This time he wasn’t. He met Nana CD-IX in the hallway outside Bennie’s room. Like all nurse, teaching, and children’s personal service robots, she was human in form, except for her control dial safely out of baby’s reach, top, center.

The human form was reassuring to children, kept them from feeling strange with parents back. Nana was big, gray-haired, stout, buxom, motherly, to reassure parents.

“Now, Mr. Tilman,” she said with weary impatience, “you are too late. Surely you don’t intend to burst in and disturb your son now.”

“Surely I do.”

“But he is having his supper. You will upset him. Can’t you understand that you should arrange to be here between 5:30 and 6 if you wish to interview the child?”

“Did he miss me? Sorry, I couldn’t make it earlier. But now I am going to see him a minute.”

“Mr. Tilman!”

“Nana! And what’s this about your wanting Bennie spanked because he drew a few pictures?”

“Surely you realize these are the child’s formative years, Mr. Tilman. He should be learning to think in terms of selling now—not doing things. That’s robot work, Mr. Tilman. Robots can’t sell, you know, and what will people, let alone robots think if you let your boy grow up—”

up—

“He’s growing up fine; and I am going in to see him.”

“H

e

“Mr. Tilman!”

“And for two credits, Nana, I’d cut your switch. You hear me?”

“Mr. Tilman—no! No, please. I’m sorry. Let the boy scrawl a bit; perhaps it won’t hurt him. Go in and see him if you must, but do try not to upset him or— All right, all right. But please Mr. Tilman, my switch—”

or—

switch—

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