"And yet you kill. You must kill. The old brutality is in you. You are drunk with power and killing is a sign of power. It has become a habit with you…a thing you've carried from the caves. There's nothing left to kill but one another, so you kill one another and you call it dueling. You know it's wrong and you're hypocritical about it. You've set up a fine system of semantics to make it sound respectable and brave and noble. You call it traditional and chivalric…and even if you don't call it that in so many words, that is what you think. You cloak it with the trappings of your vicious past, you dress it up with words and the words are only tinsel."
"Look," said Sutton, "I don't want to fight this duel. I don't think it's…"
There was vindictive glee in the robot's voice.
"But you've got to fight it. There's no way to back out. Maybe you would like some pointers. I have all sorts of tricks…"
"I thought you didn't approve of dueling."
"I don't," the robot said. "But it's my job. I'm stuck with it. I try to do it well. I can tell you the personal history of every man who ever fought a duel. I can talk for hours on the advantage of rapiers over pistols. Or if you'd rather I argued for pistols, I can do that, too. I can tell you about the old American West gun slicks and the Chicago gangsters and the handkerchief and dagger deals and…"
"No, thanks," said Sutton.
"You aren't interested?"
"I haven't got the time."
"But, sir," the robot pleaded, "I don't get a chance too often. I don't get many calls. Just an hour or so…"