Forward the Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  And yet the army of gardeners kept the grounds in perfect condition. An army of service people kept the buildings in top shape. The Emperor’s bed—never slept in—was made with fresh sheets every day; the rooms were cleaned; everything worked as it always worked; and the entire Imperial staff, from top to bottom, worked as they had always worked. The top officials gave commands as they would have done if the Emperor had lived, commands that they knew the Emperor would have given. In many cases, in particular in the higher echelons, the personnel were the same as those who had been there on Cleon’s last day of life. The new personnel who had been taken on were carefully molded and trained into the traditions they would have to serve.

  It was as though the Empire, accustomed to the rule of an Emperor, insisted on this “ghost rule” to hold the Empire together.

  The junta knew this—or, if they didn’t, they felt it vaguely. In ten years none of those military men who had commanded the Empire had moved into the Emperor’s private quarters in the Small Palace. Whatever these men were, they were not Imperial and they knew they had no rights there. A populace that endured the loss of liberty would not endure any sign of irreverence to the Emperor—alive or dead.

  Even General Tennar had not moved into the graceful structure that had housed the Emperors of a dozen different dynasties for so long. He had made his home and office in one of the structures built on the outskirts of the grounds—eyesores, but eyesores that were built like fortresses, sturdy enough to withstand a siege, with outlying buildings in which an enormous force of guards was housed.

  Tennar was a stocky man, with a mustache. It was not a vigorous overflowing Dahlite mustache but one that was carefully clipped and fitted to the upper lip, leaving a strip of skin between the hair and the line of the lip. It was a reddish mustache and Tennar had cold blue eyes. He had probably been a handsome man in his younger days, but his face was pudgy now and his eyes were slits that expressed anger more often than any other emotion.

  So he said angrily—as one would, who felt himself to be absolute master of millions of worlds and yet who dared not call himself an Emperor—to Hender Linn, “I can establish a dynasty of my own.” He looked around with a scowl. “This is not a fitting place for the master of the Empire.”

  Linn said softly, “To be master is what is important. Better to be a master in a cubicle than a figurehead in a palace.”

  “Best yet, to be master in a palace. Why not?”

  Linn bore the title of colonel, but it is quite certain that he had never engaged in any military action. His function was that of telling Tennar what he wanted to hear—and of carrying his orders, unchanged, to others. On occasion—if it seemed safe—he might try to steer Tennar into more prudent courses.

  Linn was well known as “Tennar’s lackey” and knew that was how he was known. It did not bother him. As lackey, he was safe—and he had seen the downfall of those who had been too proud to be lackeys.

  The time might, of course, come when Tennar himself would be buried in the ever-changing junta panorama, but Linn felt, with a certain amount of philosophy, that he would be aware of it in time and save himself. —Or he might not. There was a price for everything.

  “No reason why you can’t found a dynasty, General,” said Linn. “Many others have done it in the long Imperial history. Still, it takes time. The people are slow to adapt. It is usually only the second or even third of the dynasty who is fully accepted as Emperor.”

  “I don’t believe that. I need merely announce myself as new Emperor. Who will dare quarrel with that? My grip is tight.”

  “So it is, General. Your power is unquestioned on Trantor and in most of the Inner Worlds, yet it is possible that many in the farther Outer Worlds will not—just yet—accept a new Imperial dynasty.”

  “Inner Worlds or Outer Worlds, military force rules all. That is an old Imperial maxim.”

  “And a good one,” said Linn, “but many of the provinces have armed forces of their own, nowadays, that they may not use on your behalf. These are difficult times.”

  “You counsel caution, then.”

  “I always counsel caution, General.”

  “And someday you may counsel it once too often.”

  Linn bent his head. “I can only counsel what seems to me to be good and useful to you, General.”

  “As in your constant harping to me about this Hari Seldon.”

  “He is your greatest danger, General.”

  “So you keep saying, but I don’t see it. He’s just a college professor.”

  Linn said, “So he is, but he was once First Minister.”

  “I know, but that was in Cleon’s time. Has he done anything since? With times being difficult and with the governors of the provinces being fractious, why is a professor my greatest danger?”

  “It is sometimes a mistake,” said Linn carefully (for one had to be careful in educating the General), “to suppose that a quiet unobtrusive man can be harmless. Seldon has been anything but harmless to those he has opposed. Twenty years ago the Joranumite movement almost destroyed Cleon’s powerful First Minister, Eto Demerzel.”

  Tennar nodded, but the slight frown on his face betrayed his effort to remember the matter.

  “It was Seldon who destroyed Joranum and who succeeded Demerzel as First Minister. The Joranumite movement survived, however, and Seldon engineered its destruction, too, but not before it succeeded in bringing about the assassination of Cleon.”

  “But Seldon survived that, didn’t he?”

  “You are perfectly correct. Seldon survived.”

  “That is strange. To have permitted an Imperial assassination should have meant death for a First Minister.”

  “So it should have. Nevertheless, the junta has allowed him to live. It seemed wiser to do so.”

  “Why?”

  Linn sighed internally. “There is something called psychohistory, General.”

  “I know nothing about that,” said Tennar flatly.

  Actually he had a vague memory of Linn trying to talk to him on a number of occasions concerning this strange collection of syllables. He had never wanted to listen and Linn had known better than to push the matter. Tennar didn’t want to listen now, either, but there seemed to be a hidden urgency in Linn’s words. Perhaps, Tennar thought, he had now better listen.

  “Almost no one knows anything about it,” said Linn, “yet there are a few—uh—intellectuals, who find it of interest.”

  “And what is it?”

  “It is a complex system of mathematics.”

  Tennar shook his head. “Leave me out of that, please. I can count my military divisions. That’s all the mathematics I need.”

  “The story is,” said Linn, “that psychohistory may make it possible to predict the future.”

  The General’s eyes bulged. “You mean this Seldon is a fortune-teller?”

  “Not in the usual fashion. It is a matter of science.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It is hard to believe, but Seldon has become something of a cult figure here on Trantor—and in certain places in the Outer Worlds. Now psychohistory—if it can be used to predict the future or if even people merely think it can be so used—can be a powerful tool with which to uphold the regime. I’m sure you have already seen this, General. One need merely predict our regime will endure and bring forth peace and prosperity for the Empire. People, believing this, will help make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the other hand, if Seldon wishes the reverse, he can predict civil war and ruin. People will believe that, too, and that would destabilize the regime.”

  “In that case, Colonel, we simply make sure that the predictions of psychohistory are what we want them to be.”

  “It would be Seldon who would have to make them and he is not a friend of the regime. It is important, General, that we differentiate between the Project that is working at Streeling University to perfect psychohistory and Hari Seldon. Psychohistory can be extremely useful to us, but
it will be so only if someone other than Seldon were in charge.”

  “Are there others who could be?”

  “Oh yes. It is only necessary to get rid of Seldon.”

  “What is so difficult with that? An order of execution—and it is done.”

  “It would be better, General, if the government was not seen to be directly involved in such a thing.”

  “Explain!”

  “I have arranged to have him meet with you, so that you can use your skill to probe his personality. You would then be able to judge whether certain suggestions I have in mind are worthwhile or not.”

  “When is the meeting to take place?”

  “It was to take place very soon, but his representatives at the Project asked for a few days leeway, because they were in the process of celebrating his birthday—his sixtieth, apparently. It seemed wise to allow that and to permit a week’s delay.”

  “Why?” demanded Tennar. “I dislike any display of weakness.”

  “Quite right, General. Quite right. Your instincts are, as always, correct. However, it seemed to me that the needs of the state might require us to know what and how the birthday celebration—which is taking place right now—might involve.”

  “Why?”

  “All knowledge is useful. Would you care to see some of the festivities?”

  General Tennar’s face remained dark. “Is that necessary?”

  “I think you will find it interesting, General.”

  The reproduction—sight and sound—was excellent and for quite a while the hilarity of the birthday celebration filled the rather stark room in which the General sat.

  Linn’s low voice served as commentary. “Most of this, General, is taking place in the Project complex, but the rest of the University is involved. We will have an air view in a few moments and you will see that the celebration covers a wide area. In fact, though I don’t have the evidence available right now, there are corners of the planet here and there, in various University and sectoral settings mostly, where what we might call ‘sympathy celebrations’ of one sort or another are taking place. The celebrations are still continuing and will endure for another day at least.”

  “Are you telling me that this is a Trantor-wide celebration?”

  “In a specialized way. It affects mostly the intellectual classes, but it is surprisingly widespread. It may even be that there is some shouting on worlds other than Trantor.”

  “Where did you get this reproduction?”

  Linn smiled. “Our facilities in the Project are quite good. We have reliable sources of information, so that little can happen that doesn’t come our way at once.”

  “Well then, Linn, what are all your conclusions about this?”

  “It seems to me, General, and I’m sure that it seems so to you, that Hari Seldon is the focus of a personality cult. He has so identified himself with psychohistory that if we were to get rid of him in too open a manner, we would entirely destroy the credibility of the science. It would be useless to us.

  “On the other hand, General, Seldon is growing old and it is not difficult to imagine him being replaced by another man: someone we could choose and who would be friendly to our great aims and hopes for the Empire. If Seldon could be removed in such a way that it is made to seem natural, then that is all we need.”

  The General said, “And you think I ought to see him?”

  “Yes, in order to weigh his quality and decide what we ought to do. But we must be cautious, for he is a popular man.”

  “I have dealt with popular people before,” said Tennar darkly.

  13

  “Yes,” said Hari Seldon wearily, “It was a great triumph. I had a wonderful time. I can hardly wait until I’m seventy so I can repeat it. But the fact is, I’m exhausted.”

  “So get yourself a good night’s sleep, Dad,” said Raych, smiling. “That’s an easy cure.”

  “I don’t know how well I can relax when I have to see our great leader in a few days.”

  “Not alone, you won’t see him,” said Dors Venabili grimly.

  Seldon frowned. “Don’t say that again, Dors. It is important for me to see him alone.”

  “It won’t be safe with you alone. Do you remember what happened ten years ago when you refused to let me come with you to greet the gardeners?”

  “There is no danger of my forgetting when you remind me of it twice a week, Dors. In this case, though, I intend to go alone. What can he want to do to me if I come in as an old man, utterly harmless, to find out what he wants?”

  “What do you imagine he wants?” said Raych, biting at his knuckle.

  “I suppose he wants what Cleon always wanted. It will turn out that he has found out that psychohistory can, in some way, predict the future and he will want to use it for his own purposes. I told Cleon the science wasn’t up to it nearly thirty years ago and I kept telling him that all through my tenure as First Minister—and now I’ll have to tell General Tennar the same thing.”

  “How do you know he’ll believe you?” said Raych.

  “I’ll think of some way of being convincing.”

  Dors said, “I do not wish you to go alone.”

  “Your wishing, Dors, makes no difference.”

  At this point, Tamwile Elar interrupted. He said, “I’m the only nonfamily person here. I don’t know if a comment from me would be welcome.”

  “Go ahead,” said Seldon. “Come one, come all.”

  “I would like to suggest a compromise. Why don’t a number of us go with the Maestro. Quite a few of us. We can act as his triumphal escort, a kind of finale to the birthday celebration. —Now wait, I don’t mean that we will all crowd into the General’s offices. I don’t even mean entering the Imperial Palace grounds. We can just take hotel rooms in the Imperial Sector at the edge of the grounds—the Dome’s Edge Hotel would be just right—and we’ll give ourselves a day of pleasure.”

  “That’s just what I need,” snorted Seldon. “A day of pleasure.”

  “Not you, Maestro,” said Elar at once. “You’ll be meeting with General Tennar. The rest of us, though, will give the people of the Imperial Sector a notion of your popularity—and perhaps the General will take note also. And if he knows we’re all waiting for your return, it may keep him from being unpleasant.”

  There was a considerable silence after that. Finally Raych said, “It sounds too showy to me. It don’t fit in with the image the world has of Dad.”

  But Dors said, “I’m not interested in Hari’s image. I’m interested in Hari’s safety. It strikes me that if we cannot invade the General’s presence or the Imperial grounds, then allowing ourselves to accumulate, so to speak, as near the General as we can, might do us well. Thank you, Dr. Elar, for a very good suggestion.”

  “I don’t want it done,” said Seldon.

  “But I do,” said Dors, “and if that’s as close as I can get to offering you personal protection, then that much I will insist on.”

  Manella, who had listened to it all without comment till then, said, “Visiting the Dome’s Edge Hotel could be a lot of fun.”

  “It’s not fun I’m thinking of,” said Dors, “but I’ll accept your vote in favor.”

  And so it was. The following day some twenty of the higher echelon of the Psychohistory Project descended on the Dome’s Edge Hotel, with rooms overlooking the open spaces of the Imperial Palace grounds.

  The following evening Hari Seldon was picked up by the General’s armed guards and taken off to the meeting.

  At almost the same time Dors Venabili disappeared, but her absence was not noted for a long time. And when it was noted, no one could guess what had happened to her and the gaily festive mood turned rapidly into apprehension.

  14

  Dors Venabili had lived on the Imperial Palace grounds for ten years. As wife of the First Minister, she had entry to the grounds and could pass freely from the dome to the open, with her fingerprints as the pass.

  In the confusion t
hat followed Cleon’s assassination, her pass had never been removed and now when, for the first time since that dreadful day, she wanted to move from the dome into the open spaces of the grounds, she could do so.

  She had always known that she could do so easily only once, for, upon discovery, the pass would be canceled—but this was the one time to do it.

  There was a sudden darkening of the sky as she moved into the open and she felt a distinct lowering of the temperature. The world under the dome was always kept a little lighter during the night period than natural night would require and was kept a little dimmer during the day period. And, of course, the temperature beneath the dome was always a bit milder than the outdoors.

  Most Trantorians were unaware of this, for they spent their entire lives under the dome. To Dors it was expected, but it didn’t really matter.

  She took the central roadway, into which the dome opened at the site of the Dome’s Edge Hotel. It was, of course, brightly lit, so that the darkness of the sky didn’t matter at all.

  Dors knew that she would not advance a hundred meters along the roadway without being stopped, less perhaps in the present paranoid days of the junta. Her alien presence would be detected at once.

  Nor was she disappointed. A small ground-car skittered up and the guardsman shouted out the window, “What are you doing here? Where are you going?”

  Dors ignored the question and continued to walk.

  The guardsman called out, “Halt!” Then he slammed on the brakes and stepped out of the car, which was exactly what Dors had wanted him to do.

  The guardsman was holding a blaster loosely in his hand—not threatening to use it, merely demonstrating its existence. He said, “Your reference number.”

  Dors said, “I want your car.”

  “What!” The guardsman sounded outraged. “Your reference number. Immediately!” And now the blaster came up.

  Dors said quietly, “You don’t need my reference number,” then she walked toward the guardsman.