Isaac Asimov: Foundation

He could not see the ground. It was lost in the ever increasing complexities of man-made structures. He could see no horizon other than that of metal against sky, stretching out to almost uniform grayness, and he knew it was so over all the land-surface of the planet. There was scarcely any motion to be seen—a few pleasure-craft lazed against the sky—but all the busy traffic of billions of men were going on, he knew, beneath the metal skin of the world.

There was no green to be seen; no green, no soil, no life other than man. Somewhere on the world, he realized vaguely, was the Emperor’s palace, set amid one hundred square miles of natural soil, green with trees, rainbowed with flowers. It was a small island amid an ocean of steel, but it wasn’t visible from where he stood. It might be ten thousand miles away. He did not know.

Before very long, he must have his tour!

He sighed noisily, and realized finally that he was on Trantor at last; on the planet which was the center of all the Galaxy and the kernel of the human race. He saw none of its weaknesses. He saw no ships of food landing. He was not aware of a jugular vein delicately connecting the forty billion of Trantor with the rest of the Galaxy. He was conscious only of the mightiest deed of man; the complete and almost contemptuously final conquest of a world.

He came away a little blank-eyed. His friend of the elevator was indicating a seat next to himself and Gaal took it.

The man smiled. “My name is Jerril. First time on Trantor?”

“Yes, Mr. Jerril.”

“Thought so. Jerril’s my first name. Trantor gets you if you’ve got the poetic temperament. Trantorians never come up here, though. They don’t like it. Gives them nerves.”

“Nerves!—My name’s Gaal, by the way. Why should it give them nerves? It’s glorious.”

“Subjective matter of opinion, Gaal. If you’re born in a cubicle and grow up in a corridor, and work in a cell, and vacation in a crowded sun-room, then coming up into the open with nothing but sky over you might just give you a nervous breakdown. They make the children come up here once a year, after they’re five. I don’t know if it does any good. They don’t get enough of it, really, and the first few times they scream themselves into hysteria. They ought to start as soon as they’re weaned and have the trip once a week.”

He went on, “Of course, it doesn’t really matter. What if they never come out at all? They’re happy down there and they run the Empire. How high up do you think we are?”

He said, “Half a mile?” and wondered if that sounded naive.

It must have, for Jerril chuckled a little. He said, “No. Just five hundred feet.”

“What? But the elevator took about—”

“I know. But most of the time it was just getting up to ground level. Trantor is tunneled over a mile down. It’s like an iceberg. Nine-tenths of it is out of sight. It even works itself out a few miles into the sub-ocean soil at the shorelines. In fact, we’re down so low that we can make use of the temperature difference between ground level and a couple of miles under to supply us with all the energy we need. Did you know that?”

“No, I thought you used atomic generators.”

“Did once. But this is cheaper.”

“I imagine so.”

“What do you think of it all?” For a moment, the man’s good nature evaporated into shrewdness. He looked almost sly.

Gaal fumbled. “Glorious,” he said, again.

“Here on vacation? Traveling? Sight-seeing?”

“Not exactly. —At least, I’ve always wanted to visit Trantor but I came here primarily for a job.”

“Oh?”

Gaal felt obliged to explain further. “With Dr. Seldon’s project at the University of Trantor.”

“Raven Seldon?”

“Why, no. The one I mean is Hari Seldon. —The psychohistorian Seldon. I don’t know of any Raven Seldon.”

“Hari’s the one I mean. They call him Raven. Slang, you know. He keeps predicting disaster.”

“He does?” Gaal was genuinely astonished.

“Surely, you must know.” Jerril was not smiling. “You’re coming to work for him, aren’t you?”

“Well yes, I’m a mathematician. Why does he predict disaster? What kind of disaster?”

“What kind would you think?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the least idea. I’ve read the papers Dr. Seldon and his group have published. They’re on mathematical theory.”

“Yes, the ones they publish.”

Gaal felt annoyed. He said, “I think I’ll go to my room now. Very pleased to have met you.”

Jerril waved his arm indifferently in farewell.

Gaal found a man waiting for him in his room. For a moment, he was too startled to put into words the inevitable “What are you doing here?” that came to his lips.

The man rose. He was old and almost bald and he walked with a limp, but his eyes were very bright and blue.

He said, “I am Hari Seldon,” an instant before Gaal’s befuddled brain placed the face alongside the memory of the many times he had seen it in pictures.

PSYCHOHISTORY— . . . Gaal Dornick, using nonmathematical concepts, has defined psychohistory to be that branch of mathematics which deals with the reactions of human conglomerates to fixed social and economic stimuli. . . .

. . . Implicit in all these definitions is the assumption that the human conglomerate being dealt with is sufficiently large for valid statistical treatment. The necessary size of such a conglomerate may be determined by Seldon’s First Theorem which . . . A further necessary assumption is that the human conglomerate be itself unaware of psychohistoric analysis in order that its reactions be truly random. . . .

The basis of all valid psychohistory lies in the development of the Seldon functions which exhibit properties congruent to those of such social and economic forces as . . .

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Gaal. “I—I—”

“You didn’t think we were to meet before tomorrow? Ordinarily, we would not have. It is just that if we are to use your services, we must work quickly. It grows continually more difficult to obtain recruits.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You were talking to a man on the observation tower, were you not?”

“Yes. His first name is Jerril. I know no more about him.”

“His name is nothing. He is an agent of the Commission of Public Safety. He followed you from the space-port.”

“But why? I am afraid I am very confused.”

“Did the man on the tower say nothing about me?”

Gaal hesitated. “He referred to you as Raven Seldon.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said you predict disaster.”

“I do. —What does Trantor mean to you?”

Everyone seemed to be asking his opinion of Trantor. Gaal felt incapable of response beyond the bare word, “Glorious.”

“You say that without thinking. What of psychohistory?”

“I haven’t thought of applying it to the problem.”

“Before you are done with me, young man, you will learn to apply psychohistory to all problems as a matter of course. —Observe.” Seldon removed his calculator pad from the pouch at his belt. Men said he kept one beneath his pillow for use in moments of wakefulness. Its gray, glossy finish was slightly worn by use. Seldon’s nimble fingers, spotted now with age, played along the files and rows of buttons that filled its surface. Red symbols glowed out from the upper tier.

He said, “That represents the condition of the Empire at present.”

He waited.

Gaal said finally, “Surely that is not a complete representation.”

“No, not complete,” said Seldon. “I am glad you do not accept my word blindly. However, this is an approximation which will serve to demonstrate the proposition. Will you accept that?”