Lodovik heard the warning sirens in his head, as did all the robots within the warehouse. He had worked out the evacuation plan with Kallusin the night before. Kallusin had told him that Plussix had anticipated a general disruption, possibly a discovery…
And now most of their avenues of escape were blocked by Imperial Specials. Kallusin and the other robots were busy in another part of the warehouse, carrying the heads and other precious Calvinian items: thousands of years of robot history and traditions, the memories of dozens of key robots, stored in dissected memory nodes or, in a few cases, in the whole heads. There was a religious aspect to the respect Kallusin held for these relics. But Lodovik had little time to contemplate the peculiarities of this robot society.
Lodovik found Klia and Brann in the dining hall at ground level. The young woman looked determined but scared—wide-eyed, face flushed. Brann seemed uncertain but not frightened, merely nervous.
Lodovik ignored a communication from Voltaire, a commentary on romantic oppositions that seemed completely useless.
“We are leaving now,” Lodovik said.
“We’re packed,” Brann said, and lifted a small cloth bag that contained all their worldly goods.
“I can feel her. She’s looking for
us
,” Klia said.
“Perhaps,” Lodovik said. “But there are hidden passages out of the lower levels that have not been used in thousands of years. Some emerge close to the palace detention center where Seldon is kept—”
“You know the palace—the codes for entry?”
“If they have not been changed. There is a certain inertia in the amendment of palace procedures. The codes for the Emperor’s quarters are changed twice a day, but in other portions of the extended palace, there are codes that have been in place for ten or fifteen years. We will have to take some risks—”
The codes that you do not know, I can access,
Voltaire told him.
“Just get us out of here!” Klia said. “I don’t want to have to fight her.”
“We may have to fight others,” Lodovik said. “To persuade them, or to defend ourselves.”
Klia shook her head with stubborn boldness. “I don’t care about them. Not one in a thousand persuaders can hold a candle to Brann and me working together. But that woman—”
“We can beat her,” Brann said. Klia glared at him, then shivered and shrugged her shoulders.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Do you know robot mental structures well enough?” Lodovik inquired as they walked toward the elevators.
“What do you mean?” Klia asked. The ancient elevator doors opened with the smooth heaviness of Old Empire engineering. A feeble green emergency light blinked on within. They stepped into the ghoulish glow.
“Can you persuade a robot?” Lodovik asked.
“I don’t know,” Klia said. “I’ve never tried. Except with Kallusin—once—and I didn’t know he was a robot. He fended me off.”
“We have a few minutes,” Lodovik said. “Practice on me.”
“Why?”
“Because to get to Hari Seldon, we may have to confront Daneel. Remember what Dors Venabili said.”
“Robots are so different,” Klia murmured.
“Practice,” Lodovik said.
You would give up your free will to this child?
Voltaire asked, understanding the question was rhetorical.
Now we take advantage of the most evil of weapons! Which is worse—robot mind-warping, or human?
“Please,” Lodovik said. “It may be very important.”
“All RIGHT!” Klia shouted, feeling pushed. She did not like this—told herself she did not want to discover a new weakness in the middle of her fear. “What should I do—make you dance a jig?”
Lodovik smiled. “Whatever comes into your mind.”
“You’re a robot. Couldn’t I just order you to dance, and you’d have to obey?”
“You are not my master,” Lodovik said. “And remember—”
Klia turned away and put a hand to her cheek.
Lodovik suddenly realized it would be very pleasant to test his motor-control circuitry. The elevator would be a perfect place in which to conduct these tests, so long as he was careful not to bump into the humans who occupied it with him. It was simple, really, this urge to move, simple and pleasant to contemplate.
He began to dance, slowly at first, feeling the affirmation, the approval: thousands of humans would rate his performance highly, if not in artistic terms, certainly for the skill with which he was testing all his engineered routines. He felt very coordinated and worthy.
Klia removed her hand from her cheek. Her face was wet with tears.
Lodovik stopped and swayed for a moment as his own
robotic will sorted through disparate impulses and reached a new balance.
“I’m sorry,” Klia said. “That was the wrong thing to have you do.” She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed.
“You did well,” Lodovik said, a little dismayed by the ease with which she had controlled him. “Did Brann coordinate with you?”
“No,” Klia said.
Brann seemed stunned by her success. “Sky, we could take over all of Trantor—”
“NO!” Klia shouted. “I’m sorry I did this.” She held her hands out to Lodovik as if seeking his forgiveness. “You’re a machine. You are so…
eager
to please, deep down inside. You’re easier than a child. You
are
a child.”
Lodovik did not know how to respond, so he said nothing. Voltaire, however, made his opinions known in no uncertain terms.
I could feel her, as well. I have no legs, yet I wanted to dance. What sort of force is this? What a monstrosity!
Klia would not let go of her self-disgust, and this only compounded her confusion. “But you’re not a child. You are so
dignified
and
serious
. It was
bad
—like making my father—” Her voice hitched. “Making my father wet his pants.” She began to sob.
Lodovik tilted his head to one side. “I am not harmed. If you are concerned about my dignity—”
“You don’t understand!” Klia shouted. The door opened, and she whirled as if to face new enemies. The darkened corridor beyond was empty, silent. A thin layer of gray dust on the floor was unmarred by footprints. She leaped from the elevator and centuries puffed around her feet. “I don’t want to be this way anymore! I just want to be simple!”
Her voice echoed against the impassive and ancient walls.
Boon stood beside Hari, and Lors Avakim stood beside Gaal Dornick. The five judges had already been seated as they entered, Linge Chen, as always, highest and in the middle. Hari felt slightly dizzy, standing more than five minutes as the clerk droned on with the charges. He squinted at the judicial chambers, then tilted slightly toward Gaal, until he was leaning on him. Gaal supported him without comment until he regained his balance and stood upright again.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Linge Chen spoke without even looking at Hari. “The continuation of this trial would serve no further purpose. General Security no longer has any reason to cross-examine Professor Seldon.”
Hari did not dare feel even a breath of hope coming from the lips of this man.
“All public proceedings are now at an end.” Chen and the judges stood. Sedjar Boon held Hari’s other arm as the Commissioners departed from the bench. The baronial peers stood as well, murmuring among themselves. The advocate approached the crib and spoke to Gaal and Hari.
“The Chief Commissioner will have a word with you in private,” he said. He nodded at Boon and Lors Avakim, professional courtesy, or perhaps acknowledging those in the same employ. “Your clients must be alone for these finalities. They will stay here. All others will leave.”
Hari did not know how to feel or what to think. His resources were near a bitter end. Boon touched his arm, gave him a confident smile, and left with Avakim.
Once the room was cleared, the outer doors were sealed with long brass bars, and the Commissioners returned. Linge Chen watched Hari very closely now.
“Sire, I would prefer we have our advocates with us,” Hari
said, his voice cracking. He hated these weaknesses, these infirmities.
The Commissioner to the left of Chen replied, “This is no longer a trial, Dr. Seldon. Your personal fate is no longer at issue. We are here to discuss the safety of the State.”
“I will speak,” Chen said. The other Commissioners seemed to melt back into their chairs, into silence, confirming the power of this lean, hard man with the calm features and manner of an ancient aristocrat. Hari though,
Why, he seems older than I do—an antique!
“Dr. Seldon,” Chen began, “you disturb the peace of the Emperor’s realm. None of the quadrillions living now among all the stars of the Galaxy will be living a century from now. Why, then, should we concern ourselves with events of five centuries distance?”
“I shall not be alive half a decade hence,” Hari said, “and yet it is of overpowering concern to me. Call it idealism. Call it an identification of myself with that mystical generalization to which we refer by the term, ‘man.’”
“I do not wish to take the trouble to understand mysticism. Can you tell me why I may not rid myself of yourself and of an uncomfortable and unnecessary five-century future which I will never see by having you executed tonight?”
Hari called upon all his contempt for this man, contempt for death itself, to match the Chief Commissioner’s outrageous calm. “A week ago,” Hari said, “you might have done so and perhaps retained a one in ten probability of yourself remaining alive at year’s end. Today, the one in ten probability is scarcely one in ten thousand.”
The other Commissioners let out a collective sigh at this blasphemy, like virgins before a suddenly naked spouse. Chen seemed to become a little sleepier, and also a little leaner, a little harder.
“How so?” he asked, his voice dangerously mild.
“The fall of Trantor,” Hari said, “cannot be stopped by
any conceivable effort. It can be hastened easily, however. The tale of my interrupted trial will spread through the Galaxy. Frustration of my plans to lighten the disaster will convince people that the future holds no promise to them. Already they recall the lives of their grandfathers with envy. They will see that political revolutions and trade stagnations will increase. The feeling will pervade the Galaxy that only what a man can grasp for himself at that moment will be of any account. Ambitious men will not wait, and unscrupulous men will not hang back. By their every action they will hasten the decay of the worlds. Have me killed, and Trantor will fall not within five centuries but within fifty years and you, yourself, within a single year.”
Chen smiled as if in faint amusement. “These are words to frighten children, and yet your death is not the only answer which will satisfy us. Tell me, will your only activity be that of preparing this encyclopedia you speak of?” Chen seemed to extend a shield of magnanimity over Hari, with a sweep of his hand, and a tap of two fingers beside the bronze bell and gavel.
“It will.”
“And need that be done on Trantor?”
“Trantor, my lord, possesses the Imperial Library, as well as the scholarly resources of—”
“Yes. Of course. And yet if you were located elsewhere, let us say upon a planet where the hurry and distractions of a metropolis will not interfere with scholastic musings; where your men may devote themselves entirely and single-mindedly to their work;—might not that have advantages?”
“Minor ones, perhaps.”
“Such a world has been chosen, then. You may work, doctor, at your leisure, with your hundred thousand about you. The Galaxy will know that you are working and fighting the Fall. They will even be told that you will prevent the Fall. If the Galaxy that cares about such things, believes you to be
correct, they will be happier.” He smiled, “Since I do not believe in so many things, it is not difficult for me to disbelieve in the Fall as well, so that I am entirely convinced I will be telling the truth to the people. And meanwhile, doctor, you will not trouble Trantor and there will be no disturbance of the Emperor’s peace.
“The alternative is death for yourself and for as many of your followers as will seem necessary. Your earlier threats I disregard. The opportunity for choosing between death and exile is given you over a time period stretching from this moment to one five minutes hence.”
“Which is the world chosen, my lord?” Hari asked, concealing the tension of his anticipation.
Chen called Hari forward to the docket with a waggle of his thin finger, and pointed to an informer tablet, on which an image of the world and its location were displayed. “It is called, I believe, Terminus,” said Chen.
Hari glanced at it, breathless, and looked up at Chen. They were closer than they had ever been before, barely an arm’s length between them. Hari could see the fine lines of strain on the calm features, like wrinkles on a world of ice. “It is uninhabited, but quite habitable, and can be molded to suit the necessities of scholars. It is somewhat secluded—”
Hari tried to show some dismay. “It is at the edge of the Galaxy, sir.”
Chen dismissed this as unworthy with a roll of his eyes. He regarded Hari wearily, as if asking,
We do not need these theatrics, do we, really?
“As I have said, somewhat secluded. It will suit your needs for concentration. Come, you have two minutes left.”
Hari could hardly conceal his elation. He felt, for the merest instant, a burst of gratitude to this gentry monster. “We will need time to arrange such a trip,” he said, voice softened. “There are twenty thousand families involved.”
Gaal Dornick, still in the crib, cleared his throat.
Chen lowered his gaze to the informer, tapped the display off. “You will be given time.”
Hari could not help himself. The last minute was passing quickly, and yet he could not stop from giving his triumph the last few seconds to grow all the larger, all the more shocking to those without his knowledge. Finally, as the minute crept into the last five seconds, he murmured, voice rough and subdued in defeat, “I accept exile.”
Gaal Dornick gasped and sat down abruptly.
The proctor entered once more and observed the acceptance, noted that all was proper, and recorded the results and declarations, then deferred to the Chief Commissioner.
Chen held up his hand and officially pronounced, “This matter is at an end. The Commission is no longer concerned. Now all go.”
Hari stepped back from the bench to join Gaal.
“Not you,” Chen said softly.