"In Wye?" said Seldon forcibly.
"Yes indeed, Dr. Seldon. We've wanted you from the day you addressed the Decennial Convention and we are so glad to have you now."
85.
Actually, it took a full day to rest and unstiffen, to wash and get clean, to obtain new clothes (satiny and rather loose, in the style of Wye), and to sleep a good deal.
It was during the second evening in Wye that there was the dinner that Madam Rashelle had promised.
The table was a large one-too large, considering that there were only four dining: Hari Seldon, Dors Venabili, Raych, and Rashelle. The walls and ceiling were softly illuminated and the colors changed at a rate that caught the eye but not so rapidly as in any way to discommode the mind. The very tablecloth, which was not cloth (Seldon had not made up his mind what it might be), seemed to sparkle.
The servers were many and silent and when the door opened it seemed to Seldon that he caught a glimpse of soldiers, armed and at the ready, outside. The room was a velvet glove, but the iron fist was not far distant. Rashelle was gracious and friendly and had clearly taken a particular liking to Raych, who, she insisted, was to sit next to her. Raych-scrubbed, polished, and shining, all but unrecognizable in his new clothes, with his hair clipped, cleaned, and brushed-scarcely dared to say a word. It was as though he felt his grammar no longer fit his appearance. He was pitifully ill at ease and he watched Dors carefully as she switched from utensil to utensil, trying to match her exactly in every respect. The food was tasty but spicy-to the point where Seldon could not recognize the exact nature of the dishes.
Rashelle, her plump face made happy by her gentle smile and her fine teeth gleaming white, said, "You may think we have Mycogenian additives in the food, but we do not. It is all homegrown in Wye. There is no sector on the planet more self-sufficient than Wye. We labor hard to keep that so."
Seldon nodded gravely and said, "Everything you have given us is first-rate, Rashelle. We are much obliged to you."
And yet within himself he thought the food was not quite up to Mycogenian standards and he felt moreover, as he had earlier muttered to Dors, that he was celebrating his own defeat. Or Hummin's defeat, at any rate, and that seemed to him to be the same thing.
After all, he had been captured by Wye, the very possibility that had so concerned Hummin at the time of the incident Upperside. Rashelle said, "Perhaps, in my role as hostess, I may be forgiven if I ask personal questions. Am I correct in assuming that you three do not represent a family; that you, Hari, and you, Dors, are not married and that Raych is not your son?"
"The three of us are not related in any way," said Seldon. "Raych was born on Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna."
"And how did you all meet, then?"
Seldon explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. "There's nothing romantic or significant in the meetings," he added.
"Yet I am given to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide, Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl."
Seldon said gravely, "I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be separated from them."
Rashelle smiled and said, "You are a sentimental man, I see."
"Yes, I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too."
"Puzzled?"
"Why yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask one as well?"
"Of course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please."
"When we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?"
"Surely, you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory."
"That much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have psychohistory?"
"Surely, you have not been so careless as to lose it."
"Worse, Rashelle. I have never had it."
Rashelle's face dimpled. "But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said."
"In that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not practical."
"I can't believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon."
"The pseudo-Emperor?" murmured Dors ironically.
"Why yes," said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question. "Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne."
"Rashelle," said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, "I told Cleon exactly what I have just told you and he let me go."
Now Rashelle did nor smile. A small edge crept into her voice. "Yes, he let you go the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever since-in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared. But come now-our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us have music."
And at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She leaned toward Raych and said softly, "My boy, if you are not at ease with the fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won't mind."
Raych said, "Yes, mum," and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips silently mouthed: "Fork."
He remained with his fork.
Dors said, "The music is lovely, Madam"-she pointedly rejected the familiar form of address "but it must not he allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were not the prime mover."