Foundation's Fear - Gregory Benford

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THE SECOND
FOUNDATION TRILOGY
Foundation’s Fear
GREGORY BENFORD
To Greg Bear and David Brin
fellow voyagers on strange seas
RENDEZVOUS
R. Daneel Olivaw did not look like Eto Demerzel. That role he had already cast aside.
This Dors Vanabili expected, though it was unsettling to her. She knew that through
millennia he had discarded the skin and shape of countless guises.
Dors studied him in the cramped, dingy room two Sectors away from Streeling
University. She had followed a convoluted route to get here and the site was protected by
elaborate, overlapping security measures. Robots were outlaws. They had lived for millennia in
the deep shadow of taboo. Though Olivaw was her guide and mentor, she saw him seldom.
Yet as a humaniform robot she felt a tremor of mingled fear and reverence at this ancient,
partly metallic form before her. He was nearly twenty millennia old. Though he could appear
human, he did not truly wish to be human. He was inexpressibly greater than that now.
She had lived happily as a pseudo-person for so long now. Even a reminder of who and
what she was came like cold fingers along her spine. “The recent increasing attention paid to
Hari...”
“Indeed. You fear you will be detected.”
“The newest security measures are so invasive!”
He nodded. “You are correct to be concerned.”
“I need more help in protecting Hari.”
“Adding another of us to his close associates would double the danger of detection.”
“I know, I know, but...”
Olivaw reached out and touched her hand. She blinked back tears and studied his face.
Small matters, such as consistent movement of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, had long
ago been perfected. To ease himself in this meeting, he had omitted these minor computations
and movements. He obviously enjoyed even momentary freedom from such taxation.
“I am constantly fearful,” she admitted.
“You should be. He is much threatened. But you are designed to function best with a
high level of apprehension.”
“I know my specifications, yes, but--take this latest move of yours, involving him in
Imperial politics at the highest level. It imposes severe strain on my task.”
“A necessary move.”
“It may distract him from his work, from psychohistory.”
Olivaw shook his head slowly. “I doubt that. He is a certain special kind of human--
driven. He once remarked to me, ‘Genius does what it must and talent does what it can’--
thinking that he merely had talent.”
She smiled ruefully. “But he is a genius.”
“And like all such, unique. Humans have that rare, great excursions from the mean.
Evolution has selected them for it, though they do not seem to realize that.”
“And we?”
“Evolution cannot act on one who lives forever. In any case, there has not been time. We
can and do develop ourselves, however.”
“Humans are also murderous.”
“We are few; they are many. And they have deep animal spirits we cannot fathom, in the
end, no matter how we try.”
“I care about Hari, first.”
“And the Empire, a distant second?” He gave her a thin smile. “I care for the Empire only
so far as it safeguards humanity.”
“From what?”
“From itself. Just remember, Dors: this is the Cusp Era, as anticipated by ourselves for so
long. The most critical period in all of history.”
“I know the term, but what is the substance? Do we have a theory of history?”
For the first time Daneel Olivaw showed expression, a rueful grimace. “We are not
capable of a deep theory. For that, we would have to understand humans far better.”
“But we have something...?”
“A different way of viewing humanity, one now badly strained. It caused us to shape this
greatest of humanity’s creations, the Empire.”
“I do not know of this--”
“No need for you to. We now require a more profound view. That is why Hari is so
important.”
Dors frowned, troubled for reasons she could not quite express. “This earlier, simpler
theory of...ours. It tells you that humanity now must have psychohistory?”
“Exactly. We know this, from our own crude theory. But only this.”
“For more, we rely on Hari alone?”
“Alas, yes.”
PART 1
MATHIST
MINISTER
HARI SELDON though it is the best existing authority on the details of Seldon’s life, the biography by
Gaal Dornick cannot be trusted regarding the early rise to power. As a young man, Dornick met Seldon
only two years before the great mathist’s death. By then, rumor and even legend had already begun to grow
about Seldon, particularly regarding his shadowy period of large-scale authority within the fading
Imperium.
How Seldon became the only mathist in all Galactic history to ascend to political power remains
one of the most intractable puzzles for Seldon scholars. He gave no sign of ambitions beyond the building of
a science of “history” --all the while envisioning not the mere fathoming of the past, but in fact the
prediction of the future. (As Seldon himself remarked to Dornick, he early on desired” the prevention of
certain kinds of futures.”)
Certainly the mysterious exit of Eto Demerzel as First Minister was the opening act in a play of
large proportions. That Cleon I immediately turned to Seldon suggests that Demerzel hand-picked his
successor. Yet why go to Seldon? Historians are divided about the motivations of the central players in this
crucial moment. The Empire had entered a period of challenge and disruption, coming especially from what
Seldon termed the “chaos worlds. “ How Seldon adroitly maneuvered against powerful opponents, despite
no recorded experience in the political arena, remains an active but vexing area of research...
--ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
[Note: All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 116th edition, published 1,020
F.E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with permission of the publishers.]
1.
He had made enough enemies to acquire a nickname, Hari Seldon mused, and not
enough friends to hear what it was.
He could feel the truth of that in the murmuring energy in the crowds. Uneasily he
walked from his apartment to his office across the broad squares of Streeling University. “They
don’t like me,” he said.
Dors Vanabili matched his stride easily, studying the massed faces. “I do not sense any
danger.”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about assassination attempts--at least, not right away.”
“My, you’re in a fine mood today.”
“I hate this security screen. Who wouldn’t?”
The Imperial Specials had fanned out in what their captain termed “an engaging
perimeter” around Hari and Dors. Some carried flash-screen projectors, capable of warding off a
full heavy-weapons assault. Others looked equally dangerous bare-handed.
Their scarlet-and-blue uniforms made it easy to see where the crowd was impinging on
the moving security boundary as Hari walked slowly across the main campus square. Where the
crowd was thickest, the bright uniforms simply bulled their way through. The entire spectacle
made him acutely uncomfortable. Specials were not noted for their diplomacy and this was, after
all, a quiet place of learning. Or had been.
Dors clasped his hand in reassurance. “A First Minister can’t simply walk around
without--”
“I’m not First Minister!”
“The Emperor has designated you, and that’s enough for this crowd.”
“The High Council hasn’t acted. Until they do”
“Your friends will assume the best,” she said mildly.
“These are my friends?” Hari eyed the crowd suspiciously.
“They’re smiling.”
So they were. One called, “Hail the Prof Minister!” and others laughed.
“Is that my nickname now?”
“Well, it’s not a bad one.”
“Why do they flock so?”
“People are drawn to power.”
“I’m still just a professor!”
To offset his irritation, Dors chuckled at him, a wifely reflex. “There’s an ancient saying,
‘These are the times that fry men’s souls.”‘
“You have a bit of historical wisdom for everything.”
“It’s one of the few perks that come with being an historian. “
Someone called, “Hey, Math Minister!”
Hari said, “I don’t like that name any better.”
“Get used to it. You’ll be called worse.”
They passed by the great Streeling fountain and Hari took refuge in a moment of
contemplating its high, arching waters. The splashes drowned out the crowd and he could almost
imagine he was back in his simple, happy life. Then he had only had to worry about
psychohistory and Streeling University infighting. That snug little world had vanished, perhaps
forever, the moment Cleon decided to make him a figure in Imperial politics.
The fountain was glorious, yet even it reminded him of the vastness that lay beneath
such simplicities. Here the tinkling streams broke free, but their flight was momentary. Trantor’s
waters ran in mournful dark pipes, down dim passages scoured by ancient engineers. A maze of
fresh water arteries and sewage veins twined through the eternal bowels. These bodily fluids of
the planet had passed through uncountable trillions of kidneys and throats, had washed away
sins, been toasted with at marriages and births, had carried off the blood of murders and the
vomit of terminal agonies. They flowed on in their deep night, never knowing the clean vapor joy
of unfettered weather, never free of man’s hand.
They were trapped. So was he.
Their party reached the Mathist Department and ascended. Dors rose through the
traptube beside him, a breeze fluttering her hair amiably, the effect quite flattering. The Specials
took up watchful, rigid positions outside.
Just as he had for the last week, Hari tried again with the captain. “Look, you don’t really
need to keep a dozen men sitting out here--”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Academician sir, if you please.”
Hari felt frustrated at the waste of it. He noticed a young Specialman eyeing Dors, whose
uni-suit revealed while still covering. Something made him say, “Well then, I will thank you to
have your men keep their eyes where they belong!”
The captain looked startled. He glared at the offending man and stomped over to
reprimand him. Hari felt a spark of satisfaction. Going in the entrance to his office, Dors said, ‘‘I’ll
try to dress more strictly.”
“No, no, I’m just being stupid. I shouldn’t let tiny things like that bother me.”
She smiled prettily. “Actually, I rather liked it.”
“You did? Me being stupid?”
“Your being protective.”
Dors had been assigned years before to watch over him, by Eto Demerzel. Hari reflected
that he had gotten used to that role of hers, little noticing that it conflicted in a deep, unspoken
way with her also being a woman. Dors was utterly self-reliant, but she had qualities which
sometimes did not easily jibe with her duty. Being his wife, for example.
“I will have to do it more often,” he said lightly.
Still, he felt a pang of guilt about making trouble for the Specialmen. Their being here
was certainly not their idea; Cleon had ordered it. No doubt they would far rather be off
somewhere saving the Empire with sweat and valor.
They went through the high, arched foyer of the Mathist Department, Hari nodding to
the staff. Dors went into her own office and he hurried into his suite with an air of an animal
retreating into its burrow. He collapsed into his airchair, ignoring the urgent message holo that
hung a meter from his face.
A wave erased it as Yugo Amaryl came in through the connecting e-stat portal. The
intrusive, bulky portal was also the fruit of Cleon’s security order. The Specials had installed the
shimmering weapons-nulling fields everywhere. They lent an irksome, prickly smell of ozone to
the air. One more intrusion of Reality, wearing the mask of Politics.
Yugo’s grin split his broad face. “Got some new results.”
“Cheer me up, show me something splendid.”
Yugo sat on Hari’s broad, empty desk, one leg dangling. “Good mathematics is always
true and beautiful.”
“Certainly. But it doesn’t have to be true in the sense that ordinary people mean. It can
say nothing whatever about the world.”
“You’re making me feel like a dirty engineer.”
Hari smiled. “You were once, remember?”
“Don’t I!”
“Maybe you’d rather be sweating it out as a heatsinker?”
Hari had found Yugo by chance eight years ago, just after arriving on Trantor, when he
and Dors were on the run from Imperial agents. An hour’s talk had shown Hari that Yugo was an
untutored genius at trans-representational analysis. Yugo had a gift, an unconscious lightness of
touch. They had collaborated ever since. Hari honestly thought he had learned more from Yugo
than the other way around.
“Ha!” Yugo clapped his big hands together three times, in the Dahlite manner of
showing agreeable humor. “You can grouse about doing filthy, real-world work, but as long as
it’s in a nice, comfortable office, I’m in paradise.”
“I shall have to turn most of the heavy lifting over to you, I fear.” Hari deliberately put
his feet up on his desk. Might as well look casual, even if he didn’t feel that way. He envied
Yugo’s heavy-bodied ease.
“This First Minister stuff?”
“It is getting worse. I have to go see the Emperor again.”
“The man wants you. Must be your craggy profile.”
“That’s what Dors thinks, too. I figure it’s my disarming smile. Anyway, he can’t have
me.”
“He will.”
“If he forces the ministership on me, I shall do such a lousy job, Cleon will fire me.”
Yugo shook his head. “Not wise. Failed First Ministers are usually tried and executed.”
“You’ve been talking to Dors again.”
“She is a historian.”
“Yes, and we’re psychohistorians. Seekers of predictability.” Hari threw up his hands in
exasperation. “Why doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Because nobody in the citadels of power has seen it work.”
“And they won’t. Once people think we can predict, we will never be free of politics.”
“You’re not free now,” Yugo said reasonably.
“Good friend, your worse trait is insisting on telling me the truth in a calm voice.”
“It saves knocking sense into your head. That would take longer.”
Hari sighed. “If only muscles helped with mathematics. You would be even better at it.”
Yugo waved the thought away. “You’re the key. You’re the idea man.”
“Well, this font of ideas hasn’t got a clue.”
“Ideas, they’ll come.”
“I never get a chance to work on psychohistory anymore!”
“And as First Minister--”
“It will be worse. Psychohistory will go”
“Nowhere, without you.”
“There will be some progress, Yugo. I am not vain enough to think everything depends
on me.”
“It does.”
“Nonsense! There’s still you, the Imperial Fellows, and the staff.”
“We need leadership. Thinking leadership.”
“Well, I could continue to work here part of the time…”
Hari looked around his spacious office and felt a pang at the thought of not spending
every day here, surrounded by his tools, tomes, and friends. As First Minister he would have a
minor palace, but to him it would be mere empty, meaningless extravagance.
Yugo gave him a mocking grin. “First Minister is usually considered a full-time job.”
“I know, I know. But maybe there’s a way--”
The office holo bloomed into full presentation a meter from his head. The office familiar
was coded to pipe through only high-priority messages. Hari slapped a key on his desk and the
picture gave the gathering image a red, square frame--the signal that his filter-face was on.
“Yes?”
Cleon’s personal aide appeared in red tunic against a blue background. “You are
summoned,” the woman said simply.
“Uh, I am honored. When?”
The woman went into details and Hari was immediately thankful for the filter-face. The
personal officer was imposing, and he did not want to appear to be what he was, a distracted
professor. His filter-face had a tailored etiquette menu. He had automatically thumbed in a suite
of body language postures and gestures, tailored to mask his true feelings.
“Very well, in two hours. I shall be there,” he concluded with a small bow. The filter
would render that same motion, shaped to the protocols of the Emperor’s staff.
“Drat!” He slapped his desk, making the holo dissolve. “My day is evaporating!”
“What’s it mean?”
“Trouble. Every time I see Cleon, it’s trouble.”
“I dunno, could be a chance to straighten out--”
“I just want to be left alone!”
“A First Ministership”
“You be First Minister! I will take a job as a computational specialist, change my name--”
Hari stopped and laughed wryly. “But I’d fail at that, too.”
“Look, you need to change your mood. Don’t want to walk in on the Emperor with that
scowl.”
“Ummm. I suppose not. Very well--cheer me up. What was that good news you
mentioned?”
“I turned up some ancient personality constellations.”
“Really? I thought they were illegal.”
“They are.” He grinned. “Laws don’t always work.”
“Truly ancient? I wanted them for calibration of psychohistorical valences. They have to
be early Empire.”
Yugo beamed. “These are pre-Empire.”
“Pre-impossible.”
“I got ‘em. Intact, too.”
“Who are they?”
“Some famous types, dunno what they did.”
“What status did they have, to be recorded?”
Yugo shrugged. “No parallel historical records, either.”
“Are they authentic recordings?”
“Might be. They’re in ancient machine languages, really primitive stuff. Hard to tell.”
“Then they could be...sims.”
“I’d say so. Could be they’re built on a recorded underbase, then simmed for roundness.”
“You can kick them up to sentience?”
“Yeah, with some work. Got to stitch data languages. Y’know, this is, ah…”
“Illegal. Violation of the Sentience Codes.”
“Right. These guys I got it from, they’re on that New Renaissance world, Sark. They say
nobody polices those old Codes anymore.”
“It’s time we kicked over a few of those ancient blocks.”
“Yessir.” Yugo grinned. “These constellations, they’re the oldest anybody’s ever found.”
“How did you...?” Hari let his question trail off. Yugo had many shady connections, built
on his Dahlite origins.
“It took a little, ah, lubrication.”
“I thought so. Well, perhaps best that I don’t hear the details.”
“Right. As First Minister, you don’t want dirty hands.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Sure, sure, you’re just a journeyman professor. Who’s going to be late for his
appointment with the Emperor if he doesn’t hurry up.”
2.
Walking through the Imperial Gardens, Hari wished Dors was with him. He recalled her
wariness over his coming again to the attention of Cleon. “They’re crazy, often,” she had said in a
dispassionate voice. “The gentry are eccentric, which allows emperors to be bizarre.”
“You exaggerate,” he had responded.
“Dadrian the Frugal always urinated in the Imperial Gardens,” she had answered. “He
would leave state functions to do it, saying that it saved his subjects a needless expense in water.”
Hari had to suppress a laugh; palace staff were undoubtedly studying him. He regained
his sober manner by admiring the ornate, towering trees, sculpted in the Spindlerian style of
three millennia before. He felt the tug of such natural beauty, despite his years buried in Trantor.
Here, verdant wealth stretched up toward the blazing sun like outstretched arms. This was the
only open spot on the planet, and it reminded him of Helicon, where he had begun.
He had been a rather dreamy boy in a laboring district of Helicon. The work in fields and
factories was easy enough that he could think his own shifting, abstract musings while he did it.
Before the Civil Service exams changed his life, he had worked out a few simple theorems in
number theory and later was crushed to find that they were already known. He lay in bed at
night thinking of planes and vectors and trying to envision dimensions larger than three,
listening to the distant bleat of the puff-dragons who came drifting down the mountain sides in
search of prey. Bioengineered for some ancient purpose, probably hunting, they were revered
beasts. He had not seen one for many years....
Helicon, the wild--that was what he longed for. But his destiny seemed submerged in
Trantor’s steel.
Hari glanced back and his Specials, thinking they were summoned, trotted forward.
“No,” he said, his hands pushing air toward them--a gesture he was making all the time these
days, he reflected. Even in the Imperial Gardens they acted as though every gardener was a
potential assassin.
He had come this way, rather than simply emerge from the grav lifter inside the palace,
because he liked the gardens above all else. In the distant haze a wall of trees towered, coaxed
upward by genetic engineering until they obscured the ramparts of Trantor. Only here, on all the
planet, was it possible to experience something resembling the out of doors.
What an arrogant term! Hari thought. To define all of creation by its lying outside the
doorways of humanity.
His formal shoes crunched against gravel as he left the sheltered walkways and mounted
the formal ramp. Beyond the forested perimeter rose a plume of black smoke. He slowed and
estimated distance, perhaps ten klicks. Some major incident, surely.
摘要：

THESECONDFOUNDATIONTRILOGYFoundation’sFearGREGORYBENFORDToGregBearandDavidBrinfellowvoyagersonstrangeseasRENDEZVOUSR.DaneelOlivawdidnotlooklikeEtoDemerzel.Thatrolehehadalreadycastaside.ThisDorsVanabiliexpected,thoughitwasunsettlingtoher.Sheknewthatthroughmillenniahehaddiscardedtheskinandshapeofcount...

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