Prelude to Foundation f-1, Page 3

  “I tried to use him. He would not.”

  “He had not given it thought. Perhaps now he will. And if he was not interested in being used by you, might he not be persuaded by—let us say—the Mayor of Wye?”

  “Why should he be willing to help Wye and not us?”

  “As he explained, it is hard to predict the emotions and behavior of individuals.”

  Cleon scowled and sat in thought. “Do you really think he might develop this psychohistory of his to the point where it is truly useful? He is so certain he cannot.”

  “He may, with time, decide he was wrong in denying the possibility.”

  Cleon said, “Then I suppose I ought to have kept him.”

  Demerzel said, “No, Sire. Your instinct was correct when you let him go. Imprisonment, however disguised, would cause resentment and despair, which would not help him either to develop his ideas further or make him eager to help us. Better to let him go as you have done, but to keep him forever on an invisible leash. In this way, we can see that he is not used by an enemy of yourself, Sire, and we can see that when the time comes and he has fully developed his science, we can pull on our leash and bring him in. Then we could be . . . more persuasive.”

  “But what if he is picked up by an enemy of mine or, better, of the Empire, for I am the Empire after all, or if, of his own accord, he wishes to serve an enemy—I don’t consider that out of the question, you see.”

  “Nor should you. I will see to it that this doesn’t happen, but if, against all striving, it does happen, it would be better if no one has him than if the wrong person does.”

  Cleon looked uneasy. “I’ll leave that all in your hands, Demerzel, but I hope we’re not too hasty. He could be, after all, nothing but the purveyor of a theoretical science that does not and cannot work.”

  “Quite possibly, Sire, but it would be safer to assume the man is—or might be—important. We lose only a little time and nothing more if we find that we have concerned ourselves with a nonentity. We may lose a Galaxy if we find we have ignored someone of great importance.”

  “Very well, then,” said Cleon, “but I trust I won’t have to know the details—if they prove unpleasant.”

  Demerzel said, “Let us hope that will not be the case.”

  5

  Seldon had had an evening, a night, and part of a morning to get over his meeting with the Emperor. At least, the changing quality of light within the walkways, moving corridors, squares, and parks of the Imperial Sector of Trantor made it seem that an evening, a night, and part of a morning had passed.

  He sat now in a small park on a small plastic seat that molded itself neatly to his body and he was comfortable. Judging from the light, it seemed to be midmorning and the air was just cool enough to seem fresh without possessing even the smallest bite.

  Was it like this all the time? He thought of the gray day outside when he went to see the Emperor. And he thought of all the gray days and cold days and hot days and rainy days and snowy days on Helicon, his home, and he wondered if one could miss them. Was it possible to sit in a park on Trantor, having ideal weather day after day, so that it felt as though you were surrounded by nothing at all—and coming to miss a howling wind or a biting cold or a breathless humidity?

  Perhaps. But not on the first day or the second or the seventh. He would have only this one day and he would leave tomorrow. He meant to enjoy it while he could. He might, after all, never return to Trantor.

  Still, he continued to feel uneasy at having spoken as independently as he had to a man who could, at will, order one’s imprisonment or execution—or, at the very least, the economic and social death of loss of position and status.

  Before going to bed, Seldon had looked up Cleon I in the encyclopedic portion of his hotel room computer. The Emperor had been highly praised as, no doubt, had all Emperors in their own lifetime, regardless of their deeds. Seldon had dismissed that, but he was interested in the fact that Cleon had been born in the Palace and had never left its grounds. He had never been in Trantor itself, in any part of the multi-domed world. It was a matter of security, perhaps, but what it meant was that the Emperor was in prison, whether he admitted the matter to himself or not. It might be the most luxurious prison in the Galaxy, but it was a prison just the same.

  And though the Emperor had seemed mild-mannered and had shown no sign of being a bloody-minded autocrat as so many of his predecessors had been, it was not good to have attracted his attention. Seldon welcomed the thought of leaving tomorrow for Helicon, even though it would be winter (and a rather nasty one, so far) back home.

  He looked up at the bright diffuse light. Although it could never rain in here, the atmosphere was far from dry. A fountain played not far from him; the plants were green and had probably never felt drought. Occasionally, the shrubbery rustled as though a small animal or two was hidden there. He heard the hum of bees.

  Really, though Trantor was spoken of throughout the Galaxy as an artificial world of metal and ceramic, in this small patch it felt positively rustic.

  There were a few other persons taking advantage of the park all wearing light hats, some quite small. There was one rather pretty young woman not far away, but she was bent over a viewer and he could not see her face clearly. A man walked past, looked at him briefly and incuriously, then sat down in a seat facing him and buried himself in a sheaf of teleprints, crossing one leg, in its tight pink trouser leg, over the other.

  There was a tendency to pastel shades among the men, oddly enough, while the women mostly wore white. Being a clean environment, it made sense to wear light colors. He looked down in amusement at his own Heliconian costume, which was predominantly dull brown. If he were to stay on Trantor—as he was not—he would need to purchase suitable clothing or he would become an object of curiosity or laughter or repulsion. The man with the teleprints had, for instance, looked up at him more curiously this time—no doubt intrigued by his Outworldish clothing.

  Seldon was relieved that he did not smile. He could be philosophical over being a figure of fun, but, surely, he could not be expected to enjoy it.

  Seldon watched the man rather unobtrusively, for he seemed to be engaged in some sort of internal debate. At the moment he looked as if he was about to speak, then seemed to think better of it, then seemed to wish to speak again. Seldon wondered what the outcome would be.

  He studied the man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and no sign of a paunch, darkish hair with a glint of blond, smooth-shaven, a grave expression, an air of strength though there were no bulging muscles, a face that was a touch rugged—pleasant, but with nothing “pretty” about it.

  By the time the man had lost the internal fight with himself (or won, perhaps) and leaned toward him, Seldon had decided he liked him.

  The man said, “Pardon me, weren’t you at the Decennial Convention? Mathematics?”

  “Yes, I was,” said Seldon agreeably.

  “Ah, I thought I saw you there. It was—excuse me—that moment of recognition that led me to sit here. If I am intruding on your privacy—”

  “Not at all. I’m just enjoying an idle moment.”

  “Let’s see how close I can get. You’re Professor Seldom.”

  “Seldon. Hari Seldon. Quite close. And you?”

  “Chetter Hummin.” The man seemed slightly embarrassed. “Rather a homespun name, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve never come across any Chetters before,” said Seldon. “Or Hummins. So that makes you somewhat unique, I should think. It might be viewed as being better than being mixed up with all the countless Haris there are. Or Seldons, for that matter.”

  Seldon moved his chair closer to Hummin, scraping it against the slightly elastic ceramoid tiles.

  “Talk about homespun,” he said. “What about this Outworldish clothing I’m wearing? It never occurred to me that I ought to get Trantorian garb.”

  “You could buy some,” said Hummin, eyeing Seldon with suppressed disapproval.


  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow and, besides, I couldn’t afford it. Mathematicians deal with large numbers sometimes, but never in their income. —I presume you’re a mathematician, Hummin.”

  “No. Zero talent there.”

  “Oh.” Seldon was disappointed. “You said you saw me at the Decennial Convention.”

  “I was there as an onlooker. I’m a journalist.” He waved his teleprints, seemed suddenly aware that he was holding them and shoved them into his jacket pouch. “I supply the material for the news holocasts.” Then, thoughtfully, “Actually, I’m rather tired of it.”

  “The job?”

  Hummin nodded. “I’m sick of gathering together all the nonsense from every world. I hate the downward spiral.”

  He glanced speculatively at Seldon. “Sometimes something interesting turns up, though. I’ve heard you were seen in the company of an Imperial Guard and making for the Palace gate. You weren’t by any chance seen by the Emperor, were you?”

  The smile vanished from Seldon’s face. He said slowly, “If I was, it would scarcely be something I could talk about for publication.”

  “No no, not for publication. If you don’t know this, Seldon, let me be the first to tell you— The first rule of the news game is that nothing is ever said about the Emperor or his personal entourage except what is officially given out. It’s a mistake, of course, because rumors fly that are much worse than the truth, but that’s the way it is.”

  “But if you can’t report it, friend, why do you ask?”

  “Private curiosity. Believe me, in my job I know a great deal more than ever gets on the air. —Let me guess. I didn’t follow your paper, but I gathered that you were talking about the possibility of predicting the future.”

  Seldon shook his head and muttered, “It was a mistake.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, prediction—accurate prediction—would interest the Emperor, or any man in government, so I’m guessing that Cleon, First of that Name, asked you about it and wouldn’t you please give him a few predictions.”

  Seldon said stiffly, “I don’t intend to discuss the matter.”

  Hummin shrugged slightly. “Eto Demerzel was there, I suppose.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ve never heard of Eto Demerzel?”

  “Never.”

  “Cleon’s alter ego—Cleon’s brain—Cleon’s evil spirit. He’s been called all those things—if we confine ourselves to the nonvituperative. He must have been there.”

  Seldon looked confused and Hummin said, “Well, you may not have seen him, but he was there. And if he thinks you can predict the future—”

  “I can’t predict the future,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “If you listened to my paper, you’ll know that I only spoke of a theoretical possibility.”

  “Just the same, if he thinks you can predict the future, he will not let you go.”

  “He must have. Here I am.”

  “That means nothing. He knows where you are and he’ll continue to know. And when he wants you, he’ll get you, wherever you are. And if he decides you’re useful, he’ll squeeze the use out of you. And if he decides you’re dangerous, he’ll squeeze the life out of you.”

  Seldon stared. “What are you trying to do. Frighten me?”

  “I’m trying to warn you.”

  “I don’t believe what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t you? A while ago you said something was a mistake. Were you thinking that presenting the paper was a mistake and that it was getting you into the kind of trouble you don’t want to be in?”

  Seldon bit his lower lip uneasily. That was a guess that came entirely too close to the truth—and it was at this moment that Seldon felt the presence of intruders.

  They did not cast a shadow, for the light was too soft and widespread. It was simply a movement that caught the corner of his eye—and then it stopped.

  FLIGHT

  TRANTOR— . . . The capital of the First Galactic Empire . . . Under Cleon I, it had its “twilight glow.” To all appearances, it was then at its peak. Its land surface of 200 million square kilometers was entirely domed (except for the Imperial Palace area) and underlaid with an endless city that extended beneath the continental shelves. The population was 40 billion and although the signs were plentiful (and clearly visible in hindsight) that there were gathering problems, those who lived on Trantor undoubtedly found it still the Eternal World of legend and did not expect it would ever . . .

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  6

  Seldon looked up. A young man was standing before him, looking down at him with an expression of amused contempt. Next to him was another young man—a bit younger, perhaps. Both were large and appeared to be strong.

  They were dressed in an extreme of Trantorian fashion, Seldon judged—boldly clashing colors, broad fringed belts, round hats with wide brims all about and the two ends of a bright pink ribbon extending from the brim to the back of the neck.

  In Seldon’s eyes, it was amusing and he smiled.

  The young man before him snapped, “What’re you grinning at, misfit?”

  Seldon ignored the manner of address and said gently, “Please pardon my smile. I was merely enjoying your costume.”

  “My costume? So? And what are you wearing? What’s that awful offal you call clothes?” His hand went out and his finger flicked at the lapel of Seldon’s jacket—disgracefully heavy and dull, Seldon himself thought, in comparison to the other’s lighthearted colors.

  Seldon said, “I’m afraid it’s my Outworlder clothes. They’re all I have.”

  He couldn’t help notice that the few others who were sitting in the small park were rising to their feet and walking off. It was as though they were expecting trouble and had no desire to remain in the vicinity. Seldon wondered if his new friend, Hummin, was leaving too, but he felt it injudicious to take his eyes away from the young man who was confronting him. He teetered back on his chair slightly.

  The young man said, “You an Outworlder?”

  “That’s right. Hence my clothes.”

  “Hence? What kind of word’s that? Outworld word?”

  “What I meant was, that was why my clothes seem peculiar to you. I’m a visitor here.”

  “From what planet?”

  “Helicon.”

  The young man’s eyebrows drew together. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s not a large planet.”

  “Why don’t you go back there?”

  “I intend to. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Sooner! Now!”

  The young man looked at his partner. Seldon followed the look and caught a glimpse of Hummin. He had not left, but the park was now empty except for himself, Hummin, and the two young men.

  Seldon said, “I’d thought I’d spend today sight-seeing.”

  “No. You don’t want to do that. You go home now.”

  Seldon smiled. “Sorry. I won’t.”

  The young man said to his partner, “You like his clothes, Marbie?”

  Marbie spoke for the first time. “No. Disgusting. Turns the stomach.”

  “Can’t let him go around turning stomachs, Marbie. Not good for people’s health.”

  “No, not by no means, Alem,” said Marbie.

  Alem grinned. “Well now. You heard what Marbie said.”

  And now Hummin spoke. He said, “Look, you two, Alem, Marbie, whatever your names are. You’ve had your fun. Why don’t you go away?”

  Alem, who had been leaning slightly toward Seldon, straightened and turned. “Who are you?”

  “That’s not your business,” snapped Hummin.

  “You’re Trantorian?” asked Alem.

  “Also not your business.”

  Alem frowned and said, “You’re dressed Trantorian. We’re not interested in you, so don’t go looking for problems.”

  “I intend to stay. That means there are two of us. Two against
two doesn’t sound like your kind of fight. Why don’t you go away and get some friends so you can handle two people?”

  Seldon said, “I really think you ought to get away if you can, Hummin. It’s kind of you to try to protect me, but I don’t want you harmed.”

  “These are not dangerous people, Seldon. Just half-credit lackeys.”

  “Lackeys!” The word seemed to infuriate Alem, so that Seldon thought it must have a more insulting meaning on Trantor than it had on Helicon.

  “Here, Marbie,” said Alem with a growl. “You take care of that other motherlackey and I’ll rip the clothes off this Seldon. He’s the one we want. Now—”

  His hands came down sharply to seize Seldon’s lapels and jerk him upright. Seldon pushed away, instinctively it would seem, and his chair tipped backward. He seized the hands stretched toward him, his foot went up, and his chair went down.

  Somehow Alem streaked overhead, turning as he did so, and came down hard on his neck and back behind Seldon.

  Seldon twisted as his chair went down and was quickly on his feet, staring down at Alem, then looking sharply to one side for Marbie.

  Alem lay unmoving, his face twisted in agony. He had two badly sprained thumbs, excruciating pain in his groin, and a backbone that had been badly jarred.

  Hummin’s left arm had grabbed Marbie’s neck from behind and his right arm had pulled the other’s right arm backward at a vicious angle. Marbie’s face was red as he labored uselessly for breath. A knife, glittering with a small laser inset, lay on the ground beside them.

  Hummin eased his grip slightly and said, with an air of honest concern, “You’ve hurt that one badly.”

  Seldon said, “I’m afraid so. If he had fallen a little differently, he would have snapped his neck.”

  Hummin said, “What kind of a mathematician are you?”

  “A Heliconian one.” He stooped to pick up the knife and, after examining it, said, “Disgusting—and deadly.”

  Hummin said, “An ordinary blade would do the job without requiring a power source. —But let’s let these two go. I doubt they want to continue any further.”