The Robots of Dawn

27

Baley emerged from Gladia’s house into the sunset. He turned toward what he assumed must be the western horizon and found Aurora’s sun, a deep scarlet in color, topped by thin strips of ruddy clouds set in an apple-green sky.

“Jehoshaphat,” he murmured. Clearly, Aurora’s sun, cooler and more orange than Earth’s sun, accentuated the difference at setting, when its light passed through a greater thickness of Aurora.

Daneel was behind him; Giskard, as before, well in front.

Daneel’s voice was in his ear. “Are you well, Partner Elijah?”

“Quite well,” said Baley, pleased with himself. “I’m handling the Outside well, Daneel. I can even admire the sunset. Is it always like this?”

Daneel gazed dispassionately at the setting sun and said, “Yes. But let us move quickly toward Dr. Fastolfe’s establishment. At this time of year, the twilight does not last long, Partner Elijah, and I would wish you there while you can still see easily.”

“I’m ready. Let’s go.” Baley wondered if it might not be better to wait for the darkness. It would not be pleasant not to see, but, then, it would give him the illusion of being enclosed—and he was not, in his heart, sure as to how long this euphoria induced by admiring a sunset (a sunset, mind you, Outside) would last. But that was a cowardly uncertainty and he would not own up to it.

Giskard noiselessly drifted backward toward him and said, “Would you prefer to wait, sir? Would the darkness suit you better? We ourselves will not be discommoded.”

Baley became aware of other robots, farther off, on every side. Had Gladia marked off her field robots for guard duty or had Fastolfe sent his?

It accentuated the way they were all caring for him and, perversely, he would not admit to weakness. He said, “No, we’ll go now,” and struck off at a brisk walk toward Fastolfe’s establishment, which could just see through the distant trees.

Let the robots follow or not, as they wished, he thought boldly. He knew that, if he let himself think about it, there would be something within him that would still quail at the thought of himself on the outer skin of a planet with no protection but air between himself and the great void, but he would not think of it.

It was the exhilaration at being free of the fear that made his jaws tremble and his teeth click. Or it was—the cool wind of evening that did it—and that also—set the gooseflesh to appearing on his arms.

It was not the Outside.

It was not.

He said, trying to unclench his teeth, “How well did you know Jander, Daneel?”

Daneel said, “We were together for some time. From the time of friend Jander’s construction, till he passed into the establishment of Miss Gladia, we were together steadily.”

“Did it bother you, Daneel, that Jander resembled you so closely?”

“No, sir. He and I each knew ourselves apart, Partner Elijah, and Dr. Fastolfe did not mistake us either. We were, therefore, two individuals.”

“And could you tell them apart, too, Giskard?” They were closer to him now, perhaps because the other robots had taken over the long-distance duties.

Giskard said, “There was no occasion, as I recall, on which it was important that I do so.”

“And if there had been, Giskard?”

“Then I could have done so.”

“What was your opinion of Jander, Daneel?”

Daneel said, “My opinion, Partner Elijah? Concerning what aspect of Jander do you wish my opinion?”

“Did he do his work well, for instance?”

“Certainly.”

“Was he satisfactory in every way?”

“In every way, to my knowledge.”

“How about you, Giskard? What is your opinion?”

Giskard said, “I was never as close to friend Jander as friend Daneel was and it would not be proper for me to state an opinion. I can say that, to my knowledge, Dr. Fastolfe was uniformly pleased with friend Jander. He seemed equally pleased with friend Jander and with friend Daneel. However, I do not think my programming is such as to allow me to offer certainty in such matters.”

Baley said, “What about the period after Jander entered the household of Miss Gladia? Did you know him then, Daneel?”

“No, Partner Elijah. Miss Gladia kept him at her establishment. On those occasions when she visited Dr. Fastolfe, he was never with her, as far as I was aware. On occasions when I accompanied Dr. Fastolfe on a visit to Miss Gladia’s establishment, I did not see friend Jander.”

Baley felt a little surprised at that. He turned to Giskard in order to ask the same question, paused, and then shrugged. He was not really getting anywhere and, as Dr. Fastolfe had indicated earlier, there is not really much use in cross-examining a robot. They would not knowingly say anything that would harm a human being, nor could they be badgered, bribed, or cajoled into it. They would not openly lie, but they would remain stubbornly—if politely—insistent on giving useless answers.

And—perhaps—it no longer mattered.

They were at Fastolfe’s doorstep now and Baley felt his breath quickening. The trembling of his arms and lower lip, he was confident, was, indeed, only because of the cool wind.

The sun had gone now, a few stars were visible, the sky was darkening to an odd greenish-purple that made it seem bruised, and he passed through the door into the warmth of the glowing walls.

He was safe.

Fastolfe greeted him. “You are back in good time, Mr. Baley. Was your session with Gladia fruitful?”

Baley said, “Quite fruitful, Dr. Fastolfe. It is even possible that I hold the key to the answer in my hand.”

28

Fastolfe merely smiled politely, in a way that signaled neither surprise, elation, nor disbelief. He led the way into what was obviously a dining room, a smaller and friendlier one than the one in which they had had lunch.

“You and I, my dear Mr. Baley,” said Fastolfe pleasantly, “will eat an informal dinner alone. Merely the two of us. We will even have the robots absent if that will please you. Nor shall we talk business unless you desperately want to.”

Baley said nothing, but paused to look at the walls in astonishment. They were wavering, luminous green, with differences in brightness and in tint that were slowly progressive from bottom to top. There was a hint of fronds of deeper green and shadowy flickers this way and that. The walls made the room appear to be a well-lit grotto at the bottom of a shallow arm of the sea. The effect was vertiginous—at least, Baley found it so.

Fastolfe had no trouble interpreting Baley’s expression. He said, “It’s an acquired taste, Mr. Baley, I admit.—Giskard, subdue the wall illumination.—Thank you.”

Baley drew a breath of relief. “And thank you, Dr. Fastolfe. May I visit the Personal, sir?”

“But of course.”

Baley hesitated. “Could you—”

Fastolfe chuckled. “You’ll find it perfectly normal, Mr. Baley. You will have no complaints.”

Baley bent his head. “Thank you very much.”

Without the intolerable make-believe, the Personal—he believed it to be the same one he had used earlier in the day was merely what it was, a much more luxurious and hospitable one than he had ever seen. It was incredibly different from those on Earth, which were rows of identical units stretching indefinitely, each ticked off for use by one—and only one individual at a time.

It gleamed somehow with hygienic cleanliness. Its outermost molecular layer might have been peeled off after every use and a new layer laid on. Obscurely, Baley felt that, if he stayed on Aurora long enough, he would find it difficult to readjust himself to Earth’s crowds, which forced hygiene and cleanliness into the background—something to pay a distant obeisance to—a not quite attainable ideal.

Baley, standing there surrounded by conveniences of ivory and gold (not real ivory, no doubt, nor real gold), gleaming and smooth, suddenly found himself shuddering at Earth’s casual exchange of bacteria and wincing at its richness in infectivity. Was that not what the Spacers felt? Could he blame them?

He washed his hands thoughtfully, playing with the tiny touches here and there along the control-strip in order to change the temperature. And yet these Aurorans were so unnecessarily garish in their interior decorations, so insistent in pretending they were living in a state of nature when they had tamed nature and broken it.—Or was that only Fastolfe?

After all, Gladia’s establishment had been far more austere.—Or was that only because she had been brought up on Solaria?

The dinner that followed was an unalloyed delight. Again, as at lunch, there was the distinct feeling of being closer to nature. The dishes were numerous—each different, each in small portions—and, in a number of cases, it was possible to see that they had once been part of plants and animals. He was beginning to look upon the inconveniences—the occasional small bone, bit of gristle, strand of fiber, which might have repelled him earlier—as a bit of adventure.

The first course was a little fish—a little fish that one ate whole, with whatever internal organs it might have—and that struck him, at first sight, as another foolish way of rubbing one’s nose in Nature with a capital “N.” But he swallowed the little fish anyway, as Fastolfe did, and the taste converted him at once. He had never experienced anything like it. It was as though taste buds had suddenly been invented and inserted in his tongue.

Tastes changed from dish to dish and some were distinctly odd and not entirely pleasant, but he found it didn’t matter. The thrill of a distinct taste, of different distinct tastes (at Fastolfe’s instruction, he took a sip of faintly flavored water between dishes) was what counted—and not the inner detail.

He tried not to gobble, nor to concentrate his attention entirely on the food, nor to lick his plate. Desperately, he continued to observe and imitate Fastolfe and to ignore the other’s kindly but definitely amused glance.

“I trust,” said Fastolfe, “you find this to your taste.”

“Quite good,” Baley managed to choke out.

“Please don’t force yourself into useless politeness. Do not eat anything that seems strange or unpalatable to you. I will have additional helpings of anything you do like brought in its place.”

“Not necessary, Dr. Fastolfe. It is all rather satisfactory.”

“Good.”

Despite Fastolfe’s offer to eat without robots present, it was a robot who served. (Fastolfe, accustomed to this, probably did not even notice the fact, Baley thought—and he did not bring the matter up.)

As was to be expected, the robot was silent and his motions were flawless. His handsome livery seemed to be out of historical dramas that Baley had seen on hyperwave. It was only at very close view that one could see how much the costume was an illusion of the lighting and how close the robot exterior was to a smooth metal finish—and no more.

Baley said, “Has the waiter’s surface been designed by Gladia?”

“Yes,” said Fastolfe, obviously pleased. “How complimented she will feel to know that you recognized her touch. She is good, isn’t she? Her work is coming into increasing popularity and she fills a useful niche in Auroran society.”

Conversation throughout the meal had been pleasant but unimportant. Baley had had no urge to “talk business” and had, in fact, preferred to be largely silent while enjoying the meal and leaving it to his unconscious—or, whatever faculty took over in the absence of hard thought—to decide on how to approach the matter that seemed to him now to be the central point of the Jander problem.

Fastolfe took the matter out of his hands, rather, by saying, “And now that you’ve mentioned Gladia, Mr. Baley, may I ask how it came about that you left for her establishment rather deep in despair and have returned almost buoyant and speaking of perhaps having the key to the whole affair in your hand? Did you learn something new—and unexpected, perhaps—at Gladia’s?”

“That I did,” said Baley absently—but he was lost in the dessert, which he could not recognize at all, and of which (after some yearning in his eyes had acted to inspire the waiter) a second small helping was placed before him. He felt replete. He had never in his life so enjoyed the act of eating and for the first time found himself resenting the physiological limits that made it impossible to eat forever. He felt rather ashamed of himself that he should feel so.

“And what was it learned that was new and unexpected?” asked Fastolfe with quiet patience. “Presumably something I didn’t know myself?”

“Perhaps. Gladia told me that you had given Jander to her about half a year ago.”

Fastolfe nodded. “I knew that. So I did.”

Baley said sharply, “Why?”

The amiable look on Fastolfe’s face faded slowly. Then he said, “Why not?”

Baley said, “I don’t know why not, Dr. Fastolfe. I don’t care. My question is: Why?”

Fastolfe shook his head slightly and said nothing.

Baley said, “Dr. Fastolfe, I am here in order to straighten out what seems to be a miserable mess. Nothing you have done—nothing—has made things simple. Rather, you have taken what seems to be pleasure in showing me how bad a mess it is and in destroying any speculation I may advance as a possible solution. Now, I don’t expect others to answer my questions. I have no official standing on this world and have no right to ask questions, let alone force answers.

“You, however, are different. I am here at your request and I am trying to save your career as well as mine and, according to your own account of matters, I am trying to save Aurora as well as Earth. Therefore, I expect you to answer my questions fully and truthfully. Please don’t indulge in stalemating tactics, such as asking me why not when I ask why. Now, once again and for the last time: Why?”

Fastolfe thrust out his lips and looked grim. “My apologies, Mr. Baley. If I hesitated to answer, it is because, looking back on it, it seems there is no very dramatic reason. Gladia Delmarre—no, she doesn’t want her surname used—Gladia is a stranger on this planet; she has undergone traumatic experiences on her home world, as you know, and traumatic experiences on this one, as perhaps you don’t know—”

“I do know. Please be more direct.”

“Well, then, I was sorry for her. She was alone and Jander, I thought, would make her feel less alone.”

“Sorry for her? Just that. Are you lovers? Have you been?”

“No, not at all. I did not offer. Nor did she.—Why? Did she tell you we were lovers?”

“No, she did not, but I need independent confirmation, in any case. I’ll let you know when there is a contradiction; you needn’t concern yourself about that. How is it that with you sympathizing so with her and—from what I gather from Gladia, she feeling so grateful to you—that neither of you offered yourself? I gather that on Aurora offering sex is about on a par with commenting upon the weather.”

Fastolfe frowned. “You know nothing about it, Mr. Baley. Don’t judge us by the standards of your own world. Sex is not a matter of great importance to us, but we are careful as to how we use it. It may not seem so to you, but none of us offer it lightly. Gladia, unused to our ways and sexually frustrated on Solaria, perhaps did offer it lightly—or desperately might be the better word—and it may not be surprising, therefore, that she did not enjoy the results.”

“Didn’t you try to improve matters?”

“By offering myself? I am not what she needs and, for that matter, she is not what I need. I was sorry for her. I like her. I admire her artistic talent. And I want her to be happy.—After all, Mr. Baley, surely you’ll agree that the sympathy of one human being for another need not rest on sexual desire or on anything but decent human feeling. Have you never felt sympathy for anyone? Have you never wanted to help someone for no reason other than the good feeling it gave you to relieve another’s misery? What kind of planet do you come from?”

Baley said, “What you say is justified, Dr. Fastolfe. I do not question the fact that you are a decent human being. Still, bear with me. When I first asked you why you had given Jander to Gladia, you did not tell me then what you have told me just now—and with considerable emotion, too, I might add. Your first impulse was to duck, to hesitate, to play for time by asking why not. What is it about?

“Granted that what you finally told me is so, we question that embarrassed you at first? What reason—that you did not want to admit—came to you before you settled on the reason you did want to admit? Forgive me for insisting, but I must know—and not out of personal curiosity, I assure you. If what you tell me is of no use in this sorry business, then you may consider it thrown into a black hole.”

Fastolfe said in a low voice, “In all honesty, I am not sure why I parried your question. You surprised me into something that, perhaps, I don’t want to face. Let me think, Mr. Baley.”

They sat there together quietly. The server cleared the table and left the room. Daneel and Giskard were elsewhere (presumably, they were guarding the house). Baley and Fastolfe were at last alone in a robot-free room.

Finally, Fastolfe said, “I don’t know what I ought to tell you, but let me go back some decades. I have two daughters. Perhaps you know that. They are by two different mothers—”

“Would you rather have had sons, Dr. Fastolfe?”

Fastolfe looked genuinely surprised. “No. Not at all. The mother of my second daughter wanted a son, I believe, but I wouldn’t give my consent to artificial insemination with selected sperm—not even with my own sperm—but insisted on the natural throw of the genetic dice. Before you ask why, it is because I prefer a certain operation of chance in life and because I think, on the whole, I wanted a chance to have a daughter. I would have accepted a son, you understand, but I didn’t want to abandon the chance of a daughter. I approve of daughters, somehow. Well, my second proved a daughter and that may have been one of the reasons that the mother dissolved the marriage soon after the birth. On the other hand, a sizable percentage of marriages are dissolved after a birth in any case, so perhaps I needn’t look for special reasons.

“She took the child with her, I take it.”

Fastolfe bent a puzzled glance at Baley. “Why should she do that?—But I forget. You’re from Earth. No, of course not. The child would have been brought up in a nursery, where she could be properly cared for, of course. Actually, though”—he wrinkled his nose as though in sudden embarrassment over a peculiar memory—“she wasn’t put there. I decided to bring her up myself. It was legal to do so but very unusual. I was quite young, of course, not yet having attained the century mark, but already I had made my mark in robotics.”

“Did you manage?”

“You mean to bring her up successfully? Oh yes. I grew quite fond of her. I named her Vasilia. It was my mother’s name, you see.” He chuckled reminiscently. “I get these odd streaks of sentiment—like my affection for my robots. I never met my mother, of course, but her name was on my charts. And she’s still alive, as far as I know, so I could see her but I think there’s something queasy about meeting someone in whose womb you once were.—Where was I?”

“You named your daughter Vasilia.”

“Yes—and I did bring her up and actually grew fond of her. Very fond of her. I could see where the attraction lay in doing something like that, but, of course, I was an embarrassment to my friends and I had to keep her out of their way when there was contact to be made, either social or professional. I remember once—” He paused.

“Yes?”

“It’s something I haven’t thought of for decades. She came running out, weeping for some reason, and threw herself into my arms when Dr. Sarton was with me, discussing one of the very earliest design programs for humaniform robots. She was only seven years old, I think and, of course, I hugged her, and kissed her, and ignored the business at hand, which was quite unforgivable of me. Sarton left, coughing and choking—and most indignant. It was a full week before I could renew contact with him and resume deliberation. Children shouldn’t have that effect on people, I suppose, but there are so few children and they are so rarely encountered.”

“And your daughter—Vasilia—was fond of you?”

“Oh yes—at least, until—She was very fond of me. I saw to her schooling and made sure her mind was allowed to expand to the fullest.”

“You said she was fond of you until—something. You did not finish the sentence. There came a time, then, when she was no longer fond of you. When was that?”

“She wanted to have her own establishment once she grew old enough. It was only natural.”

“And you did not want it?”

“What do you mean I did not want it? Of course, I wanted it. You keep assuming I’m a monster, Mr. Baley.”

“Am I to assume, instead, that once she reached the age when she was to have her own establishment, she no longer felt the same affection for you that she naturally had when she was actively your daughter, living in your establishment as a dependent?”

“Not quite that simple. In fact, it was rather complicated. You see—” Fastolfe seemed embarrassed. “I refused her when she offered herself to me.”

“She offered herself to you?” said Baley, horrified.

“That part was only natural,” said Fastolfe indifferently. “She knew me best. I had instructed her in sex, encouraged her experimentation, taken her to the Games of Eros, done my best for her. It was something to be expected and I was foolish for not expecting it and letting myself be caught.”

“But incest?”

Fastolfe said, “Incest? Oh yes, an Earthly term. On Aurora, there’s no such thing, Mr. Baley. Very few Aurorans know their immediate family. Naturally, if marriage is in question and children are applied for, there is a genealogical search, but what has that to do with social sex? No no, the unnatural thing is that I refused my own daughter.” He reddened—his large ears most of all.

“I should hope so,” muttered Baley.

“I had no decent reasons for it, either—at least none that I could explain to Vasilia. It was criminal of me not to foresee the matter and prepare a foundation for a rational rejection of one so young and inexperienced, if that were necessary, that would not wound her and subject her to a fearful humiliation. I am really unbearably ashamed that. I took the unusual responsibility of bringing up a child, only to subject her to such an unpalatable experience. It seemed to me that we could continue our relationship as father and daughter—as friend and friend—but she did not give up. Whenever I rejected her, no matter how affectionately I tried to do so, matters grew worse between us.”

“Until finally—”

“Finally, she wanted her own establishment. I opposed it at first, not because I didn’t want her to have one, but because I wanted to reestablish our loving relationship before she left. Nothing I did helped. It was, perhaps, the most trying time of my life. Eventually, she simply—and rather violently—insisted on leaving and I could hold out no longer. She was a professional roboticist by then—I am grateful that she didn’t abandon the profession out of distaste for me—and she was able to found an establishment without any help from me. She did so, in fact, and since then there has been little contact between us.”

Baley said, “It might be, Dr. Fastolfe, that, since she did not abandon robotics, she does not feel wholly estranged.”

“It is what she does best and is most interested in. It has nothing to do with me. I know that, for to begin with, I thought as you did and I made friendly overtures, but they were not received.”

“Do you miss her, Dr. Fastolfe?”

“Of course I miss her, Mr. Baley.—That is an example of the mistake of bringing up a child. You give into an irrational impulse—an atavistic desire—and it leads to inspiring the child with the strongest possible feeling of love and then subjecting yourself to the possibility of having to refuse that same child’s first offer of herself and scarring her emotionally for life. And, to add to that, you subject yourself to this thoroughly irrational feeling of regret-of-absence. It’s something I never felt before and have never felt since. She and I both suffered needlessly and the fault is entirely mine.”

Fastolfe fell into a kind of rumination and Baley said gently, “And what has all this to do with Gladia?”

Fastolfe started. “Oh! I had forgotten. Well, it’s rather simple. Everything I’ve said about Gladia is true. I liked her. I sympathized with her. I admired her talent. But, in addition, she resembles Vasilia. I noticed the similarity when I saw the first hyperwave account of her arrival from Solaria. It was quite startling and it made me take an interest.” He sighed. “When I realized that she, like Vasilia, had been sex-scarred, it was more than I could endure. I arranged to have her established near me, as you see. I have been her friend and done my best to cushion the difficulties of adapting to a strange world.”

“She is a daughter-substitute, then.”

“After a fashion, yes, I suppose you could call it that, Mr. Baley.—And you have no idea how glad I am she never took it into her head to offer herself to me. To have rejected her would have been to relive my rejection of Vasilia. To have accepted her out of an inability to repeat the rejection would have embittered my life, for then I would have felt that I was doing for this stranger—this faint reflection of my daughter what I would not do for my daughter, herself. Either way but, never mind, you can see now why I hesitated to answer you at first. Somehow, thinking about it led my mind back to this tragedy in my life.”

“And your other daughter?”

“Lumen?” said Fastolfe indifferently. “I never had any contact with her, though I hear of her from time to time.”

“She’s running for political office, I understand.”

“A local one. On the Globalist ticket.”

“What is that?”

“The Globalists? They favor Aurora alone—just our own globe, you see. Aurorans are to take the lead in settling the Galaxy. Others are to be barred, as far as possible, particularly Earthmen. ‘Enlightened self-interest’ they call it.”

“This is not your view, of course.”

“Of course not. I am heading the Humanist party, which believes that all human beings have a fight to share in the Galaxy. When I refer to ‘my enemies,’ I mean the Globalists.”

“Lumen, then, is one of your enemies.”

“Vasilia is one, also. She is, indeed, a member of the Robotics Institute of Aurora—the RIA—that was founded a few years ago and which is run by roboticists who view me as a demon to be defeated at all costs. As far as I know, however, my various ex-wives are apolitical, perhaps even Humanist. “He smiled wryly and said, “We’ll, Mr. Baley, have you asked all the questions you wanted to ask?”

Baley’s hands aimlessly searched for pockets in his smooth, loose Auroran breeches—something he had been doing periodically since he had begun wearing them on the ship—and found none. He compromised, as he sometimes did, by folding his arms across his chest.

He said, “Actually, Dr. Fastolfe, I’m not at all sure you have yet answered the first question. It seems to me that you never tire of evading that. Why did you give Jander to Gladia? Let’s get all of it into the open, so that we may be able to see light in what now seems darkness.”

29

Fastolfe reddened again. It might have been anger this time, but he continued to speak softly.

He said, “Do not bully me, Mr. Baley. I have given you your answer. I was sorry for Gladia and I thought Jander would be company for her. I have spoken more frankly to you than I would to anyone else, partly because of the position I am in and partly because you are not an Auroran. In return, I demand a reasonable respect.”

Baley bit his lower lip. He was not on Earth. He had no official authority behind him and he had more at stake than his professional pride.

He said, “I apologize, Dr. Fastolfe, if I have hurt your feelings. I do not mean to imply you are being untruthful or uncooperative. Nevertheless, I cannot operate without the whole truth. Let me suggest the possible answer I am looking for and you can then tell me if I am correct, or nearly correct, or totally wrong. Can it be that you have given Jander to Gladia, in order that he might serve as a focus for her sexual drive and so that—she might not have occasion to offer herself to you? Perhaps that was not your conscious reason, but think about it now. Is it possible that such a feeling contributed to the gift?”

Fastolfe’s hand picked up a light and transparent ornament that had been resting on the dining room table. It turned it over and over, over and over. Except for that motion, Fastolfe seemed frozen. Finally, he said, “That might be so, Mr. Baley. Certainly, after I loaned her Jander—it was never an outright gift, incidentally—I was less concerned about her offering herself to me.”

“Do you know whether Gladia made use of Jander for sexual purposes?”

“Did you ask Gladia if she made use of him, Mr. Baley?”

“That has nothing to do with my question. Do you know? Did you witness any overt sexual actions between, them? Did any of your robots inform you of such? Did she herself tell you?”

“The answer to all those questions, Mr. Baley, is no. If I stop to think about it, there is nothing particularly unusual about the use of robots for sexual purposes by either men or women. Ordinary robots are not particularly adapted to it, but human beings are ingenious in this respect. As for Jander, he is adapted to it because he is as humaniform as we could make him—”

“So that he might take part in sex.”

“No, that was never in our minds. It was the abstract problem of building a totally humaniform robot that exercised the late Dr. Sarton and myself.”

“But such humaniform robots are ideally designed for sex, are they not?”

“I suppose they are and now that I allow myself to think of it—and I admit I may have had it hidden in my mind from the start—Gladia might well have used Jander so. If she did, I hope the process gave her pleasure. I would consider my loan to her a good deed, if it had.”

“Could it have been more of a good deed than you counted upon?”

“In what way?”

“What would you say if I told you that Gladia and Jander were wife and husband?”

Fastolfe’s hand, still holding the ornament, closed convulsively upon it, held it tightly for a moment, then let it drop. “What? That’s ridiculous. It is legally impossible. There is no question of children, so there can’t conceivably be an application for any. Without the intention of such an application, there can be no marriage.”

“This is not a matter of legality, Dr. Fastolfe. Gladia is a Solarian, remember, and doesn’t have the Auroran outlook. It is a matter of emotion. Gladia herself told me that she considered Jander to have been her husband. I think she considers herself now his widow and that she has had another sexual trauma—and a very severe one. If, in any way, you knowingly contributed to this event—”

“By all the stars,” said Fastolfe with unwonted emotion, “I didn’t. Whatever else was in my mind, I never imagined that Gladia could fantasize marriage to a robot, however humaniform he might be. No Auroran could have imagined that.”

Baley nodded and raised his hand. “I believe you. I don’t think you are actor enough to be drowning me in a faked sincerity. But I had to know. It was, after all, just possible that—”

“No, it was not. Possible that I foresaw this situation? That I deliberately created this abominable widowhood, for some reason? Never. It was not conceivable, so I did not conceive it. Mr. Baley, whatever I meant in placing Jander in her establishment, I meant well. I did not mean this. Meaning well is a poor defense, I know, but it is all that I have to offer.”

“Dr. Fastolfe, let us refer to that no more,” said Baley. “What I have now to offer is a possible solution to the mystery.”

Fastolfe breathed deeply and sat back in his chair. “You hinted as much when you returned from Gladia’s.” He looked at Baley with a hint of savagery in his eyes. “Could you not have told me this ‘key’ you have at the start? Need we have gone through all—this?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Fastolfe. The key makes no sense without all—this.”

“Well, then. Get on with it.”

“I will. Jander was in a position that you, the greatest robotics theoretician in all the world, did not foresee, by your own admission. He was pleasing Gladia so well that she was deeply in love with him and considered him her husband. What if it turns out that, in pleasing her, he was also displeasing her?”

“I’m not sure as to your meaning.”

“Well, see here, Dr. Fastolfe—She was rather secretive about the matter. I gather that on Aurora sexual matters are not something one hides at all costs.”

“We don’t broadcast it over the hyperwave,” said Fastolfe dryly, “but we don’t make a greater secret of it than we do of any other strictly personal matter. We generally know who’s been whose latest partner and, if one is dealing with friends, we often get an idea of how good, or how enthusiastic, or how much the reverse one or the other partner—or both—might be. It’s a matter of small talk on occasion.”

“Yes, but you knew nothing of Gladia’s connection with Jander.”

“I suspected—”

“Not the same thing. She told you nothing. You saw nothing. Nor could any robots report anything. She kept it secret even from you, her best friend on Aurora. Clearly, her robots were given careful instructions never to discuss Jander and Jander himself must have been thoroughly instructed to give nothing away.”

“I suppose that’s a fair conclusion.”

“Why should she do that, Dr. Fastolfe?”

“A Solarian sense of privacy about sex?”

“Isn’t that the same as saying she was ashamed of it?”

“She had no cause to be, although the matter of considering Jander a husband would have made her a laughingstock.”

“She might have concealed that portion very easily without concealing everything. Suppose, in her Solarian way, she was ashamed.”

“Well, then?”

“No, one enjoys being ashamed—and she might have blamed Jander for it, in the rather unreasonable way people have of seeking to attribute to others the blame for unpleasantness that is clearly their own fault.”

“Yes?”

“There might have been times when Gladia, who has a shortfused temper, might have burst into tears, let us say, and upbraided Jander for being the source of her shame and her misery. It might not have lasted long and she might have shifted quickly to apologies and caresses, but would not Jander have clearly gotten the idea that he was actually the source of her shame and her misery?”

“Perhaps.”

“And might this not have meant to Jander that if he continued the relationship, he would make her miserable, and that if he ended the relationship, he would make her miserable. Whatever he did, he would be breaking the First Law and, unable to act in any way without such a violation, he could only find refuge in not acting at all—and so went into mental freeze-out.—Do you remember the story you told me earlier today of the legendary mindreading robot who was driven into stasis by that robotics pioneer?”

“By Susan Calvin, yes. I see! You model your scenario on that old legend. Very ingenious, Mr. Baley, but it won’t work.”

“Why not? When you said only you could bring about a mental freeze-out in Jander you did not have the faintest idea that he was involved so deeply in so unexpected a situation. It runs exactly parallel to the Susan Calvin situation.”

“Let’s suppose that the story about Susan Calvin and the mind-reading robot is not merely a totally fictitious legend. Let’s take it seriously. There would still be no parallel between that story and the Jander situation. In the case of Susan Calvin, we would be dealing with an incredibly primitive robot, one that today would not even achieve the status of a toy. It could deal only qualitatively with such matters: A creates misery; not-A creates misery; therefore mental freeze-out.”

Baley said, “And Jander?”

“Any modern robot—any robot of the last century—would weigh such matters quantitatively. Which of the two situations, A or not-A, would create the most misery? The robot would come to a rapid decision and opt for minimum misery. The chance that he would judge the two mutually exclusive alternatives to produce precisely equal quantities of misery is small and, even if that should turn out to be the case, the modern robot is supplied with a randomization factor. If A and not-A are precisely equal misery-producers according to his judgment, he chooses one or the other in a completely unpredictable way and then follows that unquestioningly. He does not go into mental freeze-out.”

“Are you saying it is impossible for Jander to go into mental freeze-out? You have been saying you could have produced it.”

“In the case of the humaniform positronic brain, there is a way of sidetracking the randomization factor that depends entirely on the way in which that brain is constructed. Even if you know the basic theory, it is a very difficult and long sustained process to so lead the robot down the garden path, so to speak, by a skillful succession of questions and orders as to finally induce the mental freeze-out. It is unthinkable that it be done by accident and the mere existence of an apparent contradiction as that produced by simultaneous love and shame could not do the trick without the most careful quantitative adjustment under the most unusual conditions.—Which leaves us, as I keep saying, with indeterministic chance as the only possible way in which it happened.”

“But your enemies will insist that your own guilt is the more likely.—Could we not, in our turn, insist that Jander was brought to mental freeze-out by the conflict brought on by Gladia’s love and shame? Would this not sound plausible? And would it not win public opinion to your side?”

Fastolfe frowned. “Mr. Baley, you are too eager. Think about it seriously. If we were to try to get out of our dilemma in this rather dishonest fashion, what would be the consequence? I say nothing of the shame and misery it would bring to Gladia, who would suffer not only the loss of Jander but the feeling that she herself had brought about that loss if, in fact, she had really felt and had somehow revealed her shame. I would not want to do that, but let us put that to one side, if we can. Consider, instead, that my enemies would say that I had loaned her Jander precisely to bring about what had happened. I would have done it, they would say, in order to develop a method for mental freeze-out in humaniform robots while escaping all apparent responsibility myself. We would be worse off than we are now, for I would not only be accused of being an underhanded intriguer, as I am now, but, in addition, of having behaved monstrously toward an unsuspecting woman whom I had pretended to befriend, something I have so far been spared.”

Baley was staggered. He felt his jaw drop and his voice degenerate to a stutter. “Surely they would not—”

“But they would. You yourself were at least half-inclined to think so not very many minutes ago.”

“Merely as a remote—”

“My enemies would not find it remote and they would not publicize it as remote.”

Baley knew he had reddened. He felt the wave of heat and found he could not look Fastolfe in the face. He cleared his throat and said, “You are right. I jumped for a way out without thinking and I can only ask your pardon. I am deeply ashamed.—There’s no way out, I suppose, but the truth if we can find it.”

Fastolfe said, “Don’t despair. You have already uncovered events in connection with Jander that I never dreamed of. You may uncover more and, eventually, what seems altogether a mystery to us now may unfold and become plain. What do you plan to do next?”

But Baley could think of nothing through the shame of his fiasco. He said, “I don’t really know.”

“Well, then, it was unfair of me to ask. You have had a long day and not an easy one. It is not surprising that your brain is a bit sluggish now. Why not rest, view a film, go to sleep? You will be better off in the morning.”

Baley nodded and mumbled, “Perhaps you’re right.”

But, at the moment, he didn’t think he’d be any better off in the morning at all.

30

The bedroom was cold, both in temperature and ambience. Baley shivered slightly. So low a temperature within a room gave it the unpleasant feeling of being Outside. The walls were faintly off-white and (unusual for Fastolfe’s establishment) were not decorated. The floor seemed to the sight to be of smooth ivory, but to the bare feet it felt carpeted. The bed was white and the smooth blanket was cold to the touch.

He sat down at the edge of the mattress and found it yielded very slightly to the pressure of his weight.

He said to Daneel, who had entered with him, “Daneel, does it disturb you when a human being tells a lie?”

“I am aware that human beings lie on occasion, Partner Elijah. Sometimes, a lie might be useful or even mandatory. My feeling about a lie depends upon the liar, the occasion, and the reason.”

“Can you always tell when a human being lies?”

“No, Partner Elijah.”

“Does it seem to you that Dr. Fastolfe often lies?”

“It has never seemed to me that Dr. Fastolfe has told a lie.”

“Even in connection with Jander’s death?”

“As far as I can tell, he tells the truth in every respect.”

“Perhaps he has instructed you to say that—were I to ask?”

“He has not, Partner Elijah.”

“But perhaps he instructed you to say that, too—”

He paused. Again—of what use was it to cross-examine a robot? And in this particular case, he was inviting infinite regression.

He was suddenly aware that the mattress had been yielding slowly under him until it now half-enfolded his hips. He rose suddenly and said, “Is there any way of warming the room, Daneel?”

“It will feel warmer when you are under the cover with the light out, Partner Elijah.”

“Ah.” He looked about suspiciously. “Would you put the light out, Daneel, and remain in the room when you have done so?”

The light went out almost at once and Baley realized that his supposition that this room, at least, was undecorated was totally wrong. As soon as it was dark, he felt he was Outside. There was the soft sound of wind in trees and the small, sleepy mutters of distant life-forms. There was also the illusion of stars overhead, with an occasional drifting cloud that was just barely visible.

“Put the light back on, Daneel!”

The room flooded with light.

“Daneel,” said Baley. “I don’t want any of that. I want no stars, no clouds, no sounds, no trees, no wind—no scents, either. I want darkness, featureless darkness. Could you arrange that?”

“Certainly, Partner Elijah.”

“Then do so. And show me how I may myself put out the light when I am ready to sleep.”

“I am here to protect you, Partner Elijah.”

Baley said grumpily, “You can do that, I am sure, from just the other side of the door. Giskard, I imagine, will be just outside the windows, if, indeed, there are windows beyond the draperies.

“There are.—If you cross that threshold, Partner Elijah, you will find a Personal reserved for yourself. That section of the wall is not material and you will move easily through it. The light will turn on as you enter and it will go out as you leave—and there are no decorations. You will be able to shower, if you wish, or do anything else that you care to before retiring or after waking.”

Baley turned in the indicated direction. He saw no break in the wall, but the floor molding in that spot did show a thickening as though it were a threshold.

“How do I see it in the dark, Daneel?” he asked.

“That section of the wall—which is not a wall—will glow faintly. As for the room light, there is this depression in the headboard of your bed which, if you place your finger within it, will darken the room if light—or lighten it if dark.

“Thank you. You may leave now.”

Half an hour later, he was through with the Personal and found himself huddling beneath the blanket, with the light out, enveloped by a warm spirit-hugging darkness.

As Fastolfe had said, it had been a long day. It was almost unbelievable that it had been only that morning that he had arrived on Aurora. He had learned a great deal and yet none of it had done him any good.

He lay in the dark and went over the events of the day in quiet succession, hoping that something might occur to him that had eluded him before—but nothing like that happened.

So much for the quietly doughtful, keen-eyed, subtle-brained Elijah Baley of the hyperwave drama.

The mattress was again half-enfolding him and it was like a warm enclosure. He moved slightly and it straightened beneath him, then slowly molded itself to fit his new position.

There was no point in trying, with his worn, sleep-seeking mind, to go over the day again, but he could not help trying a second time, following his own, footsteps on this, his first day on Aurora—from the spaceport to Fastolfe’s establishment, then to Gladia, then back to Fastolfe.

Gladia—more beautiful than he remembered but hard—something hard about her—or has she just grown a protective shell — poor woman. He thought warmly of her reaction to the touch of her hand against his cheek—if he could have remained with her, he could have taught her—stupid Aurorans—disgustingly casual attitude toward sex—anything goes—which means nothing really goes—not worthwhile—stupid—to Fastolfe, to Gladia, back to Fastolfe—back to Fastolfe.

He moved a little and then abstractedly felt the mattress remold again. Back to Fastolfe. What happened on the way back to Fastolfe? Something said? Something not said? And on the ship before he ever got to Aurora—something that fit in—Baley was in the never-never world of half-sleep, when the mind is liberated and follows a law of its own. It is like the body flying, soaring through the air and liberated of gravity.

Of its own accord, it was taking the events—little aspects he had not noted—putting them together—one thing adding to another—clicking into place—forming a web of fabric. And then, it seemed to him, he heard a sound and he roused himself to a level of wakefulness. He listened, heard nothing, and sank once more into the half-sleep to take up the line of thought—and it eluded him.

It was like a work of art sinking into a morass. He could still see its outlines, the masses of color. They got dimmer, but he still knew it was there. And even as he scrambled desperately for it, it was gone altogether and he remembered nothing of it. Nothing at all.

Had he actually thought of anything or was the memory of having done so itself an illusion born of some drifting nonsense in a mind asleep? And he was, indeed, asleep.

When he woke briefly during the night, he thought to himself: I had an idea. An important idea.

But he remembered nothing, except that something had been there.

He remained awake a while, staring into the darkness. If, in fact, something had been there—it would come back in time.

Or it might not! (Jehoshaphat!)

And he slept again.