Gleb Andorin gazed at Namarti through half-closed eyes. He never liked the man, but there were times when he liked him less than he usually did and this was one of those times. Why should Andorin, a Wyan of royal birth (that's what it amounted to, after all) have to work with this parvenu, this near-psychotic paranoid?
    Andorin knew why and he had to endure, even when Namarti was once again in the process of telling the story of how he had built up the movement during a period of ten years to its present pitch of perfection. Did he tell this to everyone, over and over? Or was it just Andorin who was his chosen vessel?
    Namarti's face seemed to shine with malignant glee as he said, in an odd singsong, as though it were a matter of rote, "Year after year. I worked on those lines, even through hopelessness and uselessness, building an organization, chipping away at confidence in the government, creating and intensifying dissatisfaction. When there was the banking crisis and the week of the moratorium, I-"
    He paused suddenly. "I've told you this many times and you're sick of hearing it, aren't you?"
    Andorin's lips twitched in a brief dry smile. Namarti was not such an idiot as not to know what a bore he was; he just couldn't help it. Andorin said, "You've told me this many times." He allowed the remainder of the question to hang in the air, unanswered. The answer, after all, was an obvious affirmative. There was no need to face him with it.
    A slight flush crossed Namarti's sallow face. He said, "But it could have gone on forever-the building, the chipping, without ever coming to a point-if I hadn't had the proper tool in my hands. And without any effort on my part, the tool came to me."
    "The gods brought you Planchet," said Andorin neutrally.
    "You're right. There will be a group of gardeners entering the Imperial Palace grounds soon." He paused and seemed to savor the thought.
    "Men and women. Enough to serve as a mask for the handful of our operatives who will accompany them. Among them will be you-and Planchet. And what will make you and Planchet unusual is that you will be carrying blasters."
    "Surely," said Andorin with deliberate malice behind a polite expression, "we'll be stopped at the gates and held for questioning. Bringing an illicit blaster onto the Palace grounds-"
    "You won't be stopped," said Namarti, missing the malice. "You won't be searched. That's been arranged. You will all be greeted as a matter of course by some Palace official. I don't know who would ordinarily be in charge of that task-the Third Assistant Chamberlain in Charge of Grass and Leaves, for all I know-but in this case, it will be Seldon himself. The great mathematician will hurry out to greet the new gardeners and welcome them to the grounds."
    "You're sure of that, I suppose."
    "Of course, I am. It's all been arranged. He will learn, at more or less the last minute, that his foster son is among those listed as new gardeners and it will be impossible for him to refrain from coming out to see him. And when Seldon appears, Planchet will raise his blaster. Our people will raise the cry of `Treason!' In the confusion and hurly-burly, Planchet will kill Seldon and then you will kill Planchet. You will then drop your blaster and leave. There are those who wi............