Foundation and Chaos - Bear Greg - Страница 40

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Dors was dead. He had no doubt now. Dead, never to return.

Hari looked around the empty room. The music had been playing for two hours and he had hardly noticed the passage of time. He felt relaxed and in control, but still wary-like an animal long used to the hunters, a survivor with skills that could always be relied upon, but never taken for granted.

He had been thinking of Dors again. Hari smoothed his brow with his fingers.

Lodovik watched Dors with concern as they left the grounds of Streeling University. They rode in a taxi through the main traffic tunnel from Streeling to Pasaj, the Emperor Expressway, surrounded above, below, and to all sides by a steady stream of buses and cabs, caught in red and violet control grids like blood cells in an artery. The taxi was automated, chosen at random, and scanned by Daneel for listening devices.

Dors stared straight ahead, saying nothing, as did Daneel.

Daneel finally spoke as they approached Pasaj. “You did admirably.”

“Thank you,” Dors said. Then, “Is it wise to leave him so long without a guardian?”

“He has remarkable instincts,” Daneel said.

“He is old and frail,” Dors said.

“He is stronger than this Empire,” Daneel said. “And his finest moment is yet to come.”

Lodovik contemplated his assignment as relayed by Daneel through microwave link. His pilgrimage would include a tour of special duty in the Cathedral of the Greys in Pasaj. Here, the finest of the Empire’s bureaucratic class gathered once in a lifetime to receive their highest honors, including the Order of the Emperor’s Feather; while Lodovik’s new role had no history of such extraordinary excellence, it was not unusual for those who contributed to the cathedral on a yearly basis to be summoned for menial duties. as the next highest kind of recognition of service.

Daneel clearly expected the cathedral to play an important part in the next few years, though what that might be, he had not yet conveyed to Lodovik.

Lodovik half suspected that Daneel was keeping him on probation until he had proved himself loyal. That was wise. Lodovik kept his doubts deeply masked. He knew Daneel’s extraordinary sensitivity. He had also worked around him long enough to know of ways to deceive, to appear compliant and loyal.

He had watched Daneel test Dors, and he had no doubt Daneel could find some equally effective way to test him. Before that happened, he would have to undergo another transformation-and find the allies he was almost sure were on Trantor, hidden from Daneel, working to oppose him. Among the Greys. there would be many chances to do research on those who opposed the Chens and Divarts…

Had Lodovik been human, he would have estimated his chances as very slim. Since his concern for his own survival was minimal, a hopeless situation was not particularly disturbing. Far worse was the thought of being disloyal, of contradicting R. Daneel Olivaw.

Brann walked through the main storage wing of the warehouse with surprising speed for a man of his size. The dark spaces and huge tiers of storage racks loomed and made their footsteps sound like the beats of distant drums. Klia kept up with some difficulty, but did not mind; she had not had much exercise in days, and looked upon this assignment as both a break in the routine and a possible avenue of escape.

Being with Brann was pleasant enough, so long as she did not think about her emotional reaction to him, and how inappropriate it was. She wrinkled her nose at the dusty ghosts of hundreds of unfamiliar smells.

“The most popular imports come from Anacreon and Memphio,” Brann said. He paused beside a shadowy equipment alcove to check out a loader/transport. “There are some very wealthy artisan families that live off sales to Trantor alone. Everybody wants Anacreon folk-dolls-I hate them, myself. We also import games and entertainments from Kalgan-of the sort frowned upon by the Commission censors.”

Klia walked beside Brann. The transport glided on floater fields a discreet two meters behind them, lowering small rubber wheels when it wanted to turn sharply or stop.

“We’re going to deliver four crates of dolls to the Trantor Exchange, and some other items to the Agora of Vendors.” These were the two most popular shopping areas in Streeling, well-known around the hemisphere. Well-heeled Greys and meritocrats traveled from thousands of kilometers-some, thousands of light years-just to spend several days browsing among the myriad of shops in each area. The Agora of Vendors boasted of inns spaced at hundred-shop intervals for tired travelers.

The baronial and other noble families of the gentry class had their own means of satisfying acquisitive urges, and, of course, citizens usually lived in quarters too small to allow for the accumulation of many goods.

When Klia had been very young, her mother and father had participated in a communal Dahl bauble exchange, where they borrowed one or two objects considered decorative (and fairly useless) for several days or weeks and then returned them. That seemed satisfactory enough, for those fascinated with material goods; actually owning or even collecting offworld objects seemed ludicrous to Klia.

“This means Plussix trusts me enough to let me go outside, doesn’t it?” Klia said.

Brann looked down on her, his face serious. “This isn’t some mindwipe cult, Klia.”

“How do I know that? What is it, then-a social club for misfit persuaders?”

“You sound pretty unhappy,” Brann said. “But you-”

“Is there anyplace on Trantor where anyone can be happy? Look at all this junk-a substitute for happiness, don’t you think?” She waved her hands at the plastic and scrapwood crates stacked high over their heads.

“I wouldn’t know,” Brann said. “I was going to say, you sound unhappy, but I’ll bet you can’t think of anyplace else to go.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m unhappy,” Klia said in a dark undertone. “I certainly feel like a misfit. Maybe I do belong here.”

Brann turned away with a small grunt and ordered the transport to remove a crate from the third tier. It planted its undercarriage firmly on the floor, then raised its body on pneumatic cylinders and deftly tugged at the crate with mechanical arms.

“Kallusin said we might be able to travel all over,” Klia said. “If we turn out to be loyal, is that…I mean, do you know of anyone who’s left? Been assigned elsewhere?”

Brann shook his head. “Of course, I don’t know everybody. I haven’t been here that long. There are other warehouses.”

Klia had not known this. She filed the fact away, and wondered if Plussix was orchestrating some sort of huge latent underground movement-a rebellion, perhaps. A rebellious merchant broker? It seemed ludicrous-and perhaps the more convincing because of that. But what would he rebel against-the very classes who clamored for his goods? Or the noble and baronial families…who did not?

“We have what we need,” Brann said when the transport carried three crates from three different aisles. “Let’s go.”

“What about the police-the ones searching for me-for us?”

“Plussix says they’re not looking for anybody now,” Brann said.

“And how does he know?”

Brann shook his head. “All I know is, he’s never wrong. Not one of us has ever been taken by the police.”

“Famous last words,” Klia said, but she once again trotted to keep up with him.

Outside the warehouse, the daylight of the dome ceil glowed brightly. She emerged from the cavernous interior to a brighter, larger interior-the only other kind of life she had ever known.

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