“Surely, there must be some convenient way of following the cycle of the seasons?”

“Each world has its seasonal year, too, but it is little regarded. One can, by computer, convert any day—past or present—into its position in the seasonal year if, for any reason, such information is desired. And this is true on any world, where conversion to and from the local days is also as easily possible. And, of course, Partner Elijah, any robot can do the same and can guide human activity where the seasonal year or local time is relevant. The advantage of metricized units is that it supplies humanity with a unified chronometry that involves little more than decimal point shifts.”

It bothered Baley that the books he viewed made none of this clear. But then,—from his own knowledge of Earth’s history, he knew that, at one time, the lunar month had been the key to the calendar and that there had come a time when, for ease, of chronometry, the lunar month came to be ignored and was never missed. Yet if he had given books on Earth to some stranger, that stranger would have very likely found no mention of the lunar month or any historical change in calendars. Dates would have been given without explanation.

What else would be given without explanation?

How far could he rely, then, on the knowledge he was gaining? He would have to ask questions constantly, take nothing for granted.

There would be so many opportunities to miss the obvious, so many chances to misunderstand, so many ways of taking the wrong path.

Aurora filled his vision now when he used the astrosimulator and it looked like Earth. (Baley had never seen Earth in the same way, but there had been photographs in astronomy texts and he had seen those.)

Well, what Baley saw on Aurora were the same cloud patterns, the same glimpse of desert areas, the same large stretches of day and night, the same pattern of twinkling light in the expanse of the night hemisphere as the photographs showed on Earth’s globe.

Baley watched raptly and thought: What if, for some reason, he had been taken into space, told he was being brought to Aurora, and was in reality being returned to Earth for some reason—for some subtle and insane reason. How could he tell the difference before landing?

Was there reason to be suspicious? Daneel had carefully told him that the constellations were the same in the sky of both planets, but wouldn’t that be naturally so for planets circling neighboring stars? The gross appearance of both planets from space was identical, but wouldn’t that be expected if both were habitable and comfortably suited to human life?

Was there any reason, to suppose such a farfetched deception would be played upon him? What purpose would it serve? And yet why shouldn’t it be made to appear farfetched and useless? If there were an obvious reason to do such a thing, he would have seen through it at once.

Would Daneel be party to such a conspiracy? Surely not, if he were a human being. But he was only a robot; might there not be a way to order him to behave appropriately?

There was no way of coming to a decision. Baley found himself watching for glimpses of continental outlines that he could recognize as Earthly or as non-Earthly. That would be the telling test—except that it didn’t work.

The glimpses that came and went hazily through the clouds were of no use to him. He was not sufficiently knowledgeable about Earth’s geography. What he really knew of Earth were its underground Cities, its caves of steel.

The bits of coastline he saw were unfamiliar to him—whether Aurora or Earth, he did not know.

Why this uncertainty, anyway? When he had gone to Solaria, he had never doubted his destination; he had never suspected that they might be bringing him back to Earth.—Ah, but then he had gone on a clear-cut mission in which there was reasonable chance for success. Now he felt there was no chance at all.

Perhaps it was, then, that he wanted to be returned to Earth and was building a false conspiracy in his mind so that he could imagine it possible.

The uncertainty in his mind had come to have a life of its own. He couldn’t let go. He found himself watching Aurora with an almost mad intensity, unable to come back to the cabin reality.

Aurora was moving, turning slowly.

He had watched long enough to see that. While he had been viewing space, everything had seemed motionless, like a painted backdrop, a silent and static pattern, of dots of light, with, later on, a small half-circle included. Was it the motionlessness that had enabled him to be nonagoraphobic?

But now he could see Aurora moving and he realized that the ship was spiraling down in the final stage before landing. The clouds were bellying upward—

No, not the clouds; the ship was spiraling downward. The ship was moving. He was moving. He was suddenly aware of his own existence. He was hurtling downward, through the clouds. He was falling, unguarded, through thin air toward solid ground.

His throat constricted; it was becoming very hard to breathe.

He told himself desperately: You are enclosed. The walls of the ship are around you.

But he sensed no walls.

He thought: Even without considering the walls, you are still enclosed. You are wrapped in skin.

But he sensed no skin.

The sensation was worse than simple nakedness—he was an unaccompanied personality, the essence of identity totally uncovered, a living point, a singularity surrounded by an open and infinite world, and he was falling.

He wanted to close off the vision, contract his fist upon the control-edge, but nothing happened. His nerve-endings had so abnormalized that the automatic contraction at an effort of will did not work. He had no will. Eyes would not close, fist would not contract. He was caught and hypnotized by terror, frightened into immobility.

All he sensed before him were clouds, white—not, quite white—off-white—a slight golden—orange cast—

And all turned to gray—and he was drowning. He could not breathe. He struggled desperately to open his clogged throat, to call to—Daneel for help—

He could make no sound…

Baley was breathing as though he had just breasted the tape at the end of a long race. The room was askew and there was a hard surface under his left elbow.

He realized he was on the floor.

Giskard was on his knees beside him, his robot’s hand (firm but somewhat cold) closed on Baley’s right fist. The door to the cabin, visible to Baley just beyond Giskard’s shoulder, stood ajar.

Baley knew, without asking, what had happened. Giskard had seized that helpless, human hand and clenched it upon the control-edge to end the astrosimulation. Otherwise Daneel was there, as well, his face close to Baley’s, with a look on it that might well have been pain.

He said, “You said nothing, Partner Elijah. Had I been more quickly aware of your discomfort—”

Baley tried to gesture, that he understood that it did not matter. He was still unable to speak.

The two robots waited until Bailey made a feeble movement to get up. Arms were under him at once, lifting him. He was placed in a chair and the control was gently taken away from him by Giskard.

Giskard said, “We will be landing soon. You will have no further need of the astrosimulator, I believe.”

Daneel added gravely, “It would be best to remove it, in any case.”

Baley said, “Wait!” His voice was a hoarse whisper and he was not sure the word could be made out. He drew a deep breath, cleared his throat feebly, and said again, “Wait!”—and then, “Giskard.”

Giskard turned back. “Sir?”

Baley did not speak at once. Now that Giskard knew he was wanted, he would wait a lengthy interval, perhaps indefinitely. Baley tried to gather his scattered wits. Agoraphobia or not, there still remained his uncertainty about their destination. That had existed first and it might well have intensified the agoraphobia.