Prelude to Foundation (37 page)

“The Empire used to be kept running smoothly by power,” said the Emperor somberly. “Now it must be kept running by a smile, a wave of the hand, a murmured word, and a medal or a plaque.”

“If all that keeps the peace, Sire, there is much to be said for it. And your reign proceeds well.”

“You know why—because I have you at my side. My only real gift is that I am aware of your importance.” He looked at Demerzel slyly. “My son need not be my heir. He is not a talented boy. What if I make
you
my heir?”

Demerzel said freezingly, “Sire, that is unthinkable. I would not usurp the throne. I would not steal it from your rightful heir. Besides, if I have displeased you, punish me justly. Surely, nothing I have done or could possibly do deserves the punishment of being made Emperor.”

Cleon laughed. “For that true assessment of the value of the Imperial throne, Demerzel, I abandon any thought of punishing you. Come now, let us talk about something. I would sleep, but I am not yet ready for the ceremonies with which they put me to bed. Let us talk.”

“About what, Sire?”

“About anything. —About that mathematician and his psychohistory. I think about him every once in a
while, you know. I thought of him at dinner tonight. I wondered: What if a psychohistorical analysis would predict a method for making it possible to be an Emperor without endless ceremony?”

“I somehow think, Sire, that even the cleverest psychohistorian could not manage that.”

“Well, tell me the latest. Is he still hiding among those peculiar baldheads of Mycogen? You promised you would winkle him out of there.”

“So I did, Sire, and I moved in that direction, but I regret that I must say that I failed.”

“Failed?” The Emperor allowed himself to frown. “I don’t like that.”

“Nor I, Sire. I planned to have the mathematician be encouraged to commit some blasphemous act—such acts are easy to commit in Mycogen, especially for an outsider—one that would call for severe punishment. The mathematician would then be forced to appeal to the Emperor and, as a result, we would get him. I planned it at the cost of insignificant concessions on our part—important to Mycogen, totally unimportant to us—and I meant to play no direct role in the arrangement. It was to be handled subtly.”

“I dare say,” said Cleon, “but it failed. Did the Mayor of Mycogen—”

“He is called the High Elder, Sire.”

“Do not quibble over titles. Did this High Elder refuse?”

“On the contrary, Sire, he agreed and the mathematician, Seldon, fell into the trap neatly.”

“Well then?”

“He was allowed to leave unharmed.”

“Why?” said Cleon indignantly.

“Of this I am not certain, Sire, but I suspect we were outbid.”

“By whom? By the Mayor of Wye?”

“Possibly, Sire, but I doubt that. I have Wye under constant surveillance. If they had gained the mathematician, I would know it by now.”

The Emperor was not merely frowning. He was clearly enraged. “Demerzel, this is bad. I am greatly displeased. A failure like this makes me wonder if you are perhaps not the man you once were. What measures shall we take against Mycogen for this clear defiance of the Emperor’s wishes?”

Demerzel bowed low in recognition of the storm unleashed, but he said in steely tones, “It would be a mistake to move against Mycogen now, Sire. The disruption that would follow would play into the hands of Wye.”

“But we must do
something
.”

“Perhaps not, Sire. It is not as bad as it may seem.”

“How can it be not as bad as it seems?”

“You’ll remember, Sire, that this mathematician was convinced that psychohistory was impractical.”

“Of course I remember that, but that doesn’t matter, does it? For our purposes?”

“Perhaps not. But if it were to become practical, it would serve our purposes to an infinitely great extent, Sire. And from what I have been able to find out, the mathematician is now attempting to make psychohistory practical. His blasphemous attempt in Mycogen was, I understand, part of an attempt at solving the problem of psychohistory. In that case, it may pay us, Sire, to leave him to himself. It will serve us better to pick him up when he is closer to his goal or has reached it.”

“Not if Wye gets him first.”

“That, I shall see to it, will not happen.”

“In the same way that you succeeded in winkling the mathematician out of Mycogen just now?”

“I will not make a mistake the next time, Sire,” said Demerzel coldly.

The Emperor said, “Demerzel, you had better not. I will not tolerate another mistake in this respect.” And then he added pettishly, “I think I shall not sleep tonight after all.”

Jirad Tisalver of the Dahl Sector was short. The top of his head came up only to Hari Seldon’s nose. He did not seem to take that to heart, however. He had handsome, even features, was given to smiling, and sported a thick black mustache and crisply curling black hair.

He lived, with his wife and a half-grown daughter, in an apartment of seven small rooms, kept meticulously clean, but almost bare of furnishings.

Tisalver said, “I apologize, Master Seldon and Mistress Venabili, that I cannot give you the luxury to which you must be accustomed, but Dahl is a poor sector and I am not even among the better-off among our people.”

“The more reason,” responded Seldon, “that we must apologize to you for placing the burden of our presence upon you.”

“No burden, Master Seldon. Master Hummin has arranged to pay us generously for your use of our humble quarters and the credits would be welcome even if you were not—and you
are
.”

Seldon remembered Hummin’s parting words when they finally arrived in Dahl.

“Seldon,” he had said, “this is the third place I’ve arranged as sanctuary. The first two were notoriously beyond the reach of the Imperium, which might well have served to attract their attention; after all, they were logical places for you. This one is different. It is poor, unremarkable, and, as a matter of fact, unsafe in some ways. It is not a natural refuge for you, so that the Emperor and his Chief of Staff may not think to turn
their eyes in this direction. Would you mind staying out of trouble this time, then?”

“I will try, Hummin,” said Seldon, a little offended. “Please be aware that the trouble is not of my seeking. I am trying to learn what may well take me thirty lifetimes to learn if I am to have the slightest chance of organizing psychohistory.”

“I understand,” said Hummin. “Your efforts at learning brought you to Upperside in Streeling and to the Elders’ aerie in Mycogen and to who can guess where in Dahl. As for you, Dr. Venabili, I know you’ve been trying to take care of Seldon, but you must try harder. Get it fixed in your head that he is the most important person on Trantor—or in the Galaxy, for that matter—and that he must be kept secure at any cost.”

“I will continue to do my best,” said Dors stiffly.

“And as for your host family, they have their peculiarities, but they are essentially good people with whom I have dealt before. Try not to get them in trouble either.”

But Tisalver, at least, did not seem to anticipate trouble of any kind from his new tenants and his expressed pleasure at the company he now had—quite apart from the rent credits he would be getting—seemed quite sincere.

He had never been outside Dahl and his appetite for tales of distant places was enormous. His wife too, bowing and smiling, would listen and their daughter, with a finger in her mouth, would allow one eye to peep from behind the door.

It was usually after dinner, when the entire family assembled, that Seldon and Dors were expected to talk of the outside world. The food was plentiful enough, but it was bland and often tough. So soon after the tangy food of Mycogen, it was all but inedible. The “table” was a long shelf against one wall and they ate standing up.

Gentle questioning by Seldon elicited the fact that this was the usual situation among Dahlites as a
whole and was not due to unusual poverty. Of course, Mistress Tisalver explained, there were those with high government jobs in Dahl who were prone to adopt all kinds of effete customs like chairs—she called them “body shelves”but this was looked down upon by the solid middle class.

Much as they disapproved of unnecessary luxury, though, the Tisalvers loved hearing about it, listening with a virtual storm of tongue-clicking when told of mattresses lifted on legs, of ornate chests and wardrobes, and of a superfluity of tableware.

They listened also to a description of Mycogenian customs, while Jirad Tisalver stroked his own hair complacently and made it quite obvious that he would as soon think of emasculation as of depilation. Mistress Tisalver was furious at any mention of female subservience and flatly refused to believe that the Sisters accepted it tranquilly.

They seized most, however, on Seldon’s casual reference to the Imperial grounds. When, upon questioning, it turned out that Seldon had actually seen and spoken to the Emperor, a blanket of awe enveloped the family. It took a while before they dared ask questions and Seldon found that he could not satisfy them. He had not, after all, seen much of the grounds and even less of the Palace interior.

That disappointed the Tisalvers and they were unremitting in their attempts to elicit more. And, having heard of Seldon’s Imperial adventure, they found it hard to believe Dors’s assertion that, for her part, she had never been anywhere in the Imperial grounds. Most of all, they rejected Seldon’s casual comment that the Emperor had talked and behaved very much as any ordinary human being would. That seemed utterly impossible to the Tisalvers.

After three evenings of this, Seldon found himself tiring. He had, at first, welcomed the chance to do nothing for a while (during the day, at least) but view some
of the history book-films that Dors recommended. The Tisalvers turned over their book-viewer to their guests during the day with good grace, though the little girl seemed unhappy and was sent over to a neighbor’s apartment to use theirs for her homework.

“It doesn’t help,” Seldon said restlessly in the security of his room after he had piped in some music to discourage eavesdropping. “I can see your fascination with history, but it’s all endless detail. It’s a mountainous heap—no, a Galactic heap—of data in which I can’t see the basic organization.”

“I dare say,” said Dors, “that there must have been a time when human beings saw no organization in the stars in the sky, but eventually they discovered the Galactic structure.”

“And I’m sure that took generations, not weeks. There must have been a time when physics seemed a mass of unrelated observations before the central natural laws were discovered and
that
took generations. —And what of the Tisalvers?”

“What of them? I think they’re being very nice.”

“They’re curious.”

“Of course they are. Wouldn’t you be if you were in their place?”

“But is it just curiosity? They seem to be ferociously interested in my meeting with the Emperor.”

Dors seemed impatient. “Again … it’s only natural. Wouldn’t you be—if the situation was reversed?”

“It makes me nervous.”

“Hummin brought us here.”

“Yes, but he’s not perfect. He brought me to the University and I was maneuvered Upperside. He brought us to Sunmaster Fourteen, who entrapped us. You know he did. Twice bitten, at least once shy. I’m tired of being questioned.”

“Then turn the tables, Hari. Aren’t you interested in Dahl?”

“Of course. What do
you
know about it to begin with?”

“Nothing. It’s just one of more than eight hundred sectors and I’ve only been on Trantor a little over two years.”

“Exactly. And there are twenty-five million other worlds and I’ve been on this problem only a little over two months. —I tell you. I want to go back to Helicon and take up a study of the mathematics of turbulence, which was my Ph.D. problem, and forget I ever saw—or thought I saw—that turbulence gave an insight into human society.”

But that evening he said to Tisalver, “But you know, Master Tisalver, you’ve never told me what you do, the nature of your work.”

“Me?” Tisalver placed his fingers on his chest, which was covered by the simple white T-shirt with nothing underneath, which seemed to be the standard male uniform in Dahl. “Nothing much. I work at the local holovision station in programming. It’s very dull, but it’s a living.”

“And it’s respectable,” said Mistress Tisalver. “It means he doesn’t have to work in the heatsinks.”

“The heatsinks?” said Dors, lifting her light eyebrows and managing to look fascinated.

“Oh well,” said Tisalver, “that’s what Dahl is best known for. It isn’t much, but forty billion people on Trantor need energy and we supply a lot of it. We don’t get appreciated, but I’d like to see some of the fancy sectors do without it.”

Seldon looked confused. “Doesn’t Trantor get its energy from solar power stations in orbit?”

“Some,” said Tisalver, “and some from nuclear fusion stations out on the islands and some from microfusion motors and some from wind stations Upperside, but
half
”—he raised a finger in emphasis and his face looked unusually grave—“half comes from the heatsinks. There are heatsinks in lots of places, but none—
none
—as rich as those in Dahl. Are you serious that you don’t know about the heatsinks? You sit there and stare at me.”

Dors said quickly, “We are Outworlders, you know.” (She had almost said “tribespeople,” but had caught herself in time.) “Especially Dr. Seldon. He’s only been on Trantor a couple of months.”

“Really?” said Mistress Tisalver. She was a trifle shorter than her husband, was plump without quite being fat, had her dark hair drawn tightly back into a bun, and possessed rather beautiful dark eyes. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her thirties.

(After a period in Mycogen, not actually long in duration but intense, it struck Dors as odd to have a woman enter the conversation at will. How quickly modes and manners establish themselves, she thought, and made a mental note to mention that to Seldon—one more item for his psychohistory.)