“Remy, it is. And you can call me Lawrence.”
Susan did not feel any more comfortable referring to the founder of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men by his first name than Remington did her father. She wondered if she could get away with “Sir Lawrence.”
Lawrence continued the introductions by pointing to a frumpy-looking, balding man in wrinkled dress clothing. “This is my director of research, Alfred Lanning.”
“How do?” Alfred mumbled when no one stepped close enough to shake hands.
“And one of our top roboticists, George Franklin.” George did not wait for them to come to him. A tall, gangly youth, he crossed to the center of the room in a single step to shake hands with Susan and Remington. “Pleased to meet you.”
Lawrence Robertson stepped back behind his desk, his gaze still on Susan. “So, young lady, when are you joining us on staff?”
“Me?” Susan could make no sense of the question. “I’m a psychiatry resident. I can’t imagine you need one of those at a robot factory.”
The men sniggered gently, except for Alfred Lanning, who gave the suggestion actual thought. “As complex as the positronic brain has become, I could see us putting a robot or two on the couch.”
“Not to mention the staff,” Lawrence added smoothly. “You have to be a bit nutty to work here.”
Not to be outdone, Remington added his piece. “I could just picture a robot lying on his analyst’s couch: ‘Doc, I know my intelligence is artificial, but my problems are real.’ ”
Everyone chuckled, except Remington himself. As George retook his seat, Susan joined Alfred in giving the idea real thought, or at least appearing to do so. “I can’t speak for the staff, but the robots shouldn’t be too hard to analyze. Ethically, they have to conform to the Three Laws of Robotics, right? That doesn’t leave a whole lot of wriggle room, really.”
John Calvin took one of the chairs. “I think it’s the general public who needs the help. We could hire a team of psychiatrists to eradicate the Frankenstein Complex, and people would still be worrying that robots are going to take their jobs, obliterate their privacy . . . and eat them.”
George nodded grimly. “Well, I suppose the risk of having a psychiatrist on staff would be the further reaction of the public.” He made a gesture toward the ceiling that Susan took to symbolize “the sky is the limit.” “They’d be imagining a two-ton hunk of metal with the capacity to smash a girder running around clinically depressed.”
Lawrence shook his head, still grinning. Clearly, he had asked Susan out of politeness, the kind of question all bosses address to a favored employee’s children. “Well, John, we’re still waiting for Javonte and Keagan. Why don’t you give your guests a short tour?”
“That’s all I can give them.” John rose and ushered Susan and Remington toward the door. “We’re not large to begin with, and we can’t go most places.”
“Sorry,” Lawrence said, sounding honestly apologetic.
“No problem.” Remington headed out the door, with Susan and John at his heels. “So long as we can get a glimpse of the nanorobot production, I don’t mind. That’s what Susan’s working on, and it has me fascinated.”
“Knock yourselves out,” Lawrence said as the door shut behind them.
They found themselves back out in the foyer with the secretary and the assortment of doors.
“Nice people,” Susan said.
“The best.” John looked around thoughtfully, apparently figuring where to start. “Why do you think I’ve stayed so long?”
Amara piped up, “I thought it was my amazing coffee.” “Coffee?” John playacted exaggerated surprise. “You mean that stuff you give us in the morning is coffee? All these years, I thought it was motor oil.”
It occurred to Susan that she had no idea how her father liked his coffee. She had never seen him drink any.
“Very funny.” Amara returned to her work. “Next time, Dr. Calvin, you get a mug of gasoline. We’ll see if you can tell the difference.”
John Calvin pointed to one of the doors. “The other offices are through there, including mine. I’ll take you there if we run out of places before Lawrence calls me back.” He opened one of the other doors and ushered them into a laboratory.
Compared to Lawrence’s office, the room looked positively germfree. The white walls gleamed, without a trace of stain or dirt. Long lab benches held racks of empty test tubes, and the sinks appeared brand-new. Small refrigeration units with old-fashioned key locks perched on each end of every bench. Each one also held a high-powered microscopic chamber. Hovering over the benches, clear Plexiglas shields could be lowered to create a soundproof or sterile environment. Only the chairs lay in disarray, apparently left where the workers had abandoned them.
“This is what you wanted to see, Remy.” John Calvin waved a hand to encompass the entire room. “The skeletal forms of the nanorobots are produced in the microchambers.” He led them to one of the boxes on the table. “You put your hands in here.” He indicated cut-out areas on the sides, now locked down tight. “And the view screen magnifies the project and tools so our roboticists don’t go blind.”
Remington lowered his head until he looked directly into the screen. “How much magnification is there?”
“I can look up an exact figure, if you want to know.” John Calvin hit a switch button on the back. Instantly, a brilliant light came on, demonstrating the contents: strange-looking pliers, guide wires, lasers, blades, screwdrivers, and even a tiny hammer. A sleek, pill-shaped body lay on a piece of cloth that looked like a chamois.
“Is that a nanorobot?” Remington asked, clearly awed.
“That’s the shell of one, yes. And those are the tools we use.”
Susan leaned in closer. “It looks so big.”
“Magnification,” John Calvin explained. “Put your hands in.”
“May I?” Remington said breathlessly.
“Be my guest.”
Remington looked at Susan, a stripe of red across his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Did you want to go first?”
Susan felt no particular need to have her own hands in the contraption. “Be my guest.” She looked at her father. “Just promise me this isn’t some sick practical joke that’s going to mangle his surgeon hands.”
John Calvin leaned in and unlocked the ports. He stepped back, gesturing at Remington.
Susan rolled over a chair so Remington did not have to crouch.
Without taking his attention from the magnification box, Remington settled his bottom on the chair and gently glided each hand into a side of the box.
They appeared instantly, wrapped in an opaque film. They looked enormous, as if he could grip the entire room.
“Whoa,” Susan said.
“Whoa,” Remington and John agreed.
Remington tentatively touched one of the tools with his finger. “That’s amazing. I didn’t think glass this big could be ground that finely.”
“It can’t.” John wore the expression of one accustomed to the impossible. “The glass is maximally magnified. Then we use an active system to multiply it another thousandfold.”
Remington removed his hands and sat back. “I’m impressed.” He rose and stepped aside. “Want to try it, Susan?”
Susan suspected, after a day of work, the nanorobot scientists walked around holding their arms spread far apart, afraid to knock over everything in their path with their gigantic hands. “No, thanks. I got the idea, and I’d just as soon not know if I have hair on my knuckles.”
Remington reflexively examined his own hands. “What’s the greenish fluid in the nanorobot concoction?”
“Normal saline.” It was an extremely familiar product, one Remington ran through IV lines daily and Susan had used in her medical rotations as well. It consisted of a sterile 0.91 percent solution of sodium chloride in water, essentially the same composition as that of most bodily fluids. It was the safest solution known to man, one that could be injected or rinsed over any organ, vessel, or tissue in the body, even in relatively large amounts.