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room, behind the front door.
My face showed my doubts.
“Don’t worry,” he proudly said, ‘I’ve brought my stovemover,” and ie pulled out of the van a gleaming, ^pace-age, metal contraption.
The “thing” stood about as tall as ie was. It looked like an X-ray picture of the human body. There were steel rods for bones, wires for the arteries, pulleys, chains, levers and juttons, and right at the center, there was a black battery for a leart.
He stood on the icy pathway. I stood at the top of the steps. The stove was behind the door, squat and immovable.
“I don’t think that ‘thing1 will get up the steps,” I said.
Taking my words as a challenge, the young man pressed the buttons, pulled the levers and his mechanical stovemover came to life. Claws came out to grasp the lower step, and the machine let out a whirring sound, lifting itself up the first step. Then it climbed the second and the third, until it was inside the house.
At the door it turned right, and made a determined move toward the stove. Two metal arms slipped under the legs of the stove and gently lifted it waist-high off the floor. The stove did not even rattle. The castiron beast had met its match.
With clicking and buzzing, the stovemover turned toward the open door. Going down the steps was no more difficult than coming up. Out came the claws again, and each step was gripped in turn as the load was lowered. This robot had wheels for feet, and they went over the icy pathway without a slip. The operator pressed a few more buttons to get the arms to the right height, and the stove slid into the back of the
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