If that were so, however, Comporellon was the very reverse of decadent, for the color scheme that Pelorat had remarked upon at the spaceport was here borne out.
The walls were in shades of gray, the ceilings white, the clothing of the population in black, gray, and white. Occasionally, there was an all-black costume; even more occasionally, an all-gray; never an all-white that Trevize could see. The pattern was always different, however, as though people, deprived of color, still managed, irrepressibly, to find ways of asserting individuality.
Faces tended to be expressionless or, if not that, then grim. Women wore their hair short; men longer, but pulled backward into short queues. No one looked at anyone else as he or she passed. Everyone seemed to breathe a purposefulness, as though there was definite business on each mind and room for nothing else. Men and women dressed alike, with only length of hair and the slight bulge of breast and width of hip marking the difference.
The three were guided into an elevator that went down five levels. There they emerged and were moved on to a door on which there appeared in small and unobtrusive lettering, white on gray, "Mitza Lizalor, MinTrans."
The Comporellian in the lead touched the lettering, which, after a moment, glowed in response. The door opened and they walked in.
It was a large room and rather empty, the bareness of content serving, perhaps, as a kind of conspicuous consumption of space designed to show the power of the occupant.
Two guards stood against the far wall, faces expressionless and eyes firmly fixed on those entering. A large desk filled the center of the room, set perhaps just a little back of center. Behind the desk was, presumably, Mitza Lizalor, large of body, smooth of face, dark of eyes. Two strong and capable hands with long, square-ended fingers rested on the desk.
The MinTrans (Minister of Transportation, Trevize assumed) had the lapels of the outer garment a broad and dazzling white against the dark gray of the rest of the costume. The double bar of white extended diagonally below the lapels, across the garment itself and crossing at the center of the chest. Trevize could see that although the garment was cut in such a fashion as to obscure the swelling of a woman's breasts on either side, the white X called attention to them.
The Minister was undoubtedly a woman. Even if her breasts were ignored, her short hair showed it, and though there was no makeup on her face, her features showed it, too.
Her voice, too, was indisputably feminine, a rich contralto.
She said, "Good afternoon. It is not often that we are honored by a visit of men from Terminus. And of an unreported woman as well." Her eyes passed from one to another, then settled on Trevize, who was standing stiffly and frowningly erect. "And one of the men a member of the Council, too."
"A Councilman of the Foundation," said Trevize, trying to make his voice ring. "Councilman Golan Trevize on a mission from the Foundation."
"On a mission?" The Minister's eyebrows rose.
"On a mission," repeated Trevize. "Why, then, are we being treated as felons? Why have we been taken into custody by armed guards and brought here as prisoners? The Council of the Foundation, I hope you understand, will not be pleased to hear of this."
"And in any case," said Bliss, her voice seeming a touch shrill in comparison with that of the older woman, "are we to remain standing indefinitely?"
The Minister gazed coolly at Bliss for a long moment, then raised an arm and said, "Three chairs! Now!"
A door opened and three men, dressed in the usual somber Comporellian fashion, brought in three chairs at a semitrot. The three people standing before the desk sat down.
"There," said the Minister, with a wintry smile, "are we comfortable?"
Trevize thought not. The chairs were uncushioned, cold to the touch, flat of surface and back, making no compromise with the shape of the body. He said, "Why are we here?"
The Minister consulted papers lying on her desk. "I will explain as soon as I am certain of my facts. Your ship is the Far Star out of Terminus. Is that correct, Councilman?"
"It is."
The Minister looked up. "I used your title, Councilman. Will you, as a courtesy, use mine?"
"Would Madam Minister be sufficient? Or is there an honorific?"
"No honorific, sir, and you need not double your words. 'Minister' is sufficient, or 'Madam' if you weary of repetition."
"Then my answer to your question is: It is, Minister."
"The captain of the ship is Golan Trevize, citizen of the Foundation and member of the Council on Terminus-a freshman Councilman, actually. And you are Trevize. Am I correct in all this, Councilman?"
"You are, Minister. And since I am a citizen of the Foundation-"
"I am not yet done, Councilman. Save your objections till I am. Accompanying you is Janov Pelorat, scholar, historian, and citizen of the Foundation. And that is you, is it not, Dr. Pelorat?"
Pelorat could not suppress a slight start as the Minister turned her keen glance on him. He said, "Yes, it is, my d-" He paused, and began again, "Yes, it is, Minister."
The Minister clasped her hands stiffly. "There is no mention in the report that has been forwarded to me of a woman. Is this woman a member of the ship's complement?"
"She is, Minister," said Trevize.
"Then I address myself to the woman. Your name?"
"I am known as Bliss," said Bliss, sitting erectly and speaking with calm clarity, "though my full name is longer, madam. Do you wish it all?"
"I will be content with Bliss for the moment. Are you a citizen of the Foundation, Bliss?"