No wonder John Calvin considered his work boring. No matter how skillfully a robot performed its job, no matter how magnificent its shape or precise its “fingers,” no matter how much information filled its electronic circuitry, it was only as smart as the person who programmed it. At least, that was how Susan Calvin figured it. A computer might spit out the facts, but only a human could read the subtle signs that altered the course of consideration. One word, one small detail, one momentary thought could change what she chose to research and, therefore, the course of a human life forever.
Apparently recalling the overwhelming grandeur of that “first patient” moment, Stony waited a long time before speaking again. He held out his cap once more, this time with fresh pieces of torn paper. Wrapped in her thoughts, Susan had not even noticed him preparing them. “One of you has to take in-house call tonight,” the R-3 said. “I’ve numbered the papers. Whoever gets ‘one’ is on tonight, ‘two’ tomorrow, et cetera. Clamhead gets night six by default.”
Each of the R-1s drew a new piece of paper. Susan opened hers carefully to display the number one.
Chapter 3
Head whirling with the details of the unit and her on-call duties, Susan Calvin sought out a private corner to review patient charts and explore diagnoses and data. All of the residents on the Pediatric Inpatient Psychiatry Unit had stayed late preparing for the next morning’s rounds. They had eaten dinner as a group, where Stony Lipschitz and Clayton Slaubaugh discussed helpful tips, tricks, and ideas for surviving the R-1 year. When the conversation turned to on-call suggestions, given that she had drawn the first night, Susan paid close attention.
And now, palm-pross in hand, she searched for the hidden charting room on the first floor that Stony had mentioned as a favorite on-call hideaway. She found it tucked away between an insulated staircase and the central processing area for information storage. She pushed open the door to reveal a room larger than she had expected. Modular shelving stood in rows, covered with labeled, opaque plastic boxes and well-worn textbooks that seemed to encompass every specialty. To her right, the area opened up into a cozy nook, with two overstuffed couches, three unmatched chairs, and a central table set at perfect height for palm-prosses. Apparently alone, Susan flopped down on one of the couches and placed her little portable on the table.
From her pocket, Susan pulled out the piece of paper with her patients’ information. What next? She considered meeting the children first, before the information in their charts prejudiced her; but the idea seemed foolish. The children had lives and diagnoses that long preceded Susan’s drawing their names from Stony’s baseball cap. They did not just appear from thin air because she needed patients. Though children, they were not innocents, newborn. They had met more doctors in their short lives than most people did in a lifetime. They knew the ins and outs of Manhattan Hasbro Hospital in a way Susan might never understand. Her relationship with each child would surely vary, but they would sense her inexperience and unpreparedness quickly. Better to be armed with knowledge and not need it than to cripple myself with ignorance.
A shadow fell over Susan, then glided onward. Startled, Susan loosed a small noise and jerked her attention toward it. She had believed herself alone and had not heard the door open.
Apparently cued by her gasp, the one who had cast the shadow turned. He appeared to be about Susan’s age and was tall enough to play professional basketball. Her father stood six feet eight, and the stranger would look him squarely in the eye. He wore blue hallway scrubs over a slender figure. Short brown hair outlined relatively nondescript features, with average-sized cheeks, nose, ears, and lips. Even his plain brown eyes did not stand out. He moved with a fluid grace that hinted of talent on the dance floor, in martial arts, or even gymnastics. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Instinctively polite, Susan shook her head. “I wasn’t scared. Just startled a bit. I was deep in thought.” She rose and held out her hand. “Susan Calvin, R-1, Psychiatry.”
He took her hand in a gentle but solid grip. They performed the standard brief shake and released. “N8-C. You can call me Nate.”
“N8?” Susan repeated. She had heard some unusual names in recent years, but that one went even beyond the vast and accepted norm. How soon till we’re all just a series of random letters and numbers?
“Eighth in the N-C model line.”
Susan laughed; but, when Nate did not join her, she sobered quickly. “You’re joking, right?”
Nate shook his head. “You do know I’m the resident robot, don’t you?”
Susan chuckled again, alone. “Oh, come on. My father works for a robotics company. If mechanical men as humanoid as you existed, I’d be one of the first to know about it.”
A light flashed through Nate’s eyes. “Susan Calvin. Your father wouldn’t be Dr. John Calvin, would he?”
Susan’s grin disappeared in an instant. “How did you know that?” Now, Nate finally did laugh. And Susan did not. “John Calvin’s a legend at U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men. And, currently, USR’s the only legal robotics company in America.”
Susan could only stare. It did not surprise her to discover her brilliant father had made a name for himself in his chosen field, nor that he had so belittled his achievements at home, she had come to believe he held a minor office position. What shocked her was the abrupt realization that she was talking to an actual robot she had so easily mistaken for human. Its answers did not seem stock or pat. It was clearly thinking, generating spontaneous conversation, and was physically and mentally indistinguishable from a human male.
This is a trick. It has to be a trick. Susan blinked her eyes in rapid succession, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. She was tired, but she was definitely awake. “Come on, now, seriously. The joke’s over.”
Nate tipped his head, his features holding a perfect expression of confusion. “Joke?”
“You’re not really a robot.”
“I’m not?” The look of surprise Nate turned her was clearly supposed to appear feigned. “Then how come I have wires and coils inside instead of organs?”
“Do you?” Susan glanced back at her palm-pross. If she did not get to her research soon, it would be too late to meet any of her patients. She had no intention of rousing them from bed, even if the nurses would allow it. She knew from her M-4 rotations nurses often savagely protected their charges, especially children; and Stony had reinforced that belief when he stated the nurses would come to him before implementing an irregular order written by a new R-1. “I’ve obviously studied human anatomy, and I shook your hand. It’s flesh. You have musculature, bone structure, blood vessels.”
Nate examined his right arm as if for the first time. “Human stem cells coaxed into a dermal and muscular system grown over a skeleton of porous silicone plastic.”
Susan had a scientific mind that did not make exceptions for hope, faith, and the paranormal. However, the science Nate described had concrete possibility, even if only in the future. She considered, lips pursed, hands clenching and unclenching. How long could he have rehearsed this joke? How far would anyone take it?