who were relaxed made mistakes.
One such mistake was in assuming that good security in one area meant security in all the others was equally good. This assumption was often mistaken—as in the matter of the door lock Gildern had just gotten past. The computer security was good, so the physical security had to be good, so it was perfectly safe to leave books and papers and notes lying around, so long as the door was locked. Gildern had hoped that Lentrall’s train of thought had worked that way, and it seemed as if it had. The on-line computer files would likely have been of very little use in any event. Gildern was no technician, no scientist. It would likely take so long to analyze a technical report that the moment would be lost. No. What he was after were papers he could photograph. He wanted scribbled notes, summaries prepared to explain things to outsiders. And if he got lucky, datapads chock full of information Gildern could download and take with him.
The office was neat, but not so neat that it was a robot who had done the tidying. Gildern needed to look no further than the books on the shelf, slightly out of true with each other, than the papers that stacked up without being precisely squared up, than the way the chair sat in the middle of the floor instead of being shoved in neatly under the desk, for it to be instantly obvious to Gildern that Lentrall kept this room up himself. All to the good. If Gildern accidentally left something not precisely as he found it, it would more likely go unnoticed. And besides, if the man himself kept order here, the system of order itself might well tell Gildern something about the man.
He set to work searching Davlo Lentrall’s office.
FREDDA LEVING WATCHED her husband enter the room, and saw how his expression changed the moment the door was sealed behind him. The look of calm imperturbability vanished, and a deeply troubled expression took its place. He looked to her, and seemed to understand what she had seen. He smiled, a bit sadly, a bit worriedly. “I didn’t used to be able to do that, back when I was just a policeman,” he said. “It used to be that I could let my face express whatever it wanted. Politics does strange things to a man.”
Fredda got off her chair and took her husband by the hand. “I don’t know whether I should be happy to see you drop the act in front of me, or upset to see that you put on an act at all,” she said.
“Probably both,” he said, a tone of apology in his voice.
“What was it Devray wanted to tell you?”
“That our friends and our enemies—who mayor may not be the same people—probably already know most of what we’ve been trying to keep secret from them.”
“And from me.” Fredda moved a step or two away from her husband, folded her arms, and perched herself on the corner of his desk. “Maybe if they already know, you could finally break down and tell me what it’s all about.”
Kresh started to pace, up and down the length of the office, his hands clasped behind his back—a rare but certain sign of anxiety and impatience. “Where is the fellow?” he asked of the open air, and then glanced toward his wife without breaking stride. “It’s not that I wanted to keep it secret from you. I just wanted you to hear it the same way I did. I wanted your opinion of—of it, without hearing about my biases or opinions, one way or the other.”
“Well, you’ve certainly managed to keep from telling me much. All I know for sure is that it could mean trouble for the New Law robots.”
Kresh stopped in his pacing and looked up at his wife again. “It could mean trouble for everyone,” he said. “Ah, here’s the man of the hour now.”
The door slid open, and a young, energetic-looking young man came in, accompanied by a very ordinary- looking dun-colored robot of medium height and build. The robot immediately took up a position in one of the wall niches. But if the robot was entirely nondescript, the man was anything but. With his angular face, dark complexion, bristle-cut hair, and intense eyes, he was striking, rather than conventionally handsome. Whether or not Davlo Lentrall truly was a man at the center of important affairs, he at least looked as if he was.
“Good morning to you, Dr. Leving,” Lentrall said, bowing slightly to her, an old-fashioned, courtly sort of gesture. He turned to her husband. “And good morning to you as well, sir.”
“Good morning,” said Kresh. There was a couch against one wall in the office. The governor sat down on it, and Fredda sat down next to him. Kresh gestured to a comfortable chair facing the couch. “Please, Dr. Lentrall, have a seat.”
But Lentrall did not sit down. Instead he stood there, plainly struggling to act calmer than he truly was. “Sir, I must tell you something, even if it sounds a bit absurd. I—I believe that I am being followed.”
Kresh smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to say that doesn’t sound the least bit absurd,” said Kresh. “The police commander himself was just here, telling me just how interested certain parties were in you. I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t put a tail on you.”
Davlo nodded and seemed to relax, just a trifle. “In a strange way, that’s a relief. I think I’d rather have someone actually following me than to be suffering paranoid delusions.”
“Trust me, son. In this life, one does not exclude the other. But be that as it may, sit down, take a deep breath, and then—then we can talk about the matter in question.”
“Yes, sir.” Davlo sat down rather gingerly, as if he half expected the chair to snap under his weight, or that some sort of trap was going to spring out of the armrests and grab him.
Fredda noted that the room was not laid out as it normally was, and that her husband was not in his usual place. Her husband had obviously ordered the room rearranged so as to lower the emotional stakes as much as possible. For this morning, Alvar Kresh was not in the thronelike chair, not behind the imposing barrier of his ornate desk. He was sitting in a posture of slightly exaggerated relaxation on the couch. The chair Lentrall was in actually put him a little above Alvar’s eye level. The low table between the couch and Lentrall’s chair served as a sort of barrier, a neutral buffer zone that kept anyone from invading Lentrall’s personal space. Even Alvar’s calm expression and faint half-smile were part of the show.
And Fredda suddenly realized that she was part of the show as well. Alvar wanted her to do the talking, have Lentrall address her. Did he think Lentrall would react more calmly talking to someone closer to his own age, a woman without official rank? Or was it that Alvar wanted to put himself in the position of observer, get himself outside the conversation, so that he could watch and judge impartially, without getting involved? Or maybe he didn’t have a reason at all. Maybe it was just political instinct at work, unanalyzed gut feeling.
“Donald,” Kresh said, “bring our guest some refreshment.”
“Certainly, sir.” Donald stepped forward and addressed Lentrall. “What would you care for?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Lentrall regarded Donald for a moment with an expression of curiosity on his face. He turned toward Fredda.
“Dr. Leving, I wonder if you might indulge my curiosity for a moment. This robot here. Am I correct in believing that you designed and built it?”
“That’s right.”
“I see. You are a well-known figure, of course, and so too are many of your creations.”
Kresh chuckled darkly. “That’s putting it mildly.” Lentrall looked toward Kresh, and smiled thinly. “I suppose you have a point, sir. But what confuses me is the name. ‘Donald.’— ”
“It’s a fancy of mine to use character names from an ancient storyteller for all my custom-made robots,” said Fredda. “A man who lived on old Earth, in the pre-robotic era. A man by the name of—”
“Shakespeare,” said Lentrall. “I know that. William Shakespeare. And just incidentally, I think it might be more accurate to call him a poet and a playwright, rather than a storyteller. I have studied him myself. That’s what made me wonder. The names of your other robots: Caliban, Prospero, Ariel. All Shakespeare. I even saw some sort of feature story about your home, and noticed your current personal robot is named Oberon. Shakespeare again. That is why I wonder. Why the name ‘Donald’?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sir, if I might be of assistance,” Donald said, addressing Lentrall. “I am named for a minor character in the play Macbeth.”
“But there is no character by that name in the play,” Lentrall replied. “I know the play well. In fact, I am morally certain there is no character by the name ‘Donald’ anywhere in Shakespeare.” Lentrall thought for a moment. “There is a Donalbain in Macbeth,” he suggested. “ ‘Donald’ must be a corruption of ‘Donalbain.’ ”
“Sir, forgive me for correcting you, but I have just consulted my on-board dataset, and I have confirmed the character is named ‘Donald.’ ”
