Microfarm

MYCOGEN- . . . The microfarms of Mycogen are legendary, though they survive today only in such oftused similes as "rich as the microfarms of Mycogen" or "tasty as Mycogenian yeast." Such encomiums tend to intensify with time, to be sure, but Hari Seldon visited those microfarms in the course of The Flight and there are references in his memoirs that would tend to support the popular opinion . . .

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

41.

"That was good." said Seldon explosively. "It was considerably better than the food Graycloud brought-"

Dors said reasonably, "You have to remember that Graycloud's woman had to prepare it on short notice in the middle of the night." She paused and said, "I wish they would say `wife.' They make 'woman' sound like such an appanage, like 'my house' or my robe.' It is absolutely demeaning."

"I know. It's infuriating. But they might well make 'wife' sound like an appanage as well. It's the way they live and the Sisters don't seem to mind. You and I aren't going to change it by lecturing. Anyway, did you see how the Sisters did it?"

"Yes, I did and they made everything seem very simple. I doubted I could remember everything they did, but they insisted I wouldn't have to. I could get away with mere heating. I gathered the bread had some sort of microderivative added to it in the baking that both raised the dough and lent it that crunchy consistency and warm flavor. Just a hint of pepper, didn't you think?"

"I couldn't tell, but whatever it was, I didn't get enough. And the soup. Did you recognize any of the vegetables?"

"No."

"And what was the sliced meat? Could you tell?"

"I don't think it was sliced meat, actually. We did have a lamb dish back on Cinna that it reminded me of."

"It was certainly not lamb."

"I said that I doubted it was meat at all. -I don't think anyone outside Mycogen eats like this either. Not even the Emperor, I'm sure. Whatever the Mycogenians sell is, I'm willing to bet, near the bottom of the line. They save the best for themselves. We had better not stay here too long, Hari. If we get used to eating like this, we'll never be able to acclimatize ourselves to the miserable stuff they have outside." She laughed.

Seldon laughed too. He took another sip at the fruit juice, which tasted far more tantalizing than any fruit juice he had ever sipped before, and said, "listen, when Hummin took me to the University, we stopped at a roadside diner and had some food that was heavily yeasted. It tasted like-No, never mind what it tasted like, but I wouldn't have thought it conceivable, then, that microfood could caste like this. I wish the Sisters were still here. It would have been polite to thank them."

"I think they were quite aware of how we would feel. I remarked on the wonderful smell while everything was warming and they said, quire complacently, that it would taste even better."

"The older one said that, I imagine."

"Yes. The younger one giggled. -And they'll be back. They're going to bring me a kirtle, so that I can go out to see the shops with them. And they made it clear I would have to wash my face if I was to be seen in public. They will show me where to buy some goodquality kirtles of my own and where I can buy ready-made meals of all kinds. All I'll have to do is heat them up. They explained that decent Sisters wouldn't do that, but would start from scratch. In fact, some of the meal they prepared for us was simply heated and they apologized for that. They managed to imply, though, that tribespeople couldn't be expected to appreciate true artistry in cooking, so that simply heating prepared food would do for us. -They seem to take it for granted, by the way, that I will be doing all the shopping and cooking."

"As we say at home, 'When in Trantor, do as the Trantorians do.' "

"Yes, I was sure that would be your attitude in this case."

"I'm only human," said Seldon.

"The usual excuse," said Dors with a small smile.

Seldon leaned back with a satisfactory well-filled feeling and said, "You've been on Trantor for two years, Dors, so you might understand a few things that I don't. Is it your opinion that this odd social system the Mycogenians have is part of a supernaturalistic view they have?"

"Supernaturalistic?"

"Yes. Would you have heard that this was so?"

"What do you mean by 'supernaturalistic'?"

"The obvious. A belief in entities chat are independent of natural law, that are not bound by the conservation of energy, for instance, or by the existence of a constant of action."

"I see. You're asking if Mycogen is a religious community."

It was Seldon's turn. "Religious?"

"Yes. It's an archaic term, but we historians use it-our study is riddled with archaic terms. 'Religious' is not precisely equivalent to 'supernaturalistic,' though it contains richly supernaturalistic elements. I can't answer your specific question, however, because I've never made any special investigation of Mycogen. Still, from what little I've seen of the place and from my knowledge of religions in history, I wouldn't be surprised if the Mycogenian society was religious in character."

"In that case, would it surprise you if Mycogenian legends were also religious in character?"

"No, it wouldn't."

"And therefore not based on historical matter?"

"That wouldn't necessarily follow. The core of the legends might still be authentically historic, allowing for distortion and supernaturalistic intermixture."

"Ah," said Seldon and seemed to retire into his thoughts.

Finally Dors broke the silence that followed and said, "It's not so uncommon, you know. There is a considerable religious element on many worlds. It's grown stronger in the last few centuries as the Empire has grown more turbulent. On my world of Cinna, at least a quarter of the population is tritheistic."

Seldon was again painfully and regretfully conscious of his ignorance of history. He said, "Were there times in past history when religion was more prominent than it is today?"

"Certainly. In addition, there are new varieties springing up constantly. The Mycogenian religion, whatever it might be, could be relatively new and may be restricted to Mycogen itself. I couldn't really tell without considerable study."

"But now we get to the point of it, Dors. Is it your opinion that women are more apt to be religious than men are?"

Dors Venabili raised her eyebrows. "I'm not sure if we can assume anything as simple as that." She thought a bit. "I suspect that those elements of a population that have a smaller stake in the material natural world are more apt to find solace in what you call supernaturalism-the poor, the disinherited, the downtrodden. Insofar as supernaturalism overlaps religion, they may also be more religious. There are obviously many exceptions in both directions. Many of the downtrodden may lack religion; many of the rich, powerful, and satisfied may possess it."

"But in Mycogen," said Seldon, "where the women seem to be treated as subhuman-would I be right in assuming they would be more religious than the men, more involved in the legends that the society has been preserving?^

"I wouldn't risk my life on it, Hari, but I'd be willing to risk a week's income on it."

"Good," said Seldon thoughtfully.

Dors smiled at him. "There's a bit of your psychohistory, Hari. Rule number 47,854: The downtrodden are more religious than the satisfied."

Seldon shook his head. "Don't joke about psychohistory, Dors. You know I'm not looking for tiny rules but for vast generalizations and for means of manipulation. I don't want comparative religiosity as the result of a hundred specific rules. I want something from which I can, after manipulation through some system of mathematicized logic, say, 'Aha, this group of people will tend to be more religious than that group, provided that the following criteria are met, and that, therefore, when humanity meets with these stimuli, it will react with these responses."

"How horrible," said Dors. "You are picturing human beings as simple mechanical devices. Press this button and you will get that twitch."

"No, because there will be many buttons pushing simultaneously to varying degrees and eliciting so many responses of different sorts that overall the predictions of the furore will be statistical in nature, so that the individual human being will remain a free agent."

"How can you know this?"

"I can't," said Seldon. "At least, I don't know it. I feel it to be so. It is what I consider to be the way things ought to be. If I can find the axioms, the fundamental Laws of Humanics, so to speak, and the necessary mathematical treatment, then I will have my psychohistory. I have proved that, in theory, this is possible-"

"But impractical, right?"

"I keep saying so."

A small smile curved Dors's lips, "Is that what you are doing, Hari, looking for some sort of solution to this problem?"

"I don't know. I swear to you I don't know. But Chetter Hummin is so anxious to find a solution and, for some reason, I am anxious to please him. He is so persuasive a man."

"Yes, I know."

Seldon let that comment pass, although a small frown flitted across his face.

Seldon continued. "Hummin insists the Empire is decaying, that it will collapse, that psychohistory is the only hope for saving it-or cushioning it or ameliorating it-and that without it humanity will be destroyed or, at the very least, go through prolonged misery. He seems to place the responsibility for preventing that on me. Now, the Empire will certainly last my time, but if I'm to live at ease, I must lift that responsibility from my shoulders. I must convince myself-and even convince Hummin-that psychohistory is not a practical way our that, despite theory, it cannot be developed. So I must follow up as many leads as I can and show that each one must fail."

"Leads? Like going back in history to a time when human society was smaller than it is now?"

"Much smaller. And far less complex."

"And showing that a solution is still impractical?"

"Yes."

"But who is going to describe the early world for you? If the Mycogenians have some coherent picture of the primordial Galaxy, Sunmaster certainly won't reveal it to a tribesman. No Mycogenian will. This is an ingrown society-how many times have we already said it?-and its members are suspicious of tribesmen to the point of paranoia. They'll tell us nothing."

"I will have to think of a way to persuade some Mycogenians to talk. Those Sisters, for instance."

"They won't even bear you, male that you are, any more than Sunmaster hears me. And even if they do talk to you, what would they know but a few catch phrases?"

"I must start somewhere."

Dors said, "Well, let me think. Hummin says I must protect you and I interpret that as meaning I must help you when I can. What do I know about religion? That's nowhere near my specialty, you know. I have always dealt with economic forces, rather than philosophic forces, but you can't split history into neat little nonoverlapping divisions. For instance, religions tend to accumulate wealth when successful and that eventually tends to distort the economic development of a society. There, incidentally, is one of the numerous rules of human history that you'll have to derive from your basic Laws of Humanics or whatever you called them. But . . .

And here, Dors's voice faded away as she lapsed into thought. Seldon watched her cautiously and Dors's eyes glazed as though she was looking deep within herself.

Finally she said, "This is not an invariable rule, but it seems to me that on many occasions, a religion has a book-or books-of significance; books that give their ritual, their view of history, their sacred poetry, and who knows what else. Usually, those books are open to all and are a means of proselytization. Sometimes they are secret."

"Do you think Mycogen has books of that sort?"

"To be truthful," said Dors thoughtfully, "I have never heard of any. I might have if they existed openly-which means they either don't exist or are kept secret. In either case, it seems to me you are not going to see them."

"At least it's a starting point," said Seldon grimly.

42.

The Sisters returned about two hours after Hari and Dors had finished lunch. They were smiling, both of them, and Raindrop FortyThree, the graver one, held up a gray kirtle for Dors's inspection.

"It is very attractive," said Dors, smiling widely and nodding her head with a certain sincerity. "I like the clever embroidery here."

"It is nothing," twittered Raindrop Forty-Five. "It is one of my old things and it won't fit very well, for you are taller than I am. But it will do for a while and we will take you out to the very best kirtlery to get a few that will fit you and your tastes perfectly. You will see."

Raindrop Forty-Three, smiling a little nervously but saying nothing and keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, handed a white kirtle to Dors. It was folded neatly. Dors did not attempt to unfold it, but passed it on to Seldon. "From the color I should say it's yours, Hari."

"Presumably," said Seldon, "but give it back. She did not give it to me."

"Oh, Hari," mouthed Dors, shaking her head slightly.

"No," said Seldon firmly. "She did not give it to me. Give it back to her and I'll wait for her to give it to me."

Dors hesitated, then made a halfhearted attempt to pass the kirtle back to Raindrop Forty-Three.

The Sister put her hands behind her back and moved away, all life seeming to drain from her face. Raindrop Forty-Five stole a glance at Seldon, a very quick one, then took a quick step toward Raindrop FortyThree and put her arms about her.

Dors said, "Come, Hari, I'm sure that Sisters are not permitted to talk to men who are not related to them. What's the use of making her miserable? She can't help it."

"I don't believe it," said Seldon harshly. "If there is such a rule, is applies only to Brothers. I doubt very much that she's ever met a tribesman before."

Dors said to Raindrop Forty-Three in a soft voice, "Have you ever met a tribesman before, Sister, or a tribeswoman?"

A long hesitation and then a slow negative shake of the head.

Seldon threw out his arms. "Well, there you are. If there is a rule of silence, it applies only to the Brothers. Would they have sent these young women-these Sisters-to deal with us if there was any rule against speaking to tribesmen?"

"It might be, Hari, that they were meant to speak only to me and I to you."

"Nonsense. I don't believe it and I won't believe it. 1 am not merely a tribesman, I am an honored guest in Mycogen, asked to be treated as such by Chetter Hummin and escorted here by Sunmaster Fourteen himself. I will not be treated as though I do not exist. I will be in communication with Sunmaster Fourteen and I will complain bitterly."

Raindrop Forty-Five began to sob and Raindrop Forty-Three, retaining her comparative impassivity, nevertheless flushed faintly.

Dors made as though to appeal to Seldon once again, but he stopped her with a brief and angry outward thrust of his right arm and then stared Toweringly at Raindrop Forty-Three.

And finally she spoke and did not twitter. Rather, her voice trembled hoarsely, as though she had to force it to sound in the direction of a male being and was doing so against all her instincts and desires.

"You must not complain of us, tribesman. That would be unjust. You force me to break the custom of our people. What do you want of me?"

Seldon smiled disarmingly at once and held out his hand. "The garment you brought me. The kirtle."

Silently, she stretched out her arm and deposited the kirtle in his hand.

He bowed slightly and said in a soft warm voice, "Thank you, Sister." He then cast a very brief look in Dors's direction, as though to say: You see? But Dors looked away angrily.

The kirtle was featureless, Seldon saw as he unfolded it (embroidery and decorativeness were for women, apparently), but it came with a tasseled belt that probably had some particular way of being worn. No doubt he could work it out.

He said, "I'll step into the bathroom and put this thing on. It won't take but a minute, I suppose."

He stepped into the small chamber and found the door would not dose behind him because Dors was forcing her way in as well. Only when the two of them were in the bathroom together did the door close.

"What were you doing?" Dors hissed angrily. "You were an absolute brute, Hari. Why did you treat the poor woman that way?^

Seldon said impatiently, "I had to make her talk to me. I'm counting on her for information. You know that. I'm sorry I had to be cruel, but how else could I have broken down her inhibitions?" And he motioned her out.

When he emerged, he found Dors in her kirtle too.

Dors, despite the bald head the skincap gave her and the inherent dowdiness of the kirtle, managed to look quite attractive. The stitching on the robe somehow suggested a figure without revealing it in the least. Her belt was wider than his own and was a slightly different shade of gray from her kirtle. What's more, it was held in front by two glittering blue stone snaps. (Women did manage to beautify themselves even under the greatest difficulty, Seldon thought.)

Looking over at Hari, Dors said, "You look quite the Mycogenian now. The two of us are fit to be taken to the stores by the Sisters."

"Yes," said Seldon, "but afterward I want Raindrop Forty-Three to take me on a tour of the microfarms."

Raindrop Forty-Three's eyes widened and she took a rapid step backward.

"I'd like to see them," said Seldon calmly.

Raindrop Forty-Three looked quickly at Dors. "Tribeswoman-"

Seldon said, "Perhaps you know nothing of the farms, Sister."

That seemed to touch a nerve. She lifted her chin haughtily as she still carefully addressed Dors. "I have worked on the microfarms. All Brothers and Sisters do at some point in their lives."

"Well then, take me on the tour," said Seldon, "and lets not go through the argument again. I am not a Brother to whom you are forbidden to speak and with whom you may have no dealings. I am a tribesman and an honored guest. I wear this skincap and this kirde so as not to attract undue attention, but I am a scholar and while I am here I must learn. I cannot sit in this room and stare at the wall. I want to see the one thing you have that the rest of the Galaxy does not have . . . your microfarms. I should think you'd be proud to show them."

"We are proud," said Raindrop Forty-Three, finally facing Seldon as she spoke, "and I will show you and don't think you will learn any of our secrets if that is what you are after. I will show you the microfarms tomorrow morning. It will take time to arrange a tour."

Seldon said, "I will wait till tomorrow morning. But do you promise? Do I have your word of honor?"

Raindrop Forty-Three said with clear contempt, "I am a Sister and I will do as I say. I will keep my word, even to a tribesman."

Her voice grew icy at the last words, while her eyes widened and seemed to glitter. Seldon wondered what was passing through her mind and felt uneasy.

43.

Seldon passed a restless night. To begin with, Dors had announced that she must accompany him on the tour of the microfarm and he had objected strenuously.

"The whole purpose," he said, "is to make her talk freely, to present her with an unusual environment-alone with a male, even if a tribesman. Having broken custom so far, it will be easier to break it further. If you're along, she will talk to you and I will only get the leavings."

"And if something happens to you in my absence, as it did Upperside?"

"Nothing will happen. Please! If you want to help me, stay away. If not, I will have nothing further to do with you. I mean it, Dors. This is important to me. Much as I've grown fond of you, you cannot come ahead of this."

She agreed with enormous reluctance and said only, "Promise me you'll at least be nice to her, then."

And Seldon said, "Is it me you must protect or her? I assure you that I didn't treat her harshly for pleasure and I won't do so in the future."

The memory of this argument with Dors-their first helped keep him awake a large part of the night; that, together with the nagging thought that the two Sisters might not arrive in the morning, despite Raindrop Forty-Three's promise.

They did arrive, however, not long after Seldon had completed a spare breakfast (he was determined not to grow fat through overindulgence) and had put on a kirtle that fitted him precisely. He had carefully organized the belt so that it hung perfectly.

Raindrop Forty-Three, still with a touch of ice in her eye, said, "if you are ready, Tribesman Seldon, my sister will remain with Tribeswoman Venabili." Her voice was neither twittery nor hoarse. It was as though she had steadied herself through the night, practicing, in her mind, how to speak to one who was a male but not a Brother.

Seldon wondered if she had lost sleep and said, "I am quite ready."

Together, half an hour later, Raindrop Forty-Three and Hari Seldon were descending level upon level. Though it was daytime by the clock, the light was dusky and dimmer than it had been elsewhere on Tramor.

There was no obvious reason for this. Surely, the artificial daylight that slowly progressed around the Trantorian sphere could include the Mycogen Sector. The Mycogenians must want it that way, Seldon thought, clinging to some primitive habit. Slowly Seldon's eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings.

Seldon tried to meet the eyes of passersby, whether Brothers or Sisters, calmly. He assumed he and Raindrop Forty-Three would be taken as a Brother and his woman and that they would be given no notice as long as he did nothing to attract attention.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if Raindrop Forty-Three wanted to be noticed. She talked to him in few words and in low tones out of a clenched mouth. It was clear that the company of an unauthorized male, even though only she knew this fact, raved her self-confidence. Seldon was quite sure that if he asked her to relax, he would merely make her that much more uneasy. (Seldon wondered what she would do if she met someone who knew her. He felt more relaxed once they reached the lower levels, where human beings were fewer.)

The descent was not by elevators either, but by moving staired ramps that existed in pairs, one going up and one going down. Raindrop FortyThree referred to them as "escalators." Seldon wasn't sure he had caught the word correctly, never having heard it before.

As they sank to lower and lower levels, Seldon's apprehension grew. Most worlds possessed microfarms and most worlds produced their own varieties of microproducts. Seldon, back on Helicon, had occasionally shopped for seasonings in the microfarms and was always aware of an unpleasant stomach-turning stench.

The people who worked at the microfarms didn't seem to mind. Even when casual visitors wrinkled their noses, they seemed to acclimate themselves to it. Seldon, however, was always peculiarly susceptible to the smell. He suffered and he expected to suffer now. He tried soothing himself with the thought that he was nobly sacrificing his comfort to his need for information, but that didn't keep his stomach from turning itself into knots in apprehension.

After he had lost track of the number of levels they had descended, with the air still seeming reasonably fresh, he asked, "When do we get to the microfarm levels?"

"We're there now."

Seldon breathed deeply. "It doesn't smell as though we are."

"Smell? What do you mean?" Raindrop Forty-Three was Offended enough to speak quite loudly.

"There was always a putrid odor associated with microfarms, in my experience. You know, from the fertilizer that bacteria, yeast, fungi, and saprophytes generally need."

"In your experience?" Her voice lowered again. "Where was that?"

"On my home world."

The Sister twisted her face into wild repugnance. "And your people wallow in gabelle?"

Seldon had never heard the word before, but from the look and the intonation, he knew what it meant.

He said, "It doesn't smell like that, you understand, once it is ready for consumption."

"Ours doesn't smell like that at any time. Our biotechnicians have worked out perfect strains. The algae grow in the purest light and the most carefully balanced electrolyte solutions. The saprophytes are fed on beautifully combined organics. The formulas and recipes are something no tribespeople will ever know. -Come on, here we are. Sniff all you want. You'll find nothing offensive. That is one reason why our food is in demand throughout the Galaxy and why the Emperor, we are told, eats nothing else, though it is far too good for a tribesman if you ask me, even if he calls himself Emperor."

She said it with an anger that seemed directly aimed at Seldon. Then, as though afraid he might miss that, she added, "Or even if be calls himself an honored guest."

They stepped out into a narrow corridor, on each side of which were large thick glass tanks in which roiled cloudy green water full of swirling, growing algae, moving about through the force of the gas bubbles that streamed up through it. They would be rich in carbon dioxide, he decided.

Rich, rosy light shone down into the tanks, light that was much brighter than that in the corridors. He commented thoughtfully on that.

"Of course," she said. "These algae work best at the red end of the spettrum."

"I presume," said Seldon, "that everything is automated."

She shrugged, but did not respond.

"I don't see quantities of Brothers and Sisters in evidence," Seldon said, persisting.

"Nevertheless, there is work to be done and they do it, even if you don't see them at work. The details are not for you. Don't waste your time by asking about it."

"Wait. Don't be angry with me. I don't expect to be told state secrets. Come on, dear." (The word slipped out.)

He took her arm as she seemed on the point of hurrying away. She remained in place, but he felt her shudder slightly and he released her in embarrassment.

He said, "It's just that is seems automated."

"Make what you wish of the seeming. Nevertheless, there is room here for human brains and human judgment. Every Brother and Sister has occasion to work here at some time. Some make a profession of it."

She was speaking more freely now but, to his continuing embarrassment, he noticed her left hand move stealthily toward her right arm and gently rub the spot where he had touched her, as though he had stung her.

"It goes on for kilometers and kilometers," she said, "but if we turn here there'll he a portion of the fungal section you can see."

They moved along. Seldon noted how clean everything was. The glass sparkled. The tiled floor seemed moist, though when he seized a moment to bend and touch it, it wasn't. Nor was it slippery -unless his sandals (with his big toe protruding in approved Mycogenian fashion) had nonslip soles.

Raindrop Forty-Three was right in one respect. Here and there a Brother or a Sister worked silently, studying gauges, adjusting controls, sometimes engaged in something as unskilled as polishing equipment-always absorbed in whatever they were doing.

Seldon was careful not to ask what they were doing, since he did not want to cause the Sister humiliation in having to answer that she did not know or anger in her having to remind him there were things he must not know.

They passed through a lightly swinging door and Seldon suddenly noticed the faintest touch of the odor he remembered. He looked at Raindrop Forty-Three, but she seemed unconscious of it and soon he too became used to it.

The character of the light changed suddenly. The rosiness was gone and the brightness too. All seemed to be in a twilight except where equipment was spotlighted and wherever there was a spot light there seemed to be a Brother or a Sister. Some wore lighted headbands that gleamed with a pearly glow and, in the middle distance, Seldon could see, here and there, small sparks of light moving erratically.

As they walked, he case a quick eye on her profile. It was all he mold really judge by. At all other times, he could not cease being conscious of her bulging bald head, her bare eyes, her colorless face. They drowned her individuality and seemed to make her invisible. Here in profile, however, he could see something. Nose, chin, full lips, regularity, beauty. The dim light somehow smoothed out and softened the great upper desert.

He thought with surprise: She could be very beautiful if she grew her hair and arranged it nicely.

And then he thought that she couldn't grow her hair. She would be bald her whole life.

Why? Why did they have to do that to her? Sunmaster said it was so that a Mycogenian would know himself (or herself) for a Mycogenian all his (or her) life. Why was that so important that the curse of hairlessness had to be accepted as a badge or mark of identity?

And then, because he was used to arguing both sides in his mind, he thought: Custom is second nature. Be accustomed to a bald head, sufficiently accustomed, and hair on it would seem monstrous, would evoke nausea. He himself had shaved his face every morning, removing all the facial hair, uncomfortable at the merest stubble, and yet he did not think of his face as bald or as being in any way unnatural. Of course, he could grow his facial hair at any time he wished-but he didn't wish to do so.

He knew that there were worlds on which the men did not shave; in some, they did not even clip or shape the facial hair but let it grow wild. What would they say if they could see his own bald face, his own hairless chin, cheek, and lips?

And meanwhile, he walked with Raindrop Forty-Three-endlessly, it seemed-and every once in a while she guided him by the elbow and it seemed to him that she had grown accustomed to that, for she did not withdraw her hand hastily. Sometimes it remained for nearly a minute.

She said, "Here! Come here!"

"What is that?" asked Seldon.

They were standing before a small tray filled with little spheres, each about two centimeters in diameter. A Brother who was tending the area and who had just placed the tray where it was looked up in mild inquiry.

Raindrop Forty-Three said to Seldon in a low voice, "Ask for a few."

Seldon realized she could not speak to a Brother until spoken to and said uncertainly, "May we have a few, B-brother?"

"Have a handful, Brother," said the other heartily.

Seldon plucked out one of the spheres and was on the point of handing it to Raindrop Forty-Three when he noticed that she had accepted the invitation as applying to herself and reached in for two handfuls.

The sphere felt glossy, smooth. Seldon said to Raindrop FortyThree as they moved away from the vat and from the Brother who was in attendance, "Are these supposed to be eaten?" He lifted the sphere cautiously to his nose.

"They don't smell," she said sharply.

"What are they?^

"Dainties. Raw dainties. For the outside market they're flavored in different ways, but here in Mycogen we eat them unflavored -- the only way."

She put one in her mouth and said, "I never have enough."

Seldon put his sphere into his mouth and felt it dissolve and disappear rapidly. His mouth, for a moment, ran liquid and then it slid, almost of its own accord, down his throat.

He stood for a moment, amazed. It was slightly sweet and, for that matter, had an even fainter bitter aftertaste, but the train sensation eluded him.

"May I have another?" he said.

"Have half a dozen," said Raindrop Forty-Three, holding out her hand. "They never have quite the same taste twice and have practically no calories. Just taste."

She was right. He tried to have the dainty linger in his mouth; he tried licking it carefully; tried biting off apiece. However, the most careful lick destroyed it. When a bit was crunched off apiece, the rest of it disappeared at once. And each taste was undefinable and not quite like the one before.

"The only trouble is," said the Sister happily, "that every once in a while you have a very unusual one and you never forget it, but you never have it again either. I had one when I was nine-" Her expression suddenly lost its excitement and she said, "It's a good thing. It teaches you the evanescence of things of the world."

It was a signal, Seldon thought. They had wandered about aimlessly long enough. She had grown used to him and was talking to him. And now the conversation had to come to its point. Now!

44.

Seldon said, "I come from a world which lies out in the open, Sister, as all worlds do but Trantor. Rain comes or doesn't come, the rivers trickle or are in flood, temperature is high or low. That means harvests are good or bad. Here, however, the environment is truly controlled. Harvests have no choice but to be good. How fortunate Mycogen is."

He waited. There were different possible answers and his course of action would depend on which answer came.

She was speaking quite freely now and seemed to have no inhibitions concerning his masculinity, so this long tour had served its purpose. Raindrop Forty-Three said, "The environment is not that easy to control. There are, occasionally, viral infections and there are sometimes unexpected and undesirable mutations. There are times when whole vast batches wither or are worthless."

"You astonish me. And what happens then?"

"There is usually no recourse but to destroy the spoiled batches, even those that are merely suspected of spoilage. Trays and tanks must be totally sterilized, sometimes disposed of altogether."

"It amounts to surgery, then," said Seldon. "You cut out the diseased tissue."

"Yes."

"And what do you do to prevent such things from happening?"

"What can we do? We test constantly for any mutations that may spring up, any new viruses that may appear, any accidental contamination or alteration of the environment. It rarely happens that we detect anything wrong, but if we do, we take drastic action. The result is that bad years are very few and even bad years affect only fractional bits here and there. The worst year we've ever had fell short of the average by only 12 percent-though that was enough to produce hardship. The trouble is that even the most careful forethought and the most cleverly designed computer programs can't always predict what is essentially unpredictable."

(Seldon felt an involuntary shudder go through him. It was as though she was speaking of psychohistory-but she was only speaking of the microfarm produce of a tiny fraction of humanity, while he himself was considering all the mighty Galactic Empire in every one of all its activities.)

Unavoidably disheartened, he said, "Surely, it's not all unpredictable. There are forces that guide and that care for us all."

The Sister stiffened. She turned around toward him, seeming to study him with her penetrating eyes.

But all she said was "What?"

Seldon felt uneasy. "It seems to me that in speaking of viruses and mutations, we're talking about the natural, about phenomena that are subject to natural law. That leaves out of account the supernatural, doesn't it? It leaves out that which is not subject to natural law and can, therefore, control natural law."

She continued to stare at him, as though he had suddenly begun speaking some distant, unknown dialect of Galactic Standard. Again she said, in half a whisper this time, "Wharf"

He continued, stumbling over unfamiliar words that half-embarrassed him. "You must appeal to some great essence, some great spirit, some . . . I don't know what to call it."

Raindrop Forty-Three said in a voice that rose into higher registers but remained low, "I thought so. I thought that was what you meant, but I couldn't believe it. You're accusing us of having religion. Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you use the word?"

She waited for an answer and Seldon, a little confused at the onslaught, said, "Because that's not a word I use. I call it 'supernaturalism.' "

"Call it what you will. It's religion and we don't have it. Religion is for the tribesmen, for the swarming sc-"

The Sister paused to swallow as though she had come near to choking and Seldon was certain the word she had choked over was ..

She was in control again. Speaking slowly and somewhat below her normal soprano, she said, "We are not a religious people. Our kingdom is of this Galaxy and always has been. If you have a religion

Seldon felt trapped. Somehow he had not counted on this. He raised a hand defensively. "Not really. I'm a mathematician and my kingdom is also of this Galaxy. It's just that I thought, from the rigidity of your customs, that your kingdom-"

"Don't think it, tribesman. If our customs are rigid, it is because we are mere millions surrounded by billions. Somehow we must mark ourselves off so that we precious few are not lost among your swarms and hordes. We must be marked off by our hairlessness, our clothing, our behavior, our way of life. We must know who we are and we must be sure that you tribesmen know who we are. We labor in our farms so that we can make ourselves valuable in your eyes and thus make certain that you leave us alone. That's all we ask of you . . . to leave us alone."

"I have no intention of harming you or any of your people. I seek only knowledge, here as everywhere."

"So you insult us by asking about our religion, as though we have ever called on a mysterious, insubstantial spirit to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves."

"There are many people, many worlds who believe in supernaturalism in one form or another . . . religion, if you like the word better. We may disagree with them in one way or another, but we are as likely to be wrong in our disbelief as they in their belief. In any case, there is no disgrace in such belief and my questions were not intended as insults."

But she was not reconciled. "Religion!" she said angrily. "We have no need of it."

Seldon's spirits, having sunk steadily in the course of this exchange, reached bottom. This whole thing, this expedition with Raindrop Forty-Three, had come m nothing.

But she went on to say, "We have something far better. We have history. "

And Seldon's s feelings rebounded at once and he smiled.

Book

HAND-ON-THIGH STORY-. . . An occasion cited by Hari Seldon as the first turning point in his search for a method to develop psychohistory. Unfortunately, his published writings give no indication as to what that "story" was and speculations concerning it (there have been many) are futile. It remains one of the many intriguing mysteries concerning Seldon's career.

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

45.

Raindrop Forty-Three stared at Seldon, wild-eyed and breathing heavily.

"I can't stay here," she said.

Seldon looked about. "No one is bothering us. Even the Brother from whom we got the dainties said nothing about us. He seemed to take us as a perfectly normal pair."

"That's because there is nothing unusual about us-when the light is dim, when you keep your voice low so the tribesman accent is less noticeable, and when I seem calm. But now-" Her voice was growing hoarse.

"What of now?"

"I am nervous and tense. I am . . . in a perspiration."

"Who is to notice? Relax. Calm down."

"I can't relax here. I can't calm down while I may be noticed."

"Where are we to go, then?"

"There are little sheds for resting. I have worked here. I know about them."

She was walking rapidly now and Seldon followed. Up a small ramp, which he would not have noticed in the twilight without her, there was a line of doors, well spread apart.

"The one at the end," she muttered. "If it's free."

It was unoccupied. A small glowing rectangle said NOT IN USE and the door was ajar.

Raindrop Forty-Three looked about rapidly, motioned Seldon in, then stepped inside herself. She closed the door and, as she did so, a small ceiling light brightened the interior.

Seldon said, "Is there any way the sign on the door can indicate this shed is in use?"

"That happened automatically when the door closed and the light went on," said the Sister.

Seldon could feel air softly circulating with a small sighing sound, but where on Trantor was that ever-present sound and feel not apparent?

The room was not large, but it had a cot with a firm, efficient mattress, and what were obviously clean sheets. There was a chair and table, a small refrigerator, and something that looked like an enclosed hot plate, probably a tiny food-heater.

Raindrop Forty-Three sat down on the chair, sitting stiffly upright, visibly attempting to force herself into relaxation.

Seldon, uncertain as to what he ought to do, remained standing till she gestured-a bit impatiently-for him to sit on the cot. He did so.

Raindrop Forty-Three said softly, as though talking to herself, "If it is ever known that I have been here with a man-even if only a tribesman-I shall indeed be an outcast."

Seldon rose quickly. "Then let's not stay here."

"Sit down. I can't go out when I'm in this mood. You've been asking about religion. What are you after?"

It seemed to Seldon that she had changed completely. Gone was the passivity, the subservience. There was none of the shyness, the backwardness in the presence of a male. She was glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

"I told you. Knowledge. I'm a scholar. It is my profession and my desire to know, I want to understand people in particular, so I want to learn history. For many worlds, the ancient historical records-the truly ancient historical records-have decayed into myths and legends, often becoming part of a set of religious beliefs or of supernaturalism. But if Mycogen does not have a religion, then-"

"I said we have history. "

Seldon said, "Twice you've said you have history. How old?"

"It goes back twenty thousand years."

"Truly? Let us speak frankly. Is it real history or is it something that has degenerated into legend?"

"It is real history, of course."

Seldon was on the point of asking how she could tell, but thought better of it. Was there really a chance that history might reach back twenty thousand years and be authentic? He was not a historian himself, so he would have to check with Dors.

But it seemed so likely to him that on every world the earliest histories were medleys of self-serving heroisms and minidramas that were meant as morality plays and were not to be taken literally. It was surely true of Helicon, yet you would find scarcely a Heliconian who would not swear by all the tales told and insist it was all true history. They would support, as such, even that perfectly ridiculous tale of the first exploration of Helicon and the encounters with large and dangerous flying reptiles-even though nothing like flying reptiles had been found to be native to any world explored and settled by human beings.

He said instead, "How does this history begin?"

There was a faraway look in the Sister's eyes, a look that did not focus on Seldon or on anything in the room. She said, "It begins with a world-our world. One world."

"One world?" (Seldon remembered that Hummin had spoken of legends of a single, original world of humanity.)

"One world. There were others later, but ours was the first. One world, with space, with open air, with room for everyone, with fertile fields, with friendly homes, with warm people. For thousands of years we lived there and then we had to leave and skulk in one place or another until some of us found a corner of Trantor where we learned to grow food that brought us a little freedom. And here in Mycogen, we now have our own ways--and our own dreams."

"And your histories give the full details concerning the original world? The one world?"

"Oh yes, it is all in a book and we all have it. Every one of us. We carry it at all times so that there is never a moment when any one of us cannot open it and read it and remember who we are and who we were and resolve that someday we will have our world back."

"Do you know where this world is and who lives on it now?"

Raindrop Forty-Three hesitated, then shook her head fiercely. "We do not, but someday we will find it."

"And you have this book in your possession now?"

"Of course."

"May I see that book?"

Now a slow smile crossed the face of the Sister. She said, "So that's what you want. I knew you wanted something when you asked to be guided through the microfarms by me alone." She seemed a little embarrassed. "I didn't think it was the Book. "

"It is all I want," said Seldon earnestly. "I really did not have my mind on anything else. If you brought me here because you thought-"

She did not allow him to finish. "But here we are. Do you or don't you want the Book?"

"Are you offering to let me see it?"

"On one condition."

Seldon paused, weighing the possibility of serious trouble if he had overcome the Sister's inhibitions to a greater extent than he had ever intended. "What condition?" he said.

Raindrop Forty-Three's tongue emerged lightly and licked quickly at her lips. Then she said with a distinct tremor in her voice, "That you remove your skincap."

46.

Hari Seldon stared blankly at Raindrop Forty-Three. There was a perceptible moment in which he did not know what she was talking about. He had forgotten he was wearing a skincap.

Then he put his hand to his head and, for the first time, consciously felt the skincap he was wearing. It was smooth, but he felt the tiny resilience of the hair beneath. Not much. His hair, after all, was fine and without much body.

He said, still feeling it, "Why?"

She said, "Because I want you to. Because that's the condition if you want to see the Book."

He said, "Well, if you really want me to." His hand probed for the edge, so that he could peel it off.

But she said, "No, let me do it. I'll do it." She was looking at him hungrily.

Seldon dropped his hands to his lap. "Go ahead, then."

The Sister rose quickly and sat down next to him on the cot. Slowly, carefully, she detached the skincap from his head just in front of his ear. Again she licked her lips and she was panting as she loosened the skincap about his forehead and turned it up. Then it came away and was gone and Seldon's hair, released, seemed to stir a bit in glad freedom.

He said, troubled, "Keeping my hair under the skincap has probably made my scalp sweat. If so, my hair will be rather damp."

He raised his hand, as though to check the matter, but she caught it and held it back. "I want to do that," she said. "Its part of the condition."

Her fingers, slowly and hesitantly, touched his hair and then withdrew. She touched it again and, very gently, stroked it.

"It's dry," she said. "It feels . . . good."

"Have you ever felt cephalic hair before?"

"Only on children sometimes. This . . . is different." She was stroking again.

"In what way?" Seldon, even amid his embarrassment, found it possible to be curious.

"I can't say. Its just . . . different."

After a while he said, "Have you had enough?"

"No. Don't rush me. Can you make it lie anyway you want it to?"

"Not really. It has a natural way of falling, but I need a comb for that and I don't have one with me."

"A comb?"

"An object with prongs . . . uh, like a fork . . . but the prongs are more numerous and somewhat softer."

"Can you use your fingers?" She was running hers through his hair.

He said, "After a fashion. It doesn't work very well."

"Its bristly behind."

"The hair is shorter there."

Raindrop Forty-Three seemed to recall something. "The eyebrows," she said. "Isn't that what they're called?" She stripped off the shields, then ran her fingers through the gentle arc of hair, against the grain.

"That's nice," she said, then laughed in a high-pitched way that was almost like her younger sister's giggle. "They're cute."

Seldon said a little impatiently, "Is there anything else that's part of the condition?"

In the rather dim light, Raindrop Forty-Three looked as though she might be considering an affirmative, but said nothing. Instead, she suddenly withdrew her hands and lifted them to her nose. Seldon wondered what she might be smelling.

"How odd," she said. "May I . . . may I do it again another time?"

Seldon said uneasily, "If you will let me have the Book long enough to study it, then perhaps."

Raindrop Forty-Three reached into her kirtle through a slit that Seldon had not noticed before and, from some hidden inner pocket, removed a book bound in some tough, flexible material. He took it, trying to control his excitement.

While Seldon readjusted his skincap to cover his hair, Raindrop Forty-Three raised her hands to her nose again and then, gently and quickly, licked one finger.

47.

"Felt your hair?" said Dors Venabili. She looked at Seldon's hair as though she was of a mind to feel it herself.

Seldon moved away slightly. "Please don't. The woman made it seem like a perversion."

"I suppose it was-from her standpoint. Did you derive no pleasure from it yourself?"

"Pleasure? It gave me gooseflesh. When she finally stopped, I was able to breathe again. I kept thinking: What other conditions will she make?"

Dors laughed. "Were you afraid that she would force sex upon you? Or hopeful?"

"I assure you I didn't dare think. I just wanted the Book."

They were in their room now and Dors turned on her field distorter to make sure they would not be overheard.

The Mycogenian night was about to begin. Seldon had removed his skincap and kirtle and had bathed, paying particular attention to his hair, which he had foamed and rinsed twice. He was now sitting on his cot, wearing a light nightgown that had been hanging in the closet.

Dors said, eyes dancing, "Did she know you have hair on your chest?"

"I was hoping earnestly she wouldn't think of that."

"Poor Hari. It was all perfectly natural, you know. I would probably have had similar trouble if I was alone with a Brother. Worse, I'm sure, since he would believe-Mycogenian society being what it is-that as a woman I would be bound to obey his orders without delay or demur."

"No, Dors. You may think it was perfectly natural, but you didn't experience it. The poor woman was in a high state of sexual excitement. She engaged all her senses . . . smelled her fingers, licked them. If she could have heard hair grow, she would have listened avidly."

"But that's what I mean by 'natural.' Anything you make forbidden gains sexual attractiveness. Would you be particularly interested in women's breasts if you lived in a society in which they were displayed at all times?"

"I think I might."

"Wouldn't you be more interested if they were always hidden, as in most societies they are? -Listen, let me tell you something that happened to me. I was at a lake resort back home on Cinna . . . I presume you have resorts on Helicon, beaches, that sort of thing?"

"Of course," said Seldon, slightly annoyed. "What do you think Helicon is, a world of rocks and mountains, with only well water to drink?"

"No offense, Hari. I just want to make sure you'll get the point of the story. On our beaches at Cinna, we're pretty lighthearted about what we wear . . . or don't wear."

"Nude beaches?"

"Not actually, though I suppose if someone removed all of his or her clothing it wouldn't be much remarked on. The custom is to wear a decent minimum, but I must admit that what we consider decent leaves very little to the imagination."

Seldon said, "We have somewhat higher standards of decency on Helicon."

"Yes, I could tell that by your careful treatment of me, but to each its own. In any case, I was sitting at the small beach by the lake and a young man approached to whom I had spoken earlier in the day. He was a decent fellow I found nothing particularly wrong with. He sat on the arm of my chair and placed his right hand on my left thigh, which was bare, of course, in order to steady himself.

"After we had spoken for a minute and a half or so, he said, impishly. 'Here I am. You know me hardly at all and yet it seems perfectly natural to me that I place my hand on your thigh. What's more, it seems perfectly natural to you, since you don't seem to mind that it remains there.'

"It was only then that I actually noticed that his hand was on my thigh. Bare skin in public somehow loses some of its sexual quality. As I said, its the hiding from view that is crucial.

"And the young man felt this too, for he went on to say, 'Yet if I were to meet you under more formal conditions and you were wearing a gown, you wouldn't dream of letting me lift your gown and place my hand on your thigh on the precise spot it now occupies.'

"I laughed and we continued to talk of this and that. Of course, the young man, now that my attention had been called to the position of his hand, felt it no longer appropriate to keep it there and removed it.

"That night I dressed for dinner with more than usual care and appeared in clothing that was considerably more formal than was required or than other women in the dining room were wearing. I found the young man in question. He was sitting at one of the tables. I approached, greeted him, and said, 'Here I am in a gown, but under it my left thigh is bare. I give you permission. Just lift the gown and place your hand on my left thigh where you had it earlier.'

"He tried. I'll give him credit for that, but everyone was staring. I wouldn't have stopped him and I'm sure no one else would have stopped him either, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was no more public then than it had been earlier and the same people were present in both cases. It was clear that I had taken the initiative and that I had no objections, but he could not bring himself to violate the proprieties. The conditions, which had been hand-on-thigh in the afternoon, were not hand-on-thigh in the evening and that meant more than anything logic could say."

Seldon said, "I would have put my hand on your thigh."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Even though your standards of decency on the beach are higher than ours are?"

"Yes."

Dors sat down on her own cot, then lay down with her hands behind her head. "So that you're not particularly disturbed that I'm wearing a nightgown with very little underneath it."

"I'm not particularly shocked. As for being disturbed, that depends on the definition of the word. I'm certainly aware of how you're dressed."

"Well, if we're going to be cooped up here for a period of time, we'll have to learn to ignore such things."

"Or take advantage of them," said Seldon, grinning. "And I like your hair. After seeing you bald all day, I like your hair."

"Well, don't touch it. I haven't washed it yet." She half-closed her eyes. "It's interesting. You've detached the informal and formal level of respectability. What you're saying is that Helicon is more respectable at the informal level than Cinna is and less respectable at the formal level. Is that right?"

"Actually, I'm just talking about the young man who placed his hand on your thigh and myself. How representative we are as Cinnians and Heliconians, respectively, I can't say. I can easily imagine some perfectly proper individuals on both worlds--and some madcaps too."

"We're talking about social pressures. I'm not exactly a Galactic traveler, but I've had to involve myself in a great deal of social history. On the planet of Derowd, there was a time when premarital sex was absolutely free. Multiple sex was allowed for the unmarried and public sex was frowned upon only when traffic was blocked: And yet, after marriage, monogamy was absolute and unbroken. The theory was that by working off all one's fantasies first, one could settle down to the serious business of life."

"Did it work?"

"About three hundred years ago that stopped, but some of my colleagues say it stopped through external pressure from other worlds who were losing too much tourist business to Derowd. There is such a thing as overall Galactic social pressure too."

"Or perhaps economic pressure, in this case."

"Perhaps. And being at the University, by the way, I get a chance to study social pressures, even without being a Galactic traveler. I meet people from scores of places inside and outside of Trantor and one of the pet amusements in the social science departments is the comparison of social pressures.

"Here in Mycogen, for instance, I have the impression that sex is strictly controlled and is permitted under only the most stringent rules, all the more tightly enforced because it is never discussed. In the Streeling Sector, sex is never discussed either, but it isn't condemned. In the Jennat Sector, where I spent a week once doing research, sex is discussed endlessly, but only for the purpose of condemning it. I don't suppose there are any two sectors in Trantor -or any two worlds outside Trantor -- in which attitudes toward sex are completely duplicated."

Seldon said, "You know what you make it sound like? It would appear.,

Dors said, "I'll tell you how it appears. All this talk of sex makes one thing clear to me. I'm simply not going to let you out of my sight anymore."

"What?"

"Twice I let you go, the first time through my own misjudgment and the second because you bullied me into it. Both times it was clearly a mistake. You know what happened to you the first time."

Seldon said indignantly, "Yes, but nothing happened to me the second time."

"You nearly got into a lot of trouble. Suppose you had been caught indulging in sexual escapades with a Sister?"

"It wasn't a sexual-"

"You yourself said she was in a high state of sexual excitement."

"But-"

"It was wrong. Please get it through your head, Hari. From now on, you go nowhere without me."

"Look," said Seldon freezingly, "my object was to find out about Mycogenian history and as a result of the so-called sexual escapade with a Sister, I have a book-the Book."

"The Book! True, there's the Book. Let's see it."

Seldon produced it and Dors thoughtfully hefted it.

She said, "It might not do us any good, Hari. This doesn't look as though it will fit any projector I've ever encountered. That means you'll have to get a Mycogenian projector and they'll want to know why you want it. They'll then find out you have this Book and they'll take it away from you."

Seldon smiled. "If your assumptions were correct, Dors, your conclusions would be inescapable, but it happens that this is not the kind of book you think it is. It's not meant to be projected. The material is printed on various pages and the pages are turned. Raindrop FortyThree explained that much to me."

"A print-book!" It was hard to tell whether Dors was shocked or amused. "That's from the Stone Age."

"It's certainly pre-Empire," said Seldon, "but not entirely so. Have you ever seen a print-book?"

"Considering that I'm a historian? Of course, Hari."

"Ah, but like this one?"

He handed over the Book and Dors, smiling, opened it-then turned to another page-then flipped the pages. "Its blank," she said.

"It appears to be blank. The Mycogenians are stubbornly primitivistic, but not entirely so. They will keep to the essence of the primitive, but have no objection to using modern technology to modify it for convenience's sake. Who knows?"

"Maybe so, Hari, but I don't understand what you're saying."

"The pages aren't blank, they're covered with microprint. Here, give it back. If I press this little nubbin on the inner edge of the cover- Look!"

The page to which the book lay open was suddenly covered with lines of print that rolled slowly upward.

Seldon said, "You can adjust the rate of upward movement to match your reading speed by slightly twisting the nubbin one way or the other. When the lines of print reach their upward limit when you reach the bottom line, that is-they snap downward and turn off. You turn to the next page and continue."

"Where does the energy come from that does all this?"

"It has an enclosed microfusion battery that lasts the life of the book."

"Then when it runs down-"

"You discard the book, which you may be required to do even before it runs down, given wear and tear, and get another copy. You never replace the battery."

Dors took the Book a second time and looked at it from all sides. She said, "I must admit I never heard of a book like this."

"Nor I. The Galaxy, generally, has moved into visual technology so rapidly, it skipped over this possibility."

"This is visual."

"Yes, but not with the orthodox effects. This type of book has its advantages. It holds far more than an ordinary visual book does."

Dors said, "Where's the turn-on? -Ah, let me see if I can work it." She had opened to a page at random and set the lines of print marching upward. Then she said, "I'm afraid this won't do you any good, Hari. It's pre-Galactic. I don't mean the book. I mean the print . . . the language."

"Can you read it, Dors? As a historian-"

"As a historian, I'm used to dealing with archaic language-but within limits. This is far too ancient for me. I ran make out a few words here and there, but not enough to be useful."

"Good," said Seldon. "If it's really ancient, it will be useful."

"Not if you can't read it."

"I can read it," said Seldon. "It's bilingual. You don't suppose that Raindrop Forty-Three can read the ancient script, do you?"

"If she's educated properly, why not?"

"Because I suspect that women in Mycogen are not educated past household duties. Some of the more learned men can read this, but everyone else would need a translation to Galactic." He pushed another nubbin. "And this supplies it."

The lines of print changed to Galactic Standard.

"Delightful," said Dors in admiration.

"We could learn from these Mycogenians, but we don't."

"We haven't known about it."

"I can't believe that. I know about it now. And you know about it. There must be outsiders coming into Mycogen now and then, for commercial or political reasons, or there wouldn't be skincaps so ready for use. So every once in a while someone must have caught a glimpse of this sort of print-book and seen how it works, but it's probably dismissed as something curious but not worth further study, simply because it's Mycogenian."

"But is it worth study?"

"Of course. Everything is. Or should be. Hummin would probably point to this lack of concern about these books as a sign of degeneration in the Empire."

He lifted the Book and said with a gush of excitement, "But I am curious and I will read this and it may push me in the direction of psychohistory."

"I hope so," said Dors, "but if you take my advice, you'll sleep first and approach it fresh in the morning. You won't learn much if you nod over it."

Seldon hesitated, then said, "How maternal you are!"

"I'm watching over you."

"But I have a mother alive on Helicon. I would rather you were my friend."

"As for that, I have been your friend since first I met you."

She smiled at him and Seldon hesitated as though he were not certain as to the appropriate rejoinder. Finally he said, "Then I'll take your advice---as a friend-mnd sleep before reading."

He made as though to put the Book on a small table between the two cots, hesitated, turned, and put it under his pillow.

Dors Venabili laughed softly. "I think you're afraid I will wake during the night and read parts of the Book before you have a chance to. Is that it?"

"Well," said Seldon, trying not to look ashamed, "that may be it. Even friendship only goes so far and this is my book and it's my psychohistory."

"I agree," said Dors, "and I promise you that we won't quarrel over that. By the way, you were about to say something earlier when I interrupted you. Remember?"

Seldon thought briefly. "No."

In the dark, he thought only of the Book. He gave no thought to the hand-on-thigh story. In fact, he had already quite forgotten it, consciously at least.

48.

Venabili woke up and could tell by her timeband that the night period was only half over. Not hearing Hari's snore, she could tell that his cot was empty. If he had not left the apartment, then he was in the bathroom.

She tapped lightly on the door and said softly, "Hari?"

He said, "Come in," in an abstracted way and she did.

The toilet lid was down and Seldon, seated upon it, held the Book open on his lap. He said, quite unnecessarily, "I'm reading."

"Yes, I see that. But why?"

"I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry."

"But why read in here?"

"If I had turned on the room light, I would have woken you up."

"Are you sure the Book can't be illuminated?"

"Pretty sure. When Raindrop Forty-Three described its workings, she never mentioned illumination. Besides, I suppose that would use up so much energy that the battery wouldn't last the life of the Book." He sounded dissatisfied.

Dors said, "You can step out, then. I want to use this place, as long as I'm here."

When she emerged, she found him sitting cross-legged on his cot, still reading, with the room well lighted.

She said, "You don't look happy. Does the Book disappoint you?..

He looked up at her, blinking. "Yes, it does. I've sampled it here and there. Its all I've had time to do. The thing is a virtual encyclopedia and the index is almost entirely a listing of people and places that are of little use for my purposes. It has nothing to do with the Galactic Empire or the pre-Imperial Kingdoms either. It deals almost entirely with a single world and, as nearly as I can make out from what I have read, it is an endless dissertation on internal politics."

"Perhaps you underestimate its age. It may deal with a period when there was indeed only one world . . . one inhabited world."

"Yes, I know," said Seldon a little impatiently. "That's actually what I want-provided I can be sure its history, not legend. I wonder. I don't want to believe it just because I want to believe it."

Dors said, "Well, this matter of a single-world origin is much in the air these days. Human beings are a single species spread all over the Galaxy, so they must have originated somewhere. At least that's the popular view at present. You can't have independent origins producing the same species on different worlds."

"But I've never seen the inevitability of that argument," said Seldon. "If human beings arose on a number of worlds as a number of diferent species, why couldn't they have interbred into some single intermediate species?"

"Because species can't interbreed. That's what makes them species."

Seldon thought about it a moment, then dismissed it with a shrug. "Well, I'll leave it to the biologists."

"They're precisely the ones who are keenest on the Earth hypothesis."

"Earth? Is that what they call the supposed world of origin?"

"That's a popular name for it, though there's no way of telling what it was called, assuming there was one. And no one has any clue to what its location might be."

"Earth!" said Seldon, curling his lips. "It sounds like a belch to me. In any case, if the book deals with the original world, I didn't come across it. How do you spell the word?"

She told him and he checked the Book quickly. "There you are. The name is not listed in the index, either by that spelling or any reasonable alternative."

"Really?"

"And they do mention other worlds in passing. Names aren't given and there seems no interest in those other worlds except insofar as they directly impinge on the local world they speak of . . . at least as far as I can see from what I've read. In one place, they talked about 'The Fifty.' I don't know what they meant. Fifty leaders? Fifty cities? It seemed to me to be fifty worlds."

"Did they give a name to their own world, this world that seems to preoccupy them entirely?" asked Dors. "If they don't call it Earth, what do they call it?"

"As you'd expect, they call it 'the world' or 'the planet.' Sometimes they call it 'the Oldest' or'the World of the Dawn,' which has a poetic significance, I presume, that isn't clear to me. I suppose one ought to read the Book entirely through and some matters will then grow to make more sense." He looked down at the Book in his hand with some distaste. "It would take a very long time, though, and I'm not sure that I'd end up any the wiser."

Dors sighed. "I'm sorry, Hari. You sound so disappointed."

"That's because I am disappointed. It's my fault, though. I should not have allowed myself to expect too much. -At one point, come to think of it, they referred to their world as 'Aurora.' "

"Aurora?" said Dors, lifting her eyebrows.

"It sounds like a proper name. It doesn't make any sense otherwise, as far as I can see. Does it mean anything to you, Dors?"

"Aurora." Dors thought about it with a slight frown on her fare. "I can't say I've ever heard of a planet with that name in the course of the history of the Galactic Empire or during the period of its growth, for that matter, but I won't pretend to know the name of every one of the twentyfive million worlds. We could look it up in the University library-if we ever get back to Streeling. There's no use trying to find a library here in Mycogen. Somehow I have a feeling that all their knowledge is in the Book. If anything isn't there, they aren't interested."

Seldon yawned and said, "I think you're right. In any case, there's no use reading any more and I doubt that I can keep my eyes open any longer. Is it all right if I put out the light?"

"I would welcome it, Hari. And let's sleep a little later in the morning."

Then, in the dark, Seldon said softly, "Of course, some of what they say is ridiculous. For instance, they refer to a life expectancy on their world of between three and four centuries."

"Centuries?"

"Yes, they count their ages by decades rather than by years. It gives you a queer feeling, because so much of what they say is perfectly matter-of-fact that when they come out with something that odd, you almost find yourself trapped into believing it."

"If you feel yourself beginning to believe that, then you should realize that many legends of primitive origins assume extended life spans for early leaders. If they're pictured as unbelievably heroic, you see, it seems natural that they have life spans to suit."

"Is that so?" said Seldon, yawning again.

"It is. And the cure for advanced gullibility is to go to sleep and consider matters again the next day."

And Seldon, pausing only long enough to think that an extended life span might well be a simple necessity for anyone trying to understand a Galaxy of people, slept.

49.

The next morning, feeling relaxed and refreshed and eager to begin his study of the Book again, Hari asked Dors, "How old would you say the Raindrop sisters are?"

"I don't know. Twenty . . . twenty-two?"

"Well, suppose they do live three or four centuries

"Hari. That's ridiculous."

"I'm saying suppose. In mathematics, we say 'suppose' all the time and see if we can end up with something patently untrue or selfcontradictory. An extended life span would almost surely mean an extended period of development. They might seem in their early twenties and actually be in their sixties."

"You can try asking them how old they are."

"We can assume they'd lie."

"Look up their birth certificates."

Seldon smiled wryly. "I'll bet you anything you like-a roll in the hay, if you're willing-that they'll claim they don't keep records or that, if they do, they will insist those records are closed to tribespeople."

"No bet," said Dors. "And if that's true, then it's useless trying to suppose anything about their age."

"Oh no. Think of it this way. If the Mycogenians are living extended life spans that are four or five times that of ordinary human beings, they can't very well give birth to very many children without expanding their population tremendously. You remember that Sunmaster said something about not having the population expand and bit off his remarks angrily at that time."

Dors said, "What are you getting at?"

"When I was with Raindrop Forty-Three, I saw no children."

"On the microfarms?"

'Yes.'

"Did you expect children there? I was with Raindrop Forty-Five in the shops and on the residential levels and I assure you I saw a number of children of all ages, including infants. Quite a few of them."

"Ah." Seldon looked chagrined. "Then that would mean they can't be enjoying extended life spans."

Dors said, "By your line of argument, I should say definitely not. Did you really think they did?"

"No, not really. But then you can't close your mind either and make assumptions without testing them one way or another."

"You can waste a lot of time that way too, if you stop to chew away at things that are ridiculous on the face of it."

"Some things that seem ridiculous on the face of it aren't. That's all. Which reminds me. You're the historian. In your work, have you ever come across objects or phenomena called 'robots'?"

"Ah! Now you're switching to another legend and a very popular one. There are any number of worlds that imagine the existence of machines in human form in prehistoric times. These are called 'robots.'

"The tales of robots probably originate from one master legend, for the general theme is the same. Robots were devised, then grew in numbers and abilities to the status of the almost superhuman. They threatened humanity and were destroyed. In every case, the destruction took place before the actual reliable historic records available to us today existed. The usual feeling is that the story is a symbolic picture of the risks and dangers of exploring the Galaxy, when human beings expanded outward from the world or worlds that were their original homes. There must always have been the fear of encountering other-and superior-intelligences."

"Perhaps they did at least once and that gave rise to the legend."

"Except that on no human-occupied world has there been any record or trace of any prehuman or nonhuman intelligence."

"But why 'robots'? Does the word have meaning?"

"Not that I know of, but it's the equivalent of the familiar 'automata.' "

"Automata! Well, why don't they say so?"

"Because people do use archaic terms for flavor when they tell an ancient legend. Why do you ask all this, by the way?"

"Because in this ancient Mycogenian book, they talk of robots. And very favorably, by the way. -Listen, Dors, aren't you going out with Raindrop Forty-Five again this afternoon?"

"Supposedly-if she shows up."

"Would you ask her some questions and try to get the answers out of her?"

"I can try. What are the questions?"

"I would like to find out, as tactfully as possible, if there is some structure in Mycogen that is particularly significant, that is tied in with the past, that has a sort of mythic value, that can-"

Dors interrupted, trying not to smile. "I think that what you are trying to ask is whether Mycogen has a temple."

And, inevitably, Seldon looked blank and said, "What's a temple?"

"Another archaic term of uncertain origin. It means all the things you asked about-significance, past, myth. Very well, I'll ask. It's the sort of thing, however, that they might find difficult to speak of. To tribespeople, certainly."

"Nevertheless, do try."

Sacratorium

AURORA- . . . A mythical world, supposedly inhabited in primordial times, during the dawn of interstellar travel. It is thought by some to he the perhaps equally mythical "world of origin" of humanity and to be another name for "Earth." The people of the Mycogen (q.v.) Sector of ancient Trainor reportedly held themselves to be descended from the inhabitants of Aurora and made that tenet central to their system of beliefs, concerning which almost nothing else is known . . .

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

50.

The two Raindrops arrived at midmorning. Raindrop Forty-Five seemed as cheerful as ever, but Raindrop Forty-Three paused just inside the door, looking drawn and circumspect. She kept her eyes down and did not as much as glance at Seldon.

Seldon looked uncertain and gestured to Dors, who said in a cheerful businesslike tone of voice, "One moment, Sisters. I must give instructions to my man or he won't know what to do with himself today."

They moved into the bathroom and Dors whispered, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Raindrop Forty-Three is obviously shattered. Please tell her that I will return the Book as soon as possible."

Dors favored Seldon with a long surprised look. "Hari," she said, "you're a sweet, caring person, but you haven't the good sense of an amoeba. If I as much as mention the Book to the poor woman, she'll be certain that you told me all about what happened yesterday and then she'll really be shattered. The only hope is to treat her exactly as I would ordinarily."

Seldon nodded his head and said dispiritedly, "I suppose you're right."

Dors returned in time for dinner and found Seldon on his cot, still leafing through the Book, but with intensified impatience.

He looked up with a scowl and said, "If we're going to be staying here any length of time, we're going to need a communication device of some sort between us. I had no idea when you'd get back and I was a little concerned."

"Well, here I am," she said, removing her skincap gingerly and looking at it with more than a little distaste. "I'm really pleased at your concern. I rather thought you'd be so lost in the Book, you wouldn't even realize I was gone."

Seldon snorted.

Dors said, "As for communications devices, I doubt that they are easy to come by in Mycogen. It would mean easing communication with tribespeople outside and I suspect the leaders of Mycogen are bound and determined to cut down on any possible interaction with the great beyond."

"Yes," said Seldon, tossing the Book to one side, "I would expect that from what I see in the Book. Did you find out about the whatever you called it . . . the temple?"

"Yes," she said, removing her eyebrow patches. "It exists. There are a number of them over the area of the sector, but there's a central building that seems to be the important one. -Would you believe that one woman noticed my eyelashes and told me that I shouldn't let myself be seen in public? I have a feeling she intended to report me for indecent exposure."

"Never mind that," said Seldon impatiently. "Do you know where the central temple is located?"

"I have directions, but Raindrop Forty-Five warned me that women were not allowed inside except on special occasions, none of which are coming up soon. It's called the Sacratorium."

"The what."

"The Sacratorium."

"What an ugly word. What does it mean?"

Dors shook her head. "It's new to me. And neither Raindrop knew what it meant either. To them, Sacratorium isn't what the building is called, it's what it is. Asking them why they called it that probably sounded like asking them why a wall is called a wall."

"Is there anything about it they do know?"

"Of course, Hari. They know what it's for. It's a place that's devoted to something other than the life here in Mycogen. It's devoted to another world, a former and better one."

"The world they once lived on, you mean?"

"Exactly. Raindrop Forty-Five all but said so, but not quite. She couldn't bring herself to say the word."

"Aurora?"

"That's the word, but I suspect that if you were to say it out loud to a group of Mycogenians, they would be shocked and horrified. Raindrop Forty-Five, when she said, 'The Sacratorium is dedicated to-', stopped at that point and carefully wrote out the letters one by one with her finger on the palm of her hand. And she blushed, as though she was doing something obscene."

"Strange," said Seldon. "If the Book is an accurate guide, Aurora is their dearest memory, their chief point of unification, the center about which everything in Mycogen revolves. Why should its mention be considered obscene? -Are you sure you didn't misinterpret what the Sister meant?"

"I'm positive. And perhaps it's no mystery. Too much talk about it would get to tribespeople. The best way of keeping it secret unto themselves is to make its very mention taboo."

...taboo?"

"A specialized anthropological term. It's a reference to serious and effective social pressure forbidding some sort of action. The fact that women are not allowed in the Sacratorium probably has the force of a taboo. I'm sure that a Sister would be horrified if it was suggested that she invade its precincts."

"Are the directions you have good enough for me to get to the Sacratorium on my own?"

"In the first place, Hari, you're not going alone. I'm going with you. I thought we had discussed the matter and that I had made it clear that I cannot protect you at long distance-not from sleet storms and not from feral women. In the second place, it's impractical to think of walking there. Mycogen may be a small sector, as sectors go, but it simply isn't that small."

"An Expressway, then."

"There are no Expressways passing through Mycogenian territory. It would make contact between Mycogenians and tribespeople too easy. Still, there are public conveyances of the kind that are found on lessdeveloped planets. In fact, that's what Mycogen is, a piece of an undeveloped planet, embedded like a splinter in the body of Trantor, which is otherwise a patchwork of developed societies. -And Hari, finish with the Book as soon as possible. It's apparent that Rainbow FortyThree is in trouble as long as you have it and so will we be if they find out."

"Do you mean a tribesperson reading it is taboo?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Well, it would be no great loss to give it back. I should say that 95 percent of it is incredibly dull; endless in-fighting among political groups, endless justification of policies whose wisdom I cannot possibly judge, endless homilies on ethical matters which, even when enlightened, and they usually aren't, are couched with such infuriating self-righteousness as to almost enforce violation."

"You sound as though I would be doing you a great favor it I took the thing away from you."

"Except that there's always the other 5 percent that discusses the never-to-be-mentioned Aurora. I keep thinking that there may be something there and that it may be helpful to me. That's why I wanted to know about the Sacratorium.

"Do you hope to find support for the Book's concept of Aurora in the Sacratorium?"

"In a way. And I'm also terribly caught up in what the Book has to say about automata, or robots, to use their term. I find myself attracted to the concept."

"Surely, you don't take it seriously?"

"Almost. If you accept some passages of the Book literally, then there is an implication that some robots were in human shape."

"Naturally. If you're going to construct a simulacrum of a human being, you will make it look like a human being."

"Yes, simulacrum means 'likeness,' but a likeness can be crude indeed. An artist can draw a stick figure and you might know he is representing a human being and recognize it. A circle for the head, a stalk for the body, and four bent lines for arms and legs and you have it. But I mean robots that really look like a human being, in every detail."

"Ridiculous, Hari. Imagine the time it would take to fashion the metal of the body into perfect proportions, with the smooth curve of underlying muscles."

"Who said 'metal,' Dors? The impression I got is that such robots were organic or pseudo-organic, that they were covered with skin, that you could not easily draw a distinction between them and human beings in any way."

"Does the Book say that?"

"Not in so many words. The inference, however-"

"Is your inference, Hari. You can't take it seriously."

"Let me try. I find four things that I can deduce from what the Book says about robots-and I followed up every reference the index gave. First, as I say, they-or some of them-exactly resembled human beings; second, they had very extended life spans-if you want to call it that."

"Better say 'effectiveness,' " said Dors, "or you'll begin thinking of them as human altogether."

"Third," said Seldon, ignoring her, "that some--or, at any rate, at least one-continues to live on to this day."

"Hart', that's one of the most widespread legends we have. The ancient hero does not die but remains in suspended animation, ready to return to save his people at some time of great need. Really, Hari."

"Fourth," said Seldon, still not rising to the bait, "there are some lines that seem to indicate that the central temple-or the Sacratorium, if that's what it is, though I haven't found that word in the Book, actuallycontains a robot." He paused, then said, "Do you see?"

Dors said, "No. What should I see?"

"If we combine the four points, perhaps a robot that looks exactly like a human being and that is still alive, having been alive for, say, the last twenty thousand years, is in the Sacratorium."

"Come on, Hari, you can't believe that."

"I don't actually believe it, but I can't entirely let go either. What if its true? What if-its only one chance out of a million, 1 admitit's true? Don't you see how useful he could be to me? He could remember the Galaxy as it was long before any reliable historical records existed. He might help make psychohistory possible."

"Even if it was true, do you suppose the Mycogenians would let you see and interview the robot?"

"I don't intend to ask permission. I can at least go to the Sacratorium and see if there's something to interview first."

"Not now. Tomorrow at the earliest. And if you don't think better of it by morning, we go."

"You told me yourself they don't allow women-"

"They allow women to look at it from outside, I'm sure, and I suspect that is all we'll get to do."

And there she was adamant.

Hari Seldon was perfectly willing to let Dors take the lead. She had been out in the main roadways of Mycogen and was more at home with them than he was.

Dors Venabili, brows knitted, was less delighted with the pros pect. She said, "We can easily get lost, you know."

"Not with that booklet," said Seldon.

She looked up at him impatiently. "Fix your mind on Mycogen, Hari. What I should have is a computomap, something I can ask questions of. This Mycogenian version is just a piece of folded plastic. I can't tell this thing where I am. I can't tell it by word of mouth and I can't even tell it by pushing the necessary contacts. It can't tell me anything either way. It's a print thing."

"Then read what it says."

"That's what I'm trying to do, but it's written for people who are familiar with the system to begin with. We'll have to ask."

"No, Dors. That would be a last resort. I don't want to attract attention. I would rather we take our chances and try to find our own way, even if it means making one or two wrong turns."

Dors leafed through the booklet with great attention and then said grudgingly, "Well, it gives the Sacratorium important mention. I suppose that's only natural. I presume everyone in Mycogen would want to get there at one time or another." Then, after additional concentration, she said, "I'll tell you what. There's no way of taking a conveyance from here to there."

"What?"

"Don't get excited. Apparently, there's a way of getting from here to another conveyance that will take us there. We'll have to change from one to another."

Seldon relaxed. "Well, of course. You can't take an Expressway to half the places on Trantor without changing."

Dors cast an impatient glance at Seldon. "I know that too. It's just that I'm used to having these things tell me so. When they expect you to find out for yourself, the simplest things can escape you for a while."

"All right, dear. Don't snap. If you know the way now, lead. I will follow humbly."

And follow her he did, until they came to an intersection, where they stopped.

Three white-kirtled males and a pair of gray-kirtled females were at the same intersection. Seldon tried a universal and general smile in their direction, but they responded with a blank stare and looked away.

And then the conveyance came. It was an outmoded version of what Seldon, back on Helicon, would have called a gravi-bus. There were some twenty upholstered benches inside, each capable of holding four people. Each bench had its own doors on both sides of the bus. When it stopped, passengers emerged on either side. (For a moment, Seldon was concerned for those who got out on the traffic side of the gravi-bus, but then he noticed that every vehicle approaching from either direction stopped as it neared the bus. None passed it while it was not moving.)

Dors pushed Seldon impatiently and he moved on to a bench where two adjoining seats were available. Dors followed after. (The men always got on and got off first, he noticed.)

.11.11 try...

"For instance," she said and pointed to a smooth boxed-off area on the back of the bench directly before each of them. As soon as the conveyance had begun to move, words lit up, naming the next stop and the notable structures or crossways that were nearby.

"Now, that will probably tell us when we're approaching the changeover we want. At least the sector isn't completely barbaric."

"Good," said Seldon. Then, after a while, leaning toward Dors, he whispered, "No one is looking at us. It seems that artificial boundaries are set up to preserve individual privacy in any crowded place. Have you noticed that?"

"I've always taken it for granted. If that's going to be a rule of your psychohistory, no one will be very impressed by it."

As Dors had guessed, the direction plaque in front of them eventually announced the approach to the changeover for the direct line to the Sacratorium.

They exited and again had to wait. Some buses ahead had already left this intersection, but another gravi-bus was already approaching. They were on a well-traveled route, which was not surprising; the Sacratorium was bound to be the center and heartbeat of the sector.

They got on the gravi-bus and Seldon whispered, "We're not paying...

"According to the map, public transportation is a free service."

Seldon thrust out his lower lip. "How civilized. I suppose that nothing is all of a piece, not backwardness, not barbarism, nothing."

But Dors nudged him and whispered, "Your rule is broken. We're being watched. The man on your right."

52.

Seldon's eyes shifted briefly. The man to his right was rather thin and seemed quite old. He had dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, and Seldon was sure that he would have had black hair if he had not been depilated.

He faced front again, thinking. This Brother was rather atypical. The few Brothers he had paid any attention to had been rather tall, lightskinned, and with blue or gray eyes. Of course, he had not seen enough of them to make a general rule.

Then there was a light touch on the right sleeve of his kirtle. Seldon turned hesitantly and found himself looking at a card on which was written lightly, CAREFUL, TRIBESMAN!

Seldon started and put a hand to his skincap automatically. The man next to him silently mouthed, "Hair."

Seldon's hand found it, a tiny exposure of bristles at his temple. He must have disturbed the skincap at some point or another. Quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, he tugged the skincap, then made sure that it was snug under the pretence of stroking his head.

He turned to his neighbor on his right, nodded slightly, and mouthed, "Thank you."

His neighbor smiled and said in a normal speaking voice, "Going to the Sacratorium?"

Seldon nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Easy guess. So am I. Shall we get off together?" His smile was friendly.

"I'm with my-my-"

"With your woman. Of course. All three together, then?"

Seldon was not sure how to react. A quick look in the other direction showed him that Dors's eyes were turned straight ahead. She was showing no interest in masculine conversation-an attitude appropriate for a Sister. However, Seldon felt a soft pat on his left knee, which he took (with perhaps little justification) to mean: "It's all right."

In any case, his natural sense of courtesy was on that side and he said, "Yes, certainly."

There was no further conversation until the direction plaque told them they were arriving at the Sacratorium and Seldon's Mycogenian friend was rising to get off.

The gravi-bus made a wide turn about the perimeter of a large area of the Sacratorium grounds and there was a general exodus when it came to a halt, the men sliding in front of the women to exit first. The women followed.

The Mycogenian's voice crackled a bit with age, but it was cheerful. He said, "It's a little early for lunch my . . . friends, but take my word for it that things will be crowded in not too long a time. Would you be willing to buy something simple now and eat it outside? I am very familiar with this area and I know a good place."

Seldon wondered if this was a device to maneuver innocent tribespeople into something or other disreputable or costly, yet decided to chance it.

"You're very kind," he said. "Since we are not at all familiar with the place, we will be glad to let you take the lead."

They bought lunch-sandwiches and a beverage that looked like milkat an open-air stand. Since it was a beautiful day and they were visitors, the old Mycogenian said, they would go to the Sacratorium grounds and eat out of doors, the better to become acquainted with their surroundings.

During their walk, carrying their lunch, Seldon noted that, on a very small scale, the Sacratorium resembled the Imperial Palace and that the grounds around it resembled, on a minute scale, the Imperial grounds. He could scarcely believe that the Mycogenian people admired the Imperial institution or, indeed, did anything but hate and despise it, yet the cultural attraction was apparently not to be withstood.

"It's beautiful," said the Mycogenian with obvious pride.

"Quite," said Seldon. "How it glistens in the daylight."

"The grounds around it," he said, "are constructed in imitation of the government grounds on our Dawn World . . . in miniature, to be sure."

"Did you ever see the grounds of the Imperial Palace?" asked Seldon cautiously.

The Mycogenian caught the implication and seemed in no way put out by it. "They Copied the Dawn World as best they could too."

Seldon doubted that in the extreme, but he said nothing.

They came to a semicircular seat of white stonite, sparkling in the light as the Sacratorium did.

"Good," said the Mycogenian, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure. "No one's taken my place. I call it mine only because it's my favorite seat. It affords a beautiful view of the side wall of the Sacratorium past the trees. Please sit down. It's not cold, I assure you. And your companion. She is welcome to sit too. She is a tribeswoman, I know, and has different customs. She . . . she may speak if she wishes."

Dors gave him a hard look and sat down.

Seldon, recognizing the fact that they might remain with this old Mycogenian a while, thrust out his hand and said, "I am Hari and my female companion is Dors. We don't use numbers, I'm afraid."

"To each his . . . or her . . . own," said the other expansively. "I am Mycelium Seventy-Two. We are a large cohort."

"Mycelium?" said Seldon a bit hesitantly.

"You seem surprised," said Mycelium. "I take it, then, you've only met members of our Elder families. Names like Cloud and Sunshine and Starlight-all astronomical."

"I must admit-" began Seldon.

"Well, meet one of the lower classes. We take our names from the ground and from the micro-organisms we grow. Perfectly respectable."

"I'm quite certain," said Seldon, "and thank you again for helping me with my . . . problem in the gravi-bus."

"Listen," said Mycelium Seventy-Two, "I saved you a lot of trouble. If a Sister had seen you before I did, she would undoubtedly have screamed and the nearest Brothers would have bustled you off the busmaybe not even waiting for it to stop moving."

Dors leaned forward so as to see across Seldon. "How is it you did not act in this way yourself?"

"I? I have no animosity against tribespeople. I'm a scholar."

"A scholar?"

"First one in my cohort. I studied at the Sacratorium School and did very well. I'm learned in all the ancient arts and I have a license to enter the tribal library, where they keep book-films and books by tribespeople. I can view any book-film or read any book I wish to. We even have a computerized reference library and I can handle that too. That sort of thing broadens your mind. I don't mind a little hair showing. I've seen pictures of men with hair many a time. And women too." He glanced quickly at Dors.

They ate in silence for a while and then Seldon said, "I notice that every Brother who enters or leaves the Sacratorium is wearing a red sash."

"Oh yes," said Mycelium Seventy-Two. "Over the left shoulder and around the right side of the waist-usually very fancily embroidered."

"Why is that?"

"It's called an 'obiah.' It symbolizes the joy felt at entering the Sacratorium and the blood one would spill to preserve it."

"Blood?" said Dors, frowning.

"Just a symbol. I never actually heard of anyone spilling blood over the Sacratorium. For that matter, there isn't that much joy. it's mostly wailing and mourning and prostrating one's self over the Lost World." His voice dropped and became soft. "Very silly."

Dors said, "You're not a . . . a believer?"

"I'm a scholar," said Mycelium with obvious pride. His face wrinkled as he grinned and took on an even more pronounced appearance of age. Seldon found himself wondering how old the man was. Several centuries? -No, they'd disposed of that. It couldn't be and yet

"How old are you?" Seldon asked suddenly, involuntarily.

Mycelium Seventy-Two showed no signs of taking offense at the question, nor did he display any hesitation at answering, "Sixtyseven."

Seldon had to know. "I was told that your people believe that in very early times everyone lived for several centuries."

Mycelium Seventy-Two looked at Seldon quizzically. "Now how did you find that out? Someone must have been talking out of turn ... but its true. There is that belief. Only the unsophisticated believe it, but the Elders encourage it because it shows our superiority. Actually, our life expectancy is higher than elsewhere because we eat more nutritionally, but living even one century is rare."

"I take it you don't consider Mycogenians superior," said Seldon.

Mycelium Seventy-Two said, "There's nothing wrong with Mycogenians. They're certainly not inferior. Still, I think that all men are equal. -Even women," he added, looking across at Dors.

"I don't suppose," said Seldon, "that many of your people would agree with that."

"Or many of your people," said Mycelium Seventy-Two with a faint resentment. "I believe it, though. A scholar has to. I've viewed and even read all the great literature of the tribespeople. I understand your culture. I've written articles on it. I can sit here just as comfortably with you as though you were . . . tit. "

Dors said a little sharply, "You sound proud of understanding tribespeople's ways. Have you ever traveled outside Mycogen?"

Mycelium Seventy-Two seemed to move away a little. "No."

"Why not? You would get to know us better."

"I wouldn't feel right. I'd have to wear a wig. I'd be ashamed."

Dors said, "Why a wig? You could stay bald."

"No," said Mycelium Seventy-Two, "I wouldn't be that kind of fool. I'd be mistreated by all the hairy ones."

"Mistreated? Why?" said Dors. "We have a great many naturally bald people everywhere on Trantor and on every other world too."

"My father is quite bald," said Seldon with a sigh, "and I presume that in the decades to come I will be bald too. My hair isn't all that thick now."

"That's not bald," said Mycelium Seventy-Two. "You keep hair around the edges and over your eyes. I mean bald-no hair at all."

"Anywhere on your body?" said Dors, interested.

And now Mycelium Seventy-Two looked offended and said nothing.

Seldon, anxious to get the conversation back on track, said, "Tell me, Mycelium Seventy-Two, can tribespeople enter the Sacratorium as spectators?"

Mycelium Seventy-Two shook his head vigorously. "Never. It's for the Sons of the Dawn only."

Dors said, "Only the Sons?"

Mycelium Seventy-Two looked shocked for a moment, then said forgivingly, "Well, you're tribespeople. Daughters of the Dawn enter only on certain days and times. That's just the way it is. I don't say I approve. If it was up to me, I'd say, 'Go in. Enjoy if you can.' Sooner others than me, in fact."

"Don't you ever go in?"

"When I was young, my parents took me, but--he shook his head-"it was just people staring at the Book and reading from it and sighing and weeping for the old days. It's very depressing. You can't talk to each other. You can't laugh. You can't even look at each other. Your mind has to be totally on the Lost World. Totally." He waved a hand in rejection. "Not for me. I'm a scholar and I want the whole world open to me."

"Good," said Seldon, seeing an opening. "We feel that way too. We are scholars also, Dors and myself."

"I know," said Mycelium Seventy-Two.

"You know? How do you know?"

"You'd have to be. The only tribespeople allowed in Mycogen are Imperial officials and diplomats, important traders, and scholars -and to me you have the look of scholars. That's what interested me in you. Scholars together." He smiled delightedly.

"So we are. I am a mathematician. Dors is a historian. And you?"

"I specialize in . . . culture. I've read all the great works of literature of the tribespeople: Lissauer, Mentone, Novigor-"

"And we have read the great works of your people. I've read the Book, for instance. -About the Lost World."

Mycelium Seventy-Two's eyes opened wide in surprise. His olive complexion seemed to fade a little. "You have? How? Where?"

"At our University we have copies that we can read if we have permission."

"Copies of the Book?"

'Yes.'

"I wonder if the Elders know this?"

Seldon said, "And I've read about robots."

"Robots?"

"Yes. That is why I would like to be able to enter the Sacratorium. I would like to see the robot." (Dors kicked lightly at Seldon's ankle, but he ignored her.)

Mycelium Seventy-Two said uneasily, "I don't believe in such things. Scholarly people don't." But he looked about as though he was afraid of being overheard.

Seldon said, "I've read that a robot still exists in the Sacratorium."

Mycelium Seventy-Two said, "I don't want to talk about such nonsense."

Seldon persisted. "Where would it be if it was in the Sacratorium?"

"Even if one was there, I couldn't tell you. I haven't been in there since I was a child."

"Would you know if there was a special place, a hidden place?"

"There's the Elders' aerie. Only Elders go there, but there's nothing there."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No, of course not."

"Then how do you know?"

"I don't know that there's no pomegranate tree there. I don't know that there's no laser-organ there. I don't know that there's no item of a million different kinds there. Does my lack of knowledge of their absence show they are all present?"

For the moment, Seldon had nothing to say.

A ghost of a smile broke through Mycelium Seventy-Two's look of concern. He said, "That's scholars' reasoning. I'm not an easy man to tackle, you see. Just the same, I wouldn't advise you to try to get up into the Elders' aerie. I don't think you'd like what would happen if they found a tribesman inside. -Well. Best of the Dawn to you." And he rose suddenly-without warning-and hurried away.

Seldon looked after him, rather surprised. "What made him rush off like that?"

"I think," said Dors, "it's because someone is approaching."

And someone was. A tall man in an elaborate white kirtle, crossed by an even more elaborate and subtly glittering red sash, glided solemnly toward them. He had the unmistakable look of a man with authority and the even more unmistakable look of one who is not pleased.

53.

Hari Seldon rose as the new Mycogenian approached. He hadn't the slightest idea whether that was the appropriate polite behavior, but he had the distinct feeling it would do no harm. Dors Venabili rose with him and carefully kept her eyes lowered.

The other stood before them. He too was an old man, but more subtly aged than Mycelium Seventy-Two. Age seemed to lend distinction to his still-handsome face. His bald head was beautifully round and his eyes were a startling blue, contrasting sharply with the bright all-butglowing red of his sash.

The newcomer said, "I see you are tribespeople." His voice was more high-pitched than Seldon had expected, but he spoke slowly, as though conscious of the weight of authority in every word he uttered.

"So we are," said Seldon politely but firmly. He saw no reason not to defer to the other's position, but he did not intend to abandon his own.

"Your names?"

"I am Hari Seldon of Helicon. My companion is Dors Venabili of Cinna. And yours, man of Mycogen?"

The eyes narrowed in displeasure, but he too could recognize an air of authority when he felt it.

"I am Skystrip Two," he said, lifting his head higher, "an Elder of the Sacratorium. And your position, tribesman?"

"We, " said Seldon, emphasizing the pronoun, "are scholars of Streeling University. I am a mathematician and my companion is a historian and we are here to study the ways of Mycogen."

"By whose authority?"

"By that of Sunmaster Fourteen, who greeted us on our arrival."

Skystrip Two fell silent for a moment and then a small smile appeared on his face and he took on an air that was almost benign. He said, "The High Elder. I know him well."

"And so you should," said Seldon blandly. "Is there anything else, Elder?"

"Yes." The Elder strove to regain the high ground. "Who was the man who was with you and who hurried away when I approached?"

Seldon shook his head, "We never saw him before, Elder, and know nothing about him. We encountered him purely by accident and asked about the Sacratorium."

"What did you ask him?"

"Two questions, Elder. We asked if that building was the Sacratorium and if tribespeople were allowed to enter it. He answered in the affirmative to the first question and in the negative to the second."

"Quite so. And what is your interest in the Sacratorium?"

"Sir, we are here to study the ways of Mycogen and is not the Sacratorium the heart and brain of Mycogen?"

"It is entirely ours and reserved for us."

"Even if an Elder-the High Elder-would arrange for permission in view of our scholarly function?"

"Have you indeed the High Elder's permission?"

Seldon hesitated the slightest moment while Dors's eyes lifted briefly to look at him sideways. He decided he could not carry off a lie of this magnitude. "No," he said, "not yet."

"Or ever," said the Elder. "You are here in Mycogen by authority, but even the highest authority cannot exert total control over the public. We value our Sacratorium and the populace can easily grow excited over the presence of a tribesperson anywhere in Mycogen but, most particularly, in the vicinity of the Sacratorium. It would take one excitable person to raise a cry of 'Invasion!' and a peaceful crowd such as this one would be turned into one that would be thirsting to tear you apart. I mean that quite literally. For your own good, even if the High Elder has shown you kindness, leave. Now!"

"But the Sacratorium-" said Seldon stubbornly, though Dors was pulling gently at his kirtle.

"What is there in the Sacratorium that can possibly interest you?" said the Elder. "You see it now. There is nothing for you to see in the interior."

"There is the robot," said Seldon.

The Elder stared at Seldon in shocked surprise and then, bending to bring his lips close to Seldon's ear, whispered harshly, "Leave now or I will raise the cry of 'Invasion!' myself. Nor, were it not for the High Elder, would I give you even this one chance to leave."

And Dors, with surprising strength, nearly pulled Seldon off his feet as she stepped hastily away, dragging him along until he caught his balance and stepped quickly after her.

54

It was over breakfast the next morning, not sooner, that Dors took up the subject--and in a way that Seldon found most wounding.

She said, "Well, that was a pretty fiasco yesterday."

Seldon, who had honestly thought he had gotten away with it without comment, looked sullen. "What made it a fiasco?"

"Driven out is what we were. And for what? What did we gain?"

"Only the knowledge that there is a robot in there."

"Mycelium Seventy-Two said there wasn't."

"Of course he said that. He's a scholar-or thinks he is-end what he doesn't know about the Sacratorium would probably fill that library he goes to. You saw the Elder's reaction."

"I certainly did."

"He would not have reacted like that if there was no robot inside. He was horrified we knew."

"That's just your guess, Hari. And even if there was, we couldn't get in."

"We could certainly try. After breakfast, we go out and buy a sash for me, one of those obiahs. I put it on, keep my eyes devoutly downward, and walk right in."

"Skincap and all? They'll spot you in a microsecond."

"No, they won't. We'll go into the library where all the tribespeople data is kept. I'd like to see it anyway. From the library, which is a Sacratorium annex, I gather, there will probably be an entrance into the Sacratorium

"Where you will be picked up at once."

"Not at all. You heard what Mycelium Seventy-Two had to say. Everyone keeps his eyes down and meditates on their great Lost World, Aurora. No one looks at anyone else. It would probably be a grievous breach of discipline to do so. Then I'll find the Elders' aerie-"

"Just like that?"

"At one point, Mycelium Seventy-Two said he would advise me not to try to get up into the Elders' aerie. Up. It must be somewhere in that tower of the Sacratorium, the central tower."

Dors shook her head. "I don't recall the man's exact words and I don't think you do either. That's a terribly weak foundation toWait." She stopped suddenly and frowned.

"Well?" said Seldon.

"There is an archaic word 'aerie' that means 'a dwelling place on high.' '

"Ah! There you are. You see, we've learned some vital things as the result of what you tall a fiasco. And if I can find a living robot that's twenty thousand years old and if it can tell me-

"Suppose that such a thing exists, which passes belief, and that you find it, which is not very likely, how long do you think you will be able to talk to it before your presence is discovered?"

"I don't know, but if I can prove it exists and if I can find it, then I'll think of some way to talk to it. It's too late for me to back out now under any circumstances. Hummin should have left me alone when I thought there was no way of achieving psychohistory. Now that it seems there may be, I won't let anything stop me---short of being killed."

"The Mycogenians may oblige, Hari, and you can't run that risk."

"Yes, I can. I'm going to try."

"No, Hari. I must look after you and I can't let you."

"You must let me. Finding a way to work out psychohistory is more important than my safety. My safety is only important because I may work out psychohistory. Prevent me from doing so and your task loses its meaning. -Think about it."

Hari felt himself infused with a renewed sense of purpose. Psychohistory-his nebulous theory that he had, such a short while ago, despaired ever of proving-loomed larger, more real. Now he had to believe that it was possible; he could feel it in his gut. The pieces seemed to be falling together and although he couldn't see the whole pattern yet, he was sure the Sacratorium would yield another piece to the puzzle.

"Then I'll go in with you so I can pull you out, you idiot, when the time comes."

"Women can't enter."

"What makes me a woman? Only this gray kirtle. You can't see my breasts under it. I don't have a woman's style hairdo with the skincap on. I have the same washed, unmarked face a man has. The men here don't have stubble. All I need is a white kirtle and a sash and I can enter. Any Sister could do it if she wasn't held back by a taboo. I am not held back by one."

"You're held back by me. I won't let you. It's too dangerous."

"No more dangerous for me than for you."

"But I must take the risk."

"Then so must 1. Why is your imperative greater than mine?"

"Because-" Seldon paused in thought.

"Just tell yourself this," said Dors, her voice hard as rock. "I won't let you go there without me. If you try, I will knock you unconscious and tie you up. If you don't like that, then give up any thought of going alone."

Seldon hesitated and muttered darkly. He gave up the argument, at least for now.

55.

The sky was almost cloudless, but it was a pale blue, as though wrapped in a high thin mist. That, thought Seldon, was a good touch, but suddenly he missed the sun itself. No one on Trantor saw the planet's sun unless he or she went Upperside and even then only when the natural cloud layer broke.

Did native Trantorians miss the sun? Did they give it any thought? When one of them visited another world where a natural sun was in view, did he or she stare, half-blinded, at it with awe?

Why, he wondered, did so many people spend their lives not trying to find answers to questions-not even thinking of questions to begin with? Was there anything more exciting in life than seeking answers?

His glance shifted to ground level. The wide roadway was lined with low buildings, most of them shops. Numerous individual ground-cars moved in both directions, each hugging the right side. They seemed like a collection of antiques, but they were electrically driven and quite soundless. Seldon wondered if "antique" was always a word to sneer at. Could it be that silence made up for slowness? Was there any particular hurry to life, after all?

There were a number of children on the walkways and Seldon's lips pressed together in annoyance. Clearly, an extended life span for the Mycogenians was impossible unless they were willing to indulge in infanticide. The children of both sexes (though it was hard to tell the boys from the girls) wore kirtles that came only a few inches below the knee, making the wild activity of childhood easier.

The children also still had hair, reduced to an inch in length at most, but even so the older ones among them had hoods attached to their kirtles and wore them raised, hiding the top of the head altogether. It was as though they were getting old enough to make the hair seem a trifle obscene--or old enough to be wishing to hide it, in longing for the day of rite of passage when they were depilated.

A thought occurred to Seldon. He said, "Dors, when you've been out shopping, who paid, you or the Raindrop women?"

"I did of course. The Raindrops never produced a credit tile. But why should they? What was being bought was for us, not for them."

"But you have a Trantorian credit tile-a tribeswoman credit tile."

"Of course, Hari, but there was no problem. The people of Mycogen may keep their own culture and ways of thought and habits of life as they wish. They can destroy their cephalic hair and wear kirtles. Nevertheless, they must use the world's credits. If they don't, that would choke off commerce and no sensible person would want to do that. The credits nerve, Hari." She held up her hand as though she was holding an invisible credit tile.

"And they accepted your credit tile?"

"Never a peep out of them. And never a word about my skincap. Credits sanitize everything."

"Well, that's good. So I can buy-"

"No, I'll do the buying. Credits may sanitize everything, but they more easily sanitize a tribeswoman. They're so used to paying women little or no attention that they automatically pay me the same. -And here's the clothing store I've been using."

"I'll wait out here. Get me a nice red sash-one that looks impressive."

"Don't pretend you've forgotten our decision. I'll get two. And another white kirtle also . . . to my measurements."

"Won't they think it odd that a woman would be buying a white kirtle?"

"Of course not. They'll assume I'm buying it for a male companion who happens to be my size. Actually, I don't think they'll bother with any assumptions at all as long as my credit tile is good."

Seldon waited, half-expecting someone to come up and greet him as a tribesman or denounce him as one-more likely-but no one did. Those who passed him did so without a glance and even those who glanced in his direction moved on seemingly untouched. He was especially nervous about the gray kirtles -- the women-walking by in pairs or, even worse, with a man. They were downtrodden, unnoticed, snubbed. How better to gain a brief notoriety than by shrieking at the sight of a tribesman? But even the women moved on.

They're not expecting to see a tribesman, Seldon thought, so they don't see one.

That, he decided, augured well for their forthcoming invasion of the Sacratorium. How much less would anyone expect to see tribespeople there and how much more effectively would they therefore fail to see them!

He was in fairly good humor when Dors emerged.

"You have everything?"

"Absolutely."

"Then lets go back to the room, so you can change."

The white kirtle did not fit her quite as well as the gray one did. Obviously, she could not have tried it on or even the densest shopkeeper would have been struck with alarm.

"How do I look, Hari?" she asked.

"Exactly like a boy," said Seldon. "Now let's try the sash . . . or obiah. I had better get used to calling it that."

Dors, without her skincap, was shaking out her hair gratefully. She said sharply, "Don't put it on now. We're not going to parade through Mycogen with the sash on. The last thing we want to do is call attention to ourselves."

"No no. I just want to see how it goes on."

"Well, not that one. This one is better quality and more elaborate."

"You're right, Dors. I've got to gather in what attention there is. I don't want them to detect you as a woman."

"I'm not thinking of that, Hari. I just want you to look pretty."

"A thousand thanks, but that's impossible, I suspect. Now, let's see, how does this work?"

Together, Hari and Dors practiced putting their obiahs on and taking them off, over and over again, until they could do it in one fluid motion. Dors taught Hari how to do it, as she had seen a man doing it the day before at the Sacratorium.

When Hari praised her for her acute observations, she blushed and said, "Its really nothing, Hari, just something I noticed."

Hari replied, "Then you're a genius for noticing."

Finally satisfied, they stood well apart, each surveying the other. Hari's obiah glittered, a bright red dragonlike design standing out against a paler field of similar hue. Dors's was a little less bold, had a simple thin line down the center, and was very light in color. "There," she said, "just enough to show good taste." She took it off.

"Now," said Seldon, "we fold it up and it goes into one of the inner pockets. I have my credit tile-Hummin's, really-and the key to this place in this one and here, on the other side, the Book."

"The Book? Should you be carrying it around?"

"I must. I'm guessing that anyone going to the Sacratorium ought to have a copy of the Book with him. They may intone passages or have readings. If necessary, we'll share the Book and maybe no one will notice. Ready?"

"I'll never be ready, but I'm going with you."

"It will be a tedious trip. Will you check my skincap and make sure no hair shows this time? And don't scratch your head."

"I won't. You look all right."

"So do you."

"You also look nervous."

And Seldon said wryly, "Guess why!"

Dors reached out impulsively and squeezed Hari's hand, then drew back as if surprised at herself. Looking down, she straightened her white kirtle. Hari, himself a trifle surprised and peculiarly pleased, cleared his throat and said, "Okay, let's go."