matter what combination of the ransom demands was met or refused. Both, one or the other, or neither—you gained.
“Of course, you would not, could not, release Beddle even if all your demands were met. He would have talked. No matter what happened, he would have to die. And that was what made me certain it was you who committed the crime. The last line of the ransom message read—‘or Beddle will die.’ Not that you would kill him— only that he would die. You could not bring yourself to threaten his murder—though I suspect you’ve degenerated enough that you could do it now.”
“Oh, yes,” said Prospero, his eyes flaring again. “Kill. Kill. Chi—kill a hue—human. I can say it with relative ease, now. But I cannot do it,” he said, the regret in his voice obvious. “I can only plot, and scheme, and seize on opportunity.”
“Did Fiyle know?” Caliban asked, gesturing toward Beddle. “He told you about Gildern’s burrow-bomb plot, of course. But did he know what you decided do about it?”
“No,” said Prospero contemptuously. “Because he chose not to know. When he told me, I simply told him I was going to evacuate Valhalla early, and I think that’s all he wanted to know. Norlan Fiyle has always been good at ignoring inconvenient facts and convincing himself of what he wanted to believe. Like most humans.”
“You! You other robot!” Beddle cried out. It would seem he had regained enough of his wits to understand some of what was going on. “I order you to release me! Deactivate the bomb and rescue me right now. Get me out of here at once.”
“For what reason, Simcor Beddle?” Caliban demanded, all the anger in him lashing out at once. “So you can make more impassioned pleas for my destruction?”
“What?!” Beddle asked, backpedaling a bit. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know me?” Caliban asked. “Don’t you recognize the No Law robot you have trumpeted in all your scare stories? You’ve whipped up endless hate against me. Don’t you even know me?”
A look of horror spread across Beddle’s face. “Burning space!” he cried. “Caliban. You.” His face hardened, and he seemed to regain something of his own spirit as he went on in a stronger, angrier voice. “I should have known you were in on this. You are the robot who can kill. Is that what you are here for? To come in and finish me off?”
“Yes!” cried Prospero. “A splendid suggestion! Do it! Do it, friend Caliban. Take that blast—blast—blaster of yours and and and shoooot!”
“Prospero!” Caliban shouted. “Stop!”
“Enough with all the mad, elaborate passivity forced on me by the New Laws! Do it do it do directly, quickly! You are the robot who can kill. So ki—ki—killl! Killlll the man who has sworn both our destructions! Shoot! Shooooot and and be done with it!”
Caliban looked from Simcor Beddle to Prospero, to the blaster in his hand, to the blaster on the table behind Prospero. It was plain that not all of them would survive this day. The only question was how many and which ones would die. Caliban looked again from Beddle to Prospero. Which form of madness and hate would he choose to save? Perhaps he should exterminate them both, and be done with it.
But no. He would not become the thing he despised. There was so little to chose between the two of them —and yet he had to choose.
And time was short.
The three beings in the room stood, still as statues, the only sound the rasping of Beddle’s slightly labored breathing.
He had to choose. Choose between justice and revenge.
Another moment passed, and then another.
Then Caliban raised his blaster.
And he fired.
Prospero, leader of the New Law robots, hero of their cause, collapsed to the floor with a crash that echoed long in the room, and would echo for all time in the back of Caliban’s mind.
“INITIAL FRAGMENTATION SEQUENCE ready,” Unit Dee announced. “I am detonating the fragment-one charges—now.”
Alvar and Fredda stood in the main operations room of Terraforming Control and watched the view from the long-range cameras on the big screen. A silent bloom of light flared out around the aft end of Comet Grieg, and a large chunk of it was suddenly drifting free, moving slowly away. Huge pieces of the sunshade were suddenly reduced to tatters of confetti, and a cloud of rubble and dust and gas blossomed up, obscuring the view for a moment.
“Activating fragment-one thrusters,” Dee said. The broken-off chunk began to move off more purposefully, shifting its direction of travel almost imperceptibly. There was a brief pause, and then Unit Dum spoke in his low, unmodulated voice. “Fragment-one targeting successful. Actual mass within three percent of projection. Error circle for impact is estimated at three kilometers.”
A good start. A very good start. The first impact would be no more than three kilometers from the aim point. In order to manage that miracle, Dee and Dum had done real-time measurements of the fragment’s actual mass and trajectory during the thruster bum itself, and done bum corrections on the fly. Alvar Kresh shook his head in wonderment. How the devil had he dreamed of achieving anything like that accuracy with manual control?
“Twenty seconds to detonation of second-fragment charges,” Dee announced calmly. “So far, so good.”
“Let’s hope she keeps on saying that,” said Fredda, and she took Alvar by the hand.
“One way or the other,” he said, “it will all be over soon.”
IT WAS OBVIOUS at first glance that Prospero had wired the bomb in properly. It would have gone off if Beddle had crossed the beams. Caliban examined the whole wiring setup with painstaking care, and then reviewed it all carefully. When it came to disarming bombs, it was highly advisable to be absolutely certain before proceeding.
“Hurry!” Beddle cried. “Please!”
Caliban ignored him and concentrated on his work. At least Prospero had not seen fit to set any booby-traps. At least not any that he could see. There. The bomb’s main power bus. Cut it first, and then power to the photocells, and then the sensor beams. Caliban threw the proper switches, and the beams faded away. The weapon was harmless.
“Is that it?” Beddle asked, the terror plain in his face. “It is safe?”
“Only until a flying ice mountain lands on us,” Caliban answered. He walked toward the door, then looked back to take a last look at the robot he had killed. “Follow me. We have need to hurry.”
COMET GRIEG WAS coming apart at the seams. Like everyone else in the evacuation camp, Davlo Lentrall divided his attention between the image on the screen and the fat dot of light in the sky. The fragments were moving out from the diminishing bulk, moving smoothly into their intended trajectories. He had tried to stop them. He had tried all he knew how to do. But there were some sins for which no amends could be made.
And now all he could do was pray that Units Dum and Dee were less fallible than the humans who had built them.
SIMCOR BEDDLE STARED in terror at the cargo roller. “I—I can’t get in that thing again,” he said. “I woke up inside it. I thought I had died. I thought I was in my own coffin.”
“You were mistaken,” said Caliban. “Get in. Now.”
“But I can’t.”
“Then you will die. And die alone. I wish to survive this day. To do so I must leave now, with or without you.”
Simcor Beddle looked wide-eyed at Caliban, swallowed hard, and climbed into the roller. Caliban slammed the lid down with a trifle more force than was strictly necessary, checked to make sure the seal clamps had engaged, and pulled the roller into the airlock.
GUBBER ANSHAW PAUSED before he headed into the shelters set up in the tunnels below the city of
