by Isaac Asimov
Dors’s eyes opened and she simply stared.
“I’ll take your silence for consent, Doctor. Of what use would it be for me to try to to get rid of Dr. Seldon and Dr. Amaryl in order to take my place as director? You would prevent any attempt I made at assassination, as you now think you are doing. In the unlikely case that I succeeded in such a project and was rid of the two great men, you would tear me to pieces afterward. You’re a very unusual woman—strong and fast beyond belief—and while you are alive, the Maestro is safe.”
“Yes,” said Dors, glowering.
“I told this to the men of the junta. —Why should they not consult me on matters involving the Project? They are very interested in psychohistory, as well they ought to be. It was difficult for them to believe what I told them about you—until you made your foray into the Palace grounds. That convinced them, you can be sure, and they agreed with my plan.”
“Aha. Now we come to it,” Dors said weakly.
“I told you the Electro-Clarifier cannot harm human beings. It cannot. Amaryl and your precious Hari are just getting old, though you refuse to accept it. So what? They are fine—perfectly human. The electromagnetic field has no effect of any importance on organic materials. Of course, it may have adverse effects on sensitive electromagnetic machinery and, if we could imagine a human being built of metal and electronics, it might have an effect on it. Legends tell us of such artificial human beings. The Mycogenians have based their religion on them and they call such beings “robots.” If there were such a thing as a robot, one would imagine it would be stronger and faster by far than an ordinary human being, that it would have properties, in fact, resembling those you have, Dr. Venabili. And such a robot could, indeed, be stopped, hurt, even destroyed by an intense Electro-Clarifier, such as the one that I have here, one that has been operating at low energy since we began our conversation. That is why you are feeling ill, Dr. Venabili—and for the first time in your existence, I’m sure.”
Dors said nothing, merely stared at the man. Slowly she sank into a chair.
Elar smiled and went on, “Of course, with you taken care of, there will be no problem with the Maestro and with Amaryl. The Maestro, in fact, without you, may fade out at once and resign in grief, while Amaryl is merely a child in his mind. In all likelihood, neither will have to be killed. How does it feel, Dr. Venabili, to be unmasked after all these years? I must admit, you were very good at concealing your true nature. It’s almost surprising that no one else discovered the truth before now. But then, I am a brilliant mathematician—an observer, a thinker, a deducer. Even I would not have figured it out were it not for your fanatical devotion to the Maestro and the occasional bursts of superhuman power you seemed to summon at will—when he was threatened.
“Say good-bye, Dr. Venabili. All I have to do now is to turn the device to full power and you will be history.”
Dors seemed to collect herself and rose slowly from her seat, mumbling, “I may be better shielded than you think.” Then, with a grunt, she threw herself at Elar.
Elar, his eyes widening, shrieked and reeled back.
Then Dors was on him, her hand flashing. Its side struck Elar’s neck, smashing the vertebrae and shattering the nerve cord. He fell dead on the floor.
Dors straightened with an effort and staggered toward the door. She had to find Hari. He had to know what had happened.
27
Hari Seldon rose from his seat in horror. He had never seen Dors look so, her face twisted, her body canted, staggering as though she were drunk.
“Dors! What happened! What’s wrong!”
He ran to her and grasped her around the waist, even as her body gave way and collapsed in his arms. He lifted her (she weighed more than an ordinary woman her size would have, but Seldon was unaware of that at the moment) and placed her on the couch.
“What happened?” he said.
She told him, gasping, her voice breaking now and then, while he cradled her head and tried to force himself to believe what was happening.
“Elar is dead,” she said. “I finally killed a human being. —First time. —Makes it worse.”
“How badly are you damaged, Dors?”
“Badly. Elar turned on his device—full—when I rushed him.”
“You can be readjusted.”
“How? There’s no one—on Trantor—who knows how. I need Daneel.”
Daneel. Demerzel. Somehow, deep inside, Hari had always known. His friend—a robot—had provided him with a protector—a robot—to ensure that psychohistory and the seeds of the Foundations were given a chance to take root. The only problem was, Hari had fallen in love with his protector—a robot. It all made sense now. All the nagging doubts and the questions could be answered. And somehow, it didn’t matter one bit. All that mattered was Dors.
“We can’t let this happen.”
“It must.” Dors’s eyes fluttered open and looked at Seldon. “Must. Tried to save you, but missed—vital point—who will protect you now?”
Seldon couldn’t see her clearly. There was something wrong with his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Dors. It’s you—It’s you—”
“No. You, Hari. Tell Manella—Manella—I forgive her now. She did better than I. Explain to Wanda. You and Raych—take care of each other.”
“No no no,” said Seldon, rocking back and forth. “You can’t do this. Hang on, Dors. Please. Please, my love.”
Dors’s head shook feebly and she smiled even more feebly. “Good-bye, Hari, my love. Remember always—all you did for me.”
“I did nothing for you.”
“You loved me and your love made me—human.”
Her eyes remained open, but Dors had ceased functioning.
Yugo Amaryl came storming into Seldon’s office. “Hari, the riots are beginning, sooner and harder even than exp—”
And then he stared at Seldon and Dors and whispered, “What happened?”
Seldon looked up at him in agony. “Riots! What do I care about riots now? —What do I care about anything now?”
PART 4
WANDA SELDON
SELDON, WANDA— . . . In the waning years of Hari Seldon’s life, he grew most attached to (some say dependent upon) his granddaughter, Wanda. Orphaned in her teens, Wanda Seldon devoted herself to her grandfather’s Psychohistory Project, filling the vacancy left by Yugo Amaryl. . . .
The content of Wanda Seldon’s work remains largely a mystery, for it was conducted in virtually total isolation. The only individuals allowed access to Wanda Seldon’s research were Hari himself and a young man named Stettin Palver (whose descendant Preem would four hundred years later contribute to the rebirth of Trantor, as the planet rose from the ashes of the Great Sack [300 F.E.]). . . .
Although the full extent of Wanda Seldon’s contribution to the Foundation is unknown, it was undoubtedly of the greatest magnitude. . . .
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
1
Hari Seldon walked into the Galactic Library (limping a little, as he did more and more often these days) and made for the banks of skitters, the little vehicles that slid their way along the interminable corridors of the building complex.
He was held up, however, by the sight of three men seated at one of the galactography alcoves, with the Galactograph showing the Galaxy in full three-dimensional representation and, of course, its worlds slowly pinwheeling around its core, spinning at right angles to that as well.
From where Seldon stood he could see that the border Province of Anacreon was marked off in glowing red. It skirted the edge of the Galaxy and took up a great volume, but it was sparsely populated with stars. Anacreon was not remarkable for either wealth or culture but was remarkable for its distance from Trantor: ten thousand parsecs away.
Seldon, acting on impulse, took a seat at a computer console near the three and set up a random search he was sure would take an indefinite period. Some instinct told him that such an intense interest in Anacreon mu
st be political in nature—its position in the Galaxy made it one of the least secure holdings of the current Imperial regime. His eyes remained on his screen, but Seldon’s ears were open for the discussion near him. One didn’t usually hear political discussions in the Library. They were, in point of fact, not supposed to take place.
Seldon did not know any of the three men. That was not entirely surprising. There were habitués of the Library, quite a few, and Seldon knew most of them by sight—and some even to talk to—but the Library was open to all citizens. No qualifications. Anyone could enter and use its facilities. (For a limited period of time, of course. Only a select few, like Seldon, were allowed to “set up shop” in the Library. Seldon had been granted the use of a locked private office and complete access to Library resources.)
One of the men (Seldon thought of him as Hook Nose, for obvious reasons) spoke in a low urgent voice.
“Let it go,” he said. “Let it go. It’s costing us a mint to try to hold on and, even if we do, it will only be while they’re there. They can’t stay there forever and, as soon as they leave, the situation will revert to what it was.”
Seldon knew what they were talking about. The news had come over TrantorVision only three days ago that the Imperial government had decided on a show of force to bring the obstreperous Governor of Anacreon into line. Seldon’s own psychohistorical analysis had shown him that it was a useless procedure, but the government did not generally listen when its emotions were stirred. Seldon smiled slightly and grimly at hearing Hook Nose say what he himself had said—and the young man said it without the benefit of any knowledge of psychohistory.
Hook Nose went on. “If we leave Anacreon alone, what do we lose? It’s still there, right where it always was, right at the edge of the Empire. It can’t pick up and go to Andromeda, can it? So it still has to trade with us and life continues. What’s the difference if they salute the Emperor or not? You’ll never be able to tell the difference.”
The second man, whom Seldon had labeled Baldy, for even more obvious reasons, said, “Except this whole business doesn’t exist in a vacuum. If Anacreon goes, the other border provinces will go. The Empire will break up.”
“So what?” whispered Hook Nose fiercely. “The Empire can’t run itself effectively anymore, anyway. It’s too big. Let the border go and take care of itself—if it can. The Inner Worlds will be all the stronger and better off. The border doesn’t have to be ours politically; it will still be ours economically.”
And now the third man (Red Cheeks) said, “I wish you were right, but that’s not the way it’s going to work. If the border provinces establish their independence, the first thing each will do will be to try to increase its power at the expense of its neighbors. There’ll be war and conflict and every one of the governors will dream of becoming Emperor at last. It will be like the old days before the Kingdom of Trantor—a dark age that will last for thousands of years.”
Baldy said, “Surely things won’t be that bad. The Empire may break up, but it will heal itself quickly when people find out that the breakup just means war and impoverishment. They’ll look back on the golden days of the intact Empire and all will be well again. We’re not barbarians, you know. We’ll find a way.”
“Absolutely,” said Hook Nose. “We’ve got to remember that the Empire has faced crisis after crisis in its history and has pulled through time and again.”
But Red Cheeks shook his head as he said, “This is not just another crisis. This is something much worse. The Empire has been deteriorating for generations. Ten years’ worth of the junta destroyed the economy and since the fall of the junta and the rise of this new Emperor, the Empire has been so weak that the governors on the Periphery don’t have to do anything. It’s going to fall of its own weight.”
“And the allegiance to the Emperor—” began Hook Nose.
“What allegiance?” said Red Cheeks. “We went for years without an Emperor after Cleon was assassinated and no one seemed to mind much. And this new Emperor is just a figurehead. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. This isn’t a crisis. This is the end.”
The other two stared at Red Cheeks, frowning. Baldy said, “You really believe it! You think that the Imperial government will just sit there and let it all happen?”
“Yes! Like you two, they won’t believe it is happening. That is, until it’s too late.”
“What would you want them to do if they did believe it?” asked Baldy.
Red Cheeks stared into the Galactograph, as if he might find an answer there. “I don’t know. Look, in due course of time I’ll die; things won’t be too bad by then. Afterward, as the situation gets worse, other people can worry about it. I’ll be gone. And so will the good old days. Maybe forever. I’m not the only one who thinks this, by the way. Ever hear of someone named Hari Seldon?”
“Sure,” said Hook Nose at once. “Wasn’t he First Minister under Cleon?”
“Yes,” said Red Cheeks. “He’s some sort of scientist. I heard him give a talk a few months back. It felt good to know I’m not the only one who believes the Empire is falling apart. He said—”
“And he said everything’s going to pot and there’s going to be a permanent dark age?” Baldy interjected.
“Well no,” said Red Cheeks. “He’s one of these real cautious types. He says it might happen, but he’s wrong. It will happen.”
Seldon had heard enough. He limped toward the table where the three men sat and touched Red Cheeks on the shoulder.
“Sir,” he said, “may I speak to you for a moment?”
Startled, Red Cheeks looked up and then he said, “Hey, aren’t you Professor Seldon?”
“I always have been,” said Seldon. He handed the man a reference tile bearing his photograph. “I would like to see you here in my Library office at 4 P.M., day after tomorrow. Can you manage that?”
“I have to work.”
“Call in sick if you have to. It’s important.”
“Well, I’m not sure, sir.”
“Do it,” said Seldon. “If you get into any sort of trouble over it, I’ll straighten it out. And meanwhile, gentlemen, do you mind if I study the Galaxy simulation for a moment? It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at one.”
They nodded mutely, apparently abashed at being in the presence of a former First Minister. One by one the men stepped back and allowed Seldon access to the Galactograph controls.
Seldon’s finger reached out to the controls and the red that had marked off the Province of Anacreon vanished. The Galaxy was unmarked, a glowing pinwheel of mist brightening into the spherical glow at the center, behind which was the Galactic black hole.
Individual stars could not be made out, of course, unless the view were magnified, but then only one portion or another of the Galaxy would be shown on the screen and Seldon wanted to see the whole thing—to get a look at the Empire that was vanishing.
He pushed a contact and a series of yellow dots appeared on the Galactic image. They represented the habitable planets—twenty-five million of them. They could be distinguished as individual dots in the thin fog that represented the outskirts of the Galaxy, but they were more and more thickly placed as one moved in toward the center. There was a belt of what seemed solid yellow (but which would separate into individual dots under magnification) around the central glow. The central glow itself remained white and unmarked, of course. No habitable planets could exist in the midst of the turbulent energies of the core.
Despite the great density of yellow, not one star in ten thousand, Seldon knew, had a habitable planet circling it. This was true, despite the planet-molding and terraforming capacities of humanity. Not all the molding in the Galaxy could make most of the worlds into anything a human being could walk on in comfort and without the protection of a spacesuit.
Seldon closed another contact. The yellow dots disappeared, but one tiny region glowed blue: Trantor and the various worlds directly dependent on it. As clos
e as it could be to the central core and yet remaining insulated from its deadliness, it was commonly viewed as being located at the “center of the Galaxy,” which it wasn’t—not truly. As usual, one had to be impressed by the smallness of the world of Trantor, a tiny place in the vast realm of the Galaxy, but within it was squeezed the largest concentration of wealth, culture, and governmental authority that humanity had ever seen.
And even that was doomed to destruction.
It was almost as though the men could read his mind or perhaps they interpreted the sad expression on his face.
Baldy asked softly, “Is the Empire really going to be destroyed?”
Seldon replied, softer still, “It might. It might. Anything might happen.”
He rose, smiled at the men, and left, but in his thoughts he screamed: It will! It will!
2
Seldon sighed as he climbed into one of the skitters that were ranked side by side in the large alcove. There had been a time, just a few years ago, when he had gloried in walking briskly along the interminable corridors of the Library, telling himself that even though he was past sixty he could manage it.
But now, at seventy, his legs gave way all too quickly and he had to take a skitter. Younger men took them all the time because skitters saved them trouble, but Seldon did it because he had to—and that made all the difference.
After Seldon punched in the destination, he closed a contact and the skitter lifted a fraction of an inch above the floor. Off it went at a rather casual pace, very smoothly, very silently, and Seldon leaned back and watched the corridor walls, the other skitters, the occasional walkers.
He passed a number of Librarians and, even after all these years, he still smiled when he saw them. They were the oldest Guild in the Empire, the one with the most revered traditions, and they clung to ways that were more appropriate centuries before—maybe millennia before.
