Foundation and Earth

by Isaac Asimov

  He looked about inside the smoothly walled cubicle that was bare—completely bare. He looked more minutely. —There was nothing.

  He opened the door again, thrust his head out, and said, “Listen, how are you supposed to start the shower?”

  She put down the deodorant (at least, Trevize guessed that was its function), strode to the shower-room and, still without looking at him, pointed. Trevize followed the finger and noted a spot on the wall that was round and faintly pink, barely colored, as though the designer resented having to spoil the starkness of the white, for no reason more important than to give a hint of function.

  Trevize shrugged lightly, leaned toward the wall, and touched the spot. Presumably that was what one had to do, for in a moment a deluge of fine-sprayed water struck him from every direction. Gasping, he touched the spot again and it stopped.

  He opened the door, knowing he looked several degrees more undignified still as he shivered hard enough to make it difficult to articulate words. He croaked, “How do you get hot water?”

  Now she looked at him and, apparently, his appearance overcame her anger (or fear, or whatever emotion was victimizing her) for she snickered and then, without warning, boomed her laughter at him.

  “What hot water?” she said. “Do you think we’re going to waste the energy to heat water for washing? That’s good mild water you had, water with the chill taken off. What more do you want? You sludge-soft Terminians! —Get back in there and wash!”

  Trevize hesitated, but not for long, since it was clear he had no choice in the matter.

  With remarkable reluctance he touched the pink spot again and this time steeled his body for the icy spray. Mild water? He found suds forming on his body and he rubbed hastily here, there, everywhere, judging it to be the wash cycle and suspecting it would not last long.

  Then came the rinse cycle. Ah, warm—Well, perhaps not warm, but not quite as cold, and definitely feeling warm to his thoroughly chilled body. Then, even as he was considering touching the contact spot again to stop the water, and was wondering how Lizalor had come out dry when there was absolutely no towel or towel-substitute in the place—the water stopped. It was followed by a blast of air that would have certainly bowled him over if it had not come from various directions equally.

  It was hot; almost too hot. It took far less energy, Trevize knew, to heat air than to heat water. The hot air steamed the water off him and, in a few minutes, he was able to step out as dry as though he had never encountered water in his life.

  Lizalor seemed to have recovered completely. “Do you feel well?”

  “Pretty well,” said Trevize. Actually, he felt astonishingly comfortable. “All I had to do was prepare myself for the temperature. You didn’t tell me—”

  “Sludge-soft,” said Lizalor, with mild contempt.

  He borrowed her deodorant, then began to dress, conscious of the fact that she had fresh underwear and he did not. He said, “What should I have called—that world?”

  She said, “We refer to it as the Oldest.”

  He said, “How was I to know the name I used was forbidden? Did you tell me?”

  “Did you ask?”

  “How was I to know to ask?”

  “You know now.”

  “I’m bound to forget.”

  “You had better not.”

  “What’s the difference?” Trevize felt his temper rising. “It’s just a word, a sound.”

  Lizalor said darkly, “There are words one doesn’t say. Do you say every word you know under all circumstances?”

  “Some words are vulgar, some are inappropriate, some under particular circumstances would be hurtful. Which is—that word I used?”

  Lizalor said, “It’s a sad word, a solemn word. It represents a world that was ancestor to us all and that now doesn’t exist. It’s tragic, and we feel it because it was near to us. We prefer not to speak of it or, if we must, not to use its name.”

  “And the crossing of fingers at me? How does that relieve the hurt and sadness?”

  Lizalor’s face flushed. “That was an automatic reaction, and I don’t thank you for forcing it on me. There are people who believe that the word, even the thought, brings on misfortune—and that is how they ward it off.”

  “Do you, too, believe crossing fingers wards off misfortune?”

  “No. —Well, yes, in a way. It makes me uneasy if I don’t do it.” She didn’t look at him. Then, as though eager to shift the subject, she said quickly, “And how is that black-haired woman of yours of the essence with respect to your mission to reach—that world you mentioned.”

  “Say ‘the Oldest.’ Or would you rather not even say that?”

  “I would rather not discuss it at all, but I asked you a question.”

  “I believe that her people reached their present world as emigrants from the Oldest.”

  “As we did,” said Lizalor proudly.

  “But her people have traditions of some sort which she says are the key to understanding the Oldest, but only if we reach it and can study its records.”

  “She is lying.”

  “Perhaps, but we must check it out.”

  “If you have this woman with her problematical knowledge, and if you want to reach the Oldest with her, why did you come to Comporellon?”

  “To find the location of the Oldest. I had a friend once, who, like myself, was a Foundationer. He, however, was descended from Comporellian ancestors and he assured me that much of the history of the Oldest was well known on Comporellon.”

  “Did he indeed? And did he tell you any of its history?”

  “Yes,” said Trevize, reaching for the truth again. “He said that the Oldest was a dead world, entirely radioactive. He did not know why, but he thought that it might be the result of nuclear explosions. In a war, perhaps.”

  “No!” said Lizalor explosively.

  “No, there was no war? Or no, the Oldest is not radioactive?”

  “It is radioactive, but there was no war.”

  “Then how did it become radioactive? It could not have been radioactive to begin with since human life began on the Oldest. There would have been no life on it ever.”

  Lizalor seemed to hesitate. She stood erect, and was breathing deeply, almost gasping. She said, “It was a punishment. It was a world that used robots. Do you know what robots are?”

  “Yes.”

  “They had robots and for that they were punished. Every world that has had robots has been punished and no longer exists.”

  “Who punished them, Lizalor?”

  “He Who Punishes. The forces of history. I don’t know.” She looked away from him, uncomfortable, then said, in a lower voice, “Ask others.”

  “I would like to, but whom do I ask? Are there those on Comporellon who have studied primeval history?”

  “There are. They are not popular with us—with the average Comporellian—but the Foundation, your Foundation, insists on intellectual freedom, as they call it.”

  “Not a bad insistence, in my opinion,” said Trevize.

  “All is bad that is imposed from without,” said Lizalor.

  Trevize shrugged. There was no purpose in arguing the matter. He said, “My friend, Dr. Pelorat, is himself a primeval historian of a sort. He would, I am sure, like to meet his Comporellian colleagues. Can you arrange that, Lizalor?”

  She nodded. “There is a historian named Vasil Deniador, who is based at the University here in the city. He does not teach class, but he may be able to tell you what you want to know.”

  “Why doesn’t he teach class?”

  “It’s not that he is forbidden; it’s just that students do not elect his course.”

  “I presume,” said Trevize, trying not to say it sardonically, “that the students are encouraged not to elect it.”

  “Why should they want to? He is a Skeptic. We have them, you know. There are always individuals who pit their minds against the general modes of thought and who are arrogant enough to
feel that they alone are right and that the many are wrong.”

  “Might it not be that that could actually be so in some cases?”

  “Never!” snapped Lizalor, with a firmness of belief that made it quite clear that no further discussion in that direction would be of any use. “And for all his Skepticism, he will be forced to tell you exactly what any Comporellian would tell you.”

  “And that is?”

  “That if you search for the Oldest, you will not find it.”

  24.

  IN THE PRIVATE QUARTERS ASSIGNED THEM, Pelorat listened to Trevize thoughtfully, his long solemn face expressionless, then said, “Vasil Deniador? I do not recall having heard of him, but it may be that back on the ship I will find papers by him in my library.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t heard of him? Think!” said Trevize.

  “I don’t recall, at the moment, having heard of him,” said Pelorat cautiously, “but after all, my dear chap, there must be hundreds of estimable scholars I haven’t heard of; or have, but can’t remember.”

  “Still, he can’t be first-class, or you would have heard of him.”

  “The study of Earth—”

  “Practice saying ‘the Oldest,’ Janov. It would complicate matters otherwise.”

  “The study of the Oldest,” said Pelorat, “is not a well-rewarded niche in the corridors of learning, so that first-class scholars, even in the field of primeval history, would not tend to find their way there. Or, if we put it the other way around, those who are already there do not make enough of a name for themselves in an uninterested world to be considered first-class, even if they were. —I am not first-class in anyone’s estimation, I am sure.”

  Bliss said tenderly, “In mine, Pel.”

  “Yes, certainly in yours, my dear,” said Pelorat, smiling slightly, “but you are not judging me in my capacity as scholar.”

  It was almost night now, going by the clock, and Trevize felt himself grow slightly impatient, as he always did when Bliss and Pelorat traded endearments.

  He said, “I’ll try to arrange our seeing this Deniador tomorrow, but if he knows as little about the matter as the Minister does, we’re not going to be much better off than we are now.”

  Pelorat said, “He may be able to lead us to someone more useful.”

  “I doubt it. This world’s attitude toward Earth—but I had better practice speaking of it elliptically, too. This world’s attitude toward the Oldest is a foolish and superstitious one.” He turned away. “But it’s been a rough day and we ought to think of an evening meal—if we can face their uninspired cookery—and then begin thinking of getting some sleep. Have you two learned how to use the shower?”

  “My dear fellow,” said Pelorat, “we have been very kindly treated. We’ve received all sorts of instructions, most of which we didn’t need.”

  Bliss said, “Listen, Trevize. What about the ship?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is the Comporellian government confiscating it?”

  “No. I don’t think they will.”

  “Ah. Very pleasant. Why aren’t they?”

  “Because I persuaded the Minister to change her mind.”

  Pelorat said, “Astonishing. She didn’t seem a particularly persuadable individual to me.”

  Bliss said, “I don’t know. It was clear from the texture of her mind that she was attracted to Trevize.”

  Trevize looked at Bliss with sudden exasperation. “Did you do that, Bliss?”

  “What do you mean, Trevize?”

  “I mean tamper with her—”

  “I didn’t tamper. However, when I noted that she was attracted to you, I couldn’t resist just snapping an inhibition or two. It was a very small thing to do. Those inhibitions might have snapped anyway, and it seemed to be important to make certain that she was filled with good will toward you.”

  “Good will? It was more than that! She softened, yes, but post-coitally.”

  Pelorat said, “Surely you don’t mean, old man—”

  “Why not?” said Trevize testily. “She may be past her first youth, but she knew the art well. She was no beginner, I assure you. Nor will I play the gentleman and lie on her behalf. It was her idea—thanks to Bliss’s fiddling with her inhibitions—and I was not in a position to refuse, even if that thought had occurred to me, which it didn’t. —Come, Janov, don’t stand there looking puritanical. It’s been months since I’ve had an opportunity. You’ve—” And he waved his hand vaguely in Bliss’s direction.

  “Believe me, Golan,” said Pelorat, embarrassed, “if you are interpreting my expression as puritanical, you mistake me. I have no objection.”

  Bliss said, “But she is puritanical. I meant to make her warm toward you; I did not count on a sexual paroxysm.”

  Trevize said, “But that is exactly what you brought on, my little interfering Bliss. It may be necessary for the Minister to play the puritan in public, but if so, that seems merely to stoke the fires.”

  “And so, provided you scratch the itch, she will betray the Foundation—”

  “She would have done that in any case,” said Trevize. “She wanted the ship—” He broke off, and said in a whisper, “Are we being overheard?”

  Bliss said, “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It is certain. It is impossible to impinge upon the mind of Gaia in any unauthorized fashion without Gaia being aware of it.”

  “In that case, Comporellon wants the ship for itself—a valuable addition to its fleet.”

  “Surely, the Foundation would not allow that.”

  “Comporellon does not intend to have the Foundation know.”

  Bliss sighed. “There are your Isolates. The Minister intends to betray the Foundation on behalf of Comporellon and, in return for sex, will promptly betray Comporellon, too. —And as for Trevize, he will gladly sell his body’s services as a way of inducing the betrayal. What anarchy there is in this Galaxy of yours. What chaos.”

  Trevize said coldly, “You are wrong, young woman—”

  “In what I have just said, I am not a young woman, I am Gaia. I am all of Gaia.”

  “Then you are wrong, Gaia. I did not sell my body’s services. I gave them gladly. I enjoyed it and did no one harm. As for the consequences, they turned out well from my standpoint and I accept that. And if Comporellon wants the ship for its own purposes, who is to say who is right in this matter? It is a Foundation ship, but it was given to me to search for Earth. It is mine then until I complete the search and I feel that the Foundation has no right to go back on its agreement. As for Comporellon, it does not enjoy Foundation domination, so it dreams of independence. In its own eyes, it is correct to do so and to deceive the Foundation, for that is not an act of treason to them but an act of patriotism. Who knows?”

  “Exactly. Who knows? In a Galaxy of anarchy, how is it possible to sort out reasonable actions from unreasonable ones? How decide between right and wrong, good and evil, justice and crime, useful and useless? And how do you explain the Minister’s betrayal of her own government, when she lets you keep the ship? Does she long for personal independence from an oppressive world? Is she a traitor or a personal one-woman self-patriot?”

  “To be truthful,” said Trevize, “I don’t know that she was willing to let me have my ship simply because she was grateful to me for the pleasure I gave her. I believe she made that decision only when I told her I was searching for the Oldest. It is a world of ill-omen to her and we and the ship that carries us, by searching for it, have become ill-omened, too. It is my feeling that she feels she incurred the ill-omen for herself and her world by attempting to take the ship, which she may, by now, be viewing with horror. Perhaps she feels that by allowing us and our ship to leave and go about our business, she is averting the misfortune from Comporellon and is, in that way, performing a patriotic act.”

  “If that were so, which I doubt, Trevize, superstition is the spring of the action. Do you admire that?”
/>
  “I neither admire nor condemn. Superstition always directs action in the absence of knowledge. The Foundation believes in the Seldon Plan, though no one in our realm can understand it, interpret its details, or use it to predict. We follow blindly out of ignorance and faith, and isn’t that superstition?”

  “Yes, it might be.”

  “And Gaia, too. You believe I have given the correct decision in judging that Gaia should absorb the Galaxy into one large organism, but you do not know why I should be right, or how safe it would be for you to follow that decision. You are willing to go along only out of ignorance and faith, and are even annoyed with me for trying to find evidence that will remove the ignorance and make mere faith unnecessary. Isn’t that superstition?”

  “I think he has you there, Bliss,” said Pelorat.

  Bliss said, “Not so. He will either find nothing at all in this search, or he will find something that confirms his decision.”

  Trevize said, “And to back up that belief, you have only ignorance and faith. In other words, superstition!”

  25.

  VASIL DENIADOR WAS A SMALL MAN, LITTLE OF feature, with a way of looking up by raising his eyes without raising his head. This, combined with the brief smiles that periodically lit his face, gave him the appearance of laughing silently at the world.

  His office was long and narrow, filled with tapes that seemed to be in wild disorder, not because there was any definite evidence for that, but because they were not evenly placed in their recesses so that they gave the shelves a snaggle-toothed appearance. The three seats he indicated for his visitors were not matched and showed signs of having been recently, and imperfectly, dusted.

  He said, “Janov Pelorat, Golan Trevize, and Bliss. —I do not have your second name, madam.”

  “Bliss,” she said, “is all I am usually called,” and sat down.

  “It is enough after all,” said Deniador, twinkling at her. “You are attractive enough to be forgiven if you had no name at all.”

  All were sitting now. Deniador said, “I have heard of you, Dr. Pelorat, though we have never corresponded. You are a Foundationer, are you not? From Terminus?”