“But of course.”

Baley hesitated. “Could you—”

Fastolfe chuckled. “You’ll find it perfectly normal, Mr. Baley. You will have no complaints.”

Baley bent his head. “Thank you very much.”

Without the intolerable make-believe, the Personal—he believed it to be the same one he had used earlier in the day was merely what it was, a much more luxurious and hospitable one than he had ever seen. It was incredibly different from those on Earth, which were rows of identical units stretching indefinitely, each ticked off for use by one—and only one individual at a time.

It gleamed somehow with hygienic cleanliness. Its outermost molecular layer might have been peeled off after every use and a new layer laid on. Obscurely, Baley felt that, if he stayed on Aurora long enough, he would find it difficult to readjust himself to Earth’s crowds, which forced hygiene and cleanliness into the background—something to pay a distant obeisance to—a not quite attainable ideal.

Baley, standing there surrounded by conveniences of ivory and gold (not real ivory, no doubt, nor real gold), gleaming and smooth, suddenly found himself shuddering at Earth’s casual exchange of bacteria and wincing at its richness in infectivity. Was that not what the Spacers felt? Could he blame them?

He washed his hands thoughtfully, playing with the tiny touches here and there along the control-strip in order to change the temperature. And yet these Aurorans were so unnecessarily garish in their interior decorations, so insistent in pretending they were living in a state of nature when they had tamed nature and broken it.—Or was that only Fastolfe?

After all, Gladia’s establishment had been far more austere.—Or was that only because she had been brought up on Solaria?

The dinner that followed was an unalloyed delight. Again, as at lunch, there was the distinct feeling of being closer to nature. The dishes were numerous—each different, each in small portions—and, in a number of cases, it was possible to see that they had once been part of plants and animals. He was beginning to look upon the inconveniences—the occasional small bone, bit of gristle, strand of fiber, which might have repelled him earlier—as a bit of adventure.

The first course was a little fish—a little fish that one ate whole, with whatever internal organs it might have—and that struck him, at first sight, as another foolish way of rubbing one’s nose in Nature with a capital “N.” But he swallowed the little fish anyway, as Fastolfe did, and the taste converted him at once. He had never experienced anything like it. It was as though taste buds had suddenly been invented and inserted in his tongue.

Tastes changed from dish to dish and some were distinctly odd and not entirely pleasant, but he found it didn’t matter. The thrill of a distinct taste, of different distinct tastes (at Fastolfe’s instruction, he took a sip of faintly flavored water between dishes) was what counted—and not the inner detail.

He tried not to gobble, nor to concentrate his attention entirely on the food, nor to lick his plate. Desperately, he continued to observe and imitate Fastolfe and to ignore the other’s kindly but definitely amused glance.

“I trust,” said Fastolfe, “you find this to your taste.”

“Quite good,” Baley managed to choke out.

“Please don’t force yourself into useless politeness. Do not eat anything that seems strange or unpalatable to you. I will have additional helpings of anything you do like brought in its place.”

“Not necessary, Dr. Fastolfe. It is all rather satisfactory.”

“Good.”

Despite Fastolfe’s offer to eat without robots present, it was a robot who served. (Fastolfe, accustomed to this, probably did not even notice the fact, Baley thought—and he did not bring the matter up.)

As was to be expected, the robot was silent and his motions were flawless. His handsome livery seemed to be out of historical dramas that Baley had seen on hyperwave. It was only at very close view that one could see how much the costume was an illusion of the lighting and how close the robot exterior was to a smooth metal finish—and no more.

Baley said, “Has the waiter’s surface been designed by Gladia?”

“Yes,” said Fastolfe, obviously pleased. “How complimented she will feel to know that you recognized her touch. She is good, isn’t she? Her work is coming into increasing popularity and she fills a useful niche in Auroran society.”

Conversation throughout the meal had been pleasant but unimportant. Baley had had no urge to “talk business” and had, in fact, preferred to be largely silent while enjoying the meal and leaving it to his unconscious—or, whatever faculty took over in the absence of hard thought—to decide on how to approach the matter that seemed to him now to be the central point of the Jander problem.

Fastolfe took the matter out of his hands, rather, by saying, “And now that you’ve mentioned Gladia, Mr. Baley, may I ask how it came about that you left for her establishment rather deep in despair and have returned almost buoyant and speaking of perhaps having the key to the whole affair in your hand? Did you learn something new—and unexpected, perhaps—at Gladia’s?”

“That I did,” said Baley absently—but he was lost in the dessert, which he could not recognize at all, and of which (after some yearning in his eyes had acted to inspire the waiter) a second small helping was placed before him. He felt replete. He had never in his life so enjoyed the act of eating and for the first time found himself resenting the physiological limits that made it impossible to eat forever. He felt rather ashamed of himself that he should feel so.

“And what was it learned that was new and unexpected?” asked Fastolfe with quiet patience. “Presumably something I didn’t know myself?”

“Perhaps. Gladia told me that you had given Jander to her about half a year ago.”

Fastolfe nodded. “I knew that. So I did.”

Baley said sharply, “Why?”

The amiable look on Fastolfe’s face faded slowly. Then he said, “Why not?”

Baley said, “I don’t know why not, Dr. Fastolfe. I don’t care. My question is: Why?”

Fastolfe shook his head slightly and said nothing.

Baley said, “Dr. Fastolfe, I am here in order to straighten out what seems to be a miserable mess. Nothing you have done—nothing—has made things simple. Rather, you have taken what seems to be pleasure in showing me how bad a mess it is and in destroying any speculation I may advance as a possible solution. Now, I don’t expect others to answer my questions. I have no official standing on this world and have no right to ask questions, let alone force answers.

“You, however, are different. I am here at your request and I am trying to save your career as well as mine and, according to your own account of matters, I am trying to save Aurora as well as Earth. Therefore, I expect you to answer my questions fully and truthfully. Please don’t indulge in stalemating tactics, such as asking me why not when I ask why. Now, once again and for the last time: Why?”

Fastolfe thrust out his lips and looked grim. “My apologies, Mr. Baley. If I hesitated to answer, it is because, looking back on it, it seems there is no very dramatic reason. Gladia Delmarre—no, she doesn’t want her surname used—Gladia is a stranger on this planet; she has undergone traumatic experiences on her home world, as you know, and traumatic experiences on this one, as perhaps you don’t know—”

“I do know. Please be more direct.”

“Well, then, I was sorry for her. She was alone and Jander, I thought, would make her feel less alone.”

“Sorry for her? Just that. Are you lovers? Have you been?”

“No, not at all. I did not offer. Nor did she.—Why? Did she tell you we were lovers?”

“No, she did not, but I need independent confirmation, in any case. I’ll let you know when there is a contradiction; you needn’t concern yourself about that. How is it that with you sympathizing so with her and—from what I gather from Gladia, she feeling so grateful to you—that neither of you offered yourself? I gather that on Aurora offering sex is about on a par with commenting upon the weather.”