The mathematician's hand went to his sleek hair in the familiar smoothing gesture. "Lanning is nudging seventy," he said, as if that explained everything.
"I know that."
"And he's been director of the plant for almost thirty years." Herbie nodded.
"Well, now," Bogert's voice became ingratiating, "you would know whether... whether he's thinking of resigning. Health, perhaps, or some other-"
"Quite," said Herbie, and that was all.
"Well, do you know?"
"Certainly."
"Then-uh-could you tell me?"
"Since you ask, yes." The robot was quite matter-of-fact about it. "He has already resigned!"
"What!" The exclamation was an explosive, almost inarticulate, sound. The scientist's large head hunched forward, "Say that again!"
"He has already resigned," came the quiet repetition, "but it has not yet taken effect. He is waiting, you see, to solve the problem of - er - myself. That finished, he is quite ready to turn the office of director over to his successor."
Bogert expelled his breath sharply, "And this successor? Who is he?" He was quite close to Herbie now, eyes fixed fascinatedly on those unreadable dull-red photoelectric cells that were the robot's eyes.
Words came slowly, "You are the next director."
And Bogert relaxed into a tight smile, "This is good to know. I've been hoping and waiting for this. Thanks, Herbie."
Peter Bogert was at his desk until five that morning and he was back at nine. The shelf just over the desk emptied of its row of reference books and tables, as he referred to one after the other. The pages of calculations before him increased microscopically and the crumpled sheets at his feet mounted into a hill of scribbled paper.
At precisely noon, he stared at the final page, rubbed a blood-shot eye, yawned and shrugged. "This is getting worse each minute. Damn!"
He turned at the sound of the opening door and nodded at Lanning, who entered, cracking the knuckles of one gnarled hand with the other.
The director took in the disorder of the room and his eyebrows furrowed together.
"New lead?" he asked.
"No," came the defiant answer. "What's wrong with the old one?"
Lanning did not trouble to answer, nor to do more than bestow a single cursory glance at the top sheet upon Bogert's desk. He spoke through the flare of a match as he lit a cigar.
"Has Calvin told you about the robot? It's a mathematical genius. Really remarkable."
The other snorted loudly, "So I've heard. But Calvin had better stick to robopsychology. I've checked Herbie on math, and he can scarcely struggle through calculus."
"Calvin didn't find it so."
"She's crazy."
"And I don't find it so." The director's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"You!" Bogert's voice hardened. "What are you talking about?"
"I've been putting Herbie through his paces all morning, and he can do tricks you never heard of."
"Is that so?"
"You sound skeptical!" Lanning flipped a sheet of paper out of his vest pocket and unfolded it. "That's not my handwriting, is it?"
Bogert studied the large angular notation covering the sheet, "Herbie did this?"
"Right! And if you'll notice, he's been working on your time integration of Equation 22. It comes" - Lanning tapped a yellow fingernail upon the last step - "to the identical conclusion I did, and in a quarter the time. You had no right to neglect the Linger Effect in positronic bombardment."
"I didn't neglect it. For Heaven's sake, Lanning, get it through your head that it would cancel out-"
"Oh, sure, you explained that. You used the Mitchell Translation Equation, didn't you? Well - it doesn't apply."
"Why not?"
"Because you've been using hyper-imaginaries, for one thing."
"What's that to do with?"
"Mitchell's Equation won't hold when-"
"Are you crazy? If you'll reread Mitchell's original paper in the Transactions of the Far-"
"I don't have to. I told you in the beginning that I didn't like his reasoning, and Herbie backs me in that."
"Well, then," Bogert shouted, "let that clockwork contraption solve the entire problem for you. Why bother with nonessentials?"
"That's exactly the point. Herbie can't solve the problem. And if he can't, we can't - alone. I'm submitting the entire question to the National Board. It's gotten beyond us."
Bogert's chair went over backward as he jumped up a-snarl, face crimson. "You're doing nothing of the sort."
Lanning flushed in his turn, "Are you telling me what I can't do?"
"Exactly," was the gritted response. "I've got the problem beaten and you're not to take it out of my hands, understand? Don't think I don't see through you, you desiccated fossil. You'd cut your own nose off before you'd let me get the credit for solving robotic telepathy."
"You're a damned idiot, Bogert, and in one second I'll have you suspended for insubordination" - Lanning's lower lip trembled with passion.
"Which is one thing you won't do, Lanning. You haven't any secrets with a mind-reading robot around, so don't forget that I know all about your resignation."
The ash on Lanning's cigar trembled and fell, and the cigar itself followed, "What... what-"
Bogert chuckled nastily, "And I'm the new director, be it understood. I'm very aware of that, don't think I'm not. Damn your eyes, Lanning, I'm going to give the orders about here or there will be the sweetest mess that you've ever been in."