by Isaac Asimov
Several of his personal attachés walked after him, with looks of the deepest concern on their faces. The Emperor did not walk to others. He summoned them and they came to him. If he did walk, he never showed signs of haste or emotional trauma. How could he? He was the Emperor and, as such, far more a symbol of all the worlds than a human being.
Yet now he seemed to be a human being. He motioned everyone aside with an impatient wave of his right hand. In his left hand he held a gleaming hologram.
“The First Minister,” he said in an almost strangled voice, not at all like the carefully cultivated tones he had painstakingly assumed along with the throne. “Where is he?”
And all the high functionaries who were in his way fumbled and gasped and found it impossible to manage coherence. He brushed past them angrily, making them all feel, undoubtedly, as though they were living through a waking nightmare.
Finally he burst into Demerzel’s private office, panting slightly, and shouted—literally shouted—“Demerzel!”
Demerzel looked up with a trace of surprise and rose smoothly to his feet, for one did not sit in the presence of the Emperor unless specifically invited to. “Sire?” he said.
And the Emperor slammed the hologram down on Demerzel’s desk and said, “What is this? Will you tell me that?”
Demerzel looked at what the Emperor had given him. It was a beautiful hologram, sharp and alive. One could almost hear the little boy—perhaps ten years old—speaking the words that were included in the caption: “I don’t want no robot in charge of running the Empire.”
Demerzel said quietly, “Sire, I have received this, too.”
“And who else has?”
“I am under the impression, Sire, that it is a flier that is being widely spread over Trantor.”
“Yes, and do you see the person at whom that brat is looking?” He tapped his Imperial forefinger at it. “Isn’t that you?”
“The resemblance is striking, Sire.”
“Am I wrong in supposing that the whole intent of this flier, as you call it, is to accuse you of being a robot?”
“That does seem to be its intention, Sire.”
“And stop me if I’m wrong, but aren’t robots the legendary mechanical human beings one finds in—in thrillers and children’s stories?”
“The Mycogenians have it as an article of faith, Sire, that robots—”
“I’m not interested in the Mycogenians and their articles of faith. Why are they accusing you of being a robot?”
“Merely a metaphorical point, I’m sure, Sire. They wish to portray me as a man of no heart, whose views are the conscienceless calculations of a machine.”
“That’s too subtle, Demerzel. I’m no fool.” He tapped the hologram again. “They’re trying to make people believe you are really a robot.”
“We can scarcely prevent it, Sire, if people choose to believe that.”
“We cannot afford it. It detracts from the dignity of your office. Worse than that, it detracts from the dignity of the Emperor. The implication is that I—I would choose as my First Minister a mechanical man. That is impossible to endure. See here, Demerzel, aren’t there laws that forbid the denigration of public officers of the Empire?”
“Yes, there are—and quite severe ones, Sire, dating back to the great Law Codes of Aburamis.”
“And to denigrate the Emperor himself is a capital offense, is it not?”
“Death is the punishment, Sire. Yes.”
“Well, this not only denigrates you, it denigrates me—and whoever did it should be executed forthwith. It was this Joranum, of course, who is behind it.”
“Undoubtedly, Sire, but proving it might be rather difficult.”
“Nonsense! I have proof enough! I want an execution.”
“The trouble is, Sire, that the laws of denigration are virtually never enforced. Not in this century, certainly.”
“And that is why society is becoming so unstable and the Empire is being shaken to its roots. The laws are still in the books, so enforce them.”
Demerzel said, “Consider, Sire, if that would be wise. It would make you appear to be a tyrant and a despot. Your rule has been a most successful one through kindness and mildness—”
“Yes and see where that got me. Let’s have them fear me for a change, rather than love me—in this fashion.”
“I strongly recommend that you not do so, Sire. It may be the spark that will start a rebellion.”
“What would you do, then? Go before the people and say, ‘Look at me. I am no robot.’ ”
“No, Sire, for as you say that would destroy my dignity and, worse yet, yours.”
“Then?”
“I am not certain, Sire. I have not yet thought it through.”
“Not yet thought it through? —Get in touch with Seldon.”
“Sire?”
“What is so difficult to understand about my order? Get in touch with Seldon!”
“You wish me to summon him to the Palace, Sire?”
“No, there’s no time for that. I presume you can set up a sealed communication line between us that cannot be tapped.”
“Certainly, Sire.”
“Then do so. Now!”
20
Seldon lacked Demerzel’s self-possession, being, as he was, only flesh and blood. The summons to his office and the sudden faint glow and tingle of the scrambler field was indication enough that something unusual was taking place. He had spoken by sealed lines before but never to the full extent of Imperial security.
He expected some government official to clear the way for Demerzel himself. Considering the slowly mounting tumult of the robot flier, he could expect nothing less.
But he did not expect anything more, either, and when the image of the Emperor himself, with the faint glitter of the scramble field outlining him, stepped into his office (so to speak), Seldon fell back in his seat, mouth wide open, and could make only ineffectual attempts to rise.
Cleon motioned him impatiently to keep his seat. “You must know what’s going on, Seldon.”
“Do you mean about the robot flier, Sire?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. What’s to be done?”
Seldon, despite the permission to remain seated, finally rose. “There’s more, Sire. Joranum is organizing rallies all over Trantor on the robot issue. At least, that’s what I hear on the newscasts.”
“It hasn’t reached me yet. Of course not. Why should the Emperor know what is going on?”
“It is not for the Emperor to be concerned, Sire. I’m sure that the First Minister—”
“The First Minister will do nothing, not even keep me informed. I turn to you and your psychohistory. Tell me what to do.”
“Sire?”
“I’m not going to play your game, Seldon. You’ve been working on psychohistory for eight years. The First Minister tells me I must not take legal action against Joranum. What, then, do I do?”
Seldon stuttered. “S-sire! Nothing!”
“You have nothing to tell me?”
“No, Sire. That is not what I mean. I mean you must do nothing. Nothing! The First Minister is quite right if he tells you that you must not take legal action. It will make things worse.”
“Very well. What will make things better?”
“For you to do nothing. For the First Minister to do nothing. For the government to allow Joranum to do just as he pleases.”
“How will that help?”
And Seldon said, trying to suppress the note of desperation in his voice, “That will soon be seen.”
The Emperor seemed to deflate suddenly, as though all the anger and indignation had been drawn out of him. He said, “Ah! I understand! You have the situation well in hand!”
“Sire! I have not said that—”
“You need not say. I have heard enough. You have the situation well in hand, but I want results. I still have the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. They will be loyal and, if it comes to actual disorder
s, I will not hesitate. But I will give you your chance first.”
His image flashed out and Seldon sat there, simply staring at the empty space where the image had been.
Ever since the first unhappy moment when he had mentioned psychohistory at the Decennial Convention eight years before, he had had to face the fact that he didn’t have what he had incautiously talked about.
All he had was the wild ghost of some thoughts—and what Yugo Amaryl called intuition.
21
In two days Joranum had swept Trantor, partly by himself, mostly through his lieutenants. As Hari muttered to Dors, it was a campaign that had all the marks of military efficiency. “He was born to be a war admiral in the old days,” he said. “He’s wasted on politics.”
And Dors said, “Wasted? At this rate, he’s going to make himself First Minister in a week and, if he wishes, Emperor in two weeks. There are reports that some of the military garrisons are cheering him.”
Seldon shook his head. “It will collapse, Dors.”
“What? Joranum’s party or the Empire?”
“Joranum’s party. The story of the robot has created an instant stir, especially with the effective use of that flier, but a little thought, a little coolness, and the public will see it for the ridiculous accusation it is.”
“But, Hari,” said Dors tightly, “you needn’t pretend with me. It is not a ridiculous story. How could Joranum possibly have found out that Demerzel is a robot?”
“Oh, that! Why, Raych told him so.”
“Raych!”
“That’s right. He did his job perfectly and got back safely with the promise of being made Dahl’s sector leader someday. Of course he was believed. I knew he would be.”
“You mean you told Raych that Demerzel was a robot and had him pass on the news to Joranum?” Dors looked utterly horrified.
“No, I couldn’t do that. You know I couldn’t tell Raych—or anyone—that Demerzel was a robot. I told Raych as firmly as I could that Demerzel was not a robot—and even that much was difficult. But I did ask him to tell Joranum that he was. He is under the firm impression that he lied to Joranum.”
“But why, Hari? Why?”
“It’s not psychohistory, I’ll tell you that. Don’t you join the Emperor in thinking I’m a magician. I just wanted Joranum to believe that Demerzel was a robot. He’s a Mycogenian by birth, so he was filled from youth with his culture’s tales of robots. Therefore, he was predisposed to believe and he was convinced that the public would believe with him.”
“Well, won’t they?”
“Not really. After the initial shock is over, they will realize that it’s madcap fiction—or they will think so. I’ve persuaded Demerzel that he must give a talk on subetheric holovision to be broadcast to key portions of the Empire and to every sector on Trantor. He is to talk about everything but the robot issue. There are enough crises, we all know, to fill such a talk. People will listen and will hear nothing about robots. Then, at the end, he will be asked about the flier and he need not answer a word. He need only laugh.”
“Laugh? I’ve never known Demerzel to laugh. He almost never smiles.”
“This time, Dors, he’ll laugh. It is the one thing that no one ever visualizes a robot doing. You’ve seen robots in holographic fantasies, haven’t you? They’re always pictured as literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman— That’s what people are sure to expect. So Demerzel need merely laugh. And on top of that— Do you remember Sunmaster Fourteen, the religious leader of Mycogen?”
“Of course I do. Literal-minded, unemotional, inhuman. He’s never laughed, either.”
“And he won’t this time. I’ve done a lot of work on this Joranum matter since I had that little set-to at the Field. I know Joranum’s real name. I know where he was born, who his parents were, where he had his early training, and all of it, with documentary proof, has gone to Sunmaster Fourteen. I don’t think Sunmaster likes Breakaways.”
“But I thought you said you don’t wish to spark off bigotry.”
“I don’t. If I had given the information to the holovision people, I would have, but I’ve given it to Sunmaster, where, after all, it belongs.”
“And he’ll start off the bigotry.”
“Of course he won’t. No one on Trantor would pay any attention to Sunmaster—whatever he might say.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Well, that’s what we’ll see, Dors. I don’t have a psychohistorical analysis of the situation. I don’t even know if one is possible. I just hope that my judgment is right.”
22
Eto Demerzel laughed.
It was not the first time. He sat there, with Hari Seldon and Dors Venabili in a tap-free room, and, every once in a while, at a signal from Hari, he would laugh. Sometimes he leaned back and laughed uproariously, but Seldon shook his head. “That would never sound convincing.”
So Demerzel smiled and then laughed with dignity and Seldon made a face. “I’m stumped,” he said. “It’s no use trying to tell you funny stories. You get the point only intellectually. You will simply have to memorize the sound.”
Dors said, “Use a holographic laughtrack.”
“No! That would never be Demerzel. That’s a bunch of idiots being paid to yak. It’s not what I want. Try again, Demerzel.”
Demerzel tried again until Seldon said, “All right, then, memorize that sound and reproduce it when you’re asked the question. You’ve got to look amused. You can’t make the sound of laughing, however proficient, with a grave face. Smile a little, just a little. Pull back the corner of your mouth.” Slowly Demerzel’s mouth widened into a grin. “Not bad. Can you make your eyes twinkle?”
“What do you mean, ‘twinkle,’ ” said Dors indignantly. “No one makes their eyes twinkle. That’s a metaphorical expression.”
“No, it’s not,” said Seldon. “There’s the hint of tears in the eye—sadness, joy, surprise, whatever—and the reflection of light from that hint of fluid is what does it.”
“Well, do you seriously expect Demerzel to produce tears?”
And Demerzel said, matter-of-factly, “My eyes do produce tears for general cleansing—never in excess. Perhaps, though, if I imagine my eyes to be slightly irritated—”
“Try it,” said Seldon. “It can’t hurt.”
And so it was that when the talk on subetheric holovision was over and the words were streaking out to millions of worlds at thousands of times the effective speed of light—words that were grave, matter-of-fact, informative, and without rhetorical embellishment—and that discussed everything but robots—Demerzel declared himself ready to answer questions.
He did not have to wait long. The very first question was: “Mr. First Minister, are you a robot?”
Demerzel simply stared calmly and let the tension build. Then he smiled, his body shook slightly, and he laughed. It was not a loud uproarious laugh, but it was a rich one, the laugh of someone enjoying a moment of fantasy. It was infectious. The audience tittered and then laughed along with him.
Demerzel waited for the laughter to die down and then, eyes twinkling, said, “Must I really answer that? Is it necessary to do so?” He was still smiling as the screen darkened.
23
“I’m sure it worked,” said Seldon. “Naturally we won’t have a complete reversal instantly. It takes time. But things are moving in the right direction now. I noticed that when I stopped Namarti’s talk at the University Field. The audience was with him until I faced him and showed spunk against odds. The audience began to change sides at once.”
“Do you think this is an analogous situation?” asked Dors dubiously.
“Of course. If I don’t have psychohistory, I can use analogy—and the brains I was born with, I suppose. There was the First Minister, beleaguered on all sides with the accusation, and he faced it down with a smile and a laugh, the most nonrobot thing he could have done, so that in itself was an answer to the question. Of course sympathy began to slide t
o his side. Nothing would stop that. But that’s only the beginning. We have to wait for Sunmaster Fourteen and hear what he has to say.”
“Are you confident there, too?”
“Absolutely.”
24
Tennis was one of Hari’s favorite sports, but he preferred to play rather than watch others. He watched with impatience, therefore, as the Emperor Cleon, dressed in sports fashion, loped across the court to return the ball. It was Imperial tennis, actually, so-called because it was a favorite of Emperors, a version of the game in which a computerized racket was used that could alter its angle slightly with appropriate pressures on the handle. Hari had tried to develop the technique on several occasions but found that mastering the computerized racket would take a great deal of practice—and Hari Seldon’s time was far too precious for what was clearly a trivial pursuit.
Cleon placed the ball in a nonreturnable position and won the game. He trotted off the court to the careful applause of the functionaries who were watching and Seldon said to him, “Congratulations, Sire. You played a marvelous game.”
Cleon said indifferently, “Do you think so, Seldon? They’re all so careful to let me win. I get no pleasure out of it.”
Seldon said, “In that case, Sire, you might order your opponents to play harder.”
“It wouldn’t help. They’d be careful to lose anyway. And if they did win, I would get even less pleasure out of losing than out of winning meaninglessly. Being an Emperor has its woes, Seldon. Joranum would have found that out—if he had ever succeeded in becoming one.”
He disappeared into his private shower facility and emerged in due time, scrubbed and dried and dressed rather more formally.
“And now, Seldon,” he said, waving all the others away, “the tennis court is as private a place as we can find and the weather is glorious, so let us not go indoors. I have read the Mycogenian message of this Sunmaster Fourteen. Will it do?”
“Entirely, Sire. As you have read, Joranum was denounced as a Mycogenian Breakaway and is accused of blasphemy in the strongest terms.”
