“He’s a folk hero in Comporellon. Look, if you want to know these things--go to Comporellon. It’s no use hanging around here.”

 

                Pelorat said, “Just how did they say Earth planned to destroy the Empire?”

 

                “Don’t know.” A certain sullenness was entering Compor’s voice.

 

                “Did the radiation have anything to do with it?”

 

                “Don’t know. There were tales of some mind-expander developed on Earth--a Synapsifier or something.”

 

                “Did it create superminds?” said Pelorat in deepest tones of incredulity.

 

                “I don’t think so. What I chiefly remember is that it didn’t work. People became bright and died young.”

 

                Trevize said, “It was probably a morality myth. If you ask for too much, you lose even that which you have.”

 

                Pelorat turned on Trevize in annoyance. “What doyou know of morality myths?”

 

                Trevize raised his eyebrows. “Your field may not be my field, Janov, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant.”

 

                “What else do you remember about what you call the Synapsifier, Councilman Compor?” asked Pelorat.

 

                “Nothing, and I won’t submit to any further cross-examination. Look, I followed you on orders from the Mayor. I wasnot ordered to make personal contact with you. I have done so only to warn you that you were followed and to tell you that you had been sent out to serve the Mayor’s purposes, whatever those might be. There was nothing else I should have discussed with you, but you surprised me by suddenly bringing up the matter of Earth. Well, let me repeat: Whatever there has existed there in the past--Bel Arvardan, the Synapsifier, whatever--that has nothing to do with what exists now. I’ll tell you again: Earth is a dead world. I strongly advise you to go to Comporellon, where you’ll find out everything you want to know. Just get away from here.”

 

                “And, of course, you will dutifully tell the Mayor that we’re going to Comporellon--and you’ll follow us to make sure. Or maybe the Mayor knows already. I imagine she has carefully instructed and rehearsed you in every word you have spoken to us here because, for her own purposes, it’s in Comporellon that she wants us. Right?”

 

                Compor’s face paled. He rose to his feet and almost stuttered in his effort to control his voice. “I’ve tried to explain. I’ve tried to be helpful. I shouldn’t have tried. You can drop yourself into a black hole, Trevize.”

 

                He turned on his heel and walked away briskly without looking back.

 

                Pelorat seemed a bit stunned. “That was rather tactless of you, Golan, old fellow. I could have gotten more out of him.”

 

                “No, you couldn’t,” said Trevize gravely. “You could not have gotten one thing out of him that he was not ready to let you have. Janov, you don’t know what he is --Until today, I didn’t know what he is.”

 

  

 

 3.

 

  

 

 Pelorat hesitated to disturb Trevize. Trevize sat motionless in his chair, deep in thought.

 

                Finally Pelorat said, “Are we just sitting here all night, Golan?”

 

                Trevize started. “No, you’re quite right. We’ll be better off with people around us. Come!”

 

                Pelorat rose. He said, “There won’t be people around us. Compor said this was some sort of meditation day.”

 

                “Is that what he said? Was there traffic when we came along the road in our ground-car?”

 

                “Yes, some.”

 

                “Quite a bit, I thought. And then, when we entered the city, was it empty?”

 

                “Not particularly. --Still, you’ve got to admit that this place has been empty.”

 

                “Yes, it has. I noticed that particularly. --But come, Janov, I’m hungry. There’s got to be someplace to eat and we can afford to find something good. At any rate, we can find a place in which we can try some interesting Sayshellian novelty or, if we lose our nerve, good standard Galactic fare. --Come, once we’re safely surrounded, I’ll tell you what I think really happened here.”

 

  

 

 4.

 

  

 

 Trevize leaned back with a pleasant feeling of renewal. The restaurant was not expensive by Terminus standards, but it was certainly novel. It was heated, in part, by an open fire over which food was prepared. Meat tended to be served in bite-sized portions--in a variety of pungent sauces--which were picked up by fingers that were protected from grease and heat by smooth, green leaves that were cold, damp, and had a vaguely minty taste.

 

                It was one leaf to each meat-bit and the whole was taken into the mouth. The waiter had carefully explained how it had to be done. Apparently accustomed to off-planet guests, he had smiled paternally as Trevize and Pelorat gingerly scooped at the steaming bits of meat, and was clearly delighted at the foreigners’ relief at finding that the leaves kept the fingers cool and cooled the meat, too, as one chewed.

 

                Trevize said, “Delicious!” and eventually ordered a second helping. So did Pelorat.

 

                They sat over a spongy, vaguely sweet dessert and a cup of coffee that had a caramelized flavor at which they shook dubious heads. They added syrup, at which the waiter shookhis head.

 

                Pelorat said, “Well, what happened back there at the tourist center?”

 

                “You mean with Compor?”

 

                “Was there anything else there we might discuss?”

 

                Trevize looked about. They were in a deep alcove and had a certain limited privacy, but the restaurant was crowded and the natural hum of noise was a perfect cover.

 

                He said in a low voice, “Isn’t it strange that he followed us to Sayshell?”

 

                “He said he had this intuitive ability.”

 

                “Yes, he was all-collegiate champion at hypertracking. I never questioned that till today. I quite see that you might be able to judge where someone was going to Jump by how he prepared for it if you had a certain developed skill at it, certain reflexes--but Idon’t see how a tracker can judge a Jumpseries . You prepare only for the first one; the computer does all the others. The tracker can judge that first one, but by what magic can he guess what’s in the computer’s vitals?”

 

                “But he did it, Golan.”

 

                “He certainly did,” said Trevize, “and the only possible way I can imagine him doing so is by knowing in advance where we were going to go. Byknowing , not judging.”

 

                Pelorat considered that. “Quite impossible, my boy. How could he know? We didn’t decide on our destination till after we were on board theFar Star .”

 

                “I know that. --And what about this day of meditation?”

 

                “Compor didn’t lie to us. The waiter said it was a day of meditation when we came in here and asked him.”

 

                “Yes, he did, but he said the restaurant wasn’t closed. In fact, what he said was: ‘Sayshell City isn’t the backwoods. It doesn’t close down.’ People meditate, in other words, but not in thebig town, where everyone is sophisticated and there’s no place for small-town piety. So there’s traffic and it’s busy--perhaps not quite as busy as on ordinary days--but busy.”

 

                “But, Golan, no one came into the tourist center while we were there. I was aware of that. Not one person entered.”

 

                “I noticed that, too. I even went to the window at one point and looked out and saw clearly that the streets around the center had a good scattering of people on foot and in vehicles--and yet not one person entered. The day of meditation made a good cover. We would not have questioned the fortunate privacy we had if I simply hadn’t made up my mind not to trust that son of two strangers.”

 

                Pelorat said, “What is the significance of all this, then?”

 

                “I think it’s simple, Janov. We have here someone who knows where we’re going as soon as we do, even though he and we are in separate spaceships, and we also have here someone who can keep a public building empty when it is surrounded by people in order that we might talk in convenient privacy.”

 

                “Would you have me believe he can perform miracles?”

 

                “Certainly. If it so happens that Compor is an agent of the Second Foundation and can control minds; if he can read yours and mine in a distant spaceship; if he can influence his way through a customs station at once; if he can land gravitically, with no border patrol outraged at his defiance of the radio beams; and if he can influence minds in such a way as to keep people from entering a building he doesn’t want entered.

 

                “By all the stars,” Trevize went on with a marked air of grievance, “I can even follow this back to graduation. Ididn’t go on the tour with him. I remember not wanting to. Wasn’t that a matter of his influence? He had to be alone. Where was he really going?”

 

                Pelorat pushed away the dishes before him, as though he wanted to clear a space about himself in order to have room to think. It seemed to be a gesture that signaled the busboy-robot, a self-moving table that stopped near them and waited while they placed their dishes and cutlery upon it.

 

                When they were alone, Pelorat said, “But that’s mad. Nothing has happened that could not have happened naturally. Once you get it into your head that somebody is controlling events, you can interpret everything in that light and find no reasonable certainty anywhere. Come on, old fellow, it’s all circumstantial and a matter of interpretation. Don’t yield to paranoia.”

 

                “I’m not going to yield to complacency, either.”

 

                “Well, let us look at this logically. Suppose hewas an agent of the Second Foundation. Why would he run the risk of rousing our suspicions by keeping the tourist center empty? What did he say that was so important that a few people at a distance--who would have been wrapped in their own concerns anyway--would have made a difference?”

 

                “There’s an easy answer to that, Janov. He would have to keep our minds under close observation and he wanted no interference from other minds. No static. No chance of confusion.”

 

                “Again, just your interpretation. What was so important about his conversation with us? It would make sense to suppose, as he himself insisted, that he met us only in order to explain what he had done, to apologize for it, and to warn us of the trouble that might await us. Why would we have to look further than that?”

 

                The small card-receptacle at the farther rim of the table glittered unobtrusively and the figures representing the cost of the meal flashed briefly. Trevize groped beneath his sash for his credit card which, with its Foundation imprint, was good anywhere in the Galaxy--or anywhere a Foundation citizen was likely to go. He inserted it in the appropriate slot. It took a moment to complete the transaction and Trevize (with native caution) checked on the remaining balance before returning it to its pocket.

 

                He looked about casually to make sure there was no undesirable interest in him on the faces of any of the few who still sat in the restaurant and then said, “Why look further than that? Why look further? That was not all he talked about. He talked about Earth. He told us it was dead and urged us very strongly to go to Comporellon. Shall we go?”

 

                “It’s something I’ve been considering, Golan,” admitted Pelorat.

 

                “Just leave here?”

 

                “We can come back after we check Out the Sirius Sector.”

 

                “It doesn’t occur to you that his whole purpose in seeing us was to deflect us from Sayshell and get us out of here? Get us anywhere but here?”

 

                “Why?”

 

                “I don’t know. See here, they expected us to go to Trantor. That was whatyou wanted to do and maybe that’s what they counted on us doing. I messed things up by insisting we go to Sayshell, which is the last thing they wanted, and so now they have to get us out of here.”

 

                Pelorat looked distinctly unhappy. “But Golan, you are just making statements.Why don’t they want us on Sayshell?”

 

                “I don’t know, Janov. But it’s enough for me that they want us out. I’m staying here. I’m not going to leave.”

 

                “But--but-- Look, Golan, if the Second Foundation wanted us to leave, wouldn’t they just influence our minds to make us want to leave? Why bother reasoning with us?”

 

                “Now that you bring up the point, haven’t they done that in your case, Professor?” and Trevize’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Don’t you want to leave?”

 

                Pelorat looked at Trevize in surprise. “I just think there’s some sense to it.”

 

                “Of course you would, if you’ve been influenced.”

 

                “But I haven’t been--”

 

                “Of course you would swear you hadn’t been if you had been.”

 

                Pelorat said, “If you box me in this way, there is no way of disproving your bare assertion. What are you going to do?”

 

                “I will remain in Sayshell. And you’ll stay here, too. You can’t navigate the ship without me, so if Compor has influenced you, he has influenced the wrong one.”

 

                “Very well, Golan. We’ll stay in Sayshell until we have independent reasons to leave. The worst thing we can do, after all--worse than either staying or going--is to fall out with each other. Come, old chap, if I had been influenced, would I be able to change my mind and go along with you cheerfully, as I plan to do now?”

 

                Trevize thought for a moment and then, as though with an inner shake, smiled and held out his hand. “Agreed, Janov. Now let’s get back to the ship and make another start tomorrow. --If we can think of one.”

 

  

 

 5.

 

  

 

 Munn Li Compor did not remember when he had been recruited. For one thing, he had been a child at the time; for another, the agents of the Second Foundation were meticulous in removing their traces as far as that was possible.

 

                Compor was an “Observer” and, to a Second Foundationer, he was instantly recognizable as such.

 

                It meant that Compor was acquainted with mentalics and could converse with Second Foundationers in their own fashion to a degree, but he was in the lowest rank of the hierarchy. He could catch glimpses of minds, but he could not adjust them. The education he had received had never gone that far. He was an Observer, not a Doer.

 

                It made him second-class at best, but he did not mind--much. He knew his importance in the scheme of things.

 

                During the early centuries of the Second Foundation, it had underestimated the task before it. It had imagined that its handful of members could monitor the entire Galaxy and that Seldon’s Plan, to be maintained, would require only the most occasional, the lightest touch, here and there.

 

                The Mule had stripped them of these delusions. Coming from nowhere, he had caught the Second Foundation (and, of course, the First--though that didn’t matter) utterly by surprise and had left them helpless. It took five years before a counterattack could be organized, and then only at the cost of a number of lives.

 

                With Palver a full recovery was made, again at a distressing cost, and he finally took the appropriate measures. The operations of the Second Foundation, he decided, must be enormously expanded without at the same time increasing the chances of detection unduly, so he instituted the corps of Observers.

 

                Compor did not know how many Observers were in the Galaxy or even how many there were on Terminus. It was not his business to know. Ideally there should be no detectable connection between any two Observers, so that the loss of one would not entail the loss of any other. All connections were with the upper echelons on Trantor.

 

                It was Compor’s ambition to go to Trantor someday. Though he thought it extremely unlikely, he knew that occasionally an Observer might be brought to Trantor and promoted, but that was rare. The qualities that made for a good Observer were not those that pointed toward the Table.

 

                There was Gendibal, for instance, who was four years younger than Compor. He must have been recruited as a boy, just as Compor was, buthe had been taken directly to Trantor and was now a Speaker. Compor had no illusions as to why that should be. He had been much in contact with Gendibal of late and he had experienced the power of that young man’s mind. He could not have stood up against it for a second.

 

                Compor was not often conscious of a lowly status. There was almost never occasion to consider it. After all (as in the case of other Observers, he imagined) it was only lowly by the standards of Trantor. On their own non-Trantorian worlds, in their own nonmentalic societies, it was easy for Observers to obtain high status.

 

                Compor, for instance, had never had trouble getting into good schools or finding good company. He had been able to use his mentalics in a simple way to enhance his natural intuitive ability (that natural ability had been why he had been recruited in the first place, he was sure) and, in this way, to prove himself a star at hyperspatial pursuit. He became a hero at college and this set his foot on the first rung of a political career. Once this present crisis was over, there was no telling how much farther he might advance.

 

                If the crisis resolved itself successfully, as surely it would, would it not be recalled that it was Compor who had first noted Trevize-- not as a human being (anyone could have done that) but as a mind?

 

                He had encountered Trevize in college and had seen him, at first, only as a jovial and quick-witted companion. One morning, however, he had stirred sluggishly out of slumber and, in the stream of consciousness that accompanied the never-never land of half-sleep, he felt what a pity it was that Trevize had never been recruited.

 

                Trevize couldn’t have been recruited, of course, since he was Terminus-born and not, like Compor, a native of another world. And even with that aside, it was too late. Only the quite young are plastic enough to receive an education into mentalics; the painful introduction of that art--it was more than a science--into adult brains, set rustily in their mold, was a thing of the first two generations after Seldon only.

 

                But then, if Trevize had been ineligible for recruiting in the first place and had outlived the possibility in the second, what had roused Compor’s concern over the matter?

 

                On their next meeting, Compor had penetrated Trevize’s mind deeply and discovered what it was that must have initially disturbed him. Trevize’s mind had characteristics that did not fit the rules he had been taught. Over and over, it eluded him. As he followed its workings, he found gaps --No, they couldn’t be actual gaps--actual leaps of nonexistence. They were places where Trevize’s manner of mind dove too deeply to be followed.

 

                Compor had no way of determining what this meant, but he watched Trevize’s behavior in the light of what he had discovered and he began to suspect that Trevize had an uncanny ability to reach right conclusions from what would seem to be insufficient data.

 

                Did this have something to do with the gaps? Surely this was a matter for mentalism beyond his own powers--for the Table itself, perhaps. He had the uneasy feeling that Trevize’s powers of decision were unknown, in their full, to the man himself, and that he might be able to--

 

                To do what? Compor’s knowledge did not suffice. He could almost see the meaning of what Trevize possessed--but not quite. There was only the intuitive conclusion--or perhaps just a guess-- that Trevize might be, potentially, a person of the utmost importance.

 

                He had to take the chance that this might be so and to risk seeming to be less than qualified for his post. After all, if he were correct--

 

                He was not sure, looking back on it, how he had managed to find the courage to continue his efforts. He could not penetrate the administrative barriers that ringed the Table. He had all but reconciled himself to a broken reputation. He had worked himself down (despairingly) to the most junior member of the Table and, finally, Stor Gendibal had responded to his call.

 

                Gendibal had listened patiently and from that time on there had been a special relationship between them. It was on Gendibal’s behalf that Compor had maintained his relationship with Trevize and on Gendibal’s direction that he had carefully set up the situation that had resulted in Trevize’s exile. And it was through Gendibal that Compor might yet (he was beginning to hope) achieve his dream of promotion to Trantor.

 

                All preparations, however, had been designed to send Trevize to Trantor. Trevize’s refusal to do this had taken Compor entirely by surprise and (Compor thought) had been unforeseen by Gendibal as well.

 

                At any rate, Gendibal was hurrying to the spot, and to Compor, that deepened the sense of crisis.

 

                Compor sent out his hypersignal.

 

  

 

 6.

 

  

 

 Gendibal was roused from his sleep by the touch on his mind. It was effective and not in the least disturbing. Since it affected the arousal center directly, he simply awoke.

 

                He sat up in bed, the sheet falling from his well-shaped and smoothly muscular torso. He had recognized the touch; the differences were as distinctive to mentalists as were voices to those who communicated primarily by sound.

 

                Gendibal sent out the standard signal, asking if a small delay were possible, and the “no emergency” call returned.

 

                Without undue haste, then, Gendibal attended to the morning routine. He was still in the ship’s shower--with the used water draining into the recycling mechanisms--when he made contact again.

 

                “Compor?”

 

                “Yes, Speaker.”

 

                “Have you spoken with Trevize and the other one.”

 

                “Pelorat. Janov Pelorat. Yes, Speaker.”

 

                “Good. Give me another five minutes and I’ll arrange visuals.”

 

                He passed Sura Novi on his way to the controls. She looked at him questioningly and made as though to speak, but he placed a finger on his lips and she subsided at once. Gendibal still felt a bit uncomfortable at the intensity of adoration/respect in her mind, but it was coming to be a comfortingly normal part of his environment somehow.

 

                He had hooked a small tendril of his mind to hers and there would now be no way to affect his mind without affecting hers. The simplicity of her mind (and there was an enormous aesthetic pleasure to be found in contemplating its unadorned symmetry, Gendibal couldn’t help thinking) made it impossible for any extraneous mind field to exist in their neighborhood without detection. He felt a surge of gratitude for the courteous impulse that had moved him that moment they had stood together outside the University, and that had led her to come to him precisely when she could be most useful.

 

                He said, “Compor?”

 

                “Yes, Speaker.”

 

                “Relax, please. I must study your mind. No offense is intended.”

 

                “As you wish, Speaker. May I ask the purpose?”

 

                “To make certain you are untouched.”

 

                Compor said, “I know you have political adversaries at the Table, Speaker, but surely none of them--”

 

                “Do not speculate, Compor. Relax. --Yes, you are untouched. Now, if you will co-operate with me, we will establish visual contact.”

 

                What followed was, in the ordinary sense of the word, an illusion, since no one but someone who was aided by the mentalic power of a well-trained Second Foundationer would have been able to detect anything at all, either by the senses or by any physical detecting device.

 

                It was the building up of a face and its appearance from the contours of a mind, and even the best mentalist could succeed in producing only a shadowy and somewhat uncertain figure. Compor’s face was there in mid-space, as though it were seen through a thin but shifting curtain of gauze, and Gendibal knew that his own face appeared in an identical manner in front of Compor.

 

                By physical hyperwave, communication could have been established through images so clear that speakers who were a thousand parsecs apart might judge themselves to be face-to-face. Gendibal’s ship was equipped for the purpose.

 

                There were, however, advantages to the mentalist-vision. The chief was that it could not be tapped by any device known to the First Foundation. Nor, for that matter, could one Second Foundationer tap the mentalist-vision of another. The play of mind might be followed, but not the delicate change of facial expression that gave the communication its finer points.

 

                As for the Anti-Mules-- Well, the purity of Novi’s mind was sufficient to assure him that none were about.

 

                He said, “Tell me precisely, Compor, the talk you had with Trevize and with this Pelorat. Precisely, to the level of mind.”

 

                “Of course, Speaker,” said Compor.

 

                It didn’t take long. The combination of sound, expression, and mentalism compressed matters considerably, despite the fact that there was far more to tell at the level of mind than if there had been a mere parroting of speech.

 

                Gendibal watched intently. There was little redundancy, if any, in mentalist-vision. In true vision, or even in physical hypervision across the parsecs, one saw enormously more in the way of information bits than was absolutely necessary for comprehension and one could miss a great deal without losing anything significant.

 

                Through the gauze of mentalist-vision, however, one bought absolute security at the price of losing the luxury of being able to miss bits. Every bit was significant.

 

                There were always horror tales that passed from instructor to student on Trantor, tales that were designed to impress on the young the importance of concentration. The most often repeated was certainly the least reliable. It told of the first report on the progress of the Mule before he had taken over Kalgan--of the minor official who received the report and who had no more than the impression of a horselike animal because he did not see or understand the small flick that signified “personal name.” The official therefore decided that the whole thing was too unimportant to pass on to Trantor. By the time the next message came, it was too late to take immediate action and five more bitter years had to pass.

 

                The event had almost certainly never happened, but that didn’t matter. It was a dramatic story and it served to motivate every student into the habit of intent concentration. Gendibal remembered his own student days when he made an error in reception that seemed, in his own mind, to be both insignificant and understandable. His teacher--old Kendast, a tyrant to the roots of his cerebellum--had simply sneered and said, “A horselike animal, Cub Gendibal?” and that had been enough to make him collapse in shame.

 

                Compor finished.

 

                Gendibal said, “Your estimate, please, of Trevize’s reaction. You know him better than I do, better than anyone does.”

 

                Compor said, “It was clear enough. The mentalic indications were unmistakable. He thinks my words and actions represent my extreme anxiety to have him go to Trantor or to the Sirius Sector or to any place but where, in fact, he is actually going. It meant, in my opinion, that he would remain firmly where he was. The fact that I attached great importance to his shifting his position, in short, forced him to give it the same importance, and since he feels his own interests to be diametrically opposed to mine, he will deliberately act against what he interprets to be my wish.”

 

                “You are certain of that?”

 

                “Quitecertain.”

 

                Gendibal considered this and decided that Compor was correct. He said, “I am satisfied. You have done well. Your tale of Earth’s radioactive destruction was cleverly chosen to help produce the proper reaction without the need for direct manipulation of the mind. Commendable!”

 

                Compor seemed to struggle with himself a short moment. “Speaker,” he said, “I cannot accept your praise. I did not invent the tale. It is true. There really is a planet called Earth in the Sirius Sector and it really is considered to be the original home of humanity. It was radioactive, either to begin with or eventually, and this grew worse till the planet died. There was indeed a mind-enhancing invention that came to nothing. All this is considered history on the home planet of my ancestors.”

 

                “So? Interesting!” said Gendibal with no obvious conviction. “And better yet. To know when a truth will do is admirable, since no nontruth can be presented with the same sincerity. Palver once said, “The closer to the truth, the better the lie, and the truth itself, when it can be used, is the best lie.”

 

                Compor said, “There is one thing more to say. In following instructions to keep Trevize in the Sayshell Sector until you arrived-- and to do so at all costs--I had to go so far in my efforts that it is clear that he suspects me of being under the influence of the Second Foundation.”

 

                Gendibal nodded. “That, I think, is unavoidable under the circumstances. His monomania on the subject would be sufficient to have him see Second Foundation even where it was not. We must simply take that into account.”

 

                “Speaker, if it is absolutely necessary that Trevize stay where he is until you can reach him, it would simplify matters if I came to meet you, took you aboard my ship, and brought you back. It would take less than a day--”

 

                “No, Observer,” said Gendibal sharply. “You will not do this. The people on Terminus know where you are. You have a hyper-relay on your ship which you cannot remove, have you not?”

 

                “Yes, Speaker.”

 

                “And if Terminus knows you have landed on Sayshell, their ambassador on Sayshell knows of it--and the ambassador knows also that Trevize has landed. Your hyper-relay will tell Terminus that you have left for a specific point hundreds of parsecs away and returned; and the ambassador will inform them that Trevize has, however, remained in the sector. From this, how much will the people at Terminus guess? The Mayor of Terminus is, by all accounts, a shrewd woman and the last thing we want to do is to alarm her by presenting her with an obscure puzzle. We don’t want her to lead a section of her fleet here. The chances of that are, in any case, uncomfortably high.”

 

                Compor said, “With respect, Speaker-- What reason do we have to fear a fleet if we can control a commander?”

 

                “However little reason there might be, there is still less reason to fear if the fleet is not here. You stay where you are, Observer. ‘When I reach you, I will join you on your ship and then--”

 

                “And then, Speaker?”

 

                “Why, and then I will take over.”

 

  

 

 7.

 

  

 

 Gendibal sat in place after he dismantled the mentalist-vision----and stayed there for long minutes--considering.

 

                During this long trip to Sayshell, unavoidably long in this ship of his which could in no way match the technological advancement of the products of the First Foundation, he had gone over every single report on Trevize. The reports had stretched over nearly a decade.

 

                Seen as a whole and in the light of recent events, there was no longer any doubt Trevize would have been a marvelous recruit for the Second Foundation, if the policy of never touching the Terminus-born had not been in place since Palver’s time.

 

                There was no telling how many recruits of highest quality had been lost to the Second Foundation over the centuries. There was no way of evaluating every one of the quadrillions of human beings populating the Galaxy. None of them was likely to have had more promise than Trevize, however, andcertainly none could have been in a more sensitive spot.

 

                Gendibal shook his head slightly. Trevize should never have been overlooked, Terminus-born or not. --And credit to Observer Compor for seeing it, even after the years had distorted him.

 

                Trevize was of no use to them now, of course. He was too old for the molding, but he still had that inborn intuition, that ability to guess a solution on the basis of totally inadequate information, and something--something--

 

                Old Shandess--who, despite being past his prime, was First Speaker and had, on the whole, been a good one--saw something there, even without the correlated data and the reasoning that Gendibal had worked out in the course of this trip. Trevize, Shandess had thought, was the key to the crisis.

 

                Why was Trevize here at Sayshell? What was he planning? What was he doing?

 

                And he couldn’t be touched! Of that Gendibal was sure. Until it was known precisely what Trevize’s role was, it would be totally wrong to try to modify him in any way. With the Anti-Mules-- whoever they were--whatever they might be--in the field, a wrong move with respect to Trevize (Trevize, above all) might explode a wholly unexpected micro-sun in their faces.

 

                He felt a mind hovering about his own and absently brushed at it as he might at one of the more annoying Trantorian insects-- though with mind rather than hand. He felt the instant wash of other-pain and looked up.

 

                Sura Novi had her palm to her furrowed brow. “Your pardon, Master, I be struck with sudden head-anguish.”

 

                Gendibal was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Novi. I wasn’t thinking--or I was thinking too intently.” Instantly--and gently--he smoothed the ruffled mind tendrils.

 

                Novi smiled with sudden brightness. “It passed with sudden vanishing. The kind sound of your words, Master, works well upon me.”

 

                Gendibal said, “Coed! Is something wrong? Why are you here?” He forbore to enter her mind in greater detail in order to find out for himself. More and more, he felt a reluctance to invade her privacy.

 

                Novi hesitated. She leaned toward him slightly. “I be concerned. You were looking at nothing and making sounds and your face was twitching. I stayed there, stick-frozen, afeared you were declining-- ill--and unknowing what to do.”

 

                “It was nothing, Novi. You are not to fear.” He patted her nearer hand. “There is nothing to fear. Do you understand?”

 

                Fear--or any strong emotion--twisted and spoiled the symmetry of her mind somewhat. He preferred it calm and peaceful and happy, but he hesitated at the thought of adjusting it into that position by outer influence. She had felt the previous adjustment to be the effect of his words and it seemed to him that he preferred it that way.

 

                He said, “Novi, why don’t I call you Sura?”

 

                She looked up at him in sudden woe. “Oh, Master, do not do so.”

 

                “But Rufirant did so on that day that we met. I know you well enough now--”

 

                “I know well he did so, Master. It be how a man speak to girl who have no man, no betrothed, who is--not complete. You say her previous. It is more honorable for me if you say ‘Novi’ and I be proud that you say so. And if I have not man now, I have master and I be pleased. I hope it be not offensive to you to say ‘Novi.”

 

                “It certainly isn’t, Novi.”

 

                And her mind was beautifully smooth at that and Gendibal was pleased. Too pleased. Ought he to beso pleased?

 

                A little shamefacedly, he remembered that the Mule was supposed to have been affected in this manner by that woman of the First Foundation, Bayta Darell, to his own undoing.

 

                This, of course, was different. This Hamishwoman was his defense against alien minds and he wanted her to serve that purpose most efficiently.

 

                No, that was not true-- His function as a Speaker would be compromised if he ceased to understand his own mind or, worse, if he deliberately misconstrued it to avoid the truth. The truth was that it pleased him when she was calm and peaceful and happy endogenously--without his interference--and that it pleased him simply because she pleased him; and (he thought defiantly) there was nothing wrong with that.

 

                He said, “Sit down, Novi.”

 

                She did so, balancing herself precariously at the edge of the chair and sitting as far away as the confines of the room allowed. Her mind was flooded with respect.

 

                He said, “When you saw me making sounds, Novi, I was speaking at a long distance, scholar-fashion.”

 

                Novi said sadly, her eyes cast down, “I see, Master, that there be much to scowler-fashion I understand not and imagine not. It be difficult mountain-high art. I be ashamed to have come to you to be made scowler. How is it, Master, you did not be-laugh me?”

 

                Gendibal said, “It is no shame to aspire to something even if it is beyond your reach. You are now too old to be made a scholar after my fashion, but you are never too old to learn more than you already know and to become able to do more than you already can. I will teach you something about this ship. By the time we reach our destination, you will know quite a bit about it.”

 

                He felt delighted. Why not? He was deliberately turning his back on the stereotype of the Hamish people. What right, in any case, had the heterogeneous group of the Second Foundation to set up such a stereotype? The young produced by them were only occasionally suited to become high-level Second Foundationers themselves. The children of Speakers almost never qualified to be Speakers. There were the three generations of Linguesters three centuries ago, but there was always the suspicion that the middle Speaker of that series did not really belong. And if that were true, who were the people of the University to place themselves on so high a pedestal?

 

                He watched Novi’s eyes glisten and was pleased that they did.

 

                She said, “I try hard to learn all you teach me, Master.”

 

                “I’m sure you will,” he said--and then hesitated. It occurred to him that, in his conversation with Compor, he had in no way indicated at any time that he was not alone. There was no hint of a companion.

 

                A woman could be taken for granted, perhaps; at least, Compor would no doubt not be surprised. --But a Hamishwoman?

 

                For a moment, despite anything Gendibal could do, the stereotype reigned supreme and he found himself glad that Compor had never been on Trantor and would not recognize Novi as a Hamishwoman.

 

                He shook it off. It didn’t matter if Compor knew or knew not--or if anyone did. Gendibal was a Speaker of the Second Foundation and he could do as he pleased within the constraints of the Seldon Plan--and no one could interfere.

 

                Novi said, “Master, once we reach our destination, will we part?”

 

                He looked at her and said, with perhaps more force than he intended, “We will not be separated, Novi.”

 

                And the Hamishwoman smiled shyly and looked for all the Galaxy as though she might have been--any woman.

 

  

 

  

 

 13. UNIVERSITY

 

  

 

 1.

 

  

 

       PELORAT WRINKLED HIS NOSE WHEN HE AND TREVIZE RE-ENTERED THEFar Star .

 

                Trevize shrugged. “The human body is a powerful dispenser of odors. Recycling never works instantaneously and artificial scents merely overlay--they do not replace.”

 

                “And I suppose no two ships smell quite alike, once they’ve been occupied for a period of time by different people.”

 

                “That’s right, but did you smell Sayshell Planet after the first hour?”

 

                “No,” admitted Pelorat.

 

                “Well, you won’t smell this after a while, either. In fact, if you live in the ship long enough, you’ll welcome the odor that greets you on your return as signifying home. And by the way, if you become a Galactic rover after this, Janov, you’ll have to learn that it is impolite to comment on the odor of any ship or, for that matter, any world to those who live on that ship or world. Between us, of course, it is all right.”

 

                “As a matter of fact, Golan, the funny thing is Ido consider theFar Star home. At least it’s Foundation-made.” Pelorat smiled. “You know, I never considered myself a patriot. I like to think I recognize only humanity as my nation, but I must say that being away from the Foundation fills my heart with love for it.”

 

                Trevize was making his bed. “You’re not very far from the Foundation, you know. The Sayshell Union is almost surrounded by Federation territory. We have an ambassador and an enormous presence here, from consuls on down. The Sayshellians like to oppose us in words, but they are usually very cautious about doing anything that gives us displeasure. --Janov, do turn in. We got nowhere today and we have to do better tomorrow.”

 

                Still, there was no difficulty in hearing between the two rooms, however, and when the ship was dark, Pelorat, tossing restlessly, finally said in a not very loud voice, “Golan?”

 

                “Yes.”

 

                “You’re not sleeping?”

 

                “Not while you’re talking.”

 

                “Wedid get somewhere today. Your friend, Compor--”

 

                “Ex-friend,” growled Trevize.

 

                “Whatever his status, he talked about Earth and told us something I hadn’t come across in my researches before. Radioactivity!”

 

                Trevize lifted himself to one elbow. “Look, Golan, if Earth is really dead, that doesn’t mean we return home. Istill want to find Gaia.”

 

                Pelorat made a puffing noise with his mouth as though he were blowing away feathers. “My dear chap, of course. So do I. Nor do I think Earth is dead. Compor may have been telling what he felt was the truth, but there’s scarcely a sector in the Galaxy that doesn’t have some tale or other that would place the origin of humanity on some local world. And they almost invariably call it Earth or some closely equivalent name.

 

                “We call it ‘globocentrism’ in anthropology. People have a tendency to take it for granted that they are better than their neighbors; that their culture is older and superior to that of other worlds; that what is good in other worlds has been borrowed from them, while what is bad is distorted or perverted in the borrowing or invented elsewhere. And the tendency is to equate superiority in quality with superiority in duration. If they cannot reasonably maintain their own planet to be Earth or its equivalent--and the beginnings of the human species--they almost always do the best they can by placing Earth in their own sector, even when they cannot locate it exactly.”

 

                Trevize said, “And you’re telling me that Compor was just following the common habit when he said Earth existed in the Sirius Sector. --Still, the Sirius Sectordoes have a long history, so every world in it should be well known and it should be easy to check the matter, even without going there.”

 

                Pelorat chuckled. “Even if you were to show that no world in the Sirius Sector could possibly be Earth, that wouldn’t help. You underestimate the depths to which mysticism can bury rationality, Golan. There are at least half a dozen sectors in the Galaxy where respectable scholars repeat, with every appearance of solemnity and with no trace of a smile, local tales that Earth--or whatever they choose to call it--is located in hyperspace and cannot be reached, except by accident.”

 

                “And do they say anyonehas ever reached it by accident?”

 

                “There are always tales and there is always a patriotic refusal to disbelieve, even though the tales are never in the least credible and are never believed by anyone not of the world that produces them.”

 

                “Then, Janov, let’s not believe them ourselves. Let’s enter our own private hyperspace of sleep.”

 

                “But, Golan, it’s this business of Earth’s radioactivity that interests me. To me, that seems to bear the mark of truth--or a kind of truth.”

 

                “What do you mean, akind of truth?”

 

                “Well, a world that is radioactive would be a world in which hard radiation would be present in higher concentration than is usual. The rate of mutation would be higher on such a world and evolution would proceed more quickly--and more diversely. I told you, if you remember, that among the points on which almost all the tales agree is that life on Earth was incredibly diverse: millions of species of all kinds of life. It is this diversity of life--thisexplosive development--that might have brought intelligence to the Earth, and then the surge outward into the Galaxy. If Earth were for some reason radioactive--that is, more radioactive than other planets--that might account for everything else about Earth that is--or was-- unique.”

 

                Trevize was silent for a moment. Then, “In the first place, we have no reason to believe Compor was telling the truth. He may well have been lying freely in order to induce us to leave this place and go chasing madly off to Sirius. I believe that’s exactly what he was doing. And even if he were telling the truth, what he said was that there was so much radioactivity that life became impossible.”

 

                Pelorat made the blowing gesture again. “There wasn’t too much radioactivity to allow life to develop on Earth and it is easier for life to maintain itself--once established--than to develop in the first place. Granted, then, that life was established and maintained on Earth. Therefore the level of radioactivity could not have been incompatible with life to begin with and it could only have fallen off with time. There is nothing that canraise the level.”

 

                “Nuclear explosions?” suggested Trevize.

 

                “What would that have to do with it?”

 

                “I mean, suppose nuclear explosions took place on Earth?”

 

                “On Earth’s surface? Impossible. There’s no record in the history of the Galaxy of any society being so foolish as to use nuclear explosions as a weapon of war. We would never have survived. During the Trigellian insurrections, when both sides were reduced to starvation and desperation and when Jendippurus Khoratt suggested the initiation of a fusion reaction in--”

 

                “He was hanged by the sailors of his own fleet. I know Galactic history. I was thinking of accident.”

 

                “There’s no record of accidents of that sort that are capable of significantly raising the intensity of radioactivity of a planet, generally.” He sighed. “I suppose that when we get around to it, we’ll have to go to the Sirius Sector and do a little prospecting there.”

 

                “Someday, perhaps, we will. But for now--”

 

                “Yes, yes, I’ll stop talking.”

 

                He did and Trevize lay in the dark for nearly an hour considering whether he had attracted too much attention already and whether it might not be wise to go to the Sirius Sector and then return to Gaia when attention--everyone’s attention--was elsewhere.

 

                He had arrived at no clear decision by the time he fell asleep. His dreams were troubled.

 

  

 

 2.

 

  

 

 They did not arrive back in the city till midmorning. The tourist center was quite crowded this time, but they managed to obtain the necessary directions to a reference library, where in turn they received instruction in the use of the local models of data-gathering computers.

 

                They went carefully through the museums and universities, beginning with those that were nearest, and checked out whatever information was available on anthropologists, archaeologists, and ancient historians.

 

                Pelorat said, “Ah!”

 

                “Ah?” said Trevize with some asperity. “Ah, what?”

 

                “This name, Quintesetz. It seems familiar.”

 

                “You know him?”

 

                “No, of course not, but I may have read papers of his. Back at the ship, where I have my reference collection--”

 

                “We’re not going back, Janov. If the name is familiar, that’s a starting point. If he can’t help us, he will undoubtedly be able to direct us further.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s find a way of getting to Sayshell University. And since there will be nobody there at lunchtime, let’s eat first.”

 

                It was not till late afternoon that they had made their way out to the university, worked their way through its maze, and found themselves in an anteroom, waiting for a young woman who had gone off in search of information and who might--or might not--lead them to Quintesetz.

 

                “I wonder,” said Pelorat uneasily, “how much longer we’ll have to wait. It must be getting toward the close of the schoolday.”

 

                And, as though that were a cue, the young lady whom they had last seen half an hour before, walked rapidly toward them, her shoes glinting red and violet and striking the ground with a sharp musical tone as she walked. The pitch varied with the speed and force of her steps.

 

                Pelorat winced. He supposed that each world had its own ways of assaulting the senses, just as each had its own smell. He wondered if, now that he no longer noticed the smell, he might also learn not to notice the cacophony of fashionable young women when they walked.

 

                She came to Pelorat and stopped. “May I have your full name, Professor?”

 

                “It’s Janov Pelorat, miss.”

 

                “Your home planet?”

 

                Trevize began to lift one hand as though to enjoin silence, but Pelorat, either not seeing or not regarding, said, “Terminus.”

 

                The young woman smiled broadly, and looked pleased. “When I told Professor Quintesetz that a Professor Pelorat was inquiring for him, he said he would see you if you were Janov Pelorat of Terminus, but not otherwise.”

 

                Pelorat blinked rapidly. “You--you mean, he’s heard of me?”

 

                “It certainly seems so.”

 

                And, almost creakily, Pelorat managed a smile as he turned to Trevize. “He’s heard of me. I honestly didn’t think-- I mean, I’ve written very few papers and I didn’t think that anyone--” He shook his head. “They weren’t really important.”

 

                “Well then,” said Trevize, smiling himself, “stop hugging yourself in an ecstasy of self-underestimation and let’s go.” He turned to the woman. “I presume, miss, there’s some sort of transportation to take us to him?”

 

                “It’s within walking distance. We won’t even have to leave the building complex and I’ll be glad to take you there. --Are both of you from Terminus?” And off she went.

 

                The two men followed and Trevize said, with a trace of annoyance, “Yes, we are. Does that make a difference?”

 

                “Oh no, of course not. There are people on Sayshell that don’t like Foundationers, you know, but here at the university, we’re more cosmopolitan than that. Live and let live is what I always say. I mean, Foundationers are people, too. You know what I mean?”

 

                “Yes, I know what you mean. Lots of us say that Sayshellians are people.”

 

                “That’s just the way it should be. I’ve never seen Terminus. It must be a big city.”

 

                “Actually it isn’t,” said Trevize matter-of-factly. “I suspect it’s smaller than Sayshell City.”

 

                “You’re tweaking my finger,” she said. “It’s the capital of the Foundation Federation, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t another Terminus, is there?”

 

                “No, there’s only one Terminus, as far as I know, and that’s where we’re from--the capital of the Foundation Federation.”

 

                “Well then, it must be an enormous city. --And you’re coming all the way here to see the professor. We’re very proud of him, you know. He’s considered the biggest authority in the whole Galaxy.”

 

                “Really?” said Trevize. “On what?”

 

                Her eyes opened wide again, “Youare a teaser. He knows more about ancient history than--than I know about my own family.” And she continued to walk on ahead on her musical feet.

 

                One can only be called a teaser and a finger-tweaker so often without developing an actual impulse in that direction. Trevize smiled and said, “The professor knows all about Earth, I suppose?”

 

                “Earth?” She stopped at an office door and looked at them blankly.

 

                “You know. The world where humanity got its start.”

 

                “Oh, you mean the planet-that-was-first. I guess so. I guess heshould know all about it. After all, it’s located in the Sayshell Sector. Everyone knowsthat ! --This is his office. Let me signal him.”

 

                “No, don’t,” said Trevize. “Not for just a minute. Tell me about Earth.”

 

                “Actually I never heard anyone call it Earth. I suppose that’s a Foundation word. We call it Gaia, here.”

 

                Trevize cast a swift look at Pelorat. “Oh? And where is it located?”

 

                “Nowhere. It’s in hyperspace and there’s no way anyone can get to it. When I was a little girl, my grandmother said that Gaia was once in real space, but it was so disgusted at the--”

 

                “Crimes and stupidities of human beings,” muttered Pelorat, “that, out of shame, it left space and refused to have anything more to do with the human beings it had sent out into the Galaxy.”

 

                “You know the story, then. See? --A girlfriend of mine says it’s superstition. Well, I’ll tellher . If it’s good enough for professors from the Foundation--”

 

                A glittering section of lettering on the smoky glass of the door read: SOTAYN QUINTESETZ ABT in the hard-to-read Sayshellian calligraphy--and under it was printed, in the same fashion: DEPARTMENT OF ANCIENT HISTORY.

 

                The woman placed her finger on a smooth metal circle. There was no sound, but the smokiness of the glass turned a milky white for a moment and a soft voice said, in an abstracted sort of way, “Identify yourself, please.”

 

                “Janov Pelorat of Terminus,” said Pelorat, “with Golan Trevize of the same world.” The door swung open at once.

 

  

 

 3.

 

  

 

 The man who stood up, walked around his desk, and advanced to meet them was tall and well into middle age. He was light brown in skin color and his hair, which was set in crisp curls over his head, was iron-gray. He held out his hand in greeting and his voice was soft and low. “I am S.Q. I am delighted to meet you, Professors.”

 

                Trevize said, “I don’t own an academic title. I merely accompany Professor Pelorat. You may call me simply Trevize. I am pleased to meet you, Professor Abt.”

 

                Quintesetz held up one hand in clear embarrassment. “No no. Abt is merely a foolish title of some sort that has no significance outside of Sayshell. Ignore it, please, and call me S.Q. We tend to use initials in ordinary social intercourse on Sayshell. I’m so pleased to meet two of you when I had been expecting but one.”

 

                He seemed to hesitate a moment, then extended his right hand after wiping it unobtrusively on his trousers.

 

                Trevize took it, wondering what the proper Sayshellian manner of greeting was.

 

                Quintesetz said, “Please sit down. I’m afraid you’ll find these chairs to be lifeless ones, but I, for one, don’t want my chairs to hug me. It’s all the fashion for chairs to hug you nowadays, but I prefer a hug to mean something, hey?”

 

                Trevize smiled and said, “Who would not? Your name, SQ., seems to be of the Rim Worlds and not Sayshellian. I apologize if the remark is impertinent.”

 

                “I don’t mind. My family traces back, in part, to Askone. Five generations back, my great-great-grandparents left Askone when Foundation domination grew too heavy.”

 

                Pelorat said, “And we are Foundationers. Our apologies.”

 

                Quintesetz waved his hand genially, “I don’t hold a grudge across a stretch of five generations. Not that such things haven’t been done, more’s the pity. Would you like to have something to eat? To drink? Would you like music in the background?”

 

                “If you don’t mind,” said Pelorat, “I’d be willing to get right to business, if Sayshellian ways would permit.”

 

                “Sayshellian ways are not a barrier to that, I assure you. --You have no idea how remarkable this is, Dr. Pelorat. It was only about two weeks ago that I came across your article on origin myths in theArchaeological Review and it struck me as a remarkable synthesis-- all too brief.”

 

                Pelorat flushed with pleasure. “How delighted I am that you have read it. I had to condense it, of course, since theReview would not print a full study. I have been planning to do a treatise on the subject.”

 

                “I wish you would. In any case, as soon as I had read it, I had this desire to see you. I even had the notion of visiting Terminus in order to do so, though that would have been hard to arrange--”

 

                “Why so?” asked Trevize.

 

                Quintesetz looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to say that Sayshell is not eager to join the Foundation Federation and rather discourages any social communication with the Foundation. We’ve a tradition of neutralism, you see. Even the Mule didn’t bother us, except to extort from us a specific statement of neutrality. For that reason, any application for permission to visit Foundation territory generally-- and particularly Terminus--is viewed with suspicion, although a scholar such as myself, intent on academic business, would probably obtain his passport in the end. --But none of that was necessary; you have come to me. I can scarcely believe it. I ask myself: Why? Have you heard of me, as I have heard of you?”

 

                Pelorat said, “I know your work, S.Q., and in my records I have abstracts of your papers. It is why I have come to you. I am exploring both the matter of Earth, which is the reputed planet of origin of the human species, and the early period of the exploration and settlement of the Galaxy. In particular, I have come here to inquire as to the founding of Sayshell.”

 

                “From your paper,” said Quintesetz, “I presume you are interested in myths and legends.”

 

                “Even more in history--actual facts--if such exist. Myths and legends, otherwise.”

 

                Quintesetz rose and walked rapidly back and forth the length of his office, paused to stare at Pelorat, then walked again.

 

                Trevize said impatiently, “Well, sir.”

 

                Quintesetz said, “Odd! Really odd! It was only yesterday--”

 

                Pelorat said, “What was only yesterday?”

 

                Quintesetz said, “I told you, Dr. Pelorat--may I call you J.P., by the way? I find using a full-length name rather unnatural”

 

                “Please do.”

 

                “I told you, J.P., that I had admired your paper and that I had wanted to see you. The reason I wanted to see you was that you clearly had an extensive collection of legends concerning the beginnings of the worlds and yet didn’t have ours. In other words, I wanted to see you in order to tell you precisely what you have come to see me to find out.”

 

                “What has this to do with yesterday, S.Q.?” asked Trevize.

 

                “We have legends. A legend. An important one to our society, for it has become our central mystery--”

 

                “Mystery?” said Trevize.

 

                “I don’t mean a puzzle or anything of that sort. That, I believe, would be the usual meaning of the word in Galactic Standard. There’s a specialized meaning here. It means ‘something secret’; something only certain adepts know the full meaning of; something not to be spoken of to outsiders. --And yesterday was the day.”

 

                “The day of what, S.Q.?” asked Trevize, slightly exaggerating his air of patience.

 

                “Yesterday was the Day of Flight.”

 

                “Ah,” said Trevize, “a day of meditation and quiet, when everyone is supposed to remain at home.”

 

                “Something like that, in theory, except that in the larger cities, the more sophisticated regions, there is little observance in the older fashion. --But you know about it, I see.”

 

                Pelorat, who had grown uneasy at Trevize’s annoyed tone, put in hastily, “We heard a little of it, having arrived yesterday.”

 

                “Of all days,” said Trevize sarcastically. “See here, S.Q. As I said, I’m not an academic, but I have a question. You said you were speaking of a central mystery, meaning it was not to be spoken of to outsiders. Why, then, are you speaking of it to us? We are outsiders.”

 

                “So you are. But I’m not an observer of the day and the depth of my superstition in this matter is slight at best. J.P.’s paper, however, reinforced a feeling I have had for a long time. A myth or legend is simply not made up out of a vacuum. Nothing is--or can be. Somehow there is a kernel of truth behind it, however distorted that might be, and I would like the truth behind our legend of the Day of Flight.”

 

                Trevize said, “Is it safe to talk about it?”

 

                Quintesetz shrugged. “Not entirely, I suppose. The conservative elements among our population would be horrified. However, they don’t control the government and haven’t for a century. The secularists are strong and would be stronger still, if the conservatives didn’t take advantage of our--if you’ll excuse me--anti-Foundation bias. Then, too, since I am discussing the matter out of my scholarly interest in ancient history, the League of Academicians will support me strongly, in case of need.”

 

                “In that case,” said Pelorat, “would you tell us about your central mystery, SQ.?”

 

                “Yes, but let me make sure we won’t be interrupted or, for that matter, overheard. Even if one must stare the bull in the face, one needn’t slap its muzzle, as the saying goes.”

 

                He flicked a pattern on the work-face of an instrument on his desk and said, “We’re incommunicado now.”

 

                “Are you sure you’re not bugged?” asked Trevize.

 

                “Bugged?”

 

                “Tapped! Eavesdropped! --Subjected to a device that will have you under observation--visual or auditory or both.”

 

                Quintesetz looked shocked. “Not here on Sayshell!”

 

                Trevize shrugged. “If you say so.”

 

                “Please go on, SQ.,” said Pelorat.

 

                Quintesetz pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair (which gave slightly under the pressure) and put the tips of his fingers together. He seemed to be speculating as to just how to begin.

 

                He said, “Do you know what a robot is?”

 

                “A robot?” said Pelorat. “No.”

 

                Quintesetz looked in the direction of Trevize, who shook his head slowly.

 

                “You know what a computer is, however?”

 

                “Of course,” said Trevize impatiently.

 

                “Well then, a mobile computerized tool--”

 

                “Is a mobile computerized tool.” Trevize was still impatient. “There are endless varieties and I don’t know of any generalized term for it except mobile computerized tool.”

 

                “--that looks exactly like a human being is a robot.” S.Q. completed his definition with equanimity. “The distinction of a robot is that it is humaniform.”

 

                “Why humaniform?” asked Pelorat in honest amazement.

 

                “I’m not sure. It’s a remarkably inefficient form for a tool, I grant you, but I’m just repeating the legend. ‘Robot’ is an old word from no recognizable language, though our scholars say it bears the connotation of ‘work.”

 

                “I can’t think of any word,” said Trevize skeptically, “that sounds even vaguely like ‘robot’ and that has any connection with ‘work.”

 

                “Nothing in Galactic, certainly,” said Quintesetz, “but that’s what they say.”

 

                Pelorat said, “It may have been reverse etymology. These objects were used for work, and so the word was said to mean ‘work.’ --In any case, why do you tell us this?”

 

                “Because it is a firmly fixed tradition here on Sayshell that when Earth was a single world and the Galaxy lay all uninhabited before it, robots were invented and devised. There were then two sorts of human beings: natural and invented, flesh and metal, biological and mechanical, complex and simple--”

 

                Quintesetz came to a halt and said with a rueful laugh, “I’m sorry. It is impossible to talk about robots without quoting from theBook of Flight . The people of Earth devised robots--and I need say no more. That’s plain enough.”

 

                “And why did they devise robots?” asked Trevize.

 

                Quintesetz shrugged. “Who can tell at this distance in time? Perhaps they were few in numbers and needed help, particularly in the great task of exploring and populating the Galaxy.”

 

                Trevize said, “That’s a reasonable suggestion. Once the Galaxy was colonized, the robots would no longer be needed. Certainly there are no humanoid mobile computerized tools in the Galaxy today.”

 

                “In any case,” said Quintesetz, “the story is as follows--if I may vastly simplify and leave out many poetic ornamentations which, frankly, I don’t accept, though the general population does or pretends to. Around Earth, there grew up colony worlds circling neighboring stars and these colony worlds were far richer in robots than was Earth itself. There was more use for robots on raw, new worlds. Earth, in fact, retreated, wished no more robots, and rebelled against them.”

 

                “What happened?” asked Pelorat.

 

                “The Outer Worlds were the stronger. With the help of their robots, the children defeated and controlled Earth--the Mother. Pardon me, but I can’t help slipping into quotation. But there were those from Earth who fled their world--with better ships and stronger modes of hyperspatial travel. They fled to far distant stars and worlds, far beyond the closer worlds earlier colonized. New colonies were founded--without robots--in which human beings could live freely. Those were the Times of Flight, so-called, and the day upon which the first Earthmen reached the Sayshell Sector-- this very planet, in fact--isthe Day of Flight, celebrated annually for many thousands of years.”

 

                Pelorat said, “My dear chap, what you are saying, then, is that Sayshell was founded directly from Earth.”

 

                Quintesetz thought and hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “That is the official belief.”

 

                “Obviously,” said Trevize, “you don’t accept it.”

 

                “It seems to me--” Quintesetz began and then burst out, “Oh, Great Stars and Small Planets, I don’t! It is entirely too unlikely, but it’s official dogma and however secularized the government has become, lip service to that, at least, is essential. --Still, to the point. In your article, J.P., there is no indication that you’re aware of this story--of robots and of two waves of colonization, a lesser one with robots and a greater one without.”

 

                “I certainly was not,” said Pelorat. “I hear it now for the first time and, my dear SQ., I am eternally grateful to you for making this known to me. I am astonished that no hint of this has appeared in any of the writings--”

 

                “It shows,” said Quintesetz, “how effective our social system is. It’s our Sayshellian secret--our great mystery.”

 

                “Perhaps,” said Trevize dryly. “Yet the second wave of colonization--the robotless wave--must have moved out in all directions. Why is it only on Sayshell that this great secret exists?”

 

                Quintesetz said, “It may exist elsewhere and be just as secret. Our own conservatives believe thatonly Sayshell was settled from Earth and that all the rest of the Galaxy was settled from Sayshell. That, of course, is probably nonsense.”

 

                Pelorat said, “These subsidiary puzzles can be worked out in time. Now that I have the starting point, I can seek out similar information on other worlds. What counts is that I have discovered the question to ask and a good question is, of course, the key by which infinite answers can be educed. How fortunate that I--”

 

                Trevize said, “Yes, Janov, but the good SQ. has not told us the whole story, surely. What happened to the older colonies and their robots? Do your traditions say?”

 

                “Not in detail, but in essence. Human and humanoid cannot live together, apparently. The worlds with robots died. They were not viable.”

 

                “And Earth?”

 

                “Humans left it and settled here and presumably (though the conservatives would disagree) on other planets as well.”

 

                “Surely not every human being left Earth. The planet was not deserted.”

 

                “Presumably not. I don’t know.”

 

                Trevize said abruptly, “Was it left radioactive?”

 

                Quintesetz looked astonished. “Radioactive?”

 

                “That’s what I’m asking.”

 

                “Not to my knowledge. I never heard of such a thing.”

 

                Trevize put a knuckle to his teeth and considered. Finally he said, “S.Q., it’s getting late and we have trespassed sufficiently on your time, perhaps.” (Pelorat made a motion as though he were about to protest, but Trevize’s hand was on the other’s knee and his grip tightened--so Pelorat, looking disturbed, subsided.)

 

                Quintesetz said, “I was delighted to be of use.”

 

                “You have been and if there’s anything we can do in exchange, name it.”

 

                Quintesetz laughed gently. “If the good J.P. will be so kind as to refrain from mentioning my name in connection with any writing he does on our mystery, that will be sufficient repayment.”

 

                Pelorat said eagerly, “You would be able to get the credit you deserve--and perhaps be more appreciated--if you were allowed to visit Terminus and even, perhaps, remain there as a visiting scholar at our university for an extended period. We might arrange that. Sayshell might not like the Federation, but they might not like refusing a direct request that you be allowed to come to Terminus to attend, let us say, a colloquium on some aspect of ancient history.”

 

                The Sayshellian half-rose. “Are you saying you can pull strings to arrangethat ?”

 

                Trevize said, “Why, I hadn’t thought of it, but J.P. is perfectly right. That would be feasible--if we tried. And, of course, the more grateful you make us, the harder we will try.”

 

                Quintesetz paused, then frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”

 

                “All you have to do is tell us about Gaia, S.Q.,” said Trevize.

 

                And all the light in Quintesetz’s face died.

 

  

 

 4.

 

  

 

 Quintesetz looked down at his desk. His hand stroked absent-mindedly at his short, tightly curled hair. Then he looked at Trevize and pursed his lips tightly. It was as though he were determined not to speak.

 

                Trevize lifted his eyebrows and waited and finally Quintesetz said in a strangled sort of way, “it is getting indeed late--quite glemmering.”

 

                Until then he had spoken in good Galactic, but now his words took on a strange shape as though the Sayshellian mode of speech were pushing past his classical education.

 

                “Glemmering, S.Q.?”

 

                “It is nearly full night.”

 

                Trevize nodded. “I am thoughtless. And I am hungry, too. Could you please join us for an evening meal, S.Q., at our expense? We could then, perhaps, continue our discussion--about Gaia.”

 

                Quintesetz rose heavily to his feet. He was taller than either of the two men from Terminus, but he was older and pudgier and his height did not lend him the appearance of strength. He seemed more weary than when they had arrived.

 

                He blinked at them and said, “I forget my hospitality. You are Outworlders and it would not be fitting that you entertain me. Come to my home. It is on campus and not far and, if you wish to carry on a conversation, I can do so in a more relaxed manner there than here. My only regret” (he seemed a little uneasy) “is that I can offer you only a limited meal. My wife and I are vegetarians and if you are meat-eating, I can Only express my apologies and regrets.”

 

                Trevize said, “J.P. and I will be quite content to forego our carnivorous natures for one meal. Your conversation will more than make up for it--I hope.”

 

                “I can promise you an interesting meal, whatever the conversation,” said Quintesetz, “if your taste should run to our Sayshellian spices. My wife and I have made a rare study of such things.”

 

                “I look forward to any exoticism you choose to supply, S.Q.,” said Trevize coolly, though Pelorat looked a little nervous at the prospect.

 

                Quintesetz led the way. The three left the room and walked down an apparently endless corridor, with the Sayshellian greeting students and colleagues now and then, but making no attempt to introduce his companions. Trevize was uneasily aware that others stared curiously at his sash, which happened to be one of his gray ones. A subdued color was not something that wasde rigueur in campus clothing, apparently.

 

                Finally they stepped through the door and out into the open. It was indeed dark and a little cool, with trees bulking in the distance and a rather rank stand of grass on either side of the walkway.

 

                Pelorat came to a halt--with his back to the glimmer of lights that came from the building they had just left and from the glows that lined the walks of the campus. He looked straight upward.

 

                “Beautiful!” he said. “There is a famous phrase in a verse by one of our better poets that speaks of ‘the speckle-shine of Sayshell’s soaring sky.”

 

                Trevize gazed appreciately and said in a low voice, “Vie are from Terminus, S.Q., and my friend, at least, has seen no other skies. On Terminus, we see only the smooth dim fog of the Galaxy and a few barely visible stars. You would appreciate your own sky even more, had you lived with ours.”

 

                Quintesetz said gravely, “We appreciate it to the full, I assure you. It’s not so much that we are in an uncrowded area of the Galaxy, but that the distribution of stars is remarkably even. I don’t think that you will find, anywhere in the Galaxy, first-magnitude stars so generally distributed. --And yet not too many, either. I have seen the skies of worlds that are inside the outer reaches of a globular cluster and there you will see too many bright stars. It spoils the darkness of the night sky and reduces the splendor considerably.”

 

                “I quite agree with that,” said Trevize.

 

                “Now I wonder,” said Quintesetz, “if you see that almost regular pentagon of almost equally bright stars. The Five Sisters, we call them. It’s in that direction, just above the line of trees. Do you see it?”

 

                “I see it,” said Trevize. “Very attractive.”

 

                “Yes,” said Quintesetz. “It’s supposed to symbolize success in love --and there’s no love letter that doesn’t end in a pentagon of dots to indicate a desire to make love. Each of the five stars stands for a different stage in the process and there are famous poems which have vied with each other in making each stage as explicitly erotic as possible. In my younger days, I attempted versifying on the subject myself and I wouldn’t have thought that the time would come when I would grow so indifferent to the Five Sisters, though I suppose it’s the common fate. --Do you see the dim star just about in the center of the Five Sisters.”

 

                “Yes.”

 

                “That,” said Quintesetz, “is supposed to represent unrequited love. There is a legend that the star was once as bright as the rest, but faded with grief.” And he walked on rapidly.

 

  

 

 5.

 

  

 

 The dinner, Trevize had been forced to admit to himself, was delightful. There was endless variety and the spicing and dressing were subtle but effective.

 

                Trevize said, “All these vegetables--which have been a pleasure to eat, by the way--are part of the Galactic dietary, are they not, SQ.?”

 

                “Yes, of course.”

 

                “I presume, though, that there are indigenous forms of life, too.”

 

                “Of course. Sayshell Planet was an oxygen world when the first settlers arrived, so it had to be life-bearing. And we have preserved some of the indigenous life, you may be sure. We have quite extensive natural parks in which both the flora and the fauna of Old Sayshell survive.”

 

                Pelorat said sadly, “There you are in advance of us, S.Q. There was little land life on Terminus when human beings arrived and I’m afraid that for a long time no concerted effort was made to preserve the sea life, which had produced the oxygen that made Terminus habitable. Terminus has an ecology now that is purely Galactic in nature.”

 

                “Sayshell,” said Quintesetz, with a smile of modest pride, “has a long and steady record of life-valuing.”

 

                And Trevize chose that moment to say, “When we left your office, SQ., I believe it was your intention to feed us dinner and then tell us about Gaia.”

 

                Quintesetz’s wife, a friendly woman--plump and quite dark, who had said little during the meal--looked up in astonishment, rose, and left the room without a word.

 

                “My wife,” said Quintesetz uneasily, “is quite a conservative, I’m afraid, and is a bit uneasy at the mention of--the world. Please excuse her. But why do you ask about it?”

 

                “Because it is important for J.P.’s work, I’m afraid.”

 

                “But why do you ask it ofme ? We were discussing Earth, robots, the founding of Sayshell. What has all this to do with--what you ask?”

 

                “Perhaps nothing, and yet there are so many oddnesses about the matter. Why is your wife uneasy at the mention of Gaia? Why areyou uneasy? Some talk of it easily enough. We have been told only today that Gaia is Earth itself and that it has disappeared into hyperspace because of the evil done by human beings.”

 

                A look of pain crossed Quintesetz’s face. “Who told you that gibberish?”

 

                “Someone I met here at the university.”

 

                “That’s just superstition.”

 

                “Then it’s not part of the central dogma of your legends concerning the Flight?”

 

                “No, of course not. It’s just a fable that arose among the ordinary, uneducated people.”

 

                “Are you sure?” asked Trevize coldly.

 

                Quintesetz sat back in his chair and stared at the remnant of the meal before him. “Come into the living room,” he said. “My wife will not allow this room to be cleared and set to rights while we are here and discussing--this.”

 

                “Are you sure it is just a fable?” repeated Trevize, once they had seated themselves in another room, before a window that bellied upward and inward to give a clear view of Sayshell’s remarkable night sky. The lights within the room glimmered down to avoid competition and Quintesetz’s dark countenance melted into the shadow.

 

                Quintesetz said, “Aren’tyou sure? Do you think that any world can dissolve into hyperspace? You must understand that the average person has only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is.”

 

                “The truth is,” said Trevize, “that I myself have only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is and I’ve been through it hundreds of times.”

 

                “Let me speak realities, then. I assure you that Earth--wherever it is--is not located within the borders of the Sayshell Union and that the world you mentioned is not Earth.”

 

                “But even if you don’t know where Earth is, S.Q., you ought to know where the world I mentioned is.It is certainly within the borders of the Sayshell Union. We know that much, eh, Pelorat?”

 

                Pelorat, who had been listening stolidly, started at being suddenly addressed and said, “If it comes to that, Golan, I know where it is.”

 

                Trevize turned to look at him. “Since when, Janov?”

 

                “Since earlier this evening, my dear Golan. You showed us the Five Sisters, S.Q., on our way from your office to your house. You pointed out a dim star at the center of the pentagon. I’m positive that’s Gaia.”

 

                Quintesetz hesitated--his face, hidden in the dimness, was beyond any chance of interpretation. Finally he said, “Well, that’s what our astronomers tell us--privately. It is a planet that circles that star.”

 

                Trevize gazed contemplatively at Pelorat, but the expression on the professor’s face was unreadable. Trevize turned to Quintesetz, “Then tell us about that star. Do you have its co-ordinates?”

 

                “I? No.” He was almost violent in his denial. “I have no stellar co-ordinates here. You can get it from our astronomy department, though I imagine not without trouble. No travel to that star is permitted.”

 

                “Why not? It’s within your territory, isn’t it?”

 

                “Spaciographically, yes. Politically, no.”

 

                Trevize waited for something more to be said. When that didn’t come, he rose. “Professor Quintesetz,” he said formally, “I am not a policeman, soldier, diplomat, or thug. I am not here to force information out of you. Instead, I shall, against my will, go to our ambassador. Surely, you must understand that it is not I, for my own personal interest, that request this information. This is Foundation business and I don’t want to make an interstellar incident out of this. I don’t think the Sayshell Union would want to, either.”

 

                Quintesetz said uncertainly, “What is this Foundation business?”

 

                “That’s not something I can discuss with you. If Gaia is not something you can discuss with me, then we will transfer it all to the government level and, under the circumstances, it may be the worse for Sayshell. Sayshell has kept its independence of the Federation and I have no objection to that. I have no reason to wish Sayshell ill and I do not wish to approach our ambassador. In fact, I will harm my own career in doing so, for I am under strict instruction to get this informationwithout making a government matter of it. Please tell me, then, if there is some firm reason why you cannot discuss Gaia. Will you be arrested or otherwise punished, if you speak? Will you tell me plainly that I have no choice but to go to the ambassadorial height?”

 

                “No no,” said Quintesetz, who sounded utterly confused. “I know nothing about government matters. We simply don’t speak of that world.”

 

                “Superstition?”

 

                “Well, yes! Superstition! --Skies of Sayshell, in what way am I better than that foolish person who told you that Gaia was in hyperspace--or than my wife who won’t even stay in a room where Gaia is mentioned and who may even have left the house for fear it will be smashed by--”

 

                “Lightning?”

 

                “Bysome stroke from afar. And I, even I, hesitate to pronounce the name. Gaia! Gaia! The syllables do not hurt! I am unharmed! Yet I hesitate. --But please believe me when I say that I honestly don’t know the co-ordinates for Gaia’s star. I can try to help you get it, if that will help, but let me tell you that we don’t discuss the world here in the Union. We keep hands and minds off it. I can tell you what little is known--really known, rather than supposed--and I doubt that you can learn anything more anywhere in these worlds of the Union.

 

                “We know Gaia is an ancient world and there are some who think it is the oldest world in this sector of the Galaxy, but we are not certain. Patriotism tells us Sayshell Planet is the oldest; fear tells us Gaia Planet is. The only way of combining the two is to suppose that Gaia is Earth, since it is known that Sayshell was settled by Earthpeople.

 

                “Most historians think--among themselves--that Gaia Planet was founded independently. They think it is not a colony of any world of our Union and that the Union was not colonized by Gaia. There is no consensus on comparative age, whether Gaia was settled before or after Sayshell was.”

 

                Trevize said, “So far, what you know is nothing, since every possible alternative is believed by someone or other.”

 

                Quintesetz nodded ruefully. “It would seem so. It was comparatively late in our history that we became conscious of the existence of Gaia. We had been preoccupied at first in forming the Union, then in fighting off the Galactic Empire, then in trying to find our proper role as an Imperial province and in limiting the power of the Viceroys.

 

                “It wasn’t till the days of Imperial weakness were far advanced that one of the later Viceroys, who was under very weak central control by then, came to realize that Gaia existed and seemed to maintain its independence from the Sayshellian province and even from the Empire itself. It simply kept to itself in isolation and secrecy, so that virtually nothing was known about it, anymore than is now known. The Viceroy decided to take it over. We have no details what happened, but his expedition was broken and few ships returned. In those days, of course, the ships were neither very good nor very well led.

 

                “Sayshell itself rejoiced at the defeat of the Viceroy, who was considered an Imperial oppressor, and the debacle led almost directly to the re-establishment of our independence. The Sayshell Union snapped its ties with the Empire and we still celebrate the anniversary of that event as Union Day. Almost out of gratitude we left Gaia alone for nearly a century, but the time came when we were strong enough to begin to think of a little imperialistic expansion of our own. Why not take over Gaia? Why not at least establish a Customs Union? We sent out a fleet and it was broken, too.

 

                “Thereafter, we confined ourselves to an occasional attempt at trade--attempts that were invariably unsuccessful. Gaia remained in firm isolation and never--to anyone’s knowledge--made the slightest attempt to trade or communicate with any other world. It certainly never made the slightest hostile move against anyone in any direction. And then--”

 

                Quintesetz turned up the light by touching a control in the arm of his chair. In the light, Quintesetz’s face took on a clearly sardonic expression. He went on, “Since you are citizens of the Foundation, you perhaps remember the Mule.”

 

                Trevize flushed. In five centuries of existence, the Foundation had been conquered only once. The conquest had been only temporary and had not seriously interfered with its climb toward Second Empire, but surely no one who resented the Foundation and wished to puncture its self-satisfaction would fail to mention the Mule, its one conqueror. And it was likely (thought Trevize) that Quintesetz had raised the level of light in order that he mightsee Foundational self-satisfaction punctured.

 

                He said, “Yes, we of the Foundation remember the Mule.”

 

                “The Mule,” said Quintesetz, “ruled an Empire for a while, one that was as large as the Federation now controlled by the Foundation. He did not, however, ruleus . He left us in peace. He passed through Sayshell at one time, however. We signed a declaration of neutrality and a statement of friendship. He asked nothing more. We were the only ones of whom he asked nothing more in the days before illness called a halt to his expansion and forced him to wait for death. He was not an unreasonable man, you know. He did not use unreasonable force, he was not bloody, and he ruled humanely.”

 

                “It was just that he was a conqueror,” said Trevize sarcastically.

 

                “Like the Foundation,” said Quintesetz.

 

                Trevize, with no ready answer, said irritably, “Do you have more to say about Gaia?”

 

                “Just a statement that the Mule made. According to the account of the historic meeting between the Mule and President Kallo of the Union, the Mule is described as having put his signature to the document with a flourish and to have said, “You are neutral even toward Gaia by this document, which is fortunate for you. Even I will not approach Gaia.”

 

                Trevize shook his head. “Why should he? Sayshell was eager to pledge neutrality and Gaia had no record of ever troubling anyone. The Mule was planning the conquest of the entire Galaxy at the time, so why delay for trifles? Time enough to turn on Sayshelland Gaia, when that was done.”

 

                “Perhaps, perhaps,” said Quintesetz, “but according to one witness at the time, a person we tend to believe, the Mule put down his pen as he said, ‘Even I will not approach Gaia.’ His voice then dropped and, in a whisper not meant to be heard, he added ‘again.”

 

                “Not meant to be heard, you say. Then how was it he was heard?”

 

                “Because his pen rolled off the table when he put it down and a Sayshellian automatically approached and bent to pick it up. His ear was close to the Mule’s mouth when the word ‘again’ was spoken and he heard it. He said nothing until after the Mule’s death.”

 

                “How can you prove it was not an invention.”

 

                “The man’s life is not the kind that makes it probable he would invent something of this kind. His report is accepted.”

 

                “And if it is?”

 

                “The Mule was never in--or anywhere near--the Sayshell Union except on this one occasion, at least after he appeared on the Galactic scene. If he had ever been on Gaia, it had to be before he appeared on the Galactic scene.”

 

                “Well?”

 

                “Well, where was the Mule born?”

 

                “I don’t think anyone knows,” said Trevize.

 

                “In the Sayshell Union, there is a strong feeling he was born on Gaia.”

 

                “Because of that one word?”

 

                “Only partly. The Mule could not be defeated because he had strange mental powers. Gaia cannot be defeated either.”

 

                “Gaia has not been defeated as yet. That does not necessarily prove it cannot be.”

 

                “Even the Mule would not approach. Search the records of his Overlordship. See if any region other than the Sayshell Union was so gingerly treated. And do you know that no one who has ever gone to Gaia for the purpose of peaceful trade has ever returned? Why do you suppose we know so little about it?”

 

                Trevize said, “Your attitude seems much like superstition.”

 

                “Call it what you will. Since the time of the Mule, we have wiped Gaia out of our thinking. We don’t want it to think of us. We only feel safe if we pretend it isn’t there. It may be that the government has itself secretly initiated and encouraged the legend that Gaia has disappeared into hyperspace in the hope that people will forget that there is a real Star of that name.”

 

                “You think that Gaia is a world of Mules, then?”

 

                “It may be. I advise you, foryour good, not to go there. If you do, you will never return. If the Foundation interferes with Gaia, it will show less intelligence than the Mule did. You might tell your ambassadorthat .”

 

                Trevize said, “Get me the co-ordinates and I will be off your world at once. I will reach Gaia and I will return.”

 

                Quintesetz said, “I will get you the co-ordinates. The astronomy department works nights, of course, and I will get it for younow , if I can. --But let me suggest once more that you make no attempt to reach Gaia.”

 

                Trevize said, “I intend to make that attempt.”

 

                And Quintesetz said heavily, “Then you intend suicide.”

 

  

 

  

 

 14. FORWARD!

 

  

 

 1.

 

  

 

       JANOV PELORAT LOOKED OUT AT THE DIM LANDSCAPE IN THE GRAYING dawn with an odd mixture of regret and uncertainty.

 

                “We aren’t staying long enough, Golan. It seems a pleasant and interesting world. I would like to learn more about it.”

 

                Trevize looked up from the computer with a wry smile. “You don’t think I would like to? We had three proper meals on the planet--totally different and each excellent. I’d like more. And the only women we saw, we saw briefly--and some of them looked quite enticing, for--well, for what I’ve got in mind.”

 

                Pelorat wrinkled his nose slightly. “Oh, my dear chap. Those cowbells they call shoes, and all wrapped around in clashing colors, and whatever do they do to their eyelashes. Did you notice their eyelashes?”

 

                “You might just as well believe I noticed everything, Janov. What you object to is superficial. They can easily be persuaded to wash their faces and, at the proper time, off come the shoes and the colors.”

 

                Pelorat said, “I’ll take your word for that, Janov. However, I was thinking more of investigating the matter of Earth further. ‘What we’ve been told about Earth, thus far, is so unsatisfactory, so contradictory--radiation according to one person, robots according to another.”

 

                “Death in either case.”

 

                “True,” said Pelorat reluctantly, “but it may be that one is true and not the other, or that both are true to some extent, or that neither is true. Surely, Janov, when you hear tales that simply shroud matters in thickening mists of doubt,surely you must feel the itch to explore, to find out.”

 

                “I do,” said Golan. “By every dwarf star in the Galaxy, I do. The problem at hand, however, is Gaia. Once that is straightened out, we can go to Earth, or come back here to Sayshell for a more extended stay. But first, Gaia.”

 

                Pelorat nodded, “The problem at hand! If we accept what Quintesetz told us, death is waiting for us on Gaia. Ought we to be going?”

 

                Trevize said, “I ask myself that. Are you afraid?”

 

                Pelorat hesitated as though he were probing his own feelings. Then he said in a quite simple and matter-of-fact manner. “Yes. Terribly!”

 

                Trevize sat back in his chair and swiveled to face the other. He said, just as quietly and matter-of-factly, “Janov, there’s no reason for you to chance this. Say the word and I’ll let you off on Sayshell with your personal belongings and with half our credits. I’ll pick you up when I return and it will be on to Sirius Sector, if you wish, and Earth, if that’s where it is. If I don’t return, the Foundation people on Sayshell will see to it that you get back to Terminus. No hard feelings if you stay behind, old friend.”

 

                Pelorat’s eyes blinked rapidly and his lips pressed together for a few moments. Then he said, rather huskily, “Old friend? We’ve known each other what? A week or so? Isn’t it strange that I’m going to refuse to leave the ship? Iam afraid, but I want to remain with you.”

 

                Trevize moved his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “But why? I honestly don’t ask it of you.”

 

                “I’m not sure why, but I ask it of myself. It’s--it’s-- Golan, I have faith in you. It seems to me you always know what you’re doing. I wanted to go to Trantor where probably--as I now see-- nothing would have happened.You insisted on Gaia and Gaia must somehow be a raw nerve in the Galaxy. Things seem tohappen in connection with it. And if that’s not enough, Golan, I watched you force Quintesetz to give you the information about Gaia. That wassuch a skillful bluff. I was lost in admiration.”

 

                “You have faith in me, then.”

 

                Pelorat said, “Yes, I do.”

 

                Trevize put his hand on the other’s upper arm and seemed, for a moment, to be searching for words. Finally he said, “Janov, will you forgive me in advance if my judgment is wrong, and if you in one way or another meet with--whatever unpleasant may be awaiting us?”

 

                Pelorat said, “Oh, my dear fellow, why do you ask? I make the decision freely formy reasons, not yours. And, please--let us leave quickly. I don’t trust my cowardice not to seize me by the throat and shame me for the rest of my life.”

 

                “As you say, Janov,” said Trevize. “We’ll leave at the earliest moment the computer will permit. This time, we’ll be moving gravitically--straight up--as soon as we can be assured the atmosphere above is clear of other ships. And as the surrounding atmosphere grows less and less dense, we’ll put on more and more speed. Well within the hour, we’ll be in open space.”

 

                “Good,” Pelorat said and pinched the tip off a plastic coffee container. The opened orifice almost at once began steaming. Pelorat put the nipple to his mouth and sipped, allowing just enough air to enter his mouth to cool the coffee to a bearable temperature.

 

                Trevize grinned. “You’ve learned how to use those things beautifully. You’re a space veteran, Janov.”

 

                Pelorat stared at the plastic container for a moment and said, “Now that we have ships that can adjust a gravitational field at will, surely we can use ordinary containers, can’t we?”

 

                “Of course, but you’re not going to get space people to give up their space-centered apparatus. How is a space rat going to put distance between himself and surface worms if he uses an openmouthed cup? See those rings on the walls and ceilings? Those have been traditional in spacecraft for twenty thousand years and more, but they’re absolutely useless in a gravitic ship. Yet they’re there and I’ll bet the entire ship to a cup of coffee that your space rat will pretend he’s being squashed into asphyxiation on takeoff and will then sway back and forth from those rings as though he’s under zero-gray when its gee-one--normal-grav, that is--on both occasions.”

 

                “You’re joking.”

 

                “Well, maybe a little, but there’s always social inertia to everything--even technological advance. Those useless wall rings are there and the cups they supply us have nipples.”

 

                Pelorat nodded thoughtfully and continued to sip at his coffee. Finally he said, “And when do we take off?”

 

                Trevize laughed heartily and said, “Got you. I began talking about wall rings and you never noticed that we were taking off right at that time. We’re a mile high right now.”

 

                “You don’t mean it.”

 

                “Look out.”

 

                Pelorat did and then said, “But I never felt a thing.”

 

                “You’re not supposed to.”

 

                “Aren’t we breaking the regulations? Surely we ought to have followed a radio beacon in an upward spiral, as we did in a downward spiral on landing?”

 

                “No reason to, Janov. No one will stop us. No one at all.”

 

                “Coming down, you said--”

 

                “That was different. They weren’t anxious to see us arrive, but they’re ecstatic to see us go.”

 

                “Why do you say that, Golan? The only person who talked to us about Gaia was Quintesetz and he begged us not to go.”

 

                “Don’t you believe it, Janov. That was for form. He made sure we’d go to Gaia. --Janov, you admired the way I bluffed the information out of Quintesetz. I’m sorry, but I don’t deserve the admiration. If I had done nothing at all, he would have offered the information. If I had tried to plug my ears, he would have shouted it at me.”

 

                “Why do you say that, Golan? That’s crazy.”

 

                “Paranoid? Yes, I know.” Trevize turned to the computer and extended his sense intently. He said, “We’re not being stopped. No ships in interfering distance, no warning messages of any kind.”

 

                Again he swiveled in the direction of Pelorat. He said, “Tell me, Janov, how did you find out about Gaia? You knew about Gaia while we were still on Terminus. You knew it was in the Sayshell Sector. You knew the name was, somehow, a form of Earth. Where did you hear all this?”

 

                Pelorat seemed to stiffen. He said, “If I were back in my office on Terminus, I might consult my files. I have not broughteverything with me--certainly not the dates on which I first encountered this piece of data or that.”

 

                “Well, think about it,” said Trevize grimly. “Consider that the Sayshellians themselves are close-mouthed about the matter. They are so reluctant to talk about Gaia as it really is that they actually encourage a superstition that has the common people of the sector believing that no such planet exists in ordinary space. In fact, I can tell you something else. Watch this!”

 

                Trevize swung to the computer, his fingers sweeping across the direction hand-rests with the ease and grace of long practice. When he placed his hands on the manuals, he welcomed their warm touch and enclosure. He felt, as always, a bit of his will oozing outward.

 

                He said, “This is the computer’s Galactic map, as it existed within its memory banks before we landed on Sayshell. I am going to show you that portion of the map that represents the night sky of Sayshell as we saw it this past night.”

 

                The room darkened and a representation of a night sky sprang out onto the screen.

 

                Pelorat said in a low voice, “As beautiful as we saw it on Sayshell.”

 

                “More beautiful,” said Trevize, impatiently. “There is no atmospheric interference of any kind, no clouds, no absorption at the horizon. But wait, let me make an adjustment”

 

                The view shifted steadily, giving the two the uncomfortable impression that it was they who were moving. Pelorat instinctively took hold of the arms of his chair to steady himself.

 

                “There!” said Trevize. “Do you recognize that?”

 

                “Of course. Those are the Five Sisters--the pentagon of stars that Quintesetz pointed out. It is unmistakable.”

 

                “Yes indeed. But where is Gaia?”

 

                Pelorat blinked. There was no dim star at the center.

 

                “It’s not there,” he said.

 

                “That’s right. It’s not there. And that’s because its location is not included in the data banks of the computer. Since it passes the bounds of likelihood that those data banks were deliberately made incomplete in this respect for our benefit, I conclude that to the Foundation Gaiactographers who designed those data banks--and who had tremendous quantities of information at their disposal-- Gaia was unknown.”

 

                “Do you suppose if we had gone to Trantor--” began Pelorat.

 

                “I suspect we would have found no data on Gaia there, either. Its existence is kept a secret by the Sayshellians--and even more so, I suspect, by the Gaians themselves. You yourself said a few days ago it was not entirely uncommon that some worlds deliberately stayed out of sight to avoid taxation or outside interference.”

 

                “Usually,” said Pelorat, “when mapmakers and statisticians come across such a world, they are found to exist in thinly populated sections of the Galaxy. It’s isolation that makes it possible for them to hide. Gaia is not isolated.”

 

                “That’s right. That’s another of the things that makes it unusual. So let’s leave this map on the screen so that you and I might continue to ponder the ignorance of our Gaiactographers--and let me ask you again-- In view of this ignorance on the part of the most knowledgeable of people, how didyou come to hear of Gaia?”

 

                “I have been gathering data on Earth myths, Earth legends, and Earth histories for over thirty years, my good Golan. Without my complete records, how could I possibly--”

 

                “We can begin somewhere, Janov. Did you learn about it in, say, the first fifteen years of your research or in the last fifteen?”

 

                “Oh! Well, if we’re going to be that broad, it was later on.”

 

                “You can do better than that. Suppose I suggest that you learned of Gaia only in the last couple of years.”

 

                Trevize peered in Pelorat’s direction, felt the absence of any ability to read an unseen expression in the dimness, and raised the light level of the room a bit. The glory of the representation of the night sky on the screen dimmed in proportion. Pelorat’s expression was stony and revealed nothing.

 

                “Well?” said Trevize.

 

                “I’m thinking,” said Pelorat mildly. “You may be right. I wouldn’t swear to it. When I wrote Jimbor of Ledbet University, I didn’t mention Gaia, though in that case it would have been appropriate to do so, and that was in--let’s see--in ‘~ and that was three years ago. I think you’re right, Golan.”