I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [45]
“Right! And if you’ll notice, he’s been working on your time integration of Equation 22. It comes”—Lanning tapped a yellow fingernail upon the last step—“to the identical conclusion I did, and in a quarter the time. You had no right to neglect the Linger Effect in positronic bombardment.”
“I didn’t neglect it. For Heaven’s sake, Lanning, get it through your head that it would cancel out—”
“Oh, sure, you explained that. You used the Mitchell Translation Equation, didn’t you? Well—it doesn’t apply.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve been using hyper-imaginaries, for one thing.”
“What’s that to do with?”
“Mitchell’s Equation won’t hold when—”
“Are you crazy? If you’ll reread Mitchell’s original paper in the Transactions of the Far—”
“I don’t have to. I told you in the beginning that I didn’t like his reasoning, and Herbie backs me in that.”
“Well, then,” Bogert shouted, “let that clockwork contraption solve the entire problem for you. Why bother with nonessentials?”
“That’s exactly the point. Herbie can’t solve the problem. And if he can’t, we can’t—alone. I’m submitting the entire question to the National Board. It’s gotten beyond us.”
Bogert’s chair went over backward as he jumped up asnarl, face crimson. “You’re doing nothing of the sort.”
Lanning flushed in his turn, “Are you telling me what I can’t do?”
“Exactly,” was the gritted response. “I’ve got the problem beaten and you’re not to take it out of my hands, understand? Don’t think I don’t see through you, you desiccated fossil. You’d cut your own nose off before you’d let me get the credit for solving robotic telepathy.”
“You’re a damned idiot, Bogert, and in one second I’ll have you suspended for insubordination”—Lanning’s lower lip trembled with passion.
“Which is one thing you won’t do, Lanning. You haven’t any secrets with a mind-reading robot around, so don’t forget that I know all about your resignation.”
The ash on Lanning’s cigar trembled and fell, and the cigar itself followed, “What . . . what—”
Bogert chuckled nastily, “And I’m the new director, be it understood. I’m very aware of that; don’t think I’m not. Damn your eyes, Lanning, I’m going to give the orders about here or there will be the sweetest mess that you’ve ever been in.”
Lanning found his voice and let it out with a roar. “You’re suspended, d’ye hear? You’re relieved of all duties. You’re broken, do you understand?”
The smile on the other’s face broadened, “Now, what’s the use of that? You’re getting nowhere. I’m holding the trumps. I know you’ve resigned. Herbie told me, and he got it straight from you.”
Lanning forced himself to speak quietly. He looked an old, old man, with tired eyes peering from a face in which the red had disappeared, leaving the pasty yellow of age behind, “I want to speak to Herbie. He can’t have told you anything of the sort. You’re playing a deep game, Bogert, but I’m calling your bluff. Come with me.”
Bogert shrugged, “To see Herbie? Good! Damned good!”
It was also precisely at noon that Milton Ashe looked up from his clumsy sketch and said, “You get the idea? I’m not too good at getting this down, but that’s about how it looks. It’s a honey of a house, and I can get it for next to nothing.”
Susan Calvin gazed across at him with melting eyes. “It’s really beautiful,” she sighed. “I’ve often thought that I’d like to—” Her voice trailed away.
“Of course,” Ashe continued briskly, putting away his pencil, “I’ve got to wait for my vacation. It’s only two weeks off, but this Herbie business has everything up in the air.” His eyes dropped to his fingernails, “Besides, there’s another point—but it’s a secret.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“Oh, I’d just as soon, I’m just busting to tell someone—and you’re just about the best—er—confidante I could find here.” He grinned sheepishly.
Susan Calvin’s heart bounded, but she did not trust herself to speak.
“Frankly,” Ashe scraped his chair closer and lowered his voice into a confidential whisper, “the house isn’t to be only for myself. I’m getting married!”
And then he jumped out of his seat,