by Isaac Asimov
Dors stared straight ahead, saying nothing, as did Daneel.
Daneel finally spoke as they approached Pasaj. “You did admirably.”
“Thank you,” Dors said. Then, “Is it wise to leave him so long without a guardian?”
“He has remarkable instincts,” Daneel said.
“He is old and frail,” Dors said.
“He is stronger than this Empire,” Daneel said. “And his finest moment is yet to come.”
Lodovik contemplated his assignment as relayed by Daneel through microwave link. His pilgrimage would include a tour of special duty in the Cathedral of the Greys in Pasaj. Here, the finest of the Empire’s bureaucratic class gathered once in a lifetime to receive their highest honors, including the Order of the Emperor’s Feather; while Lodovik’s new role had no history of such extraordinary excellence, it was not unusual for those who contributed to the cathedral on a yearly basis to be summoned for menial duties. as the next highest kind of recognition of service.
Daneel clearly expected the cathedral to play an important part in the next few years, though what that might be, he had not yet conveyed to Lodovik.
Lodovik half suspected that Daneel was keeping him on probation until he had proved himself loyal. That was wise. Lodovik kept his doubts deeply masked. He knew Daneel’s extraordinary sensitivity. He had also worked around him long enough to know of ways to deceive, to appear compliant and loyal.
He had watched Daneel test Dors, and he had no doubt Daneel could find some equally effective way to test him. Before that happened, he would have to undergo another transformation–and find the allies he was almost sure were on Trantor, hidden from Daneel, working to oppose him. Among the Greys. there would be many chances to do research on those who opposed the Chens and Divarts...
Had Lodovik been human, he would have estimated his chances as very slim. Since his concern for his own survival was minimal, a hopeless situation was not particularly disturbing. Far worse was the thought of being disloyal, of contradicting R. Daneel Olivaw.
35.
BRANN WALKED THROUGH the main storage wing of the warehouse with surprising speed for a man of his size. The dark spaces and huge tiers of storage racks loomed and made their footsteps sound like the beats of distant drums. Klia kept up with some difficulty, but did not mind; she had not had much exercise in days, and looked upon this assignment as both a break in the routine and a possible avenue of escape.
Being with Brann was pleasant enough, so long as she did not think about her emotional reaction to him, and how inappropriate it was. She wrinkled her nose at the dusty ghosts of hundreds of unfamiliar smells.
“The most popular imports come from Anacreon and Memphio,” Brann said. He paused beside a shadowy equipment alcove to check out a loader/transport. “There are some very wealthy artisan families that live off sales to Trantor alone. Everybody wants Anacreon folk-dolls–I hate them, myself. We also import games and entertainments from Kalgan–of the sort frowned upon by the Commission censors.”
Klia walked beside Brann. The transport glided on floater fields a discreet two meters behind them, lowering small rubber wheels when it wanted to turn sharply or stop.
“We’re going to deliver four crates of dolls to the Trantor Exchange, and some other items to the Agora of Vendors.” These were the two most popular shopping areas in Streeling, well-known around the hemisphere. Well-heeled Greys and meritocrats traveled from thousands of kilometers–some, thousands of light years–just to spend several days browsing among the myriad of shops in each area. The Agora of Vendors boasted of inns spaced at hundred-shop intervals for tired travelers.
The baronial and other noble families of the gentry class had their own means of satisfying acquisitive urges, and, of course, citizens usually lived in quarters too small to allow for the accumulation of many goods.
When Klia had been very young, her mother and father had participated in a communal Dahl bauble exchange, where they borrowed one or two objects considered decorative (and fairly useless) for several days or weeks and then returned them. That seemed satisfactory enough, for those fascinated with material goods; actually owning or even collecting offworld objects seemed ludicrous to Klia.
“This means Plussix trusts me enough to let me go outside, doesn’t it?” Klia said.
Brann looked down on her, his face serious. “This isn’t some mindwipe cult, Klia.”
“How do I know that? What is it, then–a social club for misfit persuaders?”
“You sound pretty unhappy,” Brann said. “But you–”
“Is there anyplace on Trantor where anyone can be happy? Look at all this junk–a substitute for happiness, don’t you think?” She waved her hands at the plastic and scrapwood crates stacked high over their heads.
“I wouldn’t know,” Brann said. “I was going to say, you sound unhappy, but I’ll bet you can’t think of anyplace else to go.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m unhappy,” Klia said in a dark undertone. “I certainly feel like a misfit. Maybe I do belong here.”
Brann turned away with a small grunt and ordered the transport to remove a crate from the third tier. It planted its undercarriage firmly on the floor, then raised its body on pneumatic cylinders and deftly tugged at the crate with mechanical arms.
“Kallusin said we might be able to travel all over,” Klia said. “If we turn out to be loyal, is that... I mean, do you know of anyone who’s left? Been assigned elsewhere?”
Brann shook his head. “Of course, I don’t know everybody. I haven’t been here that long. There are other warehouses.”
Klia had not known this. She filed the fact away, and wondered if Plussix was orchestrating some sort of huge latent underground movement–a rebellion, perhaps. A rebellious merchant broker? It seemed ludicrous–and perhaps the more convincing because of that. But what would he rebel against–the very classes who clamored for his goods? Or the noble and baronial families... who did not?
“We have what we need,” Brann said when the transport carried three crates from three different aisles. “Let’s go.”
“What about the police–the ones searching for me–for us?”
“Plussix says they’re not looking for anybody now,” Brann said.
“And how does he know?”
Brann shook his head. “All I know is, he’s never wrong. Not one of us has ever been taken by the police.”
“Famous last words,” Klia said, but she once again trotted to keep up with him.
Outside the warehouse, the daylight of the dome ceil glowed brightly. She emerged from the cavernous interior to a brighter, larger interior–the only other kind of life she had ever known.
36.
SINTER PACED IN his small study before the wall image of the human Galaxy with its twenty-five million inhabited worlds marked in red and green. He barely looked up as Vara Liso entered. She immediately dropped her chin and hunched her shoulders. What she saw in Farad Sinter was both frightening and exalting. She had never seem him more calm and steady–not a hint of the slight frown and swagger, the false lineaments of leadership, that he so often projected. He seemed both confident and coldly furious.
“I realize now that you’ve been going about this search all wrong,” he said. “You’ve been bringing me nothing but human mentalics, curious cases of course, but not what we want or need.”
“I was–”
He raised his hand and made a placating moue. “I accuse you of nothing. You had nothing to work with. Now we have something–perhaps the merest something, but more than we had before. I’ve intercepted a man named Mors Planch. I doubt you’ve heard of him. He’s a very competent fellow, with many talents–engineering among them. He tinkers all the time, I understand.”
Liso raised her eyebrows, meekly indicating she had no idea where all this was going.
“I tracked him after I learned that Linge Chen was using him to conduct a private search for Lodovik Trema. Planch is on Trantor. I’ve spoken w
ith him.”
Liso had heard of Trema. Her eyebrows rose higher.
“He found Trema but did not deliver him to the Chief Commissioner. My agents learned this much. All the rigmarole about Trema being dead, having died bravely in the service of the Emperor–that is, the Commission of Public Safety–all nonsense. He’s still alive. Rather, he’s still operating. He can’t be alive.”
Liso dropped her brows and glowered. Sinter seemed to be enjoying this chance to layout his schemes and successes. He fairly glowed, and she saw, written in his emotions, just the sort of pearly cometary tail she imagined followed a leading light into the constellations of supreme power. The thought made her shiver.
“He survived when all the others on his ship died in a neutrino flux.”
“What is that?” Liso asked softly.
“Nothing to concern us. Fatal. Invariably. Far out between the stars, in normal space. He survived. Planch miraculously or very skillfully found him. A competent man. I would like to have his talent work for me. Maybe that will happen yet, but I doubt Linge Chen will let Planch live once he discovers that he has been betrayed. Planch has some fixed notions of justice, and it appears another contender for the person of Trema came on the scene, and paid Planch more than Chen–so Planch took some mixed-up vengeance against Chen and Trantor for the ruin of Madder Loss. A worthless and defiant Chaos World.”
Vara Liso shook her head again. She knew little about such things, nor was she interested. It made her shudder to think of death between the stars, out in the vast open, away from any comforting interiors. She did not regard a hypership as a true environment–more of a temporary coffin.
“When Planch delivered Trema to a certain man on Madder Loss, he made a record, a secret tape, of the proceedings. Somehow, the recording was not detected. I wonder why?” He scratched his cheek for a moment with one finger, staring at her intently. Liso shrugged; she could not possibly offer an explanation.
“Planch does not remember the delivery itself. But the record shows a meeting... Let me play it for you.”
He took out a small machine and slipped the record–more likely, she thought, a duplicate–into the thin slot. Around them appeared a three dimensional scene, quite convincing but for the slight reduction in resolution. She examined the two apparently male figures from Planch’s perspective. One she recognized as Lodovik Trema; the other was tall, slender, handsome in a sort of nondescript way. She could not, of course, read their emotions clearly, but she had the distinct impression something was not quite right. The figures reenacted their conversation, and the more they talked, the more chilled she became.
“I regret to say you’ll soon forget everything you saw here, and your role in rescuing my friend as well.”
“Friend?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other for thousands of years.”
The record ended with part of a taxi ride.
Sinter regarded her curiously.
“A fraud, a joke?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “The record is not a fake. Planch found Lodovik Trema alive. He’s a robot. This other man–he’s a robot, as well. A very old one, possibly the oldest of all. I want you to study this record. Get a feel for these humanlike robots. One or both of them are mentalic. You have the talent to recognize them. Then–we will send you out hunting again. You will find Eternals. Then I will have something to show the Emperor. But for now, I have Planch and this tape, and that can take us all very far, Vara.”
He smiled exuberantly. In his pacing, he had come quite close to her, and with a grin, he gave her a sudden, spontaneous, one-armed hug. She looked up at him, dumfounded, and he folded the record into her hand. She held it with bloodless fingers.
“Study,” he ordered. “I’ll wait for the right moment to convince Klayus we’re onto something.”
37.
THE EMPEROR KLAYUS woke from a light doze in the empty bed of the seventh sleep chamber, his favorite for afternoon liaisons. He glared around for a moment with some irritation, then stared at the floating image of Farad Sinter. Sinter could not see the Emperor, of course, but that did not make the interruption any less aggravating.
“Your Highness, I have a message from the Commission of Public Safety. They are about to act on an indictment against Professor Hari Seldon.”
Klayus lifted the curtain to the higher sleep field to look for his companion of the past few hours, but she had left the chamber. Perhaps she was in the personal.
“Yes, and so? Linge Chen told us this might happen.”
“Your Highness, it is premature. They are going to try him and at least one of his people. This is a direct challenge to the privilege of the Palace.”
“Farad, the Palace–that is, I–have long since dropped any official support, behind the scenes, for Raven Seldon. He’s an amusement, nothing more.”
“It could be perceived as an affront, now that the move is about to be made.”
“Move–what move?”
“Why, to discredit Seldon. If they succeed, Your Highness–”
“Stop with the titles! Just tell me what you think and get your damned image out of my chamber.”
“Cleon supported Seldon.”
“I know that. Cleon wasn’t even family, Farad.”
“Seldon has ballooned that support into a project consisting of tens of thousands of adherents and sycophants on a dozen planets. His message is treasonous, if not revolutionary–”
“And you want me to protect him?”
“No, sire! You must not let Linge Chen take personal credit for removing this threat. It is time to act swiftly and create the commission we have discussed.”
“With you in charge. The Commission of General security, right?”
“If General Security prosecutes Seldon for treason, you will get all the credit, sire.”
“And no credit or power will go to you?”
“We have discussed this many times.”
“Too many times. What do I care whether Linge Chen takes credit or not? If he removes this intellectual parasite, we’ll all benefit equally, don’t you think?”
Farad thought this over. Klayus could see him deciding to try another tack.
“Your Majesty–this is a very complex issue, and I have many concerns. I did not wish to bring this up so soon, but I have brought an individual back to Trantor from Madder Loss. With your authorization. His name is Mors Planch, and he has evidence which we may add to other evidence–”
“What, more robots, Farad? More Eternals?”
Sinter, within the artificial constraints of the image, seemed to stay calm enough, but Klayus knew the little man was probably dancing with anxiety and anger by now. Good. Let him build up a head of steam.
“The final pieces of the puzzle,” Sinter said. “Before Seldon is tried on simple charges of treason, you must examine this evidence. You may be able to limit Chen’s power and add to your own image as a resourceful leader.”
“In my own good time, Farad,” Klayus said in an ominous growl. He knew what his public image was–and he knew the effective limits of his power compared to the Chief Commissioner’s. “I wouldn’t want to make you into another Linge Chen. You don’t even have the restraint of being trained in an aristocratic family, Farad. You are common and sometimes vicious.”
Sinter appeared to ignore this, too. “The two Commissions would balance each other, sire, and we could more effectively watch over the military ministers.”
“Yes, but your chief concern is this robot menace.” The Emperor swung his legs over the field cushions and stood by the side of the bed. He had not performed well this afternoon; his mind was tugged in all directions by a myriad of little strings and knotted threads of statecraft and security and intrapalace plotting. Right now, his irritation focused on Farad Sinter, a little man whose services (and women) seemed less and less satisfying, and whose transgressions could easily become less and less amusing.
“Farad, I have seen no evidence worth t
he name for a year now. I do not know why I’ve tolerated your behavior on this matter. You want Seldon because of his connection to the Tiger, don’t you?”
Sinter stared blankly at the sensor transmitting his image.
“For God’s sake, remove the politeness censor and let me see you the way you are,” Klayus ordered. The image shifted and shivered, then Farad Sinter appeared in a rumpled casual robe, his hair awry, his face red with anger. “That’s better,” Klayus said.
“She was demonstrably not human, Your Majesty,” Sinter said. “I have secured the documents pertaining to the murder of the Seldon Project worker Elas, and he felt the same as I and other experts.”
“She died,” Klayus said. “She killed this Elas and then she died. What’s to know beyond that? Elas wanted Seldon dead. Would that I had a female so loyal.”
He hoped his own knowledge of all these matters was not becoming too obvious; even in front of Sinter, he hoped to maintain a little of his reputation as vain and stupid and governed by his gonads.
“She was given an atom-dispersal burial without official supervision,” Sinter said.
“That’s the method chosen by ninety-four percent of Trantor’s population,” Klayus said, and yawned. “Only Emperors get to be buried intact. And some faithful ministers and councilors.”
Sinter seemed to vibrate with frustration. Klayus found this more enjoyable then he had the attempted mating. Where was that woman, anyway?
“Dors Venabili was not human,” Sinter asserted with a slight sputter.
“Yes, well Seldon is. You’ve shown me his X rays.”
“Subverted by–”
“Oh, for Sky’s sake, Farad, shut up! I order you to let Linge Chen carry out his little charade. We’ll all watch closely and see what happens. Then we’ll take some action or another. Now leave me alone. I’m tired.”
He blocked the image and sat back on the edge of the lower field. It took him several minutes to restore his calm, then he thought of the woman. Where had she gotten to?