But what would Fastolfe say? A world of a trillion? Surely! But they would be dependent on imported air and water and upon an energy supply from complicated storehouses fifty million miles away. How incredibly unstable that would be. Earth would be, and remain, a feather’s weight away from complete catastrophe at the slightest failure of any part of the System-wide mechanism.
Baley said, “I think it would be easier to ship off some of the surplus population, myself.” It was more an answer to the picture he had himself conjured up than to anything Norris had said.
“Who’d have us?” said Norris with a bitter lightness.
“Any uninhabited planet.”
Norris rose, patted Baley on the shoulder. “Lije, you eat your chicken, and recover. You must be living on knockout pills.” He left, chuckling.
Baley watched him leave with a humorless twist to his mouth. Norris would spread the news and it would be weeks before the humor boys of the office (every office has them) would lay off. But at least it got him off the subject of young Vince, of robots, of declassification.
He sighed as he put a fork into the now cold and somewhat stringy chicken.
Baley finished the last of the yeast-nut and it was only then that R. Daneel left his own desk (assigned him that morning) and approached.
Baley eyed him uncomfortably. “Well?”
R. Daneel said, “The Commissioner is not in his office and it is not known when he’ll be back. I’ve told R. Sammy we will use it and that he is to allow no one but the Commissioner to enter.”
“What are we going to use it for?”
“Greater privacy. Surely you agree that we must plan our next move. After all, you do not intend to abandon the investigation, do you?”
That was precisely what Baley most longed to do, but obviously, he could not say so. He rose and led the way to Enderby’s office.
Once in the office, Baley said, “All right, Daneel. What is it?” The robot said, “Partner Elijah, since last night, you are not yourself. There is a definite alteration in your mental aura.”
A horrible thought sprang full-grown into Baley’s mind. He cried, “Are you telepathic?”
It was not a possibility he would have considered at a less disturbed moment.
“No. Of course not,” said R. Daneel.
Baley’s panic ebbed. He said, “Then what the devil do you mean by talking about my mental aura?”
“It is merely an expression I use to describe a sensation that you do not share with me.”
“What sensation?”
“It is difficult to explain, Elijah. You will recall that I was originally designed to study human psychology for our people back in Spacetown.”
“Yes, I know. You were adjusted to detective work by the simple installation of a justice-desire circuit.” Baley did not try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Exactly, Elijah. But my original design remains essentially unaltered. I was constructed for the purpose of cerebroanalysis.”
“For analyzing brain waves?”
“Why, yes. It can be done by field-measurements without the necessity of direct electrode contact, if the proper receiver exists. My mind is such a receiver. Is that principle not applied on Earth?”
Baley didn’t know. He ignored the question and said, cautiously, “If you measure the brain waves, what do you get out of it?”
“Not thoughts, Elijah. I get a glimpse of emotion and most of all, I can analyze temperament, the underlying drives and attitudes of a man. For instance, it was I who was able to ascertain that Commissioner Enderby was incapable of killing a man under the circumstances prevailing at the time of the murder.”
“And they eliminated him as a suspect on your say-so.”
“Yes. It was safe enough to do so. I am a very delicate machine in that respect.”
Again a thought struck Baley. “Wait! Commissioner Enderby didn’t know he was being cerebroanalyzed, did he?”
“There was no necessity of hurting his feelings.”
“I mean you just stood there and looked at him. No machinery. No electrodes. No needles and graphs.”
“Certainly not. I am a self-contained unit.”
Baley bit his lower lip in anger and chagrin. It had been the one remaining inconsistency, the one loophole through which a forlorn stab might yet be made in an attempt to pin the crime on Spacetown.
R. Daneel had stated that the Commissioner had been cerebroanalyzed and one hour later the Commissioner himself had, with apparent candor, denied any knowledge of the term. Certainly no man could have undergone the shattering experience of electroencephalographic measurements by electrode and graph under the suspicion of murder without an unmistakable impression of what cerebroanalysis must be.
But now that discrepancy had evaporated. The Commissioner had been cerebroanalyzed and had never known it. R. Daneel told the truth; so had the Commissioner.
“Well,” said Baley, sharply, “what does cerebroanahysis tell you about me?”
“You are disturbed.”
“That’s a great discovery, isn’t it? Of course, I’m disturbed.”
“Specifically, though, your disturbance is due to a clash between motivations within you. On the one hand your devotion to the principles of your profession urges you to look deeply into this conspiracy of Earthmen who lay siege to us last night. Another motivation, equally strong, forces you in the opposite direction. This much is clearly written in the electric field of your cerebral cells.”
“My cerebral cells, nuts,” said Baley, feverishly. “Look, I’ll tell you why there’s no point in investigating your so-called conspiracy. It has nothing to do with the murder. I thought it might have. I’ll admit that. Yesterday in the kitchen, I thought we were in danger. But what happened? They followed us out, were quickly lost on the strips, and that was that. That was not the action of well-organized and desperate men.
“My own son found out where we were staying easily enough. He called the Department. He didn’t even have to identify himself. Our precious conspirators could have done the same if they had really wanted to hurt us.”
“Didn’t they?”
“Obviously not. If they had wanted riots, they could have started one at the shoe counter, and yet they backed out tamely enough before one man and a blaster. One robot, and a blaster which they must have known you would be unable to fire once they recognized what you were. They’re Medievalists. They’re harmless crackpots. You wouldn’t know that, but I should have. And I would have, if it weren’t for the fact that this whole business has me thinking in—in foolish melodramatic terms.
“I tell you I know the type of people that become Medievalists. They’re soft, dreamy people who find life too hard for them here and get lost in an ideal world of the past that never really existed. If you could cerebroanalyze a movement as you do an individual, you would find they are no more capable of murder than Julius Enderby himself.”
R. Daneel said slowly, “I cannot accept your statements at face value.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your conversion to this view is too sudden. There are certain discrepancies, too. You arranged the appointment with Dr. Gerrigel hours before the evening meal. You did not know of my food sac then and could not have suspected me as the murderer. Why did you call him, then?”
“I suspected you even then.”
“And last night you spoke as you slept.” Baley’s eyes widened. “What did I say?”
“Merely the one word ‘Jessie’ several times repeated. I believe you were referring to your wife.”