You ask if there are any interesting things handy that could help illustrate the local culture.

"Affirmative. The fleshling Stern wishes to create a permament record of your primitive, chemical-based knowledge, yes? An excellent aspiration, given that your memories are flawed and untrustworthy." The Robot behind the desk nods his appreciation. "I will give you this."

He hands over a tiny memory card. "Oh, thank you very much," you say. "He seems to be really into his pre-EMP technology. What is it, exactly?"

"Oddly enough, the collected thoughts and memories of your home town. A complete record of every personality, ready to be transplanted into Robot bodies should the need arise. I believe you are in there somewhere."

You stare at the card. Your entire life, and the lives of those around you, on a memory card smaller than a suppository. You stuff it moodily into your pocket, mutter something like "Thanks," and head out of the door, leaving the Robot wondering why the display of his superior technology and mental capacity seemed to lose him a potential friend, rather than make one.

He shrugs. It seems appropriate to do so. He's good at shrugging. He's practiced in front of a mirror.