Read Online Prelude to Foundation by Isaac Asimov - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Isaac Asimov
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prevented him too. After all, if
that
was wrong, he didn’t want to know.
No, he couldn’t believe that he was wrong. The Galactic Empire could no more come to an end than the Universe itself could. Or, if the Universe did end, then—and only then—would the Empire end.
Seldon closed his eyes, attempting to sleep but, of course, he could not. Would he have to study the history of the Universe in order to advance his theory of psychohistory?
How could he? Twenty-five million worlds existed, each with its own endlessly complex history. How could he study all that? There were book-films in many volumes, he knew, that dealt with Galactic history. He had even skimmed one once for some now-forgotten reason and had found it too dull to view even halfway through.
The book-films had dealt with important worlds. With some, it dealt through all or almost all their history; with others, only as they gained importance for a time and only till they faded away. He remembered having looked up Helicon in the index and having found only one citation. He had punched the keys that would turn up that citation and found Helicon included in a listing of worlds which, on one occasion, had temporarily lined up behind a certain claimant to the Imperial throne who had failed to make good his claim. Helicon had escaped retribution on that occasion, probably because it was not even sufficiently important to be punished.
What good was such a history? Surely, psychohistory would have to take into account the actions and reactions and interactions of each world—
each
and
every
world. How could one study the history of twenty-five million worlds and consider all their possible interactions? It would surely be an impossible task and this wasjust one more reinforcement of the general conclusion that psychohistory was of theoretical interest but could never be put to any practical use.
Seldon felt a gentle push forward and decided that the air-taxi must be decelerating.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I think we’ve come far enough,” said Hummin, “to risk a small stopover for a bite to eat, a glass of something or other, and a visit to a washroom.”
And, in the course of the next fifteen minutes, during which the air-taxi slowed steadily, they came to a lighted recess. The taxi swerved inward and found a parking spot among five or six other vehicles.
12
Hummin’s practiced eye seemed to take in the recess, the other taxis, the diner, the walkways, and the men and women all at a glance. Seldon, trying to look inconspicuous and again not knowing how, watched him, trying not to do so too intently.
When they sat down at a small table and punched in their orders, Seldon, attempting to sound indifferent, said, “Everything okay?”
“Seems so,” said Hummin.
“How can you tell?”
Hummin let his dark eyes rest on Seldon for a moment. “Instinct,” he said. “Years of news gathering. You look and know, ‘No news here.’ ”
Seldon nodded and felt relieved. Hummin might have said it sardonically, but there must be a certain amount of truth to it.
His satisfaction did not last through the first bite ofhis sandwich. He looked up at Hummin with his mouth full and with a look of hurt surprise on his face.
Hummin said, “This is a wayside diner, my friend. Cheap, fast, and not very good. The food’s homegrown and has an infusion of rather sharp yeast. Trantorian palates are used to it.”
Seldon swallowed with difficulty. “But back in the hotel—”
“You were in the Imperial Sector, Seldon. Food is imported there and where microfood is used it is high-quality. It is also expensive.”
Seldon wondered whether to take another bite. “You mean that as long as I stay on Trantor—”
Hummin made a hushing motion with his lips. “Don’t give anyone the impression that you’re used to better. There are places on Trantor where to be identified as an aristocrat is worse than being identified as an Outworlder. The food won’t
that
was wrong, he didn’t want to know.
No, he couldn’t believe that he was wrong. The Galactic Empire could no more come to an end than the Universe itself could. Or, if the Universe did end, then—and only then—would the Empire end.
Seldon closed his eyes, attempting to sleep but, of course, he could not. Would he have to study the history of the Universe in order to advance his theory of psychohistory?
How could he? Twenty-five million worlds existed, each with its own endlessly complex history. How could he study all that? There were book-films in many volumes, he knew, that dealt with Galactic history. He had even skimmed one once for some now-forgotten reason and had found it too dull to view even halfway through.
The book-films had dealt with important worlds. With some, it dealt through all or almost all their history; with others, only as they gained importance for a time and only till they faded away. He remembered having looked up Helicon in the index and having found only one citation. He had punched the keys that would turn up that citation and found Helicon included in a listing of worlds which, on one occasion, had temporarily lined up behind a certain claimant to the Imperial throne who had failed to make good his claim. Helicon had escaped retribution on that occasion, probably because it was not even sufficiently important to be punished.
What good was such a history? Surely, psychohistory would have to take into account the actions and reactions and interactions of each world—
each
and
every
world. How could one study the history of twenty-five million worlds and consider all their possible interactions? It would surely be an impossible task and this wasjust one more reinforcement of the general conclusion that psychohistory was of theoretical interest but could never be put to any practical use.
Seldon felt a gentle push forward and decided that the air-taxi must be decelerating.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I think we’ve come far enough,” said Hummin, “to risk a small stopover for a bite to eat, a glass of something or other, and a visit to a washroom.”
And, in the course of the next fifteen minutes, during which the air-taxi slowed steadily, they came to a lighted recess. The taxi swerved inward and found a parking spot among five or six other vehicles.
12
Hummin’s practiced eye seemed to take in the recess, the other taxis, the diner, the walkways, and the men and women all at a glance. Seldon, trying to look inconspicuous and again not knowing how, watched him, trying not to do so too intently.
When they sat down at a small table and punched in their orders, Seldon, attempting to sound indifferent, said, “Everything okay?”
“Seems so,” said Hummin.
“How can you tell?”
Hummin let his dark eyes rest on Seldon for a moment. “Instinct,” he said. “Years of news gathering. You look and know, ‘No news here.’ ”
Seldon nodded and felt relieved. Hummin might have said it sardonically, but there must be a certain amount of truth to it.
His satisfaction did not last through the first bite ofhis sandwich. He looked up at Hummin with his mouth full and with a look of hurt surprise on his face.
Hummin said, “This is a wayside diner, my friend. Cheap, fast, and not very good. The food’s homegrown and has an infusion of rather sharp yeast. Trantorian palates are used to it.”
Seldon swallowed with difficulty. “But back in the hotel—”
“You were in the Imperial Sector, Seldon. Food is imported there and where microfood is used it is high-quality. It is also expensive.”
Seldon wondered whether to take another bite. “You mean that as long as I stay on Trantor—”
Hummin made a hushing motion with his lips. “Don’t give anyone the impression that you’re used to better. There are places on Trantor where to be identified as an aristocrat is worse than being identified as an Outworlder. The food won’t
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