Prelude to Foundation

“Very well,” he said, “but if you survive and if I ever see Hummin again, my price for continuing to work on psychohistory-much as I have grown fond of you-will be your removal. Do you understand?”

And suddenly Dors smiled. “Forget it. Don’t practice your chivalry on me. Nothing will remove me. Do you understand?”

69.

They got off the Expressway where the sign, flickering in the air, said: BILLIBOTTON. As perhaps an indication of what might be expected, the second ‘I’ was smeared, a mere blob of fainter light.

They made their way out of the car and down to the walkway below. It was early afternoon and at first glance, Billibotton seemed much like the part of Dahl they had left.

The air, however, had a pungent aroma and the walkway was littered with trash.

One could tell that auto-sweeps were not to be found in the neighborhood. And, although the walkway looked ordinary enough, the atmosphere was uncomfortable and as tense as a too-tightly coiled spring. Perhaps it was the people. There seemed the normal number of pedestrians, but they were not like pedestrians elsewhere, Seldon thought. Ordinarily, in the press of business, pedestrians were self-absorbed and in the endless crowds on the endless thoroughfares of Trantor, people could only survive-psychologically-by ignoring each other. Eyes slid away. Brains were closed off. There was an artificial privacy with each person enclosed in a velvet fog of his or her own making. Or there was the ritualistic friendliness of an evening promenade in those neighborhoods that indulged in such things. But here in Billibotton, there was neither friendliness nor neutral withdrawal. At least not where outsiders were concerned. Every person who passed, moving in either direction, turned to stare at Seldon and Dors. Every pair of eyes, as though attached by invisible cords to the two outsiders, followed them with ill will.

The clothing of the Billibottoners tended to be smudged, old, and sometimes corn. There was a patina of ill-washed poverty over them and Seldon felt uneasy at the slickness of his own new clothes.

He said, “Where in Billibotton does Mother Rittah live, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know,” said Dors. “You brought us here, so you do the supposing. I intend to confine myself to the task of protection and I think I’m going to find it necessary to do just that.”

Seldon said, “I assumed it would only be necessary to ask the way of any passerby, but somehow I’m not encouraged to do so.”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t think you’ll find anyone springing to your assistance.”

“On the other hand, there are such things as youngsters.” He indicated one with a brief gesture of one hand. A boy who looked to be about twelve-in any case young enough to lack the universal adult male mustache had come to a full halt and was staring at them.

Dors said, “You’re guessing that a boy that age has not yet developed the full Billibottonian dislike of outsiders.”

“At any rate,” said Seldon, “I’m guessing he is scarcely large enough to have developed the full Billibottonian penchant for violence. I suppose he might run away and shout insults from a distance if we approach him, but I doubt he’ll attack us.”

Seldon raised his voice. “Young man.”

The boy took a step backward and continued to stare.

Seldon said, “Come here,” and beckoned.

The boy said, “Wa’ for, guy?”

“So I can ask you directions. Come closer, so I don’t have to shout.”

The boy approached two steps closer. His face was smudged, but his eyes were bright and sharp. His sandals were of different make and there was a large patch on one leg of his trousers.

He said, “Wa’ kind o’ directions?”

“We’re trying to find Mother Rittah.”

The boy’s eyes flickered. “Wa’ for, guy?”

“I’m a scholar. Do you know what a scholar is?”

“Ya went to school?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

The boy spat to one side in contempt. “Nah.”

“I want advice from Mother Rittah-if you’ll take me to her.”

“Ya want your fortune? Ya come to Billibotton, guy, with your fancy clothes, so I can tell ya your fortune. All bad.”

“What’s your name, young man?”

“What’s it to ya?”

“So we can speak in a more friendly fashion. And so you can take me to Mother Rittah’s place. Do you know where she lives?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. My name’s Raych. What’s in it for me if I take ya?”

“What would you like, Raych?”

The boy’s eyes halted at Dors’s belt. Raych said, “The lady got a couple o’ knives. Gimme one and I’ll take ya to Mother Rittah.”

“Those are grown people’s knives, Raych. You’re too young.”

“Then I guess I’m too young to know where Mother Rittah lives.” And he looked up slyly through the shaggy halt that curtained his eyes.

Seldon grew uneasy. It was possible they might attract a crowd. Several men had stopped already, but had then moved on when nothing of interest seemed to be taking place. If, however, the boy grew angry and lashed out at them in word or deed, people would undoubtedly gather.

He smiled and said, “Can you read, Raych?”

Raych spat again. “Nah! Who wants to read?”

“Can you use a computer?”