seldon had an evening, a night, and part of a morning to get over his meeting with the emperor. at least, the changing quality of light within the walkways, moving corridors, squares, and parks of the imperial sector of trantor made it seem that an evening, a night, and part of a morning had passed. he sat now in a small park on a small plastic seat that molded itself neatly to his body and he was comfortable. judging from the light, it seemed to be midmorning and the air was just cool enough to seem fresh without possessing even the smallest bite.
was it like this all the time? he thought of the gray day outside when he went to see the emperor. and he thought of all the gray days and cold days and hot days and rainy days and snowy days on helicon, his home, and he wondered if one could miss them. was it possible to sit in a park on trantor, having ideal weather day after day, so that it felt as though you were surrounded by nothing at all--and coming to miss a howling wind or a biting cold or a breathless humidity?
perhaps. but not on the first day or the second or the seventh. he would have only this one day and he would leave tomorrow. he meant to enjoy it while he could. he might, after all, never return to trantor. still, he continued to feel uneasy at having spoken as independently as he had to a man who could, at will, order ones imprisonment or execution--or, at the very least, the economic and social death of loss of position and status. before going to bed, seldon had looked up cleon i in the encyclopedic portion of his hotel room computer. the emperor had been highly praised as, no doubt, all emperors in their own lifetime, regardless of their deeds. seldon had dismissed that, but he was interested in the fact that cleon had been born in the palace and had never left its grounds. he had never been in trantor itself, in any part of the multi-domed world. it was a matter of security, perhaps, but what it meant was that the emperor was in prison, whether he admitted the matter to himself or not. it might be the most luxurious prison in the galaxy, but it was a prison just the same.
and though the emperor had seemed mild-mannered and had shown no sign of being a bloody-minded autocrat as so many of his predecessors had been, it was not good to have attracted his attention. seldon welcomed the thought of leaving tomorrow for helicon, even though it would be winter (and a rather nasty one, so far) back home.
he looked up at the bright diffuse light. although it could never rain in here, the atmosphere was far from dry. a fountain played not far from him; the plants were green and had probably never felt drought. occasionally, the shrubbery rustled as though a small animal or two was hidden there. he heard the hum of bees.
really, though trantor was spoken of throughout the galaxy as an artificial world of metal and ceramic, in this small patch it felt positively rustic. there were a few other persons taking advantage of the park all wearing light hats, some quite small. there was one rather pretty young woman not far away, but she was bent over a viewer and he could not see her face clearly. a man walked past, looked at him briefly and incuriously, then sat down in a seat facing him and buried himself in a sheaf of teleprints, crossing one leg, in its tight pink trouser leg, over the other.
there was a tendency to pastel shades among the men, oddly enough, while the women mostly wore white. being a clean environment, it made sense to wear light colors. he looked down in amusement at his own heliconian costume, which was predominantly dull brown. if he were to stay on trantor as he was not he would need to purchase suitable clothing or he would become an object of curiosity or laughter or repulsion. the man with the teleprints had, for instance, looked up at him more curiously this time--no doubt intrigued by his outworldish clothing. seldon was relieved that he did not smile. he could be philosophical over being a figure of fun, but, surely, he could not be expected to enjoy it. seldon watched the man rather unobtrusively, for he seemed to be engaged in some sort of internal debate. at the moment he looked as if he was about to speak, then seemed to think better of it, then seemed to wish to speak again. seldon wondered what the outcome would be.
he studied the man. he was tall, with broad shoulders and no sign of a paunch, darkish hair with a glint of blond, smooth-shaven, a grave expression, an air of strength though there were no bulging muscles, a face that was a touch rugged--pleasant, but with nothing "pretty" about it. by the time the man had lost the internal fight with himself (or won, perhaps) and leaned toward him, seldon had decided he liked him. the man said, "pardon me, werent you at the decennial convention? mathematics?"
"yes, i was," said seldon agreeably.
"ah, i thought i saw you there. it was--excuse me--that moment of recognition that led me to sit here. if i am intruding on your privacy--"
"not at all. im just enjoying an idle moment."
"lets see how close i can get. youre professor seldon."
"seldon. hari seldon. quite close. and you?"
"chetter hummin." the man seemed slightly embarrassed. "rather a homespun name, im afraid."
"ive never come across any chetters before," said seldon. "or hummins. so that makes you somewhat unique, i should think. it might be viewed as being better than being mixed up with all the countless haris there are. or seldons, for that matter."
seldon moved his chair closer to hummin, scraping it against the slightly elastic ceramoid tiles.
"talk about homespun," he said, "what about this outworldish clothing im wearing? it never occurred to me that i ought to get trantorian garb."
"you could buy some," said hummin, eyeing seldon with suppressed disapproval.
"ill be leaving tomorrow and, besides, i couldnt afford it. mathematicians deal with large numbers sometimes, but never in their income.--i presume youre a mathematician, hummin."
"no. zero talent there."
"oh." seldon was disappointed. "you said you saw me at the decennial convention."
"i was there as an onlooker. im a journalist." he waved his teleprints, seemed suddenly aware that he was holding them and shoved them into his jacket pouch. "i supply the material for the news holocasts." then, thoughtfully, "actually, im rather tired of it."
"the job?"
hummin nodded. "im sick of gathering together all the nonsense from every world. i hate the downward spiral."
he glanced speculatively at seldon. "sometimes something interesting turns up, though. ive heard you were seen in the company of an imperial guard and making for the palace gate. you werent by any chance seen by the emperor, were you?" the smile vanished from seldons face. he said slowly, "if i was, it would scarcely be something i could talk about for publication."
"no, no, not for publication. if you dont know this, seldon, let me be the first to tell you--the first rule of the news game is that nothing is ever said about the emperor or his personal entourage except what is officially given out. its a mistake, of course, because rumors fly that are much worse than the truth, but thats the way it is."
"but if you cant report it, friend, why do you ask?"
"private curiosity. believe me, in my job i know a great deal more than ever gets on the air.--let me guess. i didnt follow your paper, but i gathered that you were talking about the possibility of predicting the future."
seldon shook his head and muttered, "it was a mistake."
"pardon me?"
"nothing."
"well, prediction--accurate prediction--would interest the emperor, or any man in government, so im guessing that cleon, first of that name, asked you about it and wouldnt you please give him a few predictions."
seldon said stiffly, "i dont intend to discuss the matter."
hummin shrugged slightly. "eto demerzel was there, i suppose."
"who?"
"youve never heard of eto demerzel?"
"never."
"cleons alter ego--cleons brain--cleons evil spirit. hes been called all those things--if we confine ourselves to the nonvituperative. he must have been there."
seldon looked confused and hummin said, "well, you may not have seen him, but he was there. and if he thinks you can predict the future--"
"i cant predict the future," said seldon, shaking his head vigorously. "if you listened to my paper, youll know that i only spoke of a theoretical possibility."
"just the same, if he thinks you can predict the future, he will not let you go."
"he must have. here i am."
"that means nothing. he knows where you are and hell continue to know. and when he wants you, hell get you, wherever you are. and if he decides youre useful, hell squeeze the use out of you. and if he decides youre dangerous, hell squeeze the life out of you."
seldon stared. "what are you trying to do. frighten me?"
"im trying to warn you."
"i dont believe what youre saying."
"dont you? a while ago you said something was a mistake. were you thinking that presenting the paper was a mistake and that it was getting you into the kind of trouble you dont want to be in?"
seldon bit his lower lip uneasily. that was a guess that came entirely too close to the truth--and it was at this moment that seldon felt the presence of intruders.
they did not cast a shadow, for the light was too soft and widespread. it was simply a movement that caught the corner of his eye--and then it stopped.
flight
trantor-- ... the capital of the first galactic empire ... under cleon i, it had its "twilight glow." to all appearances, it was then at its peak. its land surface of 200 million square kilometers was entirely domed (except for the imperial palace area) and underlaid with an endless city that extended beneath the continental shelves. the population was 40 billion and although the signs were plentiful (and clearly visible in hindsight) that there were gathering problems, those who lived on trantor undoubtedly found it still the eternal world of legend and did not expect it would ever ...
encyclopedia galactica
