by Isaac Asimov
Baley shouted to the robot, “Can you get two more of the staff in here without yourself leaving? If so, do it.”
The robot said, “Yes, master.”
Two more robots entered, answering a radioed call. The three lined up abreast.
“Boys!” said Baley. “Do you see this creature whom you thought a master?”
Six ruddy eyes had turned solemnly on Daneel. They said in unison, “We see him, master.”
Baley said, “Do you also see that this so-called master is actually a robot like yourself since it is metal within? It is only designed to look like a man.”
“Yes, master.”
“You are not required to obey any order it gives you. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, master.”
“I, on the other hand,” said Baley, “am a true man.”
For a moment the robots hesitated. Baley wondered if, having had it shown to them that a thing might seem a man yet be a robot, they would accept anything in human appearance as a man, anything at all.
But then one robot said, “You are a man, master,” and Baley drew breath again.
He said, “Very well, Daneel. You may relax.”
Daneel moved into a more natural position and said calmly, “Your expressed doubt as to my identity, then, was merely a feint designed to exhibit my nature to these others, I take it.”
“So it was,” said Baley, and looked away. He thought: The thing is a machine, not a man. You can’t doublecross a machine.
And yet he couldn’t entirely repress a feeling of shame. Even as Daneel stood there, chest open, there seemed something so human about him, something capable of being betrayed.
Baley said, “Close your chest, Daneel, and listen to me. Physically, you are no match for three robots. You see that, don’t you?”
“That is clear, Partner Elijah.”
“Good! … Now you boys,” and he turned to the other robots again. “You are to tell no one, robot or master, that this creature is a robot. Never at any time, without further instructions from myself and myself alone.”
“I thank you,” interposed Daneel softly.
“However,” Baley went on, “this manlike robot is not to be allowed to interfere with my actions in any way. If it attempts any such interference, you will restrain it by force, taking care not to damage it unless absolutely necessary. Do not allow it to establish contact with humans other than myself, or with robots other than yourselves, either by seeing or by viewing. And do not leave it at any time. Keep it in this room and remain here yourselves. Your other duties are suspended until further notice. Is all this clear?”
“Yes, master,” they chorused.
Baley turned to Daneel again. “There is nothing you can do now, so don’t try to stop me.”
Daneel’s arms hung loosely at his side. He said, “I may not, through inaction, allow you to come to harm, Partner Elijah. Yet under the circumstances, nothing but inaction is possible. The logic is unassailable. I shall do nothing. I trust you will remain safe and in good health.”
There it was, thought Baley. Logic was logic and robots had nothing else. Logic told Daneel he was completely stymied. Reason might have told him that all factors are rarely predictable, that the opposition might make a mistake.
None of that. A robot is logical only, not reasonable.
Again Baley felt a twinge of shame and could not forbear an attempt at consolation. He said, “Look, Daneel, even if I were walking into danger, which I’m not” (he added that hurriedly, with a quick glance at the other robots) “it would only be my job. It is what I’m paid to do. It is as much my job to prevent harm to mankind as a whole as yours is to prevent harm to man as an individual. Do you see?”
“I do not, Partner Elijah.”
“Then that is because you’re not made to see. Take my word for it that if you were a man, you would see.”
Daneel bowed his head in acquiescence and remained standing, motionless, while Baley walked slowly toward the door of the room. The three robots parted to make room for him and kept their photoelectric eyes fixed firmly on Daneel.
Baley was walking to a kind of freedom and his heart beat rapidly in anticipation of the fact, then skipped a beat. Another robot was approaching the door from the other side.
Had something gone wrong?
“What is it, boy?” he snapped.
“A message has been forwarded to you, master, from the office of Acting Head of Security Attlebish.”
Baley took the personal capsule handed to him and it opened at once. A finely inscribed strip of paper unrolled. (He wasn’t startled. Solaria would have his fingerprints on file and the capsule would be adjusted to open at the touch of his particular convolutions.)
He read the message and his long face mirrored satisfaction. It was his official permission to arrange “seeing” interviews, subject to the wishes of the interviewees, who were nevertheless urged to give “Agents Baley and Olivaw” every possible cooperation.
Attlebish had capitulated, even to the extent of putting the Earthman’s name first. It was an excellent omen with which to begin, finally, an investigation conducted as it should be conducted.
Baley was in an air-borne vessel again, as he had been on that trip from New York to Washington. This time, however, there was a difference. The vessel was not closed in. The windows were left transparent.
It was a clear bright day and from where Baley sat the windows were so many patches of blue. Unrelieved, featureless. He tried not to huddle. He buried his head in his knees only when he could absolutely no longer help it.
The ordeal was of his own choosing. His state of triumph, his unusual sense of freedom at having beaten down first Attlebish and then Daneel, his feeling of having asserted the dignity of Earth against the Spacers, almost demanded it.
He had begun by stepping across open ground to the waiting plane with a kind of lightheaded dizziness that was almost enjoyable, and he had ordered the windows left unblanked in a kind of manic self-confidence.
I have to get used to it, he thought, and stared at the blue until his heart beat rapidly and the lump in his throat swelled beyond endurance.
He had to close his eyes and bury his head under the protective cover of his arms at shortening intervals. Slowly his confidence trickled away and even the touch of the holster of his freshly recharged blaster could not reverse the flow.
He tried to keep his mind on his plan of attack. First, learn the ways of the planet. Sketch in the background against which everything must be placed or fail to make sense.
See a sociologist!
He had asked a robot for the name of the Solarian most eminent as a sociologist. And there was that comfort about robots; they asked no questions.
The robot gave the name and vital statistics, and paused to remark that the sociologist would most probably be at lunch and would, therefore, possibly ask to delay contact.
“Lunch!” said Baley sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not noon by two hours.”
The robot said, “I am using local time, master.”
Baley stared, then understood. On Earth, with its buried Cities, day and night, waking and sleeping, were man-made periods, adjusted to suit the needs of the community and the planet. On a planet such as this one, exposed nakedly to the sun, day and night were not a matter of choice at all, but were imposed on man willy-nilly.
Baley tried to picture a world as a sphere being lit and unlit as it turned. He found it hard to do and felt scornful of the so-superior Spacers who let such an essential thing as time be dictated to them by the vagaries of planetary movements.
He said, “Contact him anyway.”
Robots were there to meet the plane when it landed and Baley, stepping out into the open again, found himself trembling badly.
He muttered to the nearest of the robots, “Let me hold your arm, boy.”
The sociologist waited for him down the length of a hall, smiling tightly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Baley.”
Baley nodded breathlessly. “Good evening, sir. Would you blank out the windows?”
The sociologist said, “They are blanked out already. I know something of the ways of Earth. Will you follow me?”
Baley managed it without robotic help, following at a considerable distance, across and through a maze of hallways. When he finally sat down in a large and elaborate room, he was glad of the opportunity to rest.
The walls of the room were set with curved, shallow alcoves. Statuary in pink and gold occupied each niche; abstract figures that pleased the eye without yielding instant meaning. A large, boxlike affair with white and dangling cylindrical objects and numerous pedals suggested a musical instrument.
Baley looked at the sociologist standing before him. The Spacer looked precisely as he had when Baley had viewed him earlier that day. He was tall and thin and his hair was pure white. His face was strikingly wedge-shaped, his nose prominent, his eyes deep-set and alive.
His name was Anselmo Quemot.
They stared at one another until Baley felt he could trust his voice to be reasonably normal. And then his first remark had nothing to do with the investigation. In fact it was nothing he had planned.
He said, “May I have a drink?”
“A drink?” The sociologist’s voice was a trifle too high-pitched to be entirely pleasant. He said, “You wish water?”
“I’d prefer something alcoholic.”
The sociologist’s look grew sharply uneasy, as though the obligations of hospitality were something with which he was unacquainted.
And that, thought Baley, was literally so. In a world where viewing was the thing, there would be no sharing of food and drink.
A robot brought him a small cup of smooth enamel. The drink was a light pink in color. Baley sniffed at it cautiously and tasted it even more cautiously. The small sip of liquid evaporated warmly in his mouth and sent a pleasant message along the length of his esophagus. His next sip was more substantial.
Quemot said, “If you wish more——”
“No, thank you, not now. It is good of you, sir, to agree to see me.”
Quemot tried a smile and failed rather markedly. “It has been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. Yes.”
He almost squirmed as he spoke.
Baley said, “I imagine you find this rather hard.”
“Quite.” Quemot turned away sharply and retreated to a chair at the opposite end of the room. He angled the chair so that it faced more away from Baley than toward him and sat down. He clasped his gloved hands and his nostrils seemed to quiver.
Baley finished his drink and felt warmth in his limbs and even the return of something of his confidence.
He said, “Exactly how does it feel to have me here, Dr. Quemot?”
The sociologist muttered, “That is an uncommonly personal question.”
“I know it is. But I think I explained when I viewed you earlier that I was engaged in a murder investigation and that I would have to ask a great many questions, some of which were bound to be personal.”
“I’ll help if I can,” said Quemot. “I hope the questions will be decent ones.” He kept looking away as he spoke. His eyes, when they struck Baley’s face, did not linger, but slipped away.
Baley said, “I don’t ask about your feelings out of curiosity only. This is essential to the investigation.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I’ve got to know as much as I can about this world. I must understand how Solarians feel about ordinary matters. Do you see that?”
Quemot did not look at Baley at all now. He said slowly, “Ten years ago, my wife died. Seeing her was never very easy, but, of course, it is something one learns to bear in time and she was not the intrusive sort. I have been assigned no new wife since I am past the age of—of”—he looked at Baley as though requesting him to supply the phrase, and when Baley did not do so, he continued in a lower voice—“siring. Without even a wife, I have grown quite unused to this phenomenon of seeing.”
“But how does it feel?” insisted Baley. “Are you in panic?” He thought of himself on the plane.
“No. Not in panic.” Quemot angled his head to catch a glimpse of Baley and almost instantly withdrew. “But I will be frank, Mr. Baley. I imagine I can smell you.”
Baley automatically leaned back in his chair, painfully self-conscious. “Smell me?”
“Quite imaginary, of course,” said Quemot. “I cannot say whether you do have an odor or how strong it is, but even if you had a strong one, my nose filters would keep it from me. Yet, imagination …” He shrugged.
“I understand.”
“It’s worse. You’ll forgive me, Mr. Baley, but in the actual presence of a human, I feel strongly as though something slimy were about to touch me. I keep shrinking away. It is most unpleasant.”
Baley rubbed his ear thoughtfully and fought to keep down annoyance. After all, it was the other’s neurotic reaction to a simple state of affairs.
He said. “If all this is so, I’m surprised you agreed to see me so readily. Surely you anticipated this unpleasantness.”
“I did. But you know, I was curious. You’re an Earthman.”
Baley thought sardonically that that should have been another argument against seeing, but he said only, “What does that matter?”
A kind of jerky enthusiasm entered Quemot’s voice. “It’s not something I can explain easily. Not even to myself, really. But I’ve worked on sociology for ten years now. Really worked. I’ve developed propositions that are quite new and startling, and yet basically true. It is one of these propositions that makes me most extraordinarily interested in Earth and Earthmen. You see, if you were to consider Solaria’s society and way of life carefully, it would become obvious to you that the said society and way of life is modeled directly and closely on that of Earth itself.”
10
A CULTURE IS TRACED
Baley could not prevent himself from crying out, “What!”
Quemot looked over his shoulder as the moments of silence passed and said finally, “Not Earth’s present culture. No.”
Baley said, “Oh.”
“But in the past, yes. Earth’s ancient history. As an Earthman, you know it, of course.”
“I’ve viewed books,” said Baley cautiously.
“Ah. Then you understand.”
Baley, who did not, said, “Let me explain exactly what I want, Dr. Quemot. I want you to tell me what you can about why Solaria is so different from the other Outer Worlds, why there are so many robots, why you behave as you do. I’m sorry if I seem to be changing the subject.”
Baley most definitely wanted to change the subject. Any discussion of a likeness or unlikeness between Solaria’s culture and Earth’s would prove too absorbing by half. He might spend the day there and come away none the wiser as far as useful information was concerned.
Quemot smiled. “You want to compare Solaria and the other Outer Worlds and not Solaria and Earth.”
“I know Earth, sir.”
“As you wish.” The Solarian coughed slightly. “Do you mind if I turn my chair completely away from you? It would be more—more comfortable.”
“As you wish, Dr. Quemot,” said Baley stiffly.
“Good.” A robot turned the chair at Quemot’s low-voiced order, and as the sociologist sat there, hidden from Baley’s eyes by the substantial chair back, his voice took on added life and even deepened and strengthened in tone.
Quemot said, “Solaria was first settled about three hundred years ago. The original settlers were Nexonians. Are you acquainted with Nexon?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It is close to Solaria, only about two parsecs away. In fact, Solaria and Nexon represented the closest pair of inhabited worlds in the Galaxy. Solaria, even when uninhabited by man, was life-bearing and eminently suited for human occupation. It represented an obvious attraction to the well-to-do of Nexon, who found it difficult to maintain a
proper standard of living as their own planet filled up.”
Baley interrupted. “Filled up? I thought Spacers practiced population control.”
“Solaria does, but the Outer Worlds in general control it rather laxly. Nexon was completing its second million of population at the time I speak of. There was sufficient crowding to make it necessary to regulate the number of robots that might be owned by a particular family. So those Nexonians who could established summer homes on Solaria, which was fertile, temperate, and without dangerous fauna.
“The settlers on Solaria could still reach Nexon without too much trouble and while on Solaria they could live as they pleased. They could use as many robots as they could afford or felt a need for. Estates could be as large as desired since, with an empty planet, room was no problem, and with unlimited robots, exploitation was no problem.
“Robots grew to be so many that they were outfitted with radio contact and that was the beginning of our famous industries. We began to develop new varieties, new attachments, new capabilities. Culture dictates invention; a phrase I believe I have invented.” Quemot chuckled.
A robot responding to some stimulus Baley could not see beyond the barrier of the chair, brought Quemot a drink similar to that Baley had had earlier. None was brought to Baley, and he decided not to ask for one.
Quemot went on, “The advantages of life on Solaria were obvious to all who watched. Solaria became fashionable. More Nexonians established homes, and Solaria became what I like to call a ‘villa planet.’ And of the settlers, more and more took to remaining on the planet all year round and carrying on their business on Nexon through proxies. Robot factories were established on Solaria. Farms and mines began to be exploited to the point where exports were possible.
“In short, Mr. Baley, it became obvious that Solaria, in the space of a century or less, would be as crowded as Nexon had been. It seemed ridiculous and wasteful to find such a new world and then lose it through lack of foresight.
“To spare you a great deal of complicated politics, I need say only that Solaria managed to establish its independence and make it stick without war. Our usefulness to other Outer Worlds as a source of specialty robots gained us friends and helped us, of course.
