Foundation's Fear (48 page)

Gregory Benford
—physicist, educator, author—was born in Mobile Alabama. He is a professor of physics at the University of California-Irvine, and conducts research in plasma turbulence theory and experiment, and in astrophysics. He has published well over a hundred papers. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and a visiting professor at Cambridge University and has served as an advisor to the Department of Energy, NASA, and the White House Council on Space Policy.

Many of his best-known novels are part of a six-novel sequence beginning in the near future with
In the Ocean of Night
, and continuing on with
Across the Sea of Suns
. The series then leaps to the far future, at the center of our galaxy, where a desperate human drama unfolds, beginning with
Great Sky River
, and proceeding through
Tides of Light, Furious Gulf
, and concluding with
Sailing Bright Eternity
. At the series’ end the links to the earlier novels emerge, revealing a single unfolding tapestry against an immense background.

“[Benford] brings out the complexities of a galactic empire that Asimov never filled out…the first book stands well on its own.”

—
Denver Post

“[Benford] took on the huge task of answering questions [raised in the original], and difficult as it may sound, he pulled it off with style…. Rest assured, Asimov’s work is in good hands.”

—Craig E. Engler
Editor and Publisher
of
Science Fiction Weekly

“A richly rewarding delight…Benford writes up to his usual high standard and excels in bringing Asimovian concepts…to vivid, visually compelling life.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Intriguing and engrossing…[a] curious blend of reinventions and retrospective criticism.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

Foundation’s Fear

by Gregory Benford

Foundation and Chaos

by Greg Bear

Foundation’s Triumph

by David Brin

By Isaac Asimov

Gold: The Final Science Fiction Collection

Magic: The Final Fantasy Collection

Isaac Asimov’s History of I-Botics

Isaac Asimov’s I-Bots: Time Was

by Steve Perry and Gary A. Braunbeck

Published by HarperPrism

Credits

Cover illustration © 1997 by Jean Targete

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

FOUNDATION’S FEAR
. Copyright © 1997 by Gregory Binford. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

ISBN 0-06-114953-5

A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1997 by HarperPrism

First paperback printing: March 1998

10 9 8 7

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Hari Seldon stood alone in the lift, thinking.

The door slid open. A woman asked if this elevator was going up or down. Distracted, he answered, “Yes.” Her surprised look told him that somehow his reply was off target. Only after the door closed on her puzzled stare did he see that she meant
which
way, not
if.

He was in the habit of making precise distinctions; the world was not.

He walked into his office, still barely aware of his surroundings, and Cleon’s 3D blossomed in the air before he could sit down. The Emperor awaited no filter programs.

“I was so happy to hear you had returned from holiday!” Cleon beamed.

“Pleased, sire.” What did he want?

Hari decided not to tell him all that had transpired. Daneel had stressed secrecy. Only this morning, after a zigzag route down from the wormyards, had Hari let his presence be known even to the Imperial Specials.

“I fear you arrive at a difficult time.” Cleon scowled. “Lamurk is moving for a vote in the High Council on the First Ministership.”

“How many votes can he muster?”

“Enough that I cannot ignore the Council. I will be forced to appoint him despite my own likes.”

“I am sorry for that, sire.” In fact, his heart leaped.

“I have maneuvered against him, but…” An elaborate sigh. Cleon chewed at his ample lower lip. Had the man gained weight again? Or were Hari’s perceptions altered by his time of shortened diet on Panucopia? Most Trantorians looked pudgy to him now. “Then, too, is this irritating matter of Sark and its confounded New Renaissance. The muddle grows. Could this spread to other worlds in their Zone? Would those throw in with them? You have studied this?”

“In detail.”

“Using psychohistory?”

Hari gave way to his gut instinct. “Unrest will grow there.”

“You’re sure?”

He wasn’t, but—“I suggest you move against it.”

“Lamurk favors Sark. He says it will bring new prosperity.”

“He wants to ride this discord into office.”

“Overt opposition from me at this delicate time would be…unpolitic.”

“Even though he might be behind the attempts on my life?”

“Alas, there is no proof of that. As ever, several factions would benefit were you to…” Cleon coughed uncomfortably.

“Withdraw—involuntarily?”

Cleon’s mouth worked uneasily. “An Emperor is father to a perpetually unruly family.”

If even the Emperor were tip-toeing around
Lamurk, matters were indeed bad. “Couldn’t you position squadrons for quick use should the opportunity arise?”

Cleon nodded. “I shall. But if the High Council votes for Lamurk, I shall be powerless to move against so prominent and, well,
exciting
a world as Sark.”

“I believe strife will spread throughout Sark’s entire Zone.”

“Truly? What would you advise me to do against Lamurk?”

“I have no political skills, sire. You knew that.”

“Nonsense. You have psychohistory!”

Hari was still uncomfortable owning up to the theory, even with Cleon. If it were ever to be useful, word of psychohistory could not be widespread, or else everyone would use it. Or try to.

Cleon went on, “And your solution to the terrorist problem—it is working well. We just executed Moron One Hundred.”

Hari shuddered, thinking of the lives obliterated by a mere passing idea of his. “A…a small issue, surely, sire.”

“Then turn your calculations to the Dahlite Sector matter, Hari. They are restive.
Everyone
is, these days.”

“And the Zones of Dahlite persuasion throughout the Galaxy?”

“They back the local Dahlites in the Councils. It’s about this representation question. The plan we follow on Trantor will be mirrored throughout the Galaxy. Indeed, in the votes of whole Zones.”

“Well, if most people think—”

“Ah, my dear Hari, you still have a mathist’s myopia. History is determined not by what people think, but by what they feel.”

Startled—for this remark struck him as true—Hari could only say, “I see, sire.”

“We—you and I, Hari—must decide this issue.”

“I’ll work on the decision, sire.”

How he had come to hate the very word!
Decide
had the same root as
suicide
and
homicide.
Decisions
felt
like little killings. Somebody lost.

Hari now knew why he was not cut out for these matters. If his skin was too thin, he would have too ready empathy with others, with their arguments and sentiments. Then he would not make decisions which he knew could only be approximately right and would cause some pain.

On the other hand, he had to steel himself against the personal need to be liked. In a natural politician, that would lead to a posture that
said
he cared about others, when in fact he cared what
they
thought of
him
—because being liked was what counted, far down in the shadowy psyche. It also came in handy for staying in office.

Cleon brought up more issues. Hari dodged and stalled as much as he could. When Cleon abruptly ended the talk, he knew he had not come over well. He had no chance to reflect on this, for Yugo came in.

“I’m so glad you’re back!” Yugo grinned. “The Dahl issue really needs your attention—”

“Enough!” Hari could not vent his ire at the Emperor, but Yugo would do nicely. “No political talk. Show me your research progress.”

“Uh, all right.”

Yugo looked chastened and Hari at once regretted being so abrupt. Yugo hurried to set up his latest data displays. Hari blinked; for a moment, he had seen in Yugo’s haste an odd similarity to pan gestures.

Hari listened, thinking along two tracks at once. This, too, seemed easier since Panucopia.

Plagues were building across the entire Empire. Why?

With rapid transport between worlds, diseases
thrived. Humans were the major petri dish. Ancient maladies and virulent new plagues appeared around distant stars. This inhibited Zonal integration, another hidden factor.

Diseases filled an ecological niche, and for some, humanity was a snug nook. Antibiotics knocked down infections, which then mutated and returned, more virulent still. Humanity and microbes made an intriguing system, for both sides fought back quickly.

Cures propagated quickly through the wormhole system, but so did disease carriers. The entire problem, Yugo had found, could be described by a method known as “marginal stability,” in which disease and people struck an uneasy, ever-shifting balance. Major plagues were rare, but minor ones became common. Afflictions rose and inventive science damped them within a generation. This oscillation sent further ripples spreading among other human institutions, radiating into commerce and culture. With intricate coupling terms in the equations, he saw patterns emerging, with one sad consequence.

The human lifespan in the “natural” civilized human condition—living in cities and towns—had an equally “natural” limit. While some few attained 150 years, most died well short of 100. The steady hail of fresh disease insured it. In the end, there was no lasting shelter from the storm of biology. Humans lived in troubled balance with microbes, an unending struggle with no final victories.

“Like this tiktok revolt,” Yugo finished.

Hari jerked to attention. “What?”

“It’s like a virus. Dunno what’s spreading it, though.”

“All over Trantor?”

“That’s the focus, seems like. Others Zones are getting tiktok troubles, too.”

“They refuse to harvest food?”

“Yup. Some of the tiktoks, mostly the recent models, 590s and higher—they say it’s immoral to eat other living things.”

“Good grief.”

Hari remembered breakfast. Even after the exotica of Panucopia, the autokitchen’s meager offering had been a shock. Trantorian food had always been cooked or ground, blended or compounded. Properly, fruit was presented as a sauce or preserve. To his surprise, breakfast appeared to have come straight from the dirt. He had wondered if it had been washed—and how he would know for sure. Trantorians hated their meals to remind them of the natural world.

“They’re refusing to work the Caverns, even,” Yugo said.

“But that’s essential!”

“Nobody can fix ’em. There’s some tiktok meme invading them.”

“Like these plagues you’re analyzing.”

Hari had been shocked at Trantor’s erosion in just a few months. He and Dors had slipped into Streeling with Daneel’s help, amid messy, trash-strewn corridors with phosphors malfunctioning, lifts dead. Now this.

Yugo’s stomach suddenly rumbled. “Uh, sorry. People are having to work the Caverns for the first time in centuries! They have no hands-on experience. Everybody but the gentry’s on slim rations.”

Hari had helped Yugo escape that sweltering work years before. In vast vaults, wood and coarse cellulose passed automatically from the solar caverns to vats of weak acid. Passing through deep rivers of acid hydrolyzed this to glucose. Now people, not rugged tiktoks, had to mix niter suspensions and ground phosphate rock in a carefully
calculated slurry. With prepared organics stirred in, a vast range of yeasts and their derivatives emerged.

“The Emperor has to
do
somethin’!” Yugo said.

“Or I,” Hari said. But what?

“People’re sayin’ we have to scrap
all
the tiktoks, not just the Five Hundred series, and do everything ourselves.”

“Without them, we would be reduced to hauling bulk foods across the Galaxy by hypership and worms—an absurdity. Trantor will fall.”

“Hey, we can do better than
tiktoks.
”

“My dear Yugo, that is what I call Echo-Nomics. You’re repeating conventional wisdom. One must consider the larger picture. Trantorians aren’t the same people who built this world. They’re softer.”

“We’re as tough and smart as the men and women who built the Empire!”

“They didn’t stay indoors.”

“Old Dahlite sayin’.” Yugo grinned. “If you don’t like the grand picture, just apply dog logic to life. Get petted, eat often, be lovable and loved, sleep a lot, dream of a leash-free world.”

Despite himself, Hari laughed. But he knew he had to act, and soon.