[Actually at the moment he finds the drones soothing. Rather like mild-mannered, pre-programmed clanks or Muses. Not one of them is remotely likely to slip arsenic in his dinner, for example. Nor do any of them seem think that Christmas crackers with ground glass shrapnel in them is the pinnacle of practical joking... He reads children's books to the little girl. She laughs and claps. He helps the boy with his math homework. It's rather a comfort, even if they are very strange....a bit like modestly sentient mashed potatoes, and everyone knows how soothing mashed potatoes are.]

[The biggest problem is that, like most comforts, they're not very good for him...]

Mmmm. Yes. I've seen others who fit in as badly as I do. But one can hardly just walk up to someone on the street and say, "Hello, I'm another Mayfield Hostage. How about a game of snooker and a pint of beer?" Or...

Are we all really that desperate?