"Professor Seldon"-his voice was deep and under strict control, an orator's voice-"I am delighted to meet you. It is kind of you to permit this meeting. I trust you are not offended that I have brought a companion, my right-hand man, with me, although I have not cleared that with you in advance. He is Gambol Deen Namarti-three names, you notice. I believe you have met him."

"Yes, I have. I remember the incident well." Seldon looked at Namarti with a touch of the sardonic. At the previous encounter, Namarti had been speaking at the University Field. Seldon viewed him carefully now-under relaxed conditions. Namarti was of moderate height, with a thin face, sallow complexion, dark hair, and a wide mouth. He did not have Joranum's half-smile or any noticeable expression-except for a sense of cautious wariness.

"My friend Dr. Namarti-his degree is in ancient literature-has come at his own request," said Joranum, his smile intensifying a bit, "to apologize."

Joranum glanced quickly at Namarti-and Namarti, his lips tightening just at first, said in a colorless voice, "I am sorry, Professor, for what happened at the Field. I was not quite aware of the strict rules governing University rallies and I was a little carried away by my own enthusiasm."

"Understandably so," said Joranum. "Nor was he entirely aware of your identity. I think we may all now forget the matter."

"I assure you, gentlemen," said Seldon, "that I have no great desire to remember it. This is my son, Raych Seldon, so you see I have a companion, too."

Raych had grown a mustache, black and abundant-the masculine mark of the Dahlite. He had had none when he first met Seldon eight years before, when he was a street boy, ragged and hungry. He was short but lithe and sinewy and his expression was the haughty one he had adopted in order to add a few spiritual inches to his physical height.