by Isaac Asimov
She thought: Hari will someday leave a void, and each day that someday is closer, and I must not think of it.
It was to rid herself of the thought that she finally interrupted him. “What are you thinking of, Hari?”
“What?” Seldon focused his eyes with an apparent effort.
“Psychohistory, I assume. I imagine you’ve traced another blind pathway.”
“Well now. That’s not on my mind at all.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking of? —Hair!”
“Hair? Whose?”
“Right now, yours.” He was looking at her fondly.
“Is there something wrong with it? Should I dye it another color? Or perhaps, after all these years, it should go gray.”
“Come! Who needs or wants gray in your hair. —But it’s led me to other things. Nishaya, for instance.”
“Nishaya? What’s that?”
“It was never part of the pre-Imperial Kingdom of Trantor, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s a world, a small one. Isolated. Unimportant. Overlooked. I only know anything at all about it because I’ve taken the trouble to look it up. Very few worlds out of twenty-five million can really make much of a sustained splash, but I doubt that there’s another one as insignificant as Nishaya. Which is very significant, you see.”
Dors shoved her reference material to one side and said, “What is this new penchant you have for paradox, which you always tell me you detest? What is this significance of insignificance?”
“Oh, I don’t mind paradoxes when I perpetrate them. You see, Joranum comes from Nishaya.”
“Ah, it’s Joranum you’re concerned with.”
“Yes. I’ve been viewing some of his speeches—at Raych’s insistence. They don’t make very much sense, but the total effect can be almost hypnotic. Raych is very impressed by him.”
“I imagine that anyone of Dahlite origins would be, Hari. Joranum’s constant call for sector equality would naturally appeal to the downtrodden heatsinkers. You remember when we were in Dahl?”
“I remember it very well and of course I don’t blame the lad. It just bothers me that Joranum comes from Nishaya.”
Dors shrugged. “Well, Joranum has to come from somewhere and, conversely, Nishaya, like any other world, must send its people out at times, even to Trantor.”
“Yes, but, as I’ve said, I’ve taken the trouble to investigate Nishaya. I’ve even managed to make hyperspatial contact with some minor official—which cost a considerable quantity of credits that I cannot, in good conscience, charge to the department.”
“And did you find anything that was worth the credits?”
“I rather think so. You know, Joranum is always telling little stories to make his points, stories that are legends on his home planet of Nishaya. That serves a good purpose for him here on Trantor, since it makes him appear to be a man of the people, full of homespun philosophy. Those tales litter his speeches. They make him appear to be from a small world, to have been brought up on an isolated farm surrounded by an untamed ecology. People like it, especially Trantorians, who would rather die than be trapped somewhere in an untamed ecology but who love to dream about one just the same.”
“But what of it all?”
“The odd point is that not one of the stories was familiar to the person I spoke to on Nishaya.”
“That’s not significant, Hari. It may be a small world, but it’s a world. What is current in Joranum’s birth section of the world may not be current in whatever place your official came from.”
“No no. Folktales, in one form or another, are usually worldwide. But aside from that, I had considerable trouble in understanding the fellow. He spoke Galactic Standard with a thick accent. I spoke to a few others on the world, just to check, and they all had the same accent.”
“And what of that?”
“Joranum doesn’t have it. He speaks a fairly good Trantorian. It’s a lot better than mine, actually. I have the Heliconian stress on the letter ‘r.’ He doesn’t. According to the records, he arrived on Trantor when he was nineteen. It is just impossible, in my opinion, to spend the first nineteen years of your life speaking that barbarous Nishayan version of Galactic Standard and then come to Trantor and lose it. However long he’s been here, some trace of the accent would have remained—Look at Raych and the way he lapses into his Dahlite way of speaking on occasion.”
“What do you deduce from all this?”
“What I deduce—what I’ve been sitting here all evening, deducing like a deduction machine—is that Joranum didn’t come from Nishaya at all. In fact, I think he picked Nishaya as the place to pretend to come from, simply because it is so backwoodsy, so out-of-the-way, that no one would think of checking it. He must have made a thorough computer search to find the one world least likely to allow him to be caught in a lie.”
“But that’s ridiculous, Hari. Why should he want to pretend to be from a world he did not come from? It would mean a great deal of falsification of records.”
“And that’s precisely what he has probably done. He probably has enough followers in the civil service to make that possible. Probably no one person has done as much in the way of revision and all of his followers are too fanatical to talk about it.”
“But still— Why?”
“Because I suspect Joranum doesn’t want people to know where he really comes from.”
“Why not? All worlds in the Empire are equal, both by laws and by custom.”
“I don’t know about that. These high-ideal theories are somehow never borne out in real life.”
“Then where does he come from? Do you have any idea at all?”
“Yes. Which brings us back to this matter of hair.”
“What about hair?”
“I sat there with Joranum, staring at him and feeling uneasy, without knowing why I was feeling uneasy. Then finally I realized that it was his hair that made me uneasy. There was something about it, a life, a gloss … a perfection to it that I’ve never seen before. And then I knew. His hair is artificial and carefully grown on a scalp that ought to be innocent of such things.”
“Ought to be?” Dors’s eyes narrowed. It was clear that she suddenly understood. “Do you mean—”
“Yes, I do mean. He’s from the past-centered, mythology-ridden Mycogen Sector of Trantor. That’s what he’s been laboring to hide.”
10
Dors Venabili thought coolly about the matter. It was her only mode of thought—cool. Not for her the hot flashes of emotion.
She closed her eyes to concentrate. It had been eight years since she and Hari had visited Mycogen and they hadn’t been there long. There had been little to admire there except the food.
The pictures arose. The harsh, puritanical, male-centered society; the emphasis on the past; the removal of all body hair, a painful process deliberately self-imposed to make themselves different so that they would “know who they were”; their legends; their memories (or fancies) of a time when they ruled the Galaxy, when their lives were prolonged, when robots existed.
Dors opened her eyes and said, “Why, Hari?”
“Why what, dear?”
“Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?”
She didn’t think he would remember Mycogen in greater detail than she; in fact, she knew he wouldn’t, but his mind was better than hers—different, certainly. Hers was a mind that only remembered and drew the obvious inferences in the fashion of a mathematic line of deduction. He had a mind that leaped unexpectedly. Seldon liked to pretend that intuition was solely the province of his assistant, Yugo Amaryl, but Dors was not fooled by that. Seldon liked to pose as the unworldly mathematician who stared at the world out of perpetually wondering eyes, but she was not fooled by that, either.
“Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?” she repeated as he sat there, his eyes lost in an inward look that Dors always associated with his attempt to squeeze one more tiny drop of usefulness and validity
out of the concepts of psychohistory.
Seldon said finally, “It’s a harsh society, a limiting society. There are always those who chafe over its manner of dictating every action and every thought. There are always those who find they cannot entirely be broken to the harness, who want the greater liberties available in the more secular world outside. It’s understandable.”
“So they force the growth of artificial hair?”
“No, not generally. The average Breakaway—that’s what the Mycogenians call the deserters and they despise them, of course—wears a wig. It’s much simpler but much less effective. Really serious Breakaways grow false hair, I’m told. The process is difficult and expensive but is almost unnoticeable. I’ve never come across it before, though I’ve heard of it. I’ve spent years studying all eight hundred sectors of Trantor, trying to work out the basic rules and mathematics of psychohistory. I have little enough to show for it, unfortunately, but I have learned a few things.”
“But why, then, do the Breakaways have to hide the fact that they’re from Mycogen? They’re not persecuted that I know of.”
“No, they’re not. In fact, there’s no general impression that Mycogenians are inferior. It’s worse than that. The Mycogenians aren’t taken seriously. They’re intelligent—everyone admits that—highly educated, dignified, cultured, wizards with food, almost frightening in their capacity to keep their sector prosperous—but no one takes them seriously. Their beliefs strike people outside Mycogen as ridiculous, humorous, unbelievably foolish. And that view clings even to Mycogenians who are Breakaways. A Mycogenian attempt to seize power in the government would be crushed by laughter. Being feared is nothing. Being despised, even, can be lived with. But being laughed at—that’s fatal. Joranum wants to be First Minister, so he must have hair, and, to be comfortable, he must represent himself as having been brought up on some obscure world as far from Mycogen as he can possibly manage.”
“Surely there are some people who are naturally bald.”
“Never as completely depilated as Mycogenians force themselves to be. On the Outer Worlds, it wouldn’t matter much. But Mycogen is a distant whisper to the Outer Worlds. The Mycogenians keep themselves so much to themselves that it is a rare one, indeed, who has ever left Trantor. Here on Trantor, though, it’s different. People might be bald, but they usually have a fringe of hair that advertises them as non-Mycogenian—or they grow facial hair. Those very few who are completely hairless—usually a pathological condition—are out of luck. I imagine they have to go around with a doctor’s certificate to prove they are not Mycogenians.”
Dors, frowning slightly, said, “Does this help us any?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Couldn’t you let it be known that he is a Mycogenian?”
“I’m not sure that could be done easily. He must have covered his tracks well and even if it could be done—”
“Yes?”
Seldon shrugged. “I don’t want to invite an appeal to bigotry. The social situation on Trantor is bad enough without running the risk of loosing passions that neither I nor anyone else could then control. If I do have to resort to the matter of Mycogen, it will only be as a last resort.”
“Then you want minimalism, too.”
“Of course.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I made an appointment with Demerzel. He may know what to do.”
Dors looked at him sharply. “Hari, are you falling into the trap of expecting Demerzel to solve every problem for you?”
“No, but perhaps he’ll solve this one.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll have to think of something else, won’t I?”
“Like what?”
A look of pain crossed Seldon’s face. “Dors, I don’t know. Don’t expect me to solve every problem, either.”
11
Eto Demerzel was not frequently seen, except by the Emperor Cleon. It was his policy to remain in the background for a variety of reasons, one of which was that his appearance changed so little with time.
Hari Seldon had not seen him over a period of some years and had not spoken to him truly in private since the days of his early time on Trantor.
In light of Seldon’s recent unsettling meeting with Laskin Joranum, both Seldon and Demerzel felt it would be best not to advertise their relationship. A visit by Hari Seldon to the First Minister’s office at the Imperial Palace would not go unnoticed, and so for reasons of security they had decided to meet in a small yet luxuriously appointed suite at the Dome’s Edge Hotel, just outside the Palace grounds.
Seeing Demerzel now brought back the old days achingly. The mere fact that Demerzel still looked exactly as he always had made the ache sharper. His face still had its strong regular features. He was still tall and sturdy-looking, with the same dark hair with the hint of blond. He was not handsome, but was gravely distinguished. He looked like someone’s ideal pictures of what an Imperial First Minister ought to look like, not at all like any such official in history before his time ever had. It was his appearance, Seldon thought, that gave him half his power over the Emperor, and therefore over the Imperial Court, and therefore over the Empire.
Demerzel advanced toward him, a gentle smile curving his lips without altering in any way the gravity of his countenance.
“Hari,” he said. “It is pleasant to see you. I was half-afraid you would change your mind and cancel.”
“I was more than half-afraid you would, First Minister.”
“Eto—if you fear using my real name.”
“I couldn’t. It won’t come out of me. You know that.”
“It will to me. Say it. I would rather like to hear it.”
Seldon hesitated, as though he couldn’t believe his lips could frame the words or his vocal cords sound them. “Daneel,” he said at length.
“R. Daneel Olivaw,” said Demerzel. “Yes. You will dine with me, Hari. If I dine with you, I won’t have to eat, which will be a relief.”
“Gladly, though one-way eating is not my idea of a convivial time. Surely a bite or two—”
“To please you—”
“Just the same,” said Seldon, “I can’t help but wonder if it is wise to spend too much time together.”
“It is. Imperial orders. His Imperial Majesty wants me to.”
“Why, Daneel?”
“In two more years the Decennial Convention will be meeting again. —You look surprised. Have you forgotten?”
“Not really. I just haven’t thought about it.”
“Were you not going to attend? You were a hit at the last one.”
“Yes. With my psychohistory. Some hit.”
“You attracted the attention of the Emperor. No other mathematician did.”
“It was you who were initially attracted, not the Emperor. Then I had to flee and stay out of the Imperial notice until such time as I could assure you that I had made a start on my psychohistorical research, after which you allowed me to remain in safe obscurity.”
“Being the head of a prestigious Mathematics Department is scarcely obscurity.”
“Yes, it is, since it hides my psychohistory.”
“Ah, the food is arriving. For a while, let’s talk about other things as befits friends. How is Dors?”
“Wonderful. A true wife. Hounds me to death with her worries over my safety.”
“That is her job.”
“So she reminds me—frequently. Seriously, Daneel, I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for bringing us together.”
“Thank you, Hari, but, to be truthful, I did not foresee married happiness for either of you, especially not Dors—”
“Thank you for the gift just the same, however short of the actual consequences your expectations were.”
“I’m delighted, but it is a gift, you will find, that may be of dubious further consequence—as is my friendship.”
To this, Seldon could make no reply and so, at a gesture from Demerz
el, he turned to his meal.
After a while, he nodded at the morsel of fish on his fork and said, “I don’t actually recognize the organism, but this is Mycogenian cooking.”
“Yes, it is. I know you are fond of it.”
“It’s the Mycogenians’ excuse for existence. Their only excuse. But they have special meaning to you. I mustn’t forget that.”
“The special meaning has come to an end. Their ancestors, long, long ago, inhabited the planet of Aurora. They lived three hundred years and more and were the lords of the Fifty Worlds of the Galaxy. It was an Auroran who first designed and produced me. I don’t forget that; I remember it far more accurately—and with less distortion—than their Mycogenian descendants do. But then, long, long ago, I left them. I made my choice as to what the good of humanity must be and I have followed it, as best I could, all this time.”
Seldon said with sudden alarm, “Can we be overheard?”
Demerzel seemed amused. “If you have only thought of that now, it is far too late. But fear not, I have taken the necessary precautions. Nor have you been seen by too many eyes when you came. Nor will you be seen by too many when you leave. And those who do see you will not be surprised. I am well known to be an amateur mathematician of great pretensions but of little ability. That is a source of amusement to those at the court who are not entirely my friends and it would not surprise anyone here that I should be concerned about laying the groundwork for the forthcoming Decennial Convention. It is about the convention that I wish to consult you.”
“I don’t know that I can help. There is only one thing I could possibly talk about at the convention—and I can’t talk about it. If I attend at all, it will only be as part of the audience. I do not intend to present any papers.”