by Isaac Asimov
Andorin’s fair face turned blotchy red and his good humor finally exploded. “What do you have in mind, then? What are you planning? I’m getting tired of always having to second-guess.”
Namarti raised his hand. “All right. All right. Calm down. I meant no harm. But think a bit, will you? Who destroyed Joranum? Who destroyed our hopes ten years ago? It was that mathematician. And it is he who rules the Empire now with his idiotic talk about psychohistory. Cleon is nothing. It is Hari Seldon we must destroy. It is Hari Seldon whom I’ve been turning into an object of ridicule with these constant breakdowns. The miseries they entail are placed at his doorstep. It is all being interpreted as his inefficiency, his incapacity.” There was a trace of spittle in the corners of Namarti’s mouth. “When he’s cut down, there will be a cheer from the Empire that will drown out every holovision report for hours. It won’t even matter if they know who did it.” He raised his hand and let it drop, as if he were plunging a knife into someone’s heart. “We will be looked upon as heroes of the Empire, as saviors. —Eh? Eh? Do you think your youngster can cut down Hari Seldon?”
Andorin had recovered his sense of equanimity—at least outwardly.
“I’m sure he would,” he said with forced lightness. “For Cleon, he might have some respect; the Emperor has a mystical aura about him, as you know.” (He stressed the “you” faintly and Namarti scowled.) “He would have no such feelings about Seldon.”
Inwardly, however, Andorin was furious. This was not what he wanted. He was being betrayed.
14
Manella brushed the hair out of her eyes and smiled up at Raych. “I told you it wouldn’t cost you any credits.”
Raych blinked and scratched at his bare shoulder. “But are you going to ask me for some now?”
She shrugged and smiled rather impishly. “Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Because I’m allowed to take my own pleasure sometimes.”
“With me?”
“There’s no one else here.”
There was a long pause and then Manella said soothingly, “Besides, you don’t have that many credits anyway. How’s the job?”
Raych said, “Ain’t much but better than nothing. Lots better. Did you tell that guy to get me one?”
Manella shook her head slowly. “You mean Gleb Andorin? I didn’t tell him to do anything. I just said he might be interested in you.”
“Is he going to be annoyed because you and I—”
“Why should he? None of his business. And none of yours, either.”
“What’s he do? I mean, what does he work at?”
“I don’t think he works at anything. He’s rich. He’s a relative of the old Mayors.”
“Of Wye?”
“Right. He doesn’t like the Imperial government. None of those old Mayor people do. He says Cleon should—”
She stopped suddenly and said, “I’m talking too much. Don’t you go repeating anything I say.”
“Me? I ain’t heard you say nothing at all. And I ain’t going to.”
“All right.”
“But what about Andorin? Is he high up in Joranumite business? Is he an important guy there?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t he ever talk about that kind of stuff?”
“Not to me.”
“Oh,” said Raych, trying not to sound annoyed.
Manella looked at him shrewdly. “Why are you so interested?”
“I want to get in with them. I figure I’ll get higher up that way. Better job. More credits. You know.”
“Maybe Andorin will help you. He likes you. I know that much.”
“Could you make him like me more?”
“I can try. I don’t know why he shouldn’t. I like you. I like you more than I like him.”
“Thank you, Manella. I like you, too. —A lot.” He ran his hand down the side of her body and wished ardently that he could concentrate more on her and less on his assignment.
15
“Gleb Andorin,” said Hari Seldon wearily, rubbing his eyes.
“And who is he?” asked Dors Venabili, her mood as cold as it had been every day since Raych had left.
“Until a few days ago I never heard of him,” said Seldon. “That’s the trouble with trying to run a world of forty billion people. You never hear of anyone, except for the few who obtrude themselves on your notice. With all the computerized information in the world, Trantor remains a planet of anonymities. We can drag up people with their reference numbers and their statistics, but whom do we drag up? Add twenty-five million Outer Worlds and the wonder is that the Galactic Empire has remained a working phenomenon for all these millennia. Frankly I think it has existed only because it very largely runs itself. And now it is finally running down.”
“So much for philosophizing, Hari,” said Dors. “Who is this Andorin?”
“Someone I admit I ought to have known about. I managed to cajole the security establishment into calling up some files on him. He’s a member of the Wyan Mayoralty family—the most prominent member, in fact—so the security people have kept tabs on him. They think he has ambitions but is too much of a playboy to do anything about them.”
“And is he involved with the Joranumites?”
Seldon made an uncertain gesture. “I’m under the impression that the security establishment knows nothing about the Joranumites. That may mean that the Joranumites no longer exist or that, if they do, they are of no importance. It may also mean that the security establishment just isn’t interested. Nor is there any way in which I can force it to be interested. I’m only thankful the officers give me any information at all. And I am the First Minister.”
“Is it possible that you’re not a very good First Minister?” said Dors, dryly.
“That’s more than possible. It’s probably been generations since there’s been an appointee less suited to the job than myself. But that has nothing to do with the security establishment. It’s a totally independent arm of the government. I doubt that Cleon himself knows much about it, though, in theory, the security officers are supposed to report to him through their director. Believe me, if we only knew more about the security establishment, we’d be trying to stick its actions into our psychohistorical equations, such as they are.”
“Are the security officers on our side, at least?”
“I believe so, but I can’t swear to it.”
“And why are you interested in this what’s-his-name?”
“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 s
eems 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.”
“What good would swearing do if you couldn’t trust my word? Let us say I would find you an extraordinarily useful Emperor and I would want you to replace Cleon as soon as that can safely be managed. Now introduce me to this man you think will be the perfect tool for your purposes.”
“Very well. And remember what makes him different. I have studied him. He’s a not-very-bright idealist. He will do what he’s told, unconcerned by danger, unconcerned by second thoughts. And he exudes a kind of trustworthiness so that his victim will trust him, even if he has a blaster in his hand.”
“I find that impossible to believe.”
“Wait till you meet him,” said Andorin.
17
Raych kept his eyes down. He had taken a quick look at Namarti and it was all he needed. He had met the man ten years before, when Raych had been sent to lure Jo-Jo Joranum to his destruction, and one look was more than enough.
Namarti had changed little in ten years. Anger and hatred were still the dominant characteristics one could see in him—or that Raych could see in him, at any rate, for he realized he was not an impartial witness—and those seemed to have marinated him into leathery permanence. His face was a trifle more gaunt, his hair was flecked with gray, but his thin-lipped mouth was set in the same harsh line and his dark eyes were as brilliantly dangerous as ever.
That was enough and Raych kept his eyes averted. Namarti, he felt, was not the type of person who would take to someone who could stare him straight in the face.
Namarti seemed to devour Raych with his own eyes, but the slight sneer his face always seemed to wear remained.
He turned to Andorin, who stood uneasily to one side, and said, quite as though the subject of conversation were not present, “This is the man, then.”
Andorin nodded and his lips moved in a soundless “Yes, Chief.”
Namarti said to R
aych abruptly, “Your name.”
“Planchet, sir.”
“You believe in our cause?”
“Yes, sir.” He spoke carefully, in accordance with Andorin’s instructions. “I am a democrat and want greater participation of the people in the governmental process.”
Namarti’s eyes flicked in Andorin’s direction. “A speechmaker.”
He looked back at Raych. “Are you willing to undertake risks for the cause?”
“Any risk, sir.”
“You will do as you are told? No questions? No hanging back?”
“I will follow orders.”
“Do you know anything about gardening?”
Raych hesitated. “No, sir.”
“You’re a Trantorian, then? Born under the dome?”
“I was born in Millimaru, sir, and I was brought up in Dahl.”
“Very well,” said Namarti. Then to Andorin, “Take him out and deliver him temporarily to the men waiting there. They will take good care of him. Then come back, Andorin. I want to speak to you.”
When Andorin returned, a profound change had come over Namarti. His eyes were glittering and his mouth was twisted into a feral grin.
“Andorin,” he said, “the gods we spoke of the other day are with us to an extent I couldn’t have imagined.”
“I told you the man was suitable for our purposes.”
“Far more suitable than you think. You know, of course, the tale of how Hari Seldon, our revered First Minister, sent his son—or foster son, rather—to see Joranum and to set the trap into which Joranum, against my advice, fell.”
“Yes,” said Andorin, nodding wearily, “I know the story.” He said it with the air of one who knew the story entirely too well.
“I saw that boy only that once, but his image burned into my brain. Do you suppose that ten years’ passage and false heels and a shaved mustache could fool me? That Planchet of yours is Raych, the foster son of Hari Seldon.”
