CLEON I- . . . Though often receiving panegyrics for being the last Emperor under whom the First Galactic Empire was reasonably united and reasonably prosperous, the quarter-century reign of Cleon I was one of continuous decline. This cannot be viewed as his direct responsibility, for the Decline of the Empire was based on political and economic factors too strong for anyone to deal with at the time. He was fortunate in his selection of First Ministers-Eto Demerzel and then Hari Seldon, in whose development of psychohistory the Emperor never lost faith. Cleon and Seldon, as the objects of the final Joranumite Conspiracy, with its bizarre climax-

 

 ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

 

  

 

 1

 

 Mandell Gruber was a happy man. He seemed so to Hari Seldon, certainly. Seldon stopped his morning constitutional to watch him.

 

 Gruber, perhaps in his late forties, a few years younger than Seldon, was a bit gnarled from his continuing work in the Imperial Palace grounds, but he had a cheerful, smoothly shaven face, topped by a pink skull, not much of which was hidden by his thin sandy hair. He whistled softly to himself as he inspected the leaves of the bushes for any signs of insect infestation.

 

 He was not the Chief Gardener, of course. The Chief Gardener of the Imperial Palace grounds was a high functionary who had a palatial office in one of the buildings of the enormous Imperial complex, with an army of men and women under him. The chances are he did not inspect the Palace grounds more often than once or twice a year.

 

 Gruber was but one of that army. His title, Seldon knew, was Gardener First-Class and it had been well earned, with thirty years of faithful service.

 

 Seldon called to him as he paused on the perfectly level crushed gravel walk, "Another marvelous day, Gruber."

 

 Gruber looked up and his eyes twinkled. "Yes, indeed, First Minister, and it's sorry I am for those who be cooped up indoors."

 

 "You mean as I am about to be."

 

 "There's not much about you, First Minister, for people to sorrow over, but if you're disappearing into those buildings on a day like this, it's a bit of sorrow that we fortunate few can feel for you."

 

 "I thank you for your sympathy, Gruber, but you know we have forty billion Trantorians under the dome. Are you sorry for all of them?"

 

 "Indeed, I am. I am grateful I am not of Trantorian extraction myself so that I could qualify as a gardener. There be few of us on this world that work in the open, but here I be, one of the fortunate few."'

 

 "The weather isn't always this ideal."

 

 "That is true. And I have been out here in the sluicing rains and the whistling winds. Still, as long as you dress fittingly . . . . Look-" And Gruber spread his arms open, wide as his smile, as if to embrace the vast expanse of the Palace grounds. "I have my friends-the trees and the lawns and all the animal life forms to keep me company-and growth to encourage in geometric form, even in the winter. Have you ever seen the geometry of the grounds, First Minister?"

 

 "I am looking at it right now, am I not?"

 

 "I mean the plans spread out so you can really appreciate it all-and marvelous it is, too. It was planned by Tapper Savand, over a hundred years ago, and it has been little changed since. Tapper was a great horticulturist, the greatest-and he came from my planet."

 

 "That was Anacreon, wasn't it?"

 

 "Indeed. A far-off world near the edge of the Galaxy, where there is still wilderness and life can be sweet. I came here when I was still an earwet lad, when the present Chief Gardener took power under the old Emperor. Of course, now they're talking of redesigning the grounds." Gruber sighed deeply and shook his head. "That would be a mistake. They are just right as they are now properly proportioned, well balanced, pleasing to the eye and spirit. But it is true that in history, the grounds have occasionally been redesigned. Emperors grow tired of the old and are always seeking the new, as if new is somehow always better. Our present Emperor, may he live long, has been planning the redesign with the Chief Gardener. At least, that is the word that runs from gardener to gardener." This last he added quickly, as if abashed at spreading Palace gossip.

 

 "It might not happen soon."

 

 "I hope not, First Minister. Please, if you have the chance to take some time from all the heart-stopping work you must be after doing, study the design of the grounds. It is a rare beauty and, if I have my way, there should not be a leaf moved out of place, nor a flower, nor a rabbit, anywhere in all these hundreds of square kilometers."

 

 Seldon smiled. "You are a dedicated man, Gruber. I would not be surprised if someday you were Chief Gardener."

 

 "May Fate protect me from that. The Chief Gardener breathes no fresh air, sees no natural sights, and forgets all he has learned of nature. He lives there"-Gruber pointed scornfully-"and I think he no longer knows a bush from a stream unless one of his underlings leads him out and places his hand on one or dips it into the other."

 

 For a moment it seemed as though Gruber would expectorate his scorn, but he could not find any place on which he could bear to spit.

 

 Seldon laughed quietly. "Gruber, it's good to talk to you. When I am overcome with the duties of the day, it is pleasant to take a few moments to listen to your philosophy of life."

 

 "Ah, First Minister, it is no philosopher I am. My schooling was very sketchy."

 

 "You don't need schooling to be a philosopher. Just an active mind and experience with life. Take care, Gruber. I just might have you promoted."

 

 "If you but leave me as I am, First Minister, you will have my total gratitude."

 

 Seldon was smiling as he moved on, but the smile faded as his mind turned once more to his current problems. Ten years as First Minister-and if Gruber knew how heartily sick Seldon was of his position, his sympathy would rise to enormous heights. Could Gruber grasp the fact that Seldon's progress in the techniques of psychohistory showed the promise of facing him with an unbearable dilemma?

 

 2

 

 Seldon's thoughtful stroll across the grounds was the epitome of peace. It was hard to believe here, in the midst of the Emperor's immediate domain, that he was on a world that, except for this area, was totally enclosed by a dome. Here, in this spot, he might be on his home world of Helicon or on Gruber's home world of Anacreon.

 

 Of course, the sense of peace was an illusion. The grounds were guarded-thick with security.

 

 Once, a thousand years ago, the Imperial Palace grounds-much less palatial, much less differentiated from a world only beginning to construct domes over individual regions-had been open to all citizens and the Emperor himself could walk along the paths, unguarded, nodding his head in greeting to his subjects.

 

 No more. Now security was in place and no one from Trantor itself could possibly invade the grounds. That did not remove the danger, however, for that, when it came, came from discontented Imperial functionaries and from corrupt and suborned soldiers. It was within the grounds that the Emperor and his staff were most in danger. What would have happened if, on that occasion, nearly ten years before, Seldon had not been accompanied by Dors Venabili?

 

 It had been in his first year as First Minister and it was only natural, he supposed (after the fact), that there would be jealous heart-burning over his unexpected choice for the post. Many others, far better qualified in training-in years of service and, most of all, in their own eyes-could view the appointment with anger. They did not know of psychohistory or of the importance the Emperor attached to it and the easiest way to correct the situation was to corrupt one of the sworn protectors of the First Minister.

 

 Dors must have been more suspicious than Seldon himself was. Or else, with Demerzel's disappearance from the scene, her instructions to guard Seldon had been strengthened. The truth was that, for the first few years of his First Ministership, she was at his side more often than not.

 

 And on the late afternoon of a warm sunny day, Dors noted the glint of the westering sun-a sun never seen under Trantor's dome-on the metal of a blaster.

 

 "Down, Hari!" she cried suddenly and her legs crushed the grass as she raced toward the sergeant.

 

 "Give me that blaster, Sergeant," she said tightly.

 

 The would-be assassin, momentarily immobilized by the unexpected sight of a woman running toward him, now reacted quickly, raising the drawn blaster.

 

 But she was already at him, her hand enclosing his right wrist in a steely grip and lifting his arm high. "Drop it," she said through clenched teeth.

 

 The sergeant's face twisted as he attempted to yank his arm loose.

 

 "Don't try, Sergeant," said Dors. "My knee is three inches from your groin and, if you so much as blink, your genitals will be history. So just freeze. That's right. Okay, now open your hand. If you don't drop the blaster right now, I will shatter your arm."

 

 A gardener came running up with a rake. Dors motioned him away. The sergeant dropped the blaster to the ground.

 

 Seldon had arrived. "I'll take over, Dors."

 

 "You will not. Get in among those trees and take the blaster with you. Others may be involved-and ready to act."

 

 Dors had not loosened her grip on the sergeant. She said, "Now, Sergeant, I want the name of whoever it was who persuaded you to make an attempt on the First Minister's life-and the name of everyone else ho is in this with you."

 

 The sergeant was silent.

 

 "Don't be foolish," said Dors. "Speak!" She twisted his arm and he sank down to his knees. She put her shoe on his neck. "If you think silence becomes you, I can crush your larynx and you will be silent forever. And even before that, I am going to damage you badly-t won't (cave one bone unbroken. You had better talk."

 

 The sergeant talked.

 

 Later Seldon had said to her, "How could you do that, Dors? I never believed you capable of such . . . violence. "

 

 Dors said coolly, "I did not actually hurt him much, Hari. The threat was sufficient. In any case, your safety was paramount."

 

 "You should have let me take care of him."

 

 "Why? To salvage your masculine pride? You wouldn't have been fast enough, for one thing. Secondly, no matter what you would have succeeded in doing, you are a man and it would have been expected. I am a woman and women, in popular thought, are not considered as ferocious its men and most, in general, do not have the strength to do what I did. The story will improve in the telling and everyone will be terrified of me. No one will dare to try to harm you for fear of me."

 

 "For fear of you and for fear of execution. The sergeant and his cohorts are to be killed, you know."

 

 At this, an anguished look clouded Dors's usually composed visage, as if she could not stand the thought of the traitorous sergeant being put to death, even though he would have cut down her beloved Hari without a second thought.

 

 "But," she exclaimed, "there is no need to execute the conspirators. Exile will do the job."

 

 "No, it won't," said Seldon. "It's too late. Cleon will hear of nothing but executions. I can quote him-if you wish."

 

 "You mean he's already made up his mind?"

 

 "At once. I told him that exile or imprisonment would be all that was necessary, but he said no. He said, `Every time I try to solve a problem by direct and forceful action, first Demerzel and then you talk of "despotism" and "tyranny." But this is my Palace. These are my grounds. These are my guardsmen. My safety depends on the security of this place and the loyalty of my people. Do you think that any deviation from absolute loyalty can be met with anything but instant death? How else would you be safe? How else would I be safe?'

 

 "I said there would have to be a trial. `Of course,' he said, `a short military trial and I don't expect a single vote for anything but execution. I shall make that quite clear.' "

 

 Dors looked appalled. "You're taking this very quietly. Do you agree with the Emperor?"

 

 Reluctantly Seldon nodded. "I do."

 

 "Because there was an attempt on your life. Have you abandoned your principles for mere revenge?"

 

 "Now, Dors, I'm not a vengeful person. However, it was not myself alone at risk or even the Emperor. If there is anything that the recent history of the Empire shows us, it is that Emperors come and go. It is psychohistory that must be protected. Undoubtedly, even if something happens to me, psychohistory will someday be developed, but the Empire is falling fast and we cannot wait-and only I have advanced far enough to obtain the necessary techniques in time."

 

 "Then you should teach what you know to others," said Dors gravely.

 

 "I'm doing so. Yugo Amaryl is a reasonable successor and I have gathered a group of technicians who will someday be useful, but they won't be as-" He paused.

 

 "They won't be as good as you-as wise, as capable? Really?"

 

 "I happen to think so," said Seldon. "And I happen to be human. Psychohistory is mine and, if I can possibly manage it, I want the credit."

 

 "Human," sighed Dors, shaking her head almost sadly.

 

 The executions went through. No such purge had been seen in over a century. Two Ministers, five officials of lower ranks, and four soldiers, including the hapless sergeant, met their deaths. Every guardsman who could not withstand the most rigorous investigation was relieved of duty and exiled to the remote Outer Worlds.

 

 Since then, there had been no whisper of disloyalty and so notorious had become the care with which the First Minister was guarded, to say nothing of the terrifying woman-called "The Tiger Woman" by many-who watched over him, that it was no longer necessary for Dors to accompany him everywhere. Her invisible presence was an adequate shield and the Emperor Cleon enjoyed nearly ten years of quiet and absolute security.

 

 Now, however, psychohistory was finally reaching the point where predictions, of a sort, could be made and, as Seldon crossed the grounds in his passage from his office (First Minister) to his laboratory (psychohistorian), he was uneasily aware of the likelihood that this era of peace might be coming to an end.

 

 3

 

 Yet, even so, Hari Seldon could not repress the surge of satisfaction that he felt as he entered his laboratory.

 

 How things had changed.

 

 It had begun twenty years earlier with his own doodlings on his second-rate Heliconian computer. It was then that the first hint of what was to become parachaotic math came to him in a cloudy fashion.

 

 Then there were the years at Streeling University, when he and Yugo Amaryl, working together, attempted to renormalize the equations, get rid of the inconvenient infinities, and find a way around the worst of the chaotic effects. They made very little progress, indeed.

 

 But now, after ten years as First Minister, he had a whole floor of the latest computers and a whole staff of people working on a large variety of problems.

 

 Of necessity, none of his staff-except for Yugo and himself, of course-could really know much more than the immediate problem they were dealing with. Each of them worked with only a small ravine or outcropping on the gigantic mountain range of psychohistory that only Seldon and Amaryl could see as a mountain range-and even they could see it only dimly, its peaks hidden in clouds, its slopes veiled by mist.

 

 Dors Venabili was right, of course. He would have to begin initiating his people into the entire mystery. The technique was getting well beyond what only two men could handle. And Seldon was aging. Even if he could look forward to some additional decades, the years of his most fruitful breakthroughs were surely behind him.

 

 Even Amaryl would be thirty-nine within a month and, though that was still young, it was perhaps not overly young for a mathematician-and he had been working on the problem almost as long as Seldon himself. His capacity for new and tangential thinking might be dwindling, too.

 

 Amaryl had seen him enter and was now approaching. Seldon watched him fondly. Amaryl was as much a Dahlite as Seldon's foster son, Raych, was, and yet Amaryl, despite his muscular physique and short stature, did not seem Dahlite at all. He lacked the mustache, he lacked the accent, he lacked, it would seem, Dahlite consciousness of any kind. He had even been impervious to the lure of Jo-Jo Joranum, who had appealed so thoroughly to the people of Dahl.

 

 It was as though Amaryl recognized no sectoral patriotism, no planetary patriotism, not even Imperial patriotism. He belonged-completely and entirely-to psychohistory.

 

 Seldon felt a twinge of insufficiency. He himself remained conscious of his first two decades on Helicon and there was no way he could keep from thinking of himself as a Heliconian. He wondered if that consciousness was not sure to betray him by causing him to skew his thinking about psychohistory. Ideally, to use psychohistory properly, one should be above worlds and sectors and deal only with humanity in the faceless abstract-and this was what Amaryl did.

 

 And Seldon didn't, he admitted to himself, sighing silently.

 

 Amaryl said, "We are making progress, Hari, I suppose."

 

 "You suppose, Yugo? Merely suppose?"

 

 "I don't want to jump into outer space without a suit." He said this quite seriously (he did not have much of a sense of humor, Seldon knew) and they moved into their private office. It was small, but it was also well shielded.

 

 Amaryl sat down and crossed his legs. He said, "Your latest scheme for getting around chaos may be working in part-at the cost of sharpness, of course."

 

 "Of course. What we gain in the straightaway, we lose in the roundabouts. That's the way the Universe works. We've just got to fool it somehow."

 

 "We've fooled it a little bit. It's like looking through frosted glass."

 

 "Better than the years we spent trying to look through lead."

 

 Amaryl muttered something to himself, then said, "We can catch glimmers of light and dark."

 

 "Explain!"

 

 "I can't, but I have the Prime Radiant, which I've been working on like a-a-"

 

 "Try lamec. That's an animal-a beast of burden-we have on Helicon. It doesn't exist on Trantor."

 

 "If the lamec works hard, then that is what my work on the Prime Radiant has been like."

 

 He pressed the security keypad on his desk and a drawer unsealed and slid open noiselessly. He took out a dark opaque cube that Seldon scrutinized with interest. Seldon himself had worked out the Prime Radiant’s circuitry, but Amaryl had put it together-a clever man with his hands was Amaryl.

 

 The room darkened and equations and relationships shimmered in the air. Numbers spread out beneath them, hovering just above the desk surface, as if suspended by invisible marionette strings.

 

 Seldon said, "Wonderful. Someday, if we live long enough, we'll have the Prime Radiant produce a river of mathematical symbolism that will chart past and future history. In it we can find currents and rivulets and work out ways of changing them in order to make them follow other currents and rivulets that we would prefer."

 

 "Yes," said Amaryl dryly, "if we can manage to live with the knowledge that the actions we take, which we will mean for the best, may turn out to be for the worst."

 

 "Believe me, Yugo, I never go to bed at night without that particular thought gnawing at me. Still, we haven't come to it yet. All we have is this -which, as you say, is no more than seeing light and dark fuzzily through frosted glass."

 

 "True enough."

 

 "And what is it you think you see, Yugo?" Seldon watched Amaryl closely, a little grimly. He was gaining weight, getting just a bit pudgy. He spent too much time bent over the computers (and now over the Prime Radiant)-and not enough in physical activity. And, though he saw a woman now and then, Seldon knew, he had never married. A mistake! Even a workaholic is forced to take time off to satisfy a mate, to take care of the needs of children.

 

 Seldon thought of his own still-trim figure and of the manner in which Dors strove to make him keep it that way.

 

 Amaryl said, "What do I see? The Empire is in trouble."

 

 "The Empire is always in trouble."

 

 "Yes, but it's more specific. There's a possibility that we may have trouble at the center."

 

 "At Trantor?"

 

 "I presume. Or at the Periphery. Either there will be a bad situation here-perhaps civil war-or the outlying Outer Worlds will begin to break away."

 

 "Surely it doesn't take psychohistory to point out these possibilities."

 

 "The interesting thing is that there seems a mutual exclusivity. One or the other. The likelihood of both together is very small. Here! Look! It's your own mathematics. Observe!"

 

 They bent over the Prime Radiant display for a long time.

 

 Seldon said finally, "I fail to see why the two should be mutually exclusive."

 

 "So do I, Hari, but where's the value of psychohistory if it shows us only what we would see anyway? This is showing us something we wouldn't see. What it doesn't show us is, first, which alternative is better, and second, what to do to make the better come to pass and depress the possibility of the worse."

 

 Seldon pursed his lips, then said slowly, "I can tell you which alternative is preferable. Let the Periphery go and keep Trantor."

 

 "Really?"

 

 "No question. We must keep Trantor stable, if for no other reason than that we're here."

 

 "Surely our own comfort isn't the decisive point."

 

 "No, but psychohistory is. What good will it do us to keep the Periphery intact if conditions on Trantor force us to stop work on psychohistory? I don't say that we'll be killed, but we may be unable to work. The development of psychohistory is on what our fate will depend. As for the Empire, if the Periphery secedes it will only begin a disintegration that may take a long time to reach the core."

 

 "Even if you're right, Hari, what do we do to keep Trantor stable?"

 

 "To begin with, we have to think about it."

 

 A silence fell between them and then Seldon said, "Thinking doesn't make me happy. What if the Empire is altogether on the wrong track and has been for all its history? I think of that every time I talk to Gruber."

 

 "Who's Gruber?"

 

 "Mandell Gruber. A gardener."

 

 "Oh. The one who came running up with the rake to rescue you at the time of the assassination attempt?"

 

 "Yes. I've always been grateful to him for that. He had only a rake against possibly other conspirators with blasters. That's loyalty. Anyhow, talking to him is like a breath of fresh air. I can't spend all my time talking to court officials and to psychohistorians."

 

 "Thank you."

 

 "Come! You know what I mean. Gruber likes the open. He wants the wind and the rain and the biting cold and everything else that raw weather can bring to him. I miss it myself sometimes."

 

 "I don't. I wouldn't care if I never go out there."

 

 "You were brought up under the dome-but suppose the Empire consisted of simple unindustrialized worlds, living by herding and farming, with thin populations and empty spaces. Wouldn't we all be better off?"

 

 "It sounds horrible to me."

 

 "I found some spare time to check it as best I could. It seems to me it's a case of unstable equilibrium. A thinly populated world of the type I describe either grows moribund and impoverished, falling off into an uncultured near-animal level-or it industrializes. It is standing on a narrow point and topples over in either direction and, as it just so happens, almost every world in the Galaxy has fallen over into industrialization."

 

 "Because that's better."

 

 "Maybe. But it can't continue forever. We're watching the results of the overtoppling now. The Empire cannot exist for much longer because it has-it has overheated. I can't think of any other expression. What will Follow we don't know. If, through psychohistory, we manage to prevent the Fall or, more likely, force a recovery after the Fall, is that merely to ensure another period of overheating? Is that the only future humanity has, to push the boulder, like Sisyphus, up to the top of a hill, only to see it roll to the bottom again?"

 

 "Who's Sisyphus?"

 

 "A character in a primitive myth. Yugo, you must do more reading."

 

 Amaryl shrugged. "So I can learn about Sisyphus? Not important. Perhaps psychohistory will show us a path to an entirely new society, one altogether different from anything we have seen, one that would be stable and desirable."

 

 "I hope so," sighed Seldon. "I hope so, but there's no sign of it yet. For the near future, we will just have to labor to let the Periphery go. That will mark the beginning of the Fall of the Galactic Empire."

 

 4

 

 "And so I said," said Hari Seldon. " `That will mark the beginning of the Fall of the Galactic Empire.' And so it will, Dors."

 

 Dors listened, tight-lipped. She accepted Seldon's First Ministership as she accepted everything-calmly. Her only mission was to protect him and his psychohistory, but that task, she well knew, was made harder by his position. The best security was to go unnoticed and, as long as the Spaceship-and-Sun, the symbol of the Empire, shone down upon Seldon, all of the physical barriers in existence would be unsatisfactory.

 

 The luxury in which they now lived-the careful shielding from spy beams, as well as from physical interference; the advantages to her own historical research of being able to make use of nearly unlimited funds-did not satisfy her. She would gladly have exchanged it all for their old quarters at Streeling University. Or, better yet, for a nameless apartment in a nameless sector where no one knew them.

 

 "That's all very well, Hari dear," she said, "but it's not enough."

 

 "What's not enough?"

 

 "The information you're giving me. You say we might lose the Periphery. How? Why?"

 

 Seldon smiled briefly. "How nice it would be to know, Dors, but psychohistory is not yet at the stage where it could tell us."

 

 "In your opinion, then. Is it the ambition of local faraway governors to declare themselves independent?"

 

 "That's a factor, certainly. It's happened in past history-as you know far better than I-but never for long. Maybe this time it will be permanent."

 

 "Because the Empire is weaker?"

 

 "Yes, because trade flows less freely than it once did, because communications are stiffer than they once were, because the governors in the Periphery are, in actual fact, closer to independence than they have ever been. If one of them arises with particular ambitions-"

 

 "Can you tell which one it might be?"

 

 "Not in the least. All we can force out of psychohistory at this stage is the definite knowledge that if a governor of unusual ability and ambition arises, he would find conditions more suitable for his purposes than he would have in the past. It could be other things, too-some great natural disaster or some sudden civil war between two distant Outer World coalitions. None of that can be precisely predicted as of now, but we can tell that anything of the sort that happens will have more serious consequences than it would have had a century ago."

 

 "But if you don't know a little more precisely what will happen in the Periphery, how can you so guide actions as to make sure the Periphery goes, rather than Trantor?"

 

 "By keeping a close eye on both and trying to stabilize Trantor and not trying to stabilize the Periphery. We can't expect psychohistory to order events automatically without much greater knowledge of its workings, so we have to make use of constant manual controls, so to speak. In days to come, the technique will be refined and the need for manual control will decrease."

 

 "But that," said Dors, "is in days to come. Right?"

 

 "Right. And even that is only a hope."

 

 "And just what kind of instabilities threaten Trantor-if we hang on to the Periphery?"

 

 "The same possibilities-economic and social factors, natural disasters, ambitious rivalries among high officials. And something more. I have described the Empire to Yugo as being overheated-and Trantor is the most overheated portion of all. It seems to be breaking down. The infrastructure-water supply, heating, waste disposal, fuel lines, everything-seems to be having unusual problems and that's something I've been turning my attention to more and more lately."

 

 "What about the death of the Emperor?"

 

 Seldon spread his hands. "That happens inevitably, but Cleon is in good health. He's only my age, which I wish was younger, but he isn't too old. His son is totally inadequate for the succession, but there will be enough claimants. More than enough to cause trouble and make his death distressing, but it might not prove a total catastrophe-in the historic sense."

 

 "Let's say his assassination, then."

 

 Seldon looked up nervously. "Don't say that. Even if we're shielded, don't use the word."

 

 "Hari, don't be foolish. It's an eventuality that must be reckoned with. There was a time when the Joranumites might have taken power and, if they had, the Emperor, one way or another-"

 

 "Probably not. He would have been more useful as a figurehead. And in any case, forget it. Joranum died last year on Nishaya, a rather pathetic figure."

 

 "He had followers."

 

 "Of course. Everyone has followers. Did you ever come across the Globalist party on my native world of Helicon in your studies of the early history of the Kingdom of Trantor and of the Galactic Empire?"

 

 "No, I haven't. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Hari, but I don't recall coming across any piece of history in which Helicon played a role."

 

 "I'm not hurt, Dors. Happy the world without a history, I always say. -In any case, about twenty-four hundred years ago, there arose a group of people on Helicon who were quite convinced that Helicon was the only inhabited globe in the Universe. Helicon was the Universe and beyond it there was only a solid sphere of sky speckled with tiny stars."

 

 "How could they believe that?" said Dors. "They were part of the Empire, I presume."

 

 "Yes, but Globalists insisted that all evidence to the effect that the Empire existed was either illusion or deliberate deceit, that Imperial emissaries and officials were Heliconians playing a part for some reason. They were absolutely immune to reason."

 

 "And what happened?"

 

 "I suppose it's always pleasant to think that your particular world is the world. At their peak, the Globalists may have persuaded 10 percent of the population of the planet to be part of the movement. Only 10 percent, but they were a vehement minority that drowned out the indifferent majority and threatened to take over."

 

 "But they didn't, did they?"

 

 "No, they didn't. What happened was that Globalism caused a diminishing of Imperial trade and the Heliconian economy slid into the doldrums. When the belief began to affect the pocketbooks of the population, it lost popularity rapidly. The rise and fall puzzled many at the time, but psychohistory, I'm sure, would have shown it to be inevitable and would have made it unnecessary to give it any thought."

 

 "I see. But, Hari, what is the point of this story? I presume there's some connection with what we were discussing."

 

 "The connection is that such movements never completely die, no matter how ridiculous their tenets may seem to sane people. Right now, on Helicon, right now there are still Globalists. Not many, but every once in a while seventy or eighty of them get together in what they call a Global Congress and take enormous pleasure in talking to each other about Globalism. -Well, it is only ten years since the Joranumite movement seemed such a terrible threat on this world and it would not be at all surprising if there weren't still some remnants left. There may still be some remnants a thousand years from now."

 

 "Isn't it possible that a remnant may be dangerous?"

 

 "I doubt it. It was Jo-Jo's charisma that made the movement dangerous-and he's dead. He didn't even die a heroic death or one that was in any way remarkable; he just withered away and died in exile, a broken man."

 

 Dors stood up and walked the length of the room quickly, swinging her arms at her sides and clenching her fists. She returned and stood before the seated Seldon.

 

 "Hari," she said, "let me speak my mind. If psychohistory points to the possibility of serious disturbances on Trantor, then if there are Joranumites still left, they may still be plotting the Emperor's death."

 

 Seldon laughed nervously. "You jump at shadows, Dors. Relax."

 

 But he found that he could not dismiss what she had said quite that easily.

 

 5

 

 The Wye Sector had a tradition of opposition to the Entun Dynasty of Cleon I that had been ruling the Empire for over two centuries. The opposition dated back to a time when the line of Mayors of Wye had contributed members who had served as Emperor. The Wyan Dynasty had neither lasted long nor had it been conspicuously successful, but the people and rulers of Wye found it difficult to forget that they had once been-however imperfectly and temporarily-supreme. The brief period when Rashelle, as the self-appointed Mayor of Wye, had challenged the Empire, eighteen years earlier, had added both to Wye's pride and to its frustration.

 

 All this made it reasonable that the small band of leading conspirators should feel as safe in Wye as they would feel anywhere on Trantor.

 

 Five of them sat around a table in a room in a run-down portion of the sector. The room was poorly furnished but well shielded.

 

 In a chair which, by its marginal superiority in quality to the others, sat the man who might well be judged to be the leader. He had a thin face, a sallow complexion, and a wide mouth with lips so pale as to be nearly invisible. There was a touch of gray in his hair, but his eyes burned with an inextinguishable anger.

 

 He was staring at the man seated exactly opposite him-distinctly older and softer, his hair almost white, his plump cheeks tending to quiver when he spoke.

 

 The leader said sharply, "Well? It is quite apparent that you have done nothing. Explain that!"

 

 The older man said, "I am an old Joranumite, Namarti. Why do I have to explain my actions?"

 

 Gambol Deen Namarti, once the right-hand man of Laskin "Jo-Jo" Joranum, said, "There are many old Joranumites. Some are incompetent, some are soft, some have forgotten. Being an old Joranumite may mean no more than that one is an old fool."

 

 The older man sat back in his chair. "Are you calling me an old fool? Me? Kaspal Kaspalov? I was with Jo-Jo when you had not yet joined the party, when you were a ragged nothing in search of a cause."

 

 "I am not calling you a fool," said Namarti sharply. "I say simply that some old Joranumites are fools. You have a chance now to show me that you are not one of them."

 

 "My association with Jo-Jo-"

 

 "Forget that. He's dead!"

 

 "I should think his spirit lives on."

 

 "If that thought will help us in our fight, then his spirit lives on. But to others-not to us. We know he made mistakes."

 

 "I deny that."

 

 "Don't insist on making a hero out of a mere man who made mistakes. He thought he could move the Empire by the strength of oratory alone, by words-"

 

 "History shows that words have moved mountains in the past."

 

 "Not Joranum's words, obviously, because he made mistakes. He hid his Mycogenian origins far too clumsily. Worse, he let himself be tricked into accusing First Minister Eto Demerzel of being a robot. I warned him against that accusation, but he wouldn't listen-and it destroyed him. Now let's start fresh, shall we? Whatever use we make of Joranum's memory for outsiders, let us not ourselves be transfixed by it."

 

 Kaspalov sat silent. The other three transferred their gaze from Namarti to Kaspalov and back, content to let Namarti carry the weight of the discussion.

 

 "With Joranum's exile to Nishaya, the Joranumite movement fell apart and seemed to vanish," said Namarti harshly. "It would, indeed, have vanished-but for me. Bit by bit and rubble by rubble, I rebuilt it into a network that extends over all of Trantor. You know this, I take it."

 

 "I know it, Chief," mumbled Kaspalov. The use of the title made it plain that Kaspalov was seeking reconciliation.

 

 Namarti smiled tightly. He did not insist on the title, but he always enjoyed hearing it used. He said, "You're part of this network and you have your duties."

 

 Kaspalov stirred. He was clearly debating with himself internally and finally he said slowly, "You tell me, Chief, that you warned Joranum against accusing the old First Minister of being a robot. You say he didn't listen, but at least you had your say. May I have the same privilege of pointing out what I think is a mistake and have you listen to me as Joranum listened to you, even if, like him, you don't take the advice given you?"

 

 "Of course you can speak your piece, Kaspalov. You are here in order that you might do so. What is your point?"

 

 "These new tactics of ours, Chief, are a mistake. They create disruption and do damage."

 

 "Of course! They are designed to do that." Namarti stirred in his seat, controlling his anger with an effort. "Joranum tried persuasion. It didn't work. We will bring Trantor down by action."

 

 "For how long? And at what cost?"

 

 "For as long as it takes-and at very little cost, actually. A power stoppage here, a water break there, a sewage backup, an air-conditioning halt. Inconvenience and discomfort-that's all it means."

 

 Kaspalov shook his head. "These things are cumulative."

 

 "Of course, Kaspalov, and we want public dismay and resentment to be cumulative, too. Listen, Kaspalov. The Empire is decaying. Everyone knows that. Everyone capable of intelligent thought knows that. The technology will fail here and there, even if we do nothing. We're just helping it along a little."

 

 "It's dangerous, Chief. Trantor's infrastructure is incredibly complicated. A careless push may bring it down in ruins. Pull the wrong string and Trantor may topple like a house of cards."

 

 "It hasn't so far."

 

 "It may in the future. And what if the people find out that we are behind it? They would tear us apart. There would be no need to call in the security establishment or the armed forces. Mobs would destroy us."

 

 "How would they ever learn enough to blame us? The natural target for the people's resentment will be the government-the Emperor's advisers. They will never look beyond that."

 

 "And how do we live with ourselves, knowing what we have done?"

 

 This last was asked in a whisper, the old man clearly moved by strong emotion. Kaspalov looked pleadingly across the table at his leader, the man to whom he had sworn allegiance. He had done so in the belief that Namarti would truly continue to bear the standard of freedom passed on by Jo-Jo Joranum; now Kaspalov wondered if this is how Jo-Jo would have wanted his dream to come to pass.

 

 Namarti clucked his tongue, much as a reproving parent does when confronting an errant child.

 

 "Kaspalov, you can't seriously be turning sentimental on us, are you? Once we are in power, we will pick up the pieces and rebuild. We will gather in the people with all of Joranum's old talk of popular participation in government, with greater representation, and when we are firmly in power we will establish a more efficient and forceful government. We will then have a better Trantor and a stronger Empire. We will set up some sort of discussion system whereby representatives of other worlds can talk themselves into a daze-but we will do the governing."

 

 Kaspalov sat there, irresolute.

 

 Namarti smiled joylessly. "You are not certain? We can't lose. It's been working perfectly and it will continue working perfectly. The Emperor doesn't know what's going on. He hasn't the faintest notion. And his First Minister is a mathematician. He ruined Joranum, true, but since then he has done nothing."

 

 "He has something called-called-"

 

 "Forget it. Joranum attached a great deal of importance to it, but it was a part of his being Mycogenian, like his robot mania. This mathematician has nothing-"

 

 "Historical psychoanalysis or something like that. I heard Joranum once say-"

 

 "Forget it. Just do your part. You handle the ventilation in the Anemoria Sector, don't you? Very well, then. Have it misfunction in a manner of your choosing. It either shuts down so that the humidity rises or it produces a peculiar odor or something else. None of this will kill anyone, so don't get yourself into a fever of virtuous guilt. You will simply make people uncomfortable and raise the general level of discomfort and annoyance. Can we depend on you?"

 

 "But what would only be discomfort and annoyance to the young and healthy may be more than that to infants, the aged, and the sick . . . ."

 

 "Are you going to insist that no one at all must be hurt?"

 

 Kaspalov mumbled something.

 

 Namarti said, "It's impossible to do anything with a guarantee that no one at all will be hurt. You just do your job. Do it in such a way that you hurt as few as possible-if your conscience insists upon it-but do it!"

 

 Kaspalov said, "Look! I have one thing more to say, Chief."

 

 "Then say it," said Namarti wearily.

 

 "We can spend years poking at the infrastructure. The time must come when you take advantage of gathering dissatisfaction to seize the government. How do you intend to do that?"

 

 "You want to know exactly how we'll do it?"

 

 "Yes. The faster we strike, the more limited the damage, the more efficiently the surgery is performed."

 

 Namarti said slowly, "I have not yet decided on the nature of this `surgical strike.' But it will come. Until then, will you do your part?"

 

 Kaspalov nodded his head in resignation. "Yes, Chief."

 

 "Well then, go," said Namarti with a sharp gesture of dismissal.

 

 Kaspalov rose, turned, and left. Namarti watched him go. He said to the man at his right, "Kaspalov is not to be trusted. He has sold out and it's only so that he can betray us that he wants to know my plans for the future. Take care of him."

 

 The other nodded and all three left, leaving Namarti alone in the room. He switched off the glowing wall panels, leaving only a lonely square in the ceiling to provide the light that would keep him from being entirely in the darkness.

 

 He thought: Every chain has weak links that must be eliminated. We have had to do this in the past and the result is that we have an organization that is untouchable.

 

 And in the dimness, he smiled, twisting his face into a kind of feral joy. After all, the network extended even into the Palace itself-not quite firmly, not quite reliably, but it was there. And it would be strengthened.

 

 6

 

 The weather was holding up over the undomed area of the Imperial Palace grounds-warm and sunny.

 

 It didn't often happen. Hari remembered Dors telling him once how this particular area with its cold winters and frequent rains had been chosen as the site.

 

 "It wasn't actually chosen, " she said. "It was a family estate of the Morovian family in the early days of the Kingdom of Trantor. When the Kingdom became an Empire, there were numerous sites where the Emperor could live-summer resorts, winter places, sports lodges, beach properties. And, as the planet was slowly domed, one reigning Emperor, living here, liked it so much that it remained undomed. And, just because it was the only area left undomed, it became special-a place apart-and that uniqueness appealed to the next Emperor . . . and the next . . . and the next. . . . And so, a tradition was born."

 

 And as always, when hearing something like that, Seldon would think: And how would psychohistory handle this? Would it predict that one area would remain undomed but be absolutely unable to say which area? Could it go even so far? Could it predict that several areas would remain undomed or none-and be wrong? How could it account for the personal likes and dislikes of an Emperor who happened to be on the throne at the crucial time and who made a decision in a moment of whimsy and nothing more. That way lay chaos-and madness.

 

 Cleon I was clearly enjoying the good weather.

 

 "I'm getting old, Seldon," he said. "I don't have to tell you that. We're the same age, you and I. Surely it's a sign of age when I don't have the impulse to play tennis or go fishing, even though they've newly restocked the lake, but am willing to walk gently over the pathways."

 

 He was eating nuts as he spoke, which resembled what on Seldon's native world of Helicon would have been called pumpkin seeds, but which were larger and a little less delicate in taste. Cleon cracked them gently between his teeth, peeled the thin shells and popped the kernels into his mouth.

 

 Seldon did not like the taste particularly but, of course, when he was offered some by the Emperor, he accepted them and ate a few.

 

 The Emperor had a number of shells in his hand and looked vaguely around for a receptacle of some sort that he could use for disposal. He saw none, but he did notice a gardener standing not far away, his body at attention (as it should be in the Imperial presence) and his head respectfully bowed.

 

 Cleon said, "Gardener!"

 

 The gardener approached quickly. "Sire!"

 

 "Get rid of these for me," he said, tapping the shells into the gardener's hand.

 

 "Yes, Sire."

 

 Seldon said, "I have a few, too, Gruber."

 

 Gruber held out his hand and said, almost shyly, "Yes, First Minister."

 

 He hurried away and the Emperor looked after him curiously. "Do you know the fellow, Seldon?"

 

 "Yes, indeed, Sire. An old friend."

 

 "The gardener is an old friend? What is he? A mathematical colleague fallen on hard times?"

 

 "No, Sire. Perhaps you remember the story. It was the time when"-he cleared his throat, searching for the most tactful way to recall the incident-"the sergeant threatened my life shortly after I was appointed to my present post through your kindness."

 

 "The assassination attempt." Cleon looked up to heaven, as though seeking patience. "I don't know why everyone is so afraid of that word."

 

 "Perhaps," said Seldon smoothly, slightly despising himself for the ease with which he had become able to flatter, "the rest of us are more perturbed at the possibility of something untoward happening to our Emperor than you yourself are."

 

 Cleon smiled ironically. "I dare say. And what has this to do with Gruber? Is that his name?"

 

 "Yes, Sire. Mandell Gruber. I'm sure you will recall, if you cast your mind back, that there was a gardener who came rushing up with a rake to defend me against the armed sergeant."

 

 "Ah yes. Was that fellow the gardener who did that?"

 

 "He was the man, Sire. I've considered him a friend ever since and I meet him almost every time I am on the grounds. I think he watches for me, feels proprietary toward me. And, of course, I feel kindly toward him."

 

 "I don't blame you. -And while we're on the subject, how is your formidable lady, Dr. Venabili? I don't see her often."

 

 "She's a historian, Sire. Lost in the past."

 

 "She doesn't frighten you? She'd frighten me. I've been told how she treated that sergeant. One could almost be sorry for him."

 

 "She grows savage on my behalf, Sire, but has not had occasion to do so lately. It's been very quiet."

 

 The Emperor looked after the disappearing gardener. "Have we ever rewarded that man?"

 

 "I have done so, Sire. He has a wife and two daughters and I have arranged that each daughter will have a sum of money put aside for the education of any children she may have."

 

 "Very good. But he needs a promotion, I think. -Is he a good gardener?"

 

 "Excellent, Sire."

 

 "The Chief Gardener, Malcomber-I'm not quite sure I remember his name-is getting on and is, perhaps, not up to the job anymore. He is well into his late seventies. Do you think this Gruber might be able to take over?"

 

 "I'm certain he can, Sire, but he likes his present job. It keeps him out in the open in all kinds of weather."

 

 "A peculiar recommendation for a job. I'm sure he can get used to administration and I do need someone for some sort of renewal of the grounds. Hmmm. I must think upon this. Your friend Gruber may be just the man I need. -By the way, Seldon, what did you mean by saying it's been very quiet?"

 

 "I merely meant, Sire, that there has been no sign of discord at the Imperial Court. The unavoidable tendency to intrigue seems to be as near a minimum as it is ever likely to get."

 

 "You wouldn't say that if you were Emperor, Seldon, and had to contend with all these officials and their complaints. How can you tell me things are quiet when reports seem to reach me every other week of some serious breakdown here and there on Trantor?"

 

 "These things are bound to happen."

 

 "I don't recall such things happening so frequently in previous years."

 

 "Perhaps that was because they didn't, Sire. The infrastructure grows older with time. To make the necessary repairs properly would take time, labor, and enormous expense. This is not a time when a rise in taxes will be looked on favorably."

 

 "There's never any such time. I gather that the people are experiencing serious dissatisfaction over these breakdowns. It must stop and you must see to it, Seldon. What does psychohistory say?"

 

 "It says what common sense says, that everything is growing older."

 

 "Well, all this is quite spoiling the pleasant day for me. I leave it in your hands, Seldon."

 

 "Yes, Sire," said Seldon quietly.

 

 The Emperor strode off and Seldon thought that it was all spoiling the pleasant day for him, too. This breakdown at the center was the alternative he didn't want. But how was he to prevent it and switch the crisis to the Periphery?

 

 Psychohistory didn't say.

 

 7

 

 Raych Seldon felt extraordinarily contented, for it was the first dinner en famille that he had had in some months with the two people he thought of as his father and mother. He knew perfectly well that they were not his parents in any biological sense, but it didn't matter. He merely smiled at them with complete love.

 

 The surroundings were not as warm as they had been at Streeling in the old days, when their home had been small and intimate, a virtual gem in the larger setting of the University. Now, unfortunately, nothing could hide the grandeur of the First Minister's Palace suite.

 

 Raych sometimes stared at himself in the mirror and wondered how it could be. He was not tall, only 163 centimeters in height, distinctly shorter than either parent. He was rather stocky but muscular-and not fat, with black hair and the distinctive Dahlite mustache that he kept as dark and as thick as possible.

 

 In the mirror he could still see the street urchin he had once been before the chanciest of great chances had dictated his meeting with Hari and Dors. Seldon had been much younger then and his appearance now made it plain that Raych himself was almost as old now as Seldon had been when they met. Amazingly, Dors had hardly changed at all. She was as sleek and fit as the day Raych had first showed Hari and Dors the way to Mother Rittah's in Billibotton. And he, Raych, born to poverty and misery, was now a member of the civil service, a small cog in the Ministry of Population.

 

 Seldon said, "How are things going at the Ministry, Raych? Any progress?"

 

 "Some, Dad. The laws are passed. The court decisions are made. Speeches are pronounced. Still, it's difficult to move people. You can preach brotherhood all you want, but no one feels like a brother. What gets me is that the Dahlites are as bad as any of the others. They want to be treated as equals, they say, and so they do, but, given a chance, they have no desire to treat others as equals."

 

 Dors said, "It's all but impossible to change people's minds and hearts, Raych. It's enough to try and perhaps eliminate the worst of the injustices."

 

 "The trouble is," said Seldon, "that through most of history, no one's been working on this problem. Human beings have been allowed to fester in the delightful game of I'm-better-than-you and cleaning up that mess isn't easy. If we allow things to follow their own bent and grow worse for a thousand years, we can't complain if it takes, say, a hundred years to work an improvement."

 

 "Sometimes, Dad," said Raych, "I think you gave me this job to punish me."

 

 Seldon's eyebrows raised. "What motivation could I have had to punish you?"

 

 "For feeling attracted to Joranum's program of sector equality and for greater popular representation in government."

 

 "I don't blame you for that. These are attractive suggestions, but you know that Joranum and his gang were using it only as a device to gain power. Afterward-"

 

 "But you had me entrap him, despite my attraction to his views."

 

 Seldon said, "it wasn't easy for me to ask you to do that."

 

 "And now you keep me working at the implementation of Joranum's program, just to show me how hard the task is in reality."

 

 Seldon said to Dors, "How do you like that, Dors? The boy attributes to me a kind of sneaky underhandedness that simply isn't part of my character."

 

 "Surely," said Dors with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips, "you are attributing no such thing to your father."

 

 "Not really. In the ordinary course of life, there's no one straighter than you, Dad. But if you have to, you know you can stack the cards. Isn't that what you hope to do with psychohistory?"

 

 Seldon said sadly, "So far, I've done very little with psychohistory."

 

 "Too bad. I keep thinking that there is some sort of psychohistorical solution to the problem of human bigotry."

 

 "Maybe there is, but, if so, I haven't found it."

 

 When dinner was over, Seldon said, "You and I, Raych, are going to have a little talk now."

 

 "Indeed?" said Dors. "I take it I'm not invited."

 

 "Ministerial business, Dors."

 

 "Ministerial nonsense, Hari. You're going to ask the poor boy to do something I wouldn't want him to do."

 

 Seldon said firmly, "I'm certainly not going to ask him to do anything he doesn't want to do."

 

 Raych said, "It's all right, Mom. Let Dad and me have our talk. I promise I'll tell you all about it afterward."

 

 Dors's eyes rolled upward. "You two will plead `state secrets.' I know

 

 "As a matter of fact," said Seldon firmly, "that's exactly what I must discuss. And of the first magnitude. I'm serious, Dors."

 

 Dors rose, her lips tightening. She left the room with one final injunction. "Don't throw the boy to the wolves, Hari."

 

 And after she was gone, Seldon said quietly, "I'm afraid that throwing you to the wolves is exactly what I'll have to do, Raych."

 

 8

 

 They faced each other in Seldon's private office, his "thinking place," as he called it. There, he had spent uncounted hours trying to think his way past and through the complexities of Imperial and Trantorian government.

 

 He said, "Have you read much about the recent breakdowns we've been having in planetary services, Raych?"

 

 "Yes," said Raych, "but you know, Dad, we've got an old planet here. What we gotta do is get everyone off it, dig the whole thing up, replace everything, add the latest computerizations, and then bring everyone back-or at least half of everyone. Trantor would be much better off with only twenty billion people."

 

 "Which twenty billion?" asked Seldon smiling.

 

 "I wish I knew," said Raych darkly. "The trouble is, we can't redo the planet, so we just gotta keep patching."

 

 "I'm afraid so, Raych, but there are some peculiar things about it. Now I want you to check me out. I have some thoughts about this."

 

 He brought a small sphere out of his pocket.

 

 "What's that?" asked Raych.

 

 "It's a map of Trantor, carefully programmed. Do me a favor, Raych, and clear off this tabletop."

 

 Seldon placed the sphere more or less in the middle of the table and placed his hand on a keypad in the arm of his desk chair. He used his thumb to close a contact and the light in the room went out while the tabletop glowed with a soft ivory light that seemed about a centimeter deep. The sphere had flattened and expanded to the edges of the table.

 

 The light slowly darkened in spots and took on a pattern. After some thirty seconds, Raych said in surprise, "It is a map of Trantor."

 

 "Of course. I told you it was. You can't buy anything like this at a sector mall, though. This is one of those gadgets the armed forces play with. It could present Trantor as a sphere, but a planar projection would more clearly show what I want to show."

 

 "And what is it you want to show, Dad?"

 

 "Well, in the last year or two, there have been breakdowns. As you say, it's an old planet and we've got to expect breakdowns, but they've been coming more frequently and they would seem, almost uniformly, to be the result of human error."

 

 "Isn't that reasonable?"

 

 "Yes, of course. Within limits. This is true, even where earthquakes are involved."

 

 "Earthquakes? On Trantor?"

 

 "I admit Trantor is a fairly nonseismic planet-and a good thing, too, because enclosing a world in a dome when the world is going to shake itself badly several times a year and smash a section of that dome would be highly impractical. Your mother says that one of the reasons Trantor, rather than some other world, became the Imperial capital is that it was geologically moribund-that's her unflattering expression. Still, it might be moribund, but it's not dead. There are occasional minor earthquakes -three of them in the last two years."

 

 "I wasn't aware of that, Dad."

 

 "Hardly anyone is. The dome isn't a single object. It exists in hundreds of sections, each one of which can be lifted and set ajar to relieve tensions and compressions in case of an earthquake. Since an earthquake, when one does occur, lasts for only ten seconds to a minute, the opening endures only briefly. It comes and goes so rapidly that the Trantorians beneath are not even aware of it. They are much more aware of a mild tremor and a faint rattling of crockery than of the opening and closing of the dome overhead and the slight intrusion of the outside weather-whatever it is."

 

 "That's good, isn't it?"

 

 "It should be. It's computerized, of course. The onset of an earthquake anywhere sets off the key controls for the opening and closing of that section of the dome so that it opens just before the vibration becomes strong enough to do damage."

 

 "Still good."

 

 "But in the case of the three minor earthquakes over the last two years, the dome controls failed in each case. The dome never opened and, in each case, repairs were required. It took some time, it took some money, and the weather controls were less than optimum for a considerable period of time. Now, what, Raych, are the chances that the equipment would have failed in all three cases?"

 

 "Not high?"

 

 "Not high at all. Less than one in a hundred. One can suppose that someone had gimmicked the controls in advance of an earthquake. Now, about once a century, we have a magma leak, which is far more difficult to control-and I'd hate to think of the results if it went unnoticed until it was too late. Fortunately that hasn't happened and isn't likely to, but consider- Here on this map you will find the location of the breakdowns that have plagued us over the past two years and that seem to be attributable to human error, though we haven't once been able to tell to whom each might be attributed."

 

 "That's because everyone is busy protecting his back."

 

 "I'm afraid you're right. That's a characteristic of any bureaucracy and Trantor's is the largest in history. -But what do you think of the locations?"

 

 The map had lit up with bright little red markings that looked like small pustules covering the land surface of Trantor.

 

 "Well," said Raych cautiously, "they seem to be evenly spread."

 

 "Exactly- and that's what's interesting. One would expect that the older sections of Trantor, the longest-domed sections, would have the most decayed infrastructure and would be more liable to events requiring quick human decision and laying the groundwork for possible human error. -I'll superimpose the older sections of Trantor on the map in a bluish color and you'll notice that the breakdowns don't seem to be taking place any oftener on the blue areas."

 

 "And?"

 

 "And what I think it means, Raych, is that the breakdowns are not of natural origin but are deliberately caused and spread out in this fashion to affect as many people as possible, thus creating a dissatisfaction that is as widespread as possible."

 

 "It don't seem likely."

 

 "No? Then let's look at the breakdowns as spread through time rather than through space."

 

 The blue areas and the red spots disappeared and, for a time, the map of Trantor was blank-and then the markings began to appear and disappear one at a time, here and there.

 

 "Notice," said Seldon, "that they don't appear in clumps in time, either. One appears, then another, then another, and so on, almost like the steady ticking of a metronome."

 

 "Do ya think that's on purpose, too?"

 

 "It must be. Whoever is bringing this about wants to cause as much disruption with as little effort as possible, so there's no use doing two at once, where one will partially cancel the other in the news and in the public consciousness. Each incident must stand out in full irritation."

 

 The map went out and the lights went on. Seldon returned the sphere, shrunken back to its original size, to his pocket.

 

 Raych said, "Who would be doing all this?"

 

 Seldon said thoughtfully, "A few days ago I received a report of a murder in Wye Sector."

 

 "That's not unusual," said Raych. "Even though Wye isn't one of your really lawless sectors, there must be lots of murders there every day."

 

 "Hundreds," said Seldon, shaking his head. "We've had bad days when the number of deaths by violence on Trantor as a whole approaches the million-a-day mark. Generally there's not much chance of finding every culprit, every murderer. The dead just enter the books as statistics. This one, however, was unusual. The man had been knifed-but unskillfully. He was still alive when found, just barely. He had time to gasp out one word before he died and that word was `Chief.'

 

 "That roused a certain curiosity and he was actually identified. He works in Anemoria and we don't know what he was doing in Wye. But some worthy officer managed to dig up the fact that he was an old Joranumite. His name was Kaspal Kaspalov and he is well known to have been one of the intimates of Laskin Joranum. And now he's deadknifed."

 

 Raych frowned. "Do you suspect another Joranumite Conspiracy, Dad? There aren't any Joranumites around anymore."

 

 "It wasn't long ago that your mother asked me if I thought that the Joranumites were still active and I told her that any odd belief always retained a certain cadre, sometimes for centuries. They're usually not very important, just splinter groups that simply don't count. Still, what if the Joranumites have kept up an organization, what if they have retained a certain strength, what if they are capable of killing someone they consider a traitor in their ranks, and what if they are producing these breakdowns as a preliminary to seizing control?"

 

 "That's an awful lot of `what if 's,' Dad."

 

 "I know that. And I might be totally wrong. The murder happened in Wye and, as it so happens, there have been no infrastructure breakdowns in Wye."

 

 "What does that prove?"

 

 "It might prove that the center of the conspiracy is in Wye and that the conspirators don't want to make themselves uncomfortable, only the rest of Trantor. It also might mean that it's not the Joranumites at all but members of the old Wyan family who still dream of ruling the Empire once again."

 

 "Oh boy, Dad. You're building all this on very little."

 

 "I know. Now suppose it is another Joranumite Conspiracy. Joranum had, as his right-hand man, Gambol Deen Namarti. We have no record of Namarti's death, no record of his having left Trantor, no record of his life over the last decade or so. That's not terribly surprising. After all, it's easy to lose one person among forty billion. There was a time in my life when I tried to do just that. Of course, Namarti may be dead. That would be the easiest explanation, but he may not be."

 

 "What do we do about it?"

 

 Seldon sighed. "The logical thing would be to turn to the security establishment, but I can't. I don't have Demerzel's presence. He could cow people; I can't. He had a powerful personality; I'm just a-mathematician. I shouldn't be First Minister at all; I'm not cut out for it. And I wouldn't be-if the Emperor weren't fixated on psychohistory to a far greater extent than it deserves."

 

 "You're kinda whipping yourself, ain't you, Dad?"

 

 "Yes. I suppose I am, but I have a picture of myself going to the security establishment, for instance, with what I have just shown you on the map"-he pointed to the now-empty tabletop-"and arguing that we were in great danger of some conspiracy of unknown consequence and nature. They would listen solemnly and, after I had left, they would laugh among themselves about `the crazy mathematician'-and then do nothing.'

 

 "Then what do we do about it?" said Raych, returning to the point.

 

 "It's what you will do about it, Raych. I need more evidence and I want you to find it for me. I would send your mother, but she won't leave me under any circumstances. I myself can't leave the Palace grounds at this time. Next to Dors and myself, I trust you. More than Dors and myself, in fact. You're still quite young, you're strong, you're a better Heliconian Twister than I ever was, and you're smart.

 

 "Mind you, now, I don't want you to risk your life. No heroism, no derring-do. I couldn't face your mother if anything happened to you. Just find out what you can. Perhaps you'll find that Namarti is alive and operating-or dead. Perhaps you'll find out that the Joranumites are an active group-or moribund. Perhaps you'll find out that the Wyan ruling family is active-or not. Any of that would be interesting-but not vital. What I want you to find out is whether the infrastructure breakdowns are of human manufacture, as I think they are, and, far more important still, if they are deliberately caused, what else the conspirators plan to do. It seems to me they must have plans for some major coup and, if so, I must know what that will be."

 

 Raych said cautiously, "Do you have some kinda plan to get me started?"

 

 "Yes indeed, Raych. I want you to go down to the area of Wye where Kaspalov was killed. Find out if you can if he was an active Joranumite and see if you can't join a Joranumite cell yourself."

 

 "Maybe that's possible. I can always pretend to be an old Joranumite. It's true that I was pretty young when Jo-Jo was sounding off, but I was very impressed by his ideas. It's even sorta true."

 

 "Well yes, but there's one important catch. You might be recognized. After all, you're the son of the First Minister. You have appeared on holovision now and then and you have been interviewed concerning your views on sector equality."

 

 "Sure, but-"

 

 "No buts, Raych. You'll wear elevated shoes to add three centimeters to your height and we'll have someone show you how to change the shape of your eyebrows and make your face fuller and change the timbre of your voice."

 

 Raych shrugged. "A lotta trouble for nothing."

 

 "And," said Seldon with a distinct quaver, "you will shave off your mustache."

 

 Raych's eyes widened and for a moment he sat there in appalled silence. Finally he said in a hoarse whisper, "Shave my mustache?"

 

 "Clean as a whistle. No one would recognize you without it."

 

 "But it can't be done. Like cutting off your- Like castration."

 

 Seldon shook his head. "It's just a cultural curiosity. Yugo Amaryl is as Dahlite as you are and he wears no mustache."

 

 "Yugo is a nut. I don't think he's alive at all, except for his mathematics."

 

 "He's a great mathematician and the absence of a mustache does not alter that fact. Besides, it's not castration. Your mustache will grow back in two weeks."

 

 "Two weeks! It'll take two years to reach this-this-"

 

 He put his hand up, as though to cover and protect it.

 

 Seldon said inexorably, "Raych, you have to do it. It's a sacrifice you must make. If you act as my spy with your mustache, you may-come to harm. I can't take that chance."

 

 "I'd rather die," said Raych violently.

 

 "Don't be melodramatic," said Seldon severely. "You would not rather die and this is something you must do. However"-and here he hesitated-"don't say anything about it to your mother. I will take care of that."

 

 Raych stared at his father in frustration and then said in a low and despairing tone, "All right, Dad."

 

 Seldon said, "I will get someone to supervise your disguise and then you will go to Wye by air-jet. -Buck up, Raych, it's not the end of the world."

 

 Raych smiled wanly and Seldon watched him leave, a deeply troubled look on his face. A mustache could easily be regrown, but a son could not. Seldon knew perfectly well that he was sending Raych into danger.

 

 9

 

 We all have our small illusions and Cleon-Emperor of the Galaxy, King of Trantor, and a wide collection of other titles that on rare occasions could be called out in a long sonorous roll-was convinced that he was a person of democratic spirit.

 

 It always angered him when he was warned off a course of action by Demerzel (or, later, by Seldon) on the grounds that such action would be looked on as "tyrannical" or "despotic."

 

 Cleon was not a tyrant or despot by disposition, he was certain; he only wanted to take firm and decisive action.

 

 He spoke many times with nostalgic approval of the days when Emperors could mingle freely with their subjects, but now, of course, when the history of coups and assassinations-actual or attempted-had become a dreary fact of life, the Emperor had, of necessity, been shut off from the world.

 

 It is doubtful that Cleon, who had never in his life met with people except under the most constricted of conditions, would really have felt at home in offhand encounters with strangers, but he always imagined he would enjoy it. He was excited, therefore, for the rare chance of talking to one of the underlings on the grounds, to smile and to doff the trappings of Imperial rule for a few minutes. It made him feet democratic.

 

 There was this gardener whom Seldon had spoken of, for instance. It would be fitting, even a pleasure, to reward him belatedly for his loyalty and bravery-and to do so himself, rather than leaving it to some functionary.

 

 He therefore arranged to meet the fellow in the spacious rose garden, which was in full bloom. That would be appropriate, Cleon thought, but, of course, they would have to bring the gardener there first. It was unthinkable for the Emperor to be made to wait. It is one thing to be democratic, quite another to be inconvenienced.

 

 The gardener was waiting for him among the roses, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. It occurred to Cleon that it was possible that no one had told the man the exact reason for the meeting. Well, he would reassure him in kindly fashion-except that, now he came to think of it, he could not remember the fellow's name.

 

 He turned to one of the officials at his side and said, "What is the gardener's name?"

 

 "Sire, it is Mandell Gruber. He has been a gardener here for thirty years."

 

 The Emperor nodded and said, "Ah, Gruber. How glad I am to meet a worthy and hardworking gardener."

 

 "Sire," mumbled Gruber, his teeth chattering. "I am not a man of many talents, but it is always my best I try to do on behalf of your gracious self."

 

 "Of course, of course," said the Emperor, wondering if the gardener suspected him of sarcasm. These men of the lower class lacked the finer feelings that came with refinement and manners, which always made any attempt at democratic display difficult.

 

 Cleon said, "I have heard from my First Minister of the loyalty with which you once came to his aid and of your skill in taking care of the grounds. The First Minister tells me that he and you are quite friendly."

 

 "Sire, the First Minister is most gracious to me, but I know my place. I never speak to him unless he speaks first."

 

 "Quite, Gruber. That shows good manners on your part, but the First Minister, like myself, is a man of democratic impulses and I trust his judgment of people."

 

 Gruber bowed low.

 

 The Emperor said, "As you know, Gruber, Chief Gardener Malcomber is quite old and longs to retire. The responsibilities are becoming greater than even he can bear."

 

 "Sire, the Chief Gardener is much respected by all the gardeners. May he be spared for many years so that we can all come to him for the benefit of his wisdom and judgment."

 

 "Well said, Gruber," said the Emperor carelessly, "but you very well know that that is just mumbo-jumbo. He is not going to be spared, at least not with the strength and wit necessary for the position. He himself requests retirement within the year and I have granted him that. It remains to find a replacement."

 

 "Oh, Sire, there are fifty men and women in this grand place who could be Chief Gardener."

 

 "I dare say," said the Emperor, "but my choice has fallen upon you." The Emperor smiled graciously. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Gruber would now, he expected, fall to his knees in an ecstasy of gratitude.

 

 He did not and the Emperor frowned.

 

 Gruber said, "Sire, it is an honor that is too great for me-entirely."

 

 "Nonsense," said Cleon, offended that his judgment should be called into question. "It is about time that your virtues are recognized. You will no longer have to be exposed to weather of all kinds at all times of the year. You will have the Chief Gardener's office, a fine place, which I will have redecorated for you, and where you can bring your family. -You do have a family, don't you, Gruber?"

 

 "Yes, Sire. A wife and two daughters. And a son-in-law."

 

 "Very good. You will be very comfortable and you will enjoy your new life, Gruber. You will be indoors, Gruber, and out of the weather, like a true Trantorian."

 

 "Sire, consider that I am an Anacreonian by upbringing-"

 

 "I have considered, Gruber. All worlds are alike to the Emperor. It is done. The new job is what you deserved."

 

 He nodded his head and stalked off. Cleon was satisfied with this latest show of his benevolence. Of course, he could have used a little more gratitude from the fellow, a little more appreciation, but at least the task was done.

 

 And it was much easier to have this done than to settle the matter of the failing infrastructure.

 

 Cleon had, in a moment of testiness, declared that whenever a breakdown could be attributed to human error, the human being in question should forthwith be executed.

 

 "Just a few executions," he said, "and it will be remarkable how careful everyone will become."

 

 "I'm afraid, Sire," Seldon had said, "that this type of despotic behavior would not accomplish what you wish. It would probably force the workers to go on strike-and if you try to force them back to work, there would then be an insurrection-and if you try to replace them with soldiers, you will find they do not know how to control the machinery, so that breakdowns will begin to take place much more frequently."

 

 It was no wonder that Cleon turned to the matter of appointing a Chief Gardener with relief.

 

 As for Gruber, he gazed after the departing Emperor with the chill of sheer horror. He was going to be taken from the freedom of the open air and condemned to the constriction of four walls. -Yet how could one refuse the Emperor?

 

 10

 

 Raych looked in the mirror of his Wye hotel room somberly (it was a pretty run-down hotel room, but Raych was not supposed to have too many credits). He did not like what he saw. His mustache was gone; his sideburns were shortened; his hair was clipped at the sides and back.

 

 He looked-plucked.

 

 Worse than that. As a result of the change in his facial contours, he looked baby-faced.

 

 It was disgusting.

 

 Nor was he making any headway. Seldon had given him the security reports on Kaspal Kaspalov's death, which he had studied. There wasn't much there. Just that Kaspalov had been murdered and that the local security officers had come up with nothing of importance in connection with that murder. It seemed quite clear that the security officers attached little or no importance to it, anyway.

 

 That was not surprising. In the last century, the crime rate had risen markedly in most worlds, certainly in the grandly complex world of Trantor, and nowhere were the local security officers up to the job of doing anything useful about it. In fact, the security establishment had declined in numbers and efficiency everywhere and (while this was hard to prove) had become more corrupt. It was inevitable this should be so, with pay refusing to keep pace with the cost of living. One must pay civil officials to keep them honest. Failing that, they would surely make up for their inadequate salaries in other ways.

 

 Seldon had been preaching this doctrine for some years now, but it did no good. There was no way to increase wages without increasing taxes and the populace would not sit still for increased taxes. It seemed they would rather lose ten times the credits in graft.

 

 It was all part (Seldon had said) of the general deterioration of Imperial society over the previous two centuries.

 

 Well, what was Raych to do? He was here at the hotel where Kaspalov had lived during the days immediately before his murder. Somewhere in the hotel there might be someone who had something to do with that-or who knew someone who had.

 

 It seemed to Raych that he must make himself conspicuous. He must show an interest in Kaspalov's death and then someone would get interested in him and pick him up. It was dangerous, but if he could make himself sound harmless enough, they might not attack him immediately.

 

 Well-

 

 Raych looked at his timeband. There would be people enjoying their predinner aperitifs in the bar. He might as well join them and see what would happen-if anything.

 

 11

 

 In some respects, Wye could be quite puritanical. (This was true of all the sectors, though the rigidity of one sector might be completely different from the rigidity of another.) Here, the drinks were not alcoholic but were synthetically designed to stimulate in other ways. Raych did not like the taste, finding himself utterly unused to it, but it meant that he could sip his drink slowly and look around.

 

 He caught the eye of a young woman several tables away and had difficulty in looking away. She was attractive and it was clear that Wye's ways were not puritanical in every fashion.

 

 After a few moments, the young woman smiled slightly and rose. She drifted toward Raych's table, while Raych watched her speculatively. He could scarcely (he thought with marked regret) afford a side adventure just now.

 

 She stopped for a moment when she reached Raych and then let herself slide smoothly into an adjacent chair.

 

 "Hello," she said. "You don't look like a regular here."

 

 Raych smiled. "I'm not. Do you know all the regulars?"

 

 "Just about," she said, unembarrassed. "My name is Manella. What's yours?"

 

 Raych was more regretful than ever. She was quite tall, taller than he himself was without his heels-something he always found attractive-had a milky complexion, and long, softly wavy hair that had distinct glints of dark red in it. Her clothing was not too garish and she might, if she had tried a little harder, have passed as a respectable woman of the not-too-hardworking class.

 

 Raych said, "My name doesn't matter. I don't have many credits."

 

 "Oh. Too bad." Manella made a face. "Can't you get a few?"

 

 "I'd like to. I need a job. Do you know of any?"

 

 "What kind of job?"

 

 Raych shrugged. "I don't have any experience in anything fancy, but I ain't proud."

 

 Manella looked at him thoughtfully. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Nameless. Sometimes it doesn't take any credits at all."

 

 Raych froze at once. He had been successful enough with women, but with his mustache-his mustache. What could she see in his baby face?

 

 He said, "Tell you what. I had a friend living here a couple of weeks ago and I can't find him. Since you know all the regulars, maybe you know him. His name is Kaspalov." He raised his voice slightly. "Kaspal Kaspalov."

 

 Manella stared at him blankly and shook her head. "I don't know anybody by that name."

 

 "Too bad. He was a Joranumite and so am L" Again, a blank look. "Do you know what a Joranumite is?"

 

 She shook her head. "N-no. I've heard the word, but I don't know what it means. Is it some kind of job?"

 

 Raych felt disappointed.

 

 He said, "It would take too long to explain."

 

 It sounded like a dismissal and, after a moment of uncertainty, Manella rose and drifted away. She did not smile and Raych was a little surprised that she had remained as long as she did.

 

 (Well, Seldon had always insisted that Raych had the capacity to inspire affection-but surely not in a businesswoman of this sort. For them, payment was the thing.)

 

 His eyes followed Manella automatically as she stopped at another table, where a man was seated by himself. He was of early middle age, with butter-yellow hair, slicked back. He was very smooth-shaven, but it seemed to Raych that he could have used a beard, his chin being too prominent and a bit asymmetric.

 

 Apparently Manella had no better luck with this beardless one. A few words were exchanged and she moved on. Too bad, but surely it was impossible for her to fail often. She was unquestionably desirable.

 

 Raych found himself thinking, quite involuntarily, of what the upshot would be if he, after all, could- And then Raych realized that he had been joined by someone else. It was a man this time. It was, in fact, the man to whom Manella had just spoken. He was astonished that his own preoccupation had allowed him to be thus approached and, in effect, caught by surprise. He couldn't very well afford this sort of thing.

 

 The man looked at him with a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "You were just talking to a friend of mine."

 

 Raych could not help smiling broadly. "She's a friendly person."

 

 "Yes, she is. And a good friend of mine. I couldn't help overhearing what you said to her."

 

 "Wasn't nothing wrong, I think."

 

 "Not at all, but you called yourself a Joranumite."

 

 Raych's heart jumped. His remark to Manella had hit dead-center after all. It had meant nothing to her, but it seemed to mean something to her "friend."

 

 Did that mean he was on the road now? Or merely in trouble?

 

 12

 

 Raych did his best to size up his new companion, without allowing his own face to lose its smooth naivete. The man had sharp greenish eyes and his right hand clenched almost threateningly into a fist as it rested on the table.

 

 Raych looked owlishly at the other and waited.

 

 Again, the man said, "I understand you call yourself a Joranumite."

 

 Raych did his best to look uneasy. It was not difficult. He said, "Why do you ask, mister?"

 

 "Because I don't think you're old enough."

 

 "I'm old enough. I used to watch Jo-Jo Joranum's speeches on holovision."

 

 "Can you quote them?"

 

 Raych shrugged. "No, but I got the idea."

 

 "You're a brave young man to talk openly about being a Joranumite. Some people don't like that."

 

 "I'm told there are lots of Joranumites in Wye."

 

 "That may be. Is that why you came here?"

 

 "I'm looking for a job. Maybe another Joranumite would help me."

 

 "There are Joranumites in Dahl, too. Where are you from?"

 

 There was no question that he recognized Raych's accent. That could not be disguised.

 

 He said, "I was born in Millimaru, but I lived mostly in Dahl when I was growing up."

 

 "Doing what?"

 

 "Nothing much. Going to school some."

 

 "And why are you a Joranumite?"

 

 Raych let himself heat up a bit. He couldn't have lived in downtrodden, discriminated-against Dahl without having obvious reasons for being a Joranumite. He said, "Because I think there should be more representative government in the Empire, more participation by the people, and more equality among the sectors and the worlds. Doesn't anyone with brains and a heart think that?"

 

 "And you want to see the Emperorship abolished?"

 

 Raych paused. One could get away with a great deal in the way of subversive statements, but anything overtly anti-Emperor was stepping outside the bounds. He said, "I ain't saying that. I believe in the Emperor, but ruling a whole Empire is too much for one man."

 

 "It isn't one man. There's a whole Imperial bureaucracy. What do you think of Hari Seldon, the First Minister?"

 

 "Don't think nothing about him. Don't know about him."

 

 "All you know is that people should be more represented in the affairs of government. Is that right?"

 

 Raych allowed himself to look confused. "That's what Jo-Jo Joranum used to say. I don't know what you call it. I heard someone once call it `democracy,' but I don't know what that means."

 

 "Democracy is something that some worlds have tried. Some still do. I don't know that those worlds are run better than other worlds. So you're a democrat?"

 

 "Is that what you call it?" Raych let his head sink, as if in deep thought. "I feel more at home as a Joranumite."

 

 "Of course, as a Dahlite-"

 

 "I just lived there awhile."

 

 "-you're all for people's equalities and such things. The Dahlites, being an oppressed group, would naturally think in that fashion."

 

 "I hear that Wye is pretty strong in Joranumite thinking. They're not oppressed."

 

 "Different reason. The old Wye Mayors always wanted to be Emperors. Did you know that?"

 

 Raych shook his head.

 

 "Eighteen years ago," said the man, "Mayor Rashelle nearly carried through a coup in that direction. So the Wyans are rebels, not so much Joranumite as anti-Cleon."

 

 Raych said, "I don't know nothing about that. I ain't against the Emperor."

 

 "But you are for popular representation, aren't you? Do you think that some sort of elected assembly could run the Galactic Empire without bogging down in politics and partisan bickering? Without paralysis?"

 

 Raych said, "Huh? I don't understand."

 

 "Do you think a great many people could come to some decision quickly in times of emergency? Or would they just sit around and argue?"

 

 "I don't know, but it doesn't seem right that just a few people should have all the say over all the worlds."

 

 "Are you willing to fight for your beliefs? Or do you just like to talk about them?"

 

 "No one asked me to do any fighting," said Raych.

 

 "Suppose someone did. How important do you think your beliefs about democracy-or Joranumite philosophy-are?"

 

 "I'd fight for them-if I thought it would do any good."

 

 "There's a brave lad. So you came to Wye to fight for your beliefs."

 

 "No," said Raych uncomfortably, "I can't say I did. I came to look for a job, sir. It ain't easy to find no jobs these days-and I ain't got no credits. A guy's gotta live."

 

 "I agree. What's your name?"

 

 The question shot out without warning, but Raych was ready for it. "Planchet, sir."

 

 "First or last name?"

 

 "Only name, as far as I know."

 

 "You have no credits and, I gather, very little education."

 

 "Afraid so."

 

 "And no experience at any specialized job?"

 

 "I ain't worked much, but I'm willing."

 

 "All right. I'll tell you what, Planchet." He took a small white triangle out of his pocket and pressed it in such a way as to produce a printed message on it. Then he rubbed his thumb across it, freezing it. "I'll tell you where to go. You take this with you and it may get you a job."

 

 Raych took the card and glanced at it. The signals seemed to fluoresce, but Raych could not read them. He looked at the other man warily. "What if they think I stole it?"

 

 "It can't be stolen. It has my sign on it and now it has your name."

 

 "What if they ask me who you are?"

 

 "They won't. -You say you want a job. There's your chance. I don't guarantee it, but there's your chance." He gave him another card. "This is where to go." Raych could read this one.

 

 "Thank you," he mumbled.

 

 The man made little dismissing gestures with his hand.

 

 Raych rose and left-and wondered what he was getting into.

 

 13

 

 Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

 

 Gleb Andorin watched Gambol Deen Namarti trudging up and down. Namarti was obviously unable to sit still under the driving force of the violence of his passion.

 

 Andorin thought: He's not the brightest man in the Empire or even in the movement, not the shrewdest, certainly not the most capable of rational thought. He has to be held back constantly-but he's driven as none of the rest of us are. We would give up, let go, but he won't. Push, pull, prod, kick. -Well, maybe we need someone like that. We must have someone like that or nothing will ever happen.

 

 Namarti stopped, as though he felt Andorin's eyes boring into his back. He turned around and said, "If you're going to lecture me again on Kaspalov, don't bother."

 

 Andorin shrugged lightly. "Why bother lecturing you? The deed is done. The harm-if any-has been done."

 

 "What harm, Andorin? What harm? If I had not done it, then we would have been harmed. The man was on the edge of being a traitor. Within a month, he would have gone running "

 

 "I know. I was there. I heard what he said."

 

 "Then you understand there was no choice. No choice. You don't think I liked to have an old comrade killed, do you? I had no choice."

 

 "Very well. You had no choice."

 

 Namarti resumed his tramping, then turned again. "Andorin, do you believe in gods?"

 

 Andorin stared, "In what?"