SURA NOVI STEPPED INTO THE CONTROL ROOM OF the small and rather old-fashioned ship that was carrying Stor Gendibal and herself across the parsecs in deliberate Jumps.
She had clearly been in the compact cleaning room, where oils, warm air, and a minimum of water freshed her body. She had a robe wrapped about her and was holding it tightly to herself in an agony of modesty. Her hair was dry but tangled.
She said in a low voice, “Master?”
Gendibal looked up from his charts and from his computer. “Yes, Novi?”
“I be sorrow-laden—” She paused and then said slowly, “I am very sorry to bother you, Master” (then she slipped again) “but I be loss-ridden for my clothing.”
“Your clothing?” Gendibal stared at her blankly for a moment and then rose to his feet in an access of contrition. “Novi, I forgot. They needed cleaning and they’re in the detergent-hamper. They’re cleaned, dried, folded, all set. I should have taken them out and placed them in clear sight. I forgot.”
“I did not like to—to—” (she looked down at herself) “offend.”
“You don’t offend,” said Gendibal cheerily. “Look, I promise you that when this is over I shall see to it that you have a great deal of clothing—new and in the latest fashion. We left in a hurry and it never occurred to me to bring a supply, but really, Novi, there are only the two of us and we’ll be together for some time in very close quarters and it’s needless to be—to be—so concerned—about—” He gestured vaguely, became aware of the horrified look in her eyes, and thought: Well, she’s only a country girl after all and has her standards; probably wouldn’t object to improprieties of all kinds—but with her clothes on.
Then he felt ashamed of himself and was glad that she was no “scholar” who could sense his thoughts. He said, “Shall I get your clothes for you?”
“Oh no, Master. It be not for you—I know where they are.”
He next saw her properly dressed and with her hair combed. There was a distinct shyness about her. “I am ashamed, Master, to have behaved so improper—ly. I should have found them for myself.”
“No matter,” said Gendibal. “You are doing very well with your Galactic, Novi. You are picking up the language of scholars very quickly.”
Novi smiled suddenly. Her teeth were somewhat uneven, but that scarcely detracted from the manner in which her face brightened and grew almost sweet under praise, thought Gendibal. He told himself that it was for that reason that he rather liked to praise her.
“The Hamish will think little of me when I am back home,” she said. “They will say I be—am a word-chopper. That is what they call someone who speaks—odd. They do not like such.”
“I doubt that you will be going back to the Hamish, Novi,” said Gendibal. “I am sure there will continue to be a place for you in the complex—with the scholars, that is—when this is over.”
“I would like that, Master.”
“It would not be fitting, Master. —But may I ask when this will be over?”
Gendibal shook his head. “I scarcely know. Right now, I must merely get to a particular place as quickly as I can. This ship, which is a very good ship for its kind, is slow and ‘as quickly as I can’ is not very quick. You see” (he gestured at the computer and the charts) “I must work out ways to get across large stretches of space, but the computer is limited in its abilities and I am not very skillful.”
“Must you be there quickly because there is danger, Master?”
“What makes you think there is danger, Novi?”
“Because I watch you sometimes when I don’t think you see me and your face looks—I do not know the word. Not afeared—I mean, frightened—and not bad-expecting, either.”
“Apprehensive,” muttered Gendibal.
“You look—concerned. Is that the word?”
“It depends. What do you mean by concerned, Novi?”
“I means you look as though you are saying to yourself, ‘What am I going to do next in this great trouble?’ ”
Gendibal looked astonished. “That is ‘concerned,’ but do you see that in my face, Novi? Back in the Place of Scholars, I am extremely careful that no one should see anything in my face, but I did think that, alone in space—except for you—I could relax and let it sit around in its underwear, so to speak. —I’m sorry. That has embarrassed you. What I’m trying to say is that if you’re so perceptive, I shall have to be more careful. Every once in a while I have to relearn the lesson that even nonmentalics can make shrewd guesses.”
Novi looked blank. “I don’t understand, Master.”
“But is there danger?”
“There’s a problem, Novi. I do not know what I shall find when I reach Sayshell—that is the place to which we are going. I may find myself in a situation of great difficulty.”
“Does that mean danger?”
“No, because I will be able to handle it.”
“How can you tell this?”
“Because I am a—scholar. And I am the best of them. There is nothing in the Galaxy I cannot handle.”
“Master,” and something very like agony twisted Novi’s face, “I do not wish to offensify—I mean, give offense—and make you angry. I have seen you with that oafish Rufirant and you were in danger then—and he was only a Hamish farmer. Now I do not know what awaits you—and you do not, either.”
Gendibal felt chagrined. “Are you afraid, Novi?”
“Not for myself, Master. I fear—I am afraid—for you.”
“You can say, ‘I fear,’ ” muttered Gendibal. “That is good Galactic, too.”
For a moment he was engaged in thought. Then he looked up, took Sura Novi’s rather coarse hands in his, and said, “Novi, I don’t want you to fear anything. Let me explain. You know how you could tell there was—or rather might be—danger from the look on my face—almost as though you could read my thoughts?”
“I can read thoughts better than you can. That is what scholars learn to do and I am a very good scholar.”
Novi’s eyes widened and her hand pulled loose from his. She seemed to be holding her breath. “You can read my thoughts?”
Gendibal held up a finger hurriedly. “I don’t, Novi. I don’t read your thoughts, except when I must. I do not read your thoughts.”
(He knew that, in a practical sense, he was lying. It was impossible to be with Sura Novi and not understand the general tenor of some of her thoughts. One scarcely needed to be a Second Foundation for that. Gendibal felt himself to be on the edge of blushing. But even from a Hamish-woman, such an attitude was flattering. —And yet she had to be reassured—out of common humanity—)
He said, “I can also change the way people think. I can make people feel hurt. I can—”
But Novi was shaking her head. “How can you do all that, Master? Rufirant—”
“Forget Rufirant,” said Gendibal testily. “I could have stopped him in a moment. I could have made him fall to the ground. I could have made all the Hamish—” He stopped suddenly and felt uneasily that he was boasting, that he was trying to impress this provincial woman. And she was shaking her head still.
“Master,” she said, “you are trying to make me not afraid, but I am not afraid except for you, so there is no need. I know you are a great scholar and can make this ship fly through space where it seems to me that no person can do aught but—I mean, anything but—be lost. And you use machines I cannot understand—and that no Hamish person could understand. But you need not tell me of these powers of mind, which surely cannot be so, since all the things you say you could have done to Rufirant, you did not do, though you were in danger.”
Gendibal pressed his lips together. Leave it at that, he thought. If the woman insists she is not afraid for herself, let it go at that. Yet he did not want her to think of him as a weakling and braggart. He simply did not.
He said, “If I did nothing to Rufirant, it was because I did not wish to. We scholars must never do anything to the Hamish. We are guests on your world. Do you understand that?”
“You are our masters. That is what we always say.”
“I do not know,” she said simply. “I don’t think he knew. He must have been mind-wandering—uh, out of his mind.”
Gendibal grunted. “In any case, we do not harm the Hamish. If I had been forced to stop him by—hurting him, I might have been poorly thought of by the other scholars and might perhaps have lost my position. But to save myself being badly hurt, I might have had to handle him just a small bit—the smallest possible.”
Novi drooped. “Then I need not have come rushing in like a great fool myself.”
“You did exactly right,” said Gendibal. “I have just said I would have done ill to have hurt him. You made it unnecessary to do so. You stopped him and that was well done. I am grateful.”
She smiled again—blissfully. “I see, then, why you have been so kind to me.”
“I was grateful, of course,” said Gendibal, a little flustered, “but the important thing is that you must understand there is no danger. I can handle an army of ordinary people. Any scholar can—especially the important ones—and I told you I am the best of all of them. There is no one in the Galaxy who can stand against me.”
“If you say so, Master, I am sure of it.”
“I do say so. Now, are you afraid for me?”
“No, Master, except—Master, is it only our scholars who can read minds and—Are there other scholars, other places, who can oppose you?”
For a moment Gendibal was staggered. The woman had an astonishing gift of penetration.
It was necessary to lie. He said, “There are none.”
“But there are many stars in the sky. I once tried to count them and couldn’t. If there are as many worlds of people as there are stars, wouldn’t some of them be scholars? Besides the scholars on our own world, I mean?”
“What if there are?”
“They would not be as strong as I am.”
“What if they leap upon you suddenly before you are aware?”
“They cannot do that. If any strange scholar were to approach, I would know at once. I would know it long before he could harm me.”
“Could you run?”
“I would not have to run. —But” (anticipating her objection) “if I had to, I could be in a new ship soon—better than any in the Galaxy. They would not catch me.”
“Might they not change your thoughts and make you stay?”
“There might be many of them. You are but one.”
“As soon as they are there, long before they can imagine it would be possible, I would know they were there and I would leave. Our whole world of scholars would then turn against them and they would not stand. And they would know that, so they would not dare do anything against me. In fact, they would not want me to know of them at all—and yet I will.”
“Because you are so much better than they?” said Novi, her face shining with a doubtful pride.
Gendibal could not resist. Her native intelligence, her quick understanding was such that it was simple joy to be with her. That soft-voiced monster, Speaker Delora Delarmi, had done him an incredible favor when she had forced this Hamish farmwoman upon him.
He said, “No, Novi, not because I am better than they, although I am. It is because I have you with me.”
“Exactly, Novi. Had you guessed that?”
“No, Master,” she said, wondering. “What is it I could do?”
She put her hand to her forehead. “Because I am unlearned, Master? Because I am so foolish?”
“No, dear.” He did not notice the manner of address. “It is because you are honest and possess no guile; because you are truthful and speak your mind; because you are warm of heart and—and other things. If other scholars send out anything to touch our minds—yours and mine—the touch will be instantly visible on the smoothness of your mind. I will be aware of that even before I would be aware of a touch of my own mind—and I will then have time for counteractive strategy; that is, to fight it off.”
There was a silence for long moments after that. Gendibal realized that it was not just happiness in Novi’s eyes, but exultation and pride, too. She said softly, “And you took me with you for that reason?”
Gendibal nodded. “That was an important reason. Yes.”
Her voice sank to a whisper. “How can I help as much as possible, Master?”
He said, “Remain calm. Don’t be afraid. And just—just stay as you are.”
She said, “I will stay as I am. And I will stand between you and danger, as I did in the case of Rufirant.”
She left the room and Gendibal looked after her.
It was strange how much there was to her. How could so simple a creature hold such complexity? The smoothness of her mind structure had, beneath it, enormous intelligence, understanding, and courage. What more could he ask—of anyone?
Somehow, he caught an image of Sura Novi—who was not a Speaker, not even a Second Foundationer, not even educated—grimly at his side, playing a vital auxiliary role in the drama that was coming.
Yet he could not see the details clearly. —He could not yet see precisely what it was that awaited them.
“A SINGLE JUMP,” MUTTERED TREVIZE, “AND there it is.”
“Gaia?” asked Pelorat, looking over Trevize’s shoulder at the screen.
“Gaia’s sun,” said Trevize. “Call it Gaia-S, if you like, to avoid confusion. Galactographers do that sometimes.”
“And where is Gaia itself, then? Or do we call it Gaia-P—for planet?”
“Gaia would be sufficient for the planet. We can’t see Gaia yet, however. Planets aren’t as easy to see as stars are and we’re still a hundred microparsecs away from Gaia-S. Notice that it’s only a star, even though a bright one. We’re not close enough for it to show as a disc. —And don’t stare at it directly, Janov. It’s still bright enough to damage the retina. I’ll throw in a filter, once I’m through with my observations. Then you can stare.”
“How much is a hundred microparsecs in units which a mythologist can understand, Golan?”
“Three billion kilometers; about twenty times the distance of Terminus from our own sun. Does that help?”
“Enormously. —But shouldn’t we get closer?”
“No!” Trevize looked up in surprise. “Not right away. After what we’ve heard about Gaia, why should we rush? It’s one thing to have guts; it’s another to be crazy. Let’s take a look first.”
“At what, Golan? You said we can’t see Gaia yet?”
“Not at a glance, no. But we have telescopic viewers and we have an excellent computer for rapid analysis. We can certainly study Gaia-S, to begin with, and we can perhaps make a few other observations. —Relax, Janov.” He reached out and slapped the other’s shoulder with an avuncular flourish.
After a pause Trevize said, “Gaia-S is a single star or, if it has a companion, that companion is much farther away from it than we are at the present moment and it is, at best, a red dwarf, which means we need not be concerned with it. Gaia-S is a G4 star, which means it is perfectly capable of having a habitable planet, and that’s good. If it were an A or an M, we would have to turn around and leave right now.”
Pelorat said, “I may be only a mythologist, but couldn’t we have determined the spectral class of Gaia-S from Sayshell?”
“We could and we did, Janov, but it never hurts to check at closer quarters. —Gaia-S has a planetary system, which is no surprise. There are two gas giants in view and one of them is nice and large—if the computer’s distance estimate is accurate. There could easily be another on the other side of the star and therefore not easily detectable, since we happen—by chance—to be somewhat close to the planetary plane. I can’t make out anything in the inner regions, which is also no surprise.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not really. It’s expected. The habitable planets would be of rock and metal and would be much smaller than the gas giants and much closer to the star, if they’re to be warm enough—and on both counts they would be much harder to see from out here. It means we’ll have to get in considerably closer in order to probe the area within four microparsecs of Gaia-S.”
“I’m not. We’ll make the Jump tomorrow.”
“Why not? Let’s give them a day to come out and get us—and for us to get away, perhaps, if we spot them coming and don’t like what we see.”
IT WAS A SLOW AND CAUTIOUS PROCESS. DURING the day that passed, Trevize grimly directed the calculation of several different approaches and tried to choose between them. Lacking hard data, he could depend only on intuition, which unfortunately told him nothing. He lacked that “sureness” he sometimes experienced.
Eventually he punched in directions for a Jump that moved them far out of the planetary plane.
“That will give us a better view of the region as a whole,” he said, “since we will see the planets in every part of their orbit as maximum apparent distance from the sun. And they—whoever they may be—might not be quite as watchful over regions outside the plane. —I hope.”
They were now as close to Gaia-S as the nearest and largest of the gas giants was and they were nearly half a billion kilometers from it. Trevize placed it under full magnification on the screen for Pelorat’s benefit. It was an impressive sight, even if the three sparse and narrow rings of debris were left out of account.
“It has the usual train of satellites,” said Trevize, “but at this distance from Gaia-S, we know that none of them are habitable. Nor are any of them settled by human beings who survive, let us say, under a glass dome or under other strictly artificial conditions.”
“How can you tell?”
“There’s no radio noise with characteristics that point them out as of intelligent origin. Of course,” he added, qualifying his statement at once, “it is conceivable that a scientific outpost might go to great pains to shield its radio signals and the gas giant produces radio noise that could mask what I was looking for. Still, our radio reception is delicate and our computer is an extraordinarily good one. I’d say the chance of human occupation of those satellites is extremely small.”
“Does that mean there’s no Gaia?”
“No. But it does mean that if there is a Gaia, it hasn’t bothered to settle those satellites. Perhaps it lacks the capacity to do so—or the interest.”
“Well, is there a Gaia?”
Trevize considered the sky with a seemingly endless supply of patience. He stopped at one point to say, “Frankly, the fact that they haven’t come out to pounce on us is disheartening, in a way. Surely, if they had the capacities they were described as having, they would have reacted to us by now.”
“It’s conceivable, I suppose,” said Pelorat glumly, “that the whole thing is a fantasy.”
“Call it a myth, Janov,” said Trevize with a wry smile, “and it will be right up your alley. Still, there’s a planet moving through the ecosphere, which means it might be habitable. I’ll want to observe it for at least a day.”
“To make sure it’s habitable, for one thing.”
“You just said it was in the ecosphere, Golan.”
“Yes, at the moment it is. But its orbit could be very eccentric, and could eventually carry it within a microparsec of the star, or out to fifteen microparsecs, or both. We’ll have to determine and compare the planet’s distance from Gaia-S with its orbital speed—and it would help to note the direction of its motion.”
“The orbit is nearly circular,” Trevize said finally, “which means that habitability becomes a much safer bet. Yet no one’s coming out to get us even now. We’ll have to try a closer look.”
Pelorat said, “Why does it take so long to arrange a Jump? You’re just taking little ones.”
“Listen to the man. Little Jumps are harder to control than big ones. Is it easier to pick up a rock or a fine grain of sand? Besides, Gaia-S is nearby and space is sharply curved. That complicates the calculations even for the computer. Even a mythologist should see that.”
Trevize said, “You can see the planet with the unaided eye now. Right there. See it? The period of rotation is about twenty-two Galactic Hours and the axial inclination is twelve degrees. It is practically a textbook example of a habitable planet and it is life-bearing.”
“How can you tell?”
“There are substantial quantities of free oxygen in the atmosphere. You can’t have that without well-established vegetation.”
“What about intelligent life?”
“That depends on the analysis of radio-wave radiation. Of course, there could be intelligent life that has abandoned technology, I suppose, but that seems very unlikely.”
“There have been cases of that,” said Pelorat.
“I’ll take your word for it. That’s your department. However, it’s not likely that there would be nothing but pastoral survivors on a planet that frightened off the Mule.”
Pelorat said, “Does it have a satellite?”
“Yes, it does,” said Trevize casually.
“How big?” Pelorat said in a voice that was suddenly choking.
“Can’t tell for sure. Perhaps a hundred kilometers across.”
“Dear me,” said Pelorat wistfully. “I wish I had some worthier set of expletives on instant call, my dear chap, but there was just that one little chance—”
“You mean, if it had a giant satellite, it might be Earth itself?”
“Yes, but it clearly isn’t.”
“Well, if Compor is right, Earth wouldn’t be in this Galactic region, anyway. It would be over Sirius way. —Really, Janov, I’m sorry.”
AFTER THE NEXT JUMP, TREVIZE SAID IN AN ASTONISHED voice, “That does it, Janov. It’s Gaia, all right. At least, it possesses a technological civilization.”
“Can you tell that from the radio waves?”
“Better than that. There’s a space station circling the planet. Do you see that?”
There was an object on display on the viewscreen. To Pelorat’s unaccustomed eye, it didn’t seem very remarkable, but Trevize said, “Artificial, metallic, and a radio-source.”
“What do we do now?”
“Nothing, for a while. At this stage of technology, they cannot fail to detect us. If, after a while, they do nothing, I will beam a radio message at them. If they still do nothing, I will approach cautiously.”
“What if they do do something?”
“It will depend on the ‘something.’ If I don’t like it, then I’ll have to take advantage of the fact that it is very unlikely that they have anything that can match the facility with which this ship can make a Jump.”
“You mean we’ll leave?”
“Like a hyperspatial missile.”
“But we’ll leave no wiser than we came.”
“Not at all. At the very least we’ll know that Gaia exists, that it has a working technology, and that it’s done something to scare us.”
“But, Golan, let’s not be too easily scared.”
“Now, Janov, I know that you want nothing more in the Galaxy than to learn about Earth at any cost, but please remember that I don’t share your monomania. We are in an unarmed ship and those people down there have been isolated for centuries. Suppose they have never heard of the Foundation and don’t know enough to be respectful of it. Or suppose this is the Second Foundation and once we’re in their grip—if they’re annoyed with us—we may never be the same again. Do you want them to wipe your mind clear and find you are no longer a mythologist and know nothing about any legends whatever?”
Pelorat looked grim. “If you put it that way—But what do we do once we leave?”
“Simple. We get back to Terminus with the news. —Or as near to Terminus as the old woman will allow. Then we might return to Gaia once again—more quickly and without all this inching along—and we return with an armed ship or an armed fleet. Things may well be different then.”
THEY WAITED. IT HAD GROWN TO BE A ROUTINE. They had spent far more time waiting in the approaches to Gaia than they had spent in all the flight from Terminus to Sayshell.
Trevize set the computer to automatic alarm and was even nonchalant enough to doze in his padded chair.
This meant he woke with a start when the alarm chimed. Pelorat came into Trevize’s room, just as startled. He had been interrupted while shaving.
“Have we received a message?” asked Pelorat.
“No,” said Trevize energetically. “We’re moving.”
“Toward the space station.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. The motors are on and the computer doesn’t respond to me—but we’re moving. —Janov, we’ve been seized. We’ve come a little too close to Gaia.”