And Uncharles was there, of course. He insisted that he had no ideas, or useful advice to give, or context. He made tea, on those rare occasions when there was tea, and when there wasn’t, he mimed it anyway because that still ticked some boxes inside him. And when he handed round the make-believe tea to the robots who couldn’t in any event have drunk it, he usually had something to say. Something self-effacing and staid that was, nonetheless, useful. He was a sophisticated model, after all, and he had seen more of the world than most other robots. He had more data to build his conclusions on.
