Isaac Asimov's Robot Mystery - Chimera

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

THREE LAWS OF

ROBOTICS

1.

A robot may not inure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being

to come to harm.

2.

A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders

would conflict with the First Law.

3.

A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not

conflict with the First or Second Laws.

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

ROBOT MYSTERY

CHIMERA

MARK W. TIEDEMANN

Mark W. Tiedemann’s love for science fiction and writing started at an early

age, although it was momentarily sidetracked--for over twenty years--by his

career as a professional photographer. After attending a Clarion Science

Fiction Et Fantasy Writers Workshop held at Michigan State University in 1988,

he rediscovered his lost love and focused his talents once more on attaining

his dream of becoming a professional writer. With the publication of “Targets”

in the December 1990 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, he began

selling short stories to various markets; his work has since appeared in

Magazine of Fantasy a Science Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Tomorrow SF, and a

number of anthologies. His bestselling novel Mirage, the first entry in the

Isaac Asimov’s Robot Mysteries series, was released in April 2000. Currently,

Tiedemann is working on the third book in the series, to be published in 2002;

his next completed novel (working title: Felony of Conscience) is scheduled

for release by ibooks in October 2001. Tiedemann lives in St. Louis, Missouri,

with his companion, Donna, and their resident alien life form--a dog named

Kory.

ISAAC ASIMOV

Isaac Asimov was the author of over 400 books--including three Hugo Award-

winners--and numerous bestsellers, as well as countless stories and scientific

essays. He was awarded the Grand Master of Science Fiction by the Science

Fiction Writers of America in 1985, and he was the man who coined the words

robotics, positronic, and psychohistory. He died in 1992.

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

ROBOT MYSTERY

CHIMERA

MARK W. TIEDEMANN

For Donna and Henry Tiedemann

Mom and Dad

with love, respect, and thanks

PROLOGUE

...brief touch, contact with the data port, numbers names dates prognoses, all

flow from the brief touch, a tiny surge that feels the way nerves should feel,

the stimulation of a hair drawn lightly along a fingertip, but inside, along a

conduit less than a hundredth a hair’s width, to a smaller place where it

grows and explicates and becomes meaningful in translation, revealing location

disposition architecture security, an excess of data that gives access, all

from a brief touch...

D

irector Ortalf stopped complaining about the lateness of the hour the instant

he saw the hole cut in the wall of the cafeteria at the Seth Canobil Hospice

Center, where he worked. His irritation turned quickly to confusion, then

embarrassment, and finally fear. He walked up to the opening and reached out

to touch the edge, but withdrew his fingers centimeters from brushing the too-

smooth cut. In the flat light it shone mirror bright.

“Ah...” he said, looking around. The police officers who had brought him

here stood impassively, their faces professionally expressionless. Director

Ortalf looked around at the people milling about the area. They moved in

groups of threes and fours, some in uniform, most in civilian clothes. Ortalf

started at the sight of a drone moving slowly across the floor, its sensors

inspecting every centimeter of the tiles.

“Forensic,” explained a deep, male voice nearby.

Ortalf looked around. A tall man in somber gray was watching him, his

face as ambivalent as everyone else’s--except for his eyes, which glistened

expectantly.

“Ah,” Ortalf said again. “Are you...?”

“Mr. Ortalf, “ the man said, ignoring the question. “Director Ortalf.”

“Yes?”

“You run this facility?”

Ortalf nodded sharply. “What is going on? Who--?”

“A routine maintenance monitor detected a power outage here,” the man

explained. “According to its logs, this was listed as a class-B primary site.

It attempted to restore the lines, but found irregularities. It then alerted

the local authorities. “

“Power outage...but we have a back-up.”

“Had.”

“Redundant system...had?”

“How many people work here, Director Ortalf?” The man--who must be some

sort of inspector, Ortalf surmised--walked away, forcing Ortalf to catch up

and walk with him.

“Um...six permanent staff,” he said.

The man paused briefly, then continued walking. “I understand you have

nearly three thousand wards here. “

Ortalf tried to think. “Your people got me out of bed not even half an

hour ago, Inspector. I haven’t had time to shower, to get breakfast, to--three

thousand? Yes, that sounds about right.”

“And only six staff.”

“Six permanent staff, I said. We have several interns and part-time

volunteers, but even so, almost everything is automated.”

They left the cafeteria and started down a long corridor. Emergency

lights glowed dimly along the floor and ceiling, even though the regular

lights were on.

“Who was on call tonight?” the inspector asked.

“I don’t--please, Inspector, what is going on?”

At the end of the corridor a short set of stairs led down into a nurse’s

station. Banks of screens showed a bright orange STAND BY flashing on them.

Ortalf’s gnawing apprehension worsened. He moved toward the main console, but

the inspector gripped his upper arm tightly.

“Please don’t touch anything. Who was on call tonight?”

“I don’t remember. Joquil, I think. Yes, Kilif Joquil.”

The inspector gestured toward a door that opened at the rear of the

station. Ortalf pushed it wide open. Sprawled over the cot that hugged one

wall of the cubicle lay a large body, face down.

Ortalf thought for a moment that the man was dead. But a sudden, labored

breath heaved through the torso. Dread gave way to impatience.

“What is going on?” the director demanded.

The inspector nodded toward the sleeping male nurse. “Did you know Kilif

Joquil used Brethe?”

“What? Now look--”

The inspector aimed a long finger at the nightstand at the head of the

cot. Ortalf stared at its contents for a long time before he recognized the

inhaler and an unlabeled vial.

“We screen our people carefully,” he said weakly.

“I’m sure you do. “

Ortalf looked at the inspector. “Habits can start any time. We scan

every six months. “

The nurse shifted in the cot again, then lay still. Ortalf turned and

left. The inspector said nothing, just followed, as the director headed for

the door to the first ward.

Ortalf stopped at the entrance. The room stretched, nearly a hundred

meters on a side, dwarfing the half-dozen or so strangers now wandering the

aisles of matreches. Ortalf searched the field of metal and plastic, looking

for the telltale difference: a flaw, damage, a sign of disruption. His pulse

raced.

“Not this one,” the inspector said quietly, just behind him. “Number

Five.”

Ward Five was two levels down. Ortalf’s breathing came hard when he reached

it. Twice the size of the first-level wards, it contained the same number of

matreches. These, however, were larger, more complex. More was demanded of

them; the lives within required special care.

Ortalf spotted the damaged units at once. He staggered toward them,

dodging down a jagged path between the intact incubators, till he reached the

first one.

Sticky fluid covered the floor around it. The shell had been removed and

the sac within punctured. Ortalf expected to see an asphyxiated, dehydrated

corpse in the bed, but the cradle was empty. The tubes of the support system

lay severed and useless on the cushions, a couple of them still oozing

liquids. Ortalf made to reach in, but hesitated--touch would tell him the same

as sight, that the child was gone. He looked around, confused and close to

panic. Nearby he saw two more violated matreches.

“But...but...” He stopped when he found the inspector watching him. “I

don’t understand,” Ortalf said finally.

The inspector came to a conclusion. Concerning what, Ortalf could not be

sure, but he recognized the change in the inspector’s face, from glassy

hardness to near pity. The inspector nodded and gestured for them to return to

the administration level.

Ortalf let himself be escorted back, dazed. He barely noticed the people

and machines that roamed through his facility. Police, forensic units,

specialists--insurance adjustors, too, for all he knew, and within hours the

lawyers would be calling.

The inspector brought him to his own office and closed the door.

“What’s happened?” Ortalf asked. He had wanted to make it a demand, but

it came out as a pale, exhausted gasp.

“I’d frankly hoped you might be able to tell me, Director Ortalf.

But...” He sat on the edge of Ortalf’s desk and gazed down at him. Some of the

hardness had returned, but mixed now with sympathy.

“From what we’ve been able to reconstruct so far, the entire clinic was

severed from outside communications. There was one independent oversight

program with a direct line to your maintenance chief, but after ten minutes

even that was cut. Most of it went down with the power. You may well have a

number of fatalities to deal with. I’m not sure how critical these systems are

to each unit--”

“Each matreche has its own power unit to protect from a complete outage.

“

“So I gathered from the manufacturer’s specs. Are they all up to par?”

“So far as I know. You’d have to ask our maintenance supervisor, Kromis-

-”

“We’d love to, but we can’t find her.”

“She...have you been to her apartment?”

“Police are there now. I’d like to have her employment file when you get

a moment. In fact, we’ll want the employment files on all your people, even

the consultants, interns, and part-timers.”

“Do you really think it could have been one of my people?”

“Not alone, no. But it’s clear that whoever it was had a thorough

knowledge of your systems.”

“Of course. Um...do you know how they broke in?”

“Once the power was down and the security net with it,” the inspector

explained, “a hole was cut through the point where there would least likely be

a back-up alarm they could know nothing about--nobody alarms cafeterias--and

from there they went through the clinic, cutting the rest of the power and

finally deactivating even your passive monitoring systems.”

Ortalf blinked. “It could take days to get everything back up.” He

stared off toward a wall, his thoughts an anxious jumble. “How many are

missing?” he asked.

“Twenty-four, I think. All from Ward Five.”

“All?”

The inspector nodded. “Who were they?”

“I don’t...you mean, who do we maintain in Ward Five? A special group,

I’m afraid. Very special.”

“Isn’t everyone in your facility special?”

Ortalf studied the inspector, unsure if he heard sarcasm in the man’s

voice. The face, though, remained impassive.

“Some more than others,” Ortalf said. “Those--Ward Five--have the most

severe situations.”

“UPDs, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Untreatable Physiological Dysfunctions.”

“Lepers.”

Ortalf started. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.” Impatience flashed across the inspector’s face. “Ancient

reference. It’s not important. Tell me, can you think of any reason someone

would want to kidnap them?”

“No.”

“Blackmail? Ransom?”

“I doubt any of them will live long enough outside their matreches to be

of any use in that regard. “

“Why is that?”

“The matreches--each one is specifically modified to its occupant.

They’re unique, like the individuals they support. They change over time, with

the condition of their charge. It would be nearly impossible to duplicate

those specifications in another unit quickly enough to save a removed

occupant. I have no doubt that a number of them are dead already.”

“I see. That leaves revenge. Who were they?”

“Revenge?” Ortalf stood. “You’re joking! What could any of these

children have done--”

“Not them,” the inspector said calmly. “Their parents.”

“Their histories are completely confidential. Inaccessible. “

“Really? You do that as efficiently as your employee background checks?”

“I’m the only one who can access those records.”

“And will you inform the parents when you’ve done so, to let them know

that their children have been lost?”

Ortalf, uncomfortable, sat down and shook his head. “That’s not the

arrangement we have.”

“They don’t want to know, do they? That’s why you have them in the first

place. “

“You have to understand, a lot of them have no family to begin with. “

“Discards. Abandoned.”

“Yes.”

“I’d be willing to wager that many of those whose records are so

carefully sealed are children with families.”

The inspector stood, and for a moment Ortalf expected to be struck. He

closed his eyes and waited, but the blow never came. When he looked up, the

inspector stood in the doorway, his back to the director.

“The records will be required,” the inspector said. “Please make

yourself available for further questioning.”

Ortalf watched the man walk away. Nearly a minute passed before he

realized that he still did not know the inspector’s name. At that moment, he

was just as glad not to.

_

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER…

_

ONE

C

oren Lanra watched from behind a grime-encrusted refuse bin in the recess of

an old, unused loading dock. A sneeze threatened, teased by sharp odors and

the chill air. Across the wide alley, members of a third-shift crew emerged

from an unmarked door. Even if they saw him they would pass him off as one of

the ubiquitous warren ghosts, homeless and destitute, that haunted the

districts surrounding Petrabor Spaceport. Coren wore a shabby, ankle-length

gray-black coat over worn coveralls; four days’ beard darkened his pale face

beneath oily, unwashed hair. He itched.

Three hours still remained in the third shift. Coren counted fifteen

people through the door--all but one of the full crew compliment of the

largely automated warehouse. They were unlikely to get into trouble--Coren

recognized their supervisor among them, marked by the thick silver rings

around his upper arms. They strode noisily up the alley, boots crunching on

scattered debris, laughter echoing off the walls, heading for a home kitchen

or a bar. They rounded a corner. Coren listened till their voices came as

whispers in the distance.

He dropped from the lip of the bay and hurried to their exit door,

propped open by a thin sheet of plastic he’d stuck there earlier to jam the

lock and disable the tracking sensor that kept a log of when the door was

‘used. Just inside, he found an ID reader set in a heavy inner door. He

slipped his forged card into the slot and waited to see if he had gotten what

he had paid for.

The light on the reader winked green and he slipped through into a

locker room. Forty-eight lockers, sixteen per shift. Coren wondered where the

last worker was inside the mammoth complex.

From one of the oversized pockets in his coat he took out a small button

and pressed it on the frame of the exit door. Should anyone follow him

through, the button would warn him with a strong signal pulse tuned to a

receiver on his wrist.

He went to the shower room.

Water dripped from some of the shower heads; the floor was damp. He

turned on a jet of hot water and removed several blocky objects from various

pockets. He placed them beneath the steaming spray and stepped back. Quickly,

the scan-occluding resins melted off a number of devices. Coren shut off the

water and gathered them up, shaking away the excess water.

He hurried down a short hallway that let into a large office area, then

threaded a path through the maze of irregularly-spaced desks and chairs to the

transparent wall that overlooked the main warehouse space.

Immense square blocks formed a grid below the enormous ceiling. Within

each block, stacks or cubicles, nacelles, skids, crates--all manner of

packaging--filled the volume. Turnover was constant. The space between each

block extended down several levels and buzzed with transports, bringing loads

up from below or, coming from the bays along the far wall, descending with

newly arrived cargo to the proper location. The contents were monitored by a

very sophisticated AI system--not alive, no, but as close to machine awareness

as Terran prejudice and law allowed.

Walkways followed the grid pattern; staircases led down into the hive-

like labyrinth. Coren wondered just how far he would fall if he lost his

balance while walking along one of those narrow paths. He pressed close to the

wall and looked straight down and could not make out the bottom.

He turned away, head swimming in a brief wash of vertigo. At least there

was a roof above...

Coren took out a few of his vonoomans. The little machines clustered in

the palm of his left hand. He turned slowly, surveying the office. Satisfied,

he knelt down and set them on the floor. He lightly touched them, and each

glowed briefly as it activated.

“If Rega knew I used you,” he whispered to them, “he might...” He

grunted, self-mocking, and touched each one again. The devices stirred for a

few moments, then shot off in different directions, seeking out the specific

energy signatures of communications, monitoring, and alarm systems. Once in

place, Coren would be able to range wherever he wished within the warehouse,

free of detection.

He took out a palm-sized pad and switched it on. Less than a minute

later all the telltales winked green.

He sat down at one of the desks, jacked his palm monitor into the

computer keyboard before him, and initiated an access sequence. The security

code was not very sophisticated; his decrypter gained entry in less than

thirty seconds. Coren keyed quickly. The scheduling chart came up on the

screen, showing incoming and outgoing traffic for all the bays on the far side

of the warehouse. He studied the times.

Most of the bays were tightly scheduled. One showed a half-hour period

with nothing going out, nothing coming in. He tapped queries. A shipment had

been canceled at the last minute. Three shipments, in fact, all belonging to a

company called Kysler, and all cancellations routed out of the Baltimor ITE

oversight offices. Baltimor...practically the other side of the globe. Odd.

There was an ITE oversight office in the Laus District and another up north in

Arkanleg, both of which should have had responsibility for supervising traffic

in and out of Petrabor. Still, there was no reason Baltimor would be

necessarily barred from such duties...

He opened the manifests. Mostly raw synthetic materials, exotic

molecular structures, exported by an Auroran-owned wholesaler. One bin

contained electronics manufactured by Imbitek. Coren studied the ID tags for a

few moments. Kysler Diversified was the distributor. All the lots had

destination codes which he could not read.

Coren closed down the station. He unjacked his monitor, checked the

status on his little interference runners once more, then headed out. He knew

now which bay he needed.

Coren followed the transparent wall till he came to an exit. A short

staircase took him down to the walkway that bordered the labyrinth. He

produced another handful of vonoomans, smaller than the first group, from a

different pocket. Activated, they scurried along the walkway and disappeared.

The first group gave him security, interfering with the warehouse systems;

these would find people for him.

Automated tractors following invisible guide signals sped through the

canyons, a constant loud humming and rush of cold air that whipped at his

coat. The place smelled of oil and ozone, metal and hot plastic, and, under

all that, an organic odor: yeast or mold. Rot.

The walkway took him to a broad receiving area fronting a row of large

bay doors. As he neared, the sounds grew thunderous: doors opening and

slamming shut, transports rumbling through in both directions, the wind now

almost constant. And beyond that, in the distance, deeper, sepulchral, the

heavy thunder of the port itself: shuttles lifting off and landing

irregularly, disrupting any possible rhythm to all the noise.

Between the edge of the storage hive and the bays lay six meters of

ancient, stained apron. Except for small piles of boxes and litter, Coren saw

nowhere to hide. He set free another handful of machines and retreated to the

nearest staircase leading down into a canyon.

Fog lay heavily a few stories below. Coren descended half the height of

the block, until the cold bit at his face and filled his sinuses with warning

hollowness. He sat down on a step and pulled his palm monitor out once more.

It unfolded four times to give him a display showing the locations of

all his little spies against a map of the entire warehouse. The surveillance

blocks still showed operative. Now he saw blue dots where all his other

machines had secreted themselves. He pressed the half-meter-square screen

against the wall beside him and waited.

Ten minutes.

One blue dot turned red. Coren looked up, surprised. The intruder had

come from the nearby loading bays. The sixteenth member of the crew, he

thought. Coren looked down at the fog, twenty or more meters below, and

wondered if he should move--into even more bitter cold. But numbers flashed

beside the dot on his flatscreen, coordinates that told him the precise

location of the worker, who waited near one of the bay doors, showing no sign

of coming any closer to Coren. After a few seconds Coren felt confident that

he would not be seen--not by this one, at least.

Twelve more minutes passed.

Three blue dots turned red, far down the row, back near the offices. As

he watched, his machines focused on the new intruders, coordinates

proliferated over the screen, and he counted bodies: fifty-one.

The number surprised him. He had expected no more than a dozen, at most

fifteen.

They came as a group down a walkway, heading this direction, obviously

for a meeting with the waiting dockworker, who now moved a few steps from the

wall.

Coren folded the screen back down to palm-size and crept up the stairs

to the lip of the walkway.

The dockworker stood just inside the warehouse by an open bay door

several meters away, his back to Coren. Hands in pockets, the man shifted

minutely from foot to foot as if keeping time to a tune only he heard. Coren

looked across the grid of walkways to the approaching group. From this

distance he recognized no one. All of them wore black, all of them carried

small packs.

Five or six children accompanied the adults.

Coren glanced at his palm-monitor. The communications and surveillance

dampers still showed green. He estimated that he had another twenty minutes

before the AI figured out why its internal security system was down.

Coren peeled off his overcoat.

As the fifty-one refugees gathered around the dockworker, Coren stepped

silently from the stairwell and moved smoothly up to the perimeter, then

cautiously worked his way through them. He looked at no one, aware only that a

few people gave him quick, nervous looks. They were frightened, tense, too

careful perhaps in some ways, careless in others. None of them would want to

believe that they had been followed or infiltrated or caught, so unless it was

made obvious that he did not belong here, they would explain him away to

themselves. At least, for the time being.

Long enough to reach the front of the gathering. “--no changes,” a woman

said tersely. “Canister BJ-5156. Don’t tell me about some other canister--”

“It can’t be helped,” the dockworker said calmly. “I’m sorry. The one

segregated for you was found and impounded.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I’m informing you now. I’m informing you that we have back-up. We were

prepared. It’s the same as it was, only different. A new canister. I could

point out that you were supposed to be a party of fifty-two and you’re missing

one. Bad security. But, hey, we understand--people get scared and back out at

the last minute.” He gave her a crooked smile. “We are professionals.”.

The woman was tall, almost gaunt, sharply featured. Her head sat

forward, angry and demanding, as she glared at the dockworker, who gazed back

at her evenly. Coren admired his nerve under that displeased inspection.

After several seconds, she nodded slowly. “All right. But if this turns

out to be anything but copasetic I’ll peel your skin off with pliers. Tell

your people we’re ready.”

The worker nodded and walked through the bay.

Coren started forward.

Something closed on his right bicep. He tugged at it automatically, to

no effect. He turned around, left hand curled to give a palm blow, and froze,

abruptly and utterly terrified.

A robot regarded him blankly through mesh-covered eye sockets.

“I apologize, sir,” it said quietly, “but I must ask that you come with

me. “

The robot drew him back through the crowd, which now watched him with

open fear and shock. Some cringed back from the robot, but most stood fast,

staring outrage at Coren Lanra.

The robot walked him down the row of bay doors, to the fourth one from

the group, and waited, still holding him, firmly but harmlessly.

“Damn it, Coren. “

Coren glanced around at the voice. He looked at the woman he had come to

talk to. He waited as long as he could before speaking, taking advantage of

the opportunity to simply look at her. Finally, he said, “Good to see you,

too, Nyom.”

She let her breath out through her teeth, slowly, and Coren felt himself

smile.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me,” he said.

“I’m not. That’s what bothers me.”

Coren gestured toward the robot. “Umm..,”

“Coffee, go see to our arrangements.”

“Yes, Nyom.”

The robot released Coren ‘s arm. He congratulated himself that he did

not immediately step away from it. Instead, he watched it walk back toward the

group of refugees.

“What are you doing?” he asked the young woman. “Running baleys?”

“You know I am. I have been. “

“I’d hoped I’d been misinformed. Are you insane?”

She shook her head impatiently. “That’s good, Coren, appeal to my

vanity. You always had a way of making me feel special. “

“I’m serious. Do you know what you ‘re doing?”

“Usually.”

Coren waited, but she said nothing more. Abruptly, he felt awkward and

slightly foolish. He glanced toward the baleys.

“Where’d you get the tinhead?” he asked. “Your father would love that.”

“To hell with my father and to hell with you. What, did he send you to

find me? What are you going to do, throw me over your shoulder and drag me

back home?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

She snorted, but took a step back. Then she gave him a narrow look.

“What are you going to do?”

He met her gaze evenly, trying to think of a suitable answer. Finding

none, he shook his head. “I didn’t know you had a robot.”

She laughed. “You don’t have a plan? Rega didn’t send you. You came on

your own.”

“Not exactly. He did tell me to find out what you’re doing and--”

“And what? Sit on me till the election is over? That’s what this is

about, then. Rega is afraid his little girl’s activities might botch his

election. Tell him not to worry. I think he can ruin his chances all on his

own; he doesn’t need my help. In fact, you can give him some good news: He

won’t have to worry about me anymore at all. I won’t give him any further

cause for concern.”

Coren waited. He recognized the tone of voice, the half smile, and a

small point of fear burned at the back of his throat. He slipped his hands

into his pockets, the right one finding a small plastic bag. He squeezed it

till it burst in his palm.

“Nyom,” the robot interrupted. Coren started and Nyom laughed.

“Coffee won’t hurt you,” she said. “What is it, Coffee?”

“Time,” the robot said.

“I’ll be right there.”

Coffee retreated.

“What do you mean, Nyom?” Coren asked.

She sighed and stepped closer. “Tell me the truth now, Coren: did you

tell the authorities? Am I going to be arrested by Immigration and Trade

Enforcement?”

“No.”

She studied him. “You really just came all on your own.”

“Too many people are hard to control.”

“That’s not it.” She frowned. “It’s still personal, isn’t it?” When he

did not answer, she smiled. “I’m really flattered. And I’m sorry. “ She

touched his face lightly and turned away.

He grabbed her arm. “What did you mean, Nyom?”

“I’m going with this bunch, that’s all. My turn to exit. Nothing

personal, Coren, but if you found me, then it’s only a matter of time before

the authorities find me. I’m taking this ride.”

Coren felt his fear grow, becoming panic. “Go where?”

“Nova Levis.”

Coren released her. He wanted to argue. More, he now really did want to

drag her out of here. But it was clear from her expression, from the waiting

baleys, and the robot watching everything that he would not be able to.

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “I can die happy now. I know you really are

insane. “ He cleared his throat. “You do know that Nova Levis is under

blockade, I suppose?”

“We’ll make it.” For a moment, Nyom looked sad. “Sorry. I wish...”

“Nyom. Please don’t.”

She shook her head. “Gotta go. You shouldn’t be seen. My contacts aren’t

as understanding as I am.”

Nyom sprinted back to her flock of baleys. Seconds later they filed

through the bay door. Coren backed quickly up against a wall, standing

motionless until they had all passed out of the warehouse proper.

Behind him, one of the bay doors began to open.

Coren broke for it and slipped around the edge just as a huge hauler

rumbled through, carrying a four-meter-high stack of cubes. Its slipstream

almost knocked him down.

Just on the other side of the opening, Coren found a massive support rib

rising to the ceiling high overhead. He pressed into the corner and waited

till the bay door sealed, then pulled another device from his pocket.

He raised the optam to his eyes as he peered around the column of

composite metal.

Seven or eight meters from the wall, the pavement ended and a tangled

maze of thin tracks spread out, delta-like, busy with huge transports carrying

large containers, bins, and packages from the tunnel system that led directly

to the shuttle pads dotting the landing area of Petrabor field. The surge and

rumble of shuttle traffic drove through him, vibrating his bones.

He was annoyed that Nyom had read him so easily. He had hoped she would

assume that he had brought back-up--the police, immigration authorities, other

company security. He thought he could talk her out of it; that, after loading

her latest troop of misguided would-be Settlers aboard whatever means of

transport she had arranged, he could convince her to come home and suspend

operations for a time. Until the end of the election. He had hoped she might

finally want to stay with him.

He had hoped...

The view through the optam showed the party of baleys, a few dozen

meters down, on an empty patch. While Coren watched, a huge pod drifted out of

the writhing traffic and came to a stop before them. The end developed a seam

and opened smoothly to one side. Four people stepped from its dark interior to

meet with Nyom.

Coren stiffened. Two of the four were robots. One looked a bit more

sophisticated than the other, almost human, but the dull sheen that outlined

its sleek head and body gave it away. It moved with an unusual grace, a fluid,

almost organic motion, uncharacteristic of any robot with which Coren was

familiar. It circled the baleys, slowly, as if taking inventory. It stopped

before Nyom’s robot, Coffee, then seemed to come to a decision and rejoined

its companions.

Coren touched a contact on the side of the optam and sound came through

the bead in his ear, but he only heard the muffled, unintelligible sounds of a

discussion. He lowered the optam and tried to adjust the aural filters to

Isaac Asimov's Robot Mystery - Chimera

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