"That's all you are," Joe went on evenly, "a robot. No volition."
She nodded, frowning.
"I'm sick of it."
She said nothing, sympathetically looking sick.
And then he smiled and said, "I'm not stumped. Not the inventor of the comptin-reduco-determina. By Harry, I'll give you volition. I'll give you enough volition to make you dizzy."
And because he was smiling, she was smiling. And only a very perceptive person might notice that her smile seemed to have an intensity, an anticipation slightly beyond his.
He got to work on it that night. He would have to erase some of his mental background from her brain. He wanted her no less intelligent, no less discerning, but with enough of a change in background to give her a viewpoint of her own. He labored until midnight, and tumbled into bed with a headache.
Next morning, at breakfast, he told her, "We'll try it out tonight. After that, you'll be a person."
"Of course. And will you love me, Joe?"
"More coffee, please," he answered.