Andrew did not understand any of this at the time. But in later years, with greater learning, he could re-view that early scene and understand it in its proper light.
The robopsychologist, Merton Mansky, listened with a growing frown and more than once managed to stop his fingers at the point beyond which they would have irrevocably drummed on the table. He had drawn features and a lined forehead, but he might actually have been younger than he looked.
"Robotics is not an exact art, Mr. Martin," Mansky explained. "I cannot explain it to you in detail, but the mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic pathways is far too complicated to permit of any but approximate solutions. Naturally, since we build everything around the Three Laws, those are incontrovertible. We will, of course, replace your robot-"
"Not at all," said Sir. "There is no question of failure on his part. He performs his assigned duties perfectly. The point is he also carves wood in exquisite fashion and never the same twice. He produces works of art."
Mansky looked confused. "Strange. Of course, we're attempting generalized pathways these days. Really creative, you think?"
"See for yourself." Sir handed over a little sphere of wood on which there was a playground scene in which the boys and girls were almost too small to make out, yet they were in perfect proportion and they blended so naturally with the grain that it, too, seemed to have been carved.
Mansky was incredulous. "He did that?" He handed it back with a shake of his head. "The luck of the draw. Something in the pathways."
"Can you do it again?"
"Probably not. Nothing like this has ever been reported."
"Good! I don't in the least mind Andrew's being the only one."
"I suspect that the company would like to have your robot back for study," Mansky said.
"Not a chance!" Sir said with sudden grimness. "Forget it." He turned to Andrew, "Let's go home, now."
4.
Miss was dating boys and wasn't about the house much. It was Little Miss, not as little as she once was, who filled Andrew's horizon now. She never forgot that the very first piece of wood carving he had done had been for her. She kept it on a silver chain about her neck.
It was she who first objected to Sir's habit of giving away Andrew's work. "Come on, Dad, if anyone wants one of them, let him pay for it. It's worth it."
"It isn't like you to be greedy, Mandy."
"Not for us, Dad. For the artist."
Andrew had never heard the word before, and when he had a moment to himself he looked it up in the dictionary.
Then there was another trip, this time to Sir's lawyer.
"What do you think of this, John?" Sir asked.
The lawyer was John Finegold. He had white hair and a pudgy belly, and the rims of his contact lenses were tinted a bright green. He looked at the small plaque Sir had given him. "This is beautiful. But I've already heard the news. Isn't thus a carving made by your robot? The one you've brought with you."
"Yes, Andrew does them. Don't you, Andrew?"
"Yes, Sir," said Andrew.
"How much would you pay for that, John?" Sir asked.
"I can't say. I'm not a collector of such things."
"Would you believe I have been offered two hundred and fifty dollars for that small thing. Andrew has made chairs that have sold for five hundred dollars. There's two hundred thousand dollars in the bank from Andrew's products."
"Good heavens, he's making you rich, Gerald."
"Half rich," said Sir. "Half of it is in an account in the name of Andrew Martin."
"The robot?"
"That's right, and I want to know if it's legal."
"Legal...?" Feingold's chair creaked as he leaned back in it. "There are no precedents, Gerald. How did your robot sign the necessary papers?"
"He can sign his name. Now, is there anything further that ought to be done?"
"Um." Feingold's eyes seemed to turn inward for a moment. Then he said, "Well, we can set up a trust to handle all finances in his name and that will place a layer of insulation between him and the hostile world. Beyond that, my advice is you do nothing. No one has e stopped you so far. If anyone objects, let him bring suit"
"And will you take the case if the suit is brought?"
"For a retainer, certainly."
"How much?"
"Something like that," Feingold said, and pointed to the wooden plaque.
"Fair enough," said Sir.
Feingold chuckled as he turned to the robot. "Andrew, are you pleased that you have money?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you plan to do with it?" Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir "would have to pay for. It would save him expense, sir."
5.
Such occasions' arose. Repairs were expensive, and revisions were even more so. With the years, new models of robots were produced and Sir saw to it that Andrew had the advantage of every new device, until he was a model of metallic excellence. It was all done at Andrew's expense. Andrew insisted on that.
Only his positronic pathways were untouched. Sir insisted on that.
"The new models aren't as good as you are, Andrew," he said. "The new robots are worthless. The company has learned to make the pathways more precise, more closely on the nose, more deeply on the track. The new robots don't shift. They do what they're designed for and never stray. I like you better."
"Thank you, Sir."
"And it's your doing, Andrew, don't you forget that. I am certain Mansky put an end to generalized pathways as soon as he had a good look at you. He didn't like the unpredictability. Do you know how many times he asked for you back so he could place you under study? Nine times! I never let him have you, though; and now that he's retired, we may have some peace."