Prelude to Foundation (22 page)

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.

They landed at a jetport that seemed deserted to Seldon’s wondering eyes. The pilot, having completed his task, shook hands with both Hari and
Dors and took his jet up into the air with a rush, plunging it into an opening that appeared for his benefit.

There seemed, then, nothing to do but wait. There were benches that could seat perhaps a hundred people, but Seldon and Dors Venabili were the only two people around. The port was rectangular, surrounded by walls in which there must be many tunnels that could open to receive or deliver jets, but there were no jets present after their own had departed and none arrived while they waited.

There were no people arriving or any indications of habitation; the very life hum of Trantor was muted.

Seldon felt this aloneness to be oppressive. He turned to Dors and said, “What is it that we must do here? Have you any idea?”

Dors shook her head. “Hummin told me we would be met by Sunmaster Fourteen. I don’t know anything beyond that.”

“Sunmaster Fourteen? What would that be?”

“A human being, I presume. From the name I can’t be certain whether it would be a man or a woman.”

“An odd name.”

“Oddity is in the mind of the receiver. I am sometimes taken to be a man by those who have never met me.”

“What fools they must be,” said Seldon, smiling.

“Not at all. Judging from my name, they
are
justified. I’m told it is a popular masculine name on various worlds.”

“I’ve never encountered it before.”

“That’s because you aren’t much of a Galactic traveler. The name ‘Hari’ is common enough everywhere, although I once knew a woman named ‘Hare,’ pronounced like your name but spelled with an ‘e.’ In Mycogen, as I recall, particular names are confined to families—and numbered.”

“But Sunmaster seems so unrestrained a name.”

“What’s a little braggadocio? Back on Cinna, ‘Dors’ is from an old local expression meaning ‘spring gift.’ ”

“Because you were born in the spring?”

“No. I first saw the light of day at the height of Cinna’s summer, but the name struck my people as pleasant regardless of its traditional—and largely forgotten—meaning.”

“In that case, perhaps Sunmaster—”

And a deep, severe voice said, “That is my name, tribesman.”

Seldon, startled, looked to his left. An open ground-car had somehow drawn close. It was boxy and archaic, looking almost like a delivery wagon. In it, at the controls, was a tall old man who looked vigorous despite his age. With stately majesty, he got out of the ground-car.

He wore a long white gown with voluminous sleeves, pinched in at the wrists. Beneath the gown were soft sandals from which the big toe protruded, while his head, beautifully shaped, was completely hairless. He regarded the two calmly with his deep blue eyes.

He said, “I greet you, tribesman.”

Seldon said with automatic politeness, “Greetings, sir.” Then, honestly puzzled, he asked, “How did you get in?”

“Through the entrance, which closed behind me. You paid little heed.”

“I suppose we didn’t. But then we didn’t know what to expect. Nor do we now.”

“Tribesman Chetter Hummin informed the Brethren that there would be members from two of the tribes arriving. He asked that you be cared for.”

“Then you know Hummin.”

“We do. He has been of service to us. And because he, a worthy tribesman, has been of service to us, so must we be now to him. There are few who come to Mycogen and few who leave. I am to make you secure, give you house-room, see that you are undisturbed. You will be safe here.”

Dors bent her head. “We are grateful, Sunmaster Fourteen.”

Sunmaster turned to look at her with an air of dispassionate contempt. “I am not unaware of the customs of the tribes,” he said. “I know that among them a woman may well speak before being spoken to. I am therefore not offended. I would ask her to have a care among others of the Brethren who may be of lesser knowledge in the matter.”

“Oh really?” said Dors, who was clearly offended, even if Sunmaster was not.

“In truth,” agreed Sunmaster. “Nor is it needful to use my numerical identifier when I alone of my cohort am with you. ‘Sunmaster’ will be sufficient. —Now I will ask you to come with me so that we may leave this place which is of too tribal a nature to comfort me.”

“Comfort is for all of us,” said Seldon, perhaps a little more loudly than was necessary, “and we will not budge from this place unless we are assured that we will not be forcibly bent to your liking against our own natures. It is our custom that a woman may speak whenever she has something to say. If you have agreed to keep us secure, that security must be psychological as well as physical.”

Sunmaster gazed at Seldon levelly and said, “You are bold, young tribesman. Your name?”

“I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna.”

Sunmaster bowed slightly as Seldon pronounced his own name, did not move at the mention of Dors’s name. He said, “I have sworn to Tribesman Hummin that we will keep you safe, so I will do what I can to protect your woman companion in this. If she wishes to exercise her impudence, I will do my best to see that she is held guiltless. —Yet in one respect you must conform.”

And he pointed, with infinite scorn, first to Seldon’s head and then to Dors’s.

“What do you mean?” said Seldon.

“Your cephalic hair.”

“What about it?”

“It must not be seen.”

“Do you mean we’re to shave our heads like you? Certainly not.”

“My head is not shaven, Tribesman Seldon. I was depilated when I entered puberty, as are all the Brethren and their women.”

“If we’re talking about depilation, then more than ever the answer is no—never.”

“Tribesman, we ask neither shaving nor depilation. We ask only that your hair be covered when you are among us.”

“How?”

“I have brought skincaps that will mold themselves to your skulls, together with strips that will hide the superoptical patches—the eyebrows. You will wear them while with us. And of course, Tribesman Seldon, you will shave daily—or oftener if that becomes necessary.”

“But why must we do this?”

“Because to us, hair on the head is repulsive and obscene.”

“Surely, you and all your people know that it is customary for others, in all the worlds of the Galaxy, to retain their cephalic hair.”

“We know. And those among us, like myself, who must deal with tribesmen now and then, must witness this hair. We manage, but it is unfair to ask the Brethren generally to suffer the sight.”

Seldon said, “Very well, then, Sunmaster—but tell me. Since you are born with cephalic hair, as all of us are and as you all retain it visibly till puberty, why is it so necessary to remove it? Is it just a matter of custom or is there some rationale behind it?”

And the old Mycogenian said proudly, “By depilation, we demonstrate to the youngster that he or she has become an adult and through depilation adults will always remember who they are and never forget that all others are but tribesmen.”

He waited for no response (and, in truth, Seldon could think of none) but brought out from some hidden
compartment in his robe a handful of thin bits of plastic of varying color, stared keenly at the two faces before him, holding first one strip, then another, against each face.

“The colors must match reasonably,” he said. “No one will be fooled into thinking you are not wearing a skincap, but it must not be repulsively obvious.”

Finally, Sunmaster gave a particular strip to Seldon and showed him how it could be pulled out into a cap.

“Please put it on, Tribesman Seldon,” he said. “You will find the process clumsy at first, but you will grow accustomed to it.”

Seldon put it on, but the first two times it slipped off when he tried to pull it backward over his hair.

“Begin just above your eyebrows,” said Sunmaster. His fingers seemed to twitch, as though eager to help.

Seldon said, suppressing a smile, “Would you do it for me?”

And Sunmaster drew back, saying, almost in agitation, “I couldn’t. I would be touching your hair.”

Seldon managed to hook it on and followed Sunmaster’s advice, in pulling it here and there until all his hair was covered. The eyebrow patches fitted on easily. Dors, who had watched carefully, put hers on without trouble.

“How does it come off?” asked Seldon.

“You have but to find an end and it will peel off without trouble. You will find it easier both to put on and take off if you cut your hair shorter.”

“I’d rather struggle a bit,” said Seldon. Then, turning to Dors, he said in a low voice, “You’re still pretty, Dors, but it does tend to remove some of the character from your face.”