Isaac Asimov - Forward the Foundation

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.”

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 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.”