Isaac Asimov - The Robots of Dawn

The book-films he had viewed had said nothing of this.

Clearly, as Fastolfe had pointed out, they were not written for Earthpeople but for Aurorans and, to a lesser extent, for possible tourists from the other forty-nine Spacer worlds. Earthpeople, after all, almost never went to the Spacer worlds, least of all to Aurora. They were not welcome there. Why, then, should they be addressed?

And why should the book-films expand on what everyone knew? Should they make a fuss over the fact that Aurora was spherical in shape, or that water was wet, or that one man might address another freely in a Personal?

Yet did that not make a mockery of the very name of the structure? Yet Baley found himself unable to avoid thinking of the Women’s Personals on Earth where, as Jessie had frequently told him, women chattered incessantly and felt no discomfort about it. Why women, but not men? Baley had never thought seriously about it before, but had accepted it merely as custom—as unbreakable custom—but if women, why not men?

It didn’t matter. The thought only affected his intellect and not whatever it was about his mind that made him feel overwhelming and ineradicable distaste for the whole idea. He repeated, “Let’s get out.”

Gremionis protested, “But your robots are out there.”

“So they are. What of it?”

“But this is something I want to talk about privately, man to m-man.” He stumbled over the phrase.

“I suppose you mean Spacer to Earthman.”

“If you like.”

“My robots are necessary. They are my partners in my investigation.”

“But this has nothing to do with the investigation. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Baley firmly, walking out of the Personal.

Gremionis hesitated and then followed.

Daneel and Giskard were waiting—impassive, expressionless, patient. On Daneel’s face, Baley thought he could make out a trace of concern, but, on the other hand, he might merely be reading that emotion into those inhumanly human features. Giskard, the less human-looking, showed nothing, of course, even to the most willing personifier.

A third robot waited as well—presumably that of Gremionis. He was simpler in appearance even than Giskard and had an air of shabbiness about him. It was clear that Gremionis was not very well-to-do.

Daneel said, with what Baley automatically assumed to be the warmth of relief, “I am pleased that you are well, Partner Elijah.”

“Entirely well. I am curious, however, about something. If you had heard me call out in alarm from within, would you have come in?”

“At once sir,” said Giskard.

“Even though you are programmed not to enter Personals?”

“The need to protect a human being—you, in particular—would be paramount, sir.”

“That is so, Partner Elijah,” said Daneel.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Baley. “This person is Santirix Gremionis. Mr. Gremionis, this is Daneel and this is Giskard.”

Each robot bent his head solemnly. Gremionis merely glanced at them, and lifted one hand in indifferent acknowledgment. He made no effort to introduce his own robot.

Baley looked around. The light was distinctly dimmer, the wind was brisker, the air was cooler, the sun was completely hidden by clouds. There was a gloom to the surroundings that did not seem to affect Baley, who continued to be delighted at having escaped from the Personal. It lifted his spirits amazingly that he was actually experiencing the feeling of being pleased at being Outside. It was a special case, he knew, but it was a beginning and he could not help but consider it a triumph.

Baley was about to turn to Gremionis to resume the conversation, when his eye caught movement. Walking across the lawn came a woman with an accompanying robot. She was coming toward them but seemed totally oblivious to them. She was clearly making for the Personal.

Baley put out his arm in the direction of the woman, as though to stop her, even though she was still thirty meters away, and muttered, “Doesn’t she know that’s a Men’s Personal?”

“What?” said Gremionis.

The woman continued to approach, while Baley watched ih total puzzlement. Finally, the woman’s robot stepped to one side to wait and the woman entered the structure.

Baley said helplessly, “But she can’t go in there.”

Gremionis said, “Why not? It’s communal.”

“But it’s for men.”

“It’s for people,” said Gremionis. He seemed utterly confused.

“Either sex? Surely you can’t mean that.”

“Any human being. Of course I mean it! How would you want it to be? I don’t understand.”

Baley turned away. It had not been many minutes before that he had thought that open conversation in a Personal was the acme in bad taste, of Things Not Done.

If he had tried to think of something worse yet, he would have completely failed to dredge up the possibility of encountering a woman in a Personal. Convention on Earth required him to ignore the presence of others in the large Community Personals on that world, but not all the conventions ever invented would have prevented him from knowing whether a person passing him was a man or a woman.

What if, while he had been in the Personal, a woman had entered—casually, indifferently—as this one had just done? Or, worse still, what if he had entered a Personal and found a woman already there?

He could not estimate his reaction. He had never weighed the possibility, let alone met with such a situation, but he found the thought totally intolerable.

And the book-films had told him nothing about that either.

He had viewed those films in order that he might not approach the investigation in total ignorance of the Auroran way of life—and they had left him in total ignorance of all that was important.

Then how could he handle this triply knotted puzzle of Jander’s death, when at every step he found himself lost in ignorance?

A moment before he had felt triumph at a small conquest over the terrors of Outside, but now he was faced with the feeling of being ignorant of everything, ignorant even of the nature of his ignorance.

It was now, while fighting not to picture the woman passing through the airspace lately occupied by himself, that he came near to utter despair.

Again Giskard said (and in a way that made it possible to read concern into his words—if not into the tone), “Are you unwell, sir? Do you need help?”

Baley muttered, “No no. I’m all right.—But let’s move away. We’re in the path of people wishing to use that structure.”

He walked rapidly toward the airfoil that was resting in the open stretch beyond the gravel path. On the other side was a small two-wheeled vehicle, with two seats, one behind the other. Baley assumed it to be Gremionis’ scooter.

His feeling of depression and misery, Baley realized, was accentuated by the fact that he felt hungry. It was clearly past lunchtime and he had not eaten.

He turned to Gremionis. “Let’s talk—but if you don’t mind, let’s do it over lunch. That is, if you haven’t already eaten and if you don’t mind eating with me,”

“Where are you going to eat?”

“I don’t know. Where does one eat at the Institute?”

Gremionis said, “Not at the Community Diner. We can’t talk there.”

“Is there an alternative?”

“Come to my establishment,” said Gremionis at once. “It isn’t one of the fancier ones here. I’m not one of your high executives. Still, I have a few serviceable robots and we can set a decent table.—I tell you what. I’ll get on my scooter with Brundij—my robot, you know—and you follow me. You’ll have to go slowly, but I’m only a little over a kilometer away. It will just take two or three minutes.”