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wiped slowly on a celltex towel.
I m Francis Clousarr, he said.
Baley looked briefly at R. Daneel. The robot nodded.
Okay, said Baley. Anywhere here we can talk?
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Maybe, said Clousarr slowly, but it s just about the end of my shift. How
about tomorrow?
Lots of hours between now and tomorrow. Let s make it now. Baley opened his
wallet and palmed it at the yeast farmer.
But Clousarr s hands did not waver in their somber wiping motions. He said,
coolly, I don t know the system in the Police Department, but around here you
get tight eating hours with no leeway. I eat at
15:00 to 17:45, or I don t eat.
It s all right, said Baley. I ll arrange to have your supper brought to
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you.
Well, well, said Clousarr, joylessly. Just like an aristocrat, or a C-class
copper. What s next? Private bath?
You just answer questions, Clousarr, said Baley, and save your big jokes
for your girl friend. Where can we talk?
If you want to talk, how about the balance room? Suit yourself about that.
Me, I ve got nothing to say.
Baley thumbed Clousarr into the balance room. It was square and antiseptically
white, air-conditioned independently of the larger room (and more
efficiently), and with its walls lined with delicate electronic balances,
glassed off and manipulable by field forces only. Baley had used cheaper
models in his college days. One make, which he recognized, could weigh a mere
billion atoms.
Clousarr said, I don t expect anyone will be in here for a while. Baley
grunted, then turned to Daneel and said, Would you step out and have a meal
sent up here? And if you don t mind, wait outside for it.
He watched R. Daneel leave, then said to Clousarr, You re a chemist?
I m a zymologist, if you don t mind.
What s the difference?
Clousarr looked lofty. A chemist is a soup-pusher, a stink-operator.
A zymologist is a man who helps keep a few billion people alive. I m a
yeast-culture specialist.
All right, said Baley.
But Clousarr went on, This laboratory keeps New York Yeast going. There isn t
one day, not one damned hour, that we haven t got cultures of every strain of
yeast in the company growing in our kettles.
We check and adjust the food factor requirements. We make sure it s breeding
true. We twist the genetics, start the new strains and weed them out, sort out
their properties and mold them again.
When New Yorkers started getting strawberries out of season a couple of years
back, those weren t strawberries, fella. Those were a special high-sugar yeast
culture with true-bred color and just a dash of flavor additive. It was
developed right here in this room.
Twenty years ago Saccharomyces olei Benedictae was just a scrub strain with a
lousy taste of tallow and good for nothing. It still tastes of tallow, but its
fat content has been pushed up from 15 per cent to
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87 per cent. If you used the expressway today, just remember that it s greased
strictly with S. 0.
Benedictae, Strain AG-7. Developed right here in this room.
So don t call me a chemist. I m a zymologist.
Despite himself, Baley retreated before the fierce pride of the other. He said
abruptly, Where were you last night between the hours of eighteen and
twenty?
Clousarr shrugged. Walking. I like to take a little walk after dinner.
You visited friends? Or a subetheric?
No. Just walked.
Baley s lips tightened. A visit to the subetherics would have involved a notch
in Clousarr s ration pack.
A meeting with a friend would have involved naming a man or woman, and a cross
check.
No one saw you, then?
Maybe someone did. I don t know. Not that I know of, though.
What about the night before last?
Same thing.
You have no alibi then for either night?
If I had done anything criminal, Officer, I d have one. What do I need an
alibi for?
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Baley didn t answer. He consulted his little book. You were up before the
magistrate once. Inciting to riot.
All right. One of the R things pushed past me and I tripped him up. Is that
inciting to riot?
The court thought so. You were convicted and fined.
That ends it, doesn t it? Or do you want to fine me again?
Night before last, there was a near riot at a shoe department in the Bronx.
You were seen there.
By whom?
Baley said, It was at mealtime for you here. Did you eat the evening meal
night before last?
Clousarr hesitated, then shook his head. Upset stomach. Yeast gets you that
way sometimes. Even an old-timer.
Last night, there was a near riot in Williamsburg and you were seen there.
By whom?
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Do you deny you were present on both occasions?
You re not giving me anything to deny. Exactly where did these things happen
and who says he saw me?
Baley stared at the zymologist levelly. I think you know exactly what I m
talking about. I think you re an important man in an unregistered Medievalist
organization.
I can t stop you from thinking, Officer, but thinking isn t evidence. Maybe
you know that. Clousarr was grinning.
Maybe, said Baley, his long face stony, I can get a little truth out of you
right now.
Baley stepped to the door of the balance room and opened it. He said to R.
Daneel, who was waiting stolidly outside, Has Clousarr s evening meal
arrived?
It is coming now, Elijah.
Bring it in, will you, Daneel?
R. Daneel entered a moment later with a metal compartmented tray.
Put it down in front of Mr. Clousarr, Daneel, said Baley. He sat down on one
of the stools lining the balance wall, legs crossed, one shoe swinging
rhythmically. He watched Clousarr edge stiffly away as R.
Daneel placed the tray on a stool near the zymologist.
Mr. Clousarr, said Baley. I want to introduce you to my partner, Daneel
Olivaw.
Daneel put out his hand and said, How do you do, Francis.
Clousarr said nothing. He made no move to grasp Daneel s extended hand. Daneel
maintained his position and Clousarr began to redden.
Baley said softly, You are being rude, Mr. Clousarr. Are you too proud to
shake hands with a policeman?
Clousarr muttered, If you don t mind, I m hungry. He unfolded a pocket fork
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