Forward the Foundation

“It might prove that the center of the conspiracy is in Wye and that the conspirators don’t want to make themselves uncomfortable, only the rest of Trantor. It also might mean that it’s not the Joranumites at all but members of the old Wyan family who still dream of ruling the Empire once again.”

“Oh boy, Dad. You’re building all this on very little.”

“I know. Now suppose it is another Joranumite Conspiracy. Joranum had, as his right-hand man, Gambol Deen Namarti. We have no record of Namarti’s death, no record of his having left Trantor, no record of his life over the last decade or so. That’s not terribly surprising. After all, it’s easy to lose one person among forty billion. There was a time in my life when I tried to do just that. Of course, Namarti may be dead. That would be the easiest explanation, but he may not be.”

“What do we do about it?”

Seldon sighed. “The logical thing would be to turn to the security establishment, but I can’t. I don’t have Demerzel’s presence. He could cow people; I can’t. He had a powerful personality; I’m just a—mathematician. I shouldn’t be First Minister at all; I’m not cut out for it. And I wouldn’t be—if the Emperor weren’t fixated on psychohistory to a far greater extent than it deserves.”

“You’re kinda whipping yourself, ain’t you, Dad?”

“Yes. I suppose I am, but I have a picture of myself going to the security establishment, for instance, with what I have just shown you on the map”—he pointed to the now-empty tabletop—“and arguing that we were in great danger of some conspiracy of unknown consequence and nature. They would listen solemnly and, after I had left, they would laugh among themselves about ‘the crazy mathematician’—and then do nothing.”

“Then what do we do about it?” said Raych, returning to the point.

“It’s what you will do about it, Raych. I need more evidence and I want you to find it for me. I would send your mother, but she won’t leave me under any circumstances. I myself can’t leave the Palace grounds at this time. Next to Dors and myself, I trust you. More than Dors and myself, in fact. You’re still quite young, you’re strong, you’re a better Heliconian Twister than I ever was, and you’re smart.

“Mind you, now, I don’t want you to risk your life. No heroism, no derring-do. I couldn’t face your mother if anything happened to you. Just find out what you can. Perhaps you’ll find that Namarti is alive and operating—or dead. Perhaps you’ll find out that the Joranumites are an active group—or moribund. Perhaps you’ll find out that the Wyan ruling family is active—or not. Any of that would be interesting—but not vital. What I want you to find out is whether the infrastructure breakdowns are of human manufacture, as I think they are, and, far more important still, if they are deliberately caused, what else the conspirators plan to do. It seems to me they must have plans for some major coup and, if so, I must know what that will be.”

Raych said cautiously, “Do you have some kinda plan to get me started?”

“Yes indeed, Raych. I want you to go down to the area of Wye where Kaspalov was killed. Find out if you can if he was an active Joranumite and see if you can’t join a Joranumite cell yourself.”

“Maybe that’s possible. I can always pretend to be an old Joranumite. It’s true that I was pretty young when Jo-Jo was sounding off, but I was very impressed by his ideas. It’s even sorta true.”

“Well yes, but there’s one important catch. You might be recognized. After all, you’re the son of the First Minister. You have appeared on holovision now and then and you have been interviewed concerning your views on sector equality.”

“Sure, but—”

“No buts, Raych. You’ll wear elevated shoes to add three centimeters to your height and we’ll have someone show you how to change the shape of your eyebrows and make your face fuller and change the timbre of your voice.”

Raych shrugged. “A lotta trouble for nothing.”

“And,” said Seldon with a distinct quaver, “you will shave off your mustache.”

Raych’s eyes widened and for a moment he sat there in appalled silence. Finally he said in a hoarse whisper, “Shave my mustache?”

“Clean as a whistle. No one would recognize you without it.”

“But it can’t be done. Like cutting off your— Like castration.”

Seldon shook his head. “It’s just a cultural curiosity. Yugo Amaryl is as Dahlite as you are and he wears no mustache.”

“Yugo is a nut. I don’t think he’s alive at all, except for his mathematics.”

“He’s a great mathematician and the absence of a mustache does not alter that fact. Besides, it’s not castration. Your mustache will grow back in two weeks.”

“Two weeks! It’ll take two years to reach this—this—”

He put his hand up, as though to cover and protect it.

Seldon said inexorably, “Raych, you have to do it. It’s a sacrifice you must make. If you act as my spy with your mustache, you may—come to harm. I can’t take that chance.”

“I’d rather die,” said Raych violently.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” said Seldon severely. “You would not rather die and this is something you must do. However”—and here he hesitated—“don’t say anything about it to your mother. I will take care of that.”

Raych stared at his father in frustration and then said in a low and despairing tone, “All right, Dad.”

Seldon said, “I will get someone to supervise your disguise and then you will go to Wye by air-jet. —Buck up, Raych, it’s not the end of the world.”

Raych smiled wanly and Seldon watched him leave, a deeply troubled look on his face. A mustache could easily be regrown, but a son could not. Seldon knew perfectly well that he was sending Raych into danger.

9

We all have our small illusions and Cleon—Emperor of the Galaxy, King of Trantor, and a wide collection of other titles that on rare occasions could be called out in a long sonorous roll—was convinced that he was a person of democratic spirit.

It always angered him when he was warned off a course of action by Demerzel (or, later, by Seldon) on the grounds that such action would be looked on as “tyrannical” or “despotic.”

Cleon was not a tyrant or despot by disposition, he was certain; he only wanted to take firm and decisive action.

He spoke many times with nostalgic approval of the days when Emperors could mingle freely with their subjects, but now, of course, when the history of coups and assassinations—actual or attempted—had become a dreary fact of life, the Emperor had, of necessity, been shut off from the world.

It is doubtful that Cleon, who had never in his life met with people except under the most constricted of conditions, would really have felt at home in offhand encounters with strangers, but he always imagined he would enjoy it. He was excited, therefore, for the rare chance of talking to one of the underlings on the grounds, to smile and to doff the trappings of Imperial rule for a few minutes. It made him feel democratic.

There was this gardener whom Seldon had spoken of, for instance. It would be fitting, even a pleasure, to reward him belatedly for his loyalty and bravery—and to do so himself, rather than leaving it to some functionary.

He therefore arranged to meet the fellow in the spacious rose garden, which was in full bloom. That would be appropriate, Cleon thought, but, of course, they would have to bring the gardener there first. It was unthinkable for the Emperor to be made to wait. It is one thing to be democratic, quite another to be inconvenienced.

The gardener was waiting for him among the roses, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. It occurred to Cleon that it was possible that no one had told the man the exact reason for the meeting. Well, he would reassure him in kindly fashion—except that, now he came to think of it, he could not remember the fellow’s name.

He turned to one of the officials at his side and said, “What is the gardener’s name?”

“Sire, it is Mandell Gruber. He has been a gardener here for thirty years.”

The Emperor nodded and said, “Ah, Gruber. How glad I am to meet a worthy and hardworking gardener.”