Isaac Asimov: The Caves of Steel

It wouldn’t do. He didn’t believe himself. He might have stopped R. Daneel at the start. He might at any moment have put in the call for a squad car. He had let R. Daneel take responsibility, instead, and had felt a cowardly relief. When he tried to tell himself that R. Daneel’s personality simply dominated the situation, he was filled with a sudden self-loathing. A robot dominating.

There was no unusual noise, no shouting and cursing, no groans, no yells. He opened his eyes.

They were dispersing.

The manager of the store was cooling down, adjusting his twisted jacket, smoothing his hair, muttering angry threats at the vanishing crowd.

The smooth, fading whistle of a squad car came to a halt just outside. Baley thought: Sure, when it’s all over.

The manager plucked his sleeve. “Let’s have no more trouble, Officer.”

Baley said, “There won’t be any trouble.”

It was easy to get rid of the squad-car police. They had come in response to reports of a crowd in the street. They knew no details and could see for themselves that the street was clear. R. Daneel stepped aside and showed no sign of interest as Baley explained to the men in the squad car, minimizing the event and completely burying R. Daneel’s part in it.

Afterward, he pulled R. Daneel to one side, against the steel and concrete of one of the building shafts.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not trying to steal your show, you understand.”

“Steal my show? Is it one of your Earth idioms?”

“I didn’t report your part in this.”

“I do not know all your customs. On my world, a complete report is usual, but perhaps it is not so on your world. In any case, civil rebellion was averted. That is the important thing, is it not?”

“Is it? Now you look here.” Baley tried to sound as forceful as possible under the necessity of speaking in an angry whisper. “Don’t you ever do it again.”

“Never again insist on the observance of law? If I am not to do that, what then is my purpose?”

“Don’t ever threaten a human being with a blaster again.”

“I would not have fired under any circumstances, Elijah, as you know very well. I am incapable of hurting a human. But, as you see, I did not have to fire. I did not expect to have to.”

“That was the purest luck, your not having to fire. Don’t take that kind of chance again. I could have pulled the grandstand stunt you did—”

“Grandstand stunt? What is that?”

“Never mind. Get the sense from what I’m saying. I could have pulled a blaster on the crowd myself. I had the blaster to do it with. But it isn’t the kind of gamble I am justified in taking, or you, either. It was safer to call squad cars to the scene than to try one-man heroics.”

R Daneel considered. He shook his head. “I think you are wrong, partner Elijah. My briefing on human characteristics here among the people of Earth includes the information that, unlike the men of the Outer Worlds, they are trained from birth to accept authority. Apparently this is the result of your way of living. One man, representing authority firmly enough, was quite sufficient, as I proved. Your own desire for a squad car was only an expression, really, of your almost instinctive wish for superior authority to take responsibility out of your hands. On my own world, I admit that what I did would have been most unjustified.”

Baley’s long face was red with anger. “If they had recognized you as a robot—”

“I was sure they wouldn’t.”

“In any case, remember that you are a robot. Nothing more than a robot. Just a robot. Like those clerks in the shoe store.”

“But this is obvious.”

“And you’re not human.” Baley felt himself being driven into cruelty against his will.

R. Daneel seemed to consider that. He said, “The division between human and robot is perhaps not as significant as that between intelligence and non-intelligence.”

“Maybe on your world,” said Baley, “but not on Earth.”

He looked at his watch and could scarcely make out that he was an hour and a quarter late. His throat was dry and raw with the thought that R. Daneel had won the first round, had won when he himself had stood by helpless.

He thought of the youngster, Vince Barrett, the teenager whom R. Sammy had replaced. And of himself, Elijah Baley, whom R. Daneel could replace. Jehoshaphat, at least his father had been thrown out because of an accident that had done damage, that had killed people. Maybe it was his fault; Baley didn’t know. Suppose he had been eased out to make room for a mechanical physicist. Just for that. For no other reason. Nothing he could do about it.

He said, curtly, “Let’s go now. I’ve got to get you home.”

R. Daneel said, “You see, it is not proper to make any distinction of lesser meaning than the fact of intel—”

Baley’s voice rose. “All right. The subject is closed. Jessie is waiting for us.” He walked in the direction of the nearest intrasection communo-tube. “I’d better call and tell her we’re on our way up.”

“Jessie?”

“My wife.”

Jehoshaphat, thought Baley, I’m in a fine mood to face Jessie.

It had been her name that had first made Elijah Baley really conscious of Jessie. He had met her at the Section Christmas party back in ’02, over a bowl of punch. He had just finished his schooling, just taken his first job with the City, just moved into the Section. He was living in one of the bachelor alcoves of Common Room 122A. Not bad for a bachelor alcove.

She was handing out the punch. “I’m Jessie,” she said. “Jessie Navodny. I don’t know you.”

“Baley,” he said, “Lije Baley. I’ve just moved into the Section.” He took his glass of punch and smiled mechanically. She impressed him as a cheerful and friendly person, so he stayed near her. He was new and it is a lonely feeling to be at a party where you find yourself watching people standing about in cliques of which you aren’t a part. Later, when enough alcohol had trickled down throats, it might be better.

Meanwhile, he remained at the punch bowl, watching the folks come and go and sipping thoughtfully.

“I helped make the punch.” The girl’s voice broke in upon him. “I can guarantee it. Do you want more?”

Baley realized his little glass was empty. He smiled and said, “Yes.” The girl’s face was oval and not precisely pretty, mostly because of a slightly overlarge nose. Her dress was demure and she wore her light brown hair in a series of ringlets over her forehead.

She joined him in the next punch and he felt better.

“Jessie,” he said, feeling the name with his tongue. “It’s nice. Do you mind if I use it when I’m talking to you?”

“Certainly. If you want to. Do you know what it’s short for?”

“Jessica?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

She laughed and said archly, “My full name is Jezebel.”

That was when his interest flared. He put his punch glass down and said, intently, “No, really?”

“Honestly. I’m not kidding. Jezebel. It’s my real-for-true name on all my records. My parents liked the sound of it.”

She was quite proud of it, even though there was never a less likely Jezebel in the world.

Baley said, seriously, “My name is Elijah, you know. My full name, I mean.”

It didn’t register with her.

He said, “Elijah was Jezebel’s great enemy.”

“He was?”

“Why, sure. In the Bible.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that. Now isn’t that funny? I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll have to be my enemy in real life.”

From the very beginning there was no question of that. It was the coincidence of names at first that made her more than just a pleasant girl at the punch bowl. But afterward he had grown to find her cheerful, tender-hearted, and, finally, even pretty. He appreciated her cheerfulness particularly. His own sardonic view of life needed the antidote.