by Isaac Asimov
“Lord Dorwin, gentlemen, in five days of discussion didn’t say one damned thing, and said it so you never noticed. There are the assurances you had from your precious Empire.”
Hardin might have placed an actively working stench bomb on the table and created no more confusion than existed after his last statement. He waited, with weary patience, for it to die down.
“So,” he concluded, “when you sent threats—and that’s what they were—concerning Empire action to Anacreon, you merely irritated a monarch who knew better. Naturally, his ego would demand immediate action, and the ultimatum is the result—which brings me to my original statement. We have one week left and what do we do now?”
“It seems,” said Sutt, “that we have no choice but to allow Anacreon to establish military bases on Terminus.”
“I agree with you there,” replied Hardin, “but what do we do toward kicking them off again at the first opportunity?”
Yate Fulham’s mustache twitched. “That sounds as if you have made up your mind that violence must be used against them.”
“Violence,” came the retort, “is the last refuge of the incompetent. But I certainly don’t intend to lay down the welcome mat and brush off the best furniture for their use.”
“I still don’t like the way you put that,” insisted Fulham. “It is a dangerous attitude; the more dangerous because we have noticed lately that a sizable section of the populace seems to respond to all your suggestions just so. I might as well tell you, Mayor Hardin, that the board is not quite blind to your recent activities.”
He paused and there was general agreement. Hardin shrugged.
Fulham went on: “If you were to inflame the City into an act of violence, you would achieve elaborate suicide—and we don’t intend to allow that. Our policy has but one cardinal principle, and that is the Encyclopedia. Whatever we decide to do or not to do will be so decided because it will be the measure required to keep that Encyclopedia safe.”
“Then,” said Hardin, “you come to the conclusion that we must continue our intensive campaign of doing nothing.”
Pirenne said bitterly: “You have yourself demonstrated that the Empire cannot help us; though how and why it can be so, I don’t understand. If compromise is necessary—”
Hardin had the nightmarelike sensation of running at top speed and getting nowhere. “There is no compromise! Don’t you realize that this bosh about military bases is a particularly inferior grade of drivel? Haut Rodric told us what Anacreon was after—outright annexation and imposition of its own feudal system of landed estates and peasant-aristocracy economy upon us. What is left of our bluff of nuclear power may force them to move slowly, but they will move nonetheless.”
He had risen indignantly, and the rest rose with him—except for Jord Fara.
And then Jord Fara spoke. “Everyone will please sit down. We’ve gone quite far enough, I think. Come, there’s no use looking so furious, Mayor Hardin; none of us have been committing treason.”
“You’ll have to convince me of that!”
Fara smiled gently. “You know you don’t mean that. Let me speak!”
His little shrewd eyes were half closed, and the perspiration gleamed on the smooth expanse of his chin. “There seems no point in concealing that the Board has come to the decision that the real solution to the Anacreonian problem lies in what is to be revealed to us when the Vault opens six days from now.”
“Is that your contribution to the matter?”
“Yes.”
“We are to do nothing, is that right, except to wait in quiet serenity and utter faith for the deus ex machina to pop out of the Vault?”
“Stripped of your emotional phraseology, that’s the idea.”
“Such unsubtle escapism! Really, Dr. Fara, such folly smacks of genius. A lesser mind would be incapable of it.”
Fara smiled indulgently. “Your taste in epigrams is amusing, Hardin, but out of place. As a matter of fact, I think you remember my line of argument concerning the Vault about three weeks ago.”
“Yes, I remember it. I don’t deny that it was anything but a stupid idea from the standpoint of deductive logic alone. You said—stop me when I make a mistake—that Hari Seldon was the greatest psychologist in the System; that, hence, he could foresee the tight and uncomfortable spot we’re in now; that, hence, he established the Vault as a method of telling us the way out.”
“You’ve got the essence of the idea.”
“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve given considerable thought to the matter these last weeks?”
“Very flattering. With what result?”
“With the result that pure deduction is found wanting. Again what is needed is a little sprinkling of common sense.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, if he foresaw the Anacreonian mess, why not have placed us on some other planet nearer the Galactic centers? It’s well known that Seldon maneuvered the Commissioners on Trantor into ordering the Foundation established on Terminus. But why should he have done so? Why put us out here at all if he could see in advance the break in communication lines, our isolation from the Galaxy, the threat of our neighbors—and our helplessness because of the lack of metals on Terminus? That above all! Or if he foresaw all this, why not have warned the original settlers in advance that they might have had time to prepare, rather than wait, as he is doing, until one foot is over the cliff, before doing so?
“And don’t forget this. Even though he could foresee the problem then, we can see it equally well now. Therefore, if he could foresee the solution then, we should be able to see it now. After all, Seldon was not a magician. There are no trick methods of escaping from a dilemma that he can see and we can’t.”
“But, Hardin,” reminded Fara, “we can’t!”
“But you haven’t tried. You haven’t tried once. First, you refused to admit that there was a menace at all! Then you reposed an absolutely blind faith in the Emperor! Now you’ve shifted it to Hari Seldon. Throughout you have invariably relied on authority or on the past—never on yourselves.”
His fists balled spasmodically. “It amounts to a diseased attitude—a conditioned reflex that shunts aside the independence of your minds whenever it is a question of opposing authority. There seems no doubt ever in your minds that the Emperor is more powerful than you are, or Hari Seldon wiser. And that’s wrong, don’t you see?”
For some reason, no one cared to answer him.
Hardin continued: “It isn’t just you. It’s the whole Galaxy. Pirenne heard Lord Dorwin’s idea of scientific research. Lord Dorwin thought the way to be a good archaeologist was to read all the books on the subject—written by men who were dead for centuries. He thought that the way to solve archaeological puzzles was to weigh the opposing authorities. And Pirenne listened and made no objections. Don’t you see that there’s something wrong with that?”
Again the note of near-pleading in his voice.
Again no answer. He went on: “And you men and half of Terminus as well are just as bad. We sit here, considering the Encyclopedia the all-in-all. We consider the greatest end of science is the classification of past data. It is important, but is there no further work to be done? We’re receding and forgetting, don’t you see? Here in the Periphery they’ve lost nuclear power. In Gamma Andromeda, a power plant has undergone meltdown because of poor repairs, and the Chancellor of the Empire complains that nuclear technicians are scarce. And the solution? To train new ones? Never! Instead they’re to restrict nuclear power.”
And for the third time: “Don’t you see? It’s Galaxy-wide. It’s a worship of the past. It’s a deterioration—a stagnation!”
He stared from one to the other and they gazed fixedly at him.
Fara was the first to recover. “Well, mystical philosophy isn’t going to help us here. Let us be concrete. Do you deny that Hari Seldon could easily have worked out historical trends of the future by simple psychological technique?”
; “No, of course not,” cried Hardin. “But we can’t rely on him for a solution. At best, he might indicate the problem, but if ever there is to be a solution, we must work it out ourselves. He can’t do it for us.”
Fulham spoke suddenly. “What do you mean—‘indicate the problem’? We know the problem.”
Hardin whirled on him. “You think you do? You think Anacreon is all Hari Seldon is likely to be worried about. I disagree! I tell you, gentlemen, that as yet none of you has the faintest conception of what is really going on.”
“And you do?” questioned Pirenne, hostilely.
“I think so!” Hardin jumped up and pushed his chair away. His eyes were cold and hard. “If there’s one thing that’s definite, it is that there’s something smelly about the whole situation; something that is bigger than anything we’ve talked about yet. Just ask yourself this question: Why was it that among the original population of the Foundation not one first-class psychologist was included, except Bor Alurin? And he carefully refrained from training his pupils in more than the fundamentals.”
A short silence and Fara said: “All right. Why?”
“Perhaps because a psychologist might have caught on to what this was all about—and too soon to suit Hari Seldon. As it is, we’ve been stumbling about, getting misty glimpses of the truth and no more. And that is what Hari Seldon wanted.”
He laughed harshly. “Good day, gentlemen!”
He stalked out of the room.
6
Mayor Hardin chewed at the end of his cigar. It had gone out but he was past noticing that. He hadn’t slept the night before and he had a good idea that he wouldn’t sleep this coming night. His eyes showed it.
He said wearily, “And that covers it?”
“I think so.” Yohan Lee put a hand to his chin. “How does it sound?”
“Not too bad. It’s got to be done, you understand, with impudence. That is, there is to be no hesitation; no time to allow them to grasp the situation. Once we are in a position to give orders, why, give them as though you were born to do so, and they’ll obey out of habit. That’s the essence of a coup.”
“If the Board remains irresolute for even—”
“The Board? Count them out. After tomorrow, their importance as a factor in Terminus affairs won’t matter a rusty half-credit.”
Lee nodded slowly. “Yet it is strange that they’ve done nothing to stop us so far. You say they weren’t entirely in the dark.”
“Fara stumbles at the edges of the problem. Sometimes he makes me nervous. And Pirenne’s been suspicious of me since I was elected. But, you see, they never had the capacity of really understanding what was up. Their whole training has been authoritarian. They are sure that the Emperor, just because he is the Emperor, is all-powerful. And they are sure that the Board of Trustees, simply because it is the Board of Trustees acting in the name of the Emperor, cannot be in a position where it does not give the orders. That incapacity to recognize the possibility of revolt is our best ally.”
He heaved out of his chair and went to the water cooler. “They’re not bad fellows, Lee, when they stick to their Encyclopedia—and we’ll see that that’s where they stick in the future. They’re hopelessly incompetent when it comes to ruling Terminus. Go away now and start things rolling. I want to be alone.”
He sat down on the corner of his desk and stared at the cup of water.
Space! If only he were as confident as he pretended! The Anacreonians were landing in two days and what had he to go on but a set of notions and half-guesses as to what Hari Seldon had been driving at these past fifty years? He wasn’t even a real, honest-to-goodness psychologist—just a fumbler with a little training trying to outguess the greatest mind of the age.
If Fara were right; if Anacreon were all the problem Hari Seldon had foreseen; if the Encyclopedia were all he was interested in preserving—then what price coup d’état?
He shrugged and drank his water.
7
The Vault was furnished with considerably more than six chairs, as though a larger company had been expected. Hardin noted that thoughtfully and seated himself wearily in a corner just as far from the other five as possible.
The Board members did not seem to object to that arrangement. They spoke among themselves in whispers, which fell off into sibilant monosyllables, and then into nothing at all. Of them all, only Jord Fara seemed even reasonably calm. He had produced a watch and was staring at it somberly.
Hardin glanced at his own watch and then at the glass cubicle—absolutely empty—that dominated half the room. It was the only unusual feature of the room, for aside from that there was no indication that somewhere a computer was splitting off instants of time toward that precise moment when a muon stream would flow, a connection be made and—
The lights went dim!
They didn’t go out, but merely yellowed and sank with a suddenness that made Hardin jump. He had lifted his eyes to the ceiling lights in startled fashion, and when he brought them down the glass cubicle was no longer empty.
A figure occupied it—a figure in a wheelchair!
It said nothing for a few moments, but it closed the book upon its lap and fingered it idly. And then it smiled, and the face seemed all alive.
It said, “I am Hari Seldon.” The voice was old and soft.
Hardin almost rose to acknowledge the introduction and stopped himself in the act.
The voice continued conversationally: “As you see, I am confined to this chair and cannot rise to greet you. Your grandparents left for Terminus a few months back in my time and since then I have suffered a rather inconvenient paralysis. I can’t see you, you know, so I can’t greet you properly. I don’t even know how many of you there are, so all this must be conducted informally. If any of you are standing, please sit down; and if you care to smoke, I wouldn’t mind.” There was a light chuckle. “Why should I? I’m not really here.”
Hardin fumbled for a cigar almost automatically, but thought better of it.
Hari Seldon put away his book—as if laying it upon a desk at his side—and when his fingers let go, it disappeared.
He said: “It is fifty years now since this Foundation was established—fifty years in which the members of the Foundation have been ignorant of what it was they were working toward. It was necessary that they be ignorant, but now the necessity is gone.
“The Encyclopedia Foundation, to begin with, is a fraud, and always has been!”
There was a sound of a scramble behind Hardin and one or two muffled exclamations, but he did not turn around.
Hari Seldon was, of course, undisturbed. He went on: “It is a fraud in the sense that neither I nor my colleagues care at all whether a single volume of the Encyclopedia is ever published. It has served its purpose, since by it we extracted an imperial charter from the Emperor, by it we attracted the hundred thousand humans necessary for our scheme, and by it we managed to keep them preoccupied while events shaped themselves, until it was too late for any of them to draw back.
“In the fifty years that you have worked on this fraudulent project—there is no use in softening phrases—your retreat has been cut off, and you have now no choice but to proceed on the infinitely more important project that was, and is, our real plan.
“To that end we have placed you on such a planet and at such a time that in fifty years you were maneuvered to the point where you no longer have freedom of action. From now on, and into the centuries, the path you must take is inevitable. You will be faced with a series of crises, as you are now faced with the first, and in each case your freedom of action will become similarly circumscribed so that you will be forced along one, and only one, path.
“It is that path which our psychology has worked out—and for a reason.
“For centuries Galactic civilization has stagnated and declined, though only a few ever realized that. But now, at last, the Periphery is breaking away and the political unity of the Empire is shattered. Somewhere in the fifty
years just past is where the historians of the future will place an arbitrary line and say: ‘This marks the Fall of the Galactic Empire.’
“And they will be right, though scarcely any will recognize that Fall for additional centuries.
“And after the Fall will come inevitable barbarism, a period which, our psychohistory tells us, should, under ordinary circumstances, last for thirty thousand years. We cannot stop the Fall. We do not wish to; for Imperial culture has lost whatever virility and worth it once had. But we can shorten the period of barbarism that must follow—down to a single thousand of years.
“The ins and outs of that shortening, we cannot tell you; just as we could not tell you the truth about the Foundation fifty years ago. Were you to discover those ins and outs, our plan might fail; as it would have, had you penetrated the fraud of the Encyclopedia earlier; for then, by knowledge, your freedom of action would be expanded and the number of additional variables introduced would become greater than our psychology could handle.
“But you won’t, for there are no psychologists on Terminus, and never were, but for Alurin—and he was one of us.
“But this I can tell you: Terminus and its companion Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy are the seeds of the Renascence and the future founders of the Second Galactic Empire. And it is the present crisis that is starting Terminus off to that climax.
“This, by the way, is a rather straightforward crisis, much simpler than many of those that are ahead. To reduce it to its fundamentals, it is this: You are a planet suddenly cut off from the still-civilized centers of the Galaxy, and threatened by your stronger neighbors. You are a small world of scientists surrounded by vast and rapidly expanding reaches of barbarism. You are an island of nuclear power in a growing ocean of more primitive energy; but are helpless despite that, because of your lack of metals.
“You see, then, that you are faced by hard necessity, and that action is forced on you. The nature of that action—that is, the solution to your dilemma—is, of course, obvious!”
