by Isaac Asimov
“And if you were wrong?”
Something like a small sign of spasm crossed Daneel’s face, as though he were being asked to consider something that interfered with the smooth working of the positronic pathways in his brain. He said, “But we have not been wrong.”
“You cannot say that. We are approaching the landing and that is sure to be the danger moment. In fact, at this point there is no need to sabotage the ship. My personal danger is greatest now—right now. I can’t hide in this room if I’m to disembark at Aurora. I will have to pass through the ship and be within reach of others. Have you taken precautions to keep the landing safe?” (He was being petty-striking out at Daneel needlessly because he was chafing at his long imprisonment—and at the indignity of his moment of collapse.)
But Daneel said calmly, “We have, Partner Elijah. And, incidentally, we have landed. We are now resting on the surface of Aurora.”
For a moment, Baley was bewildered. He looked around wildly, but of course there was nothing to see but an enclosing room. He had felt and heard nothing of what Daneel had described. None of the acceleration, or heat, or wind whistle.—Or had Daneel deliberately brought up the matter of his personal danger once again, in order to make sure he would not think of other unsettling—but minor—matters.
Baley said, “And yet there’s still the matter of getting off the ship. How do I do that without being vulnerable to possible enemies?”
Daneel walked to one wall and touched a spot upon it. The wall promptly split in two, the two halves moving apart. Baley found himself looking into a long cylinder, a tunnel.
Giskard had entered the room at that moment from the other side and said, “Sir, the three of us will move through the exit tube. Others have it under observation from without. At the other end of the tube, Dr. Fastolfe is waiting.”
“We have taken every precaution,” said Daneel.
Baley muttered, “My apologies, Daneel—Giskard.” He moved into the exit tube somberly. Every effort to assure that precautions had been taken also assured him that those precautions were thought necessary.
Baley liked to think he was no coward, but he was on a strange planet, with no way of telling friend from enemy, with no way of taking comfort in anything familiar (except, of course, Daneel). At crucial moments, he thought with a shiver, he would be without enclosure to warm him and to give him relief.
PART 4.
FASTOLFE
14
Dr. Han Fastolfe was indeed waiting—and smiling. He was tall and thin, with light brown hair that was not very thick and there were, of course, his ears. It was the ears that Baley remembered, even after three years. Large ears, standing away from his head, giving him a vaguely humorous appearance, a pleasant homeliness. It was the ears that made Baley smile, rather than Fastolfe’s welcome.
Baley wondered briefly if Auroran medical technology did not extend to the minor plastic surgery required to correct the ungainliness of those ears.—But then, it might well be that Fastolfe liked their appearance as Baley himself (rather to his surprise) did. There is something to be said about a face that makes one smile.
Perhaps Fastolfe valued being liked at first glance. Or was it that he found it useful to be underestimated? Or just different?
Fastolfe said, “Plainclothesman Elijah Baley. I remember you well, even though I persist in thinking of you as possessing the face of the actor who portrayed you.”
Baley’s face turned grim. “That hyperwave dramatization haunts me, Dr. Fastolfe. If I knew where I could go to escape—”
“Nowhere,” said Fastolfe genially. “At least ordinarily. So if you don’t like it, we’ll expunge it from our conversations right now. I shall never mention it again. Agreed?”
“Thank you.” With calculated suddenness, he thrust out his hand at Fastolfe.
Fastolfe hesitated perceptibly. Then he took Baley’s hand, holding it gingerly—and not for long—and said, “I shall assume you are not a walking sack of infection, Mr. Baley.”
Then he said ruefully, staring at his hands, “I must admit, though, that my hands have been treated with an inert—film that doesn’t feel entirely comfortable. I’m a creature of the irrational fears of my society.”
Baley shrugged. “So are we all. I do not relish the thought of being Outside—in the open air, that is. For that matter, I do not relish having had to come to Aurora under the circumstances in which I find myself.”
“I understand that well, Mr. Baley. I have a closed car for you here and, when we come to my establishment, we will do our best to continue to keep you enclosed.”
“Thank you, but in the course of my stay on Aurora, I feel that it will be necessary for me to stay Outside on occasion. I am prepared for that—as best I can be.”
“I understand, but we will inflict the Outside on you only if it’s necessary. That is not now the case so please consent to be enclosed.”
The car was waiting in the shadow of the tunnel and there would scarcely be a trace of Outside in passing from the latter to the former. Behind him, Baley was aware of both Daneel and Giskard, quite dissimilar in appearance but both identical in grave and waiting attitude—and both endlessly patient.
Fastolfe opened the back door and said, “Please to get in.”
Baley entered. Quickly and smoothly, Daneel entered behind him, while Giskard, virtually simultaneously, in what seemed almost like a well-choreographed dance movement, entered on the other side. Baley found himself wedged, but not oppressively so, between them. In fact, he welcomed the thought that, between himself and the Outside, on both sides, was the thickness of a robotic body.
But there was no Outside. Fastolfe climbed into the front seat and, as the door closed behind him, the windows blanked out, and a soft, artificial light suffused the interior.
Fastolfe said, “I don’t generally drive this way, Mr. Baley, but I don’t mind a great deal and you may find it more comfortable. The car is completely computerized, knows where it’s going, and can deal with any obstructions or emergencies. We need interfere in no way.”
There was the faintest feeling of acceleration and then a vague, barely noticeable sensation of motion.
Fastolfe said, “This is a secure passage, Mr. Baley. I have gone to considerable trouble to make certain that as few people as possible know you will be in this car and certainly you will not be detected within it. The trip by car—which rides on airjets, by the way, so that it is an airfoil, actually—will not take long, but, if you wish, you can seize the opportunity to rest. You are quite safe now.”
“You speak,” said Baley, “as though you think I’m in danger. I was protected to the point of imprisonment on the ship and again now.” Baley looked about the small, enclosed interior of the car, within which he was hemmed by the frame of metal and opacified glass, to say nothing of the metallic frame of two robots.
Fastolfe laughed lightly. “I am overreacting, I know, but feeling runs high on Aurora. You arrive here at a time of crisis for us and I would rather be made to look silly by overreacting than to run the terrible risk that underreacting entails.”
Baley said, “I believe you understand, Dr. Fastolfe, that my failure here would be a blow to Earth.”
“I understand that well. I am as determined as you are to prevent your failure. Believe me.”
“I do. Furthermore, my failure here, for whatever reason, will also be my personal and professional ruin on Earth.”
Fastolfe turned in his seat to look at Baley with a shocked expression. “Really? That would not be warranted.”
Baley shrugged. “I agree, but it will happen. I will be the obvious target for a desperate Earth government.”
“This was not in my mind when I asked for you, Mr. Baley. You may be sure I will do what I can. Though, in all honesty”—his eyes fell away—“that will be little enough, if we lose.”
“I know that,” said Baley dourly. He leaned back against the soft upholstery and closed his eyes. The motion of the
car was limited to a gentle lulling sway, but Baley did not sleep. Instead, he thought hard—for what that was worth.
15
Baley did not experience the Outside at the other end of the trip, either. When he emerged from the airfoil, he was in an underground garage and a small elevator brought him up to ground level (as it turned out).
He was ushered into a sunny room and, as he passed through the direct rays of the sun (yes, faintly orange), he shrank away a bit.
Fastolfe noticed. He said, “The windows are not opacifiable, though they can be darkened. I will do that, if you like. In fact, I should have thought of that—”
“No need,” said Baley gruffly. “I’ll just sit with my back to it. I must—acclimate myself.”
“If you wish, but let me know if, at any time, you grow too uncomfortable.—Mr. Baley, it is late morning here on this part of Aurora. I don’t know your personal time on the ship. If you have been awake for many hours and, would like to sleep, that can be arranged. If you are wakeful but not hungry you need not eat. However, if you feel you can manage it, you are welcome to have lunch with me in a short while.”
“That would fit in well with my personal time, as it happens.”
“Excellent. I’ll remind you that our day is about seven percent shorter than Earth’s. It shouldn’t involve you in too much biorhythmic difficulty, but if it does, we will try to adjust ourselves to your needs.”
“Thank you.”
“Finally—I have no clear idea what your food preferences might be.”
“I’ll manage to eat whatever is put before me.”
“Nevertheless, I won’t feel offended if anything seems not palatable.”
“Thank you.”
“And you won’t mind if Daneel and Giskard join us?”
Baley smiled faintly. “Will they be eating, too?”
There was no answering smile—from Fastolfe. He said seriously, “No, but I want them to be with you at all times.”
“Still danger? Even here?”
“I trust nothing entirely. Even here.”
A robot entered. “Sir, lunch is served.”
Fastolfe nodded. “Very good, Faber. We will be at the table in a few moments.”
Baley said, “How many robots do you have?”
“Quite a few. We are not at the Solarian level of ten thousand robots to a human being, but I have more than the average number—fifty-seven. The house is a large one and it serves as my office and my workshop as well. Then, too, my wife, when I have one, must have space, enough to be insulated from my work in a separate wing and must be served independently.”
“Well, with fifty-seven robots, I imagine you can spare two. I feel the less guilty at your having sent Giskard and Daneel to escort me to Aurora.”
“It was no casual choice, I assure you, Mr. Baley. Giskard is my majordomo and my right hand. He has been with me all my adult life.”
“Yet you sent him on the trip to get me. I am honored,” said Baley.
“It is a measure of your importance, Mr. Baley. Giskard is the most reliable of my robots, strong and sturdy.”
Baley’s eyes flickered toward Daneel and Fastolfe added, “I don’t include my friend Daneel in these calculations. He is not my servant, but an achievement of which I have the weakness to be extremely proud. He is the first of his class and, while Dr. Roj Nemennuh Sarton was his designer and model, the man who—”
He paused delicately, but Baley nodded brusquely and said, “I understand.”
He did not require the phrase to be completed with a reference to Sarton’s murder on Earth.
“While Sarton supervised the actual construction,” Fastolfe went on, “it was I whose theoretical calculations made Daneel possible,”
Fastolfe smiled at Daneel, who bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Baley said, “There was Jander, too.”
“Yes.” Fastolfe shook his head and looked downcast. “I should perhaps have kept him with me, as I do Daneel. But he was my second humaniform and that makes a difference. It is Daneel who is my first-born, so to speak—a special case.”
“And you construct no more humaniform robots now?”
“No more. But come,” said Fastolfe, rubbing his hands. “We must have our lunch. I do not think, Mr. Baley, that on Earth the population is accustomed to what I might term natural food. We are having shrimp salad, together with bread and cheese, milk, if you wish, or any of an assortment of fruit juices. It’s all very simple. Ice cream for dessert.”
“All traditional Earth dishes,” said Baley, “which exist now in their original form only in Earth’s ancient literature.”
“None of it is entirely common here on Aurora, but I didn’t think it made sense to subject you to our own version of gourmet dining, which involves food items and spices of Auroran varieties. The taste would have to be acquired.”
He rose. “Please come with me, Mr. Baley. There will just be the two of us and we will not stand on ceremony or indulge in unnecessary dining ritual.”
“Thank you,” said Baley. “I accept that as a kindness. I have relieved the tedium of the trip here by a rather intensive viewing of material relating to Aurora and I know that proper politeness requires many aspects to a ceremonial meal that I would dread.”
“You need not dread.”
Baley said, “Could we break ceremony even to the extent of talking business over the meal, Dr. Fastolfe? I must not lose time unnecessarily.”
“I sympathize with that point of view. We will indeed talk business and I imagine I can rely on you to say nothing to anyone concerning that lapse. I would not want to be expelled from polite society.” He chuckled, then said, “Though I should not laugh. It is nothing to laugh at. Losing time may be more than an inconvenience alone. It could easily be fatal.”
16
The room that Baley left was a spare one: several chairs, a chest of drawers, something that looked like a piano but had brass valves in the place of keys, some abstract designs on the walls that seemed to shimmer with light. The floor was a smooth checkerboard of several shades of brown, perhaps designed to be reminiscent of wood, and although it shone with highlights as though freshly waxed, it did not feel slippery underfoot.
The dining room, though it had the same floor, was like it in no other way. It was a long rectangular room, overburdened with decoration. It contained six large square tables that were clearly modules that could be assembled in various fashions. A bar was to be found along one short wall, with gleaming bottles of various colors standing before a curved mirror that seemed to lend a nearly infinite extension to the room it reflected. Along the other short wall were four recesses, in each of which a robot waited.
Both long walls were mosaics, in which the color’s slowly changed. One was a planetary scene, though Baley could not tell if it were Aurora, or another planet, or something completely imaginary. At one end there was a wheat field (or something of that sort) filled with elaborate farm machinery, all robot-controlled. As one’s eye traveled along the length of the wall, that gave way to scattered human habitations, be coming, at the other end, what Baley felt to be the Auroran version of a City.
The other long wall was astronomical. A planet, blue-white, lit by a distant sun, reflected light in such a manner that not the closest examination could free one from the thought that it was slowly rotating. The stars that surrounded, it—some faint, some bright—seemed also to be changing their patterns, though when the eye concentrated on some small grouping and remained fixed there, the stars seemed immobile.
Baley found it all confusing and repellent.
Fastolfe said, “Rather a work of art, Mr. Baley. Far too expensive to be worth it, though, but Fanya would have it. Fanya is my current partner.”
“Will she be joining us, Dr. Fastolfe?”
“No, Mr. Baley. As I said, just the two of us. For the duration, I have asked her to remain in her own quarters. I do not want to subject her to this problem we have. You unde
rstand, I hope?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Come. Please take your seat.”
One of the tables was set with dishes, cups, and elaborate cutlery, not all of which were familiar to Baley. In the center was a tall, somewhat tapering cylinder that looked as though it might be a gigantic chess pawn made out of a gray rocky material.
Baley, as he sat down, could not resist reaching toward it and touching it with a finger.
Fastolfe smiled, “It’s a spicer. It possesses simple controls that allows one to use it to deliver a fixed amount of any of a dozen different condiments on any portion of a dish. To do it properly, one picks it up and performs rather intricate evolutions that are meaningless in themselves but that are much valued by fashionable Aurorans as symbols of the grace and delicacy with which meals should be served. When I was younger, I could, with my thumb and two fingers, do the triple genuflection and produce salt as the spicer struck my palm. Now if I tried it, I’d run a good risk of braining my guest. I bust you won’t mind if I do not try.”
“I urge you not to try, Dr. Fastolfe.”
A robot placed the salad on the table, another brought a tray of fruit juices, a third brought the bread and cheese, a fourth adjusted the napkins. All four operated in close coordination, weaving in and out without collision or any sign of difficulty. Baley watched them in astonishment.
They ended, without any apparent sign of prearrangements, one at each side of the table. They stepped back in unison, bowed in unison, turned in unison, and returned to the recesses along the wall at the far end of the room. Baley was suddenly aware of Daneel and Giskard in the room as well. He had not seen them come in. They waited in two recesses that had somehow appeared along the wall with the wheat-field. Daneel was the closer.