Forward the Foundation

“Gleb Andorin. Because I received a roundabout message from Raych.”

Dors’s eyes flashed. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is he all right?”

“As far as I know, but I hope he doesn’t try any further messages. If he’s caught communicating, he won’t be all right. In any case, he has made contact with Andorin.”

“And the Joranumites, too?”

“I don’t think so. It would sound unlikely, for the connection is not something that would make sense. The Joranumite movement is predominantly lower-class—a proletarian movement, so to speak. And Andorin is an aristocrat of aristocrats. What would he be doing with the Joranumites?”

“If he’s of the Wyan Mayoralty family, he might aspire to the Imperial throne, might he not?”

“They’ve been aspiring for generations. You remember Rashelle, I trust. She was Andorin’s aunt.”

“Then he might be using the Joranumites as a stepping-stone, don’t you think?”

“If they exist. And if they do—and if a stepping-stone is what Andorin wants—I think he’d find himself playing a dangerous game. The Joranumites—if they exist—would have their own plans and a man like Andorin may find he’s simply riding a greti—”

“What’s a greti?”

“Some extinct animal of a ferocious type, I think. It’s just a proverbial phrase back on Helicon. If you ride a greti, you find you can’t get off, for then it will eat you.”

Seldon paused. “One more thing. Raych seems to be involved with a woman who knows Andorin and through whom, he thinks, he may get important information. I’m telling you this now so that you won’t accuse me afterward of keeping anything from you.”

Dors frowned. “A woman?”

“One, I gather, who knows a great many men who will talk to her unwisely, sometimes, under intimate circumstances.”

“One of those.” Her frown deepened. “I don’t like the thought of Raych—”

“Come, come. Raych is thirty years old and undoubtedly has much experience. You can leave this woman—or any woman, I think—safely to Raych’s good sense.” He turned toward Dors with a look so worn, so weary, and said, “Do you think I like this? Do you think I like any of this?”

And Dors could find nothing to say.

16

Gambol Deen Namarti was not, at even the best of times, noted for his politeness and suavity—and the approaching climax of a decade of planning had left his disposition sour.

He rose from his chair with some agitation and said, “You’ve taken your time getting here, Andorin.”

Andorin shrugged. “But I’m here.”

“And this young man of yours—this remarkable tool that you’re touting. Where is he?”

“He’ll be here eventually.”

“Why not now?”

Andorin’s rather handsome head seemed to sink a bit, as though he were lost in thought or coming to a decision, and then he said abruptly, “I don’t want to bring him until I know where I stand.”

“What does that mean?”

“Simple words in Galactic Standard. How long has it been your aim to get rid of Hari Seldon?”

“Always! Always! Is that so hard to understand? We deserve revenge for what he did to Jo-Jo. Even if he hadn’t done that, since he’s the First Minister, we’d have to put him out of the way.”

“But it’s Cleon—Cleon—who must be brought down. If not only he, then at least he, in addition to Seldon.”

“Why does a figurehead concern you?”

“You weren’t born yesterday. I’ve never had to explain my part in this because you’re not so ignorant a fool as not to know. What can I possibly care about your plans if they don’t include a replacement on the throne?”

Namarti laughed. “Of course. I’ve known for a long time that you look upon me as your footstool, your way of climbing up to the Imperial throne.”

“Would you expect anything else?”

“Not at all. I will do the planning, take the chances, and then, when all is quite done, you gather in the reward. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does make sense, for the reward will be yours, too. Won’t you become the First Minister? Won’t you be able to count on the full support of a new Emperor, one who is filled with gratitude? Won’t I be”—and his face twisted with irony as he spat out the words—“the new figurehead?”

“Is that what you plan to be? A figurehead?”

“I plan to be the Emperor. I supplied advances of credit when you had none. I supplied the cadre when you had none. I supplied the respectability you needed to build a large organization here in Wye. I can still withdraw everything I’ve brought in.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you want to risk it? Don’t think you can treat me the way you treated Kaspalov, either. If anything happens to me, Wye will become uninhabitable for you and yours—and you will find that no other sector will supply you with what you need.”

Namarti sighed. “Then you insist on having the Emperor killed.”

“I didn’t say ‘killed.’ I said ‘brought down.’ The details I leave to you.” This last statement was accompanied with an almost dismissive wave of the hand, a flick of the wrist, as if Andorin were already sitting on the Imperial throne.

“And then you’ll be Emperor?”

“Yes.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be dead—and not at my hands, either. Andorin, let me teach you some of the facts of life. If Cleon is killed, then the matter of the succession comes up and, to avoid civil war, the Imperial Guard will at once kill every member of the Wyan Mayoral family they can find—you first of all. On the other hand, if only the First Minister is killed, you will be safe.”

“Why?”

“A First Minister is only a First Minister. They come and go. It is possible that Cleon himself may have grown tired of him and arranged the murder. Certainly we would see to it that rumors of this sort are spread. The Imperial Guard would hesitate and would give us a chance to put the new government into place. Indeed, it is quite possible that they themselves would be grateful for the end of Seldon.”

“And with the new government in place, what am I to do? Keep on waiting? Forever?”

“No. Once I’m First Minister, there will be ways of dealing with Cleon. I may even be able to do something with the Imperial Guard—and even with the security establishment—and use them all as my instruments. I will then manage to find some safe way of getting rid of Cleon and replacing him with you.”

Andorin burst out, “Why should you?”

Namarti said, “What do you mean, why should I?”

“You have a personal grudge against Seldon. Once he is gone, why should you run unnecessary risks at the highest level? You will make your peace with Cleon and I will have to retire to my crumbling estate and my impossible dreams. And perhaps, to play it safe, you will have me killed.”

Namarti said, “No! Cleon was born to the throne. He comes from several generations of Emperors—the proud Entun Dynasty. He would be very difficult to handle, a plague. You, on the other hand, would come to the throne as a member of a new dynasty, without any strong ties to tradition, for the previous Wyan Emperors were, you will admit, totally undistinguished. You will be seated on a shaky throne and will need someone to support you—me. And I will need someone who is dependent upon me and whom I can therefore handle—you. —Come, Andorin, ours is not a marriage of love, which fades in a year; it is a marriage of convenience, which can last as long as we both live. Let us trust each other.”

“You swear I will be Emperor.”