Clockwork Visitor

The Clockwork Visitor

The customs line at Argon Spindle Station had already stretched halfway to the docking bay when the robot arrived. It didn’t walk. It strode. Gleaming brass legs clanked in perfect sync, umbrella tucked under one jointed arm, bowler hat perched immaculately on its polished dome.

“Form Zeta-9B,” it announced, voice like a phonograph through treacle. “In triplicate. Notarised. Chrono-stamped. And scented with lilac, if you please.”

Jonno Virek, second in line and slowly losing the will to live, blinked. Mara sipped tea from a thermos and whispered, “This one looks like trouble.”

The customs officer, a squid-like thing in a vest, blinked all twelve eyes. “Purpose of visit?”

“I am here,” said the robot, “to audit the protocols of your audit protocols. Per Interstellar Statute 12, section 3A, subsection C... paragraph five.”

The squid fainted. The robot—designation Brass Inspector Regulatory Unit 009—clicked open its briefcase. Inside: stacks of forms, colour-coded tabs, and a stapler with the authority of a small moon.

It turned to Jonno. “Permit 42-Z required for that moustache. I’ll need an affidavit of grooming and a follicular compliance stamp.”

Mara said, “Run.” Jonno ran.

Hours later, the robot caught up with them at their ship.

“I must apologise,” it said, producing a thick sheaf of documents. “This is your formal apology. You’ll find the required complaint forms inside, should you wish to report this apology for being late.”

It tipped its hat, handed Jonno a self-inking pen, and vanished into a puff of bureaucracy.