VENABILI, DORS-The life of Hari Seldon is well encrusted with legend and uncertainty, so that little hope remains of ever obtaining a biography that can be thoroughly factual. Perhaps the most puzzling aspect of his life deals with his consort, Dors Venabili. There is no information whatever concerning Dors Venabili, except for her birth on the world of Cinna, prior to her arrival at Streeling University to become a member of the history faculty. Shortly after that, she met Seldon and remained his consort for twenty-eight years. If anything, her life is more interlarded with legend than Seldon's is. There are quite unbelievable tales of her strength and speed and she was widely spoken of, or perhaps whispered of, as "The Tiger Woman." Still more puzzling than her coming, however, is her going, for after a certain time, we hear of her no more and there is no indication as to what happened.
Her role as a historian is evidenced by her works on-
Wanda was almost eight years old now, going by Galactic Standard Time -as everyone did. She was quite the little lady-grave in manner, with straight light-brown hair. Her eyes were blue but were darkening and she might well end with the brown eyes of her father.
She sat there, lost in thought. Sixty.
That was the number that preoccupied her. Grandfather was going to have a birthday and it was going to be his sixtieth-and sixty was a large number. It bothered her because yesterday she had had a bad dream about it.
She went in search of her mother. She would have to ask.
Her mother was not hard to find. She was talking to Grandfather-about the birthday surely. Wanda hesitated. It wouldn't be nice to ask in front of Grandfather.
Her mother had no trouble whatever sensing Wanda's consternation. She said, "One minute, Hari, and let's see what's bothering Wanda. What is it, dear?"
Wanda pulled at her hand. "Not here, Mother. Private."
Manella turned to Hari Seldon. "See how early it starts? Private lives. Private problems. Of course, Wanda, shall we go to your room?"
"Yes, Mother." Wanda was clearly relieved.
Hand in hand, they went and then her mother said, "Now what is the problem, Wanda?"
"It's Grandfather, Mother."
"Grandfather! I can't imagine him doing anything to bother you."
"Well, he is." Wanda's eyes filled with sudden tears. "Is he going to die?"
"Your grandfather? What put that into your head, Wanda?"
"He's going to be sixty. That's so old."
"No, it isn't. It's not young, but it's not old, either. People live to be eighty, ninety, even a hundred-and your grandfather is strong and healthy. He'll live a long time."
"Are you sure?" She was sniffing.
Manella grasped her daughter by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. "We must all die someday, Wanda. I've explained that to you before. Just the same, we don't worry about it till the someday is much closer." She wiped Wanda's eyes gently. "Grandfather is going to stay alive till you're all grown up and have babies of your own. You'll see. Now come back with me. I want you to talk to Grandfather."
Wanda sniffed again.
Seldon looked at the little girl with a sympathetic expression on her return and said, "What is it, Wanda? Why are you unhappy?"
Wanda shook her head.
Seldon turned his gaze to the girl's mother. "Well, what is it, Manella?"
Manella shook her head. "She'll have to tell you herself."
Seldon sat down and tapped his lap. "Come, Wanda. Have a seat and tell me your troubles."
She obeyed and wriggled a bit, then said, "I'm scared."
Seldon put his arm around her. "Nothing to be scared of in your old grandfather."
Manella made a face. "Wrong word."
Seldon looked up at her. "Grandfather?"
"No. Old."
That seemed to break the dike. Wanda burst into tears. "You're old, Grandfather."
"I suppose so. I'm sixty." He bent his face down to Wanda's and whispered, "I don't like it, either, Wanda. That's why I'm glad you're only seven going on eight."
"Your hair is white, Grandpa."
"It wasn't always. It just turned white recently."
"White hair means you're going to die, Grandpa."
Seldon looked shocked. He said to Manella, "What is all this?"
"I don't know, Hari. It's her own idea."
"I had a bad dream," said Wanda.
Seldon cleared his throat. "We all have bad dreams now and then, Wanda. It's good we do. Bad dreams get rid of bad thoughts and then we're better off."
"It was about you dying, Grandfather."
"I know. I know. Dreams can be about dying, but that doesn't make them important. Look at me. Don't you see how alive I am-and cheerful-and laughing? Do I look as though I'm dying? Tell me."
"N-no."
"There you are, then. Now you go out and play and forget all about this. I'm just having a birthday and everyone will have a good time. Go ahead, dear."
Wanda left in reasonable cheer, but Seldon motioned to Manella to stay.
Seldon said, "Wherever do you think Wanda got such a notion?"
"Come now, Hari. She had a Salvanian gecko that died, remember? One of her friends had a father who died in an accident and she sees deaths on holovision all the time. It is impossible for any child to be so protected as not to be aware of death. Actually I wouldn't want her to be so protected. Death is an essential part of life; she must learn that."
"I don't mean death in general, Manella. I mean my death in particular. What has put that into her head?"
Manella hesitated. She was very fond, indeed, of Hari Seldon. She thought, Who would not be, so how can I say this?
But how could she not say this? So she said, "Hari, you yourself put it into her head."
"I?"
"Of course, you've been speaking for months of turning sixty and complaining loudly of growing old. The only reason people are setting up this party is to console you."
"It's no fun turning sixty," said Seldon indignantly. "Wait! Wait! You'll find out."
"I will-if I'm lucky. Some people don't make it to sixty. Just the same, if turning sixty and being old are all you talk about, you end up frightening an impressionable little girl."
Seldon sighed and looked troubled. "I'm sorry, but it's hard. Look at my hands. They're getting spotted and soon they'll be gnarled. I can do hardly anything in the way of Twisting any longer. A child could probably force me to my knees."
"In what way does that make you different from other sixty-year-olds? At least your brain is working as well as ever. How often have you said that that's all that counts?"
"I know. But I miss my body."
Manella said with just a touch of malice, "Especially when Dors doesn't seem to get any older."
Seldon said uneasily, "Well yes, I suppose-" He looked away, clearly unwilling to talk about the matter.
Manella looked at her father-in-law gravely. The trouble was, he knew nothing about children-or about people generally. It was hard to think that he had spent ten years as First Minister under the old Emperor and yet ended up knowing as little about people as he did.
Of course, he was entirely wrapped up in this psychohistory of his, that dealt with quadrillions of people, which ultimately meant dealing with no people at all-as individuals. And how could he know about children when he had had no contact with any child except Raych, who had entered his life as a twelve-year-old? Now he had Wanda, who was-and would probably remain to him-an utter mystery.
Manella thought all this lovingly. She had the incredible desire to protect Hari Seldon from a world he did not understand. It was the only point at which she and her mother-in-law, Dors Venabili, met and coalesced-this desire to protect Hari Seldon.
Manella had saved Seldon's life ten years before. Dors, in her strange way, had considered this an invasion of her prerogative and had never quite forgiven Manella.
Seldon, in his turn, had then saved Manella's life. She closed her eyes briefly and the whole scene returned to her, almost as though it were happening to her right now.
It was a week after the assassination of Cleon-and a horrible week it had been. All of Trantor was in chaos.
Hari Seldon still kept his office as First Minister, but it was clear he had no power. He called in Manella Dubanqua.
"I want to thank you for saving Raych's life and my own. I haven't had a chance to do so yet." Then with a sigh, "I have scarcely had a chance to do anything this past week."
Manella asked, "What happened to the mad gardener?"
"Executed! At once! No trial! I tried to save him by pointing out that he was insane. But there was no question about it. If he had done anything else, committed any other crime, his madness would have been recognized and he would have been spared. Committed-locked up and treated-but spared, nonetheless. But to kill the Emperor-" Seldon shook his head sadly.
Manella said, "What's going to happen now, First Minister?"
"I'll tell you what I think. The Entun Dynasty is finished. Cleon's son will not succeed. I don't think he wants to. He fears assassination in his turn and I don't blame him one bit. It would be much better for him to retire to one of the family estates on some Outer World and live a quiet life. Because he is a member of the Imperial House, he will untie** allowed to do this. You and I may be less fortunate."
Manella frowned. "In what way, sir?"
Seldon cleared his throat. "It is possible to argue that because you killed Gleb Andorin, he dropped his blaster, which became available to Mandell Gruber, who used it to kill Cleon. Therefore you bear a strong share of the responsibility of the crime and it may even be said that it was all prearranged."
"But that’s ridiculous. I am a member of the security establishment, fulfilling my duties-doing what I was ordered to do."
Seldon smiled sadly. "You're arguing rationally and rationality is not going to be in fashion for a while. What's going to happen now, in the absence of a legitimate successor to the Imperial throne, is that we are bound to have a military government."
(In later years, when Manella came to understand the workings of psychohistory, she wondered if Seldon had used the technique to work out what was going to happen, for the military rule certainly came to pass. At the time, however, he made no mention of his fledgling theory.)
"If we do have a military government," he went on, "then it will be necessary for them to establish a firm rule at once, crush any signs of disaffection, act vigorously and cruelly, even in defiance of rationality and justice. If they accuse you, Miss Dubanqua, of being part of a plot to kill the Emperor, you will be slaughtered, not as an act of justice but as a way of cowing the people of Trantor.
"For that matter, they might say that I was part of the plot, too. After all, I went out to greet the new gardeners when it was not my place to do so. Had I not done so, there would have been no attempt to kill me, you would not have struck back, and the Emperor would have lived. Do you see how it all fits?"
"I can't believe they will do this."
"Perhaps they won't. I'll make them an offer that, just perhaps, they may not wish to refuse."
"What would that be?"
"I will offer to resign as First Minister. They don't want me, they won't have me. But the fact is that I do have supporters at the Imperial Court and, even more important, people in the Outer Worlds who find me acceptable. That means that if the members of the Imperial Guard force me out, then even if they don't execute me, they will have some trouble. If, on the other hand, I resign, stating that I believe the military government is what Trantor and the Empire needs, then I actually help them, you see?"
He mused a little and said, "Besides, there is the little matter of psychohistory."
(That was the first time Manella had ever heard the word.)
"What's that?"
"Something I'm working on. Cleon believed in its powers very strongly-more strongly than I did at the time-and there's a considerable feeling in the court that psychohistory is, or might be, a powerful tool that could be made to work on the side of the government-whatever the government might be.
"Nor does it matter if they know nothing about the details of the science. I'd rather they didn't. Lack of knowledge can increase what we might call the superstitious aspect of the situation. In which case, they will let me continue working on my research as a private citizen. At least, I hope so. And that brings me to you."
"What about me?"
"I'm going to ask as part of the deal that you be allowed to resign from** the security establishment and that no action be taken against you for** the events in connection with the assassination. I ought to be able to
"But you're talking about ending my career."
"Your career is, in any case, over. Even if the Imperial Guard doesn't up an order of execution against you, can you imagine that you will Be allowed to continue working as a security officer?"
"But what do I do? How do I make a living?"
"I'll take care of that, Miss Dubanqua. In all likelihood, I'll go back to Streeling University, with a large grant for my psychohistorical research, I'm sure that I can find a place for you."
Manella, round-eyed, said, "Why should you-"
Seldon said, "I can't believe you're asking. You saved Raych's life and own. Is it conceivable that I don't owe you anything?"
And it was as he said. Seldon resigned gracefully from the post he had held for ten years. He was given a fulsome letter of appreciation for his services by the just-formed military government, a junta led by certain members of the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. He returned to Streeling University and Manella Dubanqua, relieved of her own post as security officer, went with Seldon and his family.
Raych came in, blowing on his hands. "I'm all for deliberate variety in the weather. You don't want things under a dome to always be the same. Today though, they made it just a little too cold and worked up a wind, besides. I think it's about time someone complained to weather control."
“I don't know that it's weather control's fault," said Seldon. "It's getting harder to control things in general."
"I know. Deterioration." Raych brushed his thick black mustache with the back of his hand. He did that often, as though he had never quite managed to get over the few months during which he had been mustacheless in Wye. He had also put on a little weight around the middle and, overall, had come to seem very comfortable and middleclass. Even his Dahl accent had faded somewhat.
He took off his light coverall and said, "And how's the old birthday boy?"
"Resenting it. Wait, wait, my son. One of these days, you'll be celebrating your fortieth birthday. We'll see how funny you'll think that is."
"Not as funny as sixty."
"Stop joking," said Manella, who had been chafing Raych's hands, trying to warm them.
Seldon spread his own hands. "We're doing the wrong thing, Raych. Your wife is of the opinion that all this talk about my turning sixty has sent little Wanda into a decline over the possibility of my dying."
"Really?" said Raych. "That accounts for it, then. I stopped in to see her and she told me at once, before I even had a chance to say a word, that she had had a bad dream. Was it about your dying?"
"Apparently," said Seldon.
"Well, she'll get over that. No way of stopping bad dreams."
"I'm not dismissing it that easily," said Manella. "She's brooding over it and that's not healthy. I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
"As you say, Manella," said Raych agreeably. "You're my dear wife and whatever you say-about Wanda-goes." And he brushed his mustache again.
His dear wife! It hadn't been so easy to make her his dear wife. Raych remembered his mother's attitude toward the possibility. Talk about nightmares. It was he who had the periodic nightmares in which he had to face down the furious Dors Venabili once more.
Raych's first clear memory, after emerging from his desperance-induced ordeal, was that of being shaved.
He felt the vibrorazor moving along his cheek and he said weakly, "Don't cut anywhere near my upper lip, barber. I want my mustache back."
The barber, who had already received his instructions from Seldon held up a mirror to reassure him.
Dors Venabili, who was sitting at his bedside, said, "Let him work, Raych. Don't excite yourself."
Raych's eyes turned toward her momentarily and he was quiet. When the barber left, Dors said, "How do you feel, Raych?"
"Rotten," he muttered. "I'm so depressed, I can't stand it."
"That's the lingering effect of the desperance you've been dosed with. The effects will wash out."
"I can't believe it. How long has it been?"
"Never mind. It will take time. You were pumped full of it."
He looked around restlessly. "Has Manella been to see me?"
"That woman?" (Raych was getting used to hearing Dors speak of Manella with those words and in that tone of voice.) "No. You're not fit for visitors yet."
Interpreting the look on Raych's face, Dors quickly added, "I'm an exception because I'm your mother, Raych. Why would you want that woman to see you, anyway? You're in no condition to be seen."
"All the more reason to see her," muttered Raych. "I want her to see me at my worst." He then turned to one side dispiritedly. "I want to sleep."
Dors Venabili shook her head. Later that day she said to Seldon "I don't know what we're going to do about Raych. Hari. He's quite unreasonable."
Seldon said, "He's not well, Dors. Give the young man a chance."
"He keeps muttering about that woman. Whatever her name is."
"Manella Dubanqua. It's not a hard name to remember."
"I think he wants to set up housekeeping with her. Live with her. Marry her."
Seldon shrugged. "Raych is thirty-old enough to make up his own mind."
"As his parents, we have something to say-surely."
Hari sighed. "And I'm sure you've said it, Dors. And once you've said it, I'm sure he'll do as he wishes."
"Is that your final word? Do you intend to do nothing while he makes plans to marry a woman like that?"
"What do you expect me to do, Dors? Manella saved Raych's life. Do you expect him to forget that? She saved mine, too, for that matter."
That seemed to feed Dors's anger. She said, "And you also saved her. The score is even."
"I didn't exactly-"
"Of course you did. The military rascals who now run the Empire would have slaughtered her if you didn't step in and sell them your resignation and your support in order to save her."
"Though I may have evened the score, which I don't think I have, Raych has not. And, Dors dear, I would be very careful when it came to using unfortunate terms to describe our government. These times are not going to be as easy as the times when Cleon ruled and there will always be informers to repeat what they hear you say."
"Never mind that. I don't like that woman. I presume that, at least, is permissible."
"Permissible, certainly, but of no use."
Hari looked down at the floor, deep in thought. Dors's usually unfathomable black eyes were positively flashing in anger. Hari looked up.
"What I'd like to know, Dors, is why? Why do you dislike Manella so? She saved our lives. If it had not been for her quick action, both Raych and I would be dead."
Dors snapped back, "Yes, Hari. I know that better than anyone. And if she had not been there, I would not have been able to do a thing to prevent your murder. I suppose you think I should be grateful. But every time I look at that woman, I am reminded of my failure. I know these feelings are not truly rational-and that is something I can't explain. So do not ask me to like her, Hari. I cannot."
But the next day even Dors had to back down when the doctor said, "Your son wishes to see a woman named Manella."
"He's in no condition to see visitors," snapped Dors.
"On the contrary. He is. He's doing quite well. Besides, he insists and is doing so most strenuously. I don't know that we'd be wise to refuse him."
So they brought in Manella and Raych greeted her effusively and with the first faint sign of happiness since he had arrived at the hospital.
He made an unmistakable small gesture of dismissal at Dors. Lips tightened, she left.
And the day came when Raych said, "She'll have me, Mom."
Dors said, "Do you expect me to be surprised, you foolish man? Of course she'll have you. You're her only chance, now that she's been disgraced, ousted from the security establishment…"
Raych said, "Mom, if you're trying to lose me, this is exactly the way of doing it. Don't say things like that."
"I'm only thinking of your welfare."
"I'll think of my own good, thank you. I'm no one's ticket to respectability-if you'll stop to think of it. I'm not exactly handsome. I'm short. Dad isn't First Minister anymore and I talk solid lower-class. What's there for her to be proud of in me? She can do a lot better, but she wants me. And let me tell you, I want her."
"But you know what she is."
"Of course I know what she is. She's a woman who loves me. She's the woman I love. That's what she is."
"And before you fell in love with her, what was she? You know some of what she had to do while undercover in Wye you were one of her 'assignments.' How many others were there? Are you able to live with her past? With what she did in the name of duty? Now you can afford to be idealistic. But someday you will have your first quarrel with her-or your second or your nineteenth-and you'll break down and say, 'You-**"
Raych shouted angrily, "Don't say that! When we fight, I'll call her unreasonable, irrational, nagging, whining, inconsiderate-a million adjectives that will fit the situation. And she'll have words for me. But they'll all be sensible words that can be withdrawn when the fight is over."
"You think so-but just wait till it happens."
Raych had turned white. He said, "Mother, you've been with Father now for almost twenty years. Father is a hard man to disagree with, but there have been times when you two have argued. I've heard you. In all those twenty years, has he ever called you by any name that would in any way compromise your role as human being? For that matter, have I done so? Can you conceive of me doing so now-no matter how angry I get?"
Dors struggled. Her face did not show emotion in quite the same way that Raych's did or Seldon's would, but it was clear that she was momentarily incapable of speech.
"In fact," said Raych, pushing his advantage (and feeling horrible at doing so) "the fact of the matter is that you are jealous because Manella saved Dad's life. You don't want anyone to do that but you. Well, you had no chance to do so. Would you prefer it if Manella had not shot Andorin-if Dad had died? And me, too?"
Dors said in a choked voice, "He insisted on going out to meet the gardeners alone. He would not allow me to come."
"But that wasn't Manella's fault."
"Is that why you want to marry her? Gratitude?"
"No. Love."
And so it was, but Manella said to Raych after the ceremony, "Your mother may have attended the wedding because you insisted, Raych, but she looked like one of those thunderclouds they sometimes send sailing under the dome."
Raych laughed. "She doesn't have the face to be a thundercloud. You're just imagining it."
"Not at all. How will we ever get her to give us a chance?"
"We'll just be patient. She'll get over it."
But Dors Venabili didn't.
Two years after the wedding, Wanda was born. Dors's attitude toward the child was all Raych and Manella could have wanted, but Wanda's mother remained "that woman" to Raych's mother.
Hari Seldon was fighting off melancholy. He was lectured in turn by Dors, by Raych, by Yugo, and by Manella. All united to tell him that sixty was not old.
They simply did not understand. He had been thirty when the first hint of psychohistory had come to him, thirty-two when he delivered his famous lecture at the Decennial Convention, following which everything seemed to happen to him at once. After his brief interview with Cleon, He had fled across Trantor and met Demerzel, Dors, Yugo, and Raych, to say nothing of the people of Mycogen, of Dahl, and of Wye.
He was forty when he became First Minister and fifty when he had relinquished the post. Now he was sixty.
He had spent thirty years on psychohistory. How many more years would he require? How many more years would he live? Would he die with the Psychohistory Project unfinished after all?
It was not the dying that bothered him, he told himself. It was the matter of leaving the Psychohistory Project unfinished.
He went to see Yugo Amaryl. In recent years they had somehow drifted apart, as the Psychohistory Project had steadily increased in size. In the first years at Streeling, it had merely been Seldon and Amaryl working together-no one else. Now ** Amaryl was nearly fifty-not exactly a young man-and he had somehow lost his spark. In all these years, he had developed no interest in anything but psychohistory: no woman, no companion, no hobby, no subsidiary activity.
Amaryl blinked at Seldon who couldn't help but note the changes in the man's appearance. Part of it may have been because Yugo had had to have his eyes reconstructed. He saw perfectly well, but there was an unnatural look about them and he tended to blink slowly. It made him appear sleepy.
"What do you think, Yugo?" said Seldon. "Is there any light at the end of the tunnel?"
"Light? Yes, as a matter of fact," said Amaryl. "There's this new fellow, Tamwile Elar. You know him, of course."
"Oh yes. I'm the one who hired him. Very vigorous and aggressive. How's he doing?"
"I can't say I'm really comfortable with him, Hari. His loud laughter gets on my nerves. But he's brilliant. The new system of equations fits right into the Prime Radiant and they seem to make it possible to get around the problem of chaos."
"Seem? Or will?"
"Too early to say, but I'm very hopeful. I have tried a number of things that would have broken them down if they were worthless and the new equations survived them all. I'm beginning to think of them as the achaotic equations!"
"I don't imagine," said Seldon "we have anything like a rigorous demonstration concerning these equations?"
"No, we don't, though I've put half a dozen people on it, including Elar, of course." Amaryl turned on his Prime Radiant-which was every bit as advanced as Seldon's was-and he watched as the curving lines of luminous equations curled in midair-too small, too fine to be read without amplification. "Add the new equations and we may be able to begin to predict."
"Each time I study the Prime Radiant now," said Seldon thoughtfully, "I wonder at the Electro-Clarifier and how tightly it squeezes material into the lines and curves of the future. Wasn't that Elar's idea, too?"
"Yes. With the help of Cinda Monay, who designed it."
"It's good to have new and brilliant men and women in the Project. Somehow it reconciles me to the future."
"You think someone like Elar may be heading the Project someday?" asked Amaryl, still studying the Prime Radiant.
"Maybe. After you and I have retired-or died."
Amaryl seemed to relax and turned off the device. "I would like to complete the task before we retire or die."
"So would I, Yugo. So would I."
"Psychohistory has guided us pretty well in the last ten years."
That was true enough, but Seldon knew that one couldn't attach too much triumph to that. Things had gone smoothly and without major surprises.
Psychohistory had predicted that the center would hold after Cleon's death-predicted it in a very dim and uncertain way-and it did hold. Trantor was reasonably quiet. Even with an assassination and the end of a dynasty, the center had held.
It did so under the stress of military rule-Dors was quite right in speaking of the junta as "those military rascals." She might have even gone farther in her accusations without being wrong. Nevertheless, they were holding the Empire together and would continue to do so for a time. Long enough, perhaps, to allow psychohistory to play an active role in the events that were to transpire.
Lately Yugo had been speaking about the possible establishment of Foundations-separate, isolated, independent of the Empire itself serving as seeds for developments through the forthcoming dark ages and into a new and better Empire. Seldon himself had been working on the consequences of such an arrangement.
But he lacked the time and, he felt (with a certain misery), he lacked the youth as well. His mind, however firm and steady, did not have the resiliency and creativity that it had had when he was thirty and with each passing year, he knew he would have less.
Perhaps he ought to put the young and brilliant Elar on the task, taking him off everything else. Seldon had to admit to himself, shamefacedly, that the possibility did not excite him. He did not want to have invented psychohistory so that some stripling could come in and reap the final fruits of fame. In fact, to put it at its most disgraceful, Seldon felt jealous of Elar and realized it just sufficiently to feel ashamed of the emotion.
Yet, regardless of his less rational feelings, he would have to depend on other younger men-whatever his discomfort over it. Psychohistory was no longer the private preserve of himself and Amaryl. The decade of his being First Minister had converted it into a large government-sanctioned and -budgeted undertaking and, quite to his surprise, after resigning from his post as First Minister and returning to Streeling University, it had grown still larger. Hari grimaced at its ponderous-and pompous-official name: the Seldon Psychohistory Project at Streeling University. But most people simply referred to it as the Project.
The military junta apparently saw the Project as a possible political weapon and while that was so, funding was no problem. Credits poured in. In return, it was necessary to prepare annual reports, which, however, were quite opaque. Only fringe matters were reported on and even then the mathematics was not likely to be within the purview of any of the members of the junta.
It was clear as he left his old assistant that Amaryl, at least, was more than satisfied with the way psychohistory was going and yet Seldon felt the blanket of depression settle over him once more.
He decided it was the forthcoming birthday celebration that was bothering him. It was meant as a celebration of joy, but to Hari it was not even a gesture of consolation-it merely emphasized his age.
Besides, it was upsetting his routine and Hari was a creature of habit. His office and a number of those adjoining had been cleared out and it had been days since he had been able to work normally. His proper offices would be converted into halls of glory, he supposed, and it would be many days before he could get back to work. Only Amaryl absolutely refused to budge and was able to maintain his office.
Seldon had wondered, peevishly, who had thought of doing all this. It wasn't Dors, of course. She knew him entirely too well. Not Amaryl or Raych, who never even remembered their own birthdays. He had suspected Manella and had even confronted her on the matter.
She admitted that she was all for it and had given orders for the arrangements to take place, but she said that the idea for the birthday party had been suggested to her by Tamwile Elar.
The brilliant one, thought Seldon. Brilliant in everything.
He sighed. If only the birthday were all over.
Dors poked her head through the door. "Am I allowed to come in?"
"No, of course not. Why should you think I would?"
"This is not your usual place."
"I know," sighed Seldon. "I have been evicted from my usual place because of the stupid birthday party. How I wish it were over."
"There you are. Once that woman gets an idea in her head, it takes over and grows like the big bang."
Seldon changed sides at once. "Come. She means well, Dors."
"Save me from the well-meaning," said Dors. "In any case, I'm here to discuss something else. Something which may be important."
"Go ahead. What is it?"
"I've been talking to Wanda about her dream-" She hesitated.
Seldon made a gargling sound in the back of his throat, then said, "I can't believe it. Just let it go."
"No. Did you bother to ask her for the details of the dream?"
"Why should I put the little girl through that?"
"Neither did Raych, nor Manella. It was left up to me."
"But why should you torture her with questions about it?"
"Because I had the feeling I should," said Dors grimly. "In the first place, she didn't have the dream when she was home in her bed."
"Where was she, then?"
"In your office."
"What was she doing in my office?"
"She wanted to see the place where the party would be and she walked into your office and, of course, there was nothing to see, as it's been cleared out in preparation. But your chair was still there. The large one-tall back, tall wings, broken-down-the one you won't let me replace."
Hari sighed, as if recalling a longstanding disagreement. "It's not broken-down. I don't want a new one. Go on."
"She curled up in your chair and began to brood over the fact that maybe you weren't really going to have a party and she felt bad. Then, she tells me, she must have fallen asleep because nothing is clear in her mind, except that in her dream there were two men-not women, she was sure about that-two men, talking."
"And what were they talking about?"
"She doesn't know exactly. You know how difficult it is to remember details under such circumstances. But she says it was about dying and she thought it was you because you were so old. And she remembers two words clearly. They were 'lemonade death.'"
"What?"
"Lemonade death."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. In any case, the talking ceased, the men left, and there she was in the chair, cold and frightened-and she's been upset about it ever since."
Seldon mulled over Dors's report. Then he said, "Look, dear, what importance can we attach to a child's dream?"
"We can ask ourselves first, Hari, if it even was a dream."
"What do you mean?"
"Wanda doesn't say outright it was. She says she 'must have fallen asleep.' Those are her words. She didn't say she fell asleep, she said she must have fallen asleep."
"What do you deduce from that?"
"She may have drifted off into a half-doze and, in that state, heard two men-two real men, not two dream men-talking."
"Real men? Talking about killing me with lemonade death?"
"Something like that, yes."
"Dors," said Seldon forcefully, "I know that you're forever foreseeing danger for me, but this is going too far. Why should anyone want to kill me?"
"It's been tried twice before."
"So it has, but consider the circumstances. The first attempt came shortly after Cleon appointed me First Minister. Naturally this was an offense to the well-established court hierarchy and I was very resented. A few thought they might settle matters by getting rid of me. The second time was when the Joranumites were trying to seize power and they thought I was standing in their way-plus Namarti's distorted dream of revenge.
"Fortunately neither assassination attempt succeeded, but why should there now be a third? I am no longer First Minister and haven't been for ten years. I am an aging mathematician in retirement and surely no one has anything to fear from me. The Joranumites have been rooted out and destroyed and Namarti was executed long ago. There is absolutely no motivation for anyone to want to kill me.
"So please, Dors, relax. When you're nervous about me, you get unsettled, which makes you more nervous still, and I don't want that to happen."
Dors rose from her seat and leaned across Hari's desk. "It's easy for you to say that there is no motive to kill you, but none is needed. Our government is now a completely irresponsible one and if they wish-"
"Stop!" commanded Seldon loudly. Then, very quietly, "Not a word, Dors. Not a word against the government. That could get us in the very trouble you're foreseeing."
"I'm only talking to you, Hari."
"Right now you are, but if you get into the habit of saying foolish things, you don't know when something will slip out in someone else's presence-someone who will then be glad to report you. Just learn, as a matter of necessity, to refrain from political commentary."
"I'll try, Hari," said Dors, but she could not keep the indignation out of her voice. She turned on her heel and left.
Seldon watched her go. Dors had aged gracefully, so gracefully that at times she seemed not to have aged at all. Though she was two years younger than Seldon, her appearance had not changed nearly as much as his had in the twenty-eight years they had been together. Naturally.
Her hair was frosted with gray, but the youthful luster beneath the gray still shone through. Her complexion had grown more sallow; her voice was a bit huskier, and, of course, she wore clothes that were suitable for middle age. However, her movements were as agile and as quick as ever. It was as if nothing could be allowed to interfere with her ability to protect Hari in case of an emergency.
Hari sighed. This business of being protected-more or less against his will, at all times-was sometimes a heavy burden.
Manella came to see Seldon almost immediately afterward.
"Pardon me, Hari, but what has Dors been saying?"
Seldon looked up again. Nothing but interruptions.
"It wasn't anything important. Wanda's dream."
Manella's lips pursed. "I knew it. Wanda said Dors was asking her questions about it. Why doesn't she leave the girl alone? You would think that having a bad dream was some sort of felony."
"As a matter of fact," said Seldon soothingly, "it's just a matter of something Wanda remembered as part of the dream. I don't know if Wanda told you, but apparently in her dream she heard something about 'lemonade death.' "
"Hmm!" Manella was silent for a moment. Then she said, "That doesn't really matter so much. Wanda is crazy about lemonade and she's expecting lots of it at the party. I promised she'd have some with Mycogenian drops in it and she's looking forward to it."
"So that if she heard something that sounded anything like lemonade, it would be translated into lemonade in her mind."
"Yes. Why not?"
"Except that, in that case, what do you suppose it was that was actually said? She must have heard something in order to misinterpret it."
"I don't think that's necessarily so. But why are we attaching so much importance to a little girl's dream? Please, I don't want anyone talking to her about it anymore. It's too upsetting."
"I agree. I'll see to it that Dors drops the subject-at least with Wanda."
"All right. I don't care if she is Wanda's grandmother, Hari. I'm her mother, after all, and my wishes come first."
"Absolutely," said Seldon soothingly and looked after Manella as she left. That was another burden-the unending competition between those two women.
Tamwile Elar was thirty-six years old and had joined Seldon's Psychohistory Project as Senior Mathematician four years earlier. He was a tall man, with a habitual twinkle in his eye and with more than a touch of self-assurance as well.
His hair was brown and had a loose wave in it, the more noticeable because he wore it rather long. He had an abrupt way of laughing, but there was no fault to be found with his mathematical ability.
Elar had been recruited from the West Mandanov University and Seldon always had to smile when he remembered how suspicious Yugo Amaryl had been of him at first. But then, Amaryl was suspicious of everyone. Deep in his heart (Seldon felt sure), Amaryl felt that psychohistory ought to have remained his and Hari's private province.
But even Amaryl was now willing to admit that Elar's membership in the group had eased his own situation tremendously. Yugo said, "His techniques for avoiding chaos are unique and fascinating. No one else in the Project could have worked it out the way he did. Certainly nothing of this sort ever occurred to me. It didn't occur to you, either, Hari."
"Well," said Seldon grumpily, "I'm getting old."
"If only," said Amaryl, "he didn't laugh so loud."
"People can't help the way they laugh."
Yet the truth was that Seldon found himself having a little trouble accepting Elar. It was rather humiliating that he himself had come nowhere near the "achaotic equations," as they were now called. It didn't bother Seldon that he had never thought of the principle behind the Electro-Clarifier-that was not really his field. The achaotic equations, however, he should, indeed, have thought of-or at least gotten close to.
He tried reasoning with himself. Seldon had worked out the entire basis for psychohistory and the achaotic equations grew naturally out of that basis. Could Elar have done Seldon's work three decades earlier? Seldon was convinced that Elar couldn't have. And was it so remarkable that Elar had thought up the principle of achaotism once the basis was in place?
All this was very sensible and very true, yet Seldon still found himself uneasy when facing Elar. Just slightly edgy. Weary age facing flamboyant youth.
Yet Elar never gave him obvious cause for feeling the difference in years. He never failed to show Seldon full respect or in any way to imply that the older man had passed his prime.
Of course, Elar was interested in the forthcoming festivities and had even, as Seldon had discovered, been the first to suggest that Seldon's birthday be celebrated. (Was this a nasty emphasis on Seldon's age? Seldon dismissed the possibility. If he believed that, it would mean he was picking up some of Dors's tricks of suspicion.
Elar strode toward him and said, "Maestro-" And Seldon winced, as always. He much preferred to have the senior members of the Project call him Hari, but it seemed such a small point to make a fuss over.
"Maestro," said Elar. "The word is out that you've been called in for a conference with General Tennar."
"Yes. He's the new head of the military junta and I suppose he wants to see me to ask what psychohistory is all about. They've been asking me that since the days of Cleon and Demerzel." (The new head! The junta was like a kaleidoscope, with some of its members periodically falling from grace and others rising from nowhere.)
"But it's my understanding he wants it now-right in the middle of the birthday celebration."
"That doesn't matter. You can all celebrate without me."
"No, we can't, Maestro. I hope you don't mind, but some of us got together and put in a call to the Palace and put the appointment off for a week."
"What?" said Seldon annoyed. "Surely that was presumptuous of you-and risky, besides."
"It worked out well. They've put it off and you'll need that time."
"Why would I need a week?"
Elar hesitated. "May I speak frankly, Maestro?"
"Of course you can. When have I ever asked that anyone speak to me m any way but frankly?"
Elar flushed slightly, his fair skin reddening, but his voice remained steady. "It's not easy to say this, Maestro. You're a genius at mathematics. No one on the Project has any doubt of that. No one in the Empire-they knew you and understood mathematics-would have any doubt about it. However, it is not given to anybody to be a universal genius."
"I know that as well as you do, Elar."
"I know you do. Specifically, though, you lack the ability to handle ordinary people-shall we say, stupid people. You lack a certain deviousness, a certain ability to sidestep, and if you are dealing with someone who is both powerful in government and somewhat stupid, you can easily endanger the Project and, for that matter, your own life, simply because you are too frank."
"What is this? Am I suddenly a child? I've been dealing with politicians for a long time. I was First Minister for ten years, as perhaps you may remember."
"Forgive me, Maestro, but you were not an extraordinarily effective one. You dealt with First Minister Demerzel, who was very intelligent, by all accounts, and with the Emperor Cleon, who was very friendly. Now you will encounter military people who are neither intelligent nor friendly-another matter entirely."
"I've even dealt with military people and survived."
"Not with General Dugal Tennar. He's another sort of thing altogether. I know him."
"You know him? You have met him?"
"I don't know him personally, but he's from Mandanov, which, as you know, is my sector, and he was a power there before he joined the junta and rose through its ranks."
"And what do you know about him?"
"Ignorant, superstitious, violent. He is not someone you can handle easily-or safely. You can use the week to work out methods for dealing with him."
Seldon bit his lower lip. There was something to what Elar said and Seldon recognized the fact that, while he had plans of his own, it would still be difficult to try to manipulate a stupid, self-important, short-tempered person with overwhelming force at his disposal.
He said uneasily, "I'll manage somehow. The whole matter of a military junta is, in any case, an unstable situation in the Trantor of today. It has already lasted longer than might have seemed likely."
"Have we been testing that? I was not aware that we were making stability decisions on the junta."
"Just a few calculations by Amaryl, making use of your achaotic equations." He paused. "By the way, I've come across some references to them as the Elar Equations."
"Not by me, Maestro."
"I hope you don't mind, but I don't want that. Psychohistoric elements are to be described functionally and not personally. As soon as personalities intervene, bad feelings arise."
"I understand and quite agree, Maestro."
"In fact," said Seldon with a touch of guilt, "I have always felt it wrong that we speak of the basic Seldon Equations of Psychohistory. The trouble is that's been in use for so many years, it's not practical to try to change it."
"If you'll excuse my saying so, Maestro, you're an exceptional case. No one, I think, would quarrel with your receiving full credit for inventing the science of psychohistory. But, if I may, I wish to get back to your meeting with General Tennar."
"Well, what else is there to say?"
"I can't help but wonder if it might be better if you did not see him, did not speak to him, did not deal with him."
"How am I to avoid that if he calls me in for a conference?"
"Perhaps you can plead illness and send someone in your place."
"Whom?"
Elar was silent for a moment, but his silence was eloquent.
Seldon said, "You, I take it."
"Might that not be the thing to do? I am a fellow sectoral citizen of the General, which may carry some weight. You are a busy man, getting on in years, and it would be easy to believe that you are not entirely well. And if I see him, rather than yourself-please excuse me, Maestro-I can wiggle and maneuver more easily than you can."
"Lie, you mean."
"If necessary."
"You'll be taking a huge chance."
"Not too huge. I doubt that he will order my execution. If he becomes annoyed with me, as he well might, then I can plead-or you can plead on my behalf-youth and inexperience. In any case, if I get into trouble, that will be far less dangerous than if you were to do so. I'm thinking of the Project, which can do without me a great deal more easily than it can without you."
Seldon said with a frown, "I'm not going to hide behind you, Elar. If the man wants to see me, he will see me. I refuse to shiver and shake and ask you to take chances for me. What do you think I am?"
"A frank and honest man-when the need is for a devious one."
"I will manage to be devious-if I must. Please don't underestimate me, Elar."
Elar shrugged hopelessly. "Very well. I can only argue with you up to a certain point."
"In fact, Elar, I wish you had not postponed the meeting. I would rather skip my birthday and see the General than the reverse. This birthday celebration was not my idea." His voice died away in a grumble.
Elar said, "I'm sorry."
"Well," said Seldon with resignation, "we'll see what happens."
He turned and left. Sometimes he wished ardently that he could run what was called a "tight ship," making sure that everything went as he wished it to, leaving little or no room for maneuvering among his subordinates. To do that, however, would take enormous time, enormous effort, would deprive him of any chance of working on psychohistory himself-and, besides, he simply lacked the temperament for it.
He sighed. He would have to speak to Amaryl.
Seldon strode into Amaryl's office, unannounced.
"Yugo," he said abruptly, "the session with General Tennar has been postponed." He seated himself in a rather pettish manner.
It took Amaryl his usual few moments to disconnect his mind from his work. Looking up finally, he said, "What was his excuse?"
"It wasn't he. Some of our mathematicians arranged a week's postponement so that it wouldn't interfere with the birthday celebration. I find all of this to be extremely annoying."
"Why did you let them do that?"
"I didn't. They just went ahead and arranged things." Seldon shrugged. "In a way, it's my fault. I've whined so long about turning sixty that everyone thinks they have to cheer me up with festivities."
Amaryl said, "Of course, we can use the week."
Seldon sat forward, immediately tense. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Not that I can see, but it won't hurt to examine it further. Look, Hari, this is the first time in nearly thirty years that psychohistory has leached the point where it can actually make a prediction. It's not much of one-it's just a small pinch of the vast continent of humanity-but it's the best we've had so far. All right. We want to take advantage of that, see how it works, prove to ourselves that psychohistory is what we think it is: a predictive science. So it won't hurt to make sure that we haven't overlooked anything. Even this tiny bit of prediction is complex and I welcome another week of study."
"Very well, then. I'll consult you on the matter before I go to see the General for any last-minute modifications that have to be made. Meanwhile, Yugo, do not allow any information concerning this to leak out to the others-not to anyone. If it fails, I don't want the people of the Project to grow downhearted. You and I will absorb the failure ourselves and keep on trying."
A rare wistful smile crossed Amaryl's face. "You and I. Do you remember when it really was just the two of us?"
"I remember it very well and don't think that I don't miss those days. We didn't have much to work with-"
"Not even the Prime Radiant, let alone the Electro-Clarifier."
"But those were happy days."
"Happy," said Amaryl, nodding his head.
The University had been transformed and Hari Seldon could not refrain from being pleased.
The central rooms of the Project complex had suddenly sprouted in color and light, with holography filling the air with shifting three-dimensional images of Seldon at different places and different times. There was Dors Venabili smiling, looking somewhat younger-Raych as a teenager, still unpolished-Seldon and Amaryl, looking unbelievably young, bent over their computers. There was even a fleeting sight of Eto Demerzel, which filled Seldon's heart with yearning for his old friend and the security he had felt before Demerzel's departure.
The Emperor Cleon appeared nowhere in the holographics. It was not because holographs of him did not exist, but it was not wise, under the rule of the junta, to remind people of the past Imperium.
It all poured outward, overflowing, filling room after room, building after building. Somehow, time had been found to convert the entire University into a display the likes of which Seldon had never seen or even imagined. Even the dome lights were darkened to produce an artificial night against which the University would sparkle for three days.
"Three days!" said Seldon, half-impressed, half-horrified.
"Three days," said Dors Venabili, nodding her head. "The University would consider nothing less."
"The expense! The labor!" said Seldon, frowning.
"The expense is minimal," said Dors, "compared to what you have done for the University. And the labor is all voluntary. The students turned out and took care of everything."
A from-the-air view of the University appeared now, panoramically, and Seldon stared at it with a smile forcing itself onto his countenance.
Dors said, "You're pleased. You've done nothing but grouse these past few months about how you didn't want any celebration for being an old man-and now look at you."
"Well, it is flattering. I had no idea that they would do anything like this."
"Why not? You're an icon, Hari. The whole world-the whole Empire-knows about you."
"They do not," said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. "Not one in a billion knows anything at all about me-and certainly not about psychohistory. No one outside the Project has the faintest knowledge of how psychohistory works and not everyone inside does, either."
"That doesn't matter, Hari. It's you. Even the quadrillions who don't know anything about you or your work know that Hari Seldon is the greatest mathematician in the Empire."
"Well," said Seldon, looking around, "they certainly are making me feel that way right now. But three days and three nights! The place will be reduced to splinters."
"No, it won't. All the records have been stored away. The computers and other equipment have been secured. The students have set up a virtual security force that will prevent anything from being damaged."
"You've seen to all of that, haven't you, Dors?" said Seldon, smiling at her fondly.
"A number of us have. It's by no means all me. Your colleague Tamwile Elar has worked with incredible dedication."
Seldon scowled.
"What's the matter with Elar?" said Dors.
Seldon said, "He keeps calling me Maestro.' "
Dors shook her head. "Well, there's a terrible crime."
Seldon ignored that and said, "And he's young."
"Worse and worse. Come, Hari, you're going to have to learn to grow old gracefully-and to begin with you'll have to show that you're enjoying yourself. That will please others and increase their enjoyment and surely you would want to do that. Come on. Move around. Don't hide here with me. Greet everyone. Smile. Ask after their health. And remember that, after the banquet, you're going to have to make a speech."
"I dislike banquets and I doubly dislike speeches."
"You'll have to, anyway. Now move!"
Seldon sighed dramatically and did as he was told. He cut quite an imposing figure as he stood in the archway leading into the main hall. The voluminous First Minister's robes of yesteryear were gone, as were the Heliconian-style garments he had favored in his youth. Now Seldon wore an outfit that bespoke his elevated status: straight pants, crisply pleated, a modified tunic on top. Embroidered in silver thread above his heart was the insignia: SELDON PSYCHOHISTORY PROJECT AT STREELING UNIVERSITY. It sparkled like a beacon against the dignified titanium-gray hue of his clothing. Seldon's eyes twinkled in a face now lined by age, his sixty years given away as much by his wrinkles as by his white hair.
He entered the room in which the children were feasting. The room had been entirely cleared, except for trestles with food upon them. The children rushed up to him as soon as they saw him-knowing, as they did, that he was the reason for the feast-and Seldon tried to avoid their clutching fingers.
"Wait, wait, children," he said. "Now stand back."
He pulled a small computerized robot from his pocket and placed it on the floor. In an Empire without robots, this was something that he could expect to be eye-popping. It had the shape of a small furry animal, but it also had the capacity to change shapes without warning (eliciting squeals of children's laughter each time) and when it did so, the sounds and motions it made changed as well.
"Watch it," said Seldon, "and play with it, and try not to break it. Later on, there'll be one for each of you."
He slipped out into the hallway leading back to the main hall and realized, as he did so, that Wanda was following him.
"Grandpa," she said.
Well, of course, Wanda was different. He swooped down and lifted her high in the air, turned her over, and put her down.
"Are you having a good time, Wanda?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "but don't go into that room."
"Why not, Wanda? It's my room. It's the office where I work."
"It's where I had my bad dream."
"I know, Wanda, but that's all over, isn't it?" He hesitated, then he led Wanda to one of the chairs lining the hallway. He sat down and placed her on his lap.
"Wanda," he said, "are you sure it was a dream?"
"I think it was a dream."
"Were you really sleeping?"
"I think I was."
She seemed uncomfortable talking about it and Seldon decided to let it go. There was no use pushing her any further.
He said, "Well, dream or not, there were two men and they talked of lemonade death, didn't they?"
Wanda nodded reluctantly.
Seldon said, "You're sure they said lemonade?"
Wanda nodded again.
"Might they have said something else and you thought they said lemonade?"
"Lemonade is what they said."
Seldon had to be satisfied with that. "Well, run off and have a good time, Wanda. Forget about the dream."
"All right, Grandpa." She cheered up as soon as the matter of the dream was dismissed and off she went to join the festivities.
Seldon went to search for Manella. It took him an extraordinarily long time to find her, since, at every step, he was stopped, greeted, and conversed with.
Finally he saw her in the distance. Muttering, "Pardon me- Pardon me-There's someone I must-Pardon me-," he worked his way over to her with considerable trouble.
"Manella," he said and drew her off to one side, smiling mechanically in all directions.
"Yes, Hari," she said. "Is something wrong?"
"It's Wanda's dream."
"Don't tell me she's still talking about it."
"Well, it's still bothering her. Listen, we have lemonade at the party, haven't we?"
"Of course, the children adore it. I've added a couple of dozen different Mycogenian taste buds to very small glasses of different shapes and the children try them one after the other to see which taste best. The adults have been drinking it, too. I have. Why don't you taste it, Hari? It's great."
"I'm thinking. If it wasn't a dream, if the child really heard two men speak of lemonade death-" He paused, as though ashamed to continue.
Manella said, "Are you thinking that someone poisoned the lemonade? That's ridiculous. By now every child in the place would be sick or dying."
"I know," muttered Seldon. "I know."
He wandered off and almost didn't see Dors when he passed her. She seized his elbow.
"Why the face?" she said. "You look concerned."
"I've been thinking of Wanda's lemonade death."
"So have I, but I can't make anything of it so far."
"I can't help but think of the possibility of poisoning."
"Don't. I assure you that every bit of food that came into this party has been molecularly checked. I know you'll think that's my typical paranoia, but my task is guarding you and that is what I must do."
"And everything is-"
"No poison. I promise you."
Seldon smiled, "Well, good. That's a relief. I didn't really think-"
"Let's hope not," said Dors dryly. "What concerns me far more than this myth of poison is that I have heard that you're going to be seeing that monster Tennar in a few days."
"Don't call him a monster, Dors. Be careful. We're surrounded by ears and tongues."
Dors immediately lowered her voice. "I suppose you're right. Look 'round. All these smiling faces-and yet who knows which of our friends will be reporting back to the head and his henchmen when the night is over? Ah, humans! Even after all these thousands of centuries, to think that such base treachery still exists. It seems to me to be so unnecessary. Yet I know the harm it can do. That is why I must go with you, Hari."
"Impossible, Dors. It would just complicate matters for me. I'll go Myself and I'll have no trouble."
"You would have no idea how to handle the General."
Seldon looked grave. "And you would? You sound exactly like Elar. He, too, is convinced that I am a helpless old fool. He, too, wants to come with me-or, rather, to go in my place. I wonder how many people on Trantor are willing to take my place," he added with clear sarcasm. "Dozens? Millions?"
For ten years the Galactic Empire had been without an Emperor, but there was no indication of that fact in the way the Imperial Palace grounds were operated. Millennia of custom made the absence of an Emperor meaningless.
It meant, of course, that there was no figure in Imperial robes to preside over formalities of one sort or another. No Imperial voice gave orders; no Imperial wishes made themselves known; no Imperial gratifications or annoyances made themselves felt; no Imperial pleasures warmed either Palace; no Imperial sicknesses cast them in gloom. The Emperor's own quarters in the Small Palace were empty-the Imperial family did not exist.
And yet the army of gardeners kept the grounds in perfect condition. An army of service people kept the buildings in top shape. The Emperor's bed-never slept in-was made with fresh sheets every day; the rooms were cleaned; everything worked as it always worked; and the entire Imperial staff, from top to bottom, worked as they had always worked. The top officials gave commands as they would have done if the Emperor had lived, commands that they knew the Emperor would have given. In many cases, in particular in the higher echelons, the personnel were the same as those who had been there on Cleon's last day of life. The new personnel who had been taken on were carefully molded and trained into the traditions they would have to serve.
It was as though the Empire, accustomed to the rule of an Emperor, insisted on this "ghost rule" to hold the Empire together.
The junta knew this-or, if they didn't, they felt it vaguely. In ten years none of those military men who had commanded the Empire had moved into the Emperor's private quarters in the Small Palace. Whatever these men were, they were not Imperial and they knew they had no rights there. A populace that endured the loss of liberty would not endure any sign of irreverence to the Emperor-alive or dead.
Even General Tennar had not moved into the graceful structure that had housed the Emperors of a dozen different dynasties for so long. He had made his home and office in one of the structures built on the outskirts of the grounds-eyesores, but eyesores that were built like fortresses, sturdy enough to withstand a siege, with outlying buildings in which an enormous force of guards was housed.
Tennar was a stocky man, with a mustache. It was not a vigorous overflowing Dahlite mustache but one that was carefully clipped and fitted to the upper lip, leaving a strip of skin between the hair and the line of the lip. It was a reddish mustache and Tennar had cold blue eyes. He had probably been a handsome man in his younger days, but his face was pudgy now and his eyes were slits that expressed anger more often than any other emotion.
So he said angrily-as one would, who felt himself to be absolute master of millions of worlds and yet who dared not call himself an Emperor-to Hender Linn, "I can establish a dynasty of my own." He hooked around with a scowl. "This is not a fitting place for the master of the Empire."
Linn said softly, "To be master is what is important. Better to be a master in a cubicle than a figurehead in a palace."
"Best yet, to be master in a palace. Why not?"
Linn bore the title of colonel, but it is quite certain that he had never engaged in any military action. His function was that of telling Tennar what he wanted to hear-and of carrying his orders, unchanged, to others. On occasion-if it seemed safe-he might try to steer Tennar into more prudent courses.
Linn was well known as "Tennar's lackey" and knew that was how he was known. It did not bother him. As lackey, he was safe-and he had seen the downfall of those who had been too proud to be lackeys.
The time might, of course, come when Tennar himself would be buried in the ever-changing junta panorama, but Linn felt, with a certain amount of philosophy, that he would be aware of it in time and save himself. Or he might not. There was a price for everything.
"No reason why you can't found a dynasty, General," said Linn. Many others have done it in the long Imperial history. Still, it takes time. The people are slow to adapt. It is usually only the second or even third of the dynasty who is fully accepted as Emperor."
"I don't believe that. I need merely announce myself as new Emperor. Who will dare quarrel with that? My grip is tight."
"So it is, General. Your power is unquestioned on Trantor and in most of the Inner Worlds, yet it is possible that many in the farther Outer Worlds will not just yet-**accept a new Imperial dynasty."
"Inner Worlds or Outer Worlds, military force rules all. That is an old Imperial maxim."
"And a good one," said Linn, "but many of the provinces have armed forces of their own, nowadays, that they may not use on your behalf. These are difficult times."
"You counsel caution, then."
"I always counsel caution, General."
"And someday you may counsel it once too often."
Linn bent his head. "I can only counsel what seems to me to be good and useful to you, General."
"As in your constant harping to me about this Hari Seldon."
"He is your greatest danger, General."
"So you keep saying, but I don't see it. He's just a college professor."
Linn said, "So he is, but he was once First Minister."
"I know, but that was in Cleon's time. Has he done anything since? With times being difficult and with the governors of the provinces being fractious, why is a professor my greatest danger?"
"It is sometimes a mistake," said Linn carefully (for one had to be careful in educating the General), "to suppose that a quiet unobtrusive man can be harmless. Seldon has been anything but harmless to those he has opposed. Twenty years ago the Joranumite movement almost destroyed Cleon's powerful First Minister, Eto Demerzel."
Tennar nodded, but the slight frown on his face betrayed his effort to remember the matter.
"It was Seldon who destroyed Joranum and who succeeded Demerzel as First Minister. The Joranumite movement survived, however, and Seldon engineered its destruction, too, but not before it succeeded in bringing about the assassination of Cleon."
"But Seldon survived that, didn't he?"
"You are perfectly correct. Seldon survived."
"That is strange. To have permitted an Imperial assassination should have meant death for a First Minister."
"So it should have. Nevertheless, the junta has allowed him to live. It seemed wiser to do so."
"Why?"
Linn sighed internally. "There is something called psychohistory, General."
"I know nothing about that," said Tennar flatly.
Actually he had a vague memory of Linn trying to talk to him on a number of occasions concerning this strange collection of syllables. He had never wanted to listen and Linn had known better than to push the matter. Tennar didn't want to listen now, either, but there seemed to be a hidden urgency in Linn's words. Perhaps, Tennar thought, he had now better listen.
"Almost no one knows anything about it," said Linn, "yet there are a few-uh-intellectuals, who find it of interest."
"And what is it?"
"It is a complex system of mathematics."
Tennar shook his head. "Leave me out of that, please. I can count my military divisions. That's all the mathematics I need."
"The story is," said Linn, "that psychohistory may make it possible to predict the future."
The General's eyes bulged. "You mean this Seldon is a fortune-teller?"**
"Not in the usual fashion. It is a matter of science."
"I don't believe it."
"It is hard to believe, but Seldon has become something of a cult figure here on Trantor-and in certain places in the Outer Worlds. Now psychohistory-if it can be used to predict the future or if even people merely think it can be so used-can be a powerful tool with which to uphold the regime. I'm sure you have already seen this, General. One need merely predict our regime will endure and bring forth peace and prosperity for the Empire. People, believing this, will help make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the other hand, if Seldon wishes the reverse, he can predict civil war and ruin. People will believe that, too, and that would destabilize the regime."
"In that case, Colonel, we simply make sure that the predictions of psychohistory are what we want them to be."
"It would be Seldon who would have to make them and he is not a friend of the regime. It is important, General, that we differentiate between the Project that is working at Streeling University to perfect psychohistory and Hari Seldon. Psychohistory can be extremely useful to us, but it will be so only if someone other than Seldon were in charge."
"Are there others who could be?"
"Oh yes. It is only necessary to get rid of Seldon."
"What is so difficult with that? An order of execution-and it is done."
"It would be better, General, if the government was not seen to be directly involved in such a thing."
"I have arranged to have him meet with you, so that you can use your skill to probe his personality. You would then be able to judge whether certain suggestions I have in mind are worthwhile or not."
"When is the meeting to take place?"
"It was to take place very soon, but his representatives at the Project asked for a few days leeway, because they were in the process of celebrating his birthday-his sixtieth, apparently. It seemed wise to allow that and to permit a week's delay."
"Why?" demanded Tennar. "I dislike any display of weakness."
"Quite right, General. Quite right. Your instincts are, as always, correct. However, it seemed to me that the needs of the state might require us to know what and how the birthday celebration-which is taking place right now-might involve."
"Why?"
"All knowledge is useful. Would you care to see some of the festivities?"
General Tennar's face remained dark. "Is that necessary?"
"I think you will find it interesting, General."
The reproduction-sight and sound-was excellent and for quite a while the hilarity of the birthday celebration filled the rather stark room in which the General sat.
Linn's low voice served as commentary. "Most of this, General, is taking place in the Project complex, but the rest of the University is involved. We will have an air view in a few moments and you will see that the celebration covers a wide area. In fact, though I don't have the evidence available right now, there are corners of the planet here and there, in various University and sectoral settings mostly, where what we might call 'sympathy celebrations' of one sort or another are taking place. The celebrations are still continuing and will endure for another day at least."
"Are you telling me that this is a Trantor-wide celebration?"
"In a specialized way. It affects mostly the intellectual classes, but it is surprisingly widespread. It may even be that there is some shouting on worlds other than Trantor."
"Where did you get this reproduction?"
Linn smiled. "Our facilities in the Project are quite good. We have reliable sources of information, so that little can happen that doesn't come our way at once."
"Well then, Linn, what are all your conclusions about this?"
"It seems to me, General, and I'm sure that it seems so to you, that Hari Seldon is the focus of a personality cult. He has so identified himself with psychohistory that if we were to get rid of him in too open a manner, we would entirely destroy the credibility of the science. It would be useless to us.
"On the other hand, General, Seldon is growing old and it is not difficult to imagine him being replaced by another man: someone we could choose and who would be friendly to our great aims and hopes for the Empire. If Seldon could be removed in such a way that it is made to seem natural, then that is all we need."
The General said, "And you think I ought to see him?"
"Yes, in order to weigh his quality and decide what we ought to do. But we must be cautious, for he is a popular man."
"I have dealt with popular people before," said Tennar darkly.
"Yes," said Hari Seldon wearily, "it was a great triumph. I had a wonderful time. I can hardly wait until I'm seventy so I can repeat it. But the fact is, I'm exhausted."
"So get yourself a good night's sleep, Dad," said Raych, smiling. "That's an easy cure."
"I don't know how well I can relax when I have to see our great leader in a few days."
"Not alone, you won't see him," said Dors Venabili grimly.
Seldon frowned. "Don't say that again, Dors. It is important for me to see him alone."
"It won't be safe with you alone. Do you remember what happened ten years ago when you refused to let me come with you to greet the gardeners?"
"There is no danger of my forgetting when you remind me of it twice a week, Dors. In this case, though, I intend to go alone. What can he want to do to me if I come in as an old man, utterly harmless, to find out what he wants?"
"What do you imagine he wants?" said Raych, biting at his knuckle.
"I suppose he wants what Cleon always wanted. It will turn out that he has found out that psychohistory can, in some way, predict the future and he will want to use it for his own purposes. I told Cleon the science wasn't up to it nearly thirty years ago and I kept telling him that all through my tenure as First Minister-and now I'll have to tell General Tennar the same thing."
"How do you know he'll believe you?" said Raych.
"I'll think of some way of being convincing."
Dors said, "I do not wish you to go alone."
"Your wishing, Dors, makes no difference."
At this point, Tamwile Elar interrupted. He said, "I'm the only nonfamily person here. I don't know if a comment from me would be welcome."
"Go ahead," said Seldon. "Come one, come all."
"I would like to suggest a compromise. Why don't a number of us go with the Maestro. Quite a few of us. We can act as his triumphal escort, a kind of finale to the birthday celebration. Now wait, I don't mean that we will all crowd into the General's offices. I don't even mean entering the Imperial Palace grounds. We can just take hotel rooms in the Imperial Sector at the edge of the grounds-the Dome's Edge Hotel would be just right-and we'll give ourselves a day of pleasure."
"That's just what I need," snorted Seldon. "A day of pleasure."
"Not you, Maestro," said Elar at once. "You'll be meeting with General Tennar. The rest of us, though, will give the people of the Imperial Sector a notion of your popularity-and perhaps the General will take note also. And if he knows we're all waiting for your return, it may keep him from being unpleasant."
There was a considerable silence after that. Finally Raych said, "It sounds too showy to me. It don't fit in with the image the world has of Dad."
But Dors said, "I'm not interested in Hari's image. I'm interested in Hari's safety. It strikes me that if we cannot invade the General's presence or the Imperial grounds, then allowing ourselves to accumulate, so to speak, as near the General as we can, might do us well. Thank you, Dr. Elar, for a very good suggestion."
"I don't want it done," said Seldon.
"But I do," said Dors, "and if that's as close as I can get to offering you personal protection, then that much I will insist on."
Manella, who had listened to it all without comment till then, said, "Visiting the Dome's Edge Hotel could be a lot of fun."
"It's not fun I'm thinking of," said Dors, "but I'll accept your vote in favor."
And so it was. The following day some twenty of the higher echelon of the Psychohistory Project descended on the Dome's Edge Hotel, with rooms overlooking the open spaces of the Imperial Palace grounds.
The following evening Hari Seldon was picked up by the General's armed guards and taken off to the meeting.
At almost the same time Dors Venabili disappeared, but her absence was not noted for a long time. And when it was noted, no one could guess what had happened to her and the gaily festive mood turned rapidly into apprehension.
Dors Venabili had lived on the Imperial Palace grounds for ten years. As wife of the First Minister, she had entry to the grounds and could pass freely from the dome to the open, with her fingerprints as the pass.
In the confusion that followed Cleon's assassination, her pass had never been removed and now when, for the first time since that dreadful clay, she wanted to move from the dome into the open spaces of the grounds, she could do so.
She had always known that she could do so easily only once, for, upon discovery, the pass would be canceled-but this was the one time to do it.
There was a sudden darkening of the sky as she moved into the open and she felt a distinct lowering of the temperature. The world under the dome was always kept a little lighter during the night period than natural night would require and was kept a little dimmer during the day period. And, of course, the temperature beneath the dome was always a bit milder than the outdoors.
Most Trantorians were unaware of this, for they spent their entire lives under the dome. To Dors it was expected, but it didn't really matter.
She took the central roadway, into which the dome opened at the site of the Dome's Edge Hotel. It was, of course, brightly lit, so that the darkness of the sky didn't matter at all.
Dors knew that she would not advance a hundred meters along the roadway without being stopped, less perhaps in the present paranoid lays of the junta. Her alien presence would be detected at once.
Nor was she disappointed. A small ground-car skittered up and the guardsman shouted out the window, "What are you doing here? Where are you going?"
Dors ignored the question and continued to walk.
The guardsman called out, "Halt!" Then he slammed on the brakes and stepped out of the car, which was exactly what Dors had wanted him to do.
The guardsman was holding a blaster loosely in his hand-not threatening to use it, merely demonstrating its existence. He said, "Your reference number."
Dors said, "I want your car."
"What!" The guardsman sounded outraged. "Your reference number. Immediately!" And now the blaster came up.
Dors said quietly, "You don't need my reference number," then she walked toward the guardsman.
The guardsman took a backward step. "If you don't stop and present your reference number, I'll blast you."
"No! Drop your blaster."
The guardsman's lips tightened. His finger began to edge toward the contact, but before he could reach it, he was lost.
He could never describe afterward what happened in any accurate way. All he could say was "How was I to know it was The Tiger Woman?" (The time came when he would be proud of the encounter.) "She moved so fast, I didn't see exactly what she did or what happened. One moment I was going to shoot her down-I was sure she was some sort of madwoman-and the next thing I knew, I was completely overwhelmed."
Dors held the guardsman in a firm grip, the hand with the blaster forced high. She said, "Either drop the blaster at once or I will break your arm."
The guardsman felt a kind of death grip around his chest that all but prevented him from breathing. Realizing he had no choice, he dropped the blaster.
Dors Venabili released him, but before the guardsman could make a move to recover, he found himself facing his own blaster in Dors's hand.
Dors said, "I hope you've left your detectors in place. Don't try to report what's happened too quickly. You had better wait and decide what it is you plan to tell your superiors. The fact that an unarmed woman took your blaster and your car may well put an end to your usefulness to the junta."
Dors started the car and began to speed down the central roadway. A ten-year stay on the grounds told her exactly where she was going. The car she was in-an official ground-car-was not an alien intrusion into the grounds and would not be picked up as a matter of course. However, she had to take a chance on speed, for she wanted to reach her destination rapidly. She pushed the car to a speed of two hundred kilometers per hour.
The speed, at least, eventually did attract attention. She ignored radioed cries, demanding to know why she was speeding, and before long the car's detectors told her that another ground-car was in hot pursuit.
She knew that there would be a warning sent up ahead and that there would be other ground-cars waiting for her to arrive, but there was little any of them could do, short of trying to blast her out of existence-something apparently no one was willing to try, pending further investigation.
When she reached the building she had been heading for, two ground-cars were waiting for her. She climbed serenely out of her own car and walked toward the entrance.
Two men at once stood in her way, obviously astonished that the driver of the speeding car was not a guardsman but a woman dressed in civilian clothes.
"What are you doing here? What was the rush?"
Dors said quietly, "Important message for Colonel Header Linn."
"Is that so?" said the guardsman harshly. There were now four men between her and the entrance. "Reference number, please."
Dors said, "Don't delay me."
"Reference number, I said."
"You're wasting my time."
One of the guardsmen said suddenly, "You know who she looks like? The old First Minister's wife. Dr. Venabili. The Tiger Woman."
There was an odd backward step on the part of all four, but one of them said, "You're under arrest."
"Am I?" said Dors. "If I'm The Tiger Woman, you must know that I am considerably stronger than any of you and that my reflexes are considerably faster. Let me suggest that all four of you accompany me quietly inside and we'll see what Colonel Linn has to say."
"You're under arrest" came the repetition and four blasters were aimed at Dors.
"Well," said Dors. "If you insist."
She moved rapidly and two of the guardsmen were suddenly on the ground, groaning, while Dors was standing with a blaster in each hand.
She said, "I have tried not to hurt them, but it is quite possible that I have broken their wrists. That leaves two of you and I can shoot faster than you can. If either of you makes the slightest move-the slightest-I will have to break the habit of a lifetime and kill you. It will sicken me to do so and I beg you not to force me into it."
There was absolute silence from the two guardsmen still standing-no motion.
"I would suggest," said Dors, "that you two escort me into the colonel's presence and that you then seek medical help for your comrades."
The suggestion was not necessary. Colonel Linn emerged from his office. "What is going on here? What is-"
Dors turned to him. "Ah! Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Dors Venabili, the wife of Professor Hari Seldon. I have come to see you on important business. These four tried to stop me and, as a result, two are badly hurt. Send them all about their business and let me talk to you. I mean you no harm."
Linn stared at the four guardsmen, then at Dors. He said calmly, "You mean me no harm? Though four guardsmen have not succeeded in stopping you, I have four thousand at my instant call."
"Then call them," said Dors. "However quickly they come, it will not be in time to save you, should I decide to kill you. Dismiss your guardsmen and let us talk civilly."
Linn dismissed the guardsmen and said, "Well, come in and we will talk. Let me warn you, though, Dr. Venabili-I have a long memory."
"And I," said Dors. They walked into Linn's quarters together.
Linn said with utmost courtesy, "Tell me exactly why you are here, Dr. Venabili."
Dors smiled without menace-and yet not exactly pleasantly, either. "To begin with," she said, "I have come here to show you that I can come here."
"Yes. My husband was taken to his interview with the General in an official ground-car under armed guard. I myself left the hotel at a the same time he did, on foot and unarmed-and here I am-and I believe I got here before he did. I had to wade through five guardsmen, including the guardsman whose car I appropriated, in order to reach you. I would have waded through fifty."
Linn nodded his head phlegmatically. "I understand that you are sometimes called The Tiger Woman."
"I have been called that. Now, having reached you, my task is to make certain that no harm comes to my husband. He is venturing into the General's lair-if I can be dramatic about it-and I want him to emerge unharmed and unthreatened."
"As far as I am concerned, I know that no harm will come to your husband as a result of this meeting. But if you are concerned, why do you come to me? Why didn't you go directly to the General?"
"Because, of the two of you, it is you that has the brains."
There was a short pause and Linn said, "That would be a most dangerous remark-if overheard."
"More dangerous for you than for me, so make sure it is not overheard. Now, if it occurs to you that I am to be simply soothed and put off and that, if my husband is imprisoned or marked for execution, that there will really be nothing I can do about it, disabuse yourself."
She indicated the two blasters that lay on the table before her. "I entered the grounds with nothing. I arrived in your immediate vicinity with two blasters. If I had no blasters, I might have had knives, with which I am an expert. And if I had neither blasters nor knives, I would still be a formidable person. This table we're sitting at is metal-obviously-and sturdy."
"It is."
Dors held up her hands, fingers splayed, as if to show that she held no weapon. Then she dropped them to the table and, palms down, caressed its surface.
Abruptly Dors raised her fist and then brought it down on the table with a loud crash, which sounded almost as if metal were striking metal. She smiled and lifted her hand.
"No bruise," Dors said. "No pain. But you'll notice that the table is slightly bent where I struck it. If that same blow had come down with the name force on a person's head, the skull would have exploded. I have never done such a thing; in fact, I have never killed anyone, though I have injured several. Nevertheless, if Professor Seldon is harmed-"
"You are still threatening."
"I am promising. I will do nothing if Professor Seldon is unharmed. Otherwise, Colonel Linn, I will be forced to maim or kill you and-I promise you again-I will do the same to General Tennar."
Linn said, "You cannot withstand an entire army, no matter how tigerish a woman you are. What then?"
"Stories spread," said Dors, "and are exaggerated. I have not really done much in the way of tigerishness, but many more stories are told of me than are true. Your guardsmen fell back when they recognized me and they themselves will spread the story, with advantage, of how I made my way to you. Even an army might hesitate to attack me, Colonel Linn, but even if they did and even if they destroyed me, beware the indignation of the people. The junta is maintaining order, but it is doing so only barely and you don't want anything to upset matters. Think, then, of how easy the alternative is. Simply do not harm Professor Hari Seldon."
"We have no intention of harming him."
"Why the interview, then?"
"What's the mystery? The General is curious about psychohistory. The government records are open to us. The old Emperor Cleon was interested. Demerzel, when he was First Minister, was interested. Why should we not be in our turn? In fact, more so."
"Why more so?"
"Because time has passed. As I understand it, psychohistory began as a thought in Professor Seldon's mind. He has been working on it, with increasing vigor and with larger and larger groups of people, for nearly thirty years. He has done so almost entirely with government support, so that, in a way, his discoveries and techniques belong to the government. We intend to ask him about psychohistory, which, by now, must be far advanced beyond what existed in the times of Demerzel and Cleon, and we expect him to tell us what we want to know. We want something more practical than the vision of equations curling their way through air. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," said Dors, frowning.
"And one more thing. Do not suppose that the danger to your husband comes from the government only and that any harm that reaches him will mean that you must attack us at once. I would suggest that Professor Seldon may have purely private enemies. I have no knowledge of such things, but surely it is possible."
"I shall keep that in mind. Right now, I want to have you arrange that I join my husband during his interview with the General. I want to know, beyond doubt, that he is safe."
"That will be hard to arrange and will take some time. It would be impossible to interrupt the conversation, but if you wait till it is ended-"
"Take the time and arrange it. Do not count on double-crossing me and remaining alive."
General Tennar stared at Hari Seldon in a rather pop-eyed manner and his fingers tapped lightly at the desk where he sat.
"Thirty years," he said. "Thirty years and you are telling me you still have nothing to show for it?"
"Actually, General, twenty-eight years."
Tennar ignored that. "And all at government expense. Do you know how many billions of credits have been invested in your Project, Professor?"
"I haven't kept up, General, but we have records that could give me the answer to your question in seconds."
"And so have we. The government, Professor, is not an endless source of funds. These are not the old times. We don't have Cleon's old free-and-easy attitude toward finances. Raising taxes is hard and we need credits for many things. I have called you here, hoping that you can benefit us in some way with your psychohistory. If you cannot, then I must tell you, quite frankly, that we will have to shut off the faucet. If you can continue your research without government funding, do so, for unless you show me something that would make the expense worth it, you will have to do just that."
"General, you make a demand I cannot meet, but, if in response, you and government support, you will be throwing away the future. Give me wile** and eventually-"
"Various governments have heard that 'eventually' from you for decades. Isn't it true, Professor, that you say your psychohistory predicts that the junta is unstable, that my rule is unstable, that in a short time it will collapse?"
Seldon frowned. "The technique is not yet firm enough for me to say that this is something that psychohistory states."
"I put it to you that psychohistory does state it and that this is common knowledge within your Project."
"No," said Seldon warmly. "No such thing. It is possible that some among us have interpreted some relationships to indicate that the junta may be an unstable form of government, but there are other relationships that may easily be interpreted to show it is stable. That is the reason why we must continue our work. At the present moment it is all too easy to use incomplete data and imperfect reasoning to reach any conclusion we wish."
"But if you decide to present the conclusion that the government is unstable and say that psychohistory warrants it-even if it does not actually do so-will it not add to the instability?"
"It may very well do that, General. And if we announced that the government is stable, it may well add to the stability. I have had this very same discussion with Emperor Cleon on a number of occasions. It is possible to use psychohistory as a tool to manipulate the emotions of the people and achieve short-term effects. In the long run, however, the predictions are quite likely to prove incomplete or downright erroneous and psychohistory will lose all its credibility and it will be as though it had never existed."
"Enough! Tell me straight out! What do you think psychohistory shows about my government?"
"It shows, we think, that there are elements of instability in it, but we are not certain-and cannot be certain-exactly in what way this can be made worse or made better."
"In other words, psychohistory simply tells you what you would know without psychohistory and it is that in which government has invested uncounted piles of credits."
"The time will come when psychohistory will tell us what we could not know without it and then the investment will pay itself back many, many times over."
"And how long will it be before that time comes?"
"Not too long, I hope. We have been making rather gratifying progress in the last few years."
Tennar was tapping his fingernail on his desk again. "Not enough. Tell me something helpful now. Something useful."
Seldon pondered, then said, "I can prepare a detailed report for you, but it will take time."
"Of course it will. Days, months, years-and somehow it will never be written. Do you take me for a fool?"
"No, of course not, General. However, I don't want to be taken for a fool, either. I can tell you something that I will take sole responsibility for. I have seen it in my psychohistorical research, but I may have misinterpreted what I saw. However, since you insist-"
"I insist."
"You mentioned taxes a little while ago. You said raising taxes was difficult. Certainly. It is always difficult. Every government must do its work by collecting wealth in one form or another. The only two ways in which such credits can be obtained are, first, by robbing a neighbor, or second, persuading a government's own citizens to grant the credits willingly and peaceably.
"Since we have established a Galactic Empire that has been conducting its business in reasonable fashion for thousands of years, there is no possibility of robbing a neighbor, except as the result of an occasional rebellion and its repression. This does not happen often enough to support a government-and, if it did, the government would be too unstable to last long, in any case."
Seldon drew a deep breath and went on. "Therefore, credits must be raised by asking the citizens to hand over part of their wealth for government use. Presumably, since the government will then work efficiently, the citizens can better spend their credits in this way than to hoard it-each man to himself-while living in a dangerous and chaotic anarchy.
"However, though the request is reasonable and the citizenry is better off paying taxes as their price for maintaining a stable and efficient government, they are nevertheless reluctant to do so. In order to overcome this reluctance, governments must make it appear that they are not taking too many credits, and that they are considering each citizen's rights and benefits. In other words, they must lower the percentage taken out of low incomes; they must allow deductions of various kinds to be made before the tax is assessed, and so on.
"As time goes on, the tax situation inevitably grows more and more complex as different worlds, different sectors within each world, and different economic divisions all demand and require special treatment. Me result is that the tax-collecting branch of the government grows in size and complexity and tends to become uncontrollable. The average citizen cannot understand why or how much he is being taxed; what he can get away with and what he can't. The government and the tax agency itself are often in the dark as well.
"What's more, an ever-larger fraction of the funds collected must be put into running the overelaborate tax agency-maintaining records, pursuing tax delinquents-so the amount of credits available for good, and useful purposes declines despite anything we can do.**
"In the end, the tax situation becomes overwhelming. It inspires discontent and rebellion. The history books tend to ascribe these things to greedy businessmen, to corrupt politicians, to brutal warriors, to ambitious viceroys-but these are just the individuals who take advantage of the tax overgrowth."
The General said harshly, "Are you telling me that our tax system is overcomplicated?"
Seldon said, "If it were not, it would be the only one in history that wasn't, as far as I know. If there is one thing that psychohistory tells me is inevitable, it is tax overgrowth."
"And what do we do about it?"
"That I cannot tell you. It is that for which I would like to prepare a report that-as you say-may take a while to get ready."
"Never mind the report. The tax system is overcomplicated, isn't it? Isn't that what you are saying?"
"It is possible that it is," said Seldon cautiously.
"And to correct that, one must make the tax system simpler-as simple as possible, in fact."
"I would have to study-"
"Nonsense. The opposite of great complication is great simplicity. I don't need a report to tell me that."
"As you say, General," said Seldon.
At this point the General looked up suddenly, as though he had been called-as, indeed, he had been. His fists clenched and holovision images of Colonel Linn and Dors Venabili suddenly appeared in the room.
Thunderstruck, Seldon exclaimed, "Dors! What are you doing here?"
The General said nothing, but his brow furrowed into a frown.
The General had had a bad night and so, out of apprehension, had the colonel. They faced each other now-each at a loss.
The General said, "Tell me again what this woman did."
Linn seemed to have a heavy weight on his shoulders. "She's The Tiger Woman. That's what they call her. She doesn't seem to be quite human, somehow. She's some sort of impossibly trained athlete, full of self-confidence, and, General, she's quite frightening."
"Did she frighten you? A single woman?"
"Let me tell you exactly what she did and let me tell you a few other things about her. I don't know how true all the stories about her are, but what happened yesterday evening is true enough."
He told the story again and the General listened, puffing out his cheeks.
"Bad," he said. "What do we do?"
"I think our course is plain before us. We want psychohistory-"
"Yes, we do," said the General. "Seldon told me something about taxation that-But never mind. That is beside the point at the moment. Go on."
Linn, who, in his troubled state of mind, had allowed a small fragment of impatience to show on his face, continued, "As I say, we want psychohistory without Seldon. He is, in any case, a used-up man. The more I study him, the more I see an elderly scholar who is living on his past deeds. He has had nearly thirty years to make a success of psychohistory and he has failed. Without him, with new men at the helm, psychohistory may advance more rapidly."
"Yes, I agree. Now what about the woman?"
"Well, there you are. We haven't taken her into consideration because she has been careful to remain in the background. But I strongly suspect now that it will be difficult, perhaps impossible, to remove Seldon quietly and without implicating the government, as long as the woman remains alive."
"Do you really believe that she will mangle you and me-if she thinks we have harmed her man?" said the General, his mouth twisting in contempt.
"I really think she will and that she will start a rebellion as well. It will he exactly as she promised."
"You are turning into a coward."
"General, please. I am trying to be sensible. I'm not backing off. We must take care of this Tiger Woman." He paused thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, my sources have told me this and I admit to having paid far too little attention to the matter."
"And how do you think we can get rid of her?"
Linn said, "I don't know." Then, more slowly, "But someone else might."
Seldon had had a bad night also, nor was the new day promising to be much better. There weren't too many times when Hari felt annoyed with Dors. But this time, he was very annoyed.
He said, "What a foolish thing to do! Wasn't it enough that we were all staying at the Dome's Edge Hotel? That alone would have been sufficient to drive a paranoid ruler into thoughts of some sort of conspiracy."
"How? We were unarmed, Hari. It was a holiday affair, the final touch of your birthday celebration. We posed no threat."
"Yes, but then you carried out your invasion of the Palace grounds. It was unforgivable. You raced to the Palace to interfere with my session with the General, when I had specifically-and several times-made it plain that I didn't want you there. I had my own plans, you know."
Dors said, "Your desires and your orders and your plans all take second place to your safety. I was primarily concerned about that."
"I was in no danger."
"That is not something I can carelessly assume. There have been two attempts on your life. What makes you think there won't be a third?"
"The two attempts were made when I was First Minister. I was probably worth killing then. Who would want to kill an elderly mathematician?"
Dors said, "That's exactly what I want to find out and that's what I want to stop. I must begin by doing some questioning right here at the Project."
"No. You will simply be upsetting my people. Leave them alone."
"That's exactly what I can't do. Hari, my job is to protect you and for twenty-eight years I've been working at that. You cannot stop me now."
Something in the blaze of her eyes made it quite clear that, whatever Seldon's desires or orders might be, Dors intended to do as she pleased.
Seldon's safety came first.
"May I interrupt you, Yugo?"
"Of course, Dors," said Yugo Amaryl with a large smile. "You are never an interruption. What can I do for you?"
"I am trying to find out a few things, Yugo, and I wonder if you would humor me in this."
"If I can."
"You have something in the Project called the Prime Radiant. I hear it now and then. Hari speaks of it, so I imagine I know what it looks like when it is activated, but I have never actually seen it in operation. I would like to."
Amaryl looked uncomfortable. "Actually the Prime Radiant is just about the most closely guarded part of the Project and you aren't on the list of the members who have access."
"I know that, but we've known each other for twenty-eight years-"
"And you're Hari's wife. I suppose we can stretch a point. We only have two full Prime Radiants. There's one in Hari's office and one here. Right there, in fact."
Dors looked at the squat black cube on the central desk. It looked utterly undistinguished. "Is that it?"
"That's it. It stores the equations that describe the future."
"How do you get at those equations?"
Amaryl moved a contact and at once the room darkened and then came to life in a variegated glow. All around Dors were symbols, arrows, mathematical signs of one sort or another. They seemed to be moving, spiraling, but when she focused her eyes on any particular portion, it seemed to be standing still.
She said, "Is that the future, then?"
"It may be," said Amaryl, turning off the instrument. "I had it at full expansion so you could see the symbols. Without expansion, nothing is visible but patterns of light and dark."
"And by studying those equations, you are able to judge what the future holds in store for us?"
"In theory." The room was now back to its mundane appearance. "But there are two difficulties."
"Oh? What are they?"
"To begin with, no human mind has created those equations directly. We have merely spent decades programming more powerful computers and they have devised and stored the equations, but, of course, we don't know if they are valid and have meaning. It depends entirely on how valid and meaningful the programming is in the first place."
"They could be all wrong, then?"
"They could be." Amaryl rubbed his eyes and Dors could not help thinking how old and tired he seemed to have grown in the last couple of years. He was younger than Hari by nearly a dozen years, but he seemed much older.
"Of course," Amaryl went on in a rather weary voice, "we hope that they aren't all wrong, but that's where the second difficulty comes in. Although Hari and I have been testing and modifying them for decades, we can never be sure what the equations mean. The computer has constructed them, so it is to be presumed they must mean something-but what? There are portions that we think we have worked out. In fact, right now, I'm working on what we call Section A-23, a particularly knotty system of relationships. We have not yet been able to match it with anything in the real Universe. Still, each year sees us further advanced and I look forward confidently to the establishment of psychohistory as a legitimate and useful technique for dealing with the future."
"How many people have access to these Prime Radiants?"
"Every mathematician in the Project has access but not at will. There have to be applications and time allotted and the Prime Radiant has to be adjusted to the portion of the equations a mathematician wishes to refer to. It gets a little complicated when everyone wants to use the Prime Radiant at the same time. Right now, things are slow, possibly because we're still in the aftermath of Hari's birthday celebration."
"Is there any plan for constructing additional Prime Radiants?"
Amaryl thrust out his lips. "Yes and no. It would be very helpful if we had a third, but someone would have to be in charge of it. It can't just be a community possession. I have suggested to Hari that Tamwile Elar-you know him, I think- "
"Yes, I do."
"That Elar have a third Prime Radiant. His achaotic equations and the Electro-Clarifier he thought up make him clearly the third man in the Project after Hari and myself. Hari hesitates, however."
"Why? Do you know?"
"If Elar gets one, he is openly recognized as the third man, over the Head of other mathematicians who are older and who have more senior status in the Project. There might be some political difficulties, so to speak. I think that we can't waste time in worrying about internal politics, but Hari-Well, you know Hari."
"Yes, I know Hari. Suppose I tell you that Linn has seen the Prime Radiant."
"Linn?"
"Colonel Hender Linn of the junta. Tennar's lackey."
"I doubt that very much, Dors."
"He has spoken of spiraling equations and I have just seen them produced by the Prime Radiant. I can't help but think he's been here and seen it working."
Amaryl shook his head, "I can't imagine anyone bringing a member of the junta into Hari's office-or mine."
"Tell me, who in the Project do you think is capable of working with the junta in this fashion?"
"No one," said Amaryl flatly and with clearly unlimited faith. "That would be unthinkable. Perhaps Linn never saw the Prime Radiant but was merely told about it."
"Who would tell him about it?"
Amaryl thought a moment and said, "No one."
"Well now, you talked about internal politics a while ago in connection with the possibility of Elar having a third Prime Radiant. I suppose in a Project such as this one with hundreds of people, there are little feuds going on all the time-frictions-quarrels."
"Oh yes. Poor Hari talks to me about it every once in a while. He has to deal with them in one way or another and I can well imagine what a headache it must be for him."
"Are these feuds so bad that they interfere with the working of the Project?"
"Not seriously."
"Are there any people who are more quarrelsome than others or any duo draw more resentment than others? In short, are there people you can get rid of and perhaps remove 90 percent of the friction at the cost of 5 or 6 percent of the personnel?"
Amaryl raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like a good idea, but I don't know whom to get rid of. I don't really participate in all the minutiae of internal politics. There's no way of stopping it, so for my part, I merely avoid it."
"That's strange," said Dors. "Aren't you in this way denying any credibility to psychohistory?"
"In what way?"
"How can you pretend to reach a point where you can predict and guide the future, when you cannot analyze and correct something as homegrown as personal frictions in the very Project that promises so much?"
Amaryl chuckled softly. It was unusual, for he was not a man who was given to humor and laughter. "I'm sorry, Dors, but you picked on the one problem that we have solved, after a manner of speaking. Hari himself identified the equations that represented the difficulties of personal friction years ago and I myself then added the final touch last year.
"I found that there were ways in which the equations could be changed so as to indicate a reduction in friction. In every such case, however, a reduction in friction here meant an increase in friction there. Never at any time was there a total decrease or, for that matter, a total increase in the friction within a closed group-that is, one in which no old members leave and no new members come in. What I proved, with the help of Elar's achaotic equations, was that this was true despite any conceivable action anyone could take. Hari calls it 'the law of conservation of personal problems.'
"It gave rise to the notion that social dynamics has its conservation laws as physics does and that, in fact, it is these laws that offer us the best possible tools for solving the truly troublesome aspects of psychohistory."
Dors said, "Rather impressive, but what if you end up finding that nothing at all can be changed, that everything that is bad is conserved, and that to save the Empire from destruction is merely to increase destruction of another kind?"
"Actually some have suggested that, but I don't believe it."
"Very well. Back to reality. Is there anything in the frictional problems within the Project that threaten Hari? I mean, with physical harm."
"Harm Hari? Of course not. How can you suggest such a thing?"
"Might there not be some who resent Hari, for being too arrogant, too pushy, too self-absorbed, too eager to grab all the credit? Or, if none of these things apply, might they not resent him simply because he has run the Project for so long a time?"
"I never heard anyone say such a thing about Hari."
Dors seemed dissatisfied. "I doubt that anyone would say such things in your hearing, of course. But thank you, Yugo, for being so helpful and for giving me so much of your time."
Amaryl stared after her as she left. He felt vaguely troubled, but then returned to his work and let other matters drift away.
One way Hari Seldon had (out of not too many ways) for pulling away from his work for a time was to visit Raych's apartment, just outside the university grounds. To do this invariably filled him with love for his foster son. There were ample grounds. Raych had been good, capable, and loyal-but besides that was the strange quality Raych had of inspiring trust and love in others.
Hari had observed it when Raych was a twelve-year-old street boy, who somehow pulled at his own and at Dors's heartstrings. He remembered how Raych had affected Rashelle, the onetime Mayor of Wye. Hari remembered how Joranum had trusted Raych, which led to his own destruction. Raych had even managed to win the heart of the beautiful Manella. Hari did not completely understand this particular quality that Raych embodied, but he enjoyed whatever contact he had with his foster son.
He entered the apartment with his usual "All well here?"
Raych put aside the holographic material he was working with and rose to greet him, "All well, Dad."
"I don't hear Wanda."
"For good reason. She's out shopping with her mother."
Seldon seated himself and looked good-humoredly at the chaos of reference material. "How's the book coming?"
"It's doing fine. It's me who might not survive." He sighed. "But for once, we'll get the straight poop on Dahl. Nobody's ever written a book devoted to that section, wouldja believe?"
Seldon had always noted that, whenever Raych talked of his home sector, his Dahlite accent always strengthened.
Raych said, "And how are you, Dad? Glad the festivities are over?"
"Enormously. I hated just about every minute of it."
"Not so anyone could notice."
"Listen, I had to wear a mask of sorts. I didn't want to spoil the celebration for everyone else."
"You must have hated it when Mom chased after you onto the Palace grounds. Everyone I know has been talking about that."
"I certainly did hate it. Your mother, Raych, is the most wonderful person in the world, but she is very difficult to handle. She might have spoiled my plans."
"What plans are those, Dad?"
Seldon settled back. It was always pleasant to speak to someone in whom he had total trust and who knew nothing about psychohistory. More than once he had bounced thoughts off Raych and had worked them out into more sensible forms than would have been the case if those same thoughts had been mulled over in his mind. He said, "Are we shielded?"
"Always."
"Good. What I did was to set General Tennar thinking along curious lines."
"What lines?"
"Well, I discussed taxation a bit and pointed out that, in the effort to make taxation rest evenly on the population, it grew more and more complex, unwieldy, and costly. The obvious implication was that the tax system must be simplified."
"That seems to make sense."
"Up to a point, but it is possible that, as a result of our little discussion, Tennar may oversimplify. You see, taxation loses effectiveness at both extremes. Overcomplicate it and people cannot understand it and pay for an overgrown and expensive tax organization. Oversimplify it and people consider it unfair and grow bitterly resentful. The simplest tax is a poll tax, in which every individual pays the same amount, but the unfairness of treating rich and poor alike in this way is too evident to overlook."
"And you didn't explain this to the General?"
"Somehow, I didn't get a chance."
"Do you think the General will try a poll tax?"
"I think he will plan one. If he does, the news is bound to leak out and that alone would suffice to set off riots and possibly upset the government."
"And you've done this on purpose, Dad?"
"Of course."
Raych shook his head. "I don't quite understand you, Dad. In your personal life, you're as sweet and gentle as any person in the Empire. Yet you can deliberately set up a situation in which there will be riots, suppression, deaths. There'll be a lot of damage done, Dad. Have you thought of that?"
Seldon leaned back in his chair and said sadly, "I think of nothing else, Raych. When I first began my work on psychohistory, it seemed a purely academic piece of research to me. It was something that could not he worked out at all, in all likelihood, and, if it was, it would not be something that could be practically applied. But the decades pass and we know more and more and then comes the terrible urge to apply it."
"So that people can die?"
"No, so that fewer people can die. If our psychohistorical analyses are correct now, then the junta cannot survive for more than a few years and there are various alternative ways in which it can collapse. They will all he fairly bloody and desperate. This method-the taxation gimmick- should do it more smoothly and gently than any other if-I repeat-our analyses are correct."
"If they're not correct, what then?"
"In that case, we don't know what might happen. Still, psychohistory must reach the point where it can be used and we've been searching for years for something in which we have worked out the consequences with a certain assuredness and can find those consequences tolerable as compared with alternatives. In a way, this taxation gimmick is the first great psychohistoric experiment."
"I must admit, it sounds like a simple one."
"It isn't. You have no idea how complex psychohistory is. Nothing is simple. The poll tax has been tried now and then throughout history. It is never popular and it invariably gives rise to resistance of one form or another, but it almost never results in the violent overthrow of a government. After all, the powers of governmental oppression may be too strong or there may be methods whereby the people can bring to bear their opposition in a peaceful manner and achieve redress. If a poll tax were invariably or even just sometimes fatal, then no government would ever try it. It is only because it isn't fatal that it is tried repeatedly. The situation on Trantor is, however, not exactly normal. There are certain instabilities that seem clear in psychohistorical analysis, which make it seem that resentment will be particularly strong and repression particularly weak."
Raych sounded dubious. "I hope it works, Dad, but don't you think that the General will say that he was working under psychohistorical advice and bring you down with him?"
"I suppose he recorded our little session together, but if he publicizes that, it will show clearly that I urged him to wait till I could analyze the situation properly and prepare a report-and he refused to wait."
"And what does Mom think of all this?"
Seldon said, "I haven't discussed it with her. She's off on another tangent altogether."
"Really?"
"Yes. She's trying to sniff out some deep conspiracy in the Project-aimed at me! I imagine she thinks there are many people in the Project who would like to get rid of me." Seldon sighed. "I'm one of them, I think. I would like to get rid of me as director of the Project and leave the gathering responsibilities of psychohistory to others."
Raych said, "What's bugging Mom is Wanda's dream. You know how Mom feels about protecting you. I'll bet even a dream about your dying would be enough to make her think of a murder conspiracy against you."
"I certainly hope there isn't one."
And at the idea of it both men laughed.
The small Electro-Clarification Laboratory was, for some reason, maintained at a temperature somewhat lower than normal and Dors Venabili wondered idly why that might be. She sat quietly, waiting for the one occupant of the lab to finish whatever it was she was doing.
Dors eyed the woman carefully. Slim, with a long face. Not exactly attractive, with her thin lips and receding jawline, but a look of intelligence shone in her dark brown eyes. The glowing nameplate on her desk said: CINDA MONAY.
She turned to Dors at last and said, "My apologies, Dr. Venabili, but there are some procedures that can't be interrupted even for the wife of the director."
"I would have been disappointed in you if you had neglected the procedure on my behalf. I have been told some excellent things about you."
"That's always nice to hear. Who's been praising me?"
"Quite a few," said Dors. "I gather that you are one of the most prominent nonmathematicians in the Project."
Monay winced. "There's a certain tendency to divide the rest of us from the aristocracy of mathematics. My own feeling is that, if I'm prominent, then I'm a prominent member of the Project. It makes no difference that I'm a nonmathematician."
"That certainly sounds reasonable to me. How long have you been with the Project?"
"Two and a half years. Before that I was a graduate student in radiational physics at Streeling and, while I was doing that, I served a couple of years with the Project as an intern."
"You've done well at the Project, I understand."
"I've been promoted twice, Dr. Venabili."
"Have you encountered any difficulties here, Dr. Monay? Whatever you say will be held confidential."
"The work is difficult, of course, but if you mean, have I run into any social difficulties, the answer is no. At least not any more than one would expect in any large and complex project, I imagine."
"And by that you mean?"
"Occasional spats and quarrels. We're all human."
"But nothing serious?"
Monay shook her head. "Nothing serious."
"My understanding, Dr. Monay," said Dors, "is that you have been responsible for the development of a device important to the use of the Prime Radiant. It makes it possible to cram much more information into the Prime Radiant."
Monay broke into a radiant smile. "Do you know about that? Yes, the Electro-Clarifier. After that was developed, Professor Seldon established this small laboratory and put me in charge of other work in that direction."
"I'm amazed that such an important advance did not bring you up into the higher echelons of the Project."
"Oh well," said Monay, looking a trifle embarrassed. "I don't want to take all the credit. Actually my work was only that of a technician-a very skilled and creative technician, I like to think-but there you are."
"And who worked with you?"
"Didn't you know? It was Tamwile Elar. He worked out the theory that made the device possible and I designed and built the actual instrument."
"Does that mean he took the credit, Dr. Monay?"
"No no. You mustn't think that. Dr. Elar is not that kind of man. He gave me full credit for my share of the work. In fact, it was his idea to call the device by our names-both our names-but he couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Well, that's Professor Seldon's rule, you know. All devices and equations are to be given functional names and not personal ones-to avoid resentment. So the device is just the Electro-Clarifier. When we're working together, however, he gives the device our names and, I tell you, Dr. Venabili, it sounds grand. Perhaps someday, all of the Project personnel will use the personal name. I hope so."
"I hope so, too," said Dors politely. "You make Elar sound like a very decent individual."
"He is. He is," said Monay earnestly. "He is a delight to work for. Right now, I'm working on a new version of the device, which is more powerful and which I don't quite understand. I mean, what it's to be used for. However, he's directing me there."
"And are you making progress?"
"Indeed. In fact, I've given Dr. Elar a prototype, which he plans to test. If it works out, we can proceed further."
"It sounds good," agreed Dors. "What do you think would happen if Professor Seldon were to resign as director of the Project? If he were to retire?"
Monay looked surprised. "Is the professor planning to retire?"
"Not that I know of. I'm presenting you with a hypothetical case. Suppose he retires. Who do you think would be a natural successor? I think from what you have said that you would favor Professor Elar as the new director."
"Yes, I would," responded Monay after a trifling hesitation. "He's far and away the most brilliant of the new people and I think he could run the Project in the best possible way. Still, he's rather young. There are a considerable number of old fossils-well, you know what I mean-who would resent being passed over by a young squirt."
"Is there any old fossil you're thinking of in particular? Remember, this is confidential."
"Quite a few of them, but there's Dr. Amaryl. He's the heir apparent."
"Yes, I see what you mean." Dors rose. "Well, thank you so much for your help. I'll let you return to your work now."
She left, thinking about the Electro-Clarifier. And about Amaryl.
Yugo Amaryl said, "Here you are again, Dors."
"Sorry, Yugo. I'm bothering you twice this week. Actually you don't see anyone very often, do you?"
Amaryl said, "I don't encourage people to visit me, no. They tend to interrupt me and break my line of thought. Not you, Dors. You're altogether special, you and Hari. There's never a day I don't remember what you two have done for me."
Dors waved her hand. "Forget it, Yugo. You've worked hard for Hari and any trifling kindness we did for you has long been overpaid. How is the Project going? Hari never talks about it-not to me, anyway."
Amaryl's face lightened and his whole body seemed to take on an infusion of life. "Very well. Very well. It's difficult to talk about it without mathematics, but the progress we've made in the last two years is amazing-more than in all the time before that. It's as though, after we've been hammering away and hammering away, things have finally begun to break loose."
"I've been hearing that the new equations worked out by Dr. Elar have helped the situation."
"The achaotic equations? Yes. Enormously."
"And the Electro-Clarifier has been helpful, too. I spoke to the woman who designed it."
"Cinda Monay?"
"Yes. That's the one."
"A very clever woman. We're fortunate to have her."
"Tell me, Yugo-You work at the Prime Radiant virtually all the time, don't you?"
"I'm more or less constantly studying it. Yes."
"And you study it with the Electro-Clarifier."
"Certainly."
"Don't you ever think of taking a vacation, Yugo?"
Amaryl looked at her owlishly, blinking slowly. "A vacation?"
"Yes. Surely you've heard the word. You know what a vacation is."
"Why should I take a vacation?"
"Because you seem dreadfully tired to me."
"A little, now and then. But I don't want to leave the work."
"Do you feel more tired now than you used to?"
"A little. I'm getting older, Dors."
"You're only forty-nine."
"That's still older than I've ever been before."
"Well, let it go. Tell me, Yugo-just to change the subject. How is Hari doing at his work? You've been with him so long that no one could possibly know him better than you do. Not even I. At least, as far as his work is concerned."
"He's doing very well, Dors. I see no change in him. He still has the quickest and brightest brain in the place. Age is having no effect on him-at least, not so far."
"That's good to hear. I'm afraid that his own opinion of himself is not as high as yours is. He's not taking his age well. We had a difficult time getting him to celebrate his recent birthday. Were you at the festivities, by the way? I didn't see you."
"I attended part of the time. But, you know, parties of that kind are not the sort of thing I feel at home with."
"Do you think Hari is wearing out? I'm not referring to his mental brilliance. I'm referring to his physical capacities. In your opinion, is he growing tired-too tired to bear up under his responsibilities?"
Amaryl looked astonished. "I never gave it any thought. I can't imagine him growing tired."
"He may be, just the same. I think he has the impulse, now and then, to give up his post and hand the task over to some younger man."
Amaryl sat back in his chair and put down the graphic stylus he had been fiddling with ever since Dors had entered. "What! That's ridiculous! Impossible!"
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. He certainly wouldn't consider such a thing without discussing it with me. And he hasn't."
"Be reasonable, Yugo. Hari is exhausted. He tries not to show it, but he is. What if he does decide to retire? What would become of the Project? What would become of psychohistory?"
Amaryl's eyes narrowed. "Are you joking, Dors?"
"No. I'm just trying to look into the future."
"Surely, if Hari retires, I succeed to the post. He and I ran the Project for years before anyone else joined us. He and I. No one else. Except for him, no one knows the Project as I do. I'm amazed you don't take my succession for granted, Dors."
Dors said, "There's no question in my mind or in anyone else's that you are the logical successor, but do you want to be? You may know everything about psychohistory, but do you want to throw yourself into the politics and complexities of a large Project and abandon much of your work in order to do so? Actually it's trying to keep everything moving smoothly that's been wearing Hari down. Can you take on that part of the job?"
"Yes, I can and it's not something I intend to discuss. Look here, Dors. Did you come here to break the news that Hari intends to ease me out?"
Dors said, "Certainly not! How could you think that of Hari! Have you ever known him to turn on a friend?"
"Very well, then. Let's drop the subject. Really, Dors, if you don't mind, there are things I must do." Abruptly he turned away from her and bent over his work once more.
"Of course. I didn't mean to take up this much of your time."
Dors left, frowning.
Raych said, "Come in, Mom. The coast is clear. I've sent Manella and Wanda off somewhere."
Dors entered, looked right and left out of sheer habit, and sat down in the nearest chair.
"Thanks," said Dors. For a while she simply sat there, looking as if the weight of the Empire were on her shoulders.
Raych waited, then said, "I never got a chance to ask you about your wild trip into the Palace grounds. It isn't every guy who has a mom who can do that."
"We're not talking about that, Raych."
"Well then, tell me. **You're not one for giving anything away by facial expressions, but you look sorta down. Why is that?"
"Because I feel, as you say, sorta down. In fact, I'm in a bad mood because I have terribly important things on my mind and there's no use talking to your father about it. He's the most wonderful man in the world, but he's very hard to handle. There's no chance that he'd take an interest in the dramatic. He dismisses it all as my irrational fears for his life-and my subsequent attempts to protect him."
"Come on, Mom, you do seem to have irrational fears where Dad's concerned. If you've got something dramatic in mind, it's probably all wrong."
"Thank you. You sound just like he does and you leave me frustrated. Absolutely frustrated."
"Well then, unburden yourself, Mom. Tell me what's on your mind. From the beginning."
"It starts with Wanda's dream."
"Wanda's dream! Mom! Maybe you'd better stop right now. I know that Dad won't want to listen if you start that way. I mean, come on. A little kid has a dream and you make a big deal of it. That's ridiculous."
"I don't think it was a dream, Raych. I think what she thought was a dream were two real people, talking about what she thought concerned the death of her grandfather."
"That's a wild guess on your part. What possible chance does this have of being true?"
"Just suppose it is true. The one phrase that remained with her was
'lemonade death.' Why should she dream that? It's much more likely that she heard that and distorted the words she heard-in which case, what were the undistorted words?"
"I can't tell you," said Raych, his voice incredulous.
Dors did not fail to catch that. "You think this is just my sick invention. Still, if I happen to be right, I might be at the start of unraveling a conspiracy against Hari right here in the Project."
"Are there conspiracies in the Project? That sounds as impossible to me as finding significance in a dream."
"Every large project is riddled with angers, frictions, jealousies of all sorts."
"Sure. Sure. We're talking nasty words and faces and nose thumbing and tale bearing. That's nothing at all like talking conspiracy. It's not like talking about killing Dad."
"It's just a difference in degree. A small difference-maybe."
"You'll never make Dad believe that. For that matter, you'll never make me believe that." Raych walked hastily across the room and back again, "And you've been trying to nose out this so-called conspiracy, have you?"
Dors nodded.
"And you've failed."
Dors nodded.
"Doesn't it occur to you that you've failed because there is no conspiracy, Mom?"
Dors shook her head. "I've failed so far, but that doesn't shake my belief that one exists. I have that feeling."
Raych laughed. "You sound very ordinary, Mom. I would expect more from you than 'I have that feeling."'
"There is one phrase that I think can be distorted into 'lemonade.' That's 'layman-aided.' "
"Laymanayded? What's that?"
"Layman-aided. Two words. A layman is what the mathematicians at the Project call nonmathematicians."
"Well?"
"Suppose," interjected Dors firmly, "someone spoke of 'layman-aided death,' meaning that some way could be found to kill Hari in which one or more nonmathematicians would play an essential role. Might that not have sounded to Wanda like 'lemonade death,' considering that she had never heard the phrase 'layman-aided' any more than you did, but that she was extraordinarily fond of lemonade?"
"Are you trying to tell me that there were people in Dad's private office, of all places. How many people, by the way?"
"Wanda, in describing her dream, says two. My own feeling is that one of the two was none other than Colonel Hender Linn of the junta and that he was being shown the Prime Radiant and that there must have been a discussion involving the elimination of Hari."
"You're getting wilder and wilder, Mom. Colonel Linn and another man in Dad's office talking murder and not knowing that there was a little girl hidden in a chair, overhearing them? Is that it?"
"More or less."
"In that case, if there is mention of laymen, then one of the people, presumably the one that isn't Linn, must be a mathematician."
"It would seem to be so."
"That seems utterly impossible. But even if it were true, which mathematician do you suppose might be in question? There are at least fifty in the Project."
"I haven't questioned them all. I've questioned a few and some laymen, too, for that matter, but I have uncovered no leads. Of course, I can't be too open in my questions."
"In short, no one you have interviewed has given you any lead on any dangerous conspiracy."
"No."
"I'm not surprised. They haven't done so, because-"
"I know your 'because,' Raych. Do you suppose people are going to break down and give away conspiracies under mild questioning? I am in no position to try to beat the information out of anyone. Can you imagine what your father would say if I upset one of his precious mathematicians?"
Then, with a sudden change in the intonation of her voice, she said, "Raych, have you talked to Yugo Amaryl lately?"
"No, not recently. He's not one of your sociable creatures, you know. If you pulled the psychohistory out of him, he'd collapse into a little pile of dry skin."
Dors made a face at the picture and said, "I've talked to him twice recently and he seems to me to be a little withdrawn. I don't mean just tired. It is almost as though he's not aware of the world."
"Yes. That's Yugo."
"Is he getting worse lately?"
Raych thought awhile. "He might be. He's getting older, you know. We all are. Except you, Mom."
"Would you say that Yugo had crossed the line and become a little unstable, Raych?"
"Who? Yugo? He has nothing to be unstable about. Or with. Just leave him at his psychohistory and he'll mumble quietly to himself for the rest of his life."
"I don't think so. There is something that interests him-and very strongly, too. That's the succession."
"What succession?"
"I mentioned that someday your father might want to retire and it turns out that Yugo is determined-absolutely determined-to be his successor."
"I'm not surprised. I imagine that everyone agrees that Yugo is the natural successor. I'm sure Dad thinks so, too."
"But he seemed to me to be not quite normal about it. He thought I was coming to him to break the news that Hari had shoved him aside in favor of someone else. Can you imagine anyone thinking that of Hari?"
"It is surprising-" Raych interrupted himself and favored his mother with a long look. He said, "Mom, are you getting ready to tell me that it might be Yugo who's at the heart of this conspiracy you're speaking of? That he wants to get rid of Dad and take over?"
"Is that entirely impossible?"
"Yes, it is, Mom. Entirely. If there's anything wrong with Yugo, it's overwork and nothing else. Staring at all those equations or whatever they are, all day and half the night, would drive anyone crazy."
Dors rose to her feet with a jerk. "You're right."
Raych, startled, said, "What's the matter?"
"What you've said. It's given me an entirely new idea. A crucial one, I think." Turning, without another word, she left.
Dors Venabili disapproved, as she said to Hari Seldon "You've spent four days at the Galactic Library. Completely out of touch and again you managed to go without me."
Husband and wife stared at each other's image on their holoscreens. Hari had just returned from a research trip to the Galactic Library in Imperial Sector. He was calling Dors from his Project office to let her know he'd returned to Streeling. Even in anger, thought Hari, Dors is beautiful. He wished he could reach out and touch her cheek.
"Dors," he began, a placating note in his voice, "I did not go alone. I had a number of people with me and the Galactic Library, of all places, is safe for scholars, even in these turbulent times. I am going to have to be at the Library more and more often, I think, as time goes on."
"And you're going to continue to do it without telling me?"
"Dors, I can't live according to these death-filled views of yours. Nor do I want you running after me and upsetting the librarians. They're not the junta. I need them and I don't want to make them angry. But I do think that I-we-should take an apartment nearby."
Dors looked grim, shook her head, and changed the subject. "Do you know that I had two talks with Yugo recently?"
"Good. I'm glad you did. He needs contact with the outside world."
"Yes, he does, because something's wrong with him. He's not the Hugo we've had with us all these years. He's become vague, distant, and-oddly enough-passionate on only one point, as nearly as I can tell-his determination to succeed you on your retirement."
"That would be natural-if he survives me."
"Don't you expect him to survive you?"
"Well, he's eleven years younger than I am, but the vicissitudes of circumstance-"
"What you really mean is that you recognize that Yugo is in a bad way. He looks and acts older than you do, for all his younger age, and that seems to be a rather recent development. Is he ill?"
"Physically? I don't think so. He has his periodic examinations. I'll admit, though, that he seems drained. I've tried to persuade him to take a vacation for a few months-a whole year's sabbatical, if he wishes. I've suggested that he leave Trantor altogether, just so that he is as far away from the Project as possible for a while. There would be no problem in financing his stay on Getorin-which is a pleasant resort world not too many light-years away."
Dors shook her head impatiently. "And, of course, he won't. I suggested a vacation to him and he acted as though he didn't know the meaning of the word. He absolutely refused."
"So what can we do?" said Seldon.
Dors said, "We can think a little. Yugo worked for a quarter of a century on the Project and seemed to maintain his strength without any trouble at all and now suddenly he has weakened. It can't be age. He's not yet fifty."
"Are you suggesting something?"
"Yes. How long have you and Yugo been using this Electro-Clarifier thing on your Prime Radiants?"
"About two years-maybe a little more."
"I presume that the Electro-Clarifier is used by anyone who uses the Prime Radiant."
"That's right."
"Which means Yugo and you, mostly?"
"Yes."
"And Yugo more than you?"
"Yes. Yugo concentrates fiercely on the Prime Radiant and its equations. I, unfortunately, have to spend much of my time on administrative duties."
"And what effect does the Electro-Clarifier have on the human body?"
Seldon looked surprised. "Nothing of any significance that I am aware of."
"In that case, explain something to me, Hari. The Electro-Clarifier has been in operation for over two years and in that time you've grown measurably more tired, crotchety, and a little out of touch. Why is that?"**
"I'm getting older, Dors."
"Nonsense. Whoever told you that sixty is crystallized senility? You're using your age as a crutch and a defense and I want you to stop it. Yugo, though he's younger, has been exposed to the Electro-Clarifier more than you have and, as a result, he is more tired, more crotchety, and, in my opinion, a great deal less in touch than you are. And he is rather childishly intense about the succession. Don't you see anything significant in this?"
"Age and overwork. That's significant."
"No, it's the Electro-Clarifier. It's having a long-term effect on the two of you."
After a pause, Seldon said, "I can't disprove that, Dors, but I don't see how it's possible. The Electro-Clarifier is a device that produces an unusual electronic field, but it is still only a field of the type to which human beings are constantly exposed. It can't do any unusual harm. In any case, we can't give up its use. There's no way of continuing the progress of the Project without it."
"Now, Hari, I must ask something of you and you must cooperate with me on this. Go nowhere outside the Project without telling me and do nothing out of the ordinary without telling me. Do you understand?"
"Dors, how can I agree to this? You're trying to put me into a straitjacket."
"It's just for a while. A few days. A week."
"What's going to happen in a few days or a week?"
Dors said, "Trust me. I will clear up everything."
Hari Seldon knocked gently with an old-fashioned code and Yugo Amaryl looked up. "Hari, how nice of you to drop around."
"I should do it more often. In the old days we were together all the time. Now there are hundreds of people to worry about-here, there, and everywhere-and they get between us. Have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"The junta is going to set up a poll tax-a nice substantial one. It will be announced on TrantorVision tomorrow. It will be just Trantor for now and the Outer Worlds will have to wait. That's a little disappointing. I had hoped it would be Empire-wide all at once, but apparently I didn't give the General enough credit for caution."
Amaryl said, "Trantor will be enough. The Outer Worlds will know that their turn will follow in not too long a time."
"Now we'll have to see what happens."
"What will happen is that the shouting will start the instant the announcement is out and the riots will begin, even before the new tax goes into effect."
"Are you sure of it?"
Amaryl put his Prime Radiant into action at once and expanded the appropriate section. "See for yourself, Hari. I don't see how that can be misinterpreted and that's the prediction under the particular circumstances that now exist. If it doesn't happen, it means that everything we've worked out in psychohistory is wrong and I refuse to believe that."
"I'll try to have courage," said Seldon, smiling. Then "How do you feel lately, Yugo?"
"Well enough. Reasonably well. And how are you, by the way? I've heard rumors that you're thinking of resigning. Even Dors said something about that."
"Pay no attention to Dors. These days she's saying all sorts of things. She has a bug in her head about some sort of danger permeating the Project."
"What kind of danger?"
"It's better not to ask. She's just gone off on one of her tangents and, as always, that makes her uncontrollable."
Amaryl said, "See the advantage I have in being single?" Then, in a lower voice, "If you do resign, Hari, what are your plans for the future?"
Seldon said, "You'll take over. What other plans can I possibly have?"
And Amaryl smiled.
In the small conference room in the main building, Tamwile Elar listened to Dors Venabili with a gathering look of confusion and anger on his face. Finally he burst out, "Impossible!"
He rubbed his chin, then went on cautiously, "I don't mean to offend you, Dr. Venabili, but your suggestions are ridic-cannot be right. There's no way in which anyone can think that there are, in this Psychohistory Project, any feelings so deadly as to justify your suspicions. I would certainly know if there were and I assure you there are not. Don't think it."
"I do think it," said Dors stubbornly, "and I can find evidence for it."
Elar said, "I don't know how to say this without offense, Dr. Venabili, but if a person is ingenious enough and intent enough on proving something, he or she can find all the evidence he or she wants-or, at least, something he or she believes is evidence."
"Do you think I'm paranoid?"
"I think that in your concern for the Maestro-something in which I’m with you all the way-you're, shall we say, overheated."
Dors paused and considered Elar's statement. "At least you're right that a person with sufficient ingenuity can find evidence anywhere. I can build a case against you, for instance."
Elar's eyes widened as he stared at her in total astonishment. "Against me? I would like to hear what case you can possibly have against me."
"Very well. You shall. The birthday party was your idea, wasn't it?"
Elar said, "I thought of it, yes, but I'm sure others did, too. With the Maestro moaning about his advancing years, it seemed a natural way of cheering him up."
"I'm sure others may have thought of it, but it was you who actually pressed the issue and got my daughter-in-law fired up about it. She took over the details and you persuaded her that it was possible to put together a really large celebration. Isn't that so?"
"I don't know if I had any influence on her, but even if I did, what's wrong with that?"
"In itself, nothing, but in setting up so large and widespread and prolonged a celebration, were we not advertising to the rather unstable and suspicious men of the junta that Hari was too popular and might be a danger to them?"
"No one could possibly believe such a thing was in my mind."
Dors said, "I am merely pointing out the possibility. In planning the birthday celebration, you insisted that the central offices be cleared out-"
"Temporarily. For obvious reasons."
"-and insisted that they remain totally unoccupied for a while. No work was done-except by Yugo Amaryl-during that time."
"I didn't think it would hurt if the Maestro had some rest in advance of the party. Surely you can't complain about that."
"But it meant that you could consult with other people in the empty offices and do so in total privacy. The offices are, of course, well shielded."
"I did consult there-with your daughter-in-law, with caterers, suppliers, and other tradesmen. It was absolutely necessary, wouldn't you say?"
"And if one of those you consulted with was a member of the junta?"
Elar looked as though Dors had hit him. "I resent that, Dr. Venabili. What do you take me for?"
Dors did not answer directly. She said, "You went on to talk to Dr. Seldon about his forthcoming meeting with the General and urged him-rather pressingly-to let you take his place and run the risks that might follow. The result was, of course, that Dr. Seldon insisted rather vehemently on seeing the General himself, which one can argue was precisely what you wanted him to do."
Elar emitted a short nervous laugh. "With all due respect, this does sound like paranoia, Doctor."
Dors pressed on. "And then, after the party, it was you, wasn't it, who was the first to suggest that a group of us go to the Dome's Edge Hotel?"
"Yes and I remember you saying it was a good idea."
"Might it not have been suggested in order to make the junta uneasy, as yet another example of Hari's popularity? And might it not have been arranged to tempt me into invading the Palace grounds?"
"Could I have stopped you?" said Elar, his incredulity giving way to anger. "You had made up your own mind about that."
Dors paid no attention. "And, of course, you hoped that by entering the Palace grounds I might make sufficient trouble to turn the junta even further against Hari."
"But why, Dr. Venabili? Why would I be doing this?"
"One might say it was to get rid of Dr. Seldon and to succeed him as director of the Project."
"How can you possibly think this of me? I can't believe you are serious. You're just doing what you said you would at the start of this exercise just showing me what can be done by an ingenious mind intent on finding so-called evidence."
"Let's turn to something else. I said that you were in a position to use the empty rooms for private conversations and that you may have been there with a member of the junta."
"That is not even worth a denial."
"But you were overheard. A little girl wandered into the room, curled up in a chair out of sight, and overheard your conversation."
Elar frowned. "What did she hear?"
"She reported that two men were talking about death. She was only a child and could not repeat anything in detail, but two words did impress her and they were 'lemonade death.' "
"Now you seem to be changing from fantasy to-if you'll excuse me -madness. What can 'lemonade death' mean and what would it have to do with me?"
"My first thought was to take it literally. The girl in question is very fond of lemonade and there was a good deal of it at the party, but no one had poisoned it."
"Thanks for granting sanity that much."
"Then I realized the girl had heard something else, which her imperfect command of the language and her love of the beverage had perverted into 'lemonade.'"
"And have you invented a distortion?" Elar snorted.
"It did seem to me for a while that what she might have heard was laymen-aided death.'"
"What does that mean?"
"An assassination carried through by laymen-by nonmathematicians."
Dors stopped and frowned. Her hand clutched her chest.
Elar said with sudden concern, "Is something wrong, Dr. Venabili?"
"No," said Dors, seeming to shake herself.
For a few moments she said nothing further and Elar cleared his throat. There was no sign of amusement on his face any longer, as he said, "Your comments, Dr. Venabili, are growing steadily more ridiculous and-well, I don't care if I do offend you, but I have grown tired of them. Shall we put an end to this?"
"We are almost at an end, Dr. Elar. Layman-aided may indeed be ridiculous, as you say. I had decided that in my own mind, too. You are, in part, responsible for the development of the Electro-Clarifier, aren't you?"
Elar seemed to stand straighter as he said with a touch of pride, "Entirely responsible."
"Surely not entirely. I understand it was designed by Cinda Monay."
"A designer. She followed my instructions."
"A layman. The Electro-Clarifier is a layman-aided device."
With suppressed violence Elar said, "I don't think I want to hear that phrase again. Once more, shall we put an end to this?"
Dors forged on, as if she hadn't heard his request. "Though you give her no credit now, you gave Cinda credit to her face-to keep her working eagerly, I suppose. She said you gave her credit and she was very grateful because of it. She said you even called the device by her name and yours, though that's not the official name."
"Of course not. It's the Electro-Clarifier."
"And she said she was designing improvements, intensifiers, and so on-and that you had the prototype of an advanced version of the new device for testing."
"What has all this to do with anything?"
"Since Dr. Seldon and Dr. Amaryl have been working with the Electro-Clarifier, both have in some ways deteriorated. Yugo, who works with it more, has also suffered more."
"The Electro-Clarifier can, in no way, do that kind of damage."
Dors put her hand to her forehead and momentarily winced. She said, "And now you have a more intense Electro-Clarifier that might do more damage, that might kill quickly, rather than slowly."
"Absolute nonsense."
"Now consider the name of the device, a name which, according to the woman who designed it, you are the only one to use. I presume you called it the Elar-Monay Clarifier."
"I don't ever recall using that phrase," said Elar uneasily.
"Surely you did. And the new intensified Elar-Monay Clarifies could he used to kill with no blame to be attached to anyone just a sad accident through a new and untried device. It would be the 'Elar-Monay death' and a little girl heard it as `lemonade death.' "
Dors's hand groped at her side.
Elar said softly, "You are not well, Dr. Venabili."
"I am perfectly well. Am I not correct?"
"Look, it doesn't matter what you can twist into lemonade. Who knows what the little girl may have heard? It all boils down to the deadliness of the Electro-Clarifier. Bring me into court or before a scientific investigating board and let experts-as many as you like-check the effect of the Electro-Clarifier, even the new intensified one, on human beings. They will find it has no measurable effect."
"I don't believe that," muttered Venabili. Her hands were now at her forehead and her eyes were closed. She swayed slightly.
Elar said, "It is clear that you are not well, Dr. Venabili. Perhaps that means it is my turn to talk. May I?"
Dors's eyes opened and she simply stared.
"I'll take your silence for consent, Doctor. Of what use would it be for me to try to to get rid of Dr. Seldon and Dr. Amaryl in order to take my place as director? You would prevent any attempt I made at assassination, as you now think you are doing. In the unlikely case that I succeeded in such a project and was rid of the two great men, you would tear me to pieces afterward. You're a very unusual woman-strong and fast beyond belief-and while you are alive, the Maestro is safe."
"Yes," said Dors, glowering.
"I told this to the men of the junta. Why should they not consult me on matters involving the Project? They are very interested in psychohistory, as well they ought to be. It was difficult for them to believe what I told them about you-until you made your foray into the Palace grounds. That convinced them, you can be sure, and they agreed with my plan."
"Aha. Now we come to it," Dors said weakly.
"I told you the Electro-Clarifier cannot harm human beings. It cannot. Amaryl and your precious Hari are just getting old, though you refuse to accept it. So what? They are fine-perfectly human. The electromagnetic field has no effect of any importance on organic materials. Of course, it may have adverse effects on sensitive electromagnetic machinery and, if we could imagine a human being built of metal and electronics, it might have an effect on it. Legends tell us of such artificial human beings. The Mycogenians have based their religion on them and they call such beings "robots." If there were such a thing as a robot, one would imagine it would be stronger and faster by far than an ordinary human being, that it would have properties, in fact, resembling those you have, Dr. Venabili. And such a robot could, indeed, be stopped, hurt, even destroyed by an intense Electro-Clarifier, such as the one that I have here, one that has been operating at low energy since we began our conversation. That is why you are feeling ill, Dr. Venabili-and for the first time in your existence, I'm sure."
Dors said nothing, merely stared at the man. Slowly she sank into a chair.
Elar smiled and went on, "Of course, with you taken care of, there will be no problem with the Maestro and with Amaryl. The Maestro, in fact, without you, may fade out at once and resign in grief, while Amaryl is merely a child in his mind. In all likelihood, neither will have to be killed. How does it feel, Dr. Venabili, to be unmasked after all these years? I must admit, you were very good at concealing your true nature. It's almost surprising that no one else discovered the truth before now. But then, I am a brilliant mathematician-an observer, a thinker, a deducer. Even I would not have figured it out were it not for your fanatical devotion to the Maestro and the occasional bursts of superhuman power you seemed to summon at will-when he was threatened.
"Say good-bye, Dr. Venabili. All I have to do now is to turn the device to full power and you will be history."
Dors seemed to collect herself and rose slowly from her seat, mumbling, "I may be better shielded than you think." Then, with a grunt, she threw herself at Elar.
Elar, his eyes widening, shrieked and reeled back.
Then Dors was on him, her hand flashing. Its side struck Elar's neck, smashing the vertebrae and shattering the nerve cord. He fell dead on the floor.
Dors straightened with an effort and staggered toward the door. She had to find Hari. He had to know what had happened.
Hari Seldon rose from his seat in horror. He had never seen Dors look so, her face twisted, her body canted, staggering as though she were drunk.
"Dors! What happened! What's wrong!"
He ran to her and grasped her around the waist, even as her body gave way and collapsed in his arms. He lifted her (she weighed more than am ordinary woman her size would have, but Seldon was unaware of that at ** the moment) and placed her on the couch.
"What happened?" he said.
She told him, gasping, her voice breaking now and then, while he cradled her head and tried to force himself to believe what was happening.
"Elar is dead," she said. "I finally killed a human being. First time. Makes it worse."
"How badly are you damaged, Dors?"
"Badly. Elar turned on his device-full-when I rushed him."
"You can be readjusted."
"How? There's no one-on Trantor-who knows how. I need Daneel."
Daneel. Demerzel. Somehow, deep inside, Hari had always known. His friend-a robot-had provided him with a protector-a robot-to ensure that psychohistory and the seeds of the Foundations were given a chance to take root. The only problem was, Hari had fallen in love with his protector-a robot. It all made sense now. All the nagging doubts and the questions could be answered. And somehow, it didn't matter one bit. All that mattered was Dors.
"We can't let this happen."
"It must." Dors's eyes fluttered open and looked at Seldon. "Must. Tried to save you, but missed-vital point-who will protect you now?"
Seldon couldn't see her clearly. There was something wrong with his eyes. "Don't worry about me, Dors. It's you-It's you-"
"No. You, Hari. Tell Manella-Manella-I forgive her now. She did better than I. Explain to Wanda. You and Raych-take care of each other."
"No no no," said Seldon, rocking back and forth. "You can't do this. Hang on, Dors. Please. Please, my love."
Dors's head shook feebly and she smiled even more feebly. "Goodbye, Hari, my love. Remember always-all you did for me."
"I did nothing for you."
"You loved me and your love made me-human."
Her eyes remained open, but Dors had ceased functioning.
Yugo Amaryl came storming into Seldon's office. "Hari, the riots are beginning, sooner and harder even than exp-"
And then he stared at Seldon and Dors and whispered, "What happened?"
Seldon looked up at him in agony. "Riots! What do I care about riots now? What do I care about anything now?"