SELDON, WANDA--. . . In the waning years of Hari Seldon’s life, he grew most attached to (some say dependent upon) his granddaughter, Wanda. Orphaned in her teens, Wanda Seldon devoted herself to her grandfather’s Psychohistory Project, filling the vacancy left by Yugo Amaryl . . . .

            The content of Wanda Seldon’s work remains largely a mystery, for it was conducted in virtually total isolation. The only individuals allowed access to Wanda Seldon’s research were Hari himself and a young man named Stettin Palver (whose descendant Preem would four hundred years later contribute to the rebirth of Trantor, as the planet rose from the ashes of the Great Sack [300 F.E.]).

            Although the full extent of Wanda Seldon’s contribution to the Foundation is unknown, it was undoubtedly of the greatest magnitude . . . .

            ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

1

      Hari Seldon walked into the Galactic Library (limping a little, as he did more and more often these days) and made for the banks of skitters, the little vehicles that slid their way along the interminable corridors of the building complex.

            He was held up, however, by the sight of three men seated at one of the galactography alcoves, with the Galactograph showing the Galaxy in full three-dimensional representation and, of course, its worlds slowly pinwheeling around its core, spinning at right angles to that as well.

            From where Seldon stood he could see that the border Province of Anacreon was marked off in glowing red. It skirted the edge of the Galaxy and took up a great volume, but it was sparsely populated with stars. Anacreon was not remarkable for either wealth or culture but was remarkable for its distance from Trantor: ten thousand parsecs away.

            Seldon acting on impulse, took a seat at a computer console near the three and set up a random search he was sure would take an indefinite period. Some instinct told him that such an intense interest in Anacreon must be political in nature--its position in the Galaxy made it one of the least secure holdings of the current Imperial regime. His eyes remained on his screen, but Seldon’s ears were open for the discussion near him. One didn’t usually hear political discussions in the Library. They were, in point of fact, not supposed to take place.

            Seldon did not know any of the three men. That was not entirely surprising. There were habitues of the Library, quite a few, and Seldon knew most of them by sight--and some even to talk to--but the Library was open to all citizens. No qualifications. Anyone could enter and use its facilities. (For a limited period of time, of course. Only a select few, like Seldon were allowed to “set up shop” in the Library. Seldon had I1uen granted the use of a locked private office and complete access to Library resources.)

            One of the men (Seldon thought of him as Hook Nose, for obvious reasons) spoke in a low urgent voice.

            “Let it go,” he said. “Let it go. It’s costing us a mint to try to hold on and, even if we do, it will only be while they’re there. They can’t stay there forever and, as soon as they leave, the situation will revert to what it was.”

            Seldon knew what they were talking about. The news had come over TrantorVision only three days ago that the Imperial government had decided on a show of force to bring the obstreperous Governor of Anacreon into line. Seldon’s own psychohistorical analysis had shown him that it was a useless procedure, but the government did not generally listen when its emotions were stirred. Seldon smiled slightly and grimly at hearing Hook Nose say what he himself had said--and the young man said it without the benefit of any knowledge of psychohistory.

            Hook Nose went on. “If we leave Anacreon alone, what do we lose? It’s still there, right where it always was, right at the edge of the Empire. It can’t pick up and go to Andromeda, can it? So it still has to trade with us and life continues. What’s the difference if they salute the Emperor or not? You’ll never be able to tell the difference.”

            The second man, whom Seldon had labeled Baldy, for even more obvious reasons, said, “Except this whole business doesn’t exist in a vacuum. If Anacreon goes, the other border provinces will go. The Empire will break up.”

            “So what?” whispered Hook Nose fiercely. “The Empire can’t run itself effectively anymore, anyway. It’s too big. Let the border go and take care of itself--if it can. The Inner Worlds will be all the stronger and better off. The border doesn’t have to be ours politically; it will still be ours economically.”

            And now the third man (Red Cheeks) said, “I wish you were right, but that’s not the way it’s going to work. If the border provinces establish their independence, the first thing each will do will be to try to increase its power at the expense of its neighbors. There’ll be war and conflict and every one of the governors will dream of becoming Emperor at last. It will be like the old days before the Kingdom of Trantor--a dark age that will last for thousands of years.”

            Baldy said, “Surely things won’t be that bad. The Empire may break up, but it will heal itself quickly when people find out that the breakup just means war and impoverishment. They’ll look back on the golden days of the intact Empire and all will be well again. We’re not barbarians, you know. We’ll find a way.”

            “Absolutely,” said Hook Nose. “We’ve got to remember that the Empire has faced crisis after crisis in its history and has pulled through time and again.”

            But Red Cheeks shook his head as he said, “This is not just another crisis. This is something much worse. The Empire has been deteriorating for generations. Ten years’ worth of the junta destroyed the economy and since the fall of the junta and the rise of this new Emperor, the Empire has been so weak that the governors on the Periphery don’t have to do anything. It’s going to fall of its own weight.”

            “And the allegiance to the Emperor--” began Hook Nose.

            “What allegiance?” said Red Cheeks. “We went for years without an Emperor after Cleon was assassinated and no one seemed to mind much. And this new Emperor is just a figurehead. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. This isn’t a crisis. This is the end.”

            The other two stared at Red Cheeks, frowning. Baldy said, “You really believe it! You think that the Imperial government will just sit there and let it all happen?”

            “Yes! Like you two, they won’t believe it is happening. That is, until it’s too late.”

            “What would you want them to do if they did believe it?” asked Baldy.

            Red Cheeks stared into the Galactograph, as if he might find an answer there. “I don’t know. Look, in due course of time I’ll die; things won’t be too bad by then. Afterward, as the situation gets worse, other people can worry about it. I’ll be gone. And so will the good old days. Maybe forever. I’m not the only one who thinks this, by the way. Ever hear of someone named Hari Seldon?”

            “Sure,” said Hook Nose at once. “Wasn’t he First Minister under Cleon?”

            “Yes,” said Red Cheeks. “He’s some sort of scientist. I heard him give a talk a few months back. It felt good to know I’m not the only one who believes the Empire is falling apart. He said--”

            “And he said everything’s going to pot and there’s going to be a permanent dark age?” Baldy interjected.

            “Well no,” said Red Cheeks. “He’s one of these real cautious types. Ire says it might happen, but he’s wrong. It will happen.”

            Seldon had heard enough. He limped toward the table where the three men sat and touched Red Cheeks on the shoulder.

            “Sir,” he said, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

            Startled, Red Cheeks looked up and then he said, “Hey, aren’t you Professor Seldon?”

            “I always have been,” said Seldon. He handed the man a reference tile bearing his photograph. “I would like to see you here in my Library office at 4 P.m., day after tomorrow. Can you manage that?”

            “I have to work.”

            “Call in sick if you have to. It’s important.”

            “Well, I’m not sure, sir.”

            “Do it,” said Seldon. “If you get into any sort of trouble over it, I’ll straighten it out. And meanwhile, gentlemen, do you mind if I study the Galaxy simulation for a moment? It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at one.”

            They nodded mutely, apparently abashed at being in the presence of a former First Minister. One by one the men stepped back and allowed Seldon access to the Galactograph controls.

            Seldon’s finger reached out to the controls and the red that had marked off the Province of Anacreon vanished. The Galaxy was unmarked, a glowing pinwheel of mist brightening into the spherical glow at the center, behind which was the Galactic black hole.

            Individual stars could not be made out, of course, unless the view were magnified, but then only one portion or another of the Galaxy would be shown on the screen and Seldon wanted to see the whole thing --to get a look at the Empire that was vanishing.

            He pushed a contact and a series of yellow dots appeared on the Galactic image. They represented the habitable planets--twenty-five million of them. They could be distinguished as individual dots in the thin fog that represented the outskirts of the Galaxy, but they were more and more thickly placed as one moved in toward the center. There was a belt of what seemed solid yellow (but which would separate into individual dots under magnification) around the central glow. The central glow itself remained white and unmarked, of course. No habitable planets could exist in the midst of the turbulent energies of the core.

            Despite the great density of yellow, not one star in ten thousand, Seldon knew, had a habitable planet circling it. This was true, despite the planet-molding and terraforming capacities of humanity. Not all the molding in the Galaxy could make most of the worlds into anything a human being could walk on in comfort and without the protection of a spacesuit.

            Seldon closed another contact. The yellow dots disappeared, but one tiny region glowed blue: Trantor and the various worlds directly dependent on it. As close as it could be to the central core and yet remaining insulated from its deadliness, it was commonly viewed as being located at the “center of the Galaxy,” which it wasn’t--not truly. As usual, one had to be impressed by the smallness of the world of Trantor, a tiny place in the vast realm of the Galaxy, but within it was squeezed the largest concentration of wealth, culture, and governmental authority that humanity had ever seen.

            And even that was doomed to destruction.

            It was almost as though the men could read his mind or perhaps they interpreted the sad expression on his face.

            Baldy asked softly, “Is the Empire really going to be destroyed?”

            Seldon replied, softer still, “It might. It might. Anything might happen.”

            He rose, smiled at the men, and left, but in his thoughts he screamed: It will! It will!

2

      Seldon sighed as he climbed into one of the skitters that were ranked side by side in the large alcove. There had been a time, just a few years ago, when he had gloried in walking briskly along the interminable corridors of the Library, telling himself that even though he was past sixty he could manage it.

            But now, at seventy, his legs gave way all too quickly and he had to take a skitter. Younger men took them all the time because skitters saved them trouble, but Seldon did it because he had to--and that made all the difference.

            After Seldon punched in the destination, he closed a contact and the skitter lifted a fraction of an inch above the floor. Off it went at a rather casual pace, very smoothly, very silently, and Seldon leaned back and watched the corridor walls, the other skitters, the occasional walkers.

            He passed a number of Librarians and, even after all these years, he still smiled when he saw them. They were the oldest Guild in the Empire, the one with the most revered traditions, and they clung to ways that were more appropriate centuries before--maybe millennia before.

            Their garments were silky and off-white and were loose enough to be almost gownlike, coming together at the neck and billowing out from there.

            Trantor, like all the worlds, oscillated, where the males were concerned, between facial hair and smoothness. The people of Trantor itself --or at least most of its sectors--were smooth-shaven and had been smooth-shaven for as far back as he knew--excepting such anomalies as the mustaches worn by Dahlites, such as his own foster son, Raych.

            The Librarians, however, clung to the beards of long ago. Every Librarian had a rather short neatly cultivated beard running from ear to ear but leaving bare the upper lip. That alone was enough to mark them for what they were and to make the smooth-shaven Seldon feel a little uncomfortable when surrounded by a crowd of them.

            Actually the most characteristic thing of all was the cap each wore (perhaps even when asleep, Seldon thought). Square, it was made of a velvety material, in four parts that came together with a button at the top. The caps came in an endless variety of colors and apparently each color had significance. If you were familiar with Librarian lore, you could tell a particular Librarian’s length of service, area of expertise, grades of accomplishment, and so on. They helped fix a pecking order. Every Librarian could, by a glance at another’s hat, tell whether to be respectful (and to what degree) or overbearing (and to what degree).

            The Galactic Library was the largest single structure on Trantor (possibly in the Galaxy), much larger than even the Imperial Palace, and it had once gleamed and glittered, as though boasting of its size and magnificence. However, like the Empire itself, it had faded and withered. It was like an old dowager still wearing the jewels of her youth but upon a body that was wrinkled and wattled.

            The skitter stopped in front of the ornate doorway of the Chief Librarian’s office and Seldon climbed out.

            Las Zenow smiled as he greeted Seldon. “Welcome, my friend,” he said in his high-pitched voice. (Seldon wondered if he had ever sung tenor in his younger days but had never dared to ask. The Chief Librarian was a compound of dignity always and the question might have seemed offensive.)

            “Greetings,” said Seldon. Zenow had a gray beard, rather more than halfway to white, and he wore a pure white hat. Seldon understood that without any explanation. It was a case of reverse ostentation. The total absence of color represented the highest peak of position.

            Zenow rubbed his hands with what seemed to be an inner glee. “I’ve called you in, Hari, because I’ve got good news for you. --We’ve found it!

            “By ‘it,’ Las, you mean--”

            “A suitable world. You wanted one far out. I think we’ve located the ideal one.” His smile broadened. “You just leave it to the Library. Hari. We can find anything.”

            “I have no doubt, Las. Tell me about this world.”

            “Well, let me show you its location first.” A section of the wall slid aside, the lights in the room dimmed, and the Galaxy appeared in three-dimensional form, turning slowly. Again, red lines marked off the Province of Anacreon, so that Seldon could almost swear that the episode with the three men had been a rehearsal for this.

            And then a brilliant blue dot appeared at the far end of the province. “There it is,” said Zenow. “It’s an ideal world. Sizable, well-watered, good oxygen atmosphere, vegetation, of course. A great deal of sea life. It’s there just for the taking. No planet-molding or terraforming required --or, at least, none that cannot be done while it is actually occupied.”

            Seldon said, “Is it an unoccupied world, Las?”

            “Absolutely unoccupied. No one on it.”

            “But why--if it’s so suitable? I presume that, if you have all the details about it, it must have been explored. Why wasn’t it colonized?”

            “It was explored, but only by unmanned probes. And there was no colonization--presumably because it was so far from everything. The planet revolves around a star that is farther from the central black hole than that of any inhabited planet--farther by far. Too far, I suppose, for prospective colonists, but I think not too far for you. You said, ‘The farther, the better.’ “

            “Yes,” said Seldon, nodding. “I still say so. Does it have a name or is there just a letter-number combination?”

            “Believe it or not, it has a name. Those who sent out the probes named it Terminus, an archaic word meaning ‘the end of the line.’ Which it would seem to be.”

            Seldon said, “Is the world part of the territory of the Province of Anacreon?”

            “Not really,” said Zenow. “If you’ll study the red line and the red shading, you will see that the blue dot of Terminus lies slightly outside it --fifty light-years outside it, in fact. Terminus belongs to nobody; it’s not even part of the Empire, as a matter of fact.”

            “You’re right, then, Las. It does seem like the ideal world I’ve been looking for.”

            “Of course,” said Zenow thoughtfully, “once you occupy Terminus, I imagine the Governor of Anacreon will claim it as being under his jurisdiction.”

            “That’s possible,” said Seldon, “but we’ll have to deal with that when the matter comes up.”

            Zenow rubbed his hands again. “What a glorious conception. Setting up a huge project on a brand-new world, far away and entirely isolated, so that year by year and decade by decade a huge Encyclopedia of all human knowledge can be put together. An epitome of what is present in this Library. If I were only younger, I would love to join the expedition.”

            Seldon said sadly, “You’re almost twenty years younger than I am.” (Almost everyone is far younger than I am, he thought, even more sadly.)

            Zenow said, “Ah yes, I heard that you just passed your seventieth birthday. I hope you enjoyed it and celebrated appropriately.”

            Seldon stirred. “I don’t celebrate my birthdays.”

            “Oh, but you did. I remember the famous story of your sixtieth birthday.”

            Seldon felt the pain, as deeply as though the dearest loss in all the world had taken place the day before. “Please don’t talk about it,” he said.

            Abashed, Zenow said, “I’m sorry. We’ll talk about something else. If, indeed, Terminus is the world you want, I imagine that your work on the preliminaries to the Encyclopedia Project will be redoubled. As you know, the Library will be glad to help you in all respects.”

            “I’m aware of it, Las, and I am endlessly grateful. We will, indeed, keep working.”

            He rose, not yet able to smile after the sharp pang induced by the reference to his birthday celebration of ten years back. He said, “So I must go to continue my labors.”

            And as he left, he felt, as always, a pang of conscience over the deceit he was practicing. Las Zenow did not have the slightest idea of Seldon’s true intentions.

3

      Hari Seldon surveyed the comfortable suite that had been his personal office at the Galactic Library these past few years. It, like the rest of the Library, had a vague air of decay about it, a kind of weariness--something that had been too long in one place. And yet Seldon knew it might remain here, in the same place, for centuries more--with judicious rebuildings--for millennia even.

            How did he come to be here?

            Over and over again, he felt the past in his mind, ran his mental tendrils along the line of development of his life. It was part of growing older, no doubt. There was so much more in the past, so much less in the future, that the mind turned away from the looming shadow ahead to contemplate the safety of what had gone before.

            In his case, though, there was that change. For over thirty years psychohistory had developed in what might almost be considered a straight line--progress creepingly slow but moving straight ahead. Then six years ago there had been a right-angled turn--totally unexpected.

            And Seldon know exactly how it had happened, how a concatenation of events came together to make it possible.

            It was Wanda, of course, Seldon’s granddaughter. Hari closed his eyes and settled into his chair to review the events of six years before.

            Twelve-year-old Wanda was bereft. Her mother, Manella, had had another child, another little girl, Bellis, and for a time the new baby was a total preoccupation.

            Her father, Raych, having finished his book on his home sector of Dahl, found it to be a minor success and himself a minor celebrity. He was called upon to talk on the subject, something he accepted with alacrity, for he was fiercely absorbed in the subject and, as he said to Hari with a grin, “When I talk about Dahl, I don’t have to hide my Dahlite accent. In fact, the public expects it of me.”

            The net result, though, was that he was away from home a considerable amount of time and when he wasn’t, it was the baby he wanted to see.

            As for Dors--Dors was gone--and to Hari Seldon that wound was ever-fresh, ever-painful. And he had reacted to it in an unfortunate manner. It had been Wanda’s dream that had set in motion the current of events that had ended with the loss of Dors.

            Wanda had had nothing to do with it--Seldon knew that very well. And yet he found himself shrinking from her, so that he also failed her in the crisis brought about by the birth of the new baby.

            And Wanda wandered disconsolately to the one person who always seemed glad to see her, the one person she could always count on. That WAS Yugo Amaryl, second only to Hari Seldon in the development of psychohistory and first in his absolute round-the-clock devotion to it.  Hari had had Dors and Raych, but psychohistory was Yugo’s life; he had no wife and children. Yet whenever Wanda came into his presence, something within him recognized her as a child and he dimly felt--for just that moment--a sense of loss that seemed to be assuaged only by showing the child affection. To be sure, he tended to treat her as a rather undersized adult, but Wanda seemed to like that.

            It was six years ago that she had wandered into Yugo’s office. Yugo looked up at her with his owlish reconstituted eyes and, as usual, took a moment or two to recognize her.

            Then he said, “Why, it’s my dear friend Wanda. --but why do you look so sad? Surely an attractive young woman like you should never feel sad.”

            And Wanda, her lower lip trembling, said, “Nobody loves me.”

            “Oh come, that’s not true.”

            “They just love that new baby. They don’t care about me anymore.”

            “I love you, Wanda.”

            “Well, you’re the only one then, Uncle Yugo.” And even though she could no longer crawl onto his lap as she had when she was younger, she cradled her head on his shoulder and wept.

            Amaryl, totally unaware of what he should do, could only hug the girl and say, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” And out of sheer sympathy and because he had so little in his own life to weep about, he found that tears were trickling down his own cheeks as well.

            And then he said with sudden energy, “Wanda, would you like to see something pretty?”

            “What?” sniffled Wanda.

            Amaryl knew only one thing in life and the Universe that was pretty. He said, “Did you ever see the Prime Radiant?”

            “No. What is it?”

            “It’s what your grandfather and I use to do our work. See? It’s right here.”

            He pointed to the black cube on his desk and Wanda looked at it woefully. “That’s not pretty,” she said.

            “Not now,” agreed Amaryl. “But watch when I turn it on.”

            He did so. The room darkened and filled with dots of light and flashes of different colors. “See? Now we can magnify it so all the dots become mathematical symbols.”

            And so they did. There seemed a rush of material toward them and there, in the air, were signs of all sorts, letters, numbers, arrows, and shapes that Wanda had never seen before.

            “Isn’t it pretty?” asked Amaryl.

            “Yes, it is,” said Wanda, staring carefully at the equations that (she didn’t know) represented possible futures. “I don’t like that part, though. I think it’s wrong.” She pointed at a colorful equation to her left.

            “Wrong? Why do you say it’s wrong” said Amaryl, frowning.

            “Because it’s not . . . pretty. I’d do it a different way.”

            Amaryl cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll try to fix it up.” And he moved closer to the equation in question, staring at it in his owlish fashion.

            Wanda said, “Thank you very much, Uncle Yugo, for showing me your pretty lights. Maybe someday I’ll understand what they mean.”

            “That’s all right,” said Amaryl. “I hope you feel better.”

            “A little, thanks,” and, after flashing the briefest of smiles, she left the room.

            Amaryl stood there, feeling a trifle hurt. He didn’t like having the Prime Radiant’s product criticized--not even by a twelve-year-old girl who knew no better.

            And as he stood there, he had no idea whatsoever that the psychohistorical revolution had begun.

4

      That afternoon Amaryl went to Hari Seldon’s office at Streeling University. That in itself was unusual, for Amaryl virtually never left his own office, even to speak with a colleague just down the hall.

            “Hari,” said Amaryl, frowning and looking puzzled. “Something very odd has happened. Very peculiar.”

            Seldon looked at Amaryl with deepest sorrow. He was only fifty-three, but he looked much older, bent, worn down to almost transparency. When forced, he had undergone doctors’ examinations and the doctors had all recommended that he leave his work for a period of time (some said permanently) and rest. Only this, the doctors said, might improve his health. Otherwise-- Seldon shook his head. “Take him away from his work and he’ll die all the sooner--and unhappier. We have no choice.”

            And then Seldon realized that, lost in such thoughts, he was not hearing Amaryl speak.

            He said, “I’m sorry, Yugo. I’m a little distracted. Begin again.”

            Amaryl said, “I’m telling you that something very odd has happened. Very peculiar.”

            “What is it, Yugo?”

            “It was Wanda. She came in to see me--very sad, very upset.”

            “Why?”

            “Apparently it’s the new baby.”

            “Oh yes,” Hari said with more than a trace of guilt in his voice.

            “So she said and cried on my shoulder--I actually cried a bit, too, Hari. And then I thought I’d cheer her up by showing her the Prime Radiant.” Here Amaryl hesitated, as if choosing his next words carefully.

            “Go on, Yugo. What happened?”

            “Well, she stared at all the lights and I magnified a portion, actually Section 428254. You’re acquainted with that?”

            Seldon smiled. “No, Yugo, I haven’t memorized the equations quite as well as you have.”

            “Well, you should,” said Amaryl severely. “How can you do a good job if-- But never mind that. What I’m trying to say is that Wanda pointed to a part of it and said it was no good. It wasn’t pretty.”

            “Why not? We all have our personal likes and dislikes.”

            “Yes, of course, but I brooded about it and I spent some time going over it and, Hari, there was something wrong with it. The programming was inexact and that area, the precise area to which Wanda pointed, was no good. And, really, it wasn’t pretty.”

            Seldon sat up rather stiffly, frowning. “Let me get this straight, Yugo. She pointed to something at random, said it was no good, and she was right?”

            “Yes. She pointed, but it wasn’t at random; she was very deliberate.”

            “But that’s impossible.”

            “But it happened. I was there.”

            “I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m saying it was just a wild coincidence.”

            “Is it? Do you think, with all your knowledge of psychohistory, you could take one glance at a new set of equations and tell me that one portion is no good?”

            Seldon said, “Well then, Yugo, how did you come to expand that particular portion of the equations? What made you choose that piece for magnification?”

            Amaryl shrugged. “That was coincidence--if you like. I just fiddled with the controls.”

            “That couldn’t be coincidence,” muttered Seldon. For a few moments he was lost in thought, then he asked the question that pushed forward the psychohistorical revolution that Wanda had begun.

            He said, “Yugo, did you have any suspicions about those equations beforehand? Did you have any reason to believe there was something wrong with them?”

            Amaryl fiddled with the sash of his unisuit and seemed embarrassed. “Yes, I think I did. You see--”

            “You think you did?”

            “I know I did. I seemed to recall when I was setting it up--it’s a new section, you know--my fingers seemed to glitch on the programmer. It looked all right then, but I guess I kept worrying about it inside. I remember thinking it looked wrong, but I had other things to do and I just let it go. But then when Wanda happened to point to precisely the area I had been concerned about, I decided to check up on her--otherwise I would just have let it go as a childish statement.”

            “And you turned on that very fragment of the equations to show Wanda. As though it were haunting your unconscious mind.”

            Amaryl shrugged. “Who knows?”

            “And just before that, you were very close together, hugging, both crying.”

            Amaryl shrugged again, looking even more embarrassed.

            Seldon said, “I think I know what happened, Yugo. Wanda read your mind.”

            Amaryl jumped, as though he had been bitten. “That’s impossible!”

            Slowly Seldon said, “I once knew someone who had unusual mental powers of that sort”--and he thought sadly of Eto Demerzel or, as Seldon had secretly known him, Daneel-- “only he was somewhat more than human. But his ability to read minds, to sense other people’s thoughts, to persuade people to act in a certain way--that was a mental ability. I think, somehow, that perhaps Wanda has that ability as well.”

            “I can’t believe it,” said Amaryl stubbornly.

            “I can,” said Seldon “but I don’t know what to do about it.” Dimly lie felt the rumblings of a revolution in psychohistorical research--but only dimly.

5

      “Dad,” said Raych with some concern, “you look tired.”

            “I dare say,” said Hari Seldon, “I feel tired. But how are you?”

            Raych was forty-four now and his hair was beginning to show a bit of gray, but his mustache remained thick and dark and very Dahlite in appearance. Seldon wondered if he touched it up with dye, but it would have been the wrong thing to ask.

            Seldon said, “Are you through with your lecturing for a while?”

            “For a while. Not for long. And I’m glad to be home and see the baby and Manella and Wanda--and you, Dad.”

            “Thank you. But I have news for you, Raych. No more lecturing. I’m going to need you here.”

            Raych frowned. “What for?” On two different occasions he had been sent to carry out delicate missions, but those were back during the days of the Joranumite menace. As far as he knew, things were quiet now, especially with the overthrow of the junta and the reestablishment of a pale Emperor.

            “It’s Wanda,” said Seldon.

            “Wanda? What’s wrong with Wanda?”

            “Nothing’s wrong with her, but we’re going to have to work out a complete genome for her--and for you and Manella as well--and eventually for the new baby.”

            “For Bellis, too? What’s going on?”

            Seldon hesitated. “Raych, you know that your mother and I always thought there was something lovable about you, something that inspired affection and trust.”

            “I know you thought so. You said so often enough when you were trying to get me to do something difficult. But I’ll be honest with you. I never felt it.”

            “No, you won over me and . . . and Dors.” (He had such trouble saying the name, even though four years had passed since her destruction.) “You won over Rashelle of Wye. You won over Jo-Jo Joranum. You won over Manella. How do you account for all that?”

            “Intelligence and charm,” said Raych, grinning.

            “Have you thought you might have been in touch with their--our--minds?”

            “No, I’ve never thought that. And now that you mention it, I think it’s ridiculous. --With all due respect, Dad, of course.”

            “What if I told you that Wanda seems to have read Yugo’s mind during a moment of crisis?”

            “Coincidence or imagination, I should say.”

            “Raych, I knew someone once who could handle people’s minds as easily as you and I handle conversation.”

            “Who was that?”

            “I can’t speak of him. Take my word for it, though.”

            “Well--” said Raych dubiously.

            “I’ve been at the Galactic Library, checking on such matters. There is a curious story, about twenty thousand years old and therefore back to the misty origins of hyperspatial travel. It’s about a young woman, not much more than Wanda’s age, who could communicate with an entire planet that circled a sun called Nemesis.”

            “Surely a fairytale.”

            “Surely. And incomplete, at that. But the similarity with Wanda is astonishing.”

            Raych said, “Dad, what are you planning?”

            “I’m not sure, Raych. I need to know the genome and I have to find others like Wanda. I have a notion that youngsters are born--not often but occasionally--with such mental abilities, but that, in general, it merely gets them in trouble and they learn to mask it. And as they grow tip, their ability, their talent, is buried deep within their minds--sort of an unconscious act of self-preservation. Surely in the Empire or even just among Trantor’s forty billion, there must be more of that sort, like Wanda, and if I know the genome I want, I can test those I think may be so.”

            “And what would you do with them if you found them, Dad?”

            “I have the notion that they are what I need for the further development of psychohistory.”

            Raych said, “And Wanda is the first of the type you know about and you intend to make a psychohistorian out of her?”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Like Yugo. --Dad, no!”

            “Why no?”

            “Because I want her to grow up like a normal girl and become a normal woman. I will not have you sitting her before the Prime Radiant and make her into a living monument to psychohistorical mathematics.”

            Seldon said, “It may not come to that, Raych, but we must have her genome. You know that for thousands of years there have been suggestions that every human being have his genome on file. It’s only the expense that’s kept it from becoming standard practice; no one doubts the usefulness of it. Surely you see the advantages. If nothing else, we will know Wanda’s tendencies toward a variety of physiological disorders. If we had ever had Yugo’s genome, I am certain he would not now be dying. Surely we can go that far.”

            “Well, maybe, Dad, but no further. I’m willing to bet that Manella is going to be a lot firmer on this than I am.”

            Seldon said, “Very well. But remember, no more lecture tours. I need you at home.”

            “We’ll see,” Raych said and left.

            Seldon sat there in a quandary. Eto Demerzel, the one person he knew who could handle minds, would have known what to do. Dors, with her nonhuman knowledge, might have known what to do.

            For himself, he had a dim vision of a new psychohistory--but nothing more than that.

6

      It was not an easy task to obtain a complete genome of Wanda. To begin with, the number of biophysicists equipped to handle the genome was small and those that existed were always busy.

            Nor was it possible for Seldon to discuss his needs openly, in order to interest the biophysicists. It was absolutely essential, Seldon felt, that the true reason for his interest in Wanda’s mental powers be kept secret from all the Galaxy.

            And if another difficulty was needed, it was the fact that the process was infernally expensive.

            Seldon shook his head and said to Mian Endelecki, the biophysicist he was now consulting, “Why so expensive, Dr. Endelecki? I am not an expert in the field, but it is my distinct understanding that the process is completely computerized and that, once you have a scraping of skin cells, the genome can be completely built and analyzed in a matter of days.”

            “That’s true. But having a deoxyribonucleic acid molecule stretching out for billions of nucleotides, with every puring and pyrimidine in its place, is the least of it; the very least of it, Professor Seldon. There is then the matter of studying each one and comparing it to some standard.

            “Now, consider, in the first place, that although we have records of complete genomes, they represent a vanishingly small fraction of the number of genomes that exist, so that we don’t really know how standard they are.”

            Seldon asked, “Why so few?”

            “A number of reasons. The expense, for one thing. Few people are willing to spend the credits on it unless they have strong reason to think there is something wrong with their genome. And if they have no strong reason, they are reluctant to undergo analysis for fear they will find something wrong. Now, then, are you sure you want your granddaughter genomed?”

            “Yes, I do. It is terribly important.”

            “Why? Does she show signs of a metabolic anomaly?”

            “No, she doesn’t. Rather the reverse--if I knew the antonym of ‘anomaly.’ I consider her a most unusual person and I want to know just what it is that makes her unusual.”

            “Unusual in what way?”

            “Mentally, but it’s impossible for me to go into details, since I don’t entirely understand it. Maybe I will, once she is genomed.”

            “How old is she?”

            “Twelve. She’ll soon be thirteen.”

            “In that case, I’ll need permission from her parents.”

            Seldon cleared his throat. “That may be difficult to get. I’m her grandfather. Wouldn’t my permission be enough?”

            “For me, certainly. But, you know, we’re talking about the law. I don’t wish to lose my license to practice.”

            It was necessary for Seldon to approach Raych again. This, too, was difficult, as he protested once more that he and his wife, Manella, wanted Wanda to live a normal life of a normal girl. What if her genome did turn out to be abnormal? Would she be whisked away to be prodded and probed like a laboratory specimen? Would Hari, in his fanatical devotion to his Psychohistory Project, press Wanda into a life of all work and no play, shutting her off from other young people her age? But Seldon was insistent.

            “Trust me, Raych. I would never do anything to harm Wanda. But this must be done. I need to know Wanda’s genome. If it is as I suspect it is, we may be on the verge of altering the course of psychohistory, of the future of the Galaxy itself!”

            And so Raych was persuaded and somehow he obtained Manella’s consent, as well. And together, the three adults took Wanda to Dr. Endelecki’s office.

            Mian Endelecki greeted them at the door. Her hair was a shining white, but her face showed no sign of age.

            She looked at the girl, who walked in with a look of curiosity on her face but with no signs of apprehension or fear. She then turned her gaze to the three adults who had accompanied Wanda.

            Dr. Endelecki said with a smile, “Mother, father, and grandfather--am I right?”

            Seldon answered, “Absolutely right.”

            Raych looked hang-dog and Manella, her face a little swollen and her eyes a little red, looked tired.

            “Wanda,” began the doctor. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, ma’am,” said Wanda in her clear voice.

            “I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m going to do with you. You’re right-handed, I suppose.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Very well, then, I’ll spray a little patch on your left forearm with an anesthetic. It will just feel like a cool wind. Nothing else. I’ll then scrape a little skin from you just a tiny bit. There’ll be no pain, no blood, no mark afterward. When I’m done, I’ll spray a little disinfectant on it. The whole thing will take just a few minutes. Does that sound all right to you?”

            “Sure,” said Wanda, as she held out her arm.

            When it was over, Dr. Endelecki said, “I’ll put the scraping under the microscope, choose a decent cell, and put my computerized gene analyzer to work. It will mark off every last nucleotide, but there are billions of them. It will probably take the better part of a day. It’s all automatic, of course, so I won’t be sitting here watching it and there’s no point in your doing so, either.

            “Once the genome is prepared, it will take an even longer time to analyze it. If you want a complete job, it may take a couple of weeks. That is why it’s so expensive a procedure. The work is hard and long. I’ll call you in when I have it.” She turned away, as if she had dismissed the family, and busied herself with the gleaming apparatus on the table in front of her.

            Seldon said, “If you come across anything unusual, will you get in touch with me instantly? I mean, don’t wait for a complete analysis if you find something in the first hour. Don’t make me wait.”

            “The chances of finding anything in the first hour are very slim, but I promise you, Professor Seldon that I will be in touch with you at once if it seems necessary.”

            Manella snatched Wanda’s arm and led her off triumphantly. Raych followed, feet dragging. Seldon lingered and said, “This is more important than you know, Dr. Endelecki.”

            Dr. Endelecki nodded as she said, “Whatever the reason, Professor, I’ll do my best.”

            Seldon left, his lips pressed tightly together. Why he had thought that somehow the genome would be worked out in five minutes and that a glance at it in another five minutes would give him an answer, he did not know. Now he would have to wait for weeks, without knowing what would be found.

            He ground his teeth. Would his newest brainchild, the Second Foundation, ever be established or was it an illusion that would remain always just out of reach?

7

      Hari Seldon walked into Dr. Endelecki’s office, a nervous smile on his face.

            He said, “You said a couple of weeks, Doctor. It’s been over a month mow.”

            Dr. Endelecki nodded. “I’m sorry, Professor Seldon but you wanted everything exact and that is what I have tried to do.”

            “Well?” The look of anxiety on Seldon’s face did not disappear. What did you find?”

            “A hundred or so defective genes.”

            “What! Defective genes. Are you serious, Doctor?”

            “Quite serious. Why not? There are no genomes without at least a hundred defective genes; usually there are considerably more. It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know.”

            “No, I don’t know. You’re the expert, Doctor, not I.”

            Dr. Endelecki sighed and stirred in her chair. “You don’t know anything about genetics, do you, Professor?”

            “No, I don’t. A man can’t know everything.”

            “You’re perfectly right. I know nothing about this--what do you call it?--this psychohistory of yours.”

            Dr. Endelecki shrugged, then continued. “If you wanted to explain anything about it, you would be forced to start from the beginning and I would probably not understand it even so. “Now, as to genetics--”

            “Well?”

            “An imperfect gene usually means nothing. There are imperfect genes--so imperfect and so crucial that they produce terrible disorders. These are very rare, though. Most imperfect genes simply don’t work with absolute accuracy. They’re like wheels that are slightly out of balance. A vehicle will move along, trembling a bit, but it will move along.”

            “Is that what Wanda has?”

            “Yes. More or less. After all, if all genes were perfect, we would all look precisely the same, we would all behave precisely the same. It’s the difference in genes that makes for different people.”

            “But won’t it get worse as we grow older?”

            “Yes. We all get worse as we grow older. I noticed you limping when you came in. Why is that?”

            “A touch of sciatica,” muttered Seldon.

            “Did you have it all your life?”

            “Of course not.”

            “Well, some of your genes have gotten worse with time and now you limp.”

            “And what will happen to Wanda with time?”

            “I don’t know. I can’t predict the future, Professor; I believe that is your province. However, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that nothing unusual will happen to Wanda--at least, genetically--except the gathering of old age.”

            Seldon said, “Are you sure?”

            “You have to take my word for it. You wanted to find out about Wanda’s genome and you ran the risk of discovering things perhaps it is better not to know. But I tell you that, in my opinion, I can see nothing terrible happening to her.”

            “The imperfect genes--should we fix them? Can we fix them?”

            “No. In the first place, it would be very expensive. Secondly, the chances are that they would not stay fixed. And finally, people are against it.

            “But why?”

            “Because they’re against science in general. You should know this as well as anyone, Professor. I’m afraid the situation is such, especially since Cleon’s death, that mysticism has been gaining ground. People don’t believe in fixing genes scientifically. They would rather cure things by the laying on of hands or by mumbo-jumbo of some sort or other. Frankly it is extremely difficult for me to continue with my job. Very little funding is coming in.”

            Seldon nodded. “Actually I understand this situation all too well. Psychohistory explains it, but I honestly didn’t think the situation was growing so bad so rapidly. I’ve been too involved in my own work to see the difficulties all around me.” He sighed. “I’ve been watching the Galactic Empire slowly fall apart for over thirty years now--and now that it’s beginning to collapse much more rapidly, I don’t see how we can stop it in time.”

            “Are you trying to?” Dr. Endelecki seemed amused.

            “Yes, I am.”

            “Lots of luck. --About your sciatica. You know, fifty years ago it could have been cured. Not now, though.”

            “Why not?”

            “Well, the devices used for it are gone; the people who could have handled them are working on other things. Medicine is declining.”

            “Along with everything else,” mused Seldon. “--but let’s get back to Wanda. I feel she is a most unusual young woman with a brain that is different from most. What do her genes tell you about her brain?”

            Dr. Endelecki leaned back in her chair. “Professor Seldon do you know just how many genes are involved in brain function?”

            “No.

            “I’ll remind you that, of all the aspects of the human body, the brain Junction is the most intricate. In fact, as far as we know, there is nothing m the Universe as intricate as the human brain. So you won’t be surprised when I tell you that there are thousands of genes that each play a i0ale in brain function.”

            “Thousands?”

            “Exactly. And it is impossible to go through those genes and see anything specifically unusual. I will take your word for it, as far as Wanda is concerned. She is an unusual girl with an unusual brain, but I see nothing in her genes that can tell me anything about that brain--except, of course, that it is normal.”

            “Could you find other people whose genes for mental functioning are like Wanda’s, that have the same brain pattern?”

            “I doubt it very much. Even if another brain were much like hers, there would still be enormous differences in the genes. No use looking for similarities. --Tell me, Professor, just what is it about Wanda that makes you think her brain is so unusual?”

            Seldon shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s not something I can discuss.”

            “In that case, I am certain that I can find out nothing for you. How did you discover that there was something unusual about her brain--this thing you can’t discuss?”

            “Accident,” muttered Seldon. “Sheer accident.”

            “In that case, you’re going to have to find other brains like hers--also by accident. Nothing else can be done.”

            Silence settled over both of them. Finally Seldon said, “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

            “I’m afraid not. Except that I’ll send you my bill.”

            Seldon rose with an effort. His sciatica hurt him badly. “Well then, thank you, Doctor. Send the bill and I’ll pay it.”

            Hari Seldon left the doctor’s office, wondering just what he would do next.

8

      Like any intellectual, Hari Seldon had made use of the Galactic Library freely. For the most part, it had been done long-distance through computer, but occasionally he had visited it, more to get away from the pressures of the Psychohistory Project than for any other purpose. And, for the past couple of years, since he had first formulated his plan to find others like Wanda, he had kept a private office there, so he could have ready access to any of the Library’s vast collection of data. He had even rented a small apartment in an adjacent sector under the dome so that he would be able to walk to the Library when his ever-increasing research there prevented him from returning to the Streeling Sector.

            Now, however, his plan had taken on new dimensions and he wanted to meet Las Zenow. It was the first time he had ever met him face-to-face.

            It was not easy to arrange a personal interview with the Chief Librarian of the Galactic Library. His own perception of the nature and value of his office was high and it was frequently said that when the Emperor wished to consult the Chief Librarian, even he had to visit the Library himself and wait his turn.

            Seldon however, had no trouble. Zenow knew him well, though he had never seen Hari Seldon in person. “An honor, First Minister,” he said in greeting.

            Seldon smiled. “I trust you know that I have not held that post in sixteen years.”

            “The honor of the title is still yours. Besides, sir, you were also instrumental in ridding us of the brutal rule of the junta. The junta, on a number of occasions, violated the sacred rule of the neutrality of the Library.”

            (Ah, thought Seldon that accounts for the readiness with which he saw me.)

            “Merely rumor,” he said aloud.

            “And now, tell me,” said Zenow, who could not resist a quick look at the time band on his wrist, “what can I do for you?”

            “Chief Librarian,” began Seldon “I have not come to ask anything easy of you. What I want is more space at the Library. I want permission to bring in a number of my associates. I want permission to undertake a long and elaborate program of the greatest importance.”

            Las Zenow’s face drew into an expression of distress. “You ask a great deal. Can you explain the importance of all this?”

            “Yes. The Empire is in the process of disintegration.”

            There was a long pause. Then Zenow said, “I have heard of your research into psychohistory. I have been told that your new science bears the promise of predicting the future. Is it psychohistorical predictions of which you are speaking?”

            “No. I have not yet reached the point in psychohistory where I can speak of the future with certainty. But you don’t need psychohistory to know that the Empire is disintegrating. You can see the evidence yourself.”

            Zenow sighed. “My work here consumes me utterly, Professor Seldon. I am a child when it comes to political and social matters.”

            “You may, if you wish, consult the information contained in the Library. Why look around this very office--it is chock-full of every conceivable sort of information from throughout the entire Galactic Empire.”

            “I’m the last to keep up with it all, I’m afraid,” Zenow said, smiling sadly. “You know the old proverb: The shoemaker’s child has no shoes. It seems to me, though, that the Empire is restored. We have an Emperor again.”

            “In name only, Chief Librarian. In most of the outlying provinces, the Emperor’s name is mentioned ritualistically now and then, but he plays no role in what they do. The Outer Worlds control their own programs and, more important, they control the local armed forces, which are outside the grip of the Emperor’s authority. If the Emperor were to try to exert his authority anywhere outside the Inner Worlds, he would fail. I doubt that it will take more than twenty years, at the outside, before some of the Outer Worlds declare their independence.”

            Zenow sighed again. “If you are right, we live in worse times than the Empire has ever seen. But what has this to do with your desire for more office space and additional staff here in the Library?”

            “If the Empire falls apart, the Galactic Library may not escape the general carnage.”

            “Oh, but it must,” said Zenow earnestly. “There have been bad times before and it has always been understood that the Galactic Library on Trantor, as the repository of all human knowledge, must remain inviolate. And so it will be in the future.”

            “It may not be. You said yourself that the junta violated its neutrality.”

            “Not seriously.”

            “It might be more serious next time and we can’t allow this repository of all human knowledge to be damaged.”

            “How will your increased presence here prevent that?”

            “It won’t. But the project I am interested in will. I want to create a great Encyclopedia, containing within it all the knowledge humanity will need to rebuild itself in case the worst happens--an Encyclopedia Galactica, if you will. We don’t need everything the Library has. Much of it is trivial. The provincial libraries scattered over the Galaxy may themselves be destroyed and, if not, all but the most local data is obtained by computerized connection with the Galactic Library in any case. What I intend, then, is something that is entirely independent and that contains, in as concise a form as possible, the essential information humanity needs.”

            “And if it, too, is destroyed?”

            “I hope it will not be. It is my intention to find a world far away on the outskirts of the Galaxy, one where I can transfer my Encyclopedists and where they can work in peace. Until such a place is found, however, I want the nucleus of the group to work here and to use the Library facilities to decide what will be needed for the project.”

            Zenow grimaced. “I see your point, Professor Seldon, but I’m not sure that it can be done.”

            “Why not, Chief Librarian?”

            “Because being Chief Librarian does not make me an absolute monarch. I have a rather large Board--a kind of legislature--and please don’t think that I can just push your Encyclopedia Project through.”

            “I’m astonished.”

            “Don’t be. I am not a popular Chief Librarian. The Board has been fighting, for some years now, for limited access to the Library. I have resisted. It galls them that I have afforded you your small office space.”

            “Limited access?”

            “Exactly. The idea is that if anyone needs information, he or she must communicate with a Librarian and the Librarian will get the information for the person. The Board does not wish people to enter the Library freely and deal with the computers themselves. They say that the expense required to keep the computers and other Library equipment in shape is becoming prohibitive.”

            “But that’s impossible. There’s a millennial tradition of an open Galactic Library.”

            “So there is, but in recent years, appropriations to the Library have been cut several times and we simply don’t have the funds we used to have. It is becoming very difficult to keep our equipment up to the mark.”

            Seldon rubbed his chin. “But if your appropriations are going down, I imagine you have to cut salaries and fire people--or, at least, not hire new ones.”

            “You are exactly right.”

            “In which case, how will you manage to place new labors on a shrinking work force by asking your people to obtain all the information that the public will request?”

            “The idea is that we won’t find all the information that the public will request but only those pieces of information that we consider important.”

            “So that not only will you abandon the open Library but also the complete Library?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “I can’t believe that any Librarian would want this.”

            “You don’t know Gennaro Mummery, Professor Seldon.” At Seldon’s blank look, Zenow continued. “ ‘Who is he?’ you wonder. The leader of that portion of the Board that wishes to close off the Library. More and more of the Board are on his side. If I let you and your colleagues into the Library as an independent force, a number of Board members who may not be on Mummery’s side but who are dead set against any control of any part of the Library except by Librarians may decide to vote with him. And in that case, I will be forced to resign as Chief Librarian.”

            “See here,” said Seldon with sudden energy. “All this business of possibly closing down the Library, of making it less accessible, of refusing all information--all this business of declining appropriations--all this is itself a sign of Imperial disintegration. Don’t you agree?”

            “If you put it that way, you may be right.”

            “Then let me talk to the Board. Let me explain what the future may hold and what I wish to do. Perhaps I can persuade them, as I hope I’ve persuaded you.”

            Zenow thought for a moment. “I’m willing to let you try, but you must know in advance that your plan may not work.”

            “I’ve got to take that chance. Please do whatever has to be done and let me know when and where I can meet the Board.”

            Seldon left Zenow in a mood of unease. Everything he had told the Chief Librarian was true--and trivial. The real reason he needed the use of the Library remained hidden.

            Partly this was because he didn’t yet see that use clearly himself.

9

      Hari Seldon sat at Yugo Amaryl’s bedside--patiently, sadly. Yugo was utterly spent. He was beyond medical help, even if he would have consented to avail himself of such help, which he refused.

            He was only fifty-five. Seldon was himself sixty-six and yet he was in fine shape, except for the twinge of sciatica--or whatever it was--that occasionally lamed him.

            Amaryl’s eyes opened. “You’re still here, Hari?”

            Seldon nodded. “I won’t leave you.”

            “Till I die?”

            “Yes.” Then, in an outburst of grief, he said, “Why have you done this, Yugo? If you had lived sensibly, you could have had twenty to thirty more years of life.”

            Amaryl smiled faintly. “Live sensibly? You mean, take time off? Go to resorts? Amuse myself with trifles?”

            “Yes. Yes.”

            “And I would either have longed to return to my work or I would have learned to like wasting my time and, in the additional twenty to thirty years you speak of, I would have accomplished no more. Look at you.”

            “What about me?”

            “For ten years you were First Minister under Cleon. How much science did you do then?”

            “I spent about a quarter of my time on psychohistory,” said Seldon gently.

            “You exaggerate. If it hadn’t been for me, plugging away, psychohistorical advance would have screeched to a halt.”

            Seldon nodded. “You are right, Yugo. For that I am grateful.”

            “And before and since, when you spend at least half your time on administrative duties, who does--did--the real work? Eh?”

            “You, Yugo.”

            “Absolutely.” His eyes closed again.

            Seldon said, “Yet you always wanted to take over those administrative duties if you survived me.”

            “No! I wanted to head the Project to keep it moving in the direction it had to move in, but I would have delegated all administration.”

            Amaryl’s breathing was growing stertorous, but then he stirred and his eyes opened, staring directly at Hari. He said, “What will happen to psychohistory when I’m gone? Have you thought of that?”

            “Yes, I have. And I want to speak to you about it. It may please you. Yugo, I believe that psychohistory is being revolutionized.”

            Amaryl frowned slightly. “In what way? I don’t like the sound of that.”

            “Listen. It was your idea. Years ago, you told me that two Foundations should be established. Separate--isolated and safe--and arranged so that they would serve as nuclei for an eventual Second Galactic Empire. Do you remember? That was your idea.”

            “The psychohistoric equations--”

            “I know. They suggested it. I’m busy working on it now, Yugo. I’ve managed to wangle an office in the Galactic Library--”

            “The Galactic Library.” Amaryl’s frown deepened. “I don’t like diem. A bunch of self-satisfied idiots.”

            “The Chief Librarian, Las Zenow, is not so bad, Yugo.”

            “Did you ever meet a Librarian named Mummery, Gennaro Mummery?”

            “No, but I’ve heard of him.”

            “A miserable human being. We had an argument once when he claimed I had misplaced something or other. I had done no such thing and I grew very annoyed, Hari. All of a sudden I was back in Dahl. One thing about the Dahlite culture, Hari, it is a cesspool of invective. I used some of it on him and I told him he was interfering with psychohistory and he would go down in history as a villain. I didn’t just say ‘villain,’ either.” Amaryl chuckled faintly. “I left him speechless.”

            Suddenly Seldon could see where Mummery’s animosity toward outsiders and, most probably, psychohistory must come from--at least, in part--but he said nothing.

            “The point is, Yugo, you wanted two Foundations, so that if one failed, the other would continue. But we’ve gone beyond that.”

            “In what way?”

            “Do you remember that Wanda was able to read your mind two years ago and see that something was wrong with a portion of the equations in the Prime Radiant?”

            “Yes, of course.”

            “Well, we will find others like Wanda. We will have one Foundation that will consist largely of physical scientists, who will preserve the knowledge of humanity and serve as the nucleus for the Second Empire. And there will be a Second Foundation of psychohistorians only--mentalists, mind-touching psychohistorians--who will be able to work on psychohistory in a multiminded way, advancing it far more quickly than individual thinkers ever could. They will serve as a group who will introduce fine adjustments as time goes on, you see. Ever in the background, watching. They will be the Empire’s guardians.”

            “Wonderful!” said Amaryl weakly. “Wonderful! You see how I’ve chosen the right time to die? There’s nothing left for me to do.”

            “Don’t say that, Yugo.”

            “Don’t make such a fuss over it, Hari. I’m too tired to do anything. Thank you--thank you--for telling me”--his voice was weakening--”about the revolution. It makes me--happy--happy--hap--”

            And those were Yugo Amaryl’s last words.

            Seldon bent over the bed. Tears stung his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

            Another old friend gone. Demerzel, Cleon, Dors, now Yugo . . . leaving him emptier and lonelier as he grew old.

            And the revolution that had allowed Amaryl to die happy might never come to pass. Could he manage to make use of the Galactic Library? Could he find more people like Wanda? Most of all, how long would it take?

            Seldon was sixty-six. If only he could have started this revolution at thirty-two when he first came to Trantor . . . .

            Now it might be too late.

10

      Gennaro Mummery was making him wait. It was a studied discourtesy, even insolence, but Hari Seldon remained calm.

            After all, Seldon needed Mummery badly and for him to become angry with the Librarian would only hurt himself. Mummery would, in fact, be delighted with an angry Seldon.

            So Seldon kept his temper and waited and eventually Mummery did walk in. Seldon had seen him before--but only at a distance. This was the first time they would be together alone.

            Mummery was short and plump, with a round face and a dark little beard. He wore a smile on his face, but Seldon suspected that smile of being a meaningless fixture. It revealed yellowish teeth and Mummery’s inevitable hat was of a similar shade of yellow with a brown line snaking around it.

            Seldon felt a touch of nausea. It seemed to him that he would dislike Mummery, even if he had no reason to do so.

            Mummery said, without any preliminaries, “Well, Professor, what can I do for you?” He looked at the time-strip on the wall but made no apology for being late.

            Seldon said, “I would like to ask you, sir, to put an end to your opposition to my remaining here at the Library.”

            Mummery spread his hands. “You’ve been here for two years. What Opposition are you speaking of?”

            “So far, that portion of the Board represented by you and those who believe as you do have been unable to outvote the Chief Librarian, but there will be another meeting next month and Las Zenow tells me he is uncertain of the result.”

            Mummery shrugged. “So am I uncertain. Your lease--if we can call it that--may well be renewed.”

            “But I need more than that, Librarian Mummery. I wish to bring in some colleagues. The project in which I am engaged--the establishment of what is needed in the way of the eventual preparation of a very special Encyclopedia--is not one I can do alone.”

            “Surely your colleagues can work wherever they please. Trantor is a large world.”

            “We must work in the Library. I am an old man, sir, and I am in a hurry.”

            “Who can stay the advance of time? I don’t think the Board will allow you to bring in colleagues. The thin edge of the wedge, Professor?”

            (Yes, indeed, thought Seldon, but he said nothing.)

            Mummery said, “I have not been able to keep you out, Professor. Not so far. But I think I can continue to keep out your colleagues.”

            Seldon realized that he was getting nowhere. He opened the touch of frankness a notch. He said, “Librarian Mummery, surely your animosity toward me is not personal. Surely you understand the importance of the work I am doing.”

            “You mean, your psychohistory. Come, you have been working on it for over thirty years. What has come of it?”

            “That’s the point. Something may come of it now.”

            “Then let something come of it at Streeling University. Why must it be at the Galactic Library?”

            “Librarian Mummery. Listen to me. What you want is to close the Library to the public. You wish to smash a long tradition. Have you the heart to do that?”

            “It’s not heart we need. It’s funding. Surely the Chief Librarian has wept on your shoulder in telling you our woes. Appropriations are down, salaries are cut, needed maintenance is absent. What are we to do? We’ve got to cut services and we certainly can’t afford to support you and your colleagues with offices and equipment.”

            “Has this situation been put to the Emperor?”

            “Come, Professor, you’re dreaming. Isn’t it true that your psychohistory tells you that the Empire is deteriorating? I’ve heard you referred to as Raven Seldon, something that, I believe, refers to a fabled bird of ill omen.”

            “It’s true that we are entering bad times.”

            “And do you believe the Library is immune to those bad times? Professor, the Library is my life and I want it to continue, but it won’t continue unless we can find ways of making our dwindling appropriations do. --and you come here expecting an open Library, with yourself as beneficiary. It won’t do, Professor. It just won’t do.”

            Seldon said desperately, “What if I find the credits for you?”

            “Indeed. How?”

            “What if I talk to the Emperor? I was once First Minister. He’ll see me and he’ll listen to me.”

            “And you’ll get funding from him?” Mummery laughed.

            “If I do, if I increase your appropriations, may I bring in my colleagues?”

            “Bring in the credits first,” said Mummery, “and we’ll see. But I don’t think you will succeed.”

            He seemed very sure of himself and Seldon wondered how often and how uselessly the Galactic Library had already appealed to the Emperor.

            And whether his own appeal would get anywhere at all.

11

      The Emperor Agis XIV had no real right to the name. He had adopted it upon succeeding to the throne with the deliberate purpose of connecting himself with the Agises who had ruled two thousand years ago, most of them quite ably--particularly Agis VI, who had ruled for forty-two years and who had kept order in a prosperous Empire with a firm but nontyrannical hand.

            Agis XIV did not look like any of the old Agises--if the holographic records had any value. But, then again, truth be told, Agis XIV did not look much like the official holograph that was distributed to the public.

            As a matter of fact, Hari Seldon thought, with a twinge of nostalgia, that Emperor Cleon, for all his flaws and weaknesses, had certainly looked Imperial.

            Agis XIV did not. Seldon had never seen him at close quarters and the few holographs he had seen were outrageously inaccurate. The Imperial holographer knew his job and did it well, thought Seldon wryly.

            Agis XIV was short, with an unattractive face and slightly bulging eyes that did not seem alight with intelligence. His only qualification for the throne was that he was a collateral relative of Cleon.

            To do him credit, however, he did not try to play the role of the mighty Emperor. It was understood that he rather liked to be called the “Citizen Emperor” and that only Imperial protocol and the outraged outcry of the Imperial Guard prevented him from exiting the dome and wandering the walkways of Trantor. Apparently, the story went, he wished to shake hands with the citizens and hear their complaints in person.

            (Score one for him, thought Seldon, even if it could never come to pass.)

            With a murmur and a bow, Seldon said, “I thank you, Sire, for consenting to see me.”

            Agis XIV had a clear and rather attractive voice, quite out of keeping with his appearance. He said, “An ex-First Minister must surely have his privileges, although I must give myself credit for amazing courage in agreeing to see you.”

            There was humor in his words and Seldon found himself suddenly realizing that a man might not look intelligent and yet might be intelligent just the same.

            “Courage, Sire?”

            “Why, of course. Don’t they call you Raven Seldon?”

            “I heard the expression, Sire, the other day for the first time.”

            “Apparently the reference is to your psychohistory, which seems to predict the Fall of the Empire.”

            “It points out the possibility only, Sire--”

            “So that you are coupled with a mythic bird of ill omen. Except that I think you yourself are the bird of ill omen.”

            “I hope not, Sire.”

            “Come, come. The record is clear. Eto Demerzel, Cleon’s old First Minister, was impressed with your work and look what happened--he was forced out of his position and into exile. The Emperor Cleon himself was impressed with your work and look what happened--he was assassinated. The military junta was impressed with your work and look what happened--they were swept away. Even the Joranumites, it is said, were impressed with your work and, behold, they were destroyed. And now, O Raven Seldon, you come to see me. What may I expect?”

            “Why, nothing evil, Sire.”

            “I imagine not, because unlike all these others I have mentioned, I am not impressed with your work. Now tell me why you are here.”

            He listened carefully and without interruption while Seldon explained the importance of setting up a Project designed to prepare an encyclopedia that would preserve human learning if the worst happened.

            “Yes yes,” said Agis XIV finally, “so you are, indeed, convinced the Empire will fall.”

            “It is a strong possibility, Sire, and it would not be prudent to refuse to take that possibility into account. In a way, I wish to prevent it if I can --or ameliorate the effects if I can’t.”

            “Raven Seldon if you continue to poke your nose into matters, I am convinced that the Empire will fall and that nothing can help it.”

            “Not so, Sire. I ask only permission to work.”

            “Oh, you have that, but I fail to see what it is you wish of me. Why have you told me all this about an encyclopedia?”

            “Because I wish to work in the Galactic Library, Sire, or, more accurately, I wish others to work there with me.”

            “I assure you that I won’t stand in your way.”

            “That is not enough, Sire. I want you to help.”

            “In what way, ex-First Minister?”

            “With funding. The Library must have appropriations or it will close its doors to the public and evict me.”

            “Credits!’“ A note of astonishment came into the Emperor’s voice. “You came to me for credits?”

            “Yes, Sire.”

            Agis XIV stood up in some agitation. Seldon stood up at once also, but Agis waved him down.

            “Sit down. Don’t treat me as an Emperor. I’m not an Emperor. I didn’t want this job, but they made me take it. I was the nearest thing to the Imperial family and they jabbered at me that the Empire needed an Emperor. So they have me and a lot of good I am to them.

            “Credits! You expect me to have credits! You talk about the Empire disintegrating. How do you suppose it disintegrates? Are you thinking of rebellion? Of civil war? Of disorders here and there?

            “No. Think of credits. Do you realize that I cannot collect any taxes at all from half the provinces in the Empire? They’re still part of the Empire--’Hail the Imperium! --’All honor to the Emperor’--but they don’t pay anything and I don’t have the necessary force to collect it. And if I can’t get the credits out of them, they are not really part of the Empire, are they?

            “Credits! The Empire runs a chronic deficit of appalling proportions.

            There’s nothing I can pay for. Do you think there is enough funding to maintain the Imperial Palace grounds? Just barely. I must cut corners. I must let the Palace decay. I must let the number of retainers die down by attrition.

            “Professor Seldon. If you want credits, I have nothing. Where will I find appropriations for the Library? They should be grateful I manage to squeeze out something for them each year at all.” As he finished, the Emperor held out his hands, palms up, as if to signify the emptiness of the Imperial coffers.

            Hari Seldon was stunned. He said, “Nevertheless, Sire, even if you lack the credits, you still have the Imperial prestige. Can you not order the Library to allow me to keep my office and let my colleagues in to help me with our vital work?”

            And now Agis XIV sat down again as though, once the subject was not credits, he was no longer in a state of agitation.

            He said, “You realize that, by long tradition, the Galactic Library is independent of the Imperium, as far as its self-government is concerned. It sets up its rules and has done so since Agis VI, my namesake”--he smiled--”attempted to control the news functions of the Library. He failed and, if the great Agis VI failed, do you think I can succeed?”

            “I’m not asking you to use force, Sire. Merely expressing a polite wish. Surely, when no vital function of the Library is involved, they will be pleased to honor the Emperor and oblige his wishes.”

            “Professor Seldon, how little you know of the Library. I have but to express a wish, however gently and tentatively, to make it certain that they will proceed, in dudgeon, to do the opposite. They are very sensitive to the slightest sign of Imperial control.”

            Seldon said, “Then what do I do?”

            “Why, I’ll tell you what. A thought occurs to me. I am a member of the public and I can visit the Galactic Library if I wish. It is located on the Palace grounds, so I won’t be violating protocol if I visit it. Well, you come with me and we shall be ostentatiously friendly. I will not ask them for anything, but if they note us walking arm-in-arm, then perhaps some of the precious Board of theirs may feel more kindly toward you than otherwise. --but that’s all I can do.”

            And the deeply disappointed Seldon wondered if that could possibly be enough.

12

      Las Zenow said with a certain trace of awe in his voice, “I didn’t know you were so friendly with the Emperor, Professor Seldon.”

            “Why not? He’s a very democratic fellow for an Emperor and he was interested in my experiences as a First Minister in Cleon’s time.”

            “It made a deep impression on us all. We haven’t had an Emperor in our halls for many years. Generally, when the Emperor needs something from the Library--”

            “I can imagine. He calls for it and it is brought to him as a matter of courtesy.”

            “There was once a suggestion,” said Zenow chattily, “that the Emperor be outfitted with a complete set of computerized equipment in his palace, hooked directly into the Library system, so that he would not need to wait for service. This was in the old days when credits were plentiful, but, you know, it was voted down.”

            “Was it?”

            “Oh yes, almost the entire Board agreed that it would make the Emperor too much a part of the Library and that this would threaten our independence from the government.”

            “And does this Board, which will not bend to honor an Emperor, consent to let me remain at the Library?”

            “At the present moment, yes. There is a feeling--and I’ve done my best to encourage it--that if we are not polite to a personal friend of the Emperor, the chance of a rise in appropriations will be gone altogether, so--”

            “So credits--or even the dim prospect of credits--talk.”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “And can I bring in my colleagues?”

            Zenow looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. The Emperor was seen walking only with you--not with your colleagues. I’m sorry, Professor.”

            Seldon shrugged and a mood of deep melancholy swept over him. He had no colleague to bring in, anyhow. For some time he had hoped to locate others like Wanda and he had failed. He, too, would need funding to mount an adequate search. And he, too, had nothing.

13

      Trantor, the capital world-city of the Galactic Empire, had changed considerably since the day Hari first stepped off the hypership from his native Helicon thirty-eight years ago. Was it the pearly haze of an old man’s memory that made the Trantor of old shine so brightly in his mind’s eye, Hari wondered. Or perhaps it had been the exuberance of youth--how could a young man from a provincial Outer World such as Helicon not be impressed by the gleaming towers, sparkling domes, the colorful, rushing masses of people that had seemed to swirl through Trantor, day and night.

            Now, Hari thought sadly, the walkways are nearly deserted, even in the full light of day. Roving gangs of thugs controlled various areas of the city, competing among themselves for territory. The security establishment had dwindled; those who were left had their hands full processing complaints at the central office. Of course, security officers were dispatched as emergency calls came through, but they made it to the scene only after a crime was committed--they no longer made even a pretense of protecting the citizens of Trantor. A person went out at his own risk--and a great risk it was. And yet Hari Seldon still took that risk, in the form of a daily walk, as if defying the forces that were destroying his beloved Empire to destroy him as well.

            And so Hari Seldon walked along, limping--and thoughtful.

            Nothing worked. Nothing. He had been unable to isolate the genetic pattern that set Wanda apart--and without that, he was unable to locate others like her.

            Wanda’s ability to read minds had sharpened considerably in the six years since she had identified the flaw in Yugo Amaryl’s Prime Radiant. Wanda was special in more ways than one. It was as if, once she realized that her mental ability set her apart from other people, she was determined to understand it, to harness its energy, to direct it. As she had progressed through her teen years, she had matured, throwing off the girlish giggles that had so endeared her to Hari, at the same time becoming even dearer to him in her determination to help him in his work with the powers of her “gift.” For Hari Seldon had told Wanda about his plan for a Second Foundation and she had committed herself to realizing that goal with him.

            Today, though, Seldon was in a dark mood. He was coming to the conclusion that Wanda’s mentalic ability would get him nowhere. He had no credits to continue his work--no credits to locate others like Wanda, no credits to pay his workers on the Psychohistory Project at Streeling, no credits to set up his all-important Encyclopedia Project at the Galactic Library.

            Now what?

            He continued to walk toward the Galactic Library. He would have been better off taking a gravicab, but he wanted to walk-limp or not. He needed time to think.

            He heard a cry--”There he is!”--but paid no attention.

            It came again. “There he is! Psychohistory!”

            The word forced him to look up. --Psychohistory.

            A group of young men was closing in around him.

            Automatically Seldon placed his back against the wall and raised his cane. “What is it you want?”

            They laughed. “Credits, old man. Do you have any credits?”

            “Maybe, but why do you want them from me? You said, ‘Psychohistory!’ Do you know who I am?”

            “Sure, you’re Raven Seldon” said the young man in the lead. He seemed both comfortable and pleased.

            “You’re a creep,” shouted another.

            “What are you going to do if I don’t give you any credits?”

            “We’ll beat you up,” said the leader, “and we’ll take them.”

            “And if I give you my credits?”

            “We’ll beat you up anyway!” They all laughed.

            Hari Seldon raised his cane higher. “Stay away. All of you.”

            By now he had managed to count them. There were eight.

            He felt himself choking slightly. Once he and Dors and Raych had been attacked by ten and they had had no trouble. He had been only thirty-two at the time and Dors--was Dors.

            Now it was different. He waved his cane.

            The leader of the hoodlums said, “Hey, the old man is going to attack us. What are we going to do?”

            Seldon looked around swiftly. There were no security officers around. Another indication of the deterioration of society. An occasional person or two passed by, but there was no use calling for help. Their footsteps increased in speed and made a wide detour. No one was going to run any risks of getting involved in an imbroglio.

            Seldon said, “The first one of you who approaches gets a cracked head.”

            “Yeah?” And the leader stepped forward rapidly and seized the cane. There was a short sharp struggle and the cane was wrested from Seldon’s grip. The leader tossed it to one side.

            “Now what, old man?”

            Seldon shrunk back. He could only wait for the blows. They crowded around him, each eager to land a blow or two. Seldon lifted his arms to try to ward them off. He could still Twist--after a fashion. If he were facing only one or two, he might be able to Twist his body, avoid their blows, strike back. But not against eight--surely not against eight.

            He tried, at any rate, moving quickly to one side to avoid the blows and his right leg, with its sciatica, doubled under him. He fell and knew himself to be utterly helpless.

            Then he heard a stentorian voice shouting, “What’s going on here? Get back, you thugs! Back or I’ll kill you all!”

            The leader said, “Well, another old man.”

            “Not that old,” said the newcomer. With the back of one hand, he struck the leader’s face, turning it an ugly red.

            Seldon said in surprise, “Raych, it’s you.”

            Raych’s hand swept back. “Stay out of this, Dad. Just get up and move away.”

            The leader, rubbing his cheek, said, “We’ll get you for that.”

            “No, you won’t,” said Raych, drawing out a knife of Dahlite manufacture, long and gleaming. A second knife was withdrawn and he now held one in each hand.

            Seldon said weakly, “Still carrying knives, Raych?”

            “Always,” said Raych. “Nothing will ever make me stop.”

            “I’ll stop you,” said the leader, drawing out a blaster.

            Faster than the eye could follow, one of Raych’s knives went sailing through the air and struck the leader’s throat. He made a loud gasp, then a gurgling sound, and fell, while the other seven stared.

            Raych approached and said, “I want my knife back.” He drew it out of the hoodlum’s throat and wiped it on the man’s shirtfront. In doing so, he stepped on the man’s hand, bent down, and picked up his blaster.

            Raych dropped the blaster into one of his capacious pockets. He said, “I don’t like to use a blaster, you bunch of good-for-nothings, because sometimes I miss. I never miss with a knife, however. Never! That man is dead. There are seven of you standing. Do you intend to stay standing or will you leave?”

            “Get him!” shouted one of the hoodlums and the seven made a concerted rush.

            Raych took a backward step. One knife flashed and then the other and two of the hoodlums stopped with, in each case, a knife buried in his abdomen.

            “Give me back my knives,” said Raych, pulling each out with a cutting motion and wiping them.

            “These two are still alive, but not for long. That leaves five of you on your feet. Are you going to attack again or are you going to leave?”

            They turned and Raych called out, “Pick up your dead and dying. I don’t want them.”

            Hastily they flung the three bodies over their shoulders, then they turned tail and ran.

            Raych bent to pick up Seldon’s cane. “Can you walk, Dad?”

            “Not very well,” said Seldon. “I twisted my leg.”

            “Well then, get into my car. What were you doing walking, anyway?”

            “Why not? Nothing’s ever happened to me.”

            “So you waited till something did. Get into my car and I’ll give you a lift back to Streeling.”

            He programmed the ground-car quietly, then said, “What a shame we didn’t have Dors with us. Mom would have attacked them with her bare lands and left all eight dead in five minutes.”

            Seldon felt tears stinging his eyelids. “I know, Raych, I know. Do you think I don’t miss her every day?”

            “I’m sorry,” said Raych in a low voice.

            Seldon asked, “How did you know I was in trouble?”

            “Wanda told me. She said there were evil people lying in wait for you ,slid told me where they were and I took right off.”

            “Didn’t you doubt that she knew what she was talking about?”

            “Not at all. We know enough about her now to know that she has some sort of contact with your mind and with the things around you.”

            “Did she tell you how many people were attacking me?”

            “No. She just said, ‘Quite a few.’“

            “So you came out all by yourself, did you, Raych?”

            “I had no time to put together a posse, Dad. Besides, one of me was enough.”

            “Yes, it was. Thank you, Raych.”

14

      They were back at Streeling now and Seldon’s leg was stretched out on a hassock.

            Raych looked at him somberly. “Dad,” he began, “you’re not to go walking around Trantor on your own from now on.”

            Seldon frowned. “Why, because of one incident?”

            “It was enough of an incident. You can’t take care of yourself any longer. You’re seventy years old and your right leg will not support you in an emergency. And you have enemies--”

            “Enemies!”

            “Yes, indeed. And you know it. Those sewer rats were not after simply anyone. They were not looking for just any unwary person to rip off. They identified you by calling out, ‘Psychohistory!’ And they called you a creep. Why do you suppose that was?”

            “I don’t know why.”

            “That’s because you live in a world all your own, Dad, and you don’t know what’s going on on Trantor. Don’t you suppose the Trantorians know that their world is going downhill at a rapid rate? Don’t you suppose they know that your psychohistory has been predicting this for years? Doesn’t it occur to you that they may blame the messenger for the message? If things go bad--and they are going bad--there are many who think that you are responsible for it.”

            “I can’t believe that.”

            “Why do you suppose there’s a faction at the Galactic Library that wants you out of there? They don’t want to be in the way when you are mobbed. So--you’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t go out alone. I’ll have to be with you or you will have to have bodyguards. That’s the way it’s going to be, Dad.”

            Seldon looked dreadfully unhappy.

            Raych softened and said, “But not for long, Dad. I’ve got a new job.’

            Seldon looked up. “A new job. What kind?”

            “Teaching. At a University.’ “Which University?” “Santanni.”

            Seldon’s lips trembled. “Santanni! That’s nine thousand parsecs away from Trantor. It’s a provincial world on the other side of the Galaxy.”

            “Exactly. That’s why I want to go there. I’ve been on Trantor all my life, Dad, and I’m tired of it. There’s no world in all the Empire that’s deteriorating the way Trantor is. It’s become a haunt of crime with no one to protect us. The economy is limping, the technology is failing. Santanni, on the other hand, is a decent world, still humming along, and I want to be there to build a new life, along with Manella and Wanda and Bellis. We’re all going there in two months.”

            “All of you!”

            “And you, Dad. And you. We wouldn’t leave you behind on Trantor. You’re coming with us to Santanni.”

            Seldon shook his head. “Impossible, Raych. You know that.”

            “Why impossible?”

            “You know why. The Project. My psychohistory. Are you asking me to abandon my life’s work?”

            “Why not? It’s abandoned you.”

            “You’re mad.”

            “No, I’m not. Where are you going with it? You have no credits. You can’t get any. There’s no one left on Trantor who’s willing to support you.”

            “For nearly forty years--”

            “Yes, I admit that. But after all that time, you’ve failed Dad. There’s no crime in failing. You’ve tried so hard and you’ve gone so far, but you’ve run into a deteriorating economy, a falling Empire. It’s the very thing you’ve been predicting for so long that’s stopping you at last. So--”

            “No. I will not stop. Somehow or other, I will keep going.”

            “I tell you what, Dad. If you’re really going to be so stubborn, then take psychohistory with you. Start it again on Santanni. There may be enough credits--and enthusiasm--to support it there.”

            “And the men and women who have been working for me so faithfully?”

            “Oh bull, Dad. They’ve been leaving you because you can’t pay them. You hang around here for the rest of your life and you’ll be alone. --Oh, come on, Dad. Do you think I like to talk to you this way? It’s because no one has wanted to--because no one has had the heart to--that you’re in your present predicament. Let’s be honest with each other now. When you walk the streets of Trantor and you’re attacked for no reason other than that you’re Hari Seldon, don’t you think it’s time for a little bit of truth?”

            “Never mind the truth. I have no intention of leaving Trantor.”

            Raych shook his head. “I was sure you’d be stubborn, Dad. You’ve got two months to change your mind. Think about it, will you?”