by Isaac Asimov
“It’s about First Minister Eto Demerzel.” “Well?”
Raych looked around uneasily. “Can anyone hear me?”
“Just Namarti and myself.”
“All right, then listen. This guy Demerzel ain’t a guy. He’s a robot.”
“What!” exploded Joranum.
Raych felt moved to explain. “A robot is a mechanical man, sir. He ain’t human. He’s a machine.”
Namarti broke out passionately, “Jo-Jo, don’t believe that. It’s ridiculous.”
But Joranum held up an admonitory hand. His eyes were gleaming. “Why do you say that?”
“My father was in Mycogen once. He told me all about it. In Mycogen they talk about robots a lot.”
“Yes, I know. At least, I have heard so.”
“They Mycogenians believe that robots were once very common among their ancestors, but they were wiped out.”
Namarti’s eyes narrowed. “But what makes you think that Demerzel is a robot? From what little I have heard of these fantasies, robots are made out of metal, aren’t they?”
“That’s so,” said Raych earnestly. “But what I heard is that there were a few robots that look just like human beings and they live forever—”
Namarti shook his head violently. “Legends! Ridiculous legends! Jo-Jo, why are we listening—”
But Joranum cut him off quickly. “No, G.D. I want to listen. I’ve heard these legends, too.”
“But it’s nonsense, Jo-Jo.”
“Don’t be in such a rush to say ‘nonsense.’ And even if it were, people live and die by nonsense. It’s not what is so much as what people think is. —Tell me, young man, putting legends to one side, what makes you think Demerzel is a robot? Let’s suppose that robots exist. What is it, then, about Demerzel that makes you say he is a robot? Did he tell you so?”
“No, sir,” said Raych.
“Did your father tell you so?” asked Joranum.
“No, sir. It’s just my own idea, but I’m sure of it.”
“Why? What makes you so sure?”
“It’s just something about him. He doesn’t change. He doesn’t get older. He doesn’t show emotions. Something about him looks like he’s made of metal.”
Joranum sat back in his chair and looked at Raych for an extended time. It was almost possible to hear his thoughts buzzing.
Finally he said, “Suppose he is a robot, young man. Why should you care? Does it matter to you?”
“Of course it matters to me,” said Raych. “I’m a human being. I don’t want no robot in charge of running the Empire.”
Joranum turned to Namarti with a gesture of eager approval. “Do you hear that, G.D.? ‘I’m a human being. I don’t want no robot in charge of running the Empire.’ Put him on holovision and have him say it. Have him repeat it over and over till it’s drummed into every person on Trantor—”
“Hey,” said Raych, finally catching his breath. “I can’t say that on holovision. I can’t let my father find out—”
“No, of course not,” said Joranum quickly. “We couldn’t allow that. We’ll just use the words. We’ll find some other Dahlite. Someone from each of the sectors, each in his own dialect, but always the same message: ‘I don’t want no robot in charge of running the Empire.’ ”
Namarti said, “And what happens when Demerzel proves he’s not a robot?”
“Really,” said Joranum. “How will he do that? It would be impossible for him to do so. Psychologically impossible. What? The great Demerzel, the power behind the throne, the man who has twitched the strings attached to Cleon I all these years and those attached to Cleon’s father before him? Will he climb down now and whine to the public that he is, too, a human being? That would be almost as destructive to him as being a robot. G.D., we have the villain in a no-win situation and we owe it all to this fine young man here.”
Raych flushed.
Joranum said, “Raych is your name, isn’t it? Once our party is in a position to do so, we won’t forget. Dahl will be treated well and you will have a good position with us. You’re going to be Dahl’s sector leader someday, Raych, and you’re not going to regret you’ve done this. Are you, now?”
“Not on your life,” said Raych fervently.
“In that case, we’ll see that you get back to your father. You let him know that we intend him no harm, that we value him greatly. You can tell him you found that out in any way you please. And if you find anything else you think we might be able to use—about psychohistory, in particular, you let us know.”
“You bet. But do you mean it when you say you’ll see to it that Dahl gets some breaks?”
“Absolutely. Equality of sectors, my boy. Equality of worlds. We’ll have a new Empire with all the old villainies of privilege and inequality wiped out.”
And Raych nodded his head vigorously. “That’s what I want.”
19
Cleon, Emperor of the Galaxy, was walking hurriedly through the arcade that led from his private quarters in the Small Palace to the offices of the rather tremendous staff that lived in the various annexes of the Imperial Palace, which served as the nerve center of the Empire.
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 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 disorders, 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 Tran
tor. 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.”
