STRUGGLE FOR THE SHIP

17.

Trevize’s first impression was that he was on the set of a hyperdrama—specifically, that of a historical romance of Imperial days. There was a particular set, with few variations (perhaps only one existed and was used by every hyperdrama producer, for all he knew), that represented the great world-girdling planet-city of Trantor in its prime.

There were the large spaces, the busy scurry of pedestrians, the small vehicles speeding along the lanes reserved for them.

Trevize looked up, almost expecting to see air-taxis climbing into dim vaulted recesses, but that at least was absent. In fact, as his initial astonishment subsided, it was clear that the building was far smaller than one would expect on Trantor. It was only a building and not part of a complex that stretched unbroken for thousands of miles in every direction.

The colors were different, too. On the hyperdramas, Trantor was always depicted as impossibly garish in coloring and the clothing was, if taken literally, thoroughly impractical and unserviceable. However, all those colors and frills were meant to serve a symbolic purpose for they indicated the decadence (a view that was obligatory, these days) of the Empire, and of Trantor particularly.

If that were so, however, Comporellon was the very reverse of decadent, for the color scheme that Pelorat had remarked upon at the spaceport was here borne out.

The walls were in shades of gray, the ceilings white, the clothing of the population in black, gray, and white. Occasionally, there was an all-black costume; even more occasionally, an all-gray; never an all-white that Trevize could see. The pattern was always different, however, as though people, deprived of color, still managed, irrepressibly, to find ways of asserting individuality.

Faces tended to be expressionless or, if not that, then grim. Women wore their hair short; men longer, but pulled backward into short queues. No one looked at anyone else as he or she passed. Everyone seemed to breathe a purposefulness, as though there was definite business on each mind and room for nothing else. Men and women dressed alike, with only length of hair and the slight bulge of breast and width of hip marking the difference.

The three were guided into an elevator that went down five levels. There they emerged and were moved on to a door on which there appeared in small and unobtrusive lettering, white on gray, “Mitza Lizalor, MinTrans.”

The Comporellian in the lead touched the lettering, which, after a moment, glowed in response. The door opened and they walked in.

It was a large room and rather empty, the bareness of content serving, perhaps, as a kind of conspicuous consumption of space designed to show the power of the occupant.

Two guards stood against the far wall, faces expressionless and eyes firmly fixed on those entering. A large desk filled the center of the room, set perhaps just a little back of center. Behind the desk was, presumably, Mitza Lizalor, large of body, smooth