There is virtually no information regarding Hari Seldon’s so-called recantation, his “dark days.” They may be pure legend, but we have circumstantial evidence from a number of sources--including Wanda Seldon Palver’s autobiographical notes--to suspect that Seldon did indeed encounter a crisis of confidence, even a crisis of self.

            This crisis may have begun immediately after the trial, in the chambers of Chief Commissioner Linge Chen, though of course we shall never know...

--Encyclopedia Galactica, 117th Edition, 1054 F.E. 64.

The last two days had been so unutterably boring, and he had been away for so long from his instruments and team of mathists, that Hari Seldon welcomed the brief blanknesses provided by short naps. The naps never lasted long enough, and far worse were the waking hours with their own painful blankness: frozen frustration, gelid anxiety, frightful speculations slumping into tense nightmare with the slowness of glass over ages.

            Hari came out of his doze with an unusual shortness of breath, and a question seeming to echo in his ears:

            “Does God truly tell you what is the fate of men?”

            He listened for the question to be asked again. He knew who asked it; the tone was unmistakable.

            “Joan?” he asked. His mouth was dry. He looked around the cell for some agency by which the entity might communicate with him, something mechanical, electronic, by which she might

            Nothing. The room had been scoured after the visit from the old tiktok. The voice was in his own imagination.

            The chime on his cell door sounded, and the door slid open swiftly. Hari rose from his chair, smoothed his robe with two wrinkled, bony hands, and stared at the man before him. For a moment he did not recognize him. Then, he saw it was Sedjar Boon.

            “I’m hearing things again,” Hari said with a wry twist in his lips.

            Boon examined Hari with concern. “They want you in the court. Gaal Dornick will be there as well. They may be willing to strike a deal.”

            “What about the Commission of General Security?”

            “Something’s happening. They’re busy.”

            “What is it?” Hari asked, eager for news.

            “Riots,” Boon said. “In parts of the Imperial Sector, throughout Dahl. Apparently Sinter let his Specials go too far.”

            Hari looked around the room. “After we’re done, will they bring me back here?”

            “I don’t think so,” Boon said. “You’ll go to the Hall of Dispensation to get your papers of release. There’s going to be a waiver of meritocratic rights to sign, too. A formality.”

            “Did you know this all along?” Hari asked Boon, old eyes boring into the lawyer’s with no-nonsense intensity.

            “No,” Boon said nervously. “I swear it.”

            “If I had lost, would you be here now, or would you be standing in line, waiting for more work from Linge Chen?”

            Boon did not answer, merely held his hand toward the door. “Let’s go.”

            In the hall, Hari said, “Linge Chen is one of the most carefully studied men in my records. He seems the embodiment of aristocratic atrophy. Yet he always wins and gets his way--until now.”

            “Let’s not be too hasty,” Boon said. “A good rule for lawyers is never to count your victories before the ink is dry.”

            Hari turned to Boon and held out his hand. “Have you been contacted by someone named Joan?”

            Boon seemed surprised. “Why, yes,” he said. “There’s some sort of virus in our legal-office records. The computers keep bringing up briefs from a case that doesn’t exist. Something about a woman burned at the stake. That hasn’t happened on Trantor in twelve thousand years--as far as I know.”

            Hari paused in the hall. The guards grew impatient. “Put a message in your records, for this virus,” he said. “Tell her--it--that I have never talked with God and do not know what He intends for humanity.”

            Boon smiled. “A joke, right?”

            “Just put the message in your files. That’s an order from your client.”

            “God--you mean, a supernatural being, a supreme creator?”

            “Yes,” Hari said. “Just tell her this--‘Hari Seldon does not represent divine authority.’ Tell her she’s got the wrong man. Tell her to leave me alone. I’m done with her. I fulfilled my promise long ago.”

            The guards looked at one another in pity, obviously thinking this trial had gone on far too long.

            “Consider it done,” Boon said.

65.

Daneel stood on the parapet of an apartment that had once been a secret hideaway for Demerzel, and beside him stood the tiktok that had come with the apartment. The apartment had been sealed decades before and left unoccupied, its lease paid for a century. This morning, when Daneel had returned to it, to utilize its secret data links to the courts and the palace, he had found the tiktok activated. He knew immediately who was responsible.

            “You have become a major irritation,” Daneel told the former sim. Though this meme-mind seemed now to be on his side, it--she--was far too changeable and humanlike to be trusted completely.

            The tiktok hummed quietly. “It is so very hard to manifest in this world,” Joan said. “Are you here to await news of Hari Seldon?”

            “Yes,” Daneel said.

            “Why not go to the palace, in disguise, and enter the courts?”

            “I will learn more here,” Daneel said.

            “Are you irritated that I regard you as an angel of the Lord?”

            “I have been called many things,” Daneel said. “None of them disturbs me.”

            “I would consider it a privilege to ride with you into battle. These...riots...They speak to me of many political currents. They trouble me.”

            They could hear the noise of people in the streets far below, marching, waving banners, calling for the resignation of all responsible for the recent police searches.

            “Will they blame Hari Seldon or his people, his family?”

            “No,” Daneel said.

            “How can you be so sure?”

            Daneel looked at the tiktok, and for a moment, the image of a young woman with intense features and short hair, dressed in ancient buffed and inscribed iron armor, flickered around the old machine.

            “I have been working for thousands of years, making alliances, arranging accounts, thinking far in advance of things which might be advantageous at some time. By now, there are so many arrangements made, that I have my choice of where to exert pressure, and when to initiate certain automatic procedures. But that is not all.”

            “You behave like a general,” Joan said. “A general in the army of God.”

            Daneel said, “Once, humans were my God.”

            “By assignment of the Lord...!” Joan seemed shocked and a little confused. She had grown greatly since her reconstruction and her dialogues, virtual affair, and estrangement from Voltaire, but old faith dies very hard indeed.

            “No. By programming, by innate nature of my construction.”

            “Men must receive God by listening to their inmost souls,” Joan said. “The dictates and rules of God are in the tiniest atom of nature, and in the programs of scripture.”

            “You are not human,” Daneel said, “yet you have a humanlike authority. I warn you, however, do not distract me. Now is a very delicate time.”

            “The fiery danger of an angel, the compulsion of a general on the field,” Joan said. “Voltaire will lose. I almost feel sorry for him.”

            “How strange that you have chosen me, when once you opposed my efforts,” Daneel said. “You represent faith, something I will never know. Voltaire represents the power of cold intellect. I am that, or nothing.”

            “You are far from cold,” Joan said. “You have your faith, as well.”

            “My faith is in humanity,” Daneel said. “I recognize laws made by humanity.”

            The voice from the tiktok fell silent for a moment, then, softly, the mechanical tone conveying little of what must have been the entity’s passion, Joan said, “The forces acting through you are clear to me. What you know or do not know means little. I knew very little in my time, but felt those forces. They acted through me. I trusted them.”

            Daneel ignored the tiktok and waited for the courts to make their report. One thing in his plan had gone awry, but he had more than half expected this to happen.

            Dors Venabili was not at her assigned post.

            Daneel had long ago learned the art of letting certain parts of a plan, even key parts, act outside of his immediate control, so long as he knew very well what their direction would be. He had seen that potential in Dors from the moment she emerged from her refurbishment on Eos.

            And he had seen a similar potential in Lodovik, as well.

            The risk was great--but the potential gains were enormously greater. He had almost gotten used to this kind of gambling, but waiting still induced an unpleasant sensation in his mechanical form that he would have isolated and eliminated, could he have done so.

            The tiktok’s passenger had fallen into a reverent silence.

            Daneel touched the machine on its small metal sensor head. “How do you exist on Trantor now?” he asked.

            “I permeate the computational and connection systems, the interstices in the Mesh, as before,” the entity said.

            “How thoroughly?” Daneel asked.

            “As thoroughly as before, perhaps more so.”

            Daneel considered the risks of relying on Joan, and also the potential of Voltaire. “Does Voltaire permeate the system as well?”

            “I would think so,” Joan said. “We are trying to avoid each other, but his traces are a constant irritation.”

            “Do you have access to security codes, encrypted channels?”

            “With some effort, they are available to me.”

            “And to Voltaire?”

            “He is not stupid, whatever his other flaws,” Joan replied.

            Daneel considered for a few seconds, his brain working at its greatest speed and capacity, then said, “You can place an extension of your patterns into me. I suggest--”And he passed on, using machine-language, a certain address within his higher reasoning centers.

            An instant later, Joan was within him. She filled out and acquired detail as the minutes passed.

            “I am privileged to be your ally,” she said.

            “I would not want my opponents to have an advantage,” Daneel said, and turned away from the parapet, preparing to leave the apartment.

66.

Vara Liso rode her cart through the almost empty plaza, surrounded by a phalanx of twenty General Security Specials, already wearing their new uniforms. Major Namm walked beside her, as always.

            She wore a slightly dazed expression, like a puppet that has been jerked too often, in too many directions. Something in the emptiness, the deserted streets and shuttered portals, was glaringly wrong. The Specials sensed it, and she did not need her own heightened instincts to feel tense; but those instincts were buzzing madly about other, prior events.

            In the morning, at her meeting with Farad Sinter, she had seen in this man she both feared and idolized not confidence and strength but raw arrogance, something she could compare only to the attitude of a child about to step over the bounds and be punished. In contemporary Imperial politics, however, punishment was no mere spanking; a fall from such control and power was tantamount to death, or, if there was mercy, imprisonment in Rikerian or exile to the horrible Outer Worlds.

            Major Namm wore a steady frown. They were approaching the plaza outside the main gate of the Distribution and Storage District, just a few kilometers from the Agora of Vendors, where they had almost caught Lodovik Trema. She felt uneasy at that failure; perhaps, with such evidence in hand, their situation would be less tense now. Still, her sense this day was that they were onto something much more important even than Trema, perhaps the center of robot activity on Trantor.

            Vara had not told Sinter her misgivings about the female-form robot. What little she could gather from the robot’s memory did not seem to match his expectations, but he had been in no mood to have his moment of triumph punctured. He assented to this search today more to get her out of his hair, and because she insisted that even more evidence would be judicious, given the level of opposition from Linge Chen.

            Farad Sinter did not think much of his mentalic bloodhound, not as a human being, not as a woman.

            Vara sniffed and rubbed her nose. She knew she was unattractive, and she knew that Sinter regarded her merely as an ally in his political rise, but was it too much to hope that, someday, there would be another kind of alliance?

            How could she adjust to a partner who did not have her abilities? It was too much to hope that she would discover another like herself, who would appreciate her...She had faced too many disappointments to expect such a coincidence of desires.

            Namm suddenly drew up his arm and listened to his station communicator. His eyes narrowed. “Affirmed,” he grunted. He glanced down at Vara and his lips curled in what might have been contempt

            She experienced a moment of simple fear--out of favor! They’ll execute me right here! Then she analyzed the major’s expression: professional disdain at the incomprehensible orders of his superiors.

            “We’ve been told to withdraw,” he said. “Something about an additional force, too many Specials in the field--”

            A grumbling noise rolled from the storage district. Vara looked up and saw crowds of both Greys and citizens, uncharacteristically mixed, pouring through the broad gates. She thought at first there were a few dozen, a small mob, but the Specials immediately pulled up into a square and raised their personal shields. Her own shield went up with a small crackle.

            There were thousands of them, men and women, citizens and even university meritocrats in the mix--not just gray and black clothes, but bright colors on adults. For a moment Vara Liso did not believe her eyes. This was not Dahl or Rencha, renowned for political unrest

            This was the Imperial Sector! And the mob was made of different classes--unheard of! There were even Imperial Greys in the mix.

            The lieutenant called for backup and further instructions. The mob--faces clearly visible across the plaza in the almost continuous sunset glow of the ceil--were sullenly angry. Some were carrying signs, others, projectors which flashed messages against the plaza walls. Flows of brilliant red words announced RECALL GENERAL SECURITY and WHERE IS SINTER?

            Others were much more rude, much angrier. Flares of sparks shot up from the left flank of the mob, making the plaza shine out in brilliant detail. One flare rose a hundred meters, and when it exploded, with a hideous echoing bang, the Specials hunkered and unholstered their neural whips. But these weapons were no good for control of large crowds--and they certainly did not want to resort to blasters.

            They were not prepared.

            The major knew this, but backing away from a challenging crowd clearly rankled him. Perhaps he had never had to back down before, never had to face such a thing.

            “We should go,” Vara told the major. She did not like this mob using Sinter’s name. He was high-profile now--there had been many stories about the establishment of the new Commission in the Trantor media--but why were they singling him out? “Please,” Vara said. “This cart is not very fast.”

            The major regarded her with that same expression of curled lip and narrowed eyes she had seen earlier. He said nothing more, but gave the command to withdraw.

            The crowd advanced as the cordon drew back. Then, with the single bestial voice of the true mob, they broke into a run.

            Above the noise of the mob, there came another, even more ominous grumble. Vara turned her cart about. The major surrounded her with five of his most highly trained officers and barked commands for the rest to hold their ground. He had made his calculation and seen that they would not reach any possible shelter, or a better defensive position, before the mob was upon them.

            Vara strained to see between the Specials, to hear above the shouting and the sharp commands. A breeze brushed her cheek. Dozens of small drones soared over the plaza, tiny buzzing spheres the size of a clenched fist. The mob ignored these surveillance units.

            Vara stood up on her cart and stepped down. She could run faster than the cart, if she had to. Or she could order one of these men to carry her. Her thin arms and legs trembled in anticipation of the strain she would face. She was delicate, she knew that; her strength lay elsewhere, and she wondered how much of the mob she could persuade, if they crowded around her, suffocating her with their individual minds.

            She gave a little squeak. Yes, she thought. I’m just like a mouse, a terrified little mouse. I am a pitiful thing, but please, oh please, let me concentrate! I can beat them all if I concentrate!

            Vara felt her inner resources surge. She thought she detected a cringing of the shoulders of the men around her as she set up her defenses. She had never had to protect herself against so many. As she felt her concentration of forces begin, her fear seemed to ebb. Even should the personal shields collapse, or should they be pushed by the mob up against a wall and crushed within those shields--a possibility!--she would not be helpless. If Sinter could not help, if the major and his Specials could not help, then she would still prevail.

            She saw the shadows descend even before she heard the thump of blades and the pulsing engines of troop deployers. The major threw up his arm against the wash of air, and the shadows swept over them. As the craft landed, they seemed to rise up from the floor of the plaza, rather than descend, as she knew they must.

            Four slender deployers perched on their crackling blue pylons before the mob. She knew the mark on their sides: an oval of stars surmounting a galaxy and a twinned red cross, the private responsive army of the Emperor, the External Action Force, almost never seen. The Emperor has sent his forces to protect us, she thought with some relief, then drew her fist up to her mouth.

            Farad had once told her the External Action Force had not been used in years, and that Klayus hated and feared them; they had once been commanded by the retired General Prothon, and Prothon’s specialty--the only reason he was ever called out of retirement--was the removal of Emperors.

            At the sight of the machines, the mob halted and fell silent. This was unexpected. That External Action Force--supposedly used only when the status of the throne itself was threatened--might become involved in a mere riot was sobering. Some in the crowd broke free of the mob mind, muttered among themselves. The front of the crowd churned and shrank back.

            Within a few seconds, a hundred armored and shielded troops in blue and black, with red-striped helmets, had dropped from the hatches of the deployers and formed two lines, one before the crowd, the other directly before Vara Liso and her Specials.

            The last to emerge was General Prothon himself, huge, with bull shoulders and immense arms and a barrel gut straining at his formal uniform. His face was almost boyish, with wispy gray mustache and a tiny goatee, and his small, sharp eyes darted back and forth with gleeful energy. He seemed happy to be arriving at a party.

            Prothon paused for a moment between the lines, looked left and right, then swung about and approached--

            Vara Liso.

            His eye fell on her immediately, and he stared at her intently, almost merrily, as he strode on long, thick pillar-legs. Some said he was from the planet Nur, a heavy, oppressive world; but in truth, nobody knew where Prothon came from, or how he had achieved his position.

            Some said he was the secret Emperor, the true power within the palace, even above the Commission of Public Safety, at least since the exile of Agis IV, but rumors were not fact.

            Prothon pushed his way through the phalanx and stood before her. Vara blinked up at the massive chest surmounted by the comparatively small head with its amused, pleasant face.

            “So this is the little woman who would provoke the big war,” Prothon said in a lovely tenor voice. For a moment, facing what might be her doom, Vara was smitten by this paradoxical combination of bull strength and attractive boyishness. “Any success today?” he asked sympathetically.

            Vara blinked several more times, then mumbled, “I sense...”And stopped herself with a knuckle against her lips. She wanted to cry, or to lash out, and wasn’t sure what she would do. Make this monster bend and weep with me, before me.

            “There’s a warehouse in the storage district,” she murmured, and Prothon stooped beside her, as if proposing marriage, to listen more closely.

            “Again, please,” he said gently.

            “There’s a warehouse in the storage district, retail center. I’ve been past it a dozen times in the last few weeks. It seemed innocuous enough--but I’ve been tuning my senses, listening more closely. I am sure there are robots inside the warehouse, perhaps a great many of them. The Chief Commissioner of the Commission of General Security--”

            “Yes, of course,” Prothon said. He rose and glared out over the Specials, through the lines of his own troops, to the mob. “We’ll get you through to the warehouse,” he said. “After that, no more. It’s over.”

            “What’s...over?” she asked hesitantly.

            “The game,” Prothon said with a smile. “There are winners, and there are losers.”

67.

Lodovik heard the warning sirens in his head, as did all the robots within the warehouse. He had worked out the evacuation plan with Kallusin the night before. Kallusin had told him that Plussix had anticipated a general disruption, possibly a discovery...

            And now most of their avenues of escape were blocked by Imperial Specials. Kallusin and the other robots were busy in another part of the warehouse, carrying the heads and other precious Calvinian items: thousands of years of robot history and traditions, the memories of dozens of key robots, stored in dissected memory nodes or, in a few cases, in the whole heads. There was a religious aspect to the respect Kallusin held for these relics. But Lodovik had little time to contemplate the peculiarities of this robot society.

            Lodovik found Klia and Brann in the dining hall at ground level. The young woman looked determined but scared--wide-eyed, face flushed. Brann seemed uncertain but not frightened, merely nervous.

            Lodovik ignored a communication from Voltaire, a commentary on romantic oppositions that seemed completely useless.

            “We are leaving now,” Lodovik said.

            “We’re packed,” Brann said, and lifted a small cloth bag that contained all their worldly goods.

            “I can feel her. She’s looking for us,” Klia said.

            “Perhaps,” Lodovik said. “But there are hidden passages out of the lower levels that have not been used in thousands of years. Some emerge close to the palace detention center where Seldon is kept--”

            “You know the palace--the codes for entry?”

            “If they have not been changed. There is a certain inertia in the amendment of palace procedures. The codes for the Emperor’s quarters are changed twice a day, but in other portions of the extended palace, there are codes that have been in place for ten or fifteen years. We will have to take some risks--”

            The codes that you do not know, I can access, Voltaire told him.

            “Just get us out of here!” Klia said. “I don’t want to have to fight her.”

            “We may have to fight others,” Lodovik said. “To persuade them, or to defend ourselves.”

            Klia shook her head with stubborn boldness. “I don’t care about them. Not one in a thousand persuaders can hold a candle to Brann and me working together. But that woman--”

            “We can beat her,” Brann said. Klia glared at him, then shivered and shrugged her shoulders.

            “Maybe,” she said.

            “Do you know robot mental structures well enough?” Lodovik inquired as they walked toward the elevators.

            “What do you mean?” Klia asked. The ancient elevator doors opened with the smooth heaviness of Old Empire engineering. A feeble green emergency light blinked on within. They stepped into the ghoulish glow.

            “Can you persuade a robot?” Lodovik asked.

            “I don’t know,” Klia said. “I’ve never tried. Except with Kallusin--once--and I didn’t know he was a robot. He fended me off.”

            “We have a few minutes,” Lodovik said. “Practice on me.”

            “Why?”

            “Because to get to Hari Seldon, we may have to confront Daneel. Remember what Dors Venabili said.”

            “Robots are so different,” Klia murmured.

            “Practice,” Lodovik said. You would give up your free will to this child? Voltaire asked, understanding the question was rhetorical. Now we take advantage of the most evil of weapons! Which is worse--robot mind-warping, or human?

            “Please,” Lodovik said. “It may be very important.”

            “All RIGHT!” Klia shouted, feeling pushed. She did not like this--told herself she did not want to discover a new weakness in the middle of her fear. “What should I do--make you dance a jig?”

            Lodovik smiled. “Whatever comes into your mind.”

            “You’re a robot. Couldn’t I just order you to dance, and you’d have to obey?”

            “You are not my master,” Lodovik said. “And remember--”

            Klia turned away and put a hand to her cheek.

            Lodovik suddenly realized it would be very pleasant to test his motor-control circuitry. The elevator would be a perfect place in which to conduct these tests, so long as he was careful not to bump into the humans who occupied it with him. It was simple, really, this urge to move, simple and pleasant to contemplate.

            He began to dance, slowly at first, feeling the affirmation, the approval: thousands of humans would rate his performance highly, if not in artistic terms, certainly for the skill with which he was testing all his engineered routines. He felt very coordinated and worthy.

            Klia removed her hand from her cheek. Her face was wet with tears.

            Lodovik stopped and swayed for a moment as his own robotic will sorted through disparate impulses and reached a new balance.

            “I’m sorry,” Klia said. “That was the wrong thing to have you do.” She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed.

            “You did well,” Lodovik said, a little dismayed by the ease with which she had controlled him. “Did Brann coordinate with you?”

            “No,” Klia said.

            Brann seemed stunned by her success. “Sky, we could take over all of Trantor--”

            “NO!” Klia shouted. “I’m sorry I did this.” She held her hands out to Lodovik as if seeking his forgiveness. “You’re a machine. You are so...eager to please, deep down inside. You’re easier than a child. You are a child.”

            Lodovik did not know how to respond, so he said nothing. Voltaire, however, made his opinions known in no uncertain terms. I could feel her, as well. I have no legs, yet I wanted to dance. What sort of force is this? What a monstrosity!

Klia would not let go of her self-disgust, and this only compounded her confusion. “But you’re not a child. You are so dignified and serious. It was bad--like making my father--” Her voice hitched. “Making my father wet his pants.” She began to sob.

            Lodovik tilted his head to one side. “I am not harmed. If you are concerned about my dignity--”

            “You don’t understand!” Klia shouted. The door opened, and she whirled as if to face new enemies. The darkened corridor beyond was empty, silent. A thin layer of gray dust on the floor was unmarred by footprints. She leaped from the elevator and centuries puffed around her feet. “I don’t want to be this way anymore! I just want to be simple!”

            Her voice echoed against the impassive and ancient walls.

68.

Boon stood beside Hari, and Lors Avakim stood beside Gaal Dornick. The five judges had already been seated as they entered, Linge Chen, as always, highest and in the middle. Hari felt slightly dizzy, standing more than five minutes as the clerk droned on with the charges. He squinted at the judicial chambers, then tilted slightly toward Gaal, until he was leaning on him. Gaal supported him without comment until he regained his balance and stood upright again.

            “Sorry,” he murmured.

            Linge Chen spoke without even looking at Hari. “The continuation of this trial would serve no further purpose. General Security no longer has any reason to cross-examine Professor Seldon.”

            Hari did not dare feel even a breath of hope coming from the lips of this man.

            “All public proceedings are now at an end.” Chen and the judges stood. Sedjar Boon held Hari’s other arm as the Commissioners departed from the bench. The baronial peers stood as well, murmuring among themselves. The advocate approached the crib and spoke to Gaal and Hari.

            “The Chief Commissioner will have a word with you in private,” he said. He nodded at Boon and Lors Avakim, professional courtesy, or perhaps acknowledging those in the same employ. “Your clients must be alone for these finalities. They will stay here. All others will leave.”

            Hari did not know how to feel or what to think. His resources were near a bitter end. Boon touched his arm, gave him a confident smile, and left with Avakim.

            Once the room was cleared, the outer doors were sealed with long brass bars. and the Commissioners returned. Linge Chen watched Hari very closely now.

            “Sire, I would prefer we have our advocates with us,” Hari said, his voice cracking. He hated these weaknesses, these infirmities.

            The Commissioner to the left of Chen replied, “This is no longer a trial, Dr. Seldon. Your personal fate is no longer at issue. We are here to discuss the safety of the State.”

            “I will speak,” Chen said. The other Commissioners seemed to melt back into their chairs, into silence, confirming the power of this lean, hard man with the calm features and manner of an ancient aristocrat. Hari though, Why, he seems older than I do--an antique!

            “Dr. Seldon,” Chen began, “you disturb the peace of the Emperor’s realm. None of the quadrillions living now among all the stars of the Galaxy will be living a century from now. Why, then, should we concern ourselves with events of five centuries distance?”

            “I shall not be alive half a decade hence,” Hari said, “and yet it is of overpowering concern to me. Call it idealism. Call it an identification of myself with that mystical generalization to which we refer by the term, ‘man.’ “

            “I do not wish to take the trouble to understand mysticism. Can you tell me why I may not rid myself of yourself and of an uncomfortable and unnecessary five-century future which I will never see by having you executed tonight?”

            Hari called upon all his contempt for this man, contempt for death itself, to match the Chief Commissioner’s outrageous calm. “A week ago,” Hari said, “you might have done so and perhaps retained a one in ten probability of yourself remaining alive at year’s end. Today, the one in ten probability is scarcely one in ten thousand.”

            The other Commissioners let out a collective sigh at this blasphemy, like virgins before a suddenly naked spouse. Chen seemed to become a little sleepier, and also a little leaner, a little harder.

            “How so?” he asked, his voice dangerously mild.

            “The fall of Trantor,” Hari said, “cannot be stopped by any conceivable effort. It can be hastened easily, however. The tale of my interrupted trial will spread through the Galaxy. Frustration of my plans to lighten the disaster will convince people that the future holds no promise to them. Already they recall the lives of their grandfathers with envy. They will see that political revolutions and trade stagnations will increase. The feeling will pervade the Galaxy that only what a man can grasp for himself at that moment will be of any account. Ambitious men will not wait, and unscrupulous men will not hang back. By their every action they will hasten the decay of the worlds. Have me killed, and Trantor will fall not within five centuries but within fifty years and you, yourself, within a single year.”

            Chen smiled as if in faint amusement. “These are words to frighten children, and yet your death is not the only answer which will satisfy us. Tell me, will your only activity be that of preparing this encyclopedia you speak of?” Chen seemed to extend a shield of magnanimity over Hari, with a sweep of his hand, and a tap of two fingers beside the bronze bell and gavel.

            “It will.”

            “And need that be done on Trantor?”

            “Trantor, my lord, possesses the Imperial Library, as well as the scholarly resources of--”

            “Yes. Of course. And yet if you were located elsewhere, let us say upon a planet where the hurry and distractions of a metropolis will not interfere with scholastic musings; where your men may devote themselves entirely and single-mindedly to their work;--might not that have advantages?”

            “Minor ones, perhaps.”

            “Such a world has been chosen, then. You may work, doctor, at your leisure, with your hundred thousand about you. The Galaxy will know that you are working and fighting the Fall. They will even be told that you will prevent the Fall. If the Galaxy that cares about such things, believes you to be correct, they will be happier.” He smiled, “Since I do not believe in so many things, it is not difficult for me to disbelieve in the Fall as well, so that I am entirely convinced I will be telling the truth to the people. And meanwhile, doctor, you will not trouble Trantor and there will be no disturbance of the Emperor’s peace.

            “The alternative is death for yourself and for as many of your followers as will seem necessary. Your earlier threats I disregard. The opportunity for choosing between death and exile is given you over a time period stretching from this moment to one five minutes hence.”

            “Which is the world chosen, my lord?” Hari asked, concealing the tension of his anticipation.

            Chen called Hari forward to the docket with a waggle of his thin finger, and pointed to an informer tablet, on which an image of the world and its location were displayed. “It is called, I believe, Terminus,” said Chen.

            Hari glanced at it, breathless, and looked up at Chen. They were closer than they had ever been before, barely an arm’s length between them. Hari could see the fine lines of strain on the calm features, like wrinkles on a world of ice. “It is uninhabited, but quite habitable, and can be molded to suit the necessities of scholars. It is somewhat secluded--”

            Hari tried to show some dismay. “It is at the edge of the Galaxy, sir.”

            Chen dismissed this as unworthy with a roll of his eyes. He regarded Hari wearily, as if asking, We do not need these theatrics, do we, really? “As I have said, somewhat secluded. It will suit your needs for concentration. Come, you have two minutes left.”

            Hari could hardly conceal his elation. He felt, for the merest instant, a burst of gratitude to this gentry monster. “We will need time to arrange such a trip,” he said, voice softened. “There are twenty thousand families involved.”

            Gaal Dornick, still in the crib, cleared his throat.

            Chen lowered his gaze to the informer, tapped the display off. “You will be given time.”

            Hari could not help himself. The last minute was passing quickly, and yet he could not stop from giving his triumph the last few seconds to grow all the larger, all the more shocking to those without his knowledge. Finally, as the minute crept into the last five seconds, he murmured, voice rough and subdued in defeat, “I accept exile.”

            Gaal Dornick gasped and sat down abruptly.

            The proctor entered once more and observed the acceptance, noted that all was proper, and recorded the results and declarations, then deferred to the Chief Commissioner.

            Chen held up his hand and officially pronounced, “This matter is at an end. The Commission is no longer concerned. Now all go.”

            Hari stepped back from the bench to join Gaal.

            “Not you,” Chen said softly.