Forward the Foundation

—“attempted to control the news functions of the Library. He failed and, if the great Agis VI failed, do you think I can succeed?”

“I’m not asking you to use force, Sire. Merely expressing a polite wish. Surely, when no vital function of the Library is involved, they will be pleased to honor the Emperor and oblige his wishes.”

“Professor Seldon, how little you know of the Library. I have but to express a wish, however gently and tentatively, to make it certain that they will proceed, in dudgeon, to do the opposite. They are very sensitive to the slightest sign of Imperial control.”

Seldon said, “Then what do I do?”

“Why, I’ll tell you what. A thought occurs to me. I am a member of the public and I can visit the Galactic Library if I wish. It is located on the Palace grounds, so I won’t be violating protocol if I visit it. Well, you come with me and we shall be ostentatiously friendly. I will not ask them for anything, but if they note us walking arm-in-arm, then perhaps some of the precious Board of theirs may feel more kindly toward you than otherwise. —But that’s all I can do.”

And the deeply disappointed Seldon wondered if that could possibly be enough.

12

Las Zenow said with a certain trace of awe in his voice, “I didn’t know you were so friendly with the Emperor, Professor Seldon.”

“Why not? He’s a very democratic fellow for an Emperor and he was interested in my experiences as a First Minister in Cleon’s time.”

“It made a deep impression on us all. We haven’t had an Emperor in our halls for many years. Generally, when the Emperor needs something from the Library—”

“I can imagine. He calls for it and it is brought to him as a matter of courtesy.”

“There was once a suggestion,” said Zenow chattily, “that the Emperor be outfitted with a complete set of computerized equipment in his palace, hooked directly into the Library system, so that he would not need to wait for service. This was in the old days when credits were plentiful, but, you know, it was voted down.”

“Was it?”

“Oh yes, almost the entire Board agreed that it would make the Emperor too much a part of the Library and that this would threaten our independence from the government.”

“And does this Board, which will not bend to honor an Emperor, consent to let me remain at the Library?”

“At the present moment, yes. There is a feeling—and I’ve done my best to encourage it—that if we are not polite to a personal friend of the Emperor, the chance of a rise in appropriations will be gone altogether, so—”

“So credits—or even the dim prospect of credits—talk.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And can I bring in my colleagues?”

Zenow looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. The Emperor was seen walking only with you—not with your colleagues. I’m sorry, Professor.”

Seldon shrugged and a mood of deep melancholy swept over him. He had no colleague to bring in, anyhow. For some time he had hoped to locate others like Wanda and he had failed. He, too, would need funding to mount an adequate search. And he, too, had nothing.

13

Trantor, the capital world-city of the Galactic Empire, had changed considerably since the day Hari first stepped off the hypership from his native Helicon thirty-eight years ago. Was it the pearly haze of an old man’s memory that made the Trantor of old shine so brightly in his mind’s eye, Hari wondered. Or perhaps it had been the exuberance of youth—how could a young man from a provincial Outer World such as Helicon not be impressed by the gleaming towers, sparkling domes, the colorful, rushing masses of people that had seemed to swirl through Trantor, day and night.

Now, Hari thought sadly, the walkways are nearly deserted, even in the full light of day. Roving gangs of thugs controlled various areas of the city, competing among themselves for territory. The security establishment had dwindled; those who were left had their hands full processing complaints at the central office. Of course, security officers were dispatched as emergency calls came through, but they made it to the scene only after a crime was committed—they no longer made even a pretense of protecting the citizens of Trantor. A person went out at his own risk—and a great risk it was. And yet Hari Seldon still took that risk, in the form of a daily walk, as if defying the forces that were destroying his beloved Empire to destroy him as well.

And so Hari Seldon walked along, limping—and thoughtful.

Nothing worked. Nothing. He had been unable to isolate the genetic pattern that set Wanda apart—and without that, he was unable to locate others like her.

Wanda’s ability to read minds had sharpened considerably in the six years since she had identified the flaw in Yugo Amaryl’s Prime Radiant. Wanda was special in more ways than one. It was as if, once she realized that her mental ability set her apart from other people, she was determined to understand it, to harness its energy, to direct it. As she had progressed through her teen years, she had matured, throwing off the girlish giggles that had so endeared her to Hari, at the same time becoming even dearer to him in her determination to help him in his work with the powers of her “gift.” For Hari Seldon had told Wanda about his plan for a Second Foundation and she had committed herself to realizing that goal with him.

Today, though, Seldon was in a dark mood. He was coming to the conclusion that Wanda’s mentalic ability would get him nowhere. He had no credits to continue his work—no credits to locate others like Wanda, no credits to pay his workers on the Psychohistory Project at Streeling, no credits to set up his all-important Encyclopedia Project at the Galactic Library.

Now what?

He continued to walk toward the Galactic Library. He would have been better off taking a gravicab, but he wanted to walk—limp or not. He needed time to think.

He heard a cry— “There he is!” —but paid no attention.

It came again. “There he is! Psychohistory!”

The word forced him to look up. —Psychohistory.

A group of young men was closing in around him.

Automatically Seldon placed his back against the wall and raised his cane. “What is it you want?”

They laughed. “Credits, old man. Do you have any credits?”

“Maybe, but why do you want them from me? You said, ‘Psychohistory!’ Do you know who I am?”

“Sure, you’re Raven Seldon,” said the young man in the lead. He seemed both comfortable and pleased.

“You’re a creep,” shouted another.

“What are you going to do if I don’t give you any credits?”

“We’ll beat you up,” said the leader, “and we’ll take them.”

“And if I give you my credits?”

“We’ll beat you up anyway!” They all laughed.

Hari Seldon raised his cane higher. “Stay away. All of you.”

By now he had managed to count them. There were eight.

He felt himself choking slightly. Once he and Dors and Raych had been attacked by ten and they had had no trouble. He had been only thirty-two at the time and Dors—was Dors.

Now it was different. He waved his cane.

The leader of the hoodlums said, “Hey, the old man is going to attack us. What are we going to do?”