Caliban

“THE storm has broken, sir. The weather forecast for the next three days is most favorable.”

Alvar Kresh carne out of his half -sleeping stupor and blinked in confusion. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair in his living room. Tonya Welton, dressed in coveralls Donald had scrounged up from somewhere, was snoring gently on the couch. Her robot, Ariel, stood silent and motionless in the robot niche nearest her mistress. Strange to see a Settler with a robot in constant attendance. Kresh had been born and raised with robots always present, but surely it was sometimes unnerving for Welton. Ever-present robots must have taken some getting used to for her.

Well, more power to her, then. It had been a white night for him. No doubt he had dozed off here and there for a few minutes, but he couldn’t remember much of anything except staring at the wall over the couch where Welton slept. Staring at the wall andthinking. There had been too little time for that in the days past, and maybe the storm was a blessing in disguise if it forced him away from precipitate action.

There was value, great value, in thinking over these clues, that evidence, trying out the ideas from this direction and that. But there was never time for that. Strange. The whole idea of Spacer society was to use robots in order to give people enough time tothink. And yet, even so, no one ever seemed to have the time for thinking, anyway.

Donald was offering him a cup of coffee. Kresh took the cup from him. He took a slow and careful sip. Yes, yes, he thought again as the caffeine took hold. There was great value in looking things over one last time in the dead of night, in those hours before the dawn when it all seemed to have stopped for good. One’s own exhaustion could be a spur to new ideas, the vague churning border between dream and thought sometimes yielding up insights that neither wakefulness nor sleep could produce by itself. Those dream thoughts could be most conducive to new and better theories.

And he could feel the answer coming close. Damned close. It was there, in the back of his mind, struggling to get out.

But just now he had no more time for any answers that were not right in front of him. Now came the time for action. Personal action. He was going to go in and finish this himself. “Donald, order all divisions back to normal operations. Cancel all ops related to Caliban-ah, except city perimeter control.” No sense taking chances on him sneaking back into the city. “Madame Welton and I will conduct the final phase of the search personally.”

He took another big swallow of coffee, nearly burning his tongue. He set down the cup, stood up, and crossed to Tonya. He took her by the shoulder and gave her a shake.

“Wake up,” he said. “We’re going hunting.”

THERE. Caliban could see it, down in the valley, perhaps two kilometers away. A small cluster of buildings, somewhat run-down in appearance, gleaming in the sunlight that emerged from behind the swift-scattering remains of the storm. He had no way of telling if there was power to be had there, or how he might get it, but those questions would rapidly become academic if he did not act soon. His only hope was that the owner would not know who he was. There was at least some chance of that, in a place this remote. If he appeared to be nothing more than a normal robot in difficulty, then perhaps he could talk his way into getting a recharge. He had no other real choices. The climb over the brow of the hill had badly taxed his reserves of power. There were no other structures in view, anywhere in any direction. Those buildings represented his last hope. He began the hike down the hillside, picking his way carefully over the scrub and loose rock. It was not a difficult climb. But if things went as wrong as they seemed likely to do, then it would be the last effort he ever made.

He was determined, therefore, to do the thing properly.

ABELL Harcourt looked out the window over his workbench and saw a most unusual sight. A robot, a damaged robot, staggering out of the hills to the south. Well, if that wasn’t the limit. The whole idea of getting out of town was to avoid robots. Abell had found long ago that he couldn’t get anything worthwhile carved with a houseful of perfect servants hovering about him. Robots and the damn fool society of alleged fellow sculptors who didn’t know which end of a mallet to hold. Sculptors who “directed” the work of robot artisans churning out soulless, interchangeable works. Damned robots. A man could get addicted to them, worse than any drug.

But this was different, obviously. This fellow hadn’t come over the mountains and gotten his eye smashed out of its socket just to tidy up Abell’s workbench and misplace everything. Abell set down his tools and went outside. He walked about a hundred meters or so and then stood and waited for the robot to come to him.