by Isaac Asimov
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 rested. 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.)
One of the Comporellians gestured, and the three Outworlders followed him. The other two Comporellians fell behind. The one or two pedestrians who were on the street did not bother to watch what was happening. Either they were too accustomed to the sight or, more likely, had their minds occupied with getting to some indoor destination as soon as possible.
Trevize saw now that it was a moving ramp up which the Comporellians had ascended. They were descending now, all six of them, and passed through a lock arrangement almost as complicated as that on a spaceship—to keep heat inside, no doubt, rather than air.
And then, at once, they were inside a huge building.
5
STRUGGLE FOR THE SHIP
17.
Trevize’s first impression was that he was on the set of a hyperdrama—specifically, that of a historical romance of Imperial days. There was a particular set, with few variations (perhaps only one existed and was used by every hyperdrama producer, for all he knew), that represented the great world-girdling planet-city of Trantor in its prime.
There were the large spaces, the busy scurry of pedestrians, the small vehicles speeding along the lanes reserved for them.
Trevize looked up, almost expecting to see air-taxis climbing into dim vaulted recesses, but that at least was absent. In fact, as his initial astonishment subsided, it was clear that the building was far smaller than one would expect on Trantor. It was only a building and not part of a complex that stretched unbroken for thousands of miles in every direction.
The colors were different, too. On the hyperdramas, Trantor was always depicted as impossibly garish in coloring and the clothing was, if taken literally, thoroughly impractical and unserviceable. However, all those colors and frills were meant to serve a symbolic purpose for they indicated the decadence (a view that was obligatory, these days) of the Empire, and of Trantor particularly.
If that were so, however, Comporellon was the very reverse of decadent, for the color scheme that Pelorat had remarked upon at the spaceport was here borne out.
The walls were in shades of gray, the ceilings white, the clothing of the population in black, gray, and white. Occasionally, there was an all-black costume; even more occasionally, an all-gray; never an all-white that Trevize could see. The pattern was always different, however, as though people, deprived of color, still managed, irrepressibly, to find ways of asserting individuality.
Faces tended to be expressionless or, if not that, then grim. Women wore their hair short; men longer, but pulled backward into short queues. No one looked at anyone else as he or she passed. Everyone seemed to breathe a purposefulness, as though there was definite business on each mind and room for nothing else. Men and women dressed alike, with only length of hair and the slight bulge of breast and width of hip marking the difference.
The three were guided into an elevator that went down five levels. There they emerged and were moved on to a door on which there appeared in small and unobtrusive lettering, white on gray, “Mitza Lizalor, MinTrans.”
The Comporellian in the lead touched the lettering, which, after a moment, glowed in response. The door opened and they walked in.
It was a large room and rather empty, the bareness of content serving, perhaps, as a kind of conspicuous consumption of space designed to show the power of the occupant.
Two guards stood against the far wall, faces expressionless and eyes firmly fixed on those entering. A large desk filled the center of the room, set perhaps just a little back of center. Behind the desk was, presumably, Mitza Lizalor, large of body, smooth of face, dark of eyes. Two strong and capable hands with long, square-ended fingers rested on the desk.
The MinTrans (Minister of Transportation, Trevize assumed) had the lapels of the outer garment a broad and dazzling white against the dark gray of the rest of the costume. The double bar of white extended diagonally below the lapels, across the garment itself and crossing at the center of the chest. Trevize could see that although the garment was cut in such a fashion as to obscure the swelling of a woman’s breasts on either side, the white X called attention to them.
The Minister was undoubtedly a woman. Even if her breasts were ignored, her short hair showed it, and though there was no makeup on her face, her features showed it, too.
Her voice, too, was indisputably feminine, a rich contralto.
She said, “Good afternoon. It is not often that we are honored by a visit of men from Terminus. —And of an unreported w
oman as well.” Her eyes passed from one to another, then settled on Trevize, who was standing stiffly and frowningly erect. “And one of the men a member of the Council, too.”
“A Councilman of the Foundation,” said Trevize, trying to make his voice ring. “Councilman Golan Trevize on a mission from the Foundation.”
“On a mission?” The Minister’s eyebrows rose.
“On a mission,” repeated Trevize. “Why, then, are we being treated as felons? Why have we been taken into custody by armed guards and brought here as prisoners? The Council of the Foundation, I hope you understand, will not be pleased to hear of this.”
“And in any case,” said Bliss, her voice seeming a touch shrill in comparison with that of the older woman, “are we to remain standing indefinitely?”
The Minister gazed coolly at Bliss for a long moment, then raised an arm and said, “Three chairs! Now!”
A door opened and three men, dressed in the usual somber Comporellian fashion, brought in three chairs at a semitrot. The three people standing before the desk sat down.
“There,” said the Minister, with a wintry smile, “are we comfortable?”
Trevize thought not. The chairs were uncushioned, cold to the touch, flat of surface and back, making no compromise with the shape of the body. He said, “Why are we here?”
The Minister consulted papers lying on her desk. “I will explain as soon as I am certain of my facts. Your ship is the Far Star out of Terminus. Is that correct, Councilman?”
“It is.”
The Minister looked up. “I used your title, Councilman. Will you, as a courtesy, use mine?”
“Would Madam Minister be sufficient? Or is there an honorific?”
“No honorific, sir, and you need not double your words. ‘Minister’ is sufficient, or ‘Madam’ if you weary of repetition.”
“Then my answer to your question is: It is, Minister.”
