The Caves of Steel (23 page)

“Hello, Mr. Baley.”

“Oh, hello, Vince. How’re you doing?”

“Not so good, Mr. Baley.”

He was looking about hungrily. Baley thought: He looks lost, half dead—declassified.

Then, savagely, his lips almost moving with the force of his emotion, he thought: But what does he want from me?

He said, “I’m sorry, kid.” What else was there to say?

“I keep thinking—maybe something has turned up.”

Norris moved in close and spoke into Baley’s ear. “Someone’s got to stop this sort of thing. They’re going to move out Chen-low now.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“No, I haven’t. Damn it, he’s a C-3. He’s got ten years behind him.”

“I grant that. But a machine with legs can do his work. Who’s next?”

Young Vince Barrett was oblivious to the whispers. He said out of the depths of his own thinking, “Mr. Baley?”

“Yes, Vince?”

“You know what they say? They say Lyrane Millane, the subetherics dancer, is really a robot.”

“That’s silly.”

“Is it? They say they can make robots look just like humans; with a special plastic skin, sort of.”

Baley thought guiltily of R. Daneel and found no words. He shook his head.

The boy said, “Do you suppose anyone will mind if I just walk around? It makes me feel better to see the old place.”

“Go ahead, kid.”

The youngster wandered off. Baley and Norris watched him go. Norris said, “It looks as though the Medievalists are right.”

“You mean back to the soil? Is that it, Phil?”

“
No
. I mean about the robots. Back to the soil. Huh! Old Earth has an unlimited future. We don’t need robots, that’s all.”

Baley muttered, “Eight billion people and the uranium running out! What’s unlimited about it?”

“What if the uranium does run out. We’ll import it. Or we’ll discover other nuclear processes. There’s no way you can stop mankind, Lije. You’ve got to be optimistic about it and have faith in the old human brain. Our greatest resource is ingenuity and we’ll never run out of that, Lije.”

He was fairly started now. He went on, “For one thing, we can use sunpower and that’s good for billions of years. We can build space stations inside Mercury’s orbit to act as energy accumulators. We’ll transmit energy to Earth by direct beam.”

This project was not new to Baley. The speculative fringe of science had been playing with the notion for a hundred and fifty years at least. What was holding it up was the impossibility so far of projecting a beam tight enough to reach fifty million miles without dispersal to uselessness. Baley said as much.

Norris said, “When it’s necessary, it’ll be done. Why worry?”

Baley had the picture of an Earth of unlimited energy. Population could continue to increase. The yeast farms could expand, hydroponic culture intensify. Energy was the only thing indispensable. The raw minerals could be brought in from the uninhabited rocks of the System. If ever water became a bottleneck, more could be brought in from the moons of Jupiter. Hell, the oceans could be frozen and dragged out into Space where they could circle Earth as moonlets of ice. There they would be, always available for use, while the ocean bottoms would represent more land for exploitation, more room to live. Even carbon and oxygen could be maintained and increased on Earth through utilization of the methane atmosphere of Titan and the frozen oxygen of Umbriel.

Earth’s population could reach a trillion or two. Why not? There was a time when the current population of eight billion would have been viewed as impossible. There was a time when a population of a single billion would have been unthinkable. There had always been prophets of Malthusian doom in every generation since Medieval times and they had always proven wrong.

But what would Fastolfe say? A world of a trillion? Surely! But they would be dependent on imported air and water and upon an energy supply from complicated storehouses fifty million miles away. How incredibly unstable that would be. Earth would be, and remain, a feather’s weight away from complete catastrophe at the slightest failure of any part of the System-wide mechanism.

Baley said, “I think it would be easier to ship off some of the surplus population, myself.” It was more
an answer to the picture he had himself conjured up than to anything Norris had said.

“Who’d have us?” said Norris with a bitter lightness.

“Any uninhabited planet.”

Norris rose, patted Baley on the shoulder. “Lije, you eat your chicken, and recover. You
must
be living on knockout pills.” He left, chuckling.

Baley watched him leave with a humorless twist to his mouth. Norris would spread the news and it would be weeks before the humor boys of the office (every office has them) would lay off. But at least it got him off the subject of young Vince, robots, or declassification.

He sighed as he put a fork into the now cold and somewhat stringy chicken.

Baley finished the last of the yeast-nut and it was only then that R. Daneel left his own desk (assigned him that morning) and approached.

Baley eyed him uncomfortably. “Well?”

R. Daneel said, “The Commissioner is not in his office and it is not known when he’ll be back. I’ve told R. Sammy we will use it and that he is to allow no one but the Commissioner to enter.”

“What are we going to use it for?”

“Greater privacy. Surely you agree that we must plan our next move. After all, you do not intend to abandon the investigation, do you?”

That was precisely what Baley most longed to do, but obviously, he could not say so. He rose and led the way to Enderby’s office.

Once in the office, Baley said, “All right, Daneel. What is it?”

The robot said, “Partner Elijah, since last night, you are not yourself. There is a definite alteration in your mental aura.”

A horrible thought sprang full-grown into Baley’s mind. He cried, “Are you telepathic?”

It was not a possibility he would have considered at a less disturbed moment.

“No. Of course not,” said R. Daneel.

Baley’s panic ebbed. He said, “Then what the devil do you mean by talking about my mental aura?”

“It is merely an expression I use to describe a sensation that you do not share with me.”

“What sensation?”

“It is difficult to explain, Elijah. You will recall that I was originally designed to study human psychology for our people back in Spacetown.”

“Yes, I know. You were adjusted to detective work by the simple installation of a justice-desire circuit.” Baley did not try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Exactly, Elijah. But my original design remains essentially unaltered. I was constructed for the purpose of cerebroanalysis.”

“For analyzing brain waves?”

“Why, yes. It can be done by field-measurements without the necessity of direct electrode contact, if the proper receiver exists. My mind is such a receiver. Is that principle not applied on Earth?”

Baley didn’t know. He ignored the question and said, cautiously, “If you measure the brain waves, what do you get out of it?”

“Not thoughts, Elijah. I get a glimpse of emotion and most of all, I can analyze temperament, the underlying drives and attitudes of a man. For instance, it was I who was able to ascertain that Commissioner Enderby was incapable of killing a man under the circumstances prevailing at the time of the murder.”

“And they eliminate him as a suspect on your say-so.”

“Yes. It was safe enough to do so. I am a very delicate machine in that respect.”

Again a thought struck Baley. “Wait! Commissioner Enderby didn’t know he was being cerebroanalyzed, did he?”

“There was no necessity of hurting his feelings.”

“I mean you just stood there and looked at him. No machinery. No electrodes. No needles and graphs.”

“Certainly not. I am a self-contained unit.”

Baley bit his lower lip in anger and chagrin. It had been the one remaining inconsistency, the one loophole through which a forlorn stab might yet be made in an attempt to pin the crime on Spacetown.

R. Daneel had stated that the Commissioner had been cerebroanalyzed and one hour later the Commissioner himself had, with apparent candor, denied any knowledge of the term. Certainly no man could have undergone the shattering experience of electroencephalographic measurements by electrode and graph under the suspicion of murder without an unmistakable impression of what cerebroanalysis must be.

But now that discrepancy had evaporated. The Commissioner had been cerebroanalyzed and had never known it. R. Daneel told the truth; so had the Commissioner.

“Well,” said Baley sharply, “what does cerebroanalysis tell you about me?”

“You are disturbed.”

“That’s a great discovery, isn’t it? Of course, I’m disturbed.”

“Specifically, though, your disturbance is due to a clash between motivations within you. On the one hand your devotion to the principles of your profession urges you to look deeply into this conspiracy of
Earthmen who lay siege to us last night. Another motivation, equally strong, forces you in the opposite direction. This much is clearly written in the electric field on your cerebral cells.”

“My cerebral cells,
nuts
,” said Baley, feverishly. “Look, I’ll tell you why there’s no point in investigating your so-called conspiracy. It has nothing to do with the murder. I thought it might have. I’ll admit that. Yesterday in the kitchen, I thought we were in danger. But what happened? They followed us out, were quickly lost on the strips, and that was that. That was not the action of well-organized and desperate men.

“My own son found out where we were staying easily enough. He called the Department. He didn’t even have to identify himself. Our precious conspirators could have done the same if they had really wanted to hurt us.”

“Didn’t they?”

“Obviously not. If they had wanted riots, they could have started one at the shoe counter, and yet they backed out tamely enough before one man and a blaster. One
robot
, and a blaster which they must have known you would be unable to fire once they recognized what you were. They’re Medievalists. They’re harmless crackpots. You wouldn’t know that, but I should have. And I would have, if it weren’t for the fact that this whole business has me thinking in—in foolish melodramatic terms.

“I tell you I know the type of people that become Medievalists. They’re soft, dreamy people who find life too hard for them here and get lost in an ideal world of the past that never really existed. If you could cerebroanalyze a movement as you do an individual, you would find they are no more capable of murder than Julius Enderby himself.”

R. Daneel said slowly, “I cannot accept your statements at face value.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your conversion to this view is too sudden. There are certain discrepancies, too. You arranged the appointment with Dr. Gerrigel hours before the evening meal. You did not know of my food sac then and could not have suspected me as the murderer. Why
did
you call him, then?”

“I suspected you even then.”

“And last night you spoke as you slept.”

Baley’s eyes widened. “What did I say?”

“Merely the one word ‘Jessie’ several times repeated. I believe you were referring to your wife.”

Baley let his tight muscles loosen. He said, shakily, “I had a nightmare. Do you know what it is?”

“I do not know by personal experience, of course. The dictionary definition has it that it is a bad dream.”

“And do you know what a dream is?”

“Again, the dictionary definition only. It is an illusion of reality experienced during the temporary suspension of conscious thought which you call sleep.”

“All right. I’ll buy that. An illusion. Sometimes the illusions can seem damned real. Well, I dreamed my wife was in danger. It’s the sort of dream people often have. I called her name. That happens under such circumstances, too. You can take my word for it.”

“I am only too glad to do so. But it brings up a thought. How did Jessie find out I was a robot?”

Baley’s forehead went moist again. “We’re not going into that again, are we? The rumor—”

“I am sorry to interrupt, partner Elijah, but there is no rumor. If there were, the City would be alive with unrest today. I have checked reports coming into the Department and this is not so. There simply is no rumor. Therefore, how did your wife find out?”

“Jehoshaphat! What are you trying to say? Do you think my wife is one of the members of—of …”

“Yes, Elijah.”

Baley gripped his hands together tightly. “Well, she isn’t, and we won’t discuss that point any further.”

“This is not like you, Elijah. In the course of duty, you accused me of murder twice.”

“And is this your way of getting even?”

“I am not sure I understand what you mean by the phrase. Certainly, I approve your readiness to suspect me. You had your reasons. They were wrong, but they might easily have been right. Equally strong evidence points to your wife.”

“As a murderess? Why, damn you, Jessie wouldn’t hurt her worst enemy. She couldn’t set foot outside the City. She couldn’t … Why, if you were flesh and blood I’d—”

“I merely say that she is a member of the conspiracy. I say that she should be questioned.”

“Not on your life. Not on whatever it is you call your life. Now, listen to me. The Medievalists aren’t after our blood. It’s not the way they do things. But they are trying to get you out of the City. That much is obvious. And they’re trying to do it by a kind of psychological attack. They’re trying to make life unpleasant for you and for me, since I’m with you. They could easily have found out Jessie was my wife, and it was an obvious move for them to let the news leak to her. She’s like any other human being. She doesn’t
like
robots. She wouldn’t want me to associate with one, especially if she thought it involved danger, and surely they would imply that. I tell you it worked. She begged all night to have me abandon the case or to get you out of the City somehow.”

“Presumably,” said R. Daneel, “you have a very strong urge to protect your wife against questioning. It
seems obvious to me that you are constructing this line of argument without really believing it.”