Raych said cautiously, "Do you have some kinda plan to get me started?"
"Yes indeed, Raych. I want you to go down to the area of Wye where Kaspalov was killed. Find out if you can if he was an active Joranumite and see if you can't join a Joranumite cell yourself."
"Maybe that's possible. I can always pretend to be an old Joranumite. It's true that I was pretty young when Jo-Jo was sounding off, but I was very impressed by his ideas. It's even sorta true."
"Well yes, but there's one important catch. You might be recognized. After all, you're the son of the First Minister. You have appeared on holovision now and then and you have been interviewed concerning your views on sector equality."
"Sure, but-"
"No buts, Raych. You'll wear elevated shoes to add three centimeters to your height and we'll have someone show you how to change the shape of your eyebrows and make your face fuller and change the timbre of your voice."
Raych shrugged. "A lotta trouble for nothing."
"And," said Seldon with a distinct quaver, "you will shave off your mustache."
Raych's eyes widened and for a moment he sat there in appalled silence. Finally he said in a hoarse whisper, "Shave my mustache?"
"Clean as a whistle. No one would recognize you without it."
"But it can't be done. Like cutting off your-Like castration."
Seldon shook his head. "It's just a cultural curiosity. Yugo Amaryl is as Dahlite as you are and he wears no mustache."
"Yugo is a nut. I don't think he's alive at all, except for his mathematics."
"He's a great mathematician and the absence of a mustache does not alter that fact. Besides, it's not castration. Your mustache will grow back in two weeks."
"Two weeks! It'll take two years to reach this-this-"
He put his hand up, as though to cover and protect it.
Seldon said inexorably, "Raych, you have to do it. It's a sacrifice you must make. If you act as my spy with your mustache, you may-come to harm. I can't take that chance."
"I'd rather die," said Raych violently.
"Don't be melodramatic," said Seldon severely. "You would not rather die and this is something you must do. However"-and here he hesitated-"don't say anything about it to your mother. I will take care of that."
Raych stared at his father in frustration and then said in a low and despairing tone, "All right, Dad."
Seldon said, "I will get someone to supervise your disguise and then you will go to Wye by air-jet. Buck up, Raych, it's not the end of the world."
Raych smiled wanly and Seldon watched him leave, a deeply troubled look on his face. A mustache could easily be regrown, but a son could not. Seldon knew perfectly well that he was sending Raych into danger.
9
We all have our small illusions and Cleon-Emperor of the Galaxy, King of Trantor, and a wide collection of other titles that on rare occasions could be called out in a long sonorous roll-was convinced that he was a person of democratic spirit.
It always angered him when he was warned off a course of action by Demerzel (or, later, by Seldon) on the grounds that such action would be looked on as "tyrannical" or "despotic."
Cleon was not a tyrant or despot by disposition, he was certain; he only wanted to take firm and decisive action.
He spoke many times with nostalgic approval of the days when Emperors could mingle freely with their subjects, but now, of course, when the history of coups and assassinations-actual or attempted-had become a dreary fact of life, the Emperor had, of necessity, been shut off from the world.
It is doubtful that Cleon, who had never in his life met with people except under the most constricted of conditions, would really have felt at home in offhand encounters with strangers, but he always imagined he would enjoy it. He was excited, therefore, for the rare chance of talking to one of the underlings on the grounds, to smile and to doff the trappings of Imperial rule for a few minutes. It made him feet democratic.
There was this gardener whom Seldon had spoken of, for instance. It would be fitting, even a pleasure, to reward him belatedly for his loyalty and bravery-and to do so himself, rather than leaving it to some functionary.
He therefore arranged to meet the fellow in the spacious rose garden, which was in full bloom. That would be appropriate, Cleon thought, but, of course, they would have to bring the gardener there first. It was unthinkable for the Emperor to be made to wait. It is one thing to be democratic, quite another to be inconvenienced.
The gardener was waiting for him among the roses, his eyes wide, his lips trembling. It occurred to Cleon that it was possible that no one had told the man the exact reason for the meeting. Well, he would reassure him in kindly fashion-except that, now he came to think of it, he could not remember the fellow's name.
He turned to one of the officials at his side and said, "What is the gardener's name?"
"Sire, it is Mandell Gruber. He has been a gardener here for thirty years."
The Emperor nodded and said, "Ah, Gruber. How glad I am to meet a worthy and hardworking gardener."
"Sire," mumbled Gruber, his teeth chattering. "I am not a man of many talents, but it is always my best I try to do on behalf of your gracious self."
"Of course, of course," said the Emperor, wondering if the gardener suspected him of sarcasm. These men of the lower class lacked the finer feelings that came with refinement and manners, which always made any attempt at democratic display difficult.
Cleon said, "I have heard from my First Minister of the loyalty with which you once came to his aid and of your skill in taking care of the grounds. The First Minister tells me that he and you are quite friendly."