"Right," he gabbles, nodding frantically. "Right, right right right - okay, right, slowing down, and we'll - we'll work this out reasonably, shall we? Yes. Yes, absolutely, yes. I'm Wheatley," he says, changing tack and speaking with deliberate slowness, as if he were addressing someone hard of hearing. Maybe she's just like that good old lady with the portal device, bit brain-damaged, though she's already speaking to him, which is, as he'd see it, a significant step up. "And I'm confused. Haven't stolen anything, not really, and I'm - oh, what're you going to do with that?"

His careful veneer of calm immediately dissipates when his eyes light upon the baton and he jumps again, colliding painfully with the sharp corner of the desk.