And still Herbie’s unblinking eyes stared into hers and their dull red seemed to expand into dimly-shining nightmarish globes.
He was speaking, and she felt the cold glass pressing against her lips. She swallowed and shuddered into a certain awareness of her surroundings.
Still Herbie spoke, and there was an agitation in his voice—as if he were hurt and frightened and pleading.
The words were beginning to make sense. “This is a dream,” he was saying, “and you mustn’t believe in it. You’ll wake into the real world soon and laugh at yourself. He loves you, I tell you. He does, he does! But not here! Not now! This is all illusion.”
Susan Calvin nodded, her voice a whisper, “Yes! Yes!” She was clutching Herbie’s arm, clinging to it, repeating over and over, “It isn’t true, is it? It isn’t, is it?”
Just how she came to her senses, she never knew—but it was like passing from a world of misty unreality to one of harsh sunlight. She pushed him away from her, pushed hard against that steely arm, and her eyes were wide.
“What are you trying to do?” Her voice rose to a harsh scream. “What are you trying to do?”
Herbie backed away, “I want to help.”
The psychologist stared, “Help? By telling me this is a dream? By trying to push me into schizophrenia?” A hysterical tenseness seized her, “This is no dream! I wish it were!”
You picked the wrong stories from I, Robot! “Liar!” is a great match.