Prelude to Foundation (31 page)

And then the conveyance came. It was an outmoded version of what Seldon, back on Helicon, would have called a gravi-bus. There were some twenty upholstered benches inside, each capable of holding four people. Each bench had its own doors on both sides of the bus. When it stopped, passengers emerged on either side. (For a moment, Seldon was concerned for those who got out on the traffic side of the gravi-bus, but then he noticed that every vehicle approaching from either direction stopped as it neared the bus. None passed it while it was not moving.)

Dors pushed Seldon impatiently and he moved on to a bench where two adjoining seats were available. Dors followed after. (The men always got on and got off first, he noticed.)

Dors muttered to him, “Stop studying humanity. Be aware of your surroundings.”

“I’ll try.”

“For instance,” she said and pointed to a smooth boxed-off area on the back of the bench directly before
each of them. As soon as the conveyance had begun to move, words lit up, naming the next stop and the notable structures or crossways that were nearby.

“Now, that will probably tell us when we’re approaching the changeover we want. At least the sector isn’t completely barbaric.”

“Good,” said Seldon. Then, after a while, leaning toward Dors, he whispered, “No one is looking at us. It seems that artificial boundaries are set up to preserve individual privacy in any crowded place. Have you noticed that?”

“I’ve always taken it for granted. If that’s going to be a rule of your psychohistory, no one will be very impressed by it.”

As Dors had guessed, the direction plaque in front of them eventually announced the approach to the changeover for the direct line to the Sacratorium.

They exited and again had to wait. Some buses ahead had already left this intersection, but another gravi-bus was already approaching. They were on a well-traveled route, which was not surprising; the Sacratorium was bound to be the center and heartbeat of the sector.

They got on the gravi-bus and Seldon whispered, “We’re not paying.”

“According to the map, public transportation is a free service.”

Seldon thrust out his lower lip. “How civilized. I suppose that nothing is all of a piece, not backwardness, not barbarism, nothing.”

But Dors nudged him and whispered, “Your rule is broken. We’re being watched. The man on your right.”

Seldon’s eyes shifted briefly. The man to his right was rather thin and seemed quite old. He had dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, and Seldon was sure that he would have had black hair if he had not been depilated.

He faced front again, thinking. This Brother was rather atypical. The few Brothers he had paid any attention to had been rather tall, light-skinned, and with blue or gray eyes. Of course, he had not seen enough of them to make a general rule.

Then there was a light touch on the right sleeve of his kirtle. Seldon turned hesitantly and found himself looking at a card on which was written lightly,
CAREFUL, TRIBESMAN!

Seldon started and put a hand to his skincap automatically. The man next to him silently mouthed, “Hair.”

Seldon’s hand found it, a tiny exposure of bristles at his temple. He must have disturbed the skincap at some point or another. Quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, he tugged the skincap, then made sure that it was snug under the pretence of stroking his head.

He turned to his neighbor on his right, nodded slightly, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

His neighbor smiled and said in a normal speaking voice, “Going to the Sacratorium?”

Seldon nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Easy guess. So am I. Shall we get off together?” His smile was friendly.

“I’m with my—my—”

“With your woman. Of course. All three together, then?”

Seldon was not sure how to react. A quick look in
the other direction showed him that Dors’s eyes were turned straight ahead. She was showing no interest in masculine conversation—an attitude appropriate for a Sister. However, Seldon felt a soft pat on his left knee, which he took (with perhaps little justification) to mean: “It’s all right.”

In any case, his natural sense of courtesy was on that side and he said, “Yes, certainly.”

There was no further conversation until the direction plaque told them they were arriving at the Sacratorium and Seldon’s Mycogenian friend was rising to get off.

The gravi-bus made a wide turn about the perimeter of a large area of the Sacratorium grounds and there was a general exodus when it came to a halt, the men sliding in front of the women to exit first. The women followed.

The Mycogenian’s voice crackled a bit with age, but it was cheerful. He said, “It’s a little early for lunch my … friends, but take my word for it that things will be crowded in not too long a time. Would you be willing to buy something simple now and eat it outside? I am very familiar with this area and I know a good place.”

Seldon wondered if this was a device to maneuver innocent tribespeople into something or other disreputable or costly, yet decided to chance it.

“You’re very kind,” he said. “Since we are not at all familiar with the place, we will be glad to let you take the lead.”

They bought lunch—sandwiches and a beverage that looked like milk—at an open-air stand. Since it was a beautiful day and they were visitors, the old Mycogenian said, they would go to the Sacratorium grounds and eat out of doors, the better to become acquainted with their surroundings.

During their walk, carrying their lunch, Seldon noted that, on a very small scale, the Sacratorium resembled
the Imperial Palace and that the grounds around it resembled, on a minute scale, the Imperial grounds. He could scarcely believe that the Mycogenian people admired the Imperial institution or, indeed, did anything but hate and despise it, yet the cultural attraction was apparently not to be withstood.

“It’s beautiful,” said the Mycogenian with obvious pride.

“Quite,” said Seldon. “How it glistens in the daylight.”

“The grounds around it,” he said, “are constructed in imitation of the government grounds on our Dawn World … in miniature, to be sure.”

“Did you ever see the grounds of the Imperial Palace?” asked Seldon cautiously.

The Mycogenian caught the implication and seemed in no way put out by it. “
They
copied the Dawn World as best they could too.”

Seldon doubted that in the extreme, but he said nothing.

They came to a semicircular seat of white stonite, sparkling in the light as the Sacratorium did.

“Good,” said the Mycogenian, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure. “No one’s taken my place. I call it mine only because it’s my favorite seat. It affords a beautiful view of the side wall of the Sacratorium past the trees. Please sit down. It’s not cold, I assure you. And your companion. She is welcome to sit too. She is a tribeswoman, I know, and has different customs. She … she may speak if she wishes.”

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 hustled 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, “Sixty-seven.”

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 it’s 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 … 
us.
”

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?”