Foundation

  “In fact,” said Fara, happily, “you all seem to forget that Seldon was the greatest psychologist of our time and that he was the founder of our Foundation. It seems reasonable to assume that he used his science to determine the probable course of the history of the immediate future. If he did, as seems likely, I repeat, he would certainly have managed to find a way to warn us of danger and, perhaps, to point out a solution. The Encyclopedia was very dear to his heart, you know.”

  An aura of puzzled doubt prevailed. Pirenne hemmed. “Well, now, I don’t know. Psychology is a great science, but—there are no psychologists among us at the moment, I believe. It seems to me we’re on uncertain ground.”

  Fara turned to Hardin. “Didn’t you study psychology under Alurin?”

  Hardin answered, half in reverie: “Yes, I never completed my studies, though. I got tired of theory. I wanted to be a psychological engineer, but we lacked the facilities, so I did the next best thing—I went into politics. It’s practically the same thing.”

  “Well, what do you think of the Vault?”

  And Hardin replied cautiously, “I don’t know.”

  He did not say a word for the remainder of the meeting—even though it got back to the subject of the Chancellor of the Empire.

  In fact, he didn’t even listen. He’d been put on a new track and things were falling into place—just a little. Little angles were fitting together—one or two.

  And psychology was the key. He was sure of that.

  He was trying desperately to remember the psychological theory he had once learned—and from it he got one thing right at the start.

  A great psychologist such as Seldon could unravel human emotions and human reactions sufficiently to be able to predict broadly the historical sweep of the future.

  And what would that mean?

  4

  Lord Dorwin took snuff. He also had long hair, curled intricately and, quite obviously, artificially, to which were added a pair of fluffy, blond sideburns, which he fondled affectionately. Then, too, he spoke in overprecise statements and left out all the r’s.

  At the moment, Hardin had no time to think of more of the reasons for the instant detestation in which he had held the noble chancellor. Oh, yes, the elegant gestures of one hand with which he accompanied his remarks and the studied condescension with which he accompanied even a simple affirmative.

  But, at any rate, the problem now was to locate him. He had disappeared with Pirenne half an hour before—passed clean out of sight, blast him.

  Hardin was quite sure that his own absence during the preliminary discussions would quite suit Pirenne.

  But Pirenne had been seen in this wing and on this floor. It was simply a matter of trying every door. Halfway down, he said, “Ah!” and stepped into the darkened room. The profile of Lord Dorwin’s intricate hairdo was unmistakable against the lighted screen.

  Lord Dorwin looked up and said: “Ah, Hahdin. You ah looking foah us, no doubt?” He held out his snuffbox—overadorned and poor workmanship at that, noted Hardin—and was politely refused, whereat he helped himself to a pinch and smiled graciously.

  Pirenne scowled and Hardin met that with an expression of blank indifference.

  The only sound to break the short silence that followed was the clicking of the lid of Lord Dorwin’s snuffbox. And then he put it away and said:

  “A gweat achievement, this Encyclopedia of yoahs, Hahdin. A feat, indeed, to rank with the most majestic accomplishments of all time.”

  “Most of us think so, milord. It’s an accomplishment not quite accomplished as yet, however.”

  “Fwom the little I have seen of the efficiency of yoah Foundation, I have no feahs on that scoah.” And he nodded to Pirenne, who responded with a delighted bow.

  Quite a love feast, thought Hardin. “I wasn’t complaining about the lack of efficiency, milord, as much as of the definite excess of efficiency on the part of the Anacreonians—though in another and more destructive direction.”

  “Ah, yes, Anacweon.” A negligent wave of the hand. “I have just come from theah. Most bahbawous planet. It is thowoughly inconceivable that human beings could live heah in the Pewiphewy. The lack of the most elementawy wequiahments of a cultuahed gentleman; the absence of the most fundamental necessities foah comfoht and convenience—the uttah desuetude into which they—”

  Hardin interrupted dryly: “The Anacreonians, unfortunately, have all the elementary requirements for warfare and all the fundamental necessities for destruction.”

  “Quite, quite.” Lord Dorwin seemed annoyed, perhaps at being stopped midway in his sentence. “But we ahn’t to discuss business now, y’know. Weally, I’m othahwise concuhned. Doctah Piwenne, ahn’t you going to show me the second volume? Do, please.”

  The lights clicked out and for the next half hour Hardin might as well have been on Anacreon for all the attention they paid him. The book upon the screen made little sense to him, nor did he trouble to make the attempt to follow, but Lord Dorwin became quite humanly excited at times. Hardin noticed that during these moments of excitement the chancellor pronounced his r’s.

  When the lights went on again, Lord Dorwin said: “Mahvelous. Twuly mahvelous. You ah not, by chance, intewested in ahchaeology, ah you, Hahdin?”

  “Eh?” Hardin shook himself out of an abstracted reverie. “No, milord, can’t say I am. I’m a psychologist by original intention and a politician by final decision.”

  “Ah! No doubt intewesting studies. I, myself, y’know”—he helped himself to a giant pinch of snuff—“dabble in ahchaeology.”

  “Indeed?”

  “His lordship,” interrupted Pirenne, “is most thoroughly acquainted with the field.”

  “Well, p’haps I am, p’haps I am,” said his lordship complacently. “I have done an awful amount of wuhk in the science. Extwemely well-wead, in fact. I’ve gone thwough all of Jawdun, Obijasi, Kwomwill . . . oh, all of them, y’know.

  “I’ve heard of them, of course,” said Hardin, “but I’ve never read them.”

  “You should some day, my deah fellow. It would amply wepay you. Why, I cutainly considah it well wuhth the twip heah to the Pewiphewy to see this copy of Lameth. Would you believe it, my Libwawy totally lacks a copy. By the way, Doctah Piwenne, you have not fohgotten yoah pwomise to twans-develop a copy foah me befoah I leave?”

  “Only too pleased.”

  “Lameth, you must know,” continued the chancellor, pontifically, “pwesents a new and most intwesting addition to my pwevious knowledge of the ‘Owigin Question.’ ”

  “Which question?” asked Hardin.

  “The ‘Owigin Question.’ The place of the owigin of the human species, y’know. Suahly you must know that it is thought that owiginally the human wace occupied only one planetawy system.”

  “Well, yes, I know that.”

  “Of cohse, no one knows exactly which system it is—lost in the mists of antiquity. Theah ah theawies, howevah. Siwius, some say. Othahs insist on Alpha Centauwi, oah on Sol, oah on 61 Cygni—all in the Siwius sectah, you see.”

  “And what does Lameth say?”

  “Well, he goes off along a new twail completely. He twies to show that ahchaeological wemains on the thuhd planet of the Ahctuwian System show that humanity existed theah befoah theah wah any indications of space-twavel.”

  “And that means it was humanity’s birth planet?”

  “P’haps. I must wead it closely and weigh the evidence befoah I can say foah cuhtain. One must see just how weliable his obsuhvations ah.”

  Hardin remained silent for a short while. Then he said, “When did Lameth write his book?”

  “Oh—I should say about eight hundwed yeahs ago. Of cohse, he has based it lahgely on the pwevious wuhk of Gleen.”

  “Then why rely on him? Why not go to Arcturus and study the remains for yourself?”

  Lord Dorwin raised his eyebrows and took a pinch of snuff hurriedly. “Why, whatevah foah, my deah fellow?”

&
nbsp; “To get the information firsthand, of course.”

  “But wheah’s the necessity? It seems an uncommonly woundabout and hopelessly wigmawolish method of getting anywheahs. Look heah, now, I’ve got the wuhks of all the old mastahs—the gweat ahchaeologists of the past. I wigh them against each othah—balance the disagweements—analyze the conflicting statements—decide which is pwobably cowwect—and come to a conclusion. That is the scientific method. At least”—patronizingly—“as I see it. How insuffewably cwude it would be to go to Ahctuwus, oah to Sol, foah instance, and blundah about, when the old mastahs have covahed the gwound so much moah effectually than we could possibly hope to do.”

  Hardin murmured politely, “I see.”

  “Come, milord,” said Pirenne, “I think we had better be returning.”

  “Ah, yes. P’haps we had.”

  As they left the room, Hardin said suddenly, “Milord, may I ask a question?”

  Lord Dorwin smiled blandly and emphasized his answer with a gracious flutter of the hand. “Cuhtainly, my deah fellow. Only too happy to be of suhvice. If I can help you in any way fwom my pooah stoah of knowledge—”

  “It isn’t exactly about archaeology, milord.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s this: Last year we received news here in Terminus about the meltdown of a power plant on Planet V of Gamma Andromeda. We got the barest outline of the accident—no details at all. I wonder if you could tell me exactly what happened.”

  Pirenne’s mouth twisted. “I wonder you annoy his lordship with questions on totally irrelevant subjects.”

  “Not at all, Doctah Piwenne,” interceded the chancellor. “It is quite all wight. Theah isn’t much to say concuhning it in any case. The powah plant did undergo meltdown and it was quite a catastwophe, y’know. I believe wadiatsen damage. Weally, the govuhnment is sewiously considewing placing seveah westwictions upon the indiscwiminate use of nucleah powah—though that is not a thing for genewal publication, y’know.”

  “I understand,” said Hardin. “But what was wrong with the plant?”

  “Well, weally,” replied Lord Dorwin indifferently, “who knows? It had bwoken down some yeahs pweviously and it is thought that the weplacements and wepaiah wuhk wuh most infewiah. It is so difficult these days to find men who weally undahstand the moah technical details of ouah powah systems.” And he took a sorrowful pinch of snuff.

  “You realize,” said Hardin, “that the independent kingdoms of the Periphery have lost nuclear power altogether?”

  “Have they? I’m not at all suhpwised. Bahbawous planets—Oh, but my deah fellow, don’t call them independent. They ahn’t, y’know. The tweaties we’ve made with them ah pwoof positive of that. They acknowledge the soveweignty of the Empewah. They’d have to, of cohse, oah we wouldn’t tweat with them.”

  “That may be so, but they have considerable freedom of action.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Considewable. But that scahcely mattahs. The Empiah is fah bettah off, with the Pewiphewy thwown upon its own wesoahces—as it is, moah oah less. They ahn’t any good to us, y’know. Most bahbawous planets. Scahcely civilized.”

  “They were civilized in the past. Anacreon was one of the richest of the outlying provinces. I understand it compared favorably with Vega itself.”

  “Oh, but, Hahdin, that was centuwies ago. You can scahcely dwaw conclusion fwom that. Things wah diffewent in the old gweat days. We ahn’t the men we used to be, y’know. But, Hahdin, come, you ah a most puhsistent chap. I’ve told you I simply won’t discuss business today. Doctah Piweme did pwepayah me foah you. He told me you would twy to badgah me, but I’m fah too old a hand foah that. Leave it foah next day.”

  And that was that.

  5

  This was the second meeting of the Board that Hardin had attended, if one were to exclude the informal talks the Board members had had with the now-departed Lord Dorwin. Yet the mayor had a perfectly definite idea that at least one other, and possibly two or three, had been held, to which he had somehow never received an invitation.

  Nor, it seemed to him, would he have received notification of this one had it not been for the ultimatum.

  At least, it amounted to an ultimatum, though a superficial reading of the visigraphed document would lead one to suppose that it was a friendly interchange of greetings between two potentates.

  Hardin fingered it gingerly. It started off floridly with a salutation from “His Puissant Majesty, the King of Anacreon, to his friend and brother, Dr. Lewis Pirenne, Chairman of the Board of Trustees, of the Encyclopedia Foundation Number One,” and it ended even more lavishly with a gigantic, multicolored seal of the most involved symbolism.

  But it was an ultimatum just the same.

  Hardin said: “It turned out that we didn’t have much time after all—only three months. But little as it was, we threw it away unused. This thing here gives us a week. What do we do now?”

  Pirenne frowned worriedly. “There must be a loophole. It is absolutely unbelievable that they would push matters to extremities in the face of what Lord Dorwin has assured us regarding the attitude of the Emperor and the Empire.”

  Hardin perked up. “I see. You have informed the King of Anacreon of this alleged attitude?”

  “I did—after having placed the proposal to the Board for a vote and having received unanimous consent.”

  “And when did this vote take place?”

  Pirenne climbed onto his dignity. “I do not believe I am answerable to you in any way, Mayor Hardin.”

  “All right. I’m not that vitally interested. It’s just my opinion that it was your diplomatic transmission of Lord Dorwin’s valuable contribution to the situation”—he lifted the corner of his mouth in a sour half-smile—“that was the direct cause of this friendly little note. They might have delayed longer otherwise—though I don’t think the additional time would have helped Terminus any, considering the attitude of the Board.”

  Said Yate Fulham: “And just how do you arrive at that remarkable conclusion, Mr. Mayor?”

  “In a rather simple way. It merely required the use of that much-neglected commodity—common sense. You see, there is a branch of human knowledge known as symbolic logic, which can be used to prune away all sorts of clogging deadwood that clutters up human language.”

  “What about it?” said Fulham.

  “I applied it. Among other things, I applied it to this document here. I didn’t really need to for myself because I knew what it was all about, but I think I can explain it more easily to five physical scientists by symbols rather than by words.”

  Hardin removed a few sheets of paper from the pad under his arm and spread them out. “I didn’t do this myself, by the way,” he said. “Muller Holk of the Division of Logic has his name signed to the analyses, as you can see.”

  Pirenne leaned over the table to get a better view and Hardin continued: “The message from Anacreon was a simple problem, naturally, for the men who wrote it were men of action rather than men of words. It boils down easily and straightforwardly to the unqualified statement, which in symbols is what you see, and which in words, roughly translated, is, ‘You give us what we want in a week, or we take it by force.’ ”

  There was silence as the five members of the Board ran down the line of symbols, and then Pirenne sat down and coughed uneasily.

  Hardin said, “No loophole, is there, Dr. Pirenne?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be.”

  “All right.” Hardin replaced the sheets. “Before you now you see a copy of the treaty between the Empire and Anacreon—a treaty, incidentally, which is signed on the Emperor’s behalf by the same Lord Dorwin who was here last week—and with it a symbolic analysis.”

  The treaty ran through five pages of fine print and the analysis was scrawled out in just under half a page.

  “As you see, gentlemen, something like ninety percent of the treaty boiled right out of the analysis as being meaningless, and what we end up with can be descr
ibed in the following interesting manner:

  “Obligations of Anacreon to the Empire: None!”

  “Powers of the Empire over Anacreon: None!”

  Again the five followed the reasoning anxiously, checking carefully back to the treaty, and when they were finished, Pirenne said in a worried fashion, “That seems to be correct.”

  “You admit, then, that the treaty is nothing but a declaration of total independence on the part of Anacreon and a recognition of that status by the Empire?”

  “It seems so.”

  “And do you suppose that Anacreon doesn’t realize that, and is not anxious to emphasize the position of independence—so that it would naturally tend to resent any appearance of threats from the Empire? Particularly when it is evident that the Empire is powerless to fulfill any such threats, or it would never have allowed independence.”

  “But then,” interposed Sutt, “how would Mayor Hardin account for Lord Dorwin’s assurances of Empire support? They seemed—” He shrugged. “Well, they seemed satisfactory.”

  Hardin threw himself back in the chair. “You know, that’s the most interesting part of the whole business. I’ll admit I had thought his Lordship a most consummate donkey when I first met him—but it turned out that he was actually an accomplished diplomat and a most clever man. I took the libety of recording all his statements.”

  There was a flurry, and Pirenne opened his mouth in horror.

  “What of it?” demanded Hardin. “I realize it was a gross breach of hospitality and a thing no so-called gentleman would do. Also, that if his lordship had caught on, things might have been unpleasant; but he didn’t, and I have the record, and that’s that. I took that record, had it copied out and sent that to Holk for analysis, also.”

  Lundin Crast said, “And where is the analysis?”

  “That,” replied Hardin, “is the interesting thing. The analysis was the most difficult of the three by all odds. When Holk, after two days of steady work, succeeded in eliminating meaningless statements, vague gibberish, useless qualifications—in short, all the goo and dribble—he found he had nothing left. Everything canceled out.