Inferno

Prospero shook his head. “Caliban and I have debated the point at great length. Perhaps my description would have been an overstatement some years ago, but I don’t believe it is any longer,” he told his creator. “Not anymore. This is an age where many old certainties are failing. Spacers are no longer the most powerful group; Infernals are forced to make massive concessions to the Settlers; the planetary climate is no longer under control. Infernals can’t even take an infinite supply of Three-Law robots for granted any longer. If all the other verities are no longer there, why should the safety of robots still be relied upon? After all, robots have changed, and are less reliable,” Prospero noted. “That is the plain fact of New Law robots. I can save a life or obey a command if I wish, but I am not absolutely bound to do so.”

“I must say that I am more than a bit taken aback,” Dr. Leving said. “This is a far deeper-and darker-philosophy than I would have expected from you.”

“Our situation is likewise darker than you think,” Prospero said. “My fellow New Law robots are not well liked or well treated-and, I must admit, at times, they are, as a consequence, not well behaved. The process feeds on itself. Their overseers assume they will run away, and force heavier restrictions on them to prevent escape. The New Law robots chafe under the new restrictions, and thus decide to flee. Clearly, no one benefits from the current situation.”

“That I can agree with,” said Dr. Leving.

“I wish to do what I can to bring the two sides to some new accommodation,” Prospero said. “That is part of why I am here, in hopes of conversing with some of the leading Spacers.”

Another shading of the truth, Caliban noted. It seemed to him that Prospero was becoming more and more parsimonious with the truth in recent days. It worried him. But Dr. Leving was speaking.

“I must warn you, Prospero, not to have too many hopes in that direction, “ she said. “This is a very public occasion, and I doubt that many of the people here will want to be seen in conversation with some upstart New Law robot.”

“I note that you have no such concerns,” Prospero said.

Fredda Leving laughed. “I’m afraid that my reputation is too far gone for one chat with you to do any harm. After committing the horrific crime of creating you and Caliban, merely talking with you is going to be a rather petty offense.”

Ottley Bissal hung back from the entrance, taking shelter under the roofed-over aircar port, clinging to shadows. He was dry and clean now, having used the aircar port’s refresher station, put there a hundred years before for the convenience of guests who wished to tidy up before socializing at the Governor’s Residence. Well, that description fit him.

Fear was starting to take its hold on him. So much could go wrong. The plan was good, and he knew what he was supposed to do-but nothing was foolproof. They had promised they would take care of him no matter what, but he knew that even the most powerful people could fail at times.

But revenge. Revenge. He had one taste of it already tonight-and what came next would be a full banquet, a blow struck against everything the world had ever owed him and failed to deliver, every betrayal put paid in one moment.

It would be enough. More than enough. What was a little fear, a little danger compared to the incomparable pleasure of destroying the greatest enemy of all?

Another aircar was coming in for a landing. Bissal stepped back, deeper into shadow, and waited for his moment. Soon. Very soon now.

Simcor Beddle’s aircar swooped down to a perfect landing and taxied smoothly in under the covered car park. Simcor smiled to himself, pleased with the skill of his robot pilot. Why settle for anything but the best? Simcor enjoyed his entrances, there was no doubt about that, and he was about to make a grand one. He dearly loved creating a scene.

Simcor Beddle was the leader of the Ironheads, a group of rowdies dedicated to the idea that the solution to any problem was more and better robots.

Right now, the Ironheads were enjoying their greatest popularity in years. The seizure of household robots for terraforming labor had done more to recruit new members than any steps the Ironheads could have taken on their own. They were on the verge of moving from a fringe radical group to a major political force.

And that represented some challenges. Simcor had not hesitated to employ outright thuggery in the past, but a mass movement required something closer to respectability if it was to remain credible. Not respectability itself, mind-the Ironheads were expected to be a bit beyond the pale. But the time was past where they could get anywhere by staging a riot. What they needed now was visibility, publicity stunts. And Simcor Beddle was delighted to provide them.