“That’s when you prepare your speech for the ABA.”
“I never prepare my speeches. You come back at four o’clock tomorrow, and we can talk about why you came to see me and what a wonderful writer I am.”
“Four o’clock,” Accountant said. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be here, sir.” He herded Medical Assistant and Book Cataloguer, Shelver, Reader, Copyeditor, and Grammarian out the door and shut it behind them.
“Galaxy-sized ideas, “ Asimov said, looking wistfully after them. “Did they tell you what they wanted to see me about?”
“No, sir.” Susan helped him into his pants and formal shirt and fastened the studs.
“Interesting assortment, weren’t they? It never occurred to me to have a wooden robot in any of my robot stories. Or one that was such a wise and perceptive reader. “
“The reception’s at the Union Club,” Susan said, putting his cufflinks in. “In the Nightfall Room. You don’t have to make a speech, just a few extemporaneous remarks about the book. Janet’s meeting you there.”
“The short one looked just like a nurse I had when I had my bypass operation. The blue one was nice-looking, though, wasn’t he?”
She turned up his collar and began to tie his tie. “The coordinates card for the Union Club and the tokens for the taxi’s tip are in your breast pocket.”
“Very nice-looking. Reminds me of myself when I was a young man,” he said with his chin in the air. “Ouch! You’re choking me!”
Susan dropped the ends of the tie and stepped back.
“What’s the matter?” Asimov said, fumbling for the ends of the tie. “I forgot. It’s all right. You weren’t really choking me. That was just a figure of speech for the way I feel about wearing formal ties. Next time I say it, you just say, ‘I’m not choking you, so stand still and let me tie this.’ “
“Yes, sir, “ Susan said. She finished tying the tie and stepped back to look at the effect. One side of the bow was a little larger than the other. She adjusted it, scrutinized it again, and gave it a final pat.
“The Union Club,” Asimov said. “The Nightfall Room. The coordinates card is in my breast pocket,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, helping him on with his jacket.
“No speech. Just a few extemporaneous remarks.”
“Yes, sir.” She helped him on with his overcoat and wrapped his muffler around his neck.
“Janet’s meeting me there. Good grief, I should have gotten her a corsage, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, sir,” Susan said, taking a white box out of the desk drawer. “Orchids and stephanotis.” She handed him the box.
“Susan, you’re wonderful. I’d be lost without you.”
“Yes, sir,” Susan said. “I’ve called the taxi. It’s waiting at the door.”
She handed him his cane and walked him out to the elevator. As soon as the doors closed she went back to the office and picked up the phone. She punched in a number. “Ms. Weston? This is Dr. Asimov’s secretary calling from New York about your appointment on the twenty-eighth. We’ve just had a cancellation for tomorrow afternoon at four. Could you fly in by then?”
Dr. Asimov didn’t get back from lunch until ten after four. “Are they here?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Susan said, unwinding the muffler from around his neck. “They’re waiting in your office.”
“When did they get here?” he said, unbuttoning his overcoat. “No, don’t tell me. When you tell a robot four o’clock, he’s there at four o’clock, which is more than you can say for human beings. “
“I know,” Susan said, looking at the digital on the wall.
“Do you know how late for lunch At Lanning was? An hour and fifteen minutes. And when he got there, do you know what he wanted? To come out with commemorative editions of all my books. “
“That sounds nice,” Susan said. She took his coordinates card and his gloves out of his pockets, hung up his coat, and glanced at her watch again. “Did you take your blood pressure medicine?”
“I didn’t have it with me. I should have. I’d have had something to do. I could have written a book in an hour and fifteen minutes, but I didn’t have any paper either. These limited editions will have cordovan leather bindings, gilt-edged acid-free paper, water-color illustrations. The works. “
“Water-color illustrations would look nice for Pebble in the Sky,” Susan said, handing him his blood pressure medicine and a glass of water.
“I agree,” he said, “but that isn’t what he wants the first book in the series to be. He wants it to be Stranger in a Strange Land!” He gulped down the pill and started for his office. “You wouldn’t catch those robots in there mistaking me for Robert Heinlein. “ He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Which reminds me, should I be saying ‘robot’?”
“Ninth Generations are manufactured by the Hitachi-Apple Corporation under the registered trademark name of ‘Kombayashibots’,” Susan said promptly. “That and ‘Ninth Generation’ are the most common forms of address, but ‘robot’ is used throughout the industry as the general term for autonomous machines. “
“And it’s not considered a derogatory term? I’ve used it all these years, but maybe ‘Ninth Generation’ would be better, or what did you say? ‘Kombayashibots’? It’s been over ten years since I’ve written about robots, let alone faced a whole delegation. I hadn’t realized how out of date I was.”
“‘Robot’ is fine,” Susan said.
“Good, because I know I’ll forget to call them that other name-Comeby-whatever-it-was, and I don’t want to offend them after they’ve made such an effort to see me.” He turned the doorknob and then stopped again. “I haven’t done anything to offend you, have I?”
“No, sir,” Susan said.
“Well, I hope not. I sometimes forget-”
“Did you want me to sit in on this meeting, Dr. Asimov?” she cut in. “To take notes?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” He opened the door. Accountant and Book Shelver were seated in the stuffed chairs in front of Asimov’s desk. A third robot, wearing an orange and blue sweatshirt and a cap with an orange horse galloping across a blue suspension bridge, was sitting on a tripod that extended out of his backside. The tripod retracted and all three of them stood up when Dr. Asimov and Susan came in. Accountant gestured at Susan to take his chair, but she went out to her desk and got her own, leaving the door to the outer office open when she came back in.
“What happened to Medical Assistant?” Asimov said.
“He’s on call at the hospital, but he asked me to present his case for him,” Accountant said.
“Case?” Asimov said.
“Yes, sir. You know Book Shelver, Cataloguer, Reader, Copyeditor, and Grammarian,” Accountant said, “and this is Statistician, Offensive Strategist, and Water Boy. He’s with the Brooklyn Broncos.”
“How do you do?” Asimov said. “Do you think they’ll make it to the Super Bowl this year?”
“Yes, sir,” Statistician said, “but they won’t win it.”
“Because of the First Law,” Accountant said.
“Dr. Asimov, I hate to interrupt, but you really should write your speech for the dinner tonight,” Susan said.
“What are you talking about?” Asimov said. “I never write speeches. And why do you keep watching the door?” He turned back to the bluish-silver robot. “What First Law?”
“Your First Law,” Accountant said. “The First Law of Robotics. “
“’A robot shall not injure a human being, or through inaction allow a human being to come to harm,’ “ Book Shelver said.
“Statistician,” Accountant said, gesturing at the orange horse, “is capable of designing plays that could win the Super Bowl for the Broncos, but he can’t because the plays involve knocking human beings down. Medical Assistant can’t perform surgery because surgery involves cutting open human beings, which is a direct violation of the First Law.”
“But the Three Laws of Robotics aren’t laws,” Asimov said. “They’re just something I made up for my science fiction stories.”
“They may have been a mere fictional construct in the beginning,” Accountant said, “and it’s true they’ve never been formally enacted as laws, but the robotics industry has accepted them as a given from the beginning. As early as the 1970s robotics engineers were talking about incorporating the Three Laws into AI programming, and even the most primitive models had safeguards based on them. Every robot from the Fourth Generation on has been hardwared with them.”