Foundation's Edge

by Isaac Asimov

  The meeting of the Table broke up in greater confusion and greater excitement than any on record.

  And when the First Speaker finally spoke the phrase of adjournment, Gendibal—without speaking to anyone—made his way back to his room. He knew well that he had not one friend among the Speakers, that even whatever support the First Speaker could give him would be half-hearted at best.

  He could not tell whether he feared for himself or for the entire Second Foundation. The taste of doom was sour in his mouth.

  2.

  GENDIBAL DID NOT SLEEP WELL. HIS WAKING thoughts and his sleeping dreams were alike engaged in quarreling with Delora Delarmi. In one passage of one dream, there was even a confusion between her and the Hamish farmer, Rufirant, so that Gendibal found himself facing an out-of-proportion Delarmi advancing upon him with enormous fists and a sweet smile that revealed needlelike teeth.

  He finally woke, later than usual, with no sensation of having rested and with the buzzer on his night table in muted action. He turned over to bring his hand down upon the contact.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Speaker!” The voice was that of the floor proctor, rather less than suitably respectful. “A visitor wishes to speak to you.”

  “A visitor?” Gendibal punched his appointment schedule and the screen showed nothing before noon. He pushed the time button; it was 8:32 A.M. He said peevishly, “Who in space and time is it?”

  “Will not give a name, Speaker.” Then, with clear disapproval, “One of these Hamishers, Speaker. Arrived at your invitation.” The last sentence was said with even clearer disapproval.

  “Let him wait in the reception room till I come down. It will take time.”

  Gendibal did not hurry. Throughout the morning ablutions, he remained lost in thought. That someone was using the Hamish to hamper his movements made sense—but he would like to know who that someone was. And what was this new intrusion of the Hamish into his very quarters? A complicated trap of some sort?

  How in the name of Seldon would a Hamish farmer get into the University? What reason could he advance? What reason could he really have?

  For one fleeting moment, Gendibal wondered if he ought to arm himself. He decided against it almost at once, since he felt contemptuously certain of being able to control any single farmer on the University grounds without any danger to himself—and without any unacceptable marking of a Hamish mind.

  Gendibal decided he had been too strongly affected by the incident with Karoll Rufirant the day before. —Was it the very farmer, by the way? No longer under the influence, perhaps—of whatever or whoever it was—he might well have come to Gendibal to apologize for what he had done and with apprehension of punishment. —But how would Rufirant know where to go? Whom to approach?

  Gendibal swung down the corridor resolutely and entered the waiting room. He stopped in astonishment, then turned to the proctor, who was pretending to be busy in his glass-walled cubicle.

  “Proctor, you did not say the visitor was a woman.”

  The proctor said quietly, “Speaker, I said a Hamisher. You did not ask further.”

  “Minimal information, Proctor? I must remember that as one of your characteristics.” (And he must check to see if the proctor was a Delarmi appointee. And he must remember, from now on, to note the functionaries who surrounded him, “Lowlies” whom it was too easy to ignore from the height of his still-new Speakership.) “Are any of the conference rooms available?”

  The proctor said, “Number 4 is the only one available, Speaker. It will be free for three hours.” He glanced briefly at the Hamish-woman, then at Gendibal, with blank innocence.

  “We will use Number 4, Proctor, and I would advise you to mind your thoughts.” Gendibal struck, not gently, and the proctor’s shield closed far too slowly. Gendibal knew well it was beneath his dignity to manhandle a lesser mind, but a person who was incapable of shielding an unpleasant conjecture against a superior ought to learn not to indulge in one. The proctor would have a mild headache for a few hours. It was well deserved.

  3.

  HER NAME DID NOT SPRING IMMEDIATELY TO MIND and Gendibal was in no mood to delve deeper. She could scarcely expect him to remember, in any case.

  He said peevishly, “You are—”

  “I be Novi, Master Scowler,” she said in what was almost a gasp. “My previous be Sura, but I be called Novi plain.”

  “Yes. Novi. We met yesterday; I remember now. I have not forgotten that you came to my defense.” He could not bring himself to use the Hamish accent on the very University grounds. “Now how did you get here?”

  “Master, you said I might write letter. You said, it should say, ‘Speaker’s House, Apartment 27.’ I self-bring it and I show the writing—my own writing, Master.” She said it with a kind of bashful pride. “They ask, ‘For whom be this writing?’ I heared your calling when you said it to that oafish bane-top, Rufirant. I say it be for Stor Gendibal, Master Scowler.”

  “And they let you pass, Novi? Didn’t they ask to see the letter?”

  “I be very frightened. I think maybe they feel gentle-sorry. I said, ‘Scowler Gendibal promise to show me Place of Scowlers,’ and they smile. One of them at gate-door say to other, ‘And that not all he be show her.’ And they show me where to go, and say not to go elseplace at all or I be thrown out moment-wise.”

  Gendibal reddened faintly. By Seldon, if he felt the need for Hamish amusement, it would not be in so open a fashion and his choice would have been made more selectively. He looked at the Trantorian woman with an inward shake of his head.

  She seemed quite young, younger perhaps than hard work had made her appear. She could not be more than twenty-five, at which age Hamishwomen were usually already married. She wore her dark hair in the braids that signified her to be unmarried—virginal, in fact—and he was not surprised. Her performance yesterday showed her to have enormous talent as a shrew and he doubted that a Hamishman could easily be found who would dare be yoked to her tongue and her ready fist. Nor was her appearance much of an attraction. Though she had gone to pains to make herself look presentable, her face was angular and plain, her hands red and knobby. What he could see of her figure seemed built for endurance rather than for grace.

  Her lower lip began to tremble under his scrutiny. He could sense her embarrassment and fright quite plainly and felt pity. She had, indeed, been of use to him yesterday and that was what counted.

  He said, in an attempt to be genial and soothing, “So you have come to see the—uh—Place of Scholars?”

  She opened her dark eyes wide (they were rather fine) and said, “Master, be not ired with me, but I come to be scowler own-self.”

  “You want to be a scholar?” Gendibal was thunderstruck. “My good woman—”

  He paused. How on Trantor could one explain to a completely unsophisticated farmwoman the level of intelligence, training, and mental stamina required to be what Trantorians called a “scowler”?

  But Sura Novi drove on fiercely. “I be a writer and a reader. I have read whole books to end and from beginning, too. And I have wish to be scowler. I do not wish to be farmer’s wife. I be no person for farm. I will not wed farmer or have farmer children.” She lifted her head and said proudly, “I be asked. Many times. I always say, ‘Nay.’ Politely, but ‘Nay.’ ”

  Gendibal could see plainly enough that she was lying. She had not been asked, but he kept his face straight. He said, “What will you do with your life if you do not marry?”

  Novi brought her hand down on the table, palm flat. “I will be scowler. I not be farmwoman.”

  “What if I cannot make you a scholar?”

  “Then I be nothing and I wait to die. I be nothing in life if I be not a scowler.”

  For a moment there was the impulse to search her mind and find out the extent of her motivation. But it would be wrong to do so. A Speaker did not amuse one’s self by rummaging through the helpless minds of others. There was a code to the science a
nd technique of mental control—mentalics—as to other professions. Or there should be. (He was suddenly regretful he had struck out at the proctor.)

  He said, “Why not be a farmwoman, Novi?” With a little manipulation, he could make her content with that and manipulate some Hamish lout into being happy to marry her—and she to marry him. It would do no harm. It would be a kindness. —But it was against the law and thus unthinkable.

  She said, “I not be. A farmer is a clod. He works with earth-lumps, and he becomes earth-lump. If I be farmwoman, I be earth-lump, too. I will be timeless to read and write, and I will forget. My head,” she put her hand to her temple, “will grow sour and stale. No! A scowler be different. Thoughtful!” (She meant by the word, Gendibal noted, “intelligent” rather than “considerate.”)

  “A scowler,” she said, “live with books and with—with—I forget what they be name-said.” She made a gesture as though she were making some sort of vague manipulations that would have meant nothing to Gendibal—if he did not have her mind radiations to guide him.

  “Microfilms,” he said. “How do you know about microfilms?”

  “In books, I read of many things,” she said proudly.

  Gendibal could no longer fight off the desire to know more. This was an unusual Hamisher; he had never heard of one like this. The Hamish were never recruited, but if Novi were younger, say ten years old—

  What a waste! He would not disturb her; he would not disturb her in the least, but of what use was it to be a Speaker if one could not observe unusual minds and learn from them?

  He said, “Novi, I want you to sit there for a moment. Be very quiet. Do not say anything. Do not think of saying anything. Just think of falling asleep. Do you understand?”

  Her fright returned at once, “Why must I do this, Master?”

  “Because I wish to think how you might become a scholar.”

  After all, no matter what she had read, there was no possible way in which she could know what being a “scholar” truly meant. It was therefore necessary to find out what she thought a scholar was.

  Very carefully and with infinite delicacy he probed her mind; sensing without actually touching—like placing one’s hand on a polished metal surface without leaving fingerprints. To her a scholar was someone who always read books. She had not the slightest idea of why one read books. For herself to be a scholar—the picture in her mind was that of doing the labor she knew—fetching, carrying, cooking, cleaning, following orders—but on the University grounds where books were available and where she would have time to read them and, very vaguely, “to become learned.” What it amounted to was that she wanted to be a servant—his servant.

  Gendibal frowned. A Hamishwoman servant—and one who was plain, graceless, uneducated, barely literate. Unthinkable.

  He would simply have to divert her. There would have to be some way of adjusting her desires to make her content to be a farmwoman, some way that would leave no mark, some way about which even Delarmi could not complain.

  —Or had she been sent by Delarmi? Was all this a complicated plan to lure him into tampering with a Hamish mind, so that he might be caught and impeached?

  Ridiculous. He was in danger of growing paranoid. Somewhere in the simple tendrils of her uncomplicated mind, a trickle of mental current needed to be diverted. It would only take a tiny push.

  It was against the letter of the law, but it would do no harm and no one would ever notice.

  He paused.

  Back. Back. Back.

  Space! He had almost missed it!

  Was he the victim of an illusion?

  No! Now that his attention was drawn to it, he could make it out clearly. There was the tiniest tendril disarrayed—an abnormal disarray. Yet it was so delicate, so ramification-free.

  Gendibal emerged from her mind. He said gently, “Novi.”

  Her eyes focused. She said, “Yes, Master?”

  Gendibal said, “You may work with me. I will make you a scholar—”

  Joyfully, eyes blazing, she said, “Master—”

  He detected it at once. She was going to throw herself at his feet. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her tightly. “Don’t move, Novi. Stay where you are. —Stay!”

  He might have been talking to a half-trained animal. When he could see the order had penetrated, he let her go. He was conscious of the hard muscles along her upper arms.

  He said, “If you are to be a scholar, you must behave like one. That means you will have to be always quiet, always soft-spoken, always doing what I tell you to do. And you must try to learn to talk as I do. You will also have to meet other scholars. Will you be afraid?”

  “I be not afeared—afraid, Master, if you be with me.”

  “I will be with you. But now, first—I must find you a room, arrange to have you assigned a lavatory, a place in the dining room, and clothes, too. You will have to wear clothes more suitable to a scholar, Novi.”

  “These be all I—” she began miserably.

  “We will supply others.”

  Clearly he would have to get a woman to arrange for a new supply of clothing for Novi. He would also need someone to teach the Hamisher the rudiments of personal hygiene. After all, though the clothes she wore were probably her best and though she had obviously spruced herself up, she still had a distinct odor that was faintly unpleasant.

  And he would have to make sure that the relationship between them was understood. It was always an open secret that the men (and women, too) of the Second Foundation made occasional forays among the Hamish for their pleasure. If there was no interference with Hamish minds in the process, no one dreamed of making a fuss about it. Gendibal himself had never indulged in this, and he liked to think it was because he felt no need for sex that might be coarser and more highly spiced than was available at the University. The women of the Second Foundation might be pallid in comparison to the Hamish, but they were clean and their skins were smooth.

  But even if the matter were misunderstood and there were sniggers at a Speaker who not only turned to the Hamish but brought one into his quarters, he would have to endure the embarrassment. As it stood, this farmwoman, Sura Novi, was his key to victory in the inevitable forthcoming duel with Speaker Delarmi and the rest of the Table.

  4.

  GENDIBAL DID NOT SEE NOVI AGAIN TILL AFTER dinnertime, at which time she was brought to him by the woman to whom he had endlessly explained the situation—at least, the nonsexual character of the situation. She had understood—or, at least, did not dare show any indication of failure to understand, which was perhaps just as good.

  Novi stood before him now, bashful, proud, embarrassed, triumphant—all at once, in an incongruous mixture.

  He said, “You look very nice, Novi.”

  The clothes they had given her fit surprisingly well and there was no question that she did not look at all ludicrous. Had they pinched in her waist? Lifted her breasts? Or had that just been not particularly noticeable in her farmwoman clothing?

  Her buttocks were prominent, but not displeasingly so. Her face, of course, remained plain, but when the tan of outdoor life faded and she learned how to care for her complexion, it would not look downright ugly.

  By the Old Empire, that woman did think Novi was to be his mistress. She had tried to make her beautiful for him.

  And then he thought: Well, why not?

  Novi would have to face the Speaker’s Table—and the more attractive she seemed, the more easily he would be able to get his point across.

  It was with this thought that the message from the First Speaker reached him. It had the kind of appropriateness that was common in a mentalic society. It was called, more or less informally, the “Coincidence Effect.” If you think vaguely of someone when someone is thinking vaguely of you, there is a mutual, escalating stimulation which in a matter of seconds makes the two thoughts sharp, decisive, and, to all appearances, simultaneous.

  It can be startling even to those who unde
rstand it intellectually, particularly if the preliminary vague thoughts were so dim—on one side or the other (or both)—as to have gone consciously unnoticed.

  “I can’t be with you this evening, Novi,” said Gendibal. “I have scholar work to do. I will take you to your room. There will be some books there and you can practice your reading. I will show you how to use the signal if you need help with anything—and I will see you tomorrow.”

  5.

  GENDIBAL SAID POLITELY, “FIRST SPEAKER?”

  Shandess merely nodded. He looked dour and fully his age. He looked as though he were a man who did not drink, but who could use a stiff one. He said finally, “I ‘called’ you—”

  “No messenger. I presumed from the direct ‘call’ that it was important.”

  “It is. Your quarry—the First Foundationer—Trevize—”

  “Yes?”

  “He is not coming to Trantor.”

  Gendibal did not look surprised. “Why should he? The information we received was that he was leaving with a professor of ancient history who was seeking Earth.”

  “Yes, the legendary Primal Planet. And that is why he should be coming to Trantor. After all, does the professor know where Earth is? Do you? Do I? Can we be sure it exists at all, or ever existed? Surely they would have to come to this Library to obtain the necessary information—if it were to be obtained anywhere. I have until this hour felt that the situation was not at crisis level—that the First Foundationer would come here and that we would, through him, learn what we need to know.”

  “Which would certainly be the reason he is not allowed to come here.”

  “But where is he going, then?”

  “We have not yet found out, I see.”

  The First Speaker said pettishly, “You seem calm about it.”