‘I am not surprised, Dr Lanning. But it’s all rather simple. Do you mind?’ Quinn lit a slender cigarette with a lighter of tasteful simplicity and his big-boned face settled into an expression of quiet amusement. ‘We have spoken of Mr Byerley-a strange and colorful character. He was unknown three years ago. He is very well known now. He is a man of force and ability, and certainly the most capable and intelligent prosecutor I have ever known. Unfortunately he is not a friend of mine—’
‘I understand,’ said Lanning, mechanically. He stared at his finger-nails.
‘I have had occasion,’ continued Quinn, evenly, ‘in the past year to investigate Mr Byerley-quite exhaustively. It is always useful, you see, to subject the past life of reform politicians to rather inquisitive research. If you knew how often it helped—’ He paused to smile humorlessly at the glowing tip of his cigarette. ‘But Mr Byerley’s past is unremarkable. A quiet life in a small town, a college education, a wife who died young, an auto accident with a slow recovery, law school, coming to the metropolis, an attorney.’
Francis Quinn shook his head slowly, then added, ‘But his present life. Ah, that is remarkable. Our district attorney never eats!’
Lanning’s head snapped up, old eyes surprisingly sharp, ‘Pardon me?’
‘Our district attorney never eats.’ The repetition thumped by syllables. ‘I’ll modify that slightly. He has never been seen to eat or drink. Never! Do you understand the significance of the word? Not rarely, but never!’
‘I find that quite incredible. Can you trust your investigators?’
‘I can trust my investigators, and I don’t find it incredible at all. Further, our district attorney has never been seen to drink-in the aqueous sense as well as the alcoholic-nor to sleep. There are other factors, but I should think I have made my point.’
Lanning leaned back in his seat, and there was the rapt silence of challenge and response between them, and then the old roboticist shook his head. ‘No. There is only one thing you can be trying to imply, if I couple your statements with the fact that you present them to me, and that is impossible.’
‘But the man is quite inhuman, Dr Lanning.’
‘If you told me he were Satan in masquerade, there would be a faint chance that I might believe you.’
‘I tell you he is a robot, Dr Lanning.’’
‘I tell you it is as impossible a conception as I have ever heard, Mr Quinn.’
Again the combative silence.
‘Nevertheless,’ and Quinn stubbed out his cigarette with elaborate care, ‘you will have to investigate this impossibility with all the resources of the Corporation.’’
‘I’m sure that I could undertake no such thing, Mr Quinn. You don’t seriously suggest that the Corporation take part in local politics.’’
‘You have no choice. Supposing I were to make my facts public without proof. The evidence is circumstantial enough.’’
‘Suit yourself in that respect.’
‘But it would not suit me. Proof would be much preferable. And it would not suit you, for the publicity would be very damaging to your company. You are perfectly well acquainted, I suppose, with the strict rules against the use of robots on inhabited worlds.’
‘Certainly!’ – brusquely.
‘You know that the U. S. Robot & Mechanical Men Corporation is the only manufacturer of positronic robots in the Solar System, and if Byerley is a robot, he is a positronic robot. You are also aware that all positronic robots are leased, and not sold; that the Corporation remains the owner and manager of each robot, and is therefore responsible for the actions of all.’
‘It is an easy matter, Mr Quinn, to prove the Corporation has never manufactured a robot of a humanoid character.’
‘It can be done? To discuss merely possibilities.’
‘Yes. It can be done.’
‘Secretly, I imagine, as well. Without entering it in your books.’
‘Not the positronic brain, sir. Too many factors are involved in that, and there is the tightest possible government supervision.’
‘Yes, but robots are worn out, break down, go out of order-and are dismantled.’
‘And the positronic brains re-used or destroyed.’
‘Really?’ Francis Quinn allowed himself a trace of sarcasm. ‘And if one were, accidentally, of course, not destroyed-and there happened to be a humanoid structure waiting for a brain.’
‘Impossible!’
‘You would have to prove that to the government and the public, so why not prove it to me now.’
‘But what could our purpose be?’ demanded Lanning in exasperation. ‘Where is our motivation? Credit us with a minimum of sense.’
‘My dear sir, please. The Corporation would be only too glad to have the various Regions permit the use of humanoid positronic robots on inhabited worlds. The profits would be enormous. But the prejudice of the public against such a practice is too great. Suppose you get them used to such robots first-see, we have a skillful lawyer, a good mayorand he is a robot. Won’t you buy our robot butlers?’
‘Thoroughly fantastic. An almost humorous descent to the ridiculous.’
‘I imagine so. Why not prove it? Or would you still rather try to prove it to the public?’
The light in the office was dimming, but it was not yet too dim to obscure the flush of frustration on Alfred Lanning’s face. Slowly, the roboticist’s finger touched a knob and the wall illuminators glowed to gentle life.
‘Well, then,’ he growled, ‘let us see.’
The face of Stephen Byerley is not an easy one to describe. He was forty by birth certificate an,d forty by appearance-but it was a healthy, well-nourished good-natured appearance of forty; one that automatically drew the teeth of the bromide about ‘looking one’s age.’
This was particularly true when he laughed, and he was laughing now. It came loudly and continuously, died away for a bit, then began again
And Alfred Lanning’s face contracted into a rigidly bitter monument of disapproval. He made a half gesture to the woman who sat beside him, but her thin, bloodless lips merely pursed themselves a trifle.
