The Terminator stiffens at the mention of the police. He's a wanted man back in America. Even here, far from home, the thought of getting the local authorities involved creates an uncomfortable feedback in his CPU. In an ordinary man, it might be an emotion called dislike.

"My name is..." Well, he doesn't really have one, now, does he? The machine settles for using the spur of the moment name John gave him. "...Bob." He turns to a nearby person and abruptly grabs a short businessman in a suit. "Where can we find the authorities?" His people skills are nonexistent and the little man looks terrified of the looming figure in leather who has a iron death grip on his arm.