by Isaac Asimov
“I’m still not certain I understand the nature of his job.”
Quemot’s old cheeks flushed gently. “Hadn’t you better discuss that with his assistant?”
Baley said, “I would certainly have done so by now, sir, if anyone had seen fit to tell me before this moment that he had an assistant.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Quemot, “but the existence of the assistant is another measure of his social responsibility. No previous occupant of the post provided for one. Delmarre, however, felt it necessary to find a suitable youngster and conduct the necessary training himself so as to leave a professional heir behind when the time came for him to retire or, well, to die.” The old Solarian sighed heavily. “Yet I outlived him and he was so much younger. I used to play chess with him. Many times.”
“How did you manage that?”
Quemot’s eyebrows lifted. “The usual way.”
“You saw one another?”
Quemot looked horrified. ‘What an idea! Even if I could stomach it, Delmarre would never allow it for an instant. Being fetal engineer didn’t blunt his sensibilities. He was a finicky man.”
“Then how–”
“With two boards as any two people would play chess.” The Solarian shrugged in a sudden gesture of tolerance. “Well, you’re an Earthman. My moves registered on his board, and his on mine. It’s a simple matter.”
Baley said, “Do you know Mrs. Delmarre?”
“We’ve viewed one another. She’s a field colorist, you know, and I’ve viewed some of her showings. Fine work in a way but more interesting as curiosities than as creations. Still, they’re amusing and show a perceptive mind.”
“Is she capable of killing her husband, would you say?”
“I haven’t given it thought. Women are surprising creatures. But then, there’s scarcely room for argument, is there? Only Mrs. Delmarre could have been close enough to Rikaine to kill him. Rikaine would never, under any circumstances, have allowed anyone else seeing privileges for any reason. Extremely finicky. Perhaps finicky is the wrong word. It was just that he lacked any trace of abnormality; anything of the perverse. He was a good Solarian.”
“Would you call your granting me seeing privileges perverse?” asked Baley.
Quemot said, “Yes, I think I would. I should say there was a bit of scatophilia involved.”
“Could Delmarre have been killed for political reasons?”
“What?”
“I’ve heard him called a Traditionalist.”
“Oh, we all are.”
“You mean there is no group of Solarians who are not Traditionalists?”
“I dare say there are some,” said Quemot slowly, “who think it is dangerous to be too Traditionalist. They are over conscious of our small population, of the way the other worlds outnumber us. They think we are defenseless against possible aggression from the other Outer Worlds. They’re quite foolish to think so and there aren’t many of them. I don’t think they’re a force.”
“Why do you say they are foolish? Is there anything about Solaria that would affect the balance of power in spite of the great disadvantage of numbers? Some new type of weapon?”
“A weapon, certainly. But not a new one. The people I speak of are more blind than foolish not to realize that such a weapon is in operation continuously and cannot be resisted.”
Baley’s eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you know the nature of the weapon?”
“All of us must. You do, if you stop to think of it. I see it a trifle easier than most, perhaps, since I am a sociologist. To be sure, it isn’t used as a weapon ordinarily is used. It doesn’t kill or hurt, but it is irresistible even so. All the more irresistible because no one notices it.”
Baley said with annoyance, “And just what is this non-lethal weapon?”
Quemot said, “The positronic robot.”
11: A Farm Is Inspected
FOR A MOMENT Baley went cold. The positronic robot was the symbol of Spacer superiority over Earthmen. That was weapon enough.
He kept his voice steady. “It’s an economic weapon. Solaria is important to the other Outer Worlds as a source of advanced models and so it will not be harmed by them.”
“That’s an obvious point,” said Quemot indifferently. “That helped us establish our independence. What I have in mind is something else, something more subtle and more cosmic.” Quemot’s eyes were fixed on his fingers’ ends and his mind was obviously fixed on abstractions.
Baley said, “Is this another of your sociological theories?”
Quemot’s poorly suppressed look of pride all but forced a short smile out of the Earthman.
The sociologist said, “It is indeed mine. Original, as far as I know, and yet obvious if population data on the Outer Worlds is carefully studied. To begin with, ever since the positronic robot was invented, it has been used more and more intensively everywhere.”
“Not on Earth,” said Baley.
“Now, now, Plainclothesman. I don’t know much of your Earth, but I know enough to know that robots are entering your economy. You people live in large Cities and leave most of your planetary surface unoccupied. Who runs your farms and mines, then?”
“Robots,” admitted Baley. “But if it comes to that, Doctor, Earthmen invented the positronic robot in the first place.”
“They did? Are you sure?”
“You can check. It’s true.”
“Interesting. Yet robots made the least headway there.” The sociologist said thoughtfully, “Perhaps that is because of Earth’s large population. It would take that much longer. Yes... Still, you have robots even in your Cities.”
“Yes,” said Baley.
“More now than, say, fifty years ago.”
Baley nodded impatiently. “Yes.”
“Then it fits. The difference is only one of time. Robots tend to displace human labor. The robot economy moves in only one direction. More robots and fewer humans. I’ve studied population data very carefully and I’ve plotted it and made a few extrapolations.” He paused in sudden surprise. “Why, that’s rather an application of mathematics to sociology, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Baley.
“There may be something to it, at that. I will have to give the matter thought. In any case, these are the conclusions I have come to, and I am convinced there is no doubt as to their correctness. The robot-human ratio in any economy that has accepted robot labor tends continuously to increase despite any laws that are passed to prevent it. The increase is slowed, but never stopped. At first the human population increases, but the robot population increases much more quickly. Then, after a certain critical point is reached...
Quemot stopped again, then said, “Now let’s see. I wonder if the critical point could be determined exactly; if you could really put a figure to it. There’s your mathematics again.”
Baley stirred restlessly. “What happens after the critical point is reached, Dr. Quemot?”
“Eh? Oh, the human population begins actually to decline. A planet approaches a true social stability. Aurora will have to. Even your Earth will have to. Earth may take a few more centuries, but it is inevitable.”
“What do you mean by social stability?”
“The situation here. In Solaria. A world in which the humans are the leisure class only. So there is no reason to fear the other Outer Worlds. We need only wait a century perhaps and they shall all be Solarians. I suppose that will be the end of human history, in a way; at least, its fulfillment. Finally, finally, all men will have all they can need and want. You know, there is a phrase I once picked up; I don’t know where it comes from; something about the pursuit of happiness.”
Baley said thoughtfully, “All men are ‘endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights... among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“You’ve hit it. Where’s that from?”
“Some old document,�
� said Baley.
“Do you see how that is changed here on Solaria and eventually in all the Galaxy? The pursuit will be over. The rights mankind will be heir to will be life, liberty, and happiness. Just that. Happiness.”
Baley said dryly, “Maybe so, but a man has been killed on your Solaria and another may yet die.”
He felt regret almost the moment he spoke, for the expression on Quemot’s face was as though he had been struck with an open palm. The old man’s head bowed. He said without looking up, “I have answered your questions as well as I could. Is there anything else you wish?”
“I have enough. Thank you, sir. I am sorry to have intruded on your grief at your friend’s death.”
Quemot looked up slowly. “It will be hard to find another chess partner. He kept our appointments most punctually and he played an extraordinarily even game. He was a good Solarian.”
“I understand,” said Baley softly. “May I have your permission to use your viewer to make contact with the next person I must see?”
“Of course,” said Quemot. “My robots are yours. And now I will leave you. Done viewing.”
A robot was at Baley’s side within thirty seconds of Quemot’s disappearance and Baley wondered once again how these creatures were managed. He had seen Quemot’s fingers move toward a contact as he had left and that was all.
Perhaps the signal was quite a generalized one, saying only, “Do your duty!” Perhaps robots listened to all that went on and were always aware of what a human might desire at any given moment, and if the particular robot was not designed for a particular job in either mind or body, the radio web that united all robots went into action and the correct robot was spurred into action.
For a moment Baley had the vision of Solaria as a robotic net with holes that were small and continually growing smaller, with every human being caught neatly in place. He thought of Quemot’s picture of worlds turning into Solarias; of nets forming and tightening even on Earth, until–His thoughts were disrupted as the robot who had entered spoke with the quiet and even respect of the machine. “I am ready to help you, master.”
Baley said, “Do you know how to reach the place where Rikaine Delmarre once worked?”
“Yes, master.”
Baley shrugged. He would never teach himself to avoid asking useless questions. The robots knew. Period. It occurred to him that, to handle robots with true efficiency, one must needs be expert, a sort of roboticist. How well did the average Solarian do, he wondered? Probably only so-so.
He said, “Get Delmarre’s place and contact his assistant. If the assistant is not there, locate him wherever he is.”
“Yes, master.”
As the robot turned to go, Baley called after it, “Wait! What time is it at the Delmarre work place?”
“About 06:30, master.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, master.”
Again Baley felt annoyance at a world that made itself victim of the coming and going of a sun. It was what came of living on bare planetary surface.
He thought fugitively of Earth, then tore his mind away. While he kept firmly to the matter in hand, he managed well. Slipping into homesickness would ruin him.
He said, “Call the assistant, anyway, boy, and tell him it’s government business–and have one of the other boys bring something to eat. A sandwich and a glass of milk will do.”
He chewed thoughtfully at the sandwich, which contained a kind of smoked meat, and with half his mind thought that Daneel Olivaw would certainly consider every article of food suspect after what had happened to Gruer. And Daneel might be right, too.
He finished the sandwich without ill effects, however (immediate ill effects, at any rate), and sipped at the milk. He had not learned from Quemot what he had come to learn, but he had learned something. As he sorted it out in his mind, it seemed he had learned a good deal.
Little about the murder, to be sure, but more about the larger matter.
The robot returned. “The assistant will accept contact, master.”
“Good. Was there any trouble about it?”
“The assistant was asleep, master.”
“Awake now, though?”
“Yes, master.”
The assistant was facing him suddenly, sitting up in bed and wearing an expression of sullen resentment.
Baley reared back as though a force-barrier had been raised before him without warning. Once again a piece of vital information had been withheld from him. Once again he had not asked the right questions.
No one had thought to tell him that Rikaine Delmarre’s assistant was a woman.
Her hair was a trifle darker than ordinary Spacer bronze and there was a quantity of it, at the moment in disorder. Her face was oval, her nose a trifle bulbous, and her chin large. She scratched slowly at her side just above the waist and Baley hoped the sheet would remain in position. He remembered Gladia’s free attitude toward what was permitted while viewing.
Baley felt a sardonic amusement at his own disillusion at that moment. Earthmen assumed, somehow, that all Spacer women were beautiful, and certainly Gladia had reinforced that assumption. This one, though, was plain even by Earthly standards.
It therefore surprised Baley that he found her contralto attractive when she said, “See here, do you know what time it is?”
“I do,” said Baley, “but since I will be seeing you, I felt I should warn you.
“Seeing me? Skies above–” Her eyes grew wide and she put a hand to her chin. (She wore a ring on one finger, the first item of personal adornment Baley had yet seen on Solaria.) “Wait, you’re not my new assistant, are you?”
“No. Nothing like that. I’m here to investigate the death of Rikaine Delmarre.”
“Oh? Well, investigate, then.”
“What is your name?”
“Kiorissa Cantoro.”
“And how long have you been working with Dr. Delmarre?”
“Three years.”
“I assume you’re now at the place of business.” (Baley felt uncomfortable at that noncommittal phrase, but he did not know what to call a place where a fetal engineer worked.)
“If you mean, am I at the farm?” said Kiorissa discontentedly, “I certainly am. I haven’t left it since the old man was done in, and I won’t leave it, looks like, till an assistant is assigned me. Can you arrange that, by the way?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have no influence with anyone here.”
“Thought I’d ask.”
Kiorissa pulled off the sheet and climbed out of bed without any self consciousness. She was wearing a one-piece sleeping suit and her hand went to the notch of the seam, where it ended at the neck.
Baley said hurriedly, “Just one moment. If you’ll agree to see me, that will end my business with you for now and you may dress in privacy.”
“In privacy?” She put out her lower lip and stared at Baley curiously. “You’re finicky, aren’t you? Like the boss.”
“Will you see me? I would like to look over the farm.”
“I don’t get this business about seeing, but if you want to view the farm I’ll tour you. If you’ll give me a chance to wash and take care of a few things and wake up a little, I’ll enjoy the break in routine.”
“I don’t want to view anything. I want to see.”
The woman cocked her head to one side and her keen look had something of professional interest in it. “Are you a pervert or something? When was the last time you underwent a gene analysis?”
“Jehoshaphat!” muttered Baley. “Look, I’m Elijah Baley. I’m from Earth.”
“From Earth?” She cried vehemently. “Skies above! Whatever are you doing here? Or is this some kind of complicated joke?”
“I’m not joking. I was called in to investigate Delmarre’s death. I’m a plainclothesman, a detective.”
“You mean that kind of investigation. But I thought everyone knew his wife did it.”
“No, ma’am, there’s some ques
tion about it in my mind. May I have your permission to see the farm and you. As an Earthman, you understand, I’m not accustomed to viewing. It makes me uncomfort
able. I have permission from the Head of Security to see people who might help me. I will show you the document, if you wish.”
“Let’s see it.”
Baley held the official strip up before her imaged eyes.
She shook her head. “Seeing! It’s filthy. Still, skies above, what’s a little more filth in this filthy job? Look here, though, don’t you come close to me. You stay a good distance away. We can shout or send messages by robot, if we have to. You understand?”
“I understand.”
Her sleeping suit split open at the seam just as contact broke off and the last word he heard from her was a muttered: “Earthman!”
“That’s close enough,” said Klorissa.
Baley, who was some twenty-five feet from the woman, said, “It’s all right this distance, but I’d like to get indoors quickly.”
It had not been so bad this time, somehow. He had scarcely minded the plane trip, but there was no point in overdoing it. He kept himself from yanking at his collar to allow himself to breathe more freely.
Klorissa said sharply, “What’s wrong with you? You look kind of beat.”
Baley said, “I’m not used to the outdoors.”
“That’s right! Earthman! You’ve got to be cooped up or something. Skies above!” Her tongue passed over her lips as though it tasted something unappetizing. “Well, come in, then, but let me move out of the way first. All right. Get in.”
Her hair was in two thick braids that wound about her head in a complicated geometrical pattern. Baley wondered how long it took to arrange like that and then remembered that, in all probability, the unerring mechanical fingers of a robot did the job.
The hair set off her oval face and gave it a kind of symmetry that made it pleasant if not pretty. She did not wear any facial makeup, nor, for that matter, were her clothes meant to do more than cover her serviceably. For the most part they were a subdued dark blue except for her gloves, which covered her to mid-arm and were a badly clashing lilac in color. Apparently they were not part of her ordinary costume. Baley noted the thickening of one finger of the gloves owing to the presence of the ring underneath.