Foundation's Edge (29 page)

he was preparing to be stubborn. “Are you saying there was no planet on which the human species originated?”

“Oh no. Of course, there was an Earth. There’s no question of that! But there isn’t any Earth now. No inhabited Earth. It’s gone!”

Pelorat said, unmoved, “There are tales—”

“Hold on, Janov,” said Trevize. “Tell me, Compor, how do you know this?”

“What do you mean, how? It’s my heritage. I trace my ancestry from the Sirius Sector, if I may repeat that fact without boring you. We know all about Earth out there. It exists in that sector, which means it’s not part of the Foundation Federation, so apparently no one on Terminus bothers with it. But that’s where Earth is, just the same.”

“That is one suggestion, yes,” said Pelorat. “There was considerable enthusiasm for that ‘Sirius Alternative,’ as they called it, in the days of the Empire.”

Compor said vehemently. “It’s not an alternative. It’s a fact.”

Pelorat said, “What would you say if I told you I know of many different places in the Galaxy that are called Earth—or were called Earth—by the people who lived in its stellar neighborhood?”

“But this is the real thing,” said Compor. “The Sirius Sector is the longest-inhabited portion of the Galaxy. Everyone knows that.”

“The Sirians claim it, certainly,” said Pelorat, unmoved.

Compor looked frustrated. “I tell you—”

But Trevize said, “Tell us what happened to Earth. You say it’s not inhabited any longer. Why not?”

“Radioactivity. The whole planetary surface is radioactive because of nuclear reactions that went out of control, or nuclear explosions— I’m not sure—and now no life is possible there.”

The three stared at each other for a while and then Compor felt it necessary to repeat. He said, “I tell you, there’s no Earth. There’s no use looking for it.”

Janov Pelorat’s face was, for once, not expressionless. It was not that there was passion in it—or any of the more unstable emotions. It was that his eyes had narrowed—and that a kind of fierce intensity had filled every plane of his face.

He said, and his voice lacked any trace of its usual tentative quality, “How did you say you know all this?”

“I told you,” said Compor. “It’s my heritage.”

“Don’t be silly, young man. You are a Councilman. That means you must be born on one of the Federation worlds—Smyrno, I think you said earlier.”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, what heritage are you talking about? Are you telling me that you possess Sirian genes that fill you with inborn knowledge of the Sirian myths concerning Earth.”

Compor looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

Compor paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. He said quietly, “My family has old books of Sirian history. An external heritage, not an internal one. It’s not something we talk about outside, especially if one is intent on political advancement. Trevize seems to think I am, but, believe me, I mention it only to good friends.”

There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Theoretically all Foundation citizens are alike, but those from the old worlds of the Federation are more alike than those from the newer ones—and those that trace from worlds outside the Federation are least alike of all. But, never mind that. Aside from the books, I once visited the old worlds. Trevize—hey, there—”

Trevize had wandered off toward one end of the room, looking out a triangular window. It served to let in a view of the sky and to diminish the view of the city—more light and more privacy. Trevize stretched upward to look down.

He returned through the empty room. “Interesting window design,” he said. “You called me, Councilman?”

“Yes. Remember the postcollegiate tour I took?”

“After graduation? I remember very well. We were pals. Pals forever. Foundation of trust. Two against the world. You went off on your tour. I joined the Navy, full of patriotism. Somehow I didn’t think I wanted to tour with you—some instinct told me not to. I wish the instinct had stayed with me.”

Compor did not rise to the bait. He said, “I visited Comporellon. Family tradition said that my ancestors had come from there—at least on my father’s side. We were of the ruling family in ancient times before the Empire absorbed us, and my name is derived from

the world—or so the family tradition has it. We had an old, poetic name for the star Comporellon circled—Epsilon Eridani.”

“What does that mean?” asked Pelorat.

Compor shook his head. “I don’t know that it has any meaning. Just tradition. They live with a great deal of tradition. It’s an old world. They have long, detailed records of Earth’s history, but no one talks about it much. They’re superstitious about it. Every time they mention the word, they lift up both hands with first and second fingers crossed to ward off misfortune.”

“Did you tell this to anyone when you came back?”

“Of course not. Who would be interested? And I wasn’t going to force the tale on anyone. No, thank you! I had a political career to develop and the last thing I want is to stress my foreign origin.”

“What about the satellite? Describe Earth’s satellite,” said Pelorat sharply.

Compor looked astonished. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Does it have one?”

“I don’t recall reading or hearing about it. But I’m sure if you’ll consult the Comporellonian records, you can 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.”

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.”

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 can judge that first one, but by what magic can he guess what’s in the computer’s vitals?”

“But he did it, Golan.”

“He certainly did,” said Trevize, “and the only possible way I can imagine him doing so is by knowing in advance where we were going to go. By knowing, not judging.”

Pelorat considered that. “Quite impossible, my boy. How could he

know? We didn’t decide on our destination till after we were on board the Far Star.”

“I know that. —And what about this day of meditation?”

“Compor didn’t lie to us. The waiter said it was a day of meditation when we came in here and asked him.”

“Yes, he did, but he said the restaurant wasn’t closed. In fact, what he said was: ‘Sayshell City isn’t the backwoods. It doesn’t close down.’ People meditate, in other words, but not in the big town, where everyone is sophisticated and there’s no place for small-town piety. So there’s traffic and it’s busy—perhaps not quite as busy as on ordinary days—but busy.”

“But, Golan, no one came into the tourist center while we were there. I was aware of that. Not one person entered.”

“I noticed that, too. I even went to the window at one point and looked out and saw clearly that the streets around the center had a good scattering of people on foot and in vehicles—and yet not one person entered. The day of meditation made a good cover. We would not have questioned the fortunate privacy we had if I simply hadn’t made up my mind not to trust that son of two strangers.”

Pelorat said, “What is the significance of all this, then?”

“I think it’s simple, Janov. We have here someone who knows where we’re going as soon as we do, even though he and we are in separate spaceships, and we also have here someone who can keep a public building empty when it is surrounded by people in order that we might talk in convenient privacy.”

“Would you have me believe he can perform miracles?”

“Certainly. If it so happens that Compor is an agent of the Second Foundation and can control minds; if he can read yours and mine in a distant spaceship; if he can influence his way through a customs station at once; if he can land gravitically, with no border patrol outraged at his defiance of the radio beams; and if he can influence minds in such a way as to keep people from entering a building he doesn’t want entered.