"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 amp; 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 mayor, and 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 and 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.
Byerley gasped himself a stage nearer normality.
"Really, Dr. Lanning... really - I... I... a robot?"
Lanning bit his words off with a snap, "It is no statement of mine, sir. I would be quite satisfied to have you a member of humanity. Since our corporation never manufactured you, I am quite certain that you are - in a legalistic sense, at any rate. But since the contention that you are a robot has been advanced to us seriously by a man of certain standing-"
"Don't mention his name, if it would knock a chip off your granite block of ethics, but let's pretend it was Frank Quinn, for the sake of argument, and continue."
Lanning drew in a sharp, cutting snort at the interruption, and paused ferociously before continuing with added frigidity, "-by a man of certain standing, with whose identity I am not interested in playing guessing games, I am bound to ask your cooperation in disproving it. The mere fact that such a contention could be advanced and publicized by the means at this man's disposal would be a bad blow to the company I represent - even if the charge were never proven. You understand me?"
"Oh, yes, your position is clear to me. The charge itself is ridiculous. The spot you find yourself in is not. I beg your pardon, if my laughter offended you. It was the first I laughed at, not the second. How can I help you?"
"It could be very simple. You have only to sit down to a meal at a restaurant in the presence of witnesses, have your picture taken, and eat." Lanning sat back in his chair, the worst of the interview over. The woman beside him watched Byerley with an apparently absorbed expression but contributed nothing of her own.
Stephen Byerley met her eyes for an instant, was caught by them, then turned back to the roboticist. For a while his fingers were thoughtful over the bronze paperweight that was the only ornament on his desk.
He said quietly, "I don't think I can oblige you."