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His treads whirred, he turned as though on a pivot, whizzed to the door, opened it, and was gone. Mike the Angel stared at the door as though trying to see beyond it, into the depths of the robot's brain itself. "Now just what was that all about?" he asked aloud. In the padded silence of the stateroom, there wasn't even an echo to answer him.
He tried to keep the heavy irony out of his gravelly tenor voice and didn't quite succeed. Fitzhugh seemed not to notice. "No, no. Of course not. It simply means that we shall have to begin again. The robot's brain will be de-energized and drained, and we will begin again. This is not our first failure, you know; it was just our longest success. Each time, we learn more.
If he knows that the Earth is flat, your contention that it is round will make no impression whatever. He knows, you see. He knows. "Now. Imagine a race with a perfect memory one which does not fade. A memory in which each bit of data is as bright and fresh as the moment it was imprinted, and as readily available as the data stored in a robot's mind. It is, in effect, a robotic memory.
Jurgen, Prince Trevannion, accepted the coffee cup and lifted it to his lips, then lowered it. These Navy robots always poured coffee too hot; spacemen must have collapsium-lined throats. With the other hand, he punched a button on the robot's keyboard and received a lighted cigarette; turning, he placed the cup on the command-desk in front of him and looked about.
He signalled for a robot waiter, and after a moment the robot slithered up to them. Hawkes punched a lever on the robot's stomach and the metal creature began to click and glow. An instant later a panel in its stomach slid open and two glasses appeared within. The robot's wiry tentacles reached in, took out the drinks, and set them on the table.
"Just as in the human being, there is a difference between a robot's brain and a robot's mind. The brain is a physical thing a bunch of cryotrons in a helium bath. But the mind is the sum total of all the data and reaction patterns and so forth that have been built into the brain or absorbed by it.
Snookums could reduce it to math symbols and equations, anyway, even if we didn't have Bishop Costin's work." He showed her the book from Mellon's room. "It doesn't even require the assumption of a soul to make it foul up a robot's works. He doesn't have any emotions, either. And he can't handle something that he can't experiment with. It would have driven him insane, all right.
Leda Crannon, who had lost ground in trying to keep up with Snookums' whirling treads, came to the door of Power Section too late to stop the robot's entrance. She didn't dare call out, because she knew that to do so would interrupt the men's vital work. All she could do was lean against the doorjamb and try to catch her breath.
Hawkes dropped a coin in a slot in the robot's side, and the machine bustled away, its service completed. "There you are," Hawkes said, pointing to the glass of amber-colored liquid. "Drink up." As if to set an example he lifted his own drink and tossed it down in one gulp, with obvious pleasure.
Mike's fingers, groping behind him, touched the door handle. But before he could grasp it, it turned, and the door opened behind him. It hit him full in the back, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps before regaining his balance. A clear contralto voice said: "Oh! I'm so sorry!" It was the same voice as the robot's! Mike the Angel swung around to face the second robot.
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