Prelude to Foundation (23 page)

“The character is there underneath just the same,” she answered. “And I dare say you’ll grow accustomed to the hairless me.”

In a still lower whisper, Seldon said, “I don’t want to stay here long enough to get accustomed to this.”

Sunmaster, who ignored, with visible haughtiness,
the mumblings among mere tribesmen, said, “If you will enter my ground-car, I will now take you into Mycogen.”

“Frankly,” whispered Dors, “I can scarcely believe I’m on Trantor.”

“I take it, then, you’ve never seen anything like this before?” said Seldon.

“I’ve only been on Trantor for two years and I’ve spent much of my time at the University, so I’m not exactly a world traveler. Still, I’ve been here and there and I’ve heard of this and that, but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this. The
sameness
.”

Sunmaster drove along methodically and without undue haste. There were other wagonlike vehicles in the roadway, all with hairless men at the controls, their bald pates gleaming in the light.

On either side there were three-story structures, unornamented, all lines meeting at right angles, everything gray in color.

“Dreary,” mouthed Dors. “So dreary.”

“Egalitarian,” whispered Seldon. “I suspect no Brother can lay claim to precedence of any obvious kind over any other.”

There were many pedestrians on the walkways as they passed. There were no signs of any moving corridors and no sound of any nearby Expressway.

Dors said, “I’m guessing the grays are women.”

“It’s hard to tell,” said Seldon. “The gowns hide everything and one hairless head is like another.”

“The grays are always in pairs or with a white. The whites can walk alone and Sunmaster is a white.”

“You may be right.” Seldon raised his voice. “Sunmaster, I am curious—”

“If you are, then ask what you wish, although I am by no means required to answer.”

“We seem to be passing through a residential area. There are no signs of business establishments, industrial areas—”

“We are a farming community entirely. Where are you from that you do not know this?”

“You know I am an Outworlder,” Seldon said stiffly. “I have been on Trantor for only two months.”

“Even so.”

“But if you are a farming community, Sunmaster, how is it that we have passed no farms either?”

“On lower levels,” said Sunmaster briefly.

“Is Mycogen on this level entirely residential, then?”

“And on a few others. We are what you see. Every Brother and his family lives in equivalent quarters; every cohort in its own equivalent community; all have the same ground-cars and all Brothers drive their own. There are no servants and none are at ease through the labor of others. None may glory over another.”

Seldon lifted his shielded eyebrows at Dors and said, “But some of the people wear white, while some wear gray.”

“That is because some of the people are Brothers and some are Sisters.”

“And we?”

“You are a tribesman and a guest. You and your”—he paused and then said—“companion will not be bound by all aspects of Mycogenian life. Nevertheless, you will wear a white gown and your companion will wear a gray one and you will live in special guest quarters like our own.”

“Equality for all seems a pleasant ideal, but what happens as your numbers increase? Is the pie, then, cut into smaller pieces?”

“There is no increase in numbers. That would necessitate an increase in area, which the surrounding
tribesmen would not allow, or a change for the worse in our way of life.”

“But if—” began Seldon.

Sunmaster cut him off. “It is enough, Tribesman Seldon. As I warned you, I am not compelled to answer. Our task, which we have promised our friend Tribesman Hummin, is to keep you secure as long as you do not violate our way of life. That we will do, but there it ends. Curiosity is permitted, but it wears out our patience quickly if persisted in.”

Something about his tone allowed no more to be said and Seldon chafed. Hummin, for all his help, had clearly mis-stressed the matter.

It was not security that Seldon sought. At least, not security alone. He needed information too and without that he could not—and would not—stay here.

Seldon looked with some distress at their quarters. It had a small but individual kitchen and a small but individual bathroom. There were two narrow beds, two clothes closets, a table, and two chairs. In short there was everything that was necessary for two people who were willing to live under cramped conditions.

“We had an individual kitchen and bathroom at Cinna,” said Dors with an air of resignation.

“Not I,” said Seldon. “Helicon may be a small world, but I lived in a modern city. Community kitchens and bathrooms. —What a waste this is. You might expect it in a hotel, where one is compelled to make a temporary stay, but if the whole sector is like this, imagine the enormous number and duplications of kitchens and bathrooms.”

“Part of the egalitarianism, I suppose,” said Dors. “No fighting for favored stalls or for faster service. The same for everyone.”

“No privacy either. Not that I mind terribly, Dors, but you might and I don’t want to give the appearance of taking advantage. We ought to make it clear to them that we must have separate rooms—adjoining but separate.”

Dors said, “I’m sure it won’t work. Space is at a premium and I think they are amazed by their own generosity in giving us this much. We’ll just make do, Hari. We’re each old enough to manage. I’m not a blushing maiden and you’ll never convince me that you’re a callow youth.”

“You wouldn’t be here, were it not for me.”

“What of it? It’s an adventure.”

“All right, then. Which bed will you take? Why don’t you take the one nearer the bathroom?” He sat down on the other. “There’s something else that bothers me. As long as we’re here, we’re tribespeople, you and I, as is even Hummin. We’re of the
other
tribes, not their own cohorts, and most things are none of our business. —But most things
are
my business. That’s what I’ve come here for. I want to know some of the things they know.”

“Or think they know,” said Dors with a historian’s skepticism. “I understand they have legends that are supposed to date back to primordial times, but I can’t believe they can be taken seriously.”

“We can’t know that until we find out what those legends are. Are there no outside records of them?”

“Not that I know of. These people are terribly ingrown. They’re almost psychotic in their inward clinging. That Hummin can break down their barriers somewhat and even get them to take us in is remarkable—
really
remarkable.”

Seldon brooded. “There has to be an opening somewhere. Sunmaster was surprised—angry, in fact—that I didn’t know Mycogen was an agricultural com
munity. That seems to be something they don’t want kept a secret.”

“The point is, it
isn’t
a secret. ‘Mycogen’ is supposed to be from archaic words meaning ‘yeast producer.’ At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not a paleolinguist. In any case, they culture all varieties of microfood—yeast, of course, along with algae, bacteria, multicellular fungi, and so on.”

“That’s not uncommon,” said Seldon. “Most worlds have this microculture. We have some even on Helicon.”

“Not like Mycogen. It’s their specialty. They use methods as archaic as the name of their section—secret fertilizing formulas, secret environmental influences. Who knows what? All is secret.”

“Ingrown.”

“With a vengeance. What it amounts to is that they produce protein and subtle flavoring, so that
their
microfood isn’t like any other in the world. They keep the volume comparatively low and the price is sky-high. I’ve never tasted any and I’m sure you haven’t, but it sells in great quantities to the Imperial bureaucracy and to the upper classes on other worlds. Mycogen depends on such sales for its economic health, so they want everyone to know that they are the source of this valuable food.
That
, at least, is no secret.”

“Mycogen must be rich, then.”

“They’re not poor, but I suspect that it’s not wealth they’re after. It’s protection. The Imperial government protects them because, without them, there wouldn’t be these microfoods that add the subtlest flavors, the tangiest spices, to every dish. That means that Mycogen can maintain its odd way of life and be haughty toward its neighbors, who probably find them insupportable.”

Dors looked about. “They live an austere life. There’s no holovision, I notice, and no book-films.”

“I noticed one in the closet up on the shelf.” Seldon reached for it, stared at the label, and then said in clear disgust, “A cookbook.”

Dors held out her hand for it and manipulated the keys. It took a while, for the arrangement was not quite orthodox, but she finally managed to light the screen and inspect the pages. She said, “There are a few recipes, but for the most part this seems to consist of philsophical essays on gastronomy.”

She shut it off and turned it round and about. “It seems to be a single unit. I don’t see how one would eject the microcard and insert another. —A one-book scanner. Now
that’s
a waste.”

“Maybe they think this one book-film is all anyone needs.” He reached toward the end table that was between the two beds and picked up another object. “This could be a speaker, except that there’s no screen.”

“Perhaps they consider the voice sufficient.”

“How does it work, I wonder?” Seldon lifted it and looked at it from different sides. “Did you ever see anything like this?”

“In a museum once—if this is the same thing. Mycogen seems to keep itself deliberately archaic. I suppose they consider that another way of separating themselves from the so-called tribesmen that surround them in overwhelming numbers. Their archaism and odd customs make them indigestible, so to speak. There’s a kind of perverse logic to all that.”

Seldon, still playing with the device, said, “Whoops! It went on. Or something went on. But I don’t hear anything.”

Dors frowned and picked up a small felt-lined cylinder that remained behind on the end table. She put it to her ear. “There’s a voice coming out of this,” she said. “Here, try it.” She handed it to him.

Seldon did so and said, “Ouch! It clips on.” He listened and said, “Yes, it hurt my ear. You can hear me, I take it. —Yes, this is our room. —No, I don’t know its number. Dors, have you any idea of the number?”

Dors said, “There’s a number on the speaker. Maybe that will do.”

“Maybe,” said Seldon doubtfully. Then he said into
the speaker, “The number on this device is 6LT-3648A. Will that do? —Well, where do I find out how to use this device properly and how to use the kitchen, for that matter? —What do you
mean
, ‘It all works the usual way?’ That doesn’t do me any good. —See here, I’m a … a tribesman, an honored guest. I don’t know the usual way. —Yes, I’m sorry about my accent and I’m glad you can recognize a tribesman when you hear one. —My name is Hari Seldon.”

There was a pause and Seldon looked up at Dors with a long-suffering expression on his face. “He has to look me up. And I suppose he’ll tell me he can’t find me. —Oh, you have me? Good! In that case, can you give me the information? —Yes. —Yes. —Yes. —And how can I call someone outside Mycogen? —Oh, then what about contacting Sunmaster Fourteen, for instance? —Well, his assistant then, his aide, whatever? —Uh-huh. —Thank you.”

He put the speaker down, unhooked the hearing device from his ear with a little difficulty, turned the whole thing off, and said, “They’ll arrange to have someone show us anything we need to know, but he can’t promise when that might be. You can’t call outside Mycogen—not on this thing anyway—so we couldn’t get Hummin if we needed him. And if I want Sunmaster Fourteen, I’ve got to go through a tremendous rigmarole. This may be an egalitarian society, but there seem to be exceptions that I bet no one will openly admit.”

He looked at his watch. “In any case, Dors, I’m not going to view a cookbook and still less am I going to view learned essays. My watch is still telling University time, so I don’t know if it’s officially bedtime and at the moment I don’t care. We’ve been awake most of the night and I would like to sleep.”

“That’s all right with me. I’m tired too.”

“Thanks. And whenever a new day starts after we’ve caught up on our sleep, I’m going to ask for a tour of their microfood plantations.”

Dors looked startled. “Are you
interested
?”

“Not really, but if that’s the one thing they’re proud of, they should be willing to talk about it and once I get them into a talking mood then, by exerting all my charm, I may get them to talk about their legends too. Personally, I think that’s a clever strategy.”

“I hope so,” said Dors dubiously, “but I think that the Mycogenians will not be so easily trapped.”

“We’ll see,” said Seldon grimly. “I mean to get those legends.”

The next morning found Hari using the calling device again. He was angry because, for one thing, he was hungry.

His attempt to reach Sunmaster Fourteen was deflected by someone who insisted that Sunmaster could not be disturbed.

“Why not?” Seldon had asked waspishly.

“Obviously, there is no need to answer that question,” came back a cold voice.

“We were not brought here to be prisoners,” said Seldon with equal coldness. “Nor to starve.”

“I’m sure you have a kitchen and ample supplies of food.”

“Yes, we do,” said Seldon. “And I do not know how to use the kitchen devices, nor do I know how to prepare the food. Do you eat it raw, fry it, boil it, roast it …?”

“I can’t believe you are ignorant in such matters.”

Dors, who had been pacing up and down during this colloquy, reached for the device and Seldon fended her off, whispering, “He’ll break the connection if a woman tries to speak to him.”

Then, into the device, he said more firmly than ever, “What you believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter to me in the least. You send someone here—someone who can do something about our situation—or when I reach Sunmaster Fourteen, as I will eventually, you will pay for this.”