Isaac Asimov - Foundation's Edge

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At last, the costly and bitter war between the two Foundations has come to an end. The scientists of the First Foundation have proved victorious; and now they return to Hari Seldon’s long-established plan to build a new Empire on the ruins of the old. But rumors persist that the Second Foundation is not destroyed after all—and that its still-defiant survivors are preparing their revenge. Now two exiled citizens of the Foundation—a renegade Councilman and a doddering historian—set out in search of the mythical planet Earth . . . and proof that the Second Foundation still exists.
Meanwhile, someone—or something—outside both Foundations seems to be orchestrating events to suit its own ominous purpose. Soon representatives of both the First and Second Foundations will find themselves racing toward a mysterious world called Gaia and a final, shocking destiny at the very end of the universe.

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Trevize nodded. “I gathered that. —In that case, Bliss, who runs this world?”

Bliss said, “It runs itself. Those trees grow in rank and file of their own accord. They multiply only to the extent that is needed to replace those that for any reason die. Human beings harvest the apples that are needed; other animals, including insects, eat their share—and only their share.”

“The insects know what their share is, do they?” said Trevize.

“Yes, they do—in a way. It rains when it is necessary and occasionally it rains rather hard when that is necessary—and occasionally there’s a siege of dry weather when that is necessary.”

“And the rain knows what to do, does it?”

“Yes, it does,” said Bliss very seriously. “In your own body, don’t all the different cells know what to do? When to grow and when to stop growing? When to form certain substances and when not to—and when they form them, just how much to form, neither more nor less? Each cell is, to a certain extent, an independent chemical factory, but all draw from a common fund of raw materials brought to it by a common transportation system, all deliver wastes into common channels, and all contribute to an overall group consciousness.”

Pelorat said with a certain enthusiasm. “But that’s remarkable. You are saying that the planet is a superorganism and that you are a cell of that superorganism.”

“I’m making an analogy, not an identity. We are the analog of cells, but we are not identical with cells—do you understand?”

“In what way,” said Trevize, “are you not cells?”

“We are ourselves made up of cells and have a group consciousness, as far as cells are concerned. This group consciousness, this consciousness of an individual organism—a human being, in my case—”

“With a body men die for.”

“Exactly. My consciousness is far advanced beyond that of any individual cell—incredibly far advanced. The fact that we, in turn, are part of a still greater group consciousness on a higher level does not reduce us to the level of cells. I remain a human being—but above us is a group consciousness as far beyond my grasp as my consciousness is beyond that of one of the muscle cells of my biceps.”

Trevize said, “Surely someone ordered our ship to be taken.”

“No, not someone! Gaia ordered it. All of us ordered it.”

“The trees and the ground, too, Bliss?”

“They contributed very little, but they contributed. Look, if a musician writes a symphony, do you ask which particular cell in his body ordered the symphony written and supervised its construction?”

Pelorat said, “And, I take it, the group mind, so to speak, of the group consciousness is much stronger than an individual mind, just as a muscle is much stronger than an individual muscle cell. Consequently Gaia can capture our ship at a distance by controlling our computer, even though no individual mind on the planet could have done so.”

“You understand perfectly, Pel,” said Bliss.

“And I understand it, too,” said Trevize. “It is not that hard to understand. But what do you want of us? We have not come to attack you. We have come seeking information. Why have you seized us?”

“To talk to you.”

“You might have talked to us on the ship.”

Bliss shook her head gravely, “I am not the one to do it.”

“Aren’t you part of the group mind?”

“Yes, but I cannot fly like a bird, buzz like an insect, or grow as tall as a tree. I do what it is best for me to do and it is not best that I give you the information—though the knowledge could easily be assigned to me.”

“Who decided not to assign it to you?”

“We all did.”

“Who will give us the information?”

“Dom.”

“And who is Dom?”

“Well,” said Bliss. “His full name is Endomandiovizamarondeyaso—and so on. Different people call him different syllables at different times, but I know him as Dom and I think you two will use that syllable as well. He probably has a larger share of Gaia than anyone on the planet and he lives on this island. He asked to see you and it was allowed.”

“Who allowed it?” asked Trevize—and answered himself at once, “Yes, I know; you all did.”

Bliss nodded.

Pelorat said, “When will we be seeing Dom, Bliss?”

“Right away. If you follow me, I’ll take you to him now, Pel. And you, too, of course, Trev.”

“And will you leave, then?” asked Pelorat.

“You don’t want me to, Pel?”

“Actually, no.”

“There you are,” said Bliss as they followed her along a smoothly paved road that skirted the orchard. “Men grow addicted to me on short order. Even dignified elderly men are overcome with boyish ardor.”

Pelorat laughed. “I wouldn’t count on much boyish ardor, Bliss, but if I had it I could do no worse than have it on your account, I think.”

Bliss said, “Oh, don’t discount your boyish ardor. I work wonders.”

Trevize said impatiently, “Once we get to where we’re going, how long will we have to wait for this Dom?”

He will be waiting for you. After all, Dom-through-Gaia has worked for years to bring you here.”

Trevize stopped in midstep and looked quickly at Pelorat, who quietly mouthed: You were right.

Bliss, who was looking straight ahead, said calmly, “I know, Trev, that you have suspected that I / we / Gaia was interested in you.”

“ ‘I / we / Gaia?’ ” said Pelorat softly.

She turned to smile at him. “We have a whole complex of different pronouns to express the shades of individuality that exist on Gaia. I could explain them to you, but till then ‘I / we / Gaia’ gets across what I mean in a groping sort of way. —Please move on, Trev. Dom is waiting and I don’t wish to force your legs to move against your will. It is an uncomfortable feeling if you’re not used to it.”

Trevize moved on. His glance at Bliss was compounded of the deepest suspicion.

5.

Dom was an elderly man. He recited the two hundred and fifty-three syllables of his name in a musical flowing of tone and emphasis.

“In a way,” he said, “it is a brief biography of myself. It tells the hearer—or reader, or senser—who I am, what part I have played in the whole, what I have accomplished. For fifty years and more, however, I have been satisfied to be referred to as Dom. When there are other Doms at issue, I can be called Domandio—and in my various professional relationships other variants are used. Once a Gaian year—on my birthday—my full name is recited-in-mind, as I have just recited it for you in voice. It is very effective, but it is personally embarrassing.”

He was tall and thin—almost to the point of emaciation. His deep-set eyes sparkled with anomalous youth, though he moved rather slowly. His jutting nose was thin and long and flared at the nostrils. His hands, prominently veined though they were, showed no signs of arthritic disability. He wore a long robe that was as gray as his hair. It descended to his ankles and his sandals left his toes bare.

Trevize said, “How old are you, sir?”

“Please address me as Dom, Trev. To use other modes of address induces formality and inhibits the free exchange of ideas between you and me. In Galactic Standard Years, I am just past ninety-three, but the real celebration will come not very many months from now, when I reach the ninetieth anniversary of my birth in Gaian years.”

“I would have not have guessed you at more than seventy-five, s—Dom,” said Trevize.

“By Gaian standards I am not remarkable, either in years or in appearance of years, Trev. —But come, have we eaten?”

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