Isaac Asimov - The Naked Sun

“What about curves?”

“The car will bank automatically to compensate. Its level is maintained when traveling up—or downhill.”

“The controls must be complicated,” said Baley dryly.

“Quite automatic. The driver of the vehicle is a robot.”

“Umm.” Baley had about all he wanted on the ground-car. He said, “How long will this take?”

“About an hour. Air travel would have been speedier, but I was concerned to keep you enclosed and the aircraft models available on Solaria do not lend themselves to complete enclosure as does a ground-car such as that in which we are now riding.”

Baley felt annoyed at the other’s “concern.” He felt like a baby in the charge of its nurse. He felt almost as annoyed, oddly enough, at Daneel’s sentences. It seemed to him that such needlessly formal sentence structure might easily betray the robotic nature of the creature.

For a moment Baley stared curiously at R. Daneel Olivaw. The robot, looking straight ahead, was motionless and unself-conscious under the other’s gaze.

Daneel’s skin texture was perfect, the individual hairs on head and body had been lovingly and intricately manufactured and placed. The muscle movement under the skin was most realistic. No pains, however extravagant, had been spared. Yet Baley knew, from personal knowledge, that limbs and chest could be split open along invisible seams so that repairs might be made. He knew there was metal and silicone under that realistic skin. He knew a positronic brain, most advanced but only positronic, nestled in the hollow of the skull. He knew that Daneel’s “thoughts” were only short-lived positronic currents flowing along paths rigidly designed and foreordained by the manufacturer.

But what were the signs that would give that away to the expert eye that had no foreknowledge? The trifling unnaturalness of Daneel’s manner of speech? The unemotional gravity that rested so steadily upon him? The very perfection of his humanity?

But he was wasting time. Baley said, “Let’s get on with it, Daneel. I suppose that before arriving here, you were briefed on matters Solarian?”

“I was, Partner Elijah.”

“Good. That’s more than they did for me. How large is the world?”

“Its diameter is 9500 miles. It is the outermost of three planets and the only inhabited one. In climate and atmosphere it resembles Earth; its percentage of fertile land is higher; its useful mineral content lower, but of course less exploited. The world is self-supporting and can, with the aid of its robot exports, maintain a high standard of living.”

Baley said, “What’s the population?”

“Twenty thousand people, Partner Elijah.”

Baley accepted that for a moment, then he said mildly, “You mean twenty million, don’t you?” His scant knowledge of the Outer Worlds was enough to tell him that, although the worlds were underpopulated by Earthly standards, the individual populations were in the millions.

“Twenty thousand people, Partner Elijah,” said the robot again.

“You mean the planet has just been settled?”

“Not at all. It has been independent for nearly two centuries, and it was settled for a century or more before that. The population is deliberately maintained at twenty thousand, that being considered optimum by the Solarians themselves.”

“How much of the planet do they occupy?”

“All the fertile portions.”

“Which is, in square miles?”

“Thirty million square miles, including marginal areas.”

“For twenty thousand people?”

“There are also some two hundred million working positronic robots, Partner Elijah.”

“Jehoshaphat! That’s—that’s ten thousand robots per human.”

“It is by far the highest such ratio among the Outer Worlds, Partner Elijah. The next highest, on Aurora, is only fifty to one.”

“What can they use so many robots for? What do they want with all that food?”

“Food is a relatively minor item. The mines are more important, and power production more important still.”

Baley thought of all those robots and felt a trifle dizzy. Two hundred million robots! So many among so few humans. The robots must litter the landscape. An observer from without might think Solaria a world of robots altogether and fail to notice the thin human leaven.

He felt a sudden need to see. He remembered the conversation with Minnim and the sociologic prediction of Earth’s danger. It seemed far off, a bit unreal, but he remembered. His personal dangers and difficulties since leaving Earth dimmed the memory of Minim’s voice stating enormities with cool and precise enunciation, but never blotted it out altogether.

Baley had lived too long with duty to allow even the overwhelming fact of open space to stop him in its performance. Data collected from a Spacer’s words, or from those of a Spacer robot for that matter, was the sort of thing that was already available to Earth’s sociologists. What was needed was direct observation and it was his job, however unpleasant, to collect it.

He inspected the upper portion of the ground-car. “Is this thing a convertible, Daneel?”

“I beg your pardon, Partner Elijah, but I do not follow your meaning.”

“Can the car’s top be pushed back? Can it be made open to the— the sky?” (He had almost said “dome” out of habit.)

“Yes, it can.”

“Then have that done, Daneel. I would like to take a look.”

The robot responded gravely, “I am sorry, but I cannot allow that.”

Baley felt astonished. He said, “Look, R. Daneel” (he stressed the R.). “Let’s rephrase that. I order you to lower the top.”

The creature was a robot, manlike or not. It had to follow orders. But Daneel did not move. He said, “I must explain that it is my first concern to spare you harm. It has been clear to me on the basis both of my instructions and of my own personal experience that you would suffer harm at finding yourself in large, empty spaces. I cannot, therefore, allow you to expose yourself to that.”

Baley could feel his face darkening with an influx of blood and at the same time could feel the complete uselessness of anger. The creature was a robot, and Baley knew the First Law of Robotics well.

It went: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

Everything else in a robot’s positronic brain—that of any robot on any world in the Galaxy—had to bow to that prime consideration. Of course a robot had to follow orders, but with one major, all important qualification. Following orders was only the Second Law of Robotics.

It went: A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

Baley forced himself to speak quietly and reasonably. “I think I can endure it for a short time, Daneel.”

“That is not my feeling, Partner Elijah.”

“Let me be the judge, Daneel.”

“If that is an order, Partner Elijah, I cannot follow it.”

Baley let himself lounge back against the softly upholstered seat.

The robot would, of course, be quite beyond the reach of force.

Daneel’s strength, if exerted fully, would be a hundred times that of flesh and blood. He would be perfectly capable of restraining

Baley without ever hurting him.

Baley was armed. He could point a blaster at Daneel, but, except for perhaps a momentary sensation of mastery, that action would only succeed in greater frustration. A threat of destruction was useless against a robot. Self-preservation was only the Third Law.

It went: A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

It would not trouble Daneel to be destroyed if the alternative were breaking the First Law. And Baley did not wish, to destroy Daneel. Definitely not. Yet he did want to see out the car. It was becoming an obsession with him. He couldn’t allow this nurse-infant relationship to build up.