Isaac Asimov - Prelude to Foundation

The food was tasty but spicy—to the point where Seldon could not recognize the exact nature of the dishes.

Rashelle, her plump face made happy by her gentle smile and her fine teeth gleaming white, said, “You may think we have Mycogenian additives in the food, but we do not. It is all homegrown in Wye. There is no sector on the planet more self-sufficient than Wye. We labor hard to keep that so.”

Seldon nodded gravely and said, “Everything you have given us is first-rate, Rashelle. We are much obliged to you.”

And yet within himself he thought the food was not quite up to Mycogenian standards and he felt moreover, as he had earlier muttered to Dors, that he was celebrating his own defeat. Or Hummin’s defeat, at any rate, and that seemed to him to be the same thing.

After all, he had been captured by Wye, the very possibility that had so concerned Hummin at the time of the incident Upperside.

Rashelle said, “Perhaps, in my role as hostess, I may be forgiven if I ask personal questions. Am I correct in assuming that you three do not represent a family; that you, Hari, and you, Dors, are not married and that Raych is not your son?”

“The three of us are not related in any way,” said Seldon. “Raych was born on Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna.”

“And how did you all meet, then?”

Seldon explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. “There’s nothing romantic or significant in the meetings,” he added.

“Yet I am given to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide, Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl.”

Seldon said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be separated from them.”

Rashelle smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.”

“Yes, I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.”

“Puzzled?”

“Why yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask one as well?”

“Of course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.”

“When we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?”

“Surely, you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.”

“That much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have psychohistory?”

“Surely, you have not been so careless as to lose it.”

“Worse, Rashelle. I have never had it.”

Rashelle’s face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.”

“In that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not practical.”

“I can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.”

“The pseudo -Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically.

“Why yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question. “Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.”

“Rashelle,” said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what I have just told you and he let me go.”

Now Rashelle did not smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever since—in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared. But come now—our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us have music.”

And at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.”

Raych said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips silently mouthed: “Fork.”

He remained with his fork.

Dors said, “The music is lovely, Madam”—she pointedly rejected the familiar form of address—“but it must not be allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were not the prime mover.”

Rashelle laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail—as you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we were the pursuers. When, however, there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure that it is Demerzel.”

“Do you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors.

“Yes. Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.”

“You? Or the Wye Sector?”

“The sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.”

“How strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you—or any other Wyan—weigh nothing in comparison.”

Rashelle smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.”

“Why yours?” said Seldon.

“Why not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “ I am the Mayor of Wye.”

It was Raych who was the first to react to the statement. Quite forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.”

Rashelle looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under your lid and let it bubble.”

Raych’s eyes protruded and he seemed stunned. Finally he managed to say, “Hey, ya talk regular, lady.”

“Sure thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling.

Seldon cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.”

Rashelle tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite—when I was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course—he was quite intelligent—but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?”

Raych said, “I dunno, lady—uh, mum.”

“I’m sure you will and you will come to look very much like my . . . old friend and it will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, dinner’s over and it’s time for you to go to your room, Raych. You can watch holovision for a while if you wish. I don’t suppose you read.”

Raych reddened. “I’m gonna read someday. Master Seldon says I’m gonna.”

“Then I’m sure you will.”