by Isaac Asimov
Kodell liked to project an image of grandfatherly kindness, as a way of offsetting the very real and rather intimidating power of his position as Director of Security for the Foundation. Trevize, though, had never had any illusions concerning the reality of Kodell’s act. One did not get Kodell’s sort of job by being genial; one got it by doing whatever had to be done in whatever way it had to be done. Kodell now proceeded to confirm Trevize in his belief by dropping his kindly old grandpapa demeanor.
Kodell’s face hardened. The reassuring crinkles disappeared from around his mouth and eyes, and his eyebrows lowered and drew together. Even his snowy mustache seemed to grow intimidating. Trevize was suddenly reminded of old images he had seen of the first Mayor Indbur, who had seized control of the Foundation’s government, rounded up and condemned his political enemies, and nearly crushed the life out of the Association of Independent Traders. This, Trevize knew, was the real Liono Kodell.
Glaring at Lizalor, Kodell said, “You may think yourself safe from the power of the Foundation because Mayor Branno sees fit to exercise forebearance in her dealings with other nations. You may think that the Foundation has become a vast, pitiful giant, unable or unwilling to use that power for fear of alienating public opinion across the Galaxy. However, let me assure you that you could not be more mistaken. There comes a time when the appearance of weakness is more to be feared than the appearance of strength, and when that time comes, the Foundation will act, and then those who think to taunt the giant in safety will learn the folly of their ways.”
Trevize knew few men who could have withstood Kodell’s tirade without wilting. He felt nothing but pride when he saw that Mitza Lizalor remained unbowed. She met Kodell glare for glare, and when he was finished, she answered him. “If that time should come, then we of Comporellon will face our fate without flinching. In the meantime, if you have nothing more to contribute to this discussion, then I suggest you leave.”
“Not quite yet, Madame Minister,” said Kodell. “I may not leave this world with the traitor Trevize, but I have no intention of leaving without the Far Star. That ship is and always has been the property of the Foundation, and you will not be allowed to keep it.”
“It is the position of the government of Comporellon,” Lizalor replied, “that the Far Star is legally ours under Galactic salvage laws. The ship was left unattended on our world by its pilot, so we have claimed it for our own.” Kodell’s normally fair complexion darkened with anger. “If you try to keep that ship, Madame Minister, you will find that you have moved the time for action on our part from the indefinite future to the immediate future. You have forty-eight hours in which to surrender control of the Far Star, at the end of which time a state of war will exist between our two nations. And I assure you that the Foundation will not hesitate to prosecute that war to the full extent of its ability.”
Mitza Lizalor allowed the silence following Korell’s ultimatum to stretch out. First Minister Erkar remained impassive. Ambassador Peskonik, on the other hand, was becoming visibly nervous. If war did break out between Comporellon and the Foundation, it would mean an ignominious end to his political career. Finally, Lizalor spoke. “While the Comporellians are a proud people, and not normally given to compromise, we recognize that there is a certain amount of ambiguity inherent in questions concerning the precise legal status of the Far Star. That being the case, and in the interest of promoting the cause of interstellar peace and preserving the friendly relations which have heretofore characterized our dealings with the Foundation, we of the Comporellian Commonweath are willing to forego our claim to the Far Star. Please accept the return of your wayward vessel with the compliments of the Comporellian government.”
Korell continued to glare at Lizalor for a time before finally giving her a curt nod and stalking out of the First Minister’s office. Ambassador Peskonik hurried after him.
At last, First Minister Erkar broke his silence. “Just as you predicted, Minister,” he said to Lizalor. “He was willing to let us keep Trevize as long as we were willing to return the ship.”
Although Lizalor’s expression remained as icily correct as it had been throughout the meeting with Kodell, Trevize knew that inside she was awash with pride and exaltation. She had faced down Harla Branno’s henchman and come away with her major prize intact. When this day was over, he knew that their celebration together would be long and physically exhausting.
But there was something not quite right with the mood in the room, and Trevize had no difficulty discerning the source of the imperfection. It was Erkar. He didn’t share Lizalor’s satisfaction with the meeting’s outcome. There was some other matter claiming his attention, and when one of the inner doors of the First Minister’s office opened, Trevize knew what that other matter was. The inner door had opened to reveal Goron Bek, the Minister of Defense. Erkar continued, “I thought it would be best to allow Minister Bek to observe the results of your meeting with the Foundation officials.”
Minister Lizalor’s exultation had vanished in an instant, replaced with uneasiness at the sight of Bek. “Minister Bek,” she greeted him warily. “I am curious to know what interest you might have in my discussion with Director Kodell.”
Bek explained, “I found it quite significant that Mayor Branno should send such an important member of her administration simply in order to deal with a single ship and a single man. The First Minister,” he gestured toward Erkar, “was kind enough to fill me in on the details of ex-Councilman Trevize’s arrival and his involvement with the Gravitics Project.
“The First Minister agrees with me,” Bek continued, “that, given the potential military applications of the Gravitic Drive, the Ministry of Defense would be a more appropriate agency to administer the Gravitic Project than the Ministry of Transportation. Hence, I have come here in order to escort Director Trevize to his new offices at the Ministry of Defense.” From the doorway behind Bek, two men emerged wearing the dark gray uniforms of the Comporellian Defense Force, and holding blaster rifles.
Part 13: Prisoners
“SO THEY GOT you too, did they?” said Kuel Denrun to Golan Trevize.
“They got me too,” Trevize confirmed. He had just been “escorted” by two soldiers from First Minister Erkar’s office to this room deep within the bowels of the Ministry of Defense. It was the sort of bureaucratic turf war that Trevize had heard was all too common on Comporellon these days: Goron Bek, the Minister of Defense, had just stolen the Gravitics Project from Transportation Minister Mitza Lizalor.
Besides Trevize and Denrun, the room held half a dozen other members of the Gravitics team. “How many of the others do they have?” Trevize inquired.
“The lot,” said Denrun. “You were the last.”
Trevize sighed and sat at the table beside Denrun. “How long have you been here?”
“About an hour,” said Denrun. “Right after you two left for the meeting with Erkar, a bunch of soldier boys came tramping down to the Project area, all kitted out with body armor and blaster rifles. They said go, and you don’t argue with soldier boys, so we went. They brought us here.” He indicated the room they were in. “Got a whole complex laid out. We were still sorting ourselves out when they came back with all the files and simulations from the Project. So far as I’ve been able to tell, they got everything. And now, they’ve got every one.”
“It sounds to me,” said Trevize, “like they’ve been planning this for some time. At least a couple of weeks, maybe since I came back to Comporellon.”
“Could be,” Denrun agreed. “Very methodical man, Goron Bek. He’d have made a wonderful General, if he’d ever been in a war.”
“He may get his chance yet,” said Trevize, without knowing quite what he meant. It was his intuition dropping another hint of what the future held. To forestall any questions from Denrun, he asked, “What do you think of Minister Lizalor’s chances of getting us back?”
“If it was anyone else,” said Denrun, “I’d say none. What Bek get
s, Bek keeps. But you never know with Lizalor. Everyone said she was daft to let you leave, the first time you came here. But she just said, ‘He’ll be back.’ And three months later, back you came, renounced your Foundation citizenship, and handed us Gravitics on a plate.” He shook his head. “Blessed if I know how she does it, but she does. If anyone on Comporellon can get us out of here, she can.
“In the meantime,” Denrun added, “we’ve still got a job to do. And Bek is even less tolerant of failure than Lizalor, if you can imagine such a thing.”
“All right,” said Trevize. “In that case, you’d better show me around, and we’ll see about getting the Project back up and running.”
Denrun nodded his approval, saying, “That’s the spirit, never say die.” The two men rose from the table, and Denrun led Trevize back into the Gravitics Project’s new abode.
Goron Bek had indeed been methodical. The Gravitics complex here in the Defense Ministry seemed to be an exact duplicate of the one in the Transportation Ministry, down to every last memo board and chair. All they had to do was transfer the files and simulations into the new computers, and carry on with the work. The only difference Trevize noticed was that the locks on the doors were all on the outside. Nobody was leaving unless somebody on the outside wanted them to leave.
For most of the members of the Gravitics team, the fascination of the work soon drowned out any worries they might have had about their change of circumstances. Every member of the Gravitics team knew that he was working on the most important project on Comporellon, and it created a kind of ongoing exuberance that Trevize remembered well from his days at the Darrell Shipyards.
In fact, Trevize considered it one of his chief duties as Director of the Gravitics Project to keep the members of his team from skipping meals and rest periods. No doubt it had inspired some of the in-group humor, and provided him with a nickname among the members of the team. Back at Darrell, his nickname had been “Nanny”, and Trevize had to admit its accuracy. People engaged in a cutting-edge research project seemed to be incapable of taking care of themselves, so they needed someone else to do it for them. Here on Comporellon, that someone was him.
His other chief duty was protecting the Gravitics Project from Goron Bek. Just as he had at the Ministry of Transportation, Trevize reported directly to the head of the Ministry. Trevize found his relationship with Bek to be just about as different from his relationship with Mitza Lizalor as it could possibly be. As Denrun had once observed, “Lizalor believes in using the carrot and the stick. Bek believes in using the stick and the bigger stick.”
Every morning, Trevize was let out of the research complex/prison compound and escorted to Bek’s office. There, he would brief Bek on the progress made by the Gravitics Project since the previous morning. Every few days, Bek would suggest to Trevize that the best way to inspire greater effort from the Gravitics team would be to single out one of the members and accuse him of trying to deliberately sabotage the project, then have him executed.
So far, Trevize had been able to hold off on Bek’s suggestion by pointing out, truthfully, that all the members of the Gravitics team were performing vital work, and that removing one would actually slow the pace of progress.
“Isn’t there anyone there whose work is less vital than the others?” Bek would want to know.
Trevize had found that the best way to forestall the Minister was to start going into technical detail on the work each man was doing. Bek would then wave him to silence and say, “Never mind.”
A new wrinkle appeared one morning when, after Trevize pointed out that all the members of the team were performing vital work, Bek responded by saying, “Well, it doesn’t really matter whether the man we choose is actually doing poor work. In fact, it will actually increase the effect on the others if they aren’t quite sure why we chose the one we did. They’ll all be inspired to work harder.”
“But not hard enough to make up for the man’s loss.”
Once again, Bek had a new response. “It will be your job to make sure they do work hard enough to make up for the man’s loss. After all, if they find the loss of one of their own inspiring, imagine how much they’d be motivated if they learned of your loss.”
Part 14: Procedures
GOLAN TREVIZE WOKE up with a sentence drifting through his mind. Before he opened his eyes he could see it glowing against the insides of his eyelids. Get it in writing.
It could have been a remnant of a forgotten dream, or a message from his allegedly infallable intuition, or just the aftereffects of the previous evening’s meal. When Trevize opened his eyes, the sentence vanished from his sight.
It remained in his mind, though. As Trevize rose from the cot in his office, showered, dressed, and prepared for the morning’s meeting with Goron Bek, he was constantly turning the message over in his mind. By the time he had been allowed out of the Gravitics Project research lab and escorted to Bek’s office, he had worked out a course of action.
As always, the two members of Trevize’s military escort had entered Bek’s inner office with him and taken up posts on either side of the door. Trevize walked up to the huge desk on the far side of the office and stood silently while Bek studied the screen of his computer.
To give himself something to do while he waited, Trevize counted the seconds until Bek looked up and took notice of him. He had created a database back at the research lab where he plotted each day’s wait. Most days, Bek kept him waiting between thirty and fifty seconds. Yesterday, the day of his ultimatum, the Defense Minister had kept him waiting only twelve seconds. Today, Trevize had reached seven in his count when Bek looked up and spoke to him. “Director,” Bek greeted him.
“Minister,” Trevize responded.
It was like a macabre parody of his meetings with Mitza Lizalor. The exact same words, spoken in the exact same way.
“I hope you’ve had time to consider the suggestion I made at our last meeting,” said Bek.
“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,” Trevize admitted. “Good, good. And have you reached any conclusions?”
“I have,” said Trevize. “I’ve come to the conclusion that the procedures you’ve outlined needs to be taken seriously.”
“Well, that’s a start. How seriously do you intend to take my suggestion?” “Seriously enough to think that it needs to be put on an official footing.” There was a pause before Bek said, “What exactly do you mean by an official footing?”
“I mean that, if your suggestion is to become official policy with regard to the Gravitics Project, it ought to be spelled out. There ought to be a set of official guidelines documenting the proposed procedures. And what’s more,” Trevize said, his eyes locked onto Bek’s own,” I feel that, absent such a set of official guidelines, it would be … premature … of me to attempt to implement the proposed procedures.”
There was another pause, much longer that the first one. At last, Bek said, “And if I were to suggest that, in the interest of keeping the Gravitics Project on schedule, it would be permissable to forego the creation of such a set of official guidelines?”
“Then I would feel it my duty to refuse to implement the suggested procedures, Minister. Under any circumstances.”
A third pause, the longest of all. Then Bek said, “After giving the matter due consideration, I find myself coming to appreciate the merits of your suggestion. Very well. I’ll see to it that a set of official guidelines are established with regard to the proposed procedures. Afterwards, I’ll expect those procedures to be followed to the letter, and in a timely fashion.” “They will be,” said Trevize.
“Excellent. Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Director. That will be all for now.”
“Yes, Minister.”
As Trevize was escorted from the Defense Minister’s office back to the Gravitics lab, he felt as exhausted as if he had just finished a twenty-mile run. However, he also had the unmistakable impression that he had just taken a key step in solving the pro
blem of Bek’s usurpation of the Gravitics Project. For the first time since Bek had walked into First Minister Erkar’s office, Trevize felt the future opening up before him.
Part 15: Paperwork
NEEDLESS TO SAY, the directive from Bek was marked Top Secret. That was all right with Golan Trevize. It didn’t matter how widely Bek’s directive circulated. The mere fact that it existed meant that a paper trail was being created, one which led directly to Defense Minister Goron Bek.
The title was deceptively innocuous: Ministerial Directive DM-322-303-1, Updated Security Procedure for Gravitics Project. The language was equally innocuous: the bland, passive-voiced hypercomplexity of bureaucratic communications the Galaxy over. None of that mattered, because the inertness of the style couldn’t disguise the explosiveness of the substance. For Ministerial Directive DM-322-303-1 was nothing less than a direct order from Bek to Trevize to single out one of the members of the Gravitics Project for expulsion and execution on charges of sabotage. It was, at least potentially, a dagger pointed at Bek’s heart, for if it became known that Bek was ordering the murder of a member of the most important research project on Comporellon, Bek’s career (at the very least) would be in ruins. Of course, Trevize hadn’t the slightest idea how DM-322-303-1 might manage to make its way into the hands of Bek’s enemies. As far as he knew, the only two copies of the document were located within the closely guarded memory of Bek’s computer and the even more closely guarded memory of Trevize’s own computer. Trevize wasn’t worried about that. His task had been to get Bek to create the fatal document in the first place. Someone else was going to have to figure out a way to give Bek’s order wider circulation.
What did worry Trevize was the fact that, having received the order from Bek, he was now obligated to carry it out. If he refused to follow its instructions, he himself was guilty of insubordination, sabotage, and possibly even treason. Nor did Trevize delude himself into thinking that his refusal to obey DM-322-303-1 would result in a trial which would bring the directive to the attention of a wider audience. After he had gained Comporellian citizenship, Mitza Lizalor had taken it upon herself to acquaint Trevize with the obligations and privileges thereby entailed. As Trevize might have guessed, there were many more obligations involved than privileges. The edicts of the First Minister had the force of law, and one of those edicts allowed for the secret trial and punishment of anyone found in disobedience of orders issued by any member of the Administration (as the heads of the various government ministries were collectively known). If Trevize disobeyed DM-322-303-1 and were arrested, the only people present at his trial would be Bek, First Minister Erkar, and himself. Erkar would ask him if he had disobeyed Bek, Trevize would admit that he had, and Erkar would order Trevize’s immediate execution. That was all.