Isaac Asimov - Forward the Foundation

“I can’t believe they will do this.”

“Perhaps they won’t. I’ll make them an offer that, just perhaps, they may not wish to refuse.”

“What would that be?”

“I will offer to resign as First Minister. They don’t want me, they won’t have me. But the fact is that I do have supporters at the Imperial Court and, even more important, people in the Outer Worlds who find me acceptable. That means that if the members of the Imperial Guard force me out, then even if they don’t execute me, they will have some trouble. If, on the other hand, I resign, stating that I believe the military government is what Trantor and the Empire needs, then I actually help them, you see?”

He mused a little and said, “Besides, there is the little matter of psychohistory.”

(That was the first time Manella had ever heard the word.)

“What’s that?”

“Something I’m working on. Cleon believed in its powers very strongly—more strongly than I did at the time—and there’s a considerable feeling in the court that psychohistory is, or might be, a powerful tool that could be made to work on the side of the government—whatever the government might be.

“Nor does it matter if they know nothing about the details of the science. I’d rather they didn’t. Lack of knowledge can increase what we might call the superstitious aspect of the situation. In which case, they will let me continue working on my research as a private citizen. At least, I hope so. —And that brings me to you.”

“What about me?”

“I’m going to ask as part of the deal that you be allowed to resign from the security establishment and that no action be taken against you over the events in connection with the assassination. I ought to be able to get that.”

“But you’re talking about ending my career.”

“Your career is, in any case, over. Even if the Imperial Guard doesn’t work up an order of execution against you, can you imagine that you will be allowed to continue working as a security officer?”

“But what do I do? How do I make a living?”

“I’ll take care of that, Miss Dubanqua. In all likelihood, I’ll go back to Streeling University, with a large grant for my psychohistorical research, and I’m sure that I can find a place for you.”

Manella, round-eyed, said, “Why should you—”

Seldon said, “I can’t believe you’re asking. You saved Raych’s life and my own. Is it conceivable that I don’t owe you anything?”

And it was as he said. Seldon resigned gracefully from the post he had held for ten years. He was given a fulsome letter of appreciation for his services by the just-formed military government, a junta led by certain members of the Imperial Guard and the armed forces. He returned to Streeling University and Manella Dubanqua, relieved of her own post as a security officer, went with Seldon and his family.

Raych came in, blowing on his hands. “I’m all for deliberate variety in the weather. You don’t want things under a dome to always be the same. Today, though, they made it just a little too cold and worked up a wind, besides. I think it’s about time someone complained to weather control.”

“I don’t know that it’s weather control’s fault,” said Seldon. “It’s getting harder to control things in general.”

“I know. Deterioration.” Raych brushed his thick black mustache with the back of his hand. He did that often, as though he had never quite managed to get over the few months during which he had been mustacheless in Wye. He had also put on a little weight around the middle and, overall, had come to seem very comfortable and middle-class. Even his Dahl accent had faded somewhat.

He took off his light coverall and said, “And how’s the old birthday boy?”

“Resenting it. Wait, wait, my son. One of these days, you’ll be celebrating your fortieth birthday. We’ll see how funny you’ll think that is.”

“Not as funny as sixty.”

“Stop joking,” said Manella, who had been chafing Raych’s hands, trying to warm them.

Seldon spread his own hands. “We’re doing the wrong thing, Raych. Your wife is of the opinion that all this talk about my turning sixty has sent little Wanda into a decline over the possibility of my dying.”

“Really?” said Raych. “That accounts for it, then. I stopped in to see her and she told me at once, before I even had a chance to say a word, that she had had a bad dream. Was it about your dying?”

“Apparently,” said Seldon.

“Well, she’ll get over that. No way of stopping bad dreams.”

“I’m not dismissing it that easily,” said Manella. “She’s brooding over it and that’s not healthy. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

“As you say, Manella,” said Raych agreeably. “You’re my dear wife and whatever you say—about Wanda—goes.” And he brushed his mustache again.

His dear wife! It hadn’t been so easy to make her his dear wife. Raych remembered his mother’s attitude toward the possibility. Talk about nightmares. It was he who had the periodic nightmares in which he had to face down the furious Dors Venabili once more.

Raych’s first clear memory, after emerging from his desperance-induced ordeal, was that of being shaved.

He felt the vibrorazor moving along his cheek and he said weakly, “Don’t cut anywhere near my upper lip, barber. I want my mustache back.”

The barber, who had already received his instructions from Seldon, held up a mirror to reassure him.

Dors Venabili, who was sitting at his bedside, said, “Let him work, Raych. Don’t excite yourself.”

Raych’s eyes turned toward her momentarily and he was quiet. When the barber left, Dors said, “How do you feel, Raych?”

“Rotten,” he muttered. “I’m so depressed, I can’t stand it.”

“That’s the lingering effect of the desperance you’ve been dosed with. The effects will wash out.”

“I can’t believe it. How long has it been?”

“Never mind. It will take time. You were pumped full of it.”

He looked around restlessly. “Has Manella been to see me?”

“That woman?” (Raych was getting used to hearing Dors speak of Manella with those words and in that tone of voice.) “No. You’re not fit for visitors yet.”

Interpreting the look on Raych’s face, Dors quickly added, “I’m an exception because I’m your mother, Raych. Why would you want that woman to see you, anyway? You’re in no condition to be seen.”

“All the more reason to see her,” muttered Raych. “I want her to see me at my worst.” He then turned to one side dispiritedly. “I want to sleep.”

Dors Venabili shook her head. Later that day she said to Seldon, “I don’t know what we’re going to do about Raych, Hari. He’s quite unreasonable.”

Seldon said, “He’s not well, Dors. Give the young man a chance.”

“He keeps muttering about that woman. Whatever her name is.”

“Manella Dubanqua. It’s not a hard name to remember.”

“I think he wants to set up housekeeping with her. Live with her. Marry her.”

Seldon shrugged. “Raych is thirty—old enough to make up his own mind.”

“As his parents, we have something to say—surely.”

Hari sighed. “And I’m sure you’ve said it, Dors. And once you’ve said it, I’m sure he’ll do as he wishes.”

“Is that your final word? Do you intend to do nothing while he makes plans to marry a woman like that?”

“What do you expect me to do, Dors? Manella saved Raych’s life. Do you expect him to forget that? She saved mine, too, for that matter.”

That seemed to feed Dors’s anger. She said, “And you also saved her. The score is even.”