"Well," the robot said, "I don't want to seem unsociable. This _ought_ to work." So saying, he stuck his finger in the lamp-socket. There was a brief, crackling flash. The robot withdrew his finger. "_F(t)_--" he said, and swayed slightly. Then his fingers came up and sketched a smile that seemed, somehow, to express delighted surprise. "_Fff(t)!_" he said, and went on rather thickly, "_F(t)_ integral between plus and minus infinity ... _a-sub-n_ to _e_...." Martin's eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether a doctor or a psychiatrist should be called in was debatable, but it was perfectly evident that this was a case for the medical profession, and the sooner the better. Perhaps the police, too. The bit-player in the robot suit was clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised indecisively, waiting for his lunatic guest either to drop dead or spring at his throat. The robot appeared to be smacking his lips, with faint clicking sounds. "Why, that's wonderful," he said. "AC, too." "Y-you're not dead?" Martin inquired shakily. "I'm not even alive," the robot murmured. "The way you'd understand it, that is. Ah--thanks for the jolt." * * * * * Martin stared at the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise. "Why--" he gasped. "Why--_you're a robot_!" "Certainly I'm a robot," his guest said. "What slow minds you pre-robots had. Mine's working like lightning now." He stole a drunkard's glance at the desk-lamp. "_F(t)_--I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of my radio-atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequency's increased." He paused thoughtfully. "_F(t)_," he added. Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass and drank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again. "_F(t)_--" he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it. "I'm drunk," he said with an air of shaken relief. "That must be it. I was almost beginning to believe--" "Oh, nobody believes I'm a robot at first," the robot said. "You'll notice I showed up in a movie lot, where I wouldn't arouse suspicion. I'll appear to Ivan Vasilovich in an alchemist's lab, and he'll jump to the conclusive I'm an automaton. Which, of course, I _am_. Then there's a Uighur on my list--I'll appear to him in a shaman's hut and he'll assume I'm a devil. A matter of ecologicologic." "Then you're a devil?" Martin inquired, seizing on the only plausible solution. "No, no, no. I'm a robot. Don't you understand anything?" "I don't even know who I am, now," Martin said. "For all I know, I'm a faun and you're a human child. I don't think this Scotch is doing me as much good as I'd--" "Your name is Nicholas Martin," the robot said patiently. "And mine is ENIAC." "Eniac?" "ENIAC," the robot corrected, capitalizing. "ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third."