Foundation's Edge

here. Let me explain frankly. There’s always the chance that we’ll come to rest in a perfect position in interstellar space and that that will happen to be the precise position which a speeding meteoroid is occupying, or a mini-black hole, and the ship is wrecked, and we’re dead. Such things could—in theory—happen.

“The chances are very small, however. After all, you could be at home, Janov—in your study and working on your films or in your bed sleeping—and a meteoroid could be streaking toward you through Terminus’s atmosphere and hit you right in the head and you’d be dead. But the chances are small.

“In fact, the chance of intersecting the path of something fatal, but too small for the computer to know about, in the course of a hyperspatial Jump is far, far smaller than that of being hit by a meteor in your home. I’ve never heard of a ship being lost that way in all the history of hyperspatial travel. Any other type of risk—like ending in the middle of a star—is even smaller.”

Pelorat said, “Then why do you tell me all this, Golan?”

Trevize paused, then bent his head in thought, and finally said, “I don’t know. —Yes, I do. What I suppose it is, is that however small the chance of catastrophe might be, if enough people take enough chances, the catastrophe must happen eventually. No matter how sure I am that nothing will go wrong, there’s a small nagging voice inside me that says, ‘Maybe it will happen this time.’ And it makes me feel guilty. —I guess that’s it. Janov, if something goes wrong, forgive me!”

“But, Golan, my dear chap, if something goes wrong, we will both be dead instantly. I will not be able to forgive, nor you to receive forgiveness.”

“I understand that, so forgive me now, will you?”

Pelorat smiled. “I don’t know why, but this cheers me up. There’s something pleasantly humorous about it. Of course, Golan, I’ll forgive you. There are plenty of myths about some form of afterlife in world literature and if there should happen to be such a place—about the same chance as landing on a mini-black hole, I suppose, or less—and we both turn up in the same one, then I will bear witness that you did your honest best and that my death should not be laid at your door.”

“Thank you! Now I’m relieved. I’m willing to take my chance, but I did not enjoy the thought of you taking my chance as well.”

Pelorat wrung the other’s hand. “You know, Golan, I’ve only known you less than a week and I suppose I shouldn’t make hasty judgments in these matters, but I think you’re an excellent chap. —And now let’s do it and get it over with.”

“Absolutely! All I have to do is touch that little contact. The computer has its instructions and it’s just waiting for me to say: ‘Start!’ —Would you like to—”

“Never! It’s all yours! It’s your computer.”

“Very well. And it’s my responsibility. I’m still trying to duck it you see. Keep your eye on the screen!”

With a remarkably steady hand and with his smile looking utterly genuine, Trevize made contact.

There was a momentary pause and then the starfield changed—and again—and again. The stars spread steadily thicker and brighter over the viewscreen.

Pelorat was counting under his breath. At “15” there was a halt, as though some piece of apparatus had jammed.

Pelorat whispered, clearly afraid that any noise might jar the mechanism fatally. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Trevize shrugged. “I imagine it’s recalculating. Some object in space is adding a perceptible bump to the general shape of the overall gravitational field—some object not taken into account—some uncharted dwarf star or rogue planet—”

“Dangerous?”

“Since we’re still alive, it’s almost certainly not dangerous. A planet could be a hundred million kilometers away and still introduce a large enough gravitational modification to require recalculation. A dwarf star could be ten billion kilometers away and—”

The screen shifted again and Trevize fell silent. It shifted again—and again—Finally, when Pelorat said, “28,” there was no further motion.

Trevize consulted the computer. “We’re here,” he said.

“I counted the first Jump as ‘1’ and in this series I started with ‘2.’ That’s twenty-eight Jumps altogether. You said twenty-nine.”

“The recalculation at Jump 15 probably saved us one Jump. I can check with the computer if you wish, but there’s really no need. We’re in the vicinity of Sayshell Planet. The computer says so and I don’t doubt it. If I were to orient the screen properly, we’d see a nice, bright sun, but there’s no point in placing a needless strain on its screening capacity. Sayshell Planet is the fourth one out and it’s about 3.2 million kilometers away from our present position, which is about as close as we want to be at a Jump conclusion. We can get there in three days—two, if we hurry.”

Trevize drew a deep breath and tried to let the tension drain.

“Do you realize what this means, Janov?” he said. “Every ship I’ve ever been in—or heard of—would have made those Jumps with at least a day in between for painstaking calculation and re-checking, even with a computer. The trip would have taken nearly a month. Or perhaps two or three weeks, if they were willing to be reckless about it. We did it in half an hour. When every ship is equipped with a computer like this one—”

Pelorat said, “I wonder why the Mayor let us have a ship this advanced. It must be incredibly expensive.”

“It’s experimental,” said Trevize dryly. “Maybe the good woman was perfectly willing to have us try it out and see what deficiencies might develop.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t get nervous. After all, there’s nothing to worry about. We haven’t found any deficiencies. I wouldn’t put it past her, though. Such a thing would put no great strain on her sense of humanity. Besides, she hasn’t trusted us with offensive weapons and that cuts the expense considerably.”

Pelorat said thoughtfully, “It’s the computer I’m thinking about. It seems to be adjusted so well for you—and it can’t be adjusted that well for everyone. It just barely works with me.”

“So much the better for us, that it works so well with one of us.”

“Yes, but is that merely chance?”

“What else, Janov?”

“Surely the Mayor knows you pretty well.”

“I think she does, the old battlecraft.”

“Might she not have had a computer designed particularly for you?”

“Why?”

“I just wonder if we’re not going where the computer wants to take us.”

Trevize stared. “You mean that while I’m connected to the computer, it is the computer—and not me—who’s in real charge?”

“I just wonder.”

“That is ridiculous. Paranoid. Come on, Janov.”

Trevize turned back to the computer to focus Sayshell Planet on the screen and to plot a normalspace course to it.

Ridiculous!

But why had Pelorat put the notion into his head?

10 TABLE