Forward the Foundation

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.

6

The weather was holding up over the un-domed area of the Imperial Palace grounds—warm and sunny.

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 tennis or go fishing, even though they’ve newly restocked the lake, but am willing to walk gently over the pathways.”

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.”