Hari shook his head disbelievingly. “A…senso?”
She adjusted her formal suit by wriggling in his office’s guest chair. “This is an advanced program. All mathists are charged to submit Boon Behests.”
“We are completely unqualified to compose-”
“I understand your hesitation. Yet we at the Ministry feel these senso-symphonies will be just the thing needed to energize a, well, an art form which is showing little progress.”
“I don’t get it.”
She begrudgingly gave him a completely unconvincing, stilted smile. “The way we envision this new sort of senso-symphony, the artists-the mathists, that is-will transmogrify basic structures of thought, such as Euclidean conceptual edifices, or transfinite set theory fabrications. These will be translated by an art strainer-”
“Which is?”
“A computer filter which distributes conceptual patterns into a broad selection of sensory avenues.”
Hari sighed. “I see.” This woman had power and he had to listen to her. His psychohistory funding was secure, coming from the Emperor’s private largess. But the Streeling department could not ignore the Imperial Boon Board or its lackeys, such as the one before him. Such was boonmanship.
Far from being relaxed, meditative groves of quiet inquiry, research universities were intense, competitive, high-pressure marathons. The meritocrats-scholars and scientists alike-put in long hours, had stress-related health problems, high divorce rates, and few offspring. They cut up their results into bite-sized chunks, in pursuit of the Least Publishable Unit, so to magnify their lists of papers.
To gain a boon from the Imperial Offices one did the basic labor: Filling Out Forms. Hari knew well the bewildering maze of cross-linked questions. List and analyze type and “texture” of funding. Estimate fringe benefits. Describe kind of lab and computer equipment needed (can existing resources be modified to suit?). Elucidate philosophical stance of the proposed work.
The pyramid of power meant that the most experienced scholars did little scholarship. Instead, they managed and played the endless games of boonsmanship. The Greys grimly saw to it that no box went unchecked. About ten percent of boon petitions received funds, and then after two years’ delay, and for about half the requested money.
Worse, since the lead time was so great, there was a premium on hitting the nail squarely on the head with every boon. To be sure a study would work, most of it was done before writing the boon petition. This insured that there were no “holes” in the petition, no unexpected swerves in the work.
This meant scholarship and research had become mostly surprise-free, as well. No one seemed to notice that this robbed them of their central joy: the excitement of the unexpected.
“I will…speak to my department.” Order them to do it, would have been more honest. But one did try to preserve the amenities.
When she had left, Dors came into his office immediately, with Yugo right behind. “I will not work with these!” she said, eyes flaring.
Hari studied two large blocks of what seemed to be stone. Yet they could not be that heavy, for Yugo cradled one in each open palm. “The sims?” he guessed.
“In ferrite cores,” Yugo said proudly. “Stuck down in a rat’s warren, on a planet named Sark.”
“The world with that ‘New Renaissance’ movement?”
“Yeah-kinda crazy, dealin’ with them. I got the sims, though. They just came in, Worm Express. The woman in charge there, a Buta Fyrnix, wants to talk to you.”
“I said I didn’t want to be involved.”
“Part of the deal is she gets a face-to-face.”
Hari blinked, alarmed. “She’d come all the way here?”
“No, but they’re payin’ for a tightbeam. She’s standin’ by. I’ve routed her through. Just punch for the link.”
Hari had the distinct feeling that he was being hustled into something risky, far beyond the limits of his ordinary caution. Tightbeam time was expensive, because the Imperial wormhole system had been impacted with flow for millennia. Using it for a face-to-face was simply decadent, he felt. If this Fyrnix woman was paying for galactic-scale standby time, just to chat with a mathist…
Spare me from the enthused,Hari thought. “Well, all right.”
Buta Fyrnix was a tall, hot-eyed woman who smiled brightly as her image blossomed in the office. “Professor Seldon! I was so happy that your staff has taken an interest in our New Renaissance.”
“Well, actually, I gather it’s about those simulations.” For once, he was grateful for the two-second delay in transmission. The biggest wormhole mouth was a light-second from Trantor, and apparently Sark had about the same.
“Of course! We found truly ancient archives. Our progressive movement here is knocking over the old barriers, you’ll find.”
“I hope the research will prove interesting,” Hari said neutrally. How did Yugo get him into this?
“We’re turning up things that will open your eyes, Dr. Seldon.” She turned and gestured at the scene behind her, a large warren crammed with ancient ceramo storage racks. “We’re hoping to blow the lid off the whole question of pre-Empire origins, the Earth legend-the works!”
“I, ah, I will be very happy to see what results.”
“You’ve got to come and see it for yourself. A mathist like you will be impressed. Our Renaissance is just the sort of forward-looking enterprise that young, vigorous planets need. Do say you’ll pay us a visit-a state visit, we hope.”
Apparently the woman wanted to invest in a future First Minister. It took him more unbearable minutes to get away from her. He glowered at Yugo when at last her image wilted in the air.
“Hey, I got us a good deal, providing she got to do a li’l sell job on you,” Yugo said, spreading his hands.
“At considerable under-the-table cost, I hope?” Hari asked, getting up. Carefully he put a hand on one cube and found it surprisingly cool. Within its shadowy interior he could see labyrinths of lattices and winding ribbons of refracted light, like tiny highways through a somber city.
“Sure,” Yugo said with casual assurance. “Got some Dahlites to, ah, massage the matter.”
Hari chuckled. “I don’t think I should hear about it.”
“As First Minister, you must not,” Dors said.
“I am not First Minister!”
“You could be-and soon. This simulation matter is too risky. And you even spoke to the Sark source! I will not work on or with them.”
Yugo said mildly, “Nobody’s askin’ you to.”
Hari rubbed the cool, slick surface of a ferrite block, hefted it-quite light-and took the two from Yugo. He put them on his desk. “How old?”
Yugo said, “Sark says they dunno, but must be at least-”
Dors moved suddenly. She yanked up the blocks, one in each hand, turned to the nearest wall-and smashed them together. The crash was deafening. Chunks of ferrite smacked against the wall. Grains of debris spattered Hari’s face.
Dors had absorbed the explosion. The stored energy in the blocks had erupted as the lattice cracked.
In the sudden silence afterward Dors stood adamantly rigid, hands covered with grainy dust. Her hands were bleeding and she had a cut on her left cheek. She gazed straight at him. “I am charged with your safety.”
Yugo drawled, “Sure a funny way to show it.”
“I had to protect you from a potentially-”
“By destroying an ancient artifact?” Hari demanded.
“I smothered nearly all the eruption, minimizing your risk. But yes, I deem this Sark involvement as-’’
“I know, I know.” Hari raised his hands, palms toward her, recalling.
The night before he had come home from his rather well-received speech to find Dors moody and withdrawn. Their bed had been a rather chilly battleground, too, though she would not come out and say what had irked her so. Winning through withdrawal, Hari had once termed it. But he had no idea she felt this deeply.
Marriage is a voyage of discovery that never ends,he thought ruefully.