Prelude to Foundation f-1

by Isaac Asimov

  The sergeant hesitated in a slightly hangdog fashion at the impressive pink doorway. His mustache almost seemed to droop.

  Then he said gruffly, “All three of you, then. My word of honor holds. —Still, others may not feel obligated by my own obligation, you know.”

  Seldon nodded. “I hold you responsible for your own deeds only, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant was clearly moved and, for a moment, his face lightened as though he was considering the possibility of shaking Seldon’s hand or expressing his heartfelt approval in some other way. He decided against it, however, and stepped onto the bottom step of the flight that led to the door. The stairs immediately began a stately upward movement.

  Seldon and Dors stepped after him at once and kept their balance without much trouble. Raych, who was momentarily staggered in surprise, jumped onto the moving stairs after a short run, shoved both hands into his pockets, and whistled carelessly.

  The door opened and two women stepped out, one on either side in symmetrical fashion. They were young and attractive. Their dresses, belted tightly about the waist and reaching nearly to their ankles, fell in crisp pleats and rustled when they walked. Both had brown hair that was coiled in thick plaits on either side of their heads. (Seldon found it attractive, but wondered how long it took them each morning to arrange it just so. He had not been aware of so elaborate a coiffure on the women they had passed in the streets.)

  The two women stared at the newcomers with obvious contempt. Seldon was not surprised. After the day’s events, he and Dors looked almost as disreputable as Raych.

  Yet the women managed to bow decorously and then made a half-turn and gestured inward in perfect unison and with symmetry carefully maintained. (Did they rehearse these things?) It was clear that the three were to enter.

  They stepped through an elaborate room, cluttered with furniture and decorative items whose use Seldon did not readily understand. The floor was light-colored, springy, and glowed with luminescence. Seldon noted with some embarrassment that their footwear left dusty marks upon it.

  And then an inner door was flung open and yet another woman emerged. She was distinctly older than the first two (who sank slowly as she came in, crossing their legs symmetrically as they did so in a way that made Seldon marvel that they could keep their balance; it undoubtedly took a deal of practice).

  Seldon wondered if he too was expected to display some ritualized form of respect, but since he hadn’t the faintest notion of what this might consist of, he merely bowed his head slightly. Dors remained standing erect and, it seemed to Seldon, did so with disdain. Raych was staring open-mouthed in all directions and looked as though he didn’t even see the woman who had just entered.

  She was plump—not fat, but comfortably padded. She wore her hair precisely as the young ladies did and her dress was in the same style, but much more richly ornamented—too much so to suit Seldon’s aesthetic notions.

  She was clearly middle-aged and there was a hint of gray in her hair, but the dimples in her cheeks gave her the appearance of having rather more than a dash of youth. Her light brown eyes were merry and on the whole she looked more motherly than old.

  She said, “How are you? All of you.” (She showed no surprise at the presence of Dors and Raych, but included them easily in her greeting.) “I’ve been waiting for you for some time and almost had you on Upperside at Streeling. You are Dr. Hari Seldon, whom I’ve been looking forward to meeting. You, I think, must be Dr. Dors Venabili, for you had been reported to be in his company. This young man I fear I do not know, but I am pleased to see him. But we must not spend our time talking, for I’m sure you would like to rest first.”

  “And bathe, Madam,” said Dors rather forcefully, “Each of us could use a thorough shower.”

  “Yes, certainly,” said the woman, “and a change in clothing. Especially the young man.” She looked down at Raych without any of the look of contempt and disapproval that the two young women had shown.

  She said, “What is your name, young man?”

  “Raych,” said Raych in a rather choked and embarrassed voice. He then added experimentally, “Missus.”

  “What an odd coincidence,” said the woman, her eyes sparkling. “An omen, perhaps. My own name is Rashelle. Isn’t that odd? —But come. We shall take care of you all. Then there will be plenty of time to have dinner and to talk.”

  “Wait, Madam,” said Dors. “May I ask where we are?”

  “Wye, dear. And please call me Rashelle, as you come to feel more friendly. I am always at ease with informality.”

  Dors stiffened. “Are you surprised that we ask? Isn’t it natural that we should want to know where we are?”

  Rashelle laughed in a pleasant, tinkling manner. “Really, Dr. Venabili, something must be done about the name of this place. I was not asking a question but making a statement. You asked where you were and I did not ask you why. I told you, ‘Wye.’ You are in the Wye Sector.”

  “In Wye?” said Seldon forcibly.

  “Yes indeed, Dr. Seldon. We’ve wanted you from the day you addressed the Decennial Convention and we are so glad to have you now.”

  85

  Actually, it took a full day to rest and unstiffen, to wash and get clean, to obtain new clothes (satiny and rather loose, in the style of Wye), and to sleep a good deal.

  It was during the second evening in Wye that there was the dinner that Madam Rashelle had promised.

  The table was a large one—too large, considering that there were only four dining: Hari Seldon, Dors Venabili, Raych, and Rashelle. The walls and ceiling were softly illuminated and the colors changed at a rate that caught the eye but not so rapidly as in any way to discommode the mind. The very tablecloth, which was not cloth (Seldon had not made up his mind what it might be), seemed to sparkle.

  The servers were many and silent and when the door opened it seemed to Seldon that he caught a glimpse of soldiers, armed and at the ready, outside. The room was a velvet glove, but the iron fist was not far distant.

  Rashelle was gracious and friendly and had clearly taken a particular liking to Raych, who, she insisted, was to sit next to her.

  Raych—scrubbed, polished, and shining, all but unrecognizable in his new clothes, with his hair clipped, cleaned, and brushed—scarcely dared to say a word. It was as though he felt his grammar no longer fit his appearance. He was pitifully ill at ease and he watched Dors carefully as she switched from utensil to utensil, trying to match her exactly in every respect.

  The food was tasty but spicy—to the point where Seldon could not recognize the exact nature of the dishes.

  Rashelle, her plump face made happy by her gentle smile and her fine teeth gleaming white, said, “You may think we have Mycogenian additives in the food, but we do not. It is all homegrown in Wye. There is no sector on the planet more self-sufficient than Wye. We labor hard to keep that so.”

  Seldon nodded gravely and said, “Everything you have given us is first-rate, Rashelle. We are much obliged to you.”

  And yet within himself he thought the food was not quite up to Mycogenian standards and he felt moreover, as he had earlier muttered to Dors, that he was celebrating his own defeat. Or Hummin’s defeat, at any rate, and that seemed to him to be the same thing.

  After all, he had been captured by Wye, the very possibility that had so concerned Hummin at the time of the incident Upperside.

  Rashelle said, “Perhaps, in my role as hostess, I may be forgiven if I ask personal questions. Am I correct in assuming that you three do not represent a family; that you, Hari, and you, Dors, are not married and that Raych is not your son?”

  “The three of us are not related in any way,” said Seldon. “Raych was born on Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna.”

  “And how did you all meet, then?”

  Seldon explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. “There’s nothing romantic or significant in the meetings,” he added.

  “Yet I am giv
en to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide, Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl.”

  Seldon said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be separated from them.”

  Rashelle smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.”

  “Yes, I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.”

  “Puzzled?”

  “Why yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask one as well?”

  “Of course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.”

  “When we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?”

  “Surely, you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.”

  “That much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have psychohistory?”

  “Surely, you have not been so careless as to lose it.”

  “Worse, Rashelle. I have never had it.”

  Rashelle’s face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.”

  “In that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not practical.”

  “I can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.”

  “The pseudo-Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically.

  “Why yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question. “Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.”

  “Rashelle,” said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what I have just told you and he let me go.”

  Now Rashelle did not smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever since—in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared. But come now—our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us have music.”

  And at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.”

  Raych said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips silently mouthed: “Fork.”

  He remained with his fork.

  Dors said, “The music is lovely, Madam”—she pointedly rejected the familiar form of address—“but it must not be allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were not the prime mover.”

  Rashelle laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail—as you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we were the pursuers. When, however, there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure that it is Demerzel.”

  “Do you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors.

  “Yes. Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.”

  “You? Or the Wye Sector?”

  “The sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.”

  “How strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you—or any other Wyan—weigh nothing in comparison.”

  Rashelle smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.”

  “Why yours?” said Seldon.

  “Why not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “I am the Mayor of Wye.”

  86

  It was Raych who was the first to react to the statement. Quite forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.”

  Rashelle looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under your lid and let it bubble.”

  Raych’s eyes protruded and he seemed stunned. Finally he managed to say, “Hey, ya talk regular, lady.”

  “Sure thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling.

  Seldon cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.”

  Rashelle tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite—when I was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course—he was quite intelligent—but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?”

  Raych said, “I dunno, lady—uh, mum.”

  “I’m sure you will and you will come to look very much like my . . . old friend and it will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, dinner’s over and it’s time for you to go to your room, Raych. You can watch holovision for a while if you wish. I don’t suppose you read.”

  Raych reddened. “I’m gonna read someday. Master Seldon says I’m gonna.”

  “Then I’m sure you will.”

  A young woman approached Raych, curtsying respectfully in Rashelle’s direction. Seldon had not seen the signal that had summoned her.

  Raych said, “Can’t I stay with Master Seldon and Missus Venabili?”

  “You’ll see them later,” said Rashelle gently, “but Master and Missus and I have to talk right now—so you must go.”

  Dors mouthed a firm “Go!” at Raych and with a grimace the boy slid out of his chair and followed the attendant.

  Rashelle turned to Seldon and Dors once Raych was gone and said, “The boy will be safe, of course, and treated well. Please have no fears about that. And I will be safe too. As my woman approached just now, so will a dozen armed men—and much more rapidly—when summoned. I want you to understand that.”

  Seldon said evenly, “We are in no way thinking of attacking you, Rashelle—or must I now say, ‘Madam Mayor’?”

  “Still Rashelle. I am given to understand that you are a wrestler of sorts, Hari, and you, Dors, are very skillful with the knives we have removed from your room. I don’t want you to rely uselessly on your skills, since I want Hari alive, unharmed, and friendly.”

  “It is quite well understood, Madam Mayor,” said Dors, her lack of friendship uncompromised, “that the ruler of Wye, now and for the past forty years, is Mannix, Fourth of that Name, and that he is still alive and in full possession of his faculties. Who, then, are you really?”

  “Exactly who I say I am, Dors. Mannix IV is my father. He is, as you say, still alive and in possession of his faculties. In the eyes of the Emperor and of all the Empire, he is Mayor of Wye, but he is weary of the strains of power and is willing, at last, to let them slip into my hands, which are just as willing to receive them. I am his only child and I was brought up all my life to rule. My father is therefore Mayor in law
and name, but I am Mayor in fact. It is to me, now, that the armed forces of Wye have sworn allegiance and in Wye that is all that counts.”

  Seldon nodded. “Let it be as you say. But even so, whether it is Mayor Mannix IV or Mayor Rashelle I—it is the First, I suppose—there is no purpose in your holding me. I have told you that I don’t have a workable psychohistory and I do not think that either I or anyone else will ever have one. I have told that to the Emperor. I am of no use either to you or to him.”

  Rashelle said, “How naïve you are. Do you know the history of the Empire?”

  Seldon shook his head. “I have recently come to wish that I knew it much better.”

  Dors said dryly, “I know Imperial history quite well, though the pre-Imperial age is my specialty, Madam Mayor. But what does it matter whether we do or do not?”

  “If you know your history, you know that the House of Wye is ancient and honorable and is descended from the Dacian dynasty.”

  Dors said, “The Dacians ruled five thousand years ago. The number of their descendants in the hundred and fifty generations that have lived and died since then may number half the population of the Galaxy—if all genealogical claims, however outrageous, are accepted.”

  “Our genealogical claims, Dr. Venabili”—Rashelle’s tone of voice was, for the first time, cold and unfriendly and her eyes flashed like steel—“are not outrageous. They are fully documented. The House of Wye has maintained itself consistently in positions of power through all those generations and there have been occasions when we have held the Imperial throne and have ruled as Emperors.”

  “The history book-films,” said Dors, “usually refer to the Wye rulers as ‘anti-Emperors,’ never recognized by the bulk of the Empire.”

  “It depends on who writes the history book-films. In the future, we will, for the throne which has been ours will be ours again.”

  “To accomplish that, you must bring about civil war.”

  “There won’t be much risk of that,” said Rashelle. She was smiling again. “That is what I must explain to you because I want Dr. Seldon’s help in preventing such a catastrophe. My father, Mannix IV, has been a man of peace all his life. He has been loyal to whomever it might be that ruled in the Imperial Palace and he has kept Wye a prosperous and strong pillar of the Trantorian economy for the good of all the Empire.”