"Not as funny as sixty."

 

 "Stop joking," said Manella, who had been chafing Raych's hands, trying to warm them.

 

 Seldon spread his own hands. "We're doing the wrong thing, Raych. Your wife is of the opinion that all this talk about my turning sixty has sent little Wanda into a decline over the possibility of my dying."

 

 "Really?" said Raych. "That accounts for it, then. I stopped in to see her and she told me at once, before I even had a chance to say a word, that she had had a bad dream. Was it about your dying?"

 

 "Apparently," said Seldon.

 

 "Well, she'll get over that. No way of stopping bad dreams."

 

 "I'm not dismissing it that easily," said Manella. "She's brooding over it and that's not healthy. I'm going to get to the bottom of this."

 

 "As you say, Manella," said Raych agreeably. "You're my dear wife and whatever you say-about Wanda-goes." And he brushed his mustache again.

 

 His dear wife! It hadn't been so easy to make her his dear wife. Raych remembered his mother's attitude toward the possibility. Talk about nightmares. It was he who had the periodic nightmares in which he had to face down the furious Dors Venabili once more.

 

 5

 

 Raych's first clear memory, after emerging from his desperance-induced ordeal, was that of being shaved.

 

 He felt the vibrorazor moving along his cheek and he said weakly, "Don't cut anywhere near my upper lip, barber. I want my mustache back."

 

 The barber, who had already received his instructions from Seldon held up a mirror to reassure him.

 

 Dors Venabili, who was sitting at his bedside, said, "Let him work, Raych. Don't excite yourself."

 

 Raych's eyes turned toward her momentarily and he was quiet. When the barber left, Dors said, "How do you feel, Raych?"

 

 "Rotten," he muttered. "I'm so depressed, I can't stand it."

 

 "That's the lingering effect of the desperance you've been dosed with. The effects will wash out."

 

 "I can't believe it. How long has it been?"

 

 "Never mind. It will take time. You were pumped full of it."

 

 He looked around restlessly. "Has Manella been to see me?"

 

 "That woman?" (Raych was getting used to hearing Dors speak of Manella with those words and in that tone of voice.) "No. You're not fit for visitors yet."

 

 Interpreting the look on Raych's face, Dors quickly added, "I'm an exception because I'm your mother, Raych. Why would you want that woman to see you, anyway? You're in no condition to be seen."

 

 "All the more reason to see her," muttered Raych. "I want her to see me at my worst." He then turned to one side dispiritedly. "I want to sleep."

 

 Dors Venabili shook her head. Later that day she said to Seldon "I don't know what we're going to do about Raych. Hari. He's quite unreasonable."

 

 Seldon said, "He's not well, Dors. Give the young man a chance."

 

 "He keeps muttering about that woman. Whatever her name is."

 

 "Manella Dubanqua. It's not a hard name to remember."

 

 "I think he wants to set up housekeeping with her. Live with her. Marry her."

 

 Seldon shrugged. "Raych is thirty-old enough to make up his own mind."

 

 "As his parents, we have something to say-surely."

 

 Hari sighed. "And I'm sure you've said it, Dors. And once you've said it, I'm sure he'll do as he wishes."

 

 "Is that your final word? Do you intend to do nothing while he makes plans to marry a woman like that?"

 

 "What do you expect me to do, Dors? Manella saved Raych's life. Do you expect him to forget that? She saved mine, too, for that matter."

 

 That seemed to feed Dors's anger. She said, "And you also saved her. The score is even."

 

 "I didn't exactly-"

 

 "Of course you did. The military rascals who now run the Empire would have slaughtered her if you didn't step in and sell them your resignation and your support in order to save her."

 

 "Though I may have evened the score, which I don't think I have, Raych has not. And, Dors dear, I would be very careful when it came to using unfortunate terms to describe our government. These times are not going to be as easy as the times when Cleon ruled and there will always be informers to repeat what they hear you say."

 

 "Never mind that. I don't like that woman. I presume that, at least, is permissible."

 

 "Permissible, certainly, but of no use."

 

 Hari looked down at the floor, deep in thought. Dors's usually unfathomable black eyes were positively flashing in anger. Hari looked up.

 

 "What I'd like to know, Dors, is why? Why do you dislike Manella so? She saved our lives. If it had not been for her quick action, both Raych and I would be dead."

 

 Dors snapped back, "Yes, Hari. I know that better than anyone. And if she had not been there, I would not have been able to do a thing to prevent your murder. I suppose you think I should be grateful. But every time I look at that woman, I am reminded of my failure. I know these feelings are not truly rational-and that is something I can't explain. So do not ask me to like her, Hari. I cannot."

 

 But the next day even Dors had to back down when the doctor said, "Your son wishes to see a woman named Manella."

 

 "He's in no condition to see visitors," snapped Dors.

 

 "On the contrary. He is. He's doing quite well. Besides, he insists and is doing so most strenuously. I don't know that we'd be wise to refuse him."

 

 So they brought in Manella and Raych greeted her effusively and with the first faint sign of happiness since he had arrived at the hospital.

 

 He made an unmistakable small gesture of dismissal at Dors. Lips tightened, she left.

 

 And the day came when Raych said, "She'll have me, Mom."

 

 Dors said, "Do you expect me to be surprised, you foolish man? Of course she'll have you. You're her only chance, now that she's been disgraced, ousted from the security establishment . . ."

 

 Raych said, "Mom, if you're trying to lose me, this is exactly the way of doing it. Don't say things like that."

 

 "I'm only thinking of your welfare."

 

 "I'll think of my own good, thank you. I'm no one's ticket to respectability-if you'll stop to think of it. I'm not exactly handsome. I'm short. Dad isn't First Minister anymore and I talk solid lower-class. What's there for her to be proud of in me? She can do a lot better, but she wants me. And let me tell you, I want her."

 

 "But you know what she is."

 

 "Of course I know what she is. She's a woman who loves me. She's the woman I love. That's what she is."

 

 "And before you fell in love with her, what was she? You know some of what she had to do while undercover in Wye you were one of her `assignments.' How many others were there? Are you able to live with her past? With what she did in the name of duty? Now you can afford to be idealistic. But someday you will have your first quarrel with her-or your second or your nineteenth-and you'll break down and say, `You

 

 Raych shouted angrily, "Don't say that! When we fight, I'll call her unreasonable, irrational, nagging, whining, inconsiderate-a million adjectives that will fit the situation. And she'll have words for me. But they'll all be sensible words that can be withdrawn when the fight is over."

 

 "You think so-but just wait till it happens."

 

 Raych had turned white. He said, "Mother, you've been with Father now for almost twenty years. Father is a hard man to disagree with, but there have been times when you two have argued. I've heard you. In all those twenty years, has he ever called you by any name that would in any way compromise your role as human being? For that matter, have I done so? Can you conceive of me doing so now-no matter how angry I get?"

 

 Dors struggled. Her face did not show emotion in quite the same way that Raych's did or Seldon's would, but it was clear that she was momentarily incapable of speech.

 

 "In fact," said Raych, pushing his advantage (and feeling horrible at doing so) "the fact of the matter is that you are jealous because Manella saved Dad's life. You don't want anyone to do that but you. Well, you had no chance to do so. Would you prefer it if Manella had not shot Andorin-if Dad had died? And me, too?"

 

 Dors said in a choked voice, "He insisted on going out to meet the gardeners alone. He would not allow me to come."

 

 "But that wasn't Manella's fault."

 

 "Is that why you want to marry her? Gratitude?"

 

 "No. Love."

 

 And so it was, but Manella said to Raych after the ceremony, "Your mother may have attended the wedding because you insisted, Raych, but she looked like one of those thunderclouds they sometimes send sailing under the dome."

 

 Raych laughed. "She doesn't have the face to be a thundercloud. You're just imagining it."

 

 "Not at all. How will we ever get her to give us a chance?"

 

 "We'll just be patient. She'll get over it."

 

 But Dors Venabili didn't.

 

 Two years after the wedding, Wanda was born. Dors's attitude toward the child was all Raych and Manella could have wanted, but Wanda's mother remained "that woman" to Raych's mother.

 

 6

 

 Hari Seldon was fighting off melancholy. He was lectured in turn by Dors, by Raych, by Yugo, and by Manella. All united to tell him that sixty was not old.

 

 They simply did not understand. He had been thirty when the first hint of psychohistory had come to him, thirty-two when he delivered his famous lecture at the Decennial Convention, following which everything seemed to happen to him at once. After his brief interview with Cleon, He had fled across Trantor and met Demerzel, Dors, Yugo, and Raych, to say nothing of the people of Mycogen, of Dahl, and of Wye.

 

 He was forty when he became First Minister and fifty when he had relinquished the post. Now he was sixty.

 

 He had spent thirty years on psychohistory. How many more years would he require? How many more years would he live? Would he die with the Psychohistory Project unfinished after all?

 

 It was not the dying that bothered him, he told himself. It was the matter of leaving the Psychohistory Project unfinished.

 

 He went to see Yugo Amaryl. In recent years they had somehow drifted apart, as the Psychohistory Project had steadily increased in size. In the first years at Streeling, it had merely been Seldon and Amaryl working together-no one else. Now-

 

 Amaryl was nearly fifty-not exactly a young man-and he had somehow lost his spark. In all these years, he had developed no interest in anything but psychohistory: no woman, no companion, no hobby, no subsidiary activity.

 

 Amaryl blinked at Seldon who couldn't help but note the changes in the man's appearance. Part of it may have been because Yugo had had to have his eyes reconstructed. He saw perfectly well, but there was an unnatural look about them and he tended to blink slowly. It made him appear sleepy.

 

 "What do you think, Yugo?" said Seldon. "Is there any light at the end of the tunnel?"

 

 "Light? Yes, as a matter of fact," said Amaryl. "There's this new fellow, Tamwile Elar. You know him, of course."

 

 "Oh yes. I'm the one who hired him. Very vigorous and aggressive. How's he doing?"

 

 "I can't say I'm really comfortable with him, Hari. His loud laughter gets on my nerves. But he's brilliant. The new system of equations fits right into the Prime Radiant and they seem to make it possible to get around the problem of chaos."

 

 "Seem? Or will?"

 

 "Too early to say, but I'm very hopeful. I have tried a number of things that would have broken them down if they were worthless and the new equations survived them all. I'm beginning to think of them as `the achaotic equations.' "

 

 "I don't imagine," said Seldon "we have anything like a rigorous demonstration concerning these equations?"

 

 "No, we don't, though I've put half a dozen people on it, including Elar, of course." Amaryl turned on his Prime Radiant-which was every bit as advanced as Seldon's was-and he watched as the curving lines of luminous equations curled in midair-too small, too fine to be read without amplification. "Add the new equations and we may be able to begin to predict."

 

 "Each time I study the Prime Radiant now," said Seldon thoughtfully, "I wonder at the Electro-Clarifier and how tightly it squeezes material into the lines and curves of the future. Wasn't that Elar's idea, too?"

 

 "Yes. With the help of Cinda Monay, who designed it."

 

 "It's good to have new and brilliant men and women in the Project. Somehow it reconciles me to the future."

 

 "You think someone like Elar may be heading the Project someday?" asked Amaryl, still studying the Prime Radiant.

 

 "Maybe. After you and I have retired-or died."

 

 Amaryl seemed to relax and turned off the device. "I would like to complete the task before we retire or die."

 

 "So would I, Yugo. So would I."

 

 "Psychohistory has guided us pretty well in the last ten years."

 

 That was true enough, but Seldon knew that one couldn't attach too much triumph to that. Things had gone smoothly and without major surprises.

 

 Psychohistory had predicted that the center would hold after Cleon's death-predicted it in a very dim and uncertain way-and it did hold. Trantor was reasonably quiet. Even with an assassination and the end of a dynasty, the center had held.

 

 It did so under the stress of military rule-Dors was quite right in speaking of the junta as "those military rascals." She might have even gone farther in her accusations without being wrong. Nevertheless, they were holding the Empire together and would continue to do so for a time. Long enough, perhaps, to allow psychohistory to play an active role in the events that were to transpire.

 

 Lately Yugo had been speaking about the possible establishment of Foundations-separate, isolated, independent of the Empire itself serving as seeds for developments through the forthcoming dark ages and into a new and better Empire. Seldon himself had been working on the consequences of such an arrangement.

 

 But he lacked the time and, he felt (with a certain misery), he lacked the youth as well. His mind, however firm and steady, did not have the resiliency and creativity that it had had when he was thirty and with each passing year, he knew he would have less.

 

 Perhaps he ought to put the young and brilliant Elar on the task, taking him off everything else. Seldon had to admit to himself, shamefacedly, that the possibility did not excite him. He did not want to have invented psychohistory so that some stripling could come in and reap the final fruits of fame. In fact, to put it at its most disgraceful, Seldon felt jealous of Elar and realized it just sufficiently to feel ashamed of the emotion.

 

 Yet, regardless of his less rational feelings, he would have to depend on other younger men-whatever his discomfort over it. Psychohistory was no longer the private preserve of himself and Amaryl. The decade of his being First Minister had converted it into a large government-sanctioned and -budgeted undertaking and, quite to his surprise, after resigning from his post as First Minister and returning to Streeling University, it had grown still larger. Hari grimaced at its ponderous-and pompous-official name: the Seldon Psychohistory Project at Streeling University. But most people simply referred to it as the Project.

 

 The military junta apparently saw the Project as a possible political weapon and while that was so, funding was no problem. Credits poured in. In return, it was necessary to prepare annual reports, which, however, were quite opaque. Only fringe matters were reported on and even then the mathematics was not likely to be within the purview of any of the members of the junta.

 

 It was clear as he left his old assistant that Amaryl, at least, was more than satisfied with the way psychohistory was going and yet Seldon felt the blanket of depression settle over him once more.

 

 He decided it was the forthcoming birthday celebration that was bothering him. It was meant as a celebration of joy, but to Hari it was not even a gesture of consolation-it merely emphasized his age.

 

 Besides, it was upsetting his routine and Hari was a creature of habit. His office and a number of those adjoining had been cleared out and it had been days since he had been able to work normally. His proper offices would be converted into halls of glory, he supposed, and it would be many days before he could get back to work. Only Amaryl absolutely refused to budge and was able to maintain his office.

 

 Seldon had wondered, peevishly, who had thought of doing all this. It wasn't Dors, of course. She knew him entirely too well. Not Amaryl or Raych, who never even remembered their own birthdays. He had suspected Manella and had even confronted her on the matter.

 

 She admitted that she was all for it and had given orders for the arrangements to take place, but she said that the idea for the birthday party had been suggested to her by Tamwile Elar.

 

 The brilliant one, thought Seldon. Brilliant in everything.

 

 He sighed. If only the birthday were all over.

 

 Dors poked her head through the door. "Am I allowed to come in?"

 

 "No, of course not. Why should you think I would?"

 

 "This is not your usual place."

 

 "I know," sighed Seldon. "I have been evicted from my usual place because of the stupid birthday party. How I wish it were over."

 

 "There you are. Once that woman gets an idea in her head, it takes over and grows like the big bang."

 

 Seldon changed sides at once. "Come. She means well, Dors."

 

 "Save me from the well-meaning," said Dors. "In any case, I'm here to discuss something else. Something which may be important."

 

 "Go ahead. What is it?"

 

 "I've been talking to Wanda about her dream-" She hesitated.

 

 Seldon made a gargling sound in the back of his throat, then said, can't believe it. Just let it go."

 

 "No. Did you bother to ask her for the details of the dream?"

 

 "Why should I put the little girl through that?"

 

 "Neither did Raych, nor Manella. It was left up to me."

 

 "But why should you torture her with questions about it?"

 

 "Because I had the feeling I should," said Dors grimly. "In the first place, she didn't have the dream when she was home in her bed."

 

 "Where was she, then?"

 

 "In your office."

 

 "What was she doing in my office?"

 

 "She wanted to see the place where the party would be and she walked into your office and, of course, there was nothing to see, as it's been cleared out in preparation. But your chair was still there. The large one-tall back, tall wings, broken-down-the one you won't let me replace."

 

 Hari sighed, as if recalling a longstanding disagreement. "It's not broken-down. I don't want a new one. Go on."

 

 "She curled up in your chair and began to brood over the fact that maybe you weren't really going to have a party and she felt bad. Then, she tells me, she must have fallen asleep because nothing is clear in her mind, except that in her dream there were two men-not women, she was sure about that-two men, talking."

 

 "And what were they talking about?"

 

 "She doesn't know exactly. You know how difficult it is to remember details under such circumstances. But she says it was about dying and she thought it was you because you were so old. And she remembers two words clearly. They were `lemonade death.'"

 

 "What?"

 

 "Lemonade death."

 

 "What does that mean?"

 

 "I don't know. In any case, the talking ceased, the men left, and there she was in the chair, cold and frightened-and she's been upset about it ever since."

 

 Seldon mulled over Dors's report. Then he said, "Look, dear, what importance can we attach to a child's dream?"

 

 "We can ask ourselves first, Hari, if it even was a dream."

 

 "What do you mean?"

 

 "Wanda doesn't say outright it was. She says she `must have fallen asleep.' Those are her words. She didn't say she fell asleep, she said she must have fallen asleep."

 

 "What do you deduce from that?"

 

 "She may have drifted off into a half-doze and, in that state, heard two men-two real men, not two dream men-talking."

 

 "Real men? Talking about killing me with lemonade death?"

 

 "Something like that, yes."

 

 "Dors," said Seldon forcefully, "I know that you're forever foreseeing danger for me, but this is going too far. Why should anyone want to kill me?"

 

 "It's been tried twice before."

 

 "So it has, but consider the circumstances. The first attempt came shortly after Cleon appointed me First Minister. Naturally this was an offense to the well-established court hierarchy and I was very resented. A few thought they might settle matters by getting rid of me. The second time was when the Joranumites were trying to seize power and they thought I was standing in their way-plus Namarti's distorted dream of revenge.

 

 "Fortunately neither assassination attempt succeeded, but why should there now be a third? I am no longer First Minister and haven't been for ten years. I am an aging mathematician in retirement and surely no one has anything to fear from me. The Joranumites have been rooted out and destroyed and Namarti was executed long ago. There is absolutely no motivation for anyone to want to kill me.

 

 "So please, Dors, relax. When you're nervous about me, you get unsettled, which makes you more nervous still, and I don't want that to happen."

 

 Dors rose from her seat and leaned across Hari's desk. "It's easy for you to say that there is no motive to kill you, but none is needed. Our government is now a completely irresponsible one and if they wish-"

 

 "Stop!" commanded Seldon loudly. Then, very quietly, "Not a word, Dors. Not a word against the government. That could get us in the very trouble you're foreseeing."

 

 "I'm only talking to you, Hari."

 

 "Right now you are, but if you get into the habit of saying foolish things, you don't know when something will slip out in someone else's presence-someone who will then be glad to report you. Just learn, as a matter of necessity, to refrain from political commentary."

 

 "I'll try, Hari," said Dors, but she could not keep the indignation out of her voice. She turned on her heel and left.

 

 Seldon watched her go. Dors had aged gracefully, so gracefully that at times she seemed not to have aged at all. Though she was two years younger than Seldon, her appearance had not changed nearly as much as his had in the twenty-eight years they had been together. Naturally.

 

 Her hair was frosted with gray, but the youthful luster beneath the gray still shone through. Her complexion had grown more sallow; her voice was a bit huskier, and, of course, she wore clothes that were suitable for middle age. However, her movements were as agile and as quick as ever. It was as if nothing could be allowed to interfere with her ability to protect Hari in case of an emergency.

 

 Hari sighed. This business of being protected-more or less against his will, at all times-was sometimes a heavy burden.

 

 8

 

 Manella came to see Seldon almost immediately afterward.

 

 "Pardon me, Hari, but what has Dors been saying"

 

 Seldon looked up again. Nothing but interruptions.

 

 "It wasn't anything important. Wanda's dream."

 

 Manella's lips pursed. "I knew it. Wanda said Dors was asking her questions about it. Why doesn't she leave the girl alone? You would think that having a bad dream was some sort of felony."

 

 "As a matter of fact," said Seldon soothingly, "it's just a matter of something Wanda remembered as part of the dream. I don't know if Wanda told you, but apparently in her dream she heard something about 'lemonade death.' "

 

 "Hmm!" Manella was silent for a moment. Then she said, "That doesn't really matter so much. Wanda is crazy about lemonade and she's expecting lots of it at the party. I promised she'd have some with Mycogenian drops in it and she's looking forward to it."

 

 "So that if she heard something that sounded anything like lemonade, it would be translated into lemonade in her mind."

 

 "Yes. Why not?"

 

 "Except that, in that case, what do you suppose it was that was actually said? She must have heard something in order to misinterpret it."

 

 "I don't think that's necessarily so. But why are we attaching so much importance to a little girl's dream? Please, I don't want anyone talking to her about it anymore. It's too upsetting."

 

 "I agree. I'll see to it that Dors drops the subject-at least with Wanda."

 

 "All right. I don't care if she is Wanda's grandmother, Hari. I'm her mother, after all, and my wishes come first."

 

 "Absolutely," said Seldon soothingly and looked after Manella as she left. That was another burden-the unending competition between those two women.

 

 9

 

 Tamwile Elar was thirty-six years old and had joined Seldon's Psychohistory Project as Senior Mathematician four years earlier. He was a tall man, with a habitual twinkle in his eye and with more than a touch of self-assurance as well.

 

 His hair was brown and had a loose wave in it, the more noticeable because he wore it rather long. He had an abrupt way of laughing, but there was no fault to be found with his mathematical ability.

 

 Elar had been recruited from the West Mandanov University and Seldon always had to smile when he remembered how suspicious Yugo Amaryl had been of him at first. But then, Amaryl was suspicious of everyone. Deep in his heart (Seldon felt sure), Amaryl felt that psychohistory ought to have remained his and Hari's private province.

 

 But even Amaryl was now willing to admit that Elar's membership in the group had eased his own situation tremendously. Yugo said, "His techniques for avoiding chaos are unique and fascinating. No one else in the Project could have worked it out the way he did. Certainly nothing of this sort ever occurred to me. It didn't occur to you, either, Hari."

 

 "Well," said Seldon grumpily, "I'm getting old."

 

 "If only," said Amaryl, "he didn't laugh so loud."

 

 "People can't help the way they laugh."

 

 Yet the truth was that Seldon found himself having a little trouble accepting Elar. It was rather humiliating that he himself had come nowhere near the "achaotic equations," as they were now called. It didn't bother Seldon that he had never thought of the principle behind the Electro-Clarifier-that was not really his field. The achaotic equations, however, he should, indeed, have thought of-or at least gotten close to.

 

 He tried reasoning with himself. Seldon had worked out the entire basis for psychohistory and the achaotic equations grew naturally out of that basis. Could Elar have done Seldon's work three decades earlier? Seldon was convinced that Elar couldn't have. And was it so remarkable that Elar had thought up the principle of achaotism once the basis was in place?

 

 All this was very sensible and very true, yet Seldon still found himself uneasy when facing Elar. Just slightly edgy. Weary age facing flamboyant youth.

 

 Yet Elar never gave him obvious cause for feeling the difference in years. He never failed to show Seldon full respect or in any way to imply that the older man had passed his prime.

 

 Of course, Elar was interested in the forthcoming festivities and had even, as Seldon had discovered, been the first to suggest that Seldon's birthday be celebrated. (Was this a nasty emphasis on Seldon's age? Seldon dismissed the possibility. If he believed that, it would mean he was picking up some of Dors's tricks of suspicion.

 

 Elar strode toward him and said, "Maestro-" And Seldon winced, as always. He much preferred to have the senior members of the Project call him Hari, but it seemed such a small point to make a fuss over.

 

 "Maestro," said Elar. "The word is out that you've been called in for a conference with General Tennar."

 

 "Yes. He's the new head of the military junta and I suppose he wants to see me to ask what psychohistory is all about. They've been asking me that since the days of Cleon and Demerzel." (The new head! The junta was like a kaleidoscope, with some of its members periodically falling from grace and others rising from nowhere.)

 

 "But it's my understanding he wants it now-right in the middle of the birthday celebration."

 

 "That doesn't matter. You can all celebrate without me."

 

 "No, we can't, Maestro. I hope you don't mind, but some of us got together and put in a call to the Palace and put the appointment off for a week."

 

 "What?" said Seldon annoyed. "Surely that was presumptuous of you-and risky, besides."

 

 "It worked out well. They've put it off and you'll need that time."

 

 "Why would I need a week?"

 

 Elar hesitated. "May I speak frankly, Maestro?"

 

 "Of course you can. When have I ever asked that anyone speak to me m any way but frankly?"

 

 Elar flushed slightly, his fair skin reddening, but his voice remained steady. "It's not easy to say this, Maestro. You're a genius at mathematics. No one on the Project has any doubt of that. No one in the Empire-they knew you and understood mathematics-would have any doubt Tout it. However, it is not given to anybody to be a universal genius."

 

 "I know that as well as you do, Elar."

 

 "I know you do. Specifically, though, you lack the ability to handle ordinary people-shall we say, stupid people. You lack a certain deviousness, a certain ability to sidestep, and if you are dealing with someone who is both powerful in government and somewhat stupid, you can easily endanger the Project and, for that matter, your own life, simply because you are too frank."

 

 "What is this? Am I suddenly a child? I've been dealing with politicians for a long time. I was First Minister for ten years, as perhaps you may remember."

 

 "Forgive me, Maestro, but you were not an extraordinarily effective one. You dealt with First Minister Demerzel, who was very intelligent, by all accounts, and with the Emperor Cleon, who was very friendly. Now you will encounter military people who are neither intelligent nor friendly-another matter entirely."

 

 "I've even dealt with military people and survived."

 

 "Not with General Dugal Tennar. He's another sort of thing altogether. I know him."

 

 "You know him? You have met him?"

 

 "I don't know him personally, but he's from Mandanov, which, as you know, is my sector, and he was a power there before he joined the junta and rose through its ranks."

 

 "And what do you know about him?"

 

 "Ignorant, superstitious, violent. He is not someone you can handle easily-or safely. You can use the week to work out methods for dealing with him."

 

 Seldon bit his lower lip. There was something to what Elar said and Seldon recognized the fact that, while he had plans of his own, it would still be difficult to try to manipulate a stupid, self-important, short-tempered person with overwhelming force at his disposal.

 

 He said uneasily, "I'll manage somehow. The whole matter of a military junta is, in any case, an unstable situation in the Trantor of today. It has already lasted longer than might have seemed likely."

 

 "Have we been testing that? I was not aware that we were making stability decisions on the junta."

 

 "Just a few calculations by Amaryl, making use of your achaotic equations." He paused. "By the way, I've come across some references to them as the Elar Equations."

 

 "Not by me, Maestro."

 

 "I hope you don't mind, but I don't want that. Psychohistoric elements are to be described functionally and not personally. As soon as personalities intervene, bad feelings arise."

 

  

 

 "I understand and quite agree, Maestro."

 

 "In fact," said Seldon with a touch of guilt, "I have always felt it wrong that we speak of the basic Seldon Equations of Psychohistory. The trouble is that's been in use for so many years, it's not practical to try to change it."

 

 "If you'll excuse my saying so, Maestro, you're an exceptional case. No one, I think, would quarrel with your receiving full credit for inventing the science of psychohistory. -But, if I may, I wish to get back to your meeting with General Tennar."

 

 "Well, what else is there to say?"

 

 "I can't help but wonder if it might be better if you did not see him, did not speak to him, did not deal with him."

 

 "How am I to avoid that if he calls me in for a conference?"

 

 "Perhaps you can plead illness and send someone in your place."

 

 "Whom?"

 

 Elar was silent for a moment, but his silence was eloquent.

 

 Seldon said, "You, I take it."

 

 "Might that not be the thing to do? I am a fellow sectoral citizen of the General, which may carry some weight. You are a busy man, getting 011 in years, and it would be easy to believe that you are not entirely well. And if I see him, rather than yourself-please excuse me, Maestro-I can wiggle and maneuver more easily than you can."

 

 "Lie, you mean."

 

 "If necessary."

 

 "You'll be taking a huge chance."

 

 "Not too huge. I doubt that he will order my execution. If he becomes annoyed with me, as he well might, then I can plead-or you can plead on my behalf-youth and inexperience. In any case, if I get into trouble, that will be far less dangerous than if you were to do so. I'm thinking of the Project, which can do without me a great deal more easily than it can without you."

 

 Seldon said with a frown, "I'm not going to hide behind you, Elar. If the man wants to see me, he will see me. I refuse to shiver and shake and ask you to take chances for me. What do you think I am?"

 

 "A frank and honest man-when the need is for a devious one."

 

 "I will manage to be devious-if I must. Please don't underestimate me, Elar."

 

 Elar shrugged hopelessly. "Very well. I can only argue with you up to a certain point."

 

 "In fact, Elar, I wish you had not postponed the meeting. I would rather skip my birthday and see the General than the reverse. This birthday celebration was not my idea." His voice died away in a grumble.

 

 Elar said, "I'm sorry."

 

 "Well," said Seldon with resignation, "we'll see what happens."

 

 He turned and left. Sometimes he wished ardently that he could run what was called a "tight ship," making sure that everything went as he wished it to, leaving little or no room for maneuvering among his subordinates. To do that, however, would take enormous time, enormous effort, would deprive him of any chance of working on psychohistory himself-and, besides, he simply lacked the temperament for it.

 

 He sighed. He would have to speak to Amaryl.

 

 10

 

 Seldon strode into Amaryl's office, unannounced.

 

 "Yugo," he said abruptly, "the session with General Tennar has been postponed." He seated himself in a rather pettish manner.

 

 It took Amaryl his usual few moments to disconnect his mind from his work. Looking up finally, he said, "What was his excuse?"

 

 "It wasn't he. Some of our mathematicians arranged a week's postponement so that it wouldn't interfere with the birthday celebration. I find all of this to be extremely annoying."

 

 "Why did you let them do that?"

 

 "I didn't. They just went ahead and arranged things." Seldon shrugged. "In a way, it's my fault. I've whined so long about turning sixty that everyone thinks they have to cheer me up with festivities."

 

 Amaryl said, "Of course, we can use the week."

 

 Seldon sat forward, immediately tense. "Is something wrong?"

 

 "No. Not that I can see, but it won't hurt to examine it further. Look, Hari, this is the first time in nearly thirty years that psychohistory has leached the point where it can actually make a prediction. It's not much of one-it's just a small pinch of the vast continent of humanity-but it's t lie best we've had so far. All right. We want to take advantage of that, see how it works, prove to ourselves that psychohistory is what we think it is: a predictive science. So it won't hurt to make sure that we haven't overlooked anything. Even this tiny bit of prediction is complex and I welcome another week of study."

 

 "Very well, then. I'll consult you on the matter before I go to see the General for any last-minute modifications that have to be made. Meanwhile, Yugo, do not allow any information concerning this to leak out to the others-not to anyone. If it fails, I don't want the people of the Project to grow downhearted. You and I will absorb the failure ourselves and keep on trying."

 

 A rare wistful smile crossed Amaryl's face. "You and I. Do you remember when it really was just the two of us?"

 

 "I remember it very well and don't think that I don't miss those days. We didn't have much to work with-"

 

 "Not even the Prime Radiant, let alone the Electro-Clarifier."

 

 "But those were happy days."

 

 "Happy," said Amaryl, nodding his head.

 

 11

 

 The University had been transformed and Hari Seldon could not refrain from being pleased.

 

 The central rooms of the Project complex had suddenly sprouted in color and light, with holography filling the air with shifting three-dimensional images of Seldon at different places and different times. There was Dors Venabili smiling, looking somewhat younger-Raych as a teenager, still unpolished-Seldon and Amaryl, looking unbelievably young, bent over their computers. There was even a fleeting sight of Eto Demerzel, which filled Seldon's heart with yearning for his old friend and the security he had felt before Demerzel's departure.

 

 The Emperor Cleon appeared nowhere in the holographics. It was not because holographs of him did not exist, but it was not wise, under the rule of the junta, to remind people of the past Imperium.

 

 It all poured outward, overflowing, filling room after room, building after building. Somehow, time had been found to convert the entire University into a display the likes of which Seldon had never seen or even imagined. Even the dome lights were darkened to produce an artificial night against which the University would sparkle for three days.

 

 "Three days!" said Seldon, half-impressed, half-horrified.

 

 "Three days," said Dors Venabili, nodding her head. "The University would consider nothing less."

 

 "The expense! The labor!" said Seldon, frowning.

 

 "The expense is minimal," said Dors, "compared to what you have done for the University. And the labor is all voluntary. The students turned out and took care of everything."

 

 A from-the-air view of the University appeared now, panoramically, and Seldon stared at it with a smile forcing itself onto his countenance.

 

 Dors said, "You're pleased. You've done nothing but grouse these past few months about how you didn't want any celebration for being an old man-and now look at you."

 

 "Well, it is flattering. I had no idea that they would do anything like this."

 

 "Why not? You're an icon, Hari. The whole world-the whole Empire-knows about you."

 

 "They do not," said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. "Not one in a billion knows anything at all about me-and certainly not about psychohistory. No one outside the Project has the faintest knowledge of how psychohistory works and not everyone inside does, either."

 

 "That doesn't matter, Hari. It's you. Even the quadrillions who don't know anything about you or your work know that Hari Seldon is the greatest mathematician in the Empire."

 

 "Well," said Seldon, looking around, "they certainly are making me feel that way right now. But three days and three nights! The place will be reduced to splinters."

 

 "No, it won't. All the records have been stored away. The computers and other equipment have been secured. The students have set up a virtual security force that will prevent anything from being damaged."

 

 "You've seen to all of that, haven't you, Dors?" said Seldon, smiling at her fondly.

 

 "A number of us have. It's by no means all me. Your colleague Tamwile Elar has worked with incredible dedication."

 

 Seldon scowled.

 

 "What's the matter with Elar?" said Dors.

 

 Seldon said, "He keeps calling me `Maestro.' "

 

 Dors shook her head. "Well, there's a terrible crime."

 

 Seldon ignored that and said, "And he's young."

 

 "Worse and worse. Come, Hari, you're going to have to learn to grow old gracefully-and to begin with you'll have to show that you're enjoying yourself. That will please others and increase their enjoyment and surely you would want to do that. Come on. Move around. Don't hide here with me. Greet everyone. Smile. Ask after their health. And remember that, after the banquet, you're going to have to make a speech."

 

 "I dislike banquets and I doubly dislike speeches."

 

 "You'll have to, anyway. Now move!"

 

 Seldon sighed dramatically and did as he was told. He cut quite an imposing figure as he stood in the archway leading into the main hall. I'he voluminous First Minister's robes of yesteryear were gone, as were the Heliconian-style garments he had favored in his youth. Now Seldon wore an outfit that bespoke his elevated status: straight pants, crisply pleated, a modified tunic on top. Embroidered in silver thread above his heart was the insignia: SELDON PSYCHOHISTORY PROJECT AT STREELING UNIVERSITY. It sparkled like a beacon against the dignified titanium-gray hue of his clothing. Seldon's eyes twinkled in a face now lined by age, his sixty years given away as much by his wrinkles as by his white hair.

 

 He entered the room in which the children were feasting. The room had been entirely cleared, except for trestles with food upon them. The children rushed up to him as soon as they saw him-knowing, as they did, that he was the reason for the feast-and Seldon tried to avoid their clutching fingers.

 

 "Wait, wait, children," he said. "Now stand back."

 

 He pulled a small computerized robot from his pocket and placed it on the floor. In an Empire without robots, this was something that he could expect to be eye-popping. It had the shape of a small furry animal, but it also had the capacity to change shapes without warning (eliciting squeals of children's laughter each time) and when it did so, the sounds and motions it made changed as well.

 

 "Watch it," said Seldon, "and play with it, and try not to break it. Later on, there'll be one for each of you."

 

 He slipped out into the hallway leading back to the main hall and realized, as he did so, that Wanda was following him.

 

 "Grandpa," she said.

 

 Well, of course, Wanda was different. He swooped down and lifted her high in the air, turned her over, and put her down.

 

 "Are you having a good time, Wanda?" he asked.

 

 "Yes," she said, "but don't go into that room."

 

 "Why not, Wanda? It's my room. It's the office where I work."

 

 "It's where I had my bad dream."

 

 "I know, Wanda, but that's all over, isn't it?" He hesitated, then he led Wanda to one of the chairs lining the hallway. He sat down and placed her on his lap.

 

 "Wanda," he said, "are you sure it was a dream?"

 

 "I think it was a dream."

 

 "Were you really sleeping?"

 

 "I think I was."

 

 She seemed uncomfortable talking about it and Seldon decided to let it go. There was no use pushing her any further.

 

 He said, "Well, dream or not, there were two men and they talked of lemonade death, didn't they?"

 

 Wanda nodded reluctantly.

 

 Seldon said, "You're sure they said lemonade?"

 

 Wanda nodded again.

 

 "Might they have said something else and you thought they said lemonade?"

 

 "Lemonade is what they said."

 

 Seldon had to be satisfied with that. "Well, run off and have a good time, Wanda. Forget about the dream."

 

 "All right, Grandpa." She cheered up as soon as the matter of the dream was dismissed and off she went to join the festivities.

 

 Seldon went to search for Manella. It took him an extraordinarily long time to find her, since, at every step, he was stopped, greeted, and conversed with.

 

 Finally he saw her in the distance. Muttering, "Pardon me- Pardon me- There's someone I must- Pardon me-," he worked his way over to her with considerable trouble.

 

 "Manella," he said and drew her off to one side, smiling mechanically in all directions.

 

 "Yes, Hari," she said. "Is something wrong?"

 

 "It's Wanda's dream."

 

 "Don't tell me she's still talking about it."

 

 "Well, it's still bothering her. Listen, we have lemonade at the party, haven't we?"

 

 "Of course, the children adore it. I've added a couple of dozen different Mycogenian taste buds to very small glasses of different shapes and the children try them one after the other to see which taste best. The adults have been drinking it, too. I have. Why don't you taste it, Hari? It's great."

 

 "I'm thinking. If it wasn't a dream, if the child really heard two men speak of lemonade death-" He paused, as though ashamed to continue.

 

 Manella said, "Are you thinking that someone poisoned the lemonade? That's ridiculous. By now every child in the place would be sick or dying."

 

 "I know," muttered Seldon. "I know."

 

 He wandered off and almost didn't see Dors when he passed her. She seized his elbow.

 

 "Why the face?" she said. "You look concerned."

 

 "I've been thinking of Wanda's lemonade death."

 

 "So have I, but I can't make anything of it so far."

 

 "I can't help but think of the possibility of poisoning."

 

 "Don't. I assure you that every bit of food that came into this party has been molecularly checked. I know you'll think that's my typical paranoia, but my task is guarding you and that is what I must do."

 

 "And everything is-"

 

 "No poison. I promise you."

 

 Seldon smiled, "Well, good. That's a relief. I didn't really think-"

 

 "Let's hope not," said Dors dryly. "What concerns me far more than this myth of poison is that I have heard that you're going to be seeing that monster Tennar in a few days."

 

 "Don't call him a monster, Dors. Be careful. We're surrounded by cars and tongues."

 

 Dors immediately lowered her voice. "I suppose you're right. Look ;round. All these smiling faces-and yet who knows which of our friends' will be reporting back to the head and his henchmen when the night is over? Ah, humans! Even after all these thousands of centuries, to think that such base treachery still exists. It seems to me to be so unnecessary. Yet I know the harm it can do. That is why I must go with you, Hari."

 

 "Impossible, Dors. It would just complicate matters for me. I'll go Myself and I'll have no trouble."

 

 "You would have no idea how to handle the General."

 

 Seldon looked grave. "And you would? You sound exactly like Elar. He, too, is convinced that I am a helpless old fool. He, too, wants to come with me-or, rather, to go in my place. -I wonder how many people on Trantor are willing to take my place," he added with clear sarcasm. "Dozens? Millions?"

 

 12

 

 For ten years the Galactic Empire had been without an Emperor, but there was no indication of that fact in the way the Imperial Palace grounds were operated. Millennia of custom made the absence of an Emperor meaningless.

 

 It meant, of course, that there was no figure in Imperial robes to preside over formalities of one sort or another. No Imperial voice gave orders; no Imperial wishes made themselves known; no Imperial gratifications or annoyances made themselves felt; no Imperial pleasures warmed either Palace; no Imperial sicknesses cast them in gloom. The Emperor's own quarters in the Small Palace were empty-the Imperial family did not exist.

 

 And yet the army of gardeners kept the grounds in perfect condition. An army of service people kept the buildings in top shape. The Emperor's bed-never slept in-was made with fresh sheets every day; the rooms were cleaned; everything worked as it always worked; and the entire Imperial staff, from top to bottom, worked as they had always worked. The top officials gave commands as they would have done if the Emperor had lived, commands that they knew the Emperor would have given. In many cases, in particular in the higher echelons, the personnel were the same as those who had been there on Cleon's last day of life. The new personnel who had been taken on were carefully molded and trained into the traditions they would have to serve.

 

 It was as though the Empire, accustomed to the rule of an Emperor, insisted on this "ghost rule" to hold the Empire together.

 

 The junta knew this-or, if they didn't, they felt it vaguely. In ten years none of those military men who had commanded the Empire had moved into the Emperor's private quarters in the Small Palace. Whatever these men were, they were not Imperial and they knew they had no rights there. A populace that endured the loss of liberty would not endure any sign of irreverence to the Emperor-alive or dead.

 

 Even General Tennar had not moved into the graceful structure that had housed the Emperors of a dozen different dynasties for so long. He Hid made his home and office in one of the structures built on the outskirts of the grounds-eyesores, but eyesores that were built like fortresses, sturdy enough to withstand a siege, with outlying buildings in which an enormous force of guards was housed.

 

 Tennar was a stocky man, with a mustache. It was not a vigorous overflowing Dahlite mustache but one that was carefully clipped and fitted to the upper lip, leaving a strip of skin between the hair and the line of the lip. It was a reddish mustache and Tennar had cold blue eyes. He had probably been a handsome man in his younger days, but his face was pudgy now and his eyes were slits that expressed anger more often than any other emotion.

 

 So he said angrily-as one would, who felt himself to be absolute master of millions of worlds and yet who dared not call himself an Emperor-to Hender Linn, "I can establish a dynasty of my own." He hooked around with a scowl. "This is not a fitting place for the master of the Empire."

 

 Linn said softly, "To be master is what is important. Better to be a master in a cubicle than a figurehead in a palace."

 

 "Best yet, to be master in a palace. Why not?"

 

 Linn bore the title of colonel, but it is quite certain that he had never engaged in any military action. His function was that of telling Tennar what he wanted to hear-and of carrying his orders, unchanged, to others. On occasion-if it seemed safe-he might try to steer Tennar into more prudent courses.

 

 Linn was well known as "Tennar's lackey" and knew that was how he was known. It did not bother him. As lackey, he was safe-and he had seen the downfall of those who had been too proud to be lackeys.

 

 The time might, of course, come when Tennar himself would be buried in the ever-changing junta panorama, but Linn felt, with a certain amount of philosophy, that he would be aware of it in time and save himself. -Or he might not. There was a price for everything.

 

 "No reason why you can't found a dynasty, General," said Linn. Many others have done it in the long Imperial history. Still, it takes lime. The people are slow to adapt. It is usually only the second or even third of the dynasty who is fully accepted as Emperor."

 

 "I don't believe that. I need merely announce myself as new Em1wror. Who will dare quarrel with that? My grip is tight."

 

 "So it is, General. Your power is unquestioned on Trantor and in most of the Inner Worlds, yet it is possible that many in the farther Outer Worlds will not just yet-accept a new Imperial dynasty."

 

 "Inner Worlds or Outer Worlds, military force rules all. That is an old Imperial maxim."

 

 "And a good one," said Linn, "but many of the provinces have armed forces of their own, nowadays, that they may not use on your behalf. These are difficult times."

 

 "You counsel caution, then."

 

 "I always counsel caution, General."

 

 "And someday you may counsel it once too often."

 

 Linn bent his head. "I can only counsel what seems to me to be good and useful to you, General."

 

 "As in your constant harping to me about this Hari Seldon."

 

 "He is your greatest danger, General."

 

 "So you keep saying, but I don't see it. He's just a college professor."

 

 Linn said, "So he is, but he was once First Minister."

 

 "I know, but that was in Cleon's time. Has he done anything since? With times being difficult and with the governors of the provinces being fractious, why is a professor my greatest danger?"

 

 "It is sometimes a mistake," said Linn carefully (for one had to be careful in educating the General), "to suppose that a quiet unobtrusive man can be harmless. Seldon has been anything but harmless to those he has opposed. Twenty years ago the Joranumite movement almost destroyed Cleon's powerful First Minister, Eto Demerzel."

 

 Tennar nodded, but the slight frown on his face betrayed his effort to remember the matter.

 

 "It was Seldon who destroyed Joranum and who succeeded Demerzel as First Minister. The Joranumite movement survived, however, and Seldon engineered its destruction, too, but not before it succeeded in bringing about the assassination of Cleon."

 

 "But Seldon survived that, didn't he?"

 

 "You are perfectly correct. Seldon survived."

 

 "That is strange. To have permitted an Imperial assassination should have meant death for a First Minister."

 

 "So it should have. Nevertheless, the junta has allowed him to live. It seemed wiser to do so."

 

 "Why?"

 

 Linn sighed internally. "There is something called psychohistory, General."

 

 "I know nothing about that," said Tennar flatly.

 

 Actually he had a vague memory of Linn trying to talk to him on a number of occasions concerning this strange collection of syllables. He had never wanted to listen and Linn had known better than to push the matter. Tennar didn't want to listen now, either, but there seemed to be a hidden urgency in Linn's words. Perhaps, Tennar thought, he had now better listen.

 

 "Almost no one knows anything about it," said Linn, "yet there are a few-uh-intellectuals, who find it of interest."

 

 "And what is it?"

 

 "It is a complex system of mathematics."

 

 Tennar shook his head. "Leave me out of that, please. I can count my military divisions. That's all the mathematics I need."

 

 "The story is," said Linn, "that psychohistory may make it possible to predict the future."

 

 The General's eyes bulged. "You mean this Seldon is a fortune-

 

 "Not in the usual fashion. It is a matter of science."

 

 "I don't believe it."

 

 "It is hard to believe, but Seldon has become something of a cult figure here on Trantor-and in certain places in the Outer Worlds. Now psychohistory-if it can be used to predict the future or if even people merely think it can be so used-can be a powerful tool with which to uphold the regime. I'm sure you have already seen this, General. One need merely predict our regime will endure and bring forth peace and prosperity for the Empire. People, believing this, will help make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the other hand, if Seldon wishes the reverse, he can predict civil war and ruin. People will believe that, too, and that would destabilize the regime."

 

 "In that case, Colonel, we simply make sure that the predictions of psychohistory are what we want them to be."

 

 "It would be Seldon who would have to make them and he is not a friend of the regime. It is important, General, that we differentiate between the Project that is working at Streeling University to perfect psychohistory and Hari Seldon. Psychohistory can be extremely useful to us, but it will be so only if someone other than Seldon were in charge."

 

 "Are there others who could be?"

 

 "Oh yes. It is only necessary to get rid of Seldon."

 

 "What is so difficult with that? An order of execution-and it is done."

 

 "It would be better, General, if the government was not seen to be directly involved in such a thing."

 

 "I have arranged to have him meet with you, so that you can use your skill to probe his personality. You would then be able to judge whether certain suggestions I have in mind are worthwhile or not."

 

 "When is the meeting to take place?"

 

 "It was to take place very soon, but his representatives at the Project asked for a few days leeway, because they were in the process of celebrating his birthday-his sixtieth, apparently. It seemed wise to allow that and to permit a week's delay."

 

 "Why?" demanded Tennar. "I dislike any display of weakness."

 

 "Quite right, General. Quite right. Your instincts are, as always, correct. However, it seemed to me that the needs of the state might require us to know what and how the birthday celebration-which is taking place right now-might involve."

 

 "Why?"

 

 "All knowledge is useful. Would you care to see some of the festivities?"

 

 General Tennar's face remained dark. "Is that necessary?"

 

 "I think you will find it interesting, General."

 

 The reproduction-sight and sound-was excellent and for quite a while the hilarity of the birthday celebration filled the rather stark room in which the General sat.

 

 Linn's low voice served as commentary. "Most of this, General, is taking place in the Project complex, but the rest of the University is involved. We will have an air view in a few moments and you will see that the celebration covers a wide area. In fact, though I don't have the evidence available right now, there are corners of the planet here and there, in various University and sectoral settings mostly, where what we might call `sympathy celebrations' of one sort or another are taking place. The celebrations are still continuing and will endure for another day at least."

 

 "Are you telling me that this is a Trantor-wide celebration?"

 

 "In a specialized way. It affects mostly the intellectual classes, but it is surprisingly widespread. It may even be that there is some shouting on worlds other than Trantor."

 

 "Where did you get this reproduction?"

 

 Linn smiled. "Our facilities in the Project are quite good. We have reliable sources of information, so that little can happen that doesn't come our way at once."

 

 "Well then, Linn, what are all your conclusions about this?"

 

 "It seems to me, General, and I'm sure that it seems so to you, that Hari Seldon is the focus of a personality cult. He has so identified himself with psychohistory that if we were to get rid of him in too open a manner, we would entirely destroy the credibility of the science. It would be useless to us.

 

 "On the other hand, General, Seldon is growing old and it is not difficult to imagine him being replaced by another man: someone we could choose and who would be friendly to our great aims and hopes for the Empire. If Seldon could be removed in such a way that it is made to seem natural, then that is all we need."

 

 The General said, "And you think I ought to see him?"

 

 "Yes, in order to weigh his quality and decide what we ought to do. But we must be cautious, for he is a popular man."

 

 "I have dealt with popular people before," said Tennar darkly.

 

 13

 

 "Yes," said Hari Seldon wearily, "it was a great triumph. I had a wonderful time. I can hardly wait until I'm seventy so I can repeat it. But the fact is, I'm exhausted."

 

 "So get yourself a good night's sleep, Dad," said Raych, smiling. "That's an easy cure."

 

 "I don't know how well I can relax when I have to see our great leader in a few days."

 

 "Not alone, you won't see him," said Dors Venabili grimly.

 

 Seldon frowned. "Don't say that again, Dors. It is important for me to see him alone."

 

 "It won't be safe with you alone. Do you remember what happened ten years ago when you refused to let me come with you to greet the gardeners?"

 

 "There is no danger of my forgetting when you remind me of it twice a week, Dors. In this case, though, I intend to go alone. What can he want to do to me if I come in as an old man, utterly harmless, to find out what he wants?"

 

 "What do you imagine he wants?" said Raych, biting at his knuckle.

 

 "I suppose he wants what Cleon always wanted. It will turn out that he has found out that psychohistory can, in some way, predict the future and he will want to use it for his own purposes. I told Cleon the science wasn't up to it nearly thirty years ago and I kept telling him that all through my tenure as First Minister-and now I'll have to tell General Tennar the same thing."

 

 "How do you know he'll believe you?" said Raych.

 

 "I'll think of some way of being convincing."

 

 Dors said, "I do not wish you to go alone."

 

 "Your wishing, Dors, makes no difference."

 

 At this point, Tamwile Elar interrupted. He said, "I'm the only nonfamily person here. I don't know if a comment from me would be welcome."

 

 "Go ahead," said Seldon. "Come one, come all."

 

 "I would like to suggest a compromise. Why don't a number of us go with the Maestro. Quite a few of us. We can act as his triumphal escort, a kind of finale to the birthday celebration. -Now wait, I don't mean that we will all crowd into the General's offices. I don't even mean entering the Imperial Palace grounds. We can just take hotel rooms in the Imperial Sector at the edge of the grounds-the Dome's Edge Hotel would be just right-and we'll give ourselves a day of pleasure."

 

 "That's just what I need," snorted Seldon. "A day of pleasure."

 

 "Not you, Maestro," said Elar at once. "You'll be meeting with General Tennar. The rest of us, though, will give the people of the Imperial Sector a notion of your popularity-and perhaps the General will take note also. And if he knows we're all waiting for your return, it may keep him from being unpleasant."

 

 There was a considerable silence after that. Finally Raych said, "It sounds too showy to me. It don't fit in with the image the world has of Dad."

 

 But Dors said, "I'm not interested in Hari's image. I'm interested in Hari's safety. It strikes me that if we cannot invade the General's presence or the Imperial grounds, then allowing ourselves to accumulate, so to speak, as near the General as we can, might do us well. Thank you, Dr. Elar, for a very good suggestion."

 

 "I don't want it done," said Seldon.

 

 "But I do," said Dors, "and if that's as close as I can get to offering you personal protection, then that much I will insist on."

 

 Manella, who had listened to it all without comment till then, said, "Visiting the Dome's Edge Hotel could be a lot of fun."

 

 "It's not fun I'm thinking of," said Dors, "but I'll accept your vote in favor."

 

 And so it was. The following day some twenty of the higher echelon of the Psychohistory Project descended on the Dome's Edge Hotel, with rooms overlooking the open spaces of the Imperial Palace grounds.

 

 The following evening Hari Seldon was picked up by the General's armed guards and taken off to the meeting.

 

 At almost the same time Dors Venabili disappeared, but her absence was not noted for a long time. And when it was noted, no one could guess what had happened to her and the gaily festive mood turned rapidly into apprehension.

 

 14

 

 Dors Venabili had lived on the Imperial Palace grounds for ten years. As wife of the First Minister, she had entry to the grounds and could pass freely from the dome to the open, with her fingerprints as the pass.

 

 In the confusion that followed Cleon's assassination, her pass had never been removed and now when, for the first time since that dreadful clay, she wanted to move from the dome into the open spaces of the grounds, she could do so.

 

 She had always known that she could do so easily only once, for, upon discovery, the pass would be canceled-but this was the one time to do it.

 

 There was a sudden darkening of the sky as she moved into the open ;rod she felt a distinct lowering of the temperature. The world under the dome was always kept a little lighter during the night period than natural night would require and was kept a little dimmer during the day period. And, of course, the temperature beneath the dome was always a bit milder than the outdoors.

 

 Most Trantorians were unaware of this, for they spent their entire lives under the dome. To Dors it was expected, but it didn't really matter.

 

 She took the central roadway, into which the dome opened at the site of the Dome's Edge Hotel. It was, of course, brightly lit, so that the darkness of the sky didn't matter at all.

 

 Dors knew that she would not advance a hundred meters along the roadway without being stopped, less perhaps in the present paranoid lays of the junta. Her alien presence would be detected at once.

 

 Nor was she disappointed. A small ground-car skittered up and the guardsman shouted out the window, "What are you doing here? Where are you going?"

 

 Dors ignored the question and continued to walk.

 

 The guardsman called out, "Halt!" Then he slammed on the brakes and stepped out of the car, which was exactly what Dors had wanted him to do.

 

 The guardsman was holding a blaster loosely in his hand-not threatening to use it, merely demonstrating its existence. He said, "Your reference number."

 

 Dors said, "I want your car."

 

 "What!" The guardsman sounded outraged. "Your reference number. Immediately!" And now the blaster came up.

 

 Dors said quietly, "You don't need my reference number," then she walked toward the guardsman.

 

 The guardsman took a backward step. "If you don't stop and present your reference number, I'll blast you."

 

 "No! Drop your blaster."

 

 The guardsman's lips tightened. His finger began to edge toward the contact, but before he could reach it, he was lost.

 

 He could never describe afterward what happened in any accurate way. All he could say was "How was I to know it was The Tiger Woman?" (The time came when he would be proud of the encounter.) "She moved so fast, I didn't see exactly what she did or what happened. One moment I was going to shoot her down-I was sure she was some sort of madwoman-and the next thing I knew, I was completely overwhelmed."

 

 Dors held the guardsman in a firm grip, the hand with the blaster forced high. She said, "Either drop the blaster at once or I will break your arm."

 

 The guardsman felt a kind of death grip around his chest that all but prevented him from breathing. Realizing he had no choice, he dropped the blaster.

 

 Dors Venabili released him, but before the guardsman could make a move to recover, he found himself facing his own blaster in Dors's hand.

 

 Dors said, "I hope you've left your detectors in place. Don't try to report what's happened too quickly. You had better wait and decide what it is you plan to tell your superiors. The fact that an unarmed woman took your blaster and your car may well put an end to your usefulness to the junta."

 

 Dors started the car and began to speed down the central roadway. A ten-year stay on the grounds told her exactly where she was going. The car she was in-an official ground-car-was not an alien intrusion into the grounds and would not be picked up as a matter of course. However, she had to take a chance on speed, for she wanted to reach her destination rapidly. She pushed the car to a speed of two hundred kilometers per hour.

 

 The speed, at least, eventually did attract attention. She ignored radioed cries, demanding to know why she was speeding, and before long the car's detectors told her that another ground-car was in hot pursuit.

 

 She knew that there would be a warning sent up ahead and that there would be other ground-cars waiting for her to arrive, but there was little any of them could do, short of trying to blast her out of existence-something apparently no one was willing to try, pending further investigation.

 

 When she reached the building she had been heading for, two ground-cars were waiting for her. She climbed serenely out of her own car and walked toward the entrance.

 

 Two men at once stood in her way, obviously astonished that the driver of the speeding car was not a guardsman but a woman dressed in civilian clothes.

 

 "What are you doing here? What was the rush?"

 

 Dors said quietly, "Important message for Colonel Header Linn."

 

 "Is that so?" said the guardsman harshly. There were now four men between her and the entrance. "Reference number, please."

 

 Dors said, "Don't delay me."

 

 "Reference number, I said."

 

 "You're wasting my time."

 

 One of the guardsmen said suddenly, "You know who she looks like? The old First Minister's wife. Dr. Venabili. The Tiger Woman."

 

 There was an odd backward step on the part of all four, but one of them said, "You're under arrest."

 

 "Am I?" said Dors. "If I'm The Tiger Woman, you must know that I am considerably stronger than any of you and that my reflexes are considerably faster. Let me suggest that all four of you accompany me quietly inside and we'll see what Colonel Linn has to say."

 

 "You're under arrest" came the repetition and four Masters were aimed at Dors.

 

 "Well," said Dors. "If you insist."

 

 She moved rapidly and two of the guardsmen were suddenly on the ground, groaning, while Dors was standing with a blaster in each hand.

 

 She said, "I have tried not to hurt them, but it is quite possible that I Dave broken their wrists. That leaves two of you and I can shoot faster than you can. If either of you makes the slightest move-the slightest-I will have to break the habit of a lifetime and kill you. It will sicken me to do so and I beg you not to force me into it."

 

 There was absolute silence from the two guardsmen still standing-no motion.

 

 "I would suggest," said Dors, "that you two escort me into the colonel's presence and that you then seek medical help for your comrades."

 

 The suggestion was not necessary. Colonel Linn emerged from his office. "What is going on here? What is-"

 

 Dors turned to him. "Ah! Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Dors Venabili, the wife of Professor Hari Seldon. I have come to see you on important business. These four tried to stop me and, as a result, two are badly hurt. Send them all about their business and let me talk to you. I mean you no harm."

 

 Linn stared at the four guardsmen, then at Dors. He said calmly, "You mean me no harm? Though four guardsmen have not succeeded in stopping you, I have four thousand at my instant call."

 

 "Then call them," said Dors. "However quickly they come, it will not be in time to save you, should I decide to kill you. Dismiss your guardsmen and let us talk civilly."

 

 Linn dismissed the guardsmen and said, "Well, come in and we will talk. Let me warn you, though, Dr. Venabili-I have a long memory."

 

 "And I," said Dors. They walked into Linn's quarters together.

 

 15

 

 Linn said with utmost courtesy, "Tell me exactly why you are here, Dr. Venabili."

 

 Dors smiled without menace-and yet not exactly pleasantly, either. "To begin with," she said, "I have come here to show you that I can come here."

 

 "Yes. My husband was taken to his interview with the General in an official ground-car under armed guard. I myself left the hotel at a the same time he did, on foot and unarmed-and here I am-and I believe I got here before he did. I had to wade through five guardsmen, including the guardsman whose car I appropriated, in order to reach you. I would have waded through fifty."

 

 Linn nodded his head phlegmatically. "I understand that you are sometimes called The Tiger Woman."

 

 "I have been called that. -Now, having reached you, my task is to make certain that no harm comes to my husband. He is venturing into the General's lair-if I can be dramatic about it-and I want him to emerge unharmed and unthreatened."

 

 "As far as I am concerned, I know that no harm will come to your husband as a result of this meeting. But if you are concerned, why do you come to me? Why didn't you go directly to the General?"

 

 "Because, of the two of you, it is you that has the brains."

 

 There was a short pause and Linn said, "That would be a most dangerous remark-if overheard."

 

 "More dangerous for you than for me, so make sure it is not overheard. -Now, if it occurs to you that I am to be simply soothed and put off and that, if my husband is imprisoned or marked for execution, that there will really be nothing I can do about it, disabuse yourself."

 

 She indicated the two blasters that lay on the table before her. "I entered the grounds with nothing. I arrived in your immediate vicinity with two Masters. If I had no Masters, I might have had knives, with which I am an expert. And if I had neither blasters nor knives, I would still be a formidable person. This table we're sitting at is metal-obviously-and sturdy."

 

 "It is."

 

 Dors held up her hands, fingers splayed, as if to show that she held no weapon. Then she dropped them to the table and, palms down, caressed its surface.

 

 Abruptly Dors raised her fist and then brought it down on the table with a loud crash, which sounded almost as if metal were striking metal. She smiled and lifted her hand.

 

 "No bruise," Dors said. "No pain. But you'll notice that the table is slightly bent where I struck it. If that same blow had come down with the name force on a person's head, the skull would have exploded. I have never done such a thing; in fact, I have never killed anyone, though I have injured several. Nevertheless, if Professor Seldon is harmed-"

 

 "You are still threatening."

 

 "I am promising. I will do nothing if Professor Seldon is unharmed. Otherwise, Colonel Linn, I will be forced to maim or kill you and-I promise you again-I will do the same to General Tennar."

 

 Linn said, "You cannot withstand an entire army, no matter how tigerish a woman you are. What then?"

 

 "Stories spread," said Dors, "and are exaggerated. I have not really done much in the way of tigerishness, but many more stories are told of me than are true. Your guardsmen fell back when they recognized me and they themselves will spread the story, with advantage, of how I made my way to you. Even an army might hesitate to attack me, Colonel Linn, but even if they did and even if they destroyed me, beware the indignation of the people. The junta is maintaining order, but it is doing so only barely and you don't want anything to upset matters. Think, then, of how easy the alternative is. Simply do not harm Professor Hari Seldon."

 

 "We have no intention of harming him."

 

 "Why the interview, then?"

 

 "What's the mystery? The General is curious about psychohistory. The government records are open to us. The old Emperor Cleon was interested. Demerzel, when he was First Minister, was interested. Why should we not be in our turn? In fact, more so."

 

 "Why more so?"

 

 "Because time has passed. As I understand it, psychohistory began as a thought in Professor Seldon's mind. He has been working on it, with increasing vigor and with larger and larger groups of people, for nearly thirty years. He has done so almost entirely with government support, so that, in a way, his discoveries and techniques belong to the government. We intend to ask him about psychohistory, which, by now, must be far advanced beyond what existed in the times of Demerzel and Cleon, and we expect him to tell us what we want to know. We want something more practical than the vision of equations curling their way through air. Do you understand me?"

 

 "Yes," said Dors, frowning.

 

 "And one more thing. Do not suppose that the danger to your husband comes from the government only and that any harm that reaches him will mean that you must attack us at once. I would suggest that Professor Seldon may have purely private enemies. I have no knowledge of such things, but surely it is possible."

 

 "I shall keep that in mind. Right now, I want to have you arrange that I join my husband during his interview with the General. I want to know, beyond doubt, that he is safe."

 

 "That will be hard to arrange and will take some time. It would be impossible to interrupt the conversation, but if you wait till it is ended-"

 

 "Take the time and arrange it. Do not count on double-crossing me and remaining alive."

 

 16

 

 General Tennar stared at Hari Seldon in a rather pop-eyed manner and his fingers tapped lightly at the desk where he sat.

 

 "Thirty years," he said. "Thirty years and you are telling me you still have nothing to show for it?"

 

 "Actually, General, twenty-eight years."

 

 Tennar ignored that. "And all at government expense. Do you know how many billions of credits have been invested in your Project, Professor?"

 

 "I haven't kept up, General, but we have records that could give me the answer to your question in seconds."

 

 "And so have we. The government, Professor, is not an endless source of funds. These are not the old times. We don't have Cleon's old Free-and-easy attitude toward finances. Raising taxes is hard and we need credits for many things. I have called you here, hoping that you can benefit us in some way with your psychohistory. If you cannot, then I must tell you, quite frankly, that we will have to shut off the faucet. If you ran continue your research without government funding, do so, for unless you show me something that would make the expense worth it, you will have to do just that."

 

 "General, you make a demand I cannot meet, but, if in response, you and government support, you will be throwing away the future. Give me wile and eventually-"

 

 "Various governments have heard that `eventually' from you for decades. Isn't it true, Professor, that you say your psychohistory predicts that the junta is unstable, that my rule is unstable, that in a short time it will collapse?"

 

 Seldon frowned. "The technique is not yet firm enough for me to say that this is something that psychohistory states."

 

 "I put it to you that psychohistory does state it and that this is common knowledge within your Project."

 

 "No," said Seldon warmly. "No such thing. It is possible that some among us have interpreted some relationships to indicate that the junta may be an unstable form of government, but there are other relationships that may easily be interpreted to show it is stable. That is the reason why we must continue our work. At the present moment it is all too easy to use incomplete data and imperfect reasoning to reach any conclusion we wish."

 

 "But if you decide to present the conclusion that the government is unstable and say that psychohistory warrants it-even if it does not actually do so-will it not add to the instability?"

 

 "It may very well do that, General. And if we announced that the government is stable, it may well add to the stability. I have had this very same discussion with Emperor Cleon on a number of occasions. It is possible to use psychohistory as a tool to manipulate the emotions of the people and achieve short-term effects. In the long run, however, the predictions are quite likely to prove incomplete or downright erroneous and psychohistory will lose all its credibility and it will be as though it had never existed."

 

 "Enough! Tell me straight out! What do you think psychohistory shows about my government?"

 

 "It shows, we think, that there are elements of instability in it, but we are not certain-and cannot be certain-exactly in what way this can be made worse or made better."

 

 "In other words, psychohistory simply tells you what you would know without psychohistory and it is that in which government has invested uncounted piles of credits."

 

 "The time will come when psychohistory will tell us what we could not know without it and then the investment will pay itself back many, many times over."

 

 "And how long will it be before that time comes?"

 

 "Not too long, I hope. We have been making rather gratifying progress in the last few years."

 

 Tennar was tapping his fingernail on his desk again. "Not enough. Tell me something helpful now. Something useful."

 

 Seldon pondered, then said, "I can prepare a detailed report for you, but it will take time."

 

 "Of course it will. Days, months, years-and somehow it will never be written. Do you take me for a fool?"

 

 "No, of course not, General. However, I don't want to be taken for a fool, either. I can tell you something that I will take sole responsibility for. I have seen it in my psychohistorical research, but I may have misinterpreted what I saw. However, since you insist-"

 

 "I insist."

 

 "You mentioned taxes a little while ago. You said raising taxes was difficult. Certainly. It is always difficult. Every government must do its work by collecting wealth in one form or another. The only two ways in which such credits can be obtained are, first, by robbing a neighbor, or second, persuading a government's own citizens to grant the credits willingly and peaceably.

 

 "Since we have established a Galactic Empire that has been conducting its business in reasonable fashion for thousands of years, there is no possibility of robbing a neighbor, except as the result of an occasional rebellion and its repression. This does not happen often enough to support a government-and, if it did, the government would be too unstable to last long, in any case."

 

 Seldon drew a deep breath and went on. "Therefore, credits must be raised by asking the citizens to hand over part of their wealth for government use. Presumably, since the government will then work efficiently, the citizens can better spend their credits in this way than to hoard it-each man to himself-while living in a dangerous and chaotic anarchy.

 

 "However, though the request is reasonable and the citizenry is better off paying taxes as their price for maintaining a stable and efficient government, they are nevertheless reluctant to do so. In order to overcome this reluctance, governments must make it appear that they are not taking too many credits, and that they are considering each citizen's rights and benefits. In other words, they must lower the percentage taken out of low incomes; they must allow deductions of various kinds to be made before the tax is assessed, and so on.

 

 "As time goes on, the tax situation inevitably grows more and more complex as different worlds, different sectors within each world, and different economic divisions all demand and require special treatment. Me result is that the tax-collecting branch of the government grows in size and complexity and tends to become uncontrollable. The average citizen cannot understand why or how much he is being taxed; what he can get away with and what he can't. The government and the tax agency itself are often in the dark as well.

 

 "What's more, an ever-larger fraction of the funds collected must be put into running the overelaborate tax agency-maintaining records, pursuing tax delinquents-so the amount of credits available for good ,end useful purposes declines despite anything we can do.

 

 "In the end, the tax situation becomes overwhelming. It inspires discontent and rebellion. The history books tend to ascribe these things to greedy businessmen, to corrupt politicians, to brutal warriors, to ambitious viceroys-but these are just the individuals who take advantage of the tax overgrowth."

 

 The General said harshly, "Are you telling me that our tax system is overcomplicated?"

 

 Seldon said, "If it were not, it would be the only one in history that wasn't, as far as I know. If there is one thing that psychohistory tells me is inevitable, it is tax overgrowth."

 

 "And what do we do about it?"

 

 "That I cannot tell you. It is that for which I would like to prepare a report that-as you say-may take a while to get ready."

 

 "Never mind the report. The tax system is overcomplicated, isn't it? Isn't that what you are saying?"

 

 "It is possible that it is," said Seldon cautiously.

 

 "And to correct that, one must make the tax system simpler-as simple as possible, in fact."

 

 "I would have to study-"

 

 "Nonsense. The opposite of great complication is great simplicity. I don't need a report to tell me that."

 

 "As you say, General," said Seldon.

 

 At this point the General looked up suddenly, as though he had been called-as, indeed, he had been. His fists clenched and holovision images of Colonel Linn and Dors Venabili suddenly appeared in the room.

 

 Thunderstruck, Seldon exclaimed, "Dors! What are you doing here?"

 

 The General said nothing, but his brow furrowed into a frown.

 

 17

 

 The General had had a bad night and so, out of apprehension, had the colonel. They faced each other now-each at a loss.

 

 The General said, "Tell me again what this woman did."

 

 Linn seemed to have a heavy weight on his shoulders. "She's The Tiger Woman. That's what they call her. She doesn't seem to be quite human, somehow. She's some sort of impossibly trained athlete, full of self-confidence, and, General, she's quite frightening."

 

 "Did she frighten you? A single woman?"

 

 "Let me tell you exactly what she did and let me tell you a few other things about her. I don't know how true all the stories about her are, but what happened yesterday evening is true enough."

 

 He told the story again and the General listened, puffing out his cheeks.

 

 "Bad," he said. "What do we do?"

 

 "I think our course is plain before us. We want psychohistory-'

 

 "Yes, we do," said the General. "Seldon told me something about taxation that- But never mind. That is beside the point at the moment. Go on."