The Robots of Dawn

60

Baley felt Daneel’s strong grip on his arms, just beneath his shoulders. He hatted and forced himself to stop making that infantile sound. He could feel himself trembling.

Daneel said with infinite respect, “Partner Elijah, it is a thunderstorm—expected—predicted—normal.”

“I know that,” whispered Baley.

He did know it. Thunderstorms had been described innumerable times in the books he had read, whether fiction or nonfiction. He had seen them in holographs and on hyperwave shows—sound, sight, and all.

The real thing, however, the actual sound and sight, had never penetrated into the bowels of the City and he had never in his life actually experienced such a thing.

With all he knew—intellectually—about thunderstorms, he could not face—viscerally—the actuality. Despite the descriptions, the collections of words, the sight in small pictures and in recordings on small screens, the sounds aptured despite all that, he had no idea the flashes were so bright and streaked so across the sky; that the sound was so vibratorily bass in sound when it rattled across a hollow world; that both were so sudden; and that rain could be so like an inverted bowl of water, endlessly pouring.

He muttered in despair, “I can’t go out in that.”

“You won’t have to,” said Daneel urgently. “Giskard will get the airfoil. It will be brought right to the door for you. Not a drop of rain will fall on you.”

“Why not wait until it’s over?”

“Surely that would not be advisable, Partner Elijah. Some rain, at least, will continue past midnight and if the Chairman arrives tomorrow morning, as Dr. Amadiro implied he might, it might be wise to spend the evening in consultation with Dr. Fastolfe.”

Baley forced himself to turn around, face in the direction from which he wanted to flee, and look into Daneel’s eyes. They seemed deeply concerned, but Baley thought dismally that that was merely the result of his own interpretation of the appearance of those eyes. The robot had no feelings, only positronic surges that mimicked those feelings. (And perhaps human beings had no feelings, only neuronic surges that were interpreted as feelings.)

He was somehow aware that Amadiro was gone. He said, “Amadiro delayed me deliberately—by ushering me into the Personal, by his senseless talk, by his preventing you or Giskard from interrupting and warning me about the storm. He would even have tried to persuade me to tour the building or dine with him. He desisted only at the sound of the storm. That was what he was waiting for.”

“It would seem so. If the storm now keeps you here, that may be what he was waiting for.”

Baley drew a deep breath. “You are right. I must leave somehow.”

Reluctantly, he took a step toward the door, which was still open, still filled with a dark gray vista of whipping rain. Another step. And still another—leaning heavily on Daneel.

Giskard was waiting quietly at the door.

Baley paused and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said in a low voice, to himself rather than to Daneel, “I must do it,” and moved forward again.

61

“Are you well, sir?” asked Giskard.

It was a foolish question, dictated by the programming of the robot, thought Baley, though, at that, it was no worse than the questions asked by human beings, sometimes with wild inappropriateness, out of the programming, of etiquette.

“Yes,” said Baley in a voice he tried—and failed—to raise above a husky whisper. It was a useless answer to the foolish question, for Giskard, robot though he was, could surely see that Baley was unwell and that Baley’s answer was a palpable lie.

The answer was, however, given and accepted and that freed Giskard for the next step. He said, “I will now leave to get the airfoil and bring it to the door.”

“Will it work—in all this—this water, Giskard?”

“Yes, sir. This is not an uncommon rain.”

He left, moving steadily into the downpour. The lightning was flickering almost continuously and the thunder was a muted growl that rose to a louder crescendo every few minutes.

For the first time in his life, Baley found himself envying a robot. Imagine being able to walk through that; to be indifferent to water, to sight, to sound; to be able to, ignore surroundings and to have a pseudo-life that was absolutely courageous; to know no fear of pain or of death, because there was no pain or death.

And yet to be incapable of originality of thought, to be incapable of unpredictable leaps of intuition.

Were such gifts worth what humanity paid for them?

At the moment, Baley could not say. He knew that, once he no longer felt terror, he would know that no price was too high to pay for being human. But now that he experienced nothing but the pounding of his heart and the collapse of his will, he could not help but wonder of what use it might be to be a human being if one could not overcome these deep-seated terrors, this intense agoraphobia.

Yet he had been in the open for much of two days and had managed to be almost comfortable.

But the fear had not been conquered. He knew that now.

He had suppressed it by thinking intensely of other things, but the storm overrode all intensity of thought.

He could not allow this. If all else failed—thought, pride, will—then he would have to fall back on shame. He could not collapse under the impersonal, superior gaze of the robots. Shame would have to be stronger than fear.

He felt Daneel’s steady arm about his waist and shame prevented him from doing what, at the moment, he most wanted to do—to turn and hide his face against the robotic chest. He might have been unable to resist if Daneel had been human—

He had lost contact with reality, for he was becoming aware of Daneel’s voice as though it were reaching him from a long distance. It sounded as though Daneel was feeling something akin to panic.

“Partner Elijah, do you hear me?”

Giskard’s voice, from an equal distance, said, “We must carry him.”

“No,” mumbled Baley. “Let me walk.”

Perhaps they did not hear him. Perhaps he did not really speak, but merely thought he did. He felt himself lifted from the ground. His left arm dangled helplessly and he strove to lift it, to push it against someone’s shoulder, to lift himself upright again from the waist, to grope for the floor with his feet and stand upright.

But his left arm continued to dangle helplessly and his striving went for nothing.

He was somehow aware that he was moving through the air and he felt a wash of spray against his face. Not actually water but the sifting of damp air. Then there was the pressure of a hard surface against his left side, a more resilient one against his right side.

He was in the airfoil, wedged in once more between Giskard and Daneel. What he was most conscious of was that Giskard was very wet.

He felt a jet of warm air cascading over him. Between the near-darkness outside and the film of trickling water upon the glass, they might as well have been opacified—or so Baley thought till opacification actually took place and total darkness descended. The soft noise of the jet, as the airfoil rose above the grass and swayed, muted, the thunder and seemed to draw its teeth.

Giskard said, “I regret the discomfort of my wet surface, Sir. I will dry quickly. We will wait here a short while till you recover.”

Baley was breathing more easily. He felt wonderfully and comfortably enclosed. He thought: Give me back my City. Wipe out all the Universe and let the Spacers colonize it. Earth is all we need.

And even as he thought it, he knew it was his madness that believed it, not he.

He felt the need to keep his mind busy.

He said weakly, “Daneel.”

“Yes, Partner Elijah?”

“About the Chairman. Is it your opinion that Amadiro was judging the situation correctly in supposing that the Chairman would put an end to the investigation or was he perhaps allowing his wishes to do his thinking for him?”

“It may be, Partner Elijah, that the Chairman will indeed interview Dr. Fastolfe and Amadiro on the matter. It would be a standard procedure for settling a dispute—of this nature. There are ample precedents.”

“But why?” asked Baley weakly. “If Amadiro was so persuasive, why should not the Chairman simply order the investigation stopped?”

“The Chairman,” said Daneel, “is in a difficult political situation. He agreed originally to allow you to be brought to Aurora at Dr. Fastolfe’s urging and he cannot so sharply reverse himself so soon without making himself look weak and irresolute—and without angering, Dr. Fastolfe, who is still a very influential figure in the Legislature.”

“Then why did he not simply turn down Amadiro’s request?”

“Dr. Amadiro is also influential, Partner Elijah, and likely to grow even more so. The Chairman must temporize by hearing both sides and by giving at least the appearance of deliberation, before coming to a decision.”

“Based on what?”

“On the merits of the case, we must presume.”

“Then by tomorrow morning, I must come up with something that will persuade the Chairman to side with Fastolfe, rather than against him. If I do that, will that mean victory?”

Daneel said, “The Chairman is not all-powerful, but his influence is great. If he comes out strongly on Dr. Fastolfe’s side, then, under the present political conditions, Dr. Fastolfe will probably win the backing of the Legislature.”

Baley found himself beginning to think clearly again. “That would seem explanation enough for Amadiro’s attempt to delay us. He might have reasoned that I had nothing yet to offer the Chairman and he needed only to delay to keep me from getting anything in the time that remained to me.”

“So it would seem, Partner Elijah.”

“And he let me go only when he thought he could rely on the storm continuing to keep me.”

“Perhaps so, Partner Elijah—”

“In that case, we cannot allow the storm to stop us.”

Giskard said calmly, “Where do you wish to be taken, sir?”

“Back to the establishment of Dr. Fastolfe.”

Daneel said, “May we have one moment’s more pause, Partner Elijah? Do you plan to tell Dr. Fastolfe that you cannot continue the investigation?”

Baley said sharply, “Why do you say that?” It was a measure of his recovery that his voice was loud and angry.

Daneel said, “It is merely that I fear you might have forgotten for a moment that Dr. Amadiro urged you to do so for the sake of Earth’s welfare.”

“I have not forgotten,” said Baley grimly, “and I am surprised, Daneel, that you should think that that would influence me. Fastolfe must be exonerated and Earth must send its settlers outward into the Galaxy. If there is danger in that from the Globalists, that danger must be chanced.”

“But, in that case, Partner Elijah, why go back to Dr. Fastolfe? It doesn’t seem to me that we have anything of moment to report to him. Is there no direction in which we can further continue our investigation before reporting to Dr. Fastolfe?”

Baley sat up in his seat and placed his hand on Giskard, who was now entirely dry. He said, in quite a normal voice, “I am satisfied with the progress I have already made, Daneel. Let’s get moving, Giskard. Proceed to Fastolfe’s establishment.”

And then, tightening his fists and stiffening his body, Baley added, “What’s more, Giskard, clear the windows. I want to look out into the face of the storm.”

62

Baley held his breath in preparation for transparency. The small box of the airfoil would no longer be entirely enclosed; it would no longer have unbroken walls.

As the windows clarified, there was a flash of light that came and went too quickly to do anything but darken the world by contrast.

Baley could not prevent his cringe as be tried to steel himself for the thunder which, after a moment or two, rolled and grumbled.

Daneel said pacifyingly, “The storm will get no worse and soon enough it will recede.”

“I don’t care whether it recedes or not,” said Baley through, trembling lips. “Come on. Let’s go.” He was trying, for his own sake, to maintain the illusion of a human being in charge of robots.

The airfoil rose slightly in the air and at once underwent a sideways movement that tilted it so that Baley felt himself pushing hard against Giskard.

Baley cried out (gasped out, rather), “Straighten the vehicle, Giskard!”

Daneel placed his arm around Baley’s shoulder and pulled him gently back. His other arm was braced about a hand-grip attached to the frame of the airfoil.

“That cannot be done, Partner Elijah,” Daneel said. “There is a fairly strong wind.”

Baley felt his hair bristle. “You mean—we’re going to be blown away?”

“No, of course not,” said Daneel. “If the car were antigrav form of technology that does not, of course, exist—and if its mass and inertia were eliminated, then it would be blown like a feather high into the air. However, we retain our full mass even when our jets lift us and poise us in the air, so our inertia resists the wind. Nevertheless, the wind makes us sway, even though the car remains completely under Giskard’s control.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Baley was conscious of a thin whine, which he imagined to be the wind curling around the body of the airfoil as it cut its way through the protesting atmosphere. Then the airfoil lurched and Baley, who could not for his life have helped it, seized Daneel in a desperate grip around the neck.

Daneel waited a moment. When Baley had caught his breath and his grip grew less rigid, Daneel released himself easily from the other’s embrace, while somewhat tightening the pressure of his own arm around Baley.

He said, “In order to maintain course, Partner Elijah, Giskard must counter the wind by an asymmetric ordering of the airfoil’s jets. They are sent to one side so as to cause the airfoil to lean into the wind and these jets have to be adjusted in force and direction as the wind itself changes force and direction. There are none better at this than Giskard, but, even so, there are occasional jiggles and lurches. You must excuse Giskard, then, if he does not participate in our conversation. His attention is fully on the airfoil.”

“Is it—it safe?” Baley left his stomach contract at the thought of playing with the wind in this fashion. He was devoutly glad he had not eaten for some hours. He could not—dared not—be sick in the close confines of the airfoil. The very thought unsettled him further and he tried to concentrate on something else.

He thought of running the strips back on Earth, of racing from one moving strip to its neighboring faster strip, and, then to its neighboring still faster strip, and then back down into the slower regions, leaning expertly into the wind either way; in one direction as one fastered (an odd word used by no one but strip-racers) and in the other direction, as one slowered. In his younger days, Baley could do it without pause and without error.

Daneel had adjusted to the need without trouble and, the one time they had run the strips together, Daneel had done it perfectly. Well, this was just the same! The airfoil was running strips. Absolutely! It was the same!

Not quite the same, to be sure. In the City, the speed of the strips was a fixed quantity. What wind there was blew in absolutely predictable fashion, since it was only the result of the movement of the strips. Here in the storm however, the wind had a mind of its own or, rather, it depended on so many variables (Baley was deliberately striving for rationality) that it seemed to have a mind of its own—and Giskard had to allow for that. That was all. Otherwise, it was just running the strips with an added complication. The strips were moving at variable—and sharply changing-speeds.

Baley muttered, “What if we blow into a tree?”

“Very unlikely, Partner Elijah. Giskard is far too skillful for that. And we are only very slightly above the ground, so that the jets are particularly powerful.”

“Then we’ll hit a rock. It will cave us in underneath.”

“We will not hit a rock, Partner Elijah.”

“Why not? How on Earth can Giskard see where he’s going, anyway?” Baley stared at the darkness ahead.

“It is just about sunset,” said Daneel, “and some light is making its way through the clouds. It is—enough for us to see by with the help of our headlights. And as it grows darker, Giskard will brighten the headlights.”

“What headlights?” asked Baley rebelliously.

“You do not see them very well because they have a strong infrared component, to which Giskard’s eyes are sensitive but yours are not. What’s more, the infrared is more penetrating than shorter wave light is and, for that reason, is more effective in rain, mist, and fog.”

Baley managed to feel some curiosity, even amid his uneasiness. “And your eyes, Daneel?”

“My eyes, Partner Elijah, are designed to be as similar to those of human beings as possible. That is regrettable, perhaps, at this moment.”

The airfoil trembled and Baley found himself holding his breath again. He said in a whisper, “Spacer eyes are still adapted to Earth’s sun, even if robot eyes aren’t. A good thing, too, if it helps—remind them they’re descended from Earthpeople.”

His voice faded out. It was getting darker. He could see nothing at all now and the intermittent flashes lighted nothing, either. They were merely blinding. He closed his eyes and that didn’t help. He was the more conscious of the angry, threatening thunder.

Should they not stop? Should they not wait for the worst of the storm to pass?

Giskard suddenly said, “The vehicle is not reacting properly.”

Baley felt the ride become ragged as though the machine was on wheels and was rolling over ridges.

Daneel said, “Can it be storm damage, friend Giskard?”

“It does not have the feel of that, friend Daneel. Nor does it seem likely that this machine would suffer from this kind of damage in this or any other storm.”

Baley absorbed the exchange with difficulty. “Damage?” he muttered. “What kind of damage?”

Giskard said, “I should judge the compressor to be leaking, sir, but slowly. It’s not the result of an ordinary puncture.”

“How did it happen, then?” Baley asked.

“Deliberate damage, perhaps, while it was outside the Administration Building. I have known, now, for some little time that we are being followed and carefully not being overtaken.”

“Why, Giskard?”

“A possibility, sir, is that they are waiting for us to break down completely.” The airfoil’s motion was becoming more ragged.

“Can you make it to Dr. Fastolfe’s?”

“It would not seem so, sir.”

Baley tried to fling his reeling mind into action. “In that case, I’ve completely misjudged Amadiro’s reason for delaying us. He was keeping us there to have one or more of his robots damage the airfoil in such a way as to bring us down in the midst of desolation and lightning,”

“But why should he do that?” said Daneel, sounding shocked. “To get you?—In a way, he already had you.”

“He doesn’t want me. No one wants me,” said Baley with a somewhat feeble anger. “The danger is to you, Daneel.”

“To me, Partner Elijah?”

“Yes, you! Daneel. Giskard, choose a safe place to come down and, as, soon as you do, Daneel must get out of the car and be off to a place of safety.”

Daneel said, “That is impossible, Partner Elijah. I could not leave you when you are feeling ill—and most especially if there are those who pursue us and might do you harm.”

Baley said, “Daneel, they’re pursuing you. You must leave. As for me, I will stay in the airfoil. I am in no danger.”

“How can I believe that?”

“Please! Please! How can I explain the whole thing with everything spinning—Daneel”—Baley’s voice grew desperately calm—“you are the most important individual here, far more important than Giskard and I put together. It’s not just that I care for you and want no harm to come to you. All of humanity depends on you. Don’t worry about me; I’m one man; worry about billions. Daneel—please—”

63

Baley could feel himself rocking back and forth. Or was it the airfoil? Was it breaking up altogether? Or was Giskard losing control? Or was he taking evasive action?

Baley didn’t care. He didn’t care! Let the airfoil crash. Let it smash to bits. He would welcome oblivion. Anything to get rid of this terrible fright, this total inability to come to terms with the Universe.

Except that he had to make sure that Daneel got away safely away. But how?

Everything was unreal and he was not going to be able to explain anything to these robots. The situation was so clear to him, but how was he to transfer this understanding to these robots, to these nonmen, who understood nothing but their Three Laws and who would let all of Earth and, in the long run, all of humanity go to hell because they could only be concerned with the one man under their noses?

Why had robots ever been invented?

And then, oddly enough,—Giskard, the lesser of the two, came to his aid.

He said in his contentless voice, “Friend Daneel, I cannot keep this airfoil in motion much longer. Perhaps it will be more suitable to do as Mr. Baley suggests. He has given you a very strong order.”

“Can I leave him when he is unwell, friend Giskard?” said Daneel, perplexed.

“You cannot take him out into the storm with you, friend Daneel. Moreover, he seems so anxious for you to leave that it may do him harm for you to stay.”

Baley felt himself reviving. “Yes—yes—” he managed to croak out. “As Giskard says. Giskard, you go with him, hide him, make sure he doesn’t return—then come back for me.”

Daneel said forcefully, “That cannot be, Partner Elijah. We cannot leave you alone, untended, unguarded.”

“No danger—I am in no danger. Do as I say—”

Giskard said, “Those following are probably robots. Human beings I would hesitate to come out in the storm. And robots would not harm Mr. Baley.”

Daneel said, “They might take him away.”

“Not into the storm, friend Daneel, since that would work obvious harm to him. I will bring the airfoil to a halt now, friend Daneel. You must be ready to do as Mr. Baley orders. I, too.”

“Good!” whispered Baley. “Good!” He was grateful for the simpler brain that could more easily be impressed and that lacked the ability to get lost and uncertain in ever-expanding refinements.

Vaguely, he thought of Daneel trapped between his perception of Baley’s ill-being and the urgency of the order—and of his brain snapping under the conflict.

Baley thought: No, no, Daneel. Just do as I say and don’t question it.

He lacked the strength, almost the will, to articulate it and he let the order remain a thought.

The airfoil came down with a bump and a short, harsh, scraping noise.

The doors flew open, one on either side, and then closed with a soft, sighing noise. At once, the robots were gone. Having come to their decision, there was no hesitation and they moved with a speed that human beings could not duplicate.

Baley took a deep breath and shuddered. The airfoil was rock-steady now. It was part of the ground.

He was suddenly aware of how much of his misery had been the result, of the swaying and bucking of the vehicle, the feeling of insubstantiality, of not being connected to the Universe but of being at the mercy of inanimate, uncaring forces.

Now, however, it was still and he opened his eyes.

He had not been aware that they had been closed.

There was still lightning on the horizon and the thunder was a subdued mutter, while the wind, meeting a more resistant and less yielding object now than it had hitherto, keened a higher note than before.

It was dark. Baley’s eyes were no more than—human and he saw no light of any kind, other than the occasional blip of lightning. The sun must surely have set and the clouds were thick.

And for the first time since Baley had left Earth, he was alone!

64

Alone!

He had been too ill, too beside himself, to make proper sense. Even now, he found himself struggling to understand what it was he should have done and would have done—if he had had room in his tottering mind for more than the one thought that Daneel must leave.

For instance, he had not asked where he now was, what he was near, where Daneel and Giskard were planning to go. He did not know how any portion of the grounded airfoil worked. He could not, of course, make it move, but he might have had it supply heat if he felt cold or turn off the heat if there were too much—except that he did not know how to direct the machine to do either.

He did not know how to opacify the windows if he wanted to be enclosed or how to open a door if he wanted to leave.

The only thing he could do now was to wait for Giskard to come back for him. Surely that was what Giskard would expect him to do. The orders to him had simply been: Come back for me.

There had been no indication that Baley would change position in any way and Giskard’s clear and uncluttered mind would surely interpret the “Come back” with the assumption that he was to come back to the airfoil.

Baley tried to adjust himself to that. In a way, it was a relief merely to wait, to have to make no decisions for a while, because there were no decisions he could possibly make. It was a relief to be steady and to feel at rest and to be rid of the terrible light flashes and the disturbing crashes of sound.

Perhaps he might even allow himself to go to sleep.

And then he stiffened.—Dare he do that?

They were being pursued. They were under observation. The airfoil, while parked and waiting for them outside the Administration Building of the Robotics Institute, had been tampered with and no doubt the tamperers would soon be upon him.

He was waiting for them, too, and not for Giskard only. Had he thought it out clearly in the midst of his misery?

The machine had been tampered with outside the Administration Building. That might have been done by anyone, but most likely by someone who knew it was there—and who would know that better than Amadiro?

Amadiro had intended delay until the storm. That was obvious. He was to travel in the storm and he was to break down in the storm. Amadiro had studied Earth and its population; he boasted of that. He would know quite clearly just what difficulty Earthpeople would have with the Outside generally and with a thunderstorm in particular.

He would be quite certain that Baley would be reduced to complete helplessness.

But why should he want that?

To bring Baley back to the Institute? He had already had him, but he had had a Baley in the full possession of his faculties and along with him he had had two robots perfectly capable of defending Baley physically. It would be different now!

If the airfoil were disabled in a storm, Baley would be disabled emotionally. He would even be unconscious, perhaps, and would certainly not be able to resist being brought back. Nor would the two robots object. With Baley clearly ill, their only appropriate reaction would be to assist Amadiro’s robots in rescuing him.

In fact, the two robots would have to come along with Baley and would do so helplessly.

And if anyone ever questioned Amadiro’s action, he could say that he had feared for Baley in the storm; that he had tried to keep him at the Institute and failed; that he had sent his robots to trail him and assure his safety; and that, when the airfoil came to grief in the storm, those robots brought Baley back to haven. Unless people understood that it had been Amadiro who had ordered the airfoil tampered with (and who would believe that—and how could one prove it?), the only possible public reaction would be to praise Amadiro for his humanitarian feelings—all the more astonishing for having been expressed toward a subhuman Earthman.

And what would Amadiro do with Baley then?

Nothing, except to keep him quiet and helpless for a time. Baley was not himself the quarry. That was the point.

Amadiro would also have two robots and they would now be helpless. Their instructions forced them, in the strongest manner, to guard Baley and, if Baley were ill and being cared for, they could only follow Amadiro’s orders if those orders were clearly and apparently for Baley’s benefit. Nor would Baley be (perhaps) sufficiently himself to protect them with further orders—certainly not if he were kept under sedation.

It was clear! It was clear! Amadiro had had Baley, Daneel, and Giskard—but in unusable fashion. He had sent them out into the storm in order to bring them back and have them again—in usable fashion. Especially Daneel! It was Daneel who was the key.

To be sure, Fastolfe would be searching for them eventually and would find them, too, and retrieve them, but by then it would be too late, wouldn’t it?

And what did Amadiro want with Daneel?

Baley, his head aching, was sure he knew—but how could he possibly prove it?

He could think no more.—If he could opacify the windows, he could make a little interior world again, enclosed and motionless, and then maybe he could continue his thoughts.

But he did not know how to opacify the windows. He could only sit there and look at the flagging storm beyond those windows, hear the whip of rain against the windows, watch the fading lightning, and listen to the muttering thunder.

He closed his eyes tightly. The eyelids made a wall, too, but he dared not sleep.

The car door on his right opened. He heard the sighing noise it made. He felt the cool, damp breeze enter, the temperature drop, the sharp smell of things green and wet enter and drown, out the faint and friendly smell of oil and upholstery that reminded him somehow of the City that he wondered if he would ever see again.

He opened his eyes and there was the odd sensation of a robotic face staring at him—and drifting sideways, yet not really moving. Baley felt dizzy.

The robot, seen as a darker shadow against the darkness, seemed a large one. He had, somehow, an air of capability about him. He—said, “Your pardon, sir. Did you not have the company of two robots?”

“Gone,” muttered Baley, acting as ill as he could and aware that it did not require acting. A brighter flash of the heavens made its way through the eyelids that were now half-open.

“Gone! Gone where, sir?” And then, as he waited for an answer, he said, “Are you ill, sir?”

Baley felt a distant twinge of satisfaction within the inner scrap of himself that was still capable of thinking. If the robot had been without special instruction, he would have responded to Baley’s clear signs of illness before doing anything else. To have asked first about the robots implied hard and close-pressed directions as to their importance.

It fit.

He tried to assume a strength and normality he did not possess and said, “I am well. Don’t concern yourself with me.”

It could not possibly have convinced an ordinary robot, but this one had been so intensified in connection with Daneel, (obviously) that he accepted it—He said, “Where have the robots gone, sir?”

“Back to the Robotics Institute.”

“To the Institute? Why, sir?”

“They were called by Master Roboticist Amadiro and he ordered them to return. I am waiting for them.”

“But why did you not go with them, sir?”

“Master Roboticist Amadiro did not wish me to be exposed to the storm. He ordered me to wait here. I am following Master Roboticist Amadiro’s orders.”

He hoped the repetition of the prestige-filled name with the inclusion of the honorific, together with the repetition of the word “order,” would have its effect on the robot and persuade him to leave Baley where he was.

On the other hand, if they had been instructed, with particular care, to bring back Daneel, and if they were convinced that Daneel was already on his way back to the Institute, there would be a decline in the intensity of their need in connection with that robot. They would have time to think of Baley again. They would say—

The robot said, “But it appears you are not well, sir.”

Baley felt another twinge of satisfaction. He said, “I am well.”

Behind the robot, he could vaguely see a crowding of several other robots—he could not count them—with their faces gleaming in the occasional lightning flash. As Baley’s eyes adapted to the return of darkness, he could see the dim shine of their eyes.

He turned his head. There were robots at the left door, too, though that remained closed.

How many had Amadiro sent? Were they to have been returned, by force, if necessary?

He said, “Master Roboticist Amadiro’s orders were that my robots were to return to the Institute and I was to wait. You see that they are returning and that I am waiting. If you were sent to help, if you have a vehicle, find the robots, who are on their way back, and transport them. This airfoil is no longer operative.” He tried to say it all without hesitation and firmly, as a well man would. He did not entirely succeed.

“They have returned on foot, sir?”

Baley said, “Find them. Your orders are clear.”

There was hesitation. Clear hesitation.

Baley finally remembered to move his right foot—he hoped properly. He should have done it before, but his physical body was not responding properly to his thoughts.

Still the robots hesitated and Baley grieved over that. He was not a Spacer. He did not know the proper words, the proper tone, the proper air with which to handle robots with the proper efficiency. A skilled roboticist could, with a gesture, a lift of an eyebrow, direct a robot as though it were a marionette of which he held the strings.—Especially if the robot were of his own design.

But Baley was only an Earthman.

He frowned—that was easy to do in his misery—and whispered a weary “Go!” and motioned with his hands.

Perhaps that added the last small and necessary quantity of weight to his order—or perhaps an end had simply been reached, to the time it took for the robots’ positronic pathways to determine, by voltage and counter-voltage, how to sort out their instructions according to the Three Laws.

Either way, they had made up their minds and, after that, there was no further hesitation. They moved back to their vehicle, whatever and wherever it was, with such determined speed that they seemed simply to disappear.

The door the robot had held open now closed of its own accord. Baley had moved his foot in order to place it in the pathway of the closing door. He wondered distantly if his foot would be cut off cleanly or if its bones would be crushed, but he didn’t move it. Surely no vehicle would be designed to make such a misadventure possible.

He was alone again. He had forced robots to leave a patently unwell human being by playing on the force of the orders given them by a competent robot master who had been intent on strengthening the Second Law for his own purposes—and had done it to the point—where Baley’s own quite apparent lies had subordinated the First Law to it.

How well he had done it, Baley thought with distant self-satisfaction—and became aware that the door which had swung shut was still ajar, held so by his foot, and that that foot had not been the least bit damaged as a result.

65

Baley felt cool air curling about his foot and a sprinkle of cool water. It was a frighteningly abnormal thing to sense, yet he could not allow the door to close, for he would then not know how to open it. (How did the robots open those doors? Undoubtedly, it was no puzzle to members of the culture, but in his reading on Auroran life, there was no careful instruction of just how one opens the door of a standard airfoil. Everything of importance is taken for granted. You’re supposed to know, even though you are, in theory, being informed.)

He was groping in his pockets as he thought this and even the pockets were not easy to find. They were not in the right places and they were sealed, so that they had to be opened by fumbles till he found the precise motion that caused the seal to part. He pulled out a handkerchief, balled it, and placed it between the door and jamb so that the door would not entirely close. He then removed his foot.

Now to think—if he could. There was no point to keeping the door open unless he meant to get out. Was there, however, any, purpose in getting out?

If he waited where he was, Giskard would eventually come back for him and, presumably, lead him to safety.

Dare he wait?

He did not know how long it would take Giskard to see Daneel to safety and then return.

But neither did he know how long it would take the pursuing robots to decide they would not find Daneel and Giskard on any road leading back to the Institute. (Surely it was impossible that Daneel and Giskard had actually moved backward toward the Institute in search of sanctuary. Baley had not actually ordered them not to—but what if that were the only feasible route?—No! Impossible!)

Baley shook his head in silent denial of the possibility and felt it ache in response. He put his hands to it and gritted his teeth.

How long would the pursuing robots continue to search before they would decide that Baley had misled them—or had been himself misled? Would they then return and take him in custody, very politely and with great care not to harm him? Could he hold them off by telling them he would die if exposed to the storm?

Would they believe that? Would they call the Institute to report? Surely they would do that. And would human beings then arrive? They would not be overly concerned about his welfare.

If Baley got out of the car and found some hiding place in the surrounding trees, it would be that much harder for the pursuing robots to locate him—and that would gain him time.

It would also be harder for Giskard to locate him, but Giskard would be under a much more intense instruction to guard Baley than the pursuing robots were to find him. The primary task of the former would be to locate Baley—and of the latter, to locate Daneel.

Besides, Giskard was programmed by Fastolfe himself and Amadiro, however skillful, was no match for Fastolfe.

Surely, then, all things being equal, Giskard would be back before the other robots could possibly be.

But would all things be equal? With a faint attempt at cynicism, Baley thought: I’m worn-out and can’t really think. I’m merely seizing desperately at whatever will console me.

Still, what could he do but play the odds, as he conceived, the odds to be?

He leaned against the door and was out into the open. The handkerchief fell out into the wet, rank grass and he automatically bent down to pick it up, holding it in his hands as he staggered away from the car.

He was overwhelmed by the gusts of rain that soaked his face and hands. After a short while, his wet clothes were clinging to his body and he was shivering with cold.

There was a piercing splitting of the sky—too quick, for him to close his eyes against—and then a sharp hammering that stiffened him in terror and made him clap his hands over his ears.

Had the storm returned? Or did it sound louder only because he was out in the open?

He had to move. He had to move away from the car, so that the pursuers would not find him too easily. He must not waver and remain in its vicinity or he might as well have stayed inside—and dry.

He tried to wipe his face with the handkerchief, but it was as wet as his face was and he let it go. It was useless.

He moved on, hands outstretched. Was there a moon that circled Aurora? He seemed to recall there had been mention of such a thing and he would have welcomed its light.—But what did it matter? Even if it existed and were in the sky now, the clouds would obscure it.

He felt something. He could not see what it was, but he knew it to be the rough bark of a tree. Undoubtedly a tree. Even a City man would know that much.

And then he remembered that lightning might hit trees and might kill people. He could not remember that he had ever read a description of how it felt to be hit by lightning or if there were any measures to prevent it. He knew of no one on Earth who had been hit by lightning.

He felt his way about the tree and was in an agony of apprehension and fear. How much was halfway around, so that he would end up moving in the same direction?

Onward!

The underbrush was thick now and hard to get through. It was like bony, clutching fingers holding him. He pulled petulantly and he heard the tearing of cloth.

Onward!

His teeth were chattering and he was trembling.

Another flash. Not a bad one. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of his surroundings.

Trees! A number of them. He was in a grove of trees. Were many trees more dangerous than one tree where lightning was concerned?

He didn’t know.

Would it help if he didn’t actually touch a tree?

He didn’t know that, either. Death by lightning simply wasn’t a factor in the Cities and the historical novels (and sometimes histories) that mentioned it never went into detail.

He looked up at the dark sky and felt the wetness coming down. He wiped at his wet eyes with his wet hands.

He stumbled onward, trying to step high. At one point, he splashed through a narrow stream of water, sliding over the pebbles underlaying it.

How strange! It made him no wetter than he was.

He went on again. The robots would not find him. Would Giskard?

He didn’t know where he was. Or where he was going. Or, how far he was from anything.

If he wanted to return to the car, he couldn’t.

If he was trying to find himself, he couldn’t.

And the storm would continue forever and he would finally dissolve and pour down in a little stream of Baley and no one would ever find him again.

And his dissolved molecules would float down to the ocean.

Was there an ocean on Aurora?

Of course there was! It was larger than Earth’s, but there was more ice at the Auroran poles.

Ah, he would float to the ice and freeze there, glistening in the cold orange sun.

His hands were touching a tree again wet hands—wet tree—rumble of thunder—funny he didn’t see the flash of lightning came first—was he hit?

He didn’t feel anything—except the ground.

The ground was under him because his fingers were scrabbling into cold mud. He turned his head so he could breathe. It was rather comfortable. He didn’t have to walk anymore. He could wait. Giskard would find him.

He was suddenly very sure of it. Giskard would have to find him because—

No, he had forgotten the because. It was the second time he had forgotten something. Before he went to sleep—Was it the same thing he had forgotten each time?—The same thing—?

It didn’t matter.

It would be all right—all—

And he lay there, alone and unconscious, in the rain at the base of a tree, while the storm beat on.