Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

Dors said evenly, “I am the historian, Davan, and I can say a few things if you wish.”

“Please do,” said Davan, making it half a courtesy, half a challenge.

“For one thing, there have been many revolutions in Galactic history that have overthrown tyrannies, sometimes on individual planets, sometimes in groups of them, occasionally in the Empire itself or in the pre-Imperial regional governments. Often, this has only meant a change in tyranny. In other words, one ruling class is replaced by another—sometimes by one that is more efficient and therefore still more capable of maintaining itself—while the poor and downtrodden remain poor and downtrodden or become even worse off.”

Davan, listening intently, said, “I’m aware of that. We all are. Perhaps we can learn from the past and know better what to avoid. Besides, the tyranny that now exists is actual . That which may exist in the future is merely potential. If we are always to draw back from change with the thought that the change may be for the worse, then there is no hope at all of ever escaping injustice.”

Dors said, “A second point you must remember is that even if you have right on your side, even if justice thunders condemnation, it is usually the tyranny in existence that has the balance of force on its side. There is nothing your knife handlers can do in the way of rioting and demonstrating that will have any permanent effect as long as, in the extremity, there is an army equipped with kinetic, chemical, and neurological weapons that is willing to use them against your people. You can get all the downtrodden and even all the respectables on your side, but you must somehow win over the security forces and the Imperial army or at least seriously weaken their loyalty to the rulers.”

Davan said, “Trantor is a multigovernmental world. Each sector has its own rulers and some of them are themselves anti-Imperial. If we can have a strong sector on our side, that would change the situation, would it not? We would then not be merely ragamuffins fighting with knives and stones.”

“Does that mean you do have a strong sector on your side or merely that it is your ambition to have one?”

Davan was silent.

Dors said, “I shall assume that you are thinking of the Mayor of Wye. If the Mayor is in the mood to make use of popular discontent as a way of improving the chance of toppling the Emperor, doesn’t it strike you that the end the Mayor would have in view would be that of succeeding to the Imperial throne? Why should the Mayor risk his present not-inconsiderable position for anything less? Merely for the blessings of justice and the decent treatment of people, concerning whom he can have little interest?”

“You mean,” said Davan, “that any powerful leader who is willing to help us may then betray us.”

“It is a situation that is all too common in Galactic history.”

“If we are ready for that, might we not betray him ?”

“You mean, make use of him and then, at some crucial moment, subvert the leader of his forces—or a leader, at any rate—and have him assassinated?”

“Not perhaps exactly like that, but some way of getting rid of him might exist if that should prove necessary.”

“Then we have a revolutionary movement in which the principal players must be ready to betray each other, with each simply waiting for the opportunity. It sounds like a recipe for chaos.”

“You will not help us, then?” said Davan.

Seldon, who had been listening to the exchange between Davan and Dors with a puzzled frown on his face, said, “We can’t put it that simply. We would like to help you. We are on your side. It seems to me that no sane man wants to uphold an Imperial system that maintains itself by fostering mutual hatred and suspicions. Even when it seems to work, it can only be described as metastable; that is, as too apt to fall into instability in one direction or another. But the question is: How can we help? If I had psychohistory, if I could tell what is most likely to happen, or if I could tell what action of a number of alternative possibilities is most likely to bring on an apparently happy consequence, then I would put my abilities at your disposal. —But I don’t have it. I can help you best by trying to develop psychohistory.”

“And how long will that take?”

Seldon shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“How can you ask us to wait indefinitely?”

“What alternative do I have, since I am useless to you as I am? But I will say this: I have until very recently been quite convinced that the development of psychohistory was absolutely impossible. Now I am not so certain of that.”

“You mean you have a solution in mind?”

“No, merely an intuitive feeling that a solution might be possible. I have not been able to pin down what has occurred to make me have that feeling. It may be an illusion, but I am trying. Let me continue to try. —Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Or perhaps,” said Davan, “if you return to where you are now staying, you will eventually find yourself in an Imperial trap. You may think that the Empire will leave you alone while you struggle with psychohistory, but I am certain the Emperor and his toady Demerzel are in no mood to wait forever, any more than I am.”

“It will do them no good to hasten,” said Seldon calmly, “since I am not on their side, as I am on yours. —Come, Dors.”

They turned and left Davan, sitting alone in his squalid room, and found Raych waiting for them outside.

Raych was eating, licking his fingers, and crumpling the bag in which the food—whatever it was—had been. A strong smell of onions pervaded the air—different somehow, yeast-based perhaps.

Dors, retreating a little from the odor, said, “Where did you get the food from, Raych?”

“Davan’s guys. They brought it to me. Davan’s okay.”

“Then we don’t have to buy you dinner, do we?” said Seldon, conscious of his own empty stomach.

“Ya owe me somethin ’,” said Raych, looking greedily in Dors’s direction. “How about the lady’s knife? One of ’em.”

“No knife,” said Dors. “You get us back safely and I’ll give you five credits.”

“Can’t get no knife for five credits,” grumbled Raych.

“You’re not getting anything but five credits,” said Dors.

“You’re a lousy dame, lady,” said Raych.

“I’m a lousy dame with a quick knife, Raych, so get moving.”

“All right. Don’t get all perspired.” Raych waved his hand. “This way.”

It was back through the empty corridors, but this time Dors, looking this way and that, stopped. “Hold on, Raych. We’re being followed.”

Raych looked exasperated. “Ya ain’t supposed to hear ’em.”

Seldon said, bending his head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.”

“I do,” said Dors. “Now, Raych, I don’t want any fooling around. You tell me right now what’s going on or I’ll rap your head so that you won’t see straight for a week. I mean it.”

Raych held up one arm defensively. “You try it, you lousy dame. You try it. —It’s Davan’s guys. They’re just taking care of us, in case any knifers come along.”

“Davan’s guys?”

“Yeah. They’re goin’ along the service corridors.”

Dors’s right hand shot out and seized Raych by the scruff of his upper garment. She lifted and he dangled, shouting, “Hey, lady. Hey!”

Seldon said, “Dors! Don’t be hard on him.”

“I’ll be harder still if I think he’s lying. You’re my charge, Hari, not he.”

“I’m not lyin’,” said Raych, struggling. “I’m not.”

“I’m sure he isn’t,” said Seldon.