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Isaac Asimov VERSION 1.2 (DEC 2002) Proofed and formatted by
<Bibliophile>. Undecipherable or dubious text is enclosed in brackets
[…]. Paragraphing is for the most part my own due to the poor quality of the
original plain-text scan and is based on logical flow, narrative style and my
own personal preferences rather than that of the publisher since I did not have
access to a print version of the book. ContentsAuthor’s NoteWhen
I wrote “Foundation,” which appeared in the May 1942 issue of Astounding Science
Fiction, I had no idea that I had begun a series of stories that would
eventually grow into six volumes and a total of 650,000 words (so far). Nor did
I have any idea that it would be unified with my series of short stories and
novels involving robots and my novels involving the Galactic Empire for a grand
total (so far) of fourteen volumes and a total of about 1,450,000 words. You
will see, if you study the publication dates of these books, that there was a
twenty-five-year hiatus between 1957 and 1982, during which I did not add to
this series. This was not because I had stopped writing. Indeed, I wrote
full-speed throughout the quarter century, but I wrote other things. That I
returned to the series in 1982 was not my own notion but was the result of a
combination of pressures from readers and publishers that eventually became
overwhelming. In
any case, the situation has become sufficiently complicated for me to feel that
the readers might welcome a kind of guide to the series, since they were not written
in the order in which (perhaps) they should be read. The fourteen books, all
published by Doubleday, offer a kind of history of the future, which is,
perhaps, not completely consistent, since I did not plan consistency to begin
with. The chronological order of the books, in terms of future history (and not
of publication date), is as follows:
Will
I add additional books to the series? I might. There is room for a book between
Robots and Empire (5) and The Currents of Space (6) and between Prelude to
Foundation (9) and Foundation (10) and of course between others as well. And
then I can follow Foundation and Earth (14) with additional volumes—as many as
I like. Naturally,
there’s got to be some limit, for I don’t expect to live forever, but I do
intend to hang on as long as possible. MathematicianCLEON
I— ... The last Galactic Emperor of the Entun dynasty. He was born in the year
11,988 of the Galactic Era, the same year in which Hari Seldon was born. (It is
thought that Seldon’s birthdate, which some consider doubtful, may have been
adjusted to match that of Cleon, whom Seldon, soon after his arrival on
Trantor, is supposed to have encountered.) Having
succeeded to the Imperial throne in 12,010 at the age of twenty-two, Cleon I’s
reign represented a curious interval of quiet in those troubled times. This is
undoubtedly due to the skills of his Chief of Staff, Eto Demerzel, who so
carefully obscured himself from public record that little is known about him. Cleon
himself ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA (All quotations from the Encyclopedia
Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 116th Edition,
published 1,020 FE by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with
permission of the publishers.) 1.Suppressing
a small yawn, Cleon said, “Demerzel, have you by any chance ever heard of a man
named Hari Seldon?” Cleon
had been Emperor for just over ten years and there were times at state
occasions when, dressed in the necessary robes and regalia, he could manage to
look stately. He did so, for instance, in the holograph of himself that stood
in the niche in the wall behind him. It was placed so that it clearly dominated
the other niches holding the holographs of several of his ancestors. The
holograph was not a totally honest one, for though Cleon’s hair was light brown
in hologram and reality alike, it was a bit thicker in the holograph. There was
a certain asymmetry to his real face, for the left side of his upper lip raised
itself a bit higher than the right side, and this was somehow not evident in
the holograph. And if he had stood up and placed himself beside the holograph,
he would have been seen to be 2 centimeters under the 1.83-meter height that
the image portrayed—and perhaps a bit stouter. Of course, the holograph was the
official coronation portrait and he had been younger then. He still looked
young and rather handsome, too, and when he was not in the pitiless grip of
official ceremony, there was a kind of vague good nature about his face. Demerzel
said, with the tone of respect that he carefully cultivated, “Hari Seldon? It
is an unfamiliar name to me, Sire. Ought I to know of him?” “The
Minister of Science mentioned him to me last night. I thought you might.” Demerzel
frowned slightly, but only very slightly, for one does not frown in the
Imperial presence. “The Minister of Science, Sire, should have spoken of this
man to me as Chief of Staff. If you are to be bombarded from every side—” Cleon
raised his hand and Demerzel stopped at once. “Please, Demerzel, one can’t
stand on formality at all times. When I passed the Minister at last night’s
reception and exchanged a few words with him, he bubbled over. I could not
refuse to listen and I was glad I had, for it was interesting.” “In
what way interesting, Sire?” “Well,
these are not the old days when science and mathematics were all the rage. That
sort of thing seems to have died down somehow, perhaps because all the
discoveries have been made, don’t you think? Apparently, however, interesting
things can still happen. At least I was told it was interesting.” “By
the Minister of Science, Sire?” “Yes.
He said that this Hari Seldon had attended a convention of mathematicians held
here in Trantor—they do this every ten years, for some reason—and he said that
he had proved that one could foretell the future mathematically.” Demerzel
permitted himself a small smile. “Either the Minister of Science, a man of
little acumen, is mistaken or the mathematician is. Surely, the matter of
foretelling the future is a children’s dream of magic.” “Is
it, Demerzel? People believe in such things.” “People
believe in many things, Sire.” “But
they believe in such things. Therefore, it doesn’t matter whether the forecast
of the future is true or not. If a mathematician should predict a long and
happy reign for me, a time of peace and prosperity for the Empire—Eh, would
that not be well?” “It
would be pleasant to hear, certainly, but what would it accomplish, Sire?” “But
surely if people believe this, they would act on that belief. Many a prophecy,
by the mere force of its being believed, is transmuted to fact. These are
‘self-fulfilling prophecies.’ Indeed, now that I think of it, it was you who
once explained this to me.” Demerzel
said, “I believe I did, Sire.” His eyes were watching the Emperor carefully, as
though to see how far he might go on his own. “Still, if that be so, one could
have any person make the prophecy.” “Not
all persons would be equally believed, Demerzel. A mathematician, however, who
could back his prophecy with mathematical formulas and terminology, might be
understood by no one and yet believed by everyone.” Demerzel
said, “As usual, Sire, you make good sense. We live in troubled times and it
would be worthwhile to calm them in a way that would require neither money nor
military effort—which, in recent history, have done little good and much harm.” “Exactly,
Demerzel,” said the Emperor with excitement. “Reel in this Hari Seldon. You
tell me you have your strings stretching to every part of this turbulent world,
even where my forces dare not go. Pull on one of those strings, then, and bring
in this mathematician. Let me see him.” “I
will do so, Sire,” said Demerzel, who had already located Seldon and who made a
mental note to commend the Minister of Science for a job well done. 2.Hari
Seldon did not make an impressive appearance at this time. Like the Emperor
Cleon I, he was thirty-two years old, but he was only 1.73 meters tall. His
face was smooth and cheerful, his hair dark brown, almost black, and his
clothing had the unmistakable touch of provinciality about it. To anyone in
later times who knew of Hari Seldon only as a legendary demigod, it would seem
almost sacrilegious for him not to have white hair, not to have an old lined
face, a quiet smile radiating wisdom, not to be seated in a wheelchair. Even
then, in advanced old age, his eyes had been cheerful, however. There was that. And
his eyes were particularly cheerful now, for his paper had been given at the Decennial
Convention. It had even aroused some interest in a distant sort of way and old
Osterfith had nodded his head at him and had said, “Ingenious, young man. Most
ingenious.” Which, coming from Osterfith, was satisfactory. Most satisfactory. But
now there was a new—and quite unexpected—development and Seldon wasn’t sure
whether it should increase his cheer and intensify his satisfaction or not. He
stared at the tall young man in uniform—the Spaceship-and-Sun neatly placed on
the left side of his tunic. “Lieutenant
Alban Wellis,” said the officer of the Emperor’s Guard before putting away his
identification. “Will you come with me now, sir?” Wellis
was armed, of course. There were two other Guardsmen waiting outside his door.
Seldon knew he had no choice, for all the other’s careful politeness, but there
was no reason he could not seek information. He said, “To see the Emperor?” “To
be brought to the Palace, sir. That’s the extent of my instructions.” “But
why?” “I
was not told why, sir. And I have my strict instructions that you must come
with me—one way or another.” “But
this seems as though I am being arrested. I have done nothing to warrant that.” “Say,
rather, that it seems you are being given an escort of honor—if you delay me no
further.” Seldon
delayed no further. He pressed his lips together, as though to block of further
questions, nodded his head, and stepped forward. Even if he was going to meet
the Emperor and to receive Imperial commendation, he found no joy in it. He was
for the Empire—that is, for the worlds of humanity in peace and union but he
was not for the Emperor. The
lieutenant walked ahead, the other two behind. Seldon smiled at those he passed
and managed to look unconcerned. Outside the hotel they climbed into an
official ground-car. (Seldon ran his hand over the upholstery; he had never
been in anything so ornate.) They
were in one of the wealthiest sections of Trantor. The dome was high enough
here to give a sensation of being in the open and one could swear—even one such
as Hari Seldon, who had been born and brought up on an open world—that they
were in sunlight. You could see no sun and no shadows, but the air was light
and fragrant. And
then it passed and the dome curved down and the walls narrowed in and soon they
were moving along an enclosed tunnel, marked periodically with the
Spaceship-and-Sun and so clearly reserved (Seldon thought) for official
vehicles. A
door opened and the ground-car sped through. When the door closed behind them,
they were in the open—the true, the real open. There were 250 square kilometers
of the only stretch of open land on Trantor and on it stood the Imperial
Palace. Seldon would have liked a chance to wander through that open land—not
because of the Palace, but because it also contained the Galactic University
and, most intriguing of all, the Galactic Library. And
yet, in passing from the enclosed world of Trantor into the open patch of wood
and parkland, he had passed into a world in which clouds dimmed the sky and a
chill wind rued his shirt. He pressed the contact that closed the ground-car’s
window. It
was a dismal day outside. 3.Seldon
was not at all sure he would meet the Emperor. At best, he would meet some
official in the fourth or fifth echelon who would claim to speak for the
Emperor. How
many people ever did see the Emperor? In person, rather than on holovision? How
many people saw the real, tangible Emperor, an Emperor who never left the
Imperial grounds that he, Seldon, was now rolling over. The number was
vanishingly small. Twenty-five million inhabited worlds, each with its cargo of
a billion human beings or more—and among all those quadrillions of human
beings, how many had, or would ever, lay eyes on the living Emperor. A
thousand? And
did anyone care? The Emperor was no more than a symbol of Empire, like the
Spaceship-and-Sun but far less pervasive, far less real. It was his soldiers
and his officials, crawling everywhere, that now represented an Empire that had
become a dead weight upon its people—not the Emperor. So
it was that when Seldon was ushered into a moderately sized, lavishly furnished
room and found a young-looking man sitting on the edge of a table in a windowed
alcove, one foot on the ground and one swinging over the edge, he found himself
wondering that any official should be looking at him in so blandly good-natured
a way. He had already experienced the fact, over and over, that government
officials—and particularly those in the Imperial service—looked grave at all
times, as though bearing the weight of the entire Galaxy on their shoulders.
And it seemed the lower in importance they were, the graver and more
threatening their expression. This,
then, might be an official so high in the scale, with the sun of power so
bright upon him, that he felt no need of countering it with clouds of frowning.
Seldon wasn’t sure how impressed he ought to be, but he felt that it would be
best to remain silent and let the other speak first. The official said, “You
are Hari Seldon, I believe. The mathematician.” Seldon
responded with a minimal “Yes, sir,” and waited again. The
young man waved an arm. “It should be ‘Sire,’ but I hate ceremony. It’s all I
get and I weary of it. We are alone, so I will pamper myself and eschew
ceremony. Sit down, professor.” Halfway
through the speech, Seldon realized that he was speaking to the Emperor Cleon,
First of that Name, and he felt the wind go out of him. There was a faint
resemblance (now that he looked) to the official holograph that appeared
constantly in the news, but in that holograph, Cleon was always dressed
imposingly, seemed taller, nobler, frozen-faced. And here he was, the original
of the holograph, and somehow he appeared to be quite ordinary. Seldon
did not budge. The
Emperor frowned slightly and, with the habit of command present even in the
attempt to abolish it, at least temporarily, said peremptorily, “I said, ‘Sit
down,’ man. That chair. Quickly.” Seldon
sat down, quite speechless. He could not even bring himself to say, “Yes,
Sire.” Cleon
smiled. “That’s better. Now we can talk like two fellow human beings, which,
after all, is what we are once ceremony is removed. Eh, my man?” Seldon
said cautiously, “If Your Imperial Majesty is content to say so, then it is
so.” “Oh,
come, why are you so cautious? I want to talk to you on equal terms. It is my
pleasure to do so. Humor me.” “Yes,
Sire.” “A
simple ‘Yes,’ man. Is there no way I can reach you?” Cleon
stared at Seldon and Seldon thought it was a lively and interested stare. Finally
the Emperor said, “You don’t look like a mathematician.” At
last, Seldon found himself able to smile. “I don’t know what a mathematician is
suppose to look like, Your Imp—” Cleon
raised a cautioning hand and Seldon choked off the honorific. Cleon said,
“White-haired, I suppose. Bearded, perhaps. Old, certainly.” “Yet
even mathematicians must be young to begin with.” “But
they are then without reputation. By the time they obtrude themselves on the
notice of the Galaxy, they are as I have described.” “I
am without reputation, I’m afraid.” “Yet
you spoke at this convention they held here.” “A
great many of us did. Some were younger than myself. Few of us were granted any
attention whatever.” “Your
talk apparently attracted the attention of some of my officials. I am given to
understand that you believe it possible to predict the future.” Seldon
suddenly felt weary. It seemed as though this misinterpretation of his theory
was constantly going to occur. Perhaps he should not have presented his paper. He
said, “Not quite, actually. What I have done is much more limited than that. In
many systems, the situation is such that under some conditions chaotic events
take place. That means that, given a particular starting point, it is
impossible to predict outcomes. This is true even in some quite simple systems,
but the more complex a system, the more likely it is to become chaotic. It has
always been assumed that anything as complicated as human society would quickly
become chaotic and, therefore, unpredictable. What I have done, however, is to
show that, in studying human society, it is possible to choose a starting point
and to make appropriate assumptions that will suppress the chaos. That will
make it possible to predict the future, not in full detail, of course, but in
broad sweeps; not with certainty, but with calculable probabilities.” The
Emperor, who had listened carefully, said, “But doesn’t that mean that you have
shown how to predict the future?” “Again,
not quite. I have showed that it is theoretically possible, but no more. To do
more, we would actually have to choose a correct starting point, make correct
assumptions, and then find ways of carrying through calculations in a finite
time. Nothing in my mathematical argument tells us how to do any of this. And
even if we could do it all, we would, at best, only assess probabilities. That
is not the same as predicting the future; it is merely a guess at what is
likely to happen. Every successful politician, businessman, or human being of
any calling must make these estimates of the future and do it fairly well or he
or she would not be successful.” “They
do it without mathematics.” “True.
They do it by intuition.” “With
the proper mathematics, anyone would be able to assess the probabilities. It
wouldn’t take the rare human being who is successful because of a remarkable
intuitive sense.” “True
again, but I have merely shown that mathematical analysis is possible; I have
not shown it to be practical.” “How
can something be possible, yet not practical?” “It
is theoretically possible for me to visit each world of the Galaxy and greet
each person on each world. However, it would take far longer to do this than I
have years to live and, even if I was immortal, the rate at which new human
beings are being born is greater than the rate at which I could interview the
old and, even more to the point, old human beings would die in great numbers
before I could ever get to them.” “And
is this sort of thing true of your mathematics of the future?” Seldon
hesitated, then went on. “It might be that the mathematics would take too long
to work out, even if one had a computer the size of the Universe working at
hyperspatial velocities. By the time any answer had been received, enough years
would have elapsed to alter the situation so grossly as to make the answer
meaningless.” “Why
cannot the process be simplified?” Cleon asked sharply. “Your
Imperial Majesty,”—Seldon felt the Emperor growing more formal as the answers
grew less to his liking and responded with greater formality of his own,
“consider the manner in which scientists have dealt with subatomic particles.
There are enormous numbers of these, each moving or vibrating in random and
unpredictable manner, but this chaos turns out to have an underlying order, so
that we can work out a quantum mechanics that answers all the questions we know
how to ask. In studying society, we place human beings in the place of
subatomic particles, but now there is the added factor of the human mind.
Particles move mindlessly; human beings do not. To take into account the
various attitudes and impulses of mind adds so much complexity that there lacks
time to take care of all of it.” “Could
not mind, as well as mindless motion, have an underlying order?” “Perhaps.
My mathematical analysis implies that order must underlie everything, however
disorderly it may appear to be, but it does not give any hint as to how this
underlying order may be found. Consider—Twenty-five million worlds, each with
its overall characteristics and culture, each being significantly different
from all the rest, each containing a billion or more human beings who each have
an individual mind, and all the worlds interacting in innumerable ways and
combinations! However theoretically possible a psychohistorical analysis may
be, it is not likely that it can be done in any practical sense.” “What
do you mean ‘psychohistorical’?” “I
refer to the theoretical assessment of probabilities concerning the future as
‘psychohistory.’ ” The
Emperor rose to his feet suddenly, strode to the other end of the room, turned,
strode back, and stopped before the still-sitting Seldon. “Stand up!” he
commanded. Seldon
rose and looked up at the somewhat taller Emperor. He strove to keep his gaze
steady. Cleon
finally said, “This psychohistory of yours ... if it could be made practical,
it would be of great use, would it not?” “Of
enormous use, obviously. To know what the future holds, in even the most
general and probabilistic way, would serve as a new and marvelous guide for our
actions, one that humanity has never before had. But, of course—” He paused. “Well?”
said Cleon impatiently. “Well,
it would seem that, except for a few decision-makers, the results of
psychohistorical analysis would have to remain unknown to the public.” “Unknown!”
exclaimed Cleon with surprise. “It’s
clear. Let me try to explain. If a psychohistorical analysis is made and the
results are then given to the public, the various emotions and reactions of
humanity would at once be distorted. The psychohistorical analysis, based on
emotions and reactions that take place without knowledge of the future, become
meaningless. Do you understand?” The
Emperor’s eyes brightened and he laughed aloud. “Wonderful!” He clapped his
hand on Seldon’s shoulder and Seldon staggered slightly under the blow. “Don’t
you see, man?” said Cleon. “Don’t you see? There’s your use. You don’t need to
predict the future. Just choose a future—a good future, a useful future—and
make the kind of prediction that will alter human emotions and reactions in
such a way that the future you predicted will be brought about. Better to make
a good future than predict a bad one.” Seldon
frowned. “I see what you mean, Sire, but that is equally impossible.” “Impossible?” “Well,
at any rate, impractical. Don’t you see? If you can’t start with human emotions
and reactions and predict the future they will bring about, you can’t do the
reverse either. You can’t start with a future and predict the human emotions
and reactions that will bring it about.” Cleon
looked frustrated. His lips tightened. “And your paper, then? ... Is that what
you call it, a paper? ... Of what use is it?” “It
was merely a mathematical demonstration. It made a point of interest to
mathematicians, but there was no thought in my mind of its being useful in any
way.” “I
find that disgusting,” said Cleon angrily. Seldon
shrugged slightly. More than ever, he knew he should never have given the
paper. What would become of him if the Emperor took it into his head that he
had been made to play the fool? And
indeed, Cleon did not look as though he was very far from believing that. “Nevertheless,”
he said, “what if you were to make predictions of the future, mathematically
justified or not; predictions that government officials, human beings whose
expertise it is to know what the public is likely to do, will judge to be the
kind that will bring about useful reactions?” “Why
would you need me to do that? The government officials could make those
predictions themselves and spare the middleman.” “The
government officials could not do so as effectively. Government officials do
make statements of the sort now and then. They are not necessarily believed.” “Why
would I be?” “You
are a mathematician. You would have calculated the future, not ... not intuited
it—if that is a word.” “But
I would not have done so.” “Who
would know that?” Cleon watched him out of narrowed eyes. There was a pause. Seldon
felt trapped. If given a direct order by the Emperor, would it be safe to
refuse? If he refused, he might be imprisoned or executed. Not without trial,
of course, but it is only with great difficulty that a trial can be made to go
against the wishes of a heavy-handed officialdom, particularly one under the
command of the Emperor of the vast Galactic Empire. He said finally, “It
wouldn’t work.” “Why
not?” “If
I were asked to predict vague generalities that could not possibly come to pass
until long after this generation and, perhaps, the next were dead, we might get
away with it, but, on the other hand, the public would pay little attention.
They would not care about a glowing eventuality a century or two in the future. “To
attain results,” Seldon went on, “I would have to predict matters of sharper
consequence, more immediate eventualities. Only to these would the public
respond. Sooner or later, though—and probably sooner—one of the eventualities
would not come to pass and my usefulness would be ended at once. With that,
your popularity might be gone, too, and, worst of all, there would be no
further support for the development of psychohistory so that there would be no
chance for any good to come of it if future improvements in mathematical
insights help to make it move closer to the realm of practicality.” Cleon
threw himself into a chair and frowned at Seldon. “Is that all you
mathematicians can do? Insist on impossibilities?” Seldon
said with desperate softness, “It is you, Sire, who insist on impossibilities.” “Let
me test you, man. Suppose I asked you to use your mathematics to tell me
whether I would some day be assassinated? What would you say?” “My
mathematical system would not give an answer to so specific a question, even if
psychohistory worked at its best. All the quantum mechanics in the world cannot
make it possible to predict the behavior of one lone electron, only the average
behavior of many.” “You
know your mathematics better than I do. Make an educated guess based on it.
Will I someday be assassinated?” Seldon
said softly, “You lay a trap for me, Sire. Either tell me what answer you wish
and I will give it to you or else give me free right to make what answer I wish
without punishment.” “Speak
as you will.” “Your
word of honor?” “Do
you want it an writing?” Cleon was sarcastic. “Your
spoken word of honor will be sufficient,” said Seldon, his heart sinking, for
he was not certain it would be. “You
have my word of honor.” “Then
I can tell you that in the past four centuries nearly half the Emperors have
been assassinated, from which I conclude that the chances of your assassination
are roughly one in two.” “Any
fool can give that answer,” said Cleon with contempt. “It takes no
mathematician.” “Yet
I have told you several times that my mathematics is useless for practical
problems.” “Can’t
you even suppose that I learn the lessons that have been given me by my
unfortunate predecessors?” Seldon
took a deep breath and plunged in. “No, Sire. All history shows that we do not
learn from the lessons of the past. For instance, you have allowed me here in a
private audience. What if it were in my mind to assassinate you? Which it
isn’t, Sire,” he added hastily. Cleon
smiled without humor. “My man, you don’t take into account our thoroughness—or
advances in technology. We have studied your history, your complete record.
When you arrived, you were scanned. Your expression and voiceprints were
analyzed. We knew your emotional state in detail; we practically knew your
thoughts. Had there been the slightest doubt of your harmlessness, you would
not have been allowed near me. In fact, you would not now be alive.” A
wave of nausea swept through Seldon, but he continued. “Outsiders have always
found it difficult to get at Emperors, even with technology less advanced.
However, almost every assassination has been a palace coup. It is those nearest
the Emperor who are the greatest danger to him. Against that danger, the
careful screening of outsiders is irrelevant. And as for your own officials,
your own Guardsmen, your own intimates, you cannot treat them as you treat me.” Cleon
said, “I know that, too, and at least as well as you do. The answer is that I
treat those about me fairly and I give them no cause for resentment.” “A
foolish—” began Seldon, who then stopped in confusion. “Go
on,” said Cleon angrily. “I have given you permission to speak freely. How am I
foolish?” “The
word slipped out, Sire. I meant ‘irrelevant.’ Your treatment of your intimates
is irrelevant. You must be suspicious; it would be inhuman not to be. A
careless word, such as the one I used, a careless gesture, a doubtful
expression and you must withdraw a bit with narrowed eyes. And any touch of
suspicion sets in motion a vicious cycle. The intimate will sense and resent
the suspicion and will develop a changed behavior, try as he might to avoid it.
You sense that and grow more suspicious and, in the end, either he is executed
or you are assassinated. It is a process that has proved unavoidable for the
Emperors of the past four centuries and it is but one sign of the increasing
difficulty of conducting the affairs of the Empire.” “Then
nothing I can do will avoid assassination.” “No,
Sire,” said Seldon, “but, on the other hand, you may prove fortunate.” Cleon’s
fingers were drumming on the arm of his chair. He said harshly, “You are
useless, man, and so is your psychohistory. Leave me.” And with those words,
the Emperor looked away, suddenly seeming much older than his thirty-two years. “I
have said my mathematics would be useless to you, Sire. My profound apologies.”
Seldon tried to bow but at some signal he did not see, two guards entered and
took him away. Cleon’s
voice came after him from the royal chamber. “Return that man to the place from
which he was brought earlier.” 4.Eto
Demerzel emerged and glanced at the Emperor with a hint of proper deference. He
said, “Sire, you have almost lost your temper.” Cleon
looked up and, with an obvious effort, managed to smile. “Well, so I did. The
man was very disappointing.” “And
yet he promised no more than he offered.” “He
offered nothing.” “And
promised nothing, Sire.” “It
was disappointing.” Demerzel
said, “More than disappointing, perhaps. The man is a loose cannon, Sire.” “A
loose what, Demerzel? You are always so full of strange expressions. What is a
cannon?” Demerzel
said gravely, “It is simply an expression I heard in my youth, Sire. The Empire
is full of strange expressions and some are unknown on Trantor, as those of
Trantor are sometimes unknown elsewhere.” “Do
you come to teach me the Empire is large? What do you mean by saying that the
man is a loose cannon?” “Only
that he can do much harm without necessarily intending it. He does not know his
own strength. Or importance.” “You
deduce that, do you, Demerzel?” “Yes,
Sire. He is a provincial. He does not know Trantor or its ways. He has never
been on our planet before and he cannot behave like a man of breeding, like a
courtier. Yet he stood up to—” “And
why not? I gave him permission to speak. I left off ceremony. I treated him as
an equal.” “Not
entirely, Sire. You don’t have it within you to treat others as equals. You
have the habit of command. And even if you tried to put a person at his ease,
there would be few who could manage it. Most would be speechless or, worse,
subservient and sycophantic. This man stood up to you.” “Well,
you may admire that, Demerzel, but I didn’t like him.” Cleon looked
thoughtfully discontented. “Did you notice that he made no effort to explain
his mathematics to me? It was as though he knew I would not understand a word
of it.” “Nor
would you have, Sire. You are not a mathematician, nor a scientist of any kind,
nor an artist. There are many fields of knowledge in which others know more
than you. It is their task to use their knowledge to serve you. You are the
Emperor, which is worth all their specializations put together.” “Is
it? I would not mind being made to feel ignorant by an old man who had
accumulated knowledge over many years. But this man, Seldon, is just my age.
How does he know so much?” “He
has not had to learn the habit of command, the art of reaching a decision that
will affect the lives of others.” “Sometimes,
Demerzel, I wonder if you are laughing at me.” “Sire?”
said Demerzel reproachfully. “But
never mind. Back to that loose cannon of yours. Why should you consider him
dangerous? He seems a naive provincial to me.” “He
is. But he has this mathematical development of his.” “He
says it is useless.” “You
thought it might be useful. I thought so, after you had explained it to me.
Others might. The mathematician may come to think so himself, now that his mind
has been focused on it. And who knows, he may yet work out some way of making
use of it. If he does, then to foretell the future, however mistily, is to be
in a position of great power. Even if he does not wish power for himself, a
kind of self-denial that always seems to me to be unlikely, he might be used by
others.” “I
tried to use him. He would not.” “He
had not given it thought. Perhaps now he will. And if he was not interested in
being used by you, might he not be persuaded by—let us say—the Mayor of Wye?” “Why
should he be willing to help Wye and not us?” “As
he explained, it is hard to predict the emotions and behavior of individuals.” Cleon
scowled and sat in thought. “Do you really think he might develop this
psychohistory of his to the point where it is truly useful? He is so certain he
cannot.” “He
may, with time, decide he was wrong in denying the possibility.” Cleon
said, “Then I suppose I ought to have kept him.” Demerzel
said, “No, Sire. Your instinct was correct when you let him go. Imprisonment,
however disguised, would cause resentment and despair, which would not help him
either to develop his ideas further or make him eager to help us. Better to let
him go as you have done, but to keep him forever on an invisible leash. In this
way, we can see that he is not used by an enemy of yourself, Sire, and we can
see that when the time comes and he has fully developed his science, we can
pull on our leash and bring him in. Then we could be ... more persuasive.” “But
what if he it picked up by an enemy of mine or, better, of the Empire, for I am
the Empire after all, or if, of his own accord, he wishes to serve an enemy—I
don’t consider that out of the question, you see.” “Nor
should you. I will see to it that this doesn’t happen, but if, against all
striving, it does happen, it would be better if no one has him than if the
wrong person does.” Cleon
looked uneasy. “I’ll leave that all in your hands, Demerzel, but I hope we’re
not too hasty. He could be, after all, nothing but the purveyor of a
theoretical science that does not and cannot work.” “Quite
possibly, Sire, but it would be safer to assume the man is—or might
be—important. We lose only a little time and nothing more if we find that we
have concerned ourselves with a nonentity. We may lose a Galaxy if we find we
have ignored someone of great importance.” “Very
well, then,” said Cleon, “but I trust I won’t have to know the details—if they
prove unpleasant.” Demerzel
said, “Let us hope that will not be the case.” 5.Seldon
had had an evening, a night, and part of a morning to get over his meeting with
the Emperor. At least, the changing quality of light within the walkways,
moving corridors, squares, and parks of the Imperial Sector of Trantor made it
seem that an evening, a night, and part of a morning had passed. He sat now in
a small park on a small plastic seat that molded itself neatly to his body and
he was comfortable. Judging from the light, it seemed to be midmorning and the
air was just cool enough to seem fresh without possessing even the smallest
bite. Was
it like this all the time? He thought of the gray day outside when he went to
see the Emperor. And he thought of all the gray days and cold days and hot days
and rainy days and snowy days on Helicon, his home, and he wondered if one
could miss them. Was it possible to sit in a park on Trantor, having ideal
weather day after day, so that it felt as though you were surrounded by nothing
at all—and coming to miss a howling wind or a biting cold or a breathless
humidity? Perhaps.
But not on the first day or the second or the seventh. He would have only this
one day and he would leave tomorrow. He meant to enjoy it while he could. He
might, after all, never return to Trantor. Still, he continued to feel uneasy
at having spoken as independently as he had to a man who could, at will, order
one’s imprisonment or execution—or, at the very least, the economic and social
death of loss of position and status. Before going to bed, Seldon had looked up
Cleon I in the encyclopedic portion of his hotel room computer. The Emperor had
been highly praised as, no doubt, had all Emperors in their own lifetime,
regardless of their deeds. Seldon had dismissed that, but he was interested in
the fact that Cleon had been born in the Palace and had never left its grounds.
He had never been in Trantor itself, in any part of the multi-domed world. It
was a matter of security, perhaps, but what it meant was that the Emperor was
in prison, whether he admitted the matter to himself or not. It might be the
most luxurious prison in the Galaxy, but it was a prison just the same. And
though the Emperor had seemed mild-mannered and had shown no sign of being a
bloody-minded autocrat as so many of his predecessors had been, it was not good
to have attracted his attention. Seldon welcomed the thought of leaving
tomorrow for Helicon, even though it would be winter (and a rather nasty one,
so far) back home. He
looked up at the bright diffuse light. Although it could never rain in here,
the atmosphere was far from dry. A fountain played not far from him; the plants
were green and had probably never felt drought. Occasionally, the shrubbery
rustled as though a small animal or two was hidden there. He heard the hum of
bees. Really,
though Trantor was spoken of throughout the Galaxy as an artificial world of
metal and ceramic, in this small patch it felt positively rustic. There were a
few other persons taking advantage of the park all wearing light hats, some
quite small. There was one rather pretty young woman not far away, but she was
bent over a viewer and he could not see her face clearly. A man walked past,
looked at him briefly and incuriously, then sat down in a seat facing him and
buried himself in a sheaf of teleprints, crossing one leg, in its tight pink
trouser leg, over the other. There
was a tendency to pastel shades among the men, oddly enough, while the women
mostly wore white. Being a clean environment, it made sense to wear light
colors. He looked down in amusement at his own Heliconian costume, which was
predominantly dull brown. If he were to stay on Trantor as he was not he would
need to purchase suitable clothing or he would become an object of curiosity or
laughter or repulsion. The man with the teleprints had, for instance, looked up
at him more curiously this time—no doubt intrigued by his Outworldish clothing.
Seldon was relieved that he did not smile. He could be philosophical over being
a figure of fun, but, surely, he could not be expected to enjoy it. Seldon
watched the man rather unobtrusively, for he seemed to be engaged in some sort
of internal debate. At the moment he looked as if he was about to speak, then
seemed to think better of it, then seemed to wish to speak again. Seldon
wondered what the outcome would be. He
studied the man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and no sign of a paunch,
darkish hair with a glint of blond, smooth-shaven, a grave expression, an air
of strength though there were no bulging muscles, a face that was a touch
rugged—pleasant, but with nothing “pretty” about it. By the time the man had
lost the internal fight with himself (or won, perhaps) and leaned toward him,
Seldon had decided he liked him. The man said, “Pardon me, weren’t you at the
Decennial Convention? Mathematics?” “Yes,
I was,” said Seldon agreeably. “Ah,
I thought I saw you there. It was—excuse me—that moment of recognition that led
me to sit here. If I am intruding on your privacy—” “Not
at all. I’m just enjoying an idle moment.” “Let’s
see how close I can get. You’re Professor Seldon.” “Seldon.
Hari Seldon. Quite close. And you?” “Chetter
Hummin.” The man seemed slightly embarrassed. “Rather a homespun name, I’m
afraid.” “I’ve
never come across any Chetters before,” said Seldon. “Or Hummins. So that makes
you somewhat unique, I should think. It might be viewed as being better than
being mixed up with all the countless Haris there are. Or Seldons, for that
matter.” Seldon
moved his chair closer to Hummin, scraping it against the slightly elastic
ceramoid tiles. “Talk
about homespun,” he said, “What about this Outworldish clothing I’m wearing? It
never occurred to me that I ought to get Trantorian garb.” “You
could buy some,” said Hummin, eyeing Seldon with suppressed disapproval. “I’ll
be leaving tomorrow and, besides, I couldn’t afford it. Mathematicians deal
with large numbers sometimes, but never in their income.—I presume you’re a
mathematician, Hummin.” “No.
Zero talent there.” “Oh.”
Seldon was disappointed. “You said you saw me at the Decennial Convention.” “I
was there as an onlooker. I’m a journalist.” He waved his teleprints, seemed
suddenly aware that he was holding them and shoved them into his jacket pouch.
“I supply the material for the news holocasts.” Then, thoughtfully, “Actually,
I’m rather tired of it.” “The
job?” Hummin
nodded. “I’m sick of gathering together all the nonsense from every world. I
hate the downward spiral.” He
glanced speculatively at Seldon. “Sometimes something interesting turns up,
though. I’ve heard you were seen in the company of an Imperial Guard and making
for the Palace gate. You weren’t by any chance seen by the Emperor, were you?”
The smile vanished from Seldon’s face. He said slowly, “If I was, it would
scarcely be something I could talk about for publication.” “No,
no, not for publication. If you don’t know this, Seldon, let me be the first to
tell you—The first rule of the news game is that nothing is ever said about the
Emperor or his personal entourage except what is officially given out. It’s a
mistake, of course, because rumors fly that are much worse than the truth, but
that’s the way it is.” “But
if you can’t report it, friend, why do you ask?” “Private
curiosity. Believe me, in my job I know a great deal more than ever gets on the
air.—Let me guess. I didn’t follow your paper, but I gathered that you were
talking about the possibility of predicting the future.” Seldon
shook his head and muttered, “It was a mistake.” “Pardon
me?” “Nothing.” “Well,
prediction—accurate prediction—would interest the Emperor, or any man in
government, so I’m guessing that Cleon, First of that Name, asked you about it
and wouldn’t you please give him a few predictions.” Seldon
said stiffly, “I don’t intend to discuss the matter.” Hummin
shrugged slightly. “Eto Demerzel was there, I suppose.” “Who?” “You’ve
never heard of Eto Demerzel?” “Never.” “Cleon’s
alter ego—Cleon’s brain—Cleon’s evil spirit. He’s been called all those
things—if we confine ourselves to the nonvituperative. He must have been there.” Seldon
looked confused and Hummin said, “Well, you may not have seen him, but he was
there. And if he thinks you can predict the future—” “I
can’t predict the future,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “If you
listened to my paper, you’ll know that I only spoke of a theoretical
possibility.” “Just
the same, if he thinks you can predict the future, he will not let you go.” “He
must have. Here I am.” “That
means nothing. He knows where you are and he’ll continue to know. And when he
wants you, he’ll get you, wherever you are. And if he decides you’re useful,
he’ll squeeze the use out of you. And if he decides you’re dangerous, he’ll
squeeze the life out of you.” Seldon
stared. “What are you trying to do. Frighten me?” “I’m
trying to warn you.” “I
don’t believe what you’re saying.” “Don’t
you? A while ago you said something was a mistake. Were you thinking that
presenting the paper was a mistake and that it was getting you into the kind of
trouble you don’t want to be in?” Seldon
bit his lower lip uneasily. That was a guess that came entirely too close to
the truth—and it was at this moment that Seldon felt the presence of intruders. They
did not cast a shadow, for the light was too soft and widespread. It was simply
a movement that caught the corner of his eye—and then it stopped. FlightTRANTOR—
... The capital of the First Galactic Empire ... Under Cleon I, it had its
“twilight glow.” To all appearances, it was then at its peak. Its land surface
of 200 million square kilometers was entirely domed (except for the Imperial
Palace area) and underlaid with an endless city that extended beneath the
continental shelves. The population was 40 billion and although the signs were
plentiful (and clearly visible in hindsight) that there were gathering problems,
those who lived on Trantor undoubtedly found it still the Eternal World of
legend and did not expect it would ever ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 6.Seldon
looked up. A young man was standing before him, looking down at him with an
expression of amused contempt. Next to him was another young man—a bit younger,
perhaps. Both were large and appeared to be strong. They were dressed in an
extreme of Trantorian fashion, Seldon judged—boldly clashing colors, broad
fringed belts, round hats with wide brims all about and the two ends of a
bright pink ribbon extending from the brim to the back of the neck. In
Seldon’s eyes, it was amusing and he smiled. The
young man before him snapped, “What’re you grinning at, misfit?” Seldon ignored
the manner of address and said gently, “Please pardon my smile. I was merely
enjoying your costume.” “My
costume? So? And what are you wearing? What’s that awful offal you call
clothes?” His hand went out and his finger flicked at the lapel of Seldon’s
jacket—disgracefully heavy and dull, Seldon himself thought, in comparison to
the other’s lighthearted colors. Seldon
said, “I’m afraid it’s my Outworlder clothes. They’re all I have.” He couldn’t
help notice that the few others who were sitting in the small park were rising
to their feet and walking off. It was as though they were expecting trouble and
had no desire to remain in the vicinity. Seldon wondered if his new friend,
Hummin, was leaving too, but he felt it injudicious to take his eyes away from
the young man who was confronting him. He teetered back on his chair slightly. The
young man said, “You an Outworlder?” “That’s
right. Hence my clothes.” “Hence?
What kind of word’s that? Outworld word?” “What
I meant was, that was why my clothes seem peculiar to you. I’m a visitor here.” “From
what planet?” “Helicon.” The
young man’s eyebrows drew together. “Never heard of it.” “It’s
not a large planet.” “Why
don’t you go back there?” “I
intend to. I’m leaving tomorrow.” “Sooner!
Now!” The
young man looked at his partner. Seldon followed the look and caught a glimpse
of Hummin. He had not left, but the park was now empty except for himself,
Hummin, and the two young men. Seldon
said, “I’d thought I’d spend today sight-seeing.” “No.
You don’t want to do that. You go home now.” Seldon
smiled. “Sorry. I won’t.” The
young man said to his partner. “You like his clothes, Marbie?” Marbie
spoke for the first time. “No. Disgusting. Turns the stomach.” “Can’t
let him go around turning stomachs, Marbie. Not good for people’s health.” “No,
not by no means, Alem,” said Marbie. Alem
grinned. “Well now. You heard what Marbie said.” And
now Hummin spoke. He said, “Look, you two, Alem, Marbie, whatever your names
are. You’ve had your fun. Why don’t you go away?” Alem,
who had been leaning slightly toward Seldon, straightened and turned. “Who are
you?” “That’s
not your business,” snapped Hummin. “You’re
Trantorian?” asked Alem. “Also
not your business.” Alem
frowned and said, “You’re dressed Trantorian. We’re not interested in you, so
don’t go looking for problems.” “I
intend to stay. That means there are two of us. Two against two doesn’t sound
like your kind of fight. Why don’t you go away and get some friends so you can
handle two people?” Seldon
said, “I really think you ought to get away if you can, Hummin. It’s kind of
you to try to protect me, but I don’t want you harmed.” “These
are not dangerous people, Seldon. Just half-credit lackeys.” “Lackeys!”
The word seemed to infuriate Alem, so that Seldon thought it must have a more
insulting meaning on Trantor than it had on Helicon. “Here,
Marbie,” said Alem with a growl. “You take care of that other motherlackey and
I’ll rip the clothes off this Seldon. He’s the one we want. Now—” His
hands came down sharply to seize Seldon’s lapels and jerk him upright. Seldon
pushed away, instinctively it would seem, and his chair tipped backward. He
seized the hands stretched toward him, his foot went up, and his chair went
down. Somehow
Alem streaked overhead, turning as he did so, and came down hard on his neck
and back behind Seldon. Seldon
twisted as his chair went down and was quickly on his feet, staring down at
Alem, then looking sharply to one side for Marbie. Alem lay unmoving, his face
twisted in agony. He had two badly sprained thumbs, excruciating pain in his
groin, and a backbone that had been badly jarred. Hummin’s left arm had grabbed
Marbie’s neck from behind and his right arm had pulled the other’s right arm
backward at a vicious angle. Marbie’s face was red as he labored uselessly for
breath. A knife, glittering with a small laser inset, lay on the ground beside
them. Hummin
eased his grip slightly and said, with an air of honest concern, “You’ve hurt
that one badly.” Seldon
said, “I’m afraid so. If he had fallen a little differently, he would have
snapped his neck.” Hummin
said, “What kind of a mathematician are you?” “A
Heliconian one.” He stooped to pick up the knife and, after examining it, said,
“Disgusting—and deadly.” Hummin
said, “An ordinary blade would do the job without requiring a power source.—But
let’s let these two go. I doubt they want to continue any further.” He
released Marbie, who rubbed first his shoulder then his neck. Gasping for air,
he turned hate-filled eyes on the two men. Hummin said sharply, “You two had
better get out of here. Otherwise we’ll have to give evidence against you for
assault and attempted murder. This knife can surely be traced to you.” Seldon
and Hummin watched while Marbie dragged Alem to his feet and then helped him
stagger away, still bent in pain. They looked back once or twice, but Seldon
and Hummin watched impassively. Seldon
held out his hand. “How do I thank you for coming to the aid of a stranger
against two attackers? I doubt I would have been able to handle them both on my
own.” Hummin
raised his hand in a deprecatory manner. “I wasn’t afraid of them. They’re just
street-brawling lackeys. All I had to do was get my hands on them—and yours,
too, of course.” “That’s
a pretty deadly grip you have,” Seldon mused. Hummin
shrugged. “You too.” Then, without changing his tone of voice, he said, “Come
on, we’d better get out of here. We’re wasting time.” Seldon
said, “Why do we have to get away? Are you afraid those two will come back?” “Not
in their lifetime. But some of those brave people who cleared out of the park
so quickly in their eagerness to spare themselves a disagreeable sight may have
alerted the police.” “Fine.
We have the hoodlums’ names. And we can describe them fairly well.” “Describe
them? Why would the police want them?” “They
committed an assault—” “Don’t
be foolish. We don’t have a scratch. They’re virtually hospital bait,
especially Alem. We’re the ones who will be charged.” “But
that’s impossible. Those people witnessed the fact that—” “No
people will be called.—Seldon, get this into your head. Those two came to find
you—specifically you. They were told you were wearing Heliconian clothes and
you must have been described precisely. Perhaps they were even shown a
holograph. I suspect they were sent by the people who happen to control the
police, so let’s not wait any longer.” Hummin
hurried off, his hand gripping Seldon’s upper arm. Seldon found the grip
impossible to shake and, feeling like a child in the hands of an impetuous
nurse, followed. They
plunged into an arcade and, before Seldon’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer
light, they heard the burring sound of a ground-car’s brakes. “There
they are,” muttered Hummin. “Faster, Seldon.” They hopped onto a moving
corridor and lost themselves in the crowd. 7.Seldon
had tried to persuade Hummin to take him to his hotel room, but Hummin would
have none of that. “Are
you mad?” he half-whispered. “They’ll be waiting for you there.” “But
all my belongings are waiting for me there too.” “They’ll
just have to wait.” And
now they were in a small room in a pleasant apartment structure that might be
anywhere for all that Seldon could tell. He looked about the one-room unit.
Most of it was taken up by a desk and chair, a bed, and a computer outlet.
There were no dining facilities or washstand of any kind, though Hummin had
directed him to a communal washroom down the hall. Someone had entered before
Seldon was quite through. He had cast one brief and curious look at Seldon’s
clothes, rather than at Seldon himself, and had then looked away. Seldon
mentioned this to Hummin, who shook his head and said, “We’ll have to get rid
of your clothes. Too bad Helicon is so far out of fashion—” Seldon
said impatiently, “How much of this might just be your imagination, Hummin?
You’ve got me half-convinced and yet it may be merely a kind of ... of—” “Are
you groping for the word ‘paranoia’?” “All
right, I am. This may be some strange paranoid notion of yours.” Hummin said,
“Think about it, will you? I can’t argue it out mathematically, but you’ve seen
the Emperor. Don’t deny it. He wanted something from you and you didn’t give it
to him. Don’t deny that either. I suspect that details of the future are what
he wants and you refused. Perhaps Demerzel thinks you’re only pretending not to
have the details—that you’re holding out for a higher price or that someone
else is bidding for it too. Who knows? I told you that if Demerzel wants you,
he’ll get you wherever you are. I told you that before those two splitheads
ever appeared on the scene. I’m a journalist and a Trantorian. I know how these
things go. At one point, Alem said, ‘He’s the one we want.’ Do you remember
that?” “As
it happens,” said Seldon. “I do.” “To
him I was only the ‘other motherlackey’ to be kept off, while he went about the
real job of assaulting you.” Hummin
sat down in the chair and pointed to the bed. “Stretch out, Seldon. Make
yourself comfortable. Whoever sent those two—it must have been Demerzel, in my
opinion—can send others, so we’ll have to get rid of those clothes of yours. I
think any other Heliconian in this sector caught in his own world’s garb is
going to have trouble until he can prove he isn’t you.” “Oh
come on.” “I
mean it. You’ll have to take off the clothes and we’ll have to atomize them—if
we can get close enough to a disposal unit without being seen. And before we
can do that I’ll have to get you a Trantorian outfit. You’re smaller than I am
and I’ll take that into account. It won’t matter if it doesn’t fit exactly—” Seldon
shook his head. “I don’t have the credits to pay for it. Not on me. What
credits I have—and they aren’t much—are in my hotel safe.” “We’ll
worry about that another time. You’ll have to stay here for an hour or two
while I go out in search of the necessary clothing.” Seldon
spread his hands and sighed resignedly. “All right. If it’s that important,
I’ll stay.” “You
won’t try to get back to your hotel? Word of honor?” “My
word as a mathematician. But I’m really embarrassed by all the trouble you’re
taking for me. And expense too. After all, despite all this talk about
Demerzel, they weren’t really out to hurt me or carry me off. All I was
threatened with was the removal of my clothes.” “Not
all. They were also going to take you to the spaceport and put you on a
hypership to Helicon.” “That
was a silly threat—not to be taken seriously.” “Why
not?” “I’m
going to Helicon. I told them so. I’m going tomorrow.” “And
you still plan to go tomorrow?” asked Hummin. “Certainly.
Why not?” “There
are enormous reasons why not.” Seldon
suddenly felt angry. “Come on, Hummin, I can’t play this game any further. I’m
finished here and I want to go home. My tickets are in the hotel room.
Otherwise I’d try to exchange them for a trip today. I mean it.” “You
can’t go back to Helicon.” Seldon
flushed. “Why not? Are they waiting for me there too?” Hummin
nodded. “Don’t fire up, Seldon. They would be waiting for you there too. Listen
to me. If you go to Helicon, you are as good as in Demerzel’s hands. Helicon is
good, safe Imperial territory. Has Helicon ever rebelled, ever fallen into step
behind the banner of an anti-Emperor?” “No,
it hasn’t—and for good reason. It’s surrounded by larger worlds. It depends on
the Imperial peace for security.” “Exactly!
Imperial forces on Helicon can therefore count on the full cooperation of the
local government. You would be under constant surveillance at all times. Any
time Demerzel wants you, he will be able to have you. And, except for the fact
that I am now warning you, you would have no knowledge of this and you would be
working in the open, filled with a false security.” “That’s
ridiculous. If he wanted me in Helicon, why didn’t he simply leave me to
myself? I was going there tomorrow. Why would he send those two hoodlums simply
to hasten the matter by a few hours and risk putting me on my guard?” “Why
should he think you would be put on your guard? He didn’t know I’d be with you,
immersing you in what you call my paranoia.” “Even
without the question of warning me, why all the fuss to hurry me by a few
hours?” “Perhaps
because he was afraid you would change your mind.” “And
go where, if not home? If he could pick me up on Helicon, he could pick me up
anywhere. He could pick me up on ... on Anacreon, a good ten thousand parsecs
away—if it should fall into my head to go there. What’s distance to
hyperspatial ships? Even if I find a world that’s not quite as subservient to
the Imperial forces as Helicon is, what world is in actual rebellion? The
Empire is at peace. Even if some worlds are still resentful of injustices in
the past, none are going to defy the Imperial armed forces to protect me.
Moreover, anywhere but on Helicon I won’t be a local citizen and there won’t
even be that matter of principle to help keep the Empire at bay.” Hummin
listened patiently, nodding slightly, but looking as grave and as imperturbable
as ever. He said, “You’re right, as far as you go, but there’s one world that
is not really under the Emperor’s control. That, I think, is what must be
disturbing Demerzel.” Seldon
thought a while, reviewing recent history and finding himself unable to choose
a world on which the Imperial forces might be helpless. He said at last, “What
world is that?” Hummin
said, “You’re on it, which is what makes the matter so dangerous in Demerzel’s
eyes, I imagine. It is not so much that he is anxious to have you go to
Helicon, as that he is anxious to have you leave Trantor before it occurs to
you, for any reason—even if only tourist’s mania—to stay.” The
two men sat in silence until Seldon finally said sardonically, “Trantor! The
capital of the Empire, with the home base of the fleet on a space station in
orbit about it, with the best units of the army quartered here. If you believe
that it is Trantor that is the safe world, you’re progressing from paranoia to
outright fantasy.” “No!
You’re an Outworlder, Seldon. You don’t know what Trantor is like. It’s forty
billion people and there are few other worlds with even a tenth of its
population. It is of unimaginable technological and cultural complexity. Where
we are now is the Imperial Sector—with the highest standard of living in the Galaxy
and populated entirely by Imperial functionaries. Elsewhere on the planet,
however, are over eight hundred other sectors, some of them with subcultures
totally different from what we have here and most of them untouchable by
Imperial forces.” “Why
untouchable?” “The
Empire cannot seriously exert force against Trantor. To do so would be bound to
shake some facet or other of the technology on which the whole planet depends.
The technology is so interrelated that to snap one of the interconnections is to
cripple the whole. Believe me, Seldon, we on Trantor observe what happens when
there is an earthquake that manages to escape being damped out, a volcanic
eruption that is not vented in time, a storm that is not defused, or just some
human error that escapes notice. The planet totters and every effort must be
made to restore the balance at once.” “I
have never heard of such a thing.” A
small smile flickered its way across Hummin’s face. “Of course not. Do you want
the Empire to advertise the weakness at its core? However, as a journalist, I
know what happens even when the Outworlds don’t, even when much of Trantor
itself doesn’t, even when the Imperial pressure is interested in concealing
events. Believe me! The Emperor knows—and Eto Demerzel knows—even if you don’t,
that to disturb Trantor may destroy the Empire.” “Then
are you suggesting I stay on Trantor for that reason?” “Yes.
I can take you to a place on Trantor where you will be absolutely safe from
Demerzel. You won’t have to change your name and you will be able to operate
entirely in the open and he won’t be able to touch you. That’s why he wanted to
force you off Trantor at once and if it hadn’t been for the quirk of fate that
brought us together and for your surprising ability to defend yourself, he
would have succeeded in doing so.” “But
how long will I have to remain on Trantor?” “For
as long as your safety requires it, Seldon. For the rest of your life,
perhaps.” 8.Hari
Seldon looked at the holograph of himself cast by Hummin’s projector. It was
more dramatic and useful than a mirror would have been. In fact, it seemed as
though there were two of him in the room. Seldon
studied the sleeve of his new tunic. His Heliconian attitudes made him wish the
colors were less vibrant, but he was thankful that, as it was, Hummin had
chosen softer colors than were customary here on this world. (Seldon thought of
the clothing worn by their two assailants and shuddered inwardly.) He said,
“And I suppose I must wear this hat.” “In
the Imperial Sector, yes. To go bareheaded here is a sign of low breeding.
Elsewhere, the rules are different.” Seldon
sighed. The round hat was made of soft material and molded itself to his head
when he put it on. The brim was evenly wide all around, but it was narrower
than on the hats his attackers had worn. Seldon consoled himself by noticing
that when he wore the hat the brim curved rather gracefully. “It doesn’t have a
strap under the chin.” “Of
course not. That’s advanced fashion for young lanks.” “For
young what?” “A
lank is someone who wears things for their shock value. I’m sure you have such
people on Helicon.” Seldon
snorted. “There are those who wear their hair shoulder-length on one side and
shave the other.” He laughed at the memory. Hummin’s mouth twisted slightly. “I
imagine it looks uncommonly ugly.” “Worse.
There are lefties and righties, apparently, and each finds the other version
highly offensive. The two groups often engage in street brawls.” “Then
I think you can stand the hat, especially without the strap.” Seldon
said, “I’ll get used to it.” “It
will attract some attention. It’s subdued for one thing and makes you look as
if you’re in mourning. And it doesn’t quite fit. Then, too, you wear it with
obvious discomfort. However, we won’t be in the Imperial Sector long.—Seen
enough?” And the holograph flickered out. Seldon
said, “How much did this cost you?” “What’s
the difference?” “It
bothers me to be in your debt.” “Don’t
worry about it. This is my choice. But we’ve been here long enough. I will have
been described, I’m quite certain. They’ll track me down and they’ll come
here.” “In
that case,” said Seldon, “the credits you’re spending are a minor matter.
You’re putting yourself into personal danger on my account. Personal danger!” “I
know that. But it’s my free choice and I can take care of myself.” “But
why—” “We’ll
discuss the philosophy of it later.—I’ve atomized your clothes, by the way, and
I don’t think I was seen. There was an energy surge, of course, and that would
be recorded. Someone might guess what happened from that—it’s hard to obscure
any action when probing eyes and mind are sharp enough. However, let us hope
we’ll be safely away before they put it all together.” 9.They
traveled along walkways where the light was soft and yellow. Hummin’s eyes
moved this way and that, watchful, and he kept their pace at crowd speed,
neither passing nor being passed. He
kept up a mild but steady conversation on indifferent topics. Seldon, edgy and
unable to do the same, said, “There seems to be a great deal of walking here.
There are endless lines in both directions and along the crossovers.” “Why
not?” said Hummin. “Walking is still the best form of short-distance
transportation. It’s the most convenient, the cheapest, and the most healthful.
Countless years of technological advance have not changed that.—Are you
acrophobic, Seldon?” Seldon
looked over the railing on his right into a deep declivity that separated the
two walking lanes—each in an opposite direction between the regularly spaced
crossovers. He shuddered slightly. “If you mean fear of heights, not
ordinarily. Still, looking down isn’t pleasant. How far does it go down?” “Forty
or fifty levels at this point, I think. This sort of thing is common in the
Imperial Sector and a few other highly developed regions. In most places, one
walks at what might be considered ground level.” “I
should imagine this would encourage suicide attempts.” “Not
often. There are far easier methods. Besides, suicide is not a matter of social
obloquy on Trantor. One can end one’s life by various recognized methods in
centers that exist for the purpose—if one is willing to go through some
psychotherapy at first. There are, occasional accidents, for that matter, but
that’s not why I was asking about acrophobia. We’re heading for a taxi rental
where they know me as a journalist. I’ve done favors for them occasionally and
sometimes they do favors for me in return. They’ll forget to record me and
won’t notice that I have a companion. Of course, I’ll have to pay a premium
and, again of course, if Demerzel’s people lean on them hard enough, they’ll
have to tell the truth and put it down to slovenly accounting, but that may
take considerable time.” “Where
does the acrophobia come in?” “Well,
we can get there a lot faster if we use a gravitic lift. Not many people use it
and I must tell you that I’m not overjoyed at the idea myself, but if you think
you can handle it, we had better.” “What’s
a gravitic lift?” “It’s
experimental. The time may come when it will be widespread over Trantor,
provided it becomes psychologically acceptable—or can be made so to enough
people. Then, maybe, it will spread to other worlds too. It’s an elevator shaft
without an elevator cab, so to speak. We just step into empty space and drop
slowly—or rise slowly—under the influence of antigravity. It’s about the only
application of antigravity that’s been established so far, largely because it’s
the simplest possible application.” “What
happens if the power blinks out while we’re in transit?” “Exactly
what you would think. We fall and—unless we’re quite near the bottom to begin
with—we die. I haven’t heard of it happening yet and, believe me, if it had
happened I would know. We might not be able to give out the news for security
reasons—that’s the excuse they always advance for hiding bad news—but I would
know. It’s just up ahead. If you can’t manage it, we won’t do it, but the
corridors are slow and tedious and many find them nauseating after a while.”
Hummin turned down a crossover and into a large recess where a line of men and
women were waiting, one or two with children. Seldon
said in a low voice, “I heard nothing of this back home. Of course, our own
news media are terribly local, but you’d think there’d be some mention that
this sort of thing exists.” Hummin
said. “It’s strictly experimental and is confined to the Imperial Sector. It
uses more energy than it’s worth, so the government is not really anxious to
push it right now by giving it publicity. The old Emperor, Stanel VI, the one
before Cleon who amazed everyone by dying in his bed, insisted on having it
installed in a few places. He wanted his name associated with antigravity, they
say, because he was concerned with his place in history, as old men of no great
attainments frequently are. As I said, the technique may spread, but, on the
other hand, it is possible that nothing much more than the gravitic lift will
ever come of it.” “What
do they want to come of it?” asked Seldon. “Antigrav
spaceflight. That, however, will require many breakthroughs and most
physicists, as far as I know, are firmly convinced it is out of the question.
But, then, most thought that even gravitic lifts were out of the question.” The
line ahead was rapidly growing shorter and Seldon found himself standing with
Hummin at the edge of the floor with an open gap before him. The air ahead
faintly glittered. Automatically, he reached out his hand and felt a light
shock. It didn’t hurt, but he snatched his hand back quickly. Hummin
grunted. “An elementary precaution to prevent anyone walking over the edge
before activating the controls.” He punched some numbers on the control board
and the glitter vanished. Seldon
peered over the edge, down the deep shaft. “You might find it better—or
easier,” said Hummin, “if we link arms and if you close your eyes. It won’t
take more than a few seconds.” He
gave Seldon no choice, actually. He took his arm and once again there was no
hanging back in that firm grip. Hummin stepped into nothingness and Seldon (who
heard himself, to his own embarrassment, emit a small squeak) shuffled off with
a lurch. He
closed his eyes tightly and experienced no sense of falling, no feeling of air
movement. A few seconds passed and he was pulled forward. He tripped slightly,
caught his balance, and found himself on solid ground. He opened his eyes, “Did
we make it?” Hummin
said dryly, “We’re not dead,” then walked away, his grip forcing Seldon to
follow. “I
mean, did we get to the right level?” “Of
course.” “What
would have happened if we were dropping down and someone else was moving upward?” “There
are two separate lanes. In one lane everyone drops at the same speed; in the
other everyone rises at the same speed. The shaft clears only when there are no
people within ten meters of each other. There is no chance of a collision if
all works well.” “I
didn’t feel a thing.” “Why
should you? There was no acceleration. After the first tenth of a second, you
were at constant speed and the air in your immediate vicinity was moving down
with you at the same speed.” “Marvelous.” “Absolutely.
But uneconomic. And there seems no great pressure to increase the efficiency of
the procedure and make it worthwhile. Everywhere one hears the same refrain.
‘We can’t do it. It can’t be done.’ It applies to everything.” Hummin shrugged
in obvious anger and said, “But we’re here at the taxi rental. Let’s
get on with it.” 10.Seldon
tried to look inconspicuous at the air-taxi rental terminus, which he found
difficult. To look ostentatiously inconspicuous—to slink about, to turn his
face away from all who passed, to study one of the vehicles overintently—was
surely the way to invite attention. The way to behave was merely to assume an
innocent normality. But
what was normality? He felt uncomfortable in his clothes. There were no
pockets, so he had no place to put his hands. The two pouches, which dangled
from his belt on either side, distracted him by hitting against him as he
moved, so that he was continually thinking someone had nudged him. He tried
looking at women as they passed. They had no pouches, at least none dangling,
but they carried little boxlike affairs that they occasionally clipped to one
hip or another by some device he could not make out. It was probably
pseudomagnetic, he decided. Their clothes were not particularly revealing, he
noted regretfully, and not one had any sign of dйcolletage, although some
dresses seemed to be designed to emphasize the buttocks. Meanwhile, Hummin had
been very businesslike, having presented the necessary credits and returned
with the superconductive ceramic tile that would activate a specific air-taxi. Hummin
said, “Get in, Seldon,” gesturing to a small two-seated vehicle. Seldon
asked, “Did you have to sign your name, Hummin?” “Of
course not. They know me here and don’t stand on ceremony.” “What
do they think you’re doing?” “They
didn’t ask and I volunteered no information.” He inserted the tile and Seldon
felt a slight vibration as the air-taxi came to life. “We’re headed for D-7,”
said Hummin, making conversation. Seldon
didn’t know what D-7 was, but he assumed it meant some route or other. The
air-taxi found its way past and around other ground-cars and finally moved onto
a smooth upward-slanting track and gained speed. Then it lifted upward with a
slight jolt. Seldon,
who had been automatically strapped in by a webbed restraint, felt himself
pushed down into his seat and then up against the webbing. He said, “That
didn’t feel like antigravity.” “It
wasn’t,” said Hummin. “That was a small jet reaction. Just enough to take us up
to the tubes.” What
appeared before them now looked like a cliff patterned with cave openings, much
like a checkerboard. Hummin maneuvered toward the D-7 opening, avoiding other
air-taxis that were heading for other tunnels. “You
could crash easily,” said Seldon, clearing his throat. “So
I probably would if everything depended on my senses and reactions, but the
taxi is computerized and the computer can overrule me without trouble. The same
is true for the other taxis.—Here we go.” They
slid into D-7 as if they had been sucked in and the bright light of the open
plaza outside mellowed, turning a warmer yellow hue. Hummin released the
controls and sat back. He drew a deep breath and said, “Well, that’s one stage
successfully carried through. We might have been stopped at the station. In
here, we’re fairly safe.” The
ride was smooth and the walls of the tunnel slipped by rapidly. There was
almost no sound, just a steady velvety whirr as the taxi sped along. “How fast
are we going?” asked Seldon. Hummin
cast an eye briefly at the controls. “Three hundred and fifty kilometers per
hour.” “Magnetic
propulsion?” “Yes.
You have it on Helicon, I imagine.” “Yes.
One line. I’ve never been on it myself, though I’ve always meant to. I don’t
think it’s anything like this.” “I’m
sure it isn’t. Trantor has many thousands of kilometers of these tunnels
honeycombing the land subsurface and a number that snake under the shallower
extensions of the ocean. It’s the chief method of long-distance travel.” “How
long will it take us?” “To
reach our immediate destination? A little over five hours.” “Five
hours!” Seldon was dismayed. “Don’t
be disturbed. We pass rest areas every twenty minutes or so where we can stop,
pull out of the tunnel, stretch our feet, eat, or relieve ourselves. I’d like
to do that as few times as possible, of course.” They
continued on in silence for a while and then Seldon started when a blaze of
light flared at their right for a few seconds and, in the flash, he thought he
saw two air-taxis. “That
was a rest area,” said Hummin in answer to the unspoken question. Seldon
said, “Am I really going to be safe wherever it is you are taking me?” Hummin
said, “Quite safe from any open movement on the part of the Imperial forces. Of
course, when it comes to the individual operator—the spy, the agent, the hired
assassin—one must always be careful. Naturally, I will supply you with a
bodyguard.” Seldon
felt uneasy. “The hired assassin? Are you serious? Would they really want to
kill me?” Hummin
said, “I’m sure Demerzel doesn’t. I suspect he wants to use you rather than
kill you. Still, other enemies may turn up or there may be unfortunate
concatenations of events. You can’t go through life sleepwalking.” Seldon
shook his head and turned his face away. To think, only forty-eight hours ago
he had been just an insignificant, virtually unknown Outworld mathematician,
content only to spend his remaining time on Trantor sight-seeing, gazing at the
enormity of the great world with his provincial eye. And now, it was finally
sinking in: He was a wanted man, hunted by Imperial forces. The enormity of the
situation seized him and he shuddered. “And
what about you and what you’re doing right now?” Hummin
said thoughtfully, “Well, they won’t feel kindly toward me, I suppose. I might
have my head laid open or my chest exploded by some mysterious and never-found
assailant.” Hummin
said it without a tremor in his voice or a change in his calm appearance, but
Seldon winced. Seldon
said, “I rather thought you would assume that might be in store for you. You
don’t seem to be ... bothered by it.” “I’m
an old Trantorian. I know the planet as well as anybody can. I know many people
and many of them are under obligation to me. I like to think that I am shrewd
and not easy to outwit. In short, Seldon, I am quite confident that I can take
care of myself.” “I’m
glad you feel that way and I hope you’re justified in thinking so, Hummin, but
I can’t get it through my head why you’re taking this chance at all. What am I
to you? Why should you take even the smallest risk for someone who is a
stranger to you?” Hummin
checked the controls in a preoccupied manner and then he faced Seldon squarely,
eyes steady and serious. “I
want to save you for the same reason that the Emperor wants to use you—for your
predictive powers.” Seldon
felt a deep pang of disappointment. This was not after all a question of being
saved. He was merely the helpless and disputed prey of competing predators. He
said angrily, “I will never live down that presentation at the Decennial
Convention. I have ruined my life.” “No.
Don’t rush to conclusions, mathematician. The Emperor and his officers want you
for one reason only, to make their own lives more secure. They are interested
in your abilities only so far as they might be used to save the Emperor’s rule,
preserve that rule for his young son, maintain the positions, status, and power
of his officials. I, on the other hand, want your powers for the good of the
Galaxy.” “Is
there a distinction?” spat Seldon acidly. And
Hummin replied with the stern beginning of a frown, “If you do not see the
distinction, then that is to your shame. The human occupants of the Galaxy
existed before this Emperor who now rules, before the dynasty he represents,
before the Empire itself. Humanity is far older than the Empire. It may even be
far older than the twenty-five million worlds of the Galaxy. There are legends
of a time when humanity inhabited a single world.” “Legends!”
said Seldon, shrugging his shoulders. “Yes,
legends, but I see no reason why that may not have been so in fact, twenty
thousand years ago or more. I presume that humanity did not come into existence
complete with knowledge of hyperspatial travel. Surely, there must have been a
time when people could not travel at superluminal velocities and they must then
have been imprisoned in a single planetary system. And if we look forward in
time, the human beings of the worlds of the Galaxy will surely continue to
exist after you and the Emperor are dead, after his whole line comes to an end,
and after the institutions of the Empire itself unravel. In that case, it is
not important to worry overmuch about individuals, about the Emperor and the
young Prince Imperial. It is not important to worry even about the mechanics of
Empire. What of the quadrillions of people that exist in the Galaxy? What of
them?” Seldon
said, “Worlds and people would continue, I presume.” “Don’t
you feel any serious need of probing the possible conditions under which they
would continue to exist.” “One
would assume they would exist much as they do now.” “One
would assume. But could one know by this art of prediction that you speak of?” “Psychohistory
is what I call it. In theory, one could.” “And
you feel no pressure to turn that theory into practice.” “I
would love to, Hummin, but the desire to do so doesn’t automatically manufacture
the ability to do so. I told the Emperor that psychohistory could not be turned
into a practical technique and I am forced to tell you the same thing.” “And
you have no intention of even trying to find the technique?” “No,
I don’t, any more than I would feel I ought to try to tackle a pile of pebbles
the size of Trantor, count them one by one, and arrange them in order of
decreasing mass. I would know it was not something I could accomplish in a
lifetime and I would not be fool enough to make a pretense of trying.” “Would
you try if you knew the truth about humanity’s situation?” “That’s
an impossible question. What is the truth about humanity’s situation? Do you
claim to know it?” “Yes,
I do. And in five words.” Hummin’s eyes faced forward again, turning briefly
toward the blank changelessness of the tunnel as it pushed toward them,
expanding until it passed and then dwindling as it slipped away. He then spoke
those five words grimly. He
said, “The Galactic Empire is dying.” UniversitySTREELING
UNIVERSITY— ... An institution of higher learning in the Streeling Sector of
ancient Trantor ... Despite all these claims to fame in the fields of the
humanities and sciences alike, it is not for those that the University looms
large in today’s consciousness. It would probably have come as a total surprise
to the generations of scholars at the University to know that in later times
Streeling University would be most remembered because a certain Hari Seldon,
during the period of The Flight, had been in residence there for a short time. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 11.Hari
Seldon remained uncomfortably silent for a while after Hummin’s quiet
statement. He shrank within himself in sudden recognition of his own
deficiencies. He
had invented a new science: psychohistory. He had extended the laws of
probability in a very subtle manner to take into account new complexities and
uncertainties and had ended up with elegant equations in innumerable unknowns. Possibly
an infinite number; he couldn’t tell. But
it was a mathematical game and nothing more. He had psychohistory—or at least
the basis of psychohistory but only as a mathematical curiosity. Where was the
historical knowledge that could perhaps give some meaning to the empty
equations? He
had none. He had never been interested in history. He knew the outline of
Heliconian history. Courses in that small fragment of the human story had, of
course, been compulsory in the Heliconian schools. But what was there beyond
that? Surely what else he had picked up was merely the bare skeletons that
everyone gathered—half legend, the other half surely distorted. Still, how
could one say that the Galactic Empire was dying? It had existed for ten
thousand years as an accepted Empire and even before that, Trantor, as the
capital of the dominating kingdom, had held what was a virtual empire for two
thousand years. The Empire had survived the early centuries when whole sections
of the Galaxy would now and then refuse to accept the end of their local
independence. It had survived the vicissitudes that went with the occasional
rebellions, the dynastic wars, some serious periods of breakdown. Most worlds
had scarcely been troubled by such things and Trantor itself had grown steadily
until it was the worldwide human habitation that now called itself the Eternal
World. To
be sure, in the last four centuries, turmoil had increased somehow and there
had been a rash of Imperial assassinations and takeovers. But even that was
calming down and right now the Galaxy was as quiet as it had ever been. Under
Cleon I and before him under his father, Stanel VI, the worlds were
prosperous—and Cleon himself was not considered a tyrant. Even those who
disliked the Imperium as an institution rarely had anything truly bad to say
about Cleon, much as they might inveigh against Eto Demerzel. Why, then, should
Hummin say that the Galactic Empire was dying—and with such conviction? Hummin
was a journalist. He probably knew Galactic history in some detail and he had
to understand the current situation in great detail. Was it this that supplied
him with the knowledge that lay behind his statement? In that case, just what
was the knowledge? Several
times Seldon was on the point of asking, of demanding an answer, but there was
something in Hummin’s solemn face that stopped him. And there was something in
his own ingrained belief that the Galactic Empire was a given, an axiom, the
foundation stone on which all argument rested that prevented him too. After
all, if that was wrong, he didn’t want to know. No, he couldn’t believe that he
was wrong. The Galactic Empire could no more come to an end than the Universe
itself could. Or, if the Universe did end, then—and only then—would the Empire
end. Seldon
closed his eyes, attempting to sleep but, of course, he could not. Would he have
to study the history of the Universe in order to advance his theory of
psychohistory? How
could he? Twenty-five million worlds existed, each with its own endlessly
complex history. How could he study all that? There were book-films in many
volumes, he knew, that dealt with Galactic history. He had even skimmed one
once for some now-forgotten reason and had found it too dull to view even
halfway through. The
book-films had dealt with important worlds. With some, it dealt through all or
almost all their history; with others, only as they gained importance for a
time and only till they faded away. He remembered having looked up Helicon in
the index and having found only one citation. He had punched the keys that
would turn up that citation and found Helicon included in a listing of worlds
which, on one occasion, had temporarily lined up behind a certain claimant to
the Imperial throne who had failed to make good his claim. Helicon had escaped
retribution on that occasion, probably because it was not even sufficiently
important to be punished. What
good was such a history? Surely, psychohistory would have to take into account
the actions and reactions and interactions of each world—each and every world.
How could one study the history of twenty-five million worlds and consider all
their possible interactions? It would surely be an impossible task and this was
just one more reinforcement of the general conclusion that psychohistory was of
theoretical interest but could never be put to any practical use. Seldon felt a
gentle push forward and decided that the air-taxi must be decelerating. “What’s
up?” he asked. “I
think we’ve come far enough,” said Hummin, “to risk a small stopover for a bite
to eat, a glass of something or other, and a visit to a washroom.” And,
in the course of the next fifteen minutes, during which the air-taxi slowed
steadily, they came to a lighted recess. The taxi swerved inward and found a
parking spot among five or six other vehicles. 12.Hummin’s
practiced eye seemed to take in the recess, the other taxis, the diner, the
walkways, and the men and women all at a glance. Seldon, trying to look
inconspicuous and again not knowing how, watched him, trying not to do so too
intently. When
they sat down at a small table and punched in their orders, Seldon, attempting
to sound indifferent, said, “Everything okay?” “Seems
so,” said Hummin. “How
can you tell?” Hummin
let his dark eyes rest on Seldon for a moment. “Instinct,” he said. “Years of
news gathering. You look and know, ‘No news here.’ ” Seldon
nodded and felt relieved. Hummin might have said it sardonically, but there
must be a certain amount of truth to it. His satisfaction did not last through
the first bite of his sandwich. He looked up at Hummin with his mouth full and
with a look of hurt surprise on his face. Hummin
said, “This is a wayside diner, my friend. Cheap, fast, and not very good. The
food’s homegrown and has an infusion of rather sharp yeast. Trantorian palates
are used to it.” Seldon
swallowed with difficulty. “But back in the hotel—” “You
were in the Imperial Sector, Seldon. Food is imported there and where microfood
is used it is high-quality. It is also expensive.” Seldon
wondered whether to take another bite. “You mean that as long as I stay on
Trantor—” Hummin
made a hushing motion with his lips. “Don’t give anyone the impression that
you’re used to better. There are places on Trantor where to be identified as an
aristocrat is worse than being identified as an Outworlder. The food won’t be
so bad everywhere, I assure you. These wayside places have a reputation for low
quality. If you can stomach that sandwich, you’ll be able to eat anywhere on
Trantor. And it won’t hurt you. It’s not decayed or bad or anything like that.
It just has a harsh, strong taste and, honestly, you may grow accustomed to it.
I’ve met Trantorians who spit out honest food and say it lacks that homegrown
tang.” “Do
they grow much food on Trantor?” asked Seldon. A quick side glance showed him
there was no one seated in the immediate vicinity and he spoke quietly. “I’ve
always heard it takes twenty surrounding worlds to supply the hundreds of
freight ships required to feed Trantor every day.” “I
know. And hundreds to carry off the load of wastes. And if you want to make the
story really good, you say that the same freight ships carry food one way and
waste the other. It’s true that we import considerable quantities of food, but
that’s mostly luxury items. And we export considerable waste, carefully treated
into inoffensiveness, as important organic fertilizer—every bit as important to
other worlds as the food is to us. But that’s only a small fraction of the
whole.” “It
is?” “Yes.
In addition to fish in the sea, there are gardens and truck farms everywhere.
And fruit trees and poultry and rabbits and vast microorganism farms—usually
called yeast farms, though the yeast makes up a minority of the growths. And
our wastes are mostly used right here at home to maintain all that growth. In
fact, in many ways Trantor is very much like an enormous and overgrown space settlement.
Have you ever visited one of those?” “Indeed
I have.” “Space
settlements are essentially enclosed cities, with everything artificially
cycled, with artificial ventilation, artificial day and night, and so on.
Trantor is different only in that even the largest space settlement has a
population of only ten million and Trantor has four thousand times that. Of
course, we have real gravity. And no space settlement can match us in our
microfoods. We have yeast vats, fungal vats, and algae ponds vast beyond the
imagination. And we are strong on artificial flavoring, added with no light
hand. That’s what gives the taste to what you’re eating.” Seldon
had gotten through most of his sandwich and found it not as offensive as the
first bite had been. “And it won’t affect me?” “It
does hit the intestinal flora and every once in a while it afflicts some poor
Outworlder with diarrhea, but that’s rare, and you harden even to that quickly.
Still, drink your milkshake, which you probably won’t like. It contains an antidiarrhetic
that should keep you safe, even if you tend to be sensitive to such things.” Seldon
said querulously, “Don’t talk about it, Hummin. A person can be suggestible to
such things.” “Finish
the milkshake and forget the suggestibility.” They
finished the rest of their meal in silence and soon were on their way again. 13.They
were now racing rapidly through the tunnel once more. Seldon decided to give
voice to the question that had been nagging at him for the last hour or so. “Why
do you say the Galactic Empire is dying?” Hummin
turned to look at Seldon again. “As a journalist, I have statistics poured into
me from all sides till they’re squeezing out of my ears. And I’m allowed to
publish very little of it. Trantor’s population is decreasing. Twenty-five
years ago, it stood at almost forty-five billion. “Partly, this decrease is
because of a decline in the birthrate. To be sure, Trantor never has had a high
birthrate. If you’ll look about you when you’re traveling on Trantor, you won’t
encounter very many children, considering the enormous population. But just the
same it’s declining. Then too there is emigration. People are leaving Trantor
in greater numbers than are arriving.” “Considering
its large population,” said Seldon, “that’s not surprising.” “But
it’s unusual just the same because it hasn’t happened before. Again, all over
the Galaxy trade is stagnating. People think that because there are no
rebellions at the moment and because things are quiet that all is well and that
the difficulties of the past few centuries are over. However, political
infighting, rebellions, and unrest are all signs of a certain vitality too. But
now there’s a general weariness. It’s quiet, not because people are satisfied
and prosperous, but because they’re tired and have given up.” “Oh,
I don’t know,” said Seldon dubiously. “I
do. And the antigrav phenomenon we’ve talked about is another case in point. We
have a few gravitic lifts in operation, but new ones aren’t being constructed.
It’s an unprofitable venture and there seems no interest in trying to make it
profitable. The rate of technological advance has been slowing for centuries
and is down to a crawl now. In some cases, it has stopped altogether. Isn’t
this something you’ve noticed? After all, you’re a mathematician.” “I
can’t say I’ve given the matter any thought.” “No
one does. It’s accepted. Scientists are very good these days at saying that
things are impossible, impractical, useless. They condemn any speculation at
once. You, for instance—What do you think of psychohistory? It is theoretically
interesting, but it is useless in any practical sense. Am I right?” “Yes
and no,” said Seldon, annoyed. “It is useless in any practical sense, but not
because my sense of adventure has decayed, I assure you. It really it useless.” “That,
at least,” said Hummin with a trace of sarcasm, “is your impression in this
atmosphere of decay in which all the Empire lives.” “This
atmosphere of decay,” said Seldon angrily, “is your impression. Is it possible
that you are wrong?” Hummin
stopped and for a moment appeared thoughtful. Then he said, “Yes, I might be
wrong. I am speaking only from intuition, from guesses. What I need is a
working technique of psychohistory.” Seldon
shrugged and did not take the bait. He said, “I don’t have such a technique to
give you.—But suppose you’re right. Suppose the Empire it running down and will
eventually stop and fall apart. The human species will still exist.” “Under
what conditions, man? For nearly twelve thousand years, Trantor, under strong
rulers, has largely kept the peace. There’ve been interruptions to
that—rebellions, localized civil wars, tragedy in plenty—but, on the whole and
over large areas, there has been peace. Why is Helicon so pro-Imperium? Your
world, I mean. Because it is small and would be devoured by its neighbors were
it not that the Empire keeps it secure.” “Are
you predicting universal war and anarchy if the Empire fails?” “Of
course. I’m not fond of the Emperor or of the Imperial institutions in general,
but I don’t have any substitute for it. I don’t know what else will keep the
peace and I’m not ready to let go until I have something else in hand.” Seldon
said, “You talk as though you are in control of the Galaxy. You are not ready
to let go? You must have something else in hand? Who are you to talk so?” “I’m
speaking generally, figuratively,” said Hummin. “I’m not worried about Chetter
Hummin personally. It might be said that the Empire will last my time; it might
even show signs of improvement in my time. Declines don’t follow a
straight-line path. It may be a thousand years before the final crash and you
might well imagine I would be dead then and, certainly, I will leave no
descendants. As far as women are concerned, I have nothing but the occasional
casual attachment and I have no children and intend to have none. I have given
no hostages to fortune.—I looked you up after your talk, Seldon. You have no
children either.” “I
have parents and two brothers, but no children.” He smiled rather weakly. “I
was very attached to a woman at one time, but it seemed to her that I was
attached more to my mathematics.” “Were
you?” “It
didn’t seem so to me, but it seemed so to her. So she left.” “And
you have had no one since?” “No.
I remember the pain too clearly as yet.” “Well
then, it might seem we could both wait out the matter and leave it to other
people, well after our time, to suffer. I might have been willing to accept
that earlier, but no longer. For now I have a tool; I am in command.” “What’s
your tool?” asked Seldon, already knowing the answer. “You!”
said Hummin. And
because Seldon had known what Hummin would say, he wasted no time in being
shocked or astonished. He simply shook his head and said, “You are quite wrong.
I am no tool fit for use.” “Why
not?” Seldon
sighed. “How often must I repeat it? Psychohistory is not a practical study.
The difficulty is fundamental. All the space and time of the Universe would not
suffice to work out the necessary problems.” “Are
you certain of that?” “Unfortunately,
yes.” “There’s
no question of your working out the entire future of the Galactic Empire, you
know. You needn’t trace out in detail the workings of every human being or even
of every world. There are merely terrain questions you must answer: Will the
Galactic Empire crash and, if so, when? What will be the condition of humanity
afterward? Can anything be done to prevent the crash or to ameliorate
conditions afterward? These are comparatively simple questions, it seems to
me.” Seldon
shook his head and smiled sadly. “The history of mathematics is full of simple
questions that had only the most complicated of answers—or none at all.” “Is
there nothing to be done? I can see that the Empire is falling, but I can’t
prove it. All my conclusions are subjective and I cannot show that I am not
mistaken. Because the view is a seriously unsettling one, people would prefer
not to believe my subjective conclusion and nothing will be done to prevent the
Fall or even to cushion it. You could prove the coming Fall or, for that
matter, disprove it.” “But
that is exactly what I cannot do. I can’t find you proof where none exists. I
can’t make a mathematical system practical when it isn’t. I can’t find you two
even numbers that will yield an odd number as a sum, no matter how vitally your
all the Galaxy—may need that odd number.” Hummin
said, “Well then, you’re part of the decay. You’re ready to accept failure.” “What
choice have I?” “Can’t
you try? However useless the effort may seem to you to be, have you anything
better to do with your life? Have you some worthier goal? Have you a purpose
that will justify you in your own eyes to some greater extent?” Seldon’s eyes
blinked rapidly. “Millions of worlds. Billions of cultures. Quadrillions of
people. Decillions of interrelationships.—And you want me to reduce it to
order.” “No,
I want you to try. For the sake of those millions of worlds, billions of
cultures, and quadrillions of people. Not for the Emperor. Not for Demerzel.
For humanity.” “I
will fail,” said Seldon. “Then
we will be no worse off. Will you try?” And
against his will and not knowing why, Seldon heard himself say, “I will try.” And
the course of his life was set. 14.The
journey came to its end and the air-taxi moved into a much larger lot than the
one at which they had eaten. (Seldon still remembered the taste of the sandwich
and made a wry face.) Hummin
turned in his taxi and came back, placing his credit slip in a small pocket on
the inner surface of his shirt. He said, “You’re completely safe here from
anything outright and open. This is the Streeling Sector.” “Streeling?” “It’s
named for someone who first opened up the area to settlement, I imagine. Most
of the sectors are named for someone or other, which means that most of the
names are ugly and some are hard to pronounce. Just the same, if you try to
have the inhabitants here change Streeling to Sweetsmell or something like
that, you’ll have a fight on your hands.” “Of
course,” said Seldon, sniffing loudly, “it isn’t exactly Sweetsmell.” “Hardly
anywhere in Trantor is, but you’ll get used to it.” “I’m
glad we’re here,” said Seldon. “Not that I like it, but I got quite tired
sitting in the taxi. Getting around Trantor must be a horror. Back on Helicon,
we can get from any one place to any other by air, in far less time than it
took us to travel less than two thousand kilometers here.” “We
have air-jets too.” “But
in that case—” “I
could arrange an air-taxi ride more or less anonymously. It would have been
much more difficult with an air-jet. And regardless of how safe it is here, I’d
feel better if Demerzel didn’t know exactly where you were.—As a matter of
fact, we’re not done yet. We’re going to take the Expressway for the final
stage.” Seldon
knew the expression. “One of those open monorails moving on an electromagnetic
field, right?” “Right.” “We
don’t have them on Helicon. Actually, we don’t need them there. I rode on an
Expressway the first day I was on Trantor. It took me from the airport to the
hotel. It was rather a novelty, but if I were to use it all the time, I imagine
the noise and crowds would become overpowering.” Hummin
looked amused. “Did you get lost?” “No,
the signs were useful. There was trouble getting on and off, but I was helped.
Everyone could tell I was an Outworlder by my clothes, I now realize. They
seemed eager to help, though; I guess because it was amusing to watching me
hesitate and stumble.” “As
an expert in Expressway travel by now, you will neither hesitate nor stumble.”
Hummin said it pleasantly enough, though there was a slight twitch to the
corners of his mouth. “Come on, then.” They
sauntered leisurely along the walkway, which was lit to the extent one might
expect of an overcast day and that brightened now and then as though the sun
occasionally broke through the clouds. Automatically, Seldon looked upward to
see if that were indeed the case, but the “sky” above was blankly luminous.
Hummin saw this and said, “This change in brightness seems too suit the human
psyche. There are days when the street seems to be in bright sunlight and days
when it is rather darker than it is now.” “But
no rain or snow?” “Or
hail or sleet. No. Nor high humidity nor bitter cold. Trantor has its points,
Seldon, even now.” There
were people walking in both directions and there were a considerable number of
young people and also some children accompanying the adults, despite what
Hummin had said about the birthrate. All seemed reasonably prosperous and
reputable. The two sexes were equally represented and the clothing was
distinctly more subdued than it had been in the Imperial Sector. His own
costume, as chosen by Hummin, fit right in. Very few were wearing hats and
Seldon thankfully removed his own and swung it at his side. There was no deep
abyss separating the two sides of the walkway and as Hummin had predicted in
the Imperial Sector, they were walking at what seemed to be ground level. There
were no vehicles either and Seldon pointed this out to Hummin. Hummin
said, “There are quite a number of them in the Imperial Sector because they’re
used by officials. Elsewhere, private vehicles are rare and those that are used
have separate tunnels reserved for them. Their use is not really necessary,
since we have Expressways and, for shorter distances, moving corridors. For
still shorter distances, we have walkways and we can use our legs.” Seldon
heard occasional muted sighs and creaks and saw, some distance off, the endless
passing of Expressway cars. “There
it is,” he said, pointing. “I
know, but let us move on to a boarding station. There are more cars there and
it is easier to get on.” Once
they were safely ensconced in an Expressway car, Seldon turned to Hummin and
said, “What amazes me is how quiet the Expressways are. I realize that they are
mass-propelled by an electromagnetic field, but it seems quiet even for that.”
He listened to the occasional metallic groan as the car they were on shifted
against its neighbors. “Yes,
it’s a marvelous network,” said Hummin, “but you don’t see it at its peak. When
I was younger, it was quieter than it is now and there are those who say that
there wasn’t as much as a whisper fifty years ago—though I suppose we might
make allowance for the idealization of nostalgia.” “Why
isn’t it that way now?” “Because
it isn’t maintained properly. I told you about decay.” Seldon
frowned. “Surely, people don’t sit around and say, ‘We’re decaying. Let’s let
the Expressways fall apart.’ ” “No,
they don’t. It’s not a purposeful thing. Bad spots are patched, decrepit
coaches refurbished, magnets replaced. However, it’s done in more slapdash
fashion, more carelessly, and at greater intervals. There just aren’t enough
credits available.” “Where
have the credits gone?” “Into
other things. We’ve had centuries of unrest. The navy is much larger and many
times more expensive than it once was. The armed forces are much better-paid,
in order to keep them quiet. Unrest, revolts, and minor blazes of civil war all
take their toll.” “But
it’s been quiet under Cleon. And we’ve had fifty years of peace.” “Yes,
but soldiers who are well-paid would resent having that pay reduced just because
there is peace. Admirals resist mothballing ships and having themselves reduced
in rank simply because there is less for them to do. So the credits still
go—unproductively—to the armed forces and vital areas of the social good are
allowed to deteriorate. That’s what I call decay. Don’t you? Don’t you think
that eventually you would fit that sort of view into your psychohistorical
notions?” Seldon
stirred uneasily. Then he said, “Where are we going, by the way?” “Streeling
University.” “Ah,
that’s why the sector’s name was familiar. I’ve heard of the University.” “I’m
not surprised. Trantor has nearly a hundred thousand institutions of higher
learning and Streeling is one of the thousand or so at the top of the heap.” “Will
I be staying there?” “For
a while. University campuses are unbreathable sanctuaries, by and large. You
will be safe there.” “But
will I be welcome there?” “Why
not? It’s hard to find a good mathematician these days. They might be able to
use you. And you might be able to use them too—and for more than just a hiding
place.” “You
mean, it will be a place where I can develop my notions.” “You
have promised,” said Hummin gravely. “I
have promised to try, “ said Seldon and thought to himself that it was about
like promising to try to make a rope out of sand. 15.Conversation
had run out after that and Seldon watched the structures of the Streeling
Sector as they passed. Some were quite low, while some seemed to brush the
“sky.” Wide crosspassages broke the progression and frequent alleys could be
seen. At
one point, it struck him that though the buildings rose upward they also swept
downward and that perhaps they were deeper than they were high. As soon as the
thought occurred to him, he was convinced it was true. Occasionally, he saw
patches of green in the background, farther back from the Expressway, and even
small trees. He
watched for quite a while and then became aware that the light was growing
dimmer. He squinted about and turned to Hummin, who guessed the question. “The
afternoon is waning,” he said, “and night is coming on.” Seldon’s
eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned downward. “That’s
impressive. I have a picture of the entire planet darkening and then, some
hours from now, lighting up again.” Hummin
smiled his small, careful smile. “Not quite, Seldon. The planet is never turned
off altogether—or turned on either. The shadow of twilight sweeps across the
planet gradually, followed half a day later by the slow brightening of dawn. In
fact, the effect follows the actual day and night above the domes quite
closely, so that in higher altitudes day and night change length with the
seasons.” Seldon
shook his head, “But why close in the planet and then mimic what would be in
the open?” “I
presume because people like it better that way. Trantorians like the advantages
of being enclosed, but they don’t like to be reminded of it unduly, just the
same. You know very little about Trantorian psychology, Seldon.” Seldon
flushed slightly. He was only a Heliconian and he knew very little about the
millions of worlds outside Helicon. His ignorance was not confined to Trantor.
How, then, could he hope to come up with any practical applications for his
theory of psychohistory? How
could any number of people—all together—know enough? It reminded Seldon of a
puzzle that had been presented to him when he was young: Can you have a
relatively small piece of platinum, with handholds affixed, that could not be
lifted by the bare, unaided strength of any number of people, no matter how
many? The
answer was yes. A cubic meter of platinum weighs 22,420 kilograms under
standard gravitational pull. If it is assumed that each person could heave 120
kilograms up from the ground, then 188 people would suffice to lift the
platinum.—But you could not squeeze 188 people around the cubic meter so that
each one could get a grip on it. You could perhaps not squeeze more than 9
people around it. And levers or other such devices were not allowed. It had to
be “bare, unaided strength.” In
the same way, it could be that there was no way of getting enough people to
handle the total amount of knowledge required for psychohistory, even if the
facts were stored in computers rather than in individual human brains. Only so
many people could gather round the knowledge, so to speak, and communicate it. Hummin
said, “You seem to be in a brown study, Seldon.” “I’m
considering my own ignorance.” “A
useful task. Quadrillions could profitably join you.—But it’s time to get off.” Seldon
looked up. “How can you tell?” “Just
as you could tell when you were on the Expressway your first day on Trantor. I
go by the signs.” Seldon
caught one just as it went by: STREELING UNIVERSITY—3 MINUTES. “We
get off at the next boarding station. Watch your step.” Seldon
followed Hummin off the coach, noting that the sky was deep purple now and that
the walkways and corridors and buildings were all lighting up, suffused with a
yellow glow. It
might have been the gathering of a Heliconian night. Had he been placed here
blindfolded and had the blindfold been removed, he might have been convinced
that he was in some particularly well-built-up inner region of one of Helicon’s
larger cities. “How
long do you suppose I will remain at Streeling University, Hummin?” he asked. Hummin
said in his usual calm fashion, “That would be hard to say, Seldon. Perhaps
your whole life.” “What!” “Perhaps
not. But your life stopped being your own once you gave that paper on
psychohistory. The Emperor and Demerzel recognized your importance at once. So
did I. For all I know, so did many others. You see, that means you don’t belong
to yourself anymore.” LibraryVENABILI,
DORS— ... Historian, born in Cinna ... Her life might well have continued on
its uneventful course were it not for the fact that, after she had spent two
years on the faculty of Streeling University, she became involved with the
young Hari Seldon during The Flight ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 16.The
room that Hari Seldon found himself in was larger than Hummin’s room in the
Imperial Sector. It was a bedroom with one corner serving as a washroom and
with no sign of any cooking or dining facilities. There was no window, though
set in the ceiling was a grilled ventilator that made a steady sighing noise.
Seldon looked about a bit ruefully. Hummin
interpreted that look with his usual assured manner and said, “It’s only for
tonight, Seldon. Tomorrow morning someone will come to install you at the
University and you will be more comfortable.” “Pardon
me, Hummin, but how do you know that?” “I
will make arrangements. I know one or two people here”—he smiled briefly
without humor—“and I have a favor or two I can ask repayment for. Now let’s go
into some details.” He
gazed steadily at Seldon and said, “Whatever you have left in your hotel room
is lost. Does that include anything irreplaceable?” “Nothing
really irreplaceable. I have some personal items I value for their association
with my past life, but if they are gone, they are gone. There are, of course,
some notes on my paper. Some calculations. The paper itself.” “Which
is now public knowledge until such time as it is removed from circulation as
dangerous—which it probably will be. Still, I’ll be able to get my hands on a
copy, I’m sure. In any case, you can reconstruct it, can’t you?” “I
can. That’s why I said there was nothing really irreplaceable. Also, I’ve lost
nearly a thousand credits, some books, clothing, my tickets back to Helicon,
things like that.” “All
replaceable.—Now I will arrange for you to have a credit tile in my name,
charged to me. That will take care of ordinary expenses.” “That’s
unusually generous of you. I can’t accept it.” “It’s
not generous at all, since I’m hoping to save the Empire in that fashion. You
must accept it.” “But
how much can you afford, Hummin? I’ll be using it, at best, with an uneasy
conscience.” “Whatever
you need for survival or reasonable comfort I can afford, Seldon. Naturally, I
wouldn’t want you to try to buy the University gymnasium or hand out a million
credits in largess.” “You
needn’t worry, but with my name on record—” “It
might as well be. It is absolutely forbidden for the Imperial government to
exercise any security control over the University or its members. There is
complete freedom. Anything can be discussed here, anything can be said here.” “What
about violent crime?” “Then
the University authorities themselves handle it, with reason and care—and there
are virtually no crimes of violence. The students and faculty appreciate their
freedom and understand its terms. Too much rowdiness, the beginning of riot and
bloodshed, and the government may feel it has a right to break the unwritten
agreement and send in the troops. No one wants that, not even the government,
so a delicate balance is maintained. In other words, Demerzel himself can not
have you plucked out of the University without a great deal more cause than
anyone in the University has given the government in at least a century and a
half. On the other hand, if you are lured off the grounds by a student-agent—” “Are
there student-agents?” “How
can I say? There may be. Any ordinary individual can be threatened or
maneuvered or simply bought—and may remain thereafter in the service of
Demerzel or of someone else, for that matter. So I must emphasize this: You are
safe in any reasonable sense, but no one is absolutely safe. You will have to
be careful. But though I give you that warning, I don’t want you to cower
through life. On the whole, you will be far more secure here than you would
have been if you had returned to Helicon or gone to any world of the Galaxy
outside Trantor.” “I
hope so,” said Seldon drearily. “I
know so,” said Hummin, “Or I would not feel it wise to leave you.” “Leave
me?” Seldon looked up sharply. “You can’t do that. You know this world. I
don’t.” “You
will be with others who know this world, who know this part of it, in fact,
even better than I do. As for myself, I must go. I have been with you all this
day and I dare not abandon my own life any longer. I must not attract too much
attention to myself. Remember that I have my own insecurities, just as you have
yours.” Seldon
blushed. “You’re right. I can’t expect you to endanger yourself indefinitely on
my behalf. I hope you are not already ruined.” Hummin
said coolly, “Who can tell? We live in dangerous times. Just remember that if
anyone can make the times safe—if not for ourselves, then for those who follow
after us—it is you. Let that thought be your driving force, Seldon.” 17.Sleep
eluded Seldon. He tossed and turned in the dark, thinking. He had have never
felt quite so alone or quite so helpless as he did after Hummin had nodded,
pressed his hand briefly, and left him behind. Now he was on a strange
world—and in a strange part of that world. He was without the only person he
could consider a friend (and that of less than a day’s duration) and he had no
idea of where he was going or what he would be doing, either tomorrow or at any
time in the future. None
of that was conducive to sleep so, of course, at about the time he decided,
hopelessly, that he would not sleep that night or, possibly, ever again,
exhaustion overtook him ... When
he woke up it was still dark—or not quite, for across the room he saw a red
light flashing brightly and rapidly, accompanied by a harsh, intermittent buzz.
Undoubtedly, it was that which had awakened him. As he tried to remember where
he was and to make some sort of sense out of the limited messages his senses
were receiving, the flashing and buzzing ceased and he became aware of a
peremptory rapping. Presumably,
the rapping was at the door, but he didn’t remember where the door was.
Presumably, also, there was a contact that would flood the room with light, but
he didn’t remember where that was either. He
sat up in bed and felt along the wall to his left rather desperately while
calling out, “One moment, please.” He
found the necessary contact and the room suddenly bloomed with a soft light. He
scrambled out of bed, blinking, still searching for the door, finding it,
reaching out to open it, remembering caution at the last moment, and saying in
a suddenly stern, no-nonsense voice, “Who’s there?” A
rather gentle woman’s voice said, “My dame is Dors Venabili and I have come to
see Dr. Hari Seldon.” Even
as that was said, a woman was standing just in front of the door, without that
door ever having been opened. For
a moment, Hari Seldon stared at her in surprise, then realized that he was
wearing only a one-piece undergarment. He let out a strangled gasp and dashed
for the bed and only then realized that he was staring at a holograph. It
lacked the hard edge of reality and it became apparent the woman wasn’t looking
at him. She was merely showing herself for identification. He paused, breathing
hard, then said, raising his voice to be heard through the door, “If you’ll
wait, I’ll be with you. Give me ... maybe half an hour.” The
woman—or the holograph, at any rate—said, “I’ll wait,” and disappeared. There
was no shower, so he sponged himself, making a rare mess on the tiled floor in
the washroom corner. There was toothpaste but no toothbrush, so he used his
finger. He had no choice but to put on the clothes he had been wearing the day
before. He finally opened the door. He
realized, even as he did so, that she had not really identified herself. She
had merely given a name and Hummin had not told him whom to expect, whether it
was to be this Dors Somebody or anyone else. He had felt secure because the
holograph was that of a personable young woman, but for all he knew there might
be half a dozen hostile young men with her. He
peered out cautiously, saw only the woman, then opened the door sufficiently to
allow her to enter. He immediately closed and locked the door behind her.
“Pardon me,” he said, “What time is it?” “Nine,”
she said, “The day has long since begun.” As
far as official time was concerned, Trantor held to Galactic Standard, since
only so could sense be made out of interstellar commerce and governmental
dealings. Each world, however, also had a local time system and Seldon had not
yet come to the point where he felt at home with casual Trantorian references
to the hour. “Midmorning?”
he said. “Of
course.” “There
are no windows in this room,” he said defensively. Dors
walked to his bed, reached out, and touched a small dark spot on the wall. Red
numbers appeared on the ceiling just over his pillow. They read: 0903. She smiled
without superiority. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I rather assumed Chetter
Hummin would have told you I’d be coming for you at nine. The trouble with him
is he’s so used to knowing, he sometimes forgets that others occasionally don’t
know.—And I shouldn’t have used radio-holographic identification. I imagine you
don’t have it on Helicon and I’m afraid I must have alarmed you.” Seldon
felt himself relax. She seemed natural and friendly and the casual reference to
Hummin reassured him. He said, “You’re quite wrong about Helicon, Miss—” “Please
call me Dors.” “You’re
still wrong about Helicon, Dors. We do have radioholography, but I’ve never
been able to afford the equipment. Nor could anyone in my circle, so I haven’t
actually had the experience. But I understood what had happened soon enough.” He
studied her. She was not very tall, average height for a woman, he judged. Her
hair was a reddish-gold, though not very bright, and was arranged in shore
curls about her head. (He had seen a number of women in Trantor with their hair
so arranged. It was apparently a local fashion that would have been laughed at
in Helicon.) She was not amazingly beautiful, but was quite pleasant to look
at, this being helped by full lips that seemed to have a slight humorous curl to
them. She was slim, well-built, and looked quite young. (Too young, he thought
uneasily, to be of use perhaps.) “Do
I pass inspection?” she asked. (She seemed to have Hummin’s trick of guessing
his thoughts, Seldon thought, or perhaps he himself lacked the trick of hiding
them.) He
said, “I’m sorry. I seem to have been staring, but I’ve only been trying to
evaluate you. I’m in a strange place. I know no one and have no friends.” “Please,
Dr. Seldon, count me as a friend. Mr. Hummin has asked me to take care of you.” Seldon
smiled ruefully. “You may be a little young for the job.” “You’ll
find I am not.” “Well,
I’ll try to be as little trouble as possible. Could you please repeat your
name?” “Dors
Venabili.” She spelled the last name and emphasized the stress on the second
syllable. “As I said, please call me Dors and if you don’t object too
strenuously I will call you Hari. We’re quite informal here at the University
and there is an almost self-conscious effort to show no signs of status, either
inherited or professional.” “Please,
by all means, call me Hari.” “Good.
I shall remain informal then. For instance, the instinct for formality, if
there is such a thing, would cause me to ask permission to sit down.
Informally, however, I shall just sit.” She then sat down on the one chair in
the room. Seldon
cleared his throat. “Clearly, I’m not at all in possession of my ordinary
faculties. I should have asked you to sit.” He sat down on the side of his
crumpled bed and wished he had thought to straighten it out somewhat—but he had
been caught by surprise. She
said pleasantly, “This is how it’s going to work, Hari. First, we’ll go to
breakfast at one of the University cafes. Then I’ll get you a room in one of
the domiciles—a better room than this. You’ll have a window. Hummin has
instructed me to get you a credit tile in his name, but it will take me a day
or two to extort one out of the University bureaucracy. Until that’s done, I’ll
be responsible for your expenses and you can pay me back later.—And we can use
you. Chetter Hummin told me you’re a mathematician and for some reason there’s
a serious lack of good ones at the University.” “Did
Hummin tell you that I was a good mathematician?” “As
a matter of fact, he did. He said you were a remarkable man—” “Well.”
Seldon looked down at his fingernails. “I would like to be considered so, but
Hummin knew me for less than a day and, before that, he had heard me present a
paper, the quality of which he has no way of judging. I think he was just being
polite.” “I
don’t think so,” said Dors. “He is a remarkable person himself and has had a
great deal of experience with people. I’ll go by his judgment. In any case, I
imagine you’ll have a chance to prove yourself. You can program computers, I
suppose.” “Of
course.” “I’m
talking about teaching computers, you understand, and I’m asking if you can
devise programs to teach various phases of contemporary mathematics.” “Yes,
that’s part of my profession. I’m assistant professor of mathematics at the
University of Helicon.” She
said, “Yes, I know. Hummin told me that. It means, of course, that everyone
will know you are a non-Trantorian, but that will present no serious problems.
We’re mainly Trantorian here at the University, but there’s a substantial
minority of Outworlders from any number of different worlds and that’s
accepted. I won’t say that you’ll never hear a planetary slur but actually the
Outworlders are more likely to use them than the Trantorians. I’m an Outworlder
myself, by the way.” “Oh?”
He hesitated and then decided it would be only polite to ask. “What world are
you from?” “I’m
from Cinna. Have you ever heard of it?” He’d
be caught out if he was polite enough to lie, Seldon decided, so he said, “No.” “I’m
not surprised. It’s probably of even less account than Helicon is. Anyway, to
get back to the programming of mathematical teaching computers, I suppose that
that can be done either proficiently or poorly.” “Absolutely.” “And
you would do it proficiently.” “I
would like to think so.” “There
you are, then. The University will pay you for that, so let’s go out and eat.
Did you sleep well, by the way?” “Surprisingly,
I did.” “And
are you hungry?” “Yes,
but—” He hesitated. She
said cheerfully, “But you’re worried about the quality of the food, is that it?
Well, don’t be. Being an Outworlder myself, I can understand your feelings
about the strong infusion of microfood into everything, but the University
menus aren’t bad. In the faculty dining room, at least. The students suffer a
bit, but that serves to harden them.” She
rose and turned to the door, but stopped when Seldon could not keep himself
from saying, “Are you a member of the faculty?” She
turned and smiled at him impishly. “Don’t I look old enough? I got my doctorate
two years ago at Cinna and I’ve been here ever since. In two weeks, I’ll be
thirty.” “Sorry,”
said Seldon, smiling in his turn, “but you can’t expect to look twenty-four and
not raise doubts as to your academic status.” “Aren’t
you nice?” said Dors and Seldon felt a certain pleasure wash over him. After
all, he thought, you can’t exchange pleasantries with an attractive woman and
feel entirely like a stranger. 18.Dors
was right. Breakfast was by no means bad. There was something that was
unmistakably eggy and the meat was pleasantly smoked. The chocolate drink
(Trantor was strong on chocolate and Seldon did not mind that) was probably
synthetic, but it was tasty and the breakfast rolls were good. He felt is only
right to say as much. “This has been a very pleasant breakfast. Food.
Surroundings. Everything.” “I’m
delighted you think so,” said Dors. Seldon
looked about. There were a bank of windows in one wall and while actual
sunlight did not enter (he wondered if, after a while, he would learn to be
satisfied with diffuse daylight and would cease to look for patches of sunlight
in a room), the place was light enough. In fact, it was quite bright, for the
local weather computer had apparently decided is was time for a sharp, clear
day. The
cables were arranged for four apiece and most were occupied by the full number,
but Dors and Seldon remained alone at theirs. Dors had called over some of the
men and women and had introduced them. All had been polite, but none had joined
them. Undoubtedly, Dors intended that to be so, but Seldon did not see how she
managed to arrange it. He
said, “You haven’t introduced me to any mathematicians, Dors.” “I
haven’t seen any that I know. Most mathematicians start the day early and have
classes by eight. My own feeling is that any student so foolhardy as to take
mathematics wants to get that part of the course over with as soon as
possible.” “I
take it you’re not a mathematician yourself.” “Anything
but,” said Dors with a short laugh. “Anything. History is my field. I’ve
already published some studies on the rise of Trantor—I mean the primitive
kingdom, not this world. I suppose that will end up as my field of
specialization—Royal Trantor.” “Wonderful,”
said Seldon. “Wonderful?”
Dors looked at him quizzically. “Are you interested in Royal Trantor too?” “In
a way, yes. That and other things like that. I’ve never really studied history
and I should have.” “Should
you? If you had studied history, you’d scarcely have had time to study
mathematics and mathematicians are very much needed—especially at this
University. We’re full to here with historians,” she said, raising her hand to
her eyebrows, “and economists and political scientists, but we’re short on
science and mathematics. Chetter Hummin pointed that out to me once. He called
it the decline of science and seemed to think it was a general phenomenon.” Seldon
said, “Of course, when I say I should have studied history, I don’t mean that I
should have made it a life work. I meant I should have studied enough to help
me in my mathematics. My field of specialization is the mathematical analysis
of social structure.” “Sounds
horrible.” “In
a way, it is. It’s very complicated and without my knowing a great deal more
about how societies evolved it’s hopeless. My picture is too static, you see.” “I
can’t see because I know nothing about it. Chetter told me you were developing
something called psychohistory and that it was important. Have I got it right?
Psychohistory?” “That’s
right. I should have called it ‘psychosociology,’ but it seemed to me that was
too ugly a word. Or perhaps I knew instinctively that a knowledge of history
was necessary and then didn’t pay sufficient attention to my thoughts.” “Psychohistory
does sound better, but I don’t know what it is.” “I
scarcely do myself.” He brooded a few minutes, looking at the woman on the
other side of the table and feeling that she might make this exile of his seem
a little less like an exile. He thought of the other woman he had known a few
years ago, but blocked it off with a determined effort. If he ever found
another companion, it would have to be one who understood scholarship and what
it demanded of a person. To
get his mind onto a new track, he said, “Chetter Hummin told me that the
University is in no way troubled by the government.” “He’s
right.” Seldon
shook his head. “That seems rather unbelievably forbearing of the Imperial
government. The educational institutions on Helicon are by no means so
independent of governmental pressures.” “Nor
on Cinna. Nor on any Outworld, except perhaps for one or two of the largest.
Trantor is another matter.” “Yes,
but why?” “Because
it’s the center of the Empire. The universities here have enormous prestige.
Professionals are turned out by any university anywhere, but the administrators
of the Empire—the high officials, the countless millions of people who
represent the tentacles of Empire reaching into every corner of the Galaxy—are
educated right here on Trantor.” “I’ve
never seen the statistics—” began Seldon. “Take
my word for it. It is important that the officials of the Empire have some
common ground, some special feeling for the Empire. And they can’t all be
native Trantorians or else the Outworlds would grow restless. For that reason,
Trantor must attract millions of Outworlders for education here. It doesn’t
matter where they come from or what their home accent or culture may be, as
long as they pick up the Trantorian patina and identify themselves with a
Trantorian educational background. That’s what holds the Empire together. The
Outworlds are also less restive when a noticeable portion of the administrators
who represent the Imperial government are their own people by birth and
upbringing.” Seldon
felt embarrassed again. This was something he had never given any thought to.
He wondered if anyone could be a truly great mathematician if mathematics was
all he knew. He said, “Is this common knowledge?” “I
suppose it isn’t,” said Dors after some thought. “There’s so much knowledge to
be had that specialists cling to their specialties as a shield against having
to know anything about anything else. They avoid being drowned.” “Yet
you know it.” “But
that’s my specialty. I’m a historian who deals with the rise of Royal Trantor
and this administrative technique was one of the ways in which Trantor spread
its influence and managed the transition from Royal Trantor to Imperial
Trantor.” Seldon
said, almost as though muttering to himself, “How harmful overspecialization
is. It cuts knowledge at a million points and leaves it bleeding.” Dors
shrugged. “What can one do?—But you see, if Trantor is going to attract
Outworlders to Trantorian universities, it has to give them something in return
for uprooting themselves and going to a strange world with an incredibly
artificial structure and unusual ways. I’ve been here two years and I’m still
not used to it. I may never get used to it. But then, of course, I don’t intend
to be an administrator, so I’m not forcing myself to be a Trantorian. “And
what Trantor offers in exchange is not only the promise of a position with high
status, considerable power, and money, of course, but also freedom. While
students are having their—education, they are free to denounce the government,
demonstrate against it peacefully, work out their own theories and points of
view. They enjoy that and many come here so that they can experience the
sensation of liberty.” “I
imagine,” said Seldon, “that it helps relieve pressure as well. They work off
all their resentments, enjoy all the smug self-satisfaction a young
revolutionary would have, and by the time they take their place in the Imperial
hierarchy, they are ready to settle down into conformity and obedience.” Dors
nodded. “You may be right. In any case, the government, for all these reasons,
carefully preserves the freedom of the universities. It’s not a matter of their
being forbearing at all—only clever.” “And
if you’re not going to be an administrator, Dors, what are you going to be?” “A
historian. I’ll teach, put book-films of my own into the programming.” “Not
much status, perhaps.” “Not
much money, Hari, which is more important. As for status, that’s the sort of
push and pull I’d just as soon avoid. I’ve seen many people with status, but
I’m still looking for a happy one. Status won’t sit still under you; you have
to continually fight to keep from sinking. Even Emperors manage to come to bad
ends most of the time. Someday I may just go back to Cinna and be a professor.” “And
a Trantorian education will give you status.” Dors
laughed. “I suppose so, but on Cinna who would care? It’s a dull world, full of
farms and with lots of cattle, both four-legged and two-legged.” “Won’t
you find it dull after Trantor?” “Yes,
that’s what I’m counting on. And if it gets too dull, I can always wangle a
grant to go here or there to do a little historical research. That’s the
advantage of my field.” “A
mathematician, on the other hand,” said Seldon with a trace of bitterness at
something that had never before bothered him, “is expected to sit at his
computer and think. And speaking of computers—” He hesitated. Breakfast was
done and it seemed to him more than likely she had some duties of her own to
attend to. But
she did not seem to be in any great hurry to leave. “Yes? Speaking of
computers?” “Would
I be able to get permission to use the history library?” Now
it was she who hesitated. “I think that can be arranged. If you work on
mathematics programming, you’ll probably be viewed as a quasi-member of the
faculty and I could ask for you to be given permission. Only—” “Only?” “I
don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re a mathematician and you say you
know nothing about history. Would you know how to make use of a history
library?” Seldon
smiled. “I suppose you use computers very much like those in a mathematics
library.” “We
do, but the programming for each specialty has quirks of its own. You don’t
know the standard reference book-films, the quick methods of winnowing and
skipping. You may be able to find a hyperbolic interval in the dark ...” “You
mean hyperbolic integral,” interrupted Seldon softly. Dors
ignored him. “But you probably won’t know how to get the terms of the Treaty of
Poldark in less than a day and a half.” “I
suppose I could learn.” “If
... if ...” She looked a little troubled. “If you want to, I can make a
suggestion. I give a week’s course—one hour each day, no credit—on library use.
It’s for undergraduates. Would you feel it beneath your dignity to sit in on
such a course—with undergraduates, I mean? It starts in three weeks.” “You
could give me private lessons.” Seldon felt a little surprised at the
suggestive tone that had entered his voice. She
did not miss it. “I dare say I could, but I think you’d be better off with more
formal instruction. We’ll be using the library, you understand, and at the end
of the week you will be asked to locate information on particular items of
historical interest. You will be competing with the other students all through
and that will help you learn. Private tutoring will be far less efficient, I
assure you. However, I understand the difficulty of competing with
undergraduates. If you don’t do as well as they, you may feel humiliated. You
must remember, though, that they have already studied elementary history and
you, perhaps, may not have.” “I
haven’t. No ‘may’ about it. But I won’t be afraid to compete and I won’t mind
any humiliation that may come along—if I manage to learn the tricks of the
historical reference trade.” It
was clear to Seldon that he was beginning to like this young woman and that he
was gladly seizing on the chance to be educated by her. He was also aware of
the fact that he had reached a turning point in his mind. He had promised
Hummin to attempt to work out a practical psychohistory, but that had been a
promise of the mind and not the emotions. Now he was determined to seize
psychohistory by the throat if he had to—in order to make it practical. That,
perhaps, was the influence of Dors Venabili. Or had Hummin counted on that?
Hummin, Seldon decided, might well be a most formidable person. 19.Cleon
I had finished dinner, which, unfortunately, had been a formal state affair. It
meant he had to spend time talking to various officials—not one of whom he knew
or recognized—in set phrases designed to give each one his stroke and so
activate his loyalty to the crown. It also meant that his food reached him but
lukewarm and had cooled still further before he could eat it. There had to be
some way of avoiding that. Eat first, perhaps, on his own or with one or two
close intimates with whom he could relax and then attend a formal dinner at
which he could merely be served an imported pear. He loved pears. But would
that offend the guests who would take the Emperor’s refusal to eat with them as
a studied insult. His
wife, of course, was useless in this respect, for her presence would but
further exacerbate his unhappiness. He had married her because she was a member
of a powerful dissident family who could be expected to mute their dissidence
as a result of the union, though Cleon devoutly hoped that she, at least, would
not do so. He was perfectly content to have her live her own life in her own quarters
except for the necessary efforts to initiate an heir, for, to tell the truth,
he didn’t like her. And now that an heir had come, he could ignore her
completely. He
chewed at one of a handful of nuts he had pocketed from the table on leaving
and said, “Demerzel!” “Sire?” Demerzel
always appeared at once when Cleon called. Whether he hovered constantly in
earshot at the door or he drew close because the instinct of subservience
somehow alerted him to a possible call in a few minutes, he did appear and
that, Cleon thought idly, was the important thing. Of course, there were those
times when Demerzel had to be away on Imperial business. Cleon always hated
those absences. They made him uneasy. “What
happened to that mathematician? I forget his name.” Demerzel,
who surely knew the man the Emperor had in mind, but who perhaps wanted to
study how much the Emperor remembered, said, “What mathematician is it that you
have in mind, Sire?” Cleon
waved an impatient hand. “The fortune-teller. The one who came to see me.” “The
one we sent for?” “Well,
sent for, then. He did come to see me. You were going to take care of the
matter, as I recall. Have you?” Demerzel
cleared his throat. “Sire, I have tried to.” “Ah!
That means you have failed, doesn’t it?” In a way, Cleon felt pleased. Demerzel
was the only one of his Ministers who made no bones of failure. The others
never admitted failure, and since failure was nevertheless common, it became
difficult to correct. Perhaps Demerzel could afford to be more honest because he
failed so rarely. If it weren’t for Demerzel, Cleon thought sadly, he might
never know what honesty sounded like. Perhaps no Emperor ever knew and perhaps
that was one of the reasons that the Empire— He pulled his thoughts away and,
suddenly nettled at the other’s silence and wanting an admission, since he had
just admired Demerzel’s honesty in his mind, said sharply, “Well, you have
failed, haven’t you?” Demerzel
did not flinch. “Sire, I have failed in part. I felt that to have him here on
Trantor where things are—difficult might present us with problems. It was easy
to consider that he might be more conveniently placed on his home planet. He
was planning to return to that home planet the next day, but there was always
the chance of complications—of his deciding to remain on Trantor—so I arranged
to have two young alley men place him on his plane that very day.” “Do
you know alley men, Demerzel?” Cleon was amused. “It
is important, Sire, to be able to reach many kinds of people, for each type has
its own variety of use—alley men not the least. As it happens, they did not
succeed.” “And
why was that?” “Oddly
enough, Seldon was able to fight them off.” “The
mathematician could fight?” “Apparently,
mathematics and the martial arts are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I
found out, not soon enough, that his world, Helicon, is noted for it—martial
arts, not mathematics. The fact that I did not learn this earlier was indeed a
failure, Sire, and I can only crave your pardon.” “But
then, I suppose the mathematician left for his home planet the next day as he
had planned.” “Unfortunately,
the episode backfired. Taken aback by the event, he decided not to return to
Helicon, but remained on Trantor. He may have been advised to this effect by a
passerby who happened to be present on the occasion of the fight. That was
another unlooked-for complication.” The
Emperor Cleon frowned. “Then our mathematician—what is his name?” “Seldon,
Sire. Hari Seldon.” “Then
this Seldon is out of reach.” “In
a sense, Sire. We have traced his movements and he is now at Streeling
University. While there, he is untouchable.” The
Emperor scowled and reddened slightly. “I am annoyed at that
word—‘untouchable.’ There should be nowhere in the Empire my hand cannot reach.
Yet here, on my own world, you tell me someone can be untouchable.
Insufferable!” “Your
hand can reach to the University, Sire. You can send in your army and pluck out
this Seldon at any moment you desire. To do so, however, is ... undesirable.” “Why
don’t you say ‘impractical,’ Demerzel. You sound like the mathematician
speaking of his fortune-telling. It is possible, but impractical. I am an
Emperor who finds everything possible, but very little practical. Remember,
Demerzel, if reaching Seldon is not practical, reaching you is entirely so.” Eto
Demerzel let this last comment pass. The “man behind the throne” knew his
importance to the Emperor, he had heard such threats before. He waited in
silence while the Emperor glowered. Drumming
his fingers against the arm of his chair, Cleon asked, ... Well then, what good
is this mathematician to us if he is at Streeling University?” “It
may perhaps be possible, Sire, to snatch use out of adversity. At the
University, he may decide to work on his psychohistory.” “Even
though he insists it’s impractical?” “He
may be wrong and he may find out that he is wrong. And if he finds out that he
is wrong, we would find some way of getting him out of the University. It is
even possible he would join us voluntarily under those circumstances.” The
Emperor remained lost in thought for a while, then said, “And what if someone
else plucks him out before we do?” “Who
would want to do that, Sire?” asked Demerzel softy. “The
Mayor of Wye, for one,” said Cleon, suddenly shouting. “He dreams still of
taking over the Empire.” “Old
age has drawn his fangs, Sire.” “Don’t
you believe it, Demerzel.” “And
we have no reason for supposing he has any interest in Seldon or even knows of
him, Sire.” “Come
on, Demerzel. If we heard of the paper, so could Wye. If we see the possible
importance of Seldon, so could Wye.” “If
that should happen,” said Demerzel, “or even if there should be a reasonable
chance of its happening, then we would be justified in taking strong measures.” “How
strong?” Demerzel
said cautiously, “It might be argued that rather than have Seldon in Wye’s
hands, we might prefer to have him in no one’s hands. To have him cease to
exist, Sire.” “To
have him killed, you mean,” said Cleon. “If
you wish to put it that way, Sire,” said Demerzel. 20.Hari
Seldon sat back in his chair in the alcove that had been assigned to him
through Dors Venabili’s intervention. He was dissatisfied. As a matter of fact,
although that was the expression he used in his mind, he knew that it was a
gross underestimation of his feelings. He was not simply dissatisfied, he was
furious—all the more so because he wasn’t sure what it was he was furious
about. Was it about the histories? The writers and compilers of histories? The
worlds and people that made the histories? Whatever the target of his fury, it
didn’t really matter. What counted was that his notes were useless, his new
knowledge was useless, everything was useless. He had been at the University
now for almost six weeks. He had managed to find a computer outlet at the very
start and with it had begun work—without instruction, but using the instincts
he had developed over a number of years of mathematical labors. It had been
slow and halting, but there was a certain pleasure in gradually determining the
routes by which he could get his questions answered. Then
came the week of instruction with Dors, which had taught him several dozen
shortcuts and had brought with it two sets of embarrassments. The first set
included the sidelong glances he received from the undergraduates, who seemed
contemptuously aware of his greater age and who were disposed to frown a bit at
Dors’s constant use of the honorific “Doctor” in addressing him. “I don’t want
them to think,” she said, “that you’re some backward perpetual student taking
remedial history.” “But
surely you’ve established the point. Surely, a mere ‘Seldon’ is sufficient
now.” “No,”
Dors said and smiled suddenly. “Besides, I like to call you ‘Dr. Seldon.’ I
like the way you look uncomfortable each time.” “You
have a peculiar sense of sadistic humor.” “Would
you deprive me?” For
some reason, that made him laugh. Surely, the natural reaction would have been
to deny sadism. Somehow he found it pleasant that she accepted the ball of
conversation and fired it back. The thought led to a natural question. “Do you
play tennis here at the University?” “We
have courts, but I don’t play.” “Good.
I’ll teach you. And when I do, I’ll call you Professor Venabili.” “That’s
what you call me in class anyway.” “You’ll
be surprised how ridiculous it will sound on the tennis court.” “I
may get to like it.” “In
that case, I will try to find what else you might get to like.” “I
see you have a peculiar sense of salacious humor.” She
had put that ball in that spot deliberately and he said, “Would you deprive
me?” She
smiled and later did surprisingly well on the tennis court. “Are
you sure you never played tennis?” he said, puffing, after one session. “Positive,”
she said. The
other set of embarrassments was more private. He learned the necessary
techniques of historical research and then burned—in private—at his earlier
attempts to make use of the computer’s memory. It was simply an entirely
different mind-set from that used in mathematics. It was equally logical, he
supposed, since it could be used, consistently and without error, to move in
whatever direction he wanted to, but it was a substantially different brand of
logic from that to which he was accustomed. But
with or without instructions, whether he stumbled or moved in swiftly, he
simply didn’t get any results. His
annoyance made itself felt on the tennis court. Dors quickly reached the stage
where it was no longer necessary to lob easy balls at her to give her time to
judge direction and distance. That made it easy to forget that she was just a
beginner and he expressed his anger in his swing, firing the ball back at her
as though it were a laser beam made solid. She
came trotting up to the net and said, “I can understand your wanting to kill
me, since it must annoy you to watch me miss the shots so often. How is it,
though, that you managed to miss my head by about three centimeters that time?
I mean, you didn’t even nick me. Can’t you do better than that?” Seldon,
horrified, tried to explain, but only managed to sound incoherent. She
said, “Look. I’m not going to face any other returns of yours today, so why
don’t we shower and then get together for some tea and whatever and you can
tell me just what you were trying to kill. If it wasn’t my poor head and if you
don’t get the real victim off your chest, you’ll be entirely too dangerous on
the other side of the net for me to want to serve as a target.” Over
tea he said, “Dors, I’ve scanned history after history; just scanned, browsed.
I haven’t had time for deep study yet. Even so, it’s become obvious. All the
book-films concentrate on the same few events.” “Crucial
ones. History-making ones.” “That’s
just an excuse. They’re copying each other. There are twenty-five million
worlds out there and there’s significant mention of perhaps twenty-five.” Dors
said, “You’re reading general Galactic histories only. Look up the special
histories of some of the minor worlds. On every world, however small, the
children are taught local histories before they ever find out there’s a great
big Galaxy outside. Don’t you yourself know more about Helicon, right now, than
you know about the rise of Trantor or of the Great Interstellar War?” “That
sort of knowledge is limited too,” said Seldon gloomily. “I know Heliconian
geography and the stories of its settlement and of the malfeasance and
misfeasance of the planet Jennisek—that’s our traditional enemy, though our
teachers carefully told us that we ought to say ‘traditional rival.’ But I
never learned anything about the contributions of Helicon to general Galactic
history.” “Maybe
there weren’t any.” “Don’t
be silly. Of course there were. There may not have been great, huge space
battles involving Helicon or crucial rebellions or peace treaties. There may
not have been some Imperial competitor making his base on Helicon. But there
must have been subtle influences. Surely, nothing can happen anywhere without
affecting everywhere else. Yet there’s nothing I can find to help me. See here,
Dors. In mathematics, all can be found in the computer; everything we know or
have found out in twenty thousand years. In history, that’s not so. Historians
pick and choose and every one of them picks and chooses the same thing.” “But,
Hari,” said Dors, “mathematics is an orderly thing of human invention. One
thing follows from another. There are definitions and axioms, all of which are
known. It is ... it is ... all one piece. History is different. It is the
unconscious working out of the deeds and thoughts of quadrillions of human
beings. Historians must pick and choose.” “Exactly,”
said Seldon, “but I must know all of history if I am to work out the laws of
psychohistory.” “In
that case, you won’t ever formulate the laws of psychohistory.” That
was yesterday. Now Seldon sat in his chair in his alcove, having spent another
day of utter failure, and he could hear Dors’s voice saying, “In that case, you
won’t ever formulate the laws of psychohistory.” It was what he had thought to
begin with and if it hadn’t been for Hummin’s conviction to the contrary and
his odd ability to fire Seldon with his own blaze of conviction, Seldon would
have continued to think so. And yet neither could he quite let go. Might there
not be some way out? He
couldn’t think of any. UppersideTRANTOR—
... It is almost never pictured as a world seen from space. It has long since
captured the general mind of humanity as a world of the interior and the image
is that of the human hive that existed under the domes. Yet there was an
exterior as well and there are holographs that still remain that were taken
from space and show varying degrees of [devil] (see Figures 14 and 15). Note
that the surface of the domes, the interface of the vast city and the overlying
atmosphere, a surface referred to in its time as “Upperside,” is ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 21.Yet
the following day found Hari Seldon back in the library. For one thing, there
was his promise to Hummin. He had promised to try and he couldn’t very well
make it a halfhearted process. For another, he owed something to himself too.
He resented having to admit failure. Not yet, at least. Not while he could
plausibly tell himself he was following up leads. So he stared at the list of
reference book-films he had not yet checked through and tried to decide which
of the unappetizing number had the slightest chance of being useful to him. He
had about decided that the answer was “none of the above” and saw no way out
but to look at samples of each when he was startled by a gentle tap against the
alcove wall. Seldon
looked up and found the embarrassed face of Lisung Randa peering at him around
the edge of the alcove opening. Seldon knew Randa, had been introduced to him
by Dors, and had dined with him (and with others) on several occasions. Randa,
an instructor in psychology, was a little man, short and plump, with a round
cheerful face and an almost perpetual smile. He had a sallow complexion and the
narrowed eyes so characteristic of people on millions of worlds. Seldon knew
that appearance well, for there were many of the great mathematicians who had
borne it, and he had frequently seen their holograms. Yet on Helicon he had
never seen one of these Easterners. (By tradition they were called that, though
no one knew why; and the Easterners themselves were said to resent the term to
some degree, but again no one knew why.) “There’s
millions of us here on Trantor,” Randa had said, smiling with no trace of
self-consciousness, when Seldon, on first meeting him, had not been able to
repress all trace of startled surprise. “You’ll also find lots of
Southerners—dark skins, tightly curled hair. Did you ever see one?” “Not
on Helicon,” muttered Seldon. “All
Westerners on Helicon, eh? How dull! But it doesn’t matter. Takes all kinds.”
(He left Seldon wondering at the fact that there were Easterners, Southerners,
and Westerners, but no Northerners. He had tried finding an answer to why that
might be in his reference searches and had not succeeded.) And now Randa’s
good-natured face was looking at him with an almost ludicrous look of concern.
He said, “Are you all right, Seldon?” Seldon
stared. “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” “I’m
just going by sounds, my friend. You were screaming.” “Screaming?”
Seldon looked at him with offended disbelief. “Not
loud. Like this.” Randa gritted his teeth and emitted a strangled high-pitched
sound from the back of his throat. “If I’m wrong, I apologize for this
unwarranted intrusion on you. Please forgive me.” Seldon
hung his head. “You’re forgiven, Lisung. I do make that sound sometimes, I’m
told. I assure you it’s unconscious. I’m never aware of it.” “Are
you aware why you make it?” “Yes.
Frustration. Frustration.” Randa
beckoned Seldon closer and lowered his voice further. “We’re disturbing people.
Let’s come out to the lounge before we’re thrown out.” In
the lounge, over a pair of mild drinks, Randa said, “May I ask you, as a matter
of professional interest, why you are feeling frustration?” Seldon
shrugged. “Why does one usually feel frustration? I’m tackling something in
which I am making no progress.” “But
you’re a mathematician, Hari. Why should anything in the history library
frustrate you?” “What
were you doing here?” “Passing
through as part of a shortcut to where I was going when I heard you ...
moaning. Now you see”—and he smiled—“it’s no longer a shortcut, but a serious
delay—one that I welcome, however.” “I
wish I were just passing through the history library, but I’m trying to solve a
mathematical problem that requires some knowledge of history and I’m afraid I’m
not handling it well.” Randa
stared at Seldon with an unusually solemn expression on his face, then he said,
“Pardon me, but I must run the risk of offending you now. I’ve been computering
you.” “Computering
me!” Seldon’s eyes widened. He felt distinctly angry. “I
have offended you. But, you know, I had an uncle who was a mathematician. You
might even have heard of him: Kiangtow Randa.” Seldon
drew in his breath. “Are you a relative of that Randa?” “Yes.
He is my father’s older brother and he was quite displeased with me for not
following in his footsteps—he has no children of his own. I thought somehow
that it might please him that I had met a mathematician and I wanted to boast
of you—if I could—so I checked what information the mathematics library might
have.” “I
see. And that’s what you were really doing there. Well—I’m sorry. I don’t
suppose you could do much boasting.” “You
suppose wrong. I was impressed. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the subject
matter of your papers, but somehow the information seemed to be very favorable.
And when I checked the news files, I found you were at the Decennial Convention
earlier this year. So ... what’s ‘psychohistory,’ anyway? Obviously, the first
two syllables stir my curiosity.” “I
see you got that word out of it.” “Unless
I’m totally misled, it seemed to me that you can work out the future course of
history.” Seldon
nodded wearily, “That, more or less, is what psychohistory is or, rather, what
it is intended to be.” “But
is it a serious study?” Randa was smiling. “You don’t just throw sticks?” “Throw
sticks?” “That’s
just a reference to a game played by children on my home planet of Hopara. The
game is supposed to tell the future and if you’re a smart kid, you can make a
good thing out of it. Tell a mother that her child will grow up beautiful and
marry a rich man and it’s good for a piece of cake or a half-credit piece on
the spot. She isn’t going to wait and see if it comes true; you are rewarded
just for saying it.” “I
see. No, I don’t throw sticks. Psychohistory is just an abstract study.
Strictly abstract. It has no practical application at all, except—” “Now
we’re getting to it. Exceptions are what are interesting.” “Except
that I would like to work out such an application. Perhaps if I knew more about
history—” “Ah,
that is why you are reading history?” “Yes,
but it does me no good,” said Seldon sadly. “There is too much history and
there is too little of it that is told.” “And
that’s what’s frustrating you?” Seldon
nodded. Randa
said, “But, Hari, you’ve only been here a matter of weeks.” “True,
but already I can see—” “You
can’t see anything in a few weeks. You may have to spend your whole lifetime
making one little advance. It may take many generations of work by many
mathematicians to make a real inroad on the problem.” “I
know that, Lisung, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I want to make some
visible progress myself.” “Well,
driving yourself to distraction won’t help either. If it will make you feel
better, I can give you an example of a subject much less complex than human
history that people have been working for I don’t know how long without making
much progress. I know because a group is working on it right here at the
University and one of my good friends is involved. Talk about frustration! You
don’t know what frustration is!” “What’s
the subject?” Seldon felt a small curiosity stirring within him. “Meteorology.” “Meteorology!”
Seldon felt revolted at the anticlimax. “Don’t
make faces. Look. Every inhabited world has an atmosphere. Every world has its
own atmospheric composition, its own temperature range, its own rotation and
revolution rate, its own axial tipping, it’s own land-water distribution. We’ve
got twenty five million different problems and no one has succeeded in finding
a generalization.” “...
that’s because atmospheric behavior easily enters a chaotic phase. Everyone
knows that.” “So
my friend Jenarr Leggen says. You’ve met him.” Seldon
considered. “Tall fellow? Long nose? Doesn’t speak much?” “That’s
the one.—And Trantor itself is a bigger puzzle than almost any world. According
to the records, it had a fairly normal weather pattern when it was first
settled. Then, as the population grew and urbanization spread, more energy was
used and more heat was discharged into the atmosphere. The ice cover
contracted, the cloud layer thickened, and the weather got lousier. That
encouraged the movement underground and set off a vicious cycle. The worse the
weather got, the more eagerly the land was dug into and the domes built and the
weather got still worse. Now the planet has become a world of almost incessant
cloudiness and frequent rains—or snows when it’s cold enough. The only thing is
that no one can work it out properly. No one has worked out an analysis that
can explain why the weather has deteriorated quite as it has or how one can
reasonably predict the details of its day-to-day changes.” Seldon
shrugged. “Is that sort of thing important?” “To
a meteorologist it is. Why can’t they be as frustrated over their problems as
you are over yours? Don’t be a project chauvinist.” Seldon
remembered the cloudiness and the dank chill on the way to the Emperor’s Palace. He
said, “So what’s being done about it?” “Well,
there’s a big project on the matter here at the University and Jenarr Leggen is
part of it. They feel that if they can understand the weather change on
Trantor, they will learn a great deal about the basic laws of general
meteorology. Leggen wants that as much as you want your laws of psychohistory.
So he has set up an incredible array of instruments of all kinds Upperside ...
you know, above the domes. It hasn’t helped them so far. And if there’s so much
work being done for many generations on the atmosphere, without results, how
can you complain that you haven’t gotten anything out of human history in a few
weeks?” Randa
was right, Seldon thought, and he himself was being unreasonable and wrong. And
yet ... and yet ... Hummin would say that this failure in the scientific attack
on problems was another sign of the degeneration of the times. Perhaps he was
right, also, except that he was speaking of a general degeneration and average
effect. Seldon felt no degeneration of ability and mentality in himself. He
said with some interest then, “You mean that people climb up out of the domes
and into the open air above?” “Yes.
Upperside. It’s a funny thing, though. Most native Trantorians won’t do it.
They don’t like to go Upperside. The idea gives them vertigo or something. Most
of those working on the meteorology project are Outworlders.” Seldon
looked out of the window and the lawns and small garden of the University
campus, brilliantly lit without shadows or oppressive heat, and said
thoughtfully, “I don’t know that I can blame Trantorians for liking the comfort
of being within, but I should think curiosity would drive some Upperside. It
would drive me.” “Do
you mean that you would like to see meteorology in action?” “I
think I would. How does one get Upperside?” “Nothing
to it. An elevator takes you up, a door opens, and there you are. I’ve been up
there. It’s ... novel.” “It
would get my mind off psychohistory for a while.” Seldon sighed. “I’d welcome
that.” “On
the other hand,” said Randy, “my uncle used to say, ‘All knowledge is one,’ and
he may be right. You may learn something from meteorology that will help you
with your psychohistory. Isn’t that possible?” Seldon
smiled weakly. “A great many things are possible.” And to himself he added: But
not practical. 22.Dors
seemed amused. “Meteorology?” Seldon
said, “Yes. There’s work scheduled for tomorrow and I’ll go up with them.” “Are
you tired of history?” Seldon
nodded his head somberly. “Yes, I am. I’ll welcome the change. Besides, Randy
says it’s another problem that’s too massive for mathematics to handle and it
will do me good to see that my situation isn’t unique.” “I
hope you’re not agoraphobic.” Seldon
smiled. “No, I’m not, but I see why you ask. Randy says that Trantorians are
frequently agoraphobic and won’t go Upperside. I imagine they feel
uncomfortable without a protective enclosure ...” Dors
nodded. “You can see where that would be natural, but there are also many
Trantorians who are to be found among the planets of the Galaxy—tourists,
administrators, soldiers. And agoraphobia isn’t particularly rare in the
Outworlds either.” “That
may be, Dors, but I’m not agoraphobic. I am curious and I welcome the change,
so I’ll be joining them tomorrow.” Dors
hesitated. “I should go up with you, but I have a heavy schedule tomorrow. And,
if you’re not agoraphobic, you’ll have no trouble and you’ll probably enjoy
yourself. Oh, and stay close to the meteorologists. I’ve heard of people
getting lost up there.” “I’ll
be careful. It’s a long time since I’ve gotten truly lost anywhere.” 23.Jenarr
Leggen had a dark look about him. It was not so much his complexion, which was
fair enough. It was not even his eyebrows, which were thick and dark enough. It
was, rather, that those eyebrows were hunched over deep-set eyes and a long and
rather prominent nose. He had, as a result, a most unmerry look. His eyes did
not smile and when he spoke, which wasn’t often, he had a deep, strong voice,
surprisingly resonant for his rather thin body. He said, “You’ll need warmer
clothing than that, Seldon.” Seldon
said, “Oh?” and looked about. There
were two men and two women who were making ready to go up with Leggen and
Seldon And, as in Leggen’s own case, their rather satiny Trantorian clothing
was covered by thick sweaters that, not surprisingly, were brightly colored in
bold designs. No two were even faintly alike, of course. Seldon looked down at
himself and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know but I don’t have any suitable outer
garment.” “I
can give you one. I think there’s a spare here somewhere.—Yes, here it is. A
little threadbare, but it’s better than nothing.” “Wearing
sweaters like these tan make you unpleasantly warm,” said Seldon. “Here
they would,” said Leggen. “Other conditions exist Upperside. Cold and windy.
Too bad I don’t have spare leggings and boots for you too. You’ll want them
later.” They
were taking with them a cart of instruments, which they were testing one by one
with what Seldon thought was unnecessary slowness. “Your home planet cold?”
asked Leggen. Seldon
said, “Parts of it, of course. The part of Helicon I come from is mild and
often rainy.” “Too
bad. You won’t like the weather Upperside.” “I
think I can manage to endure it for the time we’ll be up there.” When
they were ready, the group filed into an elevator that was marked: OFFICIAL USE
ONLY. “That’s
because it goes Upperside,” said one of the young women, “and people aren’t
supposed to be up there without good reason.” Seldon had not met the young
woman before, but he had heard her addressed as Clowzia. He didn’t know if that
was a first name, a last name, or a nickname. The elevator seemed no different
from others that Seldon had been on, either here on Trantor or at home in
Helicon (barring, of course, the gravitic lift he and Hummin had used), but
there was something about knowing that it was going to take him out of the
confines of the planet and into emptiness above that made it feel like a
spaceship. Seldon
smiled internally. A foolish fantasy. The
elevator quivered slightly, which remind Seldon of Hummin’s forebodings of
Galactic decay. Leggen, along with the other men and one of the women, seemed
frozen and waiting, as though they had suspended thought as well as activity
until they could get out, but Clowzia kept glancing at him as though she found
him terribly impressive. Seldon
leaned close and whispered to her (he hesitated to disturb the others), “Are we
going up very high?” “High?”
she repeated. She spoke in a normal voice, apparently not feeling that the
others required silence. She seemed very young and it occurred to Seldon that
she was probably an undergraduate. An apprentice, perhaps. “We’re
taking a long time. Upperside must be many stories high in the air.” For
a moment, she looked puzzled. Then, “Oh no. Not high at all. We started very
deep. The University is at a low level. We use a great deal of energy and if
we’re quite deep, the energy costs are lower.” Leggen
said, “All right. We’re here. Let’s get the equipment out.” The
elevator stopped with a small shudder and the wide door slid open rapidly. The
temperature dropped at once and Seldon thrust his hands into his pockets and
was very glad he had a sweater on. A cold wind stirred his hair and it occurred
to him that he would have found a hat useful and, even as he thought that,
Leggen pulled something out of a fold in his sweater, snapped it open, and put
it on his head. The others did the same. Only
Clowzia hesitated. She paused just before she put hers on, then offered it to
Seldon. Seldon
shook his head. “I can’t take your hat, Clowzia.” “Go
ahead. I have long hair and it’s pretty thick. Yours is short and a little ...
thin.” Seldon
would have liked to deny that firmly and at another time he would have. Now,
however, he took the hat and mumbled, “Thank you. If your head gets cold, I’ll
give it back.” Maybe
she wasn’t so young. It was her round face, almost a baby face. And now that
she had called attention to her hair, he could see that it was a charming
russet shade. He had never seen hair quite like that on Helicon. Outside
it was cloudy, as it had been the time he was taken across open country to the
Palace. It was considerably colder than it had been then, but he assumed that
was because they were six weeks farther into winter. The clouds were thicker
than they had been on the earlier occasion and the day was distinctly darker
and threatening—or was it just closer to night? Surely, they wouldn’t come up
to do important work without leaving themselves an ample period of daylight to
do it in. Or did they expect to take very little time? He would have liked to
have asked, but it occurred to him that they might not like questions at this
time. All of them seemed to be in states varying from excitement to anger. Seldon
inspected his surroundings. He
was standing on something that he thought might be dull metal from the sound it
made when he surreptitiously thumped his foot down on it. It was not bare
metal, however. When he walked, he left footprints. The surface was clearly
covered by dust or fine sand or clay. Well, why not? There could scarcely be
anyone coming up here to dust the place. He bent down to pinch up some of the
matter out of curiosity. Clowzia
had come up to him. She noticed what he was doing and said, with the air of a
housewife caught at an embarrassing negligence, “We do sweep hereabouts for the
sake of the instruments. It’s much worse most places Upperside, but it really
doesn’t matter. It makes for insulation, you know.” Seldon
grunted and continued to look about. There was no chance of understanding the
instruments that looked as though they were growing out of the thin soil (if
one could call it that). He hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were or what
they measured. Leggen
was walking toward him. He was picking up his feet and putting them down
gingerly and it occurred to Seldon that he was doing so to avoid jarring the
instruments. He made a mental note to walk that way himself. “You!
Seldon!” Seldon
didn’t quite like the tone of voice. He replied coolly, “Yes, Dr. Leggen?” “Well,
Dr. Seldon, then.” He said it impatiently. “That little fellow Randa told me
you are a mathematician.” “That’s
right.” “A
good one?” “I’d
like to think so, but it’s a hard thing to guarantee.” “And
you’re interested in intractable problems?” Seldon
said feelingly, “I’m stuck with one.” “I’m
stuck with another. You’re free to look about. If you have any questions, our
intern, Clowzia, will help out. You might be able to help us.” “I
would be delighted to, but I know nothing about meteorology.” “That’s
all right, Seldon. I just want you to get a feel for this thing and then I’d
like to discuss my mathematics, such as it is.” “I’m
at your service.” Leggen
turned away, his long scowling face looking grim. Then he turned back. “If you
get cold—too cold—the elevator door is open. You just step in and touch the
spot marked; UNIVERSITY BASE. It will take you down and the elevator will then
return to us automatically. Clowzia will show you—if you forget.” “I
won’t forget.” This
time he did leave and Seldon looked after him, feeling the cold wind knife
through his sweater. Clowzia came back over to him, her face slightly reddened
by that wind. Seldon
said, “Dr. Leggen seems annoyed. Or is that just his ordinary outlook on life?” She
giggled. “He does look annoyed most of the time, but right now he really is.” Seldon
said very naturally, “Why?” Clowzia
looked over her shoulder, her long hair swirling. Then she said, “I’m not
supposed to know, but I do just the same. Dr. Leggen had it all figured out
that today, just at this time, there was going to be a break in the clouds and
he’d been planning to make special measurements in sunlight. Only ... well,
look at the weather.” Seldon
nodded. “We
have holovision receivers up here, so he knew it was cloudy worse than usual—and
I guess he was hoping there would be something wrong with the instruments so
that it would be their fault and not that of his theory. So far, though, they
haven’t found anything out of the way.” “And
that’s why he looks so unhappy.” “Well,
he never looks happy.” Seldon
looked about, squinting. Despite the clouds, the light was harsh. He became
aware that the surface under his feet was not quite horizontal. He was standing
on a shallow dome and as he looked outward there were other domes in all directions,
with different widths and heights. “Upperside seems to be irregular,” he said. “Mostly,
I think. That’s the way it worked out.” “Any
reason for it?” “Not
really. The way I’ve heard it explained—I looked around and asked, just as you
did, you know—was that originally the people on Trantor domed in places,
shopping malls, sports arenas, things like that, then whole towns, so that
(here were lots of domes here and there, with different heights and different
widths. When they all came together, it was all uneven, but by that time,
people decided that’s the way it ought to be.” “You
mean that something quite accidental came to be viewed as a tradition?” “I
suppose so—if you want to put it that way.” (If
something quite accidental can easily become viewed as a tradition and be made
unbreakable or nearly so, thought Seldon, would that be a law of psychohistory?
It sounded trivial, but how many other laws, equally trivial, might there be? A
million? A billion? Were there a relatively few general laws from which these
trivial ones could be derived as corollaries? How could he say? For a while,
lost in thought, he almost forgot the biting wind.) Clowzia
was aware of that wind, however, for she shuddered and said, “It’s very nasty.
It’s much better under the dome.” “Are
you a Trantorian?” asked Seldon. “That’s
right.” Seldon
remembered Ranch’s dismissal of Trantorians as agoraphobic and said, “Do you
mind being up here?” “I
hate it,” said Clowzia, “but I want my degree and my specialty and status and
Dr. Leggen says I can’t get it without some field work. So here I am, hating
it, especially when it’s so cold. When it’s this cold, by the way, you wouldn’t
dream that vegetation actually grows on these domes, would you?” “It
does?” He looked at Clowzia sharply, suspecting some sort of practical joke
designed to make him look foolish. She looked totally innocent, but how much of
that was real and how much was just her baby face? “Oh
sure. Even here, when it’s warmer. You notice the soil here? We keep it swept
away because of our work, as I said, but in other places it accumulates here
and there and is especially deep in the low places where the domes meet. Plants
grow in it.” “But
where does the soil come from?” “When
the dome covered just part of the planet, the wind deposited soil on them,
little by little. Then, when Trantor was all covered and the living levels were
dug deeper and deeper, some of the material dug up, if suitable, would be
spread over the top.” “Surely,
it would break down the domes.” “Oh
no. The domes are very strong and they’re supported almost everywhere. The idea
was, according to a book-film I viewed, that they were going to grow crops
Upperside, but it turned out to be much more practical to do it inside the
dome. Yeast and algae could be cultivated within the domes too, taking the
pressure off the usual crops, so it was decided to let Upperside go wild. There
are animals on Upperside too—butterflies, bees, mice, rabbits. Lots of them.” “Won’t
the plant roots damage the domes?” “In
thousands of years they haven’t. The domes are treated so that they repel the
roots. Most of the growth is grass, but there are trees too. You’d be able to
see for yourself if this were the warm season or if we were farther south or if
you were up in a spaceship.” She looked at him with a sidewise flick of her
eyes, “Did you see Trantor when you were coming down from space?” “No,
Clowzia, I must confess I didn’t. The hypership was never well placed for
viewing. Have you ever seen Trantor from space?” She
smiled weakly. “I’ve never been in spare.” Seldon
looked about. Gray everywhere. “I
can’t make myself believe it,” he said. “About vegetation Upperside, I mean.” “It’s
true, though. I’ve heard people say—Otherworlders, like yourself, who did see
Trantor from space—that the planet looks green, like a lawn, because it’s
mostly grass and underbrush. There are trees too, actually. There’s a copse not
very far from here. I’ve seen it. They’re evergreens and they’re up to six
meters high.” “Where?” “You
can’t see it from here. Its on the other side of a dome. It’s—” The
call came out thinly. (Seldon realized they had been walking while they had
been talking and had moved away from the immediate vicinity of the others.) “Clowzia.
Get back here. We need you.” Clowzia
said, “Uh-oh. Coming.—Sorry, Dr. Seldon, I have to go.” She
ran off, managing to step lightly despite her lined boots. Had she been playing
with him? Had she been filling the gullible foreigner with a mess of lies for
amusement’s sake? Such things had been known to happen on every world and in
every time. An air of transparent honesty was no guide either; in fact,
successful taletellers would deliberately cultivate just such an air. So
could there really be six-meter trees Upperside? Without thinking much about
it, he moved in the direction of the highest dome on the horizon. He swung his
arms in an attempt to warm himself. And his feet were getting cold. Clowzia
hadn’t pointed. She might have, to give him a hint of the direction of the
trees, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she? To be sure, she had been called away. The
domes were broad rather than high, which was a good thing, since otherwise the
going would have been considerably more difficult. On the other hand, the
gentle grade meant trudging a distance before he could top a dome and look down
the other side. Eventually,
he could see the other side of the dome he had climbed. He looked back to make
sure he could still see the meteorologists and their instruments. They were a
good way off, in a distant valley, but he could see them clearly enough. Good. He
saw no copse, no trees, but there was a depression that snaked about between
two domes. Along each side of that crease, the soil was thicker and there were
occasional green smears of what might be moss. If he followed the crease and if
it got low enough and the soil was thick enough, there might be trees. He
looked back, trying to fix landmarks in his mind, but there were just the rise
and fall of domes. It made him hesitate and Dors’s warning against his being
lost, which had seemed a rather unnecessary piece of advice then, made more
sense now. Still, it seemed clear to him that the crease was a kind of road. If
he followed it for some distance, he only had to turn about and follow it back
to return to this spot. He
strode off purposefully, following the rounded crease downward. There was a
soft rumbling noise above, but he didn’t give it any thought. He had made up
his mind that he wanted to see trees and that was all that occupied him at the
moment. The
moss grew thicker and spread out like a carpet and here and there grassy tufts
had sprung up. Despite the desolation Upperside, the moss was bright green and
it occurred to Seldon that on a cloudy, overcast planet there was likely to be
considerable rain. The
crease continued to curve and there, just above another dome, was a dark smudge
against the gray sky and he knew he had found the trees. Then, as though his
mind, having been liberated by the sight of those trees, could turn to other
things, Seldon took note of the rumble he had heard before and had, without
thinking, dismissed as the sound of machinery. Now he considered that
possibility: Was it, indeed, the sound of machinery? Why not? He was standing
on one of the myriad domes that covered hundreds of millions of square kilometers
of the world-city. There must be machinery of all kinds hidden under those
domes—ventilation motors, for one thing. Maybe it could be heard, where and
when all the other sounds of the world-city were absent. Except that it did not
seem to come from the ground. He looked up at the dreary featureless sky.
Nothing. He
continued to scan the sky, vertical creases appearing between his eyes and
then, far off It was a small dark spot, showing up against the gray. And
whatever it was it seemed to be moving about as though getting its bearings
before it was obscured by the clouds again. Then,
without knowing why, he thought, They’re after me. And almost before he could
work out a line of action, he had taken one. He ran desperately along the
crease toward the trees and then, to reach them more quickly, he turned left
and hurtled up and over a low dome, treading through brown and dying fernlike
overgrowth, including thorny sprigs with bright red berries. 24.Seldon
panted, facing a tree, holding it closely, embracing it. He watched for the
flying object to make its appearance again so that he could back about the tree
and hide on the far side, like a squirrel. The tree was cold, its bark was
rough, it gave no comfort—but it offered cover. Of course, that might be
insufficient, if he was being searched for with a heat-seeker, but, on the
other hand, the cold trunk of a tree might blur even that. Below
him was hard-packed soil. Even in this moment of hiding, of attempting to see
his pursuer while remaining unseen, he could not help wondering how thick the
soil might be, how long it had taken to accumulate, many domes in the warmer
areas of Trantor carried forests on their back, and whether the trees were
always confined to the creases between domes, leaving the higher regions to
moss, grass, and underbrush. He
saw it again. It was not a hypership, nor even an ordinary air-jet. It was a
jet-down. He could see the faint glow of the ion trails corning out at the
vertices of a hexagon, neutralizing the gravitational pull and allowing the
wings to keep it aloft like a large soaring bird. It was a vehicle that could
hover and explore a planetary terrain. It
was only the clouds than had saved him. Even if they were using heat-seekers,
that would only indicate there were people below. The jet-down would have to
make a tentative dive below the banked ceiling before it could hope to know how
many human beings there were and whether any of them might be the particular
person the patties aboard were seeking. The
jet-down was closer now, but it couldn’t hide from him either. The rumble of
the engine gave it away and they couldn’t rum that off, not as long as they
wished to continue their search. Seldon knew the jet-downs, for on Helicon or
on any undomed world with skies that cleared now and then, they were common,
with many in private hands. Of
what possible use would jet-downs be on Trantor, with all the human life of the
world under domes, with low cloud ceilings all but perpetual—except for a few
government vehicles designed for just this purpose, that of picking up a wanted
person who had been lured above the domes? Why not? Government forces could nor
enter the grounds of the University, but perhaps Seldon was no longer on the
grounds. He was on top of the domes which might be outside the jurisdiction of
any local government. An Imperial vehicle might have every right to land on any
part of the dome and question or remove any person found upon it. Hummin had
not warned him of this, but perhaps he had merely not thought of doing so. The
jet-down was even closer now, nosing about like a blind beast sniffing out its
prey. Would it occur to them to search this group of trees? Would they land and
send out an armed soldier or two to beat through the copse? And if so, what
could he do? He was unarmed and all his quicktwist agility would be useless
against the agonizing pain of a neuronic whip. It was not attempting to land.
Either they missed the significance of the trees Or— A
new thought suddenly hit him. What if this wasn’t a pursuit vessel at all? What
if it was part of the meteorological testing? Surely, meteorologists would want
to test the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Was he a fool to hide from it? The
sky was getting darker. The clouds were getting thicker or, much more likely,
night was falling. And
it was getting colder and would get colder still. Was he going to stay out here
freezing because a perfectly harmless jet-down had made an appearance and had
activated a sense of paranoia that he had never felt before? He had a strong
impulse to leave the copse and get back to the meteorological station. After
all, how would the man Hummin feared so much—Demerzel—know that Seldon would,
at this particular time, be Upperside and ready to be taken? For a moment, that
seemed conclusive and, shivering with the cold, he moved out from behind the
tree. And
then he scurried back as the vessel reappeared even closer than before. He
hadn’t seen it do anything that would seem to be meteorological. It did nothing
that might be considered sampling, measuring, or testing. Would he see such
things if they took place? He did not know the precise sort of instruments the
jet-down carried or how they worked. If they were doing meteorological work, he
might not be able to tell.—Still, could he take the chance of coming into the
open? After
all, what if Demerzel did know of his presence Upperside, simply because an
agent of his, working in the University, knew about it and had reported the
matter. Lisung Randa, that cheerful, smiling little Easterner, had suggested he
go Upperside. He had suggested it quite forcefully and the subject had not
arisen naturally out of the conversation; at least, not naturally enough. Was
it possible that he was a government agent and had alerted Demerzel somehow?
Then there was Leggen, who had given him the sweater. The sweater was useful,
but why hadn’t Leggen told him he would need one earlier so he could get his
own? Was there something special about the one he was wearing? It was uniformly
purple, while all the others’ indulged in the Trantorian fashion of bright
patterns. Anyone looking down from a height would see a moving dull blotch in
among others that were bright and know immediately whom they wanted. And
Clowzia? She was supposedly Upperside to learn meteorology and help the
meteorologists. How was it possible that she could come to him, talk to him at
ease, and quietly walk him away from the others and isolate him so that he
could easily be picked up? For
that matter, what about Dors Venabili? She knew he was going Upperside. She did
not stop it. She might have gone with him, but she was conveniently busy. It
was a conspiracy. Surely, it was a conspiracy. He had convinced himself now and
there was no further thought of getting out from the shelter of the trees. (His
feet felt like lumps of ice and stamping them against the ground seemed to do
no good.) Would the jet-down never leave? And even as he thought that, the
pitch of the engine’s rumble heightened and the jet-down rose into the clouds
and faded away. Seldon
listened eagerly, alert to the smallest sound, making sure it was finally gone.
And then, even after he was sure it was gone, he wondered if that was just a
device to flush him out of hiding. He remained where he was while the minutes
slowly crawled on and night continued to fall. And finally, when he felt that
the true alternative to taking the chance of coming out in the open was that of
freezing into insensibility, he stepped out and moved cautiously beyond the
shelter of the trees. It was dusky twilight, after all. They couldn’t detect
him except by a heat-seeker, but, if so, he would hear the jet-down return. He
waited just beyond the trees, counting to himself, ready to hide in the copse
again at the smallest sound—though what good that would do him once he was
spotted, he couldn’t imagine. Seldon
looked about. If he could find the meteorologists, they would surely have
artificial light, but except for that, there would be nothing. He could still
just make out his surroundings, but in a matter of a quarter of an hour, half
an hour at the outside, he would not. With no lights and a cloudy sky above, it
would be dark—completely dark. Desperate
at the prospect of being enveloped in total darkness, Seldon realized that he
would have to find his way back to the crease that had brought him there as
quickly as possible and retrace his steps. Folding his arms tightly around
himself for warmth, he set off in what he thought was the direction of the
crease between the domes. There
might, of course, be more than one crease leading away from the copse, but he
dimly made out some of the sprigs of berries he had seen coming in, which now
looked almost black rather than bright red. He could not delay. He had to
assume he was right. He moved up the crease as fast as he might, guided by
failing sight and by the vegetation underfoot. But
he couldn’t stay in the crease forever. He had come over what had seemed to him
to be the tallest dome in sight and had found a crease that cut at right angles
across his line of approach. By his reckoning, he should now turn right, then
sharp left, and that would put him on the path toward the meteorologists’ dome. Seldon
made the left turn and, lifting his head, he could just make out the curve of a
dome against the fractionally lighter sky. That had to be it! Or was that only
wishful thinking? He
had no choice but to assume it wasn’t. Keeping his eye on the peak so that he
could move in a reasonably straight line, he headed for it as quickly as he
could. As he got closer, he could make out the line of dome against sky with
less and less certainty as it loomed larger and larger. Soon, if he was
correct, he would be going up a gentle slope and when that slope became level
he would be able to look down the other side and see the lights of the meteorologists.
In the inky dark, he could not tell what lay in his path. Wishing there were at
least a few sorts to shed some light, he wondered if this was how it felt to be
blind. He waved his arms before him as if they were antennae. It was growing
colder by the minute and he paused occasionally to blow on his hands and hold
them under his armpits. He wished earnestly he could do the same for his feet.
By now, he thought, if it started to precipitate, it would be snow—or, worse
yet, sleet. On
... on. There was nothing else to do. Eventually,
it seemed to him that he was moving downward. That was either wishful thinking
or he had topped the dome. He
stopped. If he had topped the dome, he should be able to see the artificial
light of the meteorological station. He would see the lights carried by the
meteorologists themselves, sparkling or dancing like fireflies. Seldon closed
his eyes as though to accustom them to dark and then try again, but that was a
foolish effort. It was no darker with his eyes closed than with them open and
when he opened them it was no lighter than when he had had them closed. Possibly
Leggen and the others were gone, had taken their lights with them and had
turned off any lights on the instruments. Or possibly Seldon had climbed the wrong
dome. Or he had followed a curved path along the dome so that he was now facing
in the wrong direction. Or he had followed the wrong crease and had moved away
from the copse in the wrong direction altogether. What should he do? If
he was facing the wrong direction, there was a chance that light would be
visible right or left—and it wasn’t. If he had followed the wrong crease, there
was no possible way he could return to the copse and locate a different crease.
His only chance lay in the assumption that he was facing the right direction
and that the meteorological station was more or less directly ahead of him, but
that the meteorologists had gone and had left it in darkness. Move forward,
then. The chances of success might be small, but it was the only chance he had. He
estimated that it had taken him half an hour to move from the meteorological
station to the top of the dome, having gone partway with Clowzia and sauntering
with her rather than striding. He was moving at little better than a saunter
now in the daunting darkness. Seldon
continued to slog forward. It would have been nice to know the time and he had
a timeband, of course, but in the dark. He stopped. He wore a Trantorian
timeband, which gave Galactic Standard time (as all timebands did) and which
also gave Trantorian local time. Timebands were usually visible in the dark,
phosphorescing so that one could tell time in the quiet dark of a bedchamber. A
Heliconian timeband certainly would; why not a Trantorian one? He
looked at his timeband with reluctant apprehension and touched the contact that
would draw upon the power source for light. The timeband gleamed feebly and
told him the time was 1847. For it to be nighttime already, Seldon knew that it
must be the winter season.—How far past the solstice was it? What was the
degree of axial tipping? How long was the year? How far from the equator was he
at this moment? There was no hint of an answer to any of these things, but what
counted was that the spark of light was visible. He was not blind! Somehow the
feeble glow of his timeband gave him renewed hope. His
spirits rose. He would move on in the direction he was going. He would move for
half an hour. If he encountered nothing, he would move on five minutes more—no
further—just five minutes. If he still encountered nothing, he would stop and
think. That, however, would be thirty-five minutes from now. Till then, he
would concentrate only on walking and on willing himself to feel warmer (He
wiggled his toes, vigorously. He could still feel them.) Seldon trudged onward
and the half hour passed. He paused, then hesitantly, he moved on for five more
minutes. Now
he had to decide. There was nothing. He might be nowhere, far removed from any
opening into the dome. He might, on the other hand, be standing three meters to
the left—or right—or short—of the meteorological station. He might be two arms’
lengths from the opening into the dome, which would not, however, be open. Now
what? Was
there any point in shouting? He was enveloped by utter silence but for the
whistling of the wind. If there were birds, beasts, or insects in among the
vegetation on the domes, they were not here during this season or at this time
of night or at this particular place. The wind continued to chill him. Perhaps
he should have been shouting all due way. The sound might have carried a good
distance in the cold air. But would there have been anyone to hear him? Would
they hear him inside the dome? Were there instruments to detect sound or
movement from above? Might there not be sentinels just inside? That seemed
ridiculous. They would have heard his footsteps, wouldn’t they? Still— He
called out. “Help! Help! Can someone hear me?” His cry was strangled,
half-embarrassed. It seemed silly shouting into vast black nothingness. But
then, he felt it was even sillier to hesitate in such a situation as this.
Panic was welling up in him. He took in a deep, cold breath and screamed for as
long as he could. Another breath and another scream, changing pitch. And
another. Seldon
paused, breathless, turning his head every which way, even though there was
nothing to see. He could not even detect an echo. There was nothing left to do
but wait for the dawn. But how long was the night at this season of the year?
And how cold would it get? He
felt a tiny cold touch sting his face. After a while, another. It was sleeting
invisibly in the pitch blackness. And there was no way to find shelter. He
thought: It would have been better if that jet-down had seen me and picked me
up. I would be a prisoner at this moment, perhaps, but I’d be warm and
comfortable, at least. Or,
if Hummin had never interfered, I might have been back in Helicon long ago.
Under surveillance, but warm and comfortable. Right now that was all he
wanted—to be warm and comfortable. But
at the moment he could only wait. He huddled down, knowing that however long
the night, he dared not sleep. He slipped off his shoes and rubbed his icy
feet. Quickly, he put his shoes back on. He
knew he would have to repeat this, as well as rubbing his hands and ears all
night long to keep his circulation flowing. But most important to remember was
that he must not let himself fall asleep. That would mean certain death. And,
having carefully thought all this out, his eyes closed and he nodded off to
sleep with the sleet coming down. RescueLEGGEN,
JENARR— ... His contributions to meteorology, however, although considerable,
pale before what has ever since been known as the Leggen Controversy. That his
actions helped to place Hari Seldon in jeopardy is undisputable, but argument
rages—and has always raged—as to whether those actions were the result of
unintentional circumstance or part of a deliberate conspiracy. Passions have
been raised on both sides and even the most elaborate studies have come to no
definite conclusions. Nevertheless, the suspicions that were raised helped
poison Leggen’s career and private life in the years that followed ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 25.It
was not quite the end of daylight when Dors Venabili sought out Jenarr Leggen.
He answered her rather anxious greeting with a grunt and a brief nod. “Well,”
she said a trifle impatiently. “How was he?” Leggen,
who was entering data into his computer, said, “How was who?” “My
library student Hari. Dr. Hari Seldon. He went up with you. Was he any help to
you?” Leggen
removed his hands from the keys of his computer and swivelled about. “That
Heliconian fellow? He was of no use at all. Showed no interest whatever. He
kept looking at the scenery when there was no scenery to look at. A real
oddball. Why did you want to send him up?” “It
wasn’t my idea. He wanted to. I can’t understand it. He was very interested.
Where is he now?” Leggen
shrugged. “How would I know? Somewhere around.” “Where
did he go after he came down with you? Did he say?” “He
didn’t come down with us. I told you he wasn’t interested.” “Then
when did he come down?” “I
don’t know. I wasn’t watching him. I had an enormous amount of work to do.
There must have been a windstorm and some sort of downpour about two days ago
and neither was expected. Nothing our instruments showed offered a good
explanation for it or for the fact that some sunshine we were expecting today
didn’t appear. Now I’m trying to make sense of it and you’re bothering me.” “You
mean you didn’t see him go down?” “Look.
He wasn’t on my mind. The idiot wasn’t correctly dressed and I could see that
inside of half an hour he wasn’t going to be able to take the cold. I gave him
a sweater, but that wasn’t going to help much for his legs and feet. So I left
the elevator open for him and I told him how to use it and explained that it
would take him down and then return automatically. It was all very simple and
I’m sure he did get cold and he did go down and the elevator did come back and
then eventually we all went down.” “But
you don’t know exactly when he went down?” “No,
I don’t. I told you. I was busy. He certainly wasn’t up there when we left,
though, and by that time twilight was coming on and it looked as though it
might sleet. So he had to have gone down.” “Did
anyone else see him go down?” “I
don’t know. Clowzia may have. She was with him for a while. Why don’t you ask
her?” Dors
found Clowzia in her quarters, just emerging from a hot shower. “It
was cold up there,” she said. Dors
said, “Were you with Hari Seldon Upperside?” Clowzia
said, eyebrows lifting, “Yes, for a while. He wanted to wander about and ask
questions about the vegetation up there. He’s a sharp fellow, Dors. Everything
seemed to interest him, so I told him what I could till Leggen called me back.
He was in one of his knock-your-head-off tempers. The weather wasn’t working
and he—” Dors
interrupted. “Then you didn’t see Hari go down in the elevator?” “I
didn’t see him at all after Leggen called me over.—But he has to be down here.
He wasn’t up there when we left.” “But
I can’t find him anywhere.” Clowzia
looked perturbed. “Really?—But he’s got to be somewhere down here.” “No,
he doesn’t have to be somewhere down here,” said Dors, her anxiety growing. “What
if he’s still up there?” “That’s
impossible. He wasn’t. Naturally, we looked about for him before we left.
Leggen had shown him how to go down. He wasn’t properly dressed and it was
rotten weather. Leggen told him if he got cold not to wait for us. He was
getting cold. I know! So what else could he do but go down?” “But
no one saw him go down.—Did anything go wrong with him up there?” “Nothing.
Not while I was with him. He was perfectly fine except that he had to be cold,
of course.” Dors,
by now quite unsettled, said, “Since no one saw him go down, he might still be
up there. Shouldn’t we go up and look?” Clowzia
said nervously, “I told you we looked around before we went down. It was still
quite light and he was nowhere in sight.” “Let’s
look anyway.” “But
I can’t take you up there. I’m just an intern and I don’t have the combination
for the Upperside dome opening. You’ll have to ask Dr. Leggen.” 26.Dors
Venabili knew that Leggen would not willingly go Upperside now. He would have
to be forced. First,
she checked the library and the dining areas again. Then she called Seldon’s
room. Finally, she went up there and signaled at the door. When Seldon did not
respond, she had the floor manager open it. He wasn’t there. She questioned
some of those who, over the last few weeks, had come to know him. No one had
seen him. Well,
then, she would make Leggen take her Upperside. By now, though, it was night.
He would object strenuously and how long could she spend arguing if Hari Seldon
was trapped up there on a freezing night with sleet turning to snow? A
thought occurred to her and she rushed to the small University computer, which
kept track of the doings of the students, faculty, and service staff. Her
fingers flew over the keys and she soon had what she wanted. There were three
of them in another part of the campus. She signed out for a small glidecart to
take her over and found the domicile she was looking for. Surely, one of them
would be available—or findable. Fortune was with her. The first door at which
she signaled was answered by a query light. She punched in her identification
number, which included her department affiliation. The door opened and a plump
middle-aged man stared out at her. He had obviously been washing up before
dinner. His dark blond hair was askew and he was not wearing any upper garment.
He said, “Sorry. You catch me at a disadvantage. What can I do for you, Dr.
Venabili?” She
said a bit breathlessly, “You’re Rogen Benastra, the Chief Seismologist, aren’t
you?” “Yes.” “This
is an emergency. I must see the seismological records for Upperside for the
last few hours.” Benastra
stared at her. “Why? Nothing’s happened. I’d know if it had. The seismograph
would inform us.” “I’m
not talking about a meteoric impact.” “Neither
am I. We don’t need a seismograph for that. I’m talking about gravel, pinpoint fractures.
Nothing today.” “Not
that either. Please. Take me to the seismograph and read it for me. This is
life or death.” “I
have a dinner appointment—” “I
said life or death and I mean it.” Benastra
said, “I don’t see—” but he faded out under Dors’s glare. He wiped his face,
left quick word on his message relay, end struggled into a shirt. They half-ran
(under Dors’s pitiless urging) to the small squat Seismology Building. Dors,
who knew nothing about seismology, said, “Down? We’re going down?” “Below
the inhabited levels. Of course. The seismograph has to be fixed to bedrock and
be removed from the constant clamor and vibration of the city levels.” “But
how can you tell what’s happening Upperside from down here?” “The
seismograph is wired to a set of pressure transducers located within the
thickness of the dome. The impact of a speck of grit will send the indicator
skittering off the screen. We can detect the flattening effect on the dome of a
high wind. We can—” “Yes,
yes,” said Dors impatiently. She was not here for a lecture on the virtues and
refinements of the instruments. “Can you detect human footsteps?” “Human
footsteps?” Benastra looked confused. “That’s not likely Upperside.” “Of
course it’s likely. There were a group of meteorologists Upperside this
afternoon.” “Oh.
Well, footsteps would scarcely be noticeable.” “It
would be noticeable if you looked hard enough and that’s what I want you to
do.” Benastra
might have resented the firm note of command in her voice, but, if so, he said
nothing. He touched a contact and the computer screen jumped to life. At the
extreme right center, there was a fat spot of light, from which a thin
horizontal line stretched to the left limit of the screen. There was a tiny
wriggle to it, a random non-repetitive seder of little hiccups and these moved
steadily leftward. It was almost hypnotic in its effect on Dors. Benastra
said, “That’s as quiet as it can possibly be. Anything you see is the result of
changing air pressure above, raindrops maybe, the distant whirr of machinery.
There’s nothing up there.” “All
right, but what about a few hours ago? Check on the records at fifteen hundred
today, for instance. Surely, you have some recordings.” Benastra
gave the computer its necessary instructions and for a second or two there was
wild chaos on the screen. Then it settled down and again the horizontal line
appeared. “I’ll
sensitize it to maximum,” muttered Benastra. There were now pronounced hiccups
and as they staggered leftward they changed in pattern markedly. “What’s
that?” said Dors. “Tell me.” “Since
you say there were people up there, Venabili, I would guess they were
footsteps—the shifting of weight, the impact of shoes. I don’t know that I
would have guessed it if I hadn’t known about the people up there. Its what we
call a benign vibration, not associated with anything we know to be dangerous.” “Can
you tell how many people are present?” “Certainly
not by eye. You see, we’re getting a resultant of all the impacts.” “You
say ‘not by eye.’ Can the resultant be analyzed into its components by the
computer?” “I
doubt it. These are minimal effects and you have to allow for the inevitable
noise. The results would be untrustworthy.” “Well
then. Move the time forward till the footstep indications stop. Can you make it
fast-forward, so to speak?” “If
I do—the kind of fast-forward you’re speaking of—then it will all just blur
into a straight line with a slight haze above and below. What I can do is move
it forward in fifteen-minute stages and study it quickly before moving on.” “Good.
Do that!” Both
watched the screen until Benastra said, “There’s nothing there now. See?” There
was again a line with nothing but tiny uneven hiccups of noise. “When
did the footsteps stop?” “Two
hours ago. A trifle more.” “And
when they stopped were there fewer than there were earlier?” Benastra
looked mildly outraged. “I couldn’t tell. I don’t think the finest analysis
could make a certain decision.” Dors
pressed her lips together. Then she said, “Are you testing a transducer—is that
what you called it—near the meteorological outlet?” “Yes,
that’s where the instruments are and that’s where the meteorologists would have
been.” Then, unbelievingly, “Do you want me to try others in the vicinity? One
at a time?” “No.
Stay on this one. But keep on going forward at fifteen-minute intervals. One
person may have been left behind and may have made his way back to the
instruments.” Benastra
shook his head and muttered something under his breath. The
screen shifted again and Dors said sharply, “What’s that?” She was pointing. “I
don’t know. Noise.” “No.
Its periodic. Could it be a single person’s footsteps?” “Sure,
but it could be a dozen other things too.” “It’s
coming along at about the time of footsteps, isn’t it?” Then, after a while,
she said, “Push it forward a little.” He
did and when the screen settled down she said, “Aren’t those unevennesses
getting bigger?” “Possibly.
We can measure them.” “We
don’t have to. You can see they’re getting bigger. The footsteps are
approaching the transducer. Go forward again. See when they stop.” After
a while Benastra said, “They stopped twenty or twenty-five minutes ago.” Then
cautiously, “Whatever they are.” “They’re
footsteps,” said Dors with mountain-moving conviction. “There’s a man up there
and while you and I have been fooling around here, he’s collapsed and he’s
going to freeze and die. Now don’t say, ‘Whatever they are!’ Just call
Meteorology and get me Jenarr Leggen. Life or death, I tell you. Say so!” Benastra,
lips quivering, had passed the stage where he could possibly resist anything
this strange and passionate woman demanded. It took no more than three minutes
to get Leggen’s hologram on the message platform. He
had been pulled away from his dinner table. There was a napkin in his hand and
a suspicious greasiness under his lower lip. His long face was set in a fearful
scowl. “ ‘Life or death?’ What is this? Who are you?” Then his eye caught Dors,
who had moved closer to Benastra so that her image would be seen on Jenarr’s
screen. He said, “You again. This is simple harassment.” Dors
said, “It is not. I have consulted Rogen Benastra, who is Chief Seismologist at
the University. After you and your party had left Upperside, the seismograph
shows clear footsteps of one person still there. It’s my student Hari Seldon,
who went up there in your care and who is now, quite certainly, lying in a
collapsed stupor and may not live long. “You
will, therefore, take me up there right now with whatever equipment may be
necessary. If you do not do so immediately, I shall proceed to University
security—to the President himself, if necessary. One way or another I’ll get up
there and if anything has happened to Hari because you delay one minute, I will
see to it that you are hauled in for negligence, incompetence—whatever I can make
stick—and will have you lose all status and be thrown out of academic life. And
if he’s dead, of course, that’s manslaughter by negligence. Or worse, since
I’ve now warned you he’s dying.” Jenarr,
furious, turned to Benastra. “Did you detect—” But
Dors cut in. “He told me what he detected and I’ve told you. I do not intend to
allow you to bulldoze him into confusion. Are you coming? Now?” “Has
it occurred to you that you may be mistaken?” said Jenarr, thin-lipped. “Do
you know what I can do to you if this is a mischievous false alarm? Loss of
status works both ways.” “Murder
doesn’t,” said Dors. “I’m ready to chance a trial for malicious mischief. Are
you ready to chance a trial for murder?” Jenarr
reddened, perhaps more at the necessity of giving in than at the threat. “I’ll
come, but I’ll have no mercy on you, young woman, if your student eventually
turns out to have been safe within the dome these past three hours.” 27.The
three went up the elevator in an inimical silence. Leggen had eaten only part
of his dinner and had left his wife at the dining area without adequate
explanation. Benastra had eaten no dinner at all and had possibly disappointed
some woman companion, also without adequate explanation. Dors Venabili had not
eaten either and she seemed the most tense and unhappy of the three. She
carried a thermal blanket and two photonic founts. When
they reached the entrance to Upperside, Leggen, jaw muscles tightening, entered
his identification number and the door opened. A cold wind rushed at them and
Benastra grunted. None of the three was adequately dressed, but the two men had
no intention of remaining up there long. Dors
said tightly, “It’s snowing.” Leggen
said, “It’s wet snow. The temperature’s just about at the freezing point. It’s
not a killing frost.” “It
depends on how long one remains in it, doesn’t it?” said Dors. “And being
soaked in melting snow won’t help.” Leggen
grunted. “Well, where is he?” He stared resentfully out into utter blackness,
made even worse by the light from the entrance behind him. Dors said, “Here,
Dr. Benastra, hold this blanket for me. And you, Dr. Leggen, close the door
behind you without locking it.” “There’s
no automatic lock on it. Do you think we’re foolish?” “Perhaps
not, but you can lock it from the inside and leave anyone outside unable to get
into the dome.” “If
someone’s outside, point him out. Show him to me,” said Leggen. “He
could be anywhere.” Dors lifted her arms with a photonic fount circling each
wrist. “We
can’t look everywhere,” mumbled Benastra miserably. The founts blazed into
light, spraying in every direction. The snowflakes glittered like a vast mob of
fireflies, making it even more difficult to see. “The
footsteps were getting steadily louder,” said Dors. “He had to be approaching
the transducer. Where would it be located?” “I
haven’t any idea,” snapped Leggen.—That’s outside my field and my
responsibility.” “Dr.
Benastra?” Benastra’s
reply was hesitant. “I don’t really know. To tell you the truth, I’ve never
been up here before. It was installed before my time. The computer knows, but
we never thought to ask it that.—I’m cold and I don’t see what use I am up
here.” “You’ll
have to stay up here for a while,” said Dors firmly. “Follow me. I’m going to
circle the entrance in an outward spiral.” “We
can’t see much through the snow,” said Leggen. “I
know that. If it wasn’t snowing, we’d have seen him by now. I’m sure of it. As
it is, it may take a few minutes. We can stand that.” She was by no means as
confident as her words made it appear. She
began to walk, swinging her arms, playing the light over as large a field as
she could, straining her eyes for a dark blotch against the snow. And,
as it happened, it was Benastra who first said, “What’s that?” and pointed. Dors
overlapped the two founts, making a bright cone of light in the indicated
direction. She ran toward it, as did the other two. They had found him, huddled
and wet, about ten meters from the door, five from the nearest meteorological
device. Dors felt for his heartbeat, but it was not necessary for, responding
to her touch, Seldon stirred and whimpered. “Give
me the blanket, Dr. Benastra,” said Dors in a voice that was faint with relief.
She flapped it open and spread it out in the snow. “Lift him onto it carefully
and I’ll wrap him. Then we’ll carry him down.” In
the elevator, vapors were rising from the wrapped Seldon as the blanket warmed
to blood temperature. Dors
said, “Once we have him in his room, Dr. Leggen, you get a doctor—a good
one—and see that he comes at once. If Dr. Seldon gets through this without
harm, I won’t say anything, but only if he does. Remember—” “You
needn’t lecture me,” said Leggen coldly. “I regret this and I will do what I
can, but my only fault was in allowing this man to come Upperside in the first
place.” The
blanket stirred and a low, weak voice made itself heard. Benastra started, for
Seldon’s head was cradled in the crook of his elbow. He said, “He’s trying to
say something.” Dors
said, “I know. He said, ‘What’s going on?’ ” She
couldn’t help but laugh just a little. It seemed such a normal thing to say. 28.The
doctor was delighted. “I’ve
never seen a case of exposure,” he explained. “One doesn’t get exposed on
Trantor.” “That
may be,” said Dors coldly, “and I’m happy you have the chance to experience
this novelty, but does it mean that you do not know how to treat Dr. Seldon?” The
doctor, an elderly man with a bald head and a small gray mustache, bristled.
“Of course, I do. Exposure cases on the Outer Worlds are common enough—an
everyday affair—and I’ve read a great deal about them.” Treatment consisted in
part of an antiviral serum and the use of a microwave wrapping. “This
ought to take care of it,” the doctor said. “On the Outer Worlds, they make use
of much more elaborate equipment in hospitals, but we don’t have that, of
course, on Trantor. This is a treatment for mild cases and I’m sure it will do
the job.” Dors
thought later, as Seldon was recovering without particular injury, that it was
perhaps because he was an Outworlder that he had survived so well. Dark, cold,
even snow were not utterly strange to him. A Trantorian probably would have
died in a similar case, not so much from physical trauma as from psychic shock. She
was not sure of this, of course, since she herself was not a Trantorian either. And,
turning her mind away from these thoughts, she pulled up a chair near to Hari’s
bed and settled down to wait. 29.On
the second morning Seldon stirred awake and looked up at Dors, who sat at his
bedside, viewing a book-film and taking notes. In a voice that was almost
normal, Seldon said, “Still here, Dors?” She
put down the book-film. “I can’t leave you alone, can I? And I don’t trust
anyone else.” “It
seems to me that every time I wake up, I see you. Have you been here all the
time?” “Sleeping
or waking, yes.” “But
your classes?” “I
have an assistant who has taken over for a while.” Dors leaned over and grasped
Hari’s hand. Noticing his embarrassment (he was, after all, in bed), she
removed it. “Hari,
what happened? I was so frightened.” Seldon
said, “I have a confession to make.” “What
is it, Hari?” “I
thought perhaps you were part of a conspiracy—” “A
conspiracy?” she said vehemently. “I
mean, to maneuver me Upperside where I’d be outside University jurisdiction and
therefore subject to being picked up by Imperial forces.” “But
Upperside isn’t outside University jurisdiction. Sector jurisdiction on Trantor
is from the planetary center to the sky.” “Ah,
I didn’t know that. But you didn’t come with me because you said you had a busy
schedule and, when I was getting paranoid, I thought you were deliberately
abandoning me. Please forgive me. Obviously, it was you who got me down from
there. Did anyone else care?” “They
were busy men,” said Dors carefully. “They thought you had come down earlier. I
mean, it was a legitimate thought.” “Clowzia
thought so too?” “The
young intern? Yes, she did.” “Well,
it may still have been a conspiracy. Without you, I mean.” “No,
Hari, it is my fault. I had absolutely no right to let you go Upperside alone.
It was my job to protect you. I can’t stop blaming myself for what happened,
for you getting lost.” “Now,
wait a minute,” said Seldon, suddenly irritated. “I didn’t get lost. What do
you think I am?” “I’d
like to know what you call it. You were nowhere around when the others left and
you didn’t get back to the entrance—or to the neighborhood of the entrance
anyway—till well after dark.” “But
that’s not what happened. I didn’t get lost just because I wandered away and
couldn’t find my way back. I told you I was suspecting a conspiracy and I had
cause to do so. I’m not totally paranoid.” “Well
then, what did happen?” Seldon
told her. He had no trouble remembering it in full detail; he had lived with it
in nightmare for most of the preceding day. Dors
listened with a frown. “But that’s impossible. A jet-down? Are you sure?” “Of
course I’m sure. Do you think I was hallucinating?” “But
the Imperial forces could not have been searching for you. They could not have
arrested you Upperside without creating the same ferocious rumpus they would
have if they had sent in a police force to arrest you on campus.” “Then
how do you explain it?” “I’m
not sure,” said Dors, “but it’s possible that the consequences of my failure to
go Upperside with you might have been worse than they were and that Hummin will
be seriously angry with me.” “Then
let’s not tell him,” said Seldon. “It ended well.” “We
must tell him,” said Dors grimly. “This may not be the end.” 30.That
evening Jenarr Leggen came to visit. It was after dinner and he looked from
Dors to Seldon several times, as though wondering what to say. Neither offered
to help him, but both waited patiently. He
had not impressed either of them as being a master of small talk. Finally
he said to Seldon, “I’ve come to see how you are.” “Perfectly
well,” said Seldon, “except that I’m a little sleepy. Dr. Venabili tells me
that the treatment will keep me tired for a few days, presumably so I’m sure of
getting needed rest.” He smiled. “Frankly, I don’t mind.” Leggen
breathed in deeply, let it out, hesitated, and then, almost as though he was
forcing the words out of himself, said, “I won’t keep you long. I perfectly
understand you need to rest. I do want to say, though, that I am sorry it all
happened. I should not have assumed—so casually—that you had gone down by
yourself. Since you were a tyro, I should have felt more responsible for you.
After all, I had agreed to let you come up. I hope you can find it in your
heart to ... forgive me. That’s really all I wish to say.” Seldon
yawned, putting his hand over his mouth. “Pardon me.—Since it seems to have
turned out well, there need be no hard feelings. In some ways, it was not your
fault. I should not have wandered away and, besides, what happened was—” Dors
interrupted. “Now, Hari, please, no conversation. Just relax. Now, I want to
talk to Dr. Leggen just a bit before he goes. In the first place, Dr. Leggen, I
quite understand you are concerned about how repercussions from this affair
will affect you. I told you there would be no follow-up if Dr. Seldon recovered
without ill effects. That seems to be taking place, so you may relax—for now. I
would like to ask you about something else and I hope that this time I will
have your free cooperation.” “I
will try, Dr. Venabili,” said Leggen stiffly. “Did
anything unusual happen during your stay Upperside?” “You
know it did. I lost Dr. Seldon, something for which I have just apologized.” “Obviously
I’m not referring to that. Did anything else unusual happen?” “No,
nothing. Nothing at all.” Dors
looked at Seldon and Seldon frowned. It seemed to him that Dors was trying to
check on his story and get an independent account. Did she think he was
imagining the search vessel? He would have liked to object heatedly, but she
had raised a quieting hand at him, as though she was preventing that very
eventuality. He subsided, partly because of this and partly because he really
wanted to sleep. He hoped that Leggen would not stay long. “Are
you certain?” said Dors. “Were there no intrusions from outside?” “No,
of course not. Oh—” “Yes,
Dr. Leggen?” “There
was a jet-down.” “Did
that strike you as peculiar?” “No,
of course not.” “Why
not?” “This
sounds very much as though I’m being cross-examined, Dr. Venabili. I don’t much
like it.” “I
can appreciate that, Dr. Leggen, but these questions have something to do with
Dr. Seldon’s misadventure. It may be that this whole affair is more complicated
than I had thought.” “In
what way?” A new edge entered his voice. “Do you intend to raise new questions,
requiring new apologies? In that case, I may find it necessary to withdraw.” “Not,
perhaps, before you explain how it is you do not find a hovering jet-down a bit
peculiar.” “Because,
my dear woman, a number of meteorological stations on Trantor possess jet-downs
for the direct study of clouds and the upper atmosphere. Our own meteorological
station does not.” “Why
not? It would be useful.” “Of
course. But we’re not competing and we’re not keeping secrets. We will report
on our findings; they will report on theirs. It makes sense, therefore, to have
a scattering of differences and specializations. It would be foolish to
duplicate efforts completely. The money and manpower we might spend on
jet-downs can be spent on mesonic refractometers, while others will spend on
the first and save on the latter. After all, there may be a great deal of
competitiveness and ill feeling among the sectors, but science is one
thing—only thing—that holds us together. You know that, I presume,” he added
ironically. “I
do, but isn’t it rather coincidental that someone should be sending a jet-down
right to your station on the very day you were going to use the station?” “No
coincidence at all. We announced that we were going to make measurements on
that day and, consequently, some other station thought, very properly, that they
might make simultaneous nephelometric measurements—clouds, you know. The
results, taken together, would make more sense and be more useful than either
taken separately.” Seldon
said suddenly in a rather blurred voice, “They were just measuring, then?” He
yawned again. “Yes”
said Leggen. “What else would they possibly be doing?” Dors
blinked her eyes, as she sometimes did when she was trying to think rapidly.
“That all makes sense. To which station did this particular jet-down belong?” Leggen
shook his head. “Dr. Venabili, how can you possibly expect me to tell?” “I
thought that each meteorological jet-down might possibly have its station’s
markings on it.” “Surely,
but I wasn’t looking up and studying it, you know. I had my own work to do and
I let them do theirs. When they report, I’ll know whose jet-down it was.” “What
if they don’t report?” “Then
I would suppose their instruments failed. That happens sometimes.” His right
fist was clenched. “Is that all, then?” “Wait
a moment. Where do you suppose the jet-down might have come from?” “It
might be any station with jet-downs. On a day’s notice—and they got more than
that—one of those vessels can reach us handily from anyplace on the planet.” “But
who most likely?” “Hard
to say: Hestelonia, Wye, Ziggoreth, North Damiano. I’d say one of these four
was the most likely, but it might be any of forty others at least.” “Just
one more question, then. Just one. Dr. Leggen, when you announced that your
group would be Upperside, did you by any chance say that a mathematician, Dr.
Hari Seldon, would be with you.” A
look of apparently deep and honest surprise crossed Leggen’s face, a look that
quickly turned contemptuous. “Why should I list names? Of what interest would
that be to anyone?” “Very
well,” said Dors. “The truth of the matter, then, is that Dr. Seldon saw the
jet-down and it disturbed him. I am not certain why and apparently his memory
is a bit fuzzy on the matter. He more or less ran away from the jet-down, got
himself lost, didn’t think of trying to return—or didn’t dare to—till it was
well into twilight, and didn’t quite make it back in the dark. You can’t be
blamed for that, so let’s forget the whole incident on both sides. “Agreed,”
said Leggen. “Good-bye!” He turned on his heel and left. When
he was gone, Dors rose, pulled off Seldon’s slippers gently, straightened him
in his bed, and covered him. He was sleeping, of course. Then
she sat down and thought. How much of what Leggen had said was true and what
might possibly exist under the cover of his words? She
did not know. MycogenMYCOGEN—
... A sector of ancient Trantor buried in the past of its own legends. Mycogen
made little impact on the planet. Self-satisfied and self-separated to a degree
... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 31.When
Seldon woke, he found a new face looking at him solemnly. For a moment he
frowned owlishly and then he said, “Hummin?” Hummin
smiled very slightly. “You remember me, then?” “It
was only for a day, nearly two months ago, but I remember. You were not
arrested, then, or in any way—” “As
you see, I am here, quite safe and whole, but—and he glanced at Dors, who stood
to one side—“it was not very easy for me to come here.” Seldon
said, “I’m glad to see you.—Do you mind, by the way?” He jerked his thumb in
the direction of the bathroom. Hummin
said, “Take your time. Have breakfast.” Hummin
didn’t join him at breakfast. Neither did Dors. Nor did they speak. Hummin
scanned a book-film with an attitude of easy absorption. Dors inspected her
nails critically and then, taking out a microcomputer, began making notes with
a stylus. Seldon
watched them thoughtfully and did not try to start a conversation. The silence
now might be in response to some Trantorian reserve customary at a sickbed. To
be sure, he now felt perfectly normal, but perhaps they did not realize that.
It was only when he was done with his last morsel and with the final drop of
milk (which he was obviously getting used to, for it no longer tasted odd) that
Hummin spoke. He
said, “How are you, Seldon?” “Perfectly
well, Hummin. Sufficiently well, certainly, for me to be up and about.” “I’m
glad to hear it,” said Hummin dryly. “Dors Venabili was much to blame in
allowing this to happen.” Seldon
frowned. “No. I insisted on going Upperside.” “I’m
sure, but she should, at all costs, have gone with you.” “I
told her I didn’t want her to go with me.” Dors
said, “That’s not so, Hari. Don’t defend me with gallant lies.” Seldon
said angrily, “But don’t forget that Dors also came Upperside after me, against
strong resistance, and undoubtedly saved my life. That’s not bending the truth
at all. Have you added that to your evaluation, Hummin?” Dors
interrupted again, obviously embarrassed. “Please, Hari. Chetter Hummin is
perfectly correct in feeling that I should either have kept you from going Upperside
or have gone up with you. As for my subsequent actions, he has praised them.” “Nevertheless,”
said Hummin, “that is past and we can let it go. Let us talk about what
happened Upperside, Seldon.” Seldon
looked about and said guardedly, “Is it safe to do so?” Hummin
smiled slightly. “Dors has placed this room in a Distortion Field. I can be
pretty sure that no Imperial agent at the University—if there is one—has the
expense to penetrate it. You are a suspicious person, Seldon.” “Not
by nature,” said Seldon. “Listening to you in the park and afterward— You are a
persuasive person, Hummin. By the time you were through, I was ready to fear
that Eto Demerzel was lurking in every shadow.” “I
sometimes think he might be,” said Hummin gravely. “If
he was,” said Seldon, “I wouldn’t know it was he. What does he look like?” “That
scarcely matters. You wouldn’t see him unless he wanted you to and by then it
would all be over, I imagine—which is what we must prevent. Let’s talk about
that jet-down you saw.” Seldon
said, “As I told you, Hummin, you filled me with fears of Demerzel. As soon as
I saw the jet-down, I assumed he was after me, that I had foolishly stepped
outside the protection of Streeling University by going Upperside, that I had
been lured up there for the specific purpose of being picked up without
difficulty.” Dors
said, “On the other hand, Leggen—” Seldon
said quickly, “Was he here last night?” “Yes,
don’t you remember?” “Vaguely.
I was dead tired. It’s all a blur in my memory.” “Well,
when he was here last night, Leggen said that the jet-down was merely a
meteorological vessel from another station. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly
harmless.” “What?”
Seldon was taken aback. “I don’t believe that.” Hummin
said, “Now the question is: Why don’t you believe that? Was there anything
about the jet-down that made you think it was dangerous? Something specific,
that is, and not just a pervasive suspicion placed in your head by me.” Seldon
thought back, biting his lower lip. He said, “Its actions. It seemed to push
its forepart below the cloud deck, as though it were looking for something,
then it would appear in another spot just the same way, then in another spot,
and so on. It seemed to be searching Upperside methodically, section by
section, and homing in on me.” Hummin
said, “Perhaps you were personifying, Seldon. You may have been treating the
jet-down as though it was a strange animal looking for you. It wasn’t, of
course. It was simply a jet-down and if it was a meteorological vessel, its
actions were perfectly normal ... and harmless.” Seldon
said, “It didn’t seem that way to me.” Hummin
said, “I’m sure it didn’t, but we don’t actually know anything. Your conviction
that you were in danger is simply an assumption. Leggen’s decision that it was
a meteorological vessel is also only an assumption.” Seldon
said stubbornly, “I can’t believe that it was an entirely innocent event.” “Well
then,” said Hummin, “suppose we assume the worst—that the vessel was looking
for you. How would whoever sent that vessel know you would be there to seek?” Dors
interjected, “I asked Dr. Leggen if he had, in his report of the forthcoming
meteorological work, included the information that Hari would be with the
group. There was no reason he should in the ordinary course of events and he
denied that he had, with considerable surprise at the question. I believed
him.” Hummin
said thoughtfully, “Don’t believe him too readily. Wouldn’t he deny it, in any
case? Now ask yourself why he allowed Seldon to come along in the first place.
We know he objected initially, but he did relent, without much fight. And that,
to me, seems rather out of character for Leggen.” Dors
frowned and said, “I suppose that does make it a bit more likely that he did
arrange the entire affair. Perhaps he permitted Hari’s company only in order to
put him in the position of being taken. He might have received orders to that
effect. We might further argue that he encouraged his young intern, Clowzia, to
engage Hari’s attention and draw him away from the group, isolating him. That
would account for Leggen’s odd lack of concern over Hari’s absence when it came
time to go below. He would insist that Hari had left earlier, something he
would have laid the groundwork for, since he had carefully showed him how to go
down by himself. It would also account for his reluctance to go back up in
search of him, since he would not want to waste time looking for someone he
assumed would not be found.” Hummin,
who had listened carefully, said, “You make an interesting case against him,
but let’s not accept that too readily either. After all, he did come Upperside
with you in the end.” “Because
footsteps had been detected. The Chief Seismologist had [been] witness to
that.” “Well,
did Leggen show shock and surprise when Seldon was found? I mean, beyond that
of finding someone who had been brought into extreme peril through Leggen’s own
negligence. Did he act as though Seldon wasn’t supposed to be there? Did he
behave as though he were asking himself: How is it they didn’t pick him up?” Dors
thought carefully, then said, “He was obviously shocked by the sight of Hari
lying there, but I couldn’t possibly tell if there was anything to his feelings
beyond the very natural horror of the situation.” “No,
I suppose you couldn’t.” But
now Seldon, who had been looking from one to the other as they spoke and who
had been listening intently, said, “I don’t think it was Leggen.” Hummin
transferred his attention to Seldon. “Why do you say that?” “For
one thing, as you noted, he was clearly unwilling to have me come along. It
took a whole day of argument and I think he agreed only because he had the
impression that I was a clever mathematician who could help him out with
meteorological theory. I was anxious to go up there and, if he had been under
orders to see to it that I was taken Upperside, there would have been no need
to be so reluctant about it.” “Is
it reasonable to suppose he wanted you only for your mathematics? Did he
discuss the mathematics with you? Did he make an attempt to explain his theory
to you?” “No,”
said Seldon, “he didn’t. He did say something about going into it later on,
though. The trouble was, he was totally involved with his instruments. I
gathered he had expected sunshine that hadn’t showed up and he was counting on
his instruments having been at fault, but they were apparently working
perfectly, which frustrated him. I think this was an unexpected development
that both soured his temper and turned his attention away from me. As for
Clowzia, the young woman who preoccupied me for a few minutes, I do not get the
feeling, as I look back on it, that she deliberately led me away from the
scene. The initiative was mine. I was curious about the vegetation on Upperside
and it was I who drew her away, rather than vice versa. Far from Leggen encouraging
her action, he called her back while I was still in sight and I moved farther
away and out of sight entirely on my own.” “And
yet,” said Hummin, who seemed intent on objecting to every suggestion that was
made, “if that ship was looking for you, those on board must have known you’d
be there. How would they know—if not from Leggett?” “The
man I suspect,” said Seldon, “is a young psychologist named Lisung Randa” “Randa?”
said Dors. “I can’t believe that. I know him. He simply would not be working for
the Emperor. He’s anti-Imperialist to the core.” “He
might pretend to be,” said Seldon. “In fact, he would have to be openly,
violently, and extremely anti-Imperialist if he was trying to mask the fact
that he is an Imperial agent.” “But
that’s exactly what he’s not like,” said Dors. “He is not violent and extreme
in anything. He’s quiet and good-natured and his views are always expressed
mildly, almost timidly. I’m convinced they’re genuine.” “And
yet, Dors,” said Seldon earnestly, “it was he who first told me of the
meteorological project, it was he who urged me to go Upperside, and it was he
who persuaded Leggen to allow me to join him, rather exaggerating my
mathematical prowess in the process. One must wonder why he was so anxious to
get me up there, why he should labor so hard.” “For
your good, perhaps. He was interested in you, Hari, and must have thought that
meteorology might have been useful in psychohistory. Isn’t that possible?” Hummin
said quietly, “Let’s consider another point. There was a considerable lapse of
time between the moment when Randa told you about the meteorology project and
the moment you actually went Upperside. If Randa is innocent of anything
underhanded, he would have no particular reason to keep quiet about it. If he
is a friendly and gregarious person—” “He
is,” said Dors. “—then
he might very likely tell a number of friends about it. In that case, we
couldn’t really tell who the informer might be. In fact, just to make another
point, suppose Randa is anti-Imperialist. That would not necessarily mean he is
not an agent. We would have to ask: Whom is he an agent for? On whose behalf
does he work?” Seldon
was astonished. “Who else is there to work for but the Empire? Who else but
Demerzel?” Hummin
raised his hand. “You are far from understanding the whole complexity of
Trantorian politics, Seldon.” He turned toward Dors. “Tell me again: Which were
the four sectors that Dr. Leggen named as likely sources for a meteorological
vessel?” “Hestelonia,
Wye, Ziggoreth, and North Damiano.” “And
you did not ask the question in any leading way? You didn’t ask if a particular
sector might be the source?” “No,
definitely not. I simply asked if he could speculate as to the source of the
jet-down.” “And
you”—Hummin turned to Seldon “may perhaps have seen some marking, some insigne,
on the jet-down?” Seldon
wanted to retort heatedly that the vessel could hardly be seen through the
clouds, that it emerged only briefly, that he himself was not looking for
markings, but only for escape—but he held back. Surely, Hummin knew all that.
Instead, he said simply, “I’m afraid not.” Dors
said, “If the jet-down was on a kidnapping mission, might not the insigne have
been masked?” “That
is the rational assumption,” said Hummin, “and it tray well have been, but in
this Galaxy rationality does not always triumph. However, since Seldon seems to
have taken no note of any details concerning the vessel, we can only speculate.
What I’m thinking is: Wye.” “Why?”
echoed Seldon. “I presume they wanted to take me because whoever was on the
ship wanted me for my knowledge of psychohistory.” “No,
no.” Hummin lifted his right forefinger as if lecturing a young student.
“W-y-e. It is the name of a sector on Trantor. A very special sector. It has
been ruled by a line of Mayors for some three thousand years. It has been a
continuous line, a single dynasty. There was a time, some five-hundred years
ago, when two Emperors and an Empress of the House of Wye sat on the Imperial
throne. It was a comparatively short period and none of the Wye rulers were
particularly distinguished or successful, but the Mayors of Wye have never
forgotten this Imperial past. “They
have not been actively disloyal to the ruling houses that have succeeded them,
but neither have they been known to volunteer much on behalf of those houses.
During the occasional periods of civil war, they maintained a kind of
neutrality, making moves that seemed best calculated to prolong the civil war
and make it seem necessary to turn to Wye as a compromise solution. That never
worked out, but they never stopped trying either. “The
present Mayor of Wye is particularly capable. He is old now, but his ambition
hasn’t cooled. If anything happens to Cleon—even a natural death—the Mayor will
have a chance at the succession over Cleon’s own too-young son. The Galactic
public will always be a little more partial toward a claimant with an Imperial
past. “Therefore,
if the Mayor of Wye has heard of you, you might serve as a useful scientific
prophet on behalf of his house. There would be a traditional motive for Wye to
try to arrange some convenient end for Cleon, use you to predict the inevitable
succession of Wye and the coming of peace and prosperity for a thousand years
after. Of course, once the Mayor of Wye is on the throne and has no further use
for you, you might well follow Cleon to the grave.” Seldon
broke the grim silence that followed by saying, “But we don’t know that it is
this Mayor of Wye who is after me.” “No,
we don’t. Or that anyone at all is after you, at the moment. The jet-down
might, after all, have been an ordinary meteorological testing vessel as Leggen
has suggested. Still, as the news concerning psychohistory and its potential
spreads—and it surely must—more and more of the powerful and semi-powerful on
Trantor or, for that matter, elsewhere will want to make use of your services.” “What,
then,” said Dors, “shall we do?” “That
is the question, indeed.” Hummin ruminated for a while, then said, “Perhaps it
was a mistake to come here. For a professor, it is all too likely that the
hiding place chosen would be a University. Streeling is one of many, but it is
among the largest and most free, so it wouldn’t be long before tendrils from
here and there would begin feeling their soft, blind way toward this place. I
think that as soon as possible—today, perhaps—Seldon should be moved to another
and better hiding place. But—” “But?”
said Seldon. “But
I don’t know where.” Seldon
said, “Call up a gazeteer on the computer screen and choose a place at random.” “Certainly
not,” said Hummin. “If we do that, we are as likely to find a place that is
less secure than average, as one that is more secure. No, this must be reasoned
out.—Somehow.” 32.The
three remained huddled in Seldon’s quarters till past lunch. During that time,
Hari and Dors spoke occasionally and quietly on indifferent subjects, but
Hummin maintained an almost complete silence. He sat upright, ate little, and
his grave countenance (which, Seldon thought, made him look older than his
years) remained quiet and withdrawn. Seldon
imagined him to be reviewing the immense geography of Trantor in his mind,
searching for a corner that would be ideal. Surely, it couldn’t be easy.
Seldon’s own Helicon was somewhat larger by a percent or two than Trantor was
and had a smaller ocean. The Heliconian land surface was perhaps 10 percent
larger than the Trantorian. But Helicon was sparsely populated, its surface
only sprinkled with scattered cities; Trantor was all city. Where Helicon was
divided into twenty administrative sectors; Trantor had over eight hundred and
every one of those hundreds was itself a complex of subdivisions. Finally
Seldon said in some despair, “Perhaps it might be best, Hummin, to choose which
candidate for my supposed abilities is most nearly benign, hand me over to that
one, and count on him to defend me against the rest.” Hummin
looked up and said in utmost seriousness, “That is not necessary. I know the
candidate who is most nearly benign and he already has you.” Seldon
smiled. “Do you place yourself on the same level with the Mayor of Wye and the
Emperor of all the Galaxy?” “In
point of view of position, no. But as far as the desire to control you is
concerned, I rival them. They, however, and anyone else I can think of want you
in order to strengthen their own wealth and power, while I have no ambitions at
all, except for the good of the Galaxy.” “I
suspect,” said Seldon dryly, “that each of your competitors—if asked—would
insist that he too was thinking only of the good of the Galaxy.” “I
am sure they would,” said Hummin, “but so far, the only one of my competitors,
as you call them, whom you have met is the Emperor and he was interested in
having you advance fictionalized predictions that might stabilize his dynasty.
I do not ask you for anything like that. I ask only that you perfect your
psychohistorical technique so that mathematically valid predictions, even if
only statistical in nature, can be made.” “True.
So far, at least,” said Seldon with a half-smile. “Therefore,
I might as well ask: How are you coming along with that task? Any progress?” Seldon
was uncertain whether to laugh or cage. After a pause, he did neither, but
managed to speak calmly. “Progress? In less than two months? Hummin, this is
something that might easily take me my whole life and the lives of the next
dozen who follow me.—And even then end in failure.” “I’m
not talking about anything as final as a solution or even as hopeful as the
beginning of a solution. You’ve said flatly a number of times that a useful
psychohistory is possible but impractical. All I am asking is whether there now
seems any hope that it can be made practical.” “Frankly,
no.” Dors
said, “Please excuse me. I am not a mathematician, so I hope this is not a
foolish question. How can you know something is both possible and impractical?
I’ve heard you say that, in theory, you might personally meet and greet all the
people in the Empire, but that it is not a practical feat because you couldn’t
live long enough to do it. But how can you tell that psychohistory is something
of this sort?” Seldon
looked at Dors with some incredulity. “Do you want that explained.” “Yes,”
she said, nodding her head vigorously so that her curled hair vibrated. “As
a matter of fact,” said Hummin, “so would I.” “Without
mathematics?” said Seldon with just a trace of a smile. “Please,”
said Hummin. “Well—”
He retired into himself to choose a method of presentation. Then he said, “—If
you want to understand some aspect of the Universe, it helps if you simplify it
as much as possible and include only those properties and characteristics that
are essential to understanding. If you want to determine how an object drops,
you don’t concern yourself with whether it is new or old, is red or green, or
has an odor or not. You eliminate those things and thus do not needlessly
complicate matters. The simplification you can call a model or a simulation and
you can present it either as an actual representation on a computer screen or
as a mathematical relationship. If you consider the primitive theory of nonrelativistic
gravitation—” Dors
said at once, “You promised there would be no mathematics. Don’t try to slip it
in by calling it ‘primitive.’ ” “No,
no. I mean ‘primitive’ only in that it has been known as long as our records go
back, that its discovery is shrouded in the mists of antiquity as is that of
fire or the wheel. In any case, the equations for such gravitational theory
contain within themselves a description of the motions of a planetary system,
of a double star, of tides, and of many other things. Making use of such
equations, we can even set up a pictorial simulation and have a planet circling
a star or two stars circling each other on a two-dimensional screen or set up
more complicated systems in a three-dimensional holograph. Such simplified
simulations make it far easier to grasp a phenomenon than it would be if we had
to study the phenomenon itself. In fact, without the gravitational equations,
our knowledge of planetary motions and of celestial mechanics generally would
be sparse indeed. “Now,
as you wish to know more and more about any phenomenon or as a phenomenon
becomes more complex, you need more and more elaborate equations, more and more
detailed programming, and you end with a computerized simulation that is harder
and harder to grasp.” “Can’t
you form a simulation of the simulation?” asked Hummin. “You would go down
another degree.” “In
that case, you would have to eliminate some characteristic of the phenomenon
which you want to include and your simulation becomes useless. The LPS—that is,
‘the least possible simulation’ gains in complexity faster than the object
being simulated does and eventually the simulation catches up with the
phenomenon. Thus, it was established thousands of years ago that the Universe
as a whole, in its full complexity, cannot be represented by any simulation
smaller than itself. “In
other words, you can’t get any picture of the Universe as a whole except by
studying the entire Universe. It has been shown also that if one attempts to
substitute simulations of a small part of the Universe, then another small
part, then another small part, and so on, intending to put them all together to
form a total picture of the Universe, one would find that there are an infinite
number of such part simulations. It would therefore take an infinite time to
understand the Universe in full and that is just another way of saying that it
is impossible to gain all the knowledge there is.” “I
understand you so far,” said Dors, sounding a little surprised. “Well
then, we know that some comparatively simple things are easy to simulate and as
things grow more and more complex they become harder to simulate until finally
they become impossible to simulate. But at what level of complexity does
simulation cease to be possible? Well, what I have shown, making use of a
mathematical technique first invented in this past century and barely usable
even if one employs a large and very fast computer, our Galactic society falls
short of that mark. It can be represented by a simulation simpler than itself. And
I went on to show that this would result in the ability to predict future
events in a statistical fashion—that is, by stating the probability for
alternate sets of events, rather than flatly predicting that one set will take
place.” “In
that case,” said Hummin, “since you can profitably simulate Galactic society,
it’s only a matter of doing so. Why is it impractical?” “All
I have proved is that it will not take an infinite time to understand Galactic
society, but if it takes a billion years it will still be impractical. That
will be essentially the same as infinite time to us.” “Is
that how long it would take? A billion years?” “I
haven’t been able to work out how long it would take, but I strongly suspect
that it will take at least a billion years, which is why I suggested that
number.” “But
you don’t really know.” “I’ve
been trying to work it out.” “Without
success?” “Without
success.” “The
University library does not help?” Hummin cast a look at Dors as he asked the
question. Seldon
shook his head slowly. “Not at all.” “Dors
can’t help?” Dors
sighed. “I know nothing about the subject, Chetter. I can only suggest ways of
looking. If Hari looks and doesn’t find, I am helpless.” Hummin
rose to his feet. “In that case, there is no great use in staying here at the
University and I must think of somewhere else to place you.” Seldon
reached out and touched his sleeve. “Still, I have an idea.” Hummin
stared at him with a faint narrowing of eyes that might have belied surprise—or
suspicion. “When did you get the idea? Just now?” “No.
It’s been buzzing in my head for a few days before I went Upperside. That
little experience eclipsed it for a while, but asking about the library
reminded me of it.” Hummin
seated himself again. “Tell me your idea—if it’s not something that’s totally
marinated in mathematics.” “No
mathematics at all. It’s just that reading history in the library reminded me
that Galactic society was less complicated in the past. Twelve thousand years
ago, when the Empire was on the way to being established, the Galaxy contained
only about ten million inhabited worlds. Twenty thousand years ago, the
pre-Imperial kingdoms included only about ten thousand worlds altogether. Still
deeper in the past, who knows how society shrinks down? Perhaps even to a single
world as in the legends you yourself once mentioned, Hummin.” Hummin
said, “And you think you might be able to work out psychohistory if you dealt
with a much simpler Galactic society?” “Yes,
it seems to me that I might be able to do so.” “Then
too,” said Dors with sudden enthusiasm, “suppose you work out psychohistory for
a smaller society of the past and suppose you can make predictions from a study
of the pre-Imperial situation as to what might happen a thousand years after
the formation of the Empire—you could then check the actual situation at that
time and see how near the mark you were.” Hummin
said coldly, “Considering that you would know in advance the situation of the
year 1,000 of the Galactic Era, it would scarcely be a fair test. You would be unconsciously
swayed by your prior knowledge and you would be bound to choose values for your
equation in such a way as to give you what you would know to be the solution.” “I
don’t think so,” said Dors. “We don’t know the situation in 1,000 G.E. very
well and we would have to dig. After all, that was eleven millennia ago.” Seldon’s
face turned into a picture of dismay. “What do you mean we don’t know the
situation in 1,000 G.E. very well? There were computers then, weren’t there,
Dors?” “Of
course.” “And
memory storage units and recordings of ear and eye? We should have all the
records of 1,000 G.E. as we have of the present year of 12,020 G.E.” “In
theory, yes, but in actual practice— Well, you know, Hari, it’s what you keep
saying. It’s possible to have full records of 1,000 G.E., but it’s not
practical to expect to have it.” “Yes,
but what I keep saying, Dors, refers to mathematical demonstrations. I don’t
see the applications to historical records.” Dors
said defensively, “Records don’t last forever, Hari. Memory banks can be
destroyed or defaced as a result of conflict or can simply deteriorate with
time. Any memory bit, any record that is not referred to for a long time,
eventually drowns in accumulated noise. They say that fully one third of the
records in the Imperial Library are simply gibberish, but, of course, custom
will not allow those records to be removed. Other libraries are less
tradition-bound. In the Streeling University library, we discard worthless
items every ten years. “Naturally,
records frequently referred to and frequently duplicated on various worlds and
in various libraries—governmental and private—remain clear enough for thousands
of years, so that many of the essential points of Galactic history remain known
even if they took place in pre-Imperial times. However, the farther back you
go, the less there is preserved.” “I
can’t believe that,” said Seldon. “I should think that new copies would be made
of any record in danger of withering. How could you let knowledge disappear?” “Undesired
knowledge is useless knowledge,” said Dors. “Can you imagine all the time,
effort, and energy expended in a continual refurbishing of unused data? And
that wastage would grow steadily more extreme with time.” “Surely,
you would have to allow for the fact that someone at some time might need the
data being so carelessly disposed of.” “A
particular item might be wanted once in a thousand years. To save it all just
in case of such a need isn’t cost-effective. Even in science. You spoke of the
primitive equations of gravitation and say it is primitive because its
discovery is lost in the mists of antiquity. Why should that be? Didn’t you
mathematicians and scientists save all data, all information, back and back to
the misty primeval time when those equations were discovered?” Seldon
groaned and made no attempt to answer. He said, “Well, Hummin, so much for my
idea. As we look back into the past and as society grows smaller, a useful
psychohistory becomes more likely. But knowledge dwindles even more rapidly than
size, so psychohistory becomes less likely—and the less outweighs the more.” “To
be sure, there is the Mycogen Sector,” said Dors, musing. Hummin
looked up quickly. “So there is and that would be the perfect place to put
Seldon. I should have thought of it myself.” “Mycogen
Sector,” repeated Hari, looking from one to the other. “What and where is
Mycogen Sector?” “Hari,
please, I’ll tell you later. Right now, I have preparations to make. You’ll
leave tonight.” 33.Dors
had urged Seldon to sleep a bit. They would be leaving halfway between lights
out and lights on, under cover of “night,” while the rest of the University
slept. She insisted he could still use a little rest. “And
have you sleep on the floor again?” Seldon asked. She
shrugged. “The bed will only hold one and if we both try to crowd into it,
neither of us will get much sleep.” He
looked at her hungrily for a moment and said, “Then I’ll sleep on the floor
this time.” “No,
you won’t. I wasn’t the one who lay in a coma in the sleet.” As
it happened, neither slept. Though they darkened the room and though the
perpetual hum of Trantor was only a drowsy sound in the relatively quiet
confines of the University, Seldon found that he had to talk. He said, “I’ve
been so much trouble to you, Dors, here at the University. I’ve even been
keeping you from your work. Still, I’m sorry I’ll have to leave you.” Dors
said, “You won’t leave me. I’m coming with you. Hummin is arranging a leave of
absence for me.” Seldon
said, dismayed, “I can’t ask you to do that.” “You’re
not. Hummin’s asking it. I must guard you. After all, I faded in connection
with Upperside and should make up for it.” “I
told you. Please don’t feel guilty about that.—Still, I must admit I would feel
more comfortable with you at my side. If I could only be sure I wasn’t
interfering with your life ...” Dors
said softly, “You’re not, Hari. Please go to sleep.” Seldon
lay silent for a while, then whispered, “Are you sure Hummin can really arrange
everything, Dors?” Dors
said, “He’s a remarkable man. He’s got influence here at the University and
everywhere else, I think. If he says he can arrange for an indefinite leave for
me, I’m sure he can. He is a most persuasive man.” “I
know,” said Seldon. “Sometimes I wonder what he really wants of me.” “What
he says,” said Dors. “He’s a man of strong and idealistic ideas and dreams.” “You
sound as though you know him well, Dors.” “Oh
yes, I know him well.” “Intimately?” Dors
made an odd noise. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Hari, but, assuming the
most insolent interpretation— No, I don’t know him intimately. What business
would that be of yours anyway?” “I’m
sorry,” said Seldon. “I just didn’t want, inadvertently, to be invading someone
else’s—” “Property?
That’s even more insulting. I think you had better go to sleep.” “I’m
sorry again, Dors, but I can’t sleep. Let me at least change the subject. You
haven’t explained what the Mycogen Sector is. Why will it be good for me to go
there? What’s it like?” “It’s
a small sector with a population of only about two million—if I remember
correctly. The thing is that the Mycogenians cling tightly to a set of
traditions about early history and are supposed to have very ancient records
not available to anyone else. It’s just possible they would be of more use to you
in your attempted examination of pre-Imperial times than orthodox historians
might be. All our talk about early history brought the sector to mind.” “Have
you ever seen their records?” “No.
I don’t know anyone who has.” “Can
you be sure that the records really exist, then?” “Actually,
I can’t say. The assumption among non-Mycogenians is that they’re a bunch of
madcaps, but that may be quite unfair. They certainly say they have records, so
perhaps they do. In any case, we would be out of sight there. The Mycogenians
keep strictly to themselves.—And now please do go to sleep.” And
somehow Seldon finally did. 34.Hari
Seldon and Dors Venabili left the University grounds at 0300. Seldon realized
that Dors had to be the leader. She knew Trantor better than he did—two years
better. She was obviously a close friend of Hummin (how close? the question
kept nagging at him) and she understood his instructions. Both she and Seldon
were swathed in light swirling docks with tight-fitting hoods. The style had
been a short-lived clothing fad at the University (and among young
intellectuals, generally) some years back and though right now it might provoke
laughter, it had the saving grace of covering them well and of making them
unrecognizable—at least at a cursory glance. Hummin
had said, “There’s a possibility that the event Upperside was completely
innocent and that there are no agents after you, Seldon, but let’s be prepared
for the worst.” Seldon
had asked anxiously, “Won’t you come with us?” “I
would like to,” said Hummin, “but I must limit my absence from work if I am not
to become a target myself. You understand?” Seldon
sighed. He understood. They
entered an Expressway car and found a seat as far as possible from the few who
had already boarded. (Seldon wondered why anyone should be on the Expressways
at three in the morning—and then thought that it was lucky some were or he and
Dors would be entirely too conspicuous.) Seldon
fell to watching the endless panorama that passed in review as the equally
endless line of coaches moved along the endless monorail on an endless
electromagnetic field. The
Expressway passed row upon row of dwelling units, few of them very tall, but
some, for all he knew, very deep. Still, if tens of millions of square
kilometers formed an urbanized total, even forty billion people would not
require very tall structures or very closely packed ones. They did pass open
areas, in most of which crops seemed to be growing—but some of which were
clearly parklike. And there were numerous structures whose nature he couldn’t
guess. Factories? Office buildings? Who knew? One large featureless cylinder
struck him as though it might be a water tank. After all, Trantor had to have a
fresh water supply. Did they sluice rain from Upperside, filter and treat it, then
store it? It seemed inevitable that they should. Seldon did not have very long
to study the view, however. Dors
muttered, “This is about where we should be getting off.” She stood up and her
strong fingers gripped his arm. They
were off the Expressway now, standing on solid flooring while Dors studied the
directional signs. The
signs were unobtrusive and there were many of them. Seldon’s heart sank. Most
of them were in pictographs and initials, which were undoubtedly understandable
to native Trantorians, but which were alien to him. “This
way,” said Dors. “Which
way? How do you know?” “See
that? Two wings and an arrow.” “Two
wings? Oh.” He had thought of it as an upside-down “w,” wide and shallow, but
he could see where it might be the stylized wings of a bird. “Why don’t they
use words?” he said sullenly. “Because
words vary from world to world. What an ‘air-jet’ is here could be a ‘soar’ on
Cinna or a ‘swoop’ on other worlds. The two wings and an arrow are a Galactic
symbol for an air vessel and the symbol is understood everywhere. Don’t you use
them on Helicon?” “Not
much. Helicon is a fairly homogeneous world, culturally speaking, and we tend
to cling to our private ways firmly because we’re overshadowed by our
neighbors.” “See?”
said Dors. “There’s where your psychohistory might come in. You could show that
even with different dialects the use of set symbols, Galaxy-wide, is a unifying
force.” “That
won’t help.” He was following her through empty dim alleyways and part of his
mind wondered what the crime rate might be on Trantor and whether this was a
high-crime area. “You can have a billion rules, each covering a single
phenomenon, and you can derive no generalizations from that. That’s what one
means when one says that a system might be interpreted only by a model as
complex as itself.—Dors, are we heading for an air-jet?” She
stopped and turned to look at him with an amused frown. “If we’re following the
symbols for air-jets, do you suppose we’re trying to reach a golf course? Are
you afraid of air-jets in the way so many Trantorians are?” “No,
no. We fly freely on Helicon and I make use of air-jets frequently. It’s just
that when Hummin took me to the University, he avoided commercial air travel
because he thought we would leave too clear a trail.” “That’s
because they knew where you were to begin with, Hari, and were after you
already. Right now, it may be that they don’t know where you are and we’re
using an obscure port and a private air-jet.” “And
who’ll be doing the flying?” “A
friend of Hummin’s, I presume.” “Can
he be trusted, do you suppose?” “If
he’s a friend of Hummin’s, he surely can.” “You
certainly think highly of Hummin,” said Seldon with a twinge of discontent. “With
reason,” said Dors with no attempt at coyness. “He’s the best.” Seldon’s
discontent did not dwindle. “There’s
the air-jet,” she said. It
was a small one with oddly shaped wings. Standing beside it was a small man,
dressed in the usual glaring Trantorian colors. Dors
said, “We’re psycho.” The
pilot said, “And I’m history.” They
followed him into the air-jet and Seldon said, “Whose idea were the passwords?” “Hummin’s,”
said Dors. Seldon
snorted. “Somehow I didn’t think Hummin would have a sense of humor. He’s so
solemn.” Dors
smiled. SunmasterSUNMASTER
FOURTEEN— ... A leader of the Mycogen Sector of ancient Trantor ... As is
true of all the leaders of this ingrown sector, little is known of him. That he
plays any role at all in history is due entirely to his interrelationship with
Hari Seldon in the course of The Flight ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 35.There
were just two seats behind the compact pilot compartment and when Seldon sat
down on padding that gave slowly beneath him meshed fabric came forward to
encircle his legs, waist, and chest and a hood came down over his forehead and
ears. He felt imprisoned and when he turned to his left with difficulty—and
only slightly—he could see that Dors was similarly enclosed. The
pilot took his own seat and checked the controls. Then he said, “I’m Endor
Levanian, at your service. You’re enmeshed because there will be a considerable
acceleration at lift-off. Once we’re in the open and flying, you’ll be
released. You needn’t tell me your names. It’s none of my business.” He turned
in his seat and smiled at them out of a gnomelike face that wrinkled as his
lips spread outward. “Any psychological difficulties, youngsters?” Dors
said lightly, “I’m an Outworlder and I’m used to flying.” “That
is also true for myself,” said Seldon with a bit of hauteur. “Excellent,
youngsters. Of course, this isn’t your ordinary air-jet and you may not have
done any night flying, but I’ll count on you to bear up.” He
was enmeshed too, but Seldon could see that his arms were entirely free. A
dull hum sounded inside the jet, growing in intensity and rising in pitch. Without
actually becoming unpleasant, it threatened to do so and Seldon made a gesture
as though to shake his head and get the sound out of his ears, but the attempt
to do so merely seemed to stiffen the hold of the head-mesh. The jet then
sprang (it was the only verb Seldon could find to describe the event) into the
air and he found himself pushed hard against the back and bottom of his seat. Through
the windshield in front of the pilot, Seldon saw, with a twinge of horror, the
flat rise of a wall—and then a round opening appear in that wall. It was
similar to the hole into which the air-taxi had plunged the day he and Hummin
had left the Imperial Sector, but though this one was large enough for the body
of the jet, it certainly did not leave room for the wings. Seldon’s head turned
as far to the right as he could manage and did so just in time to see the wing
on his side wither and collapse. The jet plunged into the opening and was
seized by the electromagnetic field and hurtled along a lighted runnel. The acceleration
was constant and there were occasional clicking noises that Seldon imagined
might be the passing of individual magnets. And
then, in less than ten minutes, the jet was spewed out into the atmosphere,
headlong into the sudden pervasive darkness of night. The jet decelerated as it
passed beyond the electromagnetic field and Seldon felt himself flung against
the mesh and plastered there for a few breathless moments. Then
the pressure ceased and the mesh disappeared altogether. “How
are you, youngsters?” came the cheerful voice of the pilot. “I’m
not sure,” said Seldon. He turned to Dors. “Are you all right?” “Certainly,”
she answered. “I think Mr. Levanian was putting us through his paces to see if
we were really Outworlders. Is that so, Mr. Levanian?” “Some
people like excitement,” said Levanian. “Do you?” “Within
limits,” said Dors. Then
Seldon added approvingly, “As any reasonable person would admit.” Seldon went
on. “It might have seemed less humorous to you, sir, if you had ripped the
wings off the jet.” “Impossible,
sir. I told you this is not your ordinary air-jet. The wings are thoroughly
computerized. They change their length, width, curvature, and overall shape to
match the speed of the jet, the speed and direction of the wind, the temperature,
and half a dozen other variables. The wings wouldn’t tear off unless the jet
itself was subjected to stresses that would splinter it.” There
was a spatter against Seldon’s window. He said, “It’s raining.’ “It
often is,” said the pilot. Seldon
peered out the window. On Helicon or on any other world, there would have been
lights visible—the illuminated works of man. Only on Trantor would it be dark. Well,
not entirely. At one point he saw the flash of a beacon light. Perhaps the
higher reaches of Upperside had warning lights. As usual, Dors took note of
Seldon’s uneasiness. Patting his hand, she said, “I’m sure the pilot knows what
he’s doing, Hari.” “I’ll
try to be sure of it, too, Dors, but I wish he’d share some of that knowledge
with us,” Seldon said in a voice loud enough to be overheard. “I
don’t mind sharing,” said the pilot. “To begin with, we’re heading up and we’ll
be above the cloud deck in a few minutes. Then there won’t be any rain and
we’ll even see the stars.” He
had timed the remark beautifully, for a few stars began to glitter through the
feathery cloud remnants and then all the rest sprang into brightness as the
pilot flicked off the lights inside the cabin. Only the dim illumination of his
own instrument panel remained to compete, and outside the window the sky
sparkled brightly. Dors
said, “That’s the first time in over two years that I’ve seen the stars. Aren’t
they marvelous? They’re so bright—and there are so many of them.” The
pilot said, “Trantor is nearer the center of the Galaxy than most of the
Outworlds.” Since
Helicon was in a sparse corner of the Galaxy and its star field was dim and
unimpressive, Seldon found himself speechless. Dors
said, “How quiet this flight has become.” “So
it is,” said Seldon. “What powers the jet, Mr. Levanian?” “A
microfusion motor and a thin stream of hot gas.” “I
didn’t know we had working microfusion air-jets. They talk about it, but—” “There
are a few small ones like this. So far they exist only on Trantor and are used
entirely by high government officials.” Seldon
said, “The fees for such travel must come high.” “Very
high, sir.” “How
much is Mr. Hummin being charged, then?” “There’s
no charge for this flight. Mr. Hummin is a good friend of the company who owns
these jets.” Seldon
grunted. Then he asked, “Why aren’t there more of these microfusion air-jets?” “Too
expensive for one thing, sir. Those that exist fulfill all the demand.” “You
could create more demand with larger jets.” “Maybe
so, but the company has never managed to make microfusion engines strong enough
for large air-jets.” Seldon
thought of Hummin’s complaint that technological innovation had declined to a
low level. “Decadent,” he murmured. “What?”
said Dors. “Nothing,”
said Seldon. “I was just thinking of something Hummin once said to me.” He
looked out at the stars and said, “Are we moving westward, Mr. Levanian?” “Yes,
we are. How did you know?” “Because
I thought that we would see the dawn by now if we were heading east to meet
it.” But
dawn, pursuing the planet, finally caught up with them and sunlight—real
sunlight brightened the cabin walls. It didn’t last long, however, for the jet
curved downward and into the clouds. Blue and gold vanished and were replaced
by dingy gray and both Seldon and Dors emitted disappointed cries at being deprived
of even a few more moments of true sunlight. When
they sank beneath the clouds, Upperside was immediately below them and its
surface—at least at this spot—was a rolling mixture of wooded grottos and
intervening grassland. It was the sort of thing Clowzia had told Seldon existed
on Upperside. Again
there was little time for observation, however. An opening appeared below them,
rimmed by lettering that spelled MYCOGEN. They
plunged in. 36.They
landed at a jetport that seemed deserted to Seldon’s wondering eyes. The pilot,
having completed his task, shook hands with both Hari and Dors and took his jet
up into the air with a rush, plunging it into an opening that appeared for his
benefit. There
seemed, then, nothing to do but wait. There were benches that could seat
perhaps a hundred people, but Seldon and Dors Venabili were the only two people
around. The port was rectangular, surrounded by walls in which there must be
many tunnels that could open to receive or deliver jets, but there were no jets
present after their own had departed and none arrived while they waited. There
were no people arriving or any indications of habitation; the very life hum of
Trantor was muted. Seldon
felt this aloneness to be oppressive. He turned to Dors and said, “What is it
that we must do here? Have you any idea?” Dors
shook her head. “Hummin told me we would be met by Sunmaster Fourteen. I don’t
know anything beyond that.” “Sunmaster
Fourteen? What would that be?” “A
human being, I presume. From the name I can’t be certain whether it would be a
man or a woman.” “An
odd name.” “Oddity
is in the mind of the receiver. I am sometimes taken to be a man by those who
have never met me.” “What
fools they must be,” said Seldon, smiling. “Not
at all. Judging from my name, they are justified. I’m told it is a popular
masculine name on various worlds.” “I’ve
never encountered it before.” “That’s
because you aren’t much of a Galactic traveler. The name ‘Hari’ is common
enough everywhere, although I once knew a woman named ‘Hare,’ pronounced like
your name but spelled with an ‘e.’ In Mycogen, as I recall, particular names
are confined to families—and numbered.” “But
Sunmaster seems so unrestrained a name.” “What’s
a little braggadocio? Back on Cinna, ‘Dors’ is from an Old local expression
meaning ‘spring gift.’ ” “Because
you were born in the spring?” “No.
I first saw the light of day at the height of Cinna’s summer, but the name
struck my people as pleasant regardless of its traditional—and largely
forgotten—meaning.” “In
that case, perhaps Sunmaster—” And
a deep, severe voice said, “That is my name, tribesman.” Seldon,
startled, looked to his left. An open ground-car had somehow drawn close. It
was boxy and archaic, looking almost like a delivery wagon. In it, at the
controls, was a tall old man who looked vigorous despite his age. With stately
majesty, he got out of the ground-car. He wore a long white gown with
voluminous sleeves, pinched in at the wrists. Beneath the gown were soft
sandals from which the big toe protruded, while his head, beautifully shaped,
was completely hairless. He regarded the two calmly with his deep blue eyes. He
said, “I greet you, tribesman.” Seldon
said with automatic politeness, “Greetings, sir.” Then, honestly puzzled, he
asked, “How did you get in?” “Through
the entrance, which closed behind me. You paid little heed.” “I
suppose we didn’t. But then we didn’t know what to expect. Nor do we now.” “Tribesman
Chetter Hummin informed the Brethren that there would be members from two of
the tribes arriving. He asked that you be cared for.” “Then
you know Hummin.” “We
do. He has been of service to us. And because he, a worthy tribesman, has been
of service to us, so must we be now to him. There are few who come to Mycogen
and few who leave. I am to make you secure, give you houseroom, see that you
are undisturbed. You will be safe here.” Dors
bent her head. “We are grateful, Sunmaster Fourteen.” Sunmaster
turned to look at her with an air of dispassionate contempt. “I am not unaware
of the customs of the tribes,” he said. “I know that among them a woman may
well speak before being spoken to. I am therefore not offended. I would ask her
to have a care among others of the Brethren who may be of lesser knowledge in
the matter.” “Oh
really?” said Dors, who was clearly offended, even if Sunmaster was not. “In
truth,” agreed Sunmaster. “Nor is it needful to use my numerical identifier
when I alone of my cohort am with you. ‘Sunmaster’ will be sufficient.—Now I
will ask you to come with me so that we may leave this place which is of too
tribal a nature to comfort me.” “Comfort
is for all of us,” said Seldon, perhaps a little more loudly than was
necessary, “and we will not budge from this place unless we are assured that we
will not be forcibly bent to your liking against our own natures. It is our
custom that a woman may speak whenever she has something to say. If you have
agreed to keep us secure, that security must be psychological as well as
physical.” Sunmaster
gazed at Seldon levelly and said, “You are bold, young tribesman. Your name?” “I
am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna.” Sunmaster
bowed slightly as Seldon pronounced his own name, did not move at the mention
of Dors’s name. He said, “I have sworn to Tribesman Hummin that we will keep
you safe, so I will do what I can to protect your woman companion in this. If
she wishes to exercise her impudence, I will do my best to see that she is held
guiltless.—Yet in one respect you must conform.” And he pointed, with infinite
scorn, first to Seldon’s head and then to Dors’s. “What
do you mean?” said Seldon. “Your
cephalic hair.” “What
about it?” “It
must not be seen.” “Do
you mean we’re to shave our heads like you? Certainly not.” “My
head is not shaven, Tribesman Seldon. I was depilated when I entered puberty,
as are all the Brethren and their women.” “If
we’re talking about depilation, then more than ever the answer is no—never.” “Tribesman,
we ask neither shaving nor depilation. We ask only that your hair be covered
when you are among us.” “How?” “I
have brought skincaps that will mold themselves to your skulls, together with
strips that will hide the superoptical patches the eyebrows. You will wear them
while with us. And of course, Tribesman Seldon, you will shave daily—or oftener
if that becomes necessary.” “But
why must we do this?” “Because
to us, hair on the head is repulsive and obscene.” “Surely,
you and all your people know that it is customary for others, in all the worlds
of the Galaxy, to retain their cephalic hair.” “We
know. And those among us, like myself, who must deal with tribesmen now and
then, must witness this hair. We manage, but it is unfair to ask the Brethren
generally to suffer the sight.” Seldon
said, “Very well, then, Sunmaster—but tell me. Since you are born with cephalic
hair, as all of us are and as you all retain it visibly till puberty, why is it
so necessary to remove it? Is it just a matter of custom or is there some
rationale behind it?” And
the old Mycogenian said proudly, “By depilation, we demonstrate to the youngster
that he or she has become an adult and through depilation adults will always
remember who they are and never forget that all others are but tribesmen.” He
waited for no response (and, in truth, Seldon could think of none) but brought
out from some hidden compartment in his robe a handful of thin bits of plastic
of varying color, stared keenly at the two faces before him, holding first one
strip, then another, against each face. “The colors must match reasonably,” he
said. “No one will be fooled into thinking you are not wearing a skincap, but
it must not be repulsively obvious.” Finally,
Sunmaster gave a particular strip to Seldon and showed him how it could be
pulled out into a cap. “Please
put it on, Tribesman Seldon,” he said. “You will find the process clumsy at
first, but you will grow accustomed to it.” Seldon
put it on, but the first two times it slipped off when he tried to pull it
backward over his hair. “Begin
just above your eyebrows,” said Sunmaster. His fingers seemed to twitch, as
though eager to help. Seldon
said, suppressing a smile, “Would you do it for me?” And
Sunmaster drew back, saying, almost in agitation, “I couldn’t. I would be
touching your hair.” Seldon
managed to hook it on and followed Sunmaster’s advice, in pulling it here and
there until all his hair was covered. The eyebrow patches fitted on easily.
Dors, who had watched carefully, put hers on without trouble. “How
does it come off?” asked Seldon. “You
have but to find an end and it will peel off without trouble. You will find it
easier both to put on and take off if you cut your hair shorter.” “I’d
rather struggle a bit,” said Seldon. Then, turning to Dors, he said in a low
voice, “You’re still pretty, Dors, but it does tend to remove some of the
character from your face.” “The
character is there underneath just the same,” she answered. “And I dare say
you’ll grow accustomed to the hairless me.” In
a still lower whisper, Seldon said, “I don’t want to stay here long enough to
get accustomed to this.” Sunmaster,
who ignored, with visible haughtiness, the mumblings among mere tribesmen,
said, “If you will enter my ground-car, I will now take you into Mycogen.” 37.“Frankly,”
whispered Dors, “I can scarcely believe I’m on Trantor.” “I
take it, then, you’ve never seen anything like this before?” said Seldon. “I’ve
only been on Trantor for two years and I’ve spent much of my time at the
University, so I’m not exactly a world traveler. Still, I’ve been here and
there and I’ve heard of this and that, but I’ve never seen or heard of anything
like this. The sameness.” Sunmaster
drove along methodically and without undue haste. There were other wagonlike
vehicles in the roadway, all with hairless men at the controls, their bald
pates gleaming in the light. On
either side there were three-story structures, unornamented, all lines meeting
at right angles, everything gray in color. “Dreary,”
mouthed Dors. “So dreary.” “Egalitarian,”
whispered Seldon. “I suspect no Brother can lay claim to precedence of any
obvious kind over any other.” There
were many pedestrians on the walkways as they passed. There were no signs of
any moving corridors and no sound of any nearby Expressway. Dors
said, “I’m guessing the grays are women.” “Its
hard to tell,” said Seldon. “The gowns hide everything and one hairless head is
like another.” “The
grays are always in pairs or with a white. The whites [also] walk alone and
Sunmaster is a white.” “You
may be right.” Seldon raised his voice. “Sunmaster, I am curious.” “If
you are, then ask what you wish, although I am by no means required to answer.” “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. 38.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.” Seldon,
still playing with the device, said, “Whoops! It went on. Or something went on.
But I don’t hear anything.” Dors
frowned and picked up a small felt-lined cylinder that remained behind on the
end table. She put it to her ear. “There’s a voice coming out of this,” she
said. “Here, try it.” She handed it to him. Seldon
did so and said, “Ouch! It clips on.” He listened and said, “Yes, it hurt my
ear. You can hear me, I take it.—Yes, this is our room. No, I don’t know its
number. Dors, have you any idea of the number?” Dors
said, “There’s a number on the speaker. Maybe that will do.” “Maybe,”
said Seldon doubtfully. Then he said into the speaker, “The number on this
device is 6LT-3648A. Will that do?—Well, where do I find out how to use this
device properly and how to use the kitchen, for that matter?—What do you mean,
‘It all works the usual way?’ That doesn’t do me any good. See here, I’m a ...
a tribesman, an honored guest. I don’t know the usual way.—Yes, I’m sorry about
my accent and I’m glad you can recognize a tribesman when you hear one. My name
is Hari Seldon.” There
was a pause and Seldon looked up at Dors with a longsuffering expression on his
face. “He has to look me up. And I suppose he’ll tell me he can’t find me.—Oh,
you have me? Good! In that case, can you give me the information?—Yes.
Yes.—Yes.—And how can I call someone outside Mycogen?—Oh, then what about
contacting Sunmaster Fourteen, for instance?—Well, his assistant then, his
aide, whatever?—Uh-huh.—Thank you.” He
put the speaker down, unhooked the hearing device from his ear with a little
difficulty, turned the whole thing off, and said, “They’ll arrange to have
someone show us anything we need to know, but he can’t promise when that might
be. You can’t call outside Mycogen—not on this thing anyway—so we couldn’t get
Hummin if we needed him. And if I want Sunmaster Fourteen, I’ve got to go
through a tremendous rigmarole. This may be an egalitarian society, but there
seem to be exceptions that I bet no one will openly admit.” He looked at his
watch. “In any case, Dors, I’m not going to view a cookbook and still less am I
going to view learned essays. My watch is still telling University time, so I
don’t know if it’s officially bedtime and at the moment I don’t care. We’ve
been awake most of the night and I would like to sleep.” “That’s
all right with me. I’m tired too.” “Thanks.
And whenever a new day starts after we’ve caught up on our sleep, I’m going to
ask for a tour of their microfood plantations.” Dors
looked startled. “Are you interested?” “Not
really, but if that’s the one thing they’re proud of, they should be willing to
talk about it and once I get them into a talking mood then, by exerting all my
charm, I may get them to talk about their legends too. Personally, I think
that’s a clever strategy.” “I
hope so,” said Dors dubiously, “but I think that the Mycogenians will not be so
easily trapped.” “We’ll
see,” said Seldon grimly. “I mean to get those legends.” 39.The
next morning found Hari using the calling device again. He was angry because,
for one thing, he was hungry. His
attempt to reach Sunmaster Fourteen was deflected by someone who insisted that
Sunmaster could not be disturbed. “Why
not?” Seldon had asked waspishly. “Obviously,
there is no need to answer that question,” came back a cold voice. “We
were not brought here to be prisoners,” said Seldon with equal coldness. “Nor
to starve.” “I’m
sure you have a kitchen and ample supplies of food.” “Yes,
we do,” said Seldon. “And I do not know how to use the kitchen devices, nor do
I know how to prepare the food. Do you eat it raw, fry it, boil it, roast it
…?” “I
can’t believe you are ignorant in such matters.” Dors,
who had been pacing up and down during this colloquy, reached for the device
and Seldon fended her off, whispering, “He’ll break the connection if a woman
tries to speak to him.” Then,
into the device, he said more firmly than ever, “What you believe or don’t
believe doesn’t matter to me in the least. You send someone here—someone who
can do something about our situation—or when I reach Sunmaster Fourteen, as I
will eventually, you will pay for this.” Nevertheless,
it was two hours before someone arrived (by which time Seldon was in a state of
savagery and Dors had grown rather desperate in her attempt to soothe him). The
newcomer was a young man whose bald pate was slightly freckled and who probably
would have been a redhead otherwise. He
was bearing several pots and he seemed about to explain them when he suddenly
looked uneasy and turned his back on Seldon in alarm. “Tribesman,” he said,
obviously agitated. “Your skincap is not well adjusted.” Seldon,
whose impatience had reached the breaking point, said, “That doesn’t bother
me.” Dors,
however, said, “Let me adjust it, Hari. It’s just a bit too high here on the
left side.” Seldon
then growled, “You can turn now, young man. What is your name?” “I
am Graycloud Five,” said the Mycogenian uncertainly as he turned and looked
cautiously at Seldon. “I am a novitiate. I have brought a meal for you.” He
hesitated. “From my own kitchen, where my woman prepared it, tribesman.” He put
the pots down on the table and Seldon raised one lid and sniffed the contents
suspiciously. He looked up at Dors in surprise. “You
know, it doesn’t smell bad.” Dors
nodded. “You’re right. I can smell it too.” Graycloud
said, “It’s not as hot as it ought to be. It cooled off in transport. You must
have crockery and cutlery in your kitchen.” Dors
got what was needed, and after they had eaten, largely and a bit greedily,
Seldon felt civilized once more. Dors,
who realized that the young man would feel unhappy at being alone with a woman
and even unhappier if she spoke to him, found that, by default, it fell to her
to carry the pots and dishes into the kitchen and wash them—once she deciphered
the controls of the washing device. Meanwhile,
Seldon asked the local time and said, somewhat abashed, “You mean it’s the
middle of the night?” “Indeed,
tribesman,” said Graycloud. “That’s why it took a while to satisfy your need.” Seldon
understood suddenly why Sunmaster could not be disturbed and thought of
Graycloud’s woman having to be awakened to prepare him a meal and felt his
conscience gnaw at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We are only tribespeople and we
didn’t know how to use the kitchen or how to prepare the food. In the morning,
could you have someone arrive to instruct us properly?” “The
best I can do, tribesmen,” said Graycloud placatingly, “is to have two Sisters
sent in. I ask your pardon for inconveniencing you with feminine presence, but
it is they who know these things.” Dors,
who had emerged from the kitchen, said (before remembering her place in the
masculine Mycogenian society), “That’s fine, Graycloud. We’d love to meet the
Sisters.” Graycloud
looked at her uneasily and fleetingly, but said nothing. Seldon,
convinced that the young Mycogenian would, on principle, refuse to have heard
what a woman said to him, repeated the remark. “That’s fine, Graycloud. We’d
love to meet the Sisters.” His
expression cleared at once. “I will have them here as soon as it is day.” When
Graycloud had left, Seldon said with some satisfaction, “The Sisters are likely
to be exactly what we need.” “Indeed?
And in what way, Hari?” asked Dors. “Well,
surely if we treat them as though they are human beings, they will be grateful
enough to speak of their legends.” “If
they know them,” said Dors skeptically. “Somehow I have no faith that the
Mycogenians bother to educate their women very well.” 40.The
Sisters arrived some six hours later after Seldon and Dors had slept some more,
hoping to readjust their biological clocks. The Sisters entered the apartment
shyly, almost on tiptoe. Their gowns (which, it turned out, were termed
“kirtles” in the Mycogenian dialect) were soft velvety gray, each uniquely
decorated by a subtle pattern of fine, darker gray webbing. The kirtles were
not entirely unattractive, but they were certainly most efficient at covering
up any human feature. And, of course, their heads were bald and their faces
were devoid of any ornamentation. They darted speculative glances at the touch
of blue at the corners of Dors’s eyes and at the slight red stain at the
corners of her lips. For a few moments, Seldon wondered how one could be
certain that the Sisters were truly Sisters. The
answer came at once with the Sisters’ politely formal greetings. Both twittered
and chirped. Seldon, remembering the grave tones of Sunmaster and the nervous
baritone of Graycloud, suspected that women, in default of obvious sexual
identification, were forced to cultivate distinctive voices and social
mannerisms. I’m
Raindrop Forty-Three,” twittered one, “and this is my younger sister.” “Raindrop
Forty-Five,” chirped the other. “We’re very strong on ‘Raindrops’ in our
cohort.” She giggled. “I
am pleased to meet you both,” said Dors gravely, “but now I must know how to
address you. I can’t just say ‘Raindrop,’ can I?” “No,”
said Raindrop Forty-Three. “You must use the full name if we are both here.” Seldon
said, “How about just Forty-Three and Forty-Five, ladies?” They
both stole a quick glance at him, but said not a word. Dors
said softly, “I’ll deal with them, Hari.” Seldon
stepped back. Presumably, they were single young women and, very likely, they
were not supposed to speak to men. The older one seemed the graver of the two
and was perhaps the more puritanical. It was hard to tell from a few words and
a quick glance, but he had the feeling and was willing to go by that. Dors
said, “The thing is, Sisters, that we tribespeople don’t know how to use the
kitchen.” “You
mean you can’t cook?” Raindrop Forty-Three looked shocked and censorious.
Raindrop Forty-Five smothered a laugh. (Seldon decided that his initial
estimate of the two was correct.) Dors
said, “I once had a kitchen of my own, but it wasn’t like this one and I don’t
know what the foods are or how to prepare them.” “It’s
really quite simple,” said Raindrop Forty-Five. “We can show you.” “We’ll
make you a good nourishing lunch,” said Raindrop Forty-Three. “We’ll make it
for ... both of you.” She hesitated before adding the final words. It clearly
took an effort to acknowledge the existence of a man. “If
you don’t mind,” said Dors, “I would like to be in the kitchen with you and I
would appreciate it if you’d explain everything exactly. After all, Sisters, I
can’t expect you to come here three times a day to cook for us.” “We
will show you everything,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, nodding her head stiffly.
“It may be difficult for a tribeswoman to learn, however. You wouldn’t have the
... feeling for it.” “I
shall try,” said Dors with a pleasant smile. They disappeared into the kitchen. Seldon
stared after them and tried to work out the strategy he intended to use. MicrofarmMYCOGEN—
... The microfarms of Mycogen are legendary, though they survive today only in
such oft-used similes as “rich as the microfarms of Mycogen” or “tasty as
Mycogenian yeast.” Such encomiums tend to intensify with time, to be sure, but
Hari Seldon visited those microfarms in the course of The Flight and there are
references in his memoirs that would tend to support the popular opinion ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 41.“That
was good.” said Seldon explosively. “It was considerably better than the food
Graycloud brought—” Dors
said reasonably, “You have to remember that Graycloud’s woman had to prepare it
on short notice in the middle of the night.” She paused and said, “I wish they
would say ‘wife.’ They make ‘woman’ sound like such an appanage, like ‘my
house’ or my robe.’ It is absolutely demeaning.” “I
know. It’s infuriating. But they might well make ‘wife’ sound like an appanage
as well. It’s the way they live and the Sisters don’t seem to mind. You and I
aren’t going to change it by lecturing. Anyway, did you see how the Sisters did
it?” “Yes,
I did and they made everything seem very simple. I doubted I could remember
everything they did, but they insisted I wouldn’t have to. I could get away
with mere heating. I gathered the bread had some sort of microderivative added
to it in the baking that both raised the dough and lent it that crunchy
consistency and warm flavor. Just a hint of pepper, didn’t you think?” “I
couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, I didn’t get enough. And the soup. Did you
recognize any of the vegetables?” “No.” “And
what was the sliced meat? Could you tell?” “I
don’t think it was sliced meat, actually. We did have a lamb dish back on Cinna
that it reminded me of.” “It
was certainly not lamb.” “I
said that I doubted it was meat at all.—I don’t think anyone outside Mycogen
eats like this either. Not even the Emperor, I’m sure. Whatever the Mycogenians
sell is, I’m willing to bet, near the bottom of the line. They save the best
for themselves. We had better not stay here too long, Hari. If we get used to
eating like this, we’ll never be able to acclimatize ourselves to the miserable
stuff they have outside.” She laughed. Seldon
laughed too. He took another sip at the fruit juice, which tasted far more
tantalizing than any fruit juice he had ever sipped before, and said, “listen,
when Hummin took me to the University, we stopped at a roadside diner and had
some food that was heavily yeasted. It tasted like— No, never mind what it
tasted like, but I wouldn’t have thought it conceivable, then, that microfood
could taste like this. I wish the Sisters were still here. It would have been
polite to thank them.” “I
think they were quite aware of how we would feel. I remarked on the wonderful
smell while everything was warming and they said, quite complacently, that it
would taste even better.” “The
older one said that, I imagine.” “Yes.
The younger one giggled.—And they’ll be back. They’re going to bring me a
kirtle, so that I can go out to see the shops with them. And they made it clear
I would have to wash my face if I was to be seen in public. They will show me
where to buy some good-quality kirtles of my own and where I can buy ready-made
meals of all kinds. All I’ll have to do is heat them up. They explained that
decent Sisters wouldn’t do that, but would start from scratch. In fact, some of
the meal they prepared for us was simply heated and they apologized for that.
They managed to imply, though, that tribespeople couldn’t be expected to
appreciate true artistry in cooking, so that simply heating prepared food would
do for us.—They seem to take it for granted, by the way, that I will be doing
all the shopping and cooking.” “As
we say at home, ‘When in Trantor, do as the Trantorians do.’ ” “Yes,
I was sure that would be your attitude in this case.” “I’m
only human,” said Seldon. “The
usual excuse,” said Dors with a small smile. Seldon leaned back with a
satisfactory well-filled feeling and said, “You’ve been on Trantor for two
years, Dors, so you might understand a few things that I don’t. Is it your
opinion that this odd social system the Mycogenians have is part of a
supernaturalistic view they have?” “Supernaturalistic?” “Yes.
Would you have heard that this was so?” “What
do you mean by ‘supernaturalistic’?” “The
obvious. A belief in entities that are independent of natural law, that are not
bound by the conservation of energy, for instance, or by the existence of a
constant of action.” “I
see. You’re asking if Mycogen is a religious community.” It
was Seldon’s turn. “Religious?” “Yes.
It’s an archaic term, but we historians use it—our study is riddled with
archaic terms. ‘Religious’ is not precisely equivalent to ‘supernaturalistic,’
though it contains richly supernaturalistic elements. I can’t answer your
specific question, however, because I’ve never made any special investigation
of Mycogen. Still, from what little I’ve seen of the place and from my
knowledge of religions in history, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Mycogenian
society was religious in character.” “In
that case, would it surprise you if Mycogenian legends were also religious in
character?” “No,
it wouldn’t.” “And
therefore not based on historical matter?” “That
wouldn’t necessarily follow. The core of the legends might still be
authentically historic, allowing for distortion and supernaturalistic
intermixture.” “Ah,”
said Seldon and seemed to retire into his thoughts. Finally
Dors broke the silence that followed and said, “It’s not so uncommon, you know.
There is a considerable religious element on many worlds. It’s grown stronger
in the last few centuries as the Empire has grown more turbulent. On my world
of Cinna, at least a quarter of the population is tritheistic.” Seldon
was again painfully and regretfully conscious of his ignorance of history. He
said, “Were there times in past history when religion was more prominent than
it is today?” “Certainly.
In addition, there are new varieties springing up constantly. The Mycogenian
religion, whatever it might be, could be relatively new and may be restricted
to Mycogen itself. I couldn’t really tell without considerable study.” “But
now we get to the point of it, Dors. Is it your opinion that women are more apt
to be religious than men are?” Dors
Venabili raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure if we can assume anything as simple
as that.” She thought a bit. “I suspect that those elements of a population
that have a smaller stake in the material natural world are more apt to find
solace in what you call supernaturalism—the poor, the disinherited, the
downtrodden. Insofar as supernaturalism overlaps religion, they may also be
more religious. There are obviously many exceptions in both directions. Many of
the downtrodden may lack religion; many of the rich, powerful, and satisfied
may possess it.” “But
in Mycogen,” said Seldon, “where the women seem to be treated as subhuman—would
I be right in assuming they would be more religious than the men, more involved
in the legends that the society has been preserving?” “I
wouldn’t risk my life on it, Hari, but I’d be willing to risk a week’s income
on it.” “Good,”
said Seldon thoughtfully. Dors
smiled at him. “There’s a bit of your psychohistory, Hari. Rule number 47,854:
The downtrodden are more religious than the satisfied.” Seldon
shook his head. “Don’t joke about psychohistory, Dors. You know I’m not looking
for tiny rules but for vast generalizations and for means of manipulation. I
don’t want comparative religiosity as the result of a hundred specific rules. I
want something from which I can, after manipulation through some system of
mathematicized logic, say, ‘Aha, this group of people will tend to be more
religious than that group, provided that the following criteria are met, and
that, therefore, when humanity meets with these stimuli, it will react with
these responses.’ ” “How
horrible,” said Dors. “You are picturing human beings as simple mechanical
devices. Press this button and you will get that twitch.” “No,
because there will be many buttons pushing simultaneously to varying degrees
and eliciting so many responses of different sorts that overall the predictions
of the future will be statistical in nature, so that the individual human being
will remain a free agent.” “How
can you know this?” “I
can’t,” said Seldon. “At least, I don’t know it. I feel it to be so. It is what
I consider to be the way things ought to be. If I can find the axioms, the
fundamental Laws of Humanics, so to speak, and the necessary mathematical
treatment, then I will have my psychohistory. I have proved that, in theory,
this is possible—” “But
impractical, right?” “I
keep saying so.” A
small smile curved Dors’s lips, “Is that what you are doing, Hari, looking for
some sort of solution to this problem?” “I
don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know. But Chetter Hummin is so anxious to
find a solution and, for some reason, I am anxious to please him. He is so
persuasive a man.” “Yes,
I know.” Seldon
let that comment pass, although a small frown flitted across his face. Seldon
continued. “Hummin insists the Empire is decaying, that it will collapse, that
psychohistory is the only hope for saving it—or cushioning it or ameliorating
it—and that without it humanity will be destroyed or, at the very least, go
through prolonged misery. He seems to place the responsibility for preventing
that on me. Now, the Empire will certainly last my time, but if I’m to live at
ease, I must lift that responsibility from my shoulders. I must convince
myself—and even convince Hummin—that psychohistory is not a practical way out
that, despite theory, it cannot be developed. So I must follow up as many leads
as I can and show that each one must fail.” “Leads?
Like going back in history to a time when human society was smaller than it is
now?” “Much
smaller. And far less complex.” “And
showing that a solution is still impractical?” “Yes.” “But
who is going to describe the early world for you? If the Mycogenians have some
coherent picture of the primordial Galaxy, Sunmaster certainly won’t reveal it
to a tribesman. No Mycogenian will. This is an ingrown society—how many times
have we already said it?—and its members are suspicious of tribesmen to the
point of paranoia. They’ll tell us nothing.” “I
will have to think of a way to persuade some Mycogenians to talk. Those
Sisters, for instance.” “They
won’t even hear you, male that you are, any more than Sunmaster hears me. And
even if they do talk to you, what would they know but a few catch phrases?” “I
must start somewhere.” Dors
said, “Well, let me think. Hummin says I must protect you and I interpret that
as meaning I must help you when I can. What do I know about religion? That’s
nowhere near my specialty, you know. I have always dealt with economic forces,
rather than philosophic forces, but you can’t split history into neat little
nonoverlapping divisions. For instance, religions tend to accumulate wealth
when successful and that eventually tends to distort the economic development
of a society. There, incidentally, is one of the numerous rules of human history
that you’ll have to derive from your basic Laws of Humanics or whatever you
called them. But ...” And
here, Dors’s voice faded away as she lapsed into thought. Seldon watched her
cautiously and Dors’s eyes glazed as though she was looking deep within herself. Finally
she said, “This is not an invariable rule, but it seems to me that on many
occasions, a religion has a book—or books—of significance; books that give
their ritual, their view of history, their sacred poetry, and who knows what
else. Usually, those books are open to all and are a means of proselytization.
Sometimes they are secret.” “Do
you think Mycogen has books of that sort?” “To
be truthful,” said Dors thoughtfully, “I have never heard of any. I might have
if they existed openly—which means they either don’t exist or are kept secret.
In either case, it seems to me you are not going to see them.” “At
least it’s a starting point,” said Seldon grimly. 42.The
Sisters returned about two hours after Hari and Dors had finished lunch. They
were smiling, both of them, and Raindrop Forty-Three, the graver one, held up a
gray kirtle for Dors’s inspection. “It
is very attractive,” said Dors, smiling widely and nodding her head with a
certain sincerity. “I like the clever embroidery here.” “It
is nothing,” twittered Raindrop Forty-Five. “It is one of my old things and it
won’t fit very well, for you are taller than I am. But it will do for a while
and we will take you out to the very best kirtlery to get a few that will fit
you and your tastes perfectly. You will see.” Raindrop
Forty-Three, smiling a little nervously but saying nothing and keeping her eyes
fixed on the ground, handed a white kirtle to Dors. It was folded neatly. Dors
did not attempt to unfold it, but passed it on to Seldon. “From
the color I should say it’s yours, Hari.” “Presumably,”
said Seldon, “but give it back. She did not give it to me.” “Oh,
Hari,” mouthed Dors, shaking her head slightly. “No,”
said Seldon firmly. “She did not give it to me. Give it back to her and I’ll
wait for her to give it to me.” Dors
hesitated, then made a half-hearted attempt to pass the kirtle back to Raindrop
Forty-Three. The
Sister put her hands behind her back and moved away, all life seeming to drain
from her face. Raindrop Forty-Five stole a glance at Seldon, a very quick one,
then took a quick step toward Raindrop Forty-Three and put her arms about her. Dors
said, “Come, Hari, I’m sure that Sisters are not permitted to talk to men who
are not related to them. What’s the use of making her miserable? She can’t help
it.” “I
don’t believe it,” said Seldon harshly. “If there is such a rule, it applies
only to Brothers. I doubt very much that she’s ever met a tribesman before.” Dors
said to Raindrop Forty-Three in a soft voice, “Have you ever met a tribesman
before, Sister, or a tribeswoman?” A
long hesitation and then a slow negative shake of the head. Seldon
threw out his arms. “Well, there you are. If there is a rule of silence, it
applies only to the Brothers. Would they have sent these young women—these Sisters—to
deal with us if there was any rule against speaking to tribesmen?” “It
might be, Hari, that they were meant to speak only to me and I to you.” “Nonsense.
I don’t believe it and I won’t believe it. I am not merely a tribesman, I am an
honored guest in Mycogen, asked to be treated as such by Chetter Hummin and
escorted here by Sunmaster Fourteen himself. I will not be treated as though I
do not exist. I will be in communication with Sunmaster Fourteen and I will
complain bitterly.” Raindrop
Forty-Five began to sob and Raindrop Forty-Three, retaining her comparative
impassivity, nevertheless flushed faintly. Dors made as though to appeal to
Seldon once again, but he stopped her with a brief and angry outward thrust of
his right arm and then stared gloweringly at Raindrop Forty-Three. And
finally she spoke and did not twitter. Rather, her voice trembled hoarsely, as
though she had to force it to sound in the direction of a male being and was
doing so against all her instincts and desires. “You must not complain of us,
tribesman. That would be unjust. You force me to break the custom of our
people. What do you want of me?” Seldon
smiled disarmingly at once and held out his hand. “The garment you brought me.
The kirtle.” Silently,
she stretched out her arm and deposited the kirtle in his hand. He bowed
slightly and said in a soft warm voice, “Thank you, Sister.” He then cast a
very brief look in Dors’s direction, as though to say: You see? But Dors looked
away angrily. The
kirtle was featureless, Seldon saw as he unfolded it (embroidery and
decorativeness were for women, apparently), but it came with a tasseled belt
that probably had some particular way of being worn. No doubt he could work it
out. He
said, “I’ll step into the bathroom and put this thing on. It won’t take but a
minute, I suppose.” He
stepped into the small chamber and found the door would not close behind him
because Dors was forcing her way in as well. Only when the two of them were in
the bathroom together did the door close. “What
were you doing?” Dors hissed angrily. “You were an absolute brute, Hari. Why
did you treat the poor woman that way?” Seldon
said impatiently, “I had to make her talk to me. I’m counting on her for
information. You know that. I’m sorry I had to be cruel, but how else could I
have broken down her inhibitions?” And he motioned her out. When
he emerged, he found Dors in her kirtle too. Dors, despite the bald head the
skincap gave her and the inherent dowdiness of the kirtle, managed to look
quite attractive. The stitching on the robe somehow suggested a figure without
revealing it in the least. Her belt was wider than his own and was a slightly
different shade of gray from her kirtle. What’s more, it was held in front by
two glittering blue stone snaps. (Women did manage to beautify themselves even
under the greatest difficulty, Seldon thought.) Looking
over at Hari, Dors said, “You look quite the Mycogenian now. The two of us are
fit to be taken to the stores by the Sisters.” “Yes,”
said Seldon, “but afterward I want Raindrop Forty-Three to take me on a tour of
the microfarms.” Raindrop
Forty-Three’s eyes widened and she took a rapid step backward. “I’d
like to see them,” said Seldon calmly. Raindrop
Forty-Three looked quickly at Dors. “Tribeswoman—” Seldon
said, “Perhaps you know nothing of the farms, Sister.” That
seemed to touch a nerve. She lifted her chin haughtily as she still carefully
addressed Dors. “I have worked on the microfarms. All Brothers and Sisters do
at some point in their lives.” “Well
then, take me on the tour,” said Seldon, “and lets not go through the argument
again. I am not a Brother to whom you are forbidden to speak and with whom you
may have no dealings. I am a tribesman and an honored guest. I wear this
skincap and this kirtle so as not to attract undue attention, but I am a
scholar and while I am here I must learn. I cannot sit in this room and stare
at the wall. I want to see the one thing you have that the rest of the Galaxy
does not have ... your microfarms. I should think you’d be proud to show them.” “We
are proud,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, finally facing Seldon as she spoke, “and
I will show you and don’t think you will learn any of our secrets if that is
what you are after. I will show you the microfarms tomorrow morning. It will
take time to arrange a tour.” Seldon
said, “I will wait till tomorrow morning. But do you promise? Do I have your
word of honor?” Raindrop
Forty-Three said with clear contempt, “I am a Sister and I will do as I say. I
will keep my word, even to a tribesman.” Her voice grew icy at the last words,
while her eyes widened and seemed to glitter. Seldon
wondered what was passing through her mind and felt uneasy. 43.Seldon
passed a restless night. To begin with, Dors had announced that she must
accompany him on the tour of the microfarm and he had objected strenuously.
“The whole purpose,” he said, “is to make her talk freely, to present her with
an unusual environment—alone with a male, even if a tribesman. Having broken
custom so far, it will be easier to break it further. If you’re along, she will
talk to you and I will only get the leavings.” “And
if something happens to you in my absence, as it did Upperside?” “Nothing
will happen. Please! If you want to help me, stay away. If not, I will have
nothing further to do with you. I mean it, Dors. This is important to me. Much
as I’ve grown fond of you, you cannot come ahead of this.” She
agreed with enormous reluctance and said only, “Promise me you’ll at least be
nice to her, then.” And
Seldon said, “Is it me you must protect or her? I assure you that I didn’t
treat her harshly for pleasure and I won’t do so in the future.” The
memory of this argument with Dors—their first—helped keep him awake a large
part of the night; that, together with the nagging thought that the two Sisters
might not arrive in the morning, despite Raindrop Forty-Three’s promise. They
did arrive, however, not long after Seldon had completed a spare breakfast (he
was determined not to grow fat through overindulgence) and had put on a kirtle
that fitted him precisely. He had carefully organized the belt so that it hung
perfectly. Raindrop
Forty-Three, still with a touch of ice in her eye, said, “if you are ready,
Tribesman Seldon, my sister will remain with Tribeswoman Venabili.” Her voice
was neither twittery nor hoarse. It was as though she had steadied herself
through the night, practicing, in her mind, how to speak to one who was a male
but not a Brother. Seldon
wondered if she had lost sleep and said, “I am quite ready.” Together,
half an hour later, Raindrop Forty-Three and Hari Seldon were descending level
upon level. Though it was daytime by the clock, the light was dusky and dimmer
than it had been elsewhere on Trantor. There was no obvious reason for this.
Surely, the artificial daylight that slowly progressed around the Trantorian
sphere could include the Mycogen Sector. The Mycogenians must want it that way,
Seldon thought, clinging to some primitive habit. Slowly Seldon’s eyes adjusted
to the dim surroundings. Seldon tried to meet the eyes of passersby, whether
Brothers or Sisters, calmly. He assumed he and Raindrop Forty-Three would be
taken as a Brother and his woman and that they would be given no notice as long
as he did nothing to attract attention. Unfortunately,
it seemed as if Raindrop Forty-Three wanted to be noticed. She talked to him in
few words and in low tones out of a clenched mouth. It was clear that the
company of an unauthorized male, even though only she knew this fact, raved her
self-confidence. Seldon was quite sure that if he asked her to relax, he would
merely make her that much more uneasy. (Seldon wondered what she would do if
she met someone who knew her. He felt more relaxed once they reached the lower
levels, where human beings were fewer.) The
descent was not by elevators either, but by moving staired ramps that existed
in pairs, one going up and one going down. Raindrop Forty-Three referred to
them as “escalators.” Seldon wasn’t sure he had caught the word correctly,
never having heard it before. As
they sank to lower and lower levels, Seldon’s apprehension grew. Most worlds
possessed microfarms and most worlds produced their own varieties of
microproducts. Seldon, back on Helicon, had occasionally shopped for seasonings
in the microfarms and was always aware of an unpleasant stomach-turning stench.
The people who worked at the microfarms didn’t seem to mind. Even when casual
visitors wrinkled their noses, they seemed to acclimate themselves to it.
Seldon, however, was always peculiarly susceptible to the smell. He suffered
and he expected to suffer now. He tried soothing himself with the thought that
he was nobly sacrificing his comfort to his need for information, but that
didn’t keep his stomach from turning itself into knots in apprehension. After
he had lost track of the number of levels they had descended, with the air
still seeming reasonably fresh, he asked, “When do we get to the microfarm
levels?” “We’re
there now.” Seldon
breathed deeply. “It doesn’t smell as though we are.” “Smell?
What do you mean?” Raindrop Forty-Three was offended enough to speak quite
loudly. “There
was always a putrid odor associated with microfarms, in my experience. You
know, from the fertilizer that bacteria, yeast, fungi, and saprophytes
generally need.” “In
your experience?” Her voice lowered again. “Where was that?” “On
my home world.” The
Sister twisted her face into wild repugnance. “And your people wallow in
gabelle?” Seldon
had never heard the word before, but from the look and the intonation, he knew
what it meant. He
said, “It doesn’t smell like that, you understand, once it is ready for
consumption.” “Ours
doesn’t smell like that at any time. Our biotechnicians have worked out perfect
strains. The algae grow in the purest light and the most carefully balanced
electrolyte solutions. The saprophytes are fed on beautifully combined
organics. The formulas and recipes are something no tribespeople will ever
know. Come on, here we are. Sniff all you want. You’ll find nothing offensive.
That is one reason why our food is in demand throughout the Galaxy and why the
Emperor, we are told, eats nothing else, though it is far too good for a
tribesman if you ask me, even if he calls himself Emperor.” She said it with an
anger that seemed directly aimed at Seldon. Then, as though afraid he might miss
that, she added, “Or even if he calls himself an honored guest.” They
stepped out into a narrow corridor, on each side of which were large thick
glass tanks in which roiled cloudy green water full of swirling, growing algae,
moving about through the force of the gas bubbles that streamed up through it.
They would be rich in carbon dioxide, he decided. Rich, rosy light shone down
into the tanks, light that was much brighter than that in the corridors. He
commented thoughtfully on that. “Of
course,” she said. “These algae work best at the red end of the spectrum.” “I
presume,” said Seldon, “that everything is automated.” She
shrugged, but did not respond. “I
don’t see quantities of Brothers and Sisters in evidence,” Seldon said,
persisting. “Nevertheless,
there is work to be done and they do it, even if you don’t see them at work.
The details are not for you. Don’t waste your time by asking about it.” “Wait.
Don’t be angry with me. I don’t expect to be told state secrets. Come on,
dear.” (The word slipped out.) He
took her arm as she seemed on the point of hurrying away. She remained in
place, but he felt her shudder slightly and he released her in embarrassment.
He said, “It’s just that it seems automated.” “Make
what you wish of the seeming. Nevertheless, there is room here for human brains
and human judgment. Every Brother and Sister has occasion to work here at some
time. Some make a profession of it.” She
was speaking more freely now but, to his continuing embarrassment, he noticed
her left hand move stealthily toward her right arm and gently rub the spot
where he had touched her, as though he had stung her. “It goes on for
kilometers and kilometers,” she said, “but if we turn here there’ll he a
portion of the fungal section you can see.” They
moved along. Seldon noted how clean everything was. The glass sparkled. The
tiled floor seemed moist, though when he seized a moment to bend and touch it,
it wasn’t. Nor was it slippery—unless his sandals (with his big toe protruding
in approved Mycogenian fashion) had nonslip soles. Raindrop Forty-Three was
right in one respect. Here and there a Brother or a Sister worked silently,
studying gauges, adjusting controls, sometimes engaged in something as
unskilled as polishing equipment—always absorbed in whatever they were doing. Seldon
was careful not to ask what they were doing, since he did not want to cause the
Sister humiliation in having to answer that she did not know or anger in her
having to remind him there were things he must not know. They passed through a lightly
swinging door and Seldon suddenly noticed the faintest touch of the odor he
remembered. He looked at Raindrop Forty-Three, but she seemed unconscious of it
and soon he too became used to it. The character of the light changed suddenly.
The rosiness was gone and the brightness too. All seemed to be in a twilight
except where equipment was spotlighted and wherever there was a spotlight there
seemed to be a Brother or a Sister. Some wore lighted headbands that gleamed
with a pearly glow and, in the middle distance, Seldon could see, here and
there, small sparks of light moving erratically. As
they walked, he cast a quick eye on her profile. It was all he could really
judge by. At all other times, he could not cease being conscious of her bulging
bald head, her bare eyes, her colorless face. They drowned her individuality
and seemed to make her invisible. Here in profile, however, he could see
something. Nose, chin, full lips, regularity, beauty. The dim light somehow
smoothed out and softened the great upper desert. He
thought with surprise: She could be very beautiful if she grew her hair and
arranged it nicely. And then he thought that she couldn’t grow her hair. She
would be bald her whole life. Why? Why did they have to do that to her?
Sunmaster said it was so that a Mycogenian would know himself (or herself) for
a Mycogenian all his (or her) life. Why was that so important that the curse of
hairlessness had to be accepted as a badge or mark of identity? And
then, because he was used to arguing both sides in his mind, he thought: Custom
is second nature. Be accustomed to a bald head, sufficiently accustomed, and
hair on it would seem monstrous, would evoke nausea. He himself had shaved his
face every morning, removing all the facial hair, uncomfortable at the merest
stubble, and yet he did not think of his face as bald or as being in any way
unnatural. Of course, he could grow his facial hair at any time he wished—but
he didn’t wish to do so. He
knew that there were worlds on which the men did not shave; in some, they did
not even clip or shape the facial hair but let it grow wild. What would they
say if they could see his own bald face, his own hairless chin, cheek, and
lips? And meanwhile, he walked with Raindrop Forty-Three—endlessly, it
seemed—and every once in a while she guided him by the elbow and it seemed to
him that she had grown accustomed to that, for she did not withdraw her hand
hastily. Sometimes it remained for nearly a minute. She
said, “Here! Come here!” “What
is that?” asked Seldon. They
were standing before a small tray filled with little spheres, each about two
centimeters in diameter. A Brother who was tending the area and who had just
placed the tray where it was looked up in mild inquiry. Raindrop
Forty-Three said to Seldon in a low voice, “Ask for a few.” Seldon
realized she could not speak to a Brother until spoken to and said uncertainly,
“May we have a few, B—brother?” “Have
a handful, Brother,” said the other heartily. Seldon
plucked out one of the spheres and was on the point of handing it to Raindrop
Forty-Three when he noticed that she had accepted the invitation as applying to
herself and reached in for two handfuls. The sphere felt glossy, smooth. Seldon
said to Raindrop Forty-Three as they moved away from the vat and from the
Brother who was in attendance, “Are these supposed to be eaten?” He lifted the
sphere cautiously to his nose. “They
don’t smell,” she said sharply. “What
are they?” “Dainties.
Raw dainties. For the outside market they’re flavored in different ways, but here
in Mycogen we eat them unflavored—the only way.” She put one in her mouth and
said, “I never have enough.” Seldon
put his sphere into his mouth and felt it dissolve and disappear rapidly. His
mouth, for a moment, ran liquid and then it slid, almost of its own accord,
down his throat. He
stood for a moment, amazed. It was slightly sweet and, for that matter, had an
even fainter bitter aftertaste, but the main sensation eluded him. “May I have
another?” he said. “Have
half a dozen,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, holding out her hand. “They never
have quite the same taste twice and have practically no calories. Just taste.” She
was right. He tried to have the dainty linger in his mouth; he tried licking it
carefully; tried biting off a piece. However, the most careful lick destroyed
it. When a bit was crunched off apiece, the rest of it disappeared at once. And
each taste was undefinable and not quite like the one before. “The
only trouble is,” said the Sister happily, “that every once in a while you have
a very unusual one and you never forget it, but you never have it again either.
I had one when I was nine—” Her expression suddenly lost its excitement and she
said, “It’s a good thing. It teaches you the evanescence of things of the
world.” It
was a signal, Seldon thought. They had wandered about aimlessly long enough.
She had grown used to him and was talking to him. And now the conversation had
to come to its point. Now! 44.Seldon
said, “I come from a world which lies out in the open, Sister, as all worlds do
but Trantor. Rain comes or doesn’t come, the rivers trickle or are in flood,
temperature is high or low. That means harvests are good or bad. Here, however,
the environment is truly controlled. Harvests have no choice but to be good.
How fortunate Mycogen is.” He
waited. There were different possible answers and his course of action would
depend on which answer came. She
was speaking quite freely now and seemed to have no inhibitions concerning his
masculinity, so this long tour had served its purpose. Raindrop Forty-Three
said, “The environment is not that easy to control. There are, occasionally,
viral infections and there are sometimes unexpected and undesirable mutations.
There are times when whole vast batches wither or are worthless.” “You
astonish me. And what happens then?” “There
is usually no recourse but to destroy the spoiled batches, even those that are
merely suspected of spoilage. Trays and tanks must be totally sterilized,
sometimes disposed of altogether.” “It
amounts to surgery, then,” said Seldon. “You cut out the diseased tissue.” “Yes.” “And
what do you do to prevent such things from happening?” “What
can we do? We test constantly for any mutations that may spring up, any new
viruses that may appear, any accidental contamination or alteration of the
environment. It rarely happens that we detect anything wrong, but if we do, we
take drastic action. The result is that bad years are very few and even bad
years affect only fractional bits here and there. The worst year we’ve ever had
fell short of the average by only 12 percent—though that was enough to produce
hardship. The trouble is that even the most careful forethought and the most
cleverly designed computer programs can’t always predict what is essentially
unpredictable.” (Seldon
felt an involuntary shudder go through him. It was as though she was speaking
of psychohistory—but she was only speaking of the microfarm produce of a tiny
fraction of humanity, while he himself was considering all the mighty Galactic
Empire in every one of all its activities.) Unavoidably disheartened, he said,
“Surely, it’s not all unpredictable. There are forces that guide and that care
for us all.” The
Sister stiffened. She turned around toward him, seeming to study him with her
penetrating eyes. But all she said was “What?” Seldon
felt uneasy. “It seems to me that in speaking of viruses and mutations, we’re
talking about the natural, about phenomena that are subject to natural law.
That leaves out of account the supernatural, doesn’t it? It leaves out that which
is not subject to natural law and can, therefore, control natural law.” She
continued to stare at him, as though he had suddenly begun speaking some
distant, unknown dialect of Galactic Standard. Again she said, in half a
whisper this time, “Wharf.” He
continued, stumbling over unfamiliar words that half-embarrassed him. “You must
appeal to some great essence, some great spirit, some ... I don’t know what to
call it.” Raindrop
Forty-Three said in a voice that rose into higher registers but remained low,
“I thought so. I thought that was what you meant, but I couldn’t believe it.
You’re accusing us of having religion. Why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you
use the word?” She
waited for an answer and Seldon, a little confused at the onslaught, said,
“Because that’s not a word I use. I call it ‘supernaturalism.’ ” “Call
it what you will. It’s religion and we don’t have it. Religion is for the
tribesmen, for the swarming ho—” The
Sister paused to swallow as though she had come near to choking and Seldon was
certain the word she had choked over was—” She
was in control again. Speaking slowly and somewhat below her normal soprano,
she said, “We are not a religious people. Our kingdom is of this Galaxy and
always has been. If you have a religion—” Seldon
felt trapped. Somehow he had not counted on this. He raised a hand defensively.
“Not really. I’m a mathematician and my kingdom is also of this Galaxy. It’s
just that I thought, from the rigidity of your customs, that your kingdom—” “Don’t
think it, tribesman. If our customs are rigid, it is because we are mere
millions surrounded by billions. Somehow we must mark ourselves off so that we
precious few are not lost among your swarms and hordes. We must be marked off
by our hairlessness, our clothing, our behavior, our way of life. We must know
who we are and we must be sure that you tribesmen know who we are. We labor in
our farms so that we can make ourselves valuable in your eyes and thus make
certain that you leave us alone. That’s all we ask of you ... to leave us
alone.” “I
have no intention of harming you or any of your people. I seek only knowledge,
here as everywhere.” “So
you insult us by asking about our religion, as though we have ever called on a
mysterious, insubstantial spirit to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.” “There
are many people, many worlds who believe in supernaturalism in one form or
another ... religion, if you like the word better. We may disagree with them in
one way or another, but we are as likely to be wrong in our disbelief as they
in their belief. In any case, there is no disgrace in such belief and my
questions were not intended as insults.” But
she was not reconciled. “Religion!” she said angrily. “We have no need of it.” Seldon’s
spirits, having sunk steadily in the course of this exchange, reached bottom.
This whole thing, this expedition with Raindrop Forty-Three, had come to
nothing. But
she went on to say, “We have something far better. We have history.” And
Seldon’s feelings rebounded at once and he smiled. BookHAND-ON-THIGH
STORY— ... An occasion cited by Hari Seldon as the first turning point in his
search for a method to develop psychohistory. Unfortunately, his published
writings give no indication as to what that “story” was and speculations
concerning it (there have been many) are futile. It remains one of the many
intriguing mysteries concerning Seldon’s career. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 45.Raindrop
Forty-Three stared at Seldon, wild-eyed and breathing heavily. “I can’t stay
here,” she said. Seldon
looked about. “No one is bothering us. Even the Brother from whom we got the
dainties said nothing about us. He seemed to take us as a perfectly normal
pair.” “That’s
because there is nothing unusual about us—when the light is dim, when you keep
your voice low so the tribesman accent is less noticeable, and when I seem
calm. But now—” Her voice was growing hoarse. “What
of now?” “I
am nervous and tense. I am ... in a perspiration.” “Who
is to notice? Relax. Calm down.” “I
can’t relax here. I can’t calm down while I may be noticed.” “Where
are we to go, then?” “There
are little sheds for resting. I have worked here. I know about them.” She
was walking rapidly now and Seldon followed. Up a small ramp, which he would
not have noticed in the twilight without her, there was a line of doors, well
spread apart. “The
one at the end,” she muttered. “If it’s free.” It
was unoccupied. A small glowing rectangle said NOT IN USE and the door was
ajar. Raindrop
Forty-Three looked about rapidly, motioned Seldon in, then stepped inside
herself. She closed the door and, as she did so, a small ceiling light
brightened the interior. Seldon
said, “Is there any way the sign on the door can indicate this shed is in use?” “That
happened automatically when the door closed and the light went on,” said the
Sister. Seldon
could feel air softly circulating with a small sighing sound, but where on
Trantor was that ever-present sound and feel not apparent? The room was not
large, but it had a cot with a firm, efficient mattress, and what were
obviously clean sheets. There was a chair and table, a small refrigerator, and
something that looked like an enclosed hot plate, probably a tiny food-heater. Raindrop
Forty-Three sat down on the chair, sitting stiffly upright, visibly attempting
to force herself into relaxation. Seldon,
uncertain as to what he ought to do, remained standing till she gestured—a bit
impatiently—for him to sit on the cot. He did so. Raindrop
Forty-Three said softly, as though talking to herself, “If it is ever known
that I have been here with a man—even if only a tribesman—I shall indeed be an
outcast.” Seldon
rose quickly. “Then let’s not stay here.” “Sit
down. I can’t go out when I’m in this mood. You’ve been asking about religion.
What are you after?” It
seemed to Seldon that she had changed completely. Gone was the passivity, the
subservience. There was none of the shyness, the backwardness in the presence
of a male. She was glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “I
told you. Knowledge. I’m a scholar. It is my profession and my desire to know,
I want to understand people in particular, so I want to learn history. For many
worlds, the ancient historical records—the truly ancient historical
records—have decayed into myths and legends, often becoming part of a set of
religious beliefs or of supernaturalism. But if Mycogen does not have a
religion, then—” “I
said we have history.” Seldon
said, “Twice you’ve said you have history. How old?” “It
goes back twenty thousand years.” “Truly?
Let us speak frankly. Is it real history or is it something that has
degenerated into legend?” “It
is real history, of course.” Seldon
was on the point of asking how she could tell, but thought better of it. Was
there really a chance that history might reach back twenty thousand years and
be authentic? He was not a historian himself, so he would have to check with
Dors. But
it seemed so likely to him that on every world the earliest histories were
medleys of self-serving heroisms and minidramas that were meant as morality
plays and were not to be taken literally. It was surely true of Helicon, yet
you would find scarcely a Heliconian who would not swear by all the tales told
and insist it was all true history. They would support, as such, even that
perfectly ridiculous tale of the first exploration of Helicon and the encounters
with large and dangerous flying reptiles—even though nothing like flying
reptiles had been found to be native to any world explored and settled by human
beings. He
said instead, “How does this history begin?” There
was a faraway look in the Sister’s eyes, a look that did not focus on Seldon or
on anything in the room. She said, “It begins with a world—our world. One
world.” “One
world?” (Seldon remembered that Hummin had spoken of legends of a single,
original world of humanity.) “One
world. There were others later, but ours was the first. One world, with space,
with open air, with room for everyone, with fertile fields, with friendly
homes, with warm people. For thousands of years we lived there and then we had
to leave and skulk in one place or another until some of us found a corner of
Trantor where we learned to grow food that brought us a little freedom. And
here in Mycogen, we now have our own ways—and our own dreams.” “And
your histories give the full details concerning the original world? The one
world?” “Oh
yes, it is all in a book and we all have it. Every one of us. We carry it at
all times so that there is never a moment when any one of us cannot open it and
read it and remember who we are and who we were and resolve that someday we
will have our world back.” “Do
you know where this world is and who lives on it now?” Raindrop
Forty-Three hesitated, then shook her head fiercely. “We do not, but someday we
will find it.” “And
you have this book in your possession now?” “Of
course.” “May
I see that book?” Now
a slow smile crossed the face of the Sister. She said, “So that’s what you
want. I knew you wanted something when you asked to be guided through the
microfarms by me alone.” She seemed a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think it
was the Book.” “It
is all I want,” said Seldon earnestly. “I really did not have my mind on
anything else. If you brought me here because you thought—” She
did not allow him to finish. “But here we are. Do you or don’t you want the
Book?” “Are
you offering to let me see it?” “On
one condition.” Seldon
paused, weighing the possibility of serious trouble if he had overcome the
Sister’s inhibitions to a greater extent than he had ever intended. “What
condition?” he said. Raindrop
Forty-Three’s tongue emerged lightly and licked quickly at her lips. Then she
said with a distinct tremor in her voice, “That you remove your skincap.” 46.Hari
Seldon stared blankly at Raindrop Forty-Three. There was a perceptible moment
in which he did not know what she was talking about. He had forgotten he was
wearing a skincap. Then
he put his hand to his head and, for the first time, consciously felt the
skincap he was wearing. It was smooth, but he felt the tiny resilience of the
hair beneath. Not much. His hair, after all, was fine and without much body. He
said, still feeling it, “Why?” She
said, “Because I want you to. Because that’s the condition if you want to see
the Book.” He
said, “Well, if you really want me to.” His hand probed for the edge, so that
he could peel it off. But
she said, “No, let me do it. I’ll do it.” She was looking at him hungrily. Seldon
dropped his hands to his lap. “Go ahead, then.” The
Sister rose quickly and sat down next to him on the cot. Slowly, carefully, she
detached the skincap from his head just in front of his ear. Again she licked
her lips and she was panting as she loosened the skincap about his forehead and
turned it up. Then it came away and was gone and Seldon’s hair, released,
seemed to stir a bit in glad freedom. He
said, troubled, “Keeping my hair under the skincap has probably made my scalp
sweat. If so, my hair will be rather damp.” He
raised his hand, as though to check the matter, but she caught it and held it
back. “I want to do that,” she said. “Its part of the condition.” Her fingers,
slowly and hesitantly, touched his hair and then withdrew. She touched it again
and, very gently, stroked it. “It’s dry,” she said. “It feels ... good.” “Have
you ever felt cephalic hair before?” “Only
on children sometimes. This ... is different.” She was stroking again. “In
what way?” Seldon, even amid his embarrassment, found it possible to be
curious. “I
can’t say. Its just ... different.” After
a while he said, “Have you had enough?” “No.
Don’t rush me. Can you make it lie anyway you want it to?” “Not
really. It has a natural way of falling, but I need a comb for that and I don’t
have one with me.” “A
comb?” “An
object with prongs ... uh, like a fork ... but the prongs are more numerous and
somewhat softer.” “Can
you use your fingers?” She was running hers through his hair. He
said, “After a fashion. It doesn’t work very well.” “Its
bristly behind.” “The
hair is shorter there.” Raindrop
Forty-Three seemed to recall something. “The eyebrows,” she said. “Isn’t that
what they’re called?” She stripped off the shields, then ran her fingers
through the gentle arc of hair, against the grain. “That’s nice,” she said,
then laughed in a high-pitched way that was almost like her younger sister’s
giggle. “They’re cute.” Seldon
said a little impatiently, “Is there anything else that’s part of the
condition?” In
the rather dim light, Raindrop Forty-Three looked as though she might be
considering an affirmative, but said nothing. Instead, she suddenly withdrew
her hands and lifted them to her nose. Seldon wondered what she might be
smelling. “How odd,” she said. “May I ... may I do it again another time?” Seldon
said uneasily, “If you will let me have the Book long enough to study it, then
perhaps.” Raindrop
Forty-Three reached into her kirtle through a slit that Seldon had not noticed
before and, from some hidden inner pocket, removed a book bound in some tough,
flexible material. He took it, trying to control his excitement. While Seldon
readjusted his skincap to cover his hair, Raindrop Forty-Three raised her hands
to her nose again and then, gently and quickly, licked one finger. 47.“Felt
your hair?” said Dors Venabili. She looked at Seldon’s hair as though she was
of a mind to feel it herself. Seldon
moved away slightly. “Please don’t. The woman made it seem like a perversion.” “I
suppose it was—from her standpoint. Did you derive no pleasure from it
yourself?” “Pleasure?
It gave me gooseflesh. When she finally stopped, I was able to breathe again. I
kept thinking: What other conditions will she make?” Dors
laughed. “Were you afraid that she would force sex upon you? Or hopeful?” “I
assure you I didn’t dare think. I just wanted the Book.” They
were in their room now and Dors turned on her field distorter to make sure they
would not be overheard. The
Mycogenian night was about to begin. Seldon had removed his skincap and kirtle
and had bathed, paying particular attention to his hair, which he had foamed
and rinsed twice. He was now sitting on his cot, wearing a light nightgown that
had been hanging in the closet. Dors
said, eyes dancing, “Did she know you have hair on your chest?” “I
was hoping earnestly she wouldn’t think of that.” “Poor
Hari. It was all perfectly natural, you know. I would probably have had similar
trouble if I was alone with a Brother. Worse, I’m sure, since he would
believe—Mycogenian society being what it is—that as a woman I would be bound to
obey his orders without delay or demur.” “No,
Dors. You may think it was perfectly natural, but you didn’t experience it. The
poor woman was in a high state of sexual excitement. She engaged all her senses
... smelled her fingers, licked them. If she could have heard hair grow, she
would have listened avidly.” “But
that’s what I mean by ‘natural.’ Anything you make forbidden gains sexual
attractiveness. Would you be particularly interested in women’s breasts if you
lived in a society in which they were displayed at all times?” “I
think I might.” “Wouldn’t
you be more interested if they were always hidden, as in most societies they
are?— Listen, let me tell you something that happened to me. I was at a lake
resort back home on Cinna ... I presume you have resorts on Helicon, beaches,
that sort of thing?” “Of
course,” said Seldon, slightly annoyed. “What do you think Helicon is, a world
of rocks and mountains, with only well water to drink?” “No
offense, Hari. I just want to make sure you’ll get the point of the story. On
our beaches at Cinna, we’re pretty lighthearted about what we wear ... or don’t
wear.” “Nude
beaches?” “Not
actually, though I suppose if someone removed all of his or her clothing it
wouldn’t be much remarked on. The custom is to wear a decent minimum, but I
must admit that what we consider decent leaves very little to the imagination.” Seldon
said, “We have somewhat higher standards of decency on Helicon.” “Yes,
I could tell that by your careful treatment of me, but to each its own. In any
case, I was sitting at the small beach by the lake and a young man approached
to whom I had spoken earlier in the day. He was a decent fellow I found nothing
particularly wrong with. He sat on the arm of my chair and placed his right
hand on my left thigh, which was bare, of course, in order to steady himself. “After
we had spoken for a minute and a half or so, he said, impishly. ‘Here I am. You
know me hardly at all and yet it seems perfectly natural to me that I place my
hand on your thigh. What’s more, it seems perfectly natural to you, since you
don’t seem to mind that it remains there.’ “It
was only then that I actually noticed that his hand was on my thigh. Bare skin in
public somehow loses some of its sexual quality. As I said, its the hiding from
view that is crucial. “And
the young man felt this too, for he went on to say, ‘Yet if I were to meet you
under more formal conditions and you were wearing a gown, you wouldn’t dream of
letting me lift your gown and place my hand on your thigh on the precise spot
it now occupies.’ “I
laughed and we continued to talk of this and that. Of course, the young man,
now that my attention had been called to the position of his hand, felt it no
longer appropriate to keep it there and removed it. “That
night I dressed for dinner with more than usual care and appeared in clothing
that was considerably more formal than was required or than other women in the
dining room were wearing. I found the young man in question. He was sitting at
one of the tables. I approached, greeted him, and said, ‘Here I am in a gown,
but under it my left thigh is bare. I give you permission. Just lift the gown
and place your hand on my left thigh where you had it earlier.’ “He
tried. I’ll give him credit for that, but everyone was staring. I wouldn’t have
stopped him and I’m sure no one else would have stopped him either, but he
couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was no more public then than it had been
earlier and the same people were present in both cases. It was clear that I had
taken the initiative and that I had no objections, but he could not bring
himself to violate the proprieties. The conditions, which had been
hand-on-thigh in the afternoon, were not hand-on-thigh in the evening and that
meant more than anything logic could say.” Seldon
said, “I would have put my hand on your thigh.” “Are
you sure?” “Positive.” “Even
though your standards of decency on the beach are higher than ours are?” “Yes.” Dors
sat down on her own cot, then lay down with her hands behind her head. “So that
you’re not particularly disturbed that I’m wearing a nightgown with very little
underneath it.” “I’m
not particularly shocked. As for being disturbed, that depends on the definition
of the word. I’m certainly aware of how you’re dressed.” “Well,
if we’re going to be cooped up here for a period of time, we’ll have to learn
to ignore such things.” “Or
take advantage of them,” said Seldon, grinning. “And I like your hair. After
seeing you bald all day, I like your hair.” “Well,
don’t touch it. I haven’t washed it yet.” She half-closed her eyes. “It’s
interesting. You’ve detached the informal and formal level of respectability.
What you’re saying is that Helicon is more respectable at the informal level
than Cinna is and less respectable at the formal level. Is that right?” “Actually,
I’m just talking about the young man who placed his hand on your thigh and
myself. How representative we are as Cinnians and Heliconians, respectively, I can’t
say. I can easily imagine some perfectly proper individuals on both worlds—and
some madcaps too.” “We’re
talking about social pressures. I’m not exactly a Galactic traveler, but I’ve
had to involve myself in a great deal of social history. On the planet of
Derowd, there was a time when premarital sex was absolutely free. Multiple sex
was allowed for the unmarried and public sex was frowned upon only when traffic
was blocked: And yet, after marriage, monogamy was absolute and unbroken. The
theory was that by working off all one’s fantasies first, one could settle down
to the serious business of life.” “Did
it work?” “About
three hundred years ago that stopped, but some of my colleagues say it stopped
through external pressure from other worlds who were losing too much tourist
business to Derowd. There is such a thing as overall Galactic social pressure
too.” “Or
perhaps economic pressure, in this case.” “Perhaps.
And being at the University, by the way, I get a chance to study social
pressures, even without being a Galactic traveler. I meet people from scores of
places inside and outside of Trantor and one of the pet amusements in the
social science departments is the comparison of social pressures. “Here
in Mycogen, for instance, I have the impression that sex is strictly controlled
and is permitted under only the most stringent rules, all the more tightly
enforced because it is never discussed. In the Streeling Sector, sex is never
discussed either, but it isn’t condemned. In the Jennat Sector, where I spent a
week once doing research, sex is discussed endlessly, but only for the purpose
of condemning it. I don’t suppose there are any two sectors in Trantor—or any
two worlds outside Trantor—in which attitudes toward sex are completely
duplicated.” Seldon
said, “You know what you make it sound like? It would appear—” Dors
said, “I’ll tell you how it appears. All this talk of sex makes one thing clear
to me. I’m simply not going to let you out of my sight anymore.” “What?” “Twice
I let you go, the first time through my own misjudgment and the second because
you bullied me into it. Both times it was clearly a mistake. You know what
happened to you the first time.” Seldon
said indignantly, “Yes, but nothing happened to me the second time.” “You
nearly got into a lot of trouble. Suppose you had been caught indulging in
sexual escapades with a Sister?” “It
wasn’t a sexual—” “You
yourself said she was in a high state of sexual excitement.” “But—” “It
was wrong. Please get it through your head, Hari. From now on, you go nowhere
without me.” “Look,”
said Seldon freezingly, “my object was to find out about Mycogenian history and
as a result of the so-called sexual escapade with a Sister, I have a book—the
Book.” “The
Book! True, there’s the Book. Let’s see it.” Seldon
produced it and Dors thoughtfully hefted it. She
said, “It might not do us any good, Hari. This doesn’t look as though it will
fit any projector I’ve ever encountered. That means you’ll have to get a
Mycogenian projector and they’ll want to know why you want it. They’ll then
find out you have this Book and they’ll take it away from you.” Seldon
smiled. “If your assumptions were correct, Dors, your conclusions would be
inescapable, but it happens that this is not the kind of book you think it is.
It’s not meant to be projected. The material is printed on various pages and
the pages are turned. Raindrop Forty-Three explained that much to me.” “A
print-book!” It was hard to tell whether Dors was shocked or amused. “That’s
from the Stone Age.” “It’s
certainly pre-Empire,” said Seldon, “but not entirely so. Have you ever seen a
print-book?” “Considering
that I’m a historian? Of course, Hari.” “Ah,
but like this one?” He
handed over the Book and Dors, smiling, opened it—then turned to another
page—then flipped the pages. “Its blank,” she said. “It
appears to be blank. The Mycogenians are stubbornly primitivistic, but not
entirely so. They will keep to the essence of the primitive, but have no
objection to using modern technology to modify it for convenience’s sake. Who
knows?” “Maybe
so, Hari, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.” “The
pages aren’t blank, they’re covered with microprint. Here, give it back. If I
press this little nubbin on the inner edge of the cover— Look!” The
page to which the book lay open was suddenly covered with lines of print that
rolled slowly upward. Seldon
said, “You can adjust the rate of upward movement to match your reading speed
by slightly twisting the nubbin one way or the other. When the lines of print
reach their upward limit when you reach the bottom line, that is—they snap
downward and turn off. You turn to the next page and continue.” “Where
does the energy come from that does all this?” “It
has an enclosed microfusion battery that lasts the life of the book.” “Then
when it runs down—” “You
discard the book, which you may be required to do even before it runs down,
given wear and tear, and get another copy. You never replace the battery.” Dors
took the Book a second time and looked at it from all sides. She said, “I must
admit I never heard of a book like this.” “Nor
I. The Galaxy, generally, has moved into visual technology so rapidly, it
skipped over this possibility.” “This
is visual.” “Yes,
but not with the orthodox effects. This type of book has its advantages. It
holds far more than an ordinary visual book does.” Dors
said, “Where’s the turn-on?—Ah, let me see if I can work it.” She had opened to
a page at random and set the lines of print marching upward. Then she said,
“I’m afraid this won’t do you any good, Hari. It’s pre-Galactic. I don’t mean
the book. I mean the print ... the language.” “Can
you read it, Dors? As a historian—” “As
a historian, I’m used to dealing with archaic language—but within limits. This
is far too ancient for me. I can make out a few words here and there, but not
enough to be useful.” “Good,”
said Seldon. “If it’s really ancient, it will be useful.” “Not
if you can’t read it.” “I
can read it,” said Seldon. “It’s bilingual. You don’t suppose that Raindrop
Forty-Three can read the ancient script, do you?” “If
she’s educated properly, why not?” “Because
I suspect that women in Mycogen are not educated past household duties. Some of
the more learned men can read this, but everyone else would need a translation
to Galactic.” He pushed another nubbin. “And this supplies it.” The
lines of print changed to Galactic Standard. “Delightful,”
said Dors in admiration. “We
could learn from these Mycogenians, but we don’t.” “We
haven’t known about it.” “I
can’t believe that. I know about it now. And you know about it. There must be
outsiders coming into Mycogen now and then, for commercial or political
reasons, or there wouldn’t be skincaps so ready for use. So every once in a
while someone must have caught a glimpse of this sort of print-book and seen
how it works, but it’s probably dismissed as something curious but not worth
further study, simply because it’s Mycogenian.” “But
is it worth study?” “Of
course. Everything is. Or should be. Hummin would probably point to this lack
of concern about these books as a sign of degeneration in the Empire.” He
lifted the Book and said with a gush of excitement, “But I am curious and I
will read this and it may push me in the direction of psychohistory.” “I
hope so,” said Dors, “but if you take my advice, you’ll sleep first and
approach it fresh in the morning. You won’t learn much if you nod over it.” Seldon
hesitated, then said, “How maternal you are!” “I’m
watching over you.” “But
I have a mother alive on Helicon. I would rather you were my friend.” “As
for that, I have been your friend since first I met you.” She smiled at him and
Seldon hesitated as though he were not certain as to the appropriate rejoinder. Finally
he said, “Then I’ll take your advice—as a friend—and sleep before reading.” He
made as though to put the Book on a small table between the two cots,
hesitated, turned, and put it under his pillow. Dors
Venabili laughed softly. “I think you’re afraid I will wake during the night
and read parts of the Book before you have a chance to. Is that it?” “Well,”
said Seldon, trying not to look ashamed, “that may be it. Even friendship only
goes so far and this is my book and it’s my psychohistory.” “I
agree,” said Dors, “and I promise you that we won’t quarrel over that. By the
way, you were about to say something earlier when I interrupted you. Remember?” Seldon
thought briefly. “No.” In
the dark, he thought only of the Book. He gave no thought to the hand-on-thigh
story. In fact, he had already quite forgotten it, consciously at least. 48.Venabili
woke up and could tell by her timeband that the night period was only half
over. Not hearing Hari’s snore, she could tell that his cot was empty. If he
had not left the apartment, then he was in the bathroom. She tapped lightly on
the door and said softly, “Hari?” He
said, “Come in,” in an abstracted way and she did. The toilet lid was down and
Seldon, seated upon it, held the Book open on his lap. He said, quite
unnecessarily, “I’m reading.” “Yes,
I see that. But why?” “I
couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.” “But
why read in here?” “If
I had turned on the room light, I would have woken you up.” “Are
you sure the Book can’t be illuminated?” “Pretty
sure. When Raindrop Forty-Three described its workings, she never mentioned
illumination. Besides, I suppose that would use up so much energy that the
battery wouldn’t last the life of the Book.” He sounded dissatisfied. Dors
said, “You can step out, then. I want to use this place, as long as I’m here.” When
she emerged, she found him sitting cross-legged on his cot, still reading, with
the room well lighted. She
said, “You don’t look happy. Does the Book disappoint you?” He
looked up at her, blinking. “Yes, it does. I’ve sampled it here and there. It’s
all I’ve had time to do. The thing is a virtual encyclopedia and the index is
almost entirely a listing of people and places that are of little use for my
purposes. It has nothing to do with the Galactic Empire or the pre-Imperial
Kingdoms either. It deals almost entirely with a single world and, as nearly as
I can make out from what I have read, it is an endless dissertation on internal
politics.” “Perhaps
you underestimate its age. It may deal with a period when there was indeed only
one world ... one inhabited world.” “Yes,
I know,” said Seldon a little impatiently. “That’s actually what I want—provided
I can be sure its history, not legend. I wonder. I don’t want to believe it
just because I want to believe it.” Dors
said, “Well, this matter of a single-world origin is much in the air these
days. Human beings are a single species spread all over the Galaxy, so they
must have originated somewhere. At least that’s the popular view at present.
You can’t have independent origins producing the same species on different
worlds.” “But
I’ve never seen the inevitability of that argument,” said Seldon. “If human
beings arose on a number of worlds as a number of different species, why
couldn’t they have interbred into some single intermediate species?” “Because
species can’t interbreed. That’s what makes them species.” Seldon
thought about it a moment, then dismissed it with a shrug. “Well, I’ll leave it
to the biologists.” “They’re
precisely the ones who are keenest on the Earth hypothesis.” “Earth?
Is that what they call the supposed world of origin?” “That’s
a popular name for it, though there’s no way of telling what it was called,
assuming there was one. And no one has any clue to what its location might be.” “Earth!”
said Seldon, curling his lips. “It sounds like a belch to me. In any case, if
the book deals with the original world, I didn’t come across it. How do you
spell the word?” She
told him and he checked the Book quickly. “There you are. The name is not
listed in the index, either by that spelling or any reasonable alternative.” “Really?” “And
they do mention other worlds in passing. Names aren’t given and there seems no
interest in those other worlds except insofar as they directly impinge on the
local world they speak of ... at least as far as I can see from what I’ve read.
In one place, they talked about ‘The Fifty.’ I don’t know what they meant.
Fifty leaders? Fifty cities? It seemed to me to be fifty worlds.” “Did
they give a name to their own world, this world that seems to preoccupy them
entirely?” asked Dors. “If they don’t call it Earth, what do they call it?” “As
you’d expect, they call it ‘the world’ or ‘the planet.’ Sometimes they call it
‘the Oldest’ or ‘the World of the Dawn,’ which has a poetic significance, I
presume, that isn’t clear to me. I suppose one ought to read the Book entirely
through and some matters will then grow to make more sense.” He looked down at
the Book in his hand with some distaste. “It would take a very long time,
though, and I’m not sure that I’d end up any the wiser.” Dors
sighed. “I’m sorry, Hari. You sound so disappointed.” “That’s
because I am disappointed. It’s my fault, though. I should not have allowed
myself to expect too much.—At one point, come to think of it, they referred to
their world as ‘Aurora.’ ” “Aurora?”
said Dors, lifting her eyebrows. “It
sounds like a proper name. It doesn’t make any sense otherwise, as far as I can
see. Does it mean anything to you, Dors?” “Aurora.”
Dors thought about it with a slight frown on her face. “I can’t say I’ve ever
heard of a planet with that name in the course of the history of the Galactic
Empire or during the period of its growth, for that matter, but I won’t pretend
to know the name of every one of the twenty-five million worlds. We could look
it up in the University library—if we ever get back to Streeling. There’s no
use trying to find a library here in Mycogen. Somehow I have a feeling that all
their knowledge is in the Book. If anything isn’t there, they aren’t
interested.” Seldon
yawned and said, “I think you’re right. In any case, there’s no use reading any
more and I doubt that I can keep my eyes open any longer. Is it all right if I
put out the light?” “I
would welcome it, Hari. And let’s sleep a little later in the morning.” Then,
in the dark, Seldon said softly, “Of course, some of what they say is
ridiculous. For instance, they refer to a life expectancy on their world of
between three and four centuries.” “Centuries?” “Yes,
they count their ages by decades rather than by years. It gives you a queer
feeling, because so much of what they say is perfectly matter-of-fact that when
they come out with something that odd, you almost find yourself trapped into
believing it.” “If
you feel yourself beginning to believe that, then you should realize that many
legends of primitive origins assume extended life spans for early leaders. If
they’re pictured as unbelievably heroic, you see, it seems natural that they
have life spans to suit.” “Is
that so?” said Seldon, yawning again. “It
is. And the cure for advanced gullibility is to go to sleep and consider
matters again the next day.” And
Seldon, pausing only long enough to think that an extended life span might well
be a simple necessity for anyone trying to understand a Galaxy of people,
slept. 49.The
next morning, feeling relaxed and refreshed and eager to begin his study of the
Book again, Hari asked Dors, “How old would you say the Raindrop sisters are?” “I
don’t know. Twenty ... twenty-two?” “Well,
suppose they do live three or four centuries.” “Hari.
That’s ridiculous.” “I’m
saying suppose. In mathematics, we say ‘suppose’ all the time and see if we can
end up with something patently untrue or self-contradictory. An extended life
span would almost surely mean an extended period of development. They might
seem in their early twenties and actually be in their sixties.” “You
can try asking them how old they are.” “We
can assume they’d lie.” “Look
up their birth certificates.” Seldon
smiled wryly. “I’ll bet you anything you like—a roll in the hay, if you’re
willing—that they’ll claim they don’t keep records or that, if they do, they
will insist those records are closed to tribespeople.” “No
bet,” said Dors. “And if that’s true, then it’s useless trying to suppose
anything about their age.” “Oh
no. Think of it this way. If the Mycogenians are living extended life spans
that are four or five times that of ordinary human beings, they can’t very well
give birth to very many children without expanding their population
tremendously. You remember that Sunmaster said something about not having the
population expand and bit off his remarks angrily at that time.” Dors
said, “What are you getting at?” “When
I was with Raindrop Forty-Three, I saw no children.” “On
the microfarms?” “Yes.” “Did
you expect children there? I was with Raindrop Forty-Five in the shops and on
the residential levels and I assure you I saw a number of children of all ages,
including infants. Quite a few of them.” “Ah.”
Seldon looked chagrined. “Then that would mean they can’t be enjoying extended
life spans.” Dors
said, “By your line of argument, I should say definitely not. Did you really
think they did?” “No,
not really. But then you can’t close your mind either and make assumptions
without testing them one way or another.” “You
can waste a lot of time that way too, if you stop to chew away at things that
are ridiculous on the face of it.” “Some
things that seem ridiculous on the face of it aren’t. That’s all. Which reminds
me. You’re the historian. In your work, have you ever come across objects or
phenomena called ‘robots’?” “Ah!
Now you’re switching to another legend and a very popular one. There are any
number of worlds that imagine the existence of machines in human form in
prehistoric times. These are called ‘robots.’ “The
tales of robots probably originate from one master legend, for the general
theme is the same. Robots were devised, then grew in numbers and abilities to
the status of the almost superhuman. They threatened humanity and were
destroyed. In every case, the destruction took place before the actual reliable
historic records available to us today existed. The usual feeling is that the
story is a symbolic picture of the risks and dangers of exploring the Galaxy,
when human beings expanded outward from the world or worlds that were their
original homes. There must always have been the fear of encountering other—and
superior—intelligences.” “Perhaps
they did at least once and that gave rise to the legend.” “Except
that on no human—occupied world has there been any record or trace of any
prehuman or nonhuman intelligence.” “But
why ‘robots’? Does the word have meaning?” “Not
that I know of, but it’s the equivalent of the familiar ‘automata.’ ” “Automata!
Well, why don’t they say so?” “Because
people do use archaic terms for flavor when they tell an ancient legend. Why do
you ask all this, by the way?” “Because
in this ancient Mycogenian book, they talk of robots. And very favorably, by
the way.—Listen, Dors, aren’t you going out with Raindrop Forty-Five again this
afternoon?” “Supposedly—if
she shows up.” “Would
you ask her some questions and try to get the answers out of her?” “I
can try. What are the questions?” “I
would like to find out, as tactfully as possible, if there is some structure in
Mycogen that is particularly significant, that is tied in with the past, that
has a sort of mythic value, that can—” Dors
interrupted, trying not to smile. “I think that what you are trying to ask is
whether Mycogen has a temple.” And,
inevitably, Seldon looked blank and said, “What’s a temple?” “Another
archaic term of uncertain origin. It means all the things you asked
about—significance, past, myth. Very well, I’ll ask. It’s the sort of thing,
however, that they might find difficult to speak of. To tribespeople,
certainly.” “Nevertheless,
do try.” SacratoriumAURORA—
... A mythical world, supposedly inhabited in primordial times, during the dawn
of interstellar travel. It is thought by some to he the perhaps equally
mythical “world of origin” of humanity and to be another name for “Earth.” The
people of the Mycogen (q.v.) Sector of ancient Trantor reportedly held
themselves to be descended from the inhabitants of Aurora and made that tenet
central to their system of beliefs, concerning which almost nothing else is
known ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 50.The
two Raindrops arrived at midmorning. Raindrop Forty-Five seemed as cheerful as
ever, but Raindrop Forty-Three paused just inside the door, looking drawn and
circumspect. She kept her eyes down and did not as much as glance at Seldon. Seldon
looked uncertain and gestured to Dors, who said in a cheerful businesslike tone
of voice, “One moment, Sisters. I must give instructions to my man or he won’t
know what to do with himself today.” They
moved into the bathroom and Dors whispered, “Is something wrong?” “Yes.
Raindrop Forty-Three is obviously shattered. Please tell her that I will return
the Book as soon as possible.” Dors
favored Seldon with a long surprised look. “Hari,” she said, “you’re a sweet,
caring person, but you haven’t the good sense of an amoeba. If I as much as
mention the Book to the poor woman, she’ll be certain that you told me all
about what happened yesterday and then she’ll really be shattered. The only
hope is to treat her exactly as I would ordinarily.” Seldon
nodded his head and said dispiritedly, “I suppose you’re right.” Dors
returned in time for dinner and found Seldon on his cot, still leafing through
the Book, but with intensified impatience. He looked up with a scowl and said,
“If we’re going to be staying here any length of time, we’re going to need a
communication device of some sort between us. I had no idea when you’d get back
and I was a little concerned.” “Well,
here I am,” she said, removing her skincap gingerly and looking at it with more
than a little distaste. “I’m really pleased at your concern. I rather thought
you’d be so lost in the Book, you wouldn’t even realize I was gone.” Seldon
snorted. Dors
said, “As for communications devices, I doubt that they are easy to come by in
Mycogen. It would mean easing communication with tribespeople outside and I
suspect the leaders of Mycogen are bound and determined to cut down on any possible
interaction with the great beyond.” “Yes,”
said Seldon, tossing the Book to one side, “I would expect that from what I see
in the Book. Did you find out about the whatever you called it ... the temple?” “Yes,”
she said, removing her eyebrow patches. “It exists. There are a number of them
over the area of the sector, but there’s a central building that seems to be
the important one.—Would you believe that one woman noticed my eyelashes and
told me that I shouldn’t let myself be seen in public? I have a feeling she
intended to report me for indecent exposure.” “Never
mind that,” said Seldon impatiently. “Do you know where the central temple is
located?” “I
have directions, but Raindrop Forty-Five warned me that women were not allowed
inside except on special occasions, none of which are coming up soon. It’s
called the Sacratorium.” “The
what.” “The
Sacratorium.” “What
an ugly word. What does it mean?” Dors
shook her head. “It’s new to me. And neither Raindrop knew what it meant
either. To them, Sacratorium isn’t what the building is called, it’s what it
is. Asking them why they called it that probably sounded like asking them why a
wall is called a wall.” “Is
there anything about it they do know?” “Of
course, Hari. They know what it’s for. It’s a place that’s devoted to something
other than the life here in Mycogen. It’s devoted to another world, a former
and better one.” “The
world they once lived on, you mean?” “Exactly.
Raindrop Forty-Five all but said so, but not quite. She couldn’t bring herself
to say the word.” “Aurora?” “That’s
the word, but I suspect that if you were to say it out loud to a group of
Mycogenians, they would be shocked and horrified. Raindrop Forty-Five, when she
said, ‘The Sacratorium is dedicated to—’, stopped at that point and carefully
wrote out the letters one by one with her finger on the palm of her hand. And
she blushed, as though she was doing something obscene.” “Strange,”
said Seldon. “If the Book is an accurate guide, Aurora is their dearest memory,
their chief point of unification, the center about which everything in Mycogen
revolves. Why should its mention be considered obscene? Are you sure you didn’t
misinterpret what the Sister meant?” “I’m
positive. And perhaps it’s no mystery. Too much talk about it would get to tribespeople.
The best way of keeping it secret unto themselves is to make its very mention
taboo.” “Taboo?” “A
specialized anthropological term. It’s a reference to serious and effective
social pressure forbidding some sort of action. The fact that women are not
allowed in the Sacratorium probably has the force of a taboo. I’m sure that a
Sister would be horrified if it was suggested that she invade its precincts.” “Are
the directions you have good enough for me to get to the Sacratorium on my
own?” “In
the first place, Hari, you’re not going alone. I’m going with you. I thought we
had discussed the matter and that I had made it clear that I cannot protect you
at long distance—not from sleet storms and not from feral women. In the second
place, it’s impractical to think of walking there. Mycogen may be a small
sector, as sectors go, but it simply isn’t that small.” “An
Expressway, then.” “There
are no Expressways passing through Mycogenian territory. It would make contact
between Mycogenians and tribespeople too easy. Still, there are public
conveyances of the kind that are found on less developed planets. In fact,
that’s what Mycogen is, a piece of an undeveloped planet, embedded like a
splinter in the body of Trantor, which is otherwise a patchwork of developed
societies.—And Hari, finish with the Book as soon as possible. It’s apparent
that Rainbow Forty-Three is in trouble as long as you have it and so will we be
if they find out.” “Do
you mean a tribesperson reading it is taboo?” “I’m
sure of it.” “Well,
it would be no great loss to give it back. I should say that 95 percent of it
is incredibly dull; endless in-fighting among political groups, endless
justification of policies whose wisdom I cannot possibly judge, endless
homilies on ethical matters which, even when enlightened, and they usually
aren’t, are couched with such infuriating self-righteousness as to almost
enforce violation.” “You
sound as though I would be doing you a great favor if I took the thing away
from you.” “Except
that there’s always the other 5 percent that discusses the
never-to-be-mentioned Aurora. I keep thinking that there may be something there
and that it may be helpful to me. That’s why I wanted to know about the
Sacratorium. “Do
you hope to find support for the Book’s concept of Aurora in the Sacratorium?” “In
a way. And I’m also terribly caught up in what the Book has to say about
automata, or robots, to use their term. I find myself attracted to the
concept.” “Surely,
you don’t take it seriously?” “Almost.
If you accept some passages of the Book literally, then there is an implication
that some robots were in human shape.” “Naturally.
If you’re going to construct a simulacrum of a human being, you will make it
look like a human being.” “Yes,
simulacrum means ‘likeness,’ but a likeness can be crude indeed. An artist can
draw a stick figure and you might know he is representing a human being and
recognize it. A circle for the head, a stalk for the body, and four bent lines
for arms and legs and you have it. But I mean robots that really look like a
human being, in every detail.” “Ridiculous,
Hari. Imagine the time it would take to fashion the metal of the body into
perfect proportions, with the smooth curve of underlying muscles.” “Who
said ‘metal,’ Dors? The impression I got is that such robots were organic or
pseudo-organic, that they were covered with skin, that you could not easily
draw a distinction between them and human beings in any way.” “Does
the Book say that?” “Not
in so many words. The inference, however—” “Is
your inference, Hari. You can’t take it seriously.” “Let
me try. I find four things that I can deduce from what the Book says about
robots—and I followed up every reference the index gave. First, as I say,
they—or some of them—exactly resembled human beings; second, they had very
extended life spans—if you want to call it that.” “Better
say ‘effectiveness,’ ” said Dors, “or you’ll begin thinking of them as human
altogether.” “Third,”
said Seldon, ignoring her, “that some—or, at any rate, at least one—continues
to live on to this day.” “Hari,
that’s one of the most widespread legends we have. The ancient hero does not
die but remains in suspended animation, ready to return to save his people at
some time of great need. Really, Hari.” “Fourth,”
said Seldon, still not rising to the bait, “there are some lines that seem to
indicate that the central temple—or the Sacratorium, if that’s what it is,
though I haven’t found that word in the Book, actually—contains a robot.” He
paused, then said, “Do you see?” Dors
said, “No. What should I see?” “If
we combine the four points, perhaps a robot that looks exactly like a human
being and that is still alive, having been alive for, say, the last twenty
thousand years, is in the Sacratorium.” “Come
on, Hari, you can’t believe that.” “I
don’t actually believe it, but I can’t entirely let go either. What if its
true? What if—its only one chance out of a million, I admit—it’s true? Don’t
you see how useful he could be to me? He could remember the Galaxy as it was
long before any reliable historical records existed. He might help make
psychohistory possible.” “Even
if it was true, do you suppose the Mycogenians would let you see and interview
the robot?” “I
don’t intend to ask permission. I can at least go to the Sacratorium and see if
there’s something to interview first.” “Not
now. Tomorrow at the earliest. And if you don’t think better of it by morning,
we go.” “You
told me yourself they don’t allow women—” “They
allow women to look at it from outside, I’m sure, and I suspect that is all we’ll
get to do.” And
there she was adamant. Hari
Seldon was perfectly willing to let Dors take the lead. She had been out in the
main roadways of Mycogen and was more at home with them than he was. Dors
Venabili, brows knitted, was less delighted with the prospect. She said, “We
can easily get lost, you know.” “Not
with that booklet,” said Seldon. She
looked up at him impatiently. “Fix your mind on Mycogen, Hari. What I should
have is a computomap, something I can ask questions of. This Mycogenian version
is just a piece of folded plastic. I can’t tell this thing where I am. I can’t
tell it by word of mouth and I can’t even tell it by pushing the necessary
contacts. It can’t tell me anything either way. It’s a print thing.” “Then
read what it says.” “That’s
what I’m trying to do, but it’s written for people who are familiar with the
system to begin with. We’ll have to ask.” “No,
Dors. That would be a last resort. I don’t want to attract attention. I would
rather we take our chances and try to find our own way, even if it means making
one or two wrong turns.” Dors
leafed through the booklet with great attention and then said grudgingly,
“Well, it gives the Sacratorium important mention. I suppose that’s only
natural. I presume everyone in Mycogen would want to get there at one time or
another.” Then, after additional concentration, she said, “I’ll tell you what.
There’s no way of taking a conveyance from here to there.” “What?” “Don’t
get excited. Apparently, there’s a way of getting from here to another conveyance
that will take us there. We’ll have to change from one to another.” Seldon
relaxed. “Well, of course. You can’t take an Expressway to half the places on
Trantor without changing.” Dors
cast an impatient glance at Seldon. “I know that too. It’s just that I’m used
to having these things tell me so. When they expect you to find out for
yourself, the simplest things can escape you for a while.” “All
right, dear. Don’t snap. If you know the way now, lead. I will follow humbly.” And
follow her he did, until they came to an intersection, where they stopped.
Three white-kirtled males and a pair of gray-kirtled females were at the same
intersection. Seldon tried a universal and general smile in their direction,
but they responded with a blank stare and looked away. And then the conveyance
came. It was an outmoded version of what Seldon, back on Helicon, would have
called a gravi-bus. There were some twenty upholstered benches inside, each
capable of holding four people. Each bench had its own doors on both sides of
the bus. When it stopped, passengers emerged on either side. (For a moment,
Seldon was concerned for those who got out on the traffic side of the
gravi-bus, but then he noticed that every vehicle approaching from either
direction stopped as it neared the bus. None passed it while it was not
moving.) Dors
pushed Seldon impatiently and he moved on to a bench where two adjoining seats
were available. Dors followed after. (The men always got on and got off first,
he noticed.) 51.“For
instance,” she said and pointed to a smooth boxed-off area on the back of the
bench directly before each of them. As soon as the conveyance had begun to
move, words lit up, naming the next stop and the notable structures or
crossways that were nearby. “Now,
that will probably tell us when we’re approaching the changeover we want. At
least the sector isn’t completely barbaric.” “Good,”
said Seldon. Then, after a while, leaning toward Dors, he whispered, “No one is
looking at us. It seems that artificial boundaries are set up to preserve
individual privacy in any crowded place. Have you noticed that?” “I’ve
always taken it for granted. If that’s going to be a rule of your
psychohistory, no one will be very impressed by it.” As
Dors had guessed, the direction plaque in front of them eventually announced
the approach to the changeover for the direct line to the Sacratorium. They
exited and again had to wait. Some buses ahead had already left this
intersection, but another gravi-bus was already approaching. They were on a
well-traveled route, which was not surprising; the Sacratorium was bound to be
the center and heartbeat of the sector. They
got on the gravi-bus and Seldon whispered, “We’re not paying.” “According
to the map, public transportation is a free service.” Seldon
thrust out his lower lip. “How civilized. I suppose that nothing is all of a
piece, not backwardness, not barbarism, nothing.” But
Dors nudged him and whispered, “Your rule is broken. We’re being watched. The
man on your right.” 52.Seldon’s
eyes shifted briefly. The man to his right was rather thin and seemed quite
old. He had dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, and Seldon was sure that
he would have had black hair if he had not been depilated. He faced front
again, thinking. This Brother was rather atypical. The few Brothers he had paid
any attention to had been rather tall, light-skinned, and with blue or gray
eyes. Of course, he had not seen enough of them to make a general rule. Then
there was a light touch on the right sleeve of his kirtle. Seldon turned hesitantly
and found himself looking at a card on which was written lightly, CAREFUL,
TRIBESMAN! Seldon
started and put a hand to his skincap automatically. The man next to him
silently mouthed, “Hair.” Seldon’s
hand found it, a tiny exposure of bristles at his temple. He must have
disturbed the skincap at some point or another. Quickly and as unobtrusively as
possible, he tugged the skincap, then made sure that it was snug under the
pretence of stroking his head. He
turned to his neighbor on his right, nodded slightly, and mouthed, “Thank you.” His
neighbor smiled and said in a normal speaking voice, “Going to the
Sacratorium?” Seldon
nodded. “Yes, I am.” “Easy
guess. So am I. Shall we get off together?” His smile was friendly. “I’m
with my—my—” “With
your woman. Of course. All three together, then?” Seldon
was not sure how to react. A quick look in the other direction showed him that
Dors’s eyes were turned straight ahead. She was showing no interest in
masculine conversation—an attitude appropriate for a Sister. However, Seldon
felt a soft pat on his left knee, which he took (with perhaps little
justification) to mean: “It’s all right.” In
any case, his natural sense of courtesy was on that side and he said, “Yes,
certainly.” There
was no further conversation until the direction plaque told them they were
arriving at the Sacratorium and Seldon’s Mycogenian friend was rising to get
off. The
gravi-bus made a wide turn about the perimeter of a large area of the
Sacratorium grounds and there was a general exodus when it came to a halt, the
men sliding in front of the women to exit first. The women followed. The
Mycogenian’s voice crackled a bit with age, but it was cheerful. He said, “It’s
a little early for lunch my ... friends, but take my word for it that things
will be crowded in not too long a time. Would you be willing to buy something
simple now and eat it outside? I am very familiar with this area and I know a
good place.” Seldon
wondered if this was a device to maneuver innocent tribespeople into something or
other disreputable or costly, yet decided to chance it. “You’re very kind,” he
said. “Since we are not at all familiar with the place, we will be glad to let
you take the lead.” They
bought lunch—sandwiches and a beverage that looked like milk—at an open-air
stand. Since it was a beautiful day and they were visitors, the old Mycogenian
said, they would go to the Sacratorium grounds and eat out of doors, the better
to become acquainted with their surroundings. During
their walk, carrying their lunch, Seldon noted that, on a very small scale, the
Sacratorium resembled the Imperial Palace and that the grounds around it
resembled, on a minute scale, the Imperial grounds. He could scarcely believe
that the Mycogenian people admired the Imperial institution or, indeed, did
anything but hate and despise it, yet the cultural attraction was apparently
not to be withstood. “It’s
beautiful,” said the Mycogenian with obvious pride. “Quite,”
said Seldon. “How it glistens in the daylight.” “The
grounds around it,” he said, “are constructed in imitation of the government
grounds on our Dawn World ... in miniature, to be sure.” “Did
you ever see the grounds of the Imperial Palace?” asked Seldon cautiously. The
Mycogenian caught the implication and seemed in no way put out by it. “They
copied the Dawn World as best they could too.” Seldon
doubted that in the extreme, but he said nothing. They came to a semicircular
seat of white stonite, sparkling in the light as the Sacratorium did. “Good,”
said the Mycogenian, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure. “No one’s taken my
place. I call it mine only because it’s my favorite seat. It affords a
beautiful view of the side wall of the Sacratorium past the trees. Please sit
down. It’s not cold, I assure you. And your companion. She is welcome to sit
too. She is a tribeswoman, I know, and has different customs. She ... she may
speak if she wishes.” Dors
gave him a hard look and sat down. Seldon,
recognizing the fact that they might remain with this old Mycogenian a while,
thrust out his hand and said, “I am Hari and my female companion is Dors. We
don’t use numbers, I’m afraid.” “To
each his ... or her ... own,” said the other expansively. “I am Mycelium
Seventy-Two. We are a large cohort.” “Mycelium?”
said Seldon a bit hesitantly. “You
seem surprised,” said Mycelium. “I take it, then, you’ve only met members of
our Elder families. Names like Cloud and Sunshine and Starlight—all
astronomical.” “I
must admit—” began Seldon. “Well,
meet one of the lower classes. We take our names from the ground and from the
micro-organisms we grow. Perfectly respectable.” “I’m
quite certain,” said Seldon, “and thank you again for helping me with my ...
problem in the gravi-bus.” “Listen,”
said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I saved you a lot of trouble. If a Sister had seen
you before I did, she would undoubtedly have screamed and the nearest Brothers
would have bustled you off the bus—maybe not even waiting for it to stop
moving.” Dors
leaned forward so as to see across Seldon. “How is it you did not act in this
way yourself?” “I?
I have no animosity against tribespeople. I’m a scholar.” “A
scholar?” “First
one in my cohort. I studied at the Sacratorium School and did very well. I’m
learned in all the ancient arts and I have a license to enter the tribal
library, where they keep book-films and books by tribespeople. I can view any
book-film or read any book I wish to. We even have a computerized reference
library and I can handle that too. That sort of thing broadens your mind. I
don’t mind a little hair showing. I’ve seen pictures of men with hair many a
time. And women too.” He glanced quickly at Dors. They
ate in silence for a while and then Seldon said, “I notice that every Brother
who enters or leaves the Sacratorium is wearing a red sash.” “Oh
yes,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “Over the left shoulder and around the right
side of the waist—usually very fancily embroidered.” “Why
is that?” “It’s
called an ‘obiah.’ It symbolizes the joy felt at entering the Sacratorium and
the blood one would spill to preserve it.” “Blood?”
said Dors, frowning. “Just
a symbol. I never actually heard of anyone spilling blood over the Sacratorium.
For that matter, there isn’t that much joy. it’s mostly wailing and mourning
and prostrating one’s self over the Lost World.” His voice dropped and became
soft. “Very silly.” Dors
said, “You’re not a ... a believer?” “I’m
a scholar,” said Mycelium with obvious pride. His face wrinkled as he grinned
and took on an even more pronounced appearance of age. Seldon
found himself wondering how old the man was. Several centuries?—No, they’d
disposed of that. It couldn’t be and yet, “How old are you?” Seldon asked
suddenly, involuntarily. Mycelium
Seventy-Two showed no signs of taking offense at the question, nor did he
display any hesitation at answering, “Sixty-seven.” Seldon
had to know. “I was told that your people believe that in very early times
everyone lived for several centuries.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two looked at Seldon quizzically. “Now how did you find that out?
Someone must have been talking out of turn ... but its true. There is that
belief. Only the unsophisticated believe it, but the Elders encourage it
because it shows our superiority. Actually, our life expectancy is higher than
elsewhere because we eat more nutritionally, but living even one century is
rare.” “I
take it you don’t consider Mycogenians superior,” said Seldon. Mycelium
Seventy-Two said, “There’s nothing wrong with Mycogenians. They’re certainly
not inferior. Still, I think that all men are equal.—Even women,” he added,
looking across at Dors. “I
don’t suppose,” said Seldon, “that many of your people would agree with that.” “Or
many of your people,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two with a faint resentment. “I
believe it, though. A scholar has to. I’ve viewed and even read all the great literature
of the tribespeople. I understand your culture. I’ve written articles on it. I
can sit here just as comfortably with you as though you were ... [tit].” Dors
said a little sharply, “You sound proud of understanding tribespeople’s ways.
Have you ever traveled outside Mycogen?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two seemed to move away a little. “No.” “Why
not? You would get to know us better.” “I
wouldn’t feel right. I’d have to wear a wig. I’d be ashamed.” Dors
said, “Why a wig? You could stay bald.” “No,”
said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I wouldn’t be that kind of fool. I’d be mistreated
by all the hairy ones.” “Mistreated?
Why?” said Dors. “We have a great many naturally bald people everywhere on
Trantor and on every other world too.” “My
father is quite bald,” said Seldon with a sigh, “and I presume that in the
decades to come I will be bald too. My hair isn’t all that thick now.” “That’s
not bald,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You keep hair around the edges and over
your eyes. I mean bald—no hair at all.” “Anywhere
on your body?” said Dors, interested. And
now Mycelium Seventy-Two looked offended and said nothing. Seldon,
anxious to get the conversation back on track, said, “Tell me, Mycelium
Seventy-Two, can tribespeople enter the Sacratorium as spectators?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two shook his head vigorously. “Never. It’s for the Sons of the Dawn
only.” Dors
said, “Only the Sons?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two looked shocked for a moment, then said forgivingly, “Well, you’re
tribespeople. Daughters of the Dawn enter only on certain days and times.
That’s just the way it is. I don’t say I approve. If it was up to me, I’d say,
‘Go in. Enjoy if you can.’ Sooner others than me, in fact.” “Don’t
you ever go in?” “When
I was young, my parents took me, but—he shook his head—“it was just people
staring at the Book and reading from it and sighing and weeping for the old
days. It’s very depressing. You can’t talk to each other. You can’t laugh. You
can’t even look at each other. Your mind has to be totally on the Lost World.
Totally.” He waved a hand in rejection. “Not for me. I’m a scholar and I want
the whole world open to me.” “Good,”
said Seldon, seeing an opening. “We feel that way too. We are scholars also,
Dors and myself.” “I
know,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You
know? How do you know?” “You’d
have to be. The only tribespeople allowed in Mycogen are Imperial officials and
diplomats, important traders, and scholars—and to me you have the look of
scholars. That’s what interested me in you. Scholars together.” He smiled
delightedly. “So
we are. I am a mathematician. Dors is a historian. And you?” “I
specialize in ... culture. I’ve read all the great works of literature of the
tribespeople: Lissauer, Mentone, Novigor—” “And
we have read the great works of your people. I’ve read the Book, for instance.—About
the Lost World.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His olive complexion seemed to fade
a little. “You have? How? Where?” “At
our University we have copies that we can read if we have permission.” “Copies
of the Book?” “Yes.” “I
wonder if the Elders know this?” Seldon
said, “And I’ve read about robots.” “Robots?” “Yes.
That is why I would like to be able to enter the Sacratorium. I would like to
see the robot.” (Dors kicked lightly at Seldon’s ankle, but he ignored her.) Mycelium
Seventy-Two said uneasily, “I don’t believe in such things. Scholarly people
don’t.” But he looked about as though he was afraid of being overheard. Seldon
said, “I’ve read that a robot still exists in the Sacratorium.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two said, “I don’t want to talk about such nonsense.” Seldon
persisted. “Where would it be if it was in the Sacratorium?” “Even
if one was there, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been in there since I was a
child.” “Would
you know if there was a special place, a hidden place?” “There’s
the Elders’ aerie. Only Elders go there, but there’s nothing there.” “Have
you ever been there?” “No,
of course not.” “Then
how do you know?” “I
don’t know that there’s no pomegranate tree there. I don’t know that there’s no
laser-organ there. I don’t know that there’s no item of a million different
kinds there. Does my lack of knowledge of their absence show they are all
present?” For
the moment, Seldon had nothing to say. A
ghost of a smile broke through Mycelium Seventy-Two’s look of concern. He said,
“That’s scholars’ reasoning. I’m not an easy man to tackle, you see. Just the
same, I wouldn’t advise you to try to get up into the Elders’ aerie. I don’t
think you’d like what would happen if they found a tribesman inside.—Well. Best
of the Dawn to you.” And he rose suddenly—without warning—and hurried away. Seldon
looked after him, rather surprised. “What made him rush off like that?” “I
think,” said Dors, “it’s because someone is approaching.” And
someone was. A tall man in an elaborate white kirtle, crossed by an even more
elaborate and subtly glittering red sash, glided solemnly toward them. He had
the unmistakable look of a man with authority and the even more unmistakable
look of one who is not pleased. 53.Hari
Seldon rose as the new Mycogenian approached. He hadn’t the slightest idea
whether that was the appropriate polite behavior, but he had the distinct
feeling it would do no harm. Dors Venabili rose with him and carefully kept her
eyes lowered. The
other stood before them. He too was an old man, but more subtly aged than
Mycelium Seventy-Two. Age seemed to lend distinction to his still-handsome
face. His bald head was beautifully round and his eyes were a startling blue,
contrasting sharply with the bright all-but-glowing red of his sash. The
newcomer said, “I see you are tribespeople.” His voice was more high-pitched
than Seldon had expected, but he spoke slowly, as though conscious of the
weight of authority in every word he uttered. “So
we are,” said Seldon politely but firmly. He saw no reason not to defer to the
other’s position, but he did not intend to abandon his own. “Your
names?” “I
am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna. And yours,
man of Mycogen?” The
eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he too could recognize an air of authority
when he felt it. “I
am Skystrip Two,” he said, lifting his head higher, “an Elder of the
Sacratorium. And your position, tribesman?” “We,”
said Seldon, emphasizing the pronoun, “are scholars of Streeling University. I
am a mathematician and my companion is a historian and we are here to study the
ways of Mycogen.” “By
whose authority?” “By
that of Sunmaster Fourteen, who greeted us on our arrival.” Skystrip
Two fell silent for a moment and then a small smile appeared on his face and he
took on an air that was almost benign. He said, “The High Elder. I know him
well.” “And
so you should,” said Seldon blandly. “Is there anything else, Elder?” “Yes.”
The Elder strove to regain the high ground. “Who was the man who was with you
and who hurried away when I approached?” Seldon
shook his head, “We never saw him before, Elder, and know nothing about him. We
encountered him purely by accident and asked about the Sacratorium.” “What
did you ask him?” “Two
questions, Elder. We asked if that building was the Sacratorium and if
tribespeople were allowed to enter it. He answered in the affirmative to the
first question and in the negative to the second.” “Quite
so. And what is your interest in the Sacratorium?” “Sir,
we are here to study the ways of Mycogen and is not the Sacratorium the heart
and brain of Mycogen?” “It
is entirely ours and reserved for us.” “Even
if an Elder—the High Elder—would arrange for permission in view of our
scholarly function?” “Have
you indeed the High Elder’s permission?” Seldon
hesitated the slightest moment while Dors’s eyes lifted briefly to look at him
sideways. He decided he could not carry off a lie of this magnitude. “No,” he
said, “not yet.” “Or
ever,” said the Elder. “You are here in Mycogen by authority, but even the
highest authority cannot exert total control over the public. We value our
Sacratorium and the populace can easily grow excited over the presence of a
tribesperson anywhere in Mycogen but, most particularly, in the vicinity of the
Sacratorium. It would take one excitable person to raise a cry of ‘Invasion!’
and a peaceful crowd such as this one would be turned into one that would be
thirsting to tear you apart. I mean that quite literally. For your own good,
even if the High Elder has shown you kindness, leave. Now!” “But
the Sacratorium—” said Seldon stubbornly, though Dors was pulling gently at his
kirtle. “What
is there in the Sacratorium that can possibly interest you?” said the Elder.
“You see it now. There is nothing for you to see in the interior.” “There
is the robot,” said Seldon. The
Elder stared at Seldon in shocked surprise and then, bending to bring his lips
close to Seldon’s ear, whispered harshly, “Leave now or I will raise the cry of
‘Invasion!’ myself. Nor, were it not for the High Elder, would I give you even
this one chance to leave.” And
Dors, with surprising strength, nearly pulled Seldon off his feet as she
stepped hastily away, dragging him along until he caught his balance and
stepped quickly after her. 54.It
was over breakfast the next morning, not sooner, that Dors took up the
subject—and in a way that Seldon found most wounding. She said, “Well, that was
a pretty fiasco yesterday.” Seldon,
who had honestly thought he had gotten away with it without comment, looked
sullen. “What made it a fiasco?” “Driven
out is what we were. And for what? What did we gain?” “Only
the knowledge that there is a robot in there.” “Mycelium
Seventy-Two said there wasn’t.” “Of
course he said that. He’s a scholar—or thinks he is—and what he doesn’t know
about the Sacratorium would probably fill that library he goes to. You saw the
Elder’s reaction.” “I
certainly did.” “He
would not have reacted like that if there was no robot inside. He was horrified
we knew.” “That’s
just your guess, Hari. And even if there was, we couldn’t get in.” “We
could certainly try. After breakfast, we go out and buy a sash for me, one of
those obiahs. I put it on, keep my eyes devoutly downward, and walk right in.” “Skincap
and all? They’ll spot you in a microsecond.” “No,
they won’t. We’ll go into the library where all the tribespeople data is kept.
I’d like to see it anyway. From the library, which is a Sacratorium annex, I
gather, there will probably be an entrance into the Sacratorium.” “Where
you will be picked up at once.” “Not
at all. You heard what Mycelium Seventy-Two had to say. Everyone keeps his eyes
down and meditates on their great Lost World, Aurora. No one looks at anyone
else. It would probably be a grievous breach of discipline to do so. Then I’ll
find the Elders’ aerie—” “Just
like that?” “At
one point, Mycelium Seventy-Two said he would advise me not to try to get up
into the Elders’ aerie. Up. It must be somewhere in that tower of the
Sacratorium, the central tower.” Dors
shook her head. “I don’t recall the man’s exact words and I don’t think you do
either. That’s a terribly weak foundation to— Wait.” She stopped suddenly and
frowned. “Well?”
said Seldon. “There
is an archaic word ‘aerie’ that means ‘a dwelling place on high.’ ” “Ah!
There you are. You see, we’ve learned some vital things as the result of what
you call a fiasco. And if I can find a living robot that’s twenty thousand
years old and if it can tell me—” “Suppose
that such a thing exists, which passes belief, and that you find it, which is
not very likely, how long do you think you will be able to talk to it before
your presence is discovered?” “I
don’t know, but if I can prove it exists and if I can find it, then I’ll think
of some way to talk to it. It’s too late for me to back out now under any
circumstances. Hummin should have left me alone when I thought there was no way
of achieving psychohistory. Now that it seems there may be, I won’t let
anything stop me—short of being killed.” “The
Mycogenians may oblige, Hari, and you can’t run that risk.” “Yes,
I can. I’m going to try.” “No,
Hari. I must look after you and I can’t let you.” “You
must let me. Finding a way to work out psychohistory is more important than my
safety. My safety is only important because I may work out psychohistory. Prevent
me from doing so and your task loses its meaning.—Think about it.” Hari
felt himself infused with a renewed sense of purpose. Psychohistory—his
nebulous theory that he had, such a short while ago, despaired ever of
proving—loomed larger, more real. Now he had to believe that it was possible;
he could feel it in his gut. The pieces seemed to be falling together and
although he couldn’t see the whole pattern yet, he was sure the Sacratorium
would yield another piece to the puzzle. “Then
I’ll go in with you so I can pull you out, you idiot, when the time comes.” “Women
can’t enter.” “What
makes me a woman? Only this gray kirtle. You can’t see my breasts under it. I
don’t have a woman’s style hairdo with the skincap on. I have the same washed,
unmarked face a man has. The men here don’t have stubble. All I need is a white
kirtle and a sash and I can enter. Any Sister could do it if she wasn’t held
back by a taboo. I am not held back by one.” “You’re
held back by me. I won’t let you. It’s too dangerous.” “No
more dangerous for me than for you.” “But
I must take the risk.” “Then
so must I. Why is your imperative greater than mine?” “Because—”
Seldon paused in thought. “Just
tell yourself this,” said Dors, her voice hard as rock. “I won’t let you go
there without me. If you try, I will knock you unconscious and tie you up. If
you don’t like that, then give up any thought of going alone.” Seldon
hesitated and muttered darkly. He gave up the argument, at least for now. 55.The
sky was almost cloudless, but it was a pale blue, as though wrapped in a high
thin mist. That, thought Seldon, was a good touch, but suddenly he missed the
sun itself. No one on Trantor saw the planet’s sun unless he or she went
Upperside and even then only when the natural cloud layer broke. Did native
Trantorians miss the sun? Did they give it any thought? When one of them
visited another world where a natural sun was in view, did he or she stare,
half-blinded, at it with awe? Why,
he wondered, did so many people spend their lives not trying to find answers to
questions—not even thinking of questions to begin with? Was there anything more
exciting in life than seeking answers? His
glance shifted to ground level. The wide roadway was lined with low buildings,
most of them shops. Numerous individual ground-cars moved in both directions,
each hugging the right side. They seemed like a collection of antiques, but
they were electrically driven and quite soundless. Seldon wondered if “antique”
was always a word to sneer at. Could it be that silence made up for slowness?
Was there any particular hurry to life, after all? There
were a number of children on the walkways and Seldon’s lips pressed together in
annoyance. Clearly, an extended life span for the Mycogenians was impossible
unless they were willing to indulge in infanticide. The children of both sexes
(though it was hard to tell the boys from the girls) wore kirtles that came
only a few inches below the knee, making the wild activity of childhood easier. The
children also still had hair, reduced to an inch in length at most, but even so
the older ones among them had hoods attached to their kirtles and wore them
raised, hiding the top of the head altogether. It was as though they were
getting old enough to make the hair seem a trifle obscene—or old enough to be
wishing to hide it, in longing for the day of rite of passage when they were
depilated. A
thought occurred to Seldon. He said, “Dors, when you’ve been out shopping, who
paid, you or the Raindrop women?” “I
did of course. The Raindrops never produced a credit tile. But why should they?
What was being bought was for us, not for them.” “But
you have a Trantorian credit tile—a tribeswoman credit tile.” “Of
course, Hari, but there was no problem. The people of Mycogen may keep their
own culture and ways of thought and habits of life as they wish. They can
destroy their cephalic hair and wear kirtles. Nevertheless, they must use the
world’s credits. If they don’t, that would choke off commerce and no sensible
person would want to do that. The credits nerve, Hari.” She held up her hand as
though she was holding an invisible credit tile. “And
they accepted your credit tile?” “Never
a peep out of them. And never a word about my skincap. Credits sanitize
everything.” “Well,
that’s good. So I can buy—” “No,
I’ll do the buying. Credits may sanitize everything, but they more easily
sanitize a tribeswoman. They’re so used to paying women little or no attention
that they automatically pay me the same.—And here’s the clothing store I’ve
been using.” “I’ll
wait out here. Get me a nice red sash—one that looks impressive.” “Don’t
pretend you’ve forgotten our decision. I’ll get two. And another white kirtle
also ... to my measurements.” “Won’t
they think it odd that a woman would be buying a white kirtle?” “Of
course not. They’ll assume I’m buying it for a male companion who happens to be
my size. Actually, I don’t think they’ll bother with any assumptions at all as
long as my credit tile is good.” Seldon
waited, half-expecting someone to come up and greet him as a tribesman or
denounce him as one—more likely—but no one did. Those who passed him did so
without a glance and even those who glanced in his direction moved on seemingly
untouched. He was especially nervous about the gray kirtles—the women—walking
by in pairs or, even worse, with a man. They were downtrodden, unnoticed,
snubbed. How better to gain a brief notoriety than by shrieking at the sight of
a tribesman? But even the women moved on. They’re
not expecting to see a tribesman, Seldon thought, so they don’t see one. That,
he decided, augured well for their forthcoming invasion of the Sacratorium. How
much less would anyone expect to see tribespeople there and how much more
effectively would they therefore fail to see them! He was in fairly good humor
when Dors emerged. “You
have everything?” “Absolutely.” “Then
lets go back to the room, so you can change.” The white kirtle did not fit her
quite as well as the gray one did. Obviously, she could not have tried it on or
even the densest shopkeeper would have been struck with alarm. “How
do I look, Hari?” she asked. “Exactly
like a boy,” said Seldon. “Now let’s try the sash ... or obiah. I had better
get used to calling it that.” Dors,
without her skincap, was shaking out her hair gratefully. She said sharply,
“Don’t put it on now. We’re not going to parade through Mycogen with the sash
on. The last thing we want to do is call attention to ourselves.” “No,
no. I just want to see how it goes on.” “Well,
not that one. This one is better quality and more elaborate.” “You’re
right, Dors. I’ve got to gather in what attention there is. I don’t want them
to detect you as a woman.” “I’m
not thinking of that, Hari. I just want you to look pretty.” “A
thousand thanks, but that’s impossible, I suspect. Now, let’s see, how does this
work?” Together,
Hari and Dors practiced putting their obiahs on and taking them off, over and
over again, until they could do it in one fluid motion. Dors taught Hari how to
do it, as she had seen a man doing it the day before at the Sacratorium. When
Hari praised her for her acute observations, she blushed and said, “Its really
nothing, Hari, just something I noticed.” Hari
replied, “Then you’re a genius for noticing.” Finally
satisfied, they stood well apart, each surveying the other. Hari’s obiah glittered,
a bright red dragonlike design standing out against a paler field of similar
hue. Dors’s was a little less bold, had a simple thin line down the center, and
was very light in color. “There,”
she said, “just enough to show good taste.” She took it off. “Now,”
said Seldon, “we fold it up and it goes into one of the inner pockets. I have
my credit tile—Hummin’s, really—and the key to this place in this one and here,
on the other side, the Book.” “The
Book? Should you be carrying it around?” “I
must. I’m guessing that anyone going to the Sacratorium ought to have a copy of
the Book with him. They may intone passages or have readings. If necessary,
we’ll share the Book and maybe no one will notice. Ready?” “I’ll
never be ready, but I’m going with you.” “It
will be a tedious trip. Will you check my skincap and make sure no hair shows
this time? And don’t scratch your head.” “I
won’t. You look all right.” “So
do you.” “You
also look nervous.” And
Seldon said wryly, “Guess why!” Dors
reached out impulsively and squeezed Hari’s hand, then drew back as if
surprised at herself. Looking down, she straightened her white kirtle. Hari,
himself a trifle surprised and peculiarly pleased, cleared his throat and said,
“Okay, let’s go.” AerieROBOT—
... A term used in the ancient legends of several worlds for what are more
usually called “automata.” Robots are described as generally human in shape and
made of metal, although some are supposed to have been pseudo-organic in
nature. Hari Seldon, in the course of The Flight, is popularly supposed to have
seen an actual robot, but that story is of dubious origin. Nowhere in Seldon’s
voluminous writings does he mention robots at all, although ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 56.They
were not noticed. Hari
Seldon and Dors Venabili repeated the trip of the day before and this time no
one gave them a second look. Hardly anyone even gave them a first look. On
several occasions, they had to tuck their knees to one side to allow someone
sitting on an inner seat to get past them and out. When someone got in, they
quickly realized they had to move over if there was an inner empty seat. This
time they quickly grew tired of the smell of kirtles that were not freshly
laundered because they were not so easily diverted by what went on outside. But
eventually they were there. “That’s
the library,” said Seldon in a low voice. “I
suppose so,” said Dors. “At least that’s the building that Mycelium Seventy-Two
pointed out yesterday.” They
sauntered toward it leisurely. “Take
a deep breath,” said Seldon. “This is the first hurdle.” The
door ahead was open, the light within subdued. There were five broad stone
steps leading upward. They stepped onto the lowermost one and waited several
moments before they realized that their weight did not cause the steps to move
upward. Dors grimaced very slightly and gestured Seldon upward. Together they
walked up the stairs, feeling embarrassed on behalf of Mycogen for its
backwardness. Then,
through a door, where, at a desk immediately inside was a man bent over the simplest
and clumsiest computer Seldon had ever seen. The man did not look up at them.
No need, Seldon supposed. White kirtle, bald head—all Mycogenians looked so
nearly the same that one’s eyes slid off them and that was to the
tribespeople’s advantage at the moment. The
man, who still seemed to be studying something on the desk, said, “Scholars?” “Scholars,”
said Seldon. The
man jerked his head toward a door. “Go in. Enjoy.” They
moved inward and, as nearly as they could see, they were the only ones in this
section of the library. Either the library was not a popular resort or the
scholars were few or—most likely—both. Seldon
whispered, “I thought surely we would have to present some sort of license or
permission form and I would have to plead having forgotten it.” “He
probably welcomes our presence under any terms. Did you ever see a place like
this? If a place, like a person, could be dead, we would be inside a corpse.” Most
of the books in this section were print-books like the Book in Seldon’s inner
pocket. Dors drifted along the shelves, studying them. She said, “Old books,
for the most part. Part classic. Part worthless.” “Outside
books? Non-Mycogen, I mean?” “Oh
yes. If they have their own books, they must be kept in another section. This
one is for outside research for poor little self-styled scholars like
yesterday’s.—This is the reference department and here’s an Imperial
Encyclopedia ... must be fifty years old if a day ... and a computer.” She
reached for the keys and Seldon stopped her. “Wait.
Something could go wrong and we’ll be delayed.” He
pointed to a discreet sign above a free-standing set of shelves that glowed
with the letters TO THE SACR TORIUM. The second A in SACRATORIUM was dead,
possibly recently or possibly because no one cared. (The Empire, thought
Seldon, was in decay. All parts of it. Mycogen too.) He
looked about. The poor library, so necessary to Mycogenian pride, perhaps so
useful to the Elders who could use it to find crumbs to shore up their own
beliefs and present them as being those of sophisticated tribespeople, seemed
to be completely empty. No one had entered after them. Seldon
said, “Let’s step in here, out of eyeshot of the man at the door, and put on
our sashes.” And
then, at the door, aware suddenly there would be no turning back if they passed
this second hurdle, he said, “Dors, don’t come in with me.” She
frowned. “Why not?” “It’s
not safe and I don’t want you to be at risk.” “I
am here to protect you,” she said with soft firmness. “What
kind of protection can you be? I can protect myself, though you may not think
it. And I’d be handicapped by having to protect you. Don’t you see that?” “You
mustn’t be concerned about me, Hari,” said Dors. “Concern is my part.” She
tapped her sash where it crossed in the space between her obscured breasts. “Because
Hummin asked you to?” “Because
those are my orders.” She
seized Seldon’s arms just above his elbow and, as always, he was surprised by
her firm grip. She said, “I’m against this, Hari, but if you feel you must go
in, then I must go in too.” “All
right, then. But if anything happens and you can wriggle out of it, run. Don’t
worry about me.” “You’re
wasting your breath, Hari. And you’re insulting me.” Seldon
touched the entrance panel and the portal slid open. Together, almost in
unison, they walked through. 57.A
large room, all the larger because it was empty of anything resembling
furniture. No chairs, no benches, no seats of any kind. No stage, no drapery,
no decorations. No
lights, merely a uniform illumination of mild, unfocused light. The walls were
not entirely blank. Periodically, arranged in spaced fashion at various heights
and in no easy repetitive order, there were small, primitive, two-dimensional
television screens, all of which were operating. From where Dors and Seldon
stood, there was not even the illusion of a third dimension, not a breath of
true holovision. There
were people present. Not many and nowhere together. They stood singly and, like
the television monitors, in no easy repetitive order. All were white-kirtled,
all sashed. For
the most part, there was silence. No one talked in the usual sense. Some moved
their lips, murmuring softly. Those who walked did so stealthily, eyes
downcast. The
atmosphere was absolutely funereal. Seldon
leaned toward Dors, who instantly put a finger to her lips, then pointed to one
of the television monitors. The screen showed an idyllic garden bursting with
blooms, the camera panning over it slowly. They walked toward the monitor in a
fashion that imitated the others—slow steps, putting each foot down softly. When
they were within half a meter of the screen, a soft insinuating voice made
itself heard: “The garden of Antennin, as reproduced from ancient guidebooks
and photographs, located in the outskirts of Eos. Note the—” Dors
said in a whisper Seldon had trouble catching over the sound of the set, “It
turns on when someone is close and it will turn off if we step away. If we’re
close enough, we can talk under cover, but don’t look at me and stop speaking
if anyone approaches.” Seldon,
his head bent, his hands clasped before him (he had noted that this was a
preferred posture), said, “Any moment I expect someone to start wailing.” “Someone
might. They’re mourning their Lost World,” said Dors. “I
hope they change the films every once in a while. It would be deadly to always
see the same ones.” “They’re
all different,” said Dors, her eyes sliding this way and that. “They may change
periodically. I don’t know.” “Wait!”
said Seldon just a hair’s breadth too loud. He lowered his voice and said,
“Come this way.” Dors
frowned, failing to make out the words, but Seldon gestured slightly with his
head. Again the stealthy walk, but Seldon’s footsteps increased in length as he
felt the need for greater speed and Dors, catching up, pulled sharply—if very
briefly—at his kirtle. He slowed. “Robots
here,” he said under the cover of the sound as it came on. The picture showed
the corner of a dwelling place with a rolling lawn and a line of hedges in the
foreground and three of what could only be described as robots. They were
metallic, apparently, and vaguely human in shape. The
recording said, “This is a view, recently constructed, of the establishment of
the famous Wendome estate of the third century. The robot you see near the
center was, according to tradition, named Bendar and served twenty-two years,
according to the ancient records, before being replaced.” Dors
said, “ ‘Recently constructed,’ so they must change views.” “Unless
they’ve been saying ‘recently constructed’ for the last thousand years.” Another
Mycogenian stepped into the sound pattern of the scene and said in a low voice,
though not as low as the whisperings of Seldon and Dors, “Greetings, Brothers.” He
did not look at Seldon and Dors as he spoke and after one involuntary and startled
glance, Seldon kept his head averted. Dors had ignored it all. Seldon
hesitated. Mycelium Seventy-Two had said that there was no talking in the
Sacratorium. Perhaps he had exaggerated. Then too he had not been in the
Sacratorium since he was a child. Desperately,
Seldon decided he must speak. He said in a whisper, “And to you, Brother,
greetings.” He
had no idea whether that was the correct formula of reply or if there was a
formula, but the Mycogenian seemed to find nothing amiss in it. “To you in Aurora,”
he said. “And
to you,” said Seldon and because it seemed to him that the other expected more,
he added, “in Aurora,” and there was an impalpable release of tension. Seldon
felt his forehead growing moist. The
Mycogenian said, “Beautiful! I haven’t seen this before.” “Skillfully
done,” said Seldon. Then, in a burst of daring, he added, “A loss never to be
forgotten.” The
other seemed startled, then said, “Indeed, indeed,” and moved away. Dors
hissed, “Take no chances. Don’t say what you don’t have to.” “It
seemed natural. Anyway, this it recent. But those are disappointing robots.
They are what I would expect automata to be. I want to see the organic ones—the
humanoids.” “If
they existed,” said Dors with some hesitation, “it seems to me they wouldn’t be
used for gardening jobs.” “True,”
said Seldon. “We must find the Elders’ aerie.” “If
that exists. It seems to me there is nothing in this hollow cave but a hollow
cave.” “Let’s
look.” They
paced along the wall, passing from screen to screen, trying to wait at each for
irregular intervals until Dors clutched Seldon’s arms. Between two screens were
lines marking out a faint rectangle. “A
door,” Dors said. Then she weakened the assertion by adding, “Do you think?” Seldon
looked about surreptitiously. It was in the highest degree convenient that, in
keeping with the mourning atmosphere, every face, when not fixed on a
television monitor, was bent in sad concentration on the floor. Seldon
said, “How do you suppose it would open?” “An
entrance patch.” “I
can’t make out any.” “It’s
just not marked out, but there’s a slight discoloration there. Do you see it?
How many palms? How many times?” “I’ll
try. Keep an eye out and kick me if anyone looks in this direction.” He
held his breath casually, touched the discolored spot to no avail, and then
placed his palm full upon it and pressed. The
door opened silently—not a creak, not a scrape. Seldon
stepped through as rapidly as he could and Dors followed him. The door closed
behind them. “The
question is,” said Dors, “did anyone see us?” Seldon
said, “Elders must go through this door frequently.” “Yes,
but will anyone think we are Elders?” Seldon
waited, then said, “If we were observed and if anyone thought something was
wrong, this door would have been flung open again within fifteen seconds of our
entering.” “Possibly,”
said Dors dryly, “or possibly there is nothing to be seen or done on this side
of the door and no one cares if we enter.” “That
remains to be seen,” muttered Seldon. The
rather narrow room they had entered was somewhat dark, but as they stepped
farther into it, the light brightened. There
were chairs, wide and comfortable, small tables, several davenports, a deep and
tall refrigerator, cupboards. “If
this is the Elders’ aerie,” said Seldon, “the Elders seem to do themselves
comfortably, despite the austerity of the Sacratorium itself.” “As
would be expected,” said Dors. “Asceticism among a ruling class—except for
public show—is very rare. Put that down in your notebook for psychohistorical
aphorisms.” She looked about. “And there is no robot.” Seldon
said, “An aerie is a high position, remember, and this ceiling is not. There
must be upper storeys and that must be the way.” He pointed to a well-carpeted
stairway. He
did not advance toward it, however, but looked about vaguely. Dors
guessed what he was seeking. She said, “Forget about elevators. There’s a cult
of primitivism in Mycogen. Surely, you haven’t forgotten that, have you? There
would be no elevators and, what’s more, if we place our weight at the foot of
the stairs, I am quite certain it will not begin moving upward. We’re going to
have to climb it. Several flights, perhaps.” “Climb
it?” “It
must, in the nature of things, lead to the aerie—if it leads anywhere. Do you
want to see the aerie or don’t you?” Together
they stepped toward the staircase and began the climb. They went up three
flights and, as they did, the light level decreased perceptibly and in steady
increments. Seldon took a deep breath and whispered, “I consider myself to be
in pretty good shape, but I hate this.” “You’re
not used to this precise type of physical exertion.” She showed no signs of
physical distress whatever. At
the top of the third flight the stairs ended and before them was another door. “And
if it’s locked?” said Seldon, more to himself than to Dors. “Do we try to break
it down?” But
Dors said, “Why should it be locked when the lower door was not? If this is the
Elders’ aerie, I imagine there’s a taboo on anyone but Elders coming here and a
taboo is much stronger than any lock.” “As
far as those who accept the taboo are concerned,” said Seldon, but he made no
move toward the door. “There’s
still time to turn back, since you hesitate,” said Dors. “In fact, I would
advise you to rum back.” “I
only hesitate because I don’t know what we’ll find inside. If it’s empty—” And
then he added in a rather louder voice, “Then it’s empty,” and he strode
forward and pushed against the entry panel. The
door retracted with silent speed and Seldon took a step back at the surprising
flood of light from within. And
there, facing him, eyes alive with light, arms half-upraised, one foot slightly
advanced before the other, gleaming with a faintly yellow metallic shine, was a
human figure. For a few moments, it seemed to be wearing a tight-fitting tunic,
but on closer inspection it became apparent that the tunic was part of the
structure of the object. “It’s
the robot,” said Seldon in awe, “but it’s metallic.” “Worse
than that,” said Dors, who had stepped quickly to one side and then to the
other. “Its eyes don’t follow me. Its arms don’t as much as tremble. It’s not
alive—if one can speak of robots as being alive.” And a man—unmistakably a
man—stepped out from behind the robot and said, “Perhaps not. But I am alive.” And
almost automatically, Dors stepped forward and took her place between Seldon
and the man who had suddenly appeared. 58.Seldon
pushed Dors to one side, perhaps a shade more roughly than he intended. “I
don’t need protection. This is our old friend Sunmaster Fourteen.” The man who
faced them, wearing a double sash that was perhaps his right as High Elder,
said, “And you are Tribesman Seldon.” “Of
course,” said Seldon. “And
this, despite her masculine dress, is Tribeswoman Venabili.” Dors
said nothing. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “You are right, of course, tribesman. You are in no danger of
physical harm from me. Please sit down. Both of you. Since you are not a
Sister, tribeswoman, you need not retire. There is a seat for you which, if you
value such a distinction, you will be the first woman ever to have used.” “I
do not value such a distinction,” said Dors, spacing her words for emphasis.
Sunmaster Fourteen nodded. “That
is as you wish. I too will sit down, for I must ask you questions and I do not
care to do it standing.” They were sitting now in a corner of the room.
Seldon’s eyes wandered to the metal robot. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “It is a robot.” “I
know,” said Seldon briefly. “I
know you do,” said Sunmaster Fourteen with similar curtness. “But now that we
have settled that matter, why are you here?” Seldon
gazed steadily at Sunmaster Fourteen and said, “To see the robot.” “Do
you know that no one but an Elder is allowed in the aerie?” “I
did not know that, but I suspected it.” “Do
you know that no tribesperson is allowed in the Sacratorium?” “I
was told that.” “And
you ignored the fact, is that it?” “As
I said, we wanted to see the robot.” “Do
you know that no woman, even a Sister, is allowed in the Sacratorium except at
certain stated—and rare—occasions?” “I
was told that.” “And
do you know that no woman is at any time—or for any reason—allowed to dress in
masculine garb? That holds, within the borders of Mycogen, for tribeswomen as
well as for Sisters.” “I
was not told that, but I am not surprised.” “Good.
I want you to understand all this. Now, why did you want to see the robot?” Seldon
said with a shrug, “Curiosity. I had never seen a robot or even known that such
a thing existed.” “And
how did you come to know that it did exist and, specifically, that it existed
here?” Seldon
was silent, then said, “I do not wish to answer that question.” “Is
that why you were brought to Mycogen by Tribesman Hummin? To investigate
robots?” “No.
Tribesman Hummin brought us here that we might be secure. However, we are
scholars, Dr. Venabili and I. Knowledge is our province and to gain knowledge
is our purpose. Mycogen is little understood outside its borders and we wish to
know more about your ways and your methods of thought. It is a natural desire
and, it seems to us, a harmless—even praiseworthy—one.” “Ah,
but we do not wish the outer tribes and worlds to know about us. That is our
natural desire and we are the judge of what is harmless to us and what harmful.
So I ask you again, tribesman: How did you know that a robot existed in Mycogen
and that it existed in this room?” “General
rumor,” said Seldon at length. “Do
you insist on that?” “General
rumor. I insist on it.” Sunmaster
Fourteen’s keen blue eyes seemed to sharpen and he said without raising his
voice, “Tribesman Seldon, we have long cooperated with Tribesman Hummin. For a
tribesman, he has seemed a decent and trustworthy individual. For a tribesman!
When he brought you two to us and commended you to our protection, we granted
it. But Tribesman Hummin, whatever his virtues, is still a tribesman and we had
misgivings. We were not at all sure what your—or his—real purpose might be.” “Our
purpose was knowledge,” said Seldon. “Academic knowledge. Tribeswoman Venabili
is a historian and I too have an interest in history. Why should we not be
interested in Mycogenian history?” “For
one thing, because we do not wish you to be.—In any case, two of our trusted
Sisters were sent to you. They were to cooperate with you, try to find out what
it was you wanted, and—what is the expression you tribesmen use?—play along
with you. Yet not in such a way that you would be too aware as to what was
happening.” Sunmaster
Fourteen smiled, but it was a grim smile. “Raindrop Forty-Five,” Sunmaster
Fourteen went on, “went shopping with Tribeswoman Venabili, but there seemed nothing
out of the way in what happened on those trips. Naturally, we had a full
report. Raindrop Forty-Three showed you, Tribesman Seldon, our microfarms. You
might have been suspicious of her willingness to accompany you alone, something
that is utterly out of the question for us, but you reasoned that what applied
to Brothers did not apply to tribesmen and you flattered yourself that that
flimsy bit of reasoning won her over. She complied with your desire, though at
considerable cost to her peace of mind. And, eventually, you asked for the
Book. To have handed it over too easily might have roused your suspicion, so
she pretended to a perverse desire only you could satisfy. Her self-sacrifice
will not be forgotten.—I take it, tribesman, you still have the Book and I
suspect you have it with you now. May I have it?” Seldon
sat in bitter silence. Sunmaster
Fourteen’s wrinkled hand remained obtrusively outstretched and he said, “How
much better it would be than to wrest it from you by force.” And
Seldon handed it over. Sunmaster
Fourteen leafed through its pages briefly, as though to reassure himself it was
unharmed. He said with a small sigh, “It will have to be carefully destroyed in
the approved manner. Sad.—But once you had this Book, we were, of course, not
surprised when you made your way out to the Sacratorium. You were watched at
all times, for you cannot think that any Brother or Sister, not totally
absorbed, would not recognize you for tribespeople at a glance. We know a
skincap when we see one and there are less than seventy of them in Mycogen ...
almost all belonging to tribesmen on official business who remain entirely in
secular governmental buildings during the time they are here. So you were not
only seen but unmistakably identified, over and over. “The
elderly Brother who met you was careful to tell you about the library as well
as about the Sacratorium, but he was also careful to tell you what you were
forbidden to do, for we did not wish to entrap you. Skystrip Two also warned
you ... and quite forcibly. Nevertheless, you did not turn away. “The
shop at which you bought the white kirtle and the two sashes informed us at
once and from that we knew well what you intended. The library was kept empty,
the librarian was warned to keep his eyes to himself, the Sacratorium was kept
under-utilized. The one Brother who inadvertently spoke to you almost gave it
away, but hastened off when he realized with whom he was dealing. And then you
came up here. “You
see, then, that it was your intention to come up here and that we in no way
lured you here. You came as a result of your own action, your own desire, and
what I want to ask you—yet once again—is: Why?” It
was Dors who answered this time, her voice firm, her eyes hard. “We will tell
you yet once again, Mycogenian. We are scholars, who consider knowledge sacred
and it is only knowledge that we seek. You did not lure us here, but you did
not stop us either, as you might have done before ever we approached this
building. You smoothed our way and made it easy for us and even that might be
considered a lure. And what harm have we done? We have in no way disturbed the
building, or this room, or you, or that.” She
pointed to the robot. “It is a dead lump of metal that you hide here and we now
know that it is dead and that is all the knowledge we sought. We thought it
would be more significant and we are disappointed, but now that we know it is
merely what it is, we will leave—and, if you wish, we will leave Mycogen as
well.” Sunmaster
Fourteen listened with no trace of expression on his face, but when she was
done, he addressed Seldon, saying, “This robot, as you see it, is a symbol, a
symbol of all we have lost and of all we no longer have, of all that, through
thousands of years, we have not forgotten and what we intend someday to return
to. Because it is all that remains to us that is both material and authentic,
it is dear to us—yet to your woman it is only ‘a dead lump of metal.’ Do you
associate yourself with that judgment, Tribesman Seldon?” Seldon
said, “We are members of societies that do not tie ourselves to a past that is
thousands of years old, making no contact at all with what has existed between
that past and ourselves. We live in the present, which we recognize as the
product of all the past and not of one long-gone moment of time that we hug to
our chests. We realize, intellectually, what the robot may mean to you and we
are willing to let it continue to mean that to you. But we can only see it with
our own eyes, as you can only see it with yours. To us, it is a dead lump of
metal.” “And
now,” said Dors, “we will leave.” “You
will not,” said Sunmaster Fourteen. “By coming here, you have committed a
crime. It is a crime only in our eyes, as you will hasten to point out”—his
lips curved in a wintry smile—“but this is our territory and, within it, we
make the definitions. And this crime, as we define it, is punishable by death.” “And
you are going to shoot us down?” said Dors haughtily. Sunmaster
Fourteen’s expression was one of contempt and he continued to speak only to
Seldon. “What do you think we are, Tribesman Seldon? Our culture is as old as
yours, as complex, as civilized, as humane. I am not armed. You will be tried
and, since you are manifestly guilty, executed according to law, quickly and
painlessly. “If
you were to try to leave now, I would not stop you, but there are many Brothers
below, many more than there appeared to be when you entered the Sacratorium
and, in their rage at your action, they may lay rough and forceful hands on
you. It has happened in our history that tribespeople have even died so and it
is not a pleasant death—certainly not a painless one.” “We
were warned of this,” said Dors, “by Skystrip Two. So much for your complex,
civilized, and humane culture.” “People
can be moved to violence at moments of emotion, Tribesman Seldon,” said
Sunmaster Fourteen calmly, “whatever their humanity in moments of calm. This is
true in every culture, as your woman, who is said to be a historian, must
surely know.” Seldon
said, “Let us remain reasonable, Sunmaster Fourteen. You may be the law in
Mycogen over local affairs, but you are not the law over us and you know it. We
are both non-Mycogenian citizens of the Empire and it is the Emperor and his
designated legal officers who must remain in charge of any capital offense.” Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “That may be so in statutes and on papers and on holovision
screens, but we are not talking theory now. The High Elder has long had the
power to punish crimes of sacrilege without interference from the Imperial
throne.” “If
the criminals are your own people,” said Seldon. “It would be quite different
if they were outsiders.” “I
doubt it in this case. Tribesman Hummin brought you here as fugitives and we
are not so yeast-headed in Mycogen that we don’t strongly suspect that you are
fugitives from the Emperor’s laws. Why should he object if we do his work for
him?” “Because,”
said Seldon, “he would. Even if we were fugitives from the Imperial authorities
and even if he wanted us only to punish us, he would still want us. To allow
you to kill, by whatever means and for whatever reason, non-Mycogenians without
due Imperial process would be to defy his authority and no Emperor could allow
such a precedent. No matter how eager he might be to see that the microfood trade
not be interrupted, he would still feel it necessary to re-establish the
Imperial prerogative. Do you wish, in your eagerness to kill us, to have a
division of Imperial soldiery loot your farms and your dwellings, desecrate
your Sacratorium, and take liberties with the Sisters: Consider.” Sunmaster
Fourteen smiled once again, but displayed no softness. “Actually, I have
considered and there is an alternative. After we condemn you, we could delay
your execution to allow you to appeal to the Emperor for a review of your case.
The Emperor might be grateful at this evidence of our ready submission to his
authority and grateful too to lay his hands on you two—for some reason of his
own—and Mycogen might profit. Is that what you want, then? To appeal to the Emperor
in due course and to be delivered to him?” Seldon
and Dors looked at each other briefly and were silent. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “I feel you would rather be delivered to the Emperor than die,
but why do I get the impression that the preference is only by a slight
margin?” “Actually,”
said a new voice, “I think neither alternative is acceptable and that we must
search for a third.” 59.It
was Dors who identified the newcomer first, perhaps because it was she who
expected him. “Hummin,”
she said, “thank goodness you found us. I got in touch with you the moment I
realized I was not going to deflect Hari from”—she held up her hands in a wide
gesture “this.” Hummin’s
smile was a small one that did not alter the natural gravity of his face. There
was a subtle weariness about him. “My
dear,” he said, “I was engaged in other things. I cannot always pull away at a
moment’s notice. And when I got here, I had, like you two, to supply myself
with a kirtle and sash, to say nothing of a skincap, and make my way out here.
Had I been here earlier, I might have stopped this, but I believe I’m not too
late.” Sunmaster
Fourteen had recovered from what had seemed to be a painful shock. He said in a
voice that lacked its customary severe depth, “How did you get in here, Tribesman
Hummin?” “It
was not easy, High Elder, but as Tribeswoman Venabili likes to say, I am a very
persuasive person. Some of the citizens here remember who I was and what I have
done for Mycogen in the past, that I am even an honorary Brother. Have you
forgotten, Sunmaster Fourteen?” The
Elder replied, “I have not forgotten, but even the most favorable memory can
not survive certain actions. A tribesman here and a tribeswoman. There is no
greater crime. All you have done is not great enough to balance that. My people
are not unmindful. We will make it up to you some other way. But these two must
die or be handed over to the Emperor.” “I
am also here,” said Hummin calmly. “Is that not a crime as well?” “For
you,” said Sunmaster Fourteen, “for you personally, as a kind of honorary
Brother, I can ... overlook it ... once. Not these two.” “Because
you expect a reward from the Emperor? Some favor? Some concession? Have you
already been in touch with him or with his Chief of Staff, Eto Demerzel, more
likely?” “That
is not a subject for discussion.” “Which
is itself an admission. Come on, I don’t ask what the Emperor promised, but it
cannot be much. He does not have much to give in these degenerate days. Let me
make you an offer. Have these two told you they are scholars?” “They
have.” “And
they are. They are not lying. The tribeswoman is a historian and the tribesman
is a mathematician. The two together are trying to combine their talents to
make a mathematics of history and they call the combined subject ‘psychohistory.’
” Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “I know nothing about this psychohistory, nor do I care to know.
Neither it nor any other facet of your tribal learning interests me.” “Nevertheless,”
said Hummin, “I suggest that you listen to me.” It
took Hummin some fifteen minutes, speaking concisely, to describe the
possibility of organizing the natural laws of society (something he always
mentioned with audible quotation marks in the tone of his voice) in such a way
as to make it possible to anticipate the future with a substantial degree of
probability. And
when he was done, Sunmaster Fourteen, who had listened expressionlessly, said,
“A highly unlikely piece of speculation, I should say.” Seldon,
with a rueful expression, seemed about to speak, undoubtedly to agree, but
Hummin’s hand, resting lightly on the other’s knee, tightened unmistakably. Hummin
said, “Possibly, High Elder, but the Emperor doesn’t think so. And by the
Emperor, who is himself an amiable enough personage, I really mean Demerzel,
concerning whose ambitions you need no instruction. They would like very much
to have these two scholars, which is why I’ve brought them here for
safekeeping. I had little expectation that you would do Demerzel’s work for him
by delivering the scholars to him.” “They
have committed a crime that—” “Yes,
we know, High Elder, but it is only a crime because you choose to call it so.
No real harm has been done.” “It
has been done to our belief, to our deepest felt—” “But
imagine what harm will be done if psychohistory falls into the hands of
Demerzel. Yes, I grant that nothing may come of it, but suppose for a moment
that something does and that the Imperial government has the use of it—can
foretell what is to come—can take measures with that foreknowledge which no one
else would have—can take measures, in fact, designed to bring about an
alternate future more to the Imperial liking.” “Well?” “Is
there any doubt, High Elder, that the alternate future more to the Imperial
liking would be one of tightened centralization? For centuries now, as you very
well know, the Empire has been undergoing a steady decentralization. Many
worlds now acknowledge only lip service to the Emperor and virtually rule
themselves. Even here on Trantor, there is decentralization. Mycogen, as only
one example, is free of Imperial interference for the most part. You rule its
High Elder and there is no Imperial officer at your side overseeing your
actions and decisions. How long do you think that will last with men like
Demerzel adjusting the future to their liking?” “Still
the flimsiest of speculation,” said Sunmaster Fourteen, “but a disturbing one,
I admit.” “On
the other hand, if these scholars can complete their task, an unlikely if, you
might say, but an if—then they are sure to remember that you spared them when
you might have chosen not to. And it would then be conceivable that they would
learn to arrange a future, for instance, that would allow Mycogen to be given a
world of its own, a world that could be terraformed into a close replica of the
Lost World. And even if these two forget your kindness, I will be here to
remind them.” “Well—”
said Sunmaster Fourteen. “Come
on,” said Hummin, “it is not hard to decide what must be going through your
mind. Of all tribespeople, you must trust Demerzel the least. And though the
chance of psychohistory might be small (if I was not being honest with you, I
would not admit that) it is not zero; and if it will bring about a restoration
of the Lost World, what can you want more than that? What would you not risk
for even a tiny chance of that? Come now—I promise you and my promises are not
lightly given. Release these two and choose a tiny chance of your heart’s
desire over no chance at all.” There
was silence and then Sunmaster Fourteen sighed. “I don’t know how it is,
Tribesman Hummin, but on every occasion that we meet, you persuade me into
something I do not really want to do.” “Have
I ever misled you, High Elder?” “You
have never offered me so small a chance?” “And
so high a possible reward. The one balances the other.” And
Sunmaster Fourteen nodded his head. “You are right. Take these two and take
them out of Mycogen and never let me see them again unless there comes a time
when—But surely it will not be in my lifetime.” “Perhaps
not, High Elder. But your people have been waiting patiently for nearly twenty
thousand years. Would you then object to waiting another—perhaps—two hundred?” “I
would not willingly wait one moment, but my people will wait as long as they
must.” And
standing up, he said, “I will clear the path. Take them and go.” 60.They
were finally back in a tunnel. Hummin and Seldon had traveled through one when
they went from the Imperial Sector to Streeling University in the air-taxi. Now
they were in another tunnel, going from Mycogen to ... Seldon did not know
where. He hesitated to ask. Hummin’s face seemed as if it was carved out of
granite and it didn’t welcome conversation. Hummin
sat in the front of the four-seater, with no one to his right. Seldon and Dors
shared the backseat. Seldon
chanced a smile at Dors, who looked glum. “It’s nice to be in real clothes
again, isn’t it?” “I
will never,” said Dors with enormous sincerity, “wear or look at anything that
resembles a kirtle. And I will never, under any circumstances, wear a skincap.
In fact, I’m going to feel odd if I ever see a normally bald man.” And it was
Dors who finally asked the question that Seldon had been reluctant to advance.
“Chetter,” she said rather petulantly, “why won’t you tell us where we’re
going?” Hummin
hitched himself into a sideways position and he looked back at Dors and Seldon
gravely. “Somewhere,” he said, “where it may be difficult for you to get into
trouble—although I’m not sure such a place exists.” Dors
was at once crestfallen. “Actually, Chetter, it’s my fault. At Streeling, I let
Hari go Upperside without accompanying him. In Mycogen, I at least accompanied
him, but I suppose I ought not to have let him enter the Sacratorium at all.” “I
was determined,” said Seldon warmly. “It was in no way Dors’s fault.” Hummin
made no effort to apportion blame. He simply said, “I gather you wanted to see
the robot. Was there a reason for that? Can you tell me?” Seldon
could feel himself redden. “I was wrong in that respect, Hummin. I did not see
what I expected to see or what I hoped to see. If I had known the content of
the aerie, I would never have bothered going there. Call it a complete fiasco.” “But
then, Seldon, what was it you hoped to see? Please tell me. Take your time if
you wish. This is a long trip and I am willing to listen.” “The
thing is, Hummin, that I had the idea that there were humaniform robots, that
they were long-lived, that at least one might still be alive, and that it might
be in the aerie. There was a robot there, but it was metallic, it was dead, and
it was merely a symbol. Had I but known—” “Yes.
Did we all but know, there would be no need for questions or for research of
any kind. Where did you get your information about humaniform robots? Since no
Mycogenian would have discussed that with you, I can think of only one source.
The Mycogenian Book—a powered print-book in ancient Auroran and modern
Galactic. Am I right?” “Yes.” “And
how did you get a copy?” Seldon
paused, then muttered, “Its somewhat embarrassing.” “I
am not easily embarrassed, Seldon.” Seldon
told him and Hummin allowed a very small smile to twitch across his face. Hummin
said, “Didn’t it occur to you that what occurred had to be a charade? No Sister
would do a thing like that—except under instruction and with a great deal of
persuading.” Seldon
frowned and said with asperity, “That was not at all obvious. People are
perverted now and then. And its easy for you to grin. I didn’t have the
information you had and neither did Dors. If you did not wish me to fall into
traps, you might have warned me of those that existed.” “I
agree. I withdraw my remark. In any case, you don’t have the Book any longer,
I’m sure.” “No.
Sunmaster Fourteen took it from me.” “How
much of it did you read?” “Only
a small fraction. I didn’t have time. It’s a huge book and I must tell you,
Hummin, it is dreadfully dull.” “Yes,
I know that, for I think I have read more of it than you have. It is not only
dull, it is totally unreliable. It is a one-sided, official Mycogenian view of
history that is more intent on presenting that view than a reasoned
objectivity. It is even deliberately unclear in spots so that outsiders—even if
they were to read the Book—would never know entirely what they read. What was
it, for instance, that you thought you read about robots that interested you?” “I’ve
already told you. They speak of humaniform robots, robots that could not be
distinguished from human beings in outward appearance.” “How
many of these would exist?” asked Hummin. “They don’t say.—At least, I didn’t
come across a passage in which they gave numbers. There may have been only a
handful, but one of them, the Book refers to as ‘Renegade.’ It seems to have an
unpleasant significance, but I couldn’t make out what.” “You
didn’t tell me anything about that,” interposed Dors. “If you had, I would have
told you that it’s not a proper name. It’s another archaic word and it means,
roughly, what ‘traitor’ would mean in Galactic. The older word has a greater
aura of fear about it. A traitor, somehow, sneaks to his treason, but a
renegade flaunts it.” Hummin
said, “I’ll leave the fine points of archaic language to you, Dors, but, in any
case, if the Renegade actually existed and if it was a humaniform robot, then,
clearly, as a traitor and enemy, it would not be preserved and venerated in the
Elders’ aerie.” Seldon
said, “I didn’t know the meaning of ‘Renegade,’ but, as I said, I did get the
impression that it was an enemy. I thought it might have been defeated and
preserved as a reminder of the Mycogenian triumph.” “Was
there any indication in the Book that the Renegade was defeated?” “No,
but I might have missed that portion—” “Not
likely. Any Mycogenian victory would be announced in the Book unmistakably and
referred to over and over again.” “There
was another point the Book made about the Renegade,” said Seldon, hesitating,
“but I can’t be at all sure I understood it.” Hummin said, “As I told you ...
They are deliberately obscure at times.” “Nevertheless,
they seemed to say that the Renegade could somehow tap human emotions ...
influence them—” “Any
politician can,” said Hummin with a shrug. “It’s called charisma—when it
works.” Seldon
sighed. “Well, I wanted to believe. That was it. I would have given a great
deal to find an ancient humaniform robot that was still alive and that I could
question.” “For
what purpose?” asked Hummin. “To
learn the details of the primordial Galactic society when it still consisted of
only a handful of worlds. From so small a Galaxy psychohistory could be deduced
more easily.” Hummin
said, “Are you sure you could trust what you heard? After many thousands of
years, would you be willing to rely on the robot’s early memories? How much
distortion would have entered into them?” “That’s
right,” said Dors suddenly. “It would be like the computerized records I told
you of, Hari. Slowly, those robot memories would be discarded, lost, erased,
distorted. You can only go back so far and the farther you go back, the less
reliable the information becomes—no matter what you do.” Hummin
nodded. “I’ve heard it referred to as a kind of uncertainty principle in
information.” “But
wouldn’t it be possible,” said Seldon thoughtfully, “that some information, for
special reasons, would be preserved? Parts of the Mycogenian Book may well
refer to events of twenty thousand years ago and yet be very largely as it had
been originally. The more valued and the more carefully preserved particular
information is, the more long-lasting and accurate it may be.” “The
key word is ‘particular.’ What the Book may care to preserve may not be what
you wish to have preserved and what a robot may remember best may be what you
wish him to remember least.” Seldon
said in despair, “In whatever direction I turn to seek a way of working out
psychohistory, matters so arrange themselves as to make it impossible. Why
bother trying?” “It
might seem hopeless now,” said Hummin unemotionally, “but given the necessary
genius, a route to psychohistory may be found that none of us would at this
moment expect. Give yourself more time.—But we’re coming to a rest area. Let us
pull off and have dinner.” Over
the lamb patties on rather tasteless bread (most unpalatable after the fare at
Mycogen), Seldon said, “You seem to assume, Hummin, that I am the possessor of
‘the necessary genius.’ I may not be, you know.” Hummin
said, “That’s true. You may not be. However, I know of no alternate candidate
for the post, so I must cling to you.” And
Seldon sighed and said, “Well, I’ll try, but I’m out of any spark of hope.
Possible but not practical, I said to begin with, and I’m more convinced of that
now than I ever was before.” HeatsinkAMARYL,
YUGO— ... A mathematician who, next to Hari Seldon himself, may be considered
most responsible for working out the details of psychohistory. It was he who
... ... Yet
the conditions under which he began life are almost more dramatic than his
mathematical accomplishments. Born into the hopeless poverty of the lower
classes of Dahl, a sector of ancient Trantor, he might have passed his life in
utter obscurity were it not for the fact that Seldon, quite by accident,
encountered him in the course of ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 61.The
Emperor of all the Galaxy felt weary—physically weary. His lips ached from the
gracious smile he had had to place on his face at careful intervals. His neck
was stiff from having inclined his head this way and that in a feigned show of
interest. His ears pained from having to listen. His whole body throbbed from
having to rise and to sit and to turn and to hold out his hand and to nod. It
was merely a state function where one had to meet Mayors and Viceroys and
Ministers and their wives or husbands from here and there in Trantor and
(worse) from here and there in the Galaxy. There were nearly a thousand
present, all in costumes that varied from the ornate to the downright
outlandish, and he had had to listen to a babble of different accents made the
worse by an effort to speak the Emperor’s Galactic as spoken at the Galactic
University. Worst of all, the Emperor had had to remember to avoid making
commitments of substance, while freely applying the lotion of words without
substance. All had been recorded, sight and sound—very discreetly—and Eto
Demerzel would go over it to see if Cleon, First of that Name, had behaved
himself. That, of course, was only the way that the Emperor put it to himself.
Demerzel would surely say that he was merely collecting data on any
unintentional self-revelation on the pan of the guests. And perhaps he was.
Fortunate Demerzel! The
Emperor could not leave the Palace and its extensive grounds, while Demerzel could
range the Galaxy if he wished. The Emperor was always on display, always
accessible, always forced to deal with visitors, from the important to the
merely intrusive. Demerzel remained anonymous and never allowed himself to be
seen inside the Palace grounds. He remained merely a fearsome name and an
invisible (and therefore the more frightening) presence. The Emperor was the
Inside Man with all the trappings and emoluments of power. Demerzel was the
Outside Man, with nothing evident, not even a formal title, but with his
fingers and mind probing everywhere and asking for no reward for his tireless
labors but one—the reality of power. It
amused the Emperor—in a macabre sort of way—to consider that, at any moment,
without warning, with a manufactured excuse or with none at all, he could have
Demerzel arrested, imprisoned, exiled, tortured, or executed. After all, in
these annoying centuries of constant unrest, the Emperor might have difficulty
in exerting his will over the various planets of the Empire, even over the
various sectors of Trantor—with their rabble of local executives and
legislatures that he was forced to deal with in a maze of interlocking decrees,
protocols, commitments, treaties, and general interstellar legalities—but at
least his powers remained absolute over the Palace and its grounds. And yet
Cleon knew that his dreams of power were useless. Demerzel had served his
father and Cleon could not remember a time when he did not turn to Demerzel for
everything. It was Demerzel who knew it all, devised it all, did it all. More
than that, it was on Demerzel that anything that went wrong could be blamed.
The Emperor himself remained above criticism and had nothing to fear—except, of
course, palace coups and assassination by his nearest and dearest. It was to
prevent this, above all, that he depended upon Demerzel. Emperor Cleon felt a
tiny shudder at the thought of trying to do without Demerzel. There had been
Emperors who had ruled personally, who had had a series of Chiefs of Staff of
no talent, who had had incompetents serving in the post and had kept them—and
somehow they had gotten along for a time and after a fashion. But
Cleon could not. He needed Demerzel. In fact, now that the thought of
assassination had come to him—and, in view of the modern history of the Empire,
it was inevitable that it had come to him—he could see that getting rid of
Demerzel was quite impossible. It couldn’t be done. No matter how cleverly he,
Cleon, would attempt to arrange it, Demerzel (he was sure) would anticipate the
move somehow, would know it was on its way, and would arrange, with far
superior cleverness, a palace coup. Cleon would be dead before Demerzel could
possibly be taken away in chains and there would simply be another Emperor that
Demerzel would serve—and dominate. Or
would Demerzel tire of the game and make himself Emperor? Never! The habit of
anonymity was too strong in him. If Demerzel exposed himself to the world, then
his powers, his wisdom, his luck (whatever it was) would surely desert him.
Cleon was convinced of that. He felt it to be beyond dispute. So
while he behaved himself, Cleon was safe. With no ambitions of his own,
Demerzel would serve him faithfully. And
now here was Demerzel, dressed so severely and simply that it made Cleon
uneasily conscious of the useless ornamentation of his robes of state, now
thankfully removed with the aid of two valets. Naturally, it would not be until
he was alone and in dishabille that Demerzel would glide into view. “Demerzel,”
said the Emperor of all the Galaxy, “I am tired!” “State
functions are tiring, Sire,” murmured Demerzel. “Then
must I have them every evening?” “Not
every evening, but they are essential. It gratifies others to see you and to be
taken note of by you. It helps keep the Empire running smoothly.” “The
Empire used to be kept running smoothly by power,” said the Emperor somberly.
“Now it must be kept running by a smile, a wave of the hand, a murmured word,
and a medal or a plaque.” “If
all that keeps the peace, Sire, there is much to be said for it. And your reign
proceeds well.” “You
know why—because I have you at my side. My only real gift is that I am aware of
your importance.” He looked at Demerzel slyly. “My son need not be my heir. He
is not a talented boy. What if I make you my heir?” Demerzel
said freezingly, “Sire, that is unthinkable. I would not usurp the throne. I
would not steal it from your rightful heir. Besides, if I have displeased you,
punish me justly. Surely, nothing I have done or could possibly do deserves the
punishment of being made Emperor.” Cleon
laughed. “For that true assessment of the value of the Imperial throne,
Demerzel, I abandon any thought of punishing you. Come now, let us talk about
something. I would sleep, but I am not yet ready for the ceremonies with which they
put me to bed. Let us talk.” “About
what, Sire?” “About
anything.—About that mathematician and his psychohistory. I think about him
every once in a while, you know. I thought of him at dinner tonight. I
wondered: What if a psychohistorical analysis would predict a method for making
it possible to be an Emperor without endless ceremony?” “I
somehow think, Sire, that even the cleverest psychohistorian could not manage
that.” “Well,
tell me the latest. Is he still hiding among those peculiar baldheads of Mycogen?
You promised you would winkle him out of there.” “So
I did, Sire, and I moved in that direction, but I regret that I must say that I
failed.” “Failed?”
The Emperor allowed himself to frown. “I don’t like that.” “Nor
I, Sire. I planned to have the mathematician be encouraged to commit some
blasphemous act—such acts are easy to commit in Mycogen, especially for an
outsider—one that would call for severe punishment. The mathematician would
then be forced to appeal to the Emperor and, as a result, we would get him. I
planned it at the cost of insignificant concessions on our part—important to
Mycogen, totally unimportant to us—and I meant to play no direct role in the
arrangement. It was to be handled subtly.” “I
dare say,” said Cleon, “but it failed. Did the Mayor of Mycogen “He is called
the High Elder, Sire.” “Do
not quibble over titles. Did this High Elder refuse?” “On
the contrary, Sire, he agreed and the mathematician, Seldon, fell into the trap
neatly.” “Well
then?” “He
was allowed to leave unharmed.” “Why?”
said Cleon indignantly. “Of
this I am not certain, Sire, but I suspect we were outbid.” “By
whom? By the Mayor of Wye?” “Possibly,
Sire, but I doubt that. I have Wye under constant surveillance. If they had
gained the mathematician, I would know it by now.” The
Emperor was not merely frowning. He was clearly enraged. “Demerzel, this is
bad. I am greatly displeased. A failure like this makes me wonder if you are
perhaps not the man you once were. What measures shall we take against Mycogen
for this clear defiance of the Emperor’s wishes?” Demerzel
bowed low in recognition of the storm unleashed, but he said in steely tones,
“It would be a mistake to move against Mycogen now, Sire. The disruption that
would follow would play into the hands of Wye.” “But
we must do something.” “Perhaps
not, Sire. It is not as bad as it may seem.” “How
can it be not as bad as it seems?” “You’ll
remember, Sire, that this mathematician was convinced that psychohistory was
impractical.” “Of
course I remember that, but that doesn’t matter, does it? For our purposes?” “Perhaps
not. But if it were to become practical, it would serve our purposes to an
infinitely great extent, Sire. And from what I have been able to find out, the
mathematician is now attempting to make psychohistory practical. His
blasphemous attempt in Mycogen was, I understand, part of an attempt at solving
the problem of psychohistory. In that case, it may pay us, Sire, to leave him
to himself. It will serve us better to pick him up when he is closer to his
goal or has reached it.” “Not
if Wye gets him first.” “That,
I shall see to it, will not happen.” “In
the same way that you succeeded in winkling the mathematician out of Mycogen
just now?” “I
will not make a mistake the next time, Sire,” said Demerzel coldly. The
Emperor said, “Demerzel, you had better not. I will not tolerate another
mistake in this respect.” And then he added pettishly, “I think I shall not
sleep tonight after all.” 62.Jirad
Tisalver of the Dahl Sector was short. The top of his head came up only to Hari
Seldon’s nose. He did not seem to take that to heart, however. He had handsome,
even features, was given to smiling, and sported a thick black mustache and
crisply curling black hair. He
lived, with his wife and a half-grown daughter, in an apartment of seven small
rooms, kept meticulously clean, but almost bare of furnishings. Tisalver said,
“I apologize, Master Seldon and Mistress Venabili, that I cannot give you the
luxury to which you must be accustomed, but Dahl is a poor sector and I am not
even among the better-off among our people.” “The
more reason,” responded Seldon, “that we must apologize to you for placing the
burden of our presence upon you.” “No
burden, Master Seldon. Master Hummin has arranged to pay us generously for your
use of our humble quarters and the credits would be welcome even if you were
not—and you are.” Seldon
remembered Hummin’s parting words when they finally arrived in Dahl. “Seldon”
he had said, “this is the third place I’ve arranged as sanctuary. The first two
were notoriously beyond the reach of the Imperium, which might well have served
to attract their attention; after all, they were logical places for you. This
one is different. It is poor, unremarkable, and, as a matter of fact, unsafe in
some ways. It is not a natural refuge for you, so that the Emperor and his
Chief of Staff may not think to turn their eyes in this direction. Would you
mind staying out of trouble this time, then?” “I
will try, Hummin,” said Seldon, a little offended. “Please be aware that the
trouble is not of my seeking. I am trying to learn what may well take me thirty
lifetimes to learn if I am to have the slightest chance of organizing
psychohistory.” “I
understand,” said Hummin. “Your efforts at learning brought you to Upperside in
Streeling and to the Elders’ aerie in Mycogen and to who can guess where in
Dahl. As for you, Dr. Venabili, I know you’ve been trying to take care of
Seldon, but you must try harder. Get it fixed in your head that he is the most
important person on Trantor—or in the Galaxy, for that matter—and that he must
be kept secure at any cost.” “I
will continue to do my best,” said Dors stiffly. “And as for your host family,
they have their peculiarities, but they are essentially good people with whom I
have dealt before. Try not to get them in trouble either.” But
Tisalver, at least, did not seem to anticipate trouble of any kind from his new
tenants and his expressed pleasure at the company he now had—quite apart from
the rent credits he would be getting—seemed quite sincere. He had never been
outside Dahl and his appetite for tales of distant places was enormous. His
wife too, bowing and smiling, would listen and their daughter, with a finger in
her mouth, would allow one eye to peep from behind the door. It was usually
after dinner, when the entire family assembled, that Seldon and Dors were
expected to talk of the outside world. The food was plentiful enough, but it
was bland and often tough. So soon after the tangy food of Mycogen, it was all
but inedible. The
“table” was a long shelf against one wall and they ate standing up. Gentle
questioning by Seldon elicited the fact that this was the usual situation among
Dahlites as a whole and was not due to unusual poverty. Of course, Mistress
Tisalver explained, there were those with high government jobs in Dahl who were
prone to adopt all kinds of effete customs like chairs—she called them “body
shelves”—but this was looked down upon by the solid middle class. Much as they
disapproved of unnecessary luxury, though, the Tisalvers loved hearing about
it, listening with a virtual storm of tongue-clicking when told of mattresses
lifted on legs, of ornate chests and wardrobes, and of a superfluity of
tableware. They
listened also to a description of Mycogenian customs, while Jirad Tisalver
stroked his own hair complacently and made it quite obvious that he would as
soon think of emasculation as of depilation. Mistress Tisalver was furious at
any mention of female subservience and flatly refused to believe that the
Sisters accepted it tranquilly. They
seized most, however, on Seldon’s. casual reference to the Imperial grounds.
When, upon questioning, it turned out that Seldon had actually seen and spoken
to the Emperor, a blanket of awe enveloped the family. It took a while before
they dared ask questions and Seldon found that he could not satisfy them. He
had not, after all, seen much of the grounds and even less of the Palace
interior. That
disappointed the Tisalvers and they were unremitting in their attempts to
elicit more. And, having heard of Seldon’s Imperial adventure, they found it
hard to believe Dors’s assertion that, for her part, she had never been
anywhere in the Imperial grounds. Most of all, they rejected Seldon’s casual
comment that the Emperor had talked and behaved very much as any ordinary human
being would. That seemed utterly impossible to the Tisalvers. After three
evenings of this, Seldon found himself tiring. He had, at first, welcomed the
chance to do nothing for a while (during the day, at least) but view some of
the history book-films that Dors recommended. The Tisalvers turned over their
book-viewer to their guests during the day with good grace, though the little
girl seemed unhappy and was sent over to a neighbor’s apartment to use theirs
for her homework. “It
doesn’t help,” Seldon said restlessly in the security of his room after he had
piped in some music to discourage eavesdropping. “I can see your fascination
with history, but it’s all endless detail. It’s a mountainous heap—no, a
Galactic heap—of data in which I can’t see the basic organization.” “I
dare say,” said Dors, “that there must have been a time when human beings saw
no organization in the stars in the sky, but eventually they discovered the
Galactic structure.” “And
I’m sure that took generations, not weeks. There must have been a time when
physics seemed a mass of unrelated observations before the central natural laws
were discovered and that took generations.—And what of the Tisalvers?” “What
of them? I think they’re being very nice.” “They’re
curious.” “Of
course they are. Wouldn’t you be if you were in their place?” “But
is it just curiosity? They seem to be ferociously interested in my meeting with
the Emperor.” Dors
seemed impatient. “Again ... its only natural. Wouldn’t you be—if the situation
was reversed?” “It
makes me nervous.” “Hummin
brought us here.” “Yes,
but he’s not perfect. He brought me to the University and I was maneuvered
Upperside. He brought us to Sunmaster Fourteen, who entrapped us. You know he
did. Twice bitten, at least once shy. I’m tired of being questioned.” “Then
turn the tables, Hari. Aren’t you interested in Dahl?” “Of
course. What do you know about it to begin with?” “Nothing.
It’s just one of more than eight hundred sectors and I’ve only been on Trantor
a little over two years.” “Exactly.
And there are twenty-five million other worlds and I’ve been on this problem
only a little over two months.—I tell you. I want to go back to Helicon and
take up a study of the mathematics of turbulence, which was my Ph.D. problem,
and forget I ever saw—or thought I saw—that turbulence gave an insight into
human society.” But
that evening he said to Tisalver, “But you know, Master Tisalver, you’ve never
told me what you do, the nature of your work.” “Me?”
Tisalver placed his fingers on his chest, which was covered by the simple white
T-shirt with nothing underneath, which seemed to be the standard male uniform
in Dahl. “Nothing much. I work at the local holovision station in programming.
It’s very dull, but it’s a living.” “And
it’s respectable,” said Mistress Tisalver. “It means he doesn’t have to work in
the heatsinks.” “The
heatsinks?” said Dors, lifting her light eyebrows and managing to look
fascinated. “Oh
well,” said Tisalver, “that’s what Dahl is best known for. It isn’t much, but
forty billion people on Trantor need energy and we supply a lot of it. We don’t
get appreciated, but I’d like to see some of the fancy sectors do without it.” Seldon
looked confused. “Doesn’t Trantor get its energy from solar power stations in orbit?” “Some,”
said Tisalver, “and some from nuclear fusion stations out on the islands and
some from microfusion motors and some from wind stations Upperside, but
half”—he raised a finger in emphasis and his face looked unusually grave—“half
comes from the heatsinks. There are heatsinks in lots of places, but
none—none—as rich as those in Dahl. Are you serious that you don’t know about
the heatsinks? You sit there and stare at me.” Dors
said quickly, “We are Outworlders, you know.” (She had almost said ‘tribespeople,’
but had caught herself in time.) “Especially Dr. Seldon. He’s only been on
Trantor a couple of months.” “Really?”
said Mistress Tisalver. She was a trifle shorter than her husband, was plump
without quite being fat, had her dark hair drawn tightly back into a bun, and
possessed rather beautiful dark eyes. Like her husband, she appeared to be in
her thirties. (After
a period in Mycogen, not actually long in duration but intense, it struck Dors
as odd to have a woman enter the conversation at will. How quickly modes and
manners establish themselves, she thought, and made a mental note to mention
that to Seldon—one more item for his psychohistory.) “Oh yes,” she said. “Dr.
Seldon is from Helicon.” Mistress
Tisalver registered polite ignorance. “And where might that be?” Dors
said, “Why, it’s—” She turned to Seldon. “Where is it, Hari?” Seldon looked
abashed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could locate it very easily on
a Galactic model without looking up the coordinates. All I can say is that it’s
on the other side of the central black hole from Trantor and getting there by
hypership is rather a chore.” Mistress
Tisalver said, “I don’t think Jirad and I will ever be on a hypership.” “Someday,
Casilia,” said Tisalver cheerfully, “maybe we will. But tell us about Helicon,
Master Seldon.” Seldon
shook his head. “To me that would be dull. Its just a world, like any other.
Only Trantor is different from all the rest. There are no heatsinks on
Helicon—or probably anywhere else—except Trantor. Tell me about them.” (“Only
Trantor is different from all the rest.” The sentence repeated itself in
Seldon’s mind and for a moment he grasped at it, and for some reason Dors’s
hand-on-thigh story suddenly recurred to him, but Tisalver was speaking and it
passed out of Seldon’s mind as quickly as it had entered.) Tisalver
said, “If you really want to know about heatsinks, I can show you.” He turned
to his wife. “Casilia, would you mind if tomorrow evening I take Master Seldon
to the heatsinks.” “And
me,” said Dors quickly. “And
Mistress Venabili?” Mistress
Tisalver frowned and said sharply, “I don’t think it would be a good idea. Our
visitors would find it dull.” “I
don’t think so, Mistress Tisalver,” said Seldon ingratiatingly. “We would very
much like to see the heatsinks. We would be delighted if you would join us too
... and your little daughter—if she wants to come.” “To
the heatsinks?” said Mistress Tisalver, stiffening. “It’s no place at all for a
decent woman.” Seldon
felt embarrassed at his gaffe. “I meant no harm, Mistress Tisalver.” “No
offense,” said Tisalver. “Casilia thinks it’s beneath us and so it is, but as
long as I don’t work there, it’s no distress merely to visit and show it to
guests. But it is uncomfortable and I would never get Casilia to dress
properly.” They
got up from their crouching positions. Dahlite “chairs” were merely molded
plastic seats on small wheels and they cramped Seldon’s knees terribly and
seemed to wiggle at his least body movement. The Tisalvers, however, had
mastered the art of sitting firmly and rose without trouble and without needing
to use their arms for help as Seldon had to. Dors also got up without trouble
and Seldon once again marveled at her natural grace. Before
they parted to their separate rooms for the night, Seldon said to Dors, “Are
you sure you know nothing about heatsinks? Mistress Tisalver makes them seem
unpleasant.” “They
can’t be that unpleasant or Tisalver wouldn’t suggest taking us on tour. Let’s
be content to be surprised.” 63.Tisalver
said, “You’ll need proper clothing.” Mistress Tisalver sniffed markedly in the
background. Cautiously,
Seldon, thinking of kirtles with vague distress, said, “What do you mean by
proper clothing?” “Something
light, such as I wear. A T-shirt, very short sleeves, loose slacks, loose
underpants, foot socks, open sandals. I have it all for you.” “Good.
It doesn’t sound bad.” “As
for Mistress Venabili, I have the same. I hope it fits.” The
clothes Tisalver supplied each of them (which were his own) fit fine—if a bit
snugly. When they were ready, they bade Mistress Tisalver good-bye and she,
with a resigned if still disapproving air, watched them from the doorway as
they set off. It
was early evening and there was an attractive twilight glow above. It was clear
that Dahl’s lights would soon be winking on. The temperature was mild and there
were virtually no vehicles to be seen; everyone was walking. In the distance
was the ever-present hum of an Expressway and the occasional glitter of its
lights could be easily seen. The
Dahlites, Seldon noted, did not seem to be walking toward any particular
destination. Rather, there seemed to be a promenade going on, a walking for
pleasure. Perhaps, if Dahl was an impoverished sector, as Tisalver had implied,
inexpensive entertainment was at a premium and what was as pleasant—and as
inexpensive—as an evening stroll? Seldon
felt himself easing automatically into the gait of an aimless stroll himself
and felt the warmth of friendliness all around him. People greeted each other
as they passed and exchanged a few words. Black mustaches of different shape
and thickness flashed everywhere and seemed a requisite for the Dahlite male,
as ubiquitous as the bald heads of the Mycogenian Brothers. It was an evening
rite, a way of making sure that another day had passed safely and that one’s
friends were still well and happy. And, it soon became apparent, Dors caught
every eye. In the twilight glow, the ruddiness of her hair had deepened, but it
stood out against the sea of black-haired heads (except for the occasional
gray) like a gold coin winking its way across a pile of coal. “This
is very pleasant,” said Seldon. “It
is,” said Tisalver. “Ordinarily, I’d be walking with my wife and she’d be in
her element. There is no one for a kilometer around whom she doesn’t know by
name, occupation, and interrelationships. I can’t do that. Right now, half the
people who greet me ... I couldn’t tell you their names. But, in any case, we
mustn’t creep along too slowly. We must get to the elevator. It’s a busy world
on the lower levels.” They
were on the elevator going down when Dors said, “I presume, Master Tisalver,
that the heatsinks are places where the internal heat of Trantor is being used
to produce steam that will turn turbines and produce electricity.” “Oh,
no. Highly efficient large-scale thermopiles produce electricity directly.
Don’t ask me the details, please. I’m just a holovision programmer. In fact,
don’t ask anyone the details down there. The whole thing is one big black box.
It works, but no one knows how.” “What
if something goes wrong?” “It
doesn’t usually, but if it does, some expert comes over from somewhere. Someone
who understands computers. The whole thing is highly computerized, of course.” The
elevator came to a halt and they stepped out. A blast of heat struck them. “It’s
hot,” said Seldon quite unnecessarily. “Yes,
it is,” said Tisalver. “That’s what makes Dahl so valuable as an energy source.
The magma layer is nearer the surface here than it is anywhere else in the
world. So you have to work in the heat.” “How
about air-conditioning?” said Dors. “There
is air-conditioning, but it’s a matter of expense. We ventilate and dehumidify
and cool, but if we go too far, then we’re using up too much energy and the
whole process becomes too expensive.” Tisalver
stopped at a door at which he signaled. It opened to a blast of cooler air and
he muttered, “We ought to be able to get someone to help show us around and
he’ll control the remarks that Mistress Venabili will otherwise be the victim
of ... at least from the men.” “Remarks
won’t embarrass me,” said Dors. “They
will embarrass me,” said Tisalver. A
young man walked out of the office and introduced himself as Hano Linder. He
resembled Tisalver quite closely, but Seldon decided that until he got used to
the almost universal shortness, swarthiness, black hair, and luxuriant
mustaches, he would not be able to see individual differences easily. Lindor
said, “I’ll be glad to show you around for what there is to see. It’s not one
of your spectaculars, you know.” He addressed them all, but his eyes were fixed
on Dors. He said, “It’s not going to be comfortable. I suggest we remove our
shirts.” “It’s
nice and cool in here,” said Seldon. “Of
course, but that’s because we’re executives. Rank has its privileges. Out there
we can’t maintain air-conditioning at this level. That’s why they get paid more
than I do. In fact, those are the best-paying jobs in Dahl, which is the only
reason we get people to work down here. Even so, it’s getting harder to get
heatsinkers all the time.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, out into the soup.” He
removed his own shirt and tucked it into his waistband. Tisalver did the same
and Seldon followed suit. Linder
glanced at Dors and said, “For your own comfort, Mistress, but it’s not
compulsory.” “That’s
all right,” said Dors and removed her shirt. Her
brassiere was white, unpadded, and showed considerable cleavage. “Mistress,”
said Lindor, “That’s not—” He thought a moment, then shrugged and said, “All
right. We’ll get by.” At
first, Seldon was aware only of computers and machinery, huge pipes, flickering
lights, and flashing screens. The
overall light was comparatively dim, though individual sections of machinery
were illuminated. Seldon looked up into the almost-darkness. He said, “Why
isn’t it better lit?” “It’s
lit well enough ... where it should be,” said Lindor. His voice was well
modulated and he spoke quickly, but a little harshly. “Overall illumination is
kept low for psychological reasons. Too bright is translated, in the mind, into
heat. Complaints go up when we turn up the lights, even when the temperature is
made to go down.” Dors
said, “It seems to be well computerized. I should think the operations could be
turned over to computers altogether. This sort of environment is made for artificial
intelligence.” “Perfectly
right,” said Lindor, “but neither can we take a chance on any failures. We need
people on the spot if anything goes wrong. A malfunctioning computer can raise
problems up to two thousand kilometers away.” “So
can human error. Isn’t that so?” said Seldon. “Oh.
yes, but with both people and computers on the job, computer error can be more
quickly tracked down and corrected by people and, conversely, human error can
be more quickly corrected by computers. What it amounts to is that nothing
serious can happen unless human error and computer error take place
simultaneously. And that hardly ever happens.” “Hardly
ever, but not never, eh?” said Seldon. “Almost never, but not never. Computers
aren’t what they used to be and neither are people.” “That’s
the way it always seems,” said Seldon, laughing slightly. “No,
no. I’m not talking memory. I’m not talking good old days. I’m talking
statistics.” At
this, Seldon recalled Hummin talking of the degeneration of the times. “See
what I mean?” said Lindor, his voice dropping. “There’s a bunch of people, at
the C-3 level from the looks of them, drinking. Not one of them is at his or
her post.” “What
are they drinking?” asked Dors. “Special
fluids for replacing electrolyte loss. Fruit juice.” “You
can’t blame them, can you?” said Dors indignantly. “In this dry heat, you would
have to drink.” “Do
you know how long a skilled C-3 can spin out a drink? And there’s nothing to be
done about it either. If we give them five-minute breaks for drinks and stagger
them so they don’t all congregate in a group, you simply stir up a rebellion.” They
were approaching the group now. There were men and women (Dahl seemed to be a
more or less amphisexual society) and both sexes were shirtless. The women wore
devices that might be called brassieres, but they were strictly functional.
They served to lift the breasts in order to improve ventilation and limit
perspiration, but covered nothing. Dors
said in an aside to Seldon, “That makes sense, Hari. I’m soaking wet there.” “Take
off your brassiere, then,” said Seldon. “I won’t lift a finger to stop you.” “Somehow,”
said Dors, “I guessed you wouldn’t.” She left her brassiere where it was. They
were approaching the congregation of people—about a dozen of them. Dors
said, “If any of them make rude remarks, I shall survive.” “Thank
you,” said Lindor. “I cannot promise they won’t.—But I’ll have to introduce
you. If they get the idea that you two are inspectors and in my company,
they’ll become unruly. Inspectors are supposed to poke around on their own
without anyone from management overseeing them.” He held up his arms. “Heatsinkers,
I have two introductions to make. We have visitors from outside—two
Outworlders, two scholars. They’ve got worlds running short on energy and
they’ve come here to see how we do it here in Dahl. They think they may learn
something.” “They’ll
learn how to sweat!” shouted a heatsinker and there was raucous laughter. “She’s
got a sweaty chest right now,” shouted a woman, “covering up like that.” Dors
shouted back, “I’d take it off, but mine can’t compete with yours.” The
laughter turned good-natured. But
one young man stepped forward, staring at Seldon with intense deep-set eyes,
his face set into a humorless mask. He said, “I know you. You’re the mathematician.” He
ran forward, inspecting Seldon’s face with eager solemnity. Automatically, Dors
stepped in front of Seldon and Lindor stepped in front of her, shouting, “Back,
heatsinker. Mind your manners.” Seldon
said, “Wait! Let him talk to me. Why is everyone piling in front of me?” Lindor
said in a low voice, “If any of them get close, you’ll find they don’t smell
like hothouse flowers.” “I’ll
endure it,” said Seldon brusquely. “Young man, what is it you want?” “My
name is Amaryl. Yugo Amaryl. I’ve seen you on holovision.” “You
might have, but what about it?” “I
don’t remember your name.” “You
don’t have to.” “You
talked about something called psychohistory.” “You
don’t know how I wish I hadn’t.” “What?” “Nothing.
What is it you want?” “I
want to talk to you. Just for a little while. Now.” Seldon
looked at Lindor, who shook his head firmly. “Not while he’s on his shift.” “When
does your shift begin, Mr. Amaryl?” asked Seldon. “Sixteen
hundred.” “Can
you see me tomorrow at fourteen hundred?” “Sure.
Where?” Seldon
turned to Tisalver. Would you permit me to see him in your place?” Tisalver
looked very unhappy. “Its not necessary. He’s just a heatsinker.” Seldon
said, “He recognized my face. He knows something about me. He can’t be just an
anything. I’ll see him in my room.” And then, as Tisalver’s face didn’t soften,
he added, “My room, for which rent is being paid. And you’ll be at work, out of
the apartment.” Tisalver
said in a low voice, “It’s not me, Master Seldon. It’s my wife, Casilia. She
won’t stand for it.” “I’ll
talk to her,” said Seldon grimly. “She’ll have to.” 64.Casilia
Tisalver opened her eyes wide. “A heatsinker? Not in my apartment.” “Why
not? Besides, he’ll be coming to my room,” said Seldon. “At fourteen hundred.” “I
won’t have it,” said Mistress Tisalver. “This is what comes of going down to
the heatsinks. Jirad was a fool.” “Not
at all, Mistress Tisalver. We went at my request and I was fascinated. I must
see this young man, since that is necessary to my scholarly work.” “I’m
sorry if it is, but I won’t have it.” Dors
Venabili raised her hand. “Hari, let me take care of this. Mistress Tisalver,
if Dr. Seldon must see someone in his room this afternoon, the additional
person naturally means additional rent. We understand that. For today, then,
the rent on Dr. Seldon’s room will be doubled.” Mistress
Tisalver thought about it. “Well, that’s decent of you, but it’s not only the
credits. There’s the neighbors to think of. A sweaty, smelly heatsinker—” “I
doubt that he’ll be sweaty and smelly at fourteen hundred, Mistress Tisalver,
but let me go on. Since Dr. Seldon must see him, then if he can’t see him here,
he’ll have to see him elsewhere, but we can’t run here and there. That would be
too inconvenient. Therefore, what we will have to do is to get a room
elsewhere. It won’t be easy and we don’t want to do it, but we will have to. So
we will pay the rent through today and leave and of course we will have to
explain to Master Hummin why we have had to change the arrangements that he so
kindly made for us.” “Wait.”
Mistress Tisalver’s face became a study of calculation. “We wouldn’t like to
disoblige Master Hummin ... or you two. How long would this creature have to
stay?” “He’s
coming at fourteen hundred. He must be at work at sixteen hundred. He will be
here for less than two hours, perhaps considerably less. We will meet him
outside, the two of us, and bring him to Dr. Seldon’s room. Any neighbors who
see us will think he is an Outworlder friend of ours.” Mistress
Tisalver nodded her head. “Then let it be as you say. Double rent for Master
Seldon’s room for today and the heatsinker will visit just this one time.” “Just
this one time,” said Dors. But
later, when Seldon and Dors were sitting in her room, Dors said, “Why do you
have to see him, Hari? Is interviewing a heatsinker important to psychohistory
too?” Seldon
thought he detected a small edge of sarcasm in her voice and he said tartly, “I
don’t have to base everything on this huge project of mine, in which I have
very little faith anyway. I am also a human being with human curiosities. We
were down in the heatsinks for hours and you saw what the working people there
were like. They were obviously uneducated. They were low-level individuals—no
play on words intended—and yet here was one who recognized me. He must have
seen me on holovision on the occasion of the Decennial Convention and he
remembered the word ‘psychohistory.’ He strikes me as unusual—as out of place
somehow—and I would like to talk to him.” “Because
it pleases your vanity to have become known even to heatsinkers in Dahl?” “Well
... perhaps. But it also piques my curiosity.” “And
how do you know he hasn’t been briefed and intends to lead you into trouble as
has happened before.” Seldon
winced. “I won’t let him run his fingers through my hair. In any case, we’re
more nearly prepared now, aren’t we? And I’m sure you’ll be with me. I mean,
you let me go Upperside alone, you let me go with Raindrop Forty-Three to the
microfarms alone, and you’re not going to do that again, are you?” “You
can be absolutely sure I won’t,” said Dors. “Well
then, I’ll talk to the young man and you can watch out for traps. I have every
faith in you.” 65.Amaryl
arrived a few minutes before 1400, looking warily about. His hair was neat and
his thick mustache was combed and turned up slightly at the edges. His T-shirt
was startlingly white. He did smell, but it was a fruity odor that undoubtedly
came from the slightly overenthusiastic use of scent. He had a bag with him. Seldon,
who had been waiting outside for him, seized one elbow lightly, while Dors
seized the other, and they moved rapidly into the elevator. Having reached the
correct level, they passed through the apartment into Seldon’s room. Amaryl
said in a low hangdog voice, “Nobody home, huh?” “Everyone’s
busy,” said Seldon neutrally. He indicated the only chair in the room, a pad
directly on the floor. “No,”
said Amaryl. “I don’t need that. One of you two use it.” He squatted on the
floor with a graceful downward motion. Dors
imitated the movement, sitting on the edge of Seldon’s floor-based mattress,
but Seldon dropped down rather clumsily, having to make use of his hands and
unable, quite, to find a comfortable position for his legs. Seldon said, “Well,
young man, why do you want to see me?” “Because
you’re a mathematician. You’re the first mathematician I ever saw—close up—so I
could touch him, you know.” “Mathematicians
feel like anyone else.” “Not
to me, Dr. ... Dr. ... Seldon?” “That’s
my name.” Amaryl
looked pleased. “I finally remembered.—You see, I want to be a mathematician
too.” “Very
good. What’s stopping you?” Amaryl
suddenly frowned. “Are you serious?” “I
presume something is stopping you. Yes, I’m serious.” “What’s
stopping me is I’m a Dahlite, a heatsinker on Dahl. I don’t have the money to
get an education and I can’t get the credits to get an education. A real
education, I mean. All they taught me was to read and cipher and use a computer
and then I knew enough to be a heatsinker. But I wanted more. So I taught
myself.” “In
some ways, that’s the best kind of teaching. How did you do that?” “I
knew a librarian. She was willing to help me. She was a very nice woman and she
showed me how to use computers for learning mathematics. And she set up a
software system that would connect me with other libraries. I’d come on my days
off and on mornings after my shift. Sometimes she’d lock me in her private room
so I wouldn’t be bothered by people coming in or she would let me in when the
library was closed. She didn’t know mathematics herself, but she helped me all
she could. She was oldish, a widow lady. Maybe she thought of me as a kind of
son or something. She didn’t have children of her own.” (Maybe,
thought Seldon briefly, there was some other emotion involved too, but he put
the thought away. None of his business.) “I
liked number theory,” said Amaryl. “I worked some things out from what I
learned from the computer and from the book-films it used to teach me
mathematics. I came up with some new things that weren’t in the book-films.”
Seldon raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting. Like what?” “I’ve
brought some of them to you. I’ve never showed them to anyone. The people
around me—” He shrugged. “They’d either laugh or be annoyed. Once I tried to
tell a girl I knew, but she just said I was weird and wouldn’t see me anymore.
Is it all right for me to show them to you?” “Quite
all right. Believe me.” Seldon
held out his hand and after a brief hesitation, Amaryl handed him the bag he
was carrying. For
a long time, Seldon looked over Amaryl’s papers. The work was naive in the
extreme, but he allowed no smile to cross his face. He followed the
demonstrations, not one of which was new, of course—or even nearly new—or of
any importance. But
that didn’t matter. Seldon
looked up. “Did you do all of this yourself?” Amaryl,
looking more than half-frightened, nodded his head. Seldon extracted several
sheets. “What made you think of this?” His finger ran down a line of
mathematical reasoning. Amaryl
looked it over, frowned, and thought about it. Then he explained his line of
thinking. Seldon
listened and said, “Did you ever read a book by Anat Bigell?” “On
number theory?” “The
title was Mathematical Deduction. It wasn’t about number theory, particularly.” Amaryl
shook his head. “I never heard of him. I’m sorry.” “He
worked out this theorem of yours three hundred years ago.’ Amaryl
looked stricken. “I didn’t know that.” “I’m
sure you didn’t. You did it more cleverly, though. It’s not rigorous, but—” “What
do you mean, ‘rigorous’?” “It
doesn’t matter.” Seldon put the papers back together in a sheaf, restored it to
the bag, and said, “Make several copies of all this. Take one copy, have it
dated by an official computer, and place it under computerized seal. My friend
here, Mistress Venabili, can get you into Streeling University without tuition
on some sort of scholarship. You’ll have to start at the beginning and take
courses in other subjects than mathematics, but—” By
now Amaryl had caught his breath. “Into Streeling University? They won’t take
me.” “Why
not? Dors, you can arrange it, can’t you?” “I’m
sure I can.” “No,
you can’t,” said Amaryl hotly. “They won’t take me. I’m from Dahl.” “Well?” “They
won’t take people from Dahl.” Seldon
looked at Dors. “What’s he talking about?” Dors
shook her head. “I really don’t know.” Amaryl
said, “You’re an Outworlder, Mistress. How long have you been at Streeling?” “A
little over two years, Mr. Amaryl.” “Have
you ever seen Dahlites there—short, curly black hair, big mustaches?” “There
are students with all kinds of appearances.” “But
no Dahlites. Look again the next time you’re there.” “Why
not?” said Seldon. “They
don’t like us. We look different. They don’t like our mustaches.” “You
can shave your—” but Seldon’s voice died under the other’s furious glance. “Never.
Why should I? My mustache is my manhood.” “You
shave your beard. That’s your manhood too.” “To
my people it is the mustache.” Seldon
looked at Dors again and murmured, “Bald heads, mustaches ... madness.” “What?”
said Amaryl angrily. “Nothing.
Tell me what else they don’t like about Dahlites.” “They
make up things not to like. They say we smell. They say we’re dirty. They say
we steal. They say we’re violent. They say we’re dumb.” “Why
do they say all this?” “Because
its easy to say it and it makes them feel good. Sure, if we work in the
heatsinks, we get dirty and smelly. If we’re poor and held down, some of us
steal and get violent. But that isn’t the way it is with all of us. How about
those tall yellow-hairs in the Imperial Sector who think they own the
Galaxy—no, they do own the Galaxy. Don’t they ever get violent? Don’t they
steal sometimes? If they did my job, they’d smell the way I do. If they had to
live the way I have to, they’d get dirty too.” “Who
denies that there are people of all kinds in all places?” said Seldon. “No
one argues the matter! They just take it for granted. Master Seldon, I’ve got
to get away from Trantor. I have no chance on Trantor, no way of earning
credits, no way of getting an education, no way of becoming a mathematician, no
way of becoming any thing but what they say I am ... a worthless nothing.” This
last was said in frustration—and desperation. Seldon
tried to be reasonable. “The person I’m renting this room from is a Dahlite. He
has a clean job. He’s educated.” “Oh
sure,” said Amaryl passionately. “There are some. They let a few do it so that
they can say it can be done. And those few can live nicely as long as they stay
in Dahl. Let them go outside and they’ll see how they’re treated. And while
they’re in here they make themselves feel good by treating the rest of us like
dirt. That makes them yellow-hairs in their own eyes. What did this nice person
you’re renting this room from say when you told him you were bringing in a
heatsinker? What did he say I would be like? They’re gone now ... wouldn’t be
in the same place with me.” Seldon
moistened his lips. “I won’t forget you. I’ll see to it that you’ll get off
Trantor and into my own University in Helicon—once I’m back there myself.” “Do
you promise that? Your word of honor? Even though I’m a Dahlite?” “The
fact that you’re a Dahlite is unimportant to me. The fact that you are already
a mathematician is! But I still can’t quite grasp what you’re telling me. I
find it impossible to believe that there would be such unreasoning feeling
against harmless people.” Amaryl
said bitterly, “That’s because you’ve never had any occasion to interest
yourself in such things. It can all pass right under your nose and you wouldn’t
smell a thing because it doesn’t affect you. “ Dors said, “Mr. Amaryl, Dr. Seldon
is a mathematician like you and his head can sometimes be in the clouds. You
must understand that. I am a historian, however. I know that it isn’t unusual
to have one group of people look down upon another group. There are peculiar
and almost ritualistic hatreds that have no rational justification and that can
have their serious historical influence. It’s too bad.” Amaryl
said, “Saying something is ‘too bad’ is easy. You say you disapprove, which
makes you a nice person, and then you can go about your own business and not be
interested anymore. It’s a lot worse than ‘too bad.’ It’s against everything
decent and natural. We’re all of us the same, yellow-hairs and black-hairs,
tall and short, Easterners, Westerners, Southerners, and Outworlders. We’re all
of us, you and I and even the Emperor, descended from the people of Earth,
aren’t we?” “Descended
from what?” asked Seldon. He turned to look at Dors, his eyes wide. “From
the people of Earth!” shouted Amaryl. “The one planet on which human beings
originated.” “One
planet? Just one planet?” “The
only planet. Sure. Earth.” “When
you say Earth, you mean Aurora, don’t you?” “Aurora?
What’s that?—I mean Earth. Have you never heard of Earth?” “No,”
said Seldon. “Actually not.” “It’s
a mythical world,” began Dors, “that—” “It’s
not mythical. It was a real planet.” Seldon
sighed. “I’ve heard this all before. Well, let’s go through it again. Is there
a Dahlite book that tells of Earth?” “What?” “Some
computer software, then?” “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Young
man, where did you hear about Earth?” “My
dad told me. Everyone knows about it.” “Is
there anyone who knows about it especially? Did they teach you about it in
school?” “They
never said a word about it there.” “Then
how do people know about it?” Amaryl
shrugged his shoulders with an air of being uselessly badgered over nothing.
“Everyone just does. If you want stories about it, there’s Mother Rittah. I
haven’t heard that she’s died yet.” “Your
mother? Wouldn’t you know—” “She’s
not my mother. That’s just what they call her. Mother Rittah. She’s an old
woman. She lives in Billibotton. Or used to.” “Where’s
that?” “Down
in that direction,” said Amaryl, gesturing vaguely. “How
do I get there?” “Get
there? You don’t want to get there. You’d never come back.” “Why
not?” “Believe
me. You don’t want to go there.” “But
I’d like to see Mother Rittah.” Amaryl
shook his head. “Can you use a knife?” “For
what purpose? What kind of knife?” “A
cutting knife. Like this.” Amaryl reached down to the belt that held his pants
tight about his waist. A section of it came away and from one end there flashed
out a knife blade, thin, gleaming, and deadly. Dors’s hand immediately came
down hard upon his right wrist. Amaryl laughed. “I wasn’t planning to use it. I
was just showing it to you.” He put the knife back in his belt. “You need one
in self-defense and if you don’t have one or if you have one but don’t know how
to use it, you’ll never get out of Billibotton alive. Anyway”—he suddenly grew
very grave and intent—“are you really serious, Master Seldon, about helping me
get to Helicon?” “Entirely
serious. That’s a promise. Write down your name and where you can be reached by
hypercomputer. You have a code, I suppose.” “My
shift in the heatsinks has one. Will that do?” “Yes.” “Well
then,” said Amaryl, looking up earnestly at Seldon, “this means I have my whole
future riding on you, Master Seldon, so please don’t go to Billibotton. I can’t
afford to lose you now.” He
turned beseeching eyes on Dors and said softly, “Mistress Venabili, if he’ll
listen to you, don’t let him go. Please.” BillibottonDAHL—
... Oddly enough, the best-known aspect of this sector is Billibotton, a
semi-legendary place about which innumerable tales have grown up. In fact, a
whole branch of literature now exists in which heroes and adventurers (and
victims) must dare the dangers of passing through Billibotton. So stylized have
these stories become that the one well-known and, presumably, authentic tale
involving such a passage, that of Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili, has come to
seem fantastic simply by association ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 66.When
Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili were alone, Dors asked thoughtfully, “Are you
really planning to see this ‘Mother’ woman?” “I’m
thinking about it, Dors.” “You’re
an odd one, Hari. You seem to go steadily from bad to worse. You went
Upperside, which seemed harmless enough, for a rational purpose when you were
in Streeling. Then, in Mycogen, you broke into the Elders’ aerie, a much more
dangerous task, for a much more foolish purpose. And now in Dahl, you want to
go to this place, which that young man seems to think is simple suicide, for
something altogether nonsensical.” “I’m
curious about this reference to Earth—and must know if there’s anything to it.” Dors
said, “It’s a legend and not even an interesting one. It is routine. The names
differ from planet to planet, but the content is the same. There is always the
tale of an original world and a golden age. There is a longing for a supposedly
simple and virtuous past that is almost universal among the people of a complex
and vicious society. In one way or another, this is true of all societies,
since everyone imagines his or her own society to be too complex and vicious,
however simple it may be. Mark that down for your psychohistory.” “Just
the same,” said Seldon, “I have to consider the possibility that one world did
once exist. Aurora ... Earth ... the name doesn’t matter. In fact—” He
paused and finally Dors said, “Well?” Seldon
shook his head. “Do you remember the hand-on-thigh story you told me in
Mycogen? It was right after I got the Book from Raindrop Forty-Three ... Well,
it popped into my head one evening recently when we were talking to the
Tisalvers. I said something that reminded me, for an instant—” “Reminded
you of what?” “I
don’t remember. It came into my head and went out again, but somehow every time
I think of the single-world notion, it seems to me I have the tips of my
fingers on something and then lose it.” Dors
looked at Seldon in surprise. “I don’t see what it could be. The hand-on-thigh
story has nothing to do with Earth or Aurora.” “I
know, but this ... thing ... that hovers just past the edge of my mind seems to
be connected with this single world anyway and I have the feeling that I must
find out more about it at any cost. That ... and robots.” “Robots
too? I thought the Elders’ aerie put an end to that.” “Not
at all. I’ve been thinking about them.” He stared at Dors with a troubled look
on his face for a long moment, then said, “But I’m not sure.” “Sure
about what, Hari?” But
Seldon merely shook his head and said nothing more. Dors
frowned, then said, “Hari, let me tell you one thing. In sober history—and,
believe me, I know what I’m talking about there is no mention of one world of
origin. It’s a popular belief, I admit. I don’t mean just among the
unsophisticated followers of folklore, like the Mycogenians and the Dahlite
heatsinkers, but there are biologists who insist that there must have been one
world of origin for reasons that are well outside my area of expertise and
there are the more mystical historians who tend to speculate about it. And
among the leisure-class intellectuals, I understand such speculations are
becoming fashionable. Still, scholarly history knows nothing about it.” Seldon
said, “All the more reason, perhaps, to go beyond scholarly history. All I want
is a device that will simplify psychohistory for me and I don’t care what the
device is, whether it is a mathematical trick or a historical trick or
something totally imaginary. If the young man we’ve just talked to had had a
little more formal training, I’d have set him on the problem. His thinking is
marked by considerable ingenuity and originality—” Dors
said, “And you’re really going to help him, then?” “Absolutely.
Just as soon as I’m in a position to.” “But
ought you to make promises you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep?” “I
want to keep it. If you’re that stiff about impossible promises, consider that
Hummin told Sunmaster Fourteen that I’d use psychohistory to get the
Mycogenians their world back. There’s just about zero chance of that. Even if I
work out psychohistory, who knows if it can be used for so narrow and
specialized a purpose? There’s a real case of promising what one can’t
deliver.” But
Dors said with some heat, “Chetter Hummin was trying to save our lives, to keep
us out of the hands of Demerzel and the Emperor. Don’t forget that. And I think
he really would like to help the Mycogenians.” “And
I really would like to help Yugo Amaryl and I am far more likely to be able to
help him than I am the Mycogenians, so if you justify the second, please don’t
criticize the first. What’s more, Dors”—and his eyes flashed angrily—“I really
would like to find Mother Rittah and I’m prepared to go alone.” “Never!”
snapped Dors. “If you go, I go.” 67.Mistress
Tisalver returned with her daughter in tow an hour after Amaryl had left on
this way to his shift. She said nothing at all to either Seldon or Dors, but
gave a curt nod of her head when they greeted her and gazed sharply about the
room as though to verify that the heatsinker had left no trace. She then
sniffed the air sharply and looked at Seldon accusingly before marching through
the common room into the family bedroom. Tisalver
himself arrived home later and when Seldon and Dors came to the dinner table,
Tisalver took advantage of the fact that his wife was still ordering some
last-minute details in connection with the dinner to say in a low voice, “Has
that person been here?” “And
gone,” said Seldon solemnly. “Your wife was out at the time.” Tisalver
nodded and said, “Will you have to do this again?” “I
don’t think so,” said Seldon. “Good.” Dinner
passed largely in silence, but afterward, when the daughter had gone to her
room for the dubious pleasures of computer practice, Seldon leaned back and
said, “Tell me about Billibotton.” Tisalver
looked astonished and his mouth moved without any sound issuing. Casilia,
however, was less easily rendered speechless. She said, “Is that where your new
friend lives? Are you going to return the visit?” “So
far,” said Seldon quietly, “I have just asked about Billibotton.” Casilia
said sharply, “It is a slum. The dregs live there. No one goes there, except
the filth that make their homes there.” “I
understand a Mother Rittah lives there.” “I
never heard of her,” said Casilia, her mouth closing with a snap. It was quite
clear that she had no intention of knowing anyone by name who lived in
Billibotton. Tisalver,
casting an uneasy look at his wife, said, “I’ve heard of her. She’s a crazy old
woman who is supposed to tell fortunes.” “And
does she live in Billibotton?” “I
don’t know, Master Seldon. I’ve never seen her. She’s mentioned sometimes in
the news holocasts when she makes her predictions.” “Do
they come true?” Tisalver
snorted. “Do predictions ever come true? Hers don’t even make sense.” “Does
she ever talk about Earth?” “I
don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.” “The
mention of Earth doesn’t puzzle you. Do you know about Earth?” Now
Tisalver looked surprised. “Certainly, Master Seldon. It’s the world all people
came from ... supposedly.” “Supposedly?
Don’t you believe it?” “Me?
I’m educated. But many ignorant people believe it.” “Are
there book-films about Earth?” “Children’s
stories sometimes mention Earth. I remember, when I was a young boy, my
favorite story began, ‘Once, long ago, on Earth, when Earth was the only
planet—’ Remember, Casilia? You liked it too.” Casilia
shrugged, unwilling to bend as yet. “I’d
like to see it sometime,” said Seldon, “but I mean real book-films ... uh ...
learned ones ... or films ... or printouts.” “I
never heard of any, but the library—” “I’ll
try that.—Are there any taboos about speaking of Earth?” “What
are taboos?” “I
mean, is it a strong custom that people mustn’t talk of Earth or that outsiders
mustn’t ask about it?” Tisalver
looked so honestly astonished that there seemed no point in waiting for an
answer. Dors
put in, “Is there some rule about outsiders not going to Billibotton?” Now
Tisalver turned earnest. “No rule, but it’s not a good idea for anyone to go
there. I wouldn’t.” Dors
said, “Why not?” “It’s
dangerous. Violent! Everyone is armed.—I mean, Dahl is an armed place anyway,
but in Billibotton they use the weapons. Stay in this neighborhood. It’s safe.” “So
far,” said Casilia darkly. “It would be better if we left altogether.
Heatsinkers go anywhere these days.” And there was another lowering look in
Seldon’s direction. Seldon
said, “What do you mean that Dahl is an armed place? There are strong Imperial
regulations against weapons.” “I
know that,” said Tisalver, “and there are no stun guns here or percussives or
Psychic Probes or anything like that. But there are knives.” He looked
embarrassed. Dors
said, “Do you carry a knife, Tisalver?” “Me?”
He looked genuinely horrified. “I am a man of peace and this is a safe
neighborhood.” “We
have a couple of them in the house,” said Casilia, sniffing again. “We’re not
that certain this is a safe neighborhood.” “Does
everyone carry knives?” asked Dors. “Almost
everyone, Mistress Venabili,” said Tisalver. “It’s customary. But that doesn’t
mean everyone uses them.” “But
they use them in Billibotton, I suppose,” said Dors. “Sometimes.
When they’re excited, they have fights.” “And
the government permits it? The Imperial government, I mean?” “Sometimes
they try to clean Billibotton up, but knives are too easy to hide and the
custom is too strong. Besides, it’s almost always Dahlites that get killed and
I don’t think the Imperial government gets too upset over that.” “What
if it’s an outsider who gets killed?” “If
it’s reported, the Imperials could get excited. But what happens is that no one
has seen anything and no one knows anything. The Imperials sometimes round up
people on general principles, but they can never prove anything. I suppose they
decide it’s the outsiders’ fault for being there.—So don’t go to Billibotton,
even if you have a knife.” Seldon
shook his head rather pettishly. “I wouldn’t carry a knife. I don’t know how to
use one. Not skillfully.” “Then
it’s simple, Master Seldon. Stay out.” Tisalver shook his head portentously.
“Just stay out.” “I
may not be able to do that either,” said Seldon. Dors
glared at him, clearly annoyed, and said to Tisalver, “Where does one buy a
knife? Or may we have one of yours?” Casilia
said quickly, “No one takes someone else’s knife. You must buy your own.” Tisalver
said, “There are knife stores all over. There aren’t supposed to be.
Theoretically they’re illegal, you know. Any appliance store sells them,
however. If you see a washing machine on display, that’s a sure sign.” “And
how does one get to Billibotton?” asked Seldon. “By
Expressway.” Tisalver
looked dubious as he looked at Dors’s frowning expression. Seldon
said, “And once I reach the Expressway?” “Get
on the eastbound side and watch for the signs. But if you must go, Master
Seldon”—Tisalver hesitated, then said—“you mustn’t take Mistress Venabili.
Women sometimes are treated ... worse.” “She
won’t go,” said Seldon. “I’m
afraid she will,” said Dors with quiet determination. 68.The
appliance store dealer’s mustache was clearly as lush as it had been in his
younger days, but it was grizzled now, even though the hair on his head was
still black. He touched the mustache out of sheer habit as he gazed at Dors and
brushed it back on each side. He
said, “You’re not a Dahlite.” “Yes,
but I still want a knife.” He
said, “It’s against the law to sell knives.” Dors
said, “I’m not a policewoman or a government agent of any sort. I’m going to
Billibotton.” He
stared at her thoughtfully. “Alone?” “With
my friend.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Seldon,
who was waiting outside sullenly. “You’re
buying it for him?” He stared at Seldon and it didn’t take him long to decide.
“He’s an outsider too. Let him come in and buy it for himself.” “He’s
not a government agent either. And I’m buying it for myself.” The
dealer shook his head. “Outsiders are crazy. But if you want to spend some
credits, I’ll take them from you.” He
reached under the counter, brought out a stub, turned it with a slight and expert
motion, and the knife blade emerged. “Is
that the largest you have?” “Best
woman’s knife made.” “Show
me a man’s knife.” “You
don’t want one that’s too heavy. Do you know how to use one of these things?” “I’ll
learn and I’m not worried about heavy. Show me a man’s knife.” The
dealer smiled. “Well, if you want to see one—” He
moved farther down the counter and brought up a much fatter stub. He gave it a
twist and what appeared to be a butcher’s knife emerged. He handed it to her,
handle first, still smiling. She
said, “Show me that twist of yours.” He
showed her on a second knife, slowly twisting one way to make the blade appear,
then the other way to make it disappear. “Twist and squeeze,” he said. “Do
it again, sir.” The
dealer obliged. Dors
said, “All right, close it and toss me the haft.” He
did, in a slow upward loop. She
caught it, handed it back, and said, “Faster.” He
raised his eyebrows and then, without warning, backhanded it to her left side.
She made no attempt to bring over her right hand, but caught it with her left
and the blade showed tumescently at once—then disappeared. The dealer’s mouth
fell open. “And
this is the largest you have?” she said. “It
is. If you try to use it, it will just tire you out.” “I’ll
breathe deeply. I’ll take a second one too.” “For
your friend?” “No.
For me.” “You
plan on using two knives?” “I’ve
got two hands.” The
dealer sighed. “Mistress, please stay out of Billibotton. You don’t know what
they do to women there.” “I
can guess. How do I put these knives on my belt?” “Not
the one you’ve got on, Mistress. That’s not a knife belt. I can sell you one,
though.” “Will
it hold two knives?” “I
might have a double belt somewhere. Not much call for them.” “I’m
calling for them.” “I
may not have it in your size.” “Then
we’ll cut it down or something.” “It
will cost you a lot of credits.” “My
credit tile will cover it.” When
she emerged at last, Seldon said sourly, “You look ridiculous with that bulky
belt.” “Really,
Hari? Too ridiculous to go with you to Billibotton? Then let’s both go back to
the apartment.” “No.
I’ll go on by myself. I’ll be safer by myself.” Dors
said, “There is no use saying that, Hari. We both go back or we both go
forward. Under no circumstances do we separate.” And
somehow the firm look in her blue eyes, the set to her lips, and the manner in
which her hands had dropped to the hafts at her belt, convinced Seldon she was
serious. “Very
well,” he said, “but if you survive and if I ever see Hummin again, my price
for continuing to work on psychohistory—much as I have grown fond of you—will
be your removal. Do you understand?” And
suddenly Dors smiled. “Forget it. Don’t practice your chivalry on me. Nothing
will remove me. Do you understand?” 69.They
got off the Expressway where the sign, flickering in the air, said:
BILLIBOTTON. As perhaps an indication of what might be expected, the second ‘I’
was smeared, a mere 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 pungent aroma 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 pedestrians, 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 velvet fog of his or her own making. Or there was the
ritualistic friendliness of an evening promenade in those neighborhoods that
indulged in such things. But here in Billibotton, there was neither
friendliness nor neutral withdrawal. 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. The
clothing of the Billibottoners tended to be smudged, old, and sometimes corn.
There was a patina of ill-washed poverty over them and Seldon felt uneasy at
the slickness of his own new clothes. He
said, “Where in Billibotton does Mother Rittah live, do you suppose?” “I
don’t know,” said Dors. “You brought us here, so you do the supposing. I intend
to confine myself to the task of protection and I think I’m going to find it
necessary to do just that.” Seldon
said, “I assumed it would only be necessary to ask the way of any passerby, but
somehow I’m not encouraged to do so.” “I
don’t blame you. I don’t think you’ll find anyone springing to your
assistance.” “On
the other hand, there are such things as youngsters.” He indicated one with a
brief gesture of one hand. A boy who looked to be about twelve—in any case
young enough to lack the universal adult male mustache had come to a full halt
and was staring at them. Dors
said, “You’re guessing that a boy that age has not yet developed the full
Billibottonian dislike of outsiders.” “At
any rate,” said Seldon, “I’m guessing he is scarcely large enough to have
developed the full Billibottonian penchant for violence. I suppose he might run
away and shout insults from a distance if we approach him, but I doubt he’ll
attack us.” Seldon
raised his voice. “Young man.” The
boy took a step backward and continued to stare. Seldon
said, “Come here,” and beckoned. The
boy said, “Wa’ for, guy?” “So
I can ask you directions. Come closer, so I don’t have to shout.” The
boy approached two steps closer. His face was smudged, but his eyes were bright
and sharp. His sandals were of different make and there was a large patch on
one leg of his trousers. He
said, “Wa’ kind o’ directions?” “We’re
trying to find Mother Rittah.” The
boy’s eyes flickered. “Wa’ for, guy?” “I’m
a scholar. Do you know what a scholar is?” “Ya
went to school?” “Yes.
Didn’t you?” The
boy spat to one side in contempt. “Nah.” “I
want advice from Mother Rittah—if you’ll take me to her.” “Ya
want your fortune? Ya come to Billibotton, guy, with your fancy clothes, so I
can tell ya your fortune. All bad.” “What’s
your name, young man?” “What’s
it to ya?” “So
we can speak in a more friendly fashion. And so you can take me to Mother
Rittah’s place. Do you know where she lives?” “Maybe
yes, maybe no. My name’s Raych. What’s in it for me if I take ya?” “What
would you like, Raych?” The
boy’s eyes halted at Dors’s belt. Raych said, “The lady got a couple o’ knives.
Gimme one and I’ll take ya to Mother Rittah.” “Those
are grown people’s knives, Raych. You’re too young.” “Then
I guess I’m too young to know where Mother Rittah lives.” And he looked up
slyly through the shaggy halt that curtained his eyes. Seldon
grew uneasy. It was possible they might attract a crowd. Several men had
stopped already, but had then moved on when nothing of interest seemed to be
taking place. If, however, the boy grew angry and lashed out at them in word or
deed, people would undoubtedly gather. He
smiled and said, “Can you read, Raych?” Raych
spat again. “Nah! Who wants to read?” “Can
you use a computer?” “A
talking computer? Sure. Anyone can.” “I’ll
tell you what, then. You take me to the nearest computer store and I’ll buy you
a little computer all your own and software that will teach you to read. A few
weeks and you’ll be able to read.” It
seemed to Seldon that the boy’s eyes sparkled at the thought, but—if so—they
hardened at once. “Nah,
Knife or nothin’.” “That’s
the point, Raych. You learn to read and don’t tell anyone and you can surprise
people. After a while you can bet them you can read. Bet them five credits. You
can win a few extra credits that way and you can buy a knife of your own.” The
boy hesitated. “Nah! No one will bet me. No one got credits.” “If
you can read, you can get a job in a knife store and you can save your wages
and get a knife at a discount. How about that?” “When
ya gonna buy the talking computer?” “Right
now. I’ll give it to you when I see Mother Rittah.” “You
got credits?” “I
have a credit tile.” “Let’s
see ya buy the computer.” The
transaction was carried through, but when the boy reached for it, Seldon shook
his head and put it inside his pouch. “You’ve got to get me to Mother Rittah
first, Raych. Are you sure you know where to find her?” Raych
allowed a look of contempt to cross his face. “Sure I do. I’ll take ya there,
only ya better hand over the computer when we get there or I’ll get some guys I
know after you and the lady, so ya better watch out.” “You
don’t have to threaten us,” said Seldon. “We’ll take care of our end of the
deal.” Raych
led them quickly along the walkway, past curious stares. Seldon was silent
during the walk and so was Dors. Dors was far less lost in her own thoughts,
though, for she clearly remained conscious of the surrounding people at all
times. She kept meeting, with a level glare, the eyes of those passersby that
turned toward them. On occasion, when there were footsteps behind them, she
turned to look grimly back. And
then Raych stopped and said, “In here. She ain’t homeless, ya know.” They
followed him into an apartment complex and Seldon, who had had the intention of
following their route with a view to retracing his steps later, was quickly
lost. He
said, “How do you know your way through these alleys, Raych?” The
boy shrugged. “I been loafin’ through them since I was a kid,” he said.
“Besides, the apartments are numbered—where they ain’t broken off—and there’s
arrows and things. You can’t get lost if you know the tricks.” Raych
knew the tricks, apparently, and they wandered deeper into the complex. Hanging
over it all was an air of total decay: disregarded debris, inhabitants slinking
past in clear resentment of the outsiders’ invasion. Unruly youngsters ran
along the alleys in pursuit of some game or other. Some of them yelled, “Hey,
get out o’ the way!” when their levitating ball narrowly missed Dors. And
finally, Raych stopped before a dark scarred door on which the number 2782
glowed feebly. “This
is it,” he said and held out his hand. “First
let’s see who’s inside,” said Seldon softly. He pushed the signal button and
nothing happened. “It
don’t work,” said Raych. “Ya gotta bang. Loud. She don’t hear too good.” Seldon
pounded his fist on the door and was rewarded with the sound of movement
inside. A shrill voice called out, “Who wants Mother Rittah?” Seldon
shouted, “Two scholars!” He
tossed the small computer, with its small package of software attached, to
Raych, who snatched it, grinned, and took off at a rapid run. Seldon
then turned to face the opening door and Mother Rittah. 70.Mother
Rittah was well into her seventies, perhaps, but had the kind of face that, at
first sight, seemed to belie that. Plump cheeks, a little mouth, a small round
chin slightly doubled. She was very short—not quite 1.5 meters tall—and had a
thick body. But
there were fine wrinkles about her eyes and when she smiled, as she smiled at
the sight of them, others broke out over her face. And she moved with
difficulty. “Come
in, come in,” she said in a soft high-pitched voice and peered at them as
though her eyesight was beginning to fail. “Outsiders ... Outworlders even. Am
I right? You don’t seem to have the Trantor smell about you.” Seldon
wished she hadn’t mentioned smell. The apartment, overcrowded and littered with
small possessions that seemed dim and dusty, reeked with food odors that were
on the edge of rancidity. The air was so thick and clinging that he was sure
his clothes would smell strongly of it when they left. He
said, “You are right, Mother Rittah. I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My friend is
Dors Venabili of Cinna.” “So,”
she said, looking about for an unoccupied spot on the floor where she could
invite them to sit, but finding none suitable. Dors
said, “We are willing to stand, Mother.” “What?”
she looked up at Dors. “You must speak briskly, my child. My hearing is not
what it was when I was your age.” “Why
don’t you get a hearing device?” said Seldon, raising his voice. “It
wouldn’t help, Master Seldon. Something seems to be wrong with the nerve and I
have no money for nerve rebuilding.—You have come to learn the future from old
Mother Rittah?” “Not
quite,” said Seldon. “I have come to learn the past.” “Excellent.
It is such a strain to decide what people want to hear.” “It
must be quite an art,” said Dors, smiling. “It
seems easy, but one has to he properly convincing. I earn my fees.” “If
you have a credit outlet,” said Seldon. “We will pay any reasonable fees if you
tell us about Earth—without cleverly designing what you tell us to suit what we
want to hear. We wish to hear the truth.” The
old woman, who had been shuffling about the room, making adjustments here and
there, as though to make it all prettier and more suitable for important
visitors, stopped short. “What do you want to know about Earth?” “What
is it, to begin with?” The
old woman turned and seemed to gaze off into space. When she spoke, her voice
was low and steady. “It
is a world, a very old planet. It is forgotten and lost.” Dors
said, “It is not part of history. We know that much.” “It
comes before history, child,” said Mother Rittah solemnly. “It existed in the
dawn of the Galaxy and before the dawn. It was the only world with humanity.”
She nodded firmly. Seldon
said, “Was another name for Earth ... Aurora?” And
now Mother Rittah’s face misted into a frown. “Where did you hear that?” “In
my wanderings. I have heard of an old forgotten world named Aurora on which
humanity lived in primordial peace.” “It’s
a lie.” She wiped her mouth as though to get the taste of what she had just
heard out of it. “That name you mention must never be mentioned except as the
place of Evil. It was the beginning of Evil. Earth was alone till Evil came,
along with its sister worlds. Evil nearly destroyed Earth, but Earth rallied
and destroyed Evil—with the help of heroes.” “Earth
was before this Evil. Are you sure of that?” “Long
before. Earth was alone in the Galaxy for thousands of years—millions of
years.” “Millions
of years? Humanity existed on it for millions of years with no other people on
any other world?” “That’s
true. That’s true. That’s true.” “But
how do you know all this? Is it all in a computer program? Or a printout? Do
you have anything I can read?” Mother
Rittah shook her head. “I heard the old stories from my mother, who heard it
from hers, and so on far back. I have no children, so I tell the stories to
others, but it may come to an end. This is a time of disbelief.” Dors
said, “Not really, Mother. There are people who speculate about prehistoric
times and who study some of the tales of lost worlds.” Mother
Rittah made a motion of her arm as though to wipe it away. “They look at it
with cold eyes. Scholarly. They try to fit it in with their notions. I could
tell you stories for a year of the great hero Ba-Lee, but you would have no
time to listen and I have lost the strength to tell.” Seldon
said, “Have you ever heard of robots?” The
old woman shuddered and her voice was almost a scream. “Why do you ask such
things? Those were artificial human beings, evil in themselves and the work of
the Evil worlds. They were destroyed and should never be mentioned.” “There
was one special robot, wasn’t there, that the Evil worlds hated?” Mother
Rittah tottered toward Seldon and peered into his eyes. He could feel her hot
breath on his face. “Have you come to mock me? You know of these things and yet
you ask? Why do you ask?” “Because
I wish to know.” “There
was an artificial human being who helped Earth. He was Da-Nee, friend of
Ba-Lee. He never died and lives somewhere, waiting for his time to return. None
knows when that time will be, but someday he will come and restore the great
old days and remove all cruelty, injustice, and misery. That is the promise.” At
this, she closed her eyes and smiled, as if remembering ... Seldon
waited a while in silence, then sighed and said, “Thank you, Mother Rittah. You
have been very helpful. What is your fee?” “So
pleasant to meet Outworlders,” the old woman replied. “Ten credits. May I offer
you some refreshment?” “No,
thank you,” said Seldon earnestly. “Please take twenty. You need only tell us
how to get back to the Expressway from here.—And, Mother Rittah, if you can
arrange to have some of your tales of Earth put into a computer disc, I will
pay you well.” “I
would need so much strength. How well?” “It
would depend on how long the story is and how well it is told. I might pay a
thousand credits.” Mother
Rittah licked her lips. “A thousand credits? But how will I find you when the
story is told?” “I
will give you the computer code number at which I can be reached.” After
Seldon gave Mother Rittah the code number, he and Dors left, thankful for the comparatively
clean odor of the alley outside. They walked briskly in the direction indicated
by the old woman. Dors
said, “That wasn’t a very long interview, Hari.” “I
know. The surroundings were terribly unpleasant and I felt I had learned
enough. Amazing how these folktales tend to magnify.” “What
do you mean, ‘magnify’?” “Well,
the Mycogenians fill their Aurora with human beings who lived for centuries and
the Dahlites fill their Earth with a humanity that lived for millions of years.
And both talk of a robot that lives forever. Still, it makes one think.” “As
far as millions of years go, there’s room for— Where are we going?” “Mother
Rittah said we go in this direction till we reach a rest area, then follow the
sign for CENTRAL WALKWAY, bearing left, and keep on following the sign. Did we
pass a rest area on the way in?” “We
may be leaving by a route different from the one we came in. I don’t remember a
rest area, but I wasn’t watching the route. I was keeping my eye on the people
we passed and—” Her
voice died away. Up ahead the alley swelled outward on both sides. Seldon
remembered. They had passed that way. There had been a couple of ratty couch
pads resting on the walkway floor on either side. There was, however, no need
for Dors to watch passersby going out as she had coming in. There were no
passersby. But up ahead in the rest area they spotted a group of men, rather
large-sized for Dahlites, mustaches bristling, bare upper arms muscular and
glistening under the yellowish indoor light of the walkway. Clearly, they were
waiting for the Outworlders and, almost automatically, Seldon and Dors came to
a halt. For a moment or two, the tableau held. Then Seldon looked behind him
hastily. Two or three additional men had stepped into view. Seldon
said between his teeth, “We’re trapped. I should not have let you come, Dors.” “On
the contrary. This is why I’m here, but was it worth your seeing Mother
Rittah?” “If
we get out of this, it was.” Seldon
then said in a loud and firm voice, “May we pass?” One
of the men ahead stepped forward. He was fully Seldon’s height of 1.73 meters,
but broader in the shoulders and much more muscular. A bit flabby at the waist,
though, Seldon noted. “I’m
Marron,” he said with self-satisfied significance, as though the name ought to
have meaning, “and I’m here to tell you we don’t like Outworlders in our
district. You want to come in, all right—but if you want to leave, you’ll have
to pay.” “Very
well. How much?” “All
you’ve got. You rich Outworlders have credit tiles, right? Just hand them
over.” “No.” “No
point saying no. We’ll just take them.” “You
can’t take them without killing me or hurting me and they won’t work without my
voiceprint. My normal voiceprint.” “That’s
not so, Master—see, I’m being polite—we can take them away from you without
hurting you very much.” “How
many of you big strong men will it take? Nine? No.” Seldon counted rapidly.
“Ten.” “Just
one. Me.” “With
no help?” “Just
me.” “If
the rest of you will clear away and give us room, I would like to see you try
it, Marron.” “You
don’t have a knife, Master. You want one?” “No,
use yours to make the fight even. I’ll fight without one.” Marron
looked about at the others and said, “Hey, this puny guy is a sport. He don’t
even sound scared. That’s sort of nice. It would be a shame to hurt him. I tell
you what, Master. I’ll take the girl. If you want me to stop, hand over your
credit tile and her tile and use your right voices to activate them. If you say
no, then after I’m through with the girl ... and that’ll take some time”—he
laughed—“I’ll just have to hurt you.” “No,”
said Seldon. “Let the woman go. I’ve challenged you to a fight—one to one, you
with a knife, me without. If you want bigger odds, I’ll fight two of you, but
let the woman go.” “Stop,
Hari!” cried out Dors. “If he wants me, let him come and get me. You stay right
where you are, Hari, and don’t move.” “You
hear that?” said Marron, grinning broadly. “ ‘You stay right where you are,
Hari, and don’t move.’ I think the little lady wants me. You two, keep him
still.” Each
of Seldon’s arms were caught in an iron grip and he felt the sharp point of a
knife in his back. “Don’t
move,” said a harsh whisper in his ear, “and you can watch. The lady will
probably like it. Marron’s pretty good at this.” Dors
called out again. “Don’t move, Hari!” She turned to face Marron watchfully, her
half-closed hands poised near her belt. He
closed in on her purposefully and she waited till he had come within arm’s
length, when suddenly her own arms flashed and Marron found himself facing two
large knives. For
a moment, he leaned backward and then he laughed. “The little lady has two
knives—knives like the big boys have. And I’ve only got one. But that’s fair
enough.” His knife was swiftly out. “I hate to have to cut you, little lady,
because it will be more fun for both of us if I don’t. Maybe I can just knock
them out of your hands, huh?” Dors
said, “I don’t want to kill you. I’ll do all I can to avoid doing so. Just the
same, I call on all to witness, that if I do kill you, it is to protect my
friend, as I am honor-bound to do.” Marron
pretended to be terrified. “Oh, please don’t kill me, little lady.” Then he
burst into laughter and was joined by the other Dahlites present. Marron lunged
with his knife, quite wide of the mark. He tried it again, then a third time,
but Dors never budged. She made no attempt to fend off any motion that was not
truly aimed at her. Marron’s
expression darkened. He was trying to make her respond with panic, but he was
only making himself seem ineffectual. The next lunge was directly at her and
Dors’s left-hand blade moved flashingly and caught his with a force that pushed
his arm aside. Her right-hand blade flashed inward and made a diagonal slit in
his T-shirt. A thin bloody line smeared the dark-haired skin beneath. Marron
looked down at himself in shock as the onlookers gasped in surprise. Seldon
felt the grip on him weaken slightly as the two who held him were distracted by
a duel not going quite as they had expected. He tensed himself. Now
Marron lunged again and this time his left hand shot outward to enclose Dors’s
right wrist. Again Dors’s left-hand blade caught his knife and held it
motionless, while her right hand twisted agilely and drew downward, even as
Marron’s left hand closed upon it. It closed on nothing but the blade and when
he opened his hand there was a bloody line down the palm. Dors
sprang back and Marron, aware of the blood on his chest and hand, roared out
chokingly, “Someone toss me another knife!” There was hesitation and then one
of the onlookers tossed his own knife underhanded. Marron reached for it, but
Dors was quicker. Her right-hand blade struck the thrown knife and sent it
flying backward, whirling as it went. Seldon
felt the grips on his arms weaken further. He lifted them suddenly, pushing up
and forward, and was free. His two captors turned toward him with a sudden
shout, but he quickly kneed one in the groin and elbowed the other in the solar
plexus and both went down. He
knelt to draw the knives of each and rose as double-armed as Dors. Unlike Dors,
Seldon did not know how to handle the blades, but he knew the Dahlites would
scarcely be aware of that. Dors
said, “Just keep them off, Hari. Don’t attack yet.—Marron, my next stroke will
not be a scratch.” Marron,
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, Marron 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, Marron. Some of the lip went with it. Attack
once more and you’re dead meat.” She
waited, but Marron 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 Seldon, “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. UndercoverDAVAN—
... 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
we are? Mass murderers? And do you think a hundred thugs would remain in place,
waiting the considerable time it would take me—us—to kill them all? I mean,
think about it.” “That’s
what they’re saying,” said Casilia Tisalver with shrill firmness. “We can’t
have that sort of thing in this house.” “In
the first place,” said Seldon, “it wasn’t in this house. In the second, it
wasn’t a hundred men, it was ten. In the third, no one was killed. There was
some altercation back and forth, after which they left and made way for us.” “They
just made way. Do you expect me to believe that, Outworlders?” demanded
Mistress Tisalver belligerently. Seldon
sighed. At the slightest stress, human beings seemed to divide themselves into
antagonistic groups. He said, “Well, I grant you one of them was cut a little.
Not seriously.” “And
you weren’t hurt at all?” said Tisalver. The admiration in his voice was more
marked. “Not
a scratch,” said Seldon. “Mistress Venabili handles two knives excellently
well.” “I
dare say,” said Mistress Tisalver, her eyes dropping to Dors’s belt, “and
that’s not what I want to have going on here.” Dors said sternly, “As long as
no one attacks us here, that’s what you won’t have here.” “But
on account of you,” said Mistress Tisalver, “we have trash from the street
standing at the doorway.” “My
love,” said Tisalver soothingly, “let us not anger—” “Why?”
spat his wife with contempt. “Are you afraid of her knives? I would like to see
her use them here.” “I
have no intention of using them here,” said Dors with a sniff as loud as any
that Mistress Tisalver had produced. “What is this trash from the street you’re
talking about?” Tisalver
said, “What my wife means is that an urchin from Billibotton—at least, judging
by his appearance—wishes to see you and we are not accustomed to that sort of
thing in this neighborhood. It undermines our standing.” He sounded apologetic. Seldon
said, “Well, Master Tisalver, we’ll go outside, find out what it’s all about,
and send him on his business as quickly—” “No.
Wait,” said Dors, annoyed. “These are our rooms. We pay for them. We decide who
visits us and who does not. If there is a young man outside from Billibotton,
he is nonetheless a Dahlite. More important, he’s a Trantorian. Still more
important, he’s a citizen of the Empire and a human being. Most important, by
asking to see us, he becomes our guest. Therefore, we invite him in to see us.” Mistress
Tisalver didn’t move. Tisalver himself seemed uncertain. Dors
said, “Since you say I killed a hundred bullies in Billibotton, you surely do
not think I am afraid of a boy or, for that matter, of you two.” Her right hand
dropped casually to her belt. Tisalver
said with sudden energy, “Mistress Venabili, we do not intend to offend you. Of
course these rooms are yours and you can entertain whomever you wish here.” He
stepped back, pulling his indignant wife with him, undergoing a burst of
resolution for which he might conceivably have to pay afterward. Dors looked
after them sternly. Seldon
smiled dryly. “How unlike you, Dors. I thought I was the one who quixotically
got into trouble and that you were the calm and practical one whose only aim
was to prevent trouble.” Dors
shook her head. “I can’t bear to hear a human being spoken of with contempt
just because of his group identification—even by other human beings. It’s these
respectable people here who create those hooligans out there.” “And
other respectable people,” said Seldon, “who create these respectable people.
These mutual animosities are as much a part of humanity—” “Then
you’ll have to deal with it in your psychohistory, won’t you?” “Most
certainly—if there is ever a psychohistory with which to deal with anything at
all.—Ah, here comes the urchin under discussion. And it’s Raych, which somehow
doesn’t surprise me.” 73.Raych
entered, looking about, clearly intimidated. The forefinger of his right hand
reached for his upper lip as though wondering when he would begin to feel the
first downy hairs there. He
turned to the clearly outraged Mistress Tisalver and bowed clumsily. “Thank ya,
Missus. Ya got a lovely place.” Then,
as the door slammed behind him, he turned to Seldon and Dors with an air of
easy connoisseurship. “Nice place, guys.” “I’m
glad you like it,” said Seldon solemnly. “How did you know we were here?” “Followed
ya. How’d ya think? Hey, lady”—he turned to Dors—“you don’t fight like no
dame.” “Have
you watched many dames fight?” asked Dors, amused. Raych
rubbed his nose, “No, never seen none whatever. They don’t carry knives, except
little ones to scare kids with. Never scared me.” “I’m
sure they didn’t. What do you do to make dames draw their knives?” “Nothin’.
You just kid around a little. You holler, ‘Hey, lady, lemme—’ ” He thought
about it for a moment and said, “Nothin’.” Dors
said, “Well, don’t try that on me.” “Ya
kiddin’? After what ya did to Marron? Hey, lady, where’d you learn to fight
that way?” “On
my own world.” “Could
ya teach me?” “Is
that what you came here to see me about?” “Akchaly,
no. I came to bring ya a kind of message.” “From
someone who wants to fight me?” “No
one wants to fight ya, lady. Listen, lady, ya got a reputation now. Everybody
knows ya. You just walk down anywhere in old Billibotton and all the guys will
step aside and let ya pass and grin and make sure they don’t look cross-eyed at
ya. Oh, lady, ya got it made. That’s why he wants to see ya.” Seldon
said, “Raych, just exactly who wants to see us?” “Guy
called Davan.” “And
who is he?” “Just
a guy. He lives in Billibotton and don’t carry no knife.” “And
he stays alive, Raych?” “He
reads a lot and he helps the guys there when they get in trouble with the
gov’ment. They kinda leave him alone. He don’t need no knife.” “Why
didn’t he come himself, then?” said Dors. “Why did he send you?” “He
don’t like this place. He says it makes him sick. He says all the people here,
they lick the gov’ment’s—” He paused, looked dubiously at the two Outworlders,
and said, “Anyway, he won’t come here. He said they’d let me in cause I was
only a kid.” He grinned. “They almost didn’t, did they? I mean that lady there
who looked like she was smellin’ somethin’?” He stopped suddenly, abashed, and
looked down at himself. “Ya don’t get much chance to wash where I come from.” “It’s
all right,” said Dors, smiling. “Where are we supposed to meet, then, if he
won’t come here? After all—if you don’t mind—we don’t feel like going to
Billibotton.” “I
told ya,” said Raych indignantly. “Ya get free run of Billibotton, I swear.
Besides, where he lives no one will bother ya.” “Where
is it?” asked Seldon. “I
can take ya there. It ain’t far.” “And
why does he want to see us?” asked Dors. “Dunno.
But he says like this—” Raych half-closed his eyes in an effort to remember. “
‘Tell them I wanna see the man who talked to a Dahlite heatsinker like he was a
human being and the woman who beat Marron with knives and didn’t kill him when
she mighta done so.’ I think I got it right.” Seldon
smiled. “I think you did. Is he ready for us now?” “He’s
waiting.” “Then
we’ll come with you.” He looked at Dors with a trace of doubt in his eyes. She
said, “All right. I’m willing. Perhaps it won’t be a trap of some sort. Hope
springs eternal—” 74.There
was a pleasant glow to the evening light when they emerged, a faint violet
touch and a pinkish edge to the simulated sunset clouds that were scudding
along. Dahl might have complaints of their treatment by the Imperial rulers of
Trantor, but surely there was nothing wrong with the weather the computers spun
out for them. Dors
said in a low voice, “We seem to be celebrities. No mistake about that.” Seldon
brought his eyes down from the supposed sky and was immediately aware of a
fair-sized crowd around the apartment house in which the Tisalvers lived.
Everyone in the crowd stared at them intently. When it was clear that the two
Outworlders had become aware of the attention, a low murmur ran through the
crowd, which seemed to be on the point of breaking out into applause. Dors
said, “Now I can see where Mistress Tisalver would find this annoying. I should
have been a little more sympathetic.” The
crowd was, for the most part, poorly dressed and it was not hard to guess that
many of the people were from Billibotton. On impulse, Seldon smiled and raised
one hand in a mild greeting that was met with applause. One voice, lost in the
safe anonymity of the crowd called out, “Can the lady show us some knife
tricks?” When
Dors called back, “No, I only draw in anger,” there was instant laughter. One man
stepped forward. He was clearly not from Billibotton and bore no obvious mark
of being a Dahlite. He had only a small mustache, for one thing, and it was
brown, not black. He said, “Marlo Tanto of the ‘Trantorian HV News.’ Can we
have you in focus for a bit for our nightly holocast?” “No,”
said Dors shortly. “No interviews.” The
newsman did not budge. “I understand you were in a fight with a great many men
in Billibotton—and won.” He smiled. “That’s news, that is.” “No,”
said Dors. “We met some men in Billibotton, talked to them, and then moved on.
That’s all there is to it and that’s all you’re going to get.” “What’s
your name? You don’t sound like a Trantorian.” “I
have no name.” “And
your friend’s name?” “He
has no name.” The
newsman looked annoyed, “Look, lady. You’re news and I’m just trying to do my
job.” Raych
pulled at Dors’s sleeve. She leaned down and listened to his earnest whisper. She
nodded and straightened up again. “I don’t think you’re a newsman, Mr. Tanto.
What I think you are is an Imperial agent trying to make trouble for Dahl.
There was no fight and you’re trying to manufacture news concerning one as a
way of justifying an Imperial expedition into Billibotton. I wouldn’t stay here
if I were you. I don’t think you’re very popular with these people.” The
crowd had begun to mutter at Dors’s first words. They grew louder now and began
to drift, slowly and in a menacing way, in the direction of Tanto. He looked
nervously around and began to move away. Dors
raised her voice. “Let him go. Don’t anyone touch him. Don’t give him any
excuse to report violence.” And
they parted before him. Raych
said, “Aw, lady, you shoulda let them rough him up.” “Bloodthirsty
boy,” said Dors, “take us to this friend of yours.” 75.They
met the man who called himself Davan in a room behind a dilapidated diner. Far
behind. Raych
led the way, once more showing himself as much at home in the burrows of
Billibotton as a mole would be in tunnels underground in Helicon. It was Dors
Venabili whose caution first manifested itself. She
stopped and said, “Come back, Raych. Exactly where are we going?” “To
Davan,” said Raych, looking exasperated. “I told ya.” “But
this is a deserted area. There’s no one living here.” Dors looked about with
obvious distaste. The surroundings were lifeless and what light panels there
were did not glower [but] did so only dimly. “It’s
the way Davan likes it,” said Raych. “He’s always changing around, staying
here, staying there. Ya know ... changing around.” “Why?”
demanded Dors. “It’s
safer, lady.” “From
whom?” “From
the gov’ment.” “Why
would the government want Davan?” “I
dunno, lady. Tell ya what. I’ll tell ya where he is and tell ya how to go and
ya go on alone—if ya don’t want me to take ya.” Seldon
said, “No, Raych, I’m pretty sure we’ll get lost without you. In fact, you had
better wait till we’re through so you can lead us back.” Raych
said at once, “What’s in it f’me? Ya expect me to hang around when I get
hungry?” “You
hang around and get hungry, Raych, and I’ll buy you a big dinner. Anything you
like.” “Ya
say that now. Mister. How do I know?” Dors’s
hand flashed and it was holding a knife, blade exposed, “You’re not calling us
liars, are you, Raych?” Raych’s
eyes opened wide. He did not seem frightened by the threat. He said, “Hey, I
didn’t see that. Do it again.” “I’ll
do it afterward—if you’re still here. Otherwise”—Dors glared at him—“we’ll
track you down.” “Aw,
lady, come on,” said Raych. “Ya ain’t gonna track me down. Ya ain’t that kind.
But I’ll be here.” He struck a pose. “Ya got my word.” And he led them onward
in silence, though the sound of their shoes was hollow in the empty corridors. Davan
looked up when they entered, a wild look that softened when he saw Raych. He
gestured quickly toward the two others—questioningly. Raych
said, “These are the guys.” And, grinning, he left. Seldon
said, “I am Hari Seldon. The young lady is Dors Venabili.” He regarded Davan
curiously. Davan was swarthy and had the thick black mustache of the Dahlite
male, but in addition he had a stubble of beard. He was the first Dahlite whom
Seldon had seen who had not been meticulously shaven. Even the bullies of
Billibotton had been smooth of cheek and chin. Seldon said, “What is your name,
sir?” “Davan.
Raych must have told you.” “Your
second name.” “I
am only Davan. Were you followed here, Master Seldon?” “No,
I’m sure we weren’t. If we had, then by sound or sight, I expect Raych would
have known. And if he had not, Mistress Venabili would have.” Dors
smiled slightly. “You have faith in me, Hari.” “More
all the time,” he said thoughtfully. Davan
stirred uneasily. “Yet you’ve already been found.” “Found?” “Yes,
I have heard of this supposed newsman.” “Already?”
Seldon looked faintly surprised. “But I suspect he really was a newsman ... and
harmless. We tatted him an Imperial agent at Raych’s suggestion, which was a
good idea. The surrounding crowd grew threatening and we got rid of him.” “No,”
said Davan, “he was what you called him. My people know the man and he does
work for the Empire.—But then you do not do as I do. You do not use a false
name and change your place of abode. You go under your own names, making no
effort to remain undercover. You are Hari Seldon, the mathematician.” “Yes,
I am,” said Seldon. “Why should I invent a false name?” “The
Empire wants you, does it not?” Seldon
shrugged. “I stay in places where the Empire cannot reach out to take me.” “Not
openly, but the Empire doesn’t have to work openly. I would urge you to
disappear ... really disappear.” “Like
you ... as you say,” said Seldon looking about with an edge of distaste. The
room was as dead as the corridors he had walked through. It was musty through
and through and it was overwhelmingly depressing. “Yes,”
said Davan. “You could be useful to us.” “In
what way?” “You
talked to a young man named Yugo Amaryl.” “Yes,
I did.” “Amaryl
tells me that you can predict the future.” Seldon
sighed heavily. He was tired of standing in this empty room. Davan was sitting
on a cushion and there were other cushions available, but they did not look
clean. Nor did he wish to lean against the mildew-streaked wall. He
said, “Either you misunderstood Amaryl or Amaryl misunderstood me. What I have
done is to prove that it is possible to choose starting conditions from which
historical forecasting does not descend into chaotic conditions, but can become
predictable within limits. However, what those starting conditions might be I
do not know, nor am I sure that those conditions can be found by any one
person—or by any number of people—in a finite length of time. Do you understand
me?” “No.” Seldon
sighed again. “Then let me try once more. It is possible to predict the future,
but it may be impossible to find out how to take advantage of that possibility.
Do you understand?” Davan
looked at Seldon darkly, then at Dors. “Then you can’t predict the future.” “Now
you have the point, Master Davan.” “Just
call me Davan. But you may be able to learn to predict the future someday.” “That
is conceivable.” “Then
that’s why the Empire wants you.” “No,”
Seldon raised his finger didactically. “It’s my idea that that is why the
Empire is not making an overwhelming effort to get me. They might like to have
me if I can be picked up without trouble, but they know that right now I know
nothing and that it is therefore not worth upsetting the delicate peace of
Trantor by interfering with the local rights of this sector or that. That’s the
reason I can move about under my own name with reasonable security.” For
a moment, Davan buried his head in his hands and muttered, “This is madness.”
Then he looked up wearily and said to Dors, “Are you Master Seldon’s wife?” Dors
said calmly, “I am his friend and protector.” “How
well do you know him?” “We
have been together for some months.” “No
more?” “No
more.” “Would
it be your opinion he is speaking the truth?” “I
know he is, but what reason would you have to trust me if you do not trust him?
If Hari is, for some reason, lying to you, might I not be lying to you equally
in order to support him?” Davan
looked from one to the other helplessly. Then he said, “Would you, in any case,
help us?” “Who
are ‘us’ and in what way do you need help?” Davan
said, “You see the situation here in Dahl. We are oppressed. You must know that
and, from your treatment of Yugo Amaryl, I cannot believe you lack sympathy for
us.” “We
are fully sympathetic.” “And
you must know the source of the oppression.” “You
are going to tell me that it’s the Imperial government, I suppose, and I dare
say it plays its part. On the other hand, I notice that there is a middle class
in Dahl that despises the heatsinkers and a criminal class that terrorizes the
rest of the sector.” Davan’s
lips tightened, but he remained unmoved. “Quite true. Quite true. But the
Empire encourages it as a matter of principle. Dahl has the potential for making
serious trouble. If the heatsinkers should go on strike, Trantor would
experience a severe energy shortage almost at once ... with all that that
implies. However, Dahl’s own upper classes will spend money to hire the
hoodlums of Billibotton—and of other places—to fight the heatsinkers and break
the strike. It has happened before. The Empire allows some Dahlites to
prosper—comparatively—in order to convert them into Imperialist lackeys, while
it refuses to enforce the arms-control laws effectively enough to weaken the
criminal element. “The
Imperial government does this everywhere—and not in Dahl alone. They can’t
exert force to impose their will, as in the old days when they ruled with
brutal directness. Nowadays, Trantor has grown so complex and so easily
disturbed that the Imperial forces must keep their hands off—” “A
form of degeneration,” said Seldon, remembering Hummin’s complaints. “What?”
said Davan. “Nothing,”
said Seldon. “Go on.” “The
Imperial forces must keep their hands off, but they find that they can do much
even so. Each sector is encouraged to be suspicious of its neighbors. Within
each sector, economic and social classes are encouraged to wage a kind of war
with each other. The result is that all over Trantor it is impossible for the
people to take united action. Everywhere, the people would rather fight each
other than make a common stand against the central tyranny and the Empire rules
without having to exert force.” “And
what,” said Dors, “do you think can be done about it?” “I’ve
been trying for years to build a feeling of solidarity among the peoples of
Trantor.” “I
can only suppose,” said Seldon dryly, “that you are finding this an impossibly
difficult and largely thankless task.” “You
suppose correctly,” said Davan, “but the party is growing stronger. Many of our
knifers are coming to the realization that knives are best when they are not
used on each other. Those who attacked you in the corridors of Billibotton are
examples of the unconverted. However, those who support you now, who are ready
to defend you against the agent you thought was a newsman, are my people. I
live here among them. It is not an attractive way of life, but I am safe here.
We have adherents in neighboring sectors and we spread daily.” “But
where do we come in?” asked Dors. “For
one thing,” said Davan, “both of you are Outworlders, scholars. We need people
like you among our leaders. Our greatest strength is drawn from the poor and
the uneducated because they suffer the most, but they can lead the least. A
person like one of you two is worth a hundred of them.” “That’s
an odd estimate from someone who wishes to rescue the oppressed,” said Seldon. “I
don’t mean as people,” said Davan hastily. “I mean as far as leadership is
concerned. The party must have among its leaders men and women of intellectual
power.” “People
like us, you mean, are needed to give your party a veneer of respectability.” Davan
said, “You can always put something noble in a sneering fashion if you try. But
you, Master Seldon, are more than respectable, more than intellectual. Even if
you won’t admit to being able to penetrate the mists of the future—” “Please,
Davan,” said Seldon, “don’t be poetic and don’t use the conditional. It’s not a
matter of admitting. I can’t foresee the future. Those are not mists that block
the view but chrome steel barriers.” “Let
me finish. Even if you can’t actually predict with—what do you call
it?—psychohistorical accuracy, you’ve studied history and you may have a
certain intuitive feeling for consequences. Now, isn’t that so?” Seldon
shook his head. “I may have a certain intuitive understanding for mathematical
likelihood, but how far I can translate that into anything of historical
significance is quite uncertain. Actually, I have not studied history. I wish I
had. I feel the loss keenly.” Dors
said evenly, “I am the historian, Davan, and I can say a few things if you
wish.” “Please
do,” said Davan, making it half a courtesy, half a challenge. “For
one thing, there have been many revolutions in Galactic history that have
overthrown tyrannies, sometimes on individual planets, sometimes in groups of
them, occasionally in the Empire itself or in the pre-Imperial regional
governments. Often, this has only meant a change in tyranny. In other words,
one ruling class is replaced by another—sometimes by one that is more efficient
and therefore still more capable of maintaining itself—while the poor and
downtrodden remain poor and downtrodden or become even worse off.” Davan,
listening intently, said, “I’m aware of that. We all are. Perhaps we can learn
from the past and know better what to avoid. Besides, the tyranny that now
exists is actual. That which may exist in the future is merely potential. If we
are always to draw back from change with the thought that the change may be for
the worse, then there is no hope at all of ever escaping injustice.” Dors
said, “A second point you must remember is that even if you have right on your
side, even if justice thunders condemnation, it is usually the tyranny in
existence that has the balance of force on its side. There is nothing your
knife handlers can do in the way of rioting and demonstrating that will have
any permanent effect as long as, in the extremity, there is an army equipped
with kinetic, chemical, and neurological weapons that is willing to use them
against your people. You can get all the downtrodden and even all the
respectables on your side, but you must somehow win over the security forces
and the Imperial army or at least seriously weaken their loyalty to the
rulers.” Davan
said, “Trantor is a multigovernmental world. Each sector has its own rulers and
some of them are themselves anti-Imperial. If we can have a strong sector on
our side, that would change the situation, would it not? We would then not be
merely ragamuffins fighting with knives and stones.” “Does
that mean you do have a strong sector on your side or merely that it is your
ambition to have one?” Davan
was silent. Dors
said, “I shall assume that you are thinking of the Mayor of Wye. If the Mayor
is in the mood to make use of popular discontent as a way of improving the
chance of toppling the Emperor, doesn’t it strike you that the end the Mayor
would have in view would be that of succeeding to the Imperial throne? Why
should the Mayor risk his present not-inconsiderable position for anything
less? Merely for the blessings of justice and the decent treatment of people,
concerning whom he can have little interest?” “You
mean,” said Davan, “that any powerful leader who is willing to help us may then
betray us.” “It
is a situation that is all too common in Galactic history.” “If
we are ready for that, might we not betray him?” “You
mean, make use of him and then, at some crucial moment, subvert the leader of
his forces—or a leader, at any rate—and have him assassinated?” “Not
perhaps exactly like that, but some way of getting rid of him might exist if
that should prove necessary.” “Then
we have a revolutionary movement in which the principal players must be ready
to betray each other, with each simply waiting for the opportunity. It sounds
like a recipe for chaos.” “You
will not help us, then?” said Davan. Seldon,
who had been listening to the exchange between Davan and Dors with a puzzled
frown on his face, said, “We can’t put it that simply. We would like to help you.
We are on your side. It seems to me that no sane man wants to uphold an
Imperial system that maintains itself by fostering mutual hatred and
suspicions. Even when it seems to work, it can only be described as
meta-stable; that is, as too apt to fall into instability in one direction or
another. But the question is: How can we help? If I had psychohistory, if I
could tell what is most likely to happen, or if I could tell what action of a
number of alternative possibilities is most likely to bring on an apparently
happy consequence, then I would put my abilities at your disposal.—But I don’t
have it. I can help you best by trying to develop psychohistory.” “And
how long will that take?” Seldon
shrugged. “I cannot say.” “How
can you ask us to wait indefinitely?” “What
alternative do I have, since I am useless to you as I am? But I will say this:
I have until very recently been quite convinced that the development of
psychohistory was absolutely impossible. Now I am not so certain of that.” “You
mean you have a solution in mind?” “No,
merely an intuitive feeling that a solution might be possible. I have not been
able to pin down what has occurred to make me have that feeling. It may be an
illusion, but I am trying. Let me continue to try.—Perhaps [then we’ll] meet
again.” “Or
perhaps,” said Davan, “if you return to where you are now staying, you will
eventually find yourself in an Imperial trap. You may think that the Empire
will leave you alone while you struggle with psychohistory, but I am certain
the Emperor and his toady Demerzel are in no mood to wait forever, any more
than I am.” “It
will do them no good to hasten,” said Seldon calmly, “since I am not on their
side, as I am on yours.—Come, Dors.” They
turned and left Davan, sitting alone in his squalid room, and found Raych
waiting for them outside. 76.Raych
was eating, licking his fingers, and crumpling the bag in which the
food—whatever it was—had been. A strong smell of onions pervaded the
air—different somehow, yeast-based perhaps. Dors,
retreating a little from the odor, said, “Where did you get the food from,
Raych?” “Davan’s
guys. They brought it to me. Davan’s okay.” “Then
we don’t have to buy you dinner, do we?” said Seldon, conscious of his own
empty stomach. “Ya
owe me somethin’,” said Raych, looking greedily in Dors’s direction. “How about
the lady’s knife? One of ’em.” “No
knife,” said Dors. “You get us back safely and I’ll give you five credits.” “Can’t
get no knife for five credits,” grumbled Raych. “You’re
not getting anything but five credits,” said Dors. “You’re
a lousy dame, lady,” said Raych. “I’m
a lousy dame with a quick knife, Raych, so get moving.” “All
right. Don’t get all perspired.” Raych waved his hand. “This way.” It
was back through the empty corridors, but this time Dors, looking this way and
that, stopped. “Hold on, Raych. We’re being followed.” Raych
looked exasperated. “Ya ain’t supposed to hear ’em.” Seldon
said, bending his head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.” “I
do,” said Dors. “Now, Raych, I don’t want any fooling around. You tell me right
now what’s going on or I’ll rap your head so that you won’t see straight for a
week. I mean it.” Raych
held up one arm defensively. “You try it, you lousy dame. You try it. It’s
Davan’s guys. They’re just taking care of us, in case any knifers come along.” “Davan’s
guys?” “Yeah.
They’re goin’ along the service corridors.” Dors’s
right hand shot out and seized Raych by the scruff of his upper garment. She
lifted and he dangled, shouting, “Hey, lady. Hey!” Seldon
said, “Dors! Don’t be hard on him.” “I’ll
be harder still if I think he’s lying. You’re my charge, Hari, not he.” “I’m
not lyin’,” said Raych, struggling. “I’m not.” “I’m
sure he isn’t,” said Seldon. “Well,
we’ll see. Raych, tell them to come out where we can see them.” She let him
drop and dusted her hands. “You’re
some kind of nut, lady,” said Raych aggrievedly. Then he raised his voice.
“Yay, Davan! Come out here, some of ya guys!” There
was a wait and then, from an unlit opening along the corridor, two
dark-mustached men came out, one with a scar running the length of his cheek.
Each held the sheath of a knife in his hand, blade withdrawn. “How
many more of you are there?” asked Dors harshly. “A
few,” said one of the newcomers. “Orders. We’re guarding you. Davan wants you
safe.” “Thank
you. Try to be even quieter. Raych, keep on moving.” Raych
said sulkily, “Ya roughed me up when I was telling the truth.” “You’re
right,” said Dors. “At least, I think you’re right ... and I apologize.” “I’m
not sure I should accept,” said Raych, trying to stand tall. “But awright, just
this once.” He moved on. When
they reached the walkway, the unseen corps of guards vanished. At least, even
Dors’s keen ears could hear them no more. By now, though, they were moving into
the respectable part of the sector. Dors
said thoughtfully, “I don’t think we have clothes that would fit you, Raych.” Raych
said, “Why do ya want clothes to fit me, Missus?” (Respectability seemed to
invade Raych once they were out of the corridors.) “I got clothes.” “I
thought you’d like to come into our place and take a bath.” Raych
said, “What for? I’ll wash one o’ these days. And I’ll put on my other shirt.”
He looked up at Dors shrewdly. “You’re sorry ya roughed me up. Right? Ya tryin’
to make up?” Dors
smiled. “Yes. Sort of.” Raych
waved a hand in lordly fashion. “That’s all right. Ya didn’t hurt. Listen.
You’re strong for a lady. Ya lifted me up like I was nothin’.” “I
was annoyed, Raych. I have to be concerned about Master Seldon.” “Ya
sort of his bodyguard?” Raych looked at Seldon inquiringly. “Ya got a lady for
a bodyguard?” “I
can’t help it,” said Seldon smiling wryly. “She insists. And she certainly
knows her job.” Dors
said, “Think again, Raych. Are you sure you won’t have a bath? A nice warm
bath.” Raych
said, “I got no chance. Ya think that lady is gonna let me in the house again?” Dors
looked up and saw Casilia Tisalver outside the front door of the apartment
complex, staring first at the Outworld woman and then at the slum-bred boy. It
would have been impossible to tell in which case her expression was angrier. Raych
said, “Well, so long, Mister and Missus. I don’t know if she’ll let either of
ya in the house.” He placed his hands in his pocket and swaggered off in a fine
affectation of carefree indifference. Seldon
said, “Good evening, Mistress Tisalver. It’s rather late, isn’t it?” “It’s
very late,” she replied. “There was a near riot today outside this very complex
because of that newsman you pushed the street vermin at.” “We
didn’t push anyone on anyone,” said Dors. “I
was there,” said Mistress Tisalver intransigently. “I saw it.” She stepped
aside to let them enter, but delayed long enough to make her reluctance quite
plain. “She
acts as though that was the last straw,” said Dors as she and Seldon made their
way up to their rooms. “So?
What can she do about it?” asked Seldon. “I
wonder,” said Dors. OfficersRAYCH—
... According to Hari Seldon, the original meeting with Raych was entirely
accidental. He was simply a gutter urchin from whom Seldon had asked directions.
But his life, from that moment on, continued to be intertwined with that of the
great mathematician until ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 77.The
next morning, dressed from the waist down, having washed and shaved, Seldon
knocked on the door that led to Dors’s adjoining room and said in a moderate
voice, “Open the door, Dors.” She
did. The short reddish-gold curls of her hair were still wet and she too was
dressed only from the waist down. Seldon
stepped back in embarrassed alarm. Dors looked down at the swell of her breasts
indifferently and wrapped a towel around her head. “What is it?” she asked. Seldon
said, looking off to his right, “I was going to ask you about Wye.” Dors
said very naturally, “About why in connection with what? And for goodness sake,
don’t make me talk to your ear. Surely, you’re not a virgin.” Seldon
said in a hurt tone, “I was merely trying to be polite. If you don’t mind, I
certainly don’t. And it’s not why about what. I’m asking about the Wye Sector.” “Why
do you want to know? Or, if you prefer: Why Wye?” “Look,
Dors, I’m serious. Every once in a while, the Wye Sector is mentioned—the Mayor
of Wye, actually. Hummin mentioned him, you did, Davan did. I don’t know
anything about either the sector or the Mayor.” “I’m
not a native Trantorian either, Hari. I know very little, but you’re welcome to
what I do know. Wye is near the south pole—quite large, very populous—” “Very
populous at the south pole?” “We’re
not on Helicon, Hari. Or on Cinna either. This is Trantor. Everything is
underground and underground at the poles or underground at the equator is
pretty much the same. Of course, I imagine they keep their day-night
arrangements rather extreme—long days in their summer, long nights in their
winter—almost as it would be on the surface. The extremes are just affectation;
they’re proud of being polar.” “But
Upperside they must be cold, indeed.” “Oh
yes. The Wye Upperside is snow and ice, but it doesn’t lie as thickly there as
you might think. If it did, it might crush the dome, but it doesn’t and that is
the basic reason for Wye’s power.” She
turned to her mirror, removed the towel from her head, and threw the dry-net
over her hair, which, in a matter of five seconds, gave it a pleasant sheen.
She said, “You have no idea how glad I am not to be wearing a skincap,” as she
put on the upper portion of her clothing. “What
has the ice layer to do with Wye’s power?” “Think
about it. Forty billion people use a great deal of power and every calorie of
it eventually degenerates into heat and has to be gotten rid of. It’s piped to
the poles, particularly to the south pole, which is the more developed of the
two, and is discharged into space. It [melts] most of the ice in the process
and I’m sure that accounts for Trantor’s clouds and rains, no matter how much
the meteorology boggins insist that things are more complicated than that.” “Does
Wye make use of the power before discharging it?” “They
may, for all I know. I haven’t the slightest idea, by the way, as to the
technology involved in discharging the heat, but I’m talking about political
power. If Dahl were to stop producing usable energy, that would certainly
inconvenience Trantor, but there are other sectors that produce energy and can
up their production and, of course, there is stored energy in one form or
another. Eventually, Dahl would have to be dealt with, but there would be time.
Wye, on the other hand—” “Yes?” “Well,
Wye gets rid of at least 90 percent of all the heat developed on Trantor and
there is no substitute. If Wye were to shut down its heat emission, the
temperature would start going up all over Trantor.” “In
Wye too.” “[Yes],
but since Wye is at the south pole, it can arrange an influx of cold air. It
wouldn’t do much good, but Wye would last longer than the rest of Trantor. The
point is, then, that Wye is a very touchy problem for the Emperor and the Mayor
of Wye is—or at least can be—extremely powerful.” “And
what kind of a person is the present Mayor of Wye?” “That
I don’t know. What I’ve occasionally heard would make it seem that he is very
old and pretty much a recluse, but hard as a hypership hull and still cleverly
maneuvering for power.” “Why,
I wonder? If he’s that old, he couldn’t hold the power for long.” “Who
knows, Hari? A lifelong obsession, I suppose. Or else it’s the game ... the
maneuvering for power, without any real longing for the power itself. Probably
if he had the power and took over Demerzel’s place or even the Imperial throne
itself, he would feel disappointed because the game would be over. Of course he
might, if he was still alive, begin the subsequent game of keeping power, which
might be just as difficult and just as satisfying.” Seldon
shook his head. “It strikes me that no one could possibly want to be Emperor.” “No
sane person would, I [free], but the ‘Imperial wish,’ as it is frequently
called, is like a disease that, when caught, drives out sanity. And the closer
you get to high office, the more likely you are to catch the disease. With each
ensuing promotion—” “The
disease grows still more acute. Yes, I can see that. But it also seems to me
that Trantor is so huge a world, so interlocking in its needs and so
conflicting in its ambitions, that it makes up the major part of the inability
of the Emperor to rule. Why doesn’t he just leave Trantor and establish himself
on some simpler world?” Dors
laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew your history. Trantor is the Empire
through thousands of years of custom. An Emperor who is not at the Imperial
Palace is not the Emperor. He is a place, even more than a person.” Seldon sank
into silence, his face rigid, and after a while Dors asked, “What’s the matter,
Hari?” “I’m
thinking,” he said in a muffled voice. “Ever since you told me that
hand-on-thigh story, I’ve had fugitive thoughts that—Now your remark about the
Emperor being a place rather than a person seems to have struck a chord.” “What
kind of chord?” Seldon
shook his head. “I’m still thinking. I may be all wrong.” His glance at Dors
sharpened, his eyes coming into focus. “In any case, we ought to go down and
have breakfast. We’re late and I don’t think Mistress Tisalver is in a good
enough humor to have it brought in for us.” “You
optimist,” said Dors. “My own feeling is that she’s not in a good enough humor
to want us to stay—breakfast or not. She wants us out of here.” “That
may be, but we’re paying her.” “Yes,
but I suspect she hates us enough by now to scorn our credits.” “Perhaps
her husband will feel a bit more affectionate concerning the rent.” “If
he has a single word to say, Hari, the only person who would be more surprised
than me to hear it would be Mistress Tisalver.—Very well, I’m ready.” And
they moved down the stairs to the Tisalver portion of the apartment to find the
lady in question waiting for them with less than breakfast—and with considerably
more too. 78.Casilia
Tisalver stood ramrod straight with a tight smile on her round face and her
dark eyes glinting. Her husband was leaning moodily against the wall. In the
center of the room were two men who were standing stiffly upright, as though
they had noticed the cushions on the floor but scorned them. Both had the dark
crisp hair and the chick black mustache to be expected of Dahlites. Both were
thin and both were dressed in dark clothes so nearly alike that they were
surely uniforms. There was thin white piping up and over the shoulders and down
the sides of the tubular trouser legs. Each had, on the right side of his
chest, a rather dim Spaceship-and-Sun, the symbol of the Galactic Empire on
every inhabited world of the Galaxy, with, in this case, a dark “D” in the
center of the sun. Seldon
realized immediately that these were two members of the Dahlite security
forces. “What’s
all this?” said Seldon sternly. One
of the men stepped forward. “I am Sector Officer Lanel Russ. This is my partner,
Gebore Astinwald.” Both
presented glittering identification holo-tabs. Seldon didn’t bother looking at
them. “What it is you want?” Russ
said calmly, “Are you Hari Seldon of Helicon?” “I
am.” “And
are you Dors Venabili of Cinna, Mistress?” “I
am,” said Dors. “I’m
here to investigate a complaint that one Hari Seldon instigated a riot
yesterday.” “I
did no such thing,” said Seldon. “Our
information is,” said Russ, looking at the screen of a small computer pad,
“that you accused a newsman of being an Imperial agent, thus instigating a riot
against him.” Dors
said, “It was I who said he was an Imperial agent, Officer. I had reason to
think he was. It is surely no crime to express one’s opinion. The Empire has
freedom of speech.” “That
does not cover an opinion deliberately advanced in order to instigate a riot.” “How
can you say it was, Officer?” At
this point, Mistress Tisalver interposed in a shrill voice, “I can say it,
Officer. She saw there was a crowd present, a crowd of gutter people who were
just looking for trouble. She deliberately said he was an Imperial agent when
she knew nothing of the sort and she shouted it to the crowd to stir them up.
It was plain that she knew what she was doing.” “Casilia,”
said her husband pleadingly, but she cast one look at him and he said no more. Russ
turned to Mistress Tisalver. “Did you lodge the complaint, Mistress?” “Yes.
These two have been living here for a few days and they’ve done nothing but
make trouble. They’ve invited people of low reputation into my apartment,
damaging my standing with my neighbors.” “Is
it against the law, Officer,” asked Seldon, “to invite clean, quiet citizens of
Dahl into one’s room? The two rooms upstairs are our rooms. We have rented them
and they are paid for. Is it a crime to speak to Dahlites in Dahl, Officer?” “No,
it is not,” said Russ. “That is not part of the complaint. What gave you
reason, Mistress Venabili, to suppose the person you so accused was, in fact,
an Imperial agent?” Dors
said, “He had a small brown mustache, from which I concluded he was not a
Dahlite. I surmised he was an Imperial agent.” “You
surmised? Your associate, Master Seldon, has no mustache at all. Do you surmise
he is an Imperial agent?” “In
any case,” said Seldon hastily, “there was no riot. We asked the crowd to take
no action against the supposed newsman and I’m sure they didn’t.” “You’re
sure, Master Seldon?” said Russ. “Our information is that you left immediately
after making your accusation. How could you witness what happened after you
left?” “I
couldn’t,” said Seldon, “but let me ask you—Is the man dead? Is the man hurt?” “The
man has been interviewed. He denies he is an Imperial agent and we have no
information that he is. He also claims he was handled roughly.” “He
may well be lying in both respects,” said Seldon. “I would suggest a Psychic
Probe.” “That
cannot be done on the victim of a crime,” said Russ. “The sector government is
very firm on that. It might do if you two, as the criminals in this case, each
underwent a Psychic Probe. Would you like us to do that?” Seldon
and Dors exchanged glances for a moment, then Seldon said, “No, of course not.” “Of
course not,” repeated Russ with just a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, “but
you’re ready enough to suggest it for someone else.” The other officer, Astinwald,
who had so far not said a word, smiled at this. Russ said, “We also have
information that two days ago you engaged in a knife fight in Billibotton and
badly hurt a Dahlite citizen named”—he struck a button on his computer pad and
studied the new page on the screen—“Elgin Marron.” Dors
said, “Does your information tell you how the fight started?” “That
is irrelevant at the moment, Mistress. Do you deny that the fight took place?” “Of
course we don’t deny the fight took place,” said Seldon hotly, “but we deny
that we in any way instigated that. We were attacked. Mistress Venabili was
seized by this Marron and it was clear he was attempting to rape her. What
happened afterward was pure self-defense. Or does Dahl condone rape?” Russ
said with very little intonation in his voice, “You say you were attacked? By
how many?” “Ten
men.” “And
you alone—with a woman—defended yourself against ten men?” “Mistress
Venabili and I defended ourselves. Yes.” “How
is it, then, that neither of you shows any damage whatever? Are either of you
cut or bruised where it doesn’t show right now?” “No,
Officer.” “How
is it, then, that in the fight of one—plus a woman—against ten, you are in no
way hurt, but that the complainant, Elgin Marron, has been hospitalized with
wounds and will require a skin transplant on his upper lip?” “We
fought well,” said Seldon grimly. “Unbelievably
well. What would you say if I told you that three men have testified that you
and your friend attacked Marron, unprovoked?” “I
would say that it belies belief that we should. I’m sure that Marron has a
record as a brawler and knifeman. I tell you that there were ten there.
Obviously, six refused to swear to a lie. Do the other three explain why they
did not come to the help of their friend if they witnessed him under unprovoked
attack and in danger of his life? It must be clear to you that they are lying.” “Do
you suggest a Psychic Probe for them?” “Yes.
And before you ask, I still refuse to consider one for us.” Russ
said, “We have also received information that yesterday, after leaving the
scene of the riot, you consulted with one Davan, a known subversive who is
wanted by the security police. Is that true?” “You’ll
have to prove that without help from us,” said Seldon. “We’re not answering any
further questions.” Russ
put away his pad. “I’m afraid I must ask you to come with us to headquarters
for further interrogation.” “I
don’t think that’s necessary, Officer,” said Seldon. “We are Outworlders who
have done nothing criminal. We have tried to avoid a newsman who was annoying
us unduly, we tried to protect ourselves against rape and possible murder in a
part of the sector known for criminal behavior, and we’ve spoken to various
Dahlites. We see nothing there to warrant our further questioning. It would come
under the heading of harassment.” “We
make these decisions,” said Russ. “Not you. Will you please come with us?” “No,
we will not,” said Dors. “Watch
out!” cried out Mistress Tisalver. “She’s got two knives.” Officer
Russ sighed and said, “Thank you, Mistress, but I know she does.” He turned to
Dors. “Do you know it’s a serious crime to carry a knife without a permit in
this sector? Do you have a permit?” “No,
Officer, I don’t.” “It
was clearly with an illegal knife, then, that you assaulted Marron? Do you
realize that that greatly increases the seriousness of the crime?” “It
was no crime, Officer,” said Dors. “Understand that. Marron had a knife as well
and no permit, I am certain.” “We
have no evidence to that effect and while Marron has knife wounds, neither of
you have any.” “Of
course he had a knife, Officer. If you don’t know that every man in Billibotton
and most men elsewhere in Dahl carry knives for which they probably don’t have
permits, then you’re the only man in Dahl who doesn’t know. There are shops
here wherever you turn that sell knives openly. Don’t you know that?” Russ
said, “It doesn’t matter what I know or don’t know in this respect. Nor does it
matter whether other people are breaking the law or how many of them do. All
that matters at this moment is that Mistress Venabili is breaking the
anti-knife law. I must ask you to give up those knives to me right now,
Mistress, and the two of you must then accompany me to headquarters.” Dors
said, “In that case, take my knives away from me.” Russ
sighed. “You must not think, Mistress, that knives are all the weapons there
are in Dahl or that I need engage you in a knife fight. Both my partner and I
have blasters that will destroy you in a moment, before you can drop your hands
to your knife hilt—however fast you are. We won’t use a blaster, of course,
because we are not here to kill you. However, each of us also has a neuronic
whip, which we can use on you freely. I hope you won’t ask for a demonstration.
It won’t kill you, do you permanent harm of any kind, or leave any marks—but
the pain is excruciating. My partner is holding a neuronic whip on you right
now. And here is mine.—Now, let us have your knives, Mistress Venabili.” There
was a moment’s pause and then Seldon said, “It’s no use, Dors. Give him your
knives.” And
at that moment, a frantic pounding sounded at the door and they all heard a
voice raised in high-pitched expostulation. 79.Raych
had not entirely left the neighborhood after he had walked them back to their
apartment house. He
had eaten well while waiting for the interview with Davan to be done and later
had slept a bit after finding a bathroom that more or less worked. He really
had no place to go now that all that was done. He had a home of sorts and a
mother who was not likely to be perturbed if he stayed away for a while. She
never was. He
did not know who his father was and wondered sometimes if he really had one. He
had been told he had to have one and the reasons for that had been explained to
him crudely enough. Sometimes he wondered if he ought to believe so peculiar a
story, but he did find the details titillating. He thought of that in
connection with the lady. She was an old lady, of course, but she was pretty
and she could fight like a man—better than a man. It filled him with vague
notions. And
she had offered to let him take a bath. He could swim in the Billibotton pool
sometimes when he had some credits he didn’t need for anything else or when he
could sneak in. Those were the only times he got wet all over, but it was chilly
and he had to wait to get dry. Taking
a bath was different. There would be hot water, soap, towels, and warm air. He
wasn’t sure what it would feel like, except that it would be nice if she was
there. He
was walkway-wise enough to know of places where he could park himself in an
alley off a walkway that would be near a bathroom and still be near enough to
where she was, yet where he probably wouldn’t be found and made to run away. He
spent the night thinking strange thoughts. What if he did learn to read and
write? Could he do something with that? He wasn’t sure what, but maybe they
could tell him. He had vague ideas of being paid money to do things he didn’t
know how to do now, but he didn’t know what those things might be. He would
have to be told, but how do you get told? If
he stayed with the man and the lady, they might help. But why should they want
him to stay with them? He
drowsed off, coming to later, not because the light was brightening, but
because his sharp ears caught the heightening and deepening of sounds from the
walkway as the activities of the day began. He
had learned to identify almost every variety of sound, because in the
underground maze of Billibotton, if you wanted to survive with even a minimum
of comfort, you had to be aware of things before you saw them. And there was
something about the sound of a ground-car motor that he now heard that signaled
danger to him. It had an official sound, a hostile sound. He shook himself
awake and stole quietly toward the walkway. He scarcely needed to see the
Spaceship-and-Sun on the ground-car. Its lines were enough. He knew they had to
be coming for the man and the lady because they had seen Davan. He
did not pause to question his thoughts or to analyze them. He was off on a run,
beating his way through the gathering life of the day. He was back in less than
fifteen minutes. The ground-car was still there and there were curious and
cautious onlookers gazing at it from all sides and from a respectful distance.
There would soon be more. He pounded his way up the stairs, trying to remember
which door he should bang on. No time for the elevator. He found the door—at
least he thought he did—and he banged, shouting in a squeak, “Lady! Lady!” He
was too excited to remember her name, but he remembered part of the man’s. “Hari!”
he shouted. “Let me in.” The
door opened and he rushed in—tried to rush in. The rough hand of an officer
seized his arm. “Hold it, kid. Where do you think you’re going?” “Leggo!
I ain’t done nothin’.” He looked about. “Hey, lady, what’re they doin’?” “Arresting
us,” said Dors grimly. “What
for?” said Raych, panting and struggling. “Hey, leggo, you Sunbadger. Don’t go
with him, lady. You don’t have to go with him.” “You
get out,” said Russ, shaking the boy vehemently. “No,
I ain’t, You ain’t either, Sunbadger. My whole gang is coming. You ain’t
gettin’ out, less’n you let these guys go.” “What
whole gang?” said Russ, frowning. “They’re
right outside now. Prob’ly takin’ your ground-car apart. And they’ll take yore
apart.” Russ
turned toward his partner, “Call headquarters. Have them send out a couple of
trucks with Macros.” “No!”
shrieked Raych, breaking loose and rushing at Astinwald. “Don’t call!” Russ
leveled his neuronic whip and fired. Raych
shrieked, grasped at his right shoulder, and fell down, wriggling madly. Russ
had not yet turned back to Seldon, when the latter, seizing him by the wrist,
pushed the neuronic whip up in the air and then around and behind, while
stamping on his foot to keep him relatively motionless. Hari could feel the
shoulder dislocate, even while Russ emitted a hoarse, agonized yell. Astinwald
raised his blaster quickly, but Dors’s left arm was around his shoulder and the
knife in her right hand was at his throat. “Don’t
move!” she said. “Move a millimeter, any part of you, and I cut you through
your neck to the spine.—Drop the blaster. Drop it! And the neuronic whip.” Seldon
picked up Raych, still moaning, and held him tightly. He turned to Tisalver and
said, “There are people out there. Angry people. I’ll have them in here and
they’ll break up everything you’ve got. They’ll smash the walls. If you don’t
want that to happen, pick up those weapons and throw them into the next room.
Take the weapons from the security officer on the door and do the same. Quickly!
Get your wife to help. She’ll think twice next time before sending in
complaints against innocent people.—Dors, this one on the floor won’t do
anything for a while. Put the other one out of action, but don’t kill him.” “Right,”
said Dors. Reversing her knife, she struck him hard on the skull with the haft.
He went to his knees. She
made a face. “I hate doing that.” “They
fired at Raych,” said Seldon, trying to mask his own sick feeling at what had
happened. They
left the apartment hurriedly and, once out on the walkway, found it choked with
people, almost all men, who raised a shout when they saw them emerge. They
pushed in close and the smell of poorly washed humanity was overpowering.
Someone shouted, “Where are the Sunbadgers?” “Inside,”
called out Dors piercingly. “Leave them alone. They’ll be helpless for a while,
but they’ll get reinforcements, so get out of here fast.” “What
about you?” came from a dozen throats. “We’re
getting out too. We won’t be back.” “I’ll
take care of them,” shrilled Raych, struggling out of Seldon’s arms and
standing on his feet. He was rubbing his right shoulder madly. “I can walk.
Lemme past.” The
crowd opened for him and he said, “Mister, lady, come with me. Fast!” They were
accompanied down the walkway by several dozen men and then Raych suddenly
gestured at an opening and muttered, “In here, folks. I’ll rake ya to a place
no one will ever find ya. Even Davan prob’ly don’t know it. Only thing is, we
got to go through the sewer levels. No one will see us there, but it’s sort of
stinky ... know what I mean?” “I
imagine we’ll survive,” muttered Seldon. And
down they went along a narrow spiraling ramp and up rose the mephitic odors to
greet them. 80.Raych
found them a hiding place. It had meant climbing up the metal rungs of a ladder
and it had led them to a large loftlike room, the use of which Seldon could not
imagine. It was filled with equipment, bulky and silent, the function of which
also remained a mystery. The room was reasonably clean and free of dust and a
steady draft of air wafted through that prevented the dust from settling
and—more important seemed to lessen the odor. Raych
seemed pleased. “Ain’t this nice?” he demanded. He still rubbed his shoulder
now and then and winced when he rubbed too hard. “It
could be worse,” said Seldon. “Do you know what this place is used for, Raych?” Raych
shrugged or began to do so and winced. “I dunno,” he said. Then he added with a
touch of swagger, “Who cares?” Dors,
who had sat down on the floor after brushing it with her hand and then looking
suspiciously at her palm, said, “If you want a guess, I think this is part of a
complex that is involved in the detoxification and recycling of wastes. The
stuff must surely end up as fertilizer.” “Then,”
said Seldon gloomily, “those who run the complex will be down here periodically
and may come at any moment, for all we know.” “I
been here before,” said Raych. “I never saw no one here.” “I
suppose Trantor is heavily automated wherever possible and if anything calls
for automation it would be this treatment of wastes,” said Dors. “We may be
safe ... for a while.” “Not
for long. We’ll get hungry and thirsty, Dors.” “I
can get food and water for us,” said Raych. “Ya got to know how to make out if
you’re an alley kid.” “Thank
you, Raych,” said Seldon absently, “but right now I’m not hungry.” He sniffed.
“I may never be hungry again.” “You
will be,” said Dors, “and even if you lose your appetite for a while, you’ll
get thirsty. At least elimination is no problem. We’re practically living over
what is clearly an open sewer.” There
was silence for a while. The light was dim and Seldon wondered why the
Trantorians didn’t keep it dark altogether. But then it occurred to him that he
had never encountered true darkness in any public area. It was probably a habit
in an energy-rich society. Strange that a world of forty billion should be
energy-rich, but with the internal heat of the planet to draw upon, to say
nothing of solar energy and nuclear fusion plants in space, it was. In fact,
come to think of it, there was no energy-poor planet in the Empire. Was there a
time when technology had been so primitive that energy poverty was possible? He
leaned against a system of pipes through which—for all he knew—sewage ran. He
drew away from the pipes as the thought occurred to him and he sat down next to
Dors. He
said, “Is there any way we can get in touch with Chetter Hummin?” Dors
said, “As a matter of fact, I did send a message, though I hated to.” “You
hated to?” “My
orders are to protect you. Each time I have to get in touch with him, it means
I’ve failed.” Seldon
regarded her out of narrowed eyes. “Do you have to be so compulsive, Dors? You
can’t protect me against the security officers of an entire sector.” “I
suppose not. We can disable a few—” “I
know. We did. But they’ll send out reinforcements ... armored ground-cars ...
neuronic cannon ... sleeping mist. I’m not sure what they have, but they’re
going to throw in their entire armory. I’m sure of it.” “You’re
probably right,” said Dors, her mouth tightening. “They
won’t find ya, lady,” said Raych suddenly. His sharp eyes had moved from one to
the other as they talked. “They never find Davan.” Dors
smiled without joy and ruffled the boy’s hair, then looked at the palm of her
hand with a little dismay. She said, “I’m not sure if you ought to stay with
us, Raych. I don’t want them finding you.” “They
won’t find me and if I leave ya, who’ll get ya food and water and who’ll find
ya new hidin’ places, so the Sunbadgers’ll never know where to look?” “No,
Raych, they’ll find us. They don’t really look too hard for Davan. He annoys
them, but I suspect they don’t take him seriously. Do you know what I mean?” “You
mean he’s just a pain in the ... the neck and they figure he ain’t worth
chasing all over the lot.” “Yes,
that’s what I mean. But you see, we hurt two of the officers very badly and
they’re not going to let us get away with that. If it takes their whole
force—if they have to sweep through every hidden or unused corridor in the
sector—they’ll get us.” Raych
said, “That makes me feel like ... like [natin’n’]. If I didn’t run in there
and get zapped, ya wouldn’t have taken out them officers and ya wouldn’t be in
such trouble.” “No,
sooner or later, we’d have—uh—taken them out. Who knows? We may have to take
out a few more.” “Well,
ya did it beautiful,” said Raych. “If I hadn’t been aching all over, I could’ve
watched more and enjoyed it.” Seldon
said, “It wouldn’t do us any good to try to fight the entire security system.
The question is: What will they do to us once they have us? A prison sentence,
surely.” “Oh
no. If necessary, we’ll have to appeal to the Emperor,” put in Dors. “The
Emperor?” said Raych, wide-eyed. “You know the Emperor?” Seldon
waved at the boy. “Any Galactic citizen can appeal to the Emperor.—That strikes
me as the wrong thing to do, Dors. Ever since Hummin and I left the Imperial
Sector, we’ve been evading the Emperor.” “Not
to the extent of being thrown into a Dahlite prison. The Imperial appeal will
serve as a delay—in any case, a diversion—and perhaps in the course of that
delay, we can think of something else.” “There’s
Hummin.” “Yes,
there is,” said Dors uneasily, “but we can’t consider him the do-it-all. For
one thing, even if my message reached him and even if he was able to rush to
Dahl, how would he find us here? And, even if he did, what could he do against
the entire Dahlite security force?” “In
that case,” said Seldon. “We’re going to have to think of something we can do
before they find us.” Raych
said, “If ya follow me, I can keep ya ahead of them. I know every place there
is around here.” “You
can keep us ahead of one person, but there’ll be a great many, moving down any
number of corridors. We’ll escape one group and bump into another.” They
sat in uncomfortable silence for a good while, each confronting what seemed to
be a hopeless situation. Then Dors Venabili stirred and said in a tense, low
whisper, “They’re here. I hear them.” For
a while, they strained, listening, then Raych sprang to his feet and hissed,
“They comin’ that way. We gotta go this way.” Seldon,
confused, heard nothing at all, but would have been content to trust the
others’ superior hearing, but even as Raych began moving hastily and quietly
away from the direction of the approaching tread, a voice rang out echoing against
the sewer walls. “Don’t move. Don’t move.” And
Raych said, “That’s Davan. How’d he know we were here?” “Davan?”
said Seldon. “Are you sure?” “Sure
I’m sure. He’ll help.” 81.Davan
asked, “What happened?” Seldon
felt minimally relieved. Surely, the addition of Davan could scarcely count
against the full force of the Dahl Sector, but, then again, he commanded a
number of people who might create enough confusion. He
said, “You should know, Davan. I suspect that many of the crowd who were at
Tisalver’s place this morning were your people.” “Yes,
a number were. The story is that you were being arrested and that you
manhandled a squadron of Sunbadgers. But why were you being arrested?” “Two,”
said Seldon, lifting two fingers. “Two Sunbadgers. And that’s bad enough. Part
of the reason we were being arrested was that we had gone to see you.” “That’s
not enough. The Sunbadgers don’t bother with me much as a general thing.” He
added bitterly, “They underestimate me.” “Maybe,”
said Seldon, “but the woman from whom we rent our rooms reported us for having
started a riot ... over the newsman we ran into on our way to you. You know
about that. With your people on the scene yesterday and again this morning and
with two officers badly hurt, they may well decide to clean out these
corridors—and that means you will suffer. I really am sorry. I had no intention
or expectation of being the cause of any of this.” But
Davan shook his head. “No, you don’t know the Sunbadgers. That’s not enough
either. They don’t want to clean us up. The sector would have to do something
about us if they did. They’re only too happy to let us rot in Billibotton and
the other slums. No, they’re after you. What have you done?” Dors
said impatiently, “We’ve done nothing and, in any case, what does it matter? If
they’re not after you and they are after us, they’re going to come down here to
flush us out. If you get in the way, you’ll be in deep trouble.” “No,
not me. I have friends—powerful friends,” said Davan. “I told you that last
night. And they can help you as well as me. When you refused to help us openly,
I got in touch with them. They know who you are, Dr. Seldon. You’re a famous
man. They’re in a position to talk to the Mayor of Dahl and see to it that you
are left alone, whatever you have done. But you’ll have to be taken away—out of
Dahl.” Seldon
smiled. Relief flooded over him. He said, “You know someone powerful, do you,
Davan? Someone who responds at once, who has the ability to talk the Dahl
government out of taking drastic steps, and who can take us away? Good. I’m not
surprised.” He turned to Dors, smiling. “It’s Mycogen all over again. How does
Hummin do it?” But
Dors shook her head. “Too quick.—I don’t understand.” Seldon
said, “I believe he can do anything.” “I
know him better than you do—and longer—and I don’t believe that.” Seldon
smiled, “Don’t underestimate him.” And then, as though anxious not to linger
longer on that subject, he turned to Davan. “But how did you find us? Raych
said you knew nothing about this place.” “He
don’t,” shrilled Raych indignantly. “This place is all mine. I found it.” “I’ve
never been here before,” said Davan, looking about. “It’s an interesting place.
Raych is a corridor creature, perfectly at home in this maze.” “Yes,
Davan, we gathered as much ourselves. But how did you find it?” “A
heat-seeker. I have a device that detects infra-red radiation, the particular
thermal pattern that is given off at thirty-seven degrees Celsius. It will
react to the presence of human beings and not to other heat sources. It reacted
to you three.” Dors
was frowning. “What good is that on Trantor, where there are human beings
everywhere? They have them on other worlds, but—” Davan
said, “But not on Trantor. I know. Except that they are useful in the slums, in
the forgotten, decaying corridors and alleyways.” “And
where did you get it?” asked Seldon. Davan
said, “It’s enough that I have it.—But we’ve got to get you away, Master
Seldon. Too many people want you and I want my powerful friend to have you.” “Where
is he, this powerful friend of yours?” “He’s
approaching. At least a new thirty-seven-degree source is registering and I
don’t see that it can be anyone else.” Through
the door strode a newcomer, but Seldon’s glad exclamation died on his lips. It
was not Chetter Hummin. WyeWYE—
... A sector of the world-city of Trantor ... In the latter centuries of the
Galactic Empire, Wye was the strongest and stablest portion of the world-city.
Its rulers had long aspired to the Imperial throne, justifying that by their
descent from early Emperors. Under Mannix IV, Wye was militarized and (Imperial
authorities later claimed) was planning a planet-wide coup . ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 82.The
man who entered was tall and muscular. He had a long blond mustache that curled
up at the tips and a fringe of hair that went down the sides of his face and
under his chin, leaving the point of his chin and his lower lip smoothly bare
and seeming a little moist. His head was so closely cropped and his hair was so
light that, for one unpleasant moment, Seldon was reminded of Mycogen. The
newcomer wore what was unmistakably a uniform. It was red and white and about
his waist was a wide belt decorated with silver studs. His voice, when he
spoke, was a rolling bass and its accent was not like any that Seldon had heard
before. Most unfamiliar accents sounded uncouth in Seldon’s experience, but
this one seemed almost musical, perhaps because of the richness of the low
tones. “I
am Sergeant Emmer Thalus,” he rumbled in a slow succession of syllables. “I
have come seeking Dr. Hari Seldon.” Seldon
said, “I am he.” In an aside to Dors, he muttered, “if Hummin couldn’t come
himself, he certainly sent a magnificent side of beef to represent him.” The
sergeant favored Seldon with a stolid and slightly prolonged look. Then he
said, “Yes. You have been described to me. Please come with me, Dr. Seldon.” Seldon
said, “Lead the way.” The
sergeant stepped backward. Seldon and Dors Venabili stepped forward. The
sergeant stopped and raised a large hand, palm toward Dors. “I have been
instructed to take Dr. Hari Seldon with me. I have not been instructed to take
anyone else.” For
a moment, Seldon looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then his look of surprise
gave way to anger. “It’s quite impossible that you have been told that, Sergeant.
Dr. Dors Venabili is my associate and my companion. She must come with me.” “That
is not in accordance with my instructions, Doctor.” “I
don’t care about your instructions in any way, Sergeant Thalus. I do not budge
without her.” “What’s
more,” said Dors with clear irritation, “my instructions are to protect Dr.
Seldon at all times. I cannot do that unless I am with him. Therefore, where he
goes, I go.” The
sergeant looked puzzled. “My instructions are strict that I see to it that no
harm comes to you, Dr. Seldon. If you will not come voluntarily, I must carry
you to my vehicle. I will try to do so gently.” He extended his two arms as
though to seize Seldon by the waist and carry him off bodily. Seldon
skittered backward and out of reach. As he did so, the side of his right palm
came down on the sergeant’s right upper arm where the muscles were thinnest, so
that he struck the bone. The
sergeant drew a sudden deep breath and seemed to shake himself a bit, but
turned, face expressionless, and advanced again. Davan, watching, remained
where he was, motionless, but Raych moved behind the sergeant. Seldon
repeated his palm stroke a second time, then a third, but now Sergeant Thalus,
anticipating the blow, lowered his shoulder to catch it on hard muscle. Dors had
drawn her knives. “Sergeant,”
she said forcefully. “Turn in this direction, I want you to understand I may be
forced to hurt you severely if you persist in attempting to carry Dr. Seldon
off against his will.” The
sergeant paused, seemed to take in the slowly waving knives solemnly, then
said, “It is not in my instructions to refrain from harming anyone but Dr.
Seldon.” His
right hand moved with surprising speed toward the neuronic whip in the holster
at his hip. Dors moved as quickly forward, knives flashing. Neither completed
the movement. Dashing
forward, Raych had pushed at the sergeant’s back with his left hand and
withdrew the sergeant’s weapon from its holster with his right. He moved away
quickly, holding the neuronic whip in both hands now and shouting, “Hands up,
Sergeant, or you’re gonna get it!” The
sergeant whirled and a nervous look crossed his reddening face. It was the only
moment that its stolidity had weakened. “Put that down, sonny,” he growled.
“You don’t know how it works.” Raych
howled, “I know about the safety. It’s off and this thing can fire. And it will
if you try to rush me.” The
sergeant froze. He clearly knew how dangerous it was to have an excited
twelve-year-old handling a powerful weapon. Nor
did Seldon feel much better. He said, “Careful, Raych. Don’t shoot. Keep your
finger off the contact.” “I
ain’t gonna let him rush me.” “He
won’t.—Sergeant, please don’t move. Let’s get something straight. You were told
to take me away from here. Is that right?” “That’s
right,” said the sergeant, eyes somewhat protruding and firmly fixed on Raych
(whose eyes were as firmly fixed on the sergeant). “But you were not told to
take anyone else. Is that right?” “No,
I was not, Doctor,” said the sergeant firmly. Not even the threat of a neuronic
whip was going to make him weasel. One could see that. “Very
well, but listen to me, Sergeant. Were you told not to take anyone else?” “I
just said—” “No,
no. Listen, Sergeant. There’s a difference. Were your instructions simply ‘Take
Dr. Seldon!’? Was that the entire order, with no mention of anyone else, or
were the orders more specific? Were your orders as follows: ‘Take Dr. Seldon
and don’t take anyone else’?” The
sergeant turned that over in his head, then he said, “I was told to take you,
Dr. Seldon.” “Then
there was no mention of anyone else, one way or the other, was there?” Pause.
“No.” “You
were not told to take Dr. Venabili, but you were not told not to take Dr.
Venabili either. Is that right?” Pause.
“Yes.” “So
you can either take her or not take her, whichever you please?” Long
pause. “I suppose so.” “Now
then, here’s Raych, the young fellow who’s got a neuronic whip pointing at
you—your neuronic whip, remember—and he is anxious to use it.” “Yay!”
shouted Raych. “Not
yet, Raych,” said Seldon. “And here is Dr. Venabili with two knives that she
can use very expertly and there’s myself, who can, if I get the chance, break
your Adam’s apple with one hand so that you’ll never speak above a whisper
again. Now then, do you want to take Dr. Venabili or don’t you want to? Your
orders allow you to do either.” And
finally the sergeant said in a beaten voice, “I will take the woman.” “And
the boy, Raych.” “And
the boy.” “Good.
Have I your word of honor—your word of honor as a soldier—that you will do as
you have just said ... honestly?” “You
have my word of honor as a soldier,” said the sergeant. “Good.
Raych, give back the whip.—Now.—Don’t make me wait.” Raych,
his face twisted into an unhappy grimace, looked at Dors, who hesitated and
then slowly nodded her head. Her face was as unhappy as Raych’s. Raych held out
the neuronic whip to the sergeant and said, “They’re makin’ me, ya big—” His
last words were unintelligible. Seldon
said, “Put away your knives, Dors.” Dors
shook her head, but put them away. “Now,
Sergeant?” said Seldon. The
sergeant looked at the neuronic whip, then at Seldon. He said, “You are an
honorable man, Dr. Seldon, and my word of honor holds.” With a military snap,
he placed his neuronic whip in his holster. Seldon
turned to Davan and said, “Davan, please forget what you have seen here. We
three are going voluntarily with Sergeant Thalus. You tell Yugo Amaryl when you
see him that I will not forget him and that, once this is over and I am free to
act, I will see that he gets into a University. And if there’s anything
reasonable I can ever do for your cause, Davan, I will.—Now, Sergeant, let’s
go.” 83.“Have
you ever been in an air-jet before, Raych?” asked Hari Seldon. Raych
shook his head speechlessly. He was looking down at Upperside rushing beneath
them with a mixture of fright and awe. It
struck Seldon again how much Trantor was a world of Expressways and tunnels.
Even long trips were made underground by the general population. Air travel,
however common it might be on the Outworlds, was a luxury on Trantor and an
air-jet like this— How had Hummin managed it? Seldon wondered. He
looked out the window at the rise and fall of the domes, at the general green
in this area of the planet, the occasional patches of what were little less
than jungles, the arms of the sea they occasionally passed over, with its
leaden waters taking on a sudden all-too-brief sparkle when the sun peeped out
momentarily from the heavy cloud layer. An
hour or so into the flight, Dors, who was viewing a new historical novel
without much in the way of apparent enjoyment, clicked it off and said, “I wish
I knew where we were going.” “If
you can’t tell,” said Seldon, “then I certainly can’t. You’ve been on Trantor
longer than I have.” “Yes,
but only on the inside,” said Dors. “Out here, with only Upperside below me,
I’m as lost as an unborn infant would be.” “Oh
well.—Presumably, Hummin knows what he’s doing.” “I’m
sure he does,” replied Dors rather tartly, “but that may have nothing to do
with the present situation. Why do you continue to assume any of this
represents his initiative?” Seldon’s
eyebrows lifted. “Now that you ask, I don’t know. I just assumed it. Why
shouldn’t this be his?” “Because
whoever arranged it didn’t specify that I be taken along with you. I simply don’t
see Hummin forgetting my existence. And because he didn’t come himself, as he
did at Streeling and at Mycogen.” “You
can’t always expect him to, Dors. He might well be occupied. The astonishing
thing is not that he didn’t come on this occasion but that he did come on the
previous ones.” “Assuming
he didn’t come himself, would he send a conspicuous and lavish flying palace
like this?” She gestured around her at the large luxurious jet. “It
might simply have been available. And he might have reasoned that no one would
expect something as noticeable as this to be carrying fugitives who were
desperately trying to avoid detection. The well-known double-double-cross.” “Too
well-known, in my opinion. And would he send an idiot like Sergeant Thalus in
his place?” “The
sergeant is no idiot. He’s simply been trained to complete obedience. With
proper instructions, he could be utterly reliable.” “There
you are, Hari. We come back to that. Why didn’t he get proper instructions?
It’s inconceivable to me that Chetter Hummin would tell him to carry you out of
Dahl and not say a word about me. Inconceivable.” And
to that Seldon had no answer and his spirits sank. Another
hour passed and Dors said, “It looks as if it’s getting colder outside. The
green of Upperside is turning brown and I believe the heaters have turned on.” “What
does that signify?” “Dahl
is in the tropic zone so obviously we’re going either north or south—and a
considerable distance too. If I had some notion in which direction the
nightline was I could tell which.” Eventually,
they passed over a section of shoreline where there was a rim of ice hugging
the domes where they were rimmed by the sea. And then, quite unexpectedly, the
air-jet angled downward. Raych
screamed, “We’re goin’ to hit! We’re goin’ to smash up!” Seldon’s
abdominal muscles tightened and he clutched the arms of his seat. Dors seemed
unaffected. She
said, “The pilots up front don’t seem alarmed. We’ll be tunneling.” And,
as she said so, the jet’s wings swept backward and under it and, like a bullet,
the air-jet entered a tunnel. Blackness swept back over them in an instant and
a moment later the lighting system in the tunnel turned on. The walls of the
tunnel snaked past the jet on either side. “I
don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure they know the tunnel isn’t already occupied,”
muttered Seldon. “I’m
sure they had reassurance of a clear tunnel some dozens of kilometers earlier,”
said Dors. “At any rate, I presume this is the last stage of the journey and
soon we’ll know where we are.” She
paused and then added, “And I further presume we won’t like the knowledge when
we have it.” 84.The
air-jet sped out of the tunnel and onto a long runway with a roof so high that
it seemed closer to true daylight than anything Seldon had seen since he had
left the Imperial Sector. They
came to a halt in a shorter time than Seldon would have expected, but at the
price of an uncomfortable pressure forward. Raych, in particular, was crushed
against the seat before him and was finding it difficult to breathe till Dors’s
hand on his shoulder pulled him back slightly. Sergeant
Thalus, impressive and erect, left the jet and moved to the rear, where he
opened the door of the passenger compartment and helped the three out, one by
one. Seldon
was last. He half-turned as he passed the sergeant, saying, “It was a pleasant
trip, Sergeant.” A
slow smile spread over the sergeant’s large face and lifted his mustachioed
upper lip. He touched the visor of his cap in what was half a salute and said,
“Thank you again, Doctor.” They
were then ushered into the backseat of a ground-car of lavish design and the
sergeant himself pushed into the front seat and drove the vehicle with a
surprisingly light touch. They
passed through wide roadways, flanked by tall, well-designed buildings, all glistening
in broad daylight. As elsewhere on Trantor, they heard the distant drone of an
Expressway. The walkways were crowded with what were, for the most part,
well-dressed people. The surroundings were remarkably—almost excessively—clean. Seldon’s
sense of security sank further. Dors’s misgivings concerning their destination
now seemed justified after all. He leaned toward her and said, “Do you think we
are back in the Imperial Sector?” She
said, “No, the buildings are more rococo in the Imperial Sector and there’s
less Imperial parkishness to this sector—if you know what I mean.” “Then
where are we, Dors? “We’ll
have to ask, I’m afraid, Hari.” It
was not a long trip and soon they rolled into a car-bay that flanked an
imposing four-story structure. A frieze of imaginary animals ran along the top,
decorated with strips of warm pink stone. It was an impressive facade with a
rather pleasing design. Seldon
said, “That certainly looks rococo enough.” Dors
shrugged uncertainly. Raych
whistled and said in a failing attempt to sound unimpressed, “Hey, look at that
fancy place.” Sergeant
Thalus gestured to Seldon clearly indicating that he was to follow. Seldon hung
back and, also relying on the universal language of gesture, held out both
arms, clearly including Dors and Raych. The sergeant hesitated in a slightly
hangdog fashion at the impressive pink doorway. His mustache almost seemed to
droop. Then
he said gruffly, “All three of you, then. My word of honor holds.—Still, others
may not feel obligated by my own obligation, you know.” Seldon
nodded. “I hold you responsible for your own deeds only, Sergeant.” The
sergeant was clearly moved and, for a moment, his face lightened as though he
was considering the possibility of shaking Seldon’s hand or expressing
heartfelt his approval in some other way. He decided against it, however, and
stepped onto the bottom step of the flight that led to the door. The stairs
immediately began a stately upward movement. Seldon
and Dors stepped after him at once and kept their balance without much trouble.
Raych, who was momentarily staggered in surprise, jumped onto the moving stairs
after a short run, shoved both hands into his pockets, and whistled carelessly. The
door opened and two women stepped out, one on either side in symmetrical
fashion. They were young and attractive. Their dresses, belted tightly about
the waist and reaching nearly to their ankles, fell in crisp pleats and rustled
when they walked. Both had brown hair that was coiled in thick plaits on either
side of their heads. (Seldon found it attractive, but wondered how long it took
them each morning to arrange it just so. He had not been aware of so elaborate
a coiffure on the women they had passed in the streets.) The two women stared
at the newcomers with obvious contempt. Seldon was not surprised. After the
day’s events, he and Dors looked almost as disreputable as Raych. Yet
the women managed to bow decorously and then made a half-turn and gestured
inward in perfect unison and with symmetry carefully maintained. (Did they
rehearse these things?) It was clear that the three were to enter. They stepped
through an elaborate room, cluttered with furniture and decorative items whose
use Seldon did not readily understand. The floor was light-colored, springy,
and glowed with luminescence. Seldon noted with some embarrassment that their
footwear left dusty marks upon it. And
then an inner door was flung open and yet another woman emerged. She was
distinctly older than the first two (who sank slowly as she came in, crossing
their legs symmetrically as they did so in a way that made Seldon marvel that
they could keep their balance; it undoubtedly took a deal of practice). Seldon
wondered if he too was expected to display some ritualized form of respect, but
since he hadn’t the faintest notion of what this might consist of, he merely
bowed his head slightly. Dors remained standing erect and, it seemed to Seldon,
did so with disdain. Raych was staring open-mouthed in all directions and
looked as though he didn’t even see the woman who had just entered. She was
plump—not fat, but comfortably padded. She wore her hair precisely as the young
ladies did and her dress was in the same style, but much more richly
ornamented—too much so to suit Seldon’s aesthetic notions. She was clearly middle-aged
and there was a hint of gray in her hair, but the dimples in her cheeks gave
her the appearance of having rather more than a dash of youth. Her light brown
eyes were merry and on the whole she looked more motherly than old. She
said, “How are you? All of you.” (She showed no surprise at the presence of
Dors and Raych, but included them easily in her greeting.) “I’ve been waiting
for you for some time and almost had you on Upperside at Streeling. You are Dr.
Hari Seldon, whom I’ve been looking forward to meeting. You, I think, must be
Dr. Dors Venabili, for you had been reported to be in his company. This young
man I fear I do not know, but I am pleased to see him. But we must not spend
our time talking, for I’m sure you would like to rest first.” “And
bathe, Madam,” said Dors rather forcefully, “Each of us could use a thorough
shower.” “Yes,
certainly,” said the woman, “and a change in clothing. Especially the young
man.” She looked down at Raych without any of the look of contempt and
disapproval that the two young women had shown. She said, “What is your name,
young man?” “Raych,”
said Raych in a rather choked and embarrassed voice. He then added
experimentally, “Missus.” “What
an odd coincidence,” said the woman, her eyes sparkling. “An omen, perhaps. My
own name is Rashelle. Isn’t that odd?—But come. We shall take care of you all.
Then there will be plenty of time to have dinner and to talk.” “Wait,
Madam,” said Dors. “May I ask where we are?” “Wye,
dear. And please call me Rashelle, as you come to feel more friendly. I am
always at ease with informality.” Dors
stiffened. “Are you surprised that we ask? Isn’t it natural that we should want
to know where we are?” Rashelle
laughed in a pleasant, tinkling manner. “Really, Dr. Venabili, something must
be done about the name of this place. I was not asking a question but making a
statement. You asked where you were and I did not ask you why. I told you,
‘Wye.’ You are in the Wye Sector.” “In
Wye?” said Seldon forcibly. “Yes
indeed, Dr. Seldon. We’ve wanted you from the day you addressed the Decennial
Convention and we are so glad to have you now.” 85.Actually,
it took a full day to rest and unstiffen, to wash and get clean, to obtain new
clothes (satiny and rather loose, in the style of Wye), and to sleep a good
deal. It
was during the second evening in Wye that there was the dinner that Madam
Rashelle had promised. The
table was a large one—too large, considering that there were only four dining:
Hari Seldon, Dors Venabili, Raych, and Rashelle. The walls and ceiling were
softly illuminated and the colors changed at a rate that caught the eye but not
so rapidly as in any way to discommode the mind. The very tablecloth, which was
not cloth (Seldon had not made up his mind what it might be), seemed to sparkle. The
servers were many and silent and when the door opened it seemed to Seldon that
he caught a glimpse of soldiers, armed and at the ready, outside. The room was
a velvet glove, but the iron fist was not far distant. Rashelle was gracious
and friendly and had clearly taken a particular liking to Raych, who, she
insisted, was to sit next to her. Raych—scrubbed, polished, and shining, all
but unrecognizable in his new clothes, with his hair clipped, cleaned, and
brushed—scarcely dared to say a word. It was as though he felt his grammar no
longer fit his appearance. He was pitifully ill at ease and he watched Dors
carefully as she switched from utensil to utensil, trying to match her exactly
in every respect. The food was tasty but spicy—to the point where Seldon could
not recognize the exact nature of the dishes. Rashelle,
her plump face made happy by her gentle smile and her fine teeth gleaming
white, said, “You may think we have Mycogenian additives in the food, but we do
not. It is all homegrown in Wye. There is no sector on the planet more
self-sufficient than Wye. We labor hard to keep that so.” Seldon
nodded gravely and said, “Everything you have given us is first-rate, Rashelle.
We are much obliged to you.” And
yet within himself he thought the food was not quite up to Mycogenian standards
and he felt moreover, as he had earlier muttered to Dors, that he was
celebrating his own defeat. Or Hummin’s defeat, at any rate, and that seemed to
him to be the same thing. After
all, he had been captured by Wye, the very possibility that had so concerned
Hummin at the time of the incident Upperside. Rashelle said, “Perhaps, in my
role as hostess, I may be forgiven if I ask personal questions. Am I correct in
assuming that you three do not represent a family; that you, Hari, and you,
Dors, are not married and that Raych is not your son?” “The
three of us are not related in any way,” said Seldon. “Raych was born on
Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna.” “And
how did you all meet, then?” Seldon
explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. “There’s
nothing romantic or significant in the meetings,” he added. “Yet
I am given to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide,
Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl.” Seldon
said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be
separated from them.” Rashelle
smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.” “Yes,
I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.” “Puzzled?” “Why
yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask
one as well?” “Of
course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.” “When
we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the
Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?” “Surely,
you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.” “That
much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have
psychohistory?” “Surely,
you have not been so careless as to lose it.” “Worse,
Rashelle. I have never had it.” Rashelle’s
face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your
talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ
mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.” “In
that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine
they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are
conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not
practical.” “I
can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience
with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.” “The
pseudo-Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically. “Why
yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question.
“Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.” “Rashelle,”
said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what
I have just told you and he let me go.” Now
Rashelle did nor smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go
the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever
since—in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared.
But come now—our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us
have music.” And
at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She
leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the
fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.” Raych
said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips
silently mouthed: “Fork.” He
remained with his fork. Dors
said, “The music is lovely, Madam”—she pointedly rejected the familiar form of
address “but it must not he allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my
mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the
Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were
not the prime mover.” Rashelle
laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were
not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail—as
you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we were the pursuers. When, however,
there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure
that it is Demerzel.” “Do
you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors. “Yes.
Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.” “You?
Or the Wye Sector?” “The
sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.” “How
strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor
that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or
with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye
and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you—or any other Wyan—weigh nothing in
comparison.” Rashelle
smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his
cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there
is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can
still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.” “Why
yours?” said Seldon. “Why
not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “I am the Mayor of
Wye.” 86.It
was Raych who was the first to react to the statement. Quite
forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed
raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.” Rashelle
looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of
voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under
your lid and let it bubble.” Raych’s
eyes protruded and he seemed stunned. Finally he managed to say, “Hey, ya talk
regular, lady.” “Sure
thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling. Seldon
cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.” Rashelle
tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but
one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite—when I
was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course—he was quite
intelligent—but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting
to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was
wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along
comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the
accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he
will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?” Raych
said, “I dunno, lady—uh, mum.” “I’m
sure you will and you will come to look very much like my ... old friend and it
will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, dinner’s
over and it’s time for you to go to your room, Raych. You can watch holovision
for a while if you wish. I don’t suppose you read.” Raych
reddened. “I’m gonna read someday. Master Seldon says I’m gonna.” “Then
I’m sure you will.” A
young woman approached Raych, curtsying respectfully in Rashelle’s direction. Seldon
had not seen the signal that had summoned her. Raych
said, “Can’t I stay with Master Seldon and Missus Venabili?” “You’ll
see them later,” said Rashelle gently, “but Master and Missus and I have to
talk right now—so you must go.” Dors
mouthed a firm “Go!” at Raych and with a grimace the boy slid out of his chair
and followed the attendant. Rashelle
turned to Seldon and Dors once Raych was gone and said, “The boy will be safe,
of course, and treated well. Please have no fears about that. And I will be
safe too. As my woman approached just now, so will a dozen armed men—and much
more rapidly—when summoned. I want you to understand that.” Seldon
said evenly, “We are in no way thinking of attacking you, Rashelle—or must I
now say, ‘Madam Mayor’?” “Still
Rashelle. I am given to understand that you are a wrestler of sorts, Hari, and
you, Dors, are very skillful with the knives we have removed from your room. I
don’t want you to rely uselessly on your skills, since I want Hari alive,
unharmed, and friendly.” “It
is quite well understood, Madam Mayor,” said Dors, her lack of friendship
uncompromised, “that the ruler of Wye, now and for the past forty years, is
Mannix, Fourth of that Name, and that he is still alive and in full possession
of his faculties. Who, then, are you really?” “Exactly
who I say I am, Dors. Mannix IV is my father. He is, as you say, still alive
and in possession of his faculties. In the eyes of the Emperor and of all the
Empire, he is Mayor of Wye, but he is weary of the strains of power and is
willing, at last, to let them slip into my hands, which are just as willing to
receive them. I am his only child and I was brought up all my life to rule. My
father is therefore Mayor in law and name, but I am Mayor in fact. It is to me,
now, that the armed forces of Wye have sworn allegiance and in Wye that is all
that counts.” Seldon
nodded. “Let it be as you say. But even so, whether it is Mayor Mannix IV or
Mayor Rashelle I—it is the First, I suppose—there is no purpose in your holding
me. I have told you that I don’t have a workable psychohistory and I do not
think that either I or anyone else will ever have one. I have told that to the
Emperor. I am of no use either to you or to him.” Rashelle
said, “How naive you are. Do you know the history of the Empire?” Seldon
shook his head. “I have recently come to wish that I knew it much better.” Dors
said dryly, “I know Imperial history quite well, though the pre-Imperial age is
my specialty, Madam Mayor. But what does it matter whether we do or do not?” “If
you know your history, you know that the House of Wye is ancient and honorable
and is descended from the Dacian dynasty.” Dors
said, “The Dacians ruled five thousand years ago. The number of their
descendants in the hundred and fifty generations that have lived and died since
then may number half the population of the Galaxy—if all genealogical claims,
however outrageous, are accepted.” “Our
genealogical claims, Dr. Venabili”—Rashelle’s tone of voice was, for the first
time, cold and unfriendly and her eyes flashed like steel—“are not outrageous.
They are fully documented. The House of Wye has maintained itself consistently
in positions of power through all those generations and there have been
occasions when we have held the Imperial throne and have ruled as Emperors.” “The
history book-films,” said Dors, “usually refer to the Wye rulers as
‘anti-Emperors,’ never recognized by the bulk of the Empire.” “It
depends on who writes the history book-films. In the future, we will, for the
throne which has been ours will be ours again.” “To
accomplish that, you must bring about civil war.” “There
won’t be much risk of that,” said Rashelle. She was smiling again. “That is
what I must explain to you because I want Dr. Seldon’s help in preventing such
a catastrophe. My father, Mannix IV, has been a man of peace all his life. He
has been loyal to whomever it might be that ruled in the Imperial Palace and he
has kept Wye a prosperous and strong pillar of the Trantorian economy for the
good of all the Empire.” “I
don’t know that the Emperor has ever trusted him any the more for all that,”
said Dors. “I’m
sure that is so,” said Rashelle calmly, “for the Emperors that have occupied
the Palace in my father’s time have known themselves to be usurpers of a
usurping line. Usurpers cannot afford to trust the true rulers. And yet my
father has kept the peace. He has, of course, developed and trained a
magnificent security force to maintain the peace, prosperity, and stability of
the sector and the Imperial authorities have allowed this because they wanted Wye
peaceful, prosperous, stable—and loyal.” “But
is it loyal?” said Dors. “To
the true Emperor, of course,” said Rashelle, “and we have now reached the stage
where our strength is such that we can take over the government quickly—in a
lightning stroke, in fact—and before one can say ‘civil war’ there will be a
true Emperor—or Empress, if you prefer—and Trantor will be as peaceful as
before.” Dors
shook her head. “May I enlighten you? As a historian?” “I
am always willing to listen.” And she inclined her head ever so slightly toward
Dors. “Whatever
size your security force may be, however well-trained and well-equipped, they
cannot possibly equal in size and strength the Imperial forces backed by
twenty-five million worlds.” “Ah,
but you have put your finger on the usurper’s weakness, Dr. Venabili. There are
twenty-five million worlds, with the Imperial forces scattered over them. Those
forces are thinned out over incalculable space, under uncounted officers, none
of them particularly ready for any action outside their own Provinces, many
ready for action in their own interest rather than in the Empire’s. Our forces,
on the other hand, are all here, all on Trantor. We can act and conclude before
the distant generals and admirals can get it through their heads that they are
needed.” “But
that response will come—and with irresistible force.” “Are
you certain of that?” said Rashelle. “We will be in the Palace. Trantor will be
ours and at peace. Why should the Imperial forces stir when, by minding their
own business, each petty military leader can have his own world to rule, his
own Province?” “But
is that what you want?” asked Seldon wonderingly. “Are you telling me that you
look forward to ruling over an Empire that will break up into splinters?” Rashelle
said, “That is exactly right. I would rule over Trantor, over its outlying
space settlements, over the few nearby planetary systems that are part of the
Trantorian Province. I would much rather be Emperor of Trantor than Emperor of
the Galaxy.” “You
would be satisfied with Trantor only,” said Dors in tones of the deepest
disbelief. “Why
not?” said Rashelle, suddenly ablaze. She leaned forward eagerly, both hands
pressed palms-down on the table. “That is what my father has been planning for
forty years. He is only clinging to life now to witness its fulfillment. Why do
we need millions of worlds, distant worlds that mean nothing to us, that weaken
us, that draw our forces far away from us into meaningless cubic parsecs of
space, that drown us in administrative chaos, that ruin us with their endless
quarrels and problems when they are all distant nothings as far as we are
concerned? Our own populous world—our own planetary city—is Galaxy enough for
us. We have all we need to support ourselves. As for the rest of the Galaxy,
let it splinter. Every petty militarist can have his own splinter. They needn’t
fight. There will be enough for all.” “But
they will fight, just the same,” said Dors. “Each will refuse to be satisfied
with his Province. Each will feel that his neighbor is not satisfied with his
Province. Each will feel insecure and will dream of Galactic rule as the only
guarantee of safety. This is certain, Madam Empress of Nothing. There will be
endless wars into which you and Trantor will be inevitably drawn—to the ruin of
all.” Rashelle
said with clear contempt, “So it might seem, if one could see no farther than
you do, if one relied on the ordinary lessons of history.” “What
is there to see farther?” retorted Dors. “What is one to rely on beyond the
lessons of history?” “What
lies beyond?” said Rashelle. “Why, he.” And
her arm shot outward, her index finger jabbing toward Seldon. “Me?”
said Seldon. “I have already told you that psychohistory—” Rashelle
said, “Do not repeat what you have already said, my good Dr. Seldon. We gain
nothing by that.—Do you think, Dr. Venabili, that my father was never aware of
the danger of endless civil war? Do you think he did not bend his powerful mind
to thinking of some way to prevent that? He has been prepared at any time these
last ten years to take over the Empire in a day. It needed only the assurance
of security beyond victory.” “Which
you can’t have,” said Dors. “Which
we had the moment we heard of Dr. Seldon’s paper at the Decennial Convention. I
saw at once that that was what we needed. My father was too old to see the
significance at once. When I explained it, however, he saw it too and it was
then that he formally transferred his power to me. So it is to you, Hari, that
I owe my position and to you I will owe my greater position in the future.” “I
keep telling you that it cannot—” began Seldon with deep annoyance. “It
is not important what can or cannot be done. What is important is what people
will or will not believe can be done. They will believe you, Hari, when you
tell them the psychohistoric prediction is that Trantor can rule itself and
that the Provinces can become Kingdoms that will live together in peace.” “I
will make no such prediction,” said Seldon, “in the absence of true
psychohistory. I won’t play the charlatan. If you want something like that, you
say it.” “Now,
Hari. They won’t believe me. It’s you they will believe. The great
mathematician. Why not oblige them?” “As
it happens,” said Seldon “the Emperor also thought to use me as a source of
self-serving prophecies. I refused to do it for him, so do you think I will
agree to do it for you?” Rashelle
was silent for a while and when she spoke again her voice had lost its intense
excitement and became almost coaxing. “Hari,”
she said, “think a little of the difference between Cleon and myself. What
Cleon undoubtedly wanted from you was propaganda to preserve his throne. It
would be useless to give him that, for the throne can’t be preserved. Don’t you
know that the Galactic Empire is in a state of decay, that it cannot endure for
much longer? Trantor itself is slowly sliding into ruin because of the
ever-increasing weight of administering twenty-five million worlds. What’s
ahead of us is breakup and civil war, no matter what you do for Cleon.” Seldon
said, “I have heard something like this said. It may even be true, but what
then?” “Well
then, help it break into fragments without any war. Help me take Trantor. Help
me establish a firm government over a realm small enough to be ruled
efficiently. Let me give freedom to the rest of the Galaxy, each portion to go
its own way according to its own customs and cultures. The Galaxy will become a
working whole again through the free agencies of trade, tourism, and
communication and the fate of cracking into disaster under the present rule of
force that barely holds it together will be averted. My ambition is moderate
indeed; one world, not millions; peace, not war; freedom, not slavery. Think
about it and help me.” Seldon
said, “Why should the Galaxy believe me any more than they would believe you?
They don’t know me and which of our fleet commanders will be impressed by the
mere word ‘psychohistory’?” “You
won’t be believed now, but I don’t ask for action now. The House of Wye, having
waited thousands of years, can wait thousands of days more. Cooperate with me
and I will make your name famous. I will make the promise of psychohistory glow
through all the worlds and at the proper time, when I judge the movement to be
the chosen moment, you will pronounce your prediction and we will strike. Then,
in a twinkling of history, the Galaxy will exist under a New Order that will
render it stable and happy for eons. Come now, Hari, can you refuse me?” OverthrowTHALUS,
EMMER— ... A sergeant in the armed security forces of the Wye Sector of ancient
Trantor ... ...
Aside from these totally unremarkable vital statistics, nothing is known of the
man except that on one occasion he held the fate of the Galaxy in his fist. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 87.Breakfast
the next morning was served in an alcove near the rooms of the captured three
and it was luxurious indeed. There certainly was a considerable variety to the
food and more than enough of everything. Seldon sat at the breakfast table with
a mound of spicy sausages before him, totally ignoring Dors Venabili’s gloomy
predictions concerning stomachs and colic. Raych
said, “The dame ... the Madam Mayor said when she came to see me last night—” “She
came to see you?” said Seldon. “Yeah.
She said she wanted to make sure I was comfortable. She said when she had a
chance she would take me to a zoo.” “A
zoo?” Seldon looked at Dors. “What kind of zoo can they have on Trantor? Cats
and dogs?” “There
are some aboriginal animals,” said Dors, “and I imagine they import some
aboriginals from other worlds and there are also the shared animals that all
the worlds have—other worlds having more than Trantor, of course. As a matter
of fact, Wye has a famous zoo, probably the best on the planet after the
Imperial Zoo itself.” Raych
said, “She’s a nice old lady.” “Not
that old,” said Dors, “but she’s certainly feeding us well.” “There’s
that,” admitted Seldon. When
breakfast was over, Raych left to go exploring. Once they had retired to Dors’s
room, Seldon said with marked discontent, “I don’t know how long we’ll be left
to ourselves. She’s obviously plotted ways of preoccupying our time.” Dors
said, “Actually, we have little to complain of at the moment. We’re much more
comfortable here than we were either in Mycogen or Dahl.” Seldon
said, “Dors, you’re not being won over by that woman, are you?” “Me?
By Rashelle? Of course not. How can you possibly think so?” “Well,
you’re comfortable. You’re well-fed. It would be natural to relax and accept
what fortune brings.” “Yes,
very natural. And why not do that?” “Look,
you were telling me last night about what’s going to happen if she wins out. I
may not be much of a historian myself, but I am willing to take your word for
it and, actually, it makes sense—even to a nonhistorian. The Empire will
shatter and its shards will be fighting each other for ... for ...
indefinitely. She must be stopped.” “I
agree,” said Dors. “She must be. What I fail to see is how we can manage to do
that little thing right at this moment.” She looked at Seldon narrowly. “Hari,
you didn’t sleep last night, did you?” “Did
you?” It was apparent he had not. Dors
stared at him, a troubled look clouding her face. “Have you lain awake thinking
of Galactic destruction because of what I said?” “That
and some other things. Is it possible to reach Chetter Hummin?” This
last was said in a whisper. Dors
said, “I tried to reach him when we first had to flee arrest in Dahl. He didn’t
come. I’m sure he received the message, but he didn’t come. It may be that, for
any of a number of reasons, he just couldn’t come to us, but when he can he
will.” “Do
you suppose something has happened to him?” “No,”
said Dors patiently. “I don’t think so.” “How
can you know?” “The
word would somehow get to me. I’m sure of it. And the word hasn’t gotten to
me.” Seldon
frowned and said, “I’m not as confident as you are about all this. In fact, I’m
not confident at all. Even if Hummin came, what can he do in this case? He
can’t fight all of Wye. If they have, as Rashelle claims, the best-organized
army on Trantor, what will he be able to do against it?” “There’s
no point in discussing that. Do you suppose you can convince Rashelle—bang it
into her head somehow—that you don’t have psychohistory?” “I’m
sure she’s aware that I don’t have it and that I’m not going to get it for many
years—if at all. But she’ll say I have psychohistory and if she does that
skillfully enough, people will believe her and eventually they will act on what
she says my predictions and pronouncements are—even if I don’t say a word.” “Surely,
that will take time. She won’t build you up overnight. Or in a week. To do it
properly, it might take her a year.” Seldon
was pacing the length of the room, turning sharply on his heel and striding
back. “That might be so, but I don’t know. There would be pressure on her to do
things quickly. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who has cultivated
the habit of patience. And her old father, Mannix IV, would be even more
impatient. He must feel the nearness of death and if he’s worked for this all
his life, he would much prefer to see it done a week before his death rather
than a week after. Besides—” Here
he paused and looked around the empty room. “Besides what?” “Well,
we must have our freedom. You see, I’ve solved the psychohistory problem.” Dors’s
eyes widened. “You have it! You’ve worked it out.” “Not
worked it out in the full sense. That might take decades ... centuries, for all
I know. But I now know it’s practical, not just theoretical. I know it can be
done so I must have the time, the peace, the facilities to work at it. The Empire
must be held together till I—or possibly my successors—will learn how best to
keep it so or how to minimize the disaster if it does split up despite us. It
was the thought of having a beginning to my task and of not being able to work
at it, that kept me up last night.” 88.It
was their fifth day in Wye and in the morning Dors was helping Raych into a
formal costume that neither was quite familiar with. Raych looked at himself
dubiously in the holomirror and saw a reflected image that faced him with precision,
imitating all his motions but without any inversion of left and right. Raych
had never used a holomirror before and had been unable to keep from trying to
feel it, then laughing, almost with embarrassment, when his hand passed through
it while the image’s hand poked ineffectually at his real body. He
said at last, “I look funny.” He
studied his tunic, which was made of a very pliant material, with a thin
filigreed belt, then passed his hands up a stiff collar that rose like a cup
past his ears on either side. “My
head looks like a ball inside a bowl.” Dors
said, “But this is the sort of thing rich children wear in Wye. Everyone who
sees you will admire you and envy you.” “With
my hair all stuck down?” “Certainly.
You’ll wear this round little hat.” “It’ll
make my head more like a ball.” “Then
don’t let anyone kick it. Now, remember what I told you. Keep your wits about
you and don’t act like a kid.” “But
I am a kid,” he said, looking up at her with a wide-eyed innocent expression. “I’m
surprised to hear you say that,” said Dors. “I’m sure you think of yourself as
a twelve-year-old adult.” Raych
grinned. “Okay. I’ll be a good spy.” “That’s
not what I’m telling you to be. Don’t take chances. Don’t sneak behind doors to
listen. If you get caught at it, you’re no good to anyone—especially not to
yourself.” “Aw,
c’mon, Missus, what do ya think I am? A kid or somethin’?” “You
just said you were, didn’t you, Raych? You just listen to everything that’s
said without seeming to. And remember what you hear. And tell us. That’s simple
enough.” “Simple
enough for you to say, Missus Venabili,” said Raych with a grin, “and simple
enough for me to do.” “And
be careful.” Raych
winked. “You bet.” A
flunky (as coolly impolite as only an arrogant flunky can be) came to take
Raych to where Rashelle was awaiting him. Seldon
looked after them and said thoughtfully, “He probably won’t see the zoo, he’ll
be listening so carefully. I’m not sure it’s right to thrust a boy into danger
like that.” “Danger?
I doubt it. Raych was brought up in the slums of Billibotton, remember. I
suspect he has more alley smarts than you and I put together. Besides, Rashelle
is fond of him and will interpret everything he does in his favor. Poor woman.” “Are
you actually sorry for her, Dors?” “Do
you mean that she’s not worth sympathy because she’s a Mayor’s daughter and
considers herself a Mayor in her own right—and because she’s intent on
destroying the Empire? Perhaps you’re right, but even so there are some aspects
of her for which one might show some sympathy. For instance, she’s had an
unhappy love affair. That’s pretty evident. Undoubtedly, her heart was
broken—for a time, at least.” Seldon
said, “Have you ever had an unhappy love affair, Dors?” Dors
considered for a moment or two, then said, “Not really. I’m too involved with
my work to get a broken heart.” “I
thought as much.” “Then
why did you ask?” “I
might have been wrong.” “How
about you?” Seldon
seemed uneasy. “As a matter of fact, yes. I have spared the time for a broken
heart. Badly cracked, anyway.” “I
thought as much.” “Then
why did you ask?” “Not
because I thought I might be wrong, I promise you. I just wanted to see if you
would lie. You didn’t and I’m glad.” There
was a pause and then Seldon said, “Five days have passed and nothing has
happened.” “Except
that we are being treated well, Hari.” “If
animals could think, they’d think they were being treated well when they were
only being fattened for the slaughter.” “I
admit she’s fattening the Empire for the slaughter.” “But
when?” “I
presume when she’s ready.” “She
boasted she could complete the coup in a day and the impression I got was that
she could do that on any day.” “Even
if she could, she would want to make sure that she could cripple the Imperial
reaction and that might take time.” “How
much time? She plans to cripple the reaction by using me, but she is making no
effort to do so. There is no sign that she’s trying to build up my importance.
Wherever I go in Wye I’m unrecognized. There are no Wyan crowds gathering to
cheer me. There’s nothing on the news holocasts.” Dors
smiled. “One would almost suppose that your feelings are hurt at not being made
famous. You’re naive, Hari. Or not a historian, which is the same thing. I
think you had better be more pleased that the study of psychohistory will be
bound to make a historian of you than that it may save the Empire. If all human
beings understood history, they might cease making the same stupid mistakes
over and over.” “In
what way am I naive?” asked Seldon lifting his head and staring down his nose
at her. “Don’t
be offended, Hari. I think it’s one of your attractive features, actually.” “I
know. It arouses your maternal instincts and you have been asked to take care
of me. But in what way am I naive?” “In
thinking that Rashelle would try to propagandize the population of the Empire,
generally, into accepting you as seer. She would accomplish nothing in that
way. Quadrillions of people are hard to move quickly. There is social and
psychological inertia, as well as physical inertia. And, by coming out into the
open, she would simply alert Demerzel.” “Then
what is she doing?” “My
guess is that the information about you—suitably exaggerated and glorified—is
going out to a crucial few. It is going to those Viceroys of sectors, those
admirals of fleets, those people of influence she feels look kindly upon her—or
grimly upon the Emperor. A hundred or so of those who might rally to her side
will manage to confuse the Loyalists just long enough to allow Rashelle the
First to set up her New Order firmly enough to beat off whatever resistance
might develop. At least, I imagine that is how she reasons.” “And
yet we haven’t heard from Hummin.” “I’m
sure he must be doing something just the same. This is too important to
ignore.” “Has
it occurred to you that he might be dead?” “That’s
a possibility, but I don’t think so. If he was, the news would reach me.” “Here?” “Even
here.” Seldon
raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Raych
came back in the late afternoon, happy and excited, with descriptions of monkeys
and of Bakarian demoires and he dominated the conversation during dinner. It
was not until after dinner when they were in their own quarters that Dors said,
“Now, tell me what happened with Madam Mayor, Raych. Tell me anything she did
or said that you think we ought to know.” “One
thing,” said Raych, his face lighting up. “That’s why she didn’t show at
dinner, I bet.” “What
was it?” “The
zoo was closed except for us, you know. There were lots of us—Rashelle and me
and all sorts of guys in uniforms and dames in fancy clothes and like that.
Then this guy in a uniform—a different guy, who wasn’t there to begin with—came
in toward the end and he said something in a low voice and Rashelle turned to
all the people and made with her hand like they shouldn’t move and they didn’t.
And she went a little ways away with this new guy, so she could talk to him and
no one could hear her. Except I kept paying no attention and kept looking at
the different cages and sort of moved near to Rashelle so I could hear her. “She
said, ‘How dare they?’ like she was real mad. And the guy in the uniform, he
looked nervous—I just got quick looks because I was trying to make out like I
was watching the animals—so mostly I just heard the words. He said somebody—I
don’t remember the name, but he was a general or somethin’. He said this
general said the officers had sworn religious to Rashelle’s old man—” “Sworn
allegiance,” said Dors. “Somethin’
like that and they was nervous about havin’ to do what a dame says. He said
they wanted the old man or else, if he was kind of sick, he should pick some
guy to be Mayor, not a dame.” “Not
a dame? Are you sure?” “That’s
what he said. He like whispered it. He was so nervous and Rashelle was so mad
she could hardly speak. She said, ‘I’ll have his head. They will all swear
allegiance to me tomorrow and whoever refuses will lave cause to regret it
before an hour has passed.’ That’s exactly what she said. She broke up the
whole party and we all came back and she didn’t say one word to me all the time.
Just sat there, looking kinda mean and angry.” Dors
said, “Good. Don’t you mention this to anyone, Raych.” “Course
not. Is it what you wanted?” “Very
much what I wanted. You did well, Raych. Now, go to your room and forget the
whole thing. Don’t even think about it.” Once
he was gone, Dors turned to Seldon and said, “This is very interesting.
Daughters have succeeded fathers—or mothers, for that matter—and held
Mayoralties or other high offices on any number of occasions. There have even
been reigning Empresses, as you undoubtedly know, and I can’t recall that there
was ever in Imperial history any serious question of serving under one. It
makes one wonder why such a thing should now, arise in Wye.” Seldon
said, “Why not? We’ve only recently been in Mycogen, where women are held in a
total lack of esteem and couldn’t possibly hold positions of power, however
minor.” “Yes,
of course, but that’s an exception. There are other places where women
dominate. For the most part, though, government and power have been more or
less equisexual. If more men tend to hold high positions, it is usually because
women tend to be more bound—biologically—to children.” “But
what is the situation in Wye?” “Equisexual,
as far as I know. Rashelle didn’t hesitate to assume Mayoral power and I
imagine old Mannix didn’t hesitate to grant it to her. And she was surprised
and furious at encountering male dissent. She can’t have expected it.” Seldon
said, “You’re clearly pleased at this. Why?” “Simply
because it’s so unnatural that it must be contrived and I imagine Hummin is
doing the contriving.” Seldon
said thoughtfully, “You think so?” “I
do,” said Dors. “You
know,” said Seldon, “so do I.” 89.It
was their tenth day in Wye and in the morning Hari Seldon’s door signal sounded
and Raych’s high-pitched voice outside was crying out, “Mister! Mister Seldon!
It’s war!” Seldon
took a moment to swap from sleep to wakefulness and scrambled out of bed. He
was shivering slightly (the Wyans liked their domiciles on the chilly side, he
had discovered quite early in his stay there) when he threw the door open. Raych
bounced in, excited and wide-eyed. “Mister Seldon, they have Mannix, the old
Mayor’. They have—” “Who
have, Raych?” “The
Imperials, Their jets came in last night all over. The news holocasts are
telling all about it. It’s on in Missus’s room. She said to let ya sleep, but I
figured ya would wanner know.” “And
you were quite right.” Seldon pausing only tong enough to throw on a bathrobe,
burst into Dors’s room. She was fully dressed and was watching the holo-set in
the alcove. Behind
the clear, small image of a desk sat a man, with the Spaceship-and-Sun sharply
defined on the left-front of his tunic. On either side, two soldiers, also
wearing the Spaceship-and-Sun, stood armed. The officer at the desk was saying,
“—is under the peaceful control of his Imperial Majesty. Mayor Mannix is safe
and well and is in full possession of his Mayoral powers under the guidance of
friendly Imperial troops. He will be before you soon to urge calm on all Wyans
and to ask any Wyan soldiers still in arms to lay them down.” There
were other news holocasts by various newsmen with unemotional voices, all
wearing Imperial armbands. The news was all the same: surrender by this or that
unit of the Wyan security forces after firing a few shots for the record—and
sometimes after no resistance at all. This town center and that town center
were occupied—and there were repeated views of Wyan crowds somberly watching
Imperial forces marching down the streets. Dors
said, “It was perfectly executed, Hari. Surprise was complete. There was no
chance of resistance and none of consequence was offered.” Then
Mayor Mannix IV appeared, as had been promised. He was standing upright and,
perhaps for the sake of appearances, there were no Imperials in sight, though
Seldon was reasonably certain that an adequate number were present just out of
camera range. Mannix
was old, but his strength, though worn, was still apparent. His eyes did not
meet the holo-camera and his words were spoken as though forced upon him—but,
as had been promised, they counseled Wyans to remain calm, to offer no
resistance, to keep Wye from harm, and to cooperate with the Emperor who, it
was hoped, would survive long on the throne. “No
mention of Rashelle,” said Seldon. “It’s as though his daughter doesn’t exist.” “No
one has mentioned her,” said Dors, “and this place, which is, after all, her
residence—or one of them—hasn’t been attacked. Even if she manages to slip away
and take refuge in some neighboring sector, I doubt she will be safe anywhere
on Trantor for long.” “Perhaps
not,” came a voice; “but I’ll be safe here for a little while.” Rashelle
entered. She was properly dressed, properly calm. She was even smiling, but it
was no smile of joy; it was, rather, a cold baring of teeth. The
three stared at her in surprise for a moment and Seldon wondered if she had any
of her servants with her or if they had promptly deserted her at the first sign
of adversity. Dors
said a little coldly, “I see, Madam Mayor, that your hopes for a coup can not
be maintained. Apparently, you have been forestalled.” “I
have not been forestalled. I have been betrayed. My officers have been tampered
with and—against all history and rationality—they have refused to fight for a
woman but only for their old master. And, traitors that they are, they then let
their old master be seized so that he cannot lead them in resistance.” She
looked about for a chair and sat down. “And now the Empire must continue to
decay and die when I was prepared to offer it new life.” “I
think,” said Dors, “the Empire has avoided an indefinite period of useless
fighting and destruction. Console yourself with that, Madam Mayor.” It
was as though Rashelle did not hear her. “So many years of preparation
destroyed in a night.” She
sat there beaten, defeated, and seemed to have aged twenty years. Dors
said, “It could scarcely have been done in a night. The suborning of your
officers—if that took place—must have taken time.” “At
that, Demerzel is a master and quite obviously I underestimated him. How he did
it, I don’t know—threats, bribes, smooth and specious argument. He is a master
at the art of stealth and betrayal—I should have known.” She went on after a
pause. “If this was outright force on his part, I would have had no trouble
destroying anything he sent against us. Who would think that Wye would be
betrayed, that an oath of allegiance would be so lightly thrown aside?” Seldon
said with automatic rationality, “But I imagine the oath was made not to you,
but to your father.” “Nonsense,”
said Rashelle vigorously. “When my father gave me the Mayoral office, as he was
legally entitled to do, he automatically passed on to me any oaths of
allegiance made to him. There is ample precedence for this. It is customary to
have the oath repeated to the new ruler, but that is a ceremony only and not a
legal requirement. My officers know that, though they choose to forget. They
use my womanhood as an excuse because they quake in fear of Imperial vengeance
that would never have come had they been staunch or tremble with greed for
promised rewards they will surely never get—if I know Demerzel.” She turned
sharply toward Seldon. “He wants you, you know. Demerzel struck at us for you.” Seldon
started. “Why me?” “Don’t
be a fool. For the same reason I wanted you ... to use you as a tool, of
course.” She sighed. “At least I am not utterly betrayed. There are still loyal
soldiers to be found.—Sergeant!” Sergeant
Emmer Thalus entered with a soft cautious step that seemed incongruous,
considering his size. His uniform was spruce, his long blond mustache fiercely
curled. “Madam
Mayor,” he said, drawing himself to attention with a snap. He was still, in
appearance, the side of beef that Hari had named him—a man still following
orders blindly, totally oblivious to the new and changed state of affairs. Rashelle
smiled sadly at Raych. “And how are you, little Raych? I had meant to make
something of you. It seems now I won’t be able to.” “Hello,
Missus ... Madam,” said Raych awkwardly. “And
to have made something of you too, Dr. Seldon,” said Rashelle, “and there also
I must crave pardon. I cannot.” “For
me, Madam, you need have no regrets.” “But
I do. I cannot very well let Demerzel have you. That would be one victory too
many for him and at least I can stop that.” “I
would not work for him, Madam, I assure you, any more than I would have worked
for you.” “It
is not a matter of work. It is a matter of being used. Farewell, Dr. Seldon.
Sergeant, blast him.” The
sergeant drew his blaster at once and Dors, with a loud cry, lunged forward—but
Seldon reached out for her and caught her by the elbow. He hung on desperately. “Stay
back, Dors,” he shouted, “or he’ll kill you. He won’t kill me. You too, Raych.
Stand back. Don’t move.” Seldon
faced the sergeant. “You hesitate, Sergeant, because you know you cannot shoot.
I might have killed you ten days ago, but I did not. And you gave me your word
of honor at that time that you would protect me.” “What
are you waiting for?” snapped Rashelle. “I said shoot him down, Sergeant.” Seldon
said nothing more. He stood there while the sergeant, eyes bulging, held his
blaster steady and pointed at Seldon’s head. “You
have your order!” shrieked Rashelle. “I
have your word,” said Seldon quietly. And
Sergeant Thalus said in a choked tone, “Dishonored either way.” His hand fell
and his blaster clanged to the floor. Rashelle
cried out, “Then you too betray me.” Before
Seldon could move or Dors free herself from his grip, Rashelle seized the
blaster, turned it on the sergeant, and closed contact. Seldon had never seen
anyone blasted before. Somehow, from the name of the weapon perhaps, he had
expected a loud noise, an explosion of flesh and blood. This Wyan blaster, at
least, did nothing of the sort. What mangling it did to the organs inside the
sergeant’s chest Seldon could not tell but, without a change in expression,
without a wince of pain, the sergeant crumbled and fell, dead beyond any doubt
or any hope. And
Rashelle turned the blaster on Seldon with a firmness that put to rest any hope
for his own life beyond the next second. It
was Raych, however, who jumped into action the moment the sergeant fell. Racing
between Seldon and Rashelle, he waved his hands wildly. “Missus,
Missus,” he called. “Don’t shoot.” For
a moment, Rashelle looked confused. “Out of the way, Raych. I don’t want to
hurt you.” That
moment of hesitation was all Dors needed. Breaking loose violently, she plunged
toward Rashelle with a long low dive. Rashelle went down with a cry and the
blaster hit the ground a second time. Raych
retrieved it. Seldon,
with a deep and shuddering breath, said, “Raych, give that to me.” But Raych
backed away. “Ya
ain’t gonna kill her, are ya, Mister Seldon? She was nice to me.” “I
won’t kill anyone, Raych,” said Seldon. “She killed the sergeant and would have
killed me, but she didn’t shoot rather than hurt you and we’ll let her live for
that.” It
was Seldon, who now sat down, the blaster held loosely in his hand, while Dors
removed the neuronic whip from the dead sergeant’s other holster. A
new voice rang out. “I’ll take care of her now, Seldon.” Seldon
looked up and in sudden joy said, “Hummin! Finally!” “I’m
sorry it took so long, Seldon. I had a lot to do. How are you, Dr. Venabili? I
take it this is Mannix’s daughter, Rashelle. But who is the boy?” “Raych
is a young Dahlite friend of ours,” said Seldon. Soldiers
were entering and, at a small gesture from Hummin, they lifted Rashelle
respectfully. Dors,
able to suspend her intent surveillance of the other woman, brushed at her
clothes with her hands and smoothed her blouse. Seldon suddenly realized that
he was still in his bathrobe. Rashelle,
shaking herself loose from the soldiers with contempt, pointed to Hummin and
said to Seldon, “Who is this?” Seldon
said, “It is Chetter Hummin, a friend of mine and my protector on this planet.” “Your
protector.” Rashelle laughed madly. “You fool! You idiot! That man is Demerzel
and if you look at your Venabili woman, you will see from her face that she is
perfectly aware of that. You have been trapped all along, far worse than ever
you were with me!” 90.Hummin
and Seldon sat at lunch that day, quite alone, a pall of quiet between them for
the most part. It was toward the end of the meal that Seldon stirred and said
in a lively voice, “Well, sir, how do I address you? I think of you as ‘Chester
Hummin’ still, but even if I accept you in your other persona, I surely cannot
address you as ‘Eto Demerzel.’ In that capacity, you have a title and I don’t
know the proper usage. Instruct me.” The
other said gravely, “Call me ‘Hummin’—if you don’t mind. Or ‘Chetter.’ Yes, I
am Eto Demerzel, but with respect to you I am Hummin. As a matter of fact, the
two are not distinct. I told you that the Empire is decaying and failing. I
believe that to be true in both my capacities. I told you that I wanted
psychohistory as a way of preventing that decay and failure or of bringing
about a renewal and reinvigoration if the decay and failure must run its
course. I believe that in both my capacities too.” “But
you had me in your grip—I presume you were in the vicinity when I had my
meeting with His Imperial Majesty.” “With
Cleon. Yes, of course.” “And
you might have spoken to me, then, exactly as you later did as Hummin.” “And
accomplished what? As Demerzel, I have enormous tasks. I have to handle Cleon,
a well-meaning but not very capable ruler, and prevent him, insofar as I can,
from making mistakes. I have to do my bit in governing Trantor and the Empire
too. And, as you see, I had to spend a great deal of time in preventing Wye
from doing harm.” “Yes,
I know,” murmured Seldon. “It
wasn’t easy and I nearly lost out. I have spent years sparring carefully with
Mannix, learning to understand his thinking and planning a countermove to his
every move. I did not think, at any time, that while he was still alive he
would pass on his powers to his daughter. I had not studied her and I was not
prepared for her utter lack of caution. Unlike her father, she has been brought
up to take power for granted and had no clear idea of its limitations. So she
got you and forced me to act before I was quite ready.” “You
almost lost me as a result. I faced the muzzle of a blaster twice.” “I
know,” said Hummin, nodding. “And we might have lost you Upperside too—another
accident I could not foresee.” “But
you haven’t really answered my question. Why did you send me chasing all over
the face of Trantor to escape from Demerzel when you yourself were Demerzel?” “You
told Cleon that psychohistory was a purely theoretical concept, a kind of
mathematical game that made no practical sense. That might indeed have been so,
but if I approached you officially, I was sure you would merely have maintained
your belief. Yet I was attracted to the notion of psychohistory. I wondered
whether it might not be, after all, just a game. You must understand that I
didn’t want merely to use you, I wanted a real and practical psychohistory. “So
I sent you, as you put it, chasing all over the face of Trantor with the
dreaded Demerzel close on your heels at all times. That, I felt, would
concentrate your mind powerfully. It would make psychohistory something
exciting and much more than a mathematical game. You would try to work it out
for the sincere idealist Hummin, where you would not for the Imperial flunky
Demerzel. Also, you would get a glimpse of various sides of Trantor and that
too would be helpful—certainly more helpful than living in an ivory tower on a
far-off planet, surrounded entirely by fellow mathematicians. Was I right? Have
you made progress?” Seldon
said, “In psychohistory? Yes, I did, Hummin. I thought you knew.” “How
should I know?” “I
told Dors.” “But
you hadn’t told me. Nevertheless, you tell me so now. That is good news.” “Not
entirely,” said Seldon. “I have made only the barest beginning. But it is a
beginning.” “Is
it the kind of beginning that can be explained to a nonmathematician?” “I
think so. You see, Hummin, from the start I have seen psychohistory as a
science that depends on the interaction of twenty-five million worlds, each
with an average population of four thousand million. It’s too much. There’s no
way of handling something that complex. If I was to succeed at all, if there
was to be any way of finding a useful psychohistory, I would first have to find
a simpler system. “So
I thought I would go back in time and deal with a single world, a world that
was the only one occupied by humanity in the dim age before the colonization of
the Galaxy. In Mycogen they spoke of an original world of Aurora and in Dahl I
heard word of an original world of Earth. I thought they might be the same
world under different names, but they were sufficiently different in one key
point, at least, to make that impossible. And it didn’t matter. So little was
known of either one, and that little so obscured by myth and legend, that there
was no hope of making use of psychohistory in connection with them.” He
paused to sip at his cold juice, keeping his eyes firmly on Hummin’s face. Hummin
said, “Well? What then?” “Meanwhile,
Dors had told me something I call the hand-on-thigh story. It was of no innate
significance, merely a humorous and entirely trivial tale. As a result, though,
Dors mentioned the different sex mores on various worlds and in various sectors
of Trantor. It occurred to me that she treated the different Trantorian sectors
as though they were separate worlds. I thought, idly, that instead of
twenty-five million different worlds, I had twenty-five million plus eight
hundred to deal with. It seemed a trivial difference, so I forgot it and
thought no more about it. “But
as I traveled from the Imperial Sector to Streeling to Mycogen to Dahl to Wye,
I observed for myself how different each was. The thought of Trantor—not as a
world but as a complex of worlds—grew stronger, but still I didn’t see the
crucial point. “It
was only when I listened to Rashelle—you see, it was good that I was finally
captured by Wye and it was good that Rashelle’s rashness drove her into the
grandiose schemes that she imparted to me—When I listened to Rashelle, as I
said, she told me that all she wanted was Trantor and some immediately adjacent
worlds. It was an Empire in itself, she said, and dismissed the outer worlds as
‘distant nothings.’ “It
was then that, in a moment, I saw what I must have been harboring in my hidden
thoughts for a considerable time. On the one hand, Trantor possessed an
extraordinarily complex social system, being a populous world made up of eight
hundred smaller worlds. It was in itself a system complex enough to make
psychohistory meaningful and yet it was simple enough, compared to the Empire
as a whole, to make psychohistory perhaps practical. “And
the Outer Worlds, the twenty-five million of them? They were ‘distant
nothings.’ Of course, they affected Trantor and were affected by Trantor, but
these were second-order effects. If I could make psychohistory work as a first
approximation for Trantor alone, then the minor effects of the Outer Worlds
could be added as later modifications. Do you see what I mean? I was searching
for a single world on which to establish a practical science of psychohistory
and I was searching for it in the far past, when all the time the single world
I wanted was under my feet now.” Hummin
said with obvious relief and pleasure, “Wonderful!” “But
it’s all left to do, Hummin. I must study Trantor in sufficient detail. I must
devise the necessary mathematics to deal with it. If I am lucky and live out a
full lifetime, I may have the answers before I die. If not, my successors will
have to follow me. Conceivably, the Empire may have fallen and splintered
before psychohistory becomes a useful technique.” “I
will do everything I can to help you.” “I
know it,” said Seldon. “You
trust me, then, despite the fact I am Demerzel?” “Entirely.
Absolutely. But I do so because you are not Demerzel.” “But
I am,” insisted Hummin. “But
you are not. Your persona as Demerzel is as far removed from the truth as is
your persona as Hummin.” “What
do you mean?” Hummin’s eyes grew wide and he backed away slightly from Seldon. “I
mean that you probably chose the name ‘Hummin’ out of a wry sense of what was
fitting. ‘Hummin’ is a mispronunciation of ‘human,’ isn’t it?” Hummin made no
response. He continued to stare at Seldon. And
finally Seldon said, “Because you’re not human, are you, ‘Hummin/Demerzel’?
You’re a robot.” DorsSELDON,
HARI— ... it is customary to think of Hari Seldon only in connection with
psychohistory, to see him only as mathematics and social change personified.
There is no doubt that he himself encouraged this for at no time in his formal
writings did he give any hint as to how he came to solve the various problems
of psychohistory. His leaps of thought might have all been plucked from air,
for all he tells us. Nor does he tell us of the blind alleys into which he
crept or the wrong turnings he may have made. ... As for
his private life, it is a blank. Concerning his parents and siblings, we know a
handful of factors, no more. His only son, Raych Seldon, is known to have been
adopted, but how that came about is not known. Concerning his wife, we only
know that she existed. Clearly, Seldon wanted to be a cipher except where
psychohistory was concerned. It is as though he felt—or wanted it to be
felt—that he did not live, he merely psychohistorified. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 91.Hummin
sat calmly, not a muscle twitching, still looking at Hari Seldon and Seldon,
for his part, waited. It was Hummin, he thought, who should speak next. Hummin
did, but said merely, “A robot? Me?—By robot, I presume you mean an artificial
being such as the object you saw in the Sacratorium in Mycogen.” “Not
quite like that,” said Seldon. “Not
metal? Not burnished? Not a lifeless simulacrum?” Hummin said it without any
evidence of amusement. “No.
To be of artificial life is not necessarily to be made of metal. I speak of a
robot indistinguishable from a human being in appearance.’. “If
indistinguishable, Hari, then how do you distinguish?” “Not
by appearance.” “Explain.” “Hummin,
in the course of my flight from yourself as Demerzel, I heard of two ancient
worlds, as I told you—Aurora and Earth. Each seemed to be spoken of as a first
world or an only world. In both cases, robots were spoken of, but with a
difference.” Seldon
was staring thoughtfully at the man across the table, wondering if, in any way,
he would give some sign that he was less than a man—or more. He said, “Where
Aurora was in question, one robot was spoken of as a renegade, a traitor,
someone who deserted the cause. Where Earth was in question, one robot was
spoken of as a hero, one who represented salvation. Was it too much to suppose
that it was the same robot?” “Was
it?” murmured Hummin. “This
is what I thought, Hummin. I thought that Earth and Aurora were two separate
worlds, co-existing in time. I don’t know which one preceded the other. From
the arrogance and the conscious sense of superiority of the Mycogenians, I
might suppose that Aurora was the original world and that they despised the
Earthmen who derived from them—or who degenerated from them. “On
the other hand, Mother Rittah, who spoke to me of Earth, was convinced that
Earth was the original home of humanity and, certainly, the tiny and isolated
position of the Mycogenians in a whole galaxy of quadrillions of people who
lack the strange Mycogenian ethos might mean that Earth was indeed the original
home and that Aurora was the aberrant offshoot. I cannot tell, but I pass on to
you my thinking, so that you will understand my final conclusions.” Hummin
nodded. “I see what you are doing. Please continue.” “The
worlds were enemies. Mother Rittah certainly made it sound so. When I compare
the Mycogenians, who seem to embody Aurora, and the Dahlites, who seem to
embody Earth, I imagine that Aurora, whether first or second, was nevertheless
the one that was more advanced, the one that could produce more elaborate
robots, even ones indistinguishable from human beings in appearance. Such a
robot was designed and devised in Aurora, then. But he was a renegade, so he
deserted Aurora. To the Earthpeople he was a hero, so he must have joined
Earth. Why he did this, what his motives were, I can’t say.” Hummin
said, “Surely, you mean why it did this, what its motives were.” “Perhaps,
but with you sitting across from me,” said Seldon, “I find it difficult to use
the inanimate pronoun. Mother Rittah was convinced that the heroic robot—her
heroic robot—still existed, that he would return when he was needed. It seemed
to me that there was nothing impossible in the thought of an immortal robot or
at least one who was immortal as long as the replacement of worn-out parts was
not neglected.” “Even
the brain?” asked Hummin. “Even
the brain. I don’t really know anything about robots, but I imagine a new brain
could be re-recorded from the old.—And Mother Rittah hinted of strange mental
powers.—I thought: It must be so. I may, in some ways, be a romantic, but I am
not so much a romantic as to think that one robot, by switching from one side
to the other, can alter the course of history. A robot could not make Earth’s
victory sure, nor Aurora’s defeat certain—unless there was something strange, something
peculiar about the robot.” Hummin
said, “Does it occur to you, Hari, that you are dealing with legends, legends
that may have been distorted over the centuries and the millennia, even to the
extent of building a veil of the supernatural over quite ordinary events? Can
you make yourself believe in a robot that not only seems human, but that also
lives forever and has mental powers? Are you not beginning to believe in the
superhuman?” “I
know very well what legends are and I am not one to be taken in by them and
made to believe in fairy tales. Still, when they are supported by certain odd
events that I have seen—and even experienced myself—” “Such
as?” “Hummin,
I met you and trusted you from the start. Yes, you helped me against those two
hoodlums when you didn’t need to and that predisposed me in your favor, since I
didn’t realize at the time that they were your hirelings, doing what you had
instructed them to do.—But never mind that.” “No,”
said Hummin, a hint of amusement—finally—in his voice. “I
trusted you. I was easily convinced not to go home to Helicon and to make
myself a wanderer over the face of Trantor. I believed everything you told me
without question. I placed myself entirely in your hands. Looking back on it
now, I see myself as not myself. I am not a person to be so easily led, yet I
was. More than that, I did not even think it strange that I was behaving so far
out of character.” “You
know yourself best, Hari.” “It
wasn’t only me. How is it that Dors Venabili, a beautiful woman with a career
of her own, should abandon that career in order to join me in my flight? How is
it that she should risk her life to save mine, seeming to take on, as a kind of
holy duty, the cask of protecting me and becoming single-minded in the process?
Was it simply because you asked her to?” “I
did ask her to, Hari.” “Yet
she does not strike me as the kind of person to make such a radical changeover
in her life merely because someone asks her to. Nor could I believe it was
because she had fallen madly in love with me at first sight and could not help
herself. I somehow wish she had, but she seems quite the mistress of her
emotional self, more—I am now speaking to you frankly—than I myself am with
respect to her.” “She
is a wonderful woman,” said Hummin. “I don’t blame you.” Seldon
went on. “How is it, moreover, that Sunmaster Fourteen, a monster of arrogance
and one who leads a people who are themselves stiff-necked in their own
conceit, should be willing to take in tribespeople like Dors and myself and to
treat us as well as the Mycogenians could and did? When we broke every rule,
committed every sacrilege, how is it that you could still talk him into letting
us go? “How
could you talk the Tisalvers, with their petty prejudices, into taking us in?
How can you be at home everywhere in the world, be friends with everyone,
influence each person, regardless of their individual peculiarities? For that
matter, how do you manage to manipulate Cleon too? And if he is viewed as
malleable and easily molded, then how were you able to handle his father, who
by all accounts was a rough and arbitrary tyrant? How could you do all this? “Most
of all, how is it that Mannix IV of Wye could spend decades building an army
without peer, one trained to be proficient in every detail, and yet have it
fall apart when his daughter tries to make use of it? How could you persuade
them to play the Renegade, all of them, as you have done?” Hummin
said, “Might this mean no more than that I am a tactful person used to dealing
with people of different types, that I am in a position to have done favors for
crucial people and am in a position to do additional favors in the future?
Nothing I have done, it might seem, requires the supernatural.” “Nothing
you have done? Not even the neutralization of the Wyan army?” “They
did not wish to serve a woman.” “They
must have known for years that any time Mannix laid down his powers or any time
he died, Rashelle would be their Mayor, yet they showed no signs of
discontent—until you felt it necessary that they show it. Dors described you at
one time as a very persuasive man. And so you are. More persuasive than any man
could be. But you are not more persuasive than an immortal robot with strange
mental powers might be.—Well, Hummin?” Hummin
said, “What is it you expect of me, Hari? Do you expect me to admit I’m a
robot? That I only look like a human being? That I am immortal? That I am a
mental marvel?!” Seldon
leaned toward Hummin as he sat there on the opposite side of the table. “Yes,
Hummin, I do. I expect you to tell me the truth and I strongly suspect that
what you have just outlined is the truth. You, Hummin, are the robot that
Mother Rittah referred to as Da-Nee, friend of Ba-Lee. You must admit it. You
have no choice.” 92.It
was as though they were sitting in a tiny Universe of their own. There, in the
middle of Wye, with the Wyan army being disarmed by Imperial force, they sat
quietly. There, in the midst of events that all of Trantor—and perhaps all the
Galaxy—was watching, there was this small bubble of utter isolation within
which Seldon and Hummin were playing their game of attack and defense—Seldon
trying hard to force a new reality, Hummin making no move to accept that new
reality. Seldon had no fear of interruption. He was certain that the bubble within
which they sat had a boundary that could not be penetrated, that Hummin’s—no,
the robot’s—powers would keep all at a distance till the game was over. Hummin
finally said, “You are an ingenious fellow, Hari, but I fail to see why I must
admit that I am a robot and why I have no choice but to do so. Everything you
say may be true as facts—your own behavior, Dors’s behavior, Sunmaster’s,
Tisalver’s, the Wyan generals’—all, all may have happened as you said, but that
doesn’t force your interpretation of the meaning of the events to be true.
Surely, everything that happened can have a natural explanation. You trusted me
because you accepted what I said; Dors felt your safety to be important because
she felt psychohistory to be crucial, herself being a historian; Sunmaster and
Tisalver were beholden to me for favors you know nothing of, the Wyan generals
resented being ruled by a woman, no more. Why must we flee to the
supernatural?” Seldon
said, “See here, Hummin, do you really believe the Empire to be falling and do
you really consider it important that it not be allowed to do so with no move
made to save it or, at the least, cushion its Fall?” “I
really do.” Somehow Seldon knew this statement was sincere. “And you really
want me to work out the details of psychohistory and you feel that you yourself
cannot do it?” “I
lack the capability.” “And
you feel that only I can handle psychohistory—even if I sometimes doubt it
myself?” “Yes.” “And
you must therefore feel that if you can possibly help me in any way, you must.” “I
do.” “Personal
feelings—selfish considerations—could play no part?” A faint and brief smile
passed over Hummin’s grave face and for a moment Seldon sensed a vast and arid
desert of weariness behind Hummin’s quiet manner. “I have built a long career
on paying no heed to personal feelings or to selfish considerations.” “Then
I ask your help. I can work out psychohistory on the basis of Trantor alone,
but I will run into difficulties. Those difficulties I may overcome, but how
much easier it would be to do so if I knew certain key facts. For instance, was
Earth or Aurora the first world of humanity or was it some other world
altogether? What was the relationship between Earth and Aurora? Did either or
both colonize the Galaxy? If one, why didn’t the other? If both, how was the
issue decided? Are there worlds descended from both or from only one? How did
robots come to be abandoned? How did Trantor become the Imperial world, rather
than another planet? What happened to Aurora and Earth in the meantime? There
are a thousand questions I might ask right now and a hundred thousand that
might arise as I go along. Would you allow me to remain ignorant, Hummin, and
fail in my task when you could inform me and help me succeed?” Hummin
said, “If I were the robot, would I have room in my brain for all of twenty
thousand years of history for millions of different worlds?” “I
don’t know the capacity of robotic brains. I don’t know the capacity of yours.
But if you lack the capacity, then you must have that information which you
cannot hold safely recorded in a place and in a way that would make it possible
for you to call upon it. And if you have it and I need information, how can you
deny and withhold it from me? And if you cannot withhold it from me, how can
you deny that you are a robot—that robot the Renegade?” Seldon
sat back and took a deep breath. “So I ask you again: Are you that robot? If
you want psychohistory, then you must admit it. If you still deny you are a
robot and if you convince me you are not, then my chances at psychohistory
become much, much smaller. It is up to you, then. Are you a robot? Are you
Da-Nee?” And
Hummin said, as imperturbable as ever. “Your arguments are irrefutable. I am R.
Daneel Olivaw. The ‘R’ stands for ‘robot.’ ” 93.R.
Daneel Olivaw still spoke quietly, but it seemed to Seldon that there was a
subtle change in his voice, as though he spoke more easily now that he was no
longer playing a part. “In
twenty thousand years,” said Daneel, “no one has guessed I was a robot when it
was not my intention to have him or her know. In part, that was because human
beings abandoned robots so long ago that very few remember that they even
existed at one time. And in part, it is because I do have the ability to detect
and affect human emotion. The detection offers no trouble, but to affect
emotion is difficult for me for reasons having to do with my robotic
nature—although I can do it when I wish. I have the ability but must deal with
my will not to use it. I try never to interfere except when I have no choice
but to do so. And when I do interfere, it is rarely that I do more than
strengthen, as little as I can, what is already there. If I can achieve my
purposes without doing even so much, I avoid it. “It
was not necessary to tamper with Sunmaster Fourteen in order to have him accept
you—I call it ‘tampering,’ you notice, because it is not a pleasant thing to
do. I did not have to tamper with him because he did owe me for favors rendered
and he is an honorable man, despite the peculiarities you found in him. I did
interfere the second time, when you had committed sacrilege in his eyes, but it
took very little. He was not anxious to hand you over to the Imperial
authorities, whom he does not like. I merely strengthened the dislike a trifle
and he handed you over to my care, accepting the arguments I offered, which
otherwise he might have considered specious. “Nor
did I tamper with you noticeably. You distrusted the Imperials too. Most human
beings do these days, which is an important factor in the decay and
deterioration of the Empire. What’s more, you were proud of psychohistory as a
concept, proud of having thought of it. You would not have minded having it
prove to be a practical discipline. That would have further fed your pride.”
Seldon frowned and said, “Pardon me, Master Robot, but I am not aware that I am
quite such a monster of pride.” Daneel
said mildly, “You are not a monster of pride at all. You are perfectly aware
that [it] is neither admirable nor useful to be driven by pride, so you try to
subdue that drive, but you might as well disapprove of having yourself powered
by your heartbeat. You cannot help either fact. Though you hide your pride from
yourself for the sake of your own peace of mind, you cannot hide it from me. It
is there, however carefully you mask it over. And I had but to strengthen it a
touch and you were at once willing to take measures to hide from Demerzel,
measures that a moment before you would have resisted. And you were eager to
work at psychohistory with an intensity that a moment before you would have
scorned. “I
saw no necessity to touch anything else and so you have reasoned out your
robothood. Had I foreseen the possibility of that, I might have stopped it, but
my foresight and my abilities are not infinite. Nor am I sorry now that I
failed, for your arguments are good ones and it is important that you know who
I am and that I use what I am to help you. “Emotions,
my dear Seldon are a powerful engine of human action, far more powerful than
human beings themselves realize, and you cannot know how much can be done with
the merest touch and how reluctant I am to do it.” Seldon
was breathing heavily, trying to see himself as a man driven by pride and not
liking it. “Why reluctant?” “Because
it would be so easy to overdo. I had to stop Rashelle from converting the
Empire into a feudal anarchy. I might have bent minds quickly and the result
might well have been a bloody uprising. Men are men—and the Wyan generals are
almost all men. It does not actually take much to rouse resentment and latent
fear of women in any man. It may be a biological matter that I, as a robot,
cannot fully understand. “I
had but to strengthen the feeling to produce a breakdown in her plans. If I had
done it the merest millimeter too much, I would have lost what I wanted—a
bloodless takeover. I wanted nothing more than to have them not resist when my
soldiers arrived.” Daneel
paused, as though trying to pick his words, then said, “I do not wish to go
into the mathematics of my positronic brain. It is more than I can understand,
though perhaps not more than you can if you give it enough thought. However, I
am governed by the Three Laws of Robotics that are traditionally put into
words—or once were, long ago. They are these: “
‘One. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human
being to come to harm. “
‘Two. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings, except where such
orders would conflict with the First Law. “
‘Three. A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does
not conflict with the First or Second Law.’ “But
I had a ... a friend twenty thousand years ago. Another robot. Not like myself.
He could not be mistaken for a human being, but it was he who had the mental
powers and it was through him that I gained mine. “It seemed to him that there
should be a still more general rule than any of the Three Laws. He called it
the Zeroth Law, since zero comes before one. It is: “
‘Zero. A robot may not injure humanity or, through inaction, allow humanity to
come to harm.’ “Then
the First Law must read: “
‘One. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human
being to come to harm, except where that would conflict with the Zeroth Law.’ “And
the other laws must be similarly modified. Do you understand?” Daneel
paused earnestly and Seldon said, “I understand.” Daneel went on. “The trouble
is, Hari, that a human being is easy to identify. I can point to one. It is
easy to see what will harm a human being and what won’t—relatively easy, at
least. But what is humanity? To what can we point when we speak of humanity?
And how can we define harm to humanity? When will a course of action do more
good than harm to humanity as a whole and how can one tell? The robot who first
advanced the Zeroth law died—became permanently inactive—because he was forced
into an action that he felt would save humanity, yet which he could not be sure
would save humanity. And as he became inactivated, he left the care of the
Galaxy to me. “Since
then, I have tried. I have interfered as little as possible, relying on human
beings themselves to judge what was for the good. They could gamble; I could
not. They could miss their goals; I did not dare. They could do harm
unwittingly; I would grow inactive if I did. The Zeroth Law makes no allowance
for unwitting harm. “But
at times I am forced to take action. That I am still functioning shows that my
actions have been moderate and discreet. However, as the Empire began to fail
and to decline, I have had to interfere more frequently and for decades now I
have had to play the role of Demerzel, trying to run the government in such a
way as to stave off ruin—and yet I will function, you see. “When
you made your speech to the Decennial Convention, I realized at once that in psychohistory
there was a tool that might make it possible to identify what was good and bad
for humanity. With it, the decisions we would make would be less blind. I would
even trust to human beings to make those decisions and again reserve myself
only for the greatest emergencies. So I arranged quickly to have Cleon learn of
your speech and call you in. Then, when I heard your denial of the worth of
psychohistory, I was forced to think of some way to make you try anyway. Do you
understand, Hari?” More
than a little daunted, Seldon said, “I understand, Hummin.” “To
you, I must remain Hummin on those rare occasions when I will be able to see
you. I will give you what information I have if it is something you need and in
my persona as Demerzel I will protect you as much as I can. As Daneel, you must
never speak of me.” “I
wouldn’t want to,” said Seldon hurriedly. “Since I need your help, it would
ruin matters to have your plans impeded.” “Yes,
I know you wouldn’t want to.” Daneel smiled wearily. “After all, you are vain
enough to want full credit for psychohistory. You would not want anyone to
know—ever—that you needed the help of a robot.” Seldon
flushed. “I am not—” “But
you are, even if you carefully hide it from yourself. And it is important, for
I am strengthening that emotion within you minimally so that you will never be
able to speak of me to others. It will not even occur to you that you might do
so.” Seldon
said, “I suspect Dors knows—” “She
knows of me. And she too cannot speak of me to others. Now that you both know
of my nature, you can speak of me to each other freely, but not to anyone
else.” Daneel
rose.—Hari, I have my work to do now. Before long, you and Dors will be taken
back to the Imperial Sector—” “The
boy Raych must come with me. I cannot abandon him. And there is a young Dahlite
named Yugo Amaryl—” “I
understand. Raych will be taken too and you can do with any friend as you will.
You will all be taken care of appropriately. And you will work on
psychohistory. You will have a staff. You will have the necessary computers and
reference material. I will interfere as little as possible and if there is
resistance to your views that does not actually reach the point of endangering
the mission, then you will have to deal with it yourself.” “Wait,
Hummin,” said Seldon urgently. “What if, despite all your help and all my
endeavors, it turns out that psychohistory cannot be made into a practical
device after all? What if I fail?” Daneel
rose. “In that case, I have a second plan in hand. One I have been working on a
long time on a separate world in a separate way. It too is very difficult and
to some ways even more radical than psychohistory. It may fail too, but there
is a greater chance of success if two roads are open than if either one alone
was. “Take
my advice, Hari! If the time comes when you are able to set up some device that
may act to prevent the worst from happening see if you can think of two
devices, so that if one fails, the other will carry on. The Empire must be
steadied or rebuilt on a new foundation. Let there be two such, rather than
one, if that is possible.” He
rose, “Now I must return to my ordinary work and you must turn to yours. You
will be taken care of.” With
one final nod, he rose and left. Seldon
looked after him and said softly, “First I must speak to Dors.” 94.Dors
said, “The palace is cleared. Rashelle will not be physically harmed. And
you’ll return to the Imperial Sector, Hari.” “And
you, Dors?” said Seldon in a low tight voice. “I
presume I will go back to the University,” she said. “My work is being
neglected, my classes abandoned.” “No,
Dors, you have a greater task.” “What
is that?” “Psychohistory.
I cannot tackle the project without you.” “Of
course you can. I am a total illiterate in mathematics.” “And
I in history—and we need both.” Dors
laughed. “I suspect that, as a mathematician, you are one of a kind. I, as a
historian, am merely adequate, certainly not outstanding. You will find any
number of historians who will suit the needs of psychohistory better than I
do.” “In
that case, Dors, let me explain that psychohistory needs more than a
mathematician and a historian. It also needs the will to tackle what will
probably be a lifetime problem. Without you, Dors, I will not have that will.” “Of
course you’ll have it.” “Dors,
if you’re not with me, I don’t intend to have it.” Dors
looked at Seldon thoughtfully. “This is a fruitless discussion, Hari.
Undoubtedly, Hummin will make the decision. If he sends me back to the
University.” “He
won’t.” “How
can you be sure?” “Because
I’ll put it to him plainly. If he sends you back to the University, I’ll go
back to Helicon and the Empire can go ahead and destroy itself.” “You
can’t mean it.” “But
I certainly do.” “Don’t
you realize that Hummin can arrange to have your feelings change so that you
will work on psychohistory—even without me?” Seldon
shook his head. “Hummin will not make such an arbitrary decision. I’ve spoken
to him. He dares not do much to the human mind because he is bound by what he
calls the Laws of Robotics. To change my mind to the point where I will not
want you with me, Dors, would mean a change of the kind he can not risk. On the
other hand, if he leaves me alone and if you join me in the project, he will
have what he wants—a true chance at psychohistory. Why should he not settle for
that?” Dors
shook her head. “He may not agree for reasons of his own.” “Why
should he disagree? You were asked to protect me, Dors. Has Hummin canceled
that request?” “No.” “Then
he wants you to continue your protection. And I want your protection.” “Against
what? You now have Hummin’s protection, both as Demerzel and as Daneel, and
surely that is all you need.” “If
I had the protection of every person and every force in the Galaxy, it would
still be yours I would want.” “Then
you don’t want me for psychohistory. You want me for protection.” Seldon
scowled. “No! Why are you twisting my words? Why are you forcing me to say what
you must know? It is neither psychohistory nor protection I want you for. Those
are excuses and I’ll use any other I need. I want you—just you. And if you want
the real reason, it is because you are you.” “You
don’t even know me.” “That
doesn’t matter. I don’t care.—And yet I do know you in a way. Better than you
think.” “Do
you indeed?” “Of
course. You follow orders and you risk your life without hesitation and with no
apparent care for the consequences. You learned how to play tennis so quickly.
You learned how to use knives even more quickly and you handled yourself
perfectly in the fight with Marron. Inhumanly—if I may say so. Your muscles are
amazingly strong and your reaction time is amazingly fast. You can somehow tell
when a room is being eavesdropped and you can be in touch with Hummin in some
way that does not involve instrumentation.” Dors
said, “And what do you think of all that?” “It
has occurred to me that Hummin, in his persona as R. Daneel Olivaw, has an
impossible task. How can one robot try to guide the Empire? He must have
helpers.” “That
is obvious. Millions, I should imagine. I am a helper. You are a helper. Little
Raych is a helper.” “You
are a different kind of helper.” “In
what way? Hari, say it. If you hear yourself say it, you will realize how crazy
it is.” Seldon
looked long at her and then said in a low voice, “I will not say it because ...
I don’t care.” “You
really don’t? You wish to take me as I am?” “I
will take you as I must. You are Dors and, whatever else you are, in all the
world I want nothing else.” Dors
said softly, “Hari, I want what is good for you because of what I am, but I feel
that if I wasn’t what I am, I would still want what is good for you. And I
don’t think I am good for you.” “Good
for me or bad, I don’t care.” Here Hari looked down as he paced a few steps,
weighing what he would say next. “Dors, have you ever been kissed?” “Of
course, Hari. It’s a social part of life and I live socially.” “No,
no! I mean, have you ever really kissed a man? You know, passionately?” “Well
yes, Hari, I have.” “Did
you enjoy it?” Dors
hesitated. She said, “When I’ve kissed in that way, I enjoyed it more than I
would have enjoyed disappointing a young man I liked, someone whose friendship
meant something to me.” At this point, Dors blushed and she turned her face
away. “Please, Hari, this is difficult for me to explain.” But
Hari, more determined now than ever, pressed further. “So you kissed for the
wrong reasons, then, to avoid hurt feelings.” “Perhaps
everyone does, in a sense.” Seldon
mulled this over, then said suddenly, “Did you ever ask to be kissed?” Dors
paused, as though looking back on her life. “No.” “Or
wish to be kissed again, once you had?” “No.” “Have
you ever slept with a man?” he asked softly, desperately. “Of
course. I told you. These things are a part of life.” Hari
gripped her shoulders as if he was going to shake her. “But have you ever felt
the desire, a need for that kind of closeness with just one special person?
Dors, have you ever felt love.” Dors
looked up slowly, almost sadly, and locked eyes with Seldon. “I’m sorry, Hari,
but no.” Seldon
released her, letting his arms fall dejectedly to his sides. Then Dors placed
her hand gently on his arm and said, “So you see, Hari. I’m not really what you
want.” Seldon’s
head drooped and he stared at the floor. He weighed the matter and tried to
think rationally. Then he gave up. He wanted what he wanted and he wanted it
beyond thought and beyond rationality. He looked up. “Dors,
dear, even so, I don’t care.” Seldon put his arms around her and brought his
head close to hers slowly, as though waiting for her to pull away, all the while
drawing her nearer. Dors
made no move and he kissed her—slowly, lingeringly, and then passionately—and
her arms suddenly tightened around him. When he stopped at last, she looked at
him with eyes that mirrored her smile and she said: “Kiss
me again, Hari. Please.” THE END. Prelude to Foundation by
Isaac Asimov VERSION 1.2 (DEC 2002) Proofed and formatted by
<Bibliophile>. Undecipherable or dubious text is enclosed in brackets
[…]. Paragraphing is for the most part my own due to the poor quality of the
original plain-text scan and is based on logical flow, narrative style and my
own personal preferences rather than that of the publisher since I did not have
access to a print version of the book. ContentsAuthor’s NoteWhen
I wrote “Foundation,” which appeared in the May 1942 issue of Astounding Science
Fiction, I had no idea that I had begun a series of stories that would
eventually grow into six volumes and a total of 650,000 words (so far). Nor did
I have any idea that it would be unified with my series of short stories and
novels involving robots and my novels involving the Galactic Empire for a grand
total (so far) of fourteen volumes and a total of about 1,450,000 words. You
will see, if you study the publication dates of these books, that there was a
twenty-five-year hiatus between 1957 and 1982, during which I did not add to
this series. This was not because I had stopped writing. Indeed, I wrote
full-speed throughout the quarter century, but I wrote other things. That I
returned to the series in 1982 was not my own notion but was the result of a
combination of pressures from readers and publishers that eventually became
overwhelming. In
any case, the situation has become sufficiently complicated for me to feel that
the readers might welcome a kind of guide to the series, since they were not written
in the order in which (perhaps) they should be read. The fourteen books, all
published by Doubleday, offer a kind of history of the future, which is,
perhaps, not completely consistent, since I did not plan consistency to begin
with. The chronological order of the books, in terms of future history (and not
of publication date), is as follows:
Will
I add additional books to the series? I might. There is room for a book between
Robots and Empire (5) and The Currents of Space (6) and between Prelude to
Foundation (9) and Foundation (10) and of course between others as well. And
then I can follow Foundation and Earth (14) with additional volumes—as many as
I like. Naturally,
there’s got to be some limit, for I don’t expect to live forever, but I do
intend to hang on as long as possible. MathematicianCLEON
I— ... The last Galactic Emperor of the Entun dynasty. He was born in the year
11,988 of the Galactic Era, the same year in which Hari Seldon was born. (It is
thought that Seldon’s birthdate, which some consider doubtful, may have been
adjusted to match that of Cleon, whom Seldon, soon after his arrival on
Trantor, is supposed to have encountered.) Having
succeeded to the Imperial throne in 12,010 at the age of twenty-two, Cleon I’s
reign represented a curious interval of quiet in those troubled times. This is
undoubtedly due to the skills of his Chief of Staff, Eto Demerzel, who so
carefully obscured himself from public record that little is known about him. Cleon
himself ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA (All quotations from the Encyclopedia
Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 116th Edition,
published 1,020 FE by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with
permission of the publishers.) 1.Suppressing
a small yawn, Cleon said, “Demerzel, have you by any chance ever heard of a man
named Hari Seldon?” Cleon
had been Emperor for just over ten years and there were times at state
occasions when, dressed in the necessary robes and regalia, he could manage to
look stately. He did so, for instance, in the holograph of himself that stood
in the niche in the wall behind him. It was placed so that it clearly dominated
the other niches holding the holographs of several of his ancestors. The
holograph was not a totally honest one, for though Cleon’s hair was light brown
in hologram and reality alike, it was a bit thicker in the holograph. There was
a certain asymmetry to his real face, for the left side of his upper lip raised
itself a bit higher than the right side, and this was somehow not evident in
the holograph. And if he had stood up and placed himself beside the holograph,
he would have been seen to be 2 centimeters under the 1.83-meter height that
the image portrayed—and perhaps a bit stouter. Of course, the holograph was the
official coronation portrait and he had been younger then. He still looked
young and rather handsome, too, and when he was not in the pitiless grip of
official ceremony, there was a kind of vague good nature about his face. Demerzel
said, with the tone of respect that he carefully cultivated, “Hari Seldon? It
is an unfamiliar name to me, Sire. Ought I to know of him?” “The
Minister of Science mentioned him to me last night. I thought you might.” Demerzel
frowned slightly, but only very slightly, for one does not frown in the
Imperial presence. “The Minister of Science, Sire, should have spoken of this
man to me as Chief of Staff. If you are to be bombarded from every side—” Cleon
raised his hand and Demerzel stopped at once. “Please, Demerzel, one can’t
stand on formality at all times. When I passed the Minister at last night’s
reception and exchanged a few words with him, he bubbled over. I could not
refuse to listen and I was glad I had, for it was interesting.” “In
what way interesting, Sire?” “Well,
these are not the old days when science and mathematics were all the rage. That
sort of thing seems to have died down somehow, perhaps because all the
discoveries have been made, don’t you think? Apparently, however, interesting
things can still happen. At least I was told it was interesting.” “By
the Minister of Science, Sire?” “Yes.
He said that this Hari Seldon had attended a convention of mathematicians held
here in Trantor—they do this every ten years, for some reason—and he said that
he had proved that one could foretell the future mathematically.” Demerzel
permitted himself a small smile. “Either the Minister of Science, a man of
little acumen, is mistaken or the mathematician is. Surely, the matter of
foretelling the future is a children’s dream of magic.” “Is
it, Demerzel? People believe in such things.” “People
believe in many things, Sire.” “But
they believe in such things. Therefore, it doesn’t matter whether the forecast
of the future is true or not. If a mathematician should predict a long and
happy reign for me, a time of peace and prosperity for the Empire—Eh, would
that not be well?” “It
would be pleasant to hear, certainly, but what would it accomplish, Sire?” “But
surely if people believe this, they would act on that belief. Many a prophecy,
by the mere force of its being believed, is transmuted to fact. These are
‘self-fulfilling prophecies.’ Indeed, now that I think of it, it was you who
once explained this to me.” Demerzel
said, “I believe I did, Sire.” His eyes were watching the Emperor carefully, as
though to see how far he might go on his own. “Still, if that be so, one could
have any person make the prophecy.” “Not
all persons would be equally believed, Demerzel. A mathematician, however, who
could back his prophecy with mathematical formulas and terminology, might be
understood by no one and yet believed by everyone.” Demerzel
said, “As usual, Sire, you make good sense. We live in troubled times and it
would be worthwhile to calm them in a way that would require neither money nor
military effort—which, in recent history, have done little good and much harm.” “Exactly,
Demerzel,” said the Emperor with excitement. “Reel in this Hari Seldon. You
tell me you have your strings stretching to every part of this turbulent world,
even where my forces dare not go. Pull on one of those strings, then, and bring
in this mathematician. Let me see him.” “I
will do so, Sire,” said Demerzel, who had already located Seldon and who made a
mental note to commend the Minister of Science for a job well done. 2.Hari
Seldon did not make an impressive appearance at this time. Like the Emperor
Cleon I, he was thirty-two years old, but he was only 1.73 meters tall. His
face was smooth and cheerful, his hair dark brown, almost black, and his
clothing had the unmistakable touch of provinciality about it. To anyone in
later times who knew of Hari Seldon only as a legendary demigod, it would seem
almost sacrilegious for him not to have white hair, not to have an old lined
face, a quiet smile radiating wisdom, not to be seated in a wheelchair. Even
then, in advanced old age, his eyes had been cheerful, however. There was that. And
his eyes were particularly cheerful now, for his paper had been given at the Decennial
Convention. It had even aroused some interest in a distant sort of way and old
Osterfith had nodded his head at him and had said, “Ingenious, young man. Most
ingenious.” Which, coming from Osterfith, was satisfactory. Most satisfactory. But
now there was a new—and quite unexpected—development and Seldon wasn’t sure
whether it should increase his cheer and intensify his satisfaction or not. He
stared at the tall young man in uniform—the Spaceship-and-Sun neatly placed on
the left side of his tunic. “Lieutenant
Alban Wellis,” said the officer of the Emperor’s Guard before putting away his
identification. “Will you come with me now, sir?” Wellis
was armed, of course. There were two other Guardsmen waiting outside his door.
Seldon knew he had no choice, for all the other’s careful politeness, but there
was no reason he could not seek information. He said, “To see the Emperor?” “To
be brought to the Palace, sir. That’s the extent of my instructions.” “But
why?” “I
was not told why, sir. And I have my strict instructions that you must come
with me—one way or another.” “But
this seems as though I am being arrested. I have done nothing to warrant that.” “Say,
rather, that it seems you are being given an escort of honor—if you delay me no
further.” Seldon
delayed no further. He pressed his lips together, as though to block of further
questions, nodded his head, and stepped forward. Even if he was going to meet
the Emperor and to receive Imperial commendation, he found no joy in it. He was
for the Empire—that is, for the worlds of humanity in peace and union but he
was not for the Emperor. The
lieutenant walked ahead, the other two behind. Seldon smiled at those he passed
and managed to look unconcerned. Outside the hotel they climbed into an
official ground-car. (Seldon ran his hand over the upholstery; he had never
been in anything so ornate.) They
were in one of the wealthiest sections of Trantor. The dome was high enough
here to give a sensation of being in the open and one could swear—even one such
as Hari Seldon, who had been born and brought up on an open world—that they
were in sunlight. You could see no sun and no shadows, but the air was light
and fragrant. And
then it passed and the dome curved down and the walls narrowed in and soon they
were moving along an enclosed tunnel, marked periodically with the
Spaceship-and-Sun and so clearly reserved (Seldon thought) for official
vehicles. A
door opened and the ground-car sped through. When the door closed behind them,
they were in the open—the true, the real open. There were 250 square kilometers
of the only stretch of open land on Trantor and on it stood the Imperial
Palace. Seldon would have liked a chance to wander through that open land—not
because of the Palace, but because it also contained the Galactic University
and, most intriguing of all, the Galactic Library. And
yet, in passing from the enclosed world of Trantor into the open patch of wood
and parkland, he had passed into a world in which clouds dimmed the sky and a
chill wind rued his shirt. He pressed the contact that closed the ground-car’s
window. It
was a dismal day outside. 3.Seldon
was not at all sure he would meet the Emperor. At best, he would meet some
official in the fourth or fifth echelon who would claim to speak for the
Emperor. How
many people ever did see the Emperor? In person, rather than on holovision? How
many people saw the real, tangible Emperor, an Emperor who never left the
Imperial grounds that he, Seldon, was now rolling over. The number was
vanishingly small. Twenty-five million inhabited worlds, each with its cargo of
a billion human beings or more—and among all those quadrillions of human
beings, how many had, or would ever, lay eyes on the living Emperor. A
thousand? And
did anyone care? The Emperor was no more than a symbol of Empire, like the
Spaceship-and-Sun but far less pervasive, far less real. It was his soldiers
and his officials, crawling everywhere, that now represented an Empire that had
become a dead weight upon its people—not the Emperor. So
it was that when Seldon was ushered into a moderately sized, lavishly furnished
room and found a young-looking man sitting on the edge of a table in a windowed
alcove, one foot on the ground and one swinging over the edge, he found himself
wondering that any official should be looking at him in so blandly good-natured
a way. He had already experienced the fact, over and over, that government
officials—and particularly those in the Imperial service—looked grave at all
times, as though bearing the weight of the entire Galaxy on their shoulders.
And it seemed the lower in importance they were, the graver and more
threatening their expression. This,
then, might be an official so high in the scale, with the sun of power so
bright upon him, that he felt no need of countering it with clouds of frowning.
Seldon wasn’t sure how impressed he ought to be, but he felt that it would be
best to remain silent and let the other speak first. The official said, “You
are Hari Seldon, I believe. The mathematician.” Seldon
responded with a minimal “Yes, sir,” and waited again. The
young man waved an arm. “It should be ‘Sire,’ but I hate ceremony. It’s all I
get and I weary of it. We are alone, so I will pamper myself and eschew
ceremony. Sit down, professor.” Halfway
through the speech, Seldon realized that he was speaking to the Emperor Cleon,
First of that Name, and he felt the wind go out of him. There was a faint
resemblance (now that he looked) to the official holograph that appeared
constantly in the news, but in that holograph, Cleon was always dressed
imposingly, seemed taller, nobler, frozen-faced. And here he was, the original
of the holograph, and somehow he appeared to be quite ordinary. Seldon
did not budge. The
Emperor frowned slightly and, with the habit of command present even in the
attempt to abolish it, at least temporarily, said peremptorily, “I said, ‘Sit
down,’ man. That chair. Quickly.” Seldon
sat down, quite speechless. He could not even bring himself to say, “Yes,
Sire.” Cleon
smiled. “That’s better. Now we can talk like two fellow human beings, which,
after all, is what we are once ceremony is removed. Eh, my man?” Seldon
said cautiously, “If Your Imperial Majesty is content to say so, then it is
so.” “Oh,
come, why are you so cautious? I want to talk to you on equal terms. It is my
pleasure to do so. Humor me.” “Yes,
Sire.” “A
simple ‘Yes,’ man. Is there no way I can reach you?” Cleon
stared at Seldon and Seldon thought it was a lively and interested stare. Finally
the Emperor said, “You don’t look like a mathematician.” At
last, Seldon found himself able to smile. “I don’t know what a mathematician is
suppose to look like, Your Imp—” Cleon
raised a cautioning hand and Seldon choked off the honorific. Cleon said,
“White-haired, I suppose. Bearded, perhaps. Old, certainly.” “Yet
even mathematicians must be young to begin with.” “But
they are then without reputation. By the time they obtrude themselves on the
notice of the Galaxy, they are as I have described.” “I
am without reputation, I’m afraid.” “Yet
you spoke at this convention they held here.” “A
great many of us did. Some were younger than myself. Few of us were granted any
attention whatever.” “Your
talk apparently attracted the attention of some of my officials. I am given to
understand that you believe it possible to predict the future.” Seldon
suddenly felt weary. It seemed as though this misinterpretation of his theory
was constantly going to occur. Perhaps he should not have presented his paper. He
said, “Not quite, actually. What I have done is much more limited than that. In
many systems, the situation is such that under some conditions chaotic events
take place. That means that, given a particular starting point, it is
impossible to predict outcomes. This is true even in some quite simple systems,
but the more complex a system, the more likely it is to become chaotic. It has
always been assumed that anything as complicated as human society would quickly
become chaotic and, therefore, unpredictable. What I have done, however, is to
show that, in studying human society, it is possible to choose a starting point
and to make appropriate assumptions that will suppress the chaos. That will
make it possible to predict the future, not in full detail, of course, but in
broad sweeps; not with certainty, but with calculable probabilities.” The
Emperor, who had listened carefully, said, “But doesn’t that mean that you have
shown how to predict the future?” “Again,
not quite. I have showed that it is theoretically possible, but no more. To do
more, we would actually have to choose a correct starting point, make correct
assumptions, and then find ways of carrying through calculations in a finite
time. Nothing in my mathematical argument tells us how to do any of this. And
even if we could do it all, we would, at best, only assess probabilities. That
is not the same as predicting the future; it is merely a guess at what is
likely to happen. Every successful politician, businessman, or human being of
any calling must make these estimates of the future and do it fairly well or he
or she would not be successful.” “They
do it without mathematics.” “True.
They do it by intuition.” “With
the proper mathematics, anyone would be able to assess the probabilities. It
wouldn’t take the rare human being who is successful because of a remarkable
intuitive sense.” “True
again, but I have merely shown that mathematical analysis is possible; I have
not shown it to be practical.” “How
can something be possible, yet not practical?” “It
is theoretically possible for me to visit each world of the Galaxy and greet
each person on each world. However, it would take far longer to do this than I
have years to live and, even if I was immortal, the rate at which new human
beings are being born is greater than the rate at which I could interview the
old and, even more to the point, old human beings would die in great numbers
before I could ever get to them.” “And
is this sort of thing true of your mathematics of the future?” Seldon
hesitated, then went on. “It might be that the mathematics would take too long
to work out, even if one had a computer the size of the Universe working at
hyperspatial velocities. By the time any answer had been received, enough years
would have elapsed to alter the situation so grossly as to make the answer
meaningless.” “Why
cannot the process be simplified?” Cleon asked sharply. “Your
Imperial Majesty,”—Seldon felt the Emperor growing more formal as the answers
grew less to his liking and responded with greater formality of his own,
“consider the manner in which scientists have dealt with subatomic particles.
There are enormous numbers of these, each moving or vibrating in random and
unpredictable manner, but this chaos turns out to have an underlying order, so
that we can work out a quantum mechanics that answers all the questions we know
how to ask. In studying society, we place human beings in the place of
subatomic particles, but now there is the added factor of the human mind.
Particles move mindlessly; human beings do not. To take into account the
various attitudes and impulses of mind adds so much complexity that there lacks
time to take care of all of it.” “Could
not mind, as well as mindless motion, have an underlying order?” “Perhaps.
My mathematical analysis implies that order must underlie everything, however
disorderly it may appear to be, but it does not give any hint as to how this
underlying order may be found. Consider—Twenty-five million worlds, each with
its overall characteristics and culture, each being significantly different
from all the rest, each containing a billion or more human beings who each have
an individual mind, and all the worlds interacting in innumerable ways and
combinations! However theoretically possible a psychohistorical analysis may
be, it is not likely that it can be done in any practical sense.” “What
do you mean ‘psychohistorical’?” “I
refer to the theoretical assessment of probabilities concerning the future as
‘psychohistory.’ ” The
Emperor rose to his feet suddenly, strode to the other end of the room, turned,
strode back, and stopped before the still-sitting Seldon. “Stand up!” he
commanded. Seldon
rose and looked up at the somewhat taller Emperor. He strove to keep his gaze
steady. Cleon
finally said, “This psychohistory of yours ... if it could be made practical,
it would be of great use, would it not?” “Of
enormous use, obviously. To know what the future holds, in even the most
general and probabilistic way, would serve as a new and marvelous guide for our
actions, one that humanity has never before had. But, of course—” He paused. “Well?”
said Cleon impatiently. “Well,
it would seem that, except for a few decision-makers, the results of
psychohistorical analysis would have to remain unknown to the public.” “Unknown!”
exclaimed Cleon with surprise. “It’s
clear. Let me try to explain. If a psychohistorical analysis is made and the
results are then given to the public, the various emotions and reactions of
humanity would at once be distorted. The psychohistorical analysis, based on
emotions and reactions that take place without knowledge of the future, become
meaningless. Do you understand?” The
Emperor’s eyes brightened and he laughed aloud. “Wonderful!” He clapped his
hand on Seldon’s shoulder and Seldon staggered slightly under the blow. “Don’t
you see, man?” said Cleon. “Don’t you see? There’s your use. You don’t need to
predict the future. Just choose a future—a good future, a useful future—and
make the kind of prediction that will alter human emotions and reactions in
such a way that the future you predicted will be brought about. Better to make
a good future than predict a bad one.” Seldon
frowned. “I see what you mean, Sire, but that is equally impossible.” “Impossible?” “Well,
at any rate, impractical. Don’t you see? If you can’t start with human emotions
and reactions and predict the future they will bring about, you can’t do the
reverse either. You can’t start with a future and predict the human emotions
and reactions that will bring it about.” Cleon
looked frustrated. His lips tightened. “And your paper, then? ... Is that what
you call it, a paper? ... Of what use is it?” “It
was merely a mathematical demonstration. It made a point of interest to
mathematicians, but there was no thought in my mind of its being useful in any
way.” “I
find that disgusting,” said Cleon angrily. Seldon
shrugged slightly. More than ever, he knew he should never have given the
paper. What would become of him if the Emperor took it into his head that he
had been made to play the fool? And
indeed, Cleon did not look as though he was very far from believing that. “Nevertheless,”
he said, “what if you were to make predictions of the future, mathematically
justified or not; predictions that government officials, human beings whose
expertise it is to know what the public is likely to do, will judge to be the
kind that will bring about useful reactions?” “Why
would you need me to do that? The government officials could make those
predictions themselves and spare the middleman.” “The
government officials could not do so as effectively. Government officials do
make statements of the sort now and then. They are not necessarily believed.” “Why
would I be?” “You
are a mathematician. You would have calculated the future, not ... not intuited
it—if that is a word.” “But
I would not have done so.” “Who
would know that?” Cleon watched him out of narrowed eyes. There was a pause. Seldon
felt trapped. If given a direct order by the Emperor, would it be safe to
refuse? If he refused, he might be imprisoned or executed. Not without trial,
of course, but it is only with great difficulty that a trial can be made to go
against the wishes of a heavy-handed officialdom, particularly one under the
command of the Emperor of the vast Galactic Empire. He said finally, “It
wouldn’t work.” “Why
not?” “If
I were asked to predict vague generalities that could not possibly come to pass
until long after this generation and, perhaps, the next were dead, we might get
away with it, but, on the other hand, the public would pay little attention.
They would not care about a glowing eventuality a century or two in the future. “To
attain results,” Seldon went on, “I would have to predict matters of sharper
consequence, more immediate eventualities. Only to these would the public
respond. Sooner or later, though—and probably sooner—one of the eventualities
would not come to pass and my usefulness would be ended at once. With that,
your popularity might be gone, too, and, worst of all, there would be no
further support for the development of psychohistory so that there would be no
chance for any good to come of it if future improvements in mathematical
insights help to make it move closer to the realm of practicality.” Cleon
threw himself into a chair and frowned at Seldon. “Is that all you
mathematicians can do? Insist on impossibilities?” Seldon
said with desperate softness, “It is you, Sire, who insist on impossibilities.” “Let
me test you, man. Suppose I asked you to use your mathematics to tell me
whether I would some day be assassinated? What would you say?” “My
mathematical system would not give an answer to so specific a question, even if
psychohistory worked at its best. All the quantum mechanics in the world cannot
make it possible to predict the behavior of one lone electron, only the average
behavior of many.” “You
know your mathematics better than I do. Make an educated guess based on it.
Will I someday be assassinated?” Seldon
said softly, “You lay a trap for me, Sire. Either tell me what answer you wish
and I will give it to you or else give me free right to make what answer I wish
without punishment.” “Speak
as you will.” “Your
word of honor?” “Do
you want it an writing?” Cleon was sarcastic. “Your
spoken word of honor will be sufficient,” said Seldon, his heart sinking, for
he was not certain it would be. “You
have my word of honor.” “Then
I can tell you that in the past four centuries nearly half the Emperors have
been assassinated, from which I conclude that the chances of your assassination
are roughly one in two.” “Any
fool can give that answer,” said Cleon with contempt. “It takes no
mathematician.” “Yet
I have told you several times that my mathematics is useless for practical
problems.” “Can’t
you even suppose that I learn the lessons that have been given me by my
unfortunate predecessors?” Seldon
took a deep breath and plunged in. “No, Sire. All history shows that we do not
learn from the lessons of the past. For instance, you have allowed me here in a
private audience. What if it were in my mind to assassinate you? Which it
isn’t, Sire,” he added hastily. Cleon
smiled without humor. “My man, you don’t take into account our thoroughness—or
advances in technology. We have studied your history, your complete record.
When you arrived, you were scanned. Your expression and voiceprints were
analyzed. We knew your emotional state in detail; we practically knew your
thoughts. Had there been the slightest doubt of your harmlessness, you would
not have been allowed near me. In fact, you would not now be alive.” A
wave of nausea swept through Seldon, but he continued. “Outsiders have always
found it difficult to get at Emperors, even with technology less advanced.
However, almost every assassination has been a palace coup. It is those nearest
the Emperor who are the greatest danger to him. Against that danger, the
careful screening of outsiders is irrelevant. And as for your own officials,
your own Guardsmen, your own intimates, you cannot treat them as you treat me.” Cleon
said, “I know that, too, and at least as well as you do. The answer is that I
treat those about me fairly and I give them no cause for resentment.” “A
foolish—” began Seldon, who then stopped in confusion. “Go
on,” said Cleon angrily. “I have given you permission to speak freely. How am I
foolish?” “The
word slipped out, Sire. I meant ‘irrelevant.’ Your treatment of your intimates
is irrelevant. You must be suspicious; it would be inhuman not to be. A
careless word, such as the one I used, a careless gesture, a doubtful
expression and you must withdraw a bit with narrowed eyes. And any touch of
suspicion sets in motion a vicious cycle. The intimate will sense and resent
the suspicion and will develop a changed behavior, try as he might to avoid it.
You sense that and grow more suspicious and, in the end, either he is executed
or you are assassinated. It is a process that has proved unavoidable for the
Emperors of the past four centuries and it is but one sign of the increasing
difficulty of conducting the affairs of the Empire.” “Then
nothing I can do will avoid assassination.” “No,
Sire,” said Seldon, “but, on the other hand, you may prove fortunate.” Cleon’s
fingers were drumming on the arm of his chair. He said harshly, “You are
useless, man, and so is your psychohistory. Leave me.” And with those words,
the Emperor looked away, suddenly seeming much older than his thirty-two years. “I
have said my mathematics would be useless to you, Sire. My profound apologies.”
Seldon tried to bow but at some signal he did not see, two guards entered and
took him away. Cleon’s
voice came after him from the royal chamber. “Return that man to the place from
which he was brought earlier.” 4.Eto
Demerzel emerged and glanced at the Emperor with a hint of proper deference. He
said, “Sire, you have almost lost your temper.” Cleon
looked up and, with an obvious effort, managed to smile. “Well, so I did. The
man was very disappointing.” “And
yet he promised no more than he offered.” “He
offered nothing.” “And
promised nothing, Sire.” “It
was disappointing.” Demerzel
said, “More than disappointing, perhaps. The man is a loose cannon, Sire.” “A
loose what, Demerzel? You are always so full of strange expressions. What is a
cannon?” Demerzel
said gravely, “It is simply an expression I heard in my youth, Sire. The Empire
is full of strange expressions and some are unknown on Trantor, as those of
Trantor are sometimes unknown elsewhere.” “Do
you come to teach me the Empire is large? What do you mean by saying that the
man is a loose cannon?” “Only
that he can do much harm without necessarily intending it. He does not know his
own strength. Or importance.” “You
deduce that, do you, Demerzel?” “Yes,
Sire. He is a provincial. He does not know Trantor or its ways. He has never
been on our planet before and he cannot behave like a man of breeding, like a
courtier. Yet he stood up to—” “And
why not? I gave him permission to speak. I left off ceremony. I treated him as
an equal.” “Not
entirely, Sire. You don’t have it within you to treat others as equals. You
have the habit of command. And even if you tried to put a person at his ease,
there would be few who could manage it. Most would be speechless or, worse,
subservient and sycophantic. This man stood up to you.” “Well,
you may admire that, Demerzel, but I didn’t like him.” Cleon looked
thoughtfully discontented. “Did you notice that he made no effort to explain
his mathematics to me? It was as though he knew I would not understand a word
of it.” “Nor
would you have, Sire. You are not a mathematician, nor a scientist of any kind,
nor an artist. There are many fields of knowledge in which others know more
than you. It is their task to use their knowledge to serve you. You are the
Emperor, which is worth all their specializations put together.” “Is
it? I would not mind being made to feel ignorant by an old man who had
accumulated knowledge over many years. But this man, Seldon, is just my age.
How does he know so much?” “He
has not had to learn the habit of command, the art of reaching a decision that
will affect the lives of others.” “Sometimes,
Demerzel, I wonder if you are laughing at me.” “Sire?”
said Demerzel reproachfully. “But
never mind. Back to that loose cannon of yours. Why should you consider him
dangerous? He seems a naive provincial to me.” “He
is. But he has this mathematical development of his.” “He
says it is useless.” “You
thought it might be useful. I thought so, after you had explained it to me.
Others might. The mathematician may come to think so himself, now that his mind
has been focused on it. And who knows, he may yet work out some way of making
use of it. If he does, then to foretell the future, however mistily, is to be
in a position of great power. Even if he does not wish power for himself, a
kind of self-denial that always seems to me to be unlikely, he might be used by
others.” “I
tried to use him. He would not.” “He
had not given it thought. Perhaps now he will. And if he was not interested in
being used by you, might he not be persuaded by—let us say—the Mayor of Wye?” “Why
should he be willing to help Wye and not us?” “As
he explained, it is hard to predict the emotions and behavior of individuals.” Cleon
scowled and sat in thought. “Do you really think he might develop this
psychohistory of his to the point where it is truly useful? He is so certain he
cannot.” “He
may, with time, decide he was wrong in denying the possibility.” Cleon
said, “Then I suppose I ought to have kept him.” Demerzel
said, “No, Sire. Your instinct was correct when you let him go. Imprisonment,
however disguised, would cause resentment and despair, which would not help him
either to develop his ideas further or make him eager to help us. Better to let
him go as you have done, but to keep him forever on an invisible leash. In this
way, we can see that he is not used by an enemy of yourself, Sire, and we can
see that when the time comes and he has fully developed his science, we can
pull on our leash and bring him in. Then we could be ... more persuasive.” “But
what if he it picked up by an enemy of mine or, better, of the Empire, for I am
the Empire after all, or if, of his own accord, he wishes to serve an enemy—I
don’t consider that out of the question, you see.” “Nor
should you. I will see to it that this doesn’t happen, but if, against all
striving, it does happen, it would be better if no one has him than if the
wrong person does.” Cleon
looked uneasy. “I’ll leave that all in your hands, Demerzel, but I hope we’re
not too hasty. He could be, after all, nothing but the purveyor of a
theoretical science that does not and cannot work.” “Quite
possibly, Sire, but it would be safer to assume the man is—or might
be—important. We lose only a little time and nothing more if we find that we
have concerned ourselves with a nonentity. We may lose a Galaxy if we find we
have ignored someone of great importance.” “Very
well, then,” said Cleon, “but I trust I won’t have to know the details—if they
prove unpleasant.” Demerzel
said, “Let us hope that will not be the case.” 5.Seldon
had had an evening, a night, and part of a morning to get over his meeting with
the Emperor. At least, the changing quality of light within the walkways,
moving corridors, squares, and parks of the Imperial Sector of Trantor made it
seem that an evening, a night, and part of a morning had passed. He sat now in
a small park on a small plastic seat that molded itself neatly to his body and
he was comfortable. Judging from the light, it seemed to be midmorning and the
air was just cool enough to seem fresh without possessing even the smallest
bite. Was
it like this all the time? He thought of the gray day outside when he went to
see the Emperor. And he thought of all the gray days and cold days and hot days
and rainy days and snowy days on Helicon, his home, and he wondered if one
could miss them. Was it possible to sit in a park on Trantor, having ideal
weather day after day, so that it felt as though you were surrounded by nothing
at all—and coming to miss a howling wind or a biting cold or a breathless
humidity? Perhaps.
But not on the first day or the second or the seventh. He would have only this
one day and he would leave tomorrow. He meant to enjoy it while he could. He
might, after all, never return to Trantor. Still, he continued to feel uneasy
at having spoken as independently as he had to a man who could, at will, order
one’s imprisonment or execution—or, at the very least, the economic and social
death of loss of position and status. Before going to bed, Seldon had looked up
Cleon I in the encyclopedic portion of his hotel room computer. The Emperor had
been highly praised as, no doubt, had all Emperors in their own lifetime,
regardless of their deeds. Seldon had dismissed that, but he was interested in
the fact that Cleon had been born in the Palace and had never left its grounds.
He had never been in Trantor itself, in any part of the multi-domed world. It
was a matter of security, perhaps, but what it meant was that the Emperor was
in prison, whether he admitted the matter to himself or not. It might be the
most luxurious prison in the Galaxy, but it was a prison just the same. And
though the Emperor had seemed mild-mannered and had shown no sign of being a
bloody-minded autocrat as so many of his predecessors had been, it was not good
to have attracted his attention. Seldon welcomed the thought of leaving
tomorrow for Helicon, even though it would be winter (and a rather nasty one,
so far) back home. He
looked up at the bright diffuse light. Although it could never rain in here,
the atmosphere was far from dry. A fountain played not far from him; the plants
were green and had probably never felt drought. Occasionally, the shrubbery
rustled as though a small animal or two was hidden there. He heard the hum of
bees. Really,
though Trantor was spoken of throughout the Galaxy as an artificial world of
metal and ceramic, in this small patch it felt positively rustic. There were a
few other persons taking advantage of the park all wearing light hats, some
quite small. There was one rather pretty young woman not far away, but she was
bent over a viewer and he could not see her face clearly. A man walked past,
looked at him briefly and incuriously, then sat down in a seat facing him and
buried himself in a sheaf of teleprints, crossing one leg, in its tight pink
trouser leg, over the other. There
was a tendency to pastel shades among the men, oddly enough, while the women
mostly wore white. Being a clean environment, it made sense to wear light
colors. He looked down in amusement at his own Heliconian costume, which was
predominantly dull brown. If he were to stay on Trantor as he was not he would
need to purchase suitable clothing or he would become an object of curiosity or
laughter or repulsion. The man with the teleprints had, for instance, looked up
at him more curiously this time—no doubt intrigued by his Outworldish clothing.
Seldon was relieved that he did not smile. He could be philosophical over being
a figure of fun, but, surely, he could not be expected to enjoy it. Seldon
watched the man rather unobtrusively, for he seemed to be engaged in some sort
of internal debate. At the moment he looked as if he was about to speak, then
seemed to think better of it, then seemed to wish to speak again. Seldon
wondered what the outcome would be. He
studied the man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and no sign of a paunch,
darkish hair with a glint of blond, smooth-shaven, a grave expression, an air
of strength though there were no bulging muscles, a face that was a touch
rugged—pleasant, but with nothing “pretty” about it. By the time the man had
lost the internal fight with himself (or won, perhaps) and leaned toward him,
Seldon had decided he liked him. The man said, “Pardon me, weren’t you at the
Decennial Convention? Mathematics?” “Yes,
I was,” said Seldon agreeably. “Ah,
I thought I saw you there. It was—excuse me—that moment of recognition that led
me to sit here. If I am intruding on your privacy—” “Not
at all. I’m just enjoying an idle moment.” “Let’s
see how close I can get. You’re Professor Seldon.” “Seldon.
Hari Seldon. Quite close. And you?” “Chetter
Hummin.” The man seemed slightly embarrassed. “Rather a homespun name, I’m
afraid.” “I’ve
never come across any Chetters before,” said Seldon. “Or Hummins. So that makes
you somewhat unique, I should think. It might be viewed as being better than
being mixed up with all the countless Haris there are. Or Seldons, for that
matter.” Seldon
moved his chair closer to Hummin, scraping it against the slightly elastic
ceramoid tiles. “Talk
about homespun,” he said, “What about this Outworldish clothing I’m wearing? It
never occurred to me that I ought to get Trantorian garb.” “You
could buy some,” said Hummin, eyeing Seldon with suppressed disapproval. “I’ll
be leaving tomorrow and, besides, I couldn’t afford it. Mathematicians deal
with large numbers sometimes, but never in their income.—I presume you’re a
mathematician, Hummin.” “No.
Zero talent there.” “Oh.”
Seldon was disappointed. “You said you saw me at the Decennial Convention.” “I
was there as an onlooker. I’m a journalist.” He waved his teleprints, seemed
suddenly aware that he was holding them and shoved them into his jacket pouch.
“I supply the material for the news holocasts.” Then, thoughtfully, “Actually,
I’m rather tired of it.” “The
job?” Hummin
nodded. “I’m sick of gathering together all the nonsense from every world. I
hate the downward spiral.” He
glanced speculatively at Seldon. “Sometimes something interesting turns up,
though. I’ve heard you were seen in the company of an Imperial Guard and making
for the Palace gate. You weren’t by any chance seen by the Emperor, were you?”
The smile vanished from Seldon’s face. He said slowly, “If I was, it would
scarcely be something I could talk about for publication.” “No,
no, not for publication. If you don’t know this, Seldon, let me be the first to
tell you—The first rule of the news game is that nothing is ever said about the
Emperor or his personal entourage except what is officially given out. It’s a
mistake, of course, because rumors fly that are much worse than the truth, but
that’s the way it is.” “But
if you can’t report it, friend, why do you ask?” “Private
curiosity. Believe me, in my job I know a great deal more than ever gets on the
air.—Let me guess. I didn’t follow your paper, but I gathered that you were
talking about the possibility of predicting the future.” Seldon
shook his head and muttered, “It was a mistake.” “Pardon
me?” “Nothing.” “Well,
prediction—accurate prediction—would interest the Emperor, or any man in
government, so I’m guessing that Cleon, First of that Name, asked you about it
and wouldn’t you please give him a few predictions.” Seldon
said stiffly, “I don’t intend to discuss the matter.” Hummin
shrugged slightly. “Eto Demerzel was there, I suppose.” “Who?” “You’ve
never heard of Eto Demerzel?” “Never.” “Cleon’s
alter ego—Cleon’s brain—Cleon’s evil spirit. He’s been called all those
things—if we confine ourselves to the nonvituperative. He must have been there.” Seldon
looked confused and Hummin said, “Well, you may not have seen him, but he was
there. And if he thinks you can predict the future—” “I
can’t predict the future,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “If you
listened to my paper, you’ll know that I only spoke of a theoretical
possibility.” “Just
the same, if he thinks you can predict the future, he will not let you go.” “He
must have. Here I am.” “That
means nothing. He knows where you are and he’ll continue to know. And when he
wants you, he’ll get you, wherever you are. And if he decides you’re useful,
he’ll squeeze the use out of you. And if he decides you’re dangerous, he’ll
squeeze the life out of you.” Seldon
stared. “What are you trying to do. Frighten me?” “I’m
trying to warn you.” “I
don’t believe what you’re saying.” “Don’t
you? A while ago you said something was a mistake. Were you thinking that
presenting the paper was a mistake and that it was getting you into the kind of
trouble you don’t want to be in?” Seldon
bit his lower lip uneasily. That was a guess that came entirely too close to
the truth—and it was at this moment that Seldon felt the presence of intruders. They
did not cast a shadow, for the light was too soft and widespread. It was simply
a movement that caught the corner of his eye—and then it stopped. FlightTRANTOR—
... The capital of the First Galactic Empire ... Under Cleon I, it had its
“twilight glow.” To all appearances, it was then at its peak. Its land surface
of 200 million square kilometers was entirely domed (except for the Imperial
Palace area) and underlaid with an endless city that extended beneath the
continental shelves. The population was 40 billion and although the signs were
plentiful (and clearly visible in hindsight) that there were gathering problems,
those who lived on Trantor undoubtedly found it still the Eternal World of
legend and did not expect it would ever ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 6.Seldon
looked up. A young man was standing before him, looking down at him with an
expression of amused contempt. Next to him was another young man—a bit younger,
perhaps. Both were large and appeared to be strong. They were dressed in an
extreme of Trantorian fashion, Seldon judged—boldly clashing colors, broad
fringed belts, round hats with wide brims all about and the two ends of a
bright pink ribbon extending from the brim to the back of the neck. In
Seldon’s eyes, it was amusing and he smiled. The
young man before him snapped, “What’re you grinning at, misfit?” Seldon ignored
the manner of address and said gently, “Please pardon my smile. I was merely
enjoying your costume.” “My
costume? So? And what are you wearing? What’s that awful offal you call
clothes?” His hand went out and his finger flicked at the lapel of Seldon’s
jacket—disgracefully heavy and dull, Seldon himself thought, in comparison to
the other’s lighthearted colors. Seldon
said, “I’m afraid it’s my Outworlder clothes. They’re all I have.” He couldn’t
help notice that the few others who were sitting in the small park were rising
to their feet and walking off. It was as though they were expecting trouble and
had no desire to remain in the vicinity. Seldon wondered if his new friend,
Hummin, was leaving too, but he felt it injudicious to take his eyes away from
the young man who was confronting him. He teetered back on his chair slightly. The
young man said, “You an Outworlder?” “That’s
right. Hence my clothes.” “Hence?
What kind of word’s that? Outworld word?” “What
I meant was, that was why my clothes seem peculiar to you. I’m a visitor here.” “From
what planet?” “Helicon.” The
young man’s eyebrows drew together. “Never heard of it.” “It’s
not a large planet.” “Why
don’t you go back there?” “I
intend to. I’m leaving tomorrow.” “Sooner!
Now!” The
young man looked at his partner. Seldon followed the look and caught a glimpse
of Hummin. He had not left, but the park was now empty except for himself,
Hummin, and the two young men. Seldon
said, “I’d thought I’d spend today sight-seeing.” “No.
You don’t want to do that. You go home now.” Seldon
smiled. “Sorry. I won’t.” The
young man said to his partner. “You like his clothes, Marbie?” Marbie
spoke for the first time. “No. Disgusting. Turns the stomach.” “Can’t
let him go around turning stomachs, Marbie. Not good for people’s health.” “No,
not by no means, Alem,” said Marbie. Alem
grinned. “Well now. You heard what Marbie said.” And
now Hummin spoke. He said, “Look, you two, Alem, Marbie, whatever your names
are. You’ve had your fun. Why don’t you go away?” Alem,
who had been leaning slightly toward Seldon, straightened and turned. “Who are
you?” “That’s
not your business,” snapped Hummin. “You’re
Trantorian?” asked Alem. “Also
not your business.” Alem
frowned and said, “You’re dressed Trantorian. We’re not interested in you, so
don’t go looking for problems.” “I
intend to stay. That means there are two of us. Two against two doesn’t sound
like your kind of fight. Why don’t you go away and get some friends so you can
handle two people?” Seldon
said, “I really think you ought to get away if you can, Hummin. It’s kind of
you to try to protect me, but I don’t want you harmed.” “These
are not dangerous people, Seldon. Just half-credit lackeys.” “Lackeys!”
The word seemed to infuriate Alem, so that Seldon thought it must have a more
insulting meaning on Trantor than it had on Helicon. “Here,
Marbie,” said Alem with a growl. “You take care of that other motherlackey and
I’ll rip the clothes off this Seldon. He’s the one we want. Now—” His
hands came down sharply to seize Seldon’s lapels and jerk him upright. Seldon
pushed away, instinctively it would seem, and his chair tipped backward. He
seized the hands stretched toward him, his foot went up, and his chair went
down. Somehow
Alem streaked overhead, turning as he did so, and came down hard on his neck
and back behind Seldon. Seldon
twisted as his chair went down and was quickly on his feet, staring down at
Alem, then looking sharply to one side for Marbie. Alem lay unmoving, his face
twisted in agony. He had two badly sprained thumbs, excruciating pain in his
groin, and a backbone that had been badly jarred. Hummin’s left arm had grabbed
Marbie’s neck from behind and his right arm had pulled the other’s right arm
backward at a vicious angle. Marbie’s face was red as he labored uselessly for
breath. A knife, glittering with a small laser inset, lay on the ground beside
them. Hummin
eased his grip slightly and said, with an air of honest concern, “You’ve hurt
that one badly.” Seldon
said, “I’m afraid so. If he had fallen a little differently, he would have
snapped his neck.” Hummin
said, “What kind of a mathematician are you?” “A
Heliconian one.” He stooped to pick up the knife and, after examining it, said,
“Disgusting—and deadly.” Hummin
said, “An ordinary blade would do the job without requiring a power source.—But
let’s let these two go. I doubt they want to continue any further.” He
released Marbie, who rubbed first his shoulder then his neck. Gasping for air,
he turned hate-filled eyes on the two men. Hummin said sharply, “You two had
better get out of here. Otherwise we’ll have to give evidence against you for
assault and attempted murder. This knife can surely be traced to you.” Seldon
and Hummin watched while Marbie dragged Alem to his feet and then helped him
stagger away, still bent in pain. They looked back once or twice, but Seldon
and Hummin watched impassively. Seldon
held out his hand. “How do I thank you for coming to the aid of a stranger
against two attackers? I doubt I would have been able to handle them both on my
own.” Hummin
raised his hand in a deprecatory manner. “I wasn’t afraid of them. They’re just
street-brawling lackeys. All I had to do was get my hands on them—and yours,
too, of course.” “That’s
a pretty deadly grip you have,” Seldon mused. Hummin
shrugged. “You too.” Then, without changing his tone of voice, he said, “Come
on, we’d better get out of here. We’re wasting time.” Seldon
said, “Why do we have to get away? Are you afraid those two will come back?” “Not
in their lifetime. But some of those brave people who cleared out of the park
so quickly in their eagerness to spare themselves a disagreeable sight may have
alerted the police.” “Fine.
We have the hoodlums’ names. And we can describe them fairly well.” “Describe
them? Why would the police want them?” “They
committed an assault—” “Don’t
be foolish. We don’t have a scratch. They’re virtually hospital bait,
especially Alem. We’re the ones who will be charged.” “But
that’s impossible. Those people witnessed the fact that—” “No
people will be called.—Seldon, get this into your head. Those two came to find
you—specifically you. They were told you were wearing Heliconian clothes and
you must have been described precisely. Perhaps they were even shown a
holograph. I suspect they were sent by the people who happen to control the
police, so let’s not wait any longer.” Hummin
hurried off, his hand gripping Seldon’s upper arm. Seldon found the grip
impossible to shake and, feeling like a child in the hands of an impetuous
nurse, followed. They
plunged into an arcade and, before Seldon’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer
light, they heard the burring sound of a ground-car’s brakes. “There
they are,” muttered Hummin. “Faster, Seldon.” They hopped onto a moving
corridor and lost themselves in the crowd. 7.Seldon
had tried to persuade Hummin to take him to his hotel room, but Hummin would
have none of that. “Are
you mad?” he half-whispered. “They’ll be waiting for you there.” “But
all my belongings are waiting for me there too.” “They’ll
just have to wait.” And
now they were in a small room in a pleasant apartment structure that might be
anywhere for all that Seldon could tell. He looked about the one-room unit.
Most of it was taken up by a desk and chair, a bed, and a computer outlet.
There were no dining facilities or washstand of any kind, though Hummin had
directed him to a communal washroom down the hall. Someone had entered before
Seldon was quite through. He had cast one brief and curious look at Seldon’s
clothes, rather than at Seldon himself, and had then looked away. Seldon
mentioned this to Hummin, who shook his head and said, “We’ll have to get rid
of your clothes. Too bad Helicon is so far out of fashion—” Seldon
said impatiently, “How much of this might just be your imagination, Hummin?
You’ve got me half-convinced and yet it may be merely a kind of ... of—” “Are
you groping for the word ‘paranoia’?” “All
right, I am. This may be some strange paranoid notion of yours.” Hummin said,
“Think about it, will you? I can’t argue it out mathematically, but you’ve seen
the Emperor. Don’t deny it. He wanted something from you and you didn’t give it
to him. Don’t deny that either. I suspect that details of the future are what
he wants and you refused. Perhaps Demerzel thinks you’re only pretending not to
have the details—that you’re holding out for a higher price or that someone
else is bidding for it too. Who knows? I told you that if Demerzel wants you,
he’ll get you wherever you are. I told you that before those two splitheads
ever appeared on the scene. I’m a journalist and a Trantorian. I know how these
things go. At one point, Alem said, ‘He’s the one we want.’ Do you remember
that?” “As
it happens,” said Seldon. “I do.” “To
him I was only the ‘other motherlackey’ to be kept off, while he went about the
real job of assaulting you.” Hummin
sat down in the chair and pointed to the bed. “Stretch out, Seldon. Make
yourself comfortable. Whoever sent those two—it must have been Demerzel, in my
opinion—can send others, so we’ll have to get rid of those clothes of yours. I
think any other Heliconian in this sector caught in his own world’s garb is
going to have trouble until he can prove he isn’t you.” “Oh
come on.” “I
mean it. You’ll have to take off the clothes and we’ll have to atomize them—if
we can get close enough to a disposal unit without being seen. And before we
can do that I’ll have to get you a Trantorian outfit. You’re smaller than I am
and I’ll take that into account. It won’t matter if it doesn’t fit exactly—” Seldon
shook his head. “I don’t have the credits to pay for it. Not on me. What
credits I have—and they aren’t much—are in my hotel safe.” “We’ll
worry about that another time. You’ll have to stay here for an hour or two
while I go out in search of the necessary clothing.” Seldon
spread his hands and sighed resignedly. “All right. If it’s that important,
I’ll stay.” “You
won’t try to get back to your hotel? Word of honor?” “My
word as a mathematician. But I’m really embarrassed by all the trouble you’re
taking for me. And expense too. After all, despite all this talk about
Demerzel, they weren’t really out to hurt me or carry me off. All I was
threatened with was the removal of my clothes.” “Not
all. They were also going to take you to the spaceport and put you on a
hypership to Helicon.” “That
was a silly threat—not to be taken seriously.” “Why
not?” “I’m
going to Helicon. I told them so. I’m going tomorrow.” “And
you still plan to go tomorrow?” asked Hummin. “Certainly.
Why not?” “There
are enormous reasons why not.” Seldon
suddenly felt angry. “Come on, Hummin, I can’t play this game any further. I’m
finished here and I want to go home. My tickets are in the hotel room.
Otherwise I’d try to exchange them for a trip today. I mean it.” “You
can’t go back to Helicon.” Seldon
flushed. “Why not? Are they waiting for me there too?” Hummin
nodded. “Don’t fire up, Seldon. They would be waiting for you there too. Listen
to me. If you go to Helicon, you are as good as in Demerzel’s hands. Helicon is
good, safe Imperial territory. Has Helicon ever rebelled, ever fallen into step
behind the banner of an anti-Emperor?” “No,
it hasn’t—and for good reason. It’s surrounded by larger worlds. It depends on
the Imperial peace for security.” “Exactly!
Imperial forces on Helicon can therefore count on the full cooperation of the
local government. You would be under constant surveillance at all times. Any
time Demerzel wants you, he will be able to have you. And, except for the fact
that I am now warning you, you would have no knowledge of this and you would be
working in the open, filled with a false security.” “That’s
ridiculous. If he wanted me in Helicon, why didn’t he simply leave me to
myself? I was going there tomorrow. Why would he send those two hoodlums simply
to hasten the matter by a few hours and risk putting me on my guard?” “Why
should he think you would be put on your guard? He didn’t know I’d be with you,
immersing you in what you call my paranoia.” “Even
without the question of warning me, why all the fuss to hurry me by a few
hours?” “Perhaps
because he was afraid you would change your mind.” “And
go where, if not home? If he could pick me up on Helicon, he could pick me up
anywhere. He could pick me up on ... on Anacreon, a good ten thousand parsecs
away—if it should fall into my head to go there. What’s distance to
hyperspatial ships? Even if I find a world that’s not quite as subservient to
the Imperial forces as Helicon is, what world is in actual rebellion? The
Empire is at peace. Even if some worlds are still resentful of injustices in
the past, none are going to defy the Imperial armed forces to protect me.
Moreover, anywhere but on Helicon I won’t be a local citizen and there won’t
even be that matter of principle to help keep the Empire at bay.” Hummin
listened patiently, nodding slightly, but looking as grave and as imperturbable
as ever. He said, “You’re right, as far as you go, but there’s one world that
is not really under the Emperor’s control. That, I think, is what must be
disturbing Demerzel.” Seldon
thought a while, reviewing recent history and finding himself unable to choose
a world on which the Imperial forces might be helpless. He said at last, “What
world is that?” Hummin
said, “You’re on it, which is what makes the matter so dangerous in Demerzel’s
eyes, I imagine. It is not so much that he is anxious to have you go to
Helicon, as that he is anxious to have you leave Trantor before it occurs to
you, for any reason—even if only tourist’s mania—to stay.” The
two men sat in silence until Seldon finally said sardonically, “Trantor! The
capital of the Empire, with the home base of the fleet on a space station in
orbit about it, with the best units of the army quartered here. If you believe
that it is Trantor that is the safe world, you’re progressing from paranoia to
outright fantasy.” “No!
You’re an Outworlder, Seldon. You don’t know what Trantor is like. It’s forty
billion people and there are few other worlds with even a tenth of its
population. It is of unimaginable technological and cultural complexity. Where
we are now is the Imperial Sector—with the highest standard of living in the Galaxy
and populated entirely by Imperial functionaries. Elsewhere on the planet,
however, are over eight hundred other sectors, some of them with subcultures
totally different from what we have here and most of them untouchable by
Imperial forces.” “Why
untouchable?” “The
Empire cannot seriously exert force against Trantor. To do so would be bound to
shake some facet or other of the technology on which the whole planet depends.
The technology is so interrelated that to snap one of the interconnections is to
cripple the whole. Believe me, Seldon, we on Trantor observe what happens when
there is an earthquake that manages to escape being damped out, a volcanic
eruption that is not vented in time, a storm that is not defused, or just some
human error that escapes notice. The planet totters and every effort must be
made to restore the balance at once.” “I
have never heard of such a thing.” A
small smile flickered its way across Hummin’s face. “Of course not. Do you want
the Empire to advertise the weakness at its core? However, as a journalist, I
know what happens even when the Outworlds don’t, even when much of Trantor
itself doesn’t, even when the Imperial pressure is interested in concealing
events. Believe me! The Emperor knows—and Eto Demerzel knows—even if you don’t,
that to disturb Trantor may destroy the Empire.” “Then
are you suggesting I stay on Trantor for that reason?” “Yes.
I can take you to a place on Trantor where you will be absolutely safe from
Demerzel. You won’t have to change your name and you will be able to operate
entirely in the open and he won’t be able to touch you. That’s why he wanted to
force you off Trantor at once and if it hadn’t been for the quirk of fate that
brought us together and for your surprising ability to defend yourself, he
would have succeeded in doing so.” “But
how long will I have to remain on Trantor?” “For
as long as your safety requires it, Seldon. For the rest of your life,
perhaps.” 8.Hari
Seldon looked at the holograph of himself cast by Hummin’s projector. It was
more dramatic and useful than a mirror would have been. In fact, it seemed as
though there were two of him in the room. Seldon
studied the sleeve of his new tunic. His Heliconian attitudes made him wish the
colors were less vibrant, but he was thankful that, as it was, Hummin had
chosen softer colors than were customary here on this world. (Seldon thought of
the clothing worn by their two assailants and shuddered inwardly.) He said,
“And I suppose I must wear this hat.” “In
the Imperial Sector, yes. To go bareheaded here is a sign of low breeding.
Elsewhere, the rules are different.” Seldon
sighed. The round hat was made of soft material and molded itself to his head
when he put it on. The brim was evenly wide all around, but it was narrower
than on the hats his attackers had worn. Seldon consoled himself by noticing
that when he wore the hat the brim curved rather gracefully. “It doesn’t have a
strap under the chin.” “Of
course not. That’s advanced fashion for young lanks.” “For
young what?” “A
lank is someone who wears things for their shock value. I’m sure you have such
people on Helicon.” Seldon
snorted. “There are those who wear their hair shoulder-length on one side and
shave the other.” He laughed at the memory. Hummin’s mouth twisted slightly. “I
imagine it looks uncommonly ugly.” “Worse.
There are lefties and righties, apparently, and each finds the other version
highly offensive. The two groups often engage in street brawls.” “Then
I think you can stand the hat, especially without the strap.” Seldon
said, “I’ll get used to it.” “It
will attract some attention. It’s subdued for one thing and makes you look as
if you’re in mourning. And it doesn’t quite fit. Then, too, you wear it with
obvious discomfort. However, we won’t be in the Imperial Sector long.—Seen
enough?” And the holograph flickered out. Seldon
said, “How much did this cost you?” “What’s
the difference?” “It
bothers me to be in your debt.” “Don’t
worry about it. This is my choice. But we’ve been here long enough. I will have
been described, I’m quite certain. They’ll track me down and they’ll come
here.” “In
that case,” said Seldon, “the credits you’re spending are a minor matter.
You’re putting yourself into personal danger on my account. Personal danger!” “I
know that. But it’s my free choice and I can take care of myself.” “But
why—” “We’ll
discuss the philosophy of it later.—I’ve atomized your clothes, by the way, and
I don’t think I was seen. There was an energy surge, of course, and that would
be recorded. Someone might guess what happened from that—it’s hard to obscure
any action when probing eyes and mind are sharp enough. However, let us hope
we’ll be safely away before they put it all together.” 9.They
traveled along walkways where the light was soft and yellow. Hummin’s eyes
moved this way and that, watchful, and he kept their pace at crowd speed,
neither passing nor being passed. He
kept up a mild but steady conversation on indifferent topics. Seldon, edgy and
unable to do the same, said, “There seems to be a great deal of walking here.
There are endless lines in both directions and along the crossovers.” “Why
not?” said Hummin. “Walking is still the best form of short-distance
transportation. It’s the most convenient, the cheapest, and the most healthful.
Countless years of technological advance have not changed that.—Are you
acrophobic, Seldon?” Seldon
looked over the railing on his right into a deep declivity that separated the
two walking lanes—each in an opposite direction between the regularly spaced
crossovers. He shuddered slightly. “If you mean fear of heights, not
ordinarily. Still, looking down isn’t pleasant. How far does it go down?” “Forty
or fifty levels at this point, I think. This sort of thing is common in the
Imperial Sector and a few other highly developed regions. In most places, one
walks at what might be considered ground level.” “I
should imagine this would encourage suicide attempts.” “Not
often. There are far easier methods. Besides, suicide is not a matter of social
obloquy on Trantor. One can end one’s life by various recognized methods in
centers that exist for the purpose—if one is willing to go through some
psychotherapy at first. There are, occasional accidents, for that matter, but
that’s not why I was asking about acrophobia. We’re heading for a taxi rental
where they know me as a journalist. I’ve done favors for them occasionally and
sometimes they do favors for me in return. They’ll forget to record me and
won’t notice that I have a companion. Of course, I’ll have to pay a premium
and, again of course, if Demerzel’s people lean on them hard enough, they’ll
have to tell the truth and put it down to slovenly accounting, but that may
take considerable time.” “Where
does the acrophobia come in?” “Well,
we can get there a lot faster if we use a gravitic lift. Not many people use it
and I must tell you that I’m not overjoyed at the idea myself, but if you think
you can handle it, we had better.” “What’s
a gravitic lift?” “It’s
experimental. The time may come when it will be widespread over Trantor,
provided it becomes psychologically acceptable—or can be made so to enough
people. Then, maybe, it will spread to other worlds too. It’s an elevator shaft
without an elevator cab, so to speak. We just step into empty space and drop
slowly—or rise slowly—under the influence of antigravity. It’s about the only
application of antigravity that’s been established so far, largely because it’s
the simplest possible application.” “What
happens if the power blinks out while we’re in transit?” “Exactly
what you would think. We fall and—unless we’re quite near the bottom to begin
with—we die. I haven’t heard of it happening yet and, believe me, if it had
happened I would know. We might not be able to give out the news for security
reasons—that’s the excuse they always advance for hiding bad news—but I would
know. It’s just up ahead. If you can’t manage it, we won’t do it, but the
corridors are slow and tedious and many find them nauseating after a while.”
Hummin turned down a crossover and into a large recess where a line of men and
women were waiting, one or two with children. Seldon
said in a low voice, “I heard nothing of this back home. Of course, our own
news media are terribly local, but you’d think there’d be some mention that
this sort of thing exists.” Hummin
said. “It’s strictly experimental and is confined to the Imperial Sector. It
uses more energy than it’s worth, so the government is not really anxious to
push it right now by giving it publicity. The old Emperor, Stanel VI, the one
before Cleon who amazed everyone by dying in his bed, insisted on having it
installed in a few places. He wanted his name associated with antigravity, they
say, because he was concerned with his place in history, as old men of no great
attainments frequently are. As I said, the technique may spread, but, on the
other hand, it is possible that nothing much more than the gravitic lift will
ever come of it.” “What
do they want to come of it?” asked Seldon. “Antigrav
spaceflight. That, however, will require many breakthroughs and most
physicists, as far as I know, are firmly convinced it is out of the question.
But, then, most thought that even gravitic lifts were out of the question.” The
line ahead was rapidly growing shorter and Seldon found himself standing with
Hummin at the edge of the floor with an open gap before him. The air ahead
faintly glittered. Automatically, he reached out his hand and felt a light
shock. It didn’t hurt, but he snatched his hand back quickly. Hummin
grunted. “An elementary precaution to prevent anyone walking over the edge
before activating the controls.” He punched some numbers on the control board
and the glitter vanished. Seldon
peered over the edge, down the deep shaft. “You might find it better—or
easier,” said Hummin, “if we link arms and if you close your eyes. It won’t
take more than a few seconds.” He
gave Seldon no choice, actually. He took his arm and once again there was no
hanging back in that firm grip. Hummin stepped into nothingness and Seldon (who
heard himself, to his own embarrassment, emit a small squeak) shuffled off with
a lurch. He
closed his eyes tightly and experienced no sense of falling, no feeling of air
movement. A few seconds passed and he was pulled forward. He tripped slightly,
caught his balance, and found himself on solid ground. He opened his eyes, “Did
we make it?” Hummin
said dryly, “We’re not dead,” then walked away, his grip forcing Seldon to
follow. “I
mean, did we get to the right level?” “Of
course.” “What
would have happened if we were dropping down and someone else was moving upward?” “There
are two separate lanes. In one lane everyone drops at the same speed; in the
other everyone rises at the same speed. The shaft clears only when there are no
people within ten meters of each other. There is no chance of a collision if
all works well.” “I
didn’t feel a thing.” “Why
should you? There was no acceleration. After the first tenth of a second, you
were at constant speed and the air in your immediate vicinity was moving down
with you at the same speed.” “Marvelous.” “Absolutely.
But uneconomic. And there seems no great pressure to increase the efficiency of
the procedure and make it worthwhile. Everywhere one hears the same refrain.
‘We can’t do it. It can’t be done.’ It applies to everything.” Hummin shrugged
in obvious anger and said, “But we’re here at the taxi rental. Let’s
get on with it.” 10.Seldon
tried to look inconspicuous at the air-taxi rental terminus, which he found
difficult. To look ostentatiously inconspicuous—to slink about, to turn his
face away from all who passed, to study one of the vehicles overintently—was
surely the way to invite attention. The way to behave was merely to assume an
innocent normality. But
what was normality? He felt uncomfortable in his clothes. There were no
pockets, so he had no place to put his hands. The two pouches, which dangled
from his belt on either side, distracted him by hitting against him as he
moved, so that he was continually thinking someone had nudged him. He tried
looking at women as they passed. They had no pouches, at least none dangling,
but they carried little boxlike affairs that they occasionally clipped to one
hip or another by some device he could not make out. It was probably
pseudomagnetic, he decided. Their clothes were not particularly revealing, he
noted regretfully, and not one had any sign of dйcolletage, although some
dresses seemed to be designed to emphasize the buttocks. Meanwhile, Hummin had
been very businesslike, having presented the necessary credits and returned
with the superconductive ceramic tile that would activate a specific air-taxi. Hummin
said, “Get in, Seldon,” gesturing to a small two-seated vehicle. Seldon
asked, “Did you have to sign your name, Hummin?” “Of
course not. They know me here and don’t stand on ceremony.” “What
do they think you’re doing?” “They
didn’t ask and I volunteered no information.” He inserted the tile and Seldon
felt a slight vibration as the air-taxi came to life. “We’re headed for D-7,”
said Hummin, making conversation. Seldon
didn’t know what D-7 was, but he assumed it meant some route or other. The
air-taxi found its way past and around other ground-cars and finally moved onto
a smooth upward-slanting track and gained speed. Then it lifted upward with a
slight jolt. Seldon,
who had been automatically strapped in by a webbed restraint, felt himself
pushed down into his seat and then up against the webbing. He said, “That
didn’t feel like antigravity.” “It
wasn’t,” said Hummin. “That was a small jet reaction. Just enough to take us up
to the tubes.” What
appeared before them now looked like a cliff patterned with cave openings, much
like a checkerboard. Hummin maneuvered toward the D-7 opening, avoiding other
air-taxis that were heading for other tunnels. “You
could crash easily,” said Seldon, clearing his throat. “So
I probably would if everything depended on my senses and reactions, but the
taxi is computerized and the computer can overrule me without trouble. The same
is true for the other taxis.—Here we go.” They
slid into D-7 as if they had been sucked in and the bright light of the open
plaza outside mellowed, turning a warmer yellow hue. Hummin released the
controls and sat back. He drew a deep breath and said, “Well, that’s one stage
successfully carried through. We might have been stopped at the station. In
here, we’re fairly safe.” The
ride was smooth and the walls of the tunnel slipped by rapidly. There was
almost no sound, just a steady velvety whirr as the taxi sped along. “How fast
are we going?” asked Seldon. Hummin
cast an eye briefly at the controls. “Three hundred and fifty kilometers per
hour.” “Magnetic
propulsion?” “Yes.
You have it on Helicon, I imagine.” “Yes.
One line. I’ve never been on it myself, though I’ve always meant to. I don’t
think it’s anything like this.” “I’m
sure it isn’t. Trantor has many thousands of kilometers of these tunnels
honeycombing the land subsurface and a number that snake under the shallower
extensions of the ocean. It’s the chief method of long-distance travel.” “How
long will it take us?” “To
reach our immediate destination? A little over five hours.” “Five
hours!” Seldon was dismayed. “Don’t
be disturbed. We pass rest areas every twenty minutes or so where we can stop,
pull out of the tunnel, stretch our feet, eat, or relieve ourselves. I’d like
to do that as few times as possible, of course.” They
continued on in silence for a while and then Seldon started when a blaze of
light flared at their right for a few seconds and, in the flash, he thought he
saw two air-taxis. “That
was a rest area,” said Hummin in answer to the unspoken question. Seldon
said, “Am I really going to be safe wherever it is you are taking me?” Hummin
said, “Quite safe from any open movement on the part of the Imperial forces. Of
course, when it comes to the individual operator—the spy, the agent, the hired
assassin—one must always be careful. Naturally, I will supply you with a
bodyguard.” Seldon
felt uneasy. “The hired assassin? Are you serious? Would they really want to
kill me?” Hummin
said, “I’m sure Demerzel doesn’t. I suspect he wants to use you rather than
kill you. Still, other enemies may turn up or there may be unfortunate
concatenations of events. You can’t go through life sleepwalking.” Seldon
shook his head and turned his face away. To think, only forty-eight hours ago
he had been just an insignificant, virtually unknown Outworld mathematician,
content only to spend his remaining time on Trantor sight-seeing, gazing at the
enormity of the great world with his provincial eye. And now, it was finally
sinking in: He was a wanted man, hunted by Imperial forces. The enormity of the
situation seized him and he shuddered. “And
what about you and what you’re doing right now?” Hummin
said thoughtfully, “Well, they won’t feel kindly toward me, I suppose. I might
have my head laid open or my chest exploded by some mysterious and never-found
assailant.” Hummin
said it without a tremor in his voice or a change in his calm appearance, but
Seldon winced. Seldon
said, “I rather thought you would assume that might be in store for you. You
don’t seem to be ... bothered by it.” “I’m
an old Trantorian. I know the planet as well as anybody can. I know many people
and many of them are under obligation to me. I like to think that I am shrewd
and not easy to outwit. In short, Seldon, I am quite confident that I can take
care of myself.” “I’m
glad you feel that way and I hope you’re justified in thinking so, Hummin, but
I can’t get it through my head why you’re taking this chance at all. What am I
to you? Why should you take even the smallest risk for someone who is a
stranger to you?” Hummin
checked the controls in a preoccupied manner and then he faced Seldon squarely,
eyes steady and serious. “I
want to save you for the same reason that the Emperor wants to use you—for your
predictive powers.” Seldon
felt a deep pang of disappointment. This was not after all a question of being
saved. He was merely the helpless and disputed prey of competing predators. He
said angrily, “I will never live down that presentation at the Decennial
Convention. I have ruined my life.” “No.
Don’t rush to conclusions, mathematician. The Emperor and his officers want you
for one reason only, to make their own lives more secure. They are interested
in your abilities only so far as they might be used to save the Emperor’s rule,
preserve that rule for his young son, maintain the positions, status, and power
of his officials. I, on the other hand, want your powers for the good of the
Galaxy.” “Is
there a distinction?” spat Seldon acidly. And
Hummin replied with the stern beginning of a frown, “If you do not see the
distinction, then that is to your shame. The human occupants of the Galaxy
existed before this Emperor who now rules, before the dynasty he represents,
before the Empire itself. Humanity is far older than the Empire. It may even be
far older than the twenty-five million worlds of the Galaxy. There are legends
of a time when humanity inhabited a single world.” “Legends!”
said Seldon, shrugging his shoulders. “Yes,
legends, but I see no reason why that may not have been so in fact, twenty
thousand years ago or more. I presume that humanity did not come into existence
complete with knowledge of hyperspatial travel. Surely, there must have been a
time when people could not travel at superluminal velocities and they must then
have been imprisoned in a single planetary system. And if we look forward in
time, the human beings of the worlds of the Galaxy will surely continue to
exist after you and the Emperor are dead, after his whole line comes to an end,
and after the institutions of the Empire itself unravel. In that case, it is
not important to worry overmuch about individuals, about the Emperor and the
young Prince Imperial. It is not important to worry even about the mechanics of
Empire. What of the quadrillions of people that exist in the Galaxy? What of
them?” Seldon
said, “Worlds and people would continue, I presume.” “Don’t
you feel any serious need of probing the possible conditions under which they
would continue to exist.” “One
would assume they would exist much as they do now.” “One
would assume. But could one know by this art of prediction that you speak of?” “Psychohistory
is what I call it. In theory, one could.” “And
you feel no pressure to turn that theory into practice.” “I
would love to, Hummin, but the desire to do so doesn’t automatically manufacture
the ability to do so. I told the Emperor that psychohistory could not be turned
into a practical technique and I am forced to tell you the same thing.” “And
you have no intention of even trying to find the technique?” “No,
I don’t, any more than I would feel I ought to try to tackle a pile of pebbles
the size of Trantor, count them one by one, and arrange them in order of
decreasing mass. I would know it was not something I could accomplish in a
lifetime and I would not be fool enough to make a pretense of trying.” “Would
you try if you knew the truth about humanity’s situation?” “That’s
an impossible question. What is the truth about humanity’s situation? Do you
claim to know it?” “Yes,
I do. And in five words.” Hummin’s eyes faced forward again, turning briefly
toward the blank changelessness of the tunnel as it pushed toward them,
expanding until it passed and then dwindling as it slipped away. He then spoke
those five words grimly. He
said, “The Galactic Empire is dying.” UniversitySTREELING
UNIVERSITY— ... An institution of higher learning in the Streeling Sector of
ancient Trantor ... Despite all these claims to fame in the fields of the
humanities and sciences alike, it is not for those that the University looms
large in today’s consciousness. It would probably have come as a total surprise
to the generations of scholars at the University to know that in later times
Streeling University would be most remembered because a certain Hari Seldon,
during the period of The Flight, had been in residence there for a short time. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 11.Hari
Seldon remained uncomfortably silent for a while after Hummin’s quiet
statement. He shrank within himself in sudden recognition of his own
deficiencies. He
had invented a new science: psychohistory. He had extended the laws of
probability in a very subtle manner to take into account new complexities and
uncertainties and had ended up with elegant equations in innumerable unknowns. Possibly
an infinite number; he couldn’t tell. But
it was a mathematical game and nothing more. He had psychohistory—or at least
the basis of psychohistory but only as a mathematical curiosity. Where was the
historical knowledge that could perhaps give some meaning to the empty
equations? He
had none. He had never been interested in history. He knew the outline of
Heliconian history. Courses in that small fragment of the human story had, of
course, been compulsory in the Heliconian schools. But what was there beyond
that? Surely what else he had picked up was merely the bare skeletons that
everyone gathered—half legend, the other half surely distorted. Still, how
could one say that the Galactic Empire was dying? It had existed for ten
thousand years as an accepted Empire and even before that, Trantor, as the
capital of the dominating kingdom, had held what was a virtual empire for two
thousand years. The Empire had survived the early centuries when whole sections
of the Galaxy would now and then refuse to accept the end of their local
independence. It had survived the vicissitudes that went with the occasional
rebellions, the dynastic wars, some serious periods of breakdown. Most worlds
had scarcely been troubled by such things and Trantor itself had grown steadily
until it was the worldwide human habitation that now called itself the Eternal
World. To
be sure, in the last four centuries, turmoil had increased somehow and there
had been a rash of Imperial assassinations and takeovers. But even that was
calming down and right now the Galaxy was as quiet as it had ever been. Under
Cleon I and before him under his father, Stanel VI, the worlds were
prosperous—and Cleon himself was not considered a tyrant. Even those who
disliked the Imperium as an institution rarely had anything truly bad to say
about Cleon, much as they might inveigh against Eto Demerzel. Why, then, should
Hummin say that the Galactic Empire was dying—and with such conviction? Hummin
was a journalist. He probably knew Galactic history in some detail and he had
to understand the current situation in great detail. Was it this that supplied
him with the knowledge that lay behind his statement? In that case, just what
was the knowledge? Several
times Seldon was on the point of asking, of demanding an answer, but there was
something in Hummin’s solemn face that stopped him. And there was something in
his own ingrained belief that the Galactic Empire was a given, an axiom, the
foundation stone on which all argument rested that prevented him too. After
all, if that was wrong, he didn’t want to know. No, he couldn’t believe that he
was wrong. The Galactic Empire could no more come to an end than the Universe
itself could. Or, if the Universe did end, then—and only then—would the Empire
end. Seldon
closed his eyes, attempting to sleep but, of course, he could not. Would he have
to study the history of the Universe in order to advance his theory of
psychohistory? How
could he? Twenty-five million worlds existed, each with its own endlessly
complex history. How could he study all that? There were book-films in many
volumes, he knew, that dealt with Galactic history. He had even skimmed one
once for some now-forgotten reason and had found it too dull to view even
halfway through. The
book-films had dealt with important worlds. With some, it dealt through all or
almost all their history; with others, only as they gained importance for a
time and only till they faded away. He remembered having looked up Helicon in
the index and having found only one citation. He had punched the keys that
would turn up that citation and found Helicon included in a listing of worlds
which, on one occasion, had temporarily lined up behind a certain claimant to
the Imperial throne who had failed to make good his claim. Helicon had escaped
retribution on that occasion, probably because it was not even sufficiently
important to be punished. What
good was such a history? Surely, psychohistory would have to take into account
the actions and reactions and interactions of each world—each and every world.
How could one study the history of twenty-five million worlds and consider all
their possible interactions? It would surely be an impossible task and this was
just one more reinforcement of the general conclusion that psychohistory was of
theoretical interest but could never be put to any practical use. Seldon felt a
gentle push forward and decided that the air-taxi must be decelerating. “What’s
up?” he asked. “I
think we’ve come far enough,” said Hummin, “to risk a small stopover for a bite
to eat, a glass of something or other, and a visit to a washroom.” And,
in the course of the next fifteen minutes, during which the air-taxi slowed
steadily, they came to a lighted recess. The taxi swerved inward and found a
parking spot among five or six other vehicles. 12.Hummin’s
practiced eye seemed to take in the recess, the other taxis, the diner, the
walkways, and the men and women all at a glance. Seldon, trying to look
inconspicuous and again not knowing how, watched him, trying not to do so too
intently. When
they sat down at a small table and punched in their orders, Seldon, attempting
to sound indifferent, said, “Everything okay?” “Seems
so,” said Hummin. “How
can you tell?” Hummin
let his dark eyes rest on Seldon for a moment. “Instinct,” he said. “Years of
news gathering. You look and know, ‘No news here.’ ” Seldon
nodded and felt relieved. Hummin might have said it sardonically, but there
must be a certain amount of truth to it. His satisfaction did not last through
the first bite of his sandwich. He looked up at Hummin with his mouth full and
with a look of hurt surprise on his face. Hummin
said, “This is a wayside diner, my friend. Cheap, fast, and not very good. The
food’s homegrown and has an infusion of rather sharp yeast. Trantorian palates
are used to it.” Seldon
swallowed with difficulty. “But back in the hotel—” “You
were in the Imperial Sector, Seldon. Food is imported there and where microfood
is used it is high-quality. It is also expensive.” Seldon
wondered whether to take another bite. “You mean that as long as I stay on
Trantor—” Hummin
made a hushing motion with his lips. “Don’t give anyone the impression that
you’re used to better. There are places on Trantor where to be identified as an
aristocrat is worse than being identified as an Outworlder. The food won’t be
so bad everywhere, I assure you. These wayside places have a reputation for low
quality. If you can stomach that sandwich, you’ll be able to eat anywhere on
Trantor. And it won’t hurt you. It’s not decayed or bad or anything like that.
It just has a harsh, strong taste and, honestly, you may grow accustomed to it.
I’ve met Trantorians who spit out honest food and say it lacks that homegrown
tang.” “Do
they grow much food on Trantor?” asked Seldon. A quick side glance showed him
there was no one seated in the immediate vicinity and he spoke quietly. “I’ve
always heard it takes twenty surrounding worlds to supply the hundreds of
freight ships required to feed Trantor every day.” “I
know. And hundreds to carry off the load of wastes. And if you want to make the
story really good, you say that the same freight ships carry food one way and
waste the other. It’s true that we import considerable quantities of food, but
that’s mostly luxury items. And we export considerable waste, carefully treated
into inoffensiveness, as important organic fertilizer—every bit as important to
other worlds as the food is to us. But that’s only a small fraction of the
whole.” “It
is?” “Yes.
In addition to fish in the sea, there are gardens and truck farms everywhere.
And fruit trees and poultry and rabbits and vast microorganism farms—usually
called yeast farms, though the yeast makes up a minority of the growths. And
our wastes are mostly used right here at home to maintain all that growth. In
fact, in many ways Trantor is very much like an enormous and overgrown space settlement.
Have you ever visited one of those?” “Indeed
I have.” “Space
settlements are essentially enclosed cities, with everything artificially
cycled, with artificial ventilation, artificial day and night, and so on.
Trantor is different only in that even the largest space settlement has a
population of only ten million and Trantor has four thousand times that. Of
course, we have real gravity. And no space settlement can match us in our
microfoods. We have yeast vats, fungal vats, and algae ponds vast beyond the
imagination. And we are strong on artificial flavoring, added with no light
hand. That’s what gives the taste to what you’re eating.” Seldon
had gotten through most of his sandwich and found it not as offensive as the
first bite had been. “And it won’t affect me?” “It
does hit the intestinal flora and every once in a while it afflicts some poor
Outworlder with diarrhea, but that’s rare, and you harden even to that quickly.
Still, drink your milkshake, which you probably won’t like. It contains an antidiarrhetic
that should keep you safe, even if you tend to be sensitive to such things.” Seldon
said querulously, “Don’t talk about it, Hummin. A person can be suggestible to
such things.” “Finish
the milkshake and forget the suggestibility.” They
finished the rest of their meal in silence and soon were on their way again. 13.They
were now racing rapidly through the tunnel once more. Seldon decided to give
voice to the question that had been nagging at him for the last hour or so. “Why
do you say the Galactic Empire is dying?” Hummin
turned to look at Seldon again. “As a journalist, I have statistics poured into
me from all sides till they’re squeezing out of my ears. And I’m allowed to
publish very little of it. Trantor’s population is decreasing. Twenty-five
years ago, it stood at almost forty-five billion. “Partly, this decrease is
because of a decline in the birthrate. To be sure, Trantor never has had a high
birthrate. If you’ll look about you when you’re traveling on Trantor, you won’t
encounter very many children, considering the enormous population. But just the
same it’s declining. Then too there is emigration. People are leaving Trantor
in greater numbers than are arriving.” “Considering
its large population,” said Seldon, “that’s not surprising.” “But
it’s unusual just the same because it hasn’t happened before. Again, all over
the Galaxy trade is stagnating. People think that because there are no
rebellions at the moment and because things are quiet that all is well and that
the difficulties of the past few centuries are over. However, political
infighting, rebellions, and unrest are all signs of a certain vitality too. But
now there’s a general weariness. It’s quiet, not because people are satisfied
and prosperous, but because they’re tired and have given up.” “Oh,
I don’t know,” said Seldon dubiously. “I
do. And the antigrav phenomenon we’ve talked about is another case in point. We
have a few gravitic lifts in operation, but new ones aren’t being constructed.
It’s an unprofitable venture and there seems no interest in trying to make it
profitable. The rate of technological advance has been slowing for centuries
and is down to a crawl now. In some cases, it has stopped altogether. Isn’t
this something you’ve noticed? After all, you’re a mathematician.” “I
can’t say I’ve given the matter any thought.” “No
one does. It’s accepted. Scientists are very good these days at saying that
things are impossible, impractical, useless. They condemn any speculation at
once. You, for instance—What do you think of psychohistory? It is theoretically
interesting, but it is useless in any practical sense. Am I right?” “Yes
and no,” said Seldon, annoyed. “It is useless in any practical sense, but not
because my sense of adventure has decayed, I assure you. It really it useless.” “That,
at least,” said Hummin with a trace of sarcasm, “is your impression in this
atmosphere of decay in which all the Empire lives.” “This
atmosphere of decay,” said Seldon angrily, “is your impression. Is it possible
that you are wrong?” Hummin
stopped and for a moment appeared thoughtful. Then he said, “Yes, I might be
wrong. I am speaking only from intuition, from guesses. What I need is a
working technique of psychohistory.” Seldon
shrugged and did not take the bait. He said, “I don’t have such a technique to
give you.—But suppose you’re right. Suppose the Empire it running down and will
eventually stop and fall apart. The human species will still exist.” “Under
what conditions, man? For nearly twelve thousand years, Trantor, under strong
rulers, has largely kept the peace. There’ve been interruptions to
that—rebellions, localized civil wars, tragedy in plenty—but, on the whole and
over large areas, there has been peace. Why is Helicon so pro-Imperium? Your
world, I mean. Because it is small and would be devoured by its neighbors were
it not that the Empire keeps it secure.” “Are
you predicting universal war and anarchy if the Empire fails?” “Of
course. I’m not fond of the Emperor or of the Imperial institutions in general,
but I don’t have any substitute for it. I don’t know what else will keep the
peace and I’m not ready to let go until I have something else in hand.” Seldon
said, “You talk as though you are in control of the Galaxy. You are not ready
to let go? You must have something else in hand? Who are you to talk so?” “I’m
speaking generally, figuratively,” said Hummin. “I’m not worried about Chetter
Hummin personally. It might be said that the Empire will last my time; it might
even show signs of improvement in my time. Declines don’t follow a
straight-line path. It may be a thousand years before the final crash and you
might well imagine I would be dead then and, certainly, I will leave no
descendants. As far as women are concerned, I have nothing but the occasional
casual attachment and I have no children and intend to have none. I have given
no hostages to fortune.—I looked you up after your talk, Seldon. You have no
children either.” “I
have parents and two brothers, but no children.” He smiled rather weakly. “I
was very attached to a woman at one time, but it seemed to her that I was
attached more to my mathematics.” “Were
you?” “It
didn’t seem so to me, but it seemed so to her. So she left.” “And
you have had no one since?” “No.
I remember the pain too clearly as yet.” “Well
then, it might seem we could both wait out the matter and leave it to other
people, well after our time, to suffer. I might have been willing to accept
that earlier, but no longer. For now I have a tool; I am in command.” “What’s
your tool?” asked Seldon, already knowing the answer. “You!”
said Hummin. And
because Seldon had known what Hummin would say, he wasted no time in being
shocked or astonished. He simply shook his head and said, “You are quite wrong.
I am no tool fit for use.” “Why
not?” Seldon
sighed. “How often must I repeat it? Psychohistory is not a practical study.
The difficulty is fundamental. All the space and time of the Universe would not
suffice to work out the necessary problems.” “Are
you certain of that?” “Unfortunately,
yes.” “There’s
no question of your working out the entire future of the Galactic Empire, you
know. You needn’t trace out in detail the workings of every human being or even
of every world. There are merely terrain questions you must answer: Will the
Galactic Empire crash and, if so, when? What will be the condition of humanity
afterward? Can anything be done to prevent the crash or to ameliorate
conditions afterward? These are comparatively simple questions, it seems to
me.” Seldon
shook his head and smiled sadly. “The history of mathematics is full of simple
questions that had only the most complicated of answers—or none at all.” “Is
there nothing to be done? I can see that the Empire is falling, but I can’t
prove it. All my conclusions are subjective and I cannot show that I am not
mistaken. Because the view is a seriously unsettling one, people would prefer
not to believe my subjective conclusion and nothing will be done to prevent the
Fall or even to cushion it. You could prove the coming Fall or, for that
matter, disprove it.” “But
that is exactly what I cannot do. I can’t find you proof where none exists. I
can’t make a mathematical system practical when it isn’t. I can’t find you two
even numbers that will yield an odd number as a sum, no matter how vitally your
all the Galaxy—may need that odd number.” Hummin
said, “Well then, you’re part of the decay. You’re ready to accept failure.” “What
choice have I?” “Can’t
you try? However useless the effort may seem to you to be, have you anything
better to do with your life? Have you some worthier goal? Have you a purpose
that will justify you in your own eyes to some greater extent?” Seldon’s eyes
blinked rapidly. “Millions of worlds. Billions of cultures. Quadrillions of
people. Decillions of interrelationships.—And you want me to reduce it to
order.” “No,
I want you to try. For the sake of those millions of worlds, billions of
cultures, and quadrillions of people. Not for the Emperor. Not for Demerzel.
For humanity.” “I
will fail,” said Seldon. “Then
we will be no worse off. Will you try?” And
against his will and not knowing why, Seldon heard himself say, “I will try.” And
the course of his life was set. 14.The
journey came to its end and the air-taxi moved into a much larger lot than the
one at which they had eaten. (Seldon still remembered the taste of the sandwich
and made a wry face.) Hummin
turned in his taxi and came back, placing his credit slip in a small pocket on
the inner surface of his shirt. He said, “You’re completely safe here from
anything outright and open. This is the Streeling Sector.” “Streeling?” “It’s
named for someone who first opened up the area to settlement, I imagine. Most
of the sectors are named for someone or other, which means that most of the
names are ugly and some are hard to pronounce. Just the same, if you try to
have the inhabitants here change Streeling to Sweetsmell or something like
that, you’ll have a fight on your hands.” “Of
course,” said Seldon, sniffing loudly, “it isn’t exactly Sweetsmell.” “Hardly
anywhere in Trantor is, but you’ll get used to it.” “I’m
glad we’re here,” said Seldon. “Not that I like it, but I got quite tired
sitting in the taxi. Getting around Trantor must be a horror. Back on Helicon,
we can get from any one place to any other by air, in far less time than it
took us to travel less than two thousand kilometers here.” “We
have air-jets too.” “But
in that case—” “I
could arrange an air-taxi ride more or less anonymously. It would have been
much more difficult with an air-jet. And regardless of how safe it is here, I’d
feel better if Demerzel didn’t know exactly where you were.—As a matter of
fact, we’re not done yet. We’re going to take the Expressway for the final
stage.” Seldon
knew the expression. “One of those open monorails moving on an electromagnetic
field, right?” “Right.” “We
don’t have them on Helicon. Actually, we don’t need them there. I rode on an
Expressway the first day I was on Trantor. It took me from the airport to the
hotel. It was rather a novelty, but if I were to use it all the time, I imagine
the noise and crowds would become overpowering.” Hummin
looked amused. “Did you get lost?” “No,
the signs were useful. There was trouble getting on and off, but I was helped.
Everyone could tell I was an Outworlder by my clothes, I now realize. They
seemed eager to help, though; I guess because it was amusing to watching me
hesitate and stumble.” “As
an expert in Expressway travel by now, you will neither hesitate nor stumble.”
Hummin said it pleasantly enough, though there was a slight twitch to the
corners of his mouth. “Come on, then.” They
sauntered leisurely along the walkway, which was lit to the extent one might
expect of an overcast day and that brightened now and then as though the sun
occasionally broke through the clouds. Automatically, Seldon looked upward to
see if that were indeed the case, but the “sky” above was blankly luminous.
Hummin saw this and said, “This change in brightness seems too suit the human
psyche. There are days when the street seems to be in bright sunlight and days
when it is rather darker than it is now.” “But
no rain or snow?” “Or
hail or sleet. No. Nor high humidity nor bitter cold. Trantor has its points,
Seldon, even now.” There
were people walking in both directions and there were a considerable number of
young people and also some children accompanying the adults, despite what
Hummin had said about the birthrate. All seemed reasonably prosperous and
reputable. The two sexes were equally represented and the clothing was
distinctly more subdued than it had been in the Imperial Sector. His own
costume, as chosen by Hummin, fit right in. Very few were wearing hats and
Seldon thankfully removed his own and swung it at his side. There was no deep
abyss separating the two sides of the walkway and as Hummin had predicted in
the Imperial Sector, they were walking at what seemed to be ground level. There
were no vehicles either and Seldon pointed this out to Hummin. Hummin
said, “There are quite a number of them in the Imperial Sector because they’re
used by officials. Elsewhere, private vehicles are rare and those that are used
have separate tunnels reserved for them. Their use is not really necessary,
since we have Expressways and, for shorter distances, moving corridors. For
still shorter distances, we have walkways and we can use our legs.” Seldon
heard occasional muted sighs and creaks and saw, some distance off, the endless
passing of Expressway cars. “There
it is,” he said, pointing. “I
know, but let us move on to a boarding station. There are more cars there and
it is easier to get on.” Once
they were safely ensconced in an Expressway car, Seldon turned to Hummin and
said, “What amazes me is how quiet the Expressways are. I realize that they are
mass-propelled by an electromagnetic field, but it seems quiet even for that.”
He listened to the occasional metallic groan as the car they were on shifted
against its neighbors. “Yes,
it’s a marvelous network,” said Hummin, “but you don’t see it at its peak. When
I was younger, it was quieter than it is now and there are those who say that
there wasn’t as much as a whisper fifty years ago—though I suppose we might
make allowance for the idealization of nostalgia.” “Why
isn’t it that way now?” “Because
it isn’t maintained properly. I told you about decay.” Seldon
frowned. “Surely, people don’t sit around and say, ‘We’re decaying. Let’s let
the Expressways fall apart.’ ” “No,
they don’t. It’s not a purposeful thing. Bad spots are patched, decrepit
coaches refurbished, magnets replaced. However, it’s done in more slapdash
fashion, more carelessly, and at greater intervals. There just aren’t enough
credits available.” “Where
have the credits gone?” “Into
other things. We’ve had centuries of unrest. The navy is much larger and many
times more expensive than it once was. The armed forces are much better-paid,
in order to keep them quiet. Unrest, revolts, and minor blazes of civil war all
take their toll.” “But
it’s been quiet under Cleon. And we’ve had fifty years of peace.” “Yes,
but soldiers who are well-paid would resent having that pay reduced just because
there is peace. Admirals resist mothballing ships and having themselves reduced
in rank simply because there is less for them to do. So the credits still
go—unproductively—to the armed forces and vital areas of the social good are
allowed to deteriorate. That’s what I call decay. Don’t you? Don’t you think
that eventually you would fit that sort of view into your psychohistorical
notions?” Seldon
stirred uneasily. Then he said, “Where are we going, by the way?” “Streeling
University.” “Ah,
that’s why the sector’s name was familiar. I’ve heard of the University.” “I’m
not surprised. Trantor has nearly a hundred thousand institutions of higher
learning and Streeling is one of the thousand or so at the top of the heap.” “Will
I be staying there?” “For
a while. University campuses are unbreathable sanctuaries, by and large. You
will be safe there.” “But
will I be welcome there?” “Why
not? It’s hard to find a good mathematician these days. They might be able to
use you. And you might be able to use them too—and for more than just a hiding
place.” “You
mean, it will be a place where I can develop my notions.” “You
have promised,” said Hummin gravely. “I
have promised to try, “ said Seldon and thought to himself that it was about
like promising to try to make a rope out of sand. 15.Conversation
had run out after that and Seldon watched the structures of the Streeling
Sector as they passed. Some were quite low, while some seemed to brush the
“sky.” Wide crosspassages broke the progression and frequent alleys could be
seen. At
one point, it struck him that though the buildings rose upward they also swept
downward and that perhaps they were deeper than they were high. As soon as the
thought occurred to him, he was convinced it was true. Occasionally, he saw
patches of green in the background, farther back from the Expressway, and even
small trees. He
watched for quite a while and then became aware that the light was growing
dimmer. He squinted about and turned to Hummin, who guessed the question. “The
afternoon is waning,” he said, “and night is coming on.” Seldon’s
eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned downward. “That’s
impressive. I have a picture of the entire planet darkening and then, some
hours from now, lighting up again.” Hummin
smiled his small, careful smile. “Not quite, Seldon. The planet is never turned
off altogether—or turned on either. The shadow of twilight sweeps across the
planet gradually, followed half a day later by the slow brightening of dawn. In
fact, the effect follows the actual day and night above the domes quite
closely, so that in higher altitudes day and night change length with the
seasons.” Seldon
shook his head, “But why close in the planet and then mimic what would be in
the open?” “I
presume because people like it better that way. Trantorians like the advantages
of being enclosed, but they don’t like to be reminded of it unduly, just the
same. You know very little about Trantorian psychology, Seldon.” Seldon
flushed slightly. He was only a Heliconian and he knew very little about the
millions of worlds outside Helicon. His ignorance was not confined to Trantor.
How, then, could he hope to come up with any practical applications for his
theory of psychohistory? How
could any number of people—all together—know enough? It reminded Seldon of a
puzzle that had been presented to him when he was young: Can you have a
relatively small piece of platinum, with handholds affixed, that could not be
lifted by the bare, unaided strength of any number of people, no matter how
many? The
answer was yes. A cubic meter of platinum weighs 22,420 kilograms under
standard gravitational pull. If it is assumed that each person could heave 120
kilograms up from the ground, then 188 people would suffice to lift the
platinum.—But you could not squeeze 188 people around the cubic meter so that
each one could get a grip on it. You could perhaps not squeeze more than 9
people around it. And levers or other such devices were not allowed. It had to
be “bare, unaided strength.” In
the same way, it could be that there was no way of getting enough people to
handle the total amount of knowledge required for psychohistory, even if the
facts were stored in computers rather than in individual human brains. Only so
many people could gather round the knowledge, so to speak, and communicate it. Hummin
said, “You seem to be in a brown study, Seldon.” “I’m
considering my own ignorance.” “A
useful task. Quadrillions could profitably join you.—But it’s time to get off.” Seldon
looked up. “How can you tell?” “Just
as you could tell when you were on the Expressway your first day on Trantor. I
go by the signs.” Seldon
caught one just as it went by: STREELING UNIVERSITY—3 MINUTES. “We
get off at the next boarding station. Watch your step.” Seldon
followed Hummin off the coach, noting that the sky was deep purple now and that
the walkways and corridors and buildings were all lighting up, suffused with a
yellow glow. It
might have been the gathering of a Heliconian night. Had he been placed here
blindfolded and had the blindfold been removed, he might have been convinced
that he was in some particularly well-built-up inner region of one of Helicon’s
larger cities. “How
long do you suppose I will remain at Streeling University, Hummin?” he asked. Hummin
said in his usual calm fashion, “That would be hard to say, Seldon. Perhaps
your whole life.” “What!” “Perhaps
not. But your life stopped being your own once you gave that paper on
psychohistory. The Emperor and Demerzel recognized your importance at once. So
did I. For all I know, so did many others. You see, that means you don’t belong
to yourself anymore.” LibraryVENABILI,
DORS— ... Historian, born in Cinna ... Her life might well have continued on
its uneventful course were it not for the fact that, after she had spent two
years on the faculty of Streeling University, she became involved with the
young Hari Seldon during The Flight ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 16.The
room that Hari Seldon found himself in was larger than Hummin’s room in the
Imperial Sector. It was a bedroom with one corner serving as a washroom and
with no sign of any cooking or dining facilities. There was no window, though
set in the ceiling was a grilled ventilator that made a steady sighing noise.
Seldon looked about a bit ruefully. Hummin
interpreted that look with his usual assured manner and said, “It’s only for
tonight, Seldon. Tomorrow morning someone will come to install you at the
University and you will be more comfortable.” “Pardon
me, Hummin, but how do you know that?” “I
will make arrangements. I know one or two people here”—he smiled briefly
without humor—“and I have a favor or two I can ask repayment for. Now let’s go
into some details.” He
gazed steadily at Seldon and said, “Whatever you have left in your hotel room
is lost. Does that include anything irreplaceable?” “Nothing
really irreplaceable. I have some personal items I value for their association
with my past life, but if they are gone, they are gone. There are, of course,
some notes on my paper. Some calculations. The paper itself.” “Which
is now public knowledge until such time as it is removed from circulation as
dangerous—which it probably will be. Still, I’ll be able to get my hands on a
copy, I’m sure. In any case, you can reconstruct it, can’t you?” “I
can. That’s why I said there was nothing really irreplaceable. Also, I’ve lost
nearly a thousand credits, some books, clothing, my tickets back to Helicon,
things like that.” “All
replaceable.—Now I will arrange for you to have a credit tile in my name,
charged to me. That will take care of ordinary expenses.” “That’s
unusually generous of you. I can’t accept it.” “It’s
not generous at all, since I’m hoping to save the Empire in that fashion. You
must accept it.” “But
how much can you afford, Hummin? I’ll be using it, at best, with an uneasy
conscience.” “Whatever
you need for survival or reasonable comfort I can afford, Seldon. Naturally, I
wouldn’t want you to try to buy the University gymnasium or hand out a million
credits in largess.” “You
needn’t worry, but with my name on record—” “It
might as well be. It is absolutely forbidden for the Imperial government to
exercise any security control over the University or its members. There is
complete freedom. Anything can be discussed here, anything can be said here.” “What
about violent crime?” “Then
the University authorities themselves handle it, with reason and care—and there
are virtually no crimes of violence. The students and faculty appreciate their
freedom and understand its terms. Too much rowdiness, the beginning of riot and
bloodshed, and the government may feel it has a right to break the unwritten
agreement and send in the troops. No one wants that, not even the government,
so a delicate balance is maintained. In other words, Demerzel himself can not
have you plucked out of the University without a great deal more cause than
anyone in the University has given the government in at least a century and a
half. On the other hand, if you are lured off the grounds by a student-agent—” “Are
there student-agents?” “How
can I say? There may be. Any ordinary individual can be threatened or
maneuvered or simply bought—and may remain thereafter in the service of
Demerzel or of someone else, for that matter. So I must emphasize this: You are
safe in any reasonable sense, but no one is absolutely safe. You will have to
be careful. But though I give you that warning, I don’t want you to cower
through life. On the whole, you will be far more secure here than you would
have been if you had returned to Helicon or gone to any world of the Galaxy
outside Trantor.” “I
hope so,” said Seldon drearily. “I
know so,” said Hummin, “Or I would not feel it wise to leave you.” “Leave
me?” Seldon looked up sharply. “You can’t do that. You know this world. I
don’t.” “You
will be with others who know this world, who know this part of it, in fact,
even better than I do. As for myself, I must go. I have been with you all this
day and I dare not abandon my own life any longer. I must not attract too much
attention to myself. Remember that I have my own insecurities, just as you have
yours.” Seldon
blushed. “You’re right. I can’t expect you to endanger yourself indefinitely on
my behalf. I hope you are not already ruined.” Hummin
said coolly, “Who can tell? We live in dangerous times. Just remember that if
anyone can make the times safe—if not for ourselves, then for those who follow
after us—it is you. Let that thought be your driving force, Seldon.” 17.Sleep
eluded Seldon. He tossed and turned in the dark, thinking. He had have never
felt quite so alone or quite so helpless as he did after Hummin had nodded,
pressed his hand briefly, and left him behind. Now he was on a strange
world—and in a strange part of that world. He was without the only person he
could consider a friend (and that of less than a day’s duration) and he had no
idea of where he was going or what he would be doing, either tomorrow or at any
time in the future. None
of that was conducive to sleep so, of course, at about the time he decided,
hopelessly, that he would not sleep that night or, possibly, ever again,
exhaustion overtook him ... When
he woke up it was still dark—or not quite, for across the room he saw a red
light flashing brightly and rapidly, accompanied by a harsh, intermittent buzz.
Undoubtedly, it was that which had awakened him. As he tried to remember where
he was and to make some sort of sense out of the limited messages his senses
were receiving, the flashing and buzzing ceased and he became aware of a
peremptory rapping. Presumably,
the rapping was at the door, but he didn’t remember where the door was.
Presumably, also, there was a contact that would flood the room with light, but
he didn’t remember where that was either. He
sat up in bed and felt along the wall to his left rather desperately while
calling out, “One moment, please.” He
found the necessary contact and the room suddenly bloomed with a soft light. He
scrambled out of bed, blinking, still searching for the door, finding it,
reaching out to open it, remembering caution at the last moment, and saying in
a suddenly stern, no-nonsense voice, “Who’s there?” A
rather gentle woman’s voice said, “My dame is Dors Venabili and I have come to
see Dr. Hari Seldon.” Even
as that was said, a woman was standing just in front of the door, without that
door ever having been opened. For
a moment, Hari Seldon stared at her in surprise, then realized that he was
wearing only a one-piece undergarment. He let out a strangled gasp and dashed
for the bed and only then realized that he was staring at a holograph. It
lacked the hard edge of reality and it became apparent the woman wasn’t looking
at him. She was merely showing herself for identification. He paused, breathing
hard, then said, raising his voice to be heard through the door, “If you’ll
wait, I’ll be with you. Give me ... maybe half an hour.” The
woman—or the holograph, at any rate—said, “I’ll wait,” and disappeared. There
was no shower, so he sponged himself, making a rare mess on the tiled floor in
the washroom corner. There was toothpaste but no toothbrush, so he used his
finger. He had no choice but to put on the clothes he had been wearing the day
before. He finally opened the door. He
realized, even as he did so, that she had not really identified herself. She
had merely given a name and Hummin had not told him whom to expect, whether it
was to be this Dors Somebody or anyone else. He had felt secure because the
holograph was that of a personable young woman, but for all he knew there might
be half a dozen hostile young men with her. He
peered out cautiously, saw only the woman, then opened the door sufficiently to
allow her to enter. He immediately closed and locked the door behind her.
“Pardon me,” he said, “What time is it?” “Nine,”
she said, “The day has long since begun.” As
far as official time was concerned, Trantor held to Galactic Standard, since
only so could sense be made out of interstellar commerce and governmental
dealings. Each world, however, also had a local time system and Seldon had not
yet come to the point where he felt at home with casual Trantorian references
to the hour. “Midmorning?”
he said. “Of
course.” “There
are no windows in this room,” he said defensively. Dors
walked to his bed, reached out, and touched a small dark spot on the wall. Red
numbers appeared on the ceiling just over his pillow. They read: 0903. She smiled
without superiority. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I rather assumed Chetter
Hummin would have told you I’d be coming for you at nine. The trouble with him
is he’s so used to knowing, he sometimes forgets that others occasionally don’t
know.—And I shouldn’t have used radio-holographic identification. I imagine you
don’t have it on Helicon and I’m afraid I must have alarmed you.” Seldon
felt himself relax. She seemed natural and friendly and the casual reference to
Hummin reassured him. He said, “You’re quite wrong about Helicon, Miss—” “Please
call me Dors.” “You’re
still wrong about Helicon, Dors. We do have radioholography, but I’ve never
been able to afford the equipment. Nor could anyone in my circle, so I haven’t
actually had the experience. But I understood what had happened soon enough.” He
studied her. She was not very tall, average height for a woman, he judged. Her
hair was a reddish-gold, though not very bright, and was arranged in shore
curls about her head. (He had seen a number of women in Trantor with their hair
so arranged. It was apparently a local fashion that would have been laughed at
in Helicon.) She was not amazingly beautiful, but was quite pleasant to look
at, this being helped by full lips that seemed to have a slight humorous curl to
them. She was slim, well-built, and looked quite young. (Too young, he thought
uneasily, to be of use perhaps.) “Do
I pass inspection?” she asked. (She seemed to have Hummin’s trick of guessing
his thoughts, Seldon thought, or perhaps he himself lacked the trick of hiding
them.) He
said, “I’m sorry. I seem to have been staring, but I’ve only been trying to
evaluate you. I’m in a strange place. I know no one and have no friends.” “Please,
Dr. Seldon, count me as a friend. Mr. Hummin has asked me to take care of you.” Seldon
smiled ruefully. “You may be a little young for the job.” “You’ll
find I am not.” “Well,
I’ll try to be as little trouble as possible. Could you please repeat your
name?” “Dors
Venabili.” She spelled the last name and emphasized the stress on the second
syllable. “As I said, please call me Dors and if you don’t object too
strenuously I will call you Hari. We’re quite informal here at the University
and there is an almost self-conscious effort to show no signs of status, either
inherited or professional.” “Please,
by all means, call me Hari.” “Good.
I shall remain informal then. For instance, the instinct for formality, if
there is such a thing, would cause me to ask permission to sit down.
Informally, however, I shall just sit.” She then sat down on the one chair in
the room. Seldon
cleared his throat. “Clearly, I’m not at all in possession of my ordinary
faculties. I should have asked you to sit.” He sat down on the side of his
crumpled bed and wished he had thought to straighten it out somewhat—but he had
been caught by surprise. She
said pleasantly, “This is how it’s going to work, Hari. First, we’ll go to
breakfast at one of the University cafes. Then I’ll get you a room in one of
the domiciles—a better room than this. You’ll have a window. Hummin has
instructed me to get you a credit tile in his name, but it will take me a day
or two to extort one out of the University bureaucracy. Until that’s done, I’ll
be responsible for your expenses and you can pay me back later.—And we can use
you. Chetter Hummin told me you’re a mathematician and for some reason there’s
a serious lack of good ones at the University.” “Did
Hummin tell you that I was a good mathematician?” “As
a matter of fact, he did. He said you were a remarkable man—” “Well.”
Seldon looked down at his fingernails. “I would like to be considered so, but
Hummin knew me for less than a day and, before that, he had heard me present a
paper, the quality of which he has no way of judging. I think he was just being
polite.” “I
don’t think so,” said Dors. “He is a remarkable person himself and has had a
great deal of experience with people. I’ll go by his judgment. In any case, I
imagine you’ll have a chance to prove yourself. You can program computers, I
suppose.” “Of
course.” “I’m
talking about teaching computers, you understand, and I’m asking if you can
devise programs to teach various phases of contemporary mathematics.” “Yes,
that’s part of my profession. I’m assistant professor of mathematics at the
University of Helicon.” She
said, “Yes, I know. Hummin told me that. It means, of course, that everyone
will know you are a non-Trantorian, but that will present no serious problems.
We’re mainly Trantorian here at the University, but there’s a substantial
minority of Outworlders from any number of different worlds and that’s
accepted. I won’t say that you’ll never hear a planetary slur but actually the
Outworlders are more likely to use them than the Trantorians. I’m an Outworlder
myself, by the way.” “Oh?”
He hesitated and then decided it would be only polite to ask. “What world are
you from?” “I’m
from Cinna. Have you ever heard of it?” He’d
be caught out if he was polite enough to lie, Seldon decided, so he said, “No.” “I’m
not surprised. It’s probably of even less account than Helicon is. Anyway, to
get back to the programming of mathematical teaching computers, I suppose that
that can be done either proficiently or poorly.” “Absolutely.” “And
you would do it proficiently.” “I
would like to think so.” “There
you are, then. The University will pay you for that, so let’s go out and eat.
Did you sleep well, by the way?” “Surprisingly,
I did.” “And
are you hungry?” “Yes,
but—” He hesitated. She
said cheerfully, “But you’re worried about the quality of the food, is that it?
Well, don’t be. Being an Outworlder myself, I can understand your feelings
about the strong infusion of microfood into everything, but the University
menus aren’t bad. In the faculty dining room, at least. The students suffer a
bit, but that serves to harden them.” She
rose and turned to the door, but stopped when Seldon could not keep himself
from saying, “Are you a member of the faculty?” She
turned and smiled at him impishly. “Don’t I look old enough? I got my doctorate
two years ago at Cinna and I’ve been here ever since. In two weeks, I’ll be
thirty.” “Sorry,”
said Seldon, smiling in his turn, “but you can’t expect to look twenty-four and
not raise doubts as to your academic status.” “Aren’t
you nice?” said Dors and Seldon felt a certain pleasure wash over him. After
all, he thought, you can’t exchange pleasantries with an attractive woman and
feel entirely like a stranger. 18.Dors
was right. Breakfast was by no means bad. There was something that was
unmistakably eggy and the meat was pleasantly smoked. The chocolate drink
(Trantor was strong on chocolate and Seldon did not mind that) was probably
synthetic, but it was tasty and the breakfast rolls were good. He felt is only
right to say as much. “This has been a very pleasant breakfast. Food.
Surroundings. Everything.” “I’m
delighted you think so,” said Dors. Seldon
looked about. There were a bank of windows in one wall and while actual
sunlight did not enter (he wondered if, after a while, he would learn to be
satisfied with diffuse daylight and would cease to look for patches of sunlight
in a room), the place was light enough. In fact, it was quite bright, for the
local weather computer had apparently decided is was time for a sharp, clear
day. The
cables were arranged for four apiece and most were occupied by the full number,
but Dors and Seldon remained alone at theirs. Dors had called over some of the
men and women and had introduced them. All had been polite, but none had joined
them. Undoubtedly, Dors intended that to be so, but Seldon did not see how she
managed to arrange it. He
said, “You haven’t introduced me to any mathematicians, Dors.” “I
haven’t seen any that I know. Most mathematicians start the day early and have
classes by eight. My own feeling is that any student so foolhardy as to take
mathematics wants to get that part of the course over with as soon as
possible.” “I
take it you’re not a mathematician yourself.” “Anything
but,” said Dors with a short laugh. “Anything. History is my field. I’ve
already published some studies on the rise of Trantor—I mean the primitive
kingdom, not this world. I suppose that will end up as my field of
specialization—Royal Trantor.” “Wonderful,”
said Seldon. “Wonderful?”
Dors looked at him quizzically. “Are you interested in Royal Trantor too?” “In
a way, yes. That and other things like that. I’ve never really studied history
and I should have.” “Should
you? If you had studied history, you’d scarcely have had time to study
mathematics and mathematicians are very much needed—especially at this
University. We’re full to here with historians,” she said, raising her hand to
her eyebrows, “and economists and political scientists, but we’re short on
science and mathematics. Chetter Hummin pointed that out to me once. He called
it the decline of science and seemed to think it was a general phenomenon.” Seldon
said, “Of course, when I say I should have studied history, I don’t mean that I
should have made it a life work. I meant I should have studied enough to help
me in my mathematics. My field of specialization is the mathematical analysis
of social structure.” “Sounds
horrible.” “In
a way, it is. It’s very complicated and without my knowing a great deal more
about how societies evolved it’s hopeless. My picture is too static, you see.” “I
can’t see because I know nothing about it. Chetter told me you were developing
something called psychohistory and that it was important. Have I got it right?
Psychohistory?” “That’s
right. I should have called it ‘psychosociology,’ but it seemed to me that was
too ugly a word. Or perhaps I knew instinctively that a knowledge of history
was necessary and then didn’t pay sufficient attention to my thoughts.” “Psychohistory
does sound better, but I don’t know what it is.” “I
scarcely do myself.” He brooded a few minutes, looking at the woman on the
other side of the table and feeling that she might make this exile of his seem
a little less like an exile. He thought of the other woman he had known a few
years ago, but blocked it off with a determined effort. If he ever found
another companion, it would have to be one who understood scholarship and what
it demanded of a person. To
get his mind onto a new track, he said, “Chetter Hummin told me that the
University is in no way troubled by the government.” “He’s
right.” Seldon
shook his head. “That seems rather unbelievably forbearing of the Imperial
government. The educational institutions on Helicon are by no means so
independent of governmental pressures.” “Nor
on Cinna. Nor on any Outworld, except perhaps for one or two of the largest.
Trantor is another matter.” “Yes,
but why?” “Because
it’s the center of the Empire. The universities here have enormous prestige.
Professionals are turned out by any university anywhere, but the administrators
of the Empire—the high officials, the countless millions of people who
represent the tentacles of Empire reaching into every corner of the Galaxy—are
educated right here on Trantor.” “I’ve
never seen the statistics—” began Seldon. “Take
my word for it. It is important that the officials of the Empire have some
common ground, some special feeling for the Empire. And they can’t all be
native Trantorians or else the Outworlds would grow restless. For that reason,
Trantor must attract millions of Outworlders for education here. It doesn’t
matter where they come from or what their home accent or culture may be, as
long as they pick up the Trantorian patina and identify themselves with a
Trantorian educational background. That’s what holds the Empire together. The
Outworlds are also less restive when a noticeable portion of the administrators
who represent the Imperial government are their own people by birth and
upbringing.” Seldon
felt embarrassed again. This was something he had never given any thought to.
He wondered if anyone could be a truly great mathematician if mathematics was
all he knew. He said, “Is this common knowledge?” “I
suppose it isn’t,” said Dors after some thought. “There’s so much knowledge to
be had that specialists cling to their specialties as a shield against having
to know anything about anything else. They avoid being drowned.” “Yet
you know it.” “But
that’s my specialty. I’m a historian who deals with the rise of Royal Trantor
and this administrative technique was one of the ways in which Trantor spread
its influence and managed the transition from Royal Trantor to Imperial
Trantor.” Seldon
said, almost as though muttering to himself, “How harmful overspecialization
is. It cuts knowledge at a million points and leaves it bleeding.” Dors
shrugged. “What can one do?—But you see, if Trantor is going to attract
Outworlders to Trantorian universities, it has to give them something in return
for uprooting themselves and going to a strange world with an incredibly
artificial structure and unusual ways. I’ve been here two years and I’m still
not used to it. I may never get used to it. But then, of course, I don’t intend
to be an administrator, so I’m not forcing myself to be a Trantorian. “And
what Trantor offers in exchange is not only the promise of a position with high
status, considerable power, and money, of course, but also freedom. While
students are having their—education, they are free to denounce the government,
demonstrate against it peacefully, work out their own theories and points of
view. They enjoy that and many come here so that they can experience the
sensation of liberty.” “I
imagine,” said Seldon, “that it helps relieve pressure as well. They work off
all their resentments, enjoy all the smug self-satisfaction a young
revolutionary would have, and by the time they take their place in the Imperial
hierarchy, they are ready to settle down into conformity and obedience.” Dors
nodded. “You may be right. In any case, the government, for all these reasons,
carefully preserves the freedom of the universities. It’s not a matter of their
being forbearing at all—only clever.” “And
if you’re not going to be an administrator, Dors, what are you going to be?” “A
historian. I’ll teach, put book-films of my own into the programming.” “Not
much status, perhaps.” “Not
much money, Hari, which is more important. As for status, that’s the sort of
push and pull I’d just as soon avoid. I’ve seen many people with status, but
I’m still looking for a happy one. Status won’t sit still under you; you have
to continually fight to keep from sinking. Even Emperors manage to come to bad
ends most of the time. Someday I may just go back to Cinna and be a professor.” “And
a Trantorian education will give you status.” Dors
laughed. “I suppose so, but on Cinna who would care? It’s a dull world, full of
farms and with lots of cattle, both four-legged and two-legged.” “Won’t
you find it dull after Trantor?” “Yes,
that’s what I’m counting on. And if it gets too dull, I can always wangle a
grant to go here or there to do a little historical research. That’s the
advantage of my field.” “A
mathematician, on the other hand,” said Seldon with a trace of bitterness at
something that had never before bothered him, “is expected to sit at his
computer and think. And speaking of computers—” He hesitated. Breakfast was
done and it seemed to him more than likely she had some duties of her own to
attend to. But
she did not seem to be in any great hurry to leave. “Yes? Speaking of
computers?” “Would
I be able to get permission to use the history library?” Now
it was she who hesitated. “I think that can be arranged. If you work on
mathematics programming, you’ll probably be viewed as a quasi-member of the
faculty and I could ask for you to be given permission. Only—” “Only?” “I
don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re a mathematician and you say you
know nothing about history. Would you know how to make use of a history
library?” Seldon
smiled. “I suppose you use computers very much like those in a mathematics
library.” “We
do, but the programming for each specialty has quirks of its own. You don’t
know the standard reference book-films, the quick methods of winnowing and
skipping. You may be able to find a hyperbolic interval in the dark ...” “You
mean hyperbolic integral,” interrupted Seldon softly. Dors
ignored him. “But you probably won’t know how to get the terms of the Treaty of
Poldark in less than a day and a half.” “I
suppose I could learn.” “If
... if ...” She looked a little troubled. “If you want to, I can make a
suggestion. I give a week’s course—one hour each day, no credit—on library use.
It’s for undergraduates. Would you feel it beneath your dignity to sit in on
such a course—with undergraduates, I mean? It starts in three weeks.” “You
could give me private lessons.” Seldon felt a little surprised at the
suggestive tone that had entered his voice. She
did not miss it. “I dare say I could, but I think you’d be better off with more
formal instruction. We’ll be using the library, you understand, and at the end
of the week you will be asked to locate information on particular items of
historical interest. You will be competing with the other students all through
and that will help you learn. Private tutoring will be far less efficient, I
assure you. However, I understand the difficulty of competing with
undergraduates. If you don’t do as well as they, you may feel humiliated. You
must remember, though, that they have already studied elementary history and
you, perhaps, may not have.” “I
haven’t. No ‘may’ about it. But I won’t be afraid to compete and I won’t mind
any humiliation that may come along—if I manage to learn the tricks of the
historical reference trade.” It
was clear to Seldon that he was beginning to like this young woman and that he
was gladly seizing on the chance to be educated by her. He was also aware of
the fact that he had reached a turning point in his mind. He had promised
Hummin to attempt to work out a practical psychohistory, but that had been a
promise of the mind and not the emotions. Now he was determined to seize
psychohistory by the throat if he had to—in order to make it practical. That,
perhaps, was the influence of Dors Venabili. Or had Hummin counted on that?
Hummin, Seldon decided, might well be a most formidable person. 19.Cleon
I had finished dinner, which, unfortunately, had been a formal state affair. It
meant he had to spend time talking to various officials—not one of whom he knew
or recognized—in set phrases designed to give each one his stroke and so
activate his loyalty to the crown. It also meant that his food reached him but
lukewarm and had cooled still further before he could eat it. There had to be
some way of avoiding that. Eat first, perhaps, on his own or with one or two
close intimates with whom he could relax and then attend a formal dinner at
which he could merely be served an imported pear. He loved pears. But would
that offend the guests who would take the Emperor’s refusal to eat with them as
a studied insult. His
wife, of course, was useless in this respect, for her presence would but
further exacerbate his unhappiness. He had married her because she was a member
of a powerful dissident family who could be expected to mute their dissidence
as a result of the union, though Cleon devoutly hoped that she, at least, would
not do so. He was perfectly content to have her live her own life in her own quarters
except for the necessary efforts to initiate an heir, for, to tell the truth,
he didn’t like her. And now that an heir had come, he could ignore her
completely. He
chewed at one of a handful of nuts he had pocketed from the table on leaving
and said, “Demerzel!” “Sire?” Demerzel
always appeared at once when Cleon called. Whether he hovered constantly in
earshot at the door or he drew close because the instinct of subservience
somehow alerted him to a possible call in a few minutes, he did appear and
that, Cleon thought idly, was the important thing. Of course, there were those
times when Demerzel had to be away on Imperial business. Cleon always hated
those absences. They made him uneasy. “What
happened to that mathematician? I forget his name.” Demerzel,
who surely knew the man the Emperor had in mind, but who perhaps wanted to
study how much the Emperor remembered, said, “What mathematician is it that you
have in mind, Sire?” Cleon
waved an impatient hand. “The fortune-teller. The one who came to see me.” “The
one we sent for?” “Well,
sent for, then. He did come to see me. You were going to take care of the
matter, as I recall. Have you?” Demerzel
cleared his throat. “Sire, I have tried to.” “Ah!
That means you have failed, doesn’t it?” In a way, Cleon felt pleased. Demerzel
was the only one of his Ministers who made no bones of failure. The others
never admitted failure, and since failure was nevertheless common, it became
difficult to correct. Perhaps Demerzel could afford to be more honest because he
failed so rarely. If it weren’t for Demerzel, Cleon thought sadly, he might
never know what honesty sounded like. Perhaps no Emperor ever knew and perhaps
that was one of the reasons that the Empire— He pulled his thoughts away and,
suddenly nettled at the other’s silence and wanting an admission, since he had
just admired Demerzel’s honesty in his mind, said sharply, “Well, you have
failed, haven’t you?” Demerzel
did not flinch. “Sire, I have failed in part. I felt that to have him here on
Trantor where things are—difficult might present us with problems. It was easy
to consider that he might be more conveniently placed on his home planet. He
was planning to return to that home planet the next day, but there was always
the chance of complications—of his deciding to remain on Trantor—so I arranged
to have two young alley men place him on his plane that very day.” “Do
you know alley men, Demerzel?” Cleon was amused. “It
is important, Sire, to be able to reach many kinds of people, for each type has
its own variety of use—alley men not the least. As it happens, they did not
succeed.” “And
why was that?” “Oddly
enough, Seldon was able to fight them off.” “The
mathematician could fight?” “Apparently,
mathematics and the martial arts are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I
found out, not soon enough, that his world, Helicon, is noted for it—martial
arts, not mathematics. The fact that I did not learn this earlier was indeed a
failure, Sire, and I can only crave your pardon.” “But
then, I suppose the mathematician left for his home planet the next day as he
had planned.” “Unfortunately,
the episode backfired. Taken aback by the event, he decided not to return to
Helicon, but remained on Trantor. He may have been advised to this effect by a
passerby who happened to be present on the occasion of the fight. That was
another unlooked-for complication.” The
Emperor Cleon frowned. “Then our mathematician—what is his name?” “Seldon,
Sire. Hari Seldon.” “Then
this Seldon is out of reach.” “In
a sense, Sire. We have traced his movements and he is now at Streeling
University. While there, he is untouchable.” The
Emperor scowled and reddened slightly. “I am annoyed at that
word—‘untouchable.’ There should be nowhere in the Empire my hand cannot reach.
Yet here, on my own world, you tell me someone can be untouchable.
Insufferable!” “Your
hand can reach to the University, Sire. You can send in your army and pluck out
this Seldon at any moment you desire. To do so, however, is ... undesirable.” “Why
don’t you say ‘impractical,’ Demerzel. You sound like the mathematician
speaking of his fortune-telling. It is possible, but impractical. I am an
Emperor who finds everything possible, but very little practical. Remember,
Demerzel, if reaching Seldon is not practical, reaching you is entirely so.” Eto
Demerzel let this last comment pass. The “man behind the throne” knew his
importance to the Emperor, he had heard such threats before. He waited in
silence while the Emperor glowered. Drumming
his fingers against the arm of his chair, Cleon asked, ... Well then, what good
is this mathematician to us if he is at Streeling University?” “It
may perhaps be possible, Sire, to snatch use out of adversity. At the
University, he may decide to work on his psychohistory.” “Even
though he insists it’s impractical?” “He
may be wrong and he may find out that he is wrong. And if he finds out that he
is wrong, we would find some way of getting him out of the University. It is
even possible he would join us voluntarily under those circumstances.” The
Emperor remained lost in thought for a while, then said, “And what if someone
else plucks him out before we do?” “Who
would want to do that, Sire?” asked Demerzel softy. “The
Mayor of Wye, for one,” said Cleon, suddenly shouting. “He dreams still of
taking over the Empire.” “Old
age has drawn his fangs, Sire.” “Don’t
you believe it, Demerzel.” “And
we have no reason for supposing he has any interest in Seldon or even knows of
him, Sire.” “Come
on, Demerzel. If we heard of the paper, so could Wye. If we see the possible
importance of Seldon, so could Wye.” “If
that should happen,” said Demerzel, “or even if there should be a reasonable
chance of its happening, then we would be justified in taking strong measures.” “How
strong?” Demerzel
said cautiously, “It might be argued that rather than have Seldon in Wye’s
hands, we might prefer to have him in no one’s hands. To have him cease to
exist, Sire.” “To
have him killed, you mean,” said Cleon. “If
you wish to put it that way, Sire,” said Demerzel. 20.Hari
Seldon sat back in his chair in the alcove that had been assigned to him
through Dors Venabili’s intervention. He was dissatisfied. As a matter of fact,
although that was the expression he used in his mind, he knew that it was a
gross underestimation of his feelings. He was not simply dissatisfied, he was
furious—all the more so because he wasn’t sure what it was he was furious
about. Was it about the histories? The writers and compilers of histories? The
worlds and people that made the histories? Whatever the target of his fury, it
didn’t really matter. What counted was that his notes were useless, his new
knowledge was useless, everything was useless. He had been at the University
now for almost six weeks. He had managed to find a computer outlet at the very
start and with it had begun work—without instruction, but using the instincts
he had developed over a number of years of mathematical labors. It had been
slow and halting, but there was a certain pleasure in gradually determining the
routes by which he could get his questions answered. Then
came the week of instruction with Dors, which had taught him several dozen
shortcuts and had brought with it two sets of embarrassments. The first set
included the sidelong glances he received from the undergraduates, who seemed
contemptuously aware of his greater age and who were disposed to frown a bit at
Dors’s constant use of the honorific “Doctor” in addressing him. “I don’t want
them to think,” she said, “that you’re some backward perpetual student taking
remedial history.” “But
surely you’ve established the point. Surely, a mere ‘Seldon’ is sufficient
now.” “No,”
Dors said and smiled suddenly. “Besides, I like to call you ‘Dr. Seldon.’ I
like the way you look uncomfortable each time.” “You
have a peculiar sense of sadistic humor.” “Would
you deprive me?” For
some reason, that made him laugh. Surely, the natural reaction would have been
to deny sadism. Somehow he found it pleasant that she accepted the ball of
conversation and fired it back. The thought led to a natural question. “Do you
play tennis here at the University?” “We
have courts, but I don’t play.” “Good.
I’ll teach you. And when I do, I’ll call you Professor Venabili.” “That’s
what you call me in class anyway.” “You’ll
be surprised how ridiculous it will sound on the tennis court.” “I
may get to like it.” “In
that case, I will try to find what else you might get to like.” “I
see you have a peculiar sense of salacious humor.” She
had put that ball in that spot deliberately and he said, “Would you deprive
me?” She
smiled and later did surprisingly well on the tennis court. “Are
you sure you never played tennis?” he said, puffing, after one session. “Positive,”
she said. The
other set of embarrassments was more private. He learned the necessary
techniques of historical research and then burned—in private—at his earlier
attempts to make use of the computer’s memory. It was simply an entirely
different mind-set from that used in mathematics. It was equally logical, he
supposed, since it could be used, consistently and without error, to move in
whatever direction he wanted to, but it was a substantially different brand of
logic from that to which he was accustomed. But
with or without instructions, whether he stumbled or moved in swiftly, he
simply didn’t get any results. His
annoyance made itself felt on the tennis court. Dors quickly reached the stage
where it was no longer necessary to lob easy balls at her to give her time to
judge direction and distance. That made it easy to forget that she was just a
beginner and he expressed his anger in his swing, firing the ball back at her
as though it were a laser beam made solid. She
came trotting up to the net and said, “I can understand your wanting to kill
me, since it must annoy you to watch me miss the shots so often. How is it,
though, that you managed to miss my head by about three centimeters that time?
I mean, you didn’t even nick me. Can’t you do better than that?” Seldon,
horrified, tried to explain, but only managed to sound incoherent. She
said, “Look. I’m not going to face any other returns of yours today, so why
don’t we shower and then get together for some tea and whatever and you can
tell me just what you were trying to kill. If it wasn’t my poor head and if you
don’t get the real victim off your chest, you’ll be entirely too dangerous on
the other side of the net for me to want to serve as a target.” Over
tea he said, “Dors, I’ve scanned history after history; just scanned, browsed.
I haven’t had time for deep study yet. Even so, it’s become obvious. All the
book-films concentrate on the same few events.” “Crucial
ones. History-making ones.” “That’s
just an excuse. They’re copying each other. There are twenty-five million
worlds out there and there’s significant mention of perhaps twenty-five.” Dors
said, “You’re reading general Galactic histories only. Look up the special
histories of some of the minor worlds. On every world, however small, the
children are taught local histories before they ever find out there’s a great
big Galaxy outside. Don’t you yourself know more about Helicon, right now, than
you know about the rise of Trantor or of the Great Interstellar War?” “That
sort of knowledge is limited too,” said Seldon gloomily. “I know Heliconian
geography and the stories of its settlement and of the malfeasance and
misfeasance of the planet Jennisek—that’s our traditional enemy, though our
teachers carefully told us that we ought to say ‘traditional rival.’ But I
never learned anything about the contributions of Helicon to general Galactic
history.” “Maybe
there weren’t any.” “Don’t
be silly. Of course there were. There may not have been great, huge space
battles involving Helicon or crucial rebellions or peace treaties. There may
not have been some Imperial competitor making his base on Helicon. But there
must have been subtle influences. Surely, nothing can happen anywhere without
affecting everywhere else. Yet there’s nothing I can find to help me. See here,
Dors. In mathematics, all can be found in the computer; everything we know or
have found out in twenty thousand years. In history, that’s not so. Historians
pick and choose and every one of them picks and chooses the same thing.” “But,
Hari,” said Dors, “mathematics is an orderly thing of human invention. One
thing follows from another. There are definitions and axioms, all of which are
known. It is ... it is ... all one piece. History is different. It is the
unconscious working out of the deeds and thoughts of quadrillions of human
beings. Historians must pick and choose.” “Exactly,”
said Seldon, “but I must know all of history if I am to work out the laws of
psychohistory.” “In
that case, you won’t ever formulate the laws of psychohistory.” That
was yesterday. Now Seldon sat in his chair in his alcove, having spent another
day of utter failure, and he could hear Dors’s voice saying, “In that case, you
won’t ever formulate the laws of psychohistory.” It was what he had thought to
begin with and if it hadn’t been for Hummin’s conviction to the contrary and
his odd ability to fire Seldon with his own blaze of conviction, Seldon would
have continued to think so. And yet neither could he quite let go. Might there
not be some way out? He
couldn’t think of any. UppersideTRANTOR—
... It is almost never pictured as a world seen from space. It has long since
captured the general mind of humanity as a world of the interior and the image
is that of the human hive that existed under the domes. Yet there was an
exterior as well and there are holographs that still remain that were taken
from space and show varying degrees of [devil] (see Figures 14 and 15). Note
that the surface of the domes, the interface of the vast city and the overlying
atmosphere, a surface referred to in its time as “Upperside,” is ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 21.Yet
the following day found Hari Seldon back in the library. For one thing, there
was his promise to Hummin. He had promised to try and he couldn’t very well
make it a halfhearted process. For another, he owed something to himself too.
He resented having to admit failure. Not yet, at least. Not while he could
plausibly tell himself he was following up leads. So he stared at the list of
reference book-films he had not yet checked through and tried to decide which
of the unappetizing number had the slightest chance of being useful to him. He
had about decided that the answer was “none of the above” and saw no way out
but to look at samples of each when he was startled by a gentle tap against the
alcove wall. Seldon
looked up and found the embarrassed face of Lisung Randa peering at him around
the edge of the alcove opening. Seldon knew Randa, had been introduced to him
by Dors, and had dined with him (and with others) on several occasions. Randa,
an instructor in psychology, was a little man, short and plump, with a round
cheerful face and an almost perpetual smile. He had a sallow complexion and the
narrowed eyes so characteristic of people on millions of worlds. Seldon knew
that appearance well, for there were many of the great mathematicians who had
borne it, and he had frequently seen their holograms. Yet on Helicon he had
never seen one of these Easterners. (By tradition they were called that, though
no one knew why; and the Easterners themselves were said to resent the term to
some degree, but again no one knew why.) “There’s
millions of us here on Trantor,” Randa had said, smiling with no trace of
self-consciousness, when Seldon, on first meeting him, had not been able to
repress all trace of startled surprise. “You’ll also find lots of
Southerners—dark skins, tightly curled hair. Did you ever see one?” “Not
on Helicon,” muttered Seldon. “All
Westerners on Helicon, eh? How dull! But it doesn’t matter. Takes all kinds.”
(He left Seldon wondering at the fact that there were Easterners, Southerners,
and Westerners, but no Northerners. He had tried finding an answer to why that
might be in his reference searches and had not succeeded.) And now Randa’s
good-natured face was looking at him with an almost ludicrous look of concern.
He said, “Are you all right, Seldon?” Seldon
stared. “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” “I’m
just going by sounds, my friend. You were screaming.” “Screaming?”
Seldon looked at him with offended disbelief. “Not
loud. Like this.” Randa gritted his teeth and emitted a strangled high-pitched
sound from the back of his throat. “If I’m wrong, I apologize for this
unwarranted intrusion on you. Please forgive me.” Seldon
hung his head. “You’re forgiven, Lisung. I do make that sound sometimes, I’m
told. I assure you it’s unconscious. I’m never aware of it.” “Are
you aware why you make it?” “Yes.
Frustration. Frustration.” Randa
beckoned Seldon closer and lowered his voice further. “We’re disturbing people.
Let’s come out to the lounge before we’re thrown out.” In
the lounge, over a pair of mild drinks, Randa said, “May I ask you, as a matter
of professional interest, why you are feeling frustration?” Seldon
shrugged. “Why does one usually feel frustration? I’m tackling something in
which I am making no progress.” “But
you’re a mathematician, Hari. Why should anything in the history library
frustrate you?” “What
were you doing here?” “Passing
through as part of a shortcut to where I was going when I heard you ...
moaning. Now you see”—and he smiled—“it’s no longer a shortcut, but a serious
delay—one that I welcome, however.” “I
wish I were just passing through the history library, but I’m trying to solve a
mathematical problem that requires some knowledge of history and I’m afraid I’m
not handling it well.” Randa
stared at Seldon with an unusually solemn expression on his face, then he said,
“Pardon me, but I must run the risk of offending you now. I’ve been computering
you.” “Computering
me!” Seldon’s eyes widened. He felt distinctly angry. “I
have offended you. But, you know, I had an uncle who was a mathematician. You
might even have heard of him: Kiangtow Randa.” Seldon
drew in his breath. “Are you a relative of that Randa?” “Yes.
He is my father’s older brother and he was quite displeased with me for not
following in his footsteps—he has no children of his own. I thought somehow
that it might please him that I had met a mathematician and I wanted to boast
of you—if I could—so I checked what information the mathematics library might
have.” “I
see. And that’s what you were really doing there. Well—I’m sorry. I don’t
suppose you could do much boasting.” “You
suppose wrong. I was impressed. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the subject
matter of your papers, but somehow the information seemed to be very favorable.
And when I checked the news files, I found you were at the Decennial Convention
earlier this year. So ... what’s ‘psychohistory,’ anyway? Obviously, the first
two syllables stir my curiosity.” “I
see you got that word out of it.” “Unless
I’m totally misled, it seemed to me that you can work out the future course of
history.” Seldon
nodded wearily, “That, more or less, is what psychohistory is or, rather, what
it is intended to be.” “But
is it a serious study?” Randa was smiling. “You don’t just throw sticks?” “Throw
sticks?” “That’s
just a reference to a game played by children on my home planet of Hopara. The
game is supposed to tell the future and if you’re a smart kid, you can make a
good thing out of it. Tell a mother that her child will grow up beautiful and
marry a rich man and it’s good for a piece of cake or a half-credit piece on
the spot. She isn’t going to wait and see if it comes true; you are rewarded
just for saying it.” “I
see. No, I don’t throw sticks. Psychohistory is just an abstract study.
Strictly abstract. It has no practical application at all, except—” “Now
we’re getting to it. Exceptions are what are interesting.” “Except
that I would like to work out such an application. Perhaps if I knew more about
history—” “Ah,
that is why you are reading history?” “Yes,
but it does me no good,” said Seldon sadly. “There is too much history and
there is too little of it that is told.” “And
that’s what’s frustrating you?” Seldon
nodded. Randa
said, “But, Hari, you’ve only been here a matter of weeks.” “True,
but already I can see—” “You
can’t see anything in a few weeks. You may have to spend your whole lifetime
making one little advance. It may take many generations of work by many
mathematicians to make a real inroad on the problem.” “I
know that, Lisung, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I want to make some
visible progress myself.” “Well,
driving yourself to distraction won’t help either. If it will make you feel
better, I can give you an example of a subject much less complex than human
history that people have been working for I don’t know how long without making
much progress. I know because a group is working on it right here at the
University and one of my good friends is involved. Talk about frustration! You
don’t know what frustration is!” “What’s
the subject?” Seldon felt a small curiosity stirring within him. “Meteorology.” “Meteorology!”
Seldon felt revolted at the anticlimax. “Don’t
make faces. Look. Every inhabited world has an atmosphere. Every world has its
own atmospheric composition, its own temperature range, its own rotation and
revolution rate, its own axial tipping, it’s own land-water distribution. We’ve
got twenty five million different problems and no one has succeeded in finding
a generalization.” “...
that’s because atmospheric behavior easily enters a chaotic phase. Everyone
knows that.” “So
my friend Jenarr Leggen says. You’ve met him.” Seldon
considered. “Tall fellow? Long nose? Doesn’t speak much?” “That’s
the one.—And Trantor itself is a bigger puzzle than almost any world. According
to the records, it had a fairly normal weather pattern when it was first
settled. Then, as the population grew and urbanization spread, more energy was
used and more heat was discharged into the atmosphere. The ice cover
contracted, the cloud layer thickened, and the weather got lousier. That
encouraged the movement underground and set off a vicious cycle. The worse the
weather got, the more eagerly the land was dug into and the domes built and the
weather got still worse. Now the planet has become a world of almost incessant
cloudiness and frequent rains—or snows when it’s cold enough. The only thing is
that no one can work it out properly. No one has worked out an analysis that
can explain why the weather has deteriorated quite as it has or how one can
reasonably predict the details of its day-to-day changes.” Seldon
shrugged. “Is that sort of thing important?” “To
a meteorologist it is. Why can’t they be as frustrated over their problems as
you are over yours? Don’t be a project chauvinist.” Seldon
remembered the cloudiness and the dank chill on the way to the Emperor’s Palace. He
said, “So what’s being done about it?” “Well,
there’s a big project on the matter here at the University and Jenarr Leggen is
part of it. They feel that if they can understand the weather change on
Trantor, they will learn a great deal about the basic laws of general
meteorology. Leggen wants that as much as you want your laws of psychohistory.
So he has set up an incredible array of instruments of all kinds Upperside ...
you know, above the domes. It hasn’t helped them so far. And if there’s so much
work being done for many generations on the atmosphere, without results, how
can you complain that you haven’t gotten anything out of human history in a few
weeks?” Randa
was right, Seldon thought, and he himself was being unreasonable and wrong. And
yet ... and yet ... Hummin would say that this failure in the scientific attack
on problems was another sign of the degeneration of the times. Perhaps he was
right, also, except that he was speaking of a general degeneration and average
effect. Seldon felt no degeneration of ability and mentality in himself. He
said with some interest then, “You mean that people climb up out of the domes
and into the open air above?” “Yes.
Upperside. It’s a funny thing, though. Most native Trantorians won’t do it.
They don’t like to go Upperside. The idea gives them vertigo or something. Most
of those working on the meteorology project are Outworlders.” Seldon
looked out of the window and the lawns and small garden of the University
campus, brilliantly lit without shadows or oppressive heat, and said
thoughtfully, “I don’t know that I can blame Trantorians for liking the comfort
of being within, but I should think curiosity would drive some Upperside. It
would drive me.” “Do
you mean that you would like to see meteorology in action?” “I
think I would. How does one get Upperside?” “Nothing
to it. An elevator takes you up, a door opens, and there you are. I’ve been up
there. It’s ... novel.” “It
would get my mind off psychohistory for a while.” Seldon sighed. “I’d welcome
that.” “On
the other hand,” said Randy, “my uncle used to say, ‘All knowledge is one,’ and
he may be right. You may learn something from meteorology that will help you
with your psychohistory. Isn’t that possible?” Seldon
smiled weakly. “A great many things are possible.” And to himself he added: But
not practical. 22.Dors
seemed amused. “Meteorology?” Seldon
said, “Yes. There’s work scheduled for tomorrow and I’ll go up with them.” “Are
you tired of history?” Seldon
nodded his head somberly. “Yes, I am. I’ll welcome the change. Besides, Randy
says it’s another problem that’s too massive for mathematics to handle and it
will do me good to see that my situation isn’t unique.” “I
hope you’re not agoraphobic.” Seldon
smiled. “No, I’m not, but I see why you ask. Randy says that Trantorians are
frequently agoraphobic and won’t go Upperside. I imagine they feel
uncomfortable without a protective enclosure ...” Dors
nodded. “You can see where that would be natural, but there are also many
Trantorians who are to be found among the planets of the Galaxy—tourists,
administrators, soldiers. And agoraphobia isn’t particularly rare in the
Outworlds either.” “That
may be, Dors, but I’m not agoraphobic. I am curious and I welcome the change,
so I’ll be joining them tomorrow.” Dors
hesitated. “I should go up with you, but I have a heavy schedule tomorrow. And,
if you’re not agoraphobic, you’ll have no trouble and you’ll probably enjoy
yourself. Oh, and stay close to the meteorologists. I’ve heard of people
getting lost up there.” “I’ll
be careful. It’s a long time since I’ve gotten truly lost anywhere.” 23.Jenarr
Leggen had a dark look about him. It was not so much his complexion, which was
fair enough. It was not even his eyebrows, which were thick and dark enough. It
was, rather, that those eyebrows were hunched over deep-set eyes and a long and
rather prominent nose. He had, as a result, a most unmerry look. His eyes did
not smile and when he spoke, which wasn’t often, he had a deep, strong voice,
surprisingly resonant for his rather thin body. He said, “You’ll need warmer
clothing than that, Seldon.” Seldon
said, “Oh?” and looked about. There
were two men and two women who were making ready to go up with Leggen and
Seldon And, as in Leggen’s own case, their rather satiny Trantorian clothing
was covered by thick sweaters that, not surprisingly, were brightly colored in
bold designs. No two were even faintly alike, of course. Seldon looked down at
himself and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know but I don’t have any suitable outer
garment.” “I
can give you one. I think there’s a spare here somewhere.—Yes, here it is. A
little threadbare, but it’s better than nothing.” “Wearing
sweaters like these tan make you unpleasantly warm,” said Seldon. “Here
they would,” said Leggen. “Other conditions exist Upperside. Cold and windy.
Too bad I don’t have spare leggings and boots for you too. You’ll want them
later.” They
were taking with them a cart of instruments, which they were testing one by one
with what Seldon thought was unnecessary slowness. “Your home planet cold?”
asked Leggen. Seldon
said, “Parts of it, of course. The part of Helicon I come from is mild and
often rainy.” “Too
bad. You won’t like the weather Upperside.” “I
think I can manage to endure it for the time we’ll be up there.” When
they were ready, the group filed into an elevator that was marked: OFFICIAL USE
ONLY. “That’s
because it goes Upperside,” said one of the young women, “and people aren’t
supposed to be up there without good reason.” Seldon had not met the young
woman before, but he had heard her addressed as Clowzia. He didn’t know if that
was a first name, a last name, or a nickname. The elevator seemed no different
from others that Seldon had been on, either here on Trantor or at home in
Helicon (barring, of course, the gravitic lift he and Hummin had used), but
there was something about knowing that it was going to take him out of the
confines of the planet and into emptiness above that made it feel like a
spaceship. Seldon
smiled internally. A foolish fantasy. The
elevator quivered slightly, which remind Seldon of Hummin’s forebodings of
Galactic decay. Leggen, along with the other men and one of the women, seemed
frozen and waiting, as though they had suspended thought as well as activity
until they could get out, but Clowzia kept glancing at him as though she found
him terribly impressive. Seldon
leaned close and whispered to her (he hesitated to disturb the others), “Are we
going up very high?” “High?”
she repeated. She spoke in a normal voice, apparently not feeling that the
others required silence. She seemed very young and it occurred to Seldon that
she was probably an undergraduate. An apprentice, perhaps. “We’re
taking a long time. Upperside must be many stories high in the air.” For
a moment, she looked puzzled. Then, “Oh no. Not high at all. We started very
deep. The University is at a low level. We use a great deal of energy and if
we’re quite deep, the energy costs are lower.” Leggen
said, “All right. We’re here. Let’s get the equipment out.” The
elevator stopped with a small shudder and the wide door slid open rapidly. The
temperature dropped at once and Seldon thrust his hands into his pockets and
was very glad he had a sweater on. A cold wind stirred his hair and it occurred
to him that he would have found a hat useful and, even as he thought that,
Leggen pulled something out of a fold in his sweater, snapped it open, and put
it on his head. The others did the same. Only
Clowzia hesitated. She paused just before she put hers on, then offered it to
Seldon. Seldon
shook his head. “I can’t take your hat, Clowzia.” “Go
ahead. I have long hair and it’s pretty thick. Yours is short and a little ...
thin.” Seldon
would have liked to deny that firmly and at another time he would have. Now,
however, he took the hat and mumbled, “Thank you. If your head gets cold, I’ll
give it back.” Maybe
she wasn’t so young. It was her round face, almost a baby face. And now that
she had called attention to her hair, he could see that it was a charming
russet shade. He had never seen hair quite like that on Helicon. Outside
it was cloudy, as it had been the time he was taken across open country to the
Palace. It was considerably colder than it had been then, but he assumed that
was because they were six weeks farther into winter. The clouds were thicker
than they had been on the earlier occasion and the day was distinctly darker
and threatening—or was it just closer to night? Surely, they wouldn’t come up
to do important work without leaving themselves an ample period of daylight to
do it in. Or did they expect to take very little time? He would have liked to
have asked, but it occurred to him that they might not like questions at this
time. All of them seemed to be in states varying from excitement to anger. Seldon
inspected his surroundings. He
was standing on something that he thought might be dull metal from the sound it
made when he surreptitiously thumped his foot down on it. It was not bare
metal, however. When he walked, he left footprints. The surface was clearly
covered by dust or fine sand or clay. Well, why not? There could scarcely be
anyone coming up here to dust the place. He bent down to pinch up some of the
matter out of curiosity. Clowzia
had come up to him. She noticed what he was doing and said, with the air of a
housewife caught at an embarrassing negligence, “We do sweep hereabouts for the
sake of the instruments. It’s much worse most places Upperside, but it really
doesn’t matter. It makes for insulation, you know.” Seldon
grunted and continued to look about. There was no chance of understanding the
instruments that looked as though they were growing out of the thin soil (if
one could call it that). He hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were or what
they measured. Leggen
was walking toward him. He was picking up his feet and putting them down
gingerly and it occurred to Seldon that he was doing so to avoid jarring the
instruments. He made a mental note to walk that way himself. “You!
Seldon!” Seldon
didn’t quite like the tone of voice. He replied coolly, “Yes, Dr. Leggen?” “Well,
Dr. Seldon, then.” He said it impatiently. “That little fellow Randa told me
you are a mathematician.” “That’s
right.” “A
good one?” “I’d
like to think so, but it’s a hard thing to guarantee.” “And
you’re interested in intractable problems?” Seldon
said feelingly, “I’m stuck with one.” “I’m
stuck with another. You’re free to look about. If you have any questions, our
intern, Clowzia, will help out. You might be able to help us.” “I
would be delighted to, but I know nothing about meteorology.” “That’s
all right, Seldon. I just want you to get a feel for this thing and then I’d
like to discuss my mathematics, such as it is.” “I’m
at your service.” Leggen
turned away, his long scowling face looking grim. Then he turned back. “If you
get cold—too cold—the elevator door is open. You just step in and touch the
spot marked; UNIVERSITY BASE. It will take you down and the elevator will then
return to us automatically. Clowzia will show you—if you forget.” “I
won’t forget.” This
time he did leave and Seldon looked after him, feeling the cold wind knife
through his sweater. Clowzia came back over to him, her face slightly reddened
by that wind. Seldon
said, “Dr. Leggen seems annoyed. Or is that just his ordinary outlook on life?” She
giggled. “He does look annoyed most of the time, but right now he really is.” Seldon
said very naturally, “Why?” Clowzia
looked over her shoulder, her long hair swirling. Then she said, “I’m not
supposed to know, but I do just the same. Dr. Leggen had it all figured out
that today, just at this time, there was going to be a break in the clouds and
he’d been planning to make special measurements in sunlight. Only ... well,
look at the weather.” Seldon
nodded. “We
have holovision receivers up here, so he knew it was cloudy worse than usual—and
I guess he was hoping there would be something wrong with the instruments so
that it would be their fault and not that of his theory. So far, though, they
haven’t found anything out of the way.” “And
that’s why he looks so unhappy.” “Well,
he never looks happy.” Seldon
looked about, squinting. Despite the clouds, the light was harsh. He became
aware that the surface under his feet was not quite horizontal. He was standing
on a shallow dome and as he looked outward there were other domes in all directions,
with different widths and heights. “Upperside seems to be irregular,” he said. “Mostly,
I think. That’s the way it worked out.” “Any
reason for it?” “Not
really. The way I’ve heard it explained—I looked around and asked, just as you
did, you know—was that originally the people on Trantor domed in places,
shopping malls, sports arenas, things like that, then whole towns, so that
(here were lots of domes here and there, with different heights and different
widths. When they all came together, it was all uneven, but by that time,
people decided that’s the way it ought to be.” “You
mean that something quite accidental came to be viewed as a tradition?” “I
suppose so—if you want to put it that way.” (If
something quite accidental can easily become viewed as a tradition and be made
unbreakable or nearly so, thought Seldon, would that be a law of psychohistory?
It sounded trivial, but how many other laws, equally trivial, might there be? A
million? A billion? Were there a relatively few general laws from which these
trivial ones could be derived as corollaries? How could he say? For a while,
lost in thought, he almost forgot the biting wind.) Clowzia
was aware of that wind, however, for she shuddered and said, “It’s very nasty.
It’s much better under the dome.” “Are
you a Trantorian?” asked Seldon. “That’s
right.” Seldon
remembered Ranch’s dismissal of Trantorians as agoraphobic and said, “Do you
mind being up here?” “I
hate it,” said Clowzia, “but I want my degree and my specialty and status and
Dr. Leggen says I can’t get it without some field work. So here I am, hating
it, especially when it’s so cold. When it’s this cold, by the way, you wouldn’t
dream that vegetation actually grows on these domes, would you?” “It
does?” He looked at Clowzia sharply, suspecting some sort of practical joke
designed to make him look foolish. She looked totally innocent, but how much of
that was real and how much was just her baby face? “Oh
sure. Even here, when it’s warmer. You notice the soil here? We keep it swept
away because of our work, as I said, but in other places it accumulates here
and there and is especially deep in the low places where the domes meet. Plants
grow in it.” “But
where does the soil come from?” “When
the dome covered just part of the planet, the wind deposited soil on them,
little by little. Then, when Trantor was all covered and the living levels were
dug deeper and deeper, some of the material dug up, if suitable, would be
spread over the top.” “Surely,
it would break down the domes.” “Oh
no. The domes are very strong and they’re supported almost everywhere. The idea
was, according to a book-film I viewed, that they were going to grow crops
Upperside, but it turned out to be much more practical to do it inside the
dome. Yeast and algae could be cultivated within the domes too, taking the
pressure off the usual crops, so it was decided to let Upperside go wild. There
are animals on Upperside too—butterflies, bees, mice, rabbits. Lots of them.” “Won’t
the plant roots damage the domes?” “In
thousands of years they haven’t. The domes are treated so that they repel the
roots. Most of the growth is grass, but there are trees too. You’d be able to
see for yourself if this were the warm season or if we were farther south or if
you were up in a spaceship.” She looked at him with a sidewise flick of her
eyes, “Did you see Trantor when you were coming down from space?” “No,
Clowzia, I must confess I didn’t. The hypership was never well placed for
viewing. Have you ever seen Trantor from space?” She
smiled weakly. “I’ve never been in spare.” Seldon
looked about. Gray everywhere. “I
can’t make myself believe it,” he said. “About vegetation Upperside, I mean.” “It’s
true, though. I’ve heard people say—Otherworlders, like yourself, who did see
Trantor from space—that the planet looks green, like a lawn, because it’s
mostly grass and underbrush. There are trees too, actually. There’s a copse not
very far from here. I’ve seen it. They’re evergreens and they’re up to six
meters high.” “Where?” “You
can’t see it from here. Its on the other side of a dome. It’s—” The
call came out thinly. (Seldon realized they had been walking while they had
been talking and had moved away from the immediate vicinity of the others.) “Clowzia.
Get back here. We need you.” Clowzia
said, “Uh-oh. Coming.—Sorry, Dr. Seldon, I have to go.” She
ran off, managing to step lightly despite her lined boots. Had she been playing
with him? Had she been filling the gullible foreigner with a mess of lies for
amusement’s sake? Such things had been known to happen on every world and in
every time. An air of transparent honesty was no guide either; in fact,
successful taletellers would deliberately cultivate just such an air. So
could there really be six-meter trees Upperside? Without thinking much about
it, he moved in the direction of the highest dome on the horizon. He swung his
arms in an attempt to warm himself. And his feet were getting cold. Clowzia
hadn’t pointed. She might have, to give him a hint of the direction of the
trees, but she didn’t. Why didn’t she? To be sure, she had been called away. The
domes were broad rather than high, which was a good thing, since otherwise the
going would have been considerably more difficult. On the other hand, the
gentle grade meant trudging a distance before he could top a dome and look down
the other side. Eventually,
he could see the other side of the dome he had climbed. He looked back to make
sure he could still see the meteorologists and their instruments. They were a
good way off, in a distant valley, but he could see them clearly enough. Good. He
saw no copse, no trees, but there was a depression that snaked about between
two domes. Along each side of that crease, the soil was thicker and there were
occasional green smears of what might be moss. If he followed the crease and if
it got low enough and the soil was thick enough, there might be trees. He
looked back, trying to fix landmarks in his mind, but there were just the rise
and fall of domes. It made him hesitate and Dors’s warning against his being
lost, which had seemed a rather unnecessary piece of advice then, made more
sense now. Still, it seemed clear to him that the crease was a kind of road. If
he followed it for some distance, he only had to turn about and follow it back
to return to this spot. He
strode off purposefully, following the rounded crease downward. There was a
soft rumbling noise above, but he didn’t give it any thought. He had made up
his mind that he wanted to see trees and that was all that occupied him at the
moment. The
moss grew thicker and spread out like a carpet and here and there grassy tufts
had sprung up. Despite the desolation Upperside, the moss was bright green and
it occurred to Seldon that on a cloudy, overcast planet there was likely to be
considerable rain. The
crease continued to curve and there, just above another dome, was a dark smudge
against the gray sky and he knew he had found the trees. Then, as though his
mind, having been liberated by the sight of those trees, could turn to other
things, Seldon took note of the rumble he had heard before and had, without
thinking, dismissed as the sound of machinery. Now he considered that
possibility: Was it, indeed, the sound of machinery? Why not? He was standing
on one of the myriad domes that covered hundreds of millions of square kilometers
of the world-city. There must be machinery of all kinds hidden under those
domes—ventilation motors, for one thing. Maybe it could be heard, where and
when all the other sounds of the world-city were absent. Except that it did not
seem to come from the ground. He looked up at the dreary featureless sky.
Nothing. He
continued to scan the sky, vertical creases appearing between his eyes and
then, far off It was a small dark spot, showing up against the gray. And
whatever it was it seemed to be moving about as though getting its bearings
before it was obscured by the clouds again. Then,
without knowing why, he thought, They’re after me. And almost before he could
work out a line of action, he had taken one. He ran desperately along the
crease toward the trees and then, to reach them more quickly, he turned left
and hurtled up and over a low dome, treading through brown and dying fernlike
overgrowth, including thorny sprigs with bright red berries. 24.Seldon
panted, facing a tree, holding it closely, embracing it. He watched for the
flying object to make its appearance again so that he could back about the tree
and hide on the far side, like a squirrel. The tree was cold, its bark was
rough, it gave no comfort—but it offered cover. Of course, that might be
insufficient, if he was being searched for with a heat-seeker, but, on the
other hand, the cold trunk of a tree might blur even that. Below
him was hard-packed soil. Even in this moment of hiding, of attempting to see
his pursuer while remaining unseen, he could not help wondering how thick the
soil might be, how long it had taken to accumulate, many domes in the warmer
areas of Trantor carried forests on their back, and whether the trees were
always confined to the creases between domes, leaving the higher regions to
moss, grass, and underbrush. He
saw it again. It was not a hypership, nor even an ordinary air-jet. It was a
jet-down. He could see the faint glow of the ion trails corning out at the
vertices of a hexagon, neutralizing the gravitational pull and allowing the
wings to keep it aloft like a large soaring bird. It was a vehicle that could
hover and explore a planetary terrain. It
was only the clouds than had saved him. Even if they were using heat-seekers,
that would only indicate there were people below. The jet-down would have to
make a tentative dive below the banked ceiling before it could hope to know how
many human beings there were and whether any of them might be the particular
person the patties aboard were seeking. The
jet-down was closer now, but it couldn’t hide from him either. The rumble of
the engine gave it away and they couldn’t rum that off, not as long as they
wished to continue their search. Seldon knew the jet-downs, for on Helicon or
on any undomed world with skies that cleared now and then, they were common,
with many in private hands. Of
what possible use would jet-downs be on Trantor, with all the human life of the
world under domes, with low cloud ceilings all but perpetual—except for a few
government vehicles designed for just this purpose, that of picking up a wanted
person who had been lured above the domes? Why not? Government forces could nor
enter the grounds of the University, but perhaps Seldon was no longer on the
grounds. He was on top of the domes which might be outside the jurisdiction of
any local government. An Imperial vehicle might have every right to land on any
part of the dome and question or remove any person found upon it. Hummin had
not warned him of this, but perhaps he had merely not thought of doing so. The
jet-down was even closer now, nosing about like a blind beast sniffing out its
prey. Would it occur to them to search this group of trees? Would they land and
send out an armed soldier or two to beat through the copse? And if so, what
could he do? He was unarmed and all his quicktwist agility would be useless
against the agonizing pain of a neuronic whip. It was not attempting to land.
Either they missed the significance of the trees Or— A
new thought suddenly hit him. What if this wasn’t a pursuit vessel at all? What
if it was part of the meteorological testing? Surely, meteorologists would want
to test the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Was he a fool to hide from it? The
sky was getting darker. The clouds were getting thicker or, much more likely,
night was falling. And
it was getting colder and would get colder still. Was he going to stay out here
freezing because a perfectly harmless jet-down had made an appearance and had
activated a sense of paranoia that he had never felt before? He had a strong
impulse to leave the copse and get back to the meteorological station. After
all, how would the man Hummin feared so much—Demerzel—know that Seldon would,
at this particular time, be Upperside and ready to be taken? For a moment, that
seemed conclusive and, shivering with the cold, he moved out from behind the
tree. And
then he scurried back as the vessel reappeared even closer than before. He
hadn’t seen it do anything that would seem to be meteorological. It did nothing
that might be considered sampling, measuring, or testing. Would he see such
things if they took place? He did not know the precise sort of instruments the
jet-down carried or how they worked. If they were doing meteorological work, he
might not be able to tell.—Still, could he take the chance of coming into the
open? After
all, what if Demerzel did know of his presence Upperside, simply because an
agent of his, working in the University, knew about it and had reported the
matter. Lisung Randa, that cheerful, smiling little Easterner, had suggested he
go Upperside. He had suggested it quite forcefully and the subject had not
arisen naturally out of the conversation; at least, not naturally enough. Was
it possible that he was a government agent and had alerted Demerzel somehow?
Then there was Leggen, who had given him the sweater. The sweater was useful,
but why hadn’t Leggen told him he would need one earlier so he could get his
own? Was there something special about the one he was wearing? It was uniformly
purple, while all the others’ indulged in the Trantorian fashion of bright
patterns. Anyone looking down from a height would see a moving dull blotch in
among others that were bright and know immediately whom they wanted. And
Clowzia? She was supposedly Upperside to learn meteorology and help the
meteorologists. How was it possible that she could come to him, talk to him at
ease, and quietly walk him away from the others and isolate him so that he
could easily be picked up? For
that matter, what about Dors Venabili? She knew he was going Upperside. She did
not stop it. She might have gone with him, but she was conveniently busy. It
was a conspiracy. Surely, it was a conspiracy. He had convinced himself now and
there was no further thought of getting out from the shelter of the trees. (His
feet felt like lumps of ice and stamping them against the ground seemed to do
no good.) Would the jet-down never leave? And even as he thought that, the
pitch of the engine’s rumble heightened and the jet-down rose into the clouds
and faded away. Seldon
listened eagerly, alert to the smallest sound, making sure it was finally gone.
And then, even after he was sure it was gone, he wondered if that was just a
device to flush him out of hiding. He remained where he was while the minutes
slowly crawled on and night continued to fall. And finally, when he felt that
the true alternative to taking the chance of coming out in the open was that of
freezing into insensibility, he stepped out and moved cautiously beyond the
shelter of the trees. It was dusky twilight, after all. They couldn’t detect
him except by a heat-seeker, but, if so, he would hear the jet-down return. He
waited just beyond the trees, counting to himself, ready to hide in the copse
again at the smallest sound—though what good that would do him once he was
spotted, he couldn’t imagine. Seldon
looked about. If he could find the meteorologists, they would surely have
artificial light, but except for that, there would be nothing. He could still
just make out his surroundings, but in a matter of a quarter of an hour, half
an hour at the outside, he would not. With no lights and a cloudy sky above, it
would be dark—completely dark. Desperate
at the prospect of being enveloped in total darkness, Seldon realized that he
would have to find his way back to the crease that had brought him there as
quickly as possible and retrace his steps. Folding his arms tightly around
himself for warmth, he set off in what he thought was the direction of the
crease between the domes. There
might, of course, be more than one crease leading away from the copse, but he
dimly made out some of the sprigs of berries he had seen coming in, which now
looked almost black rather than bright red. He could not delay. He had to
assume he was right. He moved up the crease as fast as he might, guided by
failing sight and by the vegetation underfoot. But
he couldn’t stay in the crease forever. He had come over what had seemed to him
to be the tallest dome in sight and had found a crease that cut at right angles
across his line of approach. By his reckoning, he should now turn right, then
sharp left, and that would put him on the path toward the meteorologists’ dome. Seldon
made the left turn and, lifting his head, he could just make out the curve of a
dome against the fractionally lighter sky. That had to be it! Or was that only
wishful thinking? He
had no choice but to assume it wasn’t. Keeping his eye on the peak so that he
could move in a reasonably straight line, he headed for it as quickly as he
could. As he got closer, he could make out the line of dome against sky with
less and less certainty as it loomed larger and larger. Soon, if he was
correct, he would be going up a gentle slope and when that slope became level
he would be able to look down the other side and see the lights of the meteorologists.
In the inky dark, he could not tell what lay in his path. Wishing there were at
least a few sorts to shed some light, he wondered if this was how it felt to be
blind. He waved his arms before him as if they were antennae. It was growing
colder by the minute and he paused occasionally to blow on his hands and hold
them under his armpits. He wished earnestly he could do the same for his feet.
By now, he thought, if it started to precipitate, it would be snow—or, worse
yet, sleet. On
... on. There was nothing else to do. Eventually,
it seemed to him that he was moving downward. That was either wishful thinking
or he had topped the dome. He
stopped. If he had topped the dome, he should be able to see the artificial
light of the meteorological station. He would see the lights carried by the
meteorologists themselves, sparkling or dancing like fireflies. Seldon closed
his eyes as though to accustom them to dark and then try again, but that was a
foolish effort. It was no darker with his eyes closed than with them open and
when he opened them it was no lighter than when he had had them closed. Possibly
Leggen and the others were gone, had taken their lights with them and had
turned off any lights on the instruments. Or possibly Seldon had climbed the wrong
dome. Or he had followed a curved path along the dome so that he was now facing
in the wrong direction. Or he had followed the wrong crease and had moved away
from the copse in the wrong direction altogether. What should he do? If
he was facing the wrong direction, there was a chance that light would be
visible right or left—and it wasn’t. If he had followed the wrong crease, there
was no possible way he could return to the copse and locate a different crease.
His only chance lay in the assumption that he was facing the right direction
and that the meteorological station was more or less directly ahead of him, but
that the meteorologists had gone and had left it in darkness. Move forward,
then. The chances of success might be small, but it was the only chance he had. He
estimated that it had taken him half an hour to move from the meteorological
station to the top of the dome, having gone partway with Clowzia and sauntering
with her rather than striding. He was moving at little better than a saunter
now in the daunting darkness. Seldon
continued to slog forward. It would have been nice to know the time and he had
a timeband, of course, but in the dark. He stopped. He wore a Trantorian
timeband, which gave Galactic Standard time (as all timebands did) and which
also gave Trantorian local time. Timebands were usually visible in the dark,
phosphorescing so that one could tell time in the quiet dark of a bedchamber. A
Heliconian timeband certainly would; why not a Trantorian one? He
looked at his timeband with reluctant apprehension and touched the contact that
would draw upon the power source for light. The timeband gleamed feebly and
told him the time was 1847. For it to be nighttime already, Seldon knew that it
must be the winter season.—How far past the solstice was it? What was the
degree of axial tipping? How long was the year? How far from the equator was he
at this moment? There was no hint of an answer to any of these things, but what
counted was that the spark of light was visible. He was not blind! Somehow the
feeble glow of his timeband gave him renewed hope. His
spirits rose. He would move on in the direction he was going. He would move for
half an hour. If he encountered nothing, he would move on five minutes more—no
further—just five minutes. If he still encountered nothing, he would stop and
think. That, however, would be thirty-five minutes from now. Till then, he
would concentrate only on walking and on willing himself to feel warmer (He
wiggled his toes, vigorously. He could still feel them.) Seldon trudged onward
and the half hour passed. He paused, then hesitantly, he moved on for five more
minutes. Now
he had to decide. There was nothing. He might be nowhere, far removed from any
opening into the dome. He might, on the other hand, be standing three meters to
the left—or right—or short—of the meteorological station. He might be two arms’
lengths from the opening into the dome, which would not, however, be open. Now
what? Was
there any point in shouting? He was enveloped by utter silence but for the
whistling of the wind. If there were birds, beasts, or insects in among the
vegetation on the domes, they were not here during this season or at this time
of night or at this particular place. The wind continued to chill him. Perhaps
he should have been shouting all due way. The sound might have carried a good
distance in the cold air. But would there have been anyone to hear him? Would
they hear him inside the dome? Were there instruments to detect sound or
movement from above? Might there not be sentinels just inside? That seemed
ridiculous. They would have heard his footsteps, wouldn’t they? Still— He
called out. “Help! Help! Can someone hear me?” His cry was strangled,
half-embarrassed. It seemed silly shouting into vast black nothingness. But
then, he felt it was even sillier to hesitate in such a situation as this.
Panic was welling up in him. He took in a deep, cold breath and screamed for as
long as he could. Another breath and another scream, changing pitch. And
another. Seldon
paused, breathless, turning his head every which way, even though there was
nothing to see. He could not even detect an echo. There was nothing left to do
but wait for the dawn. But how long was the night at this season of the year?
And how cold would it get? He
felt a tiny cold touch sting his face. After a while, another. It was sleeting
invisibly in the pitch blackness. And there was no way to find shelter. He
thought: It would have been better if that jet-down had seen me and picked me
up. I would be a prisoner at this moment, perhaps, but I’d be warm and
comfortable, at least. Or,
if Hummin had never interfered, I might have been back in Helicon long ago.
Under surveillance, but warm and comfortable. Right now that was all he
wanted—to be warm and comfortable. But
at the moment he could only wait. He huddled down, knowing that however long
the night, he dared not sleep. He slipped off his shoes and rubbed his icy
feet. Quickly, he put his shoes back on. He
knew he would have to repeat this, as well as rubbing his hands and ears all
night long to keep his circulation flowing. But most important to remember was
that he must not let himself fall asleep. That would mean certain death. And,
having carefully thought all this out, his eyes closed and he nodded off to
sleep with the sleet coming down. RescueLEGGEN,
JENARR— ... His contributions to meteorology, however, although considerable,
pale before what has ever since been known as the Leggen Controversy. That his
actions helped to place Hari Seldon in jeopardy is undisputable, but argument
rages—and has always raged—as to whether those actions were the result of
unintentional circumstance or part of a deliberate conspiracy. Passions have
been raised on both sides and even the most elaborate studies have come to no
definite conclusions. Nevertheless, the suspicions that were raised helped
poison Leggen’s career and private life in the years that followed ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 25.It
was not quite the end of daylight when Dors Venabili sought out Jenarr Leggen.
He answered her rather anxious greeting with a grunt and a brief nod. “Well,”
she said a trifle impatiently. “How was he?” Leggen,
who was entering data into his computer, said, “How was who?” “My
library student Hari. Dr. Hari Seldon. He went up with you. Was he any help to
you?” Leggen
removed his hands from the keys of his computer and swivelled about. “That
Heliconian fellow? He was of no use at all. Showed no interest whatever. He
kept looking at the scenery when there was no scenery to look at. A real
oddball. Why did you want to send him up?” “It
wasn’t my idea. He wanted to. I can’t understand it. He was very interested.
Where is he now?” Leggen
shrugged. “How would I know? Somewhere around.” “Where
did he go after he came down with you? Did he say?” “He
didn’t come down with us. I told you he wasn’t interested.” “Then
when did he come down?” “I
don’t know. I wasn’t watching him. I had an enormous amount of work to do.
There must have been a windstorm and some sort of downpour about two days ago
and neither was expected. Nothing our instruments showed offered a good
explanation for it or for the fact that some sunshine we were expecting today
didn’t appear. Now I’m trying to make sense of it and you’re bothering me.” “You
mean you didn’t see him go down?” “Look.
He wasn’t on my mind. The idiot wasn’t correctly dressed and I could see that
inside of half an hour he wasn’t going to be able to take the cold. I gave him
a sweater, but that wasn’t going to help much for his legs and feet. So I left
the elevator open for him and I told him how to use it and explained that it
would take him down and then return automatically. It was all very simple and
I’m sure he did get cold and he did go down and the elevator did come back and
then eventually we all went down.” “But
you don’t know exactly when he went down?” “No,
I don’t. I told you. I was busy. He certainly wasn’t up there when we left,
though, and by that time twilight was coming on and it looked as though it
might sleet. So he had to have gone down.” “Did
anyone else see him go down?” “I
don’t know. Clowzia may have. She was with him for a while. Why don’t you ask
her?” Dors
found Clowzia in her quarters, just emerging from a hot shower. “It
was cold up there,” she said. Dors
said, “Were you with Hari Seldon Upperside?” Clowzia
said, eyebrows lifting, “Yes, for a while. He wanted to wander about and ask
questions about the vegetation up there. He’s a sharp fellow, Dors. Everything
seemed to interest him, so I told him what I could till Leggen called me back.
He was in one of his knock-your-head-off tempers. The weather wasn’t working
and he—” Dors
interrupted. “Then you didn’t see Hari go down in the elevator?” “I
didn’t see him at all after Leggen called me over.—But he has to be down here.
He wasn’t up there when we left.” “But
I can’t find him anywhere.” Clowzia
looked perturbed. “Really?—But he’s got to be somewhere down here.” “No,
he doesn’t have to be somewhere down here,” said Dors, her anxiety growing. “What
if he’s still up there?” “That’s
impossible. He wasn’t. Naturally, we looked about for him before we left.
Leggen had shown him how to go down. He wasn’t properly dressed and it was
rotten weather. Leggen told him if he got cold not to wait for us. He was
getting cold. I know! So what else could he do but go down?” “But
no one saw him go down.—Did anything go wrong with him up there?” “Nothing.
Not while I was with him. He was perfectly fine except that he had to be cold,
of course.” Dors,
by now quite unsettled, said, “Since no one saw him go down, he might still be
up there. Shouldn’t we go up and look?” Clowzia
said nervously, “I told you we looked around before we went down. It was still
quite light and he was nowhere in sight.” “Let’s
look anyway.” “But
I can’t take you up there. I’m just an intern and I don’t have the combination
for the Upperside dome opening. You’ll have to ask Dr. Leggen.” 26.Dors
Venabili knew that Leggen would not willingly go Upperside now. He would have
to be forced. First,
she checked the library and the dining areas again. Then she called Seldon’s
room. Finally, she went up there and signaled at the door. When Seldon did not
respond, she had the floor manager open it. He wasn’t there. She questioned
some of those who, over the last few weeks, had come to know him. No one had
seen him. Well,
then, she would make Leggen take her Upperside. By now, though, it was night.
He would object strenuously and how long could she spend arguing if Hari Seldon
was trapped up there on a freezing night with sleet turning to snow? A
thought occurred to her and she rushed to the small University computer, which
kept track of the doings of the students, faculty, and service staff. Her
fingers flew over the keys and she soon had what she wanted. There were three
of them in another part of the campus. She signed out for a small glidecart to
take her over and found the domicile she was looking for. Surely, one of them
would be available—or findable. Fortune was with her. The first door at which
she signaled was answered by a query light. She punched in her identification
number, which included her department affiliation. The door opened and a plump
middle-aged man stared out at her. He had obviously been washing up before
dinner. His dark blond hair was askew and he was not wearing any upper garment.
He said, “Sorry. You catch me at a disadvantage. What can I do for you, Dr.
Venabili?” She
said a bit breathlessly, “You’re Rogen Benastra, the Chief Seismologist, aren’t
you?” “Yes.” “This
is an emergency. I must see the seismological records for Upperside for the
last few hours.” Benastra
stared at her. “Why? Nothing’s happened. I’d know if it had. The seismograph
would inform us.” “I’m
not talking about a meteoric impact.” “Neither
am I. We don’t need a seismograph for that. I’m talking about gravel, pinpoint fractures.
Nothing today.” “Not
that either. Please. Take me to the seismograph and read it for me. This is
life or death.” “I
have a dinner appointment—” “I
said life or death and I mean it.” Benastra
said, “I don’t see—” but he faded out under Dors’s glare. He wiped his face,
left quick word on his message relay, end struggled into a shirt. They half-ran
(under Dors’s pitiless urging) to the small squat Seismology Building. Dors,
who knew nothing about seismology, said, “Down? We’re going down?” “Below
the inhabited levels. Of course. The seismograph has to be fixed to bedrock and
be removed from the constant clamor and vibration of the city levels.” “But
how can you tell what’s happening Upperside from down here?” “The
seismograph is wired to a set of pressure transducers located within the
thickness of the dome. The impact of a speck of grit will send the indicator
skittering off the screen. We can detect the flattening effect on the dome of a
high wind. We can—” “Yes,
yes,” said Dors impatiently. She was not here for a lecture on the virtues and
refinements of the instruments. “Can you detect human footsteps?” “Human
footsteps?” Benastra looked confused. “That’s not likely Upperside.” “Of
course it’s likely. There were a group of meteorologists Upperside this
afternoon.” “Oh.
Well, footsteps would scarcely be noticeable.” “It
would be noticeable if you looked hard enough and that’s what I want you to
do.” Benastra
might have resented the firm note of command in her voice, but, if so, he said
nothing. He touched a contact and the computer screen jumped to life. At the
extreme right center, there was a fat spot of light, from which a thin
horizontal line stretched to the left limit of the screen. There was a tiny
wriggle to it, a random non-repetitive seder of little hiccups and these moved
steadily leftward. It was almost hypnotic in its effect on Dors. Benastra
said, “That’s as quiet as it can possibly be. Anything you see is the result of
changing air pressure above, raindrops maybe, the distant whirr of machinery.
There’s nothing up there.” “All
right, but what about a few hours ago? Check on the records at fifteen hundred
today, for instance. Surely, you have some recordings.” Benastra
gave the computer its necessary instructions and for a second or two there was
wild chaos on the screen. Then it settled down and again the horizontal line
appeared. “I’ll
sensitize it to maximum,” muttered Benastra. There were now pronounced hiccups
and as they staggered leftward they changed in pattern markedly. “What’s
that?” said Dors. “Tell me.” “Since
you say there were people up there, Venabili, I would guess they were
footsteps—the shifting of weight, the impact of shoes. I don’t know that I
would have guessed it if I hadn’t known about the people up there. Its what we
call a benign vibration, not associated with anything we know to be dangerous.” “Can
you tell how many people are present?” “Certainly
not by eye. You see, we’re getting a resultant of all the impacts.” “You
say ‘not by eye.’ Can the resultant be analyzed into its components by the
computer?” “I
doubt it. These are minimal effects and you have to allow for the inevitable
noise. The results would be untrustworthy.” “Well
then. Move the time forward till the footstep indications stop. Can you make it
fast-forward, so to speak?” “If
I do—the kind of fast-forward you’re speaking of—then it will all just blur
into a straight line with a slight haze above and below. What I can do is move
it forward in fifteen-minute stages and study it quickly before moving on.” “Good.
Do that!” Both
watched the screen until Benastra said, “There’s nothing there now. See?” There
was again a line with nothing but tiny uneven hiccups of noise. “When
did the footsteps stop?” “Two
hours ago. A trifle more.” “And
when they stopped were there fewer than there were earlier?” Benastra
looked mildly outraged. “I couldn’t tell. I don’t think the finest analysis
could make a certain decision.” Dors
pressed her lips together. Then she said, “Are you testing a transducer—is that
what you called it—near the meteorological outlet?” “Yes,
that’s where the instruments are and that’s where the meteorologists would have
been.” Then, unbelievingly, “Do you want me to try others in the vicinity? One
at a time?” “No.
Stay on this one. But keep on going forward at fifteen-minute intervals. One
person may have been left behind and may have made his way back to the
instruments.” Benastra
shook his head and muttered something under his breath. The
screen shifted again and Dors said sharply, “What’s that?” She was pointing. “I
don’t know. Noise.” “No.
Its periodic. Could it be a single person’s footsteps?” “Sure,
but it could be a dozen other things too.” “It’s
coming along at about the time of footsteps, isn’t it?” Then, after a while,
she said, “Push it forward a little.” He
did and when the screen settled down she said, “Aren’t those unevennesses
getting bigger?” “Possibly.
We can measure them.” “We
don’t have to. You can see they’re getting bigger. The footsteps are
approaching the transducer. Go forward again. See when they stop.” After
a while Benastra said, “They stopped twenty or twenty-five minutes ago.” Then
cautiously, “Whatever they are.” “They’re
footsteps,” said Dors with mountain-moving conviction. “There’s a man up there
and while you and I have been fooling around here, he’s collapsed and he’s
going to freeze and die. Now don’t say, ‘Whatever they are!’ Just call
Meteorology and get me Jenarr Leggen. Life or death, I tell you. Say so!” Benastra,
lips quivering, had passed the stage where he could possibly resist anything
this strange and passionate woman demanded. It took no more than three minutes
to get Leggen’s hologram on the message platform. He
had been pulled away from his dinner table. There was a napkin in his hand and
a suspicious greasiness under his lower lip. His long face was set in a fearful
scowl. “ ‘Life or death?’ What is this? Who are you?” Then his eye caught Dors,
who had moved closer to Benastra so that her image would be seen on Jenarr’s
screen. He said, “You again. This is simple harassment.” Dors
said, “It is not. I have consulted Rogen Benastra, who is Chief Seismologist at
the University. After you and your party had left Upperside, the seismograph
shows clear footsteps of one person still there. It’s my student Hari Seldon,
who went up there in your care and who is now, quite certainly, lying in a
collapsed stupor and may not live long. “You
will, therefore, take me up there right now with whatever equipment may be
necessary. If you do not do so immediately, I shall proceed to University
security—to the President himself, if necessary. One way or another I’ll get up
there and if anything has happened to Hari because you delay one minute, I will
see to it that you are hauled in for negligence, incompetence—whatever I can make
stick—and will have you lose all status and be thrown out of academic life. And
if he’s dead, of course, that’s manslaughter by negligence. Or worse, since
I’ve now warned you he’s dying.” Jenarr,
furious, turned to Benastra. “Did you detect—” But
Dors cut in. “He told me what he detected and I’ve told you. I do not intend to
allow you to bulldoze him into confusion. Are you coming? Now?” “Has
it occurred to you that you may be mistaken?” said Jenarr, thin-lipped. “Do
you know what I can do to you if this is a mischievous false alarm? Loss of
status works both ways.” “Murder
doesn’t,” said Dors. “I’m ready to chance a trial for malicious mischief. Are
you ready to chance a trial for murder?” Jenarr
reddened, perhaps more at the necessity of giving in than at the threat. “I’ll
come, but I’ll have no mercy on you, young woman, if your student eventually
turns out to have been safe within the dome these past three hours.” 27.The
three went up the elevator in an inimical silence. Leggen had eaten only part
of his dinner and had left his wife at the dining area without adequate
explanation. Benastra had eaten no dinner at all and had possibly disappointed
some woman companion, also without adequate explanation. Dors Venabili had not
eaten either and she seemed the most tense and unhappy of the three. She
carried a thermal blanket and two photonic founts. When
they reached the entrance to Upperside, Leggen, jaw muscles tightening, entered
his identification number and the door opened. A cold wind rushed at them and
Benastra grunted. None of the three was adequately dressed, but the two men had
no intention of remaining up there long. Dors
said tightly, “It’s snowing.” Leggen
said, “It’s wet snow. The temperature’s just about at the freezing point. It’s
not a killing frost.” “It
depends on how long one remains in it, doesn’t it?” said Dors. “And being
soaked in melting snow won’t help.” Leggen
grunted. “Well, where is he?” He stared resentfully out into utter blackness,
made even worse by the light from the entrance behind him. Dors said, “Here,
Dr. Benastra, hold this blanket for me. And you, Dr. Leggen, close the door
behind you without locking it.” “There’s
no automatic lock on it. Do you think we’re foolish?” “Perhaps
not, but you can lock it from the inside and leave anyone outside unable to get
into the dome.” “If
someone’s outside, point him out. Show him to me,” said Leggen. “He
could be anywhere.” Dors lifted her arms with a photonic fount circling each
wrist. “We
can’t look everywhere,” mumbled Benastra miserably. The founts blazed into
light, spraying in every direction. The snowflakes glittered like a vast mob of
fireflies, making it even more difficult to see. “The
footsteps were getting steadily louder,” said Dors. “He had to be approaching
the transducer. Where would it be located?” “I
haven’t any idea,” snapped Leggen.—That’s outside my field and my
responsibility.” “Dr.
Benastra?” Benastra’s
reply was hesitant. “I don’t really know. To tell you the truth, I’ve never
been up here before. It was installed before my time. The computer knows, but
we never thought to ask it that.—I’m cold and I don’t see what use I am up
here.” “You’ll
have to stay up here for a while,” said Dors firmly. “Follow me. I’m going to
circle the entrance in an outward spiral.” “We
can’t see much through the snow,” said Leggen. “I
know that. If it wasn’t snowing, we’d have seen him by now. I’m sure of it. As
it is, it may take a few minutes. We can stand that.” She was by no means as
confident as her words made it appear. She
began to walk, swinging her arms, playing the light over as large a field as
she could, straining her eyes for a dark blotch against the snow. And,
as it happened, it was Benastra who first said, “What’s that?” and pointed. Dors
overlapped the two founts, making a bright cone of light in the indicated
direction. She ran toward it, as did the other two. They had found him, huddled
and wet, about ten meters from the door, five from the nearest meteorological
device. Dors felt for his heartbeat, but it was not necessary for, responding
to her touch, Seldon stirred and whimpered. “Give
me the blanket, Dr. Benastra,” said Dors in a voice that was faint with relief.
She flapped it open and spread it out in the snow. “Lift him onto it carefully
and I’ll wrap him. Then we’ll carry him down.” In
the elevator, vapors were rising from the wrapped Seldon as the blanket warmed
to blood temperature. Dors
said, “Once we have him in his room, Dr. Leggen, you get a doctor—a good
one—and see that he comes at once. If Dr. Seldon gets through this without
harm, I won’t say anything, but only if he does. Remember—” “You
needn’t lecture me,” said Leggen coldly. “I regret this and I will do what I
can, but my only fault was in allowing this man to come Upperside in the first
place.” The
blanket stirred and a low, weak voice made itself heard. Benastra started, for
Seldon’s head was cradled in the crook of his elbow. He said, “He’s trying to
say something.” Dors
said, “I know. He said, ‘What’s going on?’ ” She
couldn’t help but laugh just a little. It seemed such a normal thing to say. 28.The
doctor was delighted. “I’ve
never seen a case of exposure,” he explained. “One doesn’t get exposed on
Trantor.” “That
may be,” said Dors coldly, “and I’m happy you have the chance to experience
this novelty, but does it mean that you do not know how to treat Dr. Seldon?” The
doctor, an elderly man with a bald head and a small gray mustache, bristled.
“Of course, I do. Exposure cases on the Outer Worlds are common enough—an
everyday affair—and I’ve read a great deal about them.” Treatment consisted in
part of an antiviral serum and the use of a microwave wrapping. “This
ought to take care of it,” the doctor said. “On the Outer Worlds, they make use
of much more elaborate equipment in hospitals, but we don’t have that, of
course, on Trantor. This is a treatment for mild cases and I’m sure it will do
the job.” Dors
thought later, as Seldon was recovering without particular injury, that it was
perhaps because he was an Outworlder that he had survived so well. Dark, cold,
even snow were not utterly strange to him. A Trantorian probably would have
died in a similar case, not so much from physical trauma as from psychic shock. She
was not sure of this, of course, since she herself was not a Trantorian either. And,
turning her mind away from these thoughts, she pulled up a chair near to Hari’s
bed and settled down to wait. 29.On
the second morning Seldon stirred awake and looked up at Dors, who sat at his
bedside, viewing a book-film and taking notes. In a voice that was almost
normal, Seldon said, “Still here, Dors?” She
put down the book-film. “I can’t leave you alone, can I? And I don’t trust
anyone else.” “It
seems to me that every time I wake up, I see you. Have you been here all the
time?” “Sleeping
or waking, yes.” “But
your classes?” “I
have an assistant who has taken over for a while.” Dors leaned over and grasped
Hari’s hand. Noticing his embarrassment (he was, after all, in bed), she
removed it. “Hari,
what happened? I was so frightened.” Seldon
said, “I have a confession to make.” “What
is it, Hari?” “I
thought perhaps you were part of a conspiracy—” “A
conspiracy?” she said vehemently. “I
mean, to maneuver me Upperside where I’d be outside University jurisdiction and
therefore subject to being picked up by Imperial forces.” “But
Upperside isn’t outside University jurisdiction. Sector jurisdiction on Trantor
is from the planetary center to the sky.” “Ah,
I didn’t know that. But you didn’t come with me because you said you had a busy
schedule and, when I was getting paranoid, I thought you were deliberately
abandoning me. Please forgive me. Obviously, it was you who got me down from
there. Did anyone else care?” “They
were busy men,” said Dors carefully. “They thought you had come down earlier. I
mean, it was a legitimate thought.” “Clowzia
thought so too?” “The
young intern? Yes, she did.” “Well,
it may still have been a conspiracy. Without you, I mean.” “No,
Hari, it is my fault. I had absolutely no right to let you go Upperside alone.
It was my job to protect you. I can’t stop blaming myself for what happened,
for you getting lost.” “Now,
wait a minute,” said Seldon, suddenly irritated. “I didn’t get lost. What do
you think I am?” “I’d
like to know what you call it. You were nowhere around when the others left and
you didn’t get back to the entrance—or to the neighborhood of the entrance
anyway—till well after dark.” “But
that’s not what happened. I didn’t get lost just because I wandered away and
couldn’t find my way back. I told you I was suspecting a conspiracy and I had
cause to do so. I’m not totally paranoid.” “Well
then, what did happen?” Seldon
told her. He had no trouble remembering it in full detail; he had lived with it
in nightmare for most of the preceding day. Dors
listened with a frown. “But that’s impossible. A jet-down? Are you sure?” “Of
course I’m sure. Do you think I was hallucinating?” “But
the Imperial forces could not have been searching for you. They could not have
arrested you Upperside without creating the same ferocious rumpus they would
have if they had sent in a police force to arrest you on campus.” “Then
how do you explain it?” “I’m
not sure,” said Dors, “but it’s possible that the consequences of my failure to
go Upperside with you might have been worse than they were and that Hummin will
be seriously angry with me.” “Then
let’s not tell him,” said Seldon. “It ended well.” “We
must tell him,” said Dors grimly. “This may not be the end.” 30.That
evening Jenarr Leggen came to visit. It was after dinner and he looked from
Dors to Seldon several times, as though wondering what to say. Neither offered
to help him, but both waited patiently. He
had not impressed either of them as being a master of small talk. Finally
he said to Seldon, “I’ve come to see how you are.” “Perfectly
well,” said Seldon, “except that I’m a little sleepy. Dr. Venabili tells me
that the treatment will keep me tired for a few days, presumably so I’m sure of
getting needed rest.” He smiled. “Frankly, I don’t mind.” Leggen
breathed in deeply, let it out, hesitated, and then, almost as though he was
forcing the words out of himself, said, “I won’t keep you long. I perfectly
understand you need to rest. I do want to say, though, that I am sorry it all
happened. I should not have assumed—so casually—that you had gone down by
yourself. Since you were a tyro, I should have felt more responsible for you.
After all, I had agreed to let you come up. I hope you can find it in your
heart to ... forgive me. That’s really all I wish to say.” Seldon
yawned, putting his hand over his mouth. “Pardon me.—Since it seems to have
turned out well, there need be no hard feelings. In some ways, it was not your
fault. I should not have wandered away and, besides, what happened was—” Dors
interrupted. “Now, Hari, please, no conversation. Just relax. Now, I want to
talk to Dr. Leggen just a bit before he goes. In the first place, Dr. Leggen, I
quite understand you are concerned about how repercussions from this affair
will affect you. I told you there would be no follow-up if Dr. Seldon recovered
without ill effects. That seems to be taking place, so you may relax—for now. I
would like to ask you about something else and I hope that this time I will
have your free cooperation.” “I
will try, Dr. Venabili,” said Leggen stiffly. “Did
anything unusual happen during your stay Upperside?” “You
know it did. I lost Dr. Seldon, something for which I have just apologized.” “Obviously
I’m not referring to that. Did anything else unusual happen?” “No,
nothing. Nothing at all.” Dors
looked at Seldon and Seldon frowned. It seemed to him that Dors was trying to
check on his story and get an independent account. Did she think he was
imagining the search vessel? He would have liked to object heatedly, but she
had raised a quieting hand at him, as though she was preventing that very
eventuality. He subsided, partly because of this and partly because he really
wanted to sleep. He hoped that Leggen would not stay long. “Are
you certain?” said Dors. “Were there no intrusions from outside?” “No,
of course not. Oh—” “Yes,
Dr. Leggen?” “There
was a jet-down.” “Did
that strike you as peculiar?” “No,
of course not.” “Why
not?” “This
sounds very much as though I’m being cross-examined, Dr. Venabili. I don’t much
like it.” “I
can appreciate that, Dr. Leggen, but these questions have something to do with
Dr. Seldon’s misadventure. It may be that this whole affair is more complicated
than I had thought.” “In
what way?” A new edge entered his voice. “Do you intend to raise new questions,
requiring new apologies? In that case, I may find it necessary to withdraw.” “Not,
perhaps, before you explain how it is you do not find a hovering jet-down a bit
peculiar.” “Because,
my dear woman, a number of meteorological stations on Trantor possess jet-downs
for the direct study of clouds and the upper atmosphere. Our own meteorological
station does not.” “Why
not? It would be useful.” “Of
course. But we’re not competing and we’re not keeping secrets. We will report
on our findings; they will report on theirs. It makes sense, therefore, to have
a scattering of differences and specializations. It would be foolish to
duplicate efforts completely. The money and manpower we might spend on
jet-downs can be spent on mesonic refractometers, while others will spend on
the first and save on the latter. After all, there may be a great deal of
competitiveness and ill feeling among the sectors, but science is one
thing—only thing—that holds us together. You know that, I presume,” he added
ironically. “I
do, but isn’t it rather coincidental that someone should be sending a jet-down
right to your station on the very day you were going to use the station?” “No
coincidence at all. We announced that we were going to make measurements on
that day and, consequently, some other station thought, very properly, that they
might make simultaneous nephelometric measurements—clouds, you know. The
results, taken together, would make more sense and be more useful than either
taken separately.” Seldon
said suddenly in a rather blurred voice, “They were just measuring, then?” He
yawned again. “Yes”
said Leggen. “What else would they possibly be doing?” Dors
blinked her eyes, as she sometimes did when she was trying to think rapidly.
“That all makes sense. To which station did this particular jet-down belong?” Leggen
shook his head. “Dr. Venabili, how can you possibly expect me to tell?” “I
thought that each meteorological jet-down might possibly have its station’s
markings on it.” “Surely,
but I wasn’t looking up and studying it, you know. I had my own work to do and
I let them do theirs. When they report, I’ll know whose jet-down it was.” “What
if they don’t report?” “Then
I would suppose their instruments failed. That happens sometimes.” His right
fist was clenched. “Is that all, then?” “Wait
a moment. Where do you suppose the jet-down might have come from?” “It
might be any station with jet-downs. On a day’s notice—and they got more than
that—one of those vessels can reach us handily from anyplace on the planet.” “But
who most likely?” “Hard
to say: Hestelonia, Wye, Ziggoreth, North Damiano. I’d say one of these four
was the most likely, but it might be any of forty others at least.” “Just
one more question, then. Just one. Dr. Leggen, when you announced that your
group would be Upperside, did you by any chance say that a mathematician, Dr.
Hari Seldon, would be with you.” A
look of apparently deep and honest surprise crossed Leggen’s face, a look that
quickly turned contemptuous. “Why should I list names? Of what interest would
that be to anyone?” “Very
well,” said Dors. “The truth of the matter, then, is that Dr. Seldon saw the
jet-down and it disturbed him. I am not certain why and apparently his memory
is a bit fuzzy on the matter. He more or less ran away from the jet-down, got
himself lost, didn’t think of trying to return—or didn’t dare to—till it was
well into twilight, and didn’t quite make it back in the dark. You can’t be
blamed for that, so let’s forget the whole incident on both sides. “Agreed,”
said Leggen. “Good-bye!” He turned on his heel and left. When
he was gone, Dors rose, pulled off Seldon’s slippers gently, straightened him
in his bed, and covered him. He was sleeping, of course. Then
she sat down and thought. How much of what Leggen had said was true and what
might possibly exist under the cover of his words? She
did not know. MycogenMYCOGEN—
... A sector of ancient Trantor buried in the past of its own legends. Mycogen
made little impact on the planet. Self-satisfied and self-separated to a degree
... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 31.When
Seldon woke, he found a new face looking at him solemnly. For a moment he
frowned owlishly and then he said, “Hummin?” Hummin
smiled very slightly. “You remember me, then?” “It
was only for a day, nearly two months ago, but I remember. You were not
arrested, then, or in any way—” “As
you see, I am here, quite safe and whole, but—and he glanced at Dors, who stood
to one side—“it was not very easy for me to come here.” Seldon
said, “I’m glad to see you.—Do you mind, by the way?” He jerked his thumb in
the direction of the bathroom. Hummin
said, “Take your time. Have breakfast.” Hummin
didn’t join him at breakfast. Neither did Dors. Nor did they speak. Hummin
scanned a book-film with an attitude of easy absorption. Dors inspected her
nails critically and then, taking out a microcomputer, began making notes with
a stylus. Seldon
watched them thoughtfully and did not try to start a conversation. The silence
now might be in response to some Trantorian reserve customary at a sickbed. To
be sure, he now felt perfectly normal, but perhaps they did not realize that.
It was only when he was done with his last morsel and with the final drop of
milk (which he was obviously getting used to, for it no longer tasted odd) that
Hummin spoke. He
said, “How are you, Seldon?” “Perfectly
well, Hummin. Sufficiently well, certainly, for me to be up and about.” “I’m
glad to hear it,” said Hummin dryly. “Dors Venabili was much to blame in
allowing this to happen.” Seldon
frowned. “No. I insisted on going Upperside.” “I’m
sure, but she should, at all costs, have gone with you.” “I
told her I didn’t want her to go with me.” Dors
said, “That’s not so, Hari. Don’t defend me with gallant lies.” Seldon
said angrily, “But don’t forget that Dors also came Upperside after me, against
strong resistance, and undoubtedly saved my life. That’s not bending the truth
at all. Have you added that to your evaluation, Hummin?” Dors
interrupted again, obviously embarrassed. “Please, Hari. Chetter Hummin is
perfectly correct in feeling that I should either have kept you from going Upperside
or have gone up with you. As for my subsequent actions, he has praised them.” “Nevertheless,”
said Hummin, “that is past and we can let it go. Let us talk about what
happened Upperside, Seldon.” Seldon
looked about and said guardedly, “Is it safe to do so?” Hummin
smiled slightly. “Dors has placed this room in a Distortion Field. I can be
pretty sure that no Imperial agent at the University—if there is one—has the
expense to penetrate it. You are a suspicious person, Seldon.” “Not
by nature,” said Seldon. “Listening to you in the park and afterward— You are a
persuasive person, Hummin. By the time you were through, I was ready to fear
that Eto Demerzel was lurking in every shadow.” “I
sometimes think he might be,” said Hummin gravely. “If
he was,” said Seldon, “I wouldn’t know it was he. What does he look like?” “That
scarcely matters. You wouldn’t see him unless he wanted you to and by then it
would all be over, I imagine—which is what we must prevent. Let’s talk about
that jet-down you saw.” Seldon
said, “As I told you, Hummin, you filled me with fears of Demerzel. As soon as
I saw the jet-down, I assumed he was after me, that I had foolishly stepped
outside the protection of Streeling University by going Upperside, that I had
been lured up there for the specific purpose of being picked up without
difficulty.” Dors
said, “On the other hand, Leggen—” Seldon
said quickly, “Was he here last night?” “Yes,
don’t you remember?” “Vaguely.
I was dead tired. It’s all a blur in my memory.” “Well,
when he was here last night, Leggen said that the jet-down was merely a
meteorological vessel from another station. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly
harmless.” “What?”
Seldon was taken aback. “I don’t believe that.” Hummin
said, “Now the question is: Why don’t you believe that? Was there anything
about the jet-down that made you think it was dangerous? Something specific,
that is, and not just a pervasive suspicion placed in your head by me.” Seldon
thought back, biting his lower lip. He said, “Its actions. It seemed to push
its forepart below the cloud deck, as though it were looking for something,
then it would appear in another spot just the same way, then in another spot,
and so on. It seemed to be searching Upperside methodically, section by
section, and homing in on me.” Hummin
said, “Perhaps you were personifying, Seldon. You may have been treating the
jet-down as though it was a strange animal looking for you. It wasn’t, of
course. It was simply a jet-down and if it was a meteorological vessel, its
actions were perfectly normal ... and harmless.” Seldon
said, “It didn’t seem that way to me.” Hummin
said, “I’m sure it didn’t, but we don’t actually know anything. Your conviction
that you were in danger is simply an assumption. Leggen’s decision that it was
a meteorological vessel is also only an assumption.” Seldon
said stubbornly, “I can’t believe that it was an entirely innocent event.” “Well
then,” said Hummin, “suppose we assume the worst—that the vessel was looking
for you. How would whoever sent that vessel know you would be there to seek?” Dors
interjected, “I asked Dr. Leggen if he had, in his report of the forthcoming
meteorological work, included the information that Hari would be with the
group. There was no reason he should in the ordinary course of events and he
denied that he had, with considerable surprise at the question. I believed
him.” Hummin
said thoughtfully, “Don’t believe him too readily. Wouldn’t he deny it, in any
case? Now ask yourself why he allowed Seldon to come along in the first place.
We know he objected initially, but he did relent, without much fight. And that,
to me, seems rather out of character for Leggen.” Dors
frowned and said, “I suppose that does make it a bit more likely that he did
arrange the entire affair. Perhaps he permitted Hari’s company only in order to
put him in the position of being taken. He might have received orders to that
effect. We might further argue that he encouraged his young intern, Clowzia, to
engage Hari’s attention and draw him away from the group, isolating him. That
would account for Leggen’s odd lack of concern over Hari’s absence when it came
time to go below. He would insist that Hari had left earlier, something he
would have laid the groundwork for, since he had carefully showed him how to go
down by himself. It would also account for his reluctance to go back up in
search of him, since he would not want to waste time looking for someone he
assumed would not be found.” Hummin,
who had listened carefully, said, “You make an interesting case against him,
but let’s not accept that too readily either. After all, he did come Upperside
with you in the end.” “Because
footsteps had been detected. The Chief Seismologist had [been] witness to
that.” “Well,
did Leggen show shock and surprise when Seldon was found? I mean, beyond that
of finding someone who had been brought into extreme peril through Leggen’s own
negligence. Did he act as though Seldon wasn’t supposed to be there? Did he
behave as though he were asking himself: How is it they didn’t pick him up?” Dors
thought carefully, then said, “He was obviously shocked by the sight of Hari
lying there, but I couldn’t possibly tell if there was anything to his feelings
beyond the very natural horror of the situation.” “No,
I suppose you couldn’t.” But
now Seldon, who had been looking from one to the other as they spoke and who
had been listening intently, said, “I don’t think it was Leggen.” Hummin
transferred his attention to Seldon. “Why do you say that?” “For
one thing, as you noted, he was clearly unwilling to have me come along. It
took a whole day of argument and I think he agreed only because he had the
impression that I was a clever mathematician who could help him out with
meteorological theory. I was anxious to go up there and, if he had been under
orders to see to it that I was taken Upperside, there would have been no need
to be so reluctant about it.” “Is
it reasonable to suppose he wanted you only for your mathematics? Did he
discuss the mathematics with you? Did he make an attempt to explain his theory
to you?” “No,”
said Seldon, “he didn’t. He did say something about going into it later on,
though. The trouble was, he was totally involved with his instruments. I
gathered he had expected sunshine that hadn’t showed up and he was counting on
his instruments having been at fault, but they were apparently working
perfectly, which frustrated him. I think this was an unexpected development
that both soured his temper and turned his attention away from me. As for
Clowzia, the young woman who preoccupied me for a few minutes, I do not get the
feeling, as I look back on it, that she deliberately led me away from the
scene. The initiative was mine. I was curious about the vegetation on Upperside
and it was I who drew her away, rather than vice versa. Far from Leggen encouraging
her action, he called her back while I was still in sight and I moved farther
away and out of sight entirely on my own.” “And
yet,” said Hummin, who seemed intent on objecting to every suggestion that was
made, “if that ship was looking for you, those on board must have known you’d
be there. How would they know—if not from Leggett?” “The
man I suspect,” said Seldon, “is a young psychologist named Lisung Randa” “Randa?”
said Dors. “I can’t believe that. I know him. He simply would not be working for
the Emperor. He’s anti-Imperialist to the core.” “He
might pretend to be,” said Seldon. “In fact, he would have to be openly,
violently, and extremely anti-Imperialist if he was trying to mask the fact
that he is an Imperial agent.” “But
that’s exactly what he’s not like,” said Dors. “He is not violent and extreme
in anything. He’s quiet and good-natured and his views are always expressed
mildly, almost timidly. I’m convinced they’re genuine.” “And
yet, Dors,” said Seldon earnestly, “it was he who first told me of the
meteorological project, it was he who urged me to go Upperside, and it was he
who persuaded Leggen to allow me to join him, rather exaggerating my
mathematical prowess in the process. One must wonder why he was so anxious to
get me up there, why he should labor so hard.” “For
your good, perhaps. He was interested in you, Hari, and must have thought that
meteorology might have been useful in psychohistory. Isn’t that possible?” Hummin
said quietly, “Let’s consider another point. There was a considerable lapse of
time between the moment when Randa told you about the meteorology project and
the moment you actually went Upperside. If Randa is innocent of anything
underhanded, he would have no particular reason to keep quiet about it. If he
is a friendly and gregarious person—” “He
is,” said Dors. “—then
he might very likely tell a number of friends about it. In that case, we
couldn’t really tell who the informer might be. In fact, just to make another
point, suppose Randa is anti-Imperialist. That would not necessarily mean he is
not an agent. We would have to ask: Whom is he an agent for? On whose behalf
does he work?” Seldon
was astonished. “Who else is there to work for but the Empire? Who else but
Demerzel?” Hummin
raised his hand. “You are far from understanding the whole complexity of
Trantorian politics, Seldon.” He turned toward Dors. “Tell me again: Which were
the four sectors that Dr. Leggen named as likely sources for a meteorological
vessel?” “Hestelonia,
Wye, Ziggoreth, and North Damiano.” “And
you did not ask the question in any leading way? You didn’t ask if a particular
sector might be the source?” “No,
definitely not. I simply asked if he could speculate as to the source of the
jet-down.” “And
you”—Hummin turned to Seldon “may perhaps have seen some marking, some insigne,
on the jet-down?” Seldon
wanted to retort heatedly that the vessel could hardly be seen through the
clouds, that it emerged only briefly, that he himself was not looking for
markings, but only for escape—but he held back. Surely, Hummin knew all that.
Instead, he said simply, “I’m afraid not.” Dors
said, “If the jet-down was on a kidnapping mission, might not the insigne have
been masked?” “That
is the rational assumption,” said Hummin, “and it tray well have been, but in
this Galaxy rationality does not always triumph. However, since Seldon seems to
have taken no note of any details concerning the vessel, we can only speculate.
What I’m thinking is: Wye.” “Why?”
echoed Seldon. “I presume they wanted to take me because whoever was on the
ship wanted me for my knowledge of psychohistory.” “No,
no.” Hummin lifted his right forefinger as if lecturing a young student.
“W-y-e. It is the name of a sector on Trantor. A very special sector. It has
been ruled by a line of Mayors for some three thousand years. It has been a
continuous line, a single dynasty. There was a time, some five-hundred years
ago, when two Emperors and an Empress of the House of Wye sat on the Imperial
throne. It was a comparatively short period and none of the Wye rulers were
particularly distinguished or successful, but the Mayors of Wye have never
forgotten this Imperial past. “They
have not been actively disloyal to the ruling houses that have succeeded them,
but neither have they been known to volunteer much on behalf of those houses.
During the occasional periods of civil war, they maintained a kind of
neutrality, making moves that seemed best calculated to prolong the civil war
and make it seem necessary to turn to Wye as a compromise solution. That never
worked out, but they never stopped trying either. “The
present Mayor of Wye is particularly capable. He is old now, but his ambition
hasn’t cooled. If anything happens to Cleon—even a natural death—the Mayor will
have a chance at the succession over Cleon’s own too-young son. The Galactic
public will always be a little more partial toward a claimant with an Imperial
past. “Therefore,
if the Mayor of Wye has heard of you, you might serve as a useful scientific
prophet on behalf of his house. There would be a traditional motive for Wye to
try to arrange some convenient end for Cleon, use you to predict the inevitable
succession of Wye and the coming of peace and prosperity for a thousand years
after. Of course, once the Mayor of Wye is on the throne and has no further use
for you, you might well follow Cleon to the grave.” Seldon
broke the grim silence that followed by saying, “But we don’t know that it is
this Mayor of Wye who is after me.” “No,
we don’t. Or that anyone at all is after you, at the moment. The jet-down
might, after all, have been an ordinary meteorological testing vessel as Leggen
has suggested. Still, as the news concerning psychohistory and its potential
spreads—and it surely must—more and more of the powerful and semi-powerful on
Trantor or, for that matter, elsewhere will want to make use of your services.” “What,
then,” said Dors, “shall we do?” “That
is the question, indeed.” Hummin ruminated for a while, then said, “Perhaps it
was a mistake to come here. For a professor, it is all too likely that the
hiding place chosen would be a University. Streeling is one of many, but it is
among the largest and most free, so it wouldn’t be long before tendrils from
here and there would begin feeling their soft, blind way toward this place. I
think that as soon as possible—today, perhaps—Seldon should be moved to another
and better hiding place. But—” “But?”
said Seldon. “But
I don’t know where.” Seldon
said, “Call up a gazeteer on the computer screen and choose a place at random.” “Certainly
not,” said Hummin. “If we do that, we are as likely to find a place that is
less secure than average, as one that is more secure. No, this must be reasoned
out.—Somehow.” 32.The
three remained huddled in Seldon’s quarters till past lunch. During that time,
Hari and Dors spoke occasionally and quietly on indifferent subjects, but
Hummin maintained an almost complete silence. He sat upright, ate little, and
his grave countenance (which, Seldon thought, made him look older than his
years) remained quiet and withdrawn. Seldon
imagined him to be reviewing the immense geography of Trantor in his mind,
searching for a corner that would be ideal. Surely, it couldn’t be easy.
Seldon’s own Helicon was somewhat larger by a percent or two than Trantor was
and had a smaller ocean. The Heliconian land surface was perhaps 10 percent
larger than the Trantorian. But Helicon was sparsely populated, its surface
only sprinkled with scattered cities; Trantor was all city. Where Helicon was
divided into twenty administrative sectors; Trantor had over eight hundred and
every one of those hundreds was itself a complex of subdivisions. Finally
Seldon said in some despair, “Perhaps it might be best, Hummin, to choose which
candidate for my supposed abilities is most nearly benign, hand me over to that
one, and count on him to defend me against the rest.” Hummin
looked up and said in utmost seriousness, “That is not necessary. I know the
candidate who is most nearly benign and he already has you.” Seldon
smiled. “Do you place yourself on the same level with the Mayor of Wye and the
Emperor of all the Galaxy?” “In
point of view of position, no. But as far as the desire to control you is
concerned, I rival them. They, however, and anyone else I can think of want you
in order to strengthen their own wealth and power, while I have no ambitions at
all, except for the good of the Galaxy.” “I
suspect,” said Seldon dryly, “that each of your competitors—if asked—would
insist that he too was thinking only of the good of the Galaxy.” “I
am sure they would,” said Hummin, “but so far, the only one of my competitors,
as you call them, whom you have met is the Emperor and he was interested in
having you advance fictionalized predictions that might stabilize his dynasty.
I do not ask you for anything like that. I ask only that you perfect your
psychohistorical technique so that mathematically valid predictions, even if
only statistical in nature, can be made.” “True.
So far, at least,” said Seldon with a half-smile. “Therefore,
I might as well ask: How are you coming along with that task? Any progress?” Seldon
was uncertain whether to laugh or cage. After a pause, he did neither, but
managed to speak calmly. “Progress? In less than two months? Hummin, this is
something that might easily take me my whole life and the lives of the next
dozen who follow me.—And even then end in failure.” “I’m
not talking about anything as final as a solution or even as hopeful as the
beginning of a solution. You’ve said flatly a number of times that a useful
psychohistory is possible but impractical. All I am asking is whether there now
seems any hope that it can be made practical.” “Frankly,
no.” Dors
said, “Please excuse me. I am not a mathematician, so I hope this is not a
foolish question. How can you know something is both possible and impractical?
I’ve heard you say that, in theory, you might personally meet and greet all the
people in the Empire, but that it is not a practical feat because you couldn’t
live long enough to do it. But how can you tell that psychohistory is something
of this sort?” Seldon
looked at Dors with some incredulity. “Do you want that explained.” “Yes,”
she said, nodding her head vigorously so that her curled hair vibrated. “As
a matter of fact,” said Hummin, “so would I.” “Without
mathematics?” said Seldon with just a trace of a smile. “Please,”
said Hummin. “Well—”
He retired into himself to choose a method of presentation. Then he said, “—If
you want to understand some aspect of the Universe, it helps if you simplify it
as much as possible and include only those properties and characteristics that
are essential to understanding. If you want to determine how an object drops,
you don’t concern yourself with whether it is new or old, is red or green, or
has an odor or not. You eliminate those things and thus do not needlessly
complicate matters. The simplification you can call a model or a simulation and
you can present it either as an actual representation on a computer screen or
as a mathematical relationship. If you consider the primitive theory of nonrelativistic
gravitation—” Dors
said at once, “You promised there would be no mathematics. Don’t try to slip it
in by calling it ‘primitive.’ ” “No,
no. I mean ‘primitive’ only in that it has been known as long as our records go
back, that its discovery is shrouded in the mists of antiquity as is that of
fire or the wheel. In any case, the equations for such gravitational theory
contain within themselves a description of the motions of a planetary system,
of a double star, of tides, and of many other things. Making use of such
equations, we can even set up a pictorial simulation and have a planet circling
a star or two stars circling each other on a two-dimensional screen or set up
more complicated systems in a three-dimensional holograph. Such simplified
simulations make it far easier to grasp a phenomenon than it would be if we had
to study the phenomenon itself. In fact, without the gravitational equations,
our knowledge of planetary motions and of celestial mechanics generally would
be sparse indeed. “Now,
as you wish to know more and more about any phenomenon or as a phenomenon
becomes more complex, you need more and more elaborate equations, more and more
detailed programming, and you end with a computerized simulation that is harder
and harder to grasp.” “Can’t
you form a simulation of the simulation?” asked Hummin. “You would go down
another degree.” “In
that case, you would have to eliminate some characteristic of the phenomenon
which you want to include and your simulation becomes useless. The LPS—that is,
‘the least possible simulation’ gains in complexity faster than the object
being simulated does and eventually the simulation catches up with the
phenomenon. Thus, it was established thousands of years ago that the Universe
as a whole, in its full complexity, cannot be represented by any simulation
smaller than itself. “In
other words, you can’t get any picture of the Universe as a whole except by
studying the entire Universe. It has been shown also that if one attempts to
substitute simulations of a small part of the Universe, then another small
part, then another small part, and so on, intending to put them all together to
form a total picture of the Universe, one would find that there are an infinite
number of such part simulations. It would therefore take an infinite time to
understand the Universe in full and that is just another way of saying that it
is impossible to gain all the knowledge there is.” “I
understand you so far,” said Dors, sounding a little surprised. “Well
then, we know that some comparatively simple things are easy to simulate and as
things grow more and more complex they become harder to simulate until finally
they become impossible to simulate. But at what level of complexity does
simulation cease to be possible? Well, what I have shown, making use of a
mathematical technique first invented in this past century and barely usable
even if one employs a large and very fast computer, our Galactic society falls
short of that mark. It can be represented by a simulation simpler than itself. And
I went on to show that this would result in the ability to predict future
events in a statistical fashion—that is, by stating the probability for
alternate sets of events, rather than flatly predicting that one set will take
place.” “In
that case,” said Hummin, “since you can profitably simulate Galactic society,
it’s only a matter of doing so. Why is it impractical?” “All
I have proved is that it will not take an infinite time to understand Galactic
society, but if it takes a billion years it will still be impractical. That
will be essentially the same as infinite time to us.” “Is
that how long it would take? A billion years?” “I
haven’t been able to work out how long it would take, but I strongly suspect
that it will take at least a billion years, which is why I suggested that
number.” “But
you don’t really know.” “I’ve
been trying to work it out.” “Without
success?” “Without
success.” “The
University library does not help?” Hummin cast a look at Dors as he asked the
question. Seldon
shook his head slowly. “Not at all.” “Dors
can’t help?” Dors
sighed. “I know nothing about the subject, Chetter. I can only suggest ways of
looking. If Hari looks and doesn’t find, I am helpless.” Hummin
rose to his feet. “In that case, there is no great use in staying here at the
University and I must think of somewhere else to place you.” Seldon
reached out and touched his sleeve. “Still, I have an idea.” Hummin
stared at him with a faint narrowing of eyes that might have belied surprise—or
suspicion. “When did you get the idea? Just now?” “No.
It’s been buzzing in my head for a few days before I went Upperside. That
little experience eclipsed it for a while, but asking about the library
reminded me of it.” Hummin
seated himself again. “Tell me your idea—if it’s not something that’s totally
marinated in mathematics.” “No
mathematics at all. It’s just that reading history in the library reminded me
that Galactic society was less complicated in the past. Twelve thousand years
ago, when the Empire was on the way to being established, the Galaxy contained
only about ten million inhabited worlds. Twenty thousand years ago, the
pre-Imperial kingdoms included only about ten thousand worlds altogether. Still
deeper in the past, who knows how society shrinks down? Perhaps even to a single
world as in the legends you yourself once mentioned, Hummin.” Hummin
said, “And you think you might be able to work out psychohistory if you dealt
with a much simpler Galactic society?” “Yes,
it seems to me that I might be able to do so.” “Then
too,” said Dors with sudden enthusiasm, “suppose you work out psychohistory for
a smaller society of the past and suppose you can make predictions from a study
of the pre-Imperial situation as to what might happen a thousand years after
the formation of the Empire—you could then check the actual situation at that
time and see how near the mark you were.” Hummin
said coldly, “Considering that you would know in advance the situation of the
year 1,000 of the Galactic Era, it would scarcely be a fair test. You would be unconsciously
swayed by your prior knowledge and you would be bound to choose values for your
equation in such a way as to give you what you would know to be the solution.” “I
don’t think so,” said Dors. “We don’t know the situation in 1,000 G.E. very
well and we would have to dig. After all, that was eleven millennia ago.” Seldon’s
face turned into a picture of dismay. “What do you mean we don’t know the
situation in 1,000 G.E. very well? There were computers then, weren’t there,
Dors?” “Of
course.” “And
memory storage units and recordings of ear and eye? We should have all the
records of 1,000 G.E. as we have of the present year of 12,020 G.E.” “In
theory, yes, but in actual practice— Well, you know, Hari, it’s what you keep
saying. It’s possible to have full records of 1,000 G.E., but it’s not
practical to expect to have it.” “Yes,
but what I keep saying, Dors, refers to mathematical demonstrations. I don’t
see the applications to historical records.” Dors
said defensively, “Records don’t last forever, Hari. Memory banks can be
destroyed or defaced as a result of conflict or can simply deteriorate with
time. Any memory bit, any record that is not referred to for a long time,
eventually drowns in accumulated noise. They say that fully one third of the
records in the Imperial Library are simply gibberish, but, of course, custom
will not allow those records to be removed. Other libraries are less
tradition-bound. In the Streeling University library, we discard worthless
items every ten years. “Naturally,
records frequently referred to and frequently duplicated on various worlds and
in various libraries—governmental and private—remain clear enough for thousands
of years, so that many of the essential points of Galactic history remain known
even if they took place in pre-Imperial times. However, the farther back you
go, the less there is preserved.” “I
can’t believe that,” said Seldon. “I should think that new copies would be made
of any record in danger of withering. How could you let knowledge disappear?” “Undesired
knowledge is useless knowledge,” said Dors. “Can you imagine all the time,
effort, and energy expended in a continual refurbishing of unused data? And
that wastage would grow steadily more extreme with time.” “Surely,
you would have to allow for the fact that someone at some time might need the
data being so carelessly disposed of.” “A
particular item might be wanted once in a thousand years. To save it all just
in case of such a need isn’t cost-effective. Even in science. You spoke of the
primitive equations of gravitation and say it is primitive because its
discovery is lost in the mists of antiquity. Why should that be? Didn’t you
mathematicians and scientists save all data, all information, back and back to
the misty primeval time when those equations were discovered?” Seldon
groaned and made no attempt to answer. He said, “Well, Hummin, so much for my
idea. As we look back into the past and as society grows smaller, a useful
psychohistory becomes more likely. But knowledge dwindles even more rapidly than
size, so psychohistory becomes less likely—and the less outweighs the more.” “To
be sure, there is the Mycogen Sector,” said Dors, musing. Hummin
looked up quickly. “So there is and that would be the perfect place to put
Seldon. I should have thought of it myself.” “Mycogen
Sector,” repeated Hari, looking from one to the other. “What and where is
Mycogen Sector?” “Hari,
please, I’ll tell you later. Right now, I have preparations to make. You’ll
leave tonight.” 33.Dors
had urged Seldon to sleep a bit. They would be leaving halfway between lights
out and lights on, under cover of “night,” while the rest of the University
slept. She insisted he could still use a little rest. “And
have you sleep on the floor again?” Seldon asked. She
shrugged. “The bed will only hold one and if we both try to crowd into it,
neither of us will get much sleep.” He
looked at her hungrily for a moment and said, “Then I’ll sleep on the floor
this time.” “No,
you won’t. I wasn’t the one who lay in a coma in the sleet.” As
it happened, neither slept. Though they darkened the room and though the
perpetual hum of Trantor was only a drowsy sound in the relatively quiet
confines of the University, Seldon found that he had to talk. He said, “I’ve
been so much trouble to you, Dors, here at the University. I’ve even been
keeping you from your work. Still, I’m sorry I’ll have to leave you.” Dors
said, “You won’t leave me. I’m coming with you. Hummin is arranging a leave of
absence for me.” Seldon
said, dismayed, “I can’t ask you to do that.” “You’re
not. Hummin’s asking it. I must guard you. After all, I faded in connection
with Upperside and should make up for it.” “I
told you. Please don’t feel guilty about that.—Still, I must admit I would feel
more comfortable with you at my side. If I could only be sure I wasn’t
interfering with your life ...” Dors
said softly, “You’re not, Hari. Please go to sleep.” Seldon
lay silent for a while, then whispered, “Are you sure Hummin can really arrange
everything, Dors?” Dors
said, “He’s a remarkable man. He’s got influence here at the University and
everywhere else, I think. If he says he can arrange for an indefinite leave for
me, I’m sure he can. He is a most persuasive man.” “I
know,” said Seldon. “Sometimes I wonder what he really wants of me.” “What
he says,” said Dors. “He’s a man of strong and idealistic ideas and dreams.” “You
sound as though you know him well, Dors.” “Oh
yes, I know him well.” “Intimately?” Dors
made an odd noise. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Hari, but, assuming the
most insolent interpretation— No, I don’t know him intimately. What business
would that be of yours anyway?” “I’m
sorry,” said Seldon. “I just didn’t want, inadvertently, to be invading someone
else’s—” “Property?
That’s even more insulting. I think you had better go to sleep.” “I’m
sorry again, Dors, but I can’t sleep. Let me at least change the subject. You
haven’t explained what the Mycogen Sector is. Why will it be good for me to go
there? What’s it like?” “It’s
a small sector with a population of only about two million—if I remember
correctly. The thing is that the Mycogenians cling tightly to a set of
traditions about early history and are supposed to have very ancient records
not available to anyone else. It’s just possible they would be of more use to you
in your attempted examination of pre-Imperial times than orthodox historians
might be. All our talk about early history brought the sector to mind.” “Have
you ever seen their records?” “No.
I don’t know anyone who has.” “Can
you be sure that the records really exist, then?” “Actually,
I can’t say. The assumption among non-Mycogenians is that they’re a bunch of
madcaps, but that may be quite unfair. They certainly say they have records, so
perhaps they do. In any case, we would be out of sight there. The Mycogenians
keep strictly to themselves.—And now please do go to sleep.” And
somehow Seldon finally did. 34.Hari
Seldon and Dors Venabili left the University grounds at 0300. Seldon realized
that Dors had to be the leader. She knew Trantor better than he did—two years
better. She was obviously a close friend of Hummin (how close? the question
kept nagging at him) and she understood his instructions. Both she and Seldon
were swathed in light swirling docks with tight-fitting hoods. The style had
been a short-lived clothing fad at the University (and among young
intellectuals, generally) some years back and though right now it might provoke
laughter, it had the saving grace of covering them well and of making them
unrecognizable—at least at a cursory glance. Hummin
had said, “There’s a possibility that the event Upperside was completely
innocent and that there are no agents after you, Seldon, but let’s be prepared
for the worst.” Seldon
had asked anxiously, “Won’t you come with us?” “I
would like to,” said Hummin, “but I must limit my absence from work if I am not
to become a target myself. You understand?” Seldon
sighed. He understood. They
entered an Expressway car and found a seat as far as possible from the few who
had already boarded. (Seldon wondered why anyone should be on the Expressways
at three in the morning—and then thought that it was lucky some were or he and
Dors would be entirely too conspicuous.) Seldon
fell to watching the endless panorama that passed in review as the equally
endless line of coaches moved along the endless monorail on an endless
electromagnetic field. The
Expressway passed row upon row of dwelling units, few of them very tall, but
some, for all he knew, very deep. Still, if tens of millions of square
kilometers formed an urbanized total, even forty billion people would not
require very tall structures or very closely packed ones. They did pass open
areas, in most of which crops seemed to be growing—but some of which were
clearly parklike. And there were numerous structures whose nature he couldn’t
guess. Factories? Office buildings? Who knew? One large featureless cylinder
struck him as though it might be a water tank. After all, Trantor had to have a
fresh water supply. Did they sluice rain from Upperside, filter and treat it, then
store it? It seemed inevitable that they should. Seldon did not have very long
to study the view, however. Dors
muttered, “This is about where we should be getting off.” She stood up and her
strong fingers gripped his arm. They
were off the Expressway now, standing on solid flooring while Dors studied the
directional signs. The
signs were unobtrusive and there were many of them. Seldon’s heart sank. Most
of them were in pictographs and initials, which were undoubtedly understandable
to native Trantorians, but which were alien to him. “This
way,” said Dors. “Which
way? How do you know?” “See
that? Two wings and an arrow.” “Two
wings? Oh.” He had thought of it as an upside-down “w,” wide and shallow, but
he could see where it might be the stylized wings of a bird. “Why don’t they
use words?” he said sullenly. “Because
words vary from world to world. What an ‘air-jet’ is here could be a ‘soar’ on
Cinna or a ‘swoop’ on other worlds. The two wings and an arrow are a Galactic
symbol for an air vessel and the symbol is understood everywhere. Don’t you use
them on Helicon?” “Not
much. Helicon is a fairly homogeneous world, culturally speaking, and we tend
to cling to our private ways firmly because we’re overshadowed by our
neighbors.” “See?”
said Dors. “There’s where your psychohistory might come in. You could show that
even with different dialects the use of set symbols, Galaxy-wide, is a unifying
force.” “That
won’t help.” He was following her through empty dim alleyways and part of his
mind wondered what the crime rate might be on Trantor and whether this was a
high-crime area. “You can have a billion rules, each covering a single
phenomenon, and you can derive no generalizations from that. That’s what one
means when one says that a system might be interpreted only by a model as
complex as itself.—Dors, are we heading for an air-jet?” She
stopped and turned to look at him with an amused frown. “If we’re following the
symbols for air-jets, do you suppose we’re trying to reach a golf course? Are
you afraid of air-jets in the way so many Trantorians are?” “No,
no. We fly freely on Helicon and I make use of air-jets frequently. It’s just
that when Hummin took me to the University, he avoided commercial air travel
because he thought we would leave too clear a trail.” “That’s
because they knew where you were to begin with, Hari, and were after you
already. Right now, it may be that they don’t know where you are and we’re
using an obscure port and a private air-jet.” “And
who’ll be doing the flying?” “A
friend of Hummin’s, I presume.” “Can
he be trusted, do you suppose?” “If
he’s a friend of Hummin’s, he surely can.” “You
certainly think highly of Hummin,” said Seldon with a twinge of discontent. “With
reason,” said Dors with no attempt at coyness. “He’s the best.” Seldon’s
discontent did not dwindle. “There’s
the air-jet,” she said. It
was a small one with oddly shaped wings. Standing beside it was a small man,
dressed in the usual glaring Trantorian colors. Dors
said, “We’re psycho.” The
pilot said, “And I’m history.” They
followed him into the air-jet and Seldon said, “Whose idea were the passwords?” “Hummin’s,”
said Dors. Seldon
snorted. “Somehow I didn’t think Hummin would have a sense of humor. He’s so
solemn.” Dors
smiled. SunmasterSUNMASTER
FOURTEEN— ... A leader of the Mycogen Sector of ancient Trantor ... As is
true of all the leaders of this ingrown sector, little is known of him. That he
plays any role at all in history is due entirely to his interrelationship with
Hari Seldon in the course of The Flight ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 35.There
were just two seats behind the compact pilot compartment and when Seldon sat
down on padding that gave slowly beneath him meshed fabric came forward to
encircle his legs, waist, and chest and a hood came down over his forehead and
ears. He felt imprisoned and when he turned to his left with difficulty—and
only slightly—he could see that Dors was similarly enclosed. The
pilot took his own seat and checked the controls. Then he said, “I’m Endor
Levanian, at your service. You’re enmeshed because there will be a considerable
acceleration at lift-off. Once we’re in the open and flying, you’ll be
released. You needn’t tell me your names. It’s none of my business.” He turned
in his seat and smiled at them out of a gnomelike face that wrinkled as his
lips spread outward. “Any psychological difficulties, youngsters?” Dors
said lightly, “I’m an Outworlder and I’m used to flying.” “That
is also true for myself,” said Seldon with a bit of hauteur. “Excellent,
youngsters. Of course, this isn’t your ordinary air-jet and you may not have
done any night flying, but I’ll count on you to bear up.” He
was enmeshed too, but Seldon could see that his arms were entirely free. A
dull hum sounded inside the jet, growing in intensity and rising in pitch. Without
actually becoming unpleasant, it threatened to do so and Seldon made a gesture
as though to shake his head and get the sound out of his ears, but the attempt
to do so merely seemed to stiffen the hold of the head-mesh. The jet then
sprang (it was the only verb Seldon could find to describe the event) into the
air and he found himself pushed hard against the back and bottom of his seat. Through
the windshield in front of the pilot, Seldon saw, with a twinge of horror, the
flat rise of a wall—and then a round opening appear in that wall. It was
similar to the hole into which the air-taxi had plunged the day he and Hummin
had left the Imperial Sector, but though this one was large enough for the body
of the jet, it certainly did not leave room for the wings. Seldon’s head turned
as far to the right as he could manage and did so just in time to see the wing
on his side wither and collapse. The jet plunged into the opening and was
seized by the electromagnetic field and hurtled along a lighted runnel. The acceleration
was constant and there were occasional clicking noises that Seldon imagined
might be the passing of individual magnets. And
then, in less than ten minutes, the jet was spewed out into the atmosphere,
headlong into the sudden pervasive darkness of night. The jet decelerated as it
passed beyond the electromagnetic field and Seldon felt himself flung against
the mesh and plastered there for a few breathless moments. Then
the pressure ceased and the mesh disappeared altogether. “How
are you, youngsters?” came the cheerful voice of the pilot. “I’m
not sure,” said Seldon. He turned to Dors. “Are you all right?” “Certainly,”
she answered. “I think Mr. Levanian was putting us through his paces to see if
we were really Outworlders. Is that so, Mr. Levanian?” “Some
people like excitement,” said Levanian. “Do you?” “Within
limits,” said Dors. Then
Seldon added approvingly, “As any reasonable person would admit.” Seldon went
on. “It might have seemed less humorous to you, sir, if you had ripped the
wings off the jet.” “Impossible,
sir. I told you this is not your ordinary air-jet. The wings are thoroughly
computerized. They change their length, width, curvature, and overall shape to
match the speed of the jet, the speed and direction of the wind, the temperature,
and half a dozen other variables. The wings wouldn’t tear off unless the jet
itself was subjected to stresses that would splinter it.” There
was a spatter against Seldon’s window. He said, “It’s raining.’ “It
often is,” said the pilot. Seldon
peered out the window. On Helicon or on any other world, there would have been
lights visible—the illuminated works of man. Only on Trantor would it be dark. Well,
not entirely. At one point he saw the flash of a beacon light. Perhaps the
higher reaches of Upperside had warning lights. As usual, Dors took note of
Seldon’s uneasiness. Patting his hand, she said, “I’m sure the pilot knows what
he’s doing, Hari.” “I’ll
try to be sure of it, too, Dors, but I wish he’d share some of that knowledge
with us,” Seldon said in a voice loud enough to be overheard. “I
don’t mind sharing,” said the pilot. “To begin with, we’re heading up and we’ll
be above the cloud deck in a few minutes. Then there won’t be any rain and
we’ll even see the stars.” He
had timed the remark beautifully, for a few stars began to glitter through the
feathery cloud remnants and then all the rest sprang into brightness as the
pilot flicked off the lights inside the cabin. Only the dim illumination of his
own instrument panel remained to compete, and outside the window the sky
sparkled brightly. Dors
said, “That’s the first time in over two years that I’ve seen the stars. Aren’t
they marvelous? They’re so bright—and there are so many of them.” The
pilot said, “Trantor is nearer the center of the Galaxy than most of the
Outworlds.” Since
Helicon was in a sparse corner of the Galaxy and its star field was dim and
unimpressive, Seldon found himself speechless. Dors
said, “How quiet this flight has become.” “So
it is,” said Seldon. “What powers the jet, Mr. Levanian?” “A
microfusion motor and a thin stream of hot gas.” “I
didn’t know we had working microfusion air-jets. They talk about it, but—” “There
are a few small ones like this. So far they exist only on Trantor and are used
entirely by high government officials.” Seldon
said, “The fees for such travel must come high.” “Very
high, sir.” “How
much is Mr. Hummin being charged, then?” “There’s
no charge for this flight. Mr. Hummin is a good friend of the company who owns
these jets.” Seldon
grunted. Then he asked, “Why aren’t there more of these microfusion air-jets?” “Too
expensive for one thing, sir. Those that exist fulfill all the demand.” “You
could create more demand with larger jets.” “Maybe
so, but the company has never managed to make microfusion engines strong enough
for large air-jets.” Seldon
thought of Hummin’s complaint that technological innovation had declined to a
low level. “Decadent,” he murmured. “What?”
said Dors. “Nothing,”
said Seldon. “I was just thinking of something Hummin once said to me.” He
looked out at the stars and said, “Are we moving westward, Mr. Levanian?” “Yes,
we are. How did you know?” “Because
I thought that we would see the dawn by now if we were heading east to meet
it.” But
dawn, pursuing the planet, finally caught up with them and sunlight—real
sunlight brightened the cabin walls. It didn’t last long, however, for the jet
curved downward and into the clouds. Blue and gold vanished and were replaced
by dingy gray and both Seldon and Dors emitted disappointed cries at being deprived
of even a few more moments of true sunlight. When
they sank beneath the clouds, Upperside was immediately below them and its
surface—at least at this spot—was a rolling mixture of wooded grottos and
intervening grassland. It was the sort of thing Clowzia had told Seldon existed
on Upperside. Again
there was little time for observation, however. An opening appeared below them,
rimmed by lettering that spelled MYCOGEN. They
plunged in. 36.They
landed at a jetport that seemed deserted to Seldon’s wondering eyes. The pilot,
having completed his task, shook hands with both Hari and Dors and took his jet
up into the air with a rush, plunging it into an opening that appeared for his
benefit. There
seemed, then, nothing to do but wait. There were benches that could seat
perhaps a hundred people, but Seldon and Dors Venabili were the only two people
around. The port was rectangular, surrounded by walls in which there must be
many tunnels that could open to receive or deliver jets, but there were no jets
present after their own had departed and none arrived while they waited. There
were no people arriving or any indications of habitation; the very life hum of
Trantor was muted. Seldon
felt this aloneness to be oppressive. He turned to Dors and said, “What is it
that we must do here? Have you any idea?” Dors
shook her head. “Hummin told me we would be met by Sunmaster Fourteen. I don’t
know anything beyond that.” “Sunmaster
Fourteen? What would that be?” “A
human being, I presume. From the name I can’t be certain whether it would be a
man or a woman.” “An
odd name.” “Oddity
is in the mind of the receiver. I am sometimes taken to be a man by those who
have never met me.” “What
fools they must be,” said Seldon, smiling. “Not
at all. Judging from my name, they are justified. I’m told it is a popular
masculine name on various worlds.” “I’ve
never encountered it before.” “That’s
because you aren’t much of a Galactic traveler. The name ‘Hari’ is common
enough everywhere, although I once knew a woman named ‘Hare,’ pronounced like
your name but spelled with an ‘e.’ In Mycogen, as I recall, particular names
are confined to families—and numbered.” “But
Sunmaster seems so unrestrained a name.” “What’s
a little braggadocio? Back on Cinna, ‘Dors’ is from an Old local expression
meaning ‘spring gift.’ ” “Because
you were born in the spring?” “No.
I first saw the light of day at the height of Cinna’s summer, but the name
struck my people as pleasant regardless of its traditional—and largely
forgotten—meaning.” “In
that case, perhaps Sunmaster—” And
a deep, severe voice said, “That is my name, tribesman.” Seldon,
startled, looked to his left. An open ground-car had somehow drawn close. It
was boxy and archaic, looking almost like a delivery wagon. In it, at the
controls, was a tall old man who looked vigorous despite his age. With stately
majesty, he got out of the ground-car. He wore a long white gown with
voluminous sleeves, pinched in at the wrists. Beneath the gown were soft
sandals from which the big toe protruded, while his head, beautifully shaped,
was completely hairless. He regarded the two calmly with his deep blue eyes. He
said, “I greet you, tribesman.” Seldon
said with automatic politeness, “Greetings, sir.” Then, honestly puzzled, he
asked, “How did you get in?” “Through
the entrance, which closed behind me. You paid little heed.” “I
suppose we didn’t. But then we didn’t know what to expect. Nor do we now.” “Tribesman
Chetter Hummin informed the Brethren that there would be members from two of
the tribes arriving. He asked that you be cared for.” “Then
you know Hummin.” “We
do. He has been of service to us. And because he, a worthy tribesman, has been
of service to us, so must we be now to him. There are few who come to Mycogen
and few who leave. I am to make you secure, give you houseroom, see that you
are undisturbed. You will be safe here.” Dors
bent her head. “We are grateful, Sunmaster Fourteen.” Sunmaster
turned to look at her with an air of dispassionate contempt. “I am not unaware
of the customs of the tribes,” he said. “I know that among them a woman may
well speak before being spoken to. I am therefore not offended. I would ask her
to have a care among others of the Brethren who may be of lesser knowledge in
the matter.” “Oh
really?” said Dors, who was clearly offended, even if Sunmaster was not. “In
truth,” agreed Sunmaster. “Nor is it needful to use my numerical identifier
when I alone of my cohort am with you. ‘Sunmaster’ will be sufficient.—Now I
will ask you to come with me so that we may leave this place which is of too
tribal a nature to comfort me.” “Comfort
is for all of us,” said Seldon, perhaps a little more loudly than was
necessary, “and we will not budge from this place unless we are assured that we
will not be forcibly bent to your liking against our own natures. It is our
custom that a woman may speak whenever she has something to say. If you have
agreed to keep us secure, that security must be psychological as well as
physical.” Sunmaster
gazed at Seldon levelly and said, “You are bold, young tribesman. Your name?” “I
am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna.” Sunmaster
bowed slightly as Seldon pronounced his own name, did not move at the mention
of Dors’s name. He said, “I have sworn to Tribesman Hummin that we will keep
you safe, so I will do what I can to protect your woman companion in this. If
she wishes to exercise her impudence, I will do my best to see that she is held
guiltless.—Yet in one respect you must conform.” And he pointed, with infinite
scorn, first to Seldon’s head and then to Dors’s. “What
do you mean?” said Seldon. “Your
cephalic hair.” “What
about it?” “It
must not be seen.” “Do
you mean we’re to shave our heads like you? Certainly not.” “My
head is not shaven, Tribesman Seldon. I was depilated when I entered puberty,
as are all the Brethren and their women.” “If
we’re talking about depilation, then more than ever the answer is no—never.” “Tribesman,
we ask neither shaving nor depilation. We ask only that your hair be covered
when you are among us.” “How?” “I
have brought skincaps that will mold themselves to your skulls, together with
strips that will hide the superoptical patches the eyebrows. You will wear them
while with us. And of course, Tribesman Seldon, you will shave daily—or oftener
if that becomes necessary.” “But
why must we do this?” “Because
to us, hair on the head is repulsive and obscene.” “Surely,
you and all your people know that it is customary for others, in all the worlds
of the Galaxy, to retain their cephalic hair.” “We
know. And those among us, like myself, who must deal with tribesmen now and
then, must witness this hair. We manage, but it is unfair to ask the Brethren
generally to suffer the sight.” Seldon
said, “Very well, then, Sunmaster—but tell me. Since you are born with cephalic
hair, as all of us are and as you all retain it visibly till puberty, why is it
so necessary to remove it? Is it just a matter of custom or is there some
rationale behind it?” And
the old Mycogenian said proudly, “By depilation, we demonstrate to the youngster
that he or she has become an adult and through depilation adults will always
remember who they are and never forget that all others are but tribesmen.” He
waited for no response (and, in truth, Seldon could think of none) but brought
out from some hidden compartment in his robe a handful of thin bits of plastic
of varying color, stared keenly at the two faces before him, holding first one
strip, then another, against each face. “The colors must match reasonably,” he
said. “No one will be fooled into thinking you are not wearing a skincap, but
it must not be repulsively obvious.” Finally,
Sunmaster gave a particular strip to Seldon and showed him how it could be
pulled out into a cap. “Please
put it on, Tribesman Seldon,” he said. “You will find the process clumsy at
first, but you will grow accustomed to it.” Seldon
put it on, but the first two times it slipped off when he tried to pull it
backward over his hair. “Begin
just above your eyebrows,” said Sunmaster. His fingers seemed to twitch, as
though eager to help. Seldon
said, suppressing a smile, “Would you do it for me?” And
Sunmaster drew back, saying, almost in agitation, “I couldn’t. I would be
touching your hair.” Seldon
managed to hook it on and followed Sunmaster’s advice, in pulling it here and
there until all his hair was covered. The eyebrow patches fitted on easily.
Dors, who had watched carefully, put hers on without trouble. “How
does it come off?” asked Seldon. “You
have but to find an end and it will peel off without trouble. You will find it
easier both to put on and take off if you cut your hair shorter.” “I’d
rather struggle a bit,” said Seldon. Then, turning to Dors, he said in a low
voice, “You’re still pretty, Dors, but it does tend to remove some of the
character from your face.” “The
character is there underneath just the same,” she answered. “And I dare say
you’ll grow accustomed to the hairless me.” In
a still lower whisper, Seldon said, “I don’t want to stay here long enough to
get accustomed to this.” Sunmaster,
who ignored, with visible haughtiness, the mumblings among mere tribesmen,
said, “If you will enter my ground-car, I will now take you into Mycogen.” 37.“Frankly,”
whispered Dors, “I can scarcely believe I’m on Trantor.” “I
take it, then, you’ve never seen anything like this before?” said Seldon. “I’ve
only been on Trantor for two years and I’ve spent much of my time at the
University, so I’m not exactly a world traveler. Still, I’ve been here and
there and I’ve heard of this and that, but I’ve never seen or heard of anything
like this. The sameness.” Sunmaster
drove along methodically and without undue haste. There were other wagonlike
vehicles in the roadway, all with hairless men at the controls, their bald
pates gleaming in the light. On
either side there were three-story structures, unornamented, all lines meeting
at right angles, everything gray in color. “Dreary,”
mouthed Dors. “So dreary.” “Egalitarian,”
whispered Seldon. “I suspect no Brother can lay claim to precedence of any
obvious kind over any other.” There
were many pedestrians on the walkways as they passed. There were no signs of
any moving corridors and no sound of any nearby Expressway. Dors
said, “I’m guessing the grays are women.” “Its
hard to tell,” said Seldon. “The gowns hide everything and one hairless head is
like another.” “The
grays are always in pairs or with a white. The whites [also] walk alone and
Sunmaster is a white.” “You
may be right.” Seldon raised his voice. “Sunmaster, I am curious.” “If
you are, then ask what you wish, although I am by no means required to answer.” “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. 38.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.” Seldon,
still playing with the device, said, “Whoops! It went on. Or something went on.
But I don’t hear anything.” Dors
frowned and picked up a small felt-lined cylinder that remained behind on the
end table. She put it to her ear. “There’s a voice coming out of this,” she
said. “Here, try it.” She handed it to him. Seldon
did so and said, “Ouch! It clips on.” He listened and said, “Yes, it hurt my
ear. You can hear me, I take it.—Yes, this is our room. No, I don’t know its
number. Dors, have you any idea of the number?” Dors
said, “There’s a number on the speaker. Maybe that will do.” “Maybe,”
said Seldon doubtfully. Then he said into the speaker, “The number on this
device is 6LT-3648A. Will that do?—Well, where do I find out how to use this
device properly and how to use the kitchen, for that matter?—What do you mean,
‘It all works the usual way?’ That doesn’t do me any good. See here, I’m a ...
a tribesman, an honored guest. I don’t know the usual way.—Yes, I’m sorry about
my accent and I’m glad you can recognize a tribesman when you hear one. My name
is Hari Seldon.” There
was a pause and Seldon looked up at Dors with a longsuffering expression on his
face. “He has to look me up. And I suppose he’ll tell me he can’t find me.—Oh,
you have me? Good! In that case, can you give me the information?—Yes.
Yes.—Yes.—And how can I call someone outside Mycogen?—Oh, then what about
contacting Sunmaster Fourteen, for instance?—Well, his assistant then, his
aide, whatever?—Uh-huh.—Thank you.” He
put the speaker down, unhooked the hearing device from his ear with a little
difficulty, turned the whole thing off, and said, “They’ll arrange to have
someone show us anything we need to know, but he can’t promise when that might
be. You can’t call outside Mycogen—not on this thing anyway—so we couldn’t get
Hummin if we needed him. And if I want Sunmaster Fourteen, I’ve got to go
through a tremendous rigmarole. This may be an egalitarian society, but there
seem to be exceptions that I bet no one will openly admit.” He looked at his
watch. “In any case, Dors, I’m not going to view a cookbook and still less am I
going to view learned essays. My watch is still telling University time, so I
don’t know if it’s officially bedtime and at the moment I don’t care. We’ve
been awake most of the night and I would like to sleep.” “That’s
all right with me. I’m tired too.” “Thanks.
And whenever a new day starts after we’ve caught up on our sleep, I’m going to
ask for a tour of their microfood plantations.” Dors
looked startled. “Are you interested?” “Not
really, but if that’s the one thing they’re proud of, they should be willing to
talk about it and once I get them into a talking mood then, by exerting all my
charm, I may get them to talk about their legends too. Personally, I think
that’s a clever strategy.” “I
hope so,” said Dors dubiously, “but I think that the Mycogenians will not be so
easily trapped.” “We’ll
see,” said Seldon grimly. “I mean to get those legends.” 39.The
next morning found Hari using the calling device again. He was angry because,
for one thing, he was hungry. His
attempt to reach Sunmaster Fourteen was deflected by someone who insisted that
Sunmaster could not be disturbed. “Why
not?” Seldon had asked waspishly. “Obviously,
there is no need to answer that question,” came back a cold voice. “We
were not brought here to be prisoners,” said Seldon with equal coldness. “Nor
to starve.” “I’m
sure you have a kitchen and ample supplies of food.” “Yes,
we do,” said Seldon. “And I do not know how to use the kitchen devices, nor do
I know how to prepare the food. Do you eat it raw, fry it, boil it, roast it
…?” “I
can’t believe you are ignorant in such matters.” Dors,
who had been pacing up and down during this colloquy, reached for the device
and Seldon fended her off, whispering, “He’ll break the connection if a woman
tries to speak to him.” Then,
into the device, he said more firmly than ever, “What you believe or don’t
believe doesn’t matter to me in the least. You send someone here—someone who
can do something about our situation—or when I reach Sunmaster Fourteen, as I
will eventually, you will pay for this.” Nevertheless,
it was two hours before someone arrived (by which time Seldon was in a state of
savagery and Dors had grown rather desperate in her attempt to soothe him). The
newcomer was a young man whose bald pate was slightly freckled and who probably
would have been a redhead otherwise. He
was bearing several pots and he seemed about to explain them when he suddenly
looked uneasy and turned his back on Seldon in alarm. “Tribesman,” he said,
obviously agitated. “Your skincap is not well adjusted.” Seldon,
whose impatience had reached the breaking point, said, “That doesn’t bother
me.” Dors,
however, said, “Let me adjust it, Hari. It’s just a bit too high here on the
left side.” Seldon
then growled, “You can turn now, young man. What is your name?” “I
am Graycloud Five,” said the Mycogenian uncertainly as he turned and looked
cautiously at Seldon. “I am a novitiate. I have brought a meal for you.” He
hesitated. “From my own kitchen, where my woman prepared it, tribesman.” He put
the pots down on the table and Seldon raised one lid and sniffed the contents
suspiciously. He looked up at Dors in surprise. “You
know, it doesn’t smell bad.” Dors
nodded. “You’re right. I can smell it too.” Graycloud
said, “It’s not as hot as it ought to be. It cooled off in transport. You must
have crockery and cutlery in your kitchen.” Dors
got what was needed, and after they had eaten, largely and a bit greedily,
Seldon felt civilized once more. Dors,
who realized that the young man would feel unhappy at being alone with a woman
and even unhappier if she spoke to him, found that, by default, it fell to her
to carry the pots and dishes into the kitchen and wash them—once she deciphered
the controls of the washing device. Meanwhile,
Seldon asked the local time and said, somewhat abashed, “You mean it’s the
middle of the night?” “Indeed,
tribesman,” said Graycloud. “That’s why it took a while to satisfy your need.” Seldon
understood suddenly why Sunmaster could not be disturbed and thought of
Graycloud’s woman having to be awakened to prepare him a meal and felt his
conscience gnaw at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We are only tribespeople and we
didn’t know how to use the kitchen or how to prepare the food. In the morning,
could you have someone arrive to instruct us properly?” “The
best I can do, tribesmen,” said Graycloud placatingly, “is to have two Sisters
sent in. I ask your pardon for inconveniencing you with feminine presence, but
it is they who know these things.” Dors,
who had emerged from the kitchen, said (before remembering her place in the
masculine Mycogenian society), “That’s fine, Graycloud. We’d love to meet the
Sisters.” Graycloud
looked at her uneasily and fleetingly, but said nothing. Seldon,
convinced that the young Mycogenian would, on principle, refuse to have heard
what a woman said to him, repeated the remark. “That’s fine, Graycloud. We’d
love to meet the Sisters.” His
expression cleared at once. “I will have them here as soon as it is day.” When
Graycloud had left, Seldon said with some satisfaction, “The Sisters are likely
to be exactly what we need.” “Indeed?
And in what way, Hari?” asked Dors. “Well,
surely if we treat them as though they are human beings, they will be grateful
enough to speak of their legends.” “If
they know them,” said Dors skeptically. “Somehow I have no faith that the
Mycogenians bother to educate their women very well.” 40.The
Sisters arrived some six hours later after Seldon and Dors had slept some more,
hoping to readjust their biological clocks. The Sisters entered the apartment
shyly, almost on tiptoe. Their gowns (which, it turned out, were termed
“kirtles” in the Mycogenian dialect) were soft velvety gray, each uniquely
decorated by a subtle pattern of fine, darker gray webbing. The kirtles were
not entirely unattractive, but they were certainly most efficient at covering
up any human feature. And, of course, their heads were bald and their faces
were devoid of any ornamentation. They darted speculative glances at the touch
of blue at the corners of Dors’s eyes and at the slight red stain at the
corners of her lips. For a few moments, Seldon wondered how one could be
certain that the Sisters were truly Sisters. The
answer came at once with the Sisters’ politely formal greetings. Both twittered
and chirped. Seldon, remembering the grave tones of Sunmaster and the nervous
baritone of Graycloud, suspected that women, in default of obvious sexual
identification, were forced to cultivate distinctive voices and social
mannerisms. I’m
Raindrop Forty-Three,” twittered one, “and this is my younger sister.” “Raindrop
Forty-Five,” chirped the other. “We’re very strong on ‘Raindrops’ in our
cohort.” She giggled. “I
am pleased to meet you both,” said Dors gravely, “but now I must know how to
address you. I can’t just say ‘Raindrop,’ can I?” “No,”
said Raindrop Forty-Three. “You must use the full name if we are both here.” Seldon
said, “How about just Forty-Three and Forty-Five, ladies?” They
both stole a quick glance at him, but said not a word. Dors
said softly, “I’ll deal with them, Hari.” Seldon
stepped back. Presumably, they were single young women and, very likely, they
were not supposed to speak to men. The older one seemed the graver of the two
and was perhaps the more puritanical. It was hard to tell from a few words and
a quick glance, but he had the feeling and was willing to go by that. Dors
said, “The thing is, Sisters, that we tribespeople don’t know how to use the
kitchen.” “You
mean you can’t cook?” Raindrop Forty-Three looked shocked and censorious.
Raindrop Forty-Five smothered a laugh. (Seldon decided that his initial
estimate of the two was correct.) Dors
said, “I once had a kitchen of my own, but it wasn’t like this one and I don’t
know what the foods are or how to prepare them.” “It’s
really quite simple,” said Raindrop Forty-Five. “We can show you.” “We’ll
make you a good nourishing lunch,” said Raindrop Forty-Three. “We’ll make it
for ... both of you.” She hesitated before adding the final words. It clearly
took an effort to acknowledge the existence of a man. “If
you don’t mind,” said Dors, “I would like to be in the kitchen with you and I
would appreciate it if you’d explain everything exactly. After all, Sisters, I
can’t expect you to come here three times a day to cook for us.” “We
will show you everything,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, nodding her head stiffly.
“It may be difficult for a tribeswoman to learn, however. You wouldn’t have the
... feeling for it.” “I
shall try,” said Dors with a pleasant smile. They disappeared into the kitchen. Seldon
stared after them and tried to work out the strategy he intended to use. MicrofarmMYCOGEN—
... The microfarms of Mycogen are legendary, though they survive today only in
such oft-used similes as “rich as the microfarms of Mycogen” or “tasty as
Mycogenian yeast.” Such encomiums tend to intensify with time, to be sure, but
Hari Seldon visited those microfarms in the course of The Flight and there are
references in his memoirs that would tend to support the popular opinion ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 41.“That
was good.” said Seldon explosively. “It was considerably better than the food
Graycloud brought—” Dors
said reasonably, “You have to remember that Graycloud’s woman had to prepare it
on short notice in the middle of the night.” She paused and said, “I wish they
would say ‘wife.’ They make ‘woman’ sound like such an appanage, like ‘my
house’ or my robe.’ It is absolutely demeaning.” “I
know. It’s infuriating. But they might well make ‘wife’ sound like an appanage
as well. It’s the way they live and the Sisters don’t seem to mind. You and I
aren’t going to change it by lecturing. Anyway, did you see how the Sisters did
it?” “Yes,
I did and they made everything seem very simple. I doubted I could remember
everything they did, but they insisted I wouldn’t have to. I could get away
with mere heating. I gathered the bread had some sort of microderivative added
to it in the baking that both raised the dough and lent it that crunchy
consistency and warm flavor. Just a hint of pepper, didn’t you think?” “I
couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, I didn’t get enough. And the soup. Did you
recognize any of the vegetables?” “No.” “And
what was the sliced meat? Could you tell?” “I
don’t think it was sliced meat, actually. We did have a lamb dish back on Cinna
that it reminded me of.” “It
was certainly not lamb.” “I
said that I doubted it was meat at all.—I don’t think anyone outside Mycogen
eats like this either. Not even the Emperor, I’m sure. Whatever the Mycogenians
sell is, I’m willing to bet, near the bottom of the line. They save the best
for themselves. We had better not stay here too long, Hari. If we get used to
eating like this, we’ll never be able to acclimatize ourselves to the miserable
stuff they have outside.” She laughed. Seldon
laughed too. He took another sip at the fruit juice, which tasted far more
tantalizing than any fruit juice he had ever sipped before, and said, “listen,
when Hummin took me to the University, we stopped at a roadside diner and had
some food that was heavily yeasted. It tasted like— No, never mind what it
tasted like, but I wouldn’t have thought it conceivable, then, that microfood
could taste like this. I wish the Sisters were still here. It would have been
polite to thank them.” “I
think they were quite aware of how we would feel. I remarked on the wonderful
smell while everything was warming and they said, quite complacently, that it
would taste even better.” “The
older one said that, I imagine.” “Yes.
The younger one giggled.—And they’ll be back. They’re going to bring me a
kirtle, so that I can go out to see the shops with them. And they made it clear
I would have to wash my face if I was to be seen in public. They will show me
where to buy some good-quality kirtles of my own and where I can buy ready-made
meals of all kinds. All I’ll have to do is heat them up. They explained that
decent Sisters wouldn’t do that, but would start from scratch. In fact, some of
the meal they prepared for us was simply heated and they apologized for that.
They managed to imply, though, that tribespeople couldn’t be expected to
appreciate true artistry in cooking, so that simply heating prepared food would
do for us.—They seem to take it for granted, by the way, that I will be doing
all the shopping and cooking.” “As
we say at home, ‘When in Trantor, do as the Trantorians do.’ ” “Yes,
I was sure that would be your attitude in this case.” “I’m
only human,” said Seldon. “The
usual excuse,” said Dors with a small smile. Seldon leaned back with a
satisfactory well-filled feeling and said, “You’ve been on Trantor for two
years, Dors, so you might understand a few things that I don’t. Is it your
opinion that this odd social system the Mycogenians have is part of a
supernaturalistic view they have?” “Supernaturalistic?” “Yes.
Would you have heard that this was so?” “What
do you mean by ‘supernaturalistic’?” “The
obvious. A belief in entities that are independent of natural law, that are not
bound by the conservation of energy, for instance, or by the existence of a
constant of action.” “I
see. You’re asking if Mycogen is a religious community.” It
was Seldon’s turn. “Religious?” “Yes.
It’s an archaic term, but we historians use it—our study is riddled with
archaic terms. ‘Religious’ is not precisely equivalent to ‘supernaturalistic,’
though it contains richly supernaturalistic elements. I can’t answer your
specific question, however, because I’ve never made any special investigation
of Mycogen. Still, from what little I’ve seen of the place and from my
knowledge of religions in history, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Mycogenian
society was religious in character.” “In
that case, would it surprise you if Mycogenian legends were also religious in
character?” “No,
it wouldn’t.” “And
therefore not based on historical matter?” “That
wouldn’t necessarily follow. The core of the legends might still be
authentically historic, allowing for distortion and supernaturalistic
intermixture.” “Ah,”
said Seldon and seemed to retire into his thoughts. Finally
Dors broke the silence that followed and said, “It’s not so uncommon, you know.
There is a considerable religious element on many worlds. It’s grown stronger
in the last few centuries as the Empire has grown more turbulent. On my world
of Cinna, at least a quarter of the population is tritheistic.” Seldon
was again painfully and regretfully conscious of his ignorance of history. He
said, “Were there times in past history when religion was more prominent than
it is today?” “Certainly.
In addition, there are new varieties springing up constantly. The Mycogenian
religion, whatever it might be, could be relatively new and may be restricted
to Mycogen itself. I couldn’t really tell without considerable study.” “But
now we get to the point of it, Dors. Is it your opinion that women are more apt
to be religious than men are?” Dors
Venabili raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure if we can assume anything as simple
as that.” She thought a bit. “I suspect that those elements of a population
that have a smaller stake in the material natural world are more apt to find
solace in what you call supernaturalism—the poor, the disinherited, the
downtrodden. Insofar as supernaturalism overlaps religion, they may also be
more religious. There are obviously many exceptions in both directions. Many of
the downtrodden may lack religion; many of the rich, powerful, and satisfied
may possess it.” “But
in Mycogen,” said Seldon, “where the women seem to be treated as subhuman—would
I be right in assuming they would be more religious than the men, more involved
in the legends that the society has been preserving?” “I
wouldn’t risk my life on it, Hari, but I’d be willing to risk a week’s income
on it.” “Good,”
said Seldon thoughtfully. Dors
smiled at him. “There’s a bit of your psychohistory, Hari. Rule number 47,854:
The downtrodden are more religious than the satisfied.” Seldon
shook his head. “Don’t joke about psychohistory, Dors. You know I’m not looking
for tiny rules but for vast generalizations and for means of manipulation. I
don’t want comparative religiosity as the result of a hundred specific rules. I
want something from which I can, after manipulation through some system of
mathematicized logic, say, ‘Aha, this group of people will tend to be more
religious than that group, provided that the following criteria are met, and
that, therefore, when humanity meets with these stimuli, it will react with
these responses.’ ” “How
horrible,” said Dors. “You are picturing human beings as simple mechanical
devices. Press this button and you will get that twitch.” “No,
because there will be many buttons pushing simultaneously to varying degrees
and eliciting so many responses of different sorts that overall the predictions
of the future will be statistical in nature, so that the individual human being
will remain a free agent.” “How
can you know this?” “I
can’t,” said Seldon. “At least, I don’t know it. I feel it to be so. It is what
I consider to be the way things ought to be. If I can find the axioms, the
fundamental Laws of Humanics, so to speak, and the necessary mathematical
treatment, then I will have my psychohistory. I have proved that, in theory,
this is possible—” “But
impractical, right?” “I
keep saying so.” A
small smile curved Dors’s lips, “Is that what you are doing, Hari, looking for
some sort of solution to this problem?” “I
don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know. But Chetter Hummin is so anxious to
find a solution and, for some reason, I am anxious to please him. He is so
persuasive a man.” “Yes,
I know.” Seldon
let that comment pass, although a small frown flitted across his face. Seldon
continued. “Hummin insists the Empire is decaying, that it will collapse, that
psychohistory is the only hope for saving it—or cushioning it or ameliorating
it—and that without it humanity will be destroyed or, at the very least, go
through prolonged misery. He seems to place the responsibility for preventing
that on me. Now, the Empire will certainly last my time, but if I’m to live at
ease, I must lift that responsibility from my shoulders. I must convince
myself—and even convince Hummin—that psychohistory is not a practical way out
that, despite theory, it cannot be developed. So I must follow up as many leads
as I can and show that each one must fail.” “Leads?
Like going back in history to a time when human society was smaller than it is
now?” “Much
smaller. And far less complex.” “And
showing that a solution is still impractical?” “Yes.” “But
who is going to describe the early world for you? If the Mycogenians have some
coherent picture of the primordial Galaxy, Sunmaster certainly won’t reveal it
to a tribesman. No Mycogenian will. This is an ingrown society—how many times
have we already said it?—and its members are suspicious of tribesmen to the
point of paranoia. They’ll tell us nothing.” “I
will have to think of a way to persuade some Mycogenians to talk. Those
Sisters, for instance.” “They
won’t even hear you, male that you are, any more than Sunmaster hears me. And
even if they do talk to you, what would they know but a few catch phrases?” “I
must start somewhere.” Dors
said, “Well, let me think. Hummin says I must protect you and I interpret that
as meaning I must help you when I can. What do I know about religion? That’s
nowhere near my specialty, you know. I have always dealt with economic forces,
rather than philosophic forces, but you can’t split history into neat little
nonoverlapping divisions. For instance, religions tend to accumulate wealth
when successful and that eventually tends to distort the economic development
of a society. There, incidentally, is one of the numerous rules of human history
that you’ll have to derive from your basic Laws of Humanics or whatever you
called them. But ...” And
here, Dors’s voice faded away as she lapsed into thought. Seldon watched her
cautiously and Dors’s eyes glazed as though she was looking deep within herself. Finally
she said, “This is not an invariable rule, but it seems to me that on many
occasions, a religion has a book—or books—of significance; books that give
their ritual, their view of history, their sacred poetry, and who knows what
else. Usually, those books are open to all and are a means of proselytization.
Sometimes they are secret.” “Do
you think Mycogen has books of that sort?” “To
be truthful,” said Dors thoughtfully, “I have never heard of any. I might have
if they existed openly—which means they either don’t exist or are kept secret.
In either case, it seems to me you are not going to see them.” “At
least it’s a starting point,” said Seldon grimly. 42.The
Sisters returned about two hours after Hari and Dors had finished lunch. They
were smiling, both of them, and Raindrop Forty-Three, the graver one, held up a
gray kirtle for Dors’s inspection. “It
is very attractive,” said Dors, smiling widely and nodding her head with a
certain sincerity. “I like the clever embroidery here.” “It
is nothing,” twittered Raindrop Forty-Five. “It is one of my old things and it
won’t fit very well, for you are taller than I am. But it will do for a while
and we will take you out to the very best kirtlery to get a few that will fit
you and your tastes perfectly. You will see.” Raindrop
Forty-Three, smiling a little nervously but saying nothing and keeping her eyes
fixed on the ground, handed a white kirtle to Dors. It was folded neatly. Dors
did not attempt to unfold it, but passed it on to Seldon. “From
the color I should say it’s yours, Hari.” “Presumably,”
said Seldon, “but give it back. She did not give it to me.” “Oh,
Hari,” mouthed Dors, shaking her head slightly. “No,”
said Seldon firmly. “She did not give it to me. Give it back to her and I’ll
wait for her to give it to me.” Dors
hesitated, then made a half-hearted attempt to pass the kirtle back to Raindrop
Forty-Three. The
Sister put her hands behind her back and moved away, all life seeming to drain
from her face. Raindrop Forty-Five stole a glance at Seldon, a very quick one,
then took a quick step toward Raindrop Forty-Three and put her arms about her. Dors
said, “Come, Hari, I’m sure that Sisters are not permitted to talk to men who
are not related to them. What’s the use of making her miserable? She can’t help
it.” “I
don’t believe it,” said Seldon harshly. “If there is such a rule, it applies
only to Brothers. I doubt very much that she’s ever met a tribesman before.” Dors
said to Raindrop Forty-Three in a soft voice, “Have you ever met a tribesman
before, Sister, or a tribeswoman?” A
long hesitation and then a slow negative shake of the head. Seldon
threw out his arms. “Well, there you are. If there is a rule of silence, it
applies only to the Brothers. Would they have sent these young women—these Sisters—to
deal with us if there was any rule against speaking to tribesmen?” “It
might be, Hari, that they were meant to speak only to me and I to you.” “Nonsense.
I don’t believe it and I won’t believe it. I am not merely a tribesman, I am an
honored guest in Mycogen, asked to be treated as such by Chetter Hummin and
escorted here by Sunmaster Fourteen himself. I will not be treated as though I
do not exist. I will be in communication with Sunmaster Fourteen and I will
complain bitterly.” Raindrop
Forty-Five began to sob and Raindrop Forty-Three, retaining her comparative
impassivity, nevertheless flushed faintly. Dors made as though to appeal to
Seldon once again, but he stopped her with a brief and angry outward thrust of
his right arm and then stared gloweringly at Raindrop Forty-Three. And
finally she spoke and did not twitter. Rather, her voice trembled hoarsely, as
though she had to force it to sound in the direction of a male being and was
doing so against all her instincts and desires. “You must not complain of us,
tribesman. That would be unjust. You force me to break the custom of our
people. What do you want of me?” Seldon
smiled disarmingly at once and held out his hand. “The garment you brought me.
The kirtle.” Silently,
she stretched out her arm and deposited the kirtle in his hand. He bowed
slightly and said in a soft warm voice, “Thank you, Sister.” He then cast a
very brief look in Dors’s direction, as though to say: You see? But Dors looked
away angrily. The
kirtle was featureless, Seldon saw as he unfolded it (embroidery and
decorativeness were for women, apparently), but it came with a tasseled belt
that probably had some particular way of being worn. No doubt he could work it
out. He
said, “I’ll step into the bathroom and put this thing on. It won’t take but a
minute, I suppose.” He
stepped into the small chamber and found the door would not close behind him
because Dors was forcing her way in as well. Only when the two of them were in
the bathroom together did the door close. “What
were you doing?” Dors hissed angrily. “You were an absolute brute, Hari. Why
did you treat the poor woman that way?” Seldon
said impatiently, “I had to make her talk to me. I’m counting on her for
information. You know that. I’m sorry I had to be cruel, but how else could I
have broken down her inhibitions?” And he motioned her out. When
he emerged, he found Dors in her kirtle too. Dors, despite the bald head the
skincap gave her and the inherent dowdiness of the kirtle, managed to look
quite attractive. The stitching on the robe somehow suggested a figure without
revealing it in the least. Her belt was wider than his own and was a slightly
different shade of gray from her kirtle. What’s more, it was held in front by
two glittering blue stone snaps. (Women did manage to beautify themselves even
under the greatest difficulty, Seldon thought.) Looking
over at Hari, Dors said, “You look quite the Mycogenian now. The two of us are
fit to be taken to the stores by the Sisters.” “Yes,”
said Seldon, “but afterward I want Raindrop Forty-Three to take me on a tour of
the microfarms.” Raindrop
Forty-Three’s eyes widened and she took a rapid step backward. “I’d
like to see them,” said Seldon calmly. Raindrop
Forty-Three looked quickly at Dors. “Tribeswoman—” Seldon
said, “Perhaps you know nothing of the farms, Sister.” That
seemed to touch a nerve. She lifted her chin haughtily as she still carefully
addressed Dors. “I have worked on the microfarms. All Brothers and Sisters do
at some point in their lives.” “Well
then, take me on the tour,” said Seldon, “and lets not go through the argument
again. I am not a Brother to whom you are forbidden to speak and with whom you
may have no dealings. I am a tribesman and an honored guest. I wear this
skincap and this kirtle so as not to attract undue attention, but I am a
scholar and while I am here I must learn. I cannot sit in this room and stare
at the wall. I want to see the one thing you have that the rest of the Galaxy
does not have ... your microfarms. I should think you’d be proud to show them.” “We
are proud,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, finally facing Seldon as she spoke, “and
I will show you and don’t think you will learn any of our secrets if that is
what you are after. I will show you the microfarms tomorrow morning. It will
take time to arrange a tour.” Seldon
said, “I will wait till tomorrow morning. But do you promise? Do I have your
word of honor?” Raindrop
Forty-Three said with clear contempt, “I am a Sister and I will do as I say. I
will keep my word, even to a tribesman.” Her voice grew icy at the last words,
while her eyes widened and seemed to glitter. Seldon
wondered what was passing through her mind and felt uneasy. 43.Seldon
passed a restless night. To begin with, Dors had announced that she must
accompany him on the tour of the microfarm and he had objected strenuously.
“The whole purpose,” he said, “is to make her talk freely, to present her with
an unusual environment—alone with a male, even if a tribesman. Having broken
custom so far, it will be easier to break it further. If you’re along, she will
talk to you and I will only get the leavings.” “And
if something happens to you in my absence, as it did Upperside?” “Nothing
will happen. Please! If you want to help me, stay away. If not, I will have
nothing further to do with you. I mean it, Dors. This is important to me. Much
as I’ve grown fond of you, you cannot come ahead of this.” She
agreed with enormous reluctance and said only, “Promise me you’ll at least be
nice to her, then.” And
Seldon said, “Is it me you must protect or her? I assure you that I didn’t
treat her harshly for pleasure and I won’t do so in the future.” The
memory of this argument with Dors—their first—helped keep him awake a large
part of the night; that, together with the nagging thought that the two Sisters
might not arrive in the morning, despite Raindrop Forty-Three’s promise. They
did arrive, however, not long after Seldon had completed a spare breakfast (he
was determined not to grow fat through overindulgence) and had put on a kirtle
that fitted him precisely. He had carefully organized the belt so that it hung
perfectly. Raindrop
Forty-Three, still with a touch of ice in her eye, said, “if you are ready,
Tribesman Seldon, my sister will remain with Tribeswoman Venabili.” Her voice
was neither twittery nor hoarse. It was as though she had steadied herself
through the night, practicing, in her mind, how to speak to one who was a male
but not a Brother. Seldon
wondered if she had lost sleep and said, “I am quite ready.” Together,
half an hour later, Raindrop Forty-Three and Hari Seldon were descending level
upon level. Though it was daytime by the clock, the light was dusky and dimmer
than it had been elsewhere on Trantor. There was no obvious reason for this.
Surely, the artificial daylight that slowly progressed around the Trantorian
sphere could include the Mycogen Sector. The Mycogenians must want it that way,
Seldon thought, clinging to some primitive habit. Slowly Seldon’s eyes adjusted
to the dim surroundings. Seldon tried to meet the eyes of passersby, whether
Brothers or Sisters, calmly. He assumed he and Raindrop Forty-Three would be
taken as a Brother and his woman and that they would be given no notice as long
as he did nothing to attract attention. Unfortunately,
it seemed as if Raindrop Forty-Three wanted to be noticed. She talked to him in
few words and in low tones out of a clenched mouth. It was clear that the
company of an unauthorized male, even though only she knew this fact, raved her
self-confidence. Seldon was quite sure that if he asked her to relax, he would
merely make her that much more uneasy. (Seldon wondered what she would do if
she met someone who knew her. He felt more relaxed once they reached the lower
levels, where human beings were fewer.) The
descent was not by elevators either, but by moving staired ramps that existed
in pairs, one going up and one going down. Raindrop Forty-Three referred to
them as “escalators.” Seldon wasn’t sure he had caught the word correctly,
never having heard it before. As
they sank to lower and lower levels, Seldon’s apprehension grew. Most worlds
possessed microfarms and most worlds produced their own varieties of
microproducts. Seldon, back on Helicon, had occasionally shopped for seasonings
in the microfarms and was always aware of an unpleasant stomach-turning stench.
The people who worked at the microfarms didn’t seem to mind. Even when casual
visitors wrinkled their noses, they seemed to acclimate themselves to it.
Seldon, however, was always peculiarly susceptible to the smell. He suffered
and he expected to suffer now. He tried soothing himself with the thought that
he was nobly sacrificing his comfort to his need for information, but that
didn’t keep his stomach from turning itself into knots in apprehension. After
he had lost track of the number of levels they had descended, with the air
still seeming reasonably fresh, he asked, “When do we get to the microfarm
levels?” “We’re
there now.” Seldon
breathed deeply. “It doesn’t smell as though we are.” “Smell?
What do you mean?” Raindrop Forty-Three was offended enough to speak quite
loudly. “There
was always a putrid odor associated with microfarms, in my experience. You
know, from the fertilizer that bacteria, yeast, fungi, and saprophytes
generally need.” “In
your experience?” Her voice lowered again. “Where was that?” “On
my home world.” The
Sister twisted her face into wild repugnance. “And your people wallow in
gabelle?” Seldon
had never heard the word before, but from the look and the intonation, he knew
what it meant. He
said, “It doesn’t smell like that, you understand, once it is ready for
consumption.” “Ours
doesn’t smell like that at any time. Our biotechnicians have worked out perfect
strains. The algae grow in the purest light and the most carefully balanced
electrolyte solutions. The saprophytes are fed on beautifully combined
organics. The formulas and recipes are something no tribespeople will ever
know. Come on, here we are. Sniff all you want. You’ll find nothing offensive.
That is one reason why our food is in demand throughout the Galaxy and why the
Emperor, we are told, eats nothing else, though it is far too good for a
tribesman if you ask me, even if he calls himself Emperor.” She said it with an
anger that seemed directly aimed at Seldon. Then, as though afraid he might miss
that, she added, “Or even if he calls himself an honored guest.” They
stepped out into a narrow corridor, on each side of which were large thick
glass tanks in which roiled cloudy green water full of swirling, growing algae,
moving about through the force of the gas bubbles that streamed up through it.
They would be rich in carbon dioxide, he decided. Rich, rosy light shone down
into the tanks, light that was much brighter than that in the corridors. He
commented thoughtfully on that. “Of
course,” she said. “These algae work best at the red end of the spectrum.” “I
presume,” said Seldon, “that everything is automated.” She
shrugged, but did not respond. “I
don’t see quantities of Brothers and Sisters in evidence,” Seldon said,
persisting. “Nevertheless,
there is work to be done and they do it, even if you don’t see them at work.
The details are not for you. Don’t waste your time by asking about it.” “Wait.
Don’t be angry with me. I don’t expect to be told state secrets. Come on,
dear.” (The word slipped out.) He
took her arm as she seemed on the point of hurrying away. She remained in
place, but he felt her shudder slightly and he released her in embarrassment.
He said, “It’s just that it seems automated.” “Make
what you wish of the seeming. Nevertheless, there is room here for human brains
and human judgment. Every Brother and Sister has occasion to work here at some
time. Some make a profession of it.” She
was speaking more freely now but, to his continuing embarrassment, he noticed
her left hand move stealthily toward her right arm and gently rub the spot
where he had touched her, as though he had stung her. “It goes on for
kilometers and kilometers,” she said, “but if we turn here there’ll he a
portion of the fungal section you can see.” They
moved along. Seldon noted how clean everything was. The glass sparkled. The
tiled floor seemed moist, though when he seized a moment to bend and touch it,
it wasn’t. Nor was it slippery—unless his sandals (with his big toe protruding
in approved Mycogenian fashion) had nonslip soles. Raindrop Forty-Three was
right in one respect. Here and there a Brother or a Sister worked silently,
studying gauges, adjusting controls, sometimes engaged in something as
unskilled as polishing equipment—always absorbed in whatever they were doing. Seldon
was careful not to ask what they were doing, since he did not want to cause the
Sister humiliation in having to answer that she did not know or anger in her
having to remind him there were things he must not know. They passed through a lightly
swinging door and Seldon suddenly noticed the faintest touch of the odor he
remembered. He looked at Raindrop Forty-Three, but she seemed unconscious of it
and soon he too became used to it. The character of the light changed suddenly.
The rosiness was gone and the brightness too. All seemed to be in a twilight
except where equipment was spotlighted and wherever there was a spotlight there
seemed to be a Brother or a Sister. Some wore lighted headbands that gleamed
with a pearly glow and, in the middle distance, Seldon could see, here and
there, small sparks of light moving erratically. As
they walked, he cast a quick eye on her profile. It was all he could really
judge by. At all other times, he could not cease being conscious of her bulging
bald head, her bare eyes, her colorless face. They drowned her individuality
and seemed to make her invisible. Here in profile, however, he could see
something. Nose, chin, full lips, regularity, beauty. The dim light somehow
smoothed out and softened the great upper desert. He
thought with surprise: She could be very beautiful if she grew her hair and
arranged it nicely. And then he thought that she couldn’t grow her hair. She
would be bald her whole life. Why? Why did they have to do that to her?
Sunmaster said it was so that a Mycogenian would know himself (or herself) for
a Mycogenian all his (or her) life. Why was that so important that the curse of
hairlessness had to be accepted as a badge or mark of identity? And
then, because he was used to arguing both sides in his mind, he thought: Custom
is second nature. Be accustomed to a bald head, sufficiently accustomed, and
hair on it would seem monstrous, would evoke nausea. He himself had shaved his
face every morning, removing all the facial hair, uncomfortable at the merest
stubble, and yet he did not think of his face as bald or as being in any way
unnatural. Of course, he could grow his facial hair at any time he wished—but
he didn’t wish to do so. He
knew that there were worlds on which the men did not shave; in some, they did
not even clip or shape the facial hair but let it grow wild. What would they
say if they could see his own bald face, his own hairless chin, cheek, and
lips? And meanwhile, he walked with Raindrop Forty-Three—endlessly, it
seemed—and every once in a while she guided him by the elbow and it seemed to
him that she had grown accustomed to that, for she did not withdraw her hand
hastily. Sometimes it remained for nearly a minute. She
said, “Here! Come here!” “What
is that?” asked Seldon. They
were standing before a small tray filled with little spheres, each about two
centimeters in diameter. A Brother who was tending the area and who had just
placed the tray where it was looked up in mild inquiry. Raindrop
Forty-Three said to Seldon in a low voice, “Ask for a few.” Seldon
realized she could not speak to a Brother until spoken to and said uncertainly,
“May we have a few, B—brother?” “Have
a handful, Brother,” said the other heartily. Seldon
plucked out one of the spheres and was on the point of handing it to Raindrop
Forty-Three when he noticed that she had accepted the invitation as applying to
herself and reached in for two handfuls. The sphere felt glossy, smooth. Seldon
said to Raindrop Forty-Three as they moved away from the vat and from the
Brother who was in attendance, “Are these supposed to be eaten?” He lifted the
sphere cautiously to his nose. “They
don’t smell,” she said sharply. “What
are they?” “Dainties.
Raw dainties. For the outside market they’re flavored in different ways, but here
in Mycogen we eat them unflavored—the only way.” She put one in her mouth and
said, “I never have enough.” Seldon
put his sphere into his mouth and felt it dissolve and disappear rapidly. His
mouth, for a moment, ran liquid and then it slid, almost of its own accord,
down his throat. He
stood for a moment, amazed. It was slightly sweet and, for that matter, had an
even fainter bitter aftertaste, but the main sensation eluded him. “May I have
another?” he said. “Have
half a dozen,” said Raindrop Forty-Three, holding out her hand. “They never
have quite the same taste twice and have practically no calories. Just taste.” She
was right. He tried to have the dainty linger in his mouth; he tried licking it
carefully; tried biting off a piece. However, the most careful lick destroyed
it. When a bit was crunched off apiece, the rest of it disappeared at once. And
each taste was undefinable and not quite like the one before. “The
only trouble is,” said the Sister happily, “that every once in a while you have
a very unusual one and you never forget it, but you never have it again either.
I had one when I was nine—” Her expression suddenly lost its excitement and she
said, “It’s a good thing. It teaches you the evanescence of things of the
world.” It
was a signal, Seldon thought. They had wandered about aimlessly long enough.
She had grown used to him and was talking to him. And now the conversation had
to come to its point. Now! 44.Seldon
said, “I come from a world which lies out in the open, Sister, as all worlds do
but Trantor. Rain comes or doesn’t come, the rivers trickle or are in flood,
temperature is high or low. That means harvests are good or bad. Here, however,
the environment is truly controlled. Harvests have no choice but to be good.
How fortunate Mycogen is.” He
waited. There were different possible answers and his course of action would
depend on which answer came. She
was speaking quite freely now and seemed to have no inhibitions concerning his
masculinity, so this long tour had served its purpose. Raindrop Forty-Three
said, “The environment is not that easy to control. There are, occasionally,
viral infections and there are sometimes unexpected and undesirable mutations.
There are times when whole vast batches wither or are worthless.” “You
astonish me. And what happens then?” “There
is usually no recourse but to destroy the spoiled batches, even those that are
merely suspected of spoilage. Trays and tanks must be totally sterilized,
sometimes disposed of altogether.” “It
amounts to surgery, then,” said Seldon. “You cut out the diseased tissue.” “Yes.” “And
what do you do to prevent such things from happening?” “What
can we do? We test constantly for any mutations that may spring up, any new
viruses that may appear, any accidental contamination or alteration of the
environment. It rarely happens that we detect anything wrong, but if we do, we
take drastic action. The result is that bad years are very few and even bad
years affect only fractional bits here and there. The worst year we’ve ever had
fell short of the average by only 12 percent—though that was enough to produce
hardship. The trouble is that even the most careful forethought and the most
cleverly designed computer programs can’t always predict what is essentially
unpredictable.” (Seldon
felt an involuntary shudder go through him. It was as though she was speaking
of psychohistory—but she was only speaking of the microfarm produce of a tiny
fraction of humanity, while he himself was considering all the mighty Galactic
Empire in every one of all its activities.) Unavoidably disheartened, he said,
“Surely, it’s not all unpredictable. There are forces that guide and that care
for us all.” The
Sister stiffened. She turned around toward him, seeming to study him with her
penetrating eyes. But all she said was “What?” Seldon
felt uneasy. “It seems to me that in speaking of viruses and mutations, we’re
talking about the natural, about phenomena that are subject to natural law.
That leaves out of account the supernatural, doesn’t it? It leaves out that which
is not subject to natural law and can, therefore, control natural law.” She
continued to stare at him, as though he had suddenly begun speaking some
distant, unknown dialect of Galactic Standard. Again she said, in half a
whisper this time, “Wharf.” He
continued, stumbling over unfamiliar words that half-embarrassed him. “You must
appeal to some great essence, some great spirit, some ... I don’t know what to
call it.” Raindrop
Forty-Three said in a voice that rose into higher registers but remained low,
“I thought so. I thought that was what you meant, but I couldn’t believe it.
You’re accusing us of having religion. Why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you
use the word?” She
waited for an answer and Seldon, a little confused at the onslaught, said,
“Because that’s not a word I use. I call it ‘supernaturalism.’ ” “Call
it what you will. It’s religion and we don’t have it. Religion is for the
tribesmen, for the swarming ho—” The
Sister paused to swallow as though she had come near to choking and Seldon was
certain the word she had choked over was—” She
was in control again. Speaking slowly and somewhat below her normal soprano,
she said, “We are not a religious people. Our kingdom is of this Galaxy and
always has been. If you have a religion—” Seldon
felt trapped. Somehow he had not counted on this. He raised a hand defensively.
“Not really. I’m a mathematician and my kingdom is also of this Galaxy. It’s
just that I thought, from the rigidity of your customs, that your kingdom—” “Don’t
think it, tribesman. If our customs are rigid, it is because we are mere
millions surrounded by billions. Somehow we must mark ourselves off so that we
precious few are not lost among your swarms and hordes. We must be marked off
by our hairlessness, our clothing, our behavior, our way of life. We must know
who we are and we must be sure that you tribesmen know who we are. We labor in
our farms so that we can make ourselves valuable in your eyes and thus make
certain that you leave us alone. That’s all we ask of you ... to leave us
alone.” “I
have no intention of harming you or any of your people. I seek only knowledge,
here as everywhere.” “So
you insult us by asking about our religion, as though we have ever called on a
mysterious, insubstantial spirit to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.” “There
are many people, many worlds who believe in supernaturalism in one form or
another ... religion, if you like the word better. We may disagree with them in
one way or another, but we are as likely to be wrong in our disbelief as they
in their belief. In any case, there is no disgrace in such belief and my
questions were not intended as insults.” But
she was not reconciled. “Religion!” she said angrily. “We have no need of it.” Seldon’s
spirits, having sunk steadily in the course of this exchange, reached bottom.
This whole thing, this expedition with Raindrop Forty-Three, had come to
nothing. But
she went on to say, “We have something far better. We have history.” And
Seldon’s feelings rebounded at once and he smiled. BookHAND-ON-THIGH
STORY— ... An occasion cited by Hari Seldon as the first turning point in his
search for a method to develop psychohistory. Unfortunately, his published
writings give no indication as to what that “story” was and speculations
concerning it (there have been many) are futile. It remains one of the many
intriguing mysteries concerning Seldon’s career. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 45.Raindrop
Forty-Three stared at Seldon, wild-eyed and breathing heavily. “I can’t stay
here,” she said. Seldon
looked about. “No one is bothering us. Even the Brother from whom we got the
dainties said nothing about us. He seemed to take us as a perfectly normal
pair.” “That’s
because there is nothing unusual about us—when the light is dim, when you keep
your voice low so the tribesman accent is less noticeable, and when I seem
calm. But now—” Her voice was growing hoarse. “What
of now?” “I
am nervous and tense. I am ... in a perspiration.” “Who
is to notice? Relax. Calm down.” “I
can’t relax here. I can’t calm down while I may be noticed.” “Where
are we to go, then?” “There
are little sheds for resting. I have worked here. I know about them.” She
was walking rapidly now and Seldon followed. Up a small ramp, which he would
not have noticed in the twilight without her, there was a line of doors, well
spread apart. “The
one at the end,” she muttered. “If it’s free.” It
was unoccupied. A small glowing rectangle said NOT IN USE and the door was
ajar. Raindrop
Forty-Three looked about rapidly, motioned Seldon in, then stepped inside
herself. She closed the door and, as she did so, a small ceiling light
brightened the interior. Seldon
said, “Is there any way the sign on the door can indicate this shed is in use?” “That
happened automatically when the door closed and the light went on,” said the
Sister. Seldon
could feel air softly circulating with a small sighing sound, but where on
Trantor was that ever-present sound and feel not apparent? The room was not
large, but it had a cot with a firm, efficient mattress, and what were
obviously clean sheets. There was a chair and table, a small refrigerator, and
something that looked like an enclosed hot plate, probably a tiny food-heater. Raindrop
Forty-Three sat down on the chair, sitting stiffly upright, visibly attempting
to force herself into relaxation. Seldon,
uncertain as to what he ought to do, remained standing till she gestured—a bit
impatiently—for him to sit on the cot. He did so. Raindrop
Forty-Three said softly, as though talking to herself, “If it is ever known
that I have been here with a man—even if only a tribesman—I shall indeed be an
outcast.” Seldon
rose quickly. “Then let’s not stay here.” “Sit
down. I can’t go out when I’m in this mood. You’ve been asking about religion.
What are you after?” It
seemed to Seldon that she had changed completely. Gone was the passivity, the
subservience. There was none of the shyness, the backwardness in the presence
of a male. She was glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “I
told you. Knowledge. I’m a scholar. It is my profession and my desire to know,
I want to understand people in particular, so I want to learn history. For many
worlds, the ancient historical records—the truly ancient historical
records—have decayed into myths and legends, often becoming part of a set of
religious beliefs or of supernaturalism. But if Mycogen does not have a
religion, then—” “I
said we have history.” Seldon
said, “Twice you’ve said you have history. How old?” “It
goes back twenty thousand years.” “Truly?
Let us speak frankly. Is it real history or is it something that has
degenerated into legend?” “It
is real history, of course.” Seldon
was on the point of asking how she could tell, but thought better of it. Was
there really a chance that history might reach back twenty thousand years and
be authentic? He was not a historian himself, so he would have to check with
Dors. But
it seemed so likely to him that on every world the earliest histories were
medleys of self-serving heroisms and minidramas that were meant as morality
plays and were not to be taken literally. It was surely true of Helicon, yet
you would find scarcely a Heliconian who would not swear by all the tales told
and insist it was all true history. They would support, as such, even that
perfectly ridiculous tale of the first exploration of Helicon and the encounters
with large and dangerous flying reptiles—even though nothing like flying
reptiles had been found to be native to any world explored and settled by human
beings. He
said instead, “How does this history begin?” There
was a faraway look in the Sister’s eyes, a look that did not focus on Seldon or
on anything in the room. She said, “It begins with a world—our world. One
world.” “One
world?” (Seldon remembered that Hummin had spoken of legends of a single,
original world of humanity.) “One
world. There were others later, but ours was the first. One world, with space,
with open air, with room for everyone, with fertile fields, with friendly
homes, with warm people. For thousands of years we lived there and then we had
to leave and skulk in one place or another until some of us found a corner of
Trantor where we learned to grow food that brought us a little freedom. And
here in Mycogen, we now have our own ways—and our own dreams.” “And
your histories give the full details concerning the original world? The one
world?” “Oh
yes, it is all in a book and we all have it. Every one of us. We carry it at
all times so that there is never a moment when any one of us cannot open it and
read it and remember who we are and who we were and resolve that someday we
will have our world back.” “Do
you know where this world is and who lives on it now?” Raindrop
Forty-Three hesitated, then shook her head fiercely. “We do not, but someday we
will find it.” “And
you have this book in your possession now?” “Of
course.” “May
I see that book?” Now
a slow smile crossed the face of the Sister. She said, “So that’s what you
want. I knew you wanted something when you asked to be guided through the
microfarms by me alone.” She seemed a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think it
was the Book.” “It
is all I want,” said Seldon earnestly. “I really did not have my mind on
anything else. If you brought me here because you thought—” She
did not allow him to finish. “But here we are. Do you or don’t you want the
Book?” “Are
you offering to let me see it?” “On
one condition.” Seldon
paused, weighing the possibility of serious trouble if he had overcome the
Sister’s inhibitions to a greater extent than he had ever intended. “What
condition?” he said. Raindrop
Forty-Three’s tongue emerged lightly and licked quickly at her lips. Then she
said with a distinct tremor in her voice, “That you remove your skincap.” 46.Hari
Seldon stared blankly at Raindrop Forty-Three. There was a perceptible moment
in which he did not know what she was talking about. He had forgotten he was
wearing a skincap. Then
he put his hand to his head and, for the first time, consciously felt the
skincap he was wearing. It was smooth, but he felt the tiny resilience of the
hair beneath. Not much. His hair, after all, was fine and without much body. He
said, still feeling it, “Why?” She
said, “Because I want you to. Because that’s the condition if you want to see
the Book.” He
said, “Well, if you really want me to.” His hand probed for the edge, so that
he could peel it off. But
she said, “No, let me do it. I’ll do it.” She was looking at him hungrily. Seldon
dropped his hands to his lap. “Go ahead, then.” The
Sister rose quickly and sat down next to him on the cot. Slowly, carefully, she
detached the skincap from his head just in front of his ear. Again she licked
her lips and she was panting as she loosened the skincap about his forehead and
turned it up. Then it came away and was gone and Seldon’s hair, released,
seemed to stir a bit in glad freedom. He
said, troubled, “Keeping my hair under the skincap has probably made my scalp
sweat. If so, my hair will be rather damp.” He
raised his hand, as though to check the matter, but she caught it and held it
back. “I want to do that,” she said. “Its part of the condition.” Her fingers,
slowly and hesitantly, touched his hair and then withdrew. She touched it again
and, very gently, stroked it. “It’s dry,” she said. “It feels ... good.” “Have
you ever felt cephalic hair before?” “Only
on children sometimes. This ... is different.” She was stroking again. “In
what way?” Seldon, even amid his embarrassment, found it possible to be
curious. “I
can’t say. Its just ... different.” After
a while he said, “Have you had enough?” “No.
Don’t rush me. Can you make it lie anyway you want it to?” “Not
really. It has a natural way of falling, but I need a comb for that and I don’t
have one with me.” “A
comb?” “An
object with prongs ... uh, like a fork ... but the prongs are more numerous and
somewhat softer.” “Can
you use your fingers?” She was running hers through his hair. He
said, “After a fashion. It doesn’t work very well.” “Its
bristly behind.” “The
hair is shorter there.” Raindrop
Forty-Three seemed to recall something. “The eyebrows,” she said. “Isn’t that
what they’re called?” She stripped off the shields, then ran her fingers
through the gentle arc of hair, against the grain. “That’s nice,” she said,
then laughed in a high-pitched way that was almost like her younger sister’s
giggle. “They’re cute.” Seldon
said a little impatiently, “Is there anything else that’s part of the
condition?” In
the rather dim light, Raindrop Forty-Three looked as though she might be
considering an affirmative, but said nothing. Instead, she suddenly withdrew
her hands and lifted them to her nose. Seldon wondered what she might be
smelling. “How odd,” she said. “May I ... may I do it again another time?” Seldon
said uneasily, “If you will let me have the Book long enough to study it, then
perhaps.” Raindrop
Forty-Three reached into her kirtle through a slit that Seldon had not noticed
before and, from some hidden inner pocket, removed a book bound in some tough,
flexible material. He took it, trying to control his excitement. While Seldon
readjusted his skincap to cover his hair, Raindrop Forty-Three raised her hands
to her nose again and then, gently and quickly, licked one finger. 47.“Felt
your hair?” said Dors Venabili. She looked at Seldon’s hair as though she was
of a mind to feel it herself. Seldon
moved away slightly. “Please don’t. The woman made it seem like a perversion.” “I
suppose it was—from her standpoint. Did you derive no pleasure from it
yourself?” “Pleasure?
It gave me gooseflesh. When she finally stopped, I was able to breathe again. I
kept thinking: What other conditions will she make?” Dors
laughed. “Were you afraid that she would force sex upon you? Or hopeful?” “I
assure you I didn’t dare think. I just wanted the Book.” They
were in their room now and Dors turned on her field distorter to make sure they
would not be overheard. The
Mycogenian night was about to begin. Seldon had removed his skincap and kirtle
and had bathed, paying particular attention to his hair, which he had foamed
and rinsed twice. He was now sitting on his cot, wearing a light nightgown that
had been hanging in the closet. Dors
said, eyes dancing, “Did she know you have hair on your chest?” “I
was hoping earnestly she wouldn’t think of that.” “Poor
Hari. It was all perfectly natural, you know. I would probably have had similar
trouble if I was alone with a Brother. Worse, I’m sure, since he would
believe—Mycogenian society being what it is—that as a woman I would be bound to
obey his orders without delay or demur.” “No,
Dors. You may think it was perfectly natural, but you didn’t experience it. The
poor woman was in a high state of sexual excitement. She engaged all her senses
... smelled her fingers, licked them. If she could have heard hair grow, she
would have listened avidly.” “But
that’s what I mean by ‘natural.’ Anything you make forbidden gains sexual
attractiveness. Would you be particularly interested in women’s breasts if you
lived in a society in which they were displayed at all times?” “I
think I might.” “Wouldn’t
you be more interested if they were always hidden, as in most societies they
are?— Listen, let me tell you something that happened to me. I was at a lake
resort back home on Cinna ... I presume you have resorts on Helicon, beaches,
that sort of thing?” “Of
course,” said Seldon, slightly annoyed. “What do you think Helicon is, a world
of rocks and mountains, with only well water to drink?” “No
offense, Hari. I just want to make sure you’ll get the point of the story. On
our beaches at Cinna, we’re pretty lighthearted about what we wear ... or don’t
wear.” “Nude
beaches?” “Not
actually, though I suppose if someone removed all of his or her clothing it
wouldn’t be much remarked on. The custom is to wear a decent minimum, but I
must admit that what we consider decent leaves very little to the imagination.” Seldon
said, “We have somewhat higher standards of decency on Helicon.” “Yes,
I could tell that by your careful treatment of me, but to each its own. In any
case, I was sitting at the small beach by the lake and a young man approached
to whom I had spoken earlier in the day. He was a decent fellow I found nothing
particularly wrong with. He sat on the arm of my chair and placed his right
hand on my left thigh, which was bare, of course, in order to steady himself. “After
we had spoken for a minute and a half or so, he said, impishly. ‘Here I am. You
know me hardly at all and yet it seems perfectly natural to me that I place my
hand on your thigh. What’s more, it seems perfectly natural to you, since you
don’t seem to mind that it remains there.’ “It
was only then that I actually noticed that his hand was on my thigh. Bare skin in
public somehow loses some of its sexual quality. As I said, its the hiding from
view that is crucial. “And
the young man felt this too, for he went on to say, ‘Yet if I were to meet you
under more formal conditions and you were wearing a gown, you wouldn’t dream of
letting me lift your gown and place my hand on your thigh on the precise spot
it now occupies.’ “I
laughed and we continued to talk of this and that. Of course, the young man,
now that my attention had been called to the position of his hand, felt it no
longer appropriate to keep it there and removed it. “That
night I dressed for dinner with more than usual care and appeared in clothing
that was considerably more formal than was required or than other women in the
dining room were wearing. I found the young man in question. He was sitting at
one of the tables. I approached, greeted him, and said, ‘Here I am in a gown,
but under it my left thigh is bare. I give you permission. Just lift the gown
and place your hand on my left thigh where you had it earlier.’ “He
tried. I’ll give him credit for that, but everyone was staring. I wouldn’t have
stopped him and I’m sure no one else would have stopped him either, but he
couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was no more public then than it had been
earlier and the same people were present in both cases. It was clear that I had
taken the initiative and that I had no objections, but he could not bring
himself to violate the proprieties. The conditions, which had been
hand-on-thigh in the afternoon, were not hand-on-thigh in the evening and that
meant more than anything logic could say.” Seldon
said, “I would have put my hand on your thigh.” “Are
you sure?” “Positive.” “Even
though your standards of decency on the beach are higher than ours are?” “Yes.” Dors
sat down on her own cot, then lay down with her hands behind her head. “So that
you’re not particularly disturbed that I’m wearing a nightgown with very little
underneath it.” “I’m
not particularly shocked. As for being disturbed, that depends on the definition
of the word. I’m certainly aware of how you’re dressed.” “Well,
if we’re going to be cooped up here for a period of time, we’ll have to learn
to ignore such things.” “Or
take advantage of them,” said Seldon, grinning. “And I like your hair. After
seeing you bald all day, I like your hair.” “Well,
don’t touch it. I haven’t washed it yet.” She half-closed her eyes. “It’s
interesting. You’ve detached the informal and formal level of respectability.
What you’re saying is that Helicon is more respectable at the informal level
than Cinna is and less respectable at the formal level. Is that right?” “Actually,
I’m just talking about the young man who placed his hand on your thigh and
myself. How representative we are as Cinnians and Heliconians, respectively, I can’t
say. I can easily imagine some perfectly proper individuals on both worlds—and
some madcaps too.” “We’re
talking about social pressures. I’m not exactly a Galactic traveler, but I’ve
had to involve myself in a great deal of social history. On the planet of
Derowd, there was a time when premarital sex was absolutely free. Multiple sex
was allowed for the unmarried and public sex was frowned upon only when traffic
was blocked: And yet, after marriage, monogamy was absolute and unbroken. The
theory was that by working off all one’s fantasies first, one could settle down
to the serious business of life.” “Did
it work?” “About
three hundred years ago that stopped, but some of my colleagues say it stopped
through external pressure from other worlds who were losing too much tourist
business to Derowd. There is such a thing as overall Galactic social pressure
too.” “Or
perhaps economic pressure, in this case.” “Perhaps.
And being at the University, by the way, I get a chance to study social
pressures, even without being a Galactic traveler. I meet people from scores of
places inside and outside of Trantor and one of the pet amusements in the
social science departments is the comparison of social pressures. “Here
in Mycogen, for instance, I have the impression that sex is strictly controlled
and is permitted under only the most stringent rules, all the more tightly
enforced because it is never discussed. In the Streeling Sector, sex is never
discussed either, but it isn’t condemned. In the Jennat Sector, where I spent a
week once doing research, sex is discussed endlessly, but only for the purpose
of condemning it. I don’t suppose there are any two sectors in Trantor—or any
two worlds outside Trantor—in which attitudes toward sex are completely
duplicated.” Seldon
said, “You know what you make it sound like? It would appear—” Dors
said, “I’ll tell you how it appears. All this talk of sex makes one thing clear
to me. I’m simply not going to let you out of my sight anymore.” “What?” “Twice
I let you go, the first time through my own misjudgment and the second because
you bullied me into it. Both times it was clearly a mistake. You know what
happened to you the first time.” Seldon
said indignantly, “Yes, but nothing happened to me the second time.” “You
nearly got into a lot of trouble. Suppose you had been caught indulging in
sexual escapades with a Sister?” “It
wasn’t a sexual—” “You
yourself said she was in a high state of sexual excitement.” “But—” “It
was wrong. Please get it through your head, Hari. From now on, you go nowhere
without me.” “Look,”
said Seldon freezingly, “my object was to find out about Mycogenian history and
as a result of the so-called sexual escapade with a Sister, I have a book—the
Book.” “The
Book! True, there’s the Book. Let’s see it.” Seldon
produced it and Dors thoughtfully hefted it. She
said, “It might not do us any good, Hari. This doesn’t look as though it will
fit any projector I’ve ever encountered. That means you’ll have to get a
Mycogenian projector and they’ll want to know why you want it. They’ll then
find out you have this Book and they’ll take it away from you.” Seldon
smiled. “If your assumptions were correct, Dors, your conclusions would be
inescapable, but it happens that this is not the kind of book you think it is.
It’s not meant to be projected. The material is printed on various pages and
the pages are turned. Raindrop Forty-Three explained that much to me.” “A
print-book!” It was hard to tell whether Dors was shocked or amused. “That’s
from the Stone Age.” “It’s
certainly pre-Empire,” said Seldon, “but not entirely so. Have you ever seen a
print-book?” “Considering
that I’m a historian? Of course, Hari.” “Ah,
but like this one?” He
handed over the Book and Dors, smiling, opened it—then turned to another
page—then flipped the pages. “Its blank,” she said. “It
appears to be blank. The Mycogenians are stubbornly primitivistic, but not
entirely so. They will keep to the essence of the primitive, but have no
objection to using modern technology to modify it for convenience’s sake. Who
knows?” “Maybe
so, Hari, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.” “The
pages aren’t blank, they’re covered with microprint. Here, give it back. If I
press this little nubbin on the inner edge of the cover— Look!” The
page to which the book lay open was suddenly covered with lines of print that
rolled slowly upward. Seldon
said, “You can adjust the rate of upward movement to match your reading speed
by slightly twisting the nubbin one way or the other. When the lines of print
reach their upward limit when you reach the bottom line, that is—they snap
downward and turn off. You turn to the next page and continue.” “Where
does the energy come from that does all this?” “It
has an enclosed microfusion battery that lasts the life of the book.” “Then
when it runs down—” “You
discard the book, which you may be required to do even before it runs down,
given wear and tear, and get another copy. You never replace the battery.” Dors
took the Book a second time and looked at it from all sides. She said, “I must
admit I never heard of a book like this.” “Nor
I. The Galaxy, generally, has moved into visual technology so rapidly, it
skipped over this possibility.” “This
is visual.” “Yes,
but not with the orthodox effects. This type of book has its advantages. It
holds far more than an ordinary visual book does.” Dors
said, “Where’s the turn-on?—Ah, let me see if I can work it.” She had opened to
a page at random and set the lines of print marching upward. Then she said,
“I’m afraid this won’t do you any good, Hari. It’s pre-Galactic. I don’t mean
the book. I mean the print ... the language.” “Can
you read it, Dors? As a historian—” “As
a historian, I’m used to dealing with archaic language—but within limits. This
is far too ancient for me. I can make out a few words here and there, but not
enough to be useful.” “Good,”
said Seldon. “If it’s really ancient, it will be useful.” “Not
if you can’t read it.” “I
can read it,” said Seldon. “It’s bilingual. You don’t suppose that Raindrop
Forty-Three can read the ancient script, do you?” “If
she’s educated properly, why not?” “Because
I suspect that women in Mycogen are not educated past household duties. Some of
the more learned men can read this, but everyone else would need a translation
to Galactic.” He pushed another nubbin. “And this supplies it.” The
lines of print changed to Galactic Standard. “Delightful,”
said Dors in admiration. “We
could learn from these Mycogenians, but we don’t.” “We
haven’t known about it.” “I
can’t believe that. I know about it now. And you know about it. There must be
outsiders coming into Mycogen now and then, for commercial or political
reasons, or there wouldn’t be skincaps so ready for use. So every once in a
while someone must have caught a glimpse of this sort of print-book and seen
how it works, but it’s probably dismissed as something curious but not worth
further study, simply because it’s Mycogenian.” “But
is it worth study?” “Of
course. Everything is. Or should be. Hummin would probably point to this lack
of concern about these books as a sign of degeneration in the Empire.” He
lifted the Book and said with a gush of excitement, “But I am curious and I
will read this and it may push me in the direction of psychohistory.” “I
hope so,” said Dors, “but if you take my advice, you’ll sleep first and
approach it fresh in the morning. You won’t learn much if you nod over it.” Seldon
hesitated, then said, “How maternal you are!” “I’m
watching over you.” “But
I have a mother alive on Helicon. I would rather you were my friend.” “As
for that, I have been your friend since first I met you.” She smiled at him and
Seldon hesitated as though he were not certain as to the appropriate rejoinder. Finally
he said, “Then I’ll take your advice—as a friend—and sleep before reading.” He
made as though to put the Book on a small table between the two cots,
hesitated, turned, and put it under his pillow. Dors
Venabili laughed softly. “I think you’re afraid I will wake during the night
and read parts of the Book before you have a chance to. Is that it?” “Well,”
said Seldon, trying not to look ashamed, “that may be it. Even friendship only
goes so far and this is my book and it’s my psychohistory.” “I
agree,” said Dors, “and I promise you that we won’t quarrel over that. By the
way, you were about to say something earlier when I interrupted you. Remember?” Seldon
thought briefly. “No.” In
the dark, he thought only of the Book. He gave no thought to the hand-on-thigh
story. In fact, he had already quite forgotten it, consciously at least. 48.Venabili
woke up and could tell by her timeband that the night period was only half
over. Not hearing Hari’s snore, she could tell that his cot was empty. If he
had not left the apartment, then he was in the bathroom. She tapped lightly on
the door and said softly, “Hari?” He
said, “Come in,” in an abstracted way and she did. The toilet lid was down and
Seldon, seated upon it, held the Book open on his lap. He said, quite
unnecessarily, “I’m reading.” “Yes,
I see that. But why?” “I
couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.” “But
why read in here?” “If
I had turned on the room light, I would have woken you up.” “Are
you sure the Book can’t be illuminated?” “Pretty
sure. When Raindrop Forty-Three described its workings, she never mentioned
illumination. Besides, I suppose that would use up so much energy that the
battery wouldn’t last the life of the Book.” He sounded dissatisfied. Dors
said, “You can step out, then. I want to use this place, as long as I’m here.” When
she emerged, she found him sitting cross-legged on his cot, still reading, with
the room well lighted. She
said, “You don’t look happy. Does the Book disappoint you?” He
looked up at her, blinking. “Yes, it does. I’ve sampled it here and there. It’s
all I’ve had time to do. The thing is a virtual encyclopedia and the index is
almost entirely a listing of people and places that are of little use for my
purposes. It has nothing to do with the Galactic Empire or the pre-Imperial
Kingdoms either. It deals almost entirely with a single world and, as nearly as
I can make out from what I have read, it is an endless dissertation on internal
politics.” “Perhaps
you underestimate its age. It may deal with a period when there was indeed only
one world ... one inhabited world.” “Yes,
I know,” said Seldon a little impatiently. “That’s actually what I want—provided
I can be sure its history, not legend. I wonder. I don’t want to believe it
just because I want to believe it.” Dors
said, “Well, this matter of a single-world origin is much in the air these
days. Human beings are a single species spread all over the Galaxy, so they
must have originated somewhere. At least that’s the popular view at present.
You can’t have independent origins producing the same species on different
worlds.” “But
I’ve never seen the inevitability of that argument,” said Seldon. “If human
beings arose on a number of worlds as a number of different species, why
couldn’t they have interbred into some single intermediate species?” “Because
species can’t interbreed. That’s what makes them species.” Seldon
thought about it a moment, then dismissed it with a shrug. “Well, I’ll leave it
to the biologists.” “They’re
precisely the ones who are keenest on the Earth hypothesis.” “Earth?
Is that what they call the supposed world of origin?” “That’s
a popular name for it, though there’s no way of telling what it was called,
assuming there was one. And no one has any clue to what its location might be.” “Earth!”
said Seldon, curling his lips. “It sounds like a belch to me. In any case, if
the book deals with the original world, I didn’t come across it. How do you
spell the word?” She
told him and he checked the Book quickly. “There you are. The name is not
listed in the index, either by that spelling or any reasonable alternative.” “Really?” “And
they do mention other worlds in passing. Names aren’t given and there seems no
interest in those other worlds except insofar as they directly impinge on the
local world they speak of ... at least as far as I can see from what I’ve read.
In one place, they talked about ‘The Fifty.’ I don’t know what they meant.
Fifty leaders? Fifty cities? It seemed to me to be fifty worlds.” “Did
they give a name to their own world, this world that seems to preoccupy them
entirely?” asked Dors. “If they don’t call it Earth, what do they call it?” “As
you’d expect, they call it ‘the world’ or ‘the planet.’ Sometimes they call it
‘the Oldest’ or ‘the World of the Dawn,’ which has a poetic significance, I
presume, that isn’t clear to me. I suppose one ought to read the Book entirely
through and some matters will then grow to make more sense.” He looked down at
the Book in his hand with some distaste. “It would take a very long time,
though, and I’m not sure that I’d end up any the wiser.” Dors
sighed. “I’m sorry, Hari. You sound so disappointed.” “That’s
because I am disappointed. It’s my fault, though. I should not have allowed
myself to expect too much.—At one point, come to think of it, they referred to
their world as ‘Aurora.’ ” “Aurora?”
said Dors, lifting her eyebrows. “It
sounds like a proper name. It doesn’t make any sense otherwise, as far as I can
see. Does it mean anything to you, Dors?” “Aurora.”
Dors thought about it with a slight frown on her face. “I can’t say I’ve ever
heard of a planet with that name in the course of the history of the Galactic
Empire or during the period of its growth, for that matter, but I won’t pretend
to know the name of every one of the twenty-five million worlds. We could look
it up in the University library—if we ever get back to Streeling. There’s no
use trying to find a library here in Mycogen. Somehow I have a feeling that all
their knowledge is in the Book. If anything isn’t there, they aren’t
interested.” Seldon
yawned and said, “I think you’re right. In any case, there’s no use reading any
more and I doubt that I can keep my eyes open any longer. Is it all right if I
put out the light?” “I
would welcome it, Hari. And let’s sleep a little later in the morning.” Then,
in the dark, Seldon said softly, “Of course, some of what they say is
ridiculous. For instance, they refer to a life expectancy on their world of
between three and four centuries.” “Centuries?” “Yes,
they count their ages by decades rather than by years. It gives you a queer
feeling, because so much of what they say is perfectly matter-of-fact that when
they come out with something that odd, you almost find yourself trapped into
believing it.” “If
you feel yourself beginning to believe that, then you should realize that many
legends of primitive origins assume extended life spans for early leaders. If
they’re pictured as unbelievably heroic, you see, it seems natural that they
have life spans to suit.” “Is
that so?” said Seldon, yawning again. “It
is. And the cure for advanced gullibility is to go to sleep and consider
matters again the next day.” And
Seldon, pausing only long enough to think that an extended life span might well
be a simple necessity for anyone trying to understand a Galaxy of people,
slept. 49.The
next morning, feeling relaxed and refreshed and eager to begin his study of the
Book again, Hari asked Dors, “How old would you say the Raindrop sisters are?” “I
don’t know. Twenty ... twenty-two?” “Well,
suppose they do live three or four centuries.” “Hari.
That’s ridiculous.” “I’m
saying suppose. In mathematics, we say ‘suppose’ all the time and see if we can
end up with something patently untrue or self-contradictory. An extended life
span would almost surely mean an extended period of development. They might
seem in their early twenties and actually be in their sixties.” “You
can try asking them how old they are.” “We
can assume they’d lie.” “Look
up their birth certificates.” Seldon
smiled wryly. “I’ll bet you anything you like—a roll in the hay, if you’re
willing—that they’ll claim they don’t keep records or that, if they do, they
will insist those records are closed to tribespeople.” “No
bet,” said Dors. “And if that’s true, then it’s useless trying to suppose
anything about their age.” “Oh
no. Think of it this way. If the Mycogenians are living extended life spans
that are four or five times that of ordinary human beings, they can’t very well
give birth to very many children without expanding their population
tremendously. You remember that Sunmaster said something about not having the
population expand and bit off his remarks angrily at that time.” Dors
said, “What are you getting at?” “When
I was with Raindrop Forty-Three, I saw no children.” “On
the microfarms?” “Yes.” “Did
you expect children there? I was with Raindrop Forty-Five in the shops and on
the residential levels and I assure you I saw a number of children of all ages,
including infants. Quite a few of them.” “Ah.”
Seldon looked chagrined. “Then that would mean they can’t be enjoying extended
life spans.” Dors
said, “By your line of argument, I should say definitely not. Did you really
think they did?” “No,
not really. But then you can’t close your mind either and make assumptions
without testing them one way or another.” “You
can waste a lot of time that way too, if you stop to chew away at things that
are ridiculous on the face of it.” “Some
things that seem ridiculous on the face of it aren’t. That’s all. Which reminds
me. You’re the historian. In your work, have you ever come across objects or
phenomena called ‘robots’?” “Ah!
Now you’re switching to another legend and a very popular one. There are any
number of worlds that imagine the existence of machines in human form in
prehistoric times. These are called ‘robots.’ “The
tales of robots probably originate from one master legend, for the general
theme is the same. Robots were devised, then grew in numbers and abilities to
the status of the almost superhuman. They threatened humanity and were
destroyed. In every case, the destruction took place before the actual reliable
historic records available to us today existed. The usual feeling is that the
story is a symbolic picture of the risks and dangers of exploring the Galaxy,
when human beings expanded outward from the world or worlds that were their
original homes. There must always have been the fear of encountering other—and
superior—intelligences.” “Perhaps
they did at least once and that gave rise to the legend.” “Except
that on no human—occupied world has there been any record or trace of any
prehuman or nonhuman intelligence.” “But
why ‘robots’? Does the word have meaning?” “Not
that I know of, but it’s the equivalent of the familiar ‘automata.’ ” “Automata!
Well, why don’t they say so?” “Because
people do use archaic terms for flavor when they tell an ancient legend. Why do
you ask all this, by the way?” “Because
in this ancient Mycogenian book, they talk of robots. And very favorably, by
the way.—Listen, Dors, aren’t you going out with Raindrop Forty-Five again this
afternoon?” “Supposedly—if
she shows up.” “Would
you ask her some questions and try to get the answers out of her?” “I
can try. What are the questions?” “I
would like to find out, as tactfully as possible, if there is some structure in
Mycogen that is particularly significant, that is tied in with the past, that
has a sort of mythic value, that can—” Dors
interrupted, trying not to smile. “I think that what you are trying to ask is
whether Mycogen has a temple.” And,
inevitably, Seldon looked blank and said, “What’s a temple?” “Another
archaic term of uncertain origin. It means all the things you asked
about—significance, past, myth. Very well, I’ll ask. It’s the sort of thing,
however, that they might find difficult to speak of. To tribespeople,
certainly.” “Nevertheless,
do try.” SacratoriumAURORA—
... A mythical world, supposedly inhabited in primordial times, during the dawn
of interstellar travel. It is thought by some to he the perhaps equally
mythical “world of origin” of humanity and to be another name for “Earth.” The
people of the Mycogen (q.v.) Sector of ancient Trantor reportedly held
themselves to be descended from the inhabitants of Aurora and made that tenet
central to their system of beliefs, concerning which almost nothing else is
known ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 50.The
two Raindrops arrived at midmorning. Raindrop Forty-Five seemed as cheerful as
ever, but Raindrop Forty-Three paused just inside the door, looking drawn and
circumspect. She kept her eyes down and did not as much as glance at Seldon. Seldon
looked uncertain and gestured to Dors, who said in a cheerful businesslike tone
of voice, “One moment, Sisters. I must give instructions to my man or he won’t
know what to do with himself today.” They
moved into the bathroom and Dors whispered, “Is something wrong?” “Yes.
Raindrop Forty-Three is obviously shattered. Please tell her that I will return
the Book as soon as possible.” Dors
favored Seldon with a long surprised look. “Hari,” she said, “you’re a sweet,
caring person, but you haven’t the good sense of an amoeba. If I as much as
mention the Book to the poor woman, she’ll be certain that you told me all
about what happened yesterday and then she’ll really be shattered. The only
hope is to treat her exactly as I would ordinarily.” Seldon
nodded his head and said dispiritedly, “I suppose you’re right.” Dors
returned in time for dinner and found Seldon on his cot, still leafing through
the Book, but with intensified impatience. He looked up with a scowl and said,
“If we’re going to be staying here any length of time, we’re going to need a
communication device of some sort between us. I had no idea when you’d get back
and I was a little concerned.” “Well,
here I am,” she said, removing her skincap gingerly and looking at it with more
than a little distaste. “I’m really pleased at your concern. I rather thought
you’d be so lost in the Book, you wouldn’t even realize I was gone.” Seldon
snorted. Dors
said, “As for communications devices, I doubt that they are easy to come by in
Mycogen. It would mean easing communication with tribespeople outside and I
suspect the leaders of Mycogen are bound and determined to cut down on any possible
interaction with the great beyond.” “Yes,”
said Seldon, tossing the Book to one side, “I would expect that from what I see
in the Book. Did you find out about the whatever you called it ... the temple?” “Yes,”
she said, removing her eyebrow patches. “It exists. There are a number of them
over the area of the sector, but there’s a central building that seems to be
the important one.—Would you believe that one woman noticed my eyelashes and
told me that I shouldn’t let myself be seen in public? I have a feeling she
intended to report me for indecent exposure.” “Never
mind that,” said Seldon impatiently. “Do you know where the central temple is
located?” “I
have directions, but Raindrop Forty-Five warned me that women were not allowed
inside except on special occasions, none of which are coming up soon. It’s
called the Sacratorium.” “The
what.” “The
Sacratorium.” “What
an ugly word. What does it mean?” Dors
shook her head. “It’s new to me. And neither Raindrop knew what it meant
either. To them, Sacratorium isn’t what the building is called, it’s what it
is. Asking them why they called it that probably sounded like asking them why a
wall is called a wall.” “Is
there anything about it they do know?” “Of
course, Hari. They know what it’s for. It’s a place that’s devoted to something
other than the life here in Mycogen. It’s devoted to another world, a former
and better one.” “The
world they once lived on, you mean?” “Exactly.
Raindrop Forty-Five all but said so, but not quite. She couldn’t bring herself
to say the word.” “Aurora?” “That’s
the word, but I suspect that if you were to say it out loud to a group of
Mycogenians, they would be shocked and horrified. Raindrop Forty-Five, when she
said, ‘The Sacratorium is dedicated to—’, stopped at that point and carefully
wrote out the letters one by one with her finger on the palm of her hand. And
she blushed, as though she was doing something obscene.” “Strange,”
said Seldon. “If the Book is an accurate guide, Aurora is their dearest memory,
their chief point of unification, the center about which everything in Mycogen
revolves. Why should its mention be considered obscene? Are you sure you didn’t
misinterpret what the Sister meant?” “I’m
positive. And perhaps it’s no mystery. Too much talk about it would get to tribespeople.
The best way of keeping it secret unto themselves is to make its very mention
taboo.” “Taboo?” “A
specialized anthropological term. It’s a reference to serious and effective
social pressure forbidding some sort of action. The fact that women are not
allowed in the Sacratorium probably has the force of a taboo. I’m sure that a
Sister would be horrified if it was suggested that she invade its precincts.” “Are
the directions you have good enough for me to get to the Sacratorium on my
own?” “In
the first place, Hari, you’re not going alone. I’m going with you. I thought we
had discussed the matter and that I had made it clear that I cannot protect you
at long distance—not from sleet storms and not from feral women. In the second
place, it’s impractical to think of walking there. Mycogen may be a small
sector, as sectors go, but it simply isn’t that small.” “An
Expressway, then.” “There
are no Expressways passing through Mycogenian territory. It would make contact
between Mycogenians and tribespeople too easy. Still, there are public
conveyances of the kind that are found on less developed planets. In fact,
that’s what Mycogen is, a piece of an undeveloped planet, embedded like a
splinter in the body of Trantor, which is otherwise a patchwork of developed
societies.—And Hari, finish with the Book as soon as possible. It’s apparent
that Rainbow Forty-Three is in trouble as long as you have it and so will we be
if they find out.” “Do
you mean a tribesperson reading it is taboo?” “I’m
sure of it.” “Well,
it would be no great loss to give it back. I should say that 95 percent of it
is incredibly dull; endless in-fighting among political groups, endless
justification of policies whose wisdom I cannot possibly judge, endless
homilies on ethical matters which, even when enlightened, and they usually
aren’t, are couched with such infuriating self-righteousness as to almost
enforce violation.” “You
sound as though I would be doing you a great favor if I took the thing away
from you.” “Except
that there’s always the other 5 percent that discusses the
never-to-be-mentioned Aurora. I keep thinking that there may be something there
and that it may be helpful to me. That’s why I wanted to know about the
Sacratorium. “Do
you hope to find support for the Book’s concept of Aurora in the Sacratorium?” “In
a way. And I’m also terribly caught up in what the Book has to say about
automata, or robots, to use their term. I find myself attracted to the
concept.” “Surely,
you don’t take it seriously?” “Almost.
If you accept some passages of the Book literally, then there is an implication
that some robots were in human shape.” “Naturally.
If you’re going to construct a simulacrum of a human being, you will make it
look like a human being.” “Yes,
simulacrum means ‘likeness,’ but a likeness can be crude indeed. An artist can
draw a stick figure and you might know he is representing a human being and
recognize it. A circle for the head, a stalk for the body, and four bent lines
for arms and legs and you have it. But I mean robots that really look like a
human being, in every detail.” “Ridiculous,
Hari. Imagine the time it would take to fashion the metal of the body into
perfect proportions, with the smooth curve of underlying muscles.” “Who
said ‘metal,’ Dors? The impression I got is that such robots were organic or
pseudo-organic, that they were covered with skin, that you could not easily
draw a distinction between them and human beings in any way.” “Does
the Book say that?” “Not
in so many words. The inference, however—” “Is
your inference, Hari. You can’t take it seriously.” “Let
me try. I find four things that I can deduce from what the Book says about
robots—and I followed up every reference the index gave. First, as I say,
they—or some of them—exactly resembled human beings; second, they had very
extended life spans—if you want to call it that.” “Better
say ‘effectiveness,’ ” said Dors, “or you’ll begin thinking of them as human
altogether.” “Third,”
said Seldon, ignoring her, “that some—or, at any rate, at least one—continues
to live on to this day.” “Hari,
that’s one of the most widespread legends we have. The ancient hero does not
die but remains in suspended animation, ready to return to save his people at
some time of great need. Really, Hari.” “Fourth,”
said Seldon, still not rising to the bait, “there are some lines that seem to
indicate that the central temple—or the Sacratorium, if that’s what it is,
though I haven’t found that word in the Book, actually—contains a robot.” He
paused, then said, “Do you see?” Dors
said, “No. What should I see?” “If
we combine the four points, perhaps a robot that looks exactly like a human
being and that is still alive, having been alive for, say, the last twenty
thousand years, is in the Sacratorium.” “Come
on, Hari, you can’t believe that.” “I
don’t actually believe it, but I can’t entirely let go either. What if its
true? What if—its only one chance out of a million, I admit—it’s true? Don’t
you see how useful he could be to me? He could remember the Galaxy as it was
long before any reliable historical records existed. He might help make
psychohistory possible.” “Even
if it was true, do you suppose the Mycogenians would let you see and interview
the robot?” “I
don’t intend to ask permission. I can at least go to the Sacratorium and see if
there’s something to interview first.” “Not
now. Tomorrow at the earliest. And if you don’t think better of it by morning,
we go.” “You
told me yourself they don’t allow women—” “They
allow women to look at it from outside, I’m sure, and I suspect that is all we’ll
get to do.” And
there she was adamant. Hari
Seldon was perfectly willing to let Dors take the lead. She had been out in the
main roadways of Mycogen and was more at home with them than he was. Dors
Venabili, brows knitted, was less delighted with the prospect. She said, “We
can easily get lost, you know.” “Not
with that booklet,” said Seldon. She
looked up at him impatiently. “Fix your mind on Mycogen, Hari. What I should
have is a computomap, something I can ask questions of. This Mycogenian version
is just a piece of folded plastic. I can’t tell this thing where I am. I can’t
tell it by word of mouth and I can’t even tell it by pushing the necessary
contacts. It can’t tell me anything either way. It’s a print thing.” “Then
read what it says.” “That’s
what I’m trying to do, but it’s written for people who are familiar with the
system to begin with. We’ll have to ask.” “No,
Dors. That would be a last resort. I don’t want to attract attention. I would
rather we take our chances and try to find our own way, even if it means making
one or two wrong turns.” Dors
leafed through the booklet with great attention and then said grudgingly,
“Well, it gives the Sacratorium important mention. I suppose that’s only
natural. I presume everyone in Mycogen would want to get there at one time or
another.” Then, after additional concentration, she said, “I’ll tell you what.
There’s no way of taking a conveyance from here to there.” “What?” “Don’t
get excited. Apparently, there’s a way of getting from here to another conveyance
that will take us there. We’ll have to change from one to another.” Seldon
relaxed. “Well, of course. You can’t take an Expressway to half the places on
Trantor without changing.” Dors
cast an impatient glance at Seldon. “I know that too. It’s just that I’m used
to having these things tell me so. When they expect you to find out for
yourself, the simplest things can escape you for a while.” “All
right, dear. Don’t snap. If you know the way now, lead. I will follow humbly.” And
follow her he did, until they came to an intersection, where they stopped.
Three white-kirtled males and a pair of gray-kirtled females were at the same
intersection. Seldon tried a universal and general smile in their direction,
but they responded with a blank stare and looked away. And then the conveyance
came. It was an outmoded version of what Seldon, back on Helicon, would have
called a gravi-bus. There were some twenty upholstered benches inside, each
capable of holding four people. Each bench had its own doors on both sides of
the bus. When it stopped, passengers emerged on either side. (For a moment,
Seldon was concerned for those who got out on the traffic side of the
gravi-bus, but then he noticed that every vehicle approaching from either
direction stopped as it neared the bus. None passed it while it was not
moving.) Dors
pushed Seldon impatiently and he moved on to a bench where two adjoining seats
were available. Dors followed after. (The men always got on and got off first,
he noticed.) 51.“For
instance,” she said and pointed to a smooth boxed-off area on the back of the
bench directly before each of them. As soon as the conveyance had begun to
move, words lit up, naming the next stop and the notable structures or
crossways that were nearby. “Now,
that will probably tell us when we’re approaching the changeover we want. At
least the sector isn’t completely barbaric.” “Good,”
said Seldon. Then, after a while, leaning toward Dors, he whispered, “No one is
looking at us. It seems that artificial boundaries are set up to preserve
individual privacy in any crowded place. Have you noticed that?” “I’ve
always taken it for granted. If that’s going to be a rule of your
psychohistory, no one will be very impressed by it.” As
Dors had guessed, the direction plaque in front of them eventually announced
the approach to the changeover for the direct line to the Sacratorium. They
exited and again had to wait. Some buses ahead had already left this
intersection, but another gravi-bus was already approaching. They were on a
well-traveled route, which was not surprising; the Sacratorium was bound to be
the center and heartbeat of the sector. They
got on the gravi-bus and Seldon whispered, “We’re not paying.” “According
to the map, public transportation is a free service.” Seldon
thrust out his lower lip. “How civilized. I suppose that nothing is all of a
piece, not backwardness, not barbarism, nothing.” But
Dors nudged him and whispered, “Your rule is broken. We’re being watched. The
man on your right.” 52.Seldon’s
eyes shifted briefly. The man to his right was rather thin and seemed quite
old. He had dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, and Seldon was sure that
he would have had black hair if he had not been depilated. He faced front
again, thinking. This Brother was rather atypical. The few Brothers he had paid
any attention to had been rather tall, light-skinned, and with blue or gray
eyes. Of course, he had not seen enough of them to make a general rule. Then
there was a light touch on the right sleeve of his kirtle. Seldon turned hesitantly
and found himself looking at a card on which was written lightly, CAREFUL,
TRIBESMAN! Seldon
started and put a hand to his skincap automatically. The man next to him
silently mouthed, “Hair.” Seldon’s
hand found it, a tiny exposure of bristles at his temple. He must have
disturbed the skincap at some point or another. Quickly and as unobtrusively as
possible, he tugged the skincap, then made sure that it was snug under the
pretence of stroking his head. He
turned to his neighbor on his right, nodded slightly, and mouthed, “Thank you.” His
neighbor smiled and said in a normal speaking voice, “Going to the
Sacratorium?” Seldon
nodded. “Yes, I am.” “Easy
guess. So am I. Shall we get off together?” His smile was friendly. “I’m
with my—my—” “With
your woman. Of course. All three together, then?” Seldon
was not sure how to react. A quick look in the other direction showed him that
Dors’s eyes were turned straight ahead. She was showing no interest in
masculine conversation—an attitude appropriate for a Sister. However, Seldon
felt a soft pat on his left knee, which he took (with perhaps little
justification) to mean: “It’s all right.” In
any case, his natural sense of courtesy was on that side and he said, “Yes,
certainly.” There
was no further conversation until the direction plaque told them they were
arriving at the Sacratorium and Seldon’s Mycogenian friend was rising to get
off. The
gravi-bus made a wide turn about the perimeter of a large area of the
Sacratorium grounds and there was a general exodus when it came to a halt, the
men sliding in front of the women to exit first. The women followed. The
Mycogenian’s voice crackled a bit with age, but it was cheerful. He said, “It’s
a little early for lunch my ... friends, but take my word for it that things
will be crowded in not too long a time. Would you be willing to buy something
simple now and eat it outside? I am very familiar with this area and I know a
good place.” Seldon
wondered if this was a device to maneuver innocent tribespeople into something or
other disreputable or costly, yet decided to chance it. “You’re very kind,” he
said. “Since we are not at all familiar with the place, we will be glad to let
you take the lead.” They
bought lunch—sandwiches and a beverage that looked like milk—at an open-air
stand. Since it was a beautiful day and they were visitors, the old Mycogenian
said, they would go to the Sacratorium grounds and eat out of doors, the better
to become acquainted with their surroundings. During
their walk, carrying their lunch, Seldon noted that, on a very small scale, the
Sacratorium resembled the Imperial Palace and that the grounds around it
resembled, on a minute scale, the Imperial grounds. He could scarcely believe
that the Mycogenian people admired the Imperial institution or, indeed, did
anything but hate and despise it, yet the cultural attraction was apparently
not to be withstood. “It’s
beautiful,” said the Mycogenian with obvious pride. “Quite,”
said Seldon. “How it glistens in the daylight.” “The
grounds around it,” he said, “are constructed in imitation of the government
grounds on our Dawn World ... in miniature, to be sure.” “Did
you ever see the grounds of the Imperial Palace?” asked Seldon cautiously. The
Mycogenian caught the implication and seemed in no way put out by it. “They
copied the Dawn World as best they could too.” Seldon
doubted that in the extreme, but he said nothing. They came to a semicircular
seat of white stonite, sparkling in the light as the Sacratorium did. “Good,”
said the Mycogenian, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure. “No one’s taken my
place. I call it mine only because it’s my favorite seat. It affords a
beautiful view of the side wall of the Sacratorium past the trees. Please sit
down. It’s not cold, I assure you. And your companion. She is welcome to sit
too. She is a tribeswoman, I know, and has different customs. She ... she may
speak if she wishes.” Dors
gave him a hard look and sat down. Seldon,
recognizing the fact that they might remain with this old Mycogenian a while,
thrust out his hand and said, “I am Hari and my female companion is Dors. We
don’t use numbers, I’m afraid.” “To
each his ... or her ... own,” said the other expansively. “I am Mycelium
Seventy-Two. We are a large cohort.” “Mycelium?”
said Seldon a bit hesitantly. “You
seem surprised,” said Mycelium. “I take it, then, you’ve only met members of
our Elder families. Names like Cloud and Sunshine and Starlight—all
astronomical.” “I
must admit—” began Seldon. “Well,
meet one of the lower classes. We take our names from the ground and from the
micro-organisms we grow. Perfectly respectable.” “I’m
quite certain,” said Seldon, “and thank you again for helping me with my ...
problem in the gravi-bus.” “Listen,”
said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I saved you a lot of trouble. If a Sister had seen
you before I did, she would undoubtedly have screamed and the nearest Brothers
would have bustled you off the bus—maybe not even waiting for it to stop
moving.” Dors
leaned forward so as to see across Seldon. “How is it you did not act in this
way yourself?” “I?
I have no animosity against tribespeople. I’m a scholar.” “A
scholar?” “First
one in my cohort. I studied at the Sacratorium School and did very well. I’m
learned in all the ancient arts and I have a license to enter the tribal
library, where they keep book-films and books by tribespeople. I can view any
book-film or read any book I wish to. We even have a computerized reference
library and I can handle that too. That sort of thing broadens your mind. I
don’t mind a little hair showing. I’ve seen pictures of men with hair many a
time. And women too.” He glanced quickly at Dors. They
ate in silence for a while and then Seldon said, “I notice that every Brother
who enters or leaves the Sacratorium is wearing a red sash.” “Oh
yes,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “Over the left shoulder and around the right
side of the waist—usually very fancily embroidered.” “Why
is that?” “It’s
called an ‘obiah.’ It symbolizes the joy felt at entering the Sacratorium and
the blood one would spill to preserve it.” “Blood?”
said Dors, frowning. “Just
a symbol. I never actually heard of anyone spilling blood over the Sacratorium.
For that matter, there isn’t that much joy. it’s mostly wailing and mourning
and prostrating one’s self over the Lost World.” His voice dropped and became
soft. “Very silly.” Dors
said, “You’re not a ... a believer?” “I’m
a scholar,” said Mycelium with obvious pride. His face wrinkled as he grinned
and took on an even more pronounced appearance of age. Seldon
found himself wondering how old the man was. Several centuries?—No, they’d
disposed of that. It couldn’t be and yet, “How old are you?” Seldon asked
suddenly, involuntarily. Mycelium
Seventy-Two showed no signs of taking offense at the question, nor did he
display any hesitation at answering, “Sixty-seven.” Seldon
had to know. “I was told that your people believe that in very early times
everyone lived for several centuries.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two looked at Seldon quizzically. “Now how did you find that out?
Someone must have been talking out of turn ... but its true. There is that
belief. Only the unsophisticated believe it, but the Elders encourage it
because it shows our superiority. Actually, our life expectancy is higher than
elsewhere because we eat more nutritionally, but living even one century is
rare.” “I
take it you don’t consider Mycogenians superior,” said Seldon. Mycelium
Seventy-Two said, “There’s nothing wrong with Mycogenians. They’re certainly
not inferior. Still, I think that all men are equal.—Even women,” he added,
looking across at Dors. “I
don’t suppose,” said Seldon, “that many of your people would agree with that.” “Or
many of your people,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two with a faint resentment. “I
believe it, though. A scholar has to. I’ve viewed and even read all the great literature
of the tribespeople. I understand your culture. I’ve written articles on it. I
can sit here just as comfortably with you as though you were ... [tit].” Dors
said a little sharply, “You sound proud of understanding tribespeople’s ways.
Have you ever traveled outside Mycogen?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two seemed to move away a little. “No.” “Why
not? You would get to know us better.” “I
wouldn’t feel right. I’d have to wear a wig. I’d be ashamed.” Dors
said, “Why a wig? You could stay bald.” “No,”
said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I wouldn’t be that kind of fool. I’d be mistreated
by all the hairy ones.” “Mistreated?
Why?” said Dors. “We have a great many naturally bald people everywhere on
Trantor and on every other world too.” “My
father is quite bald,” said Seldon with a sigh, “and I presume that in the
decades to come I will be bald too. My hair isn’t all that thick now.” “That’s
not bald,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You keep hair around the edges and over
your eyes. I mean bald—no hair at all.” “Anywhere
on your body?” said Dors, interested. And
now Mycelium Seventy-Two looked offended and said nothing. Seldon,
anxious to get the conversation back on track, said, “Tell me, Mycelium
Seventy-Two, can tribespeople enter the Sacratorium as spectators?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two shook his head vigorously. “Never. It’s for the Sons of the Dawn
only.” Dors
said, “Only the Sons?” Mycelium
Seventy-Two looked shocked for a moment, then said forgivingly, “Well, you’re
tribespeople. Daughters of the Dawn enter only on certain days and times.
That’s just the way it is. I don’t say I approve. If it was up to me, I’d say,
‘Go in. Enjoy if you can.’ Sooner others than me, in fact.” “Don’t
you ever go in?” “When
I was young, my parents took me, but—he shook his head—“it was just people
staring at the Book and reading from it and sighing and weeping for the old
days. It’s very depressing. You can’t talk to each other. You can’t laugh. You
can’t even look at each other. Your mind has to be totally on the Lost World.
Totally.” He waved a hand in rejection. “Not for me. I’m a scholar and I want
the whole world open to me.” “Good,”
said Seldon, seeing an opening. “We feel that way too. We are scholars also,
Dors and myself.” “I
know,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You
know? How do you know?” “You’d
have to be. The only tribespeople allowed in Mycogen are Imperial officials and
diplomats, important traders, and scholars—and to me you have the look of
scholars. That’s what interested me in you. Scholars together.” He smiled
delightedly. “So
we are. I am a mathematician. Dors is a historian. And you?” “I
specialize in ... culture. I’ve read all the great works of literature of the
tribespeople: Lissauer, Mentone, Novigor—” “And
we have read the great works of your people. I’ve read the Book, for instance.—About
the Lost World.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His olive complexion seemed to fade
a little. “You have? How? Where?” “At
our University we have copies that we can read if we have permission.” “Copies
of the Book?” “Yes.” “I
wonder if the Elders know this?” Seldon
said, “And I’ve read about robots.” “Robots?” “Yes.
That is why I would like to be able to enter the Sacratorium. I would like to
see the robot.” (Dors kicked lightly at Seldon’s ankle, but he ignored her.) Mycelium
Seventy-Two said uneasily, “I don’t believe in such things. Scholarly people
don’t.” But he looked about as though he was afraid of being overheard. Seldon
said, “I’ve read that a robot still exists in the Sacratorium.” Mycelium
Seventy-Two said, “I don’t want to talk about such nonsense.” Seldon
persisted. “Where would it be if it was in the Sacratorium?” “Even
if one was there, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been in there since I was a
child.” “Would
you know if there was a special place, a hidden place?” “There’s
the Elders’ aerie. Only Elders go there, but there’s nothing there.” “Have
you ever been there?” “No,
of course not.” “Then
how do you know?” “I
don’t know that there’s no pomegranate tree there. I don’t know that there’s no
laser-organ there. I don’t know that there’s no item of a million different
kinds there. Does my lack of knowledge of their absence show they are all
present?” For
the moment, Seldon had nothing to say. A
ghost of a smile broke through Mycelium Seventy-Two’s look of concern. He said,
“That’s scholars’ reasoning. I’m not an easy man to tackle, you see. Just the
same, I wouldn’t advise you to try to get up into the Elders’ aerie. I don’t
think you’d like what would happen if they found a tribesman inside.—Well. Best
of the Dawn to you.” And he rose suddenly—without warning—and hurried away. Seldon
looked after him, rather surprised. “What made him rush off like that?” “I
think,” said Dors, “it’s because someone is approaching.” And
someone was. A tall man in an elaborate white kirtle, crossed by an even more
elaborate and subtly glittering red sash, glided solemnly toward them. He had
the unmistakable look of a man with authority and the even more unmistakable
look of one who is not pleased. 53.Hari
Seldon rose as the new Mycogenian approached. He hadn’t the slightest idea
whether that was the appropriate polite behavior, but he had the distinct
feeling it would do no harm. Dors Venabili rose with him and carefully kept her
eyes lowered. The
other stood before them. He too was an old man, but more subtly aged than
Mycelium Seventy-Two. Age seemed to lend distinction to his still-handsome
face. His bald head was beautifully round and his eyes were a startling blue,
contrasting sharply with the bright all-but-glowing red of his sash. The
newcomer said, “I see you are tribespeople.” His voice was more high-pitched
than Seldon had expected, but he spoke slowly, as though conscious of the
weight of authority in every word he uttered. “So
we are,” said Seldon politely but firmly. He saw no reason not to defer to the
other’s position, but he did not intend to abandon his own. “Your
names?” “I
am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna. And yours,
man of Mycogen?” The
eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he too could recognize an air of authority
when he felt it. “I
am Skystrip Two,” he said, lifting his head higher, “an Elder of the
Sacratorium. And your position, tribesman?” “We,”
said Seldon, emphasizing the pronoun, “are scholars of Streeling University. I
am a mathematician and my companion is a historian and we are here to study the
ways of Mycogen.” “By
whose authority?” “By
that of Sunmaster Fourteen, who greeted us on our arrival.” Skystrip
Two fell silent for a moment and then a small smile appeared on his face and he
took on an air that was almost benign. He said, “The High Elder. I know him
well.” “And
so you should,” said Seldon blandly. “Is there anything else, Elder?” “Yes.”
The Elder strove to regain the high ground. “Who was the man who was with you
and who hurried away when I approached?” Seldon
shook his head, “We never saw him before, Elder, and know nothing about him. We
encountered him purely by accident and asked about the Sacratorium.” “What
did you ask him?” “Two
questions, Elder. We asked if that building was the Sacratorium and if
tribespeople were allowed to enter it. He answered in the affirmative to the
first question and in the negative to the second.” “Quite
so. And what is your interest in the Sacratorium?” “Sir,
we are here to study the ways of Mycogen and is not the Sacratorium the heart
and brain of Mycogen?” “It
is entirely ours and reserved for us.” “Even
if an Elder—the High Elder—would arrange for permission in view of our
scholarly function?” “Have
you indeed the High Elder’s permission?” Seldon
hesitated the slightest moment while Dors’s eyes lifted briefly to look at him
sideways. He decided he could not carry off a lie of this magnitude. “No,” he
said, “not yet.” “Or
ever,” said the Elder. “You are here in Mycogen by authority, but even the
highest authority cannot exert total control over the public. We value our
Sacratorium and the populace can easily grow excited over the presence of a
tribesperson anywhere in Mycogen but, most particularly, in the vicinity of the
Sacratorium. It would take one excitable person to raise a cry of ‘Invasion!’
and a peaceful crowd such as this one would be turned into one that would be
thirsting to tear you apart. I mean that quite literally. For your own good,
even if the High Elder has shown you kindness, leave. Now!” “But
the Sacratorium—” said Seldon stubbornly, though Dors was pulling gently at his
kirtle. “What
is there in the Sacratorium that can possibly interest you?” said the Elder.
“You see it now. There is nothing for you to see in the interior.” “There
is the robot,” said Seldon. The
Elder stared at Seldon in shocked surprise and then, bending to bring his lips
close to Seldon’s ear, whispered harshly, “Leave now or I will raise the cry of
‘Invasion!’ myself. Nor, were it not for the High Elder, would I give you even
this one chance to leave.” And
Dors, with surprising strength, nearly pulled Seldon off his feet as she
stepped hastily away, dragging him along until he caught his balance and
stepped quickly after her. 54.It
was over breakfast the next morning, not sooner, that Dors took up the
subject—and in a way that Seldon found most wounding. She said, “Well, that was
a pretty fiasco yesterday.” Seldon,
who had honestly thought he had gotten away with it without comment, looked
sullen. “What made it a fiasco?” “Driven
out is what we were. And for what? What did we gain?” “Only
the knowledge that there is a robot in there.” “Mycelium
Seventy-Two said there wasn’t.” “Of
course he said that. He’s a scholar—or thinks he is—and what he doesn’t know
about the Sacratorium would probably fill that library he goes to. You saw the
Elder’s reaction.” “I
certainly did.” “He
would not have reacted like that if there was no robot inside. He was horrified
we knew.” “That’s
just your guess, Hari. And even if there was, we couldn’t get in.” “We
could certainly try. After breakfast, we go out and buy a sash for me, one of
those obiahs. I put it on, keep my eyes devoutly downward, and walk right in.” “Skincap
and all? They’ll spot you in a microsecond.” “No,
they won’t. We’ll go into the library where all the tribespeople data is kept.
I’d like to see it anyway. From the library, which is a Sacratorium annex, I
gather, there will probably be an entrance into the Sacratorium.” “Where
you will be picked up at once.” “Not
at all. You heard what Mycelium Seventy-Two had to say. Everyone keeps his eyes
down and meditates on their great Lost World, Aurora. No one looks at anyone
else. It would probably be a grievous breach of discipline to do so. Then I’ll
find the Elders’ aerie—” “Just
like that?” “At
one point, Mycelium Seventy-Two said he would advise me not to try to get up
into the Elders’ aerie. Up. It must be somewhere in that tower of the
Sacratorium, the central tower.” Dors
shook her head. “I don’t recall the man’s exact words and I don’t think you do
either. That’s a terribly weak foundation to— Wait.” She stopped suddenly and
frowned. “Well?”
said Seldon. “There
is an archaic word ‘aerie’ that means ‘a dwelling place on high.’ ” “Ah!
There you are. You see, we’ve learned some vital things as the result of what
you call a fiasco. And if I can find a living robot that’s twenty thousand
years old and if it can tell me—” “Suppose
that such a thing exists, which passes belief, and that you find it, which is
not very likely, how long do you think you will be able to talk to it before
your presence is discovered?” “I
don’t know, but if I can prove it exists and if I can find it, then I’ll think
of some way to talk to it. It’s too late for me to back out now under any
circumstances. Hummin should have left me alone when I thought there was no way
of achieving psychohistory. Now that it seems there may be, I won’t let
anything stop me—short of being killed.” “The
Mycogenians may oblige, Hari, and you can’t run that risk.” “Yes,
I can. I’m going to try.” “No,
Hari. I must look after you and I can’t let you.” “You
must let me. Finding a way to work out psychohistory is more important than my
safety. My safety is only important because I may work out psychohistory. Prevent
me from doing so and your task loses its meaning.—Think about it.” Hari
felt himself infused with a renewed sense of purpose. Psychohistory—his
nebulous theory that he had, such a short while ago, despaired ever of
proving—loomed larger, more real. Now he had to believe that it was possible;
he could feel it in his gut. The pieces seemed to be falling together and
although he couldn’t see the whole pattern yet, he was sure the Sacratorium
would yield another piece to the puzzle. “Then
I’ll go in with you so I can pull you out, you idiot, when the time comes.” “Women
can’t enter.” “What
makes me a woman? Only this gray kirtle. You can’t see my breasts under it. I
don’t have a woman’s style hairdo with the skincap on. I have the same washed,
unmarked face a man has. The men here don’t have stubble. All I need is a white
kirtle and a sash and I can enter. Any Sister could do it if she wasn’t held
back by a taboo. I am not held back by one.” “You’re
held back by me. I won’t let you. It’s too dangerous.” “No
more dangerous for me than for you.” “But
I must take the risk.” “Then
so must I. Why is your imperative greater than mine?” “Because—”
Seldon paused in thought. “Just
tell yourself this,” said Dors, her voice hard as rock. “I won’t let you go
there without me. If you try, I will knock you unconscious and tie you up. If
you don’t like that, then give up any thought of going alone.” Seldon
hesitated and muttered darkly. He gave up the argument, at least for now. 55.The
sky was almost cloudless, but it was a pale blue, as though wrapped in a high
thin mist. That, thought Seldon, was a good touch, but suddenly he missed the
sun itself. No one on Trantor saw the planet’s sun unless he or she went
Upperside and even then only when the natural cloud layer broke. Did native
Trantorians miss the sun? Did they give it any thought? When one of them
visited another world where a natural sun was in view, did he or she stare,
half-blinded, at it with awe? Why,
he wondered, did so many people spend their lives not trying to find answers to
questions—not even thinking of questions to begin with? Was there anything more
exciting in life than seeking answers? His
glance shifted to ground level. The wide roadway was lined with low buildings,
most of them shops. Numerous individual ground-cars moved in both directions,
each hugging the right side. They seemed like a collection of antiques, but
they were electrically driven and quite soundless. Seldon wondered if “antique”
was always a word to sneer at. Could it be that silence made up for slowness?
Was there any particular hurry to life, after all? There
were a number of children on the walkways and Seldon’s lips pressed together in
annoyance. Clearly, an extended life span for the Mycogenians was impossible
unless they were willing to indulge in infanticide. The children of both sexes
(though it was hard to tell the boys from the girls) wore kirtles that came
only a few inches below the knee, making the wild activity of childhood easier. The
children also still had hair, reduced to an inch in length at most, but even so
the older ones among them had hoods attached to their kirtles and wore them
raised, hiding the top of the head altogether. It was as though they were
getting old enough to make the hair seem a trifle obscene—or old enough to be
wishing to hide it, in longing for the day of rite of passage when they were
depilated. A
thought occurred to Seldon. He said, “Dors, when you’ve been out shopping, who
paid, you or the Raindrop women?” “I
did of course. The Raindrops never produced a credit tile. But why should they?
What was being bought was for us, not for them.” “But
you have a Trantorian credit tile—a tribeswoman credit tile.” “Of
course, Hari, but there was no problem. The people of Mycogen may keep their
own culture and ways of thought and habits of life as they wish. They can
destroy their cephalic hair and wear kirtles. Nevertheless, they must use the
world’s credits. If they don’t, that would choke off commerce and no sensible
person would want to do that. The credits nerve, Hari.” She held up her hand as
though she was holding an invisible credit tile. “And
they accepted your credit tile?” “Never
a peep out of them. And never a word about my skincap. Credits sanitize
everything.” “Well,
that’s good. So I can buy—” “No,
I’ll do the buying. Credits may sanitize everything, but they more easily
sanitize a tribeswoman. They’re so used to paying women little or no attention
that they automatically pay me the same.—And here’s the clothing store I’ve
been using.” “I’ll
wait out here. Get me a nice red sash—one that looks impressive.” “Don’t
pretend you’ve forgotten our decision. I’ll get two. And another white kirtle
also ... to my measurements.” “Won’t
they think it odd that a woman would be buying a white kirtle?” “Of
course not. They’ll assume I’m buying it for a male companion who happens to be
my size. Actually, I don’t think they’ll bother with any assumptions at all as
long as my credit tile is good.” Seldon
waited, half-expecting someone to come up and greet him as a tribesman or
denounce him as one—more likely—but no one did. Those who passed him did so
without a glance and even those who glanced in his direction moved on seemingly
untouched. He was especially nervous about the gray kirtles—the women—walking
by in pairs or, even worse, with a man. They were downtrodden, unnoticed,
snubbed. How better to gain a brief notoriety than by shrieking at the sight of
a tribesman? But even the women moved on. They’re
not expecting to see a tribesman, Seldon thought, so they don’t see one. That,
he decided, augured well for their forthcoming invasion of the Sacratorium. How
much less would anyone expect to see tribespeople there and how much more
effectively would they therefore fail to see them! He was in fairly good humor
when Dors emerged. “You
have everything?” “Absolutely.” “Then
lets go back to the room, so you can change.” The white kirtle did not fit her
quite as well as the gray one did. Obviously, she could not have tried it on or
even the densest shopkeeper would have been struck with alarm. “How
do I look, Hari?” she asked. “Exactly
like a boy,” said Seldon. “Now let’s try the sash ... or obiah. I had better
get used to calling it that.” Dors,
without her skincap, was shaking out her hair gratefully. She said sharply,
“Don’t put it on now. We’re not going to parade through Mycogen with the sash
on. The last thing we want to do is call attention to ourselves.” “No,
no. I just want to see how it goes on.” “Well,
not that one. This one is better quality and more elaborate.” “You’re
right, Dors. I’ve got to gather in what attention there is. I don’t want them
to detect you as a woman.” “I’m
not thinking of that, Hari. I just want you to look pretty.” “A
thousand thanks, but that’s impossible, I suspect. Now, let’s see, how does this
work?” Together,
Hari and Dors practiced putting their obiahs on and taking them off, over and
over again, until they could do it in one fluid motion. Dors taught Hari how to
do it, as she had seen a man doing it the day before at the Sacratorium. When
Hari praised her for her acute observations, she blushed and said, “Its really
nothing, Hari, just something I noticed.” Hari
replied, “Then you’re a genius for noticing.” Finally
satisfied, they stood well apart, each surveying the other. Hari’s obiah glittered,
a bright red dragonlike design standing out against a paler field of similar
hue. Dors’s was a little less bold, had a simple thin line down the center, and
was very light in color. “There,”
she said, “just enough to show good taste.” She took it off. “Now,”
said Seldon, “we fold it up and it goes into one of the inner pockets. I have
my credit tile—Hummin’s, really—and the key to this place in this one and here,
on the other side, the Book.” “The
Book? Should you be carrying it around?” “I
must. I’m guessing that anyone going to the Sacratorium ought to have a copy of
the Book with him. They may intone passages or have readings. If necessary,
we’ll share the Book and maybe no one will notice. Ready?” “I’ll
never be ready, but I’m going with you.” “It
will be a tedious trip. Will you check my skincap and make sure no hair shows
this time? And don’t scratch your head.” “I
won’t. You look all right.” “So
do you.” “You
also look nervous.” And
Seldon said wryly, “Guess why!” Dors
reached out impulsively and squeezed Hari’s hand, then drew back as if
surprised at herself. Looking down, she straightened her white kirtle. Hari,
himself a trifle surprised and peculiarly pleased, cleared his throat and said,
“Okay, let’s go.” AerieROBOT—
... A term used in the ancient legends of several worlds for what are more
usually called “automata.” Robots are described as generally human in shape and
made of metal, although some are supposed to have been pseudo-organic in
nature. Hari Seldon, in the course of The Flight, is popularly supposed to have
seen an actual robot, but that story is of dubious origin. Nowhere in Seldon’s
voluminous writings does he mention robots at all, although ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 56.They
were not noticed. Hari
Seldon and Dors Venabili repeated the trip of the day before and this time no
one gave them a second look. Hardly anyone even gave them a first look. On
several occasions, they had to tuck their knees to one side to allow someone
sitting on an inner seat to get past them and out. When someone got in, they
quickly realized they had to move over if there was an inner empty seat. This
time they quickly grew tired of the smell of kirtles that were not freshly
laundered because they were not so easily diverted by what went on outside. But
eventually they were there. “That’s
the library,” said Seldon in a low voice. “I
suppose so,” said Dors. “At least that’s the building that Mycelium Seventy-Two
pointed out yesterday.” They
sauntered toward it leisurely. “Take
a deep breath,” said Seldon. “This is the first hurdle.” The
door ahead was open, the light within subdued. There were five broad stone
steps leading upward. They stepped onto the lowermost one and waited several
moments before they realized that their weight did not cause the steps to move
upward. Dors grimaced very slightly and gestured Seldon upward. Together they
walked up the stairs, feeling embarrassed on behalf of Mycogen for its
backwardness. Then,
through a door, where, at a desk immediately inside was a man bent over the simplest
and clumsiest computer Seldon had ever seen. The man did not look up at them.
No need, Seldon supposed. White kirtle, bald head—all Mycogenians looked so
nearly the same that one’s eyes slid off them and that was to the
tribespeople’s advantage at the moment. The
man, who still seemed to be studying something on the desk, said, “Scholars?” “Scholars,”
said Seldon. The
man jerked his head toward a door. “Go in. Enjoy.” They
moved inward and, as nearly as they could see, they were the only ones in this
section of the library. Either the library was not a popular resort or the
scholars were few or—most likely—both. Seldon
whispered, “I thought surely we would have to present some sort of license or
permission form and I would have to plead having forgotten it.” “He
probably welcomes our presence under any terms. Did you ever see a place like
this? If a place, like a person, could be dead, we would be inside a corpse.” Most
of the books in this section were print-books like the Book in Seldon’s inner
pocket. Dors drifted along the shelves, studying them. She said, “Old books,
for the most part. Part classic. Part worthless.” “Outside
books? Non-Mycogen, I mean?” “Oh
yes. If they have their own books, they must be kept in another section. This
one is for outside research for poor little self-styled scholars like
yesterday’s.—This is the reference department and here’s an Imperial
Encyclopedia ... must be fifty years old if a day ... and a computer.” She
reached for the keys and Seldon stopped her. “Wait.
Something could go wrong and we’ll be delayed.” He
pointed to a discreet sign above a free-standing set of shelves that glowed
with the letters TO THE SACR TORIUM. The second A in SACRATORIUM was dead,
possibly recently or possibly because no one cared. (The Empire, thought
Seldon, was in decay. All parts of it. Mycogen too.) He
looked about. The poor library, so necessary to Mycogenian pride, perhaps so
useful to the Elders who could use it to find crumbs to shore up their own
beliefs and present them as being those of sophisticated tribespeople, seemed
to be completely empty. No one had entered after them. Seldon
said, “Let’s step in here, out of eyeshot of the man at the door, and put on
our sashes.” And
then, at the door, aware suddenly there would be no turning back if they passed
this second hurdle, he said, “Dors, don’t come in with me.” She
frowned. “Why not?” “It’s
not safe and I don’t want you to be at risk.” “I
am here to protect you,” she said with soft firmness. “What
kind of protection can you be? I can protect myself, though you may not think
it. And I’d be handicapped by having to protect you. Don’t you see that?” “You
mustn’t be concerned about me, Hari,” said Dors. “Concern is my part.” She
tapped her sash where it crossed in the space between her obscured breasts. “Because
Hummin asked you to?” “Because
those are my orders.” She
seized Seldon’s arms just above his elbow and, as always, he was surprised by
her firm grip. She said, “I’m against this, Hari, but if you feel you must go
in, then I must go in too.” “All
right, then. But if anything happens and you can wriggle out of it, run. Don’t
worry about me.” “You’re
wasting your breath, Hari. And you’re insulting me.” Seldon
touched the entrance panel and the portal slid open. Together, almost in
unison, they walked through. 57.A
large room, all the larger because it was empty of anything resembling
furniture. No chairs, no benches, no seats of any kind. No stage, no drapery,
no decorations. No
lights, merely a uniform illumination of mild, unfocused light. The walls were
not entirely blank. Periodically, arranged in spaced fashion at various heights
and in no easy repetitive order, there were small, primitive, two-dimensional
television screens, all of which were operating. From where Dors and Seldon
stood, there was not even the illusion of a third dimension, not a breath of
true holovision. There
were people present. Not many and nowhere together. They stood singly and, like
the television monitors, in no easy repetitive order. All were white-kirtled,
all sashed. For
the most part, there was silence. No one talked in the usual sense. Some moved
their lips, murmuring softly. Those who walked did so stealthily, eyes
downcast. The
atmosphere was absolutely funereal. Seldon
leaned toward Dors, who instantly put a finger to her lips, then pointed to one
of the television monitors. The screen showed an idyllic garden bursting with
blooms, the camera panning over it slowly. They walked toward the monitor in a
fashion that imitated the others—slow steps, putting each foot down softly. When
they were within half a meter of the screen, a soft insinuating voice made
itself heard: “The garden of Antennin, as reproduced from ancient guidebooks
and photographs, located in the outskirts of Eos. Note the—” Dors
said in a whisper Seldon had trouble catching over the sound of the set, “It
turns on when someone is close and it will turn off if we step away. If we’re
close enough, we can talk under cover, but don’t look at me and stop speaking
if anyone approaches.” Seldon,
his head bent, his hands clasped before him (he had noted that this was a
preferred posture), said, “Any moment I expect someone to start wailing.” “Someone
might. They’re mourning their Lost World,” said Dors. “I
hope they change the films every once in a while. It would be deadly to always
see the same ones.” “They’re
all different,” said Dors, her eyes sliding this way and that. “They may change
periodically. I don’t know.” “Wait!”
said Seldon just a hair’s breadth too loud. He lowered his voice and said,
“Come this way.” Dors
frowned, failing to make out the words, but Seldon gestured slightly with his
head. Again the stealthy walk, but Seldon’s footsteps increased in length as he
felt the need for greater speed and Dors, catching up, pulled sharply—if very
briefly—at his kirtle. He slowed. “Robots
here,” he said under the cover of the sound as it came on. The picture showed
the corner of a dwelling place with a rolling lawn and a line of hedges in the
foreground and three of what could only be described as robots. They were
metallic, apparently, and vaguely human in shape. The
recording said, “This is a view, recently constructed, of the establishment of
the famous Wendome estate of the third century. The robot you see near the
center was, according to tradition, named Bendar and served twenty-two years,
according to the ancient records, before being replaced.” Dors
said, “ ‘Recently constructed,’ so they must change views.” “Unless
they’ve been saying ‘recently constructed’ for the last thousand years.” Another
Mycogenian stepped into the sound pattern of the scene and said in a low voice,
though not as low as the whisperings of Seldon and Dors, “Greetings, Brothers.” He
did not look at Seldon and Dors as he spoke and after one involuntary and startled
glance, Seldon kept his head averted. Dors had ignored it all. Seldon
hesitated. Mycelium Seventy-Two had said that there was no talking in the
Sacratorium. Perhaps he had exaggerated. Then too he had not been in the
Sacratorium since he was a child. Desperately,
Seldon decided he must speak. He said in a whisper, “And to you, Brother,
greetings.” He
had no idea whether that was the correct formula of reply or if there was a
formula, but the Mycogenian seemed to find nothing amiss in it. “To you in Aurora,”
he said. “And
to you,” said Seldon and because it seemed to him that the other expected more,
he added, “in Aurora,” and there was an impalpable release of tension. Seldon
felt his forehead growing moist. The
Mycogenian said, “Beautiful! I haven’t seen this before.” “Skillfully
done,” said Seldon. Then, in a burst of daring, he added, “A loss never to be
forgotten.” The
other seemed startled, then said, “Indeed, indeed,” and moved away. Dors
hissed, “Take no chances. Don’t say what you don’t have to.” “It
seemed natural. Anyway, this it recent. But those are disappointing robots.
They are what I would expect automata to be. I want to see the organic ones—the
humanoids.” “If
they existed,” said Dors with some hesitation, “it seems to me they wouldn’t be
used for gardening jobs.” “True,”
said Seldon. “We must find the Elders’ aerie.” “If
that exists. It seems to me there is nothing in this hollow cave but a hollow
cave.” “Let’s
look.” They
paced along the wall, passing from screen to screen, trying to wait at each for
irregular intervals until Dors clutched Seldon’s arms. Between two screens were
lines marking out a faint rectangle. “A
door,” Dors said. Then she weakened the assertion by adding, “Do you think?” Seldon
looked about surreptitiously. It was in the highest degree convenient that, in
keeping with the mourning atmosphere, every face, when not fixed on a
television monitor, was bent in sad concentration on the floor. Seldon
said, “How do you suppose it would open?” “An
entrance patch.” “I
can’t make out any.” “It’s
just not marked out, but there’s a slight discoloration there. Do you see it?
How many palms? How many times?” “I’ll
try. Keep an eye out and kick me if anyone looks in this direction.” He
held his breath casually, touched the discolored spot to no avail, and then
placed his palm full upon it and pressed. The
door opened silently—not a creak, not a scrape. Seldon
stepped through as rapidly as he could and Dors followed him. The door closed
behind them. “The
question is,” said Dors, “did anyone see us?” Seldon
said, “Elders must go through this door frequently.” “Yes,
but will anyone think we are Elders?” Seldon
waited, then said, “If we were observed and if anyone thought something was
wrong, this door would have been flung open again within fifteen seconds of our
entering.” “Possibly,”
said Dors dryly, “or possibly there is nothing to be seen or done on this side
of the door and no one cares if we enter.” “That
remains to be seen,” muttered Seldon. The
rather narrow room they had entered was somewhat dark, but as they stepped
farther into it, the light brightened. There
were chairs, wide and comfortable, small tables, several davenports, a deep and
tall refrigerator, cupboards. “If
this is the Elders’ aerie,” said Seldon, “the Elders seem to do themselves
comfortably, despite the austerity of the Sacratorium itself.” “As
would be expected,” said Dors. “Asceticism among a ruling class—except for
public show—is very rare. Put that down in your notebook for psychohistorical
aphorisms.” She looked about. “And there is no robot.” Seldon
said, “An aerie is a high position, remember, and this ceiling is not. There
must be upper storeys and that must be the way.” He pointed to a well-carpeted
stairway. He
did not advance toward it, however, but looked about vaguely. Dors
guessed what he was seeking. She said, “Forget about elevators. There’s a cult
of primitivism in Mycogen. Surely, you haven’t forgotten that, have you? There
would be no elevators and, what’s more, if we place our weight at the foot of
the stairs, I am quite certain it will not begin moving upward. We’re going to
have to climb it. Several flights, perhaps.” “Climb
it?” “It
must, in the nature of things, lead to the aerie—if it leads anywhere. Do you
want to see the aerie or don’t you?” Together
they stepped toward the staircase and began the climb. They went up three
flights and, as they did, the light level decreased perceptibly and in steady
increments. Seldon took a deep breath and whispered, “I consider myself to be
in pretty good shape, but I hate this.” “You’re
not used to this precise type of physical exertion.” She showed no signs of
physical distress whatever. At
the top of the third flight the stairs ended and before them was another door. “And
if it’s locked?” said Seldon, more to himself than to Dors. “Do we try to break
it down?” But
Dors said, “Why should it be locked when the lower door was not? If this is the
Elders’ aerie, I imagine there’s a taboo on anyone but Elders coming here and a
taboo is much stronger than any lock.” “As
far as those who accept the taboo are concerned,” said Seldon, but he made no
move toward the door. “There’s
still time to turn back, since you hesitate,” said Dors. “In fact, I would
advise you to rum back.” “I
only hesitate because I don’t know what we’ll find inside. If it’s empty—” And
then he added in a rather louder voice, “Then it’s empty,” and he strode
forward and pushed against the entry panel. The
door retracted with silent speed and Seldon took a step back at the surprising
flood of light from within. And
there, facing him, eyes alive with light, arms half-upraised, one foot slightly
advanced before the other, gleaming with a faintly yellow metallic shine, was a
human figure. For a few moments, it seemed to be wearing a tight-fitting tunic,
but on closer inspection it became apparent that the tunic was part of the
structure of the object. “It’s
the robot,” said Seldon in awe, “but it’s metallic.” “Worse
than that,” said Dors, who had stepped quickly to one side and then to the
other. “Its eyes don’t follow me. Its arms don’t as much as tremble. It’s not
alive—if one can speak of robots as being alive.” And a man—unmistakably a
man—stepped out from behind the robot and said, “Perhaps not. But I am alive.” And
almost automatically, Dors stepped forward and took her place between Seldon
and the man who had suddenly appeared. 58.Seldon
pushed Dors to one side, perhaps a shade more roughly than he intended. “I
don’t need protection. This is our old friend Sunmaster Fourteen.” The man who
faced them, wearing a double sash that was perhaps his right as High Elder,
said, “And you are Tribesman Seldon.” “Of
course,” said Seldon. “And
this, despite her masculine dress, is Tribeswoman Venabili.” Dors
said nothing. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “You are right, of course, tribesman. You are in no danger of
physical harm from me. Please sit down. Both of you. Since you are not a
Sister, tribeswoman, you need not retire. There is a seat for you which, if you
value such a distinction, you will be the first woman ever to have used.” “I
do not value such a distinction,” said Dors, spacing her words for emphasis.
Sunmaster Fourteen nodded. “That
is as you wish. I too will sit down, for I must ask you questions and I do not
care to do it standing.” They were sitting now in a corner of the room.
Seldon’s eyes wandered to the metal robot. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “It is a robot.” “I
know,” said Seldon briefly. “I
know you do,” said Sunmaster Fourteen with similar curtness. “But now that we
have settled that matter, why are you here?” Seldon
gazed steadily at Sunmaster Fourteen and said, “To see the robot.” “Do
you know that no one but an Elder is allowed in the aerie?” “I
did not know that, but I suspected it.” “Do
you know that no tribesperson is allowed in the Sacratorium?” “I
was told that.” “And
you ignored the fact, is that it?” “As
I said, we wanted to see the robot.” “Do
you know that no woman, even a Sister, is allowed in the Sacratorium except at
certain stated—and rare—occasions?” “I
was told that.” “And
do you know that no woman is at any time—or for any reason—allowed to dress in
masculine garb? That holds, within the borders of Mycogen, for tribeswomen as
well as for Sisters.” “I
was not told that, but I am not surprised.” “Good.
I want you to understand all this. Now, why did you want to see the robot?” Seldon
said with a shrug, “Curiosity. I had never seen a robot or even known that such
a thing existed.” “And
how did you come to know that it did exist and, specifically, that it existed
here?” Seldon
was silent, then said, “I do not wish to answer that question.” “Is
that why you were brought to Mycogen by Tribesman Hummin? To investigate
robots?” “No.
Tribesman Hummin brought us here that we might be secure. However, we are
scholars, Dr. Venabili and I. Knowledge is our province and to gain knowledge
is our purpose. Mycogen is little understood outside its borders and we wish to
know more about your ways and your methods of thought. It is a natural desire
and, it seems to us, a harmless—even praiseworthy—one.” “Ah,
but we do not wish the outer tribes and worlds to know about us. That is our
natural desire and we are the judge of what is harmless to us and what harmful.
So I ask you again, tribesman: How did you know that a robot existed in Mycogen
and that it existed in this room?” “General
rumor,” said Seldon at length. “Do
you insist on that?” “General
rumor. I insist on it.” Sunmaster
Fourteen’s keen blue eyes seemed to sharpen and he said without raising his
voice, “Tribesman Seldon, we have long cooperated with Tribesman Hummin. For a
tribesman, he has seemed a decent and trustworthy individual. For a tribesman!
When he brought you two to us and commended you to our protection, we granted
it. But Tribesman Hummin, whatever his virtues, is still a tribesman and we had
misgivings. We were not at all sure what your—or his—real purpose might be.” “Our
purpose was knowledge,” said Seldon. “Academic knowledge. Tribeswoman Venabili
is a historian and I too have an interest in history. Why should we not be
interested in Mycogenian history?” “For
one thing, because we do not wish you to be.—In any case, two of our trusted
Sisters were sent to you. They were to cooperate with you, try to find out what
it was you wanted, and—what is the expression you tribesmen use?—play along
with you. Yet not in such a way that you would be too aware as to what was
happening.” Sunmaster
Fourteen smiled, but it was a grim smile. “Raindrop Forty-Five,” Sunmaster
Fourteen went on, “went shopping with Tribeswoman Venabili, but there seemed nothing
out of the way in what happened on those trips. Naturally, we had a full
report. Raindrop Forty-Three showed you, Tribesman Seldon, our microfarms. You
might have been suspicious of her willingness to accompany you alone, something
that is utterly out of the question for us, but you reasoned that what applied
to Brothers did not apply to tribesmen and you flattered yourself that that
flimsy bit of reasoning won her over. She complied with your desire, though at
considerable cost to her peace of mind. And, eventually, you asked for the
Book. To have handed it over too easily might have roused your suspicion, so
she pretended to a perverse desire only you could satisfy. Her self-sacrifice
will not be forgotten.—I take it, tribesman, you still have the Book and I
suspect you have it with you now. May I have it?” Seldon
sat in bitter silence. Sunmaster
Fourteen’s wrinkled hand remained obtrusively outstretched and he said, “How
much better it would be than to wrest it from you by force.” And
Seldon handed it over. Sunmaster
Fourteen leafed through its pages briefly, as though to reassure himself it was
unharmed. He said with a small sigh, “It will have to be carefully destroyed in
the approved manner. Sad.—But once you had this Book, we were, of course, not
surprised when you made your way out to the Sacratorium. You were watched at
all times, for you cannot think that any Brother or Sister, not totally
absorbed, would not recognize you for tribespeople at a glance. We know a
skincap when we see one and there are less than seventy of them in Mycogen ...
almost all belonging to tribesmen on official business who remain entirely in
secular governmental buildings during the time they are here. So you were not
only seen but unmistakably identified, over and over. “The
elderly Brother who met you was careful to tell you about the library as well
as about the Sacratorium, but he was also careful to tell you what you were
forbidden to do, for we did not wish to entrap you. Skystrip Two also warned
you ... and quite forcibly. Nevertheless, you did not turn away. “The
shop at which you bought the white kirtle and the two sashes informed us at
once and from that we knew well what you intended. The library was kept empty,
the librarian was warned to keep his eyes to himself, the Sacratorium was kept
under-utilized. The one Brother who inadvertently spoke to you almost gave it
away, but hastened off when he realized with whom he was dealing. And then you
came up here. “You
see, then, that it was your intention to come up here and that we in no way
lured you here. You came as a result of your own action, your own desire, and
what I want to ask you—yet once again—is: Why?” It
was Dors who answered this time, her voice firm, her eyes hard. “We will tell
you yet once again, Mycogenian. We are scholars, who consider knowledge sacred
and it is only knowledge that we seek. You did not lure us here, but you did
not stop us either, as you might have done before ever we approached this
building. You smoothed our way and made it easy for us and even that might be
considered a lure. And what harm have we done? We have in no way disturbed the
building, or this room, or you, or that.” She
pointed to the robot. “It is a dead lump of metal that you hide here and we now
know that it is dead and that is all the knowledge we sought. We thought it
would be more significant and we are disappointed, but now that we know it is
merely what it is, we will leave—and, if you wish, we will leave Mycogen as
well.” Sunmaster
Fourteen listened with no trace of expression on his face, but when she was
done, he addressed Seldon, saying, “This robot, as you see it, is a symbol, a
symbol of all we have lost and of all we no longer have, of all that, through
thousands of years, we have not forgotten and what we intend someday to return
to. Because it is all that remains to us that is both material and authentic,
it is dear to us—yet to your woman it is only ‘a dead lump of metal.’ Do you
associate yourself with that judgment, Tribesman Seldon?” Seldon
said, “We are members of societies that do not tie ourselves to a past that is
thousands of years old, making no contact at all with what has existed between
that past and ourselves. We live in the present, which we recognize as the
product of all the past and not of one long-gone moment of time that we hug to
our chests. We realize, intellectually, what the robot may mean to you and we
are willing to let it continue to mean that to you. But we can only see it with
our own eyes, as you can only see it with yours. To us, it is a dead lump of
metal.” “And
now,” said Dors, “we will leave.” “You
will not,” said Sunmaster Fourteen. “By coming here, you have committed a
crime. It is a crime only in our eyes, as you will hasten to point out”—his
lips curved in a wintry smile—“but this is our territory and, within it, we
make the definitions. And this crime, as we define it, is punishable by death.” “And
you are going to shoot us down?” said Dors haughtily. Sunmaster
Fourteen’s expression was one of contempt and he continued to speak only to
Seldon. “What do you think we are, Tribesman Seldon? Our culture is as old as
yours, as complex, as civilized, as humane. I am not armed. You will be tried
and, since you are manifestly guilty, executed according to law, quickly and
painlessly. “If
you were to try to leave now, I would not stop you, but there are many Brothers
below, many more than there appeared to be when you entered the Sacratorium
and, in their rage at your action, they may lay rough and forceful hands on
you. It has happened in our history that tribespeople have even died so and it
is not a pleasant death—certainly not a painless one.” “We
were warned of this,” said Dors, “by Skystrip Two. So much for your complex,
civilized, and humane culture.” “People
can be moved to violence at moments of emotion, Tribesman Seldon,” said
Sunmaster Fourteen calmly, “whatever their humanity in moments of calm. This is
true in every culture, as your woman, who is said to be a historian, must
surely know.” Seldon
said, “Let us remain reasonable, Sunmaster Fourteen. You may be the law in
Mycogen over local affairs, but you are not the law over us and you know it. We
are both non-Mycogenian citizens of the Empire and it is the Emperor and his
designated legal officers who must remain in charge of any capital offense.” Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “That may be so in statutes and on papers and on holovision
screens, but we are not talking theory now. The High Elder has long had the
power to punish crimes of sacrilege without interference from the Imperial
throne.” “If
the criminals are your own people,” said Seldon. “It would be quite different
if they were outsiders.” “I
doubt it in this case. Tribesman Hummin brought you here as fugitives and we
are not so yeast-headed in Mycogen that we don’t strongly suspect that you are
fugitives from the Emperor’s laws. Why should he object if we do his work for
him?” “Because,”
said Seldon, “he would. Even if we were fugitives from the Imperial authorities
and even if he wanted us only to punish us, he would still want us. To allow
you to kill, by whatever means and for whatever reason, non-Mycogenians without
due Imperial process would be to defy his authority and no Emperor could allow
such a precedent. No matter how eager he might be to see that the microfood trade
not be interrupted, he would still feel it necessary to re-establish the
Imperial prerogative. Do you wish, in your eagerness to kill us, to have a
division of Imperial soldiery loot your farms and your dwellings, desecrate
your Sacratorium, and take liberties with the Sisters: Consider.” Sunmaster
Fourteen smiled once again, but displayed no softness. “Actually, I have
considered and there is an alternative. After we condemn you, we could delay
your execution to allow you to appeal to the Emperor for a review of your case.
The Emperor might be grateful at this evidence of our ready submission to his
authority and grateful too to lay his hands on you two—for some reason of his
own—and Mycogen might profit. Is that what you want, then? To appeal to the Emperor
in due course and to be delivered to him?” Seldon
and Dors looked at each other briefly and were silent. Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “I feel you would rather be delivered to the Emperor than die,
but why do I get the impression that the preference is only by a slight
margin?” “Actually,”
said a new voice, “I think neither alternative is acceptable and that we must
search for a third.” 59.It
was Dors who identified the newcomer first, perhaps because it was she who
expected him. “Hummin,”
she said, “thank goodness you found us. I got in touch with you the moment I
realized I was not going to deflect Hari from”—she held up her hands in a wide
gesture “this.” Hummin’s
smile was a small one that did not alter the natural gravity of his face. There
was a subtle weariness about him. “My
dear,” he said, “I was engaged in other things. I cannot always pull away at a
moment’s notice. And when I got here, I had, like you two, to supply myself
with a kirtle and sash, to say nothing of a skincap, and make my way out here.
Had I been here earlier, I might have stopped this, but I believe I’m not too
late.” Sunmaster
Fourteen had recovered from what had seemed to be a painful shock. He said in a
voice that lacked its customary severe depth, “How did you get in here, Tribesman
Hummin?” “It
was not easy, High Elder, but as Tribeswoman Venabili likes to say, I am a very
persuasive person. Some of the citizens here remember who I was and what I have
done for Mycogen in the past, that I am even an honorary Brother. Have you
forgotten, Sunmaster Fourteen?” The
Elder replied, “I have not forgotten, but even the most favorable memory can
not survive certain actions. A tribesman here and a tribeswoman. There is no
greater crime. All you have done is not great enough to balance that. My people
are not unmindful. We will make it up to you some other way. But these two must
die or be handed over to the Emperor.” “I
am also here,” said Hummin calmly. “Is that not a crime as well?” “For
you,” said Sunmaster Fourteen, “for you personally, as a kind of honorary
Brother, I can ... overlook it ... once. Not these two.” “Because
you expect a reward from the Emperor? Some favor? Some concession? Have you
already been in touch with him or with his Chief of Staff, Eto Demerzel, more
likely?” “That
is not a subject for discussion.” “Which
is itself an admission. Come on, I don’t ask what the Emperor promised, but it
cannot be much. He does not have much to give in these degenerate days. Let me
make you an offer. Have these two told you they are scholars?” “They
have.” “And
they are. They are not lying. The tribeswoman is a historian and the tribesman
is a mathematician. The two together are trying to combine their talents to
make a mathematics of history and they call the combined subject ‘psychohistory.’
” Sunmaster
Fourteen said, “I know nothing about this psychohistory, nor do I care to know.
Neither it nor any other facet of your tribal learning interests me.” “Nevertheless,”
said Hummin, “I suggest that you listen to me.” It
took Hummin some fifteen minutes, speaking concisely, to describe the
possibility of organizing the natural laws of society (something he always
mentioned with audible quotation marks in the tone of his voice) in such a way
as to make it possible to anticipate the future with a substantial degree of
probability. And
when he was done, Sunmaster Fourteen, who had listened expressionlessly, said,
“A highly unlikely piece of speculation, I should say.” Seldon,
with a rueful expression, seemed about to speak, undoubtedly to agree, but
Hummin’s hand, resting lightly on the other’s knee, tightened unmistakably. Hummin
said, “Possibly, High Elder, but the Emperor doesn’t think so. And by the
Emperor, who is himself an amiable enough personage, I really mean Demerzel,
concerning whose ambitions you need no instruction. They would like very much
to have these two scholars, which is why I’ve brought them here for
safekeeping. I had little expectation that you would do Demerzel’s work for him
by delivering the scholars to him.” “They
have committed a crime that—” “Yes,
we know, High Elder, but it is only a crime because you choose to call it so.
No real harm has been done.” “It
has been done to our belief, to our deepest felt—” “But
imagine what harm will be done if psychohistory falls into the hands of
Demerzel. Yes, I grant that nothing may come of it, but suppose for a moment
that something does and that the Imperial government has the use of it—can
foretell what is to come—can take measures with that foreknowledge which no one
else would have—can take measures, in fact, designed to bring about an
alternate future more to the Imperial liking.” “Well?” “Is
there any doubt, High Elder, that the alternate future more to the Imperial
liking would be one of tightened centralization? For centuries now, as you very
well know, the Empire has been undergoing a steady decentralization. Many
worlds now acknowledge only lip service to the Emperor and virtually rule
themselves. Even here on Trantor, there is decentralization. Mycogen, as only
one example, is free of Imperial interference for the most part. You rule its
High Elder and there is no Imperial officer at your side overseeing your
actions and decisions. How long do you think that will last with men like
Demerzel adjusting the future to their liking?” “Still
the flimsiest of speculation,” said Sunmaster Fourteen, “but a disturbing one,
I admit.” “On
the other hand, if these scholars can complete their task, an unlikely if, you
might say, but an if—then they are sure to remember that you spared them when
you might have chosen not to. And it would then be conceivable that they would
learn to arrange a future, for instance, that would allow Mycogen to be given a
world of its own, a world that could be terraformed into a close replica of the
Lost World. And even if these two forget your kindness, I will be here to
remind them.” “Well—”
said Sunmaster Fourteen. “Come
on,” said Hummin, “it is not hard to decide what must be going through your
mind. Of all tribespeople, you must trust Demerzel the least. And though the
chance of psychohistory might be small (if I was not being honest with you, I
would not admit that) it is not zero; and if it will bring about a restoration
of the Lost World, what can you want more than that? What would you not risk
for even a tiny chance of that? Come now—I promise you and my promises are not
lightly given. Release these two and choose a tiny chance of your heart’s
desire over no chance at all.” There
was silence and then Sunmaster Fourteen sighed. “I don’t know how it is,
Tribesman Hummin, but on every occasion that we meet, you persuade me into
something I do not really want to do.” “Have
I ever misled you, High Elder?” “You
have never offered me so small a chance?” “And
so high a possible reward. The one balances the other.” And
Sunmaster Fourteen nodded his head. “You are right. Take these two and take
them out of Mycogen and never let me see them again unless there comes a time
when—But surely it will not be in my lifetime.” “Perhaps
not, High Elder. But your people have been waiting patiently for nearly twenty
thousand years. Would you then object to waiting another—perhaps—two hundred?” “I
would not willingly wait one moment, but my people will wait as long as they
must.” And
standing up, he said, “I will clear the path. Take them and go.” 60.They
were finally back in a tunnel. Hummin and Seldon had traveled through one when
they went from the Imperial Sector to Streeling University in the air-taxi. Now
they were in another tunnel, going from Mycogen to ... Seldon did not know
where. He hesitated to ask. Hummin’s face seemed as if it was carved out of
granite and it didn’t welcome conversation. Hummin
sat in the front of the four-seater, with no one to his right. Seldon and Dors
shared the backseat. Seldon
chanced a smile at Dors, who looked glum. “It’s nice to be in real clothes
again, isn’t it?” “I
will never,” said Dors with enormous sincerity, “wear or look at anything that
resembles a kirtle. And I will never, under any circumstances, wear a skincap.
In fact, I’m going to feel odd if I ever see a normally bald man.” And it was
Dors who finally asked the question that Seldon had been reluctant to advance.
“Chetter,” she said rather petulantly, “why won’t you tell us where we’re
going?” Hummin
hitched himself into a sideways position and he looked back at Dors and Seldon
gravely. “Somewhere,” he said, “where it may be difficult for you to get into
trouble—although I’m not sure such a place exists.” Dors
was at once crestfallen. “Actually, Chetter, it’s my fault. At Streeling, I let
Hari go Upperside without accompanying him. In Mycogen, I at least accompanied
him, but I suppose I ought not to have let him enter the Sacratorium at all.” “I
was determined,” said Seldon warmly. “It was in no way Dors’s fault.” Hummin
made no effort to apportion blame. He simply said, “I gather you wanted to see
the robot. Was there a reason for that? Can you tell me?” Seldon
could feel himself redden. “I was wrong in that respect, Hummin. I did not see
what I expected to see or what I hoped to see. If I had known the content of
the aerie, I would never have bothered going there. Call it a complete fiasco.” “But
then, Seldon, what was it you hoped to see? Please tell me. Take your time if
you wish. This is a long trip and I am willing to listen.” “The
thing is, Hummin, that I had the idea that there were humaniform robots, that
they were long-lived, that at least one might still be alive, and that it might
be in the aerie. There was a robot there, but it was metallic, it was dead, and
it was merely a symbol. Had I but known—” “Yes.
Did we all but know, there would be no need for questions or for research of
any kind. Where did you get your information about humaniform robots? Since no
Mycogenian would have discussed that with you, I can think of only one source.
The Mycogenian Book—a powered print-book in ancient Auroran and modern
Galactic. Am I right?” “Yes.” “And
how did you get a copy?” Seldon
paused, then muttered, “Its somewhat embarrassing.” “I
am not easily embarrassed, Seldon.” Seldon
told him and Hummin allowed a very small smile to twitch across his face. Hummin
said, “Didn’t it occur to you that what occurred had to be a charade? No Sister
would do a thing like that—except under instruction and with a great deal of
persuading.” Seldon
frowned and said with asperity, “That was not at all obvious. People are
perverted now and then. And its easy for you to grin. I didn’t have the
information you had and neither did Dors. If you did not wish me to fall into
traps, you might have warned me of those that existed.” “I
agree. I withdraw my remark. In any case, you don’t have the Book any longer,
I’m sure.” “No.
Sunmaster Fourteen took it from me.” “How
much of it did you read?” “Only
a small fraction. I didn’t have time. It’s a huge book and I must tell you,
Hummin, it is dreadfully dull.” “Yes,
I know that, for I think I have read more of it than you have. It is not only
dull, it is totally unreliable. It is a one-sided, official Mycogenian view of
history that is more intent on presenting that view than a reasoned
objectivity. It is even deliberately unclear in spots so that outsiders—even if
they were to read the Book—would never know entirely what they read. What was
it, for instance, that you thought you read about robots that interested you?” “I’ve
already told you. They speak of humaniform robots, robots that could not be
distinguished from human beings in outward appearance.” “How
many of these would exist?” asked Hummin. “They don’t say.—At least, I didn’t
come across a passage in which they gave numbers. There may have been only a
handful, but one of them, the Book refers to as ‘Renegade.’ It seems to have an
unpleasant significance, but I couldn’t make out what.” “You
didn’t tell me anything about that,” interposed Dors. “If you had, I would have
told you that it’s not a proper name. It’s another archaic word and it means,
roughly, what ‘traitor’ would mean in Galactic. The older word has a greater
aura of fear about it. A traitor, somehow, sneaks to his treason, but a
renegade flaunts it.” Hummin
said, “I’ll leave the fine points of archaic language to you, Dors, but, in any
case, if the Renegade actually existed and if it was a humaniform robot, then,
clearly, as a traitor and enemy, it would not be preserved and venerated in the
Elders’ aerie.” Seldon
said, “I didn’t know the meaning of ‘Renegade,’ but, as I said, I did get the
impression that it was an enemy. I thought it might have been defeated and
preserved as a reminder of the Mycogenian triumph.” “Was
there any indication in the Book that the Renegade was defeated?” “No,
but I might have missed that portion—” “Not
likely. Any Mycogenian victory would be announced in the Book unmistakably and
referred to over and over again.” “There
was another point the Book made about the Renegade,” said Seldon, hesitating,
“but I can’t be at all sure I understood it.” Hummin said, “As I told you ...
They are deliberately obscure at times.” “Nevertheless,
they seemed to say that the Renegade could somehow tap human emotions ...
influence them—” “Any
politician can,” said Hummin with a shrug. “It’s called charisma—when it
works.” Seldon
sighed. “Well, I wanted to believe. That was it. I would have given a great
deal to find an ancient humaniform robot that was still alive and that I could
question.” “For
what purpose?” asked Hummin. “To
learn the details of the primordial Galactic society when it still consisted of
only a handful of worlds. From so small a Galaxy psychohistory could be deduced
more easily.” Hummin
said, “Are you sure you could trust what you heard? After many thousands of
years, would you be willing to rely on the robot’s early memories? How much
distortion would have entered into them?” “That’s
right,” said Dors suddenly. “It would be like the computerized records I told
you of, Hari. Slowly, those robot memories would be discarded, lost, erased,
distorted. You can only go back so far and the farther you go back, the less
reliable the information becomes—no matter what you do.” Hummin
nodded. “I’ve heard it referred to as a kind of uncertainty principle in
information.” “But
wouldn’t it be possible,” said Seldon thoughtfully, “that some information, for
special reasons, would be preserved? Parts of the Mycogenian Book may well
refer to events of twenty thousand years ago and yet be very largely as it had
been originally. The more valued and the more carefully preserved particular
information is, the more long-lasting and accurate it may be.” “The
key word is ‘particular.’ What the Book may care to preserve may not be what
you wish to have preserved and what a robot may remember best may be what you
wish him to remember least.” Seldon
said in despair, “In whatever direction I turn to seek a way of working out
psychohistory, matters so arrange themselves as to make it impossible. Why
bother trying?” “It
might seem hopeless now,” said Hummin unemotionally, “but given the necessary
genius, a route to psychohistory may be found that none of us would at this
moment expect. Give yourself more time.—But we’re coming to a rest area. Let us
pull off and have dinner.” Over
the lamb patties on rather tasteless bread (most unpalatable after the fare at
Mycogen), Seldon said, “You seem to assume, Hummin, that I am the possessor of
‘the necessary genius.’ I may not be, you know.” Hummin
said, “That’s true. You may not be. However, I know of no alternate candidate
for the post, so I must cling to you.” And
Seldon sighed and said, “Well, I’ll try, but I’m out of any spark of hope.
Possible but not practical, I said to begin with, and I’m more convinced of that
now than I ever was before.” HeatsinkAMARYL,
YUGO— ... A mathematician who, next to Hari Seldon himself, may be considered
most responsible for working out the details of psychohistory. It was he who
... ... Yet
the conditions under which he began life are almost more dramatic than his
mathematical accomplishments. Born into the hopeless poverty of the lower
classes of Dahl, a sector of ancient Trantor, he might have passed his life in
utter obscurity were it not for the fact that Seldon, quite by accident,
encountered him in the course of ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 61.The
Emperor of all the Galaxy felt weary—physically weary. His lips ached from the
gracious smile he had had to place on his face at careful intervals. His neck
was stiff from having inclined his head this way and that in a feigned show of
interest. His ears pained from having to listen. His whole body throbbed from
having to rise and to sit and to turn and to hold out his hand and to nod. It
was merely a state function where one had to meet Mayors and Viceroys and
Ministers and their wives or husbands from here and there in Trantor and
(worse) from here and there in the Galaxy. There were nearly a thousand
present, all in costumes that varied from the ornate to the downright
outlandish, and he had had to listen to a babble of different accents made the
worse by an effort to speak the Emperor’s Galactic as spoken at the Galactic
University. Worst of all, the Emperor had had to remember to avoid making
commitments of substance, while freely applying the lotion of words without
substance. All had been recorded, sight and sound—very discreetly—and Eto
Demerzel would go over it to see if Cleon, First of that Name, had behaved
himself. That, of course, was only the way that the Emperor put it to himself.
Demerzel would surely say that he was merely collecting data on any
unintentional self-revelation on the pan of the guests. And perhaps he was.
Fortunate Demerzel! The
Emperor could not leave the Palace and its extensive grounds, while Demerzel could
range the Galaxy if he wished. The Emperor was always on display, always
accessible, always forced to deal with visitors, from the important to the
merely intrusive. Demerzel remained anonymous and never allowed himself to be
seen inside the Palace grounds. He remained merely a fearsome name and an
invisible (and therefore the more frightening) presence. The Emperor was the
Inside Man with all the trappings and emoluments of power. Demerzel was the
Outside Man, with nothing evident, not even a formal title, but with his
fingers and mind probing everywhere and asking for no reward for his tireless
labors but one—the reality of power. It
amused the Emperor—in a macabre sort of way—to consider that, at any moment,
without warning, with a manufactured excuse or with none at all, he could have
Demerzel arrested, imprisoned, exiled, tortured, or executed. After all, in
these annoying centuries of constant unrest, the Emperor might have difficulty
in exerting his will over the various planets of the Empire, even over the
various sectors of Trantor—with their rabble of local executives and
legislatures that he was forced to deal with in a maze of interlocking decrees,
protocols, commitments, treaties, and general interstellar legalities—but at
least his powers remained absolute over the Palace and its grounds. And yet
Cleon knew that his dreams of power were useless. Demerzel had served his
father and Cleon could not remember a time when he did not turn to Demerzel for
everything. It was Demerzel who knew it all, devised it all, did it all. More
than that, it was on Demerzel that anything that went wrong could be blamed.
The Emperor himself remained above criticism and had nothing to fear—except, of
course, palace coups and assassination by his nearest and dearest. It was to
prevent this, above all, that he depended upon Demerzel. Emperor Cleon felt a
tiny shudder at the thought of trying to do without Demerzel. There had been
Emperors who had ruled personally, who had had a series of Chiefs of Staff of
no talent, who had had incompetents serving in the post and had kept them—and
somehow they had gotten along for a time and after a fashion. But
Cleon could not. He needed Demerzel. In fact, now that the thought of
assassination had come to him—and, in view of the modern history of the Empire,
it was inevitable that it had come to him—he could see that getting rid of
Demerzel was quite impossible. It couldn’t be done. No matter how cleverly he,
Cleon, would attempt to arrange it, Demerzel (he was sure) would anticipate the
move somehow, would know it was on its way, and would arrange, with far
superior cleverness, a palace coup. Cleon would be dead before Demerzel could
possibly be taken away in chains and there would simply be another Emperor that
Demerzel would serve—and dominate. Or
would Demerzel tire of the game and make himself Emperor? Never! The habit of
anonymity was too strong in him. If Demerzel exposed himself to the world, then
his powers, his wisdom, his luck (whatever it was) would surely desert him.
Cleon was convinced of that. He felt it to be beyond dispute. So
while he behaved himself, Cleon was safe. With no ambitions of his own,
Demerzel would serve him faithfully. And
now here was Demerzel, dressed so severely and simply that it made Cleon
uneasily conscious of the useless ornamentation of his robes of state, now
thankfully removed with the aid of two valets. Naturally, it would not be until
he was alone and in dishabille that Demerzel would glide into view. “Demerzel,”
said the Emperor of all the Galaxy, “I am tired!” “State
functions are tiring, Sire,” murmured Demerzel. “Then
must I have them every evening?” “Not
every evening, but they are essential. It gratifies others to see you and to be
taken note of by you. It helps keep the Empire running smoothly.” “The
Empire used to be kept running smoothly by power,” said the Emperor somberly.
“Now it must be kept running by a smile, a wave of the hand, a murmured word,
and a medal or a plaque.” “If
all that keeps the peace, Sire, there is much to be said for it. And your reign
proceeds well.” “You
know why—because I have you at my side. My only real gift is that I am aware of
your importance.” He looked at Demerzel slyly. “My son need not be my heir. He
is not a talented boy. What if I make you my heir?” Demerzel
said freezingly, “Sire, that is unthinkable. I would not usurp the throne. I
would not steal it from your rightful heir. Besides, if I have displeased you,
punish me justly. Surely, nothing I have done or could possibly do deserves the
punishment of being made Emperor.” Cleon
laughed. “For that true assessment of the value of the Imperial throne,
Demerzel, I abandon any thought of punishing you. Come now, let us talk about
something. I would sleep, but I am not yet ready for the ceremonies with which they
put me to bed. Let us talk.” “About
what, Sire?” “About
anything.—About that mathematician and his psychohistory. I think about him
every once in a while, you know. I thought of him at dinner tonight. I
wondered: What if a psychohistorical analysis would predict a method for making
it possible to be an Emperor without endless ceremony?” “I
somehow think, Sire, that even the cleverest psychohistorian could not manage
that.” “Well,
tell me the latest. Is he still hiding among those peculiar baldheads of Mycogen?
You promised you would winkle him out of there.” “So
I did, Sire, and I moved in that direction, but I regret that I must say that I
failed.” “Failed?”
The Emperor allowed himself to frown. “I don’t like that.” “Nor
I, Sire. I planned to have the mathematician be encouraged to commit some
blasphemous act—such acts are easy to commit in Mycogen, especially for an
outsider—one that would call for severe punishment. The mathematician would
then be forced to appeal to the Emperor and, as a result, we would get him. I
planned it at the cost of insignificant concessions on our part—important to
Mycogen, totally unimportant to us—and I meant to play no direct role in the
arrangement. It was to be handled subtly.” “I
dare say,” said Cleon, “but it failed. Did the Mayor of Mycogen “He is called
the High Elder, Sire.” “Do
not quibble over titles. Did this High Elder refuse?” “On
the contrary, Sire, he agreed and the mathematician, Seldon, fell into the trap
neatly.” “Well
then?” “He
was allowed to leave unharmed.” “Why?”
said Cleon indignantly. “Of
this I am not certain, Sire, but I suspect we were outbid.” “By
whom? By the Mayor of Wye?” “Possibly,
Sire, but I doubt that. I have Wye under constant surveillance. If they had
gained the mathematician, I would know it by now.” The
Emperor was not merely frowning. He was clearly enraged. “Demerzel, this is
bad. I am greatly displeased. A failure like this makes me wonder if you are
perhaps not the man you once were. What measures shall we take against Mycogen
for this clear defiance of the Emperor’s wishes?” Demerzel
bowed low in recognition of the storm unleashed, but he said in steely tones,
“It would be a mistake to move against Mycogen now, Sire. The disruption that
would follow would play into the hands of Wye.” “But
we must do something.” “Perhaps
not, Sire. It is not as bad as it may seem.” “How
can it be not as bad as it seems?” “You’ll
remember, Sire, that this mathematician was convinced that psychohistory was
impractical.” “Of
course I remember that, but that doesn’t matter, does it? For our purposes?” “Perhaps
not. But if it were to become practical, it would serve our purposes to an
infinitely great extent, Sire. And from what I have been able to find out, the
mathematician is now attempting to make psychohistory practical. His
blasphemous attempt in Mycogen was, I understand, part of an attempt at solving
the problem of psychohistory. In that case, it may pay us, Sire, to leave him
to himself. It will serve us better to pick him up when he is closer to his
goal or has reached it.” “Not
if Wye gets him first.” “That,
I shall see to it, will not happen.” “In
the same way that you succeeded in winkling the mathematician out of Mycogen
just now?” “I
will not make a mistake the next time, Sire,” said Demerzel coldly. The
Emperor said, “Demerzel, you had better not. I will not tolerate another
mistake in this respect.” And then he added pettishly, “I think I shall not
sleep tonight after all.” 62.Jirad
Tisalver of the Dahl Sector was short. The top of his head came up only to Hari
Seldon’s nose. He did not seem to take that to heart, however. He had handsome,
even features, was given to smiling, and sported a thick black mustache and
crisply curling black hair. He
lived, with his wife and a half-grown daughter, in an apartment of seven small
rooms, kept meticulously clean, but almost bare of furnishings. Tisalver said,
“I apologize, Master Seldon and Mistress Venabili, that I cannot give you the
luxury to which you must be accustomed, but Dahl is a poor sector and I am not
even among the better-off among our people.” “The
more reason,” responded Seldon, “that we must apologize to you for placing the
burden of our presence upon you.” “No
burden, Master Seldon. Master Hummin has arranged to pay us generously for your
use of our humble quarters and the credits would be welcome even if you were
not—and you are.” Seldon
remembered Hummin’s parting words when they finally arrived in Dahl. “Seldon”
he had said, “this is the third place I’ve arranged as sanctuary. The first two
were notoriously beyond the reach of the Imperium, which might well have served
to attract their attention; after all, they were logical places for you. This
one is different. It is poor, unremarkable, and, as a matter of fact, unsafe in
some ways. It is not a natural refuge for you, so that the Emperor and his
Chief of Staff may not think to turn their eyes in this direction. Would you
mind staying out of trouble this time, then?” “I
will try, Hummin,” said Seldon, a little offended. “Please be aware that the
trouble is not of my seeking. I am trying to learn what may well take me thirty
lifetimes to learn if I am to have the slightest chance of organizing
psychohistory.” “I
understand,” said Hummin. “Your efforts at learning brought you to Upperside in
Streeling and to the Elders’ aerie in Mycogen and to who can guess where in
Dahl. As for you, Dr. Venabili, I know you’ve been trying to take care of
Seldon, but you must try harder. Get it fixed in your head that he is the most
important person on Trantor—or in the Galaxy, for that matter—and that he must
be kept secure at any cost.” “I
will continue to do my best,” said Dors stiffly. “And as for your host family,
they have their peculiarities, but they are essentially good people with whom I
have dealt before. Try not to get them in trouble either.” But
Tisalver, at least, did not seem to anticipate trouble of any kind from his new
tenants and his expressed pleasure at the company he now had—quite apart from
the rent credits he would be getting—seemed quite sincere. He had never been
outside Dahl and his appetite for tales of distant places was enormous. His
wife too, bowing and smiling, would listen and their daughter, with a finger in
her mouth, would allow one eye to peep from behind the door. It was usually
after dinner, when the entire family assembled, that Seldon and Dors were
expected to talk of the outside world. The food was plentiful enough, but it
was bland and often tough. So soon after the tangy food of Mycogen, it was all
but inedible. The
“table” was a long shelf against one wall and they ate standing up. Gentle
questioning by Seldon elicited the fact that this was the usual situation among
Dahlites as a whole and was not due to unusual poverty. Of course, Mistress
Tisalver explained, there were those with high government jobs in Dahl who were
prone to adopt all kinds of effete customs like chairs—she called them “body
shelves”—but this was looked down upon by the solid middle class. Much as they
disapproved of unnecessary luxury, though, the Tisalvers loved hearing about
it, listening with a virtual storm of tongue-clicking when told of mattresses
lifted on legs, of ornate chests and wardrobes, and of a superfluity of
tableware. They
listened also to a description of Mycogenian customs, while Jirad Tisalver
stroked his own hair complacently and made it quite obvious that he would as
soon think of emasculation as of depilation. Mistress Tisalver was furious at
any mention of female subservience and flatly refused to believe that the
Sisters accepted it tranquilly. They
seized most, however, on Seldon’s. casual reference to the Imperial grounds.
When, upon questioning, it turned out that Seldon had actually seen and spoken
to the Emperor, a blanket of awe enveloped the family. It took a while before
they dared ask questions and Seldon found that he could not satisfy them. He
had not, after all, seen much of the grounds and even less of the Palace
interior. That
disappointed the Tisalvers and they were unremitting in their attempts to
elicit more. And, having heard of Seldon’s Imperial adventure, they found it
hard to believe Dors’s assertion that, for her part, she had never been
anywhere in the Imperial grounds. Most of all, they rejected Seldon’s casual
comment that the Emperor had talked and behaved very much as any ordinary human
being would. That seemed utterly impossible to the Tisalvers. After three
evenings of this, Seldon found himself tiring. He had, at first, welcomed the
chance to do nothing for a while (during the day, at least) but view some of
the history book-films that Dors recommended. The Tisalvers turned over their
book-viewer to their guests during the day with good grace, though the little
girl seemed unhappy and was sent over to a neighbor’s apartment to use theirs
for her homework. “It
doesn’t help,” Seldon said restlessly in the security of his room after he had
piped in some music to discourage eavesdropping. “I can see your fascination
with history, but it’s all endless detail. It’s a mountainous heap—no, a
Galactic heap—of data in which I can’t see the basic organization.” “I
dare say,” said Dors, “that there must have been a time when human beings saw
no organization in the stars in the sky, but eventually they discovered the
Galactic structure.” “And
I’m sure that took generations, not weeks. There must have been a time when
physics seemed a mass of unrelated observations before the central natural laws
were discovered and that took generations.—And what of the Tisalvers?” “What
of them? I think they’re being very nice.” “They’re
curious.” “Of
course they are. Wouldn’t you be if you were in their place?” “But
is it just curiosity? They seem to be ferociously interested in my meeting with
the Emperor.” Dors
seemed impatient. “Again ... its only natural. Wouldn’t you be—if the situation
was reversed?” “It
makes me nervous.” “Hummin
brought us here.” “Yes,
but he’s not perfect. He brought me to the University and I was maneuvered
Upperside. He brought us to Sunmaster Fourteen, who entrapped us. You know he
did. Twice bitten, at least once shy. I’m tired of being questioned.” “Then
turn the tables, Hari. Aren’t you interested in Dahl?” “Of
course. What do you know about it to begin with?” “Nothing.
It’s just one of more than eight hundred sectors and I’ve only been on Trantor
a little over two years.” “Exactly.
And there are twenty-five million other worlds and I’ve been on this problem
only a little over two months.—I tell you. I want to go back to Helicon and
take up a study of the mathematics of turbulence, which was my Ph.D. problem,
and forget I ever saw—or thought I saw—that turbulence gave an insight into
human society.” But
that evening he said to Tisalver, “But you know, Master Tisalver, you’ve never
told me what you do, the nature of your work.” “Me?”
Tisalver placed his fingers on his chest, which was covered by the simple white
T-shirt with nothing underneath, which seemed to be the standard male uniform
in Dahl. “Nothing much. I work at the local holovision station in programming.
It’s very dull, but it’s a living.” “And
it’s respectable,” said Mistress Tisalver. “It means he doesn’t have to work in
the heatsinks.” “The
heatsinks?” said Dors, lifting her light eyebrows and managing to look
fascinated. “Oh
well,” said Tisalver, “that’s what Dahl is best known for. It isn’t much, but
forty billion people on Trantor need energy and we supply a lot of it. We don’t
get appreciated, but I’d like to see some of the fancy sectors do without it.” Seldon
looked confused. “Doesn’t Trantor get its energy from solar power stations in orbit?” “Some,”
said Tisalver, “and some from nuclear fusion stations out on the islands and
some from microfusion motors and some from wind stations Upperside, but
half”—he raised a finger in emphasis and his face looked unusually grave—“half
comes from the heatsinks. There are heatsinks in lots of places, but
none—none—as rich as those in Dahl. Are you serious that you don’t know about
the heatsinks? You sit there and stare at me.” Dors
said quickly, “We are Outworlders, you know.” (She had almost said ‘tribespeople,’
but had caught herself in time.) “Especially Dr. Seldon. He’s only been on
Trantor a couple of months.” “Really?”
said Mistress Tisalver. She was a trifle shorter than her husband, was plump
without quite being fat, had her dark hair drawn tightly back into a bun, and
possessed rather beautiful dark eyes. Like her husband, she appeared to be in
her thirties. (After
a period in Mycogen, not actually long in duration but intense, it struck Dors
as odd to have a woman enter the conversation at will. How quickly modes and
manners establish themselves, she thought, and made a mental note to mention
that to Seldon—one more item for his psychohistory.) “Oh yes,” she said. “Dr.
Seldon is from Helicon.” Mistress
Tisalver registered polite ignorance. “And where might that be?” Dors
said, “Why, it’s—” She turned to Seldon. “Where is it, Hari?” Seldon looked
abashed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could locate it very easily on
a Galactic model without looking up the coordinates. All I can say is that it’s
on the other side of the central black hole from Trantor and getting there by
hypership is rather a chore.” Mistress
Tisalver said, “I don’t think Jirad and I will ever be on a hypership.” “Someday,
Casilia,” said Tisalver cheerfully, “maybe we will. But tell us about Helicon,
Master Seldon.” Seldon
shook his head. “To me that would be dull. Its just a world, like any other.
Only Trantor is different from all the rest. There are no heatsinks on
Helicon—or probably anywhere else—except Trantor. Tell me about them.” (“Only
Trantor is different from all the rest.” The sentence repeated itself in
Seldon’s mind and for a moment he grasped at it, and for some reason Dors’s
hand-on-thigh story suddenly recurred to him, but Tisalver was speaking and it
passed out of Seldon’s mind as quickly as it had entered.) Tisalver
said, “If you really want to know about heatsinks, I can show you.” He turned
to his wife. “Casilia, would you mind if tomorrow evening I take Master Seldon
to the heatsinks.” “And
me,” said Dors quickly. “And
Mistress Venabili?” Mistress
Tisalver frowned and said sharply, “I don’t think it would be a good idea. Our
visitors would find it dull.” “I
don’t think so, Mistress Tisalver,” said Seldon ingratiatingly. “We would very
much like to see the heatsinks. We would be delighted if you would join us too
... and your little daughter—if she wants to come.” “To
the heatsinks?” said Mistress Tisalver, stiffening. “It’s no place at all for a
decent woman.” Seldon
felt embarrassed at his gaffe. “I meant no harm, Mistress Tisalver.” “No
offense,” said Tisalver. “Casilia thinks it’s beneath us and so it is, but as
long as I don’t work there, it’s no distress merely to visit and show it to
guests. But it is uncomfortable and I would never get Casilia to dress
properly.” They
got up from their crouching positions. Dahlite “chairs” were merely molded
plastic seats on small wheels and they cramped Seldon’s knees terribly and
seemed to wiggle at his least body movement. The Tisalvers, however, had
mastered the art of sitting firmly and rose without trouble and without needing
to use their arms for help as Seldon had to. Dors also got up without trouble
and Seldon once again marveled at her natural grace. Before
they parted to their separate rooms for the night, Seldon said to Dors, “Are
you sure you know nothing about heatsinks? Mistress Tisalver makes them seem
unpleasant.” “They
can’t be that unpleasant or Tisalver wouldn’t suggest taking us on tour. Let’s
be content to be surprised.” 63.Tisalver
said, “You’ll need proper clothing.” Mistress Tisalver sniffed markedly in the
background. Cautiously,
Seldon, thinking of kirtles with vague distress, said, “What do you mean by
proper clothing?” “Something
light, such as I wear. A T-shirt, very short sleeves, loose slacks, loose
underpants, foot socks, open sandals. I have it all for you.” “Good.
It doesn’t sound bad.” “As
for Mistress Venabili, I have the same. I hope it fits.” The
clothes Tisalver supplied each of them (which were his own) fit fine—if a bit
snugly. When they were ready, they bade Mistress Tisalver good-bye and she,
with a resigned if still disapproving air, watched them from the doorway as
they set off. It
was early evening and there was an attractive twilight glow above. It was clear
that Dahl’s lights would soon be winking on. The temperature was mild and there
were virtually no vehicles to be seen; everyone was walking. In the distance
was the ever-present hum of an Expressway and the occasional glitter of its
lights could be easily seen. The
Dahlites, Seldon noted, did not seem to be walking toward any particular
destination. Rather, there seemed to be a promenade going on, a walking for
pleasure. Perhaps, if Dahl was an impoverished sector, as Tisalver had implied,
inexpensive entertainment was at a premium and what was as pleasant—and as
inexpensive—as an evening stroll? Seldon
felt himself easing automatically into the gait of an aimless stroll himself
and felt the warmth of friendliness all around him. People greeted each other
as they passed and exchanged a few words. Black mustaches of different shape
and thickness flashed everywhere and seemed a requisite for the Dahlite male,
as ubiquitous as the bald heads of the Mycogenian Brothers. It was an evening
rite, a way of making sure that another day had passed safely and that one’s
friends were still well and happy. And, it soon became apparent, Dors caught
every eye. In the twilight glow, the ruddiness of her hair had deepened, but it
stood out against the sea of black-haired heads (except for the occasional
gray) like a gold coin winking its way across a pile of coal. “This
is very pleasant,” said Seldon. “It
is,” said Tisalver. “Ordinarily, I’d be walking with my wife and she’d be in
her element. There is no one for a kilometer around whom she doesn’t know by
name, occupation, and interrelationships. I can’t do that. Right now, half the
people who greet me ... I couldn’t tell you their names. But, in any case, we
mustn’t creep along too slowly. We must get to the elevator. It’s a busy world
on the lower levels.” They
were on the elevator going down when Dors said, “I presume, Master Tisalver,
that the heatsinks are places where the internal heat of Trantor is being used
to produce steam that will turn turbines and produce electricity.” “Oh,
no. Highly efficient large-scale thermopiles produce electricity directly.
Don’t ask me the details, please. I’m just a holovision programmer. In fact,
don’t ask anyone the details down there. The whole thing is one big black box.
It works, but no one knows how.” “What
if something goes wrong?” “It
doesn’t usually, but if it does, some expert comes over from somewhere. Someone
who understands computers. The whole thing is highly computerized, of course.” The
elevator came to a halt and they stepped out. A blast of heat struck them. “It’s
hot,” said Seldon quite unnecessarily. “Yes,
it is,” said Tisalver. “That’s what makes Dahl so valuable as an energy source.
The magma layer is nearer the surface here than it is anywhere else in the
world. So you have to work in the heat.” “How
about air-conditioning?” said Dors. “There
is air-conditioning, but it’s a matter of expense. We ventilate and dehumidify
and cool, but if we go too far, then we’re using up too much energy and the
whole process becomes too expensive.” Tisalver
stopped at a door at which he signaled. It opened to a blast of cooler air and
he muttered, “We ought to be able to get someone to help show us around and
he’ll control the remarks that Mistress Venabili will otherwise be the victim
of ... at least from the men.” “Remarks
won’t embarrass me,” said Dors. “They
will embarrass me,” said Tisalver. A
young man walked out of the office and introduced himself as Hano Linder. He
resembled Tisalver quite closely, but Seldon decided that until he got used to
the almost universal shortness, swarthiness, black hair, and luxuriant
mustaches, he would not be able to see individual differences easily. Lindor
said, “I’ll be glad to show you around for what there is to see. It’s not one
of your spectaculars, you know.” He addressed them all, but his eyes were fixed
on Dors. He said, “It’s not going to be comfortable. I suggest we remove our
shirts.” “It’s
nice and cool in here,” said Seldon. “Of
course, but that’s because we’re executives. Rank has its privileges. Out there
we can’t maintain air-conditioning at this level. That’s why they get paid more
than I do. In fact, those are the best-paying jobs in Dahl, which is the only
reason we get people to work down here. Even so, it’s getting harder to get
heatsinkers all the time.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, out into the soup.” He
removed his own shirt and tucked it into his waistband. Tisalver did the same
and Seldon followed suit. Linder
glanced at Dors and said, “For your own comfort, Mistress, but it’s not
compulsory.” “That’s
all right,” said Dors and removed her shirt. Her
brassiere was white, unpadded, and showed considerable cleavage. “Mistress,”
said Lindor, “That’s not—” He thought a moment, then shrugged and said, “All
right. We’ll get by.” At
first, Seldon was aware only of computers and machinery, huge pipes, flickering
lights, and flashing screens. The
overall light was comparatively dim, though individual sections of machinery
were illuminated. Seldon looked up into the almost-darkness. He said, “Why
isn’t it better lit?” “It’s
lit well enough ... where it should be,” said Lindor. His voice was well
modulated and he spoke quickly, but a little harshly. “Overall illumination is
kept low for psychological reasons. Too bright is translated, in the mind, into
heat. Complaints go up when we turn up the lights, even when the temperature is
made to go down.” Dors
said, “It seems to be well computerized. I should think the operations could be
turned over to computers altogether. This sort of environment is made for artificial
intelligence.” “Perfectly
right,” said Lindor, “but neither can we take a chance on any failures. We need
people on the spot if anything goes wrong. A malfunctioning computer can raise
problems up to two thousand kilometers away.” “So
can human error. Isn’t that so?” said Seldon. “Oh.
yes, but with both people and computers on the job, computer error can be more
quickly tracked down and corrected by people and, conversely, human error can
be more quickly corrected by computers. What it amounts to is that nothing
serious can happen unless human error and computer error take place
simultaneously. And that hardly ever happens.” “Hardly
ever, but not never, eh?” said Seldon. “Almost never, but not never. Computers
aren’t what they used to be and neither are people.” “That’s
the way it always seems,” said Seldon, laughing slightly. “No,
no. I’m not talking memory. I’m not talking good old days. I’m talking
statistics.” At
this, Seldon recalled Hummin talking of the degeneration of the times. “See
what I mean?” said Lindor, his voice dropping. “There’s a bunch of people, at
the C-3 level from the looks of them, drinking. Not one of them is at his or
her post.” “What
are they drinking?” asked Dors. “Special
fluids for replacing electrolyte loss. Fruit juice.” “You
can’t blame them, can you?” said Dors indignantly. “In this dry heat, you would
have to drink.” “Do
you know how long a skilled C-3 can spin out a drink? And there’s nothing to be
done about it either. If we give them five-minute breaks for drinks and stagger
them so they don’t all congregate in a group, you simply stir up a rebellion.” They
were approaching the group now. There were men and women (Dahl seemed to be a
more or less amphisexual society) and both sexes were shirtless. The women wore
devices that might be called brassieres, but they were strictly functional.
They served to lift the breasts in order to improve ventilation and limit
perspiration, but covered nothing. Dors
said in an aside to Seldon, “That makes sense, Hari. I’m soaking wet there.” “Take
off your brassiere, then,” said Seldon. “I won’t lift a finger to stop you.” “Somehow,”
said Dors, “I guessed you wouldn’t.” She left her brassiere where it was. They
were approaching the congregation of people—about a dozen of them. Dors
said, “If any of them make rude remarks, I shall survive.” “Thank
you,” said Lindor. “I cannot promise they won’t.—But I’ll have to introduce
you. If they get the idea that you two are inspectors and in my company,
they’ll become unruly. Inspectors are supposed to poke around on their own
without anyone from management overseeing them.” He held up his arms. “Heatsinkers,
I have two introductions to make. We have visitors from outside—two
Outworlders, two scholars. They’ve got worlds running short on energy and
they’ve come here to see how we do it here in Dahl. They think they may learn
something.” “They’ll
learn how to sweat!” shouted a heatsinker and there was raucous laughter. “She’s
got a sweaty chest right now,” shouted a woman, “covering up like that.” Dors
shouted back, “I’d take it off, but mine can’t compete with yours.” The
laughter turned good-natured. But
one young man stepped forward, staring at Seldon with intense deep-set eyes,
his face set into a humorless mask. He said, “I know you. You’re the mathematician.” He
ran forward, inspecting Seldon’s face with eager solemnity. Automatically, Dors
stepped in front of Seldon and Lindor stepped in front of her, shouting, “Back,
heatsinker. Mind your manners.” Seldon
said, “Wait! Let him talk to me. Why is everyone piling in front of me?” Lindor
said in a low voice, “If any of them get close, you’ll find they don’t smell
like hothouse flowers.” “I’ll
endure it,” said Seldon brusquely. “Young man, what is it you want?” “My
name is Amaryl. Yugo Amaryl. I’ve seen you on holovision.” “You
might have, but what about it?” “I
don’t remember your name.” “You
don’t have to.” “You
talked about something called psychohistory.” “You
don’t know how I wish I hadn’t.” “What?” “Nothing.
What is it you want?” “I
want to talk to you. Just for a little while. Now.” Seldon
looked at Lindor, who shook his head firmly. “Not while he’s on his shift.” “When
does your shift begin, Mr. Amaryl?” asked Seldon. “Sixteen
hundred.” “Can
you see me tomorrow at fourteen hundred?” “Sure.
Where?” Seldon
turned to Tisalver. Would you permit me to see him in your place?” Tisalver
looked very unhappy. “Its not necessary. He’s just a heatsinker.” Seldon
said, “He recognized my face. He knows something about me. He can’t be just an
anything. I’ll see him in my room.” And then, as Tisalver’s face didn’t soften,
he added, “My room, for which rent is being paid. And you’ll be at work, out of
the apartment.” Tisalver
said in a low voice, “It’s not me, Master Seldon. It’s my wife, Casilia. She
won’t stand for it.” “I’ll
talk to her,” said Seldon grimly. “She’ll have to.” 64.Casilia
Tisalver opened her eyes wide. “A heatsinker? Not in my apartment.” “Why
not? Besides, he’ll be coming to my room,” said Seldon. “At fourteen hundred.” “I
won’t have it,” said Mistress Tisalver. “This is what comes of going down to
the heatsinks. Jirad was a fool.” “Not
at all, Mistress Tisalver. We went at my request and I was fascinated. I must
see this young man, since that is necessary to my scholarly work.” “I’m
sorry if it is, but I won’t have it.” Dors
Venabili raised her hand. “Hari, let me take care of this. Mistress Tisalver,
if Dr. Seldon must see someone in his room this afternoon, the additional
person naturally means additional rent. We understand that. For today, then,
the rent on Dr. Seldon’s room will be doubled.” Mistress
Tisalver thought about it. “Well, that’s decent of you, but it’s not only the
credits. There’s the neighbors to think of. A sweaty, smelly heatsinker—” “I
doubt that he’ll be sweaty and smelly at fourteen hundred, Mistress Tisalver,
but let me go on. Since Dr. Seldon must see him, then if he can’t see him here,
he’ll have to see him elsewhere, but we can’t run here and there. That would be
too inconvenient. Therefore, what we will have to do is to get a room
elsewhere. It won’t be easy and we don’t want to do it, but we will have to. So
we will pay the rent through today and leave and of course we will have to
explain to Master Hummin why we have had to change the arrangements that he so
kindly made for us.” “Wait.”
Mistress Tisalver’s face became a study of calculation. “We wouldn’t like to
disoblige Master Hummin ... or you two. How long would this creature have to
stay?” “He’s
coming at fourteen hundred. He must be at work at sixteen hundred. He will be
here for less than two hours, perhaps considerably less. We will meet him
outside, the two of us, and bring him to Dr. Seldon’s room. Any neighbors who
see us will think he is an Outworlder friend of ours.” Mistress
Tisalver nodded her head. “Then let it be as you say. Double rent for Master
Seldon’s room for today and the heatsinker will visit just this one time.” “Just
this one time,” said Dors. But
later, when Seldon and Dors were sitting in her room, Dors said, “Why do you
have to see him, Hari? Is interviewing a heatsinker important to psychohistory
too?” Seldon
thought he detected a small edge of sarcasm in her voice and he said tartly, “I
don’t have to base everything on this huge project of mine, in which I have
very little faith anyway. I am also a human being with human curiosities. We
were down in the heatsinks for hours and you saw what the working people there
were like. They were obviously uneducated. They were low-level individuals—no
play on words intended—and yet here was one who recognized me. He must have
seen me on holovision on the occasion of the Decennial Convention and he
remembered the word ‘psychohistory.’ He strikes me as unusual—as out of place
somehow—and I would like to talk to him.” “Because
it pleases your vanity to have become known even to heatsinkers in Dahl?” “Well
... perhaps. But it also piques my curiosity.” “And
how do you know he hasn’t been briefed and intends to lead you into trouble as
has happened before.” Seldon
winced. “I won’t let him run his fingers through my hair. In any case, we’re
more nearly prepared now, aren’t we? And I’m sure you’ll be with me. I mean,
you let me go Upperside alone, you let me go with Raindrop Forty-Three to the
microfarms alone, and you’re not going to do that again, are you?” “You
can be absolutely sure I won’t,” said Dors. “Well
then, I’ll talk to the young man and you can watch out for traps. I have every
faith in you.” 65.Amaryl
arrived a few minutes before 1400, looking warily about. His hair was neat and
his thick mustache was combed and turned up slightly at the edges. His T-shirt
was startlingly white. He did smell, but it was a fruity odor that undoubtedly
came from the slightly overenthusiastic use of scent. He had a bag with him. Seldon,
who had been waiting outside for him, seized one elbow lightly, while Dors
seized the other, and they moved rapidly into the elevator. Having reached the
correct level, they passed through the apartment into Seldon’s room. Amaryl
said in a low hangdog voice, “Nobody home, huh?” “Everyone’s
busy,” said Seldon neutrally. He indicated the only chair in the room, a pad
directly on the floor. “No,”
said Amaryl. “I don’t need that. One of you two use it.” He squatted on the
floor with a graceful downward motion. Dors
imitated the movement, sitting on the edge of Seldon’s floor-based mattress,
but Seldon dropped down rather clumsily, having to make use of his hands and
unable, quite, to find a comfortable position for his legs. Seldon said, “Well,
young man, why do you want to see me?” “Because
you’re a mathematician. You’re the first mathematician I ever saw—close up—so I
could touch him, you know.” “Mathematicians
feel like anyone else.” “Not
to me, Dr. ... Dr. ... Seldon?” “That’s
my name.” Amaryl
looked pleased. “I finally remembered.—You see, I want to be a mathematician
too.” “Very
good. What’s stopping you?” Amaryl
suddenly frowned. “Are you serious?” “I
presume something is stopping you. Yes, I’m serious.” “What’s
stopping me is I’m a Dahlite, a heatsinker on Dahl. I don’t have the money to
get an education and I can’t get the credits to get an education. A real
education, I mean. All they taught me was to read and cipher and use a computer
and then I knew enough to be a heatsinker. But I wanted more. So I taught
myself.” “In
some ways, that’s the best kind of teaching. How did you do that?” “I
knew a librarian. She was willing to help me. She was a very nice woman and she
showed me how to use computers for learning mathematics. And she set up a
software system that would connect me with other libraries. I’d come on my days
off and on mornings after my shift. Sometimes she’d lock me in her private room
so I wouldn’t be bothered by people coming in or she would let me in when the
library was closed. She didn’t know mathematics herself, but she helped me all
she could. She was oldish, a widow lady. Maybe she thought of me as a kind of
son or something. She didn’t have children of her own.” (Maybe,
thought Seldon briefly, there was some other emotion involved too, but he put
the thought away. None of his business.) “I
liked number theory,” said Amaryl. “I worked some things out from what I
learned from the computer and from the book-films it used to teach me
mathematics. I came up with some new things that weren’t in the book-films.”
Seldon raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting. Like what?” “I’ve
brought some of them to you. I’ve never showed them to anyone. The people
around me—” He shrugged. “They’d either laugh or be annoyed. Once I tried to
tell a girl I knew, but she just said I was weird and wouldn’t see me anymore.
Is it all right for me to show them to you?” “Quite
all right. Believe me.” Seldon
held out his hand and after a brief hesitation, Amaryl handed him the bag he
was carrying. For
a long time, Seldon looked over Amaryl’s papers. The work was naive in the
extreme, but he allowed no smile to cross his face. He followed the
demonstrations, not one of which was new, of course—or even nearly new—or of
any importance. But
that didn’t matter. Seldon
looked up. “Did you do all of this yourself?” Amaryl,
looking more than half-frightened, nodded his head. Seldon extracted several
sheets. “What made you think of this?” His finger ran down a line of
mathematical reasoning. Amaryl
looked it over, frowned, and thought about it. Then he explained his line of
thinking. Seldon
listened and said, “Did you ever read a book by Anat Bigell?” “On
number theory?” “The
title was Mathematical Deduction. It wasn’t about number theory, particularly.” Amaryl
shook his head. “I never heard of him. I’m sorry.” “He
worked out this theorem of yours three hundred years ago.’ Amaryl
looked stricken. “I didn’t know that.” “I’m
sure you didn’t. You did it more cleverly, though. It’s not rigorous, but—” “What
do you mean, ‘rigorous’?” “It
doesn’t matter.” Seldon put the papers back together in a sheaf, restored it to
the bag, and said, “Make several copies of all this. Take one copy, have it
dated by an official computer, and place it under computerized seal. My friend
here, Mistress Venabili, can get you into Streeling University without tuition
on some sort of scholarship. You’ll have to start at the beginning and take
courses in other subjects than mathematics, but—” By
now Amaryl had caught his breath. “Into Streeling University? They won’t take
me.” “Why
not? Dors, you can arrange it, can’t you?” “I’m
sure I can.” “No,
you can’t,” said Amaryl hotly. “They won’t take me. I’m from Dahl.” “Well?” “They
won’t take people from Dahl.” Seldon
looked at Dors. “What’s he talking about?” Dors
shook her head. “I really don’t know.” Amaryl
said, “You’re an Outworlder, Mistress. How long have you been at Streeling?” “A
little over two years, Mr. Amaryl.” “Have
you ever seen Dahlites there—short, curly black hair, big mustaches?” “There
are students with all kinds of appearances.” “But
no Dahlites. Look again the next time you’re there.” “Why
not?” said Seldon. “They
don’t like us. We look different. They don’t like our mustaches.” “You
can shave your—” but Seldon’s voice died under the other’s furious glance. “Never.
Why should I? My mustache is my manhood.” “You
shave your beard. That’s your manhood too.” “To
my people it is the mustache.” Seldon
looked at Dors again and murmured, “Bald heads, mustaches ... madness.” “What?”
said Amaryl angrily. “Nothing.
Tell me what else they don’t like about Dahlites.” “They
make up things not to like. They say we smell. They say we’re dirty. They say
we steal. They say we’re violent. They say we’re dumb.” “Why
do they say all this?” “Because
its easy to say it and it makes them feel good. Sure, if we work in the
heatsinks, we get dirty and smelly. If we’re poor and held down, some of us
steal and get violent. But that isn’t the way it is with all of us. How about
those tall yellow-hairs in the Imperial Sector who think they own the
Galaxy—no, they do own the Galaxy. Don’t they ever get violent? Don’t they
steal sometimes? If they did my job, they’d smell the way I do. If they had to
live the way I have to, they’d get dirty too.” “Who
denies that there are people of all kinds in all places?” said Seldon. “No
one argues the matter! They just take it for granted. Master Seldon, I’ve got
to get away from Trantor. I have no chance on Trantor, no way of earning
credits, no way of getting an education, no way of becoming a mathematician, no
way of becoming any thing but what they say I am ... a worthless nothing.” This
last was said in frustration—and desperation. Seldon
tried to be reasonable. “The person I’m renting this room from is a Dahlite. He
has a clean job. He’s educated.” “Oh
sure,” said Amaryl passionately. “There are some. They let a few do it so that
they can say it can be done. And those few can live nicely as long as they stay
in Dahl. Let them go outside and they’ll see how they’re treated. And while
they’re in here they make themselves feel good by treating the rest of us like
dirt. That makes them yellow-hairs in their own eyes. What did this nice person
you’re renting this room from say when you told him you were bringing in a
heatsinker? What did he say I would be like? They’re gone now ... wouldn’t be
in the same place with me.” Seldon
moistened his lips. “I won’t forget you. I’ll see to it that you’ll get off
Trantor and into my own University in Helicon—once I’m back there myself.” “Do
you promise that? Your word of honor? Even though I’m a Dahlite?” “The
fact that you’re a Dahlite is unimportant to me. The fact that you are already
a mathematician is! But I still can’t quite grasp what you’re telling me. I
find it impossible to believe that there would be such unreasoning feeling
against harmless people.” Amaryl
said bitterly, “That’s because you’ve never had any occasion to interest
yourself in such things. It can all pass right under your nose and you wouldn’t
smell a thing because it doesn’t affect you. “ Dors said, “Mr. Amaryl, Dr. Seldon
is a mathematician like you and his head can sometimes be in the clouds. You
must understand that. I am a historian, however. I know that it isn’t unusual
to have one group of people look down upon another group. There are peculiar
and almost ritualistic hatreds that have no rational justification and that can
have their serious historical influence. It’s too bad.” Amaryl
said, “Saying something is ‘too bad’ is easy. You say you disapprove, which
makes you a nice person, and then you can go about your own business and not be
interested anymore. It’s a lot worse than ‘too bad.’ It’s against everything
decent and natural. We’re all of us the same, yellow-hairs and black-hairs,
tall and short, Easterners, Westerners, Southerners, and Outworlders. We’re all
of us, you and I and even the Emperor, descended from the people of Earth,
aren’t we?” “Descended
from what?” asked Seldon. He turned to look at Dors, his eyes wide. “From
the people of Earth!” shouted Amaryl. “The one planet on which human beings
originated.” “One
planet? Just one planet?” “The
only planet. Sure. Earth.” “When
you say Earth, you mean Aurora, don’t you?” “Aurora?
What’s that?—I mean Earth. Have you never heard of Earth?” “No,”
said Seldon. “Actually not.” “It’s
a mythical world,” began Dors, “that—” “It’s
not mythical. It was a real planet.” Seldon
sighed. “I’ve heard this all before. Well, let’s go through it again. Is there
a Dahlite book that tells of Earth?” “What?” “Some
computer software, then?” “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Young
man, where did you hear about Earth?” “My
dad told me. Everyone knows about it.” “Is
there anyone who knows about it especially? Did they teach you about it in
school?” “They
never said a word about it there.” “Then
how do people know about it?” Amaryl
shrugged his shoulders with an air of being uselessly badgered over nothing.
“Everyone just does. If you want stories about it, there’s Mother Rittah. I
haven’t heard that she’s died yet.” “Your
mother? Wouldn’t you know—” “She’s
not my mother. That’s just what they call her. Mother Rittah. She’s an old
woman. She lives in Billibotton. Or used to.” “Where’s
that?” “Down
in that direction,” said Amaryl, gesturing vaguely. “How
do I get there?” “Get
there? You don’t want to get there. You’d never come back.” “Why
not?” “Believe
me. You don’t want to go there.” “But
I’d like to see Mother Rittah.” Amaryl
shook his head. “Can you use a knife?” “For
what purpose? What kind of knife?” “A
cutting knife. Like this.” Amaryl reached down to the belt that held his pants
tight about his waist. A section of it came away and from one end there flashed
out a knife blade, thin, gleaming, and deadly. Dors’s hand immediately came
down hard upon his right wrist. Amaryl laughed. “I wasn’t planning to use it. I
was just showing it to you.” He put the knife back in his belt. “You need one
in self-defense and if you don’t have one or if you have one but don’t know how
to use it, you’ll never get out of Billibotton alive. Anyway”—he suddenly grew
very grave and intent—“are you really serious, Master Seldon, about helping me
get to Helicon?” “Entirely
serious. That’s a promise. Write down your name and where you can be reached by
hypercomputer. You have a code, I suppose.” “My
shift in the heatsinks has one. Will that do?” “Yes.” “Well
then,” said Amaryl, looking up earnestly at Seldon, “this means I have my whole
future riding on you, Master Seldon, so please don’t go to Billibotton. I can’t
afford to lose you now.” He
turned beseeching eyes on Dors and said softly, “Mistress Venabili, if he’ll
listen to you, don’t let him go. Please.” BillibottonDAHL—
... Oddly enough, the best-known aspect of this sector is Billibotton, a
semi-legendary place about which innumerable tales have grown up. In fact, a
whole branch of literature now exists in which heroes and adventurers (and
victims) must dare the dangers of passing through Billibotton. So stylized have
these stories become that the one well-known and, presumably, authentic tale
involving such a passage, that of Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili, has come to
seem fantastic simply by association ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 66.When
Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili were alone, Dors asked thoughtfully, “Are you
really planning to see this ‘Mother’ woman?” “I’m
thinking about it, Dors.” “You’re
an odd one, Hari. You seem to go steadily from bad to worse. You went
Upperside, which seemed harmless enough, for a rational purpose when you were
in Streeling. Then, in Mycogen, you broke into the Elders’ aerie, a much more
dangerous task, for a much more foolish purpose. And now in Dahl, you want to
go to this place, which that young man seems to think is simple suicide, for
something altogether nonsensical.” “I’m
curious about this reference to Earth—and must know if there’s anything to it.” Dors
said, “It’s a legend and not even an interesting one. It is routine. The names
differ from planet to planet, but the content is the same. There is always the
tale of an original world and a golden age. There is a longing for a supposedly
simple and virtuous past that is almost universal among the people of a complex
and vicious society. In one way or another, this is true of all societies,
since everyone imagines his or her own society to be too complex and vicious,
however simple it may be. Mark that down for your psychohistory.” “Just
the same,” said Seldon, “I have to consider the possibility that one world did
once exist. Aurora ... Earth ... the name doesn’t matter. In fact—” He
paused and finally Dors said, “Well?” Seldon
shook his head. “Do you remember the hand-on-thigh story you told me in
Mycogen? It was right after I got the Book from Raindrop Forty-Three ... Well,
it popped into my head one evening recently when we were talking to the
Tisalvers. I said something that reminded me, for an instant—” “Reminded
you of what?” “I
don’t remember. It came into my head and went out again, but somehow every time
I think of the single-world notion, it seems to me I have the tips of my
fingers on something and then lose it.” Dors
looked at Seldon in surprise. “I don’t see what it could be. The hand-on-thigh
story has nothing to do with Earth or Aurora.” “I
know, but this ... thing ... that hovers just past the edge of my mind seems to
be connected with this single world anyway and I have the feeling that I must
find out more about it at any cost. That ... and robots.” “Robots
too? I thought the Elders’ aerie put an end to that.” “Not
at all. I’ve been thinking about them.” He stared at Dors with a troubled look
on his face for a long moment, then said, “But I’m not sure.” “Sure
about what, Hari?” But
Seldon merely shook his head and said nothing more. Dors
frowned, then said, “Hari, let me tell you one thing. In sober history—and,
believe me, I know what I’m talking about there is no mention of one world of
origin. It’s a popular belief, I admit. I don’t mean just among the
unsophisticated followers of folklore, like the Mycogenians and the Dahlite
heatsinkers, but there are biologists who insist that there must have been one
world of origin for reasons that are well outside my area of expertise and
there are the more mystical historians who tend to speculate about it. And
among the leisure-class intellectuals, I understand such speculations are
becoming fashionable. Still, scholarly history knows nothing about it.” Seldon
said, “All the more reason, perhaps, to go beyond scholarly history. All I want
is a device that will simplify psychohistory for me and I don’t care what the
device is, whether it is a mathematical trick or a historical trick or
something totally imaginary. If the young man we’ve just talked to had had a
little more formal training, I’d have set him on the problem. His thinking is
marked by considerable ingenuity and originality—” Dors
said, “And you’re really going to help him, then?” “Absolutely.
Just as soon as I’m in a position to.” “But
ought you to make promises you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep?” “I
want to keep it. If you’re that stiff about impossible promises, consider that
Hummin told Sunmaster Fourteen that I’d use psychohistory to get the
Mycogenians their world back. There’s just about zero chance of that. Even if I
work out psychohistory, who knows if it can be used for so narrow and
specialized a purpose? There’s a real case of promising what one can’t
deliver.” But
Dors said with some heat, “Chetter Hummin was trying to save our lives, to keep
us out of the hands of Demerzel and the Emperor. Don’t forget that. And I think
he really would like to help the Mycogenians.” “And
I really would like to help Yugo Amaryl and I am far more likely to be able to
help him than I am the Mycogenians, so if you justify the second, please don’t
criticize the first. What’s more, Dors”—and his eyes flashed angrily—“I really
would like to find Mother Rittah and I’m prepared to go alone.” “Never!”
snapped Dors. “If you go, I go.” 67.Mistress
Tisalver returned with her daughter in tow an hour after Amaryl had left on
this way to his shift. She said nothing at all to either Seldon or Dors, but
gave a curt nod of her head when they greeted her and gazed sharply about the
room as though to verify that the heatsinker had left no trace. She then
sniffed the air sharply and looked at Seldon accusingly before marching through
the common room into the family bedroom. Tisalver
himself arrived home later and when Seldon and Dors came to the dinner table,
Tisalver took advantage of the fact that his wife was still ordering some
last-minute details in connection with the dinner to say in a low voice, “Has
that person been here?” “And
gone,” said Seldon solemnly. “Your wife was out at the time.” Tisalver
nodded and said, “Will you have to do this again?” “I
don’t think so,” said Seldon. “Good.” Dinner
passed largely in silence, but afterward, when the daughter had gone to her
room for the dubious pleasures of computer practice, Seldon leaned back and
said, “Tell me about Billibotton.” Tisalver
looked astonished and his mouth moved without any sound issuing. Casilia,
however, was less easily rendered speechless. She said, “Is that where your new
friend lives? Are you going to return the visit?” “So
far,” said Seldon quietly, “I have just asked about Billibotton.” Casilia
said sharply, “It is a slum. The dregs live there. No one goes there, except
the filth that make their homes there.” “I
understand a Mother Rittah lives there.” “I
never heard of her,” said Casilia, her mouth closing with a snap. It was quite
clear that she had no intention of knowing anyone by name who lived in
Billibotton. Tisalver,
casting an uneasy look at his wife, said, “I’ve heard of her. She’s a crazy old
woman who is supposed to tell fortunes.” “And
does she live in Billibotton?” “I
don’t know, Master Seldon. I’ve never seen her. She’s mentioned sometimes in
the news holocasts when she makes her predictions.” “Do
they come true?” Tisalver
snorted. “Do predictions ever come true? Hers don’t even make sense.” “Does
she ever talk about Earth?” “I
don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.” “The
mention of Earth doesn’t puzzle you. Do you know about Earth?” Now
Tisalver looked surprised. “Certainly, Master Seldon. It’s the world all people
came from ... supposedly.” “Supposedly?
Don’t you believe it?” “Me?
I’m educated. But many ignorant people believe it.” “Are
there book-films about Earth?” “Children’s
stories sometimes mention Earth. I remember, when I was a young boy, my
favorite story began, ‘Once, long ago, on Earth, when Earth was the only
planet—’ Remember, Casilia? You liked it too.” Casilia
shrugged, unwilling to bend as yet. “I’d
like to see it sometime,” said Seldon, “but I mean real book-films ... uh ...
learned ones ... or films ... or printouts.” “I
never heard of any, but the library—” “I’ll
try that.—Are there any taboos about speaking of Earth?” “What
are taboos?” “I
mean, is it a strong custom that people mustn’t talk of Earth or that outsiders
mustn’t ask about it?” Tisalver
looked so honestly astonished that there seemed no point in waiting for an
answer. Dors
put in, “Is there some rule about outsiders not going to Billibotton?” Now
Tisalver turned earnest. “No rule, but it’s not a good idea for anyone to go
there. I wouldn’t.” Dors
said, “Why not?” “It’s
dangerous. Violent! Everyone is armed.—I mean, Dahl is an armed place anyway,
but in Billibotton they use the weapons. Stay in this neighborhood. It’s safe.” “So
far,” said Casilia darkly. “It would be better if we left altogether.
Heatsinkers go anywhere these days.” And there was another lowering look in
Seldon’s direction. Seldon
said, “What do you mean that Dahl is an armed place? There are strong Imperial
regulations against weapons.” “I
know that,” said Tisalver, “and there are no stun guns here or percussives or
Psychic Probes or anything like that. But there are knives.” He looked
embarrassed. Dors
said, “Do you carry a knife, Tisalver?” “Me?”
He looked genuinely horrified. “I am a man of peace and this is a safe
neighborhood.” “We
have a couple of them in the house,” said Casilia, sniffing again. “We’re not
that certain this is a safe neighborhood.” “Does
everyone carry knives?” asked Dors. “Almost
everyone, Mistress Venabili,” said Tisalver. “It’s customary. But that doesn’t
mean everyone uses them.” “But
they use them in Billibotton, I suppose,” said Dors. “Sometimes.
When they’re excited, they have fights.” “And
the government permits it? The Imperial government, I mean?” “Sometimes
they try to clean Billibotton up, but knives are too easy to hide and the
custom is too strong. Besides, it’s almost always Dahlites that get killed and
I don’t think the Imperial government gets too upset over that.” “What
if it’s an outsider who gets killed?” “If
it’s reported, the Imperials could get excited. But what happens is that no one
has seen anything and no one knows anything. The Imperials sometimes round up
people on general principles, but they can never prove anything. I suppose they
decide it’s the outsiders’ fault for being there.—So don’t go to Billibotton,
even if you have a knife.” Seldon
shook his head rather pettishly. “I wouldn’t carry a knife. I don’t know how to
use one. Not skillfully.” “Then
it’s simple, Master Seldon. Stay out.” Tisalver shook his head portentously.
“Just stay out.” “I
may not be able to do that either,” said Seldon. Dors
glared at him, clearly annoyed, and said to Tisalver, “Where does one buy a
knife? Or may we have one of yours?” Casilia
said quickly, “No one takes someone else’s knife. You must buy your own.” Tisalver
said, “There are knife stores all over. There aren’t supposed to be.
Theoretically they’re illegal, you know. Any appliance store sells them,
however. If you see a washing machine on display, that’s a sure sign.” “And
how does one get to Billibotton?” asked Seldon. “By
Expressway.” Tisalver
looked dubious as he looked at Dors’s frowning expression. Seldon
said, “And once I reach the Expressway?” “Get
on the eastbound side and watch for the signs. But if you must go, Master
Seldon”—Tisalver hesitated, then said—“you mustn’t take Mistress Venabili.
Women sometimes are treated ... worse.” “She
won’t go,” said Seldon. “I’m
afraid she will,” said Dors with quiet determination. 68.The
appliance store dealer’s mustache was clearly as lush as it had been in his
younger days, but it was grizzled now, even though the hair on his head was
still black. He touched the mustache out of sheer habit as he gazed at Dors and
brushed it back on each side. He
said, “You’re not a Dahlite.” “Yes,
but I still want a knife.” He
said, “It’s against the law to sell knives.” Dors
said, “I’m not a policewoman or a government agent of any sort. I’m going to
Billibotton.” He
stared at her thoughtfully. “Alone?” “With
my friend.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Seldon,
who was waiting outside sullenly. “You’re
buying it for him?” He stared at Seldon and it didn’t take him long to decide.
“He’s an outsider too. Let him come in and buy it for himself.” “He’s
not a government agent either. And I’m buying it for myself.” The
dealer shook his head. “Outsiders are crazy. But if you want to spend some
credits, I’ll take them from you.” He
reached under the counter, brought out a stub, turned it with a slight and expert
motion, and the knife blade emerged. “Is
that the largest you have?” “Best
woman’s knife made.” “Show
me a man’s knife.” “You
don’t want one that’s too heavy. Do you know how to use one of these things?” “I’ll
learn and I’m not worried about heavy. Show me a man’s knife.” The
dealer smiled. “Well, if you want to see one—” He
moved farther down the counter and brought up a much fatter stub. He gave it a
twist and what appeared to be a butcher’s knife emerged. He handed it to her,
handle first, still smiling. She
said, “Show me that twist of yours.” He
showed her on a second knife, slowly twisting one way to make the blade appear,
then the other way to make it disappear. “Twist and squeeze,” he said. “Do
it again, sir.” The
dealer obliged. Dors
said, “All right, close it and toss me the haft.” He
did, in a slow upward loop. She
caught it, handed it back, and said, “Faster.” He
raised his eyebrows and then, without warning, backhanded it to her left side.
She made no attempt to bring over her right hand, but caught it with her left
and the blade showed tumescently at once—then disappeared. The dealer’s mouth
fell open. “And
this is the largest you have?” she said. “It
is. If you try to use it, it will just tire you out.” “I’ll
breathe deeply. I’ll take a second one too.” “For
your friend?” “No.
For me.” “You
plan on using two knives?” “I’ve
got two hands.” The
dealer sighed. “Mistress, please stay out of Billibotton. You don’t know what
they do to women there.” “I
can guess. How do I put these knives on my belt?” “Not
the one you’ve got on, Mistress. That’s not a knife belt. I can sell you one,
though.” “Will
it hold two knives?” “I
might have a double belt somewhere. Not much call for them.” “I’m
calling for them.” “I
may not have it in your size.” “Then
we’ll cut it down or something.” “It
will cost you a lot of credits.” “My
credit tile will cover it.” When
she emerged at last, Seldon said sourly, “You look ridiculous with that bulky
belt.” “Really,
Hari? Too ridiculous to go with you to Billibotton? Then let’s both go back to
the apartment.” “No.
I’ll go on by myself. I’ll be safer by myself.” Dors
said, “There is no use saying that, Hari. We both go back or we both go
forward. Under no circumstances do we separate.” And
somehow the firm look in her blue eyes, the set to her lips, and the manner in
which her hands had dropped to the hafts at her belt, convinced Seldon she was
serious. “Very
well,” he said, “but if you survive and if I ever see Hummin again, my price
for continuing to work on psychohistory—much as I have grown fond of you—will
be your removal. Do you understand?” And
suddenly Dors smiled. “Forget it. Don’t practice your chivalry on me. Nothing
will remove me. Do you understand?” 69.They
got off the Expressway where the sign, flickering in the air, said:
BILLIBOTTON. As perhaps an indication of what might be expected, the second ‘I’
was smeared, a mere 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 pungent aroma 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 pedestrians, 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 velvet fog of his or her own making. Or there was the
ritualistic friendliness of an evening promenade in those neighborhoods that
indulged in such things. But here in Billibotton, there was neither
friendliness nor neutral withdrawal. 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. The
clothing of the Billibottoners tended to be smudged, old, and sometimes corn.
There was a patina of ill-washed poverty over them and Seldon felt uneasy at
the slickness of his own new clothes. He
said, “Where in Billibotton does Mother Rittah live, do you suppose?” “I
don’t know,” said Dors. “You brought us here, so you do the supposing. I intend
to confine myself to the task of protection and I think I’m going to find it
necessary to do just that.” Seldon
said, “I assumed it would only be necessary to ask the way of any passerby, but
somehow I’m not encouraged to do so.” “I
don’t blame you. I don’t think you’ll find anyone springing to your
assistance.” “On
the other hand, there are such things as youngsters.” He indicated one with a
brief gesture of one hand. A boy who looked to be about twelve—in any case
young enough to lack the universal adult male mustache had come to a full halt
and was staring at them. Dors
said, “You’re guessing that a boy that age has not yet developed the full
Billibottonian dislike of outsiders.” “At
any rate,” said Seldon, “I’m guessing he is scarcely large enough to have
developed the full Billibottonian penchant for violence. I suppose he might run
away and shout insults from a distance if we approach him, but I doubt he’ll
attack us.” Seldon
raised his voice. “Young man.” The
boy took a step backward and continued to stare. Seldon
said, “Come here,” and beckoned. The
boy said, “Wa’ for, guy?” “So
I can ask you directions. Come closer, so I don’t have to shout.” The
boy approached two steps closer. His face was smudged, but his eyes were bright
and sharp. His sandals were of different make and there was a large patch on
one leg of his trousers. He
said, “Wa’ kind o’ directions?” “We’re
trying to find Mother Rittah.” The
boy’s eyes flickered. “Wa’ for, guy?” “I’m
a scholar. Do you know what a scholar is?” “Ya
went to school?” “Yes.
Didn’t you?” The
boy spat to one side in contempt. “Nah.” “I
want advice from Mother Rittah—if you’ll take me to her.” “Ya
want your fortune? Ya come to Billibotton, guy, with your fancy clothes, so I
can tell ya your fortune. All bad.” “What’s
your name, young man?” “What’s
it to ya?” “So
we can speak in a more friendly fashion. And so you can take me to Mother
Rittah’s place. Do you know where she lives?” “Maybe
yes, maybe no. My name’s Raych. What’s in it for me if I take ya?” “What
would you like, Raych?” The
boy’s eyes halted at Dors’s belt. Raych said, “The lady got a couple o’ knives.
Gimme one and I’ll take ya to Mother Rittah.” “Those
are grown people’s knives, Raych. You’re too young.” “Then
I guess I’m too young to know where Mother Rittah lives.” And he looked up
slyly through the shaggy halt that curtained his eyes. Seldon
grew uneasy. It was possible they might attract a crowd. Several men had
stopped already, but had then moved on when nothing of interest seemed to be
taking place. If, however, the boy grew angry and lashed out at them in word or
deed, people would undoubtedly gather. He
smiled and said, “Can you read, Raych?” Raych
spat again. “Nah! Who wants to read?” “Can
you use a computer?” “A
talking computer? Sure. Anyone can.” “I’ll
tell you what, then. You take me to the nearest computer store and I’ll buy you
a little computer all your own and software that will teach you to read. A few
weeks and you’ll be able to read.” It
seemed to Seldon that the boy’s eyes sparkled at the thought, but—if so—they
hardened at once. “Nah,
Knife or nothin’.” “That’s
the point, Raych. You learn to read and don’t tell anyone and you can surprise
people. After a while you can bet them you can read. Bet them five credits. You
can win a few extra credits that way and you can buy a knife of your own.” The
boy hesitated. “Nah! No one will bet me. No one got credits.” “If
you can read, you can get a job in a knife store and you can save your wages
and get a knife at a discount. How about that?” “When
ya gonna buy the talking computer?” “Right
now. I’ll give it to you when I see Mother Rittah.” “You
got credits?” “I
have a credit tile.” “Let’s
see ya buy the computer.” The
transaction was carried through, but when the boy reached for it, Seldon shook
his head and put it inside his pouch. “You’ve got to get me to Mother Rittah
first, Raych. Are you sure you know where to find her?” Raych
allowed a look of contempt to cross his face. “Sure I do. I’ll take ya there,
only ya better hand over the computer when we get there or I’ll get some guys I
know after you and the lady, so ya better watch out.” “You
don’t have to threaten us,” said Seldon. “We’ll take care of our end of the
deal.” Raych
led them quickly along the walkway, past curious stares. Seldon was silent
during the walk and so was Dors. Dors was far less lost in her own thoughts,
though, for she clearly remained conscious of the surrounding people at all
times. She kept meeting, with a level glare, the eyes of those passersby that
turned toward them. On occasion, when there were footsteps behind them, she
turned to look grimly back. And
then Raych stopped and said, “In here. She ain’t homeless, ya know.” They
followed him into an apartment complex and Seldon, who had had the intention of
following their route with a view to retracing his steps later, was quickly
lost. He
said, “How do you know your way through these alleys, Raych?” The
boy shrugged. “I been loafin’ through them since I was a kid,” he said.
“Besides, the apartments are numbered—where they ain’t broken off—and there’s
arrows and things. You can’t get lost if you know the tricks.” Raych
knew the tricks, apparently, and they wandered deeper into the complex. Hanging
over it all was an air of total decay: disregarded debris, inhabitants slinking
past in clear resentment of the outsiders’ invasion. Unruly youngsters ran
along the alleys in pursuit of some game or other. Some of them yelled, “Hey,
get out o’ the way!” when their levitating ball narrowly missed Dors. And
finally, Raych stopped before a dark scarred door on which the number 2782
glowed feebly. “This
is it,” he said and held out his hand. “First
let’s see who’s inside,” said Seldon softly. He pushed the signal button and
nothing happened. “It
don’t work,” said Raych. “Ya gotta bang. Loud. She don’t hear too good.” Seldon
pounded his fist on the door and was rewarded with the sound of movement
inside. A shrill voice called out, “Who wants Mother Rittah?” Seldon
shouted, “Two scholars!” He
tossed the small computer, with its small package of software attached, to
Raych, who snatched it, grinned, and took off at a rapid run. Seldon
then turned to face the opening door and Mother Rittah. 70.Mother
Rittah was well into her seventies, perhaps, but had the kind of face that, at
first sight, seemed to belie that. Plump cheeks, a little mouth, a small round
chin slightly doubled. She was very short—not quite 1.5 meters tall—and had a
thick body. But
there were fine wrinkles about her eyes and when she smiled, as she smiled at
the sight of them, others broke out over her face. And she moved with
difficulty. “Come
in, come in,” she said in a soft high-pitched voice and peered at them as
though her eyesight was beginning to fail. “Outsiders ... Outworlders even. Am
I right? You don’t seem to have the Trantor smell about you.” Seldon
wished she hadn’t mentioned smell. The apartment, overcrowded and littered with
small possessions that seemed dim and dusty, reeked with food odors that were
on the edge of rancidity. The air was so thick and clinging that he was sure
his clothes would smell strongly of it when they left. He
said, “You are right, Mother Rittah. I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My friend is
Dors Venabili of Cinna.” “So,”
she said, looking about for an unoccupied spot on the floor where she could
invite them to sit, but finding none suitable. Dors
said, “We are willing to stand, Mother.” “What?”
she looked up at Dors. “You must speak briskly, my child. My hearing is not
what it was when I was your age.” “Why
don’t you get a hearing device?” said Seldon, raising his voice. “It
wouldn’t help, Master Seldon. Something seems to be wrong with the nerve and I
have no money for nerve rebuilding.—You have come to learn the future from old
Mother Rittah?” “Not
quite,” said Seldon. “I have come to learn the past.” “Excellent.
It is such a strain to decide what people want to hear.” “It
must be quite an art,” said Dors, smiling. “It
seems easy, but one has to he properly convincing. I earn my fees.” “If
you have a credit outlet,” said Seldon. “We will pay any reasonable fees if you
tell us about Earth—without cleverly designing what you tell us to suit what we
want to hear. We wish to hear the truth.” The
old woman, who had been shuffling about the room, making adjustments here and
there, as though to make it all prettier and more suitable for important
visitors, stopped short. “What do you want to know about Earth?” “What
is it, to begin with?” The
old woman turned and seemed to gaze off into space. When she spoke, her voice
was low and steady. “It
is a world, a very old planet. It is forgotten and lost.” Dors
said, “It is not part of history. We know that much.” “It
comes before history, child,” said Mother Rittah solemnly. “It existed in the
dawn of the Galaxy and before the dawn. It was the only world with humanity.”
She nodded firmly. Seldon
said, “Was another name for Earth ... Aurora?” And
now Mother Rittah’s face misted into a frown. “Where did you hear that?” “In
my wanderings. I have heard of an old forgotten world named Aurora on which
humanity lived in primordial peace.” “It’s
a lie.” She wiped her mouth as though to get the taste of what she had just
heard out of it. “That name you mention must never be mentioned except as the
place of Evil. It was the beginning of Evil. Earth was alone till Evil came,
along with its sister worlds. Evil nearly destroyed Earth, but Earth rallied
and destroyed Evil—with the help of heroes.” “Earth
was before this Evil. Are you sure of that?” “Long
before. Earth was alone in the Galaxy for thousands of years—millions of
years.” “Millions
of years? Humanity existed on it for millions of years with no other people on
any other world?” “That’s
true. That’s true. That’s true.” “But
how do you know all this? Is it all in a computer program? Or a printout? Do
you have anything I can read?” Mother
Rittah shook her head. “I heard the old stories from my mother, who heard it
from hers, and so on far back. I have no children, so I tell the stories to
others, but it may come to an end. This is a time of disbelief.” Dors
said, “Not really, Mother. There are people who speculate about prehistoric
times and who study some of the tales of lost worlds.” Mother
Rittah made a motion of her arm as though to wipe it away. “They look at it
with cold eyes. Scholarly. They try to fit it in with their notions. I could
tell you stories for a year of the great hero Ba-Lee, but you would have no
time to listen and I have lost the strength to tell.” Seldon
said, “Have you ever heard of robots?” The
old woman shuddered and her voice was almost a scream. “Why do you ask such
things? Those were artificial human beings, evil in themselves and the work of
the Evil worlds. They were destroyed and should never be mentioned.” “There
was one special robot, wasn’t there, that the Evil worlds hated?” Mother
Rittah tottered toward Seldon and peered into his eyes. He could feel her hot
breath on his face. “Have you come to mock me? You know of these things and yet
you ask? Why do you ask?” “Because
I wish to know.” “There
was an artificial human being who helped Earth. He was Da-Nee, friend of
Ba-Lee. He never died and lives somewhere, waiting for his time to return. None
knows when that time will be, but someday he will come and restore the great
old days and remove all cruelty, injustice, and misery. That is the promise.” At
this, she closed her eyes and smiled, as if remembering ... Seldon
waited a while in silence, then sighed and said, “Thank you, Mother Rittah. You
have been very helpful. What is your fee?” “So
pleasant to meet Outworlders,” the old woman replied. “Ten credits. May I offer
you some refreshment?” “No,
thank you,” said Seldon earnestly. “Please take twenty. You need only tell us
how to get back to the Expressway from here.—And, Mother Rittah, if you can
arrange to have some of your tales of Earth put into a computer disc, I will
pay you well.” “I
would need so much strength. How well?” “It
would depend on how long the story is and how well it is told. I might pay a
thousand credits.” Mother
Rittah licked her lips. “A thousand credits? But how will I find you when the
story is told?” “I
will give you the computer code number at which I can be reached.” After
Seldon gave Mother Rittah the code number, he and Dors left, thankful for the comparatively
clean odor of the alley outside. They walked briskly in the direction indicated
by the old woman. Dors
said, “That wasn’t a very long interview, Hari.” “I
know. The surroundings were terribly unpleasant and I felt I had learned
enough. Amazing how these folktales tend to magnify.” “What
do you mean, ‘magnify’?” “Well,
the Mycogenians fill their Aurora with human beings who lived for centuries and
the Dahlites fill their Earth with a humanity that lived for millions of years.
And both talk of a robot that lives forever. Still, it makes one think.” “As
far as millions of years go, there’s room for— Where are we going?” “Mother
Rittah said we go in this direction till we reach a rest area, then follow the
sign for CENTRAL WALKWAY, bearing left, and keep on following the sign. Did we
pass a rest area on the way in?” “We
may be leaving by a route different from the one we came in. I don’t remember a
rest area, but I wasn’t watching the route. I was keeping my eye on the people
we passed and—” Her
voice died away. Up ahead the alley swelled outward on both sides. Seldon
remembered. They had passed that way. There had been a couple of ratty couch
pads resting on the walkway floor on either side. There was, however, no need
for Dors to watch passersby going out as she had coming in. There were no
passersby. But up ahead in the rest area they spotted a group of men, rather
large-sized for Dahlites, mustaches bristling, bare upper arms muscular and
glistening under the yellowish indoor light of the walkway. Clearly, they were
waiting for the Outworlders and, almost automatically, Seldon and Dors came to
a halt. For a moment or two, the tableau held. Then Seldon looked behind him
hastily. Two or three additional men had stepped into view. Seldon
said between his teeth, “We’re trapped. I should not have let you come, Dors.” “On
the contrary. This is why I’m here, but was it worth your seeing Mother
Rittah?” “If
we get out of this, it was.” Seldon
then said in a loud and firm voice, “May we pass?” One
of the men ahead stepped forward. He was fully Seldon’s height of 1.73 meters,
but broader in the shoulders and much more muscular. A bit flabby at the waist,
though, Seldon noted. “I’m
Marron,” he said with self-satisfied significance, as though the name ought to
have meaning, “and I’m here to tell you we don’t like Outworlders in our
district. You want to come in, all right—but if you want to leave, you’ll have
to pay.” “Very
well. How much?” “All
you’ve got. You rich Outworlders have credit tiles, right? Just hand them
over.” “No.” “No
point saying no. We’ll just take them.” “You
can’t take them without killing me or hurting me and they won’t work without my
voiceprint. My normal voiceprint.” “That’s
not so, Master—see, I’m being polite—we can take them away from you without
hurting you very much.” “How
many of you big strong men will it take? Nine? No.” Seldon counted rapidly.
“Ten.” “Just
one. Me.” “With
no help?” “Just
me.” “If
the rest of you will clear away and give us room, I would like to see you try
it, Marron.” “You
don’t have a knife, Master. You want one?” “No,
use yours to make the fight even. I’ll fight without one.” Marron
looked about at the others and said, “Hey, this puny guy is a sport. He don’t
even sound scared. That’s sort of nice. It would be a shame to hurt him. I tell
you what, Master. I’ll take the girl. If you want me to stop, hand over your
credit tile and her tile and use your right voices to activate them. If you say
no, then after I’m through with the girl ... and that’ll take some time”—he
laughed—“I’ll just have to hurt you.” “No,”
said Seldon. “Let the woman go. I’ve challenged you to a fight—one to one, you
with a knife, me without. If you want bigger odds, I’ll fight two of you, but
let the woman go.” “Stop,
Hari!” cried out Dors. “If he wants me, let him come and get me. You stay right
where you are, Hari, and don’t move.” “You
hear that?” said Marron, grinning broadly. “ ‘You stay right where you are,
Hari, and don’t move.’ I think the little lady wants me. You two, keep him
still.” Each
of Seldon’s arms were caught in an iron grip and he felt the sharp point of a
knife in his back. “Don’t
move,” said a harsh whisper in his ear, “and you can watch. The lady will
probably like it. Marron’s pretty good at this.” Dors
called out again. “Don’t move, Hari!” She turned to face Marron watchfully, her
half-closed hands poised near her belt. He
closed in on her purposefully and she waited till he had come within arm’s
length, when suddenly her own arms flashed and Marron found himself facing two
large knives. For
a moment, he leaned backward and then he laughed. “The little lady has two
knives—knives like the big boys have. And I’ve only got one. But that’s fair
enough.” His knife was swiftly out. “I hate to have to cut you, little lady,
because it will be more fun for both of us if I don’t. Maybe I can just knock
them out of your hands, huh?” Dors
said, “I don’t want to kill you. I’ll do all I can to avoid doing so. Just the
same, I call on all to witness, that if I do kill you, it is to protect my
friend, as I am honor-bound to do.” Marron
pretended to be terrified. “Oh, please don’t kill me, little lady.” Then he
burst into laughter and was joined by the other Dahlites present. Marron lunged
with his knife, quite wide of the mark. He tried it again, then a third time,
but Dors never budged. She made no attempt to fend off any motion that was not
truly aimed at her. Marron’s
expression darkened. He was trying to make her respond with panic, but he was
only making himself seem ineffectual. The next lunge was directly at her and
Dors’s left-hand blade moved flashingly and caught his with a force that pushed
his arm aside. Her right-hand blade flashed inward and made a diagonal slit in
his T-shirt. A thin bloody line smeared the dark-haired skin beneath. Marron
looked down at himself in shock as the onlookers gasped in surprise. Seldon
felt the grip on him weaken slightly as the two who held him were distracted by
a duel not going quite as they had expected. He tensed himself. Now
Marron lunged again and this time his left hand shot outward to enclose Dors’s
right wrist. Again Dors’s left-hand blade caught his knife and held it
motionless, while her right hand twisted agilely and drew downward, even as
Marron’s left hand closed upon it. It closed on nothing but the blade and when
he opened his hand there was a bloody line down the palm. Dors
sprang back and Marron, aware of the blood on his chest and hand, roared out
chokingly, “Someone toss me another knife!” There was hesitation and then one
of the onlookers tossed his own knife underhanded. Marron reached for it, but
Dors was quicker. Her right-hand blade struck the thrown knife and sent it
flying backward, whirling as it went. Seldon
felt the grips on his arms weaken further. He lifted them suddenly, pushing up
and forward, and was free. His two captors turned toward him with a sudden
shout, but he quickly kneed one in the groin and elbowed the other in the solar
plexus and both went down. He
knelt to draw the knives of each and rose as double-armed as Dors. Unlike Dors,
Seldon did not know how to handle the blades, but he knew the Dahlites would
scarcely be aware of that. Dors
said, “Just keep them off, Hari. Don’t attack yet.—Marron, my next stroke will
not be a scratch.” Marron,
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, Marron 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, Marron. Some of the lip went with it. Attack
once more and you’re dead meat.” She
waited, but Marron 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 Seldon, “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. UndercoverDAVAN—
... 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
we are? Mass murderers? And do you think a hundred thugs would remain in place,
waiting the considerable time it would take me—us—to kill them all? I mean,
think about it.” “That’s
what they’re saying,” said Casilia Tisalver with shrill firmness. “We can’t
have that sort of thing in this house.” “In
the first place,” said Seldon, “it wasn’t in this house. In the second, it
wasn’t a hundred men, it was ten. In the third, no one was killed. There was
some altercation back and forth, after which they left and made way for us.” “They
just made way. Do you expect me to believe that, Outworlders?” demanded
Mistress Tisalver belligerently. Seldon
sighed. At the slightest stress, human beings seemed to divide themselves into
antagonistic groups. He said, “Well, I grant you one of them was cut a little.
Not seriously.” “And
you weren’t hurt at all?” said Tisalver. The admiration in his voice was more
marked. “Not
a scratch,” said Seldon. “Mistress Venabili handles two knives excellently
well.” “I
dare say,” said Mistress Tisalver, her eyes dropping to Dors’s belt, “and
that’s not what I want to have going on here.” Dors said sternly, “As long as
no one attacks us here, that’s what you won’t have here.” “But
on account of you,” said Mistress Tisalver, “we have trash from the street
standing at the doorway.” “My
love,” said Tisalver soothingly, “let us not anger—” “Why?”
spat his wife with contempt. “Are you afraid of her knives? I would like to see
her use them here.” “I
have no intention of using them here,” said Dors with a sniff as loud as any
that Mistress Tisalver had produced. “What is this trash from the street you’re
talking about?” Tisalver
said, “What my wife means is that an urchin from Billibotton—at least, judging
by his appearance—wishes to see you and we are not accustomed to that sort of
thing in this neighborhood. It undermines our standing.” He sounded apologetic. Seldon
said, “Well, Master Tisalver, we’ll go outside, find out what it’s all about,
and send him on his business as quickly—” “No.
Wait,” said Dors, annoyed. “These are our rooms. We pay for them. We decide who
visits us and who does not. If there is a young man outside from Billibotton,
he is nonetheless a Dahlite. More important, he’s a Trantorian. Still more
important, he’s a citizen of the Empire and a human being. Most important, by
asking to see us, he becomes our guest. Therefore, we invite him in to see us.” Mistress
Tisalver didn’t move. Tisalver himself seemed uncertain. Dors
said, “Since you say I killed a hundred bullies in Billibotton, you surely do
not think I am afraid of a boy or, for that matter, of you two.” Her right hand
dropped casually to her belt. Tisalver
said with sudden energy, “Mistress Venabili, we do not intend to offend you. Of
course these rooms are yours and you can entertain whomever you wish here.” He
stepped back, pulling his indignant wife with him, undergoing a burst of
resolution for which he might conceivably have to pay afterward. Dors looked
after them sternly. Seldon
smiled dryly. “How unlike you, Dors. I thought I was the one who quixotically
got into trouble and that you were the calm and practical one whose only aim
was to prevent trouble.” Dors
shook her head. “I can’t bear to hear a human being spoken of with contempt
just because of his group identification—even by other human beings. It’s these
respectable people here who create those hooligans out there.” “And
other respectable people,” said Seldon, “who create these respectable people.
These mutual animosities are as much a part of humanity—” “Then
you’ll have to deal with it in your psychohistory, won’t you?” “Most
certainly—if there is ever a psychohistory with which to deal with anything at
all.—Ah, here comes the urchin under discussion. And it’s Raych, which somehow
doesn’t surprise me.” 73.Raych
entered, looking about, clearly intimidated. The forefinger of his right hand
reached for his upper lip as though wondering when he would begin to feel the
first downy hairs there. He
turned to the clearly outraged Mistress Tisalver and bowed clumsily. “Thank ya,
Missus. Ya got a lovely place.” Then,
as the door slammed behind him, he turned to Seldon and Dors with an air of
easy connoisseurship. “Nice place, guys.” “I’m
glad you like it,” said Seldon solemnly. “How did you know we were here?” “Followed
ya. How’d ya think? Hey, lady”—he turned to Dors—“you don’t fight like no
dame.” “Have
you watched many dames fight?” asked Dors, amused. Raych
rubbed his nose, “No, never seen none whatever. They don’t carry knives, except
little ones to scare kids with. Never scared me.” “I’m
sure they didn’t. What do you do to make dames draw their knives?” “Nothin’.
You just kid around a little. You holler, ‘Hey, lady, lemme—’ ” He thought
about it for a moment and said, “Nothin’.” Dors
said, “Well, don’t try that on me.” “Ya
kiddin’? After what ya did to Marron? Hey, lady, where’d you learn to fight
that way?” “On
my own world.” “Could
ya teach me?” “Is
that what you came here to see me about?” “Akchaly,
no. I came to bring ya a kind of message.” “From
someone who wants to fight me?” “No
one wants to fight ya, lady. Listen, lady, ya got a reputation now. Everybody
knows ya. You just walk down anywhere in old Billibotton and all the guys will
step aside and let ya pass and grin and make sure they don’t look cross-eyed at
ya. Oh, lady, ya got it made. That’s why he wants to see ya.” Seldon
said, “Raych, just exactly who wants to see us?” “Guy
called Davan.” “And
who is he?” “Just
a guy. He lives in Billibotton and don’t carry no knife.” “And
he stays alive, Raych?” “He
reads a lot and he helps the guys there when they get in trouble with the
gov’ment. They kinda leave him alone. He don’t need no knife.” “Why
didn’t he come himself, then?” said Dors. “Why did he send you?” “He
don’t like this place. He says it makes him sick. He says all the people here,
they lick the gov’ment’s—” He paused, looked dubiously at the two Outworlders,
and said, “Anyway, he won’t come here. He said they’d let me in cause I was
only a kid.” He grinned. “They almost didn’t, did they? I mean that lady there
who looked like she was smellin’ somethin’?” He stopped suddenly, abashed, and
looked down at himself. “Ya don’t get much chance to wash where I come from.” “It’s
all right,” said Dors, smiling. “Where are we supposed to meet, then, if he
won’t come here? After all—if you don’t mind—we don’t feel like going to
Billibotton.” “I
told ya,” said Raych indignantly. “Ya get free run of Billibotton, I swear.
Besides, where he lives no one will bother ya.” “Where
is it?” asked Seldon. “I
can take ya there. It ain’t far.” “And
why does he want to see us?” asked Dors. “Dunno.
But he says like this—” Raych half-closed his eyes in an effort to remember. “
‘Tell them I wanna see the man who talked to a Dahlite heatsinker like he was a
human being and the woman who beat Marron with knives and didn’t kill him when
she mighta done so.’ I think I got it right.” Seldon
smiled. “I think you did. Is he ready for us now?” “He’s
waiting.” “Then
we’ll come with you.” He looked at Dors with a trace of doubt in his eyes. She
said, “All right. I’m willing. Perhaps it won’t be a trap of some sort. Hope
springs eternal—” 74.There
was a pleasant glow to the evening light when they emerged, a faint violet
touch and a pinkish edge to the simulated sunset clouds that were scudding
along. Dahl might have complaints of their treatment by the Imperial rulers of
Trantor, but surely there was nothing wrong with the weather the computers spun
out for them. Dors
said in a low voice, “We seem to be celebrities. No mistake about that.” Seldon
brought his eyes down from the supposed sky and was immediately aware of a
fair-sized crowd around the apartment house in which the Tisalvers lived.
Everyone in the crowd stared at them intently. When it was clear that the two
Outworlders had become aware of the attention, a low murmur ran through the
crowd, which seemed to be on the point of breaking out into applause. Dors
said, “Now I can see where Mistress Tisalver would find this annoying. I should
have been a little more sympathetic.” The
crowd was, for the most part, poorly dressed and it was not hard to guess that
many of the people were from Billibotton. On impulse, Seldon smiled and raised
one hand in a mild greeting that was met with applause. One voice, lost in the
safe anonymity of the crowd called out, “Can the lady show us some knife
tricks?” When
Dors called back, “No, I only draw in anger,” there was instant laughter. One man
stepped forward. He was clearly not from Billibotton and bore no obvious mark
of being a Dahlite. He had only a small mustache, for one thing, and it was
brown, not black. He said, “Marlo Tanto of the ‘Trantorian HV News.’ Can we
have you in focus for a bit for our nightly holocast?” “No,”
said Dors shortly. “No interviews.” The
newsman did not budge. “I understand you were in a fight with a great many men
in Billibotton—and won.” He smiled. “That’s news, that is.” “No,”
said Dors. “We met some men in Billibotton, talked to them, and then moved on.
That’s all there is to it and that’s all you’re going to get.” “What’s
your name? You don’t sound like a Trantorian.” “I
have no name.” “And
your friend’s name?” “He
has no name.” The
newsman looked annoyed, “Look, lady. You’re news and I’m just trying to do my
job.” Raych
pulled at Dors’s sleeve. She leaned down and listened to his earnest whisper. She
nodded and straightened up again. “I don’t think you’re a newsman, Mr. Tanto.
What I think you are is an Imperial agent trying to make trouble for Dahl.
There was no fight and you’re trying to manufacture news concerning one as a
way of justifying an Imperial expedition into Billibotton. I wouldn’t stay here
if I were you. I don’t think you’re very popular with these people.” The
crowd had begun to mutter at Dors’s first words. They grew louder now and began
to drift, slowly and in a menacing way, in the direction of Tanto. He looked
nervously around and began to move away. Dors
raised her voice. “Let him go. Don’t anyone touch him. Don’t give him any
excuse to report violence.” And
they parted before him. Raych
said, “Aw, lady, you shoulda let them rough him up.” “Bloodthirsty
boy,” said Dors, “take us to this friend of yours.” 75.They
met the man who called himself Davan in a room behind a dilapidated diner. Far
behind. Raych
led the way, once more showing himself as much at home in the burrows of
Billibotton as a mole would be in tunnels underground in Helicon. It was Dors
Venabili whose caution first manifested itself. She
stopped and said, “Come back, Raych. Exactly where are we going?” “To
Davan,” said Raych, looking exasperated. “I told ya.” “But
this is a deserted area. There’s no one living here.” Dors looked about with
obvious distaste. The surroundings were lifeless and what light panels there
were did not glower [but] did so only dimly. “It’s
the way Davan likes it,” said Raych. “He’s always changing around, staying
here, staying there. Ya know ... changing around.” “Why?”
demanded Dors. “It’s
safer, lady.” “From
whom?” “From
the gov’ment.” “Why
would the government want Davan?” “I
dunno, lady. Tell ya what. I’ll tell ya where he is and tell ya how to go and
ya go on alone—if ya don’t want me to take ya.” Seldon
said, “No, Raych, I’m pretty sure we’ll get lost without you. In fact, you had
better wait till we’re through so you can lead us back.” Raych
said at once, “What’s in it f’me? Ya expect me to hang around when I get
hungry?” “You
hang around and get hungry, Raych, and I’ll buy you a big dinner. Anything you
like.” “Ya
say that now. Mister. How do I know?” Dors’s
hand flashed and it was holding a knife, blade exposed, “You’re not calling us
liars, are you, Raych?” Raych’s
eyes opened wide. He did not seem frightened by the threat. He said, “Hey, I
didn’t see that. Do it again.” “I’ll
do it afterward—if you’re still here. Otherwise”—Dors glared at him—“we’ll
track you down.” “Aw,
lady, come on,” said Raych. “Ya ain’t gonna track me down. Ya ain’t that kind.
But I’ll be here.” He struck a pose. “Ya got my word.” And he led them onward
in silence, though the sound of their shoes was hollow in the empty corridors. Davan
looked up when they entered, a wild look that softened when he saw Raych. He
gestured quickly toward the two others—questioningly. Raych
said, “These are the guys.” And, grinning, he left. Seldon
said, “I am Hari Seldon. The young lady is Dors Venabili.” He regarded Davan
curiously. Davan was swarthy and had the thick black mustache of the Dahlite
male, but in addition he had a stubble of beard. He was the first Dahlite whom
Seldon had seen who had not been meticulously shaven. Even the bullies of
Billibotton had been smooth of cheek and chin. Seldon said, “What is your name,
sir?” “Davan.
Raych must have told you.” “Your
second name.” “I
am only Davan. Were you followed here, Master Seldon?” “No,
I’m sure we weren’t. If we had, then by sound or sight, I expect Raych would
have known. And if he had not, Mistress Venabili would have.” Dors
smiled slightly. “You have faith in me, Hari.” “More
all the time,” he said thoughtfully. Davan
stirred uneasily. “Yet you’ve already been found.” “Found?” “Yes,
I have heard of this supposed newsman.” “Already?”
Seldon looked faintly surprised. “But I suspect he really was a newsman ... and
harmless. We tatted him an Imperial agent at Raych’s suggestion, which was a
good idea. The surrounding crowd grew threatening and we got rid of him.” “No,”
said Davan, “he was what you called him. My people know the man and he does
work for the Empire.—But then you do not do as I do. You do not use a false
name and change your place of abode. You go under your own names, making no
effort to remain undercover. You are Hari Seldon, the mathematician.” “Yes,
I am,” said Seldon. “Why should I invent a false name?” “The
Empire wants you, does it not?” Seldon
shrugged. “I stay in places where the Empire cannot reach out to take me.” “Not
openly, but the Empire doesn’t have to work openly. I would urge you to
disappear ... really disappear.” “Like
you ... as you say,” said Seldon looking about with an edge of distaste. The
room was as dead as the corridors he had walked through. It was musty through
and through and it was overwhelmingly depressing. “Yes,”
said Davan. “You could be useful to us.” “In
what way?” “You
talked to a young man named Yugo Amaryl.” “Yes,
I did.” “Amaryl
tells me that you can predict the future.” Seldon
sighed heavily. He was tired of standing in this empty room. Davan was sitting
on a cushion and there were other cushions available, but they did not look
clean. Nor did he wish to lean against the mildew-streaked wall. He
said, “Either you misunderstood Amaryl or Amaryl misunderstood me. What I have
done is to prove that it is possible to choose starting conditions from which
historical forecasting does not descend into chaotic conditions, but can become
predictable within limits. However, what those starting conditions might be I
do not know, nor am I sure that those conditions can be found by any one
person—or by any number of people—in a finite length of time. Do you understand
me?” “No.” Seldon
sighed again. “Then let me try once more. It is possible to predict the future,
but it may be impossible to find out how to take advantage of that possibility.
Do you understand?” Davan
looked at Seldon darkly, then at Dors. “Then you can’t predict the future.” “Now
you have the point, Master Davan.” “Just
call me Davan. But you may be able to learn to predict the future someday.” “That
is conceivable.” “Then
that’s why the Empire wants you.” “No,”
Seldon raised his finger didactically. “It’s my idea that that is why the
Empire is not making an overwhelming effort to get me. They might like to have
me if I can be picked up without trouble, but they know that right now I know
nothing and that it is therefore not worth upsetting the delicate peace of
Trantor by interfering with the local rights of this sector or that. That’s the
reason I can move about under my own name with reasonable security.” For
a moment, Davan buried his head in his hands and muttered, “This is madness.”
Then he looked up wearily and said to Dors, “Are you Master Seldon’s wife?” Dors
said calmly, “I am his friend and protector.” “How
well do you know him?” “We
have been together for some months.” “No
more?” “No
more.” “Would
it be your opinion he is speaking the truth?” “I
know he is, but what reason would you have to trust me if you do not trust him?
If Hari is, for some reason, lying to you, might I not be lying to you equally
in order to support him?” Davan
looked from one to the other helplessly. Then he said, “Would you, in any case,
help us?” “Who
are ‘us’ and in what way do you need help?” Davan
said, “You see the situation here in Dahl. We are oppressed. You must know that
and, from your treatment of Yugo Amaryl, I cannot believe you lack sympathy for
us.” “We
are fully sympathetic.” “And
you must know the source of the oppression.” “You
are going to tell me that it’s the Imperial government, I suppose, and I dare
say it plays its part. On the other hand, I notice that there is a middle class
in Dahl that despises the heatsinkers and a criminal class that terrorizes the
rest of the sector.” Davan’s
lips tightened, but he remained unmoved. “Quite true. Quite true. But the
Empire encourages it as a matter of principle. Dahl has the potential for making
serious trouble. If the heatsinkers should go on strike, Trantor would
experience a severe energy shortage almost at once ... with all that that
implies. However, Dahl’s own upper classes will spend money to hire the
hoodlums of Billibotton—and of other places—to fight the heatsinkers and break
the strike. It has happened before. The Empire allows some Dahlites to
prosper—comparatively—in order to convert them into Imperialist lackeys, while
it refuses to enforce the arms-control laws effectively enough to weaken the
criminal element. “The
Imperial government does this everywhere—and not in Dahl alone. They can’t
exert force to impose their will, as in the old days when they ruled with
brutal directness. Nowadays, Trantor has grown so complex and so easily
disturbed that the Imperial forces must keep their hands off—” “A
form of degeneration,” said Seldon, remembering Hummin’s complaints. “What?”
said Davan. “Nothing,”
said Seldon. “Go on.” “The
Imperial forces must keep their hands off, but they find that they can do much
even so. Each sector is encouraged to be suspicious of its neighbors. Within
each sector, economic and social classes are encouraged to wage a kind of war
with each other. The result is that all over Trantor it is impossible for the
people to take united action. Everywhere, the people would rather fight each
other than make a common stand against the central tyranny and the Empire rules
without having to exert force.” “And
what,” said Dors, “do you think can be done about it?” “I’ve
been trying for years to build a feeling of solidarity among the peoples of
Trantor.” “I
can only suppose,” said Seldon dryly, “that you are finding this an impossibly
difficult and largely thankless task.” “You
suppose correctly,” said Davan, “but the party is growing stronger. Many of our
knifers are coming to the realization that knives are best when they are not
used on each other. Those who attacked you in the corridors of Billibotton are
examples of the unconverted. However, those who support you now, who are ready
to defend you against the agent you thought was a newsman, are my people. I
live here among them. It is not an attractive way of life, but I am safe here.
We have adherents in neighboring sectors and we spread daily.” “But
where do we come in?” asked Dors. “For
one thing,” said Davan, “both of you are Outworlders, scholars. We need people
like you among our leaders. Our greatest strength is drawn from the poor and
the uneducated because they suffer the most, but they can lead the least. A
person like one of you two is worth a hundred of them.” “That’s
an odd estimate from someone who wishes to rescue the oppressed,” said Seldon. “I
don’t mean as people,” said Davan hastily. “I mean as far as leadership is
concerned. The party must have among its leaders men and women of intellectual
power.” “People
like us, you mean, are needed to give your party a veneer of respectability.” Davan
said, “You can always put something noble in a sneering fashion if you try. But
you, Master Seldon, are more than respectable, more than intellectual. Even if
you won’t admit to being able to penetrate the mists of the future—” “Please,
Davan,” said Seldon, “don’t be poetic and don’t use the conditional. It’s not a
matter of admitting. I can’t foresee the future. Those are not mists that block
the view but chrome steel barriers.” “Let
me finish. Even if you can’t actually predict with—what do you call
it?—psychohistorical accuracy, you’ve studied history and you may have a
certain intuitive feeling for consequences. Now, isn’t that so?” Seldon
shook his head. “I may have a certain intuitive understanding for mathematical
likelihood, but how far I can translate that into anything of historical
significance is quite uncertain. Actually, I have not studied history. I wish I
had. I feel the loss keenly.” Dors
said evenly, “I am the historian, Davan, and I can say a few things if you
wish.” “Please
do,” said Davan, making it half a courtesy, half a challenge. “For
one thing, there have been many revolutions in Galactic history that have
overthrown tyrannies, sometimes on individual planets, sometimes in groups of
them, occasionally in the Empire itself or in the pre-Imperial regional
governments. Often, this has only meant a change in tyranny. In other words,
one ruling class is replaced by another—sometimes by one that is more efficient
and therefore still more capable of maintaining itself—while the poor and
downtrodden remain poor and downtrodden or become even worse off.” Davan,
listening intently, said, “I’m aware of that. We all are. Perhaps we can learn
from the past and know better what to avoid. Besides, the tyranny that now
exists is actual. That which may exist in the future is merely potential. If we
are always to draw back from change with the thought that the change may be for
the worse, then there is no hope at all of ever escaping injustice.” Dors
said, “A second point you must remember is that even if you have right on your
side, even if justice thunders condemnation, it is usually the tyranny in
existence that has the balance of force on its side. There is nothing your
knife handlers can do in the way of rioting and demonstrating that will have
any permanent effect as long as, in the extremity, there is an army equipped
with kinetic, chemical, and neurological weapons that is willing to use them
against your people. You can get all the downtrodden and even all the
respectables on your side, but you must somehow win over the security forces
and the Imperial army or at least seriously weaken their loyalty to the
rulers.” Davan
said, “Trantor is a multigovernmental world. Each sector has its own rulers and
some of them are themselves anti-Imperial. If we can have a strong sector on
our side, that would change the situation, would it not? We would then not be
merely ragamuffins fighting with knives and stones.” “Does
that mean you do have a strong sector on your side or merely that it is your
ambition to have one?” Davan
was silent. Dors
said, “I shall assume that you are thinking of the Mayor of Wye. If the Mayor
is in the mood to make use of popular discontent as a way of improving the
chance of toppling the Emperor, doesn’t it strike you that the end the Mayor
would have in view would be that of succeeding to the Imperial throne? Why
should the Mayor risk his present not-inconsiderable position for anything
less? Merely for the blessings of justice and the decent treatment of people,
concerning whom he can have little interest?” “You
mean,” said Davan, “that any powerful leader who is willing to help us may then
betray us.” “It
is a situation that is all too common in Galactic history.” “If
we are ready for that, might we not betray him?” “You
mean, make use of him and then, at some crucial moment, subvert the leader of
his forces—or a leader, at any rate—and have him assassinated?” “Not
perhaps exactly like that, but some way of getting rid of him might exist if
that should prove necessary.” “Then
we have a revolutionary movement in which the principal players must be ready
to betray each other, with each simply waiting for the opportunity. It sounds
like a recipe for chaos.” “You
will not help us, then?” said Davan. Seldon,
who had been listening to the exchange between Davan and Dors with a puzzled
frown on his face, said, “We can’t put it that simply. We would like to help you.
We are on your side. It seems to me that no sane man wants to uphold an
Imperial system that maintains itself by fostering mutual hatred and
suspicions. Even when it seems to work, it can only be described as
meta-stable; that is, as too apt to fall into instability in one direction or
another. But the question is: How can we help? If I had psychohistory, if I
could tell what is most likely to happen, or if I could tell what action of a
number of alternative possibilities is most likely to bring on an apparently
happy consequence, then I would put my abilities at your disposal.—But I don’t
have it. I can help you best by trying to develop psychohistory.” “And
how long will that take?” Seldon
shrugged. “I cannot say.” “How
can you ask us to wait indefinitely?” “What
alternative do I have, since I am useless to you as I am? But I will say this:
I have until very recently been quite convinced that the development of
psychohistory was absolutely impossible. Now I am not so certain of that.” “You
mean you have a solution in mind?” “No,
merely an intuitive feeling that a solution might be possible. I have not been
able to pin down what has occurred to make me have that feeling. It may be an
illusion, but I am trying. Let me continue to try.—Perhaps [then we’ll] meet
again.” “Or
perhaps,” said Davan, “if you return to where you are now staying, you will
eventually find yourself in an Imperial trap. You may think that the Empire
will leave you alone while you struggle with psychohistory, but I am certain
the Emperor and his toady Demerzel are in no mood to wait forever, any more
than I am.” “It
will do them no good to hasten,” said Seldon calmly, “since I am not on their
side, as I am on yours.—Come, Dors.” They
turned and left Davan, sitting alone in his squalid room, and found Raych
waiting for them outside. 76.Raych
was eating, licking his fingers, and crumpling the bag in which the
food—whatever it was—had been. A strong smell of onions pervaded the
air—different somehow, yeast-based perhaps. Dors,
retreating a little from the odor, said, “Where did you get the food from,
Raych?” “Davan’s
guys. They brought it to me. Davan’s okay.” “Then
we don’t have to buy you dinner, do we?” said Seldon, conscious of his own
empty stomach. “Ya
owe me somethin’,” said Raych, looking greedily in Dors’s direction. “How about
the lady’s knife? One of ’em.” “No
knife,” said Dors. “You get us back safely and I’ll give you five credits.” “Can’t
get no knife for five credits,” grumbled Raych. “You’re
not getting anything but five credits,” said Dors. “You’re
a lousy dame, lady,” said Raych. “I’m
a lousy dame with a quick knife, Raych, so get moving.” “All
right. Don’t get all perspired.” Raych waved his hand. “This way.” It
was back through the empty corridors, but this time Dors, looking this way and
that, stopped. “Hold on, Raych. We’re being followed.” Raych
looked exasperated. “Ya ain’t supposed to hear ’em.” Seldon
said, bending his head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.” “I
do,” said Dors. “Now, Raych, I don’t want any fooling around. You tell me right
now what’s going on or I’ll rap your head so that you won’t see straight for a
week. I mean it.” Raych
held up one arm defensively. “You try it, you lousy dame. You try it. It’s
Davan’s guys. They’re just taking care of us, in case any knifers come along.” “Davan’s
guys?” “Yeah.
They’re goin’ along the service corridors.” Dors’s
right hand shot out and seized Raych by the scruff of his upper garment. She
lifted and he dangled, shouting, “Hey, lady. Hey!” Seldon
said, “Dors! Don’t be hard on him.” “I’ll
be harder still if I think he’s lying. You’re my charge, Hari, not he.” “I’m
not lyin’,” said Raych, struggling. “I’m not.” “I’m
sure he isn’t,” said Seldon. “Well,
we’ll see. Raych, tell them to come out where we can see them.” She let him
drop and dusted her hands. “You’re
some kind of nut, lady,” said Raych aggrievedly. Then he raised his voice.
“Yay, Davan! Come out here, some of ya guys!” There
was a wait and then, from an unlit opening along the corridor, two
dark-mustached men came out, one with a scar running the length of his cheek.
Each held the sheath of a knife in his hand, blade withdrawn. “How
many more of you are there?” asked Dors harshly. “A
few,” said one of the newcomers. “Orders. We’re guarding you. Davan wants you
safe.” “Thank
you. Try to be even quieter. Raych, keep on moving.” Raych
said sulkily, “Ya roughed me up when I was telling the truth.” “You’re
right,” said Dors. “At least, I think you’re right ... and I apologize.” “I’m
not sure I should accept,” said Raych, trying to stand tall. “But awright, just
this once.” He moved on. When
they reached the walkway, the unseen corps of guards vanished. At least, even
Dors’s keen ears could hear them no more. By now, though, they were moving into
the respectable part of the sector. Dors
said thoughtfully, “I don’t think we have clothes that would fit you, Raych.” Raych
said, “Why do ya want clothes to fit me, Missus?” (Respectability seemed to
invade Raych once they were out of the corridors.) “I got clothes.” “I
thought you’d like to come into our place and take a bath.” Raych
said, “What for? I’ll wash one o’ these days. And I’ll put on my other shirt.”
He looked up at Dors shrewdly. “You’re sorry ya roughed me up. Right? Ya tryin’
to make up?” Dors
smiled. “Yes. Sort of.” Raych
waved a hand in lordly fashion. “That’s all right. Ya didn’t hurt. Listen.
You’re strong for a lady. Ya lifted me up like I was nothin’.” “I
was annoyed, Raych. I have to be concerned about Master Seldon.” “Ya
sort of his bodyguard?” Raych looked at Seldon inquiringly. “Ya got a lady for
a bodyguard?” “I
can’t help it,” said Seldon smiling wryly. “She insists. And she certainly
knows her job.” Dors
said, “Think again, Raych. Are you sure you won’t have a bath? A nice warm
bath.” Raych
said, “I got no chance. Ya think that lady is gonna let me in the house again?” Dors
looked up and saw Casilia Tisalver outside the front door of the apartment
complex, staring first at the Outworld woman and then at the slum-bred boy. It
would have been impossible to tell in which case her expression was angrier. Raych
said, “Well, so long, Mister and Missus. I don’t know if she’ll let either of
ya in the house.” He placed his hands in his pocket and swaggered off in a fine
affectation of carefree indifference. Seldon
said, “Good evening, Mistress Tisalver. It’s rather late, isn’t it?” “It’s
very late,” she replied. “There was a near riot today outside this very complex
because of that newsman you pushed the street vermin at.” “We
didn’t push anyone on anyone,” said Dors. “I
was there,” said Mistress Tisalver intransigently. “I saw it.” She stepped
aside to let them enter, but delayed long enough to make her reluctance quite
plain. “She
acts as though that was the last straw,” said Dors as she and Seldon made their
way up to their rooms. “So?
What can she do about it?” asked Seldon. “I
wonder,” said Dors. OfficersRAYCH—
... According to Hari Seldon, the original meeting with Raych was entirely
accidental. He was simply a gutter urchin from whom Seldon had asked directions.
But his life, from that moment on, continued to be intertwined with that of the
great mathematician until ... ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 77.The
next morning, dressed from the waist down, having washed and shaved, Seldon
knocked on the door that led to Dors’s adjoining room and said in a moderate
voice, “Open the door, Dors.” She
did. The short reddish-gold curls of her hair were still wet and she too was
dressed only from the waist down. Seldon
stepped back in embarrassed alarm. Dors looked down at the swell of her breasts
indifferently and wrapped a towel around her head. “What is it?” she asked. Seldon
said, looking off to his right, “I was going to ask you about Wye.” Dors
said very naturally, “About why in connection with what? And for goodness sake,
don’t make me talk to your ear. Surely, you’re not a virgin.” Seldon
said in a hurt tone, “I was merely trying to be polite. If you don’t mind, I
certainly don’t. And it’s not why about what. I’m asking about the Wye Sector.” “Why
do you want to know? Or, if you prefer: Why Wye?” “Look,
Dors, I’m serious. Every once in a while, the Wye Sector is mentioned—the Mayor
of Wye, actually. Hummin mentioned him, you did, Davan did. I don’t know
anything about either the sector or the Mayor.” “I’m
not a native Trantorian either, Hari. I know very little, but you’re welcome to
what I do know. Wye is near the south pole—quite large, very populous—” “Very
populous at the south pole?” “We’re
not on Helicon, Hari. Or on Cinna either. This is Trantor. Everything is
underground and underground at the poles or underground at the equator is
pretty much the same. Of course, I imagine they keep their day-night
arrangements rather extreme—long days in their summer, long nights in their
winter—almost as it would be on the surface. The extremes are just affectation;
they’re proud of being polar.” “But
Upperside they must be cold, indeed.” “Oh
yes. The Wye Upperside is snow and ice, but it doesn’t lie as thickly there as
you might think. If it did, it might crush the dome, but it doesn’t and that is
the basic reason for Wye’s power.” She
turned to her mirror, removed the towel from her head, and threw the dry-net
over her hair, which, in a matter of five seconds, gave it a pleasant sheen.
She said, “You have no idea how glad I am not to be wearing a skincap,” as she
put on the upper portion of her clothing. “What
has the ice layer to do with Wye’s power?” “Think
about it. Forty billion people use a great deal of power and every calorie of
it eventually degenerates into heat and has to be gotten rid of. It’s piped to
the poles, particularly to the south pole, which is the more developed of the
two, and is discharged into space. It [melts] most of the ice in the process
and I’m sure that accounts for Trantor’s clouds and rains, no matter how much
the meteorology boggins insist that things are more complicated than that.” “Does
Wye make use of the power before discharging it?” “They
may, for all I know. I haven’t the slightest idea, by the way, as to the
technology involved in discharging the heat, but I’m talking about political
power. If Dahl were to stop producing usable energy, that would certainly
inconvenience Trantor, but there are other sectors that produce energy and can
up their production and, of course, there is stored energy in one form or
another. Eventually, Dahl would have to be dealt with, but there would be time.
Wye, on the other hand—” “Yes?” “Well,
Wye gets rid of at least 90 percent of all the heat developed on Trantor and
there is no substitute. If Wye were to shut down its heat emission, the
temperature would start going up all over Trantor.” “In
Wye too.” “[Yes],
but since Wye is at the south pole, it can arrange an influx of cold air. It
wouldn’t do much good, but Wye would last longer than the rest of Trantor. The
point is, then, that Wye is a very touchy problem for the Emperor and the Mayor
of Wye is—or at least can be—extremely powerful.” “And
what kind of a person is the present Mayor of Wye?” “That
I don’t know. What I’ve occasionally heard would make it seem that he is very
old and pretty much a recluse, but hard as a hypership hull and still cleverly
maneuvering for power.” “Why,
I wonder? If he’s that old, he couldn’t hold the power for long.” “Who
knows, Hari? A lifelong obsession, I suppose. Or else it’s the game ... the
maneuvering for power, without any real longing for the power itself. Probably
if he had the power and took over Demerzel’s place or even the Imperial throne
itself, he would feel disappointed because the game would be over. Of course he
might, if he was still alive, begin the subsequent game of keeping power, which
might be just as difficult and just as satisfying.” Seldon
shook his head. “It strikes me that no one could possibly want to be Emperor.” “No
sane person would, I [free], but the ‘Imperial wish,’ as it is frequently
called, is like a disease that, when caught, drives out sanity. And the closer
you get to high office, the more likely you are to catch the disease. With each
ensuing promotion—” “The
disease grows still more acute. Yes, I can see that. But it also seems to me
that Trantor is so huge a world, so interlocking in its needs and so
conflicting in its ambitions, that it makes up the major part of the inability
of the Emperor to rule. Why doesn’t he just leave Trantor and establish himself
on some simpler world?” Dors
laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew your history. Trantor is the Empire
through thousands of years of custom. An Emperor who is not at the Imperial
Palace is not the Emperor. He is a place, even more than a person.” Seldon sank
into silence, his face rigid, and after a while Dors asked, “What’s the matter,
Hari?” “I’m
thinking,” he said in a muffled voice. “Ever since you told me that
hand-on-thigh story, I’ve had fugitive thoughts that—Now your remark about the
Emperor being a place rather than a person seems to have struck a chord.” “What
kind of chord?” Seldon
shook his head. “I’m still thinking. I may be all wrong.” His glance at Dors
sharpened, his eyes coming into focus. “In any case, we ought to go down and
have breakfast. We’re late and I don’t think Mistress Tisalver is in a good
enough humor to have it brought in for us.” “You
optimist,” said Dors. “My own feeling is that she’s not in a good enough humor
to want us to stay—breakfast or not. She wants us out of here.” “That
may be, but we’re paying her.” “Yes,
but I suspect she hates us enough by now to scorn our credits.” “Perhaps
her husband will feel a bit more affectionate concerning the rent.” “If
he has a single word to say, Hari, the only person who would be more surprised
than me to hear it would be Mistress Tisalver.—Very well, I’m ready.” And
they moved down the stairs to the Tisalver portion of the apartment to find the
lady in question waiting for them with less than breakfast—and with considerably
more too. 78.Casilia
Tisalver stood ramrod straight with a tight smile on her round face and her
dark eyes glinting. Her husband was leaning moodily against the wall. In the
center of the room were two men who were standing stiffly upright, as though
they had noticed the cushions on the floor but scorned them. Both had the dark
crisp hair and the chick black mustache to be expected of Dahlites. Both were
thin and both were dressed in dark clothes so nearly alike that they were
surely uniforms. There was thin white piping up and over the shoulders and down
the sides of the tubular trouser legs. Each had, on the right side of his
chest, a rather dim Spaceship-and-Sun, the symbol of the Galactic Empire on
every inhabited world of the Galaxy, with, in this case, a dark “D” in the
center of the sun. Seldon
realized immediately that these were two members of the Dahlite security
forces. “What’s
all this?” said Seldon sternly. One
of the men stepped forward. “I am Sector Officer Lanel Russ. This is my partner,
Gebore Astinwald.” Both
presented glittering identification holo-tabs. Seldon didn’t bother looking at
them. “What it is you want?” Russ
said calmly, “Are you Hari Seldon of Helicon?” “I
am.” “And
are you Dors Venabili of Cinna, Mistress?” “I
am,” said Dors. “I’m
here to investigate a complaint that one Hari Seldon instigated a riot
yesterday.” “I
did no such thing,” said Seldon. “Our
information is,” said Russ, looking at the screen of a small computer pad,
“that you accused a newsman of being an Imperial agent, thus instigating a riot
against him.” Dors
said, “It was I who said he was an Imperial agent, Officer. I had reason to
think he was. It is surely no crime to express one’s opinion. The Empire has
freedom of speech.” “That
does not cover an opinion deliberately advanced in order to instigate a riot.” “How
can you say it was, Officer?” At
this point, Mistress Tisalver interposed in a shrill voice, “I can say it,
Officer. She saw there was a crowd present, a crowd of gutter people who were
just looking for trouble. She deliberately said he was an Imperial agent when
she knew nothing of the sort and she shouted it to the crowd to stir them up.
It was plain that she knew what she was doing.” “Casilia,”
said her husband pleadingly, but she cast one look at him and he said no more. Russ
turned to Mistress Tisalver. “Did you lodge the complaint, Mistress?” “Yes.
These two have been living here for a few days and they’ve done nothing but
make trouble. They’ve invited people of low reputation into my apartment,
damaging my standing with my neighbors.” “Is
it against the law, Officer,” asked Seldon, “to invite clean, quiet citizens of
Dahl into one’s room? The two rooms upstairs are our rooms. We have rented them
and they are paid for. Is it a crime to speak to Dahlites in Dahl, Officer?” “No,
it is not,” said Russ. “That is not part of the complaint. What gave you
reason, Mistress Venabili, to suppose the person you so accused was, in fact,
an Imperial agent?” Dors
said, “He had a small brown mustache, from which I concluded he was not a
Dahlite. I surmised he was an Imperial agent.” “You
surmised? Your associate, Master Seldon, has no mustache at all. Do you surmise
he is an Imperial agent?” “In
any case,” said Seldon hastily, “there was no riot. We asked the crowd to take
no action against the supposed newsman and I’m sure they didn’t.” “You’re
sure, Master Seldon?” said Russ. “Our information is that you left immediately
after making your accusation. How could you witness what happened after you
left?” “I
couldn’t,” said Seldon, “but let me ask you—Is the man dead? Is the man hurt?” “The
man has been interviewed. He denies he is an Imperial agent and we have no
information that he is. He also claims he was handled roughly.” “He
may well be lying in both respects,” said Seldon. “I would suggest a Psychic
Probe.” “That
cannot be done on the victim of a crime,” said Russ. “The sector government is
very firm on that. It might do if you two, as the criminals in this case, each
underwent a Psychic Probe. Would you like us to do that?” Seldon
and Dors exchanged glances for a moment, then Seldon said, “No, of course not.” “Of
course not,” repeated Russ with just a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, “but
you’re ready enough to suggest it for someone else.” The other officer, Astinwald,
who had so far not said a word, smiled at this. Russ said, “We also have
information that two days ago you engaged in a knife fight in Billibotton and
badly hurt a Dahlite citizen named”—he struck a button on his computer pad and
studied the new page on the screen—“Elgin Marron.” Dors
said, “Does your information tell you how the fight started?” “That
is irrelevant at the moment, Mistress. Do you deny that the fight took place?” “Of
course we don’t deny the fight took place,” said Seldon hotly, “but we deny
that we in any way instigated that. We were attacked. Mistress Venabili was
seized by this Marron and it was clear he was attempting to rape her. What
happened afterward was pure self-defense. Or does Dahl condone rape?” Russ
said with very little intonation in his voice, “You say you were attacked? By
how many?” “Ten
men.” “And
you alone—with a woman—defended yourself against ten men?” “Mistress
Venabili and I defended ourselves. Yes.” “How
is it, then, that neither of you shows any damage whatever? Are either of you
cut or bruised where it doesn’t show right now?” “No,
Officer.” “How
is it, then, that in the fight of one—plus a woman—against ten, you are in no
way hurt, but that the complainant, Elgin Marron, has been hospitalized with
wounds and will require a skin transplant on his upper lip?” “We
fought well,” said Seldon grimly. “Unbelievably
well. What would you say if I told you that three men have testified that you
and your friend attacked Marron, unprovoked?” “I
would say that it belies belief that we should. I’m sure that Marron has a
record as a brawler and knifeman. I tell you that there were ten there.
Obviously, six refused to swear to a lie. Do the other three explain why they
did not come to the help of their friend if they witnessed him under unprovoked
attack and in danger of his life? It must be clear to you that they are lying.” “Do
you suggest a Psychic Probe for them?” “Yes.
And before you ask, I still refuse to consider one for us.” Russ
said, “We have also received information that yesterday, after leaving the
scene of the riot, you consulted with one Davan, a known subversive who is
wanted by the security police. Is that true?” “You’ll
have to prove that without help from us,” said Seldon. “We’re not answering any
further questions.” Russ
put away his pad. “I’m afraid I must ask you to come with us to headquarters
for further interrogation.” “I
don’t think that’s necessary, Officer,” said Seldon. “We are Outworlders who
have done nothing criminal. We have tried to avoid a newsman who was annoying
us unduly, we tried to protect ourselves against rape and possible murder in a
part of the sector known for criminal behavior, and we’ve spoken to various
Dahlites. We see nothing there to warrant our further questioning. It would come
under the heading of harassment.” “We
make these decisions,” said Russ. “Not you. Will you please come with us?” “No,
we will not,” said Dors. “Watch
out!” cried out Mistress Tisalver. “She’s got two knives.” Officer
Russ sighed and said, “Thank you, Mistress, but I know she does.” He turned to
Dors. “Do you know it’s a serious crime to carry a knife without a permit in
this sector? Do you have a permit?” “No,
Officer, I don’t.” “It
was clearly with an illegal knife, then, that you assaulted Marron? Do you
realize that that greatly increases the seriousness of the crime?” “It
was no crime, Officer,” said Dors. “Understand that. Marron had a knife as well
and no permit, I am certain.” “We
have no evidence to that effect and while Marron has knife wounds, neither of
you have any.” “Of
course he had a knife, Officer. If you don’t know that every man in Billibotton
and most men elsewhere in Dahl carry knives for which they probably don’t have
permits, then you’re the only man in Dahl who doesn’t know. There are shops
here wherever you turn that sell knives openly. Don’t you know that?” Russ
said, “It doesn’t matter what I know or don’t know in this respect. Nor does it
matter whether other people are breaking the law or how many of them do. All
that matters at this moment is that Mistress Venabili is breaking the
anti-knife law. I must ask you to give up those knives to me right now,
Mistress, and the two of you must then accompany me to headquarters.” Dors
said, “In that case, take my knives away from me.” Russ
sighed. “You must not think, Mistress, that knives are all the weapons there
are in Dahl or that I need engage you in a knife fight. Both my partner and I
have blasters that will destroy you in a moment, before you can drop your hands
to your knife hilt—however fast you are. We won’t use a blaster, of course,
because we are not here to kill you. However, each of us also has a neuronic
whip, which we can use on you freely. I hope you won’t ask for a demonstration.
It won’t kill you, do you permanent harm of any kind, or leave any marks—but
the pain is excruciating. My partner is holding a neuronic whip on you right
now. And here is mine.—Now, let us have your knives, Mistress Venabili.” There
was a moment’s pause and then Seldon said, “It’s no use, Dors. Give him your
knives.” And
at that moment, a frantic pounding sounded at the door and they all heard a
voice raised in high-pitched expostulation. 79.Raych
had not entirely left the neighborhood after he had walked them back to their
apartment house. He
had eaten well while waiting for the interview with Davan to be done and later
had slept a bit after finding a bathroom that more or less worked. He really
had no place to go now that all that was done. He had a home of sorts and a
mother who was not likely to be perturbed if he stayed away for a while. She
never was. He
did not know who his father was and wondered sometimes if he really had one. He
had been told he had to have one and the reasons for that had been explained to
him crudely enough. Sometimes he wondered if he ought to believe so peculiar a
story, but he did find the details titillating. He thought of that in
connection with the lady. She was an old lady, of course, but she was pretty
and she could fight like a man—better than a man. It filled him with vague
notions. And
she had offered to let him take a bath. He could swim in the Billibotton pool
sometimes when he had some credits he didn’t need for anything else or when he
could sneak in. Those were the only times he got wet all over, but it was chilly
and he had to wait to get dry. Taking
a bath was different. There would be hot water, soap, towels, and warm air. He
wasn’t sure what it would feel like, except that it would be nice if she was
there. He
was walkway-wise enough to know of places where he could park himself in an
alley off a walkway that would be near a bathroom and still be near enough to
where she was, yet where he probably wouldn’t be found and made to run away. He
spent the night thinking strange thoughts. What if he did learn to read and
write? Could he do something with that? He wasn’t sure what, but maybe they
could tell him. He had vague ideas of being paid money to do things he didn’t
know how to do now, but he didn’t know what those things might be. He would
have to be told, but how do you get told? If
he stayed with the man and the lady, they might help. But why should they want
him to stay with them? He
drowsed off, coming to later, not because the light was brightening, but
because his sharp ears caught the heightening and deepening of sounds from the
walkway as the activities of the day began. He
had learned to identify almost every variety of sound, because in the
underground maze of Billibotton, if you wanted to survive with even a minimum
of comfort, you had to be aware of things before you saw them. And there was
something about the sound of a ground-car motor that he now heard that signaled
danger to him. It had an official sound, a hostile sound. He shook himself
awake and stole quietly toward the walkway. He scarcely needed to see the
Spaceship-and-Sun on the ground-car. Its lines were enough. He knew they had to
be coming for the man and the lady because they had seen Davan. He
did not pause to question his thoughts or to analyze them. He was off on a run,
beating his way through the gathering life of the day. He was back in less than
fifteen minutes. The ground-car was still there and there were curious and
cautious onlookers gazing at it from all sides and from a respectful distance.
There would soon be more. He pounded his way up the stairs, trying to remember
which door he should bang on. No time for the elevator. He found the door—at
least he thought he did—and he banged, shouting in a squeak, “Lady! Lady!” He
was too excited to remember her name, but he remembered part of the man’s. “Hari!”
he shouted. “Let me in.” The
door opened and he rushed in—tried to rush in. The rough hand of an officer
seized his arm. “Hold it, kid. Where do you think you’re going?” “Leggo!
I ain’t done nothin’.” He looked about. “Hey, lady, what’re they doin’?” “Arresting
us,” said Dors grimly. “What
for?” said Raych, panting and struggling. “Hey, leggo, you Sunbadger. Don’t go
with him, lady. You don’t have to go with him.” “You
get out,” said Russ, shaking the boy vehemently. “No,
I ain’t, You ain’t either, Sunbadger. My whole gang is coming. You ain’t
gettin’ out, less’n you let these guys go.” “What
whole gang?” said Russ, frowning. “They’re
right outside now. Prob’ly takin’ your ground-car apart. And they’ll take yore
apart.” Russ
turned toward his partner, “Call headquarters. Have them send out a couple of
trucks with Macros.” “No!”
shrieked Raych, breaking loose and rushing at Astinwald. “Don’t call!” Russ
leveled his neuronic whip and fired. Raych
shrieked, grasped at his right shoulder, and fell down, wriggling madly. Russ
had not yet turned back to Seldon, when the latter, seizing him by the wrist,
pushed the neuronic whip up in the air and then around and behind, while
stamping on his foot to keep him relatively motionless. Hari could feel the
shoulder dislocate, even while Russ emitted a hoarse, agonized yell. Astinwald
raised his blaster quickly, but Dors’s left arm was around his shoulder and the
knife in her right hand was at his throat. “Don’t
move!” she said. “Move a millimeter, any part of you, and I cut you through
your neck to the spine.—Drop the blaster. Drop it! And the neuronic whip.” Seldon
picked up Raych, still moaning, and held him tightly. He turned to Tisalver and
said, “There are people out there. Angry people. I’ll have them in here and
they’ll break up everything you’ve got. They’ll smash the walls. If you don’t
want that to happen, pick up those weapons and throw them into the next room.
Take the weapons from the security officer on the door and do the same. Quickly!
Get your wife to help. She’ll think twice next time before sending in
complaints against innocent people.—Dors, this one on the floor won’t do
anything for a while. Put the other one out of action, but don’t kill him.” “Right,”
said Dors. Reversing her knife, she struck him hard on the skull with the haft.
He went to his knees. She
made a face. “I hate doing that.” “They
fired at Raych,” said Seldon, trying to mask his own sick feeling at what had
happened. They
left the apartment hurriedly and, once out on the walkway, found it choked with
people, almost all men, who raised a shout when they saw them emerge. They
pushed in close and the smell of poorly washed humanity was overpowering.
Someone shouted, “Where are the Sunbadgers?” “Inside,”
called out Dors piercingly. “Leave them alone. They’ll be helpless for a while,
but they’ll get reinforcements, so get out of here fast.” “What
about you?” came from a dozen throats. “We’re
getting out too. We won’t be back.” “I’ll
take care of them,” shrilled Raych, struggling out of Seldon’s arms and
standing on his feet. He was rubbing his right shoulder madly. “I can walk.
Lemme past.” The
crowd opened for him and he said, “Mister, lady, come with me. Fast!” They were
accompanied down the walkway by several dozen men and then Raych suddenly
gestured at an opening and muttered, “In here, folks. I’ll rake ya to a place
no one will ever find ya. Even Davan prob’ly don’t know it. Only thing is, we
got to go through the sewer levels. No one will see us there, but it’s sort of
stinky ... know what I mean?” “I
imagine we’ll survive,” muttered Seldon. And
down they went along a narrow spiraling ramp and up rose the mephitic odors to
greet them. 80.Raych
found them a hiding place. It had meant climbing up the metal rungs of a ladder
and it had led them to a large loftlike room, the use of which Seldon could not
imagine. It was filled with equipment, bulky and silent, the function of which
also remained a mystery. The room was reasonably clean and free of dust and a
steady draft of air wafted through that prevented the dust from settling
and—more important seemed to lessen the odor. Raych
seemed pleased. “Ain’t this nice?” he demanded. He still rubbed his shoulder
now and then and winced when he rubbed too hard. “It
could be worse,” said Seldon. “Do you know what this place is used for, Raych?” Raych
shrugged or began to do so and winced. “I dunno,” he said. Then he added with a
touch of swagger, “Who cares?” Dors,
who had sat down on the floor after brushing it with her hand and then looking
suspiciously at her palm, said, “If you want a guess, I think this is part of a
complex that is involved in the detoxification and recycling of wastes. The
stuff must surely end up as fertilizer.” “Then,”
said Seldon gloomily, “those who run the complex will be down here periodically
and may come at any moment, for all we know.” “I
been here before,” said Raych. “I never saw no one here.” “I
suppose Trantor is heavily automated wherever possible and if anything calls
for automation it would be this treatment of wastes,” said Dors. “We may be
safe ... for a while.” “Not
for long. We’ll get hungry and thirsty, Dors.” “I
can get food and water for us,” said Raych. “Ya got to know how to make out if
you’re an alley kid.” “Thank
you, Raych,” said Seldon absently, “but right now I’m not hungry.” He sniffed.
“I may never be hungry again.” “You
will be,” said Dors, “and even if you lose your appetite for a while, you’ll
get thirsty. At least elimination is no problem. We’re practically living over
what is clearly an open sewer.” There
was silence for a while. The light was dim and Seldon wondered why the
Trantorians didn’t keep it dark altogether. But then it occurred to him that he
had never encountered true darkness in any public area. It was probably a habit
in an energy-rich society. Strange that a world of forty billion should be
energy-rich, but with the internal heat of the planet to draw upon, to say
nothing of solar energy and nuclear fusion plants in space, it was. In fact,
come to think of it, there was no energy-poor planet in the Empire. Was there a
time when technology had been so primitive that energy poverty was possible? He
leaned against a system of pipes through which—for all he knew—sewage ran. He
drew away from the pipes as the thought occurred to him and he sat down next to
Dors. He
said, “Is there any way we can get in touch with Chetter Hummin?” Dors
said, “As a matter of fact, I did send a message, though I hated to.” “You
hated to?” “My
orders are to protect you. Each time I have to get in touch with him, it means
I’ve failed.” Seldon
regarded her out of narrowed eyes. “Do you have to be so compulsive, Dors? You
can’t protect me against the security officers of an entire sector.” “I
suppose not. We can disable a few—” “I
know. We did. But they’ll send out reinforcements ... armored ground-cars ...
neuronic cannon ... sleeping mist. I’m not sure what they have, but they’re
going to throw in their entire armory. I’m sure of it.” “You’re
probably right,” said Dors, her mouth tightening. “They
won’t find ya, lady,” said Raych suddenly. His sharp eyes had moved from one to
the other as they talked. “They never find Davan.” Dors
smiled without joy and ruffled the boy’s hair, then looked at the palm of her
hand with a little dismay. She said, “I’m not sure if you ought to stay with
us, Raych. I don’t want them finding you.” “They
won’t find me and if I leave ya, who’ll get ya food and water and who’ll find
ya new hidin’ places, so the Sunbadgers’ll never know where to look?” “No,
Raych, they’ll find us. They don’t really look too hard for Davan. He annoys
them, but I suspect they don’t take him seriously. Do you know what I mean?” “You
mean he’s just a pain in the ... the neck and they figure he ain’t worth
chasing all over the lot.” “Yes,
that’s what I mean. But you see, we hurt two of the officers very badly and
they’re not going to let us get away with that. If it takes their whole
force—if they have to sweep through every hidden or unused corridor in the
sector—they’ll get us.” Raych
said, “That makes me feel like ... like [natin’n’]. If I didn’t run in there
and get zapped, ya wouldn’t have taken out them officers and ya wouldn’t be in
such trouble.” “No,
sooner or later, we’d have—uh—taken them out. Who knows? We may have to take
out a few more.” “Well,
ya did it beautiful,” said Raych. “If I hadn’t been aching all over, I could’ve
watched more and enjoyed it.” Seldon
said, “It wouldn’t do us any good to try to fight the entire security system.
The question is: What will they do to us once they have us? A prison sentence,
surely.” “Oh
no. If necessary, we’ll have to appeal to the Emperor,” put in Dors. “The
Emperor?” said Raych, wide-eyed. “You know the Emperor?” Seldon
waved at the boy. “Any Galactic citizen can appeal to the Emperor.—That strikes
me as the wrong thing to do, Dors. Ever since Hummin and I left the Imperial
Sector, we’ve been evading the Emperor.” “Not
to the extent of being thrown into a Dahlite prison. The Imperial appeal will
serve as a delay—in any case, a diversion—and perhaps in the course of that
delay, we can think of something else.” “There’s
Hummin.” “Yes,
there is,” said Dors uneasily, “but we can’t consider him the do-it-all. For
one thing, even if my message reached him and even if he was able to rush to
Dahl, how would he find us here? And, even if he did, what could he do against
the entire Dahlite security force?” “In
that case,” said Seldon. “We’re going to have to think of something we can do
before they find us.” Raych
said, “If ya follow me, I can keep ya ahead of them. I know every place there
is around here.” “You
can keep us ahead of one person, but there’ll be a great many, moving down any
number of corridors. We’ll escape one group and bump into another.” They
sat in uncomfortable silence for a good while, each confronting what seemed to
be a hopeless situation. Then Dors Venabili stirred and said in a tense, low
whisper, “They’re here. I hear them.” For
a while, they strained, listening, then Raych sprang to his feet and hissed,
“They comin’ that way. We gotta go this way.” Seldon,
confused, heard nothing at all, but would have been content to trust the
others’ superior hearing, but even as Raych began moving hastily and quietly
away from the direction of the approaching tread, a voice rang out echoing against
the sewer walls. “Don’t move. Don’t move.” And
Raych said, “That’s Davan. How’d he know we were here?” “Davan?”
said Seldon. “Are you sure?” “Sure
I’m sure. He’ll help.” 81.Davan
asked, “What happened?” Seldon
felt minimally relieved. Surely, the addition of Davan could scarcely count
against the full force of the Dahl Sector, but, then again, he commanded a
number of people who might create enough confusion. He
said, “You should know, Davan. I suspect that many of the crowd who were at
Tisalver’s place this morning were your people.” “Yes,
a number were. The story is that you were being arrested and that you
manhandled a squadron of Sunbadgers. But why were you being arrested?” “Two,”
said Seldon, lifting two fingers. “Two Sunbadgers. And that’s bad enough. Part
of the reason we were being arrested was that we had gone to see you.” “That’s
not enough. The Sunbadgers don’t bother with me much as a general thing.” He
added bitterly, “They underestimate me.” “Maybe,”
said Seldon, “but the woman from whom we rent our rooms reported us for having
started a riot ... over the newsman we ran into on our way to you. You know
about that. With your people on the scene yesterday and again this morning and
with two officers badly hurt, they may well decide to clean out these
corridors—and that means you will suffer. I really am sorry. I had no intention
or expectation of being the cause of any of this.” But
Davan shook his head. “No, you don’t know the Sunbadgers. That’s not enough
either. They don’t want to clean us up. The sector would have to do something
about us if they did. They’re only too happy to let us rot in Billibotton and
the other slums. No, they’re after you. What have you done?” Dors
said impatiently, “We’ve done nothing and, in any case, what does it matter? If
they’re not after you and they are after us, they’re going to come down here to
flush us out. If you get in the way, you’ll be in deep trouble.” “No,
not me. I have friends—powerful friends,” said Davan. “I told you that last
night. And they can help you as well as me. When you refused to help us openly,
I got in touch with them. They know who you are, Dr. Seldon. You’re a famous
man. They’re in a position to talk to the Mayor of Dahl and see to it that you
are left alone, whatever you have done. But you’ll have to be taken away—out of
Dahl.” Seldon
smiled. Relief flooded over him. He said, “You know someone powerful, do you,
Davan? Someone who responds at once, who has the ability to talk the Dahl
government out of taking drastic steps, and who can take us away? Good. I’m not
surprised.” He turned to Dors, smiling. “It’s Mycogen all over again. How does
Hummin do it?” But
Dors shook her head. “Too quick.—I don’t understand.” Seldon
said, “I believe he can do anything.” “I
know him better than you do—and longer—and I don’t believe that.” Seldon
smiled, “Don’t underestimate him.” And then, as though anxious not to linger
longer on that subject, he turned to Davan. “But how did you find us? Raych
said you knew nothing about this place.” “He
don’t,” shrilled Raych indignantly. “This place is all mine. I found it.” “I’ve
never been here before,” said Davan, looking about. “It’s an interesting place.
Raych is a corridor creature, perfectly at home in this maze.” “Yes,
Davan, we gathered as much ourselves. But how did you find it?” “A
heat-seeker. I have a device that detects infra-red radiation, the particular
thermal pattern that is given off at thirty-seven degrees Celsius. It will
react to the presence of human beings and not to other heat sources. It reacted
to you three.” Dors
was frowning. “What good is that on Trantor, where there are human beings
everywhere? They have them on other worlds, but—” Davan
said, “But not on Trantor. I know. Except that they are useful in the slums, in
the forgotten, decaying corridors and alleyways.” “And
where did you get it?” asked Seldon. Davan
said, “It’s enough that I have it.—But we’ve got to get you away, Master
Seldon. Too many people want you and I want my powerful friend to have you.” “Where
is he, this powerful friend of yours?” “He’s
approaching. At least a new thirty-seven-degree source is registering and I
don’t see that it can be anyone else.” Through
the door strode a newcomer, but Seldon’s glad exclamation died on his lips. It
was not Chetter Hummin. WyeWYE—
... A sector of the world-city of Trantor ... In the latter centuries of the
Galactic Empire, Wye was the strongest and stablest portion of the world-city.
Its rulers had long aspired to the Imperial throne, justifying that by their
descent from early Emperors. Under Mannix IV, Wye was militarized and (Imperial
authorities later claimed) was planning a planet-wide coup . ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 82.The
man who entered was tall and muscular. He had a long blond mustache that curled
up at the tips and a fringe of hair that went down the sides of his face and
under his chin, leaving the point of his chin and his lower lip smoothly bare
and seeming a little moist. His head was so closely cropped and his hair was so
light that, for one unpleasant moment, Seldon was reminded of Mycogen. The
newcomer wore what was unmistakably a uniform. It was red and white and about
his waist was a wide belt decorated with silver studs. His voice, when he
spoke, was a rolling bass and its accent was not like any that Seldon had heard
before. Most unfamiliar accents sounded uncouth in Seldon’s experience, but
this one seemed almost musical, perhaps because of the richness of the low
tones. “I
am Sergeant Emmer Thalus,” he rumbled in a slow succession of syllables. “I
have come seeking Dr. Hari Seldon.” Seldon
said, “I am he.” In an aside to Dors, he muttered, “if Hummin couldn’t come
himself, he certainly sent a magnificent side of beef to represent him.” The
sergeant favored Seldon with a stolid and slightly prolonged look. Then he
said, “Yes. You have been described to me. Please come with me, Dr. Seldon.” Seldon
said, “Lead the way.” The
sergeant stepped backward. Seldon and Dors Venabili stepped forward. The
sergeant stopped and raised a large hand, palm toward Dors. “I have been
instructed to take Dr. Hari Seldon with me. I have not been instructed to take
anyone else.” For
a moment, Seldon looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then his look of surprise
gave way to anger. “It’s quite impossible that you have been told that, Sergeant.
Dr. Dors Venabili is my associate and my companion. She must come with me.” “That
is not in accordance with my instructions, Doctor.” “I
don’t care about your instructions in any way, Sergeant Thalus. I do not budge
without her.” “What’s
more,” said Dors with clear irritation, “my instructions are to protect Dr.
Seldon at all times. I cannot do that unless I am with him. Therefore, where he
goes, I go.” The
sergeant looked puzzled. “My instructions are strict that I see to it that no
harm comes to you, Dr. Seldon. If you will not come voluntarily, I must carry
you to my vehicle. I will try to do so gently.” He extended his two arms as
though to seize Seldon by the waist and carry him off bodily. Seldon
skittered backward and out of reach. As he did so, the side of his right palm
came down on the sergeant’s right upper arm where the muscles were thinnest, so
that he struck the bone. The
sergeant drew a sudden deep breath and seemed to shake himself a bit, but
turned, face expressionless, and advanced again. Davan, watching, remained
where he was, motionless, but Raych moved behind the sergeant. Seldon
repeated his palm stroke a second time, then a third, but now Sergeant Thalus,
anticipating the blow, lowered his shoulder to catch it on hard muscle. Dors had
drawn her knives. “Sergeant,”
she said forcefully. “Turn in this direction, I want you to understand I may be
forced to hurt you severely if you persist in attempting to carry Dr. Seldon
off against his will.” The
sergeant paused, seemed to take in the slowly waving knives solemnly, then
said, “It is not in my instructions to refrain from harming anyone but Dr.
Seldon.” His
right hand moved with surprising speed toward the neuronic whip in the holster
at his hip. Dors moved as quickly forward, knives flashing. Neither completed
the movement. Dashing
forward, Raych had pushed at the sergeant’s back with his left hand and
withdrew the sergeant’s weapon from its holster with his right. He moved away
quickly, holding the neuronic whip in both hands now and shouting, “Hands up,
Sergeant, or you’re gonna get it!” The
sergeant whirled and a nervous look crossed his reddening face. It was the only
moment that its stolidity had weakened. “Put that down, sonny,” he growled.
“You don’t know how it works.” Raych
howled, “I know about the safety. It’s off and this thing can fire. And it will
if you try to rush me.” The
sergeant froze. He clearly knew how dangerous it was to have an excited
twelve-year-old handling a powerful weapon. Nor
did Seldon feel much better. He said, “Careful, Raych. Don’t shoot. Keep your
finger off the contact.” “I
ain’t gonna let him rush me.” “He
won’t.—Sergeant, please don’t move. Let’s get something straight. You were told
to take me away from here. Is that right?” “That’s
right,” said the sergeant, eyes somewhat protruding and firmly fixed on Raych
(whose eyes were as firmly fixed on the sergeant). “But you were not told to
take anyone else. Is that right?” “No,
I was not, Doctor,” said the sergeant firmly. Not even the threat of a neuronic
whip was going to make him weasel. One could see that. “Very
well, but listen to me, Sergeant. Were you told not to take anyone else?” “I
just said—” “No,
no. Listen, Sergeant. There’s a difference. Were your instructions simply ‘Take
Dr. Seldon!’? Was that the entire order, with no mention of anyone else, or
were the orders more specific? Were your orders as follows: ‘Take Dr. Seldon
and don’t take anyone else’?” The
sergeant turned that over in his head, then he said, “I was told to take you,
Dr. Seldon.” “Then
there was no mention of anyone else, one way or the other, was there?” Pause.
“No.” “You
were not told to take Dr. Venabili, but you were not told not to take Dr.
Venabili either. Is that right?” Pause.
“Yes.” “So
you can either take her or not take her, whichever you please?” Long
pause. “I suppose so.” “Now
then, here’s Raych, the young fellow who’s got a neuronic whip pointing at
you—your neuronic whip, remember—and he is anxious to use it.” “Yay!”
shouted Raych. “Not
yet, Raych,” said Seldon. “And here is Dr. Venabili with two knives that she
can use very expertly and there’s myself, who can, if I get the chance, break
your Adam’s apple with one hand so that you’ll never speak above a whisper
again. Now then, do you want to take Dr. Venabili or don’t you want to? Your
orders allow you to do either.” And
finally the sergeant said in a beaten voice, “I will take the woman.” “And
the boy, Raych.” “And
the boy.” “Good.
Have I your word of honor—your word of honor as a soldier—that you will do as
you have just said ... honestly?” “You
have my word of honor as a soldier,” said the sergeant. “Good.
Raych, give back the whip.—Now.—Don’t make me wait.” Raych,
his face twisted into an unhappy grimace, looked at Dors, who hesitated and
then slowly nodded her head. Her face was as unhappy as Raych’s. Raych held out
the neuronic whip to the sergeant and said, “They’re makin’ me, ya big—” His
last words were unintelligible. Seldon
said, “Put away your knives, Dors.” Dors
shook her head, but put them away. “Now,
Sergeant?” said Seldon. The
sergeant looked at the neuronic whip, then at Seldon. He said, “You are an
honorable man, Dr. Seldon, and my word of honor holds.” With a military snap,
he placed his neuronic whip in his holster. Seldon
turned to Davan and said, “Davan, please forget what you have seen here. We
three are going voluntarily with Sergeant Thalus. You tell Yugo Amaryl when you
see him that I will not forget him and that, once this is over and I am free to
act, I will see that he gets into a University. And if there’s anything
reasonable I can ever do for your cause, Davan, I will.—Now, Sergeant, let’s
go.” 83.“Have
you ever been in an air-jet before, Raych?” asked Hari Seldon. Raych
shook his head speechlessly. He was looking down at Upperside rushing beneath
them with a mixture of fright and awe. It
struck Seldon again how much Trantor was a world of Expressways and tunnels.
Even long trips were made underground by the general population. Air travel,
however common it might be on the Outworlds, was a luxury on Trantor and an
air-jet like this— How had Hummin managed it? Seldon wondered. He
looked out the window at the rise and fall of the domes, at the general green
in this area of the planet, the occasional patches of what were little less
than jungles, the arms of the sea they occasionally passed over, with its
leaden waters taking on a sudden all-too-brief sparkle when the sun peeped out
momentarily from the heavy cloud layer. An
hour or so into the flight, Dors, who was viewing a new historical novel
without much in the way of apparent enjoyment, clicked it off and said, “I wish
I knew where we were going.” “If
you can’t tell,” said Seldon, “then I certainly can’t. You’ve been on Trantor
longer than I have.” “Yes,
but only on the inside,” said Dors. “Out here, with only Upperside below me,
I’m as lost as an unborn infant would be.” “Oh
well.—Presumably, Hummin knows what he’s doing.” “I’m
sure he does,” replied Dors rather tartly, “but that may have nothing to do
with the present situation. Why do you continue to assume any of this
represents his initiative?” Seldon’s
eyebrows lifted. “Now that you ask, I don’t know. I just assumed it. Why
shouldn’t this be his?” “Because
whoever arranged it didn’t specify that I be taken along with you. I simply don’t
see Hummin forgetting my existence. And because he didn’t come himself, as he
did at Streeling and at Mycogen.” “You
can’t always expect him to, Dors. He might well be occupied. The astonishing
thing is not that he didn’t come on this occasion but that he did come on the
previous ones.” “Assuming
he didn’t come himself, would he send a conspicuous and lavish flying palace
like this?” She gestured around her at the large luxurious jet. “It
might simply have been available. And he might have reasoned that no one would
expect something as noticeable as this to be carrying fugitives who were
desperately trying to avoid detection. The well-known double-double-cross.” “Too
well-known, in my opinion. And would he send an idiot like Sergeant Thalus in
his place?” “The
sergeant is no idiot. He’s simply been trained to complete obedience. With
proper instructions, he could be utterly reliable.” “There
you are, Hari. We come back to that. Why didn’t he get proper instructions?
It’s inconceivable to me that Chetter Hummin would tell him to carry you out of
Dahl and not say a word about me. Inconceivable.” And
to that Seldon had no answer and his spirits sank. Another
hour passed and Dors said, “It looks as if it’s getting colder outside. The
green of Upperside is turning brown and I believe the heaters have turned on.” “What
does that signify?” “Dahl
is in the tropic zone so obviously we’re going either north or south—and a
considerable distance too. If I had some notion in which direction the
nightline was I could tell which.” Eventually,
they passed over a section of shoreline where there was a rim of ice hugging
the domes where they were rimmed by the sea. And then, quite unexpectedly, the
air-jet angled downward. Raych
screamed, “We’re goin’ to hit! We’re goin’ to smash up!” Seldon’s
abdominal muscles tightened and he clutched the arms of his seat. Dors seemed
unaffected. She
said, “The pilots up front don’t seem alarmed. We’ll be tunneling.” And,
as she said so, the jet’s wings swept backward and under it and, like a bullet,
the air-jet entered a tunnel. Blackness swept back over them in an instant and
a moment later the lighting system in the tunnel turned on. The walls of the
tunnel snaked past the jet on either side. “I
don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure they know the tunnel isn’t already occupied,”
muttered Seldon. “I’m
sure they had reassurance of a clear tunnel some dozens of kilometers earlier,”
said Dors. “At any rate, I presume this is the last stage of the journey and
soon we’ll know where we are.” She
paused and then added, “And I further presume we won’t like the knowledge when
we have it.” 84.The
air-jet sped out of the tunnel and onto a long runway with a roof so high that
it seemed closer to true daylight than anything Seldon had seen since he had
left the Imperial Sector. They
came to a halt in a shorter time than Seldon would have expected, but at the
price of an uncomfortable pressure forward. Raych, in particular, was crushed
against the seat before him and was finding it difficult to breathe till Dors’s
hand on his shoulder pulled him back slightly. Sergeant
Thalus, impressive and erect, left the jet and moved to the rear, where he
opened the door of the passenger compartment and helped the three out, one by
one. Seldon
was last. He half-turned as he passed the sergeant, saying, “It was a pleasant
trip, Sergeant.” A
slow smile spread over the sergeant’s large face and lifted his mustachioed
upper lip. He touched the visor of his cap in what was half a salute and said,
“Thank you again, Doctor.” They
were then ushered into the backseat of a ground-car of lavish design and the
sergeant himself pushed into the front seat and drove the vehicle with a
surprisingly light touch. They
passed through wide roadways, flanked by tall, well-designed buildings, all glistening
in broad daylight. As elsewhere on Trantor, they heard the distant drone of an
Expressway. The walkways were crowded with what were, for the most part,
well-dressed people. The surroundings were remarkably—almost excessively—clean. Seldon’s
sense of security sank further. Dors’s misgivings concerning their destination
now seemed justified after all. He leaned toward her and said, “Do you think we
are back in the Imperial Sector?” She
said, “No, the buildings are more rococo in the Imperial Sector and there’s
less Imperial parkishness to this sector—if you know what I mean.” “Then
where are we, Dors? “We’ll
have to ask, I’m afraid, Hari.” It
was not a long trip and soon they rolled into a car-bay that flanked an
imposing four-story structure. A frieze of imaginary animals ran along the top,
decorated with strips of warm pink stone. It was an impressive facade with a
rather pleasing design. Seldon
said, “That certainly looks rococo enough.” Dors
shrugged uncertainly. Raych
whistled and said in a failing attempt to sound unimpressed, “Hey, look at that
fancy place.” Sergeant
Thalus gestured to Seldon clearly indicating that he was to follow. Seldon hung
back and, also relying on the universal language of gesture, held out both
arms, clearly including Dors and Raych. The sergeant hesitated in a slightly
hangdog fashion at the impressive pink doorway. His mustache almost seemed to
droop. Then
he said gruffly, “All three of you, then. My word of honor holds.—Still, others
may not feel obligated by my own obligation, you know.” Seldon
nodded. “I hold you responsible for your own deeds only, Sergeant.” The
sergeant was clearly moved and, for a moment, his face lightened as though he
was considering the possibility of shaking Seldon’s hand or expressing
heartfelt his approval in some other way. He decided against it, however, and
stepped onto the bottom step of the flight that led to the door. The stairs
immediately began a stately upward movement. Seldon
and Dors stepped after him at once and kept their balance without much trouble.
Raych, who was momentarily staggered in surprise, jumped onto the moving stairs
after a short run, shoved both hands into his pockets, and whistled carelessly. The
door opened and two women stepped out, one on either side in symmetrical
fashion. They were young and attractive. Their dresses, belted tightly about
the waist and reaching nearly to their ankles, fell in crisp pleats and rustled
when they walked. Both had brown hair that was coiled in thick plaits on either
side of their heads. (Seldon found it attractive, but wondered how long it took
them each morning to arrange it just so. He had not been aware of so elaborate
a coiffure on the women they had passed in the streets.) The two women stared
at the newcomers with obvious contempt. Seldon was not surprised. After the
day’s events, he and Dors looked almost as disreputable as Raych. Yet
the women managed to bow decorously and then made a half-turn and gestured
inward in perfect unison and with symmetry carefully maintained. (Did they
rehearse these things?) It was clear that the three were to enter. They stepped
through an elaborate room, cluttered with furniture and decorative items whose
use Seldon did not readily understand. The floor was light-colored, springy,
and glowed with luminescence. Seldon noted with some embarrassment that their
footwear left dusty marks upon it. And
then an inner door was flung open and yet another woman emerged. She was
distinctly older than the first two (who sank slowly as she came in, crossing
their legs symmetrically as they did so in a way that made Seldon marvel that
they could keep their balance; it undoubtedly took a deal of practice). Seldon
wondered if he too was expected to display some ritualized form of respect, but
since he hadn’t the faintest notion of what this might consist of, he merely
bowed his head slightly. Dors remained standing erect and, it seemed to Seldon,
did so with disdain. Raych was staring open-mouthed in all directions and
looked as though he didn’t even see the woman who had just entered. She was
plump—not fat, but comfortably padded. She wore her hair precisely as the young
ladies did and her dress was in the same style, but much more richly
ornamented—too much so to suit Seldon’s aesthetic notions. She was clearly middle-aged
and there was a hint of gray in her hair, but the dimples in her cheeks gave
her the appearance of having rather more than a dash of youth. Her light brown
eyes were merry and on the whole she looked more motherly than old. She
said, “How are you? All of you.” (She showed no surprise at the presence of
Dors and Raych, but included them easily in her greeting.) “I’ve been waiting
for you for some time and almost had you on Upperside at Streeling. You are Dr.
Hari Seldon, whom I’ve been looking forward to meeting. You, I think, must be
Dr. Dors Venabili, for you had been reported to be in his company. This young
man I fear I do not know, but I am pleased to see him. But we must not spend
our time talking, for I’m sure you would like to rest first.” “And
bathe, Madam,” said Dors rather forcefully, “Each of us could use a thorough
shower.” “Yes,
certainly,” said the woman, “and a change in clothing. Especially the young
man.” She looked down at Raych without any of the look of contempt and
disapproval that the two young women had shown. She said, “What is your name,
young man?” “Raych,”
said Raych in a rather choked and embarrassed voice. He then added
experimentally, “Missus.” “What
an odd coincidence,” said the woman, her eyes sparkling. “An omen, perhaps. My
own name is Rashelle. Isn’t that odd?—But come. We shall take care of you all.
Then there will be plenty of time to have dinner and to talk.” “Wait,
Madam,” said Dors. “May I ask where we are?” “Wye,
dear. And please call me Rashelle, as you come to feel more friendly. I am
always at ease with informality.” Dors
stiffened. “Are you surprised that we ask? Isn’t it natural that we should want
to know where we are?” Rashelle
laughed in a pleasant, tinkling manner. “Really, Dr. Venabili, something must
be done about the name of this place. I was not asking a question but making a
statement. You asked where you were and I did not ask you why. I told you,
‘Wye.’ You are in the Wye Sector.” “In
Wye?” said Seldon forcibly. “Yes
indeed, Dr. Seldon. We’ve wanted you from the day you addressed the Decennial
Convention and we are so glad to have you now.” 85.Actually,
it took a full day to rest and unstiffen, to wash and get clean, to obtain new
clothes (satiny and rather loose, in the style of Wye), and to sleep a good
deal. It
was during the second evening in Wye that there was the dinner that Madam
Rashelle had promised. The
table was a large one—too large, considering that there were only four dining:
Hari Seldon, Dors Venabili, Raych, and Rashelle. The walls and ceiling were
softly illuminated and the colors changed at a rate that caught the eye but not
so rapidly as in any way to discommode the mind. The very tablecloth, which was
not cloth (Seldon had not made up his mind what it might be), seemed to sparkle. The
servers were many and silent and when the door opened it seemed to Seldon that
he caught a glimpse of soldiers, armed and at the ready, outside. The room was
a velvet glove, but the iron fist was not far distant. Rashelle was gracious
and friendly and had clearly taken a particular liking to Raych, who, she
insisted, was to sit next to her. Raych—scrubbed, polished, and shining, all
but unrecognizable in his new clothes, with his hair clipped, cleaned, and
brushed—scarcely dared to say a word. It was as though he felt his grammar no
longer fit his appearance. He was pitifully ill at ease and he watched Dors
carefully as she switched from utensil to utensil, trying to match her exactly
in every respect. The food was tasty but spicy—to the point where Seldon could
not recognize the exact nature of the dishes. Rashelle,
her plump face made happy by her gentle smile and her fine teeth gleaming
white, said, “You may think we have Mycogenian additives in the food, but we do
not. It is all homegrown in Wye. There is no sector on the planet more
self-sufficient than Wye. We labor hard to keep that so.” Seldon
nodded gravely and said, “Everything you have given us is first-rate, Rashelle.
We are much obliged to you.” And
yet within himself he thought the food was not quite up to Mycogenian standards
and he felt moreover, as he had earlier muttered to Dors, that he was
celebrating his own defeat. Or Hummin’s defeat, at any rate, and that seemed to
him to be the same thing. After
all, he had been captured by Wye, the very possibility that had so concerned
Hummin at the time of the incident Upperside. Rashelle said, “Perhaps, in my
role as hostess, I may be forgiven if I ask personal questions. Am I correct in
assuming that you three do not represent a family; that you, Hari, and you,
Dors, are not married and that Raych is not your son?” “The
three of us are not related in any way,” said Seldon. “Raych was born on
Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna.” “And
how did you all meet, then?” Seldon
explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. “There’s
nothing romantic or significant in the meetings,” he added. “Yet
I am given to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide,
Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl.” Seldon
said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be
separated from them.” Rashelle
smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.” “Yes,
I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.” “Puzzled?” “Why
yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask
one as well?” “Of
course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.” “When
we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the
Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?” “Surely,
you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.” “That
much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have
psychohistory?” “Surely,
you have not been so careless as to lose it.” “Worse,
Rashelle. I have never had it.” Rashelle’s
face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your
talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ
mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.” “In
that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine
they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are
conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not
practical.” “I
can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience
with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.” “The
pseudo-Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically. “Why
yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question.
“Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.” “Rashelle,”
said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what
I have just told you and he let me go.” Now
Rashelle did nor smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go
the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever
since—in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared.
But come now—our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us
have music.” And
at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She
leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the
fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.” Raych
said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips
silently mouthed: “Fork.” He
remained with his fork. Dors
said, “The music is lovely, Madam”—she pointedly rejected the familiar form of
address “but it must not he allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my
mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the
Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were
not the prime mover.” Rashelle
laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were
not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail—as
you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we were the pursuers. When, however,
there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure
that it is Demerzel.” “Do
you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors. “Yes.
Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.” “You?
Or the Wye Sector?” “The
sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.” “How
strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor
that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or
with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye
and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you—or any other Wyan—weigh nothing in
comparison.” Rashelle
smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his
cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there
is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can
still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.” “Why
yours?” said Seldon. “Why
not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “I am the Mayor of
Wye.” 86.It
was Raych who was the first to react to the statement. Quite
forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed
raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.” Rashelle
looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of
voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under
your lid and let it bubble.” Raych’s
eyes protruded and he seemed stunned. Finally he managed to say, “Hey, ya talk
regular, lady.” “Sure
thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling. Seldon
cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.” Rashelle
tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but
one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite—when I
was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course—he was quite
intelligent—but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting
to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was
wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along
comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the
accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he
will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?” Raych
said, “I dunno, lady—uh, mum.” “I’m
sure you will and you will come to look very much like my ... old friend and it
will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, dinner’s
over and it’s time for you to go to your room, Raych. You can watch holovision
for a while if you wish. I don’t suppose you read.” Raych
reddened. “I’m gonna read someday. Master Seldon says I’m gonna.” “Then
I’m sure you will.” A
young woman approached Raych, curtsying respectfully in Rashelle’s direction. Seldon
had not seen the signal that had summoned her. Raych
said, “Can’t I stay with Master Seldon and Missus Venabili?” “You’ll
see them later,” said Rashelle gently, “but Master and Missus and I have to
talk right now—so you must go.” Dors
mouthed a firm “Go!” at Raych and with a grimace the boy slid out of his chair
and followed the attendant. Rashelle
turned to Seldon and Dors once Raych was gone and said, “The boy will be safe,
of course, and treated well. Please have no fears about that. And I will be
safe too. As my woman approached just now, so will a dozen armed men—and much
more rapidly—when summoned. I want you to understand that.” Seldon
said evenly, “We are in no way thinking of attacking you, Rashelle—or must I
now say, ‘Madam Mayor’?” “Still
Rashelle. I am given to understand that you are a wrestler of sorts, Hari, and
you, Dors, are very skillful with the knives we have removed from your room. I
don’t want you to rely uselessly on your skills, since I want Hari alive,
unharmed, and friendly.” “It
is quite well understood, Madam Mayor,” said Dors, her lack of friendship
uncompromised, “that the ruler of Wye, now and for the past forty years, is
Mannix, Fourth of that Name, and that he is still alive and in full possession
of his faculties. Who, then, are you really?” “Exactly
who I say I am, Dors. Mannix IV is my father. He is, as you say, still alive
and in possession of his faculties. In the eyes of the Emperor and of all the
Empire, he is Mayor of Wye, but he is weary of the strains of power and is
willing, at last, to let them slip into my hands, which are just as willing to
receive them. I am his only child and I was brought up all my life to rule. My
father is therefore Mayor in law and name, but I am Mayor in fact. It is to me,
now, that the armed forces of Wye have sworn allegiance and in Wye that is all
that counts.” Seldon
nodded. “Let it be as you say. But even so, whether it is Mayor Mannix IV or
Mayor Rashelle I—it is the First, I suppose—there is no purpose in your holding
me. I have told you that I don’t have a workable psychohistory and I do not
think that either I or anyone else will ever have one. I have told that to the
Emperor. I am of no use either to you or to him.” Rashelle
said, “How naive you are. Do you know the history of the Empire?” Seldon
shook his head. “I have recently come to wish that I knew it much better.” Dors
said dryly, “I know Imperial history quite well, though the pre-Imperial age is
my specialty, Madam Mayor. But what does it matter whether we do or do not?” “If
you know your history, you know that the House of Wye is ancient and honorable
and is descended from the Dacian dynasty.” Dors
said, “The Dacians ruled five thousand years ago. The number of their
descendants in the hundred and fifty generations that have lived and died since
then may number half the population of the Galaxy—if all genealogical claims,
however outrageous, are accepted.” “Our
genealogical claims, Dr. Venabili”—Rashelle’s tone of voice was, for the first
time, cold and unfriendly and her eyes flashed like steel—“are not outrageous.
They are fully documented. The House of Wye has maintained itself consistently
in positions of power through all those generations and there have been
occasions when we have held the Imperial throne and have ruled as Emperors.” “The
history book-films,” said Dors, “usually refer to the Wye rulers as
‘anti-Emperors,’ never recognized by the bulk of the Empire.” “It
depends on who writes the history book-films. In the future, we will, for the
throne which has been ours will be ours again.” “To
accomplish that, you must bring about civil war.” “There
won’t be much risk of that,” said Rashelle. She was smiling again. “That is
what I must explain to you because I want Dr. Seldon’s help in preventing such
a catastrophe. My father, Mannix IV, has been a man of peace all his life. He
has been loyal to whomever it might be that ruled in the Imperial Palace and he
has kept Wye a prosperous and strong pillar of the Trantorian economy for the
good of all the Empire.” “I
don’t know that the Emperor has ever trusted him any the more for all that,”
said Dors. “I’m
sure that is so,” said Rashelle calmly, “for the Emperors that have occupied
the Palace in my father’s time have known themselves to be usurpers of a
usurping line. Usurpers cannot afford to trust the true rulers. And yet my
father has kept the peace. He has, of course, developed and trained a
magnificent security force to maintain the peace, prosperity, and stability of
the sector and the Imperial authorities have allowed this because they wanted Wye
peaceful, prosperous, stable—and loyal.” “But
is it loyal?” said Dors. “To
the true Emperor, of course,” said Rashelle, “and we have now reached the stage
where our strength is such that we can take over the government quickly—in a
lightning stroke, in fact—and before one can say ‘civil war’ there will be a
true Emperor—or Empress, if you prefer—and Trantor will be as peaceful as
before.” Dors
shook her head. “May I enlighten you? As a historian?” “I
am always willing to listen.” And she inclined her head ever so slightly toward
Dors. “Whatever
size your security force may be, however well-trained and well-equipped, they
cannot possibly equal in size and strength the Imperial forces backed by
twenty-five million worlds.” “Ah,
but you have put your finger on the usurper’s weakness, Dr. Venabili. There are
twenty-five million worlds, with the Imperial forces scattered over them. Those
forces are thinned out over incalculable space, under uncounted officers, none
of them particularly ready for any action outside their own Provinces, many
ready for action in their own interest rather than in the Empire’s. Our forces,
on the other hand, are all here, all on Trantor. We can act and conclude before
the distant generals and admirals can get it through their heads that they are
needed.” “But
that response will come—and with irresistible force.” “Are
you certain of that?” said Rashelle. “We will be in the Palace. Trantor will be
ours and at peace. Why should the Imperial forces stir when, by minding their
own business, each petty military leader can have his own world to rule, his
own Province?” “But
is that what you want?” asked Seldon wonderingly. “Are you telling me that you
look forward to ruling over an Empire that will break up into splinters?” Rashelle
said, “That is exactly right. I would rule over Trantor, over its outlying
space settlements, over the few nearby planetary systems that are part of the
Trantorian Province. I would much rather be Emperor of Trantor than Emperor of
the Galaxy.” “You
would be satisfied with Trantor only,” said Dors in tones of the deepest
disbelief. “Why
not?” said Rashelle, suddenly ablaze. She leaned forward eagerly, both hands
pressed palms-down on the table. “That is what my father has been planning for
forty years. He is only clinging to life now to witness its fulfillment. Why do
we need millions of worlds, distant worlds that mean nothing to us, that weaken
us, that draw our forces far away from us into meaningless cubic parsecs of
space, that drown us in administrative chaos, that ruin us with their endless
quarrels and problems when they are all distant nothings as far as we are
concerned? Our own populous world—our own planetary city—is Galaxy enough for
us. We have all we need to support ourselves. As for the rest of the Galaxy,
let it splinter. Every petty militarist can have his own splinter. They needn’t
fight. There will be enough for all.” “But
they will fight, just the same,” said Dors. “Each will refuse to be satisfied
with his Province. Each will feel that his neighbor is not satisfied with his
Province. Each will feel insecure and will dream of Galactic rule as the only
guarantee of safety. This is certain, Madam Empress of Nothing. There will be
endless wars into which you and Trantor will be inevitably drawn—to the ruin of
all.” Rashelle
said with clear contempt, “So it might seem, if one could see no farther than
you do, if one relied on the ordinary lessons of history.” “What
is there to see farther?” retorted Dors. “What is one to rely on beyond the
lessons of history?” “What
lies beyond?” said Rashelle. “Why, he.” And
her arm shot outward, her index finger jabbing toward Seldon. “Me?”
said Seldon. “I have already told you that psychohistory—” Rashelle
said, “Do not repeat what you have already said, my good Dr. Seldon. We gain
nothing by that.—Do you think, Dr. Venabili, that my father was never aware of
the danger of endless civil war? Do you think he did not bend his powerful mind
to thinking of some way to prevent that? He has been prepared at any time these
last ten years to take over the Empire in a day. It needed only the assurance
of security beyond victory.” “Which
you can’t have,” said Dors. “Which
we had the moment we heard of Dr. Seldon’s paper at the Decennial Convention. I
saw at once that that was what we needed. My father was too old to see the
significance at once. When I explained it, however, he saw it too and it was
then that he formally transferred his power to me. So it is to you, Hari, that
I owe my position and to you I will owe my greater position in the future.” “I
keep telling you that it cannot—” began Seldon with deep annoyance. “It
is not important what can or cannot be done. What is important is what people
will or will not believe can be done. They will believe you, Hari, when you
tell them the psychohistoric prediction is that Trantor can rule itself and
that the Provinces can become Kingdoms that will live together in peace.” “I
will make no such prediction,” said Seldon, “in the absence of true
psychohistory. I won’t play the charlatan. If you want something like that, you
say it.” “Now,
Hari. They won’t believe me. It’s you they will believe. The great
mathematician. Why not oblige them?” “As
it happens,” said Seldon “the Emperor also thought to use me as a source of
self-serving prophecies. I refused to do it for him, so do you think I will
agree to do it for you?” Rashelle
was silent for a while and when she spoke again her voice had lost its intense
excitement and became almost coaxing. “Hari,”
she said, “think a little of the difference between Cleon and myself. What
Cleon undoubtedly wanted from you was propaganda to preserve his throne. It
would be useless to give him that, for the throne can’t be preserved. Don’t you
know that the Galactic Empire is in a state of decay, that it cannot endure for
much longer? Trantor itself is slowly sliding into ruin because of the
ever-increasing weight of administering twenty-five million worlds. What’s
ahead of us is breakup and civil war, no matter what you do for Cleon.” Seldon
said, “I have heard something like this said. It may even be true, but what
then?” “Well
then, help it break into fragments without any war. Help me take Trantor. Help
me establish a firm government over a realm small enough to be ruled
efficiently. Let me give freedom to the rest of the Galaxy, each portion to go
its own way according to its own customs and cultures. The Galaxy will become a
working whole again through the free agencies of trade, tourism, and
communication and the fate of cracking into disaster under the present rule of
force that barely holds it together will be averted. My ambition is moderate
indeed; one world, not millions; peace, not war; freedom, not slavery. Think
about it and help me.” Seldon
said, “Why should the Galaxy believe me any more than they would believe you?
They don’t know me and which of our fleet commanders will be impressed by the
mere word ‘psychohistory’?” “You
won’t be believed now, but I don’t ask for action now. The House of Wye, having
waited thousands of years, can wait thousands of days more. Cooperate with me
and I will make your name famous. I will make the promise of psychohistory glow
through all the worlds and at the proper time, when I judge the movement to be
the chosen moment, you will pronounce your prediction and we will strike. Then,
in a twinkling of history, the Galaxy will exist under a New Order that will
render it stable and happy for eons. Come now, Hari, can you refuse me?” OverthrowTHALUS,
EMMER— ... A sergeant in the armed security forces of the Wye Sector of ancient
Trantor ... ...
Aside from these totally unremarkable vital statistics, nothing is known of the
man except that on one occasion he held the fate of the Galaxy in his fist. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 87.Breakfast
the next morning was served in an alcove near the rooms of the captured three
and it was luxurious indeed. There certainly was a considerable variety to the
food and more than enough of everything. Seldon sat at the breakfast table with
a mound of spicy sausages before him, totally ignoring Dors Venabili’s gloomy
predictions concerning stomachs and colic. Raych
said, “The dame ... the Madam Mayor said when she came to see me last night—” “She
came to see you?” said Seldon. “Yeah.
She said she wanted to make sure I was comfortable. She said when she had a
chance she would take me to a zoo.” “A
zoo?” Seldon looked at Dors. “What kind of zoo can they have on Trantor? Cats
and dogs?” “There
are some aboriginal animals,” said Dors, “and I imagine they import some
aboriginals from other worlds and there are also the shared animals that all
the worlds have—other worlds having more than Trantor, of course. As a matter
of fact, Wye has a famous zoo, probably the best on the planet after the
Imperial Zoo itself.” Raych
said, “She’s a nice old lady.” “Not
that old,” said Dors, “but she’s certainly feeding us well.” “There’s
that,” admitted Seldon. When
breakfast was over, Raych left to go exploring. Once they had retired to Dors’s
room, Seldon said with marked discontent, “I don’t know how long we’ll be left
to ourselves. She’s obviously plotted ways of preoccupying our time.” Dors
said, “Actually, we have little to complain of at the moment. We’re much more
comfortable here than we were either in Mycogen or Dahl.” Seldon
said, “Dors, you’re not being won over by that woman, are you?” “Me?
By Rashelle? Of course not. How can you possibly think so?” “Well,
you’re comfortable. You’re well-fed. It would be natural to relax and accept
what fortune brings.” “Yes,
very natural. And why not do that?” “Look,
you were telling me last night about what’s going to happen if she wins out. I
may not be much of a historian myself, but I am willing to take your word for
it and, actually, it makes sense—even to a nonhistorian. The Empire will
shatter and its shards will be fighting each other for ... for ...
indefinitely. She must be stopped.” “I
agree,” said Dors. “She must be. What I fail to see is how we can manage to do
that little thing right at this moment.” She looked at Seldon narrowly. “Hari,
you didn’t sleep last night, did you?” “Did
you?” It was apparent he had not. Dors
stared at him, a troubled look clouding her face. “Have you lain awake thinking
of Galactic destruction because of what I said?” “That
and some other things. Is it possible to reach Chetter Hummin?” This
last was said in a whisper. Dors
said, “I tried to reach him when we first had to flee arrest in Dahl. He didn’t
come. I’m sure he received the message, but he didn’t come. It may be that, for
any of a number of reasons, he just couldn’t come to us, but when he can he
will.” “Do
you suppose something has happened to him?” “No,”
said Dors patiently. “I don’t think so.” “How
can you know?” “The
word would somehow get to me. I’m sure of it. And the word hasn’t gotten to
me.” Seldon
frowned and said, “I’m not as confident as you are about all this. In fact, I’m
not confident at all. Even if Hummin came, what can he do in this case? He
can’t fight all of Wye. If they have, as Rashelle claims, the best-organized
army on Trantor, what will he be able to do against it?” “There’s
no point in discussing that. Do you suppose you can convince Rashelle—bang it
into her head somehow—that you don’t have psychohistory?” “I’m
sure she’s aware that I don’t have it and that I’m not going to get it for many
years—if at all. But she’ll say I have psychohistory and if she does that
skillfully enough, people will believe her and eventually they will act on what
she says my predictions and pronouncements are—even if I don’t say a word.” “Surely,
that will take time. She won’t build you up overnight. Or in a week. To do it
properly, it might take her a year.” Seldon
was pacing the length of the room, turning sharply on his heel and striding
back. “That might be so, but I don’t know. There would be pressure on her to do
things quickly. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who has cultivated
the habit of patience. And her old father, Mannix IV, would be even more
impatient. He must feel the nearness of death and if he’s worked for this all
his life, he would much prefer to see it done a week before his death rather
than a week after. Besides—” Here
he paused and looked around the empty room. “Besides what?” “Well,
we must have our freedom. You see, I’ve solved the psychohistory problem.” Dors’s
eyes widened. “You have it! You’ve worked it out.” “Not
worked it out in the full sense. That might take decades ... centuries, for all
I know. But I now know it’s practical, not just theoretical. I know it can be
done so I must have the time, the peace, the facilities to work at it. The Empire
must be held together till I—or possibly my successors—will learn how best to
keep it so or how to minimize the disaster if it does split up despite us. It
was the thought of having a beginning to my task and of not being able to work
at it, that kept me up last night.” 88.It
was their fifth day in Wye and in the morning Dors was helping Raych into a
formal costume that neither was quite familiar with. Raych looked at himself
dubiously in the holomirror and saw a reflected image that faced him with precision,
imitating all his motions but without any inversion of left and right. Raych
had never used a holomirror before and had been unable to keep from trying to
feel it, then laughing, almost with embarrassment, when his hand passed through
it while the image’s hand poked ineffectually at his real body. He
said at last, “I look funny.” He
studied his tunic, which was made of a very pliant material, with a thin
filigreed belt, then passed his hands up a stiff collar that rose like a cup
past his ears on either side. “My
head looks like a ball inside a bowl.” Dors
said, “But this is the sort of thing rich children wear in Wye. Everyone who
sees you will admire you and envy you.” “With
my hair all stuck down?” “Certainly.
You’ll wear this round little hat.” “It’ll
make my head more like a ball.” “Then
don’t let anyone kick it. Now, remember what I told you. Keep your wits about
you and don’t act like a kid.” “But
I am a kid,” he said, looking up at her with a wide-eyed innocent expression. “I’m
surprised to hear you say that,” said Dors. “I’m sure you think of yourself as
a twelve-year-old adult.” Raych
grinned. “Okay. I’ll be a good spy.” “That’s
not what I’m telling you to be. Don’t take chances. Don’t sneak behind doors to
listen. If you get caught at it, you’re no good to anyone—especially not to
yourself.” “Aw,
c’mon, Missus, what do ya think I am? A kid or somethin’?” “You
just said you were, didn’t you, Raych? You just listen to everything that’s
said without seeming to. And remember what you hear. And tell us. That’s simple
enough.” “Simple
enough for you to say, Missus Venabili,” said Raych with a grin, “and simple
enough for me to do.” “And
be careful.” Raych
winked. “You bet.” A
flunky (as coolly impolite as only an arrogant flunky can be) came to take
Raych to where Rashelle was awaiting him. Seldon
looked after them and said thoughtfully, “He probably won’t see the zoo, he’ll
be listening so carefully. I’m not sure it’s right to thrust a boy into danger
like that.” “Danger?
I doubt it. Raych was brought up in the slums of Billibotton, remember. I
suspect he has more alley smarts than you and I put together. Besides, Rashelle
is fond of him and will interpret everything he does in his favor. Poor woman.” “Are
you actually sorry for her, Dors?” “Do
you mean that she’s not worth sympathy because she’s a Mayor’s daughter and
considers herself a Mayor in her own right—and because she’s intent on
destroying the Empire? Perhaps you’re right, but even so there are some aspects
of her for which one might show some sympathy. For instance, she’s had an
unhappy love affair. That’s pretty evident. Undoubtedly, her heart was
broken—for a time, at least.” Seldon
said, “Have you ever had an unhappy love affair, Dors?” Dors
considered for a moment or two, then said, “Not really. I’m too involved with
my work to get a broken heart.” “I
thought as much.” “Then
why did you ask?” “I
might have been wrong.” “How
about you?” Seldon
seemed uneasy. “As a matter of fact, yes. I have spared the time for a broken
heart. Badly cracked, anyway.” “I
thought as much.” “Then
why did you ask?” “Not
because I thought I might be wrong, I promise you. I just wanted to see if you
would lie. You didn’t and I’m glad.” There
was a pause and then Seldon said, “Five days have passed and nothing has
happened.” “Except
that we are being treated well, Hari.” “If
animals could think, they’d think they were being treated well when they were
only being fattened for the slaughter.” “I
admit she’s fattening the Empire for the slaughter.” “But
when?” “I
presume when she’s ready.” “She
boasted she could complete the coup in a day and the impression I got was that
she could do that on any day.” “Even
if she could, she would want to make sure that she could cripple the Imperial
reaction and that might take time.” “How
much time? She plans to cripple the reaction by using me, but she is making no
effort to do so. There is no sign that she’s trying to build up my importance.
Wherever I go in Wye I’m unrecognized. There are no Wyan crowds gathering to
cheer me. There’s nothing on the news holocasts.” Dors
smiled. “One would almost suppose that your feelings are hurt at not being made
famous. You’re naive, Hari. Or not a historian, which is the same thing. I
think you had better be more pleased that the study of psychohistory will be
bound to make a historian of you than that it may save the Empire. If all human
beings understood history, they might cease making the same stupid mistakes
over and over.” “In
what way am I naive?” asked Seldon lifting his head and staring down his nose
at her. “Don’t
be offended, Hari. I think it’s one of your attractive features, actually.” “I
know. It arouses your maternal instincts and you have been asked to take care
of me. But in what way am I naive?” “In
thinking that Rashelle would try to propagandize the population of the Empire,
generally, into accepting you as seer. She would accomplish nothing in that
way. Quadrillions of people are hard to move quickly. There is social and
psychological inertia, as well as physical inertia. And, by coming out into the
open, she would simply alert Demerzel.” “Then
what is she doing?” “My
guess is that the information about you—suitably exaggerated and glorified—is
going out to a crucial few. It is going to those Viceroys of sectors, those
admirals of fleets, those people of influence she feels look kindly upon her—or
grimly upon the Emperor. A hundred or so of those who might rally to her side
will manage to confuse the Loyalists just long enough to allow Rashelle the
First to set up her New Order firmly enough to beat off whatever resistance
might develop. At least, I imagine that is how she reasons.” “And
yet we haven’t heard from Hummin.” “I’m
sure he must be doing something just the same. This is too important to
ignore.” “Has
it occurred to you that he might be dead?” “That’s
a possibility, but I don’t think so. If he was, the news would reach me.” “Here?” “Even
here.” Seldon
raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Raych
came back in the late afternoon, happy and excited, with descriptions of monkeys
and of Bakarian demoires and he dominated the conversation during dinner. It
was not until after dinner when they were in their own quarters that Dors said,
“Now, tell me what happened with Madam Mayor, Raych. Tell me anything she did
or said that you think we ought to know.” “One
thing,” said Raych, his face lighting up. “That’s why she didn’t show at
dinner, I bet.” “What
was it?” “The
zoo was closed except for us, you know. There were lots of us—Rashelle and me
and all sorts of guys in uniforms and dames in fancy clothes and like that.
Then this guy in a uniform—a different guy, who wasn’t there to begin with—came
in toward the end and he said something in a low voice and Rashelle turned to
all the people and made with her hand like they shouldn’t move and they didn’t.
And she went a little ways away with this new guy, so she could talk to him and
no one could hear her. Except I kept paying no attention and kept looking at
the different cages and sort of moved near to Rashelle so I could hear her. “She
said, ‘How dare they?’ like she was real mad. And the guy in the uniform, he
looked nervous—I just got quick looks because I was trying to make out like I
was watching the animals—so mostly I just heard the words. He said somebody—I
don’t remember the name, but he was a general or somethin’. He said this
general said the officers had sworn religious to Rashelle’s old man—” “Sworn
allegiance,” said Dors. “Somethin’
like that and they was nervous about havin’ to do what a dame says. He said
they wanted the old man or else, if he was kind of sick, he should pick some
guy to be Mayor, not a dame.” “Not
a dame? Are you sure?” “That’s
what he said. He like whispered it. He was so nervous and Rashelle was so mad
she could hardly speak. She said, ‘I’ll have his head. They will all swear
allegiance to me tomorrow and whoever refuses will lave cause to regret it
before an hour has passed.’ That’s exactly what she said. She broke up the
whole party and we all came back and she didn’t say one word to me all the time.
Just sat there, looking kinda mean and angry.” Dors
said, “Good. Don’t you mention this to anyone, Raych.” “Course
not. Is it what you wanted?” “Very
much what I wanted. You did well, Raych. Now, go to your room and forget the
whole thing. Don’t even think about it.” Once
he was gone, Dors turned to Seldon and said, “This is very interesting.
Daughters have succeeded fathers—or mothers, for that matter—and held
Mayoralties or other high offices on any number of occasions. There have even
been reigning Empresses, as you undoubtedly know, and I can’t recall that there
was ever in Imperial history any serious question of serving under one. It
makes one wonder why such a thing should now, arise in Wye.” Seldon
said, “Why not? We’ve only recently been in Mycogen, where women are held in a
total lack of esteem and couldn’t possibly hold positions of power, however
minor.” “Yes,
of course, but that’s an exception. There are other places where women
dominate. For the most part, though, government and power have been more or
less equisexual. If more men tend to hold high positions, it is usually because
women tend to be more bound—biologically—to children.” “But
what is the situation in Wye?” “Equisexual,
as far as I know. Rashelle didn’t hesitate to assume Mayoral power and I
imagine old Mannix didn’t hesitate to grant it to her. And she was surprised
and furious at encountering male dissent. She can’t have expected it.” Seldon
said, “You’re clearly pleased at this. Why?” “Simply
because it’s so unnatural that it must be contrived and I imagine Hummin is
doing the contriving.” Seldon
said thoughtfully, “You think so?” “I
do,” said Dors. “You
know,” said Seldon, “so do I.” 89.It
was their tenth day in Wye and in the morning Hari Seldon’s door signal sounded
and Raych’s high-pitched voice outside was crying out, “Mister! Mister Seldon!
It’s war!” Seldon
took a moment to swap from sleep to wakefulness and scrambled out of bed. He
was shivering slightly (the Wyans liked their domiciles on the chilly side, he
had discovered quite early in his stay there) when he threw the door open. Raych
bounced in, excited and wide-eyed. “Mister Seldon, they have Mannix, the old
Mayor’. They have—” “Who
have, Raych?” “The
Imperials, Their jets came in last night all over. The news holocasts are
telling all about it. It’s on in Missus’s room. She said to let ya sleep, but I
figured ya would wanner know.” “And
you were quite right.” Seldon pausing only tong enough to throw on a bathrobe,
burst into Dors’s room. She was fully dressed and was watching the holo-set in
the alcove. Behind
the clear, small image of a desk sat a man, with the Spaceship-and-Sun sharply
defined on the left-front of his tunic. On either side, two soldiers, also
wearing the Spaceship-and-Sun, stood armed. The officer at the desk was saying,
“—is under the peaceful control of his Imperial Majesty. Mayor Mannix is safe
and well and is in full possession of his Mayoral powers under the guidance of
friendly Imperial troops. He will be before you soon to urge calm on all Wyans
and to ask any Wyan soldiers still in arms to lay them down.” There
were other news holocasts by various newsmen with unemotional voices, all
wearing Imperial armbands. The news was all the same: surrender by this or that
unit of the Wyan security forces after firing a few shots for the record—and
sometimes after no resistance at all. This town center and that town center
were occupied—and there were repeated views of Wyan crowds somberly watching
Imperial forces marching down the streets. Dors
said, “It was perfectly executed, Hari. Surprise was complete. There was no
chance of resistance and none of consequence was offered.” Then
Mayor Mannix IV appeared, as had been promised. He was standing upright and,
perhaps for the sake of appearances, there were no Imperials in sight, though
Seldon was reasonably certain that an adequate number were present just out of
camera range. Mannix
was old, but his strength, though worn, was still apparent. His eyes did not
meet the holo-camera and his words were spoken as though forced upon him—but,
as had been promised, they counseled Wyans to remain calm, to offer no
resistance, to keep Wye from harm, and to cooperate with the Emperor who, it
was hoped, would survive long on the throne. “No
mention of Rashelle,” said Seldon. “It’s as though his daughter doesn’t exist.” “No
one has mentioned her,” said Dors, “and this place, which is, after all, her
residence—or one of them—hasn’t been attacked. Even if she manages to slip away
and take refuge in some neighboring sector, I doubt she will be safe anywhere
on Trantor for long.” “Perhaps
not,” came a voice; “but I’ll be safe here for a little while.” Rashelle
entered. She was properly dressed, properly calm. She was even smiling, but it
was no smile of joy; it was, rather, a cold baring of teeth. The
three stared at her in surprise for a moment and Seldon wondered if she had any
of her servants with her or if they had promptly deserted her at the first sign
of adversity. Dors
said a little coldly, “I see, Madam Mayor, that your hopes for a coup can not
be maintained. Apparently, you have been forestalled.” “I
have not been forestalled. I have been betrayed. My officers have been tampered
with and—against all history and rationality—they have refused to fight for a
woman but only for their old master. And, traitors that they are, they then let
their old master be seized so that he cannot lead them in resistance.” She
looked about for a chair and sat down. “And now the Empire must continue to
decay and die when I was prepared to offer it new life.” “I
think,” said Dors, “the Empire has avoided an indefinite period of useless
fighting and destruction. Console yourself with that, Madam Mayor.” It
was as though Rashelle did not hear her. “So many years of preparation
destroyed in a night.” She
sat there beaten, defeated, and seemed to have aged twenty years. Dors
said, “It could scarcely have been done in a night. The suborning of your
officers—if that took place—must have taken time.” “At
that, Demerzel is a master and quite obviously I underestimated him. How he did
it, I don’t know—threats, bribes, smooth and specious argument. He is a master
at the art of stealth and betrayal—I should have known.” She went on after a
pause. “If this was outright force on his part, I would have had no trouble
destroying anything he sent against us. Who would think that Wye would be
betrayed, that an oath of allegiance would be so lightly thrown aside?” Seldon
said with automatic rationality, “But I imagine the oath was made not to you,
but to your father.” “Nonsense,”
said Rashelle vigorously. “When my father gave me the Mayoral office, as he was
legally entitled to do, he automatically passed on to me any oaths of
allegiance made to him. There is ample precedence for this. It is customary to
have the oath repeated to the new ruler, but that is a ceremony only and not a
legal requirement. My officers know that, though they choose to forget. They
use my womanhood as an excuse because they quake in fear of Imperial vengeance
that would never have come had they been staunch or tremble with greed for
promised rewards they will surely never get—if I know Demerzel.” She turned
sharply toward Seldon. “He wants you, you know. Demerzel struck at us for you.” Seldon
started. “Why me?” “Don’t
be a fool. For the same reason I wanted you ... to use you as a tool, of
course.” She sighed. “At least I am not utterly betrayed. There are still loyal
soldiers to be found.—Sergeant!” Sergeant
Emmer Thalus entered with a soft cautious step that seemed incongruous,
considering his size. His uniform was spruce, his long blond mustache fiercely
curled. “Madam
Mayor,” he said, drawing himself to attention with a snap. He was still, in
appearance, the side of beef that Hari had named him—a man still following
orders blindly, totally oblivious to the new and changed state of affairs. Rashelle
smiled sadly at Raych. “And how are you, little Raych? I had meant to make
something of you. It seems now I won’t be able to.” “Hello,
Missus ... Madam,” said Raych awkwardly. “And
to have made something of you too, Dr. Seldon,” said Rashelle, “and there also
I must crave pardon. I cannot.” “For
me, Madam, you need have no regrets.” “But
I do. I cannot very well let Demerzel have you. That would be one victory too
many for him and at least I can stop that.” “I
would not work for him, Madam, I assure you, any more than I would have worked
for you.” “It
is not a matter of work. It is a matter of being used. Farewell, Dr. Seldon.
Sergeant, blast him.” The
sergeant drew his blaster at once and Dors, with a loud cry, lunged forward—but
Seldon reached out for her and caught her by the elbow. He hung on desperately. “Stay
back, Dors,” he shouted, “or he’ll kill you. He won’t kill me. You too, Raych.
Stand back. Don’t move.” Seldon
faced the sergeant. “You hesitate, Sergeant, because you know you cannot shoot.
I might have killed you ten days ago, but I did not. And you gave me your word
of honor at that time that you would protect me.” “What
are you waiting for?” snapped Rashelle. “I said shoot him down, Sergeant.” Seldon
said nothing more. He stood there while the sergeant, eyes bulging, held his
blaster steady and pointed at Seldon’s head. “You
have your order!” shrieked Rashelle. “I
have your word,” said Seldon quietly. And
Sergeant Thalus said in a choked tone, “Dishonored either way.” His hand fell
and his blaster clanged to the floor. Rashelle
cried out, “Then you too betray me.” Before
Seldon could move or Dors free herself from his grip, Rashelle seized the
blaster, turned it on the sergeant, and closed contact. Seldon had never seen
anyone blasted before. Somehow, from the name of the weapon perhaps, he had
expected a loud noise, an explosion of flesh and blood. This Wyan blaster, at
least, did nothing of the sort. What mangling it did to the organs inside the
sergeant’s chest Seldon could not tell but, without a change in expression,
without a wince of pain, the sergeant crumbled and fell, dead beyond any doubt
or any hope. And
Rashelle turned the blaster on Seldon with a firmness that put to rest any hope
for his own life beyond the next second. It
was Raych, however, who jumped into action the moment the sergeant fell. Racing
between Seldon and Rashelle, he waved his hands wildly. “Missus,
Missus,” he called. “Don’t shoot.” For
a moment, Rashelle looked confused. “Out of the way, Raych. I don’t want to
hurt you.” That
moment of hesitation was all Dors needed. Breaking loose violently, she plunged
toward Rashelle with a long low dive. Rashelle went down with a cry and the
blaster hit the ground a second time. Raych
retrieved it. Seldon,
with a deep and shuddering breath, said, “Raych, give that to me.” But Raych
backed away. “Ya
ain’t gonna kill her, are ya, Mister Seldon? She was nice to me.” “I
won’t kill anyone, Raych,” said Seldon. “She killed the sergeant and would have
killed me, but she didn’t shoot rather than hurt you and we’ll let her live for
that.” It
was Seldon, who now sat down, the blaster held loosely in his hand, while Dors
removed the neuronic whip from the dead sergeant’s other holster. A
new voice rang out. “I’ll take care of her now, Seldon.” Seldon
looked up and in sudden joy said, “Hummin! Finally!” “I’m
sorry it took so long, Seldon. I had a lot to do. How are you, Dr. Venabili? I
take it this is Mannix’s daughter, Rashelle. But who is the boy?” “Raych
is a young Dahlite friend of ours,” said Seldon. Soldiers
were entering and, at a small gesture from Hummin, they lifted Rashelle
respectfully. Dors,
able to suspend her intent surveillance of the other woman, brushed at her
clothes with her hands and smoothed her blouse. Seldon suddenly realized that
he was still in his bathrobe. Rashelle,
shaking herself loose from the soldiers with contempt, pointed to Hummin and
said to Seldon, “Who is this?” Seldon
said, “It is Chetter Hummin, a friend of mine and my protector on this planet.” “Your
protector.” Rashelle laughed madly. “You fool! You idiot! That man is Demerzel
and if you look at your Venabili woman, you will see from her face that she is
perfectly aware of that. You have been trapped all along, far worse than ever
you were with me!” 90.Hummin
and Seldon sat at lunch that day, quite alone, a pall of quiet between them for
the most part. It was toward the end of the meal that Seldon stirred and said
in a lively voice, “Well, sir, how do I address you? I think of you as ‘Chester
Hummin’ still, but even if I accept you in your other persona, I surely cannot
address you as ‘Eto Demerzel.’ In that capacity, you have a title and I don’t
know the proper usage. Instruct me.” The
other said gravely, “Call me ‘Hummin’—if you don’t mind. Or ‘Chetter.’ Yes, I
am Eto Demerzel, but with respect to you I am Hummin. As a matter of fact, the
two are not distinct. I told you that the Empire is decaying and failing. I
believe that to be true in both my capacities. I told you that I wanted
psychohistory as a way of preventing that decay and failure or of bringing
about a renewal and reinvigoration if the decay and failure must run its
course. I believe that in both my capacities too.” “But
you had me in your grip—I presume you were in the vicinity when I had my
meeting with His Imperial Majesty.” “With
Cleon. Yes, of course.” “And
you might have spoken to me, then, exactly as you later did as Hummin.” “And
accomplished what? As Demerzel, I have enormous tasks. I have to handle Cleon,
a well-meaning but not very capable ruler, and prevent him, insofar as I can,
from making mistakes. I have to do my bit in governing Trantor and the Empire
too. And, as you see, I had to spend a great deal of time in preventing Wye
from doing harm.” “Yes,
I know,” murmured Seldon. “It
wasn’t easy and I nearly lost out. I have spent years sparring carefully with
Mannix, learning to understand his thinking and planning a countermove to his
every move. I did not think, at any time, that while he was still alive he
would pass on his powers to his daughter. I had not studied her and I was not
prepared for her utter lack of caution. Unlike her father, she has been brought
up to take power for granted and had no clear idea of its limitations. So she
got you and forced me to act before I was quite ready.” “You
almost lost me as a result. I faced the muzzle of a blaster twice.” “I
know,” said Hummin, nodding. “And we might have lost you Upperside too—another
accident I could not foresee.” “But
you haven’t really answered my question. Why did you send me chasing all over
the face of Trantor to escape from Demerzel when you yourself were Demerzel?” “You
told Cleon that psychohistory was a purely theoretical concept, a kind of
mathematical game that made no practical sense. That might indeed have been so,
but if I approached you officially, I was sure you would merely have maintained
your belief. Yet I was attracted to the notion of psychohistory. I wondered
whether it might not be, after all, just a game. You must understand that I
didn’t want merely to use you, I wanted a real and practical psychohistory. “So
I sent you, as you put it, chasing all over the face of Trantor with the
dreaded Demerzel close on your heels at all times. That, I felt, would
concentrate your mind powerfully. It would make psychohistory something
exciting and much more than a mathematical game. You would try to work it out
for the sincere idealist Hummin, where you would not for the Imperial flunky
Demerzel. Also, you would get a glimpse of various sides of Trantor and that
too would be helpful—certainly more helpful than living in an ivory tower on a
far-off planet, surrounded entirely by fellow mathematicians. Was I right? Have
you made progress?” Seldon
said, “In psychohistory? Yes, I did, Hummin. I thought you knew.” “How
should I know?” “I
told Dors.” “But
you hadn’t told me. Nevertheless, you tell me so now. That is good news.” “Not
entirely,” said Seldon. “I have made only the barest beginning. But it is a
beginning.” “Is
it the kind of beginning that can be explained to a nonmathematician?” “I
think so. You see, Hummin, from the start I have seen psychohistory as a
science that depends on the interaction of twenty-five million worlds, each
with an average population of four thousand million. It’s too much. There’s no
way of handling something that complex. If I was to succeed at all, if there
was to be any way of finding a useful psychohistory, I would first have to find
a simpler system. “So
I thought I would go back in time and deal with a single world, a world that
was the only one occupied by humanity in the dim age before the colonization of
the Galaxy. In Mycogen they spoke of an original world of Aurora and in Dahl I
heard word of an original world of Earth. I thought they might be the same
world under different names, but they were sufficiently different in one key
point, at least, to make that impossible. And it didn’t matter. So little was
known of either one, and that little so obscured by myth and legend, that there
was no hope of making use of psychohistory in connection with them.” He
paused to sip at his cold juice, keeping his eyes firmly on Hummin’s face. Hummin
said, “Well? What then?” “Meanwhile,
Dors had told me something I call the hand-on-thigh story. It was of no innate
significance, merely a humorous and entirely trivial tale. As a result, though,
Dors mentioned the different sex mores on various worlds and in various sectors
of Trantor. It occurred to me that she treated the different Trantorian sectors
as though they were separate worlds. I thought, idly, that instead of
twenty-five million different worlds, I had twenty-five million plus eight
hundred to deal with. It seemed a trivial difference, so I forgot it and
thought no more about it. “But
as I traveled from the Imperial Sector to Streeling to Mycogen to Dahl to Wye,
I observed for myself how different each was. The thought of Trantor—not as a
world but as a complex of worlds—grew stronger, but still I didn’t see the
crucial point. “It
was only when I listened to Rashelle—you see, it was good that I was finally
captured by Wye and it was good that Rashelle’s rashness drove her into the
grandiose schemes that she imparted to me—When I listened to Rashelle, as I
said, she told me that all she wanted was Trantor and some immediately adjacent
worlds. It was an Empire in itself, she said, and dismissed the outer worlds as
‘distant nothings.’ “It
was then that, in a moment, I saw what I must have been harboring in my hidden
thoughts for a considerable time. On the one hand, Trantor possessed an
extraordinarily complex social system, being a populous world made up of eight
hundred smaller worlds. It was in itself a system complex enough to make
psychohistory meaningful and yet it was simple enough, compared to the Empire
as a whole, to make psychohistory perhaps practical. “And
the Outer Worlds, the twenty-five million of them? They were ‘distant
nothings.’ Of course, they affected Trantor and were affected by Trantor, but
these were second-order effects. If I could make psychohistory work as a first
approximation for Trantor alone, then the minor effects of the Outer Worlds
could be added as later modifications. Do you see what I mean? I was searching
for a single world on which to establish a practical science of psychohistory
and I was searching for it in the far past, when all the time the single world
I wanted was under my feet now.” Hummin
said with obvious relief and pleasure, “Wonderful!” “But
it’s all left to do, Hummin. I must study Trantor in sufficient detail. I must
devise the necessary mathematics to deal with it. If I am lucky and live out a
full lifetime, I may have the answers before I die. If not, my successors will
have to follow me. Conceivably, the Empire may have fallen and splintered
before psychohistory becomes a useful technique.” “I
will do everything I can to help you.” “I
know it,” said Seldon. “You
trust me, then, despite the fact I am Demerzel?” “Entirely.
Absolutely. But I do so because you are not Demerzel.” “But
I am,” insisted Hummin. “But
you are not. Your persona as Demerzel is as far removed from the truth as is
your persona as Hummin.” “What
do you mean?” Hummin’s eyes grew wide and he backed away slightly from Seldon. “I
mean that you probably chose the name ‘Hummin’ out of a wry sense of what was
fitting. ‘Hummin’ is a mispronunciation of ‘human,’ isn’t it?” Hummin made no
response. He continued to stare at Seldon. And
finally Seldon said, “Because you’re not human, are you, ‘Hummin/Demerzel’?
You’re a robot.” DorsSELDON,
HARI— ... it is customary to think of Hari Seldon only in connection with
psychohistory, to see him only as mathematics and social change personified.
There is no doubt that he himself encouraged this for at no time in his formal
writings did he give any hint as to how he came to solve the various problems
of psychohistory. His leaps of thought might have all been plucked from air,
for all he tells us. Nor does he tell us of the blind alleys into which he
crept or the wrong turnings he may have made. ... As for
his private life, it is a blank. Concerning his parents and siblings, we know a
handful of factors, no more. His only son, Raych Seldon, is known to have been
adopted, but how that came about is not known. Concerning his wife, we only
know that she existed. Clearly, Seldon wanted to be a cipher except where
psychohistory was concerned. It is as though he felt—or wanted it to be
felt—that he did not live, he merely psychohistorified. ENCYCLOPEDIA
GALACTICA 91.Hummin
sat calmly, not a muscle twitching, still looking at Hari Seldon and Seldon,
for his part, waited. It was Hummin, he thought, who should speak next. Hummin
did, but said merely, “A robot? Me?—By robot, I presume you mean an artificial
being such as the object you saw in the Sacratorium in Mycogen.” “Not
quite like that,” said Seldon. “Not
metal? Not burnished? Not a lifeless simulacrum?” Hummin said it without any
evidence of amusement. “No.
To be of artificial life is not necessarily to be made of metal. I speak of a
robot indistinguishable from a human being in appearance.’. “If
indistinguishable, Hari, then how do you distinguish?” “Not
by appearance.” “Explain.” “Hummin,
in the course of my flight from yourself as Demerzel, I heard of two ancient
worlds, as I told you—Aurora and Earth. Each seemed to be spoken of as a first
world or an only world. In both cases, robots were spoken of, but with a
difference.” Seldon
was staring thoughtfully at the man across the table, wondering if, in any way,
he would give some sign that he was less than a man—or more. He said, “Where
Aurora was in question, one robot was spoken of as a renegade, a traitor,
someone who deserted the cause. Where Earth was in question, one robot was
spoken of as a hero, one who represented salvation. Was it too much to suppose
that it was the same robot?” “Was
it?” murmured Hummin. “This
is what I thought, Hummin. I thought that Earth and Aurora were two separate
worlds, co-existing in time. I don’t know which one preceded the other. From
the arrogance and the conscious sense of superiority of the Mycogenians, I
might suppose that Aurora was the original world and that they despised the
Earthmen who derived from them—or who degenerated from them. “On
the other hand, Mother Rittah, who spoke to me of Earth, was convinced that
Earth was the original home of humanity and, certainly, the tiny and isolated
position of the Mycogenians in a whole galaxy of quadrillions of people who
lack the strange Mycogenian ethos might mean that Earth was indeed the original
home and that Aurora was the aberrant offshoot. I cannot tell, but I pass on to
you my thinking, so that you will understand my final conclusions.” Hummin
nodded. “I see what you are doing. Please continue.” “The
worlds were enemies. Mother Rittah certainly made it sound so. When I compare
the Mycogenians, who seem to embody Aurora, and the Dahlites, who seem to
embody Earth, I imagine that Aurora, whether first or second, was nevertheless
the one that was more advanced, the one that could produce more elaborate
robots, even ones indistinguishable from human beings in appearance. Such a
robot was designed and devised in Aurora, then. But he was a renegade, so he
deserted Aurora. To the Earthpeople he was a hero, so he must have joined
Earth. Why he did this, what his motives were, I can’t say.” Hummin
said, “Surely, you mean why it did this, what its motives were.” “Perhaps,
but with you sitting across from me,” said Seldon, “I find it difficult to use
the inanimate pronoun. Mother Rittah was convinced that the heroic robot—her
heroic robot—still existed, that he would return when he was needed. It seemed
to me that there was nothing impossible in the thought of an immortal robot or
at least one who was immortal as long as the replacement of worn-out parts was
not neglected.” “Even
the brain?” asked Hummin. “Even
the brain. I don’t really know anything about robots, but I imagine a new brain
could be re-recorded from the old.—And Mother Rittah hinted of strange mental
powers.—I thought: It must be so. I may, in some ways, be a romantic, but I am
not so much a romantic as to think that one robot, by switching from one side
to the other, can alter the course of history. A robot could not make Earth’s
victory sure, nor Aurora’s defeat certain—unless there was something strange, something
peculiar about the robot.” Hummin
said, “Does it occur to you, Hari, that you are dealing with legends, legends
that may have been distorted over the centuries and the millennia, even to the
extent of building a veil of the supernatural over quite ordinary events? Can
you make yourself believe in a robot that not only seems human, but that also
lives forever and has mental powers? Are you not beginning to believe in the
superhuman?” “I
know very well what legends are and I am not one to be taken in by them and
made to believe in fairy tales. Still, when they are supported by certain odd
events that I have seen—and even experienced myself—” “Such
as?” “Hummin,
I met you and trusted you from the start. Yes, you helped me against those two
hoodlums when you didn’t need to and that predisposed me in your favor, since I
didn’t realize at the time that they were your hirelings, doing what you had
instructed them to do.—But never mind that.” “No,”
said Hummin, a hint of amusement—finally—in his voice. “I
trusted you. I was easily convinced not to go home to Helicon and to make
myself a wanderer over the face of Trantor. I believed everything you told me
without question. I placed myself entirely in your hands. Looking back on it
now, I see myself as not myself. I am not a person to be so easily led, yet I
was. More than that, I did not even think it strange that I was behaving so far
out of character.” “You
know yourself best, Hari.” “It
wasn’t only me. How is it that Dors Venabili, a beautiful woman with a career
of her own, should abandon that career in order to join me in my flight? How is
it that she should risk her life to save mine, seeming to take on, as a kind of
holy duty, the cask of protecting me and becoming single-minded in the process?
Was it simply because you asked her to?” “I
did ask her to, Hari.” “Yet
she does not strike me as the kind of person to make such a radical changeover
in her life merely because someone asks her to. Nor could I believe it was
because she had fallen madly in love with me at first sight and could not help
herself. I somehow wish she had, but she seems quite the mistress of her
emotional self, more—I am now speaking to you frankly—than I myself am with
respect to her.” “She
is a wonderful woman,” said Hummin. “I don’t blame you.” Seldon
went on. “How is it, moreover, that Sunmaster Fourteen, a monster of arrogance
and one who leads a people who are themselves stiff-necked in their own
conceit, should be willing to take in tribespeople like Dors and myself and to
treat us as well as the Mycogenians could and did? When we broke every rule,
committed every sacrilege, how is it that you could still talk him into letting
us go? “How
could you talk the Tisalvers, with their petty prejudices, into taking us in?
How can you be at home everywhere in the world, be friends with everyone,
influence each person, regardless of their individual peculiarities? For that
matter, how do you manage to manipulate Cleon too? And if he is viewed as
malleable and easily molded, then how were you able to handle his father, who
by all accounts was a rough and arbitrary tyrant? How could you do all this? “Most
of all, how is it that Mannix IV of Wye could spend decades building an army
without peer, one trained to be proficient in every detail, and yet have it
fall apart when his daughter tries to make use of it? How could you persuade
them to play the Renegade, all of them, as you have done?” Hummin
said, “Might this mean no more than that I am a tactful person used to dealing
with people of different types, that I am in a position to have done favors for
crucial people and am in a position to do additional favors in the future?
Nothing I have done, it might seem, requires the supernatural.” “Nothing
you have done? Not even the neutralization of the Wyan army?” “They
did not wish to serve a woman.” “They
must have known for years that any time Mannix laid down his powers or any time
he died, Rashelle would be their Mayor, yet they showed no signs of
discontent—until you felt it necessary that they show it. Dors described you at
one time as a very persuasive man. And so you are. More persuasive than any man
could be. But you are not more persuasive than an immortal robot with strange
mental powers might be.—Well, Hummin?” Hummin
said, “What is it you expect of me, Hari? Do you expect me to admit I’m a
robot? That I only look like a human being? That I am immortal? That I am a
mental marvel?!” Seldon
leaned toward Hummin as he sat there on the opposite side of the table. “Yes,
Hummin, I do. I expect you to tell me the truth and I strongly suspect that
what you have just outlined is the truth. You, Hummin, are the robot that
Mother Rittah referred to as Da-Nee, friend of Ba-Lee. You must admit it. You
have no choice.” 92.It
was as though they were sitting in a tiny Universe of their own. There, in the
middle of Wye, with the Wyan army being disarmed by Imperial force, they sat
quietly. There, in the midst of events that all of Trantor—and perhaps all the
Galaxy—was watching, there was this small bubble of utter isolation within
which Seldon and Hummin were playing their game of attack and defense—Seldon
trying hard to force a new reality, Hummin making no move to accept that new
reality. Seldon had no fear of interruption. He was certain that the bubble within
which they sat had a boundary that could not be penetrated, that Hummin’s—no,
the robot’s—powers would keep all at a distance till the game was over. Hummin
finally said, “You are an ingenious fellow, Hari, but I fail to see why I must
admit that I am a robot and why I have no choice but to do so. Everything you
say may be true as facts—your own behavior, Dors’s behavior, Sunmaster’s,
Tisalver’s, the Wyan generals’—all, all may have happened as you said, but that
doesn’t force your interpretation of the meaning of the events to be true.
Surely, everything that happened can have a natural explanation. You trusted me
because you accepted what I said; Dors felt your safety to be important because
she felt psychohistory to be crucial, herself being a historian; Sunmaster and
Tisalver were beholden to me for favors you know nothing of, the Wyan generals
resented being ruled by a woman, no more. Why must we flee to the
supernatural?” Seldon
said, “See here, Hummin, do you really believe the Empire to be falling and do
you really consider it important that it not be allowed to do so with no move
made to save it or, at the least, cushion its Fall?” “I
really do.” Somehow Seldon knew this statement was sincere. “And you really
want me to work out the details of psychohistory and you feel that you yourself
cannot do it?” “I
lack the capability.” “And
you feel that only I can handle psychohistory—even if I sometimes doubt it
myself?” “Yes.” “And
you must therefore feel that if you can possibly help me in any way, you must.” “I
do.” “Personal
feelings—selfish considerations—could play no part?” A faint and brief smile
passed over Hummin’s grave face and for a moment Seldon sensed a vast and arid
desert of weariness behind Hummin’s quiet manner. “I have built a long career
on paying no heed to personal feelings or to selfish considerations.” “Then
I ask your help. I can work out psychohistory on the basis of Trantor alone,
but I will run into difficulties. Those difficulties I may overcome, but how
much easier it would be to do so if I knew certain key facts. For instance, was
Earth or Aurora the first world of humanity or was it some other world
altogether? What was the relationship between Earth and Aurora? Did either or
both colonize the Galaxy? If one, why didn’t the other? If both, how was the
issue decided? Are there worlds descended from both or from only one? How did
robots come to be abandoned? How did Trantor become the Imperial world, rather
than another planet? What happened to Aurora and Earth in the meantime? There
are a thousand questions I might ask right now and a hundred thousand that
might arise as I go along. Would you allow me to remain ignorant, Hummin, and
fail in my task when you could inform me and help me succeed?” Hummin
said, “If I were the robot, would I have room in my brain for all of twenty
thousand years of history for millions of different worlds?” “I
don’t know the capacity of robotic brains. I don’t know the capacity of yours.
But if you lack the capacity, then you must have that information which you
cannot hold safely recorded in a place and in a way that would make it possible
for you to call upon it. And if you have it and I need information, how can you
deny and withhold it from me? And if you cannot withhold it from me, how can
you deny that you are a robot—that robot the Renegade?” Seldon
sat back and took a deep breath. “So I ask you again: Are you that robot? If
you want psychohistory, then you must admit it. If you still deny you are a
robot and if you convince me you are not, then my chances at psychohistory
become much, much smaller. It is up to you, then. Are you a robot? Are you
Da-Nee?” And
Hummin said, as imperturbable as ever. “Your arguments are irrefutable. I am R.
Daneel Olivaw. The ‘R’ stands for ‘robot.’ ” 93.R.
Daneel Olivaw still spoke quietly, but it seemed to Seldon that there was a
subtle change in his voice, as though he spoke more easily now that he was no
longer playing a part. “In
twenty thousand years,” said Daneel, “no one has guessed I was a robot when it
was not my intention to have him or her know. In part, that was because human
beings abandoned robots so long ago that very few remember that they even
existed at one time. And in part, it is because I do have the ability to detect
and affect human emotion. The detection offers no trouble, but to affect
emotion is difficult for me for reasons having to do with my robotic
nature—although I can do it when I wish. I have the ability but must deal with
my will not to use it. I try never to interfere except when I have no choice
but to do so. And when I do interfere, it is rarely that I do more than
strengthen, as little as I can, what is already there. If I can achieve my
purposes without doing even so much, I avoid it. “It
was not necessary to tamper with Sunmaster Fourteen in order to have him accept
you—I call it ‘tampering,’ you notice, because it is not a pleasant thing to
do. I did not have to tamper with him because he did owe me for favors rendered
and he is an honorable man, despite the peculiarities you found in him. I did
interfere the second time, when you had committed sacrilege in his eyes, but it
took very little. He was not anxious to hand you over to the Imperial
authorities, whom he does not like. I merely strengthened the dislike a trifle
and he handed you over to my care, accepting the arguments I offered, which
otherwise he might have considered specious. “Nor
did I tamper with you noticeably. You distrusted the Imperials too. Most human
beings do these days, which is an important factor in the decay and
deterioration of the Empire. What’s more, you were proud of psychohistory as a
concept, proud of having thought of it. You would not have minded having it
prove to be a practical discipline. That would have further fed your pride.”
Seldon frowned and said, “Pardon me, Master Robot, but I am not aware that I am
quite such a monster of pride.” Daneel
said mildly, “You are not a monster of pride at all. You are perfectly aware
that [it] is neither admirable nor useful to be driven by pride, so you try to
subdue that drive, but you might as well disapprove of having yourself powered
by your heartbeat. You cannot help either fact. Though you hide your pride from
yourself for the sake of your own peace of mind, you cannot hide it from me. It
is there, however carefully you mask it over. And I had but to strengthen it a
touch and you were at once willing to take measures to hide from Demerzel,
measures that a moment before you would have resisted. And you were eager to
work at psychohistory with an intensity that a moment before you would have
scorned. “I
saw no necessity to touch anything else and so you have reasoned out your
robothood. Had I foreseen the possibility of that, I might have stopped it, but
my foresight and my abilities are not infinite. Nor am I sorry now that I
failed, for your arguments are good ones and it is important that you know who
I am and that I use what I am to help you. “Emotions,
my dear Seldon are a powerful engine of human action, far more powerful than
human beings themselves realize, and you cannot know how much can be done with
the merest touch and how reluctant I am to do it.” Seldon
was breathing heavily, trying to see himself as a man driven by pride and not
liking it. “Why reluctant?” “Because
it would be so easy to overdo. I had to stop Rashelle from converting the
Empire into a feudal anarchy. I might have bent minds quickly and the result
might well have been a bloody uprising. Men are men—and the Wyan generals are
almost all men. It does not actually take much to rouse resentment and latent
fear of women in any man. It may be a biological matter that I, as a robot,
cannot fully understand. “I
had but to strengthen the feeling to produce a breakdown in her plans. If I had
done it the merest millimeter too much, I would have lost what I wanted—a
bloodless takeover. I wanted nothing more than to have them not resist when my
soldiers arrived.” Daneel
paused, as though trying to pick his words, then said, “I do not wish to go
into the mathematics of my positronic brain. It is more than I can understand,
though perhaps not more than you can if you give it enough thought. However, I
am governed by the Three Laws of Robotics that are traditionally put into
words—or once were, long ago. They are these: “
‘One. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human
being to come to harm. “
‘Two. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings, except where such
orders would conflict with the First Law. “
‘Three. A robot must protect its own existence, as long as such protection does
not conflict with the First or Second Law.’ “But
I had a ... a friend twenty thousand years ago. Another robot. Not like myself.
He could not be mistaken for a human being, but it was he who had the mental
powers and it was through him that I gained mine. “It seemed to him that there
should be a still more general rule than any of the Three Laws. He called it
the Zeroth Law, since zero comes before one. It is: “
‘Zero. A robot may not injure humanity or, through inaction, allow humanity to
come to harm.’ “Then
the First Law must read: “
‘One. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human
being to come to harm, except where that would conflict with the Zeroth Law.’ “And
the other laws must be similarly modified. Do you understand?” Daneel
paused earnestly and Seldon said, “I understand.” Daneel went on. “The trouble
is, Hari, that a human being is easy to identify. I can point to one. It is
easy to see what will harm a human being and what won’t—relatively easy, at
least. But what is humanity? To what can we point when we speak of humanity?
And how can we define harm to humanity? When will a course of action do more
good than harm to humanity as a whole and how can one tell? The robot who first
advanced the Zeroth law died—became permanently inactive—because he was forced
into an action that he felt would save humanity, yet which he could not be sure
would save humanity. And as he became inactivated, he left the care of the
Galaxy to me. “Since
then, I have tried. I have interfered as little as possible, relying on human
beings themselves to judge what was for the good. They could gamble; I could
not. They could miss their goals; I did not dare. They could do harm
unwittingly; I would grow inactive if I did. The Zeroth Law makes no allowance
for unwitting harm. “But
at times I am forced to take action. That I am still functioning shows that my
actions have been moderate and discreet. However, as the Empire began to fail
and to decline, I have had to interfere more frequently and for decades now I
have had to play the role of Demerzel, trying to run the government in such a
way as to stave off ruin—and yet I will function, you see. “When
you made your speech to the Decennial Convention, I realized at once that in psychohistory
there was a tool that might make it possible to identify what was good and bad
for humanity. With it, the decisions we would make would be less blind. I would
even trust to human beings to make those decisions and again reserve myself
only for the greatest emergencies. So I arranged quickly to have Cleon learn of
your speech and call you in. Then, when I heard your denial of the worth of
psychohistory, I was forced to think of some way to make you try anyway. Do you
understand, Hari?” More
than a little daunted, Seldon said, “I understand, Hummin.” “To
you, I must remain Hummin on those rare occasions when I will be able to see
you. I will give you what information I have if it is something you need and in
my persona as Demerzel I will protect you as much as I can. As Daneel, you must
never speak of me.” “I
wouldn’t want to,” said Seldon hurriedly. “Since I need your help, it would
ruin matters to have your plans impeded.” “Yes,
I know you wouldn’t want to.” Daneel smiled wearily. “After all, you are vain
enough to want full credit for psychohistory. You would not want anyone to
know—ever—that you needed the help of a robot.” Seldon
flushed. “I am not—” “But
you are, even if you carefully hide it from yourself. And it is important, for
I am strengthening that emotion within you minimally so that you will never be
able to speak of me to others. It will not even occur to you that you might do
so.” Seldon
said, “I suspect Dors knows—” “She
knows of me. And she too cannot speak of me to others. Now that you both know
of my nature, you can speak of me to each other freely, but not to anyone
else.” Daneel
rose.—Hari, I have my work to do now. Before long, you and Dors will be taken
back to the Imperial Sector—” “The
boy Raych must come with me. I cannot abandon him. And there is a young Dahlite
named Yugo Amaryl—” “I
understand. Raych will be taken too and you can do with any friend as you will.
You will all be taken care of appropriately. And you will work on
psychohistory. You will have a staff. You will have the necessary computers and
reference material. I will interfere as little as possible and if there is
resistance to your views that does not actually reach the point of endangering
the mission, then you will have to deal with it yourself.” “Wait,
Hummin,” said Seldon urgently. “What if, despite all your help and all my
endeavors, it turns out that psychohistory cannot be made into a practical
device after all? What if I fail?” Daneel
rose. “In that case, I have a second plan in hand. One I have been working on a
long time on a separate world in a separate way. It too is very difficult and
to some ways even more radical than psychohistory. It may fail too, but there
is a greater chance of success if two roads are open than if either one alone
was. “Take
my advice, Hari! If the time comes when you are able to set up some device that
may act to prevent the worst from happening see if you can think of two
devices, so that if one fails, the other will carry on. The Empire must be
steadied or rebuilt on a new foundation. Let there be two such, rather than
one, if that is possible.” He
rose, “Now I must return to my ordinary work and you must turn to yours. You
will be taken care of.” With
one final nod, he rose and left. Seldon
looked after him and said softly, “First I must speak to Dors.” 94.Dors
said, “The palace is cleared. Rashelle will not be physically harmed. And
you’ll return to the Imperial Sector, Hari.” “And
you, Dors?” said Seldon in a low tight voice. “I
presume I will go back to the University,” she said. “My work is being
neglected, my classes abandoned.” “No,
Dors, you have a greater task.” “What
is that?” “Psychohistory.
I cannot tackle the project without you.” “Of
course you can. I am a total illiterate in mathematics.” “And
I in history—and we need both.” Dors
laughed. “I suspect that, as a mathematician, you are one of a kind. I, as a
historian, am merely adequate, certainly not outstanding. You will find any
number of historians who will suit the needs of psychohistory better than I
do.” “In
that case, Dors, let me explain that psychohistory needs more than a
mathematician and a historian. It also needs the will to tackle what will
probably be a lifetime problem. Without you, Dors, I will not have that will.” “Of
course you’ll have it.” “Dors,
if you’re not with me, I don’t intend to have it.” Dors
looked at Seldon thoughtfully. “This is a fruitless discussion, Hari.
Undoubtedly, Hummin will make the decision. If he sends me back to the
University.” “He
won’t.” “How
can you be sure?” “Because
I’ll put it to him plainly. If he sends you back to the University, I’ll go
back to Helicon and the Empire can go ahead and destroy itself.” “You
can’t mean it.” “But
I certainly do.” “Don’t
you realize that Hummin can arrange to have your feelings change so that you
will work on psychohistory—even without me?” Seldon
shook his head. “Hummin will not make such an arbitrary decision. I’ve spoken
to him. He dares not do much to the human mind because he is bound by what he
calls the Laws of Robotics. To change my mind to the point where I will not
want you with me, Dors, would mean a change of the kind he can not risk. On the
other hand, if he leaves me alone and if you join me in the project, he will
have what he wants—a true chance at psychohistory. Why should he not settle for
that?” Dors
shook her head. “He may not agree for reasons of his own.” “Why
should he disagree? You were asked to protect me, Dors. Has Hummin canceled
that request?” “No.” “Then
he wants you to continue your protection. And I want your protection.” “Against
what? You now have Hummin’s protection, both as Demerzel and as Daneel, and
surely that is all you need.” “If
I had the protection of every person and every force in the Galaxy, it would
still be yours I would want.” “Then
you don’t want me for psychohistory. You want me for protection.” Seldon
scowled. “No! Why are you twisting my words? Why are you forcing me to say what
you must know? It is neither psychohistory nor protection I want you for. Those
are excuses and I’ll use any other I need. I want you—just you. And if you want
the real reason, it is because you are you.” “You
don’t even know me.” “That
doesn’t matter. I don’t care.—And yet I do know you in a way. Better than you
think.” “Do
you indeed?” “Of
course. You follow orders and you risk your life without hesitation and with no
apparent care for the consequences. You learned how to play tennis so quickly.
You learned how to use knives even more quickly and you handled yourself
perfectly in the fight with Marron. Inhumanly—if I may say so. Your muscles are
amazingly strong and your reaction time is amazingly fast. You can somehow tell
when a room is being eavesdropped and you can be in touch with Hummin in some
way that does not involve instrumentation.” Dors
said, “And what do you think of all that?” “It
has occurred to me that Hummin, in his persona as R. Daneel Olivaw, has an
impossible task. How can one robot try to guide the Empire? He must have
helpers.” “That
is obvious. Millions, I should imagine. I am a helper. You are a helper. Little
Raych is a helper.” “You
are a different kind of helper.” “In
what way? Hari, say it. If you hear yourself say it, you will realize how crazy
it is.” Seldon
looked long at her and then said in a low voice, “I will not say it because ...
I don’t care.” “You
really don’t? You wish to take me as I am?” “I
will take you as I must. You are Dors and, whatever else you are, in all the
world I want nothing else.” Dors
said softly, “Hari, I want what is good for you because of what I am, but I feel
that if I wasn’t what I am, I would still want what is good for you. And I
don’t think I am good for you.” “Good
for me or bad, I don’t care.” Here Hari looked down as he paced a few steps,
weighing what he would say next. “Dors, have you ever been kissed?” “Of
course, Hari. It’s a social part of life and I live socially.” “No,
no! I mean, have you ever really kissed a man? You know, passionately?” “Well
yes, Hari, I have.” “Did
you enjoy it?” Dors
hesitated. She said, “When I’ve kissed in that way, I enjoyed it more than I
would have enjoyed disappointing a young man I liked, someone whose friendship
meant something to me.” At this point, Dors blushed and she turned her face
away. “Please, Hari, this is difficult for me to explain.” But
Hari, more determined now than ever, pressed further. “So you kissed for the
wrong reasons, then, to avoid hurt feelings.” “Perhaps
everyone does, in a sense.” Seldon
mulled this over, then said suddenly, “Did you ever ask to be kissed?” Dors
paused, as though looking back on her life. “No.” “Or
wish to be kissed again, once you had?” “No.” “Have
you ever slept with a man?” he asked softly, desperately. “Of
course. I told you. These things are a part of life.” Hari
gripped her shoulders as if he was going to shake her. “But have you ever felt
the desire, a need for that kind of closeness with just one special person?
Dors, have you ever felt love.” Dors
looked up slowly, almost sadly, and locked eyes with Seldon. “I’m sorry, Hari,
but no.” Seldon
released her, letting his arms fall dejectedly to his sides. Then Dors placed
her hand gently on his arm and said, “So you see, Hari. I’m not really what you
want.” Seldon’s
head drooped and he stared at the floor. He weighed the matter and tried to
think rationally. Then he gave up. He wanted what he wanted and he wanted it
beyond thought and beyond rationality. He looked up. “Dors,
dear, even so, I don’t care.” Seldon put his arms around her and brought his
head close to hers slowly, as though waiting for her to pull away, all the while
drawing her nearer. Dors
made no move and he kissed her—slowly, lingeringly, and then passionately—and
her arms suddenly tightened around him. When he stopped at last, she looked at
him with eyes that mirrored her smile and she said: “Kiss
me again, Hari. Please.” THE END. |
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