Foundation's Fear

 Particularly among those Hari termed “chaos worlds,” a smug avant-garde fumbled for the sublime by substituting for beauty a love of terror, shock, and the sickeningly grotesque. They used enormous scale, or acute disproportion, or scatology, or discord and irrational disjunction.



 Both approaches were boring. Neither had any airy joy.



 A wall dissolved, crackling, and they entered the Vault of Audi­ ence. Attendants vanished, his Specials fell behind. Abruptly Hari was alone. He padded over the cushiony floor. Baroque excess leered at him from every raised cornice, upjutting ornament, and elaborate wainscoting.



 Silence. The Emperor was never waiting for anyone, of course. The gloomy chamber gave back no echoes, as though the walls absorbed everything.



 Indeed, they probably did. No doubt every Imperial conversation went into several ears. There might be eavesdroppers halfway across the Galaxy.



 A light, moving. Down a crackling grav column came Cleon. “Hari! So happy you could come.”



 Since refusing a summons by the Emperor was traditionally grounds for execution, Hari could barely suppress a wry smile. “My honor to serve, sire.”



 “Come, sit.”



 Cleon moved heavily. Rumor had it that his appetite, already legendary, had begun to exceed even the skills of his cooks and physicians. “We have much to discuss.”



 The Emperor’s constant attendant glow served to subtly enhance him with its nimbus. The contrast was mild, serving to draw him out from a comparative surrounding gloom. The room’s embedded intelligences tracked his eyes and shed added light where his gaze fell, again with delicate emphasis, subtly applied. The soft touch of his regard yielded a radiance which guests scarcely noticed, but which acted subconsciously, adding to their awe. Hari knew this, yet the effect still worked; Cleon looked masterful, regal.



 “I fear we have hit a snag,” Cleon said.



 “Nothing you cannot master, I am sure, sire.”



 Cleon shook his head wearily. “Now don’t you, too, go on about



 my prodigious powers. Some…elements—” he drew the word out with dry disdain “—object to your appointment.”



 “I see.” Hari kept his face blank, but his heart leaped.



 “Do not be glum! I do want you for my First Minister.”



 “Yes, sire.”



 “But I am not, despite commonplace assumption, utterly free to act.”



 “I realize that many others are better qualified—”



 “In their own eyes, surely.”



 “—and better trained, and—”



 “And know nothing of psychohistory.”



 “Demerzel exaggerated the utility of psychohistory.”



 “Nonsense. He suggested your name to me.”



 “You know as well as I that he was exhausted, not in his best frame of—”



 “His judgment was impeccable for decades.” Cleon eyed Hari. “One would almost think you were trying to avoid appointment as First Minister.”



 “No, sire, but—”



 “Men—and women, for that matter—have killed for far less.”



 “And been killed, once they got it.”



 Cleon chuckled. “True enough. Some First Ministers do get self-



 important, begin to scheme against their Emperor—but let us not dwell upon the few failures of our system.”



 Hari recalled Demerzel saying, “The succession of crises has reached the point where the consideration of the Three Laws of Robotics paralyzes me.” Demerzel had been unable to make choices because there were no good ones left. Every possible move hurt someone, badly. So Demerzel, a supreme intelligence, a clandestine humani­ form robot, had suddenly left the scene. What chance did Hari have?



 “I will assume the position, of course,” Hari said quietly, “if ne­ cessary.”



 “Oh, it’s necessary. If possible, you mean. Factions on the High Council oppose you. They demand a full discussion.”



 Hari blinked, alarmed. “Will I have to debate?”



 “—and then a vote.”



 “I had no idea the Council could intervene.”



 “Read the Codes. They do have that power. Typically they do not use it, bowing to the superior wisdom of the Emperor.” A dry little laugh. “Not this time.”



 “If it would make it easier for you, I could absent myself while the discussion—”



 “Nonsense! I want to use you to counter them.”



 “I haven’t any ideas how to—”



 “I’ll scent out the issues; you advise me on answers. Division of labor, nothing could be simpler.”



 “Um.” Demerzel had said confidently, “If he believes you have the psychohistorical answer, he will follow you eagerly and that will make you a good First Minister.” Here, in such august surround­ ings, that seemed quite unlikely.



 “We will have to evade these opponents, maneuver against them.”



 “I have no idea how to do that.”



 “Of course you do not! I do. But you see the Empire and all its history as one unfurling scroll. You have the theory.”



 Cleon relished ruling. Hari felt in his bones that he did not. As First Minister, his word could determine the fate of millions. That had daunted even Demerzel.



 “There is still the Zeroth Law,” Demerzel had said just before they parted for the last time. It placed the well-being of humanity as a whole above that of any single human. The First Law then read, A robot may not injure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm, unless this would violate the Zeroth Law. Fair enough, but how was Hari to carry out a job which not even Demerzel could do? Hari realized that he had been silent for too long, and that Cleon was waiting. What could he say?



 “Um, who opposes me?”



 “Several factions united behind Betan Lamurk.”



 “What’s his objection?”



 To his surprise, the Emperor laughed heartily. “That you aren’t Betan Lamurk.”



 “You can’t simply—”



 “Overrule the Council? Offer Lamurk a deal? Buy him off?”



 “I didn’t mean to imply, sire, that you would stoop to—”



 “Of course I would ‘stoop,’ as you put it. The difficulty lies with Lamurk himself. His price to allow you in as First Minister would be too high.”



 “Some high position?”



 “That, and some estates, perhaps an entire Zone.”



 Turning an entire Zone of the Galaxy over to a single man…“High stakes.”



 Cleon sighed. “We are not as rich, these days. In the reign of Fletch the Furious, he bartered whole Zones simply for seats on the Council.”



 “Your supporters, the Royalists, they can’t outmaneuver Lamurk?”



 “You really must study current politics more, Seldon. Though I suppose you’re so steeped in history, all this seems a bit trivial?”



 Actually, Hari thought, he was steeped in mathematics. Dors supplied the history he needed, or Yugo. “I will do so. So the Royalists—”



 “Have lost the Dahlites, so they cannot muster a majority coali­ tion.”



 “The Dahlites are that powerful?”



 “They have an argument popular with a broad audience, plus a large population.”



 “I did not know they were so strong. My own close assistant, Yugo—”



 “I know, a Dahlite. Watch him.”



 Hari blinked. “Yugo is a strong Dahlite, true. But he is loyal, a fine, intuitive mathist. But how did you—”



 “Background check.” Cleon waved his hand in airy dismissal. “One must know a few things about a First Minister.”



 Hari disliked being under an Imperial microscope, but he kept his face blank. “Yugo is loyal to me.”



 “I know the story, how you uplifted him from hard labor, by­ passing the Civil Service filters. Very noble of you. But I cannot overlook the fact that the Dahlites have a ready audience for their fevered outpourings. They threaten to alter the representation of Sectors in the High Council, even in the Lower Council. So—” Cleon jabbed a finger “—watch him.”



 “Yes, sire.” Cleon was getting steamed up about nothing, as far as Yugo was concerned, but no point in arguing.



 “You will have to be as circumspect as the Emperor’s wife during this, ah, transitional period.”



 Hari recalled the ancient saying, that above all the Emperor’s wife (or wives, depending upon the era) must keep her skirts clean, no matter what muck she walks above. The analogy was used even when the Emperor proved to be homosexual, or even when a wo­ man held the Imperial Palace. “Yes, sire. Uh, ‘transitional’…?”



 Cleon looked off in a distracted way at the towering, shadowy art forms looming around them. By now Hari understood that this pointed to the crux of why he had been summoned. “Your appoint­ ment will take a while, as the High Council fidgets. So I shall seek your advice…”



 “Without giving me the power.”



 “Well, yes.”



 Hari felt no disappointment. “So I can stay in my office at Streeling?”



 “I suppose it would seem forward if you came here.”



 “Good. Now, about those Specials—”



 “They must remain with you. Trantor is more dangerous than a professor knows.”



 Hari sighed. “Yes, sire.”



 Cleon lounged back, his airchair folding itself about him elabor­ ately. “Now I would like your advice on this Renegatum matter.”



 “Renegatum?”



 For the first time, Hari saw Cleon show surprise. “You have not followed the case? It is everywhere!”



 “I am a bit out of the main stream, sire.”



 “The Renegatum—the Society of Renegades. They kill and des­ troy.”



 “For what?”



 “For the pleasure of destruction!” Cleon slapped his chair angrily and it responded by massaging him, apparently a standard answer. “The latest of their members to ‘demonstrate their contempt for society’ is a woman named Kutonin. She invaded the Imperial Galleries, torch-melted art many millennia old, and killed two guards. Then she peacefully turned herself over to the officers who arrived.”



 “You shall have her executed?”



 “Of course. Court decided she was guilty quickly enough—she confessed.”



 “Readily?”



 “Immediately.”



 Confession under the subtle ministrations of the Imperials was legendary. Breaking the flesh was easy enough; the Imperials broke the suspect’s psyche, as well. “So sentence can be set by you, it being a high crime against the Imperium.”



 “Oh yes, that old law about rebellious vandalism.”



 “It allows the death penalty and any special torture.”



 “But death is not enough! Not for the Renegatum crimes. So I turn to my psychohistorian.”



 “You want me to…?”



 “Give me an idea. These people say they’re doing it to bring down the existing order and all that, of course. But they get im­ mense planet-wide coverage, their names known by everyone as the destroyers of time-honored art. They go to their gravesfamous. All the psychers say that’s their real motivation. I can kill them, but they don’t care by that time!”



 “Um,” Hari said uncomfortably. He knew full well he could never comprehend such people.



 “So give me an idea. Something psychohistorical.”



 Hari was intrigued by the problem, but nothing came to mind. He had long ago learned to deliberately not concentrate on a vexing question immediately, letting his subconscious have first crack. To gain time he asked, “Sire, you saw the smoke beyond the gardens?”