by Isaac Asimov
“Probably not. He would have been more useful as a figurehead. And in any case, forget it. Joranum died last year on Nishaya, a rather pathetic figure.”
“He had followers.”
“Of course. Everyone has followers. Did you ever come across the Globalist party on my native world of Helicon in your studies of the early history of the Kingdom of Trantor and of the Galactic Empire?”
“No, I haven’t. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Hari, but I don’t recall coming across any piece of history in which Helicon played a role.”
“I’m not hurt, Dors. Happy the world without a history, I always say. —In any case, about twenty-four hundred years ago, there arose a group of people on Helicon who were quite convinced that Helicon was the only inhabited globe in the Universe. Helicon was the Universe and beyond it there was only a solid sphere of sky speckled with tiny stars.”
“How could they believe that?” said Dors. “They were part of the Empire, I presume.”
“Yes, but Globalists insisted that all evidence to the effect that the Empire existed was either illusion or deliberate deceit, that Imperial emissaries and officials were Heliconians playing a part for some reason. They were absolutely immune to reason.”
“And what happened?”
“I suppose it’s always pleasant to think that your particular world is the world. At their peak, the Globalists may have persuaded 10 percent of the population of the planet to be part of the movement. Only 10 percent, but they were a vehement minority that drowned out the indifferent majority and threatened to take over.”
“But they didn’t, did they?”
“No, they didn’t. What happened was that Globalism caused a diminishing of Imperial trade and the Heliconian economy slid into the doldrums. When the belief began to affect the pocketbooks of the population, it lost popularity rapidly. The rise and fall puzzled many at the time, but psychohistory, I’m sure, would have shown it to be inevitable and would have made it unnecessary to give it any thought.”
“I see. But, Hari, what is the point of this story? I presume there’s some connection with what we were discussing.”
“The connection is that such movements never completely die, no matter how ridiculous their tenets may seem to sane people. Right now, on Helicon, right now there are still Globalists. Not many, but every once in a while seventy or eighty of them get together in what they call a Global Congress and take enormous pleasure in talking to each other about Globalism. —Well, it is only ten years since the Joranumite movement seemed such a terrible threat on this world and it would not be at all surprising if there weren’t still some remnants left. There may still be some remnants a thousand years from now.”
“Isn’t it possible that a remnant may be dangerous?”
“I doubt it. It was Jo-Jo’s charisma that made the movement dangerous—and he’s dead. He didn’t even die a heroic death or one that was in any way remarkable; he just withered away and died in exile, a broken man.”
Dors stood up and walked the length of the room quickly, swinging her arms at her sides and clenching her fists. She returned and stood before the seated Seldon.
“Hari,” she said, “let me speak my mind. If psychohistory points to the possibility of serious disturbances on Trantor, then if there are Joranumites still left, they may still be plotting the Emperor’s death.”
Seldon laughed nervously. “You jump at shadows, Dors. Relax.”
But he found that he could not dismiss what she had said quite that easily.
5
The Wye Sector had a tradition of opposition to the Entun Dynasty of Cleon I that had been ruling the Empire for over two centuries. The opposition dated back to a time when the line of Mayors of Wye had contributed members who had served as Emperor. The Wyan Dynasty had neither lasted long nor had it been conspicuously successful, but the people and rulers of Wye found it difficult to forget that they had once been—however imperfectly and temporarily—supreme. The brief period when Rashelle, as the self-appointed Mayor of Wye, had challenged the Empire, eighteen years earlier, had added both to Wye’s pride and to its frustration.
All this made it reasonable that the small band of leading conspirators should feel as safe in Wye as they would feel anywhere on Trantor.
Five of them sat around a table in a room in a rundown portion of the sector. The room was poorly furnished but well shielded.
In a chair which, by its marginal superiority in quality to the others, sat the man who might well be judged to be the leader. He had a thin face, a sallow complexion, and a wide mouth with lips so pale as to be nearly invisible. There was a touch of gray in his hair, but his eyes burned with an inextinguishable anger.
He was staring at the man seated exactly opposite him—distinctly older and softer, his hair almost white, his plump cheeks tending to quiver when he spoke.
The leader said sharply, “Well? It is quite apparent that you have done nothing. Explain that!”
The older man said, “I am an old Joranumite, Namarti. Why do I have to explain my actions?”
Gambol Deen Namarti, once the right-hand man of Laskin “Jo-Jo” Joranum, said, “There are many old Joranumites. Some are incompetent, some are soft, some have forgotten. Being an old Joranumite may mean no more than that one is an old fool.”
The older man sat back in his chair. “Are you calling me an old fool? Me? Kaspal Kaspalov? I was with Jo-Jo when you had not yet joined the party, when you were a ragged nothing in search of a cause.”
“I am not calling you a fool,” said Namarti sharply. “I say simply that some old Joranumites are fools. You have a chance now to show me that you are not one of them.”
“My association with Jo-Jo—”
“Forget that. He’s dead!”
“I should think his spirit lives on.”
“If that thought will help us in our fight, then his spirit lives on. But to others—not to us. We know he made mistakes.”
“I deny that.”
“Don’t insist on making a hero out of a mere man who made mistakes. He thought he could move the Empire by the strength of oratory alone, by words—”
“History shows that words have moved mountains in the past.”
“Not Joranum’s words, obviously, because he made mistakes. He hid his Mycogenian origins far too clumsily. Worse, he let himself be tricked into accusing First Minister Eto Demerzel of being a robot. I warned him against that accusation, but he wouldn’t listen—and it destroyed him. Now let’s start fresh, shall we? Whatever use we make of Joranum’s memory for outsiders, let us not ourselves be transfixed by it.”
Kaspalov sat silent. The other three transferred their gaze from Namarti to Kaspalov and back, content to let Namarti carry the weight of the discussion.
“With Joranum’s exile to Nishaya, the Joranumite movement fell apart and seemed to vanish,” said Namarti harshly. “It would, indeed, have vanished—but for me. Bit by bit and rubble by rubble, I rebuilt it into a network that extends over all of Trantor. You know this, I take it.”
“I know it, Chief,” mumbled Kaspalov. The use of the title made it plain that Kaspalov was seeking reconciliation.
Namarti smiled tightly. He did not insist on the title, but he always enjoyed hearing it used. He said, “You’re part of this network and you have your duties.”
Kaspalov stirred. He was clearly debating with himself internally and finally he said slowly, “You tell me, Chief, that you warned Joranum against accusing the old First Minister of being a robot. You say he didn’t listen, but at least you had your say. May I have the same privilege of pointing out what I think is a mistake and have you listen to me as Joranum listened to you, even if, like him, you don’t take the advice given you?”
“Of course you can speak your piece, Kaspalov. You are here in order that you might do so. What is your point?”
“These new tactics of ours, Chief, are a mistake. They create disruption and do damage.”
“Of c
ourse! They are designed to do that.” Namarti stirred in his seat, controlling his anger with an effort. “Joranum tried persuasion. It didn’t work. We will bring Trantor down by action.”
“For how long? And at what cost?”
“For as long as it takes—and at very little cost, actually. A power stoppage here, a water break there, a sewage backup, an air-conditioning halt. Inconvenience and discomfort—that’s all it means.”
Kaspalov shook his head. “These things are cumulative.”
“Of course, Kaspalov, and we want public dismay and resentment to be cumulative, too. Listen, Kaspalov. The Empire is decaying. Everyone knows that. Everyone capable of intelligent thought knows that. The technology will fail here and there, even if we do nothing. We’re just helping it along a little.”
“It’s dangerous, Chief. Trantor’s infrastructure is incredibly complicated. A careless push may bring it down in ruins. Pull the wrong string and Trantor may topple like a house of cards.”
“It hasn’t so far.”
“It may in the future. And what if the people find out that we are behind it? They would tear us apart. There would be no need to call in the security establishment or the armed forces. Mobs would destroy us.”
“How would they ever learn enough to blame us? The natural target for the people’s resentment will be the government—the Emperor’s advisers. They will never look beyond that.”
“And how do we live with ourselves, knowing what we have done?”
This last was asked in a whisper, the old man clearly moved by strong emotion. Kaspalov looked pleadingly across the table at his leader, the man to whom he had sworn allegiance. He had done so in the belief that Namarti would truly continue to bear the standard of freedom passed on by Jo-Jo Joranum; now Kaspalov wondered if this is how Jo-Jo would have wanted his dream to come to pass.
Namarti clucked his tongue, much as a reproving parent does when confronting an errant child.
“Kaspalov, you can’t seriously be turning sentimental on us, are you? Once we are in power, we will pick up the pieces and rebuild. We will gather in the people with all of Joranum’s old talk of popular participation in government, with greater representation, and when we are firmly in power we will establish a more efficient and forceful government. We will then have a better Trantor and a stronger Empire. We will set up some sort of discussion system whereby representatives of other worlds can talk themselves into a daze—but we will do the governing.”
Kaspalov sat there, irresolute.
Namarti smiled joylessly. “You are not certain? We can’t lose. It’s been working perfectly and it will continue working perfectly. The Emperor doesn’t know what’s going on. He hasn’t the faintest notion. And his First Minister is a mathematician. He ruined Joranum, true, but since then he has done nothing.”
“He has something called—called—”
“Forget it. Joranum attached a great deal of importance to it, but it was a part of his being Mycogenian, like his robot mania. This mathematician has nothing—”
“Historical psychoanalysis or something like that. I heard Joranum once say—”
“Forget it. Just do your part. You handle the ventilation in the Anemoria Sector, don’t you? Very well, then. Have it misfunction in a manner of your choosing. It either shuts down so that the humidity rises or it produces a peculiar odor or something else. None of this will kill anyone, so don’t get yourself into a fever of virtuous guilt. You will simply make people uncomfortable and raise the general level of discomfort and annoyance. Can we depend on you?”
“But what would only be discomfort and annoyance to the young and healthy may be more than that to infants, the aged, and the sick. . . .”
“Are you going to insist that no one at all must be hurt?”
Kaspalov mumbled something.
Namarti said, “It’s impossible to do anything with a guarantee that no one at all will be hurt. You just do your job. Do it in such a way that you hurt as few as possible—if your conscience insists upon it—but do it!”
Kaspalov said, “Look! I have one thing more to say, Chief.”
“Then say it,” said Namarti wearily.
“We can spend years poking at the infrastructure. The time must come when you take advantage of gathering dissatisfaction to seize the government. How do you intend to do that?”
“You want to know exactly how we’ll do it?”
“Yes. The faster we strike, the more limited the damage, the more efficiently the surgery is performed.”
Namarti said slowly, “I have not yet decided on the nature of this ‘surgical strike.’ But it will come. Until then, will you do your part?”
Kaspalov nodded his head in resignation. “Yes, Chief.”
“Well then, go,” said Namarti with a sharp gesture of dismissal.
Kaspalov rose, turned, and left. Namarti watched him go. He said to the man at his right, “Kaspalov is not to be trusted. He has sold out and it’s only so that he can betray us that he wants to know my plans for the future. Take care of him.”
The other nodded and all three left, leaving Namarti alone in the room. He switched off the glowing wall panels, leaving only a lonely square in the ceiling to provide the light that would keep him from being entirely in the darkness.
He thought: Every chain has weak links that must be eliminated. We have had to do this in the past and the result is that we have an organization that is untouchable.
And in the dimness, he smiled, twisting his face into a kind of feral joy. After all, the network extended even into the Palace itself—not quite firmly, not quite reliably, but it was there. And it would be strengthened.
6
The weather was holding up over the un-domed area of the Imperial Palace grounds—warm and sunny.
It didn’t often happen. Hari remembered Dors telling him once how this particular area with its cold winters and frequent rains had been chosen as the site.
“It wasn’t actually chosen,” she said. “It was a family estate of the Morovian family in the early days of the Kingdom of Trantor. When the Kingdom became an Empire, there were numerous sites where the Emperor could live—summer resorts, winter places, sports lodges, beach properties. And, as the planet was slowly domed, one reigning Emperor, living here, liked it so much that it remained undomed. And, just because it was the only area left undomed, it became special—a place apart—and that uniqueness appealed to the next Emperor . . . and the next . . . and the next. . . . And so, a tradition was born.”
And as always, when hearing something like that, Seldon would think: And how would psychohistory handle this? Would it predict that one area would remain undomed but be absolutely unable to say which area? Could it go even so far? Could it predict that several areas would remain undomed or none—and be wrong? How could it account for the personal likes and dislikes of an Emperor who happened to be on the throne at the crucial time and who made a decision in a moment of whimsy and nothing more. That way lay chaos—and madness.
Cleon I was clearly enjoying the good weather.
“I’m getting old, Seldon,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you that. We’re the same age, you and I. Surely it’s a sign of age when I don’t have the impulse to play tennis or go fishing, even though they’ve newly restocked the lake, but am willing to walk gently over the pathways.”
He was eating nuts as he spoke, which resembled what on Seldon’s native world of Helicon would have been called pumpkin seeds, but which were larger and a little less delicate in taste. Cleon cracked them gently between his teeth, peeled the thin shells and popped the kernels into his mouth.
Seldon did not like the taste particularly but, of course, when he was offered some by the Emperor, he accepted them and ate a few.
The Emperor had a number of shells in his hand and looked vaguely around for a receptacle of some sort that he could use for disposal. He saw none, but he did notice a gardener standing not far away, his body at at
tention (as it should be in the Imperial presence) and his head respectfully bowed.
Cleon said, “Gardener!”
The gardener approached quickly. “Sire!”
“Get rid of these for me,” he said, tapping the shells into the gardener’s hand.
“Yes, Sire.”
Seldon said, “I have a few, too, Gruber.”
Gruber held out his hand and said, almost shyly, “Yes, First Minister.”
He hurried away and the Emperor looked after him curiously. “Do you know the fellow, Seldon?”
“Yes, indeed, Sire. An old friend.”
“The gardener is an old friend? What is he? A mathematical colleague fallen on hard times?”
“No, Sire. Perhaps you remember the story. It was the time when”—he cleared his throat, searching for the most tactful way to recall the incident—“the sergeant threatened my life shortly after I was appointed to my present post through your kindness.”
“The assassination attempt.” Cleon looked up to heaven, as though seeking patience. “I don’t know why everyone is so afraid of that word.”
“Perhaps,” said Seldon smoothly, slightly despising himself for the ease with which he had become able to flatter, “the rest of us are more perturbed at the possibility of something untoward happening to our Emperor than you yourself are.”
Cleon smiled ironically. “I dare say. And what has this to do with Gruber? Is that his name?”
“Yes, Sire. Mandell Gruber. I’m sure you will recall, if you cast your mind back, that there was a gardener who came rushing up with a rake to defend me against the armed sergeant.”
“Ah yes. Was that fellow the gardener who did that?”
“He was the man, Sire. I’ve considered him a friend ever since and I meet him almost every time I am on the grounds. I think he watches for me, feels proprietary toward me. And, of course, I feel kindly toward him.”
“I don’t blame you. —And while we’re on the subject, how is your formidable lady, Dr. Venabili? I don’t see her often.”