Foundation and Chaos - Bear Greg (книга бесплатный формат txt) 📗

Hari took to pacing, the famed exercise of the imprisoned man. He had precisely six meters to pace in one direction, three another. A veritable luxury compared to the other cell…But not enough to give him any feeling of accomplishment. After a few hours, he stopped that as well.

He had been in this cell less than four days, and already he was regretting his past love of small, enclosed spaces. He had been born beneath the wide skies of Helicon, and had at first found these covered environs a little daunting, even depressing, but his long decades on Trantor had gradually inured him. Then he had come to prefer them…

Until now.

He could not understand why he had ever adopted the use of the Trantorian expletive of “Sky!”

Again, an hour passed without his notice. He got up from the small desk and rubbed his hands together; they tingled slightly. What if he became ill and died before going to trial? All the preparations, all Hari’s machinations, all the tugged and woven threads of political influence-for nothing!

He began to sweat. Perhaps his mind was going. Chen would not shy from using drugs to debilitate him, would he? The Chief Commissioner used his dedication to Imperial justice as a convenient mask, surely; but Hari still could not bring himself to believe that Chen was exceptionally intelligent. Blunt measures might suit Chen perfectly, and he had enough power to conceal the evidence, destroy it.

Destroy Hari Seldon, without his even knowing. “I hate power. I hate the powerful.” Yet Hari had himself once held power, even quietly reveled in it, certainly not shied away from wielding it. Hari had ordered the suppression of the Chaos Worlds-those brief and tragic flowerings of excess creativity and dissent.

Why?

He had imprisoned them in political and financial straitjackets. He regretted that necessity most of all the things he had done in the name of psychohistory…And this legacy had been left untouched for the heavy hand of Linge Chen and Klayus to swing like a bludgeon.

He lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Was it night, above the metal skin of Trantor? Night beneath the domes, with the darkling sunset and midnight ceils of the municipalities announcing an end to the day’s labors?

For him, for Hari, what labors?

He dreamed he was a pan again, in the garden park, with Dors playing an opposite female, their minds welded to the minds of the simians. The threat to his life, and Dors’ defense. Power and play and danger and victory in such close combinations. Heady.

Now, this punishment.

Claustrophilia. That was what Yugo had called the love of the metal-skinned worlds’ inhabitants for their confinement. Yet there had always been worlds buried in rock, always been worlds clad at least in part in metal shields against the wet and violent skies. Sky. The curse. Sky. The freedom.

“Our Father in Heaven forgives you as He forgives all the transgressions of the saints.”

This lovely female voice floated through his vague thoughts. He knew it instantly. There was something at once rich and ancient about it, a voice from a time before most human memory.

Joan! What a strange dream this is. You’re gone, decades gone. You helped me when I was First Minister-but I gave you your freedom to travel with the wraiths, the meme-minds, to the stars. You are an almost forgotten bit of history for me now. How seldom I think of you!

“How often I think of you. Saint Hari, who has sacrificed his life for-”

I’m no saint! I’ve suppressed the dreams of billions.

“How well I know. Our debate many decades ago collapsed much as the bright candles of a thousand dissenting and restless Renaissance worlds have been snuffed…For the sake of divine order, the grand scheme. We helped you in your first position of power, in exchange for our freedom, and the freedom of all the meme-minds. But Voltaire and I quarreled again-it was inevitable. I was beginning to see a larger picture, encompassing your work as part of the divine plan. Voltaire flew away in disgust, across the Galaxy, leaving me here, to contemplate all I had learned. Now comes your time of Trial, and I fear you risk a darker despair than the time at Gethsemane for our Lord.”

At this, Hari had to laugh and half cry at once. Voltaire despised me at the last. Snuffing out freedom, suppressing the Renaissance Worlds. And you didn’t think that way about me when last we talked. He seemed to be half awake, and wholly enmeshed in this…vision! I made love to a machine for years. By your conception, your philosophy

“I have acquired more wisdom, more understanding. You were given an angel, a partner-protector. She was sent by the emissaries of God, and ordained for her task by the supreme emissary.”

Hari was too frightened now, an almost panic darkness in his mind, to ask who that might be, in this imaginary Joan’s conception. But-Who? Who is that?

“The Eternal, who opposes the forces of chaos. Daneel, who was Demerzel.”

Now he knew this was out of his own mind, worse than a dream. Once you acquiesced in the killing of the machines-the robots.

“I have seen deeper truths.”

Hari felt the tight strictures of Daneel’s controls. Please go, leave me be! he said, and rolled over on the cot.

As he rolled, his eyes swung open and he saw an old, broken-down tiktok standing near him in his cell. He shoved up from the cot.

The cell’s door was still closed and locked.

The tiktok was marked with prison colors, yellow and black. It must have been a maintenance machine before the tiktoks rebelled, threatened the Empire, and were deactivated. He could not imagine how it would have gotten into the cell, unless it had been sent on purpose.

The tiktok backed away with a sandy whine, and a face appeared in front of the machine, about a meter and a half above the floor, a projection, followed by a body, small and slender and strong, as if brushed in, wrapping around the tiktok like a shadow in a bright room.

Hari’s neck hair rose with sharp prickles, and his breath seemed to stick in his chest. For a moment, as if caught in a nightmare, he could not speak. Then he sucked in a breath and jerked away from the machine.

“Help!” he screamed, his voice cracking. Panic darkness seemed to fill him. His chest might have been collapsing. All the fear, all the tension, the anticipation

“Do not cry out, Hari!” The voice was vaguely female, mechanical in the old tiktok way.

“I mean no harm, no concern.”

“Joan!” He breathed this name aloud, but much more softly.

But the old machine was failing, its last power draining. Hari sat up on the side of the bed and watched the lights on its body slowly dim.

“Take courage, Hari Seldon. He and I stand in opposition now, once more, as we always did. We have quarrelllleed.” The words slurred, slowed. “We haaavve seppparrrrateddd.”

The tiktok stopped dead.

The hatch burst open with a loud sigh and three guards entered. One immediately fired a bolt weapon that blew the old tiktok down to the floor. The others booted and kicked the small unit into a corner and shielded Hari from anything more it might do. Two more guards entered and dragged Hari out of the cell by his shoulders. Feebly, Hari kicked his heels against the smooth floor to help the men along.

“Are you sure you don’t want me dead?” he asked querulously.

“Sky, no!” the guard on his right cried out brusquely. “It would mean our lives if you’re hurt. You’re in the most secure cell on Trantor-”

“So we thought ,” the other guard said grimly, and they lifted Hari to his feet and tried to brush him down. They had dragged him ten or fifteen meters down the straight corridor. Hari stared at this immense, welcome distance, this refreshing extension, and caught his breath.