Isaac Asimov's Utopia

by Roger MacBride Allen

  Beddle paused, and smiled warmly. “But that is now behind us. It is now up to each and every one of us to support this bold plan, this plan which, if all goes well, will bring us all forward into a brighter and more prosperous future. However, even as we make this bold step forward, it is important that we understand that some among us will be forced to sacrifice all they have for the sake of the greater good. Those who live and work where the comet is to strike will lose everything—unless we help.

  “The government is of course working on evacuation plans and procedures for transporting goods and equipment out of the impact zone. However, there is only so much government can do—or at least only so much that it is willing to do. For that reason, I make one final announcement. The Ironhead Party will throw its full resources behind the effort to assist those dislocated by this massive undertaking. We will take care of our neighbors, our brothers and our sisters of the Utopia region, in this, their hour of need. I myself will oversee our assistance program, and I will shortly depart the city of Hades for an inspection tour of the Utopia region. The impact of this comet on our planet represents danger at worst and dislocation at best for many people, but, at the end of the day, it represents hope—perhaps the last and best hope—for the future of our world. Let us prepare well to receive this gift from the heavens.”

  Simcor Beddle looked once more about the empty room as the sound of simulated spontaneous applause filled the air. He nodded appreciatively, and then looked straight into the camera. “Thank you all,” he said, and as the camera zoomed in on his face before fading out, he managed to look as if he meant it.

  “WELL,” SAID ALVAR Kresh, “that could have been worse.”

  “Considering it’s Simcor Beddle, I’d say you got off pretty lightly,” said Fredda. She yawned and stretched and stood up from the couch. If she stayed sitting down much longer, she was going to doze right off.

  Fredda had just arrived on Purgatory an hour or so before, and it had been a hell of a day before she had even started her trip. The after-hours news interview and the midmorning shambles at Davlo Lentrall’s place had been capped off with Oberon’s arrival. He had delivered his message from Alvar, asking Fredda to join him. She and Donald had flown to Purgatory by as fast an evasive route as Donald could manage. Even so, it had been close to dusk before they had met up with Alvar here at the governor’s Winter Residence.

  Now, here she and Donald were, with the evening closing in—and their problems closing in just as fast. Fredda looked around herself and shivered. Governor Chanto Grieg had been murdered in this house, shot to death in his bed. Of course that had happened in a completely different part of the house than the wing they were occupying, but even so, the Winter Residence was never going to be a comfortable place for Fredda.

  Or, more than likely, for her husband. Alvar had not offered much resistance when Fredda had insisted that he use some other suite of rooms for his private quarters. Maybe some future governor, in some time when the story of Grieg’s death was just a bit of history would be able to put his or her bed in the room where Grieg had died. But Alvar had found the body, and she, herself, had seen the corpse in the bed. No. They would sleep elsewhere. It was bad enough being in the same house. Those future governors could sleep where they liked. Assuming the planet survived that long.

  “We got off so lightly I almost wonder if that was Beddle,” said Alvar, still sitting back on the couch facing the view-screen. “He had every chance to tear into us, but he didn’t. I must say it’s a little disconcerting to have the man on our side.”

  “Well, he did get in one set of digs,” said Fredda. “The secrecy angle is going to hurt us. We have to announce something.”

  “What?” asked Alvar. “That we haven’t quite decided about the whole plan, and by the way, we seem to have misplaced the comet?” Alvar stopped and thought for a minute. “Hmmm. That would do Beddle a world of good. Suppose he knew we didn’t have a lock on the comet? Then he could come out all in favor of the bold government program for the comet impact project for the specific purpose of forcing us to admit that we had lost the thing, and couldn’t deliver. We’d look as bad as—as—”

  “As we do right now,” Fredda said with a sad little smile. “And there’s no way we can find that damned thing again?”

  “Let’s check again,” he said. He turned to Donald, who was standing by the comm center controls. “Donald, activate a direct audio link to Units Dum and Dee.”

  “Yes, sir.” Donald pressed a series of control studs and spoke again. “The link is open, sir.”

  “Howww may wweee be of assistance, Governorrr?” Two disembodied voices, speaking in unison, suddenly spoke out of the middle of the air.

  Fredda jumped half a meter straight up in the air. “That is the weirdest—”

  “Shhh,” said Alvar, waving for her to be quiet. “Later. Units Dum and Dee. Based on your current refined estimates of the work required once the comet is located, calculate the most likely length of time left between now and when the work must commence.”

  “Therrree are mannny vvarrriables,” the doubled voice replied. “Weee willll attemmmpt a usseful appproximaation.” There was a brief pause and then one of the two voices, the higher-pitched, feminine-sounding one, spoke by itself. “Twelve standard days, four standard hours, and fifty-two standard minutes. I should note that estimate is based on having the complete comet task force in order and on standby for immediate launch.”

  “Very good,” said Kresh. “Based on the best current data and the current search schedule, what are the odds of relocating Comet Grieg within twelve standard days?”

  “Theee oddss arrre approximatellly onnne inn elllevennn, or approximately nine percent,” the double voice replied.

  “Give us a range of representative values,” Kresh said.

  The deeper-pitched, mechanical voice spoke by itself. “In percentile terms, odds are point five percent for relocation in one day. One point two percent in three days. Four percent in six days. Six point one percent in eight days. Nine percent in twelve days. Twenty percent in fifteens—”

  “When do the odds reach, oh, ninety-five percent?”

  The feminine voice took over. “The odds improve rapidly as possibilities are rejected and the search area is reduced. At the same time, the comet is growing closer, and beginning to increase in brightness as it is heated by the sun. This also helps. The odds for relocation pass the ninety-five percent point in about twenty-six days.”

  “Too little, too late,” said Fredda.

  “Yes,” said Alvar, his tone of voice saying far more than that single word. He sighed. “Deep space all around, but I’m tired,” he said. “All right, Units Dum and Dee. That will be all.” He signaled for Donald to cut the connection.

  Fredda watched her husband as he stared straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him, a deep frown on his face. “One chance in eleven,” he said. “Is that what it comes down to? The planet has a nine percent chance, if we do everything exactly right?”

  “It could be,” Fredda said, returning to the couch and sitting next to him. “Are we doing everything, and are we doing it right?”

  Alvar Kresh rubbed his eyes. “I think so,” he said, and yawned hugely. “I can’t remember the last time I really slept.” He shook his head and blinked a time or two. “I’ve got a spaceside team working around the clock, getting the equipment together to make the intercept. We haven’t started on the actual evacuation of the Utopia region yet—and I hope to the devil that Beddle hasn’t just started a panic out there with that little speech. But we’re getting the evac plan ready to go. The area’s pretty thinly populated, and Donald tells me the people who know these things feel it would be better to take a bit more time planning, even if it means starting a bit later.”

  “One thing I can tell you your evacuation experts might not have told you,” said Fredda. “Make sure it’s a total evacuation, and that you can prove it’s total. Leave one person there—o
r even leave open the possibility that one person is out there—and you’re going to be knee-deep in overstressed Three-Law robots trying to pull off a rescue.”

  “I’m not going to worry about losing a few robots in comparison to saving the whole planet.”

  “No, of course not,” Fredda said. But she thought of Kaelor’s death a few hours before, and could not help but wonder if she would be quite as careless about thc lives of robots in the future. “But those robots could cause a great deal of trouble. Even if you can prove there’s no one left in all of Utopia, a lot of robots arc going to feel strong First Law pressure to stop the comet impact, any way they can. After all, the comet sure as hell represents danger to humans. More than likely, someone is going to die in a building collapse or an aircar caught by the shockwave, or whatever.”

  “Maybe so, but how could the robots stop it?” Kresh asked.

  “For starters, is that an all-human crew on the spaceside team? You have to assume that any robots on that job will do their best to sabotage the job. Even a low-function fetch-and-carry robot will have enough capacity to realize that an incoming comet represents danger.”

  “Burning devils,” said Kresh. “I hadn’t thought of that. I hope some. one else has, but we’ve got to damn well make sure the crews on those ships are all human. Donald, pass that order and explain—” Alvar stopped and looked at Donald. “No, wait a minute,” he said. “I can’t use you to pass the order for the same reason. Your First Law means you won’t cooperate either.”

  “On the contrary, sir. I am able to pass the message.”

  Fredda looked at Donald in surprise. “But don’t you feel any First Law conflict?” she asked.

  “A certain amount of it, Dr. Leving, but as you well know, a properly designed Three Law robot feels some First Law stress most of the time. Virtually every circumstance includes some danger, if only low-probability-danger, for a human. A human could drown swallowing a glass of water, or catch a deadly plague by shaking hands with an off-planet visitor. Such dangers are not enough to force a robot to action, but are enough to make the First Law felt. There is some potential danger here, yes, but you designed me as a police robot, and I am equipped to deal with more risk than most robots.”

  “I see,” said Kresh, keeping his voice very steady. Fredda had the very strong impression that she was going to have to ask him about all this in the very near future. “But, meaning no offense,” said Kresh, “I think it might be best if I took care of that order myself. I’ll call the spaceside planning group, banning all robots from the operation, and explaining why.”

  “No offense taken, sir. You must take into account the possibility that I am deceiving you. I can imagine a scenario where I would disobey that order, and see to it that as many robots as possible went into the spaceside operation in order to sabotage it.”

  Kresh gave Donald a quizzical look. “My imagination works a lot like yours,” he said. He turned to Fredda. “Donald’s good example to the contrary,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation where robots have done so much to make my job difficult. To make everyone’s job difficult.”

  “That’s what you get when you try and take risks, even necessary risks, around robots,” Fredda said. “I think the real story is that none of us have ever really tried to take risks before.”

  “And robots don’t like risks,” said Kresh. “They’re going to keep us all so safe they’re going to get us all killed. Sooner or later we’re going to have to—”

  “Excuse me, Governor,” said Donald. “The Residence security system has alerted me via hyperwave that an aircar is landing in the visitor’s parking area.”

  “Who the devil has found me here?” Kresh muttered.

  “It could just be some tourist who wants to get a look at the Winter Residence,” Fredda said.

  “Not with our luck,” he said, getting up. He crossed the room and sat down at the comm center. He punched in the proper commands, and brought up the view from the main entrance security cameras. There was the car, all right. And someone getting out. Kresh zoomed in on the figure, pulled in to a tight head-and-shoulders shot, and set the system to track the shot automatically. It was a man, his back to the camera as he climbed out of his armored long-range aircar. He turned around, and looked straight toward the concealed surveillance camera, as if he knew exactly where it was. He smiled and waved.

  “What the devil is he doing here?” Kresh muttered to himself.

  “Who is it?” Fredda asked, coming up to stand behind her husband.

  “Gildem,” said Kresh. “Jadelo Gildern. The Ironhead chief of security.” He frowned at the image on the screen. “He’s no tourist come to get a look at the place. He knows we’re here. I think you’d better go let him in, Donald. Bring him to the library. We’ll wait for him there.”

  “Yes sir,” said Donald.

  “What does he want?” Fredda asked. “Why is he here?”

  Kresh shut off the comm system and stood up. “From what I know of Gildern, there’s only one thing he ever wants,” he said. “What he wants is a better deal for Jadelo Gildern.”

  “GOOD EVENING, MASTER Gildern,” said the short blue robot who met him at the door. “The Governor has ordered me to escort you to him.”

  Gillian nodded curtly. Others might waste their time in courtesy to robots, but Ironheads did not. Besides, he had other things on his mind. It would be best for all concerned if this interview went very quickly indeed. There were unquestionably risks in the game he was playing, and he saw no benefit at all in making those risks greater. The blue robot. Donald 111. That was its name. Built by Leving herself, and Kresh’s personal assistant since he was sheriff. Deliberately designed to seem unthreatening. Frequently underestimated. Gildern smiled to himself. He often found it calming to remember just how much he had in his dossiers.

  The robot led them through a large central court and down a corridor leading off to the right, then stopped at the fourth of a series of identical doors. Gildern had memorized the layout of the Residence on the flight down. This was the library.

  The robot opened the door and Gildern stepped inside behind him. And there were Kresh and Leving themselves. Both here, precisely as he had guessed. Kresh seated behind a desk, Leving sitting in one of the two chair facing the desk.

  “Jadelo Gildern of the Ironheads,” the robot announced, and backed away into a robot niche.

  “Governor, Dr. Leving,” said Gildern. “Thank you so much for allowing me to arrive so—informally. I think you will find it to our mutual benefit if this visit is kept as quiet as possible.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Gildern?” the governor asked, his voice calm and imperturbable.

  Gildern walked up to the desk, made the slightest of bows to Dr. Leving, and smiled at Kresh. “I’m here to give you a present, Governor. Something you’ve wanted for quite some time.”

  “And in return?” Kresh asked, his voice and face still hard and expressionless.

  “And in return, I simply ask that you do not ask, now or in the future, how I got it. No investigation, no inquiry, no official legal proceedings or private researching.”

  “You got it illegally,” Kresh said.

  “My condition is that you do not ask such questions.”

  “Just now I made a statement,” said Kresh. “I asked no question. And I’m not accepting any conditions. I’m sworn to uphold the law, as you may recall. And I might add that it is generally unwise to request an illegal service of a government official in front of witnesses.” He nodded toward Leving and the robot in its niche.

  Gildern hesitated. It wasn’t supposed to have played this way. He had planned on being able to bully Kresh, get what he wanted. But the man had called his bluff. Gildern needed Kresh to have the material, as much as Kresh needed to have it. All of the Ironhead plans, all of Gildern’s plans, would otherwise crumble. Gildern realized that he had made a serious miscalculation. He was too used to working in a world of peop
le who could be coerced, manipulated, led, and blackmailed. He had assumed Kresh would be equally pliable. But Kresh was an ex–police chief who handled cases personally when he saw fit. What reason would he have to be cowed by Gildern? “I don’t want any questions asked,” he said again, in a tone of voice that even he found less than commanding.

  “Then I suggest you take your business elsewhere,” said Kresh. “I have had a hard enough couple of days without being threatened and blackmailed by the likes of you. Get out.”

  A flash of anger played over Gildern. He opened his mouth to protest, and then thought better of it. He could play this with his pride, his ego, and lose everything. Or he could play it with his common sense and win it all. And then, later, once he had won, won it all, he would be in a position to indulge his pride. “Very well,” he said. “No conditions.” He pulled a small blue cube out of the pocket of his blouse and set it on the table. “Take it with my compliments.”

  He bowed once more to Dr. Leving, turned and headed toward the door.

  “Wait!” Dr. Leving called out. “What is it? What’s in that datacube?”

  Gildern looked back toward her with genuine surprise. “You haven’t figured that out? I expect your husband has.”

  “It took me a minute, but I have,” said Kresh. “Lentrall told me there were two breakins at his lab. One to steal copies of his data, and the other to destroy the originals. I should have figured it out long ago. Lucky for you I didn’t.”