Isaac Asimov: The Robots of Dawn

Baley felt his breath drawn in tremulously and he gladdened in the realization that he was home and safe with the known and knowable.

That was what always happened. Again he had accepted the City as the womb and moved back into it with glad relief. He knew that such a womb was something from which humanity must emerge, and be born. Why did he always sink back this way?

And would that always be? Would it really be that, though he might lead countless numbers out of the City and off the Earth and out to the stars, he would not, in the end, be able to go himself? Would he always feel at home only in the City?

He clenched his teeth—but there was no use thinking about it.

He said to the robot, “Were you brought to this point car, boy?”

“Yes, master.”

“Where is it now?”

“I do not know, master.”

Baley turned to the sentry. “Officer, this robot was brought to this spot two hours ago. What has happened to the car that brought him?”

“Sir, I went on duty less than an hour ago.”

Actually, it was foolish to ask. Those in the car did not know how long it would take the robot to find him, so they would not wait. Baley had a brief impulse to call in, but they would tell him to take the Expressway; it would be quicker.

The only reason he hesitated was the presence of R. Geronimo. He didn’t want its company on the Expressway and yet he could not expect the robot to make its way back to Headquarters through hostile crowds.

Not that he had a choice. Undoubtedly, the Commissioner was not eager to make this easy for him. He would be annoyed at not having had him on call, free time or not.

Baley said, “This way, boy.”

The City covered over five thousand square kilometers and contained over four hundred kilometers of Expressway, plus hundreds of kilometers of Feederway, to serve its well over twenty million people. The intricate net of movement existed on, eight levels and there were hundreds, of interchanges of varying degrees of complexity.

As a plainclothesman, Baley was expected to know them all—and he did. Put him down blindfolded in any corner of the City, whip off the blindfold, and he could make his way flawlessly to any other designated portion.

There was no question then but that he knew how to get to Headquarters. There were eight reasonable routes he could follow, however, and for a moment he hesitated over—which might be least crowded at this time.

Only for a moment. Then he decided and said, “Come with me, boy.” The robot followed docilely at his heels.

They swung onto a passing Feeder and Baley seized one of the vertical poles: white, warm, and textured to give a good grip. Baley did not want to sit down; they would not be on for long. The robot had waited for Baley’s quick gesture before placing its hand upon the same pole. It might as well have remained standing without a grip—it would not have been difficult to maintain balance—but Baley wanted to take no chance of being separated. He was responsible for the robot and did not wish to risk being asked to replace the financial loss to the City should anything happen to R. Geronimo.

The Feeder had a few other people on board and the eyes of each turned curiously—and inevitably—to the robot. One by one, Baley caught those glances. Baley had the look of one used to authority and the eyes he caught turned uneasily away.

Baley gestured again as he swung, off the Feeder. It had reached the strips now and was moving at the same speed as the nearest strip so that there was no necessity for it to slow down. Baley stepped onto that nearest strip—and felt the whipping air once they were no longer protected by plastic enclosure.

He leaned into the wind with the ease of long practice, lifting one arm to break the force at, eye level. He ran the strips, downward to the intersection with the Expressway, and then began the run upward to the speed-strip that bordered the Expressway.

He heard the teenage cry of “Robot!” (He had been a teenager himself once) and knew exactly what would happen. A group of them—two or three or half a dozen—would swarm up or down the strips and somehow the robot would be tripped and would go clanging down. Then, if it ever came before a magistrate, any teenager taken into custody would claim the robot had collided with him and was a menace on the strips—and would undoubtedly be let go.

The robot could neither defend itself in the first instance, nor testify in the second.

Baley moved rapidly and was between the first of the teenagers and the robot. He sidestepped onto a faster strip, brought his arm higher, as though to adjust to the increase in wind speed, and somehow the young man was nudged off course and onto a slower strip for which he was not prepared. He called out wildly, “Hey!” as he went sprawling. The other stopped, assessed the situation quickly, and veered away.

Baley said, “Onto the Expressway, boy.”

The robot hesitated briefly. Robots were not allowed, unaccompanied, on the Expressway. Baley’s order had been a firm one, however, and it moved aboard. Baley followed, which relieved the pressure on the robot.

Baley moved brusquely through the crowd of standees, forcing R. Geronimo ahead of him, making his way up to the less crowded upper level. He held on to a pole and kept one foot firmly on the robot’s, again glaring down all eye contact.

Fifteen and a half kilometers brought him to the close-point for the Police Headquarters—and he was off. R. Geronimo came off with him. It hadn’t been touched, not a scuff. Baley delivered it at the door and accepted a receipt. He carefully checked the date, the time, and the robot’s serial number, then placed the receipt in his wallet. Before the day was over, he would check and make certain that the transaction had been computer registered.

Now he was going to see the Commissioner—and he knew the Commissioner. Any failing on Baley’s part would, be suitable cause for demotion. He was a harsh man, the Commissioner. He considered Baley’s past triumphs a personal offense.

The Commissioner was Wilson Roth. He had held the post for two and a half years, since Julius Enderby had resigned once the furor roused by the murder of a Spacer had subsided and the resignation could be safely offered.

Baley had never quite reconciled himself to the change. Julius, with all his shortcomings, had been a friend as well as a superior; Roth was merely a superior. He was not even Citybred. Not this City. He had been brought in from outside.

Roth was neither unusually tall nor unusually fat. His head was large, though, and seemed to be set on a neck that slanted slightly forward from his torso. It made him appear heavy, heavy-bodied and heavy-headed. He even had heavy lids, half obscuring his eyes.

Anyone would think him sleepy, but he never missed anything.

Baley had found that out very soon after Roth had taken over the office. He was under no illusion that Roth liked him. He was under less illusion that he liked Roth.

Roth did not sound petulant, he never did—but his words did not exude pleasure, either. “Baley, why is it so hard to find you?” he said.

Baley said in a carefully respectful voice, “It is my off, Commissioner.”

“Yes, your C-7 privilege. You’ve heard of a Waver, haven’t you? Something that receives official messages? You are I subject to recall, even on your off-time.”

“I know that very well, Commissioner, but there are no longer any regulations concerning the wearing of a Waver. We can be reached without one.”

“Inside the City, yes, but you were Outside—or am I mistaken?”

“You are not mistaken, Commissioner. I was Outside. The regulations do not state that, in such a case, I am to wear a Waver.”