She imagined that deep inside his chest a tiny transistor battery powered his heart like in her old Zenith radio. The tick-tock of his artificial mechanisms drowned out his rote homilies, his analytical effort to dissuade her.
Encased behind dark sunglasses, rational and calculating, he was pragmatic to a fault. As if allowing himself to act on emotions, and not carefully reasoned facts, would tilt his world, automatically shutting him down, and costing him a game penalty.
Her perfect, hollow tin man rejected her pleas to pilgrimage to Oz. There is no omnipotent wizard behind the curtain, he said.