“We seem to be passing through a residential area. There are no signs of business establishments, industrial areas-”

“We are a farming community entirely. Where are you from that you do not know this?”

“You know I am an Outworlder,” Seldon said stiffly. “I have been on Trantor for only two months.”

“Even so.”

“But if you are a farming community, Sunmaster, how is it that we have passed no farms either?”

“On lower levels,” said Sunmaster briefly.

“Is Mycogen on this level entirely residential, then?”

“And on a few others. We are what you see. Every Brother and his family lives in equivalent quarters; every cohort in its own equivalent community; all have the same ground-car and all Brothers drive their own. There are no servants and none are at ease through the labor of others. None may glory over another.”

Seldon lifted his shielded eyebrows at Dors and said, “But some of the people wear white, while some wear gray.”

“That is because some of the people are Brothers and some are Sisters.”

“And we?”

“You are a tribesman and a guest. You and your”-he paused and then said-“companion will not be bound by all aspects of Mycogenian life. Nevertheless, you will wear a white gown and your companion will wear a gray one and you will live in special guest quarters like our own.”

“Equality for all seems a pleasant ideal, but what happens as your numbers increase? Is the pie, then, cut into smaller pieces?”

“There is no increase in numbers. That would necessitate an increase in area, which the surrounding tribesmen would not allow, or a change for the worse in our way of life.”

“But if-” began Seldon.

Sunmaster cut him off. “It is enough, Tribesman Seldon. As I warned you, I am not compelled to answer. Our task, which we have promised our friend Tribesman Hummin, is to keep you secure as long as you do not violate our way of life. That we will do, but there it ends. Curiosity is permitted, but it wears out our patience quickly if persisted in.”

Something about his tone allowed no more to be said and Seldon chafed.

Hummin, for all his help, had clearly mis-stressed the matter. It was not security that Seldon sought. At least, not security alone. He needed information too and without that he could not-and would not-stay here.

Seldon looked with some distress at their quarters. It had a small but individual kitchen and a small but individual bathroom. There were two narrow beds, two clothes closets, a table, and two chairs. In short there was everything that was necessary for two people who were willing to live under cramped conditions.

“We had an individual kitchen and bathroom at Cinna,” said Dors with an air of resignation.

“Not I,” said Seldon. “Helicon may be a small world, but I lived in a modern city. Community kitchens and bathrooms.-What a waste this is. You might expect it in a hotel, where one is compelled to make a temporary stay, but if the whole sector is like this, imagine the enormous number and duplications of kitchens and bathrooms.”

“Part of the egalitarianism, I suppose,” said Dors. “No fighting for favored stalls or for faster service. The same for everyone.”

“No privacy either. Not that I mind terribly, Dors, but you might and I don’t want to give the appearance of taking advantage. We ought to make it clear to them that we must have separate rooms-adjoining but separate.”

Dors said, “I’m sure it won’t work. Space is at a premium and I think they are amazed by their own generosity in giving us this much. We’ll just make do, Hari. We’re each old enough to manage. I’m not a blushing maiden and you’ll never convince me that you’re a callow youth.”

“You wouldn’t be here, were it not for me.”

“What of it? It’s an adventure.”

“All right, then. Which bed will you take? Why don’t you take the one nearer the bathroom?” He sat down on the other. “There’s something else that bothers me. As long as we’re here, we’re tribespeople, you and I, as is even Hummin. We’re of the other tribes, not their own cohorts, and most things are none of our business.-But most things are my business. That’s what I’ve come here for. I want to know some of the things they know.”

“Or think they know,” said Dors with a historian’s skepticism. “I understand they have legends that are supposed to date back to primordial times, but I can’t believe they can be taken seriously.”

“We can’t know that until we find out what those legends are. Are there no outside records of them?”

“Not that I know of. These people are terribly ingrown. They’re almost psychotic in their inward clinging. That Hummin can break down their barriers somewhat and even get them to take us in is remarkable-really remarkable.”

Seldon brooded. “There has to be an opening somewhere. Sunmaster was surprised-angry, in fact-that I didn’t know Mycogen was an agricultural community. That seems to be something they don’t want kept a secret.”

“The point is, it isn’t a secret. ‘Mycogen’ is supposed to be from archaic words meaning ‘yeast producer.’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not a paleolinguist. In any case, they culture all varieties of microfood-yeast, of course, along with algae, bacteria, multicellular fungi, and so on.”

“That’s not uncommon,” said Seldon. “Most worlds have this microculture. We have some even on Helicon.”

“Not like Mycogen. It’s their specialty. They use methods as archaic as the name of their section-secret fertilizing formulas, secret environmental influences. Who knows what? All is secret.”

“Ingrown?”

“With a vengeance. What it amounts to is that they produce protein and subtle flavoring, so that their microfood isn’t like any other in the world. They keep the volume comparatively low and the price is skyhigh. I’ve never tasted any and I’m sure you haven’t, but it sells in great quantities to the Imperial bureaucracy and to the upper classes on other worlds. Mycogen depends on such sales for its economic health, so they want everyone to know that they are the source of this valuable food. That, at least, is no secret.”

“Mycogen must be rich, then.”

“They’re not poor, but I suspect that it’s not wealth they’re after. It’s protection. The Imperial government protects them because, without them, there wouldn’t be these microfoods that add the subtlest flavors, the tangiest spices, to every dish. That means that Mycogen can maintain its odd way of life and be haughty toward its neighbors, who probably find them insupportable.”

Dors looked about. “They live an austere life. There’s no holovision, I notice, and no book-films.”

“I noticed one in the closet up on the shelf.” Seldon reached for it, stared at the label, and then said in clear disgust, “A cookbook.”

Dors held out her hand for it and manipulated the keys. It took a while, for the arrangement was not quite orthodox, but she finally managed to light the screen and inspect the pages. She said, “There are a few recipes, but for the most part this seems to consist of philosophical essays on gastronomy.” She shut it off and turned it round and about. “It seems to be a single unit. I don’t see how one would eject the microcard and insert another. A one-book scanner. Now that’s a waste.”

“Maybe they think this one book-film is all anyone needs.” He reached toward the end table that was between the two beds and picked up another object. “This could be a speaker, except that there’s no screen.”

“Perhaps they consider the voice sufficient.”

“How does it work, I wonder?” Seldon lifted it and looked at it from different sides. “Did you ever see anything like this?”

“In a museum once-if this is the same thing. Mycogen seems to keep itself deliberately archaic. I suppose they consider that another way of separating themselves from the so-called tribesmen that surround them in overwhelming numbers. Their archaism and odd customs make them indigestible, so to speak. There’s a kind of perverse logic to all that.”