Al waits, patient and apparently entirely comfortable, as William circles him, sizing him up. He chuckles and gives William a sidelong glance. "Wow. That's... actually kind of refreshing, in a way. Most humans... at least that I'm used to dealing with... completely revile the idea of owning another sentient being. It's a driving belief behind a lot of the war with the Yeerks, imperfect an analog it may be. In fact, both my mind and my body were designed, in separate instances, with my freedom and companionship as core design components. But you," he grins, "you're not concerned with any of that. Lack of grounding in human morality that comes of being a ghost, is it?" He tilts his head. "Or do you prefer poltergeist?"
He sighs. "Unfortunately, I don't have the foggiest idea how you'd go about acquiring one of me. The technology that makes me... me... all comes from times and places I haven't had access to in many years. And I don't think anyone from my current universe has advanced to this point quite yet in the fields necessary to build a me." He pauses, grins, and repeats, this time in an exaggerated Italian accent complete with hand gestures, "They can't a-build a-me!" He laughs.
He narrows his eyes at William, though somehow his expression remains playful. "So tell me, what interest would a ghost pirate have in a robot companion, anyway? Because certain portions of my technology are much easier to come by than others."
Salem cracks a small smile when Myitt calls him 'kid.' Of everyone on this little planetoid, as far as he knows, she's probably one of the few who could say that to him legitimately. He sighs and shoots Guppy a brief, annoyed glance, but his curiosity gets the better of him. 'Building him some eyeballs?' This he has to see.
He waves a hand dismissively towards Myitt. "Rebel business. Fate of the galaxy. It can wait. Let me help you with this. I've actually got a torch handy." Without another word, he spins on his heel and jogs towards his nearby ship, which lowers the ramp to the ground just as Salem reaches the bottom of it. He walks inside, and after a few seconds, there's the clatter and crash of a falling pile of mostly-metal pieces of something-or-other. The crash is followed by a brief but energetic string of curse words.
A few seconds later Salem stumps back down the ramp, straining under the weight of a dual oxygen-acetylene tank under his right arm, connected by a hose to a torch that he carries in his left. It's old; it may once have been red, but most of the paint has long since been chipped and scratched away, and it's covered in more than its fair share of dents and dings. Draped over the two tanks are a worn pair of thick leather gloves, a dark orange apron of some shimmery, silken-looking material, and a worn old welder's face mask sporting a very distinctive gouge that looks like someone tried to hack it diagonally in two with some kind of sword or axe.
"Here," he says, dropping the thing in the dirt near Myitt with a dull thud. "Hopefully it's hot enough."