conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Superb, Kurt, Vonnegut with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Complete Roderick'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Complete Roderick
  The panel discussion drew a large and noisy audience to Agnew Memorial Auditorium. Probably some came because it was sponsored by the Science Fiction Club, and they approved of science fiction; just as others were probably attracted by the panel of distinguished names. Many, perhaps, came because they had nothing better to do this evening. No few were intrigued by the advertised title, 'Are Machines Getting Too Smart for Their Own Good?' But the largest and noisiest part of the audience, without question, came to see DIMWIT. DIMWIT was an intelligent or pseudo-intelligent machine. DIMWIT was chairing the panel discussion.
  Robbie and his brothers had good seats in the front row (he'd been saving the seats for them all day); this was even worth missing an evening at the Pitcher O' Suds.
  The four panellists took their places on the stage, two either side of a large screen. The screen showed a cartoon face, about eight feet in height, and constantly in motion. It smiled, raised brows, glanced to each side (as though looking at the panellists), it even raised the rim of a cartoon glass of water to its cartoon lips. When it finally spoke, the voice was loud and pleasant.
  After more applause, 'On the right, Dr Byron Dollsly of the Parapsychology Department, to give us the psychic angle. Byron, take a bow.'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Roderick noticed Father Warren, looking bluer around the gills than usual, sitting contemplating a checker game as though there were a figure nailed to the board. The Luddite priest was today wearing a plain cassock, as were now seldom seen outside Bing Crosby movies. But he did smile and nod at Roderick, in a kind of automatic way.
  Father Warren flung open the door and threw himself forward, as Roderick continued: 'Is that why he said man is something to be overwound?'
  From beyond the door came the sound of a blow, a box of checkers crashing to the floor. A single black checker rolled through the slowly closing door and ended at Roderick's feet. 'Are you okay, Father?' he called, but the door closed on any answer.
  Mister O'Smith waited across from the Newman Club in the shadowed mouth of an alley. He'd been trailing the Roderick robot for hours now, just to find a perfect spot like this, where a man could take his time and make his move. He was limbering up his arm, the one that fired.357 ammo. His video eye was photo-amplifying, cutting away the shadows to make the target visible as it came out the Newman Club door. Boy howdy, one good shot was all he needed, but even if he didn't get that, O'Smith was ready with the automatic weapon concealed in his leg. Sweep the area with that, and boy howdy, that was all she wrote.
  Course he'd have to high-tail it after that, these s.o.b.s who was hounding him about them payments on his outfit, they'd pick up his trail right smart. But then Mister O'Smith knew all about skip-tracers and how to get away from them. Might lay low for a month, put the squeeze on one or two old customers, maybe even fake his own death...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Father Warren chewed a hangnail. 'I wish I could believe that. "Speak only the word and my computer will be healed." I wish I could believe these computers were something like good servants, good but sick.'
  The cartoon face looked sympathetic. 'Hard to have faith in them, I know. Hard to believe they're not just as petty and vicious and despicable as our own species can be. I just hope that when the time comes, Father, they have a little faith in us.'
  When he had heard the confession, Father Warren crossed the room to Leo's tank. An attendant rose to greet him.
  Moxon's amplified voice reached some of the crowd, though the cold north wind was doing its best to sweep away words and people, to clear the terrace of all signs of life.