11
The University had been transformed and Hari Seldon could not refrain from being pleased.
The central rooms of the Project complex had suddenly sprouted in color and light, with holography filling the air with shifting three-dimensional images of Seldon at different places and different times. There was Dors Venabili smiling, looking somewhat younger--Raych as a teenager, still unpolished--Seldon and Amaryl, looking unbelievably young, bent over their computers. There was even a fleeting sight of Eto Demerzel, which filled Seldon’s heart with yearning for his old friend and the security he had felt before Demerzel’s departure.
The Emperor Cleon appeared nowhere in the holographics. It was not because holographs of him did not exist, but it was not wise, under the rule of the junta, to remind people of the past Imperium.
It all poured outward, overflowing, filling room after room, building after building. Somehow, time had been found to convert the entire University into a display the likes of which Seldon had never seen or even imagined. Even the dome lights were darkened to produce an artificial night against which the University would sparkle for three days.
“Three days!” said Seldon, half-impressed, half-horrified.
“Three days,” said Dors Venabili, nodding her head. “The University would consider nothing less.”
“The expense! The labor!” said Seldon, frowning.
“The expense is minimal,” said Dors, “compared to what you have done for the University. And the labor is all voluntary. The students turned out and took care of everything.”
A from-the-air view of the University appeared now, panoramically, and Seldon stared at it with a smile forcing itself onto his countenance.
Dors said, “You’re pleased. You’ve done nothing but grouse these past few months about how you didn’t want any celebration for being an old man--and now look at you.”
“Well, it is flattering. I had no idea that they would do anything like this.”
“Why not? You’re an icon, Hari. The whole world--the whole Empire--knows about you.”
“They do not,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “Not one in a billion knows anything at all about me--and certainly not about psychohistory. No one outside the Project has the faintest knowledge of how psychohistory works and not everyone inside does, either.”
“That doesn’t matter, Hari. It’s you. Even the quadrillions who don’t know anything about you or your work know that Hari Seldon is the greatest mathematician in the Empire.”
“Well,” said Seldon, looking around, “they certainly are making me feel that way right now. But three days and three nights! The place will be reduced to splinters.”
“No, it won’t. All the records have been stored away. The computers and other equipment have been secured. The students have set up a virtual security force that will prevent anything from being damaged.”
“You’ve seen to all of that, haven’t you, Dors?” said Seldon, smiling at her fondly.
“A number of us have. It’s by no means all me. Your colleague Tamwile Elar has worked with incredible dedication.”
Seldon scowled.
“What’s the matter with Elar?” said Dors.
Seldon said, “He keeps calling me ‘Maestro.’ “
Dors shook her head. “Well, there’s a terrible crime.”
Seldon ignored that and said, “And he’s young.”
“Worse and worse. Come, Hari, you’re going to have to learn to grow old gracefully--and to begin with you’ll have to show that you’re enjoying yourself. That will please others and increase their enjoyment and surely you would want to do that. Come on. Move around. Don’t hide here with me. Greet everyone. Smile. Ask after their health. And remember that, after the banquet, you’re going to have to make a speech.”
“I dislike banquets and I doubly dislike speeches.”
“You’ll have to, anyway. Now move!”
Seldon sighed dramatically and did as he was told. He cut quite an imposing figure as he stood in the archway leading into the main hall. The voluminous First Minister’s robes of yesteryear were gone, as were the Heliconian-style garments he had favored in his youth. Now Seldon wore an outfit that bespoke his elevated status: straight pants, crisply pleated, a modified tunic on top. Embroidered in silver thread above his heart was the insignia: SELDON PSYCHOHISTORY PROJECT AT STREELING UNIVERSITY. It sparkled like a beacon against the dignified titanium-gray hue of his clothing. Seldon’s eyes twinkled in a face now lined by age, his sixty years given away as much by his wrinkles as by his white hair.
He entered the room in which the children were feasting. The room had been entirely cleared, except for trestles with food upon them. The children rushed up to him as soon as they saw him--knowing, as they did, that he was the reason for the feast--and Seldon tried to avoid their clutching fingers.
“Wait, wait, children,” he said. “Now stand back.”
He pulled a small computerized robot from his pocket and placed it on the floor. In an Empire without robots, this was something that he could expect to be eye-popping. It had the shape of a small furry animal, but it also had the capacity to change shapes without warning (eliciting squeals of children’s laughter each time) and when it did so, the sounds and motions it made changed as well.
“Watch it,” said Seldon, “and play with it, and try not to break it. Later on, there’ll be one for each of you.”
He slipped out into the hallway leading back to the main hall and realized, as he did so, that Wanda was following him.
“Grandpa,” she said.
Well, of course, Wanda was different. He swooped down and lifted her high in the air, turned her over, and put her down.
“Are you having a good time, Wanda?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but don’t go into that room.”
“Why not, Wanda? It’s my room. It’s the office where I work.”
“It’s where I had my bad dream.”
“I know, Wanda, but that’s all over, isn’t it?” He hesitated, then he led Wanda to one of the chairs lining the hallway. He sat down and placed her on his lap.
“Wanda,” he said, “are you sure it was a dream?”
“I think it was a dream.”
“Were you really sleeping?”
“I think I was.”
She seemed uncomfortable talking about it and Seldon decided to let it go. There was no use pushing her any further.
He said, “Well, dream or not, there were two men and they talked of lemonade death, didn’t they?”
Wanda nodded reluctantly.
Seldon said, “You’re sure they said lemonade?”
Wanda nodded again.
“Might they have said something else and you thought they said lemonade?”
“Lemonade is what they said.”
Seldon had to be satisfied with that. “Well, run off and have a good time, Wanda. Forget about the dream.”
“All right, Grandpa.” She cheered up as soon as the matter of the dream was dismissed and off she went to join the festivities.
Seldon went to search for Manella. It took him an extraordinarily long time to find her, since, at every step, he was stopped, greeted, and conversed with.
Finally he saw her in the distance. Muttering, “Pardon me-- Pardon me-- There’s someone I must-- Pardon me--,” he worked his way over to her with considerable trouble.
“Manella,” he said and drew her off to one side, smiling mechanically in all directions.
“Yes, Hari,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s Wanda’s dream.”
“Don’t tell me she’s still talking about it.”
“Well, it’s still bothering her. Listen, we have lemonade at the party, haven’t we?”
“Of course, the children adore it. I’ve added a couple of dozen different Mycogenian taste buds to very small glasses of different shapes and the children try them one after the other to see which taste best. The adults have been drinking it, too. I have. Why don’t you taste it, Hari? It’s great.”
“I’m thinking. If it wasn’t a dream, if the child really heard two men speak of lemonade death--” He paused, as though ashamed to continue.
Manella said, “Are you thinking that someone poisoned the lemonade? That’s ridiculous. By now every child in the place would be sick or dying.”
“I know,” muttered Seldon. “I know.”
He wandered off and almost didn’t see Dors when he passed her. She seized his elbow.
“Why the face?” she said. “You look concerned.”
“I’ve been thinking of Wanda’s lemonade death.”
“So have I, but I can’t make anything of it so far.”
“I can’t help but think of the possibility of poisoning.”
“Don’t. I assure you that every bit of food that came into this party has been molecularly checked. I know you’ll think that’s my typical paranoia, but my task is guarding you and that is what I must do.”
“And everything is--”
“No poison. I promise you.”
Seldon smiled, “Well, good. That’s a relief. I didn’t really think--”
“Let’s hope not,” said Dors dryly. “What concerns me far more than this myth of poison is that I have heard that you’re going to be seeing that monster Tennar in a few days.”
“Don’t call him a monster, Dors. Be careful. We’re surrounded by cars and tongues.”
Dors immediately lowered her voice. “I suppose you’re right. Look ;round. All these smiling faces--and yet who knows which of our friends’ will be reporting back to the head and his henchmen when the night is over? Ah, humans! Even after all these thousands of centuries, to think that such base treachery still exists. It seems to me to be so unnecessary. Yet I know the harm it can do. That is why I must go with you, Hari.”
“Impossible, Dors. It would just complicate matters for me. I’ll go Myself and I’ll have no trouble.”
“You would have no idea how to handle the General.”
Seldon looked grave. “And you would? You sound exactly like Elar. He, too, is convinced that I am a helpless old fool. He, too, wants to come with me--or, rather, to go in my place. --I wonder how many people on Trantor are willing to take my place,” he added with clear sarcasm. “Dozens? Millions?”
12
For ten years the Galactic Empire had been without an Emperor, but there was no indication of that fact in the way the Imperial Palace grounds were operated. Millennia of custom made the absence of an Emperor meaningless.
It meant, of course, that there was no figure in Imperial robes to preside over formalities of one sort or another. No Imperial voice gave orders; no Imperial wishes made themselves known; no Imperial gratifications or annoyances made themselves felt; no Imperial pleasures warmed either Palace; no Imperial sicknesses cast them in gloom. The Emperor’s own quarters in the Small Palace were empty--the Imperial family did not exist.
And yet the army of gardeners kept the grounds in perfect condition. An army of service people kept the buildings in top shape. The Emperor’s bed--never slept in--was made with fresh sheets every day; the rooms were cleaned; everything worked as it always worked; and the entire Imperial staff, from top to bottom, worked as they had always worked. The top officials gave commands as they would have done if the Emperor had lived, commands that they knew the Emperor would have given. In many cases, in particular in the higher echelons, the personnel were the same as those who had been there on Cleon’s last day of life. The new personnel who had been taken on were carefully molded and trained into the traditions they would have to serve.
It was as though the Empire, accustomed to the rule of an Emperor, insisted on this “ghost rule” to hold the Empire together.
The junta knew this--or, if they didn’t, they felt it vaguely. In ten years none of those military men who had commanded the Empire had moved into the Emperor’s private quarters in the Small Palace. Whatever these men were, they were not Imperial and they knew they had no rights there. A populace that endured the loss of liberty would not endure any sign of irreverence to the Emperor--alive or dead.
Even General Tennar had not moved into the graceful structure that had housed the Emperors of a dozen different dynasties for so long. He Hid made his home and office in one of the structures built on the outskirts of the grounds--eyesores, but eyesores that were built like fortresses, sturdy enough to withstand a siege, with outlying buildings in which an enormous force of guards was housed.
Tennar was a stocky man, with a mustache. It was not a vigorous overflowing Dahlite mustache but one that was carefully clipped and fitted to the upper lip, leaving a strip of skin between the hair and the line of the lip. It was a reddish mustache and Tennar had cold blue eyes. He had probably been a handsome man in his younger days, but his face was pudgy now and his eyes were slits that expressed anger more often than any other emotion.
So he said angrily--as one would, who felt himself to be absolute master of millions of worlds and yet who dared not call himself an Emperor--to Hender Linn, “I can establish a dynasty of my own.” He hooked around with a scowl. “This is not a fitting place for the master of the Empire.”
Linn said softly, “To be master is what is important. Better to be a master in a cubicle than a figurehead in a palace.”
“Best yet, to be master in a palace. Why not?”
Linn bore the title of colonel, but it is quite certain that he had never engaged in any military action. His function was that of telling Tennar what he wanted to hear--and of carrying his orders, unchanged, to others. On occasion--if it seemed safe--he might try to steer Tennar into more prudent courses.
Linn was well known as “Tennar’s lackey” and knew that was how he was known. It did not bother him. As lackey, he was safe--and he had seen the downfall of those who had been too proud to be lackeys.
The time might, of course, come when Tennar himself would be buried in the ever-changing junta panorama, but Linn felt, with a certain amount of philosophy, that he would be aware of it in time and save himself. --or he might not. There was a price for everything.
“No reason why you can’t found a dynasty, General,” said Linn. Many others have done it in the long Imperial history. Still, it takes lime. The people are slow to adapt. It is usually only the second or even third of the dynasty who is fully accepted as Emperor.”
“I don’t believe that. I need merely announce myself as new Emperor. Who will dare quarrel with that? My grip is tight.”
“So it is, General. Your power is unquestioned on Trantor and in most of the Inner Worlds, yet it is possible that many in the farther Outer Worlds will not just yet--accept a new Imperial dynasty.”
“Inner Worlds or Outer Worlds, military force rules all. That is an old Imperial maxim.”
“And a good one,” said Linn, “but many of the provinces have armed forces of their own, nowadays, that they may not use on your behalf. These are difficult times.”
“You counsel caution, then.”
“I always counsel caution, General.”
“And someday you may counsel it once too often.”
Linn bent his head. “I can only counsel what seems to me to be good and useful to you, General.”
“As in your constant harping to me about this Hari Seldon.”
“He is your greatest danger, General.”
“So you keep saying, but I don’t see it. He’s just a college professor.”
Linn said, “So he is, but he was once First Minister.”
“I know, but that was in Cleon’s time. Has he done anything since? With times being difficult and with the governors of the provinces being fractious, why is a professor my greatest danger?”
“It is sometimes a mistake,” said Linn carefully (for one had to be careful in educating the General), “to suppose that a quiet unobtrusive man can be harmless. Seldon has been anything but harmless to those he has opposed. Twenty years ago the Joranumite movement almost destroyed Cleon’s powerful First Minister, Eto Demerzel.”
Tennar nodded, but the slight frown on his face betrayed his effort to remember the matter.
“It was Seldon who destroyed Joranum and who succeeded Demerzel as First Minister. The Joranumite movement survived, however, and Seldon engineered its destruction, too, but not before it succeeded in bringing about the assassination of Cleon.”
“But Seldon survived that, didn’t he?”
“You are perfectly correct. Seldon survived.”
“That is strange. To have permitted an Imperial assassination should have meant death for a First Minister.”
“So it should have. Nevertheless, the junta has allowed him to live. It seemed wiser to do so.”
“Why?”
Linn sighed internally. “There is something called psychohistory, General.”
“I know nothing about that,” said Tennar flatly.
Actually he had a vague memory of Linn trying to talk to him on a number of occasions concerning this strange collection of syllables. He had never wanted to listen and Linn had known better than to push the matter. Tennar didn’t want to listen now, either, but there seemed to be a hidden urgency in Linn’s words. Perhaps, Tennar thought, he had now better listen.
“Almost no one knows anything about it,” said Linn, “yet there are a few--uh--intellectuals, who find it of interest.”
“And what is it?”
“It is a complex system of mathematics.”
Tennar shook his head. “Leave me out of that, please. I can count my military divisions. That’s all the mathematics I need.”
“The story is,” said Linn, “that psychohistory may make it possible to predict the future.”
The General’s eyes bulged. “You mean this Seldon is a fortune--
“Not in the usual fashion. It is a matter of science.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It is hard to believe, but Seldon has become something of a cult figure here on Trantor--and in certain places in the Outer Worlds. Now psychohistory--if it can be used to predict the future or if even people merely think it can be so used--can be a powerful tool with which to uphold the regime. I’m sure you have already seen this, General. One need merely predict our regime will endure and bring forth peace and prosperity for the Empire. People, believing this, will help make it a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the other hand, if Seldon wishes the reverse, he can predict civil war and ruin. People will believe that, too, and that would destabilize the regime.”
“In that case, Colonel, we simply make sure that the predictions of psychohistory are what we want them to be.”
“It would be Seldon who would have to make them and he is not a friend of the regime. It is important, General, that we differentiate between the Project that is working at Streeling University to perfect psychohistory and Hari Seldon. Psychohistory can be extremely useful to us, but it will be so only if someone other than Seldon were in charge.”
“Are there others who could be?”
“Oh yes. It is only necessary to get rid of Seldon.”
“What is so difficult with that? An order of execution--and it is done.”
“It would be better, General, if the government was not seen to be directly involved in such a thing.”
“I have arranged to have him meet with you, so that you can use your skill to probe his personality. You would then be able to judge whether certain suggestions I have in mind are worthwhile or not.”
“When is the meeting to take place?”
“It was to take place very soon, but his representatives at the Project asked for a few days leeway, because they were in the process of celebrating his birthday--his sixtieth, apparently. It seemed wise to allow that and to permit a week’s delay.”
“Why?” demanded Tennar. “I dislike any display of weakness.”
“Quite right, General. Quite right. Your instincts are, as always, correct. However, it seemed to me that the needs of the state might require us to know what and how the birthday celebration--which is taking place right now--might involve.”
“Why?”
“All knowledge is useful. Would you care to see some of the festivities?”
General Tennar’s face remained dark. “Is that necessary?”
“I think you will find it interesting, General.”
The reproduction--sight and sound--was excellent and for quite a while the hilarity of the birthday celebration filled the rather stark room in which the General sat.
Linn’s low voice served as commentary. “Most of this, General, is taking place in the Project complex, but the rest of the University is involved. We will have an air view in a few moments and you will see that the celebration covers a wide area. In fact, though I don’t have the evidence available right now, there are corners of the planet here and there, in various University and sectoral settings mostly, where what we might call ‘sympathy celebrations’ of one sort or another are taking place. The celebrations are still continuing and will endure for another day at least.”
“Are you telling me that this is a Trantor-wide celebration?”
“In a specialized way. It affects mostly the intellectual classes, but it is surprisingly widespread. It may even be that there is some shouting on worlds other than Trantor.”
“Where did you get this reproduction?”
Linn smiled. “Our facilities in the Project are quite good. We have reliable sources of information, so that little can happen that doesn’t come our way at once.”
“Well then, Linn, what are all your conclusions about this?”
“It seems to me, General, and I’m sure that it seems so to you, that Hari Seldon is the focus of a personality cult. He has so identified himself with psychohistory that if we were to get rid of him in too open a manner, we would entirely destroy the credibility of the science. It would be useless to us.
“On the other hand, General, Seldon is growing old and it is not difficult to imagine him being replaced by another man: someone we could choose and who would be friendly to our great aims and hopes for the Empire. If Seldon could be removed in such a way that it is made to seem natural, then that is all we need.”
The General said, “And you think I ought to see him?”
“Yes, in order to weigh his quality and decide what we ought to do. But we must be cautious, for he is a popular man.”
“I have dealt with popular people before,” said Tennar darkly.
13
“Yes,” said Hari Seldon wearily, “it was a great triumph. I had a wonderful time. I can hardly wait until I’m seventy so I can repeat it. But the fact is, I’m exhausted.”
“So get yourself a good night’s sleep, Dad,” said Raych, smiling. “That’s an easy cure.”
“I don’t know how well I can relax when I have to see our great leader in a few days.”
“Not alone, you won’t see him,” said Dors Venabili grimly.
Seldon frowned. “Don’t say that again, Dors. It is important for me to see him alone.”
“It won’t be safe with you alone. Do you remember what happened ten years ago when you refused to let me come with you to greet the gardeners?”
“There is no danger of my forgetting when you remind me of it twice a week, Dors. In this case, though, I intend to go alone. What can he want to do to me if I come in as an old man, utterly harmless, to find out what he wants?”
“What do you imagine he wants?” said Raych, biting at his knuckle.
“I suppose he wants what Cleon always wanted. It will turn out that he has found out that psychohistory can, in some way, predict the future and he will want to use it for his own purposes. I told Cleon the science wasn’t up to it nearly thirty years ago and I kept telling him that all through my tenure as First Minister--and now I’ll have to tell General Tennar the same thing.”
“How do you know he’ll believe you?” said Raych.
“I’ll think of some way of being convincing.”
Dors said, “I do not wish you to go alone.”
“Your wishing, Dors, makes no difference.”
At this point, Tamwile Elar interrupted. He said, “I’m the only nonfamily person here. I don’t know if a comment from me would be welcome.”
“Go ahead,” said Seldon. “Come one, come all.”
“I would like to suggest a compromise. Why don’t a number of us go with the Maestro. Quite a few of us. We can act as his triumphal escort, a kind of finale to the birthday celebration. --Now wait, I don’t mean that we will all crowd into the General’s offices. I don’t even mean entering the Imperial Palace grounds. We can just take hotel rooms in the Imperial Sector at the edge of the grounds--the Dome’s Edge Hotel would be just right--and we’ll give ourselves a day of pleasure.”
“That’s just what I need,” snorted Seldon. “A day of pleasure.”
“Not you, Maestro,” said Elar at once. “You’ll be meeting with General Tennar. The rest of us, though, will give the people of the Imperial Sector a notion of your popularity--and perhaps the General will take note also. And if he knows we’re all waiting for your return, it may keep him from being unpleasant.”
There was a considerable silence after that. Finally Raych said, “It sounds too showy to me. It don’t fit in with the image the world has of Dad.”
But Dors said, “I’m not interested in Hari’s image. I’m interested in Hari’s safety. It strikes me that if we cannot invade the General’s presence or the Imperial grounds, then allowing ourselves to accumulate, so to speak, as near the General as we can, might do us well. Thank you, Dr. Elar, for a very good suggestion.”
“I don’t want it done,” said Seldon.
“But I do,” said Dors, “and if that’s as close as I can get to offering you personal protection, then that much I will insist on.”
Manella, who had listened to it all without comment till then, said, “Visiting the Dome’s Edge Hotel could be a lot of fun.”
“It’s not fun I’m thinking of,” said Dors, “but I’ll accept your vote in favor.”
And so it was. The following day some twenty of the higher echelon of the Psychohistory Project descended on the Dome’s Edge Hotel, with rooms overlooking the open spaces of the Imperial Palace grounds.
The following evening Hari Seldon was picked up by the General’s armed guards and taken off to the meeting.
At almost the same time Dors Venabili disappeared, but her absence was not noted for a long time. And when it was noted, no one could guess what had happened to her and the gaily festive mood turned rapidly into apprehension.
14
Dors Venabili had lived on the Imperial Palace grounds for ten years. As wife of the First Minister, she had entry to the grounds and could pass freely from the dome to the open, with her fingerprints as the pass.
In the confusion that followed Cleon’s assassination, her pass had never been removed and now when, for the first time since that dreadful clay, she wanted to move from the dome into the open spaces of the grounds, she could do so.
She had always known that she could do so easily only once, for, upon discovery, the pass would be canceled--but this was the one time to do it.
There was a sudden darkening of the sky as she moved into the open ;rod she felt a distinct lowering of the temperature. The world under the dome was always kept a little lighter during the night period than natural night would require and was kept a little dimmer during the day period. And, of course, the temperature beneath the dome was always a bit milder than the outdoors.
Most Trantorians were unaware of this, for they spent their entire lives under the dome. To Dors it was expected, but it didn’t really matter.
She took the central roadway, into which the dome opened at the site of the Dome’s Edge Hotel. It was, of course, brightly lit, so that the darkness of the sky didn’t matter at all.
Dors knew that she would not advance a hundred meters along the roadway without being stopped, less perhaps in the present paranoid lays of the junta. Her alien presence would be detected at once.
Nor was she disappointed. A small ground-car skittered up and the guardsman shouted out the window, “What are you doing here? Where are you going?”
Dors ignored the question and continued to walk.
The guardsman called out, “Halt!” Then he slammed on the brakes and stepped out of the car, which was exactly what Dors had wanted him to do.
The guardsman was holding a blaster loosely in his hand--not threatening to use it, merely demonstrating its existence. He said, “Your reference number.”
Dors said, “I want your car.”
“What!” The guardsman sounded outraged. “Your reference number. Immediately!” And now the blaster came up.
Dors said quietly, “You don’t need my reference number,” then she walked toward the guardsman.
The guardsman took a backward step. “If you don’t stop and present your reference number, I’ll blast you.”
“No! Drop your blaster.”
The guardsman’s lips tightened. His finger began to edge toward the contact, but before he could reach it, he was lost.
He could never describe afterward what happened in any accurate way. All he could say was “How was I to know it was The Tiger Woman?” (The time came when he would be proud of the encounter.) “She moved so fast, I didn’t see exactly what she did or what happened. One moment I was going to shoot her down--I was sure she was some sort of madwoman--and the next thing I knew, I was completely overwhelmed.”
Dors held the guardsman in a firm grip, the hand with the blaster forced high. She said, “Either drop the blaster at once or I will break your arm.”
The guardsman felt a kind of death grip around his chest that all but prevented him from breathing. Realizing he had no choice, he dropped the blaster.
Dors Venabili released him, but before the guardsman could make a move to recover, he found himself facing his own blaster in Dors’s hand.
Dors said, “I hope you’ve left your detectors in place. Don’t try to report what’s happened too quickly. You had better wait and decide what it is you plan to tell your superiors. The fact that an unarmed woman took your blaster and your car may well put an end to your usefulness to the junta.”
Dors started the car and began to speed down the central roadway. A ten-year stay on the grounds told her exactly where she was going. The car she was in--an official ground-car--was not an alien intrusion into the grounds and would not be picked up as a matter of course. However, she had to take a chance on speed, for she wanted to reach her destination rapidly. She pushed the car to a speed of two hundred kilometers per hour.
The speed, at least, eventually did attract attention. She ignored radioed cries, demanding to know why she was speeding, and before long the car’s detectors told her that another ground-car was in hot pursuit.
She knew that there would be a warning sent up ahead and that there would be other ground-cars waiting for her to arrive, but there was little any of them could do, short of trying to blast her out of existence--something apparently no one was willing to try, pending further investigation.
When she reached the building she had been heading for, two ground-cars were waiting for her. She climbed serenely out of her own car and walked toward the entrance.
Two men at once stood in her way, obviously astonished that the driver of the speeding car was not a guardsman but a woman dressed in civilian clothes.
“What are you doing here? What was the rush?”
Dors said quietly, “Important message for Colonel Header Linn.”
“Is that so?” said the guardsman harshly. There were now four men between her and the entrance. “Reference number, please.”
Dors said, “Don’t delay me.”
“Reference number, I said.”
“You’re wasting my time.”
One of the guardsmen said suddenly, “You know who she looks like? The old First Minister’s wife. Dr. Venabili. The Tiger Woman.”
There was an odd backward step on the part of all four, but one of them said, “You’re under arrest.”
“Am I?” said Dors. “If I’m The Tiger Woman, you must know that I am considerably stronger than any of you and that my reflexes are considerably faster. Let me suggest that all four of you accompany me quietly inside and we’ll see what Colonel Linn has to say.”
“You’re under arrest” came the repetition and four Masters were aimed at Dors.
“Well,” said Dors. “If you insist.”
She moved rapidly and two of the guardsmen were suddenly on the ground, groaning, while Dors was standing with a blaster in each hand.
She said, “I have tried not to hurt them, but it is quite possible that I Dave broken their wrists. That leaves two of you and I can shoot faster than you can. If either of you makes the slightest move--the slightest--I will have to break the habit of a lifetime and kill you. It will sicken me to do so and I beg you not to force me into it.”
There was absolute silence from the two guardsmen still standing--no motion.
“I would suggest,” said Dors, “that you two escort me into the colonel’s presence and that you then seek medical help for your comrades.”
The suggestion was not necessary. Colonel Linn emerged from his office. “What is going on here? What is--”
Dors turned to him. “Ah! Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Dors Venabili, the wife of Professor Hari Seldon. I have come to see you on important business. These four tried to stop me and, as a result, two are badly hurt. Send them all about their business and let me talk to you. I mean you no harm.”
Linn stared at the four guardsmen, then at Dors. He said calmly, “You mean me no harm? Though four guardsmen have not succeeded in stopping you, I have four thousand at my instant call.”
“Then call them,” said Dors. “However quickly they come, it will not be in time to save you, should I decide to kill you. Dismiss your guardsmen and let us talk civilly.”
Linn dismissed the guardsmen and said, “Well, come in and we will talk. Let me warn you, though, Dr. Venabili--I have a long memory.”
“And I,” said Dors. They walked into Linn’s quarters together.
15
Linn said with utmost courtesy, “Tell me exactly why you are here, Dr. Venabili.”
Dors smiled without menace--and yet not exactly pleasantly, either. “To begin with,” she said, “I have come here to show you that I can come here.”
“Ah?”
“Yes. My husband was taken to his interview with the General in an official ground-car under armed guard. I myself left the hotel at a the same time he did, on foot and unarmed--and here I am--and I believe I got here before he did. I had to wade through five guardsmen, including the guardsman whose car I appropriated, in order to reach you. I would have waded through fifty.”
Linn nodded his head phlegmatically. “I understand that you are sometimes called The Tiger Woman.”
“I have been called that. --Now, having reached you, my task is to make certain that no harm comes to my husband. He is venturing into the General’s lair--if I can be dramatic about it--and I want him to emerge unharmed and unthreatened.”
“As far as I am concerned, I know that no harm will come to your husband as a result of this meeting. But if you are concerned, why do you come to me? Why didn’t you go directly to the General?”
“Because, of the two of you, it is you that has the brains.”
There was a short pause and Linn said, “That would be a most dangerous remark--if overheard.”
“More dangerous for you than for me, so make sure it is not overheard. --Now, if it occurs to you that I am to be simply soothed and put off and that, if my husband is imprisoned or marked for execution, that there will really be nothing I can do about it, disabuse yourself.”
She indicated the two blasters that lay on the table before her. “I entered the grounds with nothing. I arrived in your immediate vicinity with two Masters. If I had no Masters, I might have had knives, with which I am an expert. And if I had neither blasters nor knives, I would still be a formidable person. This table we’re sitting at is metal--obviously--and sturdy.”
“It is.”
Dors held up her hands, fingers splayed, as if to show that she held no weapon. Then she dropped them to the table and, palms down, caressed its surface.
Abruptly Dors raised her fist and then brought it down on the table with a loud crash, which sounded almost as if metal were striking metal. She smiled and lifted her hand.
“No bruise,” Dors said. “No pain. But you’ll notice that the table is slightly bent where I struck it. If that same blow had come down with the name force on a person’s head, the skull would have exploded. I have never done such a thing; in fact, I have never killed anyone, though I have injured several. Nevertheless, if Professor Seldon is harmed--”
“You are still threatening.”
“I am promising. I will do nothing if Professor Seldon is unharmed. Otherwise, Colonel Linn, I will be forced to maim or kill you and--I promise you again--I will do the same to General Tennar.”
Linn said, “You cannot withstand an entire army, no matter how tigerish a woman you are. What then?”
“Stories spread,” said Dors, “and are exaggerated. I have not really done much in the way of tigerishness, but many more stories are told of me than are true. Your guardsmen fell back when they recognized me and they themselves will spread the story, with advantage, of how I made my way to you. Even an army might hesitate to attack me, Colonel Linn, but even if they did and even if they destroyed me, beware the indignation of the people. The junta is maintaining order, but it is doing so only barely and you don’t want anything to upset matters. Think, then, of how easy the alternative is. Simply do not harm Professor Hari Seldon.”
“We have no intention of harming him.”
“Why the interview, then?”
“What’s the mystery? The General is curious about psychohistory. The government records are open to us. The old Emperor Cleon was interested. Demerzel, when he was First Minister, was interested. Why should we not be in our turn? In fact, more so.”
“Why more so?”
“Because time has passed. As I understand it, psychohistory began as a thought in Professor Seldon’s mind. He has been working on it, with increasing vigor and with larger and larger groups of people, for nearly thirty years. He has done so almost entirely with government support, so that, in a way, his discoveries and techniques belong to the government. We intend to ask him about psychohistory, which, by now, must be far advanced beyond what existed in the times of Demerzel and Cleon, and we expect him to tell us what we want to know. We want something more practical than the vision of equations curling their way through air. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said Dors, frowning.
“And one more thing. Do not suppose that the danger to your husband comes from the government only and that any harm that reaches him will mean that you must attack us at once. I would suggest that Professor Seldon may have purely private enemies. I have no knowledge of such things, but surely it is possible.”
“I shall keep that in mind. Right now, I want to have you arrange that I join my husband during his interview with the General. I want to know, beyond doubt, that he is safe.”
“That will be hard to arrange and will take some time. It would be impossible to interrupt the conversation, but if you wait till it is ended--”
“Take the time and arrange it. Do not count on double-crossing me and remaining alive.”