Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  “Now I can’t do anything of the sort. I have to put it before the Legislature. There are seventy-five hundred men and women who instantly turn into uncounted gaggles of geese the instant a suggestion is made. In the first place, where is the funding to come from? You can’t have, say, ten thousand more officers without having to pay ten thousand more salaries. Then, even if you agreed to something of the sort, who selects the new security officers? Who controls them?

  “The Legislature shouts at each other, argues, thunders, and lightens, and in the end—nothing is done. Hari, I couldn’t even do as small a thing as fix the broken dome lights you noticed. How much will it cost? Who’s in charge? Oh, the lights will be fixed, but it can easily take a few months to do it. That’s democracy.”

  Hari Seldon said, “As I recall, the Emperor Cleon was forever complaining that he could not do what he wished to do.”

  “The Emperor Cleon,” said Agis impatiently, “had two first-class First Ministers—Demerzel and yourself—and you each labored to keep Cleon from doing anything foolish. I have seventy-five hundred First Ministers, all of whom are foolish from start to finish. But surely, Hari, you haven’t come to complain to me about the attacks.”

  “No, I haven’t. Something much worse. Sire— Agis—I need credits.”

  The Emperor stared at him. “After what I’ve been telling you, Hari? I have no credits. —Oh yes, there’re credits to run this establishment, of course, but in order to get them I have to face my seventy-five hundred legislators. If you think I can go to them and say, ‘I want credits for my friend, Hari Seldon,’ and if you think I’ll get one quarter of what I ask for in anything less than two years, you’re crazy. It won’t happen.”

  He shrugged and said, more gently, “Don’t get me wrong, Hari. I would like to help you if I could. I would particularly like to help you for the sake of your granddaughter. Looking at her makes me feel as though I should give you all the credits you would like—but it can’t be done.”

  Seldon said, “Agis, if I don’t get funding, psychohistory will go down the drain—after nearly forty years.”

  “It’s come to nothing in nearly forty years, so why worry?”

  “Agis,” said Seldon, “there’s nothing more I can do now. The assaults on me were precisely because I’m a psychohistorian. People consider me a predictor of destruction.”

  The Emperor nodded. “You’re bad luck, Raven Seldon. I told you this earlier.”

  Seldon stood up wretchedly. “I’m through, then.”

  Wanda stood, too, next to Seldon, the top of her head reaching her grandfather’s shoulder. She gazed fixedly at the Emperor.

  As Hari turned to go, the Emperor said, “Wait. Wait. There’s a little verse I once memorized:

  ‘Ill fares the land

  To hastening ills a prey

  Where wealth accumulates

  And men decay.’ ”

  “What does it mean?” asked a dispirited Seldon.

  “It means that the Empire is steadily deteriorating and falling apart, but that doesn’t keep some individuals from growing rich. Why not turn to some of our wealthy entrepreneurs? They don’t have legislators and can, if they wish, simply sign a credit voucher.”

  Seldon stared. “I’ll try that.”

  22

  “Mr. Bindris,” said Hari Seldon, reaching out his hand to shake the other’s. “I am so glad to be able to see you. It was good of you to agree to see me.”

  “Why not?” said Terep Bindris jovially. “I know you well. Or, rather, I know of you well.”

  “That’s pleasant. I take it you’ve heard of psychohistory, then.”

  “Oh yes, what intelligent person hasn’t? Not that I understand anything about it, of course. And who is this young lady you have with you?”

  “My granddaughter, Wanda.”

  “A very pretty young woman.” He beamed. “Somehow I feel I’d be putty in her hands.”

  Wanda said, “I think you exaggerate, sir.”

  “No, really. Now, please, sit down and tell me what it is I can do for you.” He gestured expansively with his arm, indicating that they be seated on two overstuffed, richly brocaded chairs in front of the desk at which he sat. The chairs, like the ornate desk, the imposing carved doors which had slid back noiselessly at their arrival signal, and the gleaming obsidian floor of Bindris’s vast office, were of the finest quality. And, although his surroundings were impressive—and imposing—Bindris himself was not. The slight cordial man would not be taken, at first glance, for one of Trantor’s leading financial powerbrokers.

  “We’re here, sir, at the Emperor’s suggestion.”

  “The Emperor?”

  “Yes, he could not help us, but he thought a man like you might be able to do so. The question, of course, is credits.”

  Bindris’s face fell. “Credits?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well,” said Seldon, “for nearly forty years, psychohistory has been supported by the government. However, times change and the Empire is no longer what it was.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “The Emperor lacks the credits to support us or, even if he did have the credits, he couldn’t get the request for funding past the Legislature. He recommends, therefore, that I see businesspeople who, in the first place, still have credits and, in the second place, can simply write out a credit voucher.”

  There was a longish pause and Bindris finally said, “The Emperor, I’m afraid, knows nothing about business. —How many credits do you want?”

  “Mr. Bindris, we’re talking about an enormous task. I’m going to need several million.”

  “Several million!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bindris frowned. “Are we talking about a loan here? When do you expect to be able to pay it back?”

  “Well, Mr. Bindris, I can’t honestly say I ever expect to be able to pay it back. I’m looking for a gift.”

  “Even if I wanted to give you the credits—and let me tell you, for some strange reason I very much want to do so—I couldn’t. The Emperor may have his Legislature, but I have my Board members. I can’t make a gift of that sort without the Board’s permission and they’ll never grant it.”

  “Why not? Your firm is enormously wealthy. A few million would mean nothing to you.”

  “That sounds good,” said Bindris, “but I’m afraid that the firm is in a state of decline right now. Not sufficiently to bring us into serious trouble, but enough to make us unhappy. If the Empire is in a state of decay, different individual parts of it are decaying, too. We are in no position to hand out a few million. —I’m truly sorry.”

  Seldon sat there silently and Bindris seemed unhappy. He shook his head at last and said, “Look, Professor Seldon, I would really like to help you out, particularly for the sake of the young lady you have with you. It just can’t be done. —However, we’re not the only firm in Trantor. Try others, Professor. You may have better luck elsewhere.”

  “Well,” said Seldon, raising himself to his feet with an effort, “we shall try.”

  23

  Wanda’s eyes were filled with tears, but the emotion they represented was not sorrow but fury.

  “Grandpa,” she said, “I don’t understand it. I simply don’t understand it. We’ve been to four different firms. Each one was ruder and nastier to us than the one before. The fourth one just kicked us out. And since then, no one will let us in.”

  “It’s no mystery, Wanda,” said Seldon gently. “When we saw Bindris, he didn’t know what we were there for and he was perfectly friendly until I asked for a gift of a few million credits. Then he was a great deal less friendly. I imagine the word went out as to what we wanted and each additional time there was less friendliness until now, when people won’t receive us at all. Why should they? They’re not going to give us the credits we need, so why waste time with us?”

  Wanda’s anger turned on herself. “And what did I do? I just sat there. Nothing.”

/>   “I wouldn’t say that,” said Seldon. “Bindris was affected by you. It seems to me that he really wanted to give me the credits, largely because of you. You were pushing him and accomplishing something.”

  “Not nearly enough. Besides, all he cared about was that I was pretty.”

  “Not pretty,” muttered Seldon. “Beautiful. Very beautiful.”

  “So what do we do now, Grandpa?” asked Wanda. “After all these years, psychohistory will collapse.”

  “I suppose that,” said Seldon, “in a way, it’s something that can’t be helped. I’ve been predicting the breakdown of the Empire for nearly forty years and now that it’s come, psychohistory breaks down with it.”

  “But psychohistory will save the Empire, at least partly.”

  “I know it will, but I can’t force it to.”

  “Are you just going to let it collapse?”

  Seldon shook his head. “I’ll try to keep it from doing so, but I must admit that I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

  Wanda said, “I’m going to practice. There must be some way I can strengthen my push, make it easier for me to force people to do what I want them to do.”

  “I wish you could manage.”

  “What are you going to do, Grandpa?”

  “Well, nothing much. Two days ago, when I was on my way to see the Chief Librarian, I encountered three men in the Library who were arguing about psychohistory. For some reason, one of them impressed me very much. I urged him to come see me and he agreed. The appointment is for this afternoon at my office.”

  “Are you going to have him work for you?”

  “I would like to—if I have enough credits to pay him with. But it can’t hurt to talk with him. After all, what can I lose?”

  24

  The young man arrived at precisely 4 T.S.T. (Trantorian Standard Time) and Seldon smiled. He loved punctual people. He placed his hands on his desk and made ready to heave to his feet, but the young man said, “Please, Professor, I know you have a bad leg. You needn’t stand up.”

  Seldon said, “Thank you, young man. However, that does not mean that you cannot sit down. Please do.”

  The young man removed his jacket and sat down.

  Seldon said, “You must forgive me … when we met and set up this appointment, I neglected to learn your name—which is …?

  “Stettin Palver,” said the young man.

  “Ah. Palver! Palver! The name sounds familiar.”

  “It should, Professor. My grandfather boasted frequently of having known you.”

  “Your grandfather. Of course. Joramis Palver. He was two years younger than I was, as I recall. I tried to get him to join me in psychohistory, but he refused. He said there was no chance of his ever learning enough mathematics to make it possible. Too bad! How is Joramis, by the way?”

  Palver said solemnly, “I’m afraid that Joramis has gone the way of old men generally. He’s dead.”

  Seldon winced. Two years younger than he himself was—and dead. An old friend and they had lost touch to such a degree that, when death came, it did so unknowingly.

  Seldon sat there for a while and finally muttered, “I’m sorry.”

  The young man shrugged. “He had a good life.”

  “And you, young man, where did you have your schooling?”

  “Langano University.”

  Seldon frowned. “Langano? Stop me if I’m wrong, but that’s not on Trantor, is it?”

  “No. I wanted to try a different world. The Universities on Trantor, as you undoubtedly know very well, are all overcrowded. I wanted to find a place where I could study in peace.”

  “And what did you study?”

  “Nothing much. History. Not the sort of thing that would lead one to a good job.”

  (Another wince, even worse than the first. Dors Venabili had been a historian.)

  Seldon said, “But you’re back here on Trantor. Why is that?”

  “Credits. Jobs.”

  “As an historian?”

  Palver laughed. “Not a chance. I run a device that pulls and hauls. Not exactly a professional occupation.”

  Seldon looked at Palver with a twinge of envy. The contours of Palver’s arms and chest were highlighted by the thin fabric of his shirt. He was well muscled. Seldon had never himself been quite that muscular.

  Seldon said, “I presume that when you were at the University, you were on the boxing team.”

  “Who, me? Never. I’m a Twister.”

  “A Twister!” Seldon’s spirits jumped. “Are you from Helicon?”

  Palver said with a certain contempt, “You don’t have to come from Helicon to be a good Twister.”

  No, thought Seldon, but that’s where the best ones come from.

  However, he said nothing.

  He did say, though, “Well, your grandfather would not join me. How about you?”

  “Psychohistory?”

  “I heard you talking to the others when I first encountered you and it seemed to me that you were talking quite intelligently about psychohistory. Would you like to join me, then?”

  “As I said, Professor, I have a job.”

  “Pushing and hauling. Come, come.”

  “It pays well.”

  “Credits aren’t everything.”

  “They’re quite a bit. Now you, on the other hand, can’t pay me much. I’m quite certain that you’re short of credits.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m guessing, in a way, I suppose. —But am I wrong?”

  Seldon’s lips pressed together hard, then he said, “No, you’re not wrong and I can’t pay you much. I’m sorry. I suppose that ends our little interview.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Palver held up his hands. “Not quite so fast, please. We’re still talking about psychohistory. If I work for you, I will be taught psychohistory, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “In that case, credits aren’t everything, after all. I’ll make you a deal. You teach me all the psychohistory you can and you pay me whatever you can and I’ll get by somehow. How about it?”

  “Wonderful,” said Seldon joyously. “That sounds great. Now, one more thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve been attacked twice in recent weeks. The first time my son came to my defense, but he has since gone to Santanni. The second time I made use of my lead-filled walking stick. It worked, but I was dragged before a magistrate and accused of assault and battery—”

  “Why the attacks?” interjected Palver.

  “I am not popular. I have been preaching the Fall of the Empire for so long that, now that it is coming, I am blamed for it.”

  “I see. Now then, what does all that have to do with the one more thing you mentioned?”

  “I want you to be my bodyguard. You’re young, you’re strong, and, most of all, you’re a Twister. You’re exactly what I need.”

  “I suppose it can be managed,” Palver said with a smile.

  25

  “See there, Stettin,” Seldon said as the two were taking an early evening stroll in one of Trantor’s residential sectors near Streeling. The older man pointed to debris—assorted refuse jettisoned from passing ground-cars or dropped by careless pedestrians—strewn along the walkway. “In the old days,” Seldon continued, “you would never see litter like this. The security officers were vigilant and municipal maintenance crews provided round-the-clock upkeep of all public areas. But, most important, no one would even think of dumping his trash in such a manner. Trantor was our home; we took pride in it. Now”— Seldon shook his head sadly, resignedly, and sighed—“it’s—” He broke off abruptly.

  “You there, young man!” Seldon shouted at an ill-kempt fellow who had moments before passed them, going in the opposite direction. He was munching a treat just popped into his mouth; the wrapper had been tossed to the ground without so much as a downward glance. “Pick that up and dispose of it properly,” Seldon admonished as the young man eyed him sull
enly.

  “Pick it up yourself,” the boy snarled and then he turned and walked away.

  “It’s another sign of society’s breakdown, as predicted by your psychohistory, Professor Seldon,” Palver said.

  “Yes, Stettin. All around us the Empire is falling apart, piece by piece. In fact, it’s already smashed—there’s no turning back now. Apathy, decay, and greed have all played their parts in destroying the once-glorious Empire. And what will take its place? Why—”

  Here Seldon broke off at the sight of Palver’s face. The younger man seemed to be listening intently—but not to Seldon’s voice. His head was cocked to one side and his face had a far-off look. It was as if Palver were straining to hear some sound inaudible to everyone but himself.

  Suddenly he snapped back to the here and now. With an urgent glance around them, Palver took hold of Seldon’s arm. “Hari, quick, we must get away. They’re coming …” And then the still evening was broken by the harsh sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Seldon and Palver spun around, but it was too late; a band of attackers was upon them. This time, however, Hari Seldon was prepared. He immediately swung his cane in a wide arc around Palver and himself. At this, the three attackers—two boys and a girl, all teenage ruffians—laughed.

  “So, you’re not goin’ to make it easy, are you, old man?” snorted the boy who appeared to be the group’s ringleader. “Why, me and my buddies, we’ll take you out in two seconds flat. We’ll—” All of a sudden, the ringleader was down, the victim of a perfectly placed Twist-kick to his abdomen. The two ruffians who were still standing quickly dropped to a crouch in preparation for attack. But Palver was quicker. They, too, were felled almost before they knew what hit them.

  And then it was over—almost as soon as it started. Seldon stood off to the side, leaning heavily on his cane, shaking at the thought of his narrow escape. Palver, panting slightly from exertion, surveyed the scene. The three attackers were out cold on the deserted walkway under the darkening dome.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here quickly!” Palver urged again, only this time it was not the attackers they would be fleeing.