Asimov’s Future History Volume 14

by Isaac Asimov

  Dors gave him a hard look and sat down.

  Seldon, recognizing the fact that they might remain with this old Mycogenian a while, thrust out his hand and said, “I am Hari and my female companion is Dors. We don’t use numbers, I’m afraid.”

  “To each his... or her... own,” said the other expansively. “I am Mycelium Seventy-Two. We are a large cohort.”

  “Mycelium?” said Seldon a bit hesitantly.

  “You seem surprised,” said Mycelium. “I take it, then, you’ve only met members of our Elder families. Names like Cloud and Sunshine and Starlight-all astronomical.”

  “I must admit–” began Seldon.

  “Well, meet one of the lower classes. We take our names from the ground and from the micro-organisms we grow. Perfectly respectable.”

  “I’m quite certain,” said Seldon, “and thank you again for helping me with my... problem in the gravi-bus.”

  “Listen,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I saved you a lot of trouble. If a Sister had seen you before I did, she would undoubtedly have screamed and the nearest Brothers would have bustled you off the bus maybe not even waiting for it to stop moving.”

  Dors leaned forward so as to see across Seldon. “How is it you did not act in this way yourself?”

  “I? I have no animosity against tribespeople. I’m a scholar.”

  “A scholar?”

  “First one in my cohort. I studied at the Sacratorium School and did very well. I’m learned in all the ancient arts and I have a license to enter the tribal library, where they keep book-films and books by tribespeople. I can view any book-film or read any book I wish to. We even have a computerized reference library and I can handle that too. That sort of thing broadens your mind. I don’t mind a little hair showing. I’ve seen pictures of men with hair many a time. And women too.” He glanced quickly at Dors.

  They ate in silence for a while and then Seldon said, “I notice that every Brother who enters or leaves the Sacratorium is wearing a red sash.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “Over the left shoulder and around the right side of the waist-usually very fancily embroidered.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s called an ‘obiah.’ It symbolizes the joy felt at entering the Sacratorium and the blood one would spill to preserve it.”

  “Blood?” said Dors, frowning.

  “Just a symbol. I never actually heard of anyone spilling blood over the Sacratorium. For that matter, there isn’t that much joy. it’s mostly wailing and mourning and prostrating one’s self over the Lost World.” His voice dropped and became soft. “Very silly.”

  Dors said, “You’re not a... a believer?”

  “I’m a scholar,” said Mycelium with obvious pride. His face wrinkled as he grinned and took on an even more pronounced appearance of age. Seldon found himself wondering how old the man was. Several centuries?-No, they’d disposed of that. It couldn’t be and yet

  “How old are you?” Seldon asked suddenly, involuntarily.

  Mycelium Seventy-Two showed no signs of taking offense at the question, nor did he display any hesitation at answering, “Sixtyseven.”

  Seldon had to know. “I was told that your people believe that in very early times everyone lived for several centuries.”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two looked at Seldon quizzically. “Now how did you find that out? Someone must have been talking out of turn... but its true. There is that belief. Only the unsophisticated believe it, but the Elders encourage it because it shows our superiority. Actually, our life expectancy is higher than elsewhere because we eat more nutritionally, but living even one century is rare.”

  “I take it you don’t consider Mycogenians superior,” said Seldon.

  Mycelium Seventy-Two said, “There’s nothing wrong with Mycogenians. They’re certainly not inferior. Still, I think that all men are equal.-Even women, “he added, looking across at Dors.

  “I don’t suppose,” said Seldon, “that many of your people would agree with that.”

  “Or many of your people,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two with a faint resentment. “I believe it, though. A scholar has to. I’ve viewed and even read all the great literature of the tribespeople. I understand your culture. I’ve written articles on it. I can sit here just as comfortably with you as though you were... tit.”

  Dors said a little sharply, “You sound proud of understanding tribespeople’s ways. Have you ever traveled outside Mycogen?”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two seemed to move away a little. “No.”

  “Why not? You would get to know us better.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right. I’d have to wear a wig. I’d be ashamed.”

  Dors said, “Why a wig? You could stay bald.”

  “No,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I wouldn’t be that kind of fool. I’d be mistreated by all the hairy ones.”

  “Mistreated? Why?” said Dors. “We have a great many naturally bald people everywhere on Trantor and on every other world too.”

  “My father is quite bald,” said Seldon with a sigh, “and I presume that in the decades to come I will be bald too. My hair isn’t all that thick now.”

  “That’s not bald,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You keep hair around the edges and over your eyes. I mean bald-no hair at all.”

  “Anywhere on your body?” said Dors, interested.

  And now Mycelium Seventy-Two looked offended and said nothing.

  Seldon, anxious to get the conversation back on track, said, “Tell me, Mycelium Seventy-Two, can tribespeople enter the Sacratorium as spectators?”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two shook his head vigorously. “Never. It’s for the Sons of the Dawn only.”

  Dors said, “Only the Sons?”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two looked shocked for a moment, then said forgivingly, “Well, you’re tribespeople. Daughters of the Dawn enter only on certain days and times. That’s just the way it is. I don’t say I approve. If it was up to me, I’d say, ‘Go in. Enjoy if you can.’ Sooner others than me, in fact.”

  “Don’t you ever go in?”

  “When I was young, my parents took me, but–he shook his head–” it was just people staring at the Book and reading from it and sighing and weeping for the old days. It’s very depressing. You can’t talk to each other. You can’t laugh. You can’t even look at each other. Your mind has to be totally on the Lost World. Totally.” He waved a hand in rejection. “Not for me. I’m a scholar and I want the whole world open to me.”

  “Good,” said Seldon, seeing an opening. “We feel that way too. We are scholars also, Dors and myself.”

  “I know,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two.

  “You know? How do you know?”

  “You’d have to be. The only tribespeople allowed in Mycogen are Imperial officials and diplomats, important traders, and scholars–and to me you have the look of scholars. That’s what interested me in you. Scholars together.” He smiled delightedly.

  “So we are. I am a mathematician. Dors is a historian. And you?”

  “I specialize in... culture. I’ve read all the great works of literature of the tribespeople: Lissauer, Mentone, Novigor–”

  “And we have read the great works of your people. I’ve read the Book, for instance.-About the Lost World.”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His olive complexion seemed to fade a little. “You have? How? Where?”

  “At our University we have copies that we can read if we have permission.”

  “Copies of the Book?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if the Elders know this?”

  Seldon said, “And I’ve read about robots.”

  “Robots?”

  “Yes. That is why I would like to be able to enter the Sacratorium. I would like to see the robot.” (Dors kicked lightly at Seldon’s ankle, but he ignored her.)

  Mycelium Seventy-Two said uneasily, “I don’t believe in such things. Scholarly people don’t.” But he looked a
bout as though he was afraid of being overheard.

  Seldon said, “I’ve read that a robot still exists in the Sacratorium.”

  Mycelium Seventy-Two said, “I don’t want to talk about such nonsense.”

  Seldon persisted. “Where would it be if it was in the Sacratorium?”

  “Even if one was there, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been in there since I was a child.”

  “Would you know if there was a special place, a hidden place?”

  “There’s the Elders’ aerie. Only Elders go there, but there’s nothing there.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I don’t know that there’s no pomegranate tree there. I don’t know that there’s no laser-organ there. I don’t know that there’s no item of a million different kinds there. Does my lack of knowledge of their absence show they are all present?”

  For the moment, Seldon had nothing to say.

  A ghost of a smile broke through Mycelium Seventy-Two’s look of concern. He said, “That’s scholars’ reasoning. I’m not an easy man to tackle, you see. Just the same, I wouldn’t advise you to try to get up into the Elders’ aerie. I don’t think you’d like what would happen if they found a tribesman inside.-Well. Best of the Dawn to you.” And he rose suddenly-without warning–and hurried away.

  Seldon looked after him, rather surprised. “What made him rush off like that?”

  “I think,” said Dors, “it’s because someone is approaching.”

  And someone was. A tall man in an elaborate white kirtle, crossed by an even more elaborate and subtly glittering red sash, glided solemnly toward them. He had the unmistakable look of a man with authority and the even more unmistakable look of one who is not pleased.

  53.

  Hari Seldon rose as the new Mycogenian approached. He hadn’t the slightest idea whether that was the appropriate polite behavior, but he had the distinct feeling it would do no harm. Dors Venabili rose with him and carefully kept her eyes lowered.

  The other stood before them. He too was an old man, but more subtly aged than Mycelium Seventy-Two. Age seemed to lend distinction to his still-handsome face. His bald head was beautifully round and his eyes were a startling blue, contrasting sharply with the bright all–but glowing red of his sash.

  The newcomer said, “I see you are tribespeople.” His voice was more high-pitched than Seldon had expected, but he spoke slowly, as though conscious of the weight of authority in every word he uttered.

  “So we are,” said Seldon politely but firmly. He saw no reason not to defer to the other’s position, but he did not intend to abandon his own.

  “Your names?”

  “I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna. And yours, man of Mycogen?”

  The eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he too could recognize an air of authority when he felt it.

  “I am Skystrip Two, “he said, lifting his head higher, “an Elder of the Sacratorium. And your position, tribesman?”

  “We,” said Seldon, emphasizing the pronoun, “are scholars of Streeling University. I am a mathematician and my companion is a historian and we are here to study the ways of Mycogen.”

  “By whose authority?”

  “By that of Sunmaster Fourteen, who greeted us on our arrival.”

  Skystrip Two fell silent for a moment and then a small smile appeared on his face and he took on an air that was almost benign. He said, “The High Elder. I know him well.”

  “And so you should,” said Seldon blandly. “Is there anything else, Elder?”

  “Yes.” The Elder strove to regain the high ground. “Who was the man who was with you and who hurried away when I approached?”

  Seldon shook his head, “We never saw him before, Elder, and know nothing about him. We encountered him purely by accident and asked about the Sacratorium.”

  “What did you ask him?”

  “Two questions, Elder. We asked if that building was the Sacratorium and if tribespeople were allowed to enter it. He answered in the affirmative to the first question and in the negative to the second.”

  “Quite so. And what is your interest in the Sacratorium?”

  “Sir, we are here to study the ways of Mycogen and is not the Sacratorium the heart and brain of Mycogen?”

  “It is entirely ours and reserved for us.”

  “Even if an Elder-the High Elder-would arrange for permission in view of our scholarly function?”

  “Have you indeed the High Elder’s permission?”

  Seldon hesitated the slightest moment while Dors’s eyes lifted briefly to look at him sideways. He decided he could not carry off a lie of this magnitude. “No, “he said, “not yet.”

  “Or ever,” said the Elder. “You are here in Mycogen by authority, but even the highest authority cannot exert total control over the public. We value our Sacratorium and the populace can easily grow excited over the presence of a tribesperson anywhere in Mycogen but, most particularly, in the vicinity of the Sacratorium. It would take one excitable person to raise a cry of ‘Invasion!’ and a peaceful crowd such as this one would be turned into one that would be thirsting to tear you apart. I mean that quite literally. For your own good, even if the High Elder has shown you kindness, leave. Now!”

  “But the Sacratorium–” said Seldon stubbornly, though Dors was pulling gently at his kirtle.

  “What is there in the Sacratorium that can possibly interest you?” said the Elder. “You see it now. There is nothing for you to see in the interior.”

  “There is the robot,” said Seldon.

  The Elder stared at Seldon in shocked surprise and then, bending to bring his lips close to Seldon’s ear, whispered harshly, “Leave now or I will raise the cry of ‘Invasion!’ myself. Nor, were it not for the High Elder, would I give you even this one chance to leave.”

  And Dors, with surprising strength, nearly pulled Seldon off his feet as she stepped hastily away, dragging him along until he caught his balance and stepped quickly after her.

  54.

  It was over breakfast the next morning, not sooner, that Dors took up the subject–and in a way that Seldon found most wounding.

  She said, “Well, that was a pretty fiasco yesterday.”

  Seldon, who had honestly thought he had gotten away with it without comment, looked sullen. “What made it a fiasco?”

  “Driven out is what we were. And for what? What did we gain?”

  “Only the knowledge that there is a robot in there.”

  “Mycelium Seventy-Two said there wasn’t.”

  “Of course he said that. He’s a scholar–or thinks he is-end what he doesn’t know about the Sacratorium would probably fill that library he goes to. You saw the Elder’s reaction.”

  “I certainly did.”

  “He would not have reacted like that if there was no robot inside. He was horrified we knew.”

  “That’s just your guess, Hari. And even if there was, we couldn’t get in.”

  “We could certainly try. After breakfast, we go out and buy a sash for me, one of those obiahs. I put it on, keep my eyes devoutly downward, and walk right in.”

  “Skincap and all? They’ll spot you in a microsecond.”

  “No, they won’t. We’ll go into the library where all the tribespeople data is kept. I’d like to see it anyway. From the library, which is a Sacratorium annex, I gather, there will probably be an entrance into the Sacratorium

  “Where you will be picked up at once.”

  “Not at all. You heard what Mycelium Seventy-Two had to say. Everyone keeps his eyes down and meditates on their great Lost World, Aurora. No one looks at anyone else. It would probably be a grievous breach of discipline to do so. Then I’ll find the Elders’ aerie–”

  “Just like that?”

  “At one point, Mycelium Seventy-Two said he would advise me not to try to get up into the Elders’ aerie. Up.
It must be somewhere in that tower of the Sacratorium, the central tower.”

  Dors shook her head. “I don’t recall the man’s exact words and I don’t think you do either. That’s a terribly weak foundation to wait.” She stopped suddenly and frowned.

  “Well?” said Seldon.

  “There is an archaic word ‘aerie’ that means ‘a dwelling place on high.’ ‘

  “Ah! There you are. You see, we’ve learned some vital things as the result of what you tall a fiasco. And if I can find a living robot that’s twenty thousand years old and if it can tell me-

  “Suppose that such a thing exists, which passes belief, and that you find it, which is not very likely, how long do you think you will be able to talk to it before your presence is discovered?”

  “I don’t know, but if I can prove it exists and if I can find it, then I’ll think of some way to talk to it. It’s too late for me to back out now under any circumstances. Hummin should have left me alone when I thought there was no way of achieving psychohistory. Now that it seems there may be, I won’t let anything stop me–short of being killed.”

  “The Mycogenians may oblige, Hari, and you can’t run that risk.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m going to try.”

  “No, Hari. I must look after you and I can’t let you.”

  “You must let me. Finding a way to work out psychohistory is more important than my safety. My safety is only important because I may work out psychohistory. Prevent me from doing so and your task loses its meaning.-Think about it.”

  Hari felt himself infused with a renewed sense of purpose. Psychohistory-his nebulous theory that he had, such a short while ago, despaired ever of proving-loomed larger, more real. Now he had to believe that it was possible; he could feel it in his gut. The pieces seemed to be falling together and although he couldn’t see the whole pattern yet, he was sure the Sacratorium would yield another piece to the puzzle.