68
The appliance store dealer’s mustache was clearly as lush as it had been in his younger days, but it was grizzled now, even though the hair on his head was still black. He touched the mustache out of sheer habit as he gazed at Dors and brushed it back on each side.
He said, “You’re not a Dahlite.”
“Yes, but I still want a knife.”
He said, “It’s against the law to sell knives.”
Dors said, “I’m not a policewoman or a government agent of any sort. I’m going to Billibotton.”
He stared at her thoughtfully. “Alone?”
“With my friend.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Seldon, who was waiting outside sullenly.
“You’re buying it for him?” He stared at Seldon and it didn’t take him long to decide. “He’s an outsider too. Let him come in and buy it for himself.”
“He’s not a government agent either. And I’m buying it for myself.”
The dealer shook his head. “Outsiders are crazy.
“Is that the largest you have?”
“Best woman’s knife made.”
“Show me a man’s knife.”
“You don’t want one that’s too heavy. Do you know how to use one of these things?”
“I’ll learn and I’m not worried about heavy. Show me a man’s knife.”
The dealer smiled. “Well, if you want to see one—” He moved farther down the counter and brought up a much fatter stub. He gave it a twist and what appeared to be a butcher’s knife emerged.
He handed it to her, handle first, still smiling.
She said, “Show me that twist of yours.”
He showed her on a second knife, slowly twisting one way to make the blade appear, then the other way to make it disappear. “Twist
“Do it again, sir.”
The dealer obliged.
Dors said, “All right, close it and toss me the haft.”
He did, in a slow upward loop.
She caught it, handed it back, and said, “Faster.”
He raised his eyebrows and then, without warning, backhanded it to her left side. She made no attempt to bring over her right hand, but caught it with her left and the blade showed tumescently at once—then disappeared. The dealer’s mouth fell open.
“And this is the largest you have?” she said.
“It is. If you try to use it, it will just tire you out.”
“I’ll breathe deeply. I’ll take a second one too.”
“For your friend?”
“No. For me.”
“You plan on using
“I’ve got two hands.”
The dealer sighed. “Mistress,
“I can guess. How do I put these knives on my belt?”
“Not the one you’ve got on, Mistress. That’s not a knife belt. I can sell you one, though.”
“Will it hold two knives?”
“I might have a double belt somewhere. Not much call for them.”
“I’m calling for them.”
“I may not have it in your size.”
“Then we’ll cut it down or something.”
“It will cost you a lot of credits.”
“My credit tile will cover it.”
When she emerged at last, Seldon said sourly, “You look ridiculous with that bulky belt.”
“Really, Hari? Too ridiculous to go with you to Billibotton? Then let’s both go back to the apartment.”
“No. I’ll go on by myself. I’ll be safer by myself.”
Dors said, “There is no use saying that, Hari. We both go back or we both go forward. Under no circumstances do we separate.”
And somehow the firm look in her blue eyes, the set to her lips, and the manner in which her hands had dropped to the hafts at her belt, convinced Seldon she was serious.
“Very well,” he said, “but if you survive and if I ever see Hummin again, my price for continuing to work on psychohistory—much as I have grown fond of you—will be your removal. Do you understand?”
And suddenly Dors smiled. “Forget it. Don’t practice your chivalry on me.
69
They got off the Expressway where the sign, flickering in the air, said: BILLIBOTTON. As perhaps an indication of what might be expected, the second I was smeared, a mere blob of fainter light.
They made their way out of the car and down to the walkway below. It was early afternoon and at first glance, Billibotton seemed much like the part of Dahl they had left.
The air, however, had a pungent aroma and the walkway was littered with trash. One could tell that auto- sweeps were not to be found in the neighborhood.
And, although the walkway looked ordinary enough, the atmosphere was uncomfortable and as tense as a too-tightly coiled spring.
Perhaps it was the people. There seemed the normal number of pedestrians, but they were not like pedestrians elsewhere, Seldon thought. Ordinarily, in the press of business, pedestrians were self-absorbed and in the endless crowds on the endless thoroughfares of Trantor, people could only survive—psychologically—by ignoring each other. Eyes slid away. Brains were closed off. There was an artificial privacy with each person enclosed in a velvet fog of his or her own making. Or there was the ritualistic friendliness of an evening promenade in those neighborhoods that indulged in such things.
But here in Billibotton, there was neither friendliness nor neutral withdrawal. At least not where outsiders were concerned. Every person who passed, moving in either direction, turned to stare at Seldon and Dors. Every pair of eyes, as though attached by invisible cords to the two outsiders, followed them with ill will.
The clothing of the Billibottoners tended to be smudged, old, and sometimes torn. There was a patina of ill-washed poverty over them and Seldon felt uneasy at the slickness of his own new clothes.
He said, “Where in Billibotton does Mother Rittah live, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know,” said Dors. “You brought us here, so you do the supposing. I intend to confine myself to the task of protection and I think I’m going to find it necessary to do just that.”
Seldon said, “I assumed it would only be necessary to ask the way of any passerby, but somehow I’m not encouraged to do so.”
“I don’t blame you. I don’t think you’ll find anyone springing to your assistance.”
“On the other hand, there are such things as youngsters.” He indicated one with a brief gesture of one hand. A boy who looked to be about twelve—in any case young enough to lack the universal adult male mustache—had
