The Emperor of all the Galaxy¹ felt weary--physically weary. His lips ached from the gracious smile he had had to place on his face at careful intervals². His neck was stiff from having inclined his head this way and that in a feigned³ show of interest. His ears pained from having to listen. His whole body throbbed⁴ 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 varied⁵ from the ornate to the downright outlandish, and he had had to listen to a babble⁶ of different accents made the worse by an effort to speak the Emperors 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 lotion⁷ 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 intrusive⁸. Demerzel remained anonymous⁹ 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

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