Raych was eating, licking his fingers, and crumpling the bag in which the food—whatever it was—had been. A strong smell of onions pervaded the air—different somehow, yeast-based perhaps.

Dors, retreating a little from the odor, said, “Where did you get the food from, Raych?”

“Davan’s guys. They brought it to me. Davan’s okay.”

“Then we don’t have to buy you dinner, do we?” said Seldon, conscious of his own empty stomach.

“Ya owe me somethin’,” said Raych, looking greedily in Dors’s direction. “How about the lady’s knife? One of ’em.”

“No knife,” said Dors. “You get us back safely and I’ll give you five credits.”

“Can’t get no knife for five credits,” grumbled Raych.

“You’re not getting anything but five credits,” said Dors.

“You’re a lousy dame, lady,” said Raych.

“I’m a lousy dame with a quick knife, Raych, so get moving.”

“All right. Don’t get all perspired.” Raych waved his hand. “This way.”

It was back through the empty corridors, but this time Dors, looking this way and that, stopped. “Hold on, Raych. We’re being followed.”

Raych looked exasperated. “Ya ain’t supposed to hear ’em.”

Seldon said, bending his head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.”

“I do,” said Dors. “Now, Raych, I don’t want any fooling around. You tell me right now what’s going on or I’ll rap your head so that you won’t see straight for a week. I mean it.”

Raych held up one arm defensively. “You try it, you lousy dame. You try it. —It’s Davan’s guys. They’re just taking care of us, in case any knifers come along.”

“Davan’s guys?”

“Yeah. They’re goin’ along the service corridors.”

Dors’s right hand shot out and seized Raych by the scruff of his upper garment. She lifted and he dangled, shouting, “Hey, lady. Hey!”

Seldon said, “Dors! Don’t be hard on him.”

“I’ll be harder still if I think he’s lying. You’re my charge, Hari, not he.”

“I’m not lyin’,” said Raych, struggling. “I’m not.”

“I’m sure he isn’t,” said Seldon.

“Well, we’ll see. Raych, tell them to come out where we can see them.” She let him drop and dusted her hands.

“You’re some kind of nut, lady,” said Raych aggrievedly. Then he raised his voice. “Yay, Davan! Come out here, some of ya guys!”

There was a wait and then, from an unlit opening along the corridor, two dark-mustached men came out, one with a scar running the length of his cheek. Each held the sheath of a knife in his hand, blade withdrawn.

“How many more of you are there?” asked Dors harshly.

“A few,” said one of the newcomers. “Orders. We’re guarding you. Davan wants you safe.”

“Thank you. Try to be even quieter. Raych, keep on moving.”

Raych said sulkily, “Ya roughed me up when I was telling the truth.”

“You’re right,” said Dors. “At least, I think you’re right … and I apologize.”

“I’m not sure I should accept,” said Raych, trying to stand tall. “But awright, just this once.”