"No. As I said, each has its own. If we really paid attention or if our noses were a little keener - like those of Anacreonian dogs - we could probably tell which world we were on with one sniff. When I first entered the Navy I could never eat the first day on a new world; then I learned the old spacer trick of sniffing a handkerchief with the world-scent on it during the landing. By the time you get out into the open world, you don't smell it. And after a while, you get hardened to the whole thing; you just learn to disregard it. - The worst of it is returning home, in fact."
"Why?"
"Do you think Terminus doesn't smell?"
"Are you telling me it does?"
"Of course it does. Once you get acclimated to the smell of another world, such as Sayshell, you'll be surprised at the stench of Terminus. In the old days, whenever the locks opened on Terminus after a sizable tour of duty, all the crew would call out, 'Back home to the crap. '"
Pelorat looked revolted.
The towers of the city were perceptibly closer, but Pelorat kept his eyes fixed on their immediate surroundings. There were other ground-cars moving in both directions and an occasional air-car above, but Pelorat was studying the trees.
He said, "The plant life seems strange. Do you suppose any of it is indigenous?"
"I doubt it," said Trevize absently. He was studying the map and attempting to adjust the programming of the car's computer. "There's not much in the way of indigenous life on any human planet. Settlers always imported their own plants and animals - either at the time of settling or not too long afterward."
"It seems strange, though."
"You don't expect the same varieties from world to world, Janov.
I was once told that the Encyclopedia Galactica people put out an atlas of varieties which ran to eighty-seven fat computer-discs and was incomplete even so - and outdated anyway, by the time it was finished."
The ground-car moved on and the outskirts of the city gaped and engulfed them. Pelorat shivered slightly, "I don't think much of their city architecture."
"To each his own," said Trevize with the indifference of the seasoned space traveler.
"Where are we going, by the way?"
"Well," said Trevize with a certain exasperation, "I'm trying to get the computer to guide this thing to the tourist center. I hope the computer knows the one-way streets and the traffic regulations, because I don't."
"What do we do there, Golan?"
"To begin with, we're tourists, so that's the place where we'd naturally go, and we want to be as inconspicuous and natural as we can. And secondly, where would you go to get information on Gaia?"
Pelorat said, "To a university - or an anthropological society - or a museum. - Certainly not to a tourist center."
"Well, you're wrong. At the tourist center, we will be intellectual types who are eager to have a listing of the universities in the city and the museums and so on. We'll decide where to go to first and there we may find the proper people to consult concerning ancient history, galactography, mythology, anthropology, or anything else you can think of. - But the whole thing starts at the tourist center."
Pelorat was silent and the ground-car moved on in a tortuous manner as it joined and became part of the traffic pattern. They plunged into a sub-road and drove past signs that might have represented directions and traffic instructions but were in a style of lettering that made them all-but-unreadable.
Fortunately the ground-car behaved as though it knew the way, and when it stopped and drew itself into a parking spot, there was a sign that said: SAYSHELL OUT-WORLD MILIEU in the same difficult printing, and under it: SAYSHELL TOURIST CENTER in straightforward, easy-to-read Galactic Standard lettering.
They walked into the building, which was not as large as the facade had led them to believe. ft was certainly not busy inside.
There were a series of waiting booths, one of which was occupied by a man reading the news-strips emerging from a small ejector; another contained two women who seemed to be playing some intricate game with cards and tiles. Behind a counter too large for him, with winking computer controls that seemed far too complex for him, was a bored-looking Sayshellian functionary wearing what looked like a multicolored checkerboard.
Pelorat stared and whispered, "This is certainly a world of extroverted garb."
"Yes," said Trevize, "I noticed. Still, fashions change from world to world and even from region to region within a world sometimes. And they change with time. Fifty years ago, everyone on Sayshell might have worn black, for all we know. Take it as it comes, Janov."
"I suppose I'll have to," said Pelorat, "but I prefer our own fashions. At least, they're not an assault upon the optic nerve."
"Because so many of us are gray on gray? That offends some people. I've heard it referred to as 'dressing in dirt. ' Then too, it's Foundation colorlessness that probably keeps these people in their rainbows - just to emphasize their independence. It's all what you're accustomed to, anyway. - Come on, Janov."
The two headed toward the counter and, as they did so, the man in the booth forsook his news items, rose, and came to meet them, smiling as he did so. His clothing was in shades of gray.
Trevize didn't look in his direction at first, but when he did he stopped dead.
He took a deep breath, "By the Galaxy - My friend, the traitor!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
AGENT
Munn Li Compor, councilman of Terminus, looked uncertain as he extended his right hand to Trevize.
Trevize looked at the hand sternly and did not take it. He said, apparently to open air, "I am in no position to create a situation in which I may find myself arrested for disturbing the peace on a foreign planet, but I will do so anyway if this individual comes a step closer."