Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  “And?”

  “And what I think it means, Raych, is that the breakdowns are not of natural origin but are deliberately caused and spread out in this fashion to affect as many people as possible, thus creating a dissatisfaction that is as widespread as possible.”

  “It don’t seem likely.”

  “No? Then let’s look at the breakdowns as spread through time rather than through space.”

  The blue areas and the red spots disappeared and, for a time, the map of Trantor was blank—and then the markings began to appear and disappear one at a time, here and there.

  “Notice,” said Seldon, “that they don’t appear in clumps in time, either. One appears, then another, then another, and so on, almost like the steady ticking of a metronome.”

  “Do ya think that’s on purpose, too?”

  “It must be. Whoever is bringing this about wants to cause as much disruption with as little effort as possible, so there’s no use doing two at once, where one will partially cancel the other in the news and in the public consciousness. Each incident must stand out in full irritation.”

  The map went out and the lights went on. Seldon returned the sphere, shrunken back to its original size, to his pocket.

  Raych said, “Who would be doing all this?”

  Seldon said thoughtfully, “A few days ago I received a report of a murder in Wye Sector.”

  “That’s not unusual,” said Raych. “Even though Wye isn’t one of your really lawless sectors, there must be lots of murders there every day.”

  “Hundreds,” said Seldon, shaking his head. “We’ve had bad days when the number of deaths by violence on Trantor as a whole approaches the million-a-day mark. Generally there’s not much chance of finding every culprit, every murderer. The dead just enter the books as statistics. This one, however, was unusual. The man had been knifed—but unskillfully. He was still alive when found, just barely. He had time to gasp out one word before he died and that word was ‘Chief.’

  “That roused a certain curiosity and he was actually identified. He works in Anemoria and we don’t know what he was doing in Wye. But some worthy officer managed to dig up the fact that he was an old Joranumite. His name was Kaspal Kaspalov and he is well known to have been one of the intimates of Laskin Joranum. And now he’s dead—knifed.”

  Raych frowned. “Do you suspect another Joranumite Conspiracy, Dad? There aren’t any Joranumites around anymore.”

  “It wasn’t long ago that your mother asked me if I thought that the Joranumites were still active and I told her that any odd belief always retained a certain cadre, sometimes for centuries. They’re usually not very important, just splinter groups that simply don’t count. Still, what if the Joranumites have kept up an organization, what if they have retained a certain strength, what if they are capable of killing someone they consider a traitor in their ranks, and what if they are producing these breakdowns as a preliminary to seizing control?”

  “That’s an awful lot of ‘what if’s,’ Dad.”

  “I know that. And I might be totally wrong. The murder happened in Wye and, as it so happens, there have been no infrastructure breakdowns in Wye.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “It might prove that the center of the conspiracy is in Wye and that the conspirators don’t want to make themselves uncomfortable, only the rest of Trantor. It also might mean that it’s not the Joranumites at all but members of the old Wyan family who still dream of ruling the Empire once again.”

  “Oh boy, Dad. You’re building all this on very little.”

  “I know. Now suppose it is another Joranumite Conspiracy. Joranum had, as his right-hand man, Gambol Deen Namarti. We have no record of Namarti’s death, no record of his having left Trantor, no record of his life over the last decade or so. That’s not terribly surprising. After all, it’s easy to lose one person among forty billion. There was a time in my life when I tried to do just that. Of course, Namarti may be dead. That would be the easiest explanation, but he may not be.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  Seldon sighed. “The logical thing would be to turn to the security establishment, but I can’t. I don’t have Demerzel’s presence. He could cow people; I can’t. He had a powerful personality; I’m just a—mathematician. I shouldn’t be First Minister at all; I’m not cut out for it. And I wouldn’t be—if the Emperor weren’t fixated on psychohistory to a far greater extent than it deserves.”

  “You’re kinda whipping yourself, ain’t you, Dad?”

  “Yes. I suppose I am, but I have a picture of myself going to the security establishment, for instance, with what I have just shown you on the map”—he pointed to the now-empty tabletop—“and arguing that we were in great danger of some conspiracy of unknown consequence and nature. They would listen solemnly and, after I had left, they would laugh among themselves about ‘the crazy mathematician’—and then do nothing.”

  “Then what do we do about it?” said Raych, returning to the point.

  “It’s what you will do about it, Raych. I need more evidence and I want you to find it for me. I would send your mother, but she won’t leave me under any circumstances. I myself can’t leave the Palace grounds at this time. Next to Dors and myself, I trust you. More than Dors and myself, in fact. You’re still quite young, you’re strong, you’re a better Heliconian Twister than I ever was, and you’re smart.

  “Mind you, now, I don’t want you to risk your life. No heroism, no derring-do. I couldn’t face your mother if anything happened to you. Just find out what you can. Perhaps you’ll find that Namarti is alive and operating—or dead. Perhaps you’ll find out that the Joranumites are an active group—or moribund. Perhaps you’ll find out that the Wyan ruling family is active—or not. Any of that would be interesting—but not vital. What I want you to find out is whether the infrastructure breakdowns are of human manufacture, as I think they are, and, far more important still, if they are deliberately caused, what else the conspirators plan to do. It seems to me they must have plans for some major coup and, if so, I must know what that will be.”

  Raych said cautiously, “Do you have some kinda plan to get me started?”

  “Yes indeed, Raych. I want you to go down to the area of Wye where Kaspalov was killed. Find out if you can if he was an active Joranumite and see if you can’t join a Joranumite cell yourself.”

  “Maybe that’s possible. I can always pretend to be an old Joranumite. It’s true that I was pretty young when Jo-Jo was sounding off, but I was very impressed by his ideas. It’s even sorta true.”

  “Well yes, but there’s one important catch. You might be recognized. After all, you’re the son of the First Minister. You have appeared on holovision now and then and you have been interviewed concerning your views on sector equality.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “No buts, Raych. You’ll wear elevated shoes to add three centimeters to your height and we’ll have someone show you how to change the shape of your eyebrows and make your face fuller and change the timbre of your voice.”

  Raych shrugged. “A lotta trouble for nothing.”

  “And,” said Seldon with a distinct quaver, “you will shave off your mustache.”

  Raych’s eyes widened and for a moment he sat there in appalled silence. Finally he said in a hoarse whisper, “Shave my mustache?”

  “Clean as a whistle. No one would recognize you without it.”

  “But it can’t be done. Like cutting off your— Like castration.”

  Seldon shook his head. “It’s just a cultural curiosity. Yugo Amaryl is as Dahlite as you are and he wears no mustache.”

  “Yugo is a nut. I don’t think he’s alive at all, except for his mathematics.”

  “He’s a great mathematician and the absence of a mustache does not alter that fact. Besides, it’s not castration. Your mustache will grow back in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! It’ll take two years to reach this—this—”

  He
put his hand up, as though to cover and protect it.

  Seldon said inexorably, “Raych, you have to do it. It’s a sacrifice you must make. If you act as my spy with your mustache, you may—come to harm. I can’t take that chance.”

  “I’d rather die,” said Raych violently.

  “Don’t be melodramatic,” said Seldon severely. “You would not rather die and this is something you must do. However”—and here he hesitated—“don’t say anything about it to your mother. I will take care of that.”

  Raych stared at his father in frustration and then said in a low and despairing tone, “All right, Dad.”

  Seldon said, “I will get someone to supervise your disguise and then you will go to Wye by air-jet. —Buck up, Raych, it’s not the end of the world.”

  Raych smiled wanly and Seldon watched him leave, a deeply troubled look on his face. A mustache could easily be regrown, but a son could not. Seldon knew perfectly well that he was sending Raych into danger.

  9

  We all have our small illusions and Cleon—Emperor of the Galaxy, King of Trantor, and a wide collection of other titles that on rare occasions could be called out in a long sonorous roll—was convinced that he was a person of democratic spirit.

  It always angered him when he was warned off a course of action by Demerzel (or, later, by Seldon) on the grounds that such action would be looked on as “tyrannical” or “despotic.”

  Cleon was not a tyrant or despot by disposition, he was certain; he only wanted to take firm and decisive action.

  He spoke many times with nostalgic approval of the days when Emperors could mingle freely with their subjects, but now, of course, when the history of coups and assassinations—actual or attempted—had become a dreary fact of life, the Emperor had, of necessity, been shut off from the world.

  It is doubtful that Cleon, who had never in his life met with people except under the most constricted of conditions, would really have felt at home in offhand encounters with strangers, but he always imagined he would enjoy it. He was excited, therefore, for the rare chance of talking to one of the underlings on the grounds, to smile and to doff the trappings of Imperial rule for a few minutes. It made him feel democratic.

  There was this gardener whom Seldon had spoken of, for instance. It would be fitting, even a pleasure, to reward him belatedly for his loyalty and bravery—and to do so himself, rather than leaving it to some functionary.

  He therefore arranged to meet the fellow in the spacious rose garden, which was in full bloom. That would be appropriate, Cleon thought, but, of course, they would have to bring the gardener there first. It was unthinkable for the Emperor to be made to wait. It is one thing to be democratic, quite another to be inconvenienced.

  The gardener was waiting for him among the roses, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. It occurred to Cleon that it was possible that no one had told the man the exact reason for the meeting. Well, he would reassure him in kindly fashion—except that, now he came to think of it, he could not remember the fellow’s name.

  He turned to one of the officials at his side and said, “What is the gardener’s name?”

  “Sire, it is Mandell Gruber. He has been a gardener here for thirty years.”

  The Emperor nodded and said, “Ah, Gruber. How glad I am to meet a worthy and hardworking gardener.”

  “Sire,” mumbled Gruber, his teeth chattering. “I am not a man of many talents, but it is always my best I try to do on behalf of your gracious self.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the Emperor, wondering if the gardener suspected him of sarcasm. These men of the lower class lacked the finer feelings that came with refinement and manners, which always made any attempt at democratic display difficult.

  Cleon said, “I have heard from my First Minister of the loyalty with which you once came to his aid and of your skill in taking care of the grounds. The First Minister tells me that he and you are quite friendly.”

  “Sire, the First Minister is most gracious to me, but I know my place. I never speak to him unless he speaks first.”

  “Quite, Gruber. That shows good manners on your part, but the First Minister, like myself, is a man of democratic impulses and I trust his judgment of people.”

  Gruber bowed low.

  The Emperor said, “As you know, Gruber, Chief Gardener Malcomber is quite old and longs to retire. The responsibilities are becoming greater than even he can bear.”

  “Sire, the Chief Gardener is much respected by all the gardeners. May he be spared for many years so that we can all come to him for the benefit of his wisdom and judgment.”

  “Well said, Gruber,” said the Emperor carelessly, “but you very well know that that is just mumbo-jumbo. He is not going to be spared, at least not with the strength and wit necessary for the position. He himself requests retirement within the year and I have granted him that. It remains to find a replacement.”

  “Oh, Sire, there are fifty men and women in this grand place who could be Chief Gardener.”

  “I dare say,” said the Emperor, “but my choice has fallen upon you.” The Emperor smiled graciously. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Gruber would now, he expected, fall to his knees in an ecstasy of gratitude.

  He did not and the Emperor frowned.

  Gruber said, “Sire, it is an honor that is too great for me—entirely.”

  “Nonsense,” said Cleon, offended that his judgment should be called into question. “It is about time that your virtues are recognized. You will no longer have to be exposed to weather of all kinds at all times of the year. You will have the Chief Gardener’s office, a fine place, which I will have redecorated for you, and where you can bring your family. —You do have a family, don’t you, Gruber?”

  “Yes, Sire. A wife and two daughters. And a son-in-law.”

  “Very good. You will be very comfortable and you will enjoy your new life, Gruber. You will be indoors, Gruber, and out of the weather, like a true Trantorian.”

  “Sire, consider that I am an Anacreonian by upbringing—”

  “I have considered, Gruber. All worlds are alike to the Emperor. It is done. The new job is what you deserved.”

  He nodded his head and stalked off. Cleon was satisfied with this latest show of his benevolence. Of course, he could have used a little more gratitude from the fellow, a little more appreciation, but at least the task was done.

  And it was much easier to have this done than to settle the matter of the failing infrastructure.

  Cleon had, in a moment of testiness, declared that whenever a breakdown could be attributed to human error, the human being in question should forthwith be executed.

  “Just a few executions,” he said, “and it will be remarkable how careful everyone will become.”

  “I’m afraid, Sire,” Seldon had said, “that this type of despotic behavior would not accomplish what you wish. It would probably force the workers to go on strike—and if you try to force them back to work, there would then be an insurrection—and if you try to replace them with soldiers, you will find they do not know how to control the machinery, so that breakdowns will begin to take place much more frequently.”

  It was no wonder that Cleon turned to the matter of appointing a Chief Gardener with relief.

  As for Gruber, he gazed after the departing Emperor with the chill of sheer horror. He was going to be taken from the freedom of the open air and condemned to the constriction of four walls. —Yet how could one refuse the Emperor?

  10

  Raych looked in the mirror of his Wye hotel room somberly (it was a pretty run-down hotel room, but Raych was not supposed to have too many credits). He did not like what he saw. His mustache was gone; his sideburns were shortened; his hair was clipped at the sides and back.

  He looked—plucked.

  Worse than that. As a result of the change in his facial contours, he looked baby-faced.

  It was disgusting.

  Nor was he making any headway. Seldon h
ad given him the security reports on Kaspal Kaspalov’s death, which he had studied. There wasn’t much there. Just that Kaspalov had been murdered and that the local security officers had come up with nothing of importance in connection with that murder. It seemed quite clear that the security officers attached little or no importance to it, anyway.

  That was not surprising. In the last century, the crime rate had risen markedly in most worlds, certainly in the grandly complex world of Trantor, and nowhere were the local security officers up to the job of doing anything useful about it. In fact, the security establishment had declined in numbers and efficiency everywhere and (while this was hard to prove) had become more corrupt. It was inevitable this should be so, with pay refusing to keep pace with the cost of living. One must pay civil officials to keep them honest. Failing that, they would surely make up for their inadequate salaries in other ways.

  Seldon had been preaching this doctrine for some years now, but it did no good. There was no way to increase wages without increasing taxes and the populace would not sit still for increased taxes. It seemed they would rather lose ten times the credits in graft.

  It was all part (Seldon had said) of the general deterioration of Imperial society over the previous two centuries.

  Well, what was Raych to do? He was here at the hotel where Kaspalov had lived during the days immediately before his murder. Somewhere in the hotel there might be someone who had something to do with that—or who knew someone who had.

  It seemed to Raych that he must make himself conspicuous. He must show an interest in Kaspalov’s death and then someone would get interested in him and pick him up. It was dangerous, but if he could make himself sound harmless enough, they might not attack him immediately.