·６·
没有穹顶覆盖的御花园地区上空，近来一直持续着一种天气状况——晴朗且温暖。
这种情况并不常见。哈里记得朵丝曾经告诉过他，这个有着寒冷的冬季且阴雨频频的地方当初是如何被选址作为禁宫大内的。
“这地方其实并不是被挑选出来的。”她道。“在早期的川陀王国时代，这里原是莫洛维安家族的一处不动产。当王国演变成帝国之后，皇帝本有无数地方可以驻驾——避暑胜地，冬宫，狩猎山庄，海滩。然而，当这颗星球开始慢慢被穹顶覆盖的时候，有一位在位的皇帝正好住在这里，他非常喜欢这个地方，所以让这里保持了未被穹顶覆盖的原貌。而后，只因为这里是唯一未被穹顶覆盖的地方，它开始变得特殊——一个独一无二的地方——而独一无二正是下一位皇帝所追求的……再下一位如此……再再下一位依然如此……于是，一项传统就此诞生。”
同往常一样，当听到类似这样的事情，谢顿总会想：心理历史学对这种情况会怎么处理？它是否会预测出有一个地方将保持不被穹顶覆盖，但却完全无法给出是哪个地方？或者连这种程度也做不到？它是否会错误地预测出有数个地方未被穹顶覆盖或是一个也没有？它该如何计算一个关键时期刚巧在位的皇帝的个人好恶？如果这个皇帝做决定只是出于一时的心血来潮而不计其它该怎么办？这条道路呈现出来的是混乱——以及疯狂。
克里昂一世显然很享受这种好天气。
“我老啦，谢顿。”他道。“其实这话我没必要对你说。我们是同龄人，你和我。我现在已经没有动力去打网球了，即便他们最近在湖里重新放养了鱼儿，我也没兴趣去钓鱼了，只想在小路上悠闲地散散步。这些显然都是上了年纪的信号。”
他一边说话一边嗑着坚瓜子，这玩意儿有点像谢顿家乡星球海立肯上一种叫做南瓜子的东西，不过更大一些，口感也略嫌粗糙了一些。克里昂用牙齿轻轻咬开瓜子，剥去薄薄的外壳，把瓜子仁叼进嘴里。
谢顿不是特别喜欢这种坚瓜子的口味，不过当皇帝赐给他一些时，他当然只能笑纳下来，吃上几颗。
皇帝手里捧了一大堆瓜子壳茫然四顾，想找个垃圾箱之类的东西处理掉手里这些累赘。他没找到垃圾箱，不过他注意到不远处正站着一个园丁，他的身体保持着立正的姿势（皇帝驾临时旁人须当如此），头颅毕恭毕敬地低垂着。
克里昂叫道：“园丁！”
园丁连忙趋上前来。“陛下！”
“帮我把这些东西收拾掉。”他说着把瓜子壳一股脑地倒进了园丁的手里。
“遵命，陛下。”
谢顿道：“我这里也有一些，古乐伯。”
古乐伯伸着手，以近乎羞怯的声音道：“遵命，首相大人。”
园丁匆匆离去，皇帝好奇地打量着他的背影。“你认识那个家伙，谢顿？”
“是的，陛下。一个老朋友了。”
“那个园丁是你的老朋友？他是何来历？一个落难的数学家同事？”
“不，陛下。或许您还记得那件往事。想当初——”他清了清喉咙，想找一种较为得体的叙述方式来回顾那次事件。“——微臣蒙陛下隆恩忝居首辅之职不久，有个卫兵曾试图威胁臣的性命。”
“那次未遂的行刺，”克里昂抬头望天，仿佛想在那里搜寻一点耐性。“我搞不懂为什么每个人都那么害怕谈及那个字眼。”
“或许，”谢顿圆滑地接口道，多少有点为自己如此轻易就说出阿谀之词感到汗颜。“是因为对于某些有可能不利人主的事情，我们这些当差的比皇上您本人更为忌讳吧。”
克里昂不无讽刺地笑笑。“果不出我所料。可这件事跟古乐伯又有什么关系？他是叫这个名字吧？”
“是的，陛下。他叫曼戴尔·古乐伯。我相信您只要仔细回顾一下，就一定会记起，当时有个园丁举着一把耙子跑来保卫我，他面对的可是荷枪实弹的卫兵。”
“哦，是了。刚才那家伙就是这个园丁？”
“就是这个人，陛下。自此之后我就把他视作我的朋友，几乎每次我来御花园时都会看见他。我猜想他是在守护我，大概觉得这是他的责任吧。当然，我对他也颇有好感。”
“我不是怪你。——既然说到这个话题，你那位令人敬畏的夫人还好吗？范娜碧丽博士？我倒是不常见到她。”
“她是个历史学家，陛下。总是迷失在过去的岁月里。”
“她没吓着你吧？她那时可吓着我了。我听说过她是怎么对付那个卫兵的。几乎要让人同情那个刺客了。”
“她变得如此粗野也是为了救我的命，陛下，好在之后再也不曾有过让她大发雌威的机会。一切都很太平。”
皇帝望着园丁离去的方向。“我们奖励过那个人吗？”
“我奖励过他，陛下。他有一个老婆和两个女儿，在我的安排下，他的每个女儿都得到了一笔可观的备用基金，可以让她们今后生下的每个孩子都获得良好的教育。”
“很好。不过我认为他还需要晋升。——他是不是个好园丁？”
“优秀的园丁，陛下。”
“首席园丁，马尔康伯——我不太肯定是否记对了名字——已经老了，或许，已经不太胜任这份工作了。他都已经七十好几了。你认为古乐伯有能力接管这个职位吗？”
“我肯定他能行，陛下，不过他更喜欢他现在的工作。这份工作让他可以在户外享受各种各样的天气。”
“这倒是个很别致的工作推荐。我相信他会慢慢习惯管理工作的，而且我也确实需要有个人帮我改造御花园。嗯，我得好好想想。你的朋友古乐伯或许正是那个我所需要的人。顺便问一句，谢顿，你刚才说‘一切都很太平’是什么意思？”
“陛下，我的意思仅仅是说，多年以来帝国朝廷之中没有任何不和谐的迹象。即便是一些在所难免的勾心斗角，也似乎降低到了有史以来的最低限度。”
“如果你是皇帝你就不会这么说了，谢顿，你将不得不面对形形色色的官员以及他们林林总总的抱怨。你告诉我一切太平，可我几乎每隔一个星期都会收到一些川陀到处发生重大崩溃事故的报告，这又怎么说？”
“这种事情总会发生的。”
“可我不记得早些年这种事情有发生得如此频繁。”
“那或许是因为当时发生得确实比较少，陛下。下层结构是会随时间而老化的。而要进行一劳永逸的全面维修又需要花费大量的时间，劳动力，以及巨额的开销。而现在加税显然又非其时，没人会给你好脸色看的。”
“从来没遇到过这么困难的时期。我估计这一系列崩溃事故正在使民众产生严重的不满。这种情况必须遏止，你得想个办法，谢顿。心理历史学是怎么说的？”
“它说的东西对我们来说是常识：所有一切都在老化。”
“唉，本来挺愉快的一天，全让这些烦心事给败坏了。这个重任我就托付给你了，谢顿。”
“遵命，陛下。”谢顿平静地应道。
皇帝大步流星地走了，谢顿发现这些事也同样败坏了他本来挺愉快的一天。中心的崩溃正是两害之中他所不愿取的那个。可他该怎样防止中心的崩溃，并把危机转嫁到外围去呢？
心理历史学并没有给出答案。
·7·
Raych Seldon felt extraordinarily contented, for it was the first dinner en famille that he had had in some months with the two people he thought of as his father and mother. He knew perfectly well that they were not his parents in any biological sense, but it didn’t matter. He merely smiled at them with complete love.
The surroundings were not as warm as they had been at Streeling in the old days, when their home had been small and intimate, a virtual gem in the larger setting of the University. Now, unfortunately, nothing could hide the grandeur of the First Minister’s Palace suite.
Raych sometimes stared at himself in the mirror and wondered how it could be. He was not tall, only 163 centimeters in height, distinctly shorter than either parent. He was rather stocky but muscular--and not fat, with black hair and the distinctive Dahlite mustache that he kept as dark and as thick as possible.
In the mirror he could still see the street urchin he had once been before the chanciest of great chances had dictated his meeting with Hari and Dors. Seldon had been much younger then and his appearance now made it plain that Raych himself was almost as old now as Seldon had been when they met. Amazingly, Dors had hardly changed at all. She was as sleek and fit as the day Raych had first showed Hari and Dors the way to Mother Rittah’s in Billibotton. And he, Raych, born to poverty and misery, was now a member of the civil service, a small cog in the Ministry of Population.
Seldon said, “How are things going at the Ministry, Raych? Any progress?”
“Some, Dad. The laws are passed. The court decisions are made. Speeches are pronounced. Still, it’s difficult to move people. You can preach brotherhood all you want, but no one feels like a brother. What gets me is that the Dahlites are as bad as any of the others. They want to be treated as equals, they say, and so they do, but, given a chance, they have no desire to treat others as equals.”
Dors said, “It’s all but impossible to change people’s minds and hearts, Raych. It’s enough to try and perhaps eliminate the worst of the injustices.”
“The trouble is,” said Seldon, “that through most of history, no one’s been working on this problem. Human beings have been allowed to fester in the delightful game of I’m-better-than-you and cleaning up that mess isn’t easy. If we allow things to follow their own bent and grow worse for a thousand years, we can’t complain if it takes, say, a hundred years to work an improvement.”
“Sometimes, Dad,” said Raych, “I think you gave me this job to punish me.”
Seldon’s eyebrows raised. “What motivation could I have had to punish you?”
“For feeling attracted to Joranum’s program of sector equality and for greater popular representation in government.”
“I don’t blame you for that. These are attractive suggestions, but you know that Joranum and his gang were using it only as a device to gain power. Afterward--”
“But you had me entrap him, despite my attraction to his views.”
Seldon said, “it wasn’t easy for me to ask you to do that.”
“And now you keep me working at the implementation of Joranum’s program, just to show me how hard the task is in reality.”
Seldon said to Dors, “How do you like that, Dors? The boy attributes to me a kind of sneaky underhandedness that simply isn’t part of my character.”
“Surely,” said Dors with the ghost of a smile playing at her lips, “you are attributing no such thing to your father.”
“Not really. In the ordinary course of life, there’s no one straighter than you, Dad. But if you have to, you know you can stack the cards. Isn’t that what you hope to do with psychohistory?”
Seldon said sadly, “So far, I’ve done very little with psychohistory.”
“Too bad. I keep thinking that there is some sort of psychohistorical solution to the problem of human bigotry.”
“Maybe there is, but, if so, I haven’t found it.”
When dinner was over, Seldon said, “You and I, Raych, are going to have a little talk now.”
“Indeed?” said Dors. “I take it I’m not invited.”
“Ministerial business, Dors.”
“Ministerial nonsense, Hari. You’re going to ask the poor boy to do something I wouldn’t want him to do.”
Seldon said firmly, “I’m certainly not going to ask him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Raych said, “It’s all right, Mom. Let Dad and me have our talk. I promise I’ll tell you all about it afterward.”
Dors’s eyes rolled upward. “You two will plead ‘state secrets.’ I know
“As a matter of fact,” said Seldon firmly, “that’s exactly what I must discuss. And of the first magnitude. I’m serious, Dors.”
Dors rose, her lips tightening. She left the room with one final injunction. “Don’t throw the boy to the wolves, Hari.”
And after she was gone, Seldon said quietly, “I’m afraid that throwing you to the wolves is exactly what I’ll have to do, Raych.”
8
They faced each other in Seldon’s private office, his “thinking place,” as he called it. There, he had spent uncounted hours trying to think his way past and through the complexities of Imperial and Trantorian government.
He said, “Have you read much about the recent breakdowns we’ve been having in planetary services, Raych?”
“Yes,” said Raych, “but you know, Dad, we’ve got an old planet here. What we gotta do is get everyone off it, dig the whole thing up, replace everything, add the latest computerizations, and then bring everyone back--or at least half of everyone. Trantor would be much better off with only twenty billion people.”
“Which twenty billion?” asked Seldon smiling.
“I wish I knew,” said Raych darkly. “The trouble is, we can’t redo the planet, so we just gotta keep patching.”
“I’m afraid so, Raych, but there are some peculiar things about it. Now I want you to check me out. I have some thoughts about this.”
He brought a small sphere out of his pocket.
“What’s that?” asked Raych.
“It’s a map of Trantor, carefully programmed. Do me a favor, Raych, and clear off this tabletop.”
Seldon placed the sphere more or less in the middle of the table and placed his hand on a keypad in the arm of his desk chair. He used his thumb to close a contact and the light in the room went out while the tabletop glowed with a soft ivory light that seemed about a centimeter deep. The sphere had flattened and expanded to the edges of the table.
The light slowly darkened in spots and took on a pattern. After some thirty seconds, Raych said in surprise, “It is a map of Trantor.”
“Of course. I told you it was. You can’t buy anything like this at a sector mall, though. This is one of those gadgets the armed forces play with. It could present Trantor as a sphere, but a planar projection would more clearly show what I want to show.”
“And what is it you want to show, Dad?”
“Well, in the last year or two, there have been breakdowns. As you say, it’s an old planet and we’ve got to expect breakdowns, but they’ve been coming more frequently and they would seem, almost uniformly, to be the result of human error.”
“Isn’t that reasonable?”
“Yes, of course. Within limits. This is true, even where earthquakes are involved.”
“Earthquakes? On Trantor?”
“I admit Trantor is a fairly nonseismic planet--and a good thing, too, because enclosing a world in a dome when the world is going to shake itself badly several times a year and smash a section of that dome would be highly impractical. Your mother says that one of the reasons Trantor, rather than some other world, became the Imperial capital is that it was geologically moribund--that’s her unflattering expression. Still, it might be moribund, but it’s not dead. There are occasional minor earthquakes --three of them in the last two years.”
“I wasn’t aware of that, Dad.”
“Hardly anyone is. The dome isn’t a single object. It exists in hundreds of sections, each one of which can be lifted and set ajar to relieve tensions and compressions in case of an earthquake. Since an earthquake, when one does occur, lasts for only ten seconds to a minute, the opening endures only briefly. It comes and goes so rapidly that the Trantorians beneath are not even aware of it. They are much more aware of a mild tremor and a faint rattling of crockery than of the opening and closing of the dome overhead and the slight intrusion of the outside weather--whatever it is.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It should be. It’s computerized, of course. The onset of an earthquake anywhere sets off the key controls for the opening and closing of that section of the dome so that it opens just before the vibration becomes strong enough to do damage.”
“Still good.”
“But in the case of the three minor earthquakes over the last two years, the dome controls failed in each case. The dome never opened and, in each case, repairs were required. It took some time, it took some money, and the weather controls were less than optimum for a considerable period of time. Now, what, Raych, are the chances that the equipment would have failed in all three cases?”
“Not high?”
“Not high at all. Less than one in a hundred. One can suppose that someone had gimmicked the controls in advance of an earthquake. Now, about once a century, we have a magma leak, which is far more difficult to control--and I’d hate to think of the results if it went unnoticed until it was too late. Fortunately that hasn’t happened and isn’t likely to, but consider-- Here on this map you will find the location of the breakdowns that have plagued us over the past two years and that seem to be attributable to human error, though we haven’t once been able to tell to whom each might be attributed.”
“That’s because everyone is busy protecting his back.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. That’s a characteristic of any bureaucracy and Trantor’s is the largest in history. --but what do you think of the locations?”
The map had lit up with bright little red markings that looked like small pustules covering the land surface of Trantor.
“Well,” said Raych cautiously, “they seem to be evenly spread.”
“Exactly-- and that’s what’s interesting. One would expect that the older sections of Trantor, the longest-domed sections, would have the most decayed infrastructure and would be more liable to events requiring quick human decision and laying the groundwork for possible human error. --I’ll superimpose the older sections of Trantor on the map in a bluish color and you’ll notice that the breakdowns don’t seem to be taking place any oftener on the blue areas.”
“And?”
“And what I think it means, Raych, is that the breakdowns are not of natural origin but are deliberately caused and spread out in this fashion to affect as many people as possible, thus creating a dissatisfaction that is as widespread as possible.”
“It don’t seem likely.”
“No? Then let’s look at the breakdowns as spread through time rather than through space.”
The blue areas and the red spots disappeared and, for a time, the map of Trantor was blank--and then the markings began to appear and disappear one at a time, here and there.
“Notice,” said Seldon, “that they don’t appear in clumps in time, either. One appears, then another, then another, and so on, almost like the steady ticking of a metronome.”
“Do ya think that’s on purpose, too?”
“It must be. Whoever is bringing this about wants to cause as much disruption with as little effort as possible, so there’s no use doing two at once, where one will partially cancel the other in the news and in the public consciousness. Each incident must stand out in full irritation.”
The map went out and the lights went on. Seldon returned the sphere, shrunken back to its original size, to his pocket.
Raych said, “Who would be doing all this?”
Seldon said thoughtfully, “A few days ago I received a report of a murder in Wye Sector.”
“That’s not unusual,” said Raych. “Even though Wye isn’t one of your really lawless sectors, there must be lots of murders there every day.”
“Hundreds,” said Seldon, shaking his head. “We’ve had bad days when the number of deaths by violence on Trantor as a whole approaches the million-a-day mark. Generally there’s not much chance of finding every culprit, every murderer. The dead just enter the books as statistics. This one, however, was unusual. The man had been knifed--but unskillfully. He was still alive when found, just barely. He had time to gasp out one word before he died and that word was ‘Chief.’
“That roused a certain curiosity and he was actually identified. He works in Anemoria and we don’t know what he was doing in Wye. But some worthy officer managed to dig up the fact that he was an old Joranumite. His name was Kaspal Kaspalov and he is well known to have been one of the intimates of Laskin Joranum. And now he’s deadknifed.”
Raych frowned. “Do you suspect another Joranumite Conspiracy, Dad? There aren’t any Joranumites around anymore.”
“It wasn’t long ago that your mother asked me if I thought that the Joranumites were still active and I told her that any odd belief always retained a certain cadre, sometimes for centuries. They’re usually not very important, just splinter groups that simply don’t count. Still, what if the Joranumites have kept up an organization, what if they have retained a certain strength, what if they are capable of killing someone they consider a traitor in their ranks, and what if they are producing these breakdowns as a preliminary to seizing control?”
“That’s an awful lot of ‘what if ‘s,’ Dad.”
“I know that. And I might be totally wrong. The murder happened in Wye and, as it so happens, there have been no infrastructure breakdowns in Wye.”
“What does that prove?”
“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 feet 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.”
“Sire,” mumbled Gruber, his teeth chattering. “I am not a man of many talents, but it is always my best I try to do on behalf of your gracious self.”
“Of course, of course,” said the Emperor, wondering if the gardener suspected him of sarcasm. These men of the lower class lacked the finer feelings that came with refinement and manners, which always made any attempt at democratic display difficult.
Cleon said, “I have heard from my First Minister of the loyalty with which you once came to his aid and of your skill in taking care of the grounds. The First Minister tells me that he and you are quite friendly.”
“Sire, the First Minister is most gracious to me, but I know my place. I never speak to him unless he speaks first.”
“Quite, Gruber. That shows good manners on your part, but the First Minister, like myself, is a man of democratic impulses and I trust his judgment of people.”
Gruber bowed low.
The Emperor said, “As you know, Gruber, Chief Gardener Malcomber is quite old and longs to retire. The responsibilities are becoming greater than even he can bear.”
“Sire, the Chief Gardener is much respected by all the gardeners. May he be spared for many years so that we can all come to him for the benefit of his wisdom and judgment.”
“Well said, Gruber,” said the Emperor carelessly, “but you very well know that that is just mumbo-jumbo. He is not going to be spared, at least not with the strength and wit necessary for the position. He himself requests retirement within the year and I have granted him that. It remains to find a replacement.”
“Oh, Sire, there are fifty men and women in this grand place who could be Chief Gardener.”
“I dare say,” said the Emperor, “but my choice has fallen upon you.” The Emperor smiled graciously. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Gruber would now, he expected, fall to his knees in an ecstasy of gratitude.
He did not and the Emperor frowned.
Gruber said, “Sire, it is an honor that is too great for me--entirely.”
“Nonsense,” said Cleon, offended that his judgment should be called into question. “It is about time that your virtues are recognized. You will no longer have to be exposed to weather of all kinds at all times of the year. You will have the Chief Gardener’s office, a fine place, which I will have redecorated for you, and where you can bring your family. --You do have a family, don’t you, Gruber?”
“Yes, Sire. A wife and two daughters. And a son-in-law.”
“Very good. You will be very comfortable and you will enjoy your new life, Gruber. You will be indoors, Gruber, and out of the weather, like a true Trantorian.”
“Sire, consider that I am an Anacreonian by upbringing--”
“I have considered, Gruber. All worlds are alike to the Emperor. It is done. The new job is what you deserved.”
He nodded his head and stalked off. Cleon was satisfied with this latest show of his benevolence. Of course, he could have used a little more gratitude from the fellow, a little more appreciation, but at least the task was done.
And it was much easier to have this done than to settle the matter of the failing infrastructure.
Cleon had, in a moment of testiness, declared that whenever a breakdown could be attributed to human error, the human being in question should forthwith be executed.
“Just a few executions,” he said, “and it will be remarkable how careful everyone will become.”
“I’m afraid, Sire,” Seldon had said, “that this type of despotic behavior would not accomplish what you wish. It would probably force the workers to go on strike--and if you try to force them back to work, there would then be an insurrection--and if you try to replace them with soldiers, you will find they do not know how to control the machinery, so that breakdowns will begin to take place much more frequently.”
It was no wonder that Cleon turned to the matter of appointing a Chief Gardener with relief.
As for Gruber, he gazed after the departing Emperor with the chill of sheer horror. He was going to be taken from the freedom of the open air and condemned to the constriction of four walls. --Yet how could one refuse the Emperor?
10
Raych looked in the mirror of his Wye hotel room somberly (it was a pretty run-down hotel room, but Raych was not supposed to have too many credits). He did not like what he saw. His mustache was gone; his sideburns were shortened; his hair was clipped at the sides and back.
He looked--plucked.
Worse than that. As a result of the change in his facial contours, he looked baby-faced.
It was disgusting.
Nor was he making any headway. Seldon had given him the security reports on Kaspal Kaspalov’s death, which he had studied. There wasn’t much there. Just that Kaspalov had been murdered and that the local security officers had come up with nothing of importance in connection with that murder. It seemed quite clear that the security officers attached little or no importance to it, anyway.
That was not surprising. In the last century, the crime rate had risen markedly in most worlds, certainly in the grandly complex world of Trantor, and nowhere were the local security officers up to the job of doing anything useful about it. In fact, the security establishment had declined in numbers and efficiency everywhere and (while this was hard to prove) had become more corrupt. It was inevitable this should be so, with pay refusing to keep pace with the cost of living. One must pay civil officials to keep them honest. Failing that, they would surely make up for their inadequate salaries in other ways.
Seldon had been preaching this doctrine for some years now, but it did no good. There was no way to increase wages without increasing taxes and the populace would not sit still for increased taxes. It seemed they would rather lose ten times the credits in graft.
It was all part (Seldon had said) of the general deterioration of Imperial society over the previous two centuries.
Well, what was Raych to do? He was here at the hotel where Kaspalov had lived during the days immediately before his murder. Somewhere in the hotel there might be someone who had something to do with that--or who knew someone who had.
It seemed to Raych that he must make himself conspicuous. He must show an interest in Kaspalov’s death and then someone would get interested in him and pick him up. It was dangerous, but if he could make himself sound harmless enough, they might not attack him immediately.
Well--
Raych looked at his timeband. There would be people enjoying their predinner aperitifs in the bar. He might as well join them and see what would happen--if anything.