The Crisis of 193-197

The white lab coat moved along the row of machines, stopping at every other one or so, checking dials and screens.

Wing-tip shoes clicked along the concrete floor and stopped close to the lab coat. “We have a problem.”

“Oh?” The lab coat looked up over the rim of his glasses. “We meaning me, I would hazard.”

“Five models are malfunctioning.”

“So bring them here and I’ll take a look.”

The wing-tip shoes shifted. “About that.”

“Can you not even do that?” Hands deposited into the pockets of the lab coat. “What have you done to my poor children?”

“There is evidently an issue with the programming.”

“We shall see.”

A device vibrated in the suit coat pocket. A hand extracted it; a finger tapped the screen. “Speak.”

The disembodied voice reported, “Sir, they’ve taken the fourth floor.”

Curses hit the floor like boots stomping. “I’m on my way. The doctor is with me.” The phone slid back into its pocket. “Doctor, this way.” An arm swept the lab coat along.

“The five models have taken the fourth floor?” Incredulity swamps the doctor’s voice.

A grunt was the acknowledgement.

“Which models?”


The lab coat stopped in his tracks. “When were you going to tell me the five are sequential?”