"That's the whole point I was trying to make. That you give them away."
Sir's smile grew broader. "Well, what would you prefer that I do? Sell them to people?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. That's exactly what I would prefer."
Sir said, looking astonished, "It isn't like you to be greedy, Mandy."
"What does greed have to do with this?"
"Surely you must understand that we already have more than enough money. Quite apart from the complete impropriety of my putting a price tag on some object that a guest in my house might happen to admire, it would be absurd for me to go in for trivial profiteering of any such kind."
"I'm not saying that we should try to make money on the things Andrew carves. But what about Andrew?"
"What about him?"
"He does the work. He should have the money."
Sir blinked. "Andrew's a robot, Mandy."
"Yes, I know that, Dad"
"Robots aren't people, sweet. They're machines, remember? Like telephones, like computers. What imaginable use would a machine have for money? Robots don't go shopping. Robots don't take holidays in Hawaii. Robots don't-"
"I'm serious, Dad. This is an important issue. Andrew spent hours making that."
"So?"
"Robot or not, he's got the right to benefit from the results of his labor. When you coolly hand out the things he makes as gifts to your friends or political associates, the way you do, you're exploiting him, did you ever stop to think of that, Dad? He may be a machine but he's not a slave. And also he's an artist. He's entitled to be compensated for making those things. Maybe not when he makes them for us, but when you give them away like that to other people-" Little Miss paused. "Do you remember the French Revolution, Dad? -No, I don't mean do you remember it literally. But its basic issue was the exploiting of the working classes by the aristocracy. Robots are our new working classes. And if we go on treating our robots the way the dukes and duchesses treated their peasants-"
Sir smiled gently.
"The last thing we need to worry about, Mandy, is an uprising by our robots. The Three Laws"
"The Three Laws, the Three Laws, the Three Laws! I hate the Three Laws! You can't deprive Andrew of the benefit of the work he does. You can't! It isn't fait; Dad!"
The fury in Little Miss's voice cut off the rest of Sir's disquisition on the Laws of Robotics before he had barely managed to frame his words.
He said instead, after a moment, "You really feel strongly about this, don't you, Mandy?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"All right. Let me think about it. And perhaps we can actually work something out for Andrew along the lines that you're suggesting."
"You promise?"
"I promise," said Sir, and Little Miss knew that everything was going to be all right, for her father's promises to her were inviolable contracts -always had been, always would be.
Some time went by, and other visitors came to the house, and everyone who saw Andrew's work responded with the usual praise. But Little Miss, who was watching closely, observed with pleasure that her father had stopped giving Andrew's things away, no matter how effusive the praise might be.
On the other hand, it happened on several occasions that some guest would say, "You don't think I could buy that from you, do you, Gerald?" And Sir, looking uncomfortable, would simply shrug and reply that he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to get into the business of selling such things.
Little Miss wondered why her father was sidestepping the issue like that. Sidestepping things wasn't normally part of his nature. And it wasn't as though anyone was likely to accuse him of deliberately setting out to earn money by peddling Andrew's work to his house guests. Obviously Gerald Martin was in no need of picking up a bit of extra money on the side that way. But if the offers were made in good faith, though, why not accept them?
She let the issue rest, nevertheless. She knew her father well enough to understand that the matter was still open, and would be attended to in due course.
Then another visitor came: John Feingold, Sir's lawyer. The offices of Feingold's law firm were in the San Francisco area, where despite the general decentralization of city life that had been going on all during the current century a good many people still preferred to live. But though San Francisco was only a short journey south of the wild strip of coast where the Martins lived, a visit from John Feingold to the Martin house was a relatively unusual thing. Usually Sir went down to San Francisco whenever he had business to discuss with Feingold. So Little Miss knew that something special must be up.
Feingold was an easy-going white-haired man with florid pink skin, a pudgy belly, and a warm, amiable smile. He preferred to dress in older styles of clothing and the rims of his contact lenses were tinted a bright green, a fashion so rare nowadays that it was all that Little Miss could do to keep from giggling whenever she saw the lawyer. Sir had to shoot her a stern glance now and then when he detected a fit of laughter coming over her in Feingold's presence.
Feingold and Sir settled down before the fireplace in the great central room of the house and Sir handed him a small inlaid plaque that Andrew had produced a few days before.
The lawyer nodded. He turned it over and over in his hand, rubbed its polished surface appreciatively, held it up to the light at various angles.
"Beautiful," he said, finally. "Extraordinarily fine work, all right. Your robot did it?"
"Yes. How did you know that?"
"I've heard some talk. It's no secret, Gerald, that you've got a robot here who's a master craftsman in wood."
Sir glanced up at Andrew, who was standing quietly in the shadows to one side. "Do you hear that, Andrew? You're famous all up and down California. -But you're wrong about one thing, John. Andrew isn't simply a master craftsman. He's an out-and-out artist, nothing less."
"Indeed he is," Feingold said. "That's the only word for him. This is a wonderful piece."
"Would you like to own it?" Sir asked.
Feingold's eyes widened in surprise. " Are you offering it to me, Gerald?"
"I might be. It all depends on how much you'd be willing to pay for it."
Feingold grunted as though Sir had poked him in the ribs with a rigid finger. He sat back sharply, rearranging himself with some care, and for a moment he did not reply.
Then he said, in an entirely different voice, "I hadn't been aware that you've been undergoing financial reverses lately, Gerald."
"I haven't."
"Then-pardon me if I sound a little confused-why on Earth would you want to-"
His voice trailed off.
"Sell you that little carving?" Sir finished for him.
"Yes. Sell it. I know you've been giving away a great many of the things that Andrew has made. People have told me that it's practically impossible to come here without being offered something. I've seen a few of the things that they've been given. There's never been a question of money changing hands, am I right? And now-completely leaving out of the discussion the fact that I'm not a collector of little wooden carvings, no matter how lovely they might be-you baffle me by asking me if I want to purchase one! Why? I doubt very much that you have any special reason for wanting me to pay for what everybody else gets free. And you can't possibly need the money. You've just told me that yourself. In any event how much would you be able to get for an object like this? Five hundred dollars? A thousand? If you're still as wealthy as I know you to be, Gerald, what difference could the odd five hundred or thousand make to you?"
"Not to me. To Andrew."
"What?"
"Your estimate happens to be right on the mark, John. I think I could get a thousand for this little thing. And I've been offered rather more than that for chairs and desks that Andrew has made. Not just one-shot purchases but entire distribution deals for large-scale production. If I had accepted any of the offers, there'd be a fine fat bank account built up by now, entirely on the proceeds of Andrew's woodworking-something up in the hundreds of thousands already, I suspect."
Feingold fussed with his epaulets and collar-studs. "Good heavens, Gerald, I can't make any sense out of any of this. A rich man making himself richer by putting his robot to work in some sort of cottage industry-"