Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Earth

“Sure, but you could at least have reported the woman.”

“Didn’t like to. She’s not married. She was just picked up for—for use.”

“How many men on board?”

“Two.”

“And they just picked her up for—for that. They must be from Terminus.”

“That’s right.”

“They don’t care what they do on Terminus.”

“That’s right.”

“Disgusting. And they get away with it.”

“One of them was married, and he didn’t want his wife to know. If I reported her, his wife would find out.”

“Wouldn’t she be back on Terminus?”

“Of course, but she’d find out anyway.”

“Serve the fellow right if his wife did find out.”

“I agree—but I can’t be the one to be responsible for it.”

“They’ll hammer you for not reporting it. Not wanting to make trouble for a guy is no excuse.”

“Would you have reported him?”

“I’d have had to, I suppose.”

“No, you wouldn’t. The government wants that ship. If I had insisted on putting the woman on report, the men on the ship would have changed their minds about landing and would have pulled away to some other planet. The government wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“But will they believe you?”

“I think so. —A very cute-looking woman, too. Imagine a woman like that being willing to come along with two men, and married men with the nerve to take advantage. —You know, it’s tempting.”

“I don’t think you’d want the missus to know you said that—or even thought that.”

Kendray said defiantly, “Who’s going to tell her? You?”

“Come on. You know better than that.” Gatis’s look of indignation faded quickly, and he said, “It’s not going to do those guys any good, you know, you letting them through.”

“I know.”

“The people down surface-way will find out soon enough, and even if you get away with it, they won’t.”

“I know,” said Kendray, “but I’m sorry for them. Whatever trouble the woman will make for them will be as nothing to what the ship will make for them. The captain made a few remarks—”

Kendray paused, and Gatis said eagerly, “Like what?”

“Never mind,” said Kendray. “If it comes out, it’s my butt.”

“I’m not going to repeat it.”

“Neither am I. But I’m sorry for those two men from Terminus.”

To anyone who has been in space and experienced its changelessness, the real excitement of space flight comes when it is time to land on a new planet. The ground speeds backward under you as you catch glimpses of land and water, of geometrical areas and lines that might represent fields and roads. You become aware of the green of growing things, the gray of concrete, the brown of bare ground, the white of snow. Most of all, there is the excitement of populated conglomerates; cities which, on each world, have their own characteristic geometry and architectural variants.

In an ordinary ship, there would have been the excitement of touching down and skimming across a runway. For the Far Star , it was different. It floated through the air, was slowed by skillfully balancing air resistance and gravity, and finally made to come to rest above the spaceport. The wind was gusty and that introduced an added complication. The Far Star , when adjusted to low response to gravitational pull, was not only abnormally low in weight, but in mass as well. If its mass were too close to zero, the wind would blow it away rapidly. Hence, gravitational response had to be raised and jet-thrusts had to be delicately used not only against the planet’s pull but against the wind’s push, and in a manner that matched the shift in wind intensity closely. Without an adequate computer, it could not possibly have been done properly.

Downward and downward, with small unavoidable shifts in this direction and that, drifted the ship until it finally sank into the outlined area that marked its assigned position in the port.

The sky was a pale blue, intermingled with flat white, when the Far Star landed. The wind remained gusty even at ground level and though it was now no longer a navigational peril, it produced a chill that Trevize winced at. He realized at once that their clothing supply was totally unsuited to Comporellian weather.

Pelorat, on the other hand, looked about with appreciation and drew his breath deeply through his nose with relish, liking the bite of the cold, at least for the moment. He even deliberately unseamed his coat in order to feel the wind against his chest. In a little while, he knew, he would seam up again and adjust his scarf, but for now he wanted to feel the existence of an atmosphere. One never did aboard ship.

Bliss drew her coat closely about herself, and, with gloved hands, dragged her hat down to cover her ears. Her face was crumpled in misery and she seemed close to tears.

She muttered, “This world is evil. It hates and mistreats us.”

“Not at all, Bliss dear,” said Pelorat earnestly. “I’m sure the inhabitants like this world, and that it—uh—likes them, if you want to put it that way. We’ll be indoors soon enough, and it will be warm there.”

Almost as an afterthought, he flipped one side of his coat outward and curved it about her, while she snuggled against his shirtfront.

Trevize did his best to ignore the temperature. He obtained a magnetized card from the port authority, checking it on his pocket computer to make sure that it gave the necessary details—his aisle and lot number, the name and engine number of his ship, and so on. He checked once more to make sure that the ship was tightly secured, and then took out the maximum insurance allowed against the chance of misadventure (useless, actually, since the Far Star should be invulnerable at the likely Comporellian level of technology, and was entirely irreplaceable at whatever price, if it were not).

Trevize found the taxi-station where it ought to be. (A number of the facilities at spaceports were standardized in position, appearance, and manner of use. They had to be, in view of the multiworld nature of the clientele.)

He signaled for a taxi, punching out the destination merely as “City.”

A taxi glided up to them on diamagnetic skis, drifting slightly under the impulse of the wind, and trembling under the vibration of its not-quite-silent engine. It was a dark gray in color and bore its white taxi-insignia on the back doors. The taxi-driver was wearing a dark coat and a white, furred hat.

Pelorat, becoming aware, said softly, “The planetary decor seems to be black and white.”

Trevize said, “It may be more lively in the city proper.”

The driver spoke into a small microphone, perhaps in order to avoid opening the window. “Going to the city, folks?”

There was a gentle singsong to his Galactic dialect that was rather attractive, and he was not hard to understand—always a relief on a new world.

Trevize said, “That’s right,” and the rear door slid open.

Bliss entered, followed by Pelorat, and then by Trevize. The door closed and warm air welled upward.

Bliss rubbed her hands and breathed a long sigh of relief.

The taxi pulled out slowly, and the driver said, “That ship you came in is gravitic, isn’t it?”

Trevize said dryly, “Considering the way it came down, would you doubt it?”

The driver said, “Is it from Terminus, then?”

Trevize said, “Do you know any other world that could build one?”

The driver seemed to digest that as the taxi took on speed. He then said, “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

Trevize couldn’t resist. “Why not?”