by Isaac Asimov
Not that he had a choice. Undoubtedly, the Commissioner was not eager to make this easy for him. He would be annoyed at not having had him on call, free time or not.
Baley said, “This way, boy.”
The City covered over five thousand square kilometers and contained over four hundred kilometers of Expressway, plus hundreds of kilometers of Feederway, to serve its well over twenty million people. The intricate net of movement existed on, eight levels and there were hundreds, of interchanges of varying degrees of complexity.
As a plainclothesman, Baley was expected to know them all—and he did. Put him down blindfolded in any corner of the City, whip off the blindfold, and he could make his way flawlessly to any other designated portion.
There was no question then but that he knew how to get to Headquarters. There were eight reasonable routes he could follow, however, and for a moment he hesitated over—which might be least crowded at this time.
Only for a moment. Then he decided and said, “Come with me, boy.” The robot followed docilely at his heels.
They swung onto a passing Feeder and Baley seized one of the vertical poles: white, warm, and textured to give a good grip. Baley did not want to sit down; they would not be on for long. The robot had waited for Baley’s quick gesture before placing its hand upon the same pole. It might as well have remained standing without a grip—it would not have been difficult to maintain balance—but Baley wanted to take no chance of being separated. He was responsible for the robot and did not wish to risk being asked to replace the financial loss to the City should anything happen to R. Geronimo.
The Feeder had a few other people on board and the eyes of each turned curiously—and inevitably—to the robot. One by one, Baley caught those glances. Baley had the look of one used to authority and the eyes he caught turned uneasily away.
Baley gestured again as he swung, off the Feeder. It had reached the strips now and was moving at the same speed as the nearest strip so that there was no necessity for it to slow down. Baley stepped onto that nearest strip—and felt the whipping air once they were no longer protected by plastic enclosure.
He leaned into the wind with the ease of long practice, lifting one arm to break the force at, eye level. He ran the strips, downward to the intersection with the Expressway, and then began the run upward to the speed-strip that bordered the Expressway.
He heard the teenage cry of “Robot!” (He had been a teenager himself once) and knew exactly what would happen. A group of them—two or three or half a dozen—would swarm up or down the strips and somehow the robot would be tripped and would go clanging down. Then, if it ever came before a magistrate, any teenager taken into custody would claim the robot had collided with him and was a menace on the strips—and would undoubtedly be let go.
The robot could neither defend itself in the first instance, nor testify in the second.
Baley moved rapidly and was between the first of the teenagers and the robot. He sidestepped onto a faster strip, brought his arm higher, as though to adjust to the increase in wind speed, and somehow the young man was nudged off course and onto a slower strip for which he was not prepared. He called out wildly, “Hey!” as he went sprawling. The other stopped, assessed the situation quickly, and veered away.
Baley said, “Onto the Expressway, boy.”
The robot hesitated briefly. Robots were not allowed, unaccompanied, on the Expressway. Baley’s order had been a firm one, however, and it moved aboard. Baley followed, which relieved the pressure on the robot.
Baley moved brusquely through the crowd of standees, forcing R. Geronimo ahead of him, making his way up to the less crowded upper level. He held on to a pole and kept one foot firmly on the robot’s, again glaring down all eye contact.
Fifteen and a half kilometers brought him to the close-point for the Police Headquarters—and he was off. R. Geronimo came off with him. It hadn’t been touched, not a scuff. Baley delivered it at the door and accepted a receipt. He carefully checked the date, the time, and the robot’s serial number, then placed the receipt in his wallet. Before the day was over, he would check and make certain that the transaction had been computer registered.
Now he was going to see the Commissioner—and he knew the Commissioner. Any failing on Baley’s part would, be suitable cause for demotion. He was a harsh man, the Commissioner. He considered Baley’s past triumphs a personal offense.
3
The Commissioner was Wilson Roth. He had held the post for two and a half years, since Julius Enderby had resigned once the furor roused by the murder of a Spacer had subsided and the resignation could be safely offered.
Baley had never quite reconciled himself to the change. Julius, with all his shortcomings, had been a friend as well as a superior; Roth was merely a superior. He was not even Citybred. Not this City. He had been brought in from outside.
Roth was neither unusually tall nor unusually fat. His head was large, though, and seemed to be set on a neck that slanted slightly forward from his torso. It made him appear heavy, heavy-bodied and heavy-headed. He even had heavy lids, half obscuring his eyes.
Anyone would think him sleepy, but he never missed anything.
Baley had found that out very soon after Roth had taken over the office. He was under no illusion that Roth liked him. He was under less illusion that he liked Roth.
Roth did not sound petulant, he never did—but his words did not exude pleasure, either. “Baley, why is it so hard to find you?” he said.
Baley said in a carefully respectful voice, “It is my off, Commissioner.”
“Yes, your C-7 privilege. You’ve heard of a Waver, haven’t you? Something that receives official messages? You are I subject to recall, even on your off-time.”
“I know that very well, Commissioner, but there are no longer any regulations concerning the wearing of a Waver. We can be reached without one.”
“Inside the City, yes, but you were Outside—or am I mistaken?”
“You are not mistaken, Commissioner. I was Outside. The regulations do not state that, in such a case, I am to wear a Waver.”
“You hide behind the letter of the statute, do you?”
“Yes, Commissioner,” said Baley calmly.
The Commissioner rose, a powerful and vaguely threatening man, and sat on the desk. The window to the Outside, which Enderby had installed, had long been closed off and painted over. In the closed-in room (warmer and more comfortable for that), the Commissioner seemed the larger.
He said, without raising his voice, “You rely, Baley, on Earth’s gratitude, I think.”
“I rely on doing my job, Commissioner, as best I can and in accord with the regulations.”
“And on Earth’s gratitude when you bend the spirit of those regulations.” Baley said nothing to that the Commissioner said, “You are considered as having done well in the Sarton murder case three years ago.”
“Thank you, Commissioner,” said Baley. “The dismantling of Spacetown was a consequence, I believe.”
“It was—and that was something applauded by all Earth. You are also considered as having done well on Solaria two years ago and, before you remind me, the result was a revision in the terms of the trade treaties with the Spacer worlds, to the considerable advantage of Earth.”
“I believe that is on record, sir.”
“And you are very much the hero as a result.”
“I make no such claim.”
“You have received two promotions, one in the aftermath of each affair. There has even been a hyperwave drama based on the events on Solaria.”
“Which was produced without my permission and against my will, Commissioner.”
“Which nevertheless made you a kind of hero.”
Baley shrugged.
The Commissioner, having waited for a spoken comment for a few seconds, went on, “But you have done nothing of importance in nearly two years.”
“It is natural for Earth to ask what I have done for it lately.�
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“Exactly. It probably does ask. It knows that you are a leader in this new fad of venturing Outside, in fiddling with the soil, and in pretending to be a robot.”
“It is permitted.”
“Not all that is permitted is admired. It is possible that more people think of you as peculiar than as heroic.”
“That is, perhaps, in accord with my own opinion of myself,” said Baley.
“The public has a notoriously short memory. The heroic is vanishing rapidly behind the peculiar in your case, so that if you make a mistake, you will be in serious trouble. The reputation you rely on—”
“With respect, Commissioner, I do not rely on it.”
“The reputation the Police Department feels you rely on will not save you and I will not be able to save you.”
The shadow of a smile seemed to pass for one moment over Baley’s dour features. “I would not want you, Commissioner, to risk your position in a wild attempt to save me.”
The Commissioner shrugged and produced a simile precisely as shadowy and, fleeting. “You need not worry I about that.”
“Then why are you telling me all this, Commissioner?”
“To warn you. I am not trying to destroy you, you understand, so I am warning you once. You are going to be involved, in a very delicate matter, in which you may easily make a mistake, and I am warning you that you must not make one.” Here his face relaxed into an unmistakable smile.
Baley did not respond to the smile. He said, “Can you tell me what the very delicate matter is?”
“I do not know.”
“Does it involve Aurora?”
“R. Geronimo was instructed to tell you that it did, if it had to, but I know nothing about it.”
“Then how can you tell, Commissioner, that it is a very delicate matter?”
“Come, Baley, you are an investigator of mysteries. What brings a member of the Terrestrial Department of Justice to the City, when you might easily have been asked to go to Washington, as you did two years ago in connection with the Solaria incident? And what makes the person from Justice frown and seem ill-tempered and grow impatient at the fact that you were not reached instantly? Your decision to make yourself unavailable was a mistake, one that was in no way my responsibility. It is perhaps not fatal in itself, but you are off on the wrong foot, I believe.”
“You are delaying me further, however,” said Baley, frowning.
“Not really. The official from Justice is having some light refreshment—you know the perks that the Terries allow themselves. We will be joined when that is done. The news of your arrival has been transmitted, so just continue to wait, as I am doing.”
Baley waited. He had known, at the time, that the hyperwave drama, forced upon him against his will, however it might have helped Earth’s position, had ruined him in the Department. It had cast him in three-dimensional relief against, the two dimensional flatness of the organization and had made him a marked man.
He had risen to higher rank and greater privileges, but that, too, had increased Department hostility against him. And the higher he rose, the more easily he would shatter incase of a fall.
If he made a mistake.
4
The official from Justice entered, looked about casually, walked to the other side of Roth’s desk, and took the seat. As highest-classified individual, the official behaved properly. Roth calmly took a secondary seat.
Baley remained standing, laboring to keep his face un-surprised.
Roth might have warned him, but he had not. He had clearly chosen his words deliberately, in order to give no sign.
The official was a woman.
There was no reason for this not to be. Any official might be a woman. The Secretary-General might be a woman. There were women on the police force, even a woman with the rank of captain.
It was just that—without warning, one didn’t expect it in any given case. There were times in history when women entered administrative posts in considerable numbers. Baley knew that; he knew history well. But this wasn’t one of those times.
She was quite tall and sat stiffly upright in the chair. Her uniform was not very different from that of a man, nor was her hair styling or facial adornment. What gave her sex away immediately were her breasts, the prominence of which she made no attempt to hide.
She was fortyish, her facial features regular and cleanly chiseled. She had middle-aged attractively, with, as yet, no visible gray in her dark hair.
She said, “You are Plainclothesman Elijah Baley, Classification C-7.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, ma’am,” Baley answered, nevertheless.
“I am Undersecretary Lavinia Demachek. You don’t look very much as you did in that hyperwave drama concerning you.”
Baley had been told that often. “They couldn’t very well portray me as I am and collect much of an audience, ma’am,” said Baley dryly.
“I’m not sure of that. You look stronger than the baby-faced actor they used.”
Baley hesitated, a second or so and decided to take the chance—or perhaps felt he couldn’t resist taking it. Solemnly, he said, “You have a cultivated taste, ma’am.”
She laughed and Baley let out his breath very gently. She said, “I like to think I have.—Now what do you mean by keeping me waiting?”
“I was not informed you would come, ma’am, and it was off-time for me.”
“Which you spent Outside, I understand.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are one of those cranks, as I would say were my taste not a cultivated one. Let me ask, instead, if you are one of those enthusiasts.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You expect to emigrate some day and found new worlds in the wilderness of the Galaxy?”
“Perhaps not, ma’am. I may prove to be too old, but—”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-five, ma’am.”
“Well, you look it. I am forty-five also, as it happens.”
“You do not look it, ma’am.”
“Older or younger?” She broke into laughter again, then said, “But let’s not play games. Do you imply I am too old to be a pioneer—”
“No one can, be a pioneer in our society, without training Outside. The training works best with the young. My son, I hope, will someday stand on another world.”
“Indeed? You know, of course, that the Galaxy belongs to the Spacer worlds.”
“There are only fifty of them, ma’am. There are millions of worlds in the Galaxy that are habitable—or can be made habitable—and that probably do not possess indigenous intelligent life.”
“Yes, but not one ship can leave Earth without Spacer permission.”
“That might be granted, ma’am.”
“I do not share your optimism, Mr. Baley.”
“I have spoken to Spacers who—”
“I know you have,” said Demachek. “My superior is Albert Minnim, who, two years ago, sent you to Solaria.” She permitted herself a small curve of the lips.—“An actor portrayed him in a bit role on that hyperwave drama, one that resembled him closely, as I recall. He was not pleased, as I also recall.”
Baley changed the subject. “I asked Undersecretary Minnim—”
“He has been promoted, you know.”
Baley thoroughly understood the importance of grades in classification. “His new title, ma’am?”
“Vice-Secretary.”
“Thank you. I asked Vice-Secretary Minnim to request permission for me to visit Aurora to deal with this subject.”
“Eh?”
“Not very long after my return from Solaria. I have renewed the request twice since.”
“But have not received a favorable reply!”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I am disappointed, ma’am.”
“No point in that.” She leaned back a trifle in the chair. “Our relationship with the Spacer worlds is very tou
chy. You may feel that your two feats of detection have eased the situation—and so they have. That awful hyperwave drama has also helped. The total easing, however, has been this much, she placed her thumb and forefinger close, together, out of this much,” and she spread her hands far apart.
“Under those circumstances,” she went on, “we could scarcely take the risk of sending you to Aurora, the leading Spacer world, and having you perhaps do something that could create interstellar tension.”
Baley’s eyes met hers. “I have been on Solaria and have done no harm. On the contrary—”
“Yes, I know, but you were there at Spacer request, which is parsecs distant from being there at our request. You cannot fail to see that.”
Baley was silent.
She made a soft snorting sound of nonsurprise and said, “The situation has grown worse since your requests were placed with—and very correctly ignored by—the Vice-Secretary. It has grown particularly worse in the last month.”
“Is that the reason for this conference, ma’am?”
“Do you grow impatient, sir?” She addressed him, sardonically in the to-a-superior intonation. “Do you direct me to come to the point?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Certainly you do. And why not? I grow tedious. Let me approach the point by asking if you know Dr. Han Fastolfe.”
Baley said carefully, “I met him once, nearly, three years ago, in what was then Spacetown.”
“You liked him, I believe.”
“He was friendly—for a Spacer.”
She made another soft snorting sound. “I imagine so. Are you aware that he has been an important political power on Aurora over the last two years?”
“I had heard he was in the government from a—a partner I once had.”
“From R. Daneel Olivaw, your Spacer robot friend?”
“My ex-partner, ma’am.”
“On the occasion when you solved a small problem concerning two mathematicians on board a Spacer ship—”
Baley nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We keep informed, you see. Dr. Han Fastolfe has been, more or less, the guiding light of the Auroran government for two years, an important figure in their World Legislature, and he is even spoken of as a possible future Chairman.—The Chairman, you understand, is the closest thing to a chief executive that the Aurorans have.”
