With a detached surprise, he knew, from her position, that the softness was her left breast and that it was centered, contrastingly, with its nipple hard against his lips.

Softly, she was singing to the music, a sleepily joyful tune he did not recognize.

She rocked gently back and forth and her fingertips grazed his chin and neck. He relaxed, content to do nothing, to let her initiate and carry through every activity. When she moved his arms, he did not resist and let them rest wherever she placed them.

He did not help and, when he did respond with heightened excitement and climax, it was only out of helplessness to do otherwise.

She seemed tireless and he did not want her to stop. Aside from the sensuality of sexual response, he felt again what he had felt earlier, the total luxury of the infant’s passivity.

And, finally, he could respond no more and, it seemed, she could do no more and she lay with her head in the hollow where his left shoulder met his chest and her left arm lay across his ribs, her fingers stroking the short, curling hairs tenderly.

He seemed to hear her murmuring, “Thank you—Thank you—”

For what? he wondered.

He was scarcely conscious of her now, for this utterly soft end of a hard day was as soporific as, the fabled nepenthe and he could feel himself slipping away, as though his fingertips were relaxing from the edge of the cliff of harsh reality in order that he might drop—drop—through the soft clouds of gathering sleep into the slowly swaying ocean of dreams.

And as he did so, what had not come on call came of itself. For the third time, the curtain was lifted and all the events since he had left Earth shuffled once more into hard focus. Again, it was all clear. He struggled to speak, to hear the words he needed to hear, to fix them and make them part of his thought processes, but though he clutched at them with every tendril of his mind, they slipped past and through and were gone.

So that, in this respect, Baley’s second day on Aurora ended very much as his first had.

When Baley opened his eyes, it was to find sunlight streaming through the window and he welcomed it. To his still-sleepy surprise, he welcomed it.

It meant the storm was over and it was, as though the storm had never happened. Sunlight—when viewed only as an alternative to the smooth, soft, warm, controlled light of the Cities—could only be considered harsh and uncertain. But compare it with the storm and it was the promise of peace itself. Everything, Baley thought, is relative and he knew he would never think of sunshine as entirely evil again.

“Partner Elijah?” Daneel was standing at the side of the bed. A little behind him stood Giskard.

Baley’s long face dissolved in a rare smile of pure pleasure. He held out his hands, one to each. “Jehoshaphat, men!”, and he was totally unaware, at the moment, of any inappropriateness in the word—“when I last saw you two together, I wasn’t in the least sure I would ever see either of you again.”

“Surely,” said Daneel softly, “none of us would have been harmed under any circumstances.”

“With the sunlight coming in, I see that,” said Baley. “But last night, I felt as though the storm would kill me and I was certain you were in deadly danger, Daneel. It even seemed possible that Giskard might be damaged in some way, trying to defend me against overwhelming odds. Melodramatic, I admit, but I wasn’t quite myself, you know.”

“We were aware of that, sir,” said Giskard. “That was what made it difficult for us to leave you, despite your urgent order. We trust that this is not a source of displeasure for you at present.”

“Not at all, Giskard.”

“And,” said Daneel, “we also know that you have been well cared for since we left you.”

It was only then that Baley remembered the events of the night before.

Gladia!

He looked about in sudden astonishment. She was not anywhere in the room. Had he imagined—

No, of course not. That would be impossible.

And then he looked at Daneel with a frown, as though suspecting his remark to bear a libidinous character.

But no, that would be impossible, too. A robot, however humaniform, would not be designed to take lubricious delight in innuendo.

He said, “Quite well cared for. But what—I need at the moment is to be shown to the Personal.”

“We are here, sir,” said Giskard, “to direct you and help you through the morning. Miss Gladia felt you would be more comfortable with us than with any of her own staff and she stressed that we were to leave nothing wanting for your comfort.”

Baley looked doubtful. “How far did she instruct you to go? I feel pretty well now, so I don’t have to have anyone wash and dry me. I can take care of myself. She does understand that, I hope.”

“You need fear no embarrassment, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel, with the small smile that (it seemed to Baley) came at those moments when, in a human being, it might be judged that a feeling of affection would have arisen. “We are merely to see to your comfort. If, at any time, you are most comfortable in privacy, we will wait at some distance.”

“In that case, Daneel, we’re all set.” Baley scrambled out of bed. It pleased him to see that he felt quite steady on his legs. The night’s rest and the treatment when he was brought back (whatever it might have been) had done marvels.—And Gladia, too.

Still nude and just damp enough from his shower to feel thoroughly fresh, Baley, having brushed his hair, studied the result critically. It seemed natural that he would have breakfast with Gladia and he wasn’t certain how he might be received. It might be best, perhaps, to take the attitude that nothing had happened and to be guided by her attitude. And somehow, he thought, it might help if he looked reasonably good—provided that was within the realm of the possible. He made a dissatisfied face at his reflection in the mirror.

“Daneel!” he called.

“Yes, Partner Elijah.”

Speaking through and around toothpaste, Baley said, “Those are new clothes you are wearing, it seems.”

“Not mine originally, Partner Elijah. They had been friend Jander’s.”

Baley’s eyebrows climbed. “She let you have Jander’s?”

“Miss Gladia did not wish me to be unclothed while waiting for my storm-drenched items to be washed and to dry. Those are ready now, but Miss Gladia says I may keep these.”

“When did she say that?”

“This morning, Partner Elijah.”

“She’s awake, then?”

“Indeed. And you will be joining her at breakfast when you are ready.”

Baley’s lips tightened. It was odd that, at the moment, he was more concerned with having to face Gladia than, a little later on, the Chairman. The matter of the Chairman was, after all, in the lap of the Fates. He had decided on his strategy and it would either work or it would not work. As for Gladia—he simply had no strategy.

Well, he would have to face her.

He said, with as careful an air of indifference as he might manage, “And how is Miss Gladia this morning?”

Daneel said, “She seems well.”

“Cheerful? Depressed?”

Daneel hesitated. “It is difficult to judge the inner attitude of a human being. There is nothing in her behavior to indicate internal turmoil.”

Baley cast a quick eye on Daneel and again he wondered if he were referring to the events of last night.—And again he dismissed the possibility.

Nor did it do any good to study Daneel’s face. One could not stare at a robot to guess thoughts from expression, for there were no thoughts in the human sense.

He stepped out into the bedroom and looked at the clothes that had been laid out for him, considering them thoughtfully and wondering if he could put them on without error and without requiring robotic help. The storm and the night were over and he wanted to assume the mantle of adulthood and independence once again.