Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

There were just two seats behind the compact pilot compartment and when Seldon sat down on padding that gave slowly beneath him meshed fabric came forward to encircle his legs, waist, and chest and a hood came down over his forehead and ears. He felt imprisoned and when he turned to his left with difficulty—and only slightly—he could see that Dors was similarly enclosed.

The pilot took his own seat and checked the controls. Then he said, “I’m Endor Levanian, at your service. You’re enmeshed because there will be a considerable acceleration at lift-off. Once we’re in the open and flying, you’ll be released. You needn’t tell me your names. It’s none of my business.”

He turned in his seat and smiled at them out of a gnomelike face that wrinkled as his lips spread outward. “Any psychological difficulties, youngsters?”

Dors said lightly, “I’m an Outworlder and I’m used to flying.”

“That is also true for myself,” said Seldon with a bit of hauteur.

“Excellent, youngsters. Of course, this isn’t your ordinary air-jet and you may not have done any night flying, but I’ll count on you to bear up.”

He was enmeshed too, but Seldon could see that his arms were entirely free.

A dull hum sounded inside the jet, growing in intensity and rising in pitch. Without actually becoming unpleasant, it threatened to do so and Seldon made a gesture as though to shake his head and get the sound out of his ears, but the attempt to do so merely seemed to stiffen the hold of the head-mesh.

The jet then sprang (it was the only verb Seldon could find to describe the event) into the air and he found himself pushed hard against the back and bottom of his seat.

Through the windshield in front of the pilot, Seldon saw, with a twinge of horror, the flat rise of a wall—and then a round opening appear in that wall. It was similar to the hole into which the air-taxi had plunged the day he and Hummin had left the Imperial Sector, but though this one was large enough for the body of the jet, it certainly did not leave room for the wings.

Seldon’s head turned as far to the right as he could manage and did so just in time to see the wing on his side wither and collapse.

The jet plunged into the opening and was seized by the electromagnetic field and hurtled along a lighted turnel. The acceleration was constant and there were occasional clicking noises that Seldon imagined might be the passing of individual magnets.

And then, in less than ten minutes, the jet was spewed out into the atmosphere, headlong into the sudden pervasive darkness of night.

The jet decelerated as it passed beyond the electromagnetic field and Seldon felt himself flung against the mesh and plastered there for a few breathless moments.

Then the pressure ceased and the mesh disappeared altogether.

“How are you, youngsters?” came the cheerful voice of the pilot.

“I’m not sure,” said Seldon. He turned to Dors. “Are you all right?”

“Certainly,” she answered. “I think Mr. Levanian was putting us through his paces to see if we were really Outworlders. Is that so, Mr. Levanian?”

“Some people like excitement,” said Levanian. “Do you?”

“Within limits,” said Dors.

Then Seldon added approvingly, “As any reasonable person would admit.”

Seldon went on. “It might have seemed less humorous to you, sir, if you had ripped the wings off the jet.”

“Impossible, sir. I told you this is not your ordinary airjet. The wings are thoroughly computerized. They change their length, width, curvature, and overall shape to match the speed of the jet, the speed and direction of the wind, the temperature, and half a dozen other variables. The wings wouldn’t tear off unless the jet itself was subjected to stresses that would splinter it.”

There was a spatter against Seldon’s window. He said, “It’s raining.”

“It often is,” said the pilot.

Seldon peered out the window. On Helicon or on any other world, there would have been lights visible—the illuminated works of man. Only on Trantor would it be dark.

—Well, not entirely. At one point he saw the flash of a beacon light. Perhaps the higher reaches of Upperside had warning lights.

As usual, Dors took note of Seldon’s uneasiness. Patting his hand, she said, “I’m sure the pilot knows what he’s doing, Hari.”

“I’ll try to be sure of it, too, Dors, but I wish he’d share some of that knowledge with us,” Seldon said in a voice loud enough to be overheard.

“I don’t mind sharing,” said the pilot. “To begin with, we’re heading up and we’ll be above the cloud deck in a few minutes. Then there won’t be any rain and we’ll even see the stars.”

He had timed the remark beautifully, for a few stars began to glitter through the feathery cloud remnants and then all the rest sprang into brightness as the pilot flicked off the lights inside the cabin. Only the dim illumination of his own instrument panel remained to compete and outside the window the sky sparkled brightly.

Dors said, “That’s the first time in over two years that I’ve seen the stars. Aren’t they marvelous? They’re so bright—and there are so many of them.”

The pilot said, “Trantor is nearer the center of the Galaxy than most of the Outworlds.”

Since Helicon was in a sparse corner of the Galaxy and its star field was dim and unimpressive, Seldon found himself speechless.

Dors said, “How quiet this flight has become.”

“So it is,” said Seldon. “What powers the jet, Mr. Levanian?”

“A microfusion motor and a thin stream of hot gas.”

“I didn’t know we had working microfusion air-jets. They talk about it, but—”

“There are a few small ones like this. So far they exist only on Trantor and are used entirely by high government officials.”

Seldon said, “The fees for such travel must come high.”

“Very high, sir.”

“How much is Mr. Hummin being charged, then?”

“There’s no charge for this flight. Mr. Hummin is a good friend of the company who owns these jets.”

Seldon grunted. Then he asked, “Why aren’t there more of these microfusion air-jets?”

“Too expensive for one thing, sir. Those that exist fulfill all the demand.”

“You could create more demand with larger jets.”

“Maybe so, but the company has never managed to make microfusion engines strong enough for large air-jets.”

Seldon thought of Hummin’s complaint that technological innovation had declined to a low level. “Decadent,” he murmured.

“What?” said Dors.

“Nothing,” said Seldon. “I was just thinking of something Hummin once said to me.”

He looked out at the stars and said, “Are we moving westward, Mr. Levanian?”

“Yes, we are. How did you know?”

“Because I thought that we would see the dawn by now if we were heading east to meet it.”

But dawn, pursuing the planet, finally caught up with them and sunlight— real sunlight—brightened the cabin walls. It didn’t last long, however, for the jet curved downward and into the clouds. Blue and gold vanished and were replaced by dingy gray and both Seldon and Dors emitted disappointed cries at being deprived of even a few more moments of true sunlight.

When they sank beneath the clouds, Upperside was immediately below them and its surface—at least at this spot—was a rolling mixture of wooded grottos and intervening grassland. It was the sort of thing Clowzia had told Seldon existed on Upperside.

Again there was little time for observation, however. An opening appeared below them, rimmed by lettering that spelled MYCOGEN.

They plunged in.