Isaac Asimov - Foundation's Edge

“Wait,” said Delarmi, her initiative lost a third time. “What do you intend to do?”

Gendibal said with a small shrug, “Why go into details? The less the Table knows, the less the Anti-Mules are likely to attempt to disturb it.”

He said it as though the safety of the Table was his prime concern. He filled his mind with that, and let it show.

It would flatter them. More than that, the satisfaction it would bring might keep them from wondering whether, in fact, Gendibal knew exactly what it was he intended to do.

The First Speaker spoke to Gendibal alone that evening.

“You were right,” he said. “I could not help brushing below the surface of your mind. I saw you considered the announcement a mistake and it was. It was my eagerness to wipe that eternal smile off her face and to strike back at the casual way in which she so frequently usurps my role.”

Gendibal said gently, “It might have been better if you had told me privately and had then waited for my return to go further.”

“That would not have allowed me to strike out at her. —Poor motivation for a First Speaker, I know.”

“This won’t stop her, First Speaker. She will still intrigue for the post and perhaps with good reason. I’m sure there are some who would argue that I should have refused your nomination. It would not be hard to argue that Speaker Delarmi has the best mind at the Table and would make the best First Speaker.”

“The best mind at the Table, not away from it,” grumbled Shandess. “She recognizes no real enemies, except for other Speakers. She ought never to have been made a Speaker in the first place. —See here, shall I forbid you to take the Hamishwoman? She maneuvered you into that, I know.”

“No no, the reason I advanced for taking her is a true one. She will be an early-warning system and I am grateful to Speaker Delarmi for pushing me into realizing that. The woman will prove very useful, I’m convinced.”

“Good, then. By the way, I wasn’t lying, either. I am truly certain that you will accomplish whatever is needed to end this crisis—if you can trust my intuition.”

“I think I can trust it, for I agree with you. I promise you that whatever happens, I will return better than I receive. I will come back to be First Speaker, whatever the Anti-Mules—or Speaker Delarmi—can do.”

Gendibal studied his own satisfaction even as he spoke. Why was he so pleased, so insistent, on this one-ship venture into space? Ambition, of course. Preem Palver had once done just this sort of thing—and he was going to show that Stor Gendibal could do it, too. No one could withhold the First Speakership from him after that. And yet was there more than ambition? The lure of combat? The generalized desire for excitement in one who had been confined to a hidden patch on a backward planet all his adult life? —He didn’t entirely know, but he knew he was desperately intent on going.

Janov Pelorat watched, for the first time in his life, as the bright star graduated into an orb after what Trevize had called a “micro-Jump.” The fourth planet—the habitable one and their immediate destination, Sayshell—then grew in size and prominence more slowly—over a period of days.

A map of the planet had been produced by the computer and was displayed on a portable screening device, which Pelorat held in his lap.

Trevize—with the aplomb of someone who had, in his time, touched down upon several dozen worlds—said, “Don’t start watching too hard too soon, Janov. We have to go through the entry station first and that can be tedious.”

Pelorat looked up. “Surely that’s just a formality.”

“It is. But it can still be tedious.”

“But it’s peacetime.”

“Of course. That means we’ll be passed through. First, though, there’s a little matter of the ecological balance. Every planet has its own and they don’t want it upset. So they make a natural point of checking the ship for undesirable organisms, or infections. It’s a reasonable precaution.”

“We don’t have such things, it seems to me.”

“No, we don’t and they’ll find that out. Remember, too, that Sayshell is not a member of the Foundation Federation, so there’s certain to be some leaning over backward to demonstrate their independence.”

A small ship came out to inspect them and a Sayshellian Customs official boarded. Trevize was brisk, not having forgotten his military days.

“The Far Star , out of Terminus,” he said. “Ship’s papers. Unarmed. Private vessel. My passport. There is one passenger. His passport. We are tourists.”

The Customs official wore a garish uniform in which crimson was the dominating color. Cheeks and upper lip were smooth-shaven, but he wore a short beard parted in such a way that tufts thrust out to both sides of his chin. He said, “Foundation ship?”

He pronounced it “Foundaysun sip,” but Trevize was careful neither to correct him nor to smile. There were as many varieties of dialects to Galactic Standard as there were planets, and you just spoke your own. As long as there was cross-comprehension, it didn’t matter.

“Yes, sir,” said Trevize. “Foundation ship. Privately owned.”

“Very nice. —Your lading, if you please.”

“My what?”

“Your lading. What are you carrying?”

“Ah, my cargo. Here is the itemized list. Personal property only. We are not here to trade. As I told you, we are simply tourists.”

The Customs official looked about curiously. “This is rather an elaborate vessel for tourists.”

“Not by Foundation standards,” said Trevize with a display of good humor. “And I’m well off and can afford this.”

“Are you suggesting that I might be richified?” The official looked at him briefly, then looked away.

Trevize hesitated a moment in order to interpret the meaning of the word, then another moment to decide his course of action. He said, “No, it is not my intention to bribe you. I have no reason to bribe you—and you don’t look like the kind of person who could be bribed, if that were my intention. You can look over the ship, if you wish.”

“No need,” said the official, putting away his pocket recorder. “You have already been examined for specific contraband infection and have passed. The ship has been assigned a radio wavelength that will serve as an approach beam.”

He left. The whole procedure had taken fifteen minutes.

Pelorat said in a low voice. “Could he have made trouble? Did he really expect a bribe?”

Trevize shrugged. “Tipping the Customs man is as old as the Galaxy and I would have done it readily if he had made a second try for it. As it is—well, I presume he prefers not to take a chance with a Foundation ship, and a fancy one, at that. The old Mayor, bless her cross-grained hide, said the name of the Foundation would protect us wherever we went and she wasn’t wrong. —It could have taken a great deal longer.”

“Why? He seemed to find out what he wanted to know.”

“Yes, but he was courteous enough to check us by remote radio-scanning. If he had wished, he could have gone over the ship with a hand-machine and taken hours. He could have put us both in a field hospital and kept us days.”

“What? My dear fellow!”

“Don’t get excited. He didn’t do it. I thought he might, but he didn’t. Which means we’re free to land. I’d like to go down gravitically—which could take us fifteen minutes—but I don’t know where the permitted landing sites might be and I don’t want to cause trouble. That means we’ll have to follow the radio beam—which will take hours—as we spiral down through the atmosphere.”