Foundation’s Edge by Isaac Asimov

Author:Isaac Asimov [Asimov, Isaac]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Retail, Personal
Publisher: Random House
Published: 0101-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

2.

Janov Pelorat’s face was, for once, not expressionless. It was not that there was passion in it—or any of the more unstable emotions. It was that his eyes had narrowed—and that a kind of fierce intensity had filled every plane of his face.

He said, and his voice lacked any trace of its usual tentative quality, “How did you say you know all this?”

“I told you,” said Compor. “It’s my heritage.”

“Don’t be silly, young man. You are a Councilman. That means you must be born on one of the Federation worlds—Smyrno, I think you said earlier.”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, what heritage are you talking about? Are you telling me that you possess Sirian genes that fill you with inborn knowledge of the Sirian myths concerning Earth?”

Compor looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

Compor paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. He said quietly, “My family has old books of Sirian history. An external heritage, not an internal one. It’s not something we talk about outside, especially if one is intent on political advancement. Trevize seems to think I am, but, believe me, I mention it only to good friends.”

There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Theoretically all Foundation citizens are alike, but those from the old worlds of the Federation are more alike than those from the newer ones—and those that trace from worlds outside the Federation are least alike of all. But, never mind that. Aside from the books, I once visited the old worlds. Trevize—hey, there—”

Trevize had wandered off toward one end of the room, looking out a triangular window. It served to let in a view of the sky and to diminish the view of the city—more light and more privacy. Trevize stretched upward to look down.

He returned through the empty room. “Interesting window design,” he said. “You called me, Councilman?”

“Yes. Remember the postcollegiate tour I took?”

“After graduation? I remember very well. We were pals. Pals forever. Foundation of trust. Two against the world. You went off on your tour. I joined the Navy, full of patriotism. Somehow I didn’t think I wanted to tour with you—some instinct told me not to. I wish the instinct had stayed with me.”

Compor did not rise to the bait. He said, “I visited Comporellon. Family tradition said that my ancestors had come from there—at least on my father’s side. We were of the ruling family in ancient times before the Empire absorbed us, and my name is derived from the world—or so the family tradition has it. We had an old, poetic name for the star Comporellon circled—Epsilon Eridani.”

“What does that mean?” asked Pelorat.

Compor shook his head. “I don’t know that it has any meaning. Just tradition. They live with a great deal of tradition. It’s an old world. They have long, detailed records of Earth’s history, but no one talks about it much. They’re superstitious about it. Every time they mention the word, they lift up both hands with first and second fingers crossed to ward off misfortune.

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