by Isaac Asimov
It was then Synapo’s earlier comment came to the front of her mind: My colleague Sarco informed me yesterday that the node compensator — this dome — will be completed tomorrow, so that leaves us little time for negotiation.
She had not forgotten it. It had simply been overlaid by a surfeit of sensory stimuli. It was difficult to take in all the data and digest it in proper order. But clearly they were in the midst of a negotiation in which she had reasoned herself into a corner, a fact that she must honorably acknowledge in the presence of these aliens; and time was running out.
Perhaps that acknowledgement alone would buy her some time. A diplomat might have been duplicitous at that point, but Ariel had recognized earlier that she was no diplomat. You take in the data, you analyze it, and you proceed accordingly.
“Your argument is sound,” Ariel said. “It takes only a brief moment — having now all the facts — to recognize that we are the offenders and you are the offended. We ask for your patience. We ask that you stop construction of the dome while we consider how we may resolve this dilemma, leaving neither of our peoples with further injury and with harmonious relations restored.”
She recognized that wasn’t quite right. Their relations had never been harmonious. That was her minor concession to the duplicity of diplomacy.
Neither of the aliens said anything, but Ariel knew something was going on. Standing side by side, they had turned their top sections so that their hooks and eyes confronted one another briefly. Then they turned back to confront Ariel.
“We agree to a one-day delay in the construction of the compensator following completion of today’s effort. We will meet again tomorrow as we met today.”
Ariel felt a touch on her elbow and half turned as Jacob bent over to say softly, “Would it be helpful to know the present stability of their weather?”
“I don’t understand,” she said, just as softly.
“How effective is the dome in its present state?” Jacob asked. “That data will enter into our reckoning of possibilities for resolution of the dilemma.”
“Ninety-nine-point-two percent compensation including the improvement allowed by consideration of both positive edge effects,” Sarco said before Ariel could ask.
Ariel understood then why Jacob had asked the question.
“Could you live with that if we caused no further deleterious effects?” she asked.
“Yes,” Synapo said.
As though not to be outdone by Ariel’s lieutenant, Sarco asked, “Why do you discrete or jump modulate hyperwave when the signal fidelity and freedom from noise is so much better with continuous modulation?”
That time Ariel didn’t hesitate a second. She looked at Jacob and said simply, “Jacob?”
The reply by Jacob was delayed by a distraction at that point. A small, tight, luminous green flame, no more than ten centimeters long, bloomed in the blackness a few centimeters below Synapo’s eyes. But he said nothing.
Jacob was distracted only momentarily — just long enough to register the spectrum and flame temperature of pure hydrogen co-blended with pure oxygen and a trace of ammonia.
“We are not familiar with continuous modulation,” Jacob said.
“Strange. You teleport with both types of transition,” Sarco said. He seemed not to be disturbed by fire from Synapo. “You yourself jumped here in discrete mode, and Wohler-9 phase condensed here in continuous mode. Do you not recognize the parallel with hyperwave?”
“I am not an expert in these technologies,” Jacob replied. “We can only take your question under advisement.”
As though to avoid further discussion, Synapo turned abruptly, and with a short wobbling run and an awkward hop, he flapped into the air and started gracefully into a great climbing turn. Sarco hesitated only a moment and then turned, wobbled, and with an even more awkward hop, quickly followed him. They were soon far above the dome.
At the end of the dome construction activity that day, the edges of the dome had just started cutting into the four-lane road.
Chapter 6
INTRIGUE
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE meeting, Synapo climbed more rapidly than usual to charge altitude. He kept his hook aggressively forward — something he almost never did when he was climbing to charge, and he paid no attention to Sarco, who was climbing in his wake — again something neither a Cerebron nor a Myostrian did when there was the least possibility of someone sharing the climb.
In short, he was exceedingly irritated with Sarco, and he wanted Sarco to know it. As he climbed, he radioed the local Myostrian weather station for the optimum altitude in the compensator’s zone, the corresponding stability quotient, and the forecast for the afternoon. He had some deep cogitation to do, and he wanted optimum conditions in which to do it.
First, there was the matter of internal tribal dominance. That took precedence over Sarco’s unsettling behavior — he would get to that — and the assurance he had given the aliens that he could live with a compensator efficiency of 99.2%. Sarco had not questioned his conclusion — by Nimbar, he better not have — but Synapo wasn’t all that sure in his own mind how the Cerebrons might react to it. They were much more sensitive to small disturbances in the weather than were the Myostria.
The weather was important, but in the short term, it was the possibility of one of the elite striking for tribal dominance that had him most concerned. There was a definite hierarchy throughout the Cerebron pack, but it was exceptionally rigid among the members of the elite, who currently numbered eleven. If one of them were striking and involved him now, it could seriously undermine his relations with Sarco and his negotiations with the aliens. That was his primary concern. He thought of himself more as a statesman than as a mere politician. By the time Synapo had climbed to charge altitude, he knew how to proceed.
When he leveled off on station, he radioed Neuronius, his second in command, and as he summoned him for conference, he noted with satisfaction that Sarco had taken up his customary station: fifty meters below in a fifty-percent-tighter circle. Sarco had called to him only once on the way up, and Synapo had ignored him.
Now as Neuronius approached, did Synapo note a more casual, less deferential stroking of his wings? The striker would surely be his second in command. Yet, unlikely as it might be, it could be anyone in the pack. Once, a hand of centuries ago, a young, midpack rabble-rouser had struck successfully, destroying the elite — that is, the elite structure — and generally upsetting the entire hierarchy as he brought in his own lieutenants from up and down the pack. He had proved to be one of the better administrators. And Synapo was in his egg line, twice removed.
Neuronius rolled into conference beneath him, hook properly reversed. Synapo’s hook was still set aggressively. It would stay that way the rest of the day. There would be no more meek, deferential conferences with Sarco or anyone else until these affronts and possible strikes were resolved.
Synapo got right to work on Neuronius.
“It comes to me on a zephyr that someone is trying to supplant you in the hierarchy, Neuronius.” He put it casually as though he were an unconcerned, indifferent observer.
He was looking for Neuronius’s immediate reaction, a slight tremble-twitch in the hook, a faint flicker in the redness of the eyes, an ever-so-slight fanning of the cold-junction, the uncontrollable body language that one displays before one can steel himself to the shock of the unexpected.
And there it was: a slight wave in the silhouette on the right, a bunching of the right deltoid muscle — the one that pulled up the right wing and readied it for the power downbeat. That was a typical guilt reaction. Not a reaction in response to fear, the fear that someone was trying to supplant himself, Neuronius; but instead a response to guilt concerning his own ambitious plans. That guilt could lead to fear later as Neuronius pondered what Synapo’s remarkable intuition might lead to; but at the moment it was only a symptom of guilt.
Synapo knew then the shape of things within and without his tribe. He could
scheme up suitable responses. Anticipation of the cerebral exercise involved, the challenge, filled him with keen anticipation. Nowhere was there room for fear, for anticipation that he might fail.
Neuronius was a threat he could meet head on. And Sarco was an excellent engineer and an able administrator, but not the political animal that he faced in a tussle with Neuronius.
Synapo listened keenly to Neuronius’s answer to the needling remark.
“I do not fear such a change if that Cerebron can serve you as ably as I,” Neuronius replied.
Ah, suitably servile. He was not yet ready, not quite sure of himself. That called for a less aggressive response, at least for the moment.
“We meet again with the aliens tomorrow morning,” Synapo said. “I want you and Axonius to accompany me.”
Axonius was third in the elite hierarchy, next in command after Neuronius. It was essential that Axonius witness the ineptitude of Neuronius and discredit him with the elite. Exactly how that would come about Synapo was not sure, but he did not lack confidence in his ability to carry it out in some fashion during their meeting with the aliens or later. Neuronius was not yet ready for command decisions and might never be. Synapo had merely to show that to Axonius and simultaneously educate Axonius in the difficulty of command.
Further, it would not hurt to condition Neuronius in the direction that would encourage ineptitude; that was not statesmanlike, perhaps, but certainly the political thing to do. Synapo had only to enhance what was already natural. Neuronius was by nature a haughty beast who acted as though he were infinitely superior to all those below him in the Cerebron pecking order. Synapo had only to encourage and assure him that the aliens were also to be included in that inferior category.
He made it seem as though he were asking Neuronius’s advice, confiding in him, passing confidential information to him beyond that which he had provided the Cerebrons in caucus, and by bits and pieces he led Neuronius to the conclusion that the aliens were weak and ready to capitulate and leave the planet. He was careful, however, never to say that directly but merely to imply it by innuendo.
Synapo was ready then for the next meeting with the aliens.
Chapter 7
CRISIS
“HOW DO WE stand right now, Wohler?” Ariel asked.
She and the two robots had just left the meeting with the aliens and were traveling down Main Street in the lorry, heading for the apartment. The street lights stretched ahead toward the Compass Tower like a string of illuminated pearls in the dim light of a late dusk, the permanent dusk created by the dome.
“In what respect, Miss Ariel?” Wohler asked.
“With respect to the city, Wohler. The dome will be closed day after tomorrow unless we can get through to those monsters. What are you doing about it?”
“We are moving the necessary materiel for construction of a second Compass Tower and city on the other side of the plain, five kilometers away.”
“Yes, I believe those were the very words you used earlier,” she said. How could she be irritated by a machine that, given the same stimulus, came up with the same answer? “So your grand plan is to hop allover the planet, a jump ahead of the aliens, constructing Compass Towers and cities — weather nodes — while they follow along behind neutralizing them with their domes?”
Was she still feeling guilty about Wohler-1 and taking it out on this poor machine that wouldn’t know it even if she were?
“We tried first to neutralize them and lost a pilot robot and flier,” Wohler-9 said, “and then we tried to learn more about them and lost a surgeon and laser scalpel.”
“You could have learned a lot more about them by just talking to them.”
“That has not proved to be true, Miss Ariel, and did not seem to be necessary at first since they destroyed only that one witness. They did not interfere with our endeavor once we enlarged the patrol circle to avoid construction of the dome. It did not appear they were violating our governing laws nor interfering with the Prime Directive until their construction work began to circle inward — to close the dome. Then we did begin to talk, and they succeeded in learning our language, but we learned very little except specialized terminology which you have now determined to be meteorological in nature.”
“What about the central core?” Ariel said. “You’ll surely not leave that behind.”
“No, Miss Ariel. Our control computer’s mainframe is mobile. When the blackbodies begin construction on the last day, we’ll move it out to serve the new city.”
“Which will then shortly be covered by a dome.”
“Yes. That was why we hyperwaved Robot City for help.”
“Come upstairs with us, Wohler,” Ariel said as Wohler-9 pulled to the curb in front of the apartment building.
When they walked into the apartment, both Jacob and Wohler-9 headed for wall storage niches.,
“Jacob,” Ariel said, “would you rassle up some lunch for me? See if you can get a crisp garden salad out of that thing. And then sit down at the table. I’ll freshen up and be right out.”
When she came out, the salad and a glass of milk were waiting on the table; Jacob sat across the table from where he had set her place, and Wohler-9 was standing in his niche.
She felt uncomfortable when the humaniform, Jacob, stood in a niche. Her Auroran upbringing made it seem natural for Wohler-9 to do so. That was where he was supposed to be when he wasn’t doing some task for her. And she should have felt exactly the same way about Jacob, but his appearance didn’t allow it.
“Now,” she said as she began eating, “our most pressing problem is how to carry out the objective of making this planet suitable for human life and at the same time avoid disrupting the weather. The weather does seem to be the main concern of the aliens.
“However, that’s too tough to handle during lunch. It will ruin my appetite and upset my digestion.
“Let’s talk instead about the hyperwave noise, the other way we’re apparently disturbing them. I can understand the weather problem, sort of, and even have a glimmer of what a puncture node is — hot air punching up through a cold air layer, I suppose — but I’ve got no idea what they mean by discrete and continuous modulation. What’s that all about, Jacob?”
“I’m not sure myself, Miss Ariel,” Jacob said. “I am aware of only one type of modulation of hyperwave: that which the alien called discrete. Nor had I drawn the connection of hyperwave modulation with jump technology, which permits us to travel through hyperspace. Were you aware of such a connection, Wohler?”
“No,” Wohler-9 replied, “but I was aware that teleportation using a Key to Perihelion is technologically different from jump teleportation.”
“This seems to me a minor problem involving new technology that we obviously should have been aware of,” Ariel said in true managerial style. “Get to work on it, Jacob.”
“Very well, Miss Ariel,” Jacob said. “Where would you suggest I start?”
For a moment Ariel thought that perhaps Jacob was being sarcastic, and then she realized that could not be the case. He was just a robot. Still, could the Robotics Institute have included an optional sarcastic module for the positronic brain of their humaniforms? Not likely. But it was an interesting thought that diverted her from these pesky engineering problems. They were more Derec’s forte than hers. Social problems, people problems, sarcastic positronic modules; all those. she doted on. Not pesky problems with meteorology and hyperwave.
She was quiet for awhile. Jacob at the table, and Wohler-9 in his niche, said nothing.
Then she said, “Wohler, is there a Keymo on the planet?”
“Yes,” Wohler-9 said. “Keymo, eighth generation, is in charge of Key control.”
“There’s your lead then, Jacob,” she said. It was merely a people problem — robot problem — after all. “We want to develop continuous hyperwave modulation. Synapo said there was a connection between continuous hyperwave modulation and Key teleportation. Keymo on Robot City manufactu
red the Keys. Keymo here, in charge of Key control, of all those here, should be most familiar with Key teleportation and the one most likely to fathom continuous modulation. See if the two of you can’t cobble up some equipment to implement it.”
“Very well, Miss Ariel,” Jacob replied.
“Wohler,” Ariel said, “find Jacob a comlink cartridge, plug it into him so he can find Keymo on his own, and then come back and help me. With your knowledge of the aliens, we’ve got to figure out a solution to this dome problem.”
Jacob and Wohler-9, when not conversing audibly, close at hand, had been communicating with their cumbersome, long-distance, radio frequency systems. The comlink cartridge would hook Jacob into their more sophisticated, short-range, microwave telephone network.
“Very well, Miss Welsh,” Wohler-9 said.
Ariel did not hold out much hope that Keymo and Jacob would come up with anything significant. In her experience, ordinary robots just weren’t creative. Yet there was that extraordinary exception: that brief period on Robot City when Shakespeare’s Hamlet had lived again, supported by robot actors, and the robot Lucius had created his artistic masterpiece, the dynamically chromatic edifice called Circuit Breaker.
A half-hour later Wohler-9 returned.
“Did Jacob locate Keymo?” Ariel asked.
“I believe so,” Wohler-9 said. “He had contacted Keymo over the comlink before I left.”
“Good. Does this apartment have a memory projector?”
“Yes. The niches are equipped with sockets, and that wall serves as the screen.”
“Just what we need. How many times did you meet with the alien Synapo?”
“Thirty-four.”
“How long each time?”
When Wohler-9 began reciting the list that contained the time for each meeting, Ariel interrupted him.
“On the average!” she said.
“Forty-two minutes,” Wohler said.
“I’ll not have time to go over all that before tomorrow morning. Yet I desperately need some clue as to how we may resolve this dilemma.
