Isaac Asimov - Foundation's Edge

“Gaia might also have advanced.”

“In isolation? Come. There are ten quadrillion human beings within the Foundation Federation, from among whom contributors to technological advance can step forward. A single isolated world can do nothing in comparison. Our ships will advance and I will be with them.”

“Pardon me, Mayor. What was that?”

“I will be going myself to the ships that will gather at the borders of Sayshell. I wish to see the situation for myself.”

Kodell’s mouth fell open for a moment. He swallowed and made a distinct noise as he did so. “Mayor, that is—not wise.” If ever a man clearly intended a stronger remark, Kodell did.

“Wise or not,” said Branno violently, “I will do it. I am tired of Terminus and of its endless political battles, its infighting, its alliances and counteralliances, its betrayals and renewals. I’ve had seventeen years at the center of it and I want to do something else— anything else. Out there,” she waved her hand in a direction taken at random, “the whole history of the Galaxy may be changing and I want to take part in the process.”

“You know nothing about such things, Mayor.”

“Who does, Liono?” She rose stiffly to her feet. “As soon as you bring me the information I need on the ships and as soon as I can make arrangements for carrying on with the foolish business at home, I will go.—And, Liono, don’t try to maneuver me out of this decision in any way or I’ll wipe out our long friendship in a stroke and break you. I can still do that .”

Kodell nodded. “I know you can, Mayor, but before you decide, may I ask you to reconsider the power of Seldon’s Plan? What you intend may be suicide.”

“I have no fears on that score, Liono. It was wrong with respect to the Mule, whom it could not anticipate—and a failure to anticipate at one time implies the possibility of failure at another.”

Kodell sighed. “Well then, if you are really determined, I will support you to the best of my ability and with complete loyalty.”

“Good. I warn you once again that you had better mean that remark with all your heart. And with that in mind, Liono, let us move on to Gaia. Forward!”

Sura Novi stepped into the control room of the small and rather old-fashioned ship that was carrying Stor Gendibal and herself across the parsecs in deliberate Jumps.

She had clearly been in the compact cleaning room, where oils, warm air, and a minimum of water freshed her body. She had a robe wrapped about her and was holding it tightly to herself in an agony of modesty. Her hair was dry but tangled.

She said in a low voice, “Master?”

Gendibal looked up from his charts and from his computer. “Yes, Novi?”

“I be sorrow-laden—” She paused and then said slowly, “I am very sorry to bother you, Master” (then she slipped again) “but I be loss-ridden for my clothing.”

“Your clothing?” Gendibal stared at her blankly for a moment and then rose to his feet in an access of contrition. “Novi, I forgot. They needed cleaning and they’re in the detergent-hamper. They’re cleaned, dried, folded, all set. I should have taken them out and placed them in clear sight. I forgot.”

“I did not like to—to—” (she looked down at herself) “offend.”

“You don’t offend,” said Gendibal cheerily. “Look, I promise you that when this is over I shall see to it that you have a great deal of clothing—new and in the latest fashion. We left in a hurry and it never occurred to me to bring a supply, but really, Novi, there are only the two of us and we’ll be together for some time in very close quarters and it’s needless to be—to be—so concerned—about—” He gestured vaguely, became aware of the horrified look in her eyes, and thought: Well, she’s only a country girl after all and has her standards; probably wouldn’t object to improprieties of all kinds—but with her clothes on.

Then he felt ashamed of himself and was glad that she was no “scholar” who could sense his thoughts. He said, “Shall I get your clothes for you?”

“Oh no, Master. It be not for you—I know where they are.”

He next saw her properly dressed and with her hair combed. There was a distinct shyness about her. “I am ashamed, Master, to have behaved so improper— ly. I should have found them for myself.”

“No matter,” said Gendibal. “You are doing very well with your Galactic, Novi. You are picking up the language of scholars very quickly.”

Novi smiled suddenly. Her teeth were somewhat uneven, but that scarcely detracted from the manner in which her face brightened and grew almost sweet under praise, thought Gendibal. He told himself that it was for that reason that he rather liked to praise her.

“The Hamish will think little of me when I am back home,” she said. “They will say I be —am a word-chopper. That is what they call someone who speaks—odd. They do not like such.”

“I doubt that you will be going back to the Hamish, Novi,” said Gendibal. “I am sure there will continue to be a place for you in the complex—with the scholars, that is—when this is over.”

“I would like that, Master.”

“I don’t suppose you would care to call me ‘Speaker Gendibal’ or just— No, I see you wouldn’t,” he said, responding to her look of scandalized objection. “Oh well.”

“It would not be fitting, Master. —But may I ask when this will be over?”

Gendibal shook his head. “I scarcely know. Right now, I must merely get to a particular place as quickly as I can. This ship, which is a very good ship for its kind, is slow and ‘as quickly as I can’ is not very quick. You see” (he gestured at the computer and the charts) “I must work out ways to get across large stretches of space, but the computer is limited in its abilities and I am not very skillful.”

“Must you be there quickly because there is danger, Master?”

“What makes you think there is danger, Novi?”

“Because I watch you sometimes when I don’t think you see me and your face looks—I do not know the word. Not afeared—I mean, frightened—and not bad-expecting, either.”

“Apprehensive,” muttered Gendibal.

“You look—concerned. Is that the word?”

“It depends. What do you mean by concerned, Novi?”

“I means you look as though you are saying to yourself, ‘What am I going to do next in this great trouble?’ ”

Gendibal looked astonished. “That is ‘concerned,’ but do you see that in my face, Novi? Back in the Place of Scholars, I am extremely careful that no one should see anything in my face, but I did think that, alone in space—except for you—I could relax and let it sit around in its underwear, so to speak. —I’m sorry. That has embarrassed you. What I’m trying to say is that if you’re so perceptive, I shall have to be more careful. Every once in a while I have to relearn the lesson that even nonmentalics can make shrewd guesses.”

Novi looked blank. “I don’t understand, Master.”

“I’m talking to myself, Novi. Don’t be concerned.—See, there’s that word again.”

“But is there danger?”

“There’s a problem, Novi. I do not know what I shall find when I reach Sayshell—that is the place to which we are going. I may find myself in a situation of great difficulty.”

“Does that mean danger?”

“No, because I will be able to handle it.”

“How can you tell this?”

“Because I am a—scholar. And I am the best of them. There is nothing in the Galaxy I cannot handle.”

“Master,” and something very like agony twisted Novi’s face, “I do not wish to offensify—I mean, give offense—and make you angry. I have seen you with that oafish Rufirant and you were in danger then—and he was only a Hamish farmer. Now I do not know what awaits you—and you do not, either.”