Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

“He don’t,” shrilled Raych indignantly. “This place is all mine. I found it.”

“I’ve never been here before,” said Davan, looking about. “It’s an interesting place. Raych is a corridor creature, perfectly at home in this maze.”

“Yes, Davan, we gathered as much ourselves. But how did you find it?”

“A heat-seeker. I have a device that detects infra-red radiation, the particular thermal pattern that is given off at thirty-seven degrees Celsius. It will react to the presence of human beings and not to other heat sources. It reacted to you three.”

Dors was frowning. “What good is that on Trantor, where there are human beings everywhere? They have them on other worlds, but—”

Davan said, “But not on Trantor. I know. Except that they are useful in the slums, in the forgotten, decaying corridors and alleyways.”

“And where did you get it?” asked Seldon.

Davan said, “It’s enough that I have it. —But we’ve got to get you away, Master Seldon. Too many people want you and I want my powerful friend to have you.”

“Where is he, this powerful friend of yours?”

“He’s approaching. At least a new thirty-seven-degree source is registering and I don’t see that it can be anyone else.”

Through the door strode a newcomer, but Seldon’s glad exclamation died on his lips. It was not Chetter Hummin.

WYE— . . . A sector of the world-city of Trantor . . . In the latter centuries of the Galactic Empire, Wye was the strongest and stablest portion of the world-city. Its rulers had long aspired to the Imperial throne, justifying that by their descent from early Emperors. Under Mannix IV, Wye was militarized and (Imperial authorities later claimed) was planning a planet-wide coup . . .

The man who entered was tall and muscular. He had a long blond mustache that curled up at the tips and a fringe of hair that went down the sides of his face and under his chin, leaving the point of his chin and his lower lip smoothly bare and seeming a little moist. His head was so closely cropped and his hair was so light that, for one unpleasant moment, Seldon was reminded of Mycogen.

The newcomer wore what was unmistakably a uniform. It was red and white and about his waist was a wide belt decorated with silver studs.

His voice, when he spoke, was a rolling bass and its accent was not like any that Seldon had heard before. Most unfamiliar accents sounded uncouth in Seldon’s experience, but this one seemed almost musical, perhaps because of the richness of the low tones.

“I am Sergeant Emmer Thalus,” he rumbled in a slow succession of syllables. “I have come seeking Dr. Hari Seldon.”

Seldon said, “I am he.” In an aside to Dors, he muttered, “If Hummin couldn’t come himself, he certainly sent a magnificent side of beef to represent him.”

The sergeant favored Seldon with a stolid and slightly prolonged look. Then he said, “Yes. You have been described to me. Please come with me, Dr. Seldon.”

Seldon said, “Lead the way.”

The sergeant stepped backward. Seldon and Dors Venabili stepped forward.

The sergeant stopped and raised a large hand, palm toward Dors. “I have been instructed to take Dr. Hari Seldon with me. I have not been instructed to take anyone else.”

For a moment, Seldon looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then his look of surprise gave way to anger. “It’s quite impossible that you have been told that, Sergeant. Dr. Dors Venabili is my associate and my companion. She must come with me.”

“That is not in accordance with my instructions, Doctor.”

“I don’t care about your instructions in any way, Sergeant Thalus. I do not budge without her.”

“What’s more,” said Dors with clear irritation, “ my instructions are to protect Dr. Seldon at all times. I cannot do that unless I am with him. Therefore, where he goes, I go.”

The sergeant looked puzzled. “My instructions are strict that I see to it that no harm comes to you, Dr. Seldon. If you will not come voluntarily, I must carry you to my vehicle. I will try to do so gently.”

He extended his two arms as though to seize Seldon by the waist and carry him off bodily.

Seldon skittered backward and out of reach. As he did so, the side of his right palm came down on the sergeant’s right upper arm where the muscles were thinnest, so that he struck the bone.

The sergeant drew a sudden deep breath and seemed to shake himself a bit, but turned, face expressionless, and advanced again. Davan, watching, remained where he was, motionless, but Raych moved behind the sergeant.

Seldon repeated his palm stroke a second time, then a third, but now Sergeant Thalus, anticipating the blow, lowered his shoulder to catch it on hard muscle.

Dors had drawn her knives.

“Sergeant,” she said forcefully. “Turn in this direction. I want you to understand I may be forced to hurt you severely if you persist in attempting to carry Dr. Seldon off against his will.”

The sergeant paused, seemed to take in the slowly waving knives solemnly, then said, “It is not in my instructions to refrain from harming anyone but Dr. Seldon.”

His right hand moved with surprising speed toward the neuronic whip in the holster at his hip. Dors moved as quickly forward, knives flashing.

Neither completed the movement.

Dashing forward, Raych had pushed at the sergeant’s back with his left hand and withdrew the sergeant’s weapon from its holster with his right. He moved away quickly, holding the neuronic whip in both hands now and shouting, “Hands up, Sergeant, or you’re gonna get it!”

The sergeant whirled and a nervous look crossed his reddening face. It was the only moment that its stolidity had weakened. “Put that down, sonny,” he growled. “You don’t know how it works.”

Raych howled, “I know about the safety. It’s off and this thing can fire. And it will if you try to rush me.”

The sergeant froze. He clearly knew how dangerous it was to have an excited twelve-year-old handling a powerful weapon.

Nor did Seldon feel much better. He said, “Careful, Raych. Don’t shoot. Keep your finger off the contact.”

“I ain’t gonna let him rush me.”

“He won’t. —Sergeant, please don’t move. Let’s get something straight. You were told to take me away from here. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” said the sergeant, eyes somewhat protruding and firmly fixed on Raych (whose eyes were as firmly fixed on the sergeant).

“But you were not told to take anyone else. Is that right?”

“No, I was not, Doctor,” said the sergeant firmly. Not even the threat of a neuronic whip was going to make him weasel. One could see that.

“Very well, but listen to me, Sergeant. Were you told not to take anyone else?”

“I just said—”

“No no. Listen, Sergeant. There’s a difference. Were your instructions simply ‘Take Dr. Seldon!’? Was that the entire order, with no mention of anyone else, or were the orders more specific? Were your orders as follows: ‘Take Dr. Seldon and don’t take anyone else’?”

The sergeant turned that over in his head, then he said, “I was told to take you, Dr. Seldon.”

“Then there was no mention of anyone else, one way or the other, was there?”

Pause. “No.”

“You were not told to take Dr. Venabili, but you were not told not to take Dr. Venabili either. Is that right?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“So you can either take her or not take her, whichever you please?”

Long pause. “I suppose so.”

“Now then, here’s Raych, the young fellow who’s got a neuronic whip pointing at you— your neuronic whip, remember—and he is anxious to use it.”