Prelude to Foundation

Seldon said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be separated from them.”

Rashelle smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.”

“Yes, I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.”

“Puzzled?”

“Why yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask one as well?”

“Of course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.”

“When we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the Dece

“Surely, you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.”

“That much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have psychohistory?”

“Surely, you have not been so careless as to lose it.”

“Worse, Rashelle. I have never had it.”

Rashelle’s face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.”

“In that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not practical.”

“I can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.”

“The pseudo-Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically.

“Why yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question. “Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.”

“Rashelle,” said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what I have just told you and he let me go.”

Now Rashelle did nor smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever since-in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would pursue you here if he dared. But come now-our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us have music.”

And at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.”

Raych said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips silently mouthed: “Fork.”

He remained with his fork.

Dors said, “The music is lovely, Madam”-she pointedly rejected the familiar form of address “but it must not he allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were not the prime mover.”

Rashelle laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail-as you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we were the pursuers. When, however, there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure that it is Demerzel.”

“Do you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors.

“Yes. Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.”

“You? Or the Wye Sector?”

“The sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.”

“How strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you-or any other Wyan-weigh nothing in comparison.”

Rashelle smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.”

“Why yours?” said Seldon.

“Why not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “I am the Mayor of Wye.”

It was Raych who was the first to react to the statement.

Quite forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.”

Rashelle looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under your lid and let it bubble.”

Raych’s eyes protruded and he seemed stu

“Sure thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling.

Seldon cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.”

Rashelle tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite-when I was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course-he was quite intelligent-but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?”

Raych said, “I du

“I’m sure you will and you will come to look very much like my… old friend and it will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, di

Raych reddened. “I’m go

“Then I’m sure you will.”

A young woman approached Raych, curtsying respectfully in Rashelle’s direction.

Seldon had not seen the signal that had summoned her.

Raych said, “Can’t I stay with Master Seldon and Missus Venabili?”

“You’ll see them later,” said Rashelle gently, “but Master and Missus and I have to talk right now-so you must go.”

Dors mouthed a firm “Go!” at Raych and with a grimace the boy slid out of his chair and followed the attendant.

Rashelle turned to Seldon and Dors once Raych was gone and said, “The boy will be safe, of course, and treated well. Please have no fears about that. And I will be safe too. As my woman approached just now, so will a dozen armed men-and much more rapidly-when summoned. I want you to understand that.”

Seldon said evenly, “We are in no way thinking of attacking you, Rashelle-or must I now say, ‘Madam Mayor’?”

“Still Rashelle. I am given to understand that you are a wrestler of sorts, Hari, and you, Dors, are very skillful with the knives we have removed from your room. I don’t want you to rely uselessly on your skills, since I want Hari alive, unharmed, and friendly.”

“It is quite well understood, Madam Mayor,” said Dors, her lack of friendship uncompromised, “that the ruler of Wye, now and for the past forty years, is Ma

“Exactly who I say I am, Dors. Ma