Prelude to Foundation

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 ho-”

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 ca

“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 to nothing.

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

And Seldon’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.

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.”