by Isaac Asimov
“I am sure, madam, that Giskard will handle the matter competently.”
Gladia was sure of that, too, but she merely snorted. At least it would have been a snort if Gladia were the sort of person who snorted. She didn’t think she was.
“I presume,” she said, “he’s been in appropriate quarantine before being allowed to land.”
“It would be inconceivable for him not to have been, madam.”
She said, “Just the same, I’ll wear my gloves and my nose filter.”
She stepped out of her bedroom, was distantly aware that there were household robots about her, and made the sign that would get her a new pair of gloves and a fresh nose filter. Every establishment had its own vocabulary of signs and every human member of an establishment cultivated those signs, learning to make them both rapidly and unnoticeably. A robot was expected to follow these unobtrusive orders of its human overlords as though it read minds; and it followed that a robot could not follow the orders of nonestablishment human beings except by careful speech.
Nothing would humiliate a human member of an establishment more than to have one of the robots of the establishment hesitate in fulfilling an order or, worse, fulfill it incorrectly. That would mean that the human being had fumbled a sign—or that the robot had.
Generally, Gladia knew, it was the human being who was at fault, but in virtually every case, this was not admitted. It was the robot who was handed over for an unnecessary response analysis or unfairly put up for sale. Gladia had always felt that she would never fall into that trap of wounded ego, yet if at that moment she had not received her gloves and nose filter, she would have—
She did not have to finish the thought. The nearest robot brought her what she wanted, correctly and with speed.
Gladia adjusted the nose filter and snuffled a bit to make sure it was properly seated (she was in no mood to risk infection with any foul disorder that had survived the pain staking treatment during quarantine). She said, “What does he look like, Daneel?”
Daneel said, “He is of ordinary stature and measurements, madam.”
“I mean his face.” (It was silly to ask. If he showed any family resemblance to Elijah Baley, Daneel would have noticed it as quickly as she herself would have and he would have remarked upon it.) “That is difficult to say, madam. It is not in plain view.”
“What does that mean? Surely he’s, not masked, Daneel—”
“In a way, he is, madam. His face is covered with hair.”
“Hair?” She found herself laughing. “You mean after the fashion of the hypervision historicals? Beards?” She made little gestures indicating a tuft of hair on the chin and another under the nose.
“Rather more than that, madam. Half his face is covered.”
Gladia’s eyes opened wide and for the first time she felt a surge of interest in seeing him. What would a face with hair all over it look like? Auroran males—and Spacer males, generally—had very little facial hair and what there was would be removed permanently by the late teens—during virtual infancy.
Sometimes the upper lip was left untouched. Gladia remembered that her husband, Santirix Gremionis, before their marriage, had had a thin line of hair under his nose. A mustache, he had called it. It had looked like a misplaced and peculiarly misshapen eyebrow and once she had resigned himself to accepting him as a husband, she had insisted he destroy the follicles.
He had done so with scarcely a murmur and it occurred to her now, for the first time, to wonder if he had missed the hair. It seemed to her that she had noticed him, on occasion, in those early years, lifting a finger to his upper lip. She had thought it a nervous poking at a vague itch and it was only now that it occurred to her that he had been searching for a mustache that was gone forever.
How would a man look with a mustache all over his face? Would he be bearlike?
How would it feel? What if women had such hair, too? She thought of a man and woman trying to kiss and having trouble finding each other’s mouths. She found the thought funny, in a harmlessly ribald way, and laughed out loud. She felt her petulance disappearing and actually looked forward to seeing the monster.
After all, there would be no need to fear him even if he were as animal in behavior as he was in appearance. He would have no robot of his own—Settlers were supposed to have a nonrobotic society—and she would be surrounded by a dozen. The monster would be immobilized in a split second if he made the slightest suspicious move—or if he as much as raised his voice in anger.
She said with perfect good humor, “Take me to him, Daneel.”
17
The monster rose. He said something that sounded like “Good afternoon, muhleddy.”
She at once caught the “good afternoon,” but it took her a moment to translate the last word into “my lady.”
Gladia absently said, “Good afternoon.” She remembered the difficulty she had had understanding Auroran pronunciation of Galactic Standard in those long-ago days when, a frightened young woman, she had come to the planet from Solaria.
The monster’s accent was uncouth—or did it just sound uncouth because her ear was unaccustomed to it? Elijah, she remembered, had seemed to voice his “Vs” and “Ps,” but spoke pretty well otherwise. Nineteen and a half decades had passed, however, and this Settler was not from Earth. Language, in isolation, underwent changes.
But only a small portion of Gladia’s mind was on the language problem. She was staring at his beard.
It was not in the least like the beards that actors wore in historical dramas. Those always seemed tufted—a bit here, a bit there—looking gluey and glossy.
The Settler’s beard was different. It covered his cheeks and chin evenly, thickly, and deeply. It was a dark brown, somewhat lighter and wavier than the hair on his head, and at least two inches long, she judged—evenly long.
It didn’t cover his whole face, which was rather disappointing. His forehead was totally bare (except for his eyebrows), as were his nose and his under-eye regions.
His upper lip was bare, too, but it was shadowed as though there was the beginning of new growth upon it. There was additional bareness just under the lower lip, but with new growth less marked and concentrated mostly under the middle portion.
Since both his lips were quite bare, it was clear to Gladia that there would be no difficulty in kissing him. She said, knowing that staring was impolite and staring even so, “It seems to me you remove the hair from about your lips.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Why, if I may ask?”
“You may ask. For hygienic reasons. I don’t want food catching in the hairs.”
“You scrape it off, don’t you? I see it is growing again.”
“I use a facial laser. It takes fifteen seconds after waking.”
“Why not depilate and be done with it?”
“I might want to grow it back.”
“Why?”
“Esthetic reasons, my lady.”
This time Gladia did not grasp the word. It sounded like “acidic” or possibly “acetic.”
She said, “Pardon me?”
The Settler said, “I might grow tired of the way I look now and want to grow the hair on the upper lip again. Some women like it, you know,” and the Settler tried to look modest and failed—“I have a fine mustache when I grow it.”
She said suddenly grasping the word, “You mean—”
The Settler laughed, showing fine white teeth, and said, “You talk funny, too, my lady.”
Gladia tried to look haughty, but melted into a smile. Proper pronunciation was a matter of local consensus. She said, “You ought to hear me with my Solarian accent—if it comes to that. Then it would be ‘estheetic rayzuns.’ The ‘r’ rolled interminably.”
“I’ve been places where they talk a little bit like that, it sounds barbarous.” He rolled both “r’s” phenomenally in the last word.
Gladia chuckled. “You do it with the tip of your tongue. It’s got to be with
the sides of the tongue. No one, but a Solarian can do it correctly.”
“Perhaps you can teach me. A Trader like myself, who’s been everywhere, hears all kinds of linguistic perversions.” Again he tried to roll the “r’s” of the last word, choked slightly, and coughed.
“See. You’ll tangle your tonsils and you’ll never recover.” She was still staring at his beard and now she could curb her curiosity no longer. She reached toward it.
The Settler flinched and started back, then, realizing her intention, was still.
Gladia’s hand, all-but-invisibly gloved, rested lightly on the left side of his face. The thin plastic that covered her fingers did not interfere with the sense of touch and she found the hair to be soft and springy.
“It’s nice,” she said with evident surprise.
“Widely admired,” said the Settler, grinning.
She said, “But I can’t stand here and manhandle you all day.”
Ignoring his predictable “You can as far as I’m concerned,”—she went on. “Have you told my robots what you would like to eat?”
“My lady, I told them what I now tell you—whatever is handy. I’ve been on a score of worlds in the last year and each has its own dietary. A Trader learns to eat everything that isn’t actually toxic. I’d prefer an Auroran meal to anything you would try to make in imitation of Baleyworld—”
“Baleyworld?” said Gladia sharply, a frown returning to her face.
“Named for the leader of the first expedition to the planet—or to any of the Settled planets, for that matter. Ben Baley.”
“The son of Elijah Baley.”
“Yes,” the Settler said and changed the subject, at once. He looked down at himself and said with a trace of petulance, “How do you people manage to stand these clothes of yours slick and puffy. Be glad to get into my own again.”
“I’m sure you will have your chance to do so soon enough. But for now please come and join me at lunch.—I was told your name was Baley, by the way—like your planet.”
“Not surprising. It’s the most honored name on the planet, naturally. I’m Deejee Baley.”
They had walked into the dining room, Giskard preceding them, Daneel following them, each moving into his appropriate wall niche. Other robots were already in their niches and two emerged to do the serving. The room was bright with sunshine, the walls were alive with decoration, the table was set, and the odor of the food was enticing.
The Settler sniffed and let his breath out in satisfaction. “I don’t think I’ll have any trouble at all eating Auroran food. Where would you like me to sit, my lady?”
A robot said at once, “If you would sit here, sir?”
The Settler sat down and then Gladia, the privileges of the guest satisfied, took her own seat.
“Deejee?” she said. “I do not know the nomenclature peculiarities of your world, so excuse me if my question is offensive. Wouldn’t Deejee be a feminine name?”
“Not at all,” said the Settler a bit stiffly. “In any case, it is not a name, it is a pair of initials. Fourth letter of the alphabet and the seventh.”
“Oh,” said Gladia, enlightened, “D.G. Baley. And what do the initials stand for, if you’ll excuse my curiosity?”
“Certainly. There’s ‘D,’ for certain,” he said, jerking his thumb toward one of the wall niches, “and I suspect that one may be ‘G.’” He jerked his thumb toward another.
“You don’t mean that,” said Gladia faintly.
“But I do. My name is Daneel Giskard Baley. In every generation, my family has had at least one Daneel or one Giskard in its multiplying batches. I was the last of six children, but the first boy. My mother felt that was enough and made up for having but one son by giving me both names. That made me Daneel Giskard Baley and the double load was too great for me. I prefer D.G. as my name and I’d be honored if you used it.” He smiled genially. “I’m the first to bear both names and I’m also the first to see the grand originals.”
“But why those names?”
“It was Ancestor Elijah’s idea, according to the family story. He had the honor of naming his grandsons and he named, the oldest Daneel, while the second was named Giskard. He insisted on those names and that established the tradition.”
“And the daughters?”
“The traditional name from generation to generation is Jezebel—Jessie. Elijah’s wife, you know.”
“I know.”
“There are no—” He caught himself and transferred his attention to the dish that had been placed before him. “If this were Baleyworld, I would say this was a slice of roast pork and that it was smothered in peanut sauce.”
“Actually, it is a vegetable dish, D.G. What you were about to say was that there are no Gladias in the family?”
“There aren’t,” said D.G. calmly. “One explanation is that Jessie—the original Jessie—would have objected, but I don’t accept that. Elijah’s wife, the Ancestress, never came to Baleyworld, you know, never left Earth. How could she have objected? No, to me, it’s pretty certain that the Ancestor wanted no other Gladia. No imitations, no copies, no pretense. One Gladia. Unique.—He asked that there be no later Elijah, either.”
Gladia was having trouble eating. “I think your Ancestor spent the latter portion of his life trying to be as unemotional as Daneel. Just the same, he had romantic notions under his skin. He might have allowed other Elijahs and Gladias. It wouldn’t have offended me, certainly, and I imagine it wouldn’t have offended his wife, either.” She laughed tremulously.
D.G. said, “All this doesn’t seem real somehow. The Ancestor is practically ancient history; he died a hundred and sixty-four years ago. I’m his descendant in the seventh generation, yet here I am sitting with a woman who knew him when he was quite young.”
“I didn’t really know him,” said Gladia, staring at her plate. “I saw him, rather briefly, on three separate occasions over a period of seven years.”
“I know. The Ancestor’s son, Ben, wrote a biography of him which is one of the literary classics of Baleyworld. Even I have read it.”
“Indeed? I haven’t read it. I didn’t even know it existed. What—what does it say about me?”
D.G. seemed amused. “Nothing you would object to; you come out very well. But never mind that. What I’m amazed at is that here we are together, across seven generations. How old are you, my lady? Is it fair to ask the question?”
“I don’t know that it’s fair, but I have no objection to it. In Galactic Standard Years, I am two hundred and thirty-three years old. Over twenty-two decades.”
“You look as though you were no more than in your late forties. The Ancestor died at the age of seventy-nine, an old man. I’m thirty-nine and when I die you will still be alive—”
“If I avoid death by misadventure.”
“And will continue to live perhaps five decades beyond.”
“Do you envy me, D.G.?” said Gladia with an edge of bitterness in her voice. “Do you envy me for having survived Elijah by over sixteen decades and for being condemned to survive him ten decades more, perhaps?”
“Of course I envy you,” came the composed answer. “Why not? I would have no objection to living for several centuries, were it not that I would be setting a bad example to the people of Baleyworld. I wouldn’t want them to live that long as a general thing. The pace of historical and intellectual advance would then become too slow. Those at the top would stay in power too long. Baleyworld would sink into conversation and decay—as your world has done.”
Gladia’s small chin lifted. “Aurora is doing quite well, you’ll find.”
“I’m speaking of your world. Solaria.”
Gladia hesitated, then said firmly, “Solaria is not my world.”
D.G. said, “I hope it is. I came to see you because I believe Solaria is your world.”
“If that is why you came to seem me, you are wasting your time, young man.”
“You were born Solaria, weren’t
you, and lived there a while?”
“I lived there for the first three decades of my life, about an eighth of my lifetime.”
“Then that makes you enough of a Solarian to be able to help me in a matter that is rather important.”
“I am not a Solarian, despite this so-called important matter.”
“It is a matter of war and peace—if you call that important. The Spacer worlds face war with the Settler worlds and things will go badly for all of us if it comes to that. And it is up to you, my lady, to prevent that war and to ensure peace.”
18
The meal was done (it had been a small one) and Gladia found herself looking at D.G. in a coldly furious way.
She had lived quietly for the last twenty decades, peeling off the complexities of life. Slowly she had forgotten the misery of Solaria and the difficulties of adjustment to Aurora. She had managed to bury quite deeply the agony of two murders and the ecstasy of two strange loves—with a robot and with an Earthman—and to get well past it all. She had ended by spinning out a long quiet marriage, having two children, and working at her applied art of costumery. And eventually the children had left, then her husband, and soon she might be retiring even from her work.
Then she would be alone with her robots, content with or, rather, resigned to—letting life glide quietly and uneventfully to a slow close in its own time—a close so gentle she might not be aware of the ending when it came.
It was what she wanted.
Then—What was happening?
It had begun the night before when she looked up vainly at the star-lit sky to see Solaria’s star, which was not in the sky and would not have been visible to her if it were. It was as though this one foolish reaching for the past—a past that should have been allowed to remain dead—had burst the cool bubble she had built about herself.
First the name of Elijah Baley, the most joyously painful memory of all the ones she had so carefully brushed away, had come up again and again in a grim repetition.