Cleon the Emperor

15.

“Gleb Andorin,” said Hari Seldon wearily, rubbing his eyes.

“And who is he?” asked Dors Venabili, her mood as black as it had been every day since Raych had left.

“Until a few days ago, I never heard of him,” said Seldon. “That's the trouble with trying to run a world of forty billion people. You never hear of anyone except for the few who obtrude themselves on your notice. With all the computerized information in the world, Trantor remains a planet of anonymities. We can drag up people with their serial numbers and their statistics, but whom do we drag up? Add twenty-five million Outer Worlds and the wonder is that the Galactic Empire has remained a working phenomenon for all these millennia. Frankly, I think it has existed only because it very largely runs itself. And now it is finally running down.”

“So much for philosophizing, Hari,” said Venabili. “Who is this Andorin?”

“Someone I admit I ought to have known about. I managed to cajole the Imperial Guard into calling up their files on him. He's a member of the Wyan mayoralty family; the most prominent member, in fact, so prominent that the I.G. has kept tabs on him. They think he has ambitions but is too much of a playboy to do anything about them.”

“And is he involved with the Joranumites?”

Seldon made an uncertain gesture. “I'm under the impression that the I.G. knows nothing about the Joranumites. That means that the Joranumites don't exist, or that, if they do, they are of no importance. It may also mean that the I.G. just isn't interested. Nor is there any way in which I can force them to be interested; I'm only thankful they give me any information at all. And I am the First Minister.”

“Is it possible that you're not a very good First Minister?” said Venabili dryly.

“That's more than possible. It's been generations since there's been one less suited to the job than I. But that has nothing to do with the Imperial Guard. Despite their name, they're a totally independent arm of the government. I doubt that Cleon himself knows much about them, though, in theory, they're supposed to report directly to him. Believe me, if we only knew more about the I.G. we'd be trying to stick them into our psychohistorical equations, such as they are.”

“Are they on our side, at least?”

“I believe so, but I can't swear to it.”

“And why are you interested in this what's-his-name?”

“Gleb Andorin. Because I received a roundabout message from Raych.”

Venabili's eyes flashed. “You didn't tell me. Is he all right?”

“As far as I know, but I hope he doesn't try any further messages. If he's caught communicating, he won't be all right. In any case, he has made contact with Andorin.”

“And the Joranumites, too?”

“I don't think so. It would sound unlikely, for the connection is not something that would make sense. The Joranumite movement is predominantly lower-class; a proletarian movement, so to speak. And Andorin is an aristocrat of aristocrats. What would he be doing with the Joranumites?”

“If he's of the Wyan mayoralty family, he might aspire to the Imperial throne, might he not?”

“They've been aspiring for generations. You remember Rashelle, I trust. She was his aunt.”

“Then he might be using the Joranumites as a stepping-stone, don't you think?”

“If they exist. And if they do, and if a stepping stone is what Andorin wants, I think he'd find himself playing a dangerous game. The Joranumites, if they exist, would have their own plans and a man like Andorin may find he's simply riding a greti-”

“What's a greti?”

“Some extinct animal of a ferocious type, I think. It's just a proverbial phrase, back on Helicon. If you ride a greti, you find you can't get off, for then it will eat you.”

Seldon paused. “One more thing. Raych seems to be involved with a woman who knows Andorin and through whom, he thinks, he may get important information. I'm telling you this now so that you won't accuse me, afterward, of keeping anything from you.”

Venabili frowned. “A woman?”

“One, I gather, who knows a great many men who will talk to her unwisely, sometimes, under intimate circumstances.”

“One of those.” Her frown deepened. “I don't like the thought of Raych-”

“Come, come. Raych is thirty years old and undoubtedly has much experience. You can leave this woman-or any woman, I think-safely to Raych's good sense.” He turned toward Venabili with a look so worn, so weary, as he said, “Do you think I like this? Do you think I like any of this?”

And Venabili could find nothing to say.