Cleon the Emperor

by Isaac Asimov

  “And the Joranumites, too?”

  “I don't think so. It would sound unlikely, for the connection is not something that would make sense. The Joranumite movement is predominantly lower-class; a proletarian movement, so to speak. And Andorin is an aristocrat of aristocrats. What would he be doing with the Joranumites?”

  “If he's of the Wyan mayoralty family, he might aspire to the Imperial throne, might he not?”

  “They've been aspiring for generations. You remember Rashelle, I trust. She was his aunt.”

  “Then he might be using the Joranumites as a stepping-stone, don't you think?”

  “If they exist. And if they do, and if a stepping stone is what Andorin wants, I think he'd find himself playing a dangerous game. The Joranumites, if they exist, would have their own plans and a man like Andorin may find he's simply riding a greti-”

  “What's a greti?”

  “Some extinct animal of a ferocious type, I think. It's just a proverbial phrase, back on Helicon. If you ride a greti, you find you can't get off, for then it will eat you.”

  Seldon paused. “One more thing. Raych seems to be involved with a woman who knows Andorin and through whom, he thinks, he may get important information. I'm telling you this now so that you won't accuse me, afterward, of keeping anything from you.”

  Venabili frowned. “A woman?”

  “One, I gather, who knows a great many men who will talk to her unwisely, sometimes, under intimate circumstances.”

  “One of those.” Her frown deepened. “I don't like the thought of Raych-”

  “Come, come. Raych is thirty years old and undoubtedly has much experience. You can leave this woman-or any woman, I think-safely to Raych's good sense.” He turned toward Venabili with a look so worn, so weary, as he said, “Do you think I like this? Do you think I like any of this?”

  And Venabili could find nothing to say.

  16.

  Gambol Deen Namarti was not, at even the best of times, noted for his politeness and suavity, and the approaching climax of a decade of planning had left him the sourer of disposition.

  He rose from his chair in some agitation as he said, “You've taken your time in getting here, Andorin.”

  Andorin shrugged. “But I'm here now.”

  “And this young man of yours-this remarkable tool that you're touting. Where is he?”

  “He'll be here eventually.”

  “Why not now?”

  Andorin's rather handsome head seemed to sink a bit as though, for a moment, he were lost in thought or coming to a decision, and then he said abruptly, “I don't want to bring him till I know where I stand.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Simple words in Galactic Standard. How long has it been your aim to get rid of Hari Seldon?”

  “Always! Always! Is that so hard to understand? We deserve revenge for what he did to JoJo. Even if he hadn't done that, since he's the First Minister, we'd have to put him out of the way.”

  “But it's Cleon-Cleon-who must be brought down. If not only he, then at least he in addition to Seldon.”

  “Why does a figurehead concern you?”

  “You weren't born yesterday. I've never had to explain my part in this because you're not so ignorant a fool as not to know. What can I possibly care about your plans if they don't include a replacement on the throne?”

  Namarti laughed. “Of course. I've known for a long time that you look upon me as your footstool; your way of climbing up to the Imperial throne.”

  “Would you expect anything else?”

  “Not at all. I will do the planning, take the chances, and then, when all is quite done, you gather in the reward. It makes sense, doesn't it?”

  “Yes, it does make sense, for the reward will be yours, too. Won't you become the First Minister? Won't you be able to count on the full support of a new Emperor, one who is filled with gratitude? Won't I be” (and his face twisted with irony as he spat out the words) “the new figurehead?”

  “Is that what you plan to be? A figurehead?”

  “I plan to be the Emperor. I supplied money when you had none. I supplied the cadre when you had none. I supplied the respectability you needed to build a large organization here in Wye. I can still withdraw everything I've brought in.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Do you want to risk it? Don't think you can treat me as you treated Kaspalov, either. If anything happens to me, Wye will become uninhabitable for you and yours, and you will find that no other sector will supply you with what you need.”

  Namarti sighed, “Then you insist on having the Emperor killed.”

  “I didn't say ‘killed.’ I said brought down. The details I leave to you.” This last was accompanied by an almost dismissive wave of the hand, a flick of the wrist, as if he were already sitting on the Imperial throne.

  “And then you'll be Emperor?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you won't. You'll be dead-and not at my hands, either. Andorin, let me teach you some of the facts of life. If Cleon is killed, then the matter of the succession comes up and, to avoid civil war, the Imperial Guard will at once kill every member of the Wyan mayoral family they can find; you first of all. On the other hand, if only the First Minister is killed, you will be safe.”

  “Why?”

  “A First Minister is only a First Minister. They come and go. It is possible that Cleon himself may have grown tired of him and arranged the killing. Certainly, we would see to it that rumors of this sort spread. The I.G. would hesitate and would give us a chance to put the new government into place. Indeed, it is quite possible that they would themselves be grateful for the end of Seldon.”

  “And with the new government in place, what am I to do? Keep on waiting? Forever?”

  “No. Once I'm First Minister, there will be ways of dealing with Cleon. I may even be able to do something with the Imperial Guard and use them as my instruments. I will then manage to find some safe way of getting rid of Cleon, and replacing him with you.”

  Andorin burst out, “Why should you?”

  Namarti said, “What do you mean, why should I?”

  “You have a personal grudge against Seldon. Once he is gone, why should you run the unnecessary risks at the highest level? You will make your peace with Cleon and I will have to retire to my crumbling estate and my impossible dreams. And perhaps to play it safe, you will have me killed.”

  Namarti said, “No! Cleon was born to the throne. He comes from several generations of Emperors-the proud Entun dynasty. He would be very difficult to handle, a plague. You, on the other hand, would come to the throne as a member of a new dynasty, without any strong ties to tradition, for the previous Wyan Emperors were, you will admit, totally undistinguished. You will be seated on a shaky throne and will need someone to support you-me. And I will need someone who is dependent upon me and whom I can therefore handle-you.-Come, Andorin, ours is not a marriage of love, which fades in a year; it is a marriage of convenience which can last life-long. Let us trust each other.”

  “You swear I will be Emperor.”

  “What good would swearing do if you couldn't trust my word? Let us say I would find you an extraordinarily useful Emperor, and I would want you to replace Cleon as soon as that can safely be managed. Now, introduce me to this man whom you think will be the perfect tool for your purposes.”

  “Very well. And remember what makes him different. I have studied him. He's a not-very-bright idealist. He will do what he's told, unconcerned by danger, unconcerned by second thoughts. And he exudes a kind of trustworthiness so that his victim will trust him even if he has a blaster in his hand.”

  “I find that impossible to believe.”

  “Wait till you meet him,” said Andorin.

  17.

  Raych kept his eyes down. He had taken a quick look at Namarti and it was all he needed. He had met the man ten years before, when Raych had been sent to lure JoJo Joranum to his destruction, and one look was
more than enough.

  Namarti had changed little in ten years. Anger and hatred were still the dominant characteristics one could see in him-or that Raych could see in him, at any rate, for he realized he was not an impartial witness-and those seemed to have marinated him into leathery permanence. His face was a trifle more gaunt; his hair was flecked with gray; but his thin-lipped mouth was set in the same harsh line and his dark eyes were as brilliantly dangerous as ever.

  That was enough, and Raych kept his eyes averted. Namarti, he felt, was not one of those who would take to someone who could stare him straight in the face.

  Namarti seemed to devour Raych with his own eyes, but the slight sneer his face always seemed to wear remained.

  He turned to Andorin, who stood uneasily to one side, and said, quite as though the subject of conversation were not present, “This is the man, then.”

  Andorin nodded and his lips moved in a soundless, “Yes, Chief.”

  Namarti said to Raych abruptly, “Your name.”

  “Planchet, sir.”

  “You believe in our cause?”

  “Yes, sir.” He spoke carefully, in accordance with Andorin's instructions. “I am a democrat and want greater participation of the people in the governmental process.”

  Namarti's eyes flicked in Andorin's direction. “A speech-maker.”

  He looked back at Raych. “Are you willing to undertake risks for the cause?”

  “Any risk, sir.”

  “You will do as you are told? No questions? No hanging back?”

  “I will follow orders.”

  “Do you know anything about gardening?”

  Raych hesitated. “No, sir.”

  “You're a Trantorian, then? Born under the dome?”

  “I was born in Millimaru, sir, and I was brought up in Dahl.”

  “Very well,” said Namarti. Then, to Andorin. “Take him out and deliver him, temporarily, to the men waiting there. They will take good care of him. Then come back, Andorin, I want to speak to you.”

  When Andorin returned, a profound change had come over Namarti. His eyes were glittering and his mouth was twisted into a feral grin.

  “Andorin,” he said, “the gods we spoke of the other day are with us to an extent I couldn't have imagined.”

  “I told you the man was suitable for our purposes.”

  “Far more suitable than you think. You know, of course, the tale of how Hari Seldon-our revered First Minister-sent his son, or foster-son, rather, to see Joranum, and to set the trap into which Joranum, against my advice, fell.”

  “Yes,” said Andorin, nodding wearily, “I know the story.” He said it with the air of one who knew the story entirely too well.

  “I saw that boy only that once, but his face is burned into my brain. Do you suppose that ten years’ passage, and false heels, and a shaved mustache could fool me? That Planchet of yours is Raych, the foster-son of Hari Seldon.”

  Andorin paled and, for a moment, he held his breath. He said, “Are you sure of that, Chief?”

  “As sure as I am that you're standing here in front of me and that you have introduced an enemy into our midst.”

  “I had no idea-”

  “Don't get nervous,” said Namarti. “I consider it the best thing you have ever done in your idle, aristocratic life. You have played the role that the gods have marked out for you. If I had not known who he was, he might have fulfilled the function for which he was undoubtedly intended, to be a spy in our midst and an informant of our most secret plans. But since I know who he is, it won't work that way. Instead, we now have everything.” Namarti rubbed his hands together in delight and, haltingly, as if he realized how far out of character for him it was, he smiled-and laughed.

  18.

  Manella said thoughtfully, “I guess I won't be seeing you anymore, Planchet.”

  Raych was drying himself after his shower. “Why not?”

  “Gleb Andorin doesn't want me to.”

  “Why not?”

  Manella shrugged her smooth shoulders. “He says you have important work to do and no more time to fool around. Maybe he means you'll get a better job.”

  Raych stiffened. “What kind of work? Did he mention anything in particular?”

  “No, but he said he would be going to the Imperial sector.”

  “Did he? Does he often tell you things like that?”

  “You know how it is, Planchet. When a fellow's in bed with you, he talks a lot.”

  “I know,” said Raych, who was himself careful not to. “What else does he say?”

  “Why do you ask?” She frowned a bit. “He always asks about you, too. I noticed that about men. They're curious about each other. Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “What do you tell him about me?”

  “Not much. Just you're a nice kid and you're a very decent sort. Naturally, I don't tell him I like you better than I like him. That would hurt his feelings-and it might hurt me, too.”

  Raych was getting dressed. “So it's good-bye, then.”

  “For a while, I suppose. Gleb may change his mind. Of course, I'd like to go to the Imperial sector, if he'd take me. I've never been there.”

  Raych almost slipped, but he managed to cough, then said, “I've never been there, either.”

  “It's got the biggest buildings and the nicest places and the fanciest restaurants, and that's where the rich people live. I'd like to meet some rich people.”

  Raych said, “I suppose there's not much to be gotten out of a person like me.”

  “You're all right. You can't think of money all the time, but, by the same token, you've got to think of it some of the time. Especially since I think Gleb is getting tired of me.”

  Raych felt compelled to say, “No one could get tired of you,” and then found, a little to his own confusion, that he meant it.

  Manella said, “That's what men always say, but you'd be surprised. Anyway, it's been good, you and I, Planchet. Take care of yourself and, who knows, we may see each other again.”

  Raych nodded and found himself at a loss for words. There was no way in which he could say or do anything to express his feelings.

  With a wrench, he turned his mind in other directions. He had to find out what the Namarti people were planning. If they were separating him from Manella, the crisis must be rapidly approaching. All he had to go on was that queer question about gardening.

  Nor could he get any further information back to Seldon. He had been kept under close scrutiny since his meeting with Namarti; and all avenues of communication were cut off-surely another indication of an approaching crisis.

  But if he were to find out what was going on only after it was done, and if he could communicate the news only after it was no longer news, he would have failed.

  19.

  Hari Seldon was not having a good day. He had not heard from Raych since his first communique; he had no idea what was happening.

  Aside from his natural concern for Raych's safety (surely he would hear if something really bad had happened) there was his uneasiness over what might be planned.

  It would have to be subtle. A direct attack on the Palace itself was totally out of the question. Security there was far too tight. But if so, what else could be planned that would be sufficiently effective?

  The whole thing was keeping him awake at night and distracted by day.

  The signal-light flashed.

  “First Minister. Your two o'clock appointment, sir-”

  “What two o'clock appointment is this?”

  “The gardener, Mandell Gruber. He has the necessary certification.”

  Seldon remembered. “Yes. Send him in.”

  This was no time to see Gruber, but he had agreed to it in a moment of weakness-the man had seemed distraught. A First Minister should not have moments of weakness, but Seldon had been Seldon long before he had become First Minister.

  “Come in, Gruber,” he said, kindly.

  Gruber stood before him, head
ducking mechanically, eyes darting this way and that. Seldon was quite certain the gardener had never been in any room as magnificent as this one, and he had the bitter urge to say: Do you like it? Please take it. I don't want it.

  But he only said, “What is it, Gruber? Why are you so unhappy?”

  There was no immediate answer; Gruber merely smiled vacantly.

  Seldon said, “Sit down, man. Right there in that chair.”

  “Oh, no, First Minister. It would not be fitting. I'll get it dirty.”

  “If you do, it will be easy to clean. Do as I say. -Good! Now just sit there a minute or two and gather your thoughts. Then, when you are ready, tell me what's the matter.”

  Gruber sat silent for a moment, then the words came out in a panting rush. “First Minister. It is Chief Gardener I am to be. The blessed Emperor himself told me so.”

  “Yes, I have heard of that, but that surely isn't what is troubling you. Your new post is a matter of congratulations and I do congratulate you. I may even have contributed to it, Gruber. I have never forgotten your bravery at the time they tried to kill me, and you can be sure I mentioned it to His Imperial Majesty. It is a suitable reward, Gruber, and you would deserve the promotion in any case for it is quite clear from your record that you are fully qualified for the post. So now that that's out of the way, tell me what is troubling you.”

  “First Minister, it is the very post and promotion that is troubling me. It is something I cannot manage for I am not qualified.”

  “We are convinced you are.”

  Gruber grew agitated. “And is it in an office I will have to sit? I can't sit in an office. I could not go out in the open air and work with the plants and animals. I would be in prison, First Minister.”

  Seldon's eyes opened wide. “No such thing, Gruber. You needn't stay in the office longer than you have to. You could wander about the grounds freely, supervising everything. You will have all the outdoors you want and you will merely spare yourself the hard work.”