There was a scholar, back in the Empire -- a man named Anton Sokolov. Brilliant, the people called him, and for what he did it was true. But he was boring, predictable, and no matter how many times he called for me, I did not answer.

[ He thinks it would be different, here; if Sokolov were a stranger, like all the others, and he was still unable to predict things as accurately. ]

Even he could not make something made of metal and wires speak on its own.