Isaac Asimov - The Naked Sun

Baley nodded breathlessly. “Good evening, sir. Would you blank out the windows?”

The sociologist said, “They are blanked out already. I know something of the ways of Earth. Will you follow me?”

Baley managed it without robotic help, following at a considerable distance, across and through a maze of hallways. When he finally sat down in a large and elaborate room, he was glad of the opportunity to rest.

The walls of the room were set with curved, shallow alcoves. Statuary in pink and gold occupied each niche; abstract figures that pleased the eye without yielding instant meaning. A large, boxlike affair with white and dangling cylindrical objects and numerous pedals suggested a musical instrument.

Baley looked at the sociologist standing before him. The Spacer looked precisely as he had when Baley had viewed him earlier that day. He was tall and thin and his hair was pure white. His face was strikingly wedge shaped, his nose prominent, his eyes deep set and alive.

His name was Anselmo Quemot.

They stared at one another until Baley felt he could trust his voice to be reasonably normal. And then his first remark had nothing to do with the investigation. In fact it was nothing he had planned.

He said, “May I have a drink?”

“A drink?” The sociologist’s voice was a trifle too high pitched to be entirely pleasant. He said, “You wish water?”

“I’d prefer something alcoholic.”

The sociologist’s look grew sharply uneasy, as though the obligations of hospitality were something with which he was unacquainted.

And that, thought Baley, was literally so. In a world where viewing was the thing, there would be no sharing of food and drink.

A robot brought him a small cup of smooth enamel. The drink was a light pink in color. Baley sniffed at it cautiously and tasted it even more cautiously. The small sip of liquid evaporated warmly in his mouth and sent a pleasant message along the length of his esophagus. His next sip was more substantial.

Quemot said, “If you wish more—”

“No, thank you, not now. It is good of you, sir, to agree to see me.”

Quemot tried a smile and failed rather markedly, “It has been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. Yes.”

He almost squirmed as he spoke.

Baley said, “I imagine you find this rather hard.”

“Quite.” Quemot turned away sharply and retreated to a chair at the opposite end of the room. He angled the chair so that it faced more away from Baley than toward him and sat down. He clasped his gloved hands and his nostrils seemed to quiver.

Baley finished his drink and felt warmth in his limbs and even the return of something of his confidence.

He said, “Exactly how does it feel to have me here, Dr. Quemot?” The sociologist muttered, “That is an uncommonly personal question.”

“I know it is. But I think I explained when I viewed you earlier that I was engaged in a murder investigation and that I would have to ask a great many questions, some of which were bound to be personal.”

“I’ll help if I can,” said Quemot. “I hope the questions will be decent ones.” He kept looking away as he spoke. His eyes, when they struck Baley’s face, did not linger, but slipped away.

Baley said, “I don’t ask about your feelings out of curiosity only. This is essential to the investigation.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I’ve got to know as much as I can about this world. I must understand how Solarians feel about ordinary matters. Do you see that?”

Quemot did not look at Baley at all now. He said slowly, “Ten years ago, my wife died. Seeing her was never very easy, but, of course, it is something one learns to bear in time and she was not the intrusive sort. I have been assigned no new wife since I am past the age of—of”, he looked at Baley as though requesting him to supply the phrase, and when Baley did not do so, he continued in a lower voice—“siring. Without even a wife, I have grown quite unused to this phenomenon of seeing.”

“But how does it feel?” insisted Baley. “Are you in panic?” He thought of himself on the plane.

“No. Not in panic.” Quemot angled his head to catch a glimpse of Baley and almost instantly withdrew. “But I will be frank, Mr. Baley. I imagine I can smell you.”

Baley automatically leaned back in his chair, painfully self conscious. “Smell me?”

“Quite imaginary, of course,” said Quemot. “I cannot say whether you do have an odor or how strong it is, but even if you had a strong one, my nose filters would keep it from me. Yet, imagination—” He shrugged.

“I understand.”

“It’s worse. You’ll forgive me, Mr. Baley, but in the actual presence

of a human, I feel strongly as though something slimy were about to touch me. I keep shrinking away. It is most unpleasant.”

Baley rubbed his ear thoughtfully and fought to keep down annoyance. After all, it was the other’s neurotic reaction to a simple state of affairs.

He said, “If all this is so, I’m surprised you agreed to see me so readily. Surely you anticipated this unpleasantness.”

“I did. But you know, I was curious. You’re an Earthman.” Baley thought sardonically that that should have been another argument against seeing, but he said only, ‘What does that matter?”

A kind of jerky enthusiasm entered Quemot’s voice. “It’s not something I can explain easily. Not even to myself, really. But I’ve worked on sociology for ten years now. Really worked. I’ve developed propositions that are quite new and startling, and yet basically true. It is one of these propositions that makes me most extraordinarily interested in Earth and Earthmen. You see, if you were to consider Solaria’s society and way of life carefully, it will become obvious to you that the said society and way of life is modeled directly and closely on that of Earth itself.”

Baley could not prevent himself from crying out, “What!”

Quemot looked over his shoulder as the moments of silence passed and said finally, “Not Earth’s present culture. No.”

Baley said, “Oh.”

“But in the past, yes. Earth’s ancient history. As an Earthman, you know it, of course.”

“I’ve viewed books,” said Baley cautiously.

“Ah. Then you understand.”

Baley, who did not, said, “Let me explain exactly what I want, Dr. Quemot. I want you to tell me what you can about why Solaria is so different from the other Outer Worlds, why there are so many robots, why you behave as you do. I’m sorry if I seem to be changing the subject.”

Baley most definitely wanted to change the subject. Any discussion of a likeness or unlikeness between Solaria’s culture and Earth’s would prove too absorbing by half. He might spend the day there and come away none the wiser as far as useful information was concerned.

Quemot smiled. “You want to compare Solaria and the other Outer Worlds and not Solaria and Earth.”

“I know Earth, sir.”

“As you wish.” The Solarian coughed slightly. “Do you mind if I turn my chair completely away from you? It would be more—more comfortable.”

“As you wish, Dr. Quemot,” said Baley stiffly.

“Good.” A robot turned the chair at Quemot’s low voiced order,

and as the sociologist sat there, hidden from Baley’s eyes by the substantial chair back, his voice took on added life and even deepened and strengthened in tone.

Quemot said, “Solaria was first settled about three hundred years ago. The original settlers were Nexonians. Are you acquainted with Nexon?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It is close to Solaria, only about two parsecs away. In fact, Solaria and Nexon represent the closest pair of inhabited worlds in the Galaxy. Solaria, even when uninhabited by man, was life bearing and eminently suited for human occupation. It represented an obvious attraction to the well-to-do of Nexon, who found it difficult to maintain a proper standard of living as their own planet filled up.”