He suddenly became aware of a small figure-stocky, with long, tangled black hair and arms thrust outward—careening madly into his field of view and pushing madly at the Hamish farmer.
The figure was that of a woman. Gendibal thought grimly that it was a measure of his tension and preoccupation that he had not noted this till his eyes told him so.
“Karoll Rufirant!” She shrieked at the farmer. “Art bully and coward! Strike for strike, Hamish-fashion? You be two times yon scowler's size. You'll be in more sore danger attacking me. Be there renown in pashing yon poor spalp? There be shame, I'm thinking. It will be a fair heap of finger-pointing and there'll be full saying, ‘Yon be Rufirant, renowned baby-smasher.’ It'll be laughter, I'm thinking, and no decent Hamishman will be drinking with you—and no decent Hamishwoman will be ought with you.”
Rufirant was trying to stem the torrent, warding off the blows she was aiming at him, attempting weakly to answer with a placating, “Now, Sura. Now, Sura.”
Gendibal was aware that hands no longer grasped him, that Rufirant no longer glared at him, that the minds of all were no longer concerned with him.
Sura was not concerned with him, either; her fury was concentrated solely on Rufirant. Gendibal, recovering, now looked to take measures to keep that fury alive and to strengthen the uneasy shame flooding Rufirant's mind, and to do both so lightly and skillfully as to leave no mark. Again, there was no need.
The woman said, “All of you back-step. Look here. If it be not sufficient that this Karoll—heap be like giant to this starveling, there must be five or six more of you ally-friends to share in shame and go back to farm with glorious tale of dewing-do in baby-smashing. ‘I held the spalp's arm,’ you'll say, ‘and giant Rufirant-block pashed him in face when he was not to back-strike.’ And you'll say, ‘But I held his foot, so give me also—glory.’ And Rufirant-chunk will say, ‘I could not have kiln on his lane, so my furrow-mates pinned him and, with help of all six, I gloried on him.’”
“But Sura,” said Rufirant, almost whining, “I told scowler he might have first-shrike.”
“And fearful you were of the mighty blows of his thin arms, not so, Rufirant thickhead. Come. Let him go where he be going, and the rest of you to your homes back-crawl, if so be those homes will still find a welcome-making for you. You had all best hope the grand deeds of this day be forgotten. And they will not be, for I be spreading them far-wide, if you do make me any the more fiercely raging than I be raging now.”
They trooped off quietly, heads hanging, not looking back.
Gendibal stared after them, then back at the woman. She was dressed in blouse and trousers, with roughmade shoes on her feet. Her face was wet with perspiration and she breathed heavily. Her nose was rather large, her breasts heavy (as best Gendibal could tell through the looseness of her blouse), and her bare arms muscular.—But then, the Hamishwomen worked in the fields beside their men.
She was looking at him sternly, arms akimbo. “Well, scowler, why be lagging? Go on to Place of Scowlers. Be you feared? Shall I company you?”
Gendibal could smell the perspiration on clothes that were clearly not freshly laundered, but under the circumstances it would be most discourteous to show any repulsion.
“I thank you, Miss Sura…”
“The name be Novi,” she said gruffly. “Sura Novi. You may say Novi. It be unneeded to moresay.”
“I thank you, Novi. You have been very helpful. You be welcome to company me, not for fear of mine but for company-pleasure in you.” And he bowed gracefully, as he might have bowed to one of the young women at the University.
Novi flushed, seemed uncertain, and then tried to imitate his gesture. “Pleasure—be mine,” she said, as though searching for words that would adequately express her pleasure and lend an air of culture.
They walked together. Gendibal knew well that each leisurely step made him the more unforgiveably late for the Table meeting, but by now he had had a chance to think on the significance of what had taken place and he was icily content to let the lateness grow.
The University buildings were looming ahead of them when Sura Novi stopped and said hesitantly, “Master Scowler?”
Apparently, Gendibal thought, as she approached what she called the “Place of Scowlers,” she grew mare polite. He had a momentary urge to say, “Address you not yon poor spalp?”—But that would embarrass her beyond reason.
“Yes, Novi?”
“Be it very fine like and rich in Place of Scowlers?”
“It's nice,” said Gendibal.
“I once dreamed I be in Place. And—and I be scowler.”
“Someday,” said Gendibal politely, “I'll show it thee.”
Her look at him showed plainly she didn't take it for mere politeness. She said, “I can write. I be taught by schoolmaster. If I write letter to thee,” she tried to make it casual, “how do I mark it so it come to thee?”
“Just say, ‘Speaker's House, Apartment 27,’ and it will come to me. But I must go, Novi.”
He bowed again, and again she tried to imitate the action. They moved off in opposite directions and Gendibal promptly put her out of his mind. He thought instead of the Table meeting and, in particular, of Speaker Delora Delarmi. His thoughts were not gentle.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
FARMWOMAN
Thd Speakers sat about the table, frozen in their mental shielding. It was as though all—with one accord—had hidden their minds to avoid irrevocable insult to the First Speaker after his statement concerning Trevize. Surreptitiously they glanced toward Delarmi and even that gave away much. Of them all, she was best known for her irreverence—Even Gendibal paid more lip service to convention.
Delarmi was aware of the glances and she knew that she had no choice but to face up to this impossible situation. In fact, she did not want to duck the issue. In all the history of the Second Foundation, no First Speaker had ever been impeached for misanalysis (and behind the term, which she had invented as cover-up, was the unacknowledged incompetence). Such impeachment now became possible. She would not hang back.
“First Speaker!” she said softly, her thin, colorless lips more nearly invisible than usual in the general whiteness of her face. “You yourself say you have no basis for your opinion, that the psychohistorical mathematics show nothing Do you ask us to base a crucial decision on a mystical feeling?”
The First Speaker looked up, his forehead corrugated. He was aware of the universal shielding at the Table. He knew what it meant. He said coldly, “I do not hide the lack of evidence. I present you with nothing falsely. What I offer is the strongly intuitive feeling of a First Speaker, one with decades of experience who has spent nearly a lifetime in the close analysis of the Seldon Plan.” He looked about him with a proud rigidity he rarely displayed, and one by one the mental shields softened and dropped. Delarmi's (when he turned to stare at her) was the last.
She said, with a disarming frankness that filled her mind as though nothing else had ever been there, “I accept your statement, of course, First Speaker. Nevertheless, I think you might perhaps want to reconsider. As you think about it now, having already expressed shame at having to fall back on intuition, would you wish your remarks to be stricken from the record if, in your judgment they should be…”
And Gendibal's voice cut in. “What are these remarks that should. be stricken from the record?”
Every pair of eyes turned in unison. Had their shields not been up during the crucial moments before, they would have been aware of his approach long before he was at the door.
“All shields up a moment ago? All unaware of my entrance?” said Gendibal sardonically. “What a commonplace meeting of the Table we have here. Was no one on their guard for my coming? Or did you all fully expect that I would not arrive?”