"'No, but a little more human than he is,' Maugham answered.
"I had my doubts but I kept them to myself. After all I'm just a reporter. I've seen a lot of things I never dreamed were possible but none of them has warped my objectivity. Maybe he could make Herman more human but I doubted that he could.
"Herman looked as human as a typical product of the Prussian military machine. If he'd come in saluting and saying 'Heil, Hitler!' you could almost have believed in his humanity—if you'd call it that, all things considered. So I held my tongue and watched Herman.
"That robot could move around and get things for Maugham—an ashtray, his bedroom slippers, a tray with a decanter and glasses on it. He could dust things but he was pretty awkward at that and now and then knocked something over. Maugham had removed all the breakables, I noticed, so no harm was done. I saw Maugham watching Herman with undeniable triumph and self-satisfaction but nevertheless there was an undercurrent of doubt in his eyes.
"He never said a thing, however, to follow through. It was just in the way I felt, as if this triumph and self-satisfaction were somehow watered by some question he did not care to voice. I knew intuitively too that whatever it was could not readily be drawn from him. But I felt it like something tangible and, curiously—which is a testimony to his inventive skill—I felt it to be something personal between him and his robot.
"Just what was going on in his mind it was impossible for me to find out, of course."
Maugham congratulated himself on his ability to maintain his composure in the face of the reporter's interest. He was definitely uneasy about Herman and it was only now, after Harrigan had gone, that he relaxed a little. For one thing Herman's responses were not quite what they should be—not so much on the negative side as on the positive. After Harrigan had gone he eyed Herman for some time in profound perturbation. If Maugham had to put his finger on the trouble he would be compelled to say that Herman was becoming somewhat too human for his own good.
His own attitude toward Herman was considerably more that of one man to another than of inventor to invention. It was not, thought Maugham, a good thing—it meant that Herman was in the process of becoming no longer just an invention but an obsession. Herman, meanwhile, stood immobile, waiting upon his command.
"Herman, go to the laboratory," said Maugham, enunciating each syllable with the clarity necessary to the precision machinery which was Herman's ear.