Isaac Asimov - Caliban

“I—I—I had to call! You danger! Danger!”

Suddenly there was the wind-rush sound of an aircar coming down fast. Both robots turned to look out the windows on the north side of the building. Horatio felt a surge of relief as he saw the sky-blue deputy’s cars swoop down for a landing.

But he was still badly slowed by First Law conflict shock. He just barely turned his head back in time to see Caliban smash his fist through the south window and leap through the opening. Horatio got up, moved toward the south window as slowly as though he were moving through hip-deep mud.

There was the thunder of heavy boots in the hallway, and then a squad of deputies in battle armor burst into the room. It was all Horatio could do to point toward Caliban’s retreating figure as it vanished down one of the tunnel entrances to the vast underground maze of the depot.

Two of the deputies raised their weapons and fired out the window. A DAA-BOR robot exploded into a shower of metallic-blue confetti, but Caliban was not there anymore.

“Damn it!” one of the deputies cried out. “Come on, after him!” The humans smashed out more glass with the butts of the rifles and jumped the meter drop to ground level. They ran toward the tunnel, and Horatio watched them go.

But he knew already they would never catch Caliban.

CALIBAN ran.

Full speed, full out, dodging the busy herds of robots, picking his tunnels and turnings and movements to leave the most tangled trail possible for his pursuers.

All were against him. Robots, deputies, Settlers, civilians. And they would never give up chasing him through the city. He did not understand why, but it was plain from Horatio’s reactions that they regarded him as a threat, a menace.

Which is what they were to him.

Very well, then. It was time to do everyone a favor. If they intended to chase him the length and breadth of the city, it was time to leave the city. He needed to make plans.

Caliban ran on, into the darkness.

DONALD guided Alvar’s aircar skillfully through the gathering dusk toward the Central Auditorium. “Unfortunately, the deputies were unable to track him through the tunnels,” he said as he drove. “Caliban has clearly learned to make good use of the underground ways.”

Kresh shook his head. He had managed a quick nap in midafternoon, but he was still dead tired. It was hard to concentrate. Of course, the second failure of his deputies to effect Caliban’s capture did tend to bring things into focus. “Back down into the tunnels,” he said, half to himself. “And my deputies hardly ever have need to go down there. They don’t know their way around.” Kresh thought for a minute. “What about the robots on the scene? Why the devil didn’t the deputies simply order the robots in the area to surround and subdue Caliban?”

“I suspect it was for the very simple reason that no one thought of it. No member of your force, no robot on this planet, has ever needed to pursue a rogue robot before. The idea of chasing a robot almost seems a contradiction in terms.”

“No one has thought of the implications of the situation,” Kresh agreed. “Even I have trouble remembering that it’s a dangerous robot we’re after. Hell, there have probably been a half dozen times we could have used other robots to catch him. But it’s too late now. Now he knows to beware of other robots as well. Ah, well. If nothing else, there is a certain consistency to this case. Everything goes wrong.”

“Sir, I am receiving an incoming call from Tonya Welton.”

Alvar Kresh groaned. The damned woman must have called a half dozen times since he left the Governor’s office.

He did not want to talk to that woman—and the Governor had hinted pretty strongly that he would not much care if Welton didn’t get every bit of news instantly. “Tell her there is no new information, Donald.”

“Sir, that would be an untruth. The incident at Limbo Depot occurred after her last call—”

“Then tell her I said there was no new information. That much is the truth.” That was the trouble with having a robot screen your calls—the damned things were so truthful.

“Yes, sir, but she is calling to report information of her own.”

“Wonderful,” he said with bitter sarcasm. “Put her through, audio only.”

“Sheriff Kresh,” Tonya’s voice said, coming out of Donald’s speaker grille. “Sorry to be calling so often, but there is something you should know.”

“Good news, I hope,” Alvar said, mostly for want of anything else to say.

“Actually it is. Our people have picked up one Reybon Derue. We’ve got him dead to rights as the leader of that robot-basher gang our friend Caliban happened to run into. As best we can tell, we’ve got the rest of the gang, too, and they’re trying to see who can spill the beans on each other first. Caliban scared the merry hell out of them. I don’t think there’ll be any more incidents for a while. The bad news is none of them were able to tell us much of anything about Caliban that we didn’t already know.”

“I see,” Kresh said. No more robot bashing. Three days ago, he would have regarded that news as a major victory. Today it was incidental. “That’s good to know, Madame Welton. Thank you for reporting in.”

“While I’m on the line, Sheriff, can you give me any updates?”

“No, Madame Welton. I might have something for you later, but just at the moment, you know all that I do,” Kresh lied. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work now. I’ll call you when there is some meaningful information. Goodbye for now.” He made a throat-cutting gesture to Donald, and the line went dead.

“If she calls again tonight, Donald, I will not take the call. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, back to business. What about this robot Horatio? The supervisor robot that called the deputies in.”

“Still suffering from partial speechlock, I’m afraid. Sheriff’s Department robopsychologist Gayol Patras has been working with him since the time of the incident, trying to bring Horatio out of it.”

“Any prognosis yet?”

“ ‘Guarded but optimistic’ was the phrase Dr. Patras used in her last report. She expects him to make a full recovery and be able to make an informative statement—unless she is rushed and pressured. Trying to get too much from him too fast could result in permanent speechlock and complete malfunction.”

“The roboshrinks always say that,” Alvar growled.

“Perhaps, sir, if I may be so bold, they always say it because it is always true. Virtually all serious mental disorders in robots produce severe and irreparable damage to positronic brains.”

“That is as it may be, Donald, but you and Patras are working on the assumption that I am concerned with Horatio’s recovery. I am not. That robot is utterly expendable. All I care about is getting at the information inside that robot’s brain as fast as possible. Horatio talked with Caliban. What did they say to each other? What did Caliban have to say for himself? I tell you, Donald, if we knew what Horatio knows, then we would know a great deal more than we do now.”

“Yes, sir. But if I may observe, your only hope of getting that information lies in Horatio’s recovery. He cannot relate his information in a catatonic state.”

“I suppose you’re right, Donald. But damn all the hells there are, it’s frustrating. For all we know, the answers to this case are locked up inside that robot’s skull, waiting for us, just beyond reach.”

“If we leave Robopsychologist Patras to her own devices, I expect we will have all that information in very short order. Meantime, we have all been looking forward to Fredda Leving’s second lecture with great anticipation. We shall be landing at the auditorium in approximately eight minutes. I expect that a great number of our questions will be answered as we listen to her.”