Prelude to Foundation

“He worked out this theorem of yours three hundred years ago.”

Amaryl looked stricken. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. You did it more cleverly, though. It’s not rigorous, but—”

“What do you mean, ‘rigorous’?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Seldon put the papers back together in a sheaf, restored it to the bag, and said, “Make several copies of all this. Take one copy, have it dated by an official computer, and place it under computerized seal. My friend here, Mistress Venabili, can get you into Streeling University without tuition on some sort of scholarship. You’ll have to start at the beginning and take courses in other subjects than mathematics, but—”

By now Amaryl had caught his breath. “Into Streeling University? They won’t take me.”

“Why not? Dors, you can arrange it, can’t you?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“No, you can’t,” said Amaryl hotly. “They won’t take me. I’m from Dahl.”

“Well?”

“They won’t take people from Dahl.”

Seldon looked at Dors. “What’s he talking about?”

Dors shook her head. “I really don’t know.”

Amaryl said, “You’re an Outworlder, Mistress. How long have you been at Streeling?”

“A little over two years, Mr. Amaryl.”

“Have you ever seen Dahlites there—short, curly black hair, big mustaches?”

“There are students with all kinds of appearances.”

“But no Dahlites. Look again the next time you’re there.”

“Why not?” said Seldon.

“They don’t like us. We look different. They don’t like our mustaches.”

“You can shave your—” but Seldon’s voice died under the other’s furious glance.

“Never. Why should I? My mustache is my manhood.”

“You shave your beard. That’s your manhood too.”

“To my people it is the mustache.”

Seldon looked at Dors again and murmured, “Bald heads, mustaches .?.?. madness.”

“What?” said Amaryl angrily.

“Nothing. Tell me what else they don’t like about Dahlites.”

“They make up things not to like. They say we smell. They say we’re dirty. They say we steal. They say we’re violent. They say we’re dumb.”

“Why do they say all this?”

“Because it’s easy to say it and it makes them feel good. Sure, if we work in the heatsinks, we get dirty and smelly. If we’re poor and held down, some of us steal and get violent. But that isn’t the way it is with all of us. How about those tall yellow-hairs in the Imperial Sector who think they own the Galaxy—no, they do own the Galaxy. Don’t they ever get violent? Don’t they steal sometimes? If they did my job, they’d smell the way I do. If they had to live the way I have to, they’d get dirty too.”

“Who denies that there are people of all kinds in all places?” said Seldon.

“No one argues the matter! They just take it for granted. Master Seldon, I’ve got to get away from Trantor. I have no chance on Trantor, no way of earning credits, no way of getting an education, no way of becoming a mathematician, no way of becoming anything but what they say I am .?.?. a worthless nothing.” This last was said in frustration—and desperation.

Seldon tried to be reasonable. “The person I’m renting this room from is a Dahlite. He has a clean job. He’s educated.”

“Oh sure,” said Amaryl passionately. “There are some. They let a few do it so that they can say it can be done. And those few can live nicely as long as they stay in Dahl. Let them go outside and they’ll see how they’re treated. And while they’re in here they make themselves feel good by treating the rest of us like dirt. That makes them yellow-hairs in their own eyes. What did this nice person you’re renting this room from say when you told him you were bringing in a heatsinker? What did he say I would be like? They’re gone now .?.?. wouldn’t be in the same place with me.”

Seldon moistened his lips. “I won’t forget you. I’ll see to it that you’ll get off Trantor and into my own University in Helicon—once I’m back there myself.”

“Do you promise that? Your word of honor? Even though I’m a Dahlite?”

“The fact that you’re a Dahlite is unimportant to me. The fact that you are already a mathematician is! But I still can’t quite grasp what you’re telling me. I find it impossible to believe that there would be such unreasoning feeling against harmless people.”

Amaryl said bitterly, “That’s because you’ve never had any occasion to interest yourself in such things. It can all pass right under your nose and you wouldn’t smell a thing because it doesn’t affect you.”

Dors said, “Mr. Amaryl, Dr. Seldon is a mathematician like you and his head can sometimes be in the clouds. You must understand that. I am a historian, however. I know that it isn’t unusual to have one group of people look down upon another group. There are peculiar and almost ritualistic hatreds that have no rational justification and that can have their serious historical influence. It’s too bad.”

Amaryl said, “Saying something is ‘too bad’ is easy. You say you disapprove, which makes you a nice person, and then you can go about your own business and not be interested anymore. It’s a lot worse than ‘too bad.’ It’s against everything decent and natural. We’re all of us the same, yellow-hairs and black-hairs, tall and short, Easterners, Westerners, Southerners, and Outworlders. We’re all of us, you and I and even the Emperor, descended from the people of Earth, aren’t we?”

“Descended from what?” asked Seldon. He turned to look at Dors, his eyes wide.

“From the people of Earth!” shouted Amaryl. “The one planet on which human beings originated.”

“One planet? Just one planet?”

“The only planet. Sure. Earth.”

“When you say Earth, you mean Aurora, don’t you?”

“Aurora? What’s that? —I mean Earth. Have you never heard of Earth?”

“No,” said Seldon. “Actually not.”

“It’s a mythical world,” began Dors, “that—”

“It’s not mythical. It was a real planet.”

Seldon sighed. “I’ve heard this all before. Well, let’s go through it again. Is there a Dahlite book that tells of Earth?”

“What?”

“Some computer software, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Young man, where did you hear about Earth?”

“My dad told me. Everyone knows about it.”

“Is there anyone who knows about it especially? Did they teach you about it in school?”

“They never said a word about it there.”

“Then how do people know about it?”

Amaryl shrugged his shoulders with an air of being uselessly badgered over nothing. “Everyone just does. If you want stories about it, there’s Mother Rittah. I haven’t heard that she’s died yet.”

“Your mother? Wouldn’t you know—”

“She’s not my mother. That’s just what they call her. Mother Rittah. She’s an old woman. She lives in Billibotton. Or used to.”

“Where’s that?”

“Down in that direction,” said Amaryl, gesturing vaguely.

“How do I get there?”

“Get there? You don’t want to get there. You’d never come back.”