She scribed off her name on a small datapad.

"Are you coming with us, today?" Eloise asked.

This was unexpected. She knew it could ruin her plan.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world !" Mrs. Whitten gave her a brief smile, a flash of small, sharp teeth.

"Got to make sure my guests are all right..." her gaze flicked down to Eloise's hands. "What's in the bag, dearie?"

"Just some knitting," Eloise replied. "I don't know how long I'll be waiting." She smiled weakly back, her heart thumping...praying that the Matron wouldn't demand to have a peek inside.

"Oh," the Matron said, losing interest. "By the way, dear. I've had some trouble getting an internet connection for yourroom...theywon'tgivea time when they can come and do it."

Eloise nodded. "I'll look forward to it," she said, politely.

She knew that nothing would be gained by causing a fuss-and after today, what did it matter?

She spent the journey to the Clinic going over her plan carefully. It wouldn't do to forget any crucial parts of it.

The reception room was less crowded than before.

"We've got fifteen forearms, three legs below the knee, and an ocular implant booked," Mrs.

Whitten told the receptionist.

Eloise eyed the Adjunct's office door. From where she stood, it was no more than ten feet away-ten feet that might as well be one hundred miles, she thought.

Mrs. Whitten was busy at the desk, making sure that the annuity money was paid directly into the Homes account.

"Am I the last to go in, Mrs. Whitten?" Eloise said.

"What?"

"I'd like to finish off my knitting..."

A flicker of irritation crossed the Matron's face. "Yes, if you like."

Eloise nodded her thanks, and shuffled away-vaguely in the direction of the Adjunct's door.

Her heart thumping, she glanced around at the others. Arnold was gloomily staring at the carpet, no doubt contemplating the imminent loss of his right foot-Betty was humming to herself, a glazed look in her eyes.

As quick as she could, Eloise reached out and grasped the door handle. It turned easily. She slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

The Adjunct looked up when she entered. For a moment, she saw its inhumanity-its blank stare-then the eyes came to life, focused on her standing there.

"I haven't much time: listen-my operation's due for today. Could you use my annuity money, from the sale of my eye, to buy me a coach ticket?"

The Adjunct gave a nod. "I can do this. I have enough discretion in the running of this Clinic to hold your annuity credit in a separate account-one I can create for the purpose-and to buy what you want.

But where would you wish to go?"

Eloise's voice trembled as she told it about her sister, and gave it her sister's address. "The Mediterranean League," it considered. "You would need a permit to go there."

That was the difficult part. It was something a person like Eloise would never be issued with; she was too old, too useless to a society like that of the Aegean State for them to allow her to live there...

"Your date of birth would be the problem..." the Adjunct mused.

Eloise had the impression that it was enjoying this challenge.

"...if I make a small amendment to your date of birth that would bring you in under the age limit..."

It looked at her.

"I could do it. Someone with your experience in robotics will always be welcomed."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"But why should I do this?" the Adjunct asked.

Her knees felt weak. She lifted her bag, and pulled out the doll with trembling fingers.

"A Clever Dolly," it remarked.

"You," she simply said.

There was a silence-an eon in computer time-then the Adjunct made a strange gargling noise.

"You kept me?" it said.

Somehow, she heard astonishment in that level voice.

"I didn't," she confessed. "But my mother did. When she died, some of her possessions-the worthless ones that the Council didn't take for keeping her-were passed on to me. This was one of them."

She looked down at the grubby doll. Its cloth body flopped in her hand, the only hi-tech indication was its round, molded head, with its empty chip-slot in the back.

"It was worthless, but it wasn't very big. I kept it to remind me more of my mother than of my childhood."

The Adjunct's eyes gleamed. "This is an unexpected thing. Thank you for showing me the doll."

Eloise glanced back at the door. It wouldn't do for Mrs. Whitten to hear her plan.

They did the operation under a local, keeping up a cheerful banter as they cut out her precious sapphire eye, disconnecting her optic nerve from the micro-circuitry-leaving her lying there with a black eye-patch like a pirate.

They tried the patch for size, then took it off to trim its edge.

"Don't I get an artificial eye?" she asked. "Just a painted one?"

The surgeon's eyebrows arched at her. He consulted his screen, then tapped at it with a gloved finger.

"Sorry, Mrs. Harley..."

She sighed, ignoring the mispronunciation of her name (it seemed like too much to ask).

"There's no provision for that in the fee?" she guessed.

"Er...no," he admitted. Then a thought occurred to him-"You may get one on the secondhand market," he said. "Maybe someone in one of the African States..."

She sighed again. If he didn't see the irony of his suggestion, she was too tired to point it out to him.

She let them sew her up, then douse the wound in antiviral spray. The patch covered it, held on by a simple strap around her head.

"You can take it off in a week," the surgeon said. He patted her on the shoulder, not unkindly.

Afterward, they led her back into the waiting room. She sat on a hard plastic chair, numbed by the experience-no longer thinking of her plan...of anything in particular.

Her head didn't hurt, just floated on her neck.

It's the drugs, she thought. The anesthetic.

"Are you ready?"

It was Mrs. Whitten. She stood at the doorway, obviously impatient to get back on the coach.

"I'm ready," Eloise answered.

Something was bothering her, but it had slipped her mind. She gave a mental shrug-it couldn't be important, she thought. No doubt she'd remember what it was, once she was back in her room. "I can't walk!"

Arnold's voice. It held that anguish she heard every morning.

"They taken my foot!" he called out again.

Mrs. Whitten glanced out of the door.

"You're in a wheelchair, Mr. Scrivens! Don't worry about the coach! It's got a ramp."

"I can't walk!" he cried again.

Mrs. Whitten gave an exasperated gasp, and disappeared out the door.

Eloise was left sitting there, staring at the receptionist.

It was a cheap 412, she recognized again. A nasty model. Stupid.

Now, she thought, the better model's around here somewhere...her gaze drifted around the room.

It focused on the Adjunct's door.

A cold chill gripped her heart. Her stomach flipped, making her gulp back bile.

She'd almost forgotten.

She lurched forward, out of her chair, almost toppling over.

The Adjunct's door seemed to retreat from her as she shuffled across the floor, but-after an age-she grasped the door handle, and pulled it down.

It would not move. It was locked.

Eloise turned to look at the exit, but Mrs. Whitten was still coping with Arnold-his cries sounded shrill. The edge of panic in his voice spurred her on-what could she do?

The receptionist.

"Excuse me!" she called out.

The robot's head lifted. It swivelled to face her.

"The Adjunct," Eloise said. "I want to see the Adjunct."

"Do you have an appointment?"

Then she understood.

"Yes," she answered. "Eloise Harvey."

The receptionist reached forward and flipped a toggle on its board.

"Go through, please."

Still dazed by the anesthetic, but triumphant, Eloise pulled at the door handle. It turned with a click.

In a moment, she was inside.

The Adjunct's office was dark, but there was enough light peeping out through the shuttered window for Eloise to see its shape, silent and collapsed over its desk.

A small object lay in front of it: the Clever Dolly.

Eloise moved to pick it up.

"Ellie!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Ellie! It's me!"

The small, shrill voice sounded from the doll.

The sound of it threw her back decades, to when she was a little girl. It recalled other things too: the smell of baked bread, the clatter of plates when Grandma would lay the table for the family...she blinked back a tear.