looked at it.

 

The dude was sitting in a chair with his legs crossed. He wore an old-fashioned

suit — Abraham Lincoln style — with a bow tie and long coattails and stuff. A

bunch of bronze books were piled under his chair. He held a writing quill in one

hand and a big metal sheet of parchment in the other.

 

"Why do we care about ..." I squinted at the name on the pedestal. "William H.

Steward?"

 

"Seward," Annabeth corrected. "He was a New York governor. Minor demigod — son

of Hebe, I think. But that's not important. It's the statue I care about."

 

She climbed on a park bench and examined the base of the statue.

 

"Don't tell me he's an automaton," I said.

 

Annabeth smiled. "Turns out most of the statues in the city are automatons.

Daedalus planted them here just in case he needed an army."

 

"To attack Olympus or defend it?"

 

Annabeth shrugged. "Either one. That was plan twenty-three. He could activate

one statue and it would start activating its brethren all over the city, until

there was an army. It's dangerous, though. Y ou know how unpredictable