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 of his 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 be so bad everywhere, I assure you. These wayside places have a reputation for low quality. If you can stomach that sandwich, you’ll be able to eat anywhere on Trantor. And it won’t hurt you. It’s not decayed or bad or anything like that. It just has a harsh, strong taste and, honestly, you may grow accustomed to it. I’ve met Trantorians who spit out honest food and say it lacks that homegrown tang.”
“Do they grow much food on Trantor?” asked Seldon. A quick side glance showed him there was no one seated in the immediate vicinity and he spoke quietly. “I’ve always heard it takes twenty surrounding worlds to supply the hundreds of freight ships required to feed Trantor every day.”
“I know. And hundreds to carry off the load of wastes. And if you want to make the story really good, you say that the same freight ships carry food one way and waste the other. It’s true that we import considerable quantities of food, but that’s mostly luxury items. And we export considerable waste, carefully treated into inoffensiveness, as important organic fertilizer—every bit as important to other worlds as the food is to us. But that’s only a small fraction of the whole.”
“It is?”
“Yes. In addition to fish in the sea, there are gardens and truck farms everywhere. And fruit trees and poultry and rabbits and vast microorganism farms—usually called yeast farms, though the yeast makes up a minority of the growths. And our wastes are mostly used right here at home to maintain all that growth. In fact, in many ways Trantor is very much like an enormous and overgrown space settlement. Have you ever visited one of those?”
“Indeed I have.”
“Space settlements are essentially enclosed cities, with everything artificially cycled, with artificial ventilation, artificial day and night, and so on. Trantor is different only in that even the largest space settlement has a population of only ten million and Trantor has four thousand times that. Of course, we have real gravity. And no space settlement can match us in our microfoods. We have yeast vats, fungal mats, and algae ponds vast beyond the imagination. And we are strong on artificial flavoring, added with no light hand. That’s what gives the taste to what you’re eating.”
Seldon had gotten through most of his sandwich and found it not as offensive as the first bite had been. “And it won’t affect me?”
“It does hit the intestinal flora and every once in a while it afflicts some poor Outworlder with diarrhea, but that’s rare, and you harden even to that quickly. Still, drink your milkshake, which you probably won’t like. It contains an antidiarrhetic that should keep you safe, even if you tend to be sensitive to such things.”
Seldon said querulously, “Don’t talk about it, Hummin. A person can be suggestible to such things.”
“Finish the milkshake and forget the suggestibility.”
They finished the rest of their meal in silence and soon were on their way again.
13
They were now racing rapidly through the tunnel once more. Seldon decided to give voice to the question that had been nagging at him for the last hour or so.
“Why do you say the Galactic Empire is dying?”
Hummin turned to look at Seldon again. “As a journalist, I have statistics poured into me from all sides till they’re squeezing out of my ears. And I’m allowed to publish very little of it. Trantor’s population is decreasing. Twenty-five years ago, it stood at almost forty-five billion.
“Partly, this decrease is because of a decline in the birthrate. To be sure, Trantor never has had a high birthrate. If you’ll look about you when you’re traveling on Trantor, you won’t encounter very many children, considering the enormous population. But just the same it’s declining. Then too there is emigration. People are leaving Trantor in greater numbers than are arriving.”
“Considering its large population,” said Seldon, “that’s not surprising.”
“But it’s unusual just the same because it hasn’t happened before. Again, all over the Galaxy trade is stagnating. People think that because there are no rebellions at the moment and because things are quiet that all is well and that the difficulties of the past few centuries are over. However, political infighting, rebellions, and unrest are all signs of a certain vitality too. But now there’s a general weariness. It’s quiet, not because people are satisfied and prosperous, but because they’re tired and have given up.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Seldon dubiously.
“I do. And the antigrav phenomenon we’ve talked about is another case in point. We have a few gravitic lifts in operation, but new ones aren’t being constructed. It’s an unprofitable venture and there seems no interest in trying to make it profitable. The rate of technological advance has been slowing for centuries and is down to a crawl now. In some cases, it has stopped altogether. Isn’t this something you’ve noticed? After all, you’re a mathematician.”
“I can’t say I’ve given the matter any thought.”
“No one does. It’s accepted. Scientists are very good these days at saying that things are impossible, impractical, useless. They condemn any speculation at once. You, for instance—What do you think of psychohistory? It is theoretically interesting, but it is useless in any practical sense. Am I right?”
“Yes and no,” said Seldon, annoyed. “It is useless in any practical sense, but not because my sense of adventure has decayed, I assure you. It really is useless.”
“That, at least,” said Hummin with a trace of sarcasm, “is your impression in this atmosphere of decay in which all the Empire lives.”
“This atmosphere of decay,” said Seldon angrily, “is your impression. Is it possible that you are wrong?”
Hummin stopped and for a moment appeared thoughtful. Then he said, “Yes, I might be wrong. I am speaking only from intuition, from guesses. What I need is a working technique of psychohistory.”
Seldon shrugged and did not take the bait. He said, “I don’t have such a technique to give you. —But suppose you’re right. Suppose the Empire is running down and will eventually stop and fall apart. The human species will still exist.”