UNDERGROUND

47.

Trevize felt frozen. Trying to breathe normally, he turned to look at Bliss.

She was standing with her arm protectively about Pelorat’s waist, and, to all appearances, was quite calm. She smiled slightly and, even more slightly, nodded her head.

Trevize turned back to Bander. Having interpreted Bliss’s actions as signifying confidence, and hoping with dreadful earnestness that he was correct, he said grimly, “How did you do that, Bander?”

Bander smiled, obviously in high good humor. “Tell me, little Outworlders, do you believe in sorcery? In magic?”

“No, we do not, little Solarian,” snapped Trevize.

Bliss tugged at Trevize’s sleeve and whispered, “Don’t irritate him. He’s dangerous.”

“I can see he is,” said Trevize, keeping his voice low with difficulty. “You do something, then.”

Her voice barely heard, Bliss said, “Not yet. He will be less dangerous if he feels secure.”

Bander paid no attention to the brief whispering among the Outworlders. It moved away from them uncaringly, the robots separating to let it pass.

Then it looked back and crooked a finger languidly. “Come. Follow me. All three of you. I will tell you a story that may not interest you, but that interests me.” It continued to walk forward leisurely.

Trevize remained in place for a while, uncertain as to the best course of action. Bliss walked forward, however, and the pressure of her arm led Pelorat forward as well. Eventually, Trevize moved; the alternative was to be left standing alone with the robots.

Bliss said lightly, “If Bander will be so kind as to tell the story that may not interest us—”

Bander turned and looked intently at Bliss as though he were truly aware of her for the first time. “You are the feminine half-human,” he said, “aren’t you? The lesser half?”

“The smaller half, Bander. Yes.”

“These other two are masculine half-humans, then?”

“So they are.”

“Have you had your child yet, feminine?”

“My name, Bander, is Bliss. I have not yet had a child. This is Trevize. This is Pel.”

“And which of these two masculines is to assist you when it is your time? Or will it be both? Or neither?”

“Pel will assist me, Bander.”

Bander turned his attention to Pelorat. “You have white hair, I see.”

Pelorat said, “I have.”

“Was it always that color?”

“No, Bander, it became so with age.”

“And how old are you?”

“I am fifty-two years old, Bander,” Pelorat said, then added hastily, “That’s Galactic Standard Years.”

Bander continued to walk (toward the distant mansion, Trevize assumed), but more slowly. It said, “I don’t know how long a Galactic Standard Year is, but it can’t be very different from our year. And how old will you be when you die, Pel?”

“I can’t say. I may live thirty more years.”

“Eighty-two years, then. Short-lived, and divided in halves. Unbelievable, and yet my distant ancestors were like you and lived on Earth. —But some of them left Earth to establish new worlds around other