by Isaac Asimov
It was this great fact, this great self-praise, that made itself felt over all the details: all the names, dates, winners, losers. It was the essential.
Other worlds were settled, some from Earth, some from Aurora, but Baley paid no attention to that or to any of the details. He was after the broad brushstrokes and he noted the two massive changes that took place and pushed the Aurorans ever farther away from their Earthly origins. These were first, the increasing integration of robots into every facet of life and second, the extension of the life-span.
As the robots grew more advanced and versatile, the Aurorans grew more dependent on them. But never helplessly so. Not like the world of Solaria, Baley remembered, on which a very few human beings were in the collective womb of very many robots. Aurora was not like that.
And yet they grew more dependent.
Viewing as he did for intuitive feel—for trend and generality—every step in the course of human/robot interaction seemed to depend on dependence. Even the manner in which a consensus of robotic rights was reached—the gradual dropping of what Daneel would call—“unnecessary distinctions”—was a sign of the dependence. To Baley, it seemed not that the Aurorans were growing more humane in their attitude out of a liking for the humane, but that they were denying the robotic nature of the objects in order to remove the discomfort of having to recognize the fact that the human beings were dependent upon objects of artificial intelligence.
As for the extended life-span, that was accompanied by a slowing of the pace of history. The peaks and troughs smoothed out. There was a growing continuity and a growing consensus.
There was no question but that the history he was viewing grew less interesting as it went along; it became almost soporific. For those living through it, this had to be good. History was interesting to the extent that it was catastrophic and, while that might make absorbing viewing, it made horrible living. Undoubtedly, personal lives continued to be interesting for the vast majority of Aurorans and, if the collective interaction of lives grew quiet, who would mind?
If the World of the Dawn had a quiet sunlit Day, who on that world would clamor for storm?
—Somewhere in the course of his viewing, Baley felt an indescribable sensation. If he had been forced to attempt a description, he would have said it was that of a momentary inversion. It was as though he had been turned inside out—and then back as he had been—in the course of a small fraction of a second.
So momentary had it been that he almost missed it, ignoring it as though it had been a tiny hiccup inside himself.
It was only perhaps a minute later, suddenly going over the feeling in retrospect, that he remembered the sensation as something he had experienced twice before: once when traveling to Solaria and once when returning to Earth from that planet.
It was the “Jump,” the passage through hyperspace that, in a timeless, spaceless interval, sent the ship across the parsecs and defeated the speed-of-light limit of the Universe. (No mystery in words, since the ship merely left the Universe and traversed something which involved no speed limit. Total mystery in concept, however, for there was no way of describing what hyperspace was, unless one made use of mathematical symbols which could, in any case, not be translated into anything comprehensible.)
If one accepted the fact that human beings had learned to manipulate hyperspace without understanding the thing they manipulated, then the effect was clear. At one moment, the ship had been within microparsecs of, and at the next moment, it was within microparsees of Aurora.
Ideally, the Jump took zero-time—literally zero—and, if it were carried through with perfect smoothness, there would not, could not be any biological sensation at all. Physicists maintained, however, that perfect smoothness required infinite energy so that there was always an “effective time” that was not quite zero, though it could be made as short as desired. It was that which produced that odd and essentially harmless feeling of inversion.
The sudden realization that he was very far from Earth and very close to Aurora filled Baley with a desire to see the Spacer world.
Partly, it was the desire to see somewhere people lived. Partly, it was a natural curiosity to see something that had been filling his thoughts as a result of the book-films he had been viewing.
Giskard entered just then with the middle meal between waking and sleeping (call it “lunch”) and said, “We are approaching Aurora, sir, but it will not be possible for you to observe it from the bridge. There would, in any case, be nothing to see. Aurora's sun is merely a bright star and it will be several days before we are near enough to Aurora itself to see any detail.” Then he added, as though in afterthought, “It will not be possible for you to observe it from the bridge at that time, either.”
Baley felt strangely abashed. Apparently, it was assumed he would want to observe and that want was simply squashed. His presence as a viewer was not desired.
He said, “Very well, Giskard,” and the robot left.
Baley looked after him somberly. How many other constraints would be placed on him? Improbable as successful completion of his task was, he wondered in how many different ways Aurorans would conspire to make it impossible.
3. GISKARD
9
Baley turned and said to Daneel, “It annoys me, Daneel, that I must remain a prisoner here because the Aurorans on board this ship fear me as a source of infection. This is pure superstition. I have been treated.”
Daneel said, “It is not because of Auroran fears that you are being asked to remain in your cabin, Partner Elijah.”
“No? What other reason?”
“Perhaps you remember that, when we first met on this ship, you asked me my reasons for being sent to escort you. I said it was to give you something familiar as an anchor and to please me. I was then about to tell you the third reason, when Giskard interrupted us with your viewer and viewing material—and thereafter we launched into a discussion of roboticide.”
“And you never told me the third reason. What is it?”
“Why, Partner Elijah, it is merely that I might help protect you.”
“Against what?”
“Unusual passions have been stirred by the incident we have agreed to call roboticide. You are being called to Aurora to help demonstrate Dr. Fastolfe's innocence. And the hyperwave drama—”
“Jehoshaphat, Daneel,” said Baley in an outrage. “Have they seen that thing on Aurora, too?”
“They have seen it throughout the Spacer worlds, Partner Elijah. It was a most popular program and has made it quite plain that you are a most extraordinary investigator.”
“So that whoever might behind the roboticide may well have exaggerated fears of what I might accomplish and might therefore risk a great deal to prevent my arrival—or to kill me.”
“Dr. Fastolfe,” said Daneel calmly, “is quite convinced that no one is behind the roboticide, since no human being other than himself could have carried it through. It was a purely fortuitous occurrence in Dr. Fastolfe's view. However, there are those who are trying to capitalize on the occurrence and it would be to their interest to keep you from proving that. For that reason, you must be protected.”
Baley took a few hasty steps to one wall of the room and then back to the other, as thou^i to speed his thought processes by physical example. Somehow he did not feel any sense of personal danger.
He said, “Daneel, how many humaniform robots are there all together on Aurora?”
“Do you mean now that Jander no longer functions?”
“Yes, now that Jander is dead.”
“One, Partner Elijah.”
Bale stared at Daneel in shock. Soundlessly, he mouthed the word: One?
Finally, he said, “Let me understand this, Daneel. You are the only humaniform robot on Aurora?”
“Or on any world, Partner Elijah. I thought you were aware of this. I was the prototype and then Jander was constructed. Since then, Dr. Fastolfe has refused to construct any more and no one else has
the skill to do it.”
“But in that case, since of two humanilorm robots, one has been killed, does it not occur to Dr. Fastolfe that the remaining humaniform—you, Daneel—might be in danger?”
“He recognizes the possibility. But the chance that the fantastically unlikely occurrence of mental freeze-out would take place a second time is remote. He doesn't take it seriously. He feels, however, that there might be a chance of other misadventure. That, I think, played some small part in his sending me to Earth to get you. It kept me away from Aurora for a week or so.”
“And you are now as much a prisoner as I am, aren't you, Daneel?”
“I am a prisoner,” said Daneel gravely, “only in the sense, Partner Elijah, that I am expected not to leave this room.”
“In what other sense is one a prisoner?”
“In the sense that the person so restricted in his movements resents the restriction. A true imprisonment has the implication of being involuntary. I quite understand the reason for being here and I concur in the necessity.”
“You do,” grumbled Baley. “I do not. I am a prisoner in the full sense. And what keeps us safe here, anyway?”
“For one thing, Partner Elijah, Giskard is on duty outside.”
“Is he intelligent enough for the job?”
“He understands his orders entirely. He is rugged and strong and quite realizes the importance of his task.”
“You mean he is prepared to be destroyed to protect the two of us?”
“Yes, of course, just as I am prepared to be destroyed to protect you.”
Baley felt abashed. He said, “You do not resent the situation in which you may be forced to give up your existence for me?”
“It is my programming, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel in a voice that seemed to soften, “yet somehow it seems to me that, even were it not for my programming, saving you makes the loss of my own existence seem quite trivial in comparison.”
Baley could not resist this. He held out his hand and closed it on DaneePs with a fierce grip. “Thank you, Partner Daneel, but please do not allow it to happen. I do not wish the loss of your existence. The preservation of my own would be inadequate compensation, it seems to me.”
And Baley was amazed to discover that he really meant it. He was faintly horrified to realize that he would be ready to risk his life for a robot. —No, not for a robot. For Daneel.
10
Giskard entered without signaling. Baley had come to accept that. The robot, as his guard, had to be able to come and go as he pleased. And Giskard was only a robot, in Baley's eyes, however much he might be a “he” and however much one did not mention the “R.” If Baley were scratching himself, picking his nose, engaged in any messy biological function, it seemed to him that Giskard would be indifferent, nonjudgmental, incapable of reacting in any way, but coldly recording the observation in some inner memory bank.
It made Giskard simply a piece of mobile furniture and Baley felt no embarrassment in his presence. —Not that Giskard had ever intruded on him at an inconvenient moment, Baley thought idly.
Giskard brought a small cubicle with him. “Sir, I suspect that you still wish to observe Aurora from space.”
Baley started. No doubt, Daneel had noted Baley's irritation and had deduced its cause and taken this way of dealing with it. To have Giskard do it and present it as an idea of his simple-minded own was a touch of delicacy on DaneePs part. It would free Baley of the necessity of expressing gratitude. Or so Daneel would think.
Baley had, as a matter of fact, been more irritated at being, to his way of thinking, needlessly kept from the view of Aurora than at being kept imprisoned generally. He had been fretting over the loss of the view during the two days since the Jump. —So he turned and said to Daneel, “Thank you, my friend.”
“It was Giskard's idea,” said Daneel.
“Yes, of course,” said Baley with a small smile. “I thank him, too. What is this, Giskard?”
“It is an astrosimulator, sir. It works essentially like a trimensional receiver and is connected to the viewroom. If I might add—”
“Yes?”
“You will not find the view particularly exciting, sir. I would not wish you to be unnecessarily disappointed.”
“I will try not to expect too much, Giskard. In any case, I will not hold you responsible for any disappointment I might feel.”
“Thank you, sir. I must return to my post, but Daneel will be able to help you with the instrument if any problem arises.”
He left and Baley turned to Daneel with approval. “Giskard handled that very well, I thought. He may be a simple model, but he's well-designed.”
“He, too, is a Fastolfe robot, Partner Elijah. —This astrosimulator is self-contained and self-adjusted. Since it is already focused on Aurora, it is only necessary to touch the control-edge. That will put it in operation and you need do nothing more. Would you care to set it going yourself?”
Baley shrugged. “No need. You may do it.”
“Very well.”
Daneel had placed the cubicle upon the table on which Baley had done his book-film viewing.
“This,” he said, indicating a small rectangle in his hand, “is the control, Partner Elijah. You need only hold it by the edges in this manner and then exert a small inward pressure to turn the mechanism on—and then another to turn it off.”
Daneel pressed the control-edge and Baley shouted in a strangled way.
Baley had expected the cubicle to light up and to display within itself a holographic representation of a star field. That was not what happened. Instead, Baley found himself in space—in space—with bright, unblinking stars in all directions.
It lasted for only a moment and then everything was back as it was: the room and, within it, Baley, Daneel, and the cubicle.
“My regrets, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel. “I turned it off as soon as I understood your discomfort. I did not realize you were not prepared for the event.”
“Then prepare me. What happened?”
“The astrosimulator works directly on the visual center of the human brain. There is no way of distinguishing the impression it leaves from three-dimensional reality. It is a comparatively recent device and so far it has been used only for astronomical scenes which are, after all, low in detail.”
“Did you see it, too, Daneel?”
“Yes, but very poorly and without the realism a human being experiences. I see the dim outline of a scene superimposed upon the still-clear contents of the room, but it has been explained to me that human beings see the scene only. Undoubtedly, when the brains of those such as myself are still more finely tuned and adjusted—”
Baley had recovered his equilibrium. “The point is, Daneel, that I was aware of nothing else. I was not aware of myself. I did not see my hands or sense where they were. I felt as though I were a disembodied spirit or— er—as I imagine I would feel if I were dead but were consciously existing in some sort of immaterial afterlife.”
“I see now why you would find that rather disturbing.”
“Actually I found it very disturbing.”
“My regrets, Partner Elijah. I shall have Giskard take this away.”
“No. I'm prepared now. Let me have that cube. —Will I be able to turn it off, even though I am not conscious of the existence of my hands?”
“It will cling to your hand, so that you will not drop it, Partner Elijah. I have been told by Dr. Fastolfe, who has experienced this phenomenon, that the pressure is automatically applied when the human being holding it wills an end. It is an automatic phenomenon based on nerve manipulation, as the vision itself is. At least, that is how it works with Aurorans and I imagine—”
“That Earthmen are sufficiently similar to Aurorans, physiologically, for it to work with us as well. —Very well, give me the control and I will try.”
With a slight internal wince, Baley squeezed the control-edge and was in space again. He was expecting it this time and, once he fou
nd he could breathe without difficulty and did not feel in any way as though he were immersed in a vacuum, he labored to accept it all as a visual illusion. Breathing rather stertorously (perhaps to convince himself he was actually breathing), he stared about curiously in all directions.
Suddenly aware he was hearing his breath rasp in his nose, he said, “Can you hear me, Daneel?”
He heard his own voice—a little distant, a little artificial—but he heard it.
And then he heard Daneel's, different enough to be distinguishable.
“Yes, I can,” said Daneel. “And you should be able to hear me, Partner Elijah. The visual and kinesthetic senses are interfered with for the sake of a greater illusion of reality, but the auditory sense remains untouched. Largely so, at any rate.”
‘Well, I see only stars—ordinary stars, that is. Aurora has a sun. We are close enough to Aurora, I imagine, to make the star that is its sun considerably brighter than the others.”
“Entirely too bright, Partner Elijah. It is blanked out or you might suffer retinal damage.”
“Then where is the planet Aurora?”
“Do you see the constellation of Orion?”
“Yes, I do. —Do you mean we still see the constellations as we see them in Earth's sky, as in the City planetarium?”
“Just about. As stellar distances go, we are not far from Earth and the Solar System of which it is part, so that they have the starview in common. Aurora's sun is known as Tau Ceti on Earth and is only 3.67 parsecs from there. —Now if you'll imagine a line from Betelgeuse to the middle star of Orion's belt and continue it for an equal length and a bit more, the middling-bright star you see is actually the planet Aurora. It will become increasingly unmistakable over the next few days, as we approach it rapidly.”
Baley regarded it gravely. It was just a bright starlike object. There was no luminous arrow, going on and off, pointing to it. There was no carefully lettered inscription arced over it.
He said, “Where's the sun? Earth's star, I mean?”
