Asimov's Future History Volume 4 (59 page)

It was almost precisely a half-circle of light when Baley became aware of the existence of phases.

Baley inquired and Daneel said, “We are approaching from outside the orbital plane, Partner Elijah. Aurora’s south pole is more or less in the center of its disk, somewhat into the lighted half. It is spring in the southern hemisphere.”

Baley said, “According to the material I have been reading, Aurora’s axis is tipped sixteen degrees.” He had glanced over the physical description of the planet with insufficient attention in his anxiety to get to the Aurorans, but he remembered that.

“Yes, Partner Elijah. Eventually, we will move into orbit about Aurora and the phases will then change rapidly. Aurora revolves more rapidly than Earth does–”

“It has a 22-hour day. Yes.”

“A day of 22.3 traditional hours. The Auroran day is divided into 10 Auroran hours, with each hour divided into 100 Auroran minutes, which are, in turn, divided into 100 Auroran seconds. An Auroran second is thus roughly equal to o. 8 Earth seconds.”

“Is that what the books mean when they refer to metric hours, metric minutes, and so on?”

“Yes. It was difficult to persuade the Aurorans, at first, to abandon the time units to which they were accustomed and both systems–the standard and the metric–were in use. Eventually, of course, the metric won out. At present we speak only of hours, minutes, and seconds, but the decimalized versions are invariably meant. The same system has been adopted throughout the Spacer worlds, even though, on the other worlds, it does not tie in with the natural rotation of the planet. Each planet also uses a local system, of course.”

“As Earth does.”

“Yes, Partner Elijah, but Earth uses
only
the original standard time units. That inconveniences the Spacer worlds where trade is concerned, but they allow Earth to go its way in this.”

“Not out of friendliness, I imagine. I suspect they wish to emphasize Earth’s difference.–How does decimalization fit in with the year? After all, Aurora must have a natural period of revolution about its sun that controls the cycle of its seasons. How is that measured?’

Daneel said, “Aurora revolves about its sun in 373.5 Auroran days or in about 0.95 Earth years. That is not considered a vital matter in chronology. Aurora accepts 30 of its days as equaling a month and io months as equaling a metric year. The metric year is equal to about o. 8 seasonal years or about three-quarters of an Earth year. The relationship is different on each world, of course. Ten days is usually referred to as a decimonth. All the Spacer worlds use this system.”

“Surely, there must be some convenient way of following the cycle of the seasons?”

“Each world has its seasonal year, too, but it is little regarded. One can, by computer, convert any day–past or present–into its position in the seasonal year if, for any reason, such information is desired. And this is true on any world, where conversion to and from the local days is also as easily possible. And, of course, Partner Elijah, any robot can do the same and can guide human activity where the seasonal year or local time is relevant. The advantage of metricized units is that it supplies humanity with a unified chronometry that involves little more than decimal point shifts.”

It bothered Baley that the books he viewed made none of this clear. But then, from his own knowledge of Earth’s history, he knew that, at one time, the lunar month had been the key to the calendar and that there had come a time when, for ease of chronometry, the lunar month came to be ignored and was never missed. Yet if he had given books on Earth to some stranger, that stranger would have very likely found n~mention of the lunar month or any historical change in calendars. Dates would have been given without explanation.

What else would be given without explanation?

How far could he rely, then, on the knowledge he was gaining? He would have to ask questions constantly, take nothing for granted.

There would be so many opportunities to miss the obvious, so many chances to misunderstand, so many ways of taking the wrong path.

11.

A
URORA
FILLED
HIS
vision now when he used the astrosimulator and it looked like Earth. (Baley had never seen Earth in the same way, but there had been photographs in astronomy texts and he had seen those.)

Well, what Baley saw on Aurora were the same cloud patterns, the same glimpse of desert areas, the same large stretches of day and night, the same pattern of twinkling light in the expanse of the night hemisphere as the photographs showed on Earth’s globe.

Baley watched raptly and thought: What if, for some reason, he had been taken into space, told he was being brought to Aurora, and was in reality being returned to Earth for some reason–for some subtle and insane reason. How could he tell the difference before landing?

Was there reason to be suspicious? Daneel had carefully told him that the constellations were the same in the sky of both planets, but wouldn’t that be naturally so for planets circling neighboring stars? The gross appearance of both planets from space was identical, but wouldn’t that be expected if both were habitable and comfortably suited to human life?

Was there any reason to suppose such a farfetched deception would be played upon
him?
What purpose would it serve? And yet why shouldn’t it be made to appear farfetched and useless? If there were an obvious reason to do such a thing, he would have seen through it at once.

Would Daneel be party to such a conspiracy? Surely not, if he were a human being. But he was only a robot; might there not be a way to order him to behave appropriately?

There was no way of coming to a decision. Baley found himself watching for glimpses of continental outlines that he could recognize as Earthly or as non-Earthly. That would be the telling test–except that it didn’t work.

The glimpses that came and went hazily through the clouds were of no use to him. He was not sufficiently knowledgeable about Earth’s geography. What he really knew of Earth were its underground Cities, its caves of steel.

The bits of coastline he saw were unfamiliar to him–whether Aurora or Earth, he did not know.

Why this uncertainty, anyway? When he had gone to Solaria, he had never doubted his, destination; he had never suspected that they might be bringing him back to Earth.–Ah, but then he had gone on a clear-cut mission in which there was reasonable chance for success. Now he felt there was no chance at all.

Perhaps it was, then, that he
wanted
to be returned to Earth and was building a false conspiracy in his mind so that he could imagine it possible.

The uncertainty in his mind had come to have a life of its own. He couldn’t let go. He found himself watching Aurora with an almost mad intensity, unable to come back to the cabin-reality.

Aurora was moving, turning slowly–He had watched long enough to see that. While he had been viewing space, everything had seemed motionless, like a painted backdrop, a silent and static pattern of dots of light, with, later on, a small half-circle included. Was it the motionlessness that had enabled him to be nonagoraphobic?

But now he could see Aurora moving and he realized that the ship was spiraling down in the final stage before landing. The clouds were bellying upward–No, not the clouds; the ship was spiraling downward. The
ship
was moving.
He
was moving. He was suddenly aware of his own existence. He was hurtling downward through the clouds.

He was falling, unguarded, through thin air toward solid ground.

His throat constricted; it was becoming very hard to breathe. He told himself desperately: You are enclosed. The walls of the ship are around you.

But he sensed no walls.

He thought: Even without considering the walls, you are still enclosed. You are wrapped in skin.

But he sensed no skin.

The sensation was worse than simple nakedness–he was an unaccompanied personality, the essence of identity totally uncovered, a living point, a singularity surrounded by an open and infinite world, and he was falling.

He wanted to close off the vision, contract his fist upon the control-edge, but nothing happened. His nerve-endings had so abnormalized that the automatic contraction at an effort of will did not work. He had no will. Eyes would not close, fist would not contract. He was caught and hypnotized by terror, frightened into immobility.

All he sensed before him were clouds, white–not quite white–off-white–a slight golden-orange cast–And all turned to gray–and he was drowning. He could not breathe. He struggled desperately to open his clogged throat, to cal! to Daneel for help–He could make no sound–

12.

B
ALEY
WAS
BREATHING
as though he had just breasted the tape at the end of a long race. The room was askew and there was a hard surface under his left elbow.

He realized he was on the floor.

Giskard was on his knees beside him, his robot’s hand (firm but somewhat cold) closed on Baley’s right fist. The door to the cabin, visible to Baley just beyond Giskard’s shoulder, stood ajar.

Baley knew, without asking, what had happened. Giskard had seized that helpless human hand and clenched it upon the control-edge to end the astrosimulation. Otherwise–

Daneel was there as well, his face close to Baley’s, with a look on it that might well have been pain.

He said, “You said nothing, Partner Elijah. Had I been more quickly aware of your discomfort–”

Baley tried to gesture that he understood, that it did not matter. He was still unable to speak.

The two robots waited until Baley made a feeble movement to get up. Arms were under him at once, lifting him. He was placed in a chair and the control was gently taken away from him by Giskard.

Giskard said, “We will be landing soon. You will have no further need of the astrosimulator, I believe.”

Daneel added gravely, “It would be best to remove it, in any case.”

Baley said, “Wait!” His voice was a hoarse whisper and he was not sure the word could be made out. He drew a deep breath, cleared his throat feebly, and said again, “Wait!”–and then, “Giskard.”

Giskard turned back. “Sir?”

Baley did not speak at once. Now that Giskard knew he was wanted, he would wait a lengthy interval, perhaps indefinitely. Baley tried to gather his scattered wits. Agoraphobia or not, there still remained his uncertainty about their destination. That had existed first and it might well have intensified the agoraphobia.

He had to find out. Giskard would not lie. A robot could not lie–unless very carefully instructed to do so. And why instruct Giskard? It was Daneel who was his companion, who was to be in his company at all times. If there was lying to be done, that would be Daneel’s job. Giskard was merely a fetcher and carrier, a guard at the door. Surely there was no need to undergo the task of carefully instructing
him
in the web of lies.

“Giskard!” said Baley, almost normally now.

“Sir?”

“We are about to land, are we?”

“In a little less than two hours, sir.”

That was two metric hours, thought Baley. More than two real hours? Less? It didn’t matter. It would only confuse. Forget it.

Baley said, as sharply as he could manage, “Tell me right now the name of the planet we are about to land on.”

A human being, if he had answered at all, would have done so only after a pause–and then with an air of considerable surprise.

Giskard answered at once, with a flat and uninflected assertion, “It is Aurora, sir?”

“How do you know?”

“It is our destination. Then, too, it could not be Earth, for in-stance, since Aurora’s sun, Tau Ceti, is only ninety percent the mass of Earth’s sun. Tau Ceti is a little cooler, therefore, and its light has a distinct orange tinge to fresh and unaccustomed Earth eyes. You may have already seen the characteristic color of Aurora’s sun in the reflection upon the upper surface of the cloud bank. You will certainly see it in the appearance of the landscape–until your eyes grow accustomed to it.”

Baley’s eyes left Giskard’s impassive face. He
had
noticed the color difference, Baley thought, and had attached no importance to it. A bad error.

“You may go, Giskard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Baley turned bitterly to Daneel. “I’ve made a fool of myself, Daneel.”

“I gather you wondered if perhaps we were deceiving you and taking you somewhere that was not Aurora. Did you have a reason for suspecting this, Partner Elijah?”

“None. It may have been the result of the uneasiness that arose from subliminal agoraphobia. Staring at seemingly motionless space, I felt no perceptible illness, but it may have lain just under the surface, creating a gathering uneasiness.”

“The fault was ours, Partner Elijah. Knowing of your dislike for open spaces, it was wrong to subject you to astrosimulation or, having done so, to subject you to no closer supervision.”

Baley shook his head in annoyance. “Don’t say that, Daneel. I have supervision enough. The question in my mind is how closely I am to be supervised on Aurora itself.”

Daneel said, “Partner Elijah, it seems to me it will be difficult to allow you free access to Aurora and Aurorans.”

“That is just what I must be allowed, nevertheless. If I’m to get to the truth of this case of roboticide, I must be free to seek information directly on the site–and from the people involved.”

Baley was, by now, feeling quite himself though a bit weary. Embarrassingly enough, the intense experience he had passed through left him with a keen desire for a pipe of tobacco, something he thought he had done away with altogether better than a year before. He could feel the taste and odor of the tobacco smoke making its way through his throat and nose.

He would, he knew, have to make do with the memory. On Aurora, he would on no account be allowed to smoke. There was no tobacco on any of the Spacer worlds and, if he had had any on him to begin with, it would have been removed and destroyed.

Daneel said, “Partner Elijah, this must be discussed with Dr. Fastolfe once we land. I have no power to make any decisions in this matter.”