61.
The Emperor of all the Galaxy felt weary-physically weary. His lips ached from the gracious smile he had had to place on his face at careful intervals. His neck was stiff from having inclined his head this way and that in a feigned show of interest. His ears pained from having to listen. His whole body throbbed from having to rise and to sit and to turn and to hold out his hand and to nod. It was merely a state function where one had to meet Mayors and Viceroys and Ministers and their wives or husbands from here and there in Trantor and (worse) from here and there in the Galaxy. There were nearly a thousand present, all in costumes that varied from the ornate to the downright outlandish, and he had had to listen to a babble of different accents made the worse by an effort to speak the Emperor's Galactic as spoken at the Galactic University. Worst of all, the Emperor had had to remember to avoid making commitments of substance, while freely applying the lotion of words without substance. All had been recorded, sight and sound-very discreetly-and Eto Demerzel would go over it to see if Cleon, First of that Name, had behaved himself. That, of course, was only the way that the Emperor put it to himself. Demerzel would surely say that he was merely collecting data on any unintentional self-revelation on the pan of the guests. And perhaps he was. Fortunate Demerzel!
The Emperor could not leave the Palace and its extensive grounds, while Demerzel could range the Galaxy if he wished. The Emperor was always on display, always accessible, always forced to deal with visitors, from the important to the merely intrusive. Demerzel remained anonymous and never allowed himself to be seen inside the Palace grounds. He remained merely a fearsome name and an invisible (and therefore the more frightening) presence. The Emperor was the Inside Man with all the trappings and emoluments of power. Demerzel was the Outside Man, with nothing evident, not even a formal title, but with his fingers and mind probing everywhere and asking for no reward for his tireless labors but one-the reality of power.
It amused the Emperor-in a macabre sort of way-to consider that, at any moment, without warning, with a manufactured excuse or with none at all, he could have Demerzel arrested, imprisoned, exiled, tortured, or executed. After all, in these annoying centuries of constant unrest, the Emperor might have difficulty in exerting his will over the various planets of the Empire, even over the various sectors of Trantor-with their rabble of local executives and legislatures that he was forced to deal with in a maze of interlocking decrees, protocols, commitments, treaties, and general interstellar legalities-but at least his powers remained absolute over the Palace and its grounds. And yet Cleon knew that his dreams of power were useless. Demerzel had served his father and Cleon could not remember a time when he did not turn to Demerzel for everything. It was Demerzel who knew it all, devised it all, did it all. More than that, it was on Demerzel that anything that went wrong could be blamed. The Emperor himself remained above criticism and had nothing to fear-except, of course, palace coups and assassination by his nearest and dearest. It was to prevent this, above all, that he depended upon Demerzel. Emperor Cleon felt a tiny shudder at the thought of trying to do without Demerzel. There had been Emperors who had ruled personally, who had had a series of Chiefs of Staff of no talent, who had had incompetents serving in the post and had kept them-and somehow they had gotten along for a time and after a fashion.
But Cleon could not. He needed Demerzel. In fact, now that the thought of assassination had come to him-and, in view of the modern history of the Empire, it was inevitable that it had come to him-he could see that getting rid of Demerzel was quite impossible. It couldn't be done. No matter how cleverly he, Cleon, would attempt to arrange it, Demerzel (he was sure) would anticipate the move somehow, would know it was on its way, and would arrange, with far superior cleverness, a palace coup. Cleon would be dead before Demerzel could possibly be taken away in chains and there would simply be another Emperor that Demerzel would serve-and dominate.
Or would Demerzel tire of the game and make himself Emperor? Never! The habit of anonymity was too strong in him. If Demerzel exposed himself to the world, then his powers, his wisdom, his luck (whatever it was) would surely desert him. Cleon was convinced of that. He felt it to be beyond dispute.
So while he behaved himself, Cleon was safe. With no ambitions of his own, Demerzel would serve him faithfully.
And now here was Demerzel, dressed so severely and simply that it made Cleon uneasily conscious of the useless ornamentation of his robes of state, now thankfully removed with the aid of two valets. Naturally, it would not be until he was alone and in dishabille that Demerzel would glide into view. "Demerzel," said the Emperor of all the Galaxy, "I am tired!"
"State functions are tiring, Sire," murmured Demerzel.
"Then must I have them every evening?"
"Not every evening, but they are essential. It gratifies others to see you and to be taken note of by you. It helps keep the Empire running smoothly."
"The Empire used to be kept running smoothly by power," said the Emperor somberly. "Now it must be kept running by a smile, a wave of the hand, a murmured word, and a medal or a plaque."
"If all that keeps the peace, Sire, there is much to be said for it. And your reign proceeds well."
"You know why-because I have you at my side. My only real gift is that I am aware of your importance." He looked at Demerzel slyly. "My son need not be my heir. He is not a talented boy. What if I make you my heir?"
Demerzel said freezingly, "Sire, that is unthinkable. I would not usurp the throne. I would not steal it from your rightful heir. Besides, if I have displeased you, punish me justly. Surely, nothing I have done or could possibly do deserves the punishment of being made Emperor."