Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

“Easily. How old a science is encephalographic analysis? Or, put it another way, how well-developed is the study of neuronic pathways?”

“We are beginning in this respect. Granted,” said Darell.

“Right. How certain can we be then as to the interpretation of what I’ve heard Anthor and yourself call the Tamper Plateau? You have your theories, but how certain can you be? Certain enough to consider it a firm basis for the existence of a mighty force for which all other evidence is negative? It’s always easy to explain the unknown by postulating a superhuman and arbitrary will.

“It’s a very human phenomenon. There have been cases all through Galactic history where isolated planetary systems have reverted to savagery, and what have we learned there? In every case, such savages attribute the to-them-incomprehensible forces of Nature—storms, pestilences, droughts—to sentient beings more powerful and more arbitrary than men.

“It is called anthropomorphism, I believe, and in this respect, we are savages and indulge in it. Knowing little of mental science, we blame anything we don’t know on supermen—those of the Second Foundation in this case, based on the hint thrown us by Seldon.”

“Oh,” broke in Anthor, “then you do remember Seldon. I thought you had forgotten. Seldon did say there was a Second Foundation. Get that in focus.”

“And are you aware then of all Seldon’s purposes? Do you know what necessities were involved in his calculations? The Second Foundation may have been a very necessary scarecrow, with a highly specific end in view. How did we defeat Kalgan, for instance? What were you saying in your last series of articles, Turbor?”

Turbor stirred his bulk. “Yes, I see what you’re driving at. I was on Kalgan toward the end, Darell, and it was quite obvious that morale on the planet was incredibly bad. I looked through their newsrecords and—well, they expected to be beaten. Actually, they were completely unmanned by the thought that eventually the Second Foundation would take a hand, on the side of the First, naturally.”

“Quite right,” said Munn. “I was there all through the war. I told Stettin there was no Second Foundation and he believed me. He felt safe. But there was no way of making the people suddenly disbelieve what they had believed all their lives, so that the myth eventually served a very useful purpose in Seldon’s cosmic chess game.”

But Anthor’s eyes opened, quite suddenly, and fixed themselves sardonically on Munn’s countenance. “I say you lie . ”

Homir turned pale, “I don’t see that I have to accept, much less answer, an accusation of that nature.”

“I say it without any intention of personal offense. You cannot help lying; you don’t realize that you are. But you lie just the same.”

Semic laid his withered hand on the young man’s sleeve. “Take a breath, young fella.”

Anthor shook him off, none too gently, and said, “I’m out of patience with all of you. I haven’t seen this man more than half a dozen times in my life, yet I find the change in him unbelievable. The rest of you have known him for years, yet pass it by. It is enough to drive one mad. Do you call this man you’ve been listening to Homir Munn? He is not the Homir Munn I knew.”

A medley of shock; above which Munn’s voice cried, “You claim me to be an imposter?”

“Perhaps not in the ordinary sense,” shouted Anthor above the din, “but an imposter nonetheless. Quiet, everyone! I demand to be heard.”

He frowned them ferociously into obedience. “Do any of you remember Homir Munn as I do—the introverted librarian who never talked without obvious embarrassment; the man of tense and nervous voice, who stuttered out his uncertain sentences? Does this man sound like him? He’s fluent, he’s confident, he’s full of theories, and, by Space, he doesn’t stutter. Is he the same person?”

Even Munn looked confused, and Pelleas Anthor drove on. “Well, shall we test him?”

“How?” asked Darell.

“ You ask how? There is the obvious way. You have his encephalographic record of ten months ago, haven’t you? Run one again, and compare.”

He pointed at the frowning librarian, and said violently, “I dare him to refuse to subject himself to analysis.”

“I don’t object,” said Munn, defiantly. “I am the man I always was.”

“Can you know?” said Anthor with contempt. “I’ll go further. I trust no one here. I want everyone to undergo analysis. There has been a war. Munn has been on Kalgan; Turbor has been on board ship and all over the war areas. Darell and Semic have been absent, too—I have no idea where. Only I have remained here in seclusion and safety, and I no longer trust any of the rest of you. And to play fair, I’ll submit to testing as well. Are we agreed then? Or do I leave now and go my own way?”

Turbor shrugged and said, “I have no objection.”

“I have already said I don’t,” said Munn.

Semic moved a hand in silent assent, and Anthor waited for Darell. Finally, Darell nodded his head.

“Take me first,” said Anthor.

The needles traced their delicate way across the crosshatchings as the young neurologist sat frozen in the reclining seat, with lidded eyes brooding heavily. From the files, Darell removed the folder containing Anthor’s old encephalographic record. He showed it to Anthor.

“That’s your own signature, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes. It’s my record. Make the comparison.”

The scanner threw old and new onto the screen. All six curves in each recording were there, and in the darkness, Munn’s voice sounded in harsh clarity. “Well, now, look there. There’s a change.”

“Those are the primary waves of the frontal lobe. It doesn’t mean a thing, Homir. Those additional jags you’re pointing to are just anger. It’s the others that count.”

He touched a control knob and the six pairs melted into one another and coincided. The deeper amplitude of primaries alone introduced doubling.

“Satisfied?” asked Anthor.

Darell nodded curtly and took the seat himself. Semic followed him and Turbor followed him. Silently the curves were collected; silently they were compared.

Munn was the last to take his seat. For a moment, he hesitated, then, with a touch of desperation in his voice, he said, “Well now, look, I’m coming in last and I’m under tension. I expect due allowance to be made for that.”

“There will be,” Darell assured him. “No conscious emotion of yours will affect more than the primaries and they are not important.”

It might have been hours, in the utter silence that followed—

And then in the darkness of the comparison, Anthor said huskily: “Sure, sure, it’s only the onset of a complex. Isn’t that what he told us? No such thing as tampering; it’s all a silly anthropomorphic notion—but look at it! A coincidence, I suppose.”

“What’s the matter?” shrieked Munn.

Darell’s hand was tight on the librarian’s shoulder. “Quiet, Munn—you’ve been handled; you’ve been adjusted by them .”

Then the light went on, and Munn was looking about him with broken eyes, making a horrible attempt to smile.

“You can’t be serious, surely. There is a purpose to this. You’re testing me.”

But Darell only shook his head. “No, no, Homir. It’s true.”

The librarian’s eyes were filled with tears, suddenly. “I don’t feel any different. I can’t believe it.” With sudden conviction: “You are all in this. It’s a conspiracy.”

Darell attempted a soothing gesture, and his hand was struck aside. Munn snarled, “You’re planning to kill me. By Space, you’re planning to kill me.”