Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Earth

“In that case, how would you answer me if I asked if your name were Golan Trevize?”

“I would answer: What makes you ask?”

The taxi came to a halt at the outskirts of the spaceport and the driver said, “Curiosity! I ask again: Are you Golan Trevize?”

Trevize’s voice became stiff and hostile. “What business is that of yours?”

“My friend,” said the driver, “We’re not moving till you answer the question. And if you don’t answer in a clear yes or no in about two seconds, I’m turning the heat off in the passenger compartment and we’ll keep on waiting. Are you Golan Trevize, Councilman of Terminus? If your answer is in the negative, you will have to show me your identification papers.”

Trevize said, “Yes, I am Golan Trevize, and as a Councilman of the Foundation, I expect to be treated with all the courtesy due my rank. Your failure to do so will have you in hot water, fellow. Now what?”

“Now we can proceed a little more lightheartedly.” The taxi began to move again. “I choose my passengers carefully, and I had expected to pick up two men only. The woman was a surprise and I might have made a mistake. As it is, if I have you, then I can leave it to you to explain the woman when you reach your destination.”

“You don’t know my destination.”

“As it happens, I do. You’re going to the Department of Transportation.”

“That’s not where I want to go.”

“That matters not one little bit, Councilman. If I were a taxi-driver, I’d take you where you want to go. Since I’m not, I take you where I want you to go.”

“Pardon me,” said Pelorat, leaning forward, “you certainly seem to be a taxi-driver. You’re driving a taxi.”

“Anyone might drive a taxi. Not everyone has a license to do so. And not every car that looks like a taxi is a taxi.”

Trevize said, “Let’s stop playing games. Who are you and what are you doing? Remember that you’ll have to account for this to the Foundation.”

“Not I,” said the driver, “My superiors, perhaps. I’m an agent of the Comporellian Security Force. I am under orders to treat you with all due respect to your rank, but you must go where I take you. And be very careful how you react, for this vehicle is armed, and I am under orders to defend myself against attack.”

The vehicle, having reached cruising speed, moved with absolute, smooth quiet, and Trevize sat there in quietness as frozen. He was aware, without actually looking, of Pelorat glancing at him now and then with a look of uncertainty on his face, a “What do we do now? Please tell me” look.

Bliss, a quick glance told him, sat calmly, apparently unconcerned. Of course, she was a whole world in herself. All of Gaia, though it might be at Galactic distances, was wrapped up in her skin. She had resources that could be called on in a true emergency.

But, then, what had happened?

Clearly, the official at the entry station, following routine, had sent down his report—omitting Bliss—and it had attracted the interest of the security people and, of all things, the Department of Transportation. Why?

It was peacetime and he knew of no specific tensions between Comporellon and the Foundation. He himself was an important Foundation official—

Wait, he had told the official at the entry station—Kendray, his name had been—that he was on important business with the Comporellian government. He had stressed that in his attempt to get through. Kendray must have reported that as well and that would rouse all sorts of interest.

He hadn’t anticipated that, and he certainly should have.

What, then, about his supposed gift of rightness? Was he beginning to believe that he was the black box that Gaia thought he was—or said it thought he was? Was he being led into a quagmire by the growth of an overconfidence built on superstition?

How could he for one moment be trapped in that folly? Had he never in his life been wrong? Did he know what the weather would be tomorrow? Did he win large amounts in games of chance? The answers were no, no, and no.

Well, then, was it only in the large, inchoate things that he was always right? How could he tell?

Forget that! —After all, the mere fact that he had stated he had important state business—no, it was “Foundation security” that he had said—

Well, then, the mere fact that he was there on a matter of Foundation security, coming, as he had, secretly and unheralded, would surely attract their attention. —Yes, but until they knew what it was all about they would surely act with the utmost circumspection. They would be ceremonious and treat him as a high dignitary. They would not kidnap him and make use of threats.

Yet that was exactly what they had done. Why?

What made them feel strong enough and powerful enough to treat a Councilman of Terminus in such a fashion?

Could it be Earth? Was the same force that hid the world of origin so effectively, even against the great mentalists of the Second Foundation, now working to circumvent his search for Earth in the very first stage of that search? Was Earth omniscient? Omipotent?

Trevize shook his head. That way lay paranoia. Was he going to blame Earth for everything? Was every quirk of behavior, every bend in the road, every twist of circumstance, to be the result of the secret machinations of Earth? As soon as he began to think in that fashion, he was defeated.

At that point, he felt the vehicle decelerating and was brought back to reality at a stroke.

It occurred to him that he had never, even for one moment, looked at the city through which they had been passing. He looked about now, a touch wildly. The buildings were low, but it was a cold planet—most of the structures were probably underground.

He saw no trace of color and that seemed against human nature.

Occasionally, he could see a person pass, well bundled. But, then, the people, like the buildings themselves, were probably mostly underground.

The taxi had stopped before a low, broad building, set in a depression, the bottom of which Trevize could not see. Some moments passed and it continued to remain there, the driver himself motionless as well. His tall, white hat nearly touched the roof of the vehicle.

Trevize wondered fleetingly how the driver managed to step in and out of the vehicle without knocking his hat off, then said, with the controlled anger one would expect of a haughty and mistreated official, “Well, driver, what now?”

The Comporellian version of the glittering field-partition that separated the driver from the passengers was not at all primitive. Sound waves could pass through—though Trevize was quite certain that material objects, at reasonable energies, could not.

The driver said, “Someone will be up to get you. Just sit back and take it easy.”

Even as he said this, three heads appeared in a slow, smooth ascent from the depression in which the building rested. After that, there came the rest of the bodies. Clearly, the newcomers were moving up the equivalent of an escalator, but Trevize could not see the details of the device from where he sat.

As the three approached, the passenger door of the taxi opened and a flood of cold air swept inward.

Trevize stepped out, seaming his coat to the neck. The other two followed him—Bliss with considerable reluctance.

The three Comporellians were shapeless, wearing garments that ballooned outward and were probably electrically heated. Trevize felt scorn at that. There was little use for such things on Terminus, and the one time he had borrowed a heat-coat during winter on the nearby planet of Anacreon, he discovered it had a tendency to grow warmer at a slow rate so that by the time he realized he was too warm he was perspiring uncomfortably.