Prelude to Foundation

19

Cleon I had finished dinner, which, unfortunately, had been a formal state affair. It meant he had to spend time talking to various officials—not one of whom he knew or recognized—in set phrases designed to give each one his stroke and so activate his loyalty to the crown. It also meant that his food reached him but lukewarm and had cooled still further before he could eat it.

There had to be some way of avoiding that. Eat first, perhaps, on his own or with one or two close intimates with whom he could relax and then attend a formal dinner at which he could merely be served an imported pear. He loved pears. But would that offend the guests who would take the Emperor’s refusal to eat with them as a studied insult?

His wife, of course, was useless in this respect, for her presence would but further exacerbate his unhappiness. He had married her because she was a member of a powerful dissident family who could be expected to mute their dissidence as a result of the union, though Cleon devoutly hoped that she, at least, would not do so. He was perfectly content to have her live her own life in her own quarters except for the necessary efforts to initiate an heir, for, to tell the truth, he didn’t like her. And now that an heir had come, he could ignore her completely.

He chewed at one of a handful of nuts he had pocketed from the table on leaving and said, “Demerzel!”

“Sire?”

Demerzel always appeared at once when Cleon called. Whether he hovered constantly in earshot at the door or he drew close because the instinct of subservience somehow alerted him to a possible call in a few minutes, he did appear and that, Cleon thought idly, was the important thing. Of course, there were those times when Demerzel had to be away on Imperial business. Cleon always hated those absences. They made him uneasy.

“What happened to that mathematician? I forget his name.”

Demerzel, who surely knew the man the Emperor had in mind, but who perhaps wanted to study how much the Emperor remembered, said, “What mathematician is it that you have in mind, Sire?”

Cleon waved an impatient hand. “The fortune-teller. The one who came to see me.”

“The one we sent for?”

“Well, sent for, then. He did come to see me. You were going to take care of the matter, as I recall. Have you?”

Demerzel cleared his throat. “Sire, I have tried to.”

“Ah! That means you have failed, doesn’t it?” In a way, Cleon felt pleased. Demerzel was the only one of his Ministers who made no bones of failure. The others never admitted failure, and since failure was nevertheless common, it became difficult to correct. Perhaps Demerzel could afford to be more honest because he failed so rarely. If it weren’t for Demerzel, Cleon thought sadly, he might never know what honesty sounded like. Perhaps no Emperor ever knew and perhaps that was one of the reasons that the Empire—

He pulled his thoughts away and, suddenly nettled at the other’s silence and wanting an admission, since he had just admired Demerzel’s honesty in his mind, said sharply, “Well, you have failed, haven’t you?”

Demerzel did not flinch. “Sire, I have failed in part. I felt that to have him here on Trantor where things are —difficult—might present us with problems. It was easy to consider that he might be more conveniently placed on his home planet. He was planning to return to that home planet the next day, but there was always the chance of complications—of his deciding to remain on Trantor—so I arranged to have two young alley men place him on his plane that very day.”

“Do you know alley men, Demerzel?” Cleon was amused.

“It is important, Sire, to be able to reach many kinds of people, for each type has its own variety of use— alley men not the least. As it happens, they did not succeed.”

“And why was that?”

“Oddly enough, Seldon was able to fight them off.”

“The mathematician could fight?”

“Apparently, mathematics and the martial arts are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I found out, not soon enough, that his world, Helicon, is noted for it—martial arts, not mathematics. The fact that I did not learn this earlier was indeed a failure, Sire, and I can only crave your pardon.”

“But then, I suppose the mathematician left for his home planet the next day as he had planned.”

“Unfortunately, the episode backfired. Taken aback by the event, he decided not to return to Helicon, but remained on Trantor. He may have been advised to this effect by a passerby who happened to be present on the occasion of the fight. That was another unlooked-for complication.”

The Emperor Cleon frowned. “Then our mathematician—what is his name?”

“Seldon, Sire. Hari Seldon.”

“Then this Seldon is out of reach.”

“In a sense, Sire. We have traced his movements and he is now at Streeling University. While there, he is untouchable.”

The Emperor scowled and reddened slightly. “I am annoyed at that word—‘untouchable.’ There should be nowhere in the Empire my hand cannot reach. Yet here, on my own world, you tell me someone can be untouchable. Insufferable!”

“Your hand can reach to the University, Sire. You can send in your army and pluck out this Seldon at any moment you desire. To do so, however, is .?.?. undesirable.”

“Why don’t you say ‘impractical,’ Demerzel. You sound like the mathematician speaking of his fortune-telling. It is possible, but impractical. I am an Emperor who finds everything possible, but very little practical. Remember, Demerzel, if reaching Seldon is not practical, reaching you is entirely so.”

Eto Demerzel let this last comment pass. The “man behind the throne” knew his importance to the Emperor; he had heard such threats before. He waited in silence while the Emperor glowered. Drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, Cleon asked, “Well then, what good is this mathematician to us if he is at Streeling University?”

“It may perhaps be possible, Sire, to snatch use out of adversity. At the University, he may decide to work on his psychohistory.”

“Even though he insists it’s impractical?”

“He may be wrong and he may find out that he is wrong. And if he finds out that he is wrong, we would find some way of getting him out of the University. It is even possible he would join us voluntarily under those circumstances.”

The Emperor remained lost in thought for a while, then said, “And what if someone else plucks him out before we do?”

“Who would want to do that, Sire?” asked Demerzel softly.

“The Mayor of Wye, for one,” said Cleon, suddenly shouting. “He dreams still of taking over the Empire.”

“Old age has drawn his fangs, Sire.”

“Don’t you believe it, Demerzel.”

“And we have no reason for supposing he has any interest in Seldon or even knows of him, Sire.”

“Come on, Demerzel. If we heard of the paper, so could Wye. If we see the possible importance of Seldon, so could Wye.”

“If that should happen,” said Demerzel, “or even if there should be a reasonable chance of its happening, then we would be justified in taking strong measures.”

“How strong?”

Demerzel said cautiously, “It might be argued that rather than have Seldon in Wye’s hands, we might prefer to have him in no one’s hands. To have him cease to exist, Sire.”

“To have him killed, you mean,” said Cleon.

“If you wish to put it that way, Sire,” said Demerzel.