“What’s a twenty-two-letter word for a relativistic quantum field theory?” the Washing-Up wanted to know.
It was a sleepy Gormsday off the western coast of Andromeda. The Washing-Up asked his question because he was doing the Times crossword puzzle.
There were three Rude Mechanicals. With the brains of the Six Million Dollar Mannequin, the astonishing strength of Buns of Steel, and whatever the pile of cookware called the Washing-Up was good for, they could accomplish any task, solve any problem. But today, the Mechanicals had nothing to do. When boredom sank in, you could expect more than a resulting funk. You could anticipate a depression with the gravitational heft of a minor black hole. The emanating gloom would make nearby asteroids weep.
The other Mechanicals had to do something, and fast.