Isaac Asimov - Forward the Foundation

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 Raych 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.”

Andorin paled and held his breath for a moment. He said, “Are you sure of that, Chief?”

“As sure as I am that you’re standing here in front of me and that you have introduced an enemy into our midst.”

“I had no idea—”

“Don’t get nervous,” said Namarti. “I consider it the best thing you have ever done in your idle aristocratic life. You have played the role that the gods have marked out for you. If I had not known who he was, he might have fulfilled the function for which he was undoubtedly intended: to be a spy in our midst and an informant of our most secret plans. But since I know who he is, it won’t work that way. Instead, we now have everything .” Namarti rubbed his hands together in delight and, haltingly, as if he realized how far out of character it was for him, he smiled—and laughed.

Manella said thoughtfully, “I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore, Planchet.”

Raych was drying himself after his shower. “Why not?”

“Gleb Andorin doesn’t want me to.”

“Why not?”

Manella shrugged her smooth shoulders. “He says you have important work to do and no more time to fool around. Maybe he means you’ll get a better job.”

Raych stiffened. “What kind of work? Did he mention anything in particular?”

“No, but he said he would be going to the Imperial Sector.”

“Did he? Does he often tell you things like that?”

“You know how it is, Planchet. When a fellow’s in bed with you, he talks a lot.”

“I know,” said Raych, who was always careful not to. “What else does he say?”

“Why do you ask?” She frowned a bit. “He always asks about you, too. I noticed that about men. They’re curious about each other. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“What do you tell him about me?”

“Not much. Just that you’re a very decent sort of guy. Naturally I don’t tell him that I like you better than I like him. That would hurt his feelings—and it might hurt me, too.”

Raych was getting dressed. “So it’s good-bye, then.”

“For a while, I suppose. Gleb may change his mind. Of course, I’d like to go to the Imperial Sector—if he’d take me. I’ve never been there.”

Raych almost slipped, but he managed to cough, then said, “I’ve never been there, either.”

“It’s got the biggest buildings and the nicest places and the fanciest restaurants—and that’s where the rich people live. I’d like to meet some rich people—besides Gleb, I mean.”

Raych said, “I suppose there’s not much you can get out of a person like me.”

“You’re all right. You can’t think of credits all the time, but you’ve got to think of them some of the time. Especially since I think Gleb is getting tired of me.”

Raych felt compelled to say, “No one could get tired of you,” and then found, a little to his own confusion, that he meant it.

Manella said, “That’s what men always say, but you’d be surprised. Anyway, it’s been good, you and I, Planchet. Take care of yourself and, who knows, we may see each other again.”

Raych nodded and found himself at a loss for words. There was no way in which he could say or do anything to express his feelings.

He turned his mind in other directions. He had to find out what the Namarti people were planning. If they were separating him from Manella, the crisis must be rapidly approaching. All he had to go on was that odd question about gardening.

Nor could he get any further information back to Seldon. He had been kept under close scrutiny since his meeting with Namarti and all avenues of communication were cut off—surely another indication of an approaching crisis.

But if he were to find out what was going on only after it was done—and if he could communicate the news only after it was no longer news—he would have failed.

Hari Seldon was not having a good day. He had not heard from Raych since his first communiqué; he had no idea what was happening.

Aside from his natural concern for Raych’s safety (surely he would hear if something really bad had happened), there was his uneasiness over what might be planned.

It would have to be subtle. A direct attack on the Palace itself was totally out of the question. Security there was far too tight. But if so, what else could be planned that would be sufficiently effective?

The whole thing was keeping him awake at night and distracted by day.

The signal light flashed.

“First Minister. Your two o’clock appointment, sir—”

“What two o’clock appointment is this?”

“Mandell Gruber, the gardener. He has the necessary certification.”

Seldon remembered. “Yes. Send him in.”

This was no time to see Gruber, but he had agreed to it in a moment of weakness—the man had seemed distraught. A First Minister should not have such moments of weakness, but Seldon had been Seldon long before he had become First Minister.

“Come in, Gruber,” he said kindly.

Gruber stood before him, head ducking mechanically, eyes darting this way and that. Seldon was quite certain the gardener had never been in any room as magnificent as this one and he had the bitter urge to say: “Do you like it? Please take it. I don’t want it.”

But he only said, “What is it, Gruber? Why are you so unhappy?”