DEMERZEL, ETO-… While there is no question that Eto Demerzel was the real power in the government during much of the reign of Emperor Cleon I, historians are divided as to the nature of his rule. The classic interpretation is that he was another in the long line of strong and ruthless oppressors in the last century of the undivided Galactic Empire, but there are revisionist views that have surfaced and that insist his was, if a despotism, a benevolent one. Much is made, in this view, of his relationship with Hari Seldon though that remains forever uncertain, particularly during the unusual episode of Laskin Joranum, whose meteoric rise-
"I think Hari,"** said Yugo Amaryl, "that your friend Demerzel is in deep trouble." He emphasized the word "friend" very lightly and with unmistakable air of distaste.
Hari Seldon detected the sour note and ignored it. He looked up from his tricomputer and said, "I tell you again, Yugo, that that's nonsense." And then-with a trace of annoyance, just a trace-he added, "Why are you taking up my time by insisting?"
"Because I think it's important." Amaryl sat down defiantly. It was a gesture that indicated he was not going to be moved easily. Here he was and here he would stay.
Eight years before, he had been a heatsinker in the Dahl Sector-as low on the social scale as it was possible to be. He had been lifted out of that position by Seldon-**made into a mathematician and an intellectual-more than that, into a psychohistorian.
Never for one minute did he forget what he had been and who he was now and to whom he owed the change. That meant that if he had to speak harshly to Hari Seldon-for Seldon's own good-no consideration of respect and love for the older man and no regard for his own career would stop him. He owed such harshness-and much more-to Seldon.
"Look, Hari," he said, chopping at the air with his left hand, "for some reason that is beyond my understanding, you think highly of this Demerzel, but I don't. No one whose opinion I respect-except you-thinks well of him. I don't care what happens to him personally, Hari, but as long as I think you do, I have no choice but to bring this to your attention."
Seldon smiled, as much at the other's earnestness as at what he considered to be the uselessness of his concern. He was fond of Yugo Amaryl-more than fond. Yugo was one of the four people he had encountered during that short period of his life when he was in flight across the face of the planet Trantor-Eto Demerzel, Dors Venabili, Yugo Amaryl, and Raych-four, the likes of which he had not found since.
In a particular and, in each case, different way, these four were indispensable to him-Yugo Amaryl, because of his quick understanding of the principles of psychohistory and of his imaginative probings into new areas. It was comforting to know that if anything happened to Seldon himself before the mathematics of the field could be completely worked out-and how slowly it proceeded, and how mountainous the obstacles there would at least remain one good mind that would continue the research.
He said, "I'm sorry, Yugo. I don't mean to be impatient with you or to reject out of hand whatever it is you are so anxious to make me understand. It's just this job of mine; it's this business of being a department head-"
Amaryl found it his turn to smile and he repressed a slight chuckle. "I'm sorry, Hari, and I shouldn't laugh, but you have no natural aptitude for the position."
"As well I know, but I'll have to learn. I have to seem to be doing something harmless and there is nothing-nothing-more harmless than being the head of the Mathematics Department at Streeling University. I can fill my day with unimportant tasks, so that no one need know or ask about the course of our psychohistorical research, but the trouble is, I do fill my day with unimportant tasks and I have insufficient time to-" His eyes glanced around his office at the material stored in computers to which only he and Amaryl had the key and which, even if anyone else stumbled upon them, had been carefully phrased in an invented symbology that no one else would understand.
Amaryl said, "Once you work your way further into your duties, you'll begin to delegate and then you'll have more time."
"I hope so," said Seldon dubiously. "But tell me, what is it about Eto Demerzel that is so important?"
"Simply that Eto Demerzel, our great Emperor's First Minister, is busily creating an insurrection."
Seldon frowned. "Why would he want to do that?"
"I didn't say he wants to. He's simply doing it-whether he knows it or not-and with considerable help from some of his political enemies. That's all right with me, you understand. I think that, under ideal conditions, it would be a good thing to have him out of the Palace, off Trantor… beyond the Empire, for that matter. But you think highly of him, as I've said, and so I'm warning you, because I suspect that you are not following the recent political course of events as closely as you should."
"There are more important things to do," said Seldon mildly.
"Like psychohistory. I agree. But how are we going to develop psychohistory with any hope of success if we remain ignorant of politics? I mean, present-day politics. Now-now-is the time when the present is turning into the future. We can't just study the past. We know what happened in the past. It's against the present and the near future that we can check our results."
"It seems to me," said Seldon, "that I have heard this argument before."
"And you'll hear it again. It doesn't seem to do me any good to explain this to you."
Seldon sighed, sat back in his chair, and regarded Amaryl with a smile. The younger man could be abrasive, but he took psychohistory seriously-and that repaid all.
Amaryl still had the mark of his early years as a heatsinker. He had the broad shoulders and the muscular build of one who had been used to hard physical labor. He had not allowed his body to turn flabby and that was a good thing, for it inspired Seldon to resist the impulse to spend all of his time at the desk as well. He did not have Amaryl’s sheer physical strength, but he still had his own talents as a Twister-for all that he had just turned forty and could not keep it up forever. But for now, he would continue. Thanks to his daily workouts, his waist was still trim, his legs and arms firm.
He said, "This concern for Demerzel cannot be purely a matter of his being a friend of mine. You must have some other motive."
"There's no puzzle to that. As long as you're a friend of Demerzel, your position here at the University is secure and you can continue to work on psychohistorical research."
"There you are. So I do have a reason to be friends with him. It isn't beyond your understanding at all."
"You have an interest in cultivating him. That, I understand. But as for friendship-that, I don't understand. However-if Demerzel lost power, quite apart from the effect it might have on your position, then Cleon himself would be running the Empire and the rate of its decline would increase. Anarchy might then be upon us before we have worked out all the implications of psychohistory and made it possible for the science to save all humanity."
"I see. But, you know, I honestly don't think that we're going to work out psychohistory in time to prevent the Fall of the Empire."
"Even if we could not prevent the Fall, we could cushion the effects, couldn't we?"
"Perhaps."
"There you are, then. The longer we have to work in peace, the greater the chance we will have to prevent the Fall or, at least, ameliorate the effects. Since that is the case, working backward, it may be necessary to save Demerzel, whether we-or, at least, I-like it or not."
"Yet you just said that you would like to see him out of the Palace and away from Trantor and beyond the Empire."
"Yes, under ideal conditions, I said. But we are not living under ideal conditions and we need our First Minister, even if he is an instrument of repression and despotism."
"I see. But why do you think the Empire is so close to dissolution that the loss of a First Minister will bring it about?"
"Psychohistory."
"Are you using it for predictions? We haven't even gotten the framework in place. What predictions can you make?"
"There's intuition, Hari."
"There's always been intuition. We want something more, don't we? We want a mathematical treatment that will give us probabilities of specific future developments under this condition or that. If intuition suffices to guide us, we don't need psychohistory at all."
"It's not necessarily a matter of one or the other, Hari. I'm talking about both: the combination, which may be better than either-at least until psychohistory is perfected."
"If ever," said Seldon. "But tell me, where does this danger to Demerzel arise? What is it that is likely to harm him or overthrow him? Are we talking about Demerzel's overthrow?"
"Yes," said Amaryl and a grim look settled on his face.
"Then tell me. Have pity on my ignorance."
Amaryl flushed. "You're being condescending, Hari. Surely you've heard of Jo-Jo Joranum."
"Certainly. He's a demagogue- Wait, where's he from? Nishaya, right? A very unimportant world. Goat herding, I think. High-quality cheeses."
"That's it. Not just a demagogue, however. He commands a strong following and it's getting stronger. He aims, he says, for social justice and greater political involvement by the people."
"Yes," said Seldon. "I've heard that much. His slogan is: `Government belongs to the people.'"
"Not quite, Hari. He says: `Government is the people.'"
Seldon nodded. "Well, you know, I rather sympathize with the thought."
"So do I. I'm all for it-if Joranum meant it. But he doesn't, except as a stepping-stone. It's a path, not a goal. He wants to get rid of Demerzel. After that it will be easy to manipulate Cleon. Then Joranum will take the throne himself and he will be the people. You've told me yourself that there have been a number of episodes of this sort in Imperial history-and these days the Empire is weaker and less stable than it used to be. A blow which, in earlier centuries, merely staggered it might now shatter it. The Empire will welter in civil war and never recover and we won't have psychohistory in place to teach us what must be done."
"Yes, I see your point, but surely it's not going to be that easy to get rid of Demerzel."
"You don't know how strong Joranum is growing."
"It doesn't matter how strong he's growing." A shadow of thought seemed to pass over Seldon's brow. "I wonder that his parents came to name him Jo-Jo. There's something juvenile about that name."
"His parents had nothing to do with it. His real name is Laskin, a very common name on Nishaya. He chose Jo-Jo himself, presumably from the first syllable of his last name."
"The more fool he, wouldn't you say?"
"No, I wouldn't. His followers shout it Jo… Jo… Jo… Jo'-over and over. It's hypnotic."
"Well," said Seldon, making a move to return to his tricomputer and adjust the multidimensional simulation it had created, "we'll see what happens."
"Can you be that casual about it? I'm telling you the danger is imminent."
"No, it isn't," said Seldon, eyes steely, his voice suddenly hardening. "You don't have all the facts."
"What facts don't I have?"
"We'll discuss that another time, Yugo. For now, continue with your work and let me worry about Demerzel and the state of the Empire."
Amaryl's lips tightened, but the habit of obedience to Seldon was strong. "Yes, Hari."
But not overwhelmingly strong. He turned at the door and said, "You're making a mistake, Hari."
Seldon smiled slightly. "I don't think so, but I have heard your warning and I will not forget. Still, all will be well."
And as Amaryl left, Seldon's smile faded. Would, indeed, all be well?
But Seldon, while he did not forget Amaryl's warning, did not think of it with any great degree of concentration. His fortieth birthday came and went-with the usual psychological blow.
Forty! He was not young any longer. Life no longer stretched before him as a vast uncharted field, its horizon lost in the distance. He had been on Trantor for eight years and the time had passed quickly. Another eight years and he would be nearly fifty. Old age would be looming.
And he had not even made a decent beginning in psychohistory? Yugo Amaryl spoke brightly of laws and worked out his equations by making daring assumptions based on intuition. But how could one possibly test those assumptions? Psychohistory was not yet an experimental science. The complete study of psychohistory would require experiments that would involve worlds of people, centuries of time-and a total lack of ethical responsibility.
It posed an impossible problem and he resented having to spend any time whatever on departmental tasks, so he walked home at the end of the day in a morose mood.
Ordinarily he could always count on a walk through the campus to rouse his spirits. Streeling University was high-domed and the campus gave the feeling of being out in the open without the necessity of enduring the kind of weather he had experienced on his one (and only) visit to the Imperial Palace. There were trees, lawns, walks, almost as though he were on the campus of his old college on his home world of Helicon.
The illusion of cloudiness had been arranged for the day with the sunlight (no sun, of course, just sunlight) appearing and disappearing at odd intervals. And it was a little cool, just a little.
It seemed to Seldon that the cool days came a little more frequently than they used to. Was Trantor saving energy? Was it increasing inefficiency? Or (and he scowled inwardly as he thought it) was he getting old and was his blood getting thin? He placed his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched up his shoulders.
Usually he did not bother guiding himself consciously. His body knew the way perfectly from his offices to his computer room and from there to his apartment and back. Generally he negotiated the path with his thoughts elsewhere, but today a sound penetrated his consciousness. A sound without meaning.
"Jo… Jo… Jo… Jo…"
It was rather soft and distant, but it brought back a memory. Yes, Amaryl's warning. The demagogue. Was he here on campus?
His legs swerved without Seldon's making a conscious decision and brought him over the low rise to the University Field, which was used for calisthenics, sports, and student oratory.
In the middle of the Field was a moderate-sized crowd of students who were chanting enthusiastically. On a platform was someone he didn't recognize, someone with a loud voice and a swaying rhythm.
It wasn't this man, Joranum, however. He had seen Joranum on holovision a number of times. Since Amaryl's warning, Seldon had paid close attention. Joranum was large and smiled with a kind of vicious camaraderie. He had thick sandy hair and light blue eyes.
This speaker was small, if anything-thin, wide-mouthed, dark-haired, and loud. Seldon wasn't listening to the words, though he did hear the phrase "power from the one to the many" and the many-voiced shout in response.
Fine, thought Seldon, but just how does he intend to bring this about-and is he serious?
He was at the outskirts of the crowd now and looked around far someone he knew. He spotted Finangelos, a pre-math undergraduate. Not a bad young man, dark and woolly-haired.
"Finangelos," he called out.
"Professor Seldon" said Finangelos after a moment of staring as though unable to recognize Seldon without a keyboard at his fingertips he trotted over. "Did you come to listen to this guy?"
"I didn't come for any purpose but to find out what the noise was. Who is he?"
"His name is Namarti, Professor. He's speaking for Jo-Jo."
"I hear that, " said Seldon as he listened to the chant again. It began each time the speaker made a telling point, apparently. "But who is this Namarti? I don't recognize the name. What department is he in?"
"He's not a member of the University, Professor. He's one of Jo-Jo's men."
"If he's not a member of the University, he has no right to speak here without a permit. Does he have one, do you suppose?"
"I wouldn't know, Professor."
"Well then, let's find out."
Seldon started into the crowd, but Finangelos caught his sleeve. "Don't start anything, Professor. He's got goons with him."
There were six young men behind the speaker, spaced rather widely, legs apart, arms folded, scowling.
"Goons?"
"For rough stuff, in case anyone tries anything funny."
"Then he's certainly not a member of the University and even a permit wouldn't cover what you call his 'goons'. Finangelos, signal through to the University security officers. They should have been here by now without a signal."
"I guess they don't want trouble," muttered Finangelos. "Please, Professor, don't try anything. If you want me to get the security officers, I will, but you just wait till they come."
"Maybe I can break this up before they come."
He began pushing his way through. It wasn't difficult. Some of those present recognized him and all could see the professorial shoulder patch. He reached the platform, placed his hands on it, and vaulted up the three feet with a small grunt. He thought, with chagrin, that he could have done it with one hand ten years before and without the grunt.
He straightened up. The speaker had stopped talking and was looking at him with wary and ice-hard eyes.
Seldon said calmly, "Your permit to address the students, sir."
"Who are you?" said the speaker. He said it loudly, his voice carrying.
"I'm a member of the faculty of this University," said Seldon, equally loudly. "Your permit, sir?"
"I deny your right to question me on the matter." The young men behind the speaker had gathered closer.
"If you have none, I would advise you to leave the University grounds immediately."
"And if I don't?"
"Well, for one thing, the University security officers are on their way." He turned to the crowd. "Students," he called out, "we have the right of free speech and freedom of assembly on this campus, but it can be taken away from us if we allow outsiders, without permits, to make unauthorized-"
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he winced. He turned around and found it was one of the men Finangelos had referred to as "goons."
The man said, with a heavy accent whose provenance Seldon could not immediately identify, "Get out of here fast. "
"What good will that do?" said Seldon. "The security officers will be here any minute."
"In that case," said Namarti with a feral grin, "there'll be a riot. That doesn't scare us."
"Of course it wouldn't," said Seldon. "You'd like it, but there won't be a riot. You'll all go quietly." He turned again to the students and shrugged off the hand on his shoulder. "We'll see to that, won't we?"
Someone in the crowd shouted, "That's Professor Seldon! He's all right! Don't pound him!"
Seldon sensed ambivalence in the crowd. There would be some, he knew, who would welcome a dust-up with the University security officers, just on general principles. On the other hand, there had to be some who liked him personally and still others who did not know him but who would not want to see violence against a member of the faculty.
A woman's voice rang out. "Watch out, Professor!"
Seldon sighed and regarded the large young men he faced. He didn't know if he could do it, if his reflexes were quick enough, his muscles sturdy enough, even given his prowess at Twisting.
One goon was approaching him, overconfidently of course. Not quickly, which gave Seldon a little of the time his aging body would need. The goon held out his arm confrontationally, which made it easier.
Seldon seized the arm, whirled, and bent, arm up, and then down (with a grunt-why did he have to grunt?), and the goon went flying through the air, propelled partly by his own momentum. He landed with a thump on the outer edge of the platform, his right shoulder dislocated.
There was a wild cry from the audience at this totally unexpected development. Instantly an institutional pride erupted.
"Take them, Prof!" a lone voice shouted. Others took up the cry.
Seldon smoothed back his hair, trying not to puff. With his foot he shoved the groaning fallen goon off the platform.
"Anyone else?" he asked pleasantly. "Or will you leave quietly?"
He faced Namarti and his five henchmen and as they paused irresolutely, Seldon said, "I warn you. The crowd is on my side now. If you try to rush me, they'll take you apart. Okay, who's next? Let's go. One at a time."
He had raised his voice with the last sentence and made small come-hither motions with his fingers. The crowd yelled its pleasure.
Namarti stood there stolidly. Seldon leaped past him and caught his neck in the crook of his arm. Students were climbing onto the platform now, shouting "One at a time! One at a time!" and getting between the bodyguards and Seldon.
Seldon increased the pressure on the other's windpipe and whispered in his ear, "There's a way to do this, Namarti, and I know how: I've practiced it for years. If you make a move and try to break away, I'll ruin your larynx so that you'll never talk above a whisper again. If you value your voice, do as I say. When I let up, you tell your bunch of bullies to leave. If you say anything else, they'll be the last words you'll say normally. And if you ever come back to this campus again, no more Mr. Nice Guy. I'll finish the job."
He released the pressure momentarily. Namarti said huskily, "All of you. Get out." They retreated rapidly, helping their stricken comrade.
When the University security officers arrived a few moments later, Seldon said, "Sorry, gentlemen. False alarm."
He left the Field and resumed his walk home with more than a little chagrin. He had revealed a side of himself he did not want to reveal. He was Hari Seldon, mathematician, not Hari Seldon, sadistic twister.
Besides, he thought gloomily, Dors would hear of this. In fact, he'd better tell her himself, lest she hear a version that made the incident seem worse than it really was.
She would not be pleased.
She wasn't.
Dors was waiting for him at the door of their apartment in an easy stance, hand on one hip, looking very much as she had when he had first met her at this very University eight years before: slim, shapely, with curly reddish-gold hair-very beautiful in his eyes but not very beautiful in any objective sense, though he had never been able to assess her objectively after the first few days of their friendship.
Dors Venabili! That's what he thought when he saw her calm face. There were many worlds, even many sectors on Trantor where it would have been common to call her Dors Seldon, but that, he always thought, would put the mark of ownership on her and he did not wish it, even though the custom was sanctioned by existence back into the vague mists of the pre-Imperial past.
Dors said, softly and with a sad shake of her head that barely disturbed her loose curls, "I've heard, Hari. Just what am I going to do with you?"
"A kiss would not be amiss."
"Well, perhaps, but only after we probe this a little. Come in." The door closed behind them. "You know, dear, I have my course and my research. I'm still doing that dreadful history of the Kingdom of Trantor, which you tell me is essential to your own work. Shall I drop it all and take to wandering around with you, protecting you? It's still my job, you know. It's more than ever my job, now that you're making progress with psychohistory."
"Making progress? I wish I were. But you needn't protect me."
"Needn't I? I sent Raych out looking for you. After all, you were late and I was concerned. You usually tell me when you're going to be late. I'm sorry if that makes me sound as though I'm your keeper, Hari, but I am your keeper."
"Does it occur to you, Keeper Dors, that every once in a while I like to slip my leash?"
"And if something happens to you, what do I tell Demerzel?"
"Am I too late for dinner? Have we clicked for kitchen service?"
"No. I was waiting for you. And as long as you're here, you click it. You're a great deal pickier than I am when it comes to food. And don't change the subject."
"Didn't Raych tell you that I was all right? So what's there to talk about?"
"When he found you, you were in control of the situation and he got back here first, but not by much. I didn't hear any details. Tell me-What-were-you-doing?"
Seldon shrugged. "There was an illegal gathering, Dors, and I broke it up. The University could have gotten a good deal of trouble it didn't need if I hadn't."
"And it was up to you to prevent it? Hari. you're not a Twister anymore. You're a -"
He put in hastily, "An old man?"
"For a Twister, yes. You're forty. How do you feel?"
"Well-A little stiff."
"I can well imagine. And one of these days, when you try to pretend you're a young Heliconian athlete, you'll break a rib. Now tell me about it."
"Well, I told you how Amaryl warned me that Demerzel was in trouble because of the demagoguery of Jo-Jo Joranum."
"Jo-Jo. Yes, I know that much. What don't I know? What happened today?"
"There was a rally at the Field. A Jo-Jo partisan named Namarti was addressing the crowd-"
"Namarti is Gambol Deen Namarti, Joranum's right-hand man."
"Well, you know more about it than I do. In any case, he was addressing a large crowd and he had no permit and I think he was hoping there would be some sort of riot. They feed on these disorders and if he could close down the University even temporarily, he would charge Demerzel with the destruction of academic freedom. I gather they blame him for everything. So I stopped them. Sent them off without a riot."
"You sound proud."
"Why not? Not bad for a man of forty."
"Is that why you did it? To test your status at forty?"
Seldon thoughtfully clicked the dinner menu. Then he said, "No. I really was concerned that the University would get into needless trouble. And I was concerned about Demerzel. I'm afraid that Yugo's tales of danger had impressed me more than I realized. That was stupid, Dors, because I know that Demerzel can take care of himself. I couldn't explain that to Yugo or to anyone but you."
He drew in a deep breath. "It's amazing what a pleasure it is that I can at least talk to you about it. You know and I know and Demerzel knows and no one else knows-at least, that I know of-that Demerzel is untouchable."
Dors touched a contact on a recessed wall panel and the dining section of their living quarters lit up with a soft peach-colored glow. Together, she and Hari walked to the table, which was already set with linen, crystal, and utensils. As they sat, the dinner began to arrive-there was never any long delay at this time of evening-and Seldon accepted it quite casually. He had long since grown accustomed to the social position that made it unnecessary for them to patronize the faculty dinners.
Seldon savored the seasonings they had learned to enjoy during their stay at Mycogen-the only thing about that strange, male-dominated, religion-permeated, living-in-the-past sector they had not detested.
Dors said softly, "How do you mean, 'untouchable'?"
"Come, dear, he can alter emotions. You haven't forgotten that. If Joranum really became dangerous, he could be"-he made a vague gesture with his hands- "altered: made to change his mind."
Dors looked uncomfortable and the meal proceeded in an unusual silence. It wasn't until it was over and the remains-dishes, cutlery, and all-swirled down the disposal chute in the center of the table (which then smoothly covered itself over) that she said, "I'm not sure I want to talk about this, Hari, but I can't let you be fooled by your own innocence."
"Innocence?" He frowned.
"Yes. We've never talked about this. I never thought it would come up, but Demerzel has shortcomings. He is not untouchable, he may be harmed, and Joranum is indeed a danger to him."
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I am. You don't understand robots-certainly not one as complex as Demerzel. And I do."
There was a short silence again, but only because thoughts are silent. Seldon's were tumultuous enough.
Yes, it was true. His wife did seem to have an uncanny knowledge of robots. Hari had wondered about this so often over the years that he had finally given up, tucked it away in the back of his mind. If it hadn't been for Eto Demerzel-a robot-Hari would never have met Dors. For Dors worked for Demerzel; it was Demerzel who "assigned" Dors to Hari's case eight years ago to protect him during his flight throughout the various sectors of Trantor. Even though now she was his wife, his help-meet**, his "better half," Hari still occasionally wondered about Dors's strange connection with the robot Demerzel. It was the only area of Dors's life where Hari truly felt he did not belong-nor welcome. And that brought to mind the most painful question of all: Was it out of obedience to Demerzel that Dors stayed with Hari or was it out of love for him? He wanted to believe the latter-and yet…
His life with Dors Venabili was a happy one, but it was so at a cost, at a condition. The condition was all the more stringent, in that it had been settled not through discussion or agreement but by a mutual unspoken understanding.
Seldon understood that he found in Dors everything he would have wanted in a wife. True, he had no children, but he had neither expected any, nor, to tell the truth, had greatly wanted any. He had Raych, who was as much a son of his emotionally as if he had inherited the entire Seldonian genome-perhaps more so.
The mere fact that Dors was causing him to think about the matter was breaking the agreement that had kept them in peace and comfort all these years and he felt a faint but growing resentment at that.
But he pushed those thoughts, the questions, away again. He had learned to accept her role as his protector and would continue to do so. After all, it was he with whom she shared a home, a table, and a bed-not Eto Demerzel.
Dors's voice brought him out of his reverie.
"I said-Are you sulking, Hari?"
He started slightly, for there was the sound of repetition in her voice, and he realized he had been shrinking steadily deeper into his mind and away from her.
"I'm sorry, dear. I'm not sulking. Not deliberately sulking. I'm just wondering how I ought to respond to your statement."
"About robots?" She seemed quite calm as she said the word.
"You said I don't know as much about them as you do. How do I respond to that?" He paused, then added quietly (knowing he was taking a chance), "That is, without offense."
"I didn't say you didn't know about robots. If you're going to quote me, do so with precision. I said you didn't understand about robots. I'm sure that you know a great deal, perhaps more than I do, but to know is not necessarily to understand."
"Now, Dors, you're deliberately speaking in paradoxes to be annoying. A paradox arises only out of an ambiguity that deceives either unwittingly or by design. I don't like that in science and I don't like it in casual conversation, either, unless it is meant humorously, which I think is not the case now."
Dors laughed in her particular way, softly, almost as though amusement were too precious to be shared in an overliberal manner. "Apparently the paradox has annoyed you into pomposity and you are always humorous when you are pompous. However, I'll explain. It's not my intention to annoy you." She reached over to pat his hand and it was to Seldon's surprise (and slight embarrassment) that he found that he had clenched his hand into a fist.
Dors said, "You talk about psychohistory a great deal. To me, at any rate. You know that?"
Seldon cleared his throat. "I throw myself on your mercy as far as that's concerned. The project is secret-by its very nature. Psychohistory won't work unless the people it affects know nothing about it, so I can talk about it only to Yugo and to you. To Yugo, it is all intuition. He's brilliant, but he is so apt to leap wildly into darkness that I must play the role of caution, of forever pulling him back. But I have my wild thoughts, too, and it helps me to be able to hear them aloud, even"-and he smiled-"when I have a pretty good notion that you don't understand a word I'm saying."
"I know I'm your sounding board and I don't mind. I really don't mind, Hari, so don't begin making inner resolutions to change your behavior. Naturally I don't understand your mathematics. I'm just a historian-and not even a historian of science. The influence of economic change on political development is what is taking up my time now-"
"Yes, and I'm your sounding board on that or hadn't you noticed? I'll need it for psychohistory when the time comes, so I suspect you'll be an indispensable help to me."
"Good! Now that we've settled why you stay with me-I knew it couldn't be for my ethereal beauty-let me go on to explain that occasionally, when your discussion veers away from the strictly mathematical aspects, it seems to me that I get your drift. You have, on a number of occasions, explained what you call the necessity of minimalism. I think I understand that. By it, you mean-"
"I know what I mean."
Dors looked hurt. "Less lofty, please, Hari. I'm not trying to explain to you. I want to explain it to myself. You say you're my sounding board, so act like one. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it?"
"Turnabout is fine, but if you're going to accuse me of loftiness when I say one little-"
``Enough! Shut up! You have told me that minimalism is of the highest importance in applied psychohistory; in the art of attempting to change an undesired development into a desired one or, at any rate, a toss undesired one. You have said that a change must be applied that is as minute, as minimal, as possible-"
"Yes," said Seldon eagerly, "that is because-"
"No, Hari. I'm trying to explain. We both know that you understand it. You must have minimalism because every change, any change, has a myriad of side effects that can't always be allowed for. If the change is side effects too many, then it becomes certain that the outcome will be far removed from anything you've planned and that it would be entirely unpredictable."
"Right," said Seldon. "That's the essence of a chaotic-effect. The problem is whether any change is small enough to make the consequence reasonably predictable or whether human history is inevitably and unalterably chaotic in every respect. It was that which, at the start, made me think that psychohistory was not-"
"I know, but you're not letting me make my point. Whether any change would be small enough is not the issue. The point is that any change greater than the minimal is chaotic. The required minimum may be zero, but if it is not zero, then it is still very small-and it would be a major problem to find some change that is small enough and yet is significantly greater than zero. Now, that, I gather, is what you mean by the necessity of minimalism."
"More or less," said Seldon. "Of course, as always, the matter is expressed more compactly and more rigorously in the language of mathematics. See here-"
"Save me," said Dors. "Since you know this about psychohistory, Hari, you ought to know it about Demerzel, too. You have the knowledge but not the understanding, because it apparently doesn't occur to you to apply the rules of psychohistory to the Laws of Robotics."
To which Seldon replied faintly, "Now I don't see what you're getting at.
"He requires minimality, too, doesn't he, Hari? By the First Law of Robotics, a robot can't harm a human being. That is the prime rule for the usual robot, but Demerzel is something quite unusual and for him, the Zeroth Law is a reality and it takes precedence even over the First Law. The Zeroth Law states that a robot can't harm humanity as a whole. But that puts Demerzel into the same bind in which you exist when you labor at psychohistory. Do you see?"
"I'm beginning to."
"I hope so. If Demerzel has the ability to change minds, he has to do so without bringing about side effects he does not wish-and since he is the Emperor's First Minister, the side effects he must worry about are numerous, indeed."
"And the application to the present case?"
"Think about it! You can't tell anyone-except me, of course-that Demerzel is a robot, because he has adjusted you so that you can't. But how much adjustment did that take? Do you want to tell people that he is a robot? Do you want to ruin his effectiveness when you depend on him for protection, for support of your grants, for influence quietly exerted on your behalf? Of course not. The change he had to make then was a very tiny one, just enough to keep you from blurting it out in a moment of excitement or carelessness. It is so small a change that there are no particular side effects. That is how Demerzel tries to run the Empire generally."
"And the case of Joranum?"
"Is obviously completely different from yours. He is, for whatever motives, unalterably opposed to Demerzel. Undoubtedly, Demerzel could change that, but it would be at the price of introducing a considerable wrench in Joranum's makeup that would bring about results Demerzel could not predict. Rather than take the chance of harming Joranum, of producing side effects that would harm others and, possibly, all of humanity, he must leave Joranum alone until he can find some small change-some small change-that will save the situation without harm. That is why Yugo is right and why Demerzel is vulnerable."
Seldon had listened but did not respond. He seemed lost in thought. Minutes passed before he said, "If Demerzel can do nothing in this matter, then I must."
"If he can do nothing, what can you do?"
"The case is different. I am not bound by the Laws of Robotics. I need not concern myself obsessively with minimalism. And to begin with, I must see Demerzel."
Dors looked faintly anxious. "Must you? Surely it wouldn't be wise to advertise a connection between the two of you."
"We have reached a time where we can't make a fetish of pretending there is no connection. Naturally I won't go to see him behind a flourish of trumpets and an announcement on holovision, but I must see him."
Seldon found himself raging at the passage of time. Eight years ago, when he had first arrived on Trantor, he could take instant action. He had only a hotel room and its contents to forsake and he could range through the sectors of Trantor at will.
Now he found himself with department meetings, with decisions to make, with work to do. It was not so easy to dash off at will to see Demerzel-and if he could, Demerzel also had a-full schedule of his own. To find a time when they both could meet would not be easy.**
Nor was it easy to have Dors shake her head at him. "I don't know what you intend to do, Hari."
And he answered impatiently, "I don't know what I intend to do, either, Dors. I hope to find out when I see Demerzel."
"Your first duty is to psychohistory. He'll tell you so."
"Perhaps. I'll find out."
And then, just as he had arranged a time for the meeting with the First Minister, eight days hence, he received a message on his department office wall screen in slightly archaic lettering. And to match that was the more than slightly archaic message: I CRAVE AN AUDIENCE WITH PROFESSOR HARI SELDON.
Seldon stared at it with astonishment. Even the Emperor was not addressed in quite that centuries-old turn of phrase.
Nor was the signature printed as it usually was for clarity. It was scripted with a flourish that left it perfectly legible and yet gave it the aura of a careless work of art dashed off by a master. The signature was: LASKIN JORANUM. It was Jo-Jo himself, craving an audience.
Seldon found himself chuckling. It was clear why the choice of words-and why the script. It made what was a simple request a device for stimulating curiosity. Seldon had no great desire to meet the man-or would have had none ordinarily. But what was worth the archaism and the artistry? He wanted to find out.
He had his secretary set the time and the place of the appointment. It would be in his office, certainly not in his apartment. A business conversation, nothing social.
And it would come before the projected meeting with Demerzel.
Dors said, "It's no surprise to me, Hari. You hurt two of his people, one of them his chief aide; you spoiled a little rally he was holding; and you made him, in the person of his representatives, seem foolish. He wants to take a look at you and I think I had better be with you."
Seldon shook his head. "I'll take Raych. He knows all the tricks I know and he's a strong and active twenty-year-old. Although I'm sure there'll be no need for protection."
"How can you be sure?"
"Joranum is coming to see me on the University grounds. There will be any number of youngsters in the vicinity. I'm not exactly an unpopular figure with the student body and I suspect that Joranum is the kind of man who does his homework and knows that I'll be safe on home territory. I'm sure that he will be perfectly polite-completely friendly."
"Hmph," said Dors with a light twist of one corner of her lip.
"And quite deadly," Seldon finished.
Hari Seldon kept his face expressionless and bent his head just sufficiently to allow a sense of reasonable courtesy. He had taken the trouble to look up a variety of holographs of Joranum, but, as is often the case, the real thing, unguarded, shifting constantly in response to changing conditions, is never quite the same as a holograph-however carefully prepared. Perhaps, thought Seldon, it is the response of the viewer to the "real thing" that makes it different.
Joranum was a tall man-as tall as Seldon, at any rate-but larger in other directions. It was not due to a muscular physique, for he gave the impression of softness, without quite being fat. A rounded face, a thick head of hair that was sandy rather than yellow, light blue eyes. He wore a subdued coverall and his face bore a half-smile that gave the illusion of friendliness, while making it clear, somehow, that it was only an illusion.
"Professor Seldon"-his voice was deep and under strict control, an orator's voice-"I am delighted to meet you. It is kind of you to permit this meeting. I trust you are not offended that I have brought a companion, my right-hand man, with me, although I have not cleared that with you in advance. He is Gambol Deen Namarti-three names, you notice. I believe you have met him."
"Yes, I have. I remember the incident well." Seldon looked at Namarti with a touch of the sardonic. At the previous encounter, Namarti had been speaking at the University Field. Seldon viewed him carefully now-under relaxed conditions. Namarti was of moderate height, with a thin face, sallow complexion, dark hair, and a wide mouth. He did not have Joranum's half-smile or any noticeable expression-except for a sense of cautious wariness.
"My friend Dr. Namarti-his degree is in ancient literature-has come at his own request," said Joranum, his smile intensifying a bit, "to apologize."
Joranum glanced quickly at Namarti-and Namarti, his lips tightening just at first, said in a colorless voice, "I am sorry, Professor, for what happened at the Field. I was not quite aware of the strict rules governing University rallies and I was a little carried away by my own enthusiasm."
"Understandably so," said Joranum. "Nor was he entirely aware of your identity. I think we may all now forget the matter."
"I assure you, gentlemen," said Seldon, "that I have no great desire to remember it. This is my son, Raych Seldon, so you see I have a companion, too."
Raych had grown a mustache, black and abundant-the masculine mark of the Dahlite. He had had none when he first met Seldon eight years before, when he was a street boy, ragged and hungry. He was short but lithe and sinewy and his expression was the haughty one he had adopted in order to add a few spiritual inches to his physical height.
"Good morning, young man," said Joranum.
"Good morning, sir," said Raych.
"Please sit down, gentlemen," said Seldon. "May I offer you something to eat or drink?"
Joranum held up his hands in polite refusal. "No, sir. This is not a social call." He seated himself in the place indicated. "Though I hope there will be many such calls in the future."
"If this is to be about business, then let's begin."
"The news reached me, Professor Seldon, of the little incident that you have so kindly agreed to forget and I wondered why you took the chance of doing what you did. It was a risk, you must admit."
"I didn't think so, actually."
"But I did. So I took the liberty of finding out everything I could about you, Professor Seldon. You're an interesting man. From Helicon, I discovered."
"Yes, that's where I was born. The records are clear."
"And you've been here on Trantor for eight years."
"That is also a matter of public record."
"And you made yourself quite famous at the start by delivering a mathematical paper on-what do you call it?-psychohistory?"
Seldon shook his head very slightly. How often he had regretted that indiscretion. Of course, he had had no idea at the time that it was an indiscretion. He said, "A youthful enthusiasm. It came to nothing."
"Is that so?" Joranum looked around him with an air of pleased surprise. "Yet here you are, the head of the Mathematics Department at one of Trantor's greatest Universities, and only forty years old, I believe. I'm forty-two, by the way, so I don't look upon you as very old at all. You must be a very competent mathematician to be in this position."
Seldon shrugged. "I wouldn't care to make a judgment in that matter."
"Or you must have powerful friends."
"We would all like to have powerful friends, Mr. Joranum, but I think you will find none here. University professors rarely have powerful friends or, I sometimes think, friends of any kind." He smiled.
And so did Joranum. "Wouldn't you consider the Emperor a powerful friend, Professor Seldon?"
"I certainly would, but what has that to do with me?"
"I am under the impression that the Emperor is a friend of yours."
"I'm sure the records will show, Mr. Joranum, that I had an audience with His Imperial Majesty eight years ago. It lasted perhaps an hour or less and I saw no signs of any great friendliness in him at the time. Nor have I spoken to him since-or even seen him-except on holovision, of course."
"But, Professor, it is not necessary to see or speak to the Emperor to have him as a powerful friend. It is sufficient to see or speak to Eto Demerzel, the Emperor's First Minister. Demerzel is your protector and, since he is, we may as well say the Emperor is."
"Do you find First Minister Demerzel's supposed protection of me anywhere in the records? Or anything at all in the records from which you can deduce that protection?"
"Why search the records when it is well known that there is a connection between the two of you. You know it and I know it. Let us take it then as given and continue. And please"-he raised his hands-"do not take the trouble to give me any heartfelt denials. It's a waste of time."
"Actually," said Seldon, "I was going to ask why you should think that he would want to protect me. To what end?"
"Professor? Are you trying to hurt me by pretending to think I am a monster of naivete? I mentioned your psychohistory, which Demerzel wants."
"And I told you that it was a youthful indiscretion that came to nothing."
"You may tell me a great many things, Professor. I am not compelled to accept what you tell me. Come, let me speak frankly. I have read your original paper and have tried to understand it with the help of some mathematicians on my staff. They tell me it is a wild dream and quite impossible-"
"I quite agree with them," said Seldon.
"But I have the feeling that Demerzel is waiting for it to be developed and put to use. And if he can wait, so can I. It would be more useful to you, Professor Seldon, to have me wait."
"Why so?"
"Because Demerzel will not endure in his position for much longer. Public opinion is turning against him steadily. It may be that when the Emperor wearies of an unpopular First Minister who threatens to drag the throne down with him, he will find a replacement. It may even be my poor self whom the Emperor's fancy will seize upon. And you will still need a protector, someone who can see to it that you can work in peace and with ample funds for whatever you need in the way of equipment and assistants."
"And would you be that protector?"
"Of course-and for the same reason that Demerzel is. I want a successful psychohistoric technique so that I can rule the Empire more efficiently."
Seldon nodded thoughtfully, waited a moment, then said, "But in that case, Mr. Joranum, why must I concern myself in this? I am a poor scholar, living a quiet life, engaged in out-of-the-way mathematical and pedagogical activities. You say that Demerzel is my present protector and that you will be my future protector. I can go quietly about my business, then. You and the First Minister may fight it out. Whoever prevails, I have a protector still-or, at least, so you tell me."
Joranum's fixed smile seemed to fade a bit. Namarti, at his side, turned his dour face toward Joranum and made as though to say something, but Joranum's hand moved slightly and Namarti coughed and did not speak.
Joranum said, "Dr. Seldon. Are you a patriot?"
"Why, of course. The Empire has given humanity millennia of peace-mostly peace, at any rate-and fostered steady advancement."
"So it has-but at a slower pace in the last century or two."
Seldon shrugged. "I have not studied such matters."
"You don't have to. You know that, politically, the last century or two has been a time of turmoil. Imperial reigns have been short and sometimes have been shortened further by assassination-"
"Even mentioning that," put in Seldon, "is close to treason. I'd rather you didn't-"
"Well, there." Joranum threw himself back in his seat. "See how insecure you are. The Empire is decaying. I'm willing to say so openly. Those who follow me do so because they know only too well it is. We need someone at the Emperor's right hand who can control the Empire, subdue the rebellious impulses that seem to be arising everywhere, give the armed forces the natural leadership they should have, lead the economy-"
Seldon made an impatient stopping motion with his arm. "And you're the one to do it, are you?"
"I intend to be the one. It won't be an easy job and I doubt there would be many volunteers-for good reason. Certainly Demerzel can't do it. Under him, the decline of the Empire is accelerating to a total breakdown."
"But you can stop it?"
"Yes, Dr. Seldon. With your help. With psychohistory."
"Perhaps Demerzel could stop the breakdown with psychohistory-if psychohistory existed."
Joranum said calmly, "It exists. Let us not pretend it does not. But its existence does not help Demerzel. Psychohistory is only a tool. It needs a brain to understand it and an arm to wield it."
"And you have those, I take it?"
"Yes. I know my own virtues. I want psychohistory."
Seldon shook his head. "You may want it all you please. I don't have it.
"You do have it. I will not argue the point." Joranum leaned closer as though wishing to insinuate his voice into Seldon's ear, rather than allowing the sound waves to carry it there. "You say you are a patriot. I must replace Demerzel to avoid Imperial destruction. However, the manner of replacement might itself weaken the Empire desperately. I do not wish that. You can advise me how to achieve the end smoothly, subtly, without harm or damage-for the sake of the Empire."
Seldon said, "I cannot. You accuse me of knowledge I do not possess. I would like to be of assistance, but I cannot."
Joranum stood up suddenly. "Well, you know my mind and what it is I want of you. Think about it. And I ask you to think about the Empire. You may feel you owe Demerzel-this despoiler of all the millions of planets of humanity-your friendship. Be careful. What you do may shake the very foundation of the Empire. I ask you to help me in the name of the quadrillions of human beings who fill the Galaxy. Think of the Empire."
His voice had dropped to a thrilling and powerful half-whisper. Seldon felt himself almost trembling. "I will always think of the Empire," he said.
Joranum said, "Then that is all I ask right now. Thank you for consenting to see me."
Seldon watched Joranum and his companion leave as the office doors slid open noiselessly and the men strode out.
He frowned. Something was bothering him-and he was not sure what it was.
Namarti's dark eyes remained fixed on Joranum as they sat in their carefully shielded office in the Streeling Sector. It was not an elaborate headquarters; they were as yet weak in Streeling, but they would grow stronger.
It was amazing how the movement was growing. It had started from nothing three years back and now its tentacles stretched-in some places more thickly than others, of course-throughout Trantor. The Outer Worlds were as yet largely untouched. Demerzel had labored mightily to keep them content, but that was his mistake. It was here on Trantor that rebellions were dangerous. Elsewhere, they could be controlled. Here, Demerzel could be toppled. Odd that he should not realize that, but Joranum had always held to the theory that Demerzel's reputation was overblown, that he would prove an empty shell if anyone dared oppose him, and that the Emperor would destroy him quickly if his own security seemed at stake.
So far, at least, all of Joranum's predictions had come to pass. He had never once lost his way except in minor matters, such as that recent rally at Streeling University in which this Seldon fellow had interfered.
That might be why Joranum had insisted on the interview with him. Even a minor toe stub must be taken care of. Joranum enjoyed the feeling of infallibility and Namarti had to admit that the vision of a constant string of successes was the surest way of ensuring the continuation of success. People tended to avoid the humiliation of failure by joining the obviously winning side even against their own opinions.
But had the interview with this Seldon been a success or was it a second stub of the toe to be added to the first? Namarti had not enjoyed having been brought along in order to be made to humbly apologize and he didn't see that it had done any good.
Now Joranum sat there, silent, obviously lost in thought, gnawing at the edge of one thumb as though trying to draw some sort of mental nourishment from it.
"Jo-Jo," said Namarti softly. He was one of the very few people who could address Joranum by the diminutive that the crowds shouted out endlessly in public. Joranum solicited the love of the mob in this way, among others, but he demanded respect from individuals in private, except for those special friends who had been with him from the start.
"Jo-Jo," he said again.
Joranum looked up. "Yes, G.D., what is it?" He sounded a little testy.
"What are we going to do about this Seldon fellow, Jo-Jo?"
"Do? Nothing right now. He may join us."
"Why wait? We can put pressure on him. We can pull a few strings at the University and make life miserable for him."
"No no. So far, Demerzel has been letting us go our way. The fool is overconfident. The last thing we want to do, though, is to push him into action before we are quite ready. And a heavy-handed move against Seldon may do it. I suspect Demerzel places enormous importance on Seldon."
"Because of this psychohistory you two talked about?"
"Indeed."
"What is it? I have never heard of it."
"Few people have. It's a mathematical way of analyzing human society that ends by predicting the future."
Namarti frowned and felt his body move slightly away from Joranum. Was this a joke of Joranum's? Was this intended to make him laugh? Namarti had never been able to work out when or why people expected him to laugh. He had never had an urge to.
He said, "Predict the future? How?"
"Ah? If I knew that, what need would I have of Seldon?"
"Frankly I don't believe it, Jo-Jo. How can you foretell the future? It's fortune-telling."
"I know, but after this Seldon broke up your little rally, I had him looked into. All the way. Eight years ago, he came to Trantor and presented a paper on psychohistory at a convention of mathematicians and then the whole thing died. It was never referred to again by anyone. Not even by Seldon."
"It sounds as though there were nothing to it, then."
"Oh no, just the reverse. If it had faded slowly, if it had been subjected to ridicule, I would have said there was nothing to it. But to be cut off suddenly and completely means that the whole thing has been placed in the deepest of freezes. That is why Demerzel may have been doing nothing to stop us. Perhaps he is not being guided by a foolish overconfidence; perhaps he is being guided by psychohistory, which must be predicting something that Demerzel plans to take advantage of at the right time. If so, we might fail unless we can make use of psychohistory ourselves."
"Seldon claims it doesn't exist."
"Wouldn't you if you were he?"
"I still say we ought to put pressure on him."
"It would be useless, G.D. Didn't you ever hear the story of the Ax of Venn?"
"No."
"You would if you were from Nishaya. It's a famous folktale back home. In brief, Venn was a woodcutter who had a magic ax that, with a single light blow, could chop down any tree. It was enormously valuable, but he never made any effort to hide it or preserve it-and yet it was never stolen, because no one could lift or swing the ax but Venn himself.
"Well, at the present moment, no one can handle psychohistory but Seldon himself. If he were on our side only because we had forced him, we could never be certain of his loyalty. Might he not urge a course of action that would seem to work in our favor but would be so subtly drawn that, after a while, we found ourselves quite suddenly destroyed. No, he must come to our side voluntarily and labor for us because he wishes us to win."
"But how can we bring him around?"
"There's Seldon's son. Raych, I think he's called. Did you observe him?"
"Not particularly."
"G.D., G.D., you miss points if you don't observe everything. That young man listened to me with his heart in his eyes. He was impressed. I could tell. If there's one thing I can tell, it is just how I impress others. I know when I have shaken a mind, when I have edged someone toward conversion."
Joranum smiled. It was not the pseudowarm ingratiating smile of his public demeanor. It was a genuine smile this time-cold, somehow, and menacing.
"We'll see what we can do with Raych," he said, "and if, through him, we can reach Seldon."
Raych looked at Hari Seldon after the two politicians had gone and fingered his mustache. It gave him satisfaction to stroke it. Here in the Streeling Sector, some men wore mustaches, but they were usually thin despicable things of uncertain color-thin despicable things, even if dark. Most men did not wear them at all and suffered with naked upper lips. Seldon didn't, for instance, and that was just as well. With his color of hair, a mustache would have been a travesty.
He watched Seldon closely, waiting for him to cease being lost in thought, and then found he could wait no longer.
"Dad?" he said.
Seldon looked up and said, "What?" He sounded a little annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted, Raych decided.
Raych said, "I don't think it was right for you to see those two guys."
"Oh? Why not?"
"Well, the thin guy, whatever his name is, was the guy you made trouble for at the Field. He can't have liked it."
"But he apologized."
"He didn't mean it. But the other guy, Joranum-he can be dangerous. What if they had had weapons?"
"What? Here in the University? In my office? Of course not. This isn't Billibotton. Besides, if they had tried anything, I could have handled both of them together. Easily."
"I don't know, Dad," said Raych dubiously. "You're getting-"
"Don't say it, you ungrateful monster," said Seldon, lifting an admonishing finger. "You'll sound just like your mother and I have enough of that from her. I am not getting old-or, at least, not that old. Besides, you were with me and you're almost as skilled a Twister as I am."
Raych's nose wrinkled. "Twisting ain't much good." (It was no use. Raych heard himself speak and knew that, even eight years out of the morass of Dahl, he still slipped into using the Dahlite accent that marked him firmly as a member of the lower class. And he was short, too, to the point where he sometimes felt stunted. But he had his mustache and no one ever patronized him twice.)
He said, "What are you going to do about Joranum?"
"For now, nothing."
"Well, look, Dad, I saw Joranum on TrantorVision a couple of times. I even made some holotapes of his speeches. Everyone is talking about him, so I thought I would see what he has to say. And, you know, he makes some kind of sense. I don't like him and I don't trust him, but he does make some kind of sense. He wants all sectors to have equal rights and equal opportunities-and there ain't nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Certainly not. All civilized people feel that way."
"So why don't we have that sort of stuff? Does the Emperor feel that way? Does Demerzel?"
"The Emperor and the First Minister have an entire Empire to worry about. They can't concentrate all their efforts on Trantor itself. It's easy for Joranum to talk about equality. He has no responsibilities. If he were in the position to rule, he would find that his efforts would be greatly diluted by an Empire of twenty-five million planets. Not only that, but he would find himself stopped at every point by the sectors themselves. Each one wants a great deal of equality for itself-but not much equality for others. Tell me, Raych, are you of the opinion that Joranum ought to have a chance to rule, just to show what he can do?"
Raych shrugged. "I don't know. I wonder. But if he had tried anything on you, I would have been at his throat before he could move two centimeters."
"Your loyalty to me, then, exceeds your concern for the Empire."
"Sure. You're my dad."
Seldon looked at Raych fondly, but behind that look he felt a trace of uncertainty. How far could Joranum's nearly hypnotic influence go?
Hari Seldon sat back in his chair, the vertical back giving as he did so and allowing him to assume a half-reclining position. His hands were behind his head and his eyes were unfocused. His breathing was very soft, indeed.
Dors Venabili was at the other end of the room, with her viewer turned off and the microfilms back in place. She had been through a rather concentrated period of revision of her opinions on the Florina Incident in early Trantorian history and she found it rather restful to withdraw for a few moments and to speculate on what it was that Seldon was considering.
It had to be psychohistory. It would probably take him the rest of his life, tracking down the byways of this semichaotic technique, and he would end with it incomplete, leaving the task to others (to Amaryl, if that young man had not also worn himself out on the matter) and breaking his heart at the need to do that.
Yet it gave him a reason for living. He would live longer with the problem filling him from end to end-and that pleased her. Someday she would lose him, she knew, and she found that the thought afflicted her. It had not seemed it would at the start, when her task had been the simple one of protecting him for the sake of what he knew.
When had it become a matter of personal need? How could there be so personal a need? What was there about the man that caused her to feel uneasy when he was not in her sight, even when she knew he was safe so that the deeply ingrained orders within her were not called into action? His safety was all that she had been ordered to be concerned with. How did the rest intrude itself?
She had spoken of it to Demerzel long before, when the feeling had made itself unmistakable.
He had regarded her gravely and said, `'You are complex, Dors, and there are no simple answers. In my life there have been several individuals whose presence made it easier for me to think, pleasanter to make my responses. I have tried to judge the ease of my responses in their presence and the unease of my responses in their final absence to see whether I was the net gainer or loser. In the process, one thing became plain. The pleasantness of their company outweighed the regret of their passing. On the whole, then, it is better to experience what you experience now than not to."
She thought: Hari will someday leave a void, and each day that someday is closer, and I must not think of it.
It was to rid herself of the thought that she finally interrupted him. "What are you thinking of, Hari?"
"What?" Seldon focused his eyes with an apparent effort.
"Psychohistory, I assume. I imagine you've traced another blind pathway."
"Well now. That's not on my mind at all." He laughed suddenly. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking of? Hair!"
"Hair? Whose?"
"Right now, yours." He was looking at her fondly.
"Is there something wrong with it? Should I dye it another color? Or perhaps, after all these years, it should go gray."
"Come! Who needs or wants gray in your hair. But it's led me to other things. Nishaya, for instance."
"Nishaya? What's that?"
"It was never part of the pre-Imperial Kingdom of Trantor, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's a world, a small one. Isolated. Unimportant. Overlooked. I only know anything at all about it because I've taken the trouble to look it up. Very few worlds out of twenty-five million can really make much of a sustained splash, but I doubt that there's another one as insignificant as Nishaya. Which is very significant, you see."
Dors shoved her reference material to one side and said, "What is this new penchant you have for paradox, which you always tell me you detest? What is this significance of insignificance?"
"Oh, I don't mind paradoxes when I perpetrate them. You see, Joranum comes from Nishaya."
"Ah, it's Joranum you're concerned with."
"Yes. I've been viewing some of his speeches-at Raych's insistence. They don't make very much sense, but the total effect can be almost hypnotic. Raych is very impressed by him."
"I imagine that anyone of Dahlite origins would be, Hari. Joranum's constant call for sector equality would naturally appeal to the downtrodden heatsinkers. You remember when we were in Dahl?"
"I remember it very well and of course I don't blame the lad. It just bothers me that Joranum comes from Nishaya."
Dors shrugged. "Well, Joranum has to come from somewhere and, conversely, Nishaya, like any other world, must send its people out at times, even to Trantor."
"Yes, but, as I've said, I've taken the trouble to investigate Nishaya. I've even managed to make hyperspatial contact with some minor official which cost a considerable quantity of credits that I cannot, in good conscience, charge to the department."
"And did you find anything that was worth the credits?"
"I rather think so. You know, Joranum is always telling little stories to make his points, stories that are legends on his home planet of Nishaya. That serves a good purpose for him here on Trantor, since it makes him appear to be a man of the people, full of homespun philosophy. Those tales litter his speeches. They make him appear to be from a small world, to have been brought up on an isolated farm surrounded by an untamed ecology. People like it, especially Trantorians, who would rather die than be trapped somewhere in an untamed ecology but who love to dream about one just the same."
"But what of it all?"
"The odd point is that not one of the stories was familiar to the person I spoke to on Nishaya."
"That's not significant, Hari. It may be a small world, but it's a world. What is current in Joranum's birth section of the world may not be current in whatever place your official came from."
"No no. Folktales, in one form or another, are usually worldwide. But aside from that, I had considerable trouble in understanding the fellow. He spoke Galactic Standard with a thick accent. I spoke to a few others on the world, just to check, and they all had the same accent."
"And what of that?"
"Joranum doesn't have it. He speaks a fairly good Trantorian. It's a lot better than mine, actually. I have the Heliconian stress on the letter `r.' He doesn't. According to the records, he arrived on Trantor when he was nineteen. It is just impossible, in my opinion, to spend the first nineteen years of your life speaking that barbarous Nishayan version of Galactic Standard and then come to Trantor and lose it. However long he's been here, some trace of the accent would have remained-Look at Raych and the way he lapses into his Dahlite way of speaking on occasion."
"What do you deduce from all this?"
"What I deduce-what I've been sitting here all evening, deducing like a deduction machine-is that Joranum didn't come from Nishaya at all. In fact, I think he picked Nishaya as the place to pretend to come from, simply because it is so backwoodsy, so out-of-the-way, that no one would think of checking it. He must have made a thorough computer search to find the one world least likely to allow him to be caught in a lie."
"But that's ridiculous, Hari. Why should he want to pretend to be from a world he did not come from? It would mean a great deal of falsification of records."
"And that's precisely what he has probably done. He probably has enough followers in the civil service to make that possible. Probably no one person has done as much in the way of revision and all of his followers are too fanatical to talk about it."
"But still-Why?"
"Because I suspect Joranum doesn't want people to know where he really comes from."
"Why not? All worlds in the Empire are equal, both by laws and by custom."
"I don't know about that. These high-ideal theories are somehow never borne out in real life."
"Then where does he come from? Do you have any idea at all?"
"Yes. Which brings us back to this matter of hair."
"What about hair?"
"I sat there with Joranum, staring at him and feeling uneasy, without knowing why I was feeling uneasy. Then finally I realized that it was his hair that made me uneasy. There was something about it, a life, a gloss… a perfection to it that I've never seen before. And then I knew. His hair is artificial and carefully grown on a scalp that ought to be innocent of such things."
"Ought to be?" Dors's eyes narrowed. It was clear that she suddenly understood. "Do you mean-"
"Yes, I do mean. He's from the past-centered, mythology-ridden Mycogen Sector of Trantor. That's what he's been laboring to hide."
Dors Venabili thought coolly about the matter. It was her only mode of thought-cool. Not for her the hot flashes of emotion.
She closed her eyes to concentrate. It had been eight years since she and Hari had visited Mycogen and they hadn't been there long. There had been little to admire there except the food.
The pictures arose. The harsh, puritanical, male-centered society; the emphasis on the past; the removal of all body hair, a painful process deliberately self-imposed to make themselves different so that they would "know who they were"; their legends; their memories (or fancies) of a time when they ruled the Galaxy, when their lives were prolonged, when robots existed.
Dors opened her eyes and said, "Why, Hari?"
"Why what, dear?"
"Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?"
She didn't think he would remember Mycogen in greater detail than she; in fact, she knew he wouldn't, but his mind was better than hers-different, certainly. Hers was a mind that only remembered and drew the obvious inferences in the fashion of a mathematic line of deduction. He had a mind that leaped unexpectedly. Seldon liked to pretend that intuition was solely the province of his assistant, Yugo Amaryl, but Dors was not fooled by that. Seldon liked to pose as the unworldly mathematician who stared at the world out of perpetually wondering eyes, but she was not fooled by that, either.
"Why should he pretend not to be from Mycogen?" she repeated as he sat there, his eyes lost in an inward look that Dors always associated with his attempt to squeeze one more tiny drop of usefulness and validity out of the concepts of psycho-history.
Seldon said finally, "It's a harsh society, a limiting society. There are always those who chafe over its manner of dictating every action and every thought. There are always those who find they cannot entirely be broken to the harness, who want the greater liberties available in the more secular world outside. It's understandable."
"So they force the growth of artificial hair?"
"No, not generally. The average Breakaway-that's what the Mycogenians call the deserters and they despise them, of course-wears a wig. It's much simpler but much less effective. Really serious Breakaways grow false hair, I'm told. The process is difficult and expensive but is almost unnoticeable. I've never come across it before, though I've heard of it. I've spent years studying all eight hundred sectors of Trantor, trying to work out the basic rules and mathematics of psychohistory. I have little enough to show for it, unfortunately, but I have learned a few things."
"But why, then, do the Breakaways have to hide the fact that they're from Mycogen? They're not persecuted that I know of."
"No, they're not. In fact, there's no general impression that Mycogenians are inferior. It's worse than that. The Mycogenians aren't taken seriously. They're intelligen -everyone admits that-highly educated, dignified, cultured, wizards with food, almost frightening in their capacity to keep their sector prosperous-but no one takes them seriously. Their beliefs strike people outside Mycogen as ridiculous, humorous, unbelievably foolish. And that view clings even to Mycogenians who are Breakaways. A Mycogenian attempt to seize power in the government would be crushed by laughter. Being feared is nothing. Being despised, even, can be lived with. But being laughed at-that's fatal. Joranum wants to be First Minister, so he must have hair, and, to be comfortable, he must represent himself as having been brought up on some obscure world as far from Mycogen as he can possibly manage."
"Surely there are some people who are naturally bald."
"Never as completely depilated as Mycogenians force themselves to be. On the Outer Worlds, it wouldn't matter much. But Mycogen is a distant whisper to the Outer Worlds. The Mycogenians keep themselves so much to themselves that it is a rare one, indeed, who has ever left Trantor. Here on Trantor, though, it's different. People might be bald, but they usually have a fringe of hair that advertises them as nonMycogenian-or they grow facial hair. Those very few who are completely hairless-usually a pathological condition-are out of luck. I imagine they have to go around with a doctor's certificate to prove they are not Mycogenians."
Dors, frowning slightly, said, "Does this help us any?"
"I'm not sure."
"Couldn't you let it be known that he is a Mycegonian?"
"I'm not sure that could be done easily. He must have covered his tracks well and even if it could be done-"
"Yes?"
Seldon shrugged. "I don't want to invite an appeal to bigotry. The social situation on Trantor is bad enough without running the risk of loosing passions that neither I nor anyone else could then control. If I do have to resort to the matter of Mycogen, it will only be as a last resort."
"Then you want minimalism, too."
"Of course."
"Then what will you do?"
"I made an appointment with Demerzel. He may know what to do."
Dors looked at him sharply. "Hari, are you falling into the trap of expecting Demerzel to solve every problem for you?"
"No, but perhaps he'll solve this one."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then I'll have to think of something else, won't I?"
"Like what?"
A look of pain crossed Seldon's face. "Dors, I don't know. Don't expect me to solve every problem, either."
Eto Demerzel was not frequently seen, except by the Emperor Cleon. It was his policy to remain in the background for a variety of reasons, one of which was that his appearance changed so little with time.
Hari Seldon had not seen him over a period of some years and had not spoken to him truly in private since the days of his early time on Trantor.
In light of Seldon's recent unsettling meeting with Laskin Joranum, both Seldon and Demerzel felt it would be best not to advertise their relationship. A visit by Hari Seldon to the First Minister's office at the Imperial Palace would not go unnoticed, and so for reasons of security they had decided to meet in a small yet luxuriously appointed suite at the Dome's Edge Hotel, just outside the Palace grounds.
Seeing Demerzel now brought back the old days achingly. The mere fact that Demerzel still looked exactly as he always had made the ache sharper. His face still had its strong regular features. He was still tall and sturdy-looking, with the same dark hair with the hint of blond. He was not handsome, but was gravely distinguished. He looked like someone's ideal picture of what an Imperial First Minister ought to look like, not at all like any such official in history before his time ever had. It was his appearance, Seldon thought, that gave him half his power over the Emperor, and therefore over the Imperial Court, and therefore over the Empire.
Demerzel advanced toward him, a gentle smile curving his lips without altering in any way the gravity of his countenance.
"Hari," he said. "It is pleasant to see you. I was half-afraid you would change your mind and cancel."
"I was more than half-afraid you would, First Minister."
"Eto-if you fear using my real name."
"I couldn't. It won't come out of me. You know that."
"It will to me. Say it. I would rather like to hear it."
Seldon hesitated, as though he couldn't believe his lips could frame the words or his vocal cords sound them. "Daneel," he said at length.
"R. Daneel Olivaw," said Demerzel. "Yes. You will dine with me, Hari. If I dine with you, I won't have to eat, which will be a relief."
"Gladly, though one-way eating is not my idea of a convivial time. Surely a bite or two-"
"To please you-"
"Just the same," said Seldon, "I can't help but wonder if it is wise to spend too much time together."
"It is. Imperial orders. His Imperial Majesty wants me to."
"Why, Daneel?"
"In two more years the Decennial Convention will be meeting again. You look surprised. Have you forgotten?"
"Not really. I just haven't thought about it."
"Were you not going to attend? You were a hit at the last one."
"Yes. With my psychohistory. Some hit."
"You attracted the attention of the Emperor. No other mathematician did."
"It was you who were initially attracted, not the Emperor. Then I had to flee and stay out of the Imperial notice until such time as I could assure you that I had made a start on my psychohistorical research, after which you allowed me to remain in safe obscurity."
"Being the head of a prestigious Mathematics Department is scarcely obscurity."
"Yes, it is, since it hides my psychohistory."
"Ah, the food is arriving. For a while, let's talk about other things as befits friends. How is Dors?"
"Wonderful. A true wife. Hounds me to death with her worries over my safety."
"That is her job."
"So she reminds me-frequently. Seriously, Daneel, I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for bringing us together."
"Thank you, Hari, but, to be truthful, I did not foresee married happiness for either of you, especially not Dors-"
"Thank you for the gift just the same, however short of the actual consequences your expectations were."
"I'm delighted, but it is a gift, you will find, that may be of dubious further consequence-as is my friendship."
To this, Seldon could make no reply and so, at a gesture from Demerzel, he turned to his meal.
After a while, he nodded at the morsel of fish on his fork and said, "I don't actually recognize the organism, but this is Mycogenian cooking."
"Yes, it is. I know you are fond of it."
"It's the Mycogenians' excuse for existence. Their only excuse. But they have special meaning to you. I mustn't forget that."
"The special meaning has come to an end. Their ancestors, long, long ago, inhabited the planet of Aurora. They lived three hundred years and more and were the lords of the Fifty Worlds of the Galaxy. It was an Auroran who first designed and produced me. I don't forget that; I remember it far more accurately-and with less distortion-than their Mycogenian descendants do. But then, long, long ago, I left them. I made my choice as to what the good of humanity must be and I have followed it, as best I could, all this time."
Seldon said with sudden alarm, "Can we be overheard?"
Demerzel seemed amused. "If you have only thought of that now, it is far too late. But fear not, I have taken the necessary precautions. Nor have you been seen by too many eyes when you came. Nor will you be seen by too many when you leave. And those who do see you will not be surprised. I am well known to be an amateur mathematician of great pretensions but of little ability. That is a source of amusement to those at the court who are not entirely my friends and it would not surprise anyone here that I should be concerned about laying the groundwork for the forthcoming Decennial Convention. It is about the convention that I wish to consult you."
"I don't know that I can help. There is only one thing I could possibly talk about at the convention-and I can't talk about it. If I attend at all, it will only be as part of the audience. I do not intend to present any papers."
"I understand. Still, if you would like to hear something curious, His Imperial Majesty remembers you."
"Because you have kept me in his mind, I suppose."
"No. I have not labored to do so. However, His Imperial Majesty occasionally surprises me. He is aware of the forthcoming convention and he apparently remembers your talk at the earlier one. He remains interested in the matter of psychohistory and more may come of it, I must warn you. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that he may ask to see you. The court will surely consider it a great honor-to receive the Imperial call twice in a single lifetime."
"You're joking. What could be served by my seeing him?"
"In any case, if you are called to an audience, you can scarcely refuse. How are your young protegйs, Yugo and Raych?"
"Surely you know. I imagine you keep a close eye on me."
"Yes, I do. On your safety but not on every aspect of your life. I am afraid my duties fill much of my time and I am not all-seeing."
"Doesn't Dors report?"
"She would in a crisis. Not otherwise. She is reluctant to play the role of spy in nonessentials." Again the small smile.
Seldon grunted. "My boys are doing well. Yugo is increasingly difficult to handle. He's more of a psychohistorian than I am and I think he feels I hold him back. As for Raych, he's a lovable rascal-always was. He won me over when he was a dreadful street urchin and what's more surprising is that he won over Dors. I honestly believe, Daneel, that if Dors grew sick of me and wanted to leave me, she would stay on anyway for her love of Raych."
Demerzel nodded and Seldon continued somberly. "If Rashelle of Wye hadn't found him lovable, I would not be here today. I would have been shot down-" He stirred uneasily. "I hate to think of that, Daneel. It was such an entirely accidental and unpredictable event. How could psychohistory have helped in any way?"
"Have you not told me that, at best, psychohistory can deal only in probabilities and with vast numbers, not with individuals?"
"But if the individual happens to be crucial-"
"I suspect you will find that no individual is ever truly crucial. Not even I-or you."
"Perhaps you're right. I find that, no matter how I work away under these assumptions, I nevertheless think of myself as crucial, in a kind of supernormal egotism that transcends all sense. And you are crucial, too, which is something I have come here to discuss with you-as frankly as possible. I must know."
"Know what?" The remains of the meal had been cleared away by a porter and the room's lighting dimmed somewhat so that the walls seemed to close in and give a feeling of great privacy.
Seldon said, "Joranum." He bit off the word, as though feeling the mention of the name alone should be sufficient.
"Ah. Yes."**
"You know about him?"
"Of course. How could I not know?"
"Well, I want to know about him, too."
"What do you want to know?"
"Come, Daneel, don't play with me. Is he dangerous?"
"Of course he is dangerous. Do you have any doubt of that?"
"I mean, to you? To your position as First Minister?"
"That is exactly what I mean. That is how he is dangerous."
"And you allow it?"
Demerzel leaned forward, placing his left elbow on the table between them. "There are things that don't wait for my permission, Hari. Let us be philosophical about it. His Imperial Majesty, Cleon, First of that Name, has now been on the throne for eighteen years and for all that time I have been his Chief of Staff and then his First Minister, having served in scarcely lesser capacities during the last years of the reign of his father. It is a long time and First Ministers rarely remain that long in power."
"You are not the ordinary First Minister, Daneel, and you know it. You must remain in power while psychohistory is being developed. Don't smile at me. It's true. When we first met, eight years ago, you told me the Empire was in a state of decay and decline. Have you changed your mind about that?"
"No, of course not."
"In fact, the decline is more marked now, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is, though I labor to prevent that."
"And without you, what would happen? Joranum is raising the Empire against you."
"Trantor, Hari. Trantor. The Outer Worlds are solid and reasonably contented with my deeds so far, even in the midst of a declining economy and lessening trade."
"But Trantor is where it counts. Trantor-the Imperial world we're living on, the capital of the Empire, the core, the administrative center- is what can overthrow you. You cannot keep your post if Trantor says no.
"I agree."
"And if you go, who will then take care of the Outer Worlds and what will keep the decline from being precipitate and the Empire from degenerating rapidly into anarchy?"
"That is a possibility, certainly."
"So you must be doing something about it. Yugo is convinced that you are in deadly danger and can't maintain your position. His intuition tells him so. Dors says the same thing and explains it in terms of the Three Laws or Four of-of-"
"Robotics," put in Demerzel.
"Young Raych seems attracted to Joranum's doctrines-being of Dahlite origin, you see. And I-I am uncertain, so I come to you for comfort, I suppose. Tell me that you have the situation well in hand."
"I would do so if I could. However, I have no comfort to offer. I am in danger."
"Are you doing nothing?"
"No. I'm doing a great deal to contain discontent and blunt Joranum's message. If I had not done so, then perhaps I would be out of office already. But what I'm doing is not enough."
Seldon hesitated. Finally he said, "I believe that Joranum is actually a Mycogenian."
"Is that so?"
"It is my opinion. I had thought we might use that against him, but I hesitate to unleash the forces of bigotry."
"You are wise to hesitate. There are many things that might be done that have side effects we do not want. You see, Hari, I don't fear leaving my post-if some successor could be found who would continue those principles that I have been using to keep the decline as slow as possible. On the other hand, if Joranum himself were to succeed me, then that, in my opinion, would be fatal."
"Then anything we can do to stop him would be suitable."
"Not entirely. The Empire can grow anarchic, even if Joranum is destroyed and I stay. I must not, then, do something that will destroy Joranum and allow me to stay-if that very deed promotes the Fall of the Empire. I have not yet been able to think of anything I might do that would surely destroy Joranum and just as surely avoid anarchy."
"Minimalism,” whispered Seldon.
"Pardon me?"
"Dors explained that you would be bound by minimalism."
"And so I am."
"Then my visit with you is a failure, Daneel."
"You mean that you came for comfort and didn't get it."
"I'm afraid so."
"But I saw you because I sought comfort as well."
"From me?"
"From psychohistory, which should envision the route to safety that I cannot."
Seldon sighed heavily. "Daneel, psychohistory has not yet been developed to that point."
The First Minister looked at him gravely. "You've had eight years, Hari."
"It might be eight or eight hundred and it might not be developed to that point. It is an intractable problem."
Demerzel said, "I do not expect the technique to have been perfected, but you may have some sketch, some skeleton, some principle that you can use as guidance. Imperfectly, perhaps, but better than mere guesswork."
"No more than I had eight years ago," said Seldon mournfully. "Here's what it amounts to, then. You must remain in power and Joranum must be destroyed in such a way that Imperial stability is maintained as long as possible so that I may have a reasonable chance to work out psychohistory. This cannot be done, however, unless I work out psychohistory first. Is that it?"
"It would seem so, Hari."
"Then we argue in a useless circle and the Empire is destroyed."
"Unless something unforeseen happens. Unless you make something unforeseen happen."
"I? Daneel, how can I do it without psychohistory?"
"I don't know, Hari."
And Seldon rose to go-in despair.
For days thereafter Hari Seldon neglected his departmental duties to use his computer in its news-gathering mode.
There were not many computers capable of handling the daily news from twenty-five million worlds. There were a number of them at Imperial headquarters, where they were absolutely necessary. Some of the larger Outer World capitals had them as well, though most were satisfied with hyperconnection to the Central Newspost on Trantor.
A computer at an important Mathematics Department could, if it were sufficiently advanced, be modified as an independent news source and Seldon had been careful to do that with his computer. It was, after all, necessary for his work on psychohistory, though the computer's capabilities were carefully ascribed to other, exceedingly plausible reasons.
Ideally the computer would report anything that was out of the ordinary on any world of the Empire. A coded and unobtrusive warning light would make itself evident and Seldon could track it down easily. Such a light rarely showed, for the definition of "out of the ordinary" was tight and intense and dealt with large-scale and rare upheavals.
What one did in its absence was to ring in various worlds at random-not all twenty-five million, of course, but some dozens. It was a depressing and even debilitating task, for there were no worlds that didn't have their daily relatively minor catastrophes. A volcanic eruption here, a flood there, an economic collapse of one sort or another yonder, and, of course, riots. There had not been a day in the last thousand years that there had not been riots over something or other on each of a hundred or more different worlds.
Naturally such things had to be discounted. One could scarcely worry about riots any more than one could about volcanic eruptions when both were constants on inhabited worlds. Rather, if a day should come in which not one riot was reported anywhere, that might be a sign of something so unusual as to warrant the gravest concern.
Concern was what Seldon could not make himself feel. The Outer Worlds, with all their disorders and misfortunes, were like a great ocean on a peaceful day, with a gentle swell and minor heavings-but no more. He found no evidence of any overall situation that clearly showed a decline in the last eight years or even in the last eighty. Yet Demerzel (in Demerzel's absence, Seldon could no longer think of him as Daneel) said the decline was continuing and he had his finger on the Empire's pulse from day to day in ways that Seldon could not duplicate-until such time as he would have the guiding power of psychohistory at his disposal.
It could be that the decline was so small that it was unnoticeable till some crucial point was reached-like a domicile that slowly wears out and deteriorates, showing no signs of that deterioration until one night when the roof collapses.
When would the roof collapse? That was the problem and Seldon had no answer.
And on occasion, Seldon would check on Trantor itself. There, the news was always considerably more substantial. For one thing, Trantor was the most highly populated of all the worlds, with its forty billion people. For another, its eight hundred sectors formed a mini-Empire all its own. For a third, there were the tedious rounds of governmental functions and the doings of the Imperial family to follow.
What struck Seldon's eyes, however, was in the Dahl Sector. The elections for the Dahl Sector Council had placed five Joranumites into office. This was the first time, according to the commentary, that Joranumites had achieved sector office.
It was not surprising. Dahl was a Joranumite stronghold if any sector was, but Seldon found it a disturbing indication of the progress being made by the demagogue. He ordered a microchip of the item and took it home with him that evening.
Raych looked up from his computer as Seldon entered and apparently felt the need to explain himself. "I'm helping Mom on some reference material she needs," he said.
"What about your own work?"
"Done, Dad. All done."
"Good. Look at this." He showed Raych the chip in his hand before slipping it into the microprojector.
Raych glanced at the news item hanging in the air before his eyes and said, "Yes, I know."
"You do?"
"Sure. I usually keep track of Dahl. You know, home sector and all."
"And what do you think about it?"
"I'm not surprised. Are you? The rest of Trantor treats Dahl like dirt. Why shouldn't they go for Joranum's views?"
"Do you go for them also?"
"Well-" Raych twisted his face thoughtfully. "I got to admit some things he says appeal to me. He says he wants equality for all people. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing at all-if he means it. If he's sincere. If he isn't just using it as a ploy to get votes."
"True enough, Dad, but most Dahlites probably figure: What's there to lose? We don't have equality now, though the laws say we do."
"It's a hard thing to legislate."
"That's not something to cool you off when you're sweating to death."
Seldon was thinking rapidly. He had been thinking since he had come across this item. He said, "Raych, you haven't been in Dahl since your mother and I took you out of the sector, have you?"
"Sure I was, when I went with you to Dahl five years ago on your visit there."
"Yes yes"-Seldon waved a hand in dismissal-"but that doesn't count. We stayed at an intersector hotel, which was not Dahlite in the least, and, as I recall, Dors never once let you out on the streets alone. After all, you were only fifteen. How would you like to visit Dahl now, alone, in charge of yourself-now that you're fully twenty?"
Raych chuckled. "Mom would never allow that."
"I don't say that I enjoy the prospect of facing her with it, but I don't intend to ask her permission. The question is: Would you be willing to do this for me?"
"Out of curiosity? Sure. I'd like to see what's happened to the old place."
"Can you spare the time from your studies?"
"Sure. I'll never miss a week or so. Besides, you can tape the lectures and I'll catch up when I get back. I can get permission. After all, my old man's on the faculty-unless you've been fired, Dad."
"Not yet. But I'm not thinking of this as a fun vacation."
"I'd be surprised if you did. I don't think you know what a fun vacation is, Dad. I'm surprised you know the phrase."
"Don't be impertinent. When you go there, I want you to meet with Laskin Joranum."
Raych looked startled. "How do I do that? I don't know where he's gonna be."
"He's going to be in Dahl. He's been asked to speak to the Dahl Sector Council with its new Joranumite members. We'll find out the exact day and you can go a few days earlier."
"And how do I get to see him, Dad? I don't figure he keeps open house."
"I don't, either, but I'll leave that up to you. You would have known how to do it when you were twelve. I hope your keen edge hasn't blunted too badly in the intervening years."
Raych smiled. "I hope not. But suppose I do see him. What then?"
"Well, find out what you can. What's he's really planning. What he's really thinking."
"Do you really think he's gonna tell me?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if he does. You have the trick of inspiring confidence, you miserable youngster. Let's talk about it."
And so they did. Several times.
Seldon's thoughts were painful. He was not sure where all this was leading to, but he dared not consult Yugo Amaryl or Demerzel or (most of all) Dors. They might stop him. They might prove to him that his idea was a poor one and he didn't want that proof. What he planned seemed the only gateway to salvation and he didn't want it blocked.
But did the gateway exist at all? Raych was the only one, it seemed to Seldon, who could possibly manage to worm himself into Joranum's confidence, but was Raych the proper tool for the purpose? He was a Dahlite and sympathetic to Joranum. How far could Seldon trust him?
Horrible? Raych was his son-and Seldon had never had occasion to mistrust Raych before.
If Seldon doubted the efficacy of his notion, if he feared that it might explode matters prematurely or move them desperately in the wrong direction, if he was filled with an agonizing doubt as to whether Raych could be entirely trusted to fulfill his part suitably, he nevertheless had no doubt-no doubt whatever-as to what Dors's reaction would be when presented with the fait accompli.
And he was not disappointed-if that was quite the word to express his emotion.
Yet, in a manner, he was disappointed, for Dors did not raise her voice in horror as he had somehow thought she would, as he had prepared himself to withstand.
But how was he to know? She was not as other women were and he had never seen her truly angry. Perhaps it was not in her to be truly angry-or what he would consider to be truly angry.
She was merely cold-eyed and spoke with low-voiced bitter disapproval. "You sent him to Dahl? Alone?" Very softly. Questioningly.
For a moment Seldon quailed at the quiet voice. Then he said firmly, "I had to. It was necessary."
"Let me understand. You sent him to that den of thieves, that haunt of assassins, that conglomeration of all that is criminal?"
"Dors! You anger me when you speak like that. I would expect only a bigot to use those stereotypes."
"You deny that Dahl is as I have described?"
"Of course. There are criminals and slums in Dahl. I know that very well. We both know that. But not all of Dahl is like that. And there are criminals and slums in every sector, even in the Imperial Sector and in Streeling."
"There are degrees, are there not? One is not ten. If all the worlds are crime-ridden, if all the sectors are crime-ridden, Dahl is among the worst, is it not? You have the computer. Check the statistics."
"I don't have to. Dahl is the poorest sector on Trantor and there is a positive correlation between poverty, misery, and crime. I grant you that."
"You grant me that! And you sent him alone? You might have gone with him, or asked me to go with him, or sent half a dozen of his schoolmates with him. They would have welcomed a respite from their work, I'm sure."
"What I need him for requires that he be alone."
"And what do you need him for?"
But Seldon was stubbornly silent about that.
Dors said, "Has it come to this? You don't trust me?"
"It's a gamble. I alone dare take the risk. I can't involve you or anyone else."
"But it's not you taking the risk. It's poor Raych."
"He's not taking any risk," said Seldon impatiently. "He's twenty years old, young and vigorous and as sturdy as a tree-and I don't mean the saplings we have here under glass on Trantor. I'm talking about a good solid tree in the Heliconian forests. And he's a twister, which the Dahlites aren't."
"You and your twisting," said Dors, her coldness not thawing one whit. "You think that's the answer to everything. The Dahlites carry knives. Every one of them. Blasters, too, I'm sure."
"I don't know about blasters. The laws are pretty strict when it comes to blasters. As for knives, I'm positive Raych carries one. He even carries a knife on campus here, where it's strictly against the law. Do you think he won't have one in Dahl?"
Dors remained silent.
Seldon was also silent for a few minutes, then decided it might be time to placate her. He said, "Look, I'll tell you this much. I'm hoping he'll see Joranum, who will be visiting Dahl."
"Oh? And what do you expect Raych to do? Fill him with bitter regrets over his wicked politics and send him back to Mycogen?"
"Come. Really. If you're going to take this sardonic attitude, there's no use discussing it." He looked away from her, out the window at the blue-gray sky under the dome. "What I expect him to do"-and his voice faltered for a moment "is save the Empire."
"To be sure. That would be much easier."
Seldon's voice firmed. "It's what I expect. You have no solution. Demerzel himself has no solution. He as much as said that the solution rests with me. That's what I'm striving for and that's what I need Raych for in Dahl. After all, you know that ability of his to inspire affection. It worked with us and I'm convinced it will work with Joranum. If I am right, all may be well."
Dors's eyes widened a trifle. "Are you now going to tell me that you are being guided by psychohistory?"
"No. I'm not going to lie to you. I have not reached the point where I can be guided in any way by psychohistory, but Yugo is constantly talking about intuition-and I have mine."
"Intuition! What's that? Define it!"
"Easily. Intuition is the art, peculiar to the human mind, of working out the correct answer from data that is, in itself, incomplete or even, perhaps, misleading."
"And you've done it."
And Seldon said with firm conviction, "Yes, I have."
But to himself, he thought what he dared not share with Dors. What if Raych's charm were gone? Or, worse, what if the consciousness of being a Dahlite became too strong for him?
Billibotton was Billibotton-dirty, sprawling, dark, sinuous Billibotton-exuding decay and yet full of a vitality that Raych was convinced was to be found nowhere else on Trantor. Perhaps it was to be found nowhere else in the Empire, though Raych knew nothing, firsthand, of any world but Trantor.
He had last seen Billibotton when he was not much more than twelve, but even the people seemed to be the same; still a mixture of the hangdog and the irreverent; filled with a synthetic pride and a grumbling resentment; the men marked by their dark rich mustaches and the women by their sacklike dresses that now looked tremendously slatternly to Raych's older and more worldly wise eyes.
How could women with dresses like that attract men? But it was a foolish question. Even when he was twelve, he had had a pretty clear idea of how easily and quickly they could be removed.
So he stood there, lost in thought and memory, passing along a street of store windows and trying to convince himself that he remembered this particular place or that and wondering if, among them all, there were people he did remember who were now eight years older. Those, perhaps, who had been his boyhood friends-and he thought uneasily of the fact that, while he remembered some of the nicknames they had pinned on each other, he could not remember any real names.
In fact, the gaps in his memory were enormous. It was not that eight years was such a long time, but it was two fifths of the lifetime of a twenty-year-old and his life since leaving Billibotton had been so different that all before it had faded like a misty dream.
But the smells were there. He stopped outside a bakery, low and dingy, and smelled the coconut icing that reeked through the air-that he had never quite smelled elsewhere. Even when he had stopped to buy tarts with coconut icing, even when they were advertised as "Dahl-style," they had been faint imitations-no more.
He felt strongly tempted. Well, why not? He had the credits and Dors was not there to wrinkle her nose and wonder aloud how clean-or, more likely, not clean-the place might be. Who worried about clean in the old days?
The shop was dim and it took a while for Raych's eyes to acclimate. There were a few low tables in the place, with a couple of rather insubstantial chairs at each, undoubtedly where people might have a light repast, the equivalent of moka and tarts. A young man sat at one of the tables, an empty cup before him, wearing a once-white T-shirt that probably would have looked even dirtier in a better light.
The baker or, in any case, a server stepped out from a room in the rear and said in a rather surly fashion, "What'll ya have?"
"A coke-icer," said Raych in just as surly a fashion (he would not be a Billibottoner if he displayed courtesy), using the slang term he remembered well from the old days.
The term was still current, for the server handed him the correct item, using his bare fingers. The boy, Raych, would have taken that for granted, but now the man, Raych, felt taken slightly aback.
"You want a bag?"
"No," said Raych, "I'll eat it here." He paid the server and took the coke-icer from the other's hand and bit into its richness, his eyes half closing as he did so. It had been a rare treat in his boyhood-sometimes when he had scrounged the necessary credit to buy one with, sometimes when he had received a bite from a temporarily wealthy friend, most often when he had lifted one when nobody was watching. Now he could buy as many as he wished.
"Hey," said a voice.
Raych opened his eyes. It was the man at the table, scowling at him.
Raych said gently, "Are you speaking to me, bub?"
"Yeah. What'chuh Join'?"
"Eatin' a coke-icer. What's it to ya?" Automatically he had assumed the Billibotton way of talking. It was no strain at all.
"What'chuh doin' in Billibotton?"
"Born here. Raised here. In a bed. Not in a street, like you." The insult came easily, as though he had never left home.
"That so? You dress pretty good for a Billibottoner. Pretty fancy-dancy. Got a perfume stink about ya." And he held up a little finger to imply effeminacy.
"I won't talk about your stink. I went up in the world."
"Up in the world? La-dee-da. " Two other men stepped into the bakery. Raych frowned slightly, for he wasn't sure whether they had been summoned or not. The man at the table said to the newcomers, "This guy's gone up in the world. Says he's a Billibottoner."
One of the two newcomers shambled a mock salute and grinned with no appearance of amiability. His teeth were discolored. "Ain't that nice? It's always good to see a Billibottoner go up in the world. Gives 'em a chance to help their poor unfor'chnit sector people. Like, credits. You can always spare a credit or two for the poor, hey?"
"How many you got, mister?" said the other, the grin disappearing.
"Hey," said the man behind the counter. "All you guys get out of my store. I don't want no trouble in here."
"There'll be no trouble," said Raych. "I'm leaving."
He made to go, but the seated man put a leg in his way. "Don't go, pal. We'd miss yer company."
(The man behind the counter, clearly fearing the worst, disappeared into the rear.)
Raych smiled. He said, "One time when I was in Billibotton, guys, I was with my old man and old lady and there were ten guys who stopped us. Ten. I counted them. We had to take care of them."
"Yeah?" said the one who had been speaking. "Yer old man took care of ten?"
"My old man? Nah. He wouldn't waste his time. My old lady did. And I can do it better than she can. And there are only three of you. So, if you don't mind, out of the way."
"Sure. Just leave all your credits. Some of your clothes, too."
The man at the table rose to his feet. There was a knife in his hand.
"There you are," said Raych. "Now you're going to waste my time." He had finished his coke-icer and he half-turned. Then, as quickly as thought, he anchored himself to the table, while his right leg shot out and the point of his toe landed unerringly in the groin of the man with the knife.
Down he went with a loud cry. Up went the table, driving the second man toward the wall and keeping him there, while Raych's right arm flashed out, with the edge of the palm striking hard against the larynx of the third, who coughed and went down.
It had taken two seconds and Raych now stood there with a knife in each hand and said, "Now which one of you wants to move?"
They glared at him but remained frozen in place and Raych said, "In that case, I will now leave."
But the server, who had retreated to the back room, must have summoned help, for three more men had now entered the store, while the server screeched, "Troublemakers! Nothing but troublemakers!"
The newcomers were dressed alike in what was obviously a uniform-but one that Raych had never seen. Trousers were tucked into boots, loose green T-shirts were belted, and odd semispherical hats that looked vaguely comic were perched on top of their heads. On the front of the left shoulder of each T-shirt were the letters Jo.**
They had the Dahlite look about them but not quite the Dahlite mustache. The mustaches were black and thick, but they were carefully trimmed at lip level and were kept from luxuriating too widely. Raych allowed himself an internal sneer. They lacked the vigor of his own wild mustache, but he had to admit they looked neat and clean.
The leader of these three men said, "I'm Corporal Quinber. What's been going on here?"
The defeated Billibottoners were scrambling to their feet, clearly the worse for wear. One was still doubled over, one was rubbing his throat, and the third acted as though one of his shoulders had been wrenched.
The corporal stared at them with a philosophic eye, while his two men blocked the door. He turned to Raych-the one man who seemed untouched. "Are you a Billibottoner, boy?"
"Born and bred, but I've lived elsewhere for eight years." He let the Billibotton accent recede, but it was still there, at least to the extent that it existed in the corporal's speech as well. There were other parts of Dahl aside from Billibotton and some parts with considerable aspirations to gentility.
Raych said, "Are you security officers? I don't seem to recall the uniform you're-"
"We're not security officers. You won't find security officers in Billibotton much. We're the Joranum Guard and we keep the peace here. We know these three and they've been warned. We'll take care of them. You're our problem, buster. Name. Reference number."
Raych told them.
"And what happened here?"
Raych told them.
"And your business here?"
Raych said, "Look here. Do you have the right to question me? If you're not security officers-"
"Listen," said the corporal in a hard voice, "don't you question rights. We're all there is in Billibotton and we have the right because we take the right. You say you beat up these three men and I believe you. But you won't beat us up. We're not allowed to carry blasters-" And with that, the corporal slowly pulled out a blaster.
"Now tell me your business here."
Raych sighed. If he had gone directly to a sector hall, as he should have done-if he had not stopped to drown himself in nostalgia for Billibotton and coke-icers-
He said, "I have come on important business to see Mr. Joranum, and since you seem to be part of his organi-"
"To see the leader?"
"Yes, Corporal."
"With two knives on you?"
"For self-defense. I wasn't going to have them on me when I saw Mr. Joranum."
"So you say. We're taking you into custody, mister. We'll get to the bottom of this. It may take time, but we will."
"But you don't have the right. You're not the legally const-"
"Well, find someone to complain to. Till then, you're ours."
And the knives were confiscated and Raych was taken into custody.
Cleon was no longer quite the handsome young monarch that his holographs portrayed. Perhaps he still was-in the holographs-but his mirror told a different story. His most recent birthday had been celebrated with the usual pomp and ritual, but it was his fortieth just the same.
The Emperor could find nothing wrong with being forty. His health was perfect. He had gained a little weight but not much. His face would perhaps look older, if it were not for the microadjustments that were made periodically and that gave him a slightly enameled look.
He had been on the throne for eighteen years-already one of the longer reigns of the century-and he felt there was nothing that might necessarily keep him from reigning another forty years and perhaps having the longest reign in Imperial history as a result.
Cleon looked at the mirror again and thought he looked a bit better if he did not actualize the third dimension.
Now take Demerzel-faithful, reliable, necessary, unbearable Demerzel. No change in him. He maintained his appearance and, as far as Cleon knew, there had been no microadjustments, either. Of course, Demerzel was so close-mouthed about everything. And he had never been young. There had been no young look about him when he first served Cleon's father and Cleon had been the boyish Prince Imperial. And there was no young look about him now. Was it better to have looked old at the start and to avoid change afterward?
Change!
It reminded him that he had called Demerzel in for a purpose and not just so that he might stand there while the Emperor ruminated. Demerzel would take too much Imperial rumination as a sign of old age.
"Demerzel," he said.
"Sire?"
"This fellow Joranum. I tire of hearing of him."
"There is no reason you should hear of him, Sire. He is one of those phenomena that are thrown to the surface of the news for a while and then disappears."
"But he doesn't disappear."
"Sometimes it takes a while, Sire."
"What do you think of him, Demerzel?"
"He is dangerous but has a certain popularity. It is the popularity that increases the danger."
"If you find him dangerous and if I find him annoying, why must we wait? Can't he simply be imprisoned or executed or something?"
"The political situation on Trantor, Sire, is delicate-"
"It is always delicate. When have you told me that it is anything but delicate?"
"We live in delicate times, Sire. It would be useless to move strongly against him if that would but exacerbate the danger."
"I don't like it. I may not be widely read-an Emperor doesn't have the time to be widely read-but I know my Imperial history, at any rate. There have been a number of cases of these populists, as they are called, that have seized power in the last couple of centuries. In every case, they reduced the reigning Emperor to a mere figurehead. I do not wish to be a figurehead, Demerzel."
"It is unthinkable that you would be, Sire."
"It won't be unthinkable if you do nothing."
"I am attempting to take measures, Sire, but cautious ones."
"There's one fellow, at least, who isn't cautious. A month or so ago, a University professor-a professor-stopped a potential Joranumite riot single-handedly. He stepped right in and put a stop to it."
"So he did, Sire. How did you come to hear of it?"
"Because he is a certain professor in whom I am interested. How is it that you didn't speak to me of this?"
Demerzel said, almost obsequiously, "Would it be right for me to trouble you with every insignificant detail that crosses my desk?"
"Insignificant? This man who took action was Hari Seldon."
"That was, indeed, his name."
"And the name was a familiar one. Did he not present a paper, some years ago, at the last Decennial Convention that interested us?"
"Yes, Sire."
Cleon looked pleased. "As you see, I do have a memory. I need not depend on my staff for everything. I interviewed this Seldon fellow on the matter of his paper, did I not?"
"Your memory is indeed flawless, Sire."
"What happened to his idea? It was a fortune-telling device. My flawless memory does not bring to mind what he called it."
"Psychohistory, Sire. It was not precisely a fortune-telling device but a theory as to ways of predicting general trends in future human history."
"And what happened to it?"
"Nothing, Sire. As I explained at the time, the idea turned out to be wholly impractical. It was a colorful idea but a useless one."
"Yet he is capable of taking action to stop a potential riot. Would he have dared do this if he didn't know in advance he would succeed? Isn't that evidence that this-what?-psychohistory is working?"
"It is merely evidence that Hari Seldon is foolhardy, Sire. Even if the psychohistoric theory were practical, it would not have been able to yield results involving a single person or a single action."
"You're not the mathematician, Demerzel. He is. I think it is time I questioned him again. After all, it is not long before the Decennial Convention is upon us once more."
"It would be a useless-"
"Demerzel, I desire it. See to it."
"Yes, Sire."
Raych was listening with an agonized impatience that he was trying not to show. He was sitting in an improvised cell, deep in the warrens of Billibotton, having been accompanied through alleys he no longer remembered. (He, who in the old days could have threaded those same alleys unerringly and lost any pursuer.)
The man with him, clad in the green of the Joranumite Guard, was either a missionary, a brainwasher, or a kind of theologian-manque. At any rate, he had announced his name to be Sander Nee and he was delivering a long message in a thick Dahlite accent that he had clearly learned by heart.
"If the people of Dahl want to enjoy equality, they must show themselves worthy of it. Good rule, quiet behavior, seemly pleasures are all requirements. Aggressiveness and the bearing of knives are the accusations others make against us to justify their intolerance. We must be clean in word and-"
Raych broke in. "I agree with you, Guardsman Nee, every word. But I must see Mr. Joranum."
Slowly the guardsman shook his head. "You can't 'less you got some appointment, some permission."
"Look, I'm the son of an important professor at Streeling University, a mathematics professor."
"Don't know no professor. I thought you said you was from Dahl."
"Of course I am. Can't you tell the way I talk?"
"And you got an old man who's a professor at a big University? That don't sound likely."
"Well, he's my foster father."
The guardsman absorbed that and shook his head. "You know anyone in Dahl?"
"There's Mother Rittah. She'll know me." (She had been very old when she had known him. She might be senile by now-or dead.)
"Never heard of her."
(Who else? He had never known anyone likely to penetrate the dim consciousness of this man facing him. His best friend had been another youngster named Smoodgie-or at least that was the only name he knew him by. Even in his desperation, Raych could not see himself saying: "Do you know someone my age named Smoodgie?")
Finally he said, "There's Yugo Amaryl."
A dim spark seemed to light Nee's eyes. "Who?"
"Yugo Amaryl," said Raych eagerly. "He works for my foster father at the University."
"He a Dahlite, too? Everyone at the University Dahlites?"
"Just he and I. He was a heatsinker."
"What's he doing at the University?"
"My father took him out of the heatsinks eight years ago."
"Well-I'll send someone."
Raych had to wait. Even if he escaped, where would he go in the intricate alleyways of Billibotton without being picked up instantly?
Twenty minutes passed before Nee returned with the corporal who had arrested Raych in the first place. Raych felt a little hope; the corporal, at least, might conceivably have some brains.
The corporal said, "Who is this Dahlite you know?"
"Yugo Amaryl, Corporal, a heatsinker who my father found here in Dahl eight years ago and took to Streeling University with him."
"Why did he do that?"
"My father thought Yugo could do more important things than heatsink, Corporal."
"Like what?"
"Mathematics. He-"
The corporal held up his hand. "What heatsink did he work in?"
Raych thought for a moment. "I was only a kid then, but it was at C-2, I think."
"Close enough. C-3."
"Then you know about him, Corporal?"
"Not personally, but the story is famous in the heatsinks and I've worked there, too. And maybe that's how you've heard of it. Have you any evidence that you really know Yugo Amaryl?"
"Look. Let me tell you what I'd like to do. I'm going to write down my name on a piece of paper and my father's name. Then I'm going to write down one word. Get in touch-any way you want-with some official in Mr. Joranum's group-Mr. Joranum will be here in Dahl tomorrow-and just read him my name, my father's name, and the one word. If nothing happens, then I'll stay here till I rot, I suppose, but I don't think that will happen. In fact, I'm sure that they will get me out of here in three seconds and that you'll get a promotion for passing along the information. If you refuse to do this, when they find out I am here-and they will-you will be in the deepest possible trouble. After all, if you know that Yugo Amaryl went off with a big-shot mathematician, just tell yourself that same big-shot mathematician is my father. His name is Hari Seldon."
The corporal's face showed clearly that the name was not unknown to him.
He said, "What's the one word you're going to write down?"
"Psychohistory."
The corporal frowned. "What's that?"
"That doesn't matter. Just pass it along and see what happens."
The corporal handed him a small sheet of paper, torn out of a notebook. "All right. Write it down and we'll see what happens."
Raych realized that he was trembling. He wanted very much to know what would happen. It depended entirely on who it was that the corporal would talk to and what magic the word would carry with it.
Hari Seldon watched the raindrops form on the wraparound windows of the Imperial ground-car and a sense of nostalgia stabbed at him unbearably.
It was only the second time in his eight years on Trantor that he had been ordered to visit the Emperor in the only open land on the planet-and both times the weather had been bad. The first time, shortly after he had arrived on Trantor, the bad weather had merely irritated him. He had found no novelty in it. His home world of Helicon had its share of storms, after all, particularly in the area where he had been brought up.
But now he had lived for eight years in make-believe weather, in which storms consisted of computerized cloudiness at random intervals, with regular light rains during the sleeping hours. Raging winds were replaced by zephyrs and there were no extremes of heat and cold-merely little changes that made you unzip the front of your shirt once in a while or throw on a light jacket. And he had heard complaints about even so mild a deviation.
But now Hari was seeing real rain coming down drearily from a cold sky-and he had not seen such a thing in years-and he loved it; that was the thing. It reminded him of Helicon, of his youth, of relatively carefree days, and he wondered if he might persuade the driver to take the long way to the Palace.
Impossible! The Emperor wanted to see him and it was a long enough trip by ground-car, even if one went in a straight line with no interfering traffic. The Emperor, of course, would not wait.
It was a different Cleon from the one Seldon had seen eight years before. He had put on about ten pounds and there was a sulkiness about his face. Yet the skin around his eyes and cheeks looked pinched and Hari recognized the results of one too many microadjustments. In a way, Seldon felt sorry for Cleon-for all his might and Imperial sway, the Emperor was powerless against the passage of time.
Once again Cleon met Hari Seldon alone-in the same lavishly furnished room of their first encounter. As was the custom, Seldon waited to be addressed.
After briefly assessing Seldon's appearance, the Emperor said in an ordinary voice, "Glad to see you, Professor. Let us dispense with formalities, as we did on the former occasion on which I met you."
"Yes, Sire," said Seldon stiffly. It was not always safe to be informal, merely because the Emperor ordered you to be so in an effusive moment.
Cleon gestured imperceptibly and at once the room came alive with automation as the table set itself and dishes began to appear. Seldon, confused, could not follow the details.
The Emperor said casually, "You will dine with me, Seldon?"
It had the formal intonation of a question but the force, somehow, of an order.
"I would be honored, Sire," said Seldon. He looked around cautiously. He knew very well that one did not (or, at any rate, should not) ask questions of the Emperor, but he saw no way out of it. He said, rather quietly, trying to make it not sound like a question, "The First Minister will not dine with us?"
"He will not," said Cleon. "He has other tasks at this moment and I wish, in any case, to speak to you privately."
They ate quietly for a while, Cleon gazing at him fixedly and Seldon smiling tentatively. Cleon had no reputation for cruelty or even for irresponsibility, but he could, in theory, have Seldon arrested on some vague charge and, if the Emperor wished to exert his influence, the case might never come to trial. It was always best to avoid notice and at the moment Seldon couldn't manage it.
Surely it had been worse eight years ago, when he had been brought to the Palace under armed guard. This fact did not make Seldon feel relieved, however.
Then Cleon spoke. "Seldon" he said. "The First Minister is of great use to me, yet I feel that, at times, people may think I do not have a mind of my own. Do you think that?"
"Never, Sire," said Seldon calmly. No use protesting too much.
"I don't believe you. However, I do have a mind of my own and I recall that when you first came to Trantor you had this psychohistory thing you were playing with."
"I'm sure you also remember, Sire," said Seldon softly, "that I explained at the time it was a mathematical theory without practical application."
"So you said. Do you still say so?"
"Yes, Sire."
"Have you been working on it since?"
"On occasion I toy with it, but it comes to nothing. Chaos unfortunately interferes and predictability is not-"
The Emperor interrupted. "There is a specific problem I wish you to tackle. Do help yourself to the dessert, Seldon. It is very good."
"What is the problem, Sire?"
"This man Joranum. Demerzel tells me-oh, so politely-that I cannot arrest this man and I cannot use armed force to crush his followers. He says it will simply make the situation worse."
"If the First Minister says so, I presume it is so."
"But I do not want this man Joranum… At any rate, I will not be his puppet. Demerzel does nothing."
"I am sure that he is doing what he can, Sire."
"If he is working to alleviate the problem, he certainly is not keeping me informed."
"That may be, Sire, out of a natural desire to keep you above the fray. The First Minister may feel that if Joranum should-if he should-"
"Take over," said Cleon with a tone of infinite distaste.
"Yes, Sire. It would not be wise to have it appear that you were personally opposed to him. You must remain untouched for the sake of the stability of the Empire."
"I would much rather assure the stability of the Empire without Joranum. What do you suggest, Seldon?"
"I, Sire?"
"You, Seldon," said Cleon impatiently. "Let me say that I don't believe you when you say that psychohistory is just a game. Demerzel stays friendly with you. Do you think I am such an idiot as not to know that? He expects something from you. He expects psychohistory from you and since I am no fool, I expect it, too. Seldon, are you for Joranum? The truth!"
"No, Sire, I am not for him. I consider him an utter danger to the Empire."
"Very well, I believe you. You stopped a potential Joranumite riot at your University grounds single-handedly, I understand."
"It was pure impulse on my part, Sire."
"Tell that to fools, not to me. You had worked it out by psychohistory."
"Sire!"
"Don't protest. What are you doing about Joranum? You must be doing something if you are on the side of the Empire."
"Sire," said Seldon cautiously, uncertain as to how much the Emperor knew. "I have sent my son to meet with Joranum in the Dahl Sector."
"Why?"
"My son is a Dahlite-and shrewd. He may discover something of use to us."
"May?"
"Only may, Sire."
"You'll keep me informed?"
"Yes, Sire."
"And, Seldon, do not tell me that psychohistory is just a game, that it does not exist. I do not want to hear that. I expect you to do something about Joranum. What it might be, I can't say, but you must do something. I will not have it otherwise. You may go."
Seldon returned to Streeling University in a far darker mood than when he had left. Cleon had sounded as though he would not accept failure.
It all depended on Raych now.
Raych sat in the anteroom of a public building in Dahl into which he had never ventured-never could have ventured-as a ragamuffin youth. He felt, in all truth, a little uneasy about it now, as though he were trespassing.
He tried to look calm, trustworthy, lovable.
Dad had told him that this was a quality he carried around with him, but he had never been conscious of it. If it came about naturally, he would probably spoil it by trying too hard to seem to be what he really was.
He tried relaxing while keeping an eye on the official who was manipulating a computer at the desk. The official was not a Dahlite. He was, in fact, Gambol Deen Namarti, who had been with Joranum at the meeting with Dad that Raych had attended.
Every once in a while, Namarti would look up from his desk and glance at Raych with a hostile glare. This Namarti wasn't buying Raych's lovability. Raych could see that.
Raych did not try to meet Namarti's hostility with a friendly smile. It would have seemed too artificial. He simply waited. He had gotten this far. If Joranum arrived, as he was expected to, Raych would have a chance to speak to him.
Joranum did arrive, sweeping in, smiling his public smile of warmth and confidence. Namarti's hand came up and Joranum stopped. They spoke together in low voices while Raych watched intently and tried in vain to seem as if he wasn't. It seemed plain to Raych that Namarti was arguing against the meeting and Raych bridled a bit at that.
Then Joranum looked at Raych, smiled, and pushed Namarti to one side. It occurred to Raych that, while Namarti was the brains of the team, it was Joranum who clearly had the charisma.
Joranum strode toward him and held out a plump, slightly moist hand. "Well well. Professor Seldon's young man. How are you?"
"Fine, thank you, sir."
"You had some trouble getting here, I understand."
"Not too much, sir."
"And you've come with a message from your father, I trust. I hope he is reconsidering his decision and has decided to join me in my great crusade."
"I don't think so, sir."
Joranum frowned slightly. "Are you here without his knowledge?"
"No, sir. He sent me."
"I see. Are you hungry, lad?"
"Not at the moment, sir."
"Then would you mind if I eat? I don't get much time for the ordinary amenities of life," he said, smiling broadly.
"It's all right with me, sir."
Together, they moved to a table and sat down. Joranum unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite. His voice slightly muffled, he said, "And why did he send you, son?"
Raych shrugged. "I think he thought I might find out something about you that he could use against you. He's heart and soul with First Minister Demerzel."
"And you're not?"
"No, sir. I'm a Dahlite."
"I know you are, Mr. Seldon, but what does that mean?"
"It means I'm oppressed, so I'm on your side and I want to help you. Of course, I wouldn't want my father to know."
"There's no reason he should know. How do you propose to help me?" He glanced quickly at Namarti, who was leaning against his desk, listening, with his arms folded and his expression lowering. "Do you know anything about psychohistory?"
"No, sir. My father don't talk to me about that-and if he did, I wouldn't get it. I don't think he's getting anywhere with that stuff."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. There's a guy there, Yugo Amaryl, also a Dahlite, who talks about it sometimes. I'm sure nothing is happening."
"Ah! And can I see Yugo Amaryl sometime, do you suppose?"
"I don't think so. He ain't much for Demerzel, but he's all for my father. He wouldn't cross him."
"But you would?"
Raych looked unhappy and he muttered stubbornly, "I'm a Dahlite."
Joranum cleared his throat. "Then let me ask you again. How do you propose to help me, young man?"
"I've got something to tell you that maybe you won't believe."
"Indeed? Try me. If I don't believe it, I will tell you so."
"It's about First Minister Eto Demerzel."
"Well?"
Raych looked around uneasily. "Can anyone hear me?"
"Just Namarti and myself."
"All right, then listen. This guy Demerzel ain't a guy. He's a robot."
"What!" exploded Joranum.
Raych felt moved to explain. "A robot is a mechanical man, sir. He ain't human. He's a machine."
Namarti broke out passionately, "Jo-Jo, don't believe that. It's ridiculous."
But Joranum held up an admonitory hand. His eyes were gleaming. "Why do you say that?"
"My father was in Mycogen once. He told me all about it. In Mycogen they talk about robots a lot."
"Yes, I know. At least, I have heard so."
"The Mycogenians believe that robots were once very common among their ancestors, but they were wiped out."
Namarti's eyes narrowed. "But what makes you think that Demerzel is a robot? From what little I have heard of these fantasies, robots are made out of metal, aren't they?"
"That's so," said Raych earnestly. "But what I heard is that there were a few robots that look just like human beings and they live forever-"
Namarti shook his head violently. "Legends! Ridiculous legends! JoJo, why are we listening-"
But Joranum cut him off quickly. "No, G.D. I want to listen. I've heard these legends, too."
"But it's nonsense, Jo-Jo."
"Don't be in such a rush to say 'nonsense.' And even if it were, people live and die by nonsense. It's not what is so much as what people think is. Tell me, young man, putting legends to one side, what makes you think Demerzel is a robot? Let's suppose that robots exist. What is it, then, about Demerzel that makes you say he is a robot? Did he tell you so?"
"No, sir," said Raych.
"Did your father tell you so?" asked Joranum.
"No, sir. It's just my own idea, but I'm sure of it."
"Why? What makes you so sure?"
"It's just something about him. He doesn't change. He doesn't get older. He doesn't show emotions. Something about him looks like he's made of metal."
Joranum sat back in his chair and looked at Raych for an extended time. It was almost possible to hear his thoughts buzzing.
Finally he said, "Suppose he is a robot, young man. Why should you care? Does it matter to you?"
"Of course it matters to me," said Raych. "I'm a human being. I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire."
Joranum turned to Namarti with a gesture of eager approval. "Do you hear that, G.D.? 'I'm a human being. I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire.' Put him on holovision and have him say it. Have him repeat it over and over till it's drummed into every person on Trantor-"
"Hey," said Raych, finally catching his breath. "I can't say that on holovision. I can't let my father find out-"
"No, of course not," said Joranum quickly. "We couldn't allow that. We'll just use the words. We'll find some other Dahlite. Someone from each of the sectors, each in his own dialect, but always the same message: 'I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire.'"
Namarti said, "And what happens when Demerzel proves he's not a robot?"
"Really," said Joranum. "How will he do that? It would be impossible for him to do so. Psychologically impossible. What? The great Demerzel, the power behind the throne, the man who has twitched the strings attached to Cleon I all these years and those attached to Cleon’s father before him? Will he climb down now and whine to the public that he is, too, a human being? That would be almost as destructive to him as being a robot. G.D., we have the villain in a no-win situation and we owe it all to this fine young man here."
Raych flushed.
Joranum said, "Raych is your name, isn't it? Once our party is in a position to do so, we won't forget. Dahl will be treated well and you will have a good position with us. You're going to be Dahl's sector leader someday, Raych, and you're not going to regret you've done this. Are you, now?"
"Not on your life," said Raych fervently.
"In that case, we'll see that you get back to your father. You let him know that we intend him no harm, that we value him greatly. You can tell him you found that out in any way you please. And if you find anything else you think we might be able to use-about psychohistory, in particular, you let us know."
"You bet. But do you mean it when you say you'll see to it that Dahl gets some breaks?"
"Absolutely. Equality of sectors, my boy. Equality of worlds. We'll have a new Empire with all the old villainies of privilege and inequality wiped out."
And Raych nodded his head vigorously. "That's what I want."
Cleon, Emperor of the Galaxy, was walking hurriedly through the arcade that led from his private quarters in the Small Palace to the offices of the rather tremendous staff that lived in the various annexes of the Imperial Palace, which served as the nerve center of the Empire.
Several of his personal attaches walked after him, with looks of the deepest concern on their faces. The Emperor did not walk to others. He summoned them and they came to him. If he did walk, he never showed signs of haste or emotional trauma. How could he? He was the Emperor and, as such, far more a symbol of all the worlds than a human being.
Yet now he seemed to be a human being. He motioned everyone aside with an impatient wave of his right hand. In his left hand he held a gleaming hologram.
"The First Minister," he said in an almost strangled voice, not at all like the carefully cultivated tones he had painstakingly assumed along with the throne. "Where is he?"
And all the high functionaries who were in his way fumbled and gasped and found it impossible to manage coherence. He brushed past them angrily, making them all feel, undoubtedly, as though they were living through a waking nightmare.
Finally he burst into Demerzel's private office, panting slightly, and shouted-literally shouted- "Demerzel!"
Demerzel looked up with a trace of surprise and rose smoothly to his feet, for one did not sit in the presence of the Emperor unless specifically invited to. "Sire?" he said.
And the Emperor slammed the hologram down on Demerzel's desk and said, "What is this? Will you tell me that?"
Demerzel looked at what the Emperor had given him. It was a beautiful hologram, sharp and alive. One could almost hear the little boy-perhaps ten years old-speaking the words that were included in the caption: "I don't want no robot in charge of running the Empire."
Demerzel said quietly, "Sire, I have received this, too."
"And who else has?"
"I am under the impression, Sire, that it is a flier that is being widely spread over Trantor."
"Yes, and do you see the person at whom that brat is looking?" He tapped his Imperial forefinger at it. "Isn't that you?"
"The resemblance is striking, Sire."
"Am I wrong in supposing that the whole intent of this flier, as you call it, is to accuse you of being a robot?"
"That does seem to be its intention, Sire."
"And stop me if I'm wrong, but aren't robots the legendary mechanical human beings one finds in-in thrillers and children's stories?"
"The Mycogenians have it as an article of faith, Sire, that robots-"
"I'm not interested in the Mycogenians and their articles of faith. Why are they accusing you of being a robot?"
"Merely a metaphorical point, I'm sure, Sire. They wish to portray me as a man of no heart, whose views are the conscienceless calculations of a machine."
"That's too subtle, Demerzel. I'm no fool." He tapped the hologram again. "They're trying to make people believe you are really a robot."
"We can scarcely prevent it, Sire, if people choose to believe that."
"We cannot afford it. It detracts from the dignity of your office. Worse than that, it detracts from the dignity of the Emperor, The implication is that I-I would choose as my First Minister a mechanical man. That is impossible to endure. See here, Demerzel, aren't there laws that forbid the denigration of public officers of the Empire?"
"Yes, there are-and quite severe ones, Sire, dating back to the great Law Codes of Aburamis."
"And to denigrate the Emperor himself is a capital offense, is it not?"
"Death is the punishment, Sire. Yes."
"Well, this not only denigrates you, it denigrates me-and whoever did it should be executed forthwith. It was this Joranum, of course, who is behind it."
"Undoubtedly. Sire, but proving it might be rather difficult."
"Nonsense! I have proof enough! I want an execution."
"The trouble is, Sire, that the laws of denigration are virtually never enforced. Not in this century, certainly."
"And that is why society is becoming so unstable and the Empire is being shaken to its roots. The laws are still in the books, so enforce them."
Demerzel said, "Consider, Sire, if that would be wise. It would make you appear to be a tyrant and a despot. Your rule has been a most successful one through kindness and mildness-"
"Yes and see where that got me. Let's have them fear me for a change, rather than love me-in this fashion."
"I strongly recommend that you not do so, Sire. It may be the spark that will start a rebellion."
"What would you do, then? Go before the people and say, 'Look at me. I am no robot."'
"No, Sire, for as you say that would destroy my dignity and, worse yet, yours."
"Then?"
"I am not certain, Sire. I have not yet thought it through."
"Not yet thought it through? Get in touch with Seldon."
"Sire?"
"What is so difficult to understand about my order? Get in touch with Seldon!"
"You wish me to summon him to the Palace, Sire?"
"No, there's no time for that. I presume you can set up a sealed communication line between us that cannot be tapped."
"Certainly, Sire."
"Then do so. Now!"
Seldon lacked Demerzel's self-possession, being, as he was, only flesh and blood. The summons to his office and the sudden faint glow and tingle of the scrambler field was indication enough that something unusual was taking place. He had spoken by sealed lines before but never to the full extent of Imperial security.
He expected some government official to clear the way for Demerzel himself. Considering the slowly mounting tumult of the robot flier, he could expect nothing less.
But he did not expect anything more, either, and when the image of the Emperor himself, with the faint glitter of the scramble field outlining him, stepped into his office (so to speak), Seldon fell back in his seat, mouth wide open, and could make only ineffectual attempts to rise.
Cleon motioned him impatiently to keep his seat. "You must know what's going on, Seldon."
"Do you mean about the robot flier, Sire?"
"That's exactly what I mean. What's to be done?"
Seldon, despite the permission to remain seated, finally rose. "There's more, Sire. Joranum is organizing rallies all over Trantor on the robot issue. At least, that's what I hear on the newscasts."
"It hasn't reached me yet. Of course not. Why should the Emperor know what is going on?"
"It is not for the Emperor to be concerned, Sire. I'm sure that the First Minister-"
"The First Minister will do nothing, not even keep me informed. I turn to you and your psychohistory. Tell me what to do. "
"Sire?"
"I'm not going to play your game, Seldon. You've been working on psychohistory for eight years. The First Minister tells me I must not take legal action against Joranum. What, then, do I do?"
Seldon stuttered. "S-sire! Nothing!"
"You have nothing to tell me?"
"No, Sire. That is not what I mean. I mean you must do nothing. Nothing! The First Minister is quite right if he tells you that you must not take legal action. It will make things worse."
"Very well. What will make things better?"
"For you to do nothing. For the First Minister to do nothing. For the government to allow Joranum to do just as he pleases."
"How will that help?"
And Seldon said, trying to suppress the note of desperation in his voice, "That will soon be seen."
The Emperor seemed to deflate suddenly, as though all the anger and indignation had been drawn out of him. He said, "Ah! I understand! You have the situation well in hand!"
"Sire! I have not said that-"
"You need not say. I have heard enough. You have the situation well in hand, but I want results. I still have the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. They will be loyal and, if it comes to actual disorders, I will not hesitate. But I will give you your chance first."
His image flashed out and Seldon sat there, simply staring at the empty space where the image had been.
Ever since the first unhappy moment when he had mentioned psychohistory at the Decennial Convention eight years before, he had had to face the fact that he didn't have what he had incautiously talked about.
All he had was the wild ghost of some thoughts-and what Yugo Amaryl called intuition.
In two days Joranum had swept Trantor, partly by himself, mostly through his lieutenants. As Hari muttered to Dors, it was a campaign that had all the marks of military efficiency. "He was born to be a war admiral in the old days," he said. "He's wasted on politics."
And Dors said, "Wasted? At this rate, he's going to make himself First Minister in a week and, if he wishes, Emperor in two weeks. There are reports that some of the military garrisons are cheering him."
Seldon shook his head. "It will collapse, Dors."
"What? Joranum's party or the Empire?"
"Joranum's party. The story of the robot has created an instant stir, especially with the effective use of that flier, but a little thought, a little coolness, and the public will see it for the ridiculous accusation it is."
"But, Hari," said Dors tightly, "you needn't pretend with me. It is not a ridiculous story. How could Joranum possibly have found out that Demerzel is a robot?"
"Oh, that! Why, Raych told him so."**
"Raych!"
"That's right. He did his job perfectly and got back safely with the promise of being made Dahl's sector leader someday. Of course he was believed. I knew he would be."
"You mean you told Raych that Demerzel was a robot and had him pass on the news to Joranum?" Dors looked utterly horrified.
"No, I couldn't do that. You know I couldn't tell Raych-or anyone-that Demerzel was a robot. I told Raych as firmly as I could that Demerzel was not a robot-and even that much was difficult. But I did ask him to tell Joranum that he was. He is under the firm impression that he lied to Joranum."
"But why, Hari? Why?"
"It's not psychohistory, I'll tell you that. Don't you join the Emperor in thinking I'm a magician. I just wanted Joranum to believe that Demerzel was a robot. He's a Mycogenian by birth, so he was filled from youth with his culture's tales of robots. Therefore, he was predisposed to believe and he was convinced that the public would believe with him."
"Well, won't they?"
"Not really. After the initial shock is over, they will realize that it's madcap fiction-or they will think so. I've persuaded Demerzel that he must give a talk on subetheric holovision to be broadcast to key portions of the Empire and to every sector on Trantor. He is to talk about everything but the robot issue. There are enough crises, we all know, to fill such a talk. People will listen and will hear nothing about robots. Then, at the end, he will be asked about the flier and he need not answer a word. He need only laugh."
"Laugh? I've never known Demerzel to laugh. He almost never smiles."
"This time, Dors, he'll laugh. It is the one thing that no one ever visualizes a robot doing. You've seen robots in holographic fantasies, haven't you? They're always pictured as literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman-That's what people are sure to expect. So Demerzel need merely laugh. And on top of that-Do you remember Sunmaster Fourteen, the religious leader of Mycogen?"
"Of course I do. Literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman. He's never laughed, either."
"And he won't this time. I've done a lot of work on this Joranum matter since I had that little set-to at the Field. I know Joranum's real name. I know where he was born, who his parents were, where he had his early training, and all of it, with documentary proof, has gone to Sunmaster Fourteen. I don't think Sunmaster likes Breakaways."
"But I thought you said you don't wish to spark off bigotry."
"I don't. If I had given the information to the holovision people, I would have, but I've given it to Sunmaster, where, after all, it belongs."
"And he'll start off the bigotry."
"Of course he won't. No one on Trantor would pay any attention to Sunmaster-whatever he might say."
"Then what's the point?"
"Well, that's what we'll see, Dors. I don't have a psychohistorical analysis of the situation. I don't even know if one is possible. I just hope that my judgment is right."
Eto Demerzel laughed.
It was not the first time. He sat there, with Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili in a tap-free room, and, every once in a while, at a signal from Hari, he would laugh. Sometimes he leaned back and laughed uproariously, but Seldon shook his head. "That would never sound convincing."
So Demerzel smiled and then laughed with dignity and Seldon made a face. "I'm stumped," he said. "It's no use trying to tell you funny stories. You get the point only intellectually. You will simply have to memorize the sound."
Dors said, "Use a holographic laughtrack."
"No! That would never be Demerzel. That's a bunch of idiots being paid to yak. It's not what I want. Try again, Demerzel."
Demerzel tried again until Seldon said, "All right, then, memorize that sound and reproduce it when you're asked the question. You've got to look amused. You can't make the sound of laughing, however proficient, with a grave face. Smile a little, just a little. Pull back the corner of your mouth." Slowly Demerzel's mouth widened into a grin. "Not bad. Can you make your eyes twinkle?"
"What do you mean, 'twinkle,"' said Dors indignantly. "No one makes their eyes twinkle. That's a metaphorical expression."
"No, it's not," said Seldon. "There's the hint of tears in the eye-sadness, joy, surprise, whatever-and the reflection of light from that hint of fluid is what does it."
"Well, do you seriously expect Demerzel to produce tears?"
And Demerzel said, matter-of-factly, "My eyes do produce tears for general cleansing-never in excess. Perhaps, though, if I imagine my eyes to be slightly irritated-"
"Try it," said Seldon. "It can't hurt."
And so it was that when the talk on subetheric holovision was over and the words were streaking out to millions of worlds at thousands of times the effective speed of light words that were grave, matter-of-fact, informative, and without rhetorical embellishment-and that discussed everything but robots-Demerzel declared himself ready to answer questions.
He did not have to wait long. The very first question was: "Mr. First Minister, are you a robot?"
Demerzel simply stared calmly and let the tension build. Then he smiled, his body shook slightly, and he laughed. It was not a loud uproarious laugh, but it was a rich one, the laugh of someone enjoying a moment of fantasy. It was infectious. The audience tittered and then laughed along with him.
Demerzel waited for the laughter to die down and then, eyes twinkling, said, "Must I really answer that? Is it necessary to do so?" He was still smiling as the screen darkened.
"I'm sure it worked," said Seldon. "Naturally we won't have a complete reversal instantly. It takes time. But things are moving in the right direction now. I noticed that when I stopped Namarti's talk at the University Field. The audience was with him until I faced him and showed spunk against odds. The audience began to change sides at once."
"Do you think this is an analogous situation?" asked Dors dubiously.
"Of course. If I don't have psychohistory, I can use analogy-and the brains I was born with, I suppose. There was the First Minister, beleaguered on all sides with the accusation, and he faced it down with a smile and a laugh, the most nonrobot thing he could have done, so that in itself was an answer to the question. Of course sympathy began to slide to his side. Nothing would stop that. But that's only the beginning. We have to wait for Sunmaster Fourteen and hear what he has to say."
"Are you confident there, too?"
"Absolutely."
Tennis was one of Hari's favorite sports, but he preferred to play rather than watch others. He watched with impatience, therefore, as the Emperor Cleon, dressed in sports fashion, loped across the court to return the ball. It was Imperial tennis, actually, so-called because it was a favorite of Emperors, a version of the game in which a computerized racket was used that could alter its angle slightly with appropriate pressures on the handle. Hari had tried to develop the technique on several occasions but found that mastering the computerized racket would take a great deal of practice-and Hari Seldon's time was far too precious for what was clearly a trivial pursuit.
Cleon placed the ball in a nonreturnable position and won the game. He trotted off the court to the careful applause of the functionaries who were watching and Seldon said to him, "Congratulations, Sire. You played a marvelous game."
Cleon said indifferently, "Do you think so, Seldon? They're all so careful to let me win. I get no pleasure out of it."
Seldon said, "In that case, Sire, you might order your opponents to play harder."
"It wouldn't help. They'd be careful to lose anyway. And if they did win, I would get even less pleasure out of losing than out of winning meaninglessly. Being an Emperor has its woes, Seldon. Joranum would have found that out-if he had ever succeeded in becoming one."
He disappeared into his private shower facility and emerged in due time, scrubbed and dried and dressed rather more formally.
"And now, Seldon" he said, waving all the others away, "the tennis court is as private a place as we can find and the weather is glorious, so let us not go indoors. I have read the Mycogenian message of this Sunmaster Fourteen. Will it do?"
"Entirely, Sire. As you have read, Joranum was denounced as a Mycogenian Breakaway and is accused of blasphemy in the strongest terms."
"And does that finish him?"
"It diminishes his importance fatally, Sire. There are few who accept the mad story of the First Minister's robothood now. Furthermore, Joranum is revealed as a liar and a poseur and, worse, one who was caught at it."
"Caught at it, yes," said Cleon thoughtfully. "You mean that merely to be underhanded is to be sly and that may be admirable, while to be caught is to be stupid and that is never admirable."
"You put it succinctly, Sire."
"Then Joranum is no longer a danger."
"We can't be certain of that, Sire. He may recover, even now. He still has an organization and some of his followers will remain loyal. History yields examples of men and women who have come back after disasters as great as this one-or greater."
"In that case, let us execute him, Seldon."
Seldon shook his head. "That would be inadvisable, Sire. You would not want to create a martyr or to make yourself appear to be a despot."
Cleon frowned. "Now you sound like Demerzel. Whenever I wish to take forceful action, he mutters the word 'despot.' There have been Emperors before me who have taken forceful action and who have been admired as a result and have been considered strong and decisive."
"Undoubtedly, Sire, but we live in troubled times. Nor is execution necessary. You can accomplish your purpose in a way that will make you seem enlightened and benevolent."
"Seem enlightened?"
"Be enlightened, Sire. I misspoke. To execute Joranum would be to take revenge, which might be regarded as ignoble. As Emperor, however, you have a kindly-even paternal-attitude toward the beliefs of all your people. You make no distinctions, for you are the Emperor of all alike."
"What is it you're saying?"
"I mean, Sire, that Joranum has offended the sensibilities of the Mycogenians and you are horrified at his sacrilege, he having been born one of them. What better can you do but hand Joranum over to the Mycogenians and allow them to take care of him? You will be applauded for your proper Imperial convern."
"And the Mycogenians will execute him, then?"
"They may, Sire. Their laws against blasphemy are excessively severe. At best, they will imprison him for life at hard labor."
Cleon smiled. "Very good. I get the credit for humanity and tolerance and they do the dirty work."
"They would, Sire, if you actually handed Joranum over to them. That would, however, still create a martyr."
"Now you confuse me. What would you have me do?"
"Give Joranum the choice. Say that your regard for the welfare of all the people in your Empire urges you to hand him over to the Mycogenians for trial but that your humanity fears the Mycogenians may be too severe. Therefore, as an alternative, he may choose to be banished to Nishaya, the small and secluded world from which he claimed to have come, to live the rest of his life in obscurity and peace. You'll see to it that he's kept under guard, of course."
"And that will take care of things?"
"Certainly. Joranum would be committing virtual suicide if he chose to be returned to Mycogen-and he doesn't strike me as the suicidal type. He will certainly choose Nishaya, and though that is the sensible course of action, it is also an unheroic one. As a refugee in Nishaya, he can scarcely lead any movement designed to take over the Empire. His following is sure to disintegrate. They could follow a martyr with holy zeal, but it would be difficult, indeed, to follow a coward."
"Astonishing! How did you manage all this, Seldon?" There was a distinct note of admiration in Cleon's voice.
Seldon said, "Well, it seemed reasonable to suppose-"
"Never mind," said Cleon abruptly. "I don't suppose you'll tell me the truth or that I would understand you if you did, but I'll tell you this much. Demerzel is leaving office. This last crisis has proved to be too much for him and I agree with him that it is time for him to retire. But I can't do without a First Minister and, from this moment onward, you are he."
"Sire!" exclaimed Seldon in mingled astonishment and horror.
"First Minister Hari Seldon." said Cleon calmly. "The Emperor wishes it."
"Don't be alarmed," said Demerzel. "It was my suggestion. I've been here too long and the succession of crises has reached the point where the consideration of the Three Laws paralyzes me. You are the logical successor."
"I am not the logical successor," said Seldon hotly. "What do I know about running an Empire? The Emperor is foolish enough to believe that I solved this crisis by psychohistory. Of course I didn't."
"That doesn't matter, Hari. If he believes you have the psychohistorical answer, he will follow you eagerly and that will make you a Good First Minister."
"He may follow me straight into destruction."
"I feel that your good sense-or intuition-will keep you on target… with or without psychohistory."
"But what will I do without you-Daneel?"
"Thank you for calling me that. I am Demerzel no more, only Daneel. As to what you will do without me - Suppose you try to put into practice some of Joranum's ideas of equality and social justice? He may not have meant them-he may have used them only as ways of capturing allegiance-but they are not bad ideas in themselves. And find ways of having Raych help you in that. He clung to you against his own attraction to Joranum's ideas and he must feel torn and half a traitor. Show him he isn't. In addition, you can work all the harder on psychohistory, for the Emperor will be there with you, heart and soul."
"But what will you do, Daneel?"
"I have other things in the Galaxy to which I must attend. There is still the Zeroth Law and I must labor for the good of humanity, insofar as I can determine what that might be. And, Hari-"
"Yes, Daneel."
"You still, have Dors."
Seldon nodded. "Yes, I still have Dors." He paused for a moment before grasping Daneel's firm hand with his own. "Good-bye, Daneel."
"Good-bye, Hari," Daneel replied.
And with that, the robot turned, his heavy First Minister's robe rustling as he walked away, head up, back ramrod straight, along the Palace hallway.
Seldon stood there for a few minutes after Daneel had gone, lost in thought. Suddenly he began moving in the direction of the First Minister's apartment. Seldon had one more thing to tell Daneel-the most important thing of all.
Seldon hesitated in the softly lit hallway before entering. But the room was empty. The dark robe was draped over a chair. The First Minister's chambers echoed Hari's last words to the robot: "Good-bye, my friend." Eto Demerzel was gone; R. Daneel Olivaw had vanished.