by Isaac Asimov
Trevize said, “Never mind, Janov. You can watch when we leave. I’ll promise to keep my mouth shut then, if you can persuade Bliss to control her own.”
And the Far Star descended a microwave beam to a landing at the spaceport.
14.
KENDRAY LOOKED GRAVE WHEN HE RETURNED TO the entry station and watched the Far Star pass through. He was still clearly depressed at the close of his shift.
He was sitting down to his closing meal of the day when one of his mates, a gangling fellow with wide-set eyes, thin light hair, and eyebrows so blond they seemed absent, sat down next to him.
“What’s wrong, Ken?” said the other.
Kendray’s lips twisted. He said, “That was a gravitic ship that just passed through, Gatis.”
“The odd-looking one with zero radioactivity?”
“That’s why it wasn’t radioactive. No fuel. Gravitic.”
Gatis nodded his head. “What we were told to watch for, right?”
“Right.”
“And you got it. Leave it to you to be the lucky one.”
“Not so lucky. A woman without identification was on it—and I didn’t report her.”
“What? Look, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about it. Not another word. You may be a pal, but I’m not going to make myself an accomplice after the fact.”
“I’m not worried about that. Not very much. I had to send the ship down. They want that gravitic—or any gravitic. You know that.”
“Sure, but you could at least have reported the woman.”
“Didn’t like to. She’s not married. She was just picked up for—for use.”
“How many men on board?”
“Two.”
“And they just picked her up for—for that. They must be from Terminus.”
“That’s right.”
“They don’t care what they do on Terminus.”
“That’s right.”
“Disgusting. And they get away with it.”
“One of them was married, and he didn’t want his wife to know. If I reported her, his wife would find out.”
“Wouldn’t she be back on Terminus?”
“Of course, but she’d find out anyway.”
“Serve the fellow right if his wife did find out.”
“I agree—but I can’t be the one to be responsible for it.”
“They’ll hammer you for not reporting it. Not wanting to make trouble for a guy is no excuse.”
“Would you have reported him?”
“I’d have had to, I suppose.”
“No, you wouldn’t. The government wants that ship. If I had insisted on putting the woman on report, the men on the ship would have changed their minds about landing and would have pulled away to some other planet. The government wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“But will they believe you?”
“I think so. —A very cute-looking woman, too. Imagine a woman like that being willing to come along with two men, and married men with the nerve to take advantage. —You know, it’s tempting.”
“I don’t think you’d want the missus to know you said that—or even thought that.”
Kendray said defiantly, “Who’s going to tell her? You?”
“Come on. You know better than that.” Gatis’s look of indignation faded quickly, and he said, “It’s not going to do those guys any good, you know, you letting them through.”
“I know.”
“The people down surface-way will find out soon enough, and even if you get away with it, they won’t.”
“I know,” said Kendray, “but I’m sorry for them. Whatever trouble the woman will make for them will be as nothing to what the ship will make for them. The captain made a few remarks—”
Kendray paused, and Gatis said eagerly, “Like what?”
“Never mind,” said Kendray. “If it comes out, it’s my butt.”
“I’m not going to repeat it.”
“Neither am I. But I’m sorry for those two men from Terminus.”
15.
TO ANYONE WHO HAS BEEN IN SPACE AND EXPERIENCED its changelessness, the real excitement of space flight comes when it is time to land on a new planet. The ground speeds backward under you as you catch glimpses of land and water, of geometrical areas and lines that might represent fields and roads. You become aware of the green of growing things, the gray of concrete, the brown of bare ground, the white of snow. Most of all, there is the excitement of populated conglomerates; cities which, on each world, have their own characteristic geometry and architectural variants.
In an ordinary ship, there would have been the excitement of touching down and skimming across a runway. For the Far Star, it was different. It floated through the air, was slowed by skillfully balancing air resistance and gravity, and finally made to come to rest above the spaceport. The wind was gusty and that introduced an added complication. The Far Star, when adjusted to low response to gravitational pull, was not only abnormally low in weight, but in mass as well. If its mass were too close to zero, the wind would blow it away rapidly. Hence, gravitational response had to be raised and jet-thrusts had to be delicately used not only against the planet’s pull but against the wind’s push, and in a manner that matched the shift in wind intensity closely. Without an adequate computer, it could not possibly have been done properly.
Downward and downward, with small unavoidable shifts in this direction and that, drifted the ship until it finally sank into the outlined area that marked its assigned position in the port.
The sky was a pale blue, intermingled with flat white, when the Far Star landed. The wind remained gusty even at ground level and though it was now no longer a navigational peril, it produced a chill that Trevize winced at. He realized at once that their clothing supply was totally unsuited to Comporellian weather.
Pelorat, on the other hand, looked about with appreciation and drew his breath deeply through his nose with relish, liking the bite of the cold, at least for the moment. He even deliberately unseamed his coat in order to feel the wind against his chest. In a little while, he knew, he would seam up again and adjust his scarf, but for now he wanted to feel the existence of an atmosphere. One never did aboard ship.
Bliss drew her coat closely about herself, and, with gloved hands, dragged her hat down to cover her ears. Her face was crumpled in misery and she seemed close to tears.
She muttered, “This world is evil. It hates and mistreats us.”
“Not at all, Bliss dear,” said Pelorat earnestly. “I’m sure the inhabitants like this world, and that it—uh—likes them, if you want to put it that way. We’ll be indoors soon enough, and it will be warm there.”
Almost as an afterthought, he flipped one side of his coat outward and curved it about her, while she snuggled against his shirtfront.
Trevize did his best to ignore the temperature. He obtained a magnetized card from the port authority, checking it on his pocket computer to make sure that it gave the necessary details—his aisle and lot number, the name and engine number of his ship, and so on. He checked once more to make sure that the ship was tightly secured, and then took out the maximum insurance allowed against the chance of misadventure (useless, actually, since the Far Star should be invulnerable at the likely Comporellian level of technology, and was entirely irreplaceable at whatever price, if it were not).
Trevize found the taxi-station where it ought to be. (A number of the facilities at spaceports were standardized in position, appearance, and manner of use. They had to be, in view of the multiworld nature of the clientele.)
He signaled for a taxi, punching out the destination merely as “City.”
A taxi glided up to them on diamagnetic skis, drifting slightly under the impulse of the wind, and trembling under the vibration of its not-quite-silent engine. It was a dark gray in color and bore its white taxi-insignia on the back doors. The taxi-driver was wearing a dark coat and a white, furred hat.
Pelorat, becoming aware, said softly, “The
planetary decor seems to be black and white.”
Trevize said, “It may be more lively in the city proper.”
The driver spoke into a small microphone, perhaps in order to avoid opening the window. “Going to the city, folks?”
There was a gentle singsong to his Galactic dialect that was rather attractive, and he was not hard to understand—always a relief on a new world.
Trevize said, “That’s right,” and the rear door slid open.
Bliss entered, followed by Pelorat, and then by Trevize. The door closed and warm air welled upward.
Bliss rubbed her hands and breathed a long sigh of relief.
The taxi pulled out slowly, and the driver said, “That ship you came in is gravitic, isn’t it?”
Trevize said dryly, “Considering the way it came down, would you doubt it?”
The driver said, “Is it from Terminus, then?”
Trevize said, “Do you know any other world that could build one?”
The driver seemed to digest that as the taxi took on speed. He then said, “Do you always answer a question with a question?”
Trevize couldn’t resist. “Why not?”
“In that case, how would you answer me if I asked if your name were Golan Trevize?”
“I would answer: What makes you ask?”
The taxi came to a halt at the outskirts of the spaceport and the driver said, “Curiosity! I ask again: Are you Golan Trevize?”
Trevize’s voice became stiff and hostile. “What business is that of yours?”
“My friend,” said the driver, “We’re not moving till you answer the question. And if you don’t answer in a clear yes or no in about two seconds, I’m turning the heat off in the passenger compartment and we’ll keep on waiting. Are you Golan Trevize, Councilman of Terminus? If your answer is in the negative, you will have to show me your identification papers.”
Trevize said, “Yes, I am Golan Trevize, and as a Councilman of the Foundation, I expect to be treated with all the courtesy due my rank. Your failure to do so will have you in hot water, fellow. Now what?”
“Now we can proceed a little more lightheartedly.” The taxi began to move again. “I choose my passengers carefully, and I had expected to pick up two men only. The woman was a surprise and I might have made a mistake. As it is, if I have you, then I can leave it to you to explain the woman when you reach your destination.”
“You don’t know my destination.”
“As it happens, I do. You’re going to the Department of Transportation.”
“That’s not where I want to go.”
“That matters not one little bit, Councilman. If I were a taxi-driver, I’d take you where you want to go. Since I’m not, I take you where I want you to go.”
“Pardon me,” said Pelorat, leaning forward, “you certainly seem to be a taxi-driver. You’re driving a taxi.”
“Anyone might drive a taxi. Not everyone has a license to do so. And not every car that looks like a taxi is a taxi.”
Trevize said, “Let’s stop playing games. Who are you and what are you doing? Remember that you’ll have to account for this to the Foundation.”
“Not I,” said the driver, “My superiors, perhaps. I’m an agent of the Comporellian Security Force. I am under orders to treat you with all due respect to your rank, but you must go where I take you. And be very careful how you react, for this vehicle is armed, and I am under orders to defend myself against attack.”
16.
THE VEHICLE, HAVING REACHED CRUISING SPEED, moved with absolute, smooth quiet, and Trevize sat there in quietness as frozen. He was aware, without actually looking, of Pelorat glancing at him now and then with a look of uncertainty on his face, a “What do we do now? Please tell me” look.
Bliss, a quick glance told him, sat calmly, apparently unconcerned. Of course, she was a whole world in herself. All of Gaia, though it might be at Galactic distances, was wrapped up in her skin. She had resources that could be called on in a true emergency.
But, then, what had happened?
Clearly, the official at the entry station, following routine, had sent down his report—omitting Bliss—and it had attracted the interest of the security people and, of all things, the Department of Transportation. Why?
It was peacetime and he knew of no specific tensions between Comporellon and the Foundation. He himself was an important Foundation official—
Wait, he had told the official at the entry station—Kendray, his name had been—that he was on important business with the Comporellian government. He had stressed that in his attempt to get through. Kendray must have reported that as well and that would rouse all sorts of interest.
He hadn’t anticipated that, and he certainly should have.
What, then, about his supposed gift of rightness? Was he beginning to believe that he was the black box that Gaia thought he was—or said it thought he was? Was he being led into a quagmire by the growth of an overconfidence built on superstition?
How could he for one moment be trapped in that folly? Had he never in his life been wrong? Did he know what the weather would be tomorrow? Did he win large amounts in games of chance? The answers were no, no, and no.
Well, then, was it only in the large, inchoate things that he was always right? How could he tell?
Forget that! —After all, the mere fact that he had stated he had important state business—no, it was “Foundation security” that he had said—
Well, then, the mere fact that he was there on a matter of Foundation security, coming, as he had, secretly and unheralded, would surely attract their attention. —Yes, but until they knew what it was all about they would surely act with the utmost circumspection. They would be ceremonious and treat him as a high dignitary. They would not kidnap him and make use of threats.
Yet that was exactly what they had done. Why?
What made them feel strong enough and powerful enough to treat a Councilman of Terminus in such a fashion?
Could it be Earth? Was the same force that hid the world of origin so effectively, even against the great mentalists of the Second Foundation, now working to circumvent his search for Earth in the very first stage of that search? Was Earth omniscient? Omipotent?
Trevize shook his head. That way lay paranoia. Was he going to blame Earth for everything? Was every quirk of behavior, every bend in the road, every twist of circumstance, to be the result of the secret machinations of Earth? As soon as he began to think in that fashion, he was defeated.
At that point, he felt the vehicle decelerating and was brought back to reality at a stroke.
It occurred to him that he had never, even for one moment, looked at the city through which they had been passing. He looked about now, a touch wildly. The buildings were low, but it was a cold planet—most of the structures were probably underground.
He saw no trace of color and that seemed against human nature.
Occasionally, he could see a person pass, well bundled. But, then, the people, like the buildings themselves, were probably mostly underground.
The taxi had stopped before a low, broad building, set in a depression, the bottom of which Trevize could not see. Some moments passed and it continued to remain there, the driver himself motionless as well. His tall, white hat nearly touched the roof of the vehicle.
Trevize wondered fleetingly how the driver managed to step in and out of the vehicle without knocking his hat off, then said, with the controlled anger one would expect of a haughty and mistreated official, “Well, driver, what now?”
The Comporellian version of the glittering field-partition that separated the driver from the passengers was not at all primitive. Sound waves could pass through—though Trevize was quite certain that material objects, at reasonable energies, could not.
The driver said, “Someone will be up to get you. Just sit back and take it easy.”
Even as he said this, three heads appeared in a slow, smooth ascent from the depression in which the building r
ested. After that, there came the rest of the bodies. Clearly, the newcomers were moving up the equivalent of an escalator, but Trevize could not see the details of the device from where he sat.
As the three approached, the passenger door of the taxi opened and a flood of cold air swept inward.
Trevize stepped out, seaming his coat to the neck. The other two followed him—Bliss with considerable reluctance.
The three Comporellians were shapeless, wearing garments that ballooned outward and were probably electrically heated. Trevize felt scorn at that. There was little use for such things on Terminus, and the one time he had borrowed a heat-coat during winter on the nearby planet of Anacreon, he discovered it had a tendency to grow warmer at a slow rate so that by the time he realized he was too warm he was perspiring uncomfortably.
As the Comporellians approached, Trevize noted with a distinct sense of indignation that they were armed. Nor did they try to conceal the fact. Quite the contrary. Each had a blaster in a holster attached to the outer garment.
One of the Comporellians, having stepped up to confront Trevize, said gruffly, “Your pardon, Councilman,” and then pulled his coat open with a rough movement. He had inserted questing hands which moved quickly up and down Trevize’s sides, back, chest, and thighs. The coat was shaken and felt. Trevize was too overcome by confused astonishment to realize he had been rapidly and efficiently searched till it was over.
Pelorat, his chin drawn down and his mouth in a twisted grimace, was undergoing a similar indignity at the hands of a second Comporellian.
The third was approaching Bliss, who did not wait to be touched. She, at least, knew what to expect, somehow, for she whipped off her coat and, for a moment, stood there in her light clothing, exposed to the whistle of the wind.
She said, freezingly enough to match the temperature, “You can see I’m not armed.”
And indeed anyone could. The Comporellian shook the coat, as though by its weight he could tell if it contained a weapon—perhaps he could—and retreated.
Bliss put on her coat again, huddling into it, and for a moment Trevize admired her gesture. He knew how she felt about the cold, but she had not allowed a tremor or shiver to escape her as she had stood there in thin blouse and slacks. (Then he wondered if, in the emergency, she might not have drawn warmth from the rest of Gaia.)
