Asimov’s Future History Volume 14

by Isaac Asimov

  Seldon nodded his head and said dispiritedly, “I suppose you’re right.”

  Dors returned in time for dinner and found Seldon on his cot, still leafing through the Book, but with intensified impatience.

  He looked up with a scowl and said, “If we’re going to be staying here any length of time, we’re going to need a communication device of some sort between us. I had no idea when you’d get back and I was a little concerned.”

  “Well, here I am,” she said, removing her skincap gingerly and looking at it with more than a little distaste. “I’m really pleased at your concern. I rather thought you’d be so lost in the Book, you wouldn’t even realize I was gone.”

  Seldon snorted.

  Dors said, “As for communications devices, I doubt that they are easy to come by in Mycogen. It would mean easing communication with tribespeople outside and I suspect the leaders of Mycogen are bound and determined to cut down on any possible interaction with the great beyond.”

  “Yes,” said Seldon, tossing the Book to one side, “I would expect that from what I see in the Book. Did you find out about the whatever you called it... the temple?”

  “Yes,” she said, removing her eyebrow patches. “It exists. There are a number of them over the area of the sector, but there’s a central building that seems to be the important one.-Would you believe that one woman noticed my eyelashes and told me that I shouldn’t let myself be seen in public? I have a feeling she intended to report me for indecent exposure.”

  “Never mind that,” said Seldon impatiently. “Do you know where the central temple is located?”

  “I have directions, but Raindrop Forty-Five warned me that women were not allowed inside except on special occasions, none of which are coming up soon. It’s called the Sacratorium.”

  “The what.”

  “The Sacratorium.”

  “What an ugly word. What does it mean?”

  Dors shook her head. “It’s new to me. And neither Raindrop knew what it meant either. To them, Sacratorium isn’t what the building is called, it’s what it is. Asking them why they called it that probably sounded like asking them why a wall is called a wall.”

  “Is there anything about it they do know?”

  “Of course, Hari. They know what it’s for. It’s a place that’s devoted to something other than the life here in Mycogen. It’s devoted to another world, a former and better one.”

  “The world they once lived on, you mean?”

  “Exactly. Raindrop Forty-Five all but said so, but not quite. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.”

  “Aurora?”

  “That’s the word, but I suspect that if you were to say it out loud to a group of Mycogenians, they would be shocked and horrified. Raindrop Forty-Five, when she said, ‘The Sacratorium is dedicated to-’, stopped at that point and carefully wrote out the letters one by one with her finger on the palm of her hand. And she blushed, as though she was doing something obscene.”

  “Strange,” said Seldon. “If the Book is an accurate guide, Aurora is their dearest memory, their chief point of unification, the center about which everything in Mycogen revolves. Why should its mention be considered obscene?-Are you sure you didn’t misinterpret what the Sister meant?”

  “I’m positive. And perhaps it’s no mystery. Too much talk about it would get to tribespeople. The best way of keeping it secret unto themselves is to make its very mention taboo.”

  “Taboo?”

  “A specialized anthropological term. It’s a reference to serious and effective social pressure forbidding some sort of action. The fact that women are not allowed in the Sacratorium probably has the force of a taboo. I’m sure that a Sister would be horrified if it was suggested that she invade its precincts.”

  “Are the directions you have good enough for me to get to the Sacratorium on my own?”

  “In the first place, Hari, you’re not going alone. I’m going with you. I thought we had discussed the matter and that I had made it clear that I cannot protect you at long distance-not from sleet storms and not from feral women. In the second place, it’s impractical to think of walking there. Mycogen may be a small sector, as sectors go, but it simply isn’t that small.”

  “An Expressway, then.”

  “There are no Expressways passing through Mycogenian territory. It would make contact between Mycogenians and tribespeople too easy. Still, there are public conveyances of the kind that are found on less developed planets. In fact, that’s what Mycogen is, a piece of an undeveloped planet, embedded like a splinter in the body of Trantor, which is otherwise a patchwork of developed societies.–and Hari, finish with the Book as soon as possible. It’s apparent that Rainbow Forty-Three is in trouble as long as you have it and so will we be if they find out.”

  “Do you mean a tribesperson reading it is taboo?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, it would be no great loss to give it back. I should say that 95 percent of it is incredibly dull; endless in-fighting among political groups, endless justification of policies whose wisdom I cannot possibly judge, endless homilies on ethical matters which, even when enlightened, and they usually aren’t, are couched with such infuriating self-righteousness as to almost enforce violation.”

  “You sound as though I would be doing you a great favor it I took the thing away from you.”

  “Except that there’s always the other 5 percent that discusses the never-to-be-mentioned Aurora. I keep thinking that there may be something there and that it may be helpful to me. That’s why I wanted to know about the Sacratorium.

  “Do you hope to find support for the Book’s concept of Aurora in the Sacratorium?”

  “In a way. And I’m also terribly caught up in what the Book has to say about automata, or robots, to use their term. I find myself attracted to the concept.”

  “Surely, you don’t take it seriously?”

  “Almost. If you accept some passages of the Book literally, then there is an implication that some robots were in human shape.”

  “Naturally. If you’re going to construct a simulacrum of a human being, you will make it look like a human being.”

  “Yes, simulacrum means ‘likeness, ‘but a likeness can be crude indeed. An artist can draw a stick figure and you might know he is representing a human being and recognize it. A circle for the head, a stalk for the body, and four bent lines for arms and legs and you have it. But I mean robots that really look like a human being, in every detail.”

  “Ridiculous, Hari. Imagine the time it would take to fashion the metal of the body into perfect proportions, with the smooth curve of underlying muscles.”

  “Who said ‘metal, ‘Dors? The impression I got is that such robots were organic or pseudo-organic, that they were covered with skin, that you could not easily draw a distinction between them and human beings in any way.”

  “Does the Book say that?”

  “Not in so many words. The inference, however–”

  “Is your inference, Hari. You can’t take it seriously.”

  “Let me try. I find four things that I can deduce from what the Book says about robots–and I followed up every reference the index gave. First, as I say, they–or some of them-exactly resembled human beings; second, they had very extended life spans-if you want to call it that.”

  “Better say ‘effectiveness, ‘“said Dors, “or you’ll begin thinking of them as human altogether.”

  “Third,” said Seldon, ignoring her, “that some–or, at any rate, at least one-continues to live on to this day.”

  “Hart’, that’s one of the most widespread legends we have. The ancient hero does not die but remains in suspended animation, ready to return to save his people at some time of great need. Really, Hari.”

  “Fourth,” said Seldon, still not rising to the bait, “there are some lines that seem to indicate that the central temple–or the Sacratorium, if that’s what it is, though I haven’t found that word in the Book,
actually contains a robot.” He paused, then said, “Do you see?”

  Dors said, “No. What should I see?”

  “If we combine the four points, perhaps a robot that looks exactly like a human being and that is still alive, having been alive for, say, the last twenty thousand years, is in the Sacratorium.”

  “Come on, Hari, you can’t believe that.”

  “I don’t actually believe it, but I can’t entirely let go either. What if its true? What if-its only one chance out of a million, I admit it’s true? Don’t you see how useful he could be to me? He could remember the Galaxy as it was long before any reliable historical records existed. He might help make psychohistory possible.”

  “Even if it was true, do you suppose the Mycogenians would let you see and interview the robot?”

  “I don’t intend to ask permission. I can at least go to the Sacratorium and see if there’s something to interview first.”

  “Not now. Tomorrow at the earliest. And if you don’t think better of it by morning, we go.”

  “You told me yourself they don’t allow women–”

  “They allow women to look at it from outside, I’m sure, and I suspect that is all we’ll get to do.”

  And there she was adamant.

  Hari Seldon was perfectly willing to let Dors take the lead. She had been out in the main roadways of Mycogen and was more at home with them than he was.

  Dors Venabili, brows knitted, was less delighted with the prospect. She said, “We can easily get lost, you know.”

  “Not with that booklet,” said Seldon.

  She looked up at him impatiently. “Fix your mind on Mycogen, Hari. What I should have is a computomap, something I can ask questions of. This Mycogenian version is just a piece of folded plastic. I can’t tell this thing where I am. I can’t tell it by word of mouth and I can’t even tell it by pushing the necessary contacts. It can’t tell me anything either way. It’s a print thing.”

  “Then read what it says.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, but it’s written for people who are familiar with the system to begin with. We’ll have to ask.”

  “No, Dors. That would be a last resort. I don’t want to attract attention. I would rather we take our chances and try to find our own way, even if it means making one or two wrong turns.”

  Dors leafed through the booklet with great attention and then said grudgingly, “Well, it gives the Sacratorium important mention. I suppose that’s only natural. I presume everyone in Mycogen would want to get there at one time or another.” Then, after additional concentration, she said, “I’ll tell you what. There’s no way of taking a conveyance from here to there.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get excited. Apparently, there’s a way of getting from here to another conveyance that will take us there. We’ll have to change from one to another.”

  Seldon relaxed. “Well, of course. You can’t take an Expressway to half the places on Trantor without changing.”

  Dors cast an impatient glance at Seldon. “I know that too. It’s just that I’m used to having these things tell me so. When they expect you to find out for yourself, the simplest things can escape you for a while.”

  “All right, dear. Don’t snap. If you know the way now, lead. I will follow humbly.”

  And follow her he did, until they came to an intersection, where they stopped.

  Three white-kirtled males and a pair of gray-kirtled females were at the same intersection. Seldon tried a universal and general smile in their direction, but they responded with a blank stare and looked away.

  And then the conveyance came. It was an outmoded version of what Seldon, back on Helicon, would have called a gravi-bus. There were some twenty upholstered benches inside, each capable of holding four people. Each bench had its own doors on both sides of the bus. When it stopped, passengers emerged on either side. (For a moment, Seldon was concerned for those who got out on the traffic side of the gravi-bus, but then he noticed that every vehicle approaching from either direction stopped as it neared the bus. None passed it while it was not moving.)

  Dors pushed Seldon impatiently and he moved on to a bench where two adjoining seats were available. Dors followed after. (The men always got on and got off first, he noticed.)

  “Well, try.”

  “For instance,” she said and pointed to a smooth boxed-off area on the back of the bench directly before each of them. As soon as the conveyance had begun to move, words lit up, naming the next stop and the notable structures or crossways that were nearby.

  “Now, that will probably tell us when we’re approaching the changeover we want. At least the sector isn’t completely barbaric.”

  “Good,” said Seldon. Then, after a while, leaning toward Dors, he whispered, “No one is looking at us. It seems that artificial boundaries are set up to preserve individual privacy in any crowded place. Have you noticed that?”

  “I’ve always taken it for granted. If that’s going to be a rule of your psychohistory, no one will be very impressed by it.”

  As Dors had guessed, the direction plaque in front of them eventually announced the approach to the changeover for the direct line to the Sacratorium.

  They exited and again had to wait. Some buses ahead had already left this intersection, but another gravi-bus was already approaching. They were on a well-traveled route, which was not surprising; the Sacratorium was bound to be the center and heartbeat of the sector.

  They got on the gravi-bus and Seldon whispered, “We’re not paying.”

  “According to the map, public transportation is a free service.”

  Seldon thrust out his lower lip. “How civilized. I suppose that nothing is all of a piece, not backwardness, not barbarism, nothing.”

  But Dors nudged him and whispered, “Your rule is broken. We’re being watched. The man on your right.”

  52.

  Seldon’s eyes shifted briefly. The man to his right was rather thin and seemed quite old. He had dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, and Seldon was sure that he would have had black hair if he had not been depilated.

  He faced front again, thinking. This Brother was rather atypical. The few Brothers he had paid any attention to had been rather tall, lightskinned, and with blue or gray eyes. Of course, he had not seen enough of them to make a general rule.

  Then there was a light touch on the right sleeve of his kirtle. Seldon turned hesitantly and found himself looking at a card on which was written lightly, CAREFUL, TRIBESMAN!

  Seldon started and put a hand to his skincap automatically. The man next to him silently mouthed, “Hair.”

  Seldon’s hand found it, a tiny exposure of bristles at his temple. He must have disturbed the skincap at some point or another. Quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, he tugged the skincap, then made sure that it was snug under the pretence of stroking his head.

  He turned to his neighbor on his right, nodded slightly, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  His neighbor smiled and said in a normal speaking voice, “Going to the Sacratorium?”

  Seldon nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Easy guess. So am I. Shall we get off together?” His smile was friendly.

  “I’m with my-my–”

  “With your woman. Of course. All three together, then?”

  Seldon was not sure how to react. A quick look in the other direction showed him that Dors’s eyes were turned straight ahead. She was showing no interest in masculine conversation-an attitude appropriate for a Sister. However, Seldon felt a soft pat on his left knee, which he took (with perhaps little justification) to mean: “It’s all right.”

  In any case, his natural sense of courtesy was on that side and he said, “Yes, certainly.”

  There was no further conversation until the direction plaque told them they were arriving at the Sacratorium and Seldon’s Mycogenian friend was rising to get off.

  The gravi-bus made a wide turn about the perimeter of a large area of
the Sacratorium grounds and there was a general exodus when it came to a halt, the men sliding in front of the women to exit first. The women followed.

  The Mycogenian’s voice crackled a bit with age, but it was cheerful. He said, “It’s a little early for lunch my... friends, but take my word for it that things will be crowded in not too long a time. Would you be willing to buy something simple now and eat it outside? I am very familiar with this area and I know a good place.”

  Seldon wondered if this was a device to maneuver innocent tribespeople into something or other disreputable or costly, yet decided to chance it.

  “You’re very kind, “he said. “Since we are not at all familiar with the place, we will be glad to let you take the lead.”

  They bought lunch-sandwiches and a beverage that looked like milk at an open-air stand. Since it was a beautiful day and they were visitors, the old Mycogenian said, they would go to the Sacratorium grounds and eat out of doors, the better to become acquainted with their surroundings.

  During their walk, carrying their lunch, Seldon noted that, on a very small scale, the Sacratorium resembled the Imperial Palace and that the grounds around it resembled, on a minute scale, the Imperial grounds. He could scarcely believe that the Mycogenian people admired the Imperial institution or, indeed, did anything but hate and despise it, yet the cultural attraction was apparently not to be withstood.

  “It’s beautiful,” said the Mycogenian with obvious pride.

  “Quite,” said Seldon. “How it glistens in the daylight.”

  “The grounds around it, “he said, “are constructed in imitation of the government grounds on our Dawn World... in miniature, to be sure.”

  “Did you ever see the grounds of the Imperial Palace?” asked Seldon cautiously.

  The Mycogenian caught the implication and seemed in no way put out by it. “They Copied the Dawn World as best they could too.”

  Seldon doubted that in the extreme, but he said nothing.

  They came to a semicircular seat of white stonite, sparkling in the light as the Sacratorium did.

  “Good,” said the Mycogenian, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure. “No one’s taken my place. I call it mine only because it’s my favorite seat. It affords a beautiful view of the side wall of the Sacratorium past the trees. Please sit down. It’s not cold, I assure you. And your companion. She is welcome to sit too. She is a tribeswoman, I know, and has different customs. She... she may speak if she wishes.”