They got off the Expressway where the sign, flickering¹ in the air, said: BILLIBOTTON. As perhaps an indication of what might be expected, the second I was smeared², a mere³ blob of fainter light.
They made their way out of the car and down to the walkway below. It was early afternoon and at first glance, Billibotton seemed much like the part of Dahl they had left.
The air, however, had a pungent⁴ aroma⁵ and the walkway was littered with trash.
One could tell that auto-sweeps were not to be found in the neighborhood. And, although the walkway looked ordinary enough, the atmosphere was uncomfortable and as tense as a too-tightly coiled spring. Perhaps it was the people. There seemed the normal number of pedestrians⁶, but they were not like pedestrians elsewhere, Seldon thought. Ordinarily, in the press of business, pedestrians were self-absorbed and in the endless crowds on the endless thoroughfares of Trantor, people could only survive--psychologically--by ignoring each other. Eyes slid away. Brains were closed off. There was an artificial privacy with each person enclosed in a velvet⁷ fog of his or her own making. Or there was the ritualistic friendliness⁸ of an evening promenade⁹ in those neighborhoods that indulged in such things. But here in Billibotton, there was neither friendliness nor neutral withdrawal¹⁰. At least not where outsiders were concerned. Every person who passed, moving in either direction, turned to stare at Seldon and Dors. Every pair of eyes, as though attached by invisible cords to the two outsiders, followed them with ill will.

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