Prelude to Foundation

“Unless they’ve been saying ‘recently constructed’ for the last thousand years.”

Another Mycogenian stepped into the sound pattern of the scene and said in a low voice, though not as low as the whisperings of Seldon and Dors, “Greetings, Brothers.”

He did not look at Seldon and Dors as he spoke and after one involuntary and startled glance, Seldon kept his head averted. Dors had ignored it all. Seldon hesitated. Mycelium Seventy-Two had said that there was no talking in the Sacratorium. Perhaps he had exaggerated. Then too he had not been in the Sacratorium since he was a child.

Desperately, Seldon decided he must speak. He said in a whisper, “And to you, Brother, greetings.”

He had no idea whether that was the correct formula of reply or if there was a formula, but the Mycogenian seemed to find nothing amiss in it. “To you in Aurora,” he said.

“And to you,” said Seldon and because it seemed to him that the other expected more, he added, “in Aurora,” and there was an impalpable release of tension. Seldon felt his forehead growing moist.

The Mycogenian said, “Beautiful! I haven’t seen this before.”

“Skillfully done,” said Seldon. Then, in a burst of daring, he added, “A loss never to be forgotten.”

The other seemed startled, then said, “Indeed, indeed,” and moved away.

Dors hissed, “Take no chances. Don’t say what you don’t have to.”

“It seemed natural. Anyway, this it recent. But those are disappointing robots. They are what I would expect automata to be. I want to see the organic ones-the humanoids.”

“If they existed,” said Dors with some hesitation, “it seems to me they wouldn’t be used for gardening jobs.”

“True,” said Seldon. “We must find the Elders’ aerie.”

“If that exists. It seems to me there is nothing in this hollow cave but a hollow cave.”

“Let’s look.”

They paced along the wall, passing from screen to screen, trying to wait at each for irregular intervals until Dors clutched Seldon’s arms. Between two screens were lines marking out a faint rectangle.

“A door,” Dors said. Then she weakened the assertion by adding, “Do you think?”

Seldon looked about surreptitiously. It was in the highest degree convenient that, in keeping with the mourning atmosphere, every face, when not fixed on a television monitor, was bent in sad concentration on the floor.

Seldon said, “How do you suppose it would open?”

“An entrance patch.”

“I can’t make out any.”

“It’s just not marked out, but there’s a slight discoloration there. Do you see it? How many palms? How many times?”

“I’ll try. Keep an eye out and kick me if anyone looks in this direction.”

He held his breath casually, touched the discolored spot to no avail, and then placed his palm full upon it and pressed.

The door opened silently-not a creak, not a scrape.

Seldon stepped through as rapidly as he could and Dors followed him. The door closed behind them.

“The question is,” said Dors, “did anyone see us?”

Seldon said, “Elders must go through this door frequently.”

“Yes, but will anyone think we are Elders?”

Seldon waited, then said, “If we were observed and if anyone thought something was wrong, this door would have been flung open again within fifteen seconds of our entering.”

“Possibly,” said Dors dryly, “or possibly there is nothing to be seen or done on this side of the door and no one cares if we enter.”

“That remains to be seen,” muttered Seldon.

The rather narrow room they had entered was somewhat dark, but as they stepped farther into it, the light brightened.

There were chairs, wide and comfortable, small tables, several davenports, a deep and tall refrigerator, cupboards.

“If this is the Elders’ aerie,” said Seldon, “the Elders seem to do themselves comfortably, despite the austerity of the Sacratorium itself.”

“As would be expected,” said Dors. “Asceticism among a ruling class-except for public show-is very rare. Put that down in your notebook for psychohistorical aphorisms.” She looked about. “And there is no robot.”

Seldon said, “An aerie is a high position, remember, and this ceiling is not. There must be upper storeys and that must be the way.” He pointed to a well-carpeted stairway.

He did not advance toward it, however, but looked about vaguely.

Dors guessed what he was seeking. She said, “Forget about elevators. There’s a cult of primitivism in Mycogen. Surely, you haven’t forgotten that, have you? There would be no elevators and, what’s more, if we place our weight at the foot of the stairs, I am quite certain it will not begin moving upward. We’re going to have to climb it. Several flights, perhaps.”

“Climb it?”

“It must, in the nature of things, lead to the aerie-if it leads anywhere. Do you want to see the aerie or don’t you?”

Together they stepped toward the staircase and began the climb. They went up three flights and, as they did, the light level decreased perceptibly and in steady increments. Seldon took a deep breath and whispered, “I consider myself to be in pretty good shape, but I hate this.”