Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  “If you want to help him, have fifty guards of the Palace standing shoulder to shoulder on either side of your gardeners.”

  “No. Again, we’ll end up with nothing. The Imperial Guard will be in place but not in evidence. The gardeners in question must think they have a clear hand to do whatever it is they plan to do. Before they can do so, but after they have made it quite plain what they intend—we’ll have them.”

  “That’s risky. It’s risky for Raych.”

  “Risks are something we have to take. There’s more riding on this than individual lives.”

  “That is a heartless thing to say.”

  “You think I have no heart? Even if it broke, my concern would have to be with psycho—”

  “Don’t say it.” She turned away, as if in pain.

  “I understand,” said Seldon, “but you mustn’t be there. Your presence would be so inappropriate that the conspirators will suspect we know too much and will abort their plan. I don’t want their plan aborted.”

  He paused, then said softly, “Dors, you say your job is to protect me. That comes before protecting Raych and you know that. I wouldn’t insist on it, but to protect me is to protect psychohistory and the entire human species. That must come first. What I have of psychohistory tells me that I, in turn, must protect the center at all costs and that is what I am trying to do. —Do you understand?”

  Dors said, “I understand,” then turned away from him.

  Seldon thought: And I hope I’m right.

  If he weren’t, she would never forgive him. Far worse, he would never forgive himself—psychohistory or not.

  24

  They were lined up beautifully, feet spread apart, hands behind their backs, every one in a natty green uniform, loosely fitted and with wide pockets. There was very little gender differential and one could only guess that some of the shorter ones were women. The hoods covered whatever hair they had, but then, gardeners were supposed to clip their hair quite short—either sex—and there could be no facial hair.

  Why that should be, one couldn’t say. The word “tradition” covered it all, as it covered so many things, some useful, some foolish.

  Facing them was Mandell Gruber, flanked on either side by an assistant. Gruber was trembling, his wide-opened eyes glazed.

  Hari Seldon’s lips tightened. If Gruber could but manage to say, “The Emperor’s gardeners greet you all,” that would be enough. Seldon himself would then take over.

  His eyes swept over the new contingent and he located Raych.

  His heart jumped a bit. It was the mustacheless Raych in the front row, standing more rigid than the rest, staring straight ahead. His eyes did not move to meet Seldon’s; he showed no sign of recognition, however subtle.

  Good, thought Seldon. He’s not supposed to. He’s giving nothing away.

  Gruber muttered a weak welcome and Seldon jumped in.

  He advanced with an easy stride, putting himself immediately before Gruber, and said, “Thank you, Gardener First-Class. Men and women, gardeners of the Emperor, you are to undertake an important task. You will be responsible for the beauty and health of the only open land on our great world of Trantor, capital of the Galactic Empire. You will see to it that if we don’t have the endless vistas of open undomed worlds, we will have a small jewel here that will outshine anything else in the Empire.

  “You will all be under Mandell Gruber, who will shortly become Chief Gardener. He will report to me, when necessary, and I will report to the Emperor. This means, as you can all see, that you will be only three levels removed from the Imperial presence and you will always be under his benign watch. I am certain that even now he is surveying us from the Small Palace, his personal home, which is the building you see to the right—the one with the opal-layered dome—and that he is pleased with what he sees.

  “Before you start work, of course, you will all undertake a course of training that will make you entirely familiar with the grounds and its needs. You will—”

  He had, by this time, moved, almost stealthily, to a point directly in front of Raych, who still remained motionless, unblinking.

  Seldon tried not to look unnaturally benign and then a slight frown crossed his face. The person directly behind Raych looked familiar. He might have gone unrecognized if Seldon had not studied his hologram. Wasn’t that Gleb Andorin of Wye? Raych’s patron in Wye, in fact? What was he doing here?

  Andorin must have noticed Seldon’s sudden regard, for he muttered something between scarcely opened lips and Raych’s right arm, moving forward from behind his back, plucked a blaster out of the wide pocket of his green doublet. So did Andorin.

  Seldon felt himself going into near-shock. How could blasters have been allowed onto the grounds? Confused, he barely heard the cries of “Treason!” and the sudden noise of running and shouting.

  All that really occupied Seldon’s mind was Raych’s blaster pointing directly at him and Raych looking at him without any sign of recognition. Seldon’s mind filled with horror as he realized that his son was going to shoot and that he himself was only seconds from death.

  25

  A blaster, despite its name, does not “blast” in the proper sense of the term. It vaporizes and blows out an interior and—if anything—causes an implosion. There is a soft sighing sound, leaving what appears to be a “blasted” object.

  Hari Seldon did not expect to hear that sound. He expected only death. It was, therefore, with surprise that he heard the distinctive soft sighing sound and he blinked rapidly as he looked down at himself, slack-jawed.

  He was alive? (He thought it as a question, not a statement.)

  Raych was still standing there, his blaster pointing forward, his eyes glazed. He was absolutely motionless, as though some motive power had ceased.

  Behind him was the crumpled body of Andorin, fallen in a pool of blood, and standing next to him, blaster in hand, was a gardener. The hood had slipped away; the gardener was clearly a woman with freshly clipped hair.

  She allowed herself a glance at Seldon and said, “Your son knows me as Manella Dubanqua. I’m a security officer. Do you want my reference number, First Minister?”

  “No,” said Seldon faintly. Imperial Guard had converged on the scene. “My son! What’s wrong with my son?”

  “Desperance, I think,” said Manella. “That can be washed out eventually.” She reached forward to take the blaster out of Raych’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner. I had to wait for an overt move and, when it came, it almost caught me napping.”

  “I had the same trouble. We must take Raych to the Palace hospital.”

  A confused noise suddenly emanated from the Small Palace. It occurred to Seldon that the Emperor was, indeed, watching the proceedings and, if so, he must be grandly furious, indeed.

  “Take care of my son, Miss Dubanqua,” said Seldon. “I must see the Emperor.”

  He set off at an undignified run through the chaos on the Great Lawns and dashed into the Small Palace without ceremony. Cleon could scarcely grow any angrier over that.

  And there, with an appalled group watching in stupor—there, on the semicircular stairway—was the body of His Imperial Majesty, Cleon I, smashed all but beyond recognition. His rich Imperial robes now served as a shroud. Cowering against the wall, staring stupidly at the horrified faces surrounding him, was Mandell Gruber.

  Seldon felt he could take no more. He took in the blaster lying at Gruber’s feet. It had been Andorin’s, he was sure. He asked softly, “Gruber, what have you done?”

  Gruber, staring at him, babbled, “Everyone screaming and yelling. I thought, Who would know? They would think someone else had killed the Emperor. But then I couldn’t run.”

  “But, Gruber. Why?”

  “So I wouldn’t have to be Chief Gardener.” And he collapsed.

  Seldon stared in shock at the unconscious Gruber.

  Everything had worked out by the narrowest of margins. He himself was alive. Raych was alive
. Andorin was dead and the Joranumite Conspiracy would now be hunted down to the last person.

  The center would have held, just as psychohistory had dictated.

  And then one man, for a reason so trivial as to defy analysis, had killed the Emperor.

  And now, thought Seldon in despair, what do we do? What happens next?

  PART 3

  DORS VENABILI

  VENABILI, DORS— The life of Hari Seldon is well encrusted with legend and uncertainty, so that little hope remains of ever obtaining a biography that can be thoroughly factual. Perhaps the most puzzling aspect of his life deals with his consort, Dors Venabili. There is no information whatever concerning Dors Venabili, except for her birth on the world of Cinna, prior to her arrival at Streeling University to become a member of the history faculty. Shortly after that, she met Seldon and remained his consort for twenty-eight years. If anything, her life is more interlarded with legend than Seldon’s is. There are quite unbelievable tales of her strength and speed and she was widely spoken of, or perhaps whispered of, as “The Tiger Woman.” Still more puzzling than her coming, however, is her going, for after a certain time, we hear of her no more and there is no indication as to what happened.

  Her role as a historian is evidenced by her works on—

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  1

  Wanda was almost eight years old now, going by Galactic Standard Time—as everyone did. She was quite the little lady—grave in manner, with straight light-brown hair. Her eyes were blue but were darkening and she might well end with the brown eyes of her father.

  She sat there, lost in thought. —Sixty.

  That was the number that preoccupied her. Grandfather was going to have a birthday and it was going to be his sixtieth—and sixty was a large number. It bothered her because yesterday she had had a bad dream about it.

  She went in search of her mother. She would have to ask.

  Her mother was not hard to find. She was talking to Grandfather—about the birthday surely. Wanda hesitated. It wouldn’t be nice to ask in front of Grandfather.

  Her mother had no trouble whatever sensing Wanda’s consternation. She said, “One minute, Hari, and let’s see what’s bothering Wanda. What is it, dear?”

  Wanda pulled at her hand. “Not here, Mother. Private.”

  Manella turned to Hari Seldon. “See how early it starts? Private lives. Private problems. Of course, Wanda, shall we go to your room?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Wanda was clearly relieved.

  Hand in hand, they went and then her mother said, “Now what is the problem, Wanda?”

  “It’s Grandfather, Mother.”

  “Grandfather! I can’t imagine him doing anything to bother you.”

  “Well, he is.” Wanda’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “Is he going to die?”

  “Your grandfather? What put that into your head, Wanda?”

  “He’s going to be sixty. That’s so old.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s not young, but it’s not old, either. People live to be eighty, ninety, even a hundred—and your grandfather is strong and healthy. He’ll live a long time.”

  “Are you sure?” She was sniffing.

  Manella grasped her daughter by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “We must all die someday, Wanda. I’ve explained that to you before. Just the same, we don’t worry about it till the someday is much closer.” She wiped Wanda’s eyes gently. “Grandfather is going to stay alive till you’re all grown up and have babies of your own. You’ll see. Now come back with me. I want you to talk to Grandfather.”

  Wanda sniffed again.

  Seldon looked at the little girl with a sympathetic expression on her return and said, “What is it, Wanda? Why are you unhappy?”

  Wanda shook her head.

  Seldon turned his gaze to the girl’s mother. “Well, what is it, Manella?”

  Manella shook her head. “She’ll have to tell you herself.”

  Seldon sat down and tapped his lap. “Come, Wanda. Have a seat and tell me your troubles.”

  She obeyed and wriggled a bit, then said, “I’m scared.”

  Seldon put his arm around her. “Nothing to be scared of in your old grandfather.”

  Manella made a face. “Wrong word.”

  Seldon looked up at her. “Grandfather?”

  “No. Old.”

  That seemed to break the dike. Wanda burst into tears. “You’re old, Grandfather.”

  “I suppose so. I’m sixty.” He bent his face down to Wanda’s and whispered, “I don’t like it, either, Wanda. That’s why I’m glad you’re only seven going on eight.”

  “Your hair is white, Grandpa.”

  “It wasn’t always. It just turned white recently.”

  “White hair means you’re going to die, Grandpa.”

  Seldon looked shocked. He said to Manella, “What is all this?”

  “I don’t know, Hari. It’s her own idea.”

  “I had a bad dream,” said Wanda.

  Seldon cleared his throat. “We all have bad dreams now and then, Wanda. It’s good we do. Bad dreams get rid of bad thoughts and then we’re better off.”

  “It was about you dying, Grandfather.”

  “I know. I know. Dreams can be about dying, but that doesn’t make them important. Look at me. Don’t you see how alive I am—and cheerful—and laughing? Do I look as though I’m dying? Tell me.”

  “N-no.”

  “There you are, then. Now you go out and play and forget all about this. I’m just having a birthday and everyone will have a good time. Go ahead, dear.”

  Wanda left in reasonable cheer, but Seldon motioned to Manella to stay.

  2

  Seldon said, “Wherever do you think Wanda got such a notion?”

  “Come now, Hari. She had a Salvanian gecko that died, remember? One of her friends had a father who died in an accident and she sees deaths on holovision all the time. It is impossible for any child to be so protected as not to be aware of death. Actually I wouldn’t want her to be so protected. Death is an essential part of life; she must learn that.”

  “I don’t mean death in general, Manella. I mean my death in particular. What has put that into her head?”

  Manella hesitated. She was very fond, indeed, of Hari Seldon. She thought, Who would not be, so how can I say this?

  But how could she not say this? So she said, “Hari, you yourself put it into her head.”

  “I?”

  “Of course, you’ve been speaking for months of turning sixty and complaining loudly of growing old. The only reason people are setting up this party is to console you.”

  “It’s no fun turning sixty,” said Seldon indignantly. “Wait! Wait! You’ll find out.”

  “I will—if I’m lucky. Some people don’t make it to sixty. Just the same, if turning sixty and being old are all you talk about, you end up frightening an impressionable little girl.”

  Seldon sighed and looked troubled. “I’m sorry, but it’s hard. Look at my hands. They’re getting spotted and soon they’ll be gnarled. I can do hardly anything in the way of Twisting any longer. A child could probably force me to my knees.”

  “In what way does that make you different from other sixty-year-olds? At least your brain is working as well as ever. How often have you said that that’s all that counts?”

  “I know. But I miss my body.”

  Manella said with just a touch of malice, “Especially when Dors doesn’t seem to get any older.”

  Seldon said uneasily, “Well yes, I suppose—” He looked away, clearly unwilling to talk about the matter.

  Manella looked at her father-in-law gravely. The trouble was, he knew nothing about children—or about people generally. It was hard to think that he had spent ten years as First Minister under the old Emperor and yet ended up knowing as little about people as he did.

  Of course, he was entirely wrapped up in this psychohistory of his, that dealt with quadrillions of peopl
e, which ultimately meant dealing with no people at all—as individuals. And how could he know about children when he had had no contact with any child except Raych, who had entered his life as a twelve-year-old? Now he had Wanda, who was—and would probably remain to him—an utter mystery.

  Manella thought all this lovingly. She had the incredible desire to protect Hari Seldon from a world he did not understand. It was the only point at which she and her mother-in-law, Dors Venabili, met and coalesced—this desire to protect Hari Seldon.

  Manella had saved Seldon’s life ten years before. Dors, in her strange way, had considered this an invasion of her prerogative and had never quite forgiven Manella.

  Seldon, in his turn, had then saved Manella’s life. She closed her eyes briefly and the whole scene returned to her, almost as though it were happening to her right now.

  3

  It was a week after the assassination of Cleon—and a horrible week it had been. All of Trantor was in chaos.

  Hari Seldon still kept his office as First Minister, but it was clear he had no power. He called in Manella Dubanqua.

  “I want to thank you for saving Raych’s life and my own. I haven’t had a chance to do so yet.” Then with a sigh, “I have scarcely had a chance to do anything this past week.”

  Manella asked, “What happened to the mad gardener?”

  “Executed! At once! No trial! I tried to save him by pointing out that he was insane. But there was no question about it. If he had done anything else, committed any other crime, his madness would have been recognized and he would have been spared. Committed—locked up and treated—but spared, nonetheless. But to kill the Emperor—” Seldon shook his head sadly.

  Manella said, “What’s going to happen now, First Minister?”