“Not at all, Bliss dear,” said Pelorat earnestly. “I’m sure the inhabitants like this world, and that it—uh—likes them, if you want to put it that way. We’ll be indoors soon enough, and it will be warm there.”
Almost as an afterthought, he flipped one side of his coat outward and curved it about her, while she snuggled against his shirtfront.
Trevize did his best to ignore the temperature. He obtained a magnetized card from the port authority, checking it on his pocket computer to make sure that it gave the necessary details—his aisle and lot number, the name and engine number of his ship, and so on. He checked once more to make sure that the ship was tightly secured, and then took out the maximum insurance allowed against the chance of misadventure (useless, actually, since the Far Star should be invulnerable at the likely Comporellian level of technology, and was entirely irreplaceable at whatever price, if it were not).
Trevize found the taxi-station where it ought to be. (A number of the facilities at spaceports were standardized in position, appearance, and manner of use. They had to be, in view of the multiworld nature of the clientele.)
He signaled for a taxi, punching out the destination merely as “City.”
A taxi glided up to them on diamagnetic skis, drifting slightly under the impulse of the wind, and trembling under the vibration of its not-quite-silent engine. It was a dark gray in color and bore its white taxi-insignia on the back doors. The taxi-driver was wearing a dark coat and a white, furred hat.
Pelorat, becoming aware, said softly, “The planetary decor seems to be black and white.”
Trevize said, “It may be more lively in the city proper.”
The driver spoke into a small microphone, perhaps in order to avoid opening the window. “Going to the city, folks?”
There was a gentle singsong to his Galactic dialect that was rather attractive, and he was not hard to understand—always a relief on a new world.
Trevize said, “That’s right,” and the rear door slid open.
Bliss entered, followed by Pelorat, and then by Trevize. The door closed and warm air welled upward.
Bliss rubbed her hands and breathed a long sigh of relief.
The taxi pulled out slowly, and the driver said, “That ship you came in is gravitic, isn’t it?”
Trevize said dryly, “Considering the way it came down, would you doubt it?”
The driver said, “Is it from Terminus, then?”
Trevize said, “Do you know any other world that could build one?”
The driver seemed to digest that as the taxi took on speed. He then said, “Do you always answer a question with a question?”
Trevize couldn’t resist. “Why not?”
“In that case, how would you answer me if I asked if your name were Golan Trevize?”
“I would answer: What makes you ask?”
The taxi came to a halt at the outskirts of the spaceport and the driver said, “Curiosity! I ask again: Are you Golan Trevize?”
Trevize’s voice became stiff and hostile. “What business is that of yours?”
“My friend,” said the driver, “We’re not moving till you answer the question. And if you don’t answer in a clear yes or no in about two seconds, I’m turning the heat off in the passenger compartment and we’ll keep on waiting. Are you Golan Trevize, Councilman of Terminus? If your answer is in the negative, you will have to show me your identification papers.”
Trevize said, “Yes, I am Golan Trevize, and as a Councilman of the Foundation, I expect to be treated with all the courtesy due my rank. Your failure to do so will have you in hot water, fellow. Now what?”
“Now we can proceed a little more lightheartedly.” The taxi began to move again. “I choose my passengers carefully, and I had expected to pick up two men only. The woman was a surprise and I might have made a mistake. As it is, if I have you, then I can leave it to you to explain the woman when you reach your destination.”
“You don’t know my destination.”
“As it happens, I do. You’re going to the Department of Transportation.”
“That’s not where I want to go.”
“That matters not one little bit, Councilman. If I were a taxi-driver, I’d take you where you want to go. Since I’m not, I take you where I want you to go.”
“Pardon me,” said Pelorat, leaning forward, “you certainly seem to be a taxi-driver. You’re driving a taxi.”
“Anyone might drive a taxi. Not everyone has a license to do so. And not every car that looks like a taxi is a taxi.”
Trevize said, “Let’s stop playing games. Who are you and what are you doing? Remember that you’ll have to account for this to the Foundation.”
“Not I,” said the driver, “My superiors, perhaps. I’m an agent of the Comporellian Security Force. I am under orders to treat you with all due respect to your rank, but you must go where I take you. And be very careful how you react, for this vehicle is armed, and I am under orders to defend myself against attack.”
16.
The vehicle, having reached cruising speed, moved with absolute, smooth quiet, and Trevize sat there in quietness as frozen. He was aware, without actually looking, of Pelorat glancing at him now and then with a look of uncertainty on his face, a “What do we do now? Please tell me” look.
Bliss, a quick glance told him, sat calmly, apparently unconcerned. Of course, she was a whole world in herself. All of Gaia, though it might be at Galactic distances, was wrapped up in her skin. She had resources that could be called on in a true emergency.
But, then, what had happened?
Clearly, the official at the entry station, following routine, had sent down his report—omitting Bliss—and it had attracted the interest of the security people and, of all things, the Department of Transportation. Why?
It was peacetime and he knew of no specific tensions between Comporellon and the Foundation. He himself was an important Foundation official—
Wait, he had told the official at the entry station—Kendray, his name had been—that he was on important business with the Comporellian government. He had stressed that in his attempt to get through. Kendray must have reported that as well and that would rouse all sorts of interest.
He hadn’t anticipated that, and he certainly should have.
What, then, about his supposed gift of rightness? Was he beginning to believe that he was the black box that Gaia thought he was—or said it thought he was? Was he being led into a quagmire by the growth of an overconfidence built on superstition?
How could he for one moment be trapped in that folly? Had he never in his life been wrong? Did he know what the weather would be tomorrow? Did he win large amounts in games of chance? The answers were no, no, and no.
Well, then, was it only in the large, inchoate things that he was always right? How could he tell?
Forget that! —After all, the mere fact that he had stated he had important state business—no, it was “Foundation security” that he had said—
Well, then, the mere fact that he was there on a matter of Foundation security, coming, as he had, secretly and unheralded, would surely attract their attention. —Yes, but until they knew what it was all about they would surely act with the utmost circumspection. They would be ceremonious and treat him as a high dignitary. They would not kidnap him and make use of threats.
Yet that was exactly what they had done. Why?
What made them feel strong enough and powerful enough to treat a Councilman of Terminus in such a fashion?
Could it be Earth? Was the same force that hid the world of origin so effectively, even against the great mentalists of the Second Foundation, now working to circumvent his search for Earth in the very first stage of that search? Was Earth omniscient? Omipotent?