Prelude to Foundation (50 page)

“The three of us are not related in any way,” said Seldon. “Raych was born on Trantor, I on Helicon, Dors on Cinna.”

“And how did you all meet, then?”

Seldon explained briefly and with as little detail as he could manage. “There’s nothing romantic or significant in the meetings,” he added.

“Yet I am given to understand that you raised difficulties with my personal aide, Sergeant Thalus, when he wanted to take only you out of Dahl.”

Seldon said gravely, “I had grown fond of Dors and Raych and did not wish to be separated from them.”

Rashelle smiled and said, “You are a sentimental man, I see.”

“Yes, I am. Sentimental. And puzzled too.”

“Puzzled?”

“Why yes. And since you were so kind as to ask personal questions of us, may I ask one as well?”

“Of course, my dear Hari. Ask anything you please.”

“When we first arrived, you said that Wye has wanted me from the day I addressed the Decennial Convention. For what reason might that be?”

“Surely, you are not so simple as not to know. We want you for your psychohistory.”

“That much I do understand. But what makes you think that having me means you have psychohistory?”

“Surely, you have not been so careless as to lose it.”

“Worse, Rashelle. I have never had it.”

Rashelle’s face dimpled. “But you said you had it in your talk. Not that I understood your talk. I am not a mathematician. I hate numbers. But I have in my employ mathematicians who have explained to me what it is you said.”

“In that case, my dear Rashelle, you must listen more closely. I can well imagine they have told you that I have proven that psychohistorical predictions are conceivable, but surely they must also have told you that they are not practical.”

“I can’t believe that, Hari. The very next day, you were called into an audience with that pseudo-Emperor, Cleon.”

“The
pseudo
-Emperor?” murmured Dors ironically.

“Why yes,” said Rashelle as though she was answering a serious question. “Pseudo-Emperor. He has no true claim to the throne.”

“Rashelle,” said Seldon, brushing that aside a bit impatiently, “I told Cleon exactly what I have just told you and he let me go.”

Now Rashelle did not smile. A small edge crept into her voice. “Yes, he let you go the way the cat in the fable lets a mouse go. He has been pursuing you ever since—in Streeling, in Mycogen, in Dahl. He would
pursue you here if he dared. But come now—our serious talk is too serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. Let us have music.”

And at her words, there suddenly sounded a soft but joyous instrumental melody. She leaned toward Raych and said softly, “My boy, if you are not at ease with the fork, use your spoon or your fingers. I won’t mind.”

Raych said, “Yes, mum,” and swallowed hard, but Dors caught his eye and her lips silently mouthed: “Fork.”

He remained with his fork.

Dors said, “The music is lovely, Madam”—she pointedly rejected the familiar form of address—“but it must not be allowed to distract us. There is the thought in my mind that the pursuer in all those places might have been in the employ of the Wye Sector. Surely, you would not be so well acquainted with events if Wye were not the prime mover.”

Rashelle laughed aloud. “Wye has its eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but we were not the pursuers. Had we been, you would have been picked up without fail—as you were in Dahl finally when, indeed, we
were
the pursuers. When, however, there is a pursuit that fails, a grasping hand that misses, you may be sure that it is Demerzel.”

“Do you think so little of Demerzel?” murmured Dors.

“Yes. Does that surprise you? We have beaten him.”

“You? Or the Wye Sector?”

“The sector, of course, but insofar as Wye is the victor, then I am the victor.”

“How strange,” said Dors. “There seems to be a prevalent opinion throughout Trantor that the inhabitants of Wye have nothing to do with victory, with defeat, or with anything else. It is felt that there is but one will and one fist in Wye and that is that of the Mayor. Surely, you—or any other Wyan—weigh nothing in comparison.”

Rashelle smiled broadly. She paused to look at Raych benevolently and to pinch his cheek, then said, “If you believe that our Mayor is an autocrat and that there is but one will that sways Wye, then perhaps you are right. But, even so, I can still use the personal pronoun, for my will is of account.”

“Why yours?” said Seldon.

“Why not?” said Rashelle as the servers began clearing the table. “
I
am the Mayor of Wye.”

It was Raych who was the first to react to the statement. Quite forgetting the cloak of civility that sat upon him so uncomfortably, he laughed raucously and said, “Hey, lady, ya can’t be Mayor. Mayors is guys.”

Rashelle looked at him good-naturedly and said in a perfect imitation of his tone of voice, “Hey, kid, some Mayors is guys and some Mayors is dames. Put that under your lid and let it bubble.”

Raych’s eyes protruded and he seemed stunned. Finally he managed to say, “Hey, ya talk regular, lady.”

“Sure thing. Regular as ya want,” said Rashelle, still smiling.

Seldon cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite an accent you have, Rashelle.”

Rashelle tossed her head slightly. “I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years, but one never forgets. I once had a friend, a good friend, who was a Dahlite—when I was very young.” She sighed. “He didn’t speak that way, of course—he was quite intelligent—but he could do so if he wished and he taught me. It was exciting to talk so with him. It created a world that excluded our surroundings. It was wonderful. It was also impossible. My father made that plain. And now along
comes this young rascal, Raych, to remind me of those long-ago days. He has the accent, the eyes, the impudent cast of countenance, and in six years or so he will be a delight and terror to the young women. Won’t you, Raych?”

Raych said, “I dunno, lady—uh, mum.”

“I’m sure you will and you will come to look very much like my … old friend and it will be much more comfortable for me not to see you then. And now, dinner’s over and it’s time for you to go to your room, Raych. You can watch holovision for a while if you wish. I don’t suppose you read.”

Raych reddened. “I’m gonna read someday. Master Seldon says I’m gonna.”

“Then I’m sure you will.”

A young woman approached Raych, curtsying respectfully in Rashelle’s direction. Seldon had not seen the signal that had summoned her.

Raych said, “Can’t I stay with Master Seldon and Missus Venabili?”

“You’ll see them later,” said Rashelle gently, “but Master and Missus and I have to talk right now—so you must go.”

Dors mouthed a firm “Go!” at Raych and with a grimace the boy slid out of his chair and followed the attendant.

Rashelle turned to Seldon and Dors once Raych was gone and said, “The boy will be safe, of course, and treated well. Please have no fears about that. And I will be safe too. As my woman approached just now, so will a dozen armed men—and much more rapidly—when summoned. I want you to understand that.”

Seldon said evenly, “We are in no way thinking of attacking you, Rashelle—or must I now say, ‘Madam Mayor’?”

“Still Rashelle. I am given to understand that you are a wrestler of sorts, Hari, and you, Dors, are very skillful with the knives we have removed from your
room. I don’t want you to rely uselessly on your skills, since I want Hari alive, unharmed, and friendly.”

“It is quite well understood, Madam Mayor,” said Dors, her lack of friendship uncompromised, “that the ruler of Wye, now and for the past forty years, is Mannix, Fourth of that Name, and that he is still alive and in full possession of his faculties. Who, then, are you really?”

“Exactly who I say I am, Dors. Mannix IV is my father. He is, as you say, still alive and in possession of his faculties. In the eyes of the Emperor and of all the Empire, he is Mayor of Wye, but he is weary of the strains of power and is willing, at last, to let them slip into my hands, which are just as willing to receive them. I am his only child and I was brought up all my life to rule. My father is therefore Mayor in law and name, but I am Mayor in fact. It is to me, now, that the armed forces of Wye have sworn allegiance and in Wye that is all that counts.”

Seldon nodded. “Let it be as you say. But even so, whether it is Mayor Mannix IV or Mayor Rashelle I—it
is
the First, I suppose—there is no purpose in your holding me. I have told you that I don’t have a workable psychohistory and I do not think that either I or anyone else will ever have one. I have told that to the Emperor. I am of no use either to you or to him.”

Rashelle said, “How naïve you are. Do you know the history of the Empire?”

Seldon shook his head. “I have recently come to wish that I knew it much better.”

Dors said dryly, “
I
know Imperial history quite well, though the pre-Imperial age is my specialty, Madam Mayor. But what does it matter whether we do or do not?”

“If you know your history, you know that the House of Wye is ancient and honorable and is descended from the Dacian dynasty.”

Dors said, “The Dacians ruled five thousand years ago. The number of their descendants in the hundred
and fifty generations that have lived and died since then may number half the population of the Galaxy—if all genealogical claims, however outrageous, are accepted.”

“Our genealogical claims, Dr. Venabili”—Rashelle’s tone of voice was, for the first time, cold and unfriendly and her eyes flashed like steel—“are not outrageous. They are fully documented. The House of Wye has maintained itself consistently in positions of power through all those generations and there have been occasions when
we
have held the Imperial throne and have ruled as Emperors.”

“The history book-films,” said Dors, “usually refer to the Wye rulers as ‘anti-Emperors,’ never recognized by the bulk of the Empire.”

“It depends on who writes the history book-films. In the future, we will, for the throne which has been ours will be ours again.”

“To accomplish that, you must bring about civil war.”

“There won’t be much risk of that,” said Rashelle. She was smiling again. “That is what I must explain to you because I want Dr. Seldon’s help in preventing such a catastrophe. My father, Mannix IV, has been a man of peace all his life. He has been loyal to whomever it might be that ruled in the Imperial Palace and he has kept Wye a prosperous and strong pillar of the Trantorian economy for the good of all the Empire.”

“I don’t know that the Emperor has ever trusted him any the more for all that,” said Dors.

“I’m sure that is so,” said Rashelle calmly, “for the Emperors that have occupied the Palace in my father’s time have known themselves to be usurpers of a usurping line. Usurpers cannot afford to trust the true rulers. And yet my father has kept the peace. He has, of course, developed and trained a magnificent security force to maintain the peace, prosperity, and stability of the sector and the Imperial authorities have allowed this because they wanted Wye peaceful, prosperous, stable—and loyal.”

“But is it loyal?” said Dors.

“To the true Emperor, of course,” said Rashelle, “and we have now reached the stage where our strength is such that we can take over the government quickly—in a lightning stroke, in fact—and before one can say ‘civil war’ there will be a true Emperor—or Empress, if you prefer—and Trantor will be as peaceful as before.”

Dors shook her head. “May I enlighten you? As a historian?”

“I am always willing to listen.” And she inclined her head ever so slightly toward Dors.

“Whatever size your security force may be, however well-trained and well-equipped, they cannot possibly equal in size and strength the Imperial forces backed by twenty-five million worlds.”

“Ah, but you have put your finger on the usurper’s weakness, Dr. Venabili. There are twenty-five million worlds, with the Imperial forces scattered over them. Those forces are thinned out over incalculable space, under uncounted officers, none of them particularly ready for any action outside their own Provinces, many ready for action in their own interest rather than in the Empire’s. Our forces, on the other hand, are all here, all on Trantor. We can act and conclude before the distant generals and admirals can get it through their heads that they are needed.”

“But that response will come—and with irresistible force.”

“Are you certain of that?” said Rashelle. “We will be in the Palace. Trantor will be ours and at peace. Why should the Imperial forces stir when, by minding their own business, each petty military leader can have his own world to rule, his own Province?”

“But is that what you want?” asked Seldon wonderingly. “Are you telling me that you look forward to ruling over an Empire that will break up into splinters?”

Rashelle said, “That is exactly right. I would rule over Trantor, over its outlying space settlements, over the few nearby planetary systems that are part of the
Trantorian Province. I would much rather be Emperor of Trantor than Emperor of the Galaxy.”

“You would be satisfied with Trantor only,” said Dors in tones of the deepest disbelief.

“Why not?” said Rashelle, suddenly ablaze. She leaned forward eagerly, both hands pressed palms-down on the table. “That is what my father has been planning for forty years. He is only clinging to life now to witness its fulfillment. Why do we need millions of worlds, distant worlds that mean nothing to us, that weaken us, that draw our forces far away from us into meaningless cubic parsecs of space, that drown us in administrative chaos, that ruin us with their endless quarrels and problems when they are all distant nothings as far as we are concerned? Our own populous world—our own planetary city—is Galaxy enough for us. We have all we need to support ourselves. As for the rest of the Galaxy, let it splinter. Every petty militarist can have his own splinter. They needn’t fight. There will be enough for all.”

“But they
will
fight, just the same,” said Dors. “Each will refuse to be satisfied with his Province. Each will fear that his neighbor is not satisfied with
his
Province. Each will feel insecure and will dream of Galactic rule as the only guarantee of safety. This is certain, Madam Empress of Nothing. There will be endless wars into which you and Trantor will be inevitably drawn—to the ruin of all.”