Then Mayor Mannix IV appeared, as had been promised. He was standing upright and, perhaps for the sake of appearances, there were no Imperials in sight, though Seldon was reasonably certain that an adequate number were present just out of camera range.
Mannix was old, but his strength, though worn, was still apparent. His eyes did not meet the holo-camera and his words were spoken as though forced upon him—but, as had been promised, they counseled Wyans to remain calm, to offer no resistance, to keep Wye from harm, and to cooperate with the Emperor who, it was hoped, would survive long on the throne.
“No mention of Rashelle,” said Seldon. “It’s as though his daughter doesn’t exist.”
“No one has mentioned her,” said Dors, “and this place, which is, after all, her residence—or one of them— hasn’t been attacked. Even if she manages to slip away and take refuge in some neighboring sector, I doubt she will be safe anywhere on Trantor for long.”
“Perhaps not,” came a voice, “but I’ll be safe here for a little while.”
Rashelle entered. She was properly dressed, properly calm. She was even smiling, but it was no smile of joy; it was, rather, a cold baring of teeth.
The three stared at her in surprise for a moment and Seldon wondered if she had any of her servants with her or if they had promptly deserted her at the first sign of adversity.
Dors said a little coldly, “I see, Madam Mayor, that your hopes for a coup cannot be maintained. Apparently, you have been forestalled.”
“I have not been forestalled. I have been betrayed. My officers have been tampered with and—against all history and rationality—they have refused to fight for a woman but only for their old master. And, traitors that they are, they then let their old master be seized so that he cannot lead them in resistance.”
She looked about for a chair and sat down. “And now the Empire must continue to decay and die when I was prepared to offer it new life.”
“I think,” said Dors, “the Empire has avoided an indefinite period of useless fighting and destruction. Console yourself with that, Madam Mayor.”
It was as though Rashelle did not hear her. “So many years of preparation destroyed in a night.” She sat there beaten, defeated, and seemed to have aged twenty years.
Dors said, “It could scarcely have been done in a night. The suborning of your officers—if that took place— must have taken time.”
“At that, Demerzel is a master and quite obviously I underestimated him. How he did it, I don’t know— threats, bribes, smooth and specious argument. He is a master at the art of stealth and betrayal—I should have known.”
She went on after a pause. “If this was outright force on his part, I would have had no trouble destroying anything he sent against us. Who would think that Wye would be betrayed, that an oath of allegiance would be so lightly thrown aside?”
Seldon said with automatic rationality, “But I imagine the oath was made not to you, but to your father.”
“Nonsense,” said Rashelle vigorously. “When my father gave me the Mayoral office, as he was legally entitled to do, he automatically passed on to me any oaths of allegiance made to him. There is ample precedence for this. It is customary to have the oath repeated to the new ruler, but that is a ceremony only and not a legal requirement. My officers know that, though they choose to forget. They use my womanhood as an excuse because they quake in fear of Imperial vengeance that would never have come had they been staunch or tremble with greed for promised rewards they will surely never get—if I know Demerzel.”
She turned sharply toward Seldon. “He wants you, you know. Demerzel struck at us for you.”
Seldon started. “Why me?”
“Don’t be a fool. For the same reason I wanted you .?.?. to use you as a tool, of course.” She sighed. “At least I am not utterly betrayed. There are still loyal soldiers to be found. —Sergeant!”
Sergeant Emmer Thalus entered with a soft cautious step that seemed incongruous, considering his size. His uniform was spruce, his long blond mustache fiercely curled.
“Madam Mayor,” he said, drawing himself to attention with a snap.
He was still, in appearance, the side of beef that Hari had named him—a man still following orders blindly, totally oblivious to the new and changed state of affairs.
Rashelle smiled sadly at Raych. “And how are you, little Raych? I had meant to make something of you. It seems now I won’t be able to.”
“Hello, Missus .?.?. Madam,” said Raych awkwardly.
“And to have made something of you too, Dr. Seldon,” said Rashelle, “and there also I must crave pardon. I cannot.”
“For me, Madam, you need have no regrets.”
“But I do. I cannot very well let Demerzel have you. That would be one victory too many for him and at least I can stop that.”
“I would not work for him, Madam, I assure you, any more than I would have worked for you.”
“It is not a matter of work. It is a matter of being used. Farewell, Dr. Seldon. —Sergeant, blast him.”
The sergeant drew his blaster at once and Dors, with a loud cry, lunged forward—but Seldon reached out for her and caught her by the elbow. He hung on desperately.
“Stay back, Dors,” he shouted, “or he’ll kill you. He won’t kill me. You too, Raych. Stand back. Don’t move.”
Seldon faced the sergeant. “You hesitate, Sergeant, because you know you cannot shoot. I might have killed you ten days ago, but I did not. And you gave me your word of honor at that time that you would protect me.”
“What are you waiting for?” snapped Rashelle. “I said shoot him down, Sergeant.”
Seldon said nothing more. He stood there while the sergeant, eyes bulging, held his blaster steady and pointed at Seldon’s head.
“You have your order!” shrieked Rashelle.
“I have your word,” said Seldon quietly.
And Sergeant Thalus said in a choked tone, “Dishonored either way.” His hand fell and his blaster clanged to the floor.
Rashelle cried out, “Then you too betray me!”
Before Seldon could move or Dors free herself from his grip, Rashelle seized the blaster, turned it on the sergeant, and closed contact.
Seldon had never seen anyone blasted before. Somehow, from the name of the weapon perhaps, he had expected a loud noise, an explosion of flesh and blood. This Wyan blaster, at least, did nothing of the sort. What mangling it did to the organs inside the sergeant’s chest Seldon could not tell but, without a change in expression, without a wince of pain, the sergeant crumbled and fell, dead beyond any doubt or any hope.
And Rashelle turned the blaster on Seldon with a firmness that put to rest any hope for his own life beyond the next second.
It was Raych, however, who jumped into action the moment the sergeant fell. Racing between Seldon and Rashelle, he waved his hands wildly.
“Missus, Missus,” he called. “Don’t shoot.”
For a moment, Rashelle looked confused. “Out of the way, Raych. I don’t want to hurt you.”
That moment of hesitation was all Dors needed. Breaking loose violently, she plunged toward Rashelle with a long low dive. Rashelle went down with a cry and the blaster hit the ground a second time.
Raych retrieved it.
Seldon, with a deep and shuddering breath, said, “Raych, give that to me.”
But Raych backed away. “Ya ain’t gonna kill her, are ya, Mister Seldon? She was nice to me.”
“I won’t kill anyone, Raych,” said Seldon. “She killed the sergeant and would have killed me, but she didn’t shoot rather than hurt you and we’ll let her live for that.”
It was Seldon who now sat down, the blaster held loosely in his hand, while Dors removed the neuronic whip from the dead sergeant’s other holster.
A new voice rang out. “I’ll take care of her now, Seldon.”
Seldon looked up and in sudden joy said, “Hummin! Finally!”
