Isaac Asimov - Foundation's Edge

Pelorat looked down at his plate, on which perceptible remnants of a most unremarkable and indifferently prepared meal remained, and said in a diffident manner, “Dom, may I attempt to ask an embarrassing question? Of course, if it’s offensive, you will please say so, and I will withdraw it.”

“Go ahead,” said Dom, smiling. “I am anxious to explain to you anything about Gaia which arouses your curiosity.”

“Why?” said Trevize at once.

“Because you are honored guests— May I have Pel’s question?”

Pelorat said, “Since all things on Gaia share in the group consciousness, how is it that you—one element of the group—can eat this, which was clearly another element?”

“True! But all things recycle. We must eat and everything we can eat, plant as well as animal—even the inanimate seasonings—are part of Gaia. But, then, you see, nothing is killed for pleasure or sport, nothing is killed with unnecessary pain. And I’m afraid we make no attempt to glorify our meal preparations, for no Gaian would eat except that one must. You did not enjoy this meal, Pel? Trev? Well, meals are not to enjoy.

“Then, too, what is eaten remains, after all, part of the planetary consciousness. Insofar as portions of it are incorporated into my body, it will participate in a larger share of the total consciousness. When I die, I, too, will be eaten—even if only by decay bacteria—and I will then participate in a far smaller share of the total. But someday, parts of me will be parts of other human beings, parts of many.”

Pelorat said, “A sort of transmigration of souls.”

“Of what, Pel?”

“I speak of an old myth that is current on some worlds.”

“Ah, I don’t know of it. You must tell me on some occasion.”

Trevize said, “But your individual consciousness—whatever it is about you that is Dom—will never fully reassemble.”

“No, of course not. But does that matter? I will be part of Gaia and that is what counts. There are mystics among us who wonder if we should take measures to develop group memories of past existences, but the sense-of-Gaia is that this cannot be done in any practical way and would serve no useful purpose. It would merely blur present consciousness. —Of course, as conditions change, the sense-of-Gaia may change, too, but I find no chance of that in the foreseeable future.”

“Why must you die, Dom?” asked Trevize. “Look at you in your nineties. Could not the group consciousness—”

For the first time, Dom frowned. “Never,” he said. “I can contribute only so much. Each new individual is a reshuffling of molecules and genes into something new. New talents, new abilities, new contributions to Gaia. We must have them—and the only way we can is to make room. I have done more than most, but even I have my limit and it is approaching. There is no more desire to live past one’s time than to die before it.”

And then, as if realizing he had lent a suddenly somber note to the evening, he rose and stretched his arms out to the two. “Come, Trev—Pel—let us move into my studio where I can show you some of my personal art objects. You won’t blame an old man for his little vanities, I hope.”

He led the way into another room where, on a small circular table, there was a group of smoky lenses connected in pairs.

“These,” said Dom, “are Participations I have designed. I am not one of the masters, but I specialize in inanimates, which few of the masters bother with.”

Pelorat said, “May I pick one up? Are they fragile?”

“No no. Bounce them on the floor if you like.—Or perhaps you had better not. Concussion could dull the sharpness of the vision.”

“How are they used, Dom?”

“You put them over your eyes. They’ll cling. They do not transmit light. Quite the contrary. They obscure light that might otherwise distract you—though the sensations do reach your brain by way of the optic nerve. Essentially your consciousness is sharpened and is allowed to participate in other facets of Gaia. In other words, if you look at that wall, you will experience that wall as it appears to itself.”

“Fascinating,” muttered Pelorat. “May I try that?”

“Certainly, Pel. You may take one at random. Each is a different construct that shows the wall—or any other inanimate object you look at—in a different aspect of the object’s consciousness.”

Pelorat placed one pair over his eyes and they clung there at once. He started at the touch and then remained motionless for a long time.

Dom said, “When you are through, place your hands on either side of the Participation and press them toward each other. It will come right off.”

Pelorat did so, blinked his eyes rapidly, then rubbed them.

Dom said, “What did you experience?”

Pelorat said, “It’s hard to describe. The wall seemed to twinkle and glisten and, at times, it seemed to turn fluid. It seemed to have ribs and changing symmetries. I—I’m sorry, Dom, but I did not find it attractive.”

Dom sighed. “You do not participate in Gaia, so you would not see what we see. I had rather feared that. Too bad! I assure you that although these Participations are enjoyed primarily for their aesthetic value, they have their practical uses, too. A happy wall is a long-lived wall, a practical wall, a useful wall.”

“A happy wall?” said Trevize, smiling slightly.

Dom said, “There is a dim sensation that a wall experiences that is analogous to what ‘happy’ means to us. A wall is happy when it is well designed, when it rests firmly on its foundation, when its symmetry balances its part and produces no unpleasant stresses. Good design can be worked out on the mathematical principles of mechanics, but the use of a proper Participation can fine tune it down to virtually atomic dimensions. No sculptor can possibly produce a first-class work of art here on Gaia without a well-crafted Participation and the ones I produce of this particular type are considered excellent—if I do say so myself.

“Animate Participations, which are not my field,” and Dom was going on with the kind of excitement one expects in someone riding his hobby, “give us, by analogy, a direct experience of ecological balance. The ecological balance on Gaia is rather simple, as it is on all worlds, but here, at least, we have the hope of making it more complex and thus enriching the total consciousness enormously.”

Trevize held up his hand in order to forestall Pelorat and wave him into silence. He said, “How do you know that a planet can bear a more complex ecological balance if they all have simple ones?”

“Ah,” said Dom, his eyes twinkling shrewdly, “you are testing the old man. You know as well as I do that the original home of humanity, Earth, had an enormously complex ecological balance. It is only the secondary worlds—the derived worlds—that are simple.”

Pelorat would not be kept silent. “But that is the problem I have set myself in life. Why was it only Earth that bore a complex ecology? What distinguished it from other worlds? Why did millions upon millions of other worlds in the Galaxy—worlds that were capable of bearing life—develop only an undistinguished vegetation, together with small and unintelligent animal life-forms?”

Dom said, “We have a tale about that—a fable, perhaps. I cannot vouch for its authenticity. In fact, on the face of it, it sounds like fiction.”

It was at this point that Bliss—who had not participated in the meal—entered, smiling at Pelorat. She was wearing a silvery blouse, very sheer.

Pelorat rose at once. “I thought you had left us.”

“Not at all. I had reports to make out, work to do. May I join you now, Dom?”

Dom had also risen (though Trevize remained seated). “You are entirely welcome and you ravish these aged eyes.”