It was all part of the Spacer fixation on long life, on their unwillingness to admit that old age existed, but Gladia didn’t linger on any analysis of causes. She was restlessly, uneasy in thinking about herself in that connection. If she had a three dimensional map of herself with all prosthetic portions, all repairs, marked off in red against the gray of her natural self, what a general pinkness she would appear to have from a distance. Or so she imagined.

Her brain, however, was still intact and whole and while that was so, she was intact and whole, whatever happened to the rest of her body.

Which brought her back to Daneel. Though she had known him for twenty decades, it was only in the last year that he was hers. When Fastolfe died (his end hastened, perhaps, by despair), he had willed everything to the city of Eos, which was a common enough state of affairs. Two items, however, he had left to Gladia (aside from confirming her in the ownership of her establishment and its robots and other chattels, together with the grounds thereto appertaining).

One of them had been Daneel.

Gladia asked, “Do you remember everything you have ever committed to memory over the course of twenty decades, Daneel?”

Daneel said gravely, “I believe so, Madam Gladia. To be sure, if I forgot an item, I would not know that, for it would have been forgotten and I would not then recall ever having memorized it.”

“That doesn’t follow at all,” said Gladia. “You might well remember knowing it, but be unable to think of it at the moment. I have frequently had something at the tip of my tongue, so to speak, and been unable to retrieve it.”

Daneel said, “I do not understand, madam. If I knew something, surely it would be there when I needed it.”

“Perfect retrieval?” They were walking slowly toward the house.

“Merely retrieval, madam. I am designed so.”

“For how much longer?”

“I do not understand, madam.”

“I mean, how much will your brain hold? With a little over twenty decades of accumulated memories, how much longer can it go on?”

“I do not know, madam. As yet I feel no difficulty.”

“You might not—until you suddenly discover you can remember no more.”

Daneel seemed thoughtful for a moment. “That may be so, madam.”

“You know, Daneel, not all your memories are equally important.”

“I cannot judge among them, madam.”

“Others can. It would be perfectly possible to clean out your brain, Daneel, and then, under supervision, refill it with its important memory content only—say, ten percent of the whole. You would then be able to continue for centuries longer than you would otherwise. With repeated treatment of this sort, you could go on indefinitely. It is an expensive procedure, of course, but I would not cavil at that. You’d be worth it.”

“Would I be consulted on the matter, madam? Would I be asked to agree to such treatment?”

“Of course. I would not order you in a matter like that. It would be a betrayal of Dr. Fastolfe’s trust.”

“Thank you, madam. In that case, I must tell you that I would never submit voluntarily to such a procedure unless I found myself to have actually lost my memory function.”

They had reached the door and Gladia paused. She said, in honest puzzlement, “Why ever not, Daneel?”

Daneel said in a low Voice, “There are memories I cannot risk losing, madam, either through inadvertence or through poor judgment on the part of those conducting the procedure.”

“Like the rising and setting of the stars? Forgive me, Daneel, I didn’t mean to be joking. To what memories are you referring?”

Daneel said, his voice still lower, “Madam, I refer to my memories of my onetime partner, the Earthman Elijah Baley—”

And Gladia stood there, stricken, so that it was Daneel who had to take the initiative, finally, and signal for the door to open.

Robot Giskard Reventlov was waiting in the living room and Gladia greeted him with that same pang of uneasiness that always assailed her when she faced him.

He was primitive in comparison with Daneel. He was obviously a robot—metallic, with a face that had nothing human in expression upon it, with eyes, that glowed a dim red, as could be seen if it were dark enough. Whereas Daneel wore clothing, Giskard had only the illusion of clothing but a skillful illusion, for it was Gladia herself who had designed it.

“Well, Giskard,” she said.

“Good evening, Madam Gladia,” said Giskard with a small bow of his head.

Gladia remembered the words of Elijah Baley long ago, like a whisper inside the recesses of her brain:

“Daneel will take care of you. He will be your friend as well as protector and you must be a friend to him—for my sake. But it is Giskard I want you to listen to. Let him be your adviser.”

Gladia had frowned. “Why him? I’m not sure I like him.”

“I do not ask you to like him. I ask you to trust him.”

And he would not say why.

Gladia tried to trust the robot Giskard, but was glad she did not have to try to like him. Something about him made her shiver.

She had both Daneel and Giskard as effective parts of her establishment for many decades during which Fastolfe had held titular ownership. It was only on his deathbed that Han Fastolfe had actually transferred ownership. Giskard was the second item, after Daneel, that Fastolfe had left Gladia.

She had said to the old man, “Daneel is enough, Han. Your daughter Vasilia would like to have Giskard. I’m sure of that.”

Fastolfe was lying in bed quietly, eyes closed, looking more peaceful than she had seen him look in years. He did not answer immediately and for a moment she thought he had slipped out of life so quietly that she had not noticed. She tightened her grip on his hand convulsively and his eyes opened.

He whispered, “I care nothing for my biological daughters, Gladia. For twenty centuries, I have had but one functional daughter and that has been you. I want you to have Giskard. He is valuable.”

“Why is he valuable?”

“I cannot say, but I have always found his presence consoling. Keep him always, Gladia. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” she said.

And then his eyes opened one last time and his voice, finding a final reservoir of strength, said, in almost a natural tone of voice, “I love you, Gladia, my daughter.”

And Gladia said, “I love you, Han, my father.”

Those were the last words he said and heard. Gladia found herself holding the hand of a dead man and, for a while, could not bring herself to let go.

So Giskard was hers. And yet he made her uneasy and she didn’t know why.

“Well, Giskard,” she said, “I’ve been trying to see Solaria in the sky among the stars, but Daneel tells me it won’t be visible till 03:20 and that I would require magnilenses even then. Would you have known that?”

“No, madam.”

“Should I wait up till all hours? What do you think?”

“I suggest, Madam Gladia, that you would be better off in bed.”

Gladia bridled, “Indeed? And if I choose to stay up?”

“Mine is only a suggestion, madam, but you will have a hard day tomorrow and you will undoubtedly regret missing your sleep if you stay up.”

Gladia frowned. “What’s going to make my day hard tomorrow, Giskard? I’m not aware of any forthcoming difficulty.”

Giskard said, “You have an appointment, madam, with one Levular Mandamus.”

“I have? When did that happen?”

“An hour ago. He photophoned and I took the liberty—”

“You took the liberty? Who is he?”

“He is a member of the Robotics Institute, madam.”

“He’s an underling of Kelden Amadiro, then.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Understand, Giskard, that I am not in the least interested in seeing this Mandamus or anyone with any connection with that poisonous toad Amadiro. So if you’ve taken the liberty of making an appointment with him in my name, take the further liberty right now of phoning him again and canceling.”