“So you figured it out on your own.” Susan had not expected Remington to identify Nate so quickly. Nate had told her his status almost immediately, but he had recognized her name and knew she had the family robotics background to believe him. “And you know it’s true?”
“Given our prior conversation at the restaurant, finding him here after ten p.m. yesterday and before seven a.m. today was a dead giveaway.”
Nate smiled. “I’d like to point out you were also here after ten p.m. yesterday and before seven a.m. today.”
Susan sucked in her lips, but she knew her eyes revealed her amusement.
“Well, yes,” Remington admitted. “But I can’t peel off the skin of my leg and reveal circuitry wrapped around my muscles, can I?”
Susan could not resist teasing, “Can you?” Nate had not given her the same amount of proof; she had not required it.
Remington reached for Susan’s hand, caught it, and gave it a squeeze. “How about I prove it after our date on Friday?”
Susan could not recall making one. “Do we have a date on Friday?”
“I guess that’s up to you.”
Susan clasped Remington’s fingers. “Friday, it is. How’s Starling?”
“Great.” Remington rose, released her hand, and looked at his Vox. “They moved her from intensive recovery to the regular unit this morning. I’d stop down today if you want to see her before she leaves.”
“Today?” Susan could scarcely believe it. “You mean discharge? Home? Already?”
“I told you we’re quick.” Remington shrugged. “No reason to keep her.” He tapped the Vox. “I have to go. If I’m late for rounds, I’ll get stuck with hole-drilling duty for a week.”
Susan preferred not to know what that entailed. She waved as he rushed out the door, then turned to Nate. “What do you think?”
“Of Remy?”
“Yeah.”
Nate did not spend long in consideration. “I like him.”
“Me, too,” Susan admitted. “What were you two doing when I came in?”
“Talking neurosurgery.” Nate made a vague gesture toward the books. “You know, I was programmed to perform menial jobs: transporting patients, consent signing, cleanup, surgery prep, hand holding, bed making.”
“Really?” It seemed a ridiculous waste of his brilliance.
“Then, staff started worrying I’d take their places, lawyers speculated a malfunction might drive me berserk, and fear of more protests drove me into seclusion.”
Susan glanced around the large room with its shelving, bric-a-brac, and old-fashioned textbooks. Since she had come here her first night on call, she had developed an appreciation for the quiet nook with its simple table, its clashing chairs, its comfortable couches. She could think of far worse prisons. “So, you . . . live here?” It seemed altogether the wrong verb for robotic existence. “All the time?”
“Here?” Nate made hand motions to indicate the room. “I’m not a vacuum cleaner stored in a closet, Susan. I spend time in the research tower, when I’m working on a project. I can move about freely within the hospital, if I choose. I just happen to like it here. It’s quiet, so no one bothers me. It’s full of computers and books, adjacent to the central processing area. The only people who come here are residents hiding from work, attendings, or other residents when they find a few moments to spare. And, of course, those few, like you and Remy, who know to look for me here.”
Susan had not yet figured it out. “What exactly do you do here?” Then, recalling what he had told her previously of the differing expectations of U.S. Robotics, the hospital administrators, and certain members of the staff, she amended her question. “I mean, I know some of the doctors, mostly researchers, use you as a sounding board, a fact-checker, an assistant. But what do you do all day? What is your basic job?”
“Anything that doesn’t involve patients. I spend most of my time on the computer, searching for charting errors, inconsistencies, mistakes, incomplete notes. Things like that. I transport inanimate objects such as bedding, pillows, and blankets from the laundry to the storage areas.”
“What a waste.”
Nate shrugged. “It leaves me lots of time outside my official duties. I have access to plenty of information. I started with the books and worked my way to the legitimate online medical sites.” He indicated a palm-pross left on the room’s only table. “Since I only have to read or hear things once, it’s easy to stay current. So, when the research staff send articles for me to proofread or ask for help on their projects, I have no trouble assisting them.”
Susan was surprised. “So I’m not the only doctor who visits you?” Nate grinned. “Just the prettiest.”
To Susan’s surprise, she found herself blushing. “Sweet.” She looked at her own Vox, though the time did not matter. The sooner she headed for the PIPU, the more she could contribute at rounds. “I have to go, now, too. But I’ll come back when I can.”
Nate waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be counting the hours till your return.”
As Susan trotted toward the PIPU, she realized “programmed” was not the right word. As her father had described it, the positronic brain contained a network of circuitry as complex as the human brain. Nate might have started with some basic programs, the Three Laws of Robotics, for example, and the English language; but he had self-developed the remainder of his personality through thought, intention, and experience.
That latter realization would have floored Susan Calvin, had she not already discussed it with her father. The genius behind the invention had a name, Dr. Lawrence Robertson, the president of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. He had calculated the necessary data to create a spongy globe of platinum-iridium that replaced miles of relays and photocells and had ultimately become the positronic brain. Someday, Susan hoped, she would meet this supergenius.
Susan hurried to the locked PIPU door and buzzed for entrance. A familiar nurse’s voice came over the intercom system. “Good morning, Dr. Calvin.”
Susan waved in the general direction of the all-but-invisible camera. “Good morning, Saranne. May I come in?”
“On my way.”
The clunky, old-fashioned system of the PIPU never ceased to confound Susan. It seemed foolish to retain a lock system that required a human to physically key through two heavy doors. Apartment buildings had had direct- wired buzzer systems serving dozens of stories since at least her grandmother’s time, and cheap voice, print, or laser identification systems had existed for decades. The best explanation Susan had heard was that any push- button system would become liable to access by patients; coded entries required too-frequent maintenance for staff changes that would result in loss of patient confidentiality. The strong steel doors could withstand attacks that lighter electronic systems could not, and any attempt at tampering would become instantly obvious.
At the least, Susan had to admit the system had worked for longer than two centuries. And the ponderous, gloomy simplicity of it made the whole unit appear equally old.
Susan heard the lock click. The windowless door eased toward her. She caught the edge to help the nurse open it. Slender as a willow, and fine-boned, Saranne struggled with the enormous panel, just as any of the pediatric patients would. She had short blond hair in a feathered cut, china doll features, and pert blue eyes.
“Thank you,” Susan said. She looked up and noticed the usually gray hallway now held a dozen brightly colored balloons. Several of the nurses and unit staff milled around the area, beneath a banner reading CONGRATULATIONS! Already trained to the rules, Susan scooted inside and let the door slam shut behind her. Saranne relocked it, placing the key in her flowered scrub-shirt pocket.
“Congratulations?” Susan glanced around the smiling group, bewildered. “Thank you. But what have I done to deserve all this?”
Murmurs swept the group, and Saranne slapped Susan’s shoulder approvingly. “Discharge orders for Diesel Moore. Starling Woodruff off the service forever and about to go home from Neurosurgery!”
Someone else called out, “All in your first four days.”
They came at Susan en masse.
