He realized he was getting silly.
To outer space with it. What the Aurorans did and how they dealt with their problems was their affair and he would bother his head no more with them. Jehoshaphat! He had his own problems and, right now, the particular splinter of it was Gremionis—and he would tackle that after lunch.
Lunch was rather simple, largely vegetarian, but for the first time he had a little trouble. Each separate item was too sharply defined in taste. The carrots tasted rather strongly of carrots and the peas of peas, so to speak.
A little too much so, perhaps.
He ate rather reluctantly and tried not to show a slightly rising gorge.
And, as he did so, he became aware that he grew used to it—as though his taste buds saturated and could handle the excess more easily. It dawned on Baley, in a rather sad way, that if his exposure to Auroran food was to continue for any length of time, he would return to Earth missing that distinctiveness of flavor and resenting the flowing together of Earth tastes.
Even the crispness of various items—which had startled him at first, as each closing of his teeth seemed to create a noise that surely (he thought) must interfere with conversation—had already grown to seem exciting evidence that he was, in fact, eating. There would be a silence about an Earth meal that would leave him missing something.
He began to eat with attention, to study the tastes. Perhaps, when Earthpeople established themselves on other worlds, this Spacer-fashion food would be the mark of the new diet, especially if there were no robots to prepare and serve the meals.
And then he thought uncomfortably, not when but if Earthpeople established themselves on other worlds—and the ifness of it all depended on him, on Plainclothesman Elijah Baley. The burden of it weighed him down.
The meal was over. A pair of robots brought in the heated, moistened napkins with which one could clean one’s hands. Except that they weren’t ordinary napkins, for when Baley put his down on the plate, it seemed to move slightly, thin out, and grow cobwebby. Then, quite suddenly, it leaped up insubstantially and was carried into an outlet in the ceiling. Baley jumped slightly and his eyes moved upward, following the disappearing item open-mouthed.
Gremionis said, “That’s something new I just picked up. Disposable, you see, but I don’t know if I like it yet. Some people say it will clog the disposal vent after a while and others worry about pollution because they say some of it will surely get in your lungs. The manufacturer says not, but—”
Baley realized suddenly that he had said not a word during the meal and that this was the first time either of them had spoken since the short exchange on Daneel before the meal had been served.—And there was no use in small talk about napkins.
Baley said, rather gruffly, “Are you a barber, Mr. Gremionis?”
Gremionis flushed, his light skin, reddening to the hairline. He said in a choked voice, “Who told you that?”
Baley said, “If that is an impolite way of referring to your profession, I apologize. It is a common way of speaking on Earth and is no insult there.”
Gremionis said, “I am a hair designer and a clothing designer. It is a recognized branch of art. I am, in fact, a personnel artist.” His finger went to his mustache again.
Baley said gravely, “I notice your mustache. Is it common to grow them on Aurora?”
“No, it is not. I hope it will become so. You take your masculine face—A great many of them can be strengthened and improved by the artful design of facial hair. Everything is in the design—that’s part of my profession. You can go too far, of course. On the world of Pallas, facial hair is common, but it is the practice there to indulge in parti-colored dying. Each individual hair is separately dyed to produce some sort of mixture.—Now, that’s foolish. It doesn’t last, the colors change with time, and it looks terrible. But even so, it’s better than facial baldness in some ways. Nothing is less attractive than a facial desert.—That’s my own phrase. I use it in my personal talks with potential clients and it’s very effective. Females can get by with no facial hair because they make up for it in other ways. On the world of Smitheus—”
There was a hypnotic quality to his quiet, rapid words and his earnest expression, the way in which his eyes widened and remained fixed on Baley with an intense sincerity. Baley had to shake loose with ah almost physical force.
He said, “Are you a roboticist, Mr. Gremionis?”
Gremionis looked startled and a little confused at being interrupted in midflow. “A roboticist?”
“Yes. A roboticist.”
“No, not at all. I use robots as everyone does, but I don’t know what’s inside them.—Don’t care really.”
“But you live here on the grounds of the Robotics Institute. How is that?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Gremionis’ voice was measurably more hostile.
“If you’re not a roboticist—”
Gremionis grimaced. “That’s stupid! The Institute, when it was designed some years ago, was intended to be a self-contained community. We have our own transport vehicle repair shops, our own personal robot maintenance shops, our own physicians, our own structuralists. Our personnel live here and, if they have use for a personnel artist, that’s Sandrix Gremionis and I live here, too.—Is there something wrong with my profession that I should not?”
“I haven’t said that.”
Gremionis turned away with a residual petulance that Baley’s hasty disclaimer had not allayed. He pressed a button, then, after studying a varicolored rectangular strip, did something that was remarkably like drumming his fingers briefly.
A sphere dropped gently from the ceiling and remained suspended a meter or so above their heads. It opened as though it were an orange that was unsegmenting and a play of colors began within it, together with a soft wash of sound. The two melted together so skillfully that Baley, watching with astonishment, discovered that, after a short while, it was hard to distinguish one from the other.
The windows opacified and the segments grew brighter.
“Too bright?” asked Gremionis.
“No,” said Baley, after some hesitation.
“It’s meant for background and I’ve picked a soothing combination that will make it easier for us to talk in a civilized way, you know.” Then he said briskly, “Shall we get to the point?”
Baley withdrew his attention from the—whatever it was (Gremionis had not given it a name)—with some difficulty and said, “If you please. I would like to.”
“Have you been accusing me of having anything to do with the immobilization of that robot Jander?”
“I’ve been inquiring into the circumstances of the robot’s ending.”
“But you’ve mentioned me in connection with that ending.—In fact, just, a little while ago, you asked me if I were a roboticist. I know what you had in mind. You were trying to get me to admit I knew something about robotics, so that you could build up a case against me as the—as the—ender of the robot.”
“You might say the killer.”
“The killer? You can’t kill a robot.—In any case, I didn’t end it, or kill it, or anything you want to call it. I told you, I’m not a roboticist. I know nothing about robotics. How can you even think that—”
“I must investigate all connections, Mr. Gremionis. Jander belonged to Gladia—the Solarian woman—and you were friendly with her. That’s a connection.”
“There could be any number of people friendly with her. That’s no connection.”