Prelude to Foundation by Isaac Asimov Page A

get on.”
    Once they were safely ensconced in an Expressway car, Seldon turned to Hummin and said, “What amazes me is how quiet the Expressways are. I realize that they are mass-propelled by an electromagnetic field, but it seems quiet even for that.” He listened to the occasional metallic groan as the car they were on shifted against its neighbors.
    “Yes, it’s a marvelous network,” said Hummin, “but you don’t see it at its peak. When I was younger, it was quieter than it is now and there are those who say that there wasn’t as much as a whisper fifty years ago—though I suppose we might make allowance for the idealization of nostalgia.”
    “Why isn’t it that way now?”
    “Because it isn’t maintained properly. I told you about decay.”
    Seldon frowned. “Surely, people don’t sit around and say, ‘We’re decaying. Let’s let the Expressways fall apart.’ ”
    “No, they don’t. It’s not a purposeful thing. Bad spots are patched, decrepit coaches refurbished, magnets replaced. However, it’s done in more slapdash fashion, more carelessly, and at greater intervals. There just aren’t enough credits available.”
    “Where have the credits gone?”
    “Into other things. We’ve had centuries of unrest.
    The navy is much larger and many times more expensive than it once was. The armed forces are much better-paid, in order to keep them quiet. Unrest, revolts, and minor blazes of civil war all take their toll.”
    “But it’s been quiet under Cleon. And we’ve had fifty years of peace.”
    “Yes, but soldiers who are well-paid would resent having that pay reduced just because there is peace. Admirals resist mothballing ships and having themselves reduced in rank simply because there is less for them to do. So the credits still go—unproductively—to the armed forces and vital areas of the social good are allowed to deteriorate. That’s what I call decay. Don’t you? Don’t you think that eventually you would fit that sort of view into your psychohistorical notions?”
    Seldon stirred uneasily. Then he said, “Where are we going, by the way?”
    “Streeling University.”
    “Ah, that’s why the sector’s name was familiar. I’ve heard of the University.”
    “I’m not surprised. Trantor has nearly a hundred thousand institutions of higher learning and Streeling is one of the thousand or so at the top of the heap.”
    “Will I be staying there?”
    “For a while. University campuses are unbreachable sanctuaries, by and large. You will be safe there.”
    “But will I be welcome there?”
    “Why not? It’s hard to find a good mathematician these days. They might be able to use you. And you might be able to use them too—and for more than just a hiding place.”
    “You mean, it will be a place where I can develop my notions.”
    “You have promised,” said Hummin gravely.
    “I have promised to
try
,” said Seldon and thought to himself that it was about like promising to try to make a rope out of sand.

15
    Conversation had run out after that and Seldon watched the structures of the Streeling Sector as they passed. Some were quite low, while some seemed to brush the “sky.” Wide crosspassages broke the progression and frequent alleys could be seen.
    At one point, it struck him that though the buildings rose upward they also swept downward and that perhaps they were deeper than they were high. As soon as the thought occurred to him, he was convinced it was true.
    Occasionally, he saw patches of green in the background, farther back from the Expressway, and even small trees.
    He watched for quite a while and then became aware that the light was growing dimmer. He squinted about and turned to Hummin, who guessed the question.
    “The afternoon is waning,” he said, “and night is coming on.”
    Seldon’s eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned downward. “That’s impressive. I have a picture of the entire planet darkening and then, some hours from now,