Free Asimov's Future History Volume 4 by Isaac Asimov Page A

way you are. Be a good girl and calm down or we won’t even be able to go through the common room. I’ll get you some water.”
    She wiped her face with a damp handkerchief and said drearily, “Oh, look at my makeup.”
    “Don’t worry about your makeup,” said Baley. “Daneel, what about the squad car?”
    “It’s waiting for us now, partner Elijah.”
    “Come on, Jessie.”
    “Wait. Wait just a minute, Lije. I’ve got to do something to my face.”
    “It doesn’t matter now.”
    But she twisted away. “Please. I can’t go through the common room like this. I won’t take a second.”
    The man and the robot waited, the man with little jerky clenchings of his fists, the robot impassively.
    Jessie rummaged through her purse for the necessary equipment. (If there were one thing, Baley had once said solemnly, that had resisted mechanical improvement since Medieval times, it was a woman’s purse. Even the substitution of magnetic clotures for metal clasps had not proven successful.) Jessie pulled out a small mirror and the silver-chased cosmetokit that Baley had bought her on the occasion of three birthdays before.
    The cosmetokit had several orifices and she used each in turn. All but the last spray were invisible. She used them with that fineness of touch and delicacy of control that seems to be the birthright of women even at times of the greatest stress.
    The base went on first in a smooth even layer that removed all shininess and roughness from the skin and left it with the faintly golden glow which long experience had taught Jessie was just the shade most suited to the natural coloring of hen hair and eyes. Then the touch of tan along the forehead and chin, a gentle brush of rouge on either cheek, tracing back to the angle of the jaw; and a delicate drift of blue on the upper eyelids and along the earlobes. Finally there was the application of the smooth carmine to the lips. That involved the one visible spray, a faintly pink mist that glistened liquidly in air, but dried and deepened richly on contact with the lips.
    “There,” said Jessie, with several swift pats at her hair and a look of deep dissatisfaction. “I suppose that will do.”
    The process had taken more than the promised second, but less than fifteen seconds. Nevertheless, it had seemed interminable to Baley.
    “Come,” he said.
    She barely had time to return the cosmetokit to the purse before he had pushed her through the door.
     
    The eerie silence of the motorway lay thick on either side.
    Baley said, “All right, Jessie.”
    The impassivity that had covered Jessie’s face since they first heft the Commissioner’s office showed signs of cracking. She looked at her husband and at Daneel with a helpless silence.
    Baley said, “Get it over with, Jessie. Please. Have you committed a crime? An actual crime?”
    “A crime?” She shook her head uncertainly.
    “Now hold on to yourself. No hysterics. Just say yes or no, Jessie. Have you–” he hesitated a trifle, “killed anyone?”
    The look on Jessie’s face was promptly transmuted to indignation. “Why, Lije Baley!”
    “Yes or no, Jessie.”
    “No, of course not.”
    The hard knot in Baley’s stomach softened perceptibly. “Have you stolen anything? Falsified ration data? Assaulted anyone? Destroyed property? Speak up, Jessie.”
    “I haven’t done anything–anything specific. I didn’t mean anything like that.” She looked over her shoulder. “Lije, do we have to stay down here?”
    “Right here until this is over. Now, start at the beginning. What did you come to tell us?” Over Jessie’s bowed head, Baley’s eyes met R. Daneel’s.
    Jessie spoke in a soft voice that gained in strength and articulateness as she went on.
    “It’s these people, these Medievalists; you know, Lije. They’re always around, always talking. Even in the old days when I was an assistant dietitian, it was like that. Remember Elizabeth Thornbowe? She was a Medievalist. She was always