Foundation And Chaos (3 page)

/ hardly blame them, Sinter thought. An oversexed partner of few charms and little wit...

“It is a matter of some curiosity and perhaps importance, Highness. ”

“Meanwhile, you cause unrest in Sectors that are already unhappy. Sinter, it's a foolish
liberty-or rather, a foolish breach of liberty. I am supposed to guarantee my subjects'
freedom from being strapped to the horrid little hobbyhorses of my ministers and advisors,
or even my own. Well, my hobbyhorses are relatively comfortable mounts... but this, but
you, Sinter!”

For a moment, Sinter thought the Emperor was actually going to show a spine, some Imperial
fortitude, and forbid this activity, and he felt a momentary chill. It was because Sinter
was so good at finding attractive women for young Klayus, and replacing them when he or
they grew bored, that Klayus put up with so many of his peccadilloes.

But the Emperor's eyes grew heavy-lidded, and his energy and irritation appeared to
dissipate. Sinter hid his relief. Klayus the Young was, after all, relenting once more.

“Please don't be so obvious, my good man, ” Klayus said. “Slow down. What you need to know
will come to you in good time, don't you think? I'm sure you have all of our interests at
heart. Now, about this woman Tyreshia... ”

Farad Sinter listened to Klayus's request with apparent interest, but in fact had switched
on his recorder and would pay attention in more detail later. He could hardly believe his
fortune. The Emperor had not forbidden these actions! He could indeed redirect and slow
the less fruitful investigations; and he could also continue.

In fact, it was not humans, exceptional or otherwise, that he was after. Sinter sought
evidence for the most extraordinary and long-lived conspiracy in human history...

A conspiracy he had traced back to the time of Cleon I, and probably long before that.

A myth, a legend, a real entity, coming and going like a wraith in Trantor's history. The
Mycogenians had called him Danee. He was one of the mysterious Eternals, and Sinter was
determined to find out more, however he might risk his reputation.

Talk of the Eternals was regarded with as little respect- less, actually-as talk of
ghosts. Many on Trantor, an ancient world filled to overflowing with extinct lives,
believed in ghosts. Only a select few paid attention to stories of the Eternals.

The Emperor talked on about the woman he was interested in, and Sinter appeared to listen
attentively, but his thoughts were far away... Years away.

Sinter imagined himself being credited with saving the Empire. He savored energizing
visions of sitting on an Imperial throne, or even better, of replacing Linge Chen on the
Commission of Public Safety.

“Farad!” The Emperor's voice was sharp.

Sinter's recorder instantly fed him the last five seconds of conversation.

“Yes, your Highness. Tyreshia is indeed a beautiful woman, reputedly very high-spirited,
and ambitious. ”

“Ambitious women like me, don't they, Farad?” The boy's tone softened. Klayus's mother had
been ambitious, and successful, until she had fallen into Linge Chen's bad graces. She had
tried to work her wiles on the Chief Commissioner in the presence of one of his wives.
Chen was extremely loyal to his wives.

Strange that a weak boy like Klayus would enjoy strong women; invariably they grew bored
with him. After a time, not

even the most ambitious could hide their boredom. Once they learned who was really in
power, ultimately...

Neither Sinter nor Linge Chen cared much for sex. Power was so much more rewarding.

The greatest engineering feat in the history of Trantor had failed ten years before, and
the echoes of that failure still plagued the important and crowded and troublesome Dahl
Sector. Four million Dahlite engineers and heatsink workers, supplemented by an additional
ten million laborers and even a smuggled force of the banned tiktoks, had worked for
twenty years to drive the deepest heatsink yet attempted-over two hundred kilometers-into
the crust of Trantor. The difference in temperature at the proposed depth and the surface
would have generated sufficient energy to power one-fifth of Trantor's needs for the next
fifty years...

But while ambitions were high, ability was not. The engineers had shown themselves to be
less than inspired, the project management had been plagued by corruption and scandal at
all levels, the Dahlite workers had revolted and for two years the project had been
delayed. Finally, when completed, it had simply... failed.

The collapse of the shaft and its associated sodium and water towers had killed a hundred
thousand Dahlites, seven thousand of them civilians living immediately above the shaft,
beneath the oldest of Dahl's domes. The closest subsidiary sinks had also been threatened,
and only by heroic intervention had further disaster been avoided-personal courage
stepping in where leadership and design skill had collapsed miserably.

Ever since, Dahl had been under a political cloud, a scapegoat Sector on a world that was
still capable of placing some

trust in its leaders. In truth, Linge Chen had investigated and prosecuted all the corrupt
officials and incompetent designers and conniving contractors. He had seen to it that tens
of thousands were tried and sent to the Rikerian Prison, or put to hard labor in the worst
depths of the heatsinks themselves.

But the economic effects had not been mitigated. Dahl could no longer meet its quota of
Imperially mandated power; other Sectors tried to take up the slack, and what favor Dahl
had ever had in the Palace declined to a wretched minimum. Near starvation had followed.

It was in this world that Klia Asgar had been born and raised, in the miserable shanty
quarters once reserved for workers. Her father had lost his job a year before her birth,
and spent the years of her childhood alternately dreaming of a return to prosperity... and
drinking himself silly with yeasty, foul-smelling Dahlite liquor. Her mother had died when
Klia was four; she had raised herself from that time on, and did remarkably well,
considering that so many cards had been stacked against her from before her birth.

Klia was of moderate height for a Dahlite female, slender and wiry, with thin strong
fingers on long hands. Her hair was short and black, and she possessed the family trait of
finely furred cheeks that gave her a somewhat softer aspect than her hard, chiseled
features would have otherwise conveyed.

She was quick to learn, quick in motion, and, surprisingly, she was also quick to smile
and quick to express sentiment. In her private moments she dreamed of vague and indefinite
improvements that might be possible in another world, another life, but they were just
dreams. All too often, she dreamed of a strong alliance with some resourceful and
handsome, bushy-mustached male, no more than five years her senior...

No such male entered her life. She was no great beauty, and the esteem and affection of
others was the one area where she refused to exercise her surprising abilities to charm
and persuade. If the male entered without prodding, well and good; but

she would not apply any major push to get him. She believed she naturally deserved better.

In another age, another time, long forgotten, Klia Asgar would have been called a
romantic, an idealist. In Dahl, in the year G. E. 12067, she was simply regarded as a
stubborn but naive girl of sixteen. Her father told her so whenever he was sober enough to
express himself at all.

Klia was thankful for small favors. Her father was neither brutal nor demanding. When
sober, he took care of his own few needs, leaving her free to do whatever she wanted: work
in the black market, smuggle from the outside luxuries to the less savory (and Imperially
oppressed) elements of the unemployed... Whatever she could do to survive. They rarely
even saw each other, and they had not lived in the same apartment for two years. Not since
that argument and the thing she had done in anger.

This day, she stood on a promenade overlooking the Distributor's Market, the most ragged
and disreputable retail district in Dahl, waiting for an unnamed man in dusty green to
pick up a package. The pieced squares of sky in the overarching dome showed great
flickering gaps that cast shadows on the crowds, now thinning as the evening and home
hours approached for the first shift of workers. Men and women shopped for their night's
sparse supper, bartering more often than using credits. Dahl was developing its own
economy; in fifty years, Klia thought, it might go independent, pushing out a weak and
vacillating Palace-mandated economy for something more fundamental and native. But that,
too, was little more than a dream...

Imperial trade monitors stood on the outskirts of the market, men and women with eyes and
cameras constantly watching, recording the crowds. Where money and political oversight
were concerned, creativity seemed to flourish; in every other endeavor, Klia thought,
Tranter was intellectually bankrupt.

She saw a man who met the description standing between two of the omnipresent trade
monitors. He wore a baggy, dusty

green suit and cloak. The monitors seemed prepared to ignore him, much as they ignored
Klia when she ventured into the market. She watched this with narrowed eyes, wondering
whether he had bribed them, or whether he had other, less common ways of not attracting
attention.

If he could do what she did, he would be a person to reckon with, perhaps partner with, in
business-unless his skills were stronger than her own. In which case, she would have to
avoid him like a fatal rash. But Klia had never met anyone stronger than she.

She lifted one arm, as she had been instructed. He quickly spotted her and walked with a
light, almost mincing step in her direction.

They met on the stairs leading from the promenade to the market and the taxi square.
Close-up, the man in dusty green had a plain and unremarkable face not improved much by a
thin and unconvincing mustache. Klia was conventional enough to enjoy a good mustache on a
man; this one did not impress her in the least.

Then he looked squarely at her and smiled. The corners of the mustache lifted and his
teeth shone brilliant white behind smooth, babylike lips.

“You have what I need, ” he told her. No question; declaration.

“I hope so. It's what I was told to bring. ”

“That, ” the man said, pointing to her small parcel, “is of no consequence. ” Still, he
extended a handful of credits and took the package with a thin smile. “You are what I
seek. Let's find a quiet place to talk. ”

Klia drew back cautiously. She did not doubt she could take care of herself; she always
had. Still, she never walked into any situation unprepared. “How quiet?” she asked.

“Just where we don't have to listen to the street noises, ” the man said. He lifted
stiff-fingered hands.

There were few such places around the market. They walked several streets away and found a
small coco-ice stall.

The man bought her a red coco-ice, which she accepted despite her distaste for the popular
Dahlite delicacy. He bought himself a small dark stimulk, which he licked with quiet
dignity as they sat at a tiny triangular table.

A square of sky above them darkened so severely that she could barely see his face. His
lips seemed to glow around the stimulk.

“I'm looking for young men and women eager to see other parts of Trantor, ” the man said.

Klia grimaced. “I've heard enough recruiters to last me a lifetime. ” She started to rise.

The man reached out and took her arm. Without words, she tried to compel him to move it.
“For your own good, ” he said, and did not react. She tried harder.

“Let me go, ” she ordered.

As if stung, the hand withdrew. It seemed to take a few seconds for the man to compose
himself. “Of course. But this is a good time to listen. ”

Klia watched the man curiously. She hadn't compelled him; he had obeyed more like a
servant reacting to his mistress than to a young girl he was trying to collar in a public
place. Klia focused with more intensity on the man. His surface was not particularly
attractive, but she encountered unexpected reserves, a central stillness, a peculiar
metallic sweetness. His emotions did not taste the same as others.

“I only listen to people who are interesting, ” Klia said. She was starting to sound a
little too arrogant. She fancied herself a more dignified sort of woman, not a street
braggart.

“I see, ” the man said. He finished his stimulk and deftly tossed the stick into a
receptacle. The proprietress walked to the receptacle, removed five sticks-a meager show
for the day- and took them back to the rear of the stall to clean. “Well, is survival
interesting?”

She nodded. “As a general topic. ”

“Then listen closely. ” He leaned forward earnestly. “I know what you are and what you can
do. ”

“What am I?” Klia asked.

He looked skyward, just as the square immediately above lickered back to full brightness.
His skin was unusually sallow, as if he wore makeup against some skin condition, though
she could not detect the pockmarks of brain fever. Klia's cheeks themselves showed deep
pocks, beneath the fur. “You had a bout of fever as a child, didn't you?” he asked.

“Most do. It's typical on Trantor. ”

“Not just here, young friend. On all human worlds. Brain fever is the ever-present
companion of intelligent youth, too common to be noticed, too innocuous to be cured. But
in you, it was no easy childhood illness. It nearly killed you. ”

Klia's mother had nursed her through the rough time, then had died just months later, in
an accident in the sinks. She hardly remembered her mother, but her father had told her
all about the illness. “What about it?”

His eyes were pale, and she suddenly realized they were not looking directly at her face,
but at some irrelevant point to the right of her forehead. “I can't see well now. I make
my way around by feeling the people, where they are, how they move and sound; in a place
without people I am in some distress. I prefer crowds for that reason. You... do not.
Crowds irritate you. Trantor is a crowded world. It confines you. ”