Я, Робот
Robbie
TherobotleftwithadisconsolatestepandGloriachokedbackasob.
GeorgeWestonwascomfortable.ItwasahabitofhistobecomfortableonSundayafternoons.Agood,heartydinnerbelowthehatches;anice,soft,dilapidatedcouchonwhichtosprawl;acopyoftheTimes;slipperedfeetandshirtlesschest;howcouldanyonehelpbutbecomfortable?
Hewasn’tpleased,therefore,whenhiswifewalkedin.Aftertenyearsofmarriedlife,bestillwassounutterablyfoolishastoloveher,andtherewasnoquestionthathewasalwaysgladtoseeher–stillSundayafternoonsjustafterdinnerweresacredtohimandhisideaofsolidcomfortwastobeleftinuttersolitudefortwoorthreehours.Consequently,hefixedhiseyefirmlyuponthelatestreportsoftheLefebre-YoshidaexpeditiontoMars(thisonewastotakeofffromLunarBaseandmightactuallysucceed)andpretendedshewasn’tthere.
Mrs.Westonwaitedpatientlyfortwominutes,thenimpatientlyfortwomore,andfinallybrokethesilence.
"George!"
"Hmpph?"
"George,Isay!Willyouputdownthatpaperandlookatme?"
ThepaperrustledtothefloorandWestonturnedawearyfacetowardhiswife,"Whatisit,dear?"
"Youknowwhatitis,George.It’sGloriaandthatterriblemachine."
"Whatterriblemachine?"
