Foundation Fear (42 page)
But to reach it, they had to venture where few did.
“The Galactic Center is dangerous, ” Dors said as they coasted toward the decisive
wormhole mouth. They curved above a barren mining planet. “But necessary.”
“Trantor worries me more -- ” The jump cut him off --
-- and the spectacle silenced him.
The filaments were so large the eye could not take them in. They stretched fore and aft,
shot through with immense luminous corridors and dusky lanes. These arches yawned over
tens of light-years. Immense curves descended toward the white-hot True Center. There
matter frothed and fumed and burst into dazzling fountains.
“The black hole, ” he said simply.
The small black hole they had seen only an hour before had trapped a few stellar masses.
At True Center, a million suns had died to feed gravity's gullet.
The orderly arrays of radiance were thin, only a light-year across. Yet they sustained
themselves along hundreds of light-years as they churned with change. Hari switched the
polarized walls to see in different frequency ranges. Though hot and roiling in the
visible, human spectrum, the radio revealed hidden intricacy. Threads laced among
convoluted spindles. He had a powerful impression of layers, of labyrinthine order
descending beyond his view, beyond simple understanding.
“Particle flux is high, ” Dors said tensely. “And rising.”
“Where's our junction?”
“I'm having trouble vector-fixing -- ah! There.”
Hard acceleration rammed him back into his flow-couch. Dors took them diving down into a
mottled pyramid-shaped wormhole.
This was an even rarer geometry. Hari had time to marvel at how accidents of the universal
birth pang had shaped these serene geometries, like exhibits in some god's Euclidean
museum of the mind.
And then they plunged through, erasing the stunning views.
They popped out above the gray-brown mottled face of Trantor. A glinting disk of
satellites, factories and habitats fanned out in the equatorial plane.
The wild worm they had used fizzed and glowed behind them. Dors took them swiftly toward
the ramshackle, temporary wormyard. He said nothing, but felt her tense calculations. They
nudged into a socket, seals sighed, his ears popped painfully.
Then they were out, arms and legs wooden from the cramped pencil ship. Hari coasted in
zero-g toward the flex-lock. Dors glided ahead of him. She motioned him for silence as
pressures pulsed in the lock. She peeled her skinsuit down, exposing her breasts.
A finger's touch opened a seam below her left breast. She plucked a cylinder out. A
weapon? She resealed and had her skinsuit back in place before the staging diaphragm began
to open.
Beyond the opening iris Hari saw Imperial uniforms.
He crouched against the lock wall, ready to launch himself backward to avoid capture --
but the situation looked hopeless.
The Imperials looked grim, determined. They clasped pistols. Dors coasted between Hari and
the squad. She tossed the cylinder at them --
-- a pressure wave knocked him back against the wall. His ears clogged. The squad was an
expanding cloud of ... debris.
“What -- ?”
“Shaped implosion, ” Dors called. “Move!”
The injured men had been slammed into each other. How anything could shape a pressure wave
so compactly he could not imagine. In any case he had no time. They shot past the tangled
cloud of men. Weapons drifted uselessly.
A figure erupted from the far diaphragm. A man in a brown work sheath, middle-sized,
unarmed. Hari shouted a warning. Dors showed no reaction.
The man flicked his wrist and a snout appeared from his sleeve. Dors still coasted toward
him.
Hari snagged a handhold and veered to his right.
“Stay still!” the man yelled.
Hari froze, dangling by one hand. The man fired -- and a silvery bolt fried past Hari.
He turned and saw that one of the Imperials had recovered his weapon. The silver line
scratched fire across the Imperial's arm. He screamed. His weapon tumbled away.
“Let's go. I have the rest of the way secured, ” the man in the work sheath called.
Dors followed him without a word. Hari pushed off and caught up to them as the diaphragm
irised for diem.
“You return to Trantor at the crucial moment, ” the man said.
“You -- who -- ”
The man smiled. “I have changed myself. You do not recognize your old friend, R. Daneel?”
R. Daneel gazed at Dors without expression, letting his body go slack.
Dors said, “We must defend him against Lamurk. You could reappear, come out in favor of
him. As former First Minister, your public endorsement and support -- ”
“I cannot reappear as Eto Demerzel, ex-important person. That would compromise my other
tasks.”
“But Hari has to have -- ”
". As well, you mistake my power as Demerzel. I am now history. Lamurk will care nothing
about me, for I have no legions to command."
Dors fumed silently. “But you must -- -”
“I shall move more of us into Lamurk's inner circle.”
“It's too late to infiltrate. ” Daneel activated his expressive programs and flailed. "I
planted several of our kind decades ago.
They shall all be in position soon. "
“You're using ... us?”
“I must. Though your implication is correct we are few.”
“I need help protecting him, too. ”
“Quite right. ” He produced a disk, this time from a compartment beneath his armpit. “This
Will identify the Lamurk agents for you.”
She looked doubtful. “How? This looks like a chem snooper.”
“I have agents of my own. They can in turn label Lamurk's agents. This device will pick up
their tags. Other encoded messages will ride on the marking signal.”
“And Lamurk's specialists won't pick up the tags?”
“This device uses methods lost for six millennia. Install it in your right arm, at station
cut six. Interface with apertures two and five.”
“How will I -- ”
“Specs and expertise will flow to your long-term memory upon connection.”
She installed the device as he watched. His grave presence made silence natural. Olivaw
never wasted a movement or made idle conversation. Finally, intricacies done, she sighed
and said, “He's interested in those simulations, the ones which escaped.”
“He is following the best line of attack for psy-chohistory.”
“There's this tiktok problem, too. Do you understand -- ”
“The social taboos against simulations inevitably break down during cultural resurgences,
” Daneel said.
“So tiktoks -- ?”
“They are inherently destabilizing if they become too developed. After all, we cannot
condone a new generation of robots, or the rediscovery of the positronic process.”
“There are signs in the historical record that this has happened before.”
“You are an insightful scholar.”
“There were only a few traces, but I suspect -- ”
“Suspect no further. You are correct. I could not expunge every scrap of data.”
“You disguised such events?”
“. And much else. ”
“Why? As an historian -- ”
“I had to. Humanity is best served by Imperial sta-bility. Tiktoks, sims -- these
accompany movements such as this 'New Renaissance, ' feeding the fire.”
“What's to be done?”
“I do not know. Matters are slipping beyond my ability to predict.”
She frowned. “How do you predict?”
“In the first millennia of the Empire, our kind developed the simple theory I have
mentioned before. Useful, but crude. It led me to expect the reemergence of these
simulations as a side effect of the Sarkian 'Renaissance' and its turmoil. ”
“Does Hari understand this?”
“Hari's psychohistory is vastly superior to our models. He lacks certain vital historical
data, how-When it is eventually included, he will be able to accurately anticipate the
Empire's devolution. ”
“You do not mean 'evolution'?”
“Quite. That is a major reason why we devote such resources to helping Hari. ”
“He is crucial.”
"Of course. Why do you think I assigned you?"
"Does it matter that I've fallen in love with him?" "No. But it helps.”
“Helps me? Or him?”
Daneel smiled thinly. “Both, I should hope. But mostly, it helps me.”
The Eternal Equations
The General Theory Of Psychohistory
Mathematical Aspects -- ... as the crisis deepens, the deep systemic learning
loops falter. The system drifts out of tune. Such drifts, particularly if diffusive, call
for fundamental systemic restructuring. This is termed the “macro decision phase” in which
the loops must find fresh configurings in the n-dimensional landscape.
... All visualizations can be understood in thermodynamic terms. The statistical mechanics
involved are not those of particles and collisions, as in a gas, but in the language of
social macro-groups, acting through “collisions” with other such macro-groups. Such
impacts produce much human debris ...
-- ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
Hari Seldon stood alone in the lift, thinking.
The door slid open. A woman asked if this elevator was going up or down. Distracted, he
answered, “Yes. ” Her surprised look told him that somehow his reply was off target. Only
after the door closed on her puzzled stare did he see that she meant which way, not if.
He was in the habit of making precise distinctions; the world was not.
He walked into his office, still barely aware of his surroundings, and Cleon's 3D
blossomed in the air before he could sit down. The Emperor awaited no filter programs.
“I was so happy to hear you had returned from hol-kiay!” Cleon beamed.
“Pleased, sire. ” What did he want?
Hari decided not to tell him all that had transpired. Daneel had stressed secrecy. Only
this morning, after a zigzag route down from the wormyards, had Hari let his presence be
known even to the imperial specials
“I fear you arrive at a difficult time. ” Cleon scowled. “Lamurk is moving for a vote in
the High Council on the First Ministership.”
“How many votes can he muster?”
“Enough that I cannot ignore the Council. I will be forced to appoint him despite my own
likes.”
“I am sorry for that, sire. ” In fact, his heart leaped.
“I have maneuvered against him, but ... ” An elaborate sigh. Cleon chewed at his ample
lower lip. Had the man gained weight again? Or were Hari's perceptions altered by his time
of shortened diet on Panucopia? Most Trantorians looked pudgy to him now. “Then, too, is
this irritating matter of Sark and its confounded New Renaissance. The muddle grows. Could
this spread to other worlds in their Zone? Would those throw in with them? You have
studied this?”
“In detail.”
“Using psychohistory?”
Hari gave way to his gut instinct. “Unrest will grow there.”
“You're sure?”
He wasn't, but -- “I suggest you move against it.”
“Lamurk favors Sark. He says it will bring new prosperity.”
“He wants to ride this discord into office.”
“Overt opposition from me at this delicate time would be ... unpolitic.”
“Even though he might be behind the attempts on my life?”
“Alas, there is no proof of that. As ever, several factions would benefit were you to ...
” Cleon coughed uncomfortably.
“Withdraw -- involuntarily?”
Cleon's mouth worked uneasily. “An Emperor is father to a perpetually unruly family.”
If even the Emperor were tip-toeing around Lamurk, matters were indeed bad. “Couldn't you position squadrons for quick use should the
opportunity arise?”
Cleon nodded. “I shall. But if the High Council votes for Lamurk, I shall be powerless to
move against so prominent and, well, exciting a world as Sark.”
“I believe strife will spread throughout Sark's entire Zone.”
“Truly? What would you advise me to do against Lamurk?”
“I have no political skills, sire. You knew that.”
“Nonsense. You have psychohistory!”
Hari was still uncomfortable owning up to the theory, even with Cleon. If it were ever to
be useful, word of psychohistory could not be widespread, or else everyone would use it.
Or try to.
Cleon went on, “And your solution to the terrorist problem -- it is working well. We just
executed Moron One Hundred.”
Hari shuddered, thinking of the lives obliterated by i mere passing idea of his. “A ... a
small issue, surely, sire.”
"Then turn your calculations to the Dahlite Sector matter, Hari. They are restive.
Everyone is, these and the Zones of Dahlite persuasion throughout the Galaxy?"
They back the local Dahlites in the Councils. It's about this representation question. The
plan we felon Trantor will be mirrored throughout the : \y. Indeed, in the votes of whole
Zones."
"Hell, if most people think -- "
“Ah, my dear Hari, you still have a mathist's myopia. History is determined not by what
people think, but by what they feel. ” startled -- for this remark struck him as true --
Hari could only say, “I see, sire.”
“We -- you and I, Hari -- must decide this issue.”
“I'll work on the decision, sire.”
How he had come to hate the very word! Decide had the same root as suicide and homicide.
Decisions felt like little killings. Somebody lost.
Hari now knew why he was not cut out for these matters. If his skin was too thin, he would
have too ready empathy with others, with their arguments and sentiments. Then he would not
make decisions which he knew could only be approximately right and would cause some pain.
On the other hand, he had to steel himself against the personal need to be liked. In a
natural politician, that would lead to a posture that said he cared about others, when in
fact he cared what they thought of him -- because being liked was what counted, far down
in the shadowy psyche. It also came in handy for staying in office.
Cleon brought up more issues. Hari dodged and stalled as much as he could. When Cleon
abruptly ended the talk, he knew he had not come over well.
He had no chance to reflect on this, for Yugo came in.
“I'm so glad you're back!” Yugo grinned. "The Dahl issue really needs your attention -- "
“”Enough!" Hari could not vent his ire at the Emperor, but Yugo would do nicely. “No political talk. Show me your research progress. ”
“Uh, all right. ” Yugo looked chastened and Hari at once regretted being so abrupt. Yugo
hurried to set up his latest data displays. Hari blinked; for a moment, he had seen in Yugo's haste an odd similarity to pan gestures. Hari listened, thinking along two tracks
at once.
This, too, seemed easier since Panucopia. Plagues were building across the entire Empire.
Why? With rapid transport between worlds, diseases thrived. Humans were the major petri
dish. Ancient maladies and virulent new plagues appeared around distant stars. This
inhibited Zonal integration, another hidden factor.
Diseases filled an ecological niche, and for some, humanity was a snug nook. Antibiotics
knocked down infections, which then mutated and returned, more virulent still. Humanity
and microbes made an intriguing system, for both sides fought back quickly.
Cures propagated quickly through the wormhole system, but so did disease carriers. The
entire problem, Yugo had found, could be described by a method known as “marginal
stability, ” in which disease and people struck an uneasy, ever-shifting balance. Major
plagues were rare, but minor ones became common. Afflictions rose and inventive science
damped them within a generation. This oscillation sent further ripples spreading among
other human institutions, radiating into commerce and culture. With intricate coupling
terms in the equations, he saw patterns emerging, with one sad consequence.
The human lifespan in the “natural” civilized human condition -- living in cities and
towns -- had an equally “natural” limit. While some few attained 150 years, most died well
short of 100. The steady hail of fresh disease insured it. In the end, there was no
lasting shelter from the storm of biology. Humans lived in troubled balance with microbes,
an unending struggle with no final victories.
“Like this tiktok revolt, ” Yugo finished.
Hari jerked to attention. “What?”
“It's like a virus. Dunno what's spreading it, though.”
“All over Trantor?”
“That's the focus, seems like. Others Zones are getting tiktok troubles, too.”
They refuse to harvest food?"
“Yup. Some of the tiktoks, mostly the recent models, 590s and higher -- they say it's
immoral to eat other living things.”
“Good grief.”
Hari remembered breakfast. Even after the exotica of Panucopia, the autokitchen's meager
offering had been a shock. Trantorian food had always been cooked or ground, blended or
compounded. Properly, fruit was presented as a sauce or preserve. To his surprise,
breakfast appeared to have come straight from the dirt. He had wondered if it had been
washed -- and how he would know for sure. Trantorians hated their meals to remind them of
the natural world.
“They're refusing to work the Caverns, even, ” Yugo said.
“Bat that's essential!”
"Nobody can fix 'em. There's some tiktok meme “Like the plagues you're analyzing.”
Hari had been shocked at Trantor's erosion in just a few months. He and Dors had slipped
into Steering with Daneel's help, amid messy, trash-strewn corridors with phosphors
malfunctioning, lifts dead. Now this.
Yugo's stomach suddenly rumbled. “Uh, sorry. People are having to work the Caverns for the
first time in centuries! They have no hands-on experience. Everybody but the gentry's on
slim rations.”
Hari had helped Yugo escape that sweltering work years before. In vast vaults, wood and
coarse cellulose passed automatically from the solar caverns to vats of weak acid. Passing
through deep rivers of acid hydrolyzed this to glucose. Now people, not rugged tiktoks,
had to mix niter suspensions and ground phosphate rock in a carefully calculated slurry.
With prepared organics stirred in. a vast range of yeasts and their derivatives emerged.
'The Emperor has to do somethin'!" Yugo said.
“Or I, ” Hari said. But what?
“People're sayin' we have to scrap all the tiktoks, not just the Five Hundred series, and
do everything ourselves.”
“Without them, we would be reduced to hauling bulk foods across the Galaxy by hypership
and worms -- an absurdity. Trantor will fall.”
“Hey, we can do better than tiktoks.”
“My dear Yugo, that is what I call Echo-Nomics. You're repeating conventional wisdom. One
must consider the larger picture. Trantorians aren't the same people who built this world.
They're softer.”
“We're as tough and smart as the men and women who built the Empire!”
“They didn't stay indoors.”
“Old Dahlite sayin'. ” Yugo grinned. “If you don't like the grand picture, just apply dog
logic to life. Get petted, eat often, be lovable and loved, sleep a lot, dream of a
leash-free world.”
Despite himself, Hari laughed. But he knew he had to act, and soon.