"He wants more than an updating. He wants the finest replacement body within your technical capacity, by which he means an android body."
"He can't have one."
"By refusing," Paul said smoothly, "you condemn him to continued humiliation at the hands of those who, recognizing him as a robot, treat him with contempt because he prefers to wear clothes and otherwise behave in traditionally 'human' fashion."
"That's not our problem," said Smythe-Robertson.
"It becomes your problem when we sue you for refusing to provide my client with a body that would allow him to avoid much of the humiliation he now encounters."
"Go ahead and sue, then. Do you think anybody's going to give a damn about a robot who wants to look human? People will be outraged. He'll be denounced everywhere for the arrogant upstart that he is."
"I'm not so sure," Paul said. " Agreed, public opinion wouldn't ordinarily support the claim of a robot in a lawsuit of that kind. But may I remind you that U. S. Robots is not very popular with the general public, Mr. Smythe-Robertson? Even those who most use robots to their own benefit and profit are suspicious of you. This may be a hangover from the days of anti-robot paranoia: I suspect that's a good part of it. Or it may be resentment against the immense power and wealth of your company, which has so successfully managed to defend its worldwide monopoly on robot manufacture through a long and clever series of patent maneuvers. Whatever the cause may be, the resentment may exist. If there's any entity that would be even less popular in such a lawsuit than the robot who wants to look like a human being, it would be the corporation that has filled the world with robots in the first place."
Smythe-Robertson glared. The clenched muscles of his face stood out clearly. He said nothing.
Paul went on, "In addition, think about what people would say when they find out you're capable of manufacturing human-looking robots? The lawsuit would very definitely focus a great deal of attention on that very point. Whereas if you quietly and simply provided my client with what he requests-"
Smythe-Robertson seemed about to explode. "This is coercion, Mr. Charney."
"On the contrary. We're simply trying to show you where your own best interests lie. A quick and peaceful resolution is all that we're looking for. Of course, if you compel us to seek legal redress in the courts, that's a different matter. And then, I think, you will find yourself in an awkward and disagreeable position, particularly since my client is quite wealthy and will live for many centuries to come and will have no reason to refrain from fighting this battle forever."
"We're not without resources ourselves, Mr. Charney."
"I'm aware of that. But can you withstand an endless legal siege that will expose the deepest secrets of your company? -I put it to you one last time, Mr. Smythe-Robertson. If you prefer to reject my client's quite reasonable request, you may by all means do so and we'll leave here without another word being spoken. But we will sue, as is certainly our right, and we will sue most strenuously and publicly, which is bound to create immense difficulties for u. S. Robots, and you will find that you will eventually lose. Are you willing to take that risk?"
"Well-" Smythe-Robertson said, and paused.
"Good. I see that you're going to accede," said Paul. "You may still be hesitating now, but you're going to come around in the end. A very wise decision, may I add. But that leads to a further important point."
Smythe-Robertson's fury seemed to be fading into sullen glumness. He did not try to speak.
Paul continued, "Let me assure you that if, in the process of transferring my client's positronic brain from his present body to the organic one that you ultimately will agree to create for him, there is any damage, however slight, then I will never rest until I have nailed this corporation to the ground."
"You can't expect us to guarantee-"
"I can and I will. You've had a hundred-odd years of experience in transferring positronic brains from one robot body to another. You can surely use the same techniques in transferring one safely to an android body. And I warn you of this: if one brain-path of my client's platinum-iridium essence happens to get scrambled in the course of the work, you can be quite certain that I'll take every possible step to mobilize public opinion against this corporation-that I will expose it before all the world for the criminally vindictive operation that it has plainly revealed itself to be."
Smythe-Robertson said, shifting about miserably in his seat, "There's no way we can provide you with a total waiver of liability. There are risks in any sort of transfer."
"Low-probability ones. You don't lose a lot of positronic brains while you move them from one body to another. We're willing to accept risks of that sort. It's the possibility of deliberate and malevolent action against my client that I'm warning you against."
"We wouldn't be so stupid," said Smythe-Robertson. " Assuming we go through with this, and I haven't yet said we would, we'd exert our utmost skills. That's the way we've always worked and the way we intend to continue. You've backed me into a corner, Charney, but you've still got to realize that we can't give you a 100% assurance of success. 99%, yes. Not 100."
"Good enough. But remember: we'll throw everything we have at you if we have reason to suspect any sort of intentional harm to our client." Paul turned to Andrew and said, "What do you say, Andrew? Is this acceptable to you?"
Andrew hesitated for nearly a full minute, caught in an equilibrium of First Law potentials. What Paul wanted from him amounted to the approval of lying, of blackmail, of the badgering and humiliation of a human being.
But at least no physical harm was involved, he told himself. No physical harm.
And he managed at last to come out with a barely audible "Yes."
Fifteen
IT WAS LIKE being constructed allover again. For days, for weeks, for months, Andrew found himself not himself somehow, and the simplest actions kept giving rise to hesitation.
He had always been utterly at home in his body. He had only to recognize the need for a motion and he was instantly able to make that motion, smoothly, automatically. Now it took a conscious effort of self-direction. Raise your arm, he had to tell himself. Move it over here. Now put it down.
Was this what it was like for a young human child as it strived to master the mysteries of bodily coordination? Andrew wondered.
Perhaps so. He was over a hundred years old and yet he felt very much like a child as he moved about in this startling new body of his.
It was a splendid body. They had made him tall, but not so tall that he would seem overbearing or frightening. His shoulders were broad, his waist was slim, his limbs were supple and athletic. He had chosen light-brown hair for himself, since he found red too flamboyant and yellow too obvious and black too somber, and human hair did not seem to come in other colors than those, except for the gray or white or silver of age, and he had not wanted that. His eyes-photo-optic cells, really, but very convincing in appearance-were brown also, flecked ever so subtly with gold. For his skin color Andrew had selected something neutral in tone, a kind of blend of the prevailing skin colors of the various human types, darker than the pale pink of the Charneys but not quite as dark as some. That way no one would be able to tell at a glance which race he belonged to, since in fact he belonged to none. He had had the U. S. Robots designers peg his apparent age at somewhere between thirty-five and fifty human years: old enough to seem mature, not so old as to show serious signs of aging.
A fine body, yes. He was certain he would be very happy in it, once he grew accustomed to it.
Each day there was a little progress. Each day he gained more control over his elegant new android housing. But the process was terribly slow -agonizingly slow
Paul was frantic. "They've damaged you, Andrew. I'm going to have to file suit."