He said, "Do you mind if I-"
She said nothing, and he took silence for consent. He tried to stride into the room in a strong and masculine way but he felt uncommonly as he had in those days when his mother, offended by some misbehavior on his part, offered him no punishment but silence, causing him to shrivel in discomfort.
He looked about inside the smoothly walled cubicle that was bare-completely bare. He looked more minutely. There was nothing.
He opened the door again, thrust his head out, and said, "Listen, how are you supposed to start the shower?"
She put down the deodorant (at least, Trevize guessed that was its function), strode to the shower-room and, still without looking at him, pointed. Trevize followed the finger and noted a spot on the wall that was round and faintly pink, barely colored, as though the designer resented having to spoil the starkness of the white, for no reason more important than to give a hint of function.
Trevize shrugged lightly, leaned toward the wall, and touched the spot. Presumably that was what one had to do, for in a moment a deluge of fine-sprayed water struck him from every direction. Gasping, he touched the spot again and it stopped.
He opened the door, knowing he looked several degrees more undignified still as he shivered hard enough to make it difficult to articulate words. He croaked, "How do you get hot water?"
Now she looked at him and, apparently, his appearance overcame her anger (or fear, or whatever emotion was victimizing her) for she snickered and then, without warning, boomed her laughter at him.
"What hot water?" she said. "Do you think we're going to waste the energy to heat water for washing? That's good mild water you had, water with the chill taken off. What more do you want? You sludge-soft Terminians! Get back in there and wash!"
Trevize hesitated, but not for long, since it was clear he had no choice in the matter.
With remarkable reluctance he touched the pink spot again and this time steeled his body for the icy spray. Mild water? He found suds forming on his body and he rubbed hastily here, there, everywhere, judging it to be the wash cycle and suspecting it would not last long.
Then came the rinse cycle. Ah, warm-Well, perhaps not warm, but not quite as cold, and definitely feeling warm to his thoroughly chilled body. Then, even as he was considering touching the contact spot again to stop the water, and was wondering how Lizalor had come out dry when there was absolutely no towel or towel-substitute in the place-the water stopped. It was followed by a blast of air that would have certainly bowled him over if it had not come from various directions equally.
It was hot; almost too hot. It took far less energy, Trevize knew, to heat air than to heat water. The hot air steamed the water off him and, in a few minutes, he was able to step out as dry as though he had never encountered water in his life.
Lizalor seemed to have recovered completely. "Do you feel well?"
"Pretty well," said Trevize. Actually, he felt astonishingly comfortable. "All I had to do was prepare myself for the temperature. You didn't tell me-"
"Sludge-soft," said Lizalor, with mild contempt.
He borrowed her deodorant, then began to dress, conscious of the fact that she had fresh underwear and he did not. He said, "What should I have called-that world?"
She said, "We refer to it as the Oldest."
He said, "How was I to know the name I used was forbidden? Did you tell me?"
"Did you ask?"
"How was I to know to ask?"
"You know now."
"I'm bound to forget."
"You had better not."
"What's the difference?" Trevize felt his temper rising. "It's just a word, a sound."
Lizalor said darkly, "There are words one doesn't say. Do you say every word you know under all circumstances?"
"Some words are vulgar, some are inappropriate, some under particular circumstances would be hurtful. Which is-that word I used?"
Lizalor said, "It's a sad word, a solemn word. It represents a world that was ancestor to us all and that now doesn't exist. It's tragic, and we feel it because it was near to us. We prefer not to speak of it or, if we must, not to use its name."
"And the crossing of fingers at me? How does that relieve the hurt and sadness?"
Lizalor's face flushed. "That was an automatic reaction, and I don't thank you for forcing it on me. There are people who believe that the word, even the thought, brings on misfortune-and that is how they ward it off."
"Do you, too, believe crossing fingers wards off misfortune?"
"No. Well, yes, in a way. It makes me uneasy if I don't do it." She didn't look at him. Then, as though eager to shift the subject, she said quickly, "And how is that black-haired woman of yours of the essence with respect to your mission to reach-that world you mentioned."
"Say 'the Oldest.' Or would you rather not even say that?"
"I would rather not discuss it at all, but I asked you a question."
"I believe that her people reached their present world as emigrants from the Oldest."
"As we did," said Lizalor proudly.
"But her people have traditions of some sort which she says are the key to understanding the Oldest, but only if we reach it and can study its records."
"She is lying."
"Perhaps, but we must check it out."
"If you have this woman with her problematical knowledge, and if you want to reach the Oldest with her, why did you come to Comporellon?"
"To find the location of the Oldest. I had a friend once, who, like myself, was a Foundationer. He, however, was descended from Comporellian ancestors and he assured me that much of the history of the Oldest was well known, on Comporellon."