“This means that the humanoid robots who were, we speculate, sent to Earth, would, even so, not have had occasion to meet my mind-adjusting robots or be aware of any mind-adjustment either, considering that the robots are no longer engaged in that. It is impossible, therefore, for my special ability to have been uncovered in the manner you suggest.”
Daneel said, “Is there no other way of discovery, friend Giskard?”
“None,” said Giskard firmly.
“And yet—I wonder,” said Daneel.
PART IV.
AURORA
11. THE OLD LEADER
48
Kelden Amadiro was not immune from the human plague of memory. He was, in fact, more subject to it than most. In his case, moreover, the tenacity of memory had, as its accompaniment, a content unusual for the intensity of its deep and prolonged rage and frustration.
All had been going so well for him twenty decades before. He was the founding head of the Robotics Institute (he was still the founding head) and for one flashing and triumphant moment it had seemed to him that he could not fail to achieve total control of the Council, smashing his great enemy, Han Fastolfe, and leaving him in helpless opposition.
If he had—if he only had—
(How he tried not to think of it and, how his memory presented him with it, over and over again, as though it could never get enough of grief and despair.)
If he had won out, Earth would have remained isolated and alone and he would have seen to it that Earth declined, decayed, and finally faded into dissolution. Why not? The short-lived people of a diseased, overcrowded world were better off dead—a hundred times better off dead than living the life they had forced themselves to lead.
And the Spacer worlds, calm and secure, would then have expanded further, Fastolfe had always complained that the Spacers were too long-lived and too comfortable on their robotic cushions to be pioneers, but Amadiro would have proved him wrong.
Yet Fastolfe had won out. At the moment of certain defeat, he had somehow, unbelievably, incredibly, reached into empty space, so to speak, and found victory in his grasp—plucked from nowhere.
It was that Earthman, of course, Elijah Baley—
But Amadiro’s otherwise uncomfortable memory always balked at the Earthman and turned away. He could not picture that face, hear that voice, remember that deed. The name was enough. Twenty centuries had not sufficed to dim the hatred he felt in the slightest—or to soften the pain he felt by an iota.
And with Fastolfe in charge of policy, the miserable Earthmen had fled their corrupting planet and established themselves on world after world. The whirlwind of Earth’s progress dazed the Spacer worlds and forced them into frozen paralysis.
How many times had Amadiro addressed the Council and pointed out that the Galaxy was slipping from Spacer fingers, that Aurora was watching blankly while world after world was being occupied by submen, that each year apathy was taking firmer hold of the Spacer spirit?
“Rouse yourself,” he had called out. “Rouse yourself. See their numbers grow. See the Settler worlds multiply. What is it you wait for? To have them at your throats?”
And always Fastolfe would answer in that soothing lullaby of a voice of his and the Aurorans and the other Spacers (always following Aurora’s lead, when Aurora chose not to lead) would settle back and return to their slumber.
The obvious did not seem to touch them. The facts, the figures, the indisputable worsening of affairs from decade to decade left them unmoved. How was it possible to shout the truth at them so steadily, to have every prediction he made come to pass, and yet to have to watch a steady majority following Fastolfe like sheep?
How was it possible that Fastolfe himself could watch everything he said prove to be sheer folly and yet never swerve from his policies? It was not even that he stubbornly insisted on being wrong, it was that he simply never seemed to notice he was wrong.
If Amadiro were the kind of man who doted on fantasy, he would surely imagine that some kind of spell, some kind of apathetic enchantment, had fallen upon the Spacer worlds. He would imagine that somewhere someone possessed the magic power of lulling otherwise active brains and blinding to the truth otherwise sharp eyes.
To add the final exquisite agony, people pitied Fastolfe for having died in frustration. In frustration, they said, because the Spacers would not seize new worlds of their own.
It was Fastolfe’s own policies that kept them from doing so! What right had he to feel frustration over that? What would he do if he had, like Amadiro, always seen and spoken the truth and been unable to force the Spacers enough Spacers—to listen to him.
How many times had he thought that it would be better for the Galaxy to be empty than under the domination of the submen? Had he had some magic power to destroy the Earth—Elijah Baley’s world—with a nod of his head, how eagerly he would.
Yet to find refuge in such fantasy could only be a sign of his total despair. It was the other side of his recurrent, futile wish Ito give up and welcome death—if his robots would allow it.
And then the time came when the power to destroy Earth was given him—even forced upon him against his will. That time was some three-fourths of a decade before, when he had first met Levular Mandamus.
49
Memory! Three-fourths of a decade before—
Amadiro looked up and noted that Maloon Cicis had entered the office. He had undoubtedly signaled and he had the right to enter if the signal were not acknowledged.
Amadiro sighed and put down his small computer. Cicis had been his right-hand man ever since the Institute had been established. He was getting old in his service. Nothing drastically noticeable, just a general air of mild decay. His nose seemed to be a bit more asymmetrical than it once had been.
He rubbed his own somewhat bulbous nose and wondered how badly the flavor of decay was enveloping him. He had once been 1.95 meters tall, a good height even by Spacer standards. Surely he stood as straight now as he always had and yet when he had actually measured his height recently, he could not manage to make it more than 1.93 meters. Was he beginning to stoop, to shrivel, to settle?
He put away these dour thoughts that were themselves a surer sign of aging than mere measurements and said, “What is it, Maloon?”
Cicis had a new personal robot dogging his steps very modernistic and with glossy trim. That was a sign of aging, too. If one can’t keep one’s body young, one can always buy a new young robot. Amadiro was determined never to rouse smiles among the truly young by falling prey to that particular delusion—especially since Fastolfe, who was eight decades older than Amadiro, had never done so.
Cicis said, “It’s this Mandamus fellow again, Chief.”
“Mandamus?”
“The one who keeps wanting to see you.”
Amadiro thought a while. “You mean the idiot who’s a descendant of the Solarian woman?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Well, I don’t want to see him. Haven’t you made that clear to him yet, Maloon?”
“Abundantly clear. He asks that I hand you a note and he says you will then see him.”
Amadiro said slowly, “I don’t think so, Maloon. What does the note say?”
“I don’t understand it, Chief. It isn’t Galactic.”