Prelude to Foundation - Isaac Asimov [137]
Macron, totally enraged, roared incoherently and charged blindly, attempting by sheer kinetic energy to overwhelm his opponent. Dors, dipping and sidestepping, ducked under his right arm, kicked her foot against his right ankle, and down he crashed, his knife flying.
She then knelt, placed one blade against the back of his neck and the other against his throat, and said, "Yield!"
With another yell, Macron struck out against her with one arm, pushed her to one side, then scrambled to his feet.
He had not yet stood up completely when she was upon him, one knife slashing downward and hacking away a section of his mustache. This time he yowled like a large animal in agony, clapping his hand to his face. When he drew it away, it was dripping blood.
Dors shouted, "It won't grow again, Macron. Some of the lip went with it. Attack once more and you're dead meat."
She waited, but Macron had had enough. He stumbled away, moaning, leaving a trail of blood.
Dors turned toward the others. The two that Seldon had knocked down were still lying there, unarmed and not anxious to get up. She bent down, cut their belts with one of her knives and then slit their trousers.
"This way, you'll have to hold your pants up when you walk," she said.
She stared at the seven men still on their feet, who were watching her with awestruck fascination. "And which of you threw the knife?"
There was silence.
She said, "It doesn't matter to me. Come one at a time or all together, but each time I slash, someone dies."
And with one accord, the seven turned and scurried away.
Dors lifted her eyebrows and said to Seldom "This time, at least, Hummin can't complain that I failed to protect you."
Seldon said, "I still can't believe what I saw. I didn't know you could do anything like that-or talk like that either."
Dors merely smiled. "You have your talents too. We make a good pair. Here, retract your knife blades and put them into your pouch. I think the news will spread with enormous speed and we can get out of Billibotton without fear of being stopped."
She was quite right.
* * *
Undercover
DAVAN- . . . In the unsettled times marking the final centuries of the First Galactic Empire, the typical sources of unrest arose from the fact that political and military leaders jockeyed for "supreme" power (a supremacy that grew more worthless with each decade). Only rarely was there anything that could be called a popular movement prior to the advent of psychohistory. In this connection, one intriguing example involves Davan, of whom little is actually known, but who may have met with Hari Seldon at one time when . . .
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
72.
Both Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili had taken rather lingering baths, making use of the somewhat primitive facilities available to them in the Tisalver household. They had changed their clothing and were in Seldon's room when Jirad Tisalver returned in the evening. His signal at the door was (or seemed) rather timid. The buzz did not last long.
Seldon opened the door and said pleasantly, "Good evening, Master Tisalver. And Mistress."
She was standing right behind her husband, forehead puckered into a puzzled frown.
Tisalver said tentatively, as though he was unsure of the situation, "Are you and Mistress Venabili both well?" He nodded his head as though trying to elicit an affirmative by body language.
"Quite well. In and out of Billibotton without trouble and we're all washed and changed. There's no smell left." Seldon lifted his chin as he said it, smiling, tossing the sentence over Tisalver s shoulder to his wife.
She sniffed loudly, as though testing the matter.
Still tentatively, Tisalver said, "I understand there was a knife fight."
Seldon raised his eyebrows. "Is that the story?"
"You and the Mistress against a hundred thugs, we were cold, and you killed them all. Is that so?" There was the reluctant sound of deep respect in his voice.
"Absolutely not," Dors put in with sudden annoyance. "That's ridiculous. What do you think