Zenow sighed again. “If you are right, we live in worse times than the Empire has ever seen. But what has this to do with your desire for more office space and additional staff here in the Library?”
“If the Empire falls apart, the Galactic Library may not escape the general carnage.”
“Oh, but it must,” said Zenow earnestly. “There have been bad times before and it has always been understood that the Galactic Library on Trantor, as the repository of all human knowledge, must remain inviolate. And so it will be in the future.”
“It may not be. You said yourself that the junta violated its neutrality.”
“Not seriously.”
“It might be more serious next time and we can’t allow this repository of all human knowledge to be damaged.”
“How will your increased presence here prevent that?”
“It won’t. But the project I am interested in will. I want to create a great Encyclopedia, containing within it all the knowledge humanity will need to rebuild itself in case the worst happens—an Encyclopedia Galactica, if you will. We don’t need everything the Library has. Much of it is trivial. The provincial libraries scattered over the Galaxy may themselves be destroyed and, if not, all but the most local data is obtained by computerized connection with the Galactic Library in any case. What I intend, then, is something that is entirely independent and that contains, in as concise a form as possible, the essential information humanity needs.”
“And if it, too, is destroyed?”
“I hope it will not be. It is my intention to find a world far away on the outskirts of the Galaxy, one where I can transfer my Encyclopedists and where they can work in peace. Until such a place is found, however, I want the nucleus of the group to work here and to use the Library facilities to decide what will be needed for the project.”
Zenow grimaced. “I see your point, Professor Seldon, but I’m not sure that it can be done.”
“Why not, Chief Librarian?”
“Because being Chief Librarian does not make me an absolute monarch. I have a rather large Board—a kind of legislature—and please don’t think that I can just push your Encyclopedia Project through.”
“I’m astonished.”
“Don’t be. I am not a popular Chief Librarian. The Board has been fighting, for some years now, for limited access to the Library. I have resisted. It galls them that I have afforded you your small office space.”
“Limited access?”
“Exactly. The idea is that if anyone needs information, he or she must communicate with a Librarian and the Librarian will get the information for the person. The Board does not wish people to enter the Library freely and deal with the computers themselves. They say that the expense required to keep the computers and other Library equipment in shape is becoming prohibitive.”
“But that’s impossible. There’s a millennial tradition of an open Galactic Library.”
“So there is, but in recent years, appropriations to the Library have been cut several times and we simply don’t have the funds we used to have. It is becoming very difficult to keep our equipment up to the mark.”
Seldon rubbed his chin. “But if your appropriations are going down, I imagine you have to cut salaries and fire people—or, at least, not hire new ones.”
“You are exactly right.”
“In which case, how will you manage to place new labors on a shrinking work force by asking your people to obtain all the information that the public will request?”
“The idea is that we won’t find all the information that the public will request but only those pieces of information that
“So that not only will you abandon the open Library but also the complete Library?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I can’t believe that any Librarian would want this.”
“You don’t know Gennaro Mummery, Professor Seldon.” At Seldon’s blank look, Zenow continued. “ ‘Who is he?’ you wonder. The leader of that portion of the Board that wishes to close off the Library. More and more of the Board are on his side. If I let you and your colleagues into the Library as an independent force, a number of Board members who may not be on Mummery’s side but who are dead set against any control of any part of the Library except by Librarians may decide to vote with him. And in that case, I will be forced to resign as Chief Librarian.”
“See here,” said Seldon with sudden energy. “All this business of possibly closing down the Library, of making it less accessible, of refusing all information—all this business of declining appropriations—all this is itself a sign of Imperial disintegration. Don’t you agree?”
“If you put it that way, you may be right.”
“Then let me talk to the Board. Let me explain what the future may hold and what I wish to do. Perhaps I can persuade them, as I hope I’ve persuaded you.”
Zenow thought for a moment. “I’m willing to let you try, but you must know in advance that your plan may not work.”
“I’ve got to take that chance. Please do whatever has to be done and let me know when and where I can meet the Board.”
Seldon left Zenow in a mood of unease. Everything he had told the Chief Librarian was true—and trivial. The real reason he needed the use of the Library remained hidden.
Partly this was because he didn’t yet see that use clearly himself.
9
Hari Seldon sat at Yugo Amaryl’s bedside—patiently, sadly. Yugo was utterly spent. He was beyond medical help, even if he would have consented to avail himself of such help, which he refused.
He was only fifty-five. Seldon was himself sixty-six and yet he was in fine shape, except for the twinge of sciatica—or whatever it was—that occasionally lamed him.
Amaryl’s eyes opened. “You’re still here, Hari?”
Seldon nodded. “I won’t leave you.”
“Till I die?”
“Yes.” Then, in an outburst of grief, he said, “Why have you done this, Yugo? If you had lived sensibly, you could have had twenty to thirty more years of life.”
Amaryl smiled faintly. “Live sensibly? You mean, take time off? Go to resorts? Amuse myself with trifles?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And I would either have longed to return to my work or I would have learned to like wasting my time and, in the additional twenty to thirty years you speak of, I would have accomplished no more. Look at you.”
“What about me?”
“For ten years you were First Minister under Cleon. How much science did you do then?”
“I spent about a quarter of my time on psychohistory,” said Seldon gently.
“You exaggerate. If it hadn’t been for me, plugging away, psychohistorical advance would have screeched to a halt.”
Seldon nodded. “You are right, Yugo. For that I am grateful.”
“And before and since, when you spend at least half your time on administrative duties, who does—did—the real work? Eh?”
“You, Yugo.”
“Absolutely.” His eyes closed again.
Seldon said, “Yet you always wanted to take over those administrative duties if you survived me.”
“No! I wanted to head the Project to keep it moving in the direction it had to move in, but I would have delegated all administration.”
Amaryl’s breathing was growing stertorous, but then he stirred and his eyes opened, staring directly at Hari.
