Caliban c-1 Page 12

  “Perhaps not—but clearly someone had a motive for murder, and the police will look wherever they can for a reason. And I would offer the thought that few people have good reason for committing murder. I assure you, people have been tried and convicted on thinner evidence than office politics.”

  Gubber Anshaw turned toward his colleague, gestured toward the door to Fredda’s room. “Well, here we are, waiting to see her. Shouldn’t that count in our favor? Show that we are all friends?”

  Jomaine turned his head to look at Gubber in something approaching astonishment. How could anyone be so naive? On the face of it, there was more than friendship drawing them both to this place. What the devil went on in Gubber’s mind? He was a deceptively unprepossessing individual, Jomaine decided, given his accomplishments. Still, no one ever said scientific genius went hand in hand with worldly sophistication. Jomaine smiled sadly and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Gubber, old fellow, you and I should face the facts, at least between ourselves. After all, we are here to see Fredda for the express purpose of making sure we have our stories straight. Try to bear that in mind. Obviously that’s not what we tell Sheriff Kresh, but it is what he will assume, and it does happen to be the truth.”

  Gubber seemed about to reply, until he saw something over Jomaine’s shoulder and his mouth snapped shut. Jomaine was about to turn and see what it was, but then he was spared the need.

  Sheriff Alvar Kresh, looking haggard, sleep-starved, but well groomed and alert, rushed past them, eyes straight ahead, completely unaware of their presence. But Kresh’s robot was right behind Kresh. And robots, Jomaine knew, never missed anything. And robots never forgot anything.

  He had reason to have that fact very much in mind, these days.

  FREDDA Leving sat up in bed and waved the metallic white nurse-robots away with an impatient wave of her hand. Perhaps she had only been conscious for a brief time, an hour or two, but that was quite time enough to be tired of having one’s pillows fluffed and covers straightened. “Leave me alone,” she snapped. “I’m perfectly comfortable as I am.” Well, that was far from the truth, but she could not abide being fussed over. The nurse-robots retired to their wall niches and stood in them, staring out, immobile, a pair of white marble statues raised to commemorate persons and events long forgotten.

  But Fredda Leving had other things on her mind beside overly solicitous robots.

  They hadn’t told her anything yet. Anything. She could understand that the police did not want any preconceptions to warp her recollections, but still it was damnably galling. One minute she was working in Gubber’s lab, and the next minute she was here in a hospital bed under police guard. All else was a blur, a blank.

  Except for the sight of those two red-colored robot feet, standing over her. She shivered at the memory. Why did that image frighten her so? Was it even real? Or the result of some trauma associated with the incident?

  Damn it, what sort of incident was she talking about? She knew nothing. And that could be dangerous.

  When was Kresh going to get here? She turned her head toward the door and felt the spasm of pain like a fresh blow to her skull. She knew, intellectually, that Spacers, shielded from virtually all harm by their robots, had a spectacularly low threshold of pain. Maybe what she was experiencing now would seem like nothing but a mild headache to a Settler—but damnation, she was no Settler, and it hurt! Why couldn’t the damned Sheriff get here and get it over with, so she could take something strong enough to deal with the pain in her head?

  The head was the worst, though she knew there were injuries to her face and shoulders as well. She could reach up and touch the healer packs attached to them and feel the numb stiffness in those places. No doubt the packs would be done with their work in another few hours, and would come off, leaving the skin below perfectly healed.

  But her skull. Healer packs worked by deadening the nerve endings and then manipulating cell behavior. Unless you wanted the patient to hallucinate or go insane, such techniques were inadvisable for a cranial injury, especially after emergency surgery.

  She reached up gingerly and felt a close-fitting padded cap—no, it was more the shape of a turban, as best she could tell. No doubt the turban had some sort of gadgetry that was dispensing speed-healing drugs. She found herself wondering, purposelessly enough, what color the turban was and how much of her hair had been shaved off in the course of surgery. She shook her head. This was no time to clutter her mind with such nonsense. Presumably she looked like hell, but she couldn’t know for sure. Perhaps to avoid upsetting her over that very fact, the room had no mirror.

  Fredda Leving was young and looked younger, neither of which facts made life easier in the long-lived society of Spacers. She was thirty-five standard years old and looked perhaps twenty-five. That was in part because she had a naturally youthful appearance, in part because she did whatever she could to preserve the appearance of youth, though that was itself something of an eccentricity. Youthfulness—worse, willful youthfulness—was no slight social disability in a society where the average life span was measured in centuries and anyone much under fifty was regarded as a youngster. In forty or fifty years, Fredda would have physically aged enough that she could afford to look twenty-five and still be taken seriously. Until then, it would be a social drawback. But the hell with them all. She liked the way she looked.

  Fredda was on the petite side, with curly black hair she normally wore short—though, she thought wryly, not as short as it no doubt was now, after shaving for the operation. She was round-faced, snub-nosed, blue-eyed, with a personality that veered toward the pugnacious at times. She was given to sudden enthusiasm and cursed with a sometimes mercurial temper.

  And, if she was not careful, this was threatening to be one of the times that temper would come to the fore. But she could not give way, no matter how bad the throbbing in her head became. She wished devoutly that she could order the robots to administer painkillers; but anything strong enough to kill this pain would leave her slaphappy—and she dared not be anything but sharp and alert for the police.

  For there was so much to protect—including herself.

  After all, at least by their lights, she had committed a terrible crime.

  And, perhaps, by her own lights as well. It was so hard to know.

  Fredda bit her lip and tried to clear her head, ignore the pain. She would have to be careful, very careful, with the Sheriff. And yet there was so much she did not know! Something had gone wrong, terribly, terribly wrong—but what? How much did Kresh know? What had happened?

  But then, in the midst of her fretful worrying, it dawned on her. She could tell Kresh that she knew nothing. That was true, after all. Guesses and fears—she had plenty of those. But facts? About the case in point, whatever it was, she knew nothing. She had no facts at all. That was a strange thing to find comforting, but still, she felt better. She smiled to herself. Now that she knew she was ignorant, she could face the police.

  As if on cue, the door to her hospital room slid open, and a big, burly, white-haired man came in, closely followed by a sky-blue police robot.

  “Hello, Dr. Leving,” Donald said. “It’s good to see you again, though I doubt you care for the circumstances any more than I do.”

  “Hello, Donald. I quite agree, on both points.” Fredda looked at the robot thoughtfully. It was rare for a robot to put itself so far forward as to begin a conversation, but then the circumstances were unusual. Robots rarely knew their creators personally, and it was more rare still for a robot to visit its creator in a hospital room after that creator had had a close brush with death. No doubt it was all rather stressful for Donald, and no doubt his forwardness could be explained as a minor side effect of the release of First Law conflicts. Or, to put it in more pedestrian terms, he had spoken out of turn because he was glad to see her recovering.

  Whatever the explanation for it, it was plain that the exchange annoyed Sheriff Kresh. The norms of polite society required th
at robots be ignored. Fredda winced. It was not smart to start the interview by irritating Kresh.

  On the other hand, there was one fact about Donald that she dared not ignore: He was a walking lie detector. As if she needed any further reason to be careful.

  But be all that as it may. It would be for the best to get this over with as quickly as possible. She turned toward Kresh and gave him her warmest smile. “Welcome, Sheriff,” she said in as gracious a tone as she could manage. “Please do have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” he said, drawing up a chair by the foot of her bed.

  “I expect you’re here to ask me some questions,” she said in what she hoped to be a calm, steady voice, “but I have a feeling you have more answers than I do. I honestly have no idea what happened. I was working in the lab, and then I woke up here.”

  “You have no memory of the attack itself?”

  “Then there was an attack on me. Up until you said that, I wasn’t even sure of that. No, I don’t recall anything.”

  Kresh sighed unhappily. “I was afraid of that. The med-robots warned me that traumatic amnesia was a possibility and that the loss may be permanent.”

  Fredda was startled, alarmed. “You mean my mind is going? I’m losing my memory?”

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. They warned me that it would be possible that you would have no recollection of the attack. There was some hope that you might recall something, but—you don’t remember anything at all?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

  Fredda hesitated a moment and then decided it would be wise to be as forthcoming as possible. Things could get sticky down the road, and it might do her some good later if she played straight now. “No, nothing meaningful. I have a hazy recollection of lying on the floor, looking straight ahead, and seeing a pair of red feet. But I can’t say if that was a dream, or hallucination, or real.”

  Kresh leaned forward eagerly. “Red feet. Can you describe them more completely? Were they wearing red shoes, or red socks, or—”

  “No, no, they were definitely feet, not shoes or boots or socks. Robot’s feet, metallic red. That’s what I saw—if I did see it. As I said, it could have been all a hallucination.”

  “Why in the world would you hallucinate about red robot feet?” Kresh asked in that same eager tone. It was almost too clear that the red feet interested him very much indeed.

  Fredda took a good hard look at Kresh. She got the distinct feeling that this man wouldn’t be so obvious about what he wanted to know if he weren’t so plainly exhausted.

  “There was a red robot in the lab,” she said. No point in hiding that fact, she thought. It was bound to come out, if it hadn’t already. “It was in a standing position in a work rack. Well, you must have seen the robot there.” She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s not much else I recall.”

  “Try, please.”

  Fredda shrugged and frowned. She tried to think back to that night, but it was all a jumbled fog. “I can’t seem to get that night very clear. I seem to recall standing in the room, leaning over one of the worktables, reading over some notes—but I can’t recall notes of what, and I can’t tell you how long before the attack that was. As I say, nothing is very clear. Maybe I’m even subconsciously inventing my memories, reaching for something that’s not there. I can’t know—and before you can even suggest it, I’m certainly not going to submit to any form of the Psychic Probe to clear up the uncertainty.”

  Kresh smiled faintly. “I admit the idea had crossed my mind. But we should certainly pursue all the less drastic alternatives first. Perhaps we can jog your memory. These notes of your show were they stored? A paper notebook? A computer pad? What?”

  “Oh, a very standard computer pad, with a blue floral pattern on the back cover.”

  “I see. Madame Leving, I’m afraid there was no sign either of your computer pad or a red robot. The work rack was empty when we got there. And I assure you, we searched carefully.”

  Fredda’s mouth fell open, and suddenly she felt dizzy. She had feared that the police might have discovered just what sort of robot Caliban was. That would have been trouble enough. But it had never occurred to her that Caliban might be gone. The devil help them all if some madman had switched him on and Caliban was wandering around loose.

  “I’m stunned,” she said quite truthfully. “I simply don’t know what to say. At least now I know why I was attacked. Up until now, I could see no reason for it.”

  “And what reason do you see now?” Kresh asked.

  “Why, robbery, of course! They stole my robot!”

  An expression of surprise flickered across Kresh’s face, and suddenly Fredda was flatly certain that the idea of a simple theft had never crossed his mind. “Why, yes, yes of course,” Kresh replied.

  But he was interested in the fact that I saw red robot feet, Fredda thought. He knew that there had been a red robot there, and knew it was gone. Suddenly it dawned on her. Kresh had reason to believe that Caliban had left her lab under his own power. Galaxy! Had someone in her own lab been lunatic enough to switch him on? But she needed time to think. Maybe she could get Kresh to chase in other directions for a while. After all, she was merely guessing that Caliban had gone off on his own. “Space alone knows why anyone would want to steal a testbed robot,” she said. “All I can think is that this is some extreme case of industrial espionage. Some rival lab—or more likely, some third party hired by another lab—must have stolen my robot and my notes.”

  “Who might that be?” Kresh asked. “What lab would be likely to operate that way?”

  Fredda shrugged helplessly, and paid for the gesture with a fresh spasm of pain. But the pain itself was useful. The more obvious it was that she was in difficulty, the less likely Kresh was to keep the interview going. She had been trying to hold back her reaction to pain, but now she let it all out. It was not acting—the pain was real, the pain was there. But what point in a show of fortitude that merely made her own situation more difficult? She let out a gasp and grabbed the bedclothes with knotted fingers. There was a strange relief in letting go, in allowing the pain to come out, rather than be bottled up.

  But Kresh had asked a question about the rival labs, and he was waiting for an answer. “I have no idea who would use such tactics. Obviously someone made off with my notes and my robot, but it strikes me as a very strange and pointless crime. After all, surely anyone who stole my work would know I would have backups, proof that the work was mine, the ability to reproduce my work. Someone did it. Just don’t ask me why.”

  “It’s possible that they merely wished to slow you down, delay you long enough to let their own people catch up—with the added advantage of having your work in front of them.”

  “I suppose that could be, but we’re building quite a rickety tower of supposition here.”

  Kresh smiled, a bit thinly. And yet there was real warmth behind that expression. The man was sincerely interested and concerned. “You’re right, of course. The trouble is, we have very little information to guide the investigation. Is there nothing else you can tell us?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing I can think of.”

  “Very well,” Kresh said, standing up. “I’m sure we’ll need to talk later, but you need your rest.”

  “Yes. I have to be at my best to make my presentation tomorrow night.”

  Alvar Kresh looked at Fredda in obvious surprise. “Presentation?”

  “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. My lab is to make a major announcement tomorrow night. I’m afraid that I am not permitted to discuss it until then, but—”

  “Ah, of course. Yes, we’ve been running into all sorts of people telling us that they couldn’t talk yet, that we would have to wait for a public announcement. No one told us you were to make it. I find it surprising that they were all confident that you would be well enough to do so.”

  “Jomaine Terach would have given the talk if I could not, or if not Jomaine, Gubber Anshaw or so
meone else. If no one told you I was going to give the talk, I suspect it was because they knew the announcement would be made, but not who would give it.” Fredda thought for a minute. “If I was attacked to prevent the talk from being given, then it would only make sense to keep the name of my replacement presenter secret. If I were the replacement, I’d see a low profile as a good idea.”

  “So you think this attack could be related to your presentation?”

  Fredda shrugged no, a bit too theatrically. Instantly the pain flared up again. Damnation, her head hurt. “I have no idea. But it’s certainly quite possible,” she said. “This announcement is to be made during the second of two lectures. Have you seen the first lecture?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Then I would strongly suggest you get a look at a recording of it. There was a lot of material in there that could give someone a motive for coshing me. A lot.” Fredda Leving folded her arms and found herself staring fixedly at the hillock her toes made in the blanket. She had never quite believed that anyone would try to kill her for what she said.

  “If it could suggest a motive for this attack, I will view it at the first opportunity. But you need your rest. We’ll just have to leave it at that for now,” Kresh said. “Come on, Donald.”

  But Donald did not move to follow his master. Instead he spoke. “Your pardon, Lady Leving,” he said. “There are two questions that I feel are rather important at this time. For purposes of tracing or tracking your stolen robot, can you tell us if it had a name or a serial number that we might trace?”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, silently cursing to herself. They would have to ask. “Serial number CBN-001, also known as Caliban. What was your other question?”

  “Quite a simple one, actually. Can you tell us, Lady Leving, where your personal robot was at the time of the attack? We were told you did not take you personal robot to work. Why not? And, for that matter, where is that robot now? All that I see here are hospital robots.”