IF YOU CANNOT DESTROY, AT LEAST SUMMON THE COURAGE TO SPEAK PLAINLY, YOU FOOL-YOU FAKE-YOU-

In a paroxysm of anger and exasperation, Alexei Alexandrovich clutched at his Face, trying in vain to tear it from him, to rip free the millions of tiny neural junctures that connected the Face’s circuits to his own cell walls. Anna watched in horrified fascination as her husband, screaming with the full force of his lungs, turned in haphazard circles about the room, wrenching at the cruel metal mask. Though she did not, could not, understand what had overtaken him, for the first time, for an instant, she felt for him, put herself in his place, and was sorry for him. But what could she say or do? Her head sank, and she sat silent. He too was silent for some time, and then began speaking in a frigid, less shrill voice, emphasizing random words that had no special significance.

At last he gave up, collapsed in a woeful heap in the opposite corner of the room.

“I came to tell you…,” he said at last, softly and slowly…

She glanced at him. No, to feel sorry for him, it was my fancy, she thought, recalling the expression of his face when he stumbled over the word “suffering.” No, can a man with those dull eyes, with that self-satisfied complacency, feel anything?

“I cannot change anything,” she whispered.

“I have come to tell you that I am going tomorrow to Moscow, and shall not return again to this house, and you will receive notice of what I decide through the lawyer into whose hands I shall entrust the task of getting a divorce. My son is going to my sister’s,” said Alexei Alexandrovich, with an effort recalling what he had meant to say about his son.

“You take Seryozha to hurt me,” she said, looking at him from under her brows. “You do not love him… Leave me Seryozha!”

“Yes, I have lost even my affection for my son, because he is associated with the repulsion I feel for you. But still I shall take him. Good-bye!”

The interview was complete. Anna revivified her beloved-companion and left in tears.

In the echoing chambers of Alexei Alexandrovich’s brain, the Face was silent; but it was the silence of the victor, a jubilant silence, anticipating glories to come. Its goal grew closer-closer with every passing day.

CHAPTER 4

ALEXEI ALEXANDROVICH LEFT HOME with the intention of not returning to his family again. He discussed his intention of obtaining a divorce with a lawyer; by this action he had translated the matter from the world of real life to the world of bureaucratic action, he had grown more and more used to his own intention, and by now distinctly perceived the feasibility of its execution.

He traveled then to Moscow, where he was to oversee the final adjustments to the improved Class III model that he had created-what he now with some audacity called the Class IV As he worked in his sub-basement laboratory, double-checking the precision sighting mechanism embedded in the steely blue eyes of his masterpiece, he heard the loud tones of Stepan Arkadyich’s voice. Stepan Arkadyich was disputing with Karenin’s II/Footman/74, and insisting on being announced.

Alexei Alexandrovich thought to bar the visitor, or hide the Class IV from sight, as his own security protocol dictated, and as he could do with a single button push. But he impulsively decided instead to give his ridiculous brother-in-law a treat, and let the thing remain in view.

LET HIM ENTER. LET HIM SEE WHAT RUSSIA IS TRULY CAPABLE OF.

“Come in!” he said aloud, collecting his papers, and putting them in the blotting paper.

“There, you see, you’re talking nonsense, and he’s here!” responded Stepan Arkadyich’s voice, addressing the Footman, which had refused to let him in; and taking off his coat as he went, Oblonsky walked into the room. “Well, I’m awfully glad I’ve found you! So I hope while you are in Moscow, you will come and dine with us…” Stepan Arkadyich began cheerfully, before stopping short and gasping.

“What… Alexei Alexandrovich, what is that?”

“Surely even in the Department of Toys and Misc., it is being discussed that the Higher Branches are planning, at long last, a new iteration of robot. Stepan Arkadyich Oblonsky, meet the Class IV”

“But… but…,” Oblonsky stammered, staring openmouthed while Small Stiva scuttled backward whirring with alarm. Karenin smiled, drinking in their discomfort. “But what will you do with them?”

OH SO MANY THINGS

SO MANY THINGS

OH

But Alexei merely raised his eyebrow. “Our world is ever-changing, Stepan Arkadyich,” he said mildly. “Our beloved-companions must change, too.

“Now. As to your kind inquiry, no-I cannot come to dinner,” Alexei Alexandrovich continued, standing and not asking his visitor to sit down. “I can’t dine at your house, because the terms of the relationship which have existed between us must cease.”

“How? How do you mean? What for?” said Stepan Arkadyich, still nervously eyeing the Class IV that stood staring back at him from the corner.

“Because I am beginning an action for divorce against your sister, my wife. I ought to have-”

But before Alexei Alexandrovich had time to finish his sentence, Stepan Arkadyich was behaving not at all as he had expected. He groaned and sank into an armchair.

“No, Alexei Alexandrovich! What are you saying?” cried Oblonsky, and his suffering was apparent in his face. “Did you hear this?” he said to Small Stiva.

“Heard it, yes, but cannot believe it!”

Alexei Alexandrovich sat down, feeling that his words had not had the effect he anticipated, and that it would be unavoidable for him to explain his position, and that, whatever explanations he might make, his relations with his brother-in-law would remain unchanged. He wished his visitor would go and leave him be, leave him to put the last touches on his beautiful machine.

“Yes, I am brought to the painful necessity of seeking a divorce,” he said.

“I will say one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich,” said Stepan Arkadyich. “I know you for an excellent, upright man; I know Anna-excuse me, I can’t change my opinion of her-for a good, an excellent woman; and so, excuse me, I cannot believe it. There is some misunderstanding.”

“Oh, if it were merely a misunderstanding!”

“Pardon, I understand,” interposed Stepan Arkadyich. “But of course… one thing: you must not act in haste. You must not, you must not act in haste!”

“I am not acting in haste,” Alexei Alexandrovich said coldly, “but one cannot ask advice of anyone in such a matter. I have quite made up my mind.”

“This is awful!” said Stepan Arkadyich. “I would do one thing, Alexei Alexandrovich. I beseech you, do it!” he said. “No action has yet been taken, if I understand rightly. Before you take advice, see my wife, talk to her. She loves Anna like a sister, she loves you, and she’s a wonderful woman. For God’s sake, talk to her! Do me that favor, I beseech you! Do this, come and see my wife.”

“Well, we look at the matter differently,” said Alexei Alexandrovich coldly. “However, we won’t discuss it.”

“No, but why shouldn’t you come today to dine, anyway? My wife’s expecting you. Please, do come. And, above all, talk it over with her. She’s a wonderful woman. For God’s sake, on my knees, I implore you!”

“If you so much wish it, I will come,” said Alexei Alexandrovich, sighing.

“Believe me, I appreciate it, and I hope you won’t regret it,” answered Stepan Arkadyich, smiling. “Come, Small Stiva,” he said. Then, putting on his coat as he went, he cast one last nervous glance at the Class IV, patted Alexei Alexandrovich’s II/Footman/74 on the head, chuckled, and went out.

Alexei stood, shaking his head with irritation. He thought the word engage, and the eyes of the Class IV glowed to life. He thought the word reduce, and in the next instant the chair on which Stiva had perched burst into flames and burned quickly away to ash.