“Race you around the block!” Jean shouted. “Giddup!” Bobby cried. Nanny moved away, out of the room with him. A great round bug of whirring metal and relays, clicking photocells and tubes. Jean ran beside her. There was silence. The parents were alone again. “Isn’t she amazing?” Mrs. Fields said. “Of course, robots are a common sight these days. Certainly more so than a few years ago. You see them everywhere you go, behind counters in stores, driving buses, digging ditches—”

“But Nanny is different,” Tom Fields murmured.

“She’s—she’s not like a machine. She’s like a person. A living person. But after all, she’s much more complex than any other kind. She has to be. They say she’s even more intricate than the kitchen.”

“We certainly paid enough for her,” Tom said.

“Yes,” Mary Fields murmured. “She’s very much like a living creature.” There was a strange note in her voice. “Very much so.”

“She sure takes care of the kids,” Tom said, returning to his newspaper.

“But I’m worried.” Mary put her coffee cup down, frowning. They were eating dinner. It was late. The two children had been sent up to bed. Mary touched her mouth with her napkin. “Tom, I’m worried. I wish you’d listen to me.”

Tom Fields blinked. “Worried? What about?”

“About her. About Nanny.”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You mean we’re going to have to repair her again? We just got through fixing her. What is it this time? If those kids didn’t get her to—”

“It’s not that.” “What, then?”

For a long time his wife did not answer. Abruptly she got up from the table and walked across the room to the stairs. She peered up, staring into the darkness. Tom watched her, puzzled.