I can see them through the brush—those red eyes, glowing like the waning embers of a fireplace. There are two: One is in a top hat, the other a derby, both mustachioed to an ostentatious degree and both resting their hunting rifles in the crooks of their arms. These gentlemen sentries have been scanning the countryside for the past 15 minutes. They’re looking for me. Their surveillance balloon has been drifting around near me, but so far I’ve been lucky enough to avoid its spotlight and the resulting klaxon. I’d like to fight back, but right now I’ve got to my name a pair of binoculars, some bandages a couple of dead rats and a boot. The situation is not promising, but I’ve got to make a run for the quaint little English village just over the hill; maybe I can find a pistol and some ammo. God, I hate these robots!