Prelude to Foundation

“My mathematical system would not give an answer to so specific a question, even if psychohistory worked at its best. All the quantum mechanics in the world cannot make it possible to predict the behavior of one lone electron, only the average behavior of many.”

“You know your mathematics better than I do. Make an educated guess based on it. Will I someday be assassinated?”

Seldon said softly, “You lay a trap for me, Sire. Either tell me what answer you wish and I will give it to you or else give me free right to make what answer I wish without punishment.”

“Speak as you will.”

“Your word of honor?”

“Do you want it an writing?” Cleon was sarcastic.

“Your spoken word of honor will be sufficient,” said Seldon, his heart sinking, for he was not certain it would be.

“You have my word of honor.”

“Then I can tell you that in the past four centuries nearly half the Emperors have been assassinated, from which I conclude that the chances of your assassination are roughly one in two.”

“Any fool can give that answer,” said Cleon with contempt. “It takes no mathematician.”

“Yet I have told you several times that my mathematics is useless for practical problems.”

“Can’t you even suppose that I learn the lessons that have been given me by my unfortunate predecessors?”

Seldon took a deep breath and plunged in. “No, Sire. All history shows that we do not learn from the lessons of the past. For instance, you have allowed me here in a private audience. What if it were in my mind to assassinate you? Which it isn’t, Sire,” he added hastily.

Cleon smiled without humor. “My man, you don’t take into account our thoroughness-or advances in technology. We have studied your history, your complete record. When you arrived, you were scanned. Your expression and voiceprints were analyzed. We knew your emotional state in detail; we practically knew your thoughts. Had there been the slightest doubt of your harmlessness, you would not have been allowed near me. In fact, you would not now be alive.”

A wave of nausea swept through Seldon, but he continued. “Outsiders have always found it difficult to get at Emperors, even with technology less advanced. However, almost every assassination has been a palace coup. It is those nearest the Emperor who are the greatest danger to him. Against that danger, the careful screening of outsiders is irrelevant. And as for your own officials, your own Guardsmen, your own intimates, you cannot treat them as you treat me.”

Cleon said, “I know that, too, and at least as well as you do. The answer is that I treat those about me fairly and I give them no cause for resentment.”

“A foolish-” began Seldon, who then stopped in confusion.

“Go on,” said Cleon angrily. “I have given you permission to speak freely. How am I foolish?”

“The word slipped out, Sire. I meant ‘irrelevant.’ Your treatment of your intimates is irrelevant. You must be suspicious; it would be inhuman not to be. A careless word, such as the one I used, a careless gesture, a doubtful expression and you must withdraw a bit with narrowed eyes. And any touch of suspicion sets in motion a vicious cycle. The intimate will sense and resent the suspicion and will develop a changed behavior, try as he might to avoid it. You sense that and grow more suspicious and, in the end, either he is executed or you are assassinated. It is a process that has proved unavoidable for the Emperors of the past four centuries and it is but one sign of the increasing difficulty of conducting the affairs of the Empire.”

“Then nothing I can do will avoid assassination.”

“No, Sire,” said Seldon, “but, on the other hand, you may prove fortunate.”

Cleon’s fingers were drumming on the arm of his chair. He said harshly, “You are useless, man, and so is your psychohistory. Leave me.” And with those words, the Emperor looked away, suddenly seeming much older than his thirty-two years.

“I have said my mathematics would be useless to you, Sire. My profound apologies.” Seldon tried to bow but at some signal he did not see, two guards entered and took him away.

Cleon’s voice came after him from the royal chamber. “Return that man to the place from which he was brought earlier.”

4.

Eto Demerzel emerged and glanced at the Emperor with a hint of proper deference. He said, “Sire, you have almost lost your temper.”

Cleon looked up and, with an obvious effort, managed to smile. “Well, so I did. The man was very disappointing.”

“And yet he promised no more than he offered.”

“He offered nothing.”

“And promised nothing, Sire.”

“It was disappointing.”

Demerzel said, “More than disappointing, perhaps. The man is a loose cannon, Sire.”

“A loose what, Demerzel? You are always so full of strange expressions. What is a cannon?”

Demerzel said gravely, “It is simply an expression I heard in my youth, Sire. The Empire is full of strange expressions and some are unknown on Trantor, as those of Trantor are sometimes unknown elsewhere.”