The shuttle bus from the local hotel drops me off outside what appears to be an architecturally unmodified early-1980s facility for making robot housewives. Hot robot housewives. Hot corn-fed robot housewives who look like Ann-Margret in her prime. Housewives who spend their off-hours in sunless living rooms, their internal servers humming on PAUSE, blindly flipping back and forth through pages of old Life magazines that smell like a basement, their software awaiting the 6:30 a.m. release signal, when they will proceed upstairs to administer wake-up backrubs to their masters.