by Isaac Asimov
33
It was midafternoon and the Trantorian sun glinted on the metal skin covering the great planet. Hari Seldon stood at the edge of the Streeling University observation deck, attempting to shield his eyes from the harsh glare with his hand. It had been years since he’d been out from under the dome, save for his few visits to the Palace, and somehow those didn’t count; one was still very much enclosed on the Imperial grounds.
Seldon no longer traveled around only if accompanied. In the first place, Palver spent the majority of his time with Wanda, either working on the Prime Radiant, absorbed in mentalic research, or searching for others like them. But if he had wanted, Seldon could have found another young man—a University student or a Project member—to act as his bodyguard.
However, Seldon knew that a bodyguard was no longer necessary. Since the much publicized hearing and the reestablishment of ties with the Galactic Library, the Commission for Public Safety had taken a keen interest in Seldon. Seldon knew that he was being followed; he had caught sight of his “shadow” on a number of occasions in the past few months. He also had no doubt that his home and office had been infiltrated by listening devices, but he himself activated a static shield whenever he engaged in sensitive communications.
Seldon was not sure what the Commission thought of him—perhaps they were not yet sure themselves. Regardless of whether they believed him to be a prophet or a crackpot, they made it their business to know where he was at all times—and that meant that, until the Commission deemed otherwise, at all times Seldon was safe.
A light breeze billowed the deep blue cloak Seldon had draped over his unisuit and ruffled the few wispy white hairs remaining on his head. He glanced down over the railing, taking in the seamless steel blanket below. Beneath that blanket, Seldon knew, rumbled the machinery of a vastly complicated world. If the dome were transparent, one would see ground-cars racing, gravicabs swooshing through an intricate network of interconnecting tunnels, space hyperships being loaded and unloaded with grain and chemicals and jewels bound for and from practically every world of the Empire.
Below the gleaming metal cover, the lives of forty billion people were being conducted, with all the attendant pain, joy, and drama of human life. It was an image he loved dearly—this panorama of human achievement—and it pierced his heart to know that, in just a few centuries, all that now lay before him would be in ruins. The great dome would be ripped and scarred, torn away to reveal the desolate wasteland of what was once the seat of a thriving civilization. He shook his head in sadness, for he knew there was nothing he could do to prevent that tragedy. But, as Seldon foresaw the ruined dome, he also knew that from the ground laid bare by the last battles of the Empire living shoots would spring and somehow Trantor would reemerge as a vital member of the new Empire. The Plan saw to that.
Seldon lowered himself onto one of the benches ringing the deck’s perimeter. His leg was throbbing painfully; the exertion of the trip had been a bit much. But it had been worth it to gaze once again at Trantor, to feel the open air around him and see the vast sky above.
Seldon thought wistfully of Wanda. He rarely saw his granddaughter at all anymore and invariably Stettin Palver was present when he did. In the three months since Wanda and Palver had met, they seemed to be inseparable. Wanda assured Seldon that the constant involvement was necessary for the Project, but Seldon suspected it went deeper than mere devotion to one’s job.
He remembered the telltale signs from his early days with Dors. It was there in the way the two young people looked at each other, with an intensity born not only of intellectual stimulation but emotional motivation as well.
Further, by their very natures, Wanda and Palver seemed to be more comfortable with each other than with other people. In fact, Seldon had discovered that when no one else was around, Wanda and Palver didn’t even talk to each other; their mentalic abilities were sufficiently advanced that they had no need of words to communicate.
The other Project members were not aware of Wanda’s and Palver’s unique talents. Seldon had felt it best to keep the mentalics’ work quiet, at least until their role in the Plan was firmly defined. Actually the Plan itself was firmly defined—but solely in Seldon’s mind. As a few more pieces fell into place, he would reveal his Plan to Wanda and Palver and someday, of necessity, to one or two others.
Seldon stood slowly, stiffly. He was due back at Streeling in an hour to meet Wanda and Palver. They had left word for him that they were bringing a great surprise. Another piece for the puzzle, Seldon hoped. He looked out one last time over Trantor and, before turning to make his way back to the gravitic repulsion elevator, smiled and softly said, “Foundation.”
34
Hari Seldon entered his office to find that Wanda and Palver had already arrived and were seated around the conference table at the far end of the room. As was usual with those two, the room was completely silent.
Then Seldon stopped short, noticing that a new fellow was sitting with them. How strange—out of politeness, Wanda and Palver usually reverted to standard speech when in the company of other people, yet none of the three was speaking.
Seldon studied the stranger—an odd-looking man, about thirty-five years old, with the myopic look of one caught up for too long in his studies. If it weren’t for a certain determined set to the stranger’s jaw, Seldon thought he might be dismissed as ineffectual, but that would obviously be a mistake. There was both strength and kindness in the man’s face. A trustworthy face, Seldon decided.
“Grandfather,” Wanda said, rising gracefully from her chair. Seldon’s heart ached as he looked at his granddaughter. She’d changed so much in the past few months, since the loss of her family. Whereas before she had always called him Grandpa, now it was the more formal Grandfather. In the past it seemed she could barely refrain from grins and giggles; lately her serene gaze was lightened only occasionally by a beatific smile. But—now as always—she was beautiful and that beauty was surpassed only by her stunning intellect.
“Wanda, Palver,” Seldon said, kissing the former on the cheek and slapping the latter on the shoulder.
“Hello,” Seldon said, turning to the stranger, who had also stood. “I am Hari Seldon.”
“I am most honored to meet you, Professor,” the man replied. “I am Bor Alurin.” Alurin offered a hand to Seldon in the archaic and, hence, most formal mode of greeting.
“Bor is a psychologist, Hari,” said Palver, “and a great fan of your work.”
“More important, Grandfather,” said Wanda, “Bor is one of us.”
“One of you?” Seldon looked searchingly from one to the other. “Do you mean …?” Seldon’s eyes sparkled.
“Yes, Grandfather. Yesterday Stettin and I were walking through Ery Sector, getting out and around, as you’d suggested, probing for others. All of a sudden—wham!—there it was.”
“We recognized the thought patterns immediately and began to look around, trying to establish a link,” Palver said, taking up the story. “We were in a commercial area, near the spaceport, so the walkways were clogged with shoppers and tourists and Outworld traders. It seemed hopeless, but then Wanda simply stopped and signaled Come here and out of the crowd Bor appeared. He just walked up to us and signaled Yes?”
“Amazing,” Seldon said, beaming at his granddaughter. “And Dr.—it is Doctor, isn’t it?—Alurin, what do you make of all this?”
“Well,” began the psychologist thoughtfully, “I am pleased. I’ve always felt different somehow and now I know why. And if I can be of any help to you, why—” The psychologist looked down at his feet, as if all of a sudden he realized he was being presumptuous. “What I mean is, Wanda and Stettin said I may be able to contribute in some way to your Psychohistory Project. Professor, nothing would please me more.”
“Yes yes. That’s quite true, Dr. Alurin. In fact, I think you may make a great contribution to the Project—if you’ll join me. Of course, you’ll have to give up whatever it is you do
now, whether it is teaching or private practice. Can you manage that?”
“Why, yes, Professor, of course. I may need a little help convincing my wife—” At this he chuckled slightly, glancing shyly at each of his three companions in turn. “But I seem to have a way with that.”
“So it’s set, then,” said Seldon briskly. “You will join the Psychohistory Project. I promise you, Dr. Alurin, this is a decision you will not regret.”
“Wanda, Stettin,” Seldon said later, after Bor Alurin had left. “This is a most welcome breakthrough. How quickly do you think you can find more mentalics?”
“Grandfather, it took us over a month to locate Bor—we cannot predict with what frequency others will be found.
“To tell you the truth, all this ‘out and around’ takes us away from our work on the Prime Radiant and it is distracting as well. Now that I have Stettin to ‘talk’ to, verbal communication is somewhat too harsh, too loud.”
Seldon’s smile faded. He had been afraid of this. As Wanda and Palver had been honing their mentalic skills, so their tolerance for “ordinary” life had diminished. It only made sense; their mentalic manipulations set them apart.
“Wanda, Stettin, I think it may be time for me to tell you more about the idea Yugo Amaryl had years ago and about the Plan I’ve devised as a result of that idea. I haven’t been ready to elaborate upon it until now, because until this moment, all the pieces have not been in place.
“As you know, Yugo felt we must establish two Foundations—each as a fail-safe measure for the other. It was a brilliant idea, one which I wish Yugo could have lived long enough to see realized.” Here Seldon paused, heaving a regretful sigh.
“But I digress. —Six years ago, when I was certain that Wanda had mentalic, or mind-touching, capabilities, it came to me that not only should there be two Foundations but that they should be distinct in nature, as well. One would be made up of physical scientists—the Encyclopedists will be their pioneer group on Terminus. The second would be made up of true psychohistorians; mentalists—you. That is why I’ve been so eager for you to find others like you.
“Finally, though, is this: The Second Foundation must be secret. Its strength will lie in its seclusion, in its telepathic omnipresence and omnipotence.
“You see, a few years ago, when it became apparent that I would require the services of a bodyguard, I realized that the Second Foundation must be the strong, silent, secret bodyguard of the primary Foundation.
“Psychohistory is not infallible—its predictions are, however, highly probable. The Foundation, especially in its infancy, will have many enemies, as do I today.
“Wanda, you and Palver are the pioneers of the Second Foundation, the guardians of the Terminus Foundation.”
“But how, Grandfather?” demanded Wanda. “We are just two—well, three, if you count Bor. To guard the entire Foundation, we would need—”
“Hundreds? Thousands? Find however many it takes, Granddaughter. You can do it. And you know how.
“Earlier, when relating the story of finding Dr. Alurin, Stettin said you simply stopped and communicated out to the mentalic presence you felt and he came to you. Don’t you see? All along I’ve been urging you to go out and find others like you. But this is difficult, almost painful for you. I realize now that you and Stettin must seclude yourselves, in order to form the nucleus of the Second Foundation. From there you will cast your nets into the ocean of humanity.”
“Grandfather, what are you saying?” Wanda asked in a whisper. She had left her seat and was kneeling next to Seldon’s chair. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, Wanda,” Seldon replied, his voice choked with emotion. “I don’t want you to leave, but it is the only way. You and Stettin must isolate yourselves from the crude physicality of Trantor. As your mentalic abilities grow stronger, you will attract others to you—the silent and secret Foundation will grow.
“We will be in touch—occasionally, of course. And each of us has a Prime Radiant. You see, don’t you, the truth—and the absolute necessity—of what I am saying, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Grandfather,” said Wanda. “More important, I feel the brilliance of it as well. Rest assured; we won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, dear,” Seldon said wearily.
How could he do this—how could he send his darling granddaughter away? She was his last link to his happiest days, to Dors, Yugo, and Raych. She was the only other Seldon in the Galaxy.
“I shall miss you terribly, Wanda,” Seldon said as a tear worked its way down his finely creased cheek.
“But, Grandfather,” Wanda said as she stood with Palver, preparing to leave. “Where shall we go? Where is the Second Foundation?”
Seldon looked up and said, “The Prime Radiant has already told you, Wanda.”
Wanda looked at Seldon blankly, searching her memory.
Seldon reached out and clutched at his granddaughter’s hand.
“Touch my mind, Wanda. It is there.”
Wanda’s eyes widened as she reached into Seldon’s mind.
“I see,” Wanda whispered to Seldon.
Section 33A2D17: Star’s End.
PART 5
EPILOGUE
I am Hari Seldon. Former first minister to Emperor Cleon I. Professor Emeritus of Psychohistory at Streeling University on Trantor. Director of the Psychohistory Research Project. Executive Editor of the Encyclopedia Galactica. Creator of the Foundation.
It all sounds quite impressive, I know. I have done a great deal in my eighty-one years and I am tired. Looking back over my life, I wonder if I could have—should have—done certain things differently. For instance: Was I so concerned with the grand sweep of psychohistory that the people and events that intersected my life sometimes seemed inconsequential by comparison?
Perhaps I neglected to make some small incidental adjustments here or there that would have in no way compromised the future of humanity but might have dramatically improved the life of an individual dear to me. —Yugo, Raych … I can’t help but wonder … Was there something I could have done to save my beloved Dors?
Last month I finished recording the Crisis holograms. My assistant, Gaal Dornick, has taken them to Terminus to oversee their installation in the Seldon Vault. He will make sure that the Vault is sealed and that the proper instructions are left for the eventual openings of the Vault, during the Crises.
I’ll be dead by then, of course.
What will they think, those future Foundationers, when they see me (or, more accurately, my hologram) during the First Crisis, almost fifty years from now? Will they comment on how old I look or how weak my voice is or how small I seem, bundled in this wheelchair? Will they understand—appreciate—the message I’ve left for them? —Ah well, there’s really no point in speculating. As the ancients would say: The die is cast.
I heard from Gaal yesterday. All is going well on Terminus. Bor Alurin and the Project members are flourishing in “exile.” I shouldn’t gloat, but I can’t help but chuckle when I recall the self-satisfied look on the face of that pompous idiot Linge Chen when he banished the Project to Terminus two years ago. Although ultimately the exile was couched in terms of an Imperial Charter (“A state-supported scientific institution and part of the personal domain of His August Majesty, the Emperor”—the Chief Commissioner wanted us off Trantor and out of his hair, but he could not bear the thought of giving up complete control), it is still a source of secret delight to know that it was Las Zenow and I who chose Terminus as Foundation’s home.
My one regret where Linge Chen is concerned is that we were not able to save Agis. That Emperor was a good man and a noble leader, even if he was Imperial in name only. His mistake was to believe in his title and the Commission of Public Safety would not tolerate the burgeoning Imperial independence.
I often wonder what they did to Agis—was he exiled to some remote Outer World or assassinated like Cleon?
The boy-child who sits on the
throne today is the perfect puppet Emperor. He obeys every word Linge Chen whispers in his ear and fancies himself a budding statesman. The Palace and trappings of Imperial life are but toys to him in some vast fantastical game.
What will I do now? With Gaal finally gone to join the Terminus group, I am utterly alone. I hear from Wanda occasionally. The work at Star’s End continues on course; in the past decade she and Stettin have added dozens of mentalics to their number. They increasingly grow in power. It was the Star’s End contingent—my secret Foundation—who pushed Linge Chen into sending the Encyclopedists to Terminus.
I miss Wanda. It has been many years since I’ve seen her, sat with her quietly, holding her hand. When Wanda left, even though I had asked her to go, I thought I would die of heartbreak. That was, perhaps, the most difficult decision I ever had to make and, although I never told her, I almost decided against it. But for the Foundation to succeed, it was necessary for Wanda and Stettin to go to Star’s End. Psychohistory decreed it, —so perhaps it wasn’t really my decision, after all.
I still come here every day, to my office in the Psychohistory Building. I remember when this structure was filled with people, day and night. Sometimes I feel as if it’s filled with voices, those of my long-departed family, students, colleagues—but the offices are empty and silent. The hallways echo with the whirr of my wheelchair motor.
I suppose I should vacate the building, return it to the University to allocate to another department. But somehow it’s hard to let go of this place. There are so many memories …
All I have now is this, my Prime Radiant. This is the means by which psychohistory can be computed, through which every equation in my Plan may be analyzed, all here in this amazing, small black cube. As I sit here, this deceptively simple-looking tool in the palm of my hand, I wish I could show it to R. Daneel Olivaw …
