She looked doubtful. “How? This looks like a chem snooper.”

“I have agents of my own. They can in turn label Lamurk’s agents. This device will pick up their tags. Other encoded messages will ride on the marking signal.”

“And Lamurk’s specialists won’t pick up the tags?”

“This device uses methods lost for six millennia. Install it in your right arm, at station cut six. Interface with apertures two and five.”

“How will I-”

“Specs and expertise will flow to your long-term memory upon connection.”

She installed the device as he watched. His grave presence made silence natural. Olivaw never wasted a movement or made idle conversation. Finally, intricacies done, she sighed and said, “He’s interested in those simulations, the ones which escaped.”

“He is following the best line of attack for psychohistory.”

“There’s this tiktok problem, too. Do you understand-”

“The social taboos against simulations inevitably break down during cultural resurgences,” Daneel said.

“So tiktoks-?”

“They are inherently destabilizing if they become too developed. After all, we cannot condone a new generation of robots, or the rediscovery of the positronic process.”

“There are signs in the historical record that this has happened before.”

“You are an insightful scholar.”

“There were only a few traces, but I suspect-”

“Suspect no further. You are correct. I could not expunge every scrap of data.”

“ Youdisguised such events?”

“And much else.”

“Why? As an historian-”

“I had to. Humanity is best served by Imperial stability. Tiktoks, sims-these accompany movements such as this ‘New Renaissance,’ feeding the fire.”

“What’s to be done?”

“I do not know. Matters are slipping beyond my ability to predict.”

She frowned. “How do you predict?”

“In the first millennia of the Empire, our kind developed the simple theory I have mentioned before. Useful, but crude. It led me to expect the reemergence of these simulations as a side effect of the Sarkian ‘Renaissance’ and its turmoil.”

“Does Hari understand this?”

“Hari’s psychohistory is vastly superior to our models. He lacks certain vital historical data, however. When it is eventually included, he will be able to accurately anticipate the Empire’s devolution.”

“You do not mean ‘evolution’?”

“Quite. That is a major reason why we devote such resources to helping Hari.”

“He is crucial.”

“Of course. Why do you think I assigned you to him?”

“Does it matter that I’ve fallen in love with him?”

“No. But it helps.”

“Helps me? Or him?”

Daneel smiled thinly. “Both, I should hope. But mostly, it helps me.”

Hari Seldon stood alone in the lift, thinking.

The door slid open. A woman asked if this elevator was going up or down. Distracted, he answered, “Yes.” Her surprised look told him that somehow his reply was off target. Only after the door closed on her puzzled stare did he see that she meant which way, not if.

He was in the habit of making precise distinctions; the world was not.

He walked into his office, still barely aware of his surroundings, and Cleon’s 3D blossomed in the air before he could sit down. The Emperor awaited no filter programs.

“I was so happy to hear you had returned from holiday!” Cleon beamed.

“Pleased, sire.” What did he want?

Hari decided not to tell him all that had transpired. Daneel had stressed secrecy. Only this morning, after a zigzag route down from the wormyards, had Hari let his presence be known even to the Imperial Specials.

“I fear you arrive at a difficult time.” Cleon scowled. “Lamurk is moving for a vote in the High Council on the First Ministership.”

“How many votes can he muster?”

“Enough that I cannot ignore the Council. I will be forced to appoint him despite my own likes.”

“I am sorry for that, sire.” In fact, his heart leaped.

“I have maneuvered against him, but…” An elaborate sigh. Cleon chewed at his ample lower lip. Had the man gained weight again? Or were Hari’s perceptions altered by his time of shortened diet on Panucopia? Most Trantorians looked pudgy to him now. “Then, too, is this irritating matter of Sark and its confounded New Renaissance. The muddle grows. Could this spread to other worlds in their Zone? Would those throw in with them? You have studied this?”

“In detail.”

“Using psychohistory?”

Hari gave way to his gut instinct. “Unrest will grow there.”

“You’re sure?”

He wasn’t, but-”I suggest you move against it.”

“Lamurk favors Sark. He says it will bring new prosperity.”

“He wants to ride this discord into office.”

“Overt opposition from me at this delicate time would be…unpolitic.”

“Even though he might be behind the attempts on my life?”

“Alas, there is no proof of that. As ever, several factions would benefit were you to.,.” Cleon coughed uncomfortably.

“Withdraw-involuntarily? “

Cleon’s mouth worked uneasily. “An Emperor is father to a perpetually unruly family.”

If even the Emperor were tip-toeing around Lamurk, matters were indeed bad. “Couldn’t you position squadrons for quick use should the opportunity arise?”

Clean nodded. “I shall. But if the High Council votes for Lamurk, I shall be powerless to move against so prominent and, well, exciting a world as Sark.”

“I believe strife will spread throughout Sark’s entire Zone.”

“Truly? What would you advise me to do against Lamurk?”

“I have no political skills, sire. You knew that.”

“Nonsense. You have psychohistory!”

Hari was still uncomfortable owning up to the theory, even with Cleon. If it were ever to be useful, word of psychohistory could not be widespread, or else everyone would use it. Or try to.

Cleon went on, “And your solution to the terrorist problem-it is working well. We just executed Moron One Hundred.”

Hari shuddered, thinking of the lives obliterated by a mere passing idea of his. “A…a small issue, surely, sire.”

“Then turn your calculations to the Dahlite Sector matter, Hari. They are restive. Everyone is, these days.”

“And the Zones of Dahlite persuasion throughout the Galaxy?”

“They back the local Dahlites in the Councils. It’s about this representation question. The plan we follow on Trantor will be mirrored throughout the Galaxy. Indeed, in the votes of whole Zones.”

“Well, if most people think-”

“Ah, my dear Hari, you still have a mathist’s myopia. History is determined not by what people think, but by what they feel.”

Startled-for this remark struck him as true-Hari could only say, “I see, sire.”

“We-you and I, Hari-must decide this issue.”

“I’ll work on the decision, sire.”

How he had come to hate the very word! Decide had the same root as suicide and homicide. Decisions felt like little killings. Somebody lost.