Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

“Then turn the tables, Hari. Aren’t you interested in Dahl?”

“Of course. What do you know about it to begin with?”

“Nothing. It’s just one of more than eight hundred sectors and I’ve only been on Trantor a little over two years.”

“Exactly. And there are twenty-five million other worlds and I’ve been on this problem only a little over two months. —I tell you. I want to go back to Helicon and take up a study of the mathematics of turbulence, which was my Ph.D. problem, and forget I ever saw—or thought I saw—that turbulence gave an insight into human society.”

But that evening he said to Tisalver, “But you know, Master Tisalver, you’ve never told me what you do, the nature of your work.”

“Me?” Tisalver placed his fingers on his chest, which was covered by the simple white T-shirt with nothing underneath, which seemed to be the standard male uniform in Dahl. “Nothing much. I work at the local holovision station in programming. It’s very dull, but it’s a living.”

“And it’s respectable,” said Mistress Tisalver. “It means he doesn’t have to work in the heatsinks.”

“The heatsinks?” said Dors, lifting her light eyebrows and managing to look fascinated.

“Oh well,” said Tisalver, “that’s what Dahl is best known for. It isn’t much, but forty billion people on Trantor need energy and we supply a lot of it. We don’t get appreciated, but I’d like to see some of the fancy sectors do without it.”

Seldon looked confused. “Doesn’t Trantor get its energy from solar power stations in orbit?”

“Some,” said Tisalver, “and some from nuclear fusion stations out on the islands and some from microfusion motors and some from wind stations Upperside, but half ”—he raised a finger in emphasis and his face looked unusually grave—“half comes from the heatsinks. There are heatsinks in lots of places, but none— none —as rich as those in Dahl. Are you serious that you don’t know about the heatsinks? You sit there and stare at me.”

Dors said quickly, “We are Outworlders, you know.” (She had almost said “tribespeople,” but had caught herself in time.) “Especially Dr. Seldon. He’s only been on Trantor a couple of months.”

“Really?” said Mistress Tisalver. She was a trifle shorter than her husband, was plump without quite being fat, had her dark hair drawn tightly back into a bun, and possessed rather beautiful dark eyes. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her thirties.

(After a period in Mycogen, not actually long in duration but intense, it struck Dors as odd to have a woman enter the conversation at will. How quickly modes and manners establish themselves, she thought, and made a mental note to mention that to Seldon—one more item for his psychohistory.)

“Oh yes,” she said. “Dr. Seldon is from Helicon.”

Mistress Tisalver registered polite ignorance. “And where might that be?”

Dors said, “Why, it’s—” She turned to Seldon. “Where is it, Hari?”

Seldon looked abashed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could locate it very easily on a Galactic model without looking up the co-ordinates. All I can say is that it’s on the other side of the central black hole from Trantor and getting there by hypership is rather a chore.”

Mistress Tisalver said, “I don’t think Jirad and I will ever be on a hypership.”

“Someday, Casilia,” said Tisalver cheerfully, “maybe we will. But tell us about Helicon, Master Seldon.”

Seldon shook his head. “To me that would be dull. It’s just a world, like any other. Only Trantor is different from all the rest. There are no heatsinks on Helicon—or probably anywhere else—except Trantor. Tell me about them.”

(“Only Trantor is different from all the rest.” The sentence repeated itself in Seldon’s mind and for a moment he grasped at it, and for some reason Dors’s hand-on-thigh story suddenly recurred to him, but Tisalver was speaking and it passed out of Seldon’s mind as quickly as it had entered.)

Tisalver said, “If you really want to know about heatsinks, I can show you.” He turned to his wife. “Casilia, would you mind if tomorrow evening I take Master Seldon to the heatsinks?”

“And me,” said Dors quickly.

“And Mistress Venabili?”

Mistress Tisalver frowned and said sharply, “I don’t think it would be a good idea. Our visitors would find it dull.”

“I don’t think so, Mistress Tisalver,” said Seldon ingratiatingly. “We would very much like to see the heatsinks. We would be delighted if you would join us too . . . and your little daughter—if she wants to come.”

“To the heatsinks?” said Mistress Tisalver, stiffening. “It’s no place at all for a decent woman.”

Seldon felt embarrassed at his gaffe. “I meant no harm, Mistress Tisalver.”

“No offense,” said Tisalver. “Casilia thinks it’s beneath us and so it is, but as long as I don’t work there, it’s no distress merely to visit and show it to guests. But it is uncomfortable and I would never get Casilia to dress properly.”

They got up from their crouching positions. Dahlite “chairs” were merely molded plastic seats on small wheels and they cramped Seldon’s knees terribly and seemed to wiggle at his least body movement. The Tisalvers, however, had mastered the art of sitting firmly and rose without trouble and without needing to use their arms for help as Seldon had to. Dors also got up without trouble and Seldon once again marveled at her natural grace.

Before they parted to their separate rooms for the night, Seldon said to Dors, “Are you sure you know nothing about heatsinks? Mistress Tisalver makes them seem unpleasant.”

“They can’t be that unpleasant or Tisalver wouldn’t suggest taking us on tour. Let’s be content to be surprised.”

Tisalver said, “You’ll need proper clothing.” Mistress Tisalver sniffed markedly in the background.

Cautiously, Seldon, thinking of kirtles with vague distress, said, “What do you mean by proper clothing?”

“Something light, such as I wear. A T-shirt, very short sleeves, loose slacks, loose underpants, foot socks, open sandals. I have it all for you.”

“Good. It doesn’t sound bad.”

“As for Mistress Venabili, I have the same. I hope it fits.”

The clothes Tisalver supplied each of them (which were his own) fit fine—if a bit snugly. When they were ready, they bade Mistress Tisalver good-bye and she, with a resigned if still disapproving air, watched them from the doorway as they set off.

It was early evening and there was an attractive twilight glow above. It was clear that Dahl’s lights would soon be winking on. The temperature was mild and there were virtually no vehicles to be seen; everyone was walking. In the distance was the everpresent hum of an Expressway and the occasional glitter of its lights could be easily seen.

The Dahlites, Seldon noted, did not seem to be walking toward any particular destination. Rather, there seemed to be a promenade going on, a walking for pleasure. Perhaps, if Dahl was an impoverished sector, as Tisalver had implied, inexpensive entertainment was at a premium and what was as pleasant—and as inexpensive—as an evening stroll?

Seldon felt himself easing automatically into the gait of an aimless stroll himself and felt the warmth of friendliness all around him. People greeted each other as they passed and exchanged a few words. Black mustaches of different shape and thickness flashed everywhere and seemed a requisite for the Dahlite male, as ubiquitous as the bald heads of the Mycogenian Brothers.

It was an evening rite, a way of making sure that another day had passed safely and that one’s friends were still well and happy. And, it soon became apparent, Dors caught every eye. In the twilight glow, the ruddiness of her hair had deepened, but it stood out against the sea of black-haired heads (except for the occasional gray) like a gold coin winking its way across a pile of coal.