John closed the door behind his daughter. “I have a casserole ready and waiting for you in the kitchen.”
That intrigued Susan. Her father’s casseroles were a mishmash of whatever remained in the refrigerator. Despite their experimental nature, they always wound up tasting at least reasonably good, if only because he had a keen eye when it came to shopping, especially for fruits and vegetables.
Susan walked through the den into the kitchen. She barely glanced at the familiar cupboards or the refrigerator/freezer, which still sported her childhood drawings clamped to the stainless-steel surface with animal-shaped Happeez. She took her usual seat and waited for her father to serve. He would have already eaten, she knew. Though kind and normal in so many ways, he had an oddity that used to bother her but no longer did. John Calvin preferred not to eat in front of other people, regardless of whether they shared the meal. Susan could still barely remember when they had eaten together as a family: her mother, her father, and herself. His neurosis had developed immediately after Amanda’s death, and Susan wondered if it stemmed from that trauma as fully as Monterey’s mutism did from the accident that had claimed her father.
It was one of the few images Susan still had of her mother, beaming as husband and daughter ate what she had made. Amanda had seemed to take great pride in her cooking and in her family’s enjoyment of it, which might explain the origin of John’s oddity. Perhaps he equated group meals with his beloved wife.
John placed a plate of steaming food, a glass of dark juice, and a fork in front of Susan, then took the seat directly across from her and leaned across the table. “So, tell me about Manhattan Hasbro.”
Susan let the aroma of the food tease her nose. She had eaten breakfast and lunch in the hospital staff cafeteria, a good selection of institutional food. The casserole had an egg and vegetable smell, quichelike, and she could see chunks of carrot and ham. “I like it. The staff seems intelligent and competent, if a bit quirky. I like my R-3 a lot, and my R-2 is, at the least, entertaining. The patients have real problems that force me to think.”
“Tell me all about them.”
Susan shoveled food into her mouth. It had a unique taste, an odd combination of flavors that worked well together. She realized that might describe the hospital as well, but she had more than patients on her mind. Soon enough, she would spend hours on the palm-pross researching them. For now, she had questions only her father could answer. She looked directly at him. “I met Nate last night.”
“Nate?” John Calvin’s brow furrowed. “As in ‘Nathan’?”
“As in N8-C.” Susan studied her father’s reaction.
John clearly tried to hide his surprise, but it leaked through his eyes.
“Nate says you’re a legend at U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men.”
“A legend?” John laughed. “What a silly thing for him to say.”
“Is it?” Susan doubted anyone else would find it silly. “How come you never told me you worked with the actual robots?”
Even John’s not-quite-casual shrug seemed uncomfortable beneath his daughter’s scrutiny. “I didn’t think it would interest you. It’s boring stuff, really.”
Susan put her fork aside and glared at her father. “The bell’s rung, Dad. You can’t unring it.” She took a swallow of juice to clear her palate. Like the casserole, it had a combination of tastes. She thought she recognized pomegranate and cranberry. “I now know you work directly with mechanical men who can pass for human.” She quoted Nate verbatim, “‘Human stem cells coaxed into a dermal and muscular system grown over a skeleton of porous silicone plastic.’ ”
John grumbled, “Nate talks too much.”
“Just enough,” Susan corrected. “And I intend to spend a lot more time with him, so don’t try to feed me any bullshit.”
Her father’s brows shot up. “Surely, it doesn’t taste that bad.”
“What?” The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. Susan followed his gaze to the serving of casserole on her plate. “Funny. The food’s fine, Dad. I’m just mad you convinced me you had an insignificant job for so many years we could have spent talking about miracles like Nate.”
“It’s not as interesting as it sounds.”
The defense fell flat. “If it’s even a tenth as interesting as it sounds, I’m fascinated.”
John Calvin sighed. He had spent most of his life avoiding the topic he no longer could, and Susan could not help feeling cheated and angry. “What do you want to know?”
Susan picked up her fork. “Nate mentioned he had a ‘positronic brain.’ What does that mean?”
John kept his voice level, almost monotonic, as if trying to infuse the boredom he had hidden behind so many years. “It’s kind of like a telephone switchboard on an atomic scale, with billons of possible connections compressed into a brain that can fit inside a human-sized skull.”
Struck with a sudden realization, Susan chewed a bite of casserole. “You invented it, didn’t you?”
“Good Lord, no! That would be my incredible friend, and college roommate, Dr. Lawrence Robertson.”
“But you had a hand in it.”
“A small one.”
Susan suspected her father was still downplaying his role. “And you thought I would find this boring?”
“You were a child. How many little girls find robotic circuitry interesting?”
Susan ate more of her dinner. “I haven’t been a little girl for quite a long time. I raved about algebra. I found physics, organic chemistry, and differential calculus exciting. Didn’t that give you a clue I wasn’t your average ‘little girl’?”
“I never thought you were average, kitten. Not in any way.”
Susan leaned toward him. “Then why did you lock me out of this incredible part of your life?”
John sat up, rigid. His blue eyes dodged hers. “Susan, if I talk to you about it now, will you let my reasons for waiting lie?”
Susan wanted it all but saw the prudence in waiting. The topic clearly agitated him; and, for now, the details of his projects interested her more than his excuses. “Fine. Tell me why robots that can pass for human, that can actually think, aren’t everywhere. The world should be clamoring for them, fighting over every one USR can make as fast as you can make them.”
John’s head started bobbing, as if of its own accord. He clearly agreed with her, but he would not say so. “First, they’re unbelievably expensive to build.”
Susan shrugged. “All the more reason for popularity. All new technology is expensive. The price comes down as raw materials can be purchased in bulk, construction becomes more mechanized and widespread, and supply catches up to demand.”
“But, mostly,” John continued, as if Susan had never spoken, “it’s the Frankenstein Complex.”
Susan hesitated, fork halfway to her mouth. The word “complex” implied a medical diagnosis, but she had never come across this particular abnormality in any of her studies. “As in Victor Frankenstein’s monster? From the Mary Shelley novel?”
“Exactly.”
Exactly what? Susan tried to put the pieces together. “Some people . . . are afraid . . . thinking robots will become . . . uncontrollably destructive?”
John Calvin nodded, looking thoughtfully out the window. They lived on the tenth story, overlooking many similar apartment buildings. Walls were all he could see from his angle. “Basically. Too many people worry robots will destroy, dominate, or replace us.”
Susan supposed it was not a wholly unreasonable fear, especially when it came to replacement. Already, most of the unskilled jobs had been given over to unintelligent machines. If positronic robots ever became cheaper, more reliable labor than humans, businesses would vie for their share.