so long as you go about things quietly and obey the absolute letter of the corporation law. And if anyone does find out what's going on and doesn't like it, well, it'll be up to them to take action against you to stop it-provided they can show that they've got legal standing to intervene."
"And if someone does, John? Will you take the case if a suit is brought against us?"
"Certainly. For an appropriate retainer."
"What would be appropriate, do you think?"
Feingold smiled. "Something along the lines of that," he said, and pointed to the wooden plaque.
"Fair enough," said Sir.
"Not that I'm a collector, you understand. But it does have a certain artistic appeal."
"Indeed it does," said Sir.
Feingold chuckled and turned to the robot. " Andrew, you're going to be-well, not a rich man, but a rich robot. Does that please you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you plan to do with all the money you're going to make?"
"Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir would have had to pay for. It would save him expense, sir."
Chapter Six
THE OCCASIONS for drawing on Andrew's bank account came more frequently than anyone had expected. From time to time Andrew, like any machine no matter how well made, was in need of repair-and robot repairs were invariably expensive. Then, too, there were the regular upgrades. Robotics had always been a dynamic industry, rapidly progressing from decade to decade since the days of the first massive, clunky products, which had not even had the ability to speak. Improvements in design, in function, in capabilities, were unending. With the passing years robots constantly became more sleek, ever more versatile, ever more deft of motion and durable of structure.
Sir saw to it that Andrew had the advantage of every new device that U. S. Robots developed. When the improved homeostasis circuitry came out, Sir made sure that it was installed in Andrew almost at once. When the new and far more efficient articulation of the leg-joint was perfected, using the latest elastomer technology, Andrew got it. When, a few years later, subtler face-panels-made of carbon fiber set in an epoxy matrix which looked less sketchily human than the old kind-became the rage, Andrew was modified accordingly, to provide him with the serious, sensitive, perceptive, artistic look which Sir-at Little Miss's prompting-had come to believe was appropriate to his nature. Little Miss wanted Andrew to be an absolute paragon of metallic excellence, and Sir felt the same way.
Everything was done at Andrew's expense, naturally.
Andrew insisted on that. He would not hear of letting Sir pay for any of the costs associated with his upgrades. A steady stream of magnificent work flowed from his little attic shop-one-of-a-kind masterpieces of carved jewelry fashioned from rare woods, sumptuous office furniture, elegant bedroom suites, wondrous lamps, and ornate bookcases.
There was no need for a showroom or catalogs, because word of mouth took care of everything and all of Andrew's output was commissioned months and then years in advance. The checks were made payable to Pacific Coast Artifactories, Incorporated, and Andrew Martin was the only officer of Pacific Coast Artifactories who was entitled to draw money from the corporate account. Whenever it was necessary for Andrew to go back to the U. S. Robots factory for maintenance or upgrading, it was a Pacific Coast Artifactories check, signed by Andrew himself, that paid for the work.
The one area of Andrew that remained untouched by upgrading of any sort was his positronic pathways. Sir was insistent-extremely insistent-about that.
"The new robots aren't nearly as good as you are, Andrew," he said. "The new ones are contemptibly simple-minded creatures, as a matter of fact. The company has succeeded in learning how to make the pathways more precise, more closely on the nose, more deeply on the track, but that is a double-edged kind of improvement. The new robots don't shift. They have no mental agility. There's nothing in the least unpredictable about them. They simply do what they're designed to do and never a smidgeon more. I like you better, Andrew."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Of course, the company will tell you that their current generation of robots is 99.9% efficient, or maybe they're claiming 100% efficiency this year. Well, good for them. But a robot like you, Andrew-you're 102% efficient; 110%, maybe. That isn't what they want, at U. S. Robots. They're after perfection, and I suppose they've attained it-their idea of perfection, anyway. The perfect servant. The flawlessly functioning mechanical man. But perfection can be a terrible limitation, Andrew. Don't you