Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  His life with Dors Venabili was a happy one, but it was so at a cost, at a condition. The condition was all the more stringent, in that it had been settled not through discussion or agreement but by a mutual unspoken understanding.

  Seldon understood that he found in Dors everything he would have wanted in a wife. True, he had no children, but he had neither expected any, nor, to tell the truth, had greatly wanted any. He had Raych, who was as much a son of his emotionally as if he had inherited the entire Seldonian genome—perhaps more so.

  The mere fact that Dors was causing him to think about the matter was breaking the agreement that had kept them in peace and comfort all these years and he felt a faint but growing resentment at that.

  But he pushed those thoughts, the questions, away again. He had learned to accept her role as his protector and would continue to do so. After all, it was he with whom she shared a home, a table, and a bed—not Eto Demerzel.

  Dors’s voice brought him out of his reverie.

  “I said— Are you sulking, Hari?”

  He started slightly, for there was the sound of repetition in her voice, and he realized he had been shrinking steadily deeper into his mind and away from her.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I’m not sulking. —Not deliberately sulking. I’m just wondering how I ought to respond to your statement.”

  “About robots?” She seemed quite calm as she said the word.

  “You said I don’t know as much about them as you do. How do I respond to that?” He paused, then added quietly (knowing he was taking a chance), “That is, without offense.”

  “I didn’t say you didn’t know about robots. If you’re going to quote me, do so with precision. I said you didn’t understand about robots. I’m sure that you know a great deal, perhaps more than I do, but to know is not necessarily to understand.”

  “Now, Dors, you’re deliberately speaking in paradoxes to be annoying. A paradox arises only out of an ambiguity that deceives either unwittingly or by design. I don’t like that in science and I don’t like it in casual conversation, either, unless it is meant humorously, which I think is not the case now.”

  Dors laughed in her particular way, softly, almost as though amusement were too precious to be shared in an overliberal manner. “Apparently the paradox has annoyed you into pomposity and you are always humorous when you are pompous. However, I’ll explain. It’s not my intention to annoy you.” She reached over to pat his hand and it was to Seldon’s surprise (and slight embarrassment) that he found that he had clenched his hand into a fist.

  Dors said, “You talk about psychohistory a great deal. To me, at any rate. You know that?”

  Seldon cleared his throat. “I throw myself on your mercy as far as that’s concerned. The project is secret—by its very nature. Psychohistory won’t work unless the people it affects know nothing about it, so I can talk about it only to Yugo and to you. To Yugo, it is all intuition. He’s brilliant, but he is so apt to leap wildly into darkness that I must play the role of caution, of forever pulling him back. But I have my wild thoughts, too, and it helps me to be able to hear them aloud, even”—and he smiled—“when I have a pretty good notion that you don’t understand a word I’m saying.”

  “I know I’m your sounding board and I don’t mind. —I really don’t mind, Hari, so don’t begin making inner resolutions to change your behavior. Naturally I don’t understand your mathematics. I’m just a historian—and not even a historian of science. The influence of economic change on political development is what is taking up my time now—”

  “Yes, and I’m your sounding board on that or hadn’t you noticed? I’ll need it for psychohistory when the time comes, so I suspect you’ll be an indispensable help to me.”

  “Good! Now that we’ve settled why you stay with me—I knew it couldn’t be for my ethereal beauty—let me go on to explain that occasionally, when your discussion veers away from the strictly mathematical aspects, it seems to me that I get your drift. You have, on a number of occasions, explained what you call the necessity of minimalism. I think I understand that. By it, you mean—”

  “I know what I mean.”

  Dors looked hurt. “Less lofty, please, Hari. I’m not trying to explain it to you. I want to explain it to myself. You say you’re my sounding board, so act like one. Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?”

  “Turnabout is fine, but if you’re going to accuse me of loftiness when I say one little—”

  “Enough! Shut up! —You have told me that minimalism is of the highest importance in applied psychohistory; in the art of attempting to change an undesired development into a desired one or, at any rate, a less undesired one. You have said that a change must be applied that is as minute, as minimal, as possible—”

  “Yes,” said Seldon eagerly, “that is because—”

  “No, Hari. I’m trying to explain. We both know that you understand it. You must have minimalism because every change, any change, has myriad side effects that can’t always be allowed for. If the change is too great and the side effects too many, then it becomes certain that the outcome will be far removed from anything you’ve planned and that it would be entirely unpredictable.”

  “Right,” said Seldon. “That’s the essence of a chaotic effect. The problem is whether any change is small enough to make the consequence reasonably predictable or whether human history is inevitably and unalterably chaotic in every respect. It was that which, at the start, made me think that psychohistory was not—”

  “I know, but you’re not letting me make my point. Whether any change would be small enough is not the issue. The point is that any change greater than the minimal is chaotic. The required minimum may be zero, but if it is not zero, then it is still very small—and it would be a major problem to find some change that is small enough and yet is significantly greater than zero. Now, that, I gather, is what you mean by the necessity of minimalism.”

  “More or less,” said Seldon. “Of course, as always, the matter is expressed more compactly and more rigorously in the language of mathematics. See here—”

  “Save me,” said Dors. “Since you know this about psychohistory, Hari, you ought to know it about Demerzel, too. You have the knowledge but not the understanding, because it apparently doesn’t occur to you to apply the rules of psychohistory to the Laws of Robotics.”

  To which Seldon replied faintly, “Now I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “He requires minimality, too, doesn’t he, Hari? By the First Law of Robotics, a robot can’t harm a human being. That is the prime rule for the usual robot, but Demerzel is something quite unusual and for him, the Zeroth Law is a reality and it takes precedence even over the First Law. The Zeroth Law states that a robot can’t harm humanity as a whole. But that puts Demerzel into the same bind in which you exist when you labor at psychohistory. Do you see?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “I hope so. If Demerzel has the ability to change minds, he has to do so without bringing about side effects he does not wish—and since he is the Emperor’s First Minister, the side effects he must worry about are numerous, indeed.”

  “And the application to the present case?”

  “Think about it! You can’t tell anyone—except me, of course—that Demerzel is a robot, because he has adjusted you so that you can’t. But how much adjustment did that take? Do you want to tell people that he is a robot? Do you want to ruin his effectiveness when you depend on him for protection, for support of your grants, for influence quietly exerted on your behalf? Of course not. The change he had to make then was a very tiny one, just enough to keep you from blurting it out in a moment of excitement or carelessness. It is so small a change that there are no particular side effects. That is how Demerzel tries to run the Empire generally.”

  “And the case of Joranum?”

  “Is obviously completely different from yours. He is, for whatever motives, unalterably opposed to Demerzel. Undoubtedly, Demerzel could cha
nge that, but it would be at the price of introducing a considerable wrench in Joranum’s makeup that would bring about results Demerzel could not predict. Rather than take the chance of harming Joranum, of producing side effects that would harm others and, possibly, all of humanity, he must leave Joranum alone until he can find some small change—some small change—that will save the situation without harm. That is why Yugo is right and why Demerzel is vulnerable.”

  Seldon had listened but did not respond. He seemed lost in thought. Minutes passed before he said, “If Demerzel can do nothing in this matter, then I must.”

  “If he can do nothing, what can you do?”

  “The case is different. I am not bound by the Laws of Robotics. I need not concern myself obsessively with minimalism. —And to begin with, I must see Demerzel.”

  Dors looked faintly anxious. “Must you? Surely it wouldn’t be wise to advertise a connection between the two of you.”

  “We have reached a time where we can’t make a fetish of pretending there is no connection. Naturally I won’t go to see him behind a flourish of trumpets and an announcement on holovision, but I must see him.”

  5

  Seldon found himself raging at the passage of time. Eight years ago, when he had first arrived on Trantor, he could take instant action. He had only a hotel room and its contents to forsake and he could range through the sectors of Trantor at will.

  Now he found himself with department meetings, with decisions to make, with work to do. It was not so easy to dash off at will to see Demerzel—and if he could, Demerzel also had a full schedule of his own. To find a time when they both could meet would not be easy.

  Nor was it easy to have Dors shake her head at him. “I don’t know what you intend to do, Hari.”

  And he answered impatiently, “I don’t know what I intend to do, either, Dors. I hope to find out when I see Demerzel.”

  “Your first duty is to psychohistory. He’ll tell you so.”

  “Perhaps. I’ll find out.”

  And then, just as he had arranged a time for the meeting with the First Minister, eight days hence, he received a message on his department office wall screen in slightly archaic lettering. And to match that was the more than slightly archaic message: I CRAVE AN AUDIENCE WITH PROFESSOR HARI SELDON.

  Seldon stared at it with astonishment. Even the Emperor was not addressed in quite that centuries-old turn of phrase.

  Nor was the signature printed as it usually was for clarity. It was scripted with a flourish that left it perfectly legible and yet gave it the aura of a careless work of art dashed off by a master. The signature was: LASKIN JORANUM. —It was Jo-Jo himself, craving an audience.

  Seldon found himself chuckling. It was clear why the choice of words—and why the script. It made what was a simple request a device for stimulating curiosity. Seldon had no great desire to meet the man—or would have had none ordinarily. But what was worth the archaism and the artistry? He wanted to find out.

  He had his secretary set the time and the place of the appointment. It would be in his office, certainly not in his apartment. A business conversation, nothing social.

  And it would come before the projected meeting with Demerzel.

  Dors said, “It’s no surprise to me, Hari. You hurt two of his people, one of them his chief aide; you spoiled a little rally he was holding; and you made him, in the person of his representatives, seem foolish. He wants to take a look at you and I think I had better be with you.”

  Seldon shook his head. “I’ll take Raych. He knows all the tricks I know and he’s a strong and active twenty-year-old. Although I’m sure there’ll be no need for protection.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Joranum is coming to see me on the University grounds. There will be any number of youngsters in the vicinity. I’m not exactly an unpopular figure with the student body and I suspect that Joranum is the kind of man who does his homework and knows that I’ll be safe on home territory. I’m sure that he will be perfectly polite—completely friendly.”

  “Hmph,” said Dors with a light twist of one corner of her lip.

  “And quite deadly,” Seldon finished.

  6

  Hari Seldon kept his face expressionless and bent his head just sufficiently to allow a sense of reasonable courtesy. He had taken the trouble to look up a variety of holographs of Joranum, but, as is often the case, the real thing, unguarded, shifting constantly in response to changing conditions, is never quite the same as a holograph—however carefully prepared. Perhaps, thought Seldon, it is the response of the viewer to the “real thing” that makes it different.

  Joranum was a tall man—as tall as Seldon, at any rate—but larger in other directions. It was not due to a muscular physique, for he gave the impression of softness, without quite being fat. A rounded face, a thick head of hair that was sandy rather than yellow, light blue eyes. He wore a subdued coverall and his face bore a half-smile that gave the illusion of friendliness, while making it clear, somehow, that it was only an illusion.

  “Professor Seldon”—his voice was deep and under strict control, an orator’s voice—“I am delighted to meet you. It is kind of you to permit this meeting. I trust you are not offended that I have brought a companion, my right-hand man, with me, although I have not cleared that with you in advance. He is Gambol Deen Namarti—three names, you notice. I believe you have met him.”

  “Yes, I have. I remember the incident well.” Seldon looked at Namarti with a touch of the sardonic. At the previous encounter, Namarti had been speaking at the University Field. Seldon viewed him carefully now—under relaxed conditions. Namarti was of moderate height, with a thin face, sallow complexion, dark hair, and a wide mouth. He did not have Joranum’s half-smile or any noticeable expression—except for a sense of cautious wariness.

  “My friend Dr. Namarti—his degree is in ancient literature—has come at his own request,” said Joranum, his smile intensifying a bit, “to apologize.”

  Joranum glanced quickly at Namarti—and Namarti, his lips tightening just at first, said in a colorless voice, “I am sorry, Professor, for what happened at the Field. I was not quite aware of the strict rules governing University rallies and I was a little carried away by my own enthusiasm.”

  “Understandably so,” said Joranum. “Nor was he entirely aware of your identity. I think we may all now forget the matter.”

  “I assure you, gentlemen,” said Seldon, “that I have no great desire to remember it. This is my son, Raych Seldon, so you see I have a companion, too.”

  Raych had grown a mustache, black and abundant—the masculine mark of the Dahlite. He had had none when he first met Seldon eight years before, when he was a street boy, ragged and hungry. He was short but lithe and sinewy and his expression was the haughty one he had adopted in order to add a few spiritual inches to his physical height.

  “Good morning, young man,” said Joranum.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Raych.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen,” said Seldon. “May I offer you something to eat or drink?”

  Joranum held up his hands in polite refusal. “No, sir. This is not a social call.” He seated himself in the place indicated. “Though I hope there will be many such calls in the future.”

  “If this is to be about business, then let’s begin.”

  “The news reached me, Professor Seldon, of the little incident that you have so kindly agreed to forget and I wondered why you took the chance of doing what you did. It was a risk, you must admit.”

  “I didn’t think so, actually.”

  “But I did. So I took the liberty of finding out everything I could about you, Professor Seldon. You’re an interesting man. From Helicon, I discovered.”

  “Yes, that’s where I was born. The records are clear.”

  “And you’ve been here on Trantor for eight years.”

  “That is also a matter of public record.”

  “And you made yourself quite famo
us at the start by delivering a mathematical paper on—what do you call it?—psychohistory?”

  Seldon shook his head very slightly. How often he had regretted that indiscretion. Of course, he had had no idea at the time that it was an indiscretion. He said, “A youthful enthusiasm. It came to nothing.”

  “Is that so?” Joranum looked around him with an air of pleased surprise. “Yet here you are, the head of the Mathematics Department at one of Trantor’s greatest Universities, and only forty years old, I believe. —I’m forty-two, by the way, so I don’t look upon you as very old at all. You must be a very competent mathematician to be in this position.”

  Seldon shrugged. “I wouldn’t care to make a judgment in that matter.”

  “Or you must have powerful friends.”

  “We would all like to have powerful friends, Mr. Joranum, but I think you will find none here. University professors rarely have powerful friends or, I sometimes think, friends of any kind.” He smiled.

  And so did Joranum. “Wouldn’t you consider the Emperor a powerful friend, Professor Seldon?”

  “I certainly would, but what has that to do with me?”

  “I am under the impression that the Emperor is a friend of yours.”

  “I’m sure the records will show, Mr. Joranum, that I had an audience with His Imperial Majesty eight years ago. It lasted perhaps an hour or less and I saw no signs of any great friendliness in him at the time. Nor have I spoken to him since—or even seen him—except on holovision, of course.”