“I will try, Hummin,” said Seldon, a little offended. “Please be aware that the trouble is not of my seeking. I am trying to learn what may well take me thirty lifetimes to learn if I am to have the slightest chance of organizing psychohistory.”
“I understand,” said Hummin. “Your efforts at learning brought you to Upperside in Streeling and to the Elders’ aerie in Mycogen and to who can guess where in Dahl. As for you, Dr. Venabili, I know you’ve been trying to take care of Seldon, but you must try harder. Get it fixed in your head that he is the most important person on Trantor—or in the Galaxy, for that matter—and that he must be kept secure at any cost.”
“I will continue to do my best,” said Dors stiffly.
“And as for your host family, they have their peculiarities, but they are essentially good people with whom I have dealt before. Try not to get them in trouble either.”
But Tisalver, at least, did not seem to anticipate trouble of any kind from his new tenants and his expressed pleasure at the company he now had—quite apart from the rent credits he would be getting—seemed quite sincere.
He had never been outside Dahl and his appetite for tales of distant places was enormous. His wife too, bowing and smiling, would listen and their daughter, with a finger in her mouth, would allow one eye to peep from behind the door.
It was usually after dinner, when the entire family assembled, that Seldon and Dors were expected to talk of the outside world. The food was plentiful enough, but it was bland and often tough. So soon after the tangy food of Mycogen, it was all but inedible. The “table” was a long shelf against one wall and they ate standing up.
Gentle questioning by Seldon elicited the fact that this was the usual situation among Dahlites as a whole and was not due to unusual poverty. Of course, Mistress Tisalver explained, there were those with high government jobs in Dahl who were prone to adopt all kinds of effete customs like chairs—she called them “body shelves”—but this was looked down upon by the solid middle class.
Much as they disapproved of unnecessary luxury, though, the Tisalvers loved hearing about it, listening with a virtual storm of tongue-clicking when told of mattresses lifted on legs, of ornate chests and wardrobes, and of a superfluity of tableware.
They listened also to a description of Mycogenian customs, while Jirad Tisalver stroked his own hair complacently and made it quite obvious that he would as soon think of emasculation as of depilation. Mistress Tisalver was furious at any mention of female subservience and flatly refused to believe that the Sisters accepted it tranquilly.
They seized most, however, on Seldon’s casual reference to the Imperial grounds. When, upon questioning, it turned out that Seldon had actually seen and spoken to the Emperor, a blanket of awe enveloped the family. It took a while before they dared ask questions and Seldon found that he could not satisfy them. He had not, after all, seen much of the grounds and even less of the Palace interior.
That disappointed the Tisalvers and they were unremitting in their attempts to elicit more. And, having heard of Seldon’s Imperial adventure, they found it hard to believe Dors’s assertion that, for her part, she had never been anywhere in the Imperial grounds. Most of all, they rejected Seldon’s casual comment that the Emperor had talked and behaved very much as any ordinary human being would. That seemed utterly impossible to the Tisalvers.
After three evenings of this, Seldon found himself tiring. He had, at first, welcomed the chance to do nothing for a while (during the day, at least) but view some of the history book-films that Dors recommended. The Tisalvers turned over their book-viewer to their guests during the day with good grace, though the little girl seemed unhappy and was sent over to a neighbor’s apartment to use theirs for her homework.
“It doesn’t help,” Seldon said restlessly in the security of his room after he had piped in some music to discourage eavesdropping. “I can see your fascination with history, but it’s all endless detail. It’s a mountainous heap—no, a Galactic heap—of data in which I can’t see the basic organization.”
“I dare say,” said Dors, “that there must have been a time when human beings saw no organization in the stars in the sky, but eventually they discovered the Galactic structure.”
“And I’m sure that took generations, not weeks. There must have been a time when physics seemed a mass of unrelated observations before the central natural laws were discovered and
“What of them? I think they’re being very nice.”
“They’re curious.”
“Of course they are. Wouldn’t you be if you were in their place?”
“But is it just curiosity? They seem to be ferociously interested in my meeting with the Emperor.”
Dors seemed impatient. “Again .?.?. it’s only natural. Wouldn’t you be—if the situation was reversed?”
“It makes me nervous.”
“Hummin brought us here.”
“Yes, but he’s not perfect. He brought me to the University and I was maneuvered Upperside. He brought us to Sunmaster Fourteen, who entrapped us. You know he did. Twice bitten, at least once shy. I’m tired of being questioned.”
“Then turn the tables, Hari. Aren’t you interested in Dahl?”
“Of course. What do
“Nothing. It’s just one of more than eight hundred sectors and I’ve only been on Trantor a little over two years.”
“Exactly. And there are twenty-five million other worlds and I’ve been on this problem only a little over two months. —I tell you. I want to go back to Helicon and take up a study of the mathematics of turbulence, which was my Ph.D. problem, and forget I ever saw—or thought I saw—that turbulence gave an insight into human society.”
But that evening he said to Tisalver, “But you know, Master Tisalver, you’ve never told me what you do, the nature of your work.”
“Me?” Tisalver placed his fingers on his chest, which was covered by the simple white T-shirt with nothing underneath, which seemed to be the standard male uniform in Dahl. “Nothing much. I work at the local holovision station in programming. It’s very dull, but it’s a living.”
“And it’s respectable,” said Mistress Tisalver. “It means he doesn’t have to work in the heatsinks.”
“The heatsinks?” said Dors, lifting her light eyebrows and managing to look fascinated.
“Oh well,” said Tisalver, “that’s what Dahl is best known for. It isn’t much, but forty billion people on Trantor need energy and we supply a lot of it. We don’t get appreciated, but I’d like to see some of the fancy sectors do without it.”
Seldon looked confused. “Doesn’t Trantor get its energy from solar power stations in orbit?”
“Some,” said Tisalver, “and some from nuclear fusion stations out on the islands and some from microfusion motors and some from wind stations Upperside, but
Dors said quickly, “We are Outworlders, you know.” (She had almost said “tribespeople,” but had caught herself in time.) “Especially Dr. Seldon. He’s only been on Trantor a couple of months.”
“Really?” said Mistress Tisalver. She was a trifle shorter than her husband, was plump without quite being fat, had her dark hair drawn tightly back into a bun, and possessed rather beautiful dark eyes. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her thirties.
(After a period in Mycogen, not actually long in duration but intense, it struck Dors as odd to have a woman enter the conversation at will. How quickly modes and manners establish themselves, she thought, and made a mental note to mention that to Seldon—one more item for his psychohistory.)
“Oh yes,” she said. “Dr. Seldon is from Helicon.”
Mistress Tisalver registered polite ignorance. “And where might that be?”
Dors said, “Why, it’s—” She turned to Seldon. “Where is it, Hari?”
Seldon looked abashed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could locate it very easily on a Galactic model without looking up the co-ordinates. All I can say is that it’s on the other side of the central black hole from Trantor and getting there by hypership is rather a chore.”
