Foundation Fear (4 page)

How to include that?

Clearly, the Empire extended beyond the Complexity Horizon of any person or computer. Only
sets of equations which did not try to keep track of every detail could work.

Which meant that an individual was nothing on the scale of events worth studying. Even a
million made about as much difference as a single raindrop falling in a lake.

Suddenly Hari was even more glad that he had kept psychohistory secret. How would people
react if they knew that he thought they didn't matter?

“Hari? Hari?”

He had been musing again. Yugo was still in the office. “Oh, sorry, just mulling over -- ”

“The department meeting.”

"What?

“You called it for today.”

“Oh, no.” He was halfway through a calculation. “Can't we delay ... ?”

“The whole department? They're waiting.”

Hari dutifully followed Yugo into the assembly room. The three traditional levels were
already filled. Cleon's patronage had filled out an already high-ranked department until
it was probably -- how could one measure such things? -- the best on Trantor. It had
specialists in myriad disciplines, even areas whose very definitions Hari was a bit vague
about.

Hari took his position at the hub of the highest level, at the exact center of the room.
Mathists liked geometries which mirrored realities, so the full professors sat on a round,
raised platform, in airchairs with ample arms.

Forming a larger annulus around them, a few steps lower, were the associate professors --
those with tenure, but still at the middle rank in their careers. They had comfortable
chairs, though without full computing and holo functions.

Below them, almost in a pit, were the untenured professors, on simple chairs of sturdy
design. The oldest sat nearest the room's center. In their outer ranks were the
instructors and assistants, on plain benches without any computer capabilities whatever.
Yugo rested there, scowling, plainly feeling out of place.

Hari had always thought it was either enraging or hilarious, depending on his mood, that
one of the most productive members of the department, Yugo, should have such low status.
This was the true price of keeping psychohistory secret. The pain of this he tried to
soothe by giving Yugo a good office and other perks. Yugo seemed to care little for
status, since he had already ascended so far. And all without the Civil Service exams, too.

Today, Hari decided to make a little mischief. “Thank you, colleagues, for attending. We
have many administrative matters to engage. Yugo?”

A rustle. Yugo's eyes widened, but he stood up quickly and climbed up to the speaker's
platform.

He always had someone else chair meetings, even though as chairman he had called them,
chosen the hour, fixed the agenda. He knew that some regarded him as a strong personality,
simply by dint of knowing the research agenda so deeply.

That was a common error, mistaking knowledge for command. He had found that if he
presided, there was little dissent from his own views. To get open discussion demanded
that he sit back and listen and take notes, intervening only at key moments.

Years ago Yugo had wondered why he did this, and Hari waved away the problem. “I'm not a
leader,” he said. Yugo gave him a strange look, as if to say, Who do you think you're
kidding?

Hari smiled to himself. Some of the full professors around him were muttering, casting
glances. Yugo launched into the agenda, speaking quickly in a strong, clear voice.

Hari sat back and watched irritation wash over some of his esteemed colleagues. Noses
wrinkled at Yugo's broad accent. One of them mouthed to another, Dahlite! and was
answered, Upstart!

About time they got “a bit of the boot,” as his father had once termed it. And for Yugo to
get a taste of running the department.

After all, this First Minister business could get worse. He could need a replacement.

“We should leave soon,” Hari said, scribbling on his notepad.

“Why? The reception doesn't start for ages.” She smoothed out her dress with great care,
eyes critical.

“I want to take a walk on the way.”

“The reception is in Dahviti Sector.”

“Humor me.”

She pulled on the sheath dress with some effort. “I wish this weren't the style.”

“Wear something else, then.”

“This is your first appearance at an Imperial affair. You'll want to look your best.”

“Translation: you look your best and stand next to me.”

“You're just wearing that Streeling professorial garb.”

“Appropriate to the occasion. I want to show that I'm still just a professor.”

She worked on the dress some more and finally said, “You know, some husbands would enjoy
watching their wives do this.”

Hari looked up as she wriggled into the last of the clingy ensemble in amber and blue.
“Surely you don't want to get me all excited and then have to endure the reception that
way.”

She smiled impishly. “That's exactly what I want.”

He lounged back in his airchair and sighed theatrically. “Mathematics is a finer muse.
Less demanding.”

She tossed a shoe at him, missing by a precise centimeter.

Hari grinned. “Careful, or the Specials will rush to defend me.”

Dors began her finishing touches and then glanced at him, puzzled. “You are even more
distracted than usual.”

“As always, I fit my research into the nooks and crannies of life.”

“The usual problem? What's important in history?”

“I'd prefer to know what's not.”

“I agree that the customary mega-history approach, economics and politics and the rest,
isn't enough.”

Hari looked up from his pad. “There are some historians who think that the little rules of
a society have to be counted, to understand the big laws that make it work.”

“I know that research.” Dors twisted her mouth doubtfully. “Small rules and big laws. How
about simplifying? Maybe the laws are just all the rules, added up?”

“Of course not.”

“Example,” she persisted.

He wanted to think, but she would not be put off. She poked him in the ribs. “Example!”

“All right. Here's a rule: Whenever you find something you like, buy a lifetime supply,
because they're sure to stop making it.”

“That's ridiculous. A joke.”

“Not much of a joke, but it's true.”

“Well, do you follow this rule?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Remember the first time you looked in my closet?”

She blinked. He grinned, recalling. She had been subtly snooping, and slid aside the large
but feather-light door. In a rectangular grid of shelves were clothes sorted by type, then
color. Dors had gasped. “Six blue suits. At least a dozen padshoes, all black. And shirts!
-- off-white, olive, a few red. At least fifty! So many, all alike.”

“And exactly what I like,” he had said. “This also solves the problem of choosing what to
wear in the morning. I just reach in at random.”

“I thought you wore the same clothes day after day.”

He had raised his eyebrows, aghast. “The same? You mean, dirty clothes?”

“Well, when they didn't change ... ”

“I change every day!” He chuckled, remembering, and said, “Then I usually put on the same
outfit the next day, because I like it. And you will not find any of those available in
the stores again.”

“I'll say,” she said, fingering the weave on his shirts. “These are at least four seasons
out of fashion.”

“See? The rule works.”

“To me, a week is twenty-one clothing opportunities. To you, it's a chore.”

“You're ignoring the rule.”

“How long did you dress that way?”

“Since I noticed how much time I spent making decisions about what to wear. And that what
I really liked to wear wasn't in the stores very often. I generalized a solution to both
problems.”

“You're amazing.”

“I'm simply systematic.”

“You're obsessional.”

“You're judging, not diagnosing.”

“You're a dear. Crazy, but a dear. Maybe they go together.”

“Is that a rule, too?”

She kissed him. “Yes, professor.”

The inevitable Special screen formed about them the instant they left their apartment. By
now he and Dors had trained the Specials to at least allow them the privacy of a single
wedge in the drop tube.

The grav drop was in fact no miracle of gravitational physics; it came from advanced
electromagnetics. Each instant over a thousand electrostatic fields supported him through
intricate charge imbalances. He could feel them playing in his hair, small twinges skating
across his skin, as the field configurations handed him off to each other, each lowering
his mass infinitesimally down the chute.

When they left the wedge, thirteen floors higher, Dors passed a charge-programmed comb
through her hair. It crackled and snapped obediently into its style: “smart” hair.

They entered a broad passageway lined with shops. Hari liked being in a place where he
could see farther than a hundred meters.

Movement was quick because there was no cross traffic for any conveyance. A slidewalk ran
at the center, going their way, but they stayed near the shop windows and browsed as they
ambled.

To move laterally, one simply went up or down a level by elevator or escalator, then
stepped on a moving belt or entered a robopod. In the corridors to both sides the slideway
ran opposite. With no left or right turns, traffic mishaps were rare. Most people walked
wherever was practical, for the exercise and for the indefinable exhilaration of Trantor
itself. People who came here wanted the constant stimulation of humanity, ideas, and
cultures rubbing against each other in productive friction. Hari was not immune to it,
though it lost some savor if overdone.

People in the squares and park-hexagons wore fashions from the twenty-five million worlds.
He saw self-shaping “leathers” from animals who could not possibly have resembled the
mythical horse. A man sauntered by with leggings slit to his hip, exposing blue-striped
skin that bunched and slid in a perpetual show. An angular woman sported a bodice of
open-mouthed faces, each swallowing ivory-nippled breasts; he had to look twice to believe
they weren't real. Girls in outrageously cut pomp-vestments paraded noisily. A child -- or
was it a normal inhabitant of a strong-grav world? -- played a photozither, strumming its
laser beams.

The Specials fanned out and their captain came trotting over. “We can't cover you well
here, Academician sir.”

“These are ordinary people, not assassins. They had no way of predicting that I'd be here.”

“Emperor says cover you, we cover you.”

Dors rapped back smartly, “I'll handle the close-in threats. I'm able, I assure you.”

The captain's mouth twisted sourly, but he gave himself a moment before saying, “I heard
something about that. Still -- ”

“Have your men use their range detectors vertically. A shaped charge on the layers below
and above could catch us.”

“Uh, yes'm.” He trotted off.

They passed by the jigsaw walls of the Farhahal Quadrant. A wealthy ancient had become
obsessed with the notion that as long as his estate was unfinished, he would not himself
finish -- that is, die. Whenever an addition neared completion, he ordered up more.
Eventually the tangle of rooms, runways, vaults, bridges and gardens became an incoherent
motley stuck into every cranny of the original, rather simple design. When Farhahal
eventually did “finish,” a tower half built, bickering by his heirs and lawyerly
plundering of the estate for their fees brought the quadrant low. Now it was a fetid
warren, visited only by the predatory and the unwary.

The Specials pulled in tight and the captain urged them to get into a robo. Hari
grudgingly agreed. Dors had the concentrated look that meant she was worried. They sped in
silence through shadowy tunnels. There were two stops and in the brilliantly lit stations
Hari saw rats scurrying for shelter as the pod eased to a halt. He silently pointed them
out to Dors.

“Brrrr,” she said. “One would think that at the very center of the Empire we could
eliminate pests.”

“Not these days,” Hari said, though he suspected the rats had thrived even at the height
of Empire. Rodents cared little for grandeur.

“I suppose they've been our eternal companions,” Dors said somberly. “No world is free of
them.”

“In these tunnels, the long-distance pods fly so fast that occasionally rats get sucked
into the air-breathing engines.”

Dors said uneasily, “That could damage the engines, even crash the pods.”

“No holiday for the rat, either.”

They passed through a Sector whose citizens abhorred sunlight, even the wan splashes which
came down through the layers by radiance tubes. Historically, Dors told him, this had
arisen from fears of its ultraviolet component, but the phobia seemed to go deeper than a
mere health issue.

Their pod slowed and passed along a high ramp above open, swarming vaults. No natural
light shafts brought illumination, only artificial phosphor glows. The Sector was
officially named Kalanstromonia, but its citizens were known worldwide as Spooks. They
seldom traveled, and their bleached faces stood out in crowds. Gazing down at them, they
looked to Hari like swarms of grubs feeding on shadowy decay.

The Imperial Zonal Reception was inside a dome in the Julieen Sector. He and Dors entered
with the Specials, who then gave way to five men and women wearing utterly inconspicuous
business dress. These nodded to Hari and then appeared to forget him, moving down a broad
rampway and chatting with each other.

A woman at the grand doorway made too much of his entrance. Music descended around him in
a sound cloud, an arrangement of the Streeling Anthem blended subtly with the Helicon
Symphony. This attracted attention from the crowds below -- exactly what he did not want.
A protocol team smoothly took the handoff from the door attendants, escorting him and Dors
to a balcony. He was happy for the chance to look at the view.

From the peak of the dome the vistas were startling. Spirals descended to plateaus so
distant he could barely make out a forest and paths. The ramparts and gardens there had
drawn millennia of spectators, including, a guide told him, 999,987 suicides, all
carefully tabulated through many centuries.

Now that the number approached a million, the guide went on with relish, attempts occurred
nearly every hour. A man had been stopped just short of leaping that very day, wearing a
gaudy holosuit programmed to flash I MADE THE MILLION after he struck.

“They seem so eager,” the guide concluded with what seemed to Hari a kind of pride.

“Well,” Hari remarked, trying to get rid of the man, “suicide is the most sincere form of
self-criticism.”

The guide nodded wisely, unperturbed, and added, “Also, it does give them something to
contribute to. That must be a consolation.”