by Isaac Asimov
“You’re wearing gloves.”
“Oh.” She looked at her hands in confusion. Then, softly, “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. But why have you decided to see, rather than view?”
“Well”–she smiled weakly–” I’ve got to get used to it, don’t I, Elijah? I mean, if I’m going to Aurora.”
“Then it’s all arranged?”
“Mr. Olivaw seems to have influence. It’s all arranged. I’ll never come back.”
“Good. You’ll be happier, Gladia. I know you will.”
“I’m a little afraid.”
“I know. It will mean seeing all the time and, you won’t have all the comforts you had on Solaria. But you’ll get used to it and, what’s more, you’ll forget all the terror you’ve been through.”
“I don’t want to forget everything,” said Gladia softly.
“You will.” Baley looked at the slim girl who stood before him and said, not without a momentary pang, “And you will be married someday, too. Really married, I mean.”
“Somehow,” she said mournfully, “that doesn’t seem so attractive to me right now.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
And they stood there, looking at each other for a wordless moment.
Gladia said, “I’ve never thanked you.” Baley said, “It was only my job.”
“You’ll be going back to Earth now, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll never see you again.”
“Probably not. But don’t feel badly about that. In forty years at most, I’ll be dead and you won’t look a bit different from the way you do now.”
Her face twisted. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
She said rapidly, as though forced to change the subject, “It’s all true about Jothan Leebig, you know.”
“I know. Other roboticists went over his records and found experiments toward unmanned intelligent spaceships. They also found other robots with replaceable limbs.”
Gladia shuddered, “Why did he do such a horrible thing, do you suppose?”
“He was afraid of people. He killed himself to avoid personal presence and he was ready to kill other worlds to make sure that Solaria and its personal-presence taboo would never be touched.”
“How could he feel so,” she murmured, “when personal presence can be so very–”
Again a silent moment while they faced each other at ten paces. Then Gladia cried suddenly, “Oh, Elijah, you’ll think it abandoned of me.”
“Think what abandoned?”
“May I touch you? I’ll never see you again, Elijah.”
“If you want to.”
Step by step, she came closer, her eyes glowing, yet looking apprehensive, too. She stopped three feet away, then slowly, as though in a trance, she began to remove the glove on her right hand.
Baley started a restraining gesture. “Don’t be foolish, Gladia.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Gladia.
Her hand was bare. It trembled as she extended it.
And so did Baley’s as he took her hand in his. They remained so for one moment, her hand a shy thing, frightened as it rested in his. He opened his hand and hers escaped, darted suddenly and without warning toward his face until her fingertips rested feather-light upon his cheek for the barest moment.
She said, “Thank you, Elijah. Good-by.”
He said, “Good-by, Gladia,” and watched her leave.
Even the thought that a ship was waiting to take him back to Earth did not wipe out the sense of loss he felt at that moment.
Undersecretary Albert Minnim’s look was intended to be one of prim welcome. “I am glad to see you back on Earth. Your report, of course, arrived before you did and is being studied. You did a good job. The matter will look well in your record.”
“Thank you,” said Baley. There was no room for further elation in him. Being back on Earth; being safe in the Caves; being in hearing of Jessie’s voice (he had spoken to her already) had left him strangely empty.
“However,” said Minnim, “your report concerned only the murder investigation. There was another matter we were interested in. May I have a report on that, verbally?”
Baley hesitated and his hand moved automatically toward the inner pocket where the warm comfort of his pipe could once more be found.
Minnim said at once, “You may smoke, Baley.”
Baley made of the lighting process a rather drawn-out ritual. He said, “I am not a sociologist.”
“Aren’t you?” Minnim smiled briefly. “It seems to me we discussed that once. A successful detective must be a good rule-of-thumb sociologist even if he never heard of Hackett’s Equation. I think, from your discomfort at the moment, that you have notions concerning the Outer Worlds but aren’t sure how it will sound to me?”
“If you put it that way, sir... When you ordered me to Solaria, you asked a question; you asked what the weaknesses of the Outer Worlds were. Their strengths were their robots, their low population, their long lives, but what were their weaknesses?”
“Well?”
“I believe I know the weaknesses of the Solarians, sir.”
“You can answer my question? Good. Go ahead.”
“Their weaknesses, sir, are their robots, their low population, their long lives.”
Minnim stared at Baley without any change of expression. His hands worked in jerky finger-drawn designs along the papers on his desk.
He said, “Why do you say that?”
Baley had spent hours organizing his thoughts on the way back from Solaria; had confronted officialdom, in imagination, with balanced, well-reasoned arguments. Now he felt at a loss.
He said, “I’m not sure I can put them clearly.”
“No matter. Let me hear. This is first approximation only.”
Baley said, “The Solarians have given up something mankind has had for a million years; something worth more than atomic power, cities, agriculture, tools, fire, everything; because it’s something that made everything else possible.”
“I don’t want to guess, Baley. What is it?”
“The tribe, sir. Cooperation between individuals. Solaria has given it’ up entirely. It is a world of isolated individuals and the planet’s only sociologist is delighted that this is so. That sociologist, by the way, never heard of sociomathematics, because he is inventing his own science. There is no one to teach him, no one to help him, no one to think of something he himself might miss. The only science that really flourishes on Solaria is robotics and there are only a handful of men involved in that, and when it came to an analysis of the interaction of robots and men, they had to call in an Earthman to help.
“Solarian art, sir, is abstract. We have abstract art on Earth as one form of art; but on Solaria it is the only form. The human touch is gone. The looked-for future is one of ectogenesis and complete isolation from birth.”
Minnim said, “It all sounds horrible. But is it harmful?”
“I think so. Without the interplay of human against human, the chief interest in life is gone; most of the intellectual values are gone; most of the reason for living is gone. Viewing is no substitute for seeing. The Solarians, themselves, are conscious that viewing is a long-distance sense.
“And if isolation isn’t enough to induce stagnation, there is the matter of their long lives. On Earth, we have a continuous influx of young people who are willing to change because they haven’t had time to grow hard-set in their ways. I suppose there’s some optimum. A life long enough for real accomplishment and short enough to make way for youth at a rate that’s not too slow. On Solaria, the rate is too slow.”
Minnim still drew patterns with his finger. “Interesting! Interesting!” He looked up, and it was as though a mask had fallen away. There was glee in his eyes. “Plainclothesman, you’re a man of penetration.”
“Thank you,” said Baley stiffly.
“Do you know why I encouraged you to desc
ribe your views to me?” He was almost like a little boy, hugging his pleasure. He went on without waiting for an answer. “Your report has already undergone preliminary analysis by our sociologists and I was wondering if you had any idea yourself as to the excellent news for Earth you had brought with you. I see you have.”
“But wait,” said Baley. “There’s more to this.”
“There is, indeed,” agreed Minnim jubilantly. “Solaria cannot possibly correct its stagnation. It has passed a critical point and their dependence on robots has gone too far. Individual robots can’t discipline an individual child, even though discipline may do the child eventual good. The robot can’t see past the immediate pain. And robots collectively cannot discipline a planet by allowing its institutions to collapse when the institutions have grown harmful. They can’t see past the immediate chaos. So the only end for the Outer Worlds is perpetual stagnation and Earth will be freed of their domination. This new data changes everything. Physical revolt will not even be necessary. Freedom will come of itself.”
“Wait,” said Baley again, more loudly. “It’s only Solaria we’re discussing, not any other Outer World.”
“It’s the same thing. Your Solarian sociologist–Kimot–”
“Quemot, sir.”
“Quemot, then. He said, did he not, that the other Outer Worlds were moving in the direction of Solaria?”
“He did, but he knew nothing about the other Outer Worlds firsthand, and he was no sociologist. Not really. I thought I made that clear.”
“Our own men will check.”
“They’ll lack data too. We know nothing about the really big Outer Worlds. Aurora, for instance; Daneel’s world. To me, it doesn’t seem reasonable to expect them to be anything like Solaria. In fact, there’s only one world in the Galaxy which resembles Solaria–”
Minnim was dismissing the subject with a small, happy wave of his neat hand. “Our men will check. I’m sure they will agree with Quemot.”
Baley’s stare grew somber. If Earth’s sociologists were anxious enough for happy news, they would find themselves agreeing with Quemot, at that. Anything could be found in figures if the search were long enough and hard enough and if the proper pieces of information were ignored or overlooked.
He hesitated. Was it best now to speak while he had the ear of a man high in the government or–He hesitated a trifle too long. Minnim was speaking again, shuffling a few papers and growing more matter-of-fact. “A few minor matters, Plainclothesman, concerning the Delmarre case itself and then you will be free to go. Did you intend to have Leebig commit suicide?”
“I intended to force a confession, sir. I had not anticipated suicide at the approach, ironically, of someone who was only a robot and who would not really be violating the taboo against personal presence. But, frankly, I don’t regret his death. He was a dangerous man. It will be a long time before there will be another man who will combine his sickness and his brilliance.”
“I agree with that,” said Minnim dryly, “and consider his death fortunate, but didn’t you consider your danger if the Solarians had stopped to realize that Leebig couldn’t possibly have murdered Delmarre?”
Baley took his pipe out of his mouth and said nothing.
“Come, Plainclothesman,” said Minnim. “You know he didn’t. The murder required personal presence and Leebig would die rather than allow that. He did die rather than allow it.”
Baley said, “You’re right, sir. I counted on the Solarians being too horrified at his misuse of robots to stop to think of that.”
“Then who did kill Delmarre?”
Baley said slowly, “If you mean who struck the actual blow, it was the person everyone knew had done so. Gladia Delmarre, the man’s wife.”
“And you let her go?”
Baley said, “Morally, the responsibility wasn’t hers. Leebig knew Gladia quarreled bitterly with her husband, and often. He must have known how furious she could grow in moments of anger. Leebig wanted the death of the husband under circumstances that would incriminate the wife. So he supplied Delmarre with a robot and, I imagine, instructed it with all the skill he possessed to hand Gladia one of its detachable limbs at the moment of her full fury. With a weapon in her hand at the crucial moment, she acted in a temporary black-out before either Delmarre or the robot could stop her. Gladia was as much Leebig’s unwitting instrument as the robot itself.”
Minnim said, “The robot’s arm must have been smeared with blood and matted hair.”
“It probably was,” said Baley, “but it was Leebig who took the murder robot in charge. He could easily have instructed any other robots who might have noticed the fact to forget it. Dr. Thool might have noticed it, but he inspected only the dead man and the unconscious woman. Leebig’s mistake was to think that guilt would rest so obviously on Gladia that the matter of the absence of an obvious weapon at the scene wouldn’t save her. Nor could he anticipate that an Earthman would be called in to help with the investigation.”
“So with Leebig dead, you arranged to have Gladia leave Solaria. Was that to save her in case any Solarians began thinking about the case?”
Baley shrugged. “She had suffered enough. She had been victimized by everyone; by her husband, by Leebig, by the world of Solaria.”
Minnim said, “Weren’t you bending the law to suit a personal whim?”
Baley’s craggy face grew hard. “It was not a whim. I was not bound by Solarian law. Earth’s interests were paramount, and for the sake of those interests, I had to see that Leebig, the dangerous one, was dealt with. As for Mrs. Delmarre.” He faced Minnim now, and felt himself taking a crucial step. He had to say this. “As for Mrs. Delmarre, I made her the basis of an experiment.”
“What experiment?”
“I wanted to know if she would consent to face a world where personal presence was permitted and expected. I was curious to know if she had the courage to face disruption of habits so deeply settled in her. I was afraid she might refuse to go; that she might insist on remaining on Solaria, which was purgatory to her, rather than bring herself to abandon her distorted Solarian way of life. But she chose change and I was glad she did, because to me it seemed symbolic. It seemed to open the gates of salvation for us.”
“For us?” said Minnim with energy. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Not for you and me, particularly, sir,” said Baley gravely, “but for all mankind. You’re wrong about the other Outer Worlds. They have few robots; they permit personal presence; and they have been investigating Solaria. R. Daneel Olivaw was there with me, you know, and he’ll bring back a report. There is a danger they may become Solarians someday, but they will probably recognize that danger and work to keep themselves in a reasonable balance and in that way remain the leaders of mankind.”
“That is your opinion,” said Minnim testily.
“And there’s more to it. There is one world like Solaria and that’s Earth.”
“Plainclothesman Baley!”
“It’s so, sir. We’re Solaria inside out. They retreated into isolation from one another. We retreated into isolation from the Galaxy. They are at the dead end of their inviolable estates. We are at the dead end of underground Cities. They’re leaders without followers, only robots who can’t talk back. We’re followers without leaders, only enclosing Cities to keep us safe.” Baley’s fists clenched.
Minnim disapproved. “Plainclothesman, you have been through an ordeal. You need a rest and you will have one. A month’s vacation, full pay, and a promotion at the end of it.”
“Thank you, but that’s not all I want. I want you to listen. There’s only one direction out of our dead end and that’s outward, toward Space. There are a million worlds out there and the Spacers own only fifty. They are few and long-lived. We are many and short lived. We: are better suited than they for exploration and colonization. We have population pressure to push us and a rapid turnover of generation to keep us supplied with the young and restless. It was our ancestor
s who colonized the Outer Worlds in the first place.”
“Yes, I see–but I’m afraid our time is up.”
Baley could feel the other’s anxiety to be rid of him and he remained stolidly in place. He said, “When the original colonization established worlds superior to our own in technology, we escaped by building wombs beneath the ground for ourselves. The Spacers made us feel inferior and we hid from them. That’s no answer. To avoid the destructive rhythm of rebellion and suppression, we must compete with them, follow them, if we must, lead them, if we can. To do that, we must face the open; we must teach ourselves to face the open. If it is too late to teach ourselves, then we must teach our children. It’s vital!”
“You need a rest, Plainclothesman.”
Baley said violently, “Listen to me, sir. If the Spacers are strong and we remain as we are, then Earth will be destroyed within a century. That has been computed, as you yourself told me. If the Spacers are really weak and are growing weaker, then we may escape, but who says the Spacers are weak? The Solarians, yes, but that’s all we know.”
“But–”
“I’m not through. One thing we can change, whether the Spacers are weak or strong. We can change the way we are. Let us face the open and we’ll never need rebellion. We can spread out into our own crowd of worlds and become Spacers ourselves. If we stay here on Earth, cooped up, then useless and fatal rebellion can’t be stopped. It will be all the worse if the people build any false hopes because of supposed Spacer weakness. Go ahead, ask the sociologists. Put my argument to them. And if they’re still in doubt, find a way to send me to Aurora. Let me bring back a report on the real Spacers, and you’ll see what Earth must do.”
Minnim nodded. “Yes, yes. Good day, now, Plainclothesman Baley.”
Baley left with a feeling of exaltation. He had not expected an open victory over Minnim. Victories over ingrained patterns of thought are not won in a day or a year. But he had seen the look of pensive uncertainty that had crossed Minnim’s Lace and had blotted out, at least for a while, the earlier uncritical joy.
He felt he could see into the future. Mannikin would ask the sociologists and one or two of them would be uncertain. They would wonder. They would consult Baley.
