with Howard. He knew a thing or two about feet; he had soothed many, trained with the best, and the last thing he intended to do was take packing orders from a jumped-up digger who, well, insulted the very fabr
