Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

“Yes. Upperside. It’s a funny thing, though. Most native Trantorians won’t do it. They don’t like to go Upperside. The idea gives them vertigo or something. Most of those working on the meteorology project are Outworlders.”

Seldon looked out of the window at the lawns and small garden of the University campus, brilliantly lit without shadows or oppressive heat, and said thoughtfully, “I don’t know that I can blame Trantorians for liking the comfort of being within, but I should think curiosity would drive some Upperside. It would drive me.”

“Do you mean that you would like to see meteorology in action?”

“I think I would. How does one get Upperside?”

“Nothing to it. An elevator takes you up, a door opens, and there you are. I’ve been up there. It’s . . . novel.”

“It would get my mind off psychohistory for a while.” Seldon sighed. “I’d welcome that.”

“On the other hand,” said Randa, “my uncle used to say, ‘All knowledge is one,’ and he may be right. You may learn something from meteorology that will help you with your psychohistory. Isn’t that possible?”

Seldon smiled weakly. “A great many things are possible.” And to himself he added: But not practical.

Dors seemed amused. “Meteorology?”

Seldon said, “Yes. There’s work scheduled for tomorrow and I’ll go up with them.”

“Are you tired of history?”

Seldon nodded his head somberly. “Yes, I am. I’ll welcome the change. Besides, Randa says it’s another problem that’s too massive for mathematics to handle and it will do me good to see that my situation isn’t unique.”

“I hope you’re not agoraphobic.”

Seldon smiled. “No, I’m not, but I see why you ask. Randa says that Trantorians are frequently agoraphobic and won’t go Upperside. I imagine they feel uncomfortable without a protective enclosure.”

Dors nodded. “You can see where that would be natural, but there are also many Trantorians who are to be found among the planets of the Galaxy—tourists, administrators, soldiers. And agoraphobia isn’t particularly rare in the Outworlds either.”

“That may be, Dors, but I’m not agoraphobic. I am curious and I welcome the change, so I’ll be joining them tomorrow.”

Dors hesitated. “I should go up with you, but I have a heavy schedule tomorrow. —Still, if you’re not agoraphobic, you’ll have no trouble and you’ll probably enjoy yourself. Oh, and stay close to the meteorologists. I’ve heard of people getting lost up there.”

“I’ll be careful. It’s a long time since I’ve gotten truly lost anywhere.”

Jenarr Leggen had a dark look about him. It was not so much his complexion, which was fair enough. It was not even his eyebrows, which were thick and dark enough. It was, rather, that those eyebrows were hunched over deepset eyes and a long and rather prominent nose. He had, as a result, a most unmerry look. His eyes did not smile and when he spoke, which wasn’t often, he had a deep, strong voice, surprisingly resonant for his rather thin body.

He said, “You’ll need warmer clothing than that, Seldon.”

Seldon said, “Oh?” and looked about.

There were two men and two women who were making ready to go up with Leggen and Seldon and, as in Leggen’s own case, their rather satiny Trantorian clothing was covered by thick sweaters that, not surprisingly, were brightly colored in bold designs. No two were even faintly alike, of course.

Seldon looked down at himself and said, “Sorry, I didn’t know—but I don’t have any suitable outer garment.”

“I can give you one. I think there’s a spare here somewhere. —Yes, here it is. A little threadbare, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Wearing sweaters like these can make you unpleasantly warm,” said Seldon.

“Here they would,” said Leggen. “Other conditions exist Upperside. Cold and windy. Too bad I don’t have spare leggings and boots for you too. You’ll want them later.”

They were taking with them a cart of instruments, which they were testing one by one with what Seldon thought was unnecessary slowness.

“Your home planet cold?” asked Leggen.

Seldon said, “Parts of it, of course. The part of Helicon I come from is mild and often rainy.”

“Too bad. You won’t like the weather Upperside.”

“I think I can manage to endure it for the time we’ll be up there.”

When they were ready, the group filed into an elevator that was marked: OFFICIAL USE ONLY.

“That’s because it goes Upperside,” said one of the young women, “and people aren’t supposed to be up there without good reason.”

Seldon had not met the young woman before, but he had heard her addressed as Clowzia. He didn’t know if that was a first name, a last name, or a nickname.

The elevator seemed no different from others that Seldon had been on, either here on Trantor or at home in Helicon (barring, of course, the gravitic lift he and Hummin had used), but there was something about knowing that it was going to take him out of the confines of the planet and into emptiness above that made it feel like a spaceship.

Seldon smiled internally. A foolish fantasy.

The elevator quivered slightly, which reminded Seldon of Hummin’s forebodings of Galactic decay. Leggen, along with the other men and one of the women, seemed frozen and waiting, as though they had suspended thought as well as activity until they could get out, but Clowzia kept glancing at him as though she found him terribly impressive.

Seldon leaned close and whispered to her (he hesitated to disturb the others), “Are we going up very high?”

“High?” she repeated. She spoke in a normal voice, apparently not feeling that the others required silence. She seemed very young and it occurred to Seldon that she was probably an undergraduate. An apprentice, perhaps.

“We’re taking a long time. Upperside must be many stories high in the air.”

For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then, “Oh no. Not high at all. We started very deep. The University is at a low level. We use a great deal of energy and if we’re quite deep, the energy costs are lower.”

Leggen said, “All right. We’re here. Let’s get the equipment out.”

The elevator stopped with a small shudder and the wide door slid open rapidly. The temperature dropped at once and Seldon thrust his hands into his pockets and was very glad he had a sweater on. A cold wind stirred his hair and it occurred to him that he would have found a hat useful and, even as he thought that, Leggen pulled something out of a fold in his sweater, snapped it open, and put it on his head. The others did the same.

Only Clowzia hesitated. She paused just before she put hers on, then offered it to Seldon.

Seldon shook his head. “I can’t take your hat, Clowzia.”

“Go ahead. I have long hair and it’s pretty thick. Yours is short and a little . . . thin.”

Seldon would have liked to deny that firmly and at another time he would have. Now, however, he took the hat and mumbled, “Thank you. If your head gets cold, I’ll give it back.”

Maybe she wasn’t so young. It was her round face, almost a baby face. And now that she had called attention to her hair, he could see that it was a charming russet shade. He had never seen hair quite like that on Helicon.

Outside it was cloudy, as it had been the time he was taken across open country to the Palace. It was considerably colder than it had been then, but he assumed that was because they were six weeks farther into winter. The clouds were thicker than they had been on the earlier occasion and the day was distinctly darker and threatening—or was it just closer to night?