Forward the Foundation f-2 Read online

  “No, Hari. I’m trying to explain. We both know that you understand it. You must have minimalism because every change, any change, has myriad side effects that can’t always be allowed for. If the change is too great and the side effects too many, then it becomes certain that the outcome will be far removed from anything you’ve planned and that it would be entirely unpredictable.”

  “Right,” said Seldon. “That’s the essence of a chaotic effect. The problem is whether any change is small enough to make the consequence reasonably predictable or whether human history is inevitably and unalterably chaotic in every respect. It was that which, at the start, made me think that psychohistory was not—”

  “I know, but you’re not letting me make my point. Whether any change would be small enough is not the issue. The point is that any change greater than the minimal is chaotic. The required minimum may be zero, but if it is not zero, then it is still very small—and it would be a major problem to find some change that is small enough and yet is significantly greater than zero. Now, that, I gather, is what you mean by the necessity of minimalism.”

  “More or less,” said Seldon. “Of course, as always, the matter is expressed more compactly and more rigorously in the language of mathematics. See here—”

  “Save me,” said Dors. “Since you know this about psychohistory, Hari, you ought to know it about Demerzel, too. You have the knowledge but not the understanding, because it apparently doesn’t occur to you to apply the rules of psychohistory to the Laws of Robotics.”

  To which Seldon replied faintly, “Now I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “He requires minimality, too, doesn’t he, Hari? By the First Law of Robotics, a robot can’t harm a human being. That is the prime rule for the usual robot, but Demerzel is something quite unusual and for him, the Zeroth Law is a reality and it takes precedence even over the First Law. The Zeroth Law states that a robot can’t harm humanity as a whole. But that puts Demerzel into the same bind in which you exist when you labor at psychohistory. Do you see?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “I hope so. If Demerzel has the ability to change minds, he has to do so without bringing about side effects he does not wish—and since he is the Emperor’s First Minister, the side effects he must worry about are numerous, indeed.”

  “And the application to the present case?”

  “Think about it! You can’t tell anyone—except me, of course—that Demerzel is a robot, because he has adjusted you so that you can’t. But how much adjustment did that take? Do you want to tell people that he is a robot? Do you want to ruin his effectiveness when you depend on him for protection, for support of your grants, for influence quietly exerted on your behalf? Of course not. The change he had to make then was a very tiny one, just enough to keep you from blurting it out in a moment of excitement or carelessness. It is so small a change that there are no particular side effects. That is how Demerzel tries to run the Empire generally.”

  “And the case of Joranum?”

  “Is obviously completely different from yours. He is, for whatever motives, unalterably opposed to Demerzel. Undoubtedly, Demerzel could change that, but it would be at the price of introducing a considerable wrench in Joranum’s makeup that would bring about results Demerzel could not predict. Rather than take the chance of harming Joranum, of producing side effects that would harm others and, possibly, all of humanity, he must leave Joranum alone until he can find some small change—some small change—that will save the situation without harm. That is why Yugo is right and why Demerzel is vulnerable.”

  Seldon had listened but did not respond. He seemed lost in thought. Minutes passed before he said, “If Demerzel can do nothing in this matter, then I must.”

  “If he can do nothing, what can you do?”

  “The case is different. I am not bound by the Laws of Robotics. I need not concern myself obsessively with minimalism. —And to begin with, I must see Demerzel.”

  Dors looked faintly anxious. “Must you? Surely it wouldn’t be wise to advertise a connection between the two of you.”

  “We have reached a time where we can’t make a fetish of pretending there is no connection. Naturally I won’t go to see him behind a flourish of trumpets and an announcement on holovision, but I must see him.”

  5

  Seldon found himself raging at the passage of time. Eight years ago, when he had first arrived on Trantor, he could take instant action. He had only a hotel room and its contents to forsake and he could range through the sectors of Trantor at will.

  Now he found himself with department meetings, with decisions to make, with work to do. It was not so easy to dash off at will to see Demerzel—and if he could, Demerzel also had a full schedule of his own. To find a time when they both could meet would not be easy.

  Nor was it easy to have Dors shake her head at him. “I don’t know what you intend to do, Hari.”

  And he answered impatiently, “I don’t know what I intend to do, either, Dors. I hope to find out when I see Demerzel.”

  “Your first duty is to psychohistory. He’ll tell you so.”

  “Perhaps. I’ll find out.”

  And then, just as he had arranged a time for the meeting with the First Minister, eight days hence, he received a message on his department office wall screen in slightly archaic lettering. And to match that was the more than slightly archaic message: I CRAVE AN AUDIENCE WITH PROFESSOR HARI SELDON.

  Seldon stared at it with astonishment. Even the Emperor was not addressed in quite that centuries-old turn of phrase.

  Nor was the signature printed as it usually was for clarity. It was scripted with a flourish that left it perfectly legible and yet gave it the aura of a careless work of art dashed off by a master. The signature was: LASKIN JORANUM. —It was Jo-Jo himself, craving an audience.

  Seldon found himself chuckling. It was clear why the choice of words—and why the script. It made what was a simple request a device for stimulating curiosity. Seldon had no great desire to meet the man—or would have had none ordinarily. But what was worth the archaism and the artistry? He wanted to find out.

  He had his secretary set the time and the place of the appointment. It would be in his office, certainly not in his apartment. A business conversation, nothing social.

  And it would come before the projected meeting with Demerzel.

  Dors said, “It’s no surprise to me, Hari. You hurt two of his people, one of them his chief aide; you spoiled a little rally he was holding; and you made him, in the person of his representatives, seem foolish. He wants to take a look at you and I think I had better be with you.”

  Seldon shook his head. “I’ll take Raych. He knows all the tricks I know and he’s a strong and active twenty-year-old. Although I’m sure there’ll be no need for protection.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Joranum is coming to see me on the University grounds. There will be any number of youngsters in the vicinity. I’m not exactly an unpopular figure with the student body and I suspect that Joranum is the kind of man who does his homework and knows that I’ll be safe on home territory. I’m sure that he will be perfectly polite—completely friendly.”

  “Hmph,” said Dors with a light twist of one corner of her lip.

  “And quite deadly,” Seldon finished.

  6

  Hari Seldon kept his face expressionless and bent his head just sufficiently to allow a sense of reasonable courtesy. He had taken the trouble to look up a variety of holographs of Joranum, but, as is often the case, the real thing, unguarded, shifting constantly in response to changing conditions, is never quite the same as a holograph—however carefully prepared. Perhaps, thought Seldon, it is the response of the viewer to the “real thing” that makes it different.

  Joranum was a tall man—as tall as Seldon, at any rate—but larger in other directions. It was not due to a muscular physique, for he gave the impression of softness, without quite being fat. A round
ed face, a thick head of hair that was sandy rather than yellow, light blue eyes. He wore a subdued coverall and his face bore a half-smile that gave the illusion of friendliness, while making it clear, somehow, that it was only an illusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Good morning, young man,” said Joranum.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Raych.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen,” said Seldon. “May I offer you something to eat or drink?”

  Joranum held up his hands in polite refusal. “No, sir. This is not a social call.” He seated himself in the place indicated. “Though I hope there will be many such calls in the future.”

  “If this is to be about business, then let’s begin.”

  “The news reached me, Professor Seldon, of the little incident that you have so kindly agreed to forget and I wondered why you took the chance of doing what you did. It was a risk, you must admit.”

  “I didn’t think so, actually.”

  “But I did. So I took the liberty of finding out everything I could about you, Professor Seldon. You’re an interesting man. From Helicon, I discovered.”

  “Yes, that’s where I was born. The records are clear.”

  “And you’ve been here on Trantor for eight years.”

  “That is also a matter of public record.”

  “And you made yourself quite famous at the start by delivering a mathematical paper on—what do you call it?—psychohistory?”

  Seldon shook his head very slightly. How often he had regretted that indiscretion. Of course, he had had no idea at the time that it was an indiscretion. He said, “A youthful enthusiasm. It came to nothing.”

  “Is that so?” Joranum looked around him with an air of pleased surprise. “Yet here you are, the head of the Mathematics Department at one of Trantor’s greatest Universities, and only forty years old, I believe. —I’m forty-two, by the way, so I don’t look upon you as very old at all. You must be a very competent mathematician to be in this position.”

  Seldon shrugged. “I wouldn’t care to make a judgment in that matter.”

  “Or you must have powerful friends.”

  “We would all like to have powerful friends, Mr. Joranum, but I think you will find none here. University professors rarely have powerful friends or, I sometimes think, friends of any kind.” He smiled.

  And so did Joranum. “Wouldn’t you consider the Emperor a powerful friend, Professor Seldon?”

  “I certainly would, but what has that to do with me?”

  “I am under the impression that the Emperor is a friend of yours.”

  “I’m sure the records will show, Mr. Joranum, that I had an audience with His Imperial Majesty eight years ago. It lasted perhaps an hour or less and I saw no signs of any great friendliness in him at the time. Nor have I spoken to him since—or even seen him—except on holovision, of course.”

  “But, Professor, it is not necessary to see or speak to the Emperor to have him as a powerful friend. It is sufficient to see or speak to Eto Demerzel, the Emperor’s First Minister. Demerzel is your protector and, since he is, we may as well say the Emperor is.”

  “Do you find First Minister Demerzel’s supposed protection of me anywhere in the records? Or anything at all in the records from which you can deduce that protection?”

  “Why search the records when it is well known that there is a connection between the two of you? You know it and I know it. Let us take it then as given and continue. And please”—he raised his hands—“do not take the trouble to give me any heartfelt denials. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Actually,” said Seldon, “I was going to ask why you should think that he would want to protect me. To what end?”

  “Professor! Are you trying to hurt me by pretending to think I am a monster of naïveté? I mentioned your psychohistory, which Demerzel wants.”

  “And I told you that it was a youthful indiscretion that came to nothing.”

  “You may tell me a great many things, Professor. I am not compelled to accept what you tell me. Come, let me speak frankly. I have read your original paper and have tried to understand it with the help of some mathematicians on my staff. They tell me it is a wild dream and quite impossible—”

  “I quite agree with them,” said Seldon.

  “But I have the feeling that Demerzel is waiting for it to be developed and put to use. And if he can wait, so can I. It would be more useful to you, Professor Seldon, to have me wait.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because Demerzel will not endure in his position for much longer. Public opinion is turning against him steadily. It may be that when the Emperor wearies of an unpopular First Minister who threatens to drag the throne down with him, he will find a replacement. It may even be my poor self whom the Emperor’s fancy will seize upon. And you will still need a protector, someone who can see to it that you can work in peace and with ample funds for whatever you need in the way of equipment and assistants.”

  “And would you be that protector?”

  “Of course—and for the same reason that Demerzel is. I want a successful psychohistoric technique so that I can rule the Empire more efficiently.”

  Seldon nodded thoughtfully, waited a moment, then said, “But in that case, Mr. Joranum, why must I concern myself in this? I am a poor scholar, living a quiet life, engaged in out-of-the-way mathematical and pedagogical activities. You say that Demerzel is my present protector and that you will be my future protector. I can go quietly about my business, then. You and the First Minister may fight it out. Whoever prevails, I have a protector still—or, at least, so you tell me.”

  Joranum’s fixed smile seemed to fade a bit. Namarti, at his side, turned his dour face toward Joranum and made as though to say something, but Joranum’s hand moved slightly and Namarti coughed and did not speak.

  Joranum said, “Dr. Seldon. Are you a patriot?”

  “Why, of course. The Empire has given humanity millennia of peace—mostly peace, at any rate—and fostered steady advancement.”

  “So it has—but at a slower pace in the last century or two.”

  Seldon shrugged. “I have not studied such matters.”

  �
�You don’t have to. You know that, politically, the last century or two has been a time of turmoil. Imperial reigns have been short and sometimes have been shortened further by assassination—”

  “Even mentioning that,” put in Seldon, “is close to treason. I’d rather you didn’t—”

  “Well, there.” Joranum threw himself back in his seat. “See how insecure you are. The Empire is decaying. I’m willing to say so openly. Those who follow me do so because they know only too well it is. We need someone at the Emperior’s right hand who can control the Empire, subdue the rebellious impulses that seem to be arising everywhere, give the armed forces the natural leadership they should have, lead the economy—”

  Seldon made an impatient stopping motion with his arm. “And you’re the one to do it, are you?”

  “I intend to be the one. It won’t be an easy job and I doubt there would be many volunteers—for good reason. Certainly Demerzel can’t do it. Under him, the decline of the Empire is accelerating to a total breakdown.”

  “But you can stop it?”

  “Yes, Dr. Seldon. With your help. With psychohistory.”

  “Perhaps Demerzel could stop the breakdown with psychohistory—if psychohistory existed.”

  Joranum said calmly, “It exists. Let us not pretend it does not. But its existence does not help Demerzel. Psychohistory is only a tool. It needs a brain to understand it and an arm to wield it.”

  “And you have those, I take it?”

  “Yes. I know my own virtues. I want psychohistory.”

  Seldon shook his head. “You may want it all you please. I don’t have it.”

  “You do have it. I will not argue the point.” Joranum leaned closer as though wishing to insinuate his voice into Seldon’s ear, rather than allowing the sound waves to carry it there. “You say you are a patriot. I must replace Demerzel to avoid Imperial destruction. However, the manner of replacement might itself weaken the Empire desperately. I do not wish that. You can advise me how to achieve the end smoothly, subtly, without harm or damage—for the sake of the Empire.”