“Betan Lamurk, sir.”

“Knows how to hold a crowd.”

“Indeed, sir. Would you like a formal introduction?”

“No, just let me listen.”

It was always a good idea to size up an opponent before he knew he was being watched. Hari’s father had taught him that trick, just before his first matheletic competition. Such techniques had not managed to save his father, but they worked in the milder groves of academe.

Black hair invaded his broad brow like a pincer attack, two pointed wedges reaching down to nearly the end of his eyebrows. His hooded eyes were widely spaced and blazed intently from a rigging of mirth wrinkles. A slender nose seemed to point to his proudest feature, a mouth assembled from varying parts. The lower lip curled in full, impudent humor. The upper, thin and muscular, curled downward in a curve that verged on a sneer. A viewer would know the upper lip could overrule the lower at any moment, shifting mood abruptly-a disquieting effect which could not have been bettered if he had designed it himself.

Hari realized quickly that, of course, Lamurk had.

Lamurk was discussing some detail of interZonal trade in the Orion spiral arm, a hot issue before the High Council at the moment. Hari cared nothing about trade, except as a variable in stochastic equations, so he simply watched the man’s manner.

To underline a point Lamurk would raise his hands over his head, fingers open, voice rising. Then, his point made, his voice evened out and he lowered them to chest height, held precisely side by side. As his well-modulated voice became deeper and more reflective, he moved the hands apart. Then-voice rising again-his hands soared to head level and windmilled one around the other, the subject now complex, the listener thereby commanded to pay close attention.

He kept close eye contact with the whole audience, a piercing gaze sweeping the circle. A last point, a quick touch of humor, grin flashing, sure of himself-a pause for the next question.

He finished his point with, “-and for some of us, ‘Pax Imperium’ looks more like ‘Tax Imperium,’ eh?” Then he saw Hari. A quick furrowing of his brow, then, “Academician Seldon! Welcome! I’d been wondering when I was going to get to meet you.”

“Don’t let me interrupt your, ah, lecture.”

This provoked some titters and Hari saw that to accuse a member of the High Council of pontificating was a mild social jab. “I found it fascinating.”

“Pretty humdrum stuff, I’m afraid, compared to you mathists,” Lamurk said cordially.

“I am afraid my mathematics is even more dry than Zonal trade.”

More titters, though this time Hari could not quite see why.

“I just try to separate out the factions,” Lamurk said genially. “People treat money like it is a religion.”

This gained him some agreeing laughter. Hari said, “Fortunately, there are no sects in geometry.”

“We’re just trying to get the best deal for the whole Empire, Academician.”

“The best is the enemy of the good, I’d imagine.”

“I suppose then, you’ll be applying mathematical logic to our problems on the Council?” Lamurk’s voice remained friendly, but his eyes took on a veiled character. “Assuming you gain a ministership?”

“Alas, so far as the laws of mathematics are sharp and certain, they do not refer to reality. So far as they refer to reality, they are not certain.”

Lamurk glanced at the crowd, which had grown considerably. Dors grasped Hari’s hand and he realized from her squeeze that this had somehow turned into something important. He could not see why, but there was no time to size up the situation.

Lamurk said, “Then this psychohistory thing I hear about, it’s not useful?”

“Not to you, sir,” Hari said.

Lamurk’s eyes narrowed, but his affable grin remained. “Too tough for us?”

“Not ready for use, I’m afraid. I don’t have the logic of it yet.”

Lamurk chuckled, beamed at the still growing crowd, and said jovially, “A logical thinker!-what a refreshing contrast with the real world.”

General laughter. Hari tried to think of something to say. He saw one of his bodyguards block a man nearby, inspect something in the man’s suit, then let him go.

“Y’see, Academician, on the High Council we can’t be spending our time on theory.” Lamurk paused for effect, as though making a campaign speech. “We’ve got to be just….and sometimes, folks, we’ve got to be hard.”

Hari raised an eyebrow. “My father used to say, ‘It’s a hard man who’s only just, and a sad man who’s only wise.”‘

A few ooohs in the crowd told him he had scored a hit. Lamurk’s eyes confirmed the cut.

“Well, we do try on the Council, we do. No doubt we can use some help from the learned quarters of the Empire. I’LL have to read one of your books, Academician.” He shot a look with raised eyebrows at the crowd. “Assuming I can.”

Hari shrugged. “I will send you my monograph on transfinite geometric calculus.”

“Impressive title,” Lamurk said, eyes playing to the audience.

“It’s the same with books as with men-a very small number play great parts; the rest are lost in the multitude.”

“And which would you rather be?” Lamurk shot back.

“Among the multitudes. At least I wouldn’t have to attend so many receptions.”

This got a big laugh, surprising Hari. Lamurk said, “Well, I’m sure the Emperor won’t tire you out with too much socializing. But you’ll get invited everywhere. You’ve got a sharp tongue on you, Academician.”

“My father had another saying, too. ‘Wit is like a razor. Razors are more likely to cut those who use them when they’ve lost their edge.”‘

His father had also told him that in a public trade of barbs, the one who lost temper first lost the exchange. He had not recalled that until this instant. Hari remembered too late that Lamurk was known for his humor in High Council meetings. Probably scripted for him; certainly he displayed none here.

A quick tightening of the cheeks spread into a bloodless white line of lip. Lamurk’s features twisted into an expression of distaste-not a long way to go, for most of them-and he gave an ugly, wet laugh.

The crowd stood absolutely silent. Something had happened.

“Ah, there are other people who would like to meet the Academician,” Hari’s lieutenant said, sliding neatly into the growing, awkward silence.

Hari shook hands, murmured meaningless pleasantries, and let himself be whisked away.

He had another stim to calm himself. Somehow he was more jittery afterward than during the social collision. Lamurk had given Hari a cold, angry stare as they parted.

“I’ll keep track of him,” Dors said. “You just enjoy your fame.”

To Hari this was a flat impossibility, but he tried. Seldom did one see such a variety of people, and he calmed himself by lapsing into a habitual role: polite observer. It was not as though the usual social chitchat demanded much concentration. A warm smile would do most of the work for him here.

The party was a microcosm of Trantorian society. In spare moments, Hari watched the social orders interact.

Cleon’s grandfather had reinstated many Ruellian traditions, and one of those customs required that members of all five classes be present at any grand Imperial function. Cleon seemed especially keen on this practice, as if it would raise his popularity among the masses. Hari kept his own doubts private.

First and obvious came the gentry-the inherited aristocracy. Cleon himself stood at the apex of a pyramid of rank that descended from the Imperium to mighty Quadrant Dukes and Spiral Arm Princes, past Life Peers, all the way down to the local barons Hari used to know back on Helicon.

Working in the fields, he had seen them pompously scudding overhead. Each governed a domain no larger than they could cross by flitter in a day. To a member of the gentry, life was busy with the Great Game-a ceaseless campaign to advance the fortunes of one’s noble house, arranging greater status for your family line through political alliances, or marriages for your many children.