Asimov’s Future History Volume 16

by Isaac Asimov

  In those days, Daneel and I still thought it could be fixed... the whole great Empire of Humanity. But back then my equations were still incomplete. They left some room for doubt. For hope.

  Since Hari’s tenure in office ended, Demarchia had become a backwater. A place to exile failed politicians. No one of importance bothered with it anymore.

  Which suits our purpose in coming here now, he thought with a grim smile. This time, Demarchia was not a destination, but a convenient launching-off point.

  “Professor Seldon?” Horis Antic’s voice murmured behind Hari, from within the hotel room. As the next stage of their adventure approached, the portly bureaucrat grew increasingly nervous.

  “I – I’ve just heard from the, uh, individual we talked about earlier. He says arrangements have been made. We’re to meet him at his vehicle in an hour.”

  Hari touched a control and turned his mobile chair around, gliding back inside. Antic’s convoluted speech, a precaution against possible bugging devices, would almost certainly be futile if they were under serious surveillance. Besides, up until now, no one had committed a single crime.

  “Has your equipment arrived, Horis?”

  The bureaucrat wore casual clothing. Still, anyone looking at his posture and poor fashion sense would know in an instant that he was a Grey Man.

  “Yes, m’lord.” He nodded. “The last crates are downstairs. It was much easier to order the instruments from a variety of companies and have them sent here, instead of to Trantor proper, where there might have been... embarrassing questions.”

  Hari had seen the list of tools and devices, and saw nothing that could even remotely be called contraband. Nevertheless, Antic had good reason not to let his superiors know he was spending his sabbatical time pursuing a bizarre “intellectual pastime.”

  In fact, Hari had been grateful for the delay while Antic gathered his equipment. It gave him a chance to rest after that harrowing star-shunt ride... much bumpier than he recalled from decades past. It also let him spend time under the sun, remembering Demarchia in the old days, when some of the best restaurants in the galaxy used to line the boulevards, and he still had taste buds to enjoy them... with beautiful, vivacious Dors Venabili at his side.

  “All right,” he said, feeling exceptionally alive, almost as if he could walk all the way to the spaceport. “Let’s get going.”

  Kers Kantun met them in front of the hotel, next to Antic’s equipment crates. At a glance, Hari knew that his bodyguard had checked them against the manifests and found nothing amiss. Hari acknowledged his servant’s concern without giving it much importance. What did Kers imagine, that Antic had recruited the famed Hari Seldon into some convoluted smuggling scheme?

  Their rented van arrived on schedule. The driver took one look at the crates and turned to hail a group of local laborers who were lounging nearby, hiring them on the spot to load the heavy boxes. Antic fretted as they hauled his precious instruments, meant to check out a bizarre theory about planetary tilling and currents of space.

  Hari felt less worried, even though his financial contribution to their purchase was substantial. The cost seemed worthwhile if this endeavor might shed some new light on his own concerns. But in the long run, none of it would make any difference to his place in history. For Antic, on the other hand, this voyage was his sole chance to leave a mark on the universe.

  A spaceport limo came to pick up the three of them while the cargo van followed behind, moving along avenues clearly designed for much greater traffic than they carried nowadays. Demarchia’s economy was not good. There were many small crowds of laborers, looking for odd jobs.

  A sprinkle of rain fell on the limousine’s windows, startling the Trantor-born Kers, but putting Hari in a good mood.

  “You know,” he chatted affably, “over the course of many thousands of years, this world has hosted quite a few experiments in democracy.”

  “Indeed, Professor?” Antic leaned forward. He took a blue pill and started biting his nails again.

  “Oh, yes. One form that I always found fascinating was called The Nation.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “Not surprising. Your specialties lie elsewhere. Most people consider history distasteful or boring,” Hari mused.

  “But I am interested, Professor. Please, will you tell me about it?”

  “Hm. Well, you see, there has always been a basic problem in applying democracy on a pan-galactic scale. A typical deliberative body can only operate with at most a few thousand members. Yet that’s far too few to personally represent ten quadrillion voters, spread across twenty-five million worlds! Nevertheless, various attempts were made to solve this dilemma, such as cumulative representation. Each planetary congress elects a few delegates to their local star-zone assembly, which then chooses from its ranks a few to attend the regional sector conference. At that level, a small number are selected to proceed onward, representing the sector at a quadrant moot... and so on until a final set of peers gathers in that building on the hill.”

  He pointed to a stone structure, whose white columns seemed to shine, even under pelting rain.

  “Unfortunately, this process doesn’t result in a cumulative distillation of policy options from below. Rather, the outcome – dictated by basic human nature – will be a condensation of the most bland and inoffensive politicians from across the galaxy. Or else charismatic demagogues. Either way, only the concerns of a few planets will ever be debated, on a statistically semirandom basis. And on those rare occasions when one of the constituent assemblies here on Demarchia shows some spirit, the other houses of parliament can be relied upon to put on the brakes. It is a tried-and-true method for slowing things down and not letting momentary passions govern the day.”

  “It almost sounds like you approve,” Antic suggested.

  “It is generally a pretty good idea not to let political systems oscillate too wildly, especially when the psychohistorical inertia factors aren’t adequately damped by sociocentripetal assumption states or other –”

  He stopped with a small smile. “Well, let’s just say that it can get pretty complicated, but the crux is that cumulative legislatures don’t accomplish very much. But on occasion, over the last fifteen thousand years. some alternative approaches were tried.”

  “Including this Nation thing you spoke of? Was it another kind of assembly?”

  “You might say that. For about seven hundred years, a ninth house met here on Demarchia, more powerful and influential than all of the others combined. It derived that power partly from its sheer size, for it consisted of more than a hundred million members.”

  Antic rocked back in his seat. “A hundred million! But...” he sputtered. “How could...?”

  “It was an elegant solution, actually,” Hari continued, recalling how the psychohistorical equations balanced when he studied this episode of empire history. “Each planet, depending on its population, would elect between one and ten representatives to send directly here, bypassing the sector, zone, and quadrant assemblies. Those chosen were not only august and respected politicians, knowledgeable about the needs of their homeworld. There were various other requirements. For instance, each delegate to the Nation was required to have some humble skill that he or she was very good at. Upon arriving here, they were all expected to take up their crafts in the local economy. A shoemaker might find a shoe shop waiting for him. A gourmet cook would set up her own restaurant and perform that task in Demarchia’s economy. Fully half of the homes and businesses on this continent were set aside for these transient denizens, who would live and work here until their ten-year terms were up.”

  “But then... when did they have time to argue about laws and stuff?”

  “At night. In electronic forums and televised deliberations. Or in local meeting halls, where they would thrash things out while making and breaking alliances, trading proxy votes or passing petitions. Methods of self-organized coalition building varied with each session as much a
s the population. But however they did it, the Nation was always vibrant and interesting. When they made mistakes, those errors tended to be dramatic. But some of the best laws of the empire were also passed during that era. Why, Ruellis herself was a leading delegate at the time.”

  “Really?” Horis Antic blinked. “I always thought she must’ve been an empress.”

  Hari shook his head.

  “Ruellis was an influential commoner during an era of exceptional creativity... a ‘golden age’ that unfortunately crashed when the first chaos plagues swept across the galaxy, triggering a collapse back to direct imperial rule.”

  Hari could picture the imbalance of forces that spread during that bright period in the empire’s history. It must have seemed so unfair to those involved, to witness a time of unprecedented inventiveness and hope founder against sudden tides of irrationality, throwing world after world into violent turmoil. But in retrospect, it was all too obvious to Hari.

  “Did that end the Nation?” Antic inquired, awed fascination in his voice.

  “Not quite. There were several more experiments. At one point it was decided that every third Nation would consist entirely of women delegates, giving them exclusive reign over this continent and sole power to propose new laws. The only male allowed to visit or speak here was the emperor himself. Emperor Hupeissin.”

  “Horny Hupeissin?” Antic laughed aloud. “Is that where he got his reputation?”

  Hari nodded.

  “Hupeissin of the Heavenly Harem. Of course that is a base calumny, spread by members of the later Torgin Dynasty, to discredit him. In fact, Hupeissin was an exemplary Ruellian philosopher-king, who sincerely wanted to hear the independent deliberations of –”

  But Antic wasn’t listening. He kept chuckling, shaking his head. “Alone with a hundred million women! Talk about delusions of adequacy!”

  Hari saw that even Kers Kantun had cracked a faint smile. The normally dour servant glanced at Hari, as if convinced that this must be a made-up tale.

  “Well, well.” Hari sighed and changed the subject. “I see the spaceport up ahead. I do hope your faith in this charter captain is justified, Horis. We need to be back within a month, at most, or real trouble may break loose back on Trantor.”

  He had expected a tramp freighter. A crate, hissing and creaking at the seams. But the vessel awaiting them in a launching cradle was something else entirely.

  It’s a yacht, Hari noted with some surprise. An old, expensive one. Someone deliberately stained the hull, attempting to mask its underlying dignity. But even a fool can tell this is no mere charter ship.

  While the hired workers lugged Antic’s cargo aboard an aft ramp, Hari and Kers followed Horis up the passenger slideway. A tall, fair-haired man waited at the top, wearing typical spacer dungarees. But Hari instantly knew a great deal about the fellow from his athletic figure and suntanned complexion. A relaxed stance seemed innately self-confident, while stopping just short of arrogance. The expression on the man’s face was calm, yet steely, as if this person must be used to getting what he wanted.

  Antic made hurried introductions. “Dr. Seldon, this is our host and pilot, Captain Biron Maserd.”

  “It is a great privilege to meet you, meritocrat-sage Seldon,” Maserd said, with a faintly outer-galaxy accent. He extended a hand that could have crushed Hari’s, but squeezed with gentle, measured restraint. Hari felt calluses that were evenly spread – not the sort that a man would get from hard work, but instead from a life spent pursuing a variety of vigorous recreations.

  Hari lowered his head to the Fourth Angle of Deference – a proper degree when greeting noblemen of zonal level or higher.

  “Your Grace honors us as guests aboard your starhome.”

  Antic’s stare darted rapidly between the two of them, and he blushed the way some do when caught in a deception. But if Captain Maserd was surprised by Hari’s penetration, he did not show it.

  “I’m afraid we are understaffed on this trip,” he explained. “Amenities will be primitive. But if you’ll let my valet show you to your cabins, we’ll depart and see what secrets can be prized out of this old galaxy.”

  The yacht’s takeoff did not go unnoticed.

  “Well, that does it,” said a small woman, wearing the shabby garb of a street sweeper. She spoke into her broom handle, where a hidden microphone transmitted her words upward, directly to the star-shunt, where they were coded and relayed to the metal-cloaked capital planet.

  “You can tell the Commissioner that it’s official. Professor Hari Seldon just violated the conditions of his parole and departed Greater Trantor. I managed to put a tracer unit aboard. Now it’s up to Linge Chen whether he wants to make a stink over it or not.

  “At the very least, it ought to give him some more leverage over those Foundation subversives. Maybe this’ll give him an excuse to execute the whole lot of ’em.”

  The Special Police agent signed off. Then she straightened her stooped posture, hoisted her broom, and headed toward another part of the spaceport, feeling happy to be moving on to her next assignment. In a galaxy filled with inertia and disappointments, she really loved her job.

  Not far away, the police agent’s departure was observed by yet another party – one who was even more innocuous-looking – disguised as a mongrel dog, rooting through a toppled litter can. On a secret frequency, using incredibly ornate encipherment, it relayed everything it had heard with hypersensitive ears. The agent’s words bounced from point to point across the planet, via use-once relays that burned themselves out as soon as they were finished, turning into small bits of stonelike slag.

  Far away, on a ship orbiting beyond Demarchia’s sun, the message was received. Almost at once, instruments sifted outgoing traffic and found the trace of one particular vessel, heading for deep space.

  Engines fired up as the occupants prepared to follow.

  Part 2

  An Ancient Plague

  THE ORIGINAL LAWS OF ROBOTICS

  (THE CALVINIAN RELIGION)

  I

  A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

  II

  A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

  III

  A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

  THE ZEROTH LAW

  (THE GISKARDIAN REFORMATION)

  A robot must act in the long-range interest of humanity as a whole, and may overrule all other laws whenever it seems necessary for that ultimate good.

  1.

  FROM A MOUNTAINTOP on icy planet Eos, the entire vast wheel of half a trillion stars could be seen, reflected perfectly off a lake of frozen mercury. No human had ever witnessed this particular view. But it did not go unappreciated.

  An immortal entity looked down upon the universe, contemplating the certainty of his own death. Few eyes had gazed on so much human suffering, or grieved more, than the pair that now fixed on the galactic whirlpool.

  It almost looks alive, Daneel Olivaw thought as he pondered bulging gas clouds and spiral arms that seemed to reach out, as if yearning for some help he must provide.

  Daneel felt stooped under the burden of others’ needs.

  The robots who follow me think I am old and wise, because I remember Earth. Because I deliberated with Giskard Reventlov, and experienced the dawn era. But that was only twenty thousand years ago, a minuscule fraction of the time it would take for the scene in front of me to change appreciably.

  Eternity gapes ahead of us. And yet we have so little of it to decide what must be done. Or to change what can still be changed.

  He sensed a presence – another robot – approaching from behind. With an exchange of microwaves, Daneel recognized R. Zun Lurrin, and gave permission for his pupil to approach.

  “I’ve analyzed the transmission from R. Dors Venabili. You�
�re right, Daneel. She came away from Panucopia troubled. Worse, she tried to conceal the degree of her distress over what passed between her and the Lodovic renegade.

  “Should we recall Dors for evaluation and repair?”

  Daneel regarded Zun, one of several humaniform units he had begun grooming as a possible successor. Lodovic Trema had been another.

  “She is needed on Smushell. The genetic line of Klia and Brann is too important to risk. Anyway, nothing Lodovic said will shake her sense of duty. I know this about Dors.”

  “But consider, Daneel. Lodovic may have infected her with the Voltaire virus! Might she then become like him?”

  Out of habit, Daneel shook his head like a human being.

  “Lodovic is a fluke. The Voltaire-entity happened to be riding a supernova’s neutrino wave that struck Trema’s ship by surprise, killing every human aboard. The blow left Lodovic blanked and receptive to alien memes. Dors, on the other hand, is alert and wary. Though shaken, she’ll stay loyal to the Zeroth law.”

  Zun accepted Daneel’s assurance. Yet, the younger robot persisted.

  “This allegation Lodovic made – that you had ulterior motives for studying pans... the creatures once called chimpanzees. Is it true?”

  “It is. Once, in desperation, I conceived a plan that I now look back upon with distaste. The notion of engineering a new and better version of humanity.”

  This revelation, spoken in matter-of-fact tones, rocked his assistant. Zun displayed surprise openly like a man, as he had been trained to do.