Jimmy frowned. "Robutt isn't an imitation, Dad. He's my dog." "Not a real one, Jimmy. Robutt's just steel and wiring and a simple positronic brain. It's not alive."
"He does everything I want him to do, Dad. He understands me. Sure, he's alive."
"No, son. Robutt is just a machine. It's just programmed to act the way it does. A dog is alive. You won't want Robutt after you have the dog."
"The dog will need a spacesuit, won't he?" "Yes, of course. But it will be worth the money and he'll get used to it. And he won't need one in the City. You'll see the difference once he gets here."
Jimmy looked at Robutt, who was squeaking again, a very low, slow squeak, that seemed frightened. Jimmy held out his arms and Robutt was in them in one bound. Jimmy said, "What will the difference be between Robutt and the dog?"
"It's hard to explain," said Mr. Anderson, "but it will be easy to see. The dog will really love you. Robutt is just adjusted to act as though it loves you."
"But, Dad, we don't know what's inside the dog, or what his feelings are. Maybe it's just acting, too."
Mr. Anderson frowned. "Jimmy, you'll know the difference when you experience the love of a living thing."
Jimmy held Robutt tightly. He was frowning, too, and the desperate look on his face meant that he wouldn't change his mind. He said, "But what's the difference how they act? How about how I feel? I love Robutt and that's what counts."
And the little robot-mutt, which had never been held so tightly in all its existence, squeaked high and rapid squeaks-happy squeaks.
Some Non-human Robots Sally
Sally was coming down the lake road, so I waved to her and called her by name. I always liked to see Sally. I liked all of them, you understand, but Sally's the prettiest one of the lot. There just isn't any question about it.
She moved a little faster when I waved to her. Nothing undignified. She was never that. She moved just enough faster to show that she was glad to see me, too.
I turned to the man standing beside me. "That's Sally," I said.
He smiled at me and nodded.
Mrs. Hester had brought him in. She said, "This is Mr. Gellhorn, Jake. You remember he sent you the letter asking for an appointment."
That was just talk, really. I have a million things to do around the Farm, and one thing 1 just can't waste my time on is mail. That's why I have Mrs. Hester around. She lives pretty close by, she's good at attending to foolishness without running to me about it, and most of all, she likes Sally and the rest. Some people don't.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Gellhorn," I said.
"Raymond f. Gellhorn," he said, and gave me his hand, which I shook and gave back.
He was a largish fellow, half a head taller than I and wider, too. He was about half my age, thirtyish. He had black hair, plastered down slick, with a part in the middle, and a thin mustache, very neatly trimmed. His jawbones got big under his ears and made him look as if he had a slight case of mumps. On video he'd be a natural to play the villain, so I assumed he was a nice fellow. It goes to show that video can't be wrong all the time.
"I'm Jacob Folkers," I said. "What can I do for you?"
He grinned. It was a big, wide, white-toothed grin. "You can tell me a little about your Farm here, if you don't mind."
I heard Sally coming up behind me and I put out my hand. She slid right into it and the feel of the hard, glossy enamel of her fender was warm in my palm.
"A nice automatobile," said Gellhorn.
That's one way of putting it. Sally was a 2045 convertible with a Hennis-Carleton positronic motor and an Armat chassis. She had the cleanest, finest lines I've ever seen on any model, bar none. For five years, she'd been my favorite, and I'd put everything into her I could dream up. In all that time, there'd never been a human being behind her wheel.
Not once.
"Sally," I said, patting her gently, "meet Mr. Gellhorn."
Sally's cylinder-purr keyed up a little. I listened carefully for any knocking. Lately, I'd been hearing motor-knock in almost all the cars and changing the gasoline hadn't done a bit of good. Sally was as smooth as her paint job this time, however.
"Do you have names for all your cars?" asked Gellhorn.
He sounded amused, and Mrs. Hester doesn't like people to sound as though they were making fun of the Farm. She said, sharply, "Certainly. The cars have real personalities, don't they, Jake? The sedans are all males and the convertibles are females."
Gellhorn was smiling again. "And do you keep them in separate garages, ma'am?"
Mrs. Hester glared at him.
Gellhorn said to me, "And now I wonder if I can talk to you alone, Mr. Folkers?"
"That depends," I said. "Are you a reporter?"
"No, sir. I'm a sales agent. Any talk we have is not for publication. I assure you I am interested in strict privacy."
"Let's walk down the road a bit. There's a bench we can use."
We started down. Mrs. Hester walked away. Sally nudged along after us.
I said, "You don't mind if Sally comes along, do you?"
"Not at all. She can't repeat what we say, can she?" He laughed at his own joke, reached over and rubbed Sally's grille.
Sally raced her motor and Gellhorn's hand drew away quickly.
"She's not used to strangers," I explained.
"We sat down on the bench under the big oak tree where we could look across the small lake to the private speedway. It was the warm part of the day and the cars were out in force, at least thirty of them. Even at this distance I could see that Jeremiah was pulling his usual stunt of sneaking up behind some staid older model, then putting on a jerk of speed and yowling past with deliberately squealing brakes. Two weeks before he had crowded old Angus off the asphalt altogether, and I had turned off his motor for two days.