“Shut up!” Gilmer roared in a voice that not one of his half-pirate spacemen or troopers dared disobey.
Billye dared. “I won’t either shut up. And there are so wizards. Every other tale that floats in from the Periphery talks about them.”
“Lies about them, you mean. “ Gilmer was just as glad to change the subject, even a little. His head ached. If Billye was going to be this abrasive, maybe he would find himself some pretty little Trantorian chit who’d only open her mouth to say yes.
“They aren’t lies, “ Billye said stubbornly.
“Well, what else could they be?” Gilmer said. “There’s no such thing as a man-sized force screen. There can’t be-the Empire doesn’t have ‘em, and the Empire has everything there is. There’s no way to open a Personal Capsule without having a man’s characteristic on file. So stories that talk about things like that have to be lies. “
“Or else the magicians do those things, and do ‘em by their magic,” Billye said. “ And what else but magic could have made you show the University not just mercy but-but-I don’t know what. Treat them like the place was theirs by right, when the Emperor has charge of everything there is.”
“If he can keep it,” Gilmer muttered. He stalked out of the bedchamber-he’d get no solace here, that was plain. A scoutship message had been waiting for him when he returned from the University grounds: a fleet was gathering not ten parsecs away, a fleet that did not belong to him. If he was going to keep Trantor, he’d have to fight for it allover again. Even a pinprick from the University might hurt him at such a time.
Why couldn’t Billye see that? Rage suddenly filled Gilmer. If she couldn’t, to the space fiend with her! He pointed at the first servant he spotted. “You!”
The man flinched. Unlike Billye, he-all the palace servants-knew Gilmer was no one to trifle with. “Sire?” he asked fearfully.
“Take as many flunkies as you need to, then go toss that big-mouthed wench out of my bedchamber. Find me someone new-I expect you have ways to take care of that. Someone worthy of an Emperor, mind you. But most of all, someone quiet.”
“Yes, sire.” The servant risked a smile. “That, majesty, I think we can handle.”
A room in the Library-not a room Gilmer had seen!
Yokim Sarns, Maryan Drabel, Egril Joons…dean, librarian, dietitian…general, chief of staff, quartermaster…and rather more. They stood before a wall of equations, red symbols on a gray background. Yokim Sarns, whose privilege it was to speak first, said, “I didn’t think it would be that easy.”
“Neither did I,” Maryan Drabel agreed. “I expected-the probabilities predicted-we would have to touch Gilmer’s mind to make sure he would leave us alone here.”
“That courage we saw helped a great deal,” Sarns said. “It let him gain respect for our student-soldiers where a more purely pragmatic man would simply have brushed aside their sacrifice because it conflicted with his own interests. “
“Mix that with superstitious awe at the accumulation of ancient knowledge we represent, let him see our goals and objectives-our ostensible goals and objectives-are irrelevant to his or slightly to his advantage, and he proved quite capable of deciding on his own to let us be,” Maryan Drabel said. “We came out of what could have been a nasty predicament very nicely indeed.”
Egril Joons had been studying the numbers and symbols, the possible decision-paths that led from Hari Seldon’s day through almost three centuries to the present-and beyond. Now he said, “I do believe this will be the only round.”
“The only round of sacks for Trantor?” Yokim Sarns studied the correlation at which Joons pointed; the equations obligingly grew on the Prime Radiant’s wall so he could see them better. “Yes, it does seem so, if our data from around the planet are accurate. Gilmer has done such an efficient job of destruction that Trantor won’t be worth looting again once this round of civil wars is done. “
“That was the lower probability, too,” Joons said. “Look-there was a better than seventy percent chance of two sacks at least forty years apart, and at least a fifteen percent chance of three or more, perhaps even spaced over a century.”
“Our lives and our work will certainly be easier this way,” Maryan Drabel said. “I know we’re well protected, but a stray missile-” She shivered.
“We still risk those for a little while longer,” Sarns said. “Gilmer is so blatantly a usurper that others will try to steal from him what he stole from Dagobert. But the danger of further major damage to Trantor as a whole has declined a great deal, and will grow still smaller as word of the Great Sack spreads. “ He pointed to the figures that supported his conclusion; Maryan Drabel pondered, at length nodded.
“And with Trantor henceforward effectively removed from psychohistoric consideration, so is the Galactic Empire,” Egril Joons said.
“The First Galactic Empire,” Yokim Sarns corrected gently.
“Well, of course.” loons accepted the tiny rebuke with good nature. “Now, though, we’ll be able to work toward the Second Empire without having to worry about concealing everything we do from prying imperial clerks and agents.”
“The Empire was always our greatest danger,” Maryan Drabel said. “We needed to be here at its heart to help protect the First Foundation, but at its heart also meant under its eyes, if it ever came to notice us. In the days before we fully developed the mind-touch, one seriously hostile commissioner of public safety could have wrecked us. “
“The probability was that we wouldn’t get any such, and we didn’t,” Egril loons. said.
“Probability, yes, but psychohistory can’t deal with individuals any more than physics can tell you exactly when anyone radium atom will decay,” she said stubbornly. The truth there was so self-evident that loons had to concede it, but not so graciously as he had to Yokim Sarns.
Sarns said, “Never mind, both of you. If you’ll look here”-the Prime Radiant, taking its direction from his will, revealed the portion of the Seldon Plan that lay just ahead-”you’ll see that we’re entering a period of consolidation. As you and Maryan have both pointed out, Egril, the First Empire is dead, while it will be several centuries yet before the new Empire that will grow from the First Foundation extends its influence to this part of the Galaxy.”
“Clear sailing for a while,” loons said. “ About time, too.”
“Don’t get complacent,” Maryan Drabel said.
“A warning the Second Foundation should always bear in mind,” Yokim Sarns said. “But, looking at the mathematics, I have to agree with Egril. Barring anything unforeseen-say, someone outside our ranks discovering the mind-touch-we should have no great difficulty in steering the proper course. And”-he smiled broadly, even a little smugly-”what are the odds of that?”
Dilemma
by Connie Willis
We want to see Dr. Asimov, “ the bluish-silver robot said.
“Dr. Asimov is in conference,” Susan said. “You’ll have to make an appointment.” She turned to the computer and called up the calendar.
“I knew we should have called first,” the varnished robot said to the white one. “Dr. Asimov is the most famous author of the twentieth century and now the twenty-first, and as such he must be terribly busy.”
“I can give you an appointment at two-thirty on June twenty-fourth,” Susan said, “or at ten on August fifteenth.”
“June twenty-fourth is one hundred and thirty-five days from today,” the white robot said. It had a large red cross painted on its torso and an oxygen tank strapped to its back.
“We need to see him today,” the bluish-silver robot said, bending over the desk.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He gave express orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. May I ask what you wish to see Dr. Asimov about?”
He leaned over the desk even farther and said softly, “You know perfectly well what we want to see him about. Which is why you won’t let us see him. “
Susan was still scanning the ca
lendar. “I can give you an appointment two weeks from Thursday at one forty-five.”
“We’ll wait,” he said and sat down in one of the chairs. The white robot rolled over next to him, and the varnished robot picked up a copy of The Caves of Steel with his articulated digital sensors and began to thumb through it. After a few minutes the white robot picked up a magazine, but the bluish-silver robot sat perfectly still, staring at Susan.
Susan stared at the computer. After a very long interval the phone rang. Susan answered it and then punched Dr. Asimov’s line. “Dr. Asimov, it’s a Dr. Linge Chen. From Bhutan. He’s interested in translating your books into Bhutanese.”
“All of them?” Dr. Asimov said. “Bhutan isn’t a very big country.”
“I don’t know. Shall I put him through. sir?” She connected Dr. Linge Chen.
As soon as she hung up, the bluish-silver robot came and leaned over her desk again. “I thought you said he gave express orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“Dr. Linge Chen was calling all the way from Asia,” she said. She reached for a pile of papers and handed them to him. “Here.”
“What are these?”
“The projection charts you asked me to do. I haven’t finished the spreadsheets yet. I’ll send them up to your office tomorrow. “
He took the projection charts and stood there, still looking at her.
“I really don’t think there’s any point in your waiting, Peter,” Susan said. “Dr. Asimov’s schedule is completely booked for the rest of the afternoon, and tonight he’s attending a reception in honor of the publication of his one thousandth book.”
“Asimov’s Guide to Asimov’s Guides, “ the varnished robot said. “Brilliant book. I read a review copy at the bookstore where I work. Informative, thorough, and comprehensive. An invaluable addition to the field.”
“It’s very important that we see him,” the white robot said, rolling up to the desk. “We want him to repeal the Three Laws of Robotics. “
“‘First Law: A robot shall not injure a human being, or through inaction allow a human being to come to harm,’ “ the varnished robot quoted. “ ‘Second “Law: A robot shall obey a human being’s order if it doesn’t conflict with the First Law. Third Law: A robot shall attempt to preserve itself if it doesn’t conflict with the first or second laws.’ First outlined in the short story ‘Runaround,’ Astounding magazine, March 1942, and subsequently expounded in I, Robot, The Rest of the Robots, The Complete Robot, and The Rest of the Rest of the Robots. “
“Actually, we just want the First Law repealed,” the white robot said. “, A robot shall not injure a human being. ‘ Do you realize what that means? I’m programmed to diagnose diseases and administer medications, but I can’t stick the needle in the patient. I’m programmed to perform over eight hundred types of surgery, but I can’t make the initial incision. I can’t even do the Heimlich Maneuver. The First Law renders me incapable of doing the job I was designed for, and it’s absolutely essential that I see Dr. Asimov to ask him-”
The door to Dr. Asimov’s office banged open and the old man hobbled out. His white hair looked like he had been tearing at it, and his even whiter muttonchop sideburns were quivering with some strong emotion. “Don’t put any more calls through today, Susan,” he said. “Especially not from Or. Linge Chen. Do you know which book he wanted to translate into Bhutanese first? 2001: A Space Odyssey!”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t intend to-”
He waved his hand placatingly at her. “It’s all right. You had no way of knowing he was an idiot. But if he calls back, put him on hold and play Also Sprach Zarathustra in his ear.”
“I don’t see how he could have confused your style with Arthur Clarke’s,” the varnished robot said, putting down his book. “Your style is far more lucid and energetic, and your extrapolation of the future far more visionary. “
Asimov looked inquiringly at Susan through his blackframed metafocals.
“They don’t have an appointment,” she said. “I told them they-”
“Would have to wait,” the bluish-silver robot said, extending his finely coiled Hirose hand and shaking Dr. Asimov’s wrinkled one. “ And it has been more than worth the wait, Dr. Asimov. I cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet the author of I, Robot, sir. “
“And of The Human Body, “ the white robot said, rolling over to Asimov and extending a four-fingered gripper from which dangled a stethoscope. “ A classic in the field.”
“How on earth could you keep such discerning readers waiting?” Asimov said to Susan.
“I didn’t think you would want to be disturbed when you were writing,” Susan said.
“Are you kidding?” Asimov said. “Much as I enjoy writing, having someone praise your books is even more enjoyable, especially when they’re praising books I actually wrote.”
“It would be impossible to praise Foundation enough,” the varnished robot said. “Or any of your profusion of works, for that matter, but Foundation seems to me to be a singular accomplishment, the book in which you finally found a setting of sufficient scope for the expression of your truly galaxy-sized ideas. It is a privilege to meet you, sir,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’m happy to meet you, too,” Asimov said, looking interestedly at the articulated wooden extensor. “ And you are?”
“My job description is Book Cataloguer, Shelver, Reader, Copyeditor, and Grammarian. “ He turned and indicated the other two robots. “ Allow me to introduce Medical Assistant and the leader of our delegation, Accountant, Financial Analyst, and Business Manager.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Asimov said, shaking appendages with all of them again. “You call yourselves a delegation. Does that mean you have a specific reason for coming to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” Office Manager said. “We want you to-”
“It’s three forty-five, Dr. Asimov,” Susan said. “You need to get ready for the Doubleday reception. “
He squinted at the digital on the wall. “That isn’t till six, is it?”
“Doubleday wants you there at five for pictures, and it’s formal,” she said firmly. “Perhaps they could make an appointment and come back when they could spend more time with you. I can give them an appointment-”
“For June twenty-fourth?” Accountant said. “Or August fifteenth?”
“Fit them in tomorrow, Susan,” Asimov said, coming over to the desk.
“You have a meeting with your science editor in the morning and then lunch with Al Lanning and the American Booksellers Association dinner at seven.”
“What about this?” Asimov said, pointing at an open space on the schedule. “Four o’clock.”
“That’s when you prepare your speech for the ABA.”
“I never prepare my speeches. You come back at four o’clock tomorrow, and we can talk about why you came to see me and what a wonderful writer I am.”
“Four o’clock,” Accountant said. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be here, sir.” He herded Medical Assistant and Book Cataloguer, Shelver, Reader, Copyeditor, and Grammarian out the door and shut it behind them.
“Galaxy-sized ideas, “ Asimov said, looking wistfully after them. “Did they tell you what they wanted to see me about?”
“No, sir.” Susan helped him into his pants and formal shirt and fastened the studs.
“Interesting assortment, weren’t they? It never occurred to me to have a wooden robot in any of my robot stories. Or one that was such a wise and perceptive reader. “
“The reception’s at the Union Club,” Susan said, putting his cufflinks in. “In the Nightfall Room. You don’t have to make a speech, just a few extemporaneous remarks about the book. Janet’s meeting you there.”
“The short one looked just like a nurse I had when I had my bypass operation. The blue one was nice-looking, though, wasn’t he?”
She turned up his collar and began to tie his tie. “The coordinates card for the Union Club and the t
okens for the taxi’s tip are in your breast pocket.”
“Very nice-looking. Reminds me of myself when I was a young man,” he said with his chin in the air. “Ouch! You’re choking me!”
Susan dropped the ends of the tie and stepped back.
“What’s the matter?” Asimov said, fumbling for the ends of the tie. “I forgot. It’s all right. You weren’t really choking me. That was just a figure of speech for the way I feel about wearing formal ties. Next time I say it, you just say, ‘I’m not choking you, so stand still and let me tie this.’ “
“Yes, sir, “ Susan said. She finished tying the tie and stepped back to look at the effect. One side of the bow was a little larger than the other. She adjusted it, scrutinized it again, and gave it a final pat.
“The Union Club,” Asimov said. “The Nightfall Room. The coordinates card is in my breast pocket,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, helping him on with his jacket.
“No speech. Just a few extemporaneous remarks.”
“Yes, sir.” She helped him on with his overcoat and wrapped his muffler around his neck.
“Janet’s meeting me there. Good grief, I should have gotten her a corsage, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, sir,” Susan said, taking a white box out of the desk drawer. “Orchids and stephanotis.” She handed him the box.
“Susan, you’re wonderful. I’d be lost without you.”
“Yes, sir,” Susan said. “I’ve called the taxi. It’s waiting at the door.”
She handed him his cane and walked him out to the elevator. As soon as the doors closed she went back to the office and picked up the phone. She punched in a number. “Ms. Weston? This is Dr. Asimov’s secretary calling from New York about your appointment on the twenty-eighth. We’ve just had a cancellation for tomorrow afternoon at four. Could you fly in by then?”
Dr. Asimov didn’t get back from lunch until ten after four. “Are they here?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Susan said, unwinding the muffler from around his neck. “They’re waiting in your office.”
Foundation's Friends Page 11
