by Isaac Asimov
IT WAS A very long way back to the lift. How fast had the porter gone when carrying him to the excavation? Forty kilometers per hour? Then the shaft lay ten kilometers away. Sixty? Then a fifteen-kilometer hike awaited him, at a thousand strides, a thousand arm-swings to a kilometer. Even in a gravity field this weak, that was asking a lot from his body.
He did not turn back only because he was sure that the Supervisors, as he had begun to think of the humanoid robots, knew where he was and how much oxygen he had. At some point the two changing variables would intersect at a value which said that he was in danger, and they would send a porter to fetch him and whisk him back to the E-cell.
Each time he saw a robot coming toward him, or heard one closing on him from behind, he began to anticipate relief for his weary arms and legs. But each time, the robot sped past without even slowing. He considered trying to stop a porter by blocking the tunnel, but the only porters that came by were burdened with a full load of chemical tanks or machine parts. There was no room for him.
Because there was no choice, Derec pressed on. For a time he tried counting the yellow ceiling lamps to prove to himself that he was making progress, but his mind wandered and he lost count. There was a terrible sameness to the tunnel, with its unrelieved stretches of white. It seemed as though he were caught in limbo, trapped on a subterranean treadmill.
As it turned out, he was not wrong in thinking that the Supervisors were aware of him. But he was quite wrong about the form their help would take.
He had sat down to rest, his back against the west wall, when a picker came racing up and stopped half a meter away. From its cargo basket it plucked a pair of fresh cartridge packs, laying them at his feet. Before he could react, it backed up, pivoted, and raced away. The timing was so perfect that the pack Derec was using began to sound its depletion alarm just as the picker vanished from sight in the distance.
“Consistent,” he said crossly, addressing the absent Supervisors as he swapped the depleted packs for the new ones. “You’ve done as little as possible to help me right from the start. And this really is the very least you could do.”
Hours later, he reached the E-cell with barely enough energy to fold down one of the bunks before he collapsed in it. He was asleep in minutes, his body claiming its rest. But his troubles pursued him even in his dreams, which were full of silent blue robots moving through dark places ripe with the cold scent of danger.
When he awoke, Derec began to think about escaping. For it was clear now that the most likely message for the Supervisor to have sent was something on the order of, “We have an intruder. What shall we do with him?” And Derec did not like most of the possible answers to that question.
He did not think the Supervisor robots, independent as they might be, were capable of killing him. The First Law was too deeply rooted in the basic structure of a positronic brain. To remove it or tamper with it was to guarantee trouble, up to and including complete intellectual disintegration.
But the recipient of the message was probably human, and therefore quite capable of using violence in service of his or her self-interest. They would want to know how he had discovered the installation, and what he had wanted there, and he would have nothing to tell them.
Perhaps they would accept that at face value, and help him return to wherever he had come from. But considering the circumstances, the stronger possibility was that they would insist on answers. Derec sensed that it would take a long time to convince them he had none. Even so, afterward they would want to make sure that he could never tell anyone what he had stumbled on.
No, he did not want to wait around for the Supervisors’ masters to arrive. The key to escaping was Darla. The pod’s thrusters were almost certainly rated for a much stronger gravity field than the one the asteroid boasted. If so, then there should be more than enough fuel remaining to lift off the asteroid again and put some distance between it and himself — if only he could convince Darla of the wisdom of that act.
But first, he had to find her. Measuring from memory, Derec suspected that the pod was too large to have been brought down the lift. The robots must have removed him from the pod somewhere on the surface — inside an entry dome, perhaps — and left the pod behind.
So he began by riding the lift in search of the place where he had been brought into the asteroid. It turned out to be called Level Zero. At the top of the lift shaft a disclike pressure door scissored out of the way to allow the platform to pass, and the lift carried Derec up into a high-ceilinged circular room a hundred meters across.
Most of the chamber was filled with neatly aligned rows of machines — buglike augers and borers, tracked carriers, and flying globes like the one Derec had seen when the robots were carrying him and his pod away. On the far side of the room, a steep ramp enclosed by a transparent material led up and out onto the surface.
There was a Supervisor there as well, seated at a control station with its back to Derec. Though it gave no such sign, Derec was sure the robot was aware of his presence.
Stepping off the lift, Derec began to wander among the idle machines. This must be some of the equipment that was used to survey the outer crust of the asteroid, he thought. The flying globes were probably scanning platforms, while the other machines could be used to dig up any promising sites.
It seemed just as obvious to Derec that the surface survey was complete. It was not only the appearance of the machines that led to that conclusion. Searching the surface first made sense. Why even begin the underground excavation before you were sure that the object of your search wouldn’t be turned up by a much faster and far less complicated aerial survey?
But Derec was less interested in sorting out the remaining mysteries about this world than he was in finding Darla and saying good-bye to it. A quick catalog of the chamber turned up no sign of the pod or of his safesuit. But he did find a rack with three pearl-white augmented worksuits. They were too large for use in the lower levels or to allow him to climb into the pod if he found it, but he could still use one for an excursion to the surface.
Moving behind the nearest suit, Derec grabbed the crossbar and vaulted himself feet first through the access door on the back. As he settled in the saddlelike seat, he felt the feedback pads snugging up against his feet. He inserted his arms into the suit’s arms, and the controllers for the external manipulator came into his hands. A sloping display screen reflected the status of the suit’s systems on the bubblelike canopy before him.
“Close and pressurize,” he said, and the access door began to swing shut. He tried raising his arms, and the suit stirred in smooth response. At last, a little power, he thought.
But when he turned to head for the ramp, he found a Supervisor barring his way. “The surface is a restricted area,” the robot said.
Derec heard the words through a speaker at his ear and halted his advance. Probably the augmented suit was more than a match for a Supervisor, or would be in the hands of a skilled operator. But Derec did not want a fight. He only wanted answers.
“Tell me where I can find the survival pod I came here in,” Derec said.
“You do not have authorization to leave the community.”
“That’s where it is, isn’t it? On the surface. That’s where you hid it. What did you do, put my suit back in it after you took it off me?” Derec demanded. “I’m going out. If you don’t want to be damaged you’d better get out of the way.”
The robot did not move. “The survival pod is not on the surface,” it said.
Considering the way the Supervisors had been treating him, that was a generous answer. But Derec wanted more. “Either I go looking on the surface, or you show me where the pod is. Those are the only choices.”
There was a brief pause before the robot responded. When the answer came, it was a welcome surprise. “I will show you the pod.”
“Are we going outside, or down below?”
“Down.”
Derec still wanted to go to the surface. He had hopes of being
able to use the stars and sky to determine at least in general terms where the planetoid was located — what kind of star it was orbiting, and whether the planetoid was independent or part of a planetary system. But until he found the pod, none of that mattered, so Derec could afford to be a gracious victor.
“Thank you,” he said. “If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll put this suit back.”
But Derec did not get to enjoy his victory for long. The Supervisor took him back down to the warehouse level and led him through the maze toward the east wall. As they swung around the molding section and its high rack supply cache, the robot stopped short.
“Here.”
But Derec could see no pod. All he could see was a large open area with rows of assorted components neatly arrayed on the floor. “Where?”
With a sweeping motion of his arm, the Supervisor repeated, “Here.”
That was when Derec took a closer look at the hardware laid out before him and realized the truth. The pod was there, just as the Supervisor said. But it was in a thousand pieces, lying on the floor like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The robots had disassembled it down to fundamental components. Derec could recognize but a few — curved plates that had been part of the hull, several thruster bells, and, a few meters from where Derec stood, the lenses from the seven green lamps on the command console.
“No,” he cried out despairingly. “Why did you do it?”
“It was necessary to determine that the search objective was not concealed within the pod.”
“And my safesuit? Did they tear that apart, too?”
In answer, the Supervisor led Derec into the maze and showed him his suit, lying in several dozen pieces. The fabric had been separated from the binding rings, the environmental systems stripped out of the chest unit. Even the helmet had been disassembled.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t tear me apart, too,” he said bitterly as he looked at it.
“Please explain the reason for your surprise,” the robot said. “It is impossible for a robot to harm a human. Have you not been informed of this fact?”
“Nevermind,” Derec said with a sigh. “I was being sarcastic.”
“Sir?”
“Humans don’t always mean what they say. Haven’t you been informed of that fact?” After a moment, he added, “But you did search me, didn’t you?”
“Yes. While you were unconscious, you were subjected to a full-body magnetic resonance scan,” the robot replied.
Derec almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “It figures,” he said. “I suppose having you put the suit and pod back together is out of the question.”
“Nothing may take priority over the primary directive.”
“What about all those spare robots sitting up north doing nothing? You could activate a few of them.”
“The tasks would require not only Assemblers but the supervision of a Systemist. All Systemists are fully scheduled under the current duty cycle.”
“I guess that means no,” Derec said. He looked across the expanse of parts that once was a spacecraft and sighed. “Do you have a name of some kind?”
“I am Monitor 5.”
“Why are you talking to me, Monitor 5?”
“I perceived that you were stressed. While stressed, humans frequently derive benefit from communication.”
Derec snorted. “I guess that’s one way to say it. Then tell me, Monitor 5 — do you robots know what you’re looking for?”
“I may not reveal any information about my mission here.”
“What about me? Are you allowed to tell me what you know about me?”
“What do you wish to know?”
“The event recorder in the survival pod — did they find it?”
“I was not part of that work unit. I will consult Analyst 3.” The robot paused. “Yes. A data recorder was located.”
“Did it tell you what ship I came from? How I got here? Anything?”
“The recorder had not been initialized. The recording disk was blank.”
Stunned, Derec looked down and away to hide his expression from the robot. His gaze fell on the pile of fabric from his suit, and he knelt down and began to sift through it. “There was a datastrip on my suit —”
“Yes. It was a test strip. It contained no personal data.”
Letting the fabric fall from his hands back to the floor, Derec slowly stood. “A test strip?”
“They are quite common. They are used in calibrating a data reader’s scanner.”
“But it said Derec —”
“Yes. The leading manufacturer of such readers is Derec Data Systems.”
Derec felt the strength go out of his legs. “Then you don’t know who I am, either.”
“No. We do not know who you are.”
“And that message you sent about me? What did it say?”
“I did not send the message. One moment while I consult Analyst 17.” The robot paused. “Analyst 17 believed that due to your irrational behavior, you would come to harm or endanger the primary objective unless continually supervised. Therefore he sent a message requesting that you be rescued.”
“He made that decision on his own?”
“Analyst 17 felt that the threat was of sufficient magnitude to transcend the prohibition regarding communications.”
“Prohibition from who? Who’s in charge here? And who’d he send the message to?”
“I may not —”
“— reveal any information about your mission here, yes.” Grimacing, Derec closed his eyes and tried to shut out the world.
“Are you ill?” Monitor 5 asked, concerned.
“No,” Derec said in an unsteady voice. “I’m just back to square one again, that’s all.”
Chapter 5
REPLY
DISPIRITED, DEREC RETREATED to the E-cell, his illusion of being even partially in control of his own fate destroyed. There was no chance of his reconstructing the pod himself. He might leave the community using one of the augmented worksuits, but there was no way he could leave the asteroid. It seemed that all he could do was stay out of the robots’ way and wait for whoever Analyst 17 had signalled to respond.
As though the robots had decided that he needed something to keep him occupied and safely out of their way, Derec found the wardroom com center unlocked and displaying the word “READY.” When Derec touched the “Help” key, a short menu popped up on the screen. It offered him a choice between something called Scratchpad and a library index.
Scratchpad proved to be a cross between a notebook and an engineer’s sketch pad. He amused himself for a while with its graphics capabilities by drawing a map of the part of the complex he knew firsthand. The system made it easy for him, converting his unsteady movements with the tracer into straight lines, copying duplicate sections, performing fills and rotations.
When drawing deteriorated into doodling, Derec shifted mental gears and decided to make a diary of what had happened since he had awoken in the pod. But his first entry was self-conscious and self-indulgent, and he ended his log with a short sarcastic note:
Dear Mom,
I got no friends here. Can I come home?
Embarrassed by his own self-pity, Derec purged the Scratchpad memory and pushed his chair away from the terminal. But the terrible feeling of separateness which underlay the thought was not so easily banished. Without family, friends, an ally of any sort, Derec’s little world was a lonely place.
The book-film library was Derec’s last defense against maudlin thoughts. Scanning the directory, he was struck by the unusual mix of entries. There was a whole subdirectory of texts from Earth’s Classical Age, including a few whose authors or titles Derec was intrigued to discover he recognized: Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura, Newton’s Principia, Darwin’s The Origin of Species.
Another large subdirectory consisted of architectural drawings and photographs. Again, a few names struck chords in Derec’s memory — Mies van der Rohe, Buckminster Fuller, Frank Lloyd Wright. But
when he asked the system to sample those files at one image every few seconds, he found the images were of places that he could not remember ever being and structures he could not remember seeing. It left him wondering why he knew the names in the first place.
Conspicuously absent was any sort of current technical reference on such topics as microelectronics, robotics, process design, and the like. Derec assumed that they were in a separate technical library not available to him.
But there were other sections which under other circumstances would probably have appealed to him — a biography of robotics pioneer Susan Calvin; Genesis, Marvin Eller’s anecdotal history of twentieth-century computer science; a screenful of titles on astronomy and astrography.
But Derec was not interested in being educated, or in anything that required thinking. He wanted to be a spectator to someone else’s problems, to disengage his mind and surrender himself to the spell of the storyteller.
Yet when he turned to the fiction subdirectory, he found the pickings sparse. Aside from a few interactive mysteries and a half-dozen text novels, all of which would require too much work on his part, Derec’s choice was limited to the world of theater. Faust, Waiting for Godot, Daedalus and Icarus, Sweeney Todd — the titles meant nothing to Derec. But Shakespeare he knew, and Shakespeare was well represented on the list.
Feeling a need for laughter, Derec chose the comedy A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Then he retreated to a comfortable chair, propped his feet up on the conference table, and let the recording carry him away to ancient Greece, to a woods near the city of Athens, where he might amuse himself with the love-crossed confusion of human and fairy kings, and the pranks of the devilish sprite Puck.
“Up and down, up and down,” Puck vowed. “I will lead them up and down. I am feared in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down —”
In the middle of Puck’s declamation, Derec heard the unmistakable sound of the inner door of the airlock opening. He came to his feet as a Supervisor entered the wardroom and crossed toward the com center.
