“Yet I still don’t know what it all means, Partner Elijah.”

“Nor I—except for some speculations. But perhaps we’ll find out at Amadiro’s. Our situation is so bad, you see, we have nothing to lose by guessing and gambling.”

During this exchange, the airfoil has risen on its air-jets, and had moved to a moderate height. It cleared a line of bushes and was now once again speeding along over grassy areas and graveled roads. Baley noticed that, where the grass was taller, it was swept to one side by the wind as though an invisible and much larger airfoil were passing over it.

Baley said, “Giskard, you have been recording the conversations which have taken place in your presence, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can reproduce them at need?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can easily locate—and reproduce—some particular statement made by some given person?”

“Yes, sir. You would not have to listen to the entire recording.”

“And could you, at need, serve as a witness in a courtroom?”

“I, sir? No, sir.” Giskard’s eyes were fixed firmly on the road. “Since a robot can be directed to lie by a skillful enough command and not all the exhortations or threats of a judge might help, the law wisely considers a robot an incompetent witness.”

“But, in that case, of what use are your recordings?”

“That, sir, is a different thing. A recording, once made, cannot be altered on simple command, though it might be erased. Such a recording can, therefore, be admitted as evidence. There are no firm precedents, however, and whether it is—or is not—admitted depends on the individual case and on the individual judge.”

Baley could not tell whether that statement was depressing in itself or whether he was influenced by the unpleasant livid light that bathed the landscape. Baley said, “Can you see well enough to drive, Giskard?”

“Certainly, sir, but I do not need to. The airfoil is equipped with a computerized radar that would enable it to avoid obstacles on its own, even if I were, unaccountably, to fail in my task. It was this that was in operation yesterday morning when we traveled comfortably though all the windows were opacified.”

“Partner Elijah,” said Daneel, again veering the conversation away from Baley’s uncomfortable awareness of the coming storm, “do you have hope that Dr. Amadiro might indeed be helpful?”

Giskard brought the airfoil to rest on a wide lawn before a broad but not very high building, with an intricately-carved facade that was clearly new and yet gave the impression of imitating something quite old.

Baley knew it was the Administration Building without being told. He said, “No, Daneel, I suspect that Amadiro may be far too intelligent to give us the least handle to grasp him by.”

“And if that is so, what do you plan to do next?”

“I don’t know,” said Baley, with, a grim feeling of deje vu, “but I’ll try to think of something.”

When Baley entered the Administration Building, his first feeling was one of relief at removing himself from the unnatural lighting Outside. The second was one of wry amusement.

Here on Aurora, the establishments—the private dwelling places—were all strictly Auroran. He couldn’t, for a moment, while sitting in Gladia’s living room, or breakfasting in Fastolfe’s dining room, or talking in Vasilia’s work room, or making use of Gremionis’ trimensional viewing device, have thought himself on Earth. All four were distinct from each other, but all fell within a certain genus, widely different from that of the underground apartments on Earth.

The Administration Building, however, breathed officialdom and that, apparently, transcended ordinary human variety. It did not belong to the same genus as the dwelling places on Aurora, any more than an official building in Baley’s home City resembled an apartment in the dwelling Sectors—but the two official buildings on the two worlds of such widely different natures strangely resembled each other.

This was the first place on Aurora where, for an instant, Baley might have imagined himself on Earth. Here were the same long cold bare corridors, the same lowest common denominator of design and decoration, with even light source designed so as to irritate as few people as possible and to please just as few.

There were some touches here that would have been at sent on Earth—the occasional suspended pots of plants, for instance, flourishing in the light and outfitted with devices (Baley guessed) for controlled and automatic watering. That natural touch was absent on Earth and its presence did not delight him. Might such pots not sometimes fall? Might they not attract insects? Might not the water drip?

There were some things missing here, too. On Earth, when one was within a City, there was always the vast, warm hum of people and machinery—even in the most coldly official of administrative structures. It was the “Busy Buzz of Brotherhood,” to use the phrase popular among Earth’s politicians and journalists.

Here, on the other hand, it was quiet. Baley had not particularly noticed the quiet in the establishments he had visited that day and the day before, since everything had seemed so unnatural there that—one more oddity escaped his notice. Indeed, he had been more aware of the soft susurration of insect life outside or of the wind through the vegetation than of the absence of the steady “Hum of Humanity” (another popular phrase).

Here, however, where there seemed a touch of Earth, the absence of the “Hum” was as disconcerting as was the distinct orange touch to the artificial light—which was far more noticeable against the blank off-white of the walls here than among the busy decoration that marked the Auroran establishments.

Baley’s reverie did not last long. They were standing just inside the main entrance and Daneel had held out his arm to stop the other two. Some thirty seconds passed before Baley, speaking in an automatic whisper in view of the silence everywhere, said, “Why are we waiting?”

“Because it is advisable to do so, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel. “There is a tingle field ahead.”

“A what?”

“A tingle field, Partner Elijah. Actually, the name is a euphemism. It stimulates the nerve endings and produces a rather sharp pain. Robots can pass, but human beings cannot. Any breach, of course, whether by human or robot, will set off an alarm.”

Baley said, “How can you tell there’s a tingle field?”

“It can be seen, Partner Elijah, if you know what to look for. The air seems to twinkle a bit and the wall beyond that region has a faint greenish tinge as compared to the wall in front of it.”

“I’m not at all sure I see it,” said, Baley indignantly. “What’s to prevent me—or any innocent outsider—from walking into it and experiencing agony?”

Daneel said, “Those who are members of the Institute carry a neutralizing device; those who are visitors are almost always attended by one or more robots who will surely detect the tingle field.”

A robot was approaching down the corridor on the other side of the field. (The twinkling of the field was more easily noted against the muted smoothness of his metallic surface.) He seemed to ignore Giskard, but, for a moment, he hesitated as he looked from Baley to Daneel and back. And—then, having made a decision, he addressed Baley. (Perhaps, thought Baley, Daneel looks too human to be human.)

The robot said, “Your name, sir?”

Baley said, “I am Plainclothesman Elijah Baley from Earth. I am accompanied by two robots of the establishment of Dr. Han Fastolfe—Daneel Olivaw and Giskard Reventlov.”

“Identification, sir?”

Giskard’s serial number flared out in soft phosphorescence on the left side of his chest. “I vouch for the other two, friend,” he said.

The robot studied the number a moment, as though comparing it with a file in his memory banks. Then he nodded and said, “Serial number accepted. You may pass.”