The grinning automaton, its features uncannily like those of a circul clown, opened its chest to reveal intricate clockwork, further protected behind a sheet of glass.

“It’s like a clock,” the first traveler said.

“That’s right,” said Beltrame, its voice box creaking.

“A clock that runs on, let me guess, jellybeans,” the second traveler laughed.

“Not quite,” said Beltrame. “Allow me to share with you a riddle. A furnace needs fuel if a clock it’s to wind; your body does too, I wonder what kind?”

“I can run on jellybeans, sure,” the first traveler laughed.

“But they must be rendered,” Beltrame said. “Digested, spat out, transported.”

The second traveler’s grin faded. “But that would mean…”

“Your blood,” the automaton said. “Give it to me.”