A detective from the underground faces a murder under the blinding glare of a sun-drenched world.
The airlock hisses open, and a wall of white fire hits Detective Elijah Baley. He grips the bulkhead, knuckles white, lungs seizing against the primal terror of the open sky. Earth is a safe womb of steel; Solaria is a naked hell. He squeezes his eyes shut against the agonizing brightness.
A cool, synthetic hand pries Baley's fingers from the frame. R. Daneel Olivaw, perfect and indifferent to the glare, guides him. "The ground-car is ready, Partner Elijah." Outside the glass, the world is a terrifying, lush green vastness, utterly devoid of human life.
The Delmarre estate has no walls, only pillars holding up the unrelenting sun. Robots stand like marble statues in the background, silent witnesses to a murder that shouldn't exist. There is no weapon. There are no footprints. Just a crushed skull in a locked paradise.
Gladia Delmarre materializes, a vision of tragic, ethereal beauty. Baley instinctively extends a hand—habit. She shrieks, recoiling violently as if he were radioactive waste. "Don't touch me! It’s filthy!" On Solaria, physical presence is poison; intimacy is obsolete.
The logic creates a headache behind Baley's eyes. Rikaine Delmarre is dead. Gladia was the only human present, but she lacks the strength to crush a skull. Robots are bound by the First Law: Do no harm. It is a locked room mystery with no killer.
Retreating to the safety of a darkened room, Baley sketches frantically on a pad. "A robot can't kill," he mutters to Daneel. "But a robot can drop a heavy object... if it doesn't know a human is underneath." The weapon wasn't a tool; it was orchestrated ignorance.
Jothan Leebig projects into the room, a hologram of sneering arrogance. He sits miles away, safe in his sterile isolation, surrounded by machinery. "Earth is a festering sore," he laughs, admitting nothing, confident that no one can breach his remote sanctuary.
Baley steps back into the gale, coat whipping around his legs. The agoraphobia rises like bile, but he channels it into a weapon. He opens a channel to Leebig. "I'm done talking via view-screen. I'm coming to your estate. In the flesh."
Leebig's holographic eyes go wide with phobic terror. The threat of a physical human—breathing his air, touching his things—is a horror beyond execution. Hyperventilating, he triggers his own disposal units in a panic. He chooses death over contact.
The mechanism is laid bare to the widow. One robot removed a heavy bust; another dropped it. Instructions were fragmented to bypass the First Law. The machines were innocent instruments; the intent was purely human.
Gladia stands before Baley, the distance between them charging the air. She doesn't scream this time. A gloved hand reaches out, hovering inches from his sleeve—a monumental defiance of her culture. "I want to see the galaxy," she whispers. The ice cracks.
The ship hums, ready for departure. Daneel stands at attention, impassive as ever. Baley looks back at the empty, beautiful, terrifying horizon. His knees don't shake. The case is closed, but the detective has been rewritten.
Inside the cabin, Baley peels off his heavy protective goggles. He stares directly at the viewport, at the burning star beyond. The glare hurts, but he forces his eyes to stay open, accepting the pain.
He thinks of Earth—billions huddled in steel caves, fearing the outside. He thinks of Solaria—dying of loneliness in the open. "Solaria is a tomb," he realizes, watching the planet fade. "But Earth is a prison."
As the engines roar, Baley turns his back on the darkness of the hold. Humanity cannot survive in the dark, nor in isolation. "It's time to tear down the walls," he thinks. "It's time to face the naked sun."
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