Leebig shouted, “I have no reason.”

Baley ignored the other’s excitement. “You are still someone who has known Gladia well. What could her motive be?”

“Her motive?”

“No one has suggested any motive for the murder. Surely Gladia wouldn’t commit murder without a motive.”

“Great Galaxy!” Leebig leaned his head back as though to laugh, but didn’t. “No one told you? Well, perhaps no one knew. I knew, though. She told me. She told me frequently.”

“Told you what, Dr. Leebig?”

“Why, that she quarreled with her husband. Quarreled bitterly and frequently. She hated him, Earthman. Didn’t anyone tell you that? Didn’t she tell you?”

Baley took it between the eyes and tried not to show it.

Presumably, living as they did, Solarians considered one another’s private lives to be sacrosanct. Questions concerning marriage and children were in bad taste. He supposed then that chronic quarreling could exist between husband and wife and be a matter into which curiosity was equally forbidden.

But even when murder had been committed? Would no one commit the social crime of asking the suspect if she quarreled with her husband? Or of mentioning the matter if they happened to know of it?

Well, Leebig had.

Baley said, “What did the quarrels concern?”

“You had better ask her, I think.”

He better had, thought Baley. He rose stiffly, “Thank you, Dr. Leebig, for your cooperation. I may need your help again later. I hope you will keep yourself available.”

“Done viewing,” said Leebig, and he and the segment of his room vanished abruptly.

For the first time Baley found himself not minding a plane flight through open space. Not minding it at all. It was almost as though he were in his own element.

He wasn’t even thinking of Earth or of Jessie. He had been away from Earth only a matter of weeks, yet it might as well have been years. He had been on Solaria only the better part of three days and yet it seemed forever.

How fast could a man adapt to nightmare?

Or was it Gladia? He would be seeing her soon, not viewing her. Was that what gave him confidence and this odd feeling of mixed apprehension and anticipation?

Would she endure it? he wondered. Or would she slip away after a few moments of seeing, begging off as Quemot had done?

She stood at the other end of a long room when he entered. She might almost have been an impressionistic representation of herself, she was reduced so to essentials.

Her lips were faintly red, her eyebrows lightly penciled, her earlobes faintly blue, and, except for that, her face was untouched. She looked pale, a little frightened, and very young.

Her brown-blond hair was drawn back, and her gray-blue eyes were somehow shy. Her dress was a blue so dark as to be almost black, with a thin white edging curling down each side. She wore long sleeves, white gloves, and flat-heeled shoes. Not an inch of skin showed anywhere but in her face. Even her neck was covered by a kind of unobtrusive ruching.

Baley stopped where he was. “Is this close enough, Gladia?”

She was breathing with shallow quickness. She said, “I had forgotten what to expect really. It’s just like viewing, isn’t it? I mean, if you don’t think of it as seeing.”

Baley said, “It’s all quite normal to me.”

“Yes, on Earth.” She closed her eyes. “Sometimes I try to imagine it. Just crowds of people everywhere. You walk down a road and there are others walking with you and still others walking in the other direction. Dozens—”

“Hundreds,” said Baley. “Did you ever view scenes on Earth in a book-film? Or view a novel with an Earth setting?”

“We don’t have many of those, but I’ve viewed novels set on the other Outer Worlds where seeing goes on all the time. It’s different in a novel. It just seems like a multiview.”

“Do people ever kiss in novels?”

She flushed painfully. “I don’t read that kind.”

“Never?”

“Well—there are always a few dirty films around, you know, and sometimes, just out of curiosity—It’s sickening, really.”

“Is it?”

She said with sudden animation, “But Earth is so different. So many people. When you walk, Elijah, I suppose you even t-touch people. I mean, by accident.”

Baley half smiled. “You even knock them down by accident.” He thought of the crowds on the Expressways, tugging and shoving, bounding up and down the strips, and for a moment, inevitably, he felt the pang of homesickness.

Gladia said, “You don’t have to stay way out there.”

“Would it be all right if I came closer?”

“I think so. I’ll tell you when I’d rather you wouldn’t any more.” Stepwise Baley drew closer, while Gladia watched him, wide eyed.

She said suddenly, “Would you like to see some of my field colorings?”

Baley was six feet away. He stopped and looked at her. She seemed small and fragile. He tried to visualize her, something in her hand (what?), swinging furiously at the skull of her husband. He tried to picture her, mad with rage, homicidal with hate and anger.

He had to admit it could be done. Even a hundred and five pounds of woman could crush a skull if she had the proper weapon and were wild enough. And Baley had known murderesses (on Earth, of course) who, in repose, were bunny rabbits.

He said, “What are field colorings, Gladia?”

“An art form,” she said.

Baley remembered Leebig’s reference to Gladia’s art. He nodded. “I’d like to see some.”

“Follow me, then.”

Baley maintained a careful six-foot distance between them. At that, it was less than a third the distance Kiorissa had demanded.

They entered a room that burst with light. It glowed in every corner and every color.

Gladia looked pleased, proprietary. She looked up at Baley, eyes anticipating.

Baley’s response must have been what she expected, though he said nothing. He turned slowly, trying to make out what he saw, for it was light only, no material object at all.

The gobbets of light sat on embracing pedestals. They were living geometry, lines and curves of color, entwined into a coalescing whole yet maintaining distinct identities. No two. specimens were even remotely alike.

Baley groped for appropriate words and said, “Is it supposed to mean anything?”

Gladia laughed in her pleasant contralto. “It means whatever you like it to mean. They’re just light-forms that might make you feel angry or happy or curious or whatever I felt when I constructed one. I could make one for you, a kind of portrait. It might not be very good, though, because I would just be improvising quickly.”

“Would you? I would be very interested.”

“All right,” she said, and half-ran to a light-figure in one corner, passing within inches of him as she did so. She did not seem to notice.

She touched something on the pedestal of the light-figure and the glory above died without a flicker.

Baley gasped and said, “Don’t do that.”

“It’s all right. I was tired of it, anyway. I’ll just fade the others temporarily so they don’t distract me.” She opened a panel along one featureless wall and moved a rheostat. The colors faded to something scarcely visible.

Baley said, “Don’t you have a robot to do this? Closing contacts?”

“Shush, now,” she said impatiently. “I don’t keep robots in here. This is—me.” She looked at him, frowning. “I don’t know you well enough. That’s the trouble.”

She wasn’t looking at the pedestal, but her fingers rested lightly on its smooth upper surface. All ten fingers were curved, tense, waiting.

One finger moved, describing a half curve over smoothness. A bar of deep yellow light grew and slanted obliquely across the air above. The finger inched backward a fraction and the light grew slightly less deep in shade.