Asimov's Future History Volume 4 (10 page)

R. Daneel seemed to consider that. “Is this code incorporated into your laws?”

“I’m afraid not. The code doesn’t lend itself to legal enforcement. It must be obeyed spontaneously by each individual out of a longing to do so. It is in a sense higher than any law can be.”

“Higher than law? Is that not a contradiction in terms?”

Baley smiled wryly. “Shall I quote a portion of the Bible for you? Would you be curious to hear it?”

“Please do.”

Baley let the car slow to a halt and for a few moments sat with his eyes closed, remembering. He would have liked to use the sonorous Middle English of the Medieval Bible, but to R. Daneel, Middle English would be gibberish.

He began, speaking almost casually in the words of the Modern Revision, as though he were telling a story of contemporary life, instead of dredging a tale out of Man’s dimmest past:

“‘Jesus went to the mount of Olives, and at dawn returned to the temple. All the people came to him, and he sat down and preached to them. And the scribes and Pharisees brought to him a woman caught in adultery, and when they had placed her before him, they said to him, “Master, this woman was caught in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses, in the law, commanded us to stone such offenders. What do you say?”

“‘They said this, hoping to trap him, that they might have grounds for accusations against him. But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he had not heard them. But when they continued asking him, he stood up and said to them, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”

“‘And again he stooped down and wrote on the ground. And those that heard this, being convicted by their own conscience, went away one by one, beginning with the oldest, down to the last: and Jesus was left alone, with the woman standing before him. When Jesus stood up and saw no one but the woman, he said to her, “Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you?”

“‘She said, “No one, Lord.”

“‘And Jesus said to hen, “Nor do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.’”

R. Daneel listened attentively. He said, “What is adultery?”

“That doesn’t matter. It was a crime and at the time, the accepted punishment was stoning; that is, stones were thrown at the guilty one until she was killed.”

“And the woman was guilty?”

“She was.”

“Then why was she not stoned?”

“None of the accusers felt he could after Jesus’s statement. The story is meant to show that there is something even higher than the justice which you have been filled with. There is a human impulse known as mercy; a human act known as forgiveness.”

“I am not acquainted with those words, partner Elijah.”

“I know,” muttered Baley. “I know.”

He started the squad car with a jerk and let it tear forward savagely. He was pressed back against the cushions of the seat.

“Where are we going?” asked R. Daneel.

“To Yeast-town,” said Baley, “to get the truth out of Francis Clousarr, conspirator.”

“You have a method for doing this, Elijah?”

“Not I, exactly. But you have, Daneel. A simple one.”

They sped onward.

15: Arrest of a Conspirator

B
ALEY
COULD
SENSE
the vague aroma of Yeast-town growing stronger, more pervasive. He did not find it as unpleasant as some did; Jessie, for instance. He even liked it, rather. It had pleasant connotations.

Every time he smelled raw yeast, the alchemy of sense perception threw him more than three decades into the past. He was a ten-year-old again, visiting his Uncle Boris, who was a yeast farmer. Uncle Boris always had a little supply of yeast dehectables: small cookies, chocolaty things filled with sweet liquid, hard confections in the shape of cats and dogs. Young as he was, he knew that Uncle Boris shouldn’t really have had them to give away and he always ate them very quietly, sitting in a corner with his back to the center of the room. He would eat them quickly for fear of being caught.

They tasted all the better for that.

Poor Uncle Boris! He had an accident and died. They never told him exactly how, and he had cried bitterly because he thought Uncle Boris had been arrested for smuggling yeast out of the plant. He expected to be arrested and executed himself. Years later, he poked carefully through police files and found the truth. Uncle Boris had fallen beneath the treads of a transport. It was a disillusioning ending to a romantic myth.

Yet the myth would always arise in his mind, at least momentarily, at the whiff of raw yeast.

Yeast-town was not the official name of any part of New York City. It could be found in no gazetteer and on no official map. What was called Yeast-town in popular speech was, to the Post Office, merely the boroughs of Newark, New Brunswick, and Trenton. It was a broad strip across what was once Medieval New Jersey, dotted with residential areas, particularly in Newark Center and Trenton Center, but given over mostly to the many-layered farms in which a thousand varieties of yeast grew and multiplied.

One fifth of the City’s population worked in the yeast farms; another fifth worked in the subsidiary industries. Beginning with the mountains of wood and coarse cellulose that were dragged into the City from the tangled forests of the Alleghenies, through the vats of acid that hydrolyzed it to glucose, the carloads of niter and phosphate rock that were the most important additives, down to the jars of organics supplied by the chemical laboratories–it all came to only one thing, yeast and more yeast.

Without yeast, six of Earth’s eight billions would starve in a year.

Baley felt cold at the thought. Three days before the possibility existed as deeply as it did now, but three days before it would never have occurred to him.

They whizzed out of the motorway through an exit on the Newark outskirts. The thinly populated avenues, flanked on either side by the featureless blocks that were the farms, offered little to act as a brake on their speed.

“What time is it, Daneel?” asked Baley.

“Sixteen-oh-five,” replied R. Daneel.

“Then he’ll be at work, if he’s on day shift.”

Baley parked the squad car in a delivery recess and froze the controls.

“This is New York Yeast then, Elijah?” asked the robot.

“Part of it,” said Baley.

They entered into a corridor flanked by a double now of offices. A receptionist at a bend in the corridor was instantly smiles. “Whom do you wish to see?”

Baley opened his wallet. “Police. Is there a Francis Clousarr working for New York Yeast?”

The girl looked perturbed. “I can check.”

She connected her switchboard through a line plainly marked “Personnel,” and her lips moved slightly, though no sound could be heard.

Baley was no stranger to the throat phones that translated the small movements of the larynx into words. He said, “Speak up, please. Let me hear you.”

Her words became audible, but consisted only of, “... he says he’s a policeman, sir.”

A dark, well-dressed man came out a door. He had a thin mustache and his hairline was beginning to retreat. He smiled whitely, and said, “I’m Prescott of Personnel. What’s the trouble, Officer?”

Baley stared at him coldly and Prescott’s smile grew strained.

Prescott said, “I just don’t want to upset the workers. They’re touchy about the police.”

Baley said, “Tough, isn’t it? Is Clousarr in the building now?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“Let’s have a nod, then. And if he’s gone when we get there, I’ll bespeaking to you again.”

The other’s smile was quite dead. He muttered, “I’ll get you a rod, Officer.”

The guide rod was set for Department CG, Section 2. What that meant in factory terminology, Baley didn’t know. He didn’t have to. The nod was an inconspicuous thing which could be palmed in the hand. Its tip warmed gently when lined up in the direction for which it was set, cooled quickly when turned away. The warmth increased as the final goal was approached.

To an amateur, the guide rod was almost useless, with its quick little differences of heat content, but few City dwellers were amateurs at this particular game. One of the most popular and perennial of the games of childhood was hide-and-seek through the school-level corridors with the use of toy guide rods. (“Hot or Not, Let Hot-Spot Spot. Hot-Spot Guide Rods Are Keen.”)

Baley had found his way through hundreds of massive piles by guide rod, and he could follow the shortest course with one of them in his hand as though it had been mapped out for him.

When he stepped into a large and brilliantly lit room after ten minutes, the guide rod’s tip was almost hot.

Baley said to the worker nearest the door, “Francis Clousarr here?”

The worker jerked his head. Baley walked in the indicated direction. The odor of yeast was sharply penetrating, despite the laboring air pumps whose humming made a steady background noise.

A man had risen at the other end of the room, and was taking off an apron. He was of moderate height, his face deeply lined despite his comparative youth, and his hair just beginning to grizzle. He had large, knobby hands which he wiped slowly on a celltex towel.

“I’m Francis Clousarr,” he said.

Baley looked briefly at R. Daneel. The robot nodded.

“Okay,” said Baley. “Anywhere here we can talk?”

“Maybe,” said Clousarr slowly, “but it’s just about the end of my shift. How about tomorrow?”

“Lots of hours between now and tomorrow. Let’s make it now.” Baley opened his wallet and palmed it at the yeast farmer.

But Clousarr’s hands did not waver in their somber wiping motions. He said, coolly, “I don’t know the system in the Police Department, but around here you get tight eating hours with no leeway. I eat at 17:00 to 17:45, or I don’t eat.”

“It’s all right,” said Baley. “I’ll arrange to have your supper brought to you.”

“Well, well,” said Clousarr, joylessly. “Just like an aristocrat, or a C-class copper. What’s next? Private bath?”

“You just answer questions, Clousarr,” said Baley, “and save your big jokes for your girl friend. Where can we talk?”

“If you want to talk, how about the balance room? Suit yourself about that. Me, I’ve got nothing to say.”

Baley thumbed Clousarr into the balance room. It was square and antiseptically white, air-conditioned independently of the larger room (and more efficiently), and with its walls lined with delicate electronic balances, glassed off and manipulable by field forces only. Baley had used cheaper models in his college days. One make, which he recognized, could weigh a mere billion atoms.

Clousarr said, “I don’t expect anyone will be in here for a while.”

Baley grunted, then turned to Daneel and said, “Would you step out and have a meal sent up here? And if you don’t mind, wait outside for it.”

He watched R. Daneel leave, then said to Clousarr, “You’re a chemist?”

“I’m a zymologist, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s the difference?”

Clousarr looked lofty. “A chemist is a soup-pusher, a stink-operator. A zymologist is a man who helps keep a few billion people alive. I’m a yeast-culture specialist.”

“All right,” said Baley.

But Clousarr went on, “This laboratory keeps New York Yeast going. There isn’t one day, not one damned hour, that we haven’t got cultures of every strain of yeast in the company growing in our kettles. We check and adjust the food factor requirements. We make sure it’s breeding true. We twist the genetics, start the new strains and weed them out, sort out their properties and mold them again.

“When New Yorkers started getting strawberries out of season a couple of years back, those weren’t strawberries, fella. Those were a special high-sugar yeast culture with true-bred color and just a dash of flavor additive. It was developed right here in this room.

“Twenty years ago
Saccharomyces olei Benedictae
was just a scrub strain with a lousy taste of tallow and good for nothing. It still tastes of tallow, but its fat content has been pushed up from 15 per cent to 87 per cent. If you used the expressway today, just remember that it’s greased strictly with
S. 0. Benedictae, Strain AG-7
. Developed right here in this room.

“So don’t call me a chemist. I’m a zymologist.”

Despite himself, Baley retreated before the fierce pride of the other.

He said abruptly, “Where were you last night between the hours of eighteen and twenty?”

Clousarr shrugged. “Walking. I like to take a little walk after dinner.”

“You visited friends? Or a subetheric?”

“No. Just walked.”

Baley’s lips tightened. A visit to the subetherics would have involved a notch in Clousarr’s ration plack. A meeting with a friend would have involved naming a man or woman, and a cross check. “No one saw you, then?”

“Maybe someone did. I don’t know. Not that I know of, though.”

“What about the night before last?”

“Same thing.”

“You have no alibi then for either night?”

“If I had done anything criminal, Officer, I’d have one. What do I need an alibi for?”

Baley didn’t answer. He consulted his little book. “You were up before the magistrate once. Inciting to riot.”

“All right. One of the K things pushed past me and I tripped him up. Is that inciting to riot?”

“The court thought so. You were convicted and fined.”

“That ends it, doesn’t it? Or do you want to fine me again?”

“Night before last, there was a near riot at a shoe department in the Bronx. You were seen there.”

“By whom?”

Baley said, “It was at mealtime for you here. Did you eat the evening meal night before last?”

Clousarr hesitated, then shook his head. “Upset stomach. Yeast gets you that way sometimes. Even an old-timer.”

“Last night, there was a near riot in Williamsburg and you were seen
there
.”

“By whom?”

“Do you deny you were present on both occasions?”

“You’re not giving me anything to deny. Exactly where did these things happen and who says he saw me?”

Baley stared at the zymologist levelly. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I think you’re an important man in an unregistered Medievalist organization.”