Prelude to Foundation f-1 Read online

  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 remembered 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 cannot 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 as 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.

  Seldo
n 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, “It’s 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 it’s 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.”

  HEATSINK

  AMARYL, 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.