Helena. Oh, but they’re so intelligent.
Hallemeier. Confoundedly so, but they’re nothing else. They’ve no will of their own. No soul. No passion.
Helena. No love?
Hallemeier. Love? Huh! Rather not. Robots don’t love. Not even themselves.
Helena. No defiance?
Hallemeier. Defiance? I don’t know. Only rarely, from time to time.
Helena. What happens then?
Hallemeier. Nothing particular. Occasionally they seem to go off their heads. Something like epilepsy, you know. It’s called “Robot’s Cramp.” They’ll suddenly sling down everything they’re holding, stand still, gnash their teeth—and then they have to go into the stamping-mill. It’s evidently some breakdown in the mechanism.
Domin. (Sitting on desk) A flaw in the works that has to be removed.
Helena. No, no, that’s the soul.