Foundation and Earth

the Laws of Robotics.”

“Yes?”

It did not necessarily take a being with Daneel’s mental power to detect uncertainty in that monosyllable.

“The First Law,” he said, “is this, sir: ‘A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.’ The Second Law: ‘A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.’ The Third Law: ‘A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.’ —Naturally, I give you these laws in the approximation of language. In actual fact they represent complicated mathematical configurations of our positronic brain-paths.”

“Do you find it difficult to deal with those Laws?”

“I must, sir. The First Law is an absolute that almost forbids the use of my mental talents altogether. When dealing with the Galaxy it is not likely that any course of action will prevent harm altogether. Always, some people, perhaps many people, will suffer, so that a robot must choose minimum harm. Yet, the complexity of possibilities is such that it takes time to make that choice and one is, even then, never certain.”

“I see that,” said Trevize.

“All through Galactic history,” said Daneel, “I tried to ameliorate the worst aspects of the strife and disaster that perpetually made itself felt in the Galaxy. I may have succeeded, on occasion, and to some extent, but if you know your Galactic history, you will know that I did not succeed often, or by much.”

“That much I know,” said Trevize, with a wry smile.

“Just before Giskard’s end, he conceived of a robotic law that superseded even the first. We called it the ‘Zeroth Law’ out of an inability to think of any other name that made sense. The Zeroth Law is: ‘A robot may not injure humanity or, through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.’ This automatically means that the First Law must be modified to be: ‘A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm, except where that would conflict with the Zeroth Law.’ And similar modifications must be made in the Second and Third Laws.”

Trevize frowned. “How do you decide what is injurious, or not injurious, to humanity as a whole?”

“Precisely, sir,” said Daneel. “In theory, the Zeroth Law was the answer to our problems. In practice, we could never decide. A human being is a concrete object. Injury to a person can be estimated and judged. Humanity is an abstraction. How do we deal with it?”

“I don’t know,” said Trevize.

“Wait,” said Pelorat. “You could convert humanity into a single organism. Gaia.”

“That is what I tried to do, sir. I engineered the founding of Gaia. If humanity could be made a single organism, it would become a concrete object, and it could be dealt with. It was, however, not as easy to create a superorganism as I had hoped. In the first place, it could not be done unless human beings valued the superorganism more than their individuality, and I had to find a mind-cast that would allow that. It was a long time before I thought of the Laws of Robotics.”

“Ah, then, the Gaians are robots. I had suspected that from the start.”

“In that case, you suspected incorrectly, sir. They are human beings, but they have brains firmly inculcated with the equivalent of the Laws of Robotics. They have to value life, really value it. —And even after that was done, there remained a serious flaw. A superorganism consisting of human beings only is unstable. It cannot be set up. Other animals must be added—then plants—then the inorganic world. The smallest superorganism that is truly stable is an entire world, and a world large enough and complex enough to have a stable ecology. It took a long time to understand this, and it is only in this last century that Gaia was fully established and that it became ready to move on toward Galaxia—and, even so, that will take a long time, too. Perhaps not as long as the road already traveled, however, since we now know the rules.”

“But you needed me to make the decision for you. Is that it, Daneel?”

“Yes, sir. The Laws of Robotics would not allow me, nor Gaia, to make the decision and chance harm to humanity. And meanwhile, five centuries ago, when it seemed that I would never work out methods for getting round all the difficulties that stood in the way of establishing Gaia, I turned to the second-best and helped bring about the development of the science of psychohistory.”

“I might have guessed that,” mumbled Trevize. “You know, Daneel, I’m beginning to believe you are twenty thousand years old.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Pelorat said, “Wait a while. I think I see something. Are you part of Gaia yourself, Daneel? Would that be how you knew about the dogs on Aurora? Through Bliss?”

Daneel said, “In a way, sir, you are correct. I am associated with Gaia, though I am not part of it.”

Trevize’s eyebrows went up. “That sounds like Comporellon, the world we visited immediately after leaving Gaia. It insists it is not part of the Foundation Confederation, but is only associated with it.”

Slowly, Daneel nodded. “I suppose that analogy is apt, sir. I can, as an associate of Gaia, make myself aware of what Gaia is aware of—in the person of the woman, Bliss, for instance. Gaia, however, cannot make itself aware of what I am aware of, so that I maintain my freedom of action. That freedom of action is necessary until Galaxia is well established.”

Trevize looked steadily at the robot for a moment, then said, “And did you use your awareness through Bliss in order to interfere with events on our journey to mold them to your better liking?”

Daneel sighed in a curiously human fashion. “I could not do much, sir. The Laws of Robotics always hold me back. —And yet, I lightened the load on Bliss’s mind, taking a small amount of added responsibility on myself, so that she might deal with the wolves of Aurora and the Spacer on Solaria with greater dispatch and with less harm to herself. In addition, I influenced the woman on Comporellon and the one on New Earth, through Bliss, in order to have them look with favor on you, so that you might continue on your journey.”

Trevize smiled, half-sadly. “I ought to have known it wasn’t I.”

Daneel accepted the statement without its rueful self-deprecation. “On the contrary, sir,” he said, “it was you in considerable part. Each of the two women looked with favor upon you from the start. I merely strengthened the impulse already present—about all one can safely do under the strictures of the Laws of Robotics. Because of those strictures—and for other reasons as well—it was only with great difficulty that I brought you here, and only indirectly. I was in great danger at several points of losing you.”

“And now I am here,” said Trevize. “What is it you want of me? To confirm my decision in favor of Galaxia?”

Daneel’s face, always expressionless, somehow managed to seem despairing. “No, sir. The mere decision is no longer enough. I brought you here, as best I could in my present condition, for something far more desperate. I am dying.”

102.

Perhaps it was because of the matter-of-fact way in which Daneel said it; or perhaps because a lifetime of twenty thousand years made death seem no tragedy to one doomed to live less than half a percent of that period; but, in any case, Trevize felt no stir of sympathy.

“Die? Can a machine die?”

“I can cease to exist, sir. Call it by whatever word you wish. I am old. Not one sentient being in the Galaxy that was alive when I was first given consciousness is still alive today; nothing organic; nothing robotic. Even I myself lack continuity.”

“In what way?”

“There is no physical part of my body, sir, that has escaped replacement, not only once but many times. Even my positronic brain has been replaced on five different occasions. Each time the contents of my earlier brain were etched into the newer one to the last positron. Each time, the new brain had a greater capacity and complexity than the old, so that there was room for more memories, and for faster decision and action. But—”