“Because, if you had not sent your patient on a home visit that particular day, no one else would have done so. Ever.”
Susan finally managed to get control. “I’m sorry I’m blubbering like a baby. You’d never believe, just prior to this meltdown, I was thinking about how well I handle stress.”
“Answer the question,” John Calvin said quietly.
Susan’s father did not issue commands often, and Susan always took them seriously. “Well, of course, she would have gone on a home visit eventually. When she was more stable.”
“More stable than what?”
Susan flicked her gaze back to Remington, who had asked the question. “More stable than she obviously was.”
Remington released her, shook his head, and started to rise.
Susan wiped away the last of the tears. She felt ashamed of her weakness and hoped it would not drive Remington away. “Just ignore me. I got overwhelmed by the moment.” She glanced around at the carnage. “I guess the whole ordeal hit me harder than I thought.”
Remington smiled and offered his hand. “Ah, so the great Dr. Susan Calvin is . . . human, eh? Who’d have guessed it?”
Susan took his hand and forced her own weak smile. She hated the thought of appearing weak, promised herself not to let it happen again.
John Calvin waited patiently while they sorted themselves out before saying, “Ready?”
Back in full control, Susan said, “Ready.”
Her father approached the door, scanning palm and retina simultaneously, a foolproof security system that required a person to stand in one precise spot and position. The door whisked open to reveal a stuffy, austere foyer containing only a large, semicircular desk. A woman wearing too much makeup sat behind it, partially obscured by a large computer console that clearly controlled more than the standard palm-pross. “Good afternoon, John,” she said cheerfully. “They’re meeting in Lawrence’s office.” She looked over Susan and Remington. “It appears you need a couple of guest passes.”
John Calvin smiled at the woman. “Thank you, Amara. This is my daughter, Susan, and her boyfriend, Remy.”
Amara winked. “I figured as much. Not only do you bear a resemblance, but I recognized Susan from the eight hundred pictures in your office.” She tapped a couple of keys on her desktop, a printer beneath it hummed, and she pulled out two small, square pieces of paper. Stuffing each into a plastic holder with a thin lanyard, she handed them to John Calvin. Susan could now read the word VISITOR on each. She accepted one, slung it around her neck, then gave the other to Remington. He took his and put it on with the same deft flick of his hand.
“This way.” John led Susan and Remington toward one of five doors, this one bearing the name LAWRENCE ROBERTSON. He knocked firmly, paused briefly, then opened it.
Apparently cued by the knock, three men in dress polos sat in silence, all looking at the opening door. One stood up behind an enormous mahogany desk that held a half dozen palm-prosses; two digital frames; a mass of books, mostly hard copies bound in large folders; an enormous printer combo; and a surprising amount of paper, most of which seemed to contain circuitry maps. Loose computational chips also floated through the mess. The other two men sat on comfortable-looking, but mismatched, chairs, while three more empty chairs were spaced around the room.
The man behind the desk said, “Hey, John!” He gave Susan a warm and genuine smile. “This must be the younger Dr. Calvin you’re always talking about.” He came around the desk and extended his hand. “I’m Lawrence Robertson.”
From the reverent tone with which her father always spoke his name, Susan had pictured someone older, even though she knew they had been college roommates. He appeared to be about her father’s age, with dark, wavy hair, a large mouth, and a rugged complexion. He carried a touch of gray at the temples that perfectly matched his pale, friendly eyes. Susan knew he had founded the company the year she was born. He must have done so in his early twenties, already the genius behind the positronic brain. She gripped his hand firmly. It was dry, solid, and powerful.
“And this is Susan’s boyfriend, Remington Hawthorn. He’s a neurosurgeon.”
Susan wished her father would stop referring to Remington as her boyfriend. It made her sound twelve years old.
Lawrence Robertson released her hand to reach for Remington’s.
Remington clasped it. “You can call me Remy.”
“Remy, it is. And you can call me Lawrence.”
Susan did not feel any more comfortable referring to the founder of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men by his first name than Remington did her father. She wondered if she could get away with “Sir Lawrence.”
Lawrence continued the introductions by pointing to a frumpy-looking, balding man in wrinkled dress clothing. “This is my director of research, Alfred Lanning.”
“How do?” Alfred mumbled when no one stepped close enough to shake hands.
“And one of our top roboticists, George Franklin.” George did not wait for them to come to him. A tall, gangly youth, he crossed to the center of the room in a single step to shake hands with Susan and Remington. “Pleased to meet you.”
Lawrence Robertson stepped back behind his desk, his gaze still on Susan. “So, young lady, when are you joining us on staff?”
“Me?” Susan could make no sense of the question. “I’m a psychiatry resident. I can’t imagine you need one of those at a robot factory.”
The men sniggered gently, except for Alfred Lanning, who gave the suggestion actual thought. “As complex as the positronic brain has become, I could see us putting a robot or two on the couch.”
“Not to mention the staff,” Lawrence added smoothly. “You have to be a bit nutty to work here.”
Not to be outdone, Remington added his piece. “I could just picture a robot lying on his analyst’s couch: ‘Doc, I know my intelligence is artificial, but my problems are
Everyone chuckled, except Remington himself. As George retook his seat, Susan joined Alfred in giving the idea real thought, or at least appearing to do so. “I can’t speak for the staff, but the robots shouldn’t be too hard to analyze. Ethically, they have to conform to the Three Laws of Robotics, right? That doesn’t leave a whole lot of wriggle room, really.”
John Calvin took one of the chairs. “I think it’s the general public who needs the help. We could hire a team of psychiatrists to eradicate the Frankenstein Complex, and people would still be worrying that robots are going to take their jobs, obliterate their privacy . . . and eat them.”
George nodded grimly. “Well, I suppose the risk of having a psychiatrist on staff would be the further reaction of the public.” He made a gesture toward the ceiling that Susan took to symbolize “the sky is the limit.” “They’d be imagining a two-ton hunk of metal with the capacity to smash a girder running around clinically depressed.”
Lawrence shook his head, still grinning. Clearly, he had asked Susan out of politeness, the kind of question all bosses address to a favored employee’s children. “Well, John, we’re still waiting for Javonte and Keagan. Why don’t you give your guests a short tour?”
“That’s all I can give them.” John rose and ushered Susan and Remington toward the door. “We’re not large to begin with, and we can’t go most places.”
“Sorry,” Lawrence said, sounding honestly apologetic.
“No problem.” Remington headed out the door, with Susan and John at his heels. “So long as we can get a glimpse of the nanorobot production, I don’t mind. That’s what Susan’s working on, and it has me fascinated.”
“Knock yourselves out,” Lawrence said as the door shut behind them.
They found themselves back out in the foyer with the secretary and the assortment of doors.
“Nice people,” Susan said.
“The best.” John looked around thoughtfully, apparently figuring where to start. “Why do you think I’ve stayed so long?”
Amara piped up, “I thought it was my amazing coffee.” “Coffee?” John playacted exaggerated surprise. “You mean that stuff you give us in the morning is coffee? All these years, I thought it was motor oil.”
It occurred to Susan that she had no idea how her father liked his coffee. She had never seen him drink
