LXIII - SOMEWHERE ON THE GALAXY
Jyro stood n***d in front of Pardo's metal shaving mirror, turned, and craved to see his back. There were four pink lines, one for each of the Worgan's claws. The site was hard to reach, and would have been nearly impossible to treat without assistance from the robot, which the prospector had named after the Good Samaritan and called Sam for short. Satisfied with the healing process, the human chose one of his badly soiled jumpsuits, wished he had enough water to wash with, and wondered how he smelled. The answer seemed obvious. Sam, who was oblivious to the prospector's concerns, transformed itself into acrobatic mode, executed a back flip, and sought the praise it was programed to expect. It's linguistic abilities continued to improve. "How about that one, Huwe? Pretty good, huh?"
- Writer
