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

broke.
    Baley softened. “Come on, Jessie. It was all nothing. It was just talk. You can see for yourself that nothing has happened.”
    “I was so–so suh–scared. And I thought: I’m part of it. If there were going to be killing and destruction, you might be killed and Bentley and somehow it would be all muh–my fault for taking part in it, and I ought to be sent to jail.”
    Baley let her sob herself out. He put his arm about her shoulder and stared tight-lipped at R. Daneel, who gazed calmly back.
    He said, “Now, I want you to think, Jessie. Who was the head of your group?”
    She was quieter now, patting the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. “A man called Joseph Klemin was the leader, but he wasn’t really anybody. He wasn’t more than five feet four inches tall and I think he was terribly henpecked at home. I don’t think there’s any harm in him. You aren’t going to arrest him, are you, Lije? On my say-so?” She looked guiltily troubled.
    “I’m not arresting anyone just yet. How did Klemin get his instructions?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did any strangers come to meeting? You know what I mean: big shots from Central Headquarters?”
    “Sometimes people would come to make speeches. That wasn’t very often, maybe twice a year or so.”
    “Can you name them?”
    “No. They were always just introduced as ‘one of us’ or ‘a friend from Jackson Heights’ or wherever.”
    “I see. Daneel!”
    “Yes, Elijah,” said R. Daneel.
    “Describe the men you think you’ve tabbed. We’ll see if Jessie can recognize them.”
    R. Daneel went through the list with clinical exactness. Jessie listened with an expression of dismay as the categories of physical measurements lengthened and shook her head with increasing firmness.
    “It’s no use. It’s no use,” she cried. “How can I remember? I can’t remember how any of them looked. I can’t–”
    She stopped, and seemed to consider. Then she said, “Did you say one of them was a yeast farmer?”
    “Francis Clousarr,” said R. Daneel, “is an employee at New York Yeast.”
    “Well, you know, once a man was making a speech and I happened to be sitting in the first row and I kept getting a whiff, just a whiff, really, of raw yeast smell. You know what I mean. The only reason that I remember is that I had an upset stomach that day and the smell kept making me sick. I had to stand up and move to the back and of course I couldn’t explain what was wrong. It was so embarrassing. Maybe that’s the man you’re speaking of. After all, when you work with yeast all the time, the odor gets to stick to your clothes.” She wrinkled her nose.
    “You don’t remember what he looked like?” said Baley.
    “No,” she replied, with decision.
    “All right, then. Look, Jessie, I’m going to take you to your mother’s. Bentley will stay with you, and none of you will leave the Section. Ben can stay away from school and I’ll arrange to have meals sent in and the corridors around the apartment watched by the police.”
    “What about you?” quavered Jessie.
    “I’ll be in no danger.”
    “But how long?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe just a day on two.” The words sounded hollow even to himself.
     
    They were back in the motorway, Baley and R. Daneel, alone now. Baley’s expression was dark with thought.
    “It would seem to me,” he said, “that we are faced with an organization built up on two levels. First, a ground level with no specific program, designed only to supply mass support for an eventual coup. Secondly, a much smaller elite dedicated to a well-planned program of action. It is this elite we must find. The comic-opera groups that Jessie spoke of can be ignored.”
    “All this,” said R. Daneel, “follows, perhaps, if we can take Jessie’s story at face value.”
    “I think,” Baley said stiffly, “that Jessie’s story can be accepted as completely true.”
    “So it would seem,” said R. Daneel. “There is nothing