A little girl marched, stepping neatly over arms and legs she did not look at. A white dress and the once taller bodies around her had shielded her from the brilliance and the blast. Her eyes were fixed on Robie. In them was the same imperious confidence, though none of the delight, with which she had watched him earlier.
"Help me, Robie," she said. "I want my mother."
"Hello, youngster," Robie said. "What would you like? Comics? Candy?"
"Where is she, Robie? Take me to her."
"Balloons? Would you like to watch me blow up a balloon?"
The little girl began to cry. The sound triggered off another of Robie's novelty circuits, a service feature that had brought in a lot of favorable publicity.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "Are you in trouble? Are you lost?"
"Yes, Robie. Take me to my mother."
"Stay right here," Robie said reassuringly, "and don't be frightened. I will call a policeman." He whistled shrilly, twice.
Time passed. Robie whistled again. The windows flared and roared. The little girl begged. "Take me away, Robie," and jumped onto a little step in his hoopskirt.
"Give me a dime," Robie said.
The little girl found one in her pocket and put it in his claws.
"Your weight," Robie said, "is fifty-four and one-half pounds."
"Have you seen my daughter, have you seen her?" a woman was crying somewhere. "I left her watching that thing while I stepped inside—Rita!"
"Robie helped me," the little girl began babbling at her. "He knew I was lost. He even called the police, but they didn't come. He weighed me, too. Didn't you, Robie?"
But Robie had gone off to peddle Poppy Pop to the members of a rescue squad which had just come around the corner, more robotlike in their asbestos suits than he in his metal skin.
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