Prelude to Foundation

Seldon shook his head. “Don’t joke about psychohistory, Dors. You know I’m not looking for tiny rules but for vast generalizations and for means of manipulation. I don’t want comparative religiosity as the result of a hundred specific rules. I want something from which I can, after manipulation through some system of mathematicized logic, say, ‘Aha, this group of people will tend to be more religious than that group, provided that the following criteria are met, and that, therefore, when humanity meets with these stimuli, it will react with these responses.’?”

“How horrible,” said Dors. “You are picturing human beings as simple mechanical devices. Press this button and you will get that twitch.”

“No, because there will be many buttons pushing simultaneously to varying degrees and eliciting so many responses of different sorts that overall the predictions of the future will be statistical in nature, so that the individual human being will remain a free agent.”

“How can you know this?”

“I can’t,” said Seldon. “At least, I don’t know it. I feel it to be so. It is what I consider to be the way things ought to be. If I can find the axioms, the fundamental Laws of Humanics, so to speak, and the necessary mathematical treatment, then I will have my psychohistory. I have proved that, in theory, this is possible—”

“But impractical, right?”

“I keep saying so.”

A small smile curved Dors’s lips, “Is that what you are doing, Hari, looking for some sort of solution to this problem?”

“I don’t know. I swear to you I don’t know. But Chetter Hummin is so anxious to find a solution and, for some reason, I am anxious to please him. He is so persuasive a man.”

“Yes, I know.”

Seldon let that comment pass, although a small frown flitted across his face.

Seldon continued. “Hummin insists the Empire is decaying, that it will collapse, that psychohistory is the only hope for saving it—or cushioning it or ameliorating it—and that without it humanity will be destroyed or, at the very least, go through prolonged misery. He seems to place the responsibility for preventing that on me. Now, the Empire will certainly last my time, but if I’m to live at ease, I must lift that responsibility from my shoulders. I must convince myself—and even convince Hummin—that psychohistory is not a practical way out; that, despite theory, it cannot be developed. So I must follow up as many leads as I can and show that each one must fail.”

“Leads? Like going back in history to a time when human society was smaller than it is now?”

“Much smaller. And far less complex.”

“And showing that a solution is still impractical?”

“Yes.”

“But who is going to describe the early world for you? If the Mycogenians have some coherent picture of the primordial Galaxy, Sunmaster certainly won’t reveal it to a tribesman. No Mycogenian will. This is an ingrown society—how many times have we already said it?—and its members are suspicious of tribesmen to the point of paranoia. They’ll tell us nothing.”

“I will have to think of a way to persuade some Mycogenians to talk. Those Sisters, for instance.”

“They won’t even hear you, male that you are, any more than Sunmaster hears me. And even if they do talk to you, what would they know but a few catch phrases?”

“I must start somewhere.”

Dors said, “Well, let me think. Hummin says I must protect you and I interpret that as meaning I must help you when I can. What do I know about religion? That’s nowhere near my specialty, you know. I have always dealt with economic forces, rather than philosophic forces, but you can’t split history into neat little nonoverlapping divisions. For instance, religions tend to accumulate wealth when successful and that eventually tends to distort the economic development of a society. —There, incidentally, is one of the numerous rules of human history that you’ll have to derive from your basic Laws of Humanics or whatever you called them. But?.?.?.”

And here, Dors’s voice faded away as she lapsed into thought. Seldon watched her cautiously and Dors’s eyes glazed as though she was looking deep within herself.

Finally she said, “This is not an invariable rule, but it seems to me that on many occasions, a religion has a book—or books—of significance; books that give their ritual, their view of history, their sacred poetry, and who knows what else. Usually, those books are open to all and are a means of proselytization. Sometimes they are secret.”

“Do you think Mycogen has books of that sort?”

“To be truthful,” said Dors thoughtfully, “I have never heard of any. I might have if they existed openly— which means they either don’t exist or are kept secret. In either case, it seems to me you are not going to see them.”

“At least it’s a starting point,” said Seldon grimly.

42

The Sisters returned about two hours after Hari and Dors had finished lunch. They were smiling, both of them, and Raindrop Forty-Three, the graver one, held up a gray kirtle for Dors’s inspection.

“It is very attractive,” said Dors, smiling widely and nodding her head with a certain sincerity. “I like the clever embroidery here.”

“It is nothing,” twittered Raindrop Forty-Five. “It is one of my old things and it won’t fit very well, for you are taller than I am. But it will do for a while and we will take you out to the very best kirtlery to get a few that will fit you and your tastes perfectly. You will see.”

Raindrop Forty-Three, smiling a little nervously but saying nothing and keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, handed a white kirtle to Dors. It was folded neatly. Dors did not attempt to unfold it, but passed it on to Seldon. “From the color I should say it’s yours, Hari.”

“Presumably,” said Seldon, “but give it back. She did not give it to me.”

“Oh, Hari,” mouthed Dors, shaking her head slightly.

“No,” said Seldon firmly. “She did not give it to me. Give it back to her and I’ll wait for her to give it to me.”

Dors hesitated, then made a halfhearted attempt to pass the kirtle back to Raindrop Forty-Three.

The Sister put her hands behind her back and moved away, all life seeming to drain from her face. Raindrop Forty-Five stole a glance at Seldon, a very quick one, then took a quick step toward Raindrop Forty-Three and put her arms about her.

Dors said, “Come, Hari, I’m sure that Sisters are not permitted to talk to men who are not related to them. What’s the use of making her miserable? She can’t help it.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Seldon harshly. “If there is such a rule, it applies only to Brothers. I doubt very much that she’s ever met a tribesman before.”

Dors said to Raindrop Forty-Three in a soft voice, “Have you ever met a tribesman before, Sister, or a tribeswoman?”

A long hesitation and then a slow negative shake of the head.

Seldon threw out his arms. “Well, there you are. If there is a rule of silence, it applies only to the Brothers. Would they have sent these young women—these Sisters—to deal with us if there was any rule against speaking to tribesmen?”

“It might be, Hari, that they were meant to speak only to me and I to you.”

“Nonsense. I don’t believe it and I won’t believe it. I am not merely a tribesman, I am an honored guest in Mycogen, asked to be treated as such by Chetter Hummin and escorted here by Sunmaster Fourteen himself. I will not be treated as though I do not exist. I will be in communication with Sunmaster Fourteen and I will complain bitterly.”

Raindrop Forty-Five began to sob and Raindrop Forty-Three, retaining her comparative impassivity, nevertheless flushed faintly.