by Isaac Asimov
“From your paper,” said Quintesetz, “I presume you are interested in myths and legends.”
“Even more in history—actual facts—if such exist. Myths and legends, otherwise.”
Quintesetz rose and walked rapidly back and forth the length of his office, paused to stare at Pelorat, then walked again.
Trevize said impatiently, “Well, sir.”
Quintesetz said, “Odd! Really odd! It was only yesterday—”
Pelorat said, “What was only yesterday?”
Quintesetz said, “I told you, Dr. Pelorat—may I call you J.P., by the way? I find using a full-length name rather unnatural.”
“Please do.”
“I told you, J.P., that I had admired your paper and that I had wanted to see you. The reason I wanted to see you was that you clearly had an extensive collection of legends concerning the beginnings of the worlds and yet didn’t have ours. In other words, I wanted to see you in order to tell you precisely what you have come to see me to find out.”
“What has this to do with yesterday, S.Q.?” asked Trevize.
“We have legends. A legend. An important one to our society, for it has become our central mystery—”
“Mystery?” said Trevize.
“I don’t mean a puzzle or anything of that sort. That, I believe, would be the usual meaning of the word in Galactic Standard. There’s a specialized meaning here. It means ‘something secret’; something only certain adepts know the full meaning of; something not to be spoken of to outsiders. —And yesterday was the day.”
“The day of what, S.Q.?” asked Trevize, slightly exaggerating his air of patience.
“Yesterday was the Day of Flight.”
“Ah,” said Trevize, “a day of meditation and quiet, when everyone is supposed to remain at home.”
“Something like that, in theory, except that in the larger cities, the more sophisticated regions, there is little observance in the older fashion. —But you know about it, I see.”
Pelorat, who had grown uneasy at Trevize’s annoyed tone, put in hastily, “We heard a little of it, having arrived yesterday.”
“Of all days,” said Trevize sarcastically. “See here, S.Q. As I said, I’m not an academic, but I have a question. You said you were speaking of a central mystery, meaning it was not to be spoken of to outsiders. Why, then, are you speaking of it to us? We are outsiders.”
“So you are. But I’m not an observer of the day and the depth of my superstition in this matter is slight at best. J.P.’s paper, however, reinforced a feeling I have had for a long time. A myth or legend is simply not made up out of a vacuum. Nothing is—or can be. Somehow there is a kernel of truth behind it, however distorted that might be, and I would like the truth behind our legend of the Day of Flight.”
Trevize said, “Is it safe to talk about it?”
Quintesetz shrugged. “Not entirely, I suppose. The conservative elements among our population would be horrified. However, they don’t control the government and haven’t for a century. The secularists are strong and would be stronger still, if the conservatives didn’t take advantage of our—if you’ll excuse me—anti-Foundation bias. Then, too, since I am discussing the matter out of my scholarly interest in ancient history, the League of Academicians will support me strongly, in case of need.”
“In that case,” said Pelorat, “would you tell us about your central mystery, S.Q.?”
“Yes, but let me make sure we won’t be interrupted or, for that matter, overheard. Even if one must stare the bull in the face, one needn’t slap its muzzle, as the saying goes.”
He flicked a pattern on the work-face of an instrument on his desk and said, “We’re incommunicado now.”
“Are you sure you’re not bugged?” asked Trevize.
“Bugged?”
“Tapped! Eavesdropped! —Subjected to a device that will have you under observation—visual or auditory or both.”
Quintesetz looked shocked. “Not here on Sayshell!”
Trevize shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Please go on, S.Q.,” said Pelorat.
Quintesetz pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair (which gave slightly under the pressure) and put the tips of his fingers together. He seemed to be speculating as to just how to begin.
He said, “Do you know what a robot is?”
“A robot?” said Pelorat. “No.”
Quintesetz looked in the direction of Trevize, who shook his head slowly.
“You know what a computer is, however?”
“Of course,” said Trevize impatiently.
“Well then, a mobile computerized tool—”
“Is a mobile computerized tool.” Trevize was still impatient. “There are endless varieties and I don’t know of any generalized term for it except mobile computerized tool.”
“—that looks exactly like a human being is a robot.” S.Q. completed his definition with equanimity. “The distinction of a robot is that it is humaniform.”
“Why humaniform?” asked Pelorat in honest amazement.
“I’m not sure. It’s a remarkably inefficient form for a tool, I grant you, but I’m just repeating the legend. ‘Robot’ is an old word from no recognizable language, though our scholars say it bears the connotation of ‘work.’ ”
“I can’t think of any word,” said Trevize skeptically, “that sounds even vaguely like ‘robot’ and that has any connection with ‘work.’ ”
“Nothing in Galactic, certainly,” said Quintesetz, “but that’s what they say.”
Pelorat said, “It may have been reverse etymology. These objects were used for work, and so the word was said to mean ‘work.’ —In any case, why do you tell us this?”
“Because it is a firmly fixed tradition here on Sayshell that when Earth was a single world and the Galaxy lay all uninhabited before it, robots were invented and devised. There were then two sorts of human beings: natural and invented, flesh and metal, biological and mechanical, complex and simple—”
Quintesetz came to a halt and said with a rueful laugh, “I’m sorry. It is impossible to talk about robots without quoting from the Book of Flight. The people of Earth devised robots—and I need say no more. That’s plain enough.”
“And why did they devise robots?” asked Trevize.
Quintesetz shrugged. “Who can tell at this distance in time? Perhaps they were few in numbers and needed help, particularly in the great task of exploring and populating the Galaxy.”
Trevize said, “That’s a reasonable suggestion. Once the Galaxy was colonized, the robots would no longer be needed. Certainly there are no humanoid mobile computerized tools in the Galaxy today.”
“In any case,” said Quintesetz, “the story is as follows—if I may vastly simplify and leave out many poetic ornamentations which, frankly, I don’t accept, though the general population does or pretends to. Around Earth, there grew up colony worlds circling neighboring stars and these colony worlds were far richer in robots than was Earth itself. There was more use for robots on raw, new worlds. Earth, in fact, retreated, wished no more robots, and rebelled against them.”
“What happened?” asked Pelorat.
“The Outer Worlds were the stronger. With the help of their robots, the children defeated and controlled Earth—the Mother. Pardon me, but I can’t help slipping into quotation. But there were those from Earth who fled their world—with better ships and stronger modes of hyperspatial travel. They fled to far distant stars and worlds, far beyond the closer worlds earlier colonized. New colonies were founded—without robots—in which human beings could live freely. Those were the Times of Flight, so-called, and the day upon which the first Earthmen reached the Sayshell Sector—this very planet, in fact—is the Day of Flight, celebrated annually for many thousands of years.”
Pelorat said, “My dear chap, what you are saying, then, is that Sayshell was founded directly from Earth.”
Quintesetz thought and hesitated for a moment. Then he said, �
�That is the official belief.”
“Obviously,” said Trevize, “you don’t accept it.”
“It seems to me—” Quintesetz began and then burst out, “Oh, Great Stars and Small Planets, I don’t! It is entirely too unlikely, but it’s official dogma and however secularized the government has become, lip service to that, at least, is essential. —Still, to the point. In your article, J.P., there is no indication that you’re aware of this story—of robots and of two waves of colonization, a lesser one with robots and a greater one without.”
“I certainly was not,” said Pelorat. “I hear it now for the first time and, my dear S.Q., I am eternally grateful to you for making this known to me. I am astonished that no hint of this has appeared in any of the writings—”
“It shows,” said Quintesetz, “how effective our social system is. It’s our Sayshellian secret—our great mystery.”
“Perhaps,” said Trevize dryly. “Yet the second wave of colonization—the robotless wave—must have moved out in all directions. Why is it only on Sayshell that this great secret exists?”
Quintesetz said, “It may exist elsewhere and be just as secret. Our own conservatives believe that only Sayshell was settled from Earth and that all the rest of the Galaxy was settled from Sayshell. That, of course, is probably nonsense.”
Pelorat said, “These subsidiary puzzles can be worked out in time. Now that I have the starting point, I can seek out similar information on other worlds. What counts is that I have discovered the question to ask and a good question is, of course, the key by which infinite answers can be educed. How fortunate that I—”
Trevize said, “Yes, Janov, but the good S.Q. has not told us the whole story, surely. What happened to the older colonies and their robots? Do your traditions say?”
“Not in detail, but in essence. Human and humanoid cannot live together, apparently. The worlds with robots died. They were not viable.”
“And Earth?”
“Humans left it and settled here and presumably (though the conservatives would disagree) on other planets as well.”
“Surely not every human being left Earth. The planet was not deserted.”
“Presumably not. I don’t know.”
Trevize said abruptly, “Was it left radioactive?”
Quintesetz looked astonished. “Radioactive?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Not to my knowledge. I never heard of such a thing.”
Trevize put a knuckle to his teeth and considered. Finally he said, “S.Q., it’s getting late and we have trespassed sufficiently on your time, perhaps.” (Pelorat made a motion as though he were about to protest, but Trevize’s hand was on the other’s knee and his grip tightened—so Pelorat, looking disturbed, subsided.)
Quintesetz said, “I was delighted to be of use.”
“You have been and if there’s anything we can do in exchange, name it.”
Quintesetz laughed gently. “If the good J.P. will be so kind as to refrain from mentioning my name in connection with any writing he does on our mystery, that will be sufficient repayment.”
Pelorat said eagerly, “You would be able to get the credit you deserve—and perhaps be more appreciated—if you were allowed to visit Terminus and even, perhaps, remain there as a visiting scholar at our university for an extended period. We might arrange that. Sayshell might not like the Federation, but they might not like refusing a direct request that you be allowed to come to Terminus to attend, let us say, a colloquium on some aspect of ancient history.”
The Sayshellian half-rose. “Are you saying you can pull strings to arrange that?”
Trevize said, “Why, I hadn’t thought of it, but J.P. is perfectly right. That would be feasible—if we tried. And, of course, the more grateful you make us, the harder we will try.”
Quintesetz paused, then frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”
“All you have to do is tell us about Gaia, S.Q.,” said Trevize.
And all the light in Quintesetz’s face died.
4.
QUINTESETZ LOOKED DOWN AT HIS DESK. HIS hand stroked absent-mindedly at his short, tightly curled hair. Then he looked at Trevize and pursed his lips tightly. It was as though he were determined not to speak.
Trevize lifted his eyebrows and waited and finally Quintesetz said in a strangled sort of way, “It is getting indeed late—quite glemmering.”
Until then he had spoken in good Galactic, but now his words took on a strange shape as though the Sayshellian mode of speech were pushing past his classical education.
“Glemmering, S.Q.?”
“It is nearly full night.”
Trevize nodded. “I am thoughtless. And I am hungry, too. Could you please join us for an evening meal, S.Q., at our expense? We could then, perhaps, continue our discussion—about Gaia.”
Quintesetz rose heavily to his feet. He was taller than either of the two men from Terminus, but he was older and pudgier and his height did not lend him the appearance of strength. He seemed more weary than when they had arrived.
He blinked at them and said, “I forget my hospitality. You are Outworlders and it would not be fitting that you entertain me. Come to my home. It is on campus and not far and, if you wish to carry on a conversation, I can do so in a more relaxed manner there than here. My only regret” (he seemed a little uneasy) “is that I can offer you only a limited meal. My wife and I are vegetarians and if you are meat-eating, I can only express my apologies and regrets.”
Trevize said, “J.P. and I will be quite content to forego our carnivorous natures for one meal. Your conversation will more than make up for it—I hope.”
“I can promise you an interesting meal, whatever the conversation,” said Quintesetz, “if your taste should run to our Sayshellian spieces. My wife and I have made a rare study of such things.”
“I look forward to any exoticism you choose to supply, S.Q.,” said Trevize coolly, though Pelorat looked a little nervous at the prospect.
Quintesetz led the way. The three left the room and walked down an apparently endless corridor, with the Sayshellian greeting students and colleagues now and then, but making no attempt to introduce his companions. Trevize was uneasily aware that others stared curiously at his sash, which happened to be one of his gray ones. A subdued color was not something that was de rigueur in campus clothing, apparently.
Finally they stepped through the door and out into the open. It was indeed dark and a little cool, with trees bulking in the distance and a rather rank stand of grass on either side of the walkway.
Pelorat came to a halt—with his back to the glimmer of lights that came from the building they had just left and from the glows that lined the walks of the campus. He looked straight upward.
“Beautiful!” he said. “There is a famous phrase in a verse by one of our better poets that speaks of ‘the speckle-shine of Sayshell’s soaring sky.’ ”
Trevize gazed appreciately and said in a low voice, “We are from Terminus, S.Q., and my friend, at least, has seen no other skies. On Terminus, we see only the smooth dim fog of the Galaxy and a few barely visible stars. You would appreciate your own sky even more, had you lived with ours.”
Quintesetz said gravely, “We appreciate it to the full, I assure you. It’s not so much that we are in an uncrowded area of the Galaxy, but that the distribution of stars is remarkably even. I don’t think that you will find, anywhere in the Galaxy, first-magnitude stars so generally distributed. —And yet not too many, either. I have seen the skies of worlds that are inside the outer reaches of a globular cluster and there you will see too many bright stars. It spoils the darkness of the night sky and reduces the splendor considerably.”
“I quite agree with that,” said Trevize.
“Now I wonder,” said Quintesetz, “if you see that almost regular pentagon of almost equally bright stars. The Five Sisters, we call them. It’s in that direction, just above the line of trees. Do you see it?”
“I se
e it,” said Trevize. “Very attractive.”
“Yes,” said Quintesetz. “It’s supposed to symbolize success in love—and there’s no love letter that doesn’t end in a pentagon of dots to indicate a desire to make love. Each of the five stars stands for a different stage in the process and there are famous poems which have vied with each other in making each stage as explicitly erotic as possible. In my younger days, I attempted versifying on the subject myself and I wouldn’t have thought that the time would come when I would grow so indifferent to the Five Sisters, though I suppose it’s the common fate. —Do you see the dim star just about in the center of the Five Sisters.”
“Yes.”
“That,” said Quintesetz, “is supposed to represent unrequited love. There is a legend that the star was once as bright as the rest, but faded with grief.” And he walked on rapidly.
5.
THE DINNER, TREVIZE HAD BEEN FORCED TO ADMIT to himself, was delightful. There was endless variety and the spicing and dressing were subtle but effective.
Trevize said, “All these vegetables—which have been a pleasure to eat, by the way—are part of the Galactic dietary, are they not, S.Q.?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I presume, though, that there are indigenous forms of life, too.”
“Of course. Sayshell Planet was an oxygen world when the first settlers arrived, so it had to be life-bearing. And we have preserved some of the indigenous life, you may be sure. We have quite extensive natural parks in which both the flora and the fauna of Old Sayshell survive.”
Pelorat said sadly, “There you are in advance of us, S.Q. There was little land life on Terminus when human beings arrived and I’m afraid that for a long time no concerted effort was made to preserve the sea life, which had produced the oxygen that made Terminus habitable. Terminus has an ecology now that is purely Galactic in nature.”
“Sayshell,” said Quintesetz, with a smile of modest pride, “has a long and steady record of life-valuing.”
And Trevize chose that moment to say, “When we left your office, S.Q., I believe it was your intention to feed us dinner and then tell us about Gaia.”