Nor did the technician, when he returned, discover any signs of tampering. He felt a little uneasy at noticing that the keyboard was live, but did not think to check. After a few minutes, even his first trifling uneasiness was gone, and he continued feeding data into the computer.

As for Mortimer, neither then, nor ever afterward, did he know what he had done.

The new LNE model was designed for the mining of boron in the asteroid belt. The boron hydrides were increasing in value yearly as primers for the proton micropiles that carried the ultimate load of power production on spaceships, and Earth’s own meager supply was running thin.

Physically, that meant that the LNE robots would have to be equipped with eyes sensitive to those lines prominent in the spectroscopic analysis of boron ores and the type of limbs most useful for the working up of ore to finished product. As always, though, the mental equipment was the major problem.

The first LNE positronic brain had been completed now. It was the prototype and would join all other prototypes in U. S. Robots’ collection. When finally tested, others would then be manufactured for leasing (never selling) to mining corporations.

LNE-Prototype was complete now. Tall, straight, polished, it looked from outside hke any of a number of not-too-specialized robot models.

The technician in charge, guided by the directions for testing in the Handbook of Robotics, said, ‘How are you?’

The indicated answer was to have been, ‘I am well and ready to begin my functions. I trust you are well, too,’ or some trivial modification thereof.

This first exchange served no purpose but to show that the robot could hear, nderstand a routine question, and make a routine reply congruent with what one would expect of a robotic attitude. Beginning from there, one could pass on to more complicated matters that would test the different Laws and their interaction with the specialized knowledge of each particular model.

So the technician said, ‘How are you?’ He was instantly jolted by the nature of LNE-Prototype’s voice. It had a quality like no robotic voice he had ever heard (and he had heard many). It formed syllables like the chimes of a low-pitched celeste.

So surprising was this that it was only after several moments that the technician heard, in retrospect, the syllables that had been formed by those heavenly tones.

They were, ‘Da, da, da, goo.’

The robot still stood tall and straight but its right hand crept upward and a finger went into its mouth.

The te hnic an stared in absolute horror and bolted. He locked the door behind him and, from another room, put in an emergency call to Dr Susan Calvin.

Dr Susan Calvin wa U. S. Robots’ (and, virtually, mankind’s) only robopsychologist. She did not have to go very far in her testing of LNE-Prototype before she called very peremptorily for a transcript of the computer-drawn plans of the positronic brain-paths and the taped instructions that had directed them. After some study, she, in turn, sent for Bogert.

Her iron-gray hair was drawn severely back; her cold face, with its s!rong vertical Imes m rked off by the horizontal gash of the pale, thinhpped mouth, turned mtensely upon him.

‘What is this, Peter?’

Bogert st di d the passages she pointed out with increasing stupefaction and said, Good Lord, Susan, it makes no sense.’

‘It most certainly doesn’t. How did it get into the instructions?’

The technician in charge, called upon, swore in all sincerity that it was none of his doing, and that he could not account for it. The computer checked out negative for all attempts at flaw-finding.

‘The positronic brain,’ said Susan Calvin, thoughtfully, ‘is past redemption. So many of the higher functions have been cancelled out by these meaningless directions that the result is very like a human baby.’

Bogert looked surprised, and Susan Calvin took on a frozen attitude at once, as she always did at the least expressed or implied doubt of her word. She said, ‘We make every effort to make a robot as mentally like a man as possible. Eliminate what we call the adult functions and what is naturally left is a human infant, mentally speaking. Why do you look so surprised, Peter?’

LNE-Prototype, who showed no signs of understanding any of the things that were going on around it, suddenly slipped into a sitting position and began a minute examination of its feet.

Bogert stared at it. ‘It’s a shame to have to dismantle the creature. It’s a handsome job.’

‘Dismantle it?’ said the robopsychologist forcefully.

‘Of course, Susan. What’s the use of this thing? Good Lord, if there’s one object completely and abysmally useless it’s a robot without a job it can perform. You don’t pretend there’s a job this thing can do, do you?’

‘No, of course not.’ ‘Well, then?’

Susan Calvin said, stubbornly, ‘I want to conduct more tests.’

Bogert looked at her with a moment’s impatience, then shrugged. If there was one person at U. S. Robots with whom it was useless to dispute, surely that was Susan Calvin. Robots were all she loved, and long association with them, it seemed to Bogert, had deprived her of any appearance of humanity. She was no more to be argued out of a decision than was a triggered micropile to be argued out of operating.

‘What’s the use?’ he breathed; then aloud, hastily: ‘Will you let us know when your tests are complete?’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Come, Lenny.’

(LNE, thought Bogert. That becomes Lenny. Inevitable.)

Susan Calvin held out her hand but the robot only stared at it. Gently, the robopsychologist reached for the robot’s hand and took it. Lenny rose smoothly to its feet (its mechanical coordination, at least, worked well). Together they walked out, robot topping woman by two feet. Many eyes followed them curiously down the long corridors.

On wall of Susan Calvin’s laboratory, the one opening directly off her pnvate office, was covered with a highly magnified reproduction of a positronic-path chart. Susan Calvin had studied it with absorption for the better part of a month.

She was considering it now, carefully, tracing the blunted paths through their contortions. Behind her, Lenny sat on the floor, moving its legs apart and together, crooning meaningless syllables to itself in a voice so beautiful that one could listen to the nonsense and be ravished.

Susan Calvin turned to the robot, ‘Lenny – Lenny—’

She repeated this patiently until finally Lenny looked up and made an mqumng sound. The robopsychologist allowed a glimmer of pleasure to cross her face fleetingly. The robot’s attention was being gained in progressively shorter intervals.

She said, ‘Raise your hand, Lenny. Hand – up. Hand – up.’

She raised her own hand as she said it, over and over.

Lenny followed the movement with its eyes. Up, down, up, down. Then It made an abortive gesture with its own hand and chimed ‘Eh – uh.’

‘Very good, Lenny,’ said Susan Calvin, gravely. ‘Try it again. Hand – up.’

Very gently, she reached out her own hand, took the robot’s and raised it, lowered it. ‘Hand-up. Hand-up.’ ‘

A voice from her office called and interrupted. ‘Susan?’

Calvin halted with a tightening of her lips. ‘What is it, Alfred?’

The research director waJked in, and looked at the chart on the wall and at the robot. ‘Still at it?’

‘I’m at my work, yes.’

‘Well, you know, Susan . . . ‘ He took out a cigar, staring at it hard, and made as though to bite off the end. In doing so, his eyes met the woman’s stern look of disapproval; and he put the cigar away and began over. ‘Well, you know, Susan, the LNE model is in production now.’

‘So I’ve heard. Is there something in connection with it you wish of me?’

‘No-o. Still, the mere fact that it is in production and is doing well means that working with this messed-up specimen is useless. Shouldn’t it be scrapped?’

‘In short, Alfred, you are annoyed that I am wasting my so-valuable time. Feel relieved. My time is not being wasted. I am working with this robot.’