Prelude to Foundation - Isaac Asimov [36]
"It may perhaps be possible, Sire, to snatch use out of adversity. At the University, he may decide to work on his psychohistory."
"Even though he insists it's impractical?"
"He may be wrong and he may find out that he is wrong. And if he finds out that he is wrong, we would find some way of getting him out of the University. It is even possible he would join us voluntarily under those circumstances."
The Emperor remained lost in thought for a while, then said, "And what if someone else plucks him out before we do?"
"Who would want to do that, Sire?" asked Demerzel softy.
"The Mayor of Wye, for one," said Cleon, suddenly shouting. "He dreams still of taking over the Empire."
"Old age has drawn his fangs, Sire."
"Don't you believe it, Demerzel."
"And we have no reason for supposing he has any interest in Seldon or even knows of him, Sire."
"Come on, Demerzel. If we heard of the paper, so could Wye. If we see the possible importance of Seldon, so could Wye."
"If that should happen," said Demerzel, "or even if there should be a reasonable chance of its happening, then we would be justified in taking strong measures."
"How strong?"
Demerzel said cautiously, "It might be argued that rather than have Seldon in Wye's hands, we might prefer to have him in no one's hands. To have him cease to exist, Sire."
"To have him killed, you mean," said Cleon.
"If you wish to put it that way, Sire," said Demerzel.
20.
Hari Seldon sat back in his chair in the alcove that had been assigned to him through Dors Venabili's intervention. He was dissatisfied.
As a matter of fact, although that was the expression he used in his mind, he knew that it was a gross underestimation of his feelings. He was not simply dissatisfied, he was furious-all the more so because he wasn't sure what it was he was furious about. Was it about the histories? The writers and compilers of histories? The worlds and people that made the histories?
Whatever the target of his fury, it didn't really matter. What counted was that his notes were useless, his new knowledge was useless, everything was useless.
He had been at the University now for almost six weeks. He had managed to find a computer outlet at the very start and with it had begun work-without instruction, but using the instincts he had developed over a number of years of mathematical labors. It had been slow and halting, but there was a certain pleasure in gradually determining the routes by which he could get his questions answered.
Then came the week of instruction with Dors, which had taught him several dozen shortcuts and had brought with it two sets of embarrassments. The first set included the sidelong glances he received from the undergraduates, who seemed contemptuously aware of his greater age and who were disposed to frown a bit at Dors's constant use of the honorific "Doctor" in addressing him.
"I don't want them to think," she said, "that you're some backward perpetual student taking remedial history."
"But surely you've established the point. Surely, a mere 'Seldon' is sufficient now."
"No," Dors said and smiled suddenly. "Besides, I like to call you 'Dr. Seldon.' I like the way you look uncomfortable each time."
"You have a peculiar sense of sadistic humor."
"Would you deprive me?"
For some reason, that made him laugh. Surely, the natural reaction would have been to deny sadism. Somehow he found it pleasant that she accepted the ball of conversation and fired it back. The thought led to a natural question. "Do you play tennis here at the University?"
"We have courts, but I don't play."
"Good. I'll teach you. And when I do, I'll call you Professor Venabili. "
"That's what you call me in class anyway."
"You'll be surprised how ridiculous it will sound on the tennis court. "
"I may get to like it."
"In that case, I will try to find what else you might get to like."
"I see you have a peculiar sense of salacious humor."
She