"In all McGeachin products, from paints to parliaments," the financier interjected, "the customer comes first, insofar as his desires are compatible with the mass-production methods necessarily imposed upon us by automation." "--And there was a little left over of some colors what wouldn't fit into the tubes, and the forebot says to me, he says, 'Throw 'em into the disposal, Orville--'" "--All the McGeachin robots have names. It gives that personal touch I like to have around my plants." There was something extraordinarily odd about McGeachin, Mr. Replogle felt, though he couldn't quite put his finger on just what it was ... something more than mere eccentricity, something curiously sinister. "--And I says to the forebot, 'Begging your pardon, sir, but if there was no other use for 'em, I would like to try my hand at painting a picture like on the pretty calendars Perfect Paint sends out every Christmas.' And he says to me, laughing-like, 'Well, if that's what you want to do with your restoration period, Orville, more power to you' ... which is--" the robot snickered "--a kind of little joke we have amongst ourselves at the factory." One of the Cimabue robots gave a laugh which Mr. Replogle cut short with a glance. "But I didn't know they could do that," the _Times-Herald-Mirror_ said plaintively. "Laugh, I mean." "Ah," McGeachin told him, "that's because you never bothered to understand the real robot. You don't look beyond the metal to the wires that vibrate underneath." "So I painted a picture on a piece of cardboard," Orville continued patiently, "--the side of a carton it was--and the picture was much admired in the plant, though I says it as shouldn't, and Mr. Pembroke, the superintendent, went so far as to ask if he might have it to hang in his office, which, of course, I was glad to have him do. And there it come to the attention of Mr. McGeachin when he was making his annual tour of the plant.... Mr. McGeachin is--" Orville approximated a modest cough "--by way of being a connoissoor." "When I saw that picture, I knew I was standing in the presence of solid genius," McGeachin took over. "Mind you, when I heard it had been painted by a robot, I was surprised myself, I admit it freely. But I was not prejudiced. I had spent all my life with machines and I knew of what fine handcraft they were capable. 'Why shouldn't a robot paint a picture?' I asked myself. 'No reason whatsoever,' I answered. And I was right, as is amply evidenced by this splendid and tastefully arranged display." He beamed at Mr. Ditmars, who groaned. "But it's impossible," the lady from _Woman's Own_ protested, looking as if only the dignity of her profession kept her from bursting into tears. "How could a robot paint a picture. How could it _want_ to paint a picture?" "I dunno," Orville, as the only one who could conceivably be expected to answer this question, said. "It just come to me like that. You could say I was inspired, I guess."