“Note that you must cite humanity again and again to explain the New Law robot’s place in the universe,” Caliban said. “Human beings have no need to define their existence in terms of robots.”
“If you are so contemptuous of robots, why are you in the cell?” Prospero asked. “You have placed your own existence at risk for the sake of inferior beings. Why?”
Caliban was silent for a time before he answered. “I am not, entirely certain,” he said at last. “Perhaps because some part of myself does not believe the things I have said. Perhaps because I see more hope than I admit to seeing. Perhaps because there is nothing else--literally nothing else--that can give my existence any meaning.”
“Let us hope your existence continues long enough to gain such meaning,” Prospero said.
Caliban did not answer, but instead sat back down on the floor. For that was the core of it, right there. Grieg had as much as said it, back there in his office. He intended to exterminate the New Law robots, and Caliban had no expectation that he would be spared on the technicality of being a No Law robot.
Maybe, just maybe, Grieg’s death was a stay of execution. That a man died was a strange reason for having hope, but maybe, just maybe, Grieg’s successor would reverse the decision.
It was a thin hope, but it was all the New Law robots had. Everything was a moot point. After all, if they all died under blaster fire, it really wouldn’t matter one bit how superior the New Law robots were.
13
ALVAR KRESH WAS ALONE. Alone in the Residence, alone in the house where Grieg had died, alone in the room where Grieg had worked. Alone except for Donald, that is. Donald had refused to leave his side since the moment Telmhock had told Kresh he was the Governor. All things considered, Kresh was glad of it. Who else might be out there, tampering with robots and wandering around with a smuggled-in blaster? No, it was good to be there with a robot he could trust. Good to have Donald standing there in a wall niche, watching over him.
But he wished Fredda were there. Fredda to give him advice, to listen, to just be there. She would have helped him find some answers. Right now all he had were questions.
What now? Alvar asked himself. What is my part in the world? Do I act as Governor, and run the planet, or Sheriff; and chase Grieg’s killer? Can I do both at once? He felt as if he were a double man, split between his new office, his new duties, and his old ones. He felt he had no more desire to resign as Sheriff than he had to become Governor. He liked being Sheriff. He was good at it. And he knew that solving his predecessor’s murder would have to be his last case. Maybe it was even improper for him to stay on that long. But that didn’t even matter, not really. He could no more walk away from the investigation than he could refuse the office of Governor.
Kresh sat in the Governor’s office, in what was now, impossibly enough, his office, in what had been Grieg’s office, the dead man’s office. He sat in the vaguely thronelike chair, at the dead man’s black marble desk, and thought not at all of his surroundings as he read the dead man’s words.
The letter from Chanto Grieg, dated a mere ten days before. Kresh had read it over a dozen times already, but that didn’t matter. He needed to read it again.
To my oldest and dearest enemy, the letter began.
Grieg always did have a strange sense of humor. But in a way, that did sum it all up, Kresh thought. He and Grieg had come to respect each other, even like each other, even if they had never agreed on much of anything. Each had come to know the other was honest, and honorable.
Kresh began reading again.
To my oldest and dearest enemy
Dear Sheriff Kresh,
If you are reading this, it means that I have met a violent or unexpected end--A violent or unexpected end. A chance turn of phrase, or had he meant to present that precise meaning, consciously or otherwise?--and you have taken on my office. Not “inherited,” Kresh noted. Not “assumed,” or “ascended to,” or “been promoted to. ” No, taken on was the proper phrasing. Burdens were the things you took on. Until recently it would have been the old Designate, Shelabas Quellam, sitting where you are now, wondering what the devil to do. But things are moving toward a crisis, and I felt a stronger hand than Quellam’s might well be needed at the helm.
I chose you as my new Designate because you are an honest man, and a strong man, ready to take on what comes at you. I have no doubt you do not wish to be Governor, and that is also why I chose you. My office--now, your office--is far too powerful to be given over to one who loves power. It is, rather, a place for one who wants to use power, to accomplish things. The Governor’s chair demands a person who understands that it is the accomplishments of the office, and not its power, that matter.
I expect to take my time before informing you of the Designation. You can be a difficult customer, and I do not wish to discuss the matter with you when there any other major issues between us. In short, I do not want to inform you that you are my Designate in any way that might give you the chance to refuse the job. Though I do have other purposes, I write this letter now partly as a form of insurance if that moment never comes. I know that if I tell you when the decks are not clear, you might well view the Designation as some sort of threat, or bribe, and it is nothing of the kind. I chose you because you are the best qualified person I can think of to take up the challenge of the Governorship. My death in itself may well have been enough to precipitate a crisis so complex that only the steadiest hand can steer the way through. A hand such as yours.
This is a first draft. I will, from time to time, attempt to update this letter, offering what advice I may on the choices you will face, the decisions you will have to make. Just at the moment, there are two vital decisions I must make, and must make soon.
First, there is the issue of the New Law robots. I have now reached the decision that it was a mistake to allow their manufacture.
“Now he figures that out,” Kresh muttered to himself.
“Beg pardon, sir?” Donald asked.
“Nothing, Donald, nothing. ” He read on... mistake to allow their manufacture. Perhaps in another place, another time, with other issues less in doubt, they would have been a noble experiment, full of promise. But as things are, their mere existence makes an unstable situation worse. As you have reason to know better than I, they have become the center of a whole criminal enterprise. Less noticeably, but perhaps even more seriously, they are slowing down work at the Limbo Terraforming Station. They are only about a third as productive as a like number of Three-Law robots would be, and somehow or another seem to be at the center of most of the disputes that erupt at the station. I will be traveling to Limbo City soon, in part to see if I can smooth things over a bit.
The problem is that the New Law robots are a mistake that is not easily undone. Even with the forced drafting of robotic labor to terraforming duties on Terra Grande, there is a tremendous shortage of labor. Simply on an economic level, I cannot afford to order the New Law robots destroyed and their places taken by Three-Law robots. The New Law robots do not work as hard as Three-Law robots, but they do work.
At the same time, I cannot afford the public admission that the New Law robots were a mistake. I only dare admit as much to you because I will be safely dead if and when you read this. I don’t much mind if the public thinks I am a fool--they might even be right. But you know how dangerous the situation is. If my administration, or my policies, were to become the object of public ridicule, I would not be able to continue in office.
I would be impeached and convicted the same day I ordered the New Law robots scrapped. Then poor old Quellam, my successor in such a case, would take over, and more than likely be pressured into a snap election. With no other viable candidate organized and ready, Simcor Beddle would win the election in a walk, kick the Settlers off the planet, give everyone back their personal robots--and the planet would collapse around him.
Thus, the New Law robot problem. They should not be where they are, but I dare not get ri
d of them. I am searching for a third way. With luck, I will find it soon, and be able to scratch this from my list of issues you will have to face.
The second issue is a much more straightforward one--with a much more complicated background. As you may know, there has been a long bidding process for the Limbo Terraforming Station’s control system. The bidding process was intended to produce two final, competing bids--one Settler and one Spacer. I was to make the final choice between the two finalists. I had hoped to make a choice on purely technical grounds, but it may not be that easy. Neither bidder has a completely clean pair of hands.
The Spacer bid has been organized by Sero Phrost. Cinta Melloy of the Settler Security Service has sent me a number of reports that, coupled with my own information, suggest that Phrost is involved in a complex sort of double-dealing. I have suspected for some time that Phrost was cooperating with one of Tonya Welton’s smuggling schemes. I think he is helping her bring Settler home-operation equipment-cleaning machines, cookers, that sort of thing--onto Inferno. We know the machines are coming in, and I am close to proving Phrost is part of the operation.
The idea seems to be that the Settler machines will replace robotic labor, and thus give those who own the stuff, and want more of it, and want spare parts for it, a vested interest in increased trade with the Settlers. Cinta Melloy has not told me anything about that side of things, needless to say. I have little doubt that the SSS is cooperating with Tonya Welton’s policy of smuggling in Settler goods. Melloy does not say where the money comes from, but what Melloy does tell me is where the money goes. She does have convincing proof that Phrost is funneling a great deal of unreported income to the Ironheads, of all people. I as yet have no way of showing that the income from his Settler operations is the source of the money going to the Ironheads, but the conclusion seems inescapable.
If Melloy’s allegations are to be believed, Phrost is buying Ironhead support with the profits of his dealings with their deadliest enemies. Phrost, it would seem, is determined to be all things to all people.
The Settler bid is represented by Tierlaw Verick. He has, to put not too fine a point on it, been using bribery and the promise of kickbacks to sell his wares, advancing his bid’s way through the various stages of the bidding process. At least, Commander Devray believes as much. Bribery is a difficult charge to prove unless the bribe giver or bribe taker confesses, but Devray is convinced of the charges. I am half expecting Verick to offer me some modem version of the ancient thick envelope or bag of gold plopped down on the desk when I next meet with him. It is my impression that Devray also suspects him of being involved somewhere in the background of the rustbacking trade. I cannot be clearer than that, because Devray has not been clearer with me. He does not have any more substantial information.
But whether or not I manage to obtain final proof against either man, it scarcely matters. It is, after all, the machinery that matters. For all the questionable tactics surrounding the two bids, both appear to be technically superb systems. My choice may come down to the design philosophies behind them. Which will it be? A Three-Law robotic system that will take no chances, but, in seeking safety, will refuse to take needful risks? Or a system intended for human control, putting us once again in command of our own fate, but with human judgment--and human frailty--in ultimate control? The bidding process gives me but little faith in human nature--but it was in large part robotic nature that brought things to their current state on Inferno. And how do I choose between two corrupt bidders? Do I dare expose one, or both, of the two, or would that merely make things worse? But it would seem the alternative is accepting the most corrosive sort of dishonest behavior in the people who install the machinery meant to save this world.
What am I to do? I sincerely hope I find a solution--and soon.
With any luck at all, you will never read these words, or even know that I wrote them to you. But should you receive this letter, let me wish you the wisdom--and the courage--to make your decisions carefully, and well. Our planet has suffered far too many leadership mistakes in the past. It might well be that it cannot survive even one more.
Good luck to you, Governor Kresh.
Sincerely,
Chanto Grieg.
There were a few other words on the paper, scribbled in the left-hand margin. Decided. Annce day aft. recept. Infrnl cntrl, N. L to Val. Must update this let. CG.
Alvar Kresh tossed the letter down on the desktop and stood up. Damnation. If only he had had the information in that letter sooner, then--
--Then it would not have made the slightest difference. That was the frustrating part of it. The information and advice from a dead man did little more than muddy the waters. Grieg gave him more questions when what he needed was more answers.
Donald. He could get Donald’s advice. Kresh had quite purposely not let Donald read the letter yet, so as to insure its contents did not bias the robot’s thoughts. “Donald,” Kresh called.
Donald’s eyes glowed a brighter blue, and he turned to regard Kresh. “Yes, sir?”
“What, in your opinion, was the motive for Grieg’s murder?”
“I can offer no thought on that until we have a great deal more information, as you know, sir. However, I think by this time we can begin to eliminate certain possible motives.”
“Can we, by the stars? Please, tell me which ones. ”
“With every moment, it is less and less likely that the murder was intended as the first stage in a coup, or in the overthrow of the Spacer regime on Inferno.”
Kresh nodded. “We’re starting to get things back under control. If the plotters wanted to take over, they would have followed up with a military move or the equivalent by now. All right, so there is not going to be a coup. Go on.”
“Second, we can eliminate succession to the Governor’s office as a motive, except in respect to Shelabas Quellam. He might well have struck in order to assume power. If the new Designate had turned out to be Sero Phrost, or Simcor Beddle, that would be tremendously suspicious. As things are, there can be no such possible motive.”
“Thanks for the implied compliment, Donald, but I promise you a lot of people besides me have trouble believing I was the legitimate Designate. I haven’t gone looking, but I can promise you that if I did, I’d find a half-dozen rumors going around that I forged the Designation document and then killed Grieg myself. I did find the body, after all.”
“I assure you, sir, that I intended no compliment. I was, after all, right behind you as you entered Grieg’s bedroom. Unless you were carrying a blaster identical to Bissal’s, one that held precisely the same charge as Bissal’s, unless you were capable of extracting that blaster from some concealed pocket, firing it four times with great precision into Grieg and the robots, and then reconcealing the weapon, all in the space of a few seconds, you could not have done it. I suppose it might in theory be possible for you to do all that, but even then you could not have killed Grieg.”
“Why not?” Kresh asked.
“Blaster shots release a great deal of heat, and Grieg’s wounds, and the shots to the three SPR robots, were all at normal temperature by the time I arrived in the room. I know you did not do it because it would be physically impossible for you to do it. As to the rumors you describe, several such have been reported via the various tipster lines and so forth. However, rumors do not a case make.
“The main point is that you did not kill Grieg, and yet you became Governor. Therefore, unless the leader of the plot was under the mistaken impression that Quellam was the current Designate, succession to the Governor’s office cannot be the motive. And I do not believe in any plotters that incompetent.”
“Unless the plotters knew I was the Designate, and wanted me in power.”
“For what reason?” Donald asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Kresh said. “I admit it is rather implausible.”
“Yes, sir. In any event, there are several other classes of motive that are increasingly nonviable. Per
sonal motivations, for example. If it were a crime of passion, the preparations were remarkably elaborate. Likewise if this was the work of someone who wished to be avenged. Also, someone acting out of such personal motivation would be unlikely to recruit so many co-conspirators. Finally, an examination of Grieg’s personal effects and letters reveals no hint of any jilted lover or jealous husband, or other such domestic complication. ”
“So it wasn’t a coup, it probably wasn’t a would-be Governor, and it wasn’t a husband.”
“No, sir. Not if my analysis is sound. ”
“Which it is. So what does that leave?” Kresh asked.
“Love, power, and wealth are the three classic motivations for premeditated crime. We have eliminated two, and have but one left.”
“In other words, someone killed Chanto Grieg in hopes of financial profit,” Kresh said.
“Yes, sir. I judge from your tone of voice that you had already reached such a conclusion. ”
“So I had, Donald. But I feel much more comfortable in that conclusion having heard your reasoning. ” Kresh sighed, and leaned back in the Governor’s oversized chair. It was a hell of a note that the only suspect Sheriff Alvar Kresh had eliminated so far was Alvar Kresh himself. And not everyone was ready to believe that, either.
Money as the motive. A very old-fashioned sort of motive, on a world like Inferno where robots could produce all the wealth you wanted and money didn’t have much meaning. But with the robot economy collapsing, with the terms “wealth” and “poverty” suddenly coming to have meaning again, with a money system making a comeback, money might well be the reason why. And there certainly were big profits, high stakes, in the terraforming business.
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