Particularly among those Hari termed “chaos worlds,” a smug avant-garde fumbled for the sublime by substituting for beauty a love of terror, shock, and the sickeningly grotesque. They used enormous scale, or acute disproportion, or scatology, or discord and irrational disjunction.
Both approaches were boring. Neither had any airy joy.
A wall dissolved, crackling, and they entered the Vault of Audi ence. Attendants vanished, his Specials fell behind. Abruptly Hari was alone. He padded over the cushiony floor. Baroque excess leered at him from every raised cornice, upjutting ornament, and elaborate wainscoting.
Silence. The Emperor was never waiting for anyone, of course. The gloomy chamber gave back no echoes, as though the walls absorbed everything.
Indeed, they probably did. No doubt every Imperial conversation went into several ears. There might be eavesdroppers halfway across the Galaxy.
A light, moving. Down a crackling grav column came Cleon. “Hari! So happy you could come.”
Since refusing a summons by the Emperor was traditionally grounds for execution, Hari could barely suppress a wry smile. “My honor to serve, sire.”
“Come, sit.”
Cleon moved heavily. Rumor had it that his appetite, already legendary, had begun to exceed even the skills of his cooks and physicians. “We have much to discuss.”
The Emperor’s constant attendant glow served to subtly enhance him with its nimbus. The contrast was mild, serving to draw him out from a comparative surrounding gloom. The room’s embedded intelligences tracked his eyes and shed added light where his gaze fell, again with delicate emphasis, subtly applied. The soft touch of his regard yielded a radiance which guests scarcely noticed, but which acted subconsciously, adding to their awe. Hari knew this, yet the effect still worked; Cleon looked masterful, regal.
“I fear we have hit a snag,” Cleon said.
“Nothing you cannot master, I am sure, sire.”
Cleon shook his head wearily. “Now don’t you, too, go on about
my prodigious powers. Some…elements—” he drew the word out with dry disdain “—object to your appointment.”
“I see.” Hari kept his face blank, but his heart leaped.
“Do not be glum! I do want you for my First Minister.”
“Yes, sire.”
“But I am not, despite commonplace assumption, utterly free to act.”
“I realize that many others are better qualified—”
“In their own eyes, surely.”
“—and better trained, and—”
“And know nothing of psychohistory.”
“Demerzel exaggerated the utility of psychohistory.”
“Nonsense. He suggested your name to me.”
“You know as well as I that he was exhausted, not in his best frame of—”
“His judgment was impeccable for decades.” Cleon eyed Hari. “One would almost think you were trying to avoid appointment as First Minister.”
“No, sire, but—”
“Men—and women, for that matter—have killed for far less.”
“And been killed, once they got it.”
Cleon chuckled. “True enough. Some First Ministers do get self-
important, begin to scheme against their Emperor—but let us not dwell upon the few failures of our system.”
Hari recalled Demerzel saying, “The succession of crises has reached the point where the consideration of the Three Laws of Robotics paralyzes me.” Demerzel had been unable to make choices because there were no good ones left. Every possible move hurt someone, badly. So Demerzel, a supreme intelligence, a clandestine humani form robot, had suddenly left the scene. What chance did Hari have?
“I will assume the position, of course,” Hari said quietly, “if ne cessary.”
“Oh, it’s necessary. If possible, you mean. Factions on the High Council oppose you. They demand a full discussion.”
Hari blinked, alarmed. “Will I have to debate?”
“—and then a vote.”
“I had no idea the Council could intervene.”
“Read the Codes. They do have that power. Typically they do not use it, bowing to the superior wisdom of the Emperor.” A dry little laugh. “Not this time.”
“If it would make it easier for you, I could absent myself while the discussion—”
“Nonsense! I want to use you to counter them.”
“I haven’t any ideas how to—”
“I’ll scent out the issues; you advise me on answers. Division of labor, nothing could be simpler.”
“Um.” Demerzel had said confidently, “If he believes you have the psychohistorical answer, he will follow you eagerly and that will make you a good First Minister.” Here, in such august surround ings, that seemed quite unlikely.
“We will have to evade these opponents, maneuver against them.”
“I have no idea how to do that.”
“Of course you do not! I do. But you see the Empire and all its history as one unfurling scroll. You have the theory.”
Cleon relished ruling. Hari felt in his bones that he did not. As First Minister, his word could determine the fate of millions. That had daunted even Demerzel.
“There is still the Zeroth Law,” Demerzel had said just before they parted for the last time. It placed the well-being of humanity as a whole above that of any single human. The First Law then read, A robot may not injure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm, unless this would violate the Zeroth Law. Fair enough, but how was Hari to carry out a job which not even Demerzel could do? Hari realized that he had been silent for too long, and that Cleon was waiting. What could he say?
“Um, who opposes me?”
“Several factions united behind Betan Lamurk.”
“What’s his objection?”