Caves of Steel - Isaac Asimov [81]
Without yeast, six of Earth’s eight billions would starve in a year.
Baley felt cold at the thought. Three days before the possibility existed as deeply as it did now, but three days before it would never have occurred to him.
They whizzed out of the motorway through an exit on the Newark outskirts. The thinly populated avenues, flanked on either side by the featureless blocks that were the farms, offered little to act as a brake on their speed.
“What time is it, Daneel?” asked Baley.
“Sixteen-oh-five,” replied R. Daneel.
“Then he’ll be at work, if he’s on day shift.”
Baley parked the squad car in a delivery recess and froze the controls.
“This is New York Yeast then, Elijah?” asked the robot.
“Part of it,” said Baley.
They entered into a corridor flanked by a double row of offices. A receptionist at a bend in the corridor was instantly smiles. “Whom do you wish to see?”
Baley opened his wallet. “Police. Is there a Francis Clousarr working for New York Yeast?”
The girl looked perturbed. “I can check.”
She connected her switchboard through a line plainly marked “Personnel,” and her lips moved slightly, though no sound could be heard.
Baley was no stranger to throat phones that translated the small movements of the larynx into words. He said, “Speak up, please. Let me hear you.”
Her words became audible, but consisted only of, “… he says he’s a policeman, sir.”
A dark, well-dressed man came out a door. He had a thin mustache and his hairline was beginning to retreat. He smiled whitely, and said, “I’m Prescott of Personnel. What’s the trouble, Officer?”
Baley stared at him coldly and Prescott’s smile grew strained.
Prescott said, “I just don’t want to upset the workers. They’re touchy about the police.”
Baley said, “Tough, isn’t it? Is Clousarr in the building now?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“Let’s have a rod, then. And if he’s gone when we get there, I’ll be speaking to you again.”
The other’s smile was quite dead. He muttered, “I’ll get you a rod, Officer.”
The guide rod was set for Department CG, Section 2. What that meant in factory terminology, Baley didn’t know. He didn’t have to. The rod was an inconspicuous thing which could be palmed in the hand. Its tip warmed gently when lined up in the direction for which it was set, cooled quickly when turned away. The warmth increased as the final goal was approached.
To an amateur, the guide rod was almost useless, with its quick little differences of heat content, but few City dwellers were amateurs at this particular game. One of the most popular and perennial of the games of childhood was hide-and-seek through the school-level corridors with the use of toy guide rods. (“Hot or Not, Let Hot-Spot Spot. Hot-Spot Guide Rods Are Keen.”)
Baley had found his way through hundreds of massive piles by guide rod, and he could follow the shortest course with one of them in his hands as though it had been mapped out for him.
When he stepped into a large and brilliantly lit room after ten minutes, the guide rod’s tip was almost hot.
Baley said to the worker nearest the door, “Francis Clousarr here?”
The worker jerked his head. Baley walked in the indicated direction. The odor of yeast was sharply penetrating, despite the laboring air pumps whose humming made a steady background noise.
A man had risen at the other end of the room, and was taking off an apron. He was of moderate height, his face deeply lined despite his comparative youth, and his hair just beginning to grizzle. He had large, knobby hands, which he wiped slowly on a celltex towel.
“I’m Francis Clousarr,” he said. Baley looked briefly at R. Daneel. The robot nodded.
“Okay,” said Baley.