Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  “From Trantor, too?”

  “No, not from Trantor. There is no one from Trantor in the gardens.” His voice grew contemptuous. “You can’t get a gardener out of Trantor. The parks they have here under the dome aren’t gardens. They are potted plants and the animals are in cages. Trantorians, poor specimens that they are, know nothing about open air, free water, and the true balance of nature.”

  “All right, Gruber. I will now give you a job. It will be up to you to get me the names of every new gardener scheduled to arrive over the coming weeks. Everything about them. Name. World. Reference number. Education. Experience. Everything. I want it all here on my desk just as quickly as possible. I’m going to send people to help you. People with machines. What kind of a computer do you use?”

  “Only a simple one for keeping track of plantings and species and things like that.”

  “All right. The people I send will be able to do anything you can’t do. I can’t tell you how important this is.”

  “If I should do this—”

  “Gruber, this is not the time to make bargains. Fail me and you will not be Chief Gardener. Instead, you will be discharged without a pension.”

  Alone again, Seldon barked into his communication wire, “Cancel all appointments for the rest of the afternoon.”

  He then let his body flop in his chair, feeling every bit of his fifty years and feeling his headache worsen. For years, for decades, security had been built up around the Imperial Palace grounds, thicker, more solid, more impenetrable, as each new layer and each new device was added.

  —And every once in a while, hordes of strangers were let into the grounds. No questions asked, probably, but one: “Can you garden?”

  The stupidity involved was too colossal to grasp.

  And he had barely caught it in time. Or had he? Was he, even now, too late?

  21

  Gleb Andorin gazed at Namarti through half-closed eyes. He never liked the man, but there were times when he liked him less than he usually did and this was one of those times. Why should Andorin, a Wyan of royal birth (that’s what it amounted to, after all) have to work with this parvenu, this near-psychotic paranoid?

  Andorin knew why and he had to endure, even when Namarti was once again in the process of telling the story of how he had built up the movement during a period of ten years to its present pitch of perfection. Did he tell this to everyone, over and over? Or was it just Andorin who was his chosen vessel?

  Namarti’s face seemed to shine with malignant glee as he said, in an odd singsong, as though it were a matter of rote, “Year after year, I worked on those lines, even through hopelessness and uselessness, building an organization, chipping away at confidence in the government, creating and intensifying dissatisfaction. When there was the banking crisis and the week of the moratorium, I—”

  He paused suddenly. “I’ve told you this many times and you’re sick of hearing it, aren’t you?”

  Andorin’s lips twitched in a brief dry smile. Namarti was not such an idiot as not to know what a bore he was; he just couldn’t help it. Andorin said, “You’ve told me this many times.” He allowed the remainder of the question to hang in the air, unanswered. The answer, after all, was an obvious affirmative. There was no need to face him with it.

  A slight flush crossed Namarti’s sallow face. He said, “But it could have gone on forever—the building, the chipping, without ever coming to a point—if I hadn’t had the proper tool in my hands. And without any effort on my part, the tool came to me.”

  “The gods brought you Planchet,” said Andorin neutrally.

  “You’re right. There will be a group of gardeners entering the Imperial Palace grounds soon.” He paused and seemed to savor the thought. “Men and women. Enough to serve as a mask for the handful of our operatives who will accompany them. Among them will be you—and Planchet. And what will make you and Planchet unusual is that you will be carrying blasters.”

  “Surely,” said Andorin with deliberate malice behind a polite expression, “we’ll be stopped at the gates and held for questioning. Bringing an illicit blaster onto the Palace grounds—”

  “You won’t be stopped,” said Namarti, missing the malice. “You won’t be searched. That’s been arranged. You will all be greeted as a matter of course by some Palace official. I don’t know who would ordinarily be in charge of that task—the Third Assistant Chamberlain in Charge of Grass and Leaves, for all I know—but in this case, it will be Seldon himself. The great mathematician will hurry out to greet the new gardeners and welcome them to the grounds.”

  “You’re sure of that, I suppose.”

  “Of course, I am. It’s all been arranged. He will learn, at more or less the last minute, that his foster son is among those listed as new gardeners and it will be impossible for him to refrain from coming out to see him. And when Seldon appears, Planchet will raise his blaster. Our people will raise the cry of ‘Treason!’ In the confusion and hurly-burly, Planchet will kill Seldon and then you will kill Planchet. You will then drop your blaster and leave. There are those who will help you leave. It’s been arranged.”

  “Is it absolutely necessary to kill Planchet?”

  Namarti frowned. “Why? Do you object to one killing and not to another? When Planchet recovers, do you wish him to tell the authorities all he knows about us? Besides, this is a family feud we are arranging. Don’t forget that Planchet is, in actual fact, Raych Seldon. It will look as though the two had fired simultaneously—or as though Seldon had given orders that if his son made any hostile move, he was to be shot down. We will see to it that the family angle will be given full publicity. It will be reminiscent of the bad old days of the Bloody Emperor Manowell. The people of Trantor will surely be repelled by the sheer wickedness of the deed. That, piled on top of all the inefficiencies and breakdowns they’ve been witnessing and living through, will raise the cry for a new government—and no one will be able to refuse them, least of all the Emperor. And then we’ll step in.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No, not just like that. I don’t live in a dream world. There is likely to be some interim government, but it will fail. We’ll see to it that it fails and we’ll come out in the open and revive the old Joranumite arguments that the Trantorians have never forgotten. And in time—in not too much time—I will be First Minister.”

  “And I?”

  “Will eventually be the Emperor.”

  Andorin said, “The chance of all this working is small. —This is arranged. That is arranged. The other thing is arranged. All of it has to come together and mesh perfectly or it will fail. Somewhere, someone is bound to mess up. It’s an unacceptable risk.”

  “Unacceptable? For whom? For you?”

  “Certainly. You expect me to make certain that Planchet will kill his father and you expect me to then kill Planchet. Why me? Aren’t there tools worth less than I who might more easily be risked?”

  “Yes, but to choose anyone else would make failure certain. Who but you has so much riding on this mission that there is no chance you will turn back in a fit of vapors at the last minute?”

  “The risk is enormous.”

  “Isn’t it worth it to you? You’re playing for the Imperial throne.”

  “And what risk are you taking, Chief? You will remain here, quite comfortable, and wait to hear the news.”

  Namarti’s lip curled. “What a fool you are, Andorin! What an Emperor you will make! Do you suppose I take no risk because I will be here? If the gambit fails, if the plot miscarries, if some of our people are taken, do you think they won’t tell everything they know? If you were somehow caught, would you face the tender treatment of the Imperial Guard without ever telling them about me?

  “And with a failed assassination attempt at hand, do you suppose they won’t comb Trantor to find me? Do you suppose that in the end they will fail to find me? And when they do find me, what do you suppose I will have to face at their hands? —Risk? I run a wors
e risk than any of you, just sitting here doing nothing. It boils down to this, Andorin. Do you or do you not wish to be Emperor?”

  Andorin said in a low voice, “I wish to be Emperor.”

  And so things were set in motion.

  22

  Raych had no trouble seeing that he was being treated with special care. The whole group of would-be gardeners was now quartered in one of the hotels in the Imperial Sector, although not one of the prime hotels, of course.

  The gardeners were an odd lot, from fifty different worlds, but Raych had little chance to speak to any of them. Andorin, without being too obvious about it, had managed to keep him apart from the others.

  Raych wondered why. It depressed him. In fact, he had been feeling somewhat depressed since he had left Wye. It interfered with his thinking process and he fought it—but not with entire success.

  Andorin was himself wearing rough clothes and was attempting to look like a workman. He would be playing the part of a gardener as a way of running the “show”—whatever the “show” might be.

  Raych felt ashamed that he had not been able to penetrate the nature of that “show.” They had closed in on him and prevented all communication, so he hadn’t even had the chance to warn his father. They might be doing this for every Trantorian who had been pushed into the group, for all he knew, just as an extreme precaution. Raych estimated that there might be a dozen Trantorians among them, all of them Namarti’s people, of course, men and women both.

  What puzzled him was that Andorin treated him with what was almost affection. He monopolized him, insisted on having all his meals with him, treated him quite differently from the way in which he treated anyone else.

  Could it be because they had shared Manella? Raych did not know enough about the mores of the Wye Sector to be able to tell whether there might not be a polyandrous touch to their society. If two men shared a woman, did that make them, in a way, fraternal? Did it create a bond?

  Raych had never heard of such a thing, but he knew better than to suppose he had a grasp of even a tiny fraction of the infinite subtleties of Galactic societies—even of Trantorian societies.

  But now that his mind had brought him back to Manella, he dwelled on her for a while. He missed her terribly and it occurred to him that missing her might be the cause of his depression, though, to tell the truth, what he was feeling now, as he was finishing lunch with Andorin, was almost despair—though he could think of no cause for it.

  Manella!

  She had said she wanted to visit the Imperial Sector and presumably she could wheedle Andorin to her liking. He was desperate enough to ask a foolish question. “Mr. Andorin, I keep wondering if maybe you brought Miss Dubanqua along with you. Here, to the Imperial Sector.”

  Andorin looked utterly astonished. Then he laughed gently. “Manella? Do you see her doing any gardening? Or even pretending she could? No no, Manella is one of those women invented for our quiet moments. She has no function at all, otherwise.” Then “Why do you ask, Planchet?”

  Raych shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s sort of dull around here. I sort of thought—” His voice trailed away.

  Andorin watched him carefully. Finally he said, “Surely you’re not of the opinion that it matters much which woman you are involved with? I assure you it doesn’t matter to her which man she’s involved with. Once this is over, there will be other women. Plenty of them.”

  “When will this be over?”

  “Soon. And you’re going to be part of it in a very important way.” Andorin watched Raych narrowly.

  Raych said, “How important? Aren’t I gonna be just—a gardener?” His voice sounded hollow and he found himself unable to put a spark in it.

  “You’ll be more than that, Planchet. You’ll be going in with a blaster.”

  “With a what?”

  “A blaster.”

  “I never held a blaster. Not in my whole life.”

  “There’s nothing to it. You lift it. You point it. You close the contact and someone dies.”

  “I can’t kill anyone.”

  “I thought you were one of us, that you would do anything for the cause.”

  “I didn’t mean—kill.” Raych couldn’t seem to collect his thoughts. Why must he kill? What did they really have in mind for him? And how would he be able to alert the Imperial Guard before the killing would be carried out?

  Andorin’s face hardened suddenly, an instant conversion from friendly interest to stern decision. He said, “You must kill.”

  Raych gathered all his strength. “No. I ain’t gonna kill nobody. That’s final.”

  Andorin said, “Planchet, you will do as you are told.”

  “Not murder.”

  “Even murder.”

  “How you gonna make me?”

  “I shall simply tell you to.”

  Raych felt dizzy. What made Andorin so confident?

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Andorin said, “We’ve been feeding you, Planchet, ever since you left Wye. I made sure you ate with me. I supervised your diet. Especially the meal you just ate.”

  Raych felt the horror rise within him. He suddenly understood. “Desperance!”

  “Exactly,” said Andorin. “You’re a sharp devil, Planchet.”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Yes, of course. So’s murder.”

  Raych knew about desperance. It was a chemical modification of a perfectly harmless tranquilizer. The modified form, however, did not produce tranquillity but despair. It had been outlawed because of its use in mind control, though there were persistent rumors that the Imperial Guard used it.

  Andorin said, as though it were not hard to read Raych’s mind, “It’s called desperance because that’s an old word meaning ‘hopelessness.’ I think you’re feeling hopeless.”

  “Never,” whispered Raych.

  “Very resolute of you, but you can’t fight the chemical. And the more hopeless you feel, the more effective the drug.”

  “No chance.”

  “Think about it, Planchet. Namarti recognized you at once, even without your mustache. He knows you are Raych Seldon and, at my direction, you are going to kill your father.”

  Raych muttered, “Not before I kill you.”

  He rose from his chair. There should be no problem at all in this. Andorin might be taller, but he was slender and clearly no athlete. Raych would break him in two with one arm—but he swayed as he rose. He shook his head, but it wouldn’t clear.

  Andorin rose, too, and backed away. He drew his right hand from where it had been resting within his left sleeve. He was holding a weapon.

  He said pleasantly, “I came prepared. I have been informed of your prowess as a Heliconian Twister and there will be no hand-to-hand combat.”

  He looked down at his weapon. “This is not a blaster,” he said. “I can’t afford to have you killed before you accomplish your task. It’s a neuronic whip. Much worse, in a way. I will aim at your left shoulder and, believe me, the pain will be so excruciating that the world’s greatest stoic would not be able to endure it.”

  Raych, who had been advancing slowly and grimly, stopped abruptly. He had been twelve years old when he had had a taste—a small one—of a neuronic whip. Once struck, no one ever forgets the pain, however long he lives, however full of incidents his life is.

  Andorin said, “Moreover, I will use full strength so that the nerves in your upper arms will be stimulated first into unbearable pain and then damaged into uselessness. You will never use your left arm again. I will spare the right so you can handle the blaster. —Now if you sit down and accept matters, as you must, you may keep both arms. Of course, you must eat again so your desperance level increases. Your situation will only worsen.”

  Raych felt the drug-induced despair settle over him and that despair served, in itself, to deepen the effect. His vision was turning double and he could think of nothing to say.

  Raych only knew that he would have to do what
Andorin would tell him to do. He had played the game and he had lost.

  23

  “No!” Hari Seldon was almost violent. “I don’t want you out there, Dors.”

  Dors Venabili stared back at him with an expression as firm as his own. “Then I won’t let you go, either, Hari.”

  “I must be there.”

  “It is not your place. It is the Gardener First-Class who must greet these new people.”

  “So it is. But Gruber can’t do it. He’s a broken man.”

  “He must have an assistant of some sort. Or let the old Chief Gardener do it. He holds the office till the end of the year.”

  “The old Chief Gardener is too ill. Besides”—Seldon hesitated—“there are ringers among the gardeners. Trantorians. They’re here, for some reason. I have the names of every one of them.”

  “Have them taken into custody, then. Every last one of them. It’s simple. Why are you making it so complex?”

  “Because we don’t know why they’re here. Something’s up. I don’t see what twelve gardeners can do, but— No, let me rephrase that. I can see a dozen things they can do, but I don’t know which one of those things they’ve planned. We will, indeed, take them into custody, but I must know more about everything before it’s done.

  “We have to know enough to winkle out everyone in the conspiracy from top to bottom and we must know enough of what they’re doing to be able to make the proper punishment stick. I don’t want to get twelve men and women on what is essentially a misdemeanor charge. They’ll plead desperation, the need for a job. They’ll complain that it isn’t fair for Trantorians to be excluded. They’ll get plenty of sympathy and we’ll be left looking like fools. We must give them a chance to convict themselves of more than that. Besides—”

  There was a long pause and Dors said wrathfully, “Well, what’s the new ‘besides’?”

  Seldon’s voice lowered. “One of the twelve is Raych, using the alias Planchet.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you surprised? I sent him to Wye to infiltrate the Joranumite movement and he’s succeeded in infiltrating something. I have every faith in him. If he’s there, he knows why he’s there and he must have some sort of plan to put a spoke in the wheel. But I want to be there, too. I want to see him. I want to be in a position to help him if I can.”