Isaac Asimov - Foundation and Empire

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Foundation and Empire
FOUNDATION AND EMPIREISAAC ASIMOV Contents INTRODUCTION PROLOGUE PART I THE
GENERAL 1. SEARCH FOR MAGICIANS 2. THE MAGICIANS 3. THE DEAD HAND 4. THE
EMPEROR 5. THE WAR BEGINS 6. THE FAVORITE 7. BRIBERY 8. TO TRANTOR 9. ON
TRANTOR 10. THE WAR ENDS PART II THE MULE 11. BRIDE AND GROOM 12. CAPTAIN AND
MAYOR 13. LIEUTENANT AND CLOWN 14. THE MUTANT 15. THE PSYCHOLOGIST 16.
CONFERENCE 17. THE VISI-SONOR 18. FALL OF THE FOUNDATION 19. START OF THE
SEARCH 20. CONSPIRATOR 21. INTERLUDE IN SPACE 22. DEATH ON NEOTRANTOR 23. THE
RUINS OF TRANTOR 24. CONVERT 25. DEATH OF A PSYCHOLOGIST 26. END OF THE SEARCH
THE STORY BEHIND THE "FOUNDATION"By ISAAC ASIMOV The date was August 1, 1941.
World War II had been raging for two years. France had fallen, the Battle of
Britain had been fought, and the Soviet Union had just been invaded by Nazi
Germany. The bombing of Pearl Harbor was four months in the future.
But on that day, with Europe in flames, and the evil shadow of Adolf Hitler
apparently falling over all the world, what was chiefly on my mind was a
meeting toward which I was hastening.
I was 21 years old, a graduate student in chemistry at Columbia University,
and I had been writing science fiction professionally for three years. In that
time, I had sold five stories to John Campbell, editor of Astounding, and the
fifth story, "Nightfall," was about to appear in the September 1941 issue of
the magazine. I had an appointment to see Mr. Campbell to tell him the plot of
a new story I was planning to write, and the catch was that I had no plot in
mind, not the trace of one.
I therefore tried a device I sometimes use. I opened a book at random and set
up free association, beginning with whatever I first saw. The book I had with
me was a collection of the Gilbert and Sullivan plays. I happened to open it
to the picture of the Fairy Queen of lolanthe throwing herself at the feet of
Private Willis. I thought of soldiers, of military empires, of the Roman
Empire – of a Galactic Empire – aha!
Why shouldn't I write of the fall of the Galactic Empire and of the return of
feudalism, written from the viewpoint of someone in the secure days of the
Second Galactic Empire? After all, I had read Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire not once, but twice.
I was bubbling over by the time I got to Campbell's, and my enthusiasm must
have been catching for Campbell blazed up as I had never seen him do. In the
course of an hour we built up the notion of a vast series of connected stories
that were to deal in intricate detail with the thousand-year period between
the First and Second Galactic Empires. This was to be illuminated by the
science of psychohistory, which Campbell and I thrashed out between us.
On August 11, 1941, therefore, I began the story of that interregnum and
called it "Foundation." In it, I described how the psychohistorian, Hari
Seldon, established a pair of Foundations at opposite ends of the Universe
under such circumstances as to make sure that the forces of history would
bring about the second Empire after one thousand years instead of the thirty
thousand that would be required otherwise.
The story was submitted on September 8 and, to make sure that Campbell really
meant what he said about a series, I ended "Foundation" on a cliff-hanger.
Thus, it seemed to me, he would be forced to buy a second story.
However, when I started the second story (on October 24), I found that I had
outsmarted myself. I quickly wrote myself into an impasse, and the Foundation
series would have died an ignominious death had I not had a conversation with
Fred Pohl on November 2 (on the Brooklyn Bridge, as it happened). I don't
remember what Fred actually said, but, whatever it was, it pulled me out of
the hole.
"Foundation" appeared in the May 1942 issue of Astounding and the succeeding
story, "Bridle and Saddle," in the June 1942 issue.
After that there was only the routine trouble of writing the stories. Through
the remainder of the decade, John Campbell kept my nose to the grindstone and
made sure he got additional Foundation stories.
"The Big and the Little" was in the August 1944 Astounding, "The Wedge" in the
October 1944 issue, and "Dead Hand" in the April 1945 issue. (These stories
were written while I was working at the Navy Yard in Philadelphia.) On January
26, 1945, I began "The Mule," my personal favorite among the Foundation
stories, and the longest yet, for it was 50,000 words. It was printed as a
two-part serial (the very first serial I was ever responsible for) in the
November and December 1945 issues. By the time the second part appeared I was
in the army.
After I got out of the army, I wrote "Now You See It–" which appeared in the
January 1948 issue. By this time, though, I had grown tired of the Foundation
stories so I tried to end them by setting up, and solving, the mystery of the
location of the Second Foundation. Campbell would have none of that, however.
He forced me to change the ending, and made me promise I would do one more
Foundation story.
Well, Campbell was the kind of editor who could not be denied, so I wrote one
more Foundation story, vowing to myself that it would be the last. I called it
"–And Now You Don't," and it appeared as a three-part serial in the November
1949, December 1949, and January 1950 issues of Astounding.
By then, I was on the biochemistry faculty of Boston University School of
Medicine, my first book had just been published, and I was determined to move
on to new things. I had spent eight years on the Foundation, written nine
stories with a total of about 220,000 words. My total earnings for the series
came to $3,641 and that seemed enough. The Foundation was over and done with,
as far as I was concerned.
In 1950, however, hardcover science fiction was just coming into existence. I
had no objection to earning a little more money by having the Foundation
series reprinted in book form. I offered the series to Doubleday (which had
already published a science-fiction novel by me, and which had contracted for
another) and to Little-Brown, but both rejected it. In that year, though, a
small publishing firm, Gnome Press, was beginning to be active, and it was
prepared to do the Foundation series as three books.
The publisher of Gnome felt, however, that the series began too abruptly. He
persuaded me to write a small Foundation story, one that would serve as an
introductory section to the first book (so that the first part of the
Foundation series was the last written).
In 1951, the Gnome Press edition of Foundation was published, containing the
introduction and the first four stories of the series. In 1952, Foundation and
Empire appeared, with the fifth and sixth stories; and in 1953, Second
Foundation appeared, with the seventh and eighth stories. The three books
together came to be called The Foundation Trilogy.
The mere fact of the existence of the Trilogy pleased me, but Gnome Press did
not have the financial clout or the publishing knowhow to get the books
distributed properly, so that few copies were sold and fewer still paid me
royalties. (Nowadays, copies of first editions of those Gnome Press books sell
at $50 a copy and up–but I still get no royalties from them.) Ace Books did
put out paperback editions of Foundation and of Foundation and Empire, but
they changed the titles, and used cut versions. Any money that was involved
was paid to Gnome Press and I didn't see much of that. In the first decade of
the existence of The Foundation Trilogy it may have earned something like
$1500 total.
And yet there was some foreign interest. In early 1961, Timothy Seldes, who
was then my editor at Doubleday, told me that Doubleday had received a request
for the Portuguese rights for the Foundation series and, since they weren't
Doubleday books, he was passing them on to me. I sighed and said, "The heck
with it, Tim. I don't get royalties on those books."
Seldes was horrified, and instantly set about getting the books away from
Gnome Press so that Doubleday could publish them instead. He paid no attention
to my loudly expressed fears that Doubleday "would lose its shirt on them." In
August 1961 an agreement was reached and the Foundation books became Doubleday
property. What's more, Avon Books, which had published a paperback version of
Second Foundation, set about obtaining the rights to all three from Doubleday,
and put out nice editions.
From that moment on, the Foundation books took off and began to earn
increasing royalties. They have sold well and steadily, both in hardcover and
softcover, for two decades so far. Increasingly, the letters I received from
the readers spoke of them in high praise. They received more attention than
all my other books put together.
Doubleday also published an omnibus volume, The Foundation Trilogy, for its
Science Fiction Book Club. That omnibus volume has been continuously featured
by the Book Club for over twenty years.
Matters reached a climax in 1966. The fans organizing the World Science
Fiction Convention for that year (to be held in Cleveland) decided to award a
Hugo for the best all-time series, where the series, to qualify, had to
consist of at least three connected novels. It was the first time such a
category had been set up, nor has it been repeated since. The Foundation
series was nominated, and I felt that was going to have to be glory enough for
me, since I was sure that Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" would win.
It didn't. The Foundation series won, and the Hugo I received for it has been
sitting on my bookcase in the livingroom ever since.
In among all this litany of success, both in money and in fame, there was one
annoying side-effect. Readers couldn't help but notice that the books of the
Foundation series covered only three hundred-plus years of the thousand-year
hiatus between Empires. That meant the Foundation series "wasn't finished." I
got innumerable letters from readers who asked me to finish it, from others
who demanded I finish it, and still others who threatened dire vengeance if I
didn't finish it. Worse yet, various editors at Doubleday over the years have
pointed out that it might be wise to finish it.
It was flattering, of course, but irritating as well. Years had passed, then
decades. Back in the 1940s, I had been in a Foundation-writing mood. Now I
wasn't. Starting in the late 1950s, I had been in a more and more
nonfiction-writing mood.
That didn't mean I was writing no fiction at all. In the 1960s and 1970s, in
fact, I wrote two science-fiction novels and a mystery novel, to say nothing
of well over a hundred short stories – but about eighty percent of what I
wrote was nonfiction.
One of the most indefatigable nags in the matter of finishing the Foundation
series was my good friend, the great science-fiction writer, Lester del Rey.
He was constantly telling me I ought to finish the series and was just as
constantly suggesting plot devices. He even told Larry Ashmead, then my editor
at Doubleday, that if I refused to write more Foundation stories, he, Lester,
would be willing to take on the task.
When Ashmead mentioned this to me in 1973, I began another Foundation novel
out of sheer desperation. I called it "Lightning Rod" and managed to write
fourteen pages before other tasks called me away. The fourteen pages were put
away and additional years passed.
In January 1977, Cathleen Jordan, then my editor at Doubleday, suggested I do
"an important book – a Foundation novel, perhaps." I said, "I'd rather do an
autobiography," and I did – 640,000 words of it.
In January 1981, Doubleday apparently lost its temper. At least, Hugh O'Neill,
then my editor there, said, "Betty Prashker wants to see you," and marched me
into her office. She was then one of the senior editors, and a sweet and
gentle person.
She wasted no time. "Isaac," she said, "you are going to write a novel for us
and you are going to sign a contract to that effect."
"Betty," I said, "I am already working on a big science book for Doubleday and
I have to revise the Biographical Encyclopedia for Doubleday and –" "It can
all wait," she said. "You are going to sign a contract to do a novel. What's
more, we're going to give you a $50,000 advance."
That was a stunner. I don't like large advances. They put me under too great
an obligation. My average advance is something like $3,000. Why not? It's all
out of royalties.
I said, "That's way too much money, Betty."
"No, it isn't," she said.
"Doubleday will lose its shirt," I said.
"You keep telling us that all the time. It won't."
I said, desperately, "All right. Have the contract read that I don't get any
money until I notify you in writing that I have begun the novel."
"Are you crazy?" she said. "You'll never start if that clause is in the
contract. You get $25,000 on signing the contract, and $25,000 on delivering a
completed manuscript."
"But suppose the novel is no good."
"Now you're being silly," she said, and she ended the conversation.
That night, Pat LoBrutto, the science-fiction editor at Doubleday called to
express his pleasure. "And remember," he said, "that when we say 'novel' we
mean 'science-fiction novel,' not anything else. And when we say
'science-fiction novel,' we mean 'Foundation novel' and not anything else."
On February 5, 1981, I signed the contract, and within the week, the Doubleday
accounting system cranked out the check for $25,000.
I moaned that I was not my own master anymore and Hugh O'Neill said,
cheerfully, "That's right, and from now on, we're going to call every other
week and say, 'Where's the manuscript?’" (But they didn't. They left me
strictly alone, and never even asked for a progress report.) Nearly four
months passed while I took care of a vast number of things I had to do, but
about the end of May, I picked up my own copy of The Foundation Trilogy and
began reading.
I had to. For one thing, I hadn't read the Trilogy in thirty years and while I
remembered the general plot, I did not remember the details. Besides, before
beginning a new Foundation novel I had to immerse myself in the style and
atmosphere of the series.
I read it with mounting uneasiness. I kept waiting for something to happen,
and nothing ever did. All three volumes, all the nearly quarter of a million
words, consisted of thoughts and of conversations. No action. No physical
suspense.
What was all the fuss about, then? Why did everyone want more of that stuff? –
To be sure, I couldn't help but notice that I was turning the pages eagerly,
and that I was upset when I finished the book, and that I wanted more, but I
was the author, for goodness' sake. You couldn't go by me.
I was on the edge of deciding it was all a terrible mistake and of insisting
on giving back the money, when (quite by accident, I swear) I came across some
sentences by science-fiction writer and critic, James Gunn, who, in connection
with the Foundation series, said, "Action and romance have little to do with
the success of the Trilogy – virtually all the action takes place offstage,
and the romance is almost invisible – but the stories provide a
detective-story fascination with the permutations and reversals of ideas."
Oh, well, if what was needed were "permutations and reversals of ideas," then
that I could supply. Panic receded, and on June 10, 1981, I dug out the
fourteen pages I had written more than eight years before and reread them.
They sounded good to me. I didn't remember where I had been headed back then,
but I had worked out what seemed to me to be a good ending now, and, starting
page 15 on that day, I proceeded to work toward the new ending.
I found, to my infinite relief, that I had no trouble getting back into a
"Foundation-mood," and, fresh from my rereading, I had Foundation history at
my finger-tips.
There were differences, to be sure: 1) The original stories were written for a
science-fiction magazine and were from 7,000 to 50,000 words long, and no
more. Consequently, each book in the trilogy had at least two stories and
lacked unity. I intended to make the new book a single story.
2) I had a particularly good chance for development since Hugh said, "Let the
book find its own length, Isaac. We don't mind a long book." So I planned on
140,000 words, which was nearly three times the length of "The Mule," and this
gave me plenty of elbow-room, and I could add all sorts of little touches.
3) The Foundation series had been written at a time when our knowledge of
astronomy was primitive compared with what it is today. I could take advantage
of that and at least mention black holes, for instance. I could also take
advantage of electronic computers, which had not been invented until I was
half through with the series.
The novel progressed steadily, and on January 17, 1982, I began final copy. I
brought the manuscript to Hugh O'Neill in batches, and the poor fellow went
half-crazy since he insisted on reading it in this broken fashion. On March
25, 1982, I brought in the last bit, and the very next day got the second half
of the advance.
I had kept "Lightning Rod" as my working title all the way through, but Hugh
finally said, "Is there any way of putting 'Foundation' into the title,
Isaac?" I suggested Foundations at Bay, therefore, and that may be the title
that will actually be used. * You will have noticed that I have said nothing
about the plot of the new Foundation novel. Well, naturally. I would rather
you buy and read the book.
And yet there is one thing I have to confess to you. I generally manage to tie
up all the loose ends into one neat little bow-knot at the end of my stories,
no matter how complicated the plot might be. In this case, however, I noticed
that when I was all done, one glaring little item remained unresolved.
I am hoping no one else notices it because it clearly points the way to the
continuation of the series.
It is even possible that I inadvertently gave this away for at the end of the
novel, I wrote: "The End (for now)."
I very much fear that if the novel proves successful, Doubleday will be at my
throat again, as Campbell used to be in the old days. And yet what can I do
but hope that the novel is very successful indeed. What a quandary!
*Editor's note: The novel was published in October 1982 as Foundation's Edge.
PROLOGUE The Galactic Empire Was Falling.
It was a colossal Empire, stretching across millions of worlds from arm-end to
arm-end of the mighty multi-spiral that was the Milky Way. Its fall was
colossal, too – and a long one, for it had a long way to go.
It had been falling for centuries before one man became really aware of that
fall. That man was Hari Seldon, the man who represented the one spark of
creative effort left among the gathering decay. He developed and brought to
its highest pitch the science of psychohistory.
Psychohistory dealt not with man, but with man-masses. It was the science of
mobs; mobs in their billions. It could forecast reactions to stimuli with
something of the accuracy that a lesser science could bring to the forecast of
a rebound of a billiard ball. The reaction of one man could be forecast by no
known mathematics; the reaction of a billion is something else again.
Hari Seldon plotted the social and economic trends of the time, sighted along
the curves and foresaw the continuing and accelerating fall of civilization
and the gap of thirty thousand years that must elapse before a struggling new
Empire could emerge from the ruins.
It was too late to stop that fall, but not too late to narrow the gap of
barbarism. Seldon established two Foundations at "opposite ends of the Galaxy"
and their location was so designed that in one short millennium events would
knit and mesh so as to force out of them a stronger, more permanent, more
benevolent Second Empire.
Foundation (Gnome Press, 1951) has told the story of one of those Foundations
during the first two centuries of life.
It began as a settlement of physical scientists on Terminus, a planet at the
extreme end of one of the spiral arms of the Galaxy. Separated from the
turmoil of the Empire, they worked as compilers of a universal compendium of
knowledge, the Encyclopedia Galactica, unaware of the deeper role planned for
them by the already-dead Seldon, As the Empire rotted, the outer regions fell
into the hands of independent "kings." The Foundation was threatened by them.
However, by playing one petty ruler against another, under the leadership of
their first mayor, Salvor Hardin, they maintained a precarious independence.
As sole possessors, of nuclear power among worlds which were losing their
sciences and falling back on coal and oil, they even established an
ascendancy. The Foundation became the "religious" center of the neighboring
kingdoms.
Slowly, the Foundation developed a trading economy as the Encyclopedia receded
into the background. Their Traders, dealing in nuclear gadgets which not even
the Empire in its heyday could have duplicated for compactness, penetrated
hundreds of light-years through the Periphery.
Under Hober Mallow, the first of the Foundation's Merchant Princes, they
developed the techniques of economic warfare to the point of defeating the
Republic of Korell, even though that world was receiving support from one of
the outer provinces of what was left of the Empire.
At the end of two hundred years, the Foundation was the most powerful state in
the Galaxy, except for the remains of the Empire, which, concentrated in the
inner third of the Milky Way, still controlled three quarters of the
population and wealth of the Universe.
It seemed inevitable that the next danger the Foundation would have to face
was the final lash of the dying Empire.
The way must he cleared for the battle of Foundation and Empire.
PART ITHE GENERAL 1. SEARCH FOR MAGICIANS BEL RIOSE .... In his relatively
short career, Riose earned the title of "The Last of the Imperials" and earned
it well. A study of his campaigns reveals him to be the equal of Peurifoy in
strategic ability and his superior perhaps in his ability to handle men. That
he was born in the days of the decline of Empire made it all but impossible
for him to equal Peurifoy's record as a conqueror. Yet he had his chance when,
the first of the Empire's generals to do so, he faced the Foundation
squarely....
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA* *All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here
reproduced are taken from the 116th Edition published in 1020 F.E. by the
Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with permission of the
publishers.
Bel Riose traveled without escort, which is not what court etiquette
prescribes for the head of a fleet stationed in a yet-sullen stellar system on
the Marches of the Galactic Empire.
But Bel Riose was young and energetic – energetic enough to be sent as near
the end of the universe as possible by an unemotional and calculating court –
and curious besides. Strange and improbable tales fancifully-repeated by
hundreds and murkily-known to thousands intrigued the last faculty; the
possibility of a military venture engaged the other two. The combination was
overpowering.
He was out of the dowdy ground-car he had appropriated and at the door of the
fading mansion that was his destination. He waited. The photonic eye that
spanned the doorway was alive, but when the door opened it was by hand.
Bel Riose smiled at the old man. "I am Riose–" "I recognize you." The old man
remained stiffly and unsurprised in his place. "Your business?"
Riose withdrew a step in a gesture of submission. "One of peace. If you are
Ducem Barr, I ask the favor of conversation."
Ducem Barr stepped aside and in the interior of the house the walls glowed
into life, The general entered into daylight.
He touched the wall of the study, then stared at his fingertips. "You have
this on Siwenna?"
Barr smiled thinly. "Not elsewhere, I believe. I keep this in repair myself as
well as I can. I must apologize for your wait at the door. The automatic
device registers the presence of a visitor but will no longer open the door."
"Your repairs fall short?" The general's voice was faintly mocking.
"Parts are no longer available. If you will sit, sir. You drink tea?"
"On Siwenna? My good sir, it is socially impossible not to drink it here."
The old patrician retreated noiselessly with a slow bow that was part of the
ceremonious legacy left by the aristocracy of the last century's better days.
Riose looked after his host's departing figure, and his studied urbanity grew
a bit uncertain at the edges. His education had been purely military; his
experience likewise. He had, as the cliché‚ has it, faced death many times;
but always death of a very familiar and tangible nature, Consequently, there
is no inconsistency in the fact that the idolized lion of the Twentieth Fleet
felt chilled in the suddenly musty atmosphere of an ancient room.
The general recognized the small black-ivroid boxes that lined the shelves to
be books. Their titles were unfamiliar. He guessed that the large structure at
one end of the room was the receiver that transmuted the books into
sight-and-sound on demand. He had never seen one in operation; but he had
heard of them.
Once he had been told that long before, during the golden ages when the Empire
had been co-extensive with the entire Galaxy, nine houses out of every ten had
such receivers – and such rows of books.
But there were borders to watch now; books were for old men. And half the
stories told about the old days were mythical anyway. More than half.
The tea arrived, and Riose seated himself. Ducem Barr lifted his cup. "To your
honor."
"Thank you. To yours."
Ducem Barr said deliberately, "You are said to be young. Thirty-five?"
"Near enough. Thirty-four."
"In that case," said Barr, with soft emphasis, "I could not begin better than
by informing you regretfully that I am not in the possession of love charms,
potions, or philtres. Nor am I in the least capable of influencing the favors
of any young lady as may appeal to you."
"I have no need of artificial aids in that respect, sir." The complacency
undeniably present in the general's voice was stirred with amusement. "Do you
receive many requests for such commodities?"
"Enough. Unfortunately, an uninformed public tends to confuse scholarship with
magicianry, and love life seems to be that factor which requires the largest
quantity of magical tinkering."
"And so would seem most natural. But I differ. I connect scholarship with
nothing but the means of answering difficult questions."
The Siwennian considered somberly, "You may be as wrong as they!"
"That may turn out or not." The young general set down his cup in its flaring
sheath and it refilled. He dropped the offered flavor-capsule into it with a
small splash. "Tell me then, patrician, who are the magicians? The real ones."
Barr seemed startled at a title long-unused. He said, "There are no
magicians."
"But people speak of them. Siwenna crawls with the tales of them. There are
cults being built about them. There is some strange connection between it and
those groups among your countrymen who dream and drivel of ancient days and
what they call liberty and autonomy. Eventually the matter might become a
danger to the State."
The old man shook his head. "Why ask me? Do you smell rebellion, with myself
at the head?"
Riose shrugged, "Never. Never. Oh, it is not a thought completely ridiculous.
Your father was an exile in his day; you yourself a patriot and a chauvinist
in yours. It is indelicate in me as a guest to mention it, but my business
here requires it. And yet a conspiracy now? I doubt it. Siwenna has had the
spirit beat out of it these three generations."
The old man replied with difficulty, "I shall be as indelicate a host as you a
guest. I shall remind you that once a viceroy thought as you did of the
spiritless Siwennians. By the orders of that viceroy my father became a
fugitive pauper, my brothers martyrs, and my sister a suicide. Yet that
viceroy died a death sufficiently horrible at the hands of these same slavish
Siwennians."
"Ah, yes, and there you touch nearly on something I could wish to say. For
three years the mysterious death of that viceroy has been no mystery to me.
There was a young soldier of his personal guard whose actions were of
interest. You were that soldier, but there is no need of details, I think."
Barr was quiet. "None. What do you propose?"
"That you answer my questions."
"Not under threats. I am old enough for life not to mean particularly
overmuch."
"My good sir, these are hard times," said Riose, with meaning, "and you have
children and friends. You have a country for which you have mouthed phrases of
love and folly in the past. Come, if I should decide to use force, my aim
would not be so poor as to strike you."
Barr said coldly, "What do you want?"
Riose held the empty cup as he spoke. "Patrician, listen to me. These are days
when the most successful soldiers are those whose function is to lead the
dress parades that wind through the imperial palace grounds on feast days and
to escort the sparkling pleasure ships that carry His Imperial Splendor to the
summer planets. I ... I am a failure. I am a failure at thirty-four, and I
shall stay a failure. Because, you see, I like to fight.
"That's why they sent me here. I'm too troublesome at court. I don't fit in
with the etiquette. I offend the dandies and the lord admirals, but I'm too
good a leader of ships and men to be disposed of shortly be being marooned in
space. So Siwenna is the substitute. It's a frontier world; a rebellious and a
barren province. It is far away, far enough away to satisfy all.
"And so I moulder. There are no rebellions to stamp down, and the border
viceroys do not revolt lately, at least, not since His Imperial Majesty's late
father of glorious memory made an example of Mountel of Paramay."
"A strong Emperor," muttered Barr.
"Yes, and we need more of them. He is my master; remember that. These are his
interests I guard."
Barr shrugged unconcernedly. "How does all this relate to the subject?"
"I'll show you in two words. The magicians I've mentioned come from beyond-out
there beyond the frontier guards, where the stars are scattered thinly–"
"'Where the stars are scattered thinly,"' quoted Barr, "'And the cold of space
seeps in."' "Is that poetry?" Riose frowned. Verse seemed frivolous at the
moment. "In any case, they're from the Periphery – from the only quarter where
I am free to fight for the glory of the Emperor."
"And thus serve His Imperial Majesty's interests and satisfy your own love of
a good fight."
"Exactly. But I must know what I fight; and there you can help."
"How do you know?"
Riose nibbled casually at a cakelet. "Because for three years I have traced
every rumor, every myth, every breath concerning the magicians – and of all
the library of information I have gathered, only two isolated facts are
unanimously agreed upon, and are hence certainly true. The first is that the
magicians come from the edge of the Galaxy opposite Siwenna; the second is
that your father once met a magician, alive and actual, and spoke with him."
The aged Siwennian stared unblinkingly, and Riose continued, "You had better
tell me what you know–" Barr said thoughtfully, "It would be interesting to
tell you certain things. It would be a psychohistoric experiment of my own."
"What kind of experiment?"
"Psychohistoric." The old man had an unpleasant edge to his smile. Then,
crisply, "You'd better have more tea. I'm going to make a bit of a speech."
He leaned far back into the soft cushions of his chair. The wall-lights had
softened to a pink-ivory glow, which mellowed even the soldier's hard profile.
Ducem Barr began, "My own knowledge is the result of two accidents; the
accidents of being born the son of my father, and of being born the native of
my country. It begins over forty years ago, shortly after the great Massacre,
when my father was a fugitive in the forests of the South, while I was a
gunner in the viceroy's personal fleet. This same viceroy, by the way, who had
ordered the Massacre, and who died such a cruel death thereafter."
Barr smiled grimly, and continued, "My father was a Patrician of the Empire
and a Senator of Siwenna. His name was Onum Barr."
Riose interrupted impatiently, "I know the circumstances of his exile very
well. You needn't elaborate upon it."
The Siwennian ignored him and proceeded without deflection. "During his exile
a wanderer came upon him; a merchant from the edge of the Galaxy; a young man
who spoke a strange accent, knew nothing of recent Imperial history, and who
was protected by an individual force-shield."
"An individual force-shield?" Riose glared. "You speak extravagance. What
generator could be powerful enough to condense a shield to the size of a
single man? By the Great Galaxy, did he carry five thousand myria-tons of
nuclear power-source about with him on a little wheeled gocart?"
Barr said quietly, "This is the magician of whom you hear whispers, stories
and myths. The name 'magician' is not lightly earned. He carried no generator
large enough to be seen, but not the heaviest weapon you can carry in your
hand would have as much as creased the shield he bore."
"Is this all the story there is? Are the magicians born of maunderings of an
old man broken by suffering and exile?"
"The story of the magicians antedated even my father, sir. And the proof is
more concrete. After leaving my father, this merchant that men call a magician
visited a Tech-man at the city to which my father had guided him, and there he
left a shield-generator of the type he wore. That generator was retrieved by
my father after his return from exile upon the execution of the bloody
viceroy. It took a long time to find– "The generator hangs on the wall behind
you, sir. It does not work. It never worked but for the first two days; but if
you'll look at it, you will see that no one in the Empire ever designed it."
Bel Riose reached for the belt of linked metal that clung to the curved wall.
It came away with a little sucking noise as the tiny adhesion-field broke at
the touch of his hand. The ellipsoid at the apex of the belt held his
attention. It was the size of a walnut.
"This–" he said.
"Was the generator," nodded Barr. "But it was the generator. The secret of its
workings are beyond discovery now. Sub-electronic investigations have shown it
to be fused into a single lump of metal and not all the most careful study of
the diffraction patterns have sufficed to distinguish the discrete parts that
had existed before fusion."
"Then your 'proof' still lingers on the frothy border of words backed by no
concrete evidence."
Barr shrugged. "You have demanded my knowledge of me and threatened its
extortion by force. If you choose to meet it with skepticism, what is that to
me? Do you want me to stop?"
"Go on!" said the general, harshly.
"I continued my father's researches after he died, and then the second
accident I mentioned came to help me, for Siwenna was well known to Hari
Seldon."
"And who is Hari Seldon?"
"Hari Seldon was a scientist of the reign of the Emperor, Daluben IV. He was a
psychohistorian; the last and greatest of them all. He once visited Siwenna,
when Siwenna was a great commercial center, rich in the arts and sciences."
"Hmph," muttered Riose, sourly, "where is the stagnant planet that does not
claim to have been a land of overflowing wealth in older days?"
"The days I speak of are the days of two centuries ago, when the Emperor yet
ruled to the uttermost star; when Siwenna was a world of the interior and not
a semi-barbarian border province. In those days, Hari Seldon foresaw the
decline of Imperial power and the eventual barbarization of the entire
Galaxy."
Riose laughed suddenly. "He foresaw that? Then he foresaw wrong, my good
scientist. I suppose you call yourself that. Why, the Empire is more powerful
now than it has been in a millennium. Your old eyes are blinded by the cold
bleakness of the border. Come to the inner worlds some day; come to the warmth
and the wealth of the center."
The old man shook his head somberly. "Circulation ceases first at the outer
edges. It will take a while yet for the decay to reach the heart. That is, the
apparent, obvious-to-all decay, as distinct from the inner decay that is an
old story of some fifteen centuries."
"And so this Hari Seldon foresaw a Galaxy of uniform barbarism," said Riose,
good-humoredly. "And what then, eh?"
"So he established two foundations at the extreme opposing ends of the Galaxy
– Foundations of the best, and the youngest, and the strongest, there to
breed, grow, and develop. The worlds on which they were placed were chosen
carefully; as were the times and the surroundings. All was arranged in such a
way that the future as foreseen by the unalterable mathematics of
psychohistory would involve their early isolation from the main body of
Imperial civilization and their gradual growth into the germs of the Second
Galactic Empire – cutting an inevitable barbarian interregnum from thirty
thousand years to scarcely a single thousand."
"And where did you find out all this? You seem to know it in detail."
"I don't and never did," said the patrician with composure. "It is the painful
result of the piecing together of certain evidence discovered by my father and
a little more found by myself. The basis is flimsy and the superstructure has
been romanticized into existence to fill the huge gaps. But I am convinced
that it is essentially true."
"You are easily convinced."
"Am I? It has taken forty years of research."
"Hmph. Forty years! I could settle the question in forty days. In fact, I
believe I ought to. It would be – different."
"And how would you do that?"
"In the obvious way. I could become an explorer. I could find this Foundation
you speak of and observe with my eyes. You say there are two?"
"The records speak of two. Supporting evidence has been found only for one,
which is understandable, for the other is at the extreme end of the long axis
of the Galaxy."
"Well, we'll visit the near one." The general was on his feet, adjusting his
belt.
"You know where to go?" asked Barr.
"In a way. In the records of the last viceroy but one, he whom you murdered so
effectively, there are suspicious tales of outer barbarians. In fact, one of
his daughters was given in marriage to a barbarian prince. I'll find my way."
He held out a hand. "I thank you for your hospitality."
Ducem Barr touched the hand with his fingers and bowed formally. "Your visit
was a great honor."
"As for the information you gave me," continued Bel Riose, "I'll know how to
thank you for that when I return."
Ducem Barr followed his guest submissively to the outer door and said quietly
to the disappearing ground-car, "And if you return."
2. THE MAGICIANS FOUNDATION ... With forty years of expansion behind them,
the Foundation faced the menace of Riose. The epic days of Hardin and Mallow
had gone and with them were gone a certain hard daring and resolution....
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA There were four men in the room, and the room was set
apart where none could approach. The four men looked at each other quickly,
then lengthily at the table that separated them. There were four bottles on
the table and as many full glasses, but no one had touched them.
And then the man nearest the door stretched out an arm and drummed a slow,
padding rhythm on the table.
He said, "Are you going to sit and wonder forever? Does it matter who speaks
first?"
"Speak you first, then," said the big man directly opposite. "You're the one
who should be the most worried."
Sennett Forell chuckled with noiseless nonhumor. "Because you think I'm the
richest. Well – Or is it that you expect me to continue as I have started. I
don't suppose you forget that it was my own Trade Fleet that captured this
scout ship of theirs."
"You had the largest fleet," said a third, "and the best pilots; which is
摘要：

FoundationandEmpireFOUNDATIONANDEMPIREISAACASIMOVContentsINTRODUCTIONPROLOGUEPARTITHEGENERAL1.SEARCHFORMAGICIANS2.THEMAGICIANS3.THEDEADHAND4.THEEMPEROR5.THEWARBEGINS6.THEFAVORITE7.BRIBERY8.TOTRANTOR9.ONTRANTOR10.THEWARENDSPARTIITHEMULE11.BRIDEANDGROOM12.CAPTAINANDMAYOR13.LIEUTENANTANDCLOWN14.THEMUTA...

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