Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  He came away a little blank-eyed. His friend of the elevator was indicating a seat next to himself and Gaal took it.

  The man smiled. “My name is Jerril. First time on Trantor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jerril.”

  “Thought so. Jerril’s my first name. Trantor gets you if you’ve got the poetic temperament. Trantorians never come up here, though. They don’t like it. Gives them nerves.”

  “Nerves!—My name’s Gaal, by the way. Why should it give them nerves? It’s glorious.”

  “Subjective matter of opinion, Gaal. If you’re born in a cubicle and grow up in a corridor, and work in a cell, and vacation in a crowded sun-room, then coming up into the open with nothing but sky over you might just give you a nervous breakdown. They make the children come up here once a year, after they’re five. I don’t know if it does any good. They don’t get enough of it, really, and the first few times they scream themselves into hysteria. They ought to start as soon as they’re weaned and have the trip once a week.”

  He went on, “Of course, it doesn’t really matter. What if they never come out at all? They’re happy down there and they run the Empire. How high up do you think we are?”

  He said, “Half a mile?” and wondered if that sounded naive.

  It must have, for Jerril chuckled a little. He said, “No. Just five hundred feet.”

  “What? But the elevator took about—”

  “I know. But most of the time it was just getting up to ground level. Trantor is tunneled over a mile down. It’s like an iceberg. Nine-tenths of it is out of sight. It even works itself out a few miles into the sub-ocean soil at the shorelines. In fact, we’re down so low that we can make use of the temperature difference between ground level and a couple of miles under to supply us with all the energy we need. Did you know that?”

  “No, I thought you used atomic generators.”

  “Did once. But this is cheaper.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “What do you think of it all?” For a moment, the man’s good nature evaporated into shrewdness. He looked almost sly.

  Gaal fumbled. “Glorious,” he said, again.

  “Here on vacation? Traveling? Sight-seeing?”

  “Not exactly. —At least, I’ve always wanted to visit Trantor but I came here primarily for a job.”

  “Oh?”

  Gaal felt obliged to explain further. “With Dr. Seldon’s project at the University of Trantor.”

  “Raven Seldon?”

  “Why, no. The one I mean is Hari Seldon. —The psychohistorian Seldon. I don’t know of any Raven Seldon.”

  “Hari’s the one I mean. They call him Raven. Slang, you know. He keeps predicting disaster.”

  “He does?” Gaal was genuinely astonished.

  “Surely, you must know.” Jerril was not smiling. “You’re coming to work for him, aren’t you?”

  “Well yes, I’m a mathematician. Why does he predict disaster? What kind of disaster?”

  “What kind would you think?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the least idea. I’ve read the papers Dr. Seldon and his group have published. They’re on mathematical theory.”

  “Yes, the ones they publish.”

  Gaal felt annoyed. He said, “I think I’ll go to my room now. Very pleased to have met you.”

  Jerril waved his arm indifferently in farewell.

  Gaal found a man waiting for him in his room. For a moment, he was too startled to put into words the inevitable “What are you doing here?” that came to his lips.

  The man rose. He was old and almost bald and he walked with a limp, but his eyes were very bright and blue.

  He said, “I am Hari Seldon,” an instant before Gaal’s befuddled brain placed the face alongside the memory of the many times he had seen it in pictures.

  PSYCHOHISTORY— . . . Gaal Dornick, using nonmathematical concepts, has defined psychohistory to be that branch of mathematics which deals with the reactions of human conglomerates to fixed social and economic stimuli. . . .

  . . . Implicit in all these definitions is the assumption that the human conglomerate being dealt with is sufficiently large for valid statistical treatment. The necessary size of such a conglomerate may be determined by Seldon’s First Theorem which . . . A further necessary assumption is that the human conglomerate be itself unaware of psychohistoric analysis in order that its reactions be truly random. . . .

  The basis of all valid psychohistory lies in the development of the Seldon functions which exhibit properties congruent to those of such social and economic forces as . . .

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  4

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Gaal. “I—I—”

  “You didn’t think we were to meet before tomorrow? Ordinarily, we would not have. It is just that if we are to use your services, we must work quickly. It grows continually more difficult to obtain recruits.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You were talking to a man on the observation tower, were you not?”

  “Yes. His first name is Jerril. I know no more about him.”

  “His name is nothing. He is an agent of the Commission of Public Safety. He followed you from the space-port.”

  “But why? I am afraid I am very confused.”

  “Did the man on the tower say nothing about me?”

  Gaal hesitated. “He referred to you as Raven Seldon.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said you predict disaster.”

  “I do. —What does Trantor mean to you?”

  Everyone seemed to be asking his opinion of Trantor. Gaal felt incapable of response beyond the bare word, “Glorious.”

  “You say that without thinking. What of psychohistory?”

  “I haven’t thought of applying it to the problem.”

  “Before you are done with me, young man, you will learn to apply psychohistory to all problems as a matter of course. —Observe.” Seldon removed his calculator pad from the pouch at his belt. Men said he kept one beneath his pillow for use in moments of wakefulness. Its gray, glossy finish was slightly worn by use. Seldon’s nimble fingers, spotted now with age, played along the files and rows of buttons that filled its surface. Red symbols glowed out from the upper tier.

  He said, “That represents the condition of the Empire at present.”

  He waited.

  Gaal said finally, “Surely that is not a complete representation.”

  “No, not complete,” said Seldon. “I am glad you do not accept my word blindly. However, this is an approximation which will serve to demonstrate the proposition. Will you accept that?”

  “Subject to my later verification of the derivation of the function, yes.” Gaal was carefully avoiding a possible trap.

  “Good. Add to this the known probability of Imperial assassination, viceregal revolt, the contemporary recurrence of periods of economic depression, the declining rate of planetary explorations, the . . .”

  He proceeded. As each item was mentioned, new symbols sprang to life at his touch, and melted into the basic function which expanded and changed.

  Gaal stopped him only once. “I don’t see the validity of that set-transformation.”

  Seldon repeated it more slowly.

  Gaal said, “But that is done by way of a forbidden socio-operation.”

  “Good. You are quick, but not yet quick enough. It is not forbidden in this connection. Let me do it by expansions.”

  The procedure was much longer and at its end, Gaal said, humbly, “Yes, I see now.”

  Finally, Seldon stopped. “This is Trantor three centuries from now. How do you interpret that? Eh?” He put his head to one side and waited.

  Gaal said, unbelievingly, “Total destruction! But—but that is impossible. Trantor has never been—”

  Seldon was filled with the intense excitement of a man whose body only had grown old, “Come, come. You saw how the result was arrived at. Put it into words. Fo
rget the symbolism for a moment.”

  Gaal said, “As Trantor becomes more specialized, it becomes more vulnerable, less able to defend itself. Further, as it becomes more and more the administrative center of Empire, it becomes a greater prize. As the Imperial succession becomes more and more uncertain, and the feuds among the great families more rampant, social responsibility disappears.”

  “Enough. And what of the numerical probability of total destruction within three centuries?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Surely you can perform a field-differentiation?”

  Gaal felt himself under pressure. He was not offered the calculator pad. It was held a foot from his eyes. He calculated furiously and felt his forehead grow slick with sweat.

  He said, “About 85%?”

  “Not bad,” said Seldon, thrusting out a lower lip, “but not good. The actual figure is 92.5%.”

  Gaal said, “And so you are called Raven Seldon? I have seen none of this in the journals.”

  “But of course not. This is unprintable. Do you suppose the Imperium could expose its shakiness in this manner? That is a very simple demonstration in psychohistory. But some of our results have leaked out among the aristocracy.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Not necessarily. All is taken into account.”

  “But is that why I’m being investigated?”

  “Yes. Everything about my project is being investigated.”

  “Are you in danger, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. There is probability of 1.7% that I will be executed, but of course that will not stop the project. We have taken that into account as well. Well, never mind. You will meet me, I suppose, at the University tomorrow?”

  “I will,” said Gaal.

  COMMISSION OF PUBLIC SAFETY— . . . The aristocratic coterie rose to power after the assassination of Cleon I, last of the Entuns. In the main, they formed an element of order during the centuries of instability and uncertainty in the Imperium. Usually under the control of the great families of the Chens and the Divarts, it degenerated eventually into a blind instrument for maintenance of the status quo. . . . They were not completely removed as a power in the state until after the accession of the last strong Emperor, Cleon II. The first Chief Commissioner. . . .

  . . . In a way, the beginning of the Commission’s decline can be traced to the trial of Hari Seldon two years before the beginning of the Foundational Era. That trial is described in Gaal Dornick’s biography of Hari Seldon. . . .

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  5

  Gaal did not carry out his promise. He was awakened the next morning by a muted buzzer. He answered it, and the voice of the desk clerk, as muted, polite and deprecating as it well might be, informed him that he was under detention at the orders of the Commission of Public Safety.

  Gaal sprang to the door and found it would no longer open. He could only dress and wait.

  They came for him and took him elsewhere, but it was still detention. They asked him questions most politely. It was all very civilized. He explained that he was a provincial of Synnax; that he had attended such and such schools and obtained a Doctor of Mathematics degree on such and such a date. He had applied for a position on Dr. Seldon’s staff and had been accepted. Over and over again, he gave these details; and over and over again, they returned to the question of his joining the Seldon Project. How had he heard of it; what were to be his duties; what secret instructions had he received; what was it all about?

  He answered that he did not know. He had no secret instructions. He was a scholar and a mathematician. He had no interest in politics.

  And finally the gentle inquisitor asked, “When will Trantor be destroyed?”

  Gaal faltered, “I could not say of my own knowledge.”

  “Could you say of anyone’s?”

  “How could I speak for another?” He felt warm; overwarm.

  The inquisitor said, “Has anyone told you of such destruction; set a date?” And, as the young man hesitated, he went on, “You have been followed, doctor. We were at the airport when you arrived; on the observation tower when you waited for your appointment; and, of course, we were able to overhear your conversation with Dr. Seldon.”

  Gaal said, “Then you know his views on the matter.”

  “Perhaps. But we would like to hear them from you.”

  “He is of the opinion that Trantor would be destroyed within three centuries.”

  “He proved it,—uh—mathematically?”

  “Yes, he did,”—defiantly.

  “You maintain the—uh—mathematics to be valid, I suppose.”

  “If Dr. Seldon vouches for it, it is valid.”

  “Then we will return.”

  “Wait. I have a right to a lawyer. I demand my rights as an Imperial citizen.”

  “You shall have them.”

  And he did.

  It was a tall man that eventually entered, a man whose face seemed all vertical lines and so thin that one could wonder whether there was room for a smile.

  Gaal looked up. He felt disheveled and wilted. So much had happened, yet he had been on Trantor not more than thirty hours.

  The man said, “I am Lors Avakim. Dr. Seldon has directed me to represent you.”

  “Is that so? Well, then, look here. I demand an instant appeal to the Emperor. I’m being held without cause. I’m innocent of anything. Of anything.” He slashed his hands outward, palms down, “You’ve got to arrange a hearing with the Emperor, instantly.”

  Avakim was carefully emptying the contents of a flat folder onto the floor. If Gaal had had the stomach for it, he might have recognized Cellomet legal forms, metal thin and tape-like, adapted for insertion within the smallness of a personal capsule. He might also have recognized a pocket recorder.

  Avakim, paying no attention to Gaal’s outburst, finally looked up. He said, “The Commission will, of course, have a spy beam on our conversation. This is against the law, but they will use one nevertheless.”

  Gaal ground his teeth.

  “However,” and Avakim seated himself deliberately, “the recorder I have on the table,—which is a perfectly ordinary recorder to all appearances and performs its duties well—has the additional property of completely blanketing the spy beam. This is something they will not find out at once.”

  “Then I can speak.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I want a hearing with the Emperor.”

  Avakim smiled frostily, and it turned out that there was room for it on his thin face after all. His cheeks wrinkled to make the room. He said, “You are from the provinces.”

  “I am none the less an Imperial citizen. As good a one as you or as any of this Commission of Public Safety.”

  “No doubt; no doubt. It is merely that, as a provincial, you do not understand life on Trantor as it is. There are no hearings before the Emperor.”

  “To whom else would one appeal from this Commission? Is there other procedure?”

  “None. There is no recourse in a practical sense. Legalistically, you may appeal to the Emperor, but you would get no hearing. The Emperor today is not the Emperor of an Entun dynasty, you know. Trantor, I am afraid is in the hands of the aristocratic families, members of which compose the Commission of Public Safety. This is a development which is well predicted by psychohistory.”

  Gaal said, “Indeed? In that case, if Dr. Seldon can predict the history of Trantor three hundred years into the future—”

  “He can predict it fifteen hundred years into the future.”

  “Let it be fifteen thousand. Why couldn’t he yesterday have predicted the events of this morning and warned me. —No, I’m sorry.” Gaal sat down and rested his head in one sweating palm, “I quite understand that psychohistory is a statistical science and cannot predict the future of a single man with any accuracy. You’ll understand that I’m upset.”

  “But you are wrong. Dr. Seldon was of the opinion that you would be arrested this
morning.”

  “What!”

  “It is unfortunate, but true. The Commission has been more and more hostile to his activities. New members joining the group have been interfered with to an increasing extent. The graphs showed that for our purposes, matters might best be brought to a climax now. The Commission of itself was moving somewhat slowly so Dr. Seldon visited you yesterday for the purpose of forcing their hand. No other reason.”

  Gaal caught his breath, “I resent—”

  “Please. It was necessary. You were not picked for any personal reasons. You must realize that Dr. Seldon’s plans, which are laid out with the developed mathematics of over eighteen years, include all eventualities with significant probabilities. This is one of them. I’ve been sent here for no other purpose than to assure you that you need not fear. It will end well; almost certainly so for the project; and with reasonable probability for you.”

  “What are the figures?” demanded Gaal.

  “For the project, over 99.9%.”

  “And for myself?”

  “I am instructed that this probability is 77.2%.”

  “Then I’ve got better than one chance in five of being sentenced to prison or to death.”

  “The last is under one percent.”

  “Indeed. Calculations upon one man mean nothing. You send Dr. Seldon to me.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot. Dr. Seldon is himself arrested.”

  The door was thrown open before the rising Gaal could do more than utter the beginning of a cry. A guard entered, walked to the table, picked up the recorder, looked upon all sides of it and put it in his pocket.

  Avakim said quietly, “I will need that instrument.”

  “We will supply you with one, Counsellor, that does not cast a static field.”

  “My interview is done, in that case.”