The innovative thrust of the sciences had slowly ground down. The Imperial Universities produced fine engineers, but no inventors. Great scholars, but few true scientists. That factored into the other tides of time.
Only independent businesses such as this, he reflected, continued the momentum which had driven the entire Empire for so long. But they were wildflowers, often crushed beneath the boot of Imperial politics and inertia.
“Dr. Seldon?” a voice asked at his elbow, startling Hari out of his rumination. He nodded.
“We do have your permission as well?”
“Ah, to do what?”
“To use these.” Yugo stood and lifted onto the table his two carry-cases. He unzipped them and two ferrite cores stood revealed.
“The Sark sims, gentlemen.”
Hari gaped. “I thought Dors—”
“Smashed ’em? She thought so, too. I used two old, worthless data-cores in your office that day.”
“You knew she would—”
“I gotta respect that lady—quick and strong-minded, she is.” Yugo shrugged. “I figured she might get a little…provoked.”
Hari smiled. Suddenly he knew that he had been repressing real anger at Dors for her high-handed act. Now he released it in a fit of hearty laughter. “Wonderful! Wife or not, there are limits.”
He howled so hard tears sprang to his eyes. The guffaws spread around the table and Hari felt better than he had in weeks. For a moment all the nagging University details, the ministership, everything—fell away.
“Then we do have your permission, Dr. Seldon? To use the sims?” a young man at his elbow asked again.
“Of course, though I will want to keep close tabs on some, ah, research interests of mine. Will that be possible, Mr.…?”
“Marq Hofti. We’d be honored, sir, if you could spare the project some time. I’ll do my best—”
“And I.” A young woman stood at his other elbow. “Sybyl,” she said, and shook hands. They both appeared quite competent, neat, and efficient. Hari puzzled at the looks bordering on reverence they gave him. After all, he was just a mathist, like them.
Then he laughed again, heartily, a curiously liberating bark. He had just thought of what it would be like to tell Dors about the data-cores.
Part 2
The Rose Meets
the Scalpel
COMPUTATIONAL REPRESENTATION—…it is clear that, except for occasional outbursts, the taboos against advanced, artificial intelligences head throughout the Empire through the great sweep of historical time. This uniformity of cultural opinion probably reflects tragedies and traumas with artificial forms far back in pre-Empire ages. There are records of early transgressions by self-aware programs, including those by “sims,” or self-organizing simulations. Apparently the pre-ancients enjoyed recreating personalities of their own past, perhaps for instruction or amusement or even research. None of these are known to survive, but tales persist that they were once a high art.
Of darker implication are the narratives which hypothesize self-aware intelligences lodged in bodies resembling human. While low-order mechanical forms are customarily allowed throughout the Empire, these “tiktoks” constitute no competition with humans, since they perform only simple and often disagreeable tasks….
— ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
1.
Joan of Arc wakened inside an amber dream. Cool breezes caressed her, odd noises reverberated. She heard before she saw—
—and abruptly found herself sitting outdoors. She noted things one at a time, as though some part of herself were counting them.
Soft air. Before her, a smooth round table.
Pressing against her, an unsettling white chair. Its seat, unlike those in her home village of Domremy, was not hand-hewn of wood. Its smooth slickness lewdly aped her contours. She reddened.
Strangers. One, two, three…winking into being before her eyes.
They moved. Peculiar people. She could not tell woman from man, except for those whose pantaloons and tunics outlined their intimate
Only independent businesses such as this, he reflected, continued the momentum which had driven the entire Empire for so long. But they were wildflowers, often crushed beneath the boot of Imperial politics and inertia.
“Dr. Seldon?” a voice asked at his elbow, startling Hari out of his rumination. He nodded.
“We do have your permission as well?”
“Ah, to do what?”
“To use these.” Yugo stood and lifted onto the table his two carry-cases. He unzipped them and two ferrite cores stood revealed.
“The Sark sims, gentlemen.”
Hari gaped. “I thought Dors—”
“Smashed ’em? She thought so, too. I used two old, worthless data-cores in your office that day.”
“You knew she would—”
“I gotta respect that lady—quick and strong-minded, she is.” Yugo shrugged. “I figured she might get a little…provoked.”
Hari smiled. Suddenly he knew that he had been repressing real anger at Dors for her high-handed act. Now he released it in a fit of hearty laughter. “Wonderful! Wife or not, there are limits.”
He howled so hard tears sprang to his eyes. The guffaws spread around the table and Hari felt better than he had in weeks. For a moment all the nagging University details, the ministership, everything—fell away.
“Then we do have your permission, Dr. Seldon? To use the sims?” a young man at his elbow asked again.
“Of course, though I will want to keep close tabs on some, ah, research interests of mine. Will that be possible, Mr.…?”
“Marq Hofti. We’d be honored, sir, if you could spare the project some time. I’ll do my best—”
“And I.” A young woman stood at his other elbow. “Sybyl,” she said, and shook hands. They both appeared quite competent, neat, and efficient. Hari puzzled at the looks bordering on reverence they gave him. After all, he was just a mathist, like them.
Then he laughed again, heartily, a curiously liberating bark. He had just thought of what it would be like to tell Dors about the data-cores.
Part 2
The Rose Meets
the Scalpel
COMPUTATIONAL REPRESENTATION—…it is clear that, except for occasional outbursts, the taboos against advanced, artificial intelligences head throughout the Empire through the great sweep of historical time. This uniformity of cultural opinion probably reflects tragedies and traumas with artificial forms far back in pre-Empire ages. There are records of early transgressions by self-aware programs, including those by “sims,” or self-organizing simulations. Apparently the pre-ancients enjoyed recreating personalities of their own past, perhaps for instruction or amusement or even research. None of these are known to survive, but tales persist that they were once a high art.
Of darker implication are the narratives which hypothesize self-aware intelligences lodged in bodies resembling human. While low-order mechanical forms are customarily allowed throughout the Empire, these “tiktoks” constitute no competition with humans, since they perform only simple and often disagreeable tasks….
— ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
1.
Joan of Arc wakened inside an amber dream. Cool breezes caressed her, odd noises reverberated. She heard before she saw—
—and abruptly found herself sitting outdoors. She noted things one at a time, as though some part of herself were counting them.
Soft air. Before her, a smooth round table.
Pressing against her, an unsettling white chair. Its seat, unlike those in her home village of Domremy, was not hand-hewn of wood. Its smooth slickness lewdly aped her contours. She reddened.
Strangers. One, two, three…winking into being before her eyes.
They moved. Peculiar people. She could not tell woman from man, except for those whose pantaloons and tunics outlined their intimate
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