Why, he wondered, did so many people spend their lives not trying to find answers to questions-not even thinking of questions to begin with? Was there anything more exciting in life than seeking answers?
His glance shifted to ground level. The wide roadway was lined with low buildings, most of them shops. Numerous individual ground-cars moved in both directions, each hugging the right side. They seemed like a collection of antiques, but they were electrically driven and quite soundless. Seldon wondered if "antique" was always a word to sneer at. Could it be that silence made up for slowness? Was there any particular hurry to life, after all?
There were a number of children on the walkways and Seldon's lips pressed together in annoyance. Clearly, an extended life span for the Mycogenians was impossible unless they were willing to indulge in infanticide. The children of both sexes (though it was hard to tell the boys from the girls) wore kirtles that came only a few inches below the knee, making the wild activity of childhood easier.
The children also still had hair, reduced to an inch in length at most, but even so the older ones among them had hoods attached to their kirtles and wore them raised, hiding the top of the head altogether. It was as though they were getting old enough to make the hair seem a trifle obscene-or old enough to be wishing to hide it, in longing for the day of rite of passage when they were depilated.
A thought occurred to Seldon. He said, "Dors, when you've been out shopping, who paid, you or the Raindrop women?"
"I did of course. The Raindrops never produced a credit tile. But why should they? What was being bought was for us, not for them."
"But you have a Trantorian credit tile-a tribeswoman credit tile."
"Of course, Hari, but there was no problem. The people of Mycogen may keep their own culture and ways of thought and habits of life as they wish. They can destroy their cephalic hair and wear kirtles. Nevertheless, they must use the world's credits. If they don't, that would choke off commerce and no sensible person would want to do that. The credits nerve, Hari." She held up her hand as though she was holding an invisible credit tile.
"And they accepted your credit tile?"
"Never a peep out of them. And never a word about my skincap. Credits sanitize everything."
"Well, that's good. So I can buy-"
"No, I'll do the buying. Credits may sanitize everything, but they more easily sanitize a tribeswoman. They're so used to paying women little or no attention that they automatically pay me the same.-And here's the clothing store I've been using."
"I'll wait out here. Get me a nice red sash-one that looks impressive."
"Don't pretend you've forgotten our decision. I'll get two. And another white kirtle also... to my measurements."
"Won't they think it odd that a woman would be buying a white kirtle?"
"Of course not. They'll assume I'm buying it for a male companion who happens to be my size. Actually, I don't think they'll bother with any assumptions at all as long as my credit tile is good."
Seldon waited, half-expecting someone to come up and greet him as a tribesman or denounce him as one-more likely-but no one did. Those who passed him did so without a glance and even those who glanced in his direction moved on seemingly untouched. He was especially nervous about the gray kirtles-the women-walking by in pairs or, even worse, with a man. They were downtrodden, unnoticed, snubbed. How better to gain a brief notoriety than by shrieking at the sight of a tribesman? But even the women moved on.
They're not expecting to see a tribesman, Seldon thought, so they don't see one.
That, he decided, augured well for their forthcoming invasion of the Sacratorium. How much less would anyone expect to see tribespeople there and how much more effectively would they therefore fail to see them! He was in fairly good humor when Dors emerged.
"You have everything?"
"Absolutely."
"Then lets go back to the room, so you can change." The white kirtle did not fit her quite as well as the gray one did. Obviously, she could not have tried it on or even the densest shopkeeper would have been struck with alarm.
"How do I look, Hari?" she asked.
"Exactly like a boy," said Seldon. "Now let's try the sash... or obiah. I had better get used to calling it that."
Dors, without her skincap, was shaking out her hair gratefully. She said sharply, "Don't put it on now. We're not going to parade through Mycogen with the sash on. The last thing we want to do is call attention to ourselves."
"No, no. I just want to see how it goes on."
"Well, not that one. This one is better quality and more elaborate."
"You're right, Dors. I've got to gather in what attention there is. I don't want them to detect you as a woman."
"I'm not thinking of that, Hari. I just want you to look pretty."
"A thousand thanks, but that's impossible, I suspect. Now, let's see, how does this work?"
Together, Hari and Dors practiced putting their obiahs on and taking them off, over and over again, until they could do it in one fluid motion. Dors taught Hari how to do it, as she had seen a man doing it the day before at the Sacratorium.
When Hari praised her for her acute observations, she blushed and said, "Its really nothing, Hari, just something I noticed."
Hari replied, "Then you're a genius for noticing."
Finally satisfied, they stood well apart, each surveying the other. Hari's obiah glittered, a bright red dragonlike design standing out against a paler field of similar hue. Dors's was a little less bold, had a simple thin line down the center, and was very light in color.