by Isaac Asimov
Four screens above the console cleared simultaneously. A few seconds later, a single view filled them all.
The group of baleys gathered around the two people facing each other in their midst. The woman–Nyom Looms–looked angry, impatient. The man, dressed in dockworker’s dull yellow togs, faced her stoically, arms folded, waiting for her to finish.
(“Is there audio?” one of the TBI agents asked. “Thales,” Derec prompted. “Incomplete. I am working on filling gaps.”)
Nyom Looms raised one hand, finger aimed at the dockworker, and almost jabbed him. He dropped his arms and said something.
(“Pocivil,” Palen mused. “What’s that?” Harwol asked. “Nothing,” Palen said.)
“–forming you now–have backup–prepared. It’s the same as it was, only different. A new canister. We are professionals.”
The robot turned toward the group. Someone was working his way forward and had come to a halt at the very edge of the half-circle.
A window appeared at the lower right corner of the screen, and a series of faces scrolled quickly by, matching text on the left. The words NO MATCH appeared in place of the faces. The robot moved toward the stranger.
(“That’s Coren,” Palen said. “Who?” one of the TBI agents asked. “Later; “Palen said.)
“All right,” Nyom said. “But if this turns out to be anything but copasetic, I’ll peel your skin off with pliers. Tell your people we’re ready.”
Suddenly, Coren stepped forward, a half-smile on his face. The robot reached him at that point and gripped his right arm. Coren looked up angrily, but his expression changed quickly to fear.
“I apologize, sir, but I must ask that you come with me.” The robot walked him back through the crowd of baleys, who looked frightened and angry themselves.
They emerged from the crowd and continued on to the next bay. The robot stopped. Coren gave it another nervous glance, then turned abruptly.
“Damnit, Coren!”
Coren smiled wanly. “Good to see you, too, Nyom.”
She hissed through clenched teeth.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me,” Coren said.
“I’m not. That’s what bothers me.”
Coren nodded toward the robot. “Umm...”
“Coffee, go see to our arrangements.”
“Yes, Nyom,” the robot said.
The robot–Coffee–released Coren and returned to the group of baleys. It worked its way through them. Some cringed from it, but most stood their ground with stolid expressions, afraid but unwilling to show it.
Coffee emerged from the huddled refugees just as the dockworker returned, followed by four individuals. The window appeared at the lower left again as Coffee attempted to find matches.
One of the four was another robot.
(“Looks like a DM-70,” Rana whispered. “But what’s that?”)
One of the four looked distinctly artificial, surface a smooth, dull gray, but it was far more humaniform than either of the other two robots. Coffee gave this one a close examination. The view zoomed in on its head. Human-imitation eyes peered back. It wore close-fitting black: shirt, pants, and soft boots, which seemed silly for a robot.
(“Look at the way it moves,” Derec said.)
“Everybody ready?” the dockworker called out. He turned to Coffee. “Where’s your boss?”
“One moment.”
Coffee made his way back to where Nyom and Coren stood talking. It stopped a short distance from them. “Nyom.”
Coren started and Nyom laughed. She began to reach toward him. “Coffee won’t hurt you. What is it, Coffee?”
“Time.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Coffee returned once more to the group of baleys. “She is on her way, “it told the dockworker.
“All right,” Nyom’s voice snapped. “Let’s get this boat sailing, shall we?” She stopped upon seeing the newcomers, frowning. “Who are these?”
“My dock crew,” the first dockworker informed her. “It wasn’t hard to get everybody else to go out for a drink, but I think they’d draw the line at longshoring an illicit bin and loading up a bunch of baleys, don’t you think?”
Nervous laughter came from the group of baleys. Nyom nodded, her eyes on the strange robot.
“This way,” the dockworker said, leading them through the open bay.
They passed through the huge doorway. The baleys stopped on the broad apron between the warehouse doors and the maze of tracks upon which cargo bins scurried en route to and from the shuttle fields of Petrabor port. One bin came almost directly at them, stopping abruptly on its magnetic rails less than five meters away. Its door folded down.
“Okay, folks,” the dockworker said, clapping his hands. “Here’s the drill. Inside you will find an array of bunks–acceleration couches–each one with a breather mask attached to a rebreather. There’s enough air in the bin for the ride up to Kopernik and the transfer to the ship that’ll take you on to Nova Levis, as long as you use the rebreather. One of my associates here will ride up with you and make sure you know how to use the masks and will stay as security till you make the transfer to the ship. Once aboard ship, you will be released from the bin and provided regular berths for the main leg of the voyage. Once you are secured in your couches, do not–I repeat, do not–get out of them. There isn’t enough room for floating around, and you could injure yourselves. Any questions?”
He looked around. Coffee was paying attention mainly to the unusual robot.
Abruptly, that robot stepped forward, approached Coffee, and made a show of examining it. It moved with a sinuous fluidity that belied its artificial nature, making one slow circuit around Coffee and coming to a halt directly before it.
The skin seemed to ripple briefly. Suddenly, it looked to its left. As Coffee watched, the skin changed hue and texture, dappling and darkening.
“Nyom,” Coffee said, “I recommend against this. We should abort and try another avenue.”
“Why, Coffee?”
The strange robot regarded Coffee with an attitude of almost human curiosity, as if to say Yes, Coffee, why?
“I am unable to define my reasons, “Coffee said. “The situation has too many unexpected variables. For instance, I do not know what this is.” Coffee aimed a digit at the robot before it.
“Come on, “the dockworker said, exasperated. “We don’t have time for this shit! The crew will be back any minute–you take it or leave it. You drop this ride, your chances of getting another one go way down.”
Nyom turned to her group. “It’s up to you,” she said. “Do we go?”
The refugees murmured among themselves briefly, then hands went up. “We go,” most of them said.
Nyom frowned as she turned to the dockworker. “I repeat: anything goes wrong on this, I’ll have parts of you as souvenirs.”
“What, you think we’re going to ruin our reputation? Come on, we’re professionals–we do this all the time. Now, can be get a move on?”
“Coffee,” Nyom said, “you just pay close attention to everything.”
“Yes, Nyom.”
The robot facing it spun gracefully and walked up the ramp, into the bin. The baleys filed in, one by one.
Nyom hung back, close to Coffee. “What’s wrong, Coffee?”
“That robot–” Coffee began.
“The tally doesn’t add up,” the dockworker interrupted. He held up a pad. “I did a head count. We’re missing one.”
“I know,” Nyom said. “It happens. Someone gets cold feet at the last minute; they don’t show. Can’t call it off on account of one or two who change their minds, can you?”
“No, I suppose not. But my people don’t like it.”
“I don’t care what they don’t like.”
The dockworker shrugged. “So we have one extra couch. Everyone else showed, though?”
“Everyone else did.” Nyom gestured. “Where’d you get that robot?”
&nbs
p; “Gamelin? Didn’t get him anywhere. He’s part of the connection on the other end.”
“He’s... different.”
“He is that. Well, you ready? Everyone else is on board.”
Nyom nodded and walked up the ramp. Coffee followed.
Within, the light was dim, provided mainly by a single flash held by the robot, Gamelin, and the readylights on the hulking rebreather unit in the middle of the deck. Gamelin was helping people settle into the couches that were stacked to the ceiling, and answering questions in a quiet, raspy voice. Coffee began checking those already settled in.
The hatch came up, then, and Gamelin activated the internal seals. Coffee squatted by the control panel of the rebreather and began running a diagnostic.
“Don’t you trust me?” Gamelin asked.
“What model are you?” Nyom asked. “I’ve never seen one like you.”
“You won’t again,” Gamelin said, turning toward her. “Better get into your couch.”
The bin lurched and Nyom nearly fell. Gamelin caught her arm and steadied her.
“No talking,” Gamelin announced. “Uses too much air.”
Coffee did a second check on the rebreather. Everything read optimal. It straightened and watched Gamelin help Nyom with her straps.
“And the mask–”
“I have my own,” Nyom said.
Gamelin hesitated. “Very efficient.”
Coffee approached Gamelin. “You did not answer Nyom’s question. What model are you?”
“I’m a prototype. I don’t have a model designation.”
“Are you Solarian? I am unfamiliar with any Auroran design even in the planning stage from which you might be derived.”
“How long’s it been since you were on Aurora?”
“Thirty-six years.”
“Things might’ve changed, don’t you think?”
“Very probably. That is why I ask.”
“Solarian. Now get to your ready station. We’ve got ten minutes before the shuttle lifts.”
Coffee returned to a place beside the rebreather. Gamelin climbed lithely into one of the couches.
(“What happened? The scene shifted...” one of the agents complained. “Coffee shifted briefly to standby,” Derec explained. “Nothing recorded during an essentially uneventful period. All telemetry is on, but...”)
The cargo bin was in freefall, on a trajectory to Kopernik on board a shuttle. Two or three people groaned. Coffee bent to the rebreather control panel and checked the readings on individual respiration.
“There is a problem,” it said.
“What?” Nyom asked. She pulled herself out of the couch and swam quickly to Coffee.
(“Where’d she learn to do that?” Rana wondered.)
“The monitor indicates distress,” Coffee said. “Breathing is becoming impaired.”
“What the–we have a defective rebreather?”
“Nothing’s defective,” Gamelin said, sliding across the bin. “Everything’s working fine.”
“I disagree,” Coffee said. “According to this–”
“Shut up, tinhead. Time to put on a standard mask, Ms. Looms.”
Nyom shot a look at Gamelin. “What are you–”
Gamelin reached for her. She writhed in mid-air and slammed a foot against its chest, launching herself backward. Her shoulders banged into the strutwork supporting a bank of couches.
Gamelin pursued, one arm extended, reaching.
“Stop,” Coffee said. “You will cause injury.”
“Exactly, “Gamelin said.
Coffee twisted around and grabbed Gamelin’s shoulder. Coffee’s grip closed on softer material than expected. Gamelin jerked around beneath the grip and pulled free, hissing in clear pain.
Coffee opened its hand and saw, in its enhanced vision, a mass of fabric and dermis mingled thickly with blood.
The scene lurched. Coffee watched, immobile, as Gamelin chased Nyom Looms around the bin, while all around people were moaning louder. Several had ripped off their masks, gasping. Coffee looked down at the rebreather.
(“Why doesn’t it do something?” one of the agents asked. “It’s caught in a dilemma,” Rana said. “It just hurt something that might be human. It doesn’t know what to do.” “Human!”)
Suddenly, Gamelin caught Nyom. Coffee looked up to see her struggle briefly while Gamelin got a grip on her head and gave a short, sharp yank. The snap of bone sounded horribly loud.
Gamelin let Nyom’s body go and pulled something from its belt. It went to one of the clear surfaces and aimed the tool. A brilliant spark leapt at the bulkhead.
“Stop,” Coffee ordered. “You will breach the integrity of the container.”
“Stop me, tinhead,” Gamelin said. “If you can.”
“I–”
Suddenly, Gamelin drew back and punched up. The loud bang filled the chamber. A moment later, he pushed both hands through the crack he had made and heaved. Blood oozed from the wound on his shoulder. Air whistled through the hole.
Gamelin swam back to the robot and came close to its face.
“They’ll suffocate if they don’t put their masks back on,” he said. Then he returned to his couch.
Coffee went from person to person, urging them to replace their masks. Some were already dead, though. coffee seemed to realize then that the rebreather was poisoning them.
It knelt by the unit and tried to run a systems purge. That did not work, so it began stabbing the DISCONNECT; all the while the air inexorably leaked from the small chamber.
Everyone stared at the now blank screens, mute, the shock clear on their faces. Derec let out his breath slowly. He looked at Rana.
“What–?”
“So where did that thing go?” Agent Harwol demanded explosively. “Obviously, that’s what walked out of your morgue, Chief Palen, right under the noses of your staff and your surveillance.”
“Coren said it was invisible to his optam,” she said.
“Invisible to your security systems, too?” Derec asked.
She looked frightened. “What is it, Mr. Avery? You’re the roboticist. Tell us.”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it. Coffee couldn’t stop it because it was human. Or seemed human.”
“That?” Harwol exclaimed.
“It bled, Agent Harwol. It was–is–organic. Up to that point, Coffee assumed, as did everyone, that it was a robot...” He blinked. “A cyborg.”
“A what?” Rana asked. “I didn’t think those were possible.”
“Aurora stopped research on them a long time ago. Not because they aren’t possible–on the contrary, they are very possible. And much too unpredictable.”
“We’re impounding all this material,” Agent Harwol declared. “I want every bit of it turned over to us before any more of it goes missing.”
“To do what with?” Derec demanded. “You don’t have the first idea what any of this means.”
“And you do? No arguments, Mr. Avery–this material is, now under TBI jurisdiction, and you are under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Criminal negligence, for a start. Until we find that robot, I’m holding you responsible. You were working for us on this and an important piece of evidence is missing.”
“For the sake of–” Palen said. “Stop it. Just what do you think you’re accomplishing by all this?”
“I’m putting the lid on a bad situation on its way to becoming worse, Chief Palen,” Harwol barked. “You’re suspended, pending an investigation into abuse of authority. You had no mandate to indulge in this sort of an investigation–”
“You’re going to make a mess of this whole thing–”
“Enough! I want this lab quarantined and everything in it held in stasis till I decide what to do with it. You have overstepped your authority in this matter, and the TBI is now taking over the investigation.”
“Damn it–!” Palen began.
Harwol aimed a finger at h
er as if it were a weapon.
“Another word, Chief Palen,” he said. “One more.”
She restrained herself with a visible effort.
“You’re an idiot,” Derec said. “You could’ve just asked.”
“I’m afraid, Agent Harwol, “Hofton said then, “that you lack the authority to make arrests on Auroran territory.”
“Kopernik Station is an Earth Incorporated Zone,” Harwol said. “Security is handled by Terran authority under specific treaty, which is why Chief Palen here has the authority to police even the Spacer and Settler areas. I am relieving her of that position and assuming that authority.”
“That’s thin, Harwol,” Palen said. “Really, really thin.”
“Maybe, but that’s what I’m doing. I can damn well make arrests here, and I damn well will. You may file a complaint through proper channels and it will be considered at that time, but till then I am in charge of station security and you–” he pointed at Derec “–are under arrest.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know. I was under the impression that Auroran embassy grounds were accorded the same privileges as the main mission.”
Hofton looked agonized. Derec had never seen the man so distraught. He sat on the other side of the narrow holding cell, elbows on knees, shoulders hunched, his face stretched by internal doubt and self-loathing.
“You can’t be expected to know everything, Hofton,” Derec said.
“I don’t,” Hofton said. “But I should know everything about my job.”
Derec looked across, through the mesh of his cell door, to the cell opposite his. The Spacer who had been arrested the day Derec had arrived still waited within it. In all the confusion, he had been forgotten.
“It’s understandable,” Derec said. “Harwol and the others saw something they don’t understand. Naturally, their reaction is to put anything they don’t understand in a cell.”
“All expectations for rational action and maturity notwithstanding,” Hofton said gloomily.
“Doesn’t matter. The relevant point is, you still have a job. I accept your apology. Now, let’s figure out how to solve our problems.”
Hofton continued to stare at a spot on the floor for several seconds. Then he drew a deep breath, straightened, and nodded.