We had landed on Monty Hall, a trojan asteroid trailing Jupiter. We discovered that it had the only dry goods store in the Jovian band. Isis, the Burroughs cyborg and I left the ship to find provisions and silly geegaws. "Check your weapons, shoppers" a vaguely human employee in an apron greeted us. On his nametag was "Frhkrz."
"Is this really necessary, Frank?"
"It's no big deal," Isis said and began producing pistols from places where I had no idea existed pockets.
"Sheekers, Ike, you're lethal."
"And your weapon, sir."
"Me?"
"Yes, you in the bandages."
"This is no weapon. It's a marital aid."
"For your safety, we request that you check anything vaguely resembling a weapon, including toys."
"This is no toy. It's an orgone-emitting device. I use it on myself all the time. But bee careful with it, sonny, it'd probably give you an aneurysm. That's the safety there."
A droid of some kind approached the Burroughs cyborg. "Must logon to cyborg."
"This fellow's cheeky for a automaton," Burroughs drawled.
"You have to let him or you don't get in the store," the somewhat sentient employee explained.
"User, session password," he sighed.
"User: samsgoods; password:" a string of garbled sounds followed.
"Authenticated," he said and managed to make it sound like an insult.
The 'bot commanded, "unmount autocannon, leftarm, rightarm. You may pass. Happy shopping."
"What? Disable the arms?"
"So he doesn't shoplift anything. Cyborg are exceptional thieves," the employee claimed.
"I'm going to go look at weapons. Helps me visualize," Burroughs mumbled grumpily.
"Meet you back at the front." Then I shouted, "Don't touch anything,"
"Was that really necessary?" Isis asked.
"Kids these days, you've got to watch them every minute."
"Just because you're effectively 4000 years old doesn't mean you're any wiser."
"Do you have the list?"
"No, who needs a list?"
"I've got to go back to the ship."