look.
And there she was, age fourteen plus, weary enough for eighty plus, frightened enough for five minus.
What stranger of the hundreds that brushed past her—actually brushed past her, so that she could feel their touch—was a Second Foundationer? What stranger could not help but instantly destroy her for her guilty knowledge—her unique knowledge—of knowing where the Second Foundation was?
And the voice that cut in on her was a thunderclap that iced the scream in her throat into a voiceless slash.
“Look, miss,” it said, irritably, “are you using the ticket-machine or are you just standing there?”
It was the first she realized that she was standing in front of a ticket-machine. You put a high-denomination bill into the clipper which sank out of sight. You pressed the button below your destination and a ticket came out together with the correct change as determined by an electronic scanning device that never made a mistake. It was a very ordinary thing and there was no cause for anyone to stand before it for five minutes.
Arcadia plunged a two-hundred credit into the clipper, and was suddenly aware of the button labeled, “Trantor.” Trantor, dead capital of the dead Empire—the planet on which she was born. She pressed it in a dream. Nothing happened, except that the red letters flicked on and off, reading 172.18—172.18—172.18—
It was the amount she was short. Another two-hundred credit. The ticket was spit out toward her. It came loose when she touched it, and the change tumbled out afterward.
She seized it and ran. She felt the man behind her pressing close, anxious for his own chance at the machine, but she twisted out from before him and did not look behind.
Yet there was nowhere to run. They were all her enemies.
Without quite realizing it, she was watching the gigantic, glowing signs that puffed into the air:
For a trifling sum, she could have hired a notifier which could have been set for any destination she cared and which would, when placed in her purse, make itself heard only to her, fifteen minutes before take-off time. But such devices are for people who are reasonably secure, however; who can pause to think of them.
And then, attempting to look both ways simultaneously, she ran head-on into a soft abdomen. She felt the startled outbreath and grunt, and a hand come down on her arm. She writhed desperately but lacked breath to do more than mew a bit in the back of her throat.
Her captor held her firmly and waited. Slowly, he came into focus for her and she managed to look at him. He was rather plump and rather short. His hair was white and copious, being brushed back to give a pompadour effect that looked strangely incongruous above a round and ruddy face that shrieked its peasant origin.
“What’s the matter?” he said finally, with a frank and twinkling curiosity. “You look scared.”
“Sorry,” muttered Arcadia in a frenzy. “I’ve got to go. Pardon me.”
But he disregarded that entirely, and said, “Watch out, little girl. You’ll drop your ticket.” And he lifted it from her resistless white fingers and looked at it with every evidence of satisfaction.
“I thought so,” he said, and then bawled in bull-like tones, “
A woman was instantly at his side, somewhat more short, somewhat more round, somewhat more ruddy. She wound a finger about a stray gray lock to shove it beneath a well-outmoded hat.
“Pappa,” she said, reprovingly, “why do you shout in a crowd like that? People look at you like you were crazy. Do you think you are on the farm?”
And she smiled sunnily at the unresponsive Arcadia, and added, “He has manners like a bear.” Then, sharply, “Pappa, let go the little girl. What are you doing?”
But Pappa simply waved the ticket at her. “Look,” he said, “she’s going to Trantor.”
Mamma’s face was a sudden beam, “You’re from Trantor? Let go her arm, I say, Pappa.” She turned the overstuffed valise she was carrying onto its side and forced Arcadia to sit down with a gentle but unrelenting pressure. “Sit down,” she said, “and rest your little feet. It will be no ship yet for an hour and the benches are crowded with sleeping loafers. You are from Trantor?”
Arcadia drew a deep breath and gave in. Huskily, she said, “I was born there.”
And Mamma clapped her hands gleefully, “One month we’ve been here and till now we met nobody from home. This is very nice. Your parents—” she looked about vaguely.
“I’m not with my parents,” Arcadia said, carefully.
“All alone? A little girl like you?” Mamma was at once a blend of indignation and sympathy, “How does that come to be?”
“Mamma,” Pappa plucked at her sleeve, “let me tell you. There’s something wrong. I think she’s frightened.” His voice, though obviously intended for a whisper, was quite plainly audible to Arcadia. “She was running—I was watching her—and not looking where she was going. Before I could step out of the way, she bumped into me. And you know what? I think she’s in trouble.”
“So shut your mouth, Pappa. Into you, anybody could bump.” But she joined Arcadia on the valise, which creaked wearily under the added weight, and put an arm about the girl’s trembling shoulder. “You’re running away from somebody, sweetheart? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I’ll help you.”
Arcadia looked across at the kind gray eyes of the woman and felt her lips quivering. One part of her brain was telling her that here were people from Trantor, with whom she could go, who could help her remain on that planet until she could decide what next to do, where next to go. And another part of her brain, much the louder, was telling her in jumbled incoherence that she did not remember her mother, that she was weary to death of fighting the universe, that she wanted only to curl into a little ball with strong, gentle arms about her, that if her mother had lived, she might .?.?. she might—
And for the first time that night, she was crying; crying like a little baby, and glad of it; clutching tightly at the old-fashioned dress and dampening a corner of it thoroughly, while soft arms held her closely and a gentle hand stroked her curls.
Pappa stood helplessly looking at the pair, fumbling futilely for a handkerchief which, when produced, was snatched from his hand. Mamma glared an admonition of quietness at him. The crowds surged about the little group with the true indifference of disconnected crowds everywhere. They were effectively alone.
Finally, the weeping trickled to a halt, and Arcadia smiled weakly as she dabbed at red eyes with the borrowed handkerchief. “Golly,” she whispered, “I—”
“
Arcadia scrabbled what remained of her wits together. She could not tell them the truth. She could tell nobody the truth—And yet she was too worn to invent a useful lie.
She said, whisperingly, “I’m better, now.”
“Good,” said Mamma. “Now tell me why you’re in trouble. You did nothing wrong? Of course, whatever you did, we’ll help you; but tell us the truth.”
“For a friend from Trantor, anything,” added Pappa, expansively, “eh, Mamma?”
“Shut your mouth, Pappa,” was the response, without rancor.
Arcadia was groping in her purse. That, at least, was still hers, despite the rapid clothes-changing forced upon her in Lady Callia’s apartments. She found what she was looking for and handed it to Mamma.
“These are my papers,” she said, diffidently. It was shiny, synthetic parchment which had been issued her by the Foundation’s ambassador on the day of her arrival and which had been countersigned by the appropriate Kalganian official. It was large, florid, and impressive. Mamma looked at it helplessly, and passed it to Pappa, who absorbed its contents with an impressive pursing of the lips.
He said, “You’re from the Foundation?”
“Yes. But I was born in Trantor. See, it says that—”
“Ah-hah. It looks all right to me. You’re named Arcadia, eh? That’s a good Trantorian name. But where’s your uncle? It says here you came in the company of Homir Munn, uncle.”
“He’s been arrested,” said Arcadia, drearily.
“Arrested!”—from the two of them at once. “What for?” asked Mamma. “He did something?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. We were just on a visit. Uncle Homir had business with Lord Stettin but
