Asimov’s Future History Volume 8

by Isaac Asimov

  “I understand your main manufacturing facilities are elsewhere,” Derec said, as much to break the long stillness as anything.

  “Our largest factory is in Kiev, but it’s not much larger than the ones in Denver and Singapore. R and D happens here, and we build the prototypes. There’s some jobshopping that gets done as well–special requests, custom-fitted pieces, things like that.”

  This was what Aurora and Solaria had hoped to obtain from the new treaty, Derec knew–the methodology to do manufacturing on such a scale. The Fifty Worlds were wonderful places and their tech was awesome in many respects, but in a way they were simple tinkerers compared to Earth. Here, humans knew how to create places where tools and machines could be made in the millions. The ability to do so, to conceive of the techniques and construct the mechanisms, both human and machine, to produce in those quantities was an art that somehow had never made the transition from Earth to the stars. Aurora built excellent robots, but in small lots of a hundred or less. If Earth decided to build them they could flood the trade lanes with absolutely identical models by the tens and hundreds of thousands. Spacer tech was “handmade” compared to the mass manufacturing culture of Earth.

  Current trade law forbade the exportation of key technologies. It gave Earth an edge. Even black marketeers would be inclined to want it to stay that way. Their profit came from inequities in systems.

  “I didn’t realize the need to do new research was so important,” Derec said. “I mean, the basic design of a positronic brain has remained largely unchanged for–”

  “And the culture stagnates, doesn’t it?” Mikels interjected. “Nothing new, nothing grows. Why change perfection? But perfection is only real for a given time, place, and person. Tomorrow, it’s not perfect anymore, is it? And usually never for your neighbor.” He smiled at Derec, enjoying himself. “But don’t take offense. The basic idea of imbedded tech hasn’t changed for almost as long. I like to think it began with burnt toast.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Way back when, people had to toast their bread over an open fire. Lay the slices on a plate, suspend it over a flame, and watch it so they could turn it at the right time. Too little time, it was just warm bread. Too much and it was blackened grit. Had to be a better way. So someone devises a box with heating coils and a thermostat attached to a springlock that retracts when enough heat has been applied. The box knows exactly how much heat is necessary and toasts the bread the same way every time. Imbedded tech. Since then, if people want something done and they don’t want to tend to it with one hundred percent of their attention, someone else has found a way to make a device that will do it for them. It finally got so sophisticated that some of these devices are the intellectual equivalent of small children. Then they got so that they weren’t even visible and hardly ever broke. Paradise.”

  “Perfection?” Derec chided.

  “Not at all. People change, needs change, technology has to keep up. Take that toaster. It’s so good now that it even makes the bread, assembling molecules in just the right way and shaping the result before heating it. But what if you also want it to make sweet bread? Or cake? It doesn’t have the programming for that and the device simply isn’t important enough–or expensive enough–to warrant having a reprogrammable feature. What do you do?”

  “Throw it out and buy a better model.”

  “Wasteful. But we’ve gotten around it.” Mikels waved at the lab. “Penetrating polycollates.”

  “I’m not familiar with the term.”

  “Not many are. We can introduce augmentation through the surface of the device, reprogram it the same way a virus reprograms a healthy cell. It’s a complex filtration system that can work its way through the interstices of a material”

  “Like a zeolite.”

  For the second time in their talk, Mikels seemed surprised, although he masked it well. “Yes, that’s right. You’re familiar with zeolites, Mr. A very?”

  “Only slightly. I’ve seen some work done on positronic matrices with them.”

  “Indeed. That’s very interesting. Where was this?”

  “Aurora.”

  “Now that’s surprising. I wouldn’t have thought Spacers would have much need for such primitive tech.”

  “Is it primitive?”

  “The idea is.”

  “Like your imbedded devices?”

  This time Mikels’ smile did not seem warm, but predatory. He studied Derec for a few seconds, then turned his gaze toward his lab, his left hand playing absently with the cuff of his right sleeve.

  “You have an interesting perspective, Mr. A very. Have you ever considered–”

  “Mr. Mikels.”

  Derec started, surprised. An aide stood behind Mikels, leaning forward slightly at the waist, solicitous and apologetic. Mikels frowned at him.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you’re needed in Section Four.”

  “What? Damn.” Mikels sighed loudly. “Forgive me, Mr. Avery. I have to tend to something. Kobbs here can finish the tour for you. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. Perhaps we can get together another time.”

  Mikels gripped Derec’s hand firmly and shook it twice.

  “Thank you for taking the time,” Derec said.

  Mikels gave him a last cordial smile and stalked off, leaving Kobbs waiting for Derec.

  “There really isn’t an emergency, is there, Kobbs?” Derec asked. “You just came to rescue him. What did he do, summon you somehow? His cuff?”

  Kobbs looked uncomfortable. “If you’d like to follow me, sir, we can continue the tour in–”

  “No, thank you, Kobbs. I feel that I’ve already gotten the tour. If you’d just show me the way out...?”

  Tathis Kedder lived just north of the Navy District, off the Southeast Corridor in the Garfield District. Derec left the strips near the apartment complex a little before twelve, an hour early for his appointment with Kedder. He had given himself plenty of time.

  The complex was a collection of blocks arranged at different levels, heights, and orientations. Walkways, stairs, and balconies threaded throughout the mass like complicated three-dimensional mazes. Derec had once considered taking rooms here. It was an enclave for midlevel professionals like Kedder. He had been unsurprised to discover that Joler Hammis also lived here.

  After receiving Hammis’s resume, Derec had been unable to get in touch with the man. He had left messages asking Hammis to call him back, let him know if he had found other employment, or just to talk. Ariel’s insistence that no one at the Calvin Institute had issued any such directive about “transition errors” made Derec curious about where those orders had come from. Kedder had obviously not questioned them, but Hammis had struck Derec as the sort who might question anything.

  He went to Hammis’s apartment first. He mounted the steps and went up to the third level of Hammis’s block, found the number, and pressed the bell. He waited nearly a minute before pressing it again.

  “It’s probably available if you want it.”

  A man stood at the open door of the next apartment, a few meters further down the walkway. He was neatly dressed and carried a small case, large enough for a custom datum. Derec thought: Lawyer.

  “Mr. Hammis is no longer living here?”

  “Moved out three days ago,” the man said, punching a code into his own door. “He complained about the job market, but Joler didn’t strike me as the type to stay unemployed for long. He probably found something and swee–” he made a flying gesture to go with the half-whistle “–gone. Check with the housing authority.”

  The man smiled and walked past Derec to the steps and descended out of sight.

  Derec punched the code for the complex housing authority into the scanner beside the door. The small screen came up with a bright pink MAY I HELP YOU? Derec entered the apartment number and pressed ENTER. A menu came up: RESIDENT, AVAILABILITY, OTHER. Derec touched AVAILABILITY.

  NOT CURRENTLY AVAILABLE.


  Derec stared at the door for a time, debating if it would be worth the trouble to break in. He checked his watch–he still had forty minutes till his meeting with Kedder–and pulled out his decrypter.

  Within two minutes, the device unlocked the door. Derec did a reflexive inspection of the walkway, then entered Hammis’s apartment.

  It did not look vacated so much as abandoned. Clothes lay scattered over the floor, a plate with days-old remains set beside a cup with a few centimeters of coffee on a table covered with disks and scraps of paper. The comline contained several calls in the message queue. Even to Derec it was obvious that Hammis had not moved out.

  He walked from room to room, stepping quietly and carefully, touching nothing.

  The place was disheveled, but it did not quite look ransacked. Derec returned to the living room and examined the scattered paper on the table. He recognized algorithms, a few scribbled notes on pathways–could be positronic, could be N–and a pair of pamphlets half-buried under the disks. He eased one out and opened it.

  Derec felt his scalp tingle coldly as he read.

  ORDER FOR THE SUPREMACY OF MAN AGAIN

  The ancient and honorable struggle to free Humankind from its own delusions and the chains such delusions become has never been more difficult and demanding as it is today. Now the battle must be fought with information systems and the very tools we have created to aid us in overcoming nature itself. To this end, OSMA has dedicated itself to the cause of resisting wherever possible, and by whatever means seem most appropriate, the subjugation of humans by machines, systems, or the seductive and pernicious ideologies such seeming-innocuous constructs require to come into existence in the first place.

  Derec dropped the pamphlet back on the table and looked around the room for any other sign of Managins. After a few minutes, he picked the paper up again, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.

  He checked that no one was on the walkway when he left, then headed quickly to the other side of the complex, to his appointment with Kedder. The two had worked together. Maybe Kedder knew something about Hammis. Perhaps he suspected Hammis of being the method by which the Managins had gotten into Union Station with weapons. In any case, Derec felt relieved to be out of Hammis’s apartment. He made himself walk at a normal pace, conscious of his quick, adrenalized strides.

  Calm down, he told himself, it could mean anything. Millions of people probably have these pamphlets, it doesn’t mean they’re all Managins.

  But what did it really take to be one? Perhaps most people were not officially members of OSMA, but certainly most of people on Earth sympathized with them–at least where it concerned robotics.

  He was still ten minutes early when he knocked on Kedder’s door. The scanner came on.

  “Yes?”

  “Derec Avery, Mr. Kedder.”

  “Oh. Um, yes. One moment.” The door slid aside and Kedder blinked at him. He was barefoot and looked as though he were still waking up. He smiled sheepishly at Derec, then stood to one side.

  “Please.”

  Derec stepped into the apartment. It was much neater than Hammis’s.

  “Your coworker seems to have moved out, Mr. Kedder,” Derec said. “He lost his job, I understand.” Derec turned.

  Hammis stood by the door, looking frightened and apologetic. Beside him were two men, dressed in black, hoods covering their heads.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Avery,” Kedder said.

  Derec bolted for the back of the apartment and the rear exit.

  Something caught his shins just through the first doorway and he slammed heavily onto the floor. Before he could stand, bodies crushed him. He struggled until something cool touched his neck and numbness spread throughout his body.

  Twenty-Five

  ARIEL DISLIKED USING Derec’s robot. She made the call to Special Service–anonymously, routed through a comline far from the embassy–with misgivings. They were sending a robot to lie to humans. There was no other way to look at it and her absolutist soul chafed at the idea.

  Hofton looked briefly surprised when she walked into the reception area, the crate with the contraband brain under her arm. He smiled and followed her into her office.

  The door closed. “The keeper visits the zoo,” he said. “I trust you’ve been well?”

  Ariel looked at him. “It’s been busy?” She placed the crate under her desk. She was not really sure why she had brought it, other than she did not feel comfortable leaving it in her apartment anymore.

  “Moderately.”

  “I’ve been handling some of it from home,” she said, sitting down behind her desk. It had only been a couple of days and yet it seemed much longer. “What have you got?”

  “Setaris has called at least eight times a day. Most of her questions I’ve been able to handle, primarily to do with the migration of Aurorans off Earth.”

  “How many?”

  “Nearly six hundred in the last two days.”

  Ariel stared at him. “I thought”

  “It seems that the TBI interrogated a few of our key citizens. They decided to leave immediately after. Others, not unexpectedly, followed.”

  “Who in particular?”

  “I have a list...” Hofton fussed briefly with Ariel’s terminal. “There. And at the top–”

  “Guviya Tralen. Damn!” She stabbed at her comline. “What business did the TBI have interrogating her?”

  “Her complaint was quite specific. They wanted to know who she knew among ‘her kind’–I quote–who would want to disrupt the conference.”

  “Get me a schedule of everything else I need to tend to, Hofton. This call is private.”

  “Of course.”

  Hofton retreated from the office and Ariel stared in rage at the screen until a secretary appeared.

  “I want to speak to Jonis Taprin.”

  “I’m sorry–” the secretary began.

  “This is Ariel Burgess from the Auroran Embassy. He will want to take this call. Trust me.”

  “One moment, Ms. Burgess.”

  TBI...? I thought Special Service had assumed complete authority? Well, never assume anything on Earth...

  Nearly two minutes elapsed before Jonis appeared; even at that, Ariel was surprised. Under other circumstances, she would have been pleased.

  “Ariel,” he said, smiling broadly. “How very good to hear from you, I’ve been–”

  “What the hell is going on, Jonis? The TBI is rousting Aurorans.”

  Jonis’s face seemed to ripple, settling finally into a wary frown. “I’m not sure I understand...”

  “Don’t play politic with me, Jonis, you know damn well what I’m talking about. I’ve got a list of prominent Aurorans in front of me who’ve been interrogated over the last two days by TBI agents. Most of them are leaving, which was something I worked very hard to prevent not four days ago, if you’ll recall, because they don’t like being called conspirators.”

  “Ariel wait–”

  “Guviya Tralen, Jonis! They asked Guviya Tralen who she knew who would want to see the conference stopped! She’s a pain, she’s obnoxious, I sometimes wish she had never come to Earth, but she’s a fashion icon, not a killer!”

  “Calm down, Ariel. TBI was just doing its job.”

  “What job is that? Safeguarding Terra from bloodthirsty Spacers?”

  Jonis reddened. “That’s not fair. We’ve lost one of our most important citizens. You can’t expect–”

  “I can expect a little more attention to who really killed our people when they were invited here and a little less Spacer-baiting. Especially from you.”

  “Me? I don’t have any say over how the TBI conducts their investigations.”

  “No? Maybe. But you do have a responsibility not to feed public fears over positronics by suggesting a positronic robot intentionally killed humans.”

  “Those men were dead on arrival–”

  “That’s not true and you know it,” Ariel shot back. “And even if it
were, don’t you think it would have been responsible to keep it to yourself and check with me first? After all, I know more about what positronics can do than you or your descendants ever will.”

  “How do you know it’s not true?”

  “It’s a positronic robot. The Three Laws would forbid–”

  “Three Laws, Three Laws, Three Laws!” Taprin glared at her. “It was built by people, Ariel, and as long as people hold to no law absolutely, their machines won’t, either. I don’t give a damn about your sacred Three Laws because I don’t believe them. As for the TBI, they’re doing their job and once they’re finished, we’ll all be better off for it.”

  “Who will be?”

  He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Who will be better off? They keep insulting Aurorans and they’ll start an exodus I won’t be able to stop. Six hundred have already left or booked passage. They’ve undone everything I tried to do, Jonis.”

  “They have killers to find.”

  “Among us? Those were Managins, Jonis. What would Aurorans have to do with Managins?”

  “We have to trust that they know what they’re doing,” Taprin said.

  “No, we don’t. Your police agencies have already made more mistakes than I’d tolerate from a janitor.”

  “Such as?’’

  “Such as barring Derec Avery from doing his job,” Ariel replied. “Special Service has no roboticists, they won’t have a clue what to look for. Or does this come under the category of looking for killers among Spacers?”

  “Why would you know about that?” Taprin asked after a moment, his voice now cautious.

  “Jonis, it’s me–Ariel. Calvin Institute. Anything to do with robots?”

  He seemed to relax then, which Ariel found unsettling.

  “I’ve already looked into that,” Taprin said. “Mr. Avery called me, I’ve taken care of it.”