chaos theory and isaac asimov's foundation series

I just finished reading Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy – Foundation, Foundation and Empire, Second Foundation – with tentative plans to continue with other books in the series except for those not written by him. However, as much as I’d like to acknowledge the importance the series has within science fiction literature, I don’t find them as interesting or complex as his robot series. In part, the issue lies with his conception of psychohistory, the fictional mathematical science of predicting future events based on a statistical analyses of the behaviour of large groups of individuals. As implemented in his stories, psychohistory predicts the decay and fall of a galactic empire followed by a long period of barbarism and chaos. The “last and greatest” of the psychohistorians, Hari Seldon, uses the science to create a plan that would reduce these dark ages from thirty thousand to one thousand years through the creation of two Foundations.

From a storytelling perspective, the Seldon Plan is much like those prophecies in fantasy novels. The Seldon Plan, which is unknown to key players on account of the fact that psychohistorical predictions won’t work if people are aware of the predictions, is such that the First Foundation can never fail. This results in stories whose protagonists must deal with key crises in a disordered, Empire-less universe by gradually recognizing the only option circumstances affords them, which means Foundation and the first half of Foundation and Empire are ultimately anticlimactic in the sense that we’re reading about characters following a prescribed plan.

Asimov mixes things up a bit in the second half of Foundation and Empire by introducing his conception of a flaw in the Seldon Plan. Where the plan deals with the behaviour of large groups, there is always a risk posed by unpredictable individuals. Hence, the Mule’s conquest of the Foundation and the rationale for the Second Foundation. Where the First is responsible for blindly carrying out the Seldon Plan based on group statistics, the Second is responsible for overseeing the plan’s execution and deal with individual threats. Again, it’s riveting stuff, but Asimov introduces a different kind of anticlimax. Consisting of psychohistorians not only aware of psychohistory and the details of the Seldon Plan but able to improve upon of it, the Second Foundation consists of telepathic people capable of predicting the future with such precision they can set into motion complex stratagems to manipulate events to their desired outcomes. So we read a story about characters who can’t tell whether they’re being manipulated or not, acting in a way that they believe ultimately supports their agenda, only for us to discover that the entire plot has been planned out by the Second Foundation from the beginning.

Critically, the original trilogy was written in the 40s-50s-60s. But it’s the 70s that saw the development of the theory that refutes psychohistory’s core premise: chaos theory, the notion that even the slightest change in a deterministic system can create wild, unpredictable variance. On a more common sense level, however, it’s clear that Asimov’s conception of psychohistory doesn’t take into account unpredictable natural disasters; an asteroid strikes the ship carrying the Prime Radiant (the device containing the mathematics of the Seldon Plan), an outbreak of an incurable infectious disease, etc.. So as much as the idea is interesting, psychohistory is as implausible as it dramatically unsatisfying. Of course, implausibility isn’t necessarily an obstacle – science fiction is speculative, after all – but Second Foundation wasn’t helped by the fact that the final revelations were predictable.

film review: moon

Just when I was beginning to despair with finding a decent, let alone good, science fiction movie, along comes the superlative Moon to serve as a reminder that it is possible to tell meaningful science fiction stories without resorting to violent action or made-up technobabble. Impressive is how thematically layered the film is...ut that conversation is best kept for a time when spoilers aren't a problem. All that need be said now is that Moon is an outstanding film not to be missed.

Fly Me to the Moon for an Unforgettable Trip

long road ghost - part 9 of 9 (conclusion)

“Gang warfare,” the Sheriff said. I didn’t have the heart to argue with him. Besides, with the hit my noggin’ took, who knows if I remembered what happened rightly. All I knew was that Alex was missin’, Brom had also disappeared, and a twisted piece of scrap was all that remained of the bikes, mine included. Mornin’ traffic, I learned, is what found us.

The next few weeks were really quiet, the days spent livin’ the old, much-loved routine of pourin’ drinks and fixin’ bikes – and the Bonneville needed a lot of extra lovin’. Then, against all expectations, Brom came in one night, lookin’ like he hadn’t slept in days and was bein’ chased by Old Nick himself. Bloodshot eyes, dirty; his good looks had gone the way of his sanity. But I gave him a beer on the house, feelin’ sorry for him as he yammered on wildly about the headless rider and the cops.

“I can’t be out at night,” he kept sayin’. “I can’t be out at night.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to offer him a spot to sleep in some dusty corner of the bar; he was wanted by the police and I sure as hell didn’t want to cross Monk. Then again, the softie in me didn’t want to see Brom get killed or driven insane before gettin’ a chance to set his life on the right path. But before I could make a decision, Brom jumped off the bar stool and rushed out to a shiny bike – a Suzuki, of all things. I followed as quick as I can, only to see Brom ride off into the moonlit distance on a bike he probably stole. The sound of another motorcycle, like an angry dog, startled me. I turned to see a black and chrome Harley Road King. The rider wasn’t headless, but it seemed as if he burned with the blue-white flame I’d seen on the headless rider. I got in closer for a better look and almost jumped out of my skin when the rider turned to look at me. Within the flame, partially hidden by a black helmet, I thought I recognized Alex Crane, only his narrow face was twisted into the ugliness of a man possessed by anger. I didn’t have a chance to find out for sure; he sped off in the same direction as Brom. I’m not sure why I didn’t follow. Scared, I guess. None of it made any sense.

The doctors said I might suffer some lingerin’ effects from the concussion. Whatever, as the kids say these days. I still didn’t sleep well for many nights after that, and I still get a mighty big shiver whenever someone mentions the headless rider. And I never did see Brom or Alex again. I eventually did tell the Sheriff what I saw, not that it helped any.

A few months after the whole thing peaked in a TV news frenzy and went the way of the latest celebrity fuck-up scandal, Monk stopped by for a beer. Even out of uniform – he had on blue jeans, a clean-pressed white shirt, worn black cowboy boots – the man looked like he could stop a freight train in its tracks with only a stare. But he was in as good a mood as I’d ever seen him, despite the frustration that he’d had no leads in what was now bein’ called the Headless Rider murders. Monk hated the name and without saying a word he let me know what he thought about me blabbin’ my mouth off to the press and givin’ em ideas. I just blamed it on too much beer, though when I sobered up I regretted feeding’ the red meat to the newshounds.

“Ghost and ghouls and goblins, huh,” he said. Seein’ as everythin’ was quiet, I poured the Sheriff and me a pint of that Newcastle the customers kept ravin’ about and leaned on the bar across from him. The radio belted out a static-filled oldie.

“Ghosts and ghouls and goblins,” I said, and we clinked bottles. “Unless you still think its gang warfare.”

He laughed. It sounded like breakin’ glass. “Who the hell knows? Probably not. But who the hell knows?”

When I didn’t say anything, he added, “I ain’t gonna tell what you did or didn’t see. I wasn’t there. Whether it was some headless spectre you saw or it was something else, I can’t say.”

“Guess we’ll never know.”

“Guess not. The evidence ain’t speaking. But I’ll say this.”

“Yeah?”

“Thinking about Alex and Katrina…I’m probably too far gone to find myself a woman to get old and wrinkly with,” Monk said. “But if I do, I’d sure hope…”

I knew where he was goin’ with it. I had been thinkin’ the same. Here we were, two old men hangin’ on to the glory days, faced with not much more than more of the same, stuck with somethin’ we couldn’t explain, and one question that burned more than any other. Without an answer – who could say anythin’ about love’s rise and fall? – we drank our beers in silence.

Finis

Missed a part of Long Road Ghost? Catch up by clicking here.

film review: the notorious newman brothers

Don't you just love it a fun little movie? I sure do. And this is certainly a fun, if flawed, little movie.

The Notorious Newman Brothers: Gangsters Gone Silly

long road ghost - part 8 of 9

The sky was a bleedin’ red and with my eyesight not bein’ quite what it was it took a long time for me to adjust to the lack of daylight. By that time, Brom and Alex had already reached Rasor Road, revvin’ their engines and givin’ each other cold looks. They were none to happy to see me when I pulled up alongside them.

“Ain’t gonna solve nothin’,” I said. Leanin’ closer to Alex, I suggested he let the law handle things. But he just got sad with the pain of a broken heart and said, “I don’t know what I want more; for me to be dead or that rat bastard.”

“If ya gonna get melodramatic about it,” I said. “Christ.”

And the two went off down the freeway, leavin’ me behind with a cloud of exhaust beneath a dark sky. But then I felt somethin’ strange, the hairs on the back of my neck standin’ straight. From nowhere in particular came the howlin’ sound of a motorcycle, like a wolf on acid. Then I felt something rush by me; it was too quick for me to see. My heart was beatin’ fast; I admit it. But I got on my bike and sped off after Brom and Alex and whatever else passed me by, swallowing my growin’ dread – I was very far from bein’ a fearless young buck.

I could feel the furious shakin’ power of my Bonneville between my legs as I gave the engine some gas and counted off the ticks to the 70 mph mark. It didn’t take long for me to catch up with Brom and Alex, who were each tryin’ hard to get the upper hand, but merely passin’ the lead back and forth. And damned if they weren’t alone. A headless rider dressed in black leathers, his stump burning with a blue-white flame like the one comin’ out of his exhaust, was gainin’ on them. I tried yellin’ out, feelin’ the fear build up in me like high-pressure steam, but the roar of engine and wind drowned me out. A goddamned headless rider who somehow always managed to stay ahead despite me pushin’ my growlin’ baby to the limit.

Brom and Alex were close enough to start tryin’ to push each other off their bikes. They swerved on the weirdly dead-quiet freeway – where the fuck was the traffic? – barely keepin’ control of themselves and their machines as they jabbed at each other. And on went the headless rider, that ghost outta hell. I saw him reach down to pull out a wicked blade, a machete with a motorcycle handlebar for a grip. Santa Claus was right; it did glow. I was almost close enough to the headless rider to do somethin’, but what that somethin’ would be I had no idea. That’s when he caught me by surprise by slowin’ down suddenly , forcin’ me to brake. The sudden change in speed made me lose control – a stupid thing, really, for an ol’ biker like me – and I wiped out, barely registering the sight of the headless rider swingin’ his blade towards Alex’s neck and loppin’ the poor guy’s head clean off.

I was lucky. Sometimes you’re meat…sometimes you’re not. I was five for five. But even with a helmet the shock to my head made me see things, like little silver stars, that weren’t there. It hurt like a motherfucker. I passed out.

When I came to, a young woman in a medic’s uniform was goin’ over me with a fine tooth comb, ignorin’ me when I said I was fine. Just a few cuts and bruises. Like I said, lucky. Sheriff Monk, cars with flashin’ lights behind him, loomed over me and didn’t waste time hasslin’ me for details of what happened. I told him what I could, leavin’ out the loopy-soundin’ headless flamin’ parts. When I asked about Alex, he told me they didn’t find head, or body, or motorcycle. That gave me the chills.

Next week...the conclusion!