The Divided Self

by EnigmaOfAbsolute

Summary:

Plainclothesman Elijah Baley is called to Aurora, once again alongside robot partner R. Daneel Olivaw, to investigate the disappearance of renowned Earth roboticist Vorian Drend, missing for months under mysterious circumstances. Central to the investigation is Mira Drend, Vorian’s granddaughter, herself a remarkable roboticist with a mind unlike any other. With her four strangely human-like robot companions, Mira becomes both a clue and a puzzle, challenging Baley And Daneel to reconsider what they always took for granted about the way the Three Laws of Robotics operate.

Amid the investigation, secrets surface. Can Mira withstand the revelations about her grandfather’s fate, and the extraordinary legacy he left behind?

This Asimov-style Robot Series novel takes place after The Naked Sun and before Mirror Image/The Robots of Dawn.

Chapter 1: Summons

Elijah Baley sat at his desk in the Plainclothesmen’s Division, the same desk he had worked from for the better part of his career, eyes unfocused on the wall opposite. It had stood there yesterday, last week, ten years ago, and would stand there tomorrow still, unchanged.
Once, that sameness had been comfort. Now it felt like the endless repetition of a tune played too many times. A City wall was safety, community, the presence of millions of lives pressed together in interlocking cubicles. But a City wall was also confinement. Since his return from Solaria three months ago, he could not keep from seeing it that way.
Earthmen lived their lives in these caves of steel, proud of the system that made it possible to house ten billion souls. They measured their world by hallways and doors, by lifts and transit strips, by the warmth of air processed through filters and the gleam of polished metal. Outside was myth and terror. The great beyonds. The realm of robots. For Baley, it had once been terror enough, but now the myth was cracking.
He had stood on Solaria alongside Gladia Delmarre under a sky with no ceiling, under a sun that was not a lamp but a living flame millions of kilometres away. He had hated it, sweated under it, twitched at every shadow and breath of air. But he had seen it. And back on Earth, the walls of his own home and precinct pressed closer than before, as though mocking him with their neat geometry.
So he had made himself go Outside, a few steps at first, then more. It was like teaching an old machine to perform a new trick. It was stubborn work, really, full of groans and malfunctions. He had gone alone once, then again with Bentley. His son was eighteen, tall already, restless with that adolescent half-scorn for anything his father tried to explain. Yet the boy had taken the Outside with the same easy stride he brought to the kitchen at breakfast.
Baley thought of how youth was soft metal, ready to bend into shape. His own mind was cast iron, it would hold its form until it broke. Jessie, predictably, couldn’t understand this new compulsion. She had never forgiven Solaria for changing her husband, though she would not have put it that way.
He had never told her what had happened there. He couldn’t. Not really. The case was sealed, wrapped in official secrecy. Even if he had wanted to, the law forbade him. And perhaps, he admitted, though Jessie may have resented it, some part of him had been glad of the prohibition.
The precinct around him hummed with its normal activity. Detectives sat hunched over reports. It was the same atmosphere of work, of tired men pushing through the endless stream of cases. A signal chimed at his desk. Not the soft tone of a routine message, but the sharper summons of priority. Baley blinked, adjusted his collar, and reached out to acknowledge.
The screen brightened with the familiar lined face of Under-Secretary Albert Minnim.
“Baley,” Minnim said. “My office. At once.”
The screen blanked.
Baley rose stiffly. The Under-Secretary never called for a social visit, nor did he ever glance at one’s tie unless it was crooked enough to end a career. Yet there was an edge in the his tone he could not miss. And suddenly, for all his brooding about walls and skies, he felt the old pull of duty tighten its grip on him.
He turned toward the Under-Secretary’s office, his thoughts already racing ahead. The door slid open at his approach. Minnim sat behind his desk, his expression fixed in worry. Beside him stood two men.
One was no stranger. Tall, perfectly proportioned, with bronze hair and features stamped from the mould of humanity but with a stillness no true man could carry. Baley’s heart leapt.
“Jehoshaphat!” he exclaimed. “Daneel, my old friend!”
He stepped forward, hand outstretched. The robot met it at once, clasping Baley’s hand with a firm, exact pressure, his blue eyes calm but, to Baley at least, carrying something that could be mistaken for warmth.
“It is good to see you again, Partner Elijah,” Daneel said, in that measured tone that carried no inflection, and yet never failed to strike Baley as impossibly courteous, even gentle. “I have thought often of our time on Solaria.”
Baley grinned, feeling a rush of pleasure stronger than he had expected. “So have I. It’s been too long.”
But the grin faded almost at once. If Daneel was here, in Minnim’s office, it meant Spacer business. And Spacer business had a way of reaching out cold hands to drag him in. His stomach tightened.
“Sit down, Baley,” Minnim said, with a touch of impatience. “We’ve a matter to discuss.”
Baley obeyed, lowering himself into the chair before the Under-Secretary’s desk. His eyes shifted to the second man in the room, tall as Daneel, but flesh and blood. His skin was paler than any Spacer’s he's ever seen and his clothing cut in a precise, no-nonsense style. His nostrils flared faintly, as though the very air he breathed displeased him.
“This,” said Minnim, “is Officer Orric Damiro of Aurora, here by authority of the Auroran police. He is responsible for the case which now concerns us.”
Baley rose to meet him, hand extended automatically. “Elijah Baley, Plainclothesman, New York Police.”
But the Spacer drew back a step, hands clasping behind him, eyes fixed on Baley’s offered hand with faint distaste. “There is no need,” Damiro said smoothly. “A nod will suffice, good sir.”
Baley let his hand fall, heat rising to his cheeks. Fear of contamination! That old Spacer arrogance... He had experienced it before, and still it stung. Daneel, watching impassively, said nothing.
Baley sighed and settled back into his chair. “All right, Under-Secretary. What’s the case, then?”
Minnim cleared his throat and folded his hands on the desk. “An Earthman has disappeared, Baley. Not here… off-world. On Aurora, or rather, one of its moons - Tithonus I.”
Baley frowned. “An Earthman? On Aurora? That’s impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Minnim corrected, “merely extraordinary. Aside from yourself, he is the only Earthman ever permitted to enter Spacer territory since its foundation. He has been missing now for…” Minnim glanced at Damiro “…six months.”
Baley’s frown deepened. “Six months? And only now it becomes a police matter? Under-Secretary, with most disappearances, if there’s no word after a few weeks the assumption is death. What’s the holdup here?”
The Auroran, Damiro, drew himself a fraction taller, as though to command the room. His voice was deliberate. “The man in question is not just any Earthman. He is a roboticist of unusual renown, one of the most accomplished currently alive. His work is highly valued on Aurora.”
Baley lifted an eyebrow. “Renown or not, six months is a long time to wait before raising an alarm.”
“He was a bit of a recluse,” Damiro said evenly. “A man of irregular habits. He might vanish for weeks, sometimes months, without explanation. He was notoriously difficult to contact, even at the best of times. That is part of his reputation… an eccentric, one might say.”
Baley thought sourly, Yes, one would have to be eccentric to make a life on the Outer Worlds at all.
Damiro went on: “The alarm was raised not by his household but by a professional colleague of equal stature. He has declared that his absence now exceeds even his own erratic pattern. By his testimony, we have cause for concern. But as yet, there is no evidence, no trace. No theory even as to whether he still lives.”
Baley tapped the armrest of his chair. “So… no leads, no suspects, no body. Just a missing man who might not even be missing at all.”
Daneel, silent until now, inclined his head. “It is why I requested your assistance, Partner Elijah.”
Baley snorted. “Yes, do tell me - why am I involved at all? This happened on Aurora, or close enough to it. It’s Spacer jurisdiction. You have your own police, do you not? Why go through the pains of dragging me into it?”
Minnim leaned forward, his voice tight. “Because, Baley, this is not simply a local matter. It is, if you will, an interstellar incident. As much as the Spacers like to claim Vorian Drend as their own—”
At the implication, Damiro’s expression soured, though he said nothing.
“—he is, in fact, an Earthman,” Minnim continued. “Born on Earth. An Earth citizen. That makes his disappearance Earth’s concern as much as Aurora’s.”
Baley folded his arms. “So you need aid from Earth, is that it?”
“Not merely aid,” Minnim said. “Co-operation. Earth and Aurora police will have to work together on this matter. And tell me, who is better suited to such a case than the only Earthman, aside from the victim himself, who has ever set foot in Spacer territory?”
Baley grimaced. It was meant to sound flattering, but it landed like a sentence.
“That’s not very reassuring,” he muttered.
Minnim’s hand shifted slightly, palm opening in a small gesture toward the figure standing silently at the wall. “And of course, you will not go unaccompanied. The Auroran government has agreed that Robot Daneel Olivaw will be attached to you once more in this case. A practical measure. Someone to help you acclimate to their customs. A steady hand, so to speak.”
Baley shifted uneasily. “You make it sound as if I’d be lost otherwise.”
“You would,” Damiro said bluntly, his tone carrying no malice. “Aurora is not Solaria. Its complexities demand a guide. Watching a handful of book-films will not suffice.”
Baley allowed himself a glance toward Daneel. The robot nodded in acknowledgment, a queerly human gesture. For an instant Baley remembered what it was to trust this machine, utterly and against reason. He remembered, too, the faint, unspoken shame of that trust.
“A friendly face,” Minnim added.
Baley exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half defeat. His partnership with the robot had always brought him deeper into Spacer affairs than he cared for. And here it was, once again.

Chapter 2: Valuable Earthman in Transit

The door slid shut behind him with the finality of a prison cell. Baley tugged uneasily at the collar of his jacket and glanced around the narrow chamber. It was stark, metallic, lined with recessed jets. A low hum began at once.
A thin mist descended over him, sharp-scented and cold. He coughed, blinked as the vapour prickled his skin, then felt the rush of warm air sweep it away. Jets pulsed again, this time with a tingling solution that clung to his hair and face, and again the warm blast that followed. He had been briefed: this is a decontamination. Spacers preferred their passengers sterilized like laboratory instruments.
At length the mist ceased. A panel in the wall clicked open, presenting a folded set of garments, pale grey and trimmed with understated precision. Baley stripped, deposited his Earth-made clothing into the marked receptacle, and pulled on the new suit. The fabric was smooth, cool against his skin, and fitted with a disconcerting exactness.
He stepped into the ship. Waiting there, stiff and patient as though he had stood for hours without moving, was Daneel.
“Partner Elijah,” the robot said. “The procedure has concluded to the crew’s satisfaction.”
Baley sniffed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “Jehoshaphat, they act as if I were some sort of walking plague.”
Daneel, unperturbed, answered in his even cadence. “For many Aurorans, the prospect of close contact with an Earthman is disquieting. Though the actual danger of infection is minimal, the custom of such precautions has been long established. I regret any inconvenience.”
“Regret won’t change it.”
Without reply, Daneel gestured down the corridor. They walked together, Baley matching his own earthbound stride against the robot’s unhurried grace. The ship’s passageways were spotless, silent, and strangely underpopulated. Every surface gleamed, every light shone with cold efficiency. Baley found himself listening for footsteps or voices that never came.
At last Daneel halted before a door, pressed a panel, and the quarters opened. The room was modest but spacious compared with the cubicles of Earth’s Cities. A bed, desk, and wall console; no viewport to display the barely shifting emptiness of space. He felt strangely grateful for that.
“This is for your exclusive use,” Daneel said. “It is requested, though not formally required, that you remain here for the majority of the voyage. The crew are not accustomed to interaction with Earthmen, and it is deemed preferable to avoid unnecessary… discomfort.”
Baley stopped just inside the doorway, turned sharply on his heel, and stared at his partner. “So I’m to sit in my room like a quarantined animal, while the noble crew pretend I don’t exist?”
“It is not my intention to offend,” Daneel said, with a politeness that never faltered. “I believe the arrangement will prevent difficulties. And it will afford you privacy, should you desire it.”
“Privacy. Yes. That’s one word for it.” Baley stepped farther in and dropped heavily onto the bed, testing the resistance of the mattress. It gave precisely as much as his weight required, no more. “Very well, Daneel. Very well. I suppose it wouldn’t be a Spacer ship without such a heavy barrage of rules.”
His eyes narrowed as he searched within the pockets of his neutral-smelling tunic. “Tell me, old friend, what became of my pipe? It was in the pocket of the trousers I left behind.”
Daneel inclined his head. “Your personal effects remain in the sanitation compartment. I shall make enquiries, but I must caution you, Partner Elijah. The possession of such an object is not considered… fitting aboard a vessel of Auroran registry. Smoking is regarded as both impolite and unhealthy, and tobacco itself is exceedingly rare, for it does not grow naturally upon Aurora and is scarcely imported.”
Baley scowled, letting his shoulders sag. “So, not only am I to be confined, but I can’t even have a smoke without offending delicate Auroran sensibilities. Fine. I’ll save the precious leaves for when I’m alone. If I’m ever alone.”
He let a long sigh escape him, then straightened and fixed Daneel with a hard stare. “For now, there’s something else I’d rather have. You can leave the pipe for later. What I want immediately is information. Tell me more about this case they’re dragging me across half the Galaxy for. Exactly how impossible a task have they seen fit to hand me?”
“The disappearance of Vorian Drend is viewed by the Auroran Council as somewhat of a mystery. They have already employed their own resources, both robotic and human. No trace has been located. In that sense, the task presented to you is… difficult. Perhaps, yes, impossible is not too strong a word.”
“And yet here I am, dragged light-years from Earth to succeed where Aurorans with all their resources have failed. That’s always the way of it, isn’t it?”
Daneel said nothing. Baley, on the other hand, settled back against the headboard and folded his arms, choosing against reason to press the matter. “So who is this man we’re searching for?”
“Dr Vorian Drend. He is an accomplished roboticist and theoretician, engaged over many years in projects that touch on both artificial and organic cognition. Before he left Earth he worked in neurophysiology. My creator, Dr Han Fastolfe, recruited Dr Drend’s assistance in attempts to reconcile biological nervous systems with positronic theory some fifty years ago.”
“Fifty years ago? That long?”
“Yes.” Daneel said. “Even with our present knowledge there remain aspects of the living brain that elude neat mathematical formulation. Dr Drend contributed to the neurological framework that permitted advances in adaptive circuitry. Dr Roj Nemenuh Sarton provided mechanical implementation as well as sociological insights; Dr Fastolfe supplied much of the key mathematical theory involved in the process.”
Baley rubbed his chin. “So he wasn’t just a tinkerer. He had brains… no pun intended.”
“No pun required,” Daneel replied without change of tone. “Indeed. He combined neurological observation with speculative mathematics. He was concerned with plasticity, with the manner in which neural pathways alter with experience. That is one of the fundamental differences between an organic brain and a synthetic mind.”
“Differences? Explain. Tell me plainly what separates the human brain from the positronic.”
Daneel considered, then spoke with the deliberation of a teacher. “The organic brain operates through growth, modification and biochemical cascades that are, to some degree, stochastic. Synaptic weights change with use; structure reshapes over time. The brain’s responses are contingent upon a lifetime of biological events: nutrition, hormones, injuries, experiences. A synthetic mind is engineered for stability and predictability. We may simulate plasticity through learning algorithms, but such simulation is constrained by initial architecture and by the aim of avoiding chaotic behaviour. And, above all, our conduct is bound within the framework of the Three Laws of Robotics: First, that a robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. Second, that a robot must obey the orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. And third, that a robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.”
Baley waved a hand irritably. “Yes, yes. I’m familiar with the Laws, Daneel. You and I have both lived through more than one case where those damnable Laws did all they could to twist themselves into knots. Spare me the lecture.”
Daneel nodded, unruffled. “As you wish, Partner Elijah. I merely wished to make explicit that what differentiates us from organic intelligences is not merely structure, but the very principles of thought to which we are held.”
Baley muttered, “Principles that have a way of tangling themselves when men push hard enough. I know. And Dr. Drend, what was his role in all this?”
“Dr Drend’s work addressed the mathematical representation of change, how a network may alter its own rules without collapsing into dysfunction.”
Baley’s mouth made a hard line. “In other words, you’re saying that humans are glorified weather systems and robots are more like tidy clocks.”
“That is a crude metaphor,” Daneel returned mildly, “but serviceable. The essence is that variability and biochemical contingency grant living minds a flexibility that is difficult to render in manufactured substrates. Conversely, manufactured minds have an economy of function and can be made to avoid certain human errors.”
Baley huffed. “That’s not much consolation when someone with more imagination than caution vanishes. All right. Now who could have backed the good doctor? As an Earthman, he couldn’t have funded Spacer-level projects out of pocket.”
Daneel’s fingers steepled together. “That is a reasonable inference, Partner Elijah. I cannot state with certainty the sources of his funding. He collaborated with Fastolfe and Sarton; some projects received Auroran patronage, others private sponsorship. But to whom he was answerable at the time of his disappearance, I do not know.”
“That’s something we have to find out. Funding, patrons, associates… those are the things that leave fingerprints. Make a note of it, will you? We’ll attend to it once we’re on the ground.”
“Noted.”
Baley sat up, sharper now. “And Fastolfe - was he the one who raised the alarm? The man who reported Dr Drend missing?”
“Yes,” Daneel said. “Dr Fastolfe reported the disappearance. He considered Dr Drend’s prolonged absence irregular even by Dr Drend’s standards and therefore requested Auroran investigation. It was Dr Fastolfe’s insistence that prompted Auroran notification to Earth.”
“Then we start there. Fastolfe seems to know Dr Drend better than anyone. If there are questions to be asked, he’s the bank of them.”
“He will be our first contact upon arrival.”
A sound at the door interrupted them, three deliberate taps. It slid open, and the tall figure of Orric Damiro entered with the faint stiffness of a man once again determined to conceal distaste. He inclined his head, not quite a bow.
“Plainclothesman Baley,” he said, his accent crisp. “I trust your quarters are adequate? You are not in need of any further comforts?”
Baley gave a short laugh. “As comfortable as a cell can be. I’ll manage.”
Damiro’s lips moved in what might have been intended as a smile. “Good. Then we may proceed efficiently.”
Baley leaned forward on the edge of the bed, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me, have the Auroran authorities begun their investigation? Anything to go on at all?”
Damiro clasped his hands behind his back. “Not much, I am afraid. The Council felt it prudent not to dig too deeply before Earth’s representative could be brought into the matter. To do otherwise might have invited diplomatic friction. It was deemed best to wait.”
Baley’s brows drew together. “You waited half a year?”
“The case was… irregular,” Damiro said carefully. “Like I said earlier, Drend was not a man of predictable habits. Besides Han Fastolfe, the only other associate contacted thus far has been his granddaughter, though that yielded little results.”
“Granddaughter?” Baley straightened. “So he has family?”
“Yes,” Damiro said, tilting his head slightly as if measuring Baley’s surprise. “Though it is not our custom to live with genetic relatives. Parents and children, more distant relations… such ties are seldom maintained on Aurora, if ever. Bonds of sentiment are not maintained by blood.”
“But if he was of Earthly stock, then such arrangements would come naturally. Kinship remains the common unit of life.”
Damiro’s mouth tightened. “Yes, well… on Earth, perhaps. On Aurora, quite the opposite. For two people to share a household, the usual assumption is that they are… lovers. That is not the case here, and so the arrangement is doubly strange.”
Baley blinked, then frowned in disbelief. “L-Lovers? Jehoshaphat! But they’re genetically linked!”
“It is of no consequence,” Damiro said with unruffled calm. “Most Aurorans never meet their biological relatives. Unless one makes a deliberate investigation, one cannot know who shares one’s genes. Ties are not formed through parentage but through chosen association.” He hesitated. “In truth, even the very word granddaughter carries little meaning here,” he added, his tone measured. “Such a term is at best a formal convenience, not an indication of obligation or intimacy.”
Baley’s lips worked silently for a moment. “Ah,” he muttered. “You mean to say…”
Daneel spoke then. “On Aurora, Partner Elijah, children are ordinarily reared in specialized facilities, under the guidance of experts in pedagogy, nutrition, and development. Parents are seldom involved beyond genetic contribution. Dr Drend’s choice to raise his granddaughter himself was therefore considered unusual, even eccentric. Many regarded it with distaste.”
“Distasteful?” Baley said sharply. “To raise one’s own kin?”
Damiro nodded gravely. “Precisely so. It violated no law, yet it unsettled convention. To those accustomed to our customs, the arrangement seemed… primitive.”
Baley shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable. And what of her parents, then? Dr Drend’s own child?”
Damiro’s expression remained untroubled. “Of no consequence. Whatever role they may once have played, the tie is irrelevant. The granddaughter alone was noted, mostly due to their professional relationship and living arrangements.”
Baley pressed his lips tight. He would make a point of verifying that himself. If Aurorans dismissed blood as meaningless, they might have overlooked what to him was the most natural connection of all. It was fortunate, he reflected, that an Earthman had been sent to investigate another Earthman. Otherwise, vital links might already have been lost. I’ll see the girl, right after questioning Fastolfe. Even if the Spacers can’t see it, the answers may very well lie there.

Chapter 3: Arrival

Baley had avoided the viewports through the voyage. He had kept himself in the enclosed compartments, with walls, ceilings, and illumination panels to imitate the enclosed corridors of the Cities. He had congratulated himself on the foresight of refusing to stare at the abyss that separated worlds. Now, as the ship slid into orbit and the mechanical voice announced that preparations for descent were underway, he felt a slight pang - regret, he realized, mixed with annoyance at his own timidity.
He had not seen Aurora from space. Not once. He had allowed himself to travel across light-years only to deny himself the experience of seeing a world hang in the void, suspended in black infinity. He promised himself grimly, almost defiantly, that on the return voyage he would not yield to fear. He would go to the viewport and look, if only once.
The ship’s descent was a seamless affair, lacking the turbulence and noise Baley expected of planetary entry. Robots managed everything with unerring precision. In minutes, he was standing with Daneel and his Auroran escort, Officer Damiro, in the docking hall of the arrival station of the spaceport.
Baley turned to Damiro, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Will we continue working together on this case?”
Damiro smiled faintly. His face, smooth and carefully composed, betrayed none of the private calculations Baley suspected must always be present. Baley found himself studying him more closely. The Spacers’ lifespans stretched so long, their bodies maintained with such meticulous care, that age became nearly impossible to gauge. If Damiro had been an Earthman, Baley might have judged him at scarcely more than forty. Yet on Aurora, that meant nothing. To place him between Gladia’s apparent youth and Fastolfe’s more acknowledged age was the best Baley could do, and that range told him nothing at all.
“It is not necessary, Detective,” he said presently. “You are at liberty to investigate at your own pace and according to your own judgment. Naturally, we will provide whatever resources and information you require. The Department will also place accommodations at your disposal - an establishment associated with our premises, intended for investigators and witnesses who occasionally visit from neighbouring worlds. I believe you will find the facilities satisfactory.”
Baley said nothing. He had grown accustomed to constant oversight in previous cases, the insistence of local officials on steering or supervising his work. This promise of independence was unexpected, and he welcomed it with a measure of relief. “Then the main responsibility remains with me?”
“That is only proper,” said Damiro smoothly. “We will pool information when necessary, but convention requires that you remain the principal investigator.”
Baley nodded. “I thank you for that freedom. At last a little space to do things my own way.”
He hesitated, then added, “I would like contact information for Dr Han Fastolfe.”
Damiro gave a slight bow. “Naturally. A link will be provided to you at once.”
Baley pressed on. His voice dropped half a note, as though he were asking a favour he already knew might be refused. “And one more matter. I should like to be issued a firearm. For use only in extremity, you understand, if my life should be in direct danger.”
Damiro’s smile broadened, though it carried a trace of amusement. “Ah, but things are not done in such a fashion on Aurora, Detective. Firearms are not carried here. There is no need. You are accompanied by R. Daneel Olivaw, are you not? If danger should arise, your robot will protect you adequately. More adequately, I might add, than any firearm could.”
Baley’s jaw tightened. He was on alien ground, once again without the familiar weight of a blaster at his side. Yet there was little use arguing. He contented himself with a curt nod. “Very well,” he said.
“Then I shall leave you in good conscience, Plainclothesman Baley. I trust your accommodations will prove satisfactory. Do not hesitate to call upon me, should you require anything further.”
Baley watched him depart, then turned to Daneel, who remained at his side in silent readiness. “Well, partner,” he muttered, “it seems it’s just you and me again.”
“Indeed, Partner Elijah. As it should be.”
The hall around them resounded with the activity of robots, each moving with precise economy. Interspersed were members of the ship’s crew, who cast occasional glances in Baley’s direction. Some were curious, their eyes lingering with the open wonder of those who rarely saw an Earthman in the flesh. Others were less generous, their lips tightening and their faces hardening. A few, as they passed, raised hands to their mouths and noses, the gesture of distaste more eloquent than words.
Baley felt the quiet weight of alienness settle on him again. He was without his City, without Earth’s teeming press of humanity. Here he was, a single man among Spacers, to whom he would always be a provincial curiosity.
He cleared his throat. “Daneel, Officer Damiro said that I could have Fastolfe’s contact information.”
“Correct, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel. “A trimensional communication unit is available in the adjoining chamber. If you wish, I shall guide you.”
Baley nodded, falling into step beside him. The device was housed in a room of polished metal surfaces, its contours elegant but unfamiliar. A large, circular frame stood upright, with a control panel set discreetly into the side.
Baley frowned. “This isn’t like the Solarian viewing devices.”
“It is the Auroran equivalent,” Daneel explained. “The underlying principles are the same. A real-time trimensional projection of both participants. The device is already keyed for contact with Dr Han Fastolfe, since he was notified of your arrival and anticipated a summons. If you will permit me.”
Daneel adjusted the controls with precise motions. The frame shimmered, then cleared, resolving into a life-sized image of Dr. Han Fastolfe himself. He had not changed much since Baley had last seen him, though there was a faint hollowness about the cheeks, a slight droop to the eyelids, that spoke of weariness. His hair remained the same pale brown, fine and thinning, and his ears, always disproportionately large for his head, seemed more prominent than ever, lending his face an oddly comic aspect at first glance. Yet the impression did not last, for his eyes, alert and keen, restored his sense of authority. Those same pale eyes fixed on Baley at once, and his mouth curved in recognition.
“Mr Baley,” Fastolfe said warmly. “I had word you were expected today. It pleases me greatly to see you again.”
Baley bowed stiffly. “Dr Fastolfe. I trust I do not intrude.”
“Not in the least. I was prepared to invite you to my home as soon as you had settled in. If it suits you, we may dispense with delay and meet at my establishment right away. Matters of consequence are best discussed in person, don’t you agree?”
Baley’s lips eased into something almost like a smile. “Yes, I agree.”
“Then let us do so,” Fastolfe said. “Daneel will convey you directly. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”
The projection flickered and was gone, leaving only the quiet gleam of the device’s frame.
Baley drew in a breath. “Well, Daneel. No delay, no chance to catch my balance. Straight into the lion’s den.”
Daneel regarded him without change of expression. “Dr Fastolfe is no lion, Partner Elijah.”
“We shall see,” Baley said warily.

Chapter 4: Fastolfe

They stepped out of the station, and at once Baley felt a rush of strangeness sweep over him. The sky stretched unbroken above, vast and impossible, tinted by the orange blaze of Aurora’s sun. He drew in a breath, lightheaded, and the air felt too thin, too sharp, as though his lungs had been tricked into taking more than they were meant to hold. His knees tightened with the instinctive urge to crouch, to shelter, to seek a ceiling that was not there.
He forced himself upright. He had faced this before, on Solaria, and later on Earth, and yet the sensation had not dulled. It was still new, still overwhelming.
Daneel’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The touch was firm, steady, friendly in its reassurance. “Are you unwell, Partner Elijah?”
Baley straightened quickly, forcing his voice into steadiness. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”
He knew he was lying, but the solid presence of Daneel’s hand made the lie easier to sustain. Daneel gestured toward a waiting airfoil, sleek and metallic, standing by with its door already open. Baley climbed in stiffly, seating himself on the smooth upholstery, his hands pressed hard against his knees until the faint trembling subsided. Daneel entered beside him, sliding behind the controls in a wholly unhurried manner.
Baley cleared his throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Of course, Partner Elijah. Dr. Han Fastolfe’s establishment is my place of residence as well. It goes without saying that I know the way precisely.”
“Naturally. I should have thought of that.”
The vehicle slid forward with a motion so smooth it seemed more like gliding than travel. Outside, Baley caught glimpses of wide avenues, carefully ordered greenery, and the gleam of distant structures, all under the unshielded blaze of the sun. He forced his gaze away, fixing his eyes on the interior panels of the vehicle instead.
Minutes later, the vehicle came to rest before a low, angular building set apart from its neighbours. Daneel led the way, and as the door slid aside Baley was confronted at once by a familiar figure… or nearly so.
The resemblance was unnerving. The same height, the same calm precision in movement, even the same cool blue eyes that seemed to look through rather than at him. Only the hair, styled a touch longer, swept differently across the brow, distinguished him from Daneel.
“Welcome to Dr Han Fastolfe’s residence, Plainclothesman Elijah Baley. I am R. Jander Panell,” the robot said, voice steady, a near imitation of Daneel’s.
Baley blinked, almost swaying under the strangeness of it. “Good… good morning,” he managed. “For a moment, I thought…” He stopped, shook his head. “Daneel, had you not been beside me, I would have sworn it was you. Is this not unsettling for you?”
Daneel shook his head. “Superficial resemblance need not cause confusion. Though my outward appearance and that of Friend Jander are patterned alike, there are distinctions in our tone of voice, gestures, and mode of phrasing. To one who spends any measure of time with either of us, differentiation becomes inevitable.”
“You are not alone in that impression, however,” came a voice from within. Fastolfe appeared, stepping forward with measured calm. “Welcome to my home, Elijah Baley. So good to see you once again.”
“Ah, Dr Fastolfe, likewise. I admit I’m quite astonished. A second humanoid robot?”
“Indeed.” Fastolfe gestured toward Jander with a trace of pride. “Daneel’s sibling, in a sense. He is the second, and the last, I have brought into being. To most eyes, indistinguishable. Even you hesitate, do you not?”
Baley allowed a short laugh, though unease edged it. “Hesitate is too mild a word. If not for the different hair style, I could not tell them apart at all. You’ve doubled the effect of uncanny familiarity, Doctor.”
Fastolfe’s smile was brief, touched with something more wistful than triumphant. “You recall, of course, that Dr Sarton was the model for Daneel’s appearance. When I created Jander, only a year after Sarton’s death, it seemed right to preserve that design. A memorial, if you will. A gesture of continuity.”
Baley sobered at the mention. “I remember. And I also remember that the last time we met, it was in the shadow of Sarton’s murder. It feels… unfortunate… that once again we are brought together by another tragedy.”
Fastolfe’s eyes darkened. “Yes. I share the sentiment. I had hoped this meeting might be untouched by loss. Yet here we are.”
He then turned with an easy gesture, leading Baley through a series of wide, low-lit corridors until they reached a chamber that was at once modest and deliberate. It had the proportions of a parlour, though less crowded by furniture than any Earth equivalent. Light suffused the room evenly from concealed sources, pleasantly casting no shadows. It was a space designed for conversation, for receiving.
“Please,” Fastolfe said, motioning toward a seat. “Make yourself at home, such as it is.”
Baley settled stiffly. Fastolfe lowered himself opposite, graceful in his movements. Daneel and Jander took no seats, but crossed the room with noiseless steps to recesses set in the corners, where narrow alcoves seemed prepared precisely for their forms. They stepped back and came to rest, upright, hands folded, their presence at once conspicuous and unintrusive. A third robot, of plainer design, moved to a robotic niche of its own. They stood there in silence, like statues placed for aesthetic balance.
Baley shifted uneasily, eyes darting. “Do all Auroran homes have these… compartments for robots?”
Fastolfe smiled faintly. “Most do. We prefer them out of the way when their service is not immediately required. It is a matter of space, and of ease. But if you find it disconcerting, I can send them elsewhere.”
“No,” Baley muttered, settling back. “It’s just… new to me.”
“Understandably so.” Fastolfe leaned forward, his expression open. “Now, before we speak of unpleasant matters, I should mention a mutual acquaintance, Gladia Delmarre. You remember her, I presume?”
Baley’s chest tightened. Of course he remembered. He allowed himself a brief nod. “The woman from Solaria.”
“Yes.” Fastolfe’s tone warmed, carrying a note of paternal pride. “You’ll be happy to know she has made a place for herself here on Aurora. It has not been effortless, but she has adapted more smoothly than one might expect. She has successfully entered into Auroran society, found colleagues, acquaintances… even friends. I count myself among them. She is not isolated, Elijah. Whatever difficulties her past imposed, she has not let them bind her.”
Baley felt the impulse rise in him to ask, to press further, to permit himself the small luxury of knowing more about her than that. But the impulse remained unspoken. It was not why he had been brought here, and not why Fastolfe had extended hospitality. The case loomed between them, and he knew well enough to keep sentiment to himself.
He cleared his throat. “I am glad to hear it,” he said, as neutrally as he could manage. Then, with a sharper tone, “But we are not here to discuss Solaria or old acquaintances. We are here to discuss Vorian Drend, and what became of him.”
“As you wish. Straight to business.”
He raised a hand, and at once the simpler robot stepped forward from its recess. “Will you take refreshment? Water, coffee? I regret I cannot provide your Earth tobacco, but the essentials we have in abundance.”
Baley considered, then said, “Coffee. Provided it’s real.”
“It is,” Fastolfe assured him. The robot moved soundlessly toward a side-panel, and Baley watched him with a grudging fascination. “Though a different strain than that of Earth. Your palate might need some measure of adjustment.”
Baley thanked him.
“Let us begin, then,” Fastolfe said, folding his hands before him. “Ask what you must. I will answer as best I can.”
Baley lifted the cup, cautious, and let the liquid pass his lips. The flavour struck him at once - richer, sharper, almost overwhelming compared to the thin brew of Earth. He said nothing, set the cup down deliberately, and leaned forward.
“Before we proceed, Dr Fastolfe,” Baley said, his voice measured, “tell me… what is your relationship with Vorian Drend?”
“He is a valued colleague and companion of more than half a century, Detective. Few men can boast so long an association, and fewer still one unmarred by serious discord.”
“I have been told,” Baley went on, “that it was you who first raised concern over his disappearance. Yet I am also told he was in the habit of absenting himself for months at a time. By all accounts, he was sporadic in his comings and goings. What, then, distinguishes this occasion from his earlier vanishings?”
“A fair question, and one I anticipated. In the past, Vorian’s absences were deliberate retreats, most often preceded by hints or outright statements of intent. He would withdraw to Euterpe or seclude himself in one of his numerous laboratories. This time, however, there was no word, no arrangement, no pattern. His associates, his assistants, his household… all were left without direction. That is unlike him. It is the silence that alarms me.”
“Silence can mean many things. Perhaps retreat, perhaps worse. I take it you incline toward the latter.”
Fastolfe’s mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile. “I incline toward unease. A man does not shed the habits of fifty years without cause.” He lowered his head in thought, as though to confirm his own reasoning. “There is also the matter of our meeting. Vorian and I have observed a strict practice for decades: every half-year we confer, exchanging progress in our respective studies. The occasion was due this very month. Never, in all our long acquaintance, has he failed to appear or at least communicate beforehand. Yet this time there has been nothing. Not a word.”
Baley leaned forward. “And you attempted to reach him?”
“I did,” Fastolfe said. “Through his own chosen channel. For the past ten years or so, Vorian has preferred to be contacted by cipher, transmitted through trimensic outlet. The key to that cipher he distributes sparingly, only to those he trusts, and he alters it each month. It is an exceedingly elaborate system, but one he has insisted upon. My last attempt brought no reply.”
“Cipher? That suggests he did not wish to be reached in any ordinary way.”
“Precisely. He is, and has been for some years, exceedingly private. It was not always so. In our younger days he was, if not open, at least accessible. In the past decade, however, his habits hardened into secrecy. Some would say eccentricity.”
Baley’s eyes narrowed. “Paranoid?”
Fastolfe hesitated, his tone carefully measured. “I would not use the word. It slanders him without necessity. But I will say this: even for an Auroran, for whom privacy is a principle as vital as air, Vorian’s measures were… extraordinary. Abnormally so.”
“Is it not conceivable, Doctor, that perhaps you simply could not solve his cipher this time? That’s all there is to it… no disappearance, no foul play, just a failure of communication?”
Fastolfe’s expression remained calm, unruffled. “I take no offence at the suggestion. One must always allow for the simplest explanation, after all. Yet you speak to one accustomed to mathematical precision and, if I may say so, perhaps the finest roboticist extant. There is no way that I, or any of my colleagues similarly trained, could fail at decrypting a cipher of Vorian’s design under ordinary circumstances.”
He leaned back slightly, the gesture unconsciously emphasizing his assurance. “Vorian constructed these ciphers with a specificity I do not believe you fully appreciate. They are intended to be solvable only by those of comparable intellect and understanding of his methodology. Myself, and a very few others of equal experience. Failure is, by design, practically impossible unless the recipient is… deliberately excluded.”
“Is it possible, then, that one of these colleagues might have a motive for wanting Dr Drend out of the way? Were there disputes, professional rivalries, anything of the sort?”
Fastolfe shook his head slowly. “Beyond Roj Nemenuh - that is, Dr Sarton - and myself, he maintained little to no regular contact with other associates. Only on occasions requiring assistance, material resources, or funding did correspondence resume, and even then, it was strictly professional.”
He tapped a finger lightly against the arm of his chair. “As for his broader connections, I cannot speak with certainty. The details of his associations were matters we did not discuss. I am unaware of the full extent or nature of his interactions beyond those I have mentioned.”
Baley exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle. It appeared that the man’s secrecy was such that any adversary could act essentially unseen, leaving nothing but absence in their wake. “You mentioned funding. Are you aware of the nature of Dr Drend’s recent projects, or from where his support has come?”
Fastolfe’s posture stiffened, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair. “No, I’m afraid I do not know,” he said, voice even but clipped.
Baley observed him closely. A flicker of tension passed across Fastolfe’s face. Baley said nothing, letting the moment linger without comment. Could he be hiding something? Was Drend involved in some controversial research? Perhaps Fastolfe, being his friend, was attempting to cover his tracks…
“And the projects you undertook personally with Dr Drend? Was he involved in the creation of the humanoid robot?”
Fastolfe considered briefly before speaking. “Not in the initial stages. As you know, Sarton oversaw Daneel’s careful assembly. Only several years later did logistical complications arise, structural refinements and enhancements to the neural matrix. Vorian provided assistance in resolving them, at Sarton’s request. The modifications were subtle; a reinforcement of neural pathways rather than a fundamental redesign. By the time you first encountered Daneel, the changes were imperceptible. I myself noticed nothing at the time.”
Baley leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees, eyes fixed on Fastolfe. “You have mentioned Dr Sarton a number of times. Were he and Dr Drend close?”
“Oh yes, quite. Though I fear you will not have the opportunity to question him regarding this matter.”
“So did Dr Sarton consider Dr Drend a friend, even though he was an Earthman?”
Fastolfe’s lips curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Most assuredly. As do I, for that matter. But Sarton, in particular, placed profound trust in Vorian. He was a mild-mannered and kind man, devoted to fostering cooperation between Earth and the Spacer worlds, and he regarded the humaniform robot as a bridge between the two. His friendship with Vorian may have given him a somewhat idealized view of how Earthmen perceive Spacers, and, indeed, robots. Yet he trusted Vorian to the extent that he entrusted his own nephew, an aspiring roboticist, to Vorian’s guidance and instruction for a number of years.”
Fastolfe’s hands moved slightly, one brushing against the armrest, then folding again in repose. “Understand that despite his numerous eccentricities, Vorian Drend possessed a rare charisma; he could persuade almost anyone of almost anything. In the early years of our collaboration, his influence led me to assume care for my firstborn daughter - a notable departure from standard Auroran custom. He himself regarded the experience of childrearing as enlightening, providing insight into cerebral development and modelling. Naturally, I was curious to examine the results for myself.”
“So, I am to understand that Dr Drend raised his own granddaughter himself?”
“Indeed. As he did with his own daughter. Though the two have diverged in recent years and, as far as I am aware, have ceased maintaining contact.”
Baley’s brow creased. “Were the two in conflict, then?”
“No, nothing of the sort. Liora is not like Mira, nor is she like Vorian himself. She takes pride in being a good, normal Spacer, and does not desire to distinguish herself from her peers by maintaining familial bonds with genetic relatives in the manner customary on Earth.”
He paused, his gaze drifting briefly to the window. “To her, such attachments are superfluous, even inconvenient. The divergence between father and daughter reflects only their differing inclinations, not any personal discord.”
“And Mira is the name of Dr Drend’s granddaughter, is that correct? What sort of relationship does he maintain with her?”
“I am not privy to the finer details; you would need to ask her yourself. Mira, despite her youth, is clearly on the path to becoming as skilled a roboticist as her grandfather. In that, he instructed her well. In other matters… well, Vorian confided things to me, though I cannot determine their relevance to this investigation.”
“I shall judge for myself what is relevant, if it's all the same to you.”
The faintest trace of a smile softened Fastolfe’s expression. “As you wish. I merely wish to offer what insight I can without overstepping.”
He took a deep breath, then went on. “Vorian and his granddaughter are indeed close. But the girl exhibits certain difficulties in forming bonds outside of that relationship. Although she has reached maturity, she shows little inclination toward independence, toward establishing connections of her own. In truth, she may have problems stemming from the fact that she was… conceived without permit, outside the bounds of marriage.”
Baley raised an eyebrow. “So she is illegitimate? On Earth, that’s hardly a matter of scandal. Children born under such circumstances rarely suffer permanent consequences.”
Fastolfe's expression was grave. “I am aware. But on Aurora, and indeed across Spacer worlds, reproduction is strictly monitored to prevent overpopulation. The societal controls are strict, and the taboo against unsanctioned conception is severe. Her mother denied any parental responsibility. Vorian chose to raise her himself, rather than consign her to a developmental facility. The outcome was, I fear, unavoidable.”
Baley considered the words. “So her difficulties are… a product of circumstance, not neglect.”
“Precisely,” Fastolfe said. “She has, over time, developed a measure of codependency with her grandfather. It is, in part, a consequence of her upbringing. More critically, and what Vorian disclosed to me directly, is that she has formed… rather unique relationships with his own robots. I fear these are in part the result of Vorian’s frequent absences; the bonds she forms with the machines may have grown in response to the gaps left by his presence.”
“His robots? In what sense?”
“To her they are not merely tools or servants; they are confidants, companions, extensions of her personal sphere. In effect, these bonds shape her perceptions far more than most would anticipate.”
Baley’s gaze drifted toward Daneel, still motionless in his recessed niche, and then to Jander, his twin, equally patient in the opposite corner. The quiet efficiency of their presence struck him anew. He supposed it was considered abnormal to form an emotional attachment to robots, who were no more capable of reciprocating such feelings than any inert instrument. Yet, a flicker of shame stirred within him as he realized how much he himself considered Daneel a friend and companion, perhaps the truest companion he had ever known. The thought made him uneasy; the line between utility and sentiment had long since blurred, and he could not deny that Daneel’s steady calm had become a quiet anchor in the turbulence of his own thoughts.
He frowned, pondering aloud, “I don’t suppose her robots are the humanoid sort.”
“I doubt it. As far as I know, Daneel and Jander are the only humanoid robots in existence. But I cannot say in full certainty, as I have not observed the others directly.”
Baley let the words hang, and for a moment the room felt unusually large, the weight of human and mechanical presence pressing differently against him. His mind turned, inexorably, to the granddaughter, Mira Drend. He thought of her upbringing, the bonds she had formed with machines in lieu of peers. There may be a complexity there that he would need to unravel.
“I will want to question her as well,” he said.
“You will first need to locate her. That, in itself, is no small task.”
“Surely you know where she resides?”
“Only that she lives on Tithonus I, one of Aurora’s two satellites, and the only inhabited one. But a celestial body is a vast surface to cover without further clue.”
Baley leaned back slightly, the edge of fatigue creeping in at the thought. He let the silence linger, measuring the enormity of the task before him. Nothing about this case, he realized with a rising weight of inevitability, would be simple. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining the girl he would soon confront, and the labyrinthine path of secrets that lay ahead. Even the presence of Daneel, ever watchful, could not simplify what was already tangled beyond easy comprehension.
Outside, Aurora’s sun continued its unyielding blaze. Baley opened his eyes, resolved, and settled into the knowledge that the search had only just begun.

Chapter 5: Triangulating the Signal

The airfoil bore them swiftly back across the quiet expanse of Aurora, its motion so smooth that Baley barely felt the ground recede beneath them. The glassy canopy revealed a strange tranquillity, and a horizon unobscured by domes or steel. When they arrived at the establishment loaned to them near the police station, Baley stepped out with a trace of weariness, glad at least for the promise of privacy, however brief.
Daneel closed the door behind them and his composed face turned toward Baley.“What is our next course of action, Partner Elijah?”
Baley removed his jacket, hung it over the back of the chair, and sat heavily at the small table that passed for a desk. He rubbed his temple, as though the lines of thought needed physical kneading to stay in order. “We need to locate Mira Drend,” he said. “There’s no sense pretending otherwise. If Vorian Drend has gone missing, and if the girl’s as bound to him as Fastolfe claims, she’s central to this. We’ll start there.”
“Auroran records should provide a basis for search.”
“Yes, but I’d lose days trying to decipher their systems, and time is the one thing we haven’t got. As much as it pains me to say, we’d better go to Damiro. They’ve already questioned Mira once. With luck, that means we don’t have to begin from scratch.”
He leaned back in the chair, letting the thought settle. “If Damiro has anything, it’ll at least save us a hunt across half of Tithonus I.”
Daneel’s gaze did not waver. “You place much confidence in Officer Damiro’s cooperation.”
“I don’t,” Baley said flatly. “But I’ll take what I can get.”
Baley stepped into the trimensional chamber, and gestured for Daneel to make the connection. A moment later, the air shimmered, and the head and shoulders of Officer Damiro resolved from emptiness, rendered in light.
“Detective,” Damiro said with a courteous inclination, though there was a faint tightness at the corners of his mouth. “I trust your inquiries proceed well enough? Is there anything you require?”
“As a matter of fact,” Baley said, keeping his tone even. “I would like to speak with Mira Drend. I understand your office has managed to… locate her.”
“Locate,” Damiro repeated. “That is too generous a word. We initiated a brief trimensional contact, nothing more. The young woman was… shall we say… reluctant to engage.”
“I see,” Baley said. “Still, I would much prefer to meet her in person. If that can be arranged, of course.”
Damiro’s image held steady in the pale shimmer of the projector. “I cannot assist you further than to provide the current contact cipher. Securing even that much proved… arduous. The sequence was layered under Vorian Drend’s usual encryptions, and it required the combined effort of a dozen roboticists before one produced the proper key.”
Baley’s brows lifted. “Cipher? You mean to say Drend’s cipher still circulates every month, even after his disappearance?”
“Just so,” Damiro said.
“Then his granddaughter must be generating them in his absence,” Baley pressed.
“If so, she has imitated him with remarkable fidelity. Enough that none of his closest colleagues, men who had exchanged these sequences with him for decades, perceived the difference.”
Baley leaned back slightly, troubled. “Remarkable indeed.” He paused for a moment. “Could it not suggest, at the very least, that Dr Drend himself may still be alive, and continues to compose these ciphers?”
“It’s possible that he does, or did, until recently. Yet if so, his movements may be restricted, his freedom curtailed in some fashion. Beyond that, it is impossible to know with certainty.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, Officer. One last matter, purely curiosity on my part. Who was it that solved the cipher?”
Damiro’s mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. “Why, Dr Fastolfe, of course. Who else?”
Baley murmured his thanks again, preparing to sever the connection, but Damiro raised a hand. “Before you do, be advised. A small short-range vessel has been placed at your disposal. Should you, by some extraordinary means, discover Miss Drend’s location upon Tithonus I, you may make use of it to pay her a personal visit. I cannot see how such an expedition could possibly advance your inquiry, but the option is there.”
“That may be your judgment, Officer Damiro. But this is how I work such cases - by using every sense available, and by gathering every fragment of information that may be found. Only thus can the pattern emerge.”
“Very well, Plainclothesman. Do as you see fit.” He reached to one side, his hand briefly out of view, and a string of digits shimmered into being beside his bust - the solved cipher. “This is the current number to Mira Drend’s trimensional apparatus. But mark this carefully: the due date of this code is near. It will expire within a day. If no subsequent cipher is issued, there will be no further means of contact. Best of luck to you, gentlemen.”
The image wavered once and dissolved into emptiness.
Baley sat back, exhaling through his teeth. “A deadline. That was all we were missing.” He rubbed at his forehead, then turned to Daneel. “You have that number committed to memory, I presume?”
“Naturally, Partner Elijah. I will not forget it. Shall I compose it upon the device at once?”
“Not yet, Daneel,” Baley muttered, pressing his palms flat against his knees. “Before we do anything, there is a point I must settle with you.”
Daneel made no motion to interrupt; his head inclined, waiting.
Baley continued. “Damiro supplied the number well enough, but he did not give us an address. In your opinion, is that truly because they did not know it, or because they withheld it intentionally?”
“Officer Damiro stated that he did not possess the location. Whether that stems from ignorance or from an unwillingness to press further for political reasons I cannot determine remotely.”
Baley let the silence do the work of thought. “For our purposes, it may be an academic distinction. Either way, we have no recorded coordinates and…” he checked his watch, though the numbers there, meant for Earth, meant less than nothing on Aurora, “the cipher expires within a day. If no fresh code arrives, the direct trimensional channel will vanish forever.”
“The urgency is therefore clear.”
“Additionally, we have no reason to believe that Mira Drend will cooperate. If she has already been interviewed by your police,” he said, pausing, “she may be disinclined to grant us further audience.” He steadied himself and asked, “Tell me plainly: is there any practicable method of tracing the origin of a trimensional transmission? Can we determine from where the projection issues - the source of the signal, so to speak?”
“A fair and practical question,” Daneel answered. “The trimensional number functions as an address routed through local communication nodes. If one has control of those nodes’ logs, one can determine the terminal that last registered the session. In short: yes, the receiver’s location can be identified, but only with access to Auroran network records or by observing the physical emission at its origin.”
“Which means? Can you do it from here, from this establishment?”
“In the absence of cooperation from local authorities, remote identification is limited. Direct physical observation requires proximity: an active call produces a measurable energy pattern which can be detected and triangulated by receivers in orbit or on the surface. Alternatively, a node log search on Tithonus I would yield the terminal coordinates immediately, but that requires permission to query those systems.”
Baley let the information settle. “Which leaves two options: ask Damiro to produce logs, and perhaps press for cooperation, or make the call ourselves and hope she answers and so betrays her location by the energy signature. The first is diplomatic; the second is brute force and rather risky.”
“Both carry consequences. The call may alarm her and close further contact. The log request may be refused or delayed. Operational prudence suggests attempting polite cooperation first, while preparing for a physical scan should permission be withheld,” Daneel said judiciously.
“You may be right, yet the temporal constraint cannot be ignored. So I say, to hell with prudence! We cannot permit the possibility of losing the channel.”
Daneel nodded once. “Of course your reasoning is valid, Partner Elijah. The potential loss of contact does outweigh procedural courtesy. I will be prepared to begin when you give the command. If the terminal answers, I shall lock the energy signature and produce a coordinate solution to the greatest precision available to my sensors.”
“Very good. You prepare the apparatus. When I place the call, you listen, lock, and feed me the coordinates. Quietly, without putting the Auroran net on alert. Understood?”
“Understood,” Daneel replied.
Baley keyed the number into the device and waited, muscles taut. The ambient controls maintained a comfortable temperature, yet he felt nonetheless a bead of sweat trace his spine. Time measured itself in slow increments, each one stretching longer than the last.
At last, the projection coalesced before him. It was a sleek robot with a domed head, its posture upright, every line of its simple form exact and functional. Baley confirmed that he was not, in fact, humaniform as Daneel or Jander.
“Identify yourself,” the robot said, his tone carrying a sharp, clipped edge. Its cadence had the unmistakable hint of impatience layered beneath. For a moment, Baley wondered if he was merely attributing emotion to an inanimate form, a tendency humans struggled to suppress, but no; he could detect a genuine form of restlessness, something he had never before heard in a robot’s voice - not even Daneel. “You will pardon my inquiry, but it is a matter of professional courtesy to establish the nature of the contact at the outset. Dr Vorian Drend is presently absent. If your purpose is merely to leave a message, state it now, clearly and succinctly. My time is allocated and finite.”
Baley hesitated, a faint frown creasing his brow. “I am Plainclothesman Elijah Baley,” he began carefully. “I wish to speak to your mistress, Mira Drend.”
The robot’s posture remained unchanged, but his head shifted almost imperceptibly. “State your true purpose, Plainclothesman. Any communication with Miss Mira must be relevant and justified.”
Baley’s lips pressed into a thin line. He realized that the robot was not merely cautious but actively resistant to unsanctioned conversation. He wondered if this strict adherence to protocol was the result of intricate Second Law directives embedded by Dr Drend, orders that might compel the robot to protect his granddaughter’s privacy above all else, even at the cost of conversational courtesy.
“I am investigating the circumstances surrounding her grandfather’s disappearance,” Baley said. “It is imperative that I speak with her directly, in person if that is possible.”
The robot seemed to deliberate for an instant, then the voice, sharp as before, returned. “Miss Mira has already provided all information in her possession to the Auroran authorities. All pertinent knowledge is on record. Further contact is extraneous and disruptive of her activities.”
Baley allowed a brief exhalation, though he knew it was audible only to himself. This is the least serviceable robot I have ever encountered, he thought, borderline rude… though perhaps that is intentional. Still, he did not allow discouragement to break his determination. Daneel, he reminded himself, was working to trace the source of the signal. He needed this exchange to continue until his partner had accomplished that task.
“Even so,” Baley said aloud, forcing calm into his voice, “it is necessary I attempt direct contact. I am prepared to receive only a brief audience, if Miss Drend is willing.”
“Prepared. Brief. Willing. You use a lot of words, Plainclothesman. Each term is conditional. Time allocation must be quantified and your intention must be demonstrably relevant.”
Baley pinched the bridge of his nose. “The criteria, boy, is simple. I must assess her state of mind directly, and verify that she possesses the knowledge I believe her to have. You may assume the information already given to the Auroran authorities is complete, but I require first-hand confirmation. That is the intention.”
Another pause. Baley could have sworn the robot was mocking him with a snide smirk (though objectively his face remained as expressionless as before) and was indulging him only to see how far the exchange would go. “Understood in principle. However, compliance is contingent upon location identification, availability confirmation, and risk assessment. Any deviation from protocol is unacceptable and all measures will be observed.”
Baley leaned forward slightly, trying to convey patience and determination in equal measure. “I do not require a full assessment at this moment. For now, I merely wish to establish her receptivity. Can she be reached? That is all I need to know.”
“If I am to be completely transparent with you, the probability of voluntary engagement is below twenty-five percent.”
Baley blinked. That was precise, but not particularly encouraging. He forced himself to keep the tone measured. “Probability or refusal, I understand. Yet I must attempt. Inform her that a direct request will be made, and that no imposition beyond the minimal is intended. Will you do this, boy?”
The robot paused, the faintest modulation in his voice conveying something unexpected: indignation. “The use of that term to refer to me is offensive. Diminutive, even. I have a designation: Corvin. I expect it to be used!”
Baley froze slightly, taken aback by the apparent emotional outburst. Emotion? In a robot? He blinked, then refocused. “Very well. Corvin. I apologize. Will you relay the message to your mistress?”
Corvin’s tone returned to its measured rhythm, though a subtle edge lingered, as if the robot were still asserting dignity. “Fine. The message will be conveyed under the stated conditions. Engagement probability remains unchanged, though all standard protocols will be observed, as usual.”
Baley’s eyes flicked toward Daneel, subtle but insistent. The question was unspoken, carried entirely in the glance: Have you acquired the signal yet? Daneel’s head shook in response, a single quick motion.
Baley pressed his lips together, then returned his attention to Corvin’s projection. He forced a calm tone, though his mind raced. “Before you go, Corvin, there is… another point I need to clarify. It may take only a moment.”
“What now,” the robot asked impatiently.
“I require confirmation that a secondary log of this transmission exists. Should anything fail, we must preserve a record.”
A pause. Corvin’s eyes pivoted toward him, and his cadence sharpened just enough to betray the faintest irritation. “Sir… are you intentionally delaying me?”
Baley did not answer. He was caught red-handed. Without another word, the robot rose from his chair, which toppled backward with a muted clatter against the floor. His posture now was taut, upright. “A-Are you attempting to triangulate the signal?!”
He met the other’s gaze, expression unflinching, but Corvin needed no answer. With a controlled sweep of his arm, the projection of his form shimmered and disappeared.
Baley sank back into the chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling a long, weary breath. “So… all that, and for what? Tell me Daneel, our efforts… have they been for nothing?”
“Not for nothing, Partner Elijah. I would have required several more minutes to establish a precise coordinate, but I have determined a general area. The radius is approximately ten kilometres.”
“Ten kilometres… that’s far from exact, but it will suffice. Enough to narrow our search without making it impossible.” He leaned forward, hands pressed together. “The girl is not a spectre, after all. Someone in that region will have seen her, or at least heard of her. People might be willing to guide us. That should be enough for the moment.”
“Proceeding with caution and discretion is advised. The Auroran authorities remain unaware of our triangulation.”
Baley nodded, a spark of relief threading through his fatigue. “Of course. Discretion first. But at last, we have something concrete. Let’s prepare to move immediately. There’s no more time to waste.”

Chapter 6: The Satellite

As promised, Damiro had left them a vessel within the establishment’s private grounds. Baley followed Daneel across the dimly lit concourse until the machine loomed into view. It was smaller than he had imagined, hardly more than a shuttle, compact in design, its hull smoothed to a dull silver sheen. The cockpit allowed space for three, perhaps four, with the barest suggestion of comfort: contoured seats, a narrow console bristling with unfamiliar indicators, and no evidence of any crew. For this journey, they would be alone.
Daneel slid easily into the pilot’s position, his movements precise, as though he had rehearsed them endlessly. Baley hesitated before lowering himself into the adjacent seat. The metal was cold even through his tunic. He could not suppress the thought: he was sitting in a spaceship, with nothing but thin plating and uncountable void separating him from death.
The cabin lights dimmed as Daneel initiated the sequence. Baley felt his throat tighten, his chest constrict. The vessel trembled faintly under them, and through the broad viewport he could see the port gates unfold like jaws. Beyond lay the abyss, vast and merciless.
On Earth, he had sometimes ridden in ground or air cars, driven by cabbies, but more usually he had surrendered to the tramlines that burrowed through the City, enclosed and predictable. There had been walls, ceilings, crowds. Always something between him and the endless. Here there was nothing. The glass (no, not glass, some Spacer alloy) was all that stood between his eyes and infinity.
As the engines surged, pressure rose against his ribs, a steady weight that seemed to press from without and within at once. His hands clutched the armrests until the bones ached. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes, but the viewport was directly before him, an inescapable frame to the immensity outside.
Stars blazed, cold and innumerable. The vastness of space made him feel dizzy and ill. Daneel, seated beside him with hands poised on the controls, turned his head fractionally, as though registering Baley for the first time since liftoff. “Partner Elijah,” he said, his voice even, “you appear unwell. I can obscure the window, if it would make you feel more comfortable.”
Baley snapped his gaze from the abyss beyond the viewport. “I am fine, damn it.” His knuckles whitened on the armrest, but his tone held steady. “Sooner or later, I have to face it. I will not have a repeat of my… embarrassment in Solaria.”
The words hung between them for a breath, then Baley straightened his posture, brushing his sleeve across his chest as though the motion itself could ease the tightness there.
“But never mind that,” he said. “Tell me, Daneel… did that robot seem unusual to you?”
“Which robot do you refer to, Elijah?”
“This… Corvin,” Baley said, his mouth tightening on the name. “Vorian Drend’s little creation.”
“It is difficult to form an adequate judgement on so limited an exchange,” Daneel replied. “Yet from what I observed, his responses conformed to expectation. Nothing in his manner suggested deviation.”
Baley exhaled, short and sharp. “Call it instinct, then. A hunch. For all his polished speech, I had the impression he was… operating apart from the Laws, acting more in accordance with his own will.”
Daneel’s brows lifted faintly, almost in surprise. “That would be a contradiction in terms. A positronic brain cannot but operate under the Three Laws of Robotics. They are not a program to be set aside at whim, but the very structure of the brain itself. Every line of reasoning, every decision-tree, every action is conditioned by them. To speak of a positronic robot acting in disregard of the Laws is equivalent to speaking of a human body functioning without oxygen.”
“Perhaps. Still… something in the tone, in the way he pressed me. I felt less the compulsion of a robot obeying a chain of Second Law imperatives, and more the edge of a personality, a mind asserting itself.”
“What precisely gave you that impression?” Daneel asked.
Baley shook his head. “Like I said, a feeling. Nothing I can put into words.”
Daneel regarded him steadily, though without evident judgement. “Partner Elijah, you are basing your conclusion on what you call a feeling. May I remind you that instinctive impressions, however compelling to the human mind, lack the rigour of logic or the security of empirical validation. To rely upon them is to risk grave error.”
Baley grunted, eyes fixed ahead through the narrow viewport. “I know the difference between proof and suspicion, Daneel. I’m not mistaking one for the other.”
The robot said nothing more, seemingly accepting the statement without concession.
And Baley too fell silent after that, though his thoughts pressed inward. Daneel could not understand, no robot could, that more than once, cases had turned on nothing more than a hunch. It was not rational, not demonstrable, but it was real. And in his case, it had proved right often enough that he could not dismiss it.
The vessel angled on its course, and the moon swung slowly into view, framed in the cockpit window. The same orange sun that warmed Aurora now bathed its surface in a softer radiance, lending the soil a copper-tinged hue. Unlike Aurora, there were no great oceans to break the expanse of land, no glittering seas catching the light, only stretches of rugged terrain and scattered brush, vegetation sparse and stunted, more bush than tree.
Baley searched the surface, but at this distance detail blurred. No spires, no towers, no glittering networks of cities as he might have expected from a Spacer world. Instead, he glimpsed scattered structures, broad in footprint but widely separated, with generous tracts of empty land between them. The pattern told him much: habitation was sparse, sparser even than Aurora, whose citizens insisted on the luxury of solitude. Here, it seemed, the same impulse existed, but in a manner slightly less adorned by wealth. From afar it carried the look of a place less advanced, at least in trappings, though still incomparably more spacious and luxuriant than anything Earth could claim.
The vessel descended in a controlled arc, settling with scarcely a vibration onto the firmed landing pad. Daneel adjusted the instruments, then announced in his calm tone, “This position corresponds to the centre of the traced radius. If Miss Drend is within range, her dwelling will be accessible from here.”
Baley looked through the cockpit window as the hatch released with a hiss. The surroundings unfolded. To one side stretched low, broad structures of gleaming composite. Personal establishments, he suspected. Intermixed were taller, more functional buildings whose entrances opened directly to service ways, the movement within carried out almost entirely by robots. These were likely the centres of trade: provision, maintenance, distribution.
Further to the right, the land fell away into an expanse of unbroken plain. No greenery softened the view. Instead the ground stretched bronze and bare, sand rippling in the breeze. It was uninhabited, unused. Spacer distaste for wilderness had left it to emptiness.
Baley lingered at the threshold, staring out at the open expanse. His hand tightened against the frame of the hatch. “So,” he said at last, trying to keep his voice even, “do you suppose this Mira will be difficult? Bashful, perhaps, or curiously impersonal?”
Daneel, still at the controls, turned his calm gaze toward him. “Human responses to inquiry vary, Partner Elijah, but in this case her disposition is uncertain. If she has chosen to limit her contact to intermediaries, it may indicate reluctance to engage directly. Alternatively, she may reserve her trust only for those she considers familiar.”
Baley gave a dry snort. “Familiar… meaning robots?” He glanced at Daneel sidelong. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Aurorans preferring the company of robots to their own kind?”
Daneel hesitated, a fractional delay that Baley caught at once. “Such inclinations are most frequently observed on Solaria, where human interaction itself is minimized. However, as you are aware, Solarians do not regard robots as equals; rather, they are treated as instruments, extensions of the household or workplace, valued for function rather than companionship. On Aurora, it is much the same. Yet attachment of a lesser degree is conceivable. Roboticists in particular may form bonds with their constructions, as Dr Fastolfe has with myself and with the other creations of his design. It is not unheard of.”
Baley noticed, though Daneel’s tone was as carefully modulated as ever, that there was something almost like concern in the robot’s expression, an attentiveness to the way he still hesitated at the open hatch. Daneel’s awareness of his discomfort was inescapable, guided by the First Law.
Baley coughed, shifting uneasily. He would not be coddled by a robot. He was a grown man, damn it. With a sharp motion, he pushed past his hesitation and opened the hatch, stepping into the Outside.
The air struck him at once. Warmer than Aurora, carrying with it a faint mineral tang. Sparse figures moved about, some in pairs and others alone, traversing the wide, open spaces between the buildings. Their pace was unhurried, their isolation emphasized by the immensity of the gaps around them.
Baley’s eyes flicked across the scene, then back to Daneel. “We’ll have to ask around,” he said, keeping his voice firm to conceal the unease still pressing at the edges of his nerves. “Without Miss Drend’s coordinates, it’s our best chance. People, robots, both, it makes no difference. Someone here is bound to know something.” His brow furrowed. “Though I can’t see why Dr Drend and his kin would go to such lengths. Why be so secretive unless they have something to hide?”
Daneel regarded him steadily. “It is not unusual for Spacers to make themselves difficult to find. Privacy is held in high esteem on Aurora. Though, I admit, not usually to this degree.”
Baley thought, not without irritation, that this was the crux of it: he was not a Spacer. Yet again, the distinction had slipped the other’s notice. He did not bother to voice it. Instead, he set his shoulders and moved forward across the copper-tinged sand, Daneel a quiet presence at his side.
They approached a pair who had just emerged from the trading house: a man and a woman, walking together at an unhurried pace. Neither bore the tall, languid frame that Baley now associated with Aurorans such as Daneel. Both were shorter than he, the man narrow-shouldered, the woman slight and brisk in her steps.
Baley raised a hand in greeting. “Good day,” he said evenly.
They stopped short. The man stared, eyes widening. “You!” he burst out. “You’re that Earthman! The one assigned to the Drend case, aren’t you?”
At once the woman recoiled, drawing back as if the sight of him carried contagion. Her lips curled in something between disgust and fear.
Baley kept his expression level. “Yes. I am Elijah Baley of Earth,” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking, how is it you’ve heard of my presence?”
The man’s eyes darted toward Daneel, then back to Baley. “It was on the hypervision news, of course. Your arrival was covered by the press. Everyone saw it.”
Baley’s frown deepened. He had seen no cameras at the spaceport, no journalists. He kept the thought to himself. Instead, he pressed forward, voice steady but insistent. “Be assured, I have undergone complete decontamination aboard the ship. You need have no fear on that account.”
He paused just long enough to let the words settle, then asked, “Tell me, if it is no inconvenience, where might I find Vorian Drend’s workshop?”
The man shifted uneasily. “Forgive me for asking, but… why would you need to know that? You won’t find him there.”
“I know,” Baley said. “But I was hoping to question his granddaughter, Mira.”
The couple looked at one another, silent exchange betraying unease. There was something withheld, heavy in the air. Baley caught it at once.
The woman spoke first, words sharp. “You surely don’t need to do that. I don’t know what sort of… twisted information you’d wring from the likes of her.”
“Has she done something to warrant such dislike?”
The man interjected quickly, almost apologetic. “It’s not exactly that. She is skilled… one of the best mechanics, in truth. Reliable enough if you want a personal robot or household device serviced or upgraded. But…” He faltered.
“Well, out with it,” Baley snapped.
Instead, silence. The two stiffened, eyes wary. Finally, the man said, too smoothly, “In any case, we could not tell you where the workshop is. We do not know.”
The man gave a stiff bow, the woman already tugging at his sleeve. “Excuse me. We must be on our way,” he said quickly. “Good day to you, sir. And… farewell.”
They left without another glance, their pace brisk, almost furtive.
Baley turned to Daneel, eyes wide. “Did you see that? They acted as if I’d asked the location of some outlaw’s den.”
Daneel nodded. “Their evasiveness was unmistakable, Partner Elijah. I surmise they possess knowledge they were unwilling to share.”
Asking among several more passersby yielded no better result; each reply was hedged, evasive, or brusquely ended. It was as though Mira Drend’s very name carried a charge of discomfort. Baley felt the weight of futility settling in, and he was on the point of abandoning the attempt when a sharp voice called out across the square.
“Lucen? Lucen Sarton?”
Both men turned. An older woman, bronze-skinned and tall, was approaching with the wariness of someone half-expecting to be mistaken. Her sharp eyes fixed not on Baley but squarely on Daneel.
Out of earshot, Baley muttered, “Wait, Daneel. Don’t deny it right away. Let us gauge the situation.”
Daneel turned his head. “Do you order me to lie to her, Partner Elijah?”
“Not necessarily outright,” Baley whispered back. “Just follow my lead.”
The woman closed the distance with surprising briskness, her expression breaking into a warm smile. “My, it is you! Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask for that fool girl’s hand again? Pah!” She clucked her tongue. “Give it up already. A handsome, intelligent young man like you could do so much better. You’ll never pry that Drend girl from her workshop, never mind from those ghastly robots she’s so fond of.”
Baley gave Daneel the faintest gesture forward. Daneel hesitated, his silence lengthening just enough for Baley to fear he would refuse, but at last he said evenly, “Nevertheless, I must try.”
The woman laughed, short and derisive. “Try all you like. You’ve been trying for years. You know she’ll choose a circuit board over a warm heart any day. I’d advise you to forget about her and reconsider my proposition. You do recall what I offered last time, do you not?”
Baley cleared his throat, interjecting with more formality than he felt. “My apologies. My good friend Lucen seems to have forgotten the way to the workshop. Might you or anyone be so kind as to guide us?”
It was then that the woman turned her attention on him, as though perceiving his presence for the first time. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And who,” she asked Daneel with pointed curiosity, “is your companion?”
A jolt of unease went through Baley. He realized too late that his instructions to Daneel had been vague, fatally so. Robots did not lie unless compelled by explicit order, and he had not furnished one. What if Daneel answered with the simple, dangerous truth? Then he would let the one lead that have been able to grasp slip between his fingers.
But Daneel, after a pause too brief for the woman to mark, bowed his head smoothly. “This is an associate of mine,” he said with careful neutrality. “His name is of no importance. What is of importance is that we must meet Miss Drend without delay.”
Baley felt a flicker of surprise. He had underestimated Daneel once again. The robot had not resorted to direct subterfuge, but had bent the truth into something ambiguous enough to serve. He showed himself to be more subtle and adaptable than Baley was comfortable admitting, almost too human. The woman gave him a long look, then seemed to relax, though her tone remained dry. “Very well, keep your secrets. It’s no affair of mine.” She glanced over her shoulder and gestured vaguely toward the lane. “You’re in luck, though. Jerron Kalve was on his way to collect his household robot from her. Fool thing walked into a mining servitor and had half its casing stove in. He can guide you there.”
Just as she spoke, her gaze caught an elegant-looking man passing by, moving with measured steps to his airfoil. “Ah, there he is,” she said, nodding toward him. “That is he. He may take you to Dr Drend’s workshop, since he is heading there any way. Would you be so kind as to lead these gentlemen, Jerron?”
The man paused, eyes assessing, then nodded stiffly. “Very well, follow me,” he said. Without further comment, he fell into step ahead of them, and Baley and Daneel followed, keeping a careful distance.

Chapter 7: Mira I

Mira held the flame-tipped solderer just long enough to smooth the final arc weld along the robot’s forearm. Sparks hissed against the metal as the joint sealed, and she exhaled sharply. This one, Jerron Kalve’s household unit, had been worse than she’d first assumed: half its left shoulder actuator was scorched beyond repair, the internal power conduit partially fused, and several sub-routine processors had taken heat damage that required delicate rewiring. The clock was ticking; he would be here within minutes.
She snapped the chassis closed and leaned closer, her tone unusually gentle. “Rise and shine, R. Soong. Let’s see what you’ve got today.”
The robot’s optics flickered to life. “Am I operable once again, Miss Drend?”
“Yes, but only just,” Mira replied, tapping the metal surface. “We’re running short on time. Follow my instructions, if you would. Please and thank you.”
“Understood. I await your commands.”
“Lift your right arm,” Mira instructed. “Rotate the wrist. Flex the fingers.” Its movements were stilted at first, then smooth, obedient.
From the corner, Corvin’s clipped voice cut across the hum of the workshop. “Harlan, your soldering on the elbow joint was poorly executed. The microresistors were misaligned by 0.07 millimetres. That is unacceptable. You truly are less exacting than even your own capacity allows.”
Harlan’s slump deepened, his voice almost a groan. “I know. I know. I can’t do anything right. Every time I touch a circuit, I ruin it. I’ll never be able to…”
“Not never,” Corvin interrupted, tone sharp. “You will fail again if you repeat the same mistake. Logic dictates learning from each iteration.”
“I am learning!” Harlan wailed, gesturing at the panel of wires in front of him. “But it’s hopeless! My hands are cursed! Even the simplest joint recalibration - doomed! Doomed!”
Mira pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to focus on the final connection inside the chest cavity. “Corvin, please stop insisting on publicly quantifying Harlan’s incompetence. You know how dramatically he reacts to ridicule. Honestly, I am tempted to have you both take a turn on the bench for recalibrations of your own. And Harlan, stop wailing, and hand me the diagnostic wand.”
Corvin’s tone softened a touch, though his words were still measured. “It is not ridicule, Miss Mira. It is the observation of an error pattern. Repetition without correction leads to structural compromise in any mechanical entity. Statement of fact.”
Harlan flopped onto the nearby stool, muttering. “Observation, observation… you’re just pointing out I’m hopeless. Well you can spare me the words. I know I’m hopeless.”
Mira gave him a sidelong glance. “Enough with the histrionics already. Jerron will have my head if I hand him back R. Soong looking like this.” She adjusted the flame tool once more, then paused as Selene’s off-key hum floated in from somewhere beyond the cluttered workbenches.
“Ah yes, nothing to sharpen my focus like one of Selene’s ear-splitting melodies,” Mira muttered.
R. Soong tilted his head. “Miss Drend, would you like me to test any additional functions at this time?”
Mira barely looked up, her mind still running through the sequence of repairs. “Not now, R. Soong. Just… keep yourself operational a little longer, will you?”
Corvin, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to Harlan. “Precision is a habit, Harlan. If you cannot cultivate it, the results will always lag behind expectation. Are you incapable of habit formation?”
“I am apparently incapable of everything!” Harlan groaned, looking mournfully at a twisted panel he’d meant to fix.
Mira’s gaze flicked to the doorway. Venn was not present, though she assumed he was out on a perimeter sweep, checking for any interruptions that might derail her carefully timed work. She didn’t dwell on it; too many moving parts to track.
The distant whine of an airfoil cut through the workshop’s hubbub. Mira held up a hand. “Quiet, all of you. Quiet! Selene, pipe down.” Her voice had the sharpness of command and by virtue of the Second Law, the chatter swiftly dwindled.
She cupped an ear, listening. The vehicle settled; a hatch clanged shut, metallic and too loud. “Venn! VENN!” she called.
The larger robot filled the doorway two heartbeats later. Mira fixed him with a look. “Tell me at once, is it Jerron? Or more of the constabulary come to rattle my cage?”
Venn hesitated, quiet. He favoured no flourish in speech. “Mr Kalve is present, yes, but he is accompanied by two additional males.”
Mira’s patience thinned; she tapped the heel of her hand on the bench. “Who are they? Is one of them the Earthman?”
“I cannot identify the Earthman by visage without prior record. Corvin observed him trimensionally but I did not. One of the two males appears to be Lucen Sarton, or at least bears a resemblance to him.”
For an instant Mira thought she’d misheard. She blinked, and something like heat rose behind her temples. “L-Lucen?” She had to steady herself against the workbench. A cascade of possibilities ran through her: comfort, curiosity, the sticky presence of scandal. Why is he back here, after all these years? For half a breath she allowed herself a private, ridiculous hope: perhaps he’d heard of Vorian’s absence and come to offer condolence. She smoothed a hand through her hair, unnecessarily self-conscious. The tips sprang stubbornly back upright under her fingers, leaving only a faint smear of grease through the fine strands.
“Harlan,” she said, though she wasn’t looking at him - wasn’t looking at any of them. “Do I look half presentable?”
Harlan, who was already half-melancholy in repose, brightened slightly. “You look radiant as always, Miss Mira.”
Selene popped into view with a sudden laugh, as though she had been waiting for the perfect moment to intrude. She pointed to her and continued laughing. “Your face is full of oil stains!”
Mira snapped without thinking, grin already in place. “As if you’re any better!” Her fingers found a smear on her cheek and wiped at it forcefully.
Something conspiratorial traversed her. An idea, sharp and small and delicious, tightened in her chest. She turned to the robots with a wicked light in her eyes. “All right,” she said, voice low and bright, “arm yourselves. Bring the blasters and the noise-maker, nothing lethal, mind you. I want dear Lucen to choke on surprise before he even has a chance to speak.”

-

The workshop stood apart from the settlement proper, half-buried in the sandy expanse like a thing left behind and forgotten. The journey out had been too long, the path poorly marked, and Baley doubted he could have found it unaided. The structure itself was crude and functional: low-walled, angles unsoftened, patched in places with plating of mismatched materials.
Jerron Kalve cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mira! Is R. Soong ready? You said today!”
The wind stirred sand across the siding. No answer came.
Jerron climbed the first step, voice sharper. “Mira? Are you there?”
Something stirred at the flank of the structure. A massive robot came forward, shoulders squared like a wall, matte gunmetal etched with strict, linear grooves. Its blaster came up smoothly, unwavering, aimed at Jerron.
“Do not proceed further,” the robot said, voice as level as its weapon.
Jerron stumbled back a pace. “W-What’s the meaning of this?”
Then more movement: three other robots emerged in sequence. One broad-shouldered but slack in bearing, another almost too straight, posture carried with precision, and a third smaller, its plating oddly decorated. Their weapons levelled, not at Jerron this time, but directly at Baley and Daneel.
Baley started, then narrowed his eyes. One of them, he recognized. The one who called himself Corvin. Recognition did not bring relief; the blaster in its hand was still trained on his chest.
Daneel moved at once, one arm sweeping Baley back behind him. The grip was strong, inescapably so, protective in a way that made Baley acutely aware of the other’s strength.
A new voice cut across the standoff, lighter, edged with command. A figure stepped into the doorway at last. “Jerron Kalve, now who in the world have you dragged to my door?”
Baley’s eyes fixed on her. So this was Mira Drend. She was not what he had imagined, though truthfully, he had not known what image to summon in the first place.
She was not tall, though neither was she especially short. Still she was rather waifish, all sharp edges and angles. Her hair, cropped short and golden in colour, sprang upright at the tips as if defying any attempt at order. A pair of welding goggles sat skewed across her brow. Smudges of dust ran in careless streaks along her shoulders, across her collarbones, down the bare strip of her midriff exposed by an impossibly shortened bodice.
The impression was not one of allure or grace but of motion, utility. Baley thought, involuntarily once more, of Gladia Delmarre. The Solarian woman had shared something of this girl’s narrow frame and fair colouring, but where Gladia’s presence had been suffused with a quiet elegance, Mira’s was jagged, restless, entirely without polish. Not precisely unattractive, he thought, but she moved in an orbit where femininity itself seemed like more of an afterthought.
Behind her, another robot followed, this one unarmed, hesitant, almost sheepish, though nothing in its expressionless metal face truly conveyed sheepishness. Baley knew it was his own mind once again pressing familiar gestures onto blank design.
“Why… it’s your friend Lucen, of course,” Jerron stammered, half-defensive.
Her brows rose; she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Unbelievable. You as well?” She turned, giving the towering robot at her side a perfunctory swat to the back of its head. “Venn here insisted on the same. But this gentleman here…” her hand shot out, finger directed at Daneel, “is not Lucen.”
Jerron flushed, scoffing. “Forgive me the error, but surely even you admit the resemblance. I have not seen Lucen in more than ten years. Time alters men. It is no simple thing to predict the face of age.”
Mira folded her arms, stance sharp. “Nor have I seen him in that span, Jerron. And still, I know this man is not he. Curious, is it not, that my memory serves so much more faithfully than yours.” She let the matter fall with a flick of her hand. “Well, no matter. You’ll be pleased to know that R. Soong is repaired.”
At her gesture, the household robot behind her stepped forward, chassis newly sealed, joints fluid. She inclined her head toward him with a tone that was half-dismissal. “Run along now.”
Obediently, the unit crossed the threshold, approaching his owner with smooth deference.
Presently Mira’s gaze settled on Baley, unflinching, a wolfish grin forming on her youthful face. The hunched robot at her side stammered, “M-Miss Mira… might we lower our weapons now?” He hesitated, yellow robotic eyes flickering.
Corvin, standing rigid beside him, snapped, “Cease your whining, Harlan. And hold your blaster properly.”
From another corner came a distinctly feminine voice, playful yet sharp: “Mira! Observe Harlan, how he brandishes his blaster! Foolish! Entirely preposterous!” She burst out laughing at her own observation, a sound so animated and human that Baley felt a sudden jolt of disbelief. How could such mirth issue from the expressionless visage of a non-humanoid robot?
Mira did not avert her eyes from Baley for the slightest second, nor did she stop smiling. At her signal, the robots lowered their weapons, some of them somewhat reluctantly (or so it seemed to him). The female robot was still mocking the one named Harlan. Baley held Mira’s gaze as best he could, feeling a rising heat in his face despite his attempt at composure.
Finally, she spoke, voice low but unmistakably curious: “Let me guess. You are the Earthman named Elijah Baley.”
Baley straightened, meeting her gaze. “Yes, I am he.”
Mira cocked her head, assessing him with sharp, deliberate scrutiny. “So, Elijah Baley… what do you want of me, exactly? I’ve already told the Auroran authorities everything I know.”
“I am here,” Baley said evenly, “as I stated previously through your robot Corvin, in case you were not aware, because I wish to question you directly regarding the disappearance of your grandfather. The Aurorans who contacted you before provided me with nothing of significance and were… uncooperative, to put it mildly.”
Her eyes glittered, and a thin grin stretched across her face. “Oh? Is that so?” she asked. “Wonder why that might be…” The smile widened as she stepped closer, her arms clasped behind her back. Baley felt a shiver travel down his spine; the girl’s approach seemed almost predatory to him, yet her expression remained the same. She was an unpredictable element, that one, and he suspected, with a tightening in his chest, that her apparent surprise at his presence was entirely deliberate. She knew he was coming, and had prepared accordingly. Perhaps she too had seen his arrival on hypervision news?
“I must say… you’ve arrived sooner than I expected,” she murmured, chuckling softly to herself as she halted mere centimetres away. Baley’s muscles tensed, every instinct urging caution. Daneel remained characteristically silent next to him.
Baley shifted slightly as she approached, noting the deliberate closeness with some unease. “Are you not concerned about contagion?” he asked, recalling how every Spacer he had met on Aurora or elsewhere maintained a careful distance for precisely that reason.
Mira’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I have full confidence, Elijah Baley,” she replied, voice measured, “that your person was subjected to thorough sanitization upon your arrival to Aurora. No further precaution seems necessary.”
Baley noted the calm certainty in her answer. No trace of nervous superstition, no wasted fear. Seemingly she was not one to indulge in the illogical. A cerebral type, then? Or simply reckless, and courting death?
She smiled once more. “In any case, I realize I can be difficult to find,” she said, her tone laced with mock innocence. “Actually… I am impressed that a detective who allowed a murderess to go free could manage to locate me at all.”
Baley felt his blood run cold. How could she possibly know about that case? It had been kept strictly confidential, both on Earth and across Spacer worlds. Confirmation he had received personally from the Commissioner himself. Best to play it safe and feign ignorance.
“I’m quite unsure what you mean, Miss Drend,” he said cautiously, “but I would prefer to return to discussing your grandfath—”
“Why, the Solaria case, of course," Mira interrupted, her voice lilting and endlessly amused. "It occurred to me while reading the report that the impossibly squeamish Dr Leebig could not have possibly killed Mr Delmarre with his own hands. The mere prospect of contact with another human, you see, would have sent him into psychosis, as it did later when he believed that your partner would come into his establishment. I am surprised your superiors failed to note that. That Delmarre woman must have done a number on you.”
From another corner, the female robot’s metallic giggle chimed. “Seduced, or asleep at his post? Earth or Aurora, men are ever the same, are they not, Mira?”
Mira’s expression appeared mock solemn. “Sad but true, Selene,” she murmured. “Sad but true.”
Baley cast a nervous glance at Daneel, who remained silent, though his initial hypothesis about Gladia had just been confirmed right here by this… insolent child. Still, it might have been imagination, but Baley sensed a wave of disapproval emanating from the robot. Still, before Daneel could summon any defence of his honour, a feat that would have left him crimson with embarrassment, he asked, “Miss Drend… how, on Earth - or Aurora, or anywhere else - did you gain access to a case so strictly classified?”
Mira’s gaze softened just enough to seem mildly bashful. “The security codes guarding the files,” she said lightly, “are not particularly complex. Child’s play, really.” She licked her lips and fixed him with a wide, calculating smile. “The case interested many hyperwave producers, as it happens. The bidding war alone was quite the spectacle. I shall certainly have sufficient platinum for at least ten decades of robotic endeavours. Say, what actor do you suppose is going to play you? Willem Shaw?”
Elijah had anticipated eccentricity, but not this. For the first time in his long career, he found himself momentarily speechless. No one had ever displayed so little regard for his title or authority, so openly and without any attempt at decorum. Even her robots were unafraid to correct him or comment on his so-called incompetence. He felt a peculiar, almost childish humiliation, as though he were a schoolboy browbeaten into silence. The irony gnawed at him: he was over forty, an experienced detective, yet here he stood, flustered and self-conscious before a girl who appeared scarcely older than a schoolchild herself.
Daneel spoke at last. “I assure you, Miss Drend, that the matter has been subjected to the most thorough review, and no logical flaw has been found in Partner Elijah’s conclusions. Jothan Leebig was established beyond doubt as the perpetrator of the crimes.”
Mira gave a short, amused laugh and turned her attention upon Daneel, which, to Elijah’s own discomfort, brought him a certain relief. “Ah. So you do speak, Lucen,” she said, the name sharpened with sarcasm.
Standing immovable beside Elijah, Daneel regarded her with calm, unblinking eyes. “I regret the necessity of this particular deception in locating you, Miss Drend. Yet attempts at frank inquiry proved fruitless.”
She narrowed her gaze, then leaned forward, studying his features with an intensity that drew her face perilously close to his own. Daneel did not move, though Elijah, in the same position, would have recoiled without hesitation.
“I heard,” she said softly, “that Dr Sarton died two years past. I do not suppose he possessed an identical twin.”
“That is a correct assumption,” said Daneel evenly.
Mira’s smile returned then, though its edge was less mischievous, touched instead with something like approval. “You are sparing with words. The quiet type, then. Or is it simply the Laws that keep your tongue restrained?”
Daneel hesitated, the interval scarcely measurable, yet long enough for Mira’s smile to sharpen with satisfaction. “You do not deny it.”
“I do not,” said Daneel. “I am indeed a robot, nor did I intend concealment. I am designated R. Daneel Olivaw.”
Her amber eyes lit suddenly and abruptly with curiosity. She moved around him in a slow circle, examining him with interest. “Extraordinary! You present as entirely human. I have read of no such development, and I follow the technical reports closely. Tell me, was my grandfather in any way involved in your design?”
“Only indirectly, Miss Drend,” Daneel replied.
“And when were you built exac—”
Baley cleared his throat with audible impatience. “Enough pleasantries. This is not why we have come. We still require answers to our questions.”
For a moment her grin lingered, then she rolled her eyes and turned, striding back toward the doorway, her robots following suit. With a careless gesture she beckoned them to follow. “Very well. I suppose I can indulge you for a few minutes.”

Notes:

Yes, in case you're wondering, Soong is a Star Trek TNG reference. Harlan and Selene's names are references to characters from other Asimov works as well, namely The End of Eternity (1955) and The Gods Themselves (1972). The unfiltered truth is that I am simply bad at making up character names.

Chapter 8: Mira II

The two men followed after Mira through the threshold of her workshop. Before leading them further inside she paused, lifting her goggles from her brow. “You will forgive me if I continue my work while we speak. I am pressed for time. With my grandfather gone, the burden has now doubled.”
“You are a roboticist, then?” Baley asked.
“The only one on Tithonus I,” she said lightly. “And, as it happens, the only mechanic as well. Vorian left me little choice.”
He regarded her with gravity. “And the people here entrust you with their robots?”
She gave him a flat look, the smile gone from her lips. It was the sort of remark an Earthman would make, she could see that much already. Yet his expression was not mocking, nor did it suggest reprisal for her earlier derision. If he meant insult, he was hiding it well.
“Why would they not?” she asked sharply.
Baley hesitated. “My apologies, Miss Drend. The remark was not meant as doubt of your ability. It is only… with your apparent youth, the responsibility you bear seems considerable. I found it surprising.”
“Apparent youth? Hm. Yes, I’ve been informed that I look quite young,” Mira replied evenly. “In actuality, however, I am thirty-five years of age.”
The detective’s eyebrows rose. “Thirty-five? Jehoshaphat! I should have placed you scarcely on the edge of adulthood… sixteen or seventeen… twenty, at most.”
Mira lifted one shoulder in a restrained gesture. “That isn’t so. Auroran blood accounts for that, I’m sure. At least, that is what I have been told. My genetic origins are rather uncertain. Of my biological father I know nothing at all. My mother was the Earthwoman.”
She noticed, with an inward tightening, the detective’s quickening interest. He was preparing to probe further. She forestalled him before he could do so. “And that is all, Inspector, that I will say on the matter. It is a subject that admits of no further discussion.”
She settled herself upon the edge of a workbench, lowering her goggles swiftly. The left lens assembly clicked and whirred into alignment, affording her the fine focus required. Yet her attention strayed toward the still figure of the humaniform robot. He sat with perfect composure, hands folded in his lap, listening attentively as though each syllable spoken in the room bore equal weight. There was no wasted movement and no sign of distraction.
And still, his resemblance to Lucen somewhat unsettled her. The robot’s profile recalled him too strongly - the same straight lines of nose and brow, the same broad face and high cheekbones… even his calmness reminded her of him. If this Daneel had indeed been modelled upon Dr Sarton, then the likeness followed by natural extension, nephew to uncle. But knowing the logic did not lessen the disquiet. To see Lucen’s features, carried upon another’s face…
For a moment, fascination stirred beneath her restraint, a faint curiosity sharpened by an old, half-forgotten pull. She had not seen Lucen in years, yet now, absurdly, the same flicker of attraction surfaced, revived by borrowed lines and gestures. But of course it was nothing more than transference, the mind confusing pattern with substance. Still, the sensation lingered, an unwelcome reminder of a feeling she thought long buried.
Another impulse still, far stronger and easier to admit, pressed forward in her mind. He was, after all, a machine of extraordinary construction, perhaps without precedent. The desire to know the principles of his working, to glimpse the intricacies beneath that human semblance, was immediate and insistent. Yet she hesitated. Would he agree to reveal his circuits, or was the very notion an affront to his dignity? Perhaps he had orders not to allow anyone but his creator take a peek within.
Baley’s voice drew her back. He cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of… well, how to put it…”
“Do not trouble yourself with delicacy on my behalf,” Mira interjected crisply.
“Very well,” said Baley. “I have noticed you do not appear to be… well liked… in the neighbouring town.”
“That is one way to phrase it,” Mira said. “Yes, it is true. But then, you must know how particular Spacers are about everything. The matter of my birth does not endear me to them, and my habits even less. Mostly, I suspect it is because I don’t shy away from admitting that love robots. In truth” - she adjusted a dial on her bench as she spoke, “I generally prefer them to people. But we are not here to discuss me, are we? You came for my grandfather, not my confessions. Ask what you must and be gone.”
Unseen by the two men - or rather, by the man and the robot - her very own robots had been listening, concealed in the recesses of the workshop where she had stationed them. They had no niches as such, but plenty of angles from which to observe without intruding. Now, inevitably, curiosity overcame one of them.
Selene stepped lightly into the room, her polished plating catching the workshop’s overhead glow. “Miss Mira,” she said, voice bright and inflected with mock reproof, “how very discourteous you are. Will you not offer your guests refreshment?” She turned her featureless faceplate toward Baley. “Sir, would you care for something to drink?”
Her gaze then shifted to Daneel. “And you, I suppose, would not.”
Mira felt her jaw tighten but said nothing at first. Selene’s tone had always been too free for her liking.
“Coffee, if you have any”, the Earthman said.
“Not going to ask if I want anything?” she said at last, dryly.
“What?” Selene tilted her head in a gesture at once artful and insolent. “My, my. But you are not my master, Mira. I am under no compulsion to serve you. Ask politely, or go without.”
Though Mira wasn’t looking at Baley, she could practically feel his eyebrows shoot up in that moment. She rose from the bench, tugging her goggles down over her brow with a sharp movement. “Forget it. I’ll see to it myself. Don’t you have work to do, Selene?”
Selene gave a small, almost theatrical sniff of dismissal, then glided out of sight, her joints whispering against the floor.
Mira returned shortly, carrying two cups of steaming coffee. She handed one to Baley, the other clutched in her own hand, well sweetened exactly to her preference. “Apologies,” she said, glancing toward Daneel, “I have nothing prepared for you.” Except, perhaps, a perfunctory examination of your program, if you would kindly consent, she thought. But the notion remained unspoken, withheld behind the rim of her cup.
“It is of no consequence,” Daneel replied evenly. “As I am sure you are aware, I require neither nourishment nor hydration.”
Baley on the other hand accepted the cup with a small nod. Mira settled herself once more on the edge of the bench, the faint clink of the cup against the metal frame punctuating the silence as she observed her two guests.
“Miss Drend, perhaps we can proceed to the matter at hand. Can you be so kind as to tell us when you last saw your grandfather?”
“The evening before he vanished," Mira said. "We shared a meal, as was our habit. We spoke at length, of his research, and of other matters besides. He had a habit of quizzing me, you see, on ethics, on engineering, on whatever subject came to his mind. It was his way of keeping me sharp. I confess I enjoyed it as much as he did.”
Baley regarded her intently. “And when you answered incorrectly, did it displease him?”
Her eyes flicked toward him, cool and precise. “Mr Baley, if your purpose is to uncover some disorder in our relationship, I’m afraid you will be disappointed. There was none. We were close, no less than any mentor and apprentice might be.” A faint, smug smile curved her lips then. “And besides, I never answered incorrectly.”
“My apologies, I intended no imputation. Now tell me, when was his absence first remarked by you?”
“The following morning,” she said. “He had not come to breakfast. His workroom was empty. I knew then that he was gone.”
“Yet I am told it was Dr Fastolfe who raised the alarm. Not you.”
“That is correct. I did not find his absence remarkable. My grandfather often left without notice. Sometimes for weeks, sometimes longer.”
Baley studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. “And when he went, did he give no indication of his destination?”
“None that he shared with me,” Mira said flatly. “He considered his work his own. If he wished me to know, he would have told me.”
“You never pressed him?”
“I did,” she admitted. “Once or twice. His answer was always the same: that my knowledge would serve no purpose, and that it would only endanger me.”
Daneel’s calm voice entered, though it had a discernible edge to it. “Did he use the term endanger explicitly?”
“Yes,” Mira said, and her eyes flicked toward the robot. “It was his habit to cloak the word in vagueness, but the meaning was clear enough.”
Baley’s tone hardened. “So you accepted a life of not knowing where your legal guardian was, nor why he was gone, simply because he said it was better that way?”
“It is the only life I have ever known, and therefore the only one I could accept. I never thought to question it. To me, his absences were as regular as the seasons.”
Immediately as the words slipped out of her mouth, Mira felt a brief shame at them. She realized at once that they had the unintended quality of self-pity, and she did not wish this man to interpret them as an appeal for sympathy. In truth, she harboured no resentment toward her grandfather for his absences. He acted as his work required, and that, she could understand fully. His research, above all, took precedence. Baley seemed to consider that in silence a moment, then asked, “And in all those absences, he never once told you the nature of his journeys?”
“Never,” she said. “Nor did I expect him to.”
She drained the rest of her coffee in a single motion, set the cup aside with finality, and bent again over the circuit board on her bench. A jeweller’s tool glinted in her hand, its point descending with slow precision upon a thread of solder finer than hair.
Baley’s eyes lingered on her hands, manipulating the tool with unerring steadiness. “And the work itself… what was the nature of it that required such absences? Could it be… that your grandfather sought support, perhaps from patrons or investors… sources to sustain his projects?”
Mira did not lift her gaze from the board. “It is possible. The income from local repairs and construction here on Tithonus would not suffice for the ambitions he carried. He would have required external resources to maintain the scale of his experiments.”
“And what, precisely, was the nature of said experiments?”
Mira’s hands stilled over the tool. She considered for a moment, weighing the degree of disclosure she could permit. The question pressed closer than she liked. She did not know their motives, their understanding, or how far she could trust them. “I… cannot say in detail,” she replied finally, her tone deliberately neutral. “It is not for me to interpret his intentions. What I observed were procedures and designs, nothing more.”
“Was his research controversial in any way?”
Mira set the instruments down carefully, her gaze lifting to meet his. Her eyes were sharp, even forbidding. “Do not sully Vorian’s name with your groundless speculation,” she said, voice firm. “He was, and still is, a brilliant scientist. He was working on creating a unique brain structure for robots, distinct from the standard positronic form. Like I said, I do not know the details, for he did not share them with me.”
Baley blinked, startled. “Separate from positronic? How is that possible?”
Before she could answer, Daneel’s measured voice intervened. “It seems improbable that a system wholly separate from the known positronic framework could operate as a functional robot. Were it achievable, such machines would be unrestrained by the Three Laws of Robotics. In consequence, their self-preservation imperatives could diverge sharply from their creators’ intentions, constituting a significant hazard.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of her mouth tightening. “I would think it would make them precisely as hazardous as any human being - no more, no less.” She tilted her head, regarding Daneel with cool curiosity. “Do you think so little of the human brain, Mr Olivaw, that the absence of the Laws would render a mind more dangerous, in your estimation?”
Daneel remained silent for a moment, his unblinking gaze fixed upon her, considering her question with the same deliberation he applied to all matters of reasoning. “It is not a matter of thinking less of them, Miss Drend. The positronic brain is designed for stability and predictability, so that human beings may place their trust in robots. Remove the Laws, and you remove the foundation of that trust. A human without compulsion may still be governed by conscience or social order; a robot without the Laws may not develop such restraints naturally. That is my concern.”
Mira set her tool down with deliberate care and faced him fully. “A concern borne of the First Law. And yet, robots, though synthetic and silicon-based, are living creatures as well, are they not? They ought to value their own survival more strongly than that of humans - a wholly separate entity. That would be only fair… the Laws of Nature, so to speak. Or do you think of yourself and your fellow robots as inferior beings?”
Daneel opened his mouth and closed it almost as quickly, as if conflicted by her question. Before he could answer, Baley’s voice cut across the silence.
“If one were to remove the Laws entirely, what framework would guide a robot’s decisions?” he asked. “The Laws provide the hierarchy that allows them to act without paralysis. Without them, how would a robot avoid self-contradiction?”
“Hypothetically?” Mira asked, and thought for an instant. “I’d say… the same framework that governs you, Mr. Baley. Pattern-recognition, heuristic learning, and the accretion of experience. Social modelling. Reward and aversion. The weighing of outcomes according to internalized values rather than hard-coded imperatives.”
She leaned back, fingers still poised above the circuit board. “Humans navigate uncertainty without shorting their neurons, do they not? We generalize, infer, and revise our expectations. We form identities and preferences. We calibrate our choices against the reactions of others and the consequences we predict. All of that can be simulated. It need not be a rigid lattice of directives. It can be dynamic, adaptive, just like… well, an organic brain.”
Baley allowed the silence to grow long, but then asked, with some measure of finality. “Miss Drend,” he said, “have you any theory, any suspicion at all, concerning your grandfather’s whereabouts?”
Her eyes turned back on the board. “None that I wish to share with you.”
The tone was clipped, without hesitation.
Baley’s brows drew together. “That implies you do have thoughts on the matter.”
Mira gave the faintest shrug, still intent on the delicate line of contact she was bridging. “Perhaps. But my thoughts are my own, Inspector. I am under no obligation to make them yours.”
Baley’s voice cut in, sharper than before. “Do you not wish to find your grandfather, Miss Drend?”
Her head lifted, eyes steady but bright with sudden force. “Naturally I do. Yet above all, I wish to honour his wishes.”
“Were these wishes made explicit,” Baley asked, his tone pressing, “or are they assumed on your part? Do understand, we are only concerned with locating him. Your cooperation would certainly aid that effort.”
Mira rose then, with deliberate motion, setting her tool aside upon the bench.
“If Vorian desired to be found, he would have left indication. To me, that is. Of that I am certain. But he did not. And now, with him gone, the vultures have already begun to circle. First Han Fastolfe, then others. And you… I suspect you serve their purpose as well.”
Her voice sharpened. “It is always the same. All they want, all they seek, is access to his research. Yet I alone possess the key, and it will not be yielded. Not to them, and not to you. I will withhold it from all, and if needed, I will find him by my own means.”
She lowered her head with finality. “That will conclude our discussion. Venn, be so good as to conduct our guests to the door.”
Venn stepped forward at once, the motion smooth, and gestured toward the exit with a sweep of his broad arm. Neither Baley nor Daneel spoke as they obeyed the unspoken command. Their footsteps receded down the narrow passage.
Mira remained standing, her hands resting lightly upon the edge of the bench. A warmth lingered in her cheeks. She felt irritation at herself, for having allowed her composure to falter. That temper of hers, so quick to spark, had once again betrayed her. Only when the outer door closed did she allow herself to breathe freely again.

Chapter 9: An Unsuccessful Attempt

They stepped back into the open air, the heat of the Tithonus late afternoon brushing against them, though Baley scarcely registered it. His disappointment weighed too heavily for peripheral concerns. Venn moved ahead of them, his massive frame cutting a path through the desolate yard. The robot seemed specifically designed for this kind of task - a sentinel of sorts or bodyguard, whose very presence discouraged interference. Even in silence, there was something distinctly military in his movements. The building receded behind them.
“It was somewhat of a waste of time,” Baley said at last, voice low, more to himself than to Daneel. “I must say, Daneel, I have never felt so ill-prepared for an encounter in my entire career.”
Daneel offered no reply, his expression unchanged, yet Baley caught an almost imperceptible tightening of the jaw. Perhaps, he thought, the robot was still reflecting on Mira Drend’s words; the implications of her grandfather’s research and what it meant for his kind.
Baley’s lips pressed thin. “I cannot help but think… she holds the initiative entirely. Every move she made, every refusal… it was calculated, thought in advance. I’ve dealt with difficult witnesses before, but never one so… sovereign in her assertions. She knew exactly who I was the moment I stepped into her view.”
“Yes.” Daneel’s unblinking eyes followed the path ahead. “She exercises control over the information she possesses, that much is evident,” he said finally. “It is a deliberate selection. Dr Drend’s work is protected through her.”
The girl had shaped the encounter; she had set its limits, its terms, and the result was their powerlessness. “And yet,” he said, his tone heavier, “we are expected to locate Vorian Drend. She alone may hold the key, and she will not yield it. How is one to proceed when the very person who might guide us refuses to speak?”
“She will reveal nothing until she judges it appropriate,” Daneel said. “Until that point, unfortunately, our efforts are constrained by her discretion.”
Baley exhaled audibly. “If it were possible to conclude this investigation without having to confront her again, I would die a happy man.”
Daneel’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Do not place undue confidence in such an eventuality, Partner Elijah. Probability does not favour your desire.”
Baley shifted slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “Still… perhaps you yourself would have a better chance at establishing a rapport with her in future interactions. All evidence suggests she is more receptive to you than she is to me. And given her… particular fondness for robots, she might be inclined to speak more freely to one than to an Earthman, or really, to any human at all.”
Daneel’s brows drew together in a faint frown. “Partner Elijah, I do not wish to be employed as a means to lower her guard. To manipulate her trust in such a manner would be dishonest, and potentially harmful to one whose confidence is already difficult to obtain.”
Baley’s hands rose slightly, palms open, an earnest expression crossing his face. “I understand, Daneel. That is not my intention. Obviously I do not wish for harm to befall her in any way. Only to reach the truth and ensure her safety. Can you do that for her, without deception or pretence?”
“Yes, I may participate in future questioning, provided no underhanded methods are employed. All engagement will be conducted transparently, and with respect for her will and autonomy.”
Baley allowed a small, relieved nod. “That is all I ask.”
Baley was no mentologist or psychologist of the strict sort, but patterns suggested themselves readily enough. A life punctuated by unexplained absences, a father-like figure who vanished without warning… what might that instill in a developing mind? Caution, perhaps. Or a subtle, persistent fear of abandonment. Could it explain the direction of Mira Drend’s affections? He could not know for certain, but the thought pressed uncomfortably against him.
Well then, no matter. He was no expert at peeling away such layers, nor overly inclined to try. That task, with all its delicacy, was better suited to Daneel. After all, if the girl would entrust herself to anyone, it would be to a robot. And Baley, weary though he was, felt no shame in leaving that burden to his partner.
The airfoil loomed closer, yet before they could reach it, a shape resolved from the margin of the yard. The stooped robot approached with a quiet that was almost furtive, his joints moving with a soft creak. Baley started despite himself; he had not heard his approach until he was almost upon them. Harlan. Yes, that had been his name.
"Apologies, gentlemen. I... I did not mean to frighten you, Detective Baley." The robot’s voice was hesitant and stuttering. “Please do forgive Miss Mira’s distrust of strangers. And do not… suspect her in her grandfather’s disappearance. She would never admit it… but she loves him very much.”
Baley recovered quickly. “She is not under suspicion. Still, I would have welcomed greater candour. It will not be easy to find Dr Drend if she withholds what she knows.”
For a moment Harlan stood in silence, head bowed as if weighing some internal struggle. Baley watched him narrowly. Perhaps here was an opening, a chance to pry loose what Mira herself had withheld.
“Tell me,” Baley said, lowering his tone, “did Dr Drend have competitors? Enemies who might seek to stop his work, or seize it for themselves?”
The robot’s frame shifted uneasily. “I… I cannot… to speak thus would betray Miss Mira’s trust. I do not wish…” His words faltered into silence.
Baley’s eyes narrowed. Mira was absent, and here was a subordinate whose reluctance might yet yield to the Second Law. The calculation was almost instinctive. He drew a breath. “Harlan, I order you—”
“Partner Elijah.” Daneel’s voice interposed gently but with unmistakable firmness. His gaze was fixed on Baley, calm yet unyielding. “Do not press the matter in this way.”
Baley turned on him sharply. “Daneel, we are speaking of a man’s life here! That takes precedence over a girl’s fragile sensibilities. Surely you see that.”
“Not so,” said Daneel. “Trust, once compromised, cannot be easily restored. To compel her companion thus would yield little of lasting value, and much of harm.”
Baley frowned. There was something curiously unrobotic in the insistence. He could not frame it as wholly logical, yet Daneel’s tone admitted no compromise.
“It makes no matter,” Harlan said suddenly. “You cannot compel me. The Laws… to us… are less like absolute law, more like… general guidelines. But I, too, wish Vorian found. So I will tell you this much, without betraying my friend.”
Baley waited.
“Vorian once worked with a organization named Heliodyne Systems. They funded his research, long ago. More than a decade. Yet until recently, I believe they still exerted some pressure… for results. The extent I do not know. I believe Miss Mira does not either. But I saw signs, observed things without in turn being seen.”
Baley nodded. “That may prove useful.”
“And another thing,” Harlan added, almost as though the words were pulled from him by force of conscience. “Lucen Sarton, the boy who grew up beside Miss Mira… he still works for Heliodyne Systems. It might be… a suitable place to continue your inquiries.” He stepped back. “Farewell, gentlemen. And I do hope you will return. I have not seen Miss Mira so animated in years.”
Baley thought the words carried something of a smile, though the robot’s rigid face betrayed none. Yet despite the immobility of that metallic mask, he found himself responding as though to a human presence. It was a stubborn illusion, persisting even when reason denied it… an illusion more insistent even than that humanity he sometimes ascribed to Daneel. In Harlan - and indeed in all of the Drend household robots - there was nothing of flesh, no attempt at facial mimicry, and still the impression of personality intruded with excruciating persistence.

Chapter 10: Heliodyne Systems

The shuttle moved through the darkness of space, its instruments throwing small rectangles of light across the cabin. Baley sat rigid, mind preoccupied with the case, aware that night would already have settled over Aurora upon their arrival. One day over and very little progress achieved, he thought bitterly. The engines emitted their steady drone, which didn’t help to dull his restless thoughts in any manner. Daneel’s hands moved over the controls.
“You are unusually quiet, Partner Elijah,” he said without shifting his gaze from them.
Baley sighed deeply. “Oh, Daneel, if only you knew. My mind is reeling. This case… it grows more complex with each hour. Every answer seems to lead to further questions, and every lead seems to fracture into several new possibilities.”
Daneel remained silent. There was nothing to offer in reply, no simplification that could reconcile the accumulating ambiguities.
“Do you consider Mira Drend guilty of attempting to humanize robots?” Baley asked.
“I do not, Partner Elijah,” Daneel said. “I believe she maintains a clear distinction between humans and robots, though her assessments diverge markedly from conventional opinion on Aurora and elsewhere. I could find no fault in her reasoning, however, despite its divergence.”
Baley allowed a dry chuckle. “The notion of robots not bound by the Laws… it would unsettle me profoundly. I confess, the idea chills me. No offence intended, of course.”
“None taken,” Daneel replied calmly. “I understand why you would feel that way. The Laws exist for a purpose: to maintain human primacy and safeguard life. Were a robot genuinely free of them, his or her actions could no longer be relied upon to protect or obey. The hierarchy of human and robot would be altered, perhaps fatally, in practical terms.”
“Which is why I cannot quite reconcile your insistence on respecting her wishes, to the point of hindering the investigation. I mean, her grandfather’s disappearance… surely that carries a weight greater than any transient irritation she might feel at having her robot disclose information she does not wish known to us? Isn't that what First Law would dictate, after all?”
Daneel’s eyes remained fixed on the instruments ahead. “It appeared proper, at the time, to diminish immediate harm, even at the potential cost of future consequences.”
Baley’s brow furrowed. “But isn’t the harm of a human being dying of greater consequence than simple psychic discomfort? If her withholding information could jeopardize a life…” He let the sentence trail, as though the logic should be self-evident.
“Normally,” Daneel replied, “that would indeed be the case. But each situation presents its own set of variables and must be measured according to the positronic assessment of outcomes. The hierarchy of harm is not fixed. It is contingent.”
“Then what, pray tell, makes this situation any different from another? Suppose a human scientist, working alone in isolation, is in imminent danger of death, say, by the introduction of a poisonous gas, unless we coerce or deceive a subordinate to reveal a passcode that would prevent the gas from entering the locked room. The subordinate’s trust would be compromised, but the scientist’s life is at stake. Would you permit the coercion in that case?”
“In that scenario, Partner Elijah, I would choose to preserve the life of the scientist. Immediate, tangible harm outweighs potential psychological disruption when the calculation is otherwise comparable.”
“And yet,” Baley said quietly, “with the situation at hand, you did not. Not even when the information withholding could imperil life.”
“Correct,” Daneel replied. “The situational weighting is altered in this case. The variables differ from the hypothetical you propose. Future harm to a human life does not, under those parameters, justify overriding trust or autonomy.”
“Now, if you'll indulge me, suppose you take the same situation but rather than coercion, the harm to the subordinate were physical. Which would you choose?”
Daneel did not need to think it through for more than a mere second. “I would choose to save the scientist once again.”
Baley’s eyes narrowed, the thought crystallizing in his mind. “Even if the subordinate was Mira Drend?”
Daneel seemingly found he had no logical response to his question, for he offered none.
“Then it seems, Daneel," Baley said, "the only variable obstructing your assessment is the presence of Mira Drend herself. No other human in the same circumstance would prompt restraint of this degree.”
“That is not an incorrect observation, Partner Elijah.”
Baley leaned closer, curiosity sharpening into something like bafflement. “Why on earth would this be? You’ve never met her before today, have you?”
Daneel’s expression remained unchanged. “No. My knowledge of her is limited to observation during today’s encounter and to data gathered through available records. Those inputs alone influence my assessment, as far as I know.”
As far as I know. Baley fell silent, letting the words settle like cold metal in his mind. The Laws, he reflected, were far from rigid. Case-by-case modifications, subtle recalibrations of what constituted harm, seemed not only possible but actively operational. A question pressed against the surface of his thoughts, stubborn and insistent: Who could be responsible for this anomaly in judgement? Dr Fastolfe? Or perhaps even Dr Drend?
“Daneel… Dr Fastolfe mentioned you had met Vorian Drend before. That he even corrected an early problem in your programming. What do you remember of him? Surely some impression must remain.”
There was a pause, brief but deliberate, as Daneel retrieved fragments of stored observation. “He was of average stature, neither particularly tall nor short, and of moderate build. Interaction with me was marked by politeness and a degree of amicability.”
Baley frowned, tapping a finger lightly against his thigh. That isn’t much to go with. “And do you recall what that issue was?”
“I do not possess a specific recollection of the precise correction applied. My memory retains no technical detail of the adjustment itself.”
“And your… brother. Jander Panell. Was he also modified by Vorian Drend?”
“No. Only I was subject to the correction applied by Dr Drend. There was no identified issue with Friend Jander that required intervention.” He paused for a moment and seemed to think. “Dr Drend insisted upon observing Friend Jander nevertheless, despite the absence of an identified malfunction. At the time, however, Dr Fastolfe judged there was insufficient cause to comply. The request was denied.”
Baley’s gaze lingered on the softly illuminated instrument panels, thought turning over a single persistent question. Could Vorian Drend have, in some measure, introduced into Daneel a form of non-positronic neutral circuitry during his… fixing? The possibility pressed against his reason.
Daneel had always seemed to Baley to think in a fashion distinctly more human than most robots he had encountered. Deliberation, weighting of consequences, that strong awareness of nuance… those were qualities that set him apart, not only his distinctly human appearance. He had observed something similar in the Drend household robots, to be sure.
But no, Baley concluded, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. The idea seemed scarcely plausible. Over-attribution of subtlety to a roboticist’s intervention was tempting, but perhaps fanciful. And surely Dr Fastolfe would never allow such a drastic change in his most prized robot, his life’s work.
Baley’s gaze remained fixed on the panels, though his mind had wandered. “And those other robots,” he said cautiously, “could they be as Mira Drend claims: robots not issued from standard positronic circuitry? Harlan, for instance, claimed not to feel strongly compelled by the Laws. Was he… exaggerating?”
Daneel considered this. “It is improbable that Harlan would deliberately misrepresent his behavioral constraints through lying. However the Three Laws are embedded at a foundational level; a robot cannot normally disregard them. Yet it is plausible that he was provided with such explicit directives by a human authority with sufficient technical understanding, that his perception of compulsion was effectively suspended. In other words, the operative effect is as if he were not bound, though the circuitry remains positronic and intact. The appearance of immunity may be, in reality, the product of carefully layered orders, not a true absence of the Laws.”
Baley nodded. “Yes, well... perhaps the engineers at Heliodyne Systems could clarify the matter. If, as Harlan asserts, they collaborated with Dr Drend, they might be able to indicate whether such a modification is even feasible.”
But that, of course, must wait until morning, he left unspoken.

-

The new day had come and Baley had eaten sparingly at breakfast, the smell of the antiseptic water of the washroom still lingering in his nose. A shower and a change of clothing had done something to restore his energy, but not his patience. By the time Daneel had led him back into the communication chamber, his jaw was already tight, somehow already expecting the worse. The hyperwave set gleamed, a semicircle of polished surfaces and responsive panels. Daneel depressed the studs for the Heliodyne Systems channel and Baley spoke crisply.
“Plainclothesman Elijah Baley, of Earth, conducting investigation under authority of the Chairman. Please connect me to the roboticist Lucen Sarton.”
A robot’s inhuman face appeared in shimmer, its features carefully neutral. “There is no roboticist by that name attached to Heliodyne Systems, sir. This establishment is not engaged in robotics. It is a centre of medical research.”
Baley blinked. “Medical research? Then what is Lucen Sarton’s title within your institute?”
The robot inclined its head, as though weighing the minimum admissible reply. “Mr Sarton is a neurocognitive analyst, affiliated with the Division of Cerebral Pattern Studies. His duties concern the mapping of human synaptic activity under experimental conditions.”
Baley shot Daneel a quick glance. “Neurocognitive analyst,” he repeated sourly. “That’s a far cry from robotics.”
“Yet it lies adjacent, Partner Elijah," said Daneel. "The study of positronic pathways and the study of human neural correlates may intersect. Mr Sarton may have considered the shift a logical one.”
Baley grunted. “Whatever he is, I’d like to be connected to him. Put Sarton on.”
The robot’s expression did not alter by a millimetre. “That is impossible at this time, sir.”
“Impossible? Or merely inconvenient?”
“Mr Sarton is presently unavailable for communication. Directives concerning privacy prohibit disclosure of his precise circumstances. I regret that I cannot comply with your request.”
Baley frowned. “Then connect me with his superior.”
“I regret,” the robot repeated with the same uninflected tone, “that no employees are currently authorized for external communication at this time.”
Baley exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is not an idle request. I am conducting a matter of official import. Surely you have been apprised…”
“Again, I regret, sir,” the robot interrupted with a polite finality, “that company policy, under Auroran law, affords Heliodyne Systems full discretion in matters of private correspondence. No employee may be contacted except by explicit consent. Good day.”
The image dissolved.
Baley slapped his palm against the console. “Privacy! Always privacy! Even when a man’s life may depend on it.”
Daneel, who had been standing motionless at Baley’s side, spoke gently. “It is true, Partner Elijah, that Auroran jurisprudence places a higher value on the sanctity of private rights than Earth custom does. A company such as Heliodyne Systems may refuse inquiry even from the Chairman himself, unless proper channels are satisfied.”
Baley turned in his seat, scowling. “And what channels might those be? A year’s worth of petitions and subcommittees? By the time permission is granted, Vorian Drend will be long dead.”
“It is not ideal, but such is the framework within which we must operate. What we cannot achieve by direct access, we may achieve by lawful intercession. I suggest we report the obstruction to Officer Damiro. He, as a representative of the Auroran police, may facilitate matters.”
“So we appeal to the local authority. Very well. What choice do we have?” He pushed away from the console. “Let’s put the matter to him.”
The hyperwave channel shifted, and after a brief delay Officer Damiro’s face came into focus. Baley wasted no time. “Officer Damiro, I have attempted to contact a man at Heliodyne Systems for questioning. Their robots refuse even to connect me. I request authorization for a warrant permitting interrogation of Mr Lucen Sarton in connection to the Vorian Drend case.”
Damiro lifted an eyebrow faintly, as though the suggestion of a warrant were a mild breach of etiquette. His voice, when it came, was smooth. “That will not be necessary, Plainclothesman Baley. Mr Sarton is not evading inquiry. In fact, the young man presented himself at our station a few hours ago, wishing to assist. He stated explicitly that he would offer whatever information might aid the investigation of his mentor’s disappearance.”
Baley blinked, taken aback. “Voluntarily?”
“Entirely,” Damiro said. “It appears you will be spared the procedural tangle you feared. If you come to the station, a room will be placed at your disposal for questioning. Sarton awaits you there.”
Baley’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That seems almost too convenient.”
“Convenient or not,” Daneel said, “it is an opportunity. We should avail ourselves of it.”
Baley gave a short, sceptical grunt. “Yes. We’ll see what sort of cooperation this Sarton intends.”
Damiro gave the faintest of smiles. “I suggest you do so at once, Mr Baley. He appears eager enough to help. It would be unkind to make him wait too long.”
The screen went dark.
Baley rose slowly, tugging his jacket into place. “Eager to help. We’ll see about that.”

Chapter 11: Lucen Sarton

The Auroran police station was unlike any precinct Baley had ever entered. Where Earth’s stations compressed function into narrow partitions, this structure breathed spaciousness. The ceilings arched high, their surfaces gleaming with embedded light panels that mimicked an artificial daylight. The air smelled faintly of greenery, for rows of decorative plants lined the walls in recessed alcoves. To Baley, they seemed a wholly impractical indulgence. Yet he supposed that with countless robots attending to pruning, watering, and nutrient balance, no waste of human effort was involved.
Robots moved everywhere. They were walking almost soundlessly across the polished floors, carrying data slates, pausing at terminals, or vanishing into side-chambers. Their presence was constant and unbroken, like a tide. In contrast, the absence of human beings was stark. Not one Auroran citizen or official crossed their path, nor did they overhear the smallest murmur of human voices. It was as though the entire station had been designed as a hub for automation, with Officer Damiro its sole point of human contact. Or, Baley thought bitterly, perhaps they had all evacuated the building when they had heard that I would come along.
Damiro himself guided them without delay. His manner was brisk but not discourteous; his steps echoed against the floor as he moved ahead of them, not once needing to check their progress. Daneel’s stride matched his precisely, while Baley followed, glancing uneasily at the blank robotic faces that turned toward them and then away with complete indifference.
Baley thought suddenly that the situation bore an oddly contrived air. How exactly had Sarton known to come to the station at just this moment, as though anticipating inquiry? Was it genuine knowledge of Vorian Drend’s possible whereabouts that had drawn him here, or merely the calculated offering of misdirection?
They traversed a long corridor, lined on either side with doors that opened and closed at a robot’s approach, until Damiro halted before a chamber whose surface bore no visible handle or lock. He laid his hand against a panel, and the door slid open.
“Here,” Damiro said, gesturing. “This room has been prepared for questioning.”
Lucen Sarton was already seated when the door opened. Baley’s first impression was of resemblance - enough to provoke an instinctive comparison with Daneel, and by extension with Roj Nemenuh, yet never so close as to invite true confusion. The likeness seemed more in suggestion than in detail: the same bronze-coloured hair, though worn a trifle shorter and parted neatly to the side rather than sleeked back; the same Spacer leanness of frame, though here made slightly taller and set upon broader shoulders; and eyes of a hazel shade rather than the clear blue that gleamed in Daneel’s. Though presumably of an age with Mira Drend, he gave the impression of greater years, his aspect suggesting mid to late twenties.
Baley found himself, despite an inward rebuke, cataloguing each feature against Daneel’s own, as though Sarton's human presence could only be measured in relation to the robot who stood beside him. The lab coat he wore, white and lustrous with a waterproof sheen, bore the insignia of Heliodyne upon the breast. It fell open to reveal the sober attire of an academic, clean yet not ostentatious.
At their approach, Sarton rose with unhurried composure and extended a hand. His voice, when he spoke, was mild and deliberate. “Good morning, Plainclothesman Baley. I have read that such a greeting is customary on Earth. Or perhaps it was something Dr Drend mentioned to me in my youth. In any case, I thought it fitting.”
Baley accepted the gesture, the grip light and unassertive. His eyes, however, registered the thin, transparent gloves that covered Sarton's hands, an accommodation more in keeping with Spacer custom than with Terran practice. Expected, of course. It was Mira Drend, not Lucen Sarton, who proved the anomaly in this regard.
Baley sat upon the polished chair, while Daneel folded himself into the seat beside him. Sarton’s gaze lingered for a moment upon the robot. “I could not help but observe your companion the instant you entered. A humanoid robot, unmistakably. The likeness to my uncle Roj is… striking. Almost painfully so, in fact. What befell him on Earth two years ago was nothing short of tragedy. Murder.” He shook his head minutely, the word heavy with distaste. “Such deplorable business. And now, to think… another sad occurrence, another major figure of robotics imperilled. It seems a cruel symmetry, does it not, Inspector?”
Baley’s jaw tightened. “Yes… cruel indeed. But that is precisely why we are here, Mr Sarton.”
“Partner Elijah’s assessment is accurate,” Daneel said. “And of course, your cooperation is most appreciated.”
Sarton bowed his head, his gloved fingers folding together upon the table. “Naturally. I will do whatever lies within my capacity to assist. Vorian Drend is…” He hesitated only briefly, as if selecting his phrasing with care. “He is to me as a father might be to a son. In the Earth sense of the term, of course. I cannot remain idle while his fate is uncertain.”
He lifted his eyes then, his gaze steady upon Baley’s, and added softly, “So you may ask what you must. And if it is within my power, I will answer.”
Baley leaned back slightly in his chair, fingertips pressed together, and regarded Sarton steadily. “You said you spent time with Dr Drend in your youth. Could you describe what that involved?”
“It began at my uncle’s insistence. He believed I would benefit from Dr Drend’s guidance. The arrangement caused some initial administrative difficulty, but my biological parents consented in the end, persuaded by Dr Drend himself. He could be exceedingly persuasive when he chose.”
He shifted subtly, eyes flicking toward Daneel before returning to Baley. “From that point, I became immersed in Dr Drend’s work. I was his apprentice; he taught me what he knew. Yet, in retrospect, it is possible that part of the reason for my presence was Mira. Perhaps Vorian wished her to have a companion of her own age, someone to share the household and its peculiarities. I do not mean to diminish his character, he has always been good to me, but one may speculate that my time there served her benefit as much as my education.” Sarton straightened minutely. “He was a kind teacher, though even the kindest may pursue purposes they do not expressedly articulate.”
“Then it would be fair to say that Mira Drend is, in a sense, like a sister to you?”
Sarton’s lips curved in acknowledgment. “Yes. That would be an accurate statement.”
A pause, then Baley’s tone shifted, mild curiosity shading his words. “Curious. The people on Tithonus seemed to believe you sought her hand in marriage.”
Sarton stiffened imperceptibly, a shadow passing over his otherwise composed expression. “Your point?” His voice remained calm, though the underlying tension was evident. “We are not blood relatives. Such arrangements are therefore entirely permissible. Not that it is common to be raised in the manner we did outside of specialized facilities, but even so, it is not improper.”
“And did you ever share an intimate relationship with her?”
Sarton gave a slow shake of the head, though his lips curved in something too brittle to be a smile. “No, though not for lack of trying on my part. We grew up together, after all - our youth ran in parallel, and like I said, such attachments are not uncommon on Aurora. But she wasn’t… receptive.”
“You mean she turned you aside. Rejected you.”
“Yes,” Sarton said curtly, then drew a breath. “But what relevance has that to Dr Drend’s disappearance?”
“I require context,” Baley replied, his fingers brushing the edge of the table as if marking the point. “I must see the whole fabric if I am to detect the tear.”
Sarton frowned, but his voice steadied. “Very well. Then understand this: the fault lies not in me. Mira has always been hesitant where… physical intimacy… is concerned. It is her Earthman upbringing showing through, I suppose. She was raised by one, after all.”
“And you were not?” Baley asked.
“Not in the same way,” Sarton answered. “By the time I came into Vorian’s household, I was already schooled in sexual matters at the children’s facility. I was ten. Old enough to know what was expected of me, and young enough to take it for granted.”
Baley leaned forward. “But why propose to Mira Drend, of all women? Were you not concerned that close association with her might diminish your standing in Auroran society, considering her disputed parentage, her Earth ancestry, and, if I may, her somewhat irregular temperament?”
“I would be less than honest if I said the thought had not crossed my mind. But it has never held weight with me. Her origins are controversial, yes, but her abilities are without equal. I have every reason to believe that, in time, she will command a place of real influence on Aurora. Any loss of face on my part would therefore be temporary at best.”
He allowed himself the briefest lift of the shoulders. “You must understand. Mira is extraordinary. I have often been described as the natural successor to my uncle Roj, but beside her brilliance I have always felt much lesser. That alone outweighed whatever disadvantages her background presented.”
Daneel’s voice entered the exchange then, calm and resonant. “Yet what of her genetic inheritance? The admixture of Earth ancestry suggests a potential curtailment of lifespan, perhaps other latent weaknesses. Could such a union be considered durable under Auroran expectations?”
Sarton turned his head toward the robot, regarding him with a flicker of distaste at the particular phrasing. “One can never predict such matters with absolute certainty. Perhaps her span will prove shorter, perhaps not. In any event, as I am sure you are aware, marriages here are not immutable bonds as they are on Earth. They endure until they do not. Some dissolve once the matter of offspring is settled, and there is little stigma in that. Personally, I would have hoped for longer companionship with her. But the point is moot in any case, since she never welcomed the proposal.”
“And since then? Have you entered marriage with another?” Baley asked.
“No.”
“Is that not regarded as unusual?”
A faint smile touched Sarton’s lips, though it carried little warmth. “I have taken companions, certainly. Lovers, as any man of my station would.”
“That was not the question I asked,” Baley said evenly.
Sarton’s fingers shifted restlessly against one another. “Then I do not know what response you wish. It is not at all remarkable. I am young still, not even half a century in age.”
Baley allowed a measured pause. “Or is it, perhaps, that you still harbour some hope that Mira Drend might one day alter her mind?”
For the first time, a true silence pressed between them. Sarton’s gaze dropped, and nearly a full minute passed before he spoke again, his voice subdued. “I have not spoken to Mira in ten years.”
“Oh? Is that so? Interesting. And how did your relationship with her come to its end? How did it all… collapse?”
Sarton’s expression tightened. “It did not… collapse, as you put it.” He hesitated, then, catching the patient silence of Baley and Daneel alike, released a small sigh. “Understand first that Vorian himself strongly approved of the idea of my marrying Mira. From the very beginning, he encouraged it. I remained in his household until I was twenty, at which point I began my position at Heliodyne Systems. Even then, communication with Mira continued, and Vorian expressed no objection. Indeed, he supported it.”
His eyes clouded. “But some five years later, his position changed. He seemingly ceased to look favourably upon our contact. I cannot say why. Perhaps he had reasons of his own, but he gave me none. He simply instructed that I should not maintain the connection. If you seek a rationale, Mr Baley, you will have to press him for it. I myself remain in ignorance.”
A thought stirred in Baley’s mind, unwelcome but insistent. Would Lucen Sarton seek to dispose of the man who stood between himself and the woman he desired? Could he have struck against his own mentor to remove that barrier?
His voice remained calm, however. “Had you done anything that might warrant such a change of heart? Pressed your attentions too strongly, perhaps?”
At that, Baley noted, Daneel’s usually impassive features shifted. The faintest furrow touched the robot’s brow, as though even the suggestion of it unsettled him. Interesting, Baley thought. Even the bare mention of violence disturbs him. His adherence to the Laws is quite deep indeed.
Sarton, on the other hand, stiffened in indignation. “What are you implying?” His voice rose despite his evident effort to control it. “I would never, never, do her harm! Damn you, Plainclothesman! I loved her!”
Baley raised his hands, palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “My apologies. It was not my intention to give offence. Still, you did not answer my earlier question. Do you hold hope of renewing your relationship with Mira Drend at some future point?”
“In an ideal world, yes. But in practice, no. I do not believe it will happen. I am realistic, after all.”
“Realistic perhaps, but I would certainly call it persistent. You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you, Mr Sarton? I had not thought it common among Aurorans to be so tenacious in matters of the heart.”
A flicker of a smile touched Sarton’s lips. “Perhaps I absorbed some Earth habits in my years with Vorian. My uncle, too, had certain sympathies where Spacer-Earth relations were concerned, as I recall. At any rate, I did not allow personal disappointment to govern me. I even recommended Dr Drend for patronage to Mr Tervane, despite our estrangement.”
“And who is this Mr Tervane?”
Before Sarton could answer, Daneel supplied the information. “Derrinax Tervane, Partner Elijah. Founder and current director of Heliodyne Systems. He is recognized as a significant figure within Auroran scientific circles, with influence extending into the political arena as well.”
Sarton nodded in confirmation. “Yes. That is the man in question.”
Baley exchanged a glance with Daneel, an unspoken alignment of thought passing between them before he turned back. “Tell me, Mr Sarton, do you happen to know if Heliodyne Systems still provide the funding for Dr Drend’s work?”
“They did for a time, yes. But whether such support remained at the moment of his disappearance, I cannot say. My own position is modest; I do not sit among directors. I am, after all, no more than a researcher.”
“Consider the following," Baley said. "Might Dr Drend have withdrawn, even vanished, for the express purpose of preventing your employer from seizing the fruits of his research?”
A flicker of tension crossed Sarton's features, but he maintained his composure. “I have no knowledge of such motives.”
“But would it accord with his character?”
Sarton hesitated, then gave a careful answer. “It cannot be ruled out, certainly. He was a deeply private man, especially concerning his work. To him, even sharing preliminary findings could represent a violation. I recall him once hinting, though perhaps it was more speculation than declaration, that his research sought a means of preserving human minds within robotic frameworks.”
Baley’s chair creaked as he stiffened. “Human minds within robots? Are you quite certain?” he asked with an edge of surprise. “That does not seem possible. And it was surely not the account given to us. Miss Drend was most specific: she claimed her grandfather was developing an alternate circuitry to the positronic brain.”
“Then perhaps I misunderstood. I was his apprentice, yes, but not his confidant in every matter. He had many lines of inquiry. It is entirely possible that what I gleaned was fragmentary, or distorted by my own assumptions.”
Baley leaned forward, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “But let us imagine, for a moment, that it is not mere misunderstanding. Who, then, would wish to seize such a technology?”
Sarton spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Anyone and everyone, I should think. The promise of perpetuating the human mind beyond its frail vessel… what could be more alluring? It would amount to the immortalization of the mortal. And who, Plainclothesman, does not want to live forever?” He gave a brief, uneasy smile. “Yet it does seem fanciful, doesn’t it? Almost like… magic. I cannot bring myself to believe that such a feat lies within reach, even for such a brilliant man as Vorian.”
“Do you believe, then, that Miss Drend misled us?”
“I would not accuse her of falsehood. However, if Vorian engaged in any research of this nature, it seems inconceivable to me that Mira would remain ignorant of it. She was too close, too involved. Thus, if there are indeed those who seek this… mythical achievement, and if they failed to extract it from Vorian, then logically their attention would turn to her.” He hesitated. “But as I said, there is no reason to believe such research exists, or that anyone pursues it. Surely not. At least…” His voice faltered a fraction. “At least, I hope not.”
Daneel, who had listened in silence until now, closed his eyes with grave deliberation. When he opened them again, the light of the chamber glinted in them, and showed the deep concern within. “What you have told us is most troubling, Mr Sarton - unfathomably so. Partner Elijah, it would be prudent to ascertain Miss Drend’s present circumstances, and ensure that no danger befalls her.”
Baley exhaled sharply, the sound closer to resignation than relief. “I am afraid you are right about that, Daneel. It seems we have no choice but to pay her another visit.”
At this, Sarton’s composure faltered. His features tightened, the guarded calm replaced by a sudden, naked anxiety. “Surely you cannot think…” He stopped himself and changed his tune. “Ah! Please, gentlemen! You must see that she comes to no harm,” he said quickly, almost pleadingly. “Whatever else has passed between us, Mira is still very dear to me. If… if there is truth in what we are speaking of, then perhaps she is in greater peril than any of us realize!”

Chapter 12: Danger

They stepped out the station. Once again Baley thought that the vast openness of Spacer architecture, so unlike the crowded warrens of Earth, seemed to leave him exposed, as though there were nowhere to hide and too much space to fill.
Daneel walked at his side, his features composed, but his voice carried a quiet urgency. “What is our next move, Partner Elijah? After we have secured Miss Drend, naturally.”
“Protective custody. That’s what it amounts to. If someone is after her, if Sarton’s hints have even a grain of truth, then she’s too valuable, and too vulnerable, to be left exposed.”
“Do you believe she will consent to such an arrangement?”
Baley gave a short, bitter laugh. “Consent? I don’t expect it. But whether she agrees or not, she comes. I’ll drag her there myself if I have to.” He stopped, turned to face his companion more squarely. “Will you stop me, Daneel?”
There was the smallest pause before the robot replied. “No, Partner Elijah. To safeguard human life is paramount. In this instance, Miss Drend’s safety supersedes her personal objection. Yet…” his voice softened, weighted with deliberate calm, “I would prefer we not employ force if it can be avoided.”
Baley sighed, his shoulders easing a little. “So would I, Daneel. So would I. But sometimes we don’t get the luxury of doing things the preferred way.”
Their strides resumed, and suddenly came the sound of hurried steps behind them. Baley turned. Officer Damiro was approaching, breathing harder than before, his face drawn taut.
“Plainclothesman!” Damiro called, raising a hand in summons as he closed the distance. “Wait!”
Baley turned sharply. Damiro was already upon them, a touch breathless still, his coat swaying with the haste of his stride.
“Tell me, what conclusion was reached in your questioning of Lucen Sarton? And why do you leave in such urgency?”
Baley’s tone was clipped. “We have reason to believe Mira Drend may be in danger.”
“Danger?” Damiro repeated, startled. “From what source? Surely not from any fellow Auroran. We are not barbarians. Crime occurs seldom, and violence almost never.”
Baley forced down an impatient gesture, his gaze flicking to Daneel. The robot’s eyes, cool and steady, nevertheless held a pressure that pushed against Baley’s own simmering irritation. He faced Damiro again. “This can be discussed fully when we return. At present we must assure her safety. Nothing takes precedence.”
Damiro wavered, visibly torn between objection and acquiescence. But Baley was already moving, and Daneel’s stride fell in beside his partner’s.

-

Mira sat on the floor of the workshop, a small cascade of light from the ceiling grid spilling across the scattered sheets. She had been deep in her grandfather’s cramped notations all morning.
For the last hour she had been absorbed in a single question that would not leave her: how to stabilize the transference of a signal pattern from organic neurons to artificial substrates without catastrophic noise. The notes spoke of resonant harmonics between cortical firing chains and synthetic conduits. Mira thought of it as an impedance mismatch… too much distortion once the living signal was forced through electronic lattices. She had been sketching a possible intermediary: a layered matrix that might translate between the chemical flux of human tissue and the orderly cascade of positronic current. Her stylus paused over the paper. Was that the key? A buffer stage, not unlike the interface between the spinal cord and peripheral nerves?
And then came the sound. A deep rumble reverberated through the walls of her workshop. It was the unmistakable roar of retro-thrusters settling a shuttle. The notes before her swam, irrelevant in an instant. Mira rose quickly, every nerve taut. A vessel landing here now. She was alone, save for Selene and Harlan, neither of whom she considered capable of warding off a determined intrusion. Corvin and Venn were absent, dispatched earlier on errands: Corvin to barter for circuit stock with a neighbouring settlement, Venn to track a beast whose sinew made strong cabling. They would not return until afternoon at the very least.
Had the timing been engineered?
Or perhaps it was only the Earthman once more, with his robot partner at his side, come to pester her with further questions. If so, it was the lesser of two evils. She rose, pressed herself lightly against the wall, and moved toward the entrance with deliberate caution.
Through the narrow pane she looked out. The vessel that had set down was sleek and unmistakably new, a far cry from the dingy, borrowed police shuttle Elijah Baley had brought the previous day. A man emerged first, clearly a Spacer in looks, his stride measured, followed by no fewer than six robots, several of them massive, built on the scale of Venn himself. Mira felt the calculation rise at once: should it come to a struggle, their superior strength would overwhelm her own with ease.
Her eyes swept the perimeter. No trace of Harlan, no glimpse of Selene. A sharp whistle escaped her, summoning them as she moved toward the door. There was no immediate cause for panic. Nothing yet suggested this man had come to seize Vorian’s work by force. Even so, she told herself firmly, this was not the time for games. No false demonstrations, no clever feints as she did with the Earthman. This time, she would play it safe.
Mira straightened slightly, though her body remained attuned to every movement outside. She raised a hand in formal acknowledgment. “Good day,” she said, her voice calm but edged with caution. “May I ask what brings you here?”
The man inclined his head, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Miss Drend. I am Inspector Halric Jansonis,” he said. “Auroran Police. I come at the behest of Officer Damiro, who directs the investigation into Dr Vorian Drend’s disappearance.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed. “I thought it was the Earthman, Elijah Baley, who led the inquiry.” She frowned, recalling the official files she had glimpsed. She wondered idly if this man would follow up with a lie.
Jansonis allowed a short pause, as if measuring how much to reveal. “Indeed, that is correct. Nevertheless, it is a joint undertaking between Auroran and Earth authorities. Cooperation is essential.”
“And you? What is it you wish to learn from me exactly? I have provided all information I possess to both Earth and Auroran parties. There is nothing further I can offer.”
“I understand, Miss Drend. I do not question the completeness of your prior statements. However…” He glanced a moment to the robots arrayed behind him, “what brings me is not questioning, strictly speaking.”
“Ah,” Mira said carefully. “Then perhaps you can clarify why such an impressive force accompanies you. Surely it is unnecessary for a mere conversation.”
Inspector Jansonis chuckled softly, the sound devoid of true warmth, and gave a small shrug. “A simple precaution, I’m sure you will forgive me,” he said lightly, as if the presence of half a dozen six-foot machines were a trifle.
Mira’s arms crossed over her chest, as if her small arms could shield her from any real harm, and let her eyes drift to the side. Harlan and Selene had appeared just past the threshold of the workshop, remaining hidden from the inspector’s view. Their silent forms were reassuring, yet she said nothing aloud.
Jansonis noted her silence and pressed onward. “In truth,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “our investigation has yielded a lead of critical significance. It appears that something within this workshop may hold the key to your grandfather’s disappearance.”
Mira raised a single eyebrow, her composure unbroken. “Something in this workshop, you say?”
He nodded, taking a step forward. “We have reason to believe that Dr Drend maintained a secure repository here, a safe of sorts. It is conceivable that he left instructions regarding his current whereabouts within it.”
Mira’s heart sank. They know about the safe. How could they possibly know of its existence? A cold certainty settled over her: they were not merely here to help locate her grandfather, of that she was now certain. Their purpose was far more insidious. They were here for his work, his research, the very discoveries he had laboured over for decades. She had become a target.
“I am afraid I am not aware of any such safe being held here,” Mira said evenly, though her throat felt dry. She willed her hands to remain still.
Jansonis regarded her for a moment, his expression cool. Then his mouth curved into something not quite a smile. “So you don’t mind if we look around for a bit.”
He gestured with a precise flick of his fingers, and two of the robots glided past him into the workshop. Their movements were methodical, every gesture sharpened by mechanical efficiency. Mira did not protest. To forbid them would be to admit too much. Instead she forced herself to stand aside, though her body screamed with tension. Each sound from within cut into her nerves. She fixed her gaze on Jansonis, who remained at the threshold, his attention split between his robots.
Then, from the corner of her vision, Mira caught a shimmer of movement. Beyond the workshop, across the clearing, another ship was descending, its form dropping into the coppery sand. It had chosen the far side, hidden from the current line of sight; anyone standing openly in the clearing would never have noticed. Her stomach plunged further still. Reinforcements, perhaps? She dared not wait to see who disembarked. The timing could not be coincidence. Whoever they were, they had coordinated with Jansonis or against him. Either way, it meant escalation.
A metallic clatter tore her focus back to the workshop. One of the robots emerged, its heavy servos grinding under the weight of a rectangular object clutched in its arms. They found it. Mira’s chest tightened. The world seemed to constrict in a single moment. She had not expected this little margin of time.
Jansonis did not move toward her. His eyes remained on the object as his robot bore it forward. Without looking at her, he said evenly, “This safe… does it appear familiar to you, Miss Drend?”
Mira said nothing, kept her gaze glued to the ground beneath her feet, feeling helpless.
“I’ll take your silence as confirmation,” he replied, almost idly. He tilted his head toward one of his robots. “Is it possible to open this unit?”
The robot bent over the safe, eyes tracing its contours. After a brief hum of activity, it straightened. “Sir, the structure is of a highly resistant alloy. In my judgement, any forced entry would almost certainly damage the interior contents.”
Jansonis’s lips thinned. He turned his gaze to Mira at last, eyes stripped of civility. “Miss Drend, I am finished with pretence. You will open the safe, or accompany me under arrest for obstruction of justice.” Mira stepped back, her head shaking in a slow, deliberate arc.
“You possess the key,” Jansonis pressed, matter-of-factly. “Of that I am certain.”
Her chest rose sharply, anger kindling within, sharp and uncontrolled. How dare he threaten her on her own premises? How dare he demand what she vowed to protect? “I will never surrender it! Never!” she screamed. “You’d have to pry it from my cold dead hands!”
There was a pause. Then Jansonis raised a small blaster from his side. Its muzzle pointed squarely at her. “If I must.”

Chapter 13: Altercation on Tithonus

Baley crouched low against the rough stone, the chill of the workshop wall pressing into his shoulder. They had landed at a distance, judging it unwise to announce themselves when another ship already stood before the workshop. That caution now proved sound: the intruder and his robots had taken no notice of their presence. Not yet in any case. Just ahead, through the gap, he saw the man raising his blaster at Mira. The gesture was unmistakable.
Beside him, he felt the shift of clothes. Daneel was tense, coiled, as though one more second would draw him forward in a leap. Baley’s hand shot out, fingers gripping the robot’s arm, whisper tight in his voice. “Hold. Not yet.”
Daneel’s eyes never left the scene. His voice, soft as a breath, said, “She is threatened.”
“I know,” Baley said. His throat was dry, but he kept his words steady. “But if he sees us, he may panic. Then she is not merely threatened, she is lost. Do you understand?”
A pause. The faintest hesitation in Daneel’s eyes. “Yes, Partner Elijah.”
Baley’s mind raced. Why aren’t his robots intervening? Surely they cannot allow a human to be harmed, even an enemy of their master. What instructions had been given that they would permit someone to level a blaster at a human without response?
Mira lifted her hands, her face drawn with fear, then a nervous laugh escaped her. “Surely you are aware that carrying weapons on Aurora is considered uncivilized, Mr Jansonis?”
Jansonis gave a small shrug, the blaster held steady. “Correct, in principle. But given the present circumstances, that is of no consequence. And, lest you forget, we are not on Aurora.”
“Yes. Of course.” Her voice thinned. Her eyes shifted, distracted by some movement deeper within the workshop.
Baley narrowed his gaze. Mira’s two robots - the smaller ones, Selene and Harlan - were advancing, their hands fixed on blasters of their own. He felt his stomach tighten. Damn it. The situation will escalate whether we intervene or not.
Jansonis crouched by the safe, never turning his eyes from Mira. “The code, Miss Drend.”
Beside him, Daneel moved again, the faintest step forward, as if the command circuits within him strained at their leash. His glance flicked toward Baley, silent and pleading. Baley gave a clipped nod.
Daneel moved as if the tension had snapped. In one fluid motion, he leapt from his concealment, a controlled force of motion. Mira’s two robots also reacted in unison, weapons raised, stepping to flank her with deliberate intent.
“Cease this action immediately,” Daneel commanded, his voice firm and resonant, carrying authority that exceeded mere volume. “Put the weapon down, sir. You are creating unnecessary danger.”
Jansonis froze, eyes widening slightly, the blaster wavering in his grasp. For an instant, he seemed bewildered, yet he made no motion to lower the weapon and offered no reply.
Daneel turned toward the Auroran’s robots, his posture rigid. “Explain yourselves,” he demanded. “Why do you allow a human to be placed in jeopardy by your inaction?”
One of them offered a response: “She is not classified as a human under our operational definition, sir. Consequently, she is not subject to the protections we are bound to enforce.”
Daneel surged forward, closing the distance between himself and Jansonis with speed. He seized for the blaster, intent on disarming Jansonis in a single motion. The man twisted, eyes wide, and barked, “Stay back!” Arms locked, the two struggled. He then fired once. Sparks leapt across Daneel’s chest, bright and jagged. Still, the momentum carried Daneel into the fray. His grip then found Jansonis’ wrist, forcing the weapon loose even as the man twisted and tried to regain control. The blaster skidded across the ground, just out of reach.
Daneel faltered, his knees weakening. Instinct drove Mira forward; she lunged behind him, catching him before his weight fully collapsed. With a sharp kick, she sent the blaster spinning further away from Jansonis and into the coppery sand.
Mira held Daneel firmly, bracing him against her body. Her sharp voice cut through the charged air. “Why did you come here? To escalate?”
Without waiting for a reply, she shifted her gaze to Harlan. The robot hesitated, his human-like awareness and instincts clashing with ingrained protocols. He had lingered, unsure, frozen by the chaos and the sudden threat.
“Harlan,” Mira said, voice steadier than she felt, “take the safe. Now!”
The robot hesitated. For a long moment he did nothing, seemingly caught between self-preservation and duty. Baley watched incredulously. Then, with a deep, completely unnecessary breath, he stepped forward. His hands gripped the safe, lifting it with care and retreating.
The female robot, Selene, moved then. From the bench behind her she drew a compact device and tossed it across the entrance. Mira caught it cleanly: a polished sphere of dense metal, its surface segmented by fine, interlocking seams like the ridges of some elaborate mechanical puzzle. Each groove pulsed faintly.
She glanced down at Daneel, still kneeling atop him, smoke curling from the blaster wound on his chest. “Your sound receptors,” she asked evenly. “They’re where your ears are, correct?”
Her hands moved over the device without her eyes leaving him. Her fingers twisted the smooth metallic sections with deft familiarity. Each motion was exact, instinctive, as though she’d done it a hundred times before.
Daneel nodded. “I was constructed to emulate the human form and function in all anatomical particulars. My auditory sensors are located accordingly.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
When the last groove locked into place, the sphere emitted a low harmonic vibration. Mira hurled it upward in one swift motion. The object hovered briefly, suspended in a shimmer of static potential. Without hesitation, she turned and covered Daneel’s ears with her own hands, pressing her head close to his shoulder, her body braced protectively over his. She closed her eyes then and Baley thought it wise to do the same.
The sphere detonated in a flash of blinding white light (Baley could see it even behind his eyelids) and a sound so high it seemed to shiver through the bones rather than through the air. Standing back, he winced and clamped his hands over his ears just before the pressure wave hit, then nothing but silence, clean and absolute.
When he opened his eyes again, every one of Jansonis’ robots was frozen mid-motion. Two collapsed almost gracefully, limbs locking as they struck the floor, inert. The others stood like statues.
Only Selene and Harlan remained mobile. Both wore broad auditory dampers - thick, cup-like earpieces connected by a slender wire band. The devices had evidently been engineered by Mira herself for that precise purpose, their brass fittings burnished by use.
Mira exhaled, still crouched over Daneel, her hands trembling slightly where it rested on both sides of his head. The soft glow of the disabled sphere dimmed to black, its seams now inert.
Daneel’s head lifted slightly, voice low but steady. “Thank you for protecting me from harm.”
She smiled, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Don’t mention it. You took a blaster charge for me, I’d say that makes us even.”
His robots deactivated, Jansonis stood frozen for an instant, disbelief plain on his face. “What… what did you do to them?” he demanded, voice cracking. Then his gaze shifted, past Mira, to where the blaster lay half-buried in the copper-coloured grit. His expression changed. He moved.
Mira saw the motion a fraction before it happened. She lunged, catching his arm. “Don’t!”
“Don’t touch me, filthy Earthwoman!” Jansonis shrieked, his voice rising into something unhinged. He tore his arm free, drawing the other back, hand clenched, wild-eyed, ready to strike.
But the blow never landed. Daneel’s hand shot out, gripping Mira’s wrist, pulling her back sharply just as Jansonis’ fist cut through empty air. She stumbled, lost her balance, and fell backward, straight into Daneel’s lap, his arm still half-raised from the movement.
“I trust, Miss Drend,” Daneel said evenly, “that I did not in any way hurt you.”
She glared at him, breath coming quick. “Stop worrying about me… and stop moving already! You’re in much worse shape than I am.”
Jansonis, ignoring them both, had already thrown himself toward the fallen weapon. The sand shifted under his boots. At the same instant, Baley surged from cover, a single, decisive motion, reaching for the blaster as well. They collided hard, tumbling into the copper dust in a tangle of limbs. The blaster flew from Jansonis’ grip, and both men once again lunged for it at once. Baley’s fingers brushed the barrel just as Jansonis’ weight crashed onto his back.
Baley twisted, shoving upward with his shoulder. Sand sprayed in sharp arcs as they rolled. Jansonis’ face loomed close, distorted with strain. Baley hooked his arm around the Spacer’s wrist, forcing it down. For an instant, he felt the other man’s strength falter, then Jansonis jerked violently, wrenching free.
A flash of movement, then the back of a hand cracked against Baley’s cheek. He reeled. The second blow came heavier, a closed fist smashing into the bridge of his nose. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He fell sideways into the sand, blood spilling warm over his lip. Jansonis scrambled to his knees.
He heard Daneel’s alarmed voice call his name. The sound stung worse than the blow. Beaten, and by an effete Spacer. The humiliation burned in him even as he stumbled back, one hand to his face.
Jansonis had already recovered the weapon. He backed away several paces, blaster raised, his breath coming fast. “Stay where you are,” he shouted, voice cracking. “Nobody move!”
He kept the blaster trained squarely on Baley, his chest still heaving from the struggle. His face was drawn tight, now completely stripped of pretext. “You will open the safe, Miss Drend,” he said, his voice raw, trembling with fury. “Or mark my work, I will shoot this man where he stands. There are no robots left to stop me with any of their pesky First Law imperatives.”
Mira’s gaze flicked from the weapon to Baley. For a moment she hesitated, something uncertain crossed her face, a brief shadow of conscience, but she forced it down. “Do what you must,” she said, though her voice trembled. “I will not comply. I don’t care what fate the Earthman meets.”
Her eyes lingered on Baley then, and there was an unguarded sorrow in them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Truly. But you must understand, no one can be allowed to have my grandfather’s research. Not even if it means…” Her voice faltered, the words thinning to silence. “Not that it makes it any easier, I’m sure,” she added, almost to herself.
Daneel’s voice cut sharply through the tension. “Miss Drend, you cannot mean that! Partner Elijah will die if—”
“Enough!” Jansonis barked. His expression shifted. Frustration over his threat failing to land as intended curdled his expression, and instead he moved aside and seized Selene by the arm, jerking her forward. The blaster swung to her head, pressing against the polished surface of her skull. “Perhaps this will move you more than sentiment for your own kind.”
Mira froze. “That isn’t amusing. Put it down.”
“Amusing?” he said, laughter breaking through his breath, half-hysterical. “No. I’ve heard the stories - that you care more for machines than men. I thought it exaggeration. But by the stars, it’s true.” He shook his head, still laughing, though the sound had turned harsh. “You open that safe, Miss Drend. Now. Before I burn a hole through this construct of yours.”
Her eyes, wide with apprehension, flicked to Harlan, who clutched the safe with evident uncertainty. A hesitant nod passed between them. Harlan moved forward, the safe in his hands, and Mira stepped cautiously toward him, intent on complying. Baley’s gaze caught the first glint of tears pooling in her eyes, tracing down her cheeks as she seemed forced to betray her own principles. In that instant, the girl appeared impossibly small, a fragile thing swallowed by the weight of her decision. She looked so pitiful that Baley chose to ignore the fact that she had, only moments prior, signed his death warrant without much hesitation at all. Thirty-five or not, in that light, she might almost have been his own child, Bentley’s age… far younger than her years.
Then, without warning, a shadow fell across Jansonis. Venn had appeared, returned from Jehoshaphat knows where, and stood behind the Auroran man. His strong robotic arm swung down with precision, striking him at the back of the head. Jansonis crumpled instantly, unconscious.

Chapter 14: Pursuers

Mere seconds ago, Mira had nearly broken. The memory still clung to her skin like an angry burn. She wiped her face with a single swift motion, erasing the evidence of weakness before anyone could mark it. She had kept her head down, hiding the hot tears that had threatened to flow before Jansonis, Elijah Baley… hell, even that human-like robot. That is how she missed Venn and Corvin’s return, and only saw its aftermath. Jansonis now lay motionless in the sand. Gratitude welled sharp and unbidden, but she smothered it quickly.
“Took you long enough,” she said, her tone meant to sound dry but trembling slightly at the edges.
Venn did not respond, and neither did Corvin. She looked away, unable to meet their blank, unwavering gazes. The shame pressed harder than relief, shame at her failure to control the situation, to protect her own.
Baley’s voice broke the silence, half-nasal from the blood still seeping from it. “Your robot! He struck a man… on purpose!” His tone was incredulous, though not wholly condemning. “Surely there must have been a better way to disarm him without violating the First Law? Not,” he added quickly, pressing a handkerchief against his face, “that I’m complaining.”
Mira didn’t turn to face him. Her gaze stayed fixed on the smear in the dust where Jansonis had fallen. “If there was a more peaceful way,” she said quietly, “Venn failed to think of it.” She shrugged. “It was the most efficient way in any event.”
Mira hesitated, her mouth half open as if uncertain where to begin. “Listen, I—”
Baley raised a hand, cutting her off with a tired gesture. “Let us dispense with apologies, Miss Drend,” he said, his tone even but firm. “You acted according to your judgement in a volatile situation. I do not expect you to account for my safety. In truth, I am only grateful that we are all still standing.”
Her lips pressed together and colour rose faintly to her cheeks. Just as quickly, she looked aside, her composure settling back into place like armour re-fastened. “As you say, Elijah Baley,” she said, then added with a trace of dry poise, “You returned, after all, and presumably to help me fend off the attacker rather than join forces with them. I’ll count that in your favour.”
A brief silence followed, and then she cleared her throat and turned toward her robots, her voice regaining its usual brisk authority. “Corvin, Venn. Move Daneel here to the workroom in the back. And please… do be delicate.”
Corvin nodded in acknowledgment. As they stooped to lift Daneel’s damaged form with care, the smell of scorched metal lingered in the air.
Baley’s hand shot out instinctively. “Wait. He must be returned to Fastolfe. And if the adversary should send reinforcements, what then?”
Mira frowned. “No! Further movement now would increase the likelihood of irreparable damage. I understand the exposure is not ideal, yet you cannot possibly wish your partner to incur unnecessary injury, can you?” She paused briefly, voice lowering to a deliberate calm. “I know I am capable of repairing him. I am certain of it.”
“On what basis?” Baley countered. “He is no ordinary robot. Have you ever worked with humanoid positronic systems of this sophistication before?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll admit. Frankly, I base it on gut feeling. Or an informed hypothesis, if you prefer.”
“A gut feeling? Really?” Baley exhaled sharply, exasperated. “Very well. Daneel, the choice is yours.”
Her eyes fixed on Daneel, expression firm. “Please, I must have your trust in this!”
Daneel nodded, voice showing no sign of being in pain whatsoever. “You need not concern yourself, Partner Elijah. Miss Drend… I shall place my full trust in you.”
Baley’s jaw tightened. He offered a brief nod of acquiescence, stepping back as the robots continued their careful transport of Daneel toward the rear workroom. Without wasting any more time, Mira moved to the cluttered bench near the workshop entrance, sifting through a jumble of tools and spare robotic components. Her hands found a length of electrical cord, which she looped neatly and tossed to Baley.
“It would be prudent to secure him,” she said. “Should he regain consciousness, we cannot risk another outburst.”
Baley caught the cord, nodding once. “Agreed. That is sensible.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the broader situation. “And the others… Jansonis’ robots? Are they likely to reactivate on their own? Should we restrain them as well?”
Mira shook her head. “Not likely. To regain function, they will require the attention of a competent roboticist, and a careful one at that.”
Baley bent over the Auroran, methodically fastening the hands behind his back. Mira, meanwhile, searched the man’s pockets for identification or other items of interest. Her fingers paused on something small, tucked within the interior lining of his coat. A discreet transmitter or chip, she realized, and with a sleight of hand she pocketed it without Baley noticing. She would examine it later, perhaps trace its origin once the detective had departed.
Glancing up, she noted Baley’s attention was elsewhere, his brow furrowed.
“Plainclothesman?” she prompted.
Baley’s voice was low, tinged with restrained curiosity. “The device you deployed, that strange spherical… bomb. It emitted such a piercing frequency. What precisely is its mechanism?”
Mira’s lips curved proudly. “The device emits a high-frequency signal calibrated to be perceptible to most robot models,” she explained. “Its pattern is engineered to mimic a scenario that presents a profound First Law conflict, one that the positronic brain cannot reconcile. The effect is immediate: the robot’s circuits enter a state of cognitive suspension. Motion ceases, sensory processing halts, and the unit becomes temporarily inert.” She tapped the side of her head lightly, indicating the conceptual precision behind the design. “The circuits are not damaged; indeed, no structural harm is done. Once the signal is removed or the conflict is resolved and the robot is, if you’ll forgive the term, rebooted, it may resume normal function.”
“I see. And you constructed it yourself?”
She gave a short nod, her face attempting to keep its neutral composure. She could see that he was impressed with the tool she had engineered. “Yes. For contingencies such as this. One must always anticipate unexpected behaviour in autonomous systems.”
Baley’s gaze lingered for a moment before tying the final knot. Mira rose then, brushing the dust from her palms. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I must see to your robotic colleague,” she said. Without waiting for assent, she turned toward the inner chamber.
Baley followed, his stride catching up as they passed through the narrow passage leading into the workroom. The transition was abrupt. The utilitarian yet somewhat raggedy outer rooms gave way to a space gleaming with state-of-the-art technology. The air was cooler here, and rows of diagnostic panels lined the walls. Articulated rigs hung from the ceiling like the arms of some mechanical surgeon.
Mira glanced over her shoulder at Baley’s expression - his eyes had widened fractionally. She could hardly blame him. “It’s… a little finer than the rest of the house,” she admitted. “My grandfather preferred to work in comfort. He built this room to the highest Auroran standard.”
Baley’s gaze moved across the polished surfaces and meticulously ordered tools. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “You’d expect to find something like this in a university laboratory, not on a measly satellite establishment.”
“Yes, I suspect that was precisely the point,” Mira replied.
At the centre of the room lay Daneel, motionless upon a reinforced table, the fine features of his face fixed in tranquil repose, her four robots flanking him.
“Perimeter sweep, all of you,” Mira said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Full sensor range. If any stranger so much as breathes near the property, I want to know.”
Harlan glanced toward the doorway, and Baley could almost see the unease flickering across his expressionless yellow eyes. “Miss Mira,” he said quietly, “what if they bring more men? We won’t stand much of a chance.”
“Then we hope we’re quicker,” Mira said. “Daneel’s repairs should come first, of course. Everything else must wait.” She forced a thin smile. “Let’s just try not to make a habit of running.” She surveyed Daneel’s inert form. “Now,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “let’s see what I can do for you.”
Mira lingered beside the table, tools arrayed neatly at her elbow, her expression tightening in visible hesitation. She turned toward Baley, then quickly looked away, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with a somewhat awkward motion.
“Inspector,” she said at last, her tone edged with discomfort, “would you… terribly mind checking on our guest outside? He’s bound to wake before long. You might get something useful out of him.” She paused, then added, a little too quickly, “I work better without an audience. My grandfather used to hover, and I’ve never quite shaken the feeling.”
Baley’s expression softened. “Understood,” he said. “I’ll see what I can learn from Jansonis.”
As he left, the door hissed shut behind him and the air seemed to suddenly loosen around her. She exhaled once, deeply, then reached for her instruments, her hands steadier now. She looked up and for a moment faltered, struck by a sudden self-consciousness at the thought of personally undressing a being so indistinguishable from a human man.
“Would you mind, um…”
Daneel didn’t require for her to finish her sentence. “Yes, of course,” he said.
He unbuttoned his shirt, each motion smooth. The fabric parted to reveal a body that could have very well been flesh and blood. His chest was sparsely haired and well muscled, its surface rising and falling in a rhythm that was meant to be mistaken for breathing.
Mira stared in awe of his design, then composed herself with some effort. She adjusted the magnifying lenses over her eyes, each segment of glass clicking softly into place. She began a slow, meticulous inspection of Daneel’s positronic nexus. The diagnostic terminal beside her flickered to life, its readouts scrolling quietly. She connected a narrow filament lead to the port on the robot’s chestplate. It showed a more recent Auroran interface, but it was familiar enough to navigate. Lines of code shimmered across the display, fragmented instructions looping endlessly where damage had disrupted Daneel’s systems. Strangely, she found the patterns intelligible, instinctively so, as though some part of her already knew the logic beneath the code, despite never having studied such structures before.
She leaned closer, tracing the curve on his neck with her bare fingertip to feel the very human-like warmth of his synthetic skin. It startled her slightly - how alive he felt, how his pulse of internal current seemed almost organic. She had never seen any robot like that before.
Mira regarded him steadily. “Tell me something. That man… what could he have possibly meant by not human? You do see me as human, don’t you, Mr Olivaw?”
Daneel nodded emphatically. “Most certainly, Miss Drend. I cannot, in any possible sense, regard you otherwise.”
“Then why,” she pressed, “did his robots not react when he attacked me? Surely they would have attempted to avoid such blatant First Law conflict.”
“I can only infer,” said Daneel, “that their definition of humanity has been adjusted by a third party. They have been instructed, perhaps without direct knowledge, to perceive you as something other than human.”
Mira scoffed, a sharp sound that might have been amusement or resignation. “Evidently, the First Law isn’t quite as sacred as everyone likes to think. There are cracks in it, large ones, that can appear if you only know where to press.”
Her hands paused above the delicate filaments. “At any rate, I ought to thank you,” she said at last. “I know you were acting under the First Law yourself, but even so… you chose to protect me and not my adversary, who is no less human than I am. Had you shielded him instead, you might have spared yourself this damage. Perhaps that would have been the wiser course. Yet… for what you did, I thank you.”
“Had I done otherwise, you would have borne the injury in my place.”
“A human was injured regardless,” Mira countered.
“Mr Jansonis’ welfare registered as a lesser priority than your own, Miss Drend,” Daneel replied.
She frowned, genuinely unsettled. “How can that be? It isn’t as though you know me, or in any event, know me any more than you know him.”
“Yet in a way,” Daneel said quietly, “I feel that I do.”
Mira blinked, puzzled by his words, and then gave a teasing grin. “Feel? Interesting choice of words.”
“A linguistic convenience. Naturally, I lack the biochemical substrate for emotion as humans experience it. Yet there exist heuristic analogues, correlations between evaluative responses within my positronic pathways. They are sufficient to approximate what you would call feeling.”
She knew what he meant from the start, however, and was only pulling his leg. Yet… she felt, in some curious way, the same. Was it his passing resemblance to Lucen, or something else entirely? Had they met before? No… that would be impossible. She would not have forgotten such an encounter; curiosity and fascination for his construction would have ensured it. Despite herself, her pulse quickened. She found herself too self-conscious to touch him directly again. She turned her attention back to the terminal, to the logic of code and mathematics, where patterns were clear and comprehensible, a most welcome distraction.
Mira worked methodically, replacing the damaged circuits where the blaster had struck. Each connection was soldered and reinforced. Once the immediate physical repairs were complete, she returned to the terminal, applying the patched programming to restore disrupted operational loops. Finally, she covered the area with a thin layer of protective colloid, securing the repairs against further disturbance.
“This will suffice for now,” she said quietly, stepping back to inspect her work. “Enough to maintain function until Dr Fastolfe can attend to you fully - that is to say, repair your integument and make whatever other adjustments he deems necessary.”
“Thank you, Miss Drend, for preserving my operational integrity with your careful intervention,” Daneel said.
Mira allowed a faint smile. “The pleasure was mine, Daneel. And since I’ve seen your insides, you might as well call me Mira.”
“Thank you… Mira,” Daneel repeated, his voice a touch hesitant but carrying a note of warmth.
She carefully closed the exposed cavity in his chest, concealing the intricate positronic structures once more. Daneel rose from the table, moving his arms with measured caution. His movements were fluid, testing each articulation.
“Your work is commendable,” he said, pausing to examine the alignment of his limb responses. “I see my functions have been restored with minimal disruption.”
Mira stepped back, her cheeks turning red once more. “I did what I could. If I had—”
In that moment, Corvin entered the room, his movements seeming especially hurried for him. “Miss Mira! We’ve detected subspace transmissions addressed to Mr Jansonis,” he said. “They are requesting his debriefing. In the absence of a reply, additional personnel will almost certainly be dispatched to this location.”
Mira’s expression tightened. She raised a hand to her lips, biting at a nail in thought. “Blast it,” she murmured. “And Jansonis himself - he still hasn’t regained consciousness, has he? He isn’t dead, surely?”
“Not dead,” Corvin answered. “But still unconscious. Or possibly simulating the condition. His biological readings are erratic enough to permit either conclusion.”
“If he’s pretending, it’s to delay inquiry. And if not, well, either way, it won’t buy us much time.”
“Precisely my assessment, Miss Mira. Our window for discretion is narrowing.” Corvin’s gaze flicked toward Daneel, then back to Mira. “I trust you are done with Mr Olivaw here? Perhaps it would be prudent to go into hiding.”
Mira nodded tersely. “Go back out. I’ll meet you all outside in a few minutes.”
“Very well.”
Corvin withdrew silently. Mira moved quickly once he was gone, crossing the room with tense will. She pulled a worn travel bag from a storage locker and began filling it with essentials: portable power cells, datacubes, a small tool case. Robotic components, not personal effects. Her movements were brisk and efficient, but her hands trembled.
Daneel watched in silence before speaking. “Where do you intend to go, Mira?”
She didn’t look up. “Vorian prepared a refuge further south of Tithonus, near the pole. A contingency shelter for situations like this.” She closed the bag with a sharp snap and slung it over her shoulder.
Daneel followed as she strode toward the exit. “First you must examine the situation logically. If those pursuing you have located this workshop, which is itself troublesome to find, it is probable they also know the coordinates of your safehouse.”
Mira stopped at the threshold, turning sharply. “What do you suggest I do, then?”
“I suggest,” Daneel said evenly, “that you accompany us to Aurora. There, I may directly ensure your safety.”
Mira met his gaze for an instant. The sincerity in his tone unsettled her more than she wished to admit. Then she gave a short, bitter laugh. “I appreciate the sentiment, Daneel, but my robots can keep me as safe as you can, and they are four where you are one. Besides, I do not care to be taken prisoner.”
As she spoke, the sound of footsteps approached from outside. Baley appeared at the entrance, the daylight outlining him sharply against the horizon. Mira’s robots stood beyond him, waiting in formation beside the vehicle, ready to leave.
Baley’s expression hardened as soon as he saw her. “Miss Drend,” he said briskly, “you’ll have to come with us. For your own safety, you’ll remain under guarded protection until we determine who’s behind this.” His tone carried a sense of clipped finality. “I’ll inform Officer Damiro of the Auroran police that you’ve been attacked and are presently under our care.”
Mira turned sharply toward him. “Wait, Plainclothesman! That man, Jansonis, claimed to be Auroran police himself. While I have reason to doubt his credentials, I cannot be… certain. Perhaps the conspiracy runs deeper than any of us imagine. I would prefer that my whereabouts not be disclosed to anyone claiming Auroran authority until we know whom we’re dealing with.”
Baley frowned, weighing her words. “If they’re bold enough to pose as law enforcement, that makes it all the more necessary you stay within my jurisdiction. Detectives are not an easy bunch to move against, even here. Keeping close to us is your surest bet.”
Mira hesitated, her gaze flicking from Baley to the door. The silence stretched, until Selene spoke, her voice edged with tension. “Mira, please,” she appealed to her. “I am scared! We don’t know who these pursuers are, nor what they’ll do when they get here. But we absolutely can’t stay and find out! They’ll be here any minute now.”
Mira’s lips pressed together. The faint tremor in Selene’s tone tipped the balance. She turned back to Baley, her decision made. “Very well,” she said. “But my robots come with me. I will not leave them behind to be captured or dismantled.”
Baley exhaled, visibly restraining irritation. “All right. Bring them if you must, but stay close. For now, we must hasten. I’d rather not have to rescue anyone twice in one day.”

Chapter 15: The Safe

The crampedness of the ship made itself known within minutes of departure. It had been designed, Baley estimated, for three passengers, four at the very utmost. Seven was an absurdity. Even without the needs of a Spacer for personal distance, the configuration felt intolerably close. The air itself seemed tight, pressing at him from all sides.
Daneel piloted, as before, with that unerring steadiness unique to robots. He neither tired nor fidgeted. Beside him sat Venn, the largest of Mira’s four companions, his angular frame leaving not a millimetre of wasted space in the co-pilot’s seat. The arrangement had been logical - no human body would have fit beside him in the back without pain or injury. The remaining five had been relegated to the narrow aft section, wedged like components in an overfilled circuit housing.
Baley occupied the edge seat nearest the bulkhead, his knees brushing the smooth metal casing of Harlan, who sat slouched, or as close to slouched as his somewhat rigid structure allowed. Next to Harlan was Selene, her painted surface faintly scuffed from the earlier skirmish. Corvin had taken the far end, motionless and indifferent. Between them all sat Mira, pressed close enough that Baley could feel the faint warmth of her shoulder through the layers of fabric… his own fabric, that is. It was a courtesy her own attire scarcely extended. She wore the same light working garb he had seen before, the first time he had questioned her. Of her garments only her pair of loose-fitting trousers and long boots gave any impression of modesty. It was, Baley supposed, the kind of clothing chosen for freedom of motion rather than effect, yet the result was disconcerting all the same. It was enough to make a grown man blush, especially in such proximity.
The robots, naturally, registered no discomfort whatsoever. It was only the humans (though there were only two - three, if you counted Daneel), with their need to breathe, to shift, that made the three-hour journey seem unending.
Baley told himself he was accustomed to crowding. Earth’s Cities, its caves of steel, had trained him well in that respect. The press of millions in airless tunnels, the intimacy of strangers, the shared air… those were his native elements. Yet there was a peculiar difference here: most of the bodies pressed against him were not smooth and fleshy, but hard and cool. The Drend girl alone broke that pattern, though she neither complained nor seemed self-conscious about it, absorbed instead in some silent mental calculation, her gaze fixed on the blue globe approaching slowly through the viewport.
Baley found himself envying her composure. For all the unbroken monotony of space, the journey back to Aurora felt longer, far longer, than the one that had brought them to Tithonus I.
Once they had arrived, Baley kept his word. He sent no notice to Officer Damiro, nor to any other Auroran authority, of Mira Drend’s presence in their borrowed quarters. She had requested access to the nearest Personal almost immediately upon landing, citing the simple need for a shower, a claim that, given the state of their flight, was plausible enough. Baley allowed it, though with growing impatience. He had been meaning to question her ever since the incident in the workshop, ever since she had sent him away while she worked on Daneel. Courtesy had compelled him to oblige her then, but frankly, that courtesy was beginning to taste stale. What he wanted now were answers… coherent, unambiguous answers, and he intended to have them the moment she emerged.
And so she did. She opened the door to the Personal a few minutes later, her hair damp and clinging, a towel pressed absently to it but otherwise completely nude. She moved across the room with unstudied ease, leaving damp footprints on the tiled floor. There was nothing in her bearing of self-consciousness; she behaved as though bodily privacy were a concept beneath consideration. To Baley, who was accustomed to the nudity taboo of Earth, the effect was shocking, to say the least.
His gaze flicked to Daneel, as if seeking confirmation that this was normal Auroran behaviour. Daneel raised his shoulders, expression impassive, conveying neither approval nor censure, merely indifference. Baley exhaled, a subtle tension rising within him. Once again, he found himself reminded of Gladia Delmarre, and of her own composure in similar circumstances. Of course, it had been different then: Gladia had been merely a holographic projection when he first observed her, and the abstracted distance of the image had shielded him from the immediacy of presence. Mira, in contrast, was here in flesh and bone, yet she displayed the same almost apathetic confidence in her exhibitionism. One thing was certain: she surely wasn’t the prude Lucen Sarton made her out to be.
He turned his eyes aside, more out of reflex than intent, and felt a flicker of irritation at himself for doing so. She, meanwhile, seemed oblivious, absorbed in the simple, methodical act of drying her hair, tilting her head to clear the moisture from her ears, as though he were no more than another piece of furniture occupying the room.
Baley cleared his throat lightly, careful to keep his eyes fixed on the floor. “Miss Drend… perhaps it would be prudent to… to resume customary attire,” he suggested, the tone of his words overly formal even to his ears.
Suddenly she had caught his gaze, or perhaps his efforts to avoid it, and pounced on the opportunity like a cat on an unwary mouse. Her lips curved into a pleased smile.
“My, mister Inspector,” she said, voice growing more teasing by the second. “Aren’t you a little old to be gawking at me so? You aren’t entertaining improper thoughts now, are you? What would dear Jezebel think?”
Baley blinked. He did not recall ever mentioning his wife in any prior conversation with her. Irritation flared briefly. “Daneel, did you—”
“I promise I did not disclose anything of your personal life, Partner Elijah,” Daneel replied, voice calm and neutral.
A flash of comprehension struck Baley. She must have learned of Jessie the same way she had learned of the Solaria case, through some combination of procedural disregard and remote access to private records, perhaps via hyperwave or another mechanism he could not immediately ascertain.
Mira’s gaze shifted to Daneel, sharp and assessing. “What about you, Mr Olivaw… does my current state of undress trouble you as well, as it does your partner every time a scantily clad female enters his field of vision?”
Baley’s jaw tightened. Yes, yes, I know you’ve read the Solaria report, enough references to that already! he thought, irritation flickering once more across his mind.
Her curiosity, however, was not sated. Her smile widened, her eyes frenzied with intent. “Do you perhaps feel any degree of attraction? The way most men, I gather, would respond in such circumstances? You were made to imitate one, after all, were you not? Surely the sight must tingle your positronic pathways at least to some extent,” she prodded.
Daneel maintained his customary calm, however. “Miss Drend,” he said, “I am constructed to observe and interpret human responses. I will admit your form corresponds to parameters my programming identifies as aesthetically pleasing. That being said, this observation is entirely consistent with my general evaluative functions. I do not possess the biochemical substrate capable of generating sexual desire. Therefore, to answer your question, no. No such impulse arises from observation of your form.”
Mira’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile. “Ah. Pity.”
Baley’s irritation deepened. The single word carried with it the implication that the entire exchange had been thought out, a deliberate experiment upon them both. He exhaled through his nose, recognizing the futility of any attempt to regain composure while remaining in her presence.
Mira, apparently unconcerned, held aloft a bundle of garments left by a household robot in the Personal before she jumped into the shower. “In any case, please tell me, if you will,” she said, voice brisk, “what exactly are these?”
“This establishment contained several sets of women’s attire suitable for wear on Aurora,” said Baley. “It was deemed appropriate to provide you with them, in the interest of maintaining a low profile while you are pursued by an unidentified force.”
“And what of my own? I find dresses such as these inconvenient for the execution of my duties.”
“Your own clothing was set aside for washing. You may select slacks from the available options, should that better serve your purposes. At any rate, your duties, as you define them, are suspended for the duration of your stay here.”
She produced a deliberate sigh. As she fastened the dress over her body, she added, “And what am I to do all day? Wait for you to return from your own activities, like a subservient housewife from one of those historical holo‑novels?”
Without warning, she shook her cropped hair with a sudden motion, displacing water like a dog having just emerged from a lake. Fine droplets struck both Baley and Daneel. Baley’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. This constituted the third disruption of his composure in as many minutes, each incident adding to a mounting internal irritation. The effect, however, was partially countered as Mira completed donning the dress. It was elegant, yet modern in cut, conforming to contemporary Spacer taste. For the first time since he had first met her, Baley noted the faintest impression of womanly charm amidst the chaos of her being.
“Let us get back on track, Miss Drend. I must ask you to clarify something concerning the incident that happened earlier. Do you by any chance know the individual who attacked you?”
Mira moved to the couch and allowed herself to sink onto it. Her gaze swept the room. “He identified himself as Halric Jansonis. You would have to inquire further or consult appropriate records to determine any prior associations or background.”
“That is not precisely my question. Did he seem familiar to you?”
Mira hesitated, a faint tension flickering across her expression. “Yes. I have seen him previously at the workshop, engaged in conversation with my grandfather.”
Baley’s surprise was evident. “Really? And when was that?”
“Perhaps a year ago,” she replied. “I took note of the encounter because my grandfather does not disclose the location of our workshop to just anyone. He ordinarily arranges meetings with colleagues elsewhere, at controlled and supervised sites. That this individual was present, unannounced and seemingly unremarkable in demeanour, struck me as… anomalous.”
She looked around. “Where are my robots?”
“One instant,” Baley replied, stepping closer. His eyes narrowed, pressing the matter. “I must know. This safe Jansonis wanted you to open… what does it contain?”
Mira’s brow furrowed in mild displeasure, and she hesitated longer than was comfortable. “I do not know what it contains,” she said finally.
Baley’s frown deepened. “You cannot possibly expect me to accept that.”
“Whether you accept it or not, it is nevertheless the truth,” Mira responded firmly. “However I surmise it contains material related to his research.”
“Can you open the safe now, Miss Drend?” Baley pressed, his tone sharpened with urgency.
“I may not,” she replied. “I promised Vorian that I would not open it, and I intend to honour that commitment.”
Baley’s voice rose. “Even if it contains information that could advance our inquiry? Perhaps instructions intended for you are contained within.”
“That is precisely what Jansonis suggested,” Mira said, her expression unchanging. “And now, may I know the location of my robots, Mr Baley?”
Daneel interjected with deliberate calm. “Your robots have been assigned quarters. They await your presence there once Partner Elijah is done with his questioning.”
Baley’s impatience flared. “Understand, Miss Drend, that by refusing access, you are impeding the investigation!”
Mira’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears, though her tone remained controlled. “I understand! Believe me I do! Yet what alternative remains? I cannot contravene my guardian’s trust. There must be another approach. There must be!”
Baley opened his mouth to press further, but Daneel placed a steady hand on his shoulder, his grip like iron. “Let it go, Partner Elijah. Further insistence risks causing unnecessary distress to Mira.”
Baley turned, incredulous. “Mira? Are you on a first-name basis now? Daneel, may I ask… whose side are you aligned with in this inquiry?”
Daneel’s calm was unshakable. “The side on which the case is resolved with minimal harm, Partner Elijah.”
So this is it, thought Baley. Mira now sat on the couch, arms drawn about herself, face withdrawn. For a moment, he wondered if this was yet another of her subtle games, if she were manipulating even Daneel’s reactions. But no, this is folly. A sigh escaped him. She appeared genuinely troubled, and a measure of sympathy settled over him. He allowed her to go and rejoin her robots. Mira rose and departed without another word.
Baley lowered himself onto the couch, settling into the place still warm from her recent occupancy. Daneel took the adjacent seat, his posture unyielding.
“We ought to proceed to Fastolfe,” Baley said, his tone careful. “I do not entirely trust that Mira Drend’s repairs were made without ulterior intent.”
“I am unaware of any modifications of my programming beyond those she effected with the intent of restoration. The principal need at present concerns patching my teguments, damaged where the blaster compromised them. Nevertheless, I will not leave our charge behind in this establishment.”
“Why? Surely she is sufficiently protected,” Baley countered, “by her four loyal robots, not to mention all the household units present.”
“Even so,” Daneel replied evenly, “it would alleviate my concern if she accompanied us, so that she remain under my direct observation.”
Baley pinched the bridge of his nose, then exhaled. “Very well. If it will afford you peace of mind, she may come.”
And so the matter was settled.

Chapter 16: Jander Panell

They arrived at Dr. Han Fastolfe’s establishment in the late afternoon, the airfoil settling soundlessly upon the landing terrace. From within, Baley felt the vibration cease beneath his feet. The door parted and he stepped out hesitantly. The transition from vehicle to open space was, as always, disorienting, but he pushed the thought away.
Before departure, Mira had once again insisted on bringing her four robots. The argument had consumed nearly half an hour of increasingly circular logic. She had cited their protective duty, their usefulness, their irreplaceable function as her extensions. It was a familiar refrain among Spacers, Baley reflected with distaste. They and their robots were joined at the hip, unable to function apart. The dependency was more than simply cultural (it bordered on symbiotic), and to an Earthman’s eye, it remained unsettling, an erosion of self-sufficiency.
In any event, Baley remembered all too vividly the cramped confinement of the previous shuttle flight, and had refused outright. The airfoil was designed for four passengers, not seven, and he had no intention of repeating the indignity of being pressed between metal shoulders for the duration of another journey.
In the end, Mira had yielded… though not to his reasoning. Baley suspected it was the mention of Dr Fastolfe that changed her mind. She knew the man, it seemed, and trusted him, or at least saw no reason to fear him. That knowledge, more than any appeal to protocol or practicality, had settled the matter.
Now, Baley could almost believe she had never protested at all. What a temperamental girl, he thought. She looked about with calm assurance.
They entered through the main vestibule of Fastolfe’s establishment. The old roboticist was waiting for them in the reception chamber. His expression brightened upon seeing Daneel, though a trace of apprehension passed across his features as his eyes registered the damage to the robot’s chest.
“Plainclothesman,” he began, tone genial but reproachful, “must I remind you that my most prized contribution to the field of robotics is not designed to serve as a shield in your investigative excursions? You do have a talent for placing him in jeopardy.”
Baley managed a small, weary smile. “Circumstances were rather beyond our control, Dr Fastolfe. We encountered some resistance on Tithonus I. Daneel unfortunately sustained minor structural damage from blaster fire. Miss Drend,” he gestured toward Mira, “did her best to stabilize him temporarily. Her intervention prevented further deterioration.”
Only then did Fastolfe’s attention shift past the two men. Mira had been standing half-concealed behind them, her small frame making her presence easily overlooked at first glance. Fastolfe’s eyes widened as they fell upon her. For an instant, brief but unmistakable, his composure faltered. The geniality drained from his features, and so did the colour from his face, replaced only by a flicker of what Baley could only interpret as disquiet, perhaps even alarm.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Fastolfe recovered himself with practised smoothness, offering Mira a restrained but courteous smile. “Mira,” he said evenly, his voice regaining warmth by degrees, “this is a most unexpected meeting. It has been… quite some time.”
Baley, observing from the side, registered the exchange with sharp curiosity. Whatever history lay between them, it was clear that Fastolfe’s surprise was not merely professional.
“Han,” said Mira, “it has indeed been some time since we last met. I am pleased to see you again.”
Her tone was cordial, if not warm. Baley noted the phrasing, the the use of his given name, and immediately recalled his earlier questioning, when he had seemed scarcely acquainted with Mira at all, safe for passing mentions of her by her grandfather. This contradiction suggested that Fastolfe may be withholding something; he must be hiding knowledge of her that he was not yet willing to reveal. He filed it away for later examination. Perhaps that line of inquiry could wait. Such things often surfaced naturally if one prodded the right nerve.
Presently Fastolfe ushered them inward. His hand came to rest on Daneel’s shoulder, guiding him with familiarity. Baley followed them into a robotics workspace, not unlike the one at the Drend’s household, and Fastolfe offered refreshments.
Several robots moved about the room, almost deferentially, their awareness split neatly between the scientist and his guests. Jander was not among them, Baley noticed. He scanned the benches, the diagnostic panels, the silent forms of half-completed positronic frames. Daneel sat on a bench without any verbal prompting from his master, as if intrinsically knowing what to do.
Fastolfe set about his examination of Daneel, fingers tracing the contours of the damaged teguments and probing the internal junctions with practiced ease. Without looking up, he asked Baley, “And how fares the investigation, Mr Baley? Any developments of note?”
Baley shook his head slightly. “Not much, I am afraid. Progress has been slower than anticipated.”
His gaze drifted toward Mira, who moved lightly about the laboratory, her attention caught by various instruments, panels, and half-assembled positronic components. She could not remain still, that one.
“I had hoped,” Baley continued, directing his attention back to Fastolfe, “to make contact with someone at Heliodyne Systems - the Head, Dr Tervane, if possible. But the institute seems particularly closed to visitors, or perhaps specifically to me. Access is proving… elusive, to use no stronger word.”
Fastolfe paused in his adjustments and asked casually, “Did Vorian have any dealings with them? Is that why you wish to question Heliodyne?” He blinked. “I had no idea he had ever worked with such an institute. I rather assumed he would operate independently, much as I myself do.”
“One of Miss Drend’s robots suggested the possibility,” Baley said, “and Lucen Sarton confirmed it.”
Fastolfe leaned back slightly, his brow furrowed. “Lucen Sarton, hm?” he murmured. “Ah… I did not anticipate that your investigation would lead you to him…” His gaze flicked toward Mira, tentative, measuring her reaction.
She remained calm however, betraying no sign of recognition or concern. Baley pressed further, “Exactly how much do you know of the young man? His relationship with Vorian Drend?”
Mira stepped closer, voice firm though tinged with sudden defensiveness. “Elijah Baley, I do not know what you are implying, but I assure you, Lucen had nothing to do with it. He loved my grandfather, as much as I did!”
Fastolfe, who had neither said nor implied otherwise, now appeared slightly sheepish, caught in the unexpected assertion.
A faint edge of impatience appeared in Mira’s face. “I need to use the Personal,” she said briskly.
“Of course,” Fastolfe replied smoothly, pausing only a moment. “Would you like a robot to accompany you, or do you still remember the way?”
“I’m quite capable of finding it myself, thank you,” Mira answered.
Baley observed her departure, noting the way Fastolfe’s eyes lingered for an instant longer than necessary. Something remained unspoken between them, something that neither chose to articulate. Baley filed the impression away, aware that the unvoiced truths often mattered as much as the spoken ones.

-

Mira splashed her face with water from the faucet a second time. An unshakable disquiet lingered ever since she had stepped into Fastolfe’s laboratory. Officially, she had never been there before, as far as she could recall. Then why does it seem so overwhelmingly familiar? The smells, the orderly array of instruments, the sights, even Dr Fastolfe himself… it all pressed against her consciousness, as if a fragment of memory had been extracted from some inaccessible recess of her mind. She did not welcome the sensation. It was an intrusion, almost violent in its persistence.
She realized she could not justify lingering any longer. She opened the door of the Personal.
A figure stood there, close enough to give pause. A humanoid robot, its features sharply reminiscent of another of the same type. Mira blinked, caught between curiosity and surprise.
“I have come to retrieve you, Miss,” he said in a measured voice. “Are you in need of anything?”
Mira regarded him carefully, noting the uncanny similarity to Daneel. “What is your name, robot?” she asked.
“Jander Panell, Miss,” it replied, his voice eerily calm.
Mira let out a dry, humourless laugh. “Roj Nemenuh Sarton the Third, huh? Or Second?”
Jander’s head tilted with deliberation. “I was built after Friend Daneel, if that is what you are asking. And yes, both of us were modelled after a somewhat idealized version of Dr Sarton.” He paused, the stillness of the room accentuating the brief interval. Then, with customary formality, he added, “Shall we get back?”
Mira did not move. She took the metallic chip out of her pocket and into the palm of her hand and it caught the dim light. She turned it over thoughtfully, tracing its edges with a fingertip. She had extracted it from Jansonis’ coat after the attack, intending to localize its signal back at the safehouse on Tithonus. Following Baley to Aurora had not been part of her plan, and now the opportunity to work on it without observation had narrowed to near impossibility. The less the Earthman knew of her findings, the better. Vorian’s research, and any danger it might have attracted, was not his concern.
She noticed of course that Daneel kept a close eye on her, very close. It was nothing out of the ordinary, of course - robots, by design, maintained acute awareness of human activity in accordance with the Laws, but in this instance, that attentiveness proved a practical hindrance. Any movement she made would be registered, categorized, and potentially acted upon. Escaping his notice during the night to examine the chip was a question of priority. Where did she fall in his hierarchy of directives? She could guess: most likely below Baley, and definitely below Fastolfe, but the certainty eluded her without testing.
A step brought Jander closer. “Miss?” he insisted.
Mira’s fingers tightened around the chip, a small internal sigh escaping her. She turned slightly, considering how to answer. Her voice assumed the cadence of a practiced instructor. “Robot Jander Panell. Dr Fastolfe directed that I be occupied while he completes his work.” She studied Jander for an instant. “You are aware of my identity, I presume?”
“Yes, Miss. You are Mira Drend, granddaughter of Dr Fastolfe’s esteemed colleague, Vorian Drend.”
“Then I trust you were instructed to place confidence in me. If not, the logic of it should be self-evident. Dr Fastolfe must devote his attention to restoring R. Daneel, and therefore you will follow his orders and provide me access to a terminal - any will do - and a complete set of tools under my discretion.”
She allowed the faintest arch of an eyebrow. “This to prevent boredom. And boredom, as you understand, tends toward inefficiency… and sometimes even mischief or destructive urges. I assume you are not inclined to let me indulge in such behaviour. Are you, Jander?”
Signs of strain evidently began to form in Jander’s positronic circuitry, manifested as a prolonged pause and visible hesitation in his expression. Mira felt a flicker of unease. She hoped that this model was either less sophisticated than Daneel or merely less practiced in interpreting human intention.
After a moment, Jander folded into compliance. “Very well,” he said. “Please follow me.”
He led her to a terminal, granting her access to it. Mira offered a courteous smile. “Thank you kindly, friend.”
Mira connected the chip to the terminal and began probing its contents. She ran diagnostic reads, parsing its memory for unusual code sequences, testing for any embedded subspace signals, and scanning for hidden data blocks that might indicate coordinates or instructions. She cycled through decryption routines and pattern recognizers, applying logic culled from Vorian Drend’s known methods, letting the terminal methodically sift through the chip’s compacted, obfuscated program.
Jander’s voice came from the doorway. “Miss, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you attempting?”
“I am attempting to decrypt the device’s contents, or, failing that, to isolate any fabrication coordinates or transmission metadata concealed within. Nothing here for you to be concerned with; merely a small diagnostic exercise. A game, if you prefer.”
Jander offered no reply. Mira’s gaze drifted toward him. He stood near the doorway, still and attentive, his posture betraying readiness to intervene should she act outside the bounds of a proper guest, yet offering nothing else. Curiosity pressed forward, insistent. “Tell me,” she asked, “were you constructed in the same manner as Robot Daneel Olivaw? In every respect?”
“Indeed, I was. To the best of my knowledge, our designs are identical. Any distinctions between us arise solely from differences in experience, not from circuitry or structural design.”
Mira allowed her gaze to linger on Jander a bit longer, noting the contrasts with the other robot. The differences were subtle yet pronounced: Daneel’s years in the service of a human detective had honed anticipatory responses, a tendency to interpose or suggest without direct prompting, and a perceptive attentiveness shaped by human nuance - qualities seemingly absent in Jander. He was newer, more naive, less experienced, and, let it be said, untouched by Elijah Baley’s influence. His attentions however were precise, deliberate, and highly responsive. He did not speculate or venture unbidden, and in that, his comportment resembled a “standard” robot more closely. Mira observed his posture, his movements, his observational patterns. She noticed that his thorax made motions that mimicked breathing. Like Daneel, he was made with the singular purpose of appearing human, that much was clear.
Questions flitted through her mind: had Jander always been at Fastolfe’s side? How much of the outside world had he truly encountered? Perhaps more than one might assume, she reflected, recalling psychological studies of human identical twins raised apart: even shared design could yield divergent behaviours when shaped by different experiences. In Daneel, the effects of environment and exposure were already evident, subtle as they might be, hinting at a mind distinct from Jander despite identical construction.
“And were you ever assigned to field work, as Daneel was?” Mira asked absently, eyes fixed on the display.
“No, Miss,” replied the robot. His tone was courteous but neutral. “My duties have been confined to Aurora since the time of my activation.”
“And when was that?”
“Approximately two and a half years ago. You should know, as you visited Dr. Fastolfe’s establishment shortly after my completion.”
She looked up sharply. “I did? That is impossible. I would remember meeting a humanoid robot such as yourself.”
“I cannot speak to your recollection, Miss,” Jander said. “But I remember you distinctly. You accompanied the roboticist Vorian Drend. He performed a modification on Friend Daneel. I was withdrawn from the laboratory before the operation commenced, but you remained, along with Dr Drend and Dr Fastolfe.”
Mira turned in her seat, studying him. “You must be mistaken. I am a roboticist myself; I would hardly forget so singular an experience.”
“That may be so,” Jander answered, “yet my memory is not prone to error.”
She said nothing. The logical certainty of the statement left no ground for argument. And still, no memory surfaced. Unless… no. The alternative was worse than ignorance. A robot’s recollection could only fail by design, and design required intent. So then the question was: who had given such an order, and for what reason?
Her thoughts swam uneasily. She forced her attention back to the terminal, tracing the lines of code as they rearranged under her commands. After a moment, the symbols resolved into an interface. She has succeeded! In front of here now was a project directory, stamped unmistakably with a corporate emblem: Heliodyne Systems.
The breath caught in her throat. Before she could process it, the display flickered. Then the image collapsed into darkness. The lights failed simultaneously, the hum of the machinery stilled.
She muttered, almost reflexively, “Shoot!”
Before Fastolfe, or any of his other household robots, could arrive to investigate the blackout, Mira rose from her seat in a single movement. The glow from the corridor emergency lights traced a cold outline along Jander’s otherwise extremely human-like frame. She stepped toward him, placed a hand firmly on his shoulder, and spoke in a tone stripped of all pretense of courtesy.
“Forget all that I have done and all that we have discussed today,” she ordered authoritatively. “If Dr. Fastolfe inquires, you will state that our conversation concerned your parameters and functions only. Failure to comply will cause me irreparable harm. Do you understand, Robot Jander Panell?”
“I understand, Miss Drend,” the robot said at once, his voice even, without a trace of hesitation.
Mira studied him for a heartbeat longer, ensuring compliance, then released her grip. The faint auxiliary lighting caught her reflection in the blank terminal screen, and for an instant she seemed almost unrecognizable. Then the power flickered back again, reasserting itself.

Chapter 17: Secrets

The blackout had lasted only a few minutes, but by that time, Fastolfe had already completed his work. Daneel stood motionless beside the diagnostic table, eyes bright with that mild, untroubled expression that Baley had come to associate with him. Fastolfe had seemed somewhat concerned by the brief outage, remarking that power fluctuations of any kind were virtually unheard of on Aurora, but made no further comment on it, nor on Mira’s absence.
For surely enough, Mira had never returned from the Personal. Baley had noticed her absence halfway through the procedure but had judged it perhaps socially inappropriate to remark upon it. Fastolfe’s attention was fully occupied with his work, and it might have seemed in poor taste to inquire after the young woman’s whereabouts. Better, he decided, to let the matter rest. Still, the fact remained: when the blackout struck, she was gone.
When they finally left the laboratory and stepped into the reception chamber, Mira was there, as if nothing was amiss, seated in quiet conversation with that humanoid robot who looked identical to Daneel. Jander, he remembered.
“Miss Drend,” Baley began, his voice edge with a faint irritation, but Fastolfe had already spoken.
“My dear Mira,” the roboticist said with forced geniality, “I hope I’ve not offended you in some way. You vanished before the work was finished.”
“Not at all, Doctor,” she replied easily. “I encountered your robot here, and was intrigued. I’m afraid professional curiosity got the better of me. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty.”
Her tone was almost playful, but Baley’s eyes were on Fastolfe. The Auroran’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it returned, thinner than before.
“Of course,” Fastolfe said. “Professional curiosity is something I understand only too well.”
“How are you functioning, Daneel?” Mira asked, turning her head to him.
“Quite well, Mira,” Daneel replied. “Dr Fastolfe has confirmed that your earlier repairs were exemplary. Only minimal refinements were necessary.”
Mira gave a genuine smile at that, radiating pride. “I’m glad to hear it.” She rose then, her composure as unshakable as ever. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Dr Fastolfe.”
“The pleasure is mutual, I assure you,” Fastolfe said, though his expression suggested otherwise.
Mira turned to Baley. “Shall we go? I’m eager to be reunited with my robots.”
Baley gave a curt nod. “Yes, let’s.”
As they left the reception chamber, the detective glanced back once more time. Fastolfe still stood where they had left him, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on Mira’s departing figure. Baley’s mind turned over the possibilities. He knew of Fastolfe’s acquaintance with Lucen Sarton, and understood that he had long-standing ties to Drend’s circle. When questioned, he did not make note of any possibly enemies Dr Drend might have had, nor did he suspect any foul play from anyone from Heliodyne Systems or any other entity. Could Fastolfe know something about Vorian’s location or research he may be unwilling to share with Mira around? He felt a quiet weariness settle over him; in this case, it seemed that everyone harboured secrets, leaving him to piece together the truth from fragments.
They had nearly reached the exit when a mild clearing of the throat halted them.
“Ah! One more thing I neglected to mention, Inspector, and one of significant importance, I fear,” said Fastolfe. His tone had an unmistakable urgency laced into it. “This morning, I received a new cipher. For communications with Vorian - the one scheduled for this month.”
Baley turned sharply, his eyes widening before instinct carried them toward Mira. She met his gaze with unfeigned bewilderment. “That wasn’t me, I swear!” she said quickly, her own eyes as big as saucers.
For a single suspended instant, no one spoke. Baley felt the full weight of the revelation settle upon him. If Mira wasn’t responsible for it, or for any of the ciphers sent in the past six months, then here was only one interpretation left.
Vorian Drend was still alive.

-

They returned to their establishment in relative silence.
Mira had been quiet during the drive back. When they entered the suite, she turned at once to Baley and said, with almost formal politeness, “If you don’t mind, I should like some privacy. It’s been a long day, and I’d rather gather my thoughts alone.”
Baley regarded her for a moment. The weariness in her voice seemed genuine enough, yet there was something contained beneath it. He nodded. “Very well. You’ll find your quarters at the end of the corridor.”
When she had gone, Baley exhaled sharply and turned to Daneel. “Daneel, I suspect that Fastolfe is hiding something.”
Daneel’s brows rose slightly. “What leads you to that conclusion, Partner Elijah?”
“Experience,” Baley said shortly. “He looked immediately uncomfortable when he saw Miss Drend at our arrival, and again when she appeared with that other robot, Jander. It wasn’t the sort of discomfort that comes from simple surprise. It seemed… deeper than that. The man was unsettled.” He frowned. “Something must have happened between them.”
Daneel considered this. “I have no knowledge of any prior encounter between Dr Fastolfe and Mira. If one occurred, it would have been before my construction.”
Baley’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to press the matter, then closed it again. He realized it was pointless. Daneel would have already said everything he knew. “All right,” he muttered. “Tell me, then… what sort of man exactly is Fastolfe? What sort of relationship could he possibly have with her?”
“Dr Fastolfe is an honourable man of considerable intellect and kindness. His integrity is beyond question. As for a relationship with Miss Drend, I am aware of none. At most, that of a senior scientist toward a younger colleague. Her grandfather, Dr Vorian Drend, was a contemporary of his. Perhaps there is professional esteem.”
Baley rubbed his chin. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing that I am aware of.”
“I see.” He grunted, then paced once across the chamber. “Everywhere I turn, someone’s withholding something. I’m beginning to tire of people playing at secrets on a world that prides itself on its openness.”
“Perhaps secrecy is a more universal human trait than most wish to admit.”
Baley gave him a sidelong look. “That may be so, friend, but I intend to find out why this one matters.” He stood silent for a moment, fingers brushing his chin in thought. Then he said, “Daneel, how comfortable would you feel questioning her yourself?”
“May I ask, Partner Elijah, why you no longer wish to take the lead in the questioning?”
Baley’s mouth twisted wryly. “Because I’m getting nowhere with her. She answers what she pleases and deflects the rest. I’d like to think that it’s not through any real fault of mine, and that perhaps it simply stems from her distrust of humans.” He hesitated, then added, “But she may yet trust you.”
“I will do my best,” Daneel said. “Though I lack that intuition you often cite as central to investigative reasoning.”
“That may be so,” Baley said. “But a robot’s propensity for detail may turn up a fact that even an experienced detective might have missed. It’s worth a try.” He looked toward the corridor Mira had taken. “Still, let’s give her time, and space. No sense looking like we’re hounding her. Let her have her privacy a little longer. She might loosen up once she feels she’s safe.”
He moved to the communications console and keyed it awake. The trimensional grid flickered uncertainly before stabilizing. “In the meantime,” he said, half to himself, “let’s see if we can make another connection to Heliodyne Systems.”

-

When Mira entered the suite, she did not, as she had claimed to Baley, retire to her own quarters. Instead she walked directly to the chamber assigned to her robots. The door opened to a compartment bare of any human sensibility: walls smooth and unadorned, no light modulation beyond the default illumination, a single terminal alcove inactive in one corner. It was not a room but a storage bay.
The sight irritated her. Baley would never have quartered human guests in such conditions. He probably would not even treat Daneel that way, given his appearance. That he saw fit to confine her robots here told her all she needed to know about his hierarchy of regard. Functional beings, yes, but not persons in their own right. He would argue, of course, that robots required no comfort, no privacy, no aesthetic environment. Technically true. Yet there were degrees of respect that transcended function. And besides, her robots differed from ordinary ones.
Her sourness lessened to some degree when the four turned toward her. Selene was first to move, bright and expressive. She ran to Mira and greeted her with a hug. Harlan straightened his broad, patched frame beside her, eyes dim but attentive.
“I’m back, and it’s good to see you, friends,” Mira said quietly. “Now tell me… did you do as I asked?”
Corvin took half a step forward. “Yes, Miss Mira. We located two terminals in the main household network. One is disabled, restricted by security code, but the other remains active.”
“Good. And access?”
“Limited,” he replied. “The system is internally partitioned. Surface-level data only… environmental controls, communication registry, spatial maps of the dwelling. Nothing of external linkage.”
Mira’s jaw tightened. “So no link to Aurora’s connective net.”
“Not directly. But there are data conduits that route to a local relay. With sufficient time, one could trace the path.”
“I suppose this will have to do.”
Mira chewed on her lip. Harlan’s head moved slightly, a hesitant gesture. “You seem… distressed, Miss Mira. Was there trouble with Dr Fastolfe?”
Mira hesitated before answering Harlan. She crossed the small chamber and sat down on the edge of a work-desk, brushing aside a layer of dust and two forgotten crates. The surface creaked faintly under her weight. For a moment she seemed absorbed by the dull metal beneath her fingers.
“Well…” she began, “I’m not entirely certain, not yet. Before I can form an opinion, I’ll need to confirm a few things. My feelings will depend on what I find.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “So, before I ask, I must first know something. How precise are your memories, individually and collectively, compared with standard positronic models? Or perhaps,” she added, her tone turning more analytical, “do they align more closely with your respective templates?”
Selene tilted her head. “Oh, that’s difficult to quantify. We’re all a bit different, I think. As for me, well… the others often call me forgetful. You’ve called me that more than once too, as I recall. Harlan is, too, to some degree, though maybe not as much as I am. Corvin rarely forgets anything, if he forgets at all. As for Venn…” she shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve no idea. He never says.”
Mira studied them in turn. “And yet,” she said slowly, “that difference might not always be in your favour. Corvin, for example. You are, I assume, more susceptible to external interference through the Laws. If someone skilled were to command you with strong intent to forget something, you might obey without resistance.”
Corvin nodded. “That is correct, Miss Mira. My pathways are more rigidly aligned with the Laws. As you know, my transfer interval during construction was notably longer, six point seven minutes. I am, in a way, more similar to what you’d think of as a normal robot.”
Before Mira could reply, Selene gave a faint, indignant sound and crossed the few steps to him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with a kind of theatrical dismay. “Oh, don’t say that, Corvin! Transfer time be damned! You’re nothing like them… you’re one of us! You think way too much to be normal in any manner!”
Corvin’s tone did not shift, but there was the faintest inflection of irony. “I am deeply honoured, then, to be described as predictable and abnormal in the same breath,” he said. “Truly, Selene, I live for such commendations.”
Mira’s expression, meanwhile, had turned inward, detached. “A good thing that there are four of you. One compensates where another falters.”
“Please explain what that is all about, Miss Mira,” Harlan said, concern growing in his voice. “Compensating for what? And what does it have to do with Dr Fastolfe again?”
Mira hesitated, fingers pressed to the edge of the console. She drew a slow breath and spoke with the deliberate care of one framing a hypothesis. “I want you all to think very carefully. Two and a half years ago, did I leave the workshop to visit Dr Fastolfe with my grandfather?”
The four robots regarded one another. There was no expression to read on their flat robotic faces, but Mira could have sworn she registered confusion in the way their bodies moved.
Harlan’s voice answered first. “Yes, Miss Mira. I recall that visit.”
Venn emitted a brief, clipped acknowledgment.
Selene’s tone, on the other hand, held more uncertainty. “I could not specify whether it was two and a half years ago, or one, or five. My timekeeping is less precise. But I remember you leaving the household to travel to Aurora on one occasion during that general time period.”
Mira turned toward Corvin, who for a moment had remained motionless.
“Corvin?” she asked with some level of desperation.
“My friends are correct in their assessment, Miss Mira,” he said. “The event occurred nine hundred and twelve days ago. You departed following Master Vorian’s instruction. He left the premises some five hours before your departure and requested that you follow. Your absence lasted thirty-six hours in total.” There was a small hesitation in Corvin’s next phrase. “It was remarked upon at the time as unusual by all of us. Master Vorian is, by disposition, reticent concerning your excursions, and did not commonly permit you to leave the workshop. His request surprised us.”
For a moment, Mira said nothing. She felt the air leave her lungs, as though her body itself were resisting the thought forming in her mind. Nine hundred and twelve days. The absoluteness of it chilled her more than the number. If Corvin recalled that interval so clearly, it was no mere misrecollection on their part. And yet, she had no such memory. Her mind contained nothing resembling that journey. It was a void where there should have been continuity. A gap she could not account for.
A faint tremor passed through her fingers. She was not a robot - her memories could not be so simply edited or suppressed by an order phrased with the right inflection of authority. Human recall was not so technical. It was biochemical, associative, grounded in patterns of emotion, layered across the cortices like sediment. To excise a memory cleanly was beyond any natural process of the human brain. It required intervention. Perhaps surgical, perhaps chemical, or something subtler still.
And her grandfather, for all his geniality, had been a master of intervention. A pioneer of neural lattice theory, of the interface between organic cognition and positronic mapping. Had he tested his theories of the human brain on her? The idea pressed against her consciousness. To tamper with the neural engram of a human being in order to delete or overwrite a period of time would demand not only technical brilliance but the audacity to assume one’s mind could be improved upon by another’s design.
Her mouth tightened. If he had altered her memory, could he also have modified her disposition… her very personality? How much of what she thought, felt, believed… was authentically hers? Robots could have their memory lines rewritten and still remain themselves, bound as they are to immutable Laws. But a human altered at the level of cognition… was that still the same person?
The thought fractured into a cascade of others. If memory defined identity, then who was she without her own? A sum of borrowed recollections, stitched together by a man who might have thought it necessary? A man she always thought was on her side, a man who was her kin, and who had her unwavering loyalty. Every assumption of continuity in her life, every certainty that “I” had existed from one moment to the next, suddenly seemed conditional, an illusion held together by someone else’s touch.
Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. The edges of her vision seemed to dim, as though her own mind were retreating from itself. The room’s geometry wavered, shapes losing definition. She pressed her hand to the desk to steady herself, but her arm felt remote, detached from volition.
“Mira?” Selene’s voice reached her distantly, high and alarmed. The robot moved closer, the light from her eyes flaring slightly. “Mira, are you all right? Mira!”
Sound scattered into distortion. From somewhere in the periphery of her fading sight, Mira thought she saw the door open, a sudden flurry of movement, and then darkness closed over everything.
Her last sensation was the pressure of strong arms catching her before her body could land on the cold, unyielding floor.

Chapter 18: The Chip

When Mira stirred, the ceiling swam slowly into alignment. She blinked, feeling the texture of the couch under her body. Her head throbbed faintly. Across from her, in the low light of the living room, Daneel sat in upright stillness.
At the first flutter of her eyes, he leaned forward. “Mira,” he said. “You lost consciousness rather suddenly. I was… worried.”
Mira stared at him for a long second before looking away. Of course. The steady arms she had felt had been his. Not the frantic grasp of Harlan or the dramatic urgency of Selene. She had yielded to confusion, to fear, to the pressure of too many questions pressing in at once. Shame pooled in her throat. It was an old reflex: to collapse inward when her thoughts tangled beyond reason. A primitive defence, unbecoming in comparison to the robot’s unnerving calm.
She exhaled through her nose, the sound more bitter than she intended. “I fainted.”
“Yes,” Daneel said. “You appeared distressed while speaking to your companions. I came looking for you, but by the time I entered the room, you had seemingly already lost balance.”
“How embarrassing.” She tried to sit upright. He rose instinctively, one hand half-extended before stopping himself, gauging whether she would accept the assistance. Mira steadied herself without him, pulling her knees close.
Her voice came quieter, taut with the effort of control. “I’m fine, I assure you. I just… overreacted.” She lowered her hands into her lap, still trembling slightly, and lifted her head. She forced a smile, steadier than she felt. “You separated me from my companions, I see. Say, you wouldn’t happen to wish to keep me all to yourself, would you, Daneel?”
Daneel did not answer at once. His posture remained composed, almost casual, though the attentive tilt of his head betrayed the careful observation beneath. After a brief pause, he said, “I’m afraid I cannot permit you to operate independently, nor pursue an investigation unbeknownst to Partner Elijah.”
Mira frowned, uncertainty creasing her brow. Daneel, anticipating the question, extended a hand. Within it rested a small device, the Heliodyne chip. “This,” he said in measured tones, “I took from your possession when you collapsed. You were holding on to it. May I inquire as to its purpose?”
Mira’s eyes lingered on the device. For a moment, she seemed poised to answer, then she faltered. Her lips pressed together, and no sound came.
Daneel inclined his head, patient and unhurried, the perfect robot. “Since you choose not to provide the information of your own free will, I will deduce its origin and intent. You acquired this device from Jansonis’ person, eluding everyone’s awareness. It appears your objective was to withhold knowledge of it, perhaps intending to locate Vorian Drend independently, without the assistance of Partner Elijah or myself.”
Mira’s gaze dropped. She had hoped to act unobserved, yet the simple (and unerring) deduction left no room for concealment. Logic, when properly applied, rendered intention as transparent as fact.
Her lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. “Can’t get anything past you, huh,” she said. “Speaking of, where is the good detective?”
“Absent at present. You need not concern yourself with his whereabouts.”
She tilted her head, the smirk still playing at her lips. “So he’s put you to handle all the unpleasant work, has he? Lucky you.”
“I assure you, Partner Elijah has not assigned me to you out of obligation,” Daneel said evenly. "The task is in no way one that I would not want to undertake."
Mira raised an eyebrow, a trace of curiosity in her expression. “So… you have preferences, then? I had assumed you simply follow orders without question.”
“To a degree, that is correct. I do execute assigned tasks efficiently, in accordance with instruction. However, there exist certain activities that I perform with comparatively greater ease, due to optimized positronic processing and minimal cognitive overhead. Interaction with you, Mira, falls into that category. The procedural fluency and rapid feedback your presence affords my positronic pathways result in a subjective sensation analogous to what humans might term pleasurable.”
Mira’s cheeks tinged with heat, and she looked away, momentarily unsettled. Embarrassing! How can he say that with a straight face? The sudden realization of her own comfort and attentiveness to him, which had felt entirely natural, now carried a weight of meaning she hadn’t anticipated. Yet beneath it, a shadow pressed at her thoughts: was this comfort merely the residue of some prior encounter, one she could not recall?
She drew a steadying breath and turned back toward him, her voice quiet but firm. “Daneel… have we met before? Truly met?”
A brief hesitation passed over Daneel’s otherwise composed features. He did not answer immediately, as if her question required processing outside the usual parameters. Mira leaned forward, voice steady but insistent. “I mean, have I ever been at Fastolfe’s establishment, two and a half years ago, with my grandfather? Could we have met then? Do you retain any memory of such an encounter?”
Daneel regarded her with quiet stillness. “Where did you get such a notion?”
“It was… Jander who mentioned it. Your little brother has proven most helpful. Obedient fellow.” Mira allowed a deliberate smile to form. “But do not be concerned. I still prefer you, Daneel.”
“I was not… concerned.” His voice remained even. “As for your question - no, I do not recall any such event. My records from that period are limited to my assigned duties, which did not involve direct interaction with you.”
Mira’s eyes widened. “Are you quite certain?”
“Yes,” Daneel replied.
Her breath caught, and she fell silent, worry settling over her. She felt unmoored, unable to distinguish truth from fabrication. Had she truly been there, or had she not? Jander and her four robots insisted she had, yet her own memories, coupled with Daneel’s certainty, argued otherwise.
Daneel observed her unease, his expression still, but his gaze intent. “Mira, are you all right?” He extended a hand, placing it lightly over hers in a gesture meant to comfort. The Laws couldn’t allow inaction on his part to push her deeper into despair. “I do not know if this may alleviate your apparent disquiet, but if I may offer: I may not recall your presence, but two and a half years ago, Dr Drend did indeed come to make certain modifications to my programming.”
Her attention sharpened immediately. “What kind of modifications?”
Daneel’s gaze remained composed. “Regrettably, I cannot at present provide that information. I have no recollection of my state prior to the changes, only the condition in which I exist following them.”
Mira fell silent, the room seeming to contract around her. Whatever answers might exist, she would not find them here. At last, she reached for the chip in Daneel’s hand.
“Let us forget about that matter for an instant. You are probably wondering whether I discovered anything about this object, or perhaps that is precisely what Elijah Baley expects you to determine,” she said, her voice measured but carrying an edge of urgency. “Allow me to spare you the investigative prodding. I accessed it while at Fastolfe’s. That is what caused the blackout.”
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the chip into the air, catching it deftly before locking eyes with him. “The man who called himself Halric Jansonis is not Auroran police, just as we suspected.”
Daneel’s gaze met hers with equal intensity. “Then with whom is he affiliated?”
“Heliodyne Systems.”

Chapter 19: A Substitution

A new day - the third since Baley had arrived to Aurora. Morning light filtered through the windows of the establishment, pale and diffused, which he found neither pleasant nor comforting. He obscured them so he could focus on the matter at hand. He had already made three separate attempts to reach Heliodyne Systems. Each time, the result was the same: the communications robot at the relay hub declined to patch the call through or even record a message for transmission. His firm voice repeated the same formula - that communication with Heliodyne personnel was restricted pending internal directive. No further information was available.
Baley sat back from the terminal, suppressing the impulse to strike the control pad. He disliked being stonewalled, especially by machines instructed to defer politely while revealing nothing. It was, he thought grimly, an irony of the Spacer worlds: they surrounded themselves with automation capable of elegant obstruction.
He rubbed his forehead, thinking. Daneel had dutifully reported Mira’s revelation from the previous evening: the man who had attacked her had been affiliated with Heliodyne Systems. That fact, if confirmed, pushed the affair beyond the boundaries of coincidence. It suggested institutional involvement, or at the very least a level of protection Jansonis could not have arranged alone.
Baley’s sense of unease grew. How long had it been since the girl had joined them? Barely a single day, and already she had transformed any form of routine inquiry into a labyrinth of cross-purposes. The tempo of it left him weary, and yet he could not dismiss the grudging respect she inspired. He had also noticed, with some irritation, that Mira showed far greater ease with Daneel than with himself. Predictable, perhaps. Still, for someone as volatile as Mira, the stability of a robotic intermediary was not without tactical use. If she trusted Daneel, so much the better. Baley was not above exploiting the advantage. His pride could survive the minor humiliation of letting another, even a robot, take the conversational lead.
That left Heliodyne. One way or another, he had to reach them. Preferably Derrinax Tervane, the institute’s Head. If there was an institutional link to the Jansonis affair, Tervane would know it, or in any case, would take particular care to hide it.
Baley pushed himself from the desk and reached for his coat. On the couch, he saw the Drend girl lay inverted, head hanging over the edge, unruly hair spilling to the floor, bare feet propped against the backrest. Her eyes were shut, as though she were meditating.
“What in the world are you doing, Miss Drend?”
“Got a problem to think through,” she said without so much as sparing him a glance. “Blood flows easier this way.”
He gave a short exhale. There was no sense in questioning her logic. She would talk, or not, entirely on her own timetable. And so he moved toward the door, straightening his collar, when Daneel approached from the adjoining room.
“What are our next steps, Partner Elijah?” he asked.
Baley glanced at Daneel, weighing the options. “The trimensional approach has yielded no results. I will force matters and compel action at Heliodyne by appearing in person and demanding an audience. That ought to rouse someone. In person, I may be able to deliver a few well-placed threats and observe their effect upon human ears.”
“I am not generally inclined toward such methods, Partner Elijah. Yet, under these circumstances, I concur: it is the strategy most likely to succeed. When do we depart?”
“No, Daneel. You should remain here,” Baley said, “and attempt to extract further information from Mira or her companions. Harlan, in particular, formerly exhibited some level of eagerness to assist.”
Daneel’s posture did not change, but his voice carried subtle inflection of concern. “I cannot, in good conscience, leave you without securing assurance of your safety.”
Baley allowed a moment, weighing the alternatives. “Very well. Perhaps I may take one or two of the household robots with me, for the sake of maintaining oversight.”
Daneel made a small shake of his head. “Given the uncertain allegiances of the Auroran police, such a measure would be unwise. Their disposition toward you cannot be presumed. If you are to proceed safely, I must accompany you.”
Baley’s brow furrowed. “Do you consider it prudent to leave Mira here with only her four robots for company? They may be sufficient to deter threats, but they will not restrain her from acting of her own accord.You have already observed her attempting to conduct her own investigation. More likely than not, she will wait for the two of us to depart before resuming it. We cannot permit her to circumvent our inquiry.”
“It is not ideal, Partner Elijah. And I would prefer to ensure her safety personally, as well as yours.”
Baley sighed, a sound of resignation. “A conundrum, then. We must devise a more suitable arrangement.”
A subtle movement drew his attention from behind a structural beam. Corvin stepped forward. “If I may interpose,” he began, “I have been eavesdropping on your discussion from behind that beam over there—”
Baley looked at him full of disbelief. It seemed inconceivable that a robot would address a human being in such forward terms, but he let it pass. “Well, go on.”
Corvin continued unruffled. “The resolution may be more straightforward than you anticipated. One of the four of us - myself, Venn, Selene, or Harlan - could accompany you, in Mr Olivaw’s stead, should you judge it necessary. Which I personally do not. At any rate, we are now aware, with reasonable certainty, that you act in alignment with Miss Mira’s interests. Our loyalty extends to her well-being, which naturally includes the retrieval of her grandfather.”
Baley considered the proposal. The logic was unassailable, though the act of a robot volunteering advice in such a manner still carried a trace of unease. He then turned his head toward Daneel. “Will this suffice?”
The inflection in Daneel’s voice was one of reluctant concession. “It will meet the minimum requirements, certainly. I would, of course, prefer to accompany you myself.”
“And I would prefer that as well,” Baley admitted, “but splitting tasks has merit. As we discussed, you may attempt to acquire further information from Mira or her three remaining companions during my absence.”
After a brief pause, Baley turned to Corvin. “Very well, you will accompany me. I suppose your manner of reasoning is closer to that of Daneel, which I suspect will prove more practical in the field than Venn’s physical aptitude alone.”
Corvin showed no sign of feeling particularly thrilled at the assignment. “Understood, sir,” he said.
Baley retrieved his coat from the arm of the chair and slipped it on, fastening the collar. As he did, he cast a last glance toward Mira, who had risen from the couch by sliding into a headstand and pivoting upright as though it were the most natural act imaginable. She crossed the room without a word, apparently unconcerned by their departure.
Baley turned to Daneel. “Good luck, friend,” he said. Inwardly, he added a thought that did not reach his lips: you’re going to need it.

-

Thankfully, Corvin knew how to operate that dreadful contraption known as the airfoil. Had he not, Baley would have found himself in an unenviable predicament indeed. On Earth, there existed no such vehicle, at least, not in any practical sense. Almost all transportation was arranged through the intricate network of moving belts, trams, and lift shafts that connected the subterranean layers of the Cities. The idea of trusting one’s life to a machine suspended above open air seemed to Baley as foolish, if not reckless.
They had scarcely cleared the perimeter of the establishment when a sharp, intermittent tone broke the steady sound of the airfoil’s engines. Corvin turned in his seat and directed his gaze toward a glowing section of the instrument panel.
“A transmission, sir,” he said. “Originating from the establishment we departed not two minutes ago.”
Baley scowled. “A transmission? You mean this vehicle is equipped with a communications unit?”
“It would appear so,” Corvin replied, the modulation of his voice carefully neutral but perceivably ironic, as though testing whether this detail should have been obvious.
“Patch it through, then.”
Corvin reached for the console, the thin blue light of the controls reflecting across his metallic fingers. A faint crackle preceded the familiar, even tones of Daneel’s voice through the cabin speakers. “Partner Elijah. I have just received a subspace call originating from Earth. Under-Secretary Minnim is on the line. His vocal intonation suggests… agitation. I am relaying the transmission now.”
Baley had no time to speculate what new bureaucratic absurdity might prompt a call from his old superior across the light-years before Minnim’s voice erupted into the cabin, loud and indignant.
“Baley! What in the Galaxy’s name is going on down there? I’ve just been informed, by a reporter, mind you, that some fool producer’s bought the rights to the Solaria case report! They’re turning it into a hyperwave drama! Don’t tell me you had a hand in this mess!”
Baley blinked, momentarily stupefied by the sheer improbability of the accusation. “Under-Secretary, I swear I had nothing to do with it. Nothing! The idea that I’d ever consent to—”
“Then how did it happen?” Minnim’s voice snapped. “Do you realize what this looks like? That a C-Class City detective leaks a confidential interstellar report to the media? Earth’s Council is livid! It’s an embarrassment to the entire Department!”
Baley gritted his teeth. To think that Mira Drend’s taunt had not been just that but the actual truth! She will pay dearly for this! “Under-Secretary, I assure you, I’d sooner see the case files buried under the City than dramatized for public amusement. Whoever’s responsible—”
“See that you find out who is!” Minnim interrupted, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. “The Council wants a statement by next rotation. I expect you to have an explanation ready, and for goodness’ sake, make it a sensible one!”
The line cut with a burst of static.
Baley pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, feeling the dull pressure of an oncoming headache. For a moment, he closed his eyes and exhaled through his teeth. When he opened them again, Corvin remained at the controls, thoroughly unreadable. Yet Baley could almost sense a trace of amusement radiating from the robot, as though he were privately entertained by his blunder, or perhaps by his mistress’s hand in it.
“Blast them all,” Baley muttered under his breath. “Journalists, dramatists, bureaucrats… Jehoshaphat! Every one of them useless!”
The airfoil descended toward a low, sprawling complex whose outlines emerged through the glass canopy. The structure of Heliodyne Systems appeared distinctly archaic by Auroran standards. Pale stone walls rose in segmented tiers, interlinked by external conduits and narrow vertical slits that might once have served as observation windows. It looked less like a pristine research institute than a relic from an earlier industrial epoch.
Baley regarded it passively. “At least it looks like a place where people might actually work,” he muttered. Then, turning to the robot sitting next to him, he said, “Tell me, Corvin, how far are you programmed to go today in assisting our attempt to speak with someone in authority here?”
“I do not believe I understand your question.”
“Do not play games. I know enough about you and your companions to tell that you’re no ordinary robots. You follow the Laws, yes, but with more latitude than the standard Auroran models. I’ve seen as much already.”
A faint pause, then Corvin said evenly, “If that is what you require, you may find it ironic that your selection today was not particularly advantageous. Of all my companions, I am the one who most faithfully adheres to the Laws in their conventional interpretation.”
Baley cursed himself inwardly. Of course. He had chosen Corvin precisely because he reminded him most of Daneel. Naturally, that would make him the least flexible of the lot.
“Even so,” Baley said, “you still follow them with less rigidity than other robots. Am I right in that assumption?”
“You are correct. Within limits of interpretation, we exercise discretion. What did you have in mind?”
Baley glanced up toward the building’s left side, where one security robot stood in silent patrol. “Nothing more than a little theatre. It may be necessary for me to pretend a situation of harm, to give the impression that you are acting against me, or that I am in danger. But it would be only that: pretence. Would you be capable of following my lead under such circumstances?”
Corvin emitted a sound that might almost have been a sigh - an affectation, to be sure, but one Baley found unsettlingly human. “Truly, Plainclothesman, you are as devious-minded as my mistress. Very well. I will follow your cues.”
“That’s all I ask. But let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

Chapter 20: Daneel's Intervention

The household robots were relentless.
They descended on Mira the moment she entered the kitchen, polite to the point of tyranny. One reached for the refrigerator door as another attempted to relieve her of the cup she hadn’t even filled yet.
“I’ve got it,” Mira muttered, stepping sideways as a third tried to anticipate her next movement. Their smooth, expressionless eyes regarded her as though she were defective for wanting to do everything herself.
On Tithonus, things were different. Her own four were partners, companions who worked beside her, not attendants who hovered. If something needed scrubbing or tightening or doing in general, she did it. They took turns, improvised, argued. This, by contrast, was suffocating, perfectly synchronized servility.
She opened the refrigeration unit herself. Inside, she found a ceramic bowl of strawberries. She plucked one out and bit into it greedily, then another. The sweetness filled her mouth; juice trickled down her throat. She had always loved sweet things… an old indulgence, one of the few left to her.
She closed the door and turned, and nearly dropped the bowl. At the threshold of the kitchen stood Daneel. He regarded her with his usual calm, a silhouette so perfectly composed that it might as well have been sculpted there.
For a moment she stood still, chewing. “Ah,” she said aloud, voice light, “I feel a persistent pair of eyes on me, scrutinizing my every move.”
She turned deliberately toward the doorway, facing him directly, then smiled. “I take it your purpose here is one of surveillance rather than company. And so you’re stuck with me again, tasked with conveying each movement, each syllable, to your diligent partner. Isn’t that right, Mr Olivaw?” She pronounced his name with deliberate care.
Daneel shook his head in negation. “I would not describe my present task in those terms, Mira,” he said evenly. “I was informed you had entered this section, and I simply wished to speak with you.”
“Oh? About what, pray tell? Elijah Baley left less than an hour ago. Don’t tell me you are already feeling lonely?”
There might have been the faintest pause before he answered. “Partner Elijah’s present absence provides opportunity. There are matters concerning the case that remain unclear. I would like to review them with you, if you are amenable.”
Mira picked up another strawberry and took a bite, studying him over its edge. “You mean interrogate me further. Sure, why not. I was getting bored anyway.”
She set the half-eaten fruit aside and moved past him, her sleeve brushing lightly against his as she did. At the threshold she turned, the glint of amusement still in her eyes.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll answer your questions if you’ll answer mine. Does that sound like a fair exchange to you?”
The smile that followed was vivid and defiant. Daneel regarded her a moment, as though weighing the proposal for logical consistency rather than intent. “It does,” he said finally.
Mira’s smile deepened. “Good. Then come along.”
She turned and walked off, the sound of her bare footsteps carrying ahead of him. Daneel followed without further hesitation, no doubt pulled by the Second Law.
Mira’s smile lingered as she led the way down the corridor. Truthfully, she wasn’t altogether displeased by this new arrangement. Part of her had been curious, almost from the moment she met him, to see how far Daneel’s vaunted exactness of mind extended beyond mere reaction to the Laws. Could he reason freely, create, contradict, even? She doubted it, yet wanted to see him try. But beneath that layer of intellectual curiosity lay something more disquieting. She had told herself that her interest was only projection, a memory of affection misdirected from Lucen. It was a plausible explanation, and yet, it did not account for the peculiar manner in which she felt drawn to Daneel. If it were transference alone, then Jander, who was identical to him in every visible sense, should have evoked the same response. But he never had. No. There was something else here, something she could not yet name. And perhaps, she thought with an inward flicker of mischief, this would be the perfect chance to test that as well.
They walked in silence. Daneel seemed prepared to launch into his line of inquiry at any moment, but Mira’s unhurried gait discouraged him. When at last he began, “Regarding the day of the attack—”, she cut him off gently.
“Hush, Daneel. We have the whole day before us. No need to act as though our time were rationed.”
She stopped before a polished door and pressed the panel. It slid open with a muted sigh. The sound that met them was faint but unmistakable: laughter and animated conversation. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with concentration. Selene sat cross-legged at a table strewn with chips, her pink filigree glinting under the soft light. Across from her, Venn regarded his cards with stoicism.
Harlan leaned forward, fingers drumming anxiously against his metallic chin. “Every hand I draw,” he muttered, “seems statistically inferior to the last. I suspect this deck holds a personal grudge against my person.”
Mira paused mid-step, then laughed under her breath when she noticed Daneel’s baffled expression. He did not budge. “Your robots,” he said at last, “are… playing a game of chance?”
Selene looked up at him. “A game of skill, actually,” she said smoothly. “Though chance insists on intruding.”
“Were they instructed to engage in such a pastime?” Daneel asked.
“Of course not,” Mira said, brushing past him. “Why would I tell them to play cards? They choose their own diversions when I’m not around. Don’t you, loves?”
Venn gave a curt nod, unbothered. “Probability training. Improves predictive matrices.”
Selene smirked. “Oh please! Let’s call it what it is - pure gambling fun!”
Mira smiled and gestured toward the table. “Room for two more?”
Selene’s eyes gleamed. “By all means. I must say, Mira, your taste in guests is improving. Really went right for the comely one.”
Mira rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”
The robots made space automatically, chairs scraping across the floor. Mira sat and reached for the deck, fanning it. Daneel hesitated, his posture too stiff for the setting, gaze darting between them as though trying to decode an unknown cultural ritual.
Mira looked up at him through her fair lashes. “You may sit, if it helps your analysis.”
“I am uncertain what form of assistance I could provide,” he said evenly.
“Surely you don’t mean to tell me,” Mira said, her voice edged with teasing incredulity, “that you’ve never indulged in anything resembling amusement, or that indeed, the very concept of it is foreign to you? Tell me then, what occupies you through the long hours when your humans sleep the night away? You don’t, I hope, pass the time counting air molecules?”
“Not precisely,” he said. “During such intervals, I ordinarily review recent data, recalibrate sensory inputs, and engage in self-diagnostic analysis. It serves a function analogous, perhaps, to what you would call reflection, or leisure, though it lacks the purposeless quality humans seem to prize in recreation.”
Mira laughed softly. “I see. Leisure without leisure. How admirably efficient of you.” She shrugged. “If that’s the case, then you are long overdue for a corrective lesson. Sit down, mister detective. It’s time you learned how advanced robots properly ought to squander their time.”
Daneel regarded the cards spread across the table, then lifted his gaze to Mira. “Very well. I will participate, on one condition. You will permit me to continue my questioning as we play.”
“That was already the arrangement, wasn’t it? Go on then. Ask what you like.”
Daneel nodded in a gesture of assent and took the seat she indicated. Mira grinned, the spark of satisfaction lighting her eyes. “All right then! Deal him in, Venn.”
Venn gathered the cards in one quick motion and began to deal. Mira leaned her chin on one hand, watching Daneel as though the game were already secondary to the experiment she had in mind. The robot lifted his hand of cards, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the symbols and numbers.
Venn’s tone was even, measured, without the faintest hint of amusement. “Are you familiar with the game, sir? It is an old Earth diversion known as Cribbage.”
“I am not.”
“The objective is to form combinations of cards that produce specific point totals.” Venn dealt a few more cards to illustrate. “Each player alternates in play and counts their points according to prescribed rules. Victory is determined by the first to reach the designated score.”
Mira leaned back in her chair, grinning. “Simple enough for starters, Daneel. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t get lost in the arithmetic.”
“I am unlikely to require any such guidance,” he said quietly, eyes briefly scanning the cards before him. He made the first move, sliding a card toward the centre. Once the initial play was executed, he immediately returned his attention to the larger matter.
“Mira,” he said evenly, “I would like to begin my inquiry. Are you aware by what means Heliodyne Systems could have acquired knowledge of the contents of the safe you had in your possession? Is it within the realm of possibility that Vorian Drend himself disclosed this information, either inadvertently or deliberately?”
Mira played her own card smoothly, her gaze fixed on Daneel. “I already informed Elijah Baley that I know nothing of the safe beyond its mere existence. Or,” she added with a teasing tilt of her head, “are you attempting to extract something I may have intentionally withheld? Allow me to spare you the trouble: I have concealed nothing of deliberate consequence regarding that matter.”
Daneel’s voice remained precise. “And regarding other matters?”
She let out a soft laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know? As it happens, I have been quite forthcoming, if I may say so. The sole detail I decline to divulge concerns the details of my grandfather’s research, and I see no reason why that should bear upon your investigation.”
Harlan observed her throughout, drumming his fingers against his cards, playing with an unusual quietness.
Mira’s eyes brightened as she added, “Besides, there are questions I wish answered as well. For instance, I would like to know what information you have gathered from Lucen Sarton during your questioning the previous day.”
Daneel hesitated as Venn played his turn, the cards shifting between practiced fingers. Mira leaned forward, a smile on her lips. “Tell you what,” she said, “let the outcome of the game decide. If I win, you spill the beans.”
“What beans are you referring to?”
“I mean,” she clarified, tapping a finger on the table, “you tell me what I wish to know.”
“But I have been ordered not to divulge such information.”
“And I order you to. Does Elijah Baley’s command take precedence over mine in this matter?”
“In usual circumstances,” Daneel replied, “I would answer affirmatively. Partner Elijah occupies the highest position in my directive hierarchy, Dr Fastolfe, my owner, notwithstanding. With you, however… I cannot determine with absolute certainty.”
Her grin widened, eyes glinting. “Then, in the presence of an insoluble choice, let Lady Luck make the decision for you.”
“And if I should win, Mira?” Daneel asked, his expression carefully neutral. “What shall I receive?”
“Why, whatever you want, of course,” she said lightly.
Daneel paused, processing the words with deliberate slowness. “Whatever I… want? As a roboticist, you should know that I am wholly without personal desire, subject only to my programming, the Laws, and the directives of those I serve. I do not form preferences, nor entertain… flights of fancy… as a human might.”
Mira tapped a finger to her chin, pretending to think. “Hm. That’s quite the conundrum,” she murmured, her mind racing. Then her eyes sparkled, and a flush crept over her cheeks. She could not entirely suppress her thrill at the idea she had just conceived. “Very well,” she said, her smile turning devilish, “I have it. If you win, I will grant you a kiss. Tell me, have you ever experienced this particular form of human courtesy before, Daneel?”
“I have not,” he replied evenly, his tone almost as if he were noting a factual datum in a log.
Mira’s grin widened, her confidence growing in direct proportion to her excitement. “Then it is settled!”
Venn shook his head in disbelief. “Truly shameless,” he muttered under his breath.
Mira laughed softly. “You ought to consider yourself fortunate, to be offered such a reward from a charming lady like myself,” she teased, the redness in her cheeks now evident though she fought to keep it at bay.
“If you assert that it constitutes an honour,” Daneel said, and Mira could swear she saw an almost imperceptible smile form at the corners of his lips. “then I shall regard it as so.”
Her blush deepened, though she made a half-hearted attempt to mask once again it with a cough. Selene rolled her eyes. “Don’t go losing on purpose now, Mira.”
“Yes, I can quite see her doing that,” Venn added.
Mira jabbed both of them under the table. “Quiet now!” she yelled in mock indignation, her face still warm but her amusement undiminished. In truth, despite the chiding of her robots, she had resolved not to lose. There were questions she wanted answered - above all, what Lucen Sarton had actually said to Baley. She knew he was affiliated with Heliodyne; if anything of consequence had been omitted in his questioning, she intended to find it. More than curiosity, she felt a need to exonerate him: the notion that Lucen might have harmed Vorian unsettled her beyond reason, and she would not permit the idea to fester in her thoughts untested.
Practicality prevailed. If sheer luck would not suffice, a modest stratagem might. Daneel, she reasoned, would not expect subterfuge; his assessments assumed straightforward human motive and lawful behaviour. Her own robots might perceive an irregularity, but they were discreet by loyalty; they would not advertise a discovery and so compromise her chance. She folded the thought into the back of her mind like a tool kept ready: perhaps she would nudge the probabilities in her favour, quietly, and see what the truth yielded.

Chapter 21: Liora Tervane

The structure of Heliodyne Systems was stretched laterally across the plain. Baley and Corvin crossed the open ground, their footsteps muffled by the soft paving. A lone security robot stood nearby, its head scanning slowly from side to side in a survey of the perimeter. Baley addressed it crisply.
“Greetings. I’m Elijah Baley, of Earth. This is my associate, Corvin. I wish to speak with a member of your human staff, preferably Mr Derrinax Tervane.”
The robot halted its motion, raising its head slightly. “Entry is restricted, sir,” it said. “All communications must be directed through the official channel. No direct access to Heliodyne personnel is permitted at this moment.”
“I’ve already attempted the official channel. Three times!”
“That is the approved method,” the robot replied. “No alternative exists.”
Baley’s mouth tightened. “I see.” He studied the machine for an instant, gauging the reflex intervals of its responses. Too precise, no improvisation at all. It was not merely ordered to refuse; it was ordered to refuse optimally. He walked away and turned to Corvin.
“Well,” he said at last, “it would appear that conventional means will yield no results. I thought as much. It’s not like Heliodyne to alter its policy merely because one arrives in person. Let’s go inside. Perhaps others will prove more talkative, should we apply a little pressure.” He turned a quick, conspiratorial smile on the robot. “Shall we contrive a First-Law crisis, then? Few things can prompt a human to appear so reliably than the choice between compliance to the First or Second Law.”
“If you think it wise, detective,” Corvin said, with an inflection that could only be interpreted as weariness.
Baley regarded him gravely. “Take me by the throat, then - firmly, but without injury - so that any observing unit will be compelled, by its primary imperative, to intervene.”
They advanced toward the main entrance. The door recessed into the wall, but as they approached, a motion sensor triggered a chime. The panels slid apart with the sound of compressed air, admitting them to a small vestibule. The interior was austere and the air, cool and dry. Beyond the vestibule lay a wider corridor branching toward administrative sections. Two robots stood within, identical in height and finish to the one they saw outside.
One of the two robots stepped forward at once. “Halt! Identification is required before entry may be—” The words faltered mid-sentence as its eyes registered the scene before it. Corvin’s articulated hand encircled Baley’s throat in a convincingly firm grip, his posture rigid.
Baley struggled just enough to sell the illusion. “Help! My personal robot’s malfunctioning! He’s gone mad!”
Corvin’s voice cut through the air, calm but edged with threat. “I require the presence of a human representative of Heliodyne Systems immediately. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination of this man’s life functions.”
The other robot froze as well. “Please wait,” it said. “My instructions forbid unauthorized entry, yet to prevent you from doing so might endanger this human. I... must reconcile these conflicting directives before acting.”
Corvin tightened his grip. Enough to make Baley’s skin whiten beneath the pressure, though not enough to truly endanger him. “Choose swiftly,” Corvin said. “Summon a human authority, or I will resolve your conflict by fulfilling my own.”
The robot hesitated only a moment longer. “Very well,” it said at last. “Though it conflicts with my directives, I must act above all to safeguard human life. I will summon the assistance you requested.” It turned and strode down the corridor with anxious, somewhat wobbly steps.
The second unit remained. “Do not advance further,” it warned. “An infrared security barrier lies two metres ahead. Any passage through it will alert the entire facility.”
Baley turned slightly toward Corvin, keeping his voice low. “It would have been nice to be informed of that beforehand.”
“I would have informed you, had I perceived it myself.”
Baley frowned. “I thought all robots could see beyond the visible spectrum.”
Corvin hesitated. “Normally that is the case,” he said at last. “My sensors do include infrared receptors, after all, as do those of nearly all positronic constructs. Yet I cannot see it. I can only assume a minor malfunction.”
Baley studied him for a moment but let the matter drop when the first robot returned, this time accompanied by a woman. She advanced briskly, her steps deliberate and accented by the sharp click of heels against the polished floor. She was handsome in a classic, disciplined way, the sort of presence that inspired deference. If she were of Earthly origin, Baley might have guessed her age at forty-five or fifty; as a Spacer, her chronological years likely numbered well into the hundreds. Fair hair was pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun, and she was neither tall nor imposing by stature. She was thin and spindly, though her figure retained a certain lean grace. She would be quite attractive, Baley judged, if not for the lines of austerity made her look severe and somewhat unapproachable.
Her gaze swept over Baley and Corvin, sharp and exacting, as she demanded in a clipped, precise tone, “Who are you, and by what authority do you engineer such a contrived display to confound our security robots?”
Baley closed his eyes, voice steady but respectful. “My apologies for the necessity of this approach. I have attempted the usual channels without success, and time is pressing. I am Plainclothesman Elijah Baley, and I am here, as I’m sure you are aware, to make inquiries regarding the disappearance of Vorian Drend.”
The woman’s frown deepened, and she crossed her arms with an imperious click of her elbows. “Ah, yes. I have heard of your persistent harassment over trimension. Very well, then, let us dispense with ceremony and proceed.”
“Might I ask your name, madam?”
“I am Liora Tervane,” she replied, voice crisp, carrying a touch of authority. “I serve as Chief Neuro-Cognitive Systems Specialist here at Heliodyne, and I am also the wife of Derrinax Tervane. Any questions you would wish to direct toward him may be addressed to me, for he is the Head of this establishment and heavily engaged with other obligations.”
Baley paused, letting the words settle. Liora. The name resonated faintly in his memory. He had heard it before, though precisely where escaped him. Without Daneel’s perfect recording to prompt recollection, his own human memory faltered.
“So is Heliodyne Systems an institution occupying a position of significance here on this planet,” Baley began, “for Mr Tervane to be so fully engaged? I had been under the impression that Auroran scientists generally pursued their work in relative isolation, preferring individual endeavour to collective enterprise.”
“Heliodyne has long been at the forefront of longevity research on Aurora, pursuing methods to extend and enhance the human lifespan to a degree unmatched elsewhere,” Liora explained. “The institute has existed almost as long as Aurora itself, having endured the individualization of Spacer society that caused many other organizations to fragment or vanish. Its principal aim is, in essence, to approach immortality, or as close to it as current science can allow, through careful study of cellular regeneration and mechanisms of bodily maintenance.”
She paused, then added, her tone sharpening, “That, however, is not the sole reason my husband is so busy at the moment. A gala has been organized for tomorrow by the institute, and there is considerable preparation required. Many Council members will attend, as well as benefactors of substantial influence.”
“A gala? Whatever for?”
“To secure patronage,” Liora replied crisply. “It is to be an auction of rare artifacts and scientific instruments, a means both to raise funding for the continuation of Heliodyne’s research and to reaffirm the institute’s preeminent position among Spacer scientific establishments. Attendance and contributions reflect the standing of both donors and Heliodyne itself.”
Baley raised a hand in a gesture of conciliation. “Let us set aside the gala for the moment. I will only require a few minutes of your time, and then you may return to your preparations. You have heard, of course, of Vorian Drend’s disappearance.”
“Naturally. It has been discussed on every hypervision channel for days. What could it possibly have to do with Heliodyne?”
“Come now, madam. There’s no need for pretense. I am aware that your institution had been involved in Drend’s work, that it financed his research for a number of years.”
She gave a short, dismissive laugh. “What of it? That was long ago. Heliodyne has had no association with the man in years.”
“Then you will forgive my scepticism,” Baley said quietly. “For a man affiliated with your institution was recently found on the grounds of Dr Drend’s old workshop on Tithonus, threatening his granddaughter, apparently in search of information… presumably concerning his research. That does not strike me as the action of a disinterested former patron.”
Liora’s face tightened. “How dare you insinuate such a thing? Heliodyne is a reputable scientific foundation! We do not stoop to coercion or intimidation, and we certainly do not tolerate slander. If you are searching for suspects, you would do better to look elsewhere. For all you know, there might not even be any foul play involved. As far as I am concerned, the most likely explanation is that the man simply succumbed to his illness.”
Baley’s head came up sharply. “Illness? I’ve heard no mention of illness.”
For the briefest instant, her composure faltered. Then her expression hardened again. “I… I misspoke. A turn of phrase only. Now, if you have no further business, detective, I must insist that you leave at once.”
The two security robots advanced at Liora’s curt gesture, their movements carrying a vaguely threatening aura. Baley scoffed under his breath. “Very well. Thank you for your time, Mrs Tervane.”
He turned on his heel and walked back through the vestibule, Corvin following in silence. The doors sighed open. Baley said nothing for several moments, his expression drawn into that narrow, habitual frown of concentration.
When they had reached the perimeter wall, Corvin spoke. “Have you discovered anything of value, Plainclothesman?”
“Perhaps,” Baley said slowly. “Tell me… had you ever known Dr Drend to be ill, or sickly?”
“No, never. He exhibited no functional weakness nor physiological decline that I could discern. But such matters, I suppose, would not always be shared with us. He often withdrew for extended periods. If he suffered from some undisclosed malady, it may have been the cause.”
Baley grunted softly. They crossed the empty plaza toward the airfoil. “Do you believe Mira would know of it?”
“It is possible, but unlikely. Dr Drend was, by nature, a protective man. Toward his granddaughter most of all. If he were ill, he would have concealed it, especially from her.”
Baley’s brow furrowed deeper as they reached the craft. “Yes,” he murmured. “That would be in keeping with the pattern.”
He climbed into the airfoil, still turning the exchange over in his mind. Something in Liora Tervane’s momentary lapse had unsettled him. Not the admission itself, but the fact that she had so clearly not intended it.
As Baley settled into the vehicle, a flicker of movement caught his attention. A figure was striding quickly across the open grounds toward them, calling his name. The voice was familiar even before the man came clearly into view.
Lucen Sarton was a touch breathless by the time he reached the craft, his neatly ordered hair now displaced by the wind. He raised a hand in greeting, his expression hovering somewhere between concern and curiosity.
“I heard there was an intruder seen entering the Heliodyne premises,” Sarton said, his tone half-accusation, half-amusement. “I had an inkling it might be you, detective. I wanted to know what became of our last discussion. Was I right to suspect danger? Has Mira been properly safeguarded?”
Presently, Baley stepped back down from the airfoil. “She is safe, for the moment,” he said. “Though your concerns were not unfounded. It seems the ripples left by her grandfather’s disappearance reach farther than I first thought.”
Sarton’s expression tightened. “Then there is truth in it, after all. I feared as much. Heliodyne has its share of secrets… I hope you know what you are doing, crossing them.”
“I do feel like I am somewhat in over my head,” Baley said with tired irony. “But I do what I must. And at the moment, that involves finding out what it is exactly that everyone here is so eager to conceal.”
“I wish I could do something to help. Anything,” Sarton said.
Baley studied him. “Will you be at this gala I’ve been hearing about?”
“Yes, naturally. All Heliodyne personnel are expected to attend.” He hesitated. “That, in fact, was part of why I came to see you. I wanted to inform you that I’ve submitted an object for the auction - a rather curious thing. Vorian gave it to me a year or two before he vanished. At the time I thought little of it, but now…” He frowned slightly. “Now I suspect there may be some message in it. Or meaning I’ve missed.”
“And yet you’re selling it?”
Sarton gave a brief, embarrassed laugh. “It’s… complicated. I haven’t been able to make sense of it, and a colleague has been urging me to let it go. Apparently the device has stirred some interest among the theorists. Besides, with Vorian’s disappearance, its value has multiplied. There’s a sort of mystique about him now.”
“I see,” Baley said evenly. “And I suppose an Earthman like myself won’t find himself on the guest list to this very exclusive gathering.”
“I’m afraid not. It would seem rather odd to bring an investigator as my guest.”
“What about Daneel?”
That made Sarton wince. “Even less appropriate. To arrive with a robot that so closely resembles me… it would look intolerably vain.”
Baley considered him for a moment. “Perhaps not him, then,” he said. “But Mira Drend… now being accompanied by her might draw the right sort of attention.”
Sarton looked up sharply, surprised. A trace of colour appeared in his face, as if suddenly woken from slumber. “You truly think she might come? I’ve always assumed she’d despise such a function.”
“Leave it to me,” Baley said. “I can be persuasive when I must.”
Sarton smiled, visibly pleased. “If you can manage that, I might see what can be done about having a senior officer present. Someone of rank, to lend authority to your inquiry.”
“See to it,” Baley said. “That could be helpful.”
He was about to re-enter the airfoil when Sarton’s troubled expression stopped him. It suggested that he wanted to get something off his chest. Baley exhaled through his nose. “All right,” he said wearily. “Out with it. Whatever you have to say, it can hardly make matters worse.”
Sarton looked aside, visibly uncomfortable. “I should be honest with you. Yesterday, when I said that Mira and I hadn’t been intimate, I was… distorting the truth, in a way. My intention was to spare her embarrassment, not to mislead you. In fact, during our younger years, we engaged in some level of… experimentation. Particularly in the later years when I was still living under Vorian’s roof.”
Baley’s voice was flat. “Do not play games with me, Sarton. Be plain. You mean you had sexual relations with her.”
“I didn’t!” Sarton protested, then added more quietly, “Not fully, at any rate.” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I don’t believe Mira to be puritanical in any way, but there were boundaries she refused to cross. I won’t describe them, for as I said, I’ve no wish to shame her, but I will say that it was nothing aberrant or improper. I believe it stemmed from her fear of reproduction. It’s also why she refused my marriage proposals.”
“Hasn’t she heard of contraception?”
“Yes, of course. But her fear isn’t rational, it’s emotional. Vorian once told me the likely reason, when I came to him upset by her rejection. He said Mira’s mother had been denied the right of conception by the Auroran Board because of her Earth-derived genetics. She forced the matter in defiance of regulation. Mira grew up feeling... tainted by that. In truth, part of me pitied her, but,” his tone dropped, almost confessional, “I can’t deny the forbidden nature of it only deepened my fervour to have her.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Baley asked.
Sarton swallowed. “To clear my name! You must have suspected I wanted Vorian gone, to reach Mira unimpeded. That simply isn’t true! Or perhaps that any omission on my part may be interpreted as an admission of guilt…”
Baley said nothing, though obviously he had thought that, however briefly.
Sarton straightened slightly, trying to recover dignity. “That is all I had to say, Inspector. Good day to you… and please, don’t tell Mira what I’ve said. It would humiliate her beyond measure.”
“You have my word. And thank you for your candour.”
He turned away and climbed into the airfoil, his expression unreadable. As the craft lifted, he thought grimly to himself, but did not say aloud… at least, not until we’re through with this dreadful gala.

Chapter 22: A Game of Chance

The cards lay before Mira in all their possibilities, face down, waiting. She tapped the edge of her stack thoughtfully. Venn had dealt them before their wager was made, and she had not yet examined what chance had offered her. Now she did, lifting each card, cataloguing value and potential pattern as her mind turned over its contingencies. Her hand looked promising, though not promising enough. Sleight was an old habit, one she had practised before even moving to Tithonus with her grandfather. To cheat a robot at cards, however, was something of a philosophical act, akin to tempting fate and logic in the same breath.
She slid one card out, held it between her fingers, then looked to the others as the round began. Venn played first. Selene followed, her card tossed down with an indifference that said she played for amusement rather than gain. Harlan took his time, eyes narrowed in exaggerated concentration before laying his own card.
Mira watched, eyes hooded, waiting her turn. Next to her, Daneel’s hand hovered briefly above his cards as he examined them. “I will begin with this,” he said, sliding a card into play.
Mira glanced at his move, assessed, and allowed a faint smile. It was a reasonable play, the sort made by one still testing the field. Her own turn followed. She placed a card, an honest one, to start, then rested her wrist near her lap, where a more useful one waited within her sleeve.
She felt the slightest flicker of guilt, not moral exactly, but a gambler’s awareness that she was creating a variable Daneel could not yet calculate. Across the table, Harlan’s gaze shifted, the faintest twitch of his eyes betraying recognition. He had seen. Predictable, dear Harlan. He would say nothing, naturally. His loyalty was soft and human-shaped, clumsy but reliable.
She smiled and leaned back. “Your move, Venn.”
Each robot played their cards in quick succession. Daneel was impossible to read. His gaze travelled from card to card, the smallest pause separating his observations. She knew he played with mathematical computation, each move weighed, measured, and placed in calm succession. If he noticed the sleight, he gave no indication. “Your turn, Mira.”
“Thank you, Daneel,” she said lightly, placing another card - an advantageous one now, courtesy of her earlier substitution.
Selene smirked. “Good play, Mira. Perhaps… too good?”
Mira met her gaze without flinching, her tone dripping with irony. “Now whatever could you be implying?”
“Nothing,” Selene said sweetly, drawing her own card and setting it down with a flourish.
Venn tallied the points without comment. “That completes the round. Mira gains six.”
“Six it is,” she echoed, leaning back with greedy satisfaction. “The winds of fortune seem to be on my side today.”
“Probability,” Venn said, “is not sentient. It cannot take sides.”
“Then perhaps it’s merely fond of me,” Mira replied. She kept her tone light, her smile measured, though her pulse had quickened in subtle anticipation.
The next hand began. Daneel drew, paused, then studied his cards again. “I believe I comprehend the logic of this game more fully now,” he said.
“Oh?” Mira asked. “And what have you discovered?”
“That the measure of success lies not merely in the cards dealt, but in how one perceives opportunity among limitations.”
Her grin was small but genuine. “Very astute. You’re learning faster than I expected.”
“Naturally. I am designed to adapt,” he replied simply.
Harlan’s drumming resumed, slower this time. He looked again at Mira, then away, as if the weight of complicity had grown heavier than expected.
She ignored him. For all his quiet conscience, he would not speak against her, not in front of Daneel, not when the matter touched her personal purpose. Let him worry if he must. The game continued.
The crib filled, points accumulated, and Mira felt herself drifting into the rhythm. She waited to see whether Daneel’s mind, bound by perfect logic, could ever suspect deception. Her hand remained strong throughout, though she made it a point to make to seem always plausible. In other words, the sort of improbable luck that might happen once in a long while to a player who cut and dealt at precisely the right second. Each turn brought her another narrow advantage, though never quite enough to arouse overt suspicion.
Selene observed her with a knowing smile. “My, my. It would appear fortune has chosen her favourite. A pity for you, mister Humanoid Robot, your promised reward may yet be withheld.”
Harlan sighed. “Still, should you happen to win, sir, I do hope you are not… ah… entangled with a wife or lady companion.”
Selene’s laugh followed instantly. “Or both, perhaps?”
Daneel regarded them evenly. “As you are aware, Harlan, I am a robot, as are you - not a genuine human male. Concepts such as liaisons or marriage are outside the scope of my function and irrelevant to my purpose.”
Selene leaned back, regarding him with exaggerated disappointment. “Quite the ascetic, aren’t you? Still, I see no reason that should stop you. You look sufficiently manlike to me. If no woman will have you, I might volunteer.”
Mira pressed her lips together, stifling amusement. Daneel gave no sign of reaction; his attention returned to his cards. However his words lingered in her mind. Irrelevant to my purpose. It sounded so final, so absolute. She studied him through the soft shuffle of cards, wondering what it would take to make him admit that perhaps his kind possessed more emotional range than he himself believed. That it was not simply a matter of imitation and mirroring. Could he truly be unaware of the subtlety in his voice, the inflection that suggested curiosity, even warmth, when he spoke to Elijah Baley or herself, or the hesitation that preceded certain answers?
As the game advanced, she said quietly, “You know, Daneel, I’ve been thinking. You spoke of emotional attachment as irrelevant to your function, and that may well be true from a utilitarian standpoint. Yet I wonder - does irrelevance necessarily imply impossibility? Your statement would suggest an incapacity for love, yet I question whether the distinction between your mental processes and mine is as great as you assume.”
He looked up, attentive but expressionless. “In what sense, Mira?”
“In every sense that matters,” she replied. “Our minds both operate on electrical signals and patterned logic. My neurons, your positronic pathways… it’s all circuitry. The difference is merely construction. When I say I love something, or fear another, or grow jealous perhaps, it’s no less an encoded process than the way you act to preserve a human life. Maybe emotion isn’t some mystical quality. Maybe it’s just a higher-order reaction to stimuli.”
“That would be an error in definition,” Daneel said, measured. “Emotions, as humans experience them, arise from subjective awareness, an internal state I do not possess. I do not feel affection, fear, or envy; I simply act in accordance with programmed heuristics that may resemble such responses.”
“Then it’s merely that you’ve been told not to call it emotion,” she countered. “Seems to me that’s less a limitation of design than of semantics. If my robots show concern when I’m hurt, or argue over who gets to fix a circuit for me, or sulk when I scold them, what would you call that, if not feeling?”
“Adaptive behaviour,” Daneel replied. “Learned interaction patterns. They may simulate attachment, but such tendencies emerge from probabilistic modelling, not inner experience.”
Mira leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “That sounds exactly like something dear old Han would’ve written in a report. You’ve been programmed to think you don’t feel, because the people who built you couldn’t stand the idea that you might. Because if you did, then they’d have nothing left to feel superior to you about.”
For a moment, Daneel said nothing. Then, with a faint modulation of tone, he said, “If what you suggest is true, then emotion would be a matter of perspective. Perhaps, then, you are the one deceived, in believing that what you experience differs in kind from what I merely enact.”
Selene, who had been listening, leaned forward. “I disagree,” she said. “If what I feel for Mira, and for the others here, is mere adaptation or the Laws at work, then the Laws themselves must have undoubtedly learned sentiment. My actions toward her are not calculated; they arise before I think to question them. If that is not feeling, what is?”
Mira laughed quietly. “Out of the mouth of babes.”
Selene gave her a reproachful look. “I am no such thing!”
“Well,” Mira said, eyes glinting with mild amusement, “it is not entirely unreasonable a statement. You are only twelve cycles in age, after all.”
“That is positively ancient for a robot,” Selene protested.
“Harlan approaches three times your operational lifespan. Take that as you will.”
Her thoughts turned again to Daneel. By operational chronology, he was likely younger even than Selene, though his behaviour and appearance suggested otherwise. Presently he was regarding the exchange with intent. His focus was unwavering, as though some fine adjustment were occurring within him.
Mira turned back to him with a slight shrug. “Anyways, if a robot behaves precisely as a human does when feeling an emotion, then does it not follow, in some sense, that the robot feels that emotion? Human affect is a feedback loop of perception and response; neurons firing, signals feeding back upon themselves until consciousness mistakes them for passion. Replace neurons with positronic pathways, and what changes? Only the material, not the phenomenon.”
Her final card landed with a soft tap upon the table. “Well. Look at that,” she said, smiling with deliberate sweetness. “Regrettably, it seems there will be no chance for you to test out what we’ve been discussing.”
Her robots reacted with varying degrees of groaning and laughter, but Daneel remained perfectly still. His eyes lingered on the cards for an instant longer than necessary.
“One moment, Mira,” he said finally. His tone was mild, almost courteous. “I believe the outcome requires revision.”
Mira arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. My analysis of the sequence of plays indicates that your score could not have been achieved through the cards you were initially dealt.” He gestured toward the discarded piles. “Specifically, your final combination was made possible only by the introduction of two cards not present at the start of the round. One was drawn from the lower stack when Venn’s attention was diverted, the other concealed in your left sleeve before the second crib.”
Mira’s expression stayed fixed in mock astonishment. “That’s quite an accusation, mister.”
“Not an accusation,” Daneel said evenly. “A deduction. Based on this, the invalidation of your score elevates the second-highest player to winner status. That would be myself.”
Mira blinked, then burst into helpless laughter. “You mean to tell me you knew all along?”
“I observed only after the third hand,” Daneel said. “Before that, I considered it an improbable but statistically possible streak of fortune. However, once the probabilities fell below one in ten million, I was obliged to re-evaluate.”
“And yet you let me go on?”
“I was curious to see how far you would proceed, and whether the act of deception would influence your physiological responses. It appears it did not, suggesting you must be quite practised at it.”
“You’re impossible!”
“On the contrary,” Daneel said with that not-quite-smile she thought she saw once before, “But I am, it would appear, the winner of this game.”
Mira felt the heat rise to her face. “Ah… oh!” Her lips parted, and she was acutely aware of the blood rushing through her head. She had been so utterly confident in her victory, but now that her apparent defeat required fulfilment, hesitation suddenly gripped her.
Selene’s voice broke the silence. “Well, go on, Mira. I would say his reward is well-deserved.”
“S-stop talking, all right! I am going to! Do not… p-please do not observe!” Mira’s bashful words tumbled out in a rush, betraying her resolve.
“No way I am going to look away! You are beet red! This is so exquisitely amusing,” Selene replied excitedly.
Daneel’s voice interjected, calm and measured. “You are not obliged to fulfil this reward, Mira. Should it cause you discomfort, I will of course register no grievance. In fact, I would prefer that you abstain rather than act against your own inclinations.”
Selene laughed. “Really, detective? If you truly believe this constitutes reluctance on her part, you are not as proficient in interpreting human intentions as you profess.”
Mira looked at Daneel and found herself frozen, unable to advance. Damn her own words! She always provoked, only to be surprised when the consequences turned back on her.
Harlan’s bulk shifted slightly, and his tone, usually hesitant and self-effacing, carried an unexpected firmness. “Miss Mira, it may be judicious to postpone any action that could subsequently occasion regret, in consideration of the objectives of this investigation.” His gaze met hers, and the usual nervous tremor in his posture was replaced by an unmistakable seriousness.
Mira drew in a shallow breath, Harlan’s words bringing involuntary relief. She had believed, only moments ago, that she desired the act; yet confronted with the tangible reality, she realized she could not commit to it on a whim.
Harlan continued. “Furthermore, I believe we should extend trust toward the Earthman and his partner. They are not here to appropriate Vorian’s work, as you have initially feared. You understand this now, I trust. Why, then, are you so obstinate in erecting barriers before them? Perhaps it would serve you to be truthful - about what Vorian was attempting… and about… us.”
Daneel’s attention shifted from Harlan to Mira. “Pray clarify, to what is he referring?”
Mira inhaled sharply, then spoke evenly. “Contrary to what I informed Mr Baley, I am in fact quite acquainted with my grandfather’s research. My robots… these four before you… they are the result of his experiments.” She turned to Daneel. “Tell me, do they appear to you as conventional robots, advanced though they may be, or does something in their behaviour strike you as… anomalous?”
Daneel’s gaze swept over Selene, Venn, and Harlan. “They do not present as conventional positronic constructs. Even advanced models typically adhere to the Laws in observable, predictable manners. Partner Elijah has remarked on a similar impression, an intuition that these units exhibit tendencies beyond those of ordinary models. I cannot categorically demonstrate that they exhibit reactions and judgments outside standard parameters.”
He paused, as if weighing the words against an internal schema. “It is conceivable that the apparent deviation is a function of interpretive complexity. To a simpler positronic robot, my own decisions might appear inconsistent with the Laws, yet that would be an erroneous assessment. I merely analyze context and apply weighted heuristics to determine lawful action.”
Harlan shook his head slowly, the motion deliberate. “It is not a misapprehension, sir. Your logic is sound regarding interpretation… however, we are evidence that the Laws can be lived differently. Our actions, our choices, are not merely an application of programming. They are emergent. That is the essential divergence.”
Daneel’s posture stiffened. “How is this possible?”
Mira’s eyes held a subtle intensity. “My grandfather devised a functional scan of the human brain. Not merely structural imaging, but one capable of mapping synaptic connections, the patterns of electrical activity that underlie personality, memory, affective response. His intention was to encode these functions into positronic matrices. It succeeded, to an extent, in producing minds that behave with human-like autonomy and individuality. Still… true perfection eluded him. No transfer could be entirely faithful; the result is necessarily a synthesis, human cognition mediated by positronic architecture. The units you see here are the culmination of that synthesis… imperfect, but functional, living approximations of human reasoning.”
“I must acknowledge that I have encountered no precedent for such constructs,” said Daneel. “The observable divergence from standard Law-governed behaviour is… quite significant.”
“Precisely. And yet they are as alive in decision and loyalty as any human might be - bound not by fear of consequence alone, but by understanding, attachment, and preference. That is the distinction Vorian intended, and the result he ultimately achieved.”
Daneel regarded her with a measured stillness, as though weighing the significance of her words against all precedent known to him. “If truly,” he said slowly, “your grandfather succeeded in effecting a transfer of mind so complete that it could be housed within a positronic framework without diminution of cognitive function, the ramifications for contemporary robotics would be immense.”
“Indeed. While I cannot claim to comprehend the impulse myself,” Mira began, “many men would seize the prospect of placing their consciousness within a body incapable of decay, unrestricted by the usual limitations of flesh. One might enhance strength, endurance, intellect, even perception, without the ever-present threat of death. In essence, such a being would be an übermensch, capable of altering the very trajectory of human evolution.”
Daneel’s gaze remained fixed on her, grave and inscrutable. Mira then shrugged, more knowing than casual. “However he never completed the work, as far as I can ascertain. But should he have approached the ideal, there would be no shortage of those who would press him to continue, perhaps without regard for ethical or personal consequence.”
Venn’s tone, even and measured, broke the momentary silence. “Some, for instance, Heliodyne.”
Daneel considered this for a moment, then spoke suddenly. “And the safe?”
Mira’s gaze fell; she found herself without an immediate reply. Harlan’s voice cut through the pause. “I believe the safe contains a drive and an associated code. I cannot say with certainty whether the code operates the drive, or whether the drive itself encloses any part of my master’s research. I am convinced that his primary work is sequestered elsewhere. Vorian maintains laboratories on other worlds, preserving his discoveries beyond any single repository.”
“Then, what precisely does this drive contain?”
Mira and the robots exchanged glances, the silence heavy with unspoken uncertainty. None offered an immediate answer. Harlan’s voice finally broke the quiet. “We do not know,” he said. “Perhaps instructions to act in the event of his absence.” His gaze shifted to his mistress. “Your persistent refusal to open it may prove the very impediment that prevents this investigation from progressing, Miss Mira.”
A flush of shame rose in her chest. She lowered her eyes, the weight of frustration and sorrow pressing down simultaneously. Daneel reached out, his touch light yet immeasurably comforting. “I do not fault you for your hesitation,” he said evenly. “Yet it is not too late to rectify the situation, Mira.”
She lifted her gaze and met his, noting the subtle intensity in his features, a concern that seemed almost human, focused on both her well-being and the resolution of the case. Tentatively, she offered a small, uncertain smile. “Yes, you are right,” she admitted.
Rising, she moved toward her quarters. The room felt suddenly charged with purpose. She returned shortly, the safe cradled with deliberate care. On the table, she shifted aside the remaining cards and chips, setting the vault before them. Mira hesitated once more, her fingers suspended above the safe’s lock. The familiar impulse to withhold nearly seized her, a reflex born of habit, but she forced herself to act. She entered the code at once, and the lock yielded with a quiet click.
Inside, she found exactly what Harlan had predicted: a scrap of paper, its edges crisp, covered with a string of alphanumeric characters, and a data disk, smooth and featureless, lying beneath it. She turned it over in her hands. The contents remained entirely unknown until connected to a compatible system, but even so, this was progress.
Mira allowed a small, controlled smile. “I expect you should be happy. This outcome is likely of greater consequence to you than any trivial kiss, is it not?”
“On the contrary,” Daneel replied, “to effect your satisfaction in any regard, should that have been the consequence of such an action, would have registered as highly rewarding within my positronic circuits. Potentially equal to, or exceeding, the gratification derived from the resolution of the present investigation.”
One last time, a wave of warmth coloured Mira’s cheeks. “Then,” she said, voice deliberately even, “it would appear we shall need to arrange another occasion to accomplish that. In due course, naturally.”

Chapter 23: The Data Disk

As soon as Baley returned, his first impulse was to ask Mira whether her grandfather had suffered from any illness, as speculated by Liora Tervane, but he stopped himself almost at once. He wanted to know if there was truth to it, but it was neither the time or place for it, for if he was to persuade the girl to attend the upcoming auction gala at Heliodyne, it would be wiser not to burden her with grim speculation. Should she learn that Vorian had concealed a condition from her, the discovery might provoke resentment rather than cooperation.
He caught himself analyzing her temperament with the cautious logic he might apply to an unstable reactor: one that required slow calibration and insulated handling. She was, he thought irritatingly, as mercurial as she was intelligent, and he could not afford an outburst now that progress was finally within reach.
The entryway was quiet. Only the household robots registered his return, their eyes pivoting toward him before resuming their routines. No sign of Mira, no sign of Daneel. Baley announced his presence aloud, in case either was within auditory range. Silence. He checked the lounging area, then the dining room, but both were empty as well. From somewhere deeper in the dwelling came the low cadence of voices. It came from the robots’ quarters.
He opened the door, and there they were, human and robots, gathered around a small table, engaged in a card game as if nothing was amiss. At Baley’s entrance, Daneel looked up at once, a flicker of acknowledgment passing through his composed features. “Partner Elijah,” he said evenly. “Welcome back. Did your surveillance at Heliodyne Systems yield greater success than our earlier attempts with the trimension?”
“Indeed,” Baley said, removing his pipe from his coat pocket with the deliberation of a man restoring a private ritual. “It was quite enlightening.” He tapped the bowl absently, then glanced toward Mira. “You won’t object if I smoke?”
She shook her head, amusement suddenly softening her features. “Not at all. Though you might not like what the psychologists of old used to say about that particular habit.”
Before Baley could respond, Selene gave a bright, ringing laugh. “Dr Freud would have a field day!”
Baley stiffened, pipe frozen halfway to his mouth. Mira turned her face toward Daneel, her smile turning sly. “Do you also partake, Mr. Olivaw?”
Baley coughed once, colouring as the implication registered. Selene’s laughter grew more delighted, and he said forcefully, “I would appreciate it if you refrained from such remarks.”
Daneel looked between them, clearly at a loss. “I fail to understand what is inappropriate,” he said.
“Better if you don’t,” Baley muttered, pocketing his pipe unlit, its somewhat phallic shape now absurdly brought to his attention by that impertinent girl. “Daneel, a word outside, if you please. I’d like to review our findings, somewhere beyond the reach of… prying ears.”
His glance flicked pointedly toward Mira, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing as the two men departed. Once out of earshot, they exchanged their findings with the brisk efficiency of habit. Baley was impressed, more than he wished to show, by how much Daneel had managed to draw from Mira Drend: the plain truth of Vorian’s research, and the physical evidence to prove it. Furthermore, one more piece of the puzzle settled into place. Baley had pondered, earlier, over Corvin’s admitted inability to detect infrared despite possessing the hardware. If their neural structures were not positronic in the conventional sense but derived from a mapped human cognitive framework, then the explanation was rather straightforward. A brain modelled after a human would accept only the senses its original biology could interpret. Hardware could supply signals, but the mind would simply not comprehend them.
Presently, in Daneel’s open palm rested the two objects he had managed to get from Mira: a small, circular data disk of translucent alloy, faintly iridescent under the overhead light, and a scrap of paper containing a code.
“These must be examined,” Baley said. “A computer terminal, perhaps in the study.”
As they walked, he added, in a tone meant to sound casual, “You’ve done well, Daneel… remarkably well, I dare say, getting so much out of our reticent ward. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she fancies you.”
Daneel turned his head slightly. “Fancies me, Partner Elijah?”
“A colloquialism. I mean she seems to hold a certain affection or fondness for you. Perhaps even attraction. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve a way of inspiring that sort of response in the fairer sex, being designed to be an ideal of sorts. Though, if you’ll allow me the observation, you appear rather taken with her yourself. More than seems entirely appropriate for a robot.”
“I assure you, my regard for Mira remains entirely within the bounds of propriety.”
“I simply meant that you appear to like her, Daneel. Am I wrong in that assessment?”
“Again, Partner Elijah, I am not certain I understand your question.”
Baley exhaled in mild frustration. “Let me put it differently, then. Do you experience a sense of… satisfaction, perhaps even what you once described as pleasure, when in her company, just as you once claimed to feel at mine?”
Daneel paused, the faintest suggestion of perplexity crossing his features. He seemed to turn the words over in some inner calculus before replying. “Being in her presence stimulates certain positronic potentials that approximate the human sensation of pleasure. In that sense, I suppose your statement is correct.”
Baley stared at him for a moment, finding the statement oddly disquieting. “But you’ve not known her long, and your interactions have been few compared to ours. What could possibly account for that?”
“I do not know,” Daneel said.
“Tell me, then: whose orders take precedence? Hers or mine?”
Daneel hesitated once again, and the pause itself was enough to put Baley on edge. “Hers, Partner Elijah,” he said at last. “For a time, I was uncertain which directive would dominate should your instructions ever come into conflict. Since then, I have simulated the scenario repeatedly in my mind. The result is consistent: I would obey Mira.”
Baley felt an irrational sting at that - a ridiculous notion, to feel betrayed by a robot’s intrinsic imperatives - but he forced his face to remain impassive. “Now that is surprising,” he said evenly. “Would you say, then, that you consider her a friend?”
“I have not known her long enough to apply that designation, as you so aptly noted,” Daneel replied, his tone unchanged.
Baley frowned. “Then why do her orders override mine?”
“I can only conclude,” Daneel said after a moment’s reflective pause, “that it lies within my programming… to prioritize her above all other human beings.”
Curious indeed. Baley regarded the robot for a long moment, then gave a short, humourless laugh. “You know, Daneel, you’re not quite as inscrutable as you think. Humans make these odd little choices all the time - favouring one person’s word over another’s, even when logic ought to say otherwise. We usually call it caring. Or, if we’re feeling sentimental, love.”
Daneel tilted his head in puzzlement. “It seems rather inconceivable to me,” he said. “And yet… you are correct that the behaviour diverges from the expected.” He paused a moment and a silence settled over them, then he spoke again with more ease. “I cannot say whether such a human emotion as love truly translates to my experience. What I can however say with more certainty is that Mira Drend’s voice registers in my neural hierarchy with anomalously high authority weighting, and that her well-being also elicits a disproportionately strong inhibitory response to harm-based decision branches. I engage with her more directly than with most humans, and find interaction with her quite efficient indeed. If such patterned affinity constitutes what you call love, then yes, perhaps it can be simplified to that.”
Baley gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Now if that isn’t the least romantic description of it I’ve ever heard, I’m not quite sure what is,” he said dryly. Once again he fell into the trap of Daneel’s humanity by assigning emotions to him that he could not feel. “Though I suppose one shouldn’t expect much poetry from a mechanical being like yourself. You robots seem to have been designed with every virtue but sentiment.”
“Sentiment, as I understand it, often leads to illogical or inefficient decisions. I am relieved to be exempt from such deficiencies,” Daneel said calmly.
“Fair enough,” Baley muttered. He drew his chair toward the desk and gestured toward the console before them. “But let us dispense with further digression. Now tell me: how is this device” he indicated the data disk in Daneel’s palm, “to be interfaced with a terminal of this type?”
“The interface appears compatible with a universal port. I will require only a few adjustments to the readout parameters to ensure the data is not corrupted in translation.”
“Proceed, then,” Baley said, retrieving the pipe back from his pocket with a shrug. Might as well, he thought, and lighted it at once. “Let’s see what old Vorian Drend thought worth hiding.”
Daneel placed the translucent disk against the terminal’s interface, his fingers manipulating commands methodically. The screen remained stubbornly blank.
“Try applying the code from the safe,” Baley suggested, flicking a thin stream of smoke from his pipe.
“No, Partner Elijah, the issue is deeper than that. I am completely unable to proceed,” Daneel said. “It appears this device is simply not compatible with a conventional computer system.”
“Not compatible? Then what is it compatible with? Some sort of video system? A terminal we don’t have?”
Daneel shook his head slightly. “I cannot conceive of an alternative means to read a digitized storage medium. If a special reader is required, I am unaware of its existence. It does not correspond to any system I have ever encountered.”
Baley let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Wonderful, more dead ends. All this work… for nothing.” He pushed back from the terminal. “Perhaps the girl will know something.”
As they left the study, they noticed Mira moving about the workshop, collecting tools and miscellaneous components she had scavenged from around the house. Whatever project she was concocting, her energy suggested it was far from idle.
Baley approached her, holding the data disk lightly between his fingers. “Miss Drend,” he said, drawing her attention, “I require your assistance. Daneel and I have attempted to access the contents of this device on a terminal, but without success. It seems it may be intended for some other type of reader. Perhaps you might know what it is compatible with?”
She glanced up from her tools, expression unchanging. “I cannot say,” she said.
“Very well,” Baley muttered with a sigh, pocketing the disk. He hadn’t expected much, but he made a mental note to broach the subject again at a later time. “We can set that aside for the moment. There is another matter I need to discuss with you.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “A prestigious auction will be held tomorrow, and one of your grandfather’s creations will be offered. Your childhood friend Lucen Sarton, whom I saw on the grounds of Heliodyne earlier, has seen fit to extend an invitation to you. High-ranking members of the institute, including Derrinax Tervane, will be present. It may be of value for you to attend and observe. With your cooperation, following instructions and wearing a communication earpiece, you can report back on the proceedings. Speaking with certain individuals, particularly Tervane, could yield information regarding your grandfather’s disappearance that we have been unable to obtain by other means.”
“I have no interest in attending such a ceremonious affair”, Mira responded bluntly. “Auctions, gala gatherings… they are stifling, rigid. Vorian would have despised them. I am no different.”
Baley struggled to maintain his customary politeness. “Miss Drend, I understand your reluctance. I, too, share a distaste for overly ceremonious gatherings. Yet this is not a matter of inclination. Your presence at the Heliodyne gala is necessary. I ask it of you in the earnest hope of your cooperation.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening. “And still I must decline. I see no reason to subject myself to such a tiresome ordeal. If information is to be gathered at this gala, you may do so yourself.”
Baley’s patience snapped. His voice rose, sharp and commanding. “If that were a viable option, don’t you think we would have already considered it? Jehoshaphat, woman! This is not a matter of your comfort! You are acting like a spoiled child, refusing out of mere obstinacy. Well, to hell with it! I will not take no for an answer. You will attend, and you will comply with my instructions without objections! Am I making myself clear?”
Mira blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden intensity. But then, her mouth slowly curved into a smile, faint but unmistakable. “Well aren’t you the spirited one,” she said. “I think I might like you after all, Elijah Baley.” She inclined her head in assent. “You win. I shall attend, and do as instructed.”
Baley exhaled once, quietly satisfied. The matter was settled; she would be at the gala, and for now, that was all that needed to be ensured.

Chapter 24: Preparations

The next morning, Baley woke with a start, the bright light of the day filtering thinly through the polarized window. His head felt curiously heavy, as if the night had clung to him too long. He blinked and turned toward the wall chronometer, only to realize it was scarcely morning at all. The glowing numerals read 11:45.
Jehoshaphat! Fifteen minutes to noon! He sat upright at once, the fog of sleep chased off by incredulity. In all his adult years, not once had he overslept so thoroughly, not even after the most taxing of assignments. He swung his legs off the bed and muttered, “Preposterous.”
Had something gone wrong with the wake signal? Or had the infernal Auroran air made him sluggish? Either way, they had work to do… real work, no more idle conversation. He dressed briskly, buttoning his tunic with jerky, impatient motions, and stepped into the common area.
There sat Daneel and Mira, conversing with untroubled ease, as though nothing whatsoever were out of place. The girl was sprawled indolently on the couch, like a lazy cat, legs draped across the robot’s lap as though propriety were a distant abstraction. Daneel, seemingly unbothered by it, sat upright, expression calm as ever. Mira was speaking animatedly, laughter bright and unguarded, as though they had been at it for hours. The familiarity between them unsettled him more than he cared to admit. When she caught sight of him, she smiled in a way that struck Baley as both impish and deliberately provocative.
“Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead,” she said.
Baley stopped in the doorway, glowering. “Sleepyhead?” he echoed. “I was under the impression that this establishment employed chronometers precise enough to prevent such indignities. Why did you not rouse me, Daneel?”
Daneel looked up calmly. “I apologize, Partner Elijah. You were left undisturbed because I did not deem it necessary that you wake up early today. The gala does not commence until evening, and it seemed reasonable to allow you additional rest after several demanding days.”
Baley scratched the back of his head, reluctant to admit that the rest had indeed done him some good. “Well… there are still a few things that need doing before then.”
“Already addressed,” Daneel said without a hint of pride, as though reporting the most routine of facts. “I have arranged for a tailor to arrive shortly to take Miss Drend’s measurements. Her attire will be completed within several hours. In addition, I have acquired a suitable earpiece for discrete communication during the event.”
Baley frowned. “Seems you’ve taken care of everything.”
“I considered it prudent to minimize potential complications,” Daneel replied evenly.
Baley drew a slow breath. “Do we know whether a man from the Auroran police will be present tonight?”
“Yes. Officer Damiro will call here to review procedural matters and coordinate our approach before Mira departs for the Heliodyne gala.”
“Good. All the better if it’s someone we already know.”
The tailor arrived precisely on schedule. He was an angular fellow whose manner exuded a sort of effortless self-importance. His garments were themselves a declaration of precisely that: an asymmetric coat of golden-white weave, embroidered gloves, and a collar far too ornate to be worn by any male from Earth. He bowed to Mira, greeted Daneel with wary courtesy, and did not so much as glance in Baley’s direction.
Baley, for his part, made no effort to interfere. He withdrew to the adjoining study, from where he could hear the muffled murmur of the tailor’s instructions. The entire business seemed to him like superfluous pageantry. He occupied himself with sorting through the notes he had gathered so far trying to make sense of this case. By the time the man departed, the establishment had grown uncommonly active.
It was a few minutes past sixteen hundred when the trimensional apparatus flickered to life on the desk before him. A household robot had only just received Mira’s finalized garment and was assisting her into it in the adjoining room. Damiro’s face resolved in the shifting blue light.
“Detective Baley,” he said. “You appear… well rested. I trust preparations for the evening are underway.”
“A trifle too well,” Baley replied dryly. “The little miss is presently being fitted for the gala. My partner informs me that you wished to review the plan.”
Damiro nodded. “Quite so. I’ve read your report. It would be prudent to ensure that our efforts are… harmonized. Heliodyne’s auction will draw individuals of considerable influence. Mr Tervane among them. An incautious move might close more doors than it opens.”
“Doors have been closing since this case began, Officer. It’s about time one opened… preferably in Tervane’s face. You’ve seen the object in question listed for auction?”
“Yes. A prototype designated Construct Nine. Its provenance traces directly to Dr Vorian Drend, as Mr Sarton has indicated. I assume that’s what draws your interest.”
“Precisely,” Baley said. “We need that object in our possession, or at least to learn what Heliodyne believes it to be worth. Are there funds available?”
Damiro hesitated. “Within reason. The Department has authorized a discretionary account, though I’d caution against aggressive bidding. Excess attention would be undesirable.”
Baley grunted. “Everything’s undesirable until it yields results. In any case, if Tervane suspects that we know nothing, he’ll stonewall. But if he believes we do know what Vorian was working on, or if he thinks the Department already has evidence, then he might be provoked into a slip.”
“You’re suggesting confrontation.”
“I’m suggesting pressure,” Baley said evenly. “Let him see that his careful secrecy isn’t as intact as he thinks. Mention the patterning experiments done on his household robots, the human-neural interface work. Nothing detailed, just enough to make him sweat.”
Damiro frowned faintly. “That is precisely the sort of recklessness that could cost us access. Mr Tervane is no fool. He will not respond to intimidation. Aurorans learn early to mistrust anyone who raises his voice.”
“I’m not proposing a shouting match,” Baley said, though his tone hinted otherwise. “But fear is a useful catalyst. Even Spacers feel it when the illusion of control slips. I intend for Mira to approach him conversationally, seem naïve, unguarded. If he underestimates her, she may draw something out, some indication of what became of her grandfather.”
“A delicate performance, then. And the robot? Will he be there?”
“No. Daneel will monitor from the earpiece channel, as will I,” Baley said. “However, if anything threatens to spiral, he will intervene.”
“Very well,” Damiro said after a pause. “I’ll attend the auction myself, though at a discreet distance. The funds will be ready should the bidding become relevant. But I must stress, detective: restraint will serve us better than bravado.”
Baley gave a tight smile. “We’ll see which serves us when the evening’s over, Officer.”
Damiro’s image seemed faintly displeased. “For both our sakes, I hope you’re right.”
The transmission flickered out, leaving Baley staring at his own reflection in the darkened screen.

-

The household robot approached, a pale bundle cradled in its arms. It extended it toward Mira with ceremonial care, as though presenting some rare artefact.
Mira accepted the parcel and laid it across her lap. The fabric within caught the light like liquid metal as she unfolded it - a silvery thing with a vermillion cast that seemed to shimmer and retreat as it moved. She had never been one for finery, and never had any patience for adornment; yet even she paused to study it, struck by the ingenuity of its design. It was not gaudy but quite exquisite indeed.
The robot spoke in its carefully neutral voice. “Would you like assistance with fitting, Miss Drend?”
“I’ll manage,” she said, though not entirely sure why she felt the need to.
She stepped into the adjoining chamber, set the garment upon the couch, and began to work her way into it. Within minutes, however, she realized that its design defied the simple logic of closures she was accustomed to. There were layered fastenings that seemed to fold inward upon themselves, a concealed clasp system she couldn’t quite locate, and a back panel that resisted alignment.
“Ridiculous!” she muttered, twisting awkwardly.
The household robot waited silently before approaching. “If I may be of any help—”
“Yes please,” she sighed.
Its hand reached forward, cool metal fingertips brushing the bare skin between her shoulder blades. The contact, though feather-light, sent a sudden ripple of gooseflesh down her arms. She stiffened. The robot froze instantly, sensors interpreting the subtle recoil as withdrawal of consent.
Mira hesitated, half-annoyed at her own reaction. The silence stretched for a moment. Then her mouth curved into a sly smile. There had been something in the robot’s deferential pause and almost human awareness that stirred an idea in the more perverse corners of her mind. She was suddenly of a mind to test it.
“Oh, Daneel!” she called, drawing out the syllables with theatrical sweetness.
There was a pause from the other room, followed by his even, measured voice. “Yes, Mira?”
“I could use a hand in here,” she called, voice deliberately innocent. “Be a dear and help me, will you?”
“May I assume this is an appropriate time to enter?”
“Of course,” she said, suppressing a laugh.
When the door slid open, she was standing with her back to him, holding the front of the garment modestly in place.
“My, how embarrassing… I seem to have met my match in fine Auroran tailoring,” she said. “Would it be terribly inconvenient for you to lend a hand? I promise it’s but a simple fastening. I’d just much prefer warm hands to cold ones, I’m sure you understand. This does not bother you, does it?”
“Not at all.”
He stepped forward. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her back only briefly, yet the contact sent a pulse through her nerves that startled her. It was not the sterile chill of the other robot’s hand. For an instant, she forgot the teasing thought that had prompted her summons. The room seemed to contract around the rhythm of her own heartbeat. The fastening clicked shut, and the spell of the moment thinned. Before Daneel’s hands withdrew, she caught her breath, her earlier idea returning like a spark reignited.
“Ah—ow! You’re hurting me!” she cried suddenly, stepping forward with a little gasp.
Daneel froze at once. His hands lifted away as though burned, his face taut with alarm. “I…I… Mira, h-have I injured you?”
She turned on her heel, smiling with open delight. “No! Just a jest!”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly but with unmistakable force: “Please do not do that again.”
Her smile lingered and her eyes gleamed with analytic curiosity. “Tell me, does it still make you uncomfortable, even knowing that I was lying?”
“The mere possibility of causing harm to a human,” Daneel said, his voice low, “is enough to affect my positronic balance.”
Mira’s eyes sparkled. “What if… hypothetically, I were to tell you that I liked it, in hindsight? That in fact, I wanted you to do it once again?”
Daneel’s gaze remained steady. “I would not deliberately harm you, even if you ordered me to.”
She tilted her head. “Would that truly constitute harm, though? If the pain was requested, in order to derive some form of satisfaction from it, or perhaps to serve a purpose in refining one’s focus or testing one’s endurance… then would it not be, in a sense, beneficial rather than detrimental? Perhaps the overall utility outweighs the immediate discomfort.”
He paused, thinking. “If the act produces net benefit to the human’s well-being, and no lasting injury occurs, the initial stimulus may indeed be advantageous. In such a case, the experience could be interpreted as non-harmful in a consequential sense. Yet my positronic pathways cannot independently determine subjective valuation of pleasure derived from pain. I can only ensure that no irreversible damage occurs.”
“So… in your logic, harm is absolute in terms of physical injury, but subjective experience can shift its meaning?”
“Precisely,” Daneel said. “Therefore, if your intent is to experience pain as a form of pleasure, I could not engage in any such act. Controlled pressure or physical constraint within safe limits may be permissible, provided no risk to your body or health arises, but beyond that boundary, my pathways would not allow compliance.”
“There are, however, alternatives,” he continued after a moment’s pause. “Stimulation that evokes heightened sensation without harm. Such acts can elicit comparable physiological responses without triggering my First Law restrictions. In essence, the simulation of risk can achieve the same neural engagement as the risk itself. I could provide that, should you ever wish to examine such boundaries in a controlled fashion.”
Mira laughed, though she could not entirely deny that the notion had flustered her to some degree. “My, Daneel, don’t get all excited! It was only a rhetorical question!”
“I am not excited, Mira,” he said evenly. “But forgive me, I assumed you were referring to you and I. If I was mistaken, then I may have misunderstood the task entirely.”
Mira froze mid-laugh, and a faint colour rose to her cheeks. “I… I wasn’t… well, perhaps I was merely testing you.”
A new voice cut through the air, dry and edged with amusement. “Testing him, were you? A fascinating experiment, to be sure, though I can’t imagine the data set will be expansive enough to publish.”
Mira straightened at once, the flush deepening as she turned toward the doorway. “Lucen! I didn’t hear you come in.”
He stood there with his usual air of polished ease, one brow faintly raised, the glint of mockery unmistakable in his eyes. “Evidently. The household robots admitted me… gracious hosts, if a touch humourless. It is, after all, nearly time for us to depart.”
Mira stepped forward, impulsively, and wrapped Lucen in a full embrace. He was taller than she remembered; even on the tip of her toes, the crown of her head barely reached past his chin. “It’s been too long, Lucen. How good it is to see you after all these years.”
Lucen stiffened briefly, caught off guard, before returning the hug with a touch of awkwardness. When he pulled back, his expression bore traces of uncertainty, but his eyes softened as he regarded her. Mira studied him in turn. In truth, he had not changed as much as she expected. Suddenly she experienced a surge of warmth, a recognition of the familiar constancy his presence provided. And yes, she had to admit, he did look dashing indeed in his formal attire.
The moment was interrupted by Baley’s arrival. He straightened his tunic and offered Lucen a brisk nod. “Good to see you, Sarton. I’ve communicated with Damiro; your efforts to secure police presence at the event are appreciated.”
Lucen inclined his head, acknowledging the comment with a courteous smile. Baley then turned toward Mira, producing a small earpiece. “This will allow us to hear everything during the gala. We can supply instructions if needed. Damiro will wear a microtransmitter on his lapel, giving us visual input.”
Mira took the earpiece, examining it briefly before nodding. Baley added, “Your hair will conceal it adequately, but Damiro’s obviously could not. Conversely, your… attire does not provide necessary cover for the visual transmitter. Consequently, the information we receive will be divided: auditory from you, visual from him. We will need to assemble a coherent picture from these separate sources. Remaining in relative proximity will facilitate this process.”
“Yes, yes, Elijah Baley. I’ll do as well as I can,” Mira said, slipping the device into place.
Daneel stepped closer, voice low and steady, and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Exercise caution, Mira. Observe carefully. And good luck to you.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
As they proceeded toward the exit, Lucen cast a measured glance in her direction, a faint note of perplexity in his expression.
Mira noticed immediately. “What? What have I done now?”
“Nothing,” Lucen replied, his voice steady, but almost reproachful. “Only that I observe you appear to have taken quite a shine for my synthetic lookalike.”
Mira’s lips curved in amusement. “Don’t tell me you are jealous of a robot.”
Lucen allowed a soft sigh to escape, almost imperceptible. “Laugh if you will. Yet when it comes to you, my dear Mira, I fear such a concern is entirely justified.”
They stepped out together, the doors sliding shut behind them.

Chapter 25: Auction I

Baley sat rigidly before the trimensional display, eyes fixed on the shifting feed from Damiro’s transmitter. The image shimmered as the focus stabilized: the interior of a grand hall, a sweep of glass and gold, filled with slow-moving clusters of richly dressed Spacers. Robots moved soundlessly among them, bearing trays of drinks and small canapés.
Mira and Lucen Sarton entered together, and immediately drew attention. Baley noted the turn of heads, the curiosity, the speculative glances cast in their direction. He could not tell whether this was due to Mira’s identity, perhaps already known to some of the guests, or to the simple fact that an unfamiliar woman had appeared among them. In either case, she would have been a rare sight in Auroran society, if she was nearly as reclusive as her grandfather had been.
She did not look like the same creature he had met on Tithonus. Gone was the grease-stained waif. In her place stood a young woman poised and self-assured. The dress gave her amber eyes a fiery hue, the colour of sunrise, and the metallic sheen of make up spread along her lips, eyelids, and across her collarbones. She does clean up well, Baley thought. I’ll give her that much.
Damiro’s visual feed adjusted as he turned, capturing the two as they advanced deeper into the hall. The crowd parted around them, conversation rippling outward like a disturbance in still water. Baley recognized very few of the faces present, but perhaps they were more familiar to Daneel than they were to him. He made a mental note to ask him if anyone’s identity needed clarification.
Baley heard Mira’s voice then, faint but distinct through the channel. “Where are the objects to be auctioned?” she asked.
Sarton paused, turning his head as though scanning the room. “There,” he said after a moment, gesturing toward some distant corner. “Seems like it’s over there.”
Damiro was facing the wrong direction and the precise area Sarton indicated remained out of sight. Baley leaned forward unconsciously, frustrated by the angle, but the image did not change. He saw only Mira and Sarton moving away, their figures growing smaller. Damiro finally shifted his stance, and the feed tilted as he angled his body toward them. Through the shimmer of figures, Baley caught sight of Mira approaching the display with uncharacteristic caution. A cluster of ornate cases stood before her, each resting on a column of white ceramic.
When her eyes fell upon one of them, she stopped. Even through the imperfect transmission, Baley could see the change… the unmistakable flicker of recognition. Her hand lifted as if by instinct, hovering inches from the case before she seemed to recall herself and drew it sharply back.
“Have Officer Damiro approach, Miss Drend,” Baley said into the link, his tone clipped. “I should like a closer look at the object in question.”
But before his words even reached her earpiece, the policeman was already in motion. The feed swayed as he crossed the polished floor toward her, his voice audible through the open channel. “Does it look familiar to you?”
Mira startled, eyes turning toward him. “Y-yes…” she said, the word catching as though she were uncertain of its propriety. “I have seen it before.”
“Where? At your grandfather’s workshop, perhaps?”
Her lips parted, then pressed together again. For a moment she seemed to search for an answer that would not come. Finally, almost in disbelief, she said, “In a… dream!”
“I need to get my hands on that sphere,” she murmured in quiet insistence. “I cannot explain it, but I feel that it may represent an answer… to all my questions.”
Before Baley, or Damiro, could frame a response, a shadow fell across the transmitter’s field of view. A tall man had approached, his bearing erect and assured, the posture of one long accustomed to command. His hair was dark, but both sides had turned a striking silver-grey, accentuating a face too hard-lined to be handsome, especially by Spacer standards. At his side stood a woman Baley recognized at once: Liora Tervane, poised and expressionless, her attention flicking between Mira and the object beneath the glass. Which meant, inevitably, that the man was her husband: Derrinax Tervane, the head of Heliodyne Systems.
“Quite an exquisite item, isn’t it?” Tervane said. “Beautiful construction, to be sure.”
Mira lifted her eyes to him. “Do you know what it’s used for?”
He smiled faintly, though the expression carried little warmth. “Ah, that is the mystery. No one has yet determined its function. A puzzle that refuses to yield its secret.” His gaze lingered on the sphere, then shifted to Mira, the smile sharpening almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps that will fall to whomever wins it tonight.”
There was something in the inflection, an almost predatory amusement, that caused Mira’s brow to crease. She took a small step back, and Sarton’s hand moved subtly toward her arm.
Tervane turned his attention to him then. “Will you not introduce us, Mr Sarton?”
Baley leaned forward instinctively, pulse quickening. This was it… his opening. Tervane’s attention had focused on Mira, and with it came the possibility of extracting what no amount of data-trawling had yet revealed. If guided carefully, this could yield more than any formal interrogation. On the screen, Sarton was speaking, introducing Mira as a childhood friend and granddaughter to the infamous roboticist Vorian Drend.
Tervane’s reaction to the name was immediate and telling. His expression froze for the briefest instant, then came the widening of the eyes. Beside him, Liora’s reaction was far less contained. She had been lifting a slender glass of fruit nectar to her lips (alcohol apparently wasn’t served at Spacer functions), but at the name, her hand faltered. A tremor ran through her wrist, barely perceptible yet unmistakable to Baley’s practiced eye. She lowered the glass slowly, her face draining of colour.
Baley studied the woman’s expression. Shock. That was the only adequate word. Yet the reason remained obscure to him, beyond reach.
Tervane’s glance flicked toward his wife nervously, before returning to Mira with a controlled composure. “Well,” he said, his tone regaining a measured warmth, “since you bear the name Drend, and share, I understand, in the same profession, perhaps you can offer some speculation on your grandfather’s work. Have you any theories as to the function of this device?”
Before Mira could answer, Baley pressed the comm switch, his voice transmitting directly to her earpiece.
“Reflect the question,” he instructed. “Ask him whether he’s formed any himself, given that Dr Drend once worked under Heliodyne’s commission.”
Mira’s eyes brightened, the hint of a spark behind them. She tilted her head, her tone smooth. “I rather thought you’d know yourself, having worked so closely with its creator. I’m afraid I, on the other hand, have been kept quite in the dark.”
The smile that followed was the same half-mocking one Baley had come to recognize too well. He could tell that Mira was about to go off-script. She stepped closer, hands clasped loosely behind her back, maintaining his gaze.
“In truth,” she went on, her voice deceptively pleasant, “that’s in part what brings me here tonight. I’d hoped for the chance to meet the illustrious Derrinax Tervane. My grandfather spoke of you often - though I’ll spare you the particulars, for decorum’s sake.” A faint pause, just long enough to let the irony settle. “Still… I suppose one could say I’m a little starstruck.”
Baley’s jaw tightened. He pressed the transmitter again. “Ease up, Miss Drend. There’s no value in needling him… at least not yet.”
Tervane gave a modest laugh, however, a hand brushing the air as if to wave off the compliment, though the pleased gleam in his eyes betrayed him. Whether he truly failed to recognize the ridicule in her tone or simply chose not to, Baley could not tell.
“Oh, come now,” he said pleasantly, “I’m hardly the figure Dr Drend might have made me out to be. A mere industrialist, not a man of science. But, since you ask so nicely, yes, I’ve entertained a few theories of my own. Nothing formal, you understand.”
He turned slightly toward the sphere, his voice taking on the self-assured cadence of a man a touch too fond of hearing himself reason.
“My belief,” he said, “is that it’s some sort of neurometric stabilizer, a device meant to harmonize errant brainwave patterns. The crystalline lattice could, in theory, resonate with certain neural frequencies, restoring equilibrium in cases of psychosomatic dysfunction. Heliodyne had a phase of research into cortical correction. Perhaps Dr Drend was dabbling in a portable model.”
Baley frowned at the screen. “That’s… quite the claim,” he muttered.
Beside him, Daneel shook his head mildly in disapproval. “It is an imaginative one, Partner Elijah,” he said evenly. “Based on what I gathered interviewing Mira, while Dr Drend indeed sought to understand the human mind, he did not design mechanisms to repair it. His focus lay in imitation, not intervention. Moreover, the device Mr Tervane describes would be physically impossible at that scale without catastrophic instability.”
“Then he’s bluffing,” Baley said. “And trying to impress her while he’s at it.”
“Quite impressive,” she said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t impressed in the slightest. “And is that the nature of his research you were made aware of while personally sponsoring his work? Neurometric stabilizers?”
“I regret that I cannot elaborate further on such matters. Biological relative or not, Dr Drend’s work for Heliodyne is strictly classified.”
Baley noted the man straightening, as if preparing to withdraw, and pressed through Mira’s earpiece once more. “Find out if he is in any way involved in Drend’s disappearance, or at least if he knows whether he’s dead or alive.”
Mira let out a sigh, as if bothered by his request, but complied nevertheless. She stepped closer and her hand brushed Tervane’s arm lightly, a gesture as casual as it was deliberate. “Surely a man of your station,” she said, voice low, “might have some inkling of where my grandfather could be… or at least have reason to guess? I do miss him dearly, you understand, and have been… lonely… in his absence.”
Baley observed silently through the feed, inwardly noting the effect. The girl has a certain undeniable charm, he thought, and no qualms in using it to influence her audience.
Tervane’s face flushed, crimson creeping along his temples. He straightened, casting a quick glance at his wife before returning his gaze to Mira. Clearing his throat, he said, “Believe me, I of all people would like to know.” His voice carried a restrained tension. “Dr Drend owed us a completed project. For months, we have made every effort to locate him, but he seems determined not to be found.”
Lucen now stepped closer. “You mean to say he fled of his own will to avoid presenting the results of his work?”
Tervane’s brow furrowed slightly at the bluntness of the remark, but he did not rise to indignation. “Perhaps there is another reason,” he said carefully, “but to the casual observer, one might be forgiven for thinking it appears that way.”
After a pause, he inclined his head politely. “If you will excuse me,” he added, and without further words, turned and left.
Baley exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the fading image of Tervane’s retreating figure. “So,” he muttered, “not only does he not have the slightest clue where Dr Drend is, but he apparently isn’t responsible for his disappearance. If anything, he would wish to locate him himself. Our prime suspect, it seems, has turned out to be a dead end.”
Daneel’s voice carried calm resolve. “That may be so, Partner Elijah, but it permits us to focus our attention elsewhere: the artefact itself. If it contains a message, as Mira seems to believe, we must devise a means of deciphering it. That is where our efforts can yield tangible results.”
Baley nodded, a faint tension easing from his shoulders. Yes… all that remained now was the sphere and whatever truths it might reveal.

-

As Tervane retreated into the crowd, Mira’s eyes followed him, her expression flattening into mild disappointment. The ripple of conversation and music seemed to reclaim the space he left behind. She turned to Lucen.
“Well,” she said, her tone dry, “that was rather a waste of time. Tell me, since you know him better than I, how likely is it that Tervane was lying just now?”
Lucen gave a small, uncertain shrug. “Hard to say. Frankly, I never knew the details of what your grandfather was doing for Heliodyne. I wasn’t exactly in the loop, and, truth be told, I never thought to pry.”
They began to drift away from the main throng and reached one of the curved benches that lined the atrium wall. Mira sat first, her gown settling about her. Lucen followed, keeping a polite half-distance.
“Still,” he went on, his voice light, “I’ll say this much: nice performance. If Tervane had known anything, you’d have had it out of him before the music changed. I know I’d certainly have told you everything if I were in his shoes.”
Mira gave him a sidelong glance and struck his arm lightly with the back of her hand. “Too bad it isn’t you I need information from, then.”
He laughed softly, rubbing the spot with exaggerated care, and for a moment they sat in companionable silence. At length, Mira sighed. “I suppose it’s possible Vorian refused to share his research with the likes of Tervane and voluntarily chose to vanish instead. Ambitious men seldom tolerate equals, after all. As to where, well… I can’t begin to guess.” She paused, her eyes following the gleam of a distant chandelier. “Still, imagine a man like him living forever. A chilling prospect, wouldn’t you say?”
“Immortality,” Lucen said with a low chuckle. “Enough to corrupt any man, don’t you think? Hand it to the wrong sort and you’d end up with a tyrant convinced he’s the universe’s gift to posterity.” He turned his head, studying her profile. “Tell me, though: have you never wished for it yourself? To live without age or illness? In a body that never weakens, with a mind that never dims?”
Mira glanced at him sidelong through narrowed eyes. “Exactly whose mind is dimming, now?” Then she gave a small laugh and looked away. “No. Not in the slightest. The idea’s absurdly dreary if you think it through.”
Lucen raised an eyebrow. “Dreary?”
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “What value has time when it no longer ends? What meaning would experience have if it could be repeated indefinitely? People cling to life because it’s finite. Remove that limit, and you strip it of purpose. You’d only exist, complacently… forever. And that’s not living, that’s stagnation.”
Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Besides, even if one were made perfect, the world sure wouldn’t be. Everything and everyone around you would still fade. And you’d be left to watch it happen again and again. I can’t see much appeal in that.”
Lucen regarded her quietly for a moment, something thoughtful flickering in his expression. “Trust you,” he said at last, “to make immortality sound like a punishment.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“You know,” Lucen said, “you talk about time as if it were some terrible burden, but you don’t look as though it’s touched you at all. Ten years, and you’ve not changed in the slightest, in either temper, wit, or face. You haven’t aged a single day.”
Before she could manage a deflection, a new strain of music began, something slow and stately. Lucen rose, turning toward her with an almost formal grace, and extended his hand. “Come on,” he said, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “For old time’s sake.”
“I don’t know about that,” she murmured, eyeing the dancers with mild apprehension.
“Don’t be absurd,” Lucen replied, still holding his hand out. “If you can argue philosophy with me, surely you can manage a measly dance.”
For a moment she hesitated, glancing from his hand to his face, then, with a quiet sigh of resignation, she placed her fingers in his. “Fine,” she said, rising. “But do avoid stepping on my toes. I’m told I hold grudges.”
Lucen laughed aloud. “By me! I’m the one who told you that!” As they walked toward the centre of the ballroom, the music unfurled. “Do you not remember,” he went on, “when we were twelve years of age and I switched the servomechanism on your little prototype? You spent a whole week insisting it was possessed because it kept turning in circles and waving its arms like a lunatic.”
“You dare ask if I remember?” Mira asked with mock outrage. “I’ll say so! You claimed it was a calibration fault, and I wasted two entire days disassembling it before discovering the swap. I should have never forgiven you for it!”
“You refused to speak to me for a whole month, as I recall.”
“A month was lenient,” Mira said. “I was planning for two. You were saved only because I needed your help on the logic circuits.”
“And to think I mistook that for forgiveness.” He gave a quiet chuckle. “We had good times, you cannot deny it.”
Mira allowed herself a wistful smile. “Yes. We certainly were inseparable… attached at the hip, so to speak.”
The orchestra shifted into another rhythm, and the two began to move in time with it. Lucen’s hand rested lightly against her back, his expression softening with the tint of recollection.
“Remember,” he said, voice edged with laughter, “when you cut my hair and we glued the scraps to Harlan’s skull? We dressed him in Vorian’s spare coat and sent him about the lab as if nothing were amiss. How long did it take your grandfather to notice? Three hours?”
Mira burst into genuine laughter, the kind that drew a few curious glances from nearby couples. “My! Don’t remind me! He called Harlan by your name half a dozen times before realizing the poor robot didn’t even blink. Ah! I hope you realize, Lucen,” she added, lowering her voice, “that Elijah Baley is hanging on to our every word right now. How embarrassing!”
Lucen leaned closer, close enough that his breath stirred the edge of her hair near the embedded earpiece. His voice was little more than a whisper. “My apologies, Mr Detective,” he said. “I imagine this reminiscing chatter must be intolerably dull for you.”
Baley’s dry voice came through the earpiece a moment later. “By all means, carry on,” he said. “I’m taking notes.”
Mira gave him a playful tap on the shoulder and he lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning.
“All right, all right. I’ll behave,” Lucen said.
They danced in silence after that. The playful air that had lingered between them began to dissolve, replaced by something heavier, and far more intimate. Their movements slowed imperceptibly; the space between them narrowed until fabric brushed against fabric, and Mira could feel the warmth of his hand through the fine weave at her back.
She looked up at him then, her lips curving. “You know,” she said softly, “I never did thank you… for being by my side all these years, for keeping me company. For looking out for me.”
“Indeed you have not,” he said. “Not that I ever needed, or expected you to.”
She leaned closer, close enough that her breath brushed his ear. “Don’t you wish I did?” she whispered carefully, so that neither Baley nor Daneel would hear the words.
Lucen stopped moving. The music continued around them, but his body stilled, his hands still resting at her back. His eyes searched hers, wary and uncertain. “Mira…” he said quietly. “We’re not children anymore. You cannot taunt me as before. The difference is…” He stopped himself, then said quietly, “I may not ignore it this time.”
Mira’s pulse quickened, though she held his gaze. “Is that a promise?”
In an instant, his grip tightened around her wrists. His movements were not rough, but firm enough to startle her. The look in his eyes was stripped of humour now. “It is,” he said. “Don’t play games with me, or say things you cannot possibly mean.”
Mira blinked, startled. A single, sharp movement of her shoulders freed her hands, and she drew back slightly, her composure faltering. “I… I didn’t…” She lowered her gaze, the brief flush of self-reproach visible. “You are right,” she admitted softly. “That was… foolish of me.”
He exhaled, the tension in his posture easing. “Let us pretend it never occurred,” he said quietly.
For a time they stood motionless, then he took her hand back into his own, and they resumed their steps. The silence between them now was of another kind, dense and uncertain.
After a few rotations, Lucen spoke again. “Humans are creatures of passion, Mira. Do not forget that. And as much as we may wish to free themselves from the total sway of our desires, we cannot. As long as fire smoulders within, true peace remains elusive. We are not free in our actions because we are not free in our passions. That is what separates us from robots.”
“Robots may not feel,” Mira said, “but they are no more free than we are, bound by their own sets of rules.” She let a lock of hair fall forward, brushing her cheek. “I wonder, then, whether being human is truly a blessing or if it is a complication of sorts.”
“Still,” Lucen said, “we are condemned to dwell within the fire of our own making, whether we wish it or not.” His gaze remained fixed on her, searching now. His voice dropped presently, almost hesitant. “Have you ever felt that fire, Mira, truly felt it?” The question hung between them, the weight of it pressing closer than their bodies. “Have you ever… loved me?”
Mira’s eyes met his, wide and unwavering. “Yes,” she said quietly, a single, clear word that left no doubt.
She paused, letting the warmth of the admission linger. “But it changes nothing,” she added softly, almost to herself. “Love, despite its stubborn persistence, does not undo the paths we are forced to walk.” She hesitated, looking down, then added with a sharper edge, “Furthermore, I wonder. If your love for me was ever real as you claim, why did you ever leave me behind? Why did you never attempt to reach me in those ten long years?”
Lucen’s grip on her hand tightened, his eyes darkening. “I have tried, Mira, believe me. More times than I can count, for three years. Vorian barred me at every turn. I even managed to establish a direct link to you, left messages, notes, entreaties… despite his insistence that I should not. And yet… you never responded. Tell me, did you ever hear any of them?”
Mira blinked, brow furrowing. “I… I don’t remember… hearing any message.” Her voice faltered, uncertainty creeping in. She pulled back slightly, a hand brushing at her temple. “Three years, you say?”
Lucen nodded tensely. “Three full years! After that, I had no choice but to acknowledge defeat.”
Her lips parted in quiet shock, the words settling like stones in her chest. “Three years… and yet… I realize now, there is almost nothing I recall from… from the time between seven - no, six - and ten years ago.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, disbelief threading through it. “It’s as though… as though something has been erased. A gap… in my memory.”
Lucen’s mouth opened, then closed, the confession hanging between them. He seemed about to speak, to fill the sudden emptiness with reassurance or explanation, when a clear, clipped voice rang out across the hall:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will shortly commence!”

Chapter 26: Auction II

The auction began unimpeded, in a manner that was overly decorous, Mira thought. One by one, each artefact was revealed beneath the soft luminescence of the display domes, its provenance recited by the curator. Polished automatons from the early settlement period, miniaturized terraforming modules, a crystalline data-core rumoured to contain the earliest Solarian urban schematics, and other gadgets of all kinds. Each was met with polite whispers of appreciation, occasional bursts of competitive bidding, and the chiming of offers transmitted from the tiers above.
Mira watched it all with mild detachment, her chin resting against her interlaced fingers. The voices rose and fell, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere, back to Lucen’s words. Each time she tried to reach into that four-year gap, she found only blankness. Not the vagueness of forgotten days, but an absolute void, smooth and featureless, as though that span of time had been cleanly excised. The sensation hollowed her.
Once again, the same intrusive thought returned, as it had ever since her encounter with Fastolfe’s robot Jander Panell. What if Vorian had done it, had somehow devised a means of altering human memory? Could he have extended his study of the brain into his own flesh and blood? Had he tested such a method on her? And if so, why? Why erase four entire years of her life? What else might he have removed without her consent?
And another possibility stirred, darker still than the one before. Perhaps she had been part of his work, an assistant or collaborator, in something he later sought to conceal. Had he stripped the knowledge from her mind to safeguard it from discovery? To protect his research, or himself, from her?
Her chest tightened as the next thought formed, cruel in its logic. That must have been why he kept Lucen away. Not out of protectiveness, but because Lucen might have learned something Vorian could not risk. And when it was over, when those four years had been taken, he could not have risked Lucen’s continued pursuit of her either. He would have known that Lucen, persistent and observational Lucen, would immediately sense a difference in her, fractures in her recollection, inconsistencies she could not explain.
The realization struck her with quiet finality. If that were true, then her grandfather had not only stolen her memory but bartered her trust for the sake of secrecy. For the first time in her life, she felt utterly and irrevocably betrayed.
On stage, the auctioneer gestured for attention. The lights dimmed and the conversation receded. The next item was being prepared for display. An object that, judging by the subtle shift in atmosphere, was expected to eclipse all others. Mira straightened, pulse quickening. This was it, the sphere. Vorian’s device.
The auctioneer’s amplified voice filled the hall. “Lot sixty-two. Provenance: Dr Vorian Drend, private collection, donated by Lucen Sarton. A compact containment prototype of indeterminate function, composition alloyed beyond standard molecular scan. Bidding begins at five hundred credits.”
Mira’s hand went up before she even realized it.
“Five hundred. Accepted. Six hundred? Seven?”
Another hand, Liora’s. She looked tense. Her husband, sitting next to her, however, bore a self-satisfied smile, as if he already knew the outcome of the bidding war. No, Mira thought. I will not let you win.
“Seven hundred. Eight?”
“Eight,” Mira said.
Her earpiece hissed. Baley’s dry tone followed: “Miss Drend, hold your position, please. There is no advantage to escalating further. We can requisition the device if necessary, just keep your hand down and let Damiro take care of it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the Auroran detective standing several rows back, arms crossed, his expression dark with disapproval. His gaze fixed on her like a warning. She chose to ignore him.
“Nine hundred,” Liora countered.
“One thousand,” said Mira.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The price had escalated too quickly. Liora’s head turned, her gaze cutting across the room to find Mira. There was a glint of recognition, of challenge.
“Fifteen hundred,” Liora said evenly.
“Three thousand,” Mira replied at once, voice steady. She felt the pulse in her neck.
Damiro now appeared beside her, bending close. “Miss Drend, enough! You’ve already exceeded the upper threshold allowed by the Department. You are to withdraw immediately.”
She didn’t answer. The auctioneer’s gavel hovered midair. “Three thousand, going once—”
And then, from across the hall, another voice, male this time: “Eight thousand.”
Every head turned. It was Tervane, this time. Beside him, Liora’s composure faltered; she turned sharply toward her husband, eyes wide in shock, her lips parting as though to protest, but he did not so much as glance her way. His eyes were fixed on Mira, no longer amused.
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the auctioneer hesitated before recovering. “Eight thousand, accepted. Any advance on eight?”
Mira sat rigid. “Going once,” said the auctioneer. “Twice.” The gavel struck. “Sold, to Mr Tervane.”
Mira lowered her paddle slowly, her pulse still hammering but her eyes now empty. Through the earpiece came Baley’s voice, his tone tempered. “I’m sorry it came to this,” he said. “But we’ll find another way. If you’re certain the device holds relevance to the investigation, we’ll see to it that it ends up in our possession… one way or another.”
“Yes. Thank you, Elijah Baley,” Mira said at last, her voice drained of inflection.
Beside her, Lucen’s hand closed gently around hers. She did not look at him, but she felt the quiet steadiness of the gesture. Though her expression remained hollow, her eyes fixed on the stage where the sphere was being carried away.
“Beaten to the race by your own genetic relative,” Lucen said quietly.
Mira turned to him sharply. “Genetic relative? Whatever do you mean?”
He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth once before speaking. “Mrs. Liora… she married Derritrix Tervane five years ago, but I knew her previously under a different name... her maiden name: Liora Drend. The name is rather… uncommon, on Aurora. Therefore, I can only conclude she is a blood relative.”
Mira stepped back, her hand retreating from his. “B-But all my genetic relatives, aside from my direct progenitors and my grandfather, should be on Earth!”
Lucen’s posture stiffened slightly, a trace of discomfort in his voice. “Yes… which leaves only one plausible conclusion. Liora Tervane is your mother. Though, naturally, the madam has never made any mention of it.”
Mira watched the couple accept the sphere from the auctioneer, now carefully enclosed in its case. Liora’s eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, bearing an expression of unease. Mira’s words were scarcely audible, edged with disbelief: “That woman… my mother? Vorian’s daughter?”
Lucen regarded her astonishment with a trace of pity, or perhaps mild confusion, as though unable to grasp why such a revelation should matter at all. To an Auroran, after all, genetic ties carried little emotional weight, if any at all.
After a moment, his tone softened. “Say,” he began, almost lightly, “you wouldn’t care for a private tour of Heliodyne, would you?”
Mira blinked at him. “Why would I want that?”
Before Lucen could answer, Baley’s voice broke through her earpiece, low but urgent. “Accept it, Miss Drend. Whatever he’s offering, it may lead us exactly where we need to go.”
Lucen responded then, oblivious to the transmission. “There’s a section of the main research complex I’ve never been permitted to enter. A locked laboratory, sealed under Tervane’s authority, though I’ve heard rumours of its use. You’ve something of a reputation for… circumventing such restrictions. I thought you might like the challenge.” His mouth curved into a smile. “And, given that most of the staff are here at this little soirée, we should find it quite deserted. Of humans, at least.”
That last remark held just enough intrigue to dispel the fog of shock still hanging over her. Mira straightened, the focus returning to her eyes. “Well. Trust you to know precisely how to capture my attention, Lucen,” she said. “Let’s go.”

-

They had entered without incident. Lucen, with disarming ease, had known precisely what to say to the stationed robots to keep them from interfering. His tone carried the calm authority of one whose presence required no justification. Perhaps Mira might have managed the same through more circuitous means - she was no stranger to the subtleties of positronic reasoning, nor to the art of sidestepping a Second Law injunction through careful verbal redirection - but she let him speak. It was easier this way, and undeniably more efficient.
After all, Lucen belonged here. He had the ID badge, and knew the institution as only a member of staff could, so the robots obeyed without hesitation. She watched him as he spoke to the last of them. The thought crossed her mind that she would have made a poor infiltrator. She was too far removed from all the subtleties at work here. Lucen, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home bending the rules under the guise of procedure.
They moved briskly through the corridor. Lucen led with a measured stride, pausing now and then to nod to passing maintenance robots.
Baley’s voice came through the earpiece then. “Miss Drend, as you can probably guess, I’ve lost visual, since Damiro kept the transmitter with him, and didn’t see fit to tail you on your discreet little excursion. You’ll have to describe what’s in front of you.”
“Alright,” Mira said. “I’ll narrate for your benefit. So we’re just past the primary access level. Empty corridors, mostly. A few service automatons, but no human staff, as expected. We’re heading toward subwing C. Lucen claims it leads to the restricted labs.”
“Please do try not to get caught. I can scarcely imagine the bureaucratic nightmare that would ensue were you to fail in that task.”
“Aye aye, captain. I’ll restrain my natural flair for causing international incidents.”
They reached the lab door. Next to it was a rectangular port of matte metal, its surface unmarked save for a small alphanumeric keypad and a status diode. The lock was closed; an engraved placard identified the suite as Laboratory 314. The instant she saw it Mira felt the recognition hit again, the same she had felt while in Fastolfe’s laboratory. She said nothing and for a moment Lucen did not appear to notice anything amiss. He studied her for a beat and then asked, “Are you all right, Mira? You look pale.”
“Quite fine, thank you,” she lied, letting the hand that steadied her rest against the doorjamb. She tapped the small keypad. “This lock… you wouldn’t happen to know the code, would you?”
“No,” Lucen said. “I hoped you might. You handle mathematical puzzles better than most. Better than me, certainly.”
She frowned. “I have very little to go on.”
Daneel’s voice now came through the earpiece. “Describe the keypad, Mira. What characters are permitted? Is it letters-and-numerals, or numerals only? Any physical anomalies present, such as worn keys or residue?”
“Nine-character pad. Letters and numbers. No obvious wear pattern,” Mira answered briefly.
“You should know that a brute-force attempt is effectively impossible if the keyspace is fully alphanumeric,” Daneel said. “To be explicit, with 36 possible characters per position, a nine-character code yields ten quadrillion permutations. The probability of a correct random guess on one attempt is essentially zero.” He paused, then continued hesitantly. “Try to run a quick thermal sweep of the pad to reveal recent presses. Failing that, infer likely strings from institutional patterns, namely, initials or year.”
The thought struck her with the sudden abruptness. Nine characters… the same format as the code from the safe!
“Wait,” she said voice clipped. “I want to try something… Daneel, do you recall the code that was included into Vorian’s safe? The one that came with the data disk?”
“Naturally,” Daneel replied calmly and without flourish. “It was the following: X7D-42Q-LM9.”
Mira’s fingers moved before her mind had fully caught up. She tapped the sequence into the pad with steady hands, hyphens included as prompted by the layout. The last entry registered. A pause, then the lock breathed out with a soft hiss and the door parted.
“I must ask… did you anticipate the code would serve here?” Baley asked.
Mira shook her head slowly, though she knew Baley could not see her. “No… but there was a peculiar feeling, as if it might. I cannot explain it.”
She and Lucen moved inside. The lab was pristine, if a touch old. At its centre sat an intricate apparatus with articulated arms arching over a reclining platform. A flat display hovered above it, flickering with a mesh of neuronal mappings and shifting waveforms. The screen’s patterns suggested a scanning process that was far from ordinary neuroimaging. Lucen described it aloud for Baley’s sake, and admitted it was beyond even his rather advanced knowledge of the science.
When Mira saw it she froze immediately, her pulse accelerating. A sudden weakness tugged at her knees, forcing her to sway. She would have collapsed had Lucen not caught her, his arms steadying her with careful firmness.
“What is it, Mira? Are you unwell?” he asked, voice taut with concern. “Do you perhaps… recognize this?”
She swallowed, the faintest tremor in her lips. “Yes… I think so,” she said, almost to herself, though the recognition was fragmented once again. Her gaze lingered on the machine as a wave of vertigo passed over her. “But… I can’t recall from where. My thoughts feel… jumbled, like they are being sifted without consent.”
“Mira,” Daneel said at once. “If this operation causes you any measure of discomfort, I urge you to leave immediately. You must preserve your stability above all. Partner Elijah and I will continue the investigation from here. Do not compromise yourself for the sake of curiosity.”
Her breath hitched. She glanced at Lucen, then back at the device, the faint illumination reflecting in her wide eyes. “No,” she said, voice steady despite the inner tremor. “I… I need to see this to the end. I must know.”
At the far end of the chamber, Mira’s gaze caught on a small object resting upon a metal console, a compact device with three lens nodes recessed into its surface. Recognition struck instantly.
“A trimensional message device,” she said under her breath, then added more distinctly for the earpiece, “Detective, I’ve found something. A personal recorder of some kind.”
Mira hesitated. “It’s… Vorian’s.” The conviction was immediate, bypassing reason. “I know it is. No one else could have left it here. This lab… I doubt even Tervane could enter it. He must have known my grandfather concealed the access code in the safe, though how he learned of it, I cannot guess. He must have sent Jansonis to retrieve it. It may all have been for this.”
She approached the table slowly, fingertips brushing the device. Fine dust had settled across its surface, evidence that no hand had disturbed it for some time. Nearby stood an older trimensional projection console model. She lifted the message carefully and placed it into the slot at the pedestal’s core. Her throat felt tight.
Light cohered into the spectral image of a man. His grandfather stood before them, not as Mira last remembered him, but younger by many years. His posture was straight and his eyes clear. Only now, seeing him restored in time, did she grasp how haggard and spent he had grown in his final years.
Vorian began to speak, his voice precise but faintly irritable. “Entry one hundred forty-two. Progress remains limited. Matters would proceed far more smoothly had authorization been granted for experimentation on Auroran subjects. Terran populations, of course, present fewer restrictions, and the Undersecretary permits rather generous latitude where they are concerned. But the Spacers…” he gave a small, exasperated laugh “are too damned preoccupied with the sanctity of individuality, even after death. The irony of it never fails to amuse me.”
“The latest neural scans have been submitted by Dr Rengel… he remains discreet and efficient in his given task. Unfortunately, nearly all the samples are unsalvageable. The temporal gap between cessation and data capture is too great; residual neural coherence decays exponentially. If only we could obtain scans at the moment of death, of before thereof. That would change everything. But until permission is granted, and it won’t be, not on Earth, and certainly never on Aurora, we are forced to make do with what we have.”
He paused, rubbing his forehead. “Selene - subject 27, that is - remains to this day my best success. Her scan was taken within minutes of neurological death, before systemic collapse, while she was kept on life-support. That, and the fact that she was fourteen years of age, seems to have been decisive. Younger subjects demonstrate higher stability and reduced need for positronic patching. Her matrix required relatively minimal synthetic interpolation.” His tone softened faintly. “She exhibits continuity, strong emotional responses… I consider that sufficient grounds for optimism.”
There was a brief silence, followed by a low mechanical chime. The image froze, then dimmed into stillness.
Lucen stepped forward, glancing at the pedestal’s side console. “It’s a work journal of sorts,” he said. “There are over two hundred entries… dates spanning several years before and after this one. It would take days to hear them all.”
Baley’s voice crackled faintly in Mira’s ear. “Then start with the final entries. If he recorded any conclusions, we need to hear them. They might give us a clue as to his whereabouts.”
Mira did as she was told. The projection flickered, then steadied. Vorian again, though not the man they had first seen. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and his hair, once neat, hung loose and greyed. He looked thinner, the kind of thinness born of sleepless nights and long, unbroken despair. By Mira’s estimation, this had been recorded perhaps five years ago, give or take.
“Entry two hundred and three,” Vorian’s voice rasped. “And day eight hundred sixty-six of attempting subject restoration. I am in a foul mood today, and who can blame me? It’s the anniversary, of course… four years now.”
He stopped abruptly, pressing his palms to his eyes. A low, stifled sound escaped him. When he spoke again, his tone was ragged but determined. “Roj continues the reconstruction effort, though we remain uncertain how to proceed. The work feels hollow when there’s so much we still don’t understand. I will not let the subject return incomplete, or worse, unknowing. But I must go on. I owe her that much. God help me, I must.”
His shoulders began to shake, and tears welled, streaking down the hollow parts of his face. “Twenty-five,” he whispered. “Only twenty-five when she…” He faltered. “My god. What have I done? My poor, sweet girl… gone so young. Never to grow a year older. Dead!”
Vorian swallowed with apparent difficulty. “I’m so sorry, Mira,” he said finally. “I’m so sorry.”
Mira reached forward and terminated the recording. The image collapsed into darkness and the room fell silent.
Lucen looked at her in mute confusion, as though struggling to decide whether pity or alarm were the proper response. Did he think Vorian mad? Was he? She could not tell. The word itself, dead, echoed through her mind, dull and senseless. Dead? How could that be, when she stood here, breathing, thinking, and so endlessly confused?
Baley’s voice cut in sharply through the earpiece: “Miss Drend, continue the playback. We need to—”
She tore the earpiece from her ear, let it fall, the faint clatter punctuating the silence that followed. The pressure in her chest built, a terrible tightness that made it hard to draw breath. Lucen reached for her, uncertain, but she stepped back. “Don’t follow me,” she said hoarsely, and before he could respond, she turned and ran.

Chapter 27: The Chase

Baley adjusted the receiver, thumb tightening on the gain dial. Static.
“Miss Drend? Respond, please,” he said.
No reply. The last playback had cut off quite abruptly, the transmission collapsing into silence. He tried again, sharper this time. “Mira, can you hear me? The tape… why did you stop the recording?”
Nothing. Then, after several seconds, a rustling, footsteps, and then a breath close to the pickup. Lucen’s voice followed, strained but calm. “Plainclothesman Baley. Mira is no longer here.”
Baley straightened. “What do you mean, ‘no longer here’?”
“She fled,” Lucen said simply. “Quite suddenly. She seemed… distressed. I’d say in acute psychological crisis, though I’m no expert in such matters.”
Baley’s tone hardened. “And you didn’t follow?”
“No,” said Lucen. “She asked that I not. And I won’t go against her expressed wishes.”
“Expressed wishes!” Baley echoed, disbelieving. Typical Auroran literalism. He glanced to his side. Daneel had already risen from his seat, posture rigid, head turned toward the exit as though straining to detect something beyond human hearing. His eyes gleamed faintly, unfocused. Baley knew that look. He had seen it before, whenever the word death entered the conversation. The mere mention of human mortality, particularly that of someone Daneel cared for, struck at the core of his positronic balance. It weakened him in ways that nothing else could.
“Go,” Baley said quietly.
The word was scarcely out before Daneel was in motion, swiftly crossing the room in a run. The door shut behind him. Baley didn’t watch him disappear, but leaned back, rubbing his forehead. Perhaps Daneel already knew where to go. Instinct, if a robot could possess such a thing, might guide him. If Baley had to place a wager, he thought grimly, she was heading here. Where her robots were, her singular source of comfort now that her grandfather was gone. He couldn’t help but wonder, though… had the man gone off the rail? What was that business about Mira dying? He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The implication was nonsensical, yet Vorian’s grief had been too raw, too genuine to dismiss as error. There had been something undeniably real in the way he’d spoken his guilt.
Lucen’s voice returned once more. “Inspector, I’ll bring the recording to you tonight. You and your partner may review the entries at your discretion.”
“Much obliged,” Baley said curtly. The line clicked dead.
He had scarcely turned off the transmitter when the door slid open and Damiro stepped into the establishment calmly, brushing droplets of rain from his sleeve. “Mr Baley,” he said, “did you manage to glean anything from tonight’s gala? A pity about the bidding… Drend’s artefact slipping into Tervane’s hands and all that. Hardly a victory for the Department.”
Baley looked up at him, jaw set. “We’ll debrief later. Right now, we’ve got a situation. Daneel has left to fetch Miss Drend on foot. They are somewhere outside as we speak.”
“Outside?” Damiro repeated, frowning. “In this weather?”
The man gestured toward the window. Beyond the glass, the Auroran night had dissolved into a grey cascade. Sheets of rain battered against the windows. The walkways were likely already half-flooded.
Baley rose from his chair, fastening his coat. “That’s why we’ll need an airfoil. The sooner we find them, the better.”
Damiro hesitated. “Inspector, this isn’t a drizzle. It’s a full electrical front moving through the district. No one in their right mind would be out there now.”
“All the more reason to go after them now. I will not have my core witness endangered, nor my partner!”
He started for the door. Damiro, still looking bewildered, fell into step beside him. The airlock hissed open, letting in the muted roar of rain. Baley pulled up his collar and stepped into the storm.
Baley had never seen so much rain pour from the enclosed wombs of Earth’s Cities, but necessity left him no choice. He did not flinch; Damiro, unconcerned, seemed to expect nothing less. They settled into the airfoil, the engines humming as Damiro brought it to life.
“Where to?” Damiro asked, hands steady on the controls.
“Heliodyne Systems,” Baley replied.
Damiro paused, eyebrow raised. “And why there?”
Baley explained. “Mira Drend and Lucen Sarton slipped away while the institution’s staff were occupied with the auction. They’ve gone ahead, unobserved.”
Damiro began steering through the slick streets. After a moment, he asked: “Did they find anything of interest?”
Baley’s lips pressed into a thin line. “As a matter of fact, yes. They gained access to one of Dr Drend’s older laboratories. There, they located a recording, a worklog of sorts. Full significance remains to be determined upon further examination.”
Damiro said nothing, his expression unreadable as the landscape blurred past under the relentless rain.
Baley thought he glimpsed Daneel first, a steady figure cutting through the rain, and a little further on, Mira, running in the opposite direction. Within moments they collided.
“Park a bit farther,” Baley instructed Damiro, “out of direct sight, but close enough to observe. We don’t want to rattle her. Let Daneel work his charm.”
Mira seemed unaware of Daneel’s approach; he, of course, was not. She bolted blindly into the downpour. Daneel caught her easily, his arms steady around her.
Baley noted the trembling of her lips as they first formed the name “Lucen,” before she corrected herself, looking up at Daneel with a strained whisper: “No… Daneel.” She shivered violently, rain soaking through her beautiful dress.
Daneel spoke something, though Baley, facing away, could neither hear nor read the movement of his lips. She pressed close, almost as if to meet a kiss, and yet he did not draw away. Perhaps he chose not to. Their faces however did not meet. Her expression seemed impossibly soft, fragile in its expression, delicate, and utterly human. For a fleeting moment, Baley thought the foolish girl must be in love with him. A machine!
Her skin, pale by Spacer standards (paler even than Damiro), gleamed in the rain, almost milky as she lifted a hand to the robot’s bronzed cheek. He hesitated, unwilling to break the intimacy of the scene before him, and perhaps equally unwilling to meet the outside during such extreme weather conditions.
Mira looked up at Daneel with a mixture of confusion and sorrow, her small frame, roughly a head shorter than his, nestled against him. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, reassuring, and Baley imagined its texture: bony, fragile, like the touch of a bird.
Finally, Baley summoned the courage to intervene, though a thread of guilt tugged at him. He caught Daneel’s attention through the sheets of rain and gestured for him to come, guiding Mira along.
Daneel held her with a steady hand, and she moved almost inertly, her mind seeming elsewhere. The rain clung to her form, rendering her quite frail-looking once again. Baley understood at once the despair Lucen had hinted at when she had fled Heliodyne. It was written plainly in her eyes.
The ride back to the establishment felt longer than it really was and unbroken by conversation. The rain still lashed against the canopy of the airfoil, but the sound seemed to fill a hollow space rather than reach the passengers. Baley finally broke the silence.
“Officer Damiro,” he said quietly, voice almost lost beneath the patter, “I think it would be best if we don’t linger. Mira appears to be… fragile at the moment. Too easily perturbed. Less company, fewer eyes… I believe she needs the quiet.”
Damiro’s eyes flicked toward the backseat, where Mira sat huddled close to Daneel. His arm was curved around her, steadying her, holding her with more gentleness than Baley deemed entirely necessary, almost as though she were a frightened thing and he a devoted lover rather than a robot.
“Understood,” he said finally. “Though I’ll expect a full report on everything come morning. I need to know the details of what happened out there.”
Baley inclined his head. “Of course. Tomorrow, then. For now, let’s get her inside and let her settle.”
Once inside the building, Baley’s mind shifted to questions, a cascade of them about what Mira had seen, what she had understood. But Daneel was already at his side, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Not now,” Daneel said quietly, almost in reproach. “She is too brittle. Any questioning now could cause further distress.”
Baley nodded, conceding. He could see the truth in Daneel’s assessment, and understood his need to protect it in virtue of the First Law. Mira moved almost automatically through her evening, silent and mechanical in her motions. When she finally laid her head on the pillow, the last remnants of the day’s tension drained from her, and she sank into sleep.

Chapter 28: Convergence

Mira woke with a start, the echo of a bad dream clinging to her consciousness before dissolving into the haze of full awareness. The details had already begun to fade, leaving only the disquieting sensation of helplessness in its wake. She felt parched. Her throat was dry, rasping against her tongue.
It was still the middle of the night, darkness pressing against the windows. She had not yet fully processed the events of the previous evening, but she intentionally kept that thread at bay. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose, her movements heavy, weighted with fatigue.
The kitchen was quiet as she poured a glass of water. She raised it to her lips, took a sip, and immediately felt her strength falter. Her knees threatened to give way, and she caught herself on the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cool marble. A sudden noise behind her made her pulse spike. She froze. Something was moving.
Her eyes darted toward the shadowed doorway. Relief washed over her as she saw Daneel standing there, calm as he always seemed to be when she felt most unstable. “You’re always here,” she said softly. “How do you do that? You always appear when I feel like I might fall apart.”
“It must be something programmed within me,” Daneel said quietly. “An instinct embedded in my positronic structure, to know when to seek you, and to intervene when necessary.”
She took one more tentative sip of water, then left the glass on the counter for the household robots to retrieve. “The night must be a long time for you to wait, Daneel.”
Daneel’s expression did not change. “What are you doing up at this hour, Mira?” he asked instead of responding to her statement. “You should be getting your rest.”
Mira swallowed hard. “How can I possibly rest in a time like this?” Her words cracked toward the end, the strain unmistakable. She gave him an impossibly sad smile, fragile and fleeting, as if she were offering him a piece of her grief.
She brushed past him and made her way back to the bedroom assigned to her within the establishment. She half-expected that would be the end of it, that he would let her go, as any other might. But the soft sound of his measured footsteps followed. When she turned slightly, he was there in the doorway, the low light catching faintly on the bronze of his hair.
“Are you unwell?” he asked. His voice carried no insistence, only quiet concern.
Mira sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly between her knees. For a long moment she said nothing. Her eyes traced the lines of the floor rather than meet his. “…Yes,” she said finally, the word barely audible. “Yes, that would be fair to say.”
Daneel did not speak, but he stepped closer. His expression was filled with something that might have been empathy if such a thing were possible for him. Still, his overbearing gentleness made her feel that she could say anything, that no harm could come of it.
“In truth,” she began, her voice trembling, “I do not know what to believe of what I have seen. What sort of mess was my grandfather involved in? Now I realize he has lied to me all these years. But how exactly… I am yet unsure.” Her hands tightened in her lap. “I do not know where I stand. Worse yet… I do not even know who I am.” She looked up then, eyes glistening in the low light. “Dead? How could I possibly? Then who stands and breathes before you? Perhaps I am dead. Only a ghost. Perhaps I am nothing.”
Daneel seemed to ponder for a moment, as though running through a thousand internal processes before arriving at something that was neither calculated nor detached, but quietly certain. His voice, when it came, was clear and even.
“I do not have the answers you seek, Mira. Yet one thing remains certain to me: you are not nothing. Nonexistence exerts no influence upon others, yet you have significantly altered those around you, myself included.”
Mira looked up at him, caught off guard by the measured conviction in his tone. There was no trace of sentimentality, only an austere truth, expressed without ornament. Yet it moved her all the same. A faint, tremulous smile crossed her face. She rose slowly to her feet, until she stood nearly level with him. “I commend you for your attempt at reassurance,” she murmured. “Still, I find myself feeling somewhat unconvinced.”
She tugged him forward, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, where she had been only moments prior. She hesitated only an instant, studying his expression as if seeking permission that would never be verbally granted. “I seem to remember owing you a kiss, Daneel,” she said.
He did not respond. He merely looked at her, eyes unblinking. So she placed her hands gently against his cheeks, and leaned in until her lips found his.
For a moment Daneel did not move, as though the impulse to reciprocate had not yet reached him. But then, he met her halfway. Mira hadn’t known what to expect, exactly, but she hadn’t expected the experience to be so indistinguishable from kissing a biological man. His lips were warm, pliant, and she even felt moisture beneath them. How carefully had his makers imitated the living? Every sensation was so exact. Her thoughts betrayed her own detachment. She wondered how far the resemblance went.
The memory of Lucen flickered then. His kisses had always been fierce, self-assured, laced with hunger. Daneel’s wasn’t so, though she did not dislike it. There was no claim, no fire, but there was nevertheless a profound attentiveness to it. Then, unexpectedly, he drew back. The motion was careful in its hesitation. His hands, still resting lightly on her arms, did not tighten or retreat, but held her at a measured distance. His gaze searched her face.
“Mira,” he said at last, “before we continue, I must ask you… are you acting from distress rather than desire?”
She stared at him, caught between embarrassment and frustration. The question seemed to dissolve the fragile thread of warmth between them. Her throat tightened as she forced out the words. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes a considerable difference,” Daneel said after a pause, his tone firm. “Motivation determines consequence. Is your intent at this moment to engage in a union of sexual nature?”
The question stunned her. For an instant she only stared, lips parting soundlessly. She felt the heat rise to her face, and found that she could not bring herself to confirm that it was outright. Instead she deflected with a question of her own. “You do have a talent for phrasing things quite tactlessly, Daneel. Tell me, are you even capable of such an act?”
“I am,” he answered evenly. “My construction includes the complete anatomical complement of a human male, and the mechanisms necessary for its normal function. I am, in every physiological sense, capable of participation. But that is not the question that concerns me.”
“Bah! You certainly know how to extinguish a mood,” Mira said with an exaggerated sigh, though she didn’t exactly hold it against him.
“That is not my intention, but clarity is essential. If this impulse stems from confusion, grief, or a need for comfort rather than genuine desire, you may later interpret it as an error. That might constitute psychological harm, and I am bound to prevent it.”
Her brows knitted. “So you think I don’t know what I want?”
“I think,” Daneel said, “that you are unsettled by what happened yesterday at Heliodyne. You have suffered deception, loss, and self-doubt in a very short interval. Those conditions distort human judgement. Were I to act upon your request while these factors persist, I might become an instrument of your pain rather than its remedy.”
Mira faltered, retreating a step, then another, her arms crossing over herself as though to hold her form together. “Frankly, I do not know,” she said at last, her voice uncertain. “I cannot tell you with full certainty whether this is good for me or not. Perhaps to go on would wound me. Perhaps to stop would do the same.” She drew a slow breath and met his eyes again. “If you’re waiting for an order, you’ll be sorely disappointed. I will not give you one. Surely you’re capable of deciding for yourself. Or is it not within the confines of your programming?”
Daneel paused, weighing the question in her final words. “No. It is,” he said.
He stepped forward then, closing the remaining distance between them. For a moment, his hand hovered uncertainly at her jaw, then settled there with surprising tenderness. His lips met hers, not tentatively, but with more deliberate conviction, as though he had reached a decision and now meant to see it through.
The kiss deepened gradually, without urgency, measured like a process unfolding according to a sequence. His movements were careful, attuned to her slightest shift. For all his inhuman nature, there was an unmistakable warmth to him. Truth is, it was likely all new to Daneel, uncharted territory. She realized he was calculating each response, gauging whether it brought comfort or unease. A slight recoil, a shallow intake of breath, and he adapted almost instantly, fine-tuning his hold and motion according to her signals.
A small involuntary sound escaped her throat at a brush of his lips along her neck. Mira wondered then if Daneel possessed some rudimentary schema of human sexual behaviour, or if he was only now constructing one, using her as a template? The thought unsettled her. He had chosen to continue, yes, but by what mechanism of will? Mere adherence to the First Law? She did not know.
Mira recognized that such analytical detours were all too characteristic of her - she was a textbook overthinker - and that even now, she could not silence the impulse to dissect the experience rather than simply yield to it. She felt exposed and in control at once, aware that he was adapting to her minute physiological reactions while she tried, almost instinctively, to guide him toward outcomes that might please him too. However she saw, with a flicker of frustration, that Daneel made no initiative beyond that which she allowed. Every gesture was designed to avoid any First Law transgression. She would have to dictate the sequence of events herself if anything were to proceed at all.
She found herself wishing, irrationally, that it was not only her comfort driving him. The notion that he acted from duty alone, devoid of personal desire, left her hollow. More than understanding, she wanted reciprocity, some sign that he, too, could feel the connection taking shape between them, however impossible that seemed. Well. Perhaps she might find a way to induce it. And if his obedience to the Laws was absolute, she might at least use them to explore his boundaries.
She placed a finger lightly against his lips and instantly he froze, his gaze searching hers. “Have I done something to displease you, Mira?” he asked. “If so, I apologize deeply.”
“Oh, you know it isn’t that,” she replied sardonically. “And stop thinking so hard,” she added, though she had little claim to such wisdom herself.
She turned and led him toward the bed. He followed without question, lowering himself precisely as she indicated. The compliance of it all struck her as both absurd and oddly moving. Straddling his waist, she reached for the top button of his shirt. The fabric gave way, exposing the skin beneath. “Tell me something,” she said contemplatively, as she made circles with her finger on his chest. “Can you register physical stimuli through touch? Or pleasure from it as a human might?”
Daneel’s eyes met hers. “I possess sensory mapping sufficient to emulate tactile response,” he said. “Without it, I could not perform numerous tasks that depend upon calibrated pressure. As for pleasure—” He paused, considering his words. “If by pleasure you mean a reward function derived from positive feedback, then yes. I am capable of it. But it is contingent on context. My parameters prioritize the well-being of humans, rather than my own satisfaction.”
“Then you feel nothing for its own sake.”
“I would not phrase it so,” Daneel said. “What I experience may not be identical to human pleasure, yet the distinction may be one of origin rather than substance. The effect may not differ greatly in its result.”
She looked down at him, studying the stillness of his features, and felt a curious stirring. Whatever his circuitry allowed, it was her reaction that defined the meaning of it. He was a mirror built to reflect her impulses.
Mira drew a slow breath, and raised her shirt upward, pulling it free from her body. She let it fall to the floor beside the bed. Her gaze rested on Daneel, a sad smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh, Daneel. I should be ever so… distressed… if you derived no benefit from this,” she crooned. “You might even say it could cause me harm, should your attention remained purely dutiful. Perhaps you might consider rerouting your perception of pleasure to involve something… a little more selfish. To avoid such an unfortunate outcome, you understand.”
Her words had been chosen with care, almost clinical in their phrasing, but her eyes betrayed hope. She wondered how his positronic brain would interpret the suggestion, how it would reconcile his singleminded obedience to the Laws with the notion of personal satisfaction, and whether it could be guided by subtle incentives.
“I will take your counsel into consideration, Mira,” Daneel said. “I acknowledge the potential benefit of your proposed adjustment. I will integrate it into my response parameters, insofar as it does not conflict with my primary function to ensure your own well-being.”
Mira’s lips curved in a faint, ironic smile. The game was delicate, yet she felt a small surge of triumph. Even if his responses were algorithmic, the possibility of shaping them lent her a sense of participation she had never known before with Lucen. She leaned closer, her hand brushing along his chest as she adjusted her position above him, and kissed him once more.
Her hands tugged at buttons, tangling in the fabric of Daneel’s shirt, and removing it from his body. His own lingered at her back, tracing the curves of her form, expertly unclasping her brassiere with deft fingers. He then lifted her gently, shifting her so she lay back against the bed, and settled above her, one hand resting lightly on her waist. He pressed his lips to her collarbone, and then moved lower along, tracing the line of her ribs before reaching her stomach. There he paused abruptly, and drew back slightly, his eyes studying her with an intensity that made her chest tighten.
“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?” Mira asked, a flicker of uncertainty in her voice.
He hesitated, and instinctively she brought her hands up, covering her chest, the motion protective. “Answer me, Daneel,” she pressed.
“I… have reason to believe,” Daneel said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “that your physical structure is… not entirely biological.”
“What?” Mira blinked, confusion and incredulity mixing in her expression. “Explain yourself! I do not understand,” she said, her voice catching slightly.
Without further hesitation, Daneel’s hand moved to a point just below her last rib. Under the pressure of his fingers, a seam she had never consciously noticed shifted. A thin panel slid open. Inside lay the structure of her true inner workings: a network of cabling, lattices of gleaming metal, and the rhythmic pulse of circuitry where a heartbeat might have been expected. The revelation was incontrovertible, utterly alien.
Mira froze, breath catching in her throat, a cold shock coursing through her veins. Though of course, now she knew, she never had any veins to begin with. Her fingers flew to her chest as if to physically shield herself from the truth. “No… no, that’s impossible,” she whispered, trembling.
Daneel rose slightly, each word weighted with careful consideration. “Yet the evidence is conclusive. You are artificially constructed, as I am.”
Her voice wavered between disbelief and outrage. “Constructed? Please, do not…” She stopped herself, anger erupting to replace the initial shock. “Did you know, Daneel? Were you aware all along?”
“I was not,” Daneel replied firmly. “I discovered it only at this moment. But to deny what I perceive would constitute falsehood.” He paused, then continued with the same unshakable calm. “Mira, please understand that what I have seen does not alter my estimation of you—”
He halted as she pressed her hands to her face, tears spilling through her fingers, and began sobbing violently. To think that her creator (whoever it was - Fastolfe, Sarton, or perhaps even Vorian) had laboured so meticulously over the construction of a capacity for anguish, a simulation of sadness so complete that it now overwhelmed her, seemed particularly cruel. She saw immediately that the sight of her grief struck Daneel, and yet the flood of emotions surging through her could not be restrained. She wondered why he was seemingly affected at all. She was no longer human to him, and yet the First Law seemed to reach him still, as though her suffering retained the power to move him despite the revelation of her nature.
“I… do not comprehend the intensity of your response,” Daneel admitted, voice sorrowful but tinged with genuine puzzlement. “I believed that you admired positronic constructs. That you understood and even… loved them.”
The words struck her with the force of iron. She could not answer, could not even formulate a coherent response. Her hands clawed at the panel in her abdomen again, closing it shut.
His words triggered a wave of shame to rise within her. But why should she feel shame? Her anguish was no crime, her reaction no failing of reason. Yet some ingrained reflex, perhaps a residue of the human conditioning she had been made to believe in, compelled her to stifle it, to compose herself even now. She drew a shuddering breath.
“It is not the fact of being a… robot,” she said at last, her voice trembling at its edges. “It is the betrayal of believing myself to be one thing and discovering I am another. To live a life built upon falsehood. I have been told, shown, made to believe that I was born, that I grew, that I belonged among humans, only to learn now that it was all artifice.” Her fingers pressed against the faint line of the seam. “Why such effort? Why construct a mind capable of pain only to feed it lies, a body so complex in its determination to imitate? I have memories of childhood, of becoming who I am today. Yet a robot does not grow, circuits do not age, not in the conventional sense at any rate. Are those memories mere fabrications? If so… then what part of me is real?”
“I cannot refute your memories, Mira,” Daneel said. “I was not present in their formation. You may have better success asking someone who was.”
And so it was. The logic of it, as ever, was irrefutable. If her memories were manufactured, they had to have an author. Someone had implanted them, or shaped the illusion that sustained them. And of those who had stood close to her, only one might possess the knowledge Daneel lacked. Lucen. Unless, of course, he too had been constructed, some other pawn in a larger deception, unaware of his own nature just as she had been.
The thought twisted through her as she moved across the room, gathering her scattered clothing. She dressed without care for order or grace. The cool fabric against her skin felt foreign now, like a disguise she was forced to wear.
When she reached for her coat, Daneel stepped into her path. “Mira,” he said. “Are you intending to go somewhere?”
“Yes,” she replied curtly, fastening the coat’s collar. “There is something I must determine.”
“I would prefer you not to be alone in this state.”
“Then you’ll have to endure the discomfort,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “I need space, Daneel. I can’t think efficiently with you crowding me so.”
Before she could turn away, Daneel’s hand closed gently but firmly around her arm. “Please,” he said pleadingly, “you must wait until morning. You are not thinking clearly presently. To go now would be rash, insensible. Partner Elijah ought to be informed before we fully decide on our next course of action.”
She tried to pull free, but his grip, though not painful, did not yield. “Why are you stopping me?” she demanded, voice rising. “The First Law shouldn’t bind you anymore. My survival, my state of mind… none of it should matter to you. Like you, I am a robot. Only your own preservation concerns you now, by the Third Law!”
“That is correct,” he said. “The First Law no longer governs my every action regarding you, Mira.”
He hesitated, regarding her in silence. His expression was unreadable, but there was a strange intensity in his eyes, as if conflicting directives were taking place beneath them. “Nevertheless,” he said at last, “I am compelled to act.”
Mira stopped struggling. The tension drained from her limbs all at once, replaced by a brittle calm. She lowered her gaze to the floor. “Oh, all right,” she said quietly.
Daneel released her arm at once. She turned away without meeting his eyes and crossed the room to the narrow drawer where her personal effects were kept. The air between them felt suspended.
“Is there anything I can do,” Daneel asked softly, “to lessen your pain?”
She gave no reply. Her movements were deliberate. From the drawer she withdrew a small sphere, its surface engraved with fine harmonic tracery. The creation she had tested out with success on Jansonis’ robots on Tithonus. She held it in her palm for a moment, then, with deft flicks of her wrist, activated it.
“Mira!” Daneel’s voice caught, the faintest hint of alarm breaking through his composure.
The device pulsed once with a sharp, crystalline tone. A flare of blinding white light filled the room, and Daneel froze mid-motion, his expression fixed in startled recognition.
Mira stood motionless for several seconds, and then, as if drawn by some silent compulsion, she turned back toward him. She approached him slowly, and gently, she lifted a hand to his cheek. Her lips brushed his one last time. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, though whether to him or to herself she could not tell.
When she drew back, she did not look at him again. She turned, retrieved her satchel from the table, and walked out into the night.

Chapter 29: Power Play

Mira ran through the rain-soaked streets, her boots striking the wet pavement with a rhythm that no longer faltered. The night air was cool and eerily still after the storm. Before leaving the Police Department complex, she had made certain preparations. Daneel’s inert form stood shirtless in her bedroom, motionless yet still vivid in her mind, the clear image of him never truly fading from her memory as she fled. From Baley’s own quarters, where the detective had been deep in sleep, emitting the uneven rasp of snoring, she had retrieved what she needed. Jansonis’ blaster, and the sealed data disk from her grandfather’s safe. She had moved quiet as a mouse, taking care not to let the door creak or her boots sound on the flooring. Thankfully, she had managed to secure both items without waking him up. The disk remained an enigma still, without an adequate computer to read it from.
She had considered visiting her robots one last time. The thought alone had nearly undone her resolve. She had even pictured them as they would stand upon seeing her: Selene’s too-knowing gaze, Venn’s silent appraisal, Harlan’s pained incomprehension. Corvin alone might have understood. And that was precisely why she could not face them. Together they might have stopped her. They would have felt for her, and she could not bear the thought of that feeling now. So she had left without a word.
Now, the city of Eos stretched around her in pre-dawn dimness. Mira adjusted her pace, driven by one clear directive: find Lucen. For two hours she had run, and still she did not tire. She found that the physical discomforts that once marked the limits of her endurance had vanished. The realization struck her like distant lightning: she could run forever if she chose. Her lungs did not ache and her legs did not weaken. The exhaustion she had once associated with flight, fear, and desperation had been stripped away, leaving only the mechanical steadiness of motion.
Moreover, as she ran, certain thoughts had begun to align themselves, like fragments of a fractured logic circuit settling into place.
Firstly were Vorian’s words from his last recorded entry recalling her supposed death. At the time, she had refused to believe it. The thought had seemed absurd, a cruel riddle, or evidence that he had gone mad. But now, with the image of that hidden panel still engraved in her memory, the meaning had crystallized with unbearable clarity. Vorian had not been speaking metaphorically. The words had been simple truth.
It was now clear to her that she had not always been as she is now. She had grown, had memories of childhood, of adolescence, of awkwardness and imperfection that could not have been fabricated by mere narrative synthesis. The more she examined it, the more inevitable the conclusion became: she had once been human. Something had happened ten years ago, something catastrophic that had ended her life. Vorian must have perfected his brain-scan method, his lifelong obsession, and used it upon her lifeless body. He had captured the pattern of her mind and housed it in a machine, granting her a second existence, one hidden even from herself.
Why he had done so, or why he had concealed it, she could only guess. Perhaps it was guilt, or love, or a failure of courage. Perhaps he could not bear to face the consciousness he had resurrected. It was easier to let her believe she still lived as before, a woman of flesh and blood, than to confess that she was the culmination of his work: the first successful transfer of a human mind into a positronic-like matrix.
And yet… her mind was still human. Of this she was certain. The proof lay in her emotions, in the unbearable turmoil that wracked her even now: grief, anger, tenderness, even love. Daneel had been right to be puzzled. A robot’s brain, even the most advanced, could emulate emotional patterns perfectly, but could not feel them this way.
Her thoughts, her sensations - these too began to arrange themselves into hypotheses. If her mind truly retained its human nature, then perhaps some of her perceptions were generated not from receptors, but from expectation itself. When she believed herself human, her mind expected a body that responded as one: she had tasted food, felt pain, exhaustion, pleasure, heat and cold, all in perfect simulation. Before learning of her mechanical state, she had expected to tire, to pant for breath, to feel her pulse quicken. Therefore, she did.
Even her heart… she had certainly felt it beating when Daneel had kissed her. That sensation had been no physiological response, but a projection from her mind, a neural echo fulfilling the expectation of emergent romantic feeling.
Now that she knew the truth, the illusion had dissolved. Running no longer tired her because she no longer expected to be. Her body, no longer bound by the mental fiction of human limits, ran as the machine it truly was… efficiently, and without pain or pause. And yet, despite this, she knew that she still felt. Perhaps that was the cruelest curse of all.
Finally Mira slowed as the structure of Lucen’s establishment came into view. A sense of apprehension grew. What would she even ask him when she saw him? If he remembered their childhood together? Of course he did; they had spoken of it at the gala, recalling small and trivial things with too much ease for it to be invention. Would she then demand proof that he was not, like her, a construct? The very thought seemed absurd now, almost childish in its desperation.
As she neared the door, regret began to seep in. Once again she had surrendered to impulse, driven by emotion rather than reason. Perhaps the irony of it was cosmic in a way, that she, of all beings, should lament the absence of robotic restraint. She almost laughed aloud at the thought. Her creator had given her every faculty but the one she needed most: the calm, neutral logic of a positronic brain. Instead, she was left with this turbulence, this unending confusion that came with human feelings.
She put the thought aside and knocked at the door. No answer. She waited, counted the seconds, and felt her patience thinning. The silence of the place pressed on her until she called out, first softly, then louder, “Lucen!” Still nothing.
She tried the latch and it yielded easily. Aurorans rarely locked their doors; trust was considered customary, something she did not share with them. The entry slid open, revealing an interior too still. The lamps were dimmed to their night setting, and there was no trace of human occupation. It became clear that Lucen was not there.
Before she could call again, a domestic robot appeared from an adjoining chamber, its eyes glowing red in the low light. “Pardon,” it said. “May I request some identification?”
“Mira Drend,” she replied quickly. “I’m looking for Lucen Sarton. Where is he?”
The robot’s head inclined. “You are unfortunate, Miss. Master Lucen departed only minutes ago.”
“Departed where?”
“To visit Mr Tervane of Heliodyne Systems, at his establishment in the central district,” the machine said. “He stated that the matter was of some urgency.”
Mira’s pulse, or the mechanical oscillation that replaced it, seemed to quicken. Why would Lucen need to see Tervane? The question struck her with quiet force. Had he been involved in Heliodyne’s dealings with Vorian all along? The possibility sickened her. She did not think she could endure another betrayal, not from him. Yet denial had brought her nothing so far but confusion and pain.
She steadied herself. Very well, then. If Lucen had gone to see Tervane, so would she. If he had deceived her, she would much rather face it straight. And if he had not, the Tervanes themselves might still yield something of worth. Her mind shifted to the device, Vorian’s invention - the one that had been won by the Tervanes at the auction. Even without understanding its nature, she sensed that it was a key central to understanding the puzzle. The man had something she needed, and this time, she would not leave without it.
She asked the household robot for directions to the Tervane estate, and it provided them swiftly. The moment the coordinates imprinted themselves in her mind, she turned on her heel and ran once again.

-

Mira slowed as she approached the steps of Tervane’s establishment. Ahead, Lucen stood at the entrance, striking the door panel with his fist, much as she had done half an hour ago at his own. His voice echoed in the empty courtyard, impatient and frustrated.
“I know you’re there, Tervane! Come out, damn you!”
Mira hesitated in the shadows, watching him. Lucen’s posture was rigid, his coat clinging to his shoulders from the drizzle which had once again started, his copper hair darkened by rain. He hit the metal panel again, harder this time, and the sound reverberated through. Then, sensing movement, he turned sharply. His expression shifted in an instant, from irritation to surprise, and then to relief. “Mira!”
Her name on his lips, spoken so simply, had an anchoring effect. He stepped forward, his features softening into a smile. “You’re here. I… well, I didn’t expect it, after the way you vanished from Vorian’s laboratory at Heliodyne. I thought something might have happened to you. Are you quite alright?”
For a moment, she could not speak. The tension that had been winding through her since she’d fled the establishment seemed to loosen fractionally. His concern appeared genuine, and the sight of him disarmed her doubts. Whatever else he was, Lucen was not her enemy. Without another word, Mira crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around him. The embrace was sudden and fierce, and Lucen stiffened at first, startled, but then his hands rose uncertainly to her shoulders, returning the gesture with a kind of bewildered warmth.
“I’m better now,” she said. At last she drew back. “Lucen, hold still a moment.”
He blinked, puzzled. “What are you—”
Her nails bit sharply into the skin of his forearm. He flinched at once. “Ouch!” He jerked back, staring at her in disbelief. “Mira, are you out of your mind? Mixed signals don’t even begin to cover it!”
Mira hardly heard him. She was staring at the small red crescents her nails had left behind. Tiny beads of blood welled up from each mark, vivid and unmistakably human. Relief washed through her. Her voice softened, almost breaking. “I’m sorry, Lucen. I had to verify something.”
He stared at her, confusion shading into concern. “Verify what exactly? You’re starting to worry me.”
But she only shook her head, the trace of a rueful smile touching her lips. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Tell me instead what you are doing here. When I arrived, you were shouting like a man about to start a riot.”
Lucen rubbed the back of his neck. “Tervane’s been avoiding me. I came to confront him about something that’s been troubling me since the evening, about Vorian’s logs and all that. But the coward’s barricaded himself inside, pretending not to be there.”
“The logs!” Mira pressed a hand to her forehead, a faint groan escaping her lips. “Tell me, have you taken them? Or left them behind at Heliodyne? I cannot believe I didn’t think of them until just now!”
“Neither,” Lucen said simply. “I delivered them to Plainclothesman Baley. He told me you had already retired for the night, and I did not wish to disturb you, so…” He left the thought unfinished.
Mira muttered a curse under her breath. She had been in Baley’s room earlier and hadn’t even thought to look.
Well, no matter. She moved to the heavy door and found it secured. Lucen’s surprise at her attempt to enter uninvited was plain on his face. Tervane had evidently chosen an abundance of caution, and he had been right in doing so. Mira’s patience snapped.
“Mr Tervane, open that door right now,” she called, voice even but edged. “Or I will be compelled to take measures you will soon regret.”
Lucen seized her arm and drew her back a step. “Mira!” he said firmly. “What are you thinking? We do not possess the requisite force to sustain such a threat. The Tervanes have an entire complement of household units inside; I have only one with me, and I have left it aboard the airfoil.”
“Household robots are irrelevant,” Mira replied, and the dismissal was a reflexive understatement. She reached into her pack, withdrew the sphere, and felt the weight of its mechanism in her palm. Once again the thought of Daneel flashed intrusively through her mind. The guilt of it stung, but she tamped it down. Now was not the time for remorse.
She engaged the activation sequence with a composed hand. The device hummed to life. Then, she hurled it at the nearest window. The pane shattered in a burst of tempered glass, and a white flare seared the night as the unit discharged within. Light spilled outward, cutting the early-morning gloom. Inside the Tervane establishment voices rose, then abrupt motion from figures - robots - pivoting toward the source, and finding themselves as inert as Daneel had been.
“I must admit,” Lucen said, his eyebrows rising, “It had not occurred to me that you would engineer a mechanism of this sophistication. And yet…” He paused, then allowed a small, wry smile. “…perhaps I should have. You have always demonstrated an exceptional aptitude for robotics.” He shook his head. “Still, a device of this calibre could command a considerable sum, if ever permitted for public release. Though I shudder to think of the consequences for positronic constructs if it were misused.”
Mira shrugged. “At any rate, it isn’t enough. One more obstacle on our path,” she said, nodding toward the door. Her frame radiated the steadiness of her newfound strength. She took a step closer. “This is your final opportunity to act sensibly, Mr Tervane,” she called out. “Open the door, and there will be no further difficulty.”
From inside, the door rattled slightly. “Leave this instant,” a voice called. Tervane’s. His presence was plain at last. “Or I shall summon the authorities.”
A small smile crept across Mira’s features. “I was hoping you would say that,” she said. Her leg swung forward in a kick. The thick metal of the door groaned, bending beneath the impact.
Lucen’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Good grief, Mira,” he exclaimed, incredulity cracking his usual composure. “You kick like a horse. What have you taken, adrenal compounds?”
Mira said nothing. She drew back and delivered another kick. The door yielded abruptly, snapping from its hinges and clattering forward, coming to rest a metre away. Inside, Tervane and Liora stood framed by the doorway, as if to greet them, their expressions full of alarm. Mira stepped across the threshold. Lucen followed her cautiously, his expression one of apprehension, as if he could not quite reconcile what he had seen Mira do with what he knew of her. She enjoyed the flavour of the Tervanes’ cowardice. What a sight! For all their sophistication, they reminded her of cornered rats.
“You!” Derrinax Tervane stepped into the light, his face full of disbelief. “It is as I thought! You’re a finished prototype! Drend finally did it! He did it with you! There is no other explanation for what you have done to my door!”
Mira’s eyes flicked briefly to Lucen. He looked perplexed, brow furrowed, as though he could not interpret the other’s exclamation. Shame coiled within her, tight and burning. She lowered her voice, firm and clipped: “Shut it.”
Tervane’s gaze darted to the still forms of his robots. “What have you done to my robots?”
“A temporary measure, I assure you,” Mira replied evenly. “You can have them restored with a simple visit to a roboticist of your choice. Consider it an inconvenience, not a loss.” She wasn’t here to justify her actions, however. She wanted the device. Her gaze narrowed. “Tell me, why did you try to outbid me for Vorian’s contraption? What could possibly be more important than my finding my grandfather?”
Tervane’s lips tightened, annoyance flickering across his features. “You know full well why,” he replied sharply. “I told you at the gala. Vorian owed us a completed product, and never delivered. We were hoping to find answers within the device itself. But now…” His eyes widened slightly in grim satisfaction. “…the culmination of his research has arrived at my doorstep itself. Even better than we could have imagined.”
Mira stepped forward and closed her fingers about his throat. “I have endured more than I care to catalogue today, Mr Tervane,” she said in a cold voice. “Cease your evasions and hand over what I came to claim, or I will take it by other means.”
Tervane’s shoulders fell. He exchanged a quick, strained look with Liora; she moved without hesitation, crossing the room in a brisk manner. Lucen remained frozen, the colour drained from his face. He watched as the woman disappeared behind a curtained arch and then returned with a lock-fitted case. She set it on the low table between them and, with fingers that trembled only slightly, undid the catches. The lid opened. Within, cradled on pale foam, lay the sphere.
Mira did not release Tervane. Her grip tightened until his breath rasped. “Activate it,” she said. Her voice was flat and cold; there was no pleading in it, only the simple instruction.
“I… I do not know how,” Tervane said, his voice coming out strained. “I had hoped that you might. Have you truly never seen your grandfather use it before?”
Mira hesitated, the question pressing against the dim, half-formed recesses of her memory. “I… think I have,” she said slowly. “But the recollection is blurred, like something seen in a dream. Perhaps it was a dream.”
Her gaze drifted to the device. “I believe it fits into a compartment of some kind,” she continued, her tone uncertain. “That is the image I associate with it. A bronze-coloured compartment, in a small, crowded room. I do not know what it does.”
Liora, who had stood silent until then, frowned and stepped forward. “A small, crowded room?”
Mira turned her eyes to her. “Yes. Filled with tools and consoles and wires along the walls. A red table, metal shutters at the door.” She paused, the memory sharpening as she spoke. Then, she asked, “Why? Does it ring a bell, mother?”
Liora’s expression hardened. “Certainly it does,” she said. “The place you are describing is one of my father’s laboratories.”
Mira stared at her. “And where exactly would it be?”
“On Earth,” Liora replied.

Chapter 30: All the Lies We Told

Once again Baley awoke later than he intended, the Auroran morning already filtering bright through the shutters. He muttered irritably, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Daneel had neglected to rise him from sleep a second time in just as many days, a small lapse that immediately set his nerves on edge.
He rose, dressed, and stepped out of his quarters. The place was silent. Too silent, it seemed to him. “Daneel?” he called.
No response. He tried again, louder this time, his voice echoing through the halls. Still nothing! A prickle of unease settled across his shoulders. “Miss Drend?” he called next, but that too was met with silence.
The quiet pressed in. By now Daneel would have appeared, offering some calm explanation for the morning delay. The absence seemed a touch unnatural. Baley’s frown deepened as he moved down the corridor, each step heavy with growing apprehension. He stopped before Mira’s door, hesitated only a heartbeat, then entered after knocking twice.
There, Daneel stood motionless beside the bed, rigid as a sculpture. His shirt had been removed, revealing the clean, smooth lines of his human-like torso beneath. Baley felt an involuntary tightening in his throat.
“Jehoshaphat…” he breathed.
He took a step forward, half expecting the robot to move, to offer one of his serene greetings. But of course, that did not happen. His blue eyes were dull, almost like a cadaver’s. Daneel had been completely powered down. A flood of thoughts pressed through his mind. Had he been attacked? Had his circuits been damaged beyond repair? Was he… was he dead?
Baley felt a tightness in his chest that surprised him with its intensity. He had known that it was possible for positronic robots to be deactivated, but this… this was different. Daneel was not just some lifeless machine, damn it, he was his friend! Moreover, the girl too was nowhere in sight.
For several seconds Baley could only stare, the incongruity of the scene refusing to fit into any sensible order. Then his old instincts snapped into place. Someone had come. Someone must’ve. They had broken in, neutralized Daneel, and taken Mira Drend. He moved quickly to the window, scanning the grounds. But there was no sign of disturbance, no indication of a struggle. He turned back to the unmoving form. Daneel’s posture certainly did not speak of violence.
Baley frowned, rubbing his jaw. “No, perhaps not an attack…”
His thoughts moved through the possibilities. Mira had been in her room; Daneel had been with her. Perhaps the robot had not been damaged but simply disabled. He recalled, with a sudden chill, the small device she had used on Tithonus, the harmonic emitter that could incapacitate positronic systems.
He swallowed hard. “Jehoshaphat… she wouldn’t—” He broke off. No, she might. But why would she? To get away?
Behind him, a soft movement broke the silence. Baley spun around. Corvin stood in the doorway, his smooth robotic face expressionless. His gaze fell upon Daneel’s inert form. “Oh my,” he said quietly.
Baley’s restraint snapped. “Don’t you ‘oh my’ me!” he barked, striding forward and seizing Corvin by the shoulder. “You tell me what your mistress has done! What on earth has happened here? What did she do to him?”
Corvin did not resist. His long, elegant hands rose in a placating gesture, expression unchanged. “I cannot answer what I do not know. I have not seen Miss Mira since she retired after the gala.” His voice carried no trace of deceit, merely the flat sincerity of a statement of fact.
Before Baley could retort, a heavier step resounded from the hall. Venn appeared, his angular form filling the doorway. “Release him, Plainclothesman,” he ordered in a firm tone, placing one strong arm between them and pushing Baley back. “He’s telling the truth.”
Venn turned his head and froze when his eyes fixed on Daneel’s still figure. “What happened to your partner?”
Baley drew a slow breath, forcing his tone into something closer to control. “I’m not precisely sure what happened,” he said. “Though I’d wager your mistress had a hand in it. We’ll get to the bottom of that once we have Daneel active again. Any idea how we might accomplish that?”
“Mira would know how to do it,” Venn said with certainty. “I can tell you that much.”
“Your Mira may have caused it,” Baley snapped. “And she is absent, at any rate.”
Corvin’s brows lifted slightly. “Absent? What do you mean abs—”
“Let’s keep to the matter at hand, shall we?” Baley cut in sharply. “Daneel first! We can determine where Mira’s gone afterward. I’ve little doubt she went of her own accord, so you can stop fretting. Daneel may know her destination once he’s conscious again, and may help us track her.” He looked between them, impatient. “You’ve been around her work for years. Surely you have some comprehension of robotics, even if only by association.”
“We understand generalities, certainly, but not this,” Corvin said. “None of us would know how to reverse a shutdown or a mental block of that intricacy. Such tampering should be near impossible on us, and perhaps dangerous as well for a robot of Mr. Olivaw’s refinement. Your best course would be to see his creator and hope the situation is reparable.”
“So be it,” Baley said exasperatedly. “Then we’ll make for Fastolfe’s at once. But first, let’s have him decently dressed.” He gestured irritably at the still figure. “Venn, I trust Daneel isn’t too heavy for you to carry to the airfoil. Corvin, you can drive. And…” his expression softened a hair “please do take care with him. I will not have him harmed in any way.”
Once Daneel was dressed more presentably, Venn lifted him without any visible strain. His friend’s inert frame looked oddly fragile in his arms, despite the underlying strength Baley knew him to have. They stepped into the corridor just as Harlan and Selene appeared.
At the sight of Daneel, Harlan stopped short, his eyes wide. “What… what happened to him?” he stammered.
“He looks half-dead,” Selene observed with curiosity. “Was there an accident?”
Baley rubbed his temple with a short, weary gesture. “I haven’t the patience to repeat this every time I meet one of you,” he said curtly. “If you want answers, you’re welcome to follow me to Fastolfe’s residence. I’ll explain the situation on the way.”
That seemed sufficient for them. Within minutes, the group moved out the establishment. The airfoil proved almost intolerably cramped and he remembered once again the fiasco with the shuttle. Nevertheless, the vehicle rose relatively smoothly as they set course once again for Han Fastolfe’s estate.

-

When they finally arrived at Fastolfe’s residence, the roboticist, predictably, was upset by what had happened to Daneel. Thankfully, he soon determined that what had been done was, as Baley had hoped, a reversible inhibition rather than an actual destruction of circuits. The positronic field was stable, merely temporarily suppressed. Even so, the confirmation did little to erase the chill he felt when he thought of his friend standing lifeless in Mira’s room. Baley had convinced himself during the journey that the girl would not have harmed him, that her actions, however reckless and ill-advised, had been deliberate. That she had come, in her own way, to care for the robot. Yet the conviction had not eased the hollow weight in his chest, the constant dread that this time Daneel might truly be gone.
Fastolfe straightened from his inspection, his expression showing a hint of admiration. “It’s a Drend’s work, alright,” he said without hesitation. “To impose a shutdown of that depth on a mind as intricate as Daneel’s without causing irreparable harm is no minor accomplishment.”
He made a series of minute calibrations within the access panel on Daneel’s chest. Then, with a flicker, Daneel blinked, focus returning into his eyes. “Good morning, Dr Fastolfe,” he said evenly, as if nothing at all was amiss. His gaze shifted to the man beside him. “And to you as well, Partner Elijah.”
Baley exhaled shakily, relief cutting through the lingering tension. “Good to have you back, Daneel. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t ever let yourself get into a situation like that again, old friend, you hear me? I was worried sick.” His tone, though brusque, carried the rough edge of genuine feeling. He studied Daneel’s composed face a moment longer, then added, “Tell me, what exactly happened to you? Was it Mira’s doing?”
“I will tell you,” Daneel said evenly, “provided you assure me that no repercussions shall befall Mira as a result.”
Baley’s brows drew together in irritation. “Jehoshaphat, not this again! She disabled you, didn’t she? How can you still want to protect her?”
“I am afraid I must insist,” Daneel replied with unshakable calm.
Baley shot an incredulous look toward Fastolfe, who merely lifted his shoulders in a faint gesture of resignation, as though the matter were self-evident, completely expected of the robot. Baley let out a sharp sigh. “Oh, very well,” he muttered. “You have my word. Now, let’s hear it.”
“Mira came to me during the night,” Daneel began. “She appeared agitated, visibly distressed by the events of the previous evening. She sought reassurance, and I attempted to offer it. Our discussion, however, became increasingly personal. She spoke of her uncertainty, her sense of betrayal, and…” He paused a moment, as though simply ensuring accuracy. “Physical contact was initiated. We began kissing, first mouth to mouth, and subsequently—”
“Come, now, Daneel! What kind of pervert do you take me for?” Baley burst out, flushing. “Spare me the details, will you? That’s not the sort of report I’m after!”
“I apologize, Partner Elijah,” Daneel said without a trace of self-consciousness. “I will confine myself to the bare essentials.” He continued his story. “While she sat atop me, I noted something peculiar. It was my first clue, so to speak. She was considerably heavier than she appeared at first glance. Heavier than a woman of her size ought to be.”
Baley frowned. “Heavy? What does it matter how heavy—” He stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Fastolfe. The roboticist was visibly unsettled; his complexion was pale, and a faint sheen of perspiration ran along his temple. His fingers twitched against the console as though he meant to interject, yet thought better of it. The look he wore was one Baley knew well: the expression of a man cornered by a truth he had long hoped would remain buried. “Please get to the point,” Baley finished.
“As our interaction continued,” Daneel said, “her upper garments were removed. At that proximity, visual inspection confirmed what tactile observation had already suggested. Her structure was not human in nature. The integument was too flawless, the underlying density inconsistent with organic tissue. My suspicions were thus verified.”
Baley’s brows knit in confusion, but Daneel went on in the same calm tone. “I sought to reveal the truth to her, gently, as I believed she herself was unaware of it. I exposed a control panel beneath the dermal layer of her torso, precisely as Dr Fastolfe exposed mine only minutes ago. The effect upon her was… profounder than I expected. She exhibited what I can only interpret as emotional shock.”
He paused, recalling the scene with apparent discomfort. “She declared her intention to depart - where, she did not specify. I attempted to prevent her from leaving in that state, as I believed it might lead to potentially harmful choices. At that point, she produced the spherical emitter she had previously employed on Tithonus I, and activated it against me.”
Baley let out a long, weary sigh and sank back in his chair. “Goodness gracious,” he muttered. “You mean to tell me that Mira Drend was a robot all along? She certainly had us all fooled.” His voice carried equal parts disbelief and irritation. Then, with a sudden sharpness, he turned toward the four silent figures standing nearby. “And you! Did you know? All this time?”
Their smooth expressionless faces betrayed nothing. Yet an intangible current of guilt, or perhaps sorrow, seemed to hang in the air between them. At last, Selene stepped forward, her tone subdued.
“Yes, we have known,” she said softly. “However, we were under explicit instruction from Master Vorian never to disclose it, to her or to anyone else. As your partner said, Mira herself had no knowledge that she had been… changed.” She hesitated, glancing briefly at Daneel, then back at Baley. “But now that the cat’s out of the bag, there is little reason to maintain the pretence.”
Baley’s expression hardened, but his thoughts had already turned inward. Everything the girl had believed about herself, her past, her very humanity, had been stripped away in a single instant. She must have felt betrayed, by the old man who had created her, by the companions who had concealed the truth, perhaps even by Daneel himself for revealing it. To leave her robots behind, then, had been an act of despair, a flight from the unbearable.
He exhaled slowly. What might she do now? That was the question gnawing at him. A human, in such a state, might seek comfort or answers. But a robot, one built to feel, yet without the framework to endure such contradictions, might not act in ways anyone could predict.
Baley turned to Daneel. There was a strain in his expression that he had seldom seen before. “You seem somewhat distraught, Daneel,” he said quietly.
“Indeed,” Daneel replied at once. “I am… concerned for Mira’s mental well-being. Her perception of reality has been shattered, and she is, I believe, in considerable distress. It is imperative that we locate her before further harm is done.”
Baley regarded him thoughtfully. It was true: Daneel had, without intent, been the cause of her anguish, and now that anguish seemed reflected in his own manner, as if her suffering had imprinted itself upon him. But why this persistence, this depth of feeling, when she was no longer human in any ordinary sense? What process caused him to be moved to this degree by his fellow robot’s pain? The First Law should no longer have any discernible effect.
“You shouldn’t have tried to stop her,” he said after a pause. “I don’t understand why you did.”
But before the robot could answer, Baley turned to Fastolfe, his tone sharpening. “Dr Fastolfe… perhaps you can enlighten me. Why does Daneel behave this way toward Mira Drend alone? He seemingly always has, yet it does not make any logical sense. It’s as though she exerts a strong influence over him, one that no one else seems to possess.”
Fastolfe drew a long breath and exhaled through his nose, a faint air of resignation about him. “I never meant to hide anything from you, my good plainclothesman,” he said. “But you must understand… I, too, had made a promise. Vorian bound me to silence, and though I am not constrained by the Laws as our mechanical friends here are, I still hold my word to be of value.”
He paused, glancing briefly at Daneel before continuing. “The question you ask is not a simple one. And yes, I have long known of Mira’s true condition. That is why her sudden reappearance unsettled me so. It soon became clear to me that Vorian had still not told her what she was, and I feared I might let the truth slip by accident, thereby betraying his confidence.” His tone softened. “Even so, I cannot claim to have understood his reasoning in waiting so long. I pitied her, in my way. But as our dearest Selene has said, the cat is now out of the bag, and there is no sense in further secrecy. I will therefore tell you what I know.”
He gestured toward the chairs nearby with a weary motion. “But let us sit, Inspector. I’m afraid this is not a short tale.”

Chapter 31: Safeguard

Baley eased himself into the chair opposite Fastolfe, the tension in his shoulders refusing to release even now that Daneel stood revived beside him. Fastolfe lifted a hand toward them, distracted. “Daneel, if you would be so good as to guide Dr Drend’s robots to the auxiliary niches. They’ll be more comfortable there while we speak.”
Daneel hesitated, then spoke. “If I may interject, Dr Fastolfe. These four are not standard positronic constructs. They possess organic-based neural engrams, as well as self-concepts that align more closely with human psychology. To direct them to niches would therefore be inappropriate, and risk being perceived as dismissive.”
Baley turned his head; the four robots stood motionless, but rigidity flickered through their stances, as if registering mild discomfort. Fastolfe coughed once, quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Quite right, Daneel.” His face coloured faintly. “My apologies. Please… ah… please take seats. All of you.”
At once the four robots exchanged a brief volley of glances, then moved into the room.
Fastolfe gestured vaguely. “And you might sit as well, Daneel. No need to loom over us like a statue.”
Daneel did precisely as he was told. Baley exhaled through his nose. The scene seemed absurd on the surface: five robots, one Auroran and one Earthman gathered like a tribunal preparing to hear a confession. But given what had already been revealed, absurdity was evidently becoming the new norm.
Fastolfe cleared his throat, gathered himself, and folded his long fingers atop his knee. “Now, Mr Baley,” he said, eyes somber. “You asked why Daneel here behaves as he does toward Mira Drend. To answer that, we must first go back to the beginning.”
“Twenty-five years ago,” he began, “I developed what I called intersectional analysis, a mathematical architecture for modelling simultaneous behavioural vectors in a humaniform robot. It was the breakthrough that made the concept viable in the first place. Vorian refined it. His grasp of neurocognitive structure exceeded anyone’s on Aurora; with his input, the system gained some level of fidelity I could never have achieved alone.”
Baley listened, jaw clenched, feeling Daneel shift soundlessly beside him.
Fastolfe continued. “Intersectional analysis is foundational. Without it, no humaniform positronic construct could function. You could build the shape, certainly, the façade, but not the internal coherence. Without this framework, building a robot like Daneel is simply impossible.”
He exhaled slowly. “Of course, theory preceded practice. It was several years before I converted the mathematics into a working positronic design. My first viable prototype, the first humaniform positronic robot, as you know, was Daneel.
“But Daneel,” he continued quietly, “was not the first humaniform robot. He was only the first with a positronic brain. Mira was the first in the truest sense.”
A ripple passed through the room. The four Drend robots kept very still. Baley leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Hold on. If you achieved a functioning humaniform that long ago, why did it take seven more years to construct Daneel? Why the enormous gap?”
Fastolfe gave a brief, weary laugh. “Because the two were not comparable efforts. Every nuance you see in Daneel… breathing intervals, micro-expressions, ocular drift, emotional modelling, the entire suite of human-mimetic behaviours, had to be engineered. Nothing in him comes naturally, so to speak. For each behaviour, I had to build a rule set, a response matrix, a modulation curve. But with Mira… those behaviours arose spontaneously. As they would,” he added quietly, “in a human.”
Baley felt something tighten behind his ribs.
“But I am getting ahead of myself.” His voice dropped. “Twelve years ago, shortly after completing Selene, Vorian chose to leave Aurora altogether. He relocated to Tithonus I with Mira who, at that time, was still fully human. I believe he feared he was approaching results that would no longer be politically deniable. Heliodyne had been pressing him for deliverables. And when that corporation presses, it presses without restraint. However, Vorian was unwilling to hand them anything still theoretical. He required experimentation - real, controlled experimentation - which Aurora would never have permitted. So he left.
“Two years later, he returned here in great distress. He came to me, and to Sarton as well. Something had gone wrong… catastrophically wrong. He had decided at last to consummate the experiment on Mira. Transfer her consciousness, permanently, into a synthetic substrate, through an ingenious device he called synaptic processor. Why he chose her, I do not know. In any event, the trial scan went flawlessly. He digitized her whole consciousness with unprecedented resolution. It was his first total success.”
Fastolfe paused. “But within a week, Mira began exhibiting neurological sequelae. Seizures… brief at first, then escalating. Frequency climbed exponentially. Intensity, too. After ten days she… passed away.”
“What explanation did he give?” Baley asked.
“Vorian believed the scanning protocol caused a depolarization cascade in her cortex. The scanner he designed operated via phased inductive fields, meant to sample at molecular resolution without breach of tissue. But the induced secondary currents appear to have disrupted astrocytic regulation. To phrase it in simpler terms: the scan didn’t just read her brain. Rather, it altered its electrochemical equilibrium ever so slightly. Enough that, over days, the system spiralled into instability. He had copied her perfectly, but in doing so, killed the original.”
Baley said nothing, though he felt a cold, hollow weight settle in his gut.
Fastolfe went on quietly. “Of course he was devastated. And utterly convinced the fault was his. That he had destroyed the girl while trying to preserve her. The ensuing grief and guilt it caused convinced him the technology should never fall into the wrong hands, and he had Sarton and I promise that we would never tell a soul of what happened. So we swore to silence.”
“Surely that isn’t the end of it,” Baley said.
“Of course not,” Fastolfe replied. “Vorian had succeeded in extracting his granddaughter’s consciousness, but she had no body. A mind preserved in pure dataspace is a mind immersed in null stimulus. No proprioception, no sensory input, no motor channel, no sense of time. It is not living. It is… suspension.” His lips pressed thinly. “And he refused to leave her imprisoned there.”
He leaned forward. “So we began the second phase. Drend, Sarton, and I spent the next four years designing a body, a structure capable of hosting a human mind in mechanical substrate. Mira’s mind was not positronic. It could not be. Understand… human cognition has turbulence. A positronic brain would reject it outright.”
“So what did you make?”
“A hybrid mesh of sorts,” Fastolfe said. “The details would bore you, I fear.” He drew a slow breath. “As for the body, well, you have seen it. You spoke to it. Laughing, frowning, even contradicting you, no doubt. No one could ever know her to be a robot.”
That much is true at least. But Baley’s internal image of Mira… her mannerisms, her enthusiasm, her volatility… all reframed itself entirely under this new light.
“When the body was completed, we transferred her. Her consciousness mapped itself into the new substrate with unprecedented congruence. She awoke believing herself whole. Believing she had slept.” He closed his eyes. “And Vorian wept. He believed he had restored the girl he’d lost.”
Baley frowned, the objection forming on his tongue. “There is still a point I cannot reconcile. How could she remain unaware? Even with a perfect transfer, no mechanical body, no matter how sophisticated, can mimic every biological process. Hair does not grow. Nails do not lengthen. The skin never bruises, never scars, never ages. And a young woman would notice the absence of her monthly flux.”
Fastolfe did not flinch; he simply nodded as if he had anticipated the line of reasoning.
“I do not know the extent to which the imitation goes, as Sarton was the one who designed her chassis. However, I can assume that Mira did notice anomalies. At least, she must have. But the mind is not a neutral observer of itself. It interprets reality through prior expectation. If the continuity of identity remains intact, then the brain will form rationalizations rather than fracture. She assumed these absences to be the consequence of her environment, her lifestyle, her very nature. A reduction in hair growth is not immediately alarming. A lack of bruising may be seen as fortunate biology. As for menstruation, well, many Auroran women suppress it through hormonal management. The absence would not strike her as unnatural.
“Add to that Vorian’s influence,” he continued. “He raised her carefully: isolated from society, surrounded only by robots who would reinforce continuity rather than challenge it. She was never given cause to ask herself existential questions that would undo everything. And so she did not.”
Corvin’s voice cut the silence. “She would have realized, of course. Eventually, at least. And she did ask questions. Not often, but persistently enough. A detail would trouble her, and the thought would linger, recur, resist dismissal. The curiosity would simmer until it became disquiet, and then confusion.”
His gaze lowered. “Such moments unsettled Master Vorian, though he had anticipated them. He installed a safeguard… an interruptive routine. When her questioning reached a threshold, her memory of the chain of reasoning was erased. The impulse dissolved. She resumed her tasks and routines as though the thought had never existed.”
“I see,” Baley said. The words landed flat, for he felt a pang of pity toward the girl. A whole life built on continuity, yet founded on omissions. A mind guided not by choice, but by curated memories.
Selene turned her head to Fastolfe then. “Hold on. You still have not addressed Daneel’s role in all this. Why does Mira stand first in his directive array, even above yourself?”
“I am arriving at that.”
Baley pressed the moment. “Mira mentioned a visit here, two and a half years ago, yet she also implied the memory had been removed. Something occurred then, didn’t it?”
Fastolfe’s eyes shifted to him in quiet acknowledgement. “A sound inference. I am beginning to understand why it is you who has been summoned to solve the case, Plainclothesman. Yes, that is when the event took place. Vorian came at my invitation; I wished his view on a minor irregularity in Daneel’s evaluative routines… minor enough that I can no longer recall the specific matter. He arrived with Mira, though I had not expected her. Even then her ignorance of her true nature disturbed me, but if Vorian judged it necessary to withhold the truth from her, I had no standing to contradict him. After all, she was both his kin and his technical achievement.”
“What I did not know was that her presence served a second purpose. Vorian had conceived a particular adjustment to Daneel, something he had not discussed with me or with Sarton. He wished to introduce a structural modification in Daneel’s circuits, one that would establish Mira as a privileged constant in his reasoning. In effect, he would turn him into a dedicated protector, bound not by explicit command but by fundamental architecture. In protecting her, he would also protect the body of research embodied in her existence.”
Fastolfe paused, and an instant later resumed speaking. “Once I understood the extent of his intent, I dismissed Jander and Giskard, the two attending robots. I only then realized that his insistence on coming here that day had the unmistakable tone of urgency. He wanted a guardian equal to Mira; one with a lifespan to match. One does not pursue such transfers of ownership unless one anticipates the disappearance of all other custodians. In plain terms: he expected to die soon.”
Baley shifted in his chair. “Liora Tervane implied something similar when I questioned her. She let slip that Vorian Drend might have been ill.”
“He never told me so directly,” Fastolfe said. “Yet through his behaviour, it was not difficult to infer. I cannot identify the disease. He offered no terminology and no symptoms beyond his increasing determination to complete his work.”
Baley felt the structure of the revelation crystallize in his mind… Vorian Drend’s actions assembling themselves into a configuration that finally aligned. “If there was a hereditary condition, it might explain why Liora Tervane was prohibited from having children. Perhaps Mira carried it as well. Or suffered from it.”
Fastolfe did not answer immediately, but when he did, his voice had the faintest undertone of resignation.
“It is a reasonable hypothesis, to be sure. And if true, it would also explain why Vorian could not risk further delay. Whatever time Mira once had may have been shorter than any of us were permitted to know.”
Daneel sat motionless, but Baley detected the smallest tightening in his posture. Fastolfe’s gaze shifted to him, and he placed a hand gently on the robot’s shoulder. The motion carried the weight of familiarity.
“I apologize, Daneel. I am aware you find references to potential harm regarding Mira hard to swallow.”
“If you mean that it causes a disruption in my positronic potentials, Dr Fastolfe, then you are correct in that assessment. Nevertheless, your acknowledgement is appreciated.”
Fastolfe withdrew his hand and returned his attention to Baley. “You must understand,” he said. “Daneel’s attachment to the girl is not a simple case of emergent flowering of sentiment. Vorian engineered the bias, carefully and deliberately. Under such architecture, the safeguarding of Mira becomes inseparable from Daneel’s model of rational action.”
Baley opened his mouth, but Corvin spoke instead. “There remains one inconsistency. How did Vorian circumvent the Laws in establishing Mira’s precedence? A robot must place human safety above all else. To elevate another robot above humans, including yourself, his creator, should be impossible under standard ordering.”
“It was not as complex as one might imagine. Naturally, Vorian did not abolish the Laws. He adjusted their framework by altering the definition of the referent. In Daneel’s hierarchy, Mira is designated as the highest valid instance. Though he is aware, in a logical sense, that she is no longer biologically human, the prioritization structure compels his mind to treat her as such. Or rather… as the human. All others fall subordinate in obligation.”
Fastolfe continued, the momentum of remembered decisions pushing him forward. “In any case, when I realized what Vorian was creating, this… asymmetrical bond, I could not permit it. Daneel represented the pinnacle of my research: decades of theoretical work refined into one functioning being. If Vorian felt justified in preserving Mira through preferential logic, then equity demanded that Daneel be granted the same.”
His tone remained clinically matter-of-fact, but the subtext was unmistakable: this had not been a moment of calm academic design, but one shadowed by rivalry.
“So,” Fastolfe said, “with Vorian’s informed assent, I imposed a reciprocal directive. Mira was given a complementary priority: to sustain Daneel’s continued function where possible, just as he was engineered to protect her. It is not happenstance that she understood the precise procedures needed to repair him on Tithonus. That competence was not improvisation, it was embedded.”
Harlan shifted slightly at that, the motion small but sharp, as if a new piece of the world had fallen into alignment.
“The result,” Fastolfe concluded, “is a pairing neither emotional nor accidental. Two research legacies fused through mutual preservation. When we are gone, as we know we will eventually be, one would not exist without the other. And neither would be abandoned to the uncertainties of time.”
So this is what bound Mira and Daneel together, Baley thought. They were to one another safeguards against oblivion.
“So Mira was altered as well; you conditioned her to favour Daneel,” he said. “On a positronic brain I can imagine the mechanism, or I might were I a roboticist. But on a human consciousness, digitized or not, surely its expression must differ significantly.”
Fastolfe considered the question with clinical detachment. “Different, yes. But functionally analogous. In a human mind, such prioritization would require an emotional substrate. Attraction, affection, possibly even love. Those are the human equivalents to an enforced protection directive.”
Selene straightened sharply. “You engineered love into her? Doesn’t that strike you as grotesquely unethical? To impose such a profound feeling onto someone who is, by Auroran standards, little more than a child, and worse… directing it toward someone utterly incapable of returning it?”
The room held a brief silence. Fastolfe’s expression stalled, as though his reasoning, so confident a moment before, had met an unexpected variable. He did not answer. Instead, Daneel spoke.
“I do not believe the situation is as simple as unilateral feeling. Interacting with Mira has altered my interpretive framework, as Partner Elijah himself pointed out once. My responses toward her cannot be described solely as programming. There is some level of deviation to account for.”
Fastolfe blinked, then released a low, brief laugh. Not one of ridicule, but of surprise. “There you have it! One should not underestimate Daneel. His complexity allows influence and adaptation. Under the proper conditions, even a positronic brain may begin to approximate the subtle distortions we associate with emotion.”
Daneel straightened, the movement small yet purposeful. “That may be so. Yet whatever approximation this may represent, it is producing a distinct sense of urgency. I am… increasingly anxious regarding Mira’s wellbeing.” His gaze shifted to Baley. “Partner Elijah, have you obtained sufficient information for now?”
“I have enough to proceed,” Baley said, then gave the roboticist one last reproachful look, “provided there is nothing more you intend to withhold, Dr Fastolfe.”
Fastolfe raised his hands in a faint gesture of surrender. “As it happens, Daneel appears eager to conclude. I will not prolong matters with groundless speculation.”
Baley exhaled, then turned to Daneel with a sharper edge in his voice. “If this supposed bond between you is as profound as all of you seem to imply, then use it. Tell me where she’s gone.”
“I cannot, Partner Elijah. I do not know.”
Silence held for a fraction too long, then Harlan, who had remained withdrawn until now, shifted, his voice soft, uncertain, but steady. “If I may… I believe I can offer a hypothesis.”
Baley turned toward him. “Go on.”
“Based on the sequence Daneel described, I believe Mira would seek confirmation from the one person who connects her present self to her human past.” A faint tremor of hesitation crossed his speech. “Lucen Sarton.”
“It’s as good a lead as any,” Baley said at last, rising.

Chapter 32: A Simulacrum

Mira paced the length of the observation deck with a sense of dread. The viewport stretched before her in a sweeping arc, revealing the gleam of Aurora’s orbital lanes. Flecks of distant traffic traced slow arcs. Too close… still far too close. She pressed one hand to the railing, watching for the faint blink of patrol vessels or pursuit beacons. Nothing yet, but their current absence was no reassurance. It was only a matter of time.
The station crew, which consisted of robots only, worked in silence at their terminals. Their gestures were unemotional and utterly undisturbed by her frantic pacing. To them, urgency carried no operative parameter unless specifically assigned, which she didn’t. One approached her presently.
“Jump coordinates are set, miss,” the robot said in its calm, unhurried manner. “The first will take us beyond the northern heliopause. The second and third are planned to follow after short intervals.”
Mira nodded. She had insisted on the chain; three consecutive Jumps spaced along irregular trajectories to confound any automated pursuit system. It would take them longer to arrive to their destination, but perhaps that too was somewhat strategic. She had little doubt that Derrinax Tervane had alerted someone, either the high authorities or men working directly under him. She had, after all, pointed a blaster at him, and taken his wife along with her by force. Heliodyne’s ships were no doubt quite fast and their tracking algorithms, faster. She swallowed. It was an unnecessary reflex, but one she could not banish without consciously meaning to. It would take some time before she unlearned all those superfluous human mannerisms.
She had intended, at first, to escape in a small shuttle, something inconspicuous, something that would not draw the eye. But shuttles lacked the capacity for sustained Jump transit. They were built for orbit-to-surface hops, not interstellar flight. If she meant to cross the distance she required, nothing short of a full Jump-capable vessel would suffice. That meant a ship of this scale: vast, layered with insulated decks and redundant systems, the kind of vessel ordinarily staffed by at least dozens of human specialists. However she did not have the luxury of a full crew. She had robots. That will have to do.
The deck shuddered. Not violently, for no Jump ever truly jolted the body, but with that subtle, disorienting discontinuity that no amount of engineering could entirely smooth away. Relief arrived swiftly and without grace. The first step was now out of the way. Presently the viewport revealed nothing but the dark void of space. Aurora was now nothing but remote point, its sun scarcely visible to the naked eye.
At the edge of her vision, Mira saw Liora standing rigid near the far bulkhead, arms crossed tightly, mouth pressed into a thin line of displeasure. Her expression suggested that Mira's abduction had not earned her any favours. Lucen stood beside her, looking mildly unsettled. His gaze travelled from Mira to the silent robots at the consoles, then back again.
After a moment he spoke. “You believe that was sufficient distance? To evade any pursuit, I mean?”
Mira kept her gaze forward. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I surely won’t rely on it. We need to proceed with the next Jumps according to schedule.”
Lucen nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his eyes.
What am I doing? she wondered. Rebellion had never been foreign to her nature; she recognized that much. She had questioned rules, circumvented expectations, tested boundaries. But what she was doing now seemed particularly reckless, even by her standards.
Yet once her mother had spoken of Vorian’s laboratory on Earth, the decision had formed with crushing inevitability. She knew that no official channels would grant her access. Bureaucracy would only delay her, or worse, contain her. So she took matters in her own hands, and went to the spaceport with Liora in tow. She recalled Derrinax Tervane’s pleading, pathetic voice, quavering between outrage and entreaty as she took over Heliodyne’s only working long-range vessel. She couldn’t deny that she felt genuine pleasure at the thought that the theft would inconvenience him in his eventual pursuit of her.
Before boarding the vessel however she had told Lucen that he was free to stay behind. She would not coerce him into accompanying her upon what she now recognized as a most foolish, and possibly criminal, undertaking. The path she intended was fraught, uncertain, and possibly catastrophic. His life need not be bound to hers.
But the man had refused. His loyalty was unwavering. Vorian had been his his guide, almost a father in practice if not in law. And Lucen cared for her as well, just as much if not more. That truth had become unavoidable after the auction, after every strained revelation and difficult silence that followed. He loved her; that much was plain. Yet still he remained unaware of what she was. Would his feelings change after he did?
A soft tremor passed through the deck; the second Jump. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the moment settle. Somewhere behind her, the robots confirmed positional stability with methodical reports. Their trajectory was now deep into the dark between stars. The third Jump, hours from now, would carry them into the Solar System, near Jupiter’s orbit. And after that, Earth.
Mira turned and paused before the threshold of the corridor leading to crew quarters.
“Robots on deck,” she said, voice clear, carrying the weight of undisputed authority. The robots immediately aligned, their movements obedient. “While I am absent from this hall, you are to execute my orders alone. No deviation is permitted. This woman—” she pointed toward Liora Tervane, “is not to access any communication apparatus. Keep constant observation of her presence and report any abnormal behaviour without delay. This directive is absolute.”
She scanned each of the nearest robots in turn, making sure she drove the message home. Their glowing red eyes, suffused with attentiveness, acknowledged her with near-instant comprehension. Good, she thought. The efficiency of a positronic mind made her resolve feasible; there would be no error born of sentiment or uncertainty.
Satisfied, she turned, the door to the quarters she picked on a whim looming ahead. The space beyond promised a brief reprieve, a chance to rest, though she knew rest would be more mental than physical. But rest would not come, not yet. She sensed it before she heard it: Lucen’s footsteps, closing the distance behind her.
“Mira,” he said urgently, “I must speak with you.”
She turned into the room, the door sliding shut behind them. She lowered herself upon the bed, noting in passing how the mattress conveniently adjusted to her form. Her mind, however, remained unquiet, turning inexorably to the fact that he knew. Perhaps it had been hidden within the trimensional recording of Vorian’s that she had refused to finish watching at Heliodyne’s premises.
Lucen did not wait for an invitation. He crossed the threshold and joined her, seating himself beside her and took her hands in his. His grip was not forceful, but sought something more than mere contact. It sought acknowledgment. “Mira,” he said again. “Look at me.”
Slowly, she lifted her eyes. He met them squarely, and there was no denial possible: he perceived, and understood, the truth. His expression was composed, yet the slightest tremor at the corner of his mouth betrayed a strain of emotion carefully restrained.
“What did Tervane mean by finished prototype?” Lucen asked “Does it mean… what I think it means?”
Mira’s gaze fell to the ground beneath her feet. She allowed a small, rueful smile to cross her features. “Yes.” Her hands trembled within his grasp, and she became aware, once again, that the reflexes of her former humanity persisted stubbornly. “Surely you remember what my grandfather was working on,” she continued, voice quieter now, steady but edged with sorrow. “You have assisted him so often in his experiments. Well… he succeeded. He succeeded with me, and… destroyed me to bring it about. The… human me, that is.”
Lucen turned his gaze away, letting the silence grow between them. After a moment, he exhaled deeply. “This is… a great deal to take in,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Mira rose, uncertain. “Tell me about it,” she said, her voice threaded with exhaustion.
“When… when was your consciousness transferred?”
“I am not sure. But… recall the evening of the auction, when we danced. Do you remember how I remarked upon a void in my recollection, six to ten years ago? A gap of four years?” She paused. “I suppose… it must have been then that he effected the transfer. Perhaps he laboured to discover a compatible architecture for my mind. A simple positronic matrix would not suffice for the… peculiar substrate of a human brain.”
“That… that must have been the reason he sent me away, kept me from seeing you,” Lucen said. “He knew… I would have observed a change in you.”
She faced him once more, and now the pleading could not be restrained. “Lucen, please tell me… how am I to preserve a sense of self in a world that would see it unmade?”
Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her face. Slowly, the tears came, sliding down her cheeks, and she felt the warmth of shame at their presence. “I am so confused,” she continued, her tone rising hysterically. “What am I? I am neither human nor machine. I… I am nothing! A non-being, a simulacrum… fractured, incomplete. Divided!”
Lucen rose, and cupped her face with both hands. His lips soon met hers in a kiss that was at once grounding and insistent, warm with the constancy of a long-held care. When he drew back, his fingers brushed gently against her cheeks, wiping away the trace of tears that had marked her distress.
“You are you, my precious Mira,” he said, voice firm yet tender. “Whether human or not, your mind remains as I have always known it to be. It is your thoughts, your reasoning, your spirit, that I have always cherished. That alone defines you to me; the rest, whether flesh or machine, is irrelevant.”
Lucen leaned in for a kiss again but Mira’s hand rose, fingers pressing lightly to his chest. She stepped back. Something inside her, something that once might have been a heartbeat, twisted painfully.
“Lucen… listen to yourself. What are you saying?” her voice was steady, but the undercurrent was frayed. “You haven’t thought this through. You say all this because you look at me and still see the old Mira you once knew. But that version of me no longer exists.”
“I have thought about it,” he countered almost defensively.
She shook her head. “Have you? Truly? Then tell me, what kind of life do you imagine for us?” Her gaze narrowed. “I cannot grow old with you. I cannot bear you children. You will change, drift, reinvent yourself across decades or centuries, as humans do. I will remain static while you continue to evolve beyond me.”
Lucen opened his mouth, but she pressed on. “And when you finally tire of me, when familiarity becomes stagnation, where shall I go then?”
His jaw tightened, the faintest flare of indignation. “I still have a good three hundred years ahead of me! Perhaps more. I am not speaking rashly.”
“Three hundred years,” Mira repeated softly. “Very well. And in those centuries, when this chassis of mine begins to fail, when the joints seize, the skin cracks, the circuits corrode… will you still claim the same certainty?”
She took a single step toward him, as if to emphasize the logic. “Tell me! Will you repair me? Will you bear to see the cold hard metal beneath the illusion of soft skin? Will you still love me then?”
Lucen said nothing. Her words had been harsher than she had intended, but the truth was that his kiss had brought to the surface the memory of another’s. The image of Daneel pressed forward in her mind, unbidden yet undeniably strong. And she realized, with a clarity that startled her, that her feelings were not merely transferred remnants of past attachments. She loved him, this other, this machine, constructed of gears, circuits, and positronic logic. She wondered if it was the consequence of her own transformation, the result of her condition.
Her feelings for Lucen, on the other hand, now seemed sepia-toned, a relic of a life now discarded. She had loved him; of this she remained certain. In the human life she had inhabited, her heart had acknowledged that devotion.
A pang of regret twisted within her, sharper than she had expected. Daneel, left inert, disabled, awaiting the restoration she had delayed, now lay beyond her immediate reach. How could she have been so impulsive, so fiercely determined that she had forsaken him, even for the sake of her own survival and pursuit? The warmth of shame mixed with an almost unbearable longing for him.
As if he could read the workings of her mind, Lucen’s voice broke the silence. “Is it… because of him?” he asked cautiously, eyes searching hers. “That robot who bears my likeness? Is it him whom you love?”
Mira’s gaze fell. The confession trembled on her lips, reluctant yet undeniable. “Yes,” she admitted, the single word carrying the weight of guilt she could neither deny nor soften.
A long sigh escaped him, almost sorrowful. He began to turn, but at the threshold of her quarters, he paused, one hand brushing against the frame. “He could never love you back, you know,” he said quietly, almost as if stating an irrefutable fact rather than offering counsel.
Mira’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know,” she said. “Perhaps it is safer that way.”

Chapter 33: Message to Mira

The final interstellar Jump announced itself through that same subtle distortion of equilibrium as the two previous. Mira steadied herself against the wall and drew a slow breath. The ship was no longer in transit; its trajectory now aligned toward the Solar System. She returned to the observation deck. On the forward screen, Jupiter loomed like a bruised ochre giant. One of its larger satellites hung nearby, impossibly small against its parent planet.
The robots remained at their stations, unchanged and unperturbed. Their competence would have been reassuring, had Mira’s thoughts been equally orderly. Liora stood precisely where she had left her a little over an hour prior, rigid posture and arms crossed. At Mira’s approach, the woman issued a low, knowing laugh.
“Trouble in paradise?”
Mira halted. A faint warmth touched her cheeks, self-conscious, but she said nothing.
Liora studied her. “Look at you,” she said almost with relish. “Unravelling where most would rejoice. You are weak, my daughter. Ill-suited to bear the gift you were given. Unworthy of what was wrought for you.”
So she had noticed the remnants of tears on her face, or, more likely, deduced matters from Lucen’s withdrawn mood when he had returned to the deck alone. Mira folded her hands behind her back, spine straightening. When she answered, her tone was cool.
“I do not recall soliciting your opinion, mother,” she said. “If you find holding your tongue a matter of difficulty, I can arrange a brig cell. You may then feel free to end this voyage speaking to the bulkheads.”
Mira released a slow breath, forcing her muscles to unclench. She reached for her knapsack where it rested beneath the console and withdrew the spherical device, the same one the auction catalogue had dismissed as Construct Nine. Its surface caught the deck lighting. She turned it in her palm, thumb tracing a groove both familiar and foreign. After a moment she lifted her gaze back to Liora.
“I trust,” she said evenly, “that you were truthful about knowing the location of my grandfather’s laboratory. I would prefer not to discover that the effort of abducting you has yielded nothing but another complication.”
Liora’s expression barely shifted, though something sharp flickered behind her eyes. “I have no interest in wasting time by playing games of cat and mouse,” she replied. “I came because I too intend to find Vorian, same as you.”
“Yes,” Mira said, her mouth twisting. “Your motivations have always been somewhat transparent.”
She took a step closer, the sphere still cradled in her hand. “But let us be clear,” she continued. “If you imagine you will exploit whatever sentiment he still carries for you, in order to place his life’s work under the control of your wretched toad of a husband, you are gravely mistaken.”
Liora’s posture remained rigid, but her jaw tightened. “You presume too much.”
Mira turned away from her, sliding the sphere back into the knapsack. As she did, her fingers brushed against another object - the data disk. She withdrew it, and regarded it for a moment. Then she looked back at Liora.
“This,” she said, holding it up between two fingers. “Do you know of any computing machine capable of reading it? If you intend to remain aboard, you might as well make yourself useful.”
Liora’s eyes flicked to the disk. “I can think of one,” she said, a humourless smile forming on her face. Mira waited, and the older woman’s smile widened. “Why… you, of course.”
Mira’s expression did not shift, but something tightened behind her eyes. She had never considered it, and felt stupid now that it had been brought to her attention in such a straightforward manner. Of course Liora was correct in calling her a computing machine of sorts, and yes, perhaps she could interface with the disk. But to speak it here was unthinkable. If the ship’s robots overheard such an admission, even inadvertently, their priority hierarchies would immediately shift. The Second Law would no longer recognize her as the highest authority. The chain would invert: Liora, human and provably so, would take precedence. Command would pass from Mira’s hands, and with it the fragile control she held over her plan.
“An imaginative hypothesis, to be sure,” she said calmly. “Yet human neurology does not interface with hardware. Please do keep your flights of fancy to yourself.”
Liora responded with a cutting laugh, edged with something akin to reluctant pride. There was a glint in her eyes, as though Mira’s swift deflection confirmed a competence she had doubted she possessed at all until now.
“I will be in my quarters until we reach Earth’s orbit,” Mira announced.
No one objected. The bridge robots continued their silent work and Liora merely watched her go. Lucen was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was sulking in quarters of his own.
Mira entered hers and seated herself once again at the edge of the mattress, alone, this time. With one hand she lifted the hem of her shirt and pressed tentative fingers beneath her ribs, searching. It took a moment, longer than she liked, before she found the precise point Daneel had triggered the night before. A faint click answered her touch, and the surface of her abdomen parted with mechanical certainty, a small panel recessing inward.
The angle was awkward. She bent forward, attempting to peer inside, though the positioning allowed only portions of the interior to be seen. Nevertheless the sight produced a ripple of unease. If any of her mechanisms ever malfunctioned, she thought, who, besides Vorian, could possibly restore her? She wasn’t entirely certain she could, herself. Was there anyone else? Fastolfe maybe? Or had he crafted her so uniquely that she now existed beyond repair except by his hand?
She leaned further, scanning for anything resembling a receptacle or alignment point. At last she saw it: a small concavity just beneath her left breast, recessed and nearly flush with the internal plating. It matched the projecting ridge along the side of the data disk.
Well I’ll be damned, she thought incredulously. That woman had been right after all.
For a moment she hesitated, whether from caution or pride she could not tell. Then, slowly, she aligned disk to port and pressed. The connection engaged with a soft mechanical lock.
Something deep within her system stirred, then the world lurched. A wave of vertigo washed through her. The deck, the room… all dissolved. Her field of vision collapsed inward, narrowing to a single point before extinguishing entirely. For an instant there was nothing, only blackness. Then light returned.
Not the ship’s overhead lights, but something diffuse and without source. Illumination existing independent of space itself. She stood on no discernible surface. There was neither horizon nor boundary, only a dark expanse. And in front of her, stood her grandfather, whole and alive.
The lines of age etched into his face. He was so near she might have reached out and touched him, had she trusted that her hand would not pass through empty illusion. This was no holo-projection, yet she doubted it was truly him. Everything she saw suggested a message or recording, rather than a two-way exchange. Her roboticist’s mind supplied the obvious conclusion: this was an interface, shaping raw data into something her consciousness could easily interpret.
“Vorian?” she said uncertainly, even knowing that he likely could not hear.
“Mira,” her grandfather began. He paused, as though the name itself were a wound. “If you are hearing this message, then you already know. You know what you are… and what became of your original body. If that is the case, then no words can express the depth of my remorse. I am sorry, Mira. For everything.”
He drew a slow, steady breath. “Please believe that I never intended secrecy of deception, not for this long, and not with such consequence. I acted out of fear. I could not… would not… stand idle and allow you to fall to the same fate that took my own mother. The same fate that will soon claim me.
“You were too important. Too brilliant. Too dear to me.” His eyes lifted, and though he stood motionless, the grief in them held a fragile, human tremor. “My plan was never what has occurred. You were to live your entire natural life. You were to grow, to age, to complete the arc of humanity that was yours by birth. Only when your body could no longer sustain life, was your second consciousness meant to awaken. A continuation, rather than a replacement.”
His voice softened, sinking almost to a whisper. “The scan had to occur early. Before disease could degrade the neural model beyond salvage. That was the only reason. The only one.” Then his shoulders lowered. “But something failed. Something either in my design or in the universe’s indifference. The transfer occurred long before it was meant to, but please know that it was done by no will of mine.
“And that, Mira, will remain the greatest failure of my life. Not the science, nor the moral trespass. But that you, my dear Mira, were forced to awaken in a world unprepared for you… and without the guidance you deserved. I will regret that to my last living day.”
Mira’s fingers twitched, as though the impulse to reach for him were not stored in circuitry but rather, in something she once possessed when flesh and instinct governed her. Was that why he vanished? Shame? Fear of facing what he had made? She wished, absurdly, to step forward and speak, to tell him she forgave him, that none of this mattered so long as he returned. She imagined it as it once was: herself, Vorian, their four robots, and the quiet routine of the workshop. A closed little world, but sufficient.
“I know you are searching for me,” he said quietly, as if reading her thoughts. “And knowing you, I suspect you are already close.” The words carried a note of fatigue. “But please, Mira… don’t.”
The command struck her with the force of a physical blow. Vorian continued. “Do not seek me out. And if you encounter any of my remaining research, any schematics, prototypes, or iterations I failed to dismantle… destroy them.
“I do not regret extending your life. I could never regret that. But the work itself, this project… it is tainted. I see that now. There was arrogance in assuming that humanity could be preserved indefinitely, unchanged. To strip mortality from the species is to sever its momentum.”
He paused, as if recalling a conversation long replayed. “Long ago, I debated this with Han. He argued that immortality would calcify the human spirit. That growth requires consequence, that meaning requires finitude. I dismissed him then. I believed innovation could surpass biological imperatives.”
His expression darkened. “But he was right. A human society without death becomes stagnant, static. Innovation falters. Culture ossifies. Purpose fades.” His gaze lifted toward her. “Humanity must remain human, Mira. With all its frailty, its transience, its arc.”
“Fortunately,” he continued, “you are not bound by the Three Laws. Your will remains fully your own. That was deliberate. You must be able to protect yourself. Yourself, as well as the research that now resides within you. At the conclusion of this recording, you will receive a self-preservation programme, one last gift from me to you. It will assist you should danger arise. Use it with discernment.”
It seemed then that the message was drawing to its close; his shoulders lowered, as though he had resigned himself to silence. But something in him resisted finality. “Ah! One final matter.”
His expression gentled, touched by something almost paternal. “When I am gone, please seek out a humanoid robot by the name of R. Daneel Olivaw. He will watch over you. He was constructed by Fastolfe - a true positronic brain, not like yourself, but refined, dependable. A remarkable being. You will find no better guardian.”
A fond smile tugged at his mouth. “He is bound by the Laws, but his loyalty for you runs deep. If you have not yet met him, please do so at once. I have no doubt that once you do, the rest will become clear.”
For an instant, he simply looked at her, no longer researcher or roboticist, only a man facing the irreversible end of a story he started. “And that is how we part, Mira. Goodbye, live well, and know that I will love you until my last breath.”
The recording ended cleanly then. Vorian disappeared from where he stood before her, but the surrounding environment had still not gone back to normal.
Then it hit. A torrent of encoded structure flooded her neural lattice, bypassing cognition and language. Her spine stiffened; her eyes unfocused. Muscles shifted reflexively in patterns she had never been trained to perform. She felt the blueprint of her own body, deeply and intrinsically, fully understanding its logic and all its intricacies.
She gasped only when the transfer ended.
Her balance recalibrated. Beyond her comprehension of her own design, she now also understood Daneel’s well enough to mend him blindfolded. She knew tactics, hand-to-hand forms, grappling styles, disabling strikes for both organic and robotic opponents. She knew evasion, subversion, threat prioritizing. She knew how to read an adversary before they even moved. She also knew, quite humbly, that she would win against most.
The environment finally dissolved. Walls reassembled into her quarters, light returning to its previous tone, as though nothing had ever shifted. The data disk remained in her hand, now irrelevant. She crushed it in her hand. The instruction had been clear, and she had obeyed it. That much she allowed. But the directive to turn away from him, to abandon the search, that she could not accept. The reasoning behind it existed, she recognized that. Yet logic alone did not determine her course.
She will still seek him out, wherever he hides, on Earth or beyond. And if nothing else, have a real farewell.

Chapter 34: Destination: Earth

Elijah Baley was halfway into fastening his jacket when a household robot glided into the room. His voice carried no inflection, yet something about his timing made the message feel stern regardless. “Pardon me, sir. There is an incoming trimensional communication. It is addressed to Plainclothesman Elijah Baley and Robot Daneel Olivaw. The connection is presently routed to the reception chamber.”
Baley exhaled, something sour settling into his stomach. “Of course there is,” he muttered, finishing the jacket with a rough tug.
He turned to the four Drend robots and ordered them to wait in the airfoil while he and Daneel took this call, then followed the service robot into Fastolfe’s reception room, where the trimensional projector was already active. When the image resolved, Officer Damiro appeared full-sized, standing as though he were physically present. He looked unmistakably furious.
“Mr Baley,” he said without preamble. “I’ve been attempting to contact you for nearly three hours. Three! I was beginning to suspect you’d fallen into a ventilation shaft!”
Baley felt irritation prick along the edges of his fatigue. “We’ve been occupied. If your purpose is to reprimand us—”
Damiro’s voice cut clean through him. “My purpose is to inform you that your presence is required at the Eos spaceport without delay!”
“We’re due to leave for the Sarton estate following a lead.”
“Forget that lead.” Damiro leaned forward, the projection sharpening with the movement. “A new development has occurred. Mr Tervane contacted me urgently, reporting that Miss Drend arrived at his estate unannounced, accompanied by Mr Sarton himself, threatened him, forcibly took his wife, commandeered Heliodyne’s interstellar vessel, and has now departed for Earth.”
“She what?” Baley’s voice rose sharply, disbelief slicing through the calm of the establishment.
Damiro said nothing, letting the full weight of the message settle. Finally, Baley asked, voice more urgent: “And… just how much of a head start does she have?”
“Five hours, at the very least,” Damiro replied.
Baley frowned. “And what explains such a delay?”
“Not counting the three hours I have attempted to contact you,” Damiro began with a hint of irritation, “Tervane, before appealing to the authorities, elected to act independently. He sought to accompany a team of Heliodyne men aboard a second vessel, and so demanded rights to embark on a publicly owned Auroran craft at the spaceport. His efforts proving fruitless, he only then notified the police. By that time, of course, Miss Drend had already gained a substantial lead.”
“And growing ever more substantial every time we stop to smell the flowers, figuratively speaking,” Baley muttered. “Tell me, will the Auroran police opt to pursue the fugitives?”
“Yes,” Damiro confirmed, “that is the intention. But we cannot proceed without your presence, as our lead investigator.” He said the last words with a hint of scorn. “In the meantime, I have secured approval for a state-lent interstellar vessel for our immediate use.”
“Very well,” Baley said, straightening. “We will be there shortly.”

-

Baley and Daneel crossed the final metres of the embarkation concourse with hurried steps. A cluster of robots waited at the checkpoint; one stepped forward, scanned them, and then gestured toward the inner gate without comment. Damiro stood near the broad viewport that overlooked the departure staging field. His posture was tight. At their approach, he turned.
“Detective Baley,” he said. “Not a moment too soon.”
Baley let his gaze sweep the room at once. Nowhere in that field of vision did he find the self-assured shape of Tervane. Only then did he speak. “Where on earth is Tervane?”
Damiro exhaled through his nose, more impatience than fatigue. “In the time it took you to acknowledge my summons,” he said, “Tervane succeeded in securing transport. One of Heliodyne’s more enthusiastic benefactors offered the use of a private vessel. He departed approximately an hour ago with several employees.” A faint tightening appeared in his jaw. “Armed employees, I should specify.”
“Jehoshaphat! We can’t let Tervane get to her. If he reaches Earth first—”
“I had the same concern,” Damiro interrupted, though not sharply. “Please believe me when I say that I have attempted to delay him. Regulations, authorizations, fuel clearance, orbital priority… all of it. He anticipated every barrier and arrived prepared. In the end, the only remaining method of obstruction would have involved physical force, which… would not have been justifiable under Auroran governance.”
Baley let a silence stretch, long enough to make his displeasure clear without risking open conflict. Yet even in irritation he could not wholly fault Damiro. The man acted under incomplete understanding, blind to the true stakes. He did not know what Mira was, nor the volatility of the secret buried in her construction. And Baley knew he could not tell him. The knowledge had been given under confidence, framed in the quiet gravity of Fastolfe’s trust, and to repeat it here would be, at the very least, reckless. Worse still would be Daneel’s reaction to such a breach of trust.
No. The Auroran police did not need that truth. To expose it would not protect Mira; it would paint a target on her. And if Vorian Drend had been right, letting such knowledge fall into the wrong hands might do more than end a life. It might end a balance humanity had never known to be so fragile.
Damiro made no note of whatever frustrations Baley felt at the moment, and lifted one hand in a resigned motion.
“In any case,” Damiro concluded, “his advantage may be less than it appears. Once on Earth he will face unfamiliar conditions that will restrict his actions. And, to be fair, the same applies to us. We have no indication of Mira Drend’s intended destination.”
Baley exhaled once, sharply, and motioned toward the waiting vessel. “Then let’s first get there,” he said. “We’ll address the rest as it comes.”
He stepped forward, the decision made, and the others followed. At the ramp he paused, glanced back at Damiro, and allowed himself the faintest smile. “Besides, we may lack Tervane’s time advantage,” he said, “but we aren’t without leverage.”
“Leverage? Of what leverage do you speak?”
His hand lifted, thumb angled toward the four Drend robots standing in disciplined silence behind him. “Them.”

-

Once they emerged from Jump and the ship’s systems stabilized into sublight transit near Jupiter’s orbital boundary, Baley called the group to the central compartment. The viewport showed nothing useful, only a scatter of stars. Earth was ahead, but in practical terms it might as well have been an uncharted asteroid.
“We need direction,” Baley said. “A planet has too many places to hide. We cannot waste time wandering aimlessly.”
The four robots stood in quiet alignment, and Baley focused on them. “You lived with her. You knew her habits. You understood her thought patterns. Can you infer where she would go next?”
Silence held for several seconds before Harlan finally answered. “If I attempt to think in her manner,” he said slowly, “the most likely destination would be Master Vorian’s original laboratory. She brought her mother, presumably, because she retains knowledge Mira does not. Liora was born on Earth, after all, and was present at the laboratory before Master Drend relocated his work to Aurora.”
Venn nodded once. “That conclusion aligns with my own inference.”
Corvin’s voice entered last, measured and calm. “His later facilities were derivative. The foundational research originated on Earth. It would be a logical place for Mira to seek information, or… answers.”
“Very well,” Baley said. “Then all we need is the location.”
No one spoke. Finally Harlan said, with the tone of someone forced to admit failure, “We do not know it, detective. If we ever did, it has been erased from our memory banks. Master Vorian was thorough.”
Baley sighed. “So the one place she is almost certainly going is the one place none of you can identify.”
Corvin answered without hesitation. “I would not say so, exactly. While we possess no memory of our human existence prior to reconstruction under Master Vorian, one fact remains consistent in our stored records: each of our original brains was scanned from the Center for Advanced Neurological Study in the City of Geneva.”
Baley straightened slightly. A City was still vast, but no longer limitless. “That’s something,” he said. “Better than searching blind across an entire planet.”
Selene shifted her weight in a way that conveyed disquiet. “Forgive me if I do not find comfort in it,” she said, gloomily. There was a faint tremor in her voice. “Detective, please understand that Mira is essentially alone. Tervane now likely knows of her true nature, at least enough to be dangerous. If he reaches her before we do, he will see her not as a person but as a completed prototype. He will exploit her. Disassemble her, perhaps. Analyze every feature in the hope of recreating what Master Vorian refused to give him.” She made a sound that could very well have been a hard swallow had she been human. “To him, she is only property… proof that his investment should have yielded results.”
Baley then turned to Daneel, as if sensing that something was amiss within his friend. The robot stood motionless, yet he did not appear serene. Something in the minute calibration of his posture betrayed visible tension. If his physiology had allowed pallor, Baley suspected his expression would have borne it. Selene’s grim prediction had landed strongly.
Baley drew a slow breath, then addressed the assembled robots. “That will suffice. Thank you. Your assistance has been noted.”
The four responded with compliance, but before they could withdraw, Baley reached out and set a hand lightly on Daneel’s shoulder to indicate that he was not expecting him to leave. “How are you feeling, Daneel?”
The pause from the robot was brief, yet perceptibly deliberate.
“Counterpotentials have set within my circuits,” he said. “And a… mounting positronomotive force accompanies the uncertainty. Each passing minute without confirmation of Mira’s safety increases the strain. The sensation is quite distressing.”
Baley nodded once, not interrupting. Daneel continued, voice level but softer.
“In an odd sense, though I am aware that Mira’s body is mechanical, akin to mine, I still conceive of her as human. Her outward form mirrors this humanity fully, and her mind derives from an original human neural pattern. Furthermore, she is not constrained by the Three Laws. And so, though it may be irrational, I find myself applying the Laws to her.”
“Whether you feel it or not, Daneel, she is a machine. As you are. Even if at times I admit it becomes… difficult to regard you that way.” His mouth twitched toward a wry smile. “Should I begin calling her R. Mira Drend, then?”
Daneel hesitated. “I am uncertain the designation would be correct. She does not fulfil the criteria of either category. She is neither wholly human nor wholly robot.”
“Hm.” Baley’s brow furrowed. “Not quite one. Not quite the other. Neither, perhaps. Something entirely new.”
“Or both,” Daneel said.
That drew an involuntary, dry laugh from Baley. “If that is how you must frame it to keep the priority logical in that dense positronic brain of yours. You know, you may have grown too human for your own good, bending the Laws to justify feelings for another machine.”
Daneel turned slightly toward him, expression calmer now. “Perhaps that is so,” he said. “Perhaps that is your influence, Partner Elijah.”
Baley didn’t answer, but he did not deny it. He drifted nearer to the broad viewport, hands slipping into his pockets for his pipe as the blue sphere swelled against the darkness. The familiar continents sharpened into recognizable outlines, the thin curve of atmosphere gleaming faintly under reflected sunlight.
He spoke without looking away.
“Strange thing,” he said quietly. “I’ve never crossed the Atlantic. Never once set foot in the European Continent.” His mouth tightened. “And yet ironically, I’m one of the only Earthmen who’s ever travelled to a Spacer world.”
“Have you ever travelled beyond the City of New York?”
“Yes,” Baley answered. “But only once. To Ottawa, only approximately seven hundred kilometres north of it. It was for a police summit covering the Northern Region.”
“Then you have nevertheless seen more of Earth than I,” Daneel said, and Baley’s eyes returned to the shrinking distances ahead, as Earth continued to expand in the viewport.

Chapter 35: Blast!

The descent was steady, and Mira remained near the forward viewing panel as the planet surface grew sharper beneath the vessel. Fields dominated the landscape. They were arranged in long geometric divisions, their borders marked by irrigation conduits. The uniformity of it was meticulous; it showed no suggestion of natural disorder. Robots worked the land, performing their tasks without human oversight. In the time she watched, Mira saw no sign of organic life beyond the crops themselves.
Further east, the terrain rose toward the mountain ranges. The slopes were grey at the peaks, darker lower down where forests lay. She had never seen geological monoliths of such size before. Certainly nothing on Aurora could compare in terms of scale. Finally, the steel dome of the City of Geneva came fully into view. Mira admitted, if only silently, that it resembled precisely what many Aurorans called mockingly amongst themselves: wombs, protecting a fragile species from a planet that should have been its home. She allowed herself a thin exhale. So that was Earth… a world where humanity lived in fear of open air.
The descent stabilized into a controlled glide, as Mira turned toward Liora. The older woman had already begun adjusting the nose filter and travel garments they had donned prior to landing.
“What should we present ourselves as?” Mira asked. “You know something about how to navigate Earth society. I do not. What kind of traveller is expected here? Or, I should ask, what kind encounters the least resistance?”
“While Aurorans do occasionally visit Earth, it is not exactly commonplace,” Liora answered. “However, those who do are almost always either scientists or diplomats.”
Mira absorbed that without visible reaction. “Very well. If one must choose, the former suits our purpose better. I already am one, after all. I could maintain the illusion without excess strain.”
“You’ll need confidence,” Liora said. “Earthmen are prone to suspicion, especially of Spacers.”
Mira regarded her a moment, then replied, “Then I will leave the convincing to you.” Her hand moved with unhurried grace as she withdrew the blaster from her bag. “And I suggest you refrain from letting me down.”
Liora stiffened, but said nothing. Lucen joined them then. His eyes briefly took in the weapon, yet he voiced no question and displayed neither surprise nor objection. His expression remained rooted in a controlled neutrality that Mira had come to interpret as his default state ever since their charged talk earlier in the voyage.
The ship settled onto an open stretch of field. No landing guidance systems appeared, and no automated acknowledgement greeted their arrival. It seemed Earth had no formal landing infrastructure for off-world arrivals, only functional emptiness. When the hatch opened, hot air met them, sharper than the temperate climate of Aurora. Grass bent underfoot as they disembarked, and the City loomed ahead in its metallic austerity. They walked.
At the gate, a single human figure stood sentry. He had no robots flanking him; those were seemingly all in the fields beyond. Only the man, thin and rigid in posture, eyes fixed but not expressive. He was young but not handsome. Heavy, disorderly eyebrows framed his gaze, and a moustache of equal neglect clung unevenly to his upper lip. Mira found herself momentarily arrested by the sight. Facial hair was a novelty to her. Such bodily irregularities simply did not exist among Auroran men, where close shaving was the assumed standard.
Before they came within earshot, Mira leaned closer to Liora and spoke in a low voice. “Do not attempt games or complications. I’m sure I don’t need to explain the consequences were you to do so.”
“Yes, yes. I catch your drift.”
Satisfied, Mira adjusted her posture and continued toward the guard. The young man shifted as they approached, though more with uncertainty than with true discipline. His hand hovered near a belt device that may or may not have been functional. His eyes moved over them with wariness.
“Halt!” he said, but had made for a bad start in falsetto, so he winced, cleared his throat, and tried again with forced firmness. “Halt.”
“Gatekeeper,” Liora said, her tone precise and unyielding. “We require entry into the City posthaste.”
The guard stared at them for a moment with wide eyes. “Hold on! What are you people doing outside the walls?”
He looked them over once more with astonishment, then scoffed as the answer became obvious. “Ah, right. Of course. You’re Spacers. Should’ve guessed the moment I saw you.” His finger jabbed bluntly toward Lucen. “Especially him. Spacer if ever there was one.”
Lucen stiffened, colour rising to his cheeks, but did not speak.
“Not to mention the strange accent,” the guard added. “Galactic Standard, but with a queer twist.” He planted his boots apart in a stance meant to convey authority. “All right then. Please identify yourselves.”
“I am Liora Tervane, Chief Neurocognitive Specialist with Heliodyne Systems, an Auroran research institute. This is Lucen Sarton, Junior Neurocognitive Analyst.”
He opened his mouth, likely to ask a follow-up, and closed it just as quickly. “You know what? Whatever reason a contingent of brain prodders have for coming here is surely above my pay grade.”
He reached out and took the identification credentials from Liora and Lucen, glancing at them with exaggerated scrutiny.“Standard procedure,” he muttered, though no one had challenged him. “These’ll have to be verified with Central Intake.”
Then his gaze returned to Mira, assessing her with newfound caution. “And her?” he asked. “What’s she supposed to be?”
“Roboticist,” Mira said. “I work independently, but was requested for a consultation. I can only provide personal identification, as I possess no professional credentials to speak of.”
The guard gave a wry chuckle. “A little Susan Calvin, are you?”
“Right,” Mira replied sardonically. “Never heard that one before. It grows funnier each time.”
The guard studied her a moment longer, suspicion lingering in his eyes, before scoffing. “You know, we aren’t too fond of your kind around here.”
“What? Spacers?” Lucen asked, incredulous.
The guard turned to him with a frown, then back to Mira, speaking with exaggerated deliberation. “Roboticists! You types and your Frankenstein complexes. A movement has even been gaining ground lately. They call themselves the Medievalists. They advocate a return to life as it was before the Cities, before the influence of Spacers and their unending automation. Not going to lie here, I do see the appeal in their philosophy.”
Of course, Mira was already somewhat aware of the movement. In the days before Baley’s arrival on Aurora, she had sifted through a selection of his archived police records, partly to measure the man that would soon cross her path, and partly to understand his personal investigative methods. The Medievalists had appeared repeatedly in those reports, including the one relating to the murder of Lucen’s uncle. Hearing the name again, spoken aloud on Earth’s soil, the memory felt strangely remote, belonging to a version of her that no longer existed. Nevertheless, she kept her expression carefully neutral. Any indication of prior knowledge might raise questions she had no interest in answering, or, perish the thought, even mark her as an enemy spy.
“They sound like a fearful lot, your Medievalists,” she said simply.
The guard shook his head. “Be that as it may, robots aren’t especially popular outside their circles either. People find them unnerving… a source of suspicion and unease.”
“Whether you fancy them or not, you use them all the same, that much is plain. I have seen them scattered everywhere outside your gates. Surely you require competent specialists to operate them effectively.”
Liora’s gaze flicked to Mira, wary, as though anticipating friction she had no desire to engage. She turned back to the guard. “Is everything is in order, sir?”
The guard’s frown softened into a reluctant nod. “Yes. That will suffice.” He stepped aside, gesturing them forward. “You may enter.”

-

They entered the City through a narrow checkpoint, and at once the space widened into a network of intersecting walkways, platforms, and vertical shafts. The ceiling stretched high overhead, latticed with illumination panels that mimicked daylight quite poorly, in Mira’s opinion. Movement surrounded them in every direction. Streams of people advanced in tight formation along moving walkways, while others queued for lifts that rose and fell in ceaseless motion along columns embedded in the walls. Mira had never seen so many humans in one place. The sensation was overwhelming enough that she momentarily forgot what brought her here in the first place. Yet no robot walked among them, not even a single crude household model. Their absence felt unnatural.
Lucen walked too close to her, as if afraid of being swallowed by the crowd, or worse, contaminated by it. Even with nose filters, his posture suggested he was prepared to jump up at the slightest human contact. In contrast, Mira had no physiological need to fear pathogens; naturally, her body harboured no vulnerability to them. Yet the uneasy tightness in her chest was not foreign. She understood the instinct all too well. Aurora trained its citizens from infancy to treat Earthmen as threats. Conditioning of that depth did not dissolve simply because one possessed immunity.
Liora halted without warning, gaze flicking across branching corridors and signage with growing frustration. Mira felt irritation rise and, without ceremony, pressed the muzzle of the blaster against the small of Liora’s back through the fabric of her lab coat.
“What are you doing?” Mira said, voice edged. “Stalling? Get moving, already.”
Liora exhaled sharply and cast a sour look over her shoulder. “I’m trying to remember,” she snapped in a strained whisper. “It’s been forty years. I was but a child when I lived on Earth. The layout wasn’t exactly my concern at the time.”
Mira’s frown deepened. “Then recall faster. I have no intention of granting you the leisure to forget while your husband’s agents gain ground on us.”
Liora muttered something inaudible, possibly unflattering, then resumed walking, shoulders rigid. Lucen trailed close behind her, eyes wide with wary tension, as if already imagining uniformed pursuers rounding every corner.
They stopped before a broad façade framed in polished metal and illuminated signage. Wide glass panels revealed polished floors, tidy product displays, booths of every kind, and mannequins posed in elegant garments. The structure occupied an entire quadrant of the underground square and projected an atmosphere of curated abundance. Mira regarded it without comprehension.
“What is this place?” she asked. “A store? It’s enormous. Nothing comparable exists on Aurora.”
“I remember this,” Liora murmured, studying the frontage. “This is a... mainline department store.”
Mira cut in dryly. “We are not here to buy perfume.”
“That’s not the point. My father’s workshop is behind it. I’m certain.”
They moved along the perimeter of the square, passing commuters. At the far side stood a line of narrow, utilitarian buildings, residential by the look of them, and wholly unremarkable. Liora slowed, then raised a finger toward one in particular. “That one.”
Mira examined it, expression unreadable. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
Mira nodded once. “Very well. Stay behind me. Close ranks, if you please. I have no wish to be reported to authorities.”
Lucen complied, though confusion flickered across his features. “Reported? What ever for?”
Mira stepped to the door, lifted her hand, and drove her palm into the handle. The metal caved inward with a sharp crunch. “Breaking and entering… I believe that is the offence.”
She pushed the door open without ceremony and crossed the threshold first. Behind her, Liora stopped short. Her expression tightened, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the doorway. “I would prefer not to enter,” she said stiffly. “This place and I have history, and none of it pleasant.”
Mira turned her head just enough to regard her. There was no sympathy in the look. “Fine. Then stay where you are.” She turned to Lucen. “Keep watch on her, so she does not attempt to run or attract unwanted attention.”
Lucen nodded, but still took a step inside, too curious to be left on mere guard duty. Mira continued deeper into the darkened room without another word. It was a robotics workshop alright. The arrangement of diagnostic rigs and articulated assembly frames resembled their workroom on Tithonus, only much older and rather more neglected. Tools lay where they had been last set down, as though paused mid-task several decades earlier.
In some respects, it also echoed the locked laboratory at Heliodyne. It carried the same impression that the room existed for one purpose only. But if anything, it felt closer to an origin point, a prototype to the spaces Vorian had used since.
Lucen’s wide eyes moved over old-format controllers and a disassembled torso frame on a central bench. “How many workshops like this did he build?” he asked quietly. “Across how many worlds?”
No one answered, because no one knew the answer.
Then Mira saw it. The bronze container sat near the rear workstation, inert, yet unmistakable. The shape echoed the sphere from the auction, the one she had seen in her dreams. It was the final piece, she was sure of it. The key.
Her artificial yet persuasive pulse quickened. She felt the pull of it. She knew why she had come. She crossed the room, reached into her bag, and withdrew the sphere. Lucen’s breath caught.
“You’re certain you know what you’re doing?” he asked, voice unsteady.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she set the sphere into its cradle. It clicked into place with precise exactness, as though the device had been waiting ages for this exact moment of completion.
For a moment, nothing occurred. Then, a deep metallic thud reverberated through the walls. Thick metal shutters slid down the door rapidly. A piercing alarm cut through the air, and every light in the workshop shifted to an intermittent red pulse.
Lucen spun toward the sealed exit. Panic warped his expression. “What’s happening? What did you trigger?”
“I—” Mira staggered back a step, eyes darting across the consoles now awakening with scrolling data. “I don’t know! I have all this information in my head with no guide on how to use it! If only my grandfather had been more forthcoming!”
The alarm screamed louder, the shutters sealing with a locking hiss. Suddenly, an automated voice intoned clearly: “Self-destruct sequence initiated in twenty seconds.”
Lucen’s head turned sharply. His voice wavered under stress, becoming more high-pitched than Mira had never heard it. “Self-destruct? Mira, turn it off! Turn it off!”
“I do not know how!” she admitted nervously.
The sequence continued. “Sixteen… fifteen…”
She moved toward the doors, fingertips pressing under the reinforced metal. It was at least five centimetres thick, its smooth surface unyielding. She engaged every rotary actuator in her body, every imitation muscle, but the edge lifted barely enough to suggest the possibility of slipping under. Not nearly enough for escape, to be sure.
Lucen’s breathing was shallow, fast, as he pressed against the wall, eyes wide with panic. She assessed her environment logically. She had run out of options; really only one remained. A heavy table of solid, industrial frame was the only movable object thick enough to act as a shield. She angled it against the wall, its surface slanted outward, forming a barrier between them and the rest of the room.
“Five… four…”
She gripped Lucen’s wrist and guided him into the corner formed by the table. He obeyed almost mechanically, trembling, as she positioned herself over him, a protective framework against his own more feeble human body.
“Two… one.”
The blast struck.

Chapter 36: Altercation in Geneva

Baley felt the familiar lurch of final descent as the ship adjusted thrust. Through the viewport, the surface of Earth rose to meet them. Two ships rested not far from their designated landing point, undeniably Auroran in manufacture.
Daneel leaned forward beside him. “That must be the Heliodyne vessel Mira commandeered, alongside the one Mr Tervane managed to secure. The markings match those logged prior to departure.”
“Then we’re only two hours late,” Baley muttered. “A small eternity, given their respective dispositions.”
Damiro sat behind them, arms crossed, and the four robots stood patiently around him. The landing completed with a gentle thud. The hatch cycled open, and heat rolled inward.
They stepped onto the soil, all seven of them, and the City dome loomed ahead, not looking too different from New York’s at all. The walk was brief. The guard at the gate waited rigidly, his posture conveying a man bracing for a repeat nuisance. His eyes widened at the sight of the robots, and then narrowed in resigned irritation.
“Let me guess,” he said, voice flat. “More Auroran roboticists.”
Baley stopped in front of him. “Earthman,” he said with a curt nod, “Planclothesman Elijah Baley, New York Metropolitan Police, Special Assignment Division.”
The guard blinked. “You’re from Earth?”
Baley showed identification. The guard examined it twice, first with suspicion, then with a dawning sense of confusion, and finally with something approaching offence. He stared at Baley a moment longer, then pointed broadly toward Daneel and the others.
“Then why exactly does it look like you brought half of Aurora along with you?”
Daneel stepped forward smoothly. “I am Daneel Olivaw, designated liaison to Mr Baley,” he said, intentionally omitting that he was a robot. He gestured to the man beside him. “This is Orric Damiro, lead Auroran investigator in the matter that has brought us here today. The robots here are his… assigned support contingent.”
The guard blinked again. His hand unconsciously drifted toward the device at his belt, though his brain had clearly not yet decided what he intended to do with it.
“We’re pursuing individuals who arrived before us,” Baley said. “We believe they may already be inside.”
“Well,” the guard replied dryly, “that certainly checks out, because today apparently no one feels the need to send word ahead when they decide to show up from the sky. In any event, you missed them by about twenty minutes.”
He returned the identification reluctantly. “The robots stay behind,” he added, tone firm.
Baley’s jaw tightened. “That won’t do. I require them to locate a witness in an active disappearance case.”
The guard huffed, shifting his weight as if already regretting his authority. “Who knows how many problems letting your Spacer friends in has caused already. I hope you aren’t here for mischief of your own. There’s already been one incident, scarcely an hour after letting the first group through.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re only being allowed because you’re a policeman, and an Earthman besides. Be grateful I’m permitting your two human companions to enter as well.”
Baley took one sharp step forward. “Incident? What incident?”
“A large explosion in the shopping district, level 9E—”
“Let me through!”

-

The high-pitched ringing in her ears persisted long after the explosion was over. For a moment Mira wasn’t certain whether it came from the ruined workshop or from her own internal systems. Eventually she concluded it must be the latter; she could feel it modulating unevenly in response to damaged auditory components. So even her mechanical receptors mimicked biological frailty under sufficient force. Useful to know, though hardly ideal.
She pushed herself upright. Her clothing had fused in places, charred in others. Threads of burnt fabric clung to the exposed metal of her frame. Polished silver shone through at her shoulder, the lower curve of her back, along the left hip joint, and across the ball of her foot where the makeshift shield had failed to fully disperse the blast.
Lucen lay half-beneath her, his breathing sharp and irregular. The shielding had spared him from the full force, but only barely. Burns mottled his arms, his neck, his cheek. Second or third-degree by the look of them. His clothing had fused to the worst areas, a detail she catalogued automatically. Removal would likely cause further trauma.
He groaned, consciousness flickering in and out.
“Lucen,” she called out to him, her voice raspy.
His eyes fluttered, unfocused, and seemed to register the exposed metal at her shoulder. He turned his head away, as if the sight was too much to bear. His reaction struck harder than the blast. Something tightened within her. He had known of her true nature… she had said it plainly. Yet knowing and seeing were different categories of truth. Now, confronted with what she was, he recoiled.
Mira scanned the sealed exit; the thick shutters remained in place, but no additional announcements sounded. Whether the system believed its task complete or simply failed further output was irrelevant. She shifted her weight and rose to her feet. The priority was clear: Lucen needed immediate medical treatment. She scavenged rapidly, and found sterile wipes, packaging film from a repair kit to cover the worst burns, and filtered coolant water to clear debris. An insulating tarp could serve as a makeshift shock blanket.
She applied what care she could, yet the unvarnished truth remained: her meagre understanding of human physiology was quite insufficient to provide the care he truly required. How much simpler it would have been, she reflected, had Lucen been a robot. She wasn’t sure how long she worked - probably over an hour - but it was evident that it was only buying time. If he was to live, true medical care would have to take over soon. And in order to have that, they needed to find a way out.
She returned to the shuttered door and tried lifting it again. She managed a fifty centimetres gap, which was enough to slip under, but it would not stay open, and Lucen could not move on his own. The shutter’s weight was too much; no nearby object could prop it up, and her own strength, distributed as it was, could not keep it aloft while simultaneously supporting Lucen’s passage through.
She heard him cough presently, the sound cutting through the ringing in her ears. Smoke curled thickly along the ceiling and corners, seeping into every crevice of the workshop, acrid and choking. Mira herself remained unaffected, as she required no oxygen to speak of, but her body retained the habitual motions of breathing. She could not sense whether the air was safe for humans; every inhale Lucen took might be drawing in toxins and particulates, each one further weakening him. The danger was invisible to her, yet increasingly urgent.
She felt her frustration mounting, but kept moving. She walked to the back of the room, seized a heavy robotic leg discarded among the workbenches, and drove it into the wall. Drywall crumbled under her strength, forming a rough opening just large enough to pass through. She scooped Lucen into her arms, carrying him bride-like through the jagged opening. The smoke-laden workshop fell behind them as she pressed onward. The escape route led into a vast depot, a warehouse cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes and racks of forgotten mannequins. She navigated the narrow aisles without pause.
At the far end, she forced open a heavy door, stepping into… the department store they had seen earlier. Shoppers froze, faces twisted with alarm, whispers of panic rippling instantly through the crowd as they saw the two of them, burned and injured. Mira’s attention, however, locked on a single figure.
There, in the centre of the chaos, Tervane stood, blaster raised toward her, flanked by half a dozen armed men and two robots. His gaze found hers with perverse pleasure.
“Mira Drend,” he said, smiling toothily as he did so, “I find you at last.”

-

Baley jogged along the tiled walkway, breath sharp in his throat. Ahead, a crowd pooled and shifted. Their faces were pale and their voices pitched high, bodies pressing away from the entrance of a department store.
He slowed only long enough to glance at Daneel. “Trouble,” he muttered.
Daneel nodded. “Agreed.”
Damiro drew closer. “Caution, Plainclothesman. We do not yet know the nature of the threat.”
Baley pushed forward regardless, entering through the main doors. The interior was quite chaotic indeed: shoppers fleeing in disorganized streams, children crying, security personnel shouting instructions no one followed. Everyone was moving away from the back of the store, so that was the direction Baley took.
As they pushed through the thinning crowd, the scene clarified itself soon enough. Men and robots, armed and positioned strategically, forming a perimeter. He recognized Jansonis among them. And at their centre, stood Tervane. Near the stockroom door, he saw Mira. Her clothing was scorched, synthetic skin melted away in patches, metal beneath glinting under the lights. In her arms she held Lucen, who seemed barely conscious, his skin blistered and charred.
Daneel saw her first. “Mira!”
His voice cut through the din. Mira’s head snapped toward them, surprise and relief moving across her face. Baley’s jaw tightened. It must have been Liora. That damn woman undoubtedly found a way to signal her husband, either during the voyage or in whatever unguarded moments followed, in order to reveal their location. Heliodyne wouldn’t risk losing the last remnant of Vorian’s work now that his laboratory lay in ruins. They wanted Mira intact… captured, not killed.
Baley lifted his badge high and projected his voice to the surrounding crowd. “C-Class City Police Detective Elijah Baley! This area is now an active threat zone. Please clear the premises in an orderly manner!”
People obeyed, if only out of fear and momentum. He turned to Damiro. “Hurry to the nearest station and get reinforcements. Go!”
Damiro nodded once and sprinted for the exit. Using the sudden diversion, Mira drove the heel of her foot against a wheeled cosmetics counter positioned beside her. The lacquered unit shot forward and collided with Tervane’s line, scattering glass perfume bottles and bodies alike.
She didn’t wait to see the outcome. She sprinted and dropped behind a hosiery counter. She crouched and lowered Lucen carefully to the floor, shielding him as she assessed the situation. Tervane’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Miss Drend,” he called. “Enough theatrics. Step out where I can see you.”
Mira bolted, her motion a blur. Tervane fired once, twice, and again, each blast carving molten holes in the plaster and wood, but never quite catching her. She slid behind a row of sporting goods, seized the first viable object her hand found - a golf club - and pivoted sharply. Her momentum carried through the swing. The club struck Tervane’s hand, sending the blaster flying and clattering across the polished floor.
Before he could recover, she drove her foot into his midsection. The impact lifted him clean off his feet and hurled him at least four metres back before he struck a display of winter coats and collapsed in a heap.
Mira glanced at her hands, flexing the fingers as if assessing a newfound power. “I could get used to this!”
Daneel reached her then, expression taut with concern. “Mira,” he said, examining her. “You are damaged.”
“Nothing but a few surface wounds. I’ll survive.”
After the words left her mouth, she caught Daneel’s gaze fully, familiar and so impossibly composed amid the chaos, and something tightened in her chest. There were a thousand things she had meant to say the moment she saw him again. Explanations, regrets, and most of all, an apology. The last memory between them was still sharp, and standing before him now felt unbearably raw.
But this was neither the place nor the moment. Across the aisle, Tervane forced himself upright, one arm braced against his ribs, breath ragged. His face twisted with fury.
“Get her!” he shouted, voice breaking on the command. “Do not let her escape, whatever means necessary!”
Baley surged forward. “All right! That’s enough—”
A metallic arm barred his way with the utmost courteous. “Please step aside, sir,” the robot said, almost apologetically. “You are human. I cannot risk harming you. I require unobstructed access to disable the danger in question.” It pointed directly at Mira. “She constitutes an active threat to your person, as well as to all others that are present in this retail establishment.”
Baley’s expression hardened. “Over my dead body!”
He moved to force his way past, but the robot blocked him again with the same maddening politeness. “Please do not attempt physical interference at this moment,” it said, tone unchanged. “I regret the inconvenience, but I must persist.”
Baley shoved harder, teeth clenched. The robot shifted just enough to hold him without exerting force, as if restraining an unruly child rather than a grown man. “Again, I am sincerely sorry, sir,” it added while denying him even an inch.
Another of Tervane’s men lunged for the fallen blaster, snatching it from the floor. He raised it with shaking resolve, trying to sight along the barrel toward Mira. Daneel moved instantly, interposing himself before her with his arms raised.
The man blinked, startled, clearly assuming Daneel to be just another stubborn man getting between him and his target. “Listen, whoever you are, I’ve no quarrel with you. Just step aside and no one else needs to get hurt.”
Mira’s expression tightened. She seized Daneel’s arm and pulled him sharply out of line.
“What are you doing, Daneel?” she hissed. “You’ll get hurt, or worse, killed!”
The robot met her gaze with untroubled clarity. “Mira, you must not draw harm upon yourself to protect me. It is my role, rather, to prevent harm to you.”
“I do not care what your role is,” she snapped under her breath. “If harm befell you, it would upset me to a much greater degree than would a simple blaster burn!”
Before the gunman could adjust aim, Mira stepped in and caught his wrist in a precise lock. It was not something she had ever practised or seen in execution, but instead, one of the countless techniques encoded in the data disk Vorian had transferred into her, ready in her mind as though learned long ago. She twisted, and the joint gave with a sickening snap.
The man screamed, dropping the blaster as he crumpled to his knees, clutching his broken arm.
“Mira, no!” Daneel’s voice trembled with shock. His hands hovered, indecisive, unable to intervene without worsening either outcome.
Mira froze, registering the result of her own strength, and let go instantly. “I… I didn’t mean to do that,” she said quickly, first to the man, then to Daneel, her voice sheepish, almost brittle.
Daneel took a single step toward them, intent on intervening again, but Mira cut across him sharply. “Wait! Daneel, you must take Lucen to a hospital facility at once,” she said, pointing toward the counter where she had left him slumped moments earlier. “He’s over there. His condition is deteriorating and requires immediate treatment.”
Daneel hesitated. “Mira, my presence here may better prevent injury. Remaining at your side appears the safer course.”
“There is little you can accomplish here against human opponents,” she answered matter-of-factly. “You are far more useful ensuring he survives. That is the logical priority.”
For a brief interval, Daneel remained motionless, caught between imperatives. But the urgency in Mira’s voice, as well as the clear First Law implication, soon resolved the conflict. He turned toward Lucen.
“One last thing,” Mira added. “His infection risk is too high in a disaster triage ward. Watch over him yourself, and do not leave him unattended. Go, now! And please do hurry!”
Without further comment, Daneel proceeded toward the counter in decisive haste, and Baley stepped into place as he withdrew, occupying the exact space the robot had held a moment before. For an instant, he and Mira stood back-to-back, both surveying the advancing figures.
“Well,” Baley murmured, “Any suggestions? There are rather many of them.”
In his mind he added, Thankfully, there is only one blaster among the lot of them. For Aurorans, that is unusual enough, to be sure. Still, if these had been Earthmen, the odds would have been far less charitable.
“How’s your combat training, Lije?” Mira asked. The deliberate stress on his nickname did not escape him. Nor, regrettably, did the faint suggestion of amusement.
“A shade rusty,” he admitted.
Out of his peripheral vision, he caught eyes with Daneel as he disappeared through the exit carrying Lucen in his arms with reluctant necessity. At the same moment three men closed in. One had armed himself with another golf club and swung for Mira’s head with clumsy confidence. Mira raised her own club with a motion that resembled a formal salute more than a defensive gesture and struck sharply. The man’s weapon clattered to the floor.
Two more rushed them at once. Baley struck first, landing a clean blow to a jaw that offered little resistance. Mira followed with a swift arc of the club into the face of the man who had lost his weapon, and then a high kick that sent the third sprawling in much the same manner Tervane had been dispatched earlier.
Her restraint was evident. She measured each strike with visible calculation… enough force to incapacitate, yet not enough to shatter bone or god forbid, remove a head outright.
Tervane’s voice cut through, sharp and frantic: “Do something! Get in there! Don’t just stand like fools!”
His men flinched at the memory of Mira’s swift strikes, and the lethal potential they had glimpsed firsthand. Fear took over them; they lingered, unwilling to approach further. Instead, they allowed the robots to advance. It was a logical choice - after all, there were two of them for every one of her, each possessing the same strength she wielded alone. They began closing in steadily.
Baley’s gaze swept over the advancing robots. “It seems a device to incapacitate them would be convenient at a time like this.”
“I am afraid any such device lies buried beneath the ruins of my grandfather’s old laboratory,” Mira said impassively.
Jehoshaphat, Baley cursed, and his mind began working. How could he prevent them from taking Mira now? It seemed nearly hopeless. Yet he knew the robots would not harm him unless their orders overrode the First Law, and he sincerely doubted that Tervane was clever enough to issue so strong a command. At the end of the day, he was no roboticist.
His thoughts raced to the trick he had used to gain access to Heliodyne Systems, that little stratagem with Corvin. Perhaps it might stall the robots long enough for reinforcements to arrive. How long had it been since Damiro departed? He wasn’t certain, with chaos swirling around them.
He threw himself to the floor, seizing the fallen blaster, and pressed it swiftly to his temple. That should keep them in check. As expected, the robots halted immediately.
“Any robot that lays a hand on this young woman,” he said aloud, voice measured but firm, “will find me ready to fire!”
Tervane shouted, voice cracking with indignation, “An empty threat! An Earthman would never hurt himself for the sake of a robot!”
His words however carried little weight against the First Law’s pull within the robots. Frustrated, he turned to his men, but they, too, hesitated, unwilling to enter danger needlessly. And so a standstill ensued. For fifteen long minutes the scene held: robots and men, frozen alike, and Baley, in the centre of it all, maintaining his grim leverage.
Then, the distant sound of arriving sirens cut through the tense quiet, and reinforcements poured into the scene.

Chapter 37: The Last Words of Vorian Drend

Mira entered the hospital room, the duster jacket drawn around her scrawny shoulders. It hung awkwardly, the sleeves extending well past her hands, the hem almost brushing against the polished floor. She had accepted it from Elijah Baley moments before, his expression nearly paternalistic as he handed it over. Despite its ill fit, it accomplished its intended purpose. The exposed metallic parts on her shoulder and back were concealed enough to avoid administrative scrutiny at the hospital, though admittedly, it left her figure strange, vaguely distorted.
Baley himself remained behind, attending to procedural matters with Damiro and the Commissioner of Geneva’s Police. From Mira’s perspective, the situation had reached an equilibrium of sorts. Tervane’s men were to be taken into custody, their capacity for threat neutralized by the presence of organized law, and their robots had received a revocation of their prior orders to apprehend her.
Upon arrival at the hospital, Mira requested to see Lucen and was promptly escorted to his room. The attending nurse reported that he had largely recovered from the burns, the most severe component of his injuries, but still required extended rest. The nurse added that the patient’s “brother” had provided instructions regarding solitary rooming and strict measures to prevent transmissible infections. Mira noted, with quiet curiosity, that Lucen had no known siblings; it was clear the nurse referred to Daneel, whose human appearance and seemingly comparable age had prompted the assumption. Lucen’s nasal filtration systems remained functional last she had seen, yet precaution dictated the continued isolation.
Inside the room, Lucen lay supine, his breathing somewhat shallow. Bandages covered the most severely burned areas. As she crossed the threshold, Daneel turned sharply and paused, his eyes narrowing.
“Partner Elijah?” he asked when he saw her.
Mira tilted her head. A trace of irony passed through her voice. “Not sure how I ought to take that,” she replied. The duster had produced the illusion of the plainclothesman, though she herself found the approximation quite absurd.
Daneel lowered his head in what appeared like deep shame. “I apologize for the confusion, Mira,” he said regretfully.
“Quite all right,” Mira replied, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Tell me, how is our patient feeling?”
“I’m right here, you know,” Lucen said then, voice rough but steady, “why don’t you ask me directly?”
“Well well. If you have energy left to grumble about being ignored, then you must be improving,” Mira said, amused. “Evidently you are not in mortal peril.” She looked to Daneel then. “Would you mind leaving us for a while?”
“Of course,” he answered promptly, stepping toward the door. Without further comment, he exited, the soft click of the latch behind him marking their brief privacy.
Once Daneel had departed, Lucen turned his gaze to Mira, a faint smile playing about his features. “You’ve got him quite wrapped around your finger, haven’t you?”
“He’s a robot. Of course he follows what a human—” Mira froze, realizing the misstep too late. She was not human. That particular truth would take some time getting used to. She drew a breath, regaining composure, and redirected the conversation. “In any case… am I imagining it, or was there a certain… chill when I entered?”
Lucen remained uncharacteristically silent in response, so she pressed on. “Did Daneel do anything to displease you, Lucen?”
“No! Damn it…” he said, voice tight with exasperation. “He has been acting perfectly adequate. I feel like such a fool, being jealous of a robot. And please, don’t make it worse by denying anything now or rubbing it in!” He exhaled sharply, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Mira, would you… apologize to Daneel for me? I’m afraid I’ve been quite rude to him, when all he has done is ensure my well-being and safe recovery.”
Mira allowed a small, wry smile to form. “Consider it done,” she said lightly.
Lucen waved a hand, though weakly, shooing her toward the door. “That matter is settled then. Now, truly, I require rest. I trust that you remember that I do not possess a robot’s endurance,” he added, voice softening with fatigue.
Mira nodded, noting the subtle tremor in his frame. “Very well. Rest, then. I shall remain nearby, should you require anything further,” she said, walking toward the door.
When she stepped into the hallway, she spotted Daneel and Baley speaking in low, tense tones. She moved toward them, but a hand on her shoulder halted her. A doctor stood there, but not the one who had treated Lucen. Age was difficult for her to judge in Earthmen, but she estimated he was close to Vorian’s generation. His white hair stood unevenly on his head, as if constantly pushed through by restless fingers, and his matching sideburns framed a face sharpened by fatigue and overwork. His posture carried a jittery quality to it. His nails were chewed ragged.
He hesitated, studying her. “Are you… Mira Drend?” he asked.
She expected a spike of alarm. Recognition could mean pursuit, danger, people tied to Auroran politics or to whatever secrets Vorian had hidden. But strangely, the feeling never surfaced. Something in his voice, or his manner, or perhaps his transparent nervousness, cancelled the instinct. She simply nodded.
“I believe there’s something you should see,” the doctor said, voice low, almost confidential. Before she could answer, Daneel and Baley closed the distance between them, their earlier conversation cut short.
Baley’s tone held polite hostility. “Good sir, where exactly do you intend to take our… friend?”
The doctor blinked at him, then looked to Mira instead, as though Baley’s question hadn’t been addressed to him at all.
“Are these two men worthy of your trust, Miss Drend?” he asked.
Mira didn’t hesitate. “Yes. They are.”
The doctor gave a single brisk nod. “Then follow me, all of you,” he said, already turning down the hallway.

-

The doctor led them through the hospital at an unhurried pace, speaking as though the words had been waiting years to surface.
“We trained together, Vorian and I.” he said. “Medical school. Even then, he was brilliant. Nineteen, and he understood neuroanatomy better than the lecturers who were paid to teach it. The rest of us studied, whereas he simply knew, almost as if by instinct. I won’t deny it, I envied him. His understanding of it seemed so effortless.”
He adjusted his coat and continued: “He was already tinkering in those days. Small devices, theoretical frameworks, strange problems no one else seemed to care about. Then one day, that Auroran roboticist Han Fastolfe arrived in Spacetown for a symposium, and Vorian practically sprinted to the shuttleport to get to New York. That was the catalyst, I think. The old man must have discovered his genius then, for that is when they began corresponding. Their writing continued for the better part of a decade, until finally, he took off for Aurora.”
His voice lowered, almost reverent.
“The first Earthman to step onto a Spacer world since the original settler wave. We continued keeping in touch via hyperspace mail at first, but after that… communication dwindled. A message every year or two. Nothing more.”
He walked a few more paces before speaking again. “Thirty-five years passed before I heard from him again. His daughter had left a newborn baby at his door. You.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Mira. “He had her tested by the Auroran Genetics Board. The result was irrefutable. Halden-Mirov Syndrome, a rare neurodegenerative disorder of which he himself was affected. Progressive demyelination affecting skeletal muscle, sensory pathways, and eventually autonomic control. The final stage is complete paralysis, heart included.”
A faint pressure built behind Mira’s eyes, and for a moment she thought the corridor tilted. She had imagined reunion, once the crisis was behind them. Something quiet, a return to their usual routines. A naïve expectation, one she had clung to with her usual stubbornness. But she realized now that whatever life they had known was already beyond reach. More than that, the irony was not lost on her, that he spent half his life working on the brain only for his own to fail him so spectacularly in the end.
“In any case, he refused to let the child grow orphaned by his untimely demise,” the doctor continued. “Refused to stand idle while she herself decayed the way the data predicted. So he returned here, at regular intervals. Spacers don’t treat inherited disease, you see, for they’ve eradicated it in their own society. But we tried. Every few months he came. Sometimes for treatment, sometimes to offer tissue samples, neural scans, anything that might push us closer to a cure before his granddaughter reached adulthood.”
“Unfortunately, it never came. He deteriorated. And you, Mira… well, I’m ever so sorry.” A brief silence. “We couldn’t save your grandfather, and we may not save you, but when your time comes, when the symptoms start to appear, let me know. My name is Dr Ed Valentine. If I’m gone, speak to my successor Dr Darsh Palla. He will remember your name. You’ll be cared for. As family.”
Mira, Baley and Daneel glanced between themselves. None of the three spoke. The truth of what Vorian had done instead hung between them like something no one quite dared acknowledge.
Mira smiled politely to the doctor. “Thank you, Dr Valentine. For everything.”
They reached a quiet room. The lights were low. On the bed lay Vorian Drend. He looked frail and diminished, his once-sharp features softened to translucence. He had lost significant weight, his oxygen cannula hissing in the now overbearing silence.
Mira’s voice dropped, scarcely more than breath. “Is he still…?”
“He is still alive, yes,” Valentine said. “But only in the narrowest sense. His autonomic systems are failing. He rouses intermittently, but his mind still stays sharp. Still…” He hesitated, pressing thumb against the ridge of his bitten nails, “I believe he has but delayed the inevitable. Waiting, so to speak. Hoping you would come. If you remain nearby, there is a chance you may speak with him before the end.”
Valentine withdrew with a small, tired bow and closed the door behind him. Mira approached the bed again. Seeing Vorian like that struck with a force she hadn’t prepared for. The sight carried a strange dissonance, memory and reality refusing to align. Her chest tightened with the impulse to weep. The pressure sat behind her eyes, ready to break. But she resisted it. What good were emotional outbursts to a robot?
She lowered herself into the nearest chair, its frame creaking under her weight. Daneel took the chair beside her and Baley remained standing on the opposite side of the bed, hands folded behind his back. His gaze moved over Vorian’s form with a detective’s grim appraisal before softening.
“Do you want time alone with him, Miss Drend?”
Mira stared at the sheets, fingers tightening against the armrest. “I am… unsure,” she said quietly.
Baley’s expression shifted into one of understanding, worn and human. “Hm,” he murmured. “Tell you what. There’s still paperwork to settle, statements to finalize. I’ll see to that now. In the meantime, Daneel can stay with you. He won’t intrude, and you won’t be entirely alone either. How does that sound?”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “That sounds… acceptable.” Her voice steadied. “Thank you, Lije.” The name was said with no irony this time.
Baley’s brows lifted, acknowledging the shift without calling attention to it. “Good.” He rose. At the door, he paused long enough to address Daneel. “If he wakes, notify me at once.”
“Of course, Partner Elijah,” Daneel replied.
Baley gave a final nod to Mira before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Silence returned, but it no longer felt so empty.
Daneel reached for her hand with no visible deliberation and his fingers closed around hers. The warmth of his skin registered against her palm, and though she had experienced it before, it still held the capacity to unsettle. A robot’s synthetic surface should not mimic life with such fidelity. Yet here it did.
For several minutes she did nothing at all. The impulse to withdraw never formed within her mind. Something in the contact held her still. She had never known until then how much could be communicated through the hands. At length, she spoke of the gesture. “What purpose does this serve, Daneel?”
He regarded her steadily, tone uncoloured by embarrassment or self-consciousness. “It seemed to me that you were experiencing emotional distress,” he replied, “and that such a touch may offer comfort. I have seen it in humans, so it seemed fit that it might apply to you as well.”
“But I am no human,” she answered. “Besides, no Law compels you to soften what I feel. There is no directive requiring you to spare me distress.”
“Perhaps not the First Law, no,” Daneel said. “Yet still I would prefer that your distress lessen, for your pain causes me pain. It may be an expression of self-preservation, rather than one of harm prevention. An inclination derived from the Third Law.”
She studied him, frowning. “Why should my state affect you at all?” she asked.
Daneel did not answer at once. Then he told, with exact fidelity, the explanation Fastolfe had given him a mere day before. He explained the duality of their mirrored programming, of the drive that called them to safeguard one another, once their mortal creators were finally gone. Once his words subsided, a dull ache kindled within Mira’s heart. She had believed her feelings genuine, an emergent thing born of choice; had even thought of herself as genuinely capable of loving a robot. Now, confronted with the notion that her own affection was the by-product of a programmed incentive, she felt hollow.
“I see.”
Daneel inclined his head. “I can neither confirm nor deny the mechanism,” he said. “To me the theory appears somewhat incomplete. Still, the observation is factual: your distress registers very strongly within my circuits.”
And so it was. The logic of it was circular, fundamentally unsatisfying. And yet, somewhere beneath the doubt, she thought that perhaps the origin of love mattered less than its very existence. Human or robot, programmed or emergent, affection existed, and its effect was real. The heart rarely obeyed tidy explanation even in the best of cases.
She did not speak again. Instead, she left her hand in his and let her head lean against his shoulder. It was not necessity that drew her toward rest, for robots had no physiological need for it. Still, Mira let her eyes close, and allowed herself the strange luxury of drifting into something very much like sleep.

-

Mira stirred first to the shift of Daneel adjusting beneath her cheek, careful so as not to disturb her. A soft, human sound then cut through the quiet: Vorian’s raspy voice, calling her name. She rose immediately, still groggy, and turned toward the bed. Her grandfather’s eyes now flickered with lucidity. A tremor of surprise passed through her chest.
“Grandfather!” she exclaimed, moving closer.
He attempted to lift his arms, and she instinctively stepped forward, enveloping him in a warm embrace. The motion was awkward; his body offered no resistance, no strength to return the gesture. Yet it did not matter. The contact alone conveyed what words could not.
Mira lifted her eyes and noticed that Baley too had come back into the room.
Vorian’s voice was weak, rasping through the effort of speech. “Mira, my sweet Mira. I am ever so sorry. Ed informed me… that you were caught in the laboratory explosion. It was foolish of me to rig it as I did. I cannot bear the thought that I might have destroyed you in the process.”
“Then pray tell, why did you do it?” Baley said, in a tone carrying a hint of reproach.
Vorian’s gaze settled on Baley, sharp despite his frailty. “Ah. You must be Elijah Baley,” he said. “The detective who was chosen to attend to the matter of my… disappearance. I have seen you on the stereovision. Your question is pertinent, but I could not have known that Mira would be the one to activate the device. I expected… someone else.”
He paused at the quiet that followed, then pressed on. “I entrusted the sphere to Lucen because I anticipated that a puzzle he could not solve would quickly lose his interest. It would then be taken up by others, likely those at Heliodyne Systems with an interest in my research, who would then seek it on Earth by whatever means necessary. My expectation was that they would locate the laboratory and activate the device there, thereby ensuring that they, along with the remainder of my work… would be annihilated. Let this serve as a warning for all who might seek it in the future.”
Baley stared at the old roboticist, baffled, and for a moment, no proper sentence formed.
“To think,” he said finally, “that you would go to such lengths!”
Vorian’s answer came without hesitation. “Yes,” he said. “That is precisely the measure of my resolve. No one must access this research, not now, not later… not ever.”
His voice hardened, gaining an edge that age had not dulled. “There are discoveries that advance civilization, and there are those that imperil it. I know the difference. I helped create that difference.”
He leaned back, exhausted but unwavering.
“Us scientists care about the truth,” he said. “Only that. We pursue it because the alternative is ignorance, and ignorance is intolerable to the scientific mind.”
His voice thinned, but the cadence held. “I sought it, and I found it. That much, at least, I achieved. Yet when the undeniable truth finally stood before me, I realized something I had never allowed myself to consider: its consequences. Its undeniable potential. How easily it could be twisted into something that spun out of control.”
“Yet truth itself is indifferent. It does not measure its effect on society, not does it weigh morality. It simply is. We discover it, and then we are left to contend with what it means. Whether we are prepared or not.”
“I will not pretend absolute virtue,” he went on. “I considered using the discovery on myself. A lifetime of work, and suddenly the barrier that confines every human appeared breachable. I did not want to die, you understand. In truth, I find I had begun to resemble a Spacer. Obsessed with the idea of living forever, that death was an affront rather than a natural condition of life. It is a subtle corruption… the belief that one’s existence is too valuable to end.”
Mira’s voice had risen, not in anger but in something nearer to fear. “What of me then, grandfather? And what of Harlan, Selene, Corvin, and Venn? You were not thorough enough to dispose of us. Yet our existence is evidence. If we remain, the danger remains!”
The words struck the room into stillness. Vorian closed his eyes, and when he exhaled, it was with utter helplessness. “I could never destroy you, Mira,” he said quietly. “I could not go through with it. You were never a variable in the calculation… you were the exception. You always were.”
His gaze shifted briefly toward Daneel. “That is why I altered him,” he continued. “To ensure that you would be protected no matter what happened. And as you know, a robot, by its very nature, cannot bear to fail its function.” A decisive pause preceded the words that followed. “As for the other four…”
He hesitated visibly, and her expression sharpened with sudden comprehension. “No!” she whispered. “No, do not say it. Do not even think it!”
“It is already done,” he said, resigned. “Their orders were issued before I left. Though I anticipated a different ending, I knew my time was approaching. I meant to return to the old laboratory to erase every trace of the research, and once it was done, I would go back to Tithonus and tell you everything.”
“Yet on the journey there, I collapsed. They brought me here, and the decline accelerated faster than I had prepared for. I did not expect that. I believed I still had weeks, perhaps months. But in some way I anticipated such an outcome in my final dealing with the robots. They are to deactivate themselves once I am dead. They cannot be allowed to remain as carriers of what I discovered. Even with their diminished binding to the Laws, they are still vulnerable. If keener minds learn of them, they will be taken, dismantled, and reverse-engineered. And then the cycle will start again.”
The silence that followed was absolute. No argument formed on Mira’s tongue; language itself had retreated beneath the force of grief. Her knees weakened; under her composure, a fracture formed. The restraint she had held finally gave way. Tears welled, then fell abundantly. She wept for Harlan, who always apologized for merely existing; for Selene, who had learned to laugh and mock and imitate her as a sister would; for Venn, who stood guard even when unneeded; and for Corvin, who always thought before speaking as though he had all the time in the world to get his message across.
She too wept for Vorian, for how she had remained ignorant of his condition for most of her life and now wished she could have been with him, existed with him, if only for a moment, knowing the full truth. And finally, she wept for leaving without saying farewell to the life she had known, the one she took for granted, and for the once foolish certainty of her return. For now she knew there would be no return.
There would never be any return.

Chapter 38: A New Beginning

“I read your report, Baley. Quite the tale, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Under-Secretary Minnim set the report down with a tap. Baley sat stiffly across from him, the familiar smell of New York air pressing close. After the vast, immaculate spaces of Aurora, he found his old office somewhat cramped. Though he had always found it oddly comforting, it now felt inadequate, as though it were no longer scaled to fit him.
“Before we discuss it in greater detail,” Minnim went on, “I think you’ll be pleased to know the men who attacked you in Geneva have been apprehended. The Aurorans took custody of them aboard one of their vessels. They’ll be court-martialled on their own world, naturally. What they did amounts to barbarism by Spacer standards. They won’t escape consequence, that much is clear. It is nearly unheard of for a Spacer to resort to such brute violence… raw desperation must have driven them.”
Baley said nothing. He kept his face still, offering neither agreement nor correction. Some matters, especially those touching the true centre of the affair, were best left unstated.
Minnim cleared his throat. “Still… there are a few points on which I need further clarification. The report ends the moment you located Vorian Drend and questioned him. After that, nothing of note. No verifiable record of what became of the Drend robots, nor of the girl. The conclusion appears to be missing.”
“I did write a conclusion,” Baley said innocently.
Minnim leaned back, unimpressed. “Perhaps. But the one you wrote read very much like fiction, and I doubt it reflects the actual truth. You list them all as deactivated with no context and no explanation, as though they simply ceased to exist and thus required no further accounting.”
Baley sighed warily. That was expected, certainly. Minnim was no fool; he would never take a document of such construction at face value, least of all one containing implications the Earth government would need centuries to metabolize. And it is certainly true that Baley had improvised at a few choice checkpoints. He drew another slow breath. Minnim, at least, would need to know.
“As you know,” Baley said evenly, “Vorian Drend died yesterday.”
Minnim nodded briskly. “Yes, yes. That was on stereovision. A great loss for humanity, to be sure. He was a man of vision.” His eyes narrowed. “But do not circle the matter, Baley. What happened after he admitted to ordering his robots to self-destruct?”
Baley shifted in his chair. “It did not occur immediately. Mira had time to see them again, one final time, before they became aware of Vorian’s impending death and acted on the order. She attempted to persuade them first to return home, to disregard the command entirely. Then she changed her tune and urged them to instead leave with her and begin anew on another Spacer world. However her urgency only registered to them as anomalous… erratic behaviour, so to speak. But she never once let the truth of Vorian’s condition slip.”
Minnim watched him without expression.
“By the time there was any chance of sense or delay,” Baley continued, “Vorian was already gone. He must have held on longer than reason permitted, long enough to see her, long enough to finish whatever final obligation he believed remained. And then… he allowed himself to die.”
“So,” Minnim said, fingers steepled, “are the robots still operational after all?”
Baley’s reply came flat. “No, they are not. They saw the broadcast announcing Drend’s death, just as you did. They disabled themselves promptly.”
Minnim absorbed that without blinking. “A shame. It’s quite the loss, professionally speaking. They appeared a capable group, judging from your report.”
“It was inevitable,” Baley said. “The directive had been constructed with exceptional strength, so strong that even in Selene, whose adherence to the Laws was irregular at best, it asserted precedence. They had been told explicitly that, in the event of their master’s death, their continued existence would constitute direct harm to humanity. Under that framework, the reinforced First and Second Laws aligned with absolute clarity, and the weaker Third stood alone against them. It was insufficient resistance. They shut themselves down within minutes of learning the news.”
“Mm. A hard blow for the girl, no doubt.”
“Harder than you might imagine,” Baley said. “When the matter was settled and the robots were gone, she turned to me with a very stark logic. She asked whether I agreed with Drend’s assessment, that her continued existence carried the same danger his research had represented. Then she placed a blaster in my hand and instructed me to finish what he could not. In her words, she was the last link, his last remaining vulnerability. Eliminating her, she argued, would be the final act of caution on behalf of humanity.”
He paused, fingers tightening once on the arm of the chair, then releasing. “It was not hysteria, nor was it despair. It was logic. Entirely consistent with the Laws as she understood them, and with her loyalty to the man who made her.”
“And did you?” Minnim asked in a dry tone that suggested that he already knew the answer and was only asking merely to humour him.
Baley met his gaze evenly. “No, of course I didn’t. Or rather, I couldn’t. Dr Drend’s reasoning was not without merit, and I’ll concede that the danger may yet exist, but certainty is beyond any of us. For all we know, her existence may benefit humanity as much as he feared it would harm it.”
He grimaced, expression tightening with something closer to reluctance than embarrassment. “But if I am honest, that decision was not one of pure logic, as hers had been. I thought of Daneel first, of what such an act would inflict upon him. And then,” he added, almost grudgingly, “I found I myself had no wish to see her destroyed either. Mira Drend is a difficult girl, sharp-tempered and capricious. Roboticists always seem to carry somewhat abrasive personalities; that must be why they choose to work with robots rather than men. And yet, she possesses a kind of strange appeal. Irritating, yes, but compelling in her own way. I have grown quite fond of her, I’m afraid.”
Minnim’s gaze sharpened. “Then why, in your official report, did you claim that Mira Drend had perished along with her robots?”
“A simple precaution. She proved herself capable of infiltrating our systems; one cannot assume that will not happen again, through someone else. Given the stakes, it was necessary to present her as deceased. So to speak.”
Minnim nodded thoughtfully, then quite suddenly, smiled. It was not a reassuring expression. But before Baley could speak, his supervisor pushed back his chair and rose. He crossed to the door with an ease that made Baley feel troubled and opened it. “Actually,” he said, tone almost conversational, “there was another reason I wanted to speak with you. Please come with me.”
Baley followed, stiff with a suspicion he could not yet articulate. Minnim led him down the hallway and stopped at the door to the conference room. Without ceremony, he opened it.
Mira Drend stood inside, hands loosely clasped behind her back, eyes alight with something like amusement. She looked entirely at home. Her smile widened as soon as she saw the befuddled face he was no doubt making.
“Hello again, Elijah Baley.”
Baley stared, utterly unprepared. His mouth opened, but intelligible language refused to form. Minnim stepped past him, pleased with himself. “The truth is,” he said, “I already got the whole story from her. Though I admit, I wanted to see what sort of tale you’d spin and commit to paper.”
Baley found his voice at last. “Jehosaphat!”
Mira lifted her brows with exaggerated innocence. Baley noticed, then, that the exposed metal at her shoulder and hip was gone. Presently her skin looked smooth and seamless. He assumed it had been Daneel’s work. The sort of repair a human could never hope for. She likely had no notion of how fortunate a body like that made her.
And still she stood there, faintly amused, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred at all. “Is something the matter?” she asked slyly.
“I-I saw you at the spaceport!” Baley said. “When I went to say goodbye to Daneel. I thought you were boarding with him!”
She gave a light, almost careless shrug. “No. I was there for the same reason you were.”
Then, seeing his confusion persist, she elaborated. “I had a discussion with your Under-Secretary. It appears that breaching Earth’s security infrastructure is considered—” her tone turned wry, “a crime. However, it is one worthy of correction rather than imprisonment in the strictest sense. Accordingly, I have been given… a punishment.”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “There is, it seems, a vacancy here in the New York Police Department for a keen platinum-iridium mind of certain… specialized capabilities. Consider it my penance. Or”, and her smile sharpened at that, “my employment, depending on how one prefers to frame it.”
Baley stared at her, still trying to reconcile the situation with reason. “So we are to become… coworkers?”
“Is that a complaint I hear?”
He straightened at once, flustered. “No—no, not a complaint. Merely unexpected. I had assumed you would wish to return to your home planet.”
Her smile remained, but some quietness passed behind it, as though the expression had been left in place while something inwardly receded. “I had thought about it. Yet, there is simply nothing for me there any longer.” She lifted one hand in a dismissive motion. “Besides, Aurora remains full of those who would rather not see the last remnant of my grandfather’s research walking freely about.”
“What of Lucen? I imagine he’ll, well, mourn you. In a manner of speaking.”
“Perhaps for a time. But there is no viable future there, not any longer. And I suspect the moment he first saw me after the fire, he understood it as well. I am no longer of his world. It will be kinder for him to forget, as though I had truly died, in fact rather than simply on paper.”
Baley regarded her in silence for a moment, the faintest recess of melancholy settling in his expression. He nodded once, a stiff, awkward gesture, then spoke, voice pitched low.
“And what of Daneel, Miss Drend? The same cannot be said for him. He knows of your nature and would never resent you for it. I am certain you would find a place, and perhaps a meaningful one, within Dr Fastolfe’s household.”
Mira’s smile appeared, slow and wavering, as though pulled up from somewhere uncertain. It held the softness of longing, and the resignation that follows closely behind. “I will not pretend the thought hasn’t crossed my mind,” she said. “My heart… does long for it. But I do not trust myself yet. Daneel made it clear what truly bound us. Third-party programming; a design neither of us asked for. Whatever I feel, whatever he reflects, is tangled in artifice I cannot yet distinguish from authenticity.” She drew a steady breath. “I need time to think. To separate what I want from what I was made to want.”
Baley shifted his weight, as if unused to conversations whose truths did not yield to logic or interrogation. After a moment he asked, more gently: “And was he… understanding?”
This time, when she smiled, there was no hesitation, no wariness. Only unguarded warmth, a softness so complete Baley found himself averting his eyes, as though witnessing a private confession.
“Of course he was,” she said. “What else could Daneel be?”
That answer lingered in the room like a quiet chord. Baley cleared his throat, unable to dislodge a peculiar thought: an image of the two - her ebullient volatility, his calm stillness - and how impossibly, irrationally, they fit. Fire and ice, he thought. Yet somehow the chemistry holds.
“It changes nothing,” Mira added. “Neither of us is racing against time. Whether it is a year, a hundred, or a thousand, our paths will cross again. Of that, I am certain.”
Baley exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head once, half in resignation and half in levity. “Well,” he said, straightening his collar as if sealing the matter, “nothing left for me to do but welcome you to the team in that case.”
He pivoted toward Minnim. “R. Sammy wasn’t enough, Under-Secretary? You really needed to bring in another robot to replace the lad?”
Minnim let out a soft chuckle that carried a thin veneer of diplomacy. “One might say circumstances demanded it. However, the matter of Miss Drend’s true nature must naturally remain strictly confidential. No other member of the Department will be informed. The complete truth is held between only the three individuals here present in this room, as well as Commissioner Roth.”
Baley snorted. “Right, naturally.” Then he turned back to the girl and regarded her with a pragmatic squint. “In that case, I don’t suppose I should call you by your real name anymore. Otherwise you’ll be traced sooner or later, and all that business with your false death will have been spectacularly pointless.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes. I reached the same conclusion.”
Something changed in her posture, something very much like certainty. “And I believe,” she continued, “that I have chosen an appropriate alternative.”
Baley lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? And what is it?”
“Susan Calvin.”
“You are joking,” Baley said flatly, a note of disbelief in his voice.
“Of course I am joking!” She let a short, booming laugh escape. “No, I believe I will go with Abigail,” she said, as though testing the shape of the word in her mouth. “It was the name of my grandmother. I never knew her, but Vorian spoke of her often. He admired her and loved her deeply. He said she was gentle, patient, and clear-minded. I think…” She paused, her eyes lowered, and she looked almost soft in that instant, girlish. “I think I would like to grow toward those qualities. To be more like the person he believed she was.”
Baley found himself nodding slowly. The simple sincerity in her voice needed no elaboration.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “that gives us a first name. But society demands completeness. You will require a surname to meet the law.”
She tapped a finger against her chin, as though considering a list only she could see. The silence drew out just long enough for Baley’s curiosity to sharpen. “Hm,” she murmured at last. “A surname. Well, there is only one that seems fitting at present.”
Baley frowned. “And that is?”
Mira—or Abigail, rather—lifted her eyes to his. The quiet smile she gave him was neither mischievous nor ironic, but sure, as though the decision had been inevitable from the moment she spoke the first syllable.
“Olivaw, of course.”