by Isaac Asimov
She said, “Come with me, Councilman. If you are going to talk nonsense, then, for your own sake, the fewer who hear you, the better.”
She led the way in a brisk stride, and Trevize followed, feeling shrunken in her massive shadow, a feeling he had never before had with a woman.
They entered an elevator and, as the door closed behind them, she said, “We are alone now and if you are under the illusion, Councilman, that you can use force with me in order to accomplish some imagined purpose, please forget that.” The singsong in her voice grew more pronounced as she said, with clear amusement, “You look like a reasonably strong specimen, but I assure you I will have no trouble in breaking your arm—or your back, if I must. I am armed, but I will not have to use any weapon.”
Trevize scratched at his cheek as his eyes drifted first down, then up her body. “Minister, I can hold my own in a wrestling match with any man my weight, but I have already decided to forfeit a bout with you. I know when I am outclassed.”
“Good,” said the Minister, and looked pleased.
Trevize said, “Where are we going, Minister?”
“Down! Quite far down. Don’t be upset, however. In the hyperdramas, this would be a preliminary to taking you to a dungeon, I suppose, but we have no dungeons on Comporellon—only reasonable prisons. We are going to my private apartment; not as romantic as a dungeon in the bad old Imperial days, but more comfortable.”
Trevize estimated that they were at least fifty meters below the surface of the planet, when the elevator door slid to one side and they stepped out.
20.
Trevize looked about the apartment with clear surprise.
The Minister said grimly, “Do you disapprove of my living quarters, Councilman?”
“No, I have no reason to, Minister. I am merely surprised. I find it unexpected. The impression I had of your world from what little I saw and heard since arriving was that it was an—an abstemious one, eschewing useless luxury.”
“So it is, Councilman. Our resources are limited, and our life must be as harsh as our climate.”
“But this, Minister,” and Trevize held out both hands as though to embrace the room where, for the first time on this world, he saw color, where the couches were well cushioned, where the light from the illuminated walls was soft, and where the floor was force-carpeted so that steps were springy and silent. “This is surely luxury.”
“We eschew, as you say, Councilman, useless luxury; ostentatious luxury; wastefully excessive luxury. This, however, is private luxury, which has its use. I work hard and bear much responsibility. I need a place where I can forget, for a while, the difficulties of my post.”
Trevize said, “And do all Comporellians live like this when the eyes of others are averted, Minister?”
“It depends on the degree of work and responsibility. Few can afford to, or deserve to, or, thanks to our code of ethics, want to.”
“But you, Minister, can afford to, deserve to—and want to?”
The Minister said, “Rank has its privileges as well as its duties. And now sit down, Councilman, and tell me of this madness of yours.” She sat down on the couch, which gave slowly under her solid weight, and pointed to an equally soft chair in which Trevize would be facing her at not too great a distance.
Trevize sat down. “Madness, Minister?”
The Minister relaxed visibly, leaning her right elbow on a pillow. “In private conversation, we need not observe the rules of formal discourse too punctiliously. You may call me Lizalor. I will call you Trevize. —Tell me what is on your mind, Trevize, and let us inspect it.”
Trevize crossed his legs and sat back in his chair. “See here, Lizalor, you gave me the choice of either agreeing to give up the ship voluntarily, or of being subjected to a formal trial. In both cases, you would end up with the ship. —Yet you have been going out of your way to persuade me to adopt the former alternative. You are willing to offer me another ship to replace mine, so that my friends and I might go anywhere we chose. We might even stay here on Comporellon and qualify for citizenship, if we chose. In smaller things, you were willing to allow me fifteen minutes to consult with my friends. You were even willing to bring me here to your private apartment, while my friends are now, presumably, in comfortable quarters. In short, you are bribing me, Lizalor, rather desperately, to grant you the ship without the necessity of a trial.”
“Come, Trevize, are you in no mood to give me credit for humane impulses?”
“None.”
“Or the thought that voluntary surrender would be quicker and more convenient than a trial would be?”
“No! I would offer a different suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“A trial has one thing in its strong disfavor; it is a public affair. You have several times referred to this world’s rigorous legal system, and I suspect it would be difficult to arrange a trial without its being fully recorded. If that were so, the Foundation would know of it and you would have to hand over the ship to it once the trial was over.”
“Of course,” said Lizalor, without expression. “It is the Foundation that owns the ship.”
“But,” said Trevize, “a private agreement with me would not have to be placed on formal record. You could have the ship and, since the Foundation would not know of the matter—they don’t even know that we are on this world—Comporellon could keep the ship. That, I am sure, is what you intend to do.”
“Why should we do that?” She was still without expression. “Are we not part of the Foundation Confederation?”
“Not quite. Your status is that of an Associated Power. In any Galactic map on which the member worlds of the Federation are shown in red, Comporellon and its dependent worlds would show up as a patch of pale pink.”
“Even so, as an Associated Power, we would surely co-operate with the Foundation.”
“Would you? Might not Comporellon be dreaming of total independence; even leadership? You are an old world. Almost all worlds claim to be older than they are, but Comporellon is an old world.”
Minister Lizalor allowed a cold smile to cross her face. “The oldest, if some of our enthusiasts are to be believed.”
“Might there not have been a time when Comporellon was indeed the leading world of a relatively small group of worlds? Might you not still dream of recovering that lost position of power?”
“Do you think we dream of so impossible a goal? I called it madness before I knew your thoughts, and it is certainly madness now that I do.”
“Dreams may be impossible, yet still be dreamed. Terminus, located at the very edge of the Galaxy and with a five-century history that is briefer than that of any other world, virtually rules the Galaxy. And shall Comporellon not? Eh?” Trevize was smiling.
Lizalor remained grave. “Terminus reached that position, we are given to understand, by the working out of Hari Seldon’s Plan.”
“That is the psychological buttress of its superiority and it will hold only as long, perhaps, as people believe it. It may be that the Comporellian government does not believe it. Even so, Terminus also enjoys a technological buttress. Terminus’s hegemony over the Galaxy undoubtedly rests on its advanced technology—of which the gravitic ship you are so anxious to have is an example. No other world but Terminus disposes of gravitic ships. If Comporellon could have one, and could learn its workings in detail, it would be bound to have taken a giant technological step forward. I don’t think it would be sufficient to help you overcome Terminus’s lead, but your government might think so.”
Lizalor said, “You can’t be serious in this. Any government that kept the ship in the face of the Foundation’s desire to have it would surely experience the Foundation’s wrath, and history shows that the Foundation can be quite uncomfortably wrathful.”
Trevize said, “The Foundation’s wrath would only be exerted if the Foundation knew there was something to be wrathful about.”
“In that case, Trevize—if we assume your analysi
s of the situation is something other than mad—would it not be to your benefit to give us the ship and drive a hard bargain? We would pay well for the chance of having it quietly, according to your line of argument.”
“Could you then rely on my not reporting the matter to the Foundation?”
“Certainly. Since you would have to report your own part in it.”
“I could report having acted under duress.”
“Yes. Unless your good sense told you that your Mayor would never believe that. —Come, make a deal.”
Trevize shook his head. “I will not, Madam Lizalor. The ship is mine and it must stay mine. As I have told you, it will blow up with extraordinary power if you attempt to force an entry. I assure you I am telling you the truth. Don’t rely on its being a bluff.”
“You could open it, and reinstruct the computer.”
“Undoubtedly, but I won’t do that.”
Lizalor drew a heavy sigh. “You know we could make you change your mind—if not by what we could do to you, then by what we could do to your friend, Dr. Pelorat, or to the young woman.”
“Torture, Minister? Is that your law?”
“No, Councilman. But we might not have to do anything so crude. There is always the Psychic Probe.”
For the first time since entering the Minister’s apartment, Trevize felt an inner chill.
“You can’t do that either. The use of the Psychic Probe for anything but medical purposes is outlawed throughout the Galaxy.”
“But if we are driven to desperation—”
“I am willing to chance that,” said Trevize calmly, “for it would do you no good. My determination to retain my ship is so deep that the Psychic Probe would destroy my mind before it twisted it into giving it to you.” (That was a bluff, he thought, and the chill inside him deepened.) “And even if you were so skillful as to persuade me without destroying my mind and if I were to open the ship and disarm it and hand it over to you, it would still do you no good. The ship’s computer is even more advanced than the ship is, and it is designed somehow—I don’t know how—to work at its full potential only with me. It is what I might call a one-person computer.”
“Suppose, then, you retained your ship, and remained its pilot. Would you consider piloting it for us—as an honored Comporellian citizen? A large salary. Considerable luxury. Your friends, too.”
“No.”
“What is it you suggest? That we simply let you and your friends launch your ship and go off into the Galaxy? I warn you that before we allow you to do this, we might simply inform the Foundation that you are here with your ship, and leave all to them.”
“And lose the ship yourself?”
“If we must lose it, perhaps we would rather lose it to the Foundation than to an impudent Outworlder.”
“Then let me suggest a compromise of my own.”
“A compromise? Well, I will listen. Proceed.”
Trevize said carefully, “I am on an important mission. It began with Foundation support. That support seems to have been suspended, but the mission remains important. Let me have Comporellian support instead and if I complete the mission successfully, Comporellon will benefit.”
Lizalor wore a dubious expression. “And you will not return the ship to the Foundation?”
“I have never planned to do that. The Foundation would not be searching for the ship so desperately if they thought there was any intention of my casually returning it to them.”
“That is not quite the same thing as saying that you will give the ship to us.”
“Once I have completed the mission, the ship may be of no further use to me. In that case, I would not object to Comporellon having it.”
The two looked at each other in silence for a few moments.
Lizalor said, “You use the conditional. The ship ‘may be.’ That is of no value to us.”
“I could make wild promises, but of what value would that be to you? The fact that my promises are cautious and limited should show you that they are at least sincere.”
“Clever,” said Lizalor, nodding. “I like that. Well, what is your mission and how might it benefit Comporellon?”
Trevize said, “No, no, it is your turn. Will you support me if I show you that the mission is of importance to Comporellon?”
Minister Lizalor rose from the couch, a tall, overpowering presence. “I am hungry, Councilman Trevize, and I will get no further on an empty stomach. I will offer you something to eat and drink—in moderation. After that, we will finish the matter.”
And it seemed to Trevize that there was a rather carnivorous look of anticipation about her at that moment, so that he tightened his lips with just a bit of unease.
21.
The meal might have been a nourishing one, but it was not one to delight the palate. The main course consisted of boiled beef in a mustardy sauce, resting on a foundation of a leafy vegetable Trevize did not recognize. Nor did he like it for it had a bitter-salty taste he did not enjoy. He found out later it was a form of seaweed.
There was, afterward, a piece of fruit that tasted something like an apple tainted by peach (not bad, actually) and a hot, dark beverage that was bitter enough for Trevize to leave half behind and ask if he might have some cold water instead. The portions were all small, but, under the circumstances, Trevize did not mind.
The meal had been private, with no servants in view. The Minister had herself heated and served the food, and herself cleared away the dishes and cutlery.
“I hope you found the meal pleasant,” said Lizalor, as they left the dining room.
“Quite pleasant,” said Trevize, without enthusiasm.
The Minister again took her seat on the couch. “Let us return then,” she said, “to our earlier discussion. You had mentioned that Comporellon might resent the Foundation’s lead in technology and its overlordship of the Galaxy. In a way that’s true, but that aspect of the situation would interest only those who are interested in interstellar politics, and they are comparatively few. What is much more to the point is that the average Comporellian is horrified at the immorality of the Foundation. There is immorality in most worlds, but it seems most marked in Terminus. I would say that any anti-Terminus animus that exists on this world is rooted in that, rather than in more abstract matters.”
“Immorality?” said Trevize, puzzled. “Whatever the faults of the Foundation you have to admit it runs its part of the Galaxy with reasonable efficiency and fiscal honesty. Civil rights are, by and large, respected and—”
“Councilman Trevize, I speak of sexual morality.”
“In that case, I certainly don’t understand you. We are a thoroughly moral society, sexually speaking. Women are well represented in every facet of social life. Our Mayor is a woman and nearly half the Council consists of—”
The Minister allowed a look of exasperation to fleet across her face. “Councilman, are you mocking me? Surely you know what sexual morality means. Is, or is not, marriage a sacrament upon Terminus?”
“What do you mean by sacrament?”
“Is there a formal marriage ceremony binding a couple together?”
“Certainly, if people wish it. Such a ceremony simplifies tax problems and inheritance.”
“But divorce can take place.”
“Of course. It would certainly be sexually immoral to keep people tied to each other, when—”
“Are there no religious restrictions?”
“Religious? There are people who make a philosophy out of ancient cults, but what has that to do with marriage?”
“Councilman, here on Comporellon, every aspect of sex is strongly controlled. It may not take place out of marriage. Its expression is limited even within marriage. We are sadly shocked at those worlds, at Terminus, particularly, where sex seems to be considered a mere social pleasure of no great importance to be indulged in when, how, and with whom one pleases without regard to the values of religion.”
Trevize shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I
can’t undertake to reform the Galaxy, or even Terminus—and what has this to do with the matter of my ship?”
“I’m talking about public opinion in the matter of your ship and how it limits my ability to compromise the matter. The people of Comporellon would be horrified if they found you had taken a young and attractive woman on board to serve the lustful urges of you and your companion. It is out of consideration for the safety of the three of you that I have been urging you to accept peaceful surrender in place of a public trial.”
Trevize said, “I see you have used the meal to think of a new type of persuasion by threat. Am I now to fear a lynch mob?”
“I merely point out dangers. Will you be able to deny that the woman you have taken on board ship is anything other than a sexual convenience?”
“Of course I can deny it. Bliss is the companion of my friend, Dr. Pelorat. He has no other competing companion. You may not define their state as marriage, but I believe that in Pelorat’s mind, and in the woman’s, too, there is a marriage between them.”
“Are you telling me you are not involved yourself?”
“Certainly not,” said Trevize. “What do you take me for?”
“I cannot tell. I do not know your notions of morality.”
“Then let me explain that my notions of morality tell me that I don’t trifle with my friend’s possessions—or his companionships.”
“You are not even tempted?”
“I can’t control the fact of temptation, but there’s no chance of my giving in to it.”
“No chance at all? Perhaps you are not interested in women.”
