I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [46]
“Nothing!” The horrible spinning sensation had vanished, but it was hard to get words out. “Married? You mean—”
“Why, sure! About time, isn’t it? You remember that girl who was here last summer. That’s she! But you are sick. You—”
“Headache!” Susan Calvin motioned him away weakly. “I’ve . . . I’ve been subject to them lately. I want to . . . to congratulate you, of course. I’m very glad—” The inexpertly applied rouge made a pair of nasty red splotches upon her chalk-white face. Things had begun spinning again. “Pardon me—please—”
The words were a mumble, as she stumbled blindly out the door. It had happened with the sudden catastrophe of a dream—and with all the unreal horror of a dream.
But how could it be? Herbie had said—
And Herbie knew! He could see into minds!
She found herself leaning breathlessly against the door jamb, staring into Herbie’s metal face. She must have climbed the two flights of stairs, but she had no memory of it. The distance had been covered in an instant, as in a dream.
As in a dream!
And still Herbie’s unblinking eyes stared into hers and their dull red seemed to expand into dimly shining nightmarish globes.
He was speaking, and she felt the cold glass pressing against her lips. She swallowed and shuddered into a certain awareness of her surroundings.
Still Herbie spoke, and there was agitation in his voice—as if he were hurt and frightened and pleading.
The words were beginning to make sense. “This is a dream,” he was saying, “and you mustn’t believe in it. You’ll wake into the real world soon and laugh at yourself. He loves you, I tell you. He does, he does! But not here! Not now! This is an illusion.”
Susan Calvin nodded, her voice a whisper, “Yes! Yes!” She was clutching Herbie’s arm, clinging to it, repeating over and over, “It isn’t true, is it? It isn’t, is it?”
Just how she came to her senses, she never knew—but it was like passing from a world of misty unreality to one of harsh sunlight. She pushed him away from her, pushed hard against that steely arm, and her eyes were wide.
“What are you trying to do?” Her voice rose to a harsh scream. “What are you trying to do?”
Herbie backed away, “I want to help.”
The psychologist stared, “Help? By telling me this is a dream? By trying to push me into schizophrenia?” A hysterical tenseness seized her, “This is no dream! I wish it were!”
She drew her breath sharply, “Wait! Why . . . why, I understand. Merciful Heavens, it’s so obvious.”
There was horror in the robot’s voice, “I had to!”
“And I believed you! I never thought—”
Loud voices outside the door brought her to a halt. She turned away, fists clenching spasmodically, and when Bogert and Lanning entered, she was at the far window. Neither of the men paid her the slightest attention.
They approached Herbie simultaneously; Lanning angry and impatient, Bogert, coolly sardonic. The director spoke first.
“Here now, Herbie. Listen to me!”
The robot brought his eyes sharply down upon the aged director, “Yes, Dr. Lanning.”
“Have you discussed me with Dr. Bogert?”
“No, sir.” The answer came slowly, and the smile on Bogert’s face flashed off.
“What’s that?” Bogert shoved in ahead of his superior and straddled the ground before the robot. “Repeat what you told me yesterday.”
“I said that—” Herbie fell silent. Deep within him his metallic diaphragm vibrated in soft discords.
“Didn’t you say he had resigned?” roared Bogert. “Answer me!”
Bogert raised his arm frantically, but Lanning pushed him aside, “Are you trying to bully him into lying?”
“You heard him, Lanning. He began to say ‘Yes’ and stopped. Get out of my way! I want the truth out of him, understand!”
“I’ll ask him!” Lanning turned to the robot. “All right, Herbie, take it easy. Have I resigned?”
Herbie stared, and Lanning repeated anxiously, “Have I resigned?” There was the faintest trace of a negative shake of the robot’s head. A long wait produced nothing further.
The two men looked at each other and the hostility in their eyes was all but tangible.
“What the devil,” blurted Bogert, “has