Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

“I take it you don’t consider Mycogenians superior,” said Seldon.

Mycelium Seventy-Two said, “There’s nothing wrong with Mycogenians. They’re certainly not inferior . Still, I think that all men are equal. —Even women,” he added, looking across at Dors.

“I don’t suppose,” said Seldon, “that many of your people would agree with that.”

“Or many of your people,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two with a faint resentment. “I believe it, though. A scholar has to. I’ve viewed and even read all the great literature of the tribespeople. I understand your culture. I’ve written articles on it. I can sit here just as comfortably with you as though you were . . . us. ”

Dors said a little sharply, “You sound proud of understanding tribespeople’s ways. Have you ever traveled outside Mycogen?”

Mycelium Seventy-Two seemed to move away a little. “No.”

“Why not? You would get to know us better.”

“I wouldn’t feel right. I’d have to wear a wig. I’d be ashamed.”

Dors said, “Why a wig? You could stay bald.”

“No,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two, “I wouldn’t be that kind of fool. I’d be mistreated by all the hairy ones.”

“Mistreated? Why?” said Dors. “We have a great many naturally bald people everywhere on Trantor and on every other world too.”

“My father is quite bald,” said Seldon with a sigh, “and I presume that in the decades to come I will be bald too. My hair isn’t all that thick now.”

“That’s not bald,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two. “You keep hair around the edges and over your eyes. I mean bald —no hair at all.”

“Anywhere on your body?” said Dors, interested.

And now Mycelium Seventy-Two looked offended and said nothing.

Seldon, anxious to get the conversation back on track, said, “Tell me, Mycelium Seventy-Two, can tribespeople enter the Sacratorium as spectators?”

Mycelium Seventy-Two shook his head vigorously. “Never. It’s for the Sons of the Dawn only.”

Dors said, “Only the Sons?”

Mycelium Seventy-Two looked shocked for a moment, then said forgivingly, “Well, you’re tribespeople. Daughters of the Dawn enter only on certain days and times. That’s just the way it is. I don’t say I approve. If it was up to me, I’d say, ‘Go in. Enjoy if you can.’ Sooner others than me, in fact.”

“Don’t you ever go in?”

“When I was young, my parents took me, but”—he shook his head—“it was just people staring at the Book and reading from it and sighing and weeping for the old days. It’s very depressing. You can’t talk to each other. You can’t laugh. You can’t even look at each other. Your mind has to be totally on the Lost World. Totally.” He waved a hand in rejection. “Not for me. I’m a scholar and I want the whole world open to me.”

“Good,” said Seldon, seeing an opening. “We feel that way too. We are scholars also, Dors and myself.”

“I know,” said Mycelium Seventy-Two.

“You know? How do you know?”

“You’d have to be. The only tribespeople allowed in Mycogen are Imperial officials and diplomats, important traders, and scholars—and to me you have the look of scholars. That’s what interested me in you. Scholars together.” He smiled delightedly.

“So we are. I am a mathematician. Dors is a historian. And you?”

“I specialize in . . . culture. I’ve read all the great works of literature of the tribespeople: Lissauer, Mentone, Novigor—”

“And we have read the great works of your people. I’ve read the Book, for instance. —About the Lost World.”

Mycelium Seventy-Two’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His olive complexion seemed to fade a little. “You have? How? Where?”

“At our University we have copies that we can read if we have permission.”

“Copies of the Book?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if the Elders know this?”

Seldon said, “And I’ve read about robots.”

“Robots?”

“Yes. That is why I would like to be able to enter the Sacratorium. I would like to see the robot.” (Dors kicked lightly at Seldon’s ankle, but he ignored her.)

Mycelium Seventy-Two said uneasily, “I don’t believe in such things. Scholarly people don’t.” But he looked about as though he was afraid of being overheard.

Seldon said, “I’ve read that a robot still exists in the Sacratorium.”

Mycelium Seventy-Two said, “I don’t want to talk about such nonsense.”

Seldon persisted. “Where would it be if it was in the Sacratorium?”

“Even if one was there, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t been in there since I was a child.”

“Would you know if there was a special place, a hidden place?”

“There’s the Elders’ aerie. Only Elders go there, but there’s nothing there.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I don’t know that there’s no pomegranate tree there. I don’t know that there’s no laser-organ there. I don’t know that there’s no item of a million different kinds there. Does my lack of knowledge of their absence show they are all present?”

For the moment, Seldon had nothing to say.

A ghost of a smile broke through Mycelium Seventy-Two’s look of concern. He said, “That’s scholars’ reasoning. I’m not an easy man to tackle, you see. Just the same, I wouldn’t advise you to try to get up into the Elders’ aerie. I don’t think you’d like what would happen if they found a tribesman inside. —Well. Best of the Dawn to you.” And he rose suddenly—without warning—and hurried away.

Seldon looked after him, rather surprised. “What made him rush off like that?”

“I think,” said Dors, “it’s because someone is approaching.”

And someone was. A tall man in an elaborate white kirtle, crossed by an even more elaborate and subtly glittering red sash, glided solemnly toward them. He had the unmistakable look of a man with authority and the even more unmistakable look of one who is not pleased.

Hari Seldon rose as the new Mycogenian approached. He hadn’t the slightest idea whether that was the appropriate polite behavior, but he had the distinct feeling it would do no harm. Dors Venabili rose with him and carefully kept her eyes lowered.

The other stood before them. He too was an old man, but more subtly aged than Mycelium Seventy-Two. Age seemed to lend distinction to his still-handsome face. His bald head was beautifully round and his eyes were a startling blue, contrasting sharply with the bright all-but-glowing red of his sash.

The newcomer said, “I see you are tribespeople.” His voice was more high-pitched than Seldon had expected, but he spoke slowly, as though conscious of the weight of authority in every word he uttered.

“So we are,” said Seldon politely but firmly. He saw no reason not to defer to the other’s position, but he did not intend to abandon his own.

“Your names?”

“I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna. And yours, man of Mycogen?”

The eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he too could recognize an air of authority when he felt it.

“I am Skystrip Two,” he said, lifting his head higher, “an Elder of the Sacratorium. And your position, tribesman?”

“ We, ” said Seldon, emphasizing the pronoun, “are scholars of Streeling University. I am a mathematician and my companion is a historian and we are here to study the ways of Mycogen.”

“By whose authority?”

“By that of Sunmaster Fourteen, who greeted us on our arrival.”

Skystrip Two fell silent for a moment and then a small smile appeared on his face and he took on an air that was almost benign. He said, “The High Elder. I know him well.”