Foundation's Edge f-6

by Isaac Asimov

  “The Interregnum would have endured thirty thousand years, were it not for the Seldon Plan. After thirty thousand years of disintegration, it might be there would be no strength left with which to form an Empire again. There might be left only isolated and probably dying worlds.

  “What we have today we owe to Hari Seldon, and it is upon his long-dead mind that we must rely for the rest. The danger henceforward, Councillors, is ourselves, and from this point on there must be no official doubt of the value of the Plan. Let us agree now, quietly and firmly, that there are to be no official doubts, criticisms, or condemnations of the Plan. We must support it completely. It has proved itself over five centuries. It is the security of humanity and it must not be tampered with. Is it agreed?”

  There was a quiet murmur. The Mayor hardly looked up to seek visual proof of agreement. She knew every member of the Council and how each would react. In the wake of the victory, there would be no objection now. Next year perhaps. Not now. She would tackle the problems of next year next year.

  Always except for—

  “Thought control, Mayor Branno?” asked Golan Trevize, striding down the aisle and speaking loudly, as though to make up for the silence of the rest. He did not bother to take his seat which, since he was a new member, was in the back row.

  Branno still did not look up. She said, “Your views, Councilman Trevize?”

  “That the government cannot impose a ban on free speech; that all individuals—most certainly including Councilmen and Councilwomen who have been elected for the purpose—have a right to discuss the political issues of the day; and that no political issue can possibly be divorced from the Seldon Plan.”

  Branno folded her hands and looked up. Her face was expressionless. She said, “Councilman Trevize, you have entered this debate irregularly and were out of order in doing so. However, I asked you to state your views and I will now answer you.

  “There is no limit to free speech within the context of the Seldon Plan. It is only the Plan itself that limits us by its very nature. There can be many ways of interpreting events before the image makes the final decision, but once he makes that decision it can be questioned no further in Council. Nor may it be questioned in advance as though one were to say, ‘If Hari Seldon were to state thus-and-so, he would be wrong.’ ”

  “And yet if one honestly felt so, Madam Mayor?”

  “Then one could say so, if one were a private individual, discussing the matter in a private context.”

  “You mean, then, that the limitations of free speech which you propose are to apply entirely and specifically to government officials?”

  “Exactly. This is not a new principle of Foundation law. It has been applied before by Mayors of all parties. A private point of view means nothing; an official expression of opinion carries weight and can be dangerous. We have not come this far to risk danger now.”

  “May I point out, Madam Mayor, that this principle of yours has been applied, sparsely and occasionally, to specific acts of Council. It has never been applied to something as vast and indefinable as the Seldon Plan.”

  “The Seldon Plan needs the protection most, for it is precisely there that questioning can be most fatal.”

  “Will you not consider, Mayor Branno—” Trevize turned, addressing now the seated rows of Council members, who seemed one and all to have caught their breath, as though awaiting the outcome of a duel. “Will you not consider, Council members, that there is every reason to think that there is no Seldon Plan at all?”

  “We have all witnessed its workings today,” said Mayor Branno, even more quietly as Trevize became louder and more oratorical.

  “It is precisely because we have seen its workings today, Councilmen and Councilwomen, that we can see that the Seldon Plan, as we have been taught to believe it to be, cannot exist.”

  “Councilman Trevize, you are out of order and must not continue along these lines.”

  “I have the privilege of office, Mayor.”

  “That privilege has been withdrawn, Councilman.”

  “You cannot withdraw the privilege. Your statement limiting free speech cannot, in itself, have the force of law. There has been no formal vote in Council, Mayor, and even if there were I would have the right to question its legality.”

  “The withdrawal, Councilman, has nothing to do with my statement protecting the Seldon Plan.”

  “On what, then, does it depend?”

  “You are accused of treason, Councilman. I wish to do the Council the courtesy of not arresting you within the Council Chamber, but waiting at the door are members of Security who will take you into custody as you leave. I will ask you now to leave quietly. If you make any ill-considered move, then, of course, that will be considered a present danger and Security will enter the Chamber. I trust you will not make that necessary.”

  Trevize frowned. There was absolute silence in the hall. (Did everyone expect this—everyone but himself and Compor?) He looked back at the exit. He saw nothing, but he had no doubt that Mayor Branno was not bluffing.

  He stammered in rage. “I repre—represent an important constituency, Mayor Branno—”

  “No doubt, they will be disappointed in you.”

  “On what evidence do you bring forth this wild charge?”

  “That will appear in due course, but be assured that we have all we need. You are a most indiscreet young man and should realize that someone may be your friend and yet not be willing to accompany you into treason.”

  Trevize whirled to meet Compor’s blue eyes. They met his stonily.

  Mayor Branno said calmly, “I call upon all to witness that when I made my last statement, Councilman Trevize turned to look at Councilman Compor. Will you leave now, Councilman, or will you force us to engage in the indignity of an arrest within the Chamber?”

  Golan Trevize turned, mounted the steps again, and, at the door, two men in uniform, well armed, fell in on either side.

  And Harla Branno, looking after him impassively, whispered through barely parted lips, “Fool!”

  3.

  Liono Kodell had been Director of Security through all of Mayor Branno’s administration. It was not a backbreaking job, as he liked to say, but whether he was lying or not, one could not, of course, tell. He didn’t look like a liar, but that did not necessarily mean anything.

  He looked comfortable and friendly, and it might well be that this was appropriate for the job. He was rather below the average height, rather above the average weight, had a bushy mustache (most unusual for a citizen of Terminus) that was now more white than gray, bright brown eyes, and a characteristic patch of primary color marking the outer breast pocket of his drab coverall.

  He said, “Sit down, Trevize. Let us keep this on a friendly basis if we can.”

  “Friendly? With a traitor?” Trevize hooked both his thumbs in his sash and remained standing.

  “With an accused traitor. We have not yet come to the point where accusation—even by the Mayor herself—is the equivalent of conviction. I trust we never do. My job is to clear you, if I can. I would much rather do so now while no harm is done—except, perhaps, to your pride—rather than be forced to make it all a matter of a public trial. I hope you are with me in this.”

  Trevize didn’t soften. He said, “Let’s not bother with ingratiation. Your job is to badger me as though I were a traitor. I am not one, and I resent the necessity of having to have that point demonstrated to your satisfaction. Why should you not have to prove your loyalty to my satisfaction?”

  “In principle, none. The sad fact, however, is that I have power on my side, and you have none on yours. Because of that, it is my privilege to question, and not yours. If any suspicion of disloyalty or treason fell upon me, by the way, I imagine I would find myself replaced, and I would then be questioned by someone else, who, I earnestly hope, would treat me no worse than I intend to treat you.”

  “And how do you intend to treat me?”

  “Like, I trust
, a friend and an equal, if you will so treat me.”

  “Shall I stand you a drink?” asked Trevize bitterly.

  “Later, perhaps, but for now, please sit down. I ask it as a friend.”

  Trevize hesitated, then sat. Any further defiance suddenly seemed meaningless to him. “What now?” he said.

  “Now, may I ask that you will answer my questions truthfully and completely and without evasion?”

  “And if not? What is the threat behind it? A Psychic Probe?”

  “I trust not.”

  “I trust not, too. Not on a Councilman. It will reveal no treason, and when I am then acquitted, I will have your political head and the Mayor’s too, perhaps. It might almost be worth making you try a Psychic Probe.”

  Kodell frowned and shook his head slightly. “Oh no. Oh no. Too much danger of brain damage. It’s slow healing sometimes, and it would not be worth your while. Definitely. You know, sometimes, when the Probe is used in exasperation—”

  “A threat, Kodell?”

  “A statement of fact, Trevize. —Don’t mistake me, Councilman. If I must use the Probe I will, and even if you are innocent you will have no recourse.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Kodell closed a switch on the desk before him. He said, “What I ask and what you answer to my questions will be recorded, both sight and sound. I do not want any volunteered statements from you, or anything nonresponsive. Not at this time. You understand that, I am sure.”

  “I understand that you will record only what you please,” said Trevize contemptuously.

  “That is right, but again, don’t mistake me. I will not distort anything you say. I will use it or not use it, that is all. But you will know what I will not use and you will not waste my time and yours.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We have reason to think, Councilman Trevize”—and somehow the touch of added formality in his voice was evidence enough that he was recording—“that you have stated openly, and on a number of occasions, that you do not believe in the existence of the Seldon Plan.”

  Trevize said slowly, “If I have said so openly, and on a number of occasions, what more do you need?”

  “Let us not waste time with quibbles, Councilman. You know that what I want is an open admission in your own voice, characterized by its own voiceprints, under conditions where you are clearly in perfect command of yourself.”

  “Because, I suppose, the use of any hypno-effect, chemical or otherwise, would alter the voiceprints?”

  “Quite noticeably.”

  “And you are anxious to demonstrate that you have made use of no illegal methods in questioning a Councilman? I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m glad you do not blame me, Councilman. Then let us continue. You have stated openly, and on a number of occasions, that you do not believe in the existence of the Seldon Plan. Do you admit that?”

  Trevize said slowly, choosing his words, “I do not believe that what we call Seldon’s Plan has the significance we usually apply to it.”

  “A vague statement. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “My view is that the usual concept that Hari Seldon, five hundred years ago, making use of the mathematical science of psychohistory, worked out the course of human events to the last detail and that we are following a course designed to take us from the First Galactic Empire to the Second Galactic Empire along the line of maximum probability, is naïve. It cannot be so.”

  “Do you mean that, in your opinion, Hari Seldon never existed?”

  “Not at all. Of course he existed.”

  “That he never evolved the science of psychohistory?”

  “No, of course I don’t mean any such thing. See here, Director, I would have explained this to the Council if I had been allowed to, and I will explain it to you. The truth of what I am going to say is so plain—”

  The Director of Security had quietly, and quite obviously, turned off the recording device.

  Trevize paused and frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “You are wasting my time, Councilman. I am not asking you for speeches.”

  “You are asking me to explain my views, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. I am asking you to answer questions—simply, directly, and straightforwardly. Answer only the questions and offer nothing that I do not ask for. Do that and this won’t take long.”

  Trevize said, “You mean you will elicit statements from me that will reinforce the official version of what I am supposed to have done.”

  “We ask you only to make truthful statements, and I assure you we will not distort them. Please, let me try again. We were talking about Hari Seldon.” The recording device was in action once more and Kodell repeated calmly, “That he never evolved the science of psychohistory?”

  “Of course he evolved the science that we call psychohistory,” said Trevize, failing to mask his impatience, and gesturing with exasperated passion.

  “Which you would define—how?”

  “Galaxy! It is usually defined as that branch of mathematics that deals with the overall reactions of large groups of human beings to given stimuli under given conditions. In other words, it is supposed to predict social and historical changes.”

  “You say ‘supposed to.’ Do you question that from the standpoint of mathematical expertise?”

  “No,” said Trevize. “I am not a psychohistorian. Nor is any member of the Foundation government, nor any citizen of Terminus, nor any—”

  Kodell’s hand raised. He said softly, “Councilman, please!” and Trevize was silent.

  Kodell said, “Have you any reason to suppose that Hari Seldon did not make the necessary analysis that would combine, as efficiently as possible, the factors of maximum probability and shortest duration in the path leading from the First to the Second Empire by way of the Foundation?”

  “I wasn’t there,” said Trevize sardonically. “How can I know?”

  “Can you know he didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Do you deny, perhaps, that the holographic image of Hari Seldon that has appeared during each of a number of historical crises over the past five hundred years is, in actual fact, a reproduction of Hari Seldon himself, made in the last year of his life, shortly before the establishment of the Foundation?”

  “I suppose I can’t deny that.”

  “You ‘suppose.’ Would you care to say that it is a fraud, a hoax devised by someone in past history for some purpose?”

  Trevize sighed. “No. I am not maintaining that.”

  “Are you prepared to maintain that the messages that Hari Seldon delivers are in any way manipulated by anyone at all?”

  “No. I have no reason to think that such manipulation is either possible or useful.”

  “I see. You witnessed this most recent appearance of Seldon’s image. Did you find that his analysis—prepared five hundred years ago—did not match the actual conditions of today quite closely?”

  “On the contrary,” said Trevize with sudden glee. “It matched very closely.”

  Kodell seemed indifferent to the other’s emotion. “And yet, Councilman, after the appearance of Seldon, you still maintain that the Seldon Plan does not exist.”

  “Of course I do. I maintain it does not exist precisely because the analysis matched so perfectly—”

  Kodell had turned off the recorder. “Councilman,” he said, shaking his head, “you put me to the trouble of erasing. I ask if you still maintain this odd belief of yours and you start giving me reasons. Let me repeat my question.”

  He said, “And yet, Councilman, after the appearance of Seldon, you still maintain that the Seldon Plan does not exist.”

  “How do you know that? No one had a chance to speak to my informer friend, Compor, after the appearance.”

  “Let us say we guessed, Councilman. And let us say you have already answered, ‘Of course I do.’ If you will say that once more without volunteering added information, we can get on w
ith it.”

  “Of course I do,” said Trevize ironically.

  “Well,” said Kodell, “I will choose whichever of the ‘Of course I do’s’ sounds more natural. Thank you, Councilman,” and the recording device was turned off again.

  Trevize said, “Is that it?”

  “For what I need, yes.”

  “What you need, quite clearly, is a set of questions and answers that you can present to Terminus and to all the Foundation Federation which it rules, in order to show that I accept the legend of the Seldon Plan totally. That will make any denial of it that I later make seem quixotic or outright insane.”

  “Or even treasonable in the eyes of an excited multitude which sees the plan as essential to the Foundation’s safety. It will perhaps not be necessary to publicize this, Councilman Trevize, if we can come to some understanding, but if it should prove necessary we will see to it that the Federation hears.”

  “Are you fool enough, sir,” said Trevize, frowning, “to be entirely uninterested in what I really have to say?”

  “As a human being I am very interested, and if an appropriate time comes I will listen to you with interest and a certain amount of skepticism. As Director of Security, however, I have, at the present moment, exactly what I want.”

  “I hope you know that this will do you, and the Mayor, no good.”

  “Oddly enough, I am not at all of that opinion. You will now leave. Under guard, of course.”

  “Where am I to be taken?”

  Kodell merely smiled. “Good-bye, Councilman. You were not perfectly co-operative, but it would have been unrealistic to have expected you to be.”

  He held out his hand.

  Trevize, standing up, ignored it. He smoothed the creases out of his sash and said, “You only delay the inevitable. Others must think as I do now, or will come to think that way later. To imprison me or to kill me will serve to inspire wonder and, eventually, accelerate such thinking. In the end the truth and I shall win.”