Isaac Asimov - Forward the Foundation

Hari Seldon raised his cane higher. “Stay away. All of you.”

By now he had managed to count them. There were eight.

He felt himself choking slightly. Once he and Dors and Raych had been attacked by ten and they had had no trouble. He had been only thirty-two at the time and Dors—was Dors.

Now it was different. He waved his cane.

The leader of the hoodlums said, “Hey, the old man is going to attack us. What are we going to do?”

Seldon looked around swiftly. There were no security officers around. Another indication of the deterioration of society. An occasional person or two passed by, but there was no use calling for help. Their footsteps increased in speed and made a wide detour. No one was going to run any risks of getting involved in an imbroglio.

Seldon said, “The first one of you who approaches gets a cracked head.”

“Yeah?” And the leader stepped forward rapidly and seized the cane. There was a short sharp struggle and the cane was wrested from Seldon’s grip. The leader tossed it to one side.

“Now what, old man?”

Seldon shrunk back. He could only wait for the blows. They crowded around him, each eager to land a blow or two. Seldon lifted his arms to try to ward them off. He could still Twist—after a fashion. If he were facing only one or two, he might be able to Twist his body, avoid their blows, strike back. But not against eight—surely not against eight.

He tried, at any rate, moving quickly to one side to avoid the blows and his right leg, with its sciatica, doubled under him. He fell and knew himself to be utterly helpless.

Then he heard a stentorian voice shouting, “What’s going on here? Get back, you thugs! Back or I’ll kill you all!”

The leader said, “Well, another old man.”

“Not that old,” said the newcomer. With the back of one hand, he struck the leader’s face, turning it an ugly red.

Seldon said in surprise, “Raych, it’s you.”

Raych’s hand swept back. “Stay out of this, Dad. Just get up and move away.”

The leader, rubbing his cheek, said, “We’ll get you for that.”

“No, you won’t,” said Raych, drawing out a knife of Dahlite manufacture, long and gleaming. A second knife was withdrawn and he now held one in each hand.

Seldon said weakly, “Still carrying knives, Raych?”

“Always,” said Raych. “Nothing will ever make me stop.”

“I’ll stop you,” said the leader, drawing out a blaster.

Faster than the eye could follow, one of Raych’s knives went sailing through the air and struck the leader’s throat. He made a loud gasp, then a gurgling sound, and fell, while the other seven stared.

Raych approached and said, “I want my knife back.” He drew it out of the hoodlum’s throat and wiped it on the man’s shirtfront. In doing so, he stepped on the man’s hand, bent down, and picked up his blaster.

Raych dropped the blaster into one of his capacious pockets. He said, “I don’t like to use a blaster, you bunch of good-for-nothings, because sometimes I miss. I never miss with a knife, however. Never! That man is dead. There are seven of you standing. Do you intend to stay standing or will you leave?”

“Get him!” shouted one of the hoodlums and the seven made a concerted rush.

Raych took a backward step. One knife flashed and then the other and two of the hoodlums stopped with, in each case, a knife buried in his abdomen.

“Give me back my knives,” said Raych, pulling each out with a cutting motion and wiping them.

“These two are still alive, but not for long. That leaves five of you on your feet. Are you going to attack again or are you going to leave?”

They turned and Raych called out, “Pick up your dead and dying. I don’t want them.”

Hastily they flung the three bodies over their shoulders, then they turned tail and ran.

Raych bent to pick up Seldon’s cane. “Can you walk, Dad?”

“Not very well,” said Seldon. “I twisted my leg.”

“Well then, get into my car. What were you doing walking, anyway?”

“Why not? Nothing’s ever happened to me.”

“So you waited till something did. Get into my car and I’ll give you a lift back to Streeling.”

He programmed the ground-car quietly, then said, “What a shame we didn’t have Dors with us. Mom would have attacked them with her bare hands and left all eight dead in five minutes.”

Seldon felt tears stinging his eyelids. “I know, Raych, I know. Do you think I don’t miss her every day?”

“I’m sorry,” said Raych in a low voice.

Seldon asked, “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Wanda told me. She said there were evil people lying in wait for you and told me where they were and I took right off.”

“Didn’t you doubt that she knew what she was talking about?”

“Not at all. We know enough about her now to know that she has some sort of contact with your mind and with the things around you.”

“Did she tell you how many people were attacking me?”

“No. She just said, ‘Quite a few.’ ”

“So you came out all by yourself, did you, Raych?”

“I had no time to put together a posse, Dad. Besides, one of me was enough.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you, Raych.”

They were back at Streeling now and Seldon’s leg was stretched out on a hassock.

Raych looked at him somberly. “Dad,” he began, “you’re not to go walking around Trantor on your own from now on.”

Seldon frowned. “Why, because of one incident?”

“It was enough of an incident. You can’t take care of yourself any longer. You’re seventy years old and your right leg will not support you in an emergency. And you have enemies—”

“Enemies!”

“Yes, indeed. And you know it. Those sewer rats were not after simply anyone. They were not looking for just any unwary person to rip off. They identified you by calling out, ‘Psychohistory!’ And they called you a creep. Why do you suppose that was?”

“I don’t know why.”

“That’s because you live in a world all your own, Dad, and you don’t know what’s going on on Trantor. Don’t you suppose the Trantorians know that their world is going downhill at a rapid rate? Don’t you suppose they know that your psychohistory has been predicting this for years? Doesn’t it occur to you that they may blame the messenger for the message? If things go bad—and they are going bad—there are many who think that you are responsible for it.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Why do you suppose there’s a faction at the Galactic Library that wants you out of there? They don’t want to be in the way when you are mobbed. So—you’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t go out alone. I’ll have to be with you or you will have to have bodyguards. That’s the way it’s going to be, Dad.”

Seldon looked dreadfully unhappy.

Raych softened and said, “But not for long, Dad. I’ve got a new job.”

Seldon looked up. “A new job. What kind?”

“Teaching. At a University.”

“Which University?”

“Santanni.”

Seldon’s lips trembled. “Santanni! That’s nine thousand parsecs away from Trantor. It’s a provincial world on the other side of the Galaxy.”

“Exactly. That’s why I want to go there. I’ve been on Trantor all my life, Dad, and I’m tired of it. There’s no world in all the Empire that’s deteriorating the way Trantor is. It’s become a haunt of crime with no one to protect us. The economy is limping, the technology is failing. Santanni, on the other hand, is a decent world, still humming along, and I want to be there to build a new life, along with Manella and Wanda and Bellis. We’re all going there in two months.”