“Ironically, it’s not the big, impressive predators that
have the most suitable impulses,” said Doctor Geisteskrank, adjusting the input
electrodes. “They know they’re at the
top. They don’t know how to
destroy; they just eat until they’re full. No, you want something low on the food chain,
something that knows fear. And hatred.”
Bartleby eased in with the tea tray.
“Ah, you’re just in time!” Doctor Geisteskrank cried. “I’ve a riddle for you. When is a chicken not a chicken?”
He pushed the initiator button.
From outside, a rumble, as of the first experimental scratch
of a terrible, robotic claw.
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