Authors: Isaac Asimov
“Quite all right,” muttered Baley. She was in another room now with all the windows draped and the light had the subtly different and more comfortable texture of artificiality.
“But about the other thing,” she went on earnestly, “it’s just
viewing
, you see. After all, you didn’t mind talking to me when I was in the drier and I wasn’t wearing anything then, either.”
“Well,” said Baley, wishing she would run down as far as that subject was concerned, “hearing you is one thing, and seeing you is another.”
“But that’s exactly it. Seeing isn’t involved.” She reddened a trifle and looked down. “I hope you don’t think I’d ever do anything like that, I mean, just step out of the drier, if anyone were
seeing
me. It was just
viewing.
”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” said Baley.
“Not at all the same thing. You’re viewing me right now. You can’t touch me, can you, or smell me, or anything like that. You could if you were seeing me. Right now, I’m two hundred miles away from you at
least
. So how can it be the same thing?”
Baley grew interested. “But I see you with my eyes.”
“No, you don’t see me. You see my image. You’re viewing me.”
“And that makes a difference?”
“All the difference there is.”
“I see.” In a way he did. The distinction was not one he could make easily, but it had a kind of logic to it.
She said, bending her head a little to one side, “Do you
really
see?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind if I took off my wrapper?” She was smiling.
He thought: She’s teasing and I ought to take her up on it.
But aloud he said, “No, it would take my mind off my job. We’ll discuss it another time.”
“Do you mind my being in the wrapper, rather than something more formal? Seriously.”
“I don’t mind.”
“May I call you by your first name?”
“If you have the occasion.”
“What is your first name?”
“Elijah.”
“All right.” She snuggled into a chair that looked hard and almost ceramic in texture, but it slowly gave as she sat until it embraced her gently.
Baley said, “To business, now.”
She said, “To business.”
Baley found it all extraordinarily difficult. There was no way even to make a beginning. On Earth he would ask name, rating, City and Sector of dwelling, a million different routine questions. He might even know the answers to begin with, yet it would be a device to ease into the serious phase. It would serve to introduce him to the person, make his judgment of the tactics to pursue something other than a mere guess.
But here? How could he be certain of anything? The very verb “to see” meant different things to himself and to the woman. How many other words would be different? How often would they be at cross-purposes without his being aware of it?
He said, “How long were you married, Gladia?”
“Ten years, Elijah.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
Baley felt obscurely pleased. She might easily have been a hundred thirty-three.
He said. “Were you happily married?”
Gladia looked uneasy. “How do you mean that?”
“Well——” For a moment Baley was at a loss. How do you define a happy marriage. For that matter, what would a Solarian consider a happy marriage? He said, “Well, you saw one another often?”
“What? I should hope not. We’re not animals, you know.”
Baley winced. “You did live in the same mansion? I thought——”
“Of course we did. We were married. But I had my quarters and he had his. He had a very important career which took much of his time and I have my own work. We viewed each other whenever necessary.”
“He
saw
you, didn’t he?”
“It’s not a thing one talks about but he
did
see me.”
“Do you have any children?”
Gladia jumped to her feet in obvious agitation. “That’s too much. Of all the indecent——”
“Now wait.
Wait
!” Baley brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Don’t be difficult. This is a murder investigation. Do you understand? Murder. And it was your husband who was murdered. Do you want to see the murderer found and punished or don’t you?”
“Then
ask
about the murder, not about—about——”
“I have to ask all sorts of things. For one thing I want to know whether you’re sorry your husband is
dead.” He added with calculated brutality, “You don’t seem to be.”
She stared at him haughtily. “I’m sorry when anyone dies, especially when he’s young and useful.”
“Doesn’t the fact that he was your husband make it just a little more than that?”
“He was assigned to me and, well, we
did
see each other when scheduled and—and”—she hurried the next words—“and, if you must know, we don’t have children because none have been assigned us yet. I don’t see what all that has to do with being sorry over someone being dead.”
Maybe it had nothing to do with it, Baley thought. It depended on the social facts of life and with those he was not acquainted.
He changed the subject. “I’m told you have personal knowledge of the circumstances of the murder.”
For a moment she seemed to grow taut. “I—discovered the body. Is that the way I should say it?”
“Then you didn’t witness the actual murder?”
“Oh no,” she said faintly.
“Well, suppose you tell me what happened. Take your time and use your own words.” He sat back and composed himself to listen.
She began, “It was on three-two of the fifth——”
“When was that in Standard Time?” asked Baley quickly.
“I’m not sure. I really don’t know. You can check, I suppose.”
Her voice seemed shaky and her eyes had grown large. They were a little too gray to be called blue, he noted.
She said, “He came to my quarters. It was our assigned day for seeing and I knew he’d come.”
“He always came on the assigned day?”
“Oh yes. He was a very conscientious man, a good Solarian. He never skipped an assigned day and always came at the same time. Of course, he didn’t stay long. We have not been assigned ch——”
She couldn’t finish the word, but Baley nodded.
“Anyway,” she said, “he always came at the same time, you know, so that everything would be comfortable. We spoke a few minutes; seeing
is
an ordeal, but he spoke quite normally to me. It was his way. Then he left to attend to some project he was involved with; I’m not sure what. He had a special laboratory in my quarters to which he could retire on seeing days. He had a much bigger one in his quarters, of course.”
Baley wondered what he did in those laboratories. Fetology, perhaps, whatever that was.
He said, “Did he seem unnatural in any way? Worried?”
“No. No. He was never worried.” She came to the edge of a small laugh and buried it at the last moment. “He always had perfect control, like your friend there.” For a brief moment her small hand reached out and indicated Daneel, who did not stir.
“I see. Well, go on.”
Gladia didn’t. Instead she whispered, “Do you mind if I have myself a drink?”
“Please do.”
Gladia’s hand slipped along the arm of her chair momentarily. In less than a minute, a robot moved in silently and a warm drink (Baley could see the steam) was in her hand. She sipped slowly, then set the drink down.
She said, “That’s better. May I ask a personal question?”
Baley said, “You may always ask.”
“Well, I’ve read a lot about Earth. I’ve always been interested, you know. It’s such a
queer
world.” She gasped and added immediately, “I didn’t mean that.”
Baley frowned a little. “Any world is queer to people who don’t live on it.”
“I mean it’s different. You know. Anyway, I want to ask a rude question. At least, I hope it doesn’t seem rude to an Earthman. I wouldn’t ask it of a Solarian, of course. Not for anything.”
“Ask what, Gladia?”
“About you and your friend—Mr. Olivaw, is it?”
“Yes.”
“You two aren’t viewing, are you?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean each other. You’re seeing. You’re there, both of you.”
Baley said, “We’re physically together. Yes.”
“You could touch him, if you wanted to.”
“That’s right.”
She looked from one to the other and said, “Oh.”
It might have meant anything. Disgust? Revulsion?
Baley toyed with the idea of standing up, walking to Daneel and placing his hand flat on Daneel’s face. It might be interesting to watch her reaction.
He said, “You were about to go on with the events of that day when your husband came to see you.” He was morally certain that her digression, however interesting it might have been intrinsically to her, was primarily motivated by a desire to avoid just that.
She returned to her drink for a moment. Then: “There isn’t much to tell. I saw he would be engaged,
and I knew he would be, anyway, because he was always at some sort of constructive work, so I went back to my own work. Then, perhaps fifteen minutes later, I heard a shout.”
There was a pause and Baley prodded her. “What kind of a shout?”
She said, “Rikaine’s. My husband’s. Just a shout. No words. A kind of fright. No! Surprise, shock. Something like that. I’d never heard him shout before.”
She raised her hands to her ears as though to shut out even the memory of the sound and her wrapper slipped slowly down to her waist. She took no notice and Baley stared firmly at his notebook.
He said, “What did you do?”
“I ran. I ran. I didn’t know where he was——”
“I thought you said he had gone to the laboratory he maintained in your quarters.”
“He did, E-Elijah, but
I
didn’t know where that was. Not for sure, anyway. I never went there. It was his. I had a general idea of its direction. I knew it was somewhere in the west, but I was so upset, I didn’t even think to summon any robot. One of them would have guided me easily, but of course none came without being summoned. When I did get there—I found it somehow—he was dead.”
She stopped suddenly and, to Baley’s acute discomfort, she bent her head and wept. She made no attempt to obscure her face. Her eyes simply closed and tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. It was quite soundless. Her shoulders barely trembled.
Then her eyes opened and looked at him through swimming tears. “I never saw a dead man before. He was all bloody and his head was—just—all—I managed to get a robot and he called others and I suppose
they took care of me and of Rikaine. I don’t remember. I don’t——”
Baley said, “What do you mean, they took care of Rikaine?”
“They took him away and cleaned up.” There was a small wedge of indignation in her voice, the lady of the house careful of its condition. “Things were a mess.”
“And what happened to the body?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Burned, I suppose. Like any dead body.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
She looked at him blankly and Baley thought: No police!
He said, “You told somebody, I suppose. People found out about the matter.”
She said, “The robots called a doctor. And I had to call Rikaine’s place of work. The robots there had to know he wouldn’t be back.”
“The doctor was for you, I suppose.”
She nodded. For the first time, she seemed to notice her wrapper draped about her hips. She pulled it up into position, murmuring forlornly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Baley felt uncomfortable watching her as she sat there helpless, shivering, her face contorted with the absolute terror that had come over her with the memory.
She had never seen a dead body before. She had never seen blood and a crushed skull. And if the husband-wife relationship on Solaria was something thin and shallow, it was still a dead human being with whom she had been confronted.
Baley scarcely knew what to say or do next. He
had the impulse to apologize, and yet, as a policeman, he was doing only his duty.
But there were no police on this world. Would she understand that this was his duty?
Slowly, and as gently as he could, he said, “Gladia, did you hear anything at all? Anything besides your husband’s shout.”
She looked up, her face as pretty as ever, despite its obvious distress—perhaps because of it. She said, “Nothing.”
“No running footsteps? No other voice?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“When you found your husband, he was completely alone? You two were the only ones present?”
“Yes.”
“No signs of anyone else having been there?”
“None that I could see. I don’t see how anyone could have been there, anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
For a moment she looked shocked. Then she said dispiritedly, “You’re from Earth. I keep forgetting. Well, it’s just that nobody could have been there. My husband never saw anybody except me; not since he was a boy. He certainly wasn’t the sort to see anybody. Not Rikaine. He was very strict; very custom-abiding.”
“It might not have been his choice. What if someone had just come to see him without an invitation, without your husband knowing anything about it? He couldn’t have helped seeing the intruder regardless of how custom-abiding he was.”
She said, “Maybe, but he would have called robots at once and had the man taken away. He would have! Besides, no one would try to see my husband without being invited to. I couldn’t conceive of such a
thing. And Rikaine certainly would never invite anyone to see him. It’s ridiculous to think so.”
Baley said softly, “Your husband was killed by being struck on the head, wasn’t he? You’ll admit that.”
“I suppose so. He was—all——”
“I’m not asking for the details at the moment. Was there any sign of some mechanical contrivance in the room that would have enabled someone to crush his skull by remote control?”
“Of course not. At least, I didn’t see any.”
“If anything like that had been there, I imagine you would have seen it. It follows then that a hand held something capable of crushing a man’s skull and that hand swung it. Some person had to be within four feet of your husband to do that. So someone did see him.”