SAYSHELL

1.

Janov Pelorat watched, for the first time in his life, as the bright star graduated into an orb after what Trevize had called a “micro-Jump.” The fourth planet—the habitable one and their immediate destination, Sayshell—then grew in size and prominence more slowly—over a period of days.

A map of the planet had been produced by the computer and was displayed on a portable screening device, which Pelorat held in his lap.

Trevize—with the aplomb of someone who had, in his time, touched down upon several dozen worlds—said, “Don’t start watching too hard too soon, Janov. We have to go through the entry station first and that can be tedious.”

Pelorat looked up. “Surely that’s just a formality.”

“It is. But it can still be tedious.”

“But it’s peacetime.”

“Of course. That means we’ll be passed through. First, though, there’s a little matter of the ecological balance. Every planet has its own and they don’t want it upset. So they make a natural point of checking the ship for undesirable organisms, or infections. It’s a reasonable precaution.”

“We don’t have such things, it seems to me.”

“No, we don’t and they’ll find that out. Remember, too, that Sayshell is not a member of the Foundation Federation, so there’s certain to be some leaning over backward to demonstrate their independence.”

A small ship came out to inspect them and a Sayshellian Customs official boarded. Trevize was brisk, not having forgotten his military days.

“The Far Star, out of Terminus,” he said. “Ship’s papers. Unarmed. Private vessel. My passport. There is one passenger. His passport. We are tourists.”

The Customs official wore a garish uniform in which crimson was the dominating color. Cheeks and upper lip were smooth-shaven, but he wore a short beard parted in such a way that tufts thrust out to both sides of his chin. He said, “Foundation ship?”

He pronounced it “Foundaysun sip,” but Trevize was careful neither to correct him nor to smile. There were as many varieties of dialects to Galactic Standard as there were planets, and you just spoke your own. As long as there was cross-comprehension, it didn’t matter.

“Yes, sir,” said Trevize. “Foundation ship. Privately owned.”

“Very nice. —Your lading, if you please.”

“My what?”

“Your lading. What are you carrying?”

“Ah, my cargo. Here is the itemized list. Personal property only. We are not here to trade. As I told you, we are simply tourists.”

The Customs official looked about curiously. “This is rather an elaborate vessel for tourists.”

“Not by Foundation standards,” said Trevize with a display of good humor. “And I’m well off and can afford this.”

“Are you suggesting that I might be richified?” The official looked at him briefly, then looked away.

Trevize hesitated a moment in order to interpret the meaning of the word, then another moment to decide his course of action. He said, “No, it is not my intention to bribe you. I have no reason to bribe you—and you don’t look like