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 always 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 lifted 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.