11. SAYSHELL

1.

       JANOV PELORAT WATCHED, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, AS THE bright star graduated into an orb after what Trevize had called a “micro-Jump.” The fourth planet--the habitable one and their immediate destination, Sayshell--then grew in size and prominence more slowly--over a period of days.

                A map of the planet had been produced by the computer and was displayed on a portable screening device, which Pelorat held in his lap.

                Trevize--with the aplomb of someone who had, in his time, touched down upon several dozen worlds--said, “Don’t start watching too hard too soon, Janov. We have to go through the entry station first and that can be tedious.”

                Pelorat looked up. “Surely that’s just a formality.”

                “It is. But it can still be tedious.”

                “But it’s peacetime.”

                “Of course. That means we’ll be passed through. First, though, there’s a little matter of the ecological balance. Every planet has its own and they don’t want it upset. So they make a natural point of checking the ship for undesirable organisms, or infections. It’s a reasonable precaution.”

                “We don’t have such things, it seems to me.”

                “No, we don’t and they’ll find that out. Remember, too, that Sayshell is not a member of the Foundation Federation, so there’s certain to be some leaning over backward to demonstrate their independence.”

                A small ship came out to inspect them and a Sayshellian Customs official boarded. Trevize was brisk, not having forgotten his military days.

                “The Far Star, out of Terminus,” he said. “Ship’s papers. Unarmed. Private vessel. My passport. There is one passenger. His passport. We are tourists.”

                The Customs official wore a garish uniform in which crimson was the dominating color. Cheeks and upper lip were smooth-shaven, but he wore a short beard parted in such a way that tufts thrust out to both sides of his chin. He said, “Foundation ship?”

                He pronounced it “Foundaysun sip,” but Trevize was careful neither to correct him nor to smile. There were as many varieties of dialects to Galactic Standard as there were planets, and you just spoke your own. As long as there was cross-comprehension, it didn’t matter.

                “Yes, sir,” said Trevize. “Foundation ship. Privately owned.”

                “Very nice. --Your lading, if you please.”

                “My what?”

                “Your lading. What are you carrying?”

                “Ah, my cargo. Here is the itemized list. Personal property only. We are not here to trade. As I told you, we are simply tourists.”

                The Customs official looked about curiously. “This is rather an elaborate vessel for tourists.”

                “Not by Foundation standards,” said Trevize with a display of good humor. “And I’m well off and can afford this.”

                “Are you suggesting that I might be richified?” The official looked at him briefly, then looked away.

                Trevize hesitated a moment in order to interpret the meaning of the word, then another moment to decide his course of action. He said, “No, it is not my intention to bribe you. I have no reason to bribe you--and you don’t look like the kind of person who could be bribed, if that were my intention. You can look over the ship, if you wish.”

                “No need,” said the official, putting away his pocket recorder. “You have already been examined for specific contraband infection and have passed. The ship has been assigned a radio wavelength that will serve as an approach beam.”

                He left. The whole procedure had taken fifteen minutes.

                Pelorat said in a low voice. “Could he have made trouble? Did he really expect a bribe?”

                Trevize shrugged. “Tipping the Customs man is as old as the Galaxy and I would have done it readily if he had made a second try for it. As it is--well, I presume he prefers not to take a chance with a Foundation ship, and a fancy one, at that. The old Mayor, bless her cross-grained hide, said the name of the Foundation would protect us wherever we went and she wasn’t wrong. --It could have taken a great deal longer.”

                “Why? He seemed to find out what he wanted to know.”

                “Yes, but he was courteous enough to check us by remote radioscanning. If he had wished, he could have gone over the ship with a hand-machine and taken hours. He could have put us both in a field hospital and kept us days.”

                “What? My dear fellow!”

                “Don’t get excited. He didn’t do it. I thought he might, but he didn’t. Which means we’re free to land. I’d like to go down gravitically--which could take us fifteen minutes--but I don’t know where the permitted landing sites might be and I don’t want to cause trouble. That means we’ll have to follow the radio beam-- which will take hours--as we spiral down through the atmosphere.”

                Pelorat looked cheerful. “But that’s excellent, Golan. Will we be going slowly enough to watch the terrain?” He held up his portable viewscreen with the map spread out on it at low magnification.

                “After a fashion. We’d have to get beneath the cloud deck, and we’ll be moving at a few kilometers per second. It won’t be ballooning through the atmosphere, but you’ll spot the planetography.”

                “Excellent! Excellent!”

                Trevize said thoughtfully, “I’m wondering, though, if we’ll be on Sayshell Planet long enough to make it worth our while to adjust the ship’s clock to local time.”

                “It depends on what we plan to do, I suppose. What do you think we’ll be doing, Golan?”

                “Our job is to find Gaia and I don’t know how long that will take.”

                Pelorat said, “We can adjust our wrist-strips and leave the ship’s clock as is.”

                “Good enough,” said Trevize. He looked down at the planet spreading broadly beneath them. “No use waiting any longer. I’ll adjust the computer to our assigned radio beam and it can use the gravities to mimic conventional flight. So! --Let’s go down, Janov, and see what we can find.”

                He stared at the planet thoughtfully as the ship began to move on its smoothly adjusted gravitational potential-curve.

                Trevize had never been in the Sayshell Union, but he knew that over the last century it had been steadfastly unfriendly to the Foundation. He was surprised--and a little dismayed--they had gotten through Customs so quickly.

                It didn’t seem reasonable.

2.

The Customs official’s name was Jogoroth Sobhaddartha and he had been serving on the station on and off for half his life.

                He didn’t mind the life, for it gave him a chance--one month out of three--to view his books, to listen to his music, and to be away from his wife and growing son.

                Of course, during the last two years the current Head of Customs had been a Dreamer, which was irritating. There is no one so insufferable as a person who gives no other excuse for a peculiar action than saying he had been directed to it in a dream.

                Personally Sobhaddartha decided he believed none of it, though he was careful not to say so aloud, since most people on Sayshell rather disapproved of antipsychic doubts. To become known as a materialist might put his forthcoming pension at risk.

                He stroked the two tufts of hair at his chin, one with his right hand and the other with his left, cleared his throat rather loudly, and then, with inappropriate casualness, said, “Was that the ship, Head?”

                The Head, who bore the equally Sayshellian name of Namarath Godhisavatta, was concerned with a matter involving some computer-born data and did not look up. “What ship?” he said.

                “The Far Star. The Foundation ship. The one I just sent past. The one that was holographed from every angle. Was that the one you dreamed of?”

                Godhisavatta looked up now. He was a small man, with eyes that were almost black and that were surrounded by fine wrinkles that had not been produced by any penchant for smiling. He said, “Why do you ask?”

                Sobhaddartha straightened up and allowed his dark and luxuriant eyebrows to approach each other. “They said they were tourists, but I’ve never seen a ship like that before and my own opinion is they’re Foundation agents.” --

                Godhisavatta sat back in his chair. “See here, my man, try as I might I cannot recall asking for your opinion.”

                “But Head, I consider it my patriotic duty to point out that--”

                Godhisavatta crossed his arms over his chest and stared hard at the underling, who (though much the more impressive in physical stature and bearing) allowed himself to droop and take on a somehow bedraggled appearance under the gaze of his superior.

                Godhisavatta said, “My man, if you know what is good for you, you will do your job without comment--or I’ll see to it that there will be no pension when you retire, which will be soon if I hear any more on a subject that does not concern you.”

                In a low voice, Sobhaddartha said, “Yes, sir.” Then, with a suspicious degree of subservience in his voice, he added, “Is it within the range of my duties, sir, to report that a second ship is in range of our screens?”

                “Consider it reported,” Godhisavatta said irritably, returning to his work.

                “With,” said Sobhaddartha even more humbly, “characteristics very similar to the one I just sent through.”

                Godhisavatta placed his hands on the desk and lifted himself to his feet. “A second one?”

                Sobhaddartha smiled inwardly. That sanguinary person born of an irregular union (he was referring to the Head) had clearly not dreamed of two ships. He said, “Apparently, sir! I will now return to my post and await orders and I hope, sir--”

                “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--”

                “Besides?”

                “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 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 the windows?”

                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. ft was certainly not busy inside.

                There were a series of waiting booths, one of which was occupied by a man reading the news-strips 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 situation 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 all 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?”

                Compor lifted both hands now, palms facing each other. “It’s the safest place, believe me.” And then, checking himself and realizing what the other was about to say, added hurriedly, “Or don’t believe me, it doesn’t matter. I’m telling the truth. I’ve been on the planet several hours longer than you and I’ve checked it out. This is some particular day they have here on Sayshell. It’s a day for meditation, for some reason. Almost everyone is at home--or should be. --You see how empty this place is. You don’t suppose it’s like this every day.”

                Pelorat nodded and said, “I was wondering why it was so empty, at that.” He leaned toward Trevize’s ear and whispered, “Why not let him talk, Golan? He looks miserable, poor chap, and he may be trying to apologize. It seems unfair not to give him the chance to do so.’,

                Trevize said, “Dr. Pelorat seems anxious to hear you. I’m willing to oblige him, but you’ll oblige me if you’re brief about it. This may be a good day on which to lose my temper. If everyone is meditating, any disturbance I cause may not produce the guardians of the law. I may not be so lucky tomorrow. Why waste an opportunity?”

                Compor said in a strained voice, “Look, if you want to take a poke at me, do so. I won’t even defend myself, see? Go ahead, hit me--but listen!”

                “Go ahead and talk, then. I’ll listen for a while.”

                “In the first place, Golan--”

                “Address me as Trevize, please. I am not on first-name terms with you.”

                “In the first place, Trevize, you did too good a job convincing me of your views--”

                “You hid that well. I could have sworn you were amused by me.”

                “I tried to be amused to hide from myself the fact that you were being extremely disturbing. --Look, let us sit down up against the wall. Even if the place is empty, some few may come in and I don’t think we ought to be needlessly conspicuous.”

                Slowly the three men walked most of the length of the large room. Compor was smiling tentatively again, but remained carefully at more than arm’s length from Trevize.

                They sat each on a seat that gave as their weight was placed upon it and molded itself into the shape of their hips and buttocks. Pelorat looked surprised and made as though to stand up.

                “Relax, Professor,” said Compor. “I’ve been through this already. They’re in advance of us in some ways. It’s a world that believes in small comforts.”

                He turned to Trevize, placing one arm over the back of his chair and speaking easily now. “You disturbed me. You made me feel the Second Foundation did exist, and that was deeply upsetting. Consider the consequences if they did. Wasn’t it likely that they might take care of you somehow? Remove you as a menace? And if I behaved as though I believed you, I might be removed as well. Do you see my point?”

                “I see a coward.”

                “What good would it do to be storybook brave?” said Compor warmly, his blue eyes widening in indignation. “Can you or I stand up to an organization capable of molding our minds and emotions? The only way we could fight effectively would be to hide our knowledge to begin with.”

                “So you hid it and were safe? --Yet you didn’t hide it from Mayor Branno, did you? Quite a risk there.”

                “Yes! But I thought that was worth it. Just talking between ourselves might do nothing more than get ourselves mentally controlled--or our memories erased altogether. If I told the Mayor, on the other hand-- She knew my father well, you know. My father and I were immigrants from Smyrno and the Mayor had a grandmother who--”

                “Yes, yes,” said Trevize impatiently, “and several generations farther back you can trace ancestry to the Sirius Sector. You’ve told all that to everyone you know. Get on with it, Compor!”

                “Well, I had her ear. If I could convince the Mayor that there was danger, using your arguments, the Federation might take some action. We’re not as helpless as we were in the days of the Mule and --at the worst--this dangerous knowledge would be spread more widely and we ourselves would not be in as much specific danger.”

                Trevize said sardonically, “Endanger the Foundation, but keep ourselves safe. That’s good patriotic stuff.”

                “That would be at the worst. I was counting on the best.” His forehead had become a little damp. He seemed to be straining against Trevize’s immovable contempt.

                “And you didn’t tell me of this clever plan of yours, did you?”

                “No, I didn’t and I’m sorry about that, Trevize. The Mayor ordered me not to. She said she wanted to know everything you knew but that you were the sort of person who would freeze if you knew that your remarks were being passed on.”

                “How right she was!”

                “I didn’t know--I couldn’t guess--I had no way of conceiving that she was planning to arrest you and throw you off the planet.”

                “She was waiting for the right political moment, when my status as Councilman would not protect me. You didn’t foresee that?”

                “How could I? You yourself did not.”

                “Had I known that she knew my views, I would have.”

                Compor said with a sudden trace of insolence, “That’s easy enough to say--in hindsight.”

                “And what is it you want of me here? Now that you have a bit of hindsight, too.”

                “To make up for all this. To make up for the harm I unwittingly--unwittingly--did you.”

                “Goodness,” said Trevize dryly. “How kind of you! But you haven’t answered my original question. How did you come to be here? How do you happen to be on the very planet I am on?”

                Compor said, “There’s no complicated answer necessary for that. I followed you!”

                “Through hyperspace? With my ship making Jumps in series?”

                Compor shook his head. “No mystery. I have the same kind of a ship you do, with the same kind of computer. You know I’ve always had this trick of being able to guess in which direction through hyperspace a ship would go. It’s not usually a very good guess and I’m wrong two times out of three, but with the computer I’m much better. And you hesitated quite a bit at the start and gave me a chance to evaluate the direction and speed in which you were going before entering hyperspace. I fed the data--together with my own intuitive extrapolations--into the computer and it did the rest.”

                “And you actually got to the city ahead of me?”

                “Yes. You didn’t use gravitics and I did. I guessed you would come to the capital city, so I went straight down, while you--” Compor made a short spiral motion with his finger as though it were a ship riding a directional beam.

                “You took a chance on a run-in with Sayshellian officialdom.”

                “Well--” Compor’s face broke into a smile that lent it an undeniable charm and Trevize felt himself almost warming to him. Compor said, “I’m not a coward at all times and in all things.”

                Trevize steeled himself. “How did you happen to get a ship like mine?”

                “In precisely the same way you got a ship like yours. The old lady --Mayor Branno--assigned it to me.”

                “Why?”

                “I’m being entirely frank with you. My assignment was to follow you. The Mayor wanted to know where you were going and what you would be doing.”

                “And you’ve been reporting faithfully to her, I suppose. --Or have you been faithless to the Mayor also?”

                “I reported to her. I had no choice, actually. She placed a hyperrelay on board ship, which I wasn’t supposed to find, but which I did find.”

                “Well?”

                “Unfortunately it’s hooked up so that I can’t remove it without immobilizing the vessel. At least, there’s no way I can remove it. Consequently she knows where I am--and she knows where you are.”

                “Suppose you hadn’t been able to follow me. Then she wouldn’t have known where I was. Had you thought of that?”

                “Of course I did. I thought of just reporting I had lost you--but she wouldn’t have believed me, would she? And I wouldn’t have been able to get back to Terminus for who knows how long. And I’m not like you, Trevize. I’m not a carefree person without attachments. I have a wife on Terminus--a pregnant wife--and I want to get back to her. You can afford to think only of yourself. I can’t.  --Besides, I’ve come to warn you. By Seldon, I’m trying to do that and you won’t listen. You keep talking about other things.”

                “I’m not impressed by your sudden concern for me. What can you warn me against? It seems to me that you are the only thing I need be warned about. You betray me, and now you follow me in order to betray me again. No one else is doing me any harm.”

                Compor said earnestly, “Forget the dramatics, man. Trevize, you’re a lightning rod! You’ve been sent out to draw Second Foundation response--if there is such a thing as the Second Foundation. I have an intuitive sense for things other than hyperspatial pursuit and I’m sure that’s what she’s planning. If you try to find the Second Foundation, they’ll become aware of it and they’ll act against you. If they do, they are very likely to tip their hand. And when they do, Mayor Branno will go for them.”

                “A pity your famous intuition wasn’t working when Branno was planning my arrest.”

                Compor flushed and muttered, “You know it doesn’t always work.”

                “And now it tells you she’s planning to attack the Second Foundation. She wouldn’t dare.”

                “I think she would. But that’s not the point. The point is that right now she is throwing you out as bait.”

                “So?”

                “So by all the black holes in space, don’t search for the Second Foundation. She won’t care if you’re killed in the search, but I care. I feel responsible for this and I care.”

                “I’m touched,” said Trevize coldly, “but as it happens I have another task on hand at the moment.”

                “You have?”

                “Pelorat and I are on the track of Earth, the planet that some think was the original home of the human race. Aren’t we, Janov?”

                Pelorat nodded his head. “Yes, it’s a purely scientific matter and a long-standing interest of mine.”

                Compor looked blank for a moment. Then, “Looking for Earth? But why?”

                “To study it,” said Pelorat. “As the one world on which human beings developed--presumably from lower forms of life, instead of, as on all others, merely arriving ready-made--it should be a fascinating study in uniqueness.”

                “And,” said Trevize, “as a world where, just possibly, I may learn more of the Second Foundation. --Just possibly.”

                Compor said, “But there isn’t any Earth. Didn’t you know that?”

                “No Earth?” Pelorat looked utterly blank, as he always did when he was preparing to be stubborn. “Are you saying there was no planet on which the human species originated?”

                “Oh no. Of course, there was an Earth. There’s no question of that! But there isn’t any Earth now. No inhabited Earth. It’s gone!”

                Pelorat said, unmoved, “There are tales--”

                “Hold on, Janov,” said Trevize. “Tell me, Compor, how do you know this?”

                “What do you mean, how? It’s my heritage. I trace my ancestry from the Sirius Sector, if I may repeat that fact without boring you. We know all about Earth out there. It exists in that sector, which means it’s not part of the Foundation Federation, so apparently no one on Terminus bothers with it. But that’s where Earth is, just the same.”

                “That is one suggestion, yes,” said Pelorat. “There was considerable enthusiasm for that ‘Sirius Alternative,’ as they called it, in the days of the Empire.”

                Compor said vehemently. “It’s not an alternative. It’s a fact.”

                Pelorat said, “What would you say if I told you I know of many different places in the Galaxy that are called Earth--or were called Earth--by the people who lived in its stellar neighborhood?”

                “But this is the real thing,” said Compor. “The Sirius Sector is the longest-inhabited portion of the Galaxy. Everyone knows that.”

                “The Sirians claim it, certainly,” said Pelorat, unmoved.

                Compor looked frustrated. “I tell you--”

                But Trevize said, “Tell us what happened to Earth. You say it’s not inhabited any longer. Why not?”

                “Radioactivity. The whole planetary surface is radioactive because of nuclear reactions that went out of control, or nuclear explosions-- I’m not sure--and now no life is possible there.”

                The three stared at each other for a while and then Compor felt it necessary to repeat. He said, “I tell you, there’s no Earth. There’s no use looking for it.”

2.

Janov Pelorat’s face was, for once, not expressionless. It was not that there was passion in it--or any of the more unstable emotions. It was that his eyes had narrowed--and that a kind of fierce intensity had filled every plane of his face.

                He said, and his voice lacked any trace of its usual tentative quality, “How did you say you know all this?”

                “I told you,” said Compor. “It’s my heritage.”

                “Don’t be silly, young man. You are a Councilman. That means you must be born on one of the Federation worlds--Smyrno, I think you said earlier.”

                “That’s right.”

                “Well then, what heritage are you talking about? Are you telling me that you possess Sirian genes that fill you with inborn knowledge of the Sirian myths concerning Earth.”

                Compor looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

                “Then what are you talking about?”

                Compor paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. He said quietly, “My family has old books of Sirian history. An external heritage, not an internal one. It’s not something we talk about outside, especially if one is intent on political advancement. Trevize seems to think I am, but, believe me, I mention it only to good friends.”

                There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Theoretically all Foundation citizens are alike, but those from the old worlds of the Federation are more alike than those from the newer ones--and those that trace from worlds outside the Federation are least alike of all. But, never mind that. Aside from the books, I once visited the old worlds. Trevize--hey, there--”

                Trevize had wandered off toward one end of the room, looking out a triangular window. It served to let in a view of the sky and to diminish the view of the city--more light and more privacy. Trevize stretched upward to look down.

                He returned through the empty room. “Interesting window design,” he said. “You called me, Councilman?”

                “Yes. Remember the postcollegiate tour I took?”

                “After graduation? I remember very well. We were pals. Pals forever. Foundation of trust. Two against the world. You went off on your tour. I joined the Navy, full of patriotism. Somehow I didn’t think I wanted to tour with you--some instinct told me not to. I wish the instinct had stayed with me.”

                Compor did not rise to the bait. He said, “I visited Comporellon. Family tradition said that my ancestors had come from there--at least on my father’s side. We were of the ruling family in ancient times before the Empire absorbed us, and my name is derived from the world--or so the family tradition has it. We had an old, poetic name for the star Comporellon circled--Epsilon Eridani.”

                “What does that mean?” asked Pelorat.

                Compor shook his head. “I don’t know that it has any meaning. Just tradition. They live with a great deal of tradition. It’s an old world. They have long, detailed records of Earth’s history, but no one talks about it much. They’re superstitious about it. Every time they mention the word, they lift up both hands with first and second fingers crossed to ward off misfortune.”

                “Did you tell this to anyone when you came back?”

                “Of course not. Who would be interested? And I wasn’t going to force the tale on anyone. No, thank you! I had a political career to develop and the last thing I want is to stress my foreign origin.”

                “What about the satellite? Describe Earth’s satellite,” said Pelorat sharply.

                Compor looked astonished. “I don’t know anything about that.”

                “Does it have one?”

                “I don’t recall reading or hearing about it. But I’m sure if you’ll consult the Comporellonian records, you can find out.”

                “But you know nothing?”

                “Not about the satellite. Not that I recall.”

                “Huh! How did Earth come to be radioactive?”

                Compor shook his head and said nothing.

                Pelorat said, “Think! You must have heard something.”

                “It was seven years ago, Professor. I didn’t know then you’d be questioning me about it now. There was some sort of legend--they considered it history--”

                “What was the legend?”

                “Earth was radioactive--ostracized and mistreated by the Empire, its population dwindling--and it was going to destroy the Empire somehow.”

                “One dying world was going to destroy the whole Empire?” interposed Trevize.

                Compor said defensively, “I said it was a legend. I don’t know the details. Bel Arvardan was involved in the tale, I know.”

                “Who was he?” asked Trevize.

                “A historical character. I looked him up. He was an honest-to-Galaxy archaeologist back in the early days of the Empire and he maintained that Earth was in the Sirius Sector.”

                “I’ve heard the name,” said Pelorat.

                “He’s a folk hero in Comporellon. Look, if you want to know these things--go to Comporellon. It’s no use hanging around here.”

                Pelorat said, “Just how did they say Earth planned to destroy the Empire?”

                “Don’t know.” A certain sullenness was entering Compor’s voice.

                “Did the radiation have anything to do with it?”

                “Don’t know. There were tales of some mind-expander developed on Earth--a Synapsifier or something.”

                “Did it create superminds?” said Pelorat in deepest tones of incredulity.

                “I don’t think so. What I chiefly remember is that it didn’t work. People became bright and died young.”

                Trevize said, “It was probably a morality myth. If you ask for too much, you lose even that which you have.”

                Pelorat turned on Trevize in annoyance. “What do you know of morality myths?”

                Trevize raised his eyebrows. “Your field may not be my field, Janov, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant.”

                “What else do you remember about what you call the Synapsifier, Councilman Compor?” asked Pelorat.

                “Nothing, and I won’t submit to any further cross-examination. Look, I followed you on orders from the Mayor. I was not ordered to make personal contact with you. I have done so only to warn you that you were followed and to tell you that you had been sent out to serve the Mayor’s purposes, whatever those might be. There was nothing else I should have discussed with you, but you surprised me by suddenly bringing up the matter of Earth. Well, let me repeat: Whatever there has existed there in the past--Bel Arvardan, the Synapsifier, whatever--that has nothing to do with what exists now. I’ll tell you again: Earth is a dead world. I strongly advise you to go to Comporellon, where you’ll find out everything you want to know. Just get away from here.”

                “And, of course, you will dutifully tell the Mayor that we’re going to Comporellon--and you’ll follow us to make sure. Or maybe the Mayor knows already. I imagine she has carefully instructed and rehearsed you in every word you have spoken to us here because, for her own purposes, it’s in Comporellon that she wants us. Right?”

                Compor’s face paled. He rose to his feet and almost stuttered in his effort to control his voice. “I’ve tried to explain. I’ve tried to be helpful. I shouldn’t have tried. You can drop yourself into a black hole, Trevize.”

                He turned on his heel and walked away briskly without looking back.

                Pelorat seemed a bit stunned. “That was rather tactless of you, Golan, old fellow. I could have gotten more out of him.”

                “No, you couldn’t,” said Trevize gravely. “You could not have gotten one thing out of him that he was not ready to let you have. Janov, you don’t know what he is --Until today, I didn’t know what he is.”

3.

Pelorat hesitated to disturb Trevize. Trevize sat motionless in his chair, deep in thought.

                Finally Pelorat said, “Are we just sitting here all night, Golan?”

                Trevize started. “No, you’re quite right. We’ll be better off with people around us. Come!”

                Pelorat rose. He said, “There won’t be people around us. Compor said this was some sort of meditation day.”

                “Is that what he said? Was there traffic when we came along the road in our ground-car?”

                “Yes, some.”

                “Quite a bit, I thought. And then, when we entered the city, was it empty?”

                “Not particularly. --Still, you’ve got to admit that this place has been empty.”

                “Yes, it has. I noticed that particularly. --But come, Janov, I’m hungry. There’s got to be someplace to eat and we can afford to find something good. At any rate, we can find a place in which we can try some interesting Sayshellian novelty or, if we lose our nerve, good standard Galactic fare. --Come, once we’re safely surrounded, I’ll tell you what I think really happened here.”

4.

Trevize leaned back with a pleasant feeling of renewal. The restaurant was not expensive by Terminus standards, but it was certainly novel. It was heated, in part, by an open fire over which food was prepared. Meat tended to be served in bite-sized portions--in a variety of pungent sauces--which were picked up by fingers that were protected from grease and heat by smooth, green leaves that were cold, damp, and had a vaguely minty taste.

                It was one leaf to each meat-bit and the whole was taken into the mouth. The waiter had carefully explained how it had to be done. Apparently accustomed to off-planet guests, he had smiled paternally as Trevize and Pelorat gingerly scooped at the steaming bits of meat, and was clearly delighted at the foreigners’ relief at finding that the leaves kept the fingers cool and cooled the meat, too, as one chewed.

                Trevize said, “Delicious!” and eventually ordered a second helping. So did Pelorat.

                They sat over a spongy, vaguely sweet dessert and a cup of coffee that had a caramelized flavor at which they shook dubious heads. They added syrup, at which the waiter shook his head.

                Pelorat said, “Well, what happened back there at the tourist center?”

                “You mean with Compor?”

                “Was there anything else there we might discuss?”

                Trevize looked about. They were in a deep alcove and had a certain limited privacy, but the restaurant was crowded and the natural hum of noise was a perfect cover.

                He said in a low voice, “Isn’t it strange that he followed us to Sayshell?”

                “He said he had this intuitive ability.”

                “Yes, he was all-collegiate champion at hypertracking. I never questioned that till today. I quite see that you might be able to judge where someone was going to Jump by how he prepared for it if you had a certain developed skill at it, certain reflexes--but I don’t see how a tracker can judge a Jump series. You prepare only for the first one; the computer does all the others. The tracker can judge that first one, but by what magic can he guess what’s in the computer’s vitals?”

                “But he did it, Golan.”

                “He certainly did,” said Trevize, “and the only possible way I can imagine him doing so is by knowing in advance where we were going to go. By knowing, not judging.”

                Pelorat considered that. “Quite impossible, my boy. How could he know? We didn’t decide on our destination till after we were on board the Far Star.”

                “I know that. --And what about this day of meditation?”

                “Compor didn’t lie to us. The waiter said it was a day of meditation when we came in here and asked him.”

                “Yes, he did, but he said the restaurant wasn’t closed. In fact, what he said was: ‘Sayshell City isn’t the backwoods. It doesn’t close down.’ People meditate, in other words, but not in the big town, where everyone is sophisticated and there’s no place for small-town piety. So there’s traffic and it’s busy--perhaps not quite as busy as on ordinary days--but busy.”

                “But, Golan, no one came into the tourist center while we were there. I was aware of that. Not one person entered.”

                “I noticed that, too. I even went to the window at one point and looked out and saw clearly that the streets around the center had a good scattering of people on foot and in vehicles--and yet not one person entered. The day of meditation made a good cover. We would not have questioned the fortunate privacy we had if I simply hadn’t made up my mind not to trust that son of two strangers.”

                Pelorat said, “What is the significance of all this, then?”

                “I think it’s simple, Janov. We have here someone who knows where we’re going as soon as we do, even though he and we are in separate spaceships, and we also have here someone who can keep a public building empty when it is surrounded by people in order that we might talk in convenient privacy.”

                “Would you have me believe he can perform miracles?”

                “Certainly. If it so happens that Compor is an agent of the Second Foundation and can control minds; if he can read yours and mine in a distant spaceship; if he can influence his way through a customs station at once; if he can land gravitically, with no border patrol outraged at his defiance of the radio beams; and if he can influence minds in such a way as to keep people from entering a building he doesn’t want entered.

                “By all the stars,” Trevize went on with a marked air of grievance, “I can even follow this back to graduation. I didn’t go on the tour with him. I remember not wanting to. Wasn’t that a matter of his influence? He had to be alone. Where was he really going?”

                Pelorat pushed away the dishes before him, as though he wanted to clear a space about himself in order to have room to think. It seemed to be a gesture that signaled the busboy-robot, a self-moving table that stopped near them and waited while they placed their dishes and cutlery upon it.

                When they were alone, Pelorat said, “But that’s mad. Nothing has happened that could not have happened naturally. Once you get it into your head that somebody is controlling events, you can interpret everything in that light and find no reasonable certainty anywhere. Come on, old fellow, it’s all circumstantial and a matter of interpretation. Don’t yield to paranoia.”

                “I’m not going to yield to complacency, either.”

                “Well, let us look at this logically. Suppose he was an agent of the Second Foundation. Why would he run the risk of rousing our suspicions by keeping the tourist center empty? What did he say that was so important that a few people at a distance--who would have been wrapped in their own concerns anyway--would have made a difference?”

                “There’s an easy answer to that, Janov. He would have to keep our minds under close observation and he wanted no interference from other minds. No static. No chance of confusion.”

                “Again, just your interpretation. What was so important about his conversation with us? It would make sense to suppose, as he himself insisted, that he met us only in order to explain what he had done, to apologize for it, and to warn us of the trouble that might await us. Why would we have to look further than that?”

                The small card-receptacle at the farther rim of the table glittered unobtrusively and the figures representing the cost of the meal flashed briefly. Trevize groped beneath his sash for his credit card which, with its Foundation imprint, was good anywhere in the Galaxy--or anywhere a Foundation citizen was likely to go. He inserted it in the appropriate slot. It took a moment to complete the transaction and Trevize (with native caution) checked on the remaining balance before returning it to its pocket.

                He looked about casually to make sure there was no undesirable interest in him on the faces of any of the few who still sat in the restaurant and then said, “Why look further than that? Why look further? That was not all he talked about. He talked about Earth. He told us it was dead and urged us very strongly to go to Comporellon. Shall we go?”

                “It’s something I’ve been considering, Golan,” admitted Pelorat.

                “Just leave here?”

                “We can come back after we check Out the Sirius Sector.”

                “It doesn’t occur to you that his whole purpose in seeing us was to deflect us from Sayshell and get us out of here? Get us anywhere but here?”

                “Why?”

                “I don’t know. See here, they expected us to go to Trantor. That was what you wanted to do and maybe that’s what they counted on us doing. I messed things up by insisting we go to Sayshell, which is the last thing they wanted, and so now they have to get us out of here.”

                Pelorat looked distinctly unhappy. “But Golan, you are just making statements. Why don’t they want us on Sayshell?”

                “I don’t know, Janov. But it’s enough for me that they want us out. I’m staying here. I’m not going to leave.”

                “But--but-- Look, Golan, if the Second Foundation wanted us to leave, wouldn’t they just influence our minds to make us want to leave? Why bother reasoning with us?”

                “Now that you bring up the point, haven’t they done that in your case, Professor?” and Trevize’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Don’t you want to leave?”

                Pelorat looked at Trevize in surprise. “I just think there’s some sense to it.”

                “Of course you would, if you’ve been influenced.”

                “But I haven’t been--”

                “Of course you would swear you hadn’t been if you had been.”

                Pelorat said, “If you box me in this way, there is no way of disproving your bare assertion. What are you going to do?”

                “I will remain in Sayshell. And you’ll stay here, too. You can’t navigate the ship without me, so if Compor has influenced you, he has influenced the wrong one.”

                “Very well, Golan. We’ll stay in Sayshell until we have independent reasons to leave. The worst thing we can do, after all--worse than either staying or going--is to fall out with each other. Come, old chap, if I had been influenced, would I be able to change my mind and go along with you cheerfully, as I plan to do now?”

                Trevize thought for a moment and then, as though with an inner shake, smiled and held out his hand. “Agreed, Janov. Now let’s get back to the ship and make another start tomorrow. --If we can think of one.”

5.

Munn Li Compor did not remember when he had been recruited. For one thing, he had been a child at the time; for another, the agents of the Second Foundation were meticulous in removing their traces as far as that was possible.

                Compor was an “Observer” and, to a Second Foundationer, he was instantly recognizable as such.

                It meant that Compor was acquainted with mentalics and could converse with Second Foundationers in their own fashion to a degree, but he was in the lowest rank of the hierarchy. He could catch glimpses of minds, but he could not adjust them. The education he had received had never gone that far. He was an Observer, not a Doer.

                It made him second-class at best, but he did not mind--much. He knew his importance in the scheme of things.

                During the early centuries of the Second Foundation, it had underestimated the task before it. It had imagined that its handful of members could monitor the entire Galaxy and that Seldon’s Plan, to be maintained, would require only the most occasional, the lightest touch, here and there.

                The Mule had stripped them of these delusions. Coming from nowhere, he had caught the Second Foundation (and, of course, the First--though that didn’t matter) utterly by surprise and had left them helpless. It took five years before a counterattack could be organized, and then only at the cost of a number of lives.

                With Palver a full recovery was made, again at a distressing cost, and he finally took the appropriate measures. The operations of the Second Foundation, he decided, must be enormously expanded without at the same time increasing the chances of detection unduly, so he instituted the corps of Observers.

                Compor did not know how many Observers were in the Galaxy or even how many there were on Terminus. It was not his business to know. Ideally there should be no detectable connection between any two Observers, so that the loss of one would not entail the loss of any other. All connections were with the upper echelons on Trantor.

                It was Compor’s ambition to go to Trantor someday. Though he thought it extremely unlikely, he knew that occasionally an Observer might be brought to Trantor and promoted, but that was rare. The qualities that made for a good Observer were not those that pointed toward the Table.

                There was Gendibal, for instance, who was four years younger than Compor. He must have been recruited as a boy, just as Compor was, but he had been taken directly to Trantor and was now a Speaker. Compor had no illusions as to why that should be. He had been much in contact with Gendibal of late and he had experienced the power of that young man’s mind. He could not have stood up against it for a second.

                Compor was not often conscious of a lowly status. There was almost never occasion to consider it. After all (as in the case of other Observers, he imagined) it was only lowly by the standards of Trantor. On their own non-Trantorian worlds, in their own nonmentalic societies, it was easy for Observers to obtain high status.

                Compor, for instance, had never had trouble getting into good schools or finding good company. He had been able to use his mentalics in a simple way to enhance his natural intuitive ability (that natural ability had been why he had been recruited in the first place, he was sure) and, in this way, to prove himself a star at hyperspatial pursuit. He became a hero at college and this set his foot on the first rung of a political career. Once this present crisis was over, there was no telling how much farther he might advance.

                If the crisis resolved itself successfully, as surely it would, would it not be recalled that it was Compor who had first noted Trevize-- not as a human being (anyone could have done that) but as a mind?

                He had encountered Trevize in college and had seen him, at first, only as a jovial and quick-witted companion. One morning, however, he had stirred sluggishly out of slumber and, in the stream of consciousness that accompanied the never-never land of half-sleep, he felt what a pity it was that Trevize had never been recruited.

                Trevize couldn’t have been recruited, of course, since he was Terminus-born and not, like Compor, a native of another world. And even with that aside, it was too late. Only the quite young are plastic enough to receive an education into mentalics; the painful introduction of that art--it was more than a science--into adult brains, set rustily in their mold, was a thing of the first two generations after Seldon only.

                But then, if Trevize had been ineligible for recruiting in the first place and had outlived the possibility in the second, what had roused Compor’s concern over the matter?

                On their next meeting, Compor had penetrated Trevize’s mind deeply and discovered what it was that must have initially disturbed him. Trevize’s mind had characteristics that did not fit the rules he had been taught. Over and over, it eluded him. As he followed its workings, he found gaps --No, they couldn’t be actual gaps--actual leaps of nonexistence. They were places where Trevize’s manner of mind dove too deeply to be followed.

                Compor had no way of determining what this meant, but he watched Trevize’s behavior in the light of what he had discovered and he began to suspect that Trevize had an uncanny ability to reach right conclusions from what would seem to be insufficient data.

                Did this have something to do with the gaps? Surely this was a matter for mentalism beyond his own powers--for the Table itself, perhaps. He had the uneasy feeling that Trevize’s powers of decision were unknown, in their full, to the man himself, and that he might be able to--

                To do what? Compor’s knowledge did not suffice. He could almost see the meaning of what Trevize possessed--but not quite. There was only the intuitive conclusion--or perhaps just a guess-- that Trevize might be, potentially, a person of the utmost importance.

                He had to take the chance that this might be so and to risk seeming to be less than qualified for his post. After all, if he were correct--

                He was not sure, looking back on it, how he had managed to find the courage to continue his efforts. He could not penetrate the administrative barriers that ringed the Table. He had all but reconciled himself to a broken reputation. He had worked himself down (despairingly) to the most junior member of the Table and, finally, Stor Gendibal had responded to his call.

                Gendibal had listened patiently and from that time on there had been a special relationship between them. It was on Gendibal’s behalf that Compor had maintained his relationship with Trevize and on Gendibal’s direction that he had carefully set up the situation that had resulted in Trevize’s exile. And it was through Gendibal that Compor might yet (he was beginning to hope) achieve his dream of promotion to Trantor.

                All preparations, however, had been designed to send Trevize to Trantor. Trevize’s refusal to do this had taken Compor entirely by surprise and (Compor thought) had been unforeseen by Gendibal as well.

                At any rate, Gendibal was hurrying to the spot, and to Compor, that deepened the sense of crisis.

                Compor sent out his hypersignal.

6.

Gendibal was roused from his sleep by the touch on his mind. It was effective and not in the least disturbing. Since it affected the arousal center directly, he simply awoke.

                He sat up in bed, the sheet falling from his well-shaped and smoothly muscular torso. He had recognized the touch; the differences were as distinctive to mentalists as were voices to those who communicated primarily by sound.

                Gendibal sent out the standard signal, asking if a small delay were possible, and the “no emergency” call returned.

                Without undue haste, then, Gendibal attended to the morning routine. He was still in the ship’s shower--with the used water draining into the recycling mechanisms--when he made contact again.

                “Compor?”

                “Yes, Speaker.”

                “Have you spoken with Trevize and the other one.”

                “Pelorat. Janov Pelorat. Yes, Speaker.”

                “Good. Give me another five minutes and I’ll arrange visuals.”

                He passed Sura Novi on his way to the controls. She looked at him questioningly and made as though to speak, but he placed a finger on his lips and she subsided at once. Gendibal still felt a bit uncomfortable at the intensity of adoration/respect in her mind, but it was coming to be a comfortingly normal part of his environment somehow.

                He had hooked a small tendril of his mind to hers and there would now be no way to affect his mind without affecting hers. The simplicity of her mind (and there was an enormous aesthetic pleasure to be found in contemplating its unadorned symmetry, Gendibal couldn’t help thinking) made it impossible for any extraneous mind field to exist in their neighborhood without detection. He felt a surge of gratitude for the courteous impulse that had moved him that moment they had stood together outside the University, and that had led her to come to him precisely when she could be most useful.

                He said, “Compor?”

                “Yes, Speaker.”

                “Relax, please. I must study your mind. No offense is intended.”

                “As you wish, Speaker. May I ask the purpose?”

                “To make certain you are untouched.”

                Compor said, “I know you have political adversaries at the Table, Speaker, but surely none of them--”

                “Do not speculate, Compor. Relax. --Yes, you are untouched. Now, if you will co-operate with me, we will establish visual contact.”

                What followed was, in the ordinary sense of the word, an illusion, since no one but someone who was aided by the mentalic power of a well-trained Second Foundationer would have been able to detect anything at all, either by the senses or by any physical detecting device.

                It was the building up of a face and its appearance from the contours of a mind, and even the best mentalist could succeed in producing only a shadowy and somewhat uncertain figure. Compor’s face was there in mid-space, as though it were seen through a thin but shifting curtain of gauze, and Gendibal knew that his own face appeared in an identical manner in front of Compor.

                By physical hyperwave, communication could have been established through images so clear that speakers who were a thousand parsecs apart might judge themselves to be face-to-face. Gendibal’s ship was equipped for the purpose.

                There were, however, advantages to the mentalist-vision. The chief was that it could not be tapped by any device known to the First Foundation. Nor, for that matter, could one Second Foundationer tap the mentalist-vision of another. The play of mind might be followed, but not the delicate change of facial expression that gave the communication its finer points.

                As for the Anti-Mules-- Well, the purity of Novi’s mind was sufficient to assure him that none were about.

                He said, “Tell me precisely, Compor, the talk you had with Trevize and with this Pelorat. Precisely, to the level of mind.”

                “Of course, Speaker,” said Compor.

                It didn’t take long. The combination of sound, expression, and mentalism compressed matters considerably, despite the fact that there was far more to tell at the level of mind than if there had been a mere parroting of speech.

                Gendibal watched intently. There was little redundancy, if any, in mentalist-vision. In true vision, or even in physical hypervision across the parsecs, one saw enormously more in the way of information bits than was absolutely necessary for comprehension and one could miss a great deal without losing anything significant.

                Through the gauze of mentalist-vision, however, one bought absolute security at the price of losing the luxury of being able to miss bits. Every bit was significant.

                There were always horror tales that passed from instructor to student on Trantor, tales that were designed to impress on the young the importance of concentration. The most often repeated was certainly the least reliable. It told of the first report on the progress of the Mule before he had taken over Kalgan--of the minor official who received the report and who had no more than the impression of a horselike animal because he did not see or understand the small flick that signified “personal name.” The official therefore decided that the whole thing was too unimportant to pass on to Trantor. By the time the next message came, it was too late to take immediate action and five more bitter years had to pass.

                The event had almost certainly never happened, but that didn’t matter. It was a dramatic story and it served to motivate every student into the habit of intent concentration. Gendibal remembered his own student days when he made an error in reception that seemed, in his own mind, to be both insignificant and understandable. His teacher--old Kendast, a tyrant to the roots of his cerebellum--had simply sneered and said, “A horselike animal, Cub Gendibal?” and that had been enough to make him collapse in shame.

                Compor finished.

                Gendibal said, “Your estimate, please, of Trevize’s reaction. You know him better than I do, better than anyone does.”

                Compor said, “It was clear enough. The mentalic indications were unmistakable. He thinks my words and actions represent my extreme anxiety to have him go to Trantor or to the Sirius Sector or to any place but where, in fact, he is actually going. It meant, in my opinion, that he would remain firmly where he was. The fact that I attached great importance to his shifting his position, in short, forced him to give it the same importance, and since he feels his own interests to be diametrically opposed to mine, he will deliberately act against what he interprets to be my wish.”

                “You are certain of that?”

                “Quite certain.”

                Gendibal considered this and decided that Compor was correct. He said, “I am satisfied. You have done well. Your tale of Earth’s radioactive destruction was cleverly chosen to help produce the proper reaction without the need for direct manipulation of the mind. Commendable!”

                Compor seemed to struggle with himself a short moment. “Speaker,” he said, “I cannot accept your praise. I did not invent the tale. It is true. There really is a planet called Earth in the Sirius Sector and it really is considered to be the original home of humanity. It was radioactive, either to begin with or eventually, and this grew worse till the planet died. There was indeed a mind-enhancing invention that came to nothing. All this is considered history on the home planet of my ancestors.”

                “So? Interesting!” said Gendibal with no obvious conviction. “And better yet. To know when a truth will do is admirable, since no nontruth can be presented with the same sincerity. Palver once said, “The closer to the truth, the better the lie, and the truth itself, when it can be used, is the best lie.”

                Compor said, “There is one thing more to say. In following instructions to keep Trevize in the Sayshell Sector until you arrived-- and to do so at all costs--I had to go so far in my efforts that it is clear that he suspects me of being under the influence of the Second Foundation.”

                Gendibal nodded. “That, I think, is unavoidable under the circumstances. His monomania on the subject would be sufficient to have him see Second Foundation even where it was not. We must simply take that into account.”

                “Speaker, if it is absolutely necessary that Trevize stay where he is until you can reach him, it would simplify matters if I came to meet you, took you aboard my ship, and brought you back. It would take less than a day--”

                “No, Observer,” said Gendibal sharply. “You will not do this. The people on Terminus know where you are. You have a hyper-relay on your ship which you cannot remove, have you not?”

                “Yes, Speaker.”

                “And if Terminus knows you have landed on Sayshell, their ambassador on Sayshell knows of it--and the ambassador knows also that Trevize has landed. Your hyper-relay will tell Terminus that you have left for a specific point hundreds of parsecs away and returned; and the ambassador will inform them that Trevize has, however, remained in the sector. From this, how much will the people at Terminus guess? The Mayor of Terminus is, by all accounts, a shrewd woman and the last thing we want to do is to alarm her by presenting her with an obscure puzzle. We don’t want her to lead a section of her fleet here. The chances of that are, in any case, uncomfortably high.”

                Compor said, “With respect, Speaker-- What reason do we have to fear a fleet if we can control a commander?”

                “However little reason there might be, there is still less reason to fear if the fleet is not here. You stay where you are, Observer. ‘When I reach you, I will join you on your ship and then--”

                “And then, Speaker?”

                “Why, and then I will take over.”

7.

Gendibal sat in place after he dismantled the mentalist-vision----and stayed there for long minutes--considering.

                During this long trip to Sayshell, unavoidably long in this ship of his which could in no way match the technological advancement of the products of the First Foundation, he had gone over every single report on Trevize. The reports had stretched over nearly a decade.

                Seen as a whole and in the light of recent events, there was no longer any doubt Trevize would have been a marvelous recruit for the Second Foundation, if the policy of never touching the Terminus-born had not been in place since Palver’s time.

                There was no telling how many recruits of highest quality had been lost to the Second Foundation over the centuries. There was no way of evaluating every one of the quadrillions of human beings populating the Galaxy. None of them was likely to have had more promise than Trevize, however, and certainly none could have been in a more sensitive spot.

                Gendibal shook his head slightly. Trevize should never have been overlooked, Terminus-born or not. --And credit to Observer Compor for seeing it, even after the years had distorted him.

                Trevize was of no use to them now, of course. He was too old for the molding, but he still had that inborn intuition, that ability to guess a solution on the basis of totally inadequate information, and something--something--

                Old Shandess--who, despite being past his prime, was First Speaker and had, on the whole, been a good one--saw something there, even without the correlated data and the reasoning that Gendibal had worked out in the course of this trip. Trevize, Shandess had thought, was the key to the crisis.

                Why was Trevize here at Sayshell? What was he planning? What was he doing?

                And he couldn’t be touched! Of that Gendibal was sure. Until it was known precisely what Trevize’s role was, it would be totally wrong to try to modify him in any way. With the Anti-Mules-- whoever they were--whatever they might be--in the field, a wrong move with respect to Trevize (Trevize, above all) might explode a wholly unexpected micro-sun in their faces.

                He felt a mind hovering about his own and absently brushed at it as he might at one of the more annoying Trantorian insects-- though with mind rather than hand. He felt the instant wash of other-pain and looked up.

                Sura Novi had her palm to her furrowed brow. “Your pardon, Master, I be struck with sudden head-anguish.”

                Gendibal was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Novi. I wasn’t thinking--or I was thinking too intently.” Instantly--and gently--he smoothed the ruffled mind tendrils.

                Novi smiled with sudden brightness. “It passed with sudden vanishing. The kind sound of your words, Master, works well upon me.”

                Gendibal said, “Coed! Is something wrong? Why are you here?” He forbore to enter her mind in greater detail in order to find out for himself. More and more, he felt a reluctance to invade her privacy.

                Novi hesitated. She leaned toward him slightly. “I be concerned. You were looking at nothing and making sounds and your face was twitching. I stayed there, stick-frozen, afeared you were declining-- ill--and unknowing what to do.”

                “It was nothing, Novi. You are not to fear.” He patted her nearer hand. “There is nothing to fear. Do you understand?”

                Fear--or any strong emotion--twisted and spoiled the symmetry of her mind somewhat. He preferred it calm and peaceful and happy, but he hesitated at the thought of adjusting it into that position by outer influence. She had felt the previous adjustment to be the effect of his words and it seemed to him that he preferred it that way.

                He said, “Novi, why don’t I call you Sura?”

                She looked up at him in sudden woe. “Oh, Master, do not do so.”

                “But Rufirant did so on that day that we met. I know you well enough now--”

                “I know well he did so, Master. It be how a man speak to girl who have no man, no betrothed, who is--not complete. You say her previous. It is more honorable for me if you say ‘Novi’ and I be proud that you say so. And if I have not man now, I have master and I be pleased. I hope it be not offensive to you to say ‘Novi.”

                “It certainly isn’t, Novi.”

                And her mind was beautifully smooth at that and Gendibal was pleased. Too pleased. Ought he to be so pleased?

                A little shamefacedly, he remembered that the Mule was supposed to have been affected in this manner by that woman of the First Foundation, Bayta Darell, to his own undoing.

                This, of course, was different. This Hamishwoman was his defense against alien minds and he wanted her to serve that purpose most efficiently.

                No, that was not true-- His function as a Speaker would be compromised if he ceased to understand his own mind or, worse, if he deliberately misconstrued it to avoid the truth. The truth was that it pleased him when she was calm and peaceful and happy endogenously--without his interference--and that it pleased him simply because she pleased him; and (he thought defiantly) there was nothing wrong with that.

                He said, “Sit down, Novi.”

                She did so, balancing herself precariously at the edge of the chair and sitting as far away as the confines of the room allowed. Her mind was flooded with respect.

                He said, “When you saw me making sounds, Novi, I was speaking at a long distance, scholar-fashion.”

                Novi said sadly, her eyes cast down, “I see, Master, that there be much to scowler-fashion I understand not and imagine not. It be difficult mountain-high art. I be ashamed to have come to you to be made scowler. How is it, Master, you did not be-laugh me?”

                Gendibal said, “It is no shame to aspire to something even if it is beyond your reach. You are now too old to be made a scholar after my fashion, but you are never too old to learn more than you already know and to become able to do more than you already can. I will teach you something about this ship. By the time we reach our destination, you will know quite a bit about it.”

                He felt delighted. Why not? He was deliberately turning his back on the stereotype of the Hamish people. What right, in any case, had the heterogeneous group of the Second Foundation to set up such a stereotype? The young produced by them were only occasionally suited to become high-level Second Foundationers themselves. The children of Speakers almost never qualified to be Speakers. There were the three generations of Linguesters three centuries ago, but there was always the suspicion that the middle Speaker of that series did not really belong. And if that were true, who were the people of the University to place themselves on so high a pedestal?

                He watched Novi’s eyes glisten and was pleased that they did.

                She said, “I try hard to learn all you teach me, Master.”

                “I’m sure you will,” he said--and then hesitated. It occurred to him that, in his conversation with Compor, he had in no way indicated at any time that he was not alone. There was no hint of a companion.

                A woman could be taken for granted, perhaps; at least, Compor would no doubt not be surprised. --But a Hamishwoman?

                For a moment, despite anything Gendibal could do, the stereotype reigned supreme and he found himself glad that Compor had never been on Trantor and would not recognize Novi as a Hamishwoman.

                He shook it off. It didn’t matter if Compor knew or knew not--or if anyone did. Gendibal was a Speaker of the Second Foundation and he could do as he pleased within the constraints of the Seldon Plan--and no one could interfere.

                Novi said, “Master, once we reach our destination, will we part?”

                He looked at her and said, with perhaps more force than he intended, “We will not be separated, Novi.”

                And the Hamishwoman smiled shyly and looked for all the Galaxy as though she might have been--any woman.

13. UNIVERSITY

1.

       PELORAT WRINKLED HIS NOSE WHEN HE AND TREVIZE RE-ENTERED THE Far Star.

                Trevize shrugged. “The human body is a powerful dispenser of odors. Recycling never works instantaneously and artificial scents merely overlay--they do not replace.”

                “And I suppose no two ships smell quite alike, once they’ve been occupied for a period of time by different people.”

                “That’s right, but did you smell Sayshell Planet after the first hour?”

                “No,” admitted Pelorat.

                “Well, you won’t smell this after a while, either. In fact, if you live in the ship long enough, you’ll welcome the odor that greets you on your return as signifying home. And by the way, if you become a Galactic rover after this, Janov, you’ll have to learn that it is impolite to comment on the odor of any ship or, for that matter, any world to those who live on that ship or world. Between us, of course, it is all right.”

                “As a matter of fact, Golan, the funny thing is I do consider the Far Star home. At least it’s Foundation-made.” Pelorat smiled. “You know, I never considered myself a patriot. I like to think I recognize only humanity as my nation, but I must say that being away from the Foundation fills my heart with love for it.”

                Trevize was making his bed. “You’re not very far from the Foundation, you know. The Sayshell Union is almost surrounded by Federation territory. We have an ambassador and an enormous presence here, from consuls on down. The Sayshellians like to oppose us in words, but they are usually very cautious about doing anything that gives us displeasure. --Janov, do turn in. We got nowhere today and we have to do better tomorrow.”

                Still, there was no difficulty in hearing between the two rooms, however, and when the ship was dark, Pelorat, tossing restlessly, finally said in a not very loud voice, “Golan?”

                “Yes.”

                “You’re not sleeping?”

                “Not while you’re talking.”

                “We did get somewhere today. Your friend, Compor--”

                “Ex-friend,” growled Trevize.

                “Whatever his status, he talked about Earth and told us something I hadn’t come across in my researches before. Radioactivity!”

                Trevize lifted himself to one elbow. “Look, Golan, if Earth is really dead, that doesn’t mean we return home. I still want to find Gaia.”

                Pelorat made a puffing noise with his mouth as though he were blowing away feathers. “My dear chap, of course. So do I. Nor do I think Earth is dead. Compor may have been telling what he felt was the truth, but there’s scarcely a sector in the Galaxy that doesn’t have some tale or other that would place the origin of humanity on some local world. And they almost invariably call it Earth or some closely equivalent name.

                “We call it ‘globocentrism’ in anthropology. People have a tendency to take it for granted that they are better than their neighbors; that their culture is older and superior to that of other worlds; that what is good in other worlds has been borrowed from them, while what is bad is distorted or perverted in the borrowing or invented elsewhere. And the tendency is to equate superiority in quality with superiority in duration. If they cannot reasonably maintain their own planet to be Earth or its equivalent--and the beginnings of the human species--they almost always do the best they can by placing Earth in their own sector, even when they cannot locate it exactly.”

                Trevize said, “And you’re telling me that Compor was just following the common habit when he said Earth existed in the Sirius Sector. --Still, the Sirius Sector does have a long history, so every world in it should be well known and it should be easy to check the matter, even without going there.”

                Pelorat chuckled. “Even if you were to show that no world in the Sirius Sector could possibly be Earth, that wouldn’t help. You underestimate the depths to which mysticism can bury rationality, Golan. There are at least half a dozen sectors in the Galaxy where respectable scholars repeat, with every appearance of solemnity and with no trace of a smile, local tales that Earth--or whatever they choose to call it--is located in hyperspace and cannot be reached, except by accident.”

                “And do they say anyone has ever reached it by accident?”

                “There are always tales and there is always a patriotic refusal to disbelieve, even though the tales are never in the least credible and are never believed by anyone not of the world that produces them.”

                “Then, Janov, let’s not believe them ourselves. Let’s enter our own private hyperspace of sleep.”

                “But, Golan, it’s this business of Earth’s radioactivity that interests me. To me, that seems to bear the mark of truth--or a kind of truth.”

                “What do you mean, a kind of truth?”

                “Well, a world that is radioactive would be a world in which hard radiation would be present in higher concentration than is usual. The rate of mutation would be higher on such a world and evolution would proceed more quickly--and more diversely. I told you, if you remember, that among the points on which almost all the tales agree is that life on Earth was incredibly diverse: millions of species of all kinds of life. It is this diversity of life--this explosive development--that might have brought intelligence to the Earth, and then the surge outward into the Galaxy. If Earth were for some reason radioactive--that is, more radioactive than other planets--that might account for everything else about Earth that is--or was-- unique.”

                Trevize was silent for a moment. Then, “In the first place, we have no reason to believe Compor was telling the truth. He may well have been lying freely in order to induce us to leave this place and go chasing madly off to Sirius. I believe that’s exactly what he was doing. And even if he were telling the truth, what he said was that there was so much radioactivity that life became impossible.”

                Pelorat made the blowing gesture again. “There wasn’t too much radioactivity to allow life to develop on Earth and it is easier for life to maintain itself--once established--than to develop in the first place. Granted, then, that life was established and maintained on Earth. Therefore the level of radioactivity could not have been incompatible with life to begin with and it could only have fallen off with time. There is nothing that can raise the level.”

                “Nuclear explosions?” suggested Trevize.

                “What would that have to do with it?”

                “I mean, suppose nuclear explosions took place on Earth?”

                “On Earth’s surface? Impossible. There’s no record in the history of the Galaxy of any society being so foolish as to use nuclear explosions as a weapon of war. We would never have survived. During the Trigellian insurrections, when both sides were reduced to starvation and desperation and when Jendippurus Khoratt suggested the initiation of a fusion reaction in--”

                “He was hanged by the sailors of his own fleet. I know Galactic history. I was thinking of accident.”

                “There’s no record of accidents of that sort that are capable of significantly raising the intensity of radioactivity of a planet, generally.” He sighed. “I suppose that when we get around to it, we’ll have to go to the Sirius Sector and do a little prospecting there.”

                “Someday, perhaps, we will. But for now--”

                “Yes, yes, I’ll stop talking.”

                He did and Trevize lay in the dark for nearly an hour considering whether he had attracted too much attention already and whether it might not be wise to go to the Sirius Sector and then return to Gaia when attention--everyone’s attention--was elsewhere.

                He had arrived at no clear decision by the time he fell asleep. His dreams were troubled.

2.

They did not arrive back in the city till midmorning. The tourist center was quite crowded this time, but they managed to obtain the necessary directions to a reference library, where in turn they received instruction in the use of the local models of data-gathering computers.

                They went carefully through the museums and universities, beginning with those that were nearest, and checked out whatever information was available on anthropologists, archaeologists, and ancient historians.

                Pelorat said, “Ah!”

                “Ah?” said Trevize with some asperity. “Ah, what?”

                “This name, Quintesetz. It seems familiar.”

                “You know him?”

                “No, of course not, but I may have read papers of his. Back at the ship, where I have my reference collection--”

                “We’re not going back, Janov. If the name is familiar, that’s a starting point. If he can’t help us, he will undoubtedly be able to direct us further.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s find a way of getting to Sayshell University. And since there will be nobody there at lunchtime, let’s eat first.”

                It was not till late afternoon that they had made their way out to the university, worked their way through its maze, and found themselves in an anteroom, waiting for a young woman who had gone off in search of information and who might--or might not--lead them to Quintesetz.

                “I wonder,” said Pelorat uneasily, “how much longer we’ll have to wait. It must be getting toward the close of the schoolday.”

                And, as though that were a cue, the young lady whom they had last seen half an hour before, walked rapidly toward them, her shoes glinting red and violet and striking the ground with a sharp musical tone as she walked. The pitch varied with the speed and force of her steps.

                Pelorat winced. He supposed that each world had its own ways of assaulting the senses, just as each had its own smell. He wondered if, now that he no longer noticed the smell, he might also learn not to notice the cacophony of fashionable young women when they walked.

                She came to Pelorat and stopped. “May I have your full name, Professor?”

                “It’s Janov Pelorat, miss.”

                “Your home planet?”

                Trevize began to lift one hand as though to enjoin silence, but Pelorat, either not seeing or not regarding, said, “Terminus.”

                The young woman smiled broadly, and looked pleased. “When I told Professor Quintesetz that a Professor Pelorat was inquiring for him, he said he would see you if you were Janov Pelorat of Terminus, but not otherwise.”

                Pelorat blinked rapidly. “You--you mean, he’s heard of me?”

                “It certainly seems so.”

                And, almost creakily, Pelorat managed a smile as he turned to Trevize. “He’s heard of me. I honestly didn’t think-- I mean, I’ve written very few papers and I didn’t think that anyone--” He shook his head. “They weren’t really important.”

                “Well then,” said Trevize, smiling himself, “stop hugging yourself in an ecstasy of self-underestimation and let’s go.” He turned to the woman. “I presume, miss, there’s some sort of transportation to take us to him?”

                “It’s within walking distance. We won’t even have to leave the building complex and I’ll be glad to take you there. --Are both of you from Terminus?” And off she went.

                The two men followed and Trevize said, with a trace of annoyance, “Yes, we are. Does that make a difference?”

                “Oh no, of course not. There are people on Sayshell that don’t like Foundationers, you know, but here at the university, we’re more cosmopolitan than that. Live and let live is what I always say. I mean, Foundationers are people, too. You know what I mean?”

                “Yes, I know what you mean. Lots of us say that Sayshellians are people.”

                “That’s just the way it should be. I’ve never seen Terminus. It must be a big city.”

                “Actually it isn’t,” said Trevize matter-of-factly. “I suspect it’s smaller than Sayshell City.”

                “You’re tweaking my finger,” she said. “It’s the capital of the Foundation Federation, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t another Terminus, is there?”

                “No, there’s only one Terminus, as far as I know, and that’s where we’re from--the capital of the Foundation Federation.”

                “Well then, it must be an enormous city. --And you’re coming all the way here to see the professor. We’re very proud of him, you know. He’s considered the biggest authority in the whole Galaxy.”

                “Really?” said Trevize. “On what?”

                Her eyes opened wide again, “You are a teaser. He knows more about ancient history than--than I know about my own family.” And she continued to walk on ahead on her musical feet.

                One can only be called a teaser and a finger-tweaker so often without developing an actual impulse in that direction. Trevize smiled and said, “The professor knows all about Earth, I suppose?”

                “Earth?” She stopped at an office door and looked at them blankly.

                “You know. The world where humanity got its start.”

                “Oh, you mean the planet-that-was-first. I guess so. I guess he should know all about it. After all, it’s located in the Sayshell Sector. Everyone knows that! --This is his office. Let me signal him.”

                “No, don’t,” said Trevize. “Not for just a minute. Tell me about Earth.”

                “Actually I never heard anyone call it Earth. I suppose that’s a Foundation word. We call it Gaia, here.”

                Trevize cast a swift look at Pelorat. “Oh? And where is it located?”

                “Nowhere. It’s in hyperspace and there’s no way anyone can get to it. When I was a little girl, my grandmother said that Gaia was once in real space, but it was so disgusted at the--”

                “Crimes and stupidities of human beings,” muttered Pelorat, “that, out of shame, it left space and refused to have anything more to do with the human beings it had sent out into the Galaxy.”

                “You know the story, then. See? --A girlfriend of mine says it’s superstition. Well, I’ll tell her. If it’s good enough for professors from the Foundation--”

                A glittering section of lettering on the smoky glass of the door read: SOTAYN QUINTESETZ ABT in the hard-to-read Sayshellian calligraphy--and under it was printed, in the same fashion: DEPARTMENT OF ANCIENT HISTORY.

                The woman placed her finger on a smooth metal circle. There was no sound, but the smokiness of the glass turned a milky white for a moment and a soft voice said, in an abstracted sort of way, “Identify yourself, please.”

                “Janov Pelorat of Terminus,” said Pelorat, “with Golan Trevize of the same world.” The door swung open at once.

3.

The man who stood up, walked around his desk, and advanced to meet them was tall and well into middle age. He was light brown in skin color and his hair, which was set in crisp curls over his head, was iron-gray. He held out his hand in greeting and his voice was soft and low. “I am S.Q. I am delighted to meet you, Professors.”

                Trevize said, “I don’t own an academic title. I merely accompany Professor Pelorat. You may call me simply Trevize. I am pleased to meet you, Professor Abt.”

                Quintesetz held up one hand in clear embarrassment. “No no. Abt is merely a foolish title of some sort that has no significance outside of Sayshell. Ignore it, please, and call me S.Q. We tend to use initials in ordinary social intercourse on Sayshell. I’m so pleased to meet two of you when I had been expecting but one.”

                He seemed to hesitate a moment, then extended his right hand after wiping it unobtrusively on his trousers.

                Trevize took it, wondering what the proper Sayshellian manner of greeting was.

                Quintesetz said, “Please sit down. I’m afraid you’ll find these chairs to be lifeless ones, but I, for one, don’t want my chairs to hug me. It’s all the fashion for chairs to hug you nowadays, but I prefer a hug to mean something, hey?”

                Trevize smiled and said, “Who would not? Your name, SQ., seems to be of the Rim Worlds and not Sayshellian. I apologize if the remark is impertinent.”

                “I don’t mind. My family traces back, in part, to Askone. Five generations back, my great-great-grandparents left Askone when Foundation domination grew too heavy.”

                Pelorat said, “And we are Foundationers. Our apologies.”

                Quintesetz waved his hand genially, “I don’t hold a grudge across a stretch of five generations. Not that such things haven’t been done, more’s the pity. Would you like to have something to eat? To drink? Would you like music in the background?”

                “If you don’t mind,” said Pelorat, “I’d be willing to get right to business, if Sayshellian ways would permit.”

                “Sayshellian ways are not a barrier to that, I assure you. --You have no idea how remarkable this is, Dr. Pelorat. It was only about two weeks ago that I came across your article on origin myths in the Archaeological Review and it struck me as a remarkable synthesis-- all too brief.”

                Pelorat flushed with pleasure. “How delighted I am that you have read it. I had to condense it, of course, since the Review would not print a full study. I have been planning to do a treatise on the subject.”

                “I wish you would. In any case, as soon as I had read it, I had this desire to see you. I even had the notion of visiting Terminus in order to do so, though that would have been hard to arrange--”

                “Why so?” asked Trevize.

                Quintesetz looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to say that Sayshell is not eager to join the Foundation Federation and rather discourages any social communication with the Foundation. We’ve a tradition of neutralism, you see. Even the Mule didn’t bother us, except to extort from us a specific statement of neutrality. For that reason, any application for permission to visit Foundation territory generally-- and particularly Terminus--is viewed with suspicion, although a scholar such as myself, intent on academic business, would probably obtain his passport in the end. --But none of that was necessary; you have come to me. I can scarcely believe it. I ask myself: Why? Have you heard of me, as I have heard of you?”

                Pelorat said, “I know your work, S.Q., and in my records I have abstracts of your papers. It is why I have come to you. I am exploring both the matter of Earth, which is the reputed planet of origin of the human species, and the early period of the exploration and settlement of the Galaxy. In particular, I have come here to inquire as to the founding of Sayshell.”

                “From your paper,” said Quintesetz, “I presume you are interested in myths and legends.”

                “Even more in history--actual facts--if such exist. Myths and legends, otherwise.”

                Quintesetz rose and walked rapidly back and forth the length of his office, paused to stare at Pelorat, then walked again.

                Trevize said impatiently, “Well, sir.”

                Quintesetz said, “Odd! Really odd! It was only yesterday--”

                Pelorat said, “What was only yesterday?”

                Quintesetz said, “I told you, Dr. Pelorat--may I call you J.P., by the way? I find using a full-length name rather unnatural”

                “Please do.”

                “I told you, J.P., that I had admired your paper and that I had wanted to see you. The reason I wanted to see you was that you clearly had an extensive collection of legends concerning the beginnings of the worlds and yet didn’t have ours. In other words, I wanted to see you in order to tell you precisely what you have come to see me to find out.”

                “What has this to do with yesterday, S.Q.?” asked Trevize.

                “We have legends. A legend. An important one to our society, for it has become our central mystery--”

                “Mystery?” said Trevize.

                “I don’t mean a puzzle or anything of that sort. That, I believe, would be the usual meaning of the word in Galactic Standard. There’s a specialized meaning here. It means ‘something secret’; something only certain adepts know the full meaning of; something not to be spoken of to outsiders. --And yesterday was the day.”

                “The day of what, S.Q.?” asked Trevize, slightly exaggerating his air of patience.

                “Yesterday was the Day of Flight.”

                “Ah,” said Trevize, “a day of meditation and quiet, when everyone is supposed to remain at home.”

                “Something like that, in theory, except that in the larger cities, the more sophisticated regions, there is little observance in the older fashion. --But you know about it, I see.”

                Pelorat, who had grown uneasy at Trevize’s annoyed tone, put in hastily, “We heard a little of it, having arrived yesterday.”

                “Of all days,” said Trevize sarcastically. “See here, S.Q. As I said, I’m not an academic, but I have a question. You said you were speaking of a central mystery, meaning it was not to be spoken of to outsiders. Why, then, are you speaking of it to us? We are outsiders.”

                “So you are. But I’m not an observer of the day and the depth of my superstition in this matter is slight at best. J.P.’s paper, however, reinforced a feeling I have had for a long time. A myth or legend is simply not made up out of a vacuum. Nothing is--or can be. Somehow there is a kernel of truth behind it, however distorted that might be, and I would like the truth behind our legend of the Day of Flight.”

                Trevize said, “Is it safe to talk about it?”

                Quintesetz shrugged. “Not entirely, I suppose. The conservative elements among our population would be horrified. However, they don’t control the government and haven’t for a century. The secularists are strong and would be stronger still, if the conservatives didn’t take advantage of our--if you’ll excuse me--anti-Foundation bias. Then, too, since I am discussing the matter out of my scholarly interest in ancient history, the League of Academicians will support me strongly, in case of need.”

                “In that case,” said Pelorat, “would you tell us about your central mystery, SQ.?”

                “Yes, but let me make sure we won’t be interrupted or, for that matter, overheard. Even if one must stare the bull in the face, one needn’t slap its muzzle, as the saying goes.”

                He flicked a pattern on the work-face of an instrument on his desk and said, “We’re incommunicado now.”

                “Are you sure you’re not bugged?” asked Trevize.

                “Bugged?”

                “Tapped! Eavesdropped! --Subjected to a device that will have you under observation--visual or auditory or both.”

                Quintesetz looked shocked. “Not here on Sayshell!”

                Trevize shrugged. “If you say so.”

                “Please go on, SQ.,” said Pelorat.

                Quintesetz pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair (which gave slightly under the pressure) and put the tips of his fingers together. He seemed to be speculating as to just how to begin.

                He said, “Do you know what a robot is?”

                “A robot?” said Pelorat. “No.”

                Quintesetz looked in the direction of Trevize, who shook his head slowly.

                “You know what a computer is, however?”

                “Of course,” said Trevize impatiently.

                “Well then, a mobile computerized tool--”

                “Is a mobile computerized tool.” Trevize was still impatient. “There are endless varieties and I don’t know of any generalized term for it except mobile computerized tool.”

                “--that looks exactly like a human being is a robot.” S.Q. completed his definition with equanimity. “The distinction of a robot is that it is humaniform.”

                “Why humaniform?” asked Pelorat in honest amazement.

                “I’m not sure. It’s a remarkably inefficient form for a tool, I grant you, but I’m just repeating the legend. ‘Robot’ is an old word from no recognizable language, though our scholars say it bears the connotation of ‘work.”

                “I can’t think of any word,” said Trevize skeptically, “that sounds even vaguely like ‘robot’ and that has any connection with ‘work.”

                “Nothing in Galactic, certainly,” said Quintesetz, “but that’s what they say.”

                Pelorat said, “It may have been reverse etymology. These objects were used for work, and so the word was said to mean ‘work.’ --In any case, why do you tell us this?”

                “Because it is a firmly fixed tradition here on Sayshell that when Earth was a single world and the Galaxy lay all uninhabited before it, robots were invented and devised. There were then two sorts of human beings: natural and invented, flesh and metal, biological and mechanical, complex and simple--”

                Quintesetz came to a halt and said with a rueful laugh, “I’m sorry. It is impossible to talk about robots without quoting from the Book of Flight. The people of Earth devised robots--and I need say no more. That’s plain enough.”

                “And why did they devise robots?” asked Trevize.

                Quintesetz shrugged. “Who can tell at this distance in time? Perhaps they were few in numbers and needed help, particularly in the great task of exploring and populating the Galaxy.”

                Trevize said, “That’s a reasonable suggestion. Once the Galaxy was colonized, the robots would no longer be needed. Certainly there are no humanoid mobile computerized tools in the Galaxy today.”

                “In any case,” said Quintesetz, “the story is as follows--if I may vastly simplify and leave out many poetic ornamentations which, frankly, I don’t accept, though the general population does or pretends to. Around Earth, there grew up colony worlds circling neighboring stars and these colony worlds were far richer in robots than was Earth itself. There was more use for robots on raw, new worlds. Earth, in fact, retreated, wished no more robots, and rebelled against them.”

                “What happened?” asked Pelorat.

                “The Outer Worlds were the stronger. With the help of their robots, the children defeated and controlled Earth--the Mother. Pardon me, but I can’t help slipping into quotation. But there were those from Earth who fled their world--with better ships and stronger modes of hyperspatial travel. They fled to far distant stars and worlds, far beyond the closer worlds earlier colonized. New colonies were founded--without robots--in which human beings could live freely. Those were the Times of Flight, so-called, and the day upon which the first Earthmen reached the Sayshell Sector-- this very planet, in fact--is the Day of Flight, celebrated annually for many thousands of years.”

                Pelorat said, “My dear chap, what you are saying, then, is that Sayshell was founded directly from Earth.”

                Quintesetz thought and hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “That is the official belief.”

                “Obviously,” said Trevize, “you don’t accept it.”

                “It seems to me--” Quintesetz began and then burst out, “Oh, Great Stars and Small Planets, I don’t! It is entirely too unlikely, but it’s official dogma and however secularized the government has become, lip service to that, at least, is essential. --Still, to the point. In your article, J.P., there is no indication that you’re aware of this story--of robots and of two waves of colonization, a lesser one with robots and a greater one without.”

                “I certainly was not,” said Pelorat. “I hear it now for the first time and, my dear SQ., I am eternally grateful to you for making this known to me. I am astonished that no hint of this has appeared in any of the writings--”

                “It shows,” said Quintesetz, “how effective our social system is. It’s our Sayshellian secret--our great mystery.”

                “Perhaps,” said Trevize dryly. “Yet the second wave of colonization--the robotless wave--must have moved out in all directions. Why is it only on Sayshell that this great secret exists?”

                Quintesetz said, “It may exist elsewhere and be just as secret. Our own conservatives believe that only Sayshell was settled from Earth and that all the rest of the Galaxy was settled from Sayshell. That, of course, is probably nonsense.”

                Pelorat said, “These subsidiary puzzles can be worked out in time. Now that I have the starting point, I can seek out similar information on other worlds. What counts is that I have discovered the question to ask and a good question is, of course, the key by which infinite answers can be educed. How fortunate that I--”

                Trevize said, “Yes, Janov, but the good SQ. has not told us the whole story, surely. What happened to the older colonies and their robots? Do your traditions say?”

                “Not in detail, but in essence. Human and humanoid cannot live together, apparently. The worlds with robots died. They were not viable.”

                “And Earth?”

                “Humans left it and settled here and presumably (though the conservatives would disagree) on other planets as well.”

                “Surely not every human being left Earth. The planet was not deserted.”

                “Presumably not. I don’t know.”

                Trevize said abruptly, “Was it left radioactive?”

                Quintesetz looked astonished. “Radioactive?”

                “That’s what I’m asking.”

                “Not to my knowledge. I never heard of such a thing.”

                Trevize put a knuckle to his teeth and considered. Finally he said, “S.Q., it’s getting late and we have trespassed sufficiently on your time, perhaps.” (Pelorat made a motion as though he were about to protest, but Trevize’s hand was on the other’s knee and his grip tightened--so Pelorat, looking disturbed, subsided.)

                Quintesetz said, “I was delighted to be of use.”

                “You have been and if there’s anything we can do in exchange, name it.”

                Quintesetz laughed gently. “If the good J.P. will be so kind as to refrain from mentioning my name in connection with any writing he does on our mystery, that will be sufficient repayment.”

                Pelorat said eagerly, “You would be able to get the credit you deserve--and perhaps be more appreciated--if you were allowed to visit Terminus and even, perhaps, remain there as a visiting scholar at our university for an extended period. We might arrange that. Sayshell might not like the Federation, but they might not like refusing a direct request that you be allowed to come to Terminus to attend, let us say, a colloquium on some aspect of ancient history.”

                The Sayshellian half-rose. “Are you saying you can pull strings to arrange that?”

                Trevize said, “Why, I hadn’t thought of it, but J.P. is perfectly right. That would be feasible--if we tried. And, of course, the more grateful you make us, the harder we will try.”

                Quintesetz paused, then frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”

                “All you have to do is tell us about Gaia, S.Q.,” said Trevize.

                And all the light in Quintesetz’s face died.

4.

Quintesetz looked down at his desk. His hand stroked absent-mindedly at his short, tightly curled hair. Then he looked at Trevize and pursed his lips tightly. It was as though he were determined not to speak.

                Trevize lifted his eyebrows and waited and finally Quintesetz said in a strangled sort of way, “it is getting indeed late--quite glemmering.”

                Until then he had spoken in good Galactic, but now his words took on a strange shape as though the Sayshellian mode of speech were pushing past his classical education.

                “Glemmering, S.Q.?”

                “It is nearly full night.”

                Trevize nodded. “I am thoughtless. And I am hungry, too. Could you please join us for an evening meal, S.Q., at our expense? We could then, perhaps, continue our discussion--about Gaia.”

                Quintesetz rose heavily to his feet. He was taller than either of the two men from Terminus, but he was older and pudgier and his height did not lend him the appearance of strength. He seemed more weary than when they had arrived.

                He blinked at them and said, “I forget my hospitality. You are Outworlders and it would not be fitting that you entertain me. Come to my home. It is on campus and not far and, if you wish to carry on a conversation, I can do so in a more relaxed manner there than here. My only regret” (he seemed a little uneasy) “is that I can offer you only a limited meal. My wife and I are vegetarians and if you are meat-eating, I can Only express my apologies and regrets.”

                Trevize said, “J.P. and I will be quite content to forego our carnivorous natures for one meal. Your conversation will more than make up for it--I hope.”

                “I can promise you an interesting meal, whatever the conversation,” said Quintesetz, “if your taste should run to our Sayshellian spices. My wife and I have made a rare study of such things.”

                “I look forward to any exoticism you choose to supply, S.Q.,” said Trevize coolly, though Pelorat looked a little nervous at the prospect.

                Quintesetz led the way. The three left the room and walked down an apparently endless corridor, with the Sayshellian greeting students and colleagues now and then, but making no attempt to introduce his companions. Trevize was uneasily aware that others stared curiously at his sash, which happened to be one of his gray ones. A subdued color was not something that was de rigueur in campus clothing, apparently.

                Finally they stepped through the door and out into the open. It was indeed dark and a little cool, with trees bulking in the distance and a rather rank stand of grass on either side of the walkway.

                Pelorat came to a halt--with his back to the glimmer of lights that came from the building they had just left and from the glows that lined the walks of the campus. He looked straight upward.

                “Beautiful!” he said. “There is a famous phrase in a verse by one of our better poets that speaks of ‘the speckle-shine of Sayshell’s soaring sky.”

                Trevize gazed appreciately and said in a low voice, “Vie are from Terminus, S.Q., and my friend, at least, has seen no other skies. On Terminus, we see only the smooth dim fog of the Galaxy and a few barely visible stars. You would appreciate your own sky even more, had you lived with ours.”

                Quintesetz said gravely, “We appreciate it to the full, I assure you. It’s not so much that we are in an uncrowded area of the Galaxy, but that the distribution of stars is remarkably even. I don’t think that you will find, anywhere in the Galaxy, first-magnitude stars so generally distributed. --And yet not too many, either. I have seen the skies of worlds that are inside the outer reaches of a globular cluster and there you will see too many bright stars. It spoils the darkness of the night sky and reduces the splendor considerably.”

                “I quite agree with that,” said Trevize.

                “Now I wonder,” said Quintesetz, “if you see that almost regular pentagon of almost equally bright stars. The Five Sisters, we call them. It’s in that direction, just above the line of trees. Do you see it?”

                “I see it,” said Trevize. “Very attractive.”

                “Yes,” said Quintesetz. “It’s supposed to symbolize success in love --and there’s no love letter that doesn’t end in a pentagon of dots to indicate a desire to make love. Each of the five stars stands for a different stage in the process and there are famous poems which have vied with each other in making each stage as explicitly erotic as possible. In my younger days, I attempted versifying on the subject myself and I wouldn’t have thought that the time would come when I would grow so indifferent to the Five Sisters, though I suppose it’s the common fate. --Do you see the dim star just about in the center of the Five Sisters.”

                “Yes.”

                “That,” said Quintesetz, “is supposed to represent unrequited love. There is a legend that the star was once as bright as the rest, but faded with grief.” And he walked on rapidly.

5.

The dinner, Trevize had been forced to admit to himself, was delightful. There was endless variety and the spicing and dressing were subtle but effective.

                Trevize said, “All these vegetables--which have been a pleasure to eat, by the way--are part of the Galactic dietary, are they not, SQ.?”

                “Yes, of course.”

                “I presume, though, that there are indigenous forms of life, too.”

                “Of course. Sayshell Planet was an oxygen world when the first settlers arrived, so it had to be life-bearing. And we have preserved some of the indigenous life, you may be sure. We have quite extensive natural parks in which both the flora and the fauna of Old Sayshell survive.”

                Pelorat said sadly, “There you are in advance of us, S.Q. There was little land life on Terminus when human beings arrived and I’m afraid that for a long time no concerted effort was made to preserve the sea life, which had produced the oxygen that made Terminus habitable. Terminus has an ecology now that is purely Galactic in nature.”

                “Sayshell,” said Quintesetz, with a smile of modest pride, “has a long and steady record of life-valuing.”

                And Trevize chose that moment to say, “When we left your office, SQ., I believe it was your intention to feed us dinner and then tell us about Gaia.”

                Quintesetz’s wife, a friendly woman--plump and quite dark, who had said little during the meal--looked up in astonishment, rose, and left the room without a word.

                “My wife,” said Quintesetz uneasily, “is quite a conservative, I’m afraid, and is a bit uneasy at the mention of--the world. Please excuse her. But why do you ask about it?”

                “Because it is important for J.P.’s work, I’m afraid.”

                “But why do you ask it of me? We were discussing Earth, robots, the founding of Sayshell. What has all this to do with--what you ask?”

                “Perhaps nothing, and yet there are so many oddnesses about the matter. Why is your wife uneasy at the mention of Gaia? Why are you uneasy? Some talk of it easily enough. We have been told only today that Gaia is Earth itself and that it has disappeared into hyperspace because of the evil done by human beings.”

                A look of pain crossed Quintesetz’s face. “Who told you that gibberish?”

                “Someone I met here at the university.”

                “That’s just superstition.”

                “Then it’s not part of the central dogma of your legends concerning the Flight?”

                “No, of course not. It’s just a fable that arose among the ordinary, uneducated people.”

                “Are you sure?” asked Trevize coldly.

                Quintesetz sat back in his chair and stared at the remnant of the meal before him. “Come into the living room,” he said. “My wife will not allow this room to be cleared and set to rights while we are here and discussing--this.”

                “Are you sure it is just a fable?” repeated Trevize, once they had seated themselves in another room, before a window that bellied upward and inward to give a clear view of Sayshell’s remarkable night sky. The lights within the room glimmered down to avoid competition and Quintesetz’s dark countenance melted into the shadow.

                Quintesetz said, “Aren’t you sure? Do you think that any world can dissolve into hyperspace? You must understand that the average person has only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is.”

                “The truth is,” said Trevize, “that I myself have only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is and I’ve been through it hundreds of times.”

                “Let me speak realities, then. I assure you that Earth--wherever it is--is not located within the borders of the Sayshell Union and that the world you mentioned is not Earth.”

                “But even if you don’t know where Earth is, S.Q., you ought to know where the world I mentioned is. It is certainly within the borders of the Sayshell Union. We know that much, eh, Pelorat?”

                Pelorat, who had been listening stolidly, started at being suddenly addressed and said, “If it comes to that, Golan, I know where it is.”

                Trevize turned to look at him. “Since when, Janov?”

                “Since earlier this evening, my dear Golan. You showed us the Five Sisters, S.Q., on our way from your office to your house. You pointed out a dim star at the center of the pentagon. I’m positive that’s Gaia.”

                Quintesetz hesitated--his face, hidden in the dimness, was beyond any chance of interpretation. Finally he said, “Well, that’s what our astronomers tell us--privately. It is a planet that circles that star.”

                Trevize gazed contemplatively at Pelorat, but the expression on the professor’s face was unreadable. Trevize turned to Quintesetz, “Then tell us about that star. Do you have its co-ordinates?”

                “I? No.” He was almost violent in his denial. “I have no stellar co-ordinates here. You can get it from our astronomy department, though I imagine not without trouble. No travel to that star is permitted.”

                “Why not? It’s within your territory, isn’t it?”

                “Spaciographically, yes. Politically, no.”

                Trevize waited for something more to be said. When that didn’t come, he rose. “Professor Quintesetz,” he said formally, “I am not a policeman, soldier, diplomat, or thug. I am not here to force information out of you. Instead, I shall, against my will, go to our ambassador. Surely, you must understand that it is not I, for my own personal interest, that request this information. This is Foundation business and I don’t want to make an interstellar incident out of this. I don’t think the Sayshell Union would want to, either.”

                Quintesetz said uncertainly, “What is this Foundation business?”

                “That’s not something I can discuss with you. If Gaia is not something you can discuss with me, then we will transfer it all to the government level and, under the circumstances, it may be the worse for Sayshell. Sayshell has kept its independence of the Federation and I have no objection to that. I have no reason to wish Sayshell ill and I do not wish to approach our ambassador. In fact, I will harm my own career in doing so, for I am under strict instruction to get this information without making a government matter of it. Please tell me, then, if there is some firm reason why you cannot discuss Gaia. Will you be arrested or otherwise punished, if you speak? Will you tell me plainly that I have no choice but to go to the ambassadorial height?”

                “No no,” said Quintesetz, who sounded utterly confused. “I know nothing about government matters. We simply don’t speak of that world.”

                “Superstition?”

                “Well, yes! Superstition! --Skies of Sayshell, in what way am I better than that foolish person who told you that Gaia was in hyperspace--or than my wife who won’t even stay in a room where Gaia is mentioned and who may even have left the house for fear it will be smashed by--”

                “Lightning?”

                “By some stroke from afar. And I, even I, hesitate to pronounce the name. Gaia! Gaia! The syllables do not hurt! I am unharmed! Yet I hesitate. --But please believe me when I say that I honestly don’t know the co-ordinates for Gaia’s star. I can try to help you get it, if that will help, but let me tell you that we don’t discuss the world here in the Union. We keep hands and minds off it. I can tell you what little is known--really known, rather than supposed--and I doubt that you can learn anything more anywhere in these worlds of the Union.

                “We know Gaia is an ancient world and there are some who think it is the oldest world in this sector of the Galaxy, but we are not certain. Patriotism tells us Sayshell Planet is the oldest; fear tells us Gaia Planet is. The only way of combining the two is to suppose that Gaia is Earth, since it is known that Sayshell was settled by Earthpeople.

                “Most historians think--among themselves--that Gaia Planet was founded independently. They think it is not a colony of any world of our Union and that the Union was not colonized by Gaia. There is no consensus on comparative age, whether Gaia was settled before or after Sayshell was.”

                Trevize said, “So far, what you know is nothing, since every possible alternative is believed by someone or other.”

                Quintesetz nodded ruefully. “It would seem so. It was comparatively late in our history that we became conscious of the existence of Gaia. We had been preoccupied at first in forming the Union, then in fighting off the Galactic Empire, then in trying to find our proper role as an Imperial province and in limiting the power of the Viceroys.

                “It wasn’t till the days of Imperial weakness were far advanced that one of the later Viceroys, who was under very weak central control by then, came to realize that Gaia existed and seemed to maintain its independence from the Sayshellian province and even from the Empire itself. It simply kept to itself in isolation and secrecy, so that virtually nothing was known about it, anymore than is now known. The Viceroy decided to take it over. We have no details what happened, but his expedition was broken and few ships returned. In those days, of course, the ships were neither very good nor very well led.

                “Sayshell itself rejoiced at the defeat of the Viceroy, who was considered an Imperial oppressor, and the debacle led almost directly to the re-establishment of our independence. The Sayshell Union snapped its ties with the Empire and we still celebrate the anniversary of that event as Union Day. Almost out of gratitude we left Gaia alone for nearly a century, but the time came when we were strong enough to begin to think of a little imperialistic expansion of our own. Why not take over Gaia? Why not at least establish a Customs Union? We sent out a fleet and it was broken, too.

                “Thereafter, we confined ourselves to an occasional attempt at trade--attempts that were invariably unsuccessful. Gaia remained in firm isolation and never--to anyone’s knowledge--made the slightest attempt to trade or communicate with any other world. It certainly never made the slightest hostile move against anyone in any direction. And then--”

                Quintesetz turned up the light by touching a control in the arm of his chair. In the light, Quintesetz’s face took on a clearly sardonic expression. He went on, “Since you are citizens of the Foundation, you perhaps remember the Mule.”

                Trevize flushed. In five centuries of existence, the Foundation had been conquered only once. The conquest had been only temporary and had not seriously interfered with its climb toward Second Empire, but surely no one who resented the Foundation and wished to puncture its self-satisfaction would fail to mention the Mule, its one conqueror. And it was likely (thought Trevize) that Quintesetz had raised the level of light in order that he might see Foundational self-satisfaction punctured.

                He said, “Yes, we of the Foundation remember the Mule.”

                “The Mule,” said Quintesetz, “ruled an Empire for a while, one that was as large as the Federation now controlled by the Foundation. He did not, however, rule us. He left us in peace. He passed through Sayshell at one time, however. We signed a declaration of neutrality and a statement of friendship. He asked nothing more. We were the only ones of whom he asked nothing more in the days before illness called a halt to his expansion and forced him to wait for death. He was not an unreasonable man, you know. He did not use unreasonable force, he was not bloody, and he ruled humanely.”

                “It was just that he was a conqueror,” said Trevize sarcastically.

                “Like the Foundation,” said Quintesetz.

                Trevize, with no ready answer, said irritably, “Do you have more to say about Gaia?”

                “Just a statement that the Mule made. According to the account of the historic meeting between the Mule and President Kallo of the Union, the Mule is described as having put his signature to the document with a flourish and to have said, “You are neutral even toward Gaia by this document, which is fortunate for you. Even I will not approach Gaia.”

                Trevize shook his head. “Why should he? Sayshell was eager to pledge neutrality and Gaia had no record of ever troubling anyone. The Mule was planning the conquest of the entire Galaxy at the time, so why delay for trifles? Time enough to turn on Sayshell and Gaia, when that was done.”

                “Perhaps, perhaps,” said Quintesetz, “but according to one witness at the time, a person we tend to believe, the Mule put down his pen as he said, ‘Even I will not approach Gaia.’ His voice then dropped and, in a whisper not meant to be heard, he added ‘again.”

                “Not meant to be heard, you say. Then how was it he was heard?”

                “Because his pen rolled off the table when he put it down and a Sayshellian automatically approached and bent to pick it up. His ear was close to the Mule’s mouth when the word ‘again’ was spoken and he heard it. He said nothing until after the Mule’s death.”

                “How can you prove it was not an invention.”

                “The man’s life is not the kind that makes it probable he would invent something of this kind. His report is accepted.”

                “And if it is?”

                “The Mule was never in--or anywhere near--the Sayshell Union except on this one occasion, at least after he appeared on the Galactic scene. If he had ever been on Gaia, it had to be before he appeared on the Galactic scene.”

                “Well?”

                “Well, where was the Mule born?”

                “I don’t think anyone knows,” said Trevize.

                “In the Sayshell Union, there is a strong feeling he was born on Gaia.”

                “Because of that one word?”

                “Only partly. The Mule could not be defeated because he had strange mental powers. Gaia cannot be defeated either.”

                “Gaia has not been defeated as yet. That does not necessarily prove it cannot be.”

                “Even the Mule would not approach. Search the records of his Overlordship. See if any region other than the Sayshell Union was so gingerly treated. And do you know that no one who has ever gone to Gaia for the purpose of peaceful trade has ever returned? Why do you suppose we know so little about it?”

                Trevize said, “Your attitude seems much like superstition.”

                “Call it what you will. Since the time of the Mule, we have wiped Gaia out of our thinking. We don’t want it to think of us. We only feel safe if we pretend it isn’t there. It may be that the government has itself secretly initiated and encouraged the legend that Gaia has disappeared into hyperspace in the hope that people will forget that there is a real Star of that name.”

                “You think that Gaia is a world of Mules, then?”

                “It may be. I advise you, for your good, not to go there. If you do, you will never return. If the Foundation interferes with Gaia, it will show less intelligence than the Mule did. You might tell your ambassador that.”

                Trevize said, “Get me the co-ordinates and I will be off your world at once. I will reach Gaia and I will return.”

                Quintesetz said, “I will get you the co-ordinates. The astronomy department works nights, of course, and I will get it for you now, if I can. --But let me suggest once more that you make no attempt to reach Gaia.”

                Trevize said, “I intend to make that attempt.”

                And Quintesetz said heavily, “Then you intend suicide.”