Isaac Asimov - Cleon the Emperor

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Cleon the Emperor

by Isaac Asimov

Fictionwise - Science Fiction

Fictionwise

www.fictionwise.com

First published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, April 1992

Locus Award Nominee

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this

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CLEON I—...Though he often received panegyrics for being the last Emperor under whom the

First Galactic Empire was reasonably united and reasonably prosperous, the quarter-century

reign of Cleon I was one of continuous decline. This cannot be viewed as his direct responsibility,

for the Decline of Empire was based on political and economic factors too strong for anyone to

deal with at the time. He was fortunate in his First Ministers—Eto Demerzel and, then, Hari

Seldon, in whose development of Psychohistory the Emperor never lost faith. Cleon and Seldon,

as the objects of the final Joranumite conspiracy, with its bizarre climax—

Encyclopedia Galactica

*All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 116th Edition,

published 1020 F.E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with the permission of the

publishers.

Mandell Gruber was a happy man. He seemed so to Hari Seldon, certainly. Seldon stopped his morning

constitutional to watch him.

Gruber, perhaps in his late forties, a few years younger than Seldon, was a bit gnarled from his continuing

work on the Imperial Palace grounds, but he had a cheerful, smoothly shaven face, topped by a pink

skull, not much of which was hidden by his thin, sandy hair. He whistled softly to himself as he inspected

the leaves of the bushes for any signs of insect infestation beyond the ordinary.

He was not the Chief Gardener, of course. The Chief Gardener of the Imperial Palace Grounds was a

high functionary who had a palatial office in one of the buildings of the enormous Imperial complex, with

an army of men and women under him. The chances are he did not step out onto the grounds oftener

than once or twice a year.

Gruber was one of the army. His title, Seldon knew, was Gardener First-Class, and it had been

well-earned, with nearly thirty years of faithful service.

Seldon called to him as he paused on the perfectly level crushed gravel walk. “Another marvelous day,

Gruber.”

Gruber looked up and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, indeed, First Minister, and it's sorry I am for those

cooped-up indoors.”

“You mean as I am about to be.”

“There's not much about you, First Minister, for people to sorrow over, but if you're disappearing into

those buildings on a day like this, it's a bit of sorrow that we fortunate few can feel for you.”

“I thank you for your sympathy, Gruber, but you know we have forty billion Trantorians under the dome.

Are you sorry for all of them?”

“Indeed, I am. I am grateful I am not of Trantorian extraction myself so that I could qualify as gardener.

There be few of us on this world that work in the open, but here I be, one of the fortunate few.”

“The weather isn't always this ideal.”

“That is true. And I have been out here in the sluicing rains and the whistling winds. Still, as long as you

dress fittingly ... Look,” and Gruber spread his arms open, wide as his smile, as if to embrace the vast

expanse of the Palace grounds. “I have my friends, the trees and the lawns and all the animal life-forms to

keep me company, and growth to encourage in geometric form, even in the winter. Have you ever seen

the geometry of the grounds, First Minister?”

“I am looking at it right now, am I not?”

“I mean the plans spread out so you can really appreciate it all, and marvelous it is, too. It was planned

by Tapper Savand, over three hundred years ago, and it has been little changed since. Tapper was a

great horticulturist, the greatest—and he came from my planet.”

“That was Anacreon, wasn't it?”

“Indeed. A far-off world near the edge of the galaxy, where there is still wilderness and life can be sweet.

I came here when I was still an ear-wet lad, when the present Chief Gardener took power under the old

Emperor. Of course, now they're talking of re-designing the grounds.” Gruber sighed deeply and shook

his head. “That would be a mistake. They are just right as they are now, properly proportioned,

well-balanced, pleasing to the eye and spirit. But it is true that in history, the grounds have occasionally

been re-designed. Emperors grow tired of the old, and are always seeking the new, as if new is

somehow always better. Our present Emperor, may he live long, has been planning re-design with the

Chief Gardener. At least that is the word that runs from gardener to gardener.” This last he added

quickly, as if abashed at spreading Palace gossip.

“It might not happen soon.”

“I hope not, First Minister. Please, if you have the chance to take some time from all the heart-stopping

work you must be after doing, study the design of the grounds. It is a rare beauty and, if I had my way,

there should not be a leaf moved out of place, nor a flower, nor a rabbit, anywhere in all these hundreds

of square kilometers.’

Seldon smiled. “You are a dedicated man, Gruber. I would not be surprised if someday you were Chief

Gardener.”

“May Fate protect me from that. The Chief Gardener breathes no fresh air, sees no natural sights, and

forgets all he has learned of nature. He lives there,” Gruber pointed, scornfully, “and I think he no longer

knows a bush from a stream unless one of his underlings leads him out and places his hand on one or dips

it into the other.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Gruber would expectorate his scorn, but he could not find any place

on which he could bear to spit.

Seldon laughed quietly. “Gruber, it's good to talk to you. When I am overcome with the duties of the

day, it is pleasant to take a few moments to listen to your philosophy of life.”

“Ah, First Minister, it is no philosopher I am. My schooling was very sketchy.”

“You don't need schooling to be a philosopher. Just an active mind and experience with life. Take care,

Gruber. I have the temptation to see you promoted.”

“If you but leave me as I am, First Minister, you will have my total gratitude.”

Seldon was smiling as he passed on, but the smile faded as his mind turned once more to his current

problems. Ten years as First Minister—and if Gruber knew how heartily sick Seldon was of his position,

his sympathy would rise to enormous heights. Could Gruber grasp the fact that Seldon's progress in the

techniques of Psychohistory showed promise of facing him with an unbearable dilemma?

Seldon's thoughtful stroll across the grounds was the epitome of peace. It was hard to believe, here in the

midst of the Emperor's immediate domain, that he was on a world that except for this area was totally

enclosed by a dome. Here, in this spot, he might be on his home world of Helicon, or Gruber's world of

Anacreon.

Of course, the sense of peace was an illusion. The grounds were guarded—thick with security.

Once, a thousand years ago, the Imperial Palace grounds, much less palatial, much less differentiated

from a world only beginning to construct domes over individual regions, had been open to all citizens and

the Emperor himself could walk along the paths, unguarded, nodding his head in greeting to his subjects.

No more. Now security was in place and no one from Trantor itself could possibly invade the grounds.

That did not remove the danger, however, for that, when it came, came from discontented Imperial

functionaries and from corrupt and suborned soldiers. It was within the grounds that the Emperor and his

ministers were most in danger. What would have happened if on that occasion, nearly ten years before,

Seldon had not been accompanied by Dors Venabili?

It had been in his first year as First Minister and it was only natural, he supposed (after the fact), that

there would be heart-burning over his unexpected choice for the post. Many others, far better qualified in

training, in years of service, and, most of all, in their own eyes, could view the appointment with anger.

They did not know of Psychohistory or of the importance the Emperor attached to it, and the easiest way

to correct the situation was to corrupt one of the sworn protectors of the First Minister.

Venabili must have been more suspicious than Seldon himself was. Or else, with Demerzel's

disappearance from the scene, her instructions to guard Seldon had been strengthened. The truth was

that, for the first few years of his First Ministership, she was at his side more often than not.

And on the late afternoon of a warm, sunny day, Venabili noted the glint of the westering sun—a sun

never seen under Trantor's dome—on the metal of a blaster.

“Down, Hari!” she cried suddenly, and her legs devoured the grass as she raced toward the sergeant.

“Give me that blaster, sergeant,” she said tightly.

The would-be assassin, momentarily immobilized by the unexpected sight of a woman running toward

him, now reacted quickly, raising the drawn blaster.

But she was already at him, her hand enclosing his right wrist in a steely grip and lifting his arm high.

“Drop it,” she said through clenched teeth.

The sergeant's face twisted as he attempted to yank loose his arm.

“Don't try, sergeant,” said Venabili. “My knee is three inches from your groin, and, if you so much as

blink, your genital equipment will be history. So just freeze. That's right. Okay, now open your hand. If

you don't drop the blaster right now I will break your arm.”

A gardener came running up with a rake. Venabili motioned him away. The blaster dropped.

Seldon had arrived. “I'll take over, Dors.”

“You will not. Get in among those trees, and take the blaster with you. Others may be involved, and

ready.”

Venabili had not loosed her grip on the sergeant. She said, “Now, sergeant, I want the name of whoever

it was who persuaded you to make an attempt on the First Minister's life, and the name of everyone else

who is in this with you.”

The sergeant was silent.

“Don't be foolish,” said Venabili. “Speak!” She twisted his arm and he sunk to his knees. She put her

shoe on his neck. “If you think silence becomes you, I can crush your larynx and you will be silent

forever. And even before that I am going to damage you badly—I won't leave one bone unbroken. You

had better talk.”

The sergeant talked.

Later, Seldon had said to her, “How could you do that, Dors? I never believed you capable of such,

such ... violence.”

Venabili said coolly, “I did not actually hurt him much, Hari. The threat was sufficient. In any case, your

safety was paramount.”

“You should have let me take care of him.”

“Why? To salvage your masculine pride? You wouldn't have been fast enough, for one thing, not at fifty.

Secondly, no matter what you would have succeeded in doing, you were a man and it would have been

expected. I am a woman and women, in popular thought, are not considered as ferocious as men, and

most, in general, do not have the strength to do what I did. The story will improve in the telling and

everyone will be terrified of me. No one will dare to try to harm you for fear of me.”

“For fear of you and for fear of execution. The sergeant and his cohorts are to be killed, you know.”

At this, an anguished look clouded Dors's usually composed visage, as if she could not stand the thought

of the traitorous sergeant being put to death even though he would have cut down her beloved Hari

without a second thought.

“But,” she exclaimed, “there is no need to execute the conspirators. Exile will do the job.”

“No, it won't,” said Seldon. “It's too late. Cleon will hear of nothing but executions. I can quote him, if

you wish.”

“You mean he's already made up his mind?”

“At once. I told him that exile or imprisonment would be all that was necessary, but he said, ‘No.’ He

said, ‘Every time I try to solve a problem by direct and forceful action, first Demerzel and then you talk

of despotism and tyranny. But this is my palace. These are my grounds. These are my guards. My safety

depends on the security of this place and the loyalty of my people. Do you think that any deviation from

absolute loyalty can be met with anything but instant death? How else would you be safe? How else

would I be safe?’

“I said there would have to be a trial. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘a short military trial, and I don't expect a

single vote for anything but execution. I shall make that quite clear.'”

Venabili looked appalled. “You're taking this very quietly. Do you agree with the Emperor?”

Reluctantly, Seldon nodded. “I do.”

“Because there was an attempt on your life. Have you abandoned principle for revenge?”

“Now, Dors. I'm not a vengeful person. However, it was not myself alone that was at risk, far less the

Emperor—if there is anything that the recent history of the Empire shows us, it is that Emperors come

and go. It is Psychohistory that must be protected. Undoubtedly, even if something happens to me,

Psychohistory will someday be developed, but the Empire is falling fast, and we cannot wait, and only I

have advanced far enough to obtain the necessary techniques in time.”

“You should perhaps teach what you know to others, then?” said Venabili gravely.

“I'm doing so. Yugo Amaryl would be a reasonable successor, and I have gathered a group of

technicians who will someday be useful, but—they won't be as—” he paused.

“They won't be as good as you, as wise, as capable? Really?”

“I happen to think so,” said Seldon. “And I happen to be human. Psychohistory is mine and, if I can

possibly manage it, I want the credit.”

“Human,” sighed Venabili, shaking her head, almost sadly.

The executions went through. No such purge had been seen in over a century. Two Senior Councillors

met their deaths, five officials of lower ranks, four soldiers, including the hapless sergeant. Every guard

who could not withstand the most rigorous investigation was relieved of duty and sent to detachments on

the Outer Worlds.

Since then, there had been no whisper of disloyalty and so notorious had become the care with which the

First Minister was guarded, to say nothing of the terrifying woman who watched over him, that it was no

longer necessary for Dors to accompany him everywhere. Her invisible presence was an adequate shield,

and the Emperor Cleon enjoyed nearly ten years of quiet, and of absolute security.

Now, however, Psychohistory was finally reaching the point where predictions of a sort could be made,

and, as Seldon crossed the grounds in his passage from his office (First Minister) to his laboratory

(Psychohistorian), he was uneasily aware of the likelihood that this era of peace might be coming to an

end.

Yet even so, Hari Seldon could not repress the surge of satisfaction that he felt as he entered his

laboratory.

How things had changed.

It had begun eighteen years earlier with his own doodlings on his second-rate Heliconian computer. It

was then that the first hint of what was to become para-chaotic math came to him in cloudy fashion.

Then there were the years at Streeling University when he and Yugo Amaryl, working together,

attempted to renormalize the equations, get rid of the inconvenient infinities, and find a way around the

worst of the chaotic effects. They made very little progress indeed.

But now, after ten years as First Minister, he had a whole floor of the latest computers and a whole staff

of people working on a large variety of problems.

Of necessity, none of his staff, except for Yugo and himself, of course, could really know much more

than the immediate problem they were dealing with. Each of them worked with only a small ravine or

outcropping on the gigantic mountain range of Psychohistory that only Seldon and Amaryl could see as a

mountain range—and even they could see it only dimly, its peaks hidden in clouds, its slopes in mist.

Dors Venabili was right, of course. He would have to begin initiating his people into the entire mystery.

The technique was getting well beyond what two men alone could handle. And Seldon was aging. Even if

he could look forward to some additional decades, the years of his most fruitful breakthroughs were

surely behind him.

Even Amaryl would be thirty-nine within a month and though that was still young, it was perhaps not

overyoung for a mathematician, and he had been working on the problem almost as long as Seldon

himself. His capacity for new and tangential thinking might be dwindling, too.

Amaryl had seen him enter and was now approaching. Seldon watched him fondly. Amaryl was as much

a Dahlite as Seldon's foster-son, Raych, was, and yet Amaryl was not Dahlite at all. He lacked the

mustache, he lacked the accent, he lacked, it would seem, any Dahlite consciousness. He had even been

impervious to the lure of Jojo Joranum, who had appealed so thoroughly to the people of Dahl.

It was as though Amaryl recognized no sectional patriotism, no planetary patriotism, not even Imperial

patriotism. He belonged, completely and entirely, to Psychohistory.

Seldon felt a twinge of insufficiency. He, himself, remained conscious of his first three decades on Helicon

and there was no way he could keep from thinking of himself as a Heliconian. He wondered if that

consciousness was not sure to betray him by causing him to skew his thinking about Psychohistory.

Ideally, to use Psychohistory properly, one should be above sectors and worlds and deal only with

humanity in the faceless abstract, and this was what Amaryl did.

And Seldon didn't, he admitted to himself, sighing silently.

Amaryl said, “We are making progress, Hari, I suppose.”

“You suppose, Yugo? Merely suppose?”

“I don't want to jump into outer space without a suit.” He said this quite seriously (he did not have much

of a sense of humor, Seldon knew) and they moved into their private office. It was small, but it was also

well-shielded.

Amaryl sat down and crossed his legs. He said, “Your latest scheme for getting around chaos may be

working in part—at the cost of sharpness, of course.”

“Of course. What we gain in the straightaway, we lose in the roundabouts. That's the way the universe

works. We've just got to fool it somehow.”

“We've fooled it a little bit. It's like looking through frosted glass.”

“Better than the years we spent trying to look through lead.”

Amaryl muttered something to himself, then said, “We can catch glimmers of light and dark.”

“Explain!”

“I can't, but I have the Prime Radiant, which I've been working on like a—a—”

“Try lamec. That's an animal—a beast of burden—we have on Helicon. It doesn't exist on Trantor.”

“If the lamec works hard, then that is what my work on the Prime Radiant has been like.”

Amaryl pressed the security key pad on his desk, and a drawer unsealed and slid open noiselessly.

He took out a dark, opaque cylinder which Seldon scrutinized with interest. Seldon himself had worked

out the Prime Radiant's circuitry, but Amaryl had put it together—a clever man with his hands was

Amaryl.

The room darkened and equations and relationships shimmered in the air. Numbers spread out beneath

them, hovering just above the desk surface, as if suspended by invisible marionette strings.

Seldon said, “Wonderful. Some day, if we live long enough, we'll have the Prime Radiant produce a river

of mathematical symbolism that will chart past and future history. In it we can find currents and rivulets

and work out ways of changing them in order to make them follow other currents and rivulets that we

would prefer.”

“Yes,” said Amaryl dryly, “if we can manage to live with the knowledge that the actions we take, which

we will mean for the best, may turn out to be for the worst.”

“Believe me, Yugo, I never go to bed at night without that particular thought gnawing at me. Still, we

haven't come to it yet. All we have is this—which, as you say, is no more than seeing light and dark

fuzzily through frosted glass.”

“True enough.”

“And what is it you think you see, Yugo?” Seldon watched Amaryl closely, a little grimly. He was gaining

weight, getting just a bit pudgy. He spent too much time bent over the computers (and now over the

Prime Radiant), and not enough in physical activity. And, though he saw a woman now and then, Seldon

knew, he had never married. A mistake! Even a workaholic is forced to take time off to satisfy a mate, to

take care of the needs of the children.

Seldon thought of his own still-trim figure and of the manner in which Dors strove to make him keep it

that way.

Amaryl said, “What do I see? The Empire is in trouble.”

“The Empire is always in trouble.”

“Yes, but it's more specific. There's a possibility that we may have trouble at the center.”

“At Trantor?”

“I presume. Or at the Periphery. Either there will be a bad situation here, perhaps civil war, or the

outlying provinces will begin to break away.”

“Surely it doesn't take Psychohistory to point out these possibilities.”

“The interesting thing is that there seems a mutual exclusivity. One or the other. The likelihood of both

together is very small. Here! Look! It's your own mathematics. Observe!”

They bent over the Prime Radiant display for a long time.

Seldon said finally, “I fail to see why the two should be mutually exclusive.”

“So do I, Hari, but where's the value of Psychohistory if it shows us only what we would see anyway?

This is showing us something we wouldn't see. What it doesn't show us is, first, which alternative is

better, and second, what to do to make the better come to pass and depress the possibility of the

worse.”

Seldon pursed his lips, then said slowly, “I can tell you which alternative is preferable. Let the Periphery

go and keep Trantor.”

“Really?”

“No question. We must keep Trantor stable if for no other reason than that we're here.”

“Surely our own comfort isn't the decisive point.”

“No, but Psychohistory is. What good will it do us to keep the Periphery intact, if conditions on Trantor

force us to stop work on Psychohistory? I don't say that we'll be killed, but we may be unable to work.

The development of Psychohistory is on what our fate will depend. As for the Empire, if the Periphery

secedes it will only begin a disintegration that may take a long time to reach the core.”

“Even if you're right, Hari, what do we do to keep Trantor stable?”

“To begin with, we have to think about it.”

A silence fell between them, and then Seldon said, “Thinking doesn't make me happy. What if the Empire

is altogether on the wrong track, and has been for all its history? I think of that every time I talk to

Gruber.”

“Who's Gruber?”

“Mandell Gruber. A gardener.”

“Oh. The one who came running up with the rake to rescue you at the time of the assassination attempt.”

“Yes. I've always been grateful to him for that. He had only a rake against possibly other conspirators

with blasters. That's loyalty. Anyhow, talking to him is like a breath of cool wind. I can't spend all my

time talking to court officials and to Psychohistorians.”

“Thank you.”

“Come! You know what I mean. Gruber likes the open. He wants the wind and the rain and the biting

cold and everything else that raw weather can bring to him. I miss it myself sometimes.”

“I don't. I wouldn't care if I never went out there.”

“You were brought up under the dome—but suppose the Empire consisted of simple unindustrialized

worlds, living by herding and farming, with thin populations and empty spaces. Wouldn't we all be better

off?”

“It sounds horrible to me.”

“I found some spare time to check it as best I could. It seems to me it's a case of unstable equilibrium. A

thinly populated world of the type I describe either grows moribund and impoverished, falling off into an

uncultured near-animal level; or it industrializes. It is standing on a narrow point and falls over in either

direction, and, as it happens, almost every world in the galaxy has fallen over into industrialization.”

“Because that's better.”

“Maybe. But it can't continue forever. We're watching the results of the over-toppling now. The Empire

cannot exist for much longer because it has—it has overheated. I can't think of any other expression.

What will follow we don't know. If, through Psychohistory, we manage to prevent the fall or, more likely,

force a recovery after the fall, is that merely to insure another period of overheating? Is that the only

future humanity has, to push the boulder, like Sisyphus, up to the top of a hill only in order to see it roll to

the bottom again?”

“Who's Sisyphus?”

“A character in a primitive myth. Amaryl, you must do more reading.”

Amaryl shrugged. “So I can learn about Sisyphus? Not important. Perhaps Psychohistory will show us a

path to an entirely new society, one altogether different from anything we have seen, one that would be

stable and desirable.”

“I hope so,” sighed Seldon. “I hope so, but there's no sign of it yet. For the near future, we will just have

to labor to let the Periphery go. That will mark the beginning of the Fall of the Galactic Empire.”

“And so I said,” said Hari Seldon. “That will mark the beginning of the Fall of the Galactic Empire. And

so it will, Dors.”

Dors listened, tight-lipped. She accepted Seldon's First Ministership as she accepted everything—calmly.

Her only mission was to protect him and his Psychohistory, but that task, she well knew, was made

harder by his position. The best security was to go unnoticed and as long as the sun of office shone down

upon Seldon, not all the physical barriers in existence would be satisfactory, or sufficient.

The luxury in which they now lived; the careful shielding from spy-beams, as well as from physical

interference; the advantages to her own historical research of being able to make use of nearly unlimited

funds, did not satisfy her. She would gladly have exchanged it all for their old quarters at Streeling

University. Or better yet, for a nameless apartment in a nameless sector where no one knew them.

“That's all very well, Hari dear,” she said, “but it's not enough.”

“What's not enough?”

“The information you're giving me. You say we might lose the Periphery. How? Why?”

Seldon smiled briefly. “How nice it would be to know, Dors, but Psychohistory is not yet at the stage

where it could tell us.”

“In your opinion, then. Is it the ambition of local, faraway governors to declare themselves

independent?”

“That's a factor, certainly. It's happened in past history, as you know better than I, but never for long.

Maybe this time, it will be permanent.”

“Because the Empire is weaker?”

“Yes, because trade flows less freely than it once did, because communications are stiffer than they once

were, because the governors in the Periphery are, in actual fact, closer to independence than they have

ever been. If one of them arises with particular ambitions—”

“Can you tell which one it might be?”

“Not in the least. All we can force out of Psychohistory at this stage is the definite knowledge that if a

governor of unusual ability and ambition arises, he would find conditions more suitable for his purposes

than he would have in the past. It could be other things, too, some great natural disaster, or sudden civil

war between two distant world coalitions. None of that can be precisely predicted as of now, but we can

tell that anything of the sort that happens will have more serious consequences than it would have had a

century ago.”

“But if you don't know a little more precisely what will happen in the Periphery, how can you so guide

actions as to make sure the Periphery goes, rather than Trantor?”

“By keeping a close eye on both and trying to stabilize Trantor and not trying to stabilize the Periphery.

We can't expect Psychohistory to order events automatically without much greater knowledge of its

workings, so we have to make use of constant manual controls, so to speak. In days to come, the

technique will be refined and the need for manual control will decrease.”

“But that,” said Dors, “is in days to come. Right?”

“Right. And even that is only a hope.”

“And just what kind of instabilities threaten Trantor, if we hang on to the Periphery?”

“The same possibilities—economic and social factors, natural disasters, ambitious rivalries among high

officials. And something more. I have described the Empire to Yugo as being overheated—and Trantor

is the most overheated portion of all. It seems to be breaking down. The infrastructure—water supply,

heating, waste disposal, fuel lines, everything—seems to be having unusual problems, and that's

something I've been turning my attention to more and more lately.”

“What about the death of the Emperor?”

Seldon spread his hands. “That happens inevitably, but Cleon is in good health. He's only my age, which

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CleontheEmperorbyIsaacAsimovFictionwise-ScienceFictionFictionwisewww.fictionwise.comCopyright(C)1992Nightfall,Inc.FirstpublishedinIsaacAsimov'sScienceFictionMagazine,April1992LocusAwardNomineeNOTICE:Thisworkiscopyrighted.Itislicensedonlyforusebythepurchaser.Makingcopiesofthisworkordistributingittoan...

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