Prelude to Foundation (45 page)

Davan, listening intently, said, “I’m aware of that. We all are. Perhaps we can learn from the past and know better what to avoid. Besides, the tyranny that now exists is
actual
. That which may exist in the future is merely potential. If we are always to draw back from change with the thought that the change may be for the worse, then there is no hope at all of ever escaping injustice.”

Dors said, “A second point you must remember is that even if you have right on your side, even if justice thunders condemnation, it is usually the tyranny in existence that has the balance of force on its side. There is nothing your knife handlers can do in the way of rioting and demonstrating that will have any permanent effect as long as, in the extremity, there is an army equipped with kinetic, chemical, and neurological weapons that is willing to use them against your people. You can get all the downtrodden and even all the respectables on your side, but you must somehow win over the security forces and the Imperial army or at least seriously weaken their loyalty to the rulers.”

Davan said, “Trantor is a multigovernmental world. Each sector has its own rulers and some of them are themselves anti-Imperial. If we can have a strong sector on our side, that would change the situation, would it not? We would then not be merely ragamuffins fighting with knives and stones.”

“Does that mean you
do
have a strong sector on your side or merely that it is your ambition to have one?”

Davan was silent.

Dors said, “I shall assume that you are thinking of the Mayor of Wye. If the Mayor is in the mood to make use of popular discontent as a way of improving the chance of toppling the Emperor, doesn’t it strike you that the end the Mayor would have in view would be
that of succeeding to the Imperial throne? Why should the Mayor risk his present not-inconsiderable position for anything less? Merely for the blessings of justice and the decent treatment of people, concerning whom he can have little interest?”

“You mean,” said Davan, “that any powerful leader who is willing to help us may then betray us.”

“It is a situation that is all too common in Galactic history.”

“If we are ready for that, might
we
not betray
him
?”

“You mean, make use of him and then, at some crucial moment, subvert the leader of his forces—or a leader, at any rate—and have him assassinated?”

“Not perhaps exactly like that, but some way of getting rid of him might exist if that should prove necessary.”

“Then we have a revolutionary movement in which the principal players must be ready to betray each other, with each simply waiting for the opportunity. It sounds like a recipe for chaos.”

“You will not help us, then?” said Davan.

Seldon, who had been listening to the exchange between Davan and Dors with a puzzled frown on his face, said, “We can’t put it that simply. We would like to help you. We are on your side. It seems to me that no sane man wants to uphold an Imperial system that maintains itself by fostering mutual hatred and suspicions. Even when it seems to work, it can only be described as metastable; that is, as too apt to fall into instability in one direction or another. But the question is:
How
can we help? If I had psychohistory, if I could tell what is most likely to happen, or if I could tell what action of a number of alternative possibilities is most likely to bring on an apparently happy consequence, then I would put my abilities at your disposal. —But I don’t have it. I can help you best by trying to develop psychohistory.”

“And how long will that take?”

Seldon shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“How can you ask us to wait indefinitely?”

“What alternative do I have, since I am useless to you as I am? But I will say this: I have until very recently been quite convinced that the development of psychohistory was absolutely impossible. Now I am not so certain of that.”

“You mean you have a solution in mind?”

“No, merely an intuitive feeling that a solution might be possible. I have not been able to pin down what has occurred to make me have that feeling. It may be an illusion, but I am trying. Let me continue to try. —Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Or perhaps,” said Davan, “if you return to where you are now staying, you will eventually find yourself in an Imperial trap. You may think that the Empire will leave you alone while you struggle with psychohistory, but I am certain the Emperor and his toady Demerzel are in no mood to wait forever, any more than I am.”

“It will do them no good to hasten,” said Seldon calmly, “since I am not on their side, as I am on yours. —Come, Dors.”

They turned and left Davan, sitting alone in his squalid room, and found Raych waiting for them outside.

Raych was eating, licking his fingers, and crumpling the bag in which the food—whatever it was—had been. A strong smell of onions pervaded the air—different somehow, yeast-based perhaps.

Dors, retreating a little from the odor, said, “Where did you get the food from, Raych?”

“Davan’s guys. They brought it to me. Davan’s okay.”

“Then we don’t have to buy you dinner, do we?” said Seldon, conscious of his own empty stomach.

“Ya owe me
somethin
’,” said Raych, looking greedily in Dors’s direction. “How about the lady’s knife? One of ’em.”

“No knife,” said Dors. “You get us back safely and I’ll give you five credits.”

“Can’t get no knife for five credits,” grumbled Raych.

“You’re not getting anything but five credits,” said Dors.

“You’re a lousy dame, lady,” said Raych.

“I’m a lousy dame with a quick knife, Raych, so get moving.”

“All right. Don’t get all perspired.” Raych waved his hand. “This way.”

It was back through the empty corridors, but this time Dors, looking this way and that, stopped. “Hold on, Raych. We’re being followed.”

Raych looked exasperated. “Ya ain’t supposed to hear ’em.”

Seldon said, bending his head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.”

“I do,” said Dors. “Now, Raych, I don’t want any fooling around. You tell me right now what’s going on or I’ll rap your head so that you won’t see straight for a week. I mean it.”

Raych held up one arm defensively. “You try it, you lousy dame. You try it. —It’s Davan’s guys. They’re just taking care of us, in case any knifers come along.”

“Davan’s guys?”

“Yeah. They’re goin’ along the service corridors.”

Dors’s right hand shot out and seized Raych by the scruff of his upper garment. She lifted and he dangled, shouting, “Hey, lady. Hey!”

Seldon said, “Dors! Don’t be hard on him.”

“I’ll be harder still if I think he’s lying. You’re my charge, Hari, not he.”

“I’m not lyin’,” said Raych, struggling. “I’m not.”

“I’m sure he isn’t,” said Seldon.

“Well, we’ll see. Raych, tell them to come out where we can see them.” She let him drop and dusted her hands.

“You’re some kind of nut, lady,” said Raych aggrievedly. Then he raised his voice. “Yay, Davan! Come out here, some of ya guys!”

There was a wait and then, from an unlit opening along the corridor, two dark-mustached men came out, one with a scar running the length of his cheek. Each held the sheath of a knife in his hand, blade withdrawn.

“How many more of you are there?” asked Dors harshly.

“A few,” said one of the newcomers. “Orders. We’re guarding you. Davan wants you safe.”

“Thank you. Try to be even quieter. Raych, keep on moving.”

Raych said sulkily, “Ya roughed me up when I was telling the truth.”

“You’re right,” said Dors. “At least, I think you’re right … and I apologize.”

“I’m not sure I should accept,” said Raych, trying to stand tall. “But awright, just this once.” He moved on.

When they reached the walkway, the unseen corps of guards vanished. At least, even Dors’s keen ears could hear them no more. By now, though, they were moving into the respectable part of the sector.

Dors said thoughtfully, “I don’t think we have clothes that would fit you, Raych.”

Raych said, “Why do ya want clothes to fit me, Missus?” (Respectability seemed to invade Raych once they were out of the corridors.) “I got clothes.”

“I thought you’d like to come into our place and take a bath.”

Raych said, “What for? I’ll wash one o’ these days. And I’ll put on my other shirt.” He looked up at Dors shrewdly. “You’re sorry ya roughed me up. Right? Ya tryin’ to make up?”

Dors smiled. “Yes. Sort of.”

Raych waved a hand in lordly fashion. “That’s all right. Ya didn’t hurt. Listen. You’re strong for a lady. Ya lifted me up like I was nothin’.”

“I was annoyed, Raych. I have to be concerned about Master Seldon.”

“Ya sort of his bodyguard?” Raych looked at Seldon inquiringly. “Ya got a lady for a bodyguard?”

“I can’t help it,” said Seldon, smiling wryly. “She insists. And she certainly knows her job.”

Dors said, “Think again, Raych. Are you sure you won’t have a bath? A nice warm bath.”

Raych said, “I got no chance. Ya think that lady is gonna let me in the house again?”

Dors looked up and saw Casilia Tisalver outside the front door of the apartment complex, staring first at the Outworld woman and then at the slum-bred boy. It would have been impossible to tell in which case her expression was angrier.

Raych said, “Well, so long, Mister and Missus. I don’t know if she’ll let either of ya in the house.” He placed his hands in his pocket and swaggered off in a fine affectation of carefree indifference.

Seldon said, “Good evening, Mistress Tisalver. It’s rather late, isn’t it?”

“It’s very late,” she replied. “There was a near riot today outside this very complex because of that newsman you pushed the street vermin at.”

“We didn’t push anyone on anyone,” said Dors.

“I was there,” said Mistress Tisalver intransigently. “I saw it.” She stepped aside to let them enter, but delayed long enough to make her reluctance quite plain.

“She acts as though that was the last straw,” said Dors as she and Seldon made their way up to their rooms.

“So? What can she do about it?” asked Seldon.

“I wonder,” said Dors.

The next morning, dressed from the waist down, having washed and shaved, Seldon knocked on the door that led to Dors’s adjoining room and said in a moderate voice, “Open the door, Dors.”

She did. The short reddish-gold curls of her hair were still wet and she too was dressed only from the waist down.

Seldon stepped back in embarrassed alarm. Dors looked down at the swell of her breasts indifferently and wrapped a towel around her head. “What is it?” she asked.

Seldon said, looking off to his right, “I was going to ask you about Wye.”

Dors said very naturally, “About why in connection with what? And for goodness sake, don’t make me talk to your ear. Surely, you’re not a virgin.”

Seldon said in a hurt tone, “I was merely trying to be polite. If
you
don’t mind,
I
certainly don’t. And it’s not why about what. I’m asking about the Wye Sector.”

“Why do you want to know? Or, if you prefer: Why Wye?”

“Look, Dors, I’m serious. Every once in a while, the
Wye Sector is mentioned—the Mayor of Wye, actually. Hummin mentioned him, you did, Davan did. I don’t know anything about either the sector or the Mayor.”

“I’m not a native Trantorian either, Hari. I know very little, but you’re welcome to what I do know. Wye is near the south pole—quite large, very populous—”

“Very populous at the south pole?”

“We’re not on Helicon, Hari. Or on Cinna either. This is Trantor. Everything is underground and underground at the poles or underground at the equator is pretty much the same. Of course, I imagine they keep their day-night arrangements rather extreme—long days in their summer, long nights in their winter—almost as it would be on the surface. The extremes are just affectation; they’re proud of being polar.”

“But Upperside they must be cold, indeed.”

“Oh yes. The Wye Upperside is snow and ice, but it doesn’t lie as thickly there as you might think. If it did, it might crush the dome, but it doesn’t and that is the basic reason for Wye’s power.”

She turned to her mirror, removed the towel from her head, and threw the dry-net over her hair, which, in a matter of five seconds, gave it a pleasant sheen. She said, “You have no idea how glad I am not to be wearing a skincap,” as she put on the upper portion of her clothing.

“What has the ice layer to do with Wye’s power?”

“Think about it. Forty billion people use a great deal of power and every calorie of it eventually degenerates into heat and has to be gotten rid of. It’s piped to the poles, particularly to the south pole, which is the more developed of the two, and is discharged into space. It melts most of the ice in the process and I’m sure that accounts for Trantor’s clouds and rains, no matter how much the meteorology boggins insist that things are more complicated than that.”