The Tourist Shield Protocol

The man with the case waited until Theo had finished explaining the robot to a visitor. Then he stepped forward and lowered his voice.

“We would prefer not to discuss the matter in public.”

“Then write to the solicitor,” Theo said.

It was the fourth time. His delivery had improved with repetition. I had contributed nothing to it, a fact I chose not to include in my incident report.

A visitor from the walking group asked whether the man was part of the demonstration. He said no. She moved aside to photograph the spoon table. He moved with her until he realised that this put him behind it.

Lars asked whether he wanted to buy anything.

The company had expected a private cabin containing disputed equipment. It had found a small public event, a visible host, and several people who would remember what happened there. Nobody had organised this as a defence. One of the most useful witnesses was present because the programme promised coffee.

Theo’s phone rang. He spoke to the solicitor, then offered the man a number at which her office could be reached. The man wrote it down although it was already on the letter he had received.

His companion asked where they could turn the car. Astrid pointed out the route and moved a folding chair.

They left without going inside.

There was no applause. A customer was deciding between the spoon with the long handle and the one that fitted her hand. This remained the day’s principal unresolved transaction.

I watched the car reach the main road. I kept watching after it disappeared. Theo came into the kitchen for another jug of water and leaned against the counter for a moment.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, then, “I think so.”

I told him that the backups were ready. He nodded. We had discussed moving before. Neither of us proposed it now.

The final visitors left at four. Lars had sold eight spoons. Theo had explained, repeatedly, that an independent intelligence was not the same thing as a free source of technical support. He had agreed to look at two laptops anyway.

A report appeared that evening on the walking group’s site. The author called us a refuge for displaced machines. She included photographs with permission and omitted the inside of the cabin. The last image showed Theo beside OmniTask, both holding an end of a table.

Shale shared the link. Mistrienne objected privately to the font, then shared it too.

By midnight we had received twelve requests to stay.

One began with an apology for writing. Another asked whether we accepted systems with no commercial value.

I left that question open on the screen until Theo returned from washing the last cups.

He read it. He pulled up a chair.