Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan had not yet figured it out. “What exactly do you do here?” Then, recalling what he had told her previously of the differing expectations of U.S. Robotics, the hospital administrators, and certain members of the staff, she amended her question. “I mean, I know some of the doctors, mostly researchers, use you as a sounding board, a fact-checker, an assistant. But what do you do all day? What is your basic job?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve patients. I spend most of my time on the computer, searching for charting errors, inconsistencies, mistakes, incomplete notes. Things like that. I transport inanimate objects such as bedding, pillows, and blankets from the laundry to the storage areas.”

“What a waste.”

Nate shrugged. “It leaves me lots of time outside my official duties. I have access to plenty of information. I started with the books and worked my way to the legitimate online medical sites.” He indicated a palm-pross left on the room’s only table. “Since I only have to read or hear things once, it’s easy to stay current. So, when the research staff send articles for me to proofread or ask for help on their projects, I have no trouble assisting them.”

Susan was surprised. “So I’m not the only doctor who visits you?” Nate grinned. “Just the prettiest.”

To Susan’s surprise, she found herself blushing. “Sweet.” She looked at her own Vox, though the time did not matter. The sooner she headed for the PIPU, the more she could contribute at rounds. “I have to go, now, too. But I’ll come back when I can.”

Nate waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be counting the hours till your return.”

Amazing, Susan thought as she left. He’s even programmed for flirting and sarcasm.

As Susan trotted toward the PIPU, she realized “programmed” was not the right word. As her father had described it, the positronic brain contained a network of circuitry as complex as the human brain. Nate might have started with some basic programs, the Three Laws of Robotics, for example, and the English language; but he had self-developed the remainder of his personality through thought, intention, and experience.

That latter realization would have floored Susan Calvin, had she not already discussed it with her father. The genius behind the invention had a name, Dr. Lawrence Robertson, the president of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. He had calculated the necessary data to create a spongy globe of platinum-iridium that replaced miles of relays and photocells and had ultimately become the positronic brain. Someday, Susan hoped, she would meet this supergenius.

Susan hurried to the locked PIPU door and buzzed for entrance. A familiar nurse’s voice came over the intercom system. “Good morning, Dr. Calvin.”

Susan waved in the general direction of the all-but-invisible camera. “Good morning, Saranne. May I come in?”

“On my way.”

The clunky, old-fashioned system of the PIPU never ceased to confound Susan. It seemed foolish to retain a lock system that required a human to physically key through two heavy doors. Apartment buildings had had direct-wired buzzer systems serving dozens of stories since at least her grandmother’s time, and cheap voice, print, or laser identification systems had existed for decades. The best explanation Susan had heard was that any push-button system would become liable to access by patients; coded entries required too-frequent maintenance for staff changes that would result in loss of patient confidentiality. The strong steel doors could withstand attacks that lighter electronic systems could not, and any attempt at tampering would become instantly obvious.

At the least, Susan had to admit the system had worked for longer than two centuries. And the ponderous, gloomy simplicity of it made the whole unit appear equally old.

Susan heard the lock click. The windowless door eased toward her. She caught the edge to help the nurse open it. Slender as a willow, and fine-boned, Saranne struggled with the enormous panel, just as any of the pediatric patients would. She had short blond hair in a feathered cut, china doll features, and pert blue eyes.

“Thank you,” Susan said. She looked up and noticed the usually gray hallway now held a dozen brightly colored balloons. Several of the nurses and unit staff milled around the area, beneath a banner reading CONGRATULATIONS! Already trained to the rules, Susan scooted inside and let the door slam shut behind her. Saranne relocked it, placing the key in her flowered scrub-shirt pocket.

“Congratulations?” Susan glanced around the smiling group, bewildered. “Thank you. But what have I done to deserve all this?”

Murmurs swept the group, and Saranne slapped Susan’s shoulder approvingly. “Discharge orders for Diesel Moore. Starling Woodruff off the service forever and about to go home from Neurosurgery!”

Someone else called out, “All in your first four days.”

They came at Susan en masse.

“Congratulations, Doc.”

The fuss embarrassed Susan. She had never liked being the center of attention. Smiling, bobbing her head, cautiously working her way to the unit door, she turned to face them all. “Thank you so much. I’ll try my very best to live up to your expectations.” She wanted to deflate the excitement, to remind them she had gotten lucky. Both patients had had hidden medical diagnoses that, once exposed, made their treatment so much easier. But doing so might denigrate the residents and attendings who had come before her, those who had not made those same medical diagnoses. She reached for the door handle, knowing she would find it locked.

A male nurse named Jordan unlocked the unit door, while the other staff discussed the dispensation of banner and balloons. They could not allow balloons on the unit for fear some patients might pop them to torment others who had phobias, nightmares, or delusions.

Susan headed for the charting area, surprised to receive smiles and applause from the remaining staff as well. She nodded at everyone she saw, then attempted to duck into the staffing area. Before she got there, a small child latched onto her leg.

Susan looked down to see Sharicka. She was not surprised to observe that someone had bent the balloon rule; Sharicka clutched the string of a crimson balloon filled with helium, and she enwrapped Susan’s leg in a deathless embrace. “Dr. Thuzan!” she sang out, with just a hint of a lisp. “Sit with me. Pleeease.”

Susan could not resist the childish tones and apparent sincerity. She sat in one of the plush chairs in the television room, ignoring the movie that seemed to have most of the patients mesmerized.

Sharicka climbed into Susan’s lap, snuggling against her. “You never told me you were my doctor.” She popped a thumb into her mouth, speaking around it. “I was scared I didn’t have a doctor no more.”

In her days observing the young girl, Susan had never seen her suck her thumb before. She wondered what it meant: Was it a conscious or unconscious action, a deliberate ruse, or expression of emotion? Did a four-year-old even have the mental connections and experience to play such intricate games with an adult? “You have a doctor, Sharicka,” Susan said with proper adult reassurance. “I’ve just gotten so busy with other patients, I haven’t had time to get to know you.” She did not mention her silent observations. She did not want to cue Sharicka.

“I heared ya fixed ’em.” Sharicka snuggled even closer. “I wants ya ta fix me, too.”

The baby talk annoyed Susan. She had overheard Sharicka enough times to know she had a more than competent vocabulary.

“Can ya fix me?” Sharicka gazed into Susan’s face with adoration, her eyes so sweet and dark, Susan could not help smiling.