Prelude to Foundation f-1

by Isaac Asimov

  “Because you were born in the spring?”

  “No. I first saw the light of day at the height of Cinna’s summer, but the name struck my people as pleasant regardless of its traditional—and largely forgotten—meaning.”

  “In that case, perhaps Sunmaster—”

  And a deep, severe voice said, “That is my name, tribesman.”

  Seldon, startled, looked to his left. An open ground-car had somehow drawn close. It was boxy and archaic, looking almost like a delivery wagon. In it, at the controls, was a tall old man who looked vigorous despite his age. With stately majesty, he got out of the ground-car.

  He wore a long white gown with voluminous sleeves, pinched in at the wrists. Beneath the gown were soft sandals from which the big toe protruded, while his head, beautifully shaped, was completely hairless. He regarded the two calmly with his deep blue eyes.

  He said, “I greet you, tribesman.”

  Seldon said with automatic politeness, “Greetings, sir.” Then, honestly puzzled, he asked, “How did you get in?”

  “Through the entrance, which closed behind me. You paid little heed.”

  “I suppose we didn’t. But then we didn’t know what to expect. Nor do we now.”

  “Tribesman Chetter Hummin informed the Brethren that there would be members from two of the tribes arriving. He asked that you be cared for.”

  “Then you know Hummin.”

  “We do. He has been of service to us. And because he, a worthy tribesman, has been of service to us, so must we be now to him. There are few who come to Mycogen and few who leave. I am to make you secure, give you house-room, see that you are undisturbed. You will be safe here.”

  Dors bent her head. “We are grateful, Sunmaster Fourteen.”

  Sunmaster turned to look at her with an air of dispassionate contempt. “I am not unaware of the customs of the tribes,” he said. “I know that among them a woman may well speak before being spoken to. I am therefore not offended. I would ask her to have a care among others of the Brethren who may be of lesser knowledge in the matter.”

  “Oh really?” said Dors, who was clearly offended, even if Sunmaster was not.

  “In truth,” agreed Sunmaster. “Nor is it needful to use my numerical identifier when I alone of my cohort am with you. ‘Sunmaster’ will be sufficient. —Now I will ask you to come with me so that we may leave this place which is of too tribal a nature to comfort me.”

  “Comfort is for all of us,” said Seldon, perhaps a little more loudly than was necessary, “and we will not budge from this place unless we are assured that we will not be forcibly bent to your liking against our own natures. It is our custom that a woman may speak whenever she has something to say. If you have agreed to keep us secure, that security must be psychological as well as physical.”

  Sunmaster gazed at Seldon levelly and said, “You are bold, young tribesman. Your name?”

  “I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna.”

  Sunmaster bowed slightly as Seldon pronounced his own name, did not move at the mention of Dors’s name. He said, “I have sworn to Tribesman Hummin that we will keep you safe, so I will do what I can to protect your woman companion in this. If she wishes to exercise her impudence, I will do my best to see that she is held guiltless. —Yet in one respect you must conform.”

  And he pointed, with infinite scorn, first to Seldon’s head and then to Dors’s.

  “What do you mean?” said Seldon.

  “Your cephalic hair.”

  “What about it?”

  “It must not be seen.”

  “Do you mean we’re to shave our heads like you? Certainly not.”

  “My head is not shaven, Tribesman Seldon. I was depilated when I entered puberty, as are all the Brethren and their women.”

  “If we’re talking about depilation, then more than ever the answer is no—never.”

  “Tribesman, we ask neither shaving nor depilation. We ask only that your hair be covered when you are among us.”

  “How?”

  “I have brought skincaps that will mold themselves to your skulls, together with strips that will hide the superoptical patches—the eyebrows. You will wear them while with us. And of course, Tribesman Seldon, you will shave daily—or oftener if that becomes necessary.”

  “But why must we do this?”

  “Because to us, hair on the head is repulsive and obscene.”

  “Surely, you and all your people know that it is customary for others, in all the worlds of the Galaxy, to retain their cephalic hair.”

  “We know. And those among us, like myself, who must deal with tribesmen now and then, must witness this hair. We manage, but it is unfair to ask the Brethren generally to suffer the sight.”

  Seldon said, “Very well, then, Sunmaster—but tell me. Since you are born with cephalic hair, as all of us are and as you all retain it visibly till puberty, why is it so necessary to remove it? Is it just a matter of custom or is there some rationale behind it?”

  And the old Mycogenian said proudly, “By depilation, we demonstrate to the youngster that he or she has become an adult and through depilation adults will always remember who they are and never forget that all others are but tribesmen.”

  He waited for no response (and, in truth, Seldon could think of none) but brought out from some hidden compartment in his robe a handful of thin bits of plastic of varying color, stared keenly at the two faces before him, holding first one strip, then another, against each face.

  “The colors must match reasonably,” he said. “No one will be fooled into thinking you are not wearing a skincap, but it must not be repulsively obvious.”

  Finally, Sunmaster gave a particular strip to Seldon and showed him how it could be pulled out into a cap.

  “Please put it on, Tribesman Seldon,” he said. “You will find the process clumsy at first, but you will grow accustomed to it.”

  Seldon put it on, but the first two times it slipped off when he tried to pull it backward over his hair.

  “Begin just above your eyebrows,” said Sunmaster. His fingers seemed to twitch, as though eager to help.

  Seldon said, suppressing a smile, “Would you do it for me?”

  And Sunmaster drew back, saying, almost in agitation, “I couldn’t. I would be touching your hair.”

  Seldon managed to hook it on and followed Sunmaster’s advice, in pulling it here and there until all his hair was covered. The eyebrow patches fitted on easily. Dors, who had watched carefully, put hers on without trouble.

  “How does it come off?” asked Seldon.

  “You have but to find an end and it will peel off without trouble. You will find it easier both to put on and take off if you cut your hair shorter.”

  “I’d rather struggle a bit,” said Seldon. Then, turning to Dors, he said in a low voice, “You’re still pretty, Dors, but it does tend to remove some of the character from your face.”

  “The character is there underneath just the same,” she answered. “And I dare say you’ll grow accustomed to the hairless me.”

  In a still lower whisper, Seldon said, “I don’t want to stay here long enough to get accustomed to this.”

  Sunmaster, who ignored, with visible haughtiness, the mumblings among mere tribesmen, said, “If you will enter my ground-car, I will now take you into Mycogen.”

  37

  “Frankly,” whispered Dors, “I can scarcely believe I’m on Trantor.”

  “I take it, then, you’ve never seen anything like this before?” said Seldon.

  “I’ve only been on Trantor for two years and I’ve spent much of my time at the University, so I’m not exactly a world traveler. Still, I’ve been here and there and I’ve heard of this and that, but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this. The sameness.”

  Sunmaster drove along methodically and without undue haste. There were other wagonlike vehicles in the roadway, all with hairless men at the controls, their bald pates g
leaming in the light.

  On either side there were three-story structures, unornamented, all lines meeting at right angles, everything gray in color.

  “Dreary,” mouthed Dors. “So dreary.”

  “Egalitarian,” whispered Seldon. “I suspect no Brother can lay claim to precedence of any obvious kind over any other.”

  There were many pedestrians on the walkways as they passed. There were no signs of any moving corridors and no sound of any nearby Expressway.

  Dors said, “I’m guessing the grays are women.”

  “It’s hard to tell,” said Seldon. “The gowns hide everything and one hairless head is like another.”

  “The grays are always in pairs or with a white. The whites can walk alone and Sunmaster is a white.”

  “You may be right.” Seldon raised his voice. “Sunmaster, I am curious—”

  “If you are, then ask what you wish, although I am by no means required to answer.”

  “We seem to be passing through a residential area. There are no signs of business establishments, industrial areas—”

  “We are a farming community entirely. Where are you from that you do not know this?”

  “You know I am an Outworlder,” Seldon said stiffly. “I have been on Trantor for only two months.”

  “Even so.”

  “But if you are a farming community, Sunmaster, how is it that we have passed no farms either?”

  “On lower levels,” said Sunmaster briefly.

  “Is Mycogen on this level entirely residential, then?”

  “And on a few others. We are what you see. Every Brother and his family lives in equivalent quarters; every cohort in its own equivalent community; all have the same ground-cars and all Brothers drive their own. There are no servants and none are at ease through the labor of others. None may glory over another.”

  Seldon lifted his shielded eyebrows at Dors and said, “But some of the people wear white, while some wear gray.”

  “That is because some of the people are Brothers and some are Sisters.”

  “And we?”

  “You are a tribesman and a guest. You and your”—he paused and then said—“companion will not be bound by all aspects of Mycogenian life. Nevertheless, you will wear a white gown and your companion will wear a gray one and you will live in special guest quarters like our own.”

  “Equality for all seems a pleasant ideal, but what happens as your numbers increase? Is the pie, then, cut into smaller pieces?”

  “There is no increase in numbers. That would necessitate an increase in area, which the surrounding tribesmen would not allow, or a change for the worse in our way of life.”

  “But if—” began Seldon.

  Sunmaster cut him off. “It is enough, Tribesman Seldon. As I warned you, I am not compelled to answer. Our task, which we have promised our friend Tribesman Hummin, is to keep you secure as long as you do not violate our way of life. That we will do, but there it ends. Curiosity is permitted, but it wears out our patience quickly if persisted in.”

  Something about his tone allowed no more to be said and Seldon chafed. Hummin, for all his help, had clearly mis-stressed the matter.

  It was not security that Seldon sought. At least, not security alone. He needed information too and without that he could not—and would not—stay here.

  38

  Seldon looked with some distress at their quarters. It had a small but individual kitchen and a small but individual bathroom. There were two narrow beds, two clothes closets, a table, and two chairs. In short there was everything that was necessary for two people who were willing to live under cramped conditions.

  “We had an individual kitchen and bathroom at Cinna,” said Dors with an air of resignation.

  “Not I,” said Seldon. “Helicon may be a small world, but I lived in a modern city. Community kitchens and bathrooms. —What a waste this is. You might expect it in a hotel, where one is compelled to make a temporary stay, but if the whole sector is like this, imagine the enormous number and duplications of kitchens and bathrooms.”

  “Part of the egalitarianism, I suppose,” said Dors. “No fighting for favored stalls or for faster service. The same for everyone.”

  “No privacy either. Not that I mind terribly, Dors, but you might and I don’t want to give the appearance of taking advantage. We ought to make it clear to them that we must have separate rooms—adjoining but separate.”

  Dors said, “I’m sure it won’t work. Space is at a premium and I think they are amazed by their own generosity in giving us this much. We’ll just make do, Hari. We’re each old enough to manage. I’m not a blushing maiden and you’ll never convince me that you’re a callow youth.”

  “You wouldn’t be here, were it not for me.”

  “What of it? It’s an adventure.”

  “All right, then. Which bed will you take? Why don’t you take the one nearer the bathroom?” He sat down on the other. “There’s something else that bothers me. As long as we’re here, we’re tribespeople, you and I, as is even Hummin. We’re of the other tribes, not their own cohorts, and most things are none of our business. —But most things are my business. That’s what I’ve come here for. I want to know some of the things they know.”

  “Or think they know,” said Dors with a historian’s skepticism. “I understand they have legends that are supposed to date back to primordial times, but I can’t believe they can be taken seriously.”

  “We can’t know that until we find out what those legends are. Are there no outside records of them?”

  “Not that I know of. These people are terribly ingrown. They’re almost psychotic in their inward clinging. That Hummin can break down their barriers somewhat and even get them to take us in is remarkable—really remarkable.”

  Seldon brooded. “There has to be an opening somewhere. Sunmaster was surprised—angry, in fact—that I didn’t know Mycogen was an agricultural community. That seems to be something they don’t want kept a secret.”

  “The point is, it isn’t a secret. ‘Mycogen’ is supposed to be from archaic words meaning ‘yeast producer.’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not a paleolinguist. In any case, they culture all varieties of microfood—yeast, of course, along with algae, bacteria, multicellular fungi, and so on.”

  “That’s not uncommon,” said Seldon. “Most worlds have this microculture. We have some even on Helicon.”

  “Not like Mycogen. It’s their specialty. They use methods as archaic as the name of their section—secret fertilizing formulas, secret environmental influences. Who knows what? All is secret.”

  “Ingrown.”

  “With a vengeance. What it amounts to is that they produce protein and subtle flavoring, so that their microfood isn’t like any other in the world. They keep the volume comparatively low and the price is sky-high. I’ve never tasted any and I’m sure you haven’t, but it sells in great quantities to the Imperial bureaucracy and to the upper classes on other worlds. Mycogen depends on such sales for its economic health, so they want everyone to know that they are the source of this valuable food. That, at least, is no secret.”

  “Mycogen must be rich, then.”

  “They’re not poor, but I suspect that it’s not wealth they’re after. It’s protection. The Imperial government protects them because, without them, there wouldn’t be these microfoods that add the subtlest flavors, the tangiest spices, to every dish. That means that Mycogen can maintain its odd way of life and be haughty toward its neighbors, who probably find them insupportable.”

  Dors looked about. “They live an austere life. There’s no holovision, I notice, and no book-films.”

  “I noticed one in the closet up on the shelf.” Seldon reached for it, stared at the label, and then said in clear disgust, “A cookbook.”

  Dors held out her hand for it and manipulated the keys. It took a while, for the arrangement was not quite orthodox, but she finally managed to light the screen and inspect the pag
es. She said, “There are a few recipes, but for the most part this seems to consist of philsophical essays on gastronomy.”

  She shut it off and turned it round and about. “It seems to be a single unit. I don’t see how one would eject the microcard and insert another. —A one-book scanner. Now that’s a waste.”

  “Maybe they think this one book-film is all anyone needs.” He reached toward the end table that was between the two beds and picked up another object. “This could be a speaker, except that there’s no screen.”

  “Perhaps they consider the voice sufficient.”

  “How does it work, I wonder?” Seldon lifted it and looked at it from different sides. “Did you ever see anything like this?”

  “In a museum once—if this is the same thing. Mycogen seems to keep itself deliberately archaic. I suppose they consider that another way of separating themselves from the so-called tribesmen that surround them in overwhelming numbers. Their archaism and odd customs make them indigestible, so to speak. There’s a kind of perverse logic to all that.”

  Seldon, still playing with the device, said, “Whoops! It went on. Or something went on. But I don’t hear anything.”

  Dors frowned and picked up a small felt-lined cylinder that remained behind on the end table. She put it to her ear. “There’s a voice coming out of this,” she said. “Here, try it.” She handed it to him.

  Seldon did so and said, “Ouch! It clips on.” He listened and said, “Yes, it hurt my ear. You can hear me, I take it. —Yes, this is our room. —No, I don’t know its number. Dors, have you any idea of the number?”

  Dors said, “There’s a number on the speaker. Maybe that will do.”

  “Maybe,” said Seldon doubtfully. Then he said into the speaker, “The number on this device is 6LT-3648A. Will that do? —Well, where do I find out how to use this device properly and how to use the kitchen, for that matter? —What do you mean, ‘It all works the usual way?’ That doesn’t do me any good. —See here, I’m a . . . a tribesman, an honored guest. I don’t know the usual way. —Yes, I’m sorry about my accent and I’m glad you can recognize a tribesman when you hear one. —My name is Hari Seldon.”