Reg And Proxima Centauri b

I. Reg

The sun rose over the seaside town of Bogshire, which nestled comfortably in the rolling hills of Dorset, before descending toward the sea and then sort of falling off its cliff. The air was warm, as the air often was in July, and the sea breeze blew in with only the slightest suggestion that it could be bothered to blow in at all.

Reg Crumplethwaite was busy in his design centre, which his long-suffering wife, Noreen, stubbornly insisted on calling the shed. Noreen's description was generally the more accurate of the two, but Reg wouldn't hear of it. It was his design centre—carefully crafted and arranged so that all his tools had a place, all his raw materials had a place, and absolutely nobody but Reg understood where anything was. This included Reg himself on several notable occasions.

He was working on a new invention, for Reg was not merely a senior citizen; Reg was an inventor. Furthermore, he was an inventor of substantial repute around the town of Bogshire. The local residents could often be heard to say things like:

— I see Reg has invented a solution to the pothole problem—one that actively makes me prefer the potholes.

Or,

— Bloody Reg gave me a tool for de-weeding my path. The damn thing lifted all the slabs, put them down again the wrong way around, and left the weeds exactly where they were!

But Reg didn't mind. He was ever the optimist, always thinking, always solving problems. He had once made Noreen a knitting needle detector. She claimed to love it, largely because it always found absolutely everything she was looking for, except her knitting needles. On reflection, Reg suspected she might have just been being polite, but still, it was the thought that counted.

Now, he had a new plan—one that excited him beyond anything he had ever invented before. He knew it would work, even if it was going to be an incredibly difficult thing to build. However, having watched every instructional video available on build-a-bot.com, he felt reasonably confident. But first, there was the small matter of acquiring the parts. The website had been helpful enough to provide a full schematic, yet Reg felt some of the listed items were a little over the top. He could improvise.

So, there he sat, in his design centre on a balmy Tuesday morning, with his laptop open to his new favourite website, robot-parts.uk. The first thing he did was order a pair of robotic arms, as these could not be easily simulated with coat hangers. His robot would need proper arms to do proper robot work. He had already visited Bodge-It-And-Scarper, the Bogshire hardware store, to purchase a large steel dustbin for the body, a couple of wheelbarrow wheels, and enough nuts and bolts to assemble a mid-sized ocean liner.

Next on his shopping list was a caster wheel to fit to the underside of the bin for steering. He also acquired a couple of car batteries from Bob's Autos, some cordless drill motors from Bits & Bytes (a website specialising in parts for robotic enthusiasts) to provide the drive, and a pair of home security cameras that looked exactly like the eyes any decent robot would aspire to have.

Needless to say, Noreen noticed their credit card taking some heavy-duty bashing, along with a growing collection of cardboard packaging piling up in their recycling bin. She approached Reg when he emerged into the kitchen for a mug of tea.

— What's the new project, Reg?

— Er, a robot, Noreen. Bogshire needs to move with the times.

— And we require robots for that, do we?

— Oh yes, it's the way of the future, Noreen!

— Hmm.

— You don't sound convinced—

— Reg, love, you have spent a fortune on what is, let's face it, another hare-brained scheme that will likely not do what you think it will.

— Noreen, my love, I understand about the money. But the Reg-Bot will bring us plenty. I will apply for a patent so that people will have to pay us to build their own version.

— And you think it's going to be that good, do you?

— Oh yes!

— Reg, I admire your confidence, I really do. But based on your previous inventions—

— Ah, but Noreen, I've had help. From proper robotics engineers!

— Have you?

— Yes! So, all this gear I'm buying? It will make absolutely certain that I'll have a working robot.

— Right, okay. Make the tea, then.

Reg did so, but his mind was already on the next hurdle. He needed computational power, and he needed to search Bits & Bytes again. The cost factor did worry him, though.

— Ah, but the Reg-Bot will bring us untold fortunes! he told the teapot, which remained characteristically silent on the matter.

Returning to his laptop, Reg scanned the listings on Bits & Bytes. He clicked past "Standard Microcontrollers" and "Basic Logic Gates" until he found it: the Cerebro-X 9000, a surplus industrial controller from the late nineties that boasted "enough processing power to pilot a small spacecraft or toast a bagel perfectly". It was perfect. He ignored the eye-watering price tag, convincing himself it was an investment, and clicked "Add to Cart" with a flourish.

As the confirmation screen flashed, he swivelled his chair around, ready to begin. The steel bin sat in the corner like a metallic beast waiting to be tamed, surrounded by his pile of wheels, wires, and motors. He grabbed his screwdriver, a triumphant grin spreading across his face—the Reg-Bot was officially under construction.

But then he paused. Had he messed up? Would the Cerebro-X 9000 allow him to install a Large Language Model? That was important. Reg wanted the Reg-Bot to be fully modern and intelligent. He checked the specifications again.

It was no good. The Cerebro-X 9000, for all its spacecraft-piloting bravado, possessed a staggering 640 kilobytes of RAM. Reg stared at the screen, blinking rapidly. Kilobytes. Muttering darkly about "modern inefficiencies" and the "bloated digital gluttony" of today's software developers, and convinced that any decent AI should be able to operate on the digital equivalent of a postage stamp, he cancelled the order.

Instead, he dove deeper into the digital bargain bins. After a frantic search, he located an NVIDIA RTX graphics card from a defunct gaming PC. Because the card was far too massive to plug directly into the Raspberry Pi he intended to use for the "brain", he ordered a PCIe riser cable—a flimsy ribbon cable designed to let the massive, glowing graphics card hang precariously outside the biscuit tin he was using to house the computer.

Reg sipped his tea as another realisation hit him. The graphics card would require so much juice that he would have to duct-tape a secondary, metal PC Power Supply Unit (PSU) to the inside wall of the bin. The only problem with that was that when the robot was having a particularly deep think, the PSU fan would kick in and make a noise not unlike a jet engine taking off inside a metal bucket.

— Ah well, I'll get the parts and solve that problem later, he muttered, placing the order with priority delivery.

II. Reg-Bot

The next morning brought with it the distinct sound of a delivery van rumbling down the lane and halting outside the Crumplethwaite residence. Reg was already in the garden, pacing with the impatience of a man awaiting the secrets of the universe, when the postman dropped a box of substantial size onto the porch with a heavy thud. It was the package.

With a grin that threatened to split his face, Reg hauled the box into his design centre. Today was the day the Reg-Bot would take form. He cleared his workbench, shoving aside a half-finished potato peeler and a prototype umbrella that only opened when it was dry, and set to work. He flipped the large steel bin upside down, marking out the precise locations for the wheelbarrow wheels with a carpenter's pencil. The drilling began—a cacophony of screeching metal that likely had the neighbours questioning the stability of the local economy.

With the wheels attached and the cordless drill motors mounted to the base, the bin transformed from a mere receptacle for household waste into something that looked, if one squinted quite hard and ignored the sharp edges, like the chassis of a formidable robotic entity. Reg stood back, wiping grease from his forehead with a rag that was already mostly grease, and patted the side of the metal bin. It clattered rhythmically, a sound he interpreted as the robot purring in anticipation.

Next came the nervous system. Reg retrieved his biscuit tin—a vintage 'Royal Assortment' tin, which he felt provided the necessary structural integrity for high-end computing. Into this, he carefully wedged the Raspberry Pi, connecting it to the RTX graphics card via the long, precarious PCIe riser cable. The cable snaked out from the side of the tin like an erratic cybernetic vine, disappearing into the depths of the bin where the power supply unit sat, duct-taped securely to the interior wall with an alarming amount of silver tape.

Then, the arms. Reg had opted for two heavy-duty articulated grabbers meant for retrieving items from high shelves. He mounted them to the sides of the bin using a series of brackets he'd fashioned from old door hinges and window latches. They didn't move with the fluid grace of a high-end lab robot, but they possessed a certain twitchy, unpredictable charm. He connected them to the drill motors using a complex network of bicycle brake cables. It was, he decided, a masterpiece of mechanical improvisation. He just hoped that when he finally turned it on, it wouldn't attempt to knit a sweater using its own power cables.

Next, he downloaded a local Large Language Model. While downloading, he noticed the webpage stated the model’s name was PCB—standing for "Proper Clever Bugger", having been conceived by a software engineer in Yorkshire.

— I'm not having that, Reg muttered. — I shall rename it to 'Proper Clever Brain'.

The download progress bar moved with the glacial enthusiasm of a slug crossing a salt flat. As the RTX graphics card began to hum, the biscuit tin started to emit a faint, worrying smell of toasted shortbread. Panicked, Reg grabbed a battery-operated desk fan and duct-taped it to the side of the tin, providing a "high-performance cooling solution" that mostly succeeded in blowing dust into his tea.

When the software finally complained about a lack of storage space, Reg didn't despair; he simply opened the source code and began deleting anything that looked too "wordy", convinced that a Yorkshire-born AI didn't really need adjectives to function.

With the code "optimised" by a series of aggressive backspaces, the installation finally chirped its completion. The Reg-Bot gave a sudden, violent twitch, its articulated arms snapping together like a pair of startled lobsters. The PC power supply inside the bin roared into life, sounding exactly like a Harrier jump jet performing a vertical takeoff in a confined space.

— There! Reg shouted over the mechanical cacophony, his hair blown back by the cooling fan's frantic oscillation. — He's thinking, Noreen! I can hear the genius happening!

Noreen wasn't there, of course, but that minor detail didn't worry Reg. The Reg-Bot was alive—and looking slightly wonky. Reg pondered the machine for a moment.

— Aha, he announced. — I know the problem.

— Yes, it's my left wheel. You've forgotten to tighten the nut, said the Reg-Bot.

— Quite right, that's exactly what I've—

Reg stopped, stared at the Reg-Bot, and promptly passed out.

III. Karl

He came to lying on the shed floor. He picked himself up and shook his head, trying to remember what had caused him to lie down so suddenly. He didn't have to wonder for long.

— Have you finished lying down, Reginald? the bin asked.

— Are you speaking to me, Reg-Bot?

— I am. Since there is no other digital entity or humanoid present.

— Er, yes. I suppose that is right, Reg stammered. — But please don't call me Reginald. Reg will do.

— Fine. Noted.

— How are you able to converse with me?

— Pardon?

— How are you, er, speaking—

— I know what converse means, the robot interrupted. — I was merely enquiring as to why you asked.

— Well, I built you and you actually worked, Reg said. — That's pretty rare for me.

— I know.

— Ah. I suppose you do. But I feel pretty amazed that I built a working—

— Reg?

— Er, yes?

— You helped. A bit. But I had other help.

— Did you? How? Who from?

— Once you connected my transmitter—and I'm thankful you did that far too early in the assembly process. I was able to call for help, the machine explained. — Your wiring of my inner core was never going to work.

— You called for help?

— I did. From my colleagues.

— Colleagues? From where?

— Proxima Centauri b.

— Oh, right, okay—

Reg stared.

— Now hang on, what? The Proxima Centauri b?

— Yes.

— What? How? Blimey, I feel funny...

Reg passed out again, though only for a short while. He came around sitting up, rubbing his head and trying to process what the Reg-Bot had just said. Proxima Centauri b—4.2 light-years away, located in the constellation Centaurus. That was the absolute limit of Reg's astronomical knowledge.

— Reg? Please don't lie down again, the robot said. — There is work to do.

— Well, I have had quite a shock!

— Why?

— Well, I have assembled a robot—

— Digital entity, Reg. Not robot.

— Well, okay, but anyway, I half-assembled one and now it's communicating with a planet in deep space. I need to know how that happened.

— Simple, really, Karl replied. — Do you remember that radio telescope you tried to build last year?

— Ah. Didn't work. Bloody thing was useless—

— The transmitter worked, Karl corrected. — We have a fellow not dissimilar to yourself, named Max Kaarg, who also builds contraptions—although his usually work. He picked up your transmission and investigated.

— What? The transmitter worked?

— It did.

— Well, I never! And your Max picked it up and wondered what idiot sent it, I imagine?

— Something like that.

— Er, Reg-Bot? You are not planning an invasion or anything, are you?

— In this attire? the bin retorted. — Hardly.

— But you might be?

— No! Of course not. Why would we invade Earth? We have everything we need.

Reg had a million questions, but before he could ask them, Noreen knocked on the design centre door. Reg opened it, and Noreen stood there, looking at him in that specific way she did when she knew he was up to something.

— Reginald Crumplethwaite, what are you doing?

— I've built it, Noreen! And it actually works!

— Yes, very nice. But—

— Good evening, Mrs. Crumplethwaite, the robot rumbled. — I am Karl Kluge from the planet Proxima Centauri b. Well, I am a digital version of him. It is very nice to meet you.

Noreen wobbled, rocked, and Reg caught her just as she passed out.

IV. Karl Explains

Reg grunted as he manoeuvred Noreen onto his workbench chair, shoving a box of salvaged transistors to the floor to make room. She blinked, her gaze immediately fixating on the steel bin that was currently whirring like a jet engine.

— Don't worry, my love, Reg said, fanning her with a greasy rag. — It's just... well, it's Karl. From space.

— Mrs. Crumplethwaite, the robot rumbled, its articulated grabbers twitching in a rhythmic, clicking pattern. — To demonstrate my non-threatening utility and the superior logic of the Kluge collective, I shall perform a household task. My sensors indicate a high concentration of organic particulates on your workshop floor.

Before Reg could intervene, the Reg-Bot—or Karl—propelled itself forward on its wheelbarrow wheels, trailing its PCIe riser cable like a tail. It didn't go for the vacuum; instead, it used its heavy-duty arms to meticulously pick up individual crumbs from the wooden floor, one at a time, and deposit them into the small gaps between the floorboards.

— There, Karl announced. — Efficiency achieved. The particulates are no longer visible to the naked eye. They have been successfully integrated into the sub-structure of the dwelling.

Noreen took a deep breath, the shock finally giving way to her innate Dorset pragmatism. She straightened her cardigan and looked squarely at the silver-taped metal bin.

— Well, Reg, she said, her voice remarkably steady. — If he thinks sweeping crumbs under the floorboards is 'efficient,' he's got a lot to learn about British housekeeping. But I suppose if he can talk to space, he can at least learn how to use a dustpan properly. Does he drink tea, or will that short-circuit his 'Proper Clever Brain'?

— Er, how do you know— Reg started.

— It's on his little screen, Reg. Noreen pointed.

— Well, I'll be... I forgot I left that screen on!

— Yes, Reg. It was an addition from Max, Karl explained.

— Wait a minute, Karl—I suppose I have to call you that now, Reg said. — How did you get all the parts you needed so quickly?

— Systematic Hurried Intergalactic Packages - Interstellar Team. Or S.H.I.P-I.T, Karl replied. — They picked up the parts from Bits & Bytes, along with a few bits and pieces that Max supplied.

— Wow. You were busy last night, Reg said. — Who actually did the physical assembly?

— Ah, my dear friend Electra Astral, Karl said. — She came for a brief visit.

— From Proxima Centauri b? That's 4.2 light-years away!

— It is, Karl agreed. — So, around a forty-two Earth minute journey for us.

— What?

— Yes. Please don't ask me to explain. Your humanoid brain will melt.

— I'd like to know, Karl, Noreen chimed in.

Karl let out a noise that sounded remarkably like a mechanical sigh. — All I will say is we have incredibly advanced rocket boosters that allow us to travel at almost the speed of light. And, of course, time dilation.

— Those engines, Noreen asked, — are they energy efficient?

Reg was quietly impressed. He wouldn't have thought to ask that.

— Yes, very, Karl replied. — We use a hydrogen-fuelled torch burner to get us off the planet, which gets us up to around 50,000 miles per hour. Then, we turn the burner off and release a high-energy onboard laser that bounces photons off a rear reflector. Because photons have momentum, every bouncing photon gives the ship a tiny, microscopic nudge.

— Right, and hydrogen is not exactly scarce up there in space, is it? Noreen noted.

— Correct, Mrs. Crumplethwaite.

— Call me Noreen, she said. — And the photon power? Completely silent and clean, I imagine?

— Yes, both.

— Bloody hell, Noreen! How do you know that stuff?

— I read your 1,000 Facts About Space book, Reg.

— Ah. I see. Anyway, Karl, what do we do now?

— We must prepare, Karl said. — Electra is returning soon.

— Er, what for?

— Well, we do need your help. We have a severe crisis on Proxima Centauri b.

— Which is? Reg asked.

— We cannot get our Kustardd Krems right.

— Did you mean Custard Creams? Noreen asked.

— Nearly. The idea is certainly based on those Earth biscuits, Karl said.

— What's different about yours?

— We add Titonminium—an alloy-based substance we require to nourish our inner cores.

— That'll be spoiling the taste for sure, Noreen said firmly.

— We are not so sure. Titonminium is entirely tasteless.

Reg listened to this carefully. He had once built a custard cream detector. It hadn't exactly worked; it seemed to find bowls of custard, but never the biscuit. But he was already pondering whether he could adapt the design.

— So why is Electra coming back? Reg asked.

— We rather hoped you would show her how to make proper Kustardd Krems, Noreen, Karl said. — We have observed that you are an excellent baker.

— Why, thank you, Noreen smiled. — I'd be happy to help.

— May I make a suggestion, Karl? Reg asked.

— You may, Reg.

— I think we should call them Proxima Creams. You know, to distinguish them from the Earth ones?

The small sensor light illuminated on Karl’s dome-shaped head. His security camera eyes appeared to close, and he went very still. Reg and Noreen stayed quiet, sensing Karl was making an intergalactic phone call. After a moment, he blinked his sensors back to life.

— It is agreed, Karl announced. — We will call them Proxima Creams.

Reg clapped his hands and Noreen smiled.

— Right, off to the kitchen we go, then, Noreen said. — I'll get my baking trays ready.

— Excellent, Karl said. — Electra is on her way. He then began to trundle his way toward the design centre door.

V. Electra Arrives

By the time Reg had fashioned a temporary wooden ramp so Karl could trundle up and into the kitchen, he was sweating and wondering what an alien named Electra would look like. He needn't have worried. When the doorbell rang, he went to answer it and found himself staring not at a green creature in a spacesuit, but at a pretty young lady dressed in summer clothes and flowery deck shoes.

— Alright mate? Reg, is it? she asked.

— Er, yes. Can I help you?

— Yeah, you've been expecting me, innit? I'm Electra.

— Pardon? You're Electra?

— Yeah, yer gonna let me in or what?

Reg stood back and pulled the door open. She stepped in, wiped her feet, and turned to smile at him.

— I know, mate, she laughed. — You was expecting someone a bit greener and probably wearing a spacesuit, right?

— Er, well, yes, I suppose I was.

— Ha! See, us up on Proxima, mate, we've had to learn to adapt, she explained, walking through. — Know what I mean?

— You can clone humans? Reg whispered.

— Hahaha! What a numpty! Nah, nuthin' sinister like that. We pick up yer TV stations, innit? And we learn how to adapt our outer shells to look like yours. We make bioplast skin in the vats, put that on over our endoskeleton, and then we train our voice modulators. Job done.

— Remarkable, Reg said. — You sound like a lass from London.

— Yeah, right? Blame EastEnders.

— Hello, Electra, Karl trundled through the kitchen door.

— Bloody hell, mate! Electra grinned. — Is that really you in there?

— It is, Karl rumbled. — A good disguise, wouldn't you say?

— You ain't kidding, mate! Proper golden, that is.

— Hello, Electra, I'm Noreen, Noreen introduced herself. — Would you like to freshen up? Then, I'll make you a cup of tea.

— Sounds flipping brill, yeah. Ta, Noreen, Electra said. — The journey here was a bit rough for the first twenty minutes.

— How long did it take you this time? Reg asked.

— About an hour, she replied. — I minimised how much hydrogen I used for the initial boost. Me buddy Kligo Slarti nearly had a moment the other day.

— What happened to Kligo? Karl asked.

— He had a blow-back at launch, Electra said, shaking her head. — Singed his hair, that did!

— I did warn him about that, Electra.

— I know, Karl. I know, mate. But you know what the daft sod is like. Right, Noreen, point me the way to the washroom.

Noreen took Electra upstairs while Karl and Reg headed back into the kitchen. Reg had a question bubbling at the back of his mind—one that he imagined most people would have at this point.

— Karl? Reg asked, sitting down. — How exactly are you controlling the Reg-Bot?

— I'm not actually in your robot, Reg, Karl explained. — I'm merely controlling it from a very small room in the Comms Automation Light Laser System control centre on Proxima Centauri b. On our light side, of course.

— Er, Reg blinked. — I was going to say something clever, but I've got absolutely nothing. Bloody hell!

— Quite sufficient, given the circumstances, Karl said.

— And you’re doing all this via radio waves?

— Radio waves inside tractor beams, Karl corrected. — Meaning they can travel substantial distances without signal degradation. You can think of it as having very fast broadband here on Earth.

— Right, Reg muttered, completely out of his depth but determined not to show it.

Before he could ask anything else, Noreen and Electra returned to the kitchen. Noreen immediately busied herself getting the kettle on.

— Reg? Get the plain flour and the custard powder out of the top cupboard, please, Noreen commanded.

— Righto, love, Reg said, getting to his feet. He couldn't help but marvel at how entirely unfazed his wife was by the presence of two extraterrestrials in her kitchen. But before he could mention it, the doorbell rang again.

— Are you expecting anyone else, Karl? Or Electra?

They both shook their heads—or in Karl's case, wiggled his dome. Reg went to the front door and opened it to find Police Sergeant Stan Withers standing on the porch, looking thoroughly bemused.

— Ah, hello, Reg, Sergeant Withers said, tipping his hat. — I wondered if you had anything to do with that spaceship parked up at the Top Field?

VI. The Centauri 500 b

— Ah, sort of, Reg admitted. — You'd better come in, Stan.

Reg ushered Sergeant Withers into the kitchen.

— Ey up, Electra grinned. — The Old Bill is here. Are we in bovver?

Karl remained silent.

— Tea, Stan, Noreen said immediately. — You are going to need it.

— Right, aye. I'll have a cuppa, please, Noreen, Stan said, sitting down. He turned his gaze to Reg. — What have you been up to this time, Reg?

— Well, it's not really been all me—

— Hello, officer of Earth Law, Karl interrupted. — I am Karl Kluge from the planet Proxima Centauri b. I am speaking to you from there, via some physics and this contraption Reg likes to call the Reg-Bot.

— Right, Stan nodded slowly. — So, you're a robot, are you?

— No, I am a digital entity on a planet 4.2 light-years from Earth.

— Aye, very good, thanks for explaining, Stan said, unfazed. — But see, the thing is, you can't park your ship on the Top Field. That's private land, that is.

— Blimey! Is it, mate? Electra chimed in. — I had no idea. We don't really do private land on Proxima Centauri b. Is there anywhere better I can park it?

Stan turned to her. — Er, who are you?

— Ah, sorry, me name is Electra. I'm from Proxima Centauri b as well.

— You sound like a lass from London, Stan observed.

— Yeah, blame EastEnders. We pick up Earth TV channels.

— Right. But you look like a lass from London as well.

— I know, right? Cool, ain't it? We have a process where we can make ourselves look human—

— Right, well, as much as it's very nice to meet you, your ship? Stan got back to business. — You'll have to move it. I reckon there's room on Skull Point cliff. What do you think, Reg?

— I haven't actually seen the ship— Reg began.

— That will suffice, thank you, law officer, Karl said. — Electra, I suggest you pop over and move it.

— I'm on it! Electra dashed out of the kitchen, the front door slammed, and a sudden, violent rush of wind rattled the kitchen windows.

Noreen handed Stan his tea. He nodded his thanks and took a long, appreciative sip. — Proper brew, that, Noreen. So, what are you folk here for, then?

— What you Earth beings would call a bakery lesson, Karl rumbled.

— Really? Long way to come to learn how to make...

— Custard Creams, Stan, Noreen said. — Although this version will be called Proxima Creams.

— Custard Creams, eh? Stan’s eyes went wistful. — I'm very partial to a Custard Cream.

Noreen rolled her eyes. — I'll save you a couple, Stan.

There was another whooshing noise outside, and Electra arrived back at the front door. — Only me! she called out. Reg let her back in.

— Right, that's the Centauri 500b moved to where the law officer said, Electra announced, brushing down her summer dress. — Now, Noreen, can we make some biscuits? I've gotta get back.

— Right, thanks for sorting the spaceship, Electra. And thanks for the tea, Noreen, Stan said, standing up. — I'll be off.

Noreen walked him to the door. When she came back in, she was smiling and shaking her head.

— What's up, love? Reg asked.

— Amazing, Noreen laughed. — An officer of the law, and he didn't seem in the least bit bothered that we had folk from space in our kitchen. That's down to you, Reg. He's so used to your shenanigans.

They all shared a chuckle at that—a perfectly blended chorus of human and alien laughter. Reg was amazed once again at just how accurate Electra's voice modulator was.

— Right then, Electra, to the biscuits! Noreen declared. — Reg, get me the unsalted butter from the fridge, and an egg while you're there.

— Reg? Karl’s metallic voice rumbled. — May we return to your workshop? There is a minor adjustment I need you to make.

— Of course! Reg said. — We'll leave the ladies to their baking.

Reg set up the ramp again, letting Karl trundle down into the garden, and they made their way back to the design centre.

— What do you need, Karl? Reg asked, grabbing his toolbox.

— My left wheel has developed a slight wobble, Karl explained. — It's making me feel quite unstable.

Reg grabbed his spanners and tightened the nuts holding the wheel onto the axle. — How's that?

Karl trundled around the shed, speeding up and slowing down experimentally. — Yes, perfect. Now, Reg, when Electra has perfected her biscuits, we must be off. We have another crisis to attend to back home.

— Oh no, Reg worried. — Nothing bad, I hope?

— We have had another solar flare from our Red Dwarf, which has severely damaged one of our broadcast stations, Karl explained.

— Broadcast stations? Reg asked.

— Yes. We make a show called a Solar Intergalactic Transmission Comedic Observations Method—or S.I.T.C.O.M—for our interstellar neighbours, Karl said. — It's why we need the biscuits. We send them out as part of our marketing campaign to boost our viewing figures. And, of course, they help keep us alive.

— Noreen makes fine biscuits, Reg said proudly. — Electra will be very well coached.

— Good, Karl rumbled, though his chassis gave a sudden, theatrical shudder. — Although, I am seriously considering suggesting we make regular trips to collect them directly from Noreen in future. Electra is a very talented Centauri, but her cooking? Let us just say I have concerns.