by Isaac Asimov
It took Mandelbrot only a few seconds to do so, since he could impart more information so much more quickly on the higher frequencies. Derec and Ariel heard nothing; they only knew the robots were hearing because they often nodded to indicate their understanding.
“Okay, is everything understood?” Derec asked when Mandelbrot returned to his stiff sitting position.
Canute raised a finger. “Master, may I confer with you in private for a moment?”
“Sure,” said Derec, walking stage right to the wings. “Come over here.”
Canute did, and asked, “Master, am I to impart any significance to the fact that I have been assigned the role of Claudius?”
“No. Should there be?”
“It appears there should be. When you first spoke to me in the square, you asked questions of a nature I can only describe as suspicious. Soon afterward, you assigned me a task similar to the one Lucius took upon itself. And now, you assign me the role of a murderer — the object of the play-within-the-play.
Surely the logical mind must be able to infer something from all this.”
“Naw. Not at all, Canute. It’s coincidence, sheer coincidence.”
“May I inquire something further?”
“By all means.”
“Why do you not just ask me forthrightly if I am the one responsible for Lucius ‘s demise. You know I cannot withhold truth.”
“Canute, I’m surprised at you. I’ve got no interest in asking you. Now get along. The best part’s coming up next.” Derec pushed the ebony in the direction of the robots, then rubbed his hands together as if to warm them with the help of a nearby fire. The ebony had dared a great deal in asking Derec to confront it. If Derec had taken up the dare, the game might have been over then and there, but the right answers to all his questions might never be found.
Mulling over the incident in the moment before he introduced the best part, Derec discovered that, despite himself, he was gaining a profound respect for Canute. Not approval, just respect. If found out, the ebony was a robot willing to face the consequences of its actions, but, in a way reminding Derec of human emotions, preferred to face them sooner than later.
“Many of you have probably heard of the human pastime of listening to music, and of those who make or record music, but I trust none of you have ever heard it before,” said Derec to the cast and crew. “In fact, although I can’t ever recall having personally heard music before, I daresay I’ve never heard it played in quite the way these three comrades play it.
“So I’d like to introduce to you the three comrades who will provide us with the incidental music of our production — Harry, Benny, and M334 — The Three Cracked Cheeks of Robot City”’
Derec waved the three on as he walked behind Ariel. He whispered in her ear, “This ought to be good.”
Benny stepped toward the proscenium of the stage as Harry and M334 put on their artificial lips.
“Greetings, comrades. We thought we would perform an ancient Terran jingle called ‘Tootin’ Through the Roof.’ Hope it stirs your coconut milk.”
And The Three Cracked Cheeks began to play, at first an A-A-B-A riff theme with a solo by Benny on the trumpet. A solo from Harry on the trombone followed, and then M334 on the saxophone took over.
In fact, it wasn’t long before the solos were alternating thick and fast, with the two backers always offering support with the riff theme. The solos began to give the impression that the three were juggling a ball between them; and whoever had the ball had to depend on the other two for his foundation.
Derec hadn’t heard the three play since that first audition. The first thing he noticed about this performance was their added confidence in themselves, the almost mathematical precision of the solo trade-offs, and the utter smoothness with which they assailed the tune. He looked down at his foot. It had been tapping.
He glanced at Ariel. He had expected her to be bored; her contempt for all things Terran was, after all, the result of several generations’ worth of cultural history. But instead of appearing bored, she looked directly at the three with rapt attention. Her foot was tapping, too.
“Now, thiss iss Hamlet!” said Wolruf.
Chapter 7
THE MEMORY OF DAWN
IN TWO HOURS the performance would begin. Derec sat in his room, trying not to think about it. He was trying, in fact, not to think about much of anything. For though he had memorized practically the entire play, and felt as if he could perform his blocking blindfolded, he was afraid that if he ran through it in his mind now, at this late date, it would fall out of his memory as surely as his identity had.
After all, he had no idea what the cause of his amnesia was. It might have been caused by a severe blow to the head or a serious case of oxygen deprivation, but he could have some kind of disease as well — a disease that had caused him to lose his memory several times, forcing him to start over his search for his identity again and again. A disease that could strike again at any moment. Such as three minutes before the production was to begin.
Derec shrugged and lay down on his bed. Well, in such an eventuality, at least he would be spared the humiliation of embarrassment, he decided. He wouldn’t remember anything or anybody.
The most terrible part of his fantasy — which he admitted was a little paranoid, but perhaps wasn’t totally unwarranted under the circumstances — was that in the past he could have lost, time and time again, the companionship of intelligent beings who’d meant just as much to him as Ariel and Wolruf and Mandelbrot did now.
Maybe I should start thinking about the play, he thought. It might be safer.
The most important thing for him to remember was the secret purpose of the production, to watch Canute’s reactions during the little surprises that Derec had cooked up for the robot.
For as Hamlet hoped to force Claudius to reveal his guilt while watching the play-within-the-play, Derec hoped Canute would at last be forced to confront its own true nature.
This was a nature Canute had steadfastly avoided confronting during rehearsals. When praised for its work in designing the theatre, Canute had admitted only that it was following orders, that it had given nothing of itself that was not logical. When it performed a scene particularly well during rehearsal, Canute had admitted only to following orders explicitly, to performing mechanically, as only a robot could.
But with luck, Canute had by now a case of robotic overconfidence. Derec’s plans hinged on the hope that Canute believed it had already weathered the worse part of the investigation.
Of course, there was always the possibility that the surprises wouldn’t work. What if they didn’t? Then what would Derec have to do?
Derec realized he was wound up pretty tight. He relaxed with an effort. Then, when his thoughts began to turn automatically to the same matters, he tensed up again and had to relax with a second effort. Was this some form of stage fright? If it was, he supposed it could have been worse. He could be performing before humans.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, crossing his feet and putting his hands behind his head, so that whoever it was would think he was facing the coming performance with a mood of utter calm.
“Jumping galaxies! You look terrible!” said Ariel breathlessly as she closed the door behind her. “You must be nervous. It’s good to know I’m not the only one.”
Derec sat straight up and planted his feet on the floor. Just by being there, she had taken his breath away. She was in her costume — a blonde wig and a white gown that clung to her body as if it had been spun from a spider’s web. Her makeup heightened the color of her cheeks and lips, and made her skin appear a healthier shade of pale. He hadn’t realized that she could look so beautiful, with such an inner aliveness.
Of course, when he thought of all the circumstances that they had faced together — being thrown into a hospital together, running away from something, being stranded somewhere — it stood to reason that she had never before had the opportunity t
o accentuate her natural femininity. Her beauty in the costume was familiar, yet it was also something new, as if he’d glimpsed it in a long-forgotten dream.
But if she noticed his reaction (that is, if he revealed any of it), she gave no indication as she sat on the bed beside him. However, she glared at him because of his second reaction. It must have been none too flattering, for she looked like he had hit her over the head with a rubber chicken. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“What’s that smell?” he replied.
“Oh, I had Mandelbrot synthesize some perfume for me. I thought it might help keep me in character.”
“It’s very pleasant.”
“That’s not what your face said at first.”
“That’s because I wasn’t sure what I was smelling.”
“Hmm. That’s not much of a compliment. It’s supposed to smell good whether or not you know what it is.”
“Please, I’ve forgotten my social training along with the rest of my memory.”
“Your face said it smelled like fertilizer.”
“I’m not even sure I know what fertilizer smells like.”
She pursed her lips and looked away from him, but he couldn’t help noticing that her hand was very close to his on the bed. Their fingers were almost touching. “Nervous?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Naw. For all I know, this could be my first encounter with perfume.”
“I meant the play, silly.”
“Oh. Well, maybe a little. Hey, for all I know, I could be an old hand at this.”
“I see. Do you think amnesia could sometimes be a blessing in disguise?”
“Ariel, something’s bothering you. Are you well?”
“Reasonably well. Doing this play has given me something relatively constructive to concentrate on, though I’m still not sure it was a good idea for me to play someone who goes mad. I’m beginning to realize how uncomfortably it mirrors my own predicament.”
“Would you rather play Hamlet’s mother?”
“No. Well, maybe. But why couldn’t I play Hamlet himself? I can be heard all over the stage, and you said so yourself, just yesterday, that I can definitely emote. Like crazy, if you’ll forgive my choice of words.”
“The role has been undertaken occasionally by women, according to the theatre history texts. I’m sure the robots would be only too positronically fulfilled to support you in a production of Hamlet. Or of any other play.”
“I meant why couldn’t I play Hamlet in this production?”
“Aha. You had your chance, but you volunteered to play Ophelia first! You were guilty of your own biased thinking — before I had the chance to engage in my biased thinking, that is.”
“That’s true,” she replied, in tones a bit more serious than he thought his words warranted. “Besides, I think there’re reasons why you picked Hamlet, beyond the ones that have to do with Canute. You could have picked any number of plays, you know, like Othello or Julius Salad.”
“That’s Julius Caesar!”
“Right. Anyway, I think you already saw a lot of yourself in him — the mad romantic, the soul-searching adventurer, the vain, pompous, arrogant, stubborn... stubborn...”
“Egotist.”
“Right. Egotist.”
Derec smiled. It was exciting to have her sitting next to him. Except for rehearsing bits of business together, they hadn’t been this close for some time, and he was surprised to discover how much he liked it. He was nervous and relaxed at the same time.
“Derec? Pay attention. I’m talking to you,” she said gently. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about the differences between us and the people back then, or the way they were presented, anyway. I can’t help but wonder if anyone today ever has the kind of love Ophelia has for Hamlet.”
“Or Lady Macbeth has for Macbeth?”
“I’m serious. I know Ophelia is definitely a weak creature. ‘Hi there, Dad. Use me as a pawn in your nefarious schemes. Please?’ But for all that, she really does love with a consuming passion. I’ve never met anyone on Aurora who’s felt that kind of love... that I know of, naturally. But I think I would be able to tell if there were any Ophelias out there.”
“How about yourself?” he asked with an unexpected catch in his voice.
“Me? No, I’ve never felt that kind of passion.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was really thinking as she pulled away from him, put her foot on the bed, and rested her head on her knee. “I’ve had sex, of course, and crushes, but nothing like what aphelia must feel.” She paused, buried her face in her gown, then lifted her head just enough so he could see her raise an eyebrow. With a decidedly interesting intent. “I might be persuaded to try, though.”
Derec felt a lump the size of a sidewalk get stuck in his throat. “Ariel!”
“Derec — are you a virgin?”
“How am I supposed to know? I have amnesia!” Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows, as she moved closer to him.
“You know, there’s another aspect to Ophelia,” she said. “She represents something.” Closer.
“Something Hamlet needs but which he has to deny to have his revenge.”
“He was a user, too.”
“How about that.” Closer.
She leaned forward. He kissed her. No, he couldn’t remember having felt anything quite like this before.
Feeling obligated to pursue the matter scientifically, though, he felt confident he might remember after a little more experimentation.
“Wait,” she said after a time, pushing away. “I’m sorry. I got carried away there. I’m not always in control of myself.”
“Uh, that’s all right,” he replied, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed.
“That’s not the point. It’s my medical condition. Don’t be offended, but right now I’m feeling a little healthier than common sense tells me I should. Remember how I acquired my little condition.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t forget,” he said, drawing her toward him to kiss her again. Their lips were millimeters apart when there was an insistent knocking at the door. “Damn!” he whispered in response. “It must be the Brain Police!”
“Master Derec?” said a stone cold, metallic voice outside. “Mistress Ariel?” Itwas the voice of a hunter robot.
“Yes? What is it?” Derec shouted. Then in a whisper. “See? I was right, in a way.”
“Mandelbrot sent me to locate you and remind you that you should depart for the New Globe soon.
There are a few details that only you can provide.”
“All right,” Derec said. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Very good, sir,” said the Hunter robot, its voice already fading.
“What did you say?” she asked. “Brain Police.”
“I don’t know. It just popped into my head.”
“If I remember correctly, the Brain Police are something from some children’s holodrarna I saw when I was growing up. It’s famous. They’re from — from that series called Tyrants of Blood.”
Derec was amazed. “About a masked man who rescues helpless thought deviants on a totalitarian planet. I remember. Is that a clue to my identity?”
“I doubt it. I said it was famous — and it was syndicated, seen allover the known systems. It’s been playing for generations.”
“Oh. So it means nothing.”
“No, it means at least we can be sure you’re from some civilized world.”
“Thanks a lot. Come on. Our public awaits.”
Chapter 8
TO BE, OR WHAT?
“MASTER, IF MY understanding of human nature is correct, you’ll be happy to know that we have a full house,” said Mandelbrot.
“Thanks, but I saw them lining up on my way in,” said Derec as he hastily donned the tight breeches that were a part of his costume. He waited until he had put on the remainder of his costume — a purple tunic over a white shirt with ruffled sleeves, and a pair of boots —
before he asked Mandelbrot, “How’s Canute? Has it done anything unusual — anything that might indicate it knows about my special plans?”
“So far it appears to be acting like the rest of the robots. That is, as calm as ever.”
“You’re not nervous at all, are you?”
“I am naturally concerned that the illusion proceeds as planned, as are all the robots, but the only nervousness I might possess, if I may use such a word as ‘nervousness,’ revolves around my concern that you perform in accordance with your own standards.”
“Thanks. How much time do we have?”
“Mere moments until curtain.”
“Everything in place?”
“Everything but your greasepaint, master.”
“My makeup! I forgot all about it.”
Mandelbrot helped him apply it, in great heaps that Derec was certain would appear primitive and grotesquely overstated when picked up by the cameras. “Is the stage ready?” Derec asked. “Everything in its proper placer’
“Naturally.”
“But the Hunter said —”
“Forgive me, master, but I deduced how you would want the remaining details handled.”
Derec nodded, but said nothing. Suddenly he was gripped by the overriding fear that he would step out on stage and forget every single one of his lines. Or worse, he would begin acting out the wrong scene.
“Relax, master. I am confident you will perform to the letter.”
Derec smiled. He looked in the mirror. He hoped he looked fine. Then he walked out into the wings, joining Ariel and the robots.
Wolruf sat on a special chair in the very rear section of the backstage area, before a bank of screens showing the stage from several angles. Three supervisor robots sat in chairs before the screens, operating automatic cameras concealed throughout the theatre that, with appropriate zooms and pans would provide a total picture of everything on stage. All that was left was for Wolruf to call the shots and to tell one of the robots what should be broadcast to the holoscreens throughout the city.
