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Alf-Inge       

Norway – 2006

 

 

 

Forward the Foundation

 

by Isaac Asimov

 

  

 

 

  

 

 PART 1

 

  

 

 ETO DEMERZEL

 

  

 

  

 

 1

 

 Hari," said Yugo Amaryl, "that your friend Demerzel is in deep trouble." He emphasized the word "friend" very lightly and with unmistakable air of distaste.

 

 Hari Seldon detected the sour note and ignored it. He looked up from his tricomputer and said, "I tell you again, Yugo, that that's nonsense." And then-with a trace of annoyance, just a trace-he added, "Why are you taking up my time by insisting?"

 

 "Because I think it's important." Amaryl sat down defiantly. It was a gesture that indicated he was not going to be moved easily. Here he was and here he would stay.

 

 Eight years before, he had been a heatsinker in the Dahl Sector-as low on the social scale as it was possible to be. He had been lifted out of that position by Seldon made into a mathematician and an intellectual-more than that, into a psychohistorian.

 

 Never for one minute did he forget what he had been and who he was now and to whom he owed the change. That meant that if he had to speak harshly to Hari Seldon-for Seldon's own good-no consideration of respect and love for the older man and no regard for his own career would stop him. He owed such harshness-and much more-to Seldon.

 

 "Look, Hari," he said, chopping at the air with his left hand, "for some reason that is beyond my understanding, you think highly of this Demerzel, but I don't. No one whose opinion I respect-except you-thinks well of him. I don't care what happens to him personally, Hari, but as long as I think you do, I have no choice but to bring this to your attention."

 

 Seldon smiled, as much at the other's earnestness as at what he considered to be the uselessness of his concern. He was fond of Yugo Amaryl-more than fond. Yugo was one of the four people he had encountered during that short period of his life when he was in flight across the face of the planet Trantor-Eto Demerzel, Dors Venabili, Yugo Amaryl, and Raych-four, the likes of which he had not found since.

 

 In a particular and, in each case, different way, these four were indispensable to him-Yugo Amaryl, because of his quick understanding of the principles of psychohistory and of his imaginative probings into new areas. It was comforting to know that if anything happened to Seldon himself before the mathematics of the field could be completely worked out-and how slowly it proceeded, and how mountainous the obstacles there would at least remain one good mind that would continue the research.

 

 He said, "I'm sorry, Yugo. I don't mean to be impatient with you or to reject out of hand whatever it is you are so anxious to make me understand. It's just this job of mine; it's this business of being a department head-"

 

 Amaryl found it his turn to smile and he repressed a slight chuckle. "I'm sorry, Hari, and I shouldn't laugh, but you have no natural aptitude for the position."

 

 "As well I know, but I'll have to learn. I have to seem to be doing something harmless and there is nothing-nothing-more harmless than being the head of the Mathematics Department at Streeling University. I can fill my day with unimportant tasks, so that no one need know or ask about the course of our psychohistorical research, but the trouble is, I do fill my day with unimportant tasks and I have insufficient time to-" His eyes glanced around his office at the material stored in computers to which only he and Amaryl had the key and which, even if anyone else stumbled upon them, had been carefully phrased in an invented symbology that no one else would understand.

 

 Amaryl said, "Once you work your way further into your duties, you'll begin to delegate and then you'll have more time."

 

 "I hope so," said Seldon dubiously. "But tell me, what is it about Eto Demerzel that is so important?"

 

 "Simply that Eto Demerzel, our great Emperor's First Minister, is busily creating an insurrection."

 

 Seldon frowned. "Why would he want to do that?"

 

 "I didn't say he wants to. He's simply doing it-whether he knows it or not-and with considerable help from some of his political enemies. That's all right with me, you understand. I think that, under ideal conditions, it would be a good thing to have him out of the Palace, off Trantor . . . beyond the Empire, for that matter. But you think highly of him, as I've said, and so I'm warning you, because I suspect that you are not following the recent political course of events as closely as you should."

 

 "There are more important things to do," said Seldon mildly.

 

 "Like psychohistory. I agree. But how are we going to develop psychohistory with any hope of success if we remain ignorant of politics? 1 mean, present-day politics. Now-now-is the time when the present is turning into the future. We can't just study the past. We know what happened in the past. It's against the present and the near future that we can check our results."

 

 "It seems to me," said Seldon, "that I have heard this argument before."

 

 "And you'll hear it again. It doesn't seem to do me any good to explain this to you."

 

 Seldon sighed, sat back in his chair, and regarded Amaryl with a smile. The younger man could be abrasive, but he took psychohistory seriously-and that repaid all.

 

 Amaryl still had the mark of his early years as a heatsinker. He had the broad shoulders and the muscular build of one who had been used to hard physical labor. He had not allowed his body to turn flabby and that was a good thing, for it inspired Seldon to resist the impulse to spend all of his time at the desk as well. He did not have Amaryl’s sheer physical strength, but he still had his own talents as a Twister-for all that he had just turned forty and could not keep it up forever. But for now, he would continue. Thanks to his daily workouts, his waist was still trim, his legs and arms firm.

 

 He said, "This concern for Demerzel cannot be purely a matter of his being a friend of mine. You must have some other motive."

 

 "There's no puzzle to that. As long as you're a friend of Demerzel, your position here at the University is secure and you can continue to work on psychohistorical research."

 

 "There you are. So I do have a reason to be friends with him. It isn't beyond your understanding at all."

 

 "You have an interest in cultivating him. That, I understand. But as for friendship-that, I don't understand. However-if Demerzel lost lower, quite apart from the effect it might have on your position, then Cleon himself would be running the Empire and the rate of its decline would increase. Anarchy might then be upon us before we have worked out all the implications of psychohistory and made it possible for the science to save all humanity."

 

 "I see. -But, you know, I honestly don't think that we're going to work out psychohistory in time to prevent the Fall of the Empire."

 

 "Even if we could not prevent the Fall, we could cushion the effects, couldn't we?"

 

 "Perhaps."

 

 "There you are, then. The longer we have to work in peace, the greater the chance we will have to prevent the Fall or, at least, ameliorate the effects. Since that is the case, working backward, it may be necessary to save Demerzel, whether we-or, at least, I-like it or not."

 

 "Yet you just said that you would like to see him out of the Palace and away from Trantor and beyond the Empire."

 

 "Yes, under ideal conditions, I said. But we are not living under ideal conditions and we need our First Minister, even if he is an instrument of repression and despotism."

 

 "I see. But why do you think the Empire is so close to dissolution that the loss of a First Minister will bring it about?"

 

 "Psychohistory."

 

 "Are you using it for predictions? We haven't even gotten the framework in place. What predictions can you make?"

 

 "There's intuition, Hari."

 

 "There's always been intuition. We want something more, don't we? We want a mathematical treatment that will give us probabilities of specific future developments under this condition or that. If intuition suffices to guide us, we don't need psychohistory at all."

 

 "It's not necessarily a matter of one or the other, Hari. I'm talking about both: the combination, which may be better than either-at least until psychohistory is perfected."

 

 "If ever," said Seldon. "But tell me, where does this danger to Demerzel arise? What is it that is likely to harm him or overthrow him? Are we talking about Demerzel's overthrow?"

 

 "Yes," said Amaryl and a grim look settled on his face.

 

 "Then tell me. Have pity on my ignorance."

 

 Amaryl flushed. "You're being condescending, Hari. Surely you've heard of Jo-Jo Joranum."

 

 "Certainly. He's a demagogue- Wait, where's he from? Nishaya, right? A very unimportant world. Goat herding, I think. High-quality cheeses."

 

 "That's it. Not just a demagogue, however. He commands a strong following and it's getting stronger. He aims, he says, for social justice and greater political involvement by the people."

 

 "Yes," said Seldon. "I've heard that much. His slogan is: `Government belongs to the people.'"

 

 "Not quite, Hari. He says: `Government is the people.'"

 

 Seldon nodded. "Well, you know, I rather sympathize with the thought."

 

 "So do I. I'm all for it-if Joranum meant it. But he doesn't, except as a stepping-stone. It's a path, not a goal. He wants to get rid of Demerzel. After that it will be easy to manipulate Cleon. Then Joranum will take the throne himself and he will be the people. You've told me yourself that there have been a number of episodes of this sort in Imperial history-and these days the Empire is weaker and less stable than it used to be. A blow which, in earlier centuries, merely staggered it might now shatter it. The Empire will welter in civil war and never recover and we won't have psychohistory in place to teach us what must be done."

 

 "Yes, I see your point, but surely it's not going to be that easy to get rid of Demerzel."

 

 "You don't know how strong Joranum is growing."

 

 "It doesn't matter how strong he's growing." A shadow of thought seemed to pass over Seldon's brow. "I wonder that his parents came to name him Jo-Jo. There's something juvenile about that name."

 

 "His parents had nothing to do with it. His real name is Laskin, a very common name on Nishaya. He chose Jo-Jo himself, presumably from the first syllable of his last name."

 

 "The more fool he, wouldn't you say?"

 

 "No, I wouldn't. His followers shout it Jo . . . Jo . . . Jo . . . Jo'-over and over. It's hypnotic."

 

 "Well," said Seldon, making a move to return to his tricomputer and adjust the multidimensional simulation it had created, "we'll see what happens."

 

 "Can you be that casual about it? I'm telling you the danger is imminent."

 

 "No, it isn't," said Seldon, eyes steely, his voice suddenly hardening. "You don't have all the facts."

 

 "What facts don't I have?"

 

 "We'll discuss that another time, Yugo. For now, continue with your work and let me worry about Demerzel and the state of the Empire."

 

 Amaryl's lips tightened, but the habit of obedience to Seldon was strong. "Yes, Hari."

 

 But not overwhelmingly strong. He turned at the door and said, "You're making a mistake, Hari."

 

 Seldon smiled slightly. "I don't think so, but I have heard your warning and I will not forget. Still, all will be well."

 

 And as Amaryl left, Seldon's smile faded. -Would, indeed, all be well?

 

 2

 

 But Seldon, while he did not forget Amaryl's warning, did not think of it with any great degree of concentration. His fortieth birthday came and went-with the usual psychological blow.

 

 Forty! He was not young any longer. Life no longer stretched before him as a vast uncharted field, its horizon lost in the distance. He had been on Trantor for eight years and the time had passed quickly. Another eight years and he would be nearly fifty. Old age would be looming.

 

 And he had not even made a decent beginning in psychohistory? Yugo Amaryl spoke brightly of laws and worked out his equations by making daring assumptions based on intuition. But how could one possibly test those assumptions? Psychohistory was not yet an experimental science. The complete study of psychohistory would require experiments that would involve worlds of people, centuries of time-and a total lack of ethical responsibility.

 

 It posed an impossible problem and he resented having to spend any time whatever on departmental tasks, so he walked home at the end of the day in a morose mood.

 

 Ordinarily he could always count on a walk through the campus to rouse his spirits. Streeling University was high-domed and the campus gave the feeling of being out in the open without the necessity of enduring the kind of weather he had experienced on his one (and only) visit to the Imperial Palace. There were trees, lawns, walks, almost as though he were on the campus of his old college on his home world of Helicon.

 

 The illusion of cloudiness had been arranged for the day with the sunlight (no sun, of course, just sunlight) appearing and disappearing at odd intervals. And it was a little cool, just a little.

 

 It seemed to Seldon that the cool days came a little more frequently than they used to. Was Trantor saving energy? Was it increasing inefficiency? Or (and he scowled inwardly as he thought it) was he getting old and was his blood getting thin? He placed his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched up his shoulders.

 

 Usually he did not bother guiding himself consciously. His body knew the way perfectly from his offices to his computer room and from there to his apartment and back. Generally he negotiated the path with his thoughts elsewhere, but today a sound penetrated his consciousness. A sound without meaning.

 

 "Jo . . . Jo . . . Jo . . . Jo . . ."

 

 It was rather soft and distant, but it brought back a memory. Yes, Amaryl's warning. The demagogue. Was he here on campus?

 

 His legs swerved without Seldon's making a conscious decision and brought him over the low rise to the University Field, which was used for calisthenics, sports, and student oratory.

 

 In the middle of the Field was a moderate-sized crowd of students who were chanting enthusiastically. On a platform was someone he didn't recognize, someone with a loud voice and a swaying rhythm.

 

 It wasn't this man, Joranum, however. He had seen Joranum on holovision a number of times. Since Amaryl's warning, Seldon had paid close attention. Joranum was large and smiled with a kind of vicious camaraderie. He had thick sandy hair and light blue eyes.

 

 This speaker was small, if anything-thin, wide-mouthed, dark-haired, and loud. Seldon wasn't listening to the words, though he did hear the phrase "power from the one to the many" and the many-voiced shout in response.

 

 Fine, thought Seldon, but just how does he intend to bring this about -and is he serious?

 

 He was at the outskirts of the crowd now and looked around far someone he knew. He spotted Finangelos, a pret-math undergraduate. Not a bad young man, dark and woolly-haired.

 

 "Finangelos," he called out.

 

 "Professor Seldon" said Finangelos after a moment of staring as though unable to recognize Seldon without a keyboard at his fingertips he trotted over. "Did you come to listen to this guy?"

 

 "I didn't come for any purpose but to find out what the noise was. Who is he?"

 

 "His name is Namarti, Professor. He's speaking for Jo-Jo."

 

 "I hear that, " said Seldon as he listened to the chant again. It began each time the speaker made a telling point, apparently. "But who is this Namarti? I don't recognize the name. What department is he in?"

 

 "He's not a member of the University, Professor. He's one of Jo-Jo's men."

 

 "If he's not a member of the University, he has no right to speak here without a permit. Does he have one, do you suppose?"

 

 "I wouldn't know, Professor."

 

 "Well then, let's find out."

 

 Seldon started into the crowd, but Finangelos caught his sleeve. "Don't start anything, Professor. He's got goons with him."

 

 There were six young men behind the speaker, spaced rather widely, legs apart, arms folded, scowling.

 

 "Goons?"

 

 "For rough stuff, in case anyone tries anything funny."

 

 "Then he's certainly not a member of the University and even a permit wouldn't cover what you call his `goons'. -Finangelos, signal through to the University security officers. They should have been here by now without a signal."

 

 "I guess they don't want trouble," muttered Finangelos. "Please, Professor, don't try anything. If you want me to get the security officers, I will, but you just wait till they come."

 

 "Maybe I can break this up before they come."

 

 He began pushing his way through. It wasn't difficult. Some of those present recognized him and all could see the professorial shoulder patch. He reached the platform, placed his hands on it, and vaulted up the three feet with a small grunt. He thought, with chagrin, that he could have done it with one hand ten years before and without the grunt.

 

 He straightened up. The speaker had stopped talking and was looking at him with wary and ice-hard eyes.

 

 Seldon said calmly, "Your permit to address the students, sir."

 

 "Who are you?" said the speaker. He said it loudly, his voice carrying.

 

 "I'm a member of the faculty of this University," said Seldon, equally loudly. "Your permit, sir?"

 

 "I deny your right to question me on the matter." The young men behind the speaker had gathered closer.

 

 "If you have none, I would advise you to leave the University grounds immediately."

 

 "And if I don't?"

 

 "Well, for one thing, the University security officers are on their way." He turned to the crowd. "Students," he called out, "we have the right of free speech and freedom of assembly on this campus, but it can be taken away from us if we allow outsiders, without permits, to make unauthorized-"

 

 A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he winced. He turned around and found it was one of the men Finangelos had referred to as "goons."

 

 The man said, with a heavy accent whose provenance Seldon could not immediately identify, "Get out of here fast. "

 

 "What good will that do?" said Seldon. "The security officers will be here any minute."

 

 "In that case," said Namarti with a feral grin, "there'll be a riot. That doesn't scare us."

 

 "Of course it wouldn't," said Seldon. "You'd like it, but there won't be a riot. You'll all go quietly." He turned again to the students and shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. "We'll see to that, won't we?"

 

 Someone in the crowd shouted, "That's Professor Seldon! He's all right! Don't pound him!"

 

 Seldon sensed ambivalence in the crowd. There would be some, he knew, who would welcome a dust-up with the University security officers, just on general principles. On the other hand, there had to be some who liked him personally and still others who did not know him but who would not want to see violence against a member of the faculty.

 

 A woman's voice rang out. "Watch out, Professor!"

 

 Seldon sighed and regarded the large young men he faced. He didn't know if he could do it, if his reflexes were quick enough, his muscles sturdy enough, even given his prowess at Twisting.

 

 One goon was approaching him, overconfidently of course. Not quickly, which gave Seldon a little of the time his aging body would need. The goon held out his arm confrontationally, which made it easier.

 

 Seldon seized the arm, whirled, and bent, arm up, and then down (with a grunt why did he have to grunt?), and the goon went flying through the air, propelled partly by his own momentum. He landed with a thump on the outer edge of the platform, his right shoulder dislocated.

 

 There was a wild cry from the audience at this totally unexpected development. Instantly an institutional pride erupted.

 

 "Take them, Prof!" a lone voice shouted. Others took up the cry.

 

 Seldon smoothed back his hair, trying not to puff. With his foot he shoved the groaning fallen goon off the platform.

 

 "Anyone else?" he asked pleasantly. "Or will you leave quietly?"

 

 He faced Namarti and his five henchmen and as they paused irresolutely, Seldon said, "I warn you. The crowd is on my side now. If you try to rush me, they'll take you apart. -Okay, who's next? Let's go. One at a time."

 

 He had raised his voice with the last sentence and made small come-hither motions with his fingers. The crowd yelled its pleasure.

 

 Namarti stood there stolidly. Seldon leaped past him and caught his neck in the crook of his arm. Students were climbing onto the platform now, shouting "One at a time! One at a time!" and getting between the bodyguards and Seldon.

 

 Seldon increased the pressure on the other's windpipe and whispered in his ear, "There's a way to do this, Namarti, and I know how: I've practiced it for years. If you make a move and try to break away, I'll ruin your larynx so that you'll never talk above a whisper again. If you value your voice, do as I say. When I let up, you tell your bunch of bullies to leave. If you say anything else, they'll be the last words you'll say normally. And if you ever come back to this campus again, no more Mr. Nice Guy. I'll finish the job."

 

 He released the pressure momentarily. Namarti said huskily, "All of you. Get out." They retreated rapidly, helping their stricken comrade.

 

 When the University security officers arrived a few moments later, Seldon said, "Sorry, gentlemen. False alarm."

 

 He left the Field and resumed his walk home with more than a little chagrin. He had revealed a side of himself he did not want to reveal. He was Hari Seldon, mathematician, not Hari Seldon, sadistic twister.

 

 Besides, he thought gloomily, Dors would hear of this. In fact, he'd better tell her himself, lest she hear a version that made the incident seem worse than it really was.

 

 She would not be pleased.

 

 3

 

 She wasn't.

 

 Dors was waiting for him at the door of their apartment in an easy stance, hand on one hip, looking very much as she had when he had first met her at this very University eight years before: slim, shapely, with curly reddish-gold hair-very beautiful in his eyes but not very beautiful in any objective sense, though he had never been able to assess her objectively after the first few days of their friendship.

 

 Dors Venabili! That's what he thought when he saw her calm face. There were many worlds, even many sectors on Trantor where it would have been common to call her Dors Seldon, but that, he always thought, would put the mark of ownership on her and he did not wish it, even though the custom was sanctioned by existence back into the vague mists of the pre-Imperial past.

 

 Dors said, softly and with a sad shake of her head that barely disturbed her loose curls, "I've heard, Hari. Just what am I going to do with you?"

 

 "A kiss would not be amiss."

 

 "Well, perhaps, but only after we probe this a little. Come in." The door closed behind them. "You know, dear, I have my course and my research. I'm still doing that dreadful history of the Kingdom of Trantor, which you tell me is essential to your own work. Shall I drop it all and take to wandering around with you, protecting you? It's still my job, you know. It's more than ever my job, now that you're making progress with psychohistory."

 

 "Making progress? I wish I were. But you needn't protect me."

 

 "Needn't I? I sent Raych out looking for you. After all, you were late and I was concerned. You usually tell me when you're going to be late. I'm sorry if that makes me sound as though I'm your keeper, Hari, but I am your keeper."

 

 "Does it occur to you, Keeper Dors, that every once in a while I like to slip my leash?"

 

 "And if something happens to you, what do I tell Demerzel?"

 

 "Am I too late for dinner? Have we clicked for kitchen service?"

 

 "No. I was waiting for you. And as long as you're here, you click it. You're a great deal pickier than I am when it comes to food. And don't change the subject."

 

 "Didn't Raych tell you that I was all right? So what's there to talk about?"

 

 "When he found you, you were in control of the situation and he got back here first, but not by much. I didn't hear any details. Tell me-What-were-you-doing?"

 

 Seldon shrugged. "There was an illegal gathering, Dors, and I broke it up. The University could have gotten a good deal of trouble it didn't need if I hadn't."

 

 "And it was up to you to prevent it? Hari. you're not a Twister anymore. You're an-"

 

 He put in hastily, "An old man?"

 

 "For a Twister, yes. You're forty. How do you feel?"

 

 "Well- A little stiff."

 

 "I can well imagine. And one of these days, when you try to pretend you're a young Heliconian athlete, you'll break a rib. -Now tell me about it."

 

 "Well, I told you how Amaryl warned me that Demerzel was in trouble because of the demagoguery of Jo-Jo Joranum."

 

 "Jo-Jo. Yes, I know that much. What don't I know? What happened today?"

 

 "There was a rally at the Field. A Jo-Jo partisan named Namarti was addressing the crowd-"

 

 "Namarti is Gambol Deen Namarti, Joranum's right-hand man."

 

 "Well, you know more about it than I do. In any case, he was addressing a large crowd and he had no permit and I think he was hoping there would be some sort of riot. They feed on these disorders and if he could close down the University even temporarily, he would charge Demerzel with the destruction of academic freedom. I gather they blame him for everything. So I stopped them. -Sent them off without a riot."

 

 "You sound proud."

 

 "Why not? Not bad for a man of forty."

 

 "Is that why you did it? To test your status at forty?"

 

 Seldon thoughtfully clicked the dinner menu. Then he said, "No. I really was concerned that the University would get into needless trouble. And I was concerned about Demerzel. I'm afraid that Yugo's tales of danger had impressed me more than I realized. That was stupid, Dors, because I know that Demerzel can take care of himself. I couldn't explain that to Yugo or to anyone but you."

 

 He drew in a deep breath. "It's amazing what a pleasure it is that I can at least talk to you about it. You know and I know and Demerzel knows and no one else knows-at least, that I know of-that Demerzel is untouchable."

 

 Dors touched a contact on a recessed wall panel and the dining section of their living quarters lit up with a soft peach-colored glow. Together, she and Hari walked to the table, which was already set with linen, crystal, and utensils. As they sat, the dinner began to arrive-there was never any long delay at this time of evening-and Seldon accepted it quite casually. He had long since grown accustomed to the social position that made it unnecessary for them to patronize the faculty dinners.

 

 Seldon savored the seasonings they had learned to enjoy during their stay at Mycogen-the only thing about that strange, male-dominated, religion-permeated, living-in-the-past sector they had not detested.

 

 Dors said softly, "How do you mean, `untouchable'?"

 

 "Come, dear, he can alter emotions. You haven't forgotten that. If Joranum really became dangerous, he could be"-he made a vague gesture with his hands- `altered: made to change his mind."

 

 Dors looked uncomfortable and the meal proceeded in an unusual silence. It wasn't until it was over and the remains-dishes, cutlery, and all-swirled down the disposal chute in the center of the table (which then smoothly covered itself over) that she said, "I'm not sure I want to talk about this, Hari, but I can't let you be fooled by your own innocence."

 

 "Innocence?" He frowned.

 

 "Yes. We've never talked about this. I never thought it would come up, but Demerzel has shortcomings. He is not untouchable, he may be harmed, and Joranum is indeed a danger to him."

 

 "Are you serious?"

 

 "Of course I am. You don't understand robots-certainly not one as complex as Demerzel. And I do."

 

 4

 

 There was a short silence again, but only because thoughts are silent. Seldon's were tumultuous enough.

 

 Yes, it was true. His wife did seem to have an uncanny knowledge of robots. Hari had wondered about this so often over the years that he had finally given up, tucked it away in the back of his mind. If it hadn't been for Eto Demerzel-a robot-Hari would never have met Dors. For Dors worked for Demerzel; it was Demerzel who "assigned" Dors to Hari's case eight years ago to protect him during his flight throughout the various sectors of Trantor. Even though now she was his wife, his help-meet, his "'better half," Hari still occasionally wondered about Dors's strange connection with the robot Demerzel. It was the only area of Dors's life where Hari truly felt he did not belong-nor welcome. And that brought to mind the most painful question of all: Was it out of obedience to Demerzel that Dors stayed with Hari or was it out of love for him? He wanted to believe the latter-and yet . . .

 

 His life with Dors Venabili was a happy one, but it was so at a cost, at a condition. The condition was all the more stringent, in that it had been settled not through discussion or agreement but by a mutual unspoken understanding.

 

 Seldon understood that he found in Dors everything he would have wanted in a wife. True, he had no children, but he had neither expected any, nor, to tell the truth, had greatly wanted any. He had Raych, who was as much a son of his emotionally as if he had inherited the entire Seldonian genome-perhaps more so.

 

 The mere fact that Dors was causing him to think about the matter was breaking the agreement that had kept them in peace and comfort all these years and he felt a faint but growing resentment at that.

 

 But he pushed those thoughts, the questions, away again. He had learned to accept her role as his protector and would continue to do so. After all, it was he with whom she shared a home, a table, and a bed-not Eto Demerzel.

 

 Dors's voice brought him out of his reverie.

 

 "I said- Are you sulking, Hari?"

 

 He started slightly, for there was the sound of repetition in her voice, and he realized he had been shrinking steadily deeper into his mind and away from her.

 

 "I'm sorry, dear. I'm not sulking. -Not deliberately sulking. I'm just wondering how I ought to respond to your statement."

 

 "About robots?" She seemed quite calm as she said the word.

 

 "You said I don't know as much about them as you do. How do I respond to that?" He paused, then added quietly (knowing he was taking a chance), "That is, without offense."

 

 "I didn't say you didn't know about robots. If you're going to quote me, do so with precision. I said you didn't understand about robots. I'm sure that you know a great deal, perhaps more than I do, but to know is not necessarily to understand."

 

 "Now, Dors, you're deliberately speaking in paradoxes to be annoying. A paradox arises only out of an ambiguity that deceives either unwittingly or by design. I don't like that in science and I don't like it in casual conversation, either, unless it is meant humorously, which I think is not the case now."

 

 Dors laughed in her particular way, softly, almost as though amusement were too precious to be shared in an overliberal manner. "Apparently the paradox has annoyed you into pomposity and you are always humorous when you are pompous. However, I'll explain. It's not my intention to annoy you." She reached over to pat his hand and it was to Seldon's surprise (and slight embarrassment) that he found that he had clenched his hand into a fist.

 

 Dors said, "You talk about psychohistory a great deal. To me, at any rate. You know that?"

 

 Seldon cleared his throat. "I throw myself on your mercy as far as that's concerned. The project is secret-by its very nature. Psychohistory won't work unless the people it affects know nothing about it, so I can talk about it only to Yugo and to you. To Yugo, it is all intuition. He's brilliant, but he is so apt to leap wildly into darkness that I must play the role of caution, of forever pulling him back. But I have my wild thoughts, too, and it helps me to be able to hear them aloud, even"-and he smiled- "when I have a pretty good notion that you don't understand a word I'm saying."

 

 "I know I'm your sounding board and I don't mind. -I really don't mind, Hari, so don't begin making inner resolutions to change your behavior. Naturally I don't understand your mathematics. I'm just a historian-and not even a historian of science. The influence of economic change on political development is what is taking up my time now-"

 

 "Yes, and I'm your sounding board on that or hadn't you noticed? I'll need it for psychohistory when the time comes, so I suspect you'll be an indispensable help to me."

 

 "Good! Now that we've settled why you stay with me-I knew it couldn't be for my ethereal beauty-let me go on to explain that occasionally, when your discussion veers away from the strictly mathematical aspects, it seems to me that I get your drift. You have, on a number of occasions, explained what you call the necessity of minimalism. I think I understand that. By it, you mean-"

 

 "I know what I mean."

 

 Dors looked hurt. "Less lofty, please, Hari. I'm not trying to explain to you. I want to explain it to myself. You say you're my sounding board, so act like one. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it?"

 

 "Turnabout is fine, but if you're going to accuse me of loftiness when I say one little-"

 

 ``Enough! Shut up! -You have told me that minimalism is of the highest importance in applied psychohistory; in the art of attempting to change an undesired development into a desired one or, at any rate, a toss undesired one. You have said that a change must be applied that is as minute, as minimal, as possible-"

 

 "Yes," said Seldon eagerly, "that is because-"

 

 "No, Hari. I'm trying to explain. We both know that you understand it. You must have minimalism because every change, any change, has a myriad of side effects that can't always be allowed for. If the change is side effects too many, then it becomes certain that the outcome will be far removed from anything you've planned and that it would be entirely unpredictable."

 

 "Right," said Seldon. "That's the essence of a chaotic- effect. The problem is whether any change is small enough to make the consequence reasonably predictable or whether human history is inevitably and unalterably chaotic in every respect. It was that which, at the start, made me think that psychohistory was not-"

 

 "I know, but you're not letting me make my point. Whether any change would be small enough is not the issue. The point is that any change greater than the minimal is chaotic. The required minimum may be zero, but if it is not zero, then it is still very small-and it would be a major problem to find some change that is small enough and yet is significantly greater than zero. Now, that, I gather, is what you mean by the necessity of minimalism."

 

 "More or less," said Seldon. "Of course, as always, the matter is expressed more compactly and more rigorously in the language of mathematics. See here-"

 

 "Save me," said Dors. "Since you know this about psychohistory, Hari, you ought to know it about Demerzel, too. You have the knowledge but not the understanding, because it apparently doesn't occur to you to apply the rules of psychohistory to the Laws of Robotics."

 

 To which Seldon replied faintly, "Now I don't see what you're getting at.

 

 "He requires minimality, too, doesn't he, Hari? By the First Law of Robotics, a robot can't harm a human being. That is the prime rule for the usual robot, but Demerzel is something quite unusual and for him, the Zeroth Law is a reality and it takes precedence even over the First Law. The Zeroth Law states that a robot can't harm humanity as a whole. But that puts Demerzel into the same bind in which you exist when you labor at psychohistory. Do you see?"

 

 "I'm beginning to."

 

 "I hope so. If Demerzel has the ability to change minds, he has to do so without bringing about side effects he does not wish-and since he is the Emperor's First Minister, the side effects he must worry about are numerous, indeed."

 

 "And the application to the present case?"

 

 "Think about it! You can't tell anyone-except me, of course-that Demerzel is a robot, because he has adjusted you so that you can't. But how much adjustment did that take? Do you want to tell people that he is a robot? Do you want to ruin his effectiveness when you depend on him for protection, for support of your grants, for influence quietly exerted on your behalf? Of course not. The change he had to make then was a very tiny one, just enough to keep you from blurting it out in a moment of excitement or carelessness. It is so small a change that there are no particular side effects. That is how Demerzel tries to run the Empire generally."

 

 "And the case of Joranum?"

 

 "Is obviously completely different from yours. He is, for whatever motives, unalterably opposed to Demerzel. Undoubtedly, Demerzel could change that, but it would be at the price of introducing a considerable wrench in Joranum's makeup that would bring about results Demerzel could not predict. Rather than take the chance of harming Joranum, of producing side effects that would harm others and, possibly, all of humanity, he must leave Joranum alone until he can find some small change-some small change-that will save the situation without harm. That is why Yugo is right and why Demerzel is vulnerable."

 

 Seldon had listened but did not respond. He seemed lost in thought. Minutes passed before he said, "If Demerzel can do nothing in this matter, then I must."

 

 "If he can do nothing, what can you do?"

 

 "The case is different. I am not bound by the Laws of Robotics. I need not concern myself obsessively with minimalism. -And to begin with, I must see Demerzel."

 

 Dors looked faintly anxious. "Must you? Surely it wouldn't be wise to advertise a connection between the two of you."

 

 "We have reached a time where we can't make a fetish of pretending there is no connection. Naturally I won't go to see him behind a flourish of trumpets and an announcement on holovision, but I must see him."

 

 5

 

 Seldon found himself raging at the passage of time. Eight years ago, when he had first arrived on Trantor, he could take instant action. He had only a hotel room and its contents to forsake and he could range through the sectors of Trantor at will.

 

 Now he found himself with department meetings, with decisions to make, with work to do. It was not so easy to dash off at will to see Demerzel-and if he could, Demerzel also had a --full schedule of his own. To find a time when they both could meet would not be easy.

 

 Nor was it easy to have Dors shake her head at him. "I don't know what you intend to do, Hari."

 

 And he answered impatiently, "I don't know what I intend to do, either, Dors. I hope to find out when I see Demerzel."

 

 "Your first duty is to psychohistory. He'll tell you so."

 

 "Perhaps. I'll find out."

 

 And then, just as he had arranged a time for the meeting with the First Minister, eight days hence, he received a message on his department office wall screen in slightly archaic lettering. And to match that was the more than slightly archaic message: I CRAVE AN AUDIENCE WITH PROFESSOR HARI SELDON.

 

 Seldon stared at it with astonishment. Even the Emperor was not addressed in quite that centuries-old turn of phrase.

 

 Nor was the signature printed as it usually was for clarity. It was scripted with a flourish that left it perfectly legible and yet gave it the aura of a careless work of art dashed off by a master. The signature was: LASKIN JORANUM. -It was Jo-Jo himself, craving an audience.

 

 Seldon found himself chuckling. It was clear why the choice of words -and why the script. It made what was a simple request a device for stimulating curiosity. Seldon had no great desire to meet the man-or would have had none ordinarily. But what was worth the archaism and the artistry? He wanted to find out.

 

 He had his secretary set the time and the place of the appointment. It would be in his office, certainly not in his apartment. A business conversation, nothing social.

 

 And it would come before the projected meeting with Demerzel.

 

 Dors said, "It's no surprise to me, Hari. You hurt two of his people, one of them his chief aide; you spoiled a little rally he was holding; and you made him, in the person of his representatives, seem foolish. He wants to take a look at you and I think I had better be with you."

 

 Seldon shook his head. "I'll take Raych. He knows all the tricks I know and he's a strong and active twenty-year-old. Although I'm sure there'll be no need for protection."

 

 "How can you be sure?"

 

 "Joranum is coming to see me on the University grounds. There will be any number of youngsters in the vicinity. I'm not exactly an unpopular figure with the student body and I suspect that Joranum is the kind of man who does his homework and knows that I'll be safe on home territory. I'm sure that he will be perfectly polite-completely friendly."

 

 "Hmph," said Dors with a light twist of one corner of her lip.

 

 "And quite deadly," Seldon finished.

 

 6

 

 Hari Seldon kept his face expressionless and bent his head just sufficiently to allow a sense of reasonable courtesy. He had taken the trouble to look up a variety of holographs of Joranum, but, as is often the case, the real thing, unguarded, shifting constantly in response to changing conditions, is never quite the same as a holograph-however carefully prepared. Perhaps, thought Seldon, it is the response of the viewer to the "real thing" that makes it different.

 

 Joranum was a tall man-as tall as Seldon, at any rate-but larger in other directions. It was not due to a muscular physique, for he gave the impression of softness, without quite being fat. A rounded face, a thick head of hair that was sandy rather than yellow, light blue eyes. He wore a subdued coverall and his face bore a half-smile that gave the illusion of friendliness, while making it clear, somehow, that it was only an illusion.

 

 "Professor Seldon"-his voice was deep and under strict control, an orator's voice-"I am delighted to meet you. It is kind of you to permit this meeting. I trust you are not offended that I have brought a companion, my right-hand man, with me, although I have not cleared that with you in advance. He is Gambol Deen Namarti-three names, you notice. I believe you have met him."

 

 "Yes, I have. I remember the incident well." Seldon looked at Namarti with a touch of the sardonic. At the previous encounter, Namarti had been speaking at the University Field. Seldon viewed him carefully now-under relaxed conditions. Namarti was of moderate height, with a thin face, sallow complexion, dark hair, and a wide mouth. He did not have Joranum's half-smile or any noticeable expression-except for a sense of cautious wariness.

 

 "My friend Dr. Namarti-his degree is in ancient literature-has come at his own request," said Joranum, his smile intensifying a bit, "to apologize."

 

 Joranum glanced quickly at Namarti-and Namarti, his lips tightening just at first, said in a colorless voice, "I am sorry, Professor, for what happened at the Field. I was not quite aware of the strict rules governing University rallies and I was a little carried away by my own enthusiasm."

 

 "Understandably so," said Joranum. "Nor was he entirely aware of your identity. I think we may all now forget the matter."

 

 "I assure you, gentlemen," said Seldon, "that I have no great desire to remember it. This is my son, Raych Seldon, so you see I have a companion, too."

 

 Raych had grown a mustache, black and abundant-the masculine mark of the Dahlite. He had had none when he first met Seldon eight years before, when he was a street boy, ragged and hungry. He was short but lithe and sinewy and his expression was the haughty one he had adopted in order to add a few spiritual inches to his physical height.

 

 "Good morning, young man," said Joranum.

 

 "Good morning, sir," said Raych.

 

 "Please sit down, gentlemen," said Seldon. "May I offer you something to eat or drink?"

 

 Joranum held up his hands in polite refusal. "No, sir. This is not a social call." He seated himself in the place indicated. "Though I hope there will be many such calls in the future."

 

 "If this is to be about business, then let's begin."

 

 "The news reached me, Professor Seldon, of the little incident that you have so kindly agreed to forget and I wondered why you took the chance of doing what you did. It was a risk, you must admit."

 

 "I didn't think so, actually."

 

 "But I did. So I took the liberty of finding out everything I could about you, Professor Seldon. You're an interesting man. From Helicon, I discovered."

 

 "Yes, that's where I was born. The records are clear."

 

 "And you've been here on Trantor for eight years."

 

 "That is also a matter of public record."

 

 "And you made yourself quite famous at the start by delivering a mathematical paper on-what do you call it?-psychohistory?"

 

 Seldon shook his head very slightly. How often he had regretted that indiscretion. Of course, he had had no idea at the time that it was an indiscretion. He said, "A youthful enthusiasm. It came to nothing."

 

 "Is that so?" Joranum looked around him with an air of pleased surprise. "Yet here you are, the head of the Mathematics Department at one of Trantor's greatest Universities, and only forty years old, I believe. -I'm forty-two, by the way, so I don't look upon you as very old at all. You must be a very competent mathematician to be in this position."

 

 Seldon shrugged. "I wouldn't care to make a judgment in that matter."

 

 "Or you must have powerful friends."

 

 "We would all like to have powerful friends, Mr. Joranum, but I think you will find none here. University professors rarely have powerful friends or, I sometimes think, friends of any kind." He smiled.

 

 And so did Joranum. "Wouldn't you consider the Emperor a powerful friend, Professor Seldon?"

 

 "I certainly would, but what has that to do with me?"

 

 "I am under the impression that the Emperor is a friend of yours."

 

 "I'm sure the records will show, Mr. Joranum, that I had an audience with His Imperial Majesty eight years ago. It lasted perhaps an hour or less and I saw no signs of any great friendliness in him at the time. Nor have I spoken to him since--or even seen him-except on holovision, of course."

 

 "But, Professor, it is not necessary to see or speak to the Emperor to have him as a powerful friend. It is sufficient to see or speak to Eto Demerzel, the Emperor's First Minister. Demerzel is your protector and, since he is, we may as well say the Emperor is."

 

 "Do you find First Minister Demerzel's supposed protection of me anywhere in the records? Or anything at all in the records from which you can deduce that protection?"

 

 "Why search the records when it is well known that there is a connection between the two of you. You know it and I know it. Let us take it then as given and continue. And please"-he raised his hands-"do not take the trouble to give me any heartfelt denials. It's a waste of time."

 

 "Actually," said Seldon, "I was going to ask why you should think that he would want to protect me. To what end?"

 

 "Professor? Are you trying to hurt me by pretending to think I am a monster of naivete? I mentioned your psychohistory, which Demerzel wants."

 

 "And I told you that it was a youthful indiscretion that came to nothing."

 

 "You may tell me a great many things, Professor. I am not compelled to accept what you tell me. Come, let me speak frankly. I have read your original paper and have tried to understand it with the help of some mathematicians on my staff. They tell me it is a wild dream and quite impossible-"

 

 "I quite agree with them," said Seldon.

 

 "But I have the feeling that Demerzel is waiting for it to be developed and put to use. And if he can wait, so can I. It would be more useful to you, Professor Seldon, to have me wait."

 

 "Why so?"

 

 "Because Demerzel will not endure in his position for much longer. Public opinion is turning against him steadily. It may be that when the Emperor wearies of an unpopular First Minister who threatens to drag the throne down with him, he will find a replacement. It may even be my poor self whom the Emperor's fancy will seize upon. And you will still need a protector, someone who can see to it that you can work in peace and with ample funds for whatever you need in the way of equipment and assistants."

 

 "And would you be that protector?"

 

 "Of course-and for the same reason that Demerzel is. I want a successful psychohistoric technique so that I can rule the Empire more efficiently."

 

 Seldon nodded thoughtfully, waited a moment, then said, "But in that case, Mr. Joranum, why must I concern myself in this? I am a poor scholar, living a quiet life, engaged in out-of-the-way mathematical and pedagogical activities. You say that Demerzel is my present protector and that you will be my future protector. I can go quietly about my business, then. You and the First Minister may fight it out. Whoever prevails, I have a protector still-or, at least, so you tell me."

 

 Joranum's fixed smile seemed to fade a bit. Namarti, at his side, turned his dour face toward Joranum and made as though to say something, but Joranum's hand moved slightly and Namarti coughed and did not speak.

 

 Joranum said, "Dr. Seldon. Are you a patriot?"

 

 "Why, of course. The Empire has given humanity millennia of peace -mostly peace, at any rate-and fostered steady advancement."

 

 "So it has-but at a slower pace in the last century or two."

 

 Seldon shrugged. "I have not studied such matters."

 

 "You don't have to. You know that, politically, the last century or two has been a time of turmoil. Imperial reigns have been short and sometimes have been shortened further by assassination-"

 

 "Even mentioning that," put in Seldon, "is close to treason. I'd rather you didn't-"

 

 "Well, there." Joranum threw himself back in his seat. "See how insecure you are. The Empire is decaying. I'm willing to say so openly. Those who follow me do so because they know only too well it is. We need someone at the Emperor's right hand who can control the Empire, subdue the rebellious impulses that seem to be arising everywhere, give the armed forces the natural leadership they should have, lead the economy-"

 

 Seldon made an impatient stopping motion with his arm. "And you're the one to do it, are you?"

 

 "I intend to be the one. It won't be an easy job and I doubt there would be many volunteers-for good reason. Certainly Demerzel can't do it. Under him, the decline of the Empire is accelerating to a total breakdown."

 

 "But you can stop it?"

 

 "Yes, Dr. Seldon. With your help. With psychohistory."

 

 "Perhaps Demerzel could stop the breakdown with psychohistory-if psychohistory existed."

 

 Joranum said calmly, "It exists. Let us not pretend it does not. But its existence does not help Demerzel. Psychohistory is only a tool. It needs a brain to understand it and an arm to wield it."

 

 "And you have those, I take it?"

 

 "Yes. I know my own virtues. I want psychohistory."

 

 Seldon shook his head. "You may want it all you please. I don't have it.

 

 "You do have it. I will not argue the point." Joranum leaned closer as though wishing to insinuate his voice into Seldon's ear, rather than allowing the sound waves to carry it there. "You say you are a patriot. I must replace Demerzel to avoid Imperial destruction. However, the manner of replacement might itself weaken the Empire desperately. I do not wish that. You can advise me how to achieve the end smoothly, subtly, without harm or damage-for the sake of the Empire."

 

 Seldon said, "I cannot. You accuse me of knowledge I do not possess. I would like to be of assistance, but I cannot."

 

 Joranum stood up suddenly. "Well, you know my mind and what it is I want of you. Think about it. And I ask you to think about the Empire. You may feel you owe Demerzel-this despoiler of all the millions of planets of humanity-your friendship. Be careful. What you do may shake the very foundation of the Empire. I ask you to help me in the name of the quadrillions of human beings who fill the Galaxy. Think of the Empire."

 

 His voice had dropped to a thrilling and powerful half-whisper. Seldon felt himself almost trembling. "I will always think of the Empire," he said.

 

 Joranum said, "Then that is all I ask right now. Thank you for consenting to see me."

 

 Seldon watched Joranum and his companion leave as the office doors slid open noiselessly and the men strode out.

 

 He frowned. Something was bothering him-and he was not sure what it was.

 

 7

 

 Namarti's dark eyes remained fixed on Joranum as they sat in their carefully shielded office in the Streeling Sector. It was not an elaborate headquarters; they were as yet weak in Streeling, but they would grow stronger.

 

 It was amazing how the movement was growing. It had started from nothing three years back and now its tentacles stretched-in some places more thickly than others, of course-throughout Trantor. The Outer Worlds were as yet largely untouched. Demerzel had labored mightily to keep them content, but that was his mistake. It was here on Trantor that rebellions were dangerous. Elsewhere, they could be controlled. Here, Demerzel could be toppled. Odd that he should not realize that, but Joranum had always held to the theory that Demerzel's reputation was overblown, that he would prove an empty shell if anyone dared oppose him, and that the Emperor would destroy him quickly if his own security seemed at stake.

 

 So far, at least, all of Joranum's predictions had come to pass. He had never once lost his way except in minor matters, such as that recent rally at Streeling University in which this Seldon fellow had interfered.

 

 That might be why Joranum had insisted on the interview with him. Even a minor toe stub must be taken care of. Joranum enjoyed the feeling of infallibility and Namarti had to admit that the vision of a constant string of successes was the surest way of ensuring the continuation of success. People tended to avoid the humiliation of failure by joining the obviously winning side even against their own opinions.

 

 But had the interview with this Seldon been a success or was it a second stub of the toe to be added to the first? Namarti had not enjoyed having been brought along in order to be made to humbly apologize and he didn't see that it had done any good.

 

 Now Joranum sat there, silent, obviously lost in thought, gnawing at the edge of one thumb as though trying to draw some sort of mental nourishment from it.

 

 "Jo-Jo," said Namarti softly. He was one of the very few people who could address Joranum by the diminutive that the crowds shouted out endlessly in public. Joranum solicited the love of the mob in this way, among others, but he demanded respect from individuals in private, except for those special friends who had been with him from the start.

 

 "Jo-Jo," he said again.

 

 Joranum looked up. "Yes, G.D., what is it?" He sounded a little testy.

 

 "What are we going to do about this Seldon fellow, Jo-Jo?"

 

 "Do? Nothing right now. He may join us."

 

 "Why wait? We can put pressure on him. We can pull a few strings at the University and make life miserable for him."

 

 "No no. So far, Demerzel has been letting us go our way. The fool is overconfident. The last thing we want to do,. though, is to push him into action before we are quite ready. And a heavy-handed move against Seldon may do it. I suspect Demerzel places enormous importance on Seldon."

 

 "Because of this psychohistory you two talked about?"

 

 "Indeed."

 

 "What is it? I have never heard of it."

 

 "Few people have. It's a mathematical way of analyzing human society that ends by predicting the future."

 

 Namarti frowned and felt his body move slightly away from Joranum. Was this a joke of Joranum's? Was this intended to make him laugh? Namarti had never been able to work out when or why people expected him to laugh. He had never had an urge to.

 

 He said, "Predict the future? How?"

 

 "Ah? If I knew that, what need would I have of Seldon?"

 

 "Frankly I don't believe it, Jo-Jo. How can you foretell the future? It's fortune-telling."

 

 "I know, but after this Seldon broke up your little rally, I had him looked into. All the way. Eight years ago, he came to Trantor and presented a paper on psychohistory at a convention of mathematicians and then the whole thing died. It was never referred to again by anyone. Not even by Seldon."

 

 "It sounds as though there were nothing to it, then."

 

 "Oh no, just the reverse. If it had faded slowly, if it had been subjected to ridicule, I would have said there was nothing to it. But to be cut off suddenly and completely means that the whole thing has been placed in the deepest of freezes. That is why Demerzel may have been doing nothing to stop us. Perhaps he is not being guided by a foolish overconfidence; perhaps he is being guided by psychohistory, which must be predicting something that Demerzel plans to take advantage of at the right time. If so, we might fail unless we can make use of psychohistory ourselves."

 

 "Seldon claims it doesn't exist."

 

 "Wouldn't you if you were he?"

 

 "I still say we ought to put pressure on him."

 

 "It would be useless, G.D. Didn't you ever hear the story of the Ax of Venn?"

 

 "No."

 

 "You would if you were from Nishaya. It's a famous folktale back home. In brief, Venn was a woodcutter who had a magic ax that, with a single light blow, could chop down any tree. It was enormously valuable, but he never made any effort to hide it or preserve it-and yet it was never stolen, because no one could lift or swing the ax but Venn himself.

 

 "Well, at the present moment, no one can handle psychohistory but Seldon himself. If he were on our side only because we had forced him, we could never be certain of his loyalty. Might he not urge a course of action that would seem to work in our favor but would be so subtly drawn that, after a while, we found ourselves quite suddenly destroyed. No, he must come to our side voluntarily and labor for us because he wishes us to win."

 

 "But how can we bring him around?"

 

 "There's Seldon's son. Raych, I think he's called. Did you observe him?"

 

 "Not particularly."

 

 "G.D., G.D., you miss points if you don't observe everything. That young man listened to me with his heart in his eyes. He was impressed. I could tell. If there's one thing I can tell, it is just how I impress others. I know when I have shaken a mind, when I have edged someone toward conversion."

 

 Joranum smiled. It was not the pseudowarm ingratiating smile of his public demeanor. It was a genuine smile this time-cold, somehow, and menacing.

 

 "We'll see what we can do with Raych," he said, "and if, through him, we can reach Seldon."

 

 8

 

 Raych looked at Hari Seldon after the two politicians had gone and fingered his mustache. It gave him satisfaction to stroke it. Here in the Streeling Sector, some men wore mustaches, but they were usually thin despicable things of uncertain color-thin despicable things, even if dark. Most men did not wear them at all and suffered with naked upper lips. Seldon didn't, for instance, and that was just as well. With his color of hair, a mustache would have been a travesty.

 

 He watched Seldon closely, waiting for him to cease being lost in thought, and then found he could wait no longer.

 

 "Dad?" he said.

 

 Seldon looked up and said, "What?" He sounded a little annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted, Raych decided.

 

 Raych said, "I don't think it was right for you to see those two guys."

 

 "Oh? Why not?"

 

 "Well, the thin guy, whatever his name is, was the guy you made trouble for at the Field. He can't have liked it."

 

 "But he apologized."

 

 "He didn't mean it. But the other guy, Joranum-he can be dangerous. What if they had had weapons?"

 

 "What? Here in the University? In my office? Of course not. This isn't Billibotton. Besides, if they had tried anything, I could have handled both of them together. Easily."

 

 "I don't know, Dad," said Raych dubiously. "You're getting-"

 

 "Don't say it, you ungrateful monster," said Seldon, lifting an admonishing finger. `You'll sound just like your mother and I have enough of that from her. I am not getting old-or, at least, not that old. Besides, you were with me and you're almost as skilled a Twister as I am."

 

 Raych's nose wrinkled. "Twisting ain't much good." (It was no use. Raych heard himself speak and knew that, even eight years out of the morass of Dahl, he still slipped into using the Dahlite accent that marked him firmly as a member of the lower class. And he was short, too, to the point where he sometimes felt stunted. -But he had his mustache and no one ever patronized him twice.)

 

 He said, "What are you going to do about Joranum?"

 

 "For now, nothing."

 

 "Well, look, Dad, I saw Joranum on TrantorVision a couple of times. I even made some holotapes of his speeches. -Everyone is talking about him, so I thought I would see what he has to say. And, you know, he makes some kind of sense. I don't like him and I don't trust him, but he does make some kind of sense. He wants all sectors to have equal rights and equal opportunities-and there ain't nothing wrong with that, is there?"

 

 "Certainly not. All civilized people feel that way."

 

 "So why don't we have that sort of stuff? Does the Emperor feel that way? Does Demerzel?"

 

 "The Emperor and the First Minister have an entire Empire to worry about. They can't concentrate all their efforts on Trantor itself. It's easy for Joranum to talk about equality. He has no responsibilities. If he were in the position to rule, he would find that his efforts would be greatly diluted by an Empire of twenty-five million planets. Not only that, but he would find himself stopped at every point by the sectors themselves. Each one wants a great deal of equality for itself-but not much equality for others. Tell me, Raych, are you of the opinion that Joranum ought to have a chance to rule, just to show what he can do?"

 

 Raych shrugged. "I don't know. I wonder. -But if he had tried anything on you, I would have been at his throat before he could move two centimeters."

 

 "Your loyalty to me, then, exceeds your concern for the Empire."

 

 "Sure. You're my dad."

 

 Seldon looked at Raych fondly, but behind that look he felt a trace of uncertainty. How far could Joranum's nearly hypnotic influence go?

 

 9

 

 Hari Seldon sat back in his chair, the vertical back giving as he did so and allowing him to assume a half-reclining position. His hands were behind his head and his eyes were unfocused. His breathing was very soft, indeed.

 

 Dors Venabili was at the other end of the room, with her viewer turned off and the microfilms back in place. She had been through a rather concentrated period of revision of her opinions on the Florina Incident in early Trantorian history and she found it rather restful to withdraw for a few moments and to speculate on what it was that Seldon was considering.

 

 It had to be psychohistory. It would probably take him the rest of his life, tracking down the byways of this semichaotic technique, and he would end with it incomplete, leaving the task to others (to Amaryl, if that young man had not also worn himself out on the matter) and breaking his heart at the need to do that.

 

 Yet it gave him a reason for living. He would live longer with the problem filling him from end to end-and that pleased her. Someday she would lose him, she knew, and she found that the thought afflicted her. It had not seemed it would at the start, when her task had been the simple one of protecting him for the sake of what he knew.

 

 When had it become a matter of personal need? How could there be so personal a need? What was there about the man that caused her to feel uneasy when he was not in her sight, even when she knew he was safe so that the deeply ingrained orders within her were not called into action? His safety was all that she had been ordered to be concerned with. How did the rest intrude itself?

 

 She had spoken of it to Demerzel long before, when the feeling had made itself unmistakable.

 

 He had regarded her gravely and said, `'You are complex, Dors, and there are no simple answers. In my life there have been several individuals whose presence made it easier for me to think, pleasanter to make my responses. I have tried to judge the ease of my responses in their presence and the unease of my responses in their final absence to see whether I was the net gainer or loser. In the process, one thing became plain. The pleasantness of their company outweighed the regret of their passing. On the whole, then, it is better to experience what you experience now than not to."

 

 She thought: Hari will someday leave a void, and each day that someday is closer, and I must not think of it.

 

 It was to rid herself of the thought that she finally interrupted him. "What are you thinking of, Hari?"

 

 "What?" Seldon focused his eyes with an apparent effort.

 

 "Psychohistory, I assume. I imagine you've traced another blind pathway."

 

 "Well now. That's not on my mind at all." He laughed suddenly. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking of? -Hair!"

 

 "Hair? Whose?"

 

 "Right now, yours." He was looking at her fondly.

 

 "Is there something wrong with it? Should I dye it another color? Or perhaps, after all these years, it should go gray."

 

 "Come! Who needs or wants gray in your hair. -But it's led me to other things. Nishaya, for instance."

 

 "Nishaya? What's that?"

 

 "It was never part of the pre-Imperial Kingdom of Trantor, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's a world, a small one. Isolated. Unimportant. Overlooked. I only know anything at all about it because I've taken the trouble to look it up. Very few worlds out of twenty-five million can really make much of a sustained splash, but I doubt that there's another one as insignificant as Nishaya. Which is very significant, you see."

 

 Dors shoved her reference material to one side and said, "What is this new penchant you have for paradox, which you always tell me you detest? What is this significance of insignificance?"

 

 "Oh, I don't mind paradoxes when I perpetrate them. You see, Joranum comes from Nishaya."

 

 "Ah, it's Joranum you're concerned with."

 

 "Yes. I've been viewing some of his speeches-at Raych's insistence. They don't make very much sense, but the total effect can be almost hypnotic. Raych is very impressed by him."

 

 "I imagine that anyone of Dahlite origins would be, Hari. Joranum's constant call for sector equality would naturally appeal to the downtrodden heatsinkers. You remember when we were in Dahl?"

 

 "I remember it very well and of course I don't blame the lad. It just bothers me that Joranum comes from Nishaya."

 

 Dors shrugged. "Well, Joranum has to come from somewhere and, conversely, Nishaya, like any other world, must send its people out at times, even to Trantor."

 

 "Yes, but, as I've said, I've taken the trouble to investigate Nishaya. I've even managed to make hyperspatial contact with some minor official which cost a considerable quantity of credits that I cannot, in good conscience, charge to the department."

 

 "And did you find anything that was worth the credits?"

 

 "I rather think so. You know, Joranum is always telling little stories to make his points, stories that are legends on his home planet of Nishaya. That serves a good purpose for him here on Trantor, since it makes him appear to be a man of the people, full of homespun philosophy. Those tales litter his speeches. They make him appear to be from a small world, to have been brought up on an isolated farm surrounded by an untamed ecology. People like it, especially Trantorians, who would rather die than be trapped somewhere in an untamed ecology but who love to dream about one just the same."

 

 "But what of it all?"

 

 "The odd point is that not one of the stories was familiar to the person I spoke to on Nishaya."

 

 "That's not significant, Hari. It may be a small world, but it's a world. What is current in Joranum's birth section of the world may not be current in whatever place your official came from."

 

 "No no. Folktales, in one form or another, are usually worldwide. But aside from that, I had considerable trouble in understanding the fellow. He spoke Galactic Standard with a thick accent. I spoke to a few others on the world, just to check, and they all had the same accent."

 

 "And what of that?"

 

 "Joranum doesn't have it. He speaks a fairly good Trantorian. It's a lot better than mine, actually. I have the Heliconian stress on the letter `r.' He doesn't. According to the records, he arrived on Trantor when he was nineteen. It is just impossible, in my opinion, to spend the first nineteen years of your life speaking that barbarous Nishayan version of Galactic Standard and then come to Trantor and lose it. However long he's been here, some trace of the accent would have remained- Look at Raych and the way he lapses into his Dahlite way of speaking on occasion."

 

 "What do you deduce from all this?"

 

 "What I deduce-what I've been sitting here all evening, deducing like a deduction machine-is that Joranum didn't come from Nishaya at all. In fact, I think he picked Nishaya as the place to pretend to come from, simply because it is so backwoodsy, so out-of-the-way, that no one would think of checking it. He must have made a thorough computer search to find the one world least likely to allow him to be caught in a lie."

 

 "But that's ridiculous, Hari. Why should he want to pretend to be from a world he did not come from? It would mean a great deal of falsification of records."

 

 "And that's precisely what he has probably done. He probably has enough followers in the civil service to make that possible. Probably no one person has done as much in the way of revision and all of his followers are too fanatical to talk about it."

 

 "But still- Why?"

 

 "Because I suspect Joranum doesn't want people to know where he really comes from."

 

 "Why not? All worlds in the Empire are equal, both by laws and by custom."

 

 "I don't know about that. These high-ideal theories are somehow never borne out in real life."

 

 "Then where does he come from? Do you have any idea at all?"

 

 "Yes. Which brings us back to this matter of hair."

 

 "What about hair?"

 

 "I sat there with Joranum, staring at him and feeling uneasy, without knowing why I was feeling uneasy. Then finally I realized that it was his hair that made me uneasy. There was something about it, a life, a gloss . . . a perfection to it that I've never seen before. And then I knew. His hair is artificial and carefully grown on a scalp that ought to be innocent of such things."

 

 "Ought to be?" Dors's eyes narrowed. It was clear that she suddenly understood. "Do you mean-"

 

 "Yes, I do mean. He's from the past-centered, mythology-ridden Mycogen Sector of Trantor. That's what he's been laboring to hide."

 

 10

 

 Dors Venabili thought coolly about the matter. It was her only mode of thought-cool. Not for her the hot flashes of emotion.

 

 She closed her eyes to concentrate. It had been eight years since she and Hari had visited Mycogen and they hadn't been there long. There had been little to admire there except the food.

 

 The pictures arose. The harsh, puritanical, male-centered society; the emphasis on the past; the removal of all body hair, a painful process deliberately self-imposed to make themselves different so that they would "know who they were"; their legends; their memories (or fancies) of a time when they ruled the Galaxy, when their lives were prolonged, when robots existed.

 

 Dors opened her eyes and said, "Why, Hari?"

 

 "Why what, dear?"

 

 "Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?"

 

 She didn't think he would remember Mycogen in greater detail than she; in fact, she knew he wouldn't, but his mind was better than hers-different, certainly. Hers was a mind that only remembered and drew the obvious inferences in the fashion of a mathematic line of deduction. He had a mind that leaped unexpectedly. Seldon liked to pretend that intuition was solely the province of his assistant, Yugo Amaryl, but Dors was not fooled by that. Seldon liked to pose as the unworldly mathematician who stared at the world out of perpetually wondering eyes, but she was not fooled by that, either.

 

 "Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?" she repeated as he sat there, his eyes lost in an inward look that Dors always associated with his attempt to squeeze one more tiny drop of usefulness and validity out of the concepts of psycho-history.

 

 Seldon said finally, "It's a harsh society, a limiting society. There are always those who chafe over its manner of dictating every action and every thought. There are always those who find they cannot entirely be broken to the harness, who want the greater liberties available in the more secular world outside. It's understandable."

 

 "So they force the growth of artificial hair?"

 

 "No, not generally. The average Breakaway-that's what the Mycogenians call the deserters and they despise them, of course-wears a wig. It's much simpler but much less effective. Really serious Breakaways grow false hair, I'm told. The process is difficult and expensive but is almost unnoticeable. I've never come across it before, though I've heard of it. I've spent years studying all eight hundred sectors of Trantor, trying to work out the basic rules and mathematics of psychohistory. I have little enough to show for it, unfortunately, but I have learned a few things."

 

 "But why, then, do the Breakaways have to hide the fact that they're from Mycogen? They're not persecuted that I know of."

 

 "No, they're not. In fact, there's no general impression that Mycogenians are inferior. It's worse than that. The Mycogenians aren't taken seriously. They're intelligent-everyone admits that-highly educated, dignified, cultured, wizards with food, almost frightening in their capacity to keep their sector prosperous-but no one takes them seriously. Their beliefs strike people outside Mycogen as ridiculous, humorous, unbelievably foolish. And that view clings even to Mycogenians who are Breakaways. A Mycogenian attempt to seize power in the government would be crushed by laughter. Being feared is nothing. Being despised, even, can be lived with. But being laughed at-that's fatal. Joranum wants to be First Minister, so he must have hair, and, to be comfortable, he must represent himself as having been brought up on some obscure world as far from Mycogen as he can possibly manage."

 

 "Surely there are some people who are naturally bald."

 

 "Never as completely depilated as Mycogenians force themselves to be. On the Outer Worlds, it wouldn't matter much. But Mycogen is a distant whisper to the Outer Worlds. The Mycogenians keep themselves so much to themselves that it is a rare one, indeed, who has ever left Trantor. Here on Trantor, though, it's different. People might be bald, but they usually have a fringe of hair that advertises them as nonMycogenian-or they grow facial hair. Those very few who are completely hairless-usually a pathological condition-are out of luck. I imagine they have to go around with a doctor's certificate to prove they are not Mycogenians."

 

 Dors, frowning slightly, said, "Does this help us any?"

 

 "I'm not sure."

 

 "Couldn't you let it be known that he is a Mycegonian?"

 

 "I'm not sure that could be done easily. He must have covered his tracks well and even if it could be done-"

 

 "Yes?"

 

 Seldon shrugged. "I don't want to invite an appeal to bigotry. The social situation on Trantor is bad enough without running the risk of loosing passions that neither I nor anyone else could then control. If I do have to resort to the matter of Mycogen, it will only be as a last resort."

 

 "Then you want minimalism, too."

 

 "Of course."

 

 "Then what will you do?"

 

 "I made an appointment with Demerzel. He may know what to do."

 

 Dors looked at him sharply. "Hari, are you falling into the trap of expecting Demerzel to solve every problem for you?"

 

 "No, but perhaps he'll solve this one."

 

 "And if he doesn't?"

 

 "Then I'll have to think of something else, won't I?"

 

 "Like what?"

 

 A look of pain crossed Seldon's face. "Dors, I don't know. Don't expect me to solve every problem, either."

 

 11

 

 Eto Demerzel was not frequently seen, except by the Emperor Cleon. It was his policy to remain in the background for a variety of reasons, one of which was that his appearance changed so little with time.

 

 Hari Seldon had not seen him over a period of some years and had not spoken to him truly in private since the days of his early time on Trantor.

 

 In light of Seldon's recent unsettling meeting with Laskin Joranum, both Seldon and Demerzel felt it would be best not to advertise their relationship. A visit by Hari Seldon to the First Minister's office at the Imperial Palace would not go unnoticed, and so for reasons of security they had decided to meet in a small yet luxuriously appointed suite at the Dome's Edge Hotel, just outside the Palace grounds.

 

 Seeing Demerzel now brought back the old days achingly. The mere fact that Demerzel still looked exactly as he always had made the ache sharper. His face still had its strong regular features. He was still tall and sturdy-looking, with the same dark hair with the hint of blond. He was not handsome, but was gravely distinguished. He looked like someone's ideal picture of what an Imperial First Minister ought to look like, not at all like any such official in history before his time ever had. It was his appearance, Seldon thought, that gave him half his power over the Emperor, and therefore over the Imperial Court, and therefore over the Empire.

 

 Demerzel advanced toward him, a gentle smile curving his lips without altering in any way the gravity of his countenance.

 

 "Hart," he said. "It is pleasant to see you. I was half-afraid you would change your mind and cancel."

 

 "I was more than half-afraid you would, First Minister."

 

 "Eto-if you fear using my real name."

 

 "I couldn't. It won't come out of me. You know that."

 

 "It will to me. Say it. I would rather like to hear it."

 

 Seldon hesitated, as though he couldn't believe his lips could frame the words or his vocal cords sound them. "Daneel," he said at length.

 

 "R. Daneel Olivaw," said Demerzel. "Yes. You will dine with me, Hari. If I dine with you, I won't have to eat, which will be a relief."

 

 "Gladly, though one-way eating is not my idea of a convivial time. Surely a bite or two-"

 

 "To please you-"

 

 "Just the same," said Seldon, "I can't help but wonder if it is wise to spend too much time together."

 

 "It is. Imperial orders. His Imperial Majesty wants me to."

 

 "Why, Daneel?"

 

 "In two more years the Decennial Convention will be meeting again. -You look surprised. Have you forgotten?"

 

 "Not really. I just haven't thought about it."

 

 "Were you not going to attend? You were a hit at the last one."

 

 "Yes. With my psychohistory. Some hit."

 

 "You attracted the attention of the Emperor. No other mathematician did."

 

 "It was you who were initially attracted, not the Emperor. Then I had to flee and stay out of the Imperial notice until such time as I could assure you that I had made a start on my psychohistorical research, after which you allowed me to remain in safe obscurity."

 

 "Being the head of a prestigious Mathematics Department is scarcely obscurity."

 

 "Yes, it is, since it hides my psychohistory."

 

 "Ah, the food is arriving. For a while, let's talk about other things as befits friends. How is Dors?"

 

 "Wonderful. A true wife. Hounds me to death with her worries over my safety."

 

 "That is her job."

 

 "So she reminds me-frequently. Seriously, Daneel, I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for bringing us together."

 

 "Thank you, Hari, but, to be truthful, I did not foresee married happiness for either of you, especially not Dors-"

 

 "Thank you for the gift just the same, however short of the actual consequences your expectations were."

 

 "I'm delighted, but it is a gift, you will find, that may be of dubious further consequence-as is my friendship."

 

 To this, Seldon could make no reply and so, at a gesture from Demerzel, he turned to his meal.

 

 After a while, he nodded at the morsel of fish on his fork and said, "I don't actually recognize the organism, but this is Mycogenian cooking."

 

 "Yes, it is. I know you are fond of it."

 

 "It's the Mycogenians' excuse for existence. Their only excuse. But they have special meaning to you. I mustn't forget that."

 

 "The special meaning has come to an end. Their ancestors, long, long ago, inhabited the planet of Aurora. They lived three hundred years and more and were the lords of the Fifty Worlds of the Galaxy. It was an Auroran who first designed and produced me. I don't forget that; I remember it far more accurately-and with less distortion-than their Mycogenian descendants do. But then, long, long ago, I left them. I made my choice as to what the good of humanity must be and I have followed it, as best I could, all this time."

 

 Seldon said with sudden alarm, "Can we be overheard?"

 

 Demerzel seemed amused. "If you have only thought of that now, it is far too late. But fear not, I have taken the necessary precautions. Nor have you been seen by too many eyes when you came. Nor will you be seen by too many when you leave. And those who do see you will not be surprised. I am well known to be an amateur mathematician of great pretensions but of little ability. That is a source of amusement to those at the court who are not entirely my friends and it would not surprise anyone here that I should be concerned about laying the groundwork for the forthcoming Decennial Convention. It is about the convention that I wish to consult you."

 

 "I don't know that I can help. There is only one thing I could possibly talk about at the convention-and I can't talk about it. If I attend at all, it will only be as part of the audience. I do not intend to present any papers."

 

 "I understand. Still, if you would like to hear something curious, His Imperial Majesty remembers you."

 

 "Because you have kept me in his mind, I suppose."

 

 "No. I have not labored to do so. However, His Imperial Majesty occasionally surprises me. He is aware of the forthcoming convention and he apparently remembers your talk at the earlier one. He remains interested in the matter of psychohistory and more may come of it, I must warn you. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he may ask to see you. The court will surely consider it a great honor-to receive the Imperial call twice in a single lifetime."

 

 "You're joking. What could be served by my seeing him?"

 

 "In any case, if you are called to an audience, you can scarcely refuse. -How are your young proteg6s, Yugo and Raych?"

 

 "Surely you know. I imagine you keep a close eye on me."

 

 "Yes, I do. On your safety but not on every aspect of your life. I am afraid my duties fill much of my time and I am not all-seeing."

 

 "Doesn't Dors report?"

 

 "She would in a crisis. Not otherwise. She is reluctant to play the role of spy in nonessentials." Again the small smile.

 

 Seldon grunted. "My boys are doing well. Yugo is increasingly difficult to handle. He's more of a psychohistorian than I am and I think he feels I hold him back. As for Raych, he's a lovable rascal-always was. He won me over when he was a dreadful street urchin and what's more surprising is that he won over Dors. I honestly believe, Daneel, that if Dors grew sick of me and wanted to leave me, she would stay on anyway for her love of Raych."

 

 Demerzel nodded and Seldon continued somberly. "If Rashelle of Wye hadn't found him lovable, I would not be here today. I would have been shot down-" He stirred uneasily. "I hate to think of that, Daneel. It was such an entirely accidental and unpredictable event. How could psychohistory have helped in any way?"

 

 "Have you not told me that, at best, psychohistory can deal only in probabilities and with vast numbers, not with individuals?"

 

 "But if the individual happens to be crucial-"

 

 "I suspect you will find that no individual is ever truly crucial. Not even I-or you."

 

 "Perhaps you're right. I find that, no matter how I work away under these assumptions, I nevertheless think of myself as crucial, in a kind of supernormal egotism that transcends all sense. -And you are crucial, too, which is something I have come here to discuss with you-as frankly as possible. I must know."

 

 "Know what?" The remains of the meal had been cleared away by a porter and the room's lighting dimmed somewhat so that the walls seemed to close in and give a feeling of great privacy.

 

 Seldon said, "Joranum." He bit off the word, as though feeling the mention of the name alone should be sufficient.

 

 "Ah Yes."

 

 "You know about him?"

 

 "Of course. How could I not know?"

 

 "Well, I want to know about him, too."

 

 "What do you want to know?"

 

 "Come, Daneel, don't play with me. Is he dangerous?"

 

 "Of course he is dangerous. Do you have any doubt of that?"

 

 "I mean, to you? To your position as First Minister?"

 

 "That is exactly what I mean. That is how he is dangerous."

 

 "And you allow it?"

 

 Demerzel leaned forward, placing his left elbow on the table between them. "There are things that don't wait for my permission, Hari. Let us be philosophical about it. His Imperial Majesty, Cleon, First of that Name, has now been on the throne for eighteen years and for all that time I have been his Chief of Staff and then his First Minister, having served in scarcely lesser capacities during the last years of the reign of his father. It is a long time and First Ministers rarely remain that long in power."

 

 "You are not the ordinary First Minister, Daneel, and you know it. You must remain in power while psychohistory is being developed. Don't smile at me. It's true. When we first met, eight years ago, you told me the Empire was in a state of decay and decline. Have you changed your mind about that?"

 

 "No, of course not."

 

 "In fact, the decline is more marked now, isn't it?"

 

 "Yes, it is, though I labor to prevent that."

 

 "And without you, what would happen? Joranum is raising the Empire against you."

 

 "Trantor, Hari. Trantor. The Outer Worlds are solid and reasonably contented with my deeds so far, even in the midst of a declining economy and lessening trade."

 

 "But Trantor is where it counts. Trantor-the Imperial world we're living on, the capital of the Empire, the core, the administrative center- is what can overthrow you. You cannot keep your post if Trantor says no.

 

 "I agree."

 

 "And if you go, who will then take care of the Outer Worlds and what will keep the decline from being precipitate and the Empire from degenerating rapidly into anarchy?"

 

 "That is a possibility, certainly."

 

 "So you must be doing something about it. Yugo is convinced that you are in deadly danger and can't maintain your position. His intuition tells him so. Dors says the same thing and explains it in terms of the Three Laws or Four of-of-"

 

 "Robotics," put in Demerzel.

 

 "Young Raych seems attracted to Joranum's doctrines-being of Dahlite origin, you see. And I-I am uncertain, so I come to you for comfort, I suppose. Tell me that you have the situation well in hand."

 

 "I would do so if I could. However, I have no comfort to offer. I am in danger."

 

 "Are you doing nothing?"

 

 "No. I'm doing a great deal to contain discontent and blunt Joranum's message. If I had not done so, then perhaps I would be out of office already. But what I'm doing is not enough."

 

 Seldon hesitated. Finally he said, "I believe that Joranum is actually a Mycogenian."

 

 "Is that so?"

 

 "It is my opinion. I had thought we might use that against him, but I hesitate to unleash the forces of bigotry."

 

 "You are wise to hesitate. There are many things that might be done that have side effects we do not want. You see, Hari, I don't fear leaving my post-if some successor could be found who would continue those principles that I have been using to keep the decline as slow as possible. On the other hand, if Joranum himself were to succeed me, then that, in my opinion, would be fatal."

 

 "Then anything we can do to stop him would be suitable."

 

 "Not entirely. The Empire can grow anarchic, even if Joranum is destroyed and I stay. I must not, then, do something that will destroy Joranum and allow me to stay-if that very deed promotes the Fall of the Empire. I have not yet been able to think of anything I might do that would surely destroy Joranum and just as surely avoid anarchy."

 

 "Minimalism,” whispered Seldon.

 

 "Pardon me?"

 

 "Dors explained that you would be bound by minimalism."

 

 "And so I am."