Asimov’s Future History Volume 9

by Isaac Asimov

  Derec glanced at the DW-12. “Why would they want a robot?”

  “Not a robot–that robot. They know exactly where it came from and what it is.”

  “Thales, those leaks–”

  “It is possible they were TBI monitors,” Thales said. “I did not trace them for the reasons we discussed.”

  Derec studied the group. “Palen looks upset.”

  “I would be, too. Evidently her authority is being challenged. I suspect she’ll lose, but she may be able to delay any immediate action.”

  “It may be a moot point, anyway.” He leaned over the console. “Thales, complete the excavation, copy all material to Ariel’s office, then start tracing those monitors. Be careful not to reveal your presence as more than a security trace.”

  “Yes, Derec.”

  Derec smoothed his shirt and ran a hand through his hair. Hofton watched him speculatively.

  “Shall we?” Derec gestured toward the confrontation. “Your lead, sir.”

  Derec approached, Hofton a pace behind. Polifos noticed him first and tapped Ambassador Leri’s arm. The discussion died immediately with everyone looking at Derec.

  “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing, “Derec said. “TBI?”

  One agent nodded slowly. “You are...?”

  “Derec Avery. I gather you’ve come about the matter of the robot?”

  Palen glared at him, outraged. The TBI agents frowned uncertainly.

  “You have in your possession–” the first agent began.

  “Pardon me,” Derec interrupted, “you are...?”

  “Agent Harwol.”

  “Pleased to meet you. And these others?”

  Harwol waved a hand in the direction of his male partner, then each of the women. “Um... Agent Gent, Agent Jallimolan, Agent Cranert...”

  “Pleased.” Derec gestured toward Hofton. “This is Liaison Officer Hofton of the Auroran Embassy, D. C.”

  Awkward nods passed around the group. Derec noticed that Polifos looked baffled, but Leri was suppressing a smile.

  “Now,” Derec continued, “I’m the positronic specialist in charge of examining that robot. I have authority from Ambassador Sen Setaris to do so. It’s my understanding that diplomatic considerations require that you have a proper warrant, countersigned by Ambassador Setaris, before I can turn any of our property over to you.”

  Agent Harwol made a chopping motion with his hand. “Not in matters concerning the death of TBI or other Terran police personnel. We have an overriding interest in that robot, which we’ll be happy to take up at a later date in court with Ambassador Setaris. But right now we insist that you turn over the robot in question.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Agent Harwol frowned.

  “What do you intend to do with it, Agent Harwol? It’s a collapsed positronic robot. Basically, so much scrap as it is. What do you propose to do with it?”

  “That’s not germane to this situation–”

  “But it might be. You see, if you intend to turn it over to your own specialists for examination, then we may be able to save you time.”

  Harwol exchanged looks with his fellow agents.

  “What do you propose?” he asked.

  “We’re already doing the only examination that might produce results. I’m sure that sharing our data with you wouldn’t be out of the question. Ambassador Leri?”

  “Well, under the circumstances, it would be unusual,” Leri replied. “I’d have to vett it through Ambassador Setaris, of course, but I don’t see a significant problem. Cooperation with Terran authority is always preferable to confrontation.”

  Chief Palen no longer seemed angry, but Derec felt uneasy under her gaze.

  “We’ll have to post an agent with the robot,” Harwol said.

  “That’s out of the question–” Polifos began.

  Leri jabbed his elbow into Polifos’s ribs. “In company with one of our own security officers,” he said, “I don’t see a problem with that.”

  Harwol looked miserable. Derec guessed that his orders had been vague but succinct. He was ill-prepared to negotiate, and he knew his presence in Auroran embassy precincts was questionable at best.

  “We require full disclosure,” he said.

  “We would probably require your help in any case,” Hofton said. “I am curious, though. You said in the case of a death of a Terran agent. What Terran agent?”

  Harwol clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head.

  Derec stared at him. “You had agents in that group of baleys.”

  Harwol met his stare stoically. Finally, though, he nodded.

  “Shit,” Palen hissed.

  “Well,” Hofton said, “that changes a few things.”

  Derec stepped up to Palen. “Maybe you should show us the crime scene now. I think it’s time we all see for ourselves.”

  Derec gazed up at the cargo bin. Till now, he had only seen it on a screen. Small and manipulable on his desktop, it lacked any impact. Here, though, it disturbed him. It was both larger and smaller than he had expected.

  People were going to travel to another star system in this...?

  Lights shone within the container. Folding tables held portable datums, but no one paid any attention to them. Derec looked at the office where Palen and Harwol talked with Leri and Hofton. Derec feared a jurisdictional fight, the worst kind of battle. Hofton, at least, was capable of steering the situation past that–if he was allowed to.

  Derec wandered to the row of datums, keeping watch out of the comer of his eyes for any move from the armed officers spaced around the bay to stop him. He occupied a fuzzy zone in the hierarchy, so the odds were even that he could do nearly anything he wanted.

  Most of the screens showed blank. Two contained schematics of the interior of the bin. A third showed a chemical analysis of some kind. To Derec, it looked like a crystalline structure, but he could not identify it. He stepped closer to one of the schematics.

  Cages supported acceleration couches arrayed around the inside surface of the bin. A very simple design, easily modified, completely modular. The rebreather unit sat bolted to what was now the floor but in freefall would be just another bulkhead.

  Fifty-three couches.

  How many bodies?

  Fifty-two. Logically, the empty couch would have held the murderer.

  Who got out how, exactly? Derec wondered.

  The only evidence of escape was the crack in the hull in which Nyom Looms’ body had caught. But that hole was far too small for anyone to slip through.

  So that meant the killer did everything before lift-off and remained on Earth.

  That did not follow, either. What would have prevented the robot from opening the hatch and saving the baleys by just admitting fresh air? No, the only time the poison would have been effective–and the robot ineffective–would have been in freefall, in vacuum.

  Therefore, the killer was in the container and committed the murders en route to Kopernik.

  The crack let out the atmosphere, forcing the baleys to stay on the rebreather, which eventually poisoned them. The robot had attempted to intervene–hence the blood and material in its hands–and failed. It would have been forced to do what? Whatever it could. It was found trying to shut off the rebreather.

  Which would have meant suffocation for the baleys.

  Either way, they would be dead.

  So one of the bodies removed from the bin had to be the killer. Easy enough to check, just find one with tom clothes.

  But how could the DW-12 attack a human?

  And what about that empty couch? Derec assumed they would have known how many passengers, so what good would one extra couch be unless it was for someone who intended to get out before discovery?

  Or for someone who never showed...

  He crossed the bay to the cargo bin. No one stopped him as he entered.

  Lights brightly illuminated the inside. He climbed up the scaffolding that supported the c
ouches to the crack in the ceiling. The metal showed a clear curve where something had gouged it from the interior and pushed it out. Derec ran his hand over the surface and found a number of indentations on either side. A hand?

  “Sir.”

  Derec looked at the entrance. A uniform stood there, sidearm out.

  “I have to ask you to leave,” she said. “You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

  “Really?” Derec climbed down. “Why is that?”

  “This is a crime scene, sir.”

  He stepped past her. “It is, indeed. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  Derec entered the office–and walked straight into a full-blown argument between Palen and Harwol.

  Harwol was fuming. “–what in hell you thought you were doing, but you overstepped you authority by a considerable margin!”

  “This is my station, Harwol,” Palen shot back. “It is my margin!”

  “Excuse me,” Derec said.

  Everyone looked at him. Palen and Harwol both were breathing hard.

  “I was wondering, “Derec continued, “if anyone had bothered to count the bodies.”

  “Of course we did, Avery,” Palen snapped. “We counted them as we carried them out.”

  “Yes, but have you counted them since?”

  Palen frowned at him, mouth open.

  “I didn’t think so,” Derec said. “Maybe we should.”

  Nineteen

  COREN ALMOST REACHED for her, to pull her into Wenithal’s apartment. Jeta Fromm tensed, looked left and right, then, with a harsh sigh of frustration, stepped forward.

  “Shut the damn door, gato,” she muttered.

  She stopped halfway between Coren and Wenithal, who still held his pistol in her direction. Coren closed the door, the soft snik bringing her around to face him again. Her long, almost gaunt face showed anger and fear. She blinked nervously. Coren glanced at Wenithal, who now looked away, hands clasped in his lap.

  “You’ve wrecked my life,” Jeta said suddenly. “That’s going to cost a bit more than my usual fee.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Coren asked. “I tried to find you right after–”

  “Right after you gave me away to the sanitaries? What happened, did they offer you more credits than your wildest imagination? Or did you just decide to piss on some warren rat for fun and see how long it took her to die?”

  “The ‘sanitaries’?” Ariel asked.

  Jeta glared over her shoulder. “Who are you?”

  Coren cleared his throat loudly. “Sanitaries are enforcers. They clean up things. Sanitation workers.”

  Ariel made a silent “Oh” and nodded. “How clever,” she said. “I’m Ambassador Ariel Burgess from the Auroran Embassy. Pleased to meet you, Ms....?”

  “This is Jeta Fromm,” Coren announced. “The freelance data troll who found Nyom for me... then vanished before I could thank her for doing basically what she’s accusing me of.”

  “Me?” Jeta shouted. “You vatdrip! Someone’s tried to kill me twice since I talked to you, once right after you left with the data I got you. Second time was at the Lyzig tube station, morning after I took off.”

  “Did Cobbel and Renz tell you I was looking for you?”

  Jeta frowned uncertainly, just for a moment, then looked away. “I was looking for you myself.”

  Coren caught Ariel’s eye and gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Who did you tell about the baleys?” he asked.

  “You,” Jeta said.

  “Who else?” Coren took two quick steps toward her. She backed up only one. “They were all murdered, Jeta! Fifty-two dead baleys! Someone knew they’d been found, and killed any possible witnesses! If I’m the only one you told, then how did they know?”

  “I’m asking you the same question! How did they find me?”

  “I don’t know who ‘they’ are. And if I’m one of them, why would I have to ask ‘them’? You’re not making sense.”

  Jeta glanced from Ariel to Wenithal, then back to Coren. “I didn’t tell anybody.”

  “Then you were traced.”

  She scowled. “I’m better than that, there’s no way–”

  “My system was compromised, and I can afford a hell of a lot better protection than you can.”

  Jeta shook her head. “Don’t brag on it, gato–that’s how I found you.”

  It took Coren several moments to understand her meaning. “You broke into my system?”

  She nodded. “It was hard, you’ve got a good one, but...”

  Coren looked at Ariel. “But–”

  “Someone piggybacked in with you,” Ariel said. “Your system’s still compromised.”

  “Who are they, Jeta?” Coren asked. “Who’s trying to kill you?”

  “Ask them, gato, I got my own problems!”

  “I’d love to, but it could be fatal. Who are they?”

  Jeta swallowed loudly. “All I know is, I handed over the data to you and went back to my hole! Two of ’em were waiting for me before I got there!” She looked at him narrowly. “I thought you’d had them standing by for after you got what you wanted.”

  Coren shook his head. “Then why follow me? If I set you up, this is the surest way to get yourself killed.”

  “I said that’s what I thought. I thought it then, not now.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I checked you out. It’s not too often you find an honest cop.”

  “Then–”

  “Good cops go bad.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” He looked at Wenithal, who seemed to be pointedly ignoring them, drinking his coffee. “If I went bad–”

  “I didn’t know where else to go! All right? I don’t trust any of my usual contacts! I thought I could make an arrangement with you.”

  “If I were still a good cop, I’d help you. If I were bad, we could do business.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ve been trying to find you for over three days.”

  “I know. Why?”

  “I thought you’d double-marketed the data.”

  Jeta’s face hardened. “I don’t do that.”

  “Then how did they know about the baley shipment?”

  Jeta let out her breath slowly. “I’m a good troll, Mr. Lanra, very good, but I’m not the only one. If I could find out, so could a dozen others, easy. If I was you, though, I’d ask the people running the baleys to begin with. If anyone’d know …”

  “I thought about that. I’ve been trying to find them.”

  “No luck?” A mocking smile tugged at her thin lips, even though her eyes still showed fear. “Maybe you need to hire a professional.”

  “Fine, then,” Coren said tersely. “You’re hired.”

  “My fee’s doubled,” Jeta said.

  “I don’t mind, I have an expense account.”

  “I have expenses, we’re even. What you want to know first?”

  “First? What are you doing here?”

  “Following you.”

  “So you say. You want to tell me why? The truth this time.”

  Jeta looked around. “Do you mind if I put my stash down? Thanks.” She set her pack on the end of the table by the sofa, then dropped into the cushions with a loud, relieved exhalation. “You botched my ride, gato. Then you almost got me killed. I thought that, anyway. I figured if anyone could solve my problems, it’d be the gato who caused them all to begin with.”

  “What do you mean, I botched your ride?” She gave him a guilty look. “Confession time: I found that data for you as fast as I did ‘cause I already had it. I was slated to go on that shipment. I had a berth with them.”

  “I’ve been trolling for almost sixteen years,” Jeta explained. “It’s not a bad life if you don’t mind the occasional hassle from police–public and private–and planning for the very long term. Some of us get good enough that we get hired as staff somewhere, go completely legitimate. Finding lost data is a fu
ll-time industry in some quarters. Can I have something to drink?”

  Ariel went into the kitchen again and returned with a glass of water. Jeta sniffed at it, frowned, then shrugged and drank.

  “Anyway, you have to understand how much data there is on this planet. I’m talking centuries of accrual. It never entirely disappears. Overwritten, archaic storage media, just plain misplaced, misfiled, or misremembered. It sits in layers, piling up, lumping together. Whole AI systems are devoted to sifting through it all, but it occasionally takes a deft hand, intuition, a lucky guess–human qualities you just don’t find in a machine. There are specialists who do it, going through stuff that’s really old. Some of them start out legit and move into freelance, but for most of us it’s the other way around. There’s a hardcore bunch that never go legit.

  “Mostly though, it’s not much more dangerous usually than any other job. It’s been understood for a long time that the troll isn’t a target; you don’t damn well shoot the messenger. Killing us hurts everyone. And then there are the clearing houses that offer protection and anonymity, and some corporations keep their best trolls on retainer and offer defence. Worrying about sanitizers is just not a big issue. I’ve been beaten up a couple of times, but no one has ever–ever–threatened my life.

  “Till now. About three months ago I was retained to find some old minutes from a board of directors that no longer exists. This kind of thing isn’t my most common job, but I’ve done a few. It’s surprising how careless some corporations are with old data like this. I think it’s just arrogance–that was the old board, they didn’t do anything right, why bother keeping the minutes around, and if there’s no legal reason to do so, they just shove them somewhere. A new board is like a new government and anything that happened before them is by definition full of error. Nothing unusual, standard fee, I got a few leads where to start, and I went trolling. Turned about to be a real challenge. I could find traces of it, but it was obvious someone had gone to some trouble to hide it. Took me nearly a month to recover enough of it to make any kind of sense. I found it hiding in stockholder reports, maintenance logs, spread out through portfolio surveys, resumes, spread sheets. Bits of it even turned up in vacation itineraries. The program that hid it was sophisticated enough to actually reconstruct it all with the right command sequence, so it was obvious someone wanted to be able to recover it, otherwise a lot of it would have been corrupted beyond recognition.”