Foundation's Edge

find out.”

“But you know nothing?”

“Not about the satellite. Not that I recall.”

“Huh! How did Earth come to be radioactive?”

Compor shook his head and said nothing.

Pelorat said, “Think! You must have heard something.”

“It was seven years ago, Professor. I didn’t know then you’d be questioning me about it now. There was some sort of legend—they considered it history—”

“What was the legend?”

“Earth was radioactive—ostracized and mistreated by the Empire, its population dwindling—and it was going to destroy the Empire somehow.”

“One dying world was going to destroy the whole Empire?” interposed Trevize.

Compor said defensively, “I said it was a legend. I don’t know the details. Bel Arvardan was involved in the tale, I know.”

“Who was he?” asked Trevize.

“A historical character. I looked him up. He was an honest-to-Galaxy archaeologist back in the early days of the Empire and he maintained that Earth was in the Sirius Sector.”

“I’ve heard the name,” said Pelorat.

“He’s a folk hero in Comporellon. Look, if you want to know these things—go to Comporellon. It’s no use hanging around here.”

Pelorat said, “Just how did they say Earth planned to destroy the Empire?”

“Don’t know.” A certain sullenness was entering Compor’s voice.

“Did the radiation have anything to do with it?”

“Don’t know. There were tales of some mind-expander developed on Earth—a Synapsifier or something.”

“Did it create superminds?” said Pelorat in deepest tones of incredulity.

“I don’t think so. What I chiefly remember is that it didn’t work. People became bright and died young.”

Trevize said, “It was probably a morality myth. If you ask for too much, you lose even that which you have.”

Pelorat turned on Trevize in annoyance. “What do you know of morality myths?”

Trevize raised his eyebrows. “Your field may not be my field, Janov, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant.”

“What else do you remember about what you call the Synapsifier, Councilman Compor?” asked Pelorat.

“Nothing, and I won’t submit to any further cross-examination. Look, I followed you on orders from the Mayor. I was not ordered to make personal contact with you. I have done so only to warn you that you were followed and to tell you that you had been sent out to serve the Mayor’s purposes, whatever those might be. There was nothing else I should have discussed with you, but you surprised me by suddenly bringing up the matter of Earth. Well, let me repeat: Whatever there has existed there in the past—Bel Arvardan, the Synapsifier, whatever—that has nothing to do with what exists now. I’ll tell you again: Earth is a dead world. I strongly advise you to go to Comporellon, where you’ll find out everything you want to know. Just get away from here.”

“And, of course, you will dutifully tell the Mayor that we’re going to Comporellon—and you’ll follow us to make sure. Or maybe the Mayor knows already. I imagine she has carefully instructed and rehearsed you in every word you have spoken to us here because, for her own purposes, it’s in Comporellon that she wants us. Right?”

Compor’s face paled. He rose to his feet and almost stuttered in his effort to control his voice. “I’ve tried to explain. I’ve tried to be helpful. I shouldn’t have tried. You can drop yourself into a black hole, Trevize.”

He turned on his heel and walked away briskly without looking back.

Pelorat seemed a bit stunned. “That was rather tactless of you, Golan, old fellow. I could have gotten more out of him.”

“No, you couldn’t,” said Trevize gravely. “You could not have gotten one thing out of him that he was not ready to let you have. Janov, you don’t know what he is —Until today, I didn’t know what he is.”

3.

Pelorat hesitated to disturb Trevize. Trevize sat motionless in his chair, deep in thought.

Finally Pelorat said, “Are we just sitting here all night, Golan?”

Trevize started. “No, you’re quite right. We’ll be better off with people around us. Come!”

Pelorat rose. He said, “There won’t be people around us. Compor said this was some sort of meditation day.”

“Is that what he said? Was there traffic when we came along the road in our ground-car?”

“Yes, some.”

“Quite a bit, I thought. And then, when we entered the city, was it empty?”

“Not particularly. —Still, you’ve got to admit that this place has been empty.”

“Yes, it has. I noticed that particularly. —But come, Janov, I’m hungry. There’s got to be someplace to eat and we can afford to find something good. At any rate, we can find a place in which we can try some interesting Sayshellian novelty or, if we lose our nerve, good standard Galactic fare. —Come, once we’re safely surrounded, I’ll tell you what I think really happened here.”

4.

Trevize leaned back with a pleasant feeling of renewal. The restaurant was not expensive by Terminus standards, but it was certainly novel. It was heated, in part, by an open fire over which food was prepared. Meat tended to be served in bite-sized portions—in a variety of pungent sauces—which were picked up by fingers that were protected from grease and heat by smooth, green leaves that were cold, damp, and had a vaguely minty taste.

It was one leaf to each meat-bit and the whole was taken into the mouth. The waiter had carefully explained how it had to be done. Apparently accustomed to off-planet guests, he had smiled paternally as Trevize and Pelorat gingerly scooped at the steaming bits of meat, and was clearly delighted at the foreigners’ relief at finding that the leaves kept the fingers cool and cooled the meat, too, as one chewed.

Trevize said, “Delicious!” and eventually ordered a second helping. So did Pelorat.

They sat over a spongy, vaguely sweet dessert and a cup of coffee that had a caramelized flavor at which they shook dubious heads. They added syrup, at which the waiter shook his head.

Pelorat said, “Well, what happened back there at the tourist center?”

“You mean with Compor?”

“Was there anything else there we might discuss?”

Trevize looked about. They were in a deep alcove and had a certain limited privacy, but the restaurant was crowded and the natural hum of noise was a perfect cover.

He said in a low voice, “Isn’t it strange that he followed us to Sayshell?”

“He said he had this intuitive ability.”

“Yes, he was all-collegiate champion at hypertracking. I never questioned that till today. I quite see that you might be able to judge where someone was going to Jump by how he prepared for it if you had a certain developed skill at it, certain reflexes—but I don’t see how a tracker can judge a Jump series. You prepare only for the first one; the computer does all the others. The tracker