He said, “What is this?” He held up a long sash covered with an intricately colored arabesque.

“It is a pajama sash,” said Daneel. “It is purely ornamental. It passes over the left shoulder and is tied at the right side of the waist. It is traditionally worn at breakfast on some Spacer worlds but is not very popular on Aurora.”

“Then why should I wear it?”

“Miss Gladia thought it would become you, Partner Elijah. The method of tieing is rather intricate and I will be glad to help you.”

Jehoshaphat, thought Baley ruefully, she wants me to be pretty—What does she have in mind?

Don’t think about it!

Baley said, “Never mind. I’ll manage with a simple bow knot.—But listen, Daneel, after breakfast I will be going over to Fastolfe’s, where I will meet with him, with Amadiro, and with the Chairman of the Legislature. I don’t know if there will be any others present.”

“Yes, Partner Elijah. I am aware of that. I don’t think there will be others present.”

“Well, then,” said Baley, beginning to put on his undergarments and doing it slowly so as to make no mistake and thus find it unnecessary to appeal for help to Daneel, “tell me about the Chairman. I know from my reading that he is the nearest thing to an executive officer that there is on Aurora, but I gathered from that same reading that the position is purely honorary. He has no power, I take, it.”

Daneel said, “I am afraid, Partner Elijah—”

Giskard interrupted. “Sir, I am more aware of the political situation on Aurora than friend Daneel is. I have been in operation for much longer. Would you be willing to have me answer the question?”

“Why, certainly, Giskard. Go ahead.”

“When the government of Aurora was first set up, sir,” began Giskard in a didactic way, as though an information reel within him were methodically spinning, “it was intended that the executive officer fulfill only ceremonial duties. He was to greet dignitaries from other worlds, open all meetings of the Legislature, preside over its deliberations; and vote only to break a tie. After the River Controversy, however—”

“Yes, I read about that,” said Baley. It had been a particularly dull episode in Auroran history, in which impenetrable arguments over the proper division of hydroelectric power had led to the nearest approach to civil war the planet had ever seen. “You needn’t go into details.”

“No, sir,” said Giskard. “After the River Controversy, however, there was a general determination never to allow controversy to endanger Auroran society again. It has become customary, therefore, to settle all disputes in a private and peaceable manner outside the Legislature. When the legislators finally vote, it is in an agreed-upon fashion, so that there is always a large majority on one side or the other.

“The key figure in the settlement of disputes is the Chairman of the Legislature. He is held to be above the struggle and his power—which, although nil in theory, is considerable in practice—only holds as long as he is seen to be so. The Chairman therefore jealously guards his objectivity and, as long as he succeeds in this, it is he who usually makes the decision that settles any controversy in one direction or another.”

Baley said, “You mean that the Chairman will listen to me, to Fastolfe, and to Amadiro, and then come to a decision?”

“Possibly. On the other hand, sir, he may remain uncertain and require further testimony, further thought—or both.”

“And if the Chairman does come to a decision, will Amadiro bow to it if it is against him—or will Fastolfe bow if it is against him?”

“That is not an absolute necessity. There are almost always some who will not accept the Chairman’s decision and both Dr. Amadiro and Dr. Fastolfe are headstrong and obstinate individuals—if one may judge from their actions. Most of the legislators, however, will go along with the Chairman’s decision, whatever that might be. Dr. Fastolfe or Dr. Amadiro whichever it may be who will be decided against by the Chairman—will then be sure to find himself in a small minority when the vote is taken.”

“How sure, Giskard?”

“Almost sure. The Chairman’s term of office is ordinarily thirty years, with the opportunity for reelection by the Legislature for another thirty years. If, however, a vote were to go against the Chairman’s recommendation, the Chairman would be forced to resign forth with and there would be a governmental crisis while the Legislature tried to find another Chairman under conditions of bitter dispute. Few legislators are willing to risk that and the chance of getting a majority to vote against the Chairman, when that is the consequence, is almost nil.”

“Then,” said Baley ruefully, “everything depends on this morning’s conference.”

“That is very likely.”

“Thank you, Giskard.”

Gloomily, Baley arranged and rearranged his line of thought. It seemed hopeful to him, but he did not have any idea what Amadiro might say or what the Chairman might be like. It was Amadiro who had initiated the meeting and he must feel confident, sure of himself.

It was then that Baley remembered that once again, when he was falling asleep, with Gladia in his arms, he had seen or thought he had seen—or imagined he had seen—the meaning of all the events on Aurora. Everything had seemed clear, obvious, certain. And once more, for the third time, it was gone as though it had never been.

And with that thought, his hopes seemed to go, too.

Daneel led Baley into the room where breakfast was being served—it seemed more intimate than an ordinary dining room. It was small and plain, with no more in the way of furnishings than a table and two chairs and when Daneel retired, he did not move into a niche. In fact, there were no niches and, for a moment, Baley found himself alone—entirely alone—in the room.

That he was not really alone, he was certain. There would be robots on instant call. Still, it was a room for two—a no robots room—a room (Baley hesitated at the thought) for lovers.

On the table there were two stacks of pancake-like objects that did not smell like pancakes but smelled good. Two containers of what looked like melted butter (but might not be) flanked them. There was a pot of the hot drink (which Baley had tried and had not liked very much) that substituted for coffee.

Gladia walked in, dressed in rather prim fashion and with her hair glistening, as though freshly conditioned. She paused a moment, her face wearing a half-smile. “Elijah?”

Baley, caught a little by surprise at the sudden appearance, jumped to his feet, “How are you, Gladia?” He stuttered a bit.

She ignored that. She seemed cheerful, carefree. She said, “If you’re worried about Daneel not being in sight, don’t be. He’s completely safe and he’ll stay so. As for us—” She came to him, standing close, and put a hand slowly to his cheek, as once, long ago, she had done in Solaria.

She laughed lightly. “That was all I did then, Elijah. Do you remember?”

Elijah nodded silently.

“Did you sleep well, Elijah?—Sit down, dear.”

He sat down. “Very well.—Thank you, Gladia.” He hesitated before deciding not to return the endearment in kind.

She said, “Don’t thank me. I’ve had my best night’s sleep in weeks and I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gotten out of bed after I was sure you were sleeping soundly. If, I had stayed—as I wanted to—I would have been annoying you before the night was over and you would not have gotten your rest.”

He recognized the need for gallantry. “There are some things more important than r-rest, Gladia,” he said, but with such formality that she laughed again.

“Poor Elijah,” she said. “You’re embarrassed.”

The fact that she recognized that embarrassed him even more. Baley had been prepared for contrition, disgust, shame, affected indifference, tears—everything but the frankly erotic attitude she had assumed.