The 2040’s were characterized by a brief period of Fundamentalism directed against space exploration. The movement itself was relatively short-lived; however, it was accompanied by an immediate financial crisis for U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men, inc., whose primary market since its creation was the extraterrestrial colonies.

Scott Robertson, majority stockholder of the firm, rubbed his brow. “Society is too damn fickle… Just a decade ago, this very company gave Earth access to the stars!”

Beside Robertson sat several close associates, joint heads of the Board of Marketing. One, Waters, offered a grim suggestion: “Perhaps U. S. Robots was only used to achieve those ends. We are no longer needed.”

“Nonsense! Those colonies will continue to depend on robots, and we have the monopoly on them!”

“Not quite, Mr. Robertson. There is Consolidated Robots, which currently specializes in industrial robots.”

“Good grief! I didn’t expect competition with them.”

“We should also note that Consolidated’s stock prices are rising, an ironic response to U. S. Robots’s dwindling popularity.”

“But they make robots, too! Why can’t those Fundies direct their attacks at the whole market instead of just us?”

“Mr. Robertson, sir, the radicals are currently focusing their attacks on space travel, not robots.”

“All right, I get it. Now, let’s get back to the purpose of this meeting – Why are we losing our market, and how can we get it back? At first, of course, the government was our biggest client, thanks to its obsession with a hyperatomic drive. But why was that? Did they expect resources? National pride? The pure satisfaction of scientific progress?”

Robertson paused, so Waters spoke up: “I think I see what you’re saying! All three of your reasons have practically vanished. The resources spent getting into space have exceeded the resources gained. Nationalism has fallen prey to Regionalism, and satisfaction has a way of crumbling away, just like any emotion.”

Robertson continued: “And our conservative Congress was quick to do away with ‘unnecessary expenditures’. However, U. S. Robots does not have to rely on the government! The extraterrestrial colonies, especially Mars, have become increasingly self-reliant. Resources, including water, are mined. Ecologies are being created. How are they doing this without us? They need U. S. Robots! Any ideas?”

Gutenburg, quiet up to this point, said, “It surprises me that we, the Board of Marketing, continue to blame the drop on radicals. Fundamentalism has kept the government from supporting the colonies, sure. Presumably, that would also mean a drop in colony expenditures, and thus a drop in U. S. Robots exports. And that’s the discrepancy! The colonies are prospering without us! The financial crisis we face cannot be explained by the current mood on Earth. Sure, it’s a factor. We are losing orders from every market. But that’s just it – every market. Mars, especially, is not asking us for robots anymore, and yet it continues to grow normally…”

“Obviously, Mars does not need U. S. Robots anymore. They have found some other way of doing work. Perhaps Consolidated is giving them robots. Or maybe they’re actually doing their own work!” said Waters.

“Colonists? Doing their own work? I think not,” said Robertson.

“If you will excuse me, I was not finished.”

“Continue.”

“The drop in exports to Mars is staggering, and it cannot be explained by social or even economic changes. In 2043, we sent them 1,500 robots, with the rate increasing through December. This year – and we are 3 whole months into it – we have not sent a single one.”

“It has to be Consolidated! But we have no way of finding out, unless we hack into their networks or break into their headquarters!” Waters’s comment was ignored.

Gutenburg said, “I recommend we contact the Board of Research. We all know they’re the real power behind this company, and if they haven’t already noticed this Martian dilemma, they will know how to solve it.”

Robertson stepped into Susan Calvin’s office. She was at her desk, gravely silent, in a thinking position.

“Come, sit down,” she said. Robertson, somewhat intimidated, pulled up a chair and did so.

“Fundamentalism comes and goes, Mr. Robertson. I must say I am disturbed at your last several reports. Maybe you shouldn’t be delegated with the responsibility of marketing.”

“I have done my best, Dr. Calvin. Who better to make and keep the earnings of U. S. Robots than the primary stockholder?”

“I guess marketing isn’t much of a responsibility for U. S. Robots, anyway. We’re the monopoly, and everyone knows who we are and what we do. But back to your reports – there have always been various degrees of Fundamentalism in society, but we’ve always pulled through. This is the worst economic crisis we’ve ever faced.”

“This is also the worst rash of Fundamentalism we’ve ever faced – “

“Please, Mr. Robertson. You must have a better reason.”

“Yes. That’s exactly why I wanted to see you, Dr. Calvin.”

Scott Robertson explained Gutenburg’s observations concerning Mars prosperity in spite of its sudden drop in U. S. Robots imports. “I know the blame for the Martian dilemma should rest on us, but we cannot explain it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t blame you for it. Like you said, it could be Consolidated’s fault. If they’re somehow capitalizing on our defeat, taking their business to Mars, that’s only sound business practice. But it still doesn’t explain the statistics.”

“But Consolidated has neither the positronic brain nor its patent! How are they doing this?… if they’re doing this?”

“Do you think I know – “

“What are we going to do?”

Susan sighed. “What else? We are going to Mars to find out for ourselves.”

“Who are we sending?”

“Do you really have to ask that question?”

“Think of it, Greg! U. S. Robots is finally seeing us for who we really are: Statesmen! Diplomats!”

Gregory Powell rolled his eyes. “Thirty years with this company and they still think they can make us do their dirty work.”

“That’s the spirit, Greg! Sheesh! Why did you even agree to this, anyway?”

Powell smiled again. “A guy needs his cash flow, I guess.”

Their transport vessel landed on Marsport Olympus. Powell and Donovan found their way out, and a robot asked if he could retrieve their luggage for them.

“Wait a minute!” said Donovan, “You’re a DN! You’re a power plant unit, not a bellboy! Something’s amiss, Greg.”

“I repeat: may I retrieve your luggage, sirs?” said Dan.

“No thanks,” muttered Powell.

Dan seemed to emit an audible “harumph!” as he left.

“I’ve been to Mars many times,” said Powell, “Something is indeed amiss, but I know where to find Algers.”

Frank Algers was the prime minister of the Mars colony. Regionalism did not extend to the colonies, and neither did the Machines, so Mars was a kind of sovereign nation, at least for the time being. As Mike Donovan and Gregory Powell entered his office, he gave them a sincere smile and each one a handshake. “The people of Mars extend their greetings to you, Doctors Powell and Donovan. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks,” said Powell.

“Sure. I’ll have a soda,” said Donovan. Powell gave him an annoyed look, as if his request was inappropriate, but Donovan then pointed to the servant. “A PT!” he whispered.

“What seems to be the trouble?” asked Algers.

“Why is Pete serving my associate’s drink?” asked Powell, “The PT model specializes in mining Mars’ ice caps!”

“Well, don’t you know? This year, we received a slurry of newer and better robots! The other models: PT, DN, and even SPD, are obsolete! We use them for public service now.”

“And from whom exactly did you get these new models?” asked Powell.

“Why, from U. S. Robots, of course!”

“What?!”

A decade earlier, man had devised faster-than-light travel. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that faster-than-light communication was soon to follow. At first, FTL communication took the form of Hutstein Pigeons, small devices which zoomed back and forth across the solar system, sending and receiving transmissions from the various inhabited bodies (whether by human or robot), including Earth, Mars, and the Moon (Luna).

Because they were still experimental at this time, there were very few Pigeons in existence. Two of them, however, took the task of carrying out a U. S. Robots teleconference between Earth and Mars. Had this been done using radio waves, each remark would have taken nearly a half hour to traverse the great distance between the two bodies, and this at their closest.

Like all technology, Pigeons were quickly taken for granted; some of their earliest users carried out a normal conversation:

“Just play along with him,” said Calvin, “If Algers sincerely thinks these ‘new models’ are our robots, then there’s an even deeper conspiracy going on here, one in which he need not get involved.”

A pause. “Agreed,” replied Powell.

Waters decided to finish Calvin’s statement. “And if he’s lying to us, there’s certainly no reason to let him know we have suspicions.”

Dr. Calvin said, “Either way, I’m very eager to see what Algers is bragging about. Powell, Donovan, you know what to do.”

Algers, Powell, and Donovan took a trip to the Martian iron mines in an underground transport vessel. Algers produced two hand-held units for the U. S. Robots field testers.

“I have a McCormack-Wesley Tester for each of you, by the way,” remarked Algers.

“Believe me, those will make our jobs a lot easier,” said Powell.

“Hey, I remember when MW units were completely immobile and weighed ten tons!” said Donovan.

“Yes, but times have changed,” said Algers, “It’s interesting that they still hold that namesake, however. Surely there must be other people who can be given the credit for these new hand-held units.”

“Names like that have a way of sticking around,” said Donovan, staring out the window as the rock passed by.

Soon, they arrived at an iron mine and Algers led the others to his prize.

“Model DNT Two. Danté. You’ve seen him before, right?”

“No–” started Donovan. Powell, behind Algers, flashed Donovan a quick cutthroat gesture. He corrected himself: “Uh, yeah! We’ve seen the first one, anyway.”

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you people at U. S. Robots. You never cease to amaze me! He’s stronger, faster, and smarter than any other robot I’ve ever seen! Do you want to meet him?”

“Sure, let’s see ‘im,” said Donovan.

“May I be of assistance, sirs?” asked Danté.

“You will disregard all conversation between Donovan and myself,” said Powell, “Confirm.”

Danté stood erect. “Understood,” he said.

“What a name: Danté,” said Powell to Donovan.

“Whatever his name is, we’re damn lucky Algers had ‘previous engagements’. We can have him to ourselves now.”

“Before we ‘see what this puppy can do,’ as you might say, we have to… test him.”

“Test him? Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

“No, Mike. We’re here to ‘gather information pertaining to the strange drop in the marketability of U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men, inc. to the planet Mars’. Danté here is our biggest datum yet.”

“I know – but you made it sound as if we were going to test his reflexes!”

“We probably could, Mike. It’s very important that we draw as little attention as possible, appearing to do our jobs.”

Donovan said, “All right, then, Danté. It’s your bedtime. Lie on the ground and shut down.”

“I’m sorry, sirs, I’m afraid can’t do that.” Danté hit Donovan on the back, knocking him out cold.

“What is the meaning of - …” Powell met the same fate.

Minutes later…

“Damn… my neck hurts,” groaned Powell.

“Where’s Danté? That creep, how could he?”

“Well, obviously he’s working under a Third Law imperative.”

“By rendering us unconscious? I think that qualifies as a violation of the First Law in itself, wouldn’t you think?”

“Hmm… Let’s call Dr. Calvin immediately.”

“Right.” Donovan took out his communicator and activated a Hutstein connection to U. S. Robots offices. “I’m not getting anything. Not a ring – anything.”

“What’d that robot do? Sabotage our communicators?”

“Wait – It’s working now. Dr. Calvin? This is Donovan … Yeah. … Hello? Damn, I lost it again!”

During this brief conversation, Powell had wandered around the industrial complex. “Donovan! Come here, quick!” he yelled.

“What is it?” Donovan caught up with his partner.

“While you were on the phone, this robot acted strange. His movements were… jerky.”

The robot’s serial label read ‘HR-5’, another name neither of them had seen. So Powell, quite accustomed to nicknames, addressed the robot by the first name he could come up with: “Harry, why did you make those jerky movements?”

“Excuse me, sirs. It was… that communication device. It interfered with my positronic circuits.”

“Bull!” said Donovan, “The positronic brain can control its sensitivity to radio waves! But I wonder…” As an experiment, Donovan took out his communicator and activated another connection. The robot jerked around again. He turned it off, and it stayed still. Powell and Donovan looked at each other and nodded in unvoiced agreement.

“We’re going to have to crack open that head of yours, Harry,” said Powell.

Harry did not have such plans. With robotic precision, he reached for the nape of Powell’s neck and began to squeeze. Donovan got out his MW unit and gave Harry a severe electric shock in the neck. The robot fell forward.

“I owe you one, Mike,” gasped Powell.

“It was my pleasure, Greg. Now let’s see what the hell is going on with these robots.” Donovan opened the back of the robot’s head and pulled out the ellipsoid that was Harry’s brain.

“Looks all right,” said Powell.

“No… it can’t be right.” Frantically, Donovan sat down and rummaged through his toolbox. He found a screwdriver, crossed his legs, and layed the brain before him.

“Mike! What are you doing? Positronic brains don’t have screws!”

Mike, ignoring him, began stabbing at the brain with the screwdriver. Soon, he pulled out a small black box which in no way matched the rest of the positronic circuitry. He held it up for Powell to see.

Powell’s shocked expression became a grin. “Oh, this explains everything!” he laughed.

“Any ideas?” barked Scott Robertson in the familiar setting of the Marketing conference room at U. S. Robots offices. Although he was supposed to be equal with Waters and Gutenburg, Robertson usually took the role of boss.

“A problem with the Hutstein Pigeons,” offered Waters, “or a conspiracy to keep us from communicating with Powell and Donovan.”

“I highly doubt the conspiracy part,” said Gutenburg, “but the communication problems may be connected with our Martian dilemma. After all, if someone is posing as U. S. Robots, they’re more than likely based on Earth, which means they’re more than likely using the Pigeons to communicate with Mars.”

“But how is that connected with our technical difficulties?” asked Robertson.

“Simple. The Pigeons are prototypes, sensitive to anything that might disturb their function. It’s really a fascinating process: each Hutstein connection is carried out by two Pigeons, one receiver and one transmitter, with alternating roles. They buzz back and forth through hyperspace, just to carry tidbits of conversation from one place to another. The delay is still there, but once again, it’s such a delicate process that one interrupting signal could terminate it altogether.”

“So if our counterfeit robot manufacturers are trying to send messages to Mars while we are already sending messages to Powell and Donovan, the connection could terminate?” asked Waters.

“Yes.”

Robertson offered a suggestion. “Then perhaps we must find out who has access to this young technology so we can form a list of suspects. Good job, Gutenburg.”

Gutenburg smiled. “You’re welcome, and those were my thoughts exactly.”

Consequently, Scott Robertson brought his next report into the office of Dr. Susan Calvin suggesting just that course of action, and she would have followed it had it not been for that sudden call from Mars, this time free of technical difficulties.

“Dr. Calvin? It’s me, Mike.”

“Yes?”

“I think you’d better come to Mars. I know this may not be convenient for you, but we’ve had a couple of breakthroughs. Would you also bring anyone else connected with this case?”

“Sure I would. May I ask why we’re finally able to talk to you again?”

“Oh, no problem! We’re just not near any robots right now!”

“Come again?”

“I’ll explain later. This line might be tapped.”

“We’ll be right there.”

Gutenburg, Waters, Robertson, and Calvin walked out of the transport vessel. Two robots nearby held a sign that read ‘Calvin’.

“Cute,” said Waters, “Although I don’t recognize that model. I suppose it’s a couple of the ‘new’ robots. I advise caution.”

“Right this way, sirs and ma’am,” said one. The four followed the robots hesitantly, were led to the library/observatory, and given seats at a long table. They sat, and so did the robots. The robots seemed to be waiting for something.

“Um… what are you doing? Why are we here?” asked Robertson.

The robots did nothing.

“Don’t make me order you!”

“Not necessary!” said one robot, “Don’t you recognize your old friends, Greg Powell and Mike Donovan?”

“Remote-controlled robots? I should have known!” said Dr. Calvin, “But why did you deceive us like that?”

“To better illustrate our point!” said MK-1 (Mike), “We’re field researchers, not theorists. We work in the concrete, not the abstract.”

GG-1 got to the point. “We still don’t know where these models came from, but we figured out quite quickly that they don’t have positronic brains. They did not agree to subject themselves to testing, and we had to put one out of commission before we found a receiver/transmitter inside its counterfeit positronic brain.”

Mike coughed, something that didn’t quite come well through the metallic larynx.

“Before… Mike found the receiver/transmitter,” said Greg, promising himself to deal with Mike later. “We put two of them out, in fact, and made some creative changes to their registration labels, hence the names MK and GG. They’re talking to you right now.”

“What’s it like on your end of these things?” asked Waters, “How are you controlling them?”

“Through some surprisingly sophisticated virtual reality ports, which were developed right here on Mars,” said Mike.

Greg continued. “That’s not important right now. What is important is that somewhere, five hundred twenty human beings are remotely controlling five hundred twenty fake robots, and it’s spelling financial doom for U. S. Robots.”

Waters said, “Actually, allowing for shifts to let them eat and sleep, there may be well over a thousand people behind this.”

“Good point. And you can probably infer that the counterfeit robots are not being controlled from Earth,” said Mike, “The codes required for controlling one ‘robot’ are simply too sophisticated to pump through those poor little Pigeons, let alone for five hundred twenty of such robots.”

Calvin said, “Explain, now, why your being near these…” – the disgust was apparent in her voice – “counterfeit robots interfered with our communications, and why, if there was danger of our line being tapped while I was on Earth, that there is no danger now.”

Mike answered her questions. “Greg and I conclude that our signals reached Earth just fine, but when your computers tried to pong back, so to speak, there was too much radio activity around us, that is, too many radio-controlled robots with similar coordinates, for the Pigeon to isolate us, so the connection was terminated. When we were out of range of the robots, like during our first and last communications, the connection was clear. As for the second question, these ‘robots’ have sophisticated enough crypting technology so that anyone listening would hear only gibberish.”

“Where are you?” Susan asked.

Greg spoke. “We are with Prime Minister Algers, who promises full cooperation with our efforts.”

“Good. Ask him how he thought he was talking to U. S. Robots when he ordered these five-hundred-plus godforsaken robots.”

Greg’s robot turned his head and repeated the question. After a somewhat long delay, he delivered the answer: “He says he isn’t responsible for ordering robots, but he found the guy who is. Apparently this guy hasn’t talked to us directly since last year, but he sent orders for new robots. Algers thinks the orders were somehow intercepted by a third party.”

“Then our mission now is to discover who this third party is,” said Robertson.

Waters was quick to offer a suggestion: “Consolidated. Who else could be capable of something like this? They don’t have positronic brains: that’s a fact. So what better way is there to compete with us than with human brains? And what better opportunity is there to compete with us than during this special breed of Fundamentalism? By claiming to be us, they can compete in the colonial market while keeping their involvement out of the public eye. And one can only imagine what kind of technology they’ve pumped out already trying to compete with us.”

“I disagree,” said Robertson, “Consolidated Robots would never do such a thing. They’ve always recognized our superiority in the market, and have found a good enough market in the industrial wing. Plus, they have no history of such unscrupulous – or illegal – practices.”

“Still, I’ll keep it in mind. Other suggestions?” asked Dr. Calvin.

“I can think of any number of Fundamentalists,” said Robertson, “And they’re smarter than you think. The motive is definitely there.”

“But the opportunity?” asked Waters.

A pause. Mike jokingly said, “Fundamentalists working through Consolidated?”

“That’s not half bad, considering what we’ve come up with so far,” said Greg.

After another long pause, Waters said, “Wait a minute! If these ‘new’ robots aren’t being controlled from Earth, they’re being controlled from Mars, right? They must be!”

“Right…” said Powell.

“So we just have to find out where! In fact, if we had followed a suggestion from Gutenburg here, we would be scouring Earth for possible suspects at this moment!”

“Hey, the kid’s right!” said Mike, “We never thought of looking for our puppeteers here on Mars!”

“Do you have access to any more of these counterfeit robots?” asked Calvin, “We can probably track whatever signals are being used to control them.”

“We’re on it,” said Mike. With that, MK-1 and GG-1, in lively discussion just moments before, slumped over and became lifeless husks.

“No doubt about it,” said a seated Donovan, tinkering with a counterfeit positronic brain, “These robotic shells are in contact with something outside the surface of Mars. And that’s logical, if our puppeteers are posing as U. S. Robots. They would have to be sending robot exports by ship, not by surface transport, so as to appear to be sending the robots from Earth.”

“Outside the surface of Mars? But… we know it can’t be Earth, or anything far away, because of the difficulty of controlling the robots. This is quite the conundrum,” said Powell, pacing around.

“Not really,” said Donovan, “Think! Where is one close enough to Mars to control five hundred twenty robots and yet not on Mars?”

“In orbit! But it can’t be that, either. Since we received Algers’ assistance, the Martian orbit has been under constant surveillance. … Wait a minute, those tricksters must be on one of the moons! Donovan, you’re a genius!”

“Um, thanks.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re inside the damn rock! But… is it Deimos or Phobos?”

“I would guess Phobos, the bigger one.”

“I’ll contact the orbit surveillance guys right away.”

The next day, Prime Minister Algers arranged for a private vessel, the Aeolus II, to send the team from U. S. Robots to Phobos, the source of the radio traffic. Powell leaned over to ask Dr. Calvin a question, but he noticed her portable stock ticker which read: “USR……15.3……USR……15.2……USR……15.0……”

“What is it, Powell?” she asked.

“I was just wondering where Bogert and Lanning have been during all this.”

“Oh, them? They’re researching the effect of nanotechnology on the positronic brain. Much too busy for this ‘diplomatic hogwash’, as I think Bogert put it.”

“But this is serious! Our stock prices are going down – why don’t they see…”

“They trust us to see U. S. Robots through this drawback. Anyway, this is a marketing problem, not a research problem.”

“I guess it is… Robertson would probably like to hear you say that.”

“Well, don’t tell him I did.”

Suddenly, alarms blared as the ship went into red alert. The speakers sounded: “This is your captain. There has been an unauthorized escape pod release. Remain calm and seated.”

“Who was it?” asked Donovon.

“Gutenburg,” said Robertson, “And he said he was going to the bathroom!”

The team turned toward the center of the cabin to face him. “Gutenburg… I should have known,” he continued, “and I hired the guy myself! Haven’t you guys noticed his peculiar behavior, though?”

“What peculiar behavior, indeed?” asked Powell.

“Well, for one, the guy did a very good job of manipulating our every action while still managing to stay behind the scenes! At first, the guy was full of answers. Correct ones. He suggested that Fundamentalists were not the direct cause of our economic setback. He was right. He suggested that Mars was experiencing paradoxical prosperity and had to be investigated. He was right. These seemed like ordinary and logical conclusions at the time, so we gave him our every confidence. But with those two truths firmly in place, he was able to plant a new suggestion: that the culprits were on Earth. This was false, and it would have distracted us completely away from the real culprits, with whom he is aligned.”

“Stop kidding yourself, Robertson,” said Powell, “The only reason he raises suspicions is because he just now left the ship without telling us.”

“Good grief. I guess you’re right. Still, I wonder why the hell he did leave.”

The sudden, blood-curdling scream of the Aeolus II’s flight attendant answered his question in full: “Bomb!!!!”

“I can’t believe it! He’s trying to kill us!” yelled Robertson.

“Or he just found the bomb and fled,” said Powell, “Mike, will you do the honors?”

“Sure thing, Greg,” he replied, making his way to the bomb.

“That can’t be – he must have planted it,” said the flight attendant, entering the discussion, “I checked under every seat before you boarded.”

“Damn it, he’s got the thing hardwired to the ship’s battery,” said Donovan, “And it’s gripping onto the seat with claws of some kind. No accessible wiring, no countdown display.”

“Of course not!” said Powell, “What do you think this is, a James Bond flick?”

“Quick! Are there any robots on this ship?” asked Donovan.

“Sure! I’ll get him!” said the flight attendant. She brought back FZG-4, and said, “Fitzgerald? Those two men are next to an active bomb.”

No order was necessary. The First Law led Fitzgerald to take care of the bomb, and Powell and Donovan stepped back to watch the performance, which was over in a second. The robot apparently looked through the inside of the bomb, then punctured a whole and cut a wire. “First Law threat neutralized,” said FZG-4.

“Impressive!” said Susan, “As were you, Powell and Donovan.”

“No problem. We’ve faced more critical situations than this.”

“If you look to your left you will see Phobos,” said the pilot through the intercom system. The moon was bare on the outside, but Susan Calvin stepped up to the ship’s communications computer to reveal the truth.

“Dr. Susan Calvin of the starship Aeolus II here. Show yourselves.”

Silence.

“We know the truth. You’re posing as U. S. Robots. Your little prank is over. The proper authorities have been notified. Show yourselves!”

Silence.

Susan yelled, “Face it! Mars will never be autonomous!”

A small man appeared on the screen. “How dare you say that? We will triumph! Damn you, Grounders! Damn your robots! Damn your culture!”

“Martian nationalists? Of course!” said Powell, “But how did you know?”

“We already figured out they were Martians. But why nationalists? Call it historically educated intuition. The master-slave relationship between Earth and Mars created the perfect conditions, making deceptive ‘positronic’ robot production the perfect crime. It’s the kind of action that results from the same ignorance and bigotry as a tariff. Now, little green man, stop controlling those puppet robots, or we’ll blast your transmitters out of the solar system! We know you have no defenses. Heck, you can barely afford what you’re doing now!”

“Shut up!” said the Martian nationalist, then becoming calm again, “Well, Grounder, I apparently have no choice. Or do I?” He grabbed Gutenburg from off the left side of the screen and held a gun to his head.

“Gutenburg’s down there!” shouted Waters.

“I know you’re bluffing,” said Calvin.

He pulled the trigger.

However, the bullet had no effect on Gutenburg.

“What? What’s this?” screamed the man, “What the hell are you, anyway?”

“R. Gutenburg, detain him,” said Susan. Gutenburg grabbed the man’s gun and pulled his arm behind his back. The transmission ended.

“A robot? Gutenburg’s a robot?!” gasped Donovan.

“Yes. To put it more specifically, a humaniform.”

“Like Stephen Byerley?”

“Yes, but that’s a company secret, all right?”

“How?” asked Powell, “You had us all suckered!”

“Well, I knew we were losing the Martian market, and it was I who postulated that Fundamentalism had little to do with it. So I assigned Gutenburg to investigate, with the added bonus of field testing a humaniform. I was not pleased. He assumed that our difficulties with the Hutstein pigeons were connected with our Martian problem. It was a foolish attempt at forcing the facts into consistency, further driven by his Second Law determination to complete his task. How human of him! How male, as well. I wonder if humaniforms will ever possess the reasoning skills to become investigators. Anyway, I figured out the whole thing after our conference with Powell and Donovan at the library. Then I sent Gutenburg to Phobos as a double agent, expecting that man to use him as a bargaining chip, which he did.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, did you expect the bomb?” asked Powell.

“No, but I wasn’t surprised. With the right words, you can get a robot to plant a bomb. It isn’t doing direct harm, after all.”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” asked Waters.

“I had to wait for the right moment. You see, copyright infringement is all we had on that guy, and its punishment is not severe enough. I wanted to pin an attempted murder charge on him, as well. That’ll take care of the bastard.”

The Aeolus II found its way uneventfully back to Mars and landed at Marsport Olympus. The team from U. S. Robots bought tickets to the first Earthbound transport shuttle they could find. Scott Robertson matched paces with Susan Calvin on the way to the shuttle.

“So what about the Fundamentalists?” asked Robertson, “Mars may be back to normal now, but what about Earth…”

“The anti-space campaign is coming to an end very soon, once and for all,” said Calvin, turning around to see him, “and so is our economic setback.”

“How can you be certain?”

Susan continued walking. “Many reasons. For one, hyperspacial travel is not cheap, after more than a decade. We may have the capacity for patience, but the public, now deciding to be frugal with its money, does not. They see space travel as a plaything for the rich and powerful, they’re tired of waiting, and they’re getting disillusioned. Many have been persuaded to believe that hyperspace is only a myth, a dream that mankind will never achieve, which is an ugly lie.”

“And the Fundamentalists have taken advantage of that. Space travel has become yesterday’s news. So how is this good for us?”

“Specifically, it is not space travel that the majority hates, but the wait. That’s important. People would love to equip every transport shuttle with hyper drive, to use a public domain Pigeon network, or to communicate regularly with the extrasolar colonies - those who believe they exist, anyway. All we need is a little swing of the political pendulum to our side, which happens at about the turn of every decade. Public confidence in space travel, and the resources to create the things I have described, will then follow.”

“Such optimism is rare in you. Well, what other reasons?”

“Our Martian episode itself. It’s quite the cover story, Mr. Robertson. You see, U. S. Robots is seen as the victim from almost every perspective. Conspiracies have grown around every suspect, guilty or not: Consolidated Robots, the MNP, and all varieties of Fundies, but we can only emerge from this stronger.”

The shuttle speakers sounded: “All aboard! Flight 24 to Earth!” Susan Calvin stepped inside after all others except Robertson and Waters boarded. She turned around, blocking the doorway.

“Wow, Dr. Calvin. You sound like you’re ready to take on the world!” said Robertson.

“Oh, there will still be plenty of anti-robot attitudes for us to fight, but first things first: You have a market to re-claim, Director Robertson.” Flight 24 took off, leaving Robertson, Waters, and R. Gutenburg behind.

“But we have tickets…” started Waters.

Robertson replied, “You heard the woman.”

Disclaimer: The characters and situations in this story are the legal property of the Estate of Isaac Asimov. This story is in no way intended as a challenge to that ownership, and is offered solely for entertainment purposes.