Foundation And Chaos (26 page)

Brann pulled her gently to one side of the aisle. “She was the one who hunted you-wasn't
she?” he asked.

Klia nodded. “But-she ignored me!” Klia said, looking up at Brann in astonishment. “She
found me-she could have had me-” È

“Us, ” Brann interjected.

“And she ignored us!”

Brann frowned deeply and shook his head. "Kallusin and

Plussix will want to know about this, “ he said. ”Who is she after now?"

“Are we going back?” Klia asked.

“We have two more deliveries, ” Brann said, and grinned down at her with an expression not
of stolidity or stubbornness, but of a massive kind of impishness. “Trantor has survived
twelve thousand years. This news can wait a couple of hours. ”

Lodovik approached the small, thick door in its darkened vestibule. A light flashed on as
he touched the door, and a small voice asked for the appropriate code for entry. He spoke
the code precisely, and the door opened to let him in.

Within, the library was cast in penumbrous spots of soft golden light. The first room was
circular, less than three meters across, with an empty table in the middle. On the table
was set a small, angled riser, like a lectern, but obviously meant to hold ancient
information devices such as paper books. The table and riser were many thousands of years
old, surrounded and protected by a surface-hugging conservation field, not unlike a
personal shield.

Lodovik stood before the table and waited for several seconds. A melodious female voice,
that of Huy Markin herself, now used by the collection's automated server, then asked for
a subject or subjects to search for.

“Calvin, Susan, ” he said, and felt a small shiver within at that ancient and powerful
name. He did not expect this blunt approach to work, and it did not. The server listed
thirty-two entries on various Calvins, two Susans-all mere thousands of years old, and
having nothing to do with the mother of robots. There was no record of Calvinians.

“Eternals, ” he suggested, “with reference to conspiracies of immortal beings. ” A few
seconds later, the server projected a text manuscript onto the top of the table and the
riser, giving the remarkable impression of a real and open book.

“*Myths of the Eternals, '” the server said. “By a committee of three hundred authors, in
ninety-two volumes of text with twenty-nine hours of other documentary media, compiled G.
E. 8045-8068. This is the authoritative work on a subject little studied nowadays, and
this is the only known copy on Trantor, or indeed on the prime thousand worlds of the
Empire. ”

Lodovik watched a chair rise from the floor, but as he did not need the chair, he told it
to retract. He stood before the book and began to absorb the material at high speed.

There was a lot of information that seemed completely useless, probably untrue, legends
and fabulous stories compiled over thousands of years. He noted with some interest that in
the past few millennia, such legends and even this kind of storytelling seemed to have
diminished considerably, and not just on the topics of the Eternals: humans on Trantor and
most of the prime worlds had simply lost interest in fabulous tales of any kind, or even
in the more spectacular episodes of history.

Humanity's childhood had long since passed. Now, the concerns of the Imperial cultures
were strictly practical.

Humor had declined as well; this, he found suggested in an afterword to this set, appended
by a scholar less than fifteen hundred years before. Then, suddenly, the recorded image of
Huy Markin herself appeared in the small chamber, frozen, with a caption glowing faintly
at her feet: Excerpt from spoken lecture. There was no date given.

“Retrieve and play, ” Lodovik instructed.

The image moved and spoke. "The decline of humor and comedy in the myths and
entertainments of the modern Imperial culture seems inevitable to the sober gentry and
Greys of

our time. But certain meritocrats feel a peculiar lack in the present panoply of the
fantastic arts. All has been subsumed by the immediate and the practical; modern humans of
the ruling and imaginative classes dream less and laugh less than ever before in history.
This does not hold for the citizens, but their humor, for thousands of years, has remained
a raucous collection of generic jokes and tales at the expense of other classes, showing
little insight and even less effectiveness as satire. All has been subsumed by the quest
for stability and comfort... "

Lodovik pushed ahead through this rather long lecture until he found the link with the
text he was searching, and his subject. “Some, ” Huy Markin said, “have laid blame for
these intellectual failures on the perfidious influence of brain fever, contracted by
nearly all children at an early age, but somehow never more than lightly affecting the
sturdy foundations of the citizens. The gentry and meritocrats, however, according to some
statisticians, have apparently suffered substantial losses in intellectual capacity.
Legends about the misty origins of brain fever abound. The most prominent myth is of an
ancient war between the worlds Earth and Solaria. Robots, it is said, carried this disease
from world to world. Some of these robots... ”

Lodovik marveled that this analysis had been judged the product of an eccentric by the
University's finest scholars. Not even Hari Seldon had seen fit to look into the
collection-perhaps because of some interdiction by Daneel.

He sped ahead. "... The most common explanation of brain fever in all these myths is that
of human competition for the colonization of the Galaxy. Brain fever may have been a
weapon in such a competition. But a persistent alternative explanation points to the
Eternals, who fought with the servants of Solaria to prevent a hideous crime, the details
of which have since been totally expunged from all known records. The Eternals, it has
been said, created brain fever to control the destructive urges of a human race out of
control.

The Eternals have been described as immortal humans, but have also been described as
long-lived robots of extraordinary intelligence... "

There it was again, Lodovik thought. The attempt by robots to control the destructive
tendencies of humans-but what was this great crime?

Was it the same crime hinted at by Daneel, supposedly carried out by those robots who,
very early on, disagreed with Daneel's plans?

Daneel was quite obviously an Eternal, perhaps the Eternal, the oldest thinking machine in
the Galaxy...

The oldest and most dedicated puppet master.

Lodovik looked up from the projection he was reading and tried to find the source of this
interjection. The words disturbed him; they did not seem to originate in any of the
branches of his mentality.

He remembered the faint touches he had felt on the dying ship, the impressions of a
ghostly intelligence interested in his plight. Until now, he had dismissed this as an
effect of neutrino damage in his mind; but Yan Kansarv had found no detectable damage.

The memory could be replayed quite easily, and analyzed. The label Volarr or Voldarr was
attached to these faint traces, these subliminal touches.

But nothing useful could be drawn from these memories.

Lodovik resumed his main search, and scanned the main volumes in less than three hours. He
could have searched and absorbed the material much more rapidly, but the library displays
had been set for human researchers, not robots.

Robots of human or superior intelligence, every volume and bit of documentation in
Markin's library suggested, had long since ceased to function, if they had ever existed at
all.

Lodovik shut down the projectors and left the library. As he passed through the impressive
doorway, the image of Huy Markin appeared.

“You're the first visitor in two decades, ” the image told him. “Please come again!”

Lodovik stared at the image as it faded. He stepped out from under the overhang that
shielded the doorway and strolled along a mid-class tier of the Agora of Vendors, among
the Greys. So many pieces to fit together-in a puzzle thousands of years old, with so many
pieces missing or deliberately obscured.

What echoed through Lodovik's positronic brain, cascading into conclusions that reinforced
impressions and hypotheses already made, was the effect of Imperial culture (and brain
fever?) on human nature. Where once the human race had laughed and reveled in the absurd,
in the products of pure imagination, they now earnestly pursued stasis. The leading
artists, scientists, engineers, philosophers, and politicians, were eager to confirm the
discoveries of the past, not make new ones. And now, few even remembered the past well
enough to know what had already been discovered! The past itself was no longer of
interest-had not been for centuries, even thousands of years.

The light had gone out. Stability and stasis across millennia had led to stagnation.

Daneel uses his psychohistorian to confirm what he must already know-that the forest is
overgrown, filled with rotten wood, desperately in need of a conflagration that he will
not allow to happen!

Lodovik paused at a surge of the crowd through the agora, listened to murmurs and shouts.
A retinue of Imperial Specials was pushing through the crowd. Lodovik backed away, found
an alley of smaller shops. He wanted to avoid making himself conspicuous in any way. He
could not know who might be watching-and who might be reporting back to Daneel, human or
robot. While he was not yet behaving suspiciously-

Just outside the alley, he heard a woman's shrill shouts, commands. “Don't let it get
away!”

He paused, turned, and saw two of the Specials turn into the alley, followed by a woman
riding a small cart. He felt something brush through him, like a feather, and deduced
instantly that the woman was a mentalic.

He knew a little of the mentalics assembled by Hari Sel-don to provide a backup and
alternative to his First Foundation, but none of them were as strong as this woman-and
none of them would have dreamed of pursuing him!

Quite clearly, that was what the woman was doing. She pointed and screeched again. Lodovik
knew it would make no difference if he altered his appearance-this woman was fixed on
something below the surface.

She recognizes your difference.

Again the voice, the interior presence-producing a cascading conclusion he might not have
reached by himself: the woman was feathering the fields associated with his indium sponge
brain!

When pressed, Lodovik could move very rapidly indeed. One moment, the shoppers in the
narrow alley of antiques dealers and sellers of trinkets became aware that the Specials
were approaching a plump and homely looking man-and the next, he was gone.

Vara Liso stood on her cart, her face flaming with anger and excitement. “He's escaped!”
she shouted, and she struck at the young police escort with her hand, as if he were a
wayward child. “You let him escape!”

Then, from another alley, more Specials appeared.

The plump man walked quickly ahead of them, herded by the press of a crowd of shoppers,
like unwanted fish pulled together in a dragnet. The Greys expressed their anger with
shouts and threats of complaining to their class senate.

Lodovik dared not move too quickly among so many people. He might injure a bystander. This
he wanted to avoid at all costs-though he realized that if the situation became dangerous
enough, he could injure and even kill a Special-

or that woman-and not suffer grievous damage to his mind. 7 am a monster here-a machine
without restraints!

“That's him!” Vara Liso cried. “He's not human! Capture him-but don't hurt him!”

Brann urged the transport into an empty alcove as the police pushed by again, hiding Klia
with the bulk of his body. “She's found somebody, ” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
His face twisted with hatred. “How could they let her loose? We're citizens, aren't we? We
have rights!” He mumbled these words under his breath; not for some years had anyone from
Dahl truly believed all the citizens of Trantor had rights. But the crowds of Greys were
becoming uncharacteristically agitated by this going to and fro of Vara Liso and her
Imperial Specials. More and more Greys shouted at the passing cordons. The Specials
ignored them.

Klia could see their faces as they passed, feel their inner thoughts to some degree: the
police liked this work no better than the Greys. They felt out of place; most Specials
were recruited from the citizens.

Then her probing mind touched a very peculiar person indeed, some dozens of meters away.
Time seemed to slow as she felt a sudden bright impression of thoughts moving at inhuman
speed, a silvery glissando of memories, and sensations unlike anything she had experienced
before. She let out her breath in a gasp, as if she had been lightly punched in the
stomach.

“What is it?” Brann asked, staring down at her with some concern.

“I don't know, ” she said. He shook his head and frowned.

“Neither do I, ” he said. “I feel it, too. ”

Then, abruptly, all of the odd sensations passed, as if a shield had gone up between them
and the source.

Of all things Lodovik needed just then, being detected by another pair of mentalics was
not high on his list. He felt a bright triangle forming, with him at one of the vertices,
th\ pursuing woman at another, and two more people- younger-at the third. Then, abruptly,
a fog seemed to cover their traces.

He stood very still. The crowds of nervous Greys flowed around him with worried
expressions, chivvied by the police presence. He modified his appearance yet again, as he
covered his face, and shifted his body mass so that he appeared not so much plump as
stocky.

Whatever the cause of this cessation of mentalic probes, he hoped to take advantage of it.

To the humans around him, Lodovik behaved like someone afraid, hiding his face, and few
took any more notice of him than that. But one figure drew closer. He wore dusty green
robes and a small floppy hat cocked to one side, and he seemed to know what he was
doing-and for whom he was looking.