Authors: Isaac Asimov
The robot bulked dimly in the night, its eyes a dull red glow.
“Plainclothesman Elijah Baley?”
“That’s right,” said Baley crisply, the hair on the nape of his neck stirring a bit. He was enough of an Earthman to get angry goose flesh at the sight of a robot doing a man’s job. There had been R. Daneel Olivaw, who had partnered with him in the Spacer murder affair, but that had been different. Daneel had been——
“You will follow me, please,” said the robot, and a white light flooded a path toward the ship.
Baley followed. Up the ladder and into the ship he went, along corridors, and into a room.
The robot said, “This will be your room, Plainclothesman Baley. It is requested that you remain in it for the duration of the trip.”
Baley thought: Sure, seal me off. Keep me safe. Insulated.
The corridors along which he had traveled had been empty. Robots were probably disinfecting them now. The robot facing him would probably step through a germicidal bath when it left.
The robot said, “There is a water supply and plumbing. Food will be supplied. You will have viewing matter. The ports are controlled from this panel. They are closed now but if you wish to view space——”
Baley said with some agitation, “That’s all right, boy. Leave the ports closed.”
He used the “boy” address that Earthmen always used for robots, but the robot showed no adverse response. It couldn’t, of course. Its responses were limited and controlled by the Laws of Robotics.
The robot bent its large metal body in the travesty of a respectful bow and left.
Baley was alone in his room and could take stock. It was better than the plane, at least. He could see the plane from end to end. He could see its limits. The spaceship was large. It had corridors, levels, rooms. It was a small City in itself. Baley could almost breathe freely.
Then lights flashed and a robot’s metallic voice sounded over the communo and gave him specific instructions for guarding himself against take-off acceleration.
There was the push backward against webbing and a yielding hydraulic system, a distant rumble of force-jets heated to fury by the proton micro-pile. There was the hiss of tearing atmosphere, growing thinner and high-pitched and fading into nothingness after an hour.
They were in space.
It was as though all sensation had numbed, as though nothing were real. He told himself that each second found him thousands of miles farther from the Cities, from Jessie, but it didn’t register.
On the second day (the third?—there was no way of telling time except by the intervals of eating and sleeping) there was a queer momentary sensation of being turned inside out. It lasted an instant and Baley knew it was a jump, that oddly incomprehensible, almost mystical, momentary transition through hyperspace that transferred a ship and all it contained from one point in space to another, light-years away. Another lapse of time and another jump, still another lapse, still another jump.
Baley told himself now that he was light-years away, tens of light-years, hundreds, thousands.
He didn’t know how many. No one on Earth as much as knew Solaria’s location in space. He would bet on that. They were ignorant, every one of them.
He felt terribly alone.
There was the feel of deceleration and the robot entered. Its somber, ruddy eyes took in the details of Baley’s harness. Efficiently it tightened a wing nut; quickly it surveyed the details of the hydraulic system.
It said, “We will be landing in three hours. You will remain, if you please, in this room. A man will come to escort you out and to take you to your place of residence.”
“Wait,” said Baley tensely. Strapped in as he was, he felt helpless. “When we land, what time of day will it be?”
The robot said at once, “By Galactic Standard Time, it will be——”
“Local time, boy. Local time! Jehoshaphat!”
The robot continued smoothly, “The day on Solaria is twenty-eight point thirty-five Standard hours in length. The Solarian hour is divided into ten decads,
each of which is divided into a hundred centads. We are scheduled to arrive at an airport at which the day will be at the twentieth centad of the fifth decad.”
Baley hated that robot. He hated it for its obtuseness in not understanding; for the way it was making him ask the question directly and exposing his own weakness.
He had to. He said flatly, “Will it be daytime?”
And after all that the robot answered, “Yes, sir,” and left.
It would be day! He would have to step out onto the unprotected surface of a planet in daytime.
He was not quite sure how it would be. He had seen glimpses of planetary surfaces from certain points within the City; he had even been out upon it for moments. Always, though, he had been surrounded by walls or within reach of one. There was always safety at hand.
Where would there be safety now? Not even the false walls of darkness.
And because he would not display weakness before the Spacers—he’d be damned if he would—he stiffened his body against the webbing that held him safe against the forces of deceleration, closed his eyes, and stubbornly fought panic.
Baley was losing his fight. Reason alone was not enough.
Baley told himself over and over: Men live in the open all their lives. The Spacers do so now. Our ancestors on Earth did it in the past. There is no real harm in wall-lessness. It is only my mind that tells me differently, and it is wrong.
But all that did not help. Something above and beyond reason cried out for walls and would have none of space.
As time passed, he thought he would not succeed. He would be cowering at the end, trembling and pitiful. The Spacer they would send for him (with filters in his nose to keep out germs, and gloves on his hands to prevent contact) would not even honestly despise him. The Spacer would feel only disgust.
Baley held on grimly.
When the ship stopped and the deceleration harness automatically uncoupled, while the hydraulic system retracted into the wall, Baley remained in his seat. He was afraid, and determined not to show it.
He looked away at the first quiet sound of the door of his room opening. There was the eye-corner flash of a tall, bronze-haired figure entering; a Spacer, one of those proud descendants of Earth who had disowned their heritage.
The Spacer spoke. “Partner Elijah!”
Baley’s head turned toward the speaker with a jerk. His eyes rounded and he rose almost without volition.
He stared at the face; at the broad, high cheekbones, the absolute calm of the facial lines, the symmetry of the body, most of all at that level look out of nerveless blue eyes.
“D-daneel.”
The Spacer said, “It is pleasant that you remember me, Partner Elijah.”
“Remember you!” Baley felt relief wash over him. This being was a bit of Earth, a friend, a comfort, a savior. He had an almost unbearable desire to rush to the Spacer and embrace him, to hug him wildly, and laugh and pound his back and do all the foolish things old friends did when meeting once again after a separation.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He could only step forward, and hold out his hand and say, “I’m not likely to forget you, Daneel.”
“That is pleasant,” said Daneel, nodding gravely. “As you are well aware, it is quite impossible for me, while in working order, to forget you. It is well that I see you again.”
Daneel took Baley’s hand and pressed it with firm coolness, his fingers closing to a comfortable but not painful pressure and then releasing it.
Baley hoped earnestly that the creature’s unreadable eyes could not penetrate Baley’s mind and see that wild moment, just past and not yet entirely subsided, when all of Baley had concentrated into a feeling of an intense friendship that was almost love.
After all, one could not love as a friend this
Daneel Olivaw, who was not a man at all, but only a robot.
The robot that looked so like a man said, “I have asked that a robot-driven ground-transport vessel be connected to this ship by air-tube——”
Baley frowned. “An air-tube?”
“Yes. It is a common technique, frequently used in space, in order that personnel and matériel be transferred from one vessel to another without the necessity of special equipment against vacuum. It would seem then that you are not acquainted with the technique.”
“No,” said Baley, “but I get the picture.”
“It is, of course, rather complicated to arrange such a device between spaceship and ground vehicle, but I have requested that it be done. Fortunately, the mission on which you and I are engaged is one of high priority. Difficulties are smoothed out quickly.”
“Are you assigned to the murder case too?”
“Have you not been informed of that? I regret not having told you at once.” There was, of course, no sign of regret on the robot’s perfect face. “It was Dr. Han Fastolfe, whom you met on Earth during our previous partnership and whom I hope you remember, who first suggested you as an appropriate investigator in this case. He made it a condition that I be assigned to work with you once more.”
Baley managed a smile. Dr. Fastolfe was a native of Aurora and Aurora was the strongest of the Outer Worlds. Apparently the advice of an Auroran bore weight.
Baley said, “A team that works shouldn’t be broken up, eh?” (The first exhilaration of Daneel’s appearance
was fading and the compression about Baley’s chest was returning.)
“I do not know if that precise thought was in his mind, Partner Elijah. From the nature of his orders to me, I should think that he was interested in having assigned to work with you one who would have experience with your world and would know of your consequent peculiarities.”
“Peculiarities!” Baley frowned and felt offended. It was not a term he liked in connection with himself.
“So that I could arrange the air-tube, for example. I am well aware of your aversion to open spaces as a result of your upbringing in the Cities of Earth.”
Perhaps it was the effect of being called “peculiar,” the feeling that he had to counterattack or lose caste to a machine, that drove Baley to change the subject sharply. Perhaps it was just that life-long training prevented him from leaving any logical contradiction undisturbed.
He said, “There was a robot in charge of my welfare on board this ship; a robot” (a touch of malice intruded itself here) “that looks like a robot. Do you know it?”
“I spoke to it before coming on board.”
“What’s its designation? How do I make contact with it?”
“It is RX-2475. It is customary on Solaria to use only serial numbers for robots.” Daneel’s calm eyes swept the control panel near the door. “This contact will signal it.”
Baley looked at the control panel himself and, since the contact to which Daneel pointed was labeled RX, its identification seemed quite unmysterious.
Baley put his finger over it and in less than a
minute the robot, the one that looked like a robot, entered.
“Baley said, “You are RX-2475.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You told me earlier that someone would arrive to escort me off the ship. Did you mean him?” Baley pointed at Daneel.
The eyes of the two robots met. RX-2475 said, “His papers identify him as the one who was to meet you.”
“Were you told in advance anything about him other than his papers? Was he described to you?”
“No, sir. I was given his name, however.”
“Who gave you the information?”
“The captain of the ship, sir.”
“Who is a Solarian?”
“Yes, sir.”
Baley licked his lips. The next question would be decisive.
He said, “What were you told would be the name of the one you were expecting?”
RX-2475 said, “Daneel Olivaw, sir.”
“Good boy! You may leave now.”
There was the robotic bow and then the sharp about-face. RX-2475 left.
Baley turned to his partner and said thoughtfully, “You are not telling me all the truth, Daneel.”
“In what way, Partner Elijah?” asked Daneel.
“While I was talking to you earlier, I recalled an odd point. RX-2475, when it told me I would have an escort, said a
man
would come for me. I remember that quite well.”
Daneel listened quietly and said nothing.
Baley went on. “I thought the robot might have made a mistake. I thought also that perhaps a man
had indeed been assigned to meet me and had later been replaced by you, RX-2475 not being informed of the change. But you heard me check that. Your papers were described to it and it was given your name. But it was not quite given your name at that, was it, Daneel?”
“Indeed, it was not given my entire name,” agreed Daneel.
“Your name is not Daneel Olivaw, but R. Daneel Olivaw, isn’t it? Or, in full, Robot Daneel Olivaw.”
“You are quite correct, Partner Elijah.”
“From which it all follows that RX-2475 was never informed that you are a robot. It was allowed to think of you as a man. With your manlike appearance, such a masquerade is possible.”
“I have no quarrel with your reasoning.”
“Then let’s proceed.” Baley was feeling the germs of a kind of savage delight. He was on the track of something. It couldn’t be anything much, but this was the kind of tracking he could do well. It was something he could do well enough to be called half across space to do. He said, “Now why should anyone want to deceive a miserable robot? It doesn’t matter to it whether you are man or robot. It follows orders in either case. A reasonable conclusion then is that the Solarian captain who informed the robot and the Solarian officials who informed the captain did not themselves know you were a robot. As I say, that is one reasonable conclusion, but perhaps not the only one. Is this one true?”
“I believe it is.”
“All right, then. Good guess. Now why? Dr. Han Fastolfe, in recommending you as my partner, allows the Solarians to think you are a human. Isn’t that a
dangerous thing? The Solarians, if they find out, may be quite angry. Why was it done?”
The humanoid robot said, “It was explained to me thus, Partner Elijah. Your association with a human of the Outer Worlds would raise your status in the eyes of the Solarians. Your association with a robot would lower it. Since I was familiar with your ways and could work with you easily, it was thought reasonable to allow the Solarians to accept me as a man without actually deceiving them by a positive statement to that effect.”