Prelude to Foundation

(“Only Trantor is different from all the rest.” The sentence repeated itself in Seldon’s mind and for a moment he grasped at it, and for some reason Dors’s hand-on-thigh story suddenly recurred to him, but Tisalver was speaking and it passed out of Seldon’s mind as quickly as it had entered.)

Tisalver said, “If you really want to know about heatsinks, I can show you.” He turned to his wife. “Casilia, would you mind if tomorrow evening I take Master Seldon to the heatsinks.”

“And me,” said Dors quickly.

“And Mistress Venabili?”

Mistress Tisalver frowned and said sharply, “I don’t think it would be a good idea. Our visitors would find it dull.”

“I don’t think so, Mistress Tisalver,” said Seldon ingratiatingly. “We would very much like to see the heatsinks. We would be delighted if you would join us too… and your little daughter-if she wants to come.”

“To the heatsinks?” said Mistress Tisalver, stiffening. “It’s no place at all for a decent woman.”

Seldon felt embarrassed at his gaffe. “I meant no harm, Mistress Tisalver.”

“No offense,” said Tisalver. “Casilia thinks it’s beneath us and so it is, but as long as I don’t work there, it’s no distress merely to visit and show it to guests. But it is uncomfortable and I would never get Casilia to dress properly.”

They got up from their crouching positions. Dahlite “chairs” were merely molded plastic seats on small wheels and they cramped Seldon’s knees terribly and seemed to wiggle at his least body movement. The Tisalvers, however, had mastered the art of sitting firmly and rose without trouble and without needing to use their arms for help as Seldon had to. Dors also got up without trouble and Seldon once again marveled at her natural grace.

Before they parted to their separate rooms for the night, Seldon said to Dors, “Are you sure you know nothing about heatsinks? Mistress Tisalver makes them seem unpleasant.”

“They can’t be that unpleasant or Tisalver wouldn’t suggest taking us on tour. Let’s be content to be surprised.”

Tisalver said, “You’ll need proper clothing.” Mistress Tisalver sniffed markedly in the background.

Cautiously, Seldon, thinking of kirtles with vague distress, said, “What do you mean by proper clothing?”

“Something light, such as I wear. A T-shirt, very short sleeves, loose slacks, loose underpants, foot socks, open sandals. I have it all for you.”

“Good. It doesn’t sound bad.”

“As for Mistress Venabili, I have the same. I hope it fits.”

The clothes Tisalver supplied each of them (which were his own) fit fine-if a bit snugly. When they were ready, they bade Mistress Tisalver good-bye and she, with a resigned if still disapproving air, watched them from the doorway as they set off.

It was early evening and there was an attractive twilight glow above. It was clear that Dahl’s lights would soon be winking on. The temperature was mild and there were virtually no vehicles to be seen; everyone was walking. In the distance was the ever-present hum of an Expressway and the occasional glitter of its lights could be easily seen.

The Dahlites, Seldon noted, did not seem to be walking toward any particular destination. Rather, there seemed to be a promenade going on, a walking for pleasure. Perhaps, if Dahl was an impoverished sector, as Tisalver had implied, inexpensive entertainment was at a premium and what was as pleasant-and as inexpensive-as an evening stroll?

Seldon felt himself easing automatically into the gait of an aimless stroll himself and felt the warmth of friendliness all around him. People greeted each other as they passed and exchanged a few words. Black mustaches of different shape and thickness flashed everywhere and seemed a requisite for the Dahlite male, as ubiquitous as the bald heads of the Mycogenian Brothers. It was an evening rite, a way of making sure that another day had passed safely and that one’s friends were still well and happy. And, it soon became apparent, Dors caught every eye. In the twilight glow, the ruddiness of her hair had deepened, but it stood out against the sea of black-haired heads (except for the occasional gray) like a gold coin winking its way across a pile of coal.

“This is very pleasant,” said Seldon.

“It is,” said Tisalver. “Ordinarily, I’d be walking with my wife and she’d be in her element. There is no one for a kilometer around whom she doesn’t know by name, occupation, and interrelationships. I can’t do that. Right now, half the people who greet me… I couldn’t tell you their names. But, in any case, we mustn’t creep along too slowly. We must get to the elevator. It’s a busy world on the lower levels.”

They were on the elevator going down when Dors said, “I presume, Master Tisalver, that the heatsinks are places where the internal heat of Trantor is being used to produce steam that will turn turbines and produce electricity.”

“Oh, no. Highly efficient large-scale thermopiles produce electricity directly. Don’t ask me the details, please. I’m just a holovision programmer. In fact, don’t ask anyone the details down there. The whole thing is one big black box. It works, but no one knows how.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“It doesn’t usually, but if it does, some expert comes over from somewhere. Someone who understands computers. The whole thing is highly computerized, of course.”

The elevator came to a halt and they stepped out. A blast of heat struck them.

“It’s hot,” said Seldon quite u

“Yes, it is,” said Tisalver. “That’s what makes Dahl so valuable as an energy source. The magma layer is nearer the surface here than it is anywhere else in the world. So you have to work in the heat.”

“How about air-conditioning?” said Dors.

“There is air-conditioning, but it’s a matter of expense. We ventilate and dehumidify and cool, but if we go too far, then we’re using up too much energy and the whole process becomes too expensive.”

Tisalver stopped at a door at which he signaled. It opened to a blast of cooler air and he muttered, “We ought to be able to get someone to help show us around and he’ll control the remarks that Mistress Venabili will otherwise be the victim of… at least from the men.”

“Remarks won’t embarrass me,” said Dors.

“They will embarrass me,” said Tisalver.

A young man walked out of the office and introduced himself as Hano Linder. He resembled Tisalver quite closely, but Seldon decided that until he got used to the almost universal shortness, swarthiness, black hair, and luxuriant mustaches, he would not be able to see individual differences easily.

Lindor said, “I’ll be glad to show you around for what there is to see. It’s not one of your spectaculars, you know.” He addressed them all, but his eyes were fixed on Dors. He said, “It’s not going to be comfortable. I suggest we remove our shirts.”

“It’s nice and cool in here,” said Seldon.

“Of course, but that’s because we’re executives. Rank has its privileges. Out there we can’t maintain air-conditioning at this level. That’s why they get paid more than I do. In fact, those are the best-paying jobs in Dahl, which is the only reason we get people to work down here. Even so, it’s getting harder to get heatsinkers all the time.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, out into the soup.” He removed his own shirt and tucked it into his waistband. Tisalver did the same and Seldon followed suit.

Linder glanced at Dors and said, “For your own comfort, Mistress, but it’s not compulsory.”

“That’s all right,” said Dors and removed her shirt.

Her brassiere was white, unpadded, and showed considerable cleavage. “Mistress,” said Lindor, “That’s not-” He thought a moment, then shrugged and said, “All right. We’ll get by.”

At first, Seldon was aware only of computers and machinery, huge pipes, flickering lights, and flashing screens.