by Isaac Asimov
“Gladia,” said Baley, “it is important that I know, exactly, the relationship between you and Dr. Fastolfe. You live near him and the two of you form what is virtually a single robotic household. He is clearly concerned for you. He has made no effort to defend his own innocence, aside from the mere statement that he is innocent, but he defends you strongly the moment I harden my questioning.”
Gladia smiled faintly. “What do you suspect, Elijah?”
Baley said, “Don’t fence with me. I don’t want to suspect. I want to know.”
“Has Dr. Fastolfe mentioned Fanya?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Have you asked him whether Fanya is his wife or merely his companion? Whether he has children?”
Baley stirred uneasily. He might have asked such questions, of course. In the close quarters of crowded Earth, however, privacy was cherished, precisely because it had all but perished. It was virtually impossible on Earth not to know all the facts about the family arrangements of others, so one never asked and pretended ignorance. It was a universally maintained fraud.
Here on Aurora, of course, the Earth ways would not hold, yet Baley automatically held with them. Stupid!
He said, “I have not yet asked. Tell me.”
Gladia said, “Fanya is his wife. He has been married a number of times, consecutively of course, though simultaneous marriage for either or both sexes is not entirely unheard of on Aurora.” The bit of mild distaste with which she said that brought an equally mild defense. “It is unheard of on Solaria.
“However, Dr. Fastolfe’s current marriage will probably soon be dissolved. Both will then be free to make new attachments, though often either or both parties do not wait for dissolution to do that.–I don’t say I understand this casual way of treating the matter, Elijah, but it is how Aurorans build their relationships. Dr. Fastolfe, to my knowledge, is rather straitlaced. He always maintains one marriage or another and seeks nothing outside of it. On Aurora, that is considered old-fashioned and rather silly.”
Baley nodded. “I’ve gathered something of this in my reading. Marriage takes place when there’s the intention to have children, I understand.”
“In theory, that is so, but I’m told hardly anyone takes that seriously these days. Dr. Fastolfe already has two children and can’t have any more, but he still marries and applies for a third. He gets turned down, of course, and knows he will. Some people don’t even bother to apply.”
“Then why bother marrying?”
“There are social advantages to it. It’s rather complicated and, not being an Auroran, I’m not sure I understand it.”
“Well, never mind. Tell me about Dr. Fastolfe’s children.”
“He has two daughters by two different mothers. Neither of the mothers was Fanya, of course. He has no sons. Each daughter was incubated in the mother’s womb, as is the fashion on Aurora. Both daughters are adults now and have their own establishments.”
“Is he close with his daughters?”
“I don’t know. He never talks about them. One is a roboticist and I suppose he must keep in touch with her work. I believe the other is running for office on the council of one of the cities or that she is actually in possession of the office. I don’t really know.”
“Do you know if there are family strains?”
“None that I am aware of, which may not go for much, Elijah. As far as I know, he is on civil terms with all his past wives. None of the dissolutions were carried through in anger. For one thing, Dr. Fastolfe is not that kind of person. I can’t imagine him greeting anything in life with anything more extreme than a good-natured sigh of resignation. He’ll joke on his deathbed.”
That, at least, rang true, Baley thought. He said, “And Dr. Fastolfe’s relationship to you. The truth, please. We are not in a position to dodge the truth in order to avoid embarrassment.”
She looked up and met his eyes levelly. She said, “There is no embarrassment to avoid. Dr. Han Fastolfe is my friend, my very good friend.”
“How good, Gladia?”
“As I said–very good.”
“Are you waiting for the dissolution of his marriage so that you may be his next wife?”
“No.” She said it very calmly.
“Are you lovers, then?”
“No.”
“Have you been?”
“No.–Are you surprised?”
“I merely need information,” said Baley.
“Then let me answer your questions connectedly, Elijah, and don’t bark them at me as though you expected to surprise me into telling you something I would otherwise keep secret.” She said it without noticeable anger. It was almost as though she were amused.
Baley, flushing slightly, was about to say that this was not at all his intention, but, of course, it was and he would gain nothing by denying it. He said in a soft growl, “Well, then, go ahead.”
The remains of the tea littered the table between them. Baley wondered if, under ordinary conditions, she would not have lifted her arm and bent it just so–and if the robot, Borgraf, would not have then entered silently and cleared the table.
Did the fact that the litter remained upset Gladia–and would it make her less self-controlled in her response? If so, it had better remain–but Baley did not really hope for much, for he could see no signs of Gladia being disturbed over the mess or even of her being aware of it.
Gladia’s eyes had fallen to her lap again and her face seemed to sink lower and to become a touch harsh, as though she were reaching into a past she would much rather obliterate.
She said, “You caught a glimpse of my life on Solaria. It was not a happy one, but I knew no other. It was not until I experienced a touch of happiness that I suddenly knew exactly to what an extent–and how intensively–my earlier life was not happy. The first hint came through you, Elijah.”
“Through me?” Baley was caught by surprise.
“Yes, Elijah. Our last meeting on Solaria–I hope you remember it, Elijah–taught me something. I touched you! I removed my glove, one that was similar to the glove I am wearing now, and I touched your cheek. The contact did not last long. I don’t know what it meant to you–no, don’t tell me, it’s not important–but it meant a great deal to me.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes defiantly. “It meant ever thing to me. It changed my life. Remember, Elijah, that until then, after my few years of childhood, I had never touched a man–or any human being, actually–except for my husband. And I touched my husband very rarely. I had viewed men on trimensic, of course, and in the process I had become entirely familiar with every physical aspect of males, every part of them. I had nothing to learn, in that respect.
“But I had no reason to think that one man felt much different from another. I knew what my husband’s skin felt like, what his hands felt like when he could bring himself to touch me, what–everything. I had no reason to think that anything would be different with any man. There was no pleasure in contact with my husband, but why should there be? Is there particular pleasure in the contact of my fingers with this table, except to the extent that I might appreciate its physical smoothness?
“Contact with my husband was part of an occasional ritual that he went through because it was expected of him and, as a good Solarian, he therefore carried it through by the calendar and clock and for the length of time and in the manner prescribed by good breeding. Except that, in another sense, it wasn’t good breeding, for although this periodic contact was for the precise purpose of sexual intercourse, my husband had not applied for a child and was not interested, I believe, in producing one. And I was too much in awe of him to apply for one on my own initiative, as would have been my right.
“As I look back on it, I can see that the sexual experience was perfunctory and mechanical. I never had an orgasm. Not once. That such a thing existed I gathered from some of my reading, but the descriptions merely puzzled me and–since they were to be found only in imported books–Solarian books never
dealt with sex–I could not trust them. I thought they were merely exotic metaphors.
“Nor could I experiment–successfully, at least–with autoeroticism. Masturbation is, I think, the common word. At least, I have heard that word used on Aurora. On Solaria, of course, no aspect of sex is ever discussed, nor is any sex-related word used in polite society.–Nor is there any other kind of society on Solaria.
“From something I occasionally read, I had an idea of how one might go about masturbating and, on a number of occasions, I made a halfhearted attempt to do what was described. I could not carry it through. The taboo against touching human flesh made even my own seem forbidden and unpleasant to me. I could brush my hand against my side, cross one leg over another, feel the pressure of thigh against thigh, but these were casual touches, unregarded. To make the process of touch an instrument of deliberate pleasure was different. Every fiber of me knew it shouldn’t be done and, because I knew that, the pleasure wouldn’t come.
“And it never occurred to me, never once, that there might be pleasure in touching under other circumstances. Why should it occur to me? How could it occur to me?
“Until I touched you that time. Why I did, I don’t know. I felt a gush of affection for you because you had saved me from being a murderess. And besides, you were not altogether forbidden. You were not a Solarian. You were not–forgive me–altogether a man. You were a creature of Earth. You were human in appearance, but you were short-lived and infection-prone, something to be dismissed as semihuman at best.
“So because you had saved me and were not really a man, I could touch you. And what’s more, you looked at me not with the hostility and repugnance of my husband–or with the carefully schooled indifference of someone viewing me on trimensic. You were right there, palpable, and your eyes were warm and concerned. You actually trembled when my hand approached your cheek. I saw that.
“Why it was, I don’t know. The touch was so fugitive and there was no way in which the physical sensation was different from what it would have been if I had touched my husband or any other man–or, perhaps, even any woman. But there was more to it than the physical sensation. You were there, you welcomed it, you showed me every sign of what I accepted as–affection. And when our skins–my hand, your cheek–made contact, it was as though I had touched gentle fire that made its way up my hand and arm instantaneously and set me all in flame.
“I don’t know how long it lasted–it couldn’t be for more than a moment or two–but for me time stood still. Something happened to me that had never happened to me before and, looking back on it long afterward, when I had learned about it, I realized that I had very nearly experienced an orgasm.
“I tried not to show it–”
(Baley, not daring to look at her, shook his head.)
“Well, then, I didn’t show it. I said, ‘Thank you, Elijah.’ I said it for what you had done for me in connection with my husband’s death. But I said it much more for lighting my life and showing me, without even knowing it, what there was in life; for opening a door; for revealing a path; for pointing out a horizon. The physical act was nothing in itself. Just a touch. But it was the beginning of everything.”
Her voice had faded out and, for a moment, she said nothing, remembering.
Then one finger lifted. “No. Don’t say anything. I’m not done yet.
“I had had imaginings before, very vague uncertain things. A man and I, doing what my husband and I did, but somehow different–I didn’t even know different in what Sway–and feeling something different–something I could not even imagine when imagining with all my might. I might conceivably have gone through my whole life trying to imagine the unimaginable and I might have died as I suppose women on Solaria–and men, too–often do, never knowing, even after three or four centuries. Never knowing. Having children, but never knowing.
“But one touch of your cheek, Elijah, and I knew. Isn’t that amazing? You taught me what I might imagine. Not the mechanics of it, not the dull, reluctant approach of bodies, but something that I could never have conceived as having anything to do with it. The look on a face, the sparkle in an eye, the feeling of–gentleness–kindness–something I can’t even describe–acceptance–a lowering of the terrible barrier between individuals. Love, I suppose–a convenient word to encompass all of that and more.
“I felt love for you, Elijah, because I thought you could feel love for me. I don’t say you loved me, but it seemed to me you could. I never had that and, although in ancient literature they talked of it, I didn’t know what they meant any more than when men in those same books talked about ‘honor’ and killed each other for its sake. I accepted the word, but never made Out its meaning. I still haven’t. And so it was with ‘love’ until I touched you.
“After that I could imagine–and I came to Aurora remembering you, and thinking of you, and talking to you endlessly in my mind, and thinking that in Aurora I would meet a million Elijahs.”
She stopped, lost in her own thoughts for a moment, then suddenly went on:
“I didn’t. Aurora, it turned out, was, in its way, as bad as Solaria. In Solaria, sex was wrong. It was hated and we all turned away from it. We could not love for the hatred that sex aroused.
“In Aurora, sex was boring. It was accepted calmly, easily–as easily as breathing. If one felt the impulse, one reached out toward anyone who seemed suitable and, if that suitable person was not at the moment engaged in something that could not be put aside, sex followed in any fashion that was convenient. Like breathing.–But where is the ecstasy in breathing? If one were choking, then perhaps the first shuddering breath that followed upon deprivation might be an overwhelming delight and relief. But if one never choked?
“And if one never unwillingly went without sex? If it were taught to youngsters on an even basis with reading and programming? If children were expected to experiment as a matter of course, and if older children were expected to help out?
“Sex–permitted and free as water–has nothing to do with love on Aurora, just as sex–forbidden and a thing of shame–has nothing to do with love on Solaria. In either case, children are few and must come about only after formal application.–And then, if permission is granted, there must be an interlude of sex designed for childbearing only, dull and brackish. If, after a reasonable time, impregnation doesn’t follow, the spirit rebels and artificial insemination is resorted to.
“In time, as on Solaria, ectogenesis will be the thing, so that fertilization and fetal development will take place in genotaria and sex will be left to itself as a form of social interaction and play that has no more to do with love than space-polo does.
“I could not move into the Auroran attitude, Elijah. I had not been brought up to it. With terror, I had reached out for sex and no one refused–and no one mattered. Each man’s eyes were blank when I offered myself and remained blank as they accepted. Another one, they said, what matter? They were willing, but no more than willing.
“And touching them meant nothing. I might have been touching my husband. I learned to go through with it, to follow their lead, to accept their guidance–and it all still meant nothing. I gained not even the urge to do it to myself and by myself. The feeling you had given me never returned and, in time, I gave up.
“In all this, Dr. Fastolfe was my friend. He alone, on all Aurora, knew everything that happened on Solaria. At least, so I think You know that the full story was not made public and certainly did not appear in that dreadful hyperwave program that I’ve heard of–I refused to watch it.
“Dr. Fastolfe protected me against the lack of understanding on the part of Aurorans and against their general contempt for Solarians. He protected me also against the despair that filled me after a while.
“No, we were not lovers. I would have offered myself, but by the time it occurred to me that I might do so, I no longer felt that the feeling you had inspired, Elijah, would ever recur. I thought it might have been a trick of memory and I gave up. I did not offe
r myself. Nor did he offer himself. I do not know why he did not. Perhaps he could see that my despair arose over my failure to find anything useful in sex and did not want to accentuate the despair by repeating the failure. It would be typically kind of him to be careful of me in this way–so we were not lovers. He was merely my friend at a time when I needed that so much more.
“There you are, Elijah. You have the whole answer to the questions you asked. You wanted to know my relationship with Dr. Fastolfe and said you needed information. You have it. Are you satisfied?”
Baley tried not let his misery show. “I am sorry, Gladia, that life has been so hard for you. You have given me the information I needed. You have given me more information than, perhaps, you think you have.”
Gladia frowned. “In what way?”
Baley did not answer directly. He said, “Gladia, I am glad that your memory of me has meant so much to you. It never occurred to me at any time on Solaria, that I was impressing you so and, even if it had, I would not have tried–You know.”
“I know, Elijah,” she said, softening. “Nor would it have availed you if you had tried. I couldn’t have.”
“And I know that.–Nor do I take what you have told me as an invitation now. One touch, one moment of sexual insight, need be no more than that. Very likely, it can never be repeated and that onetime existence ought not to be spoiled by foolish attempts at resurrection. That is a reason why I do not now–offer myself. My failure to do so is not to be interpreted as one more blank ending for you. Besides–”
“Yes.”
“You have, as I said earlier, told me perhaps more than you realize you did. You have told me that the story does not end with your despair.”
“Why do you say that?”
“In telling me of the feeling that was inspired by the touch upon my cheek, you said something like ‘looking back on it long afterward, when I had learned, I realized that I had very nearly experienced an orgasm.’–But then you went on to explain that sex with Aurorans was never successful and, I presume, you did not then experience orgasm either. Yet you must have, Gladia, if you recognized the sensation you experienced that time on Solaria. You could not look back and recognize it for what it was, unless you had learned to love successfully. In other words, you have had a lover and you have experienced love. If I am to believe that Dr. Fastolfe is not your lover and has not been, then it follows that someone else is–or was.”