“Creepy?” Pal tried.
“Worrisome,” Albert inserted.
Nate finally spoke. “Where’s Nick now?”
“Here,” Albert said. “Safe. I’ll get you two together as soon as we’re done.”
Nate smiled. “I’d like that.”
Susan seized the opportunity to return the conversation to her original issues, wondering why she had not thought of something this significant earlier. “Obviously, you can’t have robots forgetting things by command. Otherwise, someone could instruct them to forget one or more of the Three Laws.”
“Exactly.” Alfred swiveled his chair back and forth as he spoke. “Also, a disgruntled employee could cause all the robots to forget their programming, which would prove devastating to an industry that relied on its robotic workers. Not to mention to us.”
Susan realized the conversation had come full circle. She rose and faced Nate because sitting and doing so would leave him towering over her. She needed to be able to see his expression. “Did someone ask you to forget something that happened in the laboratory around the time of Dr. Goldman’s murder?”
“No,” Nate said, then repeated, “I was working with Dr. Goldman. He sent me to get Schmidt capillary tubes from the storage closet. I remember grabbing the box. The next thing I knew, I was standing over Dr. Goldman, holding a Stanley 55-099 FatMax Xtreme FuBar Utility Bar.”
The consistency of his description both assured and bothered Susan. It meant he was either telling the truth or reciting a script. “Sit, Nate.” She gestured toward her chair.
Nate obeyed. That allowed Susan to look him straight in the eyes. “Nate, we need you to understand something.”
“Okay,” he said without a hint of question or concern.
“Whoever killed Dr. Goldman must be caught.” Susan focused on her phraseology. “Not only because Lawrence and Albert and you and I will suffer harm if he or she or they are not caught, but also because the murderer or murderers will otherwise be free to kill more innocent people. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Nate said.
Susan needed to go further. “Nate, you must realize that if you are hiding the identity of the killer or killers, you are not helping or protecting them. You are not keeping them from harm. Instead, you are preventing them from getting the psychiatric help they need to make them healthy, to keep them from ruining their lives and those of everyone around them.” She added directly and forcefully, “Nate, if you hide the identity of the killer or killers, you are doing harm to them, to Lawrence, to me, to everyone who works at USR, and to all the people they hurt or kill in the future. All their future victims become your responsibility.”
Nate sat ramrod straight.
Susan asked the all-important question again. “Do you know who killed Ari Goldman?”
“No,” Nate said.
“Can you remember any human being in the laboratory or the storage area around the time of the crime, aside from Dr. Goldman himself?”
Nate hesitated, clearly thinking. “I didn’t see any human being other than Dr. Goldman between the time I entered the laboratory and when I found myself holding the tool.” He paused only a moment before continuing. “While I was—was moving from blank to senses . . .”
“Awakening?” Susan tried.
Nate seemed glad to abandon the sentence to respond to Susan. “Robots don’t sleep, so I’m not very familiar with the concept. I recall a bit of fuzziness between nothingness that lasted a bit after finding myself standing near Dr. Goldman’s limp body.”
Pal stood up also, offering Susan his chair. “That sounds very much like awakening.”
Susan brought them back to the pertinent. “While you were awakening, Nate. You . . . saw something?”
“Heard it.” Nate rubbed the back of his neck, one of his many human affectations. “My eyes were glued to Dr. Goldman. I was trying to figure out what happened, what I could do to help him. Someone was speaking softly, something about a code blue and an assailant with a weapon.”
Up until that moment, Susan had assumed Nate had called the codes. Susan and Pal exchanged meaningful glances before she asked, “You didn’t call those codes in, did you?”
“I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t have a chance.”
Pal said what they all had to be thinking. “We find out who called that code, we probably have the killer.”
Alfred remained in his seat. “Why would a killer draw attention to himself? Wouldn’t it make more sense to sneak away and let someone else discover the scene?”
Susan turned, without taking Pal’s chair. “Sure, if the motive was simply to murder Dr. Goldman. Clearly, this guy wanted a fast response, to make certain Nate got caught at the scene with the weapon and was still woozy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did I say woozy? What could make a robot woozy?”
To her surprise, Albert had a possible answer. “I don’t know about woozy, but I do know someone exposed Nate to a blast of radiation. The positronic brain is very sensitive to certain types and amounts of radiation. We’re still testing his old battery for details, but there was one clear and definitive strike that was either targeted directly at Nate or, possibly, a pulse that affected everyone in the room or the building. It wasn’t enough to cause obvious or immediate harm to humans.”
When it became clear Susan was not going to sit, Pal did so. “What would radiation do to the positronic brain?”
Albert shrugged. “It would depend on the type, amount, and how it was targeted. We do know that one burst of electrons at a robotic cranium can neutralize the positronic pathways, releasing enough additional energy to fuse the robot brain into an inert ingot.”
Startled by the information, Susan spoke without thinking. “How do you know that?”
Albert tapped his shirt pocket, which contained something long and cylindrical. “Because if a significant problem ever arises, we need a way to stop it in its tracks.”
Susan guessed the pronoun “it” referred more to an unspoken “robot” than the word “problem.”
Alfred explained further. “Some types of radiation are more problematic than others. We discovered that during the Mercury mission. A brief but vigorous pulse of relatively harmless radiation might cause a robot to temporarily shut down, only to reawaken sometime later.”
Pal pointed out, “Clearly, whoever murdered Dr. Goldman took great pains to make sure Nate got blamed for it. Is it possible Goldman was a random target, chosen only because he spent time alone with Nate?”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t think so. They wanted the world to believe robots could and would kill people, and they probably chose Goldman because he’s a well-known scientist doing a lot of research on how robot technology can aid hospitals and physicians.”
“‘They’ meaning . . . the SFH?”
“Almost certainly.” Susan harbored little doubt but did not like what had to come next. “And I think they had some inside help.”
Albert’s chair went still. “What do you mean?”
“I mean whoever blasted Nate with radiation knew what type and how much to use. Even you don’t appear to have a great handle on that knowledge.”
All color drained from Albert’s face. “You mean someone at USR?”
Susan splayed her hands. She could mean nothing else. “It has to be someone with access to several robots and also to different types of radiation. Someone with the means and opportunity to experiment as well as hide any damage done.”
“Someone at USR?” Albert repeated, sounding only slightly less dubious. “But that’s—that’s . . .” He seemed about to say “impossible,” but amended, “Extraordinarily unlikely.”
Susan saw only one other possibility. “The only other group with the necessary access to radiation and robots is the U.S. government. We already know the Department of Defense hates the SFH; they would never c
ooperate with such a plot.” Susan put a hand on Pal’s shoulder. “You know more about the inner workings of the government than we do. What do you think?”
Pal laughed. “I’m just a grunt, not a bureaucrat. As you’ve stated, the Three Laws keep robots from making even mediocre soldiers, so I’ve never actually worked with one. I can’t imagine the government lets just anyone work with something as expensive as a thinking, learning robot, and I can’t imagine them openly murdering a citizen just to make a point.” He grew more pensive. “Could an SFH operative penetrate the higher levels of government?” He shrugged. “Who knows?”
It seemed hopeless. Without a ranking contact in the government, Susan had no idea how they could find such a person, assuming he or she even existed. “Albert, why not recall all USR products? You could examine the batteries and see if anyone’s been testing them with radiation doses. If not, that would virtually guarantee any mole is inside USR.”
Albert pinched his nose, then adjusted his glasses. “A total recall? Difficult. Costly.”
“But not impossible,” Susan pointed out. An idea seized her, and she could not wait to speak it. “Albert, why is USR selling its robots in the first place?”
Albert froze, then slowly turned his head to fasten his gaze on Susan. “Because . . . it’s what we do. If we don’t sell our product, what’s the point of making it? Like any business, we need capital to operate.”
Susan answered with a single word: “Leasing.”
Silence followed. Heads started to bob.
Susan explained further. “USR should maintain ownership of every positronic robot. You lease the robots to various clients. You still make your money, but it limits any tampering outsiders can do. Make damaging any robot an expensive proposition that goes well beyond just voiding a warranty. If you don’t like the way someone uses your product, you can end the lease.”
A ghost of a smile touched Albert’s features. “That’s brilliant.”
Susan elaborated. “That would also explain a full recall of the previously sold models, without suggesting there’s something faulty or dangerous about them.” She set to organizing the coming days. “Albert, how closely does Nick resemble Nate?”
“Not much at all. Why?”
“Have the police come searching for Nate?”
Albert nodded. “They came, and we let them tour most of the facility. We couldn’t let them into some places, though. Clean rooms, certain laboratory areas with proprietary information, a couple of storage areas Lawrence had locked.”
None of it surprised Susan. “I just wanted to make sure Nick was safe, that the police wouldn’t mistake him for Nate. What did you tell them about him?”
“Nothing,” Alfred said. “He wasn’t here. It wasn’t until after they searched that I thought it best to bring him here.”
Susan instructed, “If and when they return, probably with a search warrant, let them mistake Nick for a worker. We’ll keep Nate with us, at least until I fall under direct suspicion. It’s not safe for him here. Try to keep things going as normally as possible, other than coming up with a new and legal leasing agreement and initiating a recall. Don’t mention my input into the idea. If there is a mole, that might tip them off, since everyone knows I’m working on getting Lawrence free and Nate cleared.”
If it bothered Alfred to have a young upstart tell him how to run his business, he gave no indication. “Are you going to the funeral?”
“Definitely.” Susan said. “I need to talk to Dr. Peters, and it’s the one place I know I’ll find him. He might have some insight into who could have done this, and I want access to the scene of the crime, preferably with Nate and Dr. Peters to assist me in finding anything suspicious that the police might have glossed over or missed.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Albert rose. “The service is at B’nai Golda Cemetery. Graveside. It starts at eleven o’clock.”
He did not suggest going together in the same vehicle, which Susan appreciated. She needed time to get Nate properly disguised and all three of them into funeral attire. The formality of the situation precluded the Harley, even if they discarded the safety issues. She would need the bus-time to do her research on Jewish funerals and discuss any traditions with Pal and Nate, as Layton. She did not want any of them to make an embarrassing mistake. The last thing they needed was attention.
Chapter 12
A cool September breeze wound through B’nai Golda Cemetery, chilling mourners already damp from a light but persistent rain. Two bored-looking teens in dark clothing stood at the open gate beneath a stone archway, passing out wet pieces of paper. Susan accepted one, glancing at it only long enough to see “Ari Micah Goldman, MD, PhD, FAPA” listed at the top.
A net of clouds seemed to echo the somber mood of the people, all conservatively dressed, some with black umbrellas, others with plastic-draped hats, and most with rainwater plastering their hair and dripping down their cheeks. The moment she stepped beneath the archway, Susan spotted Cody Peters seated alone on a concrete bench, shoulders hunched and face buried in his hands. He wore a long olive drab raincoat that made him appear even lankier and taller than usual.
Susan sat on the wet bench beside him, barely noticing the water seeping through her pants. She placed a consoling hand on his back and leaned in to talk to him. “Dr. Peters?”
The researcher raised his head, tipping it toward Susan. He managed a smile. “Susan. Just the person I wanted to see.”
Susan glanced at her associates, both of whom appeared to be trying to look casual. Dressed in his sweats, the only dark-colored clothing he had at Susan’s apartment, Pal studied the milling people, seemingly oblivious to the raindrops gathering in his hair. Nate edged onto what little bench remained beside Susan, mimicking the pained huddling of the other mourners.
“Me?” Susan tried not to sound too surprised. “I thought I’d find you with Dr. Goldman’s family. Or your own.”
Dr. Peters sighed. He spoke slowly, as if each and every word pained him. “The Goldmans are performing K’riah. That’s where—”
Susan stopped him with a raised hand. “The rending of the garments. I did some reading.” She did not know whether the Goldmans would literally tear their clothing or only symbolic black ribbons attached to them. It was a ritual performed only by immediate family members, representing the damage the death inflicted on their hearts. All attendees who came upon a person with ripped clothing or ribbons were supposed to offer condolences, obviating the additional pain ignoring or isolation might cause, though not until after the service.
Taking Susan at her word, Dr. Peters responded to her original question. “Cait is assisting Anna.” He referred to his wife and Dr. Goldman’s. “The kids are working with the neighbors, preparing the Goldman home for the family’s return. Our kids, that is. Ari’s kids are here, of course.”
Susan knew preparing the house involved several rituals as well: covering all the mirrors, removing objects that might be considered celebratory, and creating the meal of condolence, the Seudat Hawra’ah. The immediate family, referred to as Onen, were supposed to devote themselves wholly to the deceased. As such, they should not have to worry about such things as meals or entertaining. Behind that tradition lay the concern that, left to their own devices, the Onen might neglect to eat, thus falling ill and dying themselves.
Dr. Peters added softly, “Though how Harper’s supposed to do anything in her condition is a mystery.”
Susan remembered. “Harper’s your daughter?”
“Right,” he confirmed. “Almost twenty-four weeks pregnant with twins.”
Susan knew better than to congratulate a grandparent before the birth, especially multiples. She tried to sound nonchalant. “Have the police finished their investigation of the lab?”
Dr. Peters nodded. “Yesterday evening. Then I locked it. No one’s been in there since. I wanted you to have
the first look around . . . after the police took or trampled all the evidence, that is.”
Susan forced a chuckle. “We’ll make do with what’s still there. Will you be free after the funeral to take me to it?”
Dr. Peters reached into his suit pocket and emerged with a key. He pressed it into Susan’s free hand. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, but Cait will probably drag me to the Goldmans’ for a little while. If you get there first, feel free to start looking around.”
Though she accepted the key, placing it into her own pocket, Susan felt odd even thinking about entering 713 Hassenfeld Research Tower without Dr. Goldman or Dr. Peters. “We can wait for you.”
“I shouldn’t be too long. Cait knows how useless I am at funerals.” Apparently not wanting to sound callous, he continued. “I’m lost without Ari. He was a genius, Susan. One of a kind. I’m here because he was the best partner anyone could ever have or imagine; but funerals agitate me. I always leave feeling far worse than when I came, and I’m not sure I can go any lower. I already feel like I’m in some subbasement of hell.”
Susan said something she had avoided all of her professional life. “I know exactly how you feel.” And, for once, the dreaded platitude, the one everyone was trained to avoid, was true.
Peters rose, sweeping Susan into a fierce embrace, lifting her to a standing position with him. He wept holding her, chin resting on her left shoulder. Only after they had spent several minutes pressed tightly but chastely together, Peters whispered directly into her ear. “How did you survive it?”
Susan stopped herself from reliving the grief she had pummeled into a tiny box buried deep inside her where she would never again allow it to be opened. The happy memories of Remington, of her father, remained, easily accessible. She had walled off the desperate, intolerable anguish like a phagocyte engulfs a toxin, sacrificing an important chunk of herself to save the whole. If she had to face that raw sorrow day after day, year after year, she would wither and die. That other, positive aspects of her psyche got shut off with the pain bothered her only a bit. She remembered Kendall’s childlike plea: “Cold and distant doesn’t suit you, Susan. I . . . miss you.”
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 21