"You," he said. "The best trouble-shooter that Robinc ever had, and now I find you in the enemy's camp."
But I knew his technique, and I was armed against being touched by it. "In the enemy's camp?" I said. "I am the enemy. And it's because I was your best trouble-shooter that I learned the real trouble with Robinc's androids: They don't work, and the only solution is to supersede them."
"Supersede is a kind word," he said wistfully. "But the unkind act is destruction. Murder. Murder of Robinc itself, draining the lifeblood of our Empire."
The Head intervened. "Not draining, Mr. Grew, but transfusing. The blood stream, to carry on your own metaphor, is tainted; we want fresh blood, and Mr. Quinby provides it."
"I am not helpless, you know," the old man murmured gently.
"I'm afraid possibly you are, sir, and for the first time in your life. But you know the situation: in the past few months there has been an epidemic of robot breakdowns. Parts unnecessary and unused, but installed because of our absurd insistance on an android shape, have atrophied. Sometimes even the brain has been affected; my own confidential cryptanalyst went totally mad. Quinby's usuforms forestall any such problem."
"The people will not accept them. They are conditioned to androids."
"They must accept them. You know, better than most, the problems of supply that the Empire faces. The conservation of mineral resources is one of our essential aims. And usuforms will need variously from seventy to only thirty percent of the metal that goes into your androids. This is no mere matter of business rivalry; it is conflict between the old that depletes the Empire and the new that strengthens it."
"And the old must be cast aside and rejected?"
"You," I began, "have, of course, always shown such tender mercy to your business compet—" but Quinby broke in on me.