by Isaac Asimov
“May I sit down, madam?”
“Yes, of course. That goes without saying, Captain. I wish you’d stop treating me as aristocracy. It becomes wearing. And if it’s an ironic indication that I’m a Spacer, then it’s worse than wearing. In fact, I’d almost rather you called me Gladia.”
“You seem to be anxious to disown your Spacer identity, Gladia,” said D.G. as he seated himself and crossed his legs.
“I would rather forget nonessential distinctions.”
“Nonessential? Not while you live five times as long as I do.”
“Oddly enough, I have been thinking of that as a rather annoying disadvantage for Spacers.—How long before we reach Aurora?”
“No evasive action this time. A few days to get far enough from our sun to be able to make a Jump through hyperspace that will take us to within a few days of Aurora and that’s it.”
“And why must you go to Aurora, D.G.?”
“I might say it was simply politeness, but in actual fact, I would like an opportunity to explain to your Chairman—or even to one of his subordinates—exactly what happened on Solaria.
“Don’t they know what happened?”
“In essentials, they do. They were kind enough to tap our communications, as we would have done theirs if the situation had been reversed. Still, they may not have drawn the proper conclusions. I would like to correct them—if that is so.”
“What are the proper conclusions, D.G.?”
“As you know, the overseers on Solaria were geared to respond to a person as human only if he or she spoke with a Solarian accent, As you did. That means that not only were Settlers not considered human, but non-Solarian Spacers were not considered human, either. To be precise, Aurorans would not be considered human beings if they had landed on Solaria.
Gladia’s eyes widened. “That’s unbelievable. The Solarians wouldn’t arrange to have the overseers treat Aurorans as they treated you.”
“Wouldn’t they? They have already destroyed an Auroran ship. Did you know that?”
“An Auroran ship! No, I didn’t know that.”
“I assure you they did. It landed about the time we did. We got away, but they didn’t. We had you, you see, and they didn’t. The conclusion is—or should be—that Aurora cannot automatically treat other Spacer worlds as—allies. In an emergency, it will be each Spacer world for itself.”
Gladia shook her head violently. “It would be unsafe to generalize from a single instance. The Solarians would have found it difficult to have the overseers react favorably to fifty accents and unfavorably to scores of others, it was easier to pin them to a single accent. That’s all. They gambled that no other Spacers would try to land on their world and they lost.”
“Yes, I’m sure that is how the Auroran leadership will argue, since people generally find it much easier to make a pleasant deduction than an unpleasant one. What I want to do is to make certain they see the possibility of the unpleasant one—and that this makes them uncomfortable indeed. Forgive my self-love, but I can’t trust anyone to do it as well as I can and therefore I think that I, rather than anyone else, should go to Aurora.”
Gladia felt uncomfortably torn. She did not want to be a Spacer; she wanted to be a human being and forget what she had just called “nonessential distinctions.” And yet when D.G. spoke with obvious satisfaction of forcing Aurora into a humiliating position, she found herself still somehow a Spacer.
She said in annoyance, “I presume the Settler worlds are at odds among themselves, too. Is it not each Settler world for itself?”
D.G. shook his head. “It may seem to you that this must be so and I wouldn’t be surprised if each individual Settler world had the impulse at times to put its own interest over the good of the whole, but we have something you Spacers lack.”
“And what is that. A greater nobility?”
“Of course not. We’re no more noble than Spacers are. What we’ve got is the Earth. It’s our world. Every Settler visits Earth as often as he can. Every Settler knows that there is a world, a large, advanced world, with an incredibly rich history and cultural variety and ecological complexity that is his or hers and to which he or she belongs. The Settler worlds might quarrel with each other, but the quarrel cannot possibly result in violence or in a permanent breach of relations, for the Earth government is automatically called in to mediate all problems and its decision is sufficient and unquestioned.
“Those are our three advantages, Gladia: the lack of robots, something that allows us to build new worlds with our own hands; the rapid succession of generations, which makes for constant change; and, most of all, the Earth, which gives us our central core.”
Gladia said urgently, “But the Spacers—” and she stopped.
D.G. smiled and said with an edge of bitterness, “Were you going to say that the Spacers are also descended from Earthpeople and that it is their planet, too? Factually true, but psychologically false. The Spacers have done their best to deny their heritage. They don’t consider themselves Earthmen once-removed—or any-number-removed. If I were a mystic, I would say that by cutting themselves away from their roots, the Spacers cannot survive long. Of course, I’m not a mystic so I don’t put it that way—but they cannot survive long, just the same. I believe that.”
Then, after a short pause, he added, with a somewhat troubled—kindness, as though he realized that in his exultation he was striking a sensitive spot within her, “But please think of yourself as a human being, Gladia, rather than as a Spacer, and I will think of myself as a human being, rather than as a Settler. Humanity will survive, whether it will be in the form of Settlers or Spacers or both. I believe it will be in the form of Settlers only, but I may be wrong.”
“No,” said Gladia, trying to be unemotional. “I think you’re right—unless somehow people learn to stop making the Spacer/Settler distinction. It is my goal—to help people do that.”
“However,” said D.G., glancing at the dim time strip that circled the wall, “I delay your dinner. May I eat with you?”
“Certainly,” said Gladia.
D.G. rose to his feet. “Then I’ll go get it. I’d send Daneel or Giskard, but I don’t ever want to get into the habit of ordering robots about. Besides, however much the crew adores you, I don’t think their adoration extends to your robots.”
Gladia did not actually enjoy the meal when D.G. brought it. She did not seem to grow accustomed to the lack of subtlety in its flavors that might be the heritage of Earth cooking of yeast for mass consumption, but then, neither was it particularly repulsive. She ate stolidly.
D.G., noting her lack of enthusiasm, said, “The food doesn’t upset you, I hope?”
She shook her head. “No. Apparently, I’m acclimated. I had some unpleasant episodes when I first got on the ship, but nothing really severe.”
“I’m glad of that, but, Gladia—”
“Yes?”
“Can you suggest no reason why the Auroran government should want you back so urgently? It can’t be your handling of the overseer and it can’t be your speech. The request was sent out well before they could have known of either.”
“In that case, D.G.,” Gladia said sadly, “they can’t possibly want me for anything. They never have.”
“But there must be something. As I told you, the message arrived in the name of the Chairman of the Council of Aurora.”
“This particular Chairman at this particular time is thought to be rather a figurehead.”
“Oh? Who stands behind him? Kelden Amadiro?”
“Exactly. You know of him, then.”
“Oh, yes,” said D.G. grimly, “the center of anti-Earth fanaticism. The man who was politically smashed by Dr. Fastolfe twenty decades ago survives to threaten us again. There’s an example of the dead hand of longevity.”
“But there’s the puzzle, too.” Gladia said. “Amadiro is a vengeful man. He knows that it was Elijah Baley who was the cause of that defeat you speak of and Amadiro belie
ves I shared responsibility. His dislike—extreme dislike—extends to me. If the Chairman wants me, that can only be because Amadiro wants me—and why should Amadiro want me? He would rather get rid of me. That’s probably why he sent me along with you to Solaria. Surely he expected your ship would be destroyed—and me along with it. And that would not have pained him at all.”
“No uncontrollable tears, eh?” said D.G. thoughtfully.
“But surely that’s not what you were told. No one said to you, ‘Go with this mad Trader because it would give us pleasure to have you killed.’”
“No. They said that you wanted my help badly and that it was politic to cooperate with the Settler worlds at the moment and that it would do Aurora a great deal of good if I would report back to them on all that occurred on Solaria once I returned.”
“Yes, they would say so. They might even have meant it to some extent. Then, when—against all their expectations—our ship got off safely while an Auroran ship was destroyed, they might well have wanted a firsthand account of what happened. Therefore, when I took you to Baleyworld instead of back to Aurora, they would scream for your return. That might possibly be it. By now, of course, they know the story, so they might no longer want you though”—he was talking to himself rather than to Gladia—“what they know is what they picked up from Baleyworld hypervision and they may not choose to accept that at face value. And yet—”
“And yet what, D.G.?”
“Somehow instinct tells me that their message could not have been sparked only by their desire to have you report. The forcefulness of the demand, it seems to me, went beyond that.”
“There’s nothing else they can want. Nothing,” said Gladia.
“I wonder,” said D.G.
47
“I wonder as well,” said Daneel from his wall niche that night.
“You wonder concerning what, friend Daneel?” asked Giskard.
“I wonder concerning the true significance of the message from Aurora demanding Lady Gladia. To me, as to the captain, a desire for a report seems a not altogether sufficient motivation.”
“Have you an alternate suggestion?”
“I have a thought, friend Giskard.”
“May I know it, friend Daneel?”
“It has occurred to me that, in demanding the return of Madam Gladia, the Auroran Council may expect to see more than they ask for—and it may not be Madam Gladia they want.”
“What is there more than Madam Gladia that they will get?”
“Friend Giskard, is it conceivable that Lady Gladia will return without you and me?”
“No, but of what use to the Auroran Council would you and I be?”
“I, friend Giskard, would be of no use to them. You, however, are unique, for you can sense minds directly.”
“That is true, friend Daneel, but they do not know this.”
“Since our leaving, is it not possible that they have somehow discovered the fact and have come to regret bitterly having allowed you to leave Aurora?”
Giskard did not hesitate perceptibly. “No, it is not possible, friend Daneel. How would they have found out?”
Daneel said carefully, “I have reasoned in this fashion. You have, on your long-ago visit to Earth with Dr. Fastolfe, managed to adjust a few Earth robots so as to allow them a very limited mental capacity, merely enough to enable them to continue your work of influencing officials on Earth to look with courage and favor on the process of Settlement. So, at least, you once told me. There are, therefore, robots on Earth that are capable of mind adjusting.
“Then, too, as we have come recently to suspect, the Robotics Institute of Aurora has sent humanoid robots to Earth. We do not know their precise purpose in doing so, but the least that can be expected of such robots is that they observe events there on Earth and report on them.”
“Even if the Auroran robots cannot sense minds, they can send back reports to the effect that this or that official has suddenly changed his attitude toward Settlement and, perhaps, in the time since we have left Aurora, it has dawned on someone in power in Aurora—on Dr. Amadiro himself perhaps—that this can only be explained by the existence of mind-adjusting robots on Earth. It may be, then, that the establishment of mind-adjusting can be traced back to either Dr. Fastolfe or yourself.
“This might, in turn, make clear to Auroran officials the meaning of certain other events, which might be traced back to you rather than to Dr. Fastolfe. As a result, they would want you back desperately, yet not be able to ask for you directly, for that would give away the fact of their new knowledge. So they ask for Lady Gladia—a natural request knowing that if she is brought back, you will be, too.”
Giskard was silent for a full minute, then he said, “It is interestingly reasoned, friend Daneel, but it does not hold together. Those robots whom I designed for the task of encouraging Settlement completed their job more than eighteen decades ago and have been inactive since, at least as far as mind-adjustment is concerned. What’s more, the Earth removed robots from their Cities and confined them to the unpopulated non-City areas quite a considerable time ago.
“This means that the humanoid robots who were, we speculate, sent to Earth, would, even so, not have had occasion to meet my mind-adjusting robots or be aware of any mind-adjustment either, considering that the robots are no longer engaged in that. It is impossible, therefore, for my special ability to have been uncovered in the manner you suggest.”
Daneel said, “Is there no other way of discovery, friend Giskard?”
“None,” said Giskard firmly.
“And yet—I wonder,” said Daneel.
PART IV.
AURORA
11. THE OLD LEADER
48
Kelden Amadiro was not immune from the human plague of memory. He was, in fact, more subject to it than most. In his case, moreover, the tenacity of memory had, as its accompaniment, a content unusual for the intensity of its deep and prolonged rage and frustration.
All had been going so well for him twenty decades before. He was the founding head of the Robotics Institute (he was still the founding head) and for one flashing and triumphant moment it had seemed to him that he could not fail to achieve total control of the Council, smashing his great enemy, Han Fastolfe, and leaving him in helpless opposition.
If he had—if he only had—
(How he tried not to think of it and, how his memory presented him with it, over and over again, as though it could never get enough of grief and despair.)
If he had won out, Earth would have remained isolated and alone and he would have seen to it that Earth declined, decayed, and finally faded into dissolution. Why not? The short-lived people of a diseased, overcrowded world were better off dead—a hundred times better off dead than living the life they had forced themselves to lead.
And the Spacer worlds, calm and secure, would then have expanded further, Fastolfe had always complained that the Spacers were too long-lived and too comfortable on their robotic cushions to be pioneers, but Amadiro would have proved him wrong.
Yet Fastolfe had won out. At the moment of certain defeat, he had somehow, unbelievably, incredibly, reached into empty space, so to speak, and found victory in his grasp—plucked from nowhere.
It was that Earthman, of course, Elijah Baley—
But Amadiro’s otherwise uncomfortable memory always balked at the Earthman and turned away. He could not picture that face, hear that voice, remember that deed. The name was enough. Twenty centuries had not sufficed to dim the hatred he felt in the slightest—or to soften the pain he felt by an iota.
And with Fastolfe in charge of policy, the miserable Earthmen had fled their corrupting planet and established themselves on world after world. The whirlwind of Earth’s progress dazed the Spacer worlds and forced them into frozen paralysis.
How many times had Amadiro addressed the Council and pointed out that the Galaxy was slipping from Spacer fingers, that Aurora was watching blankly while world after world
was being occupied by submen, that each year apathy was taking firmer hold of the Spacer spirit?
“Rouse yourself,” he had called out. “Rouse yourself. See their numbers grow. See the Settler worlds multiply. What is it you wait for? To have them at your throats?”
And always Fastolfe would answer in that soothing lullaby of a voice of his and the Aurorans and the other Spacers (always following Aurora’s lead, when Aurora chose not to lead) would settle back and return to their slumber.
The obvious did not seem to touch them. The facts, the figures, the indisputable worsening of affairs from decade to decade left them unmoved. How was it possible to shout the truth at them so steadily, to have every prediction he made come to pass, and yet to have to watch a steady majority following Fastolfe like sheep?
How was it possible that Fastolfe himself could watch everything he said prove to be sheer folly and yet never swerve from his policies? It was not even that he stubbornly insisted on being wrong, it was that he simply never seemed to notice he was wrong.
If Amadiro were the kind of man who doted on fantasy, he would surely imagine that some kind of spell, some kind of apathetic enchantment, had fallen upon the Spacer worlds. He would imagine that somewhere someone possessed the magic power of lulling otherwise active brains and blinding to the truth otherwise sharp eyes.
To add the final exquisite agony, people pitied Fastolfe for having died in frustration. In frustration, they said, because the Spacers would not seize new worlds of their own.
It was Fastolfe’s own policies that kept them from doing so! What right had he to feel frustration over that? What would he do if he had, like Amadiro, always seen and spoken the truth and been unable to force the Spacers enough Spacers—to listen to him.
How many times had he thought that it would be better for the Galaxy to be empty than under the domination of the submen? Had he had some magic power to destroy the Earth—Elijah Baley’s world—with a nod of his head, how eagerly he would.
