"What do you think, am I a robot or not?” he asked, and looked at me. The shiny black hair. The smooth, mildly tanned, almost too spotless skin. The gaze behind his lightly shaded glasses. I hadn't noticed these things that much until now. I had been talking to Hiroshi Ishiguro for exactly 12 minutes and 58 seconds at that point, without even a single doubt that he was a living person. But all of a sudden I wasn't so sure anymore. Had I been fooled by a machine?
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