Isaac Asimov - Foundation's Edge

“I understand that, so forgive me now , will you?”

Pelorat smiled. “I don’t know why, but this cheers me up. There’s something pleasantly humorous about it. Of course, Golan, I’ll forgive you. There are plenty of myths about some form of afterlife in world literature and if there should happen to be such a place—about the same chance as landing on a mini-black hole, I suppose, or less—and we both turn up in the same one, then I will bear witness that you did your honest best and that my death should not be laid at your door.”

“Thank you! Now I’m relieved. I’m willing to take my chance, but I did not enjoy the thought of you taking my chance as well.”

Pelorat wrung the other’s hand. “You know, Golan, I’ve only known you less than a week and I suppose I shouldn’t make hasty judgments in these matters, but I think you’re an excellent chap. —And now let’s do it and get it over with.”

“Absolutely! All I have to do is touch that little contact. The computer has its instructions and it’s just waiting for me to say: ‘Start!’ —Would you like to—”

“Never! It’s all yours! It’s your computer.”

“Very well. And it’s my responsibility. I’m still trying to duck it you see. Keep your eye on the screen!”

With a remarkably steady hand and with his smile looking utterly genuine, Trevize made contact.

There was a momentary pause and then the starfield changed—and again—and again. The stars spread steadily thicker and brighter over the viewscreen.

Pelorat was counting under his breath. At “15” there was a halt, as though some piece of apparatus had jammed.

Pelorat whispered, clearly afraid that any noise might jar the mechanism fatally. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Trevize shrugged. “I imagine it’s recalculating. Some object in space is adding a perceptible bump to the general shape of the overall gravitational field—some object not taken into account—some uncharted dwarf star or rogue planet—”

“Dangerous?”

“Since we’re still alive, it’s almost certainly not dangerous. A planet could be a hundred million kilometers away and still introduce a large enough gravitational modification to require recalculation. A dwarf star could be ten billion kilometers away and—”

The screen shifted again and Trevize fell silent. It shifted again—and again—Finally, when Pelorat said, “28,” there was no further motion.

Trevize consulted the computer. “We’re here,” he said.

“I counted the first Jump as ‘1’ and in this series I started with ‘2.’ That’s twenty-eight Jumps altogether. You said twenty-nine.”

“The recalculation at Jump 15 probably saved us one Jump. I can check with the computer if you wish, but there’s really no need. We’re in the vicinity of Sayshell Planet. The computer says so and I don’t doubt it. If I were to orient the screen properly, we’d see a nice, bright sun, but there’s no point in placing a needless strain on its screening capacity. Sayshell Planet is the fourth one out and it’s about 3.2 million kilometers away from our present position, which is about as close as we want to be at a Jump conclusion. We can get there in three days—two, if we hurry.”

Trevize drew a deep breath and tried to let the tension drain.

“Do you realize what this means, Janov?” he said. “Every ship I’ve ever been in—or heard of—would have made those Jumps with at least a day in between for painstaking calculation and re-checking, even with a computer. The trip would have taken nearly a month. Or perhaps two or three weeks, if they were willing to be reckless about it. We did it in half an hour. When every ship is equipped with a computer like this one—”

Pelorat said, “I wonder why the Mayor let us have a ship this advanced. It must be incredibly expensive.”

“It’s experimental,” said Trevize dryly. “Maybe the good woman was perfectly willing to have us try it out and see what deficiencies might develop.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t get nervous. After all, there’s nothing to worry about. We haven’t found any deficiencies. I wouldn’t put it past her, though. Such a thing would put no great strain on her sense of humanity. Besides, she hasn’t trusted us with offensive weapons and that cuts the expense considerably.”

Pelorat said thoughtfully, “It’s the computer I’m thinking about. It seems to be adjusted so well for you—and it can’t be adjusted that well for everyone. It just barely works with me .”

“So much the better for us, that it works so well with one of us.”

“Yes, but is that merely chance?”

“What else, Janov?”

“Surely the Mayor knows you pretty well.”

“I think she does, the old battlecraft.”

“Might she not have had a computer designed particularly for you?”

“Why?”

“I just wonder if we’re not going where the computer wants to take us.”

Trevize stared. “You mean that while I’m connected to the computer, it is the computer—and not me—who’s in real charge?”

“I just wonder.”

“That is ridiculous. Paranoid. Come on , Janov.”

Trevize turned back to the computer to focus Sayshell Planet on the screen and to plot a normalspace course to it.

Ridiculous!

But why had Pelorat put the notion into his head?

Two days had passed and Gendibal found himself not so much heavy-hearted as enraged. There was no reason why there could not have been an immediate hearing. Had he been unprepared—had he needed time—they would have forced an immediate hearing on him, he was sure.

But since there was nothing more facing the Second Foundation than the greatest crisis since the Mule, they wasted time—and to no purpose but to irritate him.

They did irritate him and, by Seldon, that would make his counterstroke the heavier. He was determined on that.

He looked about him. The anteroom was empty. It had been like that for two days now. He was a marked man, a Speaker whom all knew would—by means of an action unprecedented in the five-century history of the Second Foundation—soon lose his position. He would be demoted to the ranks, demoted to the position of a Second Foundationer, plain and simple.

It was one thing, however—and a very honored thing—to be a Second Foundationer of the ranks, particularly if one held a respectable title, as Gendibal might even after the impeachment. It would be quite another thing to have once been a Speaker and to have been demoted.

It won’t happen though, thought Gendibal savagely, even though for two days he had been avoided. Only Sura Novi treated him as before, but she was too naïve to understand the situation. To her, Gendibal was still “Master.”

It irritated Gendibal that he found a certain comfort in this. He felt ashamed when he began to notice that his spirits rose when he noticed her gazing at him worshipfully. Was he becoming grateful for gifts that small?

A clerk emerged from the Chamber to tell him that the Table was ready for him and Gendibal stalked in. The clerk was one Gendibal knew well; he was one who knew—to the tiniest fraction—the precise gradation of civility that each Speaker deserved. At the moment, that accorded Gendibal was appallingly low. Even the clerk thought him as good as convicted.

They were all sitting about the Table gravely, wearing the black robes of judgment. First Speaker Shandess looked a bit uncomfortable, but he did not allow his face to crease into the smallest touch of friendliness. Delarmi—one of the three Speakers who were women—did not even look at him.