Forward the Foundation

“But you know what she is.”

“Of course I know what she is. She’s a woman who loves me. She’s the woman I love. That’s what she is.”

“And before you fell in love with her, what was she? You know some of what she had to do while undercover in Wye—you were one of her ‘assignments.’ How many others were there? Are you able to live with her past? With what she did in the name of duty? Now you can afford to be idealistic. But someday you will have your first quarrel with her—or your second or your nineteenth—and you’ll break down and say, ‘You wh ——!’ ”

Raych shouted angrily, “Don’t say that! When we fight, I’ll call her unreasonable, irrational, nagging, whining, inconsiderate—a million adjectives that will fit the situation. And she’ll have words for me. But they’ll all be sensible words that can be withdrawn when the fight is over.”

“You think so—but just wait till it happens.”

Raych had turned white. He said, “Mother, you’ve been with Father now for almost twenty years. Father is a hard man to disagree with, but there have been times when you two have argued. I’ve heard you. In all those twenty years, has he ever called you by any name that would in any way compromise your role as human being? For that matter, have I done so? Can you conceive of me doing so now—no matter how angry I get?”

Dors struggled. Her face did not show emotion in quite the same way that Raych’s did or Seldon’s would, but it was clear that she was momentarily incapable of speech.

“In fact,” said Raych, pushing his advantage (and feeling horrible at doing so) “the fact of the matter is that you are jealous because Manella saved Dad’s life. You don’t want anyone to do that but you. Well, you had no chance to do so. Would you prefer it if Manella had not shot Andorin—if Dad had died? And me, too?”

Dors said in a choked voice, “He insisted on going out to meet the gardeners alone. He would not allow me to come.”

“But that wasn’t Manella’s fault.”

“Is that why you want to marry her? Gratitude?”

“No. Love.”

And so it was, but Manella said to Raych after the ceremony, “Your mother may have attended the wedding because you insisted, Raych, but she looked like one of those thunderclouds they sometimes send sailing under the dome.”

Raych laughed. “She doesn’t have the face to be a thundercloud. You’re just imagining it.”

“Not at all. How will we ever get her to give us a chance?”

“We’ll just be patient. She’ll get over it.”

But Dors Venabili didn’t.

Two years after the wedding, Wanda was born. Dors’s attitude toward the child was all Raych and Manella could have wanted, but Wanda’s mother remained “that woman” to Raych’s mother.

6

Hari Seldon was fighting off melancholy. He was lectured in turn by Dors, by Raych, by Yugo, and by Manella. All united to tell him that sixty was not old.

They simply did not understand. He had been thirty when the first hint of psychohistory had come to him, thirty-two when he delivered his famous lecture at the Decennial Convention, following which everything seemed to happen to him at once. After his brief interview with Cleon, he had fled across Trantor and met Demerzel, Dors, Yugo, and Raych, to say nothing of the people of Mycogen, of Dahl, and of Wye.

He was forty when he became First Minister and fifty when he had relinquished the post. Now he was sixty.

He had spent thirty years on psychohistory. How many more years would he require? How many more years would he live? Would he die with the Psychohistory Project unfinished after all?

It was not the dying that bothered him, he told himself. It was the matter of leaving the Psychohistory Project unfinished.

He went to see Yugo Amaryl. In recent years they had somehow drifted apart, as the Psychohistory Project had steadily increased in size. In the first years at Streeling, it had merely been Seldon and Amaryl working together—no one else. Now—

Amaryl was nearly fifty—not exactly a young man—and he had somehow lost his spark. In all these years, he had developed no interest in anything but psychohistory: no woman, no companion, no hobby, no subsidiary activity.

Amaryl blinked at Seldon, who couldn’t help but note the changes in the man’s appearance. Part of it may have been because Yugo had had to have his eyes reconstructed. He saw perfectly well, but there was an unnatural look about them and he tended to blink slowly. It made him appear sleepy.

“What do you think, Yugo?” said Seldon. “Is there any light at the end of the tunnel?”

“Light? Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Amaryl. “There’s this new fellow, Tamwile Elar. You know him, of course.”

“Oh yes. I’m the one who hired him. Very vigorous and aggressive. How’s he doing?”

“I can’t say I’m really comfortable with him, Hari. His loud laughter gets on my nerves. But he’s brilliant. The new system of equations fits right into the Prime Radiant and they seem to make it possible to get around the problem of chaos.”

“Seem? Or will?”

“Too early to say, but I’m very hopeful. I have tried a number of things that would have broken them down if they were worthless and the new equations survived them all. I’m beginning to think of them as ‘the achaotic equations.’ ”

“I don’t imagine,” said Seldon, “we have anything like a rigorous demonstration concerning these equations?”

“No, we don’t, though I’ve put half a dozen people on it, including Elar, of course.” Amaryl turned on his Prime Radiant—which was every bit as advanced as Seldon’s was—and he watched as the curving lines of luminous equations curled in midair—too small, too fine to be read without amplification. “Add the new equations and we may be able to begin to predict.”

“Each time I study the Prime Radiant now,” said Seldon thoughtfully, “I wonder at the Electro-Clarifier and how tightly it squeezes material into the lines and curves of the future. Wasn’t that Elar’s idea, too?”

“Yes. With the help of Cinda Monay, who designed it.”

“It’s good to have new and brilliant men and women in the Project. Somehow it reconciles me to the future.”

“You think someone like Elar may be heading the Project someday?” asked Amaryl, still studying the Prime Radiant.

“Maybe. After you and I have retired—or died.”

Amaryl seemed to relax and turned off the device. “I would like to complete the task before we retire or die.”

“So would I, Yugo. So would I.”

“Psychohistory has guided us pretty well in the last ten years.”

That was true enough, but Seldon knew that one couldn’t attach too much triumph to that. Things had gone smoothly and without major surprises.

Psychohistory had predicted that the center would hold after Cleon’s death—predicted it in a very dim and uncertain way—and it did hold. Trantor was reasonably quiet. Even with an assassination and the end of a dynasty, the center had held.

It did so under the stress of military rule—Dors was quite right in speaking of the junta as “those military rascals.” She might have even gone farther in her accusations without being wrong. Nevertheless, they were holding the Empire together and would continue to do so for a time. Long enough, perhaps, to allow psychohistory