Forward the Foundation f-2

by Isaac Asimov

  “Why, I’m working on an equation in Section 33A2D17. See, I’ve recalibrated this section”—she gestured to a glowing violet patch suspended in midair in front of her face—“taking into consideration the standard quotient and— There! Just what I thought—I think.” She stepped back and rubbed her eyes.

  “What is it, Wanda?” Hari moved in closer to study the equation. “Why, this looks like the Terminus equation and yet . . . Wanda, this is an inverse of the Terminus equation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Grandpa. See, the numbers weren’t working quite right in the Terminus equation—look.” Wanda touched a contact in a recessed wallstrip and another patch sprang to life in vivid red on the other side of the room. Seldon and Wanda walked over to inspect it. “You see how it’s all hanging together fine now, Grandpa? It’s taken me weeks to get it this way.”

  “How did you do it?” asked Hari, admiring the equation’s lines, its logic, its elegance.

  “At first, I concentrated on it from over here only. I blocked out all else. In order to get Terminus to work, work on Terminus—stands to reason, doesn’t it? But then I realized that I couldn’t just introduce this equation into the Prime Radiant system and expect it to blend right in smoothly, as if nothing happened. A placement means a displacement somewhere else. A weight needs a counterweight.”

  “I think the concept to which you are referring is what the ancients called ‘yin and yang.’ ”

  “Yes, more or less. Yin and yang. So, you see, I realized that to perfect the yin of Terminus, I had to locate its yang. Which I did, over there.” She moved back to the violet patch, tucked away at the other edge of the Prime Radiant sphere. “And once I adjusted the figures here, the Terminus equation fell into place as well. Harmony!” Wanda looked pleased with herself, as if she’d solved all the problems of the Empire.

  “Fascinating, Wanda, and later on you must tell me what you think it all means for the Project. —But right now you must come with me to the holoscreen. I received an urgent message from Santanni a few minutes ago. Your father wants us to call him immediately.”

  Wanda’s smile faded. She had been alarmed at the recent reports of fighting on Santanni. As Imperial budget cutbacks went into effect, the citizens of the Outer Worlds suffered most. They had limited access to the richer, more populous Inner Worlds and it became more and more difficult to trade their worlds’ products for much needed imports. Imperial hyperships going in and out of Santanni were few and the distant world felt isolated from the rest of the Empire. Pockets of rebellion had erupted throughout the planet.

  “Grandfather, I hope everything’s all right,” said Wanda, her fear revealed by her voice.

  “Don’t worry, dear. After all, they must be safe if Raych was able to send us a message.”

  In Seldon’s office, he and Wanda stood before the holoscreen as it activated. Seldon punched a code on the keypad alongside the screen and they waited a few seconds for the intragalactic connection to be established. Slowly the screen seemed to stretch back into the wall, as if it were the entrance to a tunnel—and out of the tunnel, dimly at first, came the familiar figure of a stocky powerfully built man. As the connection sharpened, the man’s features became clearer. When Seldon and Wanda were able to make out Raych’s bushy Dahlite mustache, the figure sprang to life.

  “Dad! Wanda!” said Raych’s three-dimensional hologram, projected to Trantor from Santanni. “Listen, I don’t have much time.” He flinched, as if startled by a loud noise. “Things have gotten pretty bad here. The government has fallen and a provisional party has taken over. Things are a mess, as you can imagine. I just put Manella and Bellis on a hypership to Anacreon. I told them to get in touch with you from there. The name of the ship is the Arcadia VII.

  “You should have seen Manella, Dad. Mad as anything that she had to go. The only way I was able to convince her to leave was to point out that it was for Bellis’s sake.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Dad and Wanda. Of course I would have gone with them—if I could have. But there wasn’t enough room. You should’ve seen what I had to go through just to get them onto the ship.” Raych flashed one of his lopsided grins that Seldon and Wanda loved so much, then continued. “Besides, since I’m here, I have to help guard the University—we may be part of the Imperial University system, but we’re a place of learning and building, not of destruction. I tell you, if one of those hot-headed Santanni rebels comes near our stuff—”

  “Raych,” Hari broke in, “How bad is it? Are you close to the fighting?”

  “Dad, are you in danger?” asked Wanda.

  They waited a few seconds for their message to travel the nine thousand parsecs across the Galaxy to Raych.

  “I—I—I couldn’t quite make out what you said,” the hologram replied. “There’s a bit of fighting going on. It’s sort of exciting, actually,” Raych said, breaking into that grin again. “So I’m going to sign off now. Remember, find out what happened to the Arcadia VII going to Anacreon. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I’m able. Remember, I—” The transmission broke off and the hologram faded. The holoscreen tunnel collapsed in on itself so that Seldon and Wanda were left staring at a blank wall.

  “Grandpa,” said Wanda, “what do you think he was going to say?”

  “I have no idea, dear. But there is one thing I do know and that is that your father can take care of himself. I pity any rebel who gets near enough for a well-placed Twist-kick from your dad! —Come, let’s get back to that equation and in a few hours we’ll check on the Arcadia VII.”

  “Commander, have you no idea what happened to the ship?” Hari Seldon was again engaged in intragalactic conversation, but this time it was with an Imperial navy commander stationed at Anacreon. For this communication, Seldon was making use of the visiscreen—much less realistic than the holoscreen but also much simpler.

  “I’m telling you, Professor, that we have no record of that hypership requesting permission to enter the Anacreonic atmosphere. Of course, communications with Santanni have been broken for several hours and sporadic at best for the last week. It is possible that the ship tried to reach us on a Santanni-based channel and could not get through, but I doubt it.

  “No, it’s more likely that the Arcadia VII changed destination. Voreg, perhaps, or Sarip. Have you tried either of those worlds, Professor?”

  “No,” said Seldon wearily, “but I see no reason if the ship was bound for Anacreon that it would not go to Anacreon. Commander, it is vital that I locate that ship.”

  “Of course,” the commander ventured, “the Arcadia VII might not have made it. Out safely, I mean. There’s a lot of fighting going on. Those rebels don’t care who they blow up. They just train their lasers and pretend it’s the Emperor Agis they’re blasting. I tell you, it’s a whole different game out here on the fringe, Professor.”

  “My daughter-in-law and granddaughter are on that ship, Commander,” Seldon said in a tight voice.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Professor,” said an abashed commander. “I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I hear anything.”

  Dispiritedly Hari closed the visiscreen contact. How tired I am, he thought. And, he mused, I’m not surprised—I’ve known that this would come for nearly forty years.

  Seldon chuckled bitterly to himself. Perhaps that commander had thought he was shocking Seldon, impressing him with the vivid detail of life “on the fringe.” But Seldon knew all about the fringe. And as the fringe came apart, like a piece of knitting with one loose thread, the whole piece would unravel to the core: Trantor.

  Seldon became aware of a soft buzzing sound. It was the door signal. “Yes?”

  “Grandpa,” said Wanda, entering the office, “I’m scared.”

  “Why, dear?” asked Seldon with concern. He didn’t want to tell her yet what he had learned—or hadn’t learned—from the commander on Anacreon.

  “Usually, although they’re so far away, I feel Dad and Mom and Bellis—feel them in here”—sh
e pointed to her head—“and in here”—she placed her hand over her heart. “But now, today, I don’t feel them—it feels less, as if they’re fading, like one of the dome bulbs. And I want to stop it. I want to pull them back, but I can’t.”

  “Wanda, I really think this is merely a product of your concern for your family in light of the rebellion. You know that uprisings occur all over the Empire all the time—little eruptions to let off steam. Come now, you know that chances of anything happening to Raych, Manella, or Bellis are vanishingly small. Your dad will call any day to say all is well; your mom and Bellis will land on Anacreon at any moment and enjoy a little vacation. We are the ones to be pitied—we’re stuck here up to our ears in work! So, sweetheart, go to bed and think only good thoughts. I promise you, tomorrow, under the sunny dome, things will look much better.”

  “All right, Grandpa,” said Wanda, not sounding entirely convinced. “But tomorrow—if we haven’t heard by tomorrow—we’ll have to—to—”

  “Wanda, what can we do, except wait?” asked Hari, his voice gentle.

  Wanda turned and left, the weight of her worries showing in the slope of her shoulders. Hari watched her go, finally allowing his own worries to come to the surface.

  It had been three days since the hologram transmission from Raych. Since then—nothing. And today the naval commander at Anacreon denied ever having heard of a ship called Arcadia VII.

  Hari had tried earlier to get through to Raych on Santanni, but all communication beams were down. It was as if Santanni—and the Arcadia VII—had simply broken off from the Empire, like a petal from a flower.

  Seldon knew what he had to do now. The Empire might be down, but it was not out. Its power, when properly wielded, was still awesome. Seldon placed an emergency transmission to Emperor Agis XIV.

  29

  “What a surprise—my friend Hari!” Agis’s visage beamed at Seldon through the holoscreen. “I am glad to hear from you, although you usually request the more formal personal audience. Come, you’ve piqued my interest. Why the urgency?”

  “Sire,” began Seldon, “my son, Raych, and his wife and daughter live on Santanni.”

  “Ah, Santanni,” the Emperor said as his smile faded. “A bunch of misguided wretches if I ever—”

  “Sire, please,” broke in Seldon, surprising both the Emperor and himself with this flagrant breach of Imperial protocol. “My son was able to get Manella and Bellis onto a hypership, the Arcadia VII, bound for Anacreon. He, however, had to remain. That was three days ago. The ship has not landed at Anacreon. And my son seems to have disappeared. My calls to Santanni have gone unanswered and now the communication beams are broken.

  “Please, Sire, can you help me?”

  “Hari, as you know, officially all ties between Santanni and Trantor have been severed. However, I still hold some influence in selected areas of Santanni. That is, there are still a few loyal to me who have not yet been found out. Although I cannot make direct contact with any of my operatives on that world, I can share with you any reports I receive from there. These are, of course, highly confidential, but considering your situation and our relationship, I will allow you access to those pieces that might interest you.

  “I am expecting another dispatch within the hour. If you like, I’ll recontact you when it arrives. In the meantime, I’ll have one of my aides go over all transmissions from Santanni for the past three days to look for anything pertaining to Raych, Manella, or Bellis Seldon.”

  “Thank you, Sire. I thank you most humbly.” And Hari Seldon dipped his head as the Emperor’s image faded from the holoscreen.

  Sixty minutes later Hari Seldon was still sitting at his desk, waiting to hear from the Emperor. The past hour had been one of the most difficult he had ever spent, second only to the hours after Dors’s destruction.

  It was the not knowing that did Hari in. He had made a career of knowing—the future as well as the present. And now he had no idea at all about three of the people most precious to him.

  The holoscreen buzzed softly and Hari pressed a contact in response. Agis appeared.

  “Hari,” began the Emperor. From the soft slow sadness in his voice, Hari knew this call brought bad news.

  “My son,” said Hari.

  “Yes,” replied the Emperor. “Raych was killed, earlier today, in a bombardment on Santanni University. I’ve learned from my sources that Raych knew the attack was coming but refused to desert his post. You see, a good number of the rebels are students and Raych felt that, if they knew that he was still there, they would never . . . But hate overcame all reason.

  “The University is, you see, an Imperial University. The rebels feel they must destroy all things Imperial before rebuilding anew. The fools! Why—” And here Agis stopped, as if suddenly realizing that Seldon did not care about Santanni University or the plans of the rebels—not right now, at least.

  “Hari, if it makes you feel any better, remember that your son died in defense of knowledge. It was not the Empire Raych fought and died for but humanity itself.”

  Seldon looked up out of tear-filled eyes. Weakly he asked, “And Manella and little Bellis? What of them? Have you found the Arcadia VII?”

  “That search has proved fruitless, Hari. The Arcadia VII left Santanni, as you were told. But it seems to have disappeared. It may have been hijacked by rebels or it may have made an emergency detour—at this point, we just don’t know.”

  Seldon nodded. “Thank you, Agis. Although you have brought me tragic news, at least you have brought it. Not knowing was worse. You are a true friend.”

  “And so, my friend,” said the Emperor, “I’ll leave you to yourself now—and your memories.” The Emperor’s image faded from the screen as Hari Seldon folded his arms in front of him on his desk, put his head down, and wept.

  30

  Wanda Seldon adjusted the waistband of her unisuit, pulling it a little tighter around her middle. Taking up a hand hoe, she attacked some weeds that had sprung up in her small flower garden outside the Psychohistory Building at Streeling. Generally Wanda spent the bulk of her time in her office, working with her Prime Radiant. She found solace in its precise statistical elegance; the unvarying equations were somehow reassuring in this Empire gone so crazy. But when thoughts of her beloved father, mother, and baby sister became too much to bear, when even her research could not keep her mind off the horrible losses she’d so recently undergone, Wanda invariably found herself out here, scratching at the terraformed ground, as if coaxing a few plants to life might somehow, in some tiny measure, ameliorate her pain.

  Since her father’s death a month ago and the disappearance of Manella and Bellis, Wanda, who had always been slim, had been losing weight. Whereas a few months ago Hari Seldon would have been concerned over his darling granddaughter’s loss of appetite, now he, stuck in his own grief, seemed not to notice.

  A profound change had come over Hari and Wanda Seldon—and the few remaining members of the Psychohistory Project. Hari seemed to have given up. He now spent most of his days sitting in an armchair in the Streeling solarium, staring out at the University grounds, warmed by the bright bulbs overhead. Occasionally Project members told Wanda that his bodyguard, a man named Stettin Palver, would badger Seldon into a walk out under the dome or try to engage him in a discussion of the future direction of the Project.

  Wanda retreated deeper into her study of the Prime Radiant’s fascinating equations. She could feel the future her grandfather had worked so hard to achieve finally taking shape, and he was right: The Encyclopedists must be established on Terminus; they would be the Foundation.

  And Section 33A2D17—in it Wanda could see what Seldon referred to as the Second, or secret, Foundation. But how? Without Seldon’s active interest, Wanda was at a loss as to how to proceed. And her sorrow over the destruction of her family cut so deep that she didn’t seem to have the strength to figure it out.

  The members of the Project itself, those fifty or so hardy sou
ls who remained, continued their work as well as possible. The majority were Encyclopedists, researching the source materials they would need to copy and catalogue for their eventual move to Terminus—when and if they gained full access to the Galactic Library. At this point, they were working on faith alone. Professor Seldon had lost his private office at the Library, so the prospects of any other Project member gaining special access were slim.

  The remaining Project members (other than the Encyclopedists) were historical analysts and mathematicians. The historians interpreted past and current human actions and events, turning their findings over to the mathematicians, who in turn fit those pieces into the great Psychohistorical Equation. It was long painstaking work.

  Many Project members had left because the rewards were so few—psychohistorians were the butt of many jokes on Trantor and limited funds had forced Seldon to enact drastic pay cuts. But the constant reassuring presence of Hari Seldon had—till now—overcome the difficult working conditions of the Project. Indeed, the Project members who had stayed on had, to a person, done so out of respect and devotion to Professor Seldon.

  Now, thought Wanda Seldon bitterly, what reason is left for them to stay? A light breeze blew a piece of her blond hair across her eyes; she pushed it back absentmindedly and continued her weeding.

  “Miss Seldon, may I have a moment of your time?” Wanda turned and looked up. A young man—she judged him to be in his early twenties—stood on the gravel path next to her. She immediately sensed him to be strong and fearsomely intelligent. Her grandfather had chosen wisely. Wanda rose to speak with him.

  “I recognize you. You are my grandfather’s bodyguard, are you not? Stettin Palver, I believe?”