Я, Робот

           Heiswaiting,yousee,tosolvetheproblemof-er–myself.Thatfinished,heisquitereadytoturntheofficeofdirectorovertohissuccessor."

           Bogertexpelledhisbreathsharply,"Andthissuccessor?Whoishe?"HewasquiteclosetoHerbienow,eyesfixedfascinatedlyonthoseunreadabledull-redphotoelectriccellsthatweretherobot’seyes.

           Wordscameslowly,"Youarethenextdirector."

           AndBogertrelaxedintoatightsmile,"Thisisgoodtoknow.I’vebeenhopingandwaitingforthis.Thanks,Herbie."

           PeterBogertwasathisdeskuntilfivethatmorningandhewasbackatnine.Theshelfjustoverthedeskemptiedofitsrowofreferencebooksandtables,ashereferredtooneaftertheother.Thepagesofcalculationsbeforehimincreasedmicroscopicallyandthecrumpledsheetsathisfeetmountedintoahillofscribbledpaper.

           Atpreciselynoon,hestaredatthefinalpage,rubbedablood-shoteye,yawnedandshrugged."Thisisgettingworseeachminute.Damn!"

           HeturnedatthesoundoftheopeningdoorandnoddedatLanning,whoentered,crackingtheknucklesofonegnarledhandwiththeother.

           Thedirectortookinthedisorderoftheroomandhiseyebrowsfurrowedtogether.

           "Newlead?"heasked.

           "No,"camethedefiantanswer."What’swrongwiththeoldone?"

           Lanningdidnottroubletoanswer,nortodomorethanbestowasinglecursoryglanceatthetopsheetuponBogert’sdesk.Hespokethroughtheflareofamatchashelitacigar.

           "HasCalvintoldyouabouttherobot?It’samathematicalgenius.Reallyremarkable."