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?"

"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 sup