“I have to work.”
“Call in sick if you have to. It’s important.”
“Well, I’m not sure, sir.”
“Do it,” said Seldon. “If you get into any sort of trouble over it, I’ll straighten it out. And meanwhile, gentlemen, do you mind if I study the Galaxy simulation for a moment? It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at one.”
They nodded mutely, apparently abashed at being in the presence of a former First Minister. One by one the men stepped back and allowed Seldon access to the Galactograph controls.
Seldon’s finger reached out to the controls and the red that had marked off the Province of Anacreon vanished. The Galaxy was unmarked, a glowing pinwheel of mist brightening into the spherical glow at the center, behind which was the Galactic black hole.
Individual stars could not be made out, of course, unless the view were magnified, but then only one portion or another of the Galaxy would be shown on the screen and Seldon wanted to see the whole thing—to get a look at the Empire that was vanishing.
He pushed a contact and a series of yellow dots appeared on the Galactic image. They represented the habitable planets—twenty-five million of them. They could be distinguished as individual dots in the thin fog that represented the outskirts of the Galaxy, but they were more and more thickly placed as one moved in toward the center. There was a belt of what seemed solid yellow (but which would separate into individual dots under magnification) around the central glow. The central glow itself remained white and unmarked, of course. No habitable planets could exist in the midst of the turbulent energies of the core.
Despite the great density of yellow, not one star in ten thousand, Seldon knew, had a habitable planet circling it. This was true, despite the planet-molding and terraforming capacities of humanity. Not all the molding in the Galaxy could make most of the worlds into anything a human being could walk on in comfort and without the protection of a spacesuit.
Seldon closed another contact. The yellow dots disappeared, but one tiny region glowed blue: Trantor and the various worlds directly dependent on it. As close as it could be to the central core and yet remaining insulated from its deadliness, it was commonly viewed as being located at the “center of the Galaxy,” which it wasn’t—not truly. As usual, one had to be impressed by the smallness of the world of Trantor, a tiny place in the vast realm of the Galaxy, but within it was squeezed the largest concentration of wealth, culture, and governmental authority that humanity had ever seen.
And even that was doomed to destruction.
It was almost as though the men could read his mind or perhaps they interpreted the sad expression on his face.
Baldy asked softly, “Is the Empire really going to be destroyed?”
Seldon replied, softer still, “It might. It might. Anything might happen.”
He rose, smiled at the men, and left, but in his thoughts he screamed: It will! It will!
2
Seldon sighed as he climbed into one of the skitters that were ranked side by side in the large alcove. There had been a time, just a few years ago, when he had gloried in walking briskly along the interminable corridors of the Library, telling himself that even though he was past sixty he could manage it.
But now, at seventy, his legs gave way all too quickly and he had to take a skitter. Younger men took them all the time because skitters saved them trouble, but Seldon did it because he had to—and that made all the difference.
After Seldon punched in the destination, he closed a contact and the skitter lifted a fraction of an inch above the floor. Off it went at a rather casual pace, very smoothly, very silently, and Seldon leaned back and watched the corridor walls, the other skitters, the occasional walkers.
He passed a number of Librarians and, even after all these years, he still smiled when he saw them. They were the oldest Guild in the Empire, the one with the most revered traditions, and they clung to ways that were more appropriate centuries before—maybe millennia before.
Their garments were silky and off-white and were loose enough to be almost gownlike, coming together at the neck and billowing out from there.
Trantor, like all the worlds, oscillated, where the males were concerned, between facial hair and smoothness. The people of Trantor itself—or at least most of its sectors—were smooth-shaven and had been smooth-shaven for as far back as he knew—excepting such anomalies as the mustaches worn by Dahlites, such as his own foster son, Raych.
The Librarians, however, clung to the beards of long ago. Every Librarian had a rather short neatly cultivated beard running from ear to ear but leaving bare the upper lip. That alone was enough to mark them for what they were and to make the smooth-shaven Seldon feel a little uncomfortable when surrounded by a crowd of them.
Actually the most characteristic thing of all was the cap each wore (perhaps even when asleep, Seldon thought). Square, it was made of a velvety material, in four parts that came together with a button at the top. The caps came in an endless variety of colors and apparently each color had significance. If you were familiar with Librarian lore, you could tell a particular Librarian’s length of service, area of expertise, grades of accomplishment, and so on. They helped fix a pecking order. Every Librarian could, by a glance at another’s hat, tell whether to be respectful (and to what degree) or overbearing (and to what degree).
The Galactic Library was the largest single structure on Trantor (possibly in the Galaxy), much larger than even the Imperial Palace, and it had once gleamed and glittered, as though boasting of its size and magnificence. However, like the Empire itself, it had faded and withered. It was like an old dowager still wearing the jewels of her youth but upon a body that was wrinkled and wattled.
The skitter stopped in front of the ornate doorway of the Chief Librarian’s office and Seldon climbed out.
Las Zenow smiled as he greeted Seldon. “Welcome, my friend,” he said in his high-pitched voice. (Seldon wondered if he had ever sung tenor in his younger days but had never dared to ask. The Chief Librarian was a compound of dignity always and the question might have seemed offensive.)
“Greetings,” said Seldon. Zenow had a gray beard, rather more than halfway to white, and he wore a pure white hat. Seldon understood that without any explanation. It was a case of reverse ostentation. The total absence of color represented the highest peak of position.
Zenow rubbed his hands with what seemed to be an inner glee. “I’ve called you in, Hari, because I’ve got good news for you. —We’ve found it!”
“By ‘it,’ Las, you mean—”
“A suitable world. You wanted one far out. I think we’ve located the ideal one.” His smile broadened. “You just leave it to the Library, Hari. We can find anything.”
“I have no doubt, Las. Tell me about this world.”
“Well, let me show you its location first.” A section of the wall slid aside, the lights in the room dimmed, and the Galaxy appeared in three-dimensional form, turning slowly. Again, red lines marked off the Province of Anacreon, so that Seldon could almost swear that the episode with the three men had been a rehearsal for this.
And then a brilliant blue dot appeared at the far end of the province. “There it is,” said Zenow. “It’s an ideal world. Sizable, well-watered, good oxygen atmosphere, vegetation, of course. A great deal of sea life. It’s there just for the taking. No planet-molding or terraforming required—or, at least, none that cannot be done while it is actually occupied.”
Seldon said, “Is it an unoccupied world, Las?”
“Absolutely unoccupied. No one on it.”
“But why—if it’s so suitable? I presume that, if you have all the details about it, it must have been explored. Why wasn’t it colonized?”
“It was explored, but only by unmanned probes. And there was no colonization—presumably because it was so far from everything. The planet revolves around a star that is farther from the central black hole than that of any inhabited planet—farther by far. T
oo far, I suppose, for prospective colonists, but I think not too far for you. You said, ‘The farther, the better.’ ”
“Yes,” said Seldon, nodding. “I still say so. Does it have a name or is there just a letter-number combination?”
“Believe it or not, it has a name. Those who sent out the probes named it Terminus, an archaic word meaning ‘the end of the line.’ Which it would seem to be.”
Seldon said, “Is the world part of the territory of the Province of Anacreon?”
“Not really,” said Zenow. “If you’ll study the red line and the red shading, you will see that the blue dot of Terminus lies slightly outside it—fifty light-years outside it, in fact. Terminus belongs to nobody; it’s not even part of the Empire, as a matter of fact.”
“You’re right, then, Las. It does seem like the ideal world I’ve been looking for.”
“Of course,” said Zenow thoughtfully, “once you occupy Terminus, I imagine the Governor of Anacreon will claim it as being under his jurisdiction.”
“That’s possible,” said Seldon, “but we’ll have to deal with that when the matter comes up.”
Zenow rubbed his hands again. “What a glorious conception. Setting up a huge project on a brand-new world, far away and entirely isolated, so that year by year and decade by decade a huge Encyclopedia of all human knowledge can be put together. An epitome of what is present in this Library. If I were only younger, I would love to join the expedition.”
Seldon said sadly, “You’re almost twenty years younger than I am.” (Almost everyone is far younger than I am, he thought, even more sadly.)
Zenow said, “Ah yes, I heard that you just passed your seventieth birthday. I hope you enjoyed it and celebrated appropriately.”
Seldon stirred. “I don’t celebrate my birthdays.”
“Oh, but you did. I remember the famous story of your sixtieth birthday.”
Seldon felt the pain, as deeply as though the dearest loss in all the world had taken place the day before. “Please don’t talk about it,” he said.
Abashed, Zenow said, “I’m sorry. We’ll talk about something else. —If, indeed, Terminus is the world you want, I imagine that your work on the preliminaries to the Encyclopedia Project will be redoubled. As you know, the Library will be glad to help you in all respects.”
“I’m aware of it, Las, and I am endlessly grateful. We will, indeed, keep working.”
He rose, not yet able to smile after the sharp pang induced by the reference to his birthday celebration of ten years back. He said, “So I must go to continue my labors.”
And as he left, he felt, as always, a pang of conscience over the deceit he was practicing. Las Zenow did not have the slightest idea of Seldon’s true intentions.
3
Hari Seldon surveyed the comfortable suite that had been his personal office at the Galactic Library these past few years. It, like the rest of the Library, had a vague air of decay about it, a kind of weariness—something that had been too long in one place. And yet Seldon knew it might remain here, in the same place, for centuries more—with judicious rebuildings—for millennia even.
How did he come to be here?
Over and over again, he felt the past in his mind, ran his mental tendrils along the line of development of his life. It was part of growing older, no doubt. There was so much more in the past, so much less in the future, that the mind turned away from the looming shadow ahead to contemplate the safety of what had gone before.
In his case, though, there was that change. For over thirty years psychohistory had developed in what might almost be considered a straight line—progress creepingly slow but moving straight ahead. Then six years ago there had been a right-angled turn—totally unexpected.
And Seldon knew exactly how it had happened, how a concatenation of events came together to make it possible.
It was Wanda, of course, Seldon’s granddaughter. Hari closed his eyes and settled into his chair to review the events of six years before.
Twelve-year-old Wanda was bereft. Her mother, Manella, had had another child, another little girl, Bellis, and for a time the new baby was a total preoccupation.
Her father, Raych, having finished his book on his home sector of Dahl, found it to be a minor success and himself a minor celebrity. He was called upon to talk on the subject, something he accepted with alacrity, for he was fiercely absorbed in the subject and, as he said to Hari with a grin, “When I talk about Dahl, I don’t have to hide my Dahlite accent. In fact, the public expects it of me.”
The net result, though, was that he was away from home a considerable amount of time and when he wasn’t, it was the baby he wanted to see.
As for Dors—Dors was gone—and to Hari Seldon that wound was ever-fresh, ever-painful. And he had reacted to it in an unfortunate manner. It had been Wanda’s dream that had set in motion the current of events that had ended with the loss of Dors.
Wanda had had nothing to do with it—Seldon knew that very well. And yet he found himself shrinking from her, so that he also failed her in the crisis brought about by the birth of the new baby.
And Wanda wandered disconsolately to the one person who always seemed glad to see her, the one person she could always count on. That was Yugo Amaryl, second only to Hari Seldon in the development of psychohistory and first in his absolute round-the-clock devotion to it. Hari had had Dors and Raych, but psychohistory was Yugo’s life; he had no wife and children. Yet whenever Wanda came into his presence, something within him recognized her as a child and he dimly felt—for just that moment—a sense of loss that seemed to be assuaged only by showing the child affection. To be sure, he tended to treat her as a rather undersized adult, but Wanda seemed to like that.
It was six years ago that she had wandered into Yugo’s office. Yugo looked up at her with his owlish reconstituted eyes and, as usual, took a moment or two to recognize her.
Then he said, “Why, it’s my dear friend Wanda. —But why do you look so sad? Surely an attractive young woman like you should never feel sad.”
And Wanda, her lower lip trembling, said, “Nobody loves me.”
“Oh come, that’s not true.”
“They just love that new baby. They don’t care about me anymore.”
“I love you, Wanda.”
“Well, you’re the only one then, Uncle Yugo.” And even though she could no longer crawl onto his lap as she had when she was younger, she cradled her head on his shoulder and wept.
Amaryl, totally unaware of what he should do, could only hug the girl and say, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” And out of sheer sympathy and because he had so little in his own life to weep about, he found that tears were trickling down his own cheeks as well.
And then he said with sudden energy, “Wanda, would you like to see something pretty?”
“What?” sniffled Wanda.
Amaryl knew only one thing in life and the Universe that was pretty. He said, “Did you ever see the Prime Radiant?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s what yuor grandfather and I use to do our work. See? It’s right here.”
He pointed to the black cube on his desk and Wanda looked at it woefully. “That’s not pretty,” she said.
“Not now,” agreed Amaryl. “But watch when I turn it on.”
He did so. The room darkened and filled with dots of light and flashes of different colors. “See? Now we can magnify it so all the dots become mathematical symbols.”
And so they did. There seemed a rush of material toward them and there, in the air, were signs of all sorts, letters, numbers, arrows, and shapes that Wanda had never seen before.
“Isn’t it pretty?” asked Amaryl.
“Yes, it is,” said Wanda, staring carefully at the equations that (she didn’t know) represented possible futures. “I don’t like that part, though. I think it’s wrong.” She pointed at a colorful equation to her left.
“Wrong? Why do you say it’s wrong?” said Amaryl, frowning. br />
“Because it’s not … pretty. I’d do it a different way.”
Amaryl cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll try to fix it up.” And he moved closer to the equation in question, staring at it in his owlish fashion.
Wanda said, “Thank you very much, Uncle Yugo, for showing me your pretty lights. Maybe someday I’ll understand what they mean.”
“That’s all right,” said Amaryl. “I hope you feel better.”
“A little, thanks,” and, after flashing the briefest of smiles, she left the room.
Amaryl stood there, feeling a trifle hurt. He didn’t like having the Prime Radiant’s product criticized—not even by a twelve-year-old girl who knew no better.
And as he stood there, he had no idea whatsoever that the psychohistorical revolution had begun.
4
That afternoon Amaryl went to Hari Seldon’s office at Streeling University. That in itself was unusual, for Amaryl virtually never left his own office, even to speak with a colleague just down the hall.
“Hari,” said Amaryl, frowning and looking puzzled. “Something very odd has happened. Very peculiar.”
Seldon looked at Amaryl with deepest sorrow. He was only fifty-three, but he looked much older, bent, worn down to almost transparency. When forced, he had undergone doctors’ examinations and the doctors had all recommended that he leave his work for a period of time (some said permanently) and rest. Only this, the doctors said, might improve his health. Otherwise— Seldon shook his head. “Take him away from his work and he’ll die all the sooner—and unhappier. We have no choice.”
And then Seldon realized that, lost in such thoughts, he was not hearing Amaryl speak.
He said, “I’m sorry, Yugo. I’m a little distracted. Begin again.”
Amaryl said, “I’m telling you that something very odd has happened. Very peculiar.”