The Fourth Law of Robotics

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The secretary surged to her feet as I rushed by her desk.

“Stop! You can’t go in there! This is Dr. Calvin’s office!”

“I know,” I demurred. “That’s why I am here.”

Then I was through the door and it closed behind me. Dr. Calvin looked up and frowned at me through her reading glasses.

“You seem in quite a hurry, young man.”

“I am, Dr. Calvin, I am—” My words ground to a halt like an old Victrola with a busted spring. With her glasses off Dr. Calvin’s eyes were limpid pools of unfulfilled desire. Her figure, despite the lab gown, could not be disguised in its pulchritude.

“Did you look at my great-aunt in that steamy-eyed way, Dr. Donovan?” She smiled.

“No, no, of course not!” I stammered, rubbing my hand across my iron-gray hair. Or rather my bald skull fringed by iron-gray hair. And realized my mistake. “I was not looking at you in any particular way, Dr. Calvin.” She smiled warmly at that and an ache passed through every fiber of my being. I grabbed my mind by the neck and shook it, remembering my pressing errand. “I have a pressing errand, which is why I have burst into your office like this. I have reason to believe that a robot has just held up a bank.”

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