He had begun by stepping across open ground to the waiting plane with a kind of lightheaded dizziness that was almost enjoyable, and he had ordered the windows left unblanked in a kind of manic self confidence.
I have to get used to it, he thought, and stared at the blue until his heart beat rapidly and the lump in his throat swelled beyond endurance.
He had to close his eyes and bury his head under the protective cover of his arms at shortening intervals. Slowly his confidence trickled away and even the touch of the holster of his freshly recharged blaster could not reverse the flow.
He tried to keep his mind on his plan of attack. First, learn the ways of the planet. Sketch in the background against which everything must be placed or fail to make sense.
See a sociologist!
He had asked a robot for the name of the Solarian most eminent as a sociologist. And there was that comfort about robots; they asked no questions.
The robot gave the name and vital statistics, and paused to remark that the sociologist would most probably be at lunch and would, therefore, possibly ask to delay contact.
"Lunch!" said Baley sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. It's not noon by two hours."
The robot said, "I am using local time, master."
Baley stared, then understood. On Earth, with its buried Cities, day and night, waking and sleeping, were man made periods, adjusted to suit the needs of the community and the planet. On a planet such as this one, exposed nakedly to the sun, day and night were not a matter of choice at all, but were imposed on man willyfilly.
Baley tried to picture a world as a sphere being lit and unlit as it turned. He found it hard to do and felt scornful of the so superior Spacers who let such an essential thing as time be dictated to them by the vagaries of planetary movements.
He said, "Contact him anyway."
Robots were there to meet the plane when it landed and Baley, stepping out into the open again, found himself trembling badly.
He muttered to the nearest of the robots, "Let me hold your arm, boy."
The sociologist waited for him down the length of a hall, smiling tightly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Baley."
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."