by Isaac Asimov
Trevize smiled. “You don’t need my determination and self-assurance any more, for you’ve developed a good deal of your own. And whatever you lack, I’m certain that Bliss will more than make up for.”
With a wry smile of his own, Pelorat said, “I don’t doubt that you’re right. Good luck, my dear friend. I shall remember you always.”
“And I you, Janov. If I had had someone like you to teach me history in school, I might have become an academic rather than a politician.”
“But then you wouldn’t have been available to us,” Bliss pointed out. “We wouldn’t have had your decision, and where would we be then?”
“Don’t be so sure,” Trevize cautioned her. “I’m certain that Daneel would have found some way to exile me from Terminus at the proper time, even if I had taken up dentistry.”
“Do you really think it was Daneel’s manipulations that led Mayor Branno to exile you?” Pelorat wondered. “After all, from what you tell me it was your own outspokenness on the subject of the Second Foundation that led her to act. If you had kept your beliefs to yourself, might the whole train of events never have happened?”
Trevize sighed. “That’s the trouble with mentalics. When you’re dealing with them, you can never be sure whether the motives you act on are your own or theirs. Was my speech spontaneous, or was one of Daneel’s mentalic robots present on Terminus, waiting for the correct moment to loosen my tongue?”
Pelorat said, “It seems pointless to second-guess yourself.”
“True. I must say, though, that I now have a much better understanding of why men like Arkady Darrell’s father were so obsessed with eliminating the Second Foundation. The temptation to endlessly examine one’s motives for outside tampering could easily drive a man mad.”
Bliss now stepped forward, and followed Pelorat’s example by taking Trevize’s hand in hers. She said, “I know it’s customary in some Isolate cultures to present a gift to someone who is departing for an extended period.”
“It’s called a going-away present,” Trevize said.
“Since no Gaian is ever truly apart from the rest of our planet, the custom is unknown here. Nevertheless, since it is one of your customs, we thought it would be appropriate to present you with a gift, as a token of our gratitude.”
So saying, Bliss leaned forward and kissed Trevize on the mouth.
Trevize stood still for a moment, clearly mystified. Finally he said, “That’s your idea of a gift?”
“Were you expecting a chronometer?”
Shaking his head, Trevize turned and entered the airlock of the Far Star. Pelorat and Bliss stepped back, and a minute later the ship lifted off the ground. When it had finally disappeared into the sky, Pelorat turned to Bliss and said, “I must say, I agree with Golan. It seems an odd choice for a gift. Why a kiss?”
Then Bliss told him, and astonishment filled Pelorat’s face. “What an extraordinary thing. Was this your idea?”
“Dom came up with the larger plan, but the kiss was my idea.”
All Pelorat could do was stare up into the sky and repeat, “What an extraordinary thing.”
Part 6: Renunciation
GOLAN TREVIZE FOUND himself alone for the first time in six months. It was, he had come to recognize, a never-ending cycle. One went from sharing one’s life with other people, to being alone, to sharing again. It had first happened when he was twenty-two, after leaving the Navy. He had gone from being a member of a unit to being a man alone. Then he had met Zillia, and for three years he had been part of a couple. Then came the breakup, and he was alone again. Since then there had been other women, Ensa and Cordia and Danna, periods of union separated by periods of solitude. His last solo period had ended with his confrontation with Mayor Branno and his exile from Terminus with Janov. Now Janov had been left behind on Gaia, and Trevize was alone for the first time in the Far Star.
But not for long, he knew. He would only remain alone for as long as it took the ship to reach Comporellon. Then he would be reunited with Mitza Lizalor, and the familiar pattern of a life shared with someone else would begin again. Once again, Trevize looked upon Comporellon, with its larger-than-normal polar ice caps and its redder-than-normal sunlight. As before, he signalled to the world’s immigration authority requesting permission to land, as as before he was directed to one of the twelve entry stations that orbited Comporellon. The name of the station, Padrel, tugged at his memory, and he checked with the Far Star’s log to check on a suspicion. The ship’s log confirmed that they had docked at Padrel Station during their previous visit. Trevize was unsurprised to find A. Kendray (he had never learned the man’s first name) waiting to meet him.
This time, Kendray was accompanied by another man, who seemed to exist solely to provide contrast with Kendray himself. Where Kendray was short, heavy and dark, his companion was tall, thin and fair.
Kendray was, if possible, even more avulcular than at their first meeting. He said, “Ah, my dear Golan Trevize, what a pleasure it is to meet you again. Since our last meeting, fortune has smiled upon me, and I now have the honor of being Station Administrator here at Padrel Station. My colleague here is Assistant Administrator Binlo Gatis.”
“Can I assume,” said Trevize, “that your change in situation was a consequence of our earlier meeting?”
“You can indeed. Minister Lizalor herself congratulated me on my clear thinking in regard to the matter of your worldless companion. The initiative I demonstrated in not allowing the strict letter of the law to interfere with your mission to our world was recognized and appropriately rewarded. And speaking of your companions, where are Doctor Pelorat and Miss Bliss?”
Trevize explained, “Doctor Pelorat and Miss Bliss chose not to accompany me to Comporellon this trip.”
Kendray’s smile grew even brighter. “I must say, I’m not sorry to hear it. Even though nothing unfortunate came of it, the presence of Miss Bliss on your ship was an uncomfortable one for all of us.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“At any rate,” Kendray continued, “you’ll be happy to hear that Minister Lizalor has directed us to waive the usual formalities, and allow you to procede directly down to the Capital.”
Trevize found himself wondering whether Mitza Lizalor was more enthusiastic about having him back, or at having the Far Star back. He decided he would be better off not knowing.
It took less than an hour for the ship to travel from Padrel Station down to Comporellon City. Once again, he set down at a spaceport located on the city’s western outskirts. Emerging from his ship, he found a Comporellian vehicle waiting for him. Trevize noted absently that the vehicle was completely black, with the insignia of the Comporellian Ministry of Transportation visible on the back door. His attention, though, immediately focused on the figure standing next to the vehicle. It was a tall woman in black with short hair of a startling red color and wide eyes of an equally startling green. She gave him a brief, formal nod that let him know that they were in a public setting and should maintain themselves with fitting decorum.
“Minister Lizalor”, Trevize said formally, with an appropriately respectful nod.
“Mr. Trevize,” Lizalor replied. “Allow me to welcome you back to Comporellon. If you would care to accompany me, I can escort you to the Ministry of Transportation.”
“I’d be honored,” said Trevize.
Little had changed on Comporellon in the two months since he had last been here. It was still just as cold, and snow still covered much of the planet’s capital city. However, Trevize’s attention was distracted by a detail of his short conversation with Lizalor.
“Minister,” he said, “I’m willing to let the matter pass, in light of our friendship, but I’m curious. Why didn’t you use my title when you greeted me at the spaceport?”
Lizalor’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean you don’t know? Haven’t you been following events on Terminus?”
Trevize began to experience a sinking feeling. He could halfway
guess what Lizalor was about to tell him. “No, I’ve been rather out of touch with Galactic politics lately. What has happened on Terminus?”
“The elections for the Council of Terminus were held last month. In your absence, another man was elected to fill your seat. You are no longer a member of the Council.”
Trevize uttered the most vile oath he could think of. “Branno!”
Lizalor nodded. “I assume she was unhappy about your not returning the ship to the Foundation.”
“Of course,” Trevize fumed. “So she found somebody in my district to run against me. I can only imagine what sort of campaign she cooked up against me. Nothing obvious, of course, not from Branno the Bronze. Just a few unsubstantiated rumors, wondering why I was off touring the Galaxy instead of staying in Terminus City doing the work I was elected to do!”
He turned to look Lizalor directly in the eyes. “Minister, if I ever needed anything to show me that my future lies here on Comporellon and not back on Terminus, this was it. I hereby renounce my Foundation citizenship and request citizenship in the Commonwealth of Comporellon!”
Part 7: More Pillow Talk
TREVIZE HAD ASSUMED that they were going to the Ministry of Transportation building, and as the vehicle threaded the streets of Comporellon City, he knew he had guessed correctly. It was less than half an hour before they pulled up outside. During the ride, Trevize and Lizalor had engaged in pointless small talk, from which fact Trevize assumed they were (or at least could be) under surveillence. He followed Lizalor out of the vehicle and down the steps leading to the main entrance of the Ministry building. They passed through the vast lobby he remembered, then threaded their way through corridors until finally reaching an elevator. As soon as the doors closed upon them, Trevize found himself buried under an avalanch of amorous Minister.
They remained locked in embrace until the elevator reached Lizalor’s apartment. When the doors opened, Lizalor dragged Trevize into her living room and began to unclothe him. They continued into the apartment, shedding clothing as they went. Whether through chance or design, they both ran out by the time they reached Lizalor’s bedroom.
Much later, she looked up at him and smiled. “I feared you would never come back. I thought you would go on searching forever, or that you would find,” here she paused for a time, then finished, “your goal, and be cursed to oblivion. Did you give up your search?”
“Yes,” Trevize answered simply. He gave up searching because he found what he was looking for, but he didn’t intend to tell her that. For one thing, she would undoubtedly decide that he had indeed been cursed for finding Earth, and that by coming back to Comporellon he had spread the curse to the planet generally and her particularly. For another, during their stay at Daneel’s base on Earth’s moon, the ancient robot had created mental blocks in Janov and himself to prevent their revealing his existence. Trevize doubted that he could tell Lizalor what he had found even if he wanted to.
“And now that you are here to stay,” she continued, “you can direct our efforts to replicate the Foundation’s gravitic drive. Needless to say,” she chuckled, “you will report directly to me.”
Trevize was taken aback. He had expected to be involved in Lizalor’s project to reverse-engineer a gravitic drive from the Far Star, but he hadn’t anticipated being asked to head up the effort.
Perhaps sensing his hesitation, she asked, “Unless you don’t think you can handle the responsibility.”
“I simply wasn’t expecting the offer,” Trevize assured her. “I’ve directed engineering projects before. In fact, before I went into politics, I was Director of Research at the Darrell Shipyards on Terminus.”
It seemed to him that Lizalor looked at him with a new respect. “I had no idea you were so accomplished.” Then a look of embarrassment crossed her face, as she realized how her comment might be interpreted. “I didn’t mean to imply …”
“That I was just a videogenic talking head who managed to weasel his way into the Council of Terminus?”
Trevize was able to watch as a blush spread all the way up Mitza Lizalor’s unclothed body. He asked gently, “Is that the way it’s done on Comporellon?”
“In theory, no. In practice, it is all too common.”
“That’s not the way it’s done on Terminus. We have the example of the Indburs before us to let us know what happens when we let our government become an empty sideshow while real power is exercised behind the scenes. Nobody can hope to win a popular following on Terminus without demonstrating their competence at some creative endeavor. In my case, I served as an officer in the Foundation Navy, then went on to win a graduate degree in hyperatomics at the University of Terminus. I worked at two engineering firms before joining Darrell Shipyards’ Hyperdrive Division, and spent three years there before being appointed Director of Research. When the Relocation Crisis came to a head last year, I decided that it was my duty to the Foundation to oppose the Centralists. The Councilman for my district was a Centralist, so I ran against him and won. I was part of the delegation Mayor Branno sent to the Normannic Sector to persuade the Siwennans to side with us in the House of Worlds. It was their votes that turned the tide against the Centralists in the House of Worlds, and it was the defeat of Gorib Hannis’s allies in the House of Worlds that enabled Mayor Branno to hold the line against Hannis’s Relocation Bill in the Council of Terminus.”
“And now,” said Mitza Lizalor, “you have chosen to side with us against the Foundation.”
“I have chosen,” Trevize gently corrected her, “to side with you, Mitza, because there is no other woman in the Galaxy who can compare with you.”
Then Mitza laid her head on Trevize’s shoulder and began to weep.
Part 8: Assignment
WHEN GOLAN TREVIZE emerged from the elevator into the public areas of the Ministry of Transportation with Mitza Lizalor, he discovered that her staff had been busy since his arrival. He had been assigned an office near hers, and they were met there by a Comporellian man who introduced himself as Trevize’s new assistant.
“Kuel Denrun,” he said, taking Golan’s hand. “I’ve been heading up the Gravitics Project here at MinTrans. I must say, your previous visit here caused quite a stir in the Project. To be honest, your departure caused even more of a stir. We were all hoping we’d get a look at your ship, and then before you could say ‘hyperspatial anomoly’ you were gone again. I understand you’re planning to settle here on Comporellon.”
Denrun’s breathless manner of speech made Trevize feel as though he had just stepped into the middle of a cyclone. “That’s true,” he answered. “In fact, I’ve already applied for citizenship here on Comporellon.”
“Not surprised,” Denrun nodded. “When the Foundation finds out you’ve jacked one of their new ships you’re going to need all the friends you can get.”
“And just how,” said Lizalor icily, “is the Foundation going to find out?”
It seemed to Trevize that Denrun was either very confident of his own value to the project or indifferent to the Minister’s imposing disapproval. “Oh, they will, no question about that. Not a chance of sitting on a secret this big for long.” Trevize decided it was confidence when Denrun proceded to look Lizalor directly in the eyes and add, “So what we have to do is, instead of pretending that the secret is going to keep forever, we have to assume that it’s going to leak out, and sooner rather than later, and plan accordingly.”
He continued staring into the Minister’s eyes until finally she nodded and said, “I agree. Prudence dictates that we prepare for such an eventuality. I’ll have the Policy Group draft a contingency plan.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Denrun. “In the meantime, I’ve got a whole roomfull of techs who are just itching to get a look in that ship of yours, Mr. Trevize.”
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid,” the Minister interrupted. “I think that if you intend to become a citizen of Comporellon, Mr. Trevize, you will have to start dressing like one.” So saying,
she led the two men to one side of Trevize’s new office. A contact was pressed, and a section of wall slid aside to reveal a closet. Within was a Comporellian uniform similar to Lizalor’s. Like hers, it was dark gray with white piping. Where the Minister’s uniform had a white collar and lapels and two diagonal white stripes that crossed the front of her jacket, the uniform in the closet had dark gray lapels with white edging, and two thin stripes that dropped straight down the front in parallel.
“I don’t suppose,” Trevize said doubtfully, “you’d be willing to let me wear my sash along with it?”
“Certainly not that one,” said Lizalor, indicating the cherry red strip of material that blazed across Trevize’s dark brown jacket.
“How about white?”
“Out of the question.”
“Perhaps,” Denrun offered diffidently, “a gray one with white edges?”
The other two looked at Denrun, then looked at each other. “Very well,” both said with equal reluctance.
“I’ll have one made up for you by the time you get back from your ship,” Lizalor added.
A few minutes later, newly attired in his dark gray MinTrans uniform, Trevize left his office in the company of Kuel Denrun. They took an elevator up the five levels to the building’s vast lobby, where they were met by the members of Denrun’s engineering team. Denrun rattled off a dozen names, but Trevize’s earlier experiences in politics and management stood him in good stead, and he was able to keep all the names straight. It struck him as odd at first that all the members of Denrun’s team were men, but Comporellon wasn’t the first world Trevize had been to that restricted women to certain professions, and he knew he’d grow accustomed to it in time. If he was a woman, though, he’d probably think twice about relocating here permanently. It gave him a new insight into the force of will that had allowed Mitza to win her way to a major government post. A lot of people on Comporellon must have underestimated her, and later paid the price. He resolved again that he would never do so.
