Forward the Foundation - Isaac Asimov [58]
He looked-plucked.
Worse than that. As a result of the change in his facial contours, he looked baby-faced.
It was disgusting.
Nor was he making any headway. Seldon had given him the security reports on Kaspal Kaspalov's death, which he had studied. There wasn't much there. Just that Kaspalov had been murdered and that the local security officers had come up with nothing of importance in connection with that murder. It seemed quite clear that the security officers attached little or no importance to it, anyway.
That was not surprising. In the last century, the crime rate had risen markedly in most worlds, certainly in the grandly complex world of Trantor, and nowhere were the local security officers up to the job of doing anything useful about it. In fact, the security establishment had declined in numbers and efficiency everywhere and (while this was hard to prove) had become more corrupt. It was inevitable this should be so, with pay refusing to keep pace with the cost of living. One must pay civil officials to keep them honest. Failing that, they would surely make up for their inadequate salaries in other ways.
Seldon had been preaching this doctrine for some years now, but it did no good. There was no way to increase wages without increasing taxes and the populace would not sit still for increased taxes. It seemed they would rather lose ten times the credits in graft.
It was all part (Seldon had said) of the general deterioration of Imperial society over the previous two centuries.
Well, what was Raych to do? He was here at the hotel where Kaspalov had lived during the days immediately before his murder. Somewhere in the hotel there might be someone who had something to do with that-or who knew someone who had.
It seemed to Raych that he must make himself conspicuous. He must show an interest in Kaspalov's death and then someone would get interested in him and pick him up. It was dangerous, but if he could make himself sound harmless enough, they might not attack him immediately.
Well-
Raych looked at his timeband. There would be people enjoying their predinner aperitifs in the bar. He might as well join them and see what would happen-if anything.
11
In some respects, Wye could be quite puritanical. (This was true of all the sectors, though the rigidity of one sector might be completely different from the rigidity of another.) Here, the drinks were not alcoholic but were synthetically designed to stimulate in other ways. Raych did not like the taste, finding himself utterly unused to it, but it meant that he could sip his drink slowly and look around.
He caught the eye of a young woman several tables away and had difficulty in looking away. She was attractive and it was clear that Wye's ways were not puritanical in every fashion.
After a few moments, the young woman smiled slightly and rose. She drifted toward Raych's table, while Raych watched her speculatively. He could scarcely (he thought with marked regret) afford a side adventure just now.
She stopped for a moment when she reached Raych and then let herself slide smoothly into an adjacent chair.
"Hello," she said. "You don't look like a regular here."
Raych smiled. "I'm not. Do you know all the regulars?"
"Just about," she said, unembarrassed. "My name is Manella. What's yours?"
Raych was more regretful than ever. She was quite tall, taller than he himself was without his heels-something he always found attractive-had a milky complexion, and long, softly wavy hair that had distinct glints of dark red in it. Her clothing was not too garish and she might, if she had tried a little harder, have passed as a respectable woman of the not-too-hardworking class.
Raych said, "My name doesn't matter. I don't have many credits."
"Oh. Too bad." Manella made a face. "Can't you get a few?"
"I'd like to. I need a job. Do you know of any?"
"What kind of job?"
Raych shrugged. "I don't have any experience in anything fancy, but I ain't proud."
Manella looked at him thoughtfully. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Nameless.