Free Attack of the Spider Bots by Robert West

it’s been something like thirty years, maybe more. I can’t remember.” He spoke the words as if they required a great deal of effort. For a moment his eyes held a faraway look. Then he snapped out of it and said, “I don’t know what kids drink these days . . .” He pointed a shaking finger toward a small table where several glasses and a pitcher were neatly arranged. “I asked Mrs. Drummond to make some lemonade. I couldn’t imagine that kids would ever stop loving lemonade. Please help yourselves.”
    The three quickly picked up glasses already half-full of lemonade. “Thank you, Mr. Parker,” each said one on top of the other.
    â€œNo, no, call me Sol . . . please.”
    Solomon Parker didn’t have as many wrinkles as his sister , thought Beamer, but then nobody did. He wasn’t as big as she was either. He looked kind of frail, in fact, and sad, and moved as if his head and arms were almost unbearably heavy.
    â€œI heard about the tree house,” he said. “Never got to play in it myself,” he added with a note of bitterness. “My big sister didn’t like the kid who built it — let’s see, I believe his name was . . . uh . . . Stoll . . . something.”
    â€œBilly Stoller,” Ghoulie corrected him.
    â€œYes, that’s right. Anyway,” he went on as if the words tasted like sour lemons, “Rebecca convinced my parents that playing in the tree house was dangerous, so they wouldn’t allow it.”
    Rebecca? Oh . . . right . . . Old Lady Parker’s first name — the “R” of the “R.I.P.” initials written on the walls of the caves beneath her house , remembered Beamer. Of course, considering the adventures we’ve been on so far, she might have been right. None of us has ever been hurt, but we’ve sure gotten our hearts pumping. But then, if those adrenalin juices didn’t get flowing, you probably couldn’t call it an adventure.
    â€œI consider that one of the greatest regrets of my life,” the old man said with a grim smile. “Oh, I am sorry if my robots frightened you on your last visit. My assistant, Mrs. Drummond, insists on such security measures. I designed them, of course . . . years ago,” he said, his voice fading as if he was reaching far back in time again. A moment later he popped back to the present and said, “Her job, though, is to . . . uh, keep the bills paid and . . . provide for the household needs. So, naturally, she wants to keep everything . . . safe. Frankly, I can’t imagine what I could have that anyone would want.”
    Beamer wasn’t so sure. Those sentry robots looked old-fashioned in some ways, but outside of science fiction, you couldn’t find robots even today as advanced as those were.
    â€œActually, I built everything in this room at one time or another,” Sol said, waving his hand across the room. “Never came to much, though . . . none of it.” His voice dripped with regret.
    Beamer sipped his drink as he walked along beside one of the covered tables. He thought he could make out a highway and some buildings through the milky plastic drape.
    â€œGo ahead and pull off the plastic,” Mr. Parker said to them.
    Ghoulie and Beamer put down their drinks. The plastic came off like a wave on the sea, trailing spider silk like drops of spray. They all coughed violently as a cloud of dust billowed in the air.
    â€œSorry about the dust. I never . . . noticed it before,” he said through hacking coughs.
    What they saw was a sprawling miniature city that looked like downtown Middleton minus the newer buildings. “What is this?” Ghoulie asked.
    The old man looked at the scene in puzzlement. “I don’t remember,” he finally said with a heavy sigh.
    Just then Scilla ran over to join them, but she didn’t realize how slippery the dust was on the floor and skated into the table.