Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

“I told ya,” said Raych indignantly. “Ya get free run of Billibotton, I swear. Besides, where he lives no one will bother ya.”

“Where is it?” asked Seldon.

“I can take ya there. It ain’t far.”

“And why does he want to see us?” asked Dors.

“Dunno. But he says like this—” Raych half-closed his eyes in an effort to remember. “ ‘Tell them I wanna see the man who talked to a Dahlite heatsinker like he was a human being and the woman who beat Marron with knives and didn’t kill him when she mighta done so.’ I think I got it right.”

Seldon smiled. “I think you did. Is he ready for us now?”

“He’s waiting.”

“Then we’ll come with you.” He looked at Dors with a trace of doubt in his eyes.

She said, “All right. I’m willing. Perhaps it won’t be a trap of some sort. Hope springs eternal—”

There was a pleasant glow to the evening light when they emerged, a faint violet touch and a pinkish edge to the simulated sunset clouds that were scudding along. Dahl might have complaints of their treatment by the Imperial rulers of Trantor, but surely there was nothing wrong with the weather the computers spun out for them.

Dors said in a low voice, “We seem to be celebrities. No mistake about that.”

Seldon brought his eyes down from the supposed sky and was immediately aware of a fair-sized crowd around the apartment house in which the Tisalvers lived.

Everyone in the crowd stared at them intently. When it was clear that the two Outworlders had become aware of the attention, a low murmur ran through the crowd, which seemed to be on the point of breaking out into applause.

Dors said, “Now I can see where Mistress Tisalver would find this annoying. I should have been a little more sympathetic.”

The crowd was, for the most part, poorly dressed and it was not hard to guess that many of the people were from Billibotton.

On impulse, Seldon smiled and raised one hand in a mild greeting that was met with applause. One voice, lost in the safe anonymity of the crowd, called out, “Can the lady show us some knife tricks?”

When Dors called back, “No, I only draw in anger,” there was instant laughter.

One man stepped forward. He was clearly not from Billibotton and bore no obvious mark of being a Dahlite. He had only a small mustache, for one thing, and it was brown, not black. He said, “Marlo Tanto of the ‘Trantorian HV News.’ Can we have you in focus for a bit for our nightly holocast?”

“No,” said Dors shortly. “No interviews.”

The newsman did not budge. “I understand you were in a fight with a great many men in Billibotton—and won.” He smiled. “That’s news, that is.”

“No,” said Dors. “We met some men in Billibotton, talked to them, and then moved on. That’s all there is to it and that’s all you’re going to get.”

“What’s your name? You don’t sound like a Trantorian.”

“I have no name.”

“And your friend’s name?”

“He has no name.”

The newsman looked annoyed, “Look, lady. You’re news and I’m just trying to do my job.”

Raych pulled at Dors’s sleeve. She leaned down and listened to his earnest whisper.

She nodded and straightened up again. “I don’t think you’re a newsman, Mr. Tanto. What I think you are is an Imperial agent trying to make trouble for Dahl. There was no fight and you’re trying to manufacture news concerning one as a way of justifying an Imperial expedition into Billibotton. I wouldn’t stay here if I were you. I don’t think you’re very popular with these people.”

The crowd had begun to mutter at Dors’s first words. They grew louder now and began to drift, slowly and in a menacing way, in the direction of Tanto. He looked nervously around and began to move away.

Dors raised her voice. “Let him go. Don’t anyone touch him. Don’t give him any excuse to report violence.”

And they parted before him.

Raych said, “Aw, lady, you shoulda let them rough him up.”

“Bloodthirsty boy,” said Dors, “take us to this friend of yours.”

They met the man who called himself Davan in a room behind a dilapidated diner. Far behind.

Raych led the way, once more showing himself as much at home in the burrows of Billibotton as a mole would be in tunnels underground in Helicon.

It was Dors Venabili whose caution first manifested itself. She stopped and said, “Come back, Raych. Exactly where are we going?”

“To Davan,” said Raych, looking exasperated. “I told ya.”

“But this is a deserted area. There’s no one living here.” Dors looked about with obvious distaste. The surroundings were lifeless and what light panels there were did not glow—or did so only dimly.

“It’s the way Davan likes it,” said Raych. “He’s always changing around, staying here, staying there. Ya know . . . changing around.”

“Why?” demanded Dors.

“It’s safer, lady.”

“From whom?”

“From the gov’ment.”

“Why would the government want Davan?”

“I dunno, lady. Tell ya what. I’ll tell ya where he is and tell ya how to go and ya go on alone—if ya don’t want me to take ya.”

Seldon said, “No, Raych, I’m pretty sure we’ll get lost without you. In fact, you had better wait till we’re through so you can lead us back.”

Raych said at once, “What’s in it f’me? Ya expect me to hang around when I get hungry?”

“You hang around and get hungry, Raych, and I’ll buy you a big dinner. Anything you like.”

“Ya say that now , Mister. How do I know?”

Dors’s hand flashed and it was holding a knife, blade exposed, “You’re not calling us liars, are you, Raych?”

Raych’s eyes opened wide. He did not seem frightened by the threat. He said, “Hey, I didn’t see that. Do it again.”

“I’ll do it afterward—if you’re still here. Otherwise”—Dors glared at him—“we’ll track you down.”

“Aw, lady, come on,” said Raych. “Ya ain’t gonna track me down. Ya ain’t that kind. But I’ll be here.” He struck a pose. “Ya got my word.”

And he led them onward in silence, though the sound of their shoes was hollow in the empty corridors.

Davan looked up when they entered, a wild look that softened when he saw Raych. He gestured quickly toward the two others—questioningly.

Raych said, “These are the guys.” And, grinning, he left.

Seldon said, “I am Hari Seldon. The young lady is Dors Venabili.”

He regarded Davan curiously. Davan was swarthy and had the thick black mustache of the Dahlite male, but in addition he had a stubble of beard. He was the first Dahlite whom Seldon had seen who had not been meticulously shaven. Even the bullies of Billibotton had been smooth of cheek and chin.

Seldon said, “What is your name, sir?”

“Davan. Raych must have told you.”

“Your second name.”

“I am only Davan. Were you followed here, Master Seldon?”

“No, I’m sure we weren’t. If we had, then by sound or sight, I expect Raych would have known. And if he had not, Mistress Venabili would have.”

Dors smiled slightly. “You have faith in me, Hari.”

“More all the time,” he said thoughtfully.

Davan stirred uneasily. “Yet you’ve already been found.”

“Found?”

“Yes, I have heard of this supposed newsman.”

“Already?” Seldon looked faintly surprised. “But I suspect he really was a newsman . . . and harmless. We called him an Imperial agent at Raych’s suggestion, which was a good idea. The surrounding crowd grew threatening and we got rid of him.”

“No,” said Davan, “he was what you called him. My people know the man and he does work for the Empire. —But then you do not do as I do. You do not use a false name and change your place of abode. You go under your own names, making no effort to remain undercover. You are Hari Seldon, the mathematician.”