Hastings dived reluctantly into the icy waters. "All right, Bell. But remember you asked for this. I know of nothing wrong with you. Any tests we could devise showed you without mechanical flaws. Except for a few minor irregularities that will straighten out under normal conditions, you are perfect. Your body is the best Lavery ever turned out, and the only parts he won't vouch for are those you were born with. Your brain is good, I think. I should know since I designed it. The trouble is: I don't know. What I think and hope is not evidence. Neither are our tests, for we have no yardstick to judge you by. You aren't human, Bell. And you aren't a robot. What are you?" Bell reacted suddenly, in a manner that caused Hastings a bad moment. The chuckle was like bearings rattling in a loose casing. "Since you designed my brain, I have a complaint for you, doc. You did too good a job, if that's an objection." "I don't follow you." "Let's face it. I'm not exotic enough. Neither man nor robot, as you point out. I look different to myself and feel different up to a point. "But I don't feel different enough. Like shaving. Why do I worry about it? It's past, no longer a function. And it's only one item. I have all the same old habits and confusions, same old fears and maladjustments. Even the same loves and hatreds. There are some too silly to mention, and others vital. A few are fading, but others are part of my daily ritual. Why should the gadgets you and Lavery fudged up to replace my burned parts still fly off on the same old tangents?" Hastings groaned. "I don't know, Bell. That's the terrible part of this whole business. The brain, human or robot, cannot be wholly charted or pigeonholed. The robots have built-in stops to short-circuit dangerous electronic relays. But the synthetic or reclaimed tissue is a different story. There are no stops. None of us can predict what will go on in your brain. It is partly original tissue, partly something utterly unknown and challenging. It may be the most deadly and dangerous combination in our universe. You don't know yourself, Bell. And we don't know you. We can't take the risk of sending you back to Earth. Not till we know. If we ever do." "Go on," urged Bell flatly. "That is only half the problem. Here society is restricted. We are all used to an unreal and largely artificial environment. We are carefully selected and screened by hypnotic machines and the Psychographs. Even here life will be difficult enough for you. On Earth it is probably impossible. We are not half as worried by your possible reactions to humanity as we are by their reactions to you. They will fear and resent you. Doubtless you have been aware that something of the sort goes on even here. People fear you.