"Yes, Sir."
"But I am still responsible for you. That too, as stipulated and approved by the courts. I don't own you any more, but if you happen to get yourself into any trouble, I'm the one who will have to get you out of it. You may be free but you don't have any of the civil rights of a human being. You remain my dependent, in other words-my ward, by court order. I hope you understand that, Andrew."
Little Miss said, "You sound angry, Father."
"I am. I didn't ask to have responsibility for the world's only free robot dumped on me."
"Nothing has been dumped on you, Father. You accepted responsibility for Andrew the day you arranged to take him into your home. The court order doesn't change a bit of that. You won't have to do anything that you weren't bound to do before. As for Andrew's getting himself into trouble, what reason do you think he will? The Three Laws still hold."
"Then how can he be considered free?"
Andrew said quietly, " Are not human beings bound by their laws, Sir?"
Sir glowered. "Don't chop logic with me, Andrew. Human beings have voluntarily arrived at a social contract, a code of laws which they willingly agree to abide by because life in a civilized society would be untenable otherwise. Those who refuse to abide by those laws, and therefore make life untenable for others, are punished and, we like to think, eventually rehabilitated. But a robot doesn't live by any voluntary social contract. A robot obeys its code of laws because it has no choice but to obey. Even a so-called free robot."
"But as you say, Sir, human laws exist and must be obeyed, and those who live under those laws regard themselves as free nevertheless. So a robot-"
"Enough!" Sir roared. He swept his lap-robe to the floor and lurched uncertainly out of his chair. "I don't feel like discussing this any further, thank you. I'm going upstairs. Good night, Amanda. Good night, Andrew."
"Good night to you, Sir. Shall I see you to your room?" Andrew asked.
"You needn't bother. I'm still strong enough to climb a flight of stairs. You go about your business, whatever that may be, and I'll go about mine."
He tottered away. Andrew and Little Miss exchanged troubled glances, but neither of them said anything.
After that Sir rarely left his bedroom. His meals were prepared and brought to him by the simple TZ-model robot who looked after the kitchen. He never asked Andrew upstairs for any reason, and Andrew would not take it upon himself to intrude on Sir's privacy; and so from that time on Andrew saw Sir only on those infrequent occasions when the old man chose to descend into the main part of the house.
Andrew had not lived in the house himself for some time. As his woodworking business had expanded, it had become awkward for him to continue to operate out of the little attic studio that Sir had set aside for him at the beginning. So it had been decided, a few years back, that he would be allowed to set up a little dwelling of his own, a two-story cabin at the edge of the woods that flanked the Martin estate.
It was a pleasant, airy cabin, set on a little rise, with ferns and glistening-leaved shrubs all about, and a towering redwood tree just a short distance away. Three robot workmen had built it for him in a matter of a few days, working under the direction of a human foreman.
The cabin had no bedroom, of course, nor a kitchen, nor any bathroom facilities. One of the rooms was a library and office where Andrew kept his reference books and sketches and business records, and the other and much larger room was the workshop, where Andrew kept his carpentry equipment and stored the work in progress. A small shed adjoining the building was used to house the assortment of exotic woods that Andrew used in the jewelry-making segment of his enterprise, and the stack of less rare lumber that went into his much-sought-after pieces of furniture.
There was never any end of jobs for him to do. The publicity over his attaining free status had generated worldwide interest in the things that Andrew made, and scarcely a morning went by without three or four orders turning up on his computer. He had a backlog of commissions stretching years into the future, now, so that he finally had to set up a waiting list simply for the privilege of placing an order with him.
He was working harder now as a free robot than he ever had in the years when he had technically been the property of Sir. It was not at all unusual for Andrew to put in thirty-six or even forty-eight straight hours of work without emerging from his cabin, since he had no need, naturally, for food or sleep or rest of any kind.
His bank account swelled and swelled. He insisted on repaying Sir for the entire cost of building his little house, and this time Sir was willing to accept the money, purely for the sake of proper form. Title to the structure was legally transferred to Andrew and he executed a formal lease covering the portion of Gerald Martin's land on which the building stood.
Little Miss, who still lived just up the coast in the house she and Lloyd Charney had built long ago when they had first been married, never failed to look in on him whenever she came to Sir's estate to pay a call on her father. As a rule Little Miss would stop off at Andrew's workshop as soon as she arrived, and chat with him awhile and look at his latest projects, before going on into the main house where Sir was.
Often she brought Little Sir with her-though Andrew no longer called him that. For Little Sir had ceased to be a boy quite some time back-he was a tall and robust young man now, with a flaring russet-colored mustache nearly as awesome as his grandfather's and an imposing set of side-whiskers as well, and soon after the court decision that made Andrew a free robot he forbade Andrew to use the old nickname.
"Does it displease you, Little Sir?" Andrew asked. "I thought you found it amusing."
"I did."
"But now that you are a full-grown man, it seems condescending to you, is that it? An affront to your dignity? You know I have the highest respect for your-"
"It has nothing to do with my dignity," Little Sir said. "It has to do with yours."
"I don't understand, Little Sir."
"Evidently not. But look at it this way, Andrew: 'Little Sir' may be a charming name, and you and I certainly take it that way, but in fact what it is is the kind of groveling name that an old family retainer would use when speaking to the master's son, or in this case the master's grandson. It isn't appropriate any more, do you see, Andrew? My grandfather isn't your master nowadays, and I'm not a cute little boy. A free robot shouldn't call anyone 'Little Sir.' Is that clear? I call you Andrew-always have. And from now on you must call me George."
It was phrased as an order, so Andrew had no choice but to agree.
He ceased calling George Charney "Little Sir" as of that moment. But Little Miss remained Little Miss for him. It was unthinkable for Andrew to have to call her "Mrs. Charney" and even "Amanda" seemed like an improper and impertinent mode of address. She was "Little Miss" to him and nothing other than "Little Miss," even though she was a woman with graying hair now, lean and trim and as beautiful as ever but undeniably growing old. Andrew hoped that she would never give him the same sort of order that her son had; and she never did. "Little Miss" it was; "Little Miss" it would always be.
One day George and Little Miss came to the house, but neither of them made the usual stop at Andrew's place before going in to see Sir. Andrew noticed the car arrive and continue on past his own separate little driveway, and wondered why. He felt troubled when half an hour passed, and then half an hour more, and neither of them came to him. Had he given offense in some way on their last visit? No, that seemed unlikely.
But was there some problem in the main house, then?
He distracted himself by plunging into his work, but it took all his robotic powers of self-discipline to make himself concentrate, and even so nothing seemed to go as smoothly as it usually did. And then, late in the afternoon, George Charney came out back to see him-alone.