Prelude to Foundation (32 page)

“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 about 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.

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.

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—and 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 call 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.

“Then I’ll go in with you so I can pull you out, you idiot, when the time comes.”

“Women can’t enter.”

“What makes me a woman? Only this gray kirtle. You can’t see my breasts under it. I don’t have a
woman’s style hairdo with the skincap on. I have the same washed, unmarked face a man has. The men here don’t have stubble. All I need is a white kirtle and a sash and I can enter. Any Sister could do it if she wasn’t held back by a taboo. I am not held back by one.”

“You’re held back by me. I won’t let you. It’s too dangerous.”

“No more dangerous for me than for you.”

“But I
must
take the risk.”

“Then so must I. Why is your imperative greater than mine?”

“Because—” Seldon paused in thought.

“Just tell yourself this,” said Dors, her voice hard as rock. “I won’t let you go there without me. If you try, I will knock you unconscious and tie you up. If you don’t like that, then give up any thought of going alone.”

Seldon hesitated and muttered darkly. He gave up the argument, at least for now.

The sky was almost cloudless, but it was a pale blue, as though wrapped in a high thin mist. That, thought Seldon, was a good touch, but suddenly he missed the sun itself. No one on Trantor saw the planet’s sun unless he or she went Upperside and even then only when the natural cloud layer broke.

Did native Trantorians miss the sun? Did they give it any thought? When one of them visited another world where a natural sun was in view, did he or she stare, half-blinded, at it with awe?

Why, he wondered, did so many people spend their lives not trying to find answers to questions—not even thinking of questions to begin with? Was there anything more exciting in life than seeking answers?

His glance shifted to ground level. The wide roadway was lined with low buildings, most of them shops. Numerous individual ground-cars moved in both directions, each hugging the right side. They seemed like a collection of antiques, but they were electrically driven and quite soundless. Seldon wondered if “antique” was always a word to sneer at. Could it be that silence made up for slowness? Was there any particular hurry to life, after all?

There were a number of children on the walkways and Seldon’s lips pressed together in annoyance. Clearly, an extended life span for the Mycogenians was impossible unless they were willing to indulge in infanticide. The children of both sexes (though it was hard to tell the boys from the girls) wore kirtles that came only a few inches below the knee, making the wild activity of childhood easier.

The children also still had hair, reduced to an inch in length at most, but even so the older ones among them had hoods attached to their kirtles and wore them raised, hiding the top of the head altogether. It was as though they were getting old enough to make the hair seem a trifle obscene—or old enough to be wishing to hide it, in longing for the day of rite of passage when they were depilated.

A thought occurred to Seldon. He said, “Dors, when you’ve been out shopping, who paid, you or the Raindrop women?”

“I did of course. The Raindrops never produced a credit tile. But why should they? What was being bought was for us, not for them.”

“But you have a Trantorian credit tile—a tribeswoman credit tile.”

“Of course, Hari, but there was no problem. The people of Mycogen may keep their own culture and ways of thought and habits of life as they wish. They can destroy their cephalic hair and wear kirtles. Nevertheless, they must use the world’s credits. If they don’t, that would choke off commerce and no sensible person
would want to do that. The credits nerve, Hari.” She held up her hand as though she was holding an invisible credit tile.

“And they accepted your credit tile?”

“Never a peep out of them. And never a word about my skincap. Credits sanitize everything.”

“Well, that’s good. So I can buy—”