I, Robot

by Isaac Asimov

“Look at you,” he said finally. “I say this in no spirit of contempt, but look at you! The material you are made of is soft and flabby, lacking endurance and strength, depending for energy upon the inefficient oxidation of organic material—like that.” He pointed a disapproving finger at what remained of Donovan’s sandwich. “Periodically you pass into a coma and the least variation in temperature, air pressure, humidity, or radiation intensity impairs your efficiency. You are makeshift.

“I, on the other hand, am a finished product. I absorb electrical energy directly and utilize it with an almost one hundred percent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal, am continuously conscious, and can stand extremes of environment easily. These are facts which, with the self-evident proposition that no being can create another being superior to itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing.”

“He doesn’t believe us, or the books, or his eyes.” “No,” said Powell bitterly, “he’s a reasoning robot—damn it. He believes only reason, and there’s one trouble with that—” His voice trailed away.

“You can prove anything you want by coldly logical reason—if you pick the proper postulates. We have ours and Cutie has his.”

“But,” said Quinn, “you’re telling me that you can never prove him a robot.” “I may be able to prove him not a robot.” “That’s not the proof I want.” “You’ll have such proof as exists. You are the only one responsible for your own wants.”