I, Robot. Айзек Азимов

so she bent to the task of consolation, ‘Why do you cry, Gloria? Robbie was only a machine, just a nasty old machine. He wasn’t alive at all.’

      ‘He was not no machine!’ screamed Gloria, fiercely and ungrammatically. ‘He was a person just like you and me and he was my friend. I want him back. Oh, Mamma, I want him back.’

      Her mother groaned in defeat and left Gloria to her sorrow.

      ‘Let her have her cry out,’ she told her husband. ‘Childish griefs are never lasting. In a few days, she’ll forget that awful robot ever existed.’

      But time proved Mrs Weston a bit too optimistic. To be sure, Gloria ceased crying, but she ceased smiling, too, and the passing days found her ever more silent and shadowy. Gradually, her attitude of passive unhappiness wore Mrs Weston down and all that kept her from yielding was the impossibility of admitting defeat to her husband.

      Then, one evening, she flounced into the living room, sat down, folded her arms and looked boiling mad.

      Her husband stretched his neck in order to see her over his newspaper, ‘What now, Grace?’

      ‘It’s that child, George. I’ve had to send back the dog today. Gloria positively couldn’t stand the sight of him, she said. She’s driving me into a nervous breakdown.’

      Weston laid down the paper and a hopeful gleam entered his eye, ‘Maybe— Maybe we ought to get Robbie back. It might be done, you know. I can get in touch with—’

      ‘No!’ she replied, grimly. ‘I won’t hear of it. We’re not giving up that easily. My child shall not be brought up by a robot if it takes years to break her of it.’

      Weston picked up his paper again with a disappointed air. ‘A year of this will have me prematurely gray.’

      ‘You’re a big help, George,’ was the frigid answer. ‘What Gloria needs is a change of environment. Of course she can’t forget Robbie here. How can she when every tree and rock reminds her of him? It is really the silliest situation I have ever heard of. Imagine a child pining away for the loss of a robot.’

      ‘Well, stick to the point. What’s the change in environment you’re planning?’

      ‘We’re going to take her to New York.’

      ‘The city! In August! Say, do you know what New York is like in August? It’s unbearable.’

      ‘Millions do bear it.’

      ‘They don’t have a place like this to go to. If they didn’t have to stay in New York, they wouldn’t.’

      ‘Well, we have to. I say we’re leaving now – or as soon as we can make the arrangements. In the city, Gloria will find sufficient interests and sufficient friends to perk her up and make her forget that machine.’

      ‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned the lesser half, ‘those frying pavements!’

      ‘We have to,’ was the unshaken response. ‘Gloria has lost five pounds in the last month and my little girl’s health is more important to me than your comfort.’

      ‘It’s a pity you didn’t think of your little girl’s health before you deprived her of her pet robot,’ he muttered – but to himself.

      Gloria displayed immediate signs of improvement when told of the impending trip to the city. She spoke little of it, but when she did, it was always with lively anticipation. Again, she began to smile and to eat with something of her former appetite.

      Mrs Weston hugged herself for joy and lost no opportunity to triumph over her still skeptical husband.

      ‘You see, George, she helps with the packing like a little angel, and chatters away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It’s just as I told you – all we need do is substitute other interests.’

      ‘Hmpph,’ was the skeptical response, ‘I hope so.’

      Preliminaries were gone through quickly. Arrangements were made for the preparation of their city home and a couple were engaged as housekeepers for the country home. When the day of the trip finally did come, Gloria was all but her old self again, and no mention of Robbie passed her lips at all.

      In high good-humor the family took a taxi-gyro to the airport (Weston would have preferred using his own private ’gyro, but it was only a two-seater with no room for baggage) and entered the waiting liner.

      ‘Come, Gloria,’ called Mrs Weston. ‘I’ve saved you a seat near the window so you can watch the scenery.’

      Gloria trotted down the aisle cheerily, flattened her nose into a white oval against the thick clear glass, and watched with an intentness that increased as the sudden coughing of the motor drifted backward into the interior. She was too young to be frightened when the ground dropped away as if let through a trap-door and she herself suddenly became twice her usual weight, but not too young to be mightily interested. It wasn’t until the ground had changed into a tiny patchwork quilt that she withdrew her nose, and faced her mother again.

      ‘Will we soon be in the city, Mamma?’ she asked, rubbing her chilled nose, and watching with interest as the patch of moisture which her breath had formed on the pane shrank slowly and vanished.

      ‘In about half an hour, dear.’ Then, with just the faintest trace of anxiety, ‘Aren’t you glad we’re going? Don’t you think you’ll be very happy in the city with all the buildings and people and things to see. We’ll go to the visivox every day and see shows and go to the circus and the beach and—’

      ‘Yes, Mamma,’ was Gloria’s unenthusiastic rejoinder. The liner passed over a bank of clouds at that moment, and Gloria was instantly absorbed in the unusual spectacle of clouds underneath one. Then they were over clear sky again, and she turned to her mother with a sudden mysterious air of secret knowledge.

      ‘I know why we’re going to the city, Mamma.’

      ‘Do you?’ Mrs Weston was puzzled. ‘Why, dear?’

      ‘You didn’t tell me because you wanted it to be a surprise, but I know.’ For a moment, she was lost in admiration at her own acute penetration, and then she laughed gaily. ‘We’re going to New York so we can find Robbie, aren’t we? —With detectives.’

      The statement caught George Weston in the middle of a drink of water, with disastrous results. There was a sort of strangled gasp, a geyser of water, and then a bout of choking coughs. When all was over, he stood there, a red-faced, waterdrenched and very, very annoyed person.

      Mrs Weston maintained her composure, but when Gloria repeated her question in a more anxious tone of voice, she found her temper rather bent.

      ‘Maybe,’ she retorted, tartly. ‘Now sit and be still, for Heaven’s sake.’

      New York City, 1998 A.D., was a paradise for the sightseer more than ever in its history. Gloria’s parents realized this and made the most of it.

      On direct orders from his wife, George Weston arranged to have his business take care of itself for a month or so, in order to be free to spend the time in what he termed ‘dissipating Gloria to the verge of ruin’. Like everything else Weston did, this was gone about in an efficient, thorough, and businesslike way. Before the month had passed, nothing that could be done had not been done.

      She was taken to the top of the half-mile-tall Roosevelt Building, to gaze down in awe upon the jagged panorama of rooftops that blended far off in the fields of Long Island and the flatlands of New Jersey. They visited the zoos where Gloria stared in delicious fright at the ‘real live lion’ (rather disappointed that the keepers fed him raw steaks, instead of human beings, as she had expected), and asked insistently and peremptorily to see ‘the whale’.

      The various museums came in for their share of attention, together with the parks and the beaches and the aquarium.

      She was taken halfway up the Hudson in an excursion steamer fitted out in