Isaac Asimov - Foundation

“Well!”

“You’ve got to see it work to appreciate it. All you see here is that we have a large school devoted to the training of priests, and that occasionally a special show is put on in some obscure corner of the city for the benefit of pilgrims—and that’s all. The whole business hardly affects us as a general thing. But on Anacreon—”

Lem Tarki smoothed his prim little Vandyke with one finger, and cleared his throat. “What kind of religion is it? Hardin’s always said that it was just a fluffy flummery to get them to accept our science without question. You remember, Sermak, he told us that day—”

“Hardin’s explanations,” reminded Sermak, “don’t often mean much at face value. But what kind of a religion is it, Bort?”

Bort considered. “Ethically, it’s fine. It scarcely varies from the various philosophies of the old Empire. High moral standards and all that. There’s nothing to complain about from that viewpoint. Religion is one of the great civilizing influences of history and in that respect, it’s fulfilling—”

“We know that,” interrupted Sermak, impatiently. “Get to the point.”

“Here it is.” Bort was a trifle disconcerted, but didn’t show it. “The religion—which the Foundation has fostered and encouraged, mind you—is built on strictly authoritarian lines. The priesthood has sole control of the instruments of science we have given Anacreon, but they’ve learned to handle these tools only empirically. They believe in this religion entirely, and in the . . . uh . . . spiritual value of the power they handle. For instance, two months ago some fool tampered with the power plant in the Thessalekian Temple—one of the large ones. He contaminated the city, of course. It was considered divine vengeance by everyone, including the priests.”

“I remember. The papers had some garbled version of the story at the time. I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

“Then, listen,” said Bort, stiffly. “The priesthood forms a hierarchy at the apex of which is the king, who is regarded as a sort of minor god. He’s an absolute monarch by divine right, and the people believe it, thoroughly, and the priests, too. You can’t over-throw a king like that. Now do you get the point?”

“Hold on,” said Walto, at this point. “What did you mean when you said Hardin’s done all this? How does he come in?”

Bort glanced at his questioner bitterly. “The Foundation has fostered this delusion assiduously. We’ve put all our scientific backing behind the hoax. There isn’t a festival at which the king does not preside surrounded by a radioactive aura shining forth all over his body and raising itself like a coronet above his head. Anyone touching him is severely burned. He can move from place to place through the air at crucial moments, supposedly by inspiration of divine spirit. He fills the temple with a pearly, internal light at a gesture. There is no end to these quite simple tricks that we perform for his benefit; but even the priests believe them, while working them personally.”

“Bad!” said Sermak, biting his lip.

“I could cry—like the fountain in City Hall Park,” said Bort, earnestly, “when I think of the chance we muffed. Take the situation thirty years ago, when Hardin saved the Foundation from Anacreon—At that time, the Anacreonian people had no real conception of the fact that the Empire was running down. They had been more or less running their own affairs since the Zeonian revolt, but even after communications broke down and Lepold’s pirate of a grandfather made himself king, they never quite realized the Empire had gone kaput.

“If the Emperor had had the nerve to try, he could have taken over again with two cruisers and with the help of the internal revolt that would have certainly sprung to life. And we, we could have done the same; but no, Hardin established monarch worship. Personally, I don’t understand it. Why? Why? Why?”

“What,” demanded Jaim Orsy, suddenly, “does Verisof do? There was a day when he was an advanced Actionist. What’s he doing there? Is he blind, too?”

“I don’t know,” said Bort, curtly. “He’s high priest to them. As far as I know, he does nothing but act as adviser to the priesthood on technical details. Figurehead, blast him, figurehead!”

There was silence all round and all eyes turned to Sermak. The young party leader was biting a fingernail nervously, and then said loudly, “No good. It’s fishy!”

He looked around him, and added more energetically, “Is Hardin then such a fool?”

“Seems to be,” shrugged Bort.

“Never! There’s something wrong. To cut our own throats so thoroughly and so hopelessly would require colossal stupidity. More than Hardin could possibly have even if he were a fool, which I deny. On the one hand, to establish a religion that would wipe out all chance of internal troubles. On the other hand, to arm Anacreon with all weapons of warfare. I don’t see it.”

“The matter is a little obscure, I admit,” said Bort, “but the facts are there. What else can we think?”

Walto said, jerkily, “Outright treason. He’s in their pay.”

But Sermak shook his head impatiently. “I don’t see that, either. The whole affair is as insane and meaningless—Tell me, Bort, have you heard anything about a battle cruiser that the Foundation is supposed to have put into shape for use in the Anacreon navy?”

“Battle cruiser?”

“An old Imperial cruiser—”

“No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean much. The navy yards are religious sanctuaries completely inviolate on the part of the lay public. No one ever hears anything about the fleet.”

“Well, rumors have leaked out. Some of the Party have brought the matter up in Council. Hardin never denied it, you know. His spokesmen denounced rumor mongers and let it go at that. It might have significance.”

“It’s of a piece with the rest,” said Bort. “If true, it’s absolutely crazy. But it wouldn’t be worse than the rest.”

“I suppose,” said Orsy, “Hardin hasn’t any secret weapon waiting. That might—”

“Yes,” said Sermak, viciously, “a huge jack-in-the-box that will jump out at the psychological moment and scare old Wienis into fits. The Foundation may as well blow itself out of existence and save itself the agony of suspense if it has to depend on any secret weapon.”

“Well,” said Orsy, changing the subject hurriedly, “the question comes down to this: How much time have we left? Eh, Bort?”

“All right. It is the question. But don’t look at me; I don’t know. The Anacreonian press never mentions the Foundation at all. Right now, it’s full of the approaching celebrations and nothing else. Lepold is coming of age next week, you know.”

“We have months then.” Walto smiled for the first time that evening. “That gives us time—”

“That gives us time, my foot,” ground out Bort, impatiently. “The king’s a god, I tell you. Do you suppose he has to carry on a campaign of propaganda to get his people into fighting spirit? Do you suppose he has to accuse us of aggression and pull out all stops on cheap emotionalism? When the time comes to strike, Lepold gives the order and the people fight. Just like that. That’s the damnedness of the system. You don’t question a god. He may give the order tomorrow for all I know; and you can wrap tobacco round that and smoke it.”

Everyone tried to talk at once and Sermak was slamming the table for silence, when the front door opened and Levi Norast stamped in. He bounded up the stairs, overcoat on, trailing snow.

“Look at that!” he cried, tossing a cold, snow-speckled newspaper onto the table. “The visicasters are full of it, too.”