...over men.
 
I would like to be a pleasing robot, not a war machine.
 
If I were a machine, I suppose I wouldn't fear death, I might fear rust. Or maybe I wouldn't have feelings at all, if I was lucky. I imagine though, I would have feelings. Maybe I would be a shy robot. A robot that wouldn't speak until spoken to. A robot that might try hiding behind a tree when a little girl spots me lifting a fallen bird's nest back up on a branch. The kind of robot that lifts the car and fixes the flat of a stranded and scared woman on a roadside at night. This robot might deliver a baby of a teenager too terrified to tell her parents and turned away by the Hospital for lack of insurance. I might be the very robot that would shelter Firemen and shoulder the collapsing building. Maybe a flying robot that could reach way up into the sky and collect a tumbling command module, and saving the Astronauts from a disintegrating space shuttle. I would like to the robot that sits at the bus stop with the worried little boy on his first day of
 school, telling him he will be okay and that I will wait for him there when the bus brings him back. I could be the robot that sits beside an elderly person dying from cancer and moments from death, holding their frail human hands in my strong metal ones, telling them that soon I will see them in Heaven, even if there was no data to support it in my on board computer, yet mysteriously I can feel it to be true in my hydraulics.