by Isaac Asimov
“Capital Plaza,” said D.G. in a low voice. “This is the official heartbeat of the planet. Government offices are located here, the Planetary Congress meets here, the Executive Mansion is found here, and so on.”
“I’m sorry, D.G., but this is not very impressive. These are small and uninteresting buildings.”
D.G. smiled. “You see only an occasional top, my lady. The buildings themselves are located underground—all interconnected. It’s a single complex, really, and is still growing. It’s a self-contained city, you know. It, along with the surrounding residential areas, makes up Baleytown.”
“Do you plan to have everything underground eventually? The whole city? The whole world?”
“Most of us look forward to an underground world, yes.”
“They have underground Cities on Earth, I understand.”
“Indeed they do, my lady. The so-called Caves of Steel.”
“You imitate that here, then?”
“It’s not simple imitation. We add our own ideas and we’re coming to a halt, my lady, and any moment we’ll be asked to step out. I’d cling to the coverall openings if I were you. The whistling wind on the Plaza in winter is legendary.”
Gladia did so, fumbling rather as she tried to put the edges of the openings together. “It’s not simple imitation, you say.”
“No. We design our underground with the weather in mind. Since our weather is, on the whole, harsher than Earth’s, some modification in architecture is required. Properly built, almost no energy is required to keep the complex warm in winter and cool in summer. In a way, indeed, we keep warm in winter, in part, with the stored warmth of the previous summer and cool in summer with the coolness of the previous winter.”
“What about ventilation?”
“That uses up some of the savings, but not all. It works, my lady, and someday we will match Earth’s structures. That, of course, is the ultimate ambition—to make Baleyworld a reflection of Earth.”
“I never knew that Earth was so admirable as to make imitation desirable,” said Gladia lightly.
D.G. turned his eyes on her sharply. “Make no jokes of that sort, my lady, while you are with Settlers—not even with me. Earth is no joking matter.”
Gladia said, “I’m sorry, D.G. I meant no disrespect.”
“You didn’t know. But now you know. Come, let’s get out.”
The side door of the car slid open noiselessly and D.G. turned in his seat and stepped out. He then held out one hand to help Gladia and said, “You’ll be addressing the Planetary Congress, you know, and every government official who can squeeze in will do so.”
Gladia, who had stretched out her hand to seize D.G.’s and who already felt—painfully—the cold wind on her face, shrank back suddenly. “I must make an address? I hadn’t been told that.”
D.G. looked surprised. “I rather thought you would take something of the sort for granted.”
“Well, I didn’t. And I can’t make an address. I’ve never done such a thing.”
“You must. It’s nothing terrible. It’s just a matter of saying a few words after some long and boring speeches of welcome.”
“But what can I possibly say?”
“Nothing fancy, I assure you. Just peace and love and blah—Give them half a minute’s worth. I’ll scrawl out something for you if you wish.”
And Gladia stepped out of the car and her robots followed her. Her mind was in a whirl.
9. THE SPEECH
38
As they walked into the building, they removed their coveralls and handed them to attendants. Daneel and Giskard removed theirs, too, and the attendants cast sharp glances at the latter, approaching him gingerly.
Gladia adjusted her nose plugs nervously. She had never before been in the presence of large crowds of short-lived human beings—short-lived in part, she knew (or had always been told), because they carried in their bodies chronic infections and hordes of parasites.
She whispered, “Will I get back my own coverall?”
“You will wear no one else’s,” said D.G. “They will be kept safe and radiation-sterilized.”
Gladia looked about cautiously. Somehow she felt that even optical contact might be dangerous.
“Who are those people?” She indicated several people who wore brightly colored clothing and were obviously armed.
“Security guards, madam,” said D.G.
“Even here? In a government building?”
“Absolutely. And when we’re on the platform, there will be a force-field curtain dividing us from the audience.”
“Don’t you trust your own legislature?”
D.G. half-smiled. “Not entirely. This is a raw world still and we go our own ways. We haven’t had all the edges knocked off and we don’t have robots watching over us. Then, too, we’ve got militant minority parties; we’ve got our war hawks.”
“What are war hawks?”
Most of the Baleyworlders had their coveralls removed now and were helping themselves to drinks. There was a buzz of conversation in the air and many people stared at Gladia, but no one came over to speak to her. Indeed, it was clear to Gladia that there was a circle of avoidance about her.
D.G. noticed her glance from side to side and interpreted it correctly. “They’ve been told,” he said, “that you would appreciate a little elbow room. I think they understand your fear of infection.”
“They don’t find it insulting, I hope.”
“They may, but you’ve got something that is clearly a robot with you and most Baleyworlders don’t want that kind of infection. The war hawks, particularly.”
“You haven’t told me what they are.”
“I will if there’s time. You and I and others on the platform will have to move in a little while.—Most Settlers think that, in time, the Galaxy will be theirs, that the Spacers cannot and will not compete successfully in the race for expansion. We also know it will take time. We won’t see it. Our children probably won’t. It may take a thousand years, for all we know. The war hawks don’t want to wait. They want it settled now.”
“They want war?”
“They don’t say that, precisely. And they don’t call themselves war hawks. That’s what we sensible people call them. They call themselves Earth Supremacists. After all, it’s hard to argue with people who announce they are in favor of Earth being supreme. We all favor that, but most of us don’t necessarily expect it to happen tomorrow and are not ferociously upset that it won’t.”
“And these war hawks may attack me? Physically?”
D.G. gestured for her to move forward. “I think we’ll have to get moving, madam. They’re getting us into line. No, I don’t think you’ll really be attacked, but it’s always best to be cautious.”
Gladia held back as D.G. indicated her place in line.
“Not without Daneel and Giskard, D.G. I’m still not going anywhere without them. Not even onto the platform. Not after what you just told me about the war hawks.”
“You’re asking a lot, my lady.”
“On the contrary, D.G. I’m not asking for anything. Take me home right now—with my robots.”
Gladia watched tensely as D.G. approached a small group of officials. He made a half-bow, arms in downward pointing diagonals. It was what Gladia suspected to be a Baleyworlder gesture of respect.
She did not hear what D.G. was saying, but a painful and quite involuntary fantasy passed through her mind. If there was any attempt to separate her from her robots against her will, Daneel and Giskard would surely do what they could to prevent it. They would move too quickly and precisely to really hurt anyone—but the security guards would use their weapons at once. “
She would have to prevent that at all costs—pretend she was separating from Daneel and Giskard voluntarily and ask them to wait behind for her. How could she do that? She had never been entirely without robots in her life. How could she feel safe without them? And yet what other way out of the dilemma offered itself?
D.G. returned. “Your status as heroine, my lady, is a useful bargaining chip. And, of course, I am a persuasive fellow. Your robots may go with you. They will sit on the platform behind you, but there will be no spotlight upon them. And, for the sake of the Ancestor, my lady, don’t call attention to them. Don’t even look at them.”
Gladia sighed with relief. “You’re a good fellow, D.G.,” she said shakily. “Thank you.”
She took her place near the head of the line, D.G. at her left, Daneel and Giskard behind her, and behind them a long tail of officials of both sexes.
A woman Settler, carrying a staff that seemed to be a symbol of office, having surveyed the line carefully, nodded, moved forward to the head of the line, then walked on. Everyone followed.
Gladia became aware of music in simple and rather repetitive march rhythm up ahead and wondered if she were supposed to march in some choreographed fashion. (Customs vary infinitely and irrationally from world to world, she told herself.)
Looking out of the corner of her eye, she noticed D.G. ambling forward in an indifferent way. He was almost slouching. She pursed her lips disapprovingly and walked rhythmically, head erect, spine stiff. In the absence of direction, she was going to march the way she wanted to.
They came out upon a stage and, as they did so, chairs rose smoothly from recesses in the floor. The line split up, but D.G. caught her sleeve lightly and she accompanied him. The two robots followed her.
She stood in front of the seat that D.G. quietly pointed to. The music grew loud, but the light was not quite as bright as it had been. And then, after what seemed an almost interminable wait, she felt D.G.’s touch pressing lightly downward. She sat and so did they all.
She was aware of the faint shimmer of the force-field curtain and beyond that an audience of several thousand. Every seat was filled in an amphitheater that sloped steeply upward. All were dressed in dull colors, browns and blacks, both sexes alike (as nearly as she could tell them apart). The security guards in the aisles stood out in their green and crimson uniforms. No doubt it lent them instant recognition. (Though, Gladia thought, it must make them instant targets as well.)
She turned to D.G. and said in a low voice, “You people have an enormous legislature.”
D.G. shrugged slightly. “I think everyone in the governmental apparatus is here, with mates and guests. A tribute to your popularity, my lady.”
She cast a glance over the audience from right to left and back and tried at the extreme of the arc to catch sight, out of the corner of her eye, of either Daneel or Giskard—just to be sure they were there. And then she thought, rebelliously, that nothing would happen because of a quick glance and deliberately turned her head. They were there. She also caught D.G., rolling his eyes upward in exasperation.
She started suddenly as a spotlight fell upon one of the persons on the stage, while the rest of the room dimmed further into shadowy insubstantiality.
The spotlighted figure rose and began to speak. His voice was not terribly loud, but Gladia could hear a very faint reverberation bouncing back from the far walls. It must penetrate every cranny of the large hall, she thought. Was it some form of amplification by a device so unobtrusive that she did not see it or was there a particularly clever acoustical shape to the hall? She did not know, but she encouraged her puzzled speculation to continue, for it relieved her, for a while, of the necessity of having to listen to what was being said.
At one point she heard a soft call of “Quackenbush” from some undetermined point in the audience. But for the perfect acoustics (if that was what it was), it would probably have gone unheard.
The word meant nothing to her, but from the soft, brief titter of laughter that swept the audience, she suspected it was a vulgarism. The sound quenched itself almost at once and Gladia rather admired the depth of the silence that followed.
Perhaps if the room were so perfectly acoustic that every sound could be heard, the audience had to be silent or the noise and confusion would be intolerable. Then, once the custom of silence was established and audience noise became a taboo, anything but silence would become unthinkable.—Except where the impulse to mutter “Quackenbush” became irresistible, she supposed.
Gladia realized that her thinking was growing muddy and her eyes were closing. She sat upright with a small jerk. The people of the planet were trying to honor her and if she fell asleep during the proceedings, that would surely be an intolerable insult. She tried to keep herself awake by listening, but that seemed to make her sleepier. She bit the inside of her cheeks instead and breathed deeply.
Three officials spoke, one after the other, with semimerciful semibrevity, and then Gladia jolted wide awake (Had she been actually dozing despite all her efforts—with thousands of pairs of eyes on her?) as the spotlight fell just to her left and D.G. rose to speak, standing in front of his chair.
He seemed completely at ease, with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
“Men and women of Baleyworld,” he began. “Officials, lawgivers, honored leaders, and fellow planetfolk, you have heard something of what happened on Solaria. You know that we were completely successful. You know that Lady Gladia of Aurora contributed to that success. It is time now to present some of the details to you and to all my fellow planetfolk who are watching on hypervision.”
He proceeded to describe the events in modified form and Gladia found herself dryly amused at the nature of the modifications. He passed over his own discomfiture at the hands of a humanoid robot lightly. Giskard was never mentioned; Daneel’s role was minimized; and Gladia’s heavily emphasized. The incident became a duel between two women—Gladia, and Landaree—and it was the courage and sense of authority of Gladia that had won out.
Finally, D.G. said, “And now Lady Gladia, Solarian by birth, Auroran by citizenship, but Baleyworlder by deed—” (There was strong applause at the last, the loudest Gladia had yet heard, for the earlier speakers had been but tepidly received.)
D.G. raised his hands for silence and it came at once. He then concluded, “—will now address you.”
Gladia found the spotlight on herself and turned to D.G. in sudden panic. There was applause in her ears and D.G., too, was clapping his hands. Under the cover of the applause, he leaned toward her and whispered, “You love them all, you want peace, and since you’re not a legislator, you’re unused to long speeches of small content. Say that, then sit down.”
She looked at him uncompirehendingly, far too nervous to have heard what he said.
She rose and found herself staring at endless tiers of people.
39
Gladia felt very small (not for the first time in her life, to be sure) as she faced the stage. The men on the stage were all taller than she was and so were the other three women. She felt that even though they were all sitting and she was standing, they still towered over her. As for the audience, winch was waiting now in almost menacing silence, those who composed it were, she felt quite certain, one and all larger than her in every dimension.
She took a deep breath and said, “Friends—” but it came out in a thin, breathless whistle. She cleared her throat (in what seemed a thunderous rasp) and tried again.
“Friends!” This time there was a certain normality to the sound. “You are all descended from Earthpeople, every one of you. I am descended from Earthpeople. There are no human beings anywhere on all the inhabited worlds whether Spacer worlds, Settler worlds, or Earth itself—that are not either Earthpeople by birth or Earthpeople by descent. All other differences fade to nothing in the face of that enormous fact.”
Her eyes flickered leftward to look at D.G. and she found that he was smiling very slightly and that one eyelid trembled as though it were about to wink.
She went on. “That should be our guide in every thought and act. I thank you all for thinking of me as a fellow human being and for welcoming me among you without regard to any other classification in which you might have been tempted to place me. Because of that, and
in the hope that the day will soon come when sixteen billion human beings, living in love and peace, will consider themselves as just that and nothing more—or less—I think of you not merely as friends but as kinsmen and kinswomen.”
There was an outbreak of applause that thundered in upon her and Gladia half-closed her eyes in relief. She remained standing to let it continue and bathe her in its welcome indication that she had spoken well and—what was more—enough. When it began to fade, she smiled, bowed to right and left, and began to sit down.
And then a voice came out of the audience. “Why don’t you speak in Solarian?”
She froze halfway, to her seat and looked, in shock, at D.G.
He shook his head slightly and mouthed soundlessly: “Ignore it.” He gestured as unobtrusively as possible that she seat herself.
She stared—at him for a second or two, then realized what an ungainly sight she must present, with her posterior protruding in the unfinished process of seating herself. She straightened at once and flashed a smile at the audience as she turned her head slowly from side to side. For the first time she became aware of objects in the rear whose glistening lenses focused upon her.
Of course! D.G. had mentioned that the proceedings were being watched via hyperwave. Yet it scarcely seemed to matter now. She had spoken and had been applauded and she was facing the audience she could see, erect and without, nervousness. What could the unseen addition matter?
She said, still smiling, “I consider that a friendly question. You want me to show you my accomplishments. How many want me to speak as a Solarian might? Don’t hesitate. Raise your right hands.”
A few right arms went up.
Gladia said, “The humanoid robot on Solaria heard me speak Solarian. That was what defeated it in the end. Come let me see everyone who would like a demonstration.”
More right arms went up and, in a moment, the audience became a sea of upraised arms. Gladia felt a hand tweaking at her pants leg and, with a rapid movement, she brushed it away.