Prelude to Foundation

“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.

55

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—”

“No, I’ll do the buying. Credits may sanitize everything, but they more easily sanitize a tribeswoman. They’re so used to paying women little or no attention that they automatically pay me the same. —And here’s the clothing store I’ve been using.”

“I’ll wait out here. Get me a nice red sash—one that looks impressive.”

“Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten our decision. I’ll get two. And another white kirtle also .?.?. to my measurements.”

“Won’t they think it odd that a woman would be buying a white kirtle?”

“Of course not. They’ll assume I’m buying it for a male companion who happens to be my size. Actually, I don’t think they’ll bother with any assumptions at all as long as my credit tile is good.”