what that “story” was and speculations concerning it (there have been many) are futile. It remains one of the many intriguing mysteries concerning Seldon’s career.
45
Raindrop Forty-Three stared at Seldon, wild-eyed and breathing heavily.
“I can’t stay here,” she said.
Seldon looked about. “No one is bothering us. Even the Brother from whom we got the dainties said nothing about us. He seemed to take us as a perfectly normal pair.”
“That’s because there is nothing unusual about us—when the light is dim, when you keep your voice low so the tribesman accent is less noticeable, and when I seem calm. But now—” Her voice was growing hoarse.
“What of now?”
“I am nervous and tense. I am .?.?. in a perspiration.”
“Who is to notice? Relax. Calm down.”
“I can’t relax here. I can’t calm down while I may be noticed.”
“Where are we to go, then?”
“There are little sheds for resting. I have worked here. I know about them.”
She was walking rapidly now and Seldon followed.
Up a small ramp, which he would not have noticed in the twilight without her, there was a line of doors, well spread apart.
“The one at the end,” she muttered. “If it’s free.”
It was unoccupied. A small glowing rectangle said NOT IN USE and the door was ajar.
Raindrop Forty-Three looked about rapidly, motioned Seldon in, then stepped inside herself. She closed the door and, as she did so, a small ceiling light brightened the interior.
Seldon said, “Is there any way the sign on the door can indicate this shed is in use?”
“That happened automatically when the door closed and the light went on,” said the Sister.
Seldon could feel air softly circulating with a small sighing sound, but where on Trantor was that ever- present sound and feel not apparent?
The room was not large, but it had a cot with a firm, efficient mattress, and what were obviously clean sheets. There was a chair and table, a small refrigerator, and something that looked like an enclosed hot plate, probably a tiny food-heater.
Raindrop Forty-Three sat down on the chair, sitting stiffly upright, visibly attempting to force herself into relaxation.
Seldon, uncertain as to what he ought to do, remained standing till she gestured—a bit impatiently—for him to sit on the cot. He did so.
Raindrop Forty-Three said softly, as though talking to herself, “If it is ever known that I have been here with a man—even if only a tribesman—I shall indeed be an outcast.”
Seldon rose quickly. “Then let’s not stay here.”
“Sit down. I can’t go out when I’m in this mood. You’ve been asking about religion. What
It seemed to Seldon that she had changed completely. Gone was the passivity, the subservience. There was none of the shyness, the backwardness in the presence of a male. She was glaring at him through narrowed eyes.
“I told you. Knowledge. I’m a scholar. It is my profession and my desire to
“I said we have
Seldon said, “Twice you’ve said you have history. How old?”
“It goes back twenty thousand years.”
“Truly? Let us speak frankly. Is it real history or is it something that has degenerated into legend?”
“It is real history, of course.”
Seldon was on the point of asking how she could tell, but thought better of it. Was there really a chance that history might reach back twenty thousand years and be authentic? He was not a historian himself, so he would have to check with Dors.
But it seemed so likely to him that on every world the earliest histories were medleys of self-serving heroisms and minidramas that were meant as morality plays and were not to be taken literally. It was surely true of Helicon, yet you would find scarcely a Heliconian who would not swear by all the tales told and insist it was all true history. They would support, as such, even that perfectly ridiculous tale of the first exploration of Helicon and the encounters with large and dangerous flying reptiles—even though nothing like flying reptiles had been found to be native to any world explored and settled by human beings.
He said instead, “How does this history begin?”
There was a faraway look in the Sister’s eyes, a look that did not focus on Seldon or on anything in the room. She said, “It begins with a world—
“
“One world. There were others later, but ours was the first. One world, with space, with open air, with room for everyone, with fertile fields, with friendly homes, with warm people. For thousands of years we lived there and then we had to leave and skulk in one place or another until some of us found a corner of Trantor where we learned to grow food that brought us a little freedom. And here in Mycogen, we now have our own ways—and our own dreams.”
“And your histories give the full details concerning the original world? The one world?”
“Oh yes, it is all in a book and we all have it. Every one of us. We carry it at all times so that there is never a moment when any one of us cannot open it and read it and remember who we are and who we were and resolve that someday we will have our world back.”
“Do you know where this world is and who lives on it now?”
Raindrop Forty-Three hesitated, then shook her head fiercely. “We do not, but someday we will find it.”
“And you have this book in your possession now?”
“Of course.”
“May I see that book?”
Now a slow smile crossed the face of the Sister. She said, “So that’s what you want. I knew you wanted something when you asked to be guided through the microfarms by me alone.” She seemed a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think it was the
“It is all I want,” said Seldon earnestly. “I really did not have my mind on anything else. If you brought me here because you thought—”
She did not allow him to finish. “But here we are. Do you or don’t you want the Book?”
“Are you offering to let me see it?”
“On one condition.”
Seldon paused, weighing the possibility of serious trouble if he had overcome the Sister’s inhibitions to a greater extent than he had ever intended. “What condition?” he said.
Raindrop Forty-Three’s tongue emerged lightly and licked quickly at her lips. Then she said with a distinct tremor in her voice, “That you remove your skincap.”
