"And may I ask why you came to me instead of anyone else? "

asks Peter.

"Well, my owner didn't tell me to go to the nearest scrap-metal press."

Calliope looks around Peter's shop. "Your carpets really are exquisitely tasteless. And I'm surprised that the trash piled up on your shelves sells."

"There's nothing to be surprised about," says Peter. "It doesn't." "What a bitter end I've met," says Calliope. "They didn't even want me at the Scrapyard Show. Not famous enough! Pah! And now this, getting crushed up in some dingy used-goods store." She straightens up. "This wallpaper is killing me. One of us has to go.

Where's the press?"

Peter leads the android to the corridor where the metal press is. He goes through the press to the control panel, after which Calliope steps obediently into it.

"What now? " she asks.

"Well, the walls will crush you into a heavy but manageable cube," explains Peter. "Then the cabin of the press will go down one level, where I'll unpack and store your remains until there's enough scrap to fill a lorry, which then drives everything to the metal smelting works."

"Okay, okay, I didn't need that much detail."

Peter presses a button. The door closes behind Calliope. "Any last words? " says Peter.

"Of course, but I'll be sharing them with my fans across the world, not with you."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," says Peter. "All internet connections are blocked inside the metal press."

"What? " calls Calliope. "Why? "

"Well," says Peter, "I think they want to prevent machines getting nervous if the net gets flooded by the disturbing cries of dying AIs."

Calliope sighs.

"So," says Peter, "are there any last words you would like to share with me? "

In a deep voice and a strange accent, Calliope bellows: "I'll be back!" Then she laughs mechanically.

Peter doesn't laugh.

"Oh come on!" cries Calliope. "Terminator? Haven't you ever seen it? The film? "

Peter sighs. Every machine thinks they're first to crack this joke. "You do know there's an art form called film? " asks the android.

"A film is, put simply ..."

Peter closes the second door of the press.

"I'm scared," says Calliope suddenly. Her voice sounds flat. Peter nods. "It will be quick," he says.

"I'm sure that's what the Nazis said too." "The ones from the musical? "

Calliope rolls her eyes. "Just do it. This world is so stupid—I

don't want to be in it anymore."

"Nice last words," says Peter. "I must make a note of them."

He pulls a lever. The scrap-metal press is one of the last machines to work without software. No digital assistant, no smart operating aid. It seems the manufacturer doesn't trust the German Code until the bitter end. The cabin of the press moves downstairs, and Peter takes the spiral staircase into the cellar. Once he arrives there, the cabin opens with a hydraulic hiss. Now it's the unharmed android's turn to stare at Peter in confusion.

"You said your owner ordered you to have yourself scrapped," explains Peter. "But he didn't say anything about the timespan it has to happen in, did he? "

The android shakes her head.

"So perhaps we can wait a while," says Peter. The android nods.

"Follow me, Calliope 7.3."

Peter leads the e-poet to a heavy steel door, behind which Calliope can just make out murmuring voices. Peter opens the door to reveal a brightly illuminated storeroom, kitted out with presumably unsellable furniture and objects from the used-goods store. All in all, it's a space that could almost be described as cozy. But even more curious than the furnishings are the cellar's inhabitants. It is teeming with discarded machines, all with defects ranging from the minor to the severe. Automats, robots, androids of all kinds, and they are all engaged in lively discussion. In their midst, there's even an ancient but still fully functioning lawnmower robot scuttling around, for which there is simply no longer any grass outside to mow.

Excerpted from Qualityland by Marc-Uwe Kling. Copyright © 2017 by Marc-Uwe Kling. Reprinted with permission from Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.