Forward the Foundation

Kaspalov mumbled something.

Namarti said, "It's impossible to do anything with a guarantee that no one at all will be hurt. You just do your job. Do it in such a way that you hurt as few as possible-if your conscience insists upon it-but do it!"

Kaspalov said, "Look! I have one thing more to say, Chief."

"Then say it," said Namarti wearily.

"We can spend years poking at the infrastructure. The time must come when you take advantage of gathering dissatisfaction to seize the government. How do you intend to do that?"

"You want to know exactly how we'll do it?"

"Yes. The faster we strike, the more limited the damage, the more efficiently the surgery is performed."

Namarti said slowly, "I have not yet decided on the nature of this 'surgical strike.' But it will come. Until then, will you do your part?"

Kaspalov nodded his head in resignation. "Yes, Chief."

"Well then, go," said Namarti with a sharp gesture of dismissal.

Kaspalov rose, turned, and left. Namarti watched him go. He said to the man at his right, "Kaspalov is not to be trusted. He has sold out and it's only so that he can betray us that he wants to know my plans for the future. Take care of him."

The other nodded and all three left, leaving Namarti alone in the room. He switched off the glowing wall panels, leaving only a lonely square in the ceiling to provide the light that would keep him from being entirely in the darkness.

He thought: Every chain has weak links that must be eliminated. We have had to do this in the past and the result is that we have an organization that is untouchable.

And in the dimness, he smiled, twisting his face into a kind of feral joy. After all, the network extended even into the Palace itself-not quite firmly, not quite reliably, but it was there. And it would be strengthened.

The weather was holding up over the undomed area of the Imperial Palace grounds-warm and su

It didn't often happen. Hari remembered Dors telling him once how this particular area with its cold winters and frequent rains had been chosen as the site.

"It wasn't actually chosen," she said. "It was a family estate of the Morovian family in the early days of the Kingdom of Trantor. When the Kingdom became an Empire, there were numerous sites where the Emperor could live-summer resorts, winter places, sports lodges, beach properties. And, as the planet was slowly domed, one reigning Emperor, living here, liked it so much that it remained undomed. And, just because it was the only area left undomed, it became special-a place apart-and that uniqueness appealed to the next Emperor… and the next… and the next… And so, a tradition was born."

And as always, when hearing something like that, Seldon would think: And how would psychohistory handle this? Would it predict that one area would remain undomed but be absolutely unable to say which area? Could it go even so far? Could it predict that several areas would remain undomed or none-and be wrong? How could it account for the personal likes and dislikes of an Emperor who happened to be on the throne at the crucial time and who made a decision in a moment of whimsy and nothing more. That way lay chaos-and madness.

Cleon I was clearly enjoying the good weather.

"I'm getting old, Seldon," he said. "I don't have to tell you that. We're the same age, you and I. Surely it's a sign of age when I don't have the impulse to play te

He was eating nuts as he spoke, which resembled what on Seldon's native world of Helicon would have been called pumpkin seeds, but which were larger and a little less delicate in taste. Cleon cracked them gently between his teeth, peeled the thin shells and popped the kernels into his mouth.

Seldon did not like the taste particularly but, of course, when he was offered some by the Emperor, he accepted them and ate a few.

The Emperor had a number of shells in his hand and looked vaguely around for a receptacle of some sort that he could use for disposal. He saw none, but he did notice a gardener standing not far away, his body at attention (as it should be in the Imperial presence) and his head respectfully bowed.

Cleon said, "Gardener!"

The gardener approached quickly. "Sire!"

"Get rid of these for me," he said, tapping the shells into the gardener's hand.

"Yes, Sire."

Seldon said, "I have a few, too, Gruber."

Gruber held out his hand and said, almost shyly, "Yes, First Minister."

He hurried away and the Emperor looked after him curiously. "Do you know the fellow, Seldon?"

"Yes, indeed, Sire. An old friend."

"The gardener is an old friend? What is he? A mathematical colleague fallen on hard times?"

"No, Sire. Perhaps you remember the story. It was the time when"-he cleared his throat, searching for the most tactful way to recall the incident-"the sergeant threatened my life shortly after I was appointed to my present post through your kindness."

"The assassination attempt." Cleon looked up to heaven, as though seeking patience. "I don't know why everyone is so afraid of that word."

"Perhaps," said Seldon smoothly, slightly despising himself for the ease with which he had become able to flatter, "the rest of us are more perturbed at the possibility of something untoward happening to our Emperor than you yourself are."

Cleon smiled ironically. "I dare say. And what has this to do with Gruber? Is that his name?"

"Yes, Sire. Mandell Gruber. I'm sure you will recall, if you cast your mind back, that there was a gardener who came rushing up with a rake to defend me against the armed sergeant."

"Ah yes. Was that fellow the gardener who did that?"

"He was the man, Sire. I've considered him a friend ever since and I meet him almost every time I am on the grounds. I think he watches for me, feels proprietary toward me. And, of course, I feel kindly toward him."

"I don't blame you. And while we're on the subject, how is your formidable lady, Dr. Venabili? I don't see her often."

"She's a historian, Sire. Lost in the past."

"She doesn't frighten you? She'd frighten me. I've been told how she treated that sergeant. One could almost be sorry for him."

"She grows savage on my behalf, Sire, but has not had occasion to do so lately. It's been very quiet."

The Emperor looked after the disappearing gardener. "Have we ever rewarded that man?"

"I have done so, Sire. He has a wife and two daughters and I have arranged that each daughter will have a sum of money put aside for the education of any children she may have."

"Very good. But he needs a promotion, I think. Is he a good gardener?"

"Excellent, Sire."

"The Chief Gardener, Malcomber-I'm not quite sure I remember his name-is getting on and is, perhaps, not up to the job anymore. He is well into his late seventies. Do you think this Gruber might be able to take over?"

"I'm certain he can, Sire, but he likes his present job. It keeps him out in the open in all kinds of weather."

"A peculiar recommendation for a job. I'm sure he can get used to administration and I do need someone for some sort of renewal of the grounds. Hmmm. I must think upon this. Your friend Gruber may be just the man I need. By the way, Seldon, what did you mean by saying it's been very quiet?"

"I merely meant, Sire, that there has been no sign of discord at the Imperial Court. The unavoidable tendency to intrigue seems to be as near a minimum as it is ever likely to get."

"You wouldn't say that if you were Emperor, Seldon, and had to contend with all these officials and their complaints. How can you tell me things are quiet when reports seem to reach me every other week of some serious breakdown here and there on Trantor?"

"These things are bound to happen."

"I don't recall such things happening so frequently in previous years."

"Perhaps that was because they didn't, Sire. The infrastructure grows older with time. To make the necessary repairs properly would take time, labor, and enormous expense. This is not a time when a rise in taxes will be looked on favorably."

"There's never any such time. I gather that the people are experiencing serious dissatisfaction over these breakdowns. It must stop and you must see to it, Seldon. What does psychohistory say?"

"It says what common sense says, that everything is growing older."

"Well, all this is quite spoiling the pleasant day for me. I leave it in your hands, Seldon."

"Yes, Sire," said Seldon quietly.

The Emperor strode off and Seldon thought that it was all spoiling the pleasant day for him, too. This breakdown at the center was the alternative he didn't want. But how was he to prevent it and switch the crisis to the Periphery?

Psychohistory didn't say.

Raych Seldon felt extraordinarily contented, for it was the first di

The surroundings were not as warm as they had been at Streeling in the old days, when their home had been small and intimate, a virtual gem in the larger setting of the University. Now, unfortunately, nothing could hide the grandeur of the First Minister's Palace suite.

Raych sometimes stared at himself in the mirror and wondered how it could be. He was not tall, only 163 centimeters in height, distinctly shorter than either parent. He was rather stocky but muscular-and not fat, with black hair and the distinctive Dahlite mustache that he kept as dark and as thick as possible.

In the mirror he could still see the street urchin he had once been before the chanciest of great chances had dictated his meeting with Hari and Dors. Seldon had been much younger then and his appearance now made it plain that Raych himself was almost as old now as Seldon had been when they met. Amazingly, Dors had hardly changed at all. She was as sleek and fit as the day Raych had first showed Hari and Dors the way to Mother Rittah's in Billibotton. And he, Raych, born to poverty and misery, was now a member of the civil service, a small cog in the Ministry of Population.