3
"THEY WERE HERE again," Kresh said as he kissed his wife. It was not a question, and Fredda knew better then to pretend she didn't know who he meant.
"Yes," she said carefully. "They've just left."
"Good," Kresh said as he eased himself down into his favorite chair. "I don't like having them around."
"Nor do I, Dr. Leving," Donald 111 announced. "The danger represented by the presence of those two pseudorobots is far greater than you believe."
"Donald, I built both of those pseudo-robots, as you insist on calling them," Fredda said, feeling as much amusement as irritation. "I understand fully what they are capable of."
"I am not at all sure that is the case, Dr. Leving," Donald said. "But if you will insist on meeting them when I am not present, there is nothing I can do to prevent you from doing so. I would urge you once again to exercise extreme caution when you deal with them."
"I will, Donald, I will," Fredda said, her voice a bit tired. She had built Donald, too, of course. She knew as well as anyone that the First Law forced Donald to mention the potential danger to her at every opportunity. For all of that, it was still tedious to hear the same warning over and over again. Donald, and most other Three-Law robots, referred to Caliban and Prospero-and all New Law robots-as pseudo-robots because they did not possess the Three Laws. By definition, a robot was a sentient being imbued with the Three Laws. Prospero was possessed of the New Laws, and Caliban had no laws at all. They might look like robots, and in some ways act like robots, but they were not robots. Donald saw them as a perversion, as unnatural beings that had no proper place in the universe. Well, perhaps he would not phrase it in quite that way, but Fredda knew she was not far off the mark.
"Why is it, exactly, that they need to come here anyway?" Alvar asked as he leaned back in his chair. "They have passes that give them the freedom of the city."
"Don't get too comfortable," Fredda warned. "Dinner in just a few minutes."
"Fine," Kresh said, leaning forward again. "I'll be as uncomfortable as you like. But answer my question."
Fredda laughed, leaned over and kissed Alvar on the forehead. "Once a policeman, always a policeman," she said.
The robot Oberon chose that moment to appear. "Dinner is served," it announced.
"Always a policeman," Alvar said to his wife. "So don't think this little interruption is going to get you off the hook."
He stood up, and husband and wife went in to dinner, Oberon leading the way, Donald trailing behind. Donald took up his usual wall niche, and Oberon set about serving the meal.
Fredda decided it would all go a bit smoother if she didn't force her husband to prompt her for an answer. Oberon set a plate before her and she picked up her fork. "They come here to have a safe place to meet," she said. "That's the main answer. There aren't many places in Hades where they aren't in some sort of danger of an NL basher gang, passes or no passes." There had been Settler robot-bashing gangs in the past, though most of them had faded away by now. But certain Spacers had learned the bashing game from the Settlers. There were still radicals, extremists even beyond the pale of the Ironheads, who were always itching to do in a New Law robot, given the chance. "New Law robots aren't safe in this city. I've told you that before, even if you don't quite believe it."
"Then why come here? If Hades is so dangerous, it seems to me they ought to be safe enough on the other side of the planet, in Utopia. In that underground city of theirs. They ought to be," he said again, as if he was not sure they truly were.
One of Alvar Kresh's first acts as governor was to issue an order, banishing the New Law robots from the inhabited parts of the planet. If that was not the exact wording of the order, it was certainly the effect-and, for that matter, the intent. Fredda could not fault her husband too much for the decision. It had been a choice between banishment and destroying the New Law robots altogether. "They are safe enough in Valhalla, though I don't think I'd call it a city, exactly," she said. "It's more like a huge bunker complex than anything else."
"Well, I'll take your word for it," Alvar said. "You've been there, and I haven't."
"They may be safe there," Fredda said, "but they don't have everything they need. They have to come here to trade."
"What could a bunch of robots need?"
Fredda wanted to let out a sigh, but she forced herself to hold it back. The two of them had had this argument too many times before. By now each of them had rehearsed his or her part to perfection. But that didn't make the argument end. They had a good marriage, a solid marriage-but the issue of the New Law robots was one they seemed unlikely to settle between themselves any time soon. "Spare parts, if nothing else," Fredda said, "as you know perfectly well. They have to keep themselves in repair. Supplies and equipment to maintain and expand Valhalla. Information of all sorts. Other things. This time they were after biological supplies."
"That's a new one," said Alvar. "What do they want with bio supplies?"
"Terraforming projects, I suppose," said Fredda. "They've made a great deal of progress reviving the climate in their part of the world."
"And trained themselves in some highly marketable skills at the same time. Don't try to make them into tin saints for me," said Kresh.
The New Laws were allowed off the Utopia reservation under certain circumstances. The most common reason was to do skilled labor. Every terraforming project on the planet was short of labor, and many project managers were willing-if only reluctantly so-to hire New Law robots for the jobs. The New Laws charged high rates for their work, but they gave good value for money. "What's wrong with their doing honest work?" Fredda asked. "And what is wrong with their getting paid for it? If a private company needs temporary robot labor, it rents them, and pays the robot rental agent or the owner of the robots for the use of his property. The same applies here. It's just that these robots own themselves."
"There's nothing wrong with it," Alvar said, moodily stabbing his fork at his vegetables. "But there's nothing all that noble about it, either. You always try to make them sound like heroes."
"Not everything they do is for money or gain," Fredda said, "No one pays them for the terraforming work they do in the Utopia reservation. They do it because they want to do it."
"Why is that, do you think?" asked Alvar. "Why is it that is what they want to do? I know you've been studying the question. Have you come up with anything new on it?"
Fredda looked at her husband in some surprise. The moment she praised anything about the New Laws was normally the point in their well-rehearsed argument when her husband glared at her and suggested that she go the whole distance in making the damned New Laws into angels and rivet wings to their backs, or said something else to the same effect. But not tonight. Fredda realized that Alvar was...different tonight. The New Law robots were on his mind-but usually the subject simply got him angry. This time there was something more thoughtful about him. Almost, impossibly enough, as if he were worried about them. "Do you really want to know?" she asked, her voice uncertain.
"Of course I do," he replied gently. "Why else would I ask? I'm always interested in your work."
"Well," she said, "the short answer is that I don't know. There is no question that they have a-a drive for beauty. I can't think of what else to call it. Though perhaps it might be more accurate to call it an impulse to put things right. Where, exactly, it comes from, I can't say. But it's not all that surprising that it's there. When you construct something as complex as a robotic brain, and introduce novel programming-like the New Laws-there are bound to be unexpected consequences of one sort or another. One reason I'm so interested in Prospero is that the programming of his gravitonic brain was still half-experimental. He's different from the other New Laws in some unexpected ways. He has a much less balanced personality than Caliban, for one thing."
"Leave that to one side for the moment," Alvar said. "What about this urge to create business?"
"There you get into very dangerous waters," Fredda said. "I'd be very reluctant to credit them with true creative impulses. I'm sure Donald would agree with me."
"I certainly would," Donald said, speaking from his wall niche, and startling Fredda just a fraction. The convention was that robots were to speak only when spoken too, especially during meals, but Donald often found ways to make liberal interpretations of that rule. "Robots do not and cannot achieve true creativity," he went on. "We are capable of imitation, of reproducing from an existing model, and even of a certain degree of embellishment. But only humans are capable of true acts of creation."
"All right, Donald. Let' s not get off on that debate," Kresh said. "By creation or repair or imitation, the New Laws have done great things on the Utopia reservation, in ways that don't seem to offer them any sort of benefit. Green plants and fresh water and a balanced local ecology don't do them any good. So why do they do it?"
"Ask them and they'll tell you it's because they want to-and good luck getting a more detailed answer," Fredda said. "I haven't, and I've tried enough times: I don't know if it's their Fourth Law, or the fact that they were designed for terraforming work, or the synergy between the two of those things. Or maybe it's because Gubber Anshaw designed their gravitonic brain with an underlying internal topography that is closer to the human brain's pattern than any other robotic brain has even been."
Alvar smiled. "In other words, you don't know," he said.
Fredda smiled back, and reached across the table to take his hand in hers. "In other words, I don't know," she agreed. It was good to talk with him, on this of all subjects, without anger. She knew he had never really felt completely confident in his decision regarding the New Laws. And, in her own heart of hearts, she had to admit it was at least possible it might have been better all around if she had never created them. "But even if I don't know why they feel the impulse, I do know that they feel it."
"I guess that will have to do," he said. "There are times when I wonder about that. It is something new and different in the universe for robots to work for something without orders, without direction. And Donald's observation to the contrary, I am not absolutely convinced it is impossible for an artificial mind to have creative ability. I don't like the New Law robots. I think they are dangerous, and not to be trusted. But I cannot quite bring myself to believe they, and all their work, should be wiped off the face of the planet."
Fredda pulled her hand back, and looked at her husband in alarm. "Alvar-what are you talking about? You decided years ago that they should be allowed to survive. What you're saying now makes it sound like there's a new reason you might..." Her voice trailed off, but her husband understood.
"There is a new reason," Kresh said. "A new reason they might have to go. I may have to choose between destroying them and saving the planet. I don't need to tell you what my choice would be."
"Alvar, what in the name of the devil are you talking about?"
Alvar Kresh did not answer at first. He looked at her most unhappily, and let out a deep and weary sigh. "I should never have accepted this job," he said at last. "I should have let Simcor Beddle take it, and let him have the nightmares." He did not say more for a moment. Instead he picked up his fork and made an attempt to eat a bite or two more. But the sudden silence in the room, and the expression on Fredda's face, were too much for him. He let the fork clatter onto the plate, and leaned wearily back in his chair. "I want you to come in with me tomorrow morning," he said. "There's someone I want you to meet. I want your opinion of what he has to say."
"Who-who is it?" Fredda asked.
"No one you'd know," said Kresh. "A young fellow by the name of Davlo Lentrall."
TONYA WELTON WAS worried. She had reason to be. Something was going on. Something was going on, and she did not know what it was. And she would not know until the Settler Security Service debriefing team was ready to tell her. The SSS had told her that an informant named Ardosa had risked his cover getting into Settlertown, and that he had claimed to have some vital information, and that it concerned an astrophysicist named Davlo Lentrall. They would not be able to have anything more for her until the transcripts of his debriefing were drawn up and checked over, and the information verified.
There had been something in the voice of the SSS officer who had reported the news, something that told her it was big enough that they didn't want to risk letting it out until they were sure the information was credible. They were going to have a try at breaking into Lentrall's computer files. The University was using a Settler-built computer system, which ought to give them an advantage, but it still would not be easy. There was nothing to do but wait.
Tonya had a gut feeling that told her they were going to find out Ardosa's information damn well was credible. She was tempted to call over and demand to be given the raw information immediately. But she knew better than that. When the professionals turned cautious, there was, more often than not, good reason for them to do so. Let them work. She would know in good time.
As she sat there, worrying, Gubber Anshaw came into the room. He bent down to kiss her on the forehead, and she gave him a little pat on the arm before he straightened up and crossed the room to settle into his own chair with a contented sigh.
Tonya watched him pullout his technical journals and start in to read. She loved him dearly, there had been times when he had been of tremendous help-but this was not likely to be one of those times.
Gubber was a world-class expert on robots, but whatever was up, it definitely did not involve robots. At the moment, Gubber was reading up in preparation for his long-planned trip to Valhalla. Gubber, as the designer of the gravitonic brain, had never really approved of the way Fredda Leving had appropriated his work to create the New Law robots. However, over time, he had come to accept the situation-and from there, it was not much of a step to taking advantage of it. The New Laws were still the only gravitonic-brain robots ever made. It was only common sense that Gubber take advantage of the chance to study them more. Gubber was due to take the morning suborbital flight to Depot in the morning, and meet up with a New Law robot by the name of Lancon-03 there for the journey on to the hidden city of Valhalla.
Normally, Tonya would have entertained the hope that Gubber might have heard something through the rumor mill. But when Gubber was wrapped up in his work, it took something on the order of a blaster shot at the book he was reading to direct his attention elsewhere. It seemed highly unlikely he had spent much time recently with his friends chatting about the doings of obscure astrophysicists.
Damnation, what was this Lentrall person up to? Why was he suddenly so important? It involved terraforming, that much was for sure. Therefore, it had to affect the Settlers on Inferno. And, as she was the leader of the Settlers on Inferno, it sure as hell was going to affect Tonya.
The contingent of Settlers were on Inferno for the express purpose of reterraforming the planet. Very few of the Settlers sent on the project had been particularly thrilled about the assignment. After all, it required them to live on a Spacer world, and to deal with Spacers on a daily basis.
But enough could be said for the Spacer life that many of the Settlers had lived up to their name, and settled on Inferno, more or less permanently. They had discovered there were other ways to live, besides in the vast underground warrens that were the Settler cities. They had met husbands and wives, started families. They had bought property, built houses. Some had actually taken on robot servants. There were more than a few of them who had no particular desire to go back home. As terraforming a planet was, at the very least, a task measured in decades, some of her people-including Tonya herself-had begun to take comfort in the knowledge that they could stay as long as they liked, perhaps their whole lives long.
Therefore, anything that threatened, or even affected, the Settlers' terraforming project, was of the gravest concern. And Tonya had the very distinct impression that this Lentrall affair could play merry hell with the terraforming project.
Their operative at the University of Hades, a fellow by the name of Ardosa, had alerted the Settler Security Service that Lentrall had come up with something that had thrown the whole terraforming department for a loop. Ardosa had also reported that the upper ranks of the university's administration had likewise been thrown into an uproar by the news. there had been some extremely stormy meetings.
Beyond all that, Ardosa didn't know much-simply that something was up, and that it was urgent, and that Lentrall had met with the university's top terraforming experts. Or at least what passed for terraforming experts over there. Tonya was confident her own people were way ahead of anything the Infernals could do. At least she had been confident, up until now.
Once alerted by Ardosa, the Settler Security Service had spotted Lentrall going in and out of Governor Kresh's office complex. The SSS also managed to get a private peek at the governor's daily appointment list. All the other entries were routine, but the listing Davlo Lentrall-reterraforming proposal had caught Tonya's eye.
Who was this Lentrall, and what was he up to? Her people knew almost nothing about him. About all they had was that he was very young-even by Settler standards-and that he was some sort of scientist in the university's astrophysics department. He seemed to have an informal connection to an obscure research center that was vaguely attached to the Infernal side of the terraforming project. That was all they knew.
That, and the fact that he had had a rapid series of appointments with progressively higher-ranking Infernal government officials, culminating in a meeting with the governor himself. The question was obvious-what could be important or urgent enough to propel an obscure astrophysicist into the governor's office?
Tonya felt frustrated. The time had been when her people could have worked up a complete dossier on a fellow like Lentrall no time at all. There had been an odd sort of freedom for her spies and intelligence operatives, in the old, confrontational days. Back then, relations between the Settlers and the Spacers had been so bad it didn't much matter if they got worse. In fact it was difficult to see how they could have gotten worse. Cinta Melloy, the head of the SSS, could have, and had, used all sorts of dirty tricks-taps on comm calls and databanks, bribes, agents tailing a subject, the whole works-in order to develop information.
But now everyone had to be very respectful and polite, on both sides. Over the past few years, the SSS had developed a very close working relationship with Justen Devray's Combined Inferno Police. They shared intelligence and assisted each other in enforcement work. It would not do to jeopardize all that with a flurry of ham-handed snooping around. In some ways, peace was a lot more complicated than confrontation.
Tonya looked back over at Gubber. Speaking of relationships, theirs, Tonya's and Gubber's, had caused more than a small stir, back when the secret got out. The hard-as-nails leader of the Settlers on Inferno, quite literally in bed with the quiet, retiring, soft-spoken Spacer roboticist. It had been a tremendous scandal.
Tonya realized she was missing a bet. Even if it was unlikely that Gubber had heard anything, it couldn't hurt to ask. Besides, scientists tended to know each other. Maybe Glibber would know something useful about Lentrall ' s background, even if he wasn't up to date on the latest rumors
"Gubber?" she asked in a casual tone of voice.
"Hmmm?" He looked up from his reading, a vague sort of smile on his face. "What is it?"
"Do you happen to know a man named Davlo Lentrall?"
Gubber thought for a moment. "I know of him, at least slightly," he said. "I ran into him at some sort of joint studies conference. A very young fellow. He's some sort of assistant researcher in the department of astrophysics over at the university. I don't pay much attention to those backwater space science disciplines. I can't say I know much about him."
Tonya nodded thoughtfully. There was not much impetus for basic space research on the Spacer worlds, and hence not much research. "What did you think of him?" she asked. "What sort of impression did he make?"
"Oh, I don't think we got past the hello, pleased-to-meet-you stage, so I can't say I formed much of an opinion. Pleasant enough, I suppose, but very rushed and abrupt. Everything is always a top priority. You know the sort. Why do you ask?"
"Well, no special reason," she said. "To tell you a little more than I should, our people spotted him going into the governor's office, and we were wondering what he was doing there."
Gubber frowned. "I'm sure I don't know," he said. "But he does seem rather a junior sort of person to be meeting with the planetary governor."
"I quite agree," Tonya said.
"Well, I'm sure you'll find some perfectly dull explanation in a day or so," Gubber said, and went back to his reading.
"Maybe," said Tonya. "Maybe." Gubber was probably right. But she could not let go of it. What the devil did a junior astrophysicist have to do with terraforming? Tonya had an unpleasantly strong hunch she was not going to like the answer.
SIMCOR BEDDLE. LEADER of the Ironhead party, leaned forward into the lectern and pounded it with his fist. "No more!" he shouted out to his audience. "We won't take anymore!" he half shouted in order to be heard over the wild cheers and applause from the audience. Or would it be more accurate to call that mass of his wild-eyed followers a mob? No matter. They were his. They fed on him, and he fed on them.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a pristine white handkerchief and went into his wind-up, the crowd shouting louder, his voice growing stronger and more angry with each demand. "No more delay in returning our robots from their illegal government seizure! No more coddling of those so-called New Law robots that threaten the stability of our society! No more Settlers shoved down our throat!" By now the crowd noise was so deafening there was no longer any point in attempting to be heard. But he shouted at the top of his lungs, not so much to make his voice audible, but in order to make it possible for his followers to read his lips. "No more!" he cried out. "No more!"
"NO MORE!" the crowd shouted back, and the chant had begun. "NO MORE! NO MORE! NO MORE!"
Simcor Beddle grinned broadly and spread his arms wide, waving to them all, drinking in the cheers and the shouts and the anger. They were still there, and they were still his. The sea of faces roaring its approval might not have been quite as large as it once had been, but it was still there, and he still controlled it. It was a great pleasure, and a great relief, to know that. The Ironheads held these meetings to keep up the enthusiasm of the rank-and-file, but there was no doubt in Beddle's mind that they did him a great deal of good as well.
He raised his arms a bit higher, and grinned a bit more broadly. That got the crowd shouting and cheering louder. He nodded to them, waved, and made his exit to the stage right wings.
Jadelo Gildern was waiting for him there. Beddle nodded to him as a serving robot handed Beddle a large glass of fruit juice to quench his thirst and ease his throat. "How big was the crowd?" Beddle asked as his took the juice and drank it down greedily. Rabble-rousing was thirsty work.
"Five thousand two hundred and thirty-three," Gildern replied. "We're holding on to more of them than I had expected. But sooner or later, we're going to have to do something."
He nodded toward the still-cheering crowd out there. "That lot out there expects action. If they don't get it from you soon, they'll look elsewhere."
"Let's just be thankful they don't have anyplace else to go," said Beddle as he handed the empty glass to the robot and took a big towel to his face. He rubbed his face and his scalp vigorously. It might not be as decorous as a handkerchief, but it did a better job of drying off the sweat.
"Let's get you home and in and out of the refresher," Gildern said. "There's something we need to talk about."
"That informant that walked in earlier today?"
"That's the one," said Gildern. "You ordered us to pursue it, and we have. We've don't have much just yet, but you said you wanted to be kept informed."
"Then let's go," said Beddle. He followed Gildern out of the auditorium, leaving the still-cheering crowd behind.
Forty-five minutes later, Simcor Beddle was at his desk, reading a file prepared by Gildern, and learning the name of Davlo Lentrall.
He studied the file carefully. Once Gildern's agents had been tipped off by the informant Ardosa, they had to set to work at once. They had procured a full summary of Lentrall's career to date, but it did not make very informative reading. He was born, he went to school, he studied astronomy. None of it made for shocking revelations. So what was so important about Lentrall? Was their informant playing some sort of game with them?
"This tells us very little," Beddle said to Jadelo, who sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Do you still think this is something big?"
"Yes, I do. I've worked with this particular informant for quite some time. He has been a reliable small-time operative for us. His information has always been good. And as best I can tell, he is either behaving exactly the way a small-timer should when big, dangerous information drops in his lap, or else he is one of the best actors I have ever met."
"Hmmmph." Beddle glared at the file in front of him, as if he could force more information out of it by sheer force of personality. "Lentrall has something, or knows something, that is causing a lot of turmoil. I find it intriguing, but we need more. Maybe it's just some arcane academic dispute."
"I doubt it. Whatever it is, it's gotten him in to see a whole series of government officials-and gotten him in to see Governor Kresh in a private interview," Gildern pointed out. "But that's all we've been able to get."
"You're saying we're stuck. I don't like being stuck." Simcor Beddle was a man of action, a man given to straight-ahead action, not to waiting.
"We'll get more information," Gildern said. "But when we do, I have a feeling that we're going to have to act on it fast."
"I agree. The government seems to moving with unseemly haste. It's going to be something with a time element to it." Beddle gestured toward the file on his desk. "Take it away," he said, and the robot by his side leaned in toward the desk, closed the file folder, and removed it. Beddle stood up, and a second robot stepped in from the rear to pull back his chair. Beddle stepped around his desk, leaving it to the two robots to get out of his way. That was the Ironhead way. One required absolutely perfect service of one's robots, and then paid them no mind. One assumed the robot would do what was required, and that was all. The Infernals followed the Spacer convention of ignoring robots. But Ironheads took the convention to its extreme.
An Ironhead might be awakened, washed, dressed, fed and served by a whole platoon of robots during the day-but never acknowledge their existence, or even be consciously aware of seeing them. Someone had described the ideal Ironhead lifestyle as being waited upon hand and foot by a legion of ghosts, and that was not far from the truth.
Beddle came around to sit in one of the two big, comfortable armchairs reserved for visitors, easing his considerable bulk into it with a surprising grace. "What do you make of it?" he asked of the man in the other chair.
Jadelo Gildern smiled, displaying a set of pointed-looking teeth. Beddle had recently promoted Gildern to second-in-command of the Ironhead party, while instructing him to keep his euphemistically titled post as Director of Research and Information-a polite way of saying Gildern ran the Ironhead spy network.
Gildern was a small, thin, sallow-faced man. His thinning pale-blond hair was cut very short, and his face was long and narrow. Today he was wearing a very plain, loose-fitting outfit of gray pants and a gray tunic. All his clothes always seemed to be a bit too large for him. "I think it's important, but I don't know what it is," he said. "We have only had a very few hours to examine the situation." Gildern's voice was low, and almost musical in tone. Beddle felt certain that Gildern could credit that voice as being at least half of what had gotten him to where he was. "It would of course be a relatively simple matter to infiltrate Lentrall's office and have a look around, and thus learn more about what he is doing. However, the odds of our operatives getting caught would be moderately high, and the odds that Lentrall or the university would be able to detect the intrusion quite high. The university has a surprisingly competent security system. I'd be even more reluctant to try breaking into Lentrall's computer files there. We haven't had much luck cracking into Settler computers. Even if we could get in, the odds are very much against our avoiding detection."
"Tea," said Beddle, seemingly to the open air. One of the serving robots responded with remarkable speed, and took all of ten seconds to produce a steaming hot cup of tea, made precisely the way Beddle liked it. Beddle took the cup and saucer from the robot, but otherwise paid it no attention. "I take it you don't think that the information we might uncover would be worth the risk of getting caught, or the risk of putting Lentrall on his guard."
"No, sir, I do not. I expect that we will learn more in a day or two, without the need to go to such lengths. Lentrall does not strike me as the sort who is much good at-or much interested in-keeping secrets. But, might I ask, what is the basis for your interest in Lentrall?"
"I am interested in Lentrall for two reasons," he said, pausing to take a sip of tea. "One is that he seems to interest others, and I want to know why. Second-well, you came close to saying it at the rally. We need a crisis, and I am always on the watch for a situation that might produce one. The Ironheads don't do so well when people are safe. We do best when the times are tumultuous. Our talent lies in using events, crises, situations-even those produced by our opponents-against our opponents. We have not had much chance for activity recently, but every now and again something or someone pops up quite suddenly out of nowhere-such as friend Lentrall. The Davlo Lentralls of the world are the raw material for our work. And right now we need raw material."
"You think our work has not been going well of late," said Gildern. It was not a question.
"No, it has not," Beddle said, and took a last sip of tea before handing the half -empty cup to the empty air and letting it go. The robot by his side plucked the cup and saucer out of midair before they could drop a millimeter. "Or to put it better, we have not been given any work to do. And we need work, if we are to survive. Attendance at the rallies is still slipping a bit." He leaned back in his chair, and thought for a moment. "You know, Gildern, I work very hard to maintain the proper appearance of a leader. Do you believe I achieve it?"
Simcor Beddle was short and fat, but that description, while accurate, did not do him justice. There was nothing small or soft or flabby about him. It often seemed as if the sheer strength of his will added ten centimeters to his height. His face was pallid and round, but the skin was taut over his jaw. It was hard to know the exact color of his eyes were, but they were gimlet hard, jewel bright. His hair was jet-black, and he wore it combed straight back. He was wearing a subdued version of his usual military-style uniform. No decoration on it for a late-evening conversation in private, none of the epaulets or braid or ribbons or insignia he had worn at the rally. Just a dull black tunic and dull black trousers of military cut. But then, understatement often proved most effective.
"Yes, sir. Yes I do," Gildern replied.
"I like to think so," said Beddle. "And yet what good is it all if there is no chance for me to lead?" He moved forward in the seat, lifted his foot and looked down at it. "I'm like one of these boots. Look at them. Steel-toed, jet-black-they look as if they could kick in any door ever made. But what good is that if there is nothing for them to kick in? If I leave them unused for long enough, people will cease to believe I can use them. The Ironheads can last on appearances for only so long. We need something that can move us forward."
"Your point is well taken, sir," said Gildern. "You're saying that recent history has not followed the pattern prescribed by our philosophy."
The Ironhead philosophy was simplicity itself-the solution to every problem was more and better robots. Robots had liberated humanity-but not completely, because there were not enough robots. The basic product of robotic labor was human freedom. The more robots there were, and the more they worked, the more humans were free to follow other pursuits. Simcor Beddle believed-or at least had managed to convince himself, and quite a number of other people-that the whole terraforming crisis was a fraud, or at best nothing more than a convenient excuse for seizing robots from private citizens, and thus restricting their freedom.
Chanto Grieg's original seizure of private robots for use in the terraforming project had been the single greatest recruitment tool in the history of the Ironheads. People had rushed to the Ironhead standard. The seizure seemed to be the fulfillment of every one of Simcor Beddle's most dire warnings. It was the beginning of the end, the moment that would mark the collapse of Spacer civilization on Inferno, the next move in the Settler plot to take over the planet.
But when those disasters failed to materialize, many of the new recruits-and many of the old stalwarts-began to drift away from the organization. In the past half-decade, Alvar Kresh had done a better job of advancing Grieg's program than Grieg himself had done. Kresh had delivered five years of good, solid government, five years of measurable, meaningful movement forward in the reterraforming project.
And, worst of all, people had discovered they could survive with fewer robots. The Ironheads could produce all the statistics they liked showing how the standard of living was falling, how incomes were on the decline, how levels of hygiene were declining while accident rates were on the increase. But somehow, none of it seemed to matter. There were certainly plenty of people grumbling over the situation, but they were not impassioned. They were, at least some of them, annoyed or frustrated. But they were not angry. And the Ironheads could not long survive without angry people.
"Quite right," said Beddle. "Events have not followed our philosophy. We need things to start going wrong once again." Beddle realized he had not put it quite right. He had better watch himself. That was the sort of gaffe that could have raised merry hell if he had made it in public. "No, more accurately, we need to make people see, once again, that things are going wrong now. We need some image, some symbol, some idea, to rally the masses once again."
"And you think that Davlo Lentrall might be such a symbol?" Gildern asked. "Or, perhaps, that he might at least lead us to such a symbol?"
"I have not the faintest idea," said Simcor Beddle. "But he represents a possibility, and we must pursue all such."
"As you say, sir. We will keep up a discreet watch on our new friend."
"Good," said Beddle. "Now let us move on. What can you tell me about, ah, the other project you had underway?"
Gildern smiled, showing all his sharp-looking teeth. "It is a long-term project, of course. But we make slow, steady progress in our search, in spite of the roadblocks put in our way. The day will come when we can strike."
Beddle smiled happily. "Excellent," he said. "Excellent. When that day comes, I hope, and expect, brother Gildern, that our friends will never know what hit them."
"With a little luck, sir, the New Law robots will not even survive long enough to realize they have been hit."
Beddle laughed out loud, a brazen, harsh noise that clearly made Gildern uncomfortable. But that didn't matter. And it was good to know that, even if Lentrall caused them all a major headache, there were other ways for the Ironheads to manufacture events.
TONYA WELTON FELT sick as she finished reading the SSS summary. She set down the datapad and looked toward the window. The sky was lightening. Night had turned to day while she read. They had gotten into his computer files. They had managed a preliminary analysis of what they had found. It would take a lot longer to confirm that Lentrall's ideas could work-or even whether they were grounded in reality. But Tonya was already prepared to believe it. Lentrall was offering his plan in deadly earnest. And there was no doubt in her mind that "deadly" was a singularly appropriate description of what Lentrall had in mind. The Spacers of Utopia had no experience in these matters. They could not possibly understand the dangers involved. The slightest misstep, and they could easily wipe out the planet.
She would have to do something. If the Spacers were truly considering this mad thing, she was going to have to do something that would stop it before it began. But it would not do to act until she knew more. She would need a lot more information before she was ready to act. But if the information was on the level, it might well be too late to do anything about it by the time they were ready.
They would have to get ready for action now, not later. They would have to make contingency plans and hope they were never needed.
She reached for the phone.
CINTA MELLOY, COMMANDER of the SSS, sat up in bed and slapped at the audio-answer plate. "Melloy here," she said.
"This is Welton," a voice said from the middle of the air.
Cinta blinked and frowned. What the devil was she doing calling at this hour? "What can I do for you, ma'am?" she asked.
"Switch to security setting," Welton said. There was a click, and then a roar of static.
Cinta punched her own security code into the answer plate and the static cleared. "I am on secure setting," she said. "What's going on?"
"I've just finished reading the preliminary reports from the computer tap on Lentrall. And I think we need to make contingency plans, in case we decide to look after Lentrall ourselves."
Cinta frowned. She couldn't have heard that right, or else she had misinterpreted. Welton couldn't seriously be considering a snatch job. "Say again?" she asked.
"I said we might want Lentrall for ourselves. More accurately, we might want to keep him, and his work, from the Infernals, if only for a little while."
"Madame Welton, that would be madness! Absolute madness! If he's as important as you say-"
"He might well be that important," Welton replied. "Important in the way a plague or your local star going nova might be considered important. He's a disaster waiting to happen. And if there is any madness about, he's the one who has it. You will establish a full, round-the-clock watch on Lentrall-and you will prepare a contingency plan to kidnap him and hold him. Plan on the assumption of an attempt within the next few days, and hold the operation in hot-standby. I want a plan we can adapt to as many circumstances as possible, and one we can carry out within one hour of my giving the command." There was a pause on the line, and for a moment, Cinta thought Tonya Welton was finished speaking. But then she spoke again. "And while you're at it," said Tonya Welton, "you might consider praying we're not too late already."