I was going out to cover the new robotics expo at the convention center. It promised to be an interesting experience, full of fascinating new insights about the nature of technology that might one day end up improving this little ball of dirt I call home.

But my photographer, Jake, was out with the flu. So I sent an IM to the photo pool. “Need robotics photographer for story.” I’ll admit, I should have put the “robotics” before “story” instead of “photographer,” but I was in a hurry.

As I was just closing my laptop bag, there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” I said, picking up the bag and turning to greet my temporary partner.

He was wearing black cargo pants, a T-shirt, and a vest, and carrying a couple of cameras—but where his face should have been was a piece of paper with a crude robotic face drawn on it.

“Hrrrzt,” he said, moving jerkily, making little ticking noises. “You—requested—robotic—photographer. Here—I—am.”