Robie glided very slowly down the path, deftly jogging aside whenever he got too close to ankles in skylon or sockassins. The rubber buffer on his hoopskirt was merely an added safeguard. The boy who had called Robie a turtle jumped in the middle of the path and stood his ground, grinning foxily. Robie stopped two feet short of him. The turret ducked. The crowd got quiet. "Hello, youngster," Robie said in a voice that was smooth as that of a TV star, and was, in fact, a recording of one. The boy stopped smiling. "Hello," he whispered. "How old are you?" Robie asked. "Nine. No, eight." "That's nice," Robie observed. A metal arm shot down from his neck, stopped just short of the boy. The boy jerked back. "For you," Robie said. The boy gingerly took the red polly-lop from the neatly fashioned blunt metal claws, and began to unwrap it. "Nothing to say?" asked Robie. "Uh--thank you." After a suitable pause, Robie continued. "And how about a nice refreshing drink of Poppy Pop to go with your polly-lop?" The boy lifted his eyes, but didn't stop licking the candy. Robie waggled his claws slightly. "Just give me a quarter and within five seconds--" A little girl wriggled out of the forest of legs. "Give me a polly-lop, too, Robie," she demanded. "Rita, come back here!" a woman in the third rank of the crowd called angrily. Robie scanned the newcomer gravely. His reference silhouettes were not good enough to let him distinguish the sex of children, so he merely repeated, "Hello, youngster." "Rita!" "Give me a polly-lop!" Disregarding both remarks, for a good salesman is single-minded and does not waste bait, Robie said winningly, "I'll bet you read _Junior Space Killers_. Now I have here--" "Uh-uh, I'm a girl. _He_ got a polly-lop." * * * * * At the word "girl," Robie broke off. Rather ponderously, he said, "I'll bet you read _Gee-Gee Jones, Space Stripper_. Now I have here the latest issue of that thrilling comic, not yet in the stationary vending machines. Just give me fifty cents and within five--" "Please let me through. I'm her mother." A young woman in the front rank drawled over her powder-sprayed shoulder, "I'll get her for you," and slithered out on six-inch platform shoes. "Run away, children," she said nonchalantly. Lifting her arms behind her head, she pirouetted slowly before Robie to show how much she did for her bolero half-jacket and her form-fitting slacks that melted into skylon just above the knees. The little girl glared at her. She ended the pirouette in profile. At this age-level, Robie's reference silhouettes permitted him to distinguish sex, though with occasional amusing and embarrassing miscalls. He whistled admiringly. The crowd cheered. Someone remarked critically to a friend, "It would go over better if he was built more like a real robot. You know, like a man." The friend shook his head. "This way it's subtler."