Once confident that Fry would be safe, Foss hurried back to the Planet Express building, determined to establish contact with Raven and her crew. He made several attempts to hail the ship from the communications console, but received no response. "Damn," he grumbled. "Why won't they talk to me?"

An unexpected voice caught his attention: "Philaster, dear, I've prepared a special dinner for you."

The professor whirled in his chair. To his astonishment, Leela was striking a sexy pose before him. The amused smirk on her face suggested to him that something was awry.

"Had you fooled, didn't I?" said the faux Leela. "I can also turn into an old man who smells like garlic."

"That's very impressive," said Foss sarcastically.

"Let me try to contact Raven," suggested Bender in the form of Proteus in the form of Leela. "Maybe she'll recognize her master's voice."

"Give it your best shot," said Foss, stepping to one side.

Bender punched a button to open a communications channel, then spoke in Leela's tones. "Raven, this is Captain Turanga Leela. Acknowledge."

A second of silence went by, then Raven made herself heard over the speaker: "Acknowledged."

Foss' face lit up. "You did it, Bender!"

"State your current position and course," the robot ordered.

"Authorization code required," stated Raven.

"Aww, crap," groused Bender.

"Invalid authorization code," said Raven.

"Here's my authorization code," said Bender, who turned and waved his (Leela's) posterior at the console.

Foss chuckled. "I wish I had my video recorder," said the balding man. "I know you're not the real Leela, but it's still hilarious."


The real Proteus, in the meantime, was trudging dolefully toward the entrance to CMB Research, a thirty-story aluminum structure in lower Manhattan. It was one of the few towers in New New York to be surrounded by a twenty-foot concrete barrier topped with barbed wire. There was only one way in, a security checkpoint guarded by a pair of sullen-looking robots with semi-automatic laser rifles. They snapped to attention as what appeared to be a humble bending unit approached them.

"Proof of clearance," one of the guards demanded.

"I, uh, left my ID on my other body," Proteus explained. "I need to talk to Mr. B. It's urgent."

"Mr. B is dead," the other guard told him. "The lab is now under the management of his successor, Mr. B."

"You don't know who you're talking to, do you?" said the bending unit with more firmness. "I wasn't always the pathetic pile of tin you see before you. I was once sleek, powerful, unstoppable. Every robot who knew fear trembled at the sound of the name…PROTEUS."

"Proteus, eh?" said the first robot guard. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I have access codes," Proteus insisted. "If you'll let me talk to Mr. B, I can prove my identity beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"No way, antenna-head," said the second guard. "If there were a Proteus working here, and if he were careless enough to get trapped inside the body of a bending robot, you can be sure Mr. B would have nothing to say to him, except maybe, 'You're fired.'"

"Okay," said Proteus, lowering his (Bender's) eyes. "If that's your judgment, I'll abide by it."

He started to walk away on his clumsy legs, but one of the guards caught his shoulder. "Not so fast, buddy," said the big robot. "We're not finished with you."

Hope seeped into Proteus' iron heart. Maybe they'll listen to me after all, he thought. His hope was short-lived, however; it died when the guards hurled his battered, dented body over the wall and into a dumpster.

Humiliated almost beyond his ability to bear, Proteus dragged himself out of the bin, collapsed onto the pavement, and twisted his head to tighten it. It's times like this I regret having ultra-sensitive olfactory nodes, he thought.

He brushed away the banana peels stuck to his chest, and glanced around at the significantly more foreboding world. I've lost everything—everything but my mind, but a brilliant mind is nothing without a perfect body to hold it. On a nearby street corner he noticed the presence of an object that would most definitely end his problems—a suicide booth. To die. To sleep. Perchance to dream…

This is so unlike me, he kept telling himself, but he willed his legs to carry him toward the booth nonetheless. Hopelessness is a human trait. I'm a robot. I should be able to switch off my hopelessness whenever I please. What's stopping me?

When he was halfway down the block, he heard loud music playing and turned his head. Above him a neon sign glittered—BITSY'S ROBOT BAR, WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR SERIAL NUMBER.

Hello, hopelessness switch, he thought. I may as well live a little before I die.


To be continued