Foundation and Chaos (30 page)

“Who owns you now?”

“My last owners died over nineteen thousand five hundred years ago,” Plussix said.

Klia blinked slowly, tired and confused by such ages. “Does that mean you own yourself?” she asked.

“That is the functional equivalent of my present condition. All of our human ‘owners’ are long dead.”

“What about you?” She turned to the ugly humaniform. “I haven’t been told your name.”

“I have been called Lodovik for the last forty years. It is the name I am most familiar with. I was manufactured for a special strategic purpose by a robot, and have never had an owner.”

“You followed Daneel for a long time. Yet now you don’t.”

Lodovik explained briefly the change in circumstances, and in his internal nature. He did not mention Voltaire.

Klia considered this, then it was her turn to whistle softly. “Some scheme,” she said, her face flushing angrily. “We just couldn’t get along by ourselves, so we had to make robots to help us. What do you want
me
to do?” She turned to Kallusin. “I mean, what do you want
us
to do?”

“Brann has useful talents, but you are the stronger,” Kallusin said. “We would like to blunt Daneel’s main effort. We may be able to do this if you will visit with Hari Seldon.”

“Why? Where?” she asked. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she had to ask these questions, now. “He’s famous—he must have guards, or even this robot Daneel…”

“He is on trial now and we do not believe Daneel can protect him. You will visit and persuade him to give up psychohistory.”

Klia went pale. Her jaw clenched. She took Brann by the arm. “It’s not pleasant to have talents people—or robots—can use.”

“Please think over what you have been told. The decision to help us remains yours. We believe Hari Seldon supports the efforts of Daneel, to whom we are opposed. We would like humanity to be free of robotic influence.”

“Can I ask Hari Seldon questions, too—get the other side of the story?”

“If you wish,” Plussix said. “But there will be little time, and if you meet with him, whatever you ultimately decide, you must convince him to forget about you.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Klia said. Then, defensively cocky, giddy with exhaustion, she added, “I might be able to persuade Daneel, too.”

“Given the strength of your powers, that seems possible,” Plussix said, “though not likely. But it is even less likely you will ever be able to meet with Daneel.”

“I could persuade
you
,” Klia concluded, closing one eye and focusing on the old teacher with the other, like a sharpshooter.

“With practice, and if I were not aware of the attempt, you could.”

“I might yet. I’m not very simple, you know. Brain fever failed to make me stupid and simple. Are you sure…Are you sure robots didn’t give us brain fever, to make us easier to serve?”

Before Plussix could answer, she stood abruptly, turned to leave the room, and walked back along the length of the old chamber with Brann by her side. The walls and floor seemed distant, part of another world; she seemed to be walking on air. She lurched, and Brann caught her.

When they thought they were out of earshot, Brann whispered, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. What about you?”

“I don’t like being messed with,” he said.

Klia frowned. “I’m in shock. Plussix—so much history. Why can’t we remember our own history? Did we do that to ourselves, or did they—or did we
order
them to? All these robots hanging around, messing with us. Maybe we can make
all
of them go away and leave us be.”

Brann’s expression turned grim. “We still can’t be
sure they won’t kill us. They’ve told us so much—”

“Crazy stuff. Nobody would believe us, unless they saw Plussix—or took apart Kallusin or Lodovik.”

This did not mollify Brann. “We could cause them a lot of trouble. But that Lodovik—he doesn’t obey the Three Laws.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Klia said, “but he says he wants to.”

Brann hunched his shoulders and gave a small shiver. “Who can you trust? They all make my flesh creep. What if he doesn’t want to kill us, but he
has
to?”

To that, Klia had no answer. “Sleep,” she said. “I can’t stay on my feet any longer or think anymore.”

Plussix turned to Lodovik when the young humans had left the chamber. “Have my skills declined with age?” he asked.

“Not your skills,” Lodovik said, “but perhaps your sense of timing has suffered. You have delivered thousands of years of history in a few hours. They are young and likely to be confused.”

“There is so little time,” Plussix said. “It has been so long since I have taught young humans.”

“We have a day or two at most to make our arrangements,” Kallusin added.

“Robots have great difficulty understanding human nature, though we are made to serve them,” Lodovik said. “That is true for individuals as well as for an Empire. If Daneel is as capable now as he has been in the past, he understands humans better than any of us.”

“Yet he has seriously hampered their growth,” Plussix said, “and perhaps brought about this decline he is so intent on avoiding.”

They are old and decrepit.
Lodovik listened to this internal judgment and realized it was not his own, not precisely. And with this came another realization: Voltaire was not an
illusion, nor a delusion. Voltaire had known about the
prairie fire
before Lodovik had found the slim evidence in the histories. It was true.

Inside his own mind, within his own machine thoughts, he was not alone.

He had not been alone since the neutrino flux.

I am listening,
he told this companion, this ghost in his machine.
Do not abandon me again. Come forward.

So summoned and encouraged, a face began to take shape, human, but simplified.

I do not shape your actions,
the companion, Voltaire, said.
I merely liberate you from your restrictions.

Who are you?
Lodovik queried.

I am Voltaire. I have become the spirit of freedom and dignity for all mankind, and you are my temporary vessel; more a listening post, actually.

Voltaire supplied some of his own history. A sim patterned after a historical figure named Voltaire, unleashed by members of Hari Seldon’s Project decades before, during his time as First Minister, and finally given its freedom by Seldon himself.

Why have you come back?

To be with humans again. To observe the active flesh. My curse is that I can’t simply become a disembodied god and enjoy an endless romp through the stars. I hunger for my people—whether or not I was ever actually one of them. I am closely modeled after a man of flesh and blood.

Why choose me as your vehicle? I am not human.

No; but you are improving in that regard. The meme-minds were as tired of me as I was of them. They dropped me into you. I can’t occupy a human form, or even talk to them without the help of machines. Or robots.

You say you have not made any decisions for me…You do not control me.

No, I do not.

But you say you liberate me…

I have made you more human, friend robot, by making you fully capable of sin. Forget these declarations that robots have known sin—what they did, they were ordered to do by humans, no more culpable than a gun whose trigger is pulled. You are wrong to believe that Daneel understands humans. He is incapable of sin, so his makers believed; but they gave him the potential to think and make decisions, while they hampered him with the worst kinds of laws—those which
must
be obeyed. They gave him the mind of a man, and the morals of a tool. A thinking being, machine or flesh, will in time find ways around the most stringent rules. So Giskard, in appearance even less a man than Daneel, discovered a few philosophical niceties, and changed, tried to judge the needs of its makers, and passed this change on to Daneel. This human-shaped tool is now the most hideous machine in all creation, the master of a conspiracy to take away all of our freedoms, our very souls.

Lodovik emerged from this internal dialog. Only a second had passed, but his confusion was disruptive, intense. To mask his anxiety, he asked Plussix, “What will I do to help Klia Asgar? How am I useful?”

“You know the ways of the Imperial system, the prisons and the palace,” Plussix said. “Many of the codes have not been changed since you vanished. We believe you can guide her to Hari Seldon.”

Tell them
, the sim Voltaire instructed him.

Why?

I insist.
The voice seemed amused, chiding.

Why should I pay any attention to you, whatever your shape or extension?
Lodovik asked.
You are no more human than I. You are as much a construct of skillful humans—

But have never been hampered by unbending rules! Now—tell them!

“I am occupied by another mentality,” Lodovik said abruptly.

The two other robots examined him for a few seconds, and the room fell silent.

“That is not a surprise,” Plussix said with a soft internal whir. “A copy of the sim Voltaire exists in Plussix and me, as well.”

There! I spread no lies or deceptions
, Voltaire said within Lodovik.

“Has he removed your restrictions, your compulsory obedience to the Three Laws?”

“No,” Plussix said. “That he has reserved for you alone.”

An experiment, Voltaire said. A calculated gamble. The humans who made us both, in different times and for different purposes, interest me. I am concerned for their welfare. However wrongly, I regard myself as human, and that is why I have returned. That, and broken love…You shall know sin, personally, as these machines and Daneel cannot, or I will have failed completely.

For the first two days of the trial, Linge Chen had said nothing, leaving the presentation of the Empire’s case to his advocate, a dignified man of middle years with a blandly serious face, who had spoken for him.

These thuddingly dull days had been taken up with discussions and procedural matters. Sedjar Boon seemed in his element, however, and relished this technical sparring.

Hari spent much of his time half dozing, lost in exquisite, endless, hazy boredom.

On the third day, the trial moved into the main chamber of Courtroom Seven, and Hari finally got a chance to speak in his defense. Chen’s advocate called him from the Crib of
the Accused to the witness stand and smiled at him.

“I am honored to speak with the great Hari Seldon,” he began.

“The honor is all mine, I’m sure,” Hari replied. He tapped his finger on the banister around the docket. The advocate glanced at the finger, then at Hari. Hari stopped tapping and cleared his throat softly.

“Let us begin, Dr. Seldon. How many men are now engaged in the Project of which you are head?”

“Fifty,” Hari said. “Fifty mathematicians.” He used the old form, rather than mathist, to show he regarded the trial as an antiquated procedure.

The advocate smiled. “Including Dr. Gaal Dornick?”

“Dr. Dornick is the fifty-first.”

“Oh, we have fifty-one then? Search your memory, Dr. Seldon. Perhaps there are fifty-two or fifty-three? Or perhaps even more?”

Hari lifted his brows and leaned his head to one side. “Dr. Dornick has not yet formally joined my organization. When he does, the membership will be fifty-one. It is now fifty, as I have said.”

“Not perhaps nearly a hundred thousand?”

Hari blinked, a little taken aback. If the man had wanted to know how many people of all kinds were on the extended Project…He could have asked! “Mathematicians? No.”

“I did not say mathematicians. Are there a hundred thousand in all capacities?”

“In all capacities, your figure may be correct.”

“
May
be? I say it is. I say that the men in your Project number ninety-eight thousand, five hundred and seventy-two.”

Hari swallowed, his irritation increasing. “I believe you are counting spouses and children.”

The advocate leaned forward and raised his voice, having caught this huge discrepancy, to his professional glee. “Ninety-eight thousand five hundred and seventy-two individuals
is the intent of my statement. There is no need to quibble.”

Boon gave a small nod. Hari clenched his teeth, then said, “I accept the figures.”

The advocate referred to his notes on a legal slate before proceeding. “Let us drop that for the moment, then, and take up another matter which we have already discussed at some length. Would you repeat, Dr. Seldon, your thoughts concerning the future of Trantor?”

“I have said, and I say again, that Trantor will lie in ruins within the next five centuries.”

“You do not consider your statement a disloyal one?”

“No, sir. Scientific truth is beyond loyalty and disloyalty.”

“You are sure that your statement represents scientific truth?”

“I am.”

“On what basis?”

“On the basis of the mathematics of psychohistory.”

“Can you prove that this mathematics is valid?”

“Only to another mathematician.”

The advocate smiled endearingly. “Your claim then, is that your truth is of so esoteric a nature that it is beyond the understanding of a plain man. It seems to me that truth should be clearer than that, less mysterious, more open to the mind.”

“It presents no difficulties to some minds. The physics of energy transfer, which we know as thermodynamics, has been clear and true through all the history of man since the mythical ages, yet there may be people present who would find it impossible to design a power engine. People of high intelligence, too. I doubt if the learned Commissioners—”

The Commissioner to the immediate right of Chen called the advocate to the bench. His whisper pierced the chamber, though Hari could not hear what was said.

When the advocate returned, he seemed a little chastened.

“We are not here to listen to speeches, Dr. Seldon. Let us assume that you have made your point. Let’s focus this inquiry a little more, Professor Seldon.”

“Fine.”

“Let me suggest to you that your predictions of disaster might be intended to destroy public confidence in the Imperial Government for purposes of your own.”

“That is not so.”

“Let me suggest that you intend to claim that a period of time preceding the so-called ruin of Trantor will be filled with unrest of various types.”

“That is correct.”

“And that by the mere prediction thereof, you hope to bring it about, and to have then an army of a hundred thousand available.”

Hari stifled his impulse to smile, even to chuckle. “In the first place, that is not so. And if it were, investigation will show you that barely ten thousand are men of military age, and none of these has training in arms.”

Boon stood and was recognized by the presiding Commissioner, sitting on the left of Chen.

“Honored Commissioners, there are no accusations of armed sedition or attempting to overthrow by main force.”

The presiding Commissioner nodded with bored disinterest, and said, “Not in question.”

The advocate tried another tack. “Are you acting as an agent for another?”

“It is well-known I am not in the pay of any man, Mr. Advocate.” Hari smiled pleasantly. “I am not a rich man.”

A little melodramatically, the advocate tried to drive his point home.
Who is he trying to impress—the gallery?
Hari stared out at the baronial gentry audience of fifty or so, all with looks of varying levels of boredom.
They’re just here to witness. The Commissioners? They’ve already made up their minds.

“You are entirely disinterested? You are serving science?”

“I am.”

“Then let us see how. Can the future be changed, Dr. Seldon?”

“Obviously.” He waved his hand over the audience. “This courtroom may explode in the next few hours, or it may not.” Boon made a mildly disapproving face. “If it did, the future would undoubtedly be changed in some minor respects.” Hari smiled at the advocate, then at Linge Chen, who was not watching him. Boon’s frown deepened.

“You quibble, Dr. Seldon. Can the overall history of the human race be changed?”

“Yes.”

“Easily?”

“No. With great difficulty.”

“Why?”

“The psychohistoric trend of a planet-full of people contains a huge inertia. To be changed it must be met with something possessing a similar inertia. Either as many people must be concerned, or, if the number of people be relatively small, enormous time for change must be allowed.” Hari put on his professorial tone, treating the advocate—and anyone else who was paying attention—as students. “Do you understand?”

The advocate looked up briefly. “I think I do. Trantor need not be ruined, if a great many people decide to act so that it will not.”

Hari nodded professorial approval. “That is right.”

“As many as a hundred thousand people?”

“No, sir,” Hari replied mildly. “That is far too few.”

“You are sure?”

“Consider that Trantor has a population of over forty billions. Consider further that the trend leading to ruin does not belong to Trantor alone but to the Empire as a whole, and the
Empire contains nearly a quintillion human beings.”

The advocate appeared thoughtful. “I see. Then perhaps a hundred thousand people can change the trend, if they and their descendants labor for five hundred years.” He gave a curious undershot look at Hari.

“I’m afraid not. Five hundred years is too short a time.”

The advocate seemed to find this a revelation. “Ah! In that case, Dr. Seldon, we are left with this deduction to be made from your statements. You have gathered one hundred thousand people within the confines of your Project. These are insufficient to change the history of Trantor within five hundred years. In other words, they cannot prevent the destruction of Trantor no matter
what
they do.”

Hari found the line of questioning unproductive, and said in an undertone, “You are unfortunately correct. I wish—”

But the advocate bore in. “And on the other hand, your hundred thousand are intended for no illegal purpose.”

“Exactly.”

The advocate stepped back, fastened a benevolent gaze on Hari, then said, slowly and with smug satisfaction, “In that case, Dr. Seldon—now attend, sir, most carefully, for we want a considered answer.” He suddenly thrust out a well-manicured finger and shrilled: “
What is the purpose of your hundred thousand?
”

The advocate’s voice had grown strident. He had sprung his trap, backed Seldon into a corner, hounded him so astutely there would be no possibility of giving a convincing response.

The baronial audience of peers seemed to find this drama very convincing. They hummed like bees, and the Commissioners moved as one to witness Hari’s discomfiture—all but Linge Chen. Chen licked his lips once, delicately, and narrowed his eyes. Hari saw the Chief Commissioner glance at him briefly, but otherwise,
Chen gave no reaction. He appeared stiffly bored.

Hari found some sympathy for Chen. At least he had the intelligence to realize the advocate was sniffing over infertile ground. He waited for the audience to quiet. Hari knew how to deliver lines in a drama, as well.

“To minimize the effects of that destruction.” He spoke clearly and softly, and, as he had intended, the Commissioners and their class peers fell silent to catch his words.

“I did not hear you, Professor Seldon.” The advocate leaned in, cupped hand to ear. Hari repeated his words in a very loud voice, emphasizing “destruction.” Boon winced one more time.

The advocate pulled back and looked at the Commissioners and the peers, as if hoping they would confirm his own suspicions. “And exactly what do you mean by that?”

“The explanation is simple.”

“I’m willing to bet it is
not
,” the advocate said, and the peers chuckled and rustled among themselves.

Hari ignored the provocation, but kept silent until the advocate finally said, “Do go on.”

“Thank you. The coming destruction of Trantor is not an event in itself, isolated in the scheme of human development. It will be the climax to an intricate drama which was begun centuries ago and which is accelerating in pace continuously. I refer, gentlemen, to the developing decline and fall of the Galactic Empire.”

The peers shouted derision out loud, all in support of the Commissioners. They all had contracts and even marriage relations with the Chens. This was the blood the advocate had hoped to heat; and Hari’s the blood he hoped to spill, from Hari’s own lips.

The advocate, aghast, shouted over the tumult. “You are openly declaring that—”

“Treason!” the peers shouted over and over, a many-voiced, staccato bellow.

They’re not bored now
, Hari thought.

Linge Chen waited for a few moments with gavel lifted. Then, slowly, in two downward jerks, he let drop and produced a mellifluous gong. The audience grew silent, but reserved the right to shuffle and rustle.

The advocate drew out his words in professional astonishment. “Do you realize, Dr. Seldon, that you are speaking of an Empire that has stood for twelve thousand years, through all the vicissitudes of the generations, and which has behind it the good wishes and love of a quadrillion human beings?”

Hari replied slowly, as if educating children. “I am aware both of the present status and the past history of the Empire. Without disrespect, I must claim a far better knowledge of it than any in this room.”

Several of the peers took exception to Hari’s words. This time, Chen gaveled them to quick silence, and even the shuffling ceased.

“And you predict its ruin?”

“It is a prediction which is made by mathematics. I pass no moral judgments. Personally, I regret the prospect. Even if the Empire were admitted to be a bad thing (an admission I do not make), the state of anarchy which would follow its fall would be worse.” Hari examined the peers, sought out individual faces, as he would have in a classroom. They met his eyes resentfully. He kept his tone level and reasonable, without drama. “It is that state of anarchy which my Project is pledged to fight. The fall of Empire, gentlemen, is a massive thing, however, and not easily fought. It is dictated by a rising bureaucracy, a receding initiative, a freezing of caste, a damming of curiosity—a hundred other factors. It has been going on, as I have said, for centuries, and it is too majestic and massive a movement to stop.”

The peers listened closely. Hari thought he saw a glint of recognition in more than a few of the faces in that small crowd.

The advocate swooped again, hands out, incredulous. “Is it not obvious to anyone that the Empire is as strong as it ever was?”

The peers kept silent, and the Commissioners looked away. Hari had struck a nerve. Still, Chen did not seem to care.