Prelude to Foundation

“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?”

“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.”