Anselm haut Rodric—“haut” itself signifying noble blood—Sub-prefect of Pluema and Envoy Extraordinary of his Highness of Anacreon—plus half a dozen other titles—was met by Salvor Hardin at the spaceport with all the imposing ritual of a state occasion.

With a tight smile and a low bow, the sub-prefect had flipped his blaster from its holster and presented it to Hardin butt first. Hardin returned the compliment with a blaster specifically borrowed for the occasion. Friendship and good will were thus established, and if Hardin noted the barest bulge at Haut Rodric’s shoulder, he prudently said nothing.

The ground car that received them then—preceded, flanked, and followed by the suitable cloud of minor functionaries—proceeded in a slow, ceremonious manner to Cyclopedia Square, cheered on its way by a properly enthusiastic crowd.

Sub-prefect Anselm received the cheers with the complaisant indifference of a soldier and a nobleman.

He said to Hardin, “And this city is all your world?”

Hardin raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. “We are a young world, your eminence. In our short history we have had but few members of the higher nobility visiting our poor planet. Hence, our enthusiasm.”

It is certain that “higher nobility” did not recognize irony when he heard it.

He said thoughtfully: “Founded fifty years ago. Hm-m-m! You have a great deal of unexploited land here, mayor. You have never considered dividing it into estates?”

“There is no necessity as yet. We’re extremely centralized; we have to be, because of the Encyclopedia. Some day, perhaps, when our population has grown—”

“A strange world! You have no peasantry?”

Hardin reflected that it didn’t require a great deal of acumen to tell that his eminence was indulging in a bit of fairly clumsy pumping. He replied casually, “No—nor nobility.”

Haut Rodric’s eyebrows lifted. “And your leader—the man I am to meet?”

“You mean Dr. Pirenne? Yes! He is the Chairman of the Board of Trustees—and a personal representative of the Emperor.”

“Doctor? No other title? A scholar? And he rates above the civil authority?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Hardin, amiably. “We’re all scholars more or less. After all, we’re not so much a world as a scientific foundation—under the direct control of the Emperor.”

There was a faint emphasis upon the last phrase that seemed to disconcert the sub-prefect. He remained thoughtfully silent during the rest of the slow way to Cyclopedia Square.

If Hardin found himself bored by the afternoon and evening that followed, he had at least the satisfaction of realizing that Pirenne and Haut Rodric—having met with loud and mutual protestations of esteem and regard—were detesting each other’s company a good deal more.

Haut Rodric had attended with glazed eye to Pirenne’s lecture during the “inspection tour” of the Encyclopedia Building. With a polite and vacant smile, he had listened to the latter’s rapid patter as they passed through the vast storehouses of reference films and the numerous projection rooms.

It was only after he had gone down level by level