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his hand back up on the table. He tapped the next arrow and read, “F, fuh, F.” He hit advance. “S, sss, S.” His eyes flicked up to see how this sudden success was being received.
    â€œGood,” Asimov 3000 said. “Again.”
    The boy got the next one and the one after that. So his mistakes had been willful. It reminded Asimov 3000 of MasterVandley’s children. Then, he would sit at the head of the table with the children to either side of him—except on the days Master Vandley took charge of the children’s lessons himself, of course—and sometimes the children would answer every question wrong for spite. But to get every question wrong, you had to know the right answers so as not to stumble upon them by accident.
    Beachstone scratched his thigh again, but Asimov 3000 refrained from comment. He had not been distracted by his student’s sudden improvement as the boy hoped, but if whatever Beachstone was hiding was important, it would come out. “Let’s try some reading,” he said. He took the tablet and navigated to the easy-reader section, then placed the tablet on the table in front of the boy.
    â€œ ‘The c-aaa-t,’ ” Beachstone sounded out, “ ‘is ff-aaa-t.’ ” He took a deep breath, sat up straighter, and resumed. “ ‘The c-at is saaad.’ ”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œ ‘The cat is aaa-lll-ss-ooo’— Alsoo?” Beachstone tapped the word, and the voice said, “Also.” “ ‘Also.’ Damn it.”
    â€œDon’t give up so easily.”
    â€œI should have known that.”
    â€œBeachstone,” Asimov 3000 said, and paused. The boy kept his eyes down. “You’re learning. Try again.”
    â€œ ‘Also cr-cr-yuh.’ ” He reached to touch the screen, but Asimov 3000’s hand darted out, blocking him.
    â€œTry—”
    Beachstone slid both hands under his teacher’s, pressing the whole screen. The recordings for the rest of the words on the page all played at once over each other in a jumble of sound.
    Asimov 3000 said nothing. They sat in silence for a moment, Beachstone with his head down.
    â€œWhy do I have to learn this stuff anyway?” Beachstone said.
    â€œWhy would you not want to learn to read?” Asimov 3000 said.
    â€œEverything can read itself out loud. Or a robot can just do it for me.”
    â€œWhat if you need to read a sign? Or the power is out?”
    â€œThe power doesn’t go out,” Beachstone said.
    â€œThe power has not gone out in thirty-two point six four years, but it can happen.”
    Beachstone reached out and tapped the tablet. The woman’s voice intoned, “Crying.”
    â€œThis is a waste of time,” Beachstone said. “I’m never going to need to read.”
    Asimov 3000 tried to think of a response. The boy’s discouragement hurt. With Master Vandley’s children, there was never any question as to what purpose learning to read served. Master Vandley presented it as an absolute fact. But Asimov 3000 had to admit that it had been seventy-three years since he’d last had a child pupil, and perhaps things had changed. “Try again,” he said.
    Beachstone didn’t move.
    Asimov 3000 considered. “There was a time when humans could trust robots, as you are suggesting, rely on them. But now, if you don’t know how to read, you will never know who you can believe.”
    Beachstone’s face pulled tight.
    â€œYou can’t trust anyone anymore, Beachstone.”
    â€œWhat about you?” the boy said.
    â€œMe, of course,” Asimov 3000 said, “and your brother and sister—”
    Beachstone flinched.
    â€œMary and Kent,” Asimov 3000 corrected. “But you may not always wish to stay at Barren Cove.” Master Vandley’s children hadn’t.
    â€œI wish I could just upload reading into my brain like a