by Isaac Asimov
“–so there’s a pressure-nugget buildin’ in Dahl, you bet,” Yugo finished.
“Of course, glancing at the news holos shows that.”
“Well, yeah–but I’ve proved it’s justified.”
Hari kept his face composed; Yugo was really worked up about this. “You’ve shown one of the factors. But there are others in the knot equations.”
“Well, sure, but everybody knows–”
“What everybody knows doesn’t need much proof. Unless, of course, it’s wrong.”
Yugo’s face showed a rush of emotions: surprise, concern, anger, hurt, puzzlement. “You don’t support Dahl, Hari?”
“Of course I do, Yugo.” Actually, the truth was that Hari didn’t care. But that was too bald a point to make, with Yugo seeming wounded. “Look, the paper is fine. Publish.”
“The three basic knot equations, they’re yours.”
“No need to call them that.”
“Sure, just like before. But your name goes on the paper.”
Something tickled Hari’s mind, but he saw the right answer now was to reassure Yugo. “If you like.”
Yugo went on about details of publication, and Hari let his eyes drift over the equations. Terms for representation in models of Trantorian democracy, value tables for social pressures, the whole apparatus. A bit stuffy. But reassuring to those who suspected that he was hiding his major results–as he was, of course.
Hari sighed. Dahl was a festering political sore. Dahlites on Trantor mirrored the culture of the Dahl Galactic Zone. Every powerful Zone had its own Sectors in Trantor, for influence-peddling and general pressuring.
But Dahl was minor on the scale that he wanted to explore–simple, even trivial. The knot equations which described High Council representation were truncated forms of the immensely worse riddle of Trantor.
All of Trantor–one teeming world, baffling in its sheer size, its intricate connections, meaningless. coincidences, random juxtapositions, sensitive dependencies. His equations were still terribly inadequate for this shell which housed forty billion bustling souls.
How much worse was the Empire!
People, confronting bewildering complexity, tend to find their saturation level. They master the easy connections, local links, and rules of thumb. They push this until they meet a wall of complexity too thick and high and hard to grasp, to climb.
There they stall. Gossip, consult, fret–and finally, gamble.
The Empire of twenty-five million worlds was a problem greater even than understanding the whole rest of the universe–because at least the galaxies beyond did not have humans in them. The blind, blunt motions of stars and gas were child’s play, compared to the convoluted trajectories of people.
Sometimes it wore him down. Trantor was bad enough, eight hundred Sectors with forty billion people. What of the Empire, with twenty-five million planets of average four billion souls apiece? One hundred quadrillion people!
Worlds interacted through the narrow necks of wormholes, which at least simplified some of the economic issues. But culture traveled at the speed of light through wormholes, information without mass, zooming across the Galaxy in destabilizing waves. A farmer on Oskatoon knew that a duchy had fallen on the other side of the Galactic disk a few hours after the blood on the palace floor started turning brown.
How to include that?
Clearly, the Empire extended beyond the Complexity Horizon of any person or computer. Only sets of equations which did not try to keep track of every detail could work.
Which meant that an individual was nothing on the scale of events worth studying. Even a million made about as much difference as a single raindrop falling in a lake.
Suddenly Hari was even more glad that he had kept psychohistory secret. How would people react if they knew that he thought they didn’t matter?
“Hari? Hari?”
He had been musing again. Yugo was still in the office. “Oh, sorry, just mulling over–”
“The department meeting.”
“What?
“You called it for today.”
“Oh, no.” He was halfway through a calculation. “Can’t we delay...?”
“The whole department? They’re waiting.”
Hari dutifully followed Yugo into the assembly room. The three traditional levels were already filled. Cleon’s patronage had filled out an already high-ranked department until it was probably–how could one measure such things?–the best on Trantor. It had specialists in myriad disciplines, even areas whose very definitions Hari was a bit vague about.
Hari took his position at the hub of the highest level, at the exact center of the room. Mathists liked geometries which mirrored realities, so the full professors sat on a round, raised platform, in airchairs with ample arms.
Forming a larger annulus around them, a few steps lower, were the associate professors–those with tenure, but still at the middle rank in their careers. They had comfortable chairs, though without full computing and holo functions.
Below them, almost in a pit, were the untenured professors, on simple chairs of sturdy design. The oldest sat nearest the room’s center. In their outer ranks were the instructors and assistants, on plain benches without any computer capabilities whatever. Yugo rested there, scowling, plainly feeling out of place.
Hari had always thought it was either enraging or hilarious, depending on his mood, that one of the most productive members of the department, Yugo, should have such low status. This was the true price of keeping psychohistory secret. The pain of this he tried to soothe by giving Yugo a good office and other perks. Yugo seemed to care little for status, since he had already ascended so far. And all without the Civil Service exams, too.
Today, Hari decided to make a little mischief. “Thank you, colleagues, for attending. We have many administrative matters to engage. Yugo?”
A rustle. Yugo’s eyes widened, but he stood up quickly and climbed up to the speaker’s platform.
He always had someone else chair meetings, even though as chairman he had called them, chosen the hour, fixed the agenda. He knew that some regarded him as a strong personality, simply by dint of knowing the research agenda so deeply.
That was a common error, mistaking knowledge for command. He had found that if he presided, there was little dissent from his own views. To get open discussion demanded that he sit back and listen and take notes, intervening only at key moments.
Years ago Yugo had wondered why he did this, and Hari waved away the problem. “I’m not a leader,” he said. Yugo gave him a strange look, as if to say, Who do you think you’re kidding?
Hari smiled to himself. Some of the full professors around him were muttering, casting glances. Yugo launched into the agenda, speaking quickly in a strong, clear voice.
Hari sat back and watched irritation wash over some of his esteemed colleagues. Noses wrinkled at Yugo’s broad accent. One of them mouthed to another, Dahlite! and was answered, Upstart!
About time they got “a bit of the boot,” as his father had once termed it. And for Yugo to get a taste of running the department.
After all, this First Minister business could get worse. He could need a replacement.
4.
“We should leave soon,” Hari said, scribbling on his notepad.
“Why? The reception doesn’t start for ages.” She smoothed out her dress with great care, eyes critical.
“I want to take a walk on the way.”
“The reception is in Dahviti Sector.”
“Humor me.”
She pulled on the sheath dress with some effort. “I wish this weren’t the style.”
“Wear something else, then.”
“This is your first appearance at an Imperial affair. You’ll want to look your best.”
“Translation: you look your best and stand next to me.”
“You’re just wearing that Streeling professorial garb.”
“Appropriate to the occasion. I want to show that I�
�m still just a professor.”
She worked on the dress some more and finally said, “You know, some husbands would enjoy watching their wives do this.”
Hari looked up as she wriggled into the last of the clingy ensemble in amber and blue. “Surely you don’t want to get me all excited and then have to endure the reception that way.”
She smiled impishly. “That’s exactly what I want.”
He lounged back in his airchair and sighed theatrically. “Mathematics is a finer muse. Less demanding.”
She tossed a shoe at him, missing by a precise centimeter.
Hari grinned. “Careful, or the Specials will rush to defend me.”
Dors began her finishing touches and then glanced at him, puzzled. “You are even more distracted than usual.”
“As always, I fit my research into the nooks and crannies of life.”
“The usual problem? What’s important in history?”
“I’d prefer to know what’s not.”
“I agree that the customary mega-history approach, economics and politics and the rest, isn’t enough.”
Hari looked up from his pad. “There are some historians who think that the little rules of a society have to be counted, to understand the big laws that make it work.”
“I know that research.” Dors twisted her mouth doubtfully. “Small rules and big laws. How about simplifying? Maybe the laws are just all the rules, added up?”
“Of course not.”
“Example,” she persisted.
He wanted to think, but she would not be put off. She poked him in the ribs. “Example!”
“All right. Here’s a rule: Whenever you find something you like, buy a lifetime supply, because they’re sure to stop making it.”
“That’s ridiculous. A joke.”
“Not much of a joke, but it’s true.”
“Well, do you follow this rule?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Remember the first time you looked in my closet?”
She blinked. He grinned, recalling. She had been subtly snooping, and slid aside the large but feather-light door. In a rectangular grid of shelves were clothes sorted by type, then color. Dors had gasped. “Six blue suits. At least a dozen padshoes, all black. And shirts!–off-white, olive, a few red. At least fifty! So many, all alike.”
“And exactly what I like,” he had said. “This also solves the problem of choosing what to wear in the morning. I just reach in at random.”
“I thought you wore the same clothes day after day.”
He had raised his eyebrows, aghast. “The same? You mean, dirty clothes?”
“Well, when they didn’t change...”
“I change every day!” He chuckled, remembering, and said, “Then I usually put on the same outfit the next day, because I like it. And you will not find any of those available in the stores again.”
“I’ll say,” she said, fingering the weave on his shirts. “These are at least four seasons out of fashion.”
“See? The rule works.”
“To me, a week is twenty-one clothing opportunities. To you, it’s a chore.”
“You’re ignoring the rule.”
“How long did you dress that way?”
“Since I noticed how much time I spent making decisions about what to wear. And that what I really liked to wear wasn’t in the stores very often. I generalized a solution to both problems.”
“You’re amazing.”
“I’m simply systematic.”
“You’re obsessional.”
“You’re judging, not diagnosing.”
“You’re a dear. Crazy, but a dear. Maybe they go together.”
“Is that a rule, too?”
She kissed him. “Yes, professor.”
The inevitable Special screen formed about them the instant they left their apartment. By now he and Dors had trained the Specials to at least allow them the privacy of a single wedge in the drop tube.
The grav drop was in fact no miracle of gravitational physics; it came from advanced electromagnetics. Each instant over a thousand electrostatic fields supported him through intricate charge imbalances. He could feel them playing in his hair, small twinges skating across his skin, as the field configurations handed him off to each other, each lowering his mass infinitesimally down the chute.
When they left the wedge, thirteen floors higher, Dors passed a charge-programmed comb through her hair. It crackled and snapped obediently into its style: “smart” hair.
They entered a broad passageway lined with shops. Hari liked being in a place where he could see farther than a hundred meters.
Movement was quick because there was no cross traffic for any conveyance. A slidewalk ran at the center, going their way, but they stayed near the shop windows and browsed as they ambled.
To move laterally, one simply went up or down a level by elevator or escalator, then stepped on a moving belt or entered a robopod. In the corridors to both sides the slideway ran opposite. With no left or right turns, traffic mishaps were rare. Most people walked wherever was practical, for the exercise and for the indefinable exhilaration of Trantor itself. People who came here wanted the constant stimulation of humanity, ideas, and cultures rubbing against each other in productive friction. Hari was not immune to it, though it lost some savor if overdone.
People in the squares and park-hexagons wore fashions from the twenty-five million worlds. He saw self-shaping “leathers” from animals who could not possibly have resembled the mythical horse. A man sauntered by with leggings slit to his hip, exposing blue-striped skin that bunched and slid in a perpetual show. An angular woman sported a bodice of open-mouthed faces, each swallowing ivory-nippled breasts; he had to look twice to believe they weren’t real. Girls in outrageously cut pomp-vestments paraded noisily. A child–or was it a normal inhabitant of a strong-grav world?–played a photozither, strumming its laser beams.
The Specials fanned out and their captain came trotting over. “We can’t cover you well here, Academician sir.”
“These are ordinary people, not assassins. They had no way of predicting that I’d be here.”
“Emperor says cover you, we cover you.”
Dors rapped back smartly, “I’ll handle the close-in threats. I’m able, I assure you.”
The captain’s mouth twisted sourly, but he gave himself a moment before saying, “I heard something about that. Still–”
“Have your men use their range detectors vertically. A shaped charge on the layers below and above could catch us.”
“Uh, yes’m.” He trotted off.
They passed by the jigsaw walls of the Farhahal Quadrant. A wealthy ancient had become obsessed with the notion that as long as his estate was unfinished, he would not himself finish–that is, die. Whenever an addition neared completion, he ordered up more. Eventually the tangle of rooms, runways, vaults, bridges and gardens became an incoherent motley stuck into every cranny of the original, rather simple design. When Farhahal eventually did “finish,” a tower half built, bickering by his heirs and lawyerly plundering of the estate for their fees brought the quadrant low. Now it was a fetid warren, visited only by the predatory and the unwary.
The Specials pulled in tight and the captain urged them to get into a robo. Hari grudgingly agreed. Dors had the concentrated look that meant she was worried. They sped in silence through shadowy tunnels. There were two stops and in the brilliantly lit stations Hari saw rats scurrying for shelter as the pod eased to a halt. He silently pointed them out to Dors.
“Brrrr,” she said. “One would think that at the very center of the Empire we could eliminate pests.”
“Not these days,” Hari said, though he suspected the rats had thrived even at the height of Empire. Rodents cared little for grandeur.
“I suppose they’ve been our eternal companions,” Dors said somberly. “No world is free of them.”
“In these tunnels, the long-distance pods fly so fast
that occasionally rats get sucked into the air-breathing engines.”
Dors said uneasily, “That could damage the engines, even crash the pods.”
“No holiday for the rat, either.”
They passed through a Sector whose citizens abhorred sunlight, even the wan splashes which came down through the layers by radiance tubes. Historically, Dors told him, this had arisen from fears of its ultraviolet component, but the phobia seemed to go deeper than a mere health issue.
Their pod slowed and passed along a high ramp above open, swarming vaults. No natural light shafts brought illumination, only artificial phosphor glows. The Sector was officially named Kalanstromonia, but its citizens were known worldwide as Spooks. They seldom traveled, and their bleached faces stood out in crowds. Gazing down at them, they looked to Hari like swarms of grubs feeding on shadowy decay.
The Imperial Zonal Reception was inside a dome in the Julieen Sector. He and Dors entered with the Specials, who then gave way to five men and women wearing utterly inconspicuous business dress. These nodded to Hari and then appeared to forget him, moving down a broad rampway and chatting with each other.
A woman at the grand doorway made too much of his entrance. Music descended around him in a sound cloud, an arrangement of the Streeling Anthem blended subtly with the Helicon Symphony; This attracted attention from the crowds below–exactly what he did not want. A protocol team smoothly took the handoff from the door attendants, escorting him and Dors to a balcony. He was happy for the chance to look at the view.
From the peak of the dome the vistas were startling. Spirals descended to plateaus so distant he could barely make out a forest and paths. The ramparts and gardens there had drawn millennia of spectators, including, a guide told him, 999,987 suicides, all carefully tabulated through many centuries.
Now that the number approached a million, the guide went on with relish, attempts occurred nearly every hour. A man had been stopped just short of leaping that very day, wearing a gaudy holosuit programmed to flash I MADE THE MILLION after he struck.
“They seem so eager,” the guide concluded with what seemed to Hari a kind of pride.
“Well,” Hari remarked, trying to get rid of the man, “suicide is the most sincere form of self-criticism.”
