Foundation 07 - Forward the Foundation Isaac Asimov

Prev Next

"Then my visit with you is a failure, Daneel."

"You mean that you came for comfort and didn't get it."

"I'm afraid so."

"But I saw you because I sought comfort as well."

"From me?"

"From psychohistory, which should envision the route to safety that I cannot."

Seldon sighed heavily. "Daneel, psychohistory has not yet been developed to that point."

The First Minister looked at him gravely. "You've had eight years, Hari."

"It might be eight or eight hundred and it might not be developed to that point. It is an intractable problem."

Demerzel said, "I do not expect the technique to have been perfected, but you may have some sketch, some skeleton, some principle that you can use as guidance. Imperfectly, perhaps, but better than mere guesswork."

"No more than I had eight years ago," said Seldon mournfully. "Here's what it amounts to, then. You must remain in power and Joranum must be destroyed in such a way that Imperial stability is maintained as long as possible so that I may have a reasonable chance to work out psychohistory. This cannot be done, however, unless I work out psychohistory first. Is that it?"

"It would seem so, Hari."

"Then we argue in a useless circle and the Empire is destroyed."

"Unless something unforeseen happens. Unless you make something unforeseen happen."

"I? Daneel, how can I do it without psychohistory?"

"I don't know, Hari."

And Seldon rose to go-in despair.

For days thereafter Hari Seldon neglected his departmental duties to use his computer in its news-gathering mode.

There were not many computers capable of handling the daily news from twenty-five million worlds. There were a number of them at Imperial headquarters, where they were absolutely necessary. Some of the larger Outer World capitals had them as well, though most were satisfied with hyperconnection to the Central Newspost on Trantor.

A computer at an important Mathematics Department could, if it were sufficiently advanced, be modified as an independent news source and Seldon had been careful to do that with his computer. It was, after all, necessary for his work on psychohistory, though the computer's capabilities were carefully ascribed to other, exceedingly plausible reasons.

Ideally the computer would report anything that was out of the ordinary on any world of the Empire. A coded and unobtrusive warning light would make itself evident and Seldon could track it down easily. Such a light rarely showed, for the definition of "out of the ordinary" was tight and intense and dealt with large-scale and rare upheavals.

What one did in its absence was to ring in various worlds at random -not all twenty-five million, of course, but some dozens. It was a depressing and even debilitating task, for there were no worlds that didn't have their daily relatively minor catastrophes. A volcanic eruption here, a flood there, an economic collapse of one sort or another yonder, and, of course, riots. There had not been a day in the last thousand years that there had not been riots over something or other on each of a hundred or more different worlds.

Naturally such things had to be discounted. One could scarcely worry about riots any more than one could about volcanic eruptions when both were constants on inhabited worlds. Rather, if a day should come in which not one riot was reported anywhere, that might be a sign of something so unusual as to warrant the gravest concern.

Concern was what Seldon could not make himself feel. The Outer Worlds, with all their disorders and misfortunes, were like a great ocean on a peaceful day, with a gentle swell and minor heavings-but no more. He found no evidence of any overall situation that clearly showed a decline in the last eight years or even in the last eighty. Yet Demerzel (in Demerzel's absence, Seldon could no longer think of him as Daneel) said the decline was continuing and he had his finger on the Empire's pulse from day to day in ways that Seldon could not duplicate-until such time as he would have the guiding power of psychohistory at his disposal.

It could be that the decline was so small that it was unnoticeable till some crucial point was reached-like a domicile that slowly wears out and deteriorates, showing no signs of that deterioration until one night when the roof collapses.

When would the roof collapse? That was the problem and Seldon had no answer.

And on occasion, Seldon would check on Trantor itself. There, the news was always considerably more substantial. For one thing, Trantor was the most highly populated of all the worlds, with its forty billion people. For another, its eight hundred sectors formed a mini-Empire all its own. For a third, there were the tedious rounds of governmental functions and the doings of the Imperial family to follow.

What struck Seldon's eyes, however, was in the Dahl Sector. The elections for the Dahl Sector Council had placed five Joranumites into office. This was the first time, according to the commentary, that Joranumites had achieved sector office.

It was not surprising. Dahl was a Joranumite stronghold if any sector was, but Seldon found it a disturbing indication of the progress being made by the demagogue. He ordered a microchip of the item and took it home with him that evening.

Raych looked up from his computer as Seldon entered and apparently felt the need to explain himself. "I'm helping Mom on some reference material she needs," he said.

"What about your own work?"

"Done, Dad. All done."

"Good. -Look at this." He showed Raych the chip in his hand before slipping it into the microprojector.

Raych glanced at the news item hanging in the air before his eyes and said, "Yes, I know."

"You do?"

"Sure. I usually keep track of Dahl. You know, home sector and all."

"And what do you think about it?"

"I'm not surprised. Are you? The rest of Trantor treats Dahl like dirt. Why shouldn't they go for Joranum's views?"

"Do you go for them also?"

"Well-" Raych twisted his face thoughtfully. "I got to admit some things he says appeal to me. He says he wants equality for all people. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all-if he means it. If he's sincere. If he isn't just using it as a ploy to get votes."

"True enough, Dad, but most Dahlites probably figure: What's there to lose? We don't have equality now, though the laws say we do."

"It's a hard thing to legislate."

"That's not something to cool you off when you're sweating to death."

Seldon was thinking rapidly. He had been thinking since he had come across this item. He said, "Raych, you haven't been in Dahl since your mother and I took you out of the sector, have you?"

"Sure I was, when I went with you to Dahl five years ago on your visit there."

"Yes yes"-Seldon waved a hand in dismissal-"but that doesn't count. We stayed at an intersector hotel, which was not Dahlite in the least, and, as I recall, Dors never once let you out on the streets alone. After all, you were only fifteen. How would you like to visit Dahl now, alone, in charge of yourself-now that you're fully twenty?"

Raych chuckled. "Mom would never allow that."

"I don't say that I enjoy the prospect of facing her with it, but I don't intend to ask her permission. The question is: Would you be willing to do this for me?"

"Out of curiosity? Sure. I'd like to see what's happened to the old place."

"Can you spare the time from your studies?"

"Sure. I'll never miss a week or so. Besides, you can tape the lectures and I'll catch up when I get back. I can get permission. After all, my old man's on the faculty-unless you've been fired, Dad."

"Not yet. But I'm not thinking of this as a fun vacation."

"I'd be surprised if you did. I don't think you know what a fun vacation is, Dad. I'm surprised you know the phrase."

"Don't be impertinent. When you go there, I want you to meet with Laskin Joranum."

Raych looked startled. "How do I do that? I don't know where he's gonna be."

"He's going to be in Dahl. He's been asked to speak to the Dahl Sector Council with its new Joranumite members. We'll find out the exact day and you can go a few days earlier."

"And how do I get to see him, Dad? I don't figure he keeps open house."

"I don't, either, but I'll leave that up to you. You would have known how to do it when you were twelve. I hope your keen edge hasn't blunted too badly in the intervening years."

Raych smiled. "I hope not. But suppose I do see him. What then?"

"Well, find out what you can. What's he's really planning. What he's really thinking."

"Do you really think he's gonna tell me?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he does. You have the trick of inspiring confidence, you miserable youngster. Let's talk about it."

And so they did. Several times.

Seldon's thoughts were painful. He was not sure where all this was leading to, but he dared not consult Yugo Amaryl or Demerzel or (most of all) Dors. They might stop him. They might prove to him that his idea was a poor one and he didn't want that proof. What he planned seemed the only gateway to salvation and he didn't want it blocked.

But did the gateway exist at all? Raych was the only one, it seemed to Seldon, who could possibly manage to worm himself into Joranum's confidence, but was Raych the proper tool for the purpose? He was a Dahlite and sympathetic to Joranum. How far could Seldon trust him?

Horrible? Raych was his son-and Seldon had never had occasion to mistrust Raych before.

If Seldon doubted the efficacy of his notion, if he feared that it might explode matters prematurely or move them desperately in the wrong direction, if he was filled with an agonizing doubt as to whether Raych could be entirely trusted to fulfill his part suitably, he nevertheless had no doubt-no doubt whatever-as to what Dors's reaction would be when presented with the fait accompli.

And he was not disappointed-if that was quite the word to express his emotion.

Yet, in a manner, he was disappointed, for Dors did not raise her voice in horror as he had somehow thought she would, as he had prepared himself to withstand.

But how was he to know? She was not as other women were and he had never seen her truly angry. Perhaps it was not in her to be truly angry -or what he would consider to be truly angry.

She was merely cold-eyed and spoke with low-voiced bitter disapproval. "You sent him to Dahl? Alone?" Very softly. Questioningly.

For a moment Seldon quailed at the quiet voice. Then he said firmly, "I had to. It was necessary."

"Let me understand. You sent him to that den of thieves, that haunt of assassins, that conglomeration of all that is criminal?"

"Dors! You anger me when you speak like that. I would expect only a bigot to use those stereotypes."

"You deny that Dahl is as I have described?"

"Of course. There are criminals and slums in Dahl. I know that very well. We both know that. But not all of Dahl is like that. And there are criminals and slums in every sector, even in the Imperial Sector and in Streeling."

"There are degrees, are there not? One is not ten. If all the worlds are crime-ridden, if all the sectors are crime-ridden, Dahl is among the worst, is it not? You have the computer. Check the statistics."

"I don't have to. Dahl is the poorest sector on Trantor and there is a positive correlation between poverty, misery, and crime. I grant you that."

"You grant me that! And you sent him alone? You might have gone with him, or asked me to go with him, or sent half a dozen of his schoolmates with him. They would have welcomed a respite from their work, I'm sure."

"What I need him for requires that he be alone."

"And what do you need him for?"

But Seldon was stubbornly silent about that.

Dors said, "Has it come to this? You don't trust me?"

"It's a gamble. I alone dare take the risk. I can't involve you or anyone else."

"But it's not you taking the risk. It's poor Raych."

"He's not taking any risk," said Seldon impatiently. "He's twenty years old, young and vigorous and as sturdy as a tree-and I don't mean the saplings we have here under glass on Trantor. I'm talking about a good solid tree in the Heliconian forests. And he's a twister, which the Dahlites aren't."

"You and your twisting," said Dors, her coldness not thawing one whit. "You think that's the answer to everything. The Dahlites carry knives. Every one of them. Blasters, too, I'm sure."

"I don't know about blasters. The laws are pretty strict when it comes to blasters. As for knives, I'm positive Raych carries one. He even carries a knife on campus here, where it's strictly against the law. Do you think he won't have one in Dahl?"

Dors remained silent.

Seldon was also silent for a few minutes, then decided it might be time to placate her. He said, "Look, I'll tell you this much. I'm hoping he'll see Joranum, who will be visiting Dahl."

"Oh? And what do you expect Raych to do? Fill him with bitter regrets over his wicked politics and send him back to Mycogen?"

"Come. Really. If you're going to take this sardonic attitude, there's no use discussing it." He looked away from her, out the window at the blue-gray sky under the dome. "What I expect him to do"-and his voice faltered for a moment "is save the Empire."

"To be sure. That would be much easier."

Seldon's voice firmed. "It's what I expect. You have no solution. Demerzel himself has no solution. He as much as said that the solution rests with me. That's what I'm striving for and that's what I need Raych for in Dahl. After all, you know that ability of his to inspire affection. It worked with us and I'm convinced it will work with Joranum. If I am right, all may be well."

Dors's eyes widened a trifle. "Are you now going to tell me that you are being guided by psychohistory?"

"No. I'm not going to lie to you. I have not reached the point where I can be guided in any way by psychohistory, but Yugo is constantly talking about intuition-and I have mine."

"Intuition! What's that? Define it!"

"Easily. Intuition is the art, peculiar to the human mind, of working out the correct answer from data that is, in itself, incomplete or even, perhaps, misleading."

"And you've done it."

And Seldon said with firm conviction, "Yes, I have."

But to himself, he thought what he dared not share with Dors. What if Raych's charm were gone? Or, worse, what if the consciousness of being a Dahlite became too strong for him?

Billibotton was Billibotton-dirty, sprawling, dark, sinuous Billibotton-exuding decay and yet full of a vitality that Raych was convinced was to be found nowhere else on Trantor. Perhaps it was to be found nowhere else in the Empire, though Raych knew nothing, firsthand, of any world but Trantor.

He had last seen Billibotton when he was not much more than twelve, but even the people seemed to be the same; still a mixture of the hangdog and the irreverent; filled with a synthetic pride and a grumbling resentment; the men marked by their dark rich mustaches and the women by their sacklike dresses that now looked tremendously slatternly to Raych's older and more worldly wise eyes.

How could women with dresses like that attract men? -But it was a foolish question. Even when he was twelve, he had had a pretty clear idea of how easily and quickly they could be removed.

So he stood there, lost in thought and memory, passing along a street of store windows and trying to convince himself that he remembered this particular place or that and wondering if, among them all, there were people he did remember who were now eight years older. Those, perhaps, who had been his boyhood friends-and he thought uneasily of the fact that, while he remembered some of the nicknames they had pinned on each other, he could not remember any real names.

In fact, the gaps in his memory were enormous. It was not that eight years was such a long time, but it was two fifths of the lifetime of a twenty-year-old and his life since leaving Billibotton had been so different that all before it had faded like a misty dream.

But the smells were there. He stopped outside a bakery, low and dingy, and smelled the coconut icing that reeked through the air-that he had never quite smelled elsewhere. Even when he had stopped to buy tarts with coconut icing, even when they were advertised as "Dahl-style," they had been faint imitations-no more.

He felt strongly tempted. Well, why not? He had the credits and Dors was not there to wrinkle her nose and wonder aloud how clean-or, more likely, not clean-the place might be. Who worried about clean in the old days?

The shop was dim and it took a while for Raych's eyes to acclimate. There were a few low tables in the place, with a couple of rather insubstantial chairs at each, undoubtedly where people might have a light repast, the equivalent of moka and tarts. A young man sat at one of the tables, an empty cup before him, wearing a once-white T-shirt that probably would have looked even dirtier in a better light.

The baker or, in any case, a server stepped out from a room in the rear and said in a rather surly fashion, "What'll ya have?"

"A coke-icer," said Raych in just as surly a fashion (he would not be a Billibottoner if he displayed courtesy), using the slang term he remembered well from the old days.

The term was still current, for the server handed him the correct item, using his bare fingers. The boy, Raych, would have taken that for granted, but now the man, Raych, felt taken slightly aback.

"You want a bag?"

"No," said Raych, "I'll eat it here." He paid the server and took the coke-icer from the other's hand and bit into its richness, his eyes half closing as he did so. It had been a rare treat in his boyhood-sometimes when he had scrounged the necessary credit to buy one with, sometimes when he had received a bite from a temporarily wealthy friend, most often when he had lifted one when nobody was watching. Now he could buy as many as he wished.

"Hey," said a voice.

Raych opened his eyes. It was the man at the table, scowling at him.

Raych said gently, "Are you speaking to me, bub?"

"Yeah. What'chuh Join'?"

"Eatin' a coke-icer. What's it to ya?" Automatically he had assumed the Billibotton way of talking. It was no strain at all.

"What'chuh doin' in Billibotton?"

"Born here. Raised here. In a bed. Not in a street, like you." The insult came easily, as though he had never left home.

"That so? You dress pretty good for a Billibottoner. Pretty fancy-dancy. Got a perfume stink about ya." And he held up a little finger to imply effeminacy.

"I won't talk about your stink. I went up in the world."

"Up in the world? La-dee-da. " Two other men stepped into the bakery. Raych frowned slightly, for he wasn't sure whether they had been summoned or not. The man at the table said to the newcomers, "This guy's gone up in the world. Says he's a Billibottoner."

One of the two newcomers shambled a mock salute and grinned with no appearance of amiability. His teeth were discolored. "Ain't that nice? It's always good to see a Billibottoner go up in the world. Gives 'em a chance to help their poor unfor'chnit sector people. Like, credits. You can always spare a credit or two for the poor, hey?"

"How many you got, mister?" said the other, the grin disappearing.

"Hey," said the man behind the counter. "All you guys get out of my store. I don't want no trouble in here."

"There'll be no trouble," said Raych. "I'm leaving."

He made to go, but the seated man put a leg in his way. "Don't go, pal. We'd miss yer company."

(The man behind the counter, clearly fearing the worst, disappeared into the rear.)

Raych smiled. He said, "One time when I was in Billibotton, guys, I was with my old man and old lady and there were ten guys who stopped us. Ten. I counted them. We had to take care of them."

"Yeah?" said the one who had been speaking. "Yer old man took care of ten?"

"My old man? Nah. He wouldn't waste his time. My old lady did. And I can do it better than she can. And there are only three of you. So, if you don't mind, out of the way."

"Sure. Just leave all your credits. Some of your clothes, too."

The man at the table rose to his feet. There was a knife in his hand.

"There you are," said Raych. "Now you're going to waste my time." He had finished his coke-icer and he half-turned. Then, as quickly as thought, he anchored himself to the table, while his right leg shot out and the point of his toe landed unerringly in the groin of the man with the knife.

Down he went with a loud cry. Up went the table, driving the second man toward the wall and keeping him there, while Raych's right arm flashed out, with the edge of the palm striking hard against the larynx of the third, who coughed and went down.

It had taken two seconds and Raych now stood there with a knife in each hand and said, "Now which one of you wants to move?"

They glared at him but remained frozen in place and Raych said, "In that case, I will now leave."

But the server, who had retreated to the back room, must have summoned help, for three more men had now entered the store, while the server screeched, "Troublemakers! Nothing but troublemakers!"

The newcomers were dressed alike in what was obviously a uniform-but one that Raych had never seen. Trousers were tucked into boots, loose green T-shirts were belted, and odd semispherical hats that looked vaguely comic were perched on top of their heads. On the front of the left shoulder of each T-shirt were the letters Jc.

They had the Dahlite look about them but not quite the Dahlite mustache. The mustaches were black and thick, but they were carefully trimmed at lip level and were kept from luxuriating too widely. Raych allowed himself an internal sneer. They lacked the vigor of his own wild mustache, but he had to admit they looked neat and clean.

The leader of these three men said, "I'm Corporal Quinber. What's been going on here?"

The defeated Billibottoners were scrambling to their feet, clearly the worse for wear. One was still doubled over, one was rubbing his throat, and the third acted as though one of his shoulders had been wrenched.

The corporal stared at them with a philosophic eye, while his two men blocked the door. He turned to Raych-the one man who seemed untouched. "Are you a Billibottoner, boy?"

"Born and bred, but I've lived elsewhere for eight years." He let the Billibotton accent recede, but it was still there, at least to the extent that it existed in the corporal's speech as well. There were other parts of Dahl aside from Billibotton and some parts with considerable aspirations to gentility.

Raych said, "Are you security officers? I don't seem to recall the uniform you're-"

"We're not security officers. You won't find security officers in Billibotton much. We're the Joranum Guard and we keep the peace here. We know these three and they've been warned. We'll take care of them. You're our problem, buster. Name. Reference number."

Raych told them.

"And what happened here?"

Raych told them.

"And your business here?"

Raych said, "Look here. Do you have the right to question me? If you're not security officers-"

"Listen," said the corporal in a hard voice, "don't you question rights. We're all there is in Billibotton and we have the right because we take the right. You say you beat up these three men and I believe you. But you won't beat us up. We're not allowed to carry blasters-" And with that, the corporal slowly pulled out a blaster.

"Now tell me your business here."

Raych sighed. If he had gone directly to a sector hall, as he should have done-if he had not stopped to drown himself in nostalgia for Billibotton and coke-icers-

He said, "I have come on important business to see Mr. Joranum, and since you seem to be part of his organi-'

"To see the leader?"

"Yes, Corporal."

"With two knives on you?"

"For self-defense. I wasn't going to have them on me when I saw Mr. Joranum."

"So you say. We're taking you into custody, mister. We'll get to the bottom of this. It may take time, but we will."

"But you don't have the right. You're not the legally const "

"Well, find someone to complain to. Till then, you're ours."

And the knives were confiscated and Raych was taken into custody.

Cleon was no longer quite the handsome young monarch that his holographs portrayed. Perhaps he still was-in the holographs-but his mirror told a different story. His most recent birthday had been celebrated with the usual pomp and ritual, but it was his fortieth just the same.

The Emperor could find nothing wrong with being forty. His health was perfect. He had gained a little weight but not much. His face would perhaps look older, if it were not for the microadjustments that were made periodically and that gave him a slightly enameled look.

He had been on the throne for eighteen years-already one of the longer reigns of the century-and he felt there was nothing that might necessarily keep him from reigning another forty years and perhaps having the longest reign in Imperial history as a result.

Cleon looked at the mirror again and thought he looked a bit better if he did not actualize the third dimension.

Now take Demerzel-faithful, reliable, necessary, unbearable Demerzel. No change in him. He maintained his appearance and, as far as Cleon knew, there had been no microadjustments, either. Of course, Demerzel was so close-mouthed about everything. And he had never been young. There had been no young look about him when he first served Cleon's father and Cleon had been the boyish Prince Imperial. And there was no young look about him now. Was it better to have looked old at the start and to avoid change afterward?

Change!

It reminded him that he had called Demerzel in for a purpose and not just so that he might stand there while the Emperor ruminated. Demerzel would take too much Imperial rumination as a sign of old age.

"Demerzel," he said.

"Sire?"

"This fellow Joranum. I tire of hearing of him."

"There is no reason you should hear of him, Sire. He is one of those phenomena that are thrown to the surface of the news for a while and then disappears."

"But he doesn't disappear."

"Sometimes it takes a while, Sire."

"What do you think of him, Demerzel?"

"He is dangerous but has a certain popularity. It is the popularity that increases the danger."

"If you find him dangerous and if I find him annoying, why must we wait? Can't he simply be imprisoned or executed or something?"

"The political situation on Trantor, Sire, is delicate-"

"It is always delicate. When have you told me that it is anything but delicate?"

"We live in delicate times, Sire. It would be useless to move strongly against him if that would but exacerbate the danger."

"I don't like it. I may not be widely read-an Emperor doesn't have the time to be widely read-but I know my Imperial history, at any rate. There have been a number of cases of these populists, as they are called, that have seized power in the last couple of centuries. In every case, they reduced the reigning Emperor to a mere figurehead. I do not wish to be a figurehead, Demerzel."

"It is unthinkable that you would be, Sire."

"It won't be unthinkable if you do nothing."

"I am attempting to take measures, Sire, but cautious ones."

"There's one fellow, at least, who isn't cautious. A month or so ago, a University professor-a professor-stopped a potential Joranumite riot single-handedly. He stepped right in and put a stop to it."

"So he did, Sire. How did you come to hear of it?"

"Because he is a certain professor in whom I am interested. How is it that you didn't speak to me of this?"

Demerzel said, almost obsequiously, "Would it be right for me to trouble you with every insignificant detail that crosses my desk?"

"Insignificant? This man who took action was Hari Seldon."

"That was, indeed, his name."

"And the name was a familiar one. Did he not present a paper, some years ago, at the last Decennial Convention that interested us?"

"Yes, Sire."

Cleon looked pleased. "As you see, I do have a memory. I need not depend on my staff for everything. I interviewed this Seldon fellow on the matter of his paper, did I not?"

"Your memory is indeed flawless, Sire."

"What happened to his idea? It was a fortune-telling device. My flawless memory does not bring to mind what he called it."

"Psychohistory, Sire. It was not precisely a fortune-telling device but a theory as to ways of predicting general trends in future human history."

"And what happened to it?"

"Nothing, Sire. As I explained at the time, the idea turned out to be wholly impractical. It was a colorful idea but a useless one."

"Yet he is capable of taking action to stop a potential riot. Would he have dared do this if he didn't know in advance he would succeed? Isn't that evidence that this-what?-psychohistory is working?"

"It is merely evidence that Hari Seldon is foolhardy, Sire. Even if the psychohistoric theory were practical, it would not have been able to yield results involving a single person or a single action."

"You're not the mathematician, Demerzel. He is. I think it is time I questioned him again. After all, it is not long before the Decennial Convention is upon us once more."

"It would be a useless-"

"Demerzel, I desire it. See to it."

"Yes, Sire."

Raych was listening with an agonized impatience that he was trying not to show. He was sitting in an improvised cell, deep in the warrens of Billibotton, having been accompanied through alleys he no longer remembered. (He, who in the old days could have threaded those same alleys unerringly and lost any pursuer.)

The man with him, clad in the green of the Joranumite Guard, was either a missionary, a brainwasher, or a kind of theologian-manque. At any rate, he had announced his name to be Sander Nee and he was delivering a long message in a thick Dahlite accent that he had clearly learned by heart.

"If the people of Dahl want to enjoy equality, they must show themselves worthy of it. Good rule, quiet behavior, seemly pleasures are all requirements. Aggressiveness and the bearing of knives are the accusations others make against us to justify their intolerance. We must be clean in word and-"

Raych broke in. "I agree with you, Guardsman Nee, every word. But I must see Mr. Joranum."

Slowly the guardsman shook his head. "You can't 'less you got some appointment, some permission."

"Look, I'm the son of an important professor at Streeling University, a mathematics professor."

"Don't know no professor. -I thought you said you was from Dahl."

"Of course I am. Can't you tell the way I talk?"

"And you got an old man who's a professor at a big University? That don't sound likely."

"Well, he's my foster father."

The guardsman absorbed that and shook his head. "You know anyone in Dahl?"

"There's Mother Rittah. She'll know me." (She had been very old when she had known him. She might be senile by now-or dead.)

"Never heard of her."

(Who else? He had never known anyone likely to penetrate the dim consciousness of this man facing him. His best friend had been another youngster named Smoodgie-or at least that was the only name he knew him by. Even in his desperation, Raych could not see himself saying: "Do you know someone my age named Smoodgie?")

Finally he said, "There's Yugo Amaryl."

A dim spark seemed to light Nee's eyes. "Who?"

"Yugo Amaryl," said Raych eagerly. "He works for my foster father at the University."

"He a Dahlite, too? Everyone at the University Dahlites?"

"Just he and I. He was a heatsinker."

"What's he doing at the University?"

"My father took him out of the heatsinks eight years ago."

"Well- I'll send someone."

Raych had to wait. Even if he escaped, where would he go in the intricate alleyways of Billibotton without being picked up instantly?

Twenty minutes passed before Nee returned with the corporal who had arrested Raych in the first place. Raych felt a little hope; the corporal, at least, might conceivably have some brains.

The corporal said, "Who is this Dahlite you know?"

"Yugo Amaryl, Corporal, a heatsinker who my father found here in Dahl eight years ago and took to Streeling University with him."

"Why did he do that?"

"My father thought Yugo could do more important things than heatsink, Corporal."

"Like what?"

"Mathematics. He-"

The corporal held up his hand. "What heatsink did he work in?"

Raych thought for a moment. "I was only a kid then, but it was at C-2, I think."

"Close enough. C-3."

"Then you know about him, Corporal?"

"Not personally, but the story is famous in the heatsinks and I've worked there, too. And maybe that's how you've heard of it. Have you any evidence that you really know Yugo Amaryl?"

"Look. Let me tell you what I'd like to do. I'm going to write down my name on a piece of paper and my father's name. Then I'm going to write down one word. Get in touch-any way you want-with some official in Mr. Joranum's group-Mr. Joranum will be here in Dahl tomorrow-and just read him my name, my father's name, and the one word. If nothing happens, then I'll stay here till I rot, I suppose, but I don't think that will happen. In fact, I'm sure that they will get me out of here in three seconds and that you'll get a promotion for passing along the information. If you refuse to do this, when they find out I am here-and they will-you will be in the deepest possible trouble. After all, if you know that Yugo Amaryl went off with a big-shot mathematician, just tell yourself that same big-shot mathematician is my father. His name is Hari Seldon."

The corporal's face showed clearly that the name was not unknown to him.

He said, "What's the one word you're going to write down?"

"Psychohistory."

The corporal frowned. "What's that?"

"That doesn't matter. Just pass it along and see what happens."

The corporal handed him a small sheet of paper, torn out of a notebook. "All right. Write it down and we'll see what happens."

Raych realized that he was trembling. He wanted very much to know what would happen. It depended entirely on who it was that the corporal would talk to and what magic the word would carry with it.

Hari Seldon watched the raindrops form on the wraparound windows of the Imperial ground-car and a sense of nostalgia stabbed at him unbearably.

It was only the second time in his eight years on Trantor that he had been ordered to visit the Emperor in the only open land on the planet-and both times the weather had been bad. The first time, shortly after he had arrived on Trantor, the bad weather had merely irritated him. He had found no novelty in it. His home world of Helicon had its share of storms, after all, particularly in the area where he had been brought up.

But now he had lived for eight years in make-believe weather, in which storms consisted of computerized cloudiness at random intervals, with regular light rains during the sleeping hours. Raging winds were replaced by zephyrs and there were no extremes of heat and cold-merely little changes that made you unzip the front of your shirt once in a while or throw on a light jacket. And he had heard complaints about even so mild a deviation.

But now Hari was seeing real rain coming down drearily from a cold sky-and he had not seen such a thing in years-and he loved it; that was the thing. It reminded him of Helicon, of his youth, of relatively carefree days, and he wondered if he might persuade the driver to take the long way to the Palace.

Impossible! The Emperor wanted to see him and it was a long enough trip by ground-car, even if one went in a straight line with no interfering traffic. The Emperor, of course, would not wait.

It was a different Cleon from the one Seldon had seen eight years before. He had put on about ten pounds and there was a sulkiness about his face. Yet the skin around his eyes and cheeks looked pinched and Hari recognized the results of one too many microadjustments. In a way, Seldon felt sorry for Cleon-for all his might and Imperial sway, the Emperor was powerless against the passage of time.

Once again Cleon met Hari Seldon alone-in the same lavishly furnished room of their first encounter. As was the custom, Seldon waited to be addressed.

After briefly assessing Seldon's appearance, the Emperor said in an ordinary voice, "Glad to see you, Professor. Let us dispense with formalities, as we did on the former occasion on which I met you."

"Yes, Sire," said Seldon stiffly. It was not always safe to be informal, merely because the Emperor ordered you to be so in an effusive moment.

Cleon gestured imperceptibly and at once the room came alive with automation as the table set itself and dishes began to appear. Seldon, confused, could not follow the details.

The Emperor said casually, "You will dine with me, Seldon?"

It had the formal intonation of a question but the force, somehow, of an order.

"I would be honored, Sire," said Seldon. He looked around cautiously. He knew very well that one did not (or, at any rate, should not) ask questions of the Emperor, but he saw no way out of it. He said, rather quietly, trying to make it not sound like a question, "The First Minister will not dine with us?"

"He will not," said Cleon. "He has other tasks at this moment and I wish, in any case, to speak to you privately."

They ate quietly for a while, Cleon gazing at him fixedly and Seldon smiling tentatively. Cleon had no reputation for cruelty or even for irresponsibility, but he could, in theory, have Seldon arrested on some vague charge and, if the Emperor wished to exert his influence, the case might never come to trial. It was always best to avoid notice and at the moment Seldon couldn't manage it.

Surely it had been worse eight years ago, when he had been brought to the Palace under armed guard. -This fact did not make Seldon feel relieved, however.

Then Cleon spoke. "Seldon" he said. "The First Minister is of great use to me, yet I feel that, at times, people may think I do not have a mind of my own. Do you think that?"

"Never, Sire," said Seldon calmly. No use protesting too much.

"I don't believe you. However, I do have a mind of my own and I recall that when you first came to Trantor you had this psychohistory thing you were playing with."

"I'm sure you also remember, Sire," said Seldon softly, "that I explained at the time it was a mathematical theory without practical application."

"So you said. Do you still say so?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Have you been working on it since?"

"On occasion I toy with it, but it comes to nothing. Chaos unfortunately interferes and predictability is not-"

The Emperor interrupted. "There is a specific problem I wish you to tackle. -Do help yourself to the dessert, Seldon. It is very good."

"What is the problem, Sire?"

"This man Joranum. Demerzel tells me-oh, so politely-that I cannot arrest this man and I cannot use armed force to crush his followers. He says it will simply make the situation worse."

"If the First Minister says so, I presume it is so."

"But I do not want this man Joranum . . . . At any rate, I will not be his puppet. Demerzel does nothing."

"I am sure that he is doing what he can, Sire."

"If he is working to alleviate the problem, he certainly is not keeping me informed."

"That may be, Sire, out of a natural desire to keep you above the fray. The First Minister may feel that if Joranum should-if he should-"

"Take over," said Cleon with a tone of infinite distaste.

"Yes, Sire. It would not be wise to have it appear that you were personally opposed to him. You must remain untouched for the sake of the stability of the Empire."

"I would much rather assure the stability of the Empire without Joranum. What do you suggest, Seldon?"

"I, Sire?"

"You, Seldon," said Cleon impatiently. "Let me say that I don't believe you when you say that psychohistory is just a game. Demerzel stays friendly with you. Do you think I am such an idiot as not to know that? He expects something from you. He expects psychohistory from you and since I am no fool, I expect it, too. -Seldon, are you for Joranum? The truth!"

"No, Sire, I am not for him. I consider him an utter danger to the Empire."

"Very well, I believe you. You stopped a potential Joranumite riot at your University grounds single-handedly, I understand."

"It was pure impulse on my part, Sire."

"Tell that to fools, not to me. You had worked it out by psychohistory."

"Sire!"

"Don't protest. What are you doing about Joranum? You must be doing something if you are on the side of the Empire."

"Sire," said Seldon cautiously, uncertain as to how much the Emperor knew. "I have sent my son to meet with Joranum in the Dahl Sector."

"Why?"

"My son is a Dahlite-and shrewd. He may discover something of use to us."

"May?"

"Only may, Sire."

"You'll keep me informed?"

"Yes, Sire."

"And, Seldon, do not tell me that psychohistory is just a game, that it does not exist. I do not want to hear that. I expect you to do something about Joranum. What it might be, I can't say, but you must do something. I will not have it otherwise. You may go."

Seldon returned to Streeling University in a far darker mood than when he had left. Cleon had sounded as though he would not accept failure.

It all depended on Raych now.

Raych sat in the anteroom of a public building in Dahl into which he had never ventured-never could have ventured-as a ragamuffin youth. He felt, in all truth, a little uneasy about it now, as though he were trespassing.

He tried to look calm, trustworthy, lovable.

Dad had told him that this was a quality he carried around with him, but he had never been conscious of it. If it came about naturally, he would probably spoil it by trying too hard to seem to be what he really was.

He tried relaxing while keeping an eye on the official who was manipulating a computer at the desk. The official was not a Dahlite. He was, in fact, Gambol Deen Namarti, who had been with Joranum at the meeting with Dad that Raych had attended.

Every once in a while, Namarti would look up from his desk and glance at Raych with a hostile glare. This Namarti wasn't buying Raych's lovability. Raych could see that.

Raych did not try to meet Namarti's hostility with a friendly smile. It would have seemed too artificial. He simply waited. He had gotten this far. If Joranum arrived, as he was expected to, Raych would have a chance to speak to him.

Joranum did arrive, sweeping in, smiling his public smile of warmth and confidence. Namarti's hand came up and Joranum stopped. They spoke together in low voices while Raych watched intently and tried in vain to seem as if he wasn't. It seemed plain to Raych that Namarti was arguing against the meeting and Raych bridled a bit at that.

Then Joranum looked at Raych, smiled, and pushed Namarti to one side. It occurred to Raych that, while Namarti was the brains of the team, it was Joranum who clearly had the charisma.

Joranum strode toward him and held out a plump, slightly moist hand. "Well well. Professor Seldon's young man. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, sir."

"You had some trouble getting here, I understand."

"Not too much, sir."

"And you've come with a message from your father, I trust. I hope he is reconsidering his decision and has decided to join me in my great crusade."

"I don't think so, sir."

Joranum frowned slightly. "Are you here without his knowledge?"

"No, sir. He sent me."

"I see. -Are you hungry, lad?"

"Not at the moment, sir."

"Then would you mind if I eat? I don't get much time for the ordinary amenities of life," he said, smiling broadly.

"It's all right with me, sir."

Together, they moved to a table and sat down. Joranum unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite. His voice slightly muffled, he said, "And why did he send you, son?"

Raych shrugged. "I think he thought I might find out something about you that he could use against you. He's heart and soul with First Minister Demerzel."

"And you're not?"

"No, sir. I'm a Dahlite."

"I know you are, Mr. Seldon, but what does that mean?"

"It means I'm oppressed, so I'm on your side and I want to help you. Of course, I wouldn't want my father to know."

"There's no reason he should know. How do you propose to help me?" He glanced quickly at Namarti, who was leaning against his desk, listening, with his arms folded and his expression lowering. "Do you know anything about psychohistory?"

"No, sir. My father don't talk to me about that-and if he did, I wouldn't get it. I don't think he's getting anywhere with that stuff."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. There's a guy there, Yugo Amaryl, also a Dahlite, who talks about it sometimes. I'm sure nothing is happening."

"Ah! And can I see Yugo Amaryl sometime, do you suppose?"

"I don't think so. He ain't much for Demerzel, but he's all for my father. He wouldn't cross him."

"But you would?"

Raych looked unhappy and he muttered stubbornly, "I'm a Dahlite."

Joranum cleared his throat. "Then let me ask you again. How do you propose to help me, young man?"

"I've got something to tell you that maybe you won't believe."

"Indeed? Try me. If I don't believe it, I will tell you so."

"It's about First Minister Eto Demerzel."

"Well?"

Raych looked around uneasily. "Can anyone hear me?"

"Just Namarti and myself."

"All right, then listen. This guy Demerzel ain't a guy. He's a robot."

"What!" exploded Joranum.

Raych felt moved to explain. "A robot is a mechanical man, sir. He ain't human. He's a machine."

Namarti broke out passionately, "Jo-Jo, don't believe that. It's ridiculous."

But Joranum held up an admonitory hand. His eyes were gleaming. "Why do you say that?"

"My father was in Mycogen once. He told me all about it. In Mycogen they talk about robots a lot."

"Yes, I know. At least, I have heard so."

"The Mycogenians believe that robots were once very common among their ancestors, but they were wiped out."

Namarti's eyes narrowed. "But what makes you think that Demerzel is a robot? From what little I have heard of these fantasies, robots are made out of metal, aren't they?"

"That's so," said Raych earnestly. "But what I heard is that there were a few robots that look just like human beings and they live forever-"

Namarti shook his head violently. "Legends! Ridiculous legends! JoJo, why are we listening-"

But Joranum cut him off quickly. "No, G.D. I want to listen. I've heard these legends, too."

"But it's nonsense, Jo-Jo."

"Don't be in such a rush to say `nonsense.' And even if it were, people live and die by nonsense. It's not what is so much as what people think is. -Tell me, young man, putting legends to one side, what makes you think Demerzel is a robot? Let's suppose that robots exist. What is it, then, about Demerzel that makes you say he is a robot? Did he tell you so?"

"No, sir," said Raych.

"Did your father tell you so?" asked Joranum.

"No, sir. It's just my own idea, but I'm sure of it."

"Why? What makes you so sure?"

"It's just something about him. He doesn't change. He doesn't get older. He doesn't show emotions. Something about him looks like he's made of metal."

Joranum sat back in his chair and looked at Raych for an extended time. It was almost possible to hear his thoughts buzzing.

Finally he said, "Suppose he is a robot, young man. Why should you care? Does it matter to you?"

"Of course it matters to me," said Raych. "I'm a human being. I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire."

Joranum turned to Namarti with a gesture of eager approval. "Do you hear that, G.D.? `I'm a human being. I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire.' Put him on holovision and have him say it. Have him repeat it over and over till it's drummed into every person on Trantor-"

"Hey," said Raych, finally catching his breath. "I can't say that on holovision. I can't let my father find out-"

"No, of course not," said Joranum quickly. "We couldn't allow that. We'll just use the words. We'll find some other Dahlite. Someone from each of the sectors, each in his own dialect, but always the same message: `I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire.'"

Namarti said, "And what happens when Demerzel proves he's not a robot?"

"Really," said Joranum. "How will he do that? It would be impossible for him to do so. Psychologically impossible. What? The great Demerzel, the power behind the throne, the man who has twitched the strings attached to Cleon I all these years and those attached to Cleon’s father before him? Will he climb down now and whine to the public that he is, too, a human being? That would be almost as destructive to him as being a robot. G.D., we have the villain in a no-win situation and we owe it all to this fine young man here."

Raych flushed.

Joranum said, "Raych is your name, isn't it? Once our party is in a position to do so, we won't forget. Dahl will be treated well and you will have a good position with us. You're going to be Dahl's sector leader someday, Raych, and you're not going to regret you've done this. Are you, now?"

"Not on your life," said Raych fervently.

"In that case, we'll see that you get back to your father. You let him know that we intend him no harm, that we value him greatly. You can tell him you found that out in any way you please. And if you find anything else you think we might be able to use-about psychohistory, in particular, you let us know."

"You bet. But do you mean it when you say you'll see to it that Dahl gets some breaks?"

"Absolutely. Equality of sectors, my boy. Equality of worlds. We'll have a new Empire with all the old villainies of privilege and inequality wiped out."

And Raych nodded his head vigorously. "That's what I want."

Cleon, Emperor of the Galaxy, was walking hurriedly through the arcade that led from his private quarters in the Small Palace to the offices of the rather tremendous staff that lived in the various annexes of the Imperial Palace, which served as the nerve center of the Empire.

Several of his personal attaches walked after him, with looks of the deepest concern on their faces. The Emperor did not walk to others. He summoned them and they came to him. If he did walk, he never showed signs of haste or emotional trauma. How could he? He was the Emperor and, as such, far more a symbol of all the worlds than a human being.

Yet now he seemed to be a human being. He motioned everyone aside with an impatient wave of his right hand. In his left hand he held a gleaming hologram.

"The First Minister," he said in an almost strangled voice, not at all like the carefully cultivated tones he had painstakingly assumed along with the throne. "Where is he?"

And all the high functionaries who were in his way fumbled and gasped and found it impossible to manage coherence. He brushed past them angrily, making them all feel, undoubtedly, as though they were living through a waking nightmare.

Finally he burst into Demerzel's private office, panting slightly, and shouted-literally shouted- "Demerzel!"

Demerzel looked up with a trace of surprise and rose smoothly to his feet, for one did not sit in the presence of the Emperor unless specifically invited to. "Sire?" he said.

And the Emperor slammed the hologram down on Demerzel's desk and said, "What is this? Will you tell me that?"

Demerzel looked at what the Emperor had given him. It was a beautiful hologram, sharp and alive. One could almost hear the little boy-perhaps ten years old-speaking the words that were included in the caption: "I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire."

Demerzel said quietly, "Sire, I have received this, too."

"And who else has?"

"I am under the impression, Sire, that it is a flier that is being widely spread over Trantor."

"Yes, and do you see the person at whom that brat is looking?" He tapped his Imperial forefinger at it. "Isn't that you?"

"The resemblance is striking, Sire."

"Am I wrong in supposing that the whole intent of this flier, as you call it, is to accuse you of being a robot?"

"That does seem to be its intention, Sire."

"And stop me if I'm wrong, but aren't robots the legendary mechanical human beings one finds in-in thrillers and children's stories?"

"The Mycogenians have it as an article of faith, Sire, that robots-"

"I'm not interested in the Mycogenians and their articles of faith. Why are they accusing you of being a robot?"

"Merely a metaphorical point, I'm sure, Sire. They wish to portray me as a man of no heart, whose views are the conscienceless calculations of a machine."

"That's too subtle, Demerzel. I'm no fool." He tapped the hologram again. "They're trying to make people believe you are really a robot."

"We can scarcely prevent it, Sire, if people choose to believe that."

"We cannot afford it. It detracts from the dignity of your office. Worse than that, it detracts from the dignity of the Emperor, The implication is that I-I would choose as my First Minister a mechanical man. That is impossible to endure. See here, Demerzel, aren't there laws that forbid the denigration of public officers of the Empire?"

"Yes, there are-and quite severe ones, Sire, dating back to the great Law Codes of Aburamis."

"And to denigrate the Emperor himself is a capital offense, is it not?"

"Death is the punishment, Sire. Yes."

"Well, this not only denigrates you, it denigrates me-and whoever did it should be executed forthwith. It was this Joranum, of course, who is behind it."

"Undoubtedly. Sire, but proving it might be rather difficult."

"Nonsense! I have proof enough! I want an execution."

"The trouble is, Sire, that the laws of denigration are virtually never enforced. Not in this century, certainly."

"And that is why society is becoming so unstable and the Empire is being shaken to its roots. The laws are still in the books, so enforce them."

Demerzel said, "Consider, Sire, if that would be wise. It would make you appear to be a tyrant and a despot. Your rule has been a most successful one through kindness and mildness-"

"Yes and see where that got me. Let's have them fear me for a change, rather than love me-in this fashion."

"I strongly recommend that you not do so, Sire. It may be the spark that will start a rebellion."

"What would you do, then? Go before the people and say, `Look at me. I am no robot."'

"No, Sire, for as you say that would destroy my dignity and, worse yet, yours."

"Then?"

"I am not certain, Sire. I have not yet thought it through."

"Not yet thought it through? -Get in touch with Seldon."

"Sire?"

"What is so difficult to understand about my order? Get in touch with Seldon!"

"You wish me to summon him to the Palace, Sire?"

"No, there's no time for that. I presume you can set up a sealed communication line between us that cannot be tapped."

"Certainly, Sire."

"Then do so. Now!"

Seldon lacked Demerzel's self-possession, being, as he was, only flesh and blood. The summons to his office and the sudden faint glow and tingle of the scrambler field was indication enough that something unusual was taking place. He had spoken by sealed lines before but never to the full extent of Imperial security.

He expected some government official to clear the way for Demerzel himself. Considering the slowly mounting tumult of the robot flier, he could expect nothing less.

But he did not expect anything more, either, and when the image of the Emperor himself, with the faint glitter of the scramble field outlining him, stepped into his office (so to speak), Seldon fell back in his seat, mouth wide open, and could make only ineffectual attempts to rise.

Cleon motioned him impatiently to keep his seat. "You must know what's going on, Seldon."

"Do you mean about the robot flier, Sire?"

"That's exactly what I mean. What's to be done?"

Seldon, despite the permission to remain seated, finally rose. "There's more, Sire. Joranum is organizing rallies all over Trantor on the robot issue. At least, that's what I hear on the newscasts."

"It hasn't reached me yet. Of course not. Why should the Emperor know what is going on?"

"It is not for the Emperor to be concerned, Sire. I'm sure that the First Minister-"

"The First Minister will do nothing, not even keep me informed. I turn to you and your psychohistory. Tell me what to do. "

"Sire?"

"I'm not going to play your game, Seldon. You've been working on psychohistory for eight years. The First Minister tells me I must not take legal action against Joranum. What, then, do I do?"

Seldon stuttered. "S-sire! Nothing!"

"You have nothing to tell me?"

"No, Sire. That is not what I mean. I mean you must do nothing. Nothing! The First Minister is quite right if he tells you that you must not take legal action. It will make things worse."

"Very well. What will make things better?"

"For you to do nothing. For the First Minister to do nothing. For the government to allow Joranum to do just as he pleases."

"How will that help?"

And Seldon said, trying to suppress the note of desperation in his voice, "That will soon be seen."

The Emperor seemed to deflate suddenly, as though all the anger and indignation had been drawn out of him. He said, "Ah! I understand! You have the situation well in hand!"

"Sire! I have not said that-"

"You need not say. I have heard enough. You have the situation well in hand, but I want results. I still have the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. They will be loyal and, if it comes to actual disorders, I will not hesitate. But I will give you your chance first."

His image flashed out and Seldon sat there, simply staring at the empty space where the image had been.

Ever since the first unhappy moment when he had mentioned psychohistory at the Decennial Convention eight years before, he had had to face the fact that he didn't have what he had incautiously talked about.

All he had was the wild ghost of some thoughts-and what Yugo Amaryl called intuition.

In two days Joranum had swept Trantor, partly by himself, mostly through his lieutenants. As Hari muttered to Dors, it was a campaign that had all the marks of military efficiency. "He was born to be a war admiral in the old days," he said. "He's wasted on politics."

And Dors said, "Wasted? At this rate, he's going to make himself First Minister in a week and, if he wishes, Emperor in two weeks. There are reports that some of the military garrisons are cheering him."

Seldon shook his head. "It will collapse, Dors."

"What? Joranum's party or the Empire?"

"Joranum's party. The story of the robot has created an instant stir, especially with the effective use of that flier, but a little thought, a little coolness, and the public will see it for the ridiculous accusation it is."

"But, Hari," said Dors tightly, "you needn't pretend with me. It is not a ridiculous story. How could Joranum possibly have found out that Demerzel is a robot?"

"Oh, that.' Why, Raych told him so."

"Raych!"

"That's right. He did his job perfectly and got back safely with the promise of being made Dahl's sector leader someday. Of course he was believed. I knew he would be."

"You mean you told Raych that Demerzel was a robot and had him pass on the news to Joranum?" Dors looked utterly horrified.

"No, I couldn't do that. You know I couldn't tell Raych-or anyone-that Demerzel was a robot. I told Raych as firmly as I could that Demerzel was not a robot-and even that much was difficult. But I did ask him to tell Joranum that he was. He is under the firm impression that he lied to Joranum."

"But why, Hari? Why?"

"It's not psychohistory, I'll tell you that. Don't you join the Emperor in thinking I'm a magician. I just wanted Joranum to believe that Demerzel was a robot. He's a Mycogenian by birth, so he was filled from youth with his culture's tales of robots. Therefore, he was predisposed to believe and he was convinced that the public would believe with him."

"Well, won't they?"

"Not really. After the initial shock is over, they will realize that it's madcap fiction-or they will think so. I've persuaded Demerzel that he must give a talk on subetheric holovision to be broadcast to key portions of the Empire and to every sector on Trantor. He is to talk about everything but the robot issue. There are enough crises, we all know, to fill such a talk. People will listen and will hear nothing about robots. Then, at the end, he will be asked about the flier and he need not answer a word. He need only laugh."

"Laugh? I've never known Demerzel to laugh. He almost never smiles."

"This time, Dors, he'll laugh. It is the one thing that no one ever visualizes a robot doing. You've seen robots in holographic fantasies, haven't you? They're always pictured as literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman- That's what people are sure to expect. So Demerzel need merely laugh. And on top of that- Do you remember Sunmaster Fourteen, the religious leader of Mycogen?"

"Of course I do. Literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman. He's never laughed, either."

"And he won't this time. I've done a lot of work on this Joranum matter since I had that little set-to at the Field. I know Joranum's real name. I know where he was born, who his parents were, where he had his early training, and all of it, with documentary proof, has gone to Sunmaster Fourteen. I don't think Sunmaster likes Breakaways."

"But I thought you said you don't wish to spark off bigotry."

"I don't. If I had given the information to the holovision people, I would have, but I've given it to Sunmaster, where, after all, it belongs."

"And he'll start off the bigotry."

"Of course he won't. No one on Trantor would pay any attention to Sunmaster-whatever he might say."

"Then what's the point?"

"Well, that's what we'll see, Dors. I don't have a psychohistorical analysis of the situation. I don't even know if one is possible. I just hope that my judgment is right."

Eto Demerzel laughed.

It was not the first time. He sat there, with Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili in a tap-free room, and, every once in a while, at a signal from Hari, he would laugh. Sometimes he leaned back and laughed uproariously, but Seldon shook his head. "That would never sound convincing."

So Demerzel smiled and then laughed with dignity and Seldon made a face. "I'm stumped," he said. "It's no use trying to tell you funny stories. You get the point only intellectually. You will simply have to memorize the sound."

Dors said, "Use a holographic laughtrack."

"No! That would never be Demerzel. That's a bunch of idiots being paid to yak. It's not what I want. Try again, Demerzel."

Demerzel tried again until Seldon said, "All right, then, memorize that sound and reproduce it when you're asked the question. You've got to look amused. You can't make the sound of laughing, however proficient, with a grave face. Smile a little, just a little. Pull back the corner of your mouth." Slowly Demerzel's mouth widened into a grin. "Not bad. Can you make your eyes twinkle?"

"What do you mean, 'twinkle,"' said Dors indignantly. "No one makes their eyes twinkle. That's a metaphorical expression."

"No, it's not," said Seldon. "There's the hint of tears in the eye-sadness, joy, surprise, whatever-and the reflection of light from that hint of fluid is what does it."

"Well, do you seriously expect Demerzel to produce tears?"

And Demerzel said, matter-of-factly, "My eyes do produce tears for general cleansing-never in excess. Perhaps, though, if I imagine my eyes to be slightly irritated-"

"Try it," said Seldon. "It can't hurt."

And so it was that when the talk on subetheric holovision was over and the words were streaking out to millions of worlds at thousands of times the effective speed of light words that were grave, matter-of-fact, informative, and without rhetorical embellishment-and that discussed everything but robots-Demerzel declared himself ready to answer questions.

He did not have to wait long. The very first question was: "Mr. First Minister, are you a robot?"

Demerzel simply stared calmly and let the tension build. Then he smiled, his body shook slightly, and he laughed. It was not a loud uproarious laugh, but it was a rich one, the laugh of someone enjoying a moment of fantasy. It was infectious. The audience tittered and then laughed along with him.

Demerzel waited for the laughter to die down and then, eyes twinkling, said, "Must I really answer that? Is it necessary to do so?" He was still smiling as the screen darkened.

"I'm sure it worked," said Seldon. "Naturally we won't have a complete reversal instantly. It takes time. But things are moving in the right direction now. I noticed that when I stopped Namarti's talk at the University Field. The audience was with him until I faced him and showed spunk against odds. The audience began to change sides at once."

"Do you think this is an analogous situation?" asked Dors dubiously.

"Of course. If I don't have psychohistory, I can use analogy-and the brains I was born with, I suppose. There was the First Minister, beleaguered on all sides with the accusation, and he faced it down with a smile and a laugh, the most nonrobot thing he could have done, so that in itself was an answer to the question. Of course sympathy began to slide to his side. Nothing would stop that. But that's only the beginning. We have to wait for Sunmaster Fourteen and hear what he has to say."

"Are you confident there, too?"

"Absolutely."

Tennis was one of Hari's favorite sports, but he preferred to play rather than watch others. He watched with impatience, therefore, as the Emperor Cleon, dressed in sports fashion, loped across the court to return the ball. It was Imperial tennis, actually, so-called because it was a favorite of Emperors, a version of the game in which a computerized racket was used that could alter its angle slightly with appropriate pressures on the handle. Hari had tried to develop the technique on several occasions but found that mastering the computerized racket would take a great deal of practice-and Hari Seldon's time was far too precious for what was clearly a trivial pursuit.

Cleon placed the ball in a nonreturnable position and won the game. He trotted off the court to the careful applause of the functionaries who were watching and Seldon said to him, "Congratulations, Sire. You played a marvelous game."

Cleon said indifferently, "Do you think so, Seldon? They're all so careful to let me win. I get no pleasure out of it."

5eldon said, "In that case, Sire, you might order your opponents to play harder."

"It wouldn't help. They'd be careful to lose anyway. And if they did win, I would get even less pleasure out of losing than out of winning meaninglessly. Being an Emperor has its woes, Seldon. Joranum would have found that out-if he had ever succeeded in becoming one."

He disappeared into his private shower facility and emerged in due time, scrubbed and dried and dressed rather more formally.

"And now, Seldon" he said, waving all the others away, "the tennis court is as private a place as we can find and the weather is glorious, so let us not go indoors. I have read the Mycogenian message of this Sunmaster Fourteen. Will it do?"

"Entirely, Sire. As you have read, Joranum was denounced as a Mycogenian Breakaway and is accused of blasphemy in the strongest terms."

"And does that finish him?"

"It diminishes his importance fatally, Sire. There are few who accept the mad story of the First Minister's robothood now. Furthermore, Joranum is revealed as a liar and a poseur and, worse, one who was caught at it."

"Caught at it, yes," said Cleon thoughtfully. "You mean that merely to be underhanded is to be sly and that may be admirable, while to be caught is to be stupid and that is never admirable."

"You put it succinctly, Sire."

"Then Joranum is no longer a danger."

"We can't be certain of that, Sire. He may recover, even now. He still has an organization and some of his followers will remain loyal. History yields examples of men and women who have come back after disasters as great as this one-or greater."

"In that case, let us execute him, Seldon."

Seldon shook his head. "That would be inadvisable, Sire. You would not want to create a martyr or to make yourself appear to be a despot."

Cleon frowned. "Now you sound like Demerzel. Whenever I wish to take forceful action, he mutters the word `despot.' There have been Emperors before me who have taken forceful action and who have been admired as a result and have been considered strong and decisive."

"Undoubtedly, Sire, but we live in troubled times. Nor is execution necessary. You can accomplish your purpose in a way that will make you seem enlightened and benevolent."

"Seem enlightened?"

"Be enlightened, Sire. I misspoke. To execute Joranum would be to take revenge, which might be regarded as ignoble. As Emperor, however, you have a kindly-even paternal-attitude toward the beliefs of all your people. You make no distinctions, for you are the Emperor of all alike."

"What is it you're saying?"

"I mean, Sire, that Joranum has offended the sensibilities of the Mycogenians and you are horrified at his sacrilege, he having been born one of them. What better can you do but hand Joranum over to the Mycogenians and allow them to take care of him? You will be applauded for your proper Imperial convern."

"And the Mycogenians will execute him, then?"

"They may, Sire. Their laws against blasphemy are excessively severe. At best, they will imprison him for life at hard labor."

Cleon smiled. "Very good. I get the credit for humanity and tolerance and they do the dirty work."

"They would, Sire, if you actually handed Joranum over to them. That would, however, still create a martyr."

"Now you confuse me. What would you have me do?"

"Give Joranum the choice. Say that your regard for the welfare of all the people in your Empire urges you to hand him over to the Mycogenians for trial but that your humanity fears the Mycogenians may be too severe. Therefore, as an alternative, he may choose to be banished to Nishaya, the small and secluded world from which he claimed to have come, to live the rest of his life in obscurity and peace. You'll see to it that he's kept under guard, of course."

"And that will take care of things?"

"Certainly. Joranum would be committing virtual suicide if he chose to be returned to Mycogen-and he doesn't strike me as the suicidal type. He will certainly choose Nishaya, and though that is the sensible course of action, it is also an unheroic one. As a refugee in Nishaya, he can scarcely lead any movement designed to take over the Empire. His following is sure to disintegrate. They could follow a martyr with holy zeal, but it would be difficult, indeed, to follow a coward."

"Astonishing! How did you manage all this, Seldon?" There was a distinct note of admiration in Cleon's voice.

Seldon said, "Well, it seemed reasonable to suppose-"

"Never mind," said Cleon abruptly. "I don't suppose you'll tell me the truth or that I would understand you if you did, but I'll tell you this much. Demerzel is leaving office. This last crisis has proved to be too much for him and I agree with him that it is time for him to retire. But I can't do without a First Minister and, from this moment onward, you are he."

"Sire.'" exclaimed Seldon in mingled astonishment and horror.

"First Minister Hari Seldon." said Cleon calmly. "The Emperor wishes it."

"Don't be alarmed," said Demerzel. "It was my suggestion. I've been here too long and the succession of crises has reached the point where the consideration of the Three Laws paralyzes me. You are the logical successor."

"I am not the logical successor," said Seldon hotly. "What do I know about running an Empire? The Emperor is foolish enough to believe that I solved this crisis by psychohistory. Of course I didn't."

"That doesn't matter, Hari. If he believes you have the psychohistorical answer, he will follow you eagerly and that will make you a Good First Minister."

"He may follow me straight into destruction."

"I feel that your good sense-or intuition-will keep you on target . . . with or without psychohistory."

"But what will I do without you-Daneel?"

"Thank you for calling me that. I am Demerzel no more, only Daneel. As to what you will do without me- Suppose you try to put into practice some of Joranum's ideas of equality and social justice? He may not have meant them-he may have used them only as ways of capturing allegiance-but they are not bad ideas in themselves. And find ways of having Raych help you in that. He clung to you against his own attraction to Joranum's ideas and he must feel torn and half a traitor. Show him he isn't. In addition, you can work all the harder on psychohistory, for the Emperor will be there with you, heart and soul."

"But what will you do, Daneel?"

"I have other things in the Galaxy to which I must attend. There is still the Zeroth Law and I must labor for the good of humanity, insofar as I can determine what that might be. And, Hari-"

"Yes, Daneel."

"You still, have Dors."

Seldon nodded. "Yes, I still have Dors." He paused for a moment before grasping Daneel's firm hand with his own. "Good-bye, Daneel."

"Good-bye, Hari," Daneel replied.

And with that, the robot turned, his heavy First Minister's robe rustling as he walked away, head up, back ramrod straight, along the Palace hallway.

Seldon stood there for a few minutes after Daneel had gone, lost in thought. Suddenly he began moving in the direction of the First Minister's apartment. Seldon had one more thing to tell Daneel-the most important thing of all.

Seldon hesitated in the softly lit hallway before entering. But the room was empty. The dark robe was draped over a chair. The First Minister's chambers echoed Hari's last words to the robot: "Good-bye, my friend." Eto Demerzel was gone; R. Daneel Olivaw had vanished.

PART II

CLEON I

Prev Next