by Isaac Asimov
“I think he will plan one. If he does, the news is bound to leak out and that alone would suffice to set off riots and possibly upset the government.”
“And you’ve done this on purpose, Dad?”
“Of course.”
Raych shook his head. “I don’t quite understand you, Dad. In your personal life, you’re as sweet and gentle as any person in the Empire. Yet you can deliberately set up a situation in which there will be riots, suppression, deaths. There’ll be a lot of damage done, Dad. Have you thought of that?”
Seldon leaned back in his chair and said sadly, “I think of nothing else, Raych. When I first began my work on psychohistory, it seemed a purely academic piece of research to me. It was something that could not be worked out at all, in all likelihood, and, if it was, it would not be something that could be practically applied. But the decades pass and we know more and more and then comes the terrible urge to apply it.”
“So that people can die?”
“No, so that fewer people can die. If our psychohistorical analyses are correct now, then the junta cannot survive for more than a few years and there are various alternative ways in which it can collapse. They will all be fairly bloody and desperate. This method—the taxation gimmick—should do it more smoothly and gently than any other if—I repeat—our analyses are correct.”
“If they’re not correct, what then?”
“In that case, we don’t know what might happen. Still, psychohistory must reach the point where it can be used and we’ve been searching for years for something in which we have worked out the consequences with a certain assuredness and can find those consequences tolerable as compared with alternatives. In a way, this taxation gimmick is the first great psychohistoric experiment.”
“I must admit, it sounds like a simple one.”
“It isn’t. You have no idea how complex psychohistory is. Nothing is simple. The poll tax has been tried now and then throughout history. It is never popular and it invariably gives rise to resistance of one form or another, but it almost never results in the violent overthrow of a government. After all, the powers of governmental oppression may be too strong or there may be methods whereby the people can bring to bear their opposition in a peaceful manner and achieve redress. If a poll tax were invariably or even just sometimes fatal, then no government would ever try it. It is only because it isn’t fatal that it is tried repeatedly. The situation on Trantor is, however, not exactly normal. There are certain instabilities that seem clear in psychohistorical analysis, which make it seem that resentment will be particularly strong and repression particularly weak.”
Raych sounded dubious. “I hope it works, Dad, but don’t you think that the General will say that he was working under psychohistorical advice and bring you down with him?”
“I suppose he recorded our little session together, but if he publicizes that, it will show clearly that I urged him to wait till I could analyze the situation properly and prepare a report—and he refused to wait.”
“And what does Mom think of all this?”
Seldon said, “I haven’t discussed it with her. She’s off on another tangent altogether.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She’s trying to sniff out some deep conspiracy in the Project—aimed at me! I imagine she thinks there are many people in the Project who would like to get rid of me.” Seldon sighed. “I’m one of them, I think. I would like to get rid of me as director of the Project and leave the gathering responsibilities of psychohistory to others.”
Raych said, “What’s bugging Mom is Wanda’s dream. You know how Mom feels about protecting you. I’ll bet even a dream about your dying would be enough to make her think of a murder conspiracy against you.”
“I certainly hope there isn’t one.”
And at the idea of it both men laughed.
21
The small electro-clarification laboratory was, for some reason, maintained at a temperature somewhat lower than normal and Dors Venabili wondered idly why that might be. She sat quietly, waiting for the one occupant of the lab to finish whatever it was she was doing.
Dors eyed the woman carefully. Slim, with a long face. Not exactly attractive, with her thin lips and receding jawline, but a look of intelligence shone in her dark brown eyes. The glowing nameplate on her desk said: CINDA MONAY.
She turned to Dors at last and said, “My apologies, Dr. Venabili, but there are some procedures that can’t be interrupted even for the wife of the director.”
“I would have been disappointed in you if you had neglected the procedure on my behalf. I have been told some excellent things about you.”
“That’s always nice to hear. Who’s been praising me?”
“Quite a few,” said Dors. “I gather that you are one of the most prominent nonmathematicians in the Project.”
Monay winced. “There’s a certain tendency to divide the rest of us from the aristocracy of mathematics. My own feeling is that, if I’m prominent, then I’m a prominent member of the Project. It makes no difference that I’m a nonmathematician.”
“That certainly sounds reasonable to me. —How long have you been with the Project?”
“Two and a half years. Before that I was a graduate student in radiational physics at Streeling and, while I was doing that, I served a couple of years with the Project as an intern.”
“You’ve done well at the Project, I understand.”
“I’ve been promoted twice, Dr. Venabili.”
“Have you encountered any difficulties here, Dr. Monay? —Whatever you say will be held confidential.”
“The work is difficult, of course, but if you mean, have I run into any social difficulties, the answer is no. At least not any more than one would expect in any large and complex project, I imagine.”
“And by that you mean?”
“Occasional spats and quarrels. We’re all human.”
“But nothing serious?”
Monay shook her head. “Nothing serious.”
“My understanding, Dr. Monay,” said Dors, “is that you have been responsible for the development of a device important to the use of the Prime Radiant. It makes it possible to cram much more information into the Prime Radiant.”
Monay broke into a radiant smile. “Do you know about that? —Yes, the Electro-Clarifier. After that was developed, Professor Seldon established this small laboratory and put me in charge of other work in that direction.”
“I’m amazed that such an important advance did not bring you up into the higher echelons of the Project.”
“Oh well,” said Monay, looking a trifle embarrassed. “I don’t want to take all the credit. Actually my work was only that of a technician—a very skilled and creative technician, I like to think—but there you are.”
“And who worked with you?”
“Didn’t you know? It was Tamwile Elar. He worked out the theory that made the device possible and I designed and built the actual instrument.”
“Does that mean he took the credit, Dr. Monay?”
“No no. You mustn’t think that. Dr. Elar is not that kind of man. He gave me full credit for my share of the work. In fact, it was his idea to call the device by our names—both our names—but he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, that’s Professor Seldon’s rule, you know. All devices and equations are to be given functional names and not personal ones—to avoid resentment. So the device is just the Electro-Clarifier. When we’re working together, however, he gives the device our names and, I tell you, Dr. Venabili, it sounds grand. Perhaps someday, all of the Project personnel will use the personal name. I hope so.”
“I hope so, too,” said Dors politely. “You make Elar sound like a very decent individual.”
“He is. He is,” said Monay earnestly. “He is a delight to work for. Right now, I’m working on a new version of the device, which is more powerful and which I don’t quite understand. —I mean, what it’s to be used for. Ho
wever, he’s directing me there.”
“And are you making progress?”
“Indeed. In fact, I’ve given Dr. Elar a prototype, which he plans to test. If it works out, we can proceed further.”
“It sounds good,” agreed Dors. “What do you think would happen if Professor Seldon were to resign as director of the Project? If he were to retire?”
Monay looked surprised. “Is the professor planning to retire?”
“Not that I know of. I’m presenting you with a hypothetical case. Suppose he retires. Who do you think would be a natural successor? I think from what you have said that you would favor Professor Elar as the new director.”
“Yes, I would,” responded Monay after a trifling hesitation. “He’s far and away the most brilliant of the new people and I think he could run the Project in the best possible way. Still, he’s rather young. There are a considerable number of old fossils—well, you know what I mean—who would resent being passed over by a young squirt.”
“Is there any old fossil you’re thinking of in particular? Remember, this is confidential.”
“Quite a few of them, but there’s Dr. Amaryl. He’s the heir apparent.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Dors rose. “Well, thank you so much for your help. I’ll let you return to your work now.”
She left, thinking about the Electro-Clarifier. And about Amaryl.
22
Yugo Amaryl said, “Here you are again, Dors.”
“Sorry, Yugo. I’m bothering you twice this week. Actually you don’t see anyone very often, do you?”
Amaryl said, “I don’t encourage people to visit me, no. They tend to interrupt me and break my line of thought. —Not you, Dors. You’re altogether special, you and Hari. There’s never a day I don’t remember what you two have done for me.”
Dors waved her hand. “Forget it, Yugo. You’ve worked hard for Hari and any trifling kindness we did for you has long been overpaid. How is the Project going? Hari never talks about it—not to me, anyway.”
Amaryl’s face lightened and his whole body seemed to take on an infusion of life. “Very well. Very well. It’s difficult to talk about it without mathematics, but the progress we’ve made in the last two years is amazing—more than in all the time before that. It’s as though, after we’ve been hammering away and hammering away, things have finally begun to break loose.”
“I’ve been hearing that the new equations worked out by Dr. Elar have helped the situation.”
“The achaotic equations? Yes. Enormously.”
“And the Electro-Clarifier has been helpful, too. I spoke to the woman who designed it.”
“Cinda Monay?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“A very clever woman. We’re fortunate to have her.”
“Tell me, Yugo— You work at the Prime Radiant virtually all the time, don’t you?”
“I’m more or less constantly studying it. Yes.”
“And you study it with the Electro-Clarifier.”
“Certainly.”
“Don’t you ever think of taking a vacation, Yugo?”
Amaryl looked at her owlishly, blinking slowly. “A vacation?”
“Yes. Surely you’ve heard the word. You know what a vacation is.”
“Why should I take a vacation?”
“Because you seem dreadfully tired to me.”
“A little, now and then. But I don’t want to leave the work.”
“Do you feel more tired now than you used to?”
“A little. I’m getting older, Dors.” “You’re only forty-nine.”
“That’s still older than I’ve ever been before.”
“Well, let it go. Tell me, Yugo—just to change the subject. How is Hari doing at his work? You’ve been with him so long that no one could possibly know him better than you do. Not even I. At least, as far as his work is concerned.”
“He’s doing very well, Dors. I see no change in him. He still has the quickest and brightest brain in the place. Age is having no effect on him—at least, not so far.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m afraid that his own opinion of himself is not as high as yours is. He’s not taking his age well. We had a difficult time getting him to celebrate his recent birthday. Were you at the festivities, by the way? I didn’t see you.”
“I attended part of the time. But, you know, parties of that kind are not the sort of thing I feel at home with.”
“Do you think Hari is wearing out? I’m not referring to his mental brilliance. I’m referring to his physical capacities. In your opinion, is he growing tired—too tired to bear up under his responsibilities?”
Amaryl looked astonished. “I never gave it any thought. I can’t imagine him growing tired.”
“He may be, just the same. I think he has the impulse, now and then, to give up his post and hand the task over to some younger man.”
Amaryl sat back in his chair and put down the graphic stylus he had been fiddling with ever since Dors had entered. “What! That’s ridiculous! Impossible!”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. He certainly wouldn’t consider such a thing without discussing it with me. And he hasn’t.”
“Be reasonable, Yugo. Hari is exhausted. He tries not to show it, but he is. What if he does decide to retire? What would become of the Project? What would become of psychohistory?”
Amaryl’s eyes narrowed. “Are you joking, Dors?”
“No. I’m just trying to look into the future.”
“Surely, if Hari retires, I succeed to the post. He and I ran the Project for years before anyone else joined us. He and I. No one else. Except for him, no one knows the Project as I do. I’m amazed you don’t take my succession for granted, Dors.”
Dors said, “There’s no question in my mind or in anyone else’s that you are the logical successor, but do you want to be? You may know everything about psychohistory, but do you want to throw yourself into the politics and complexities of a large Project and abandon much of your work in order to do so? Actually it’s trying to keep everything moving smoothly that’s been wearing Hari down. Can you take on that part of the job?”
“Yes, I can and it’s not something I intend to discuss. —Look here, Dors. Did you come here to break the news that Hari intends to ease me out?”
Dors said, “Certainly not! How could you think that of Hari! Have you ever known him to turn on a friend?”
“Very well, then. Let’s drop the subject. Really, Dors, if you don’t mind, there are things I must do.” Abruptly he turned away from her and bent over his work once more.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to take up this much of your time.”
Dors left, frowning.
23
Raych said, “Come in, Mom. The coast is clear. I’ve sent Manella and Wanda off somewhere.”
Dors entered, looked right and left out of sheer habit, and sat down in the nearest chair.
“Thanks,” said Dors. For a while she simply sat there, looking as if the weight of the Empire were on her shoulders.
Raych waited, then said, “I never got a chance to ask you about your wild trip into the Palace grounds. It isn’t every guy who has a mom who can do that.”
“We’re not talking about that, Raych.”
“Well then, tell me— You’re not one for giving anything away by facial expressions, but you look sorta down. Why is that?”
“Because I feel, as you say, sorta down. In fact, I’m in a bad mood because I have terribly important things on my mind and there’s no use talking to your father about it. He’s the most wonderful man in the world, but he’s very hard to handle. There’s no chance that he’d take an interest in the dramatic. He dismisses it all as my irrational fears for his life—and my subsequent attempts to protect him.”
“Come on, Mom, you do seem to have irrational fears where Dad’s concerned. If you’ve got something dramatic in mind, it’s probably all wrong.”
“Tha
nk you. You sound just like he does and you leave me frustrated. Absolutely frustrated.”
“Well then, unburden yourself, Mom. Tell me what’s on your mind. From the beginning.”
“It starts with Wanda’s dream.”
“Wanda’s dream! Mom! Maybe you’d better stop right now. I know that Dad won’t want to listen if you start that way. I mean, come on. A little kid has a dream and you make a big deal of it. That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t think it was a dream, Raych. I think what she thought was a dream were two real people, talking about what she thought concerned the death of her grandfather.”
“That’s a wild guess on your part. What possible chance does this have of being true?”
“Just suppose it is true. The one phrase that remained with her was ‘lemonade death.’ Why should she dream that? It’s much more likely that she heard that and distorted the words she heard—in which case, what were the undistorted words?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Raych, his voice incredulous.
Dors did not fail to catch that. “You think this is just my sick invention. Still, if I happen to be right, I might be at the start of unraveling a conspiracy against Hari right here in the Project.”
“Are there conspiracies in the Project? That sounds as impossible to me as finding significance in a dream.”
“Every large project is riddled with angers, frictions, jealousies of all sorts.”
“Sure. Sure. We’re talking nasty words and faces and nose thumbing and tale bearing. That’s nothing at all like talking conspiracy. It’s not like talking about killing Dad.”
“It’s just a difference in degree. A small difference—maybe.”
“You’ll never make Dad believe that. For that matter, you’ll never make me believe that.” Raych walked hastily across the room and back again, “And you’ve been trying to nose out this so-called conspiracy, have you?”
Dors nodded.
“And you’ve failed.”
Dors nodded.
“Doesn’t it occur to you that you’ve failed because there is no conspiracy, Mom?”