him. She says you’ve got to give him a spanking.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

“Now Ben, we’ve been over that and over it. Discipline is the father’s job.”

“Well, I won’t do it. Bennie’s just a baby. Let him do a few things himself. Won’t hurt him.”

“Ben!”

“That Nana is an officious busybody, trying to run our lives.”

“Oh, Ben! You know Nana loves little Bennie. She only wants to help him.”

“But to what?”

“She’d never dream of lifting a finger against Bennie no matter what he did. And she lives in terror that he’ll cut her switch in some temper tantrum.”

“Hmph! Well, I’m going up right now and tell her if I hear another word from her about spanking Bennie, I’ll cut her switch myself. Then she can go back to Central for reprogramming and see how she likes it.”

“Ben! You wouldn’t.”

“Why not? Maybe she needs a new personality?”

[p 30]
“You won’t say a thing to her. You’re too soft-hearted.”

“This time I won’t be.”

This time he wasn’t. He met Nana CD-IX in the hallway outside Bennie’s room. Like all nurse, teaching, and children’s personal service robots, she was human in form, except for her control dial safely out of baby’s reach, top, center.

The human form was reassuring to children, kept them from feeling strange with parents

back. Nana was big, gray-haired, stout, buxom, motherly, to reassure parents.

“Now, Mr. Tilman,” she said with weary impatience, “you are too late. Surely you don’t intend to burst in and disturb your son now.”

“Surely I do.”

“But he is having his supper. You will upset him. Can’t you understand that you should arrange to be here between 5:30 and 6 if you wish to interview the child?”

“Did he miss me? Sorry, I couldn’t make it earlier. But now I am going to see him a minute.”

“Mr. Tilman!”

“Nana! And what’s this about your wanting Bennie spanked because he drew a few pictures?”

“Surely you realize these are the child’s formative years, Mr. Tilman. He should be learning to think in terms of selling now—not doing things. That’s robot work, Mr.

Tilman. Robots can’t sell, you know, and what will people, let alone robots think if you let your boy grow up—”

“He’s growing up fine; and I am going in to see him.”

“Mr. Tilman!”

“And for two credits, Nana, I’d cut your switch. You hear me?”

“Mr. Tilman—no! No, please. I’m sorry. Let the boy scrawl a bit; perhaps it won’t hurt him. Go in and see him if you must, but do try not to upset him or— All right, all right. But please Mr. Tilman, my switch—”

“Very well Nana. I’ll leave it. This time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tilman.”

“So we understand each other, Nana. Though, matter of fact, I’m hanged if I ever did quite see why you senior-level robots get so worked up about your identities.”

“Wouldn’t you, Mr. Tilman?”

“Of course. But—well, yes, I suppose I do see, in a way. Let’s go see Bennie-boy.”

So Ben Tilman went into the nursery and enjoyed every second of a fast fifteen-minute roughhouse with his round-faced, laughing, chubby son and heir. No doubt it was very bad, just after supper. But Nana, with a rather humanly anxious restraint, confined herself to an unobtrusive look of disapproval.

[p 31]
He left Bennie giggling and doubtless upset, at least to a point of uneagerness for Nana’s bedtime story about Billie the