by Isaac Asimov
She then knelt, placed one blade against the back of his neck and the other against his throat, and said, “Yield!”
With another yell, Macron struck out against her with one arm, pushed her to one side, then scrambled to his feet.
He had not yet stood up completely when she was upon him, one knife slashing downward and hacking away a section of his mustache. This time he yowled like a large animal in agony, clapping his hand to his face. When he drew it away, it was dripping blood.
Dors shouted, “It won’t grow again, Macron. Some of the lip went with it. Attack once more and you’re dead meat.”
She waited, but Macron had had enough. He stumbled away, moaning, leaving a trail of blood.
Dors turned toward the others. The two that Seldon had knocked down were still lying there, unarmed and not anxious to get up. She bent down, cut their belts with one of her knives and then slit their trousers.
“This way, you’ll have to hold your pants up when you walk,” she said.
She stared at the seven men still on their feet, who were watching her with awestruck fascination. “And which of you threw the knife?”
There was silence.
She said, “It doesn’t matter to me. Come one at a time or all together, but each time I slash, someone dies.”
And with one accord, the seven turned and scurried away.
Dors lifted her eyebrows and said to Seldom “This time, at least, Hummin can’t complain that I failed to protect you.”
Seldon said, “I still can’t believe what I saw. I didn’t know you could do anything like that–or talk like that either.”
Dors merely smiled. “You have your talents too. We make a good pair. Here, retract your knife blades and put them into your pouch. I think the news will spread with enormous speed and we can get out of Billibotton without fear of being stopped.”
She was quite right.
Undercover
DAVAN-... IN THE UNSETTLED TIMES MARKING THE FINAL CENTURIES OF THE FIRST GALACTIC EMPIRE, THE TYPICAL SOURCES OF UNREST AROSE FROM THE FACT THAT POLITICAL AND MILITARY LEADERS JOCKEYED FOR “SUPREME” POWER (A SUPREMACY THAT GREW MORE WORTHLESS WITH EACH DECADE). ONLY RARELY WAS THERE ANYTHING THAT COULD BE CALLED A POPULAR MOVEMENT PRIOR TO THE ADVENT OF PSYCHOHISTORY. IN THIS CONNECTION, ONE INTRIGUING EXAMPLE INVOLVES DAVAN, OF WHOM LITTLE IS ACTUALLY KNOWN, BUT WHO MAY HAVE MET WITH HARI SELDON AT ONE TIME WHEN...
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
72.
Both Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili had taken rather lingering baths, making use of the somewhat primitive facilities available to them in the Tisalver household. They had changed their clothing and were in Seldon’s room when Jirad Tisalver returned in the evening. His signal at the door was (or seemed) rather timid. The buzz did not last long.
Seldon opened the door and said pleasantly, “Good evening, Master Tisalver. And Mistress.”
She was standing right behind her husband, forehead puckered into a puzzled frown.
Tisalver said tentatively, as though he was unsure of the situation, “Are you and Mistress Venabili both well?” He nodded his head as though trying to elicit an affirmative by body language.
“Quite well. In and out of Billibotton without trouble and we’re all washed and changed. There’s no smell left.” Seldon lifted his chin as he said it, smiling, tossing the sentence over Tisalver’s shoulder to his wife.
She sniffed loudly, as though testing the matter.
Still tentatively, Tisalver said, “I understand there was a knife fight.”
Seldon raised his eyebrows. “Is that the story?”
“You and the Mistress against a hundred thugs, we were cold, and you killed them all. Is that so?” There was the reluctant sound of deep respect in his voice.
“Absolutely not, “Dors put in with sudden annoyance. “That’s ridiculous. What do you think we are? Mass murderers? And do you think a hundred thugs would remain in place, waiting the considerable time it would take me-us-to kill them all? I mean, think about it.”
“That’s what they’re saying,” said Casilia Tisalver with shrill firmness. “We can’t have that sort of thing in this house.”
“In the first place,” said Seldon, “it wasn’t in this house. In the second, it wasn’t a hundred men, it was ten. In the third, no one was killed. There was some altercation back and forth, after which they left and made way for us.”
“They just made way. Do you expect me to believe that, Outworlders?” demanded Mistress Tisalver belligerently.
Seldon sighed. At the slightest stress, human beings seemed to divide themselves into antagonistic groups. He said, “Well, I grant you one of them was cut a little. Not seriously.”
“And you weren’t hurt at all?” said Tisalver. The admiration in his voice was more marked.
“Not a scratch,” said Seldon. “Mistress Venabili handles two knives excellently well.”
“I dare say,” said Mistress Tisalver, her eyes dropping to Dors’s belt, “and that’s not what I want to have going on here.”
Dors said sternly, “As long as no one attacks us here, that’s what you won’t have here.”
“But on account of you,” said Mistress Tisalver, “we have trash from the street standing at the doorway.”
“My love,” said Tisalver soothingly, “let us not anger–”
“Why?” spat his wife with contempt. “Are you afraid of her knives? I would like to see her use them here.”
“I have no intention of using them here,” said Dors with a sniff as loud as any that Mistress Tisalver had produced. “What is this trash from the street you’re talking about?”
Tisalver said, “What my wife means is that an urchin from Billibotton-at least, judging by his appearance-wishes to see you and we are not accustomed to that sort of thing in this neighborhood. It undermines our standing.” He sounded apologetic.
Seldon said, “Well, Master Tisalver, we’ll go outside, find out what it’s all about, and send him on his business as quickly–”
“No. Wait,” said Dors, annoyed. “These are our rooms. We pay for them. We decide who visits us and who does not. If there is a young man outside from Billibotton, he is nonetheless a Dahlite. More important, he’s a Trantorian. Still more important, he’s a citizen of the Empire and a human being. Most important, by asking to see us, he becomes our guest. Therefore, we invite him in to see us.”
Mistress Tisalver didn’t move. Tisalver himself seemed uncertain.
Dors said, “Since you say I killed a hundred bullies in Billibotton, you surely do not think I am afraid of a boy or, for that matter, of you two.” Her right hand dropped casually to her belt.
Tisalver said with sudden energy, “Mistress Venabili, we do not intend to offend you. Of course these rooms are yours and you can entertain whomever you wish here.” He stepped back, pulling his indignant wife with him, undergoing a burst of resolution for which he might conceivably have to pay afterward.
Dors looked after them sternly.
Seldon smiled dryly. “How unlike you, Dors. I thought I was the one who quixotically got into trouble and that you were the calm and practical one whose only aim was to prevent trouble.”
Dors shook her head. “I can’t bear to hear a human being spoken of with contempt just because of his group identification-even by other human beings. It’s these respectable people here who create those hooligans out there.”
“And other respectable people,” said Seldon, “who create these respectable people. These mutual animosities are as much a part of humanity–”
“Then you’ll have to deal with it in your psychohistory, won’t you?”
“Most certainly-if there is ever a psychohistory with which to deal with anything at all.-Ah, here comes the urchin under discussion. And it’s Raych, which somehow doesn’t surprise me.”
73.
Raych entered, looking about, clearly intimidated. The forefinger of his right hand reached for his upper lip as though wondering
when he would begin to feel the first downy hairs there.
He turned to the clearly outraged Mistress Tisalver and bowed clumsily. “Thank ya, Missus. Ya got a lovely place.”
Then, as the door slammed behind him, he turned to Seldon and Dors with an air of easy connoisseurship. “Nice place, guys.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Seldon solemnly. “How did you know we were here?”
“Followed ya. How’d ya think? Hey, lady”-he turned to Dors =‘you don’t fight like no dame.”
“Have you watched many dames fight?” asked Dors, amused.
Raych rubbed his nose, “No, never seen none whatever. They don’t carry knives, except little ones to scare kids with. Never scared me.”
“I’m sure they didn’t. What do you do to make dames draw their knives?”
“Nothin’. You just kid around a little. You holler, ‘Hey, lady, lemme--’”
He thought about it for a moment and said, “Nothin’.”
Dors said, “Well, don’t try that on me.”
“Ya kiddin’? After what ya did to Marron? Hey, lady, where’d you learn to fight that way?”
“On my own world.”
“Could ya teach me?”
“Is that what you came here to see me about?”
“Akchaly, no. I came to bring ya a kind of message.”
“From someone who wants to fight me?”
“No one wants to fight ya, lady. Listen, lady, ya got a reputation now. Everybody knows ya. You just walk down anywhere in old Billibotton and all the guys will step aside and let ya pass and grin and make sure they don’t look cross-eyed at ya. Oh, lady, ya got it made. That’s why he wants to see ya.”
Seldon said, “Raych, just exactly who wants to see us?”
“Guy called Davan.”
“And who is he?”
“Just a guy. He lives in Billibotton and don’t carry no knife.”
“And he stays alive, Raych?”
“He reads a lot and he helps the guys there when they get in trouble with the gov’ment. They kinda leave him alone. He don’t need no knife.”
“Why didn’t he come himself, then?” said Dors. “Why did he send you?”
“He don’t like this place. He says it makes him sick. He says all the people here, they lick the gov’ment’s–” He paused, looked dubiously at the two Outworlders, and said, “Anyway, he won’t come here. He said they’d let me in cause I was only a kid.” He grinned. “They almost didn’t, did they? I mean that lady there who looked like she was smellin’ somethin’?”
He stopped suddenly, abashed, and looked down at himself. “Ya don’t get much chance to wash where I come from.”
“It’s all right,” said Dors, smiling. “Where are we supposed to meet, then, if he won’t come here? After all-if you don’t mind we don’t feel like going to Billibotton.”
“I told ya,” said Raych indignantly. “Ya get free run of Billibotton, I swear. Besides, where he lives no one will bother ya.”
“Where is it?” asked Seldon.
“I can take ya there. It ain’t far.”
“And why does he want to see us?” asked Dors.
“Dunno. But he says like this–” Raych half-closed his eyes in an effort to remember. “‘Tell them I wanna see the man who talked to a Dahlite heatsinker like he was a human being and the woman who beat Marron with knives and didn’t kill him when she mighta done so.’ I think I got it right.”
Seldon smiled. “I think you did. Is he ready for us now?”
“He’s waiting.”
“Then we’ll come with you.” He looked at Dors with a trace of doubt in his eyes.
She said, “All right. I’m willing. Perhaps it won’t be a trap of some sort. Hope springs eternal–”
74.
There was a pleasant glow to the evening light when they emerged, a faint violet touch and a pinkish edge to the simulated sunset clouds that were scudding along. Dahl might have complaints of their treatment by the Imperial rulers of Trantor, but surely there was nothing wrong with the weather the computers spun out for them.
Dors said in a low voice, “We seem to be celebrities. No mistake about that.”
Seldon brought his eyes down from the supposed sky and was immediately aware of a fair-sized crowd around the apartment house in which the Tisalvers lived.
Everyone in the crowd stared at them intently. When it was clear that the two Outworlders had become aware of the attention, a low murmur ran through the crowd, which seemed to be on the point of breaking out into applause.
Dors said, “Now I can see where Mistress Tisalver would find this annoying. I should have been a little more sympathetic.”
The crowd was, for the most part, poorly dressed and it was not hard to guess that many of the people were from Billibotton.
On impulse, Seldon smiled and raised one hand in a mild greeting that was met with applause. One voice, lost in the safe anonymity of the crowd called out, “Can the lady show us some knife tricks?”
When Dors called back, “No, I only draw in anger, “there was instant laughter.
One man stepped forward. He was clearly not from Billibotton and bore no obvious mark of being a Dahlite. He had only a small mustache, for one thing, and it was brown, not black. He said, “Marlo Tanto of the ‘Trantorian HV News.’ Can we have you in focus for a bit for our nightly holocast?”
“No,” said Dors shortly. “No interviews.”
The newsman did not budge. “I understand you were in a fight with a great many men in Billibotton–and won.” He smiled. “That’s news, that is.”
“No,” said Dors. “We met some men in Billibotton, talked to them, and then moved on. That’s all there is to it and that’s all you’re going to get.”
“What’s your name? You don’t sound like a Trantorian.”
“I have no name.”
“And your friend’s name?”
“He has no name.”
The newsman looked annoyed, “Look, lady. You’re news and I’m just trying to do my job.”
Raych pulled at Dors’s sleeve. She leaned down and listened to his earnest whisper.
She nodded and straightened up again. “I don’t think you’re a newsman, Mr. Tanto. What I think you are is an Imperial agent trying to make trouble for Dahl. There was no fight and you’re trying to manufacture news concerning one as a way of justifying an Imperial expedition into Billibotton. I wouldn’t stay here if I were you. I don’t think you’re very popular with these people.”
The crowd had begun to mutter at Dors’s first words. They grew louder now and began to drift, slowly and in a menacing way, in the direction of Tanto. He looked nervously around and began to move away.
Dors raised her voice. “Let him go. Don’t anyone touch him. Don’t give him any excuse to report violence.”
And they parted before him.
Raych said, “Aw, lady, you shoulda let them rough him up.”
“Bloodthirsty boy,” said Dors, “take us to this friend of yours.”
75.
They met the man who called himself Davan in a room behind a dilapidated diner. Far behind.
Raych led the way, once more showing himself as much at home in the burrows of Billibotton as a mole would be in tunnels underground in Helicon.
It was Dors Venabili whose caution first manifested itself. She stopped and said, “Come back, Raych. Exactly where are we going?”
“To Davan,” said Raych, looking exasperated. “I told ya.”
“But this is a deserted area. There’s no one living here.” Dors looked about with obvious distaste. The surroundings were lifeless and what light panels were there were did not glower did so only dimly.
“It’s the way Davan likes it,” said Raych. “He’s always changing around, staying here, staying there. Ya know... changing around.”
“Why?” demanded Dors.
“It’s safer, lady.”
“From whom?”
“From
the gov’ment”
“Why would the government want Davan?”
“I dunno, lady. Tell ya what. I’ll tell ya where he is and tell ya how to go and ya go on alone-if ya don’t want me to take ya.”
Seldon said, “No, Raych, I’m pretty sure we’ll get lost without you. In fact, you had better wait till we’re through so you can lead us back.”
Raych said at once, “What’s in it f’me? Ya expect me to hang around when I get hungry?”
“You hang around and get hungry, Raych, and I’ll buy you a big dinner. Anything you like.”
“Ya say that now. Mister. How do I know?”
Dors’s hand flashed and it was holding a knife, blade exposed, “You’re not calling us liars, are you, Raych?”
Raych’s eyes opened wide. He did not seem frightened by the threat. He said, “Hey, I didn’t see that. Do it again.”
“I’ll do it afterward-if you’re still here. Otherwise”-Dors glared at him “we’ll track you down.”
“Aw, lady, come on,” said Raych. “Ya ain’t gonna track me down. Ya ain’t that kind. But I’ll be here.” He struck a pose. “Ya got my word.”
And he led them onward in silence, though the sound of their shoes was hollow in the empty corridors.
Davan looked up when they entered, a wild look that softened when he saw Raych. He gestured quickly toward the two others questioningly.
Raych said, “These are the guys.” And, grinning, he left.
Seldon said, “I am Hari Seldon. The young lady is Dors Venabili.”
He regarded Davan curiously. Davan was swarthy and had the thick black mustache of the Dahlite male, but in addition he had a stubble of beard. He was the first Dahlite whom Seldon had seen who had not been meticulously shaven. Even the bullies of Billibotton had been smooth of cheek and chin.
Seldon said, “What is your name, sir?”
“Davan. Raych must have told you.”
“Your second name.”
“I am only Davan. Were you followed here, Master Seldon?”
“No, I’m sure we weren’t. If we had, then by sound or sight, I expect Raych would have known. And if he had not, Mistress Venabili would have.”
