Cleon the Emperor, Page 3

  Kaspalov sat silent. The other three transferred their gaze from Namarti to Kaspalov and back, content to let Namarti carry the weight of the discussion.

  “With Joranum's exile to Nishaya, the Joranumite movement fell apart and seemed to vanish,” said Namarti, harshly. “It would indeed have vanished but for me. Bit by bit and fragment by fragment, I rebuilt it into a network that extends over all of Trantor. You know this, I take it.”

  “I know it, Chief,” mumbled Kaspalov. The use of the title made it plain he was seeking reconciliation now.

  Namarti smiled tightly. He did not insist on the title but he always enjoyed hearing it used. He said, “You're part of this network and you have your duties.”

  Kaspalov stirred. He was clearly debating with himself internally and, finally, he said slowly, “You tell me, Chief, that you warned Joranum against accusing the old First Minister. You say he didn't listen, but at least you had your say. May I have the same privilege of pointing out what I think is a mistake and have you listen to me as Joranum listened to you, even if you, like he, don't take the advice given you?”

  “Of course you can speak your piece, Kaspalov. You are here in order that you might do so. What is your point?”

  “These new tactics of ours, Chief, are a mistake. They create disruption, and do damage.”

  “Of course! They are designed to do that.” Namarti stirred in his seat, controlling his anger with an effort. “Joranum tried persuasion. It didn't work. We will bring Trantor down by action.”

  “For how long? And at what cost?”

  “For as long as it takes, and at very little cost, actually. A power stoppage here, a water break there, a sewage backup, an air-conditioning halt. Inconvenience and discomfort; that's all it means.”

  Kaspalov shook his head. “These things are cumulative.”

  “Of course, Kaspalov, and we want public dismay and resentment to be cumulative, too. Listen, Kaspalov. The Empire is decaying. Everyone knows that. Everyone capable of intelligent thought knows that. The technology will fail here and there even if we do nothing. We're just helping it along a little.”

  “It's dangerous, Chief. Trantor's infrastructure is incredibly complicated. A careless push may bring it down in ruins. Pull the wrong string and Trantor may topple, like a house of cards.”

  “It hasn't so far.”

  “It may in the future. And what if the people find out that we are behind it? They would tear us apart. There would be no need to call in the police or the armed forces. Mobs would destroy us.”

  “How would they ever learn enough to blame us? The natural target for the people's resentment will be the government-the Emperor's advisers. They will never look beyond that.”

  “And how do we live with ourselves, knowing what we have done?”

  This last was asked in a whisper, the old man clearly moved by strong emotion. His eyes looked pleadingly across the table at his leader, the man to whom he had sworn allegiance. He had done so in the belief that Namarti would truly continue to bear the standard of freedom passed on by Laskin Joranum; now, Kaspalov wondered if this was how JoJo would have wanted his dream to come to pass.

  Namarti clucked his tongue, much as a reproving parent does when confronting an errant child.

  “Kaspalov, you can't seriously be turning sentimental on us, can you? Once we are in power, we will pick up the pieces and rebuild. We will gather in the people with all of Joranum's old talk of popular participation in government, with greater representation, and when we are firmly in power we will establish a more efficient and forceful government. We will then have a better Trantor and a stronger Empire. We will set up some sort of discussion system whereby representatives of world regions can talk themselves into a daze, but we will do the governing.”

  Kaspalov sat there, irresolute.

  Namarti smiled joylessly. “You are not certain? We can't lose. It's been working perfectly, and it will continue working perfectly. The Emperor doesn't know what's going on. He hasn't the faintest notion. And his First Minister is a mathematician. He ruined Joranum, true, but since then he has done nothing.”

  “He has something called-called-”

  “Forget it. Joranum attached a great deal of importance to it, but it was a part of his being Mycogenian, like his robot mania. This mathematician has nothing-”

  “Historical psychoanalysis, or something like that. I heard Joranum once say-”

  “Forget it. Just do your part. You handle the ventilation in the Anemoria sector, don't you? Very well, then. Have it malfunction in a manner of your choosing. It either shuts down so that the humidity rises, or it produces a peculiar odor, or something else. None of this will kill anyone, so don't get yourself into a fever of virtuous guilt. You will simply make people uncomfortable and raise the general level of discomfort and annoyance. Can we depend on you?”

  “But what would only be discomfort and annoyance to the young and healthy, may be more than that to infants, the aged, and the sick.”

  “Are you going to insist that no one at all must be hurt?”

  Kaspalov mumbled something.

  Namarti said, “It's impossible to do anything with a guarantee that no one at all will be hurt. You just do your job. Do it in such a way that you hurt as few as possible, if your conscience insists upon it, but do it.”

  Kaspalov said, “Look! I have one thing more to say, Chief.”

  “Then say it,” said Namarti wearily.

  “We can spend years poking at the infrastructure. The time must come when you take advantage of gathering dissatisfaction to seize the government. How do you intend to do that?”

  “You want to know exactly how we'll do it?”

  “Yes, the faster we strike, the more limited the damage, the more efficiently the surgery is performed.”

  Namarti said slowly, “I have not yet decided on the nature of this surgical strike. But it will come. Until then will you do your part?”

  Kaspalov nodded his head in resignation. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Well, then, go,” said Namarti, with a sharp gesture of dismissal.

  Kaspalov rose, turned, and left. Namarti watched him go. He said to the man at his right, “Kaspalov is not be trusted. He has sold out and it's only so that he can betray us that he wants to know my plans for the future. Take care of him.”

  The other nodded, and all three left, leaving Namarti alone in the room. He switched off the glowing wall panels, leaving only a lonely square in the ceiling to provide the light that would keep him from being entirely in the darkness.

  He thought: Every chain has weak links that must be eliminated. We have had to do this in the past and the result is that we have an organization that is untouchable.

  And in the dimness, he smiled, twisting his face into a kind of feral joy. After all, the network extended even into the Palace itself-not quite firmly, not quite reliably, but it was there. And it would be strengthened.

  6.

  The weather was holding up over the undomed area of the Imperials Palace grounds-warm and sunny.

  It didn't often happen. Hari remembered Dors telling him once how it came about that this particular area, with its cold winters and frequent rains, had been chosen as the site.

  “It wasn't actually chosen,” she said. “It was a family estate of the Morovian family in the days when all there was was a Kingdom of Trantor. When the Kingdom became an Empire, there were numerous sites where the Emperor could live-summer resorts, winter places, sports lodges, beach properties. And, as the planet was slowly domed, one reigning Emperor, living here, liked it, and it remained undomed. And, just because it was the only area left undomed, it became special-a place apart-and that uniqueness appealed to the next Emperor, and the next, and the next… and so, a tradition was born.”

  And as always, when hearing something like that, Seldon would think: And how would Psychohistory handle this? Would it predict that one area would remain undomed but be absolutely unable to say which
area? Could it go even so far? Could it predict that several areas would remain undomed, or none-and be wrong? How could it account for the personal likes and dislikes of an Emperor who happened to be on the throne at the crucial time and who made a decision in a moment of whimsy and nothing more? That way chaos lay-and madness.

  Cleon I was clearly enjoying the good weather.

  “I'm getting old, Seldon,” he said. “I don't have to tell you that. We're the same age, you and I. Surely it's a sign of age when I don't have the impulse to play tennis, or go fishing, even though they've newly restocked the lake, but am willing to walk gently over the pathways.”

  He was eating nuts as he spoke, something which resembled what on Seldon's native world of Helicon would have been called pumpkin seeds, but which were larger, and a little less delicate in taste. Cleon cracked them gently between his teeth, peeled the thin shells and popped the kernels into his mouth.

  Seldon did not like the taste particularly but, of course, when he was offered some by the Emperor, he accepted them, and ate a few.

  The Emperor had a number of shells in his hand and looked vaguely about for a receptacle of some sort that he could use for disposal. He saw none, but he did notice a gardener standing not far away, his body at attention, as it should be in the Imperial presence, and his head respectfully bowed.

  Cleon said, “Gardener!”

  The gardener approached quickly. “Sire!”

  “Get rid of these for me,” and he tapped the shells into the gardener's hand.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Seldon said, “I have a few, too, Gruber.”

  Gruber held out his hand and said, almost shyly, “Yes, First Minister.”

  He hurried away, and the Emperor looked after him curiously. “Do you know the fellow, Seldon?”

  “Yes, indeed, Sire. An old friend.”

  “The gardener is an old friend? What is he? A mathematical colleague fallen on hard times?”

  “No, Sire. Perhaps you remember the story. It was the time when” (he cleared his throat searching for the most tactful way to recall the incident) “the sergeant threatened my life shortly after I was appointed to my present post through your kindness.”

  “The assassination attempt.” Cleon looked up to heaven as though seeking patience. “I don't know why everyone is so afraid of that word.”

  “Perhaps,” said Seldon, smoothly, slightly despising himself for the ease with which he had come to be able to flatter, “the rest of us are more perturbed at the possibility of something untoward happening to our Emperor than you yourself are.”

  Cleon smiled ironically. “I dare say. And what has this to do with Gruber? Is that his name?”

  “Yes, Sire. Mandell Gruber. I'm sure you will recall, if you cast your mind back, that there was a gardener who came rushing up with a rake to defend me against the armed sergeant.”

  “Ah, yes. Was he the gardener who did that?”

  “He was the man, Sire. I've considered him a friend ever since, and I meet him almost every time I am on the grounds. I think he watches for me; feels proprietary toward me. And, of course, I feel kindly toward him.”

  “I don't blame you. -And while we're on the subject, how is your formidable lady, Ms. Venabili? I don't see her often.”

  “She's a historian, Sire. Lost in the past.”

  “She doesn't frighten you? She'd frighten me. I've been told how she treated that sergeant. One could almost be sorry for him.”

  “She grows savage on my behalf, Sire, but has not had occasion to do so lately. It's been very quiet.”

  The Emperor looked after the disappearing gardener. “Have we ever rewarded that man?”

  “I have done so, Sire. He has a wife and two daughters and I have arranged that each daughter will have a sum of money put aside for the education of any children she may have.”

  “Very good. But he needs a promotion, I think. -Is he a good gardener?”

  “Excellent, Sire.”

  “The Chief Gardener, Malcomber-I'm not quite sure I remember his name-is getting on and is, perhaps, not up to the job any more. He is well into his late seventies. Do you think this Gruber might be able to take over?”

  “I'm certain he can, Sire, but he likes his present job. It keeps him out in the open in all kinds of weathers.”

  “A peculiar recommendation for a job. I'm sure he can get used to administration, and I do need someone for some sort of renewal of the grounds. Hmmm. I must think upon this. Your friend Gruber may be just the man I need. -By the way, Seldon, what did you mean by saying it's been very quiet?”

  “I merely meant, Sire, that there has been no sign of discord at the Imperial Court. The unavoidable tendency to intrigue seems to be as near a minimum as it is ever likely to get.”

  “You wouldn't say that if you were Emperor, Seldon, and had to contend with all these officials and their complaints.”

  “They should bring these complaints to me, Sire.”

  “They know my soft heart, Seldon, and avoid your harshness.”

  “Sire!”

  “Just joking. However, that's not what I mean. How can you tell me things are quiet when reports seem to reach me every other week of some serious breakdown here and there on Trantor?”

  “These things are bound to happen.”

  “I don't recall that such things happened so frequently in previous years.”

  “Perhaps that was because they didn't, Sire. The infrastructure grows older with time. To make the necessary repairs properly would take time, labor, and enormous expense. This is not a time when a rise in taxes will be looked on favorably.”

  “There's never any such time. I gather that the people are experiencing serious dissatisfaction over these breakdowns. It must stop and you must see to it, Seldon. What does Psychohistory say?”

  “It says what common sense says, that everything is growing older.”

  “Well, all this is quite spoiling the pleasant day for me. I leave it in your hands, Seldon.”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Seldon submissively.

  The Emperor strode off and Seldon thought that it was all spoiling the pleasant day for him, too. This breakdown at the center was the alternative he didn't want. But how was he to prevent it and switch the crisis to the Periphery?

  Psychohistory didn't say.

  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 in 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, and had sat like a comfortable gem in the larger setting of the university. Now, unfortunately, nothing could hide the grandeur of a 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 Seldon and Venabili. 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, his mother, Dors, had hardly changed at all. She was as sleek and fit as the day she and Hari were accosted by young Raych and his fellow Billibotton gang members. And he, Raych, born to poverty and misery, was now a member of the civil service, a small cog in the Ministry of Populations.

  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.”

  Venabili 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, one 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 Venabili, “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 Venabili, 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?”