The Robots of Dawn

23

The young woman who faced them said with a wan smile, “I knew that when I met you again, Elijah, that would be the first word I would hear.”

Baley stared at her. She had changed. Her hair was shorter and her face was even more troubled now than it had been two years ago and seemed more than two years older, somehow. She was still unmistakably Gladia, however. There was still the triangular face, with its pronounced cheekbones and small chin. She was still short, still slight of figure, still vaguely childlike.

He had dreamed of her frequently—though not in an overtly erotic fashion—after returning to Earth. His dreams were always stories of not being able to quite reach her. She was always there, a little too far off to speak too easily. She never quite heard when he called her. She never grew nearer when he approached her.

It was not hard to understand why the dreams had been as they were. She was a Solarian-born person and, as such, was rarely supposed to be in the physical presence of other human beings.

Elijah had been forbidden to her because he was human and beyond that (of course) because he was from Earth. Though the exigencies of the murder case he was investigating forced them to meet, throughout their relationship she was completely covered, when physically together, to prevent actual contact.

And yet, at their last meeting, she had, in defiance of good sense, fleetingly touched his cheek with her bare hand. She must have known she could be infected as a result. He cherished the touch the more, for every aspect of her upbringing combined to make it unthinkable.

The dreams had faded in time.

Baley said, rather stupidly, “It was you who owned the…”

He paused and Gladia finished the sentence for him. “The robot. And two years ago, it was I who possessed the husband. Whatever I touch is destroyed.”

Without really knowing what he was doing, Baley reached up to place his hand on his cheek. Gladia did not seem to notice.

She said, “You came to rescue me that first time. Forgive me, but I had to call on you—again.—Come in, Elijah. Come in, Dr. Fastolfe.”

Fastolfe stepped back to allow Baley to walk in first. He followed. Behind Fastolfe came Daneel and Giskard—and they, with the characteristic self-effacement of robots, stepped to unoccupied wall niches on opposite sides and remained silently standing, backs to the wall.

For one moment, it seemed that Gladia would treat them with the indifference with which human beings commonly treated robots. After a glance at Daneel, however, she turned away and said to Fastolfe in a voice that choked a little, “That one. Please. Ask him to leave.”

Fastolfe said, with a small motion of surprise, “Daneel?”

“He’s too—too Janderlike!”

Fastolfe turned to look at Daneel and a look of clear pain crossed his face momentarily. “Of course, my dear. You must forgive me. I did not think.—Daneel, move into another room and remain there while we are here.”

Without a word, Daneel left.

Gladia glanced a moment at Giskard, as though to judge whether he, also, was too Janderlike, and turned away with a small shrug.

She said, “Would either of you like refreshment of any kind? I have an excellent coconut drink, fresh and cold.”

“No, Gladia,” said Fastolfe. “I have merely brought Mr. Baley here as I promised I would. I will not stay long.”

“If I may have a glass of water,” said Baley, “I won’t trouble you for anything more.”

Gladia raised one hand. Undoubtedly, she was under observation, for, in a moment, a robot moved in noiselessly, with a glass of water on a tray and a small dish of what looked like crackers with a pinkish blob on each.

Baley could not forbear taking one, even though he was not certain what it might be. It had to be something Earth-descended, for he could not believe that on Aurora, he—or anyone—would be eating any portion of the planet’s sparse indigenous biota or anything synthetic either. Nevertheless, the descendants of Earthly food species might change with time, either through deliberate cultivation or the action of a strange environment—and Fastolfe, at lunchtime, had said that much of the Auroran diet was an acquired taste.

He was pleasantly surprised. The taste was sharp and spicy, but he found it delightful and took a second almost at once. He said, “Thank you” to the robot (who would not have objected to standing there indefinitely) and took the entire dish, together with the glass of water.

The robot left.

It was late afternoon now and the sunlight came ruddily through the western windows. Baley had the impression that this house was smaller than Fastolfe’s, but it would have been more cheerful had not the sad figure of Gladia standing in its midst provoked a dispiriting effect.

That might, of course, be Baley’s imagination. Cheer, in any case, seemed to him impossible in any structure purporting to house and protect human beings that yet remained exposed to the Outside beyond each wall. Not one wall, he thought, had the warmth of human life on the other side. In no direction could one look for companionship and community. Through every outer wall, every side, top and bottom, there was inanimate world. Cold! Cold!

And coldness flooded back upon Baley himself as he thought again of the dilemma in—which he found himself. (For a moment, the shock of meeting Gladia again had driven it from his mind.)

Gladia said, “Come. Sit down, Elijah. You must excuse me for not quite being myself. I am, for a second time, the center of a planetary sensation—and the first time was more than enough.”

“I understand, Gladia. Please do not apologize,” said Baley.

“And as for you, dear Doctor, please don’t feel you need go.”

“Well—” Fastolfe looked at the time strip on the wall. “I will stay for a short while, but then, my dear, there is work that must be done though the skies fall. All the more so, since I must look forward to a near future in which I may be restrained from doing any work at all.”

Gladia blinked rapidly, as though holding back tears. “I know, Dr. Fastolfe. You are in deep trouble because of—of what happened here and I don’t seem to have time to think of anything but my own—discomfort.”

Fastolfe said, “I’ll do my best to take care of my own problem, Gladia, and there is no need for you to feel guilt over the matter.—Perhaps Mr. Baley will be able to help us both.”

Baley pressed his lips together at that, then said heavily, “I was not aware, Gladia, that you were in any way involved in this affair.”

“Who else would be?” she said with a sigh.

“You are—were—in possession of Jander Panell?”

“Not truly in possession. I had him on loan from Dr. Fastolfe.”

“Were you with him when he—” Baley hesitated over some way of putting it.

“Died? Mightn’t we say died?—No, I was I not. And before you ask, there was no one else in the house at the time. I was alone. I am usually alone. Almost always. That is my Solarian upbringing, you remember. Of course, that is not obligatory. You two are here and I do not mind—very much.”

“And you were definitely alone at the time Jander died? No mistake?”

“I have said so,” said Gladia, sounding a little irritated. “No, never mind, Elijah. I know you must have everything repeated and repeated. I was alone. Honestly.”

“There were robots present, though.”

“Yes, of course. When I say ‘alone,’ I mean there were no other human beings present.”

“How many robots do you possess, Gladia? Not counting Jander.”

Gladia paused as though she were counting internally. Finally, she said, “Twenty. Five in the house and fifteen on the grounds. Robots move freely between my house and Dr. Fastolfe’s, too, so that it isn’t always possible to judge, when a robot is quickly seen at either establishment, whether it is one of mine or one of his.”

“Ah,” said Baley, “and since Dr. Fastolfe has fifty-seven robots in his establishment, that means, if we combine the two, that there are seventy-seven robots available, altogether. Are there any other establishments whose robots may mingle with yours indistinguishably?”

Fastolfe said, “There’s no other establishment near enough to make that practical. Nor is the practice of mixing robots really encouraged. Gladia and I are a special case because she is not Auroran and because I have taken rather a responsibility for her.”

“Even so. Seventy-seven robots,” said Baley.

“Yes,” said Fastolfe, “but why are you making this point?”

Baley said, “Because it means you can have any of seventy-seven moving objects, each vaguely human in form, that you are used to seeing out of the corner of the eye and to which you would pay no particular attention. Isn’t it possible, Gladia, that if an actual human being were to penetrate the house, for whatever purpose, you would scarcely be aware of it? It would be one more moving object, vaguely human in form, and you would pay no attention.”

Fastolfe chuckled softly and Gladia, unsmiling, shook her head.

“Elijah,” she said, “one can tell you are an Earthman. Do you imagine that any human being, even Dr. Fastolfe here, could possibly approach my house without my being informed of the fact by my robots. I might ignore a moving form, assuring it to be a robot, but no robot ever would. I was waiting for you just now when you arrived, but that was because my robots had informed me you were approaching. No, no, when Jander died, there was no other human being in the house.”

“Except yourself?”

“Except myself. Just as there was no one in the house except myself when my husband was killed.”

Fastolfe interposed gently. “There is a difference, Gladia. Your husband was killed with a blunt instrument. The physical presence of the murderer was necessary and, if you were the only one present, that was serious. In this case, Jander was put out of operation by a subtle spoken program. Physical presence was not necessary. Your presence here alone means nothing, especially since you do not know how to block the mind of a humaniform robot.”

They both turned to look at Baley, Fastolfe with a quizzical look on his face, Gladia with a sad one. (It irritated Baley that Fastolfe, whose future was as bleak as Baley’s own, nevertheless seemed to face it with humor. What on Earth is there to the situation to cause one to laugh like an idiot? Baley thought morosely.)

“Ignorance,” said Baley slowly, “may mean nothing. A person may not know how to get to a certain place and yet may just happen to reach it while walking blindly. One might talk to Jander and, all unknowingly, push the button for mental freeze-out.”

Fastolfe said, “And the chances of that?”

“You’re the expert, Dr. Fastolfe, and I suppose you will tell me they are very small.”

“Incredibly small. A person may not know how to get to a certain place, but if the only route is a series of tight ropes stretched in sharply changing directions, what are the chances of reaching it by walking randomly while blindfolded?”

Gladia’s hands fluttered in extreme agitation. She clenched her fists, as though to hold them steady, and brought them down on her knees. “I didn’t do it, accident or not. I wasn’t with him when it happened. I wasn’t. I spoke to him in the morning. He was well, perfectly normal. Hours later, when I summoned him, he never came. I went in search of him and he was standing in his accustomed place, seeming quite normal. The trouble was, he didn’t respond to me. He didn’t respond at all. He has never responded since.”

Baley said, “Could something you had said to him, quite in passing, have produced mind-freeze only after you had left him—an hour after, perhaps?”

Fastolfe interposed sharply, “Quite impossible, Mr. Baley. If mind-freeze is to take place, it takes place at once. Please do not badger Gladia in this fashion. She is incapable of producing mind-freeze deliberately and it is unthinkable that she would produce it accidentally.”

“Isn’t it unthinkable thatit would be produced by random positronic drift, as you say it must have?”

“Not quite as unthinkable.”

“Both alternatives are extremely unlikely. What is the difference in unthinkability?”

“A great one. I imagine that a mental freeze-out, through positronic drift might have a probability of 1 in 1012; that by accidental pattern-building 1 in 1000. That is just an estimate, but a reasonable one. The difference is greater than that between a single electron and the entire Universe—and it is in favor of the positronic drift.”

There was silence for a while.

Baley said, “Dr. Fastolfe, you said earlier that you couldn’t stay long.”

“I have stayed too long already.”

“Good. Then would you leave now?”

Fastolfe began to rise, then said, “Why?”

“Because I want to speak to Gladia alone.”

“To badger her?”

“I must question her without your interference. Our situation is entirely too serious to worry about politeness.”

Gladia said, “I am not afraid of Mr. Baley, dear Doctor.” She added wistfully, “My robots will protect me if his impoliteness becomes extreme.”

Fastolfe smiled and said, “Very well, Gladia.” He rose and held out his hand to her. She took it briefly.

He said, “I would like to have Giskard remain here for general protection—and Daneel will continue to be in the next room, if you don’t mind. Could you lend me one of your own robots to escort me back to my establishment?”

“Certainly,” said Gladia, raising her arms. “You know Pandion, I believe.”

“Of course! A sturdy and reliable escort.” He left, with the robot following closely.

Baley waited, watching Gladia, studying her. She sat there, her eyes on her hands, which were folded limply together in her lap.

Baley was certain there was more for her to tell. How he could persuade her to talk, he couldn’t say, but of one thing more he was certain. While Fastolfe was there, she would not tell the whole truth.

24

Finally, Gladia looked up, her face like a little girls. She said in a small voice, “How are you, Elijah? How do you feel?”

“Well enough, Gladia.”

She said, “Dr. Fastolfe said he would lead you here across the open and see to it that you would have to wait some time in the worst of it.”

“Oh? Why was that? For the fun of it?”

“No, Elijah. I had told him how, you reacted to the open. You—remember the time you fainted and fell into the pond?”

Elijah shook his head quickly. He could not deny the event or his memory thereof, but neither did he approve of the reference. He said gruffly, “I’m not quite like that anymore. I’ve improved.”

“But Dr. Fastolfe said he would test you. Was it all right?”

“It was sufficiently all right. I didn’t faint.” He remembered the episode aboard the spaceship during the approach to Aurora and ground his teeth faintly. That was different and there was no call to discuss the matter.

He said, in a deliberate change of subject, “What do I call you here? How do I address you?”

“You’ve been calling me Gladia.”

“It’s inappropriate, perhaps. I could say Mrs. Delmarre, but you may have—”

She gasped and interrupted sharply, “I haven’t used that name since arriving here. Please don’t you use it.”

“What do the Aurorans call you, then?”

“They say Gladia Solaria, but that’s just an indication that I’m an alien and I don’t want that either. I am simply Gladia. One name. It’s not an Auroran name and I doubt that there’s another one on this planet, so it’s sufficient. I’ll continue to call you Elijah, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Gladia said, “I would like to serve tea.” It was a statement and Baley nodded.

He said, “I didn’t know that Spacers drank tea.”

“It’s not Earth tea. It’s a plant extract that is pleasant but is not considered harmful in any way. We call it tea.”

She lifted her arm and Baley noted that the sleeve held tightly at the wrist and that joining it were thin, flesh-colored gloves. She was still exposing the minimum of body surface in his presence. She was still minimizing the chance of infection.

Her arm remained in the air for a moment and, after a few more moments, a robot appeared with a tray. He was patently even more primitive than Giskard, but he distributed the teacups, the small sandwiches, and the bite-sized bits of pastry, smoothly. He poured tea with what amounted to grace.

Baley said curiously, “How do you do that, Gladia?”

“Do what, Elijah?”

“You lift your arm whenever you want something and the robots always know what it is. How did this one know you wanted tea served?”

“It’s not difficult. Every time I lift my arm, it distorts a small electromagnetic field that is maintained continuously across the room. Slightly different positions of my hand and fingers produce different distortions and my robots can interpret these distortions as orders. I only use it for simple orders: Come here! Bring tea! And so on.”

“I haven’t noticed Dr. Fastolfe using the system at his establishment.”

“It’s not really Auroran. It’s our system in Solaria and I’m used to it.—Besides, I always have tea at this time. Borgraf expects it.”

“This is Borgraf?” Baley eyed the robot with some interest, aware that he had only glanced at him before. Familiarity was quickly breeding indifference. Another day and he would not notice robots at all. They would flutter about him unseen and chores would appear to do themselves.

Nevertheless, he did not want to fail to notice them. He wanted them to fail to be there. He said, “Gladia, I want to be alone with you. Not even robots.—Giskard, join Daneel. You can stand guard from there.”

“Yes, sir,” said Giskard, brought suddenly to awareness and response by the sound of his name.

Gladia seemed distantly amused. “You Earthpeople are so odd. I know you have robots on Earth, but you don’t seem to know how to handle them. You bark your orders, as though they’re deaf.”

She turned to Borgraf and, in a low voice, said, “Borgraf, none of you are to enter the room until summoned. Do not interrupt us for anything short of a clear and present emergency.”

Borgraf said, “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped back, glanced over the table as though checking whether he had omitted anything, turned, and left the room.

Baley was amused, in his turn. Gladia’s voice had been soft, but her tone had been as crisp as though she were a sergeant-major addressing a recruit. But then, why should he be surprised? He had long known that it was easier to see another’s follies than one’s own.

Gladia said, “We are now alone, Elijah. Even the robots are gone.”

Baley said, “You are not afraid to be alone with me?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Why should I be? A raised arm, a gesture, a startled outcry—and several robots would be here promptly. No one on any Spacer world has any reason to fear any other human being. This is not Earth. Whyever should you ask, anyway?”

“Because there are other fears than physical ones. I would not offer you violence of any kind or mistreat you physically in any way. But are you not afraid of my questioning and what it might uncover about you? Remember that this is not Solaria, either. On Solaria, I sympathized with you and was intent on demonstrating your innocence.”

She said in a low voice, “Don’t you sympathize with me now?”

“It’s not a husband dead this time. You are not suspected of murder. It’s only a robot that has been destroyed and, as far as I know, you are suspected of nothing. Instead, it is Dr. Fastolfe who is my problem. It is of the highest importance to me—for reasons I need not go into—that I be able to demonstrate his innocence. If the process turns out to be damaging to you, I will not be able to help it. I do not intend to go out of my way to save you pain. It is only fair that I tell you this.”

She raised her head and fixed her eyes on his arrogantly. “Why should anything be damaging to me?”

“Perhaps we will now proceed to find out,” said Baley coolly, “without Dr. Fastolfe present to interfere.” He plucked one of the small sandwiches out of the dish with a small fork (there was no point in using his fingers and perhaps making the entire dish unusable to Gladia), scraped it off onto his own plate, popped it into his mouth, and then sipped at his tea.

She matched him sandwich for sandwich, sip for sip. If he were going to be cool, so was she, apparently.

“Gladia,” said Baley, “it is important that I know, exactly, the relationship between you and Dr. Fastolfe. You live near him and the two of you form what is virtually a single robotic household. He is clearly concerned for you. He has made no effort to defend his own innocence, aside from the mere statement that he is innocent, but he defends you strongly the moment I harden my questioning.”

Gladia smiled faintly. “What do you suspect, Elijah?”

Baley said, “Don’t fence with me—I don’t want to suspect. I want to know.”

“Has Dr. Fastolfe mentioned Fanya?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Have you asked him whether Fanya is his wife or merely his companion? Whether he has children?”

Baley stirred uneasily. He might have asked such questions, of course. In the close quarters of crowded Earth, however, privacy was cherished, precisely because it had all but perished. It was virtually impossible on Earth not to know all the facts about the family arrangements of others, so one never asked and pretended ignorance. It was a universally maintained fraud.

Here on Aurora, of course, the Earth ways would not hold, yet Baley automatically held with them. Stupid!

He said, “I have not yet asked. Tell me.”

Gladia said, “Fanya is his wife. He has been married a number of times, consecutively of course, though simultaneous marriage for either or both sexes is not entirely unheard of on Aurora.” The bit of mild distaste with which she said that brought an equally mild defense. “It is unheard of on Solaria.

“However, Dr. Fastolfe’s current marriage will probably soon be dissolved. Both will then be free to make new attachments, though often either or both parties do not wait for dissolution to do that.—I don’t say I understand this casual way of treating the matter, Elijah, but it is how Aurorans build their relationships. Dr. Fastolfe, to my knowledge, is rather straitlaced. He always maintains one marriage or another and seeks nothing outside of it. On Aurora, that is considered old-fashioned and rather silly—”

Baley nodded. “I’ve gathered something of this in my reading. Marriage takes place when there’s the intention to have children, I understand.”

“In theory, that is so, but I’m told hardly anyone takes that seriously these days. Dr. Fastolfe already has two children and can’t have any more, but he still marries and applies for a third. He gets turned down, of course, and knows he will. Some people don’t even bother to apply.”

“Then why bother marrying?”

“There are social advantages to it. It’s rather complicated and, not being an Auroran, I’m not sure I understand it.”

“Well, never mind. Tell me about Dr. Fastolfe’s children.”

“He has two daughters by two different mothers. Neither of the mothers was Fanya, of course. He has no sons. Each daughter was incubated in the mother’s womb, as is the fashion on Aurora. Both daughters are adults now and have their own establishments.”

“Is he close with his daughters?”

“I don’t know. He never talks about them. One is a roboticist and I suppose he must keep in touch with her work. I believe the other is running for office on the council of one of the cities or that she is actually in possession of the office. I don’t really know.”

“Do you know if there are family strains?”

“None that I am aware of, which may not go for much, Elijah. As far as I know, he is on civil terms with all his past wives. None of the dissolutions were carried through in anger. For one thing, Dr. Fastolfe is not that kind of person. I can’t imagine him greeting anything in life with anything more extreme than a good-natured sigh of resignation. He’ll joke on his deathbed.”

That, at least, rang true, Baley thought. He said, “And Dr. Fastolfe’s relationship to you. The truth, please. We are not in a position to dodge the truth in order to avoid embarrassment.”

She looked up and met his eyes levelly. She said, “There is no embarrassment to avoid. Dr. Han Fastolfe is ray friend, my very good friend.”

“How good, Gladia?”

“As I said—very good.”

“Are you waiting for the dissolution of his marriage so that you may be his next wife?”

“No.” She said it very calmly.

“Are you lovers, then?”

“No.”

“Have you been?”

“No.—Are you surprised?”

“I merely need information,” said Baley.

“Then let me answer your questions connectedly, Elijah, and don’t bark them at me as though you expected to surprise me into telling you something I would otherwise keep secret.” She said it without noticeable anger. It was almost as though she were amused.

Baley, flushing slightly, was about to say that this was not at all his intention, but, of course, it was and he would gain nothing by denying it. He said in a soft growl, “Well, then, go ahead.”

The remains of the tea littered the table between them. Baley wondered if, under ordinary conditions, she would not have lifted her arm and bent it just so—and if the robot, Borgraf, would not have then entered silently and cleared the table.

Did the fact that the litter remained upset Gladia—and would it make her less self-controlled in her response? If so, it had better remain—but Baley did not really hope for much, for he could see no signs of Gladia being disturbed over the mess or even of her being aware of it.

Gladia’s eyes had fallen to her lap again and her face seemed to sink lower and to become a touch harsh, as though she were reaching into a past she would much rather obliterate.

She said, “You caught a glimpse of my life on Solaria. It was not a happy one, but I knew no other. It was not until I experienced a touch of happiness that I suddenly knew exactly to what an extent—and how intensively—my earlier life was not happy. The first hint came through you, Elijah.”

“Through me?” Baley was caught by surprise.

“Yes, Elijah. Our last meeting on Solaria—I hope you remember it, Elijah—taught me something. I touched you! I removed my glove, one that was similar to the glove I am wearing now, and I touched your cheek. The contact did not last long. I don’t know what it meant to you—no, don’t tell me, it’s not important—but it meant a great deal to me.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes defiantly. “It meant everything to me. It changed my life. Remember, Elijah, that until then, after my few years of childhood, I had never touched a man—or any human being, actually—except for my husband. And I touched my husband very rarely. I had viewed men on trimensic, of course, and in the process I had become entirely familiar with every physical aspect of males, every part of them. I had nothing to learn, in that respect.

“But I had no reason to think that one man felt much different from another. I knew what my husband’s skin felt like, what his hands felt like when he could bring himself to touch me, what—everything. I had no reason to think that anything would be different with any man. There was no pleasure in contact, with my husband, but why should there be? Is there particular pleasure in the contact of my fingers with this table, except to the extent that I might appreciate its physical smoothness?

“Contact with my husband was part of an occasional ritual that he went through because it was expected of him and, as a good Solarian, he therefore carried it through by the calendar and clock and for the length of time and in the manner prescribed by good breeding. Except that, in another sense, it wasn’t good breeding, for although this periodic contact was for the precise purpose of sexual intercourse, my husband had not applied for a child and was not interested, I believe, in producing one. And I was too much in awe of him to apply for one on my own initiative, as would have been my right.

“As I look back on it, I can see that the sexual experience was perfunctory and mechanical. I never had an orgasm. Not once. That such a thing existed I gathered from some of my reading, but the descriptions merely puzzled me and—since they were to be found only in imported books—Solarian books never dealt with sex—I could not trust them. I thought they were merely exotic metaphors.

“Nor could I experiment—successfully, at least—with autoeroticism. Masturbation is, I think, the common word. At least, I have heard, that word used on Aurora. On Solaria, of course, no aspect of sex is ever discussed, nor is any sex related word used in polite society.—Nor is there any other kind of society on Solaria.

“From something I occasionally read, I had an idea of how one might go about masturbating and, on a number of occasions, I made a halfhearted attempt to do what was described. I could not carry it through. The taboo against touching human flesh made even my own seem forbidden and unpleasant to me. I could brush my hand against my side, cross one leg over another, feel the pressure of thigh against thigh, but these were casual touches, unregarded. To make the process of touch an instrument of deliberate pleasure was different. Every fiber of me knew it shouldn’t be done arid, because I knew that, the pleasure wouldn’t come.

“And it never occurred to me, never once, that there might be pleasure in touching under other circumstances. Why should it occur to me? How could it occur to me?

“Until I touched you that time. Why I did, I don’t know. I felt a gush of affection for you, because you had saved me from being a murderess. And besides, you were not altogether forbidden. You were not a Solarian. You were not — forgive me — altogether a man. You were a creature of Earth, You were human in appearance, but you were short-lived and infection prone, something to be dismissed as semihuman at best.

“So because you had saved me and were not really a man, I could touch you. And what’s more, you looked at me not with the hostility and repugnance of my husband but with the carefully schooled indifference of someone viewing me on trimensic. You were right there, palpable, and your eyes were warm and concerned. You actually trembled when my hand approached your cheek. I saw that.

“Why it was, I don’t know. The touch was so fugitive and there was no way in which the physical sensation was different from what it would have been if I had touched my husband or any other man—or, perhaps—even any woman. But there was more to it than the physical sensation. You were there, you welcomed it, you showed me every sign of what I accepted as—affection. And when our skins—my hand, your cheek made contact, it was as though I had touched gentle fire that made its way up my hand and arm instantaneously and set me all in flame.

“I don’t know how long it lasted—it couldn’t be for more than a moment or two—but for me time stood still. Something happened to me that had never happened to me before and, looking back on it long afterward, when I had learned about it, I realized that I had very nearly experienced an orgasm.

“I tried not to show it—”

(Baley, not daring to look at her, shook his head.)

“Well, then, I didn’t show it. I said, ‘Thank you, Elijah.’ I said it for what you had done for me in connection with my husband’s death. But I said it much more for lighting my life and showing me, without even knowing it, what there was in life; for opening a door; for revealing a path; for pointing out a horizon. The physical act was nothing in itself. Just a touch. But it was the beginning of everything.”

Her voice had faded out and, for a moment, she said nothing, remembering.

Then one finger lifted. “No. Don’t say anything. I’m not done yet.

“I had had imaginings before, very vague uncertain things. A man and I, doing what my husband and I did, but somehow different—I didn’t even know different in what way—and feeling something different—something I could not even imagine when imagining with all my might. I might conceivably have gone through my whole life trying to imagine the unimaginable and I might have died as I suppose women on Solaria—and men, too—often do, never knowing, even after three or four centuries. Never knowing. Having children, but never knowing.

“But one touch of your cheek, Elijah, and I knew. Isn’t that amazing? You taught me what I might imagine. Not the mechanics of it, not the dull, reluctant approach of bodies, but something that I could never have conceived as having anything to do with it. The took on a face, the sparkle in an eye, the feeling of—gentleness—kindness—something I can’t even describe—acceptance—a lowering of the terrible barrier between individuals. Love, I suppose—a convenient word to encompass all of that and more.

“I felt love for you, Elijah, because I thought you could feel love for me. I don’t say you loved me, but it seemed to me you could. I never had that and, although in ancient literature they talked of it, I didn’t know what they meant any more than when men in those same books talked about ‘honor’ and killed each other for its sake. I accepted the word, but never made out its meaning. I still haven’t. And so it was with ‘love’ until I touched you.

“After that I could imagine—and I came to Aurora remembering you, and thinking of you, and talking to you endlessly in my mind and thinking that in Aurora I would meet a million Elijahs.”

She stopped, lost in her own thoughts for a moment, then suddenly went on:

“I didn’t. Aurora, it turned out, was, in its way, as bad as Solaria. In Solaria, sex was wrong. It was hated and we all, turned away from it. We could not love for the hatred that sex aroused.

“In Aurora, sex was boring. It was accepted calmly, easily—as easily as breathing. If one felt the impulse one reached out toward anyone who seemed suitable and, if that suitable person was not at the moment engaged in something that could not be put aside, sex followed in any fashion that was convenient. Like breathing.—But where is the ecstasy in breathing? If one were choking, then perhaps the first shuddering breath that followed upon deprivation might be an overwhelming delight and relief. But if one never choked?

“And if one never unwillingly went without sex? If it were taught to youngsters on an even basis with reading and programming? If children were expected to experiment as a matter of course, and if older children were expected to help out?

“Sex—permitted and free as water—has nothing to do with love on Aurora, just as sex—forbidden and a thing of shame—has nothing to do with love on Solaria. In either case, children are few and must come about only after formal application.—And then, if permission is granted, there must be an interlude of sex designed for childbearing only, dull and brackish. If, after a reasonable time, impregnation doesn’t follow, the spirit rebels and artificial insemination is resorted to.

“In time, as on Solaria, ectogenesis will be the thing, so that fertilization and fetal development will take place in genotaria and sex will be left to itself as a form of social interaction and play that has no more to do with love than space-polo does.

“I could not move into the Auroran attitude, Elijah. I had not been brought up to it. With terror, I had reached out for sex and no one refused—and no one mattered. Each man’s eyes were blank when I offered myself and remained blank as they accepted. Another one, they, said, what matter? They were willing, but no more than willing.

“And touching them meant nothing. I might have been touching my husband. I learned to go through with it, to follow their lead, to accept their guidance—and it all still meant nothing. I gained not even the urge to do it to myself and by myself. The feeling you had given me never returned and, in time, I gave up.

“In all this, Dr. Fastolfe was my friend. He alone, on all Aurora, knew everything that happened on Solaria. At least, so I think. You know that the full story was not made public and certainly did not appear in that dreadful hyperwave program that I’ve heard of—I refused to watch it.

“Dr. Fastolfe protected me against the lack of understanding on the part of Aurorans and against their general contempt for Solarians. He protected me also against the despair that filled me after a while.

“No, we were not lovers. I would have offered myself, but by the time it occurred to me that I might do so, I no longer felt that the feeling you had inspired, Elijah, would ever recur. I thought it might have been a trick of memory and I gave up. I did not offer myself. Nor did he offer himself. I do not know why he did not. Perhaps he could see that my despair arose over my failure to find anything useful in sex and did not want to accentuate the despair by repeating the failure. It would be typically kind of him to be careful of me in this way—so we were not lovers. He was merely my friend at a time when I needed that so much more.

“There you are, Elijah. You have the whole answer to the questions you asked. You wanted to know my relationship with Dr. Fastolfe and said you needed information. You have it. Are you satisfied?”

Baley tried not to let his misery show. “I am sorry, Gladia, that life has been so hard for you. You have given me the information I needed. You have given me more information than, perhaps, you think you have.”

Gladia frowned. “In what way?”

Baley did not answer directly. He said, “Gladia, I am glad that your memory of me has meant so much to you. It never occurred to me at any time on Solaria, that I was impressing you so and, even if it had, I would not have tried—You know.”

“I know, Elijah,” she said, softening. “Nor would it have availed you if you had tried. I couldn’t have.”

“And I know that.—Nor do I take what you have told me as an invitation now. One touch, one moment of sexual insight, need be no more than that. Very likely, it can never be repeated and that onetime existence ought not to be spoiled by foolish attempts at resurrection. That is a reason why I do not now offer myself. My failure to do so is not to be interpreted as one more blank ending for you. Besides—”

“Yes. You have, as I said earlier, told me perhaps more than you realize you did. You have told me that the story does not end with your despair.”

“Why do you say that?”

“In telling me of the feeling that was inspired by the touch upon my cheek, you said something like—‘looking back on it long afterward, when I had learned, I realized that I had very nearly experienced an orgasm.’—But then you went on to explain that sex with Aurorans was never successful and, I presume, you did not then experience orgasm either. Yet you must have, Gladia, if you recognized the sensation you experienced that time on Solaria. You could not look back and recognize it for what it was, unless you had learned to love successfully. In other words, you have had a lover and you have experienced love. If I am to believe that Dr. Fastolfe is not your lover and has not been, then it follows that someone else is—or was.”

“And if so? Why is that your concern, Elijah?”

“I don’t know if it is or is not, Gladia. Tell me who it is and, if it proves to be not my concern, that will be the end of it.”

Gladia was silent.

Baley said, “If you don’t tell me, Gladia, I will have to tell you. I told you earlier that I am not in a position to spare your feelings.”

Gladia remained silent, the corners of her lips whitening with pressure.

“It must be someone, Gladia, and your sorrow over Jander’s loss is extreme. You sent Daneel out because you could not bear to look at him for the reminder of Jander that his face brought. If I am wrong in deciding that it was Jander Panell—” He paused a moment, then said harshly, “If the robot, Jander Panell, was not your lover, say so.”

And Gladia whispered, “Jander Panell, the robot, was not my lover.” Then, loudly and firmly, she said, “He was my husband!”

25

Baley’s lips moved soundlessly, but there was no mistaking the tetrasyllabic exclamation.

“Yes,” said Gladia. “Jehoshaphat! You are startled. Why? Do you disapprove?”

Baley said tonelessly, “it is not my place either to approve or disapprove.”

“Which means you disapprove.”

“Which means I seek only information. How does one distinguish between a lover and a husband on Aurora?”

“If two people live together in the same establishment for a period of time, they may refer to each other as ‘wife’ or ‘husband,’ rather than as ‘lover’.”

“How long a period of time?”

“That varies from region to region, I understand, according to local option. In the city of Eos, the period of time is three months.”

“It is also required that during this period of time one refrain from sexual relations with others?”

Gladia’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why?”

“I merely ask.”

“Exclusivity is unthinkable on Aurora. Husband or lover, it makes no difference. One engages in sex at pleasure.”

“And did you please while you were with Jander?”

“As it happens I did not, but that was my choice.”

“Others offered themselves?”

“Occasionally.”

“And you refused?”

“I can always refuse at will. That is part of the nonexclusivity.”

“But did you refuse?”

“I did.”

“And did those whom you refused know why you refused?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did they know that you had a robot husband?”

“I had a husband. Don’t call him a robot husband. There is no such expression.”

“Did they know?”

She paused. “I don’t know if they knew.”

“Did you tell them?”

“What reason was there to tell them?”

“Don’t answer my questions with questions. Did you tell them?”

“I did not.”

“How could you avoid that? Don’t you think an explanation for your refusal would have been natural?”

“No explanation is ever required. A refusal is simply a refusal and is always accepted. I don’t understand you.”

Baley stopped to gather his thoughts. Gladia and he were not at cross-purposes; they were running down parallel tracks.

He started again. “Would it have seemed natural on Solaria to have a robot for a husband?”

“On Solaria, it would have been unthinkable and I would never have thought of such a possibility. On Solaria, everything was unthinkable.—And on Earth, too, Elijah. Would your wife ever have taken a robot for a husband?”

“That’s irrelevant, Gladia.”

“Perhaps, but your expression was answer enough. We may not be Aurorans, you and I, but we are on Aurora. I have lived here for two years and accept its mores.”

“Do you mean that human-robot sexual connections are common here on Aurora?”

“I don’t know. I merely know that they are accepted because everything is accepted where sex is concerned—everything that is voluntary, that gives mutual satisfaction, and that does no physical harm to anyone. What conceivable difference would it make to anyone else how an individual or any combination of individuals found satisfaction? Would anyone worry about which books I viewed, what food I ate, what hour I went to sleep or awoke, whether I was fond of cats or disliked roses? Sex, too, is a matter of indifference—on Aurora.”

“On Aurora,” echoed Baley. “But you were not born on Aurora and were not brought up in its ways. You told me just a while ago that you couldn’t adjust to this very indifference to sex that you now praise. Earlier, you expressed your distaste for multiple marriages and for easy promiscuity. If you did not tell those whom you refused why you refused, it might have been because, in some hidden pocket of your being, you were ashamed of having Jander as a husband. You might have known—or suspected, or even merely supposed—that you were unusual in this—unusual even on Aurora—and you were ashamed.”

“No, Elijah, you won’t talk me into being ashamed. If having a robot as a husband is unusual even on Aurora, that would be because robots like Jander are unusual. The robots we have on Solaria, or on Earth—or on Aurora, except for Jander and Daneel—are not designed to give any but the most primitive sexual satisfaction. They might be used as masturbation devices, perhaps, as a mechanical vibrator might be, but nothing much more. When the new humaniform robot becomes widespread, so will human-robot sex become widespread.”

Baley said, “How did you come to possess Jander in the first place, Gladia? Only two existed—both in Dr. Fastolfe’s establishment. Did he simply give one of them—half of the total—to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Out of kindness, I suppose. I was lonely, disillusioned, wretched, a stranger in a strange land. He gave me Jander for company and I will never be able to thank him enough for it. It only lasted for half a year, but that half-year may be worth all my life beside.”

“Did Dr. Fastolfe know that Jander was your husband?”

“He never referred to it, so I don’t know.”

“Did you refer to it?”

“No.

“Why not?”

“I saw no need.—And no, it was not because I felt shame.”

“How did it happen?”

“That I saw no need?”

“No. That Jander became your husband.”

Gladia stiffened. She said in a hostile voice, “Why do I have to explain that?”

Baley said, “Gladia, it’s getting late. Don’t fight me every step of the way. Are you distressed that Jander is—is gone?”

“Need you ask?”

“Do you want to find out what happened?”

“Again, need you ask?”

“Then help me. I need all the information I can get if I am to begin—even begin—to make progress in working out an apparently insoluble problem. How did Jander become your husband?”

Gladia sat back in her chair and her eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. She pushed at the plate of crumbs that had once been pastry and said in a choked voice:

“Ordinary robots do not wear clothes, but they are so designed as to give the effect of wearing clothes. I know robots well, having lived on Solaria, and I have a certain amount of artistic talent—”

“I remember your light-forms,” said Baley softly.

Gladia nodded in acknowledgment. “I constructed a few designs for new models that would possess, in my opinion, more style and more interest than some of those in use in Aurora. Some of my paintings, based on those designs, are on the walls here. Others I have in other places in this establishment.

Baley’s eyes moved to the paintings. He had seen them. They were of robots, unmistakably. They were not naturalistic, but seemed elongated and unnaturally curved. He noted now that the distortions were so designed as to stress, quite cleverly, those portions which, now that he looked at them from anew perspective, suggested clothing. Somehow there was an impression of servants’ costumes he had once viewed in a book devoted to Victorian England of medieval times. Did Gladia know of these things or was it a merely chance, if circumstantial, similarity? It was a question of no account, probably, but not something (perhaps) to be forgotten.

When he had first noticed them, he had thought it was Gladia’s way of surrounding herself with robots in imitation of life on Solaria. She hated that life, she said, but that was only a product of her thinking mind—Solaria had been the only home she had really known and that is not easily sloughed off—perhaps not at all. And perhaps that remained a factor in her painting, even if her new occupation gave her a more plausible motive.

She was speaking. “I was successful. Some of the robot manufacturing concerns paid well for my designs and there were numerous cases of existing robots being resurfaced according to my directions. There was a certain satisfaction in all this that, in a small measure, compensated for the emotional emptiness of my life.

“When Jander was given me by Dr. Fastolfe, I had a robot who, of course, wore ordinary clothing. The dear doctor was, indeed, kind enough to give me a number of changes of clothing for Jander.

“None of it was in the least imaginative and it amused me to buy what I considered more appropriate garb. That meant measuring him quite accurately, since I intended to have my designs made to order—and that meant having him remove his clothing in stages.

“He did so—and it was only when he was completely unclothed that I quite realized how close to human he was. Nothing was lacking and those portions which might be expected to be erectile were, indeed, erectile. Indeed, they were under what, in a human, would be called conscious control. Jander could tumesce and detumesce on order. He told me so when I asked him if his penis was functional in that respect. I was curious and he demonstrated.

“You must understand that, although he looked very much like a man, I knew he was a robot. I have a certain hesitation about touching men—you understand—and I have no doubt that played a part in my inability to have satisfactory sex with Aurorans. But this was not a man and I had been with robots all my life. I could touch Jander freely.

“It didn’t take me long to realize that I enjoyed touching him and it didn’t take Jander long to realize that I enjoyed it. He was a finely tuned robot who followed the Three Laws carefully. To have failed to give joy when he could would have been to disappoint. Disappointment could be reckoned as harm and he could not harm a human being. He took infinite care then to give me joy and, because I saw in him the desire to give joy, something I never saw in Auroran men, I was indeed joyful and, eventually, I found out, to the full, I think, what an orgasm is.”

Baley said, “You were, then, completely happy?”

“With Jander? Of course. Completely.”

“You never quarreled?”

“With Jander? How could I? His only aim, his only reason for existence, was to please me.”

“Might that not disturb you? He only pleased you because he had to.”

“What motive would anyone have to do anything but that, for one reason or another, he had to?”

“And you never had the urge to try real—to try Aurorans after you had learned to experience orgasm?”

“It would have been an unsatisfactory substitute. I wanted only Jander.—And do you understand, now, what I have lost?”

Baley’s naturally grave expression lengthened into solemnity. He said, “I understand, Gladia. If I gave you pain earlier, please forgive me, for I did not entirely understand then.”

But she was weeping and he waited, unable to say anything more, unable to think of a reasonable way to console her.

Finally, she shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She whispered, “Is there anything more?”

Baley said apologetically, “A few questions on another subject and then I will be through annoying you.” He added cautiously, “For now.”

“What is it?” She seemed very tired.

“Do you know that there are people who seem to think that Dr. Fastolfe was responsible for the killing of Jander?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know, that Dr. Fastolfe himself admits that only he possesses the expertise to kill Jander in the way that he was killed?”

“Yes.—The dear doctor told me so himself.”

“Well, then, Gladia, do you think Dr. Fastolfe killed Jander?”

She looked up at him, suddenly and sharply, and then said angrily, “Of course not. Why should he? Jander was his robot to begin with and he was full of care for him. You don’t know the dear doctor as I do, Elijah. He is a gentle person who would hurt no one and who would never hurt a robot. To suppose he would kill one is to suppose that a rock would fall upward.”

“I have no further questions, Gladia, and the only other business I have here, at the moment, is to see Jander—what remains of Jander—if I have your permission.”

She was suspicious again, hostile. “Why? Why?”

“Gladia! Please! I don’t expect it to be of any use, but I must see Jander and know that seeing him is of no use. I will try to do nothing that will offend your sensibilities.”

Gladia stood up. Her gown, so simple as to be nothing more than a closely fitting sheath, was not black (as it would have been on Earth) but of a dull color that showed no sparkle anywhere in it. Baley, no connoisseur of clothing, realized how well it represented—mourning.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

26

Baley followed Gladia through several rooms, the walls of which glowed dully. On one or two occasions, he caught a hint of movement, which he took to be a robot getting rapidly out of the way, since they had been told not to intrude.

Through a hallway, then, and up a short flight of stairs into a small room in which one part of one wall gleamed to give the effect of a spotlight.

The room held a cot and a chair—and no other furnishings.

“This was his room,” said Gladia. Then, as though answering Baley’s thought, she went on to say, “It was all he needed. I left him alone as much as I could—all day if I could. I did not want to ever grow fired of him.” She shook her head. “I wish now I had stayed with him every second. I didn’t know our time would be so short.—Here he is.”

Jander was lying on the cot and Baley looked at him gravely. The robot was covered with a smooth and shiny material. The spotlighted wall cast its glow on, Jander’s head, which was smooth and almost inhuman in its serenity. The eyes were wide open, but they were opaque and lusterless. He looked enough like Daneel to give ample point to Gladia’s discomfort at Daneel’s presence. His neck and bare shoulders showed above the sheet.

Baley said, “Has Dr. Fastolfe inspected him?”

“Yes, thoroughly. I came to him in despair and, if you had seen him rush here, the concern he felt, the pain, the—the panic, you would never think he could have been responsible. There was nothing he could do.”

“Is he unclothed?”

“Yes. Dr. Fastolfe had to remove the clothing for a thorough examination. There was no point in replacing them.”

“Would you permit me to remove the covering, Gladia?”

“Must you?”

“I do not wish to be blamed for having missed some obvious point of examination.”

“What can you possibly find that Dr. Fastolfe didn’t?”

“Nothing, Gladia, but I must know that there is nothing for me to find. Please cooperate.”

“Well, then, go ahead, but please put the covering back exactly as it is now when you are done.”

She turned her back on him and on Jander, put her left arm against the wall, and rested her forehead on it. There was no sound from her—no motion—but Baley knew that she was weeping again.

The body was, perhaps, not quite human. The muscular contours were somehow simplified and a bit schematic, but all the parts were there: nipples, navel, penis, testicles, pubic hair, and so on. Even fine, light hair on the chest.

How many days was it since Jander had been killed? It struck Baley that he didn’t know, but it had been sometime before his trip to Aurora had begun. Over a week had passed and there was no sign of decay, either visually or olfactorily. A clear robotic difference.

Baley hesitated and then thrust one arm under Jander’s shoulders and another under his hips, working them through to the other side. He did not consider asking for Gladia’s help—that would be impossible. He heaved and, with some difficulty, turned Jander over without throwing him off the cot.

The cot creaked. Gladia must know what he was doing, but she did not turn around. Though she did not offer to help, she did not protest either.

Baley withdrew his arms. Jander felt warm to the touch. Presumably, the power unit continued to do so simple a thing as to maintain temperature, even with the brain inoperative. The body felt firm and resilient, too. Presumably, it never went through any stage analogous to rigor mortis.

One arm was now dangling off the cot in quite a human fashion. Baley moved it gently and released it. It swung to and fro slightly and came to a halt. He bent one leg at the knee and studied the foot, then the other. The buttocks were perfectly formed and there was even an anus.

Baley could not get rid of the feeling of uneasiness. The notion that he was violating the privacy of a human being would not go away. If it were a human corpse, its coldness and its stiffness would have deprived it of humanity.

He thought uncomfortably: A robot corpse is much more human than a human corpse.

Again he reached under Jander, lifted, and turned him over.

He smoothed out the sheet as best he could, then replaced the cover as it had been and smoothed that. He stepped back and decided it was as it had been at first—or as near to that as he could manage.

“I’m finished, Gladia,” he said.

She turned, looked at Jander with wet eyes, and said, “May we go, then?”

“Yes, of course, but Gladia—”

“Well?”

“Will you be keeping him this way? I imagine he won’t decay.”

“Does it matter if I do?”

“In some ways, yes. You must give yourself a chance to recover. You can’t spend three centuries mourning. What is over is over.” (His statements sounded hollowly sententious in his own ear. What must they have sounded like in hers?)

She said, “I know you mean it kindly, Elijah. I have been requested to keep Jander till the investigation is done. He will then be torched at my request.”

“Torched?”

“Put under a plasma torch and reduced to his elements, as human corpses are. I will have holograms of him—and memories. Will that satisfy you?”

“Of course. I must return to Dr. Fastolfe’s house now.”

“Yes. Have you learned anything from Jander’s body?”

“I did not expect to, Gladia.”

She faced him full. “And Elijah, I want you to find who did this and—why. I must know.”

“But Gladia—”

She shook her head violently, as though keeping out anything she wasn’t ready to hear. “I know you can do this.”