Я, Робот
Runaround
Speedyhoppedtoahaltandremainedstandingforamomentwithjustatiny,unsteadyweave,asthoughhewereswayinginalightwind.
Powellyelled:"Allright,Speedy.Comehere,boy."
WhereuponSpeedy’srobotvoicesoundedinPowell’sear.phonesforthefirsttime.
Itsaid:"Hotdog,let’splaygames.YoucatchmeandIcatchyou;nolovecancutourknifeintwo.ForI’mLittleButtercup,sweetLittleButtercup.Whoops!"Turningonhisheel,hespedoffinthedirectionfromwhichhehadcome,withaspeedandfurythatkickedupgoutsofbakeddust.
Andhislastwordsasherecededintothedistancewere,"Theregrewalittleflower’neathagreatoaktree,"followedbyacuriousmetallicclickingthatmighthavebeenaroboticequivalentofahiccup.
Donovansaidweakly:"WheredidhepickuptheGilbertandSullivan?Say,Greg,he...he’sdrunkorsomething."
"Ifyouhadn’ttoldme,"wasthebitterresponse,"I’dneverrealizeit.Let’sgetbacktothecliff.I’mroasting."
ItwasPowellwhobrokethedesperatesilence."Inthefirstplace,"hesaid,"Speedyisn’tdrunk–notinthehumansense–becausehe’sarobot,androbotsdon’tgetdrunk.However,there’ssomethingwrongwithhimwhichistheroboticequivalentofdrunkenness"
"Tome,he’sdrunk,"statedDonovan,emphatically,"andallIknowisthathethinkswe’replayinggames.Andwe’renot.It’samatteroflifeandverygruesomedeath."
