The weather was holding up over the undomed area of the Imperial Palace grounds-warm and sunny.
    It didn't often happen. Hari remembered Dors telling him once how this particular area with its cold winters and frequent rains had been chosen as the site.
    "It wasn't actually chosen, " she said. "It was a family estate of the Morovian family in the early days of the Kingdom of Trantor. When the Kingdom became an Empire, there were numerous sites where the Emperor could live-summer resorts, winter places, sports lodges, beach properties. And, as the planet was slowly domed, one reigning Emperor, living here, liked it so much that it remained undomed. And, just because it was the only area left undomed, it became special-a place apart-and that uniqueness appealed to the next Emperor .     and the next .     and the next.     . And so, a tradition was born."
    And as always, when hearing something like that, Seldon would think: And how would psychohistory handle this? Would it predict that one area would remain undomed but be absolutely unable to say which area? Could it go even so far? Could it predict that several areas would remain undomed or none-and be wrong? How could it account for the personal likes and dislikes of an Emperor who happened to be on the throne at the crucial time and who made a decision in a moment of whimsy and nothing more. That way lay chaos-and madness.
    Cleon I was clearly enjoying the good weather.
    "I'm getting old, Seldon," he said. "I don't have to tell you that. We're the same age, you and I. Surely it's a sign of age when I don't have the impulse to play tennis or go fishing, even though they've newly restocked the lake, but am willing to walk gently over the pathways."
    He was eating nuts as he spoke, which resembled what on Seldon's native world of Helicon would have been called pumpkin seeds, but which were larger and a little less delicate in taste. Cleon cracked them gently between his teeth, peeled the thin shells and popped the kernels into his mouth.
    Seldon did not like the taste particularly but, of course, when he was offered some by the Emperor, he accepted them and ate a few.
    The Emperor had a number of shells in his hand and looked vaguely around for a receptacle of some sort that he could use for disposal. He saw none, but he did notice a gardener standing not far away, his body at attention (as it should be in the Imperial presence) and his head respectfully bowed.
    Cleon said, "Gardener!"
    The gardener approached quickly. "Sire!"
    "Get rid of these for me," he said, tapping the shells into the gardener's hand.
    "Yes, Sire."
    Seldon said, "I have a few, too, Gruber."
    Gruber held out his hand and said, almost shyly, "Yes, First Minister."
    He hurried away and the Emperor looked after him curiously. "Do you know the fellow, Seldon?"
    "Yes, indeed, Sire. An old friend."
    "The gardener is an old friend? What is he? A mathematical colleague fallen on hard times?"
    "No, Sire. Perhaps you remember the story. It was the time when"-he cleared his throat, searching for the most tactful way to recall the incident-"the sergeant threatened my life shortly after I was appointed to my present post through your kindness."
    "The assassination attempt." Cleon looked up to heaven, as though seeking patience. "I don't know why everyone is so afraid of that word."
    "Perhaps," said Seldon smoothly, slightly despising himself for the ease with which he had become able to flatter, "the rest of us are more perturbed at the possibility of something untoward happening to our Emperor than you yoursel............