Isaac Asimov: Prelude to Foundation

Before going to bed, Seldon had looked up Cleon I in the encyclopedic portion of his hotel room computer. The Emperor had been highly praised as, no doubt, had all Emperors in their own lifetime, regardless of their deeds. Seldon had dismissed that, but he was interested in the fact that Cleon had been born in the Palace and had never left its grounds. He had never been in Trantor itself, in any part of the multi-domed world. It was a matter of security, perhaps, but what it meant was that the Emperor was in prison, whether he admitted the matter to himself or not. It might be the most luxurious prison in the Galaxy, but it was a prison just the same.

And though the Emperor had seemed mild-mannered and had shown no sign of being a bloody-minded autocrat as so many of his predecessors had been, it was not good to have attracted his attention. Seldon welcomed the thought of leaving tomorrow for Helicon, even though it would be winter (and a rather nasty one, so far) back home.

He looked up at the bright diffuse light. Although it could never rain in here, the atmosphere was far from dry. A fountain played not far from him; the plants were green and had probably never felt drought. Occasionally, the shrubbery rustled as though a small animal or two was hidden there. He heard the hum of bees.

Really, though Trantor was spoken of throughout the Galaxy as an artificial world of metal and ceramic, in this small patch it felt positively rustic.

There were a few other persons taking advantage of the park all wearing light hats, some quite small. There was one rather pretty young woman not far away, but she was bent over a viewer and he could not see her face clearly. A man walked past, looked at him briefly and incuriously, then sat down in a seat facing him and buried himself in a sheaf of teleprints, crossing one leg, in its tight pink trouser leg, over the other.

There was a tendency to pastel shades among the men, oddly enough, while the women mostly wore white. Being a clean environment, it made sense to wear light colors. He looked down in amusement at his own Heliconian costume, which was predominantly dull brown. If he were to stay on Trantor—as he was not—he would need to purchase suitable clothing or he would become an object of curiosity or laughter or repulsion. The man with the teleprints had, for instance, looked up at him more curiously this time—no doubt intrigued by his Outworldish clothing.

Seldon was relieved that he did not smile. He could be philosophical over being a figure of fun, but, surely, he could not be expected to enjoy it.

Seldon watched the man rather unobtrusively, for he seemed to be engaged in some sort of internal debate. At the moment he looked as if he was about to speak, then seemed to think better of it, then seemed to wish to speak again. Seldon wondered what the outcome would be.

He studied the man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and no sign of a paunch, darkish hair with a glint of blond, smooth-shaven, a grave expression, an air of strength though there were no bulging muscles, a face that was a touch rugged—pleasant, but with nothing “pretty” about it.

By the time the man had lost the internal fight with himself (or won, perhaps) and leaned toward him, Seldon had decided he liked him.

The man said, “Pardon me, weren’t you at the Decennial Convention? Mathematics?”

“Yes, I was,” said Seldon agreeably.

“Ah, I thought I saw you there. It was—excuse me—that moment of recognition that led me to sit here. If I am intruding on your privacy—”

“Not at all. I’m just enjoying an idle moment.”

“Let’s see how close I can get. You’re Professor Seldom.”

“Seldon. Hari Seldon. Quite close. And you?”

“Chetter Hummin.” The man seemed slightly embarrassed. “Rather a homespun name, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve never come across any Chetters before,” said Seldon. “Or Hummins. So that makes you somewhat unique, I should think. It might be viewed as being better than being mixed up with all the countless Haris there are. Or Seldons, for that matter.”

Seldon moved his chair closer to Hummin, scraping it against the slightly elastic ceramoid tiles.

“Talk about homespun,” he said. “What about this Outworldish clothing I’m wearing? It never occurred to me that I ought to get Trantorian garb.”

“You could buy some,” said Hummin, eyeing Seldon with suppressed disapproval.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow and, besides, I couldn’t afford it. Mathematicians deal with large numbers sometimes, but never in their income. —I presume you’re a mathematician, Hummin.”

“No. Zero talent there.”

“Oh.” Seldon was disappointed. “You said you saw me at the Decennial Convention.”

“I was there as an onlooker. I’m a journalist.” He waved his teleprints, seemed suddenly aware that he was holding them and shoved them into his jacket pouch. “I supply the material for the news holocasts.” Then, thoughtfully, “Actually, I’m rather tired of it.”

“The job?”

Hummin nodded. “I’m sick of gathering together all the nonsense from every world. I hate the downward spiral.”

He glanced speculatively at Seldon. “Sometimes something interesting turns up, though. I’ve heard you were seen in the company of an Imperial Guard and making for the Palace gate. You weren’t by any chance seen by the Emperor, were you?”

The smile vanished from Seldon’s face. He said slowly, “If I was, it would scarcely be something I could talk about for publication.”

“No no, not for publication. If you don’t know this, Seldon, let me be the first to tell you— The first rule of the news game is that nothing is ever said about the Emperor or his personal entourage except what is officially given out. It’s a mistake, of course, because rumors fly that are much worse than the truth, but that’s the way it is.”

“But if you can’t report it, friend, why do you ask?”

“Private curiosity. Believe me, in my job I know a great deal more than ever gets on the air. —Let me guess. I didn’t follow your paper, but I gathered that you were talking about the possibility of predicting the future.”

Seldon shook his head and muttered, “It was a mistake.”

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, prediction—accurate prediction—would interest the Emperor, or any man in government, so I’m guessing that Cleon, First of that Name, asked you about it and wouldn’t you please give him a few predictions.”

Seldon said stiffly, “I don’t intend to discuss the matter.”

Hummin shrugged slightly. “Eto Demerzel was there, I suppose.”

“Who?”

“You’ve never heard of Eto Demerzel?”

“Never.”

“Cleon’s alter ego—Cleon’s brain—Cleon’s evil spirit. He’s been called all those things—if we confine ourselves to the nonvituperative. He must have been there.”

Seldon looked confused and Hummin said, “Well, you may not have seen him, but he was there. And if he thinks you can predict the future—”

“I can’t predict the future,” said Seldon, shaking his head vigorously. “If you listened to my paper, you’ll know that I only spoke of a theoretical possibility.”

“Just the same, if he thinks you can predict the future, he will not let you go.”

“He must have. Here I am.”

“That means nothing. He knows where you are and he’ll continue to know. And when he wants you, he’ll get you, wherever you are. And if he decides you’re useful, he’ll squeeze the use out of you. And if he decides you’re dangerous, he’ll squeeze the life out of you.”

Seldon stared. “What are you trying to do. Frighten me?”

“I’m trying to warn you.”