“Nah, it means Salad Oil Liberation,” said Do-Wop, horning in on the game.
Tusk-anini’s squint narrowed into a frown. “I don’t think Do-Wop tells me right,” he said. “Salad oil is no part of it. Am I right, Gnat?”
“Hey, do you want to hear what’s goin’ on or not?” said Chocolate Harry, sensing his audience slipping away.
“We don’t wanna hear no crap about renegade robots,” said Do-Wop. “Everybody knows robots just follow orders. They got Asimov circuits that make ’em do what people say.”
“Yeah, that’s what everybody thinks, ” said Harry, taking the cue and launching into a new spiel. “That’s what the robot factories want you to think, on account of who’s gonna buy a machine that, you wake up one morning and it’s killed you and taken over your house?”
“I wouldn’t buy nothin’ like that,” said Slammer, obviously impressed by his sergeant’s logic.
“You got it,” said Harry. He slapped his palm on the table, sending splashes out of several drinks. “Thing is, nobody wants their robots to have a mind of their own, ’cause if the bots figure out that us humans have everything and they got nothin’, what’s to stop ’em from taking over?”
“I no human,” said Tusk-anini, irrefutably. “I no scared of robots, either.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t run across these-here renegades,” said the supply sergeant. “They’ll just naturally wipe out any kind of sophont. You think it matters to them how many legs or eyes you got on you? It’s the last thing they care about.”
“You sure this is the straight story from the brass?” asked Do-Wop. Almost automatically, not even watching, he slowly peeled the label off his beer bottle with his thumbnail.