by Isaac Asimov
“Woman must be stupid, then,” Klia said.
“I’m so big and awkward. If they don’t hear me... If I don’t make them feel affection for me–”
She tensed and drew back. “You’ve done that?”
“Not all the way,” he said. “Just as an experiment. But I could never follow through.” She knew he was telling the truth–or rather, thought she knew. Another uncertainty around another corner! Still, she relaxed again.
“You’ve never tried to make me feel affection for you.”
“Sky, no,” Brann said. “You scare me too much. I think I’d never be able to–” And here she felt him tensing, in the same way she had. “You’re very strong,” he finished, and simply held her, lightly enough that she could lift up and break from his arms if she wanted to. So intuitive, this man as tall and broad-shouldered as the domes!
“I will never hurt you,” Klia said. “I need you. Together, I think we might be unstoppable. We might even be able to team up and persuade the robots.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Brann said.
“And our children...”
Again he sucked in his breath, and she hit him on the shoulder. “Don’t be a sentimental idiot,” she said lightly. “If we fall in love”
“I am,” he said.
“If we fall in love, it’s going to be for life, isn’t it?”
“I hope so. But nothing is ever certain in my life.”
“Or in mine. All the more reason. So our children–”
“Children,” Brann said, trying out the word.
“Let me finish, damn it!” Klia said, again without any sting of true anger. “Our children may be stronger than both of us put together.”
“How would we raise them?” Brann asked.
“First, we have to practice at making them,” Klia said. “I think we can take off our clothes and try that, a little.”
“Yes,” Brann said. She climbed down from him and stood beside the cot, doffing her shift and underslacks.
“Are you fertile?” he asked as he removed his own clothes.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I can be if I want to be. Didn’t your mommy tell you about women?”
“No,” he said. “But I learned anyway.”
He slid back onto the cot. The cot creaked, and something cracked alarmingly.
Klia hesitated.
“What?” Brann said.
“It’ll break for sure.” Then, resolutely, “Get on the floor. It’s not too dusty.”
53
SINTER WORKED QUICKLY. Already he had appropriated the old Hall of Merit in the south annex of the palace, a place of hallowed traditions and dusty trophies, and cleared it for the site of his new headquarters. From all comers of Trantor, he had hired a hundred Grey Monks hoping for just such a chance to actually serve in the palace, and had given them tiny cubicles, where they were already hard at work drafting the rules and mandate of the Commission of General Security.
Now, for his first guest, he had Linge Chen himself, and the thin, tough old bird–younger than he looked, but perhaps even more sour–had arrived with two servants and no guards. Chen had waited patiently in the antechambers, suffering the dust and racket of the remodeling.
Sinter finally condescended to meet with him. In the main office of the new headquarters, surrounded by crates of furniture and machinery, Chen presented the newly appointed Chief Commissioner a box of rare Hama crystals, those delicacies which never dissolved and never lost their flowery scent or taste, or their mildly relaxing effect.
“Congratulations,” Chen said, and bowed formally.
Sinter sniffed and accepted the box with a small, crooked smile. “You are most gracious, sire,” he said, and returned the bow.
“Come now, Sinter, we are equals, and need not resort to titles,” Chen said. Sinter’s eyes widened at Chen’s respectful tone. “I look forward to many useful conversations here.”
“As do I.” Sinter drew himself up to the effort of matching Chen’s dry, effortless grace. He did not have the old aristocratic training, but he could at least try, even in this moment of triumph. “It is my privilege to have you here. There is much you can teach me.”
“Perhaps,” Chen said, looking around with piercing dark eyes. “Has the Emperor visited yet?”
Sinter raised his hand as if making some point. “Not yet, though he will be here shortly. We have a matter of mutual interest to discuss, and some startling new evidence to present.”
“I am intrigued to hear that something startling still exists in our Empire.”
Sinter was at a loss for a moment how to react to this jaded cliché. He, at least, had always regarded life with a kind of bitter enthusiasm, and had never ceased to be surprised, except perhaps when things went wrong. “This... will startle,” he said.
Emperor Klayus entered without ceremony, accompanied by three guards and a hovering personal shield projector, the strongest available. He greeted Sinter briefly, then turned to Chen.
“Commissioner, today I cease being your creation,” he said. His shoulders twitched nervously even as his jaw jutted defiance and his eyes glittered. “You have compromised the safety of the Empire, and I will see to it that Commissioner Sinter puts the situation right.”
Chen assumed a solemn expression and nodded at this severe reprimand, but of course, did not quail or tremble or beg to know what the lapse in his duties might have been.
“I have placed myself under the official protection of the Commission of General Security. Sinter has shown himself quite capable of keeping me alive.”
“Indeed,” Chen said, and turned to Sinter with an admiring smile. “I hope to correct any errors my Commission has made, with your help, Commissioner Sinter.”
“Yes,” Sinter said, unsure who was having whom for a repast at the moment. Is this man incapable of emotion?
“Show him, Sinter.” The Emperor backed away a step, his long cape dragging on the floor.
He could not help his looks, Sinter thought; at least he was not wearing the ridiculous platform shoes he had affected months earlier. “Yes, Your Highness.” Sinter whispered into the ear of his new secretary, a dry little Lavrentian with lank black hair. The Lavrentian walked away with exaggerated formality, like a child’s doll, and passed through half parted dark green curtains.
Chen’s gaze swept the ancient polished floor, also dark green with golden swirls. His father had once had many trophies in this same hall, before Sinter had appropriated it; trophies for services to the Empire. By class, the elder Chen had been forbidden from joining the meritocracy, but many meritocrat guilds had given him honorary passages and appraisals. Now... all those acknowledgments of his father’s achievements, removed, hidden, he hoped safely stored.
Forgotten.
Chen looked up and saw Mors Planch. His face hardened to an almost imperceptible degree.
“Your employee,” Sinter said, moving between them, as if Chen might strike out in anger. “You secretly sent him to look for the unfortunate Lodovik Trema.”
Chen neither confirmed nor denied Sinter’s accusation. It was truly no concern of Sinter’s, though the Emperor
“I admired Trema,” the Emperor said. “A man of some style, I thought. Ugly, but capable.”
“A man of many surprises,” Sinter added. “Planch, I will let you initiate the sequence you recorded, on Madder Loss, just weeks ago...”
Miserably, avoiding Chen’s eyes, Mors Planch stepped forward, and his fingers fumbled at the small raised panel on the new Chief Commissioner’s desk. The image came to life.
The sequence played through. Planch stepped back as far as he could without attracting attention and folded his hands before him.
“Trema is not dead,” Sinter said triumphantly. “Nor is he human.”
“You have him here?” Chen said, his cheeks and neck tense. He relaxed one fist.
“Not yet. I am sure he is on Trantor, but it is likely he has changed his appearance. He
is a robot. One of many, perhaps millions. This other, this tall robot, is the oldest thinking mechanism in the Galaxy–an Eternal. I believe he has held high office. He may have inspired the tiktok revolt that nearly doomed the Empire. And... he may be the fabled Danee.”
“Demerzel, I presume,” Chen muttered.
Sinter glanced at Chen in some surprise. “I am not yet sure of that–but it is a distinct possibility.”
“You remember what happened to Joranum,” Chen said mildly.
“Yes. But he had no proof.”
“I assume the tape is authenticated,” Chen said.
“By the best authorities on Trantor.”
“It is real, Chen,” Klayus said, a little shrilly. “How dare you let this go on, undetected! A conspiracy of machines... Ages old! And now–”
The feminine robot entered under its own power and guidance, flanked by the four guards. Its limbs were worn, the flesh hanging in tatters in places around its arms and neck, one jowl sagging alarmingly, threatening to expose the socket of one eye. It was a frightening apparition, more like a walking corpse than a machine.
Chen watched it with both alarm and genuine pity. He had never seen a functioning robot before–unless he believed Sinter–though he had once secretly visited the ancient, defunct machine kept by the Mycogenians.
“Now, I demand that you hand over control of the trial of Hari Seldon to the Commission of General Security,” Sinter said. He was getting ahead of himself.
“I don’t see why,” Chen said calmly, turning away from the ghastly machine.
“This robot once served as his wife,” Sinter said.
The Emperor could not take his eyes off it. They gleamed with obvious speculation.
“The Tiger Woman, Dors Venabili!” Sinter said. “Suspected to be a robot decades ago–but somehow, never investigated thoroughly. Seldon is an essential part of the robotic conspiracy. He is a stooge of the Eternals.”
“Yes, well, he is on trial,” Chen said softly, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You can question him yourself and claim jurisdiction over his fate.”
Sinter’s nostrils flared as he observed this infuriatingly calm performance. “I fully intend to,” he said. A little dignity born of honest triumph crept into his voice.
“Have you proof of all these connections?” Chen asked.
“Do I need more proof than what I already have? A record of an impossible meeting between a dead man and a man thousands of years old... A robot when robots are no longer supposed to function, and a human-shaped one at that! I have all I need, Chen, and you know it.” Sinter’s voice rose to a grating tenor.
“All right,” Chen said. “Play your cards. Question Seldon, if you wish. But we will follow the rules. That is all we have left in this Empire. Honor and dignity have long since fled.” He looked at Klayus. “I have ever been your faithful servant, Your Highness. I hope Sinter serves you with as much devotion.”
Klayus nodded gravely, but there was a twinkle of delight in his eye.
Chen turned and departed with his servants. Behind him, in the long, broad chamber of the former old Hall of Merit, Sinter began to laugh, and the laugh turned into a bray.
Mors Planch hung his head, wishing he were already dead.
On his way through the huge sculptured doors, back to his palace vehicle parked by the official thoroughfare, Linge Chen allowed himself a brief smile. From that point on, however, his face was like a wax effigy, pale and drawn, simulating defeat.
54.
THE GUARDS RETURNED to Hari’s cell in the morning. He sat on the edge of the cot, as he had every morning since the visit from the old tiktok, unwilling to sleep any more than was necessary. He had already dressed and performed his ablutions, and his white hair was combed back with a small pin holding it in place, forming the little scholar’s knot, a meritocratic style he had shunned until now. But if Hari stood for any particular class, after years in academe and his brief stint as First Minister, it was the meritocrats. Like them, I have never had any children–adopted Raych, nurtured him and my grandchildren, but never any children of my own... Dors...
He blocked that line of thought.
With his trial, meritocrats across the Galaxy would see whether science and the joy of inquiry could be tolerated in a declining Empire. Other classes as well might have some interest in the proceedings, even though they were closed; word would leak out. Hari had become quite well-known, if not infamous.
The guards entered with practiced deference and stood before him.
“Your advocate waits outside to accompany you to the judicial chambers of the Commission.”
“Yes, of course,” Hari said. “Let’s go.”
Sedjar Boon met Hari in the corridor. “Something’s up,” he whispered to Hari. “The structure of the trial may be changed.”
This confused Hari. “I don’t understand,” he said softly, eyeing the guards on either side. A third guard walked behind them, and three steps behind that guard, three more. He was being protected with some thoroughness considering they were already supposed to be in a completely secure facility.
“The trial was originally scheduled to take less than a week,” Boon said. “But the Emperor’s office of judicial oversight has rescheduled and reserved the chamber for three weeks.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen the writ from the Commission of General Security.”
“What’s that?” Hari asked, looking up with surprise.
“Farad Sinter has been given his own Commission, a new branch under the Emperor’s budget. Linge Chen is fighting to keep them out of the trial–claiming gross irrelevancies–but it looks like Sinter will be allowed to question you at some point.”
“Oh,” Hari said. “I presume someone or other will allow me a chance to speak, in between all the Commission heavyweights.”
“You’re the star,” Boon said. “As well, at the request of General Security, you and Gaal Dornick will be tried together. The others will be released.”
“Oh,” Hari said coolly, though this surprised him even more.
“Gaal Dornick has been formally charged,” Boon mused. “But he’s a small fish–why did they choose him in particular?”
“I don’t know,” Hari said. “I presume because he was the latest to join our group. Perhaps they assume he will be the least loyal and the most willing to talk.”
They arrived at the lift. Four minutes later, having ascended a kilometer to the Hall of Justice, in the Imperial Courts Building, they stood at the high, intricately worked bronze doors of Courtroom Seven, First District, Imperial Sector, devoted the past eighteen years to hearings called by the Commission of Public Safety.
The doors swung open at their approach. Within, the beautiful wooden benches and plush baronial boxes arrayed along the theatrically sloping aisles were empty. The guards urged them politely down the broad blue-and-red carpeted center aisle, across the front of the courtyard, into the small side conference room. The door closed behind Hari and Boon.
Already seated in the Crib of the Accused was Gaal Dornick.
Hari took his seat beside him.
“This is an honor,” Gaal said in a trembling voice.
Hari patted his arm.
The sitting judges of the Commission of Public Safety, five in all, entered through the opposite door. Linge Chen entered then and sat in the center.
The court proctor entered last, her duties an ancient formality. She was a short, willowy woman with small blue eyes and short-cut red hair. She strode to the Table of Charges, examined the documents there, shook her head sadly at some and nodded solemnly at others, then approached the five Commissioners.
“I declare these papers of indictment to have been properly drawn and formally and correctly entered into the List of Charges of the Imperial Hall of Justice on the administrative Capital World of Trantor in the year of the Empire 12067. Be aware, all concerned, that the eyes of posterity witness these proceedings, and that all s
uch proceedings will be duly logged and, within a thousand years, presented for public scrutiny, as required by the ancient codes to which all Imperial courts referring to any constitution and any particular set of laws must adhere. Hey nas nam niquas per sen liquin.”
Nobody knew what the last phrase meant; it was an obscure dialect affected by the nobles who convened the Council of Po over twelve thousand years ago. Nothing else was known about the Council of Po, except that a constitution long since ignored had once been drafted there.
Hari sniffed and turned his eyes to the Commission.
Linge Chen leaned forward slightly, acknowledging the proctor’s statement, then leaned back. He did not look at Hari or anyone else in the courtroom. His regal bearing, Hari decided, would do credit to a clothing-store mannequin.
“Let these proceedings begin,” the Chief Commissioner said in a quiet voice, delicately melodious, sibilants emphasized ever so aristocratically.
Hari settled in with a barely audible sigh.
55.
KLIA HAD NEVER been more frightened. She stood in the old dusty long chamber, listening to the murmurs from the group at the opposite end. Brann stood three paces away, his back stiff and shoulders hunched, as if he, too, were waiting for an ax to fall.
Finally Kallusin broke away from the group and approached them. “Come meet your benefactor,” he said to them.
Klia shook her head and stared at the group with wide eyes.
“They won’t bite,” Kallusin said with a slight smile. “They’re robots.”
“So are you,” Klia said. “How can you look so human? How can you smile?” She shot her questions at Kallusin like accusations.
