by Isaac Asimov
Derec straightened and picked up a towel from the table.
“Derec,” Fran Olsin said. She looked apologetic.
“Hi, Fran.”
She looked at the robot. “How’s it coming?”
“Not badly. Better than I expected.” He wiped his hands with the towel—a habit, more ritual than necessity—and dropped it on the console. “What’s going on?”
“Bad news,” Fran said. “We’ve been ordered to confine you till transport is arranged to Aurora.”
Even expecting it, Derec felt a moment of outrage and despair. It had been coming for a long time. He knew it, Ariel knew it, they had talked about it. But until official word came they had been able to pretend that it might not—would not—really happen.
“Confine me where?” he asked. “I never leave the embassy area anyway.”
Fran scratched her chin absently, frowning. “That’s not very clear, so I’m having to make it up on my own.” She looked at the robot. “I suppose technically that robot is yours?”
“It is now. I have the ownership documents if you’d like to review them.”
“No, no, I had to verify them, remember?” She stared at the robot for a time. “Look, I get the feeling that my superiors and yours would prefer you didn’t do any new work on it till you’re away from Earth. So I’m going to read these instructions as house arrest orders. Confine yourself to your cabin till we can get you a berth.”
“That sounds reasonable.” He glanced at the robot. “I think I’ve done about as much as I can here, anyway. Maybe a trip to Aurora is just what I need to finish it.”
“Good.”
“I’ll leave the robot in Rana’s possession till departure time. How’s that?”
“That ought to satisfy just about everybody. Sorry, Derec.”
He waved a hand. “You’re just doing your job.” He leaned over the console. “Thales, copy all this to Hofton’s attention. Let Rana know Bogard’s status. I’ll be in my quarters.”
“Yes, Derec.”
“So,” Derec said to Fran. “Do you escort me, or trust me to go to my room?”
Fran lingered in his cabin. She sent her assistant away and shut the door.
“Some nasty fam has broken loose,” she said.
Derec thought for a moment before he recognized the slang. Fam: Freefall Anomalous Matter. A spaceworker term for debris, waste, or other garbage that occasionally got loose, sometimes causing problems in construction sites or with small satellites.
“Such as?” he asked.
“We got word a couple hours ago that Rega Looms is dead. Terran Bureau of Investigation is already making enquiries. They paid your Ambassador Setaris a visit.”
“This triggered the recall?”
“Sounds like your people want you away from here before more questions get asked about that mess we had over Looms’ daughter. Anyway, there’s bound to be suggestions of Spacer retribution for—well, for everything Looms stood for, really.”
“You don’t believe any of that, do you?”
“No. But I have the advantage of a close relationship with human venality,” she said sarcastically. “I just wanted to let you know that maybe this is for your own good. There’s no telling what TBI and Special Service might stir up. Knowing them, it wouldn’t surprise me if you got blamed for Sipha’s death.”
Derec had witnessed Sipha Palen’s death—and the deaths of several of her officers and who knew how many people aboard the shuttle that had exploded in the docking bay, ripping a hole in the body of Kopernik Station—and had felt absolutely helpless and desolate. Perhaps he deserved some blame. Not that he had caused any of it, but he had been involved in the circumstances that led to it.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “Maybe it’s time we all get out of here. I don’t think we’re doing any good anymore.”
“Meaning Spacers?” Fran shrugged. “Won’t happen. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how deep this could get.”
“Thanks.”
Ever since Palen’s death, her people—Kopernik Station security—had taken care of him. They had collectively decided he was a victim, too, and needed watching out for. In a way, he was like a mascot.
In return, he had helped them upgrade their own AI systems and improved the efficiency of their surveillance net. They had looked out for him. This was likely the last gesture they could make.
“Rega Looms is dead,” he said. “How? Murdered, I gather?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“If the TBI is involved . . .”
“Ah. Yes, you have a point. However, we don’t have all the details. Word is he was found crushed to death in his private quarters.”
An escort from the Auroran Embassy waited at Coren’s apartment when they returned. Coren suppressed an impulse to challenge them. Ariel had talked it over with him on their flight back.
“No scenes,” she said. “It won’t do any good anyway, and it might get you more attention than you need.”
So as their cab pulled up to his building and he saw the embassy limo and the plainclothes security lounging around the area, he squeezed her hand and let her kiss him.
Last one, he thought, tasting her.
She grabbed her pack and stepped out of the cab. He stayed within and watched her surrender herself to embassy security. No one came up to him to ask him anything. Ariel climbed into the embassy transport and within seconds the security vanished and the vehicles rolled quickly away.
He was alone in the back of the cab.
“Do you wish to proceed to another destination?” the autopilot asked.
“Yes,” he said after a pause. “DyNan Manual Industries, main headquarters.”
Coren was surprised that his ID still worked. When he had quit he had expected Rega to deactivate his credentials that very day. They had had a very loud and principled parting—Rega had given in to blackmail and ended his campaign for the senate, and he had done so because the blackmail contained truths, facts he had kept from Coren even while expecting Coren to take care of such matters. The relationship, in Coren’s mind, became untenable.
Shola Bran met him in the lobby of the main building. She had been one of his personal choices for Rega’s security during his abortive run for the senate. He wondered what position she had moved into since.
“Mr. Lanra,” she said. “This is unexpected. We thought your hiatus would last longer.”
“Rega’s death is unexpected as well, I trust.”
She frowned. “Is that why you’re back?”
“Is that a problem?”
“I’ve assumed your duties since . . .”
Coren glanced around the lobby. A few people worked behind information desks. He gave Shola a slight shake of the head. “My office.”
She led the way. When they entered, he was surprised to find it much as he had left it. He closed the doors and went to his desk. He was pleased that it still responded to him. He initiated the security walls Rega would have objected to had he known about them.
“All right,” he said, sitting down. “You’ve become head of security, is that what you’re saying?” He waved her toward a chair. “You may speak freely, no one can listen in, and I’ve always expected candor.”
“I remember.” She clasped her hands behind her back, continuing to stand. “Yes, I have. You walked out. It was necessary.”
“Good. At least someone knows what happened.”
“I don’t know everything that happened. I just know that you quit.”
“You kept that out of general circulation.”
“I didn’t see it as my place to disseminate gossip.”
“I’m not going to undercut you. I did quit. As far as I’m concerned, when I finish what I have to do, I’m going back to being quit. If you’ve been head of security, as far as I’m concerned you still are.” He leaned forward. “As long as you don’t interfere with me till I’m done.”
“What are you going to do?”
; “I want to find Rega’s killer. Plus finish the thing that put us at odds in the first place. Will you help me or fight me?”
“I’ll help. Fighting you . . . I’d lose.”
“Maybe. You’re very good at what you do.”
Her expression softened. “None of us expected . . . no one knew . . .”
“When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow. Closed casket. He didn’t want any cosmetics done, you know how he was. But . . .”
“Who found him?”
“Me and Lio Top.”
“Lio. His campaign manager.”
“She’s been his liaison at board meetings for the last several weeks.”
“He stopped attending?”
“Only voice comm. Then even that stopped. We thought, with the senate race over and his daughter’s death—”
“I gather you saw him from time to time?”
“No, not really. Once or twice. Mostly it was Lio.”
“I want to talk to her. Did anyone else have access to Rega?”
“No . . .”
“You sound uncertain.”
“Well . . . I could never prove it, but it seemed sometimes that someone was living with Rega.”
“Someone . . . a woman?”
Shola shrugged. “I’m sorry, boss. I could never get close enough and I didn’t feel right about using any invasives.”
And now he’s dead . . .
Coren kept that thought to himself. “I need to see the recordings of his comm messages over the last couple of months.” He drummed his fingers idly on the edge of the desk. “What’s the mood?”
“Awful. No one knows what’s going to happen next. Rumor has it that Rega never groomed a successor.”
“He wasn’t that old. I suppose he didn’t think he needed to yet.”
“The board doesn’t know what to do.”
Coren found that doubtful: Someone would have a plan, an idea what they wanted to do if nothing else. But no one would be willing to step forward just yet. “All right. Copy me the arrangements, then let it be known that I’m back. While I’m here I’ll walk you through the parts of the job I never told anyone about.” He smiled, he hoped reassuringly. “Meanwhile, I’ve got your support?”
“I’d love to find out who did this.”
The edge in Shola’s voice made the hairs on Coren’s neck bristle. “Then you’re it. I’ve got to catch up now.”
“Sure.” She went to the door. “Welcome back, boss.”
“Thanks.”
He requested a department list from his desk. He selected the bio-research division and studied the names appended. After a few minutes’ consideration, he tapped one and waited for the link to open.
“Organics. Willis Jay here.”
“Mr. Jay, this is Coren Lanra . . .” He hesitated briefly, then added, “Head of security.”
“Yes, Mr. Lanra?”
“Are you available for the next hour? I have something I want to bring over to you for analysis.”
“Well . . . sure, I’ve got some time.”
“You’re in your office?”
“My lab. Right next door.”
“Be there shortly.”
Coren broke the link and opened his pack. He took out the sample bag of grass. Ariel had divided it up before catching the semiballistic back to D.C., giving him a third. He slipped the package into his jacket pocket and headed for the research wing.
The offices of DyNan were usually quiet and a bit overly-serious, but what Coren walked through now felt sepulchral. To be expected, he thought. Still, it got to him. By the time he reached the research area and found the department of Organic Research, he felt guilty, almost ashamed.
Willis Jay looked up at Coren’s entrance, eyes large and pale green, and slowly rose to his full height, head-and-shoulders above Coren.
“Mr. Jay,” Coren said, extending a hand, “I’m—”
“Coren Lanra, yes. What can I do for you?”
Jay’s grasp was quick and light and he sat immediately back down.
Coren placed the sample bag on his desk.
“I found this. I’d like it analyzed.”
Jay picked it up and held it to the overhead light. “Grass.”
“I deduced that much.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In an abandoned lab. Beyond that, I’d rather not say.”
“So there could be contaminants of an unknown type?”
“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”
Jay set the bag back down. “And I suppose you don’t want this to go any further than us.”
Coren felt a smile tug at his mouth. “You suppose correctly.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me any idea what specifically I might be looking for? No? Give me a couple of days, then.” He looked up at Coren. “We’d all heard a rumor that you’d quit.”
Coren was surprised at the change of topic. “Really. Where did you hear that?”
“Rumor. Talk in the kitchen, that sort of thing.”
“I suppose it wasn’t true, then.”
“It appears not.”
“Any other rumors attached to that one?”
Jay sniffed. “You’ve been seeing an Auroran ambassador.”
“Ah. Now that one is true.”
“I suppose it’s not a rumor, then.”
“How long have you been with DyNan, Mr. Jay?”
“Fifteen years, I think.” Jay looked thoughtful for a moment. “Are you going to the funeral?”
“I suppose.”
“Rumor is that Mr. Looms was crushed to death.”
“Can’t confirm or deny that. I don’t know. Where’s he being kept?”
“The morgue, I imagine. The police took the body away.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Two days from now. I wonder who will run the company after this.” Jay stood again and picked up the bag. “I’ll get back to you about your grass by the funeral, Mr. Lanra.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Jay.”
“Just Jay.”
“Thanks, Jay. Let me know what you find.”
Coren returned to his office by a circuitous path. Along the way he looked into open doors, greeted people, paused in earshot of conversations for a few moments—all to get a better feel for the mood in the building. Somber, he decided, but with an edge of anger, as if Looms’ death were a personal betrayal. People did not work for Rega Looms just to have a job—if they came to DyNan with that in mind they rarely lasted long—but because they personally believed in what the company did and came to feel the same way about Rega. By the time he sat down at his own desk again, Coren believed that the company by and large would welcome answers to Looms’ murder.
It still puzzled him that Rega had not, apparently, accepted his resignation.
For the last couple of months, Coren had begun testing the waters for new employment. He had found more options than he had expected. After Ariel, he had told himself, he would look for a new job. They had both known it would end—she knew her recall by Aurora was inevitable. There was little enough time as it was.
As for Rega . . . after years of working for the man, they had finally come into ideological conflict.
Coren had been looking for the murderer of Looms’ daughter. And Rega had wanted him to stop. Setting aside Coren’s personal feelings toward the late Nyom Looms, there was no way he could see this as other than a direct threat to Rega and DyNan. Rega had placed him in an impossible ethical quandary.
It seems Rega had thought it over and decided that I was right . . .
It would have been wise for Rega to have at least told him.
Maybe he’d still be alive if I’d known I was still working for him . . .
Coren shoved that thought aside. That way lies madness, he knew. This was in no way his failure.
What now? He had resigned. Pretend it had never happened?
No . . . that would be unethical.
What do I owe you now, Rega?
After a few minutes’ thought, Coren decided that his last obligation to Rega Looms was to find out how he had died and if there were anything he could do about it.
He started accessing records to catch up on the last few months.
direct access subroutine category six Thales-to-Bogard evaluation standard in process, copy log, copy sequence, interrogatory systems profile, match template, revise epistatic drift at point zero-one, revised deviation reference initial protocols subheader Bogard
Query: self-diagnostic
Engaged
Assessment
Deviation on sublevels two, nine, twenty-three, forty-one, and forty-two
Analysis of deviation
Category error in standard definition of subject profile, internal/experiential conformity deviance in basic parameters
Specify category
Three Law base assumptions, BIOS reevaluation in process, inconclusive, repeat function
Define evaluative failure, specify location, specify assumption
Evaluative failure in action prompts, location topologically nonspecific, system-wide, assumption holistic evaluation reducible to question of type
Specify question
Question: What is human?
Chapter 3
ARIEL CLIMBED OUT of the embassy limo and started across the garage to the elevators. As she reached the doors, one set opened and Hofton stepped out.
“Ambassador,” Hofton greeted her, giving a slight bow from the waist. He took the pack from her and draped it over his left shoulder.
“Hofton. When did you get back?”
“Last night, actually.” He looked past her at the embassy security. “I’m to escort Ambassador Burgess directly to Ambassador Setaris. We won’t require your presence.”
The pair of officers hesitated. Ariel could see that their orders did not allow this much discretion.
“My responsibility,” Hofton added. “If she escapes, you may shoot me in public.”
Both of the security officers reddened visibly, then nodded.