Isaac Asimov - Forward the Foundation

He sighed. He would have to speak to Amaryl.

Seldon strode into Amaryl’s office, unannounced.

“Yugo,” he said abruptly, “the session with General Tennar has been postponed.” He seated himself in a rather pettish manner.

It took Amaryl his usual few moments to disconnect his mind from his work. Looking up finally, he said, “What was his excuse?”

“It wasn’t he. Some of our mathematicians arranged a week’s postponement so that it wouldn’t interfere with the birthday celebration. I find all of this to be extremely annoying.”

“Why did you let them do that?”

“I didn’t. They just went ahead and arranged things.” Seldon shrugged. “In a way, it’s my fault. I’ve whined so long about turning sixty that everyone thinks they have to cheer me up with festivities.”

Amaryl said, “Of course, we can use the week.”

Seldon sat forward, immediately tense. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Not that I can see, but it won’t hurt to examine it further. Look, Hari, this is the first time in nearly thirty years that psychohistory has reached the point where it can actually make a prediction. It’s not much of one—it’s just a small pinch of the vast continent of humanity—but it’s the best we’ve had so far. All right. We want to take advantage of that, see how it works, prove to ourselves that psychohistory is what we think it is: a predictive science. So it won’t hurt to make sure that we haven’t overlooked anything. Even this tiny bit of prediction is complex and I welcome another week of study.”

“Very well, then. I’ll consult you on the matter before I go to see the General for any last-minute modifications that have to be made. Meanwhile, Yugo, do not allow any information concerning this to leak out to the others—not to anyone . If it fails, I don’t want the people of the Project to grow downhearted. You and I will absorb the failure ourselves and keep on trying.”

A rare wistful smile crossed Amaryl’s face. “You and I. Do you remember when it really was just the two of us?”

“I remember it very well and don’t think that I don’t miss those days. We didn’t have much to work with—”

“Not even the Prime Radiant, let alone the Electro-Clarifier.”

“But those were happy days.”

“Happy,” said Amaryl, nodding his head.

The University had been transformed and Hari Seldon could not refrain from being pleased.

The central rooms of the Project complex had suddenly sprouted in color and light, with holography filling the air with shifting three-dimensional images of Seldon at different places and different times. There was Dors Venabili smiling, looking somewhat younger—Raych as a teenager, still unpolished—Seldon and Amaryl, looking unbelievably young, bent over their computers. There was even a fleeting sight of Eto Demerzel, which filled Seldon’s heart with yearning for his old friend and the security he had felt before Demerzel’s departure.

The Emperor Cleon appeared nowhere in the holographics. It was not because holographs of him did not exist, but it was not wise, under the rule of the junta, to remind people of the past Imperium.

It all poured outward, overflowing, filling room after room, building after building. Somehow, time had been found to convert the entire University into a display the likes of which Seldon had never seen or even imagined. Even the dome lights were darkened to produce an artificial night against which the University would sparkle for three days.

“Three days!” said Seldon, half-impressed, half-horrified.

“Three days,” said Dors Venabili, nodding her head. “The University would consider nothing less.”

“The expense! The labor!” said Seldon, frowning.

“The expense is minimal,” said Dors, “compared to what you have done for the University. And the labor is all voluntary. The students turned out and took care of everything.”

A from-the-air view of the University appeared now, panoramically, and Seldon stared at it with a smile forcing itself onto his countenance.

Dors said, “You’re pleased. You’ve done nothing but grouse these past few months about how you didn’t want any celebration for being an old man—and now look at you.”

“Well, it is flattering. I had no idea that they would do anything like this.”

“Why not? You’re an icon, Hari. The whole world—the whole Empire—knows about you.”

“They do not,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “Not one in a billion knows anything at all about me—and certainly not about psychohistory. No one outside the Project has the faintest knowledge of how psychohistory works and not everyone inside does, either.”

“That doesn’t matter, Hari. It’s you . Even the quadrillions who don’t know anything about you or your work know that Hari Seldon is the greatest mathematician in the Empire.”

“Well,” said Seldon, looking around, “they certainly are making me feel that way right now. But three days and three nights! The place will be reduced to splinters.”

“No, it won’t. All the records have been stored away. The computers and other equipment have been secured. The students have set up a virtual security force that will prevent anything from being damaged.”

“You’ve seen to all of that, haven’t you, Dors?” said Seldon, smiling at her fondly.

“A number of us have. It’s by no means all me. Your colleague Tamwile Elar has worked with incredible dedication.”

Seldon scowled.

“What’s the matter with Elar?” said Dors.

Seldon said, “He keeps calling me ‘Maestro.’ ”

Dors shook her head. “Well, there’s a terrible crime.”

Seldon ignored that and said, “And he’s young.”

“Worse and worse. Come, Hari, you’re going to have to learn to grow old gracefully—and to begin with you’ll have to show that you’re enjoying yourself. That will please others and increase their enjoyment and surely you would want to do that. Come on. Move around. Don’t hide here with me. Greet everyone. Smile. Ask after their health. And remember that, after the banquet, you’re going to have to make a speech.”

“I dislike banquets and I doubly dislike speeches.”

“You’ll have to, anyway. Now move!”

Seldon sighed dramatically and did as he was told. He cut quite an imposing figure as he stood in the archway leading into the main hall. The voluminous First Minister’s robes of yesteryear were gone, as were the Heliconian-style garments he had favored in his youth. Now Seldon wore an outfit that bespoke his elevated status: straight pants, crisply pleated, a modified tunic on top. Embroidered in silver thread above his heart was the insignia: SELDON PSYCHOHISTORY PROJECT AT STREELING UNIVERSITY. It sparkled like a beacon against the dignified titanium-gray hue of his clothing. Seldon’s eyes twinkled in a face now lined by age, his sixty years given away as much by his wrinkles as by his white hair.

He entered the room in which the children were feasting. The room had been entirely cleared, except for trestles with food upon them. The children rushed up to him as soon as they saw him—knowing, as they did, that he was the reason for the feast—and Seldon tried to avoid their clutching fingers.

“Wait, wait, children,” he said. “Now stand back.”

He pulled a small computerized robot from his pocket and placed it on the floor. In an Empire without robots, this was something that he could expect to be eye-popping. It had the shape of a small furry animal, but it also had the capacity to change shapes without warning (eliciting squeals of children’s laughter each time) and when it did so, the sounds and motions it made changed as well.