“Yes?”
Sobhaddartha could not resist, pension-risk notwithstanding. “And I hope, sir, we didn’t send the wrong one through.”
3.
THE FAR STAR MOVED RAPIDLY ACROSS THE FACE of Sayshell Planet and Pelorat watched with fascination. The cloud layer was thinner and more scattered than upon Terminus and, precisely as the map showed, the land surfaces were more compact and extensive—including broader desert areas, to judge by the rusty color of much of the continental expanse.
There were no signs of anything living. It seemed a world of sterile desert, gray plain, of endless wrinkles that might have represented mountainous areas, and, of course, of ocean.
“It looks lifeless,” muttered Pelorat.
“You don’t expect to see any life-signs at this height,” said Trevize. “As we get lower, you’ll see the land turn green in patches. Before that, in fact, you’ll see the twinkling landscape on the nightside. Human beings have a penchant for lighting their worlds when darkness falls; I’ve never heard of a world that’s an exception to that rule. In other words, the first sign of life you’ll see will not only be human but technological.”
Pelorat said thoughtfully, “Human beings are diurnal in nature, after all. It seems to me that among the very first tasks of a developing technology would be the conversion of night to day. In fact, if a world lacked technology and developed one, you ought to be able to follow the progress of technological development by the increase in light upon the darkened surface. How long would it take, do you suppose, to go from uniform darkness to uniform light?”
Trevize laughed. “You have odd thoughts, but I suppose that comes from being a mythologist. I don’t think a world would ever achieve a uniform glow. Night light would follow the pattern of population density, so that the continents would spark in knots and strings. Even Trantor at its height, when it was one huge structure, let light escape that structure only at scattered points.”
The land turned green as Trevize had predicted and, on the last circling of the globe, he pointed out markings that he said were cities. “It’s not a very urban world. I’ve never been in the Sayshell Union before, but according to the information the computer gives me, they tend to cling to the past. Technology, in the eyes of all the Galaxy, has been associated with the Foundation, and wherever the Foundation is unpopular, there is a tendency to cling to the past—except, of course, as far as weapons of war are concerned. I assure you Sayshell is quite modern in that respect.”
“Dear me, Golan, this is not going to be unpleasant, is it? We are Foundationers, after all, and being in enemy territory—”
“It’s not enemy territory, Janov. They’ll be perfectly polite, never fear. The Foundation just isn’t popular, that’s all. Sayshell is not part of the Foundation Federation. Therefore, because they’re proud of their independence and because they don’t like to remember that they are much weaker than the Foundation and remain independent only because we’re willing to let them remain so, they indulge in the luxury of disliking us.”
“I fear it will still be unpleasant, then,” said Pelorat despondently.
“Not at all,” said Trevize. “Come on, Janov. I’m talking about the official attitude of the Sayshellian government. The individual people on the planet are just people, and if we’re pleasant and don’t act as though we’re Lords of the Galaxy, they’ll be pleasant, too. We’re not coming to Sayshell in order to establish Foundation mastery. We’re just tourists, asking the kind of questions about Sayshell that any tourist would ask.
“And we can have a little legitimate relaxation, too, if the situation permits. There’s nothing wrong with staying here a few days and experiencing what they have to offer. They may have an interesting culture, interesting scenery, interesting food, and—if all else fails—interesting women. We have money to spend.”
Pelorat frowned, “Oh, my dear chap.”
“Come on,” said Trevize. “You’re not that old. Wouldn’t you be interested?”
“I don’t say there wasn’t a time when I played that role properly, but surely this isn’t the time for it. We have a mission. We want to reach Gaia. I have nothing against a good time—I really don’t—but if we start involving ourselves, it might be difficult to pull free.” He shook his head and said mildly, “I think you feared that I might have too good a time at the Galactic Library on Trantor and would be unable to pull free. Surely, what the Library is to me, an attractive dark-eyed damsel—or five or six—might be to you.”
Trevize said, “I’m not a rakehell, Janov, but I have no intention of being ascetic, either, Very well, I promise you we’ll get on with this business of Gaia, but if something pleasant comes my way, there’s no reason in the Galaxy I ought not to respond normally.”
“If you’ll just put Gaia first—”
“I will. Just remember, though, don’t tell anyone we’re from the Foundation. They’ll know we are, because we’ve got Foundation credits and we speak with strong Terminus accents, but if we say nothing about it, they can pretend we are placeless strangers and be friendly. If we make a point of being Foundationers, they will speak politely enough, but they will tell us nothing, show us nothing, take us nowhere, and leave us strictly alone.”
Pelorat sighed. “I will never understand people.”
“There’s nothing to it. All you have to do is take a close look at yourself and you will understand everyone else. We’re in no way different ourselves. How would Seldon have worked out his Plan—and I don’t care how subtle his mathematics was—if he didn’t understand people; and how could he have done that if people weren’t easy to understand? You show me someone who can’t understand people and I’ll show you someone who has built up a false image of himself—no offense intended.”
“None taken. I’m willing to admit I’m inexperienced and that I’ve spent a rather self-centered and constricted life. It may be that I’ve never really taken a good look at myself, so I’ll let you be my guide and adviser where people are concerned.”
“Good. Then take my advice now and just watch the scenery. We’ll be landing soon and I assure you you’ll feel nothing. The computer and I will take care of everything.”
“Golan, don’t be annoyed. If a young woman should—”
“Forget it! Just let me take care of the landing.”
Pelorat turned to look at the world at the end of the ship’s contracting spiral. It would be the first foreign world upon which he would ever stand. This thought somehow filled him with foreboding, despite the fact that all the millions of inhabited planets in the Galaxy had been colonized by people who had not been born upon them.
All but one, he thought with a shudder of trepidation / delight.
4.
THE SPACEPORT WAS NOT LARGE BY FOUNDATION standards, but it was well kept. Trevize watched the Far Star moved into a berth and locked in place. They were given an elaborate coded receipt.
Pelorat said in a low voice, “Do we just leave it here?”
Trevize nodded and placed his hand on the other’s shoulder in reassurance. “Don’t worry,” he said in an equally low voice.
They stepped into the ground-car they had rented and Trevize plugged in the map of the city, whose towers he could see on the horizon.
“Sayshell City,” he said, “the capital of the planet. City—planet—star—all named Sayshell.”
“I’m worried about the ship,” insisted Pelorat.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Trevize. “We’ll be back tonight, because it will be our sleeping quarters if we have to stay here more than a few hours. You have to understand, too, that there’s an interstellar code of spaceport ethics that—as far as I know—has never been broken, even in wartime, Spaceships that come in peace are inviolate. If that were not so, no one would be safe and trade would be impossible. Any world on which that code was broken would be boycotted by the space pilots of the Galaxy. I assure you, no world would risk that. Besides—”
“Besi
des?”
“Well, besides, I’ve arranged with the computer that anyone who doesn’t look and sound like one of us will be killed if he—or she—tries to board the ship. I’ve taken the liberty of explaining that to the Port Commander. I told him very politely that I would love to turn off that particular facility out of deference to the reputation that the Sayshell City Spaceport holds for absolute integrity and security—throughout the Galaxy, I said—but the ship is a new model and I didn’t know how to turn it off.”
“He didn’t believe that, surely.”
“Of course not! But he had to pretend he did, as otherwise he would have had no choice but to be insulted. And since there would be nothing he could do about that, being insulted would only lead to humiliation. And since he didn’t want that, the simplest path to follow was to believe what I said.”
“And that’s another example of how people are?”
“Yes. You’ll get used to this.”
“How do you know this ground-car isn’t bugged?”
“I thought it might be. So when they offered me one, I took another one at random. If they’re all bugged—well, what have we been saying that’s so terrible?”
Pelorat looked unhappy. “I don’t know how to say this. It seems rather impolite to complain, but I don’t like the way it smells. There’s an—odor.”
“In the ground-car?”
“Well, in the spaceport, to begin with. I suppose that’s the way spaceports smell, but the ground-car carries the odor with it. Could we open a window?”
Trevize laughed. “I suppose I could figure out which portion of the control panel will do that trick, but it won’t help. This planet stinks. Is it very bad?”
“It’s not very strong, but it’s noticeable—and somewhat repulsive. Does the whole world smell this way?”
“I keep forgetting you’ve never been on another world. Every inhabited world has its own odor. It’s the general vegetation, mostly, though I suppose the animals and even the human beings contribute. And as far as I know, nobody ever likes the smell of any world when he first lands on it. But you’ll get used to it, Janov. In a few hours, I promise you won’t notice.”
“Surely you don’t mean that all worlds smell like this.”
“No. As I said, each has its own. If we really paid attention or if our noses were a little keener—like those of Anacreonian dogs—we could probably tell which world we were on with one sniff. When I first entered the Navy I could never eat the first day on a new world; then I learned the old spacer trick of sniffing a handkerchief with the world-scent on it during the landing. By the time you get out into the open world, you don’t smell it. And after a while, you get hardened to the whole thing; you just learn to disregard it. —The worst of it is returning home, in fact.”
“Why?”
“Do you think Terminus doesn’t smell?”
“Are you telling me it does?”
“Of course it does. Once you get acclimated to the smell of another world, such as Sayshell, you’ll be surprised at the stench of Terminus. In the old days, whenever the locks opened on Terminus after a sizable tour of duty, all the crew would call out, ‘Back home to the crap.’ ”
Pelorat looked revolted.
The towers of the city were perceptibly closer, but Pelorat kept his eyes fixed on their immediate surroundings. There were other ground-cars moving in both directions and an occasional air-car above, but Pelorat was studying the trees.
He said, “The plant life seems strange. Do you suppose any of it is indigenous?”
“I doubt it,” said Trevize absently. He was studying the map and attempting to adjust the programming of the car’s computer. “There’s not much in the way of indigenous life on any human planet. Settlers always imported their own plants and animals—either at the time of settling or not too long afterward.”
“It seems strange, though.”
“You don’t expect the same varieties from world to world, Janov. I was once told that the Encyclopedia Galactica people put out an atlas of varieties which ran to eighty-seven fat computer-discs and was incomplete even so—and outdated anyway, by the time it was finished.”
The ground-car moved on and the outskirts of the city gaped and engulfed them. Pelorat shivered slightly, “I don’t think much of their city architecture.”
“To each his own,” said Trevize with the indifference of the seasoned space traveler.
“Where are we going, by the way?”
“Well,” said Trevize with a certain exasperation, “I’m trying to get the computer to guide this thing to the tourist center. I hope the computer knows the one-way streets and the traffic regulations, because I don’t.”
“What do we do there, Golan?”
“To begin with, we’re tourists, so that’s the place where we’d naturally go, and we want to be as inconspicuous and natural as we can. And secondly, where would you go to get information on Gaia?”
Pelorat said, “To a university—or an anthropological society—or a museum—Certainly not to a tourist center.”
“Well, you’re wrong. At the tourist center, we will be intellectual types who are eager to have a listing of the universities in the city and the museums and so on. We’ll decide where to go to first and there we may find the proper people to consult concerning ancient history, galactography, mythology, anthropology, or anything else you can think of. —But the whole thing starts at the tourist center.”
Pelorat was silent and the ground-car moved on in a tortuous manner as it joined and became part of the traffic pattern. They plunged into a sub-road and drove past signs that might have represented directions and traffic instructions but were in a style of lettering that made them all-but-unreadable.
Fortunately the ground-car behaved as though it knew the way, and when it stopped and drew itself into a parking spot, there was a sign that said: SAYSHELL OUT-WORLD MILIEU in the same difficult printing, and under it: SAYSHELL TOURIST CENTER in straightforward, easy-to-read Galactic Standard lettering.
They walked into the building, which was not as large as the façade had led them to believe. It was certainly not busy inside.
There were a series of waiting booths, one of which was occupied by a man reading the newsstrips emerging from a small ejector; another contained two women who seemed to be playing some intricate game with cards and tiles. Behind a counter too large for him, with winking computer controls that seemed far too complex for him, was a bored-looking Sayshellian functionary wearing what looked like a multicolored checkerboard.
Pelorat stared and whispered, “This is certainly a world of extroverted garb.”
“Yes,” said Trevize, “I noticed. Still, fashions change from world to world and even from region to region within a world sometimes. And they change with time. Fifty years ago, everyone on Sayshell might have worn black, for all we know. Take it as it comes, Janov.”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” said Pelorat, “but I prefer our own fashions. At least, they’re not an assault upon the optic nerve.”
“Because so many of us are gray on gray? That offends some people. I’ve heard it referred to as ‘dressing in dirt.’ Then too, it’s Foundation colorlessness that probably keeps these people in their rainbows—just to emphasize their independence. It’s all what you’re accustomed to, anyway. —Come on, Janov.”
The two headed toward the counter and, as they did so, the man in the booth forsook his news items, rose, and came to meet them, smiling as he did so. His clothing was in shades of gray.
Trevize didn’t look in his direction at first, but when he did he stopped dead.
He took a deep breath, “By the Galaxy—My friend, the traitor!”
12
AGENT
1.
MUNN LI COMPOR, COUNCILMAN OF TERMINUS, looked uncertain as he extended his right hand to Trevize.
Trevize looked at the hand sternly and did not take it. He said, apparently to open air, “I am in no position to create a situa
tion in which I may find myself arrested for disturbing the peace on a foreign planet, but I will do so anyway if this individual comes a step closer.”
Compor stopped abruptly, hesitated, and finally said in a low voice after glancing uncertainly at Pelorat, “Am I to have a chance to talk? To explain? Will you listen?”
Pelorat looked from one to the other with a slight frown on his long face. He said, “What’s this, Golan? Have we come to this far world and at once met someone you know?”
Trevize’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Compor, but he twisted his body slightly to make it clear that he was talking to Pelorat. Trevize said, “This—human being—we would judge that much from his shape—was once a friend of mine on Terminus. As is my habit with my friends, I trusted him. I told him my views, which were perhaps not the kind that should have received a general airing. He told them to the authorities in great detail, apparently, and did not take the trouble to tell me he had done so. For that reason, I walked neatly into a trap and now I find myself in exile. And now this—human being—wishes to be recognized as a friend.”
He turned to Compor full on and brushed his fingers through his hair, succeeding only in disarranging the curls further. “See here, you. I do have a question for you. What are you doing here? Of all the worlds in the Galaxy on which you could be, why are you on this one? And why now?”
Compor’s hand, which had remained outstretched throughout Trevize’s speech, now fell to his side and the smile left his face. The air of self-confidence, which was ordinarily so much a part of him, was gone and in its absence he looked younger than his thirty-four years and a bit woebegone. “I’ll explain,” he said, “but only from the start!”
Trevize looked about briefly. “Here? You really want to talk about it here? In a public place? You want me to knock you down here after I’ve listened to enough of your lies?”