"In gods."

 

 "I never heard the word. What is it?"

 

 Namarti said, "It's not Galactic Standard. Supernatural influences. How's that?"

 

 "Oh, supernatural influences. Why didn't you say so? No, I don't believe in that sort of thing. By definition, something is supernatural if it exists outside the laws of nature and nothing exists outside the laws of nature. Are you turning into a mystic?" Andorin asked it as though he were joking, but his eyes narrowed with sudden concern.

 

 Namarti stared him down. Those blazing eyes of his could stare anyone down. "Don't be a fool. I've been reading about it. Trillions of people believe in supernatural influences."

 

 "I know," said Andorin. "They always have."

 

 "They've done so since before the beginning of history. The word 'gods' is of unknown origin. It is, apparently, a hangover from some primeval language of which no trace any longer exists, except that word. -Do you know how many different varieties of beliefs there are in various kinds of gods?"

 

 "Approximately as many as the varieties of fools among the Galactic population, I should say."

 

 Namarti ignored that. "Some people think the word dates back to the time when all humanity existed on but a single world."

 

 "Itself a mythological concept. That's just as lunatic as the notion of supernatural influences. There never was one original human world."

 

 "There would have to be, Andorin," said Namarti, annoyed. "Human beings can't have evolved on different worlds and ended as a single species."

 

 "Even so, there's no effective human world. It can't be located, it can't he defined, so it can't be spoken of sensibly, so it effectively doesn't exist."

 

 "These gods," said Namarti, continuing to follow his own line of thought, "are supposed to protect humanity and keep it safe or at least to care for those portions of humanity that know how to make use of the gods. At a time when there was only one human world, it makes sense to suppose they would be particularly interested in caring for that one tiny world with a few people. They would care for such a world as though they were big brothers-or parents."

 

 "Very nice of them. I'd like to see them try to handle the entire Empire."

 

 "What if they could? What if they were infinite?"

 

 "What if the Sun were frozen? What's the use of `what if?"

 

 "I'm just speculating. Just thinking. Haven't you ever let your mind wander freely? Do you always keep everything on a leash?"

 

 "I should imagine that's the safest way, keeping it on a leash. What does your wandering mind tell you, Chief?"

 

 Namarti's eyes flashed at the other, as though he suspected sarcasm, but Andorin's face remained good-natured and blank.

 

 Namarti said, "What my mind is telling me is this- If there are gods, they must be on our side."

 

 "Wonderful-if true. Where's the evidence?"

 

 "Evidence? Without the gods, it would just be a coincidence, I suppose, but a very useful one." Suddenly Namarti yawned and sat down, looking exhausted.

 

 Good, thought Andorin. His galloping mind has finally wound itself down and he may talk sense now.

 

 "This matter of internal breakdown of the infrastructure-" said Namarti, his voice distinctly lower.

 

 Andorin interrupted. "You know, Chief, Kaspalov was not entirely wrong about this. The longer we keep it up, the greater the chance that Imperial forces will discover the cause. The whole program must, sooner or later, explode in our faces."

 

 "Not yet. So far, everything is exploding in the Imperial face. The unrest on Trantor is something I can feel." He raised his hands, rubbing his fingers together. "I can feel it. And we are almost through. We are ready for the next step."

 

 Andorin smiled humorlessly. "I'm not asking for details, Chief. Kaspalov did and look where that got him. I am not Kaspalov."

 

 "It's precisely because you're not Kaspalov that I can tell you. And because I know something now I didn't then."

 

 "I presume," said Andorin, only half-believing what he was saying, "that you intend a strike on the Imperial Palace grounds."

 

 Namarti looked up. "Of course. What else is there to do? The problem, however, is how to penetrate the grounds effectively. I have my sources of information there, but they are only spies. I'll need men of action on the spot."

 

 "To get men of action into the most heavily guarded region in all the galaxy will not be easy."

 

 "Of course not. That's what has been giving me an unbearable headache till now-and then the gods intervened."

 

 Andorin said gently (it was taking all his self-restraint to keep from showing his disgust), "I don't think we need a metaphysical discussion. What has happened-leaving the gods to one side?"

 

 "My information is that His Gracious and Ever to Be Beloved Emperor Cleon I has decided to appoint a new Chief Gardener. This is the first new appointee in nearly a quarter of a century."

 

 "And if so?"

 

 "Do you see no significance?"

 

 Andorin thought for a moment. "I am not a favorite of your gods. I don't see any significance."

 

 "If you have a new Chief Gardener, Andorin, the situation is the same as having a new administrator of any other type-the same as if you had a new First Minister or a new Emperor. The new Chief Gardener will certainly want his own staff. He will force into retirement what he considers dead wood and will hire younger gardeners by the hundreds."

 

 "That's possible."

 

 "It's more than possible. It's certain. Exactly that happened when the present Chief Gardener was appointed and the same when his predecessor was appointed and so on. Hundreds of strangers from the Outer Worlds-"

 

 "Why from the Outer Worlds?"

 

 "Use your brains-if you have any, Andorin. What do Trantorians know about gardening when they've lived under domes all their lives, tending potted plants, zoos, and carefully arranged crops of grains and fruit trees? What do they know about life in the wild?"

 

 "Ahhh. Now I understand."

 

 "So there will be these strangers flooding the grounds. They will be carefully checked, I presume, but they won't be as tightly screened as they would be if they were Trantorians. And that means, surely, that we should be able to supply just a few of our own people, with false identifications, and get them inside. Even if some are screened out, a few might make it-a few must make it. Our people will enter, despite the supertight security established since the failed coup in the early days of First Minister Seldon." (He virtually spat out the name, as he always did.) "We'll finally have our chance."

 

 Now it was Andorin who felt dizzy, as if he'd fallen into a spinning vortex. "It seems odd for me to say so, Chief, but there is something to this `gods' business after all, because I have been waiting to tell you something that I now see fits in perfectly."

 

 Namarti stared at the other suspiciously and looked around the room, as though he suddenly feared for security. But such fear was groundless. The room was located deep in an old-fashioned residential complex and was well shielded. No one could overhear and no one, even with detailed directions, could find it easily-nor get through the layers of protection provided by loyal members of the organization.

 

 Namarti said, "What are you talking about?"

 

 "I've found a man for you. A young man-very naive. A quite likable fellow, the kind you feel you can trust as soon as you see him. He's got an open face, wide-open eyes; he's lived in Dahl; he's an enthusiast for equality; he thinks Joranum was the greatest thing since Dahlite cokeicers; and I'm sure we can easily talk him into doing anything for the cause."

 

 "For the cause?" said Namarti, whose suspicions were not in the least alleviated. "Is he one of us?"

 

 "Actually, he's not one of anything. He's got some vague notions in his head that Joranum wanted sector equality."

 

 "That was his lure. Sure."

 

 "It's ours, too, but the kid believes it. He talks about equality and popular participation in government. He even mentioned democracy."

 

 Namarti snickered. "In twenty thousand years, democracy has never been used for very long without falling apart."

 

 "Yes, but that's not our concern. It's what drives the young man and I tell you, Chief, I knew we had our tool just about the moment I saw him, but I didn't know how we could possibly use him. Now I know. We can get him onto the Imperial Palace grounds as a gardener."

 

 "How? Does he know anything about gardening?"

 

 "No. I'm sure he doesn't. He's never worked at anything but unskilled labor. He's operating a hauler right now and I think that he had to be taught how to do that. Still, if we can get him in as a gardener's helper, if he just knows how to hold a pair of shears, then we've got it."

 

 "Got what?"

 

 "Got someone who can approach anyone we wish-and do so without raising the flutter of a suspicion-and get close enough to strike. I'm telling you he simply exudes a kind of honorable stupidity, a kind of foolish virtue that inspires confidence."

 

 "And he'll do what we tell him to do?"

 

 "Absolutely."

 

 "How did you meet this person?"

 

 "It wasn't I. It was Manella who really spotted him."

 

 "Who?"

 

 "Manella. Manella Dubanqua."

 

 "Oh. That friend of yours." Namarti's face twisted into a look of prissy disapproval.

 

 "She's the friend of many people," said Andorin tolerantly. "That's one of the things that makes her so useful. She can weigh a man quickly and with very little to go on. She talked to this fellow because she was attracted to him at sight-and I assure you that Manella is not one who is usually attracted by anything but the bottom line-so, you see, this man is rather unusual. She talked to this fellow-his name is Planchet, by the way-and then told me, `I have a live one for you, Gleb.' I'll trust her on the matter of live ones any day of the week."

 

 Namarti said slyly, "And what do you think this wonderful tool of yours would do once he had the run of the grounds, eh, Andorin?"

 

 Andorin took a deep breath. "What else? If we do everything right, he will dispose of our dear Emperor Cleon, First of that Name, for us."

 

 Namarti's face blazed into anger. "What? Are you mad? Why should we want to kill Cleon? He's our hold on the government. He's the facade behind which we can rule. He's our passport to legitimacy. Where are your brains? We need him as a figurehead. He won't interfere with us and we'll be stronger for his existence."

 

 Andorin's fair face turned blotchy red and his good humor finally exploded. "What do you have in mind, then? What are you planning? I'm getting tired of always having to second-guess."

 

 Namarti raised his hand. "All right. All right. Calm down. I meant no harm. But think a bit, will you? Who destroyed Joranum? Who destroyed our hopes ten years ago? It was that mathematician. And it is he who rules the Empire now with his idiotic talk about psychohistory. Cleon is nothing. It is Hari Seldon we must destroy. It is Hari Seldon whom I've been turning into an object of ridicule with these constant breakdowns. The miseries they entail are placed at his doorstep. It is all being interpreted as his inefficiency, his incapacity." There was a trace of spittle in the corners of Namarti's mouth. "When he's cut down, there will be a cheer from the Empire that will drown out every holovision report for hours. It won't even matter if they know who did it." He raised his hand and let it drop, as if he were plunging a knife into someone's heart. "We will be looked upon as heroes of the Empire, as saviors. -Eh? Eh? Do you think your youngster can cut down Hari Seldon?"

 

 Andorin had recovered his sense of equanimity-at least outwardly.

 

 "I'm sure he would," he said with forced lightness. "For Cleon, he might have some respect; the Emperor has a mystical aura about him, as you know." (He stressed the "you" faintly and Namarti scowled.) "He would have no such feelings about Seldon."

 

 Inwardly, however, Andorin was furious. This was not what he wanted. He was being betrayed.

 

 14

 

 Manella brushed the hair out of her eyes and smiled up at Raych. "I told you it wouldn't cost you any credits."

 

 Raych blinked and scratched at his bare shoulder. "But are you going to ask me for some now?"

 

 She shrugged and smiled rather impishly. "Why should I?"

 

 "Why shouldn't you?"

 

 "Because I'm allowed to take my own pleasure sometimes."

 

 "With me?"

 

 "There's no one else here."

 

 There was a long pause and then Manella said soothingly, "Besides, you don't have that many credits anyway. How's the job?"

 

 Raych said, "Ain't much but better than nothing. Lots better. Did you tell that guy to get me one?"

 

 Manella shook her head slowly. "You mean Gleb Andorin? I didn't tell him to do anything. I just said he might be interested in you."

 

 "Is he going to be annoyed because you and I-"

 

 "Why should he? None of his business. And none of yours, either."

 

 "What's he do? I mean, what does he work at?"

 

 "I don't think he works at anything. He's rich. He's a relative of the old Mayors."

 

 "Of Wye?"

 

 "Right. He doesn't like the Imperial government. None of those old Mayor people do. He says Cleon should-"

 

 She stopped suddenly and said, "I'm talking too much. Don't you go repeating anything I say."

 

 "Me? I ain't heard you say nothing at all. And I ain't going to."

 

 "All right."

 

 "But what about Andorin? Is he high up in Joranumite business? Is tae an important guy there?"

 

 "I wouldn't know."

 

 "Don't he ever talk about that kind of stuff?"

 

 "Not to me."

 

 "Oh," said Raych, trying not to sound annoyed.

 

 Manella looked at him shrewdly. "Why are you so interested?"

 

 "I want to get in with them. I figure I'll get higher up that way. Better job. More credits. You know."

 

 "Maybe Andorin will help you. He likes you. I know that much."

 

 "Could you make him like me more?"

 

 "I can try. I don't know why he shouldn't. I like you. I like you more than I like him."

 

 "Thank you, Manella. I like you, too. -A lot." He ran his hand down the side of her body and wished ardently that he could concentrate more on her and less on his assignment.

 

 15

 

 "Gleb Andorin," said Hari Seldon wearily, rubbing his eyes.

 

 "And who is he?" asked Dors Venabili, her mood as cold as it had teen every day since Raych had left.

 

 "Until a few days ago I never heard of him," said Seldon. "That's the trouble with trying to run a world of forty billion people. You never hear of anyone, except for the few who obtrude themselves on your notice. With all the computerized information in the world, Trantor remains a planet of anonymities. We can drag up people with their reference numbers and their statistics, but whom do we drag up? Add twenty-five million Outer Worlds and the wonder is that the Galactic Empire has remained a working phenomenon for all these millennia. Frankly I think it has existed only because it very largely runs itself. And now it is finally running down."

 

 "So much for philosophizing, Hari," said Dors. "Who is this Andorin?"

 

 "Someone I admit I ought to have known about. I managed to cajole the security establishment into calling up some files on him. He's a member of the Wyan Mayoralty family-the most prominent member, in fact -so the security people have kept tabs on him. They think he has ambitions but is too much of a playboy to do anything about them."

 

 "And is he involved with the Joranumites?"

 

 Seldon made an uncertain gesture. "I'm under the impression that the security establishment knows nothing about the Joranumites. That may mean that the Joranumites no longer exist or that, if they do, they are of no importance. It may also mean that the security establishment just isn't interested. Nor is there any way in which I can force it to be interested. I'm only thankful the officers give me any information at all. And I am the First Minister."

 

 "Is it possible that you're not a very good First Minister?" said Dors, dryly.

 

 "That's more than possible. It's probably been generations since there's been an appointee less suited to the job than myself. But that has nothing to do with the security establishment. It's a totally independent arm of the government. I doubt that Cleon himself knows much about it, though, in theory, the security officers are supposed to report to him through their director. Believe me, if we only knew more about the security establishment, we'd be trying to stick its actions into our psychohistorical equations, such as they are."

 

 "Are the security officers on our side, at least?"

 

 "I believe so, but I can't swear to it."

 

 "And why are you interested in this what's-his-name?"

 

 "Gleb Andorin. Because I received a roundabout message from Raych."

 

 Dors's eyes flashed. "Why didn't you tell me? Is he all right?"

 

 "As far as I know, but I hope he doesn't try any further messages. If he's caught communicating, he won't be all right. In any case, he has made contact with Andorin."

 

 "And the Joranumites, too?"

 

 "I don't think so. It would sound unlikely, for the connection is not something that would make sense. The Joranumite movement is predominantly lower-class-a proletarian movement, so to speak. And Andorin is an aristocrat of aristocrats. What would he be doing with the Joranumites?"

 

 "If he's of the Wyan Mayoralty family, he might aspire to the Imperial throne, might he not?"

 

 "They've been aspiring for generations. You remember Rashelle, I trust. She was Andorin's aunt."

 

 "Then he might be using the Joranumites as a stepping-stone, don't you think?"

 

 "If they exist. And if they do-and if a stepping-stone is what Andorin wants-I think he'd find himself playing a dangerous game. The Joranumites-if they exist-would have their own plans and a man like Andorin may find he's simply riding a greti-"

 

 "What's a greti?"

 

 "Some extinct animal of a ferocious type, I think. It's just a proverbial phrase back on Helicon. If you ride a greti, you find you can't get off, for then it will eat you."

 

 Seldon paused. "One more thing. Raych seems to be involved with a woman who knows Andorin and through whom, he thinks, he may get important information. I'm telling you this now so that you won't accuse me afterward of keeping anything from you."

 

 Dors frowned. "A woman?"

 

 "One, I gather, who knows a great many men who will talk to her unwisely, sometimes, under intimate circumstances."

 

 "One of those." Her frown deepened. "I don't like the thought of Raych-"

 

 "Come, come. Raych is thirty years old and undoubtedly has much experience. You can leave this woman-or any woman, I think-safely to Raych's good sense." He turned toward Dors with a look so worn, so weary, and said, "Do you think I like this? Do you think I like any of this?"

 

 And Dors could find nothing to say.

 

 16

 

 Gambol Deen Namarti was not, at even the best of times, noted for his politeness and suavity-and the approaching climax of a decade of planning had left his disposition sour.

 

 He rose from his chair with some agitation and said, "You've taken your time getting here, Andorin."

 

 Andorin shrugged. "But I'm here."

 

 "And this young man of yours-this remarkable tool that you're touting. Where is he?"

 

 "He'll be here eventually."

 

 "Why not now?"

 

 Andorin's rather handsome head seemed to sink a bit, as though he were lost in thought or coming to a decision, and then he said abruptly, "I don't want to bring him until I know where I stand."

 

 "What does that mean?"

 

 "Simple words in Galactic Standard. How long has it been your aim to get rid of Hari Seldon?"

 

 "Always! Always! Is that so hard to understand? We deserve revenge for what he did to Jo-Jo. Even if he hadn't done that, since he's the First Minister, we'd have to put him out of the way."

 

 "But it's Cleon-Cleon-who must be brought down. If not only he, then at least he, in addition to Seldon."

 

 "Why does a figurehead concern you?"

 

 "You weren't born yesterday. I've never had to explain my part in this because you're not so ignorant a fool as not to know. What can I possibly care about your plans if they don't include a replacement on the throne?"

 

 Namarti laughed. "Of course. I've known for a long time that you look upon me as your footstool, your way of climbing up to the Imperial throne."

 

 "Would you expect anything else?"

 

 "Not at all. I will do the planning, take the chances, and then, when all is quite done, you gather in the reward. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

 

 "Yes, it does make sense, for the reward will be yours, too. Won't you become the First Minister? Won't you be able to count on the full support of a new Emperor, one who is filled with gratitude? Won't I be”-and his face twisted with irony as he spat out the words-"the new figurehead?"

 

 "Is that what you plan to be? A figurehead?"

 

 "I plan to be the Emperor. I supplied advances of credit when you had none. I supplied the cadre when you had none. I supplied the respectability you needed to build a large organization here in Wye. I can still withdraw everything I've brought in."

 

 "I don't think so."

 

 "Do you want to risk it? Don't think you can treat me the way you treated Kaspalov, either. If anything happens to me, Wye will become uninhabitable for you and yours-and you will find that no other sector will supply you with what you need."

 

 Namarti sighed. "Then you insist on having the Emperor killed."

 

 "I didn't say `killed.' I said `brought down.' The details I leave to you." This last statement was accompanied with an almost dismissive wave of the hand, a flick of the wrist, as if Andorin were already sitting on the Imperial throne.

 

 "And then you'll be Emperor?"

 

 "Yes."

 

 "No, you won't. You'll be dead-and not at my hands, either. Andorin, let me teach you some of the facts of life. If Cleon is killed, then the matter of the succession comes up and, to avoid civil war, the Imperial Guard will at once kill every member of the Wyan Mayoral family they can find-you first of all. On the other hand, if only the First Minister is killed, you will be safe."

 

 "Why?"

 

 "A First Minister is only a First Minister. They come and go. It is possible that Cleon himself may have grown tired of him and arranged the murder. Certainly we would see to it that rumors of this sort are spread. The Imperial Guard would hesitate and would give us a chance to put the new government into place. Indeed, it is quite possible that they themselves would be grateful for the end of Seldon."

 

 "And with the new government in place, what am I to do? Keep on waiting? Forever?"

 

 "No. Once I'm First Minister, there will be ways of dealing with Cleon. I may even be able to do something with the Imperial Guard-and even with the security establishment-and use them all as my instruments. I will then manage to find some safe way of getting rid of Cleon and replacing him with you."

 

 Andorin burst out, "Why should you?"

 

 Namarti said, "What do you mean, why should I?"

 

 "You have a personal grudge against Seldon. Once he is gone, why should you run unnecessary risks at the highest level? You will make your peace with Cleon and I will have to retire to my crumbling estate and my impossible dreams. And perhaps, to play it safe, you will have me killed."

 

 Namarti said, "No! Cleon was born to the throne. He comes from several generations of Emperors-the proud Entun Dynasty. He would he very difficult to handle, a plague. You, on the other hand, would come to the throne as a member of a new dynasty, without any strong ties to tradition, for the previous Wyan Emperors were, you will admit, totally undistinguished. You will be seated on a shaky throne and will need someone to support you-me. And I will need someone who is dependent upon me and whom I can therefore handle you. -Come, Andorin, ours is not a marriage of love, which fades in a year; it is a marriage of convenience, which can last as long as we both live. Let us trust each other."

 

 "You swear I will be Emperor."

 

 "What good would swearing do if you couldn't trust my word? Let us say I would find you an extraordinarily useful Emperor and I would want you to replace Cleon as soon as that can safely be managed. Now introduce me to this man you think will be the perfect tool for your purposes."

 

 "Very well. And remember what makes him different. I have studied him. He's a not-very-bright idealist. He will do what he's told, unconcerned by danger, unconcerned by second thoughts. And he exudes a kind of trustworthiness so that his victim will trust him, even if he has a blaster in his hand."

 

 "I find that impossible to believe."

 

 "Wait till you meet him," said Andorin.

 

 17

 

 Raych kept his eyes down. He had taken a quick look at Namarti and it was all he needed. He had met the man ten years before, when Raych had been sent to lure Jo-Jo Joranum to his destruction, and one look was more than enough.

 

 Namarti had changed little in ten years. Anger and hatred were still the dominant characteristics one could see in him-or that Raych could see in him, at any rate, for he realized he was not an impartial witness-and those seemed to have marinated him into leathery permanence. His face was a trifle more gaunt, his hair was flecked with gray, but his thin-lipped mouth was set in the same harsh line and his dark eyes were as brilliantly dangerous as ever.

 

 That was enough and Raych kept his eyes averted. Namarti, he felt, was not the type of person who would take to someone who could stare lm straight in the face.

 

 Namarti seemed to devour Raych with his own eyes, but the slight sneer his face always seemed to wear remained.

 

 He turned to Andorin, who stood uneasily to one side, and said, quite ;is though the subject of conversation were not present, "This is the man, then."

 

 Andorin nodded and his lips moved in a soundless "Yes, Chief."

 

 Namarti said to Raych abruptly, "Your name."

 

 "Planchet, sir."

 

 "You believe in our cause?"

 

 "Yes, sir." He spoke carefully, in accordance with Andorin's instructions. "I am a democrat and want greater participation of the people in the governmental process."

 

 Namarti's eyes flicked in Andorin's direction. "A speechmaker."

 

 He looked back at Raych. "Are you willing to undertake risks for the cause?"

 

 "Any risk, sir."

 

 "You will do as you are told? No questions? No hanging back?"

 

 "I will follow orders."

 

 "Do you know anything about gardening?"

 

 Raych hesitated. "No, sir."

 

 "You're a Trantorian, then? Born under the dome?"

 

 "I was born in Millimaru, sir, and I was brought up in Dahl."

 

 "Very well," said Namarti. Then to Andorin, "Take him out and deliver him temporarily to the men waiting there. They will take good care of him. Then come back, Andorin. I want to speak to you."

 

 When Andorin returned, a profound change had come over Namarti. Ibis eyes were glittering and his mouth was twisted into a feral grin.

 

 "Andorin," he said, "the gods we spoke of the other day are with us to an extent I couldn't have imagined."

 

 "I told you the man was suitable for our purposes."

 

 "Far more suitable than you think. You know, of course, the tale of how Hari Seldon our revered First Minister, sent his son-or foster son, rather-to see Joranum and to set the trap into which Joranum, against my advice, fell."

 

 "Yes," said Andorin, nodding wearily, "I know the story." He said it with the air of one who knew the story entirely too well.

 

 "I saw that boy only that once, but his image burned into my brain. Do you suppose that ten years' passage and false heels and a shaved mustache could fool me? That Planchet of yours is Raych, the foster son of Hari Seldon."

 

 Andorin paled and held his breath for a moment. He said, "Are you sure of that, Chief?"

 

 "As sure as I am that you're standing here in front of me and that you have introduced an enemy into our midst."

 

 "I had no idea-"

 

 "Don't get nervous," said Namarti. "I consider it the best thing you have ever done in your idle aristocratic life. You have played the role that the gods have marked out for you. If I had not known who he was, he might have fulfilled the function for which he was undoubtedly intended: to be a spy in our midst and an informant of our most secret plans. But since I know who he is, it won't work that way. Instead, we now have everything. " Namarti rubbed his hands together in delight and, haltingly, as if he realized how far out of character it was for him, he smiled-and laughed.

 

 18

 

 Manella said thoughtfully, "I guess I won't be seeing you anymore, Planchet."

 

 Raych was drying himself after his shower. "Why not?"

 

 "Gleb Andorin doesn't want me to."

 

 "Why not?"

 

 Manella shrugged her smooth shoulders. "He says you have important work to do and no more time to fool around. Maybe he means you'll get a better job."

 

 Raych stiffened. "What kind of work? Did he mention anything in particular?"

 

 "No, but he said he would be going to the Imperial Sector."

 

 "Did he? Does he often tell you things like that?"

 

 "You know how it is, Planchet. When a fellow's in bed with you, he talks a lot."

 

 "I know," said Raych, who was always careful not to. "What else does he say?"

 

 "Why do you ask?" She frowned a bit. "He always asks about you, too. I noticed that about men. They're curious about each other. Why is that, do you suppose?"

 

 "What do you tell him about me?"

 

 "Not much. Just that you're a very decent sort of guy. Naturally I don't tell him that I like you better than I like him. That would hurt his feelings-and it might hurt me, too."

 

 Raych was getting dressed. "So it's good-bye, then."

 

 "For a while, I suppose. Gleb may change his mind. Of course, I'd like to go to the Imperial Sector-if he'd take me. I've never been there."

 

 Raych almost slipped, but he managed to cough, then said, "I've never been there, either."

 

 "It's got the biggest buildings and the nicest places and the fanciest restaurants-and that's where the rich people live. I'd like to meet some rich people-besides Gleb, I mean."

 

 Raych said, "I suppose there's not much you can get out of a person like me."

 

 "You're all right. You can't think of credits all the time, but you've got to think of them some of the time. Especially since I think Gleb is getting tired of me."

 

 Raych felt compelled to say, "No one could get tired of you," and then found, a little to his own confusion, that he meant it.

 

 Manella said, "That's what men always say, but you'd be surprised. Anyway, it's been good, you and I, Planchet. Take care of yourself and, who knows, we may see each other again."

 

 Raych nodded and found himself at a loss for words. There was no way in which he could say or do anything to express his feelings.

 

 He turned his mind in other directions. He had to find out what the Namarti people were planning. If they were separating him from Manella, the crisis must be rapidly approaching. All he had to go on was that odd question about gardening.

 

 Nor could he get any further information back to Seldon. He had been kept under close scrutiny since his meeting with Namarti and all avenues of communication were cut off-surely another indication of an approaching crisis.

 

 But if he were to find out what was going on only after it was done-and if he could communicate the news only after it was no longer news-he would have failed.

 

 19

 

 Hari Seldon was not having a good day. He had not heard from Raych since his first communique; he had no idea what was happening.

 

 Aside from his natural concern for Raych's safety (surely he would hear if something really bad had happened), there was his uneasiness over what might be planned.

 

 It would have to be subtle. A direct attack on the Palace itself was totally out of the question. Security there was far too tight. But if so, what else could be planned that would be sufficiently effective?

 

 The whole thing was keeping him awake at night and distracted by day.

 

 The signal light flashed.

 

 "First Minister. Your two o'clock appointment, sir-"

 

 "What two o'clock appointment is this?"

 

 "Mandell Gruber, the gardener. He has the necessary certification."

 

 Seldon remembered. "Yes. Send him in."

 

 This was no time to see Gruber, but he had agreed to it in a moment of weakness-the man had seemed distraught. A First Minister should not have such moments of weakness, but Seldon had been Seldon long before he had become First :Minister.

 

 "Come in, Gruber," he said kindly.

 

 Gruber stood before him, head ducking mechanically, eyes darting this way and that. Seldon was quite certain the gardener had never been in any room as magnificent as this one and he had the bitter urge to say: "Do you like it? Please take it. I don't want it."

 

 But he only said, "What is it, Gruber? Why are you so unhappy"

 

 There was no immediate answer; Gruber merely smiled vacantly.

 

 Seldon said, "Sit down, man. Right there in that chair."

 

 "Oh no, First Minister. It would not be fitting. I'll get it dirty."

 

 "If you do, it will be easy to clean. Do as I say. -Good! Now just sit there a minute or two and gather your thoughts. Then, when you are ready, tell me what's the matter."

 

 Gruber sat silent for a moment, then the words came out in a panting rush. "First Minister. It is Chief Gardener I am to be. The blessed Emperor himself told me so."

 

 "Yes, I have heard of that, but that surely isn't what is troubling you. Your new post is a matter of congratulations and I do congratulate you. I may even have contributed to it, Gruber. I have never forgotten your bravery at the time I was nearly killed and you can be sure I mentioned it to His Imperial Majesty. It is a suitable reward, Gruber, and you would deserve the promotion in any case, for it is quite clear from your record that you are fully qualified for the post. So, now that that's out of the way, tell me what is troubling you."

 

 "First Minister, it is the very post and promotion that's troubling me. It is something I cannot manage, for I am not qualified."

 

 "We are convinced you are."

 

 Gruber grew agitated. "And is it in an office I will have to sit? I can't sit in an office. I could not go out in the open air and work with the plants and animals. I would be in prison, First Minister."

 

 Seldon's eyes opened wide. "No such thing, Gruber. You needn't stay in the office longer than you have to. You could wander around the grounds freely, supervising everything. You will have all the outdoors you want and you will merely spare yourself the hard work."

 

 "I want the hard work, First Minister, and it's no chance at all they will let me come out of the office. I have watched the present Chief Gardener. He couldn't leave his office, though he wanted to, ever so. There is too much administration, too much bookkeeping. Sure, if he wants to know what is going on, we must go to his office to tell him. He watches things on holovision "-he said with infinite contempt "as though you can tell anything about growing, living things from pictures. It is not for me, First Minister."

 

 "Come, Gruber, be a man. It's not all that bad. You'll get used to it. You'll work your way in slowly."

 

 Gruber shook his head. "First off-at the very first-I will have to deal with all the new gardeners. I'll be buried." Then, with sudden energy, "It is a job I do not want and must not have, First Minister."

 

 "Right now, Gruber, perhaps you don't want the job, but you are not alone. I'll tell you that right now I wish I were not First Minister. This job is too much for me. I even have a notion that there are times when the Emperor himself is tired of his Imperial robes. We're all in this Galaxy to do our work and the work isn't always pleasant."

 

 "I understand that, First Minister, but the Emperor must be Emperor, for he was born to that. And you must be First Minister, for there is no one else who can do the job. But in my case, it is just Chief Gardener we are ruminating upon. There are fifty gardeners in the place who could do it as well as I could and who wouldn't mind the office. You say that you spoke to the Emperor about how I tried to help you. Can't you speak to him again and explain that if he wants to reward me for what I did, he can leave me as I am?"

 

 Seldon leaned back in his chair and said solemnly, "Gruber, I would do that for you if I could, but I must explain something to you and I can only hope that you will understand it. The Emperor, in theory, is absolute ruler of the Empire. In actual fact, there is very little he can do. I run the Empire right now much more than he does and there is very little I can do, too. There are millions and billions of people at all levels of government, all making decisions, all making mistakes, some acting wisely and heroically, some acting foolishly and thievishly. There's no controlling them. Do you understand me, Gruber?"

 

 "I do, but what has this to do with my case?"

 

 "Because there is only one place where the Emperor is really absolute ruler-and that is over the Imperial grounds. Here, his word is law and the layers of officials beneath him are few enough for him to handle. For him to be asked to rescind a decision he has made in connection with the Imperial Palace grounds would be to invade the only area that he would consider inviolate. If I were to say, `Take back your decision on Gruber, Your Imperial Majesty,' he would be much more likely to relieve me of my duties than to take back his decision. That might be a good thing for me, but it wouldn't help you any."

 

 Gruber said, "Does that mean there's no way things can be changed?"

 

 "That's exactly what it means. But don't worry, Gruber, I'll help you all I can. I'm sorry. But now I have really spent all the time with you that I am able to spare."

 

 Gruber rose to his feet. In his hands he twisted his green gardening cap. There was more than a suspicion of tears in his eyes. "Thank you, First Minister. I know you would like to help. You're-you're a good man, First Minister."

 

 He turned and left, sorrowing.

 

 Seldon looked after him thoughtfully and shook his head. Multiply Gruber's woes by a quadrillion and you would have the woes of all the people of the twenty-five million worlds of the Empire and how was he, Seldon, to work out salvation for all of them, when he was helpless to solve the problem of one single man who had come to him for help?

 

 Psychohistory could not save one man. Could it save a quadrillion?

 

 He shook his head again, checked the nature and time of his next appointment, and then suddenly stiffened. He shouted into his communications wire in sudden wild abandon, quite unlike his usually strict control. "Get that gardener back! Get him back here right now!"

 

 20

 

 "What's this about new gardeners?" exclaimed Seldon. This time he did not ask Gruber to sit down.

 

 Gruber's eyes blinked rapidly. He was in a panic at having been recalled so unexpectedly. "N-new g-gardeners?" he stammered.

 

 "You said `all the new gardeners.' Those were your words. What new gardeners?"

 

 Gruber was astonished. "Sure, if there is a new Chief Gardener, there will be new gardeners. It is the custom."

 

 "I have never heard of this."

 

 "The last time we had a change of Chief Gardeners, you were not First Minister. It is likely you were not even on Trantor."

 

 "But what's it all about?"

 

 "Well, gardeners are never discharged. Some die. Some grow too old and are pensioned off and replaced. Still, by the time a new Chief Gardener is ready for his duties, at least half the staff is aged and beyond their best years. They are all pensioned off generously and new gardeners are brought in."

 

 "For youth."

 

 "Partly and partly because by that time there are usually new plans for the gardens and it is new ideas and new schemes we must have. There are almost five hundred square kilometers in the gardens and parklands and it usually takes some years to reorganize it and it is myself who will have to supervise it all. Please, First Minister." Gruber was gasping. "Surely a clever man like your own self can find a way to change the blessed Emperor's mind."

 

 Seldon paid no attention. His forehead was creased in concentration. "Where do the new gardeners come from?"

 

 "There are examinations on all the worlds-there are always people waiting to serve as replacements. They'll be coming in by the hundreds in a dozen batches. It will take me a year, at the least-"

 

 "From where do they come? From where?"

 

 "From any of a million worlds. We want a variety of horticultural knowledge. Any citizen of the Empire can qualify."

 

 "From Trantor, too?"

 

 "No, not from Trantor. There is no one from Trantor in the gardens." His voice grew contemptuous. "You can't get a gardener out of Trantor. The parks they have here under the dome aren't gardens. They are potted plants and the animals are in cages. Trantorians, poor specimens that they are, know nothing about open air, free water, and the true balance of nature."

 

 "All right, Gruber. I will now give you a job. It will be up to you to get me the names of every new gardener scheduled to arrive over the coming weeks. Everything about them. Name. World. Reference number. Education. Experience. Everything. I want it all here on my desk just as quickly as possible. I'm going to send people to help you. People with machines. What kind of a computer do you use?"

 

 "Only a simple one for keeping track of plantings and species and things like that."

 

 "All right. The people I send will be able to do anything you can't do. I can't tell you how important this is."

 

 "If I should do this-"

 

 "Gruber, this is not the time to make bargains. Fail me and you will not be Chief Gardener. Instead, you will be discharged without a pension."

 

 Alone again, Seldon barked into his communication wire, "Cancel all appointments for the rest of the afternoon."

 

 He then let his body flop in his chair, feeling every bit of his fifty years and feeling his headache worsen. For years, for decades, security had been built up around the Imperial Palace grounds, thicker, more solid, more impenetrable, as each new layer and each new device was added.

 

 -And every once in a while, hordes of strangers were let into the grounds. No questions asked, probably, but one: "Can you garden?"

 

 The stupidity involved was too colossal to grasp.

 

 And he had barely caught it in time. Or had he? Was he, even now, too late?

 

 21

 

 Gleb Andorin gazed at Namarti through half-closed eyes. He never liked the man, but there were times when he liked him less than he usually did and this was one of those times. Why should Andorin, a Wyan of royal birth (that's what it amounted to, after all) have to work with this parvenu, this near-psychotic paranoid?

 

 Andorin knew why and he had to endure, even when Namarti was once again in the process of telling the story of how he had built up the movement during a period of ten years to its present pitch of perfection. Did he tell this to everyone, over and over? Or was it just Andorin who was his chosen vessel?

 

 Namarti's face seemed to shine with malignant glee as he said, in an odd singsong, as though it were a matter of rote, "Year after year. I worked on those lines, even through hopelessness and uselessness, building an organization, chipping away at confidence in the government, creating and intensifying dissatisfaction. When there was the banking crisis and the week of the moratorium, I-"

 

 He paused suddenly. "I've told you this many times and you're sick of hearing it, aren't you?"

 

 Andorin's lips twitched in a brief dry smile. Namarti was not such an idiot as not to know what a bore he was; he just couldn't help it. Andorin said, "You've told me this many times." He allowed the remainder of the question to hang in the air, unanswered. The answer, after all, was an obvious affirmative. There was no need to face him with it.

 

 A slight flush crossed Namarti's sallow face. He said, "But it could have gone on forever-the building, the chipping, without ever coming to a point-if I hadn't had the proper tool in my hands. And without any effort on my part, the tool came to me."

 

 "The gods brought you Planchet," said Andorin neutrally.

 

 "You're right. There will be a group of gardeners entering the Imperial Palace grounds soon." He paused and seemed to savor the thought.

 

 "Men and women. Enough to serve as a mask for the handful of our operatives who will accompany them. Among them will be you-and Planchet. And what will make you and Planchet unusual is that you will be carrying blasters."

 

 "Surely," said Andorin with deliberate malice behind a polite expression, "we'll be stopped at the gates and held for questioning. Bringing an illicit blaster onto the Palace grounds-"

 

 "You won't be stopped," said Namarti, missing the malice. "You won't be searched. That's been arranged. You will all be greeted as a matter of course by some Palace official. I don't know who would ordinarily be in charge of that task-the Third Assistant Chamberlain in Charge of Grass and Leaves, for all I know-but in this case, it will be Seldon himself. The great mathematician will hurry out to greet the new gardeners and welcome them to the grounds."

 

 "You're sure of that, I suppose."

 

 "Of course, I am. It's all been arranged. He will learn, at more or less the last minute, that his foster son is among those listed as new gardeners and it will be impossible for him to refrain from coming out to see him. And when Seldon appears, Planchet will raise his blaster. Our people will raise the cry of `Treason!' In the confusion and hurly-burly, Planchet will kill Seldon and then you will kill Planchet. You will then drop your blaster and leave. There are those who will help you leave. It's been arranged."

 

 "Is it absolutely necessary to kill Planchet?"

 

 Namarti frowned. "Why? Do you object to one killing and not to another? When Planchet recovers, do you wish him to tell the authorities all he knows about us? Besides, this is a family feud we are arranging. Don't forget that Planchet is, in actual fact, Raych Seldon. It will look as though the two had fired simultaneously-or as though Seldon had given orders that if his son made any hostile move, he was to be shot down. We will see to it that the family angle will be given full publicity. It will be reminiscent of the bad old days of the Bloody Emperor Manowell. The people of Trantor will surely be repelled by the sheer wickedness of the deed. That, piled on top of all the inefficiencies and breakdowns they've been witnessing and living through, will raise the cry for a new government-and no one will be able to refuse them, least of all the Emperor. And then we'll step in."

 

 "Just like that?"

 

 "No, not just like that. I don't live in a dream world. There is likely to be some interim government, but it will fail. We'll see to it that it fails and we'll come out in the open and revive the old Joranumite arguments that the Trantorians have never forgotten. And in time-in not too much time-I will be First Minister."

 

 "And I?"

 

 "Will eventually be the Emperor."

 

 Andorin said, "The chance of all this working is small. -This is arranged. That is arranged. The other thing is arranged. All of it has to come together and mesh perfectly or it will fail. Somewhere, someone is bound to mess up. It's an unacceptable risk."

 

 "Unacceptable? For whom? For you?"

 

 "Certainly. You expect me to make certain that Planchet will kill his father and you expect me to then kill Planchet. Why me? Aren't there tools worth less than I who might more easily be risked?"

 

 "Yes, but to choose anyone else would make failure certain. Who but you has so much riding on this mission that there is no chance you will turn back in a fit of vapors at the last minute?"

 

 "The risk is enormous."

 

 "Isn't it worth it to you? You're playing for the Imperial throne."

 

 "And what risk are you taking, Chief? You will remain here, quite comfortable, and wait to hear the news."

 

 Namarti's lip curled. "What a fool you are, Andorin! What an Emperor you will make! Do you suppose I take no risk because I will be here? If the gambit fails, if the plot miscarries, if some of our people are taken, do you think they won't tell everything they know? If you were somehow caught, would you face the tender treatment of the Imperial Guard without ever telling them about me?

 

 "And with a failed assassination attempt at hand, do you suppose they won't comb Trantor to find me? Do you suppose that in the end they will fail to find me? And when they do find me, what do you suppose I will have to face at their hands? -Risk? I run a worse risk than any of you, just sitting here doing nothing. It boils down to this, Andorin. Do you or do you not wish to be Emperor?"

 

 Andorin said in a low voice, "I wish to be Emperor." And so things were set in motion.

 

 22

 

 Raych had no trouble seeing that he was being treated with special care. The whole group of would-be gardeners was now quartered in one of the hotels in the Imperial Sector, although not one of the prime hotels, of course.

 

 The gardeners were an odd lot, from fifty different worlds, but Raych had little chance to speak to any of them. Andorin, without being too obvious about it, had managed to keep him apart from the others.

 

 Raych wondered why. It depressed him. In fact, he had been feeling somewhat depressed since he had left Wye. It interfered with his thinking process and he fought it-but not with entire success.

 

 Andorin was himself wearing rough clothes and was attempting to look like a workman. He would be playing the part of a gardener as a way of running the "show"-whatever the "show" might be.

 

 Raych felt ashamed that he had not been able to penetrate the nature of that "show." They had closed in on him and prevented all communication, so he hadn't even had the chance to warn his father. They might be doing this for every Trantorian who had been pushed into the group, for all he knew, just as an extreme precaution. Raych estimated that there might be a dozen Trantorians among them, all of them Namarti's people, of course, men and women both.

 

 What puzzled him was that Andorin treated him with what was almost affection. He monopolized him, insisted on having all his meals with him, treated him quite differently from the way in which he treated anyone else.

 

 Could it be because they had shared Manella? Raych did not know enough about the mores of the Wye Sector to be able to tell whether there might not be a polyandrous touch to their society. If two men shared a woman, did that make them, in a way, fraternal? Did it create a bond?

 

 Raych had never heard of such a thing, but he knew better than to suppose he had a grasp of even a tiny fraction of the infinite subtleties of galactic societies-even of Trantorian societies.

 

 But now that his mind had brought him back to Manella, he dwelled on her for a while. He missed her terribly and it occurred to him that missing her might be the cause of his depression, though, to tell the truth, what he was feeling now, as he was finishing lunch with Andorin, was almost despair-though he could think of no cause for it.

 

 Manella!

 

 She had said she wanted to visit the Imperial Sector and presumably she could wheedle Andorin to her liking. He was desperate enough to ask a foolish question. "Mr. Andorin, I keep wondering if maybe you brought Miss Dubanqua along with you. Here, to the Imperial Sector."

 

 Andorin looked utterly astonished. Then he laughed gently. "Manella? Do you see her doing any gardening? Or even pretending she could? No no, Manella is one of those women invented for our quiet moments. She has no function at all, otherwise." Then "Why do you ask, Planchet?"

 

 Raych shrugged. "I don't know. It's sort of dull around here. I sort of thought-" His voice trailed away.

 

 Andorin watched him carefully. Finally he said, "Surely you're not of the opinion that it matters much which woman you are involved with? I assure you it doesn't matter to her which man she's involved with. Once this is over, there will be other women. Plenty of them."

 

 "When will this be over?"

 

 "Soon. And you're going to be part of it in a very important way." Andorin watched Raych narrowly.

 

 Raych said, "How important? Aren't I gonna be just-a gardener?" His voice sounded hollow and he found himself unable to put a spark in it.

 

 "You'll be more than that, Planchet. You'll be going in with a blaster."

 

 "With a what?"

 

 "A blaster."

 

 "I never held a blaster. Not in my whole life."

 

 "There's nothing to it. You lift it. You point it. You close the contact and someone dies."

 

 "I can't kill anyone."

 

 "I thought you were one of us, that you would do anything for the cause."

 

 "I didn't mean-kill." Raych couldn't seem to collect his thoughts. Why must he kill? What did they really have in mind for him? And how would he be able to alert the Imperial Guard before the killing would be carried out?

 

 Andorin's face hardened suddenly, an instant conversion from friendly interest to stern decision. He said, "You must kill."

 

 Raych gathered all his strength. "No. I ain't gonna kill nobody. That's final."

 

 Andorin said, "Planchet, you will do as you are told."

 

 "Not murder."

 

 "Even murder."

 

 "How you gonna make me?"

 

 "I shall simply tell you to."

 

 Raych felt dizzy. What made Andorin so confident?

 

 He shook his head. "No."

 

 Andorin said, "We've been feeding you, Planchet, ever since you left Wye. I made sure you ate with me. I supervised your diet. Especially the meal you just ate."

 

 Raych felt the horror rise within him. He suddenly understood. "Desperance!"

 

 "Exactly," said Andorin. "You're a sharp devil, Planchet."

 

 "It's illegal."

 

 "Yes, of course. So's murder."

 

 Raych knew about desperance. It was a chemical modification of a perfectly harmless tranquilizer. The modified form, however, did not produce tranquillity but despair. It had been outlawed because of its use in mind control, though there were persistent rumors that the Imperial Guard used it.

 

 Andorin said, as though it were not hard to read Raych's mind, "It's called desperance because that's an old word meaning `hopelessness.' I think you're feeling hopeless."

 

 "Never," whispered Raych.

 

 "Very resolute of you, but you can't fight the chemical. And the more hopeless you feel, the more effective the drug."

 

 "No chance."

 

 "Think about it, Planchet. Namarti recognized you at once, even without your mustache. He knows you are Raych Seldon and, at my direction, you are going to kill your father."

 

 Raych muttered, "Not before I kill you."

 

 He rose from his chair. There should be no problem at all in this. Andorin might be taller, but he was slender and clearly no athlete. Raych would break him in two with one arm-but he swayed as he rose. He shook his head, but it wouldn't clear.

 

 Andorin rose, too, and backed away. He drew his right hand from where it had been resting within his left sleeve. He was holding a weapon.

 

 He said pleasantly, "I came prepared. I have been informed of your prowess as a Heliconian Twister and there will be no hand-to-hand combat."

 

 He looked down at his weapon. "This is not a blaster," he said. "I can't afford to have you killed before you accomplish your task. It's a neuronic whip. Much worse, in a way. I will aim at your left shoulder and, believe me, the pain will be so excruciating that the world's greatest stoic would not be able to endure it."

 

 Raych, who had been advancing slowly and grimly, stopped abruptly. He had been twelve years old when he had had a taste-a small one-of a neuronic whip. Once struck, no one ever forgets the pain, however long he lives, however full of incidents his life is.

 

 Andorin said, "Moreover, I will use full strength so that the nerves in your upper arms will be stimulated first into unbearable pain and then damaged into uselessness. You will never use your left arm again. I will spare the right so you can handle the blaster. -Now if you sit down and accept matters, as you must, you may keep both arms. Of course, you must eat again so your desperance level increases. Your situation will only worsen."

 

 Raych felt the drug-induced despair settle over him and that despair served, in itself, to deepen the effect. His vision was turning double and he could think of nothing to say.

 

 Raych only knew that he would have to do what Andorin would tell him to do. He had played the game and he had lost.

 

 23

 

 "No!" Hari Seldon was almost violent. "I don't want you out there, Dors."

 

 Dors Venabili stared back at him with an expression as firm as his own. "Then I won't let you go, either, Hari."

 

 "I must be there."

 

 "It is not your place. It is the Gardener First-Class who must greet these new people."

 

 "So it is. But Gruber can't do it. He's a broken man."

 

 "He must have an assistant of some sort. Or let the old Chief Gardener do it. He holds the office till the end of the year."

 

 "The old Chief Gardener is too ill. Besides"-Seldon hesitated-”there are ringers among the gardeners. Trantorians. They're here, for some reason. I have the names of every one of them."

 

 "Have them taken into custody, then. Every last one of them. It's simple. Why are you making it so complex?"

 

 "Because we don't know why they're here. Something's up. I don't see what twelve gardeners can do, but- No, let me rephrase that. I can see a dozen things they can do, but I don't know which one of those things they've planned. We will, indeed, take them into custody, but I must know more about everything before it's done.

 

 "We have to know enough to winkle out everyone in the conspiracy from top to bottom and we must know enough of what they're doing to be able to make the proper punishment stick. I don't want to get twelve men and women on what is essentially a misdemeanor charge. They'll plead desperation, the need for a job. They'll complain that it isn't fair for Trantorians to be excluded. They'll get plenty of sympathy and we'll be left looking like fools. We must give them a chance to convict themselves of more than that. Besides-"

 

 There was a long pause and Dors said wrathfully, "Well, what's the new `besides'?"

 

 Seldon's voice lowered. "One of the twelve is Raych, using the alias Planchet."

 

 "What?"

 

 "Why are you surprised? I sent him to Wye to infiltrate the Joranumite movement and he's succeeded in infiltrating something. I have every faith in him. If he's there, he knows why he's there and he must have some sort of plan to put a spoke in the wheel. But I want to be there, too. I want to see him. I want to be in a position to help him if I can."

 

 "If you want to help him, have fifty guards of the Palace standing shoulder to shoulder on either side of your gardeners."

 

 "No. Again, we'll end up with nothing. The Imperial Guard will be in place but not in evidence. The gardeners in question must think they have a clear hand to do whatever it is they plan to do. Before they can do so, but after they have made it quite plain what they intend-we'll have them."

 

 "That's risky. It's risky for Raych."

 

 "Risks are something we have to take. There's more riding on this than individual lives."

 

 "That is a heartless thing to say."

 

 "You think I have no heart? Even if it broke, my concern would have to be with psycho-"

 

 "Don't say it." She turned away, as if in pain.

 

 "I understand," said Seldon, "but you mustn't be there. Your presence would be so inappropriate that the conspirators will suspect we know too much and will abort their plan. I don't want their plan aborted."

 

 He paused, then said softly, "Dors, you say your job is to protect me. That comes before protecting Raych and you know that. I wouldn't insist on it, but to protect me is to protect psychohistory and the entire human species. That must come first. What I have of psychohistory tells me that 1, in turn, must protect the center at all costs and that is what I am trying to do. -Do you understand?"

 

 Dors said, "I understand," then turned away from him.

 

 Seldon thought: And I hope I'm right.

 

 If he weren't, she would never forgive him. Far worse, he would never forgive himself-psychohistory or not.

 

 24

 

 They were lined up beautifully, feet spread apart, hands behind their hacks, every one in a natty green uniform, loosely fitted and with wide pockets. There was very little gender differential and one could only guess that some of the shorter ones were women. The hoods covered whatever hair they had, but then, gardeners were supposed to clip their hair quite short-either sex-and there could be no facial hair.

 

 Why that should be, one couldn't say. The word "tradition" covered it all, as it covered so many things, some useful, some foolish.

 

 Facing them was Mandell Gruber, flanked on either side by an assistant. Gruber was trembling, his wide-opened eyes glazed.

 

 Hari Seldon's lips tightened. If Gruber could but manage to say, "The Emperor's gardeners greet you all," that would be enough. Seldon himself would then take over.

 

 His eyes swept over the new contingent and he located Raych.

 

 His heart jumped a bit. It was the mustacheless Raych in the front row, standing more rigid than the rest, staring straight ahead. His eyes did not move to meet Seldon's; he showed no sign of recognition, however subtle.

 

 Good, thought Seldon. He's not supposed to. He's giving nothing away.

 

 Gruber muttered a weak welcome and Seldon jumped in.

 

 He advanced with an easy stride, putting himself immediately before Gruber, and said, "Thank you, Gardener First-Class. Men and women, gardeners of the Emperor, you are to undertake an important task. You will be responsible for the beauty and health of the only open land on our great world of Trantor, capital of the Galactic Empire. You will see to it that if we don't have the endless vistas of open undomed worlds, we will have a small jewel here that will outshine anything else in the Empire.

 

 "You will all be under Mandell Gruber, who will shortly become Chief Gardener. He will report to me, when necessary, and I will report to the Emperor. This means, as you can all see, that you will be only three levels removed from the Imperial presence and you will always be under his benign watch. I am certain that even now he is surveying us from the Small Palace, his personal home, which is the building you see to the right-the one with the opal-layered dome-and that he is pleased with what he sees.

 

 "Before you start work, of course, you will all undertake a course of training that will make you entirely familiar with the grounds and its needs. You will-”"

 

 He had, by this time, moved, almost stealthily, to a point directly in front of Raych, who still remained motionless, unblinking.

 

 Seldon tried not to look unnaturally benign and then a slight frown crossed his face. The person directly behind Raych looked familiar. He might have gone unrecognized if Seldon had not studied his hologram. Wasn't that Gleb Andorin of Wye? Raych's patron in Wye, in fact? What was he doing here?

 

 Andorin must have noticed Seldon's sudden regard, for he muttered something between scarcely opened lips and Raych's right arm, moving forward from behind his back, plucked a blaster out of the wide pocket of his green doublet. So did Andorin.

 

 Seldon felt himself going into near-shock. How could blasters have been allowed onto the grounds? Confused, he barely heard the cries of "'Treason!" and the sudden noise of running and shouting.

 

 All that really occupied Seldon's mind was Raych's blaster pointing directly at him and Raych looking at him without any sign of recognition. Seldon’s mind filled with horror as he realized that his son was going to shoot and that he himself was only seconds from death.

 

 25

 

 A blaster, despite its name, does not "blast" in the proper sense of the term. It vaporizes and blows out an interior and-if anything-causes an implosion. There is a soft sighing sound, leaving what appears to be a "blasted" object.

 

 Hari Seldon did not expect to hear that sound. He expected only death. It was, therefore, with surprise that he heard the distinctive soft sighing sound and he blinked rapidly as he looked down at himself, slackjawed.

 

 He was alive? (He thought it as a question, not a statement.)

 

 Raych was still standing there, his blaster pointing forward, his eyes glazed. He was absolutely motionless, as though some motive power had ceased.

 

 Behind him was the crumpled body of Andorin, fallen in a pool of blood, and standing next to him, blaster in hand, was a gardener. The hood had slipped away; the gardener was clearly a woman with freshly clipped hair.

 

 She allowed herself a glance at Seldon and said, "Your son knows me as Manella Dubanqua. I'm a security officer. Do you want my reference number, First Minister?"

 

 "No," said Seldon faintly. Imperial Guard had converged on the scene. "My son! What's wrong with my son?"

 

 "Desperance, I think," said Manella. "That can be washed out eventually." She reached forward to take the blaster out of Raych's hand. "I'm sorry I didn't act sooner. I had to wait for an overt move and, when it came, it almost caught me napping."

 

 "I had the same trouble. We must take Raych to the Palace hospital."

 

 A confused noise suddenly emanated from the Small Palace. It occurred to Seldon that the Emperor was, indeed, watching the proceedings and, if so, he must be grandly furious, indeed.

 

 "Take care of my son, Miss Dubanqua," said Seldon. "I must see the Emperor."

 

 He set off at an undignified run through the chaos on the Great Lawns and dashed into the Small Palace without ceremony. Cleon could scarcely grow any angrier over that.

 

 And there, with an appalled group watching in stupor-there, on the semicircular stairway-was the body of His Imperial Majesty, Cleon I, smashed all but beyond recognition. His rich Imperial robes now served as a shroud. Cowering against the wall, staring stupidly at the horrified faces surrounding him, was Mandell Gruber.

 

 Seldon felt he could take no more. He took in the blaster lying at Gruber's feet. It had been Andorin's, he was sure. He asked softly, "Gruber, what have you done?"

 

 Gruber, staring at him, babbled, "Everyone screaming and yelling. I thought, Who would know? They would think someone else had killed the Emperor. But then I couldn't run."

 

 "But, Gruber. Why?"

 

 "So I wouldn't have to be Chief Gardener." And he collapsed.

 

 Seldon stared in shock at the unconscious Gruber.

 

 Everything had worked out by the narrowest of margins. He himself was alive. Raych was alive. Andorin was dead and the Joranumite Conspiracy would now be hunted down to the last person.

 

 The center would have held, just as psychohistory had dictated.

 

 And then one man, for a reason so trivial as to defy analysis, had killed the Emperor.

 

 And now, thought Seldon in despair, what do we do? What happens next?

 

 

  

 

  

 

  

 

 PART III

 

  

 

 DORS VENABILI

 

  

 

  

 

  

 

 

  

 

  

 

 VENABILI, DORS- The life of Hari Seldon is well encrusted with legend and uncertainty, so that little hope remains of ever obtaining a biography that can be thoroughly factual. Perhaps the most puzzling aspect of his life deals with his consort, Dors Venabili. There is no information whatever concerning Dors Venabili, except for her birth on the world of Cinna, prior to her arrival at Streeling University to become a member of the history faculty. Shortly after that, she met Seldon and remained his consort for twenty-eight years. If anything, her life is more interlarded with legend than Seldon's is. There are quite unbelievable tales of her strength and speed and she was widely spoken of, or perhaps whispered of, as "The Tiger Woman." Still more puzzling than her coming, however, is her going, for after a certain time, we hear of her no more and there is no indication as to what happened.

 

 Her role as a historian is evidenced by her works on-

 

 ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

 

  

 

 1

 

 Wanda was almost eight years old now, going by Galactic Standard Time -as everyone did. She was quite the little lady-grave in manner, with straight light-brown hair. Her eyes were blue but were darkening and she might well end with the brown eyes of her father.

 

 She sat there, lost in thought. -Sixty.

 

 That was the number that preoccupied her. Grandfather was going to have a birthday and it was going to be his sixtieth-and sixty was a large number. It bothered her because yesterday she had had a bad dream about it.

 

 She went in search of her mother. She would have to ask.

 

 Her mother was not hard to find. She was talking to Grandfather-about the birthday surely. Wanda hesitated. It wouldn't be nice to ask in front of Grandfather.

 

 Her mother had no trouble whatever sensing Wanda's consternation. She said, "One minute, Hari, and let's see what's bothering Wanda. What is it, dear?"

 

 Wanda pulled at her hand. "Not here, Mother. Private."

 

 Manella turned to Hari Seldon. "See how early it starts? Private lives. Private problems. Of course, Wanda, shall we go to your room?"

 

 "Yes, Mother." Wanda was clearly relieved.

 

 Hand in hand, they went and then her mother said, "Now what is the problem, Wanda?"

 

 "It's Grandfather, Mother."

 

 "Grandfather! I can't imagine him doing anything to bother you."

 

 "Well, he is." Wanda's eyes filled with sudden tears. "Is he going to die?"

 

 "Your grandfather? What put that into your head, Wanda?"

 

 "He's going to be sixty. That's so old."

 

 "No, it isn't. It's not young, but it's not old, either. People live to be eighty, ninety, even a hundred-and your grandfather is strong and healthy. He'll live a long time."

 

 "Are you sure?" She was sniffing.

 

 Manella grasped her daughter by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. "We must all die someday, Wanda. I've explained that to you before. Just the same, we don't worry about it till the someday is much closer." She wiped Wanda's eyes gently. "Grandfather is going to stay alive till you're all grown up and have babies of your own. You'll see. Now come back with me. I want you to talk to Grandfather."

 

 Wanda sniffed again.

 

 Seldon looked at the little girl with a sympathetic expression on her return and said, "What is it, Wanda? Why are you unhappy?"

 

 Wanda shook her head.

 

 Seldon turned his gaze to the girl's mother. "Well, what is it, Manella?"

 

 Manella shook her head. "She'll have to tell you herself."

 

 Seldon sat down and tapped his lap. "Come, Wanda. Have a seat and tell me your troubles."

 

 She obeyed and wriggled a bit, then said, "I'm scared."

 

 Seldon put his arm around her. "Nothing to be scared of in your old grandfather."

 

 Manella made a face. "Wrong word."

 

 Seldon looked up at her. "Grandfather?"

 

 "No. Old."

 

 That seemed to break the dike. Wanda burst into tears. "You're old, Grandfather."

 

 "I suppose so. I'm sixty." He bent his face down to Wanda's and whispered, "I don't like it, either, Wanda. That's why I'm glad you're only seven going on eight."

 

 "Your hair is white, Grandpa."

 

 "It wasn't always. It just turned white recently."

 

 "White hair means you're going to die, Grandpa."

 

 Seldon looked shocked. He said to Manella, "What is all this?"

 

 "I don't know, Hari. It's her own idea."

 

 "I had a bad dream," said Wanda.

 

 Seldon cleared his throat. "We all have bad dreams now and then, Wanda. It's good we do. Bad dreams get rid of bad thoughts and then we're better off."

 

 "It was about you dying, Grandfather."

 

 "I know. I know. Dreams can be about dying, but that doesn't make them important. Look at me. Don't you see how alive I am-and cheerful-and laughing? Do I look as though I'm dying? Tell me."

 

 "N-no."

 

 "There you are, then. Now you go out and play and forget all about this. I'm just having a birthday and everyone will have a good time. Go ahead, dear."

 

 Wanda left in reasonable cheer, but Seldon motioned to Manella to stay.

 

 2

 

 Seldon said, "Wherever do you think Wanda got such a notion?"

 

 "Come now, Hari. She had a Salvanian gecko that died, remember? One of her friends had a father who died in an accident and she sees deaths on holovision all the time. It is impossible for any child to be so protected as not to be aware of death. Actually I wouldn't want her to be so protected. Death is an essential part of life; she must learn that."

 

 "I don't mean death in general, Manella. I mean my death in particular. What has put that into her head?"

 

 Manella hesitated. She was very fond, indeed, of Hari Seldon. She thought, Who would not be, so how can I say this?

 

 But how could she not say this? So she said, "Hari, you yourself put it into her head."

 

 "I?"

 

 "Of course, you've been speaking for months of turning sixty and complaining loudly of growing old. The only reason people are setting up this party is to console you."

 

 "It's no fun turning sixty," said Seldon indignantly. "Wait! Wait! You'll find out."

 

 "I will-if I'm lucky. Some people don't make it to sixty. Just the same, if turning sixty and being old are all you talk about, you end up frightening an impressionable little girl."

 

 Seldon sighed and looked troubled. "I'm sorry, but it's hard. Look at my hands. They're getting spotted and soon they'll be gnarled. I can do hardly anything in the way of Twisting any longer. A child could probably force me to my knees."

 

 "In what way does that make you different from other sixty-year-olds? At least your brain is working as well as ever. How often have you said that that's all that counts?"

 

 "I know. But I miss my body."

 

 Manella said with just a touch of malice, "Especially when Dors doesn't seem to get any older."

 

 Seldon said uneasily, "Well yes, I suppose-" He looked away, clearly unwilling to talk about the matter.

 

 Manella looked at her father-in-law gravely. The trouble was, he knew nothing about children-or about people generally. It was hard to think that he had spent ten years as First Minister under the old Emperor and yet ended up knowing as little about people as he did.

 

 Of course, he was entirely wrapped up in this psychohistory of his, that dealt with quadrillions of people, which ultimately meant dealing with no people at all-as individuals. And how could he know about children when he had had no contact with any child except Raych, who had entered his life as a twelve-year-old? Now he had Wanda, who was-and would probably remain to him-an utter mystery.

 

 Manella thought all this lovingly. She had the incredible desire to protect Hari Seldon from a world he did not understand. It was the only point at which she and her mother-in-law, Dors Venabili, met and coalesced-this desire to protect Hari Seldon.

 

 Manella had saved Seldon's life ten years before. Dors, in her strange way, had considered this an invasion of her prerogative and had never quite forgiven Manella.

 

 Seldon, in his turn, had then saved Manella's life. She closed her eyes briefly and the whole scene returned to her, almost as though it were happening to her right now.

 

 3

 

 It was a week after the assassination of Cleon-and a horrible week it shad been. All of Trantor was in chaos.

 

 Hari Seldon still kept his office as First Minister, but it was clear he had no power. He called in Manella Dubanqua.

 

 "I want to thank you for saving Raych's life and my own. I haven't

 

 I a chance to do so yet." Then with a sigh, "I have scarcely had a chance to do anything this past week."

 

 Manella asked, "What happened to the mad gardener?"

 

 "Executed! At once! No trial! I tried to save him by pointing out that was insane. But there was no question about it. If he had done anything else, committed any other crime, his madness would have been recognized and he would have been spared. Committed-locked up and treated-but spared, nonetheless. But to kill the Emperor-" Seldon shook his head sadly.

 

 Manella said, "What's going to happen now, First Minister?"

 

 "I'll tell you what I think. The Entun Dynasty is finished. Cleon's son will not succeed. I don't think he wants to. He fears assassination in his turn and I don't blame him one bit. It would be much better for him to retire to one of the family estates on some Outer World and live a quiet Because he is a member of the Imperial House, he will untie allowed to do this. You and I may be less fortunate."

 

 Manella frowned. "In what way, sir?"

 

 Seldon cleared his throat. "It is possible to argue that because you killed Gleb Andorin, he dropped his blaster, which became available to Mandell Gruber, who used it to kill Cleon. Therefore you bear a strong share of the responsibility of the crime and it may even be said that it was all prearranged.”

 

 “But that’s ridiculous. I am a member of the security establishment, fulfilling my duties-doing what I was ordered to do."

 

 Seldon smiled sadly. "You're arguing rationally and rationality is not going to be in fashion for a while. What's going to happen now, in the absence of a legitimate successor to the Imperial throne, is that we are bound to have a military government."

 

 (In later years, when Manella came to understand the workings of psychohistory, she wondered if Seldon had used the technique to work out what was going to happen, for the military rule certainly came to pass. At the time, however, he made no mention of his fledgling theory.)

 

 "If we do have a military government," he went on, "then it will be necessary for them to establish a firm rule at once, crush any signs of disaffection, act vigorously and cruelly, even in defiance of rationality and justice. If they accuse you, Miss Dubanqua, of being part of a plot to kill the Emperor, you will be slaughtered, not as an act of justice but as a way of cowing the people of Trantor.

 

 "For that matter, they might say that I was part of the plot, too. After all, I went out to greet the new gardeners when it was not my place to do so. Had I not done so, there would have been no attempt to kill me, you would not have struck back, and the Emperor would have lived. -Do you see how it all fits?"

 

 "I can't believe they will do this."

 

 "Perhaps they won't. I'll make them an offer that, just perhaps, they may not wish to refuse."

 

 "What would that be?"

 

 "I will offer to resign as First Minister. They don't want me, they won't have me. But the fact is that I do have supporters at the Imperial Court and, even more important, people in the Outer Worlds who find me acceptable. That means that if the members of the Imperial Guard force me out, then even if they don't execute me, they will have some trouble. If, on the other hand, I resign, stating that I believe the military government is what Trantor and the Empire needs, then I actually help them, you see?"

 

 He mused a little and said, "Besides, there is the little matter of psychohistory."

 

 (That was the first time Manella had ever heard the word.)

 

 "What's that?"

 

 "Something I'm working on. Cleon believed in its powers very strongly-more strongly than I did at the time-and there's a considerable feeling in the court that psychohistory is, or might be, a powerful tool that could be made to work on the side of the government-whatever the government might be.

 

 "Nor does it matter if they know nothing about the details of the science. I'd rather they didn't. Lack of knowledge can increase what we might call the superstitious aspect of the situation. In which case, they will let me continue working on my research as a private citizen. At least, I hope so. -And that brings me to you." "What about me?"

 

 "I'm going to ask as part of the deal that you be allowed to resign h the security establishment and that no action be taken against you ~ the events in connection with the assassination. I ought to be able to

 

 'But you're talking about ending my career."

 

 "Your career is, in any case, over. Even if the Imperial Guard doesn't up an order of execution against you, can you imagine that you will Be allowed to continue working as a security officer?"

 

 "But what do I do? How do I make a living?"

 

 "I'll take care of that, Miss Dubanqua. In all likelihood, I'll go back to Streeling University, with a large grant for my psychohistorical research, I'm sure that I can find a place for you."

 

 Manella, round-eyed, said, "Why should you-"

 

 Seldon said, "I can't believe you're asking. You saved Raych's life and own. Is it conceivable that I don't owe you anything?"

 

 And it was as he said. Seldon resigned gracefully from the post he had held for ten years. He was given a fulsome letter of appreciation for His services by the just-formed military government, a junta led by certain members of the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. He returned to Streeling University and Manella Dubanqua, relieved of her own post as security officer, went with Seldon and his family.

 

 4

 

 Raych came in, blowing on his hands. "I'm all for deliberate variety in the weather. You don't want things under a dome to always be the same. Today though, they made it just a little too cold and worked up a wind, besides. I think it's about time someone complained to weather control."

 

 “I don't know that it's weather control's fault," said Seldon. "It's getting harder to control things in general."

 

 "I know. Deterioration." Raych brushed his thick black mustache with the back of his hand. He did that often, as though he had never quite managed to get over the few months during which he had been mustacheless in Wye. He had also put on a little weight around the middle and, overall, had come to seem very comfortable and middleclass. Even his Dahl accent had faded somewhat.

 

 He took off his light coverall and said, "And how's the old birthday boy?"

 

 "Resenting it. Wait, wait, my son. One of these days, you'll be celebrating your fortieth birthday. We'll see how funny you'll think that is."