Forward the Foundation f-2

by Isaac Asimov

  “Librarian Mummery. Listen to me. What you want is to close the Library to the public. You wish to smash a long tradition. Have you the heart to do that?”

  “It’s not heart we need. It’s funding. Surely the Chief Librarian has wept on your shoulder in telling you our woes. Appropriations are down, salaries are cut, needed maintenance is absent. What are we to do? We’ve got to cut services and we certainly can’t afford to support you and your colleagues with offices and equipment.”

  “Has this situation been put to the Emperor?”

  “Come, Professor, you’re dreaming. Isn’t it true that your psychohistory tells you that the Empire is deteriorating? I’ve heard you referred to as Raven Seldon, something that, I believe, refers to a fabled bird of ill omen.”

  “It’s true that we are entering bad times.”

  “And do you believe the Library is immune to those bad times? Professor, the Library is my life and I want it to continue, but it won’t continue unless we can find ways of making our dwindling appropriations do. —And you come here expecting an open Library, with yourself as beneficiary. It won’t do, Professor. It just won’t do.”

  Seldon said desperately, “What if I find the credits for you?”

  “Indeed. How?”

  “What if I talk to the Emperor? I was once First Minister. He’ll see me and he’ll listen to me.”

  “And you’ll get funding from him?” Mummery laughed.

  “If I do, if I increase your appropriations, may I bring in my colleagues?”

  “Bring in the credits first,” said Mummery, “and we’ll see. But I don’t think you will succeed.”

  He seemed very sure of himself and Seldon wondered how often and how uselessly the Galactic Library had already appealed to the Emperor.

  And whether his own appeal would get anywhere at all.

  11

  The Emperor Agis XIV had no real right to the name. He had adopted it upon succeeding to the throne with the deliberate purpose of connecting himself with the Agises who had ruled two thousand years ago, most of them quite ably—particularly Agis VI, who had ruled for forty-two years and who had kept order in a prosperous Empire with a firm but nontyrannical hand.

  Agis XIV did not look like any of the old Agises—if the holographic records had any value. But, then again, truth be told, Agis XIV did not look much like the official holograph that was distributed to the public.

  As a matter of fact, Hari Seldon thought, with a twinge of nostalgia, that Emperor Cleon, for all his flaws and weaknesses, had certainly looked Imperial.

  Agis XIV did not. Seldon had never seen him at close quarters and the few holographs he had seen were outrageously inaccurate. The Imperial holographer knew his job and did it well, thought Seldon wryly.

  Agis XIV was short, with an unattractive face and slightly bulging eyes that did not seem alight with intelligence. His only qualification for the throne was that he was a collateral relative of Cleon.

  To do him credit, however, he did not try to play the role of the mighty Emperor. It was understood that he rather liked to be called the “Citizen Emperor” and that only Imperial protocol and the outraged outcry of the Imperial Guard prevented him from exiting the dome and wandering the walkways of Trantor. Apparently, the story went, he wished to shake hands with the citizens and hear their complaints in person.

  (Score one for him, thought Seldon, even if it could never come to pass.)

  With a murmur and a bow, Seldon said, “I thank you, Sire, for consenting to see me.”

  Agis XIV had a clear and rather attractive voice, quite out of keeping with his appearance. He said, “An ex-First Minister must surely have his privileges, although I must give myself credit for amazing courage in agreeing to see you.”

  There was humor in his words and Seldon found himself suddenly realizing that a man might not look intelligent and yet might be intelligent just the same.

  “Courage, Sire?”

  “Why, of course. Don’t they call you Raven Seldon?”

  “I heard the expression, Sire, the other day for the first time.”

  “Apparently the reference is to your psychohistory, which seems to predict the Fall of the Empire.”

  “It points out the possibility only, Sire—”

  “So that you are coupled with a mythic bird of ill omen. Except that I think you yourself are the bird of ill omen.”

  “I hope not, Sire.”

  “Come, come. The record is clear. Eto Demerzel, Cleon’s old First Minister, was impressed with your work and look what happened—he was forced out of his position and into exile. The Emperor Cleon himself was impressed with your work and look what happened—he was assassinated. The military junta was impressed with your work and look what happened—they were swept away. Even the Joranumites, it is said, were impressed with your work and, behold, they were destroyed. And now, O Raven Seldon, you come to see me. What may I expect?”

  “Why, nothing evil, Sire.”

  “I imagine not, because unlike all these others I have mentioned, I am not impressed with your work. Now tell me why you are here.”

  He listened carefully and without interruption while Seldon explained the importance of setting up a Project designed to prepare an encyclopedia that would preserve human learning if the worst happened.

  “Yes yes,” said Agis XIV finally, “so you are, indeed, convinced the Empire will fall.”

  “It is a strong possibility, Sire, and it would not be prudent to refuse to take that possibility into account. In a way, I wish to prevent it if I can—or ameliorate the effects if I can’t.”

  “Raven Seldon, if you continue to poke your nose into matters, I am convinced that the Empire will fall and that nothing can help it.”

  “Not so, Sire. I ask only permission to work.”

  “Oh, you have that, but I fail to see what it is you wish of me. Why have you told me all this about an encyclopedia?”

  “Because I wish to work in the Galactic Library, Sire, or, more accurately, I wish others to work there with me.”

  “I assure you that I won’t stand in your way.”

  “That is not enough, Sire. I want you to help.”

  “In what way, ex-First Minister?”

  “With funding. The Library must have appropriations or it will close its doors to the public and evict me.”

  “Credits!” A note of astonishment came into the Emperor’s voice. “You came to me for credits?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Agis XIV stood up in some agitation. Seldon stood up at once also, but Agis waved him down.

  “Sit down. Don’t treat me as an Emperor. I’m not an Emperor. I didn’t want this job, but they made me take it. I was the nearest thing to the Imperial family and they jabbered at me that the Empire needed an Emperor. So they have me and a lot of good I am to them.

  “Credits! You expect me to have credits! You talk about the Empire disintegrating. How do you suppose it disintegrates? Are you thinking of rebellion? Of civil war? Of disorders here and there?

  “No. Think of credits. Do you realize that I cannot collect any taxes at all from half the provinces in the Empire? They’re still part of the Empire—‘Hail the Imperium!’—‘All honor to the Emperor!’—but they don’t pay anything and I don’t have the necessary force to collect it. And if I can’t get the credits out of them, they are not really part of the Empire, are they?

  “Credits! The Empire runs a chronic deficit of appalling proportions. There’s nothing I can pay for. Do you think there is enough funding to maintain the Imperial Palace grounds? Just barely. I must cut corners. I must let the Palace decay. I must let the number of retainers die down by attrition.

  “Professor Seldon. If you want credits, I have nothing. Where will I find appropriations for the Library? They should be grateful I manage to squeeze out something for them each year at all.” As he finished, the Emperor held out his hands, palms up, as if to signify the emptiness of the Imperial coffers. />
  Hari Seldon was stunned. He said, “Nevertheless, Sire, even if you lack the credits, you still have the Imperial prestige. Can you not order the Library to allow me to keep my office and let my colleagues in to help me with our vital work?”

  And now Agis XIV sat down again as though, once the subject was not credits, he was no longer in a state of agitation.

  He said, “You realize that, by long tradition, the Galactic Library is independent of the Imperium, as far as its self-government is concerned. It sets up its rules and has done so since Agis VI, my namesake”—he smiled—“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?”

  Seldon looked around swiftly. There were no security officers around. Another indication of the deterioration of society. An occasional person or two passed by, but there was no use calling for h
elp. Their footsteps increased in speed and made a wide detour. No one was going to run any risks of getting involved in an imbroglio.

  Seldon said, “The first one of you who approaches gets a cracked head.”

  “Yeah?” And the leader stepped forward rapidly and seized the cane. There was a short sharp struggle and the cane was wrested from Seldon’s grip. The leader tossed it to one side.

  “Now what, old man?”

  Seldon shrunk back. He could only wait for the blows. They crowded around him, each eager to land a blow or two. Seldon lifted his arms to try to ward them off. He could still Twist—after a fashion. If he were facing only one or two, he might be able to Twist his body, avoid their blows, strike back. But not against eight—surely not against eight.

  He tried, at any rate, moving quickly to one side to avoid the blows and his right leg, with its sciatica, doubled under him. He fell and knew himself to be utterly helpless.

  Then he heard a stentorian voice shouting, “What’s going on here? Get back, you thugs! Back or I’ll kill you all!”

  The leader said, “Well, another old man.”

  “Not that old,” said the newcomer. With the back of one hand, he struck the leader’s face, turning it an ugly red.

  Seldon said in surprise, “Raych, it’s you.”

  Raych’s hand swept back. “Stay out of this, Dad. Just get up and move away.”

  The leader, rubbing his cheek, said, “We’ll get you for that.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Raych, drawing out a knife of Dahlite manufacture, long and gleaming. A second knife was withdrawn and he now held one in each hand.

  Seldon said weakly, “Still carrying knives, Raych?”

  “Always,” said Raych. “Nothing will ever make me stop.”

  “I’ll stop you,” said the leader, drawing out a blaster.

  Faster than the eye could follow, one of Raych’s knives went sailing through the air and struck the leader’s throat. He made a loud gasp, then a gurgling sound, and fell, while the other seven stared.