Prelude to Foundation

“Or think they know,” said Dors with a historian’s skepticism. “I understand they have legends that are supposed to date back to primordial times, but I can’t believe they can be taken seriously.”

“We can’t know that until we find out what those legends are. Are there no outside records of them?”

“Not that I know of. These people are terribly ingrown. They’re almost psychotic in their inward clinging. That Hummin can break down their barriers somewhat and even get them to take us in is remarkable— really remarkable.”

Seldon brooded. “There has to be an opening somewhere. Sunmaster was surprised—angry, in fact—that I didn’t know Mycogen was an agricultural community. That seems to be something they don’t want kept a secret.”

“The point is, it isn’t a secret. ‘Mycogen’ is supposed to be from archaic words meaning ‘yeast producer.’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not a paleolinguist. In any case, they culture all varieties of microfood—yeast, of course, along with algae, bacteria, multicellular fungi, and so on.”

“That’s not uncommon,” said Seldon. “Most worlds have this microculture. We have some even on Helicon.”

“Not like Mycogen. It’s their specialty. They use methods as archaic as the name of their section—secret fertilizing formulas, secret environmental influences. Who knows what? All is secret.”

“Ingrown.”

“With a vengeance. What it amounts to is that they produce protein and subtle flavoring, so that their microfood isn’t like any other in the world. They keep the volume comparatively low and the price is sky-high. I’ve never tasted any and I’m sure you haven’t, but it sells in great quantities to the Imperial bureaucracy and to the upper classes on other worlds. Mycogen depends on such sales for its economic health, so they want everyone to know that they are the source of this valuable food. That, at least, is no secret.”

“Mycogen must be rich, then.”

“They’re not poor, but I suspect that it’s not wealth they’re after. It’s protection. The Imperial government protects them because, without them, there wouldn’t be these microfoods that add the subtlest flavors, the tangiest spices, to every dish. That means that Mycogen can maintain its odd way of life and be haughty toward its neighbors, who probably find them insupportable.”

Dors looked about. “They live an austere life. There’s no holovision, I notice, and no book-films.”

“I noticed one in the closet up on the shelf.” Seldon reached for it, stared at the label, and then said in clear disgust, “A cookbook.”

Dors held out her hand for it and manipulated the keys. It took a while, for the arrangement was not quite orthodox, but she finally managed to light the screen and inspect the pages. She said, “There are a few recipes, but for the most part this seems to consist of philsophical essays on gastronomy.”

She shut it off and turned it round and about. “It seems to be a single unit. I don’t see how one would eject the microcard and insert another. —A one-book scanner. Now that’s a waste.”

“Maybe they think this one book-film is all anyone needs.” He reached toward the end table that was between the two beds and picked up another object. “This could be a speaker, except that there’s no screen.”

“Perhaps they consider the voice sufficient.”

“How does it work, I wonder?” Seldon lifted it and looked at it from different sides. “Did you ever see anything like this?”

“In a museum once—if this is the same thing. Mycogen seems to keep itself deliberately archaic. I suppose they consider that another way of separating themselves from the so-called tribesmen that surround them in overwhelming numbers. Their archaism and odd customs make them indigestible, so to speak. There’s a kind of perverse logic to all that.”

Seldon, still playing with the device, said, “Whoops! It went on. Or something went on. But I don’t hear anything.”

Dors frowned and picked up a small felt-lined cylinder that remained behind on the end table. She put it to her ear. “There’s a voice coming out of this,” she said. “Here, try it.” She handed it to him.

Seldon did so and said, “Ouch! It clips on.” He listened and said, “Yes, it hurt my ear. You can hear me, I take it. —Yes, this is our room. —No, I don’t know its number. Dors, have you any idea of the number?”

Dors said, “There’s a number on the speaker. Maybe that will do.”

“Maybe,” said Seldon doubtfully. Then he said into the speaker, “The number on this device is 6LT-3648A. Will that do? —Well, where do I find out how to use this device properly and how to use the kitchen, for that matter? —What do you mean, ‘It all works the usual way?’ That doesn’t do me any good. —See here, I’m a .?.?. a tribesman, an honored guest. I don’t know the usual way. —Yes, I’m sorry about my accent and I’m glad you can recognize a tribesman when you hear one. —My name is Hari Seldon.”

There was a pause and Seldon looked up at Dors with a long-suffering expression on his face. “He has to look me up. And I suppose he’ll tell me he can’t find me. —Oh, you have me? Good! In that case, can you give me the information? —Yes. —Yes. —Yes. —And how can I call someone outside Mycogen? —Oh, then what about contacting Sunmaster Fourteen, for instance? —Well, his assistant then, his aide, whatever? —Uh-huh. —Thank you.”

He put the speaker down, unhooked the hearing device from his ear with a little difficulty, turned the whole thing off, and said, “They’ll arrange to have someone show us anything we need to know, but he can’t promise when that might be. You can’t call outside Mycogen—not on this thing anyway—so we couldn’t get Hummin if we needed him. And if I want Sunmaster Fourteen, I’ve got to go through a tremendous rigmarole. This may be an egalitarian society, but there seem to be exceptions that I bet no one will openly admit.”

He looked at his watch. “In any case, Dors, I’m not going to view a cookbook and still less am I going to view learned essays. My watch is still telling University time, so I don’t know if it’s officially bedtime and at the moment I don’t care. We’ve been awake most of the night and I would like to sleep.”

“That’s all right with me. I’m tired too.”

“Thanks. And whenever a new day starts after we’ve caught up on our sleep, I’m going to ask for a tour of their microfood plantations.”

Dors looked startled. “Are you interested?”

“Not really, but if that’s the one thing they’re proud of, they should be willing to talk about it and once I get them into a talking mood then, by exerting all my charm, I may get them to talk about their legends too. Personally, I think that’s a clever strategy.”

“I hope so,” said Dors dubiously, “but I think that the Mycogenians will not be so easily trapped.”

“We’ll see,” said Seldon grimly. “I mean to get those legends.”

39

The next morning found Hari using the calling device again. He was angry because, for one thing, he was hungry.

His attempt to reach Sunmaster Fourteen was deflected by someone who insisted that Sunmaster could not be disturbed.

“Why not?” Seldon had asked waspishly.

“Obviously, there is no need to answer that question,” came back a cold voice.

“We were not brought here to be prisoners,” said Seldon with equal coldness. “Nor to starve.”

“I’m sure you have a kitchen and ample supplies of food.”

“Yes, we do,” said Seldon. “And I do not know how to use the kitchen devices, nor do I know how to prepare the food. Do you eat it raw, fry it, boil it, roast it?.?.?.??”

“I can’t believe you are ignorant in such matters.”

Dors, who had been pacing up and down during this colloquy, reached for the device and Seldon fended her off, whispering, “He’ll break the connection if a woman tries to speak to him.”

Then, into the device, he said more firmly than ever, “What you believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter to me in the least. You send someone here—someone who can do something about our situation—or when I reach