Isaac Asimov: The Robots of Dawn

“You hide behind the letter of the statute, do you?”

“Yes, Commissioner,” said Baley calmly.

The Commissioner rose, a powerful and vaguely threatening man, and sat on the desk. The window to the Outside, which Enderby had installed, had long been closed off and painted over. In the closed-in room (warmer and more comfortable for that), the Commissioner seemed the larger.

He said, without raising his voice, “You rely, Baley, on Earth’s gratitude, I think.”

“I rely on doing my job, Commissioner, as best I can and in accord with the regulations.”

“And on Earth’s gratitude when you bend the spirit of those regulations.” Baley said nothing to that the Commissioner said, “You are considered as having done well in the Sarton murder case three years ago.”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” said Baley. “The dismantling of Spacetown was a consequence, I believe.”

“It was—and that was something applauded by all Earth. You are also considered as having done well on Solaria two years ago and, before you remind me, the result was a revision in the terms of the trade treaties with the Spacer worlds, to the considerable advantage of Earth.”

“I believe that is on record, sir.”

“And you are very much the hero as a result.”

“I make no such claim.”

“You have received two promotions, one in the aftermath of each affair. There has even been a hyperwave drama based on the events on Solaria.”

“Which was produced without my permission and against my will, Commissioner.”

“Which nevertheless made you a kind of hero.”

Baley shrugged.

The Commissioner, having waited for a spoken comment for a few seconds, went on, “But you have done nothing of importance in nearly two years.”

“It is natural for Earth to ask what I have done for it lately.”

“Exactly. It probably does ask. It knows that you are a leader in this new fad of venturing Outside, in fiddling with the soil, and in pretending to be a robot.”

“It is permitted.”

“Not all that is permitted is admired. It is possible that more people think of you as peculiar than as heroic.”

“That is, perhaps, in accord with my own opinion of myself,” said Baley.

“The public has a notoriously short memory. The heroic is vanishing rapidly behind the peculiar in your case, so that if you make a mistake, you will be in serious trouble. The reputation you rely on—”

“With respect, Commissioner, I do not rely on it.”

“The reputation the Police Department feels you rely on will not save you and I will not be able to save you.”

The shadow of a smile seemed to pass for one moment over Baley’s dour features. “I would not want you, Commissioner, to risk your position in a wild attempt to save me.”

The Commissioner shrugged and produced a simile precisely as shadowy and, fleeting. “You need not worry I about that.”

“Then why are you telling me all this, Commissioner?”

“To warn you. I am not trying to destroy you, you understand, so I am warning you once. You are going to be involved, in a very delicate matter, in which you may easily make a mistake, and I am warning you that you must not make one.” Here his face relaxed into an unmistakable smile.

Baley did not respond to the smile. He said, “Can you tell me what the very delicate matter is?”

“I do not know.”

“Does it involve Aurora?”

“R. Geronimo was instructed to tell you that it did, if it had to, but I know nothing about it.”

“Then how can you tell, Commissioner, that it is a very delicate matter?”

“Come, Baley, you are an investigator of mysteries. What brings a member of the Terrestrial Department of Justice to the City, when you might easily have been asked to go to Washington, as you did two years ago in connection with the Solaria incident? And what makes the person from Justice frown and seem ill-tempered and grow impatient at the fact that you were not reached instantly? Your decision to make yourself unavailable was a mistake, one that was in no way my responsibility. It is perhaps not fatal in itself, but you are off on the wrong foot, I believe.”

“You are delaying me further, however,” said Baley, frowning.

“Not really. The official from Justice is having some light refreshment—you know the perks that the Terries allow themselves. We will be joined when that is done. The news of your arrival has been transmitted, so just continue to wait, as I am doing.”

Baley waited. He had known, at the time, that the hyperwave drama, forced upon him against his will, however it might have helped Earth’s position, had ruined him in the Department. It had cast him in three-dimensional relief against, the two dimensional flatness of the organization and had made him a marked man.

He had risen to higher rank and greater privileges, but that, too, had increased Department hostility against him. And the higher he rose, the more easily he would shatter incase of a fall.

If he made a mistake.

The official from Justice entered, looked about casually, walked to the other side of Roth’s desk, and took the seat. As highest-classified individual, the official behaved properly. Roth calmly took a secondary seat.

Baley remained standing, laboring to keep his face un-surprised.

Roth might have warned him, but he had not. He had clearly chosen his words deliberately, in order to give no sign.

The official was a woman.

There was no reason for this not to be. Any official might be a woman. The Secretary-General might be a woman. There were women on the police force, even a woman with the rank of captain.

It was just that—without warning, one didn’t expect it in any given case. There were times in history when women entered administrative posts in considerable numbers. Baley knew that; he knew history well. But this wasn’t one of those times.

She was quite tall and sat stiffly upright in the chair. Her uniform was not very different from that of a man, nor was her hair styling or facial adornment. What gave her sex away immediately were her breasts, the prominence of which she made no attempt to hide.

She was fortyish, her facial features regular and cleanly chiseled. She had middle-aged attractively, with, as yet, no visible gray in her dark hair.

She said, “You are Plainclothesman Elijah Baley, Classification C-7.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, ma’am,” Baley answered, nevertheless.

“I am Undersecretary Lavinia Demachek. You don’t look very much as you did in that hyperwave drama concerning you.”

Baley had been told that often. “They couldn’t very well portray me as I am and collect much of an audience, ma’am,” said Baley dryly.

“I’m not sure of that. You look stronger than the baby-faced actor they used.”

Baley hesitated, a second or so and decided to take the chance—or perhaps felt he couldn’t resist taking it. Solemnly, he said, “You have a cultivated taste, ma’am.”

She laughed and Baley let out his breath very gently. She said, “I like to think I have.—Now what do you mean by keeping me waiting?”

“I was not informed you would come, ma’am, and it was off-time for me.”

“Which you spent Outside, I understand.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You are one of those cranks, as I would say were my taste not a cultivated one. Let me ask, instead, if you are one of those enthusiasts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You expect to emigrate some day and found new worlds in the wilderness of the Galaxy?”

“Perhaps not, ma’am. I may prove to be too old, but—”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-five, ma’am.”

“Well, you look it. I am forty-five also, as it happens.”