Authors: Isaac Asimov
Perhaps the signal was quite a generalized one, saying only, “Do your duty!” Perhaps robots listened to all that went on and were always aware of what a human might desire at any given moment, and if the particular robot was not designed for a particular job in either mind or body, the radio web that united all robots went into action and the correct robot was spurred into action.
For a moment Baley had the vision of Solaria as a robotic net with holes that were small and continually growing smaller, with every human being caught neatly in place. He thought of Quemot’s picture of
worlds turning into Solarias; of nets forming and tightening even on Earth, until——
His thoughts were disrupted as the robot who had entered spoke with the quiet and even respect of the machine.
“I am ready to help you, master.”
Baley said, “Do you know how to reach the place where Rikaine Delmarre once worked?”
“Yes, master.”
Baley shrugged. He would never teach himself to avoid asking useless questions. The robots knew. Period. It occurred to him that, to handle robots with true efficiency, one must needs be expert, a sort of roboticist. How well did the average Solarian do, he wondered? Probably only so-so.
He said, “Get Delmarre’s place and contact his assistant. If the assistant is not there, locate him wherever he is.”
“Yes, master.”
As the robot turned to go, Baley called after it, “Wait! What time is it at the Delmarre workplace?”
“About 0630, master.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, master.”
Again Baley felt annoyance at a world that made itself victim of the coming and going of a sun. It was what came of living on bare planetary surface.
He thought fugitively of Earth, then tore his mind away. While he kept firmly to the matter in hand, he managed well. Slipping into homesickness would ruin him.
He said, “Call the assistant, anyway, boy, and tell him it’s government business—and have one of the other boys bring something to eat. A sandwich and a glass of milk will do.”
• • •
He chewed thoughtfully at the sandwich, which contained a kind of smoked meat, and with half his mind thought that Daneel Olivaw would certainly consider every article of food suspect after what had happened to Gruer. And Daneel might be right, too.
He finished the sandwich without ill effects, however (immediate ill effects, at any rate), and sipped at the milk. He had not learned from Quemot what he had come to learn, but he had learned something. As he sorted it out in his mind, it seemed he had learned a good deal.
Little about the murder, to be sure, but more about the larger matter.
The robot returned. “The assistant will accept contact, master.”
“Good. Was there any trouble with it?”
“The assistant was asleep, master.”
“Awake now, though?”
“Yes, master.”
The assistant was facing him suddenly, sitting up in bed and wearing an expression of sullen resentment.
Baley reared back as though a force-barrier had been raised before him without warning. Once again a piece of vital information had been withheld from him. Once again he had not asked the right questions.
No one had thought to tell him that Rikaine Delmarre’s assistant was a woman.
Her hair was a trifle darker than ordinary Spacer bronze and there was a quantity of it, at the moment in disorder. Her face was oval, her nose a trifle bulbous, and her chin large. She scratched slowly at her side just above the waist and Baley hoped the sheet would remain in position. He remembered Gladia’s
free attitude toward what was permitted while viewing.
Baley felt a sardonic amusement at his own disillusion at that moment. Earthmen assumed, somehow, that all Spacer women were beautiful, and certainly Gladia had reinforced that assumption. This one, though, was plain even by Earthly standards.
It therefore surprised Baley that he found her contralto attractive when she said, “See here, do you know what time it is?”
“I do,” said Baley, “but since I will be seeing you, I felt I should warn you.”
“Seeing
me? Skies above——” Her eyes grew wide and she put a hand to her chin. (She wore a ring on one finger, the first item of personal adornment Baley had yet seen on Solaria.) “Wait, you’re not my new assistant, are you?”
“No. Nothing like that. I’m here to investigate the death of Rikaine Delmarre.”
“Oh? Well, investigate, then.”
“What is your name?”
“Klorissa Cantoro.”
“And how long have you been working with Dr. Delmarre?”
“Three years.”
“I assume you’re now at the place of business.” (Baley felt uncomfortable at that noncommittal phrase, but he did not know what to call a place where a fetal engineer worked.)
“If you mean, am I at the farm?” said Klorissa discontentedly, “I certainly am. I haven’t left it since the old man was done in, and I won’t leave it, looks like, till an assistant is assigned me. Can
you
arrange that, by the way?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have no influence with anyone here.”
“Thought I’d ask.”
Klorissa pulled off the sheet and climbed out of bed without any self-consciousness. She was wearing a one-piece sleeping suit and her hand went to the notch of the seam, where it ended at the neck.
Baley said hurriedly, “Just one moment. If you’ll agree to see me, that will end my business with you for now and you may dress in privacy.”
“In privacy?” She put out her lower lip and stared at Baley curiously. “You’re finicky, aren’t you? Like the boss.”
“Will you see me? I would like to look over the farm.”
“I don’t get this business about seeing, but if you want to view the farm I’ll tour you. If you’ll give me a chance to wash and take care of a few things and wake up a little, I’ll enjoy the break in routine.”
“I don’t want to view anything. I want to
see.”
The woman cocked her head to one side and her keen look had something of professional interest in it. “Are you a pervert or something? When was the last time you underwent a gene analysis?”
“Jehoshaphat!” muttered Baley. “Look, I’m Elijah Baley. I’m from Earth.”
“From Earth?” she cried vehemently. “Skies above! Whatever are you doing here? Or is this some kind of complicated joke?”
“I’m not joking. I was called in to investigate Delmarre’s death. I’m a plainclothesman, a detective.”
“You mean that kind of investigation. But I thought everyone knew his wife did it.”
“No, ma’am, there’s some question about it in my
mind. May I have your permission to see the farm and you? As an Earthman, you understand, I’m not accustomed to viewing. It makes me uncomfortable. I have permission from the Head of Security to see people who might help me. I will show you the document, if you wish.”
“Let’s see it.”
Baley held the official strip up before her imaged eyes.
She shook her head. “Seeing! It’s filthy. Still, skies above, what’s a little more filth in this filthy job? Look here, though, don’t you come close to me. You stay a good distance away. We can shout or send messages by robot, if we have to. You understand?”
“I understand.”
Her sleeping suit split open at the seam just as contact broke off and the last word he heard from her was a muttered: “Earthman!”
“That’s close enough,” said Klorissa.
Baley, who was some twenty-five feet from the woman, said, “It’s all right this distance, but I’d like to get indoors quickly.”
It had not been so bad this time, somehow. He had scarcely minded the plane trip, but there was no point in overdoing it. He kept himself from yanking at his collar to allow himself to breathe more freely.
Klorissa said sharply, “What’s wrong with you? You look kind of beat.”
Baley said, “I’m not used to the outdoors.”
“That’s right! Earthman! You’ve got to be cooped up or something. Skies above!” Her tongue passed over her lips as though it tasted something unappetizing. “Well, come in, then, but let me move out of the way first. All right. Get in.”
Her hair was in two thick braids that wound about her head in a complicated geometrical pattern. Baley wondered how long it took to arrange like that and then remembered that, in all probability, the unerring mechanical fingers of a robot did the job.
The hair set off her oval face and gave it a kind of symmetry that made it pleasant if not pretty. She did not wear any facial makeup, nor, for that matter, were her clothes meant to do more than cover her serviceably. For the most part they were a subdued dark blue except for her gloves, which covered her to mid-arm and were a badly clashing lilac in color. Apparently they were not part of her ordinary costume. Baley noted the thickening of one finger of the gloves owing to the presence of the ring underneath.
They remained at opposite ends of the room, facing one another.
Baley said, “You don’t like this, do you, ma’am?”
Klorissa shrugged. “Why should I like it? I’m not an animal. But I can stand it. You get pretty hardened, when you deal with—with”—she paused, and then her chin went up as though she had made up her mind to say what she had to say without mincing—“with children.” She pronounced the word with careful precision.
“You sound as though you don’t like the job you have.”
“It’s an important job. It must be done. Still, I don’t like it.”
“Did Rikaine Delmarre like it?”
“I suppose he didn’t, but he never showed it. He was a good Solarian.”
“And he was finicky.”
Klorissa looked surprised.
Baley said, “You yourself said so. When we were
viewing and I said you might dress in private, you said I was finicky like the boss.”
“Oh. Well, he
was
finicky. Even viewing he never took any liberties. Always proper.”
“Was that unusual?”
“It shouldn’t be. Ideally, you’re supposed to be proper, but no one ever is. Not when viewing. There’s no personal presence involved so why take any pains? You know? I don’t take pains when viewing, except with the boss. You had to be formal with him.”
“Did you admire Dr. Delmarre?”
“He was a good Solarian.”
Baley said, “You’ve called this place a farm and you’ve mentioned children. Do you bring up children here?”
“From the age of a month. Every fetus on Solaria comes here.”
“Fetus?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “We get them a month after conception. Does this embarrass you?”
“No,” Baley said shortly. “Can you show me around?”
“I can. But keep your distance.”
Baley’s long face took on a stony grimness as he looked down the length of the long room from above. There was glass between the room and themselves. On the other side, he was sure, was perfectly controlled heat, perfectly controlled humidity, perfectly controlled asepsis. Those tanks, row on row, each contained its little creature floating in a watery fluid of precise composition, infused with a nutrient mixture of ideal proportions. Life and growth went on.
Little things, some smaller than half his fist,
curled on themselves, with bulging skulls and tiny budding limbs and vanishing tails.
Klorissa, from her position twenty feet away, said, “How do you like it, Plainclothesman?”
Baley said, “How many do you have?”
“As of this morning, one hundred and fifty-two. We receive fifteen to twenty each month and we graduate as many to independence.”
“Is this the only such institution on the planet?”
“That’s right. It’s enough to keep the population steady, counting on a life expectancy of three hundred years and a population of twenty thousand. This building is quite new. Dr. Delmarre supervised its construction and made many changes in our procedures. Our fetal death rate now is virtually zero.”
Robots threaded their way among the tanks. At each tank they stopped and checked controls in a tireless, meticulous way, looking in at the tiny embryos within.
“Who operates on the mother?” asked Baley. “I mean, to get the little things.”
“Doctors,” answered Klorissa.
“Dr. Delmarre?”
“Of course not.
Medical
doctors. You don’t think Dr. Delmarre would ever stoop to——Well, never mind.”
“Why can’t robots be used?”
“Robots in surgery? First Law makes that very difficult, Plainclothesman. A robot might perform an appendectomy to save a human life, if he knew how, but I doubt that he’d be usable after that without major repairs. Cutting human flesh would be quite a traumatic experience for a positronic brain. Human doctors can manage to get hardened to it. Even to the personal presence required.”
Baley said, “I notice that robots tend the fetuses, though. Do you and Dr. Delmarre ever interfere?”
“We have to, sometimes, when things go wrong. If a fetus has developmental trouble, for instance. Robots can’t be trusted to judge the situation accurately when human life is involved.”
Baley nodded. “Too much risk of a misjudgment and a life lost, I suppose.”
“Not at all. Too much risk of overvaluing a life and saving one improperly.” The woman looked stern. “As fetal engineers, Baley, we see to it that healthy children are born;
healthy
ones. Even the best gene analysis of parents can’t assure that all gene permutations and combinations will be favorable, to say nothing of the possibility of mutations. That’s our big concern, the unexpected mutation. We’ve got the rate of those down to less than one in a thousand, but that means that, on the average, once a decade, we have trouble.”
She motioned him along the balcony and he followed her.
She said, “I’ll show you the infants’ nurseries and the youngsters’ dormitories. They’re much more a problem than the fetuses are. With them, we can rely on robot labor only to a limited extent.”
“Why is that?”
“You would know, Baley, if you ever tried to teach a robot the importance of discipline. First Law makes them almost impervious to that fact. And don’t think youngsters don’t learn that about as soon as they can talk. I’ve seen a three-year-old holding a dozen robots motionless by yelling, ‘You’ll hurt me. I’m hurt.’ It takes an extremely advanced robot to understand that a child might be deliberately lying.”