by Isaac Asimov
Well—
Raych looked at his timeband. There would be people enjoying their predinner aperitifs in the bar. He might as well join them and see what would happen—if anything.
11
In some respects, Wye could be quite puritanical. (This was true of all the sectors, though the rigidity of one sector might be completely different from the rigidity of another.) Here, the drinks were not alcoholic but were synthetically designed to stimulate in other ways. Raych did not like the taste, finding himself utterly unused to it, but it meant that he could sip his drink slowly and look around.
He caught the eye of a young woman several tables away and had difficulty in looking away. She was attractive and it was clear that Wye’s ways were not puritanical in every fashion.
After a few moments, the young woman smiled slightly and rose. She drifted toward Raych’s table, while Raych watched her speculatively. He could scarcely (he thought with marked regret) afford a side adventure just now.
She stopped for a moment when she reached Raych and then let herself slide smoothly into an adjacent chair.
“Hello,” she said. “You don’t look like a regular here.”
Raych smiled. “I’m not. Do you know all the regulars?”
“Just about,” she said, unembarrassed. “My name is Manella. What’s yours?”
Raych was more regretful than ever. She was quite tall, taller than he himself was without his heels—something he always found attractive—had a milky complexion, and long, softly wavy hair that had distinct glints of dark red in it. Her clothing was not too garish and she might, if she had tried a little harder, have passed as a respectable woman of the not-too-hardworking class.
Raych said, “My name doesn’t matter. I don’t have many credits.”
“Oh. Too bad.” Manella made a face. “Can’t you get a few?”
“I’d like to. I need a job. Do you know of any?”
“What kind of job?”
Raych shrugged. “I don’t have any experience in anything fancy, but I ain’t proud.”
Manella looked at him thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Nameless. Sometimes it doesn’t take any credits at all.”
Raych froze at once. He had been successful enough with women, but with his mustache—his mustache. What could she see in his baby face?
He said, “Tell you what. I had a friend living here a couple of weeks ago and I can’t find him. Since you know all the regulars, maybe you know him. His name is Kaspalov.” He raised his voice slightly. “Kaspal Kaspalov.”
Manella stared at him blankly and shook her head. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Too bad. He was a Joranumite and so am I.” Again, a blank look. “Do you know what a Joranumite is?”
She shook her head. “N-no. I’ve heard the word, but I don’t know what it means. Is it some kind of job?”
Raych felt disappointed.
He said, “It would take too long to explain.”
It sounded like a dismissal and, after a moment of uncertainty, Manella rose and drifted away. She did not smile and Raych was a little surprised that she had remained as long as she did.
(Well, Seldon had always insisted that Raych had the capacity to inspire affection—but surely not in a businesswoman of this sort. For them, payment was the thing.)
His eyes followed Manella automatically as she stopped at another table, where a man was seated by himself. He was of early middle age, with butter-yellow hair, slicked back. He was very smooth-shaven, but it seemed to Raych that he could have used a beard, his chin being too prominent and a bit asymmetric.
Apparently Manella had no better luck with this beardless one. A few words were exchanged and she moved on. Too bad, but surely it was impossible for her to fail often. She was unquestionably desirable.
Raych found himself thinking, quite involuntarily, of what the upshot would be if he, after all, could—And then Raych realized that he had been joined by someone else. It was a man this time. It was, in fact, the man to whom Manella had just spoken. He was astonished that his own preoccupation had allowed him to be thus approached and, in effect, caught by surprise. He couldn’t very well afford this sort of thing.
The man looked at him with a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “You were just talking to a friend of mine.”
Raych could not help smiling broadly. “She’s a friendly person.”
“Yes, she is. And a good friend of mine. I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to her.”
“Wasn’t nothing wrong, I think.”
“Not at all, but you called yourself a Joranumite.”
Raych’s heart jumped. His remark to Manella had hit dead-center after all. It had meant nothing to her, but it seemed to mean something to her “friend.”
Did that mean he was on the road now? Or merely in trouble?
12
Raych did his best to size up his new companion, without allowing his own face to lose its smooth naïveté. The man had sharp greenish eyes and his right hand clenched almost threateningly into a fist as it rested on the table.
Raych looked owlishly at the other and waited.
Again, the man said, “I understand you call yourself a Joranumite.”
Raych did his best to look uneasy. It was not difficult. He said, “Why do you ask, mister?”
“Because I don’t think you’re old enough.”
“I’m old enough. I used to watch Jo-Jo Joranum’s speeches on holovision.”
“Can you quote them?”
Raych shrugged. “No, but I got the idea.”
“You’re a brave young man to talk openly about being a Joranumite. Some people don’t like that.”
“I’m told there are lots of Joranumites in Wye.”
“That may be. Is that why you came here?”
“I’m looking for a job. Maybe another Joranumite would help me.”
“There are Joranumites in Dahl, too. Where are you from?”
There was no question that he recognized Raych’s accent. That could not be disguised.
He said, “I was born in Millimaru, but I lived mostly in Dahl when I was growing up.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing much. Going to school some.”
“And why are you a Joranumite?”
Raych let himself heat up a bit. He couldn’t have lived in downtrodden, discriminated-against Dahl without having obvious reasons for being a Joranumite. He said, “Because I think there should be more representative government in the Empire, more participation by the people, and more equality among the sectors and the worlds. Doesn’t anyone with brains and a heart think that?”
“And you want to see the Emperorship abolished?”
Raych paused. One could get away with a great deal in the way of subversive statements, but anything overtly anti-Emperor was stepping outside the bounds. He said, “I ain’t saying that. I believe in the Emperor, but ruling a whole Empire is too much for one man.”
“It isn’t one man. There’s a whole Imperial bureaucracy. What do you think of Hari Seldon, the First Minister?”
“Don’t think nothing about him. Don’t know about him.”
“All you know is that people should be more represented in the affairs of government. Is that right?”
Raych allowed himself to look confused. “That’s what Jo-Jo Joranum used to say. I don’t know what you call it. I heard someone once call it ‘democracy,’ but I don’t know what that means.”
“Democracy is something that some worlds have tried. Some still do. I don’t know that those worlds are run better than other worlds. So you’re a democrat?”
“Is that what you call it?” Raych let his head sink, as if in deep thought. “I feel more at home as a Joranumite.”
“Of course, as a Dahlite—”
“I just lived there awhile.”
“—you’re all for people’s equalities and such things. The Dahlites, being an oppressed group, would naturally think i
n that fashion.”
“I hear that Wye is pretty strong in Joranumite thinking. They’re not oppressed.”
“Different reason. The old Wye Mayors always wanted to be Emperors. Did you know that?”
Raych shook his head.
“Eighteen years ago,” said the man, “Mayor Rashelle nearly carried through a coup in that direction. So the Wyans are rebels, not so much Joranumite as anti-Cleon.”
Raych said, “I don’t know nothing about that. I ain’t against the Emperor.”
“But you are for popular representation, aren’t you? Do you think that some sort of elected assembly could run the Galactic Empire without bogging down in politics and partisan bickering? Without paralysis?”
Raych said, “Huh? I don’t understand.”
“Do you think a great many people could come to some decision quickly in times of emergency? Or would they just sit around and argue?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem right that just a few people should have all the say over all the worlds.”
“Are you willing to fight for your beliefs? Or do you just like to talk about them?”
“No one asked me to do any fighting,” said Raych.
“Suppose someone did. How important do you think your beliefs about democracy—or Joranumite philosophy—are?”
“I’d fight for them—if I thought it would do any good.”
“There’s a brave lad. So you came to Wye to fight for your beliefs.”
“No,” said Raych uncomfortably, “I can’t say I did. I came to look for a job, sir. It ain’t easy to find no jobs these days—and I ain’t got no credits. A guy’s gotta live.”
“I agree. What’s your name?”
The question shot out without warning, but Raych was ready for it. “Planchet, sir.”
“First or last name?”
“Only name, as far as I know.”
“You have no credits and, I gather, very little education.”
“Afraid so.”
“And no experience at any specialized job?”
“I ain’t worked much, but I’m willing.”
“All right. I’ll tell you what, Planchet.” He took a small white triangle out of his pocket and pressed it in such a way as to produce a printed message on it. Then he rubbed his thumb across it, freezing it. “I’ll tell you where to go. You take this with you and it may get you a job.”
Raych took the card and glanced at it. The signals seemed to fluoresce, but Raych could not read them. He looked at the other man warily. “What if they think I stole it?”
“It can’t be stolen. It has my sign on it and now it has your name.”
“What if they ask me who you are?”
“They won’t. —You say you want a job. There’s your chance. I don’t guarantee it, but there’s your chance.” He gave him another card. “This is where to go.” Raych could read this one.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
The man made little dismissing gestures with his hand.
Raych rose and left—and wondered what he was getting into.
13
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Gleb Andorin watched Gambol Deen Namarti trudging up and down. Namarti was obviously unable to sit still under the driving force of the violence of his passion.
Andorin thought: He’s not the brightest man in the Empire or even in the movement, not the shrewdest, certainly not the most capable of rational thought. He has to be held back constantly—but he’s driven as none of the rest of us are. We would give up, let go, but he won’t. Push, pull, prod, kick. —Well, maybe we need someone like that. We must have someone like that or nothing will ever happen.
Namarti stopped, as though he felt Andorin’s eyes boring into his back. He turned around and said, “If you’re going to lecture me again on Kaspalov, don’t bother.”
Andorin shrugged lightly. “Why bother lecturing you? The deed is done. The harm—if any—has been done.”
“What harm, Andorin? What harm? If I had not done it, then we would have been harmed. The man was on the edge of being a traitor. Within a month, he would have gone running—”
“I know. I was there. I heard what he said.”
“Then you understand there was no choice. No choice. You don’t think I liked to have an old comrade killed, do you? I had no choice.”
“Very well. You had no choice.”
Namarti resumed his tramping, then turned again. “Andorin, do you believe in gods?”
Andorin stared, “In what?”
“In gods.”
“I never heard the word. What is it?”
Namarti said, “It’s not Galactic Standard. Supernatural influences. How’s that?”
“Oh, supernatural influences. Why didn’t you say so? No, I don’t believe in that sort of thing. By definition, something is supernatural if it exists outside the laws of nature and nothing exists outside the laws of nature. Are you turning into a mystic?” Andorin asked it as though he were joking, but his eyes narrowed with sudden concern.
Namarti stared him down. Those blazing eyes of his could stare anyone down. “Don’t be a fool. I’ve been reading about it. Trillions of people believe in supernatural influences.”
“I know,” said Andorin. “They always have.”
“They’ve done so since before the beginning of history. The word ‘gods’ is of unknown origin. It is, apparently, a hangover from some primeval language of which no trace any longer exists, except that word. —Do you know how many different varieties of beliefs there are in various kinds of gods?”
“Approximately as many as the varieties of fools among the Galactic population, I should say.”
Namarti ignored that. “Some people think the word dates back to the time when all humanity existed on but a single world.”
“Itself a mythological concept. That’s just as lunatic as the notion of supernatural influences. There never was one original human world.”
“There would have to be, Andorin,” said Namarti, annoyed. “Human beings can’t have evolved on different worlds and ended as a single species.”
“Even so, there’s no effective human world. It can’t be located, it can’t be defined, so it can’t be spoken of sensibly, so it effectively doesn’t exist.”
“These gods,” said Namarti, continuing to follow his own line of thought, “are supposed to protect humanity and keep it safe or at least to care for those portions of humanity that know how to make use of the gods. At a time when there was only one human world, it makes sense to suppose they would be particularly interested in caring for that one tiny world with a few people. They would care for such a world as though they were big brothers—or parents.”
“Very nice of them. I’d like to see them try to handle the entire Empire.”
“What if they could? What if they were infinite?”
“What if the Sun were frozen? What’s the use of ‘what if’?”
“I’m just speculating. Just thinking. Haven’t you ever let your mind wander freely? Do you always keep everything on a leash?”
“I should imagine that’s the safest way, keeping it on a leash. What does your wandering mind tell you, Chief?”
Namarti’s eyes flashed at the other, as though he suspected sarcasm, but Andorin’s face remained good-natured and blank.
Namarti said, “What my mind is telling me is this— If there are gods, they must be on our side.”
“Wonderful—if true. Where’s the evidence?”
“Evidence? Without the gods, it would just be a coincidence, I suppose, but a very useful one.” Suddenly Namarti yawned and sat down, looking exhausted.
Good, thought Andorin. His galloping mind has finally wound itself down and he may talk sense now.
“This matter of internal breakdown of the infrastructure—” said Namarti, his voice distinctly lower.
Andorin interrupted. “You know, Chief, Kaspalov was not entirely wrong about this. The longer we ke
ep it up, the greater the chance that Imperial forces will discover the cause. The whole program must, sooner or later, explode in our faces.”
“Not yet. So far, everything is exploding in the Imperial face. The unrest on Trantor is something I can feel.” He raised his hands, rubbing his fingers together. “I can feel it. And we are almost through. We are ready for the next step.”
Andorin smiled humorlessly. “I’m not asking for details, Chief. Kaspalov did and look where that got him. I am not Kaspalov.”
“It’s precisely because you’re not Kaspalov that I can tell you. And because I know something now I didn’t then.”
“I presume,” said Andorin, only half-believing what he was saying, “that you intend a strike on the Imperial Palace grounds.”
Namarti looked up. “Of course. What else is there to do? The problem, however, is how to penetrate the grounds effectively. I have my sources of information there, but they are only spies. I’ll need men of action on the spot.”
“To get men of action into the most heavily guarded region in all the Galaxy will not be easy.”
“Of course not. That’s what has been giving me an unbearable headache till now—and then the gods intervened.”
Andorin said gently (it was taking all his self-restraint to keep from showing his disgust), “I don’t think we need a metaphysical discussion. What has happened—leaving the gods to one side?”
“My information is that His Gracious and Ever to Be Beloved Emperor Cleon I has decided to appoint a new Chief Gardener. This is the first new appointee in nearly a quarter of a century.”
“And if so?”
“Do you see no significance?”
Andorin thought for a moment. “I am not a favorite of your gods. I don’t see any significance.”
“If you have a new Chief Gardener, Andorin, the situation is the same as having a new administrator of any other type—the same as if you had a new First Minister or a new Emperor. The new Chief Gardener will certainly want his own staff. He will force into retirement what he considers dead wood and will hire younger gardeners by the hundreds.”
“That’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible. It’s certain. Exactly that happened when the present Chief Gardener was appointed and the same when his predecessor was appointed and so on. Hundreds of strangers from the Outer Worlds—”