They were lined up beautifully, feet spread apart, hands behind their hacks¹, every one in a natty² green uniform, loosely fitted and with wide pockets. There was very little gender³ differential and one could only guess that some of the shorter ones were women. The hoods⁴ covered whatever hair they had, but then, gardeners were supposed to clip their hair quite short-either sex-and there could be no facial hair.
    Why that should be, one couldn't say. The word "tradition" covered it all, as it covered so many things, some useful, some foolish.
    Facing them was Mandell Gruber, flanked on either side by an assistant. Gruber was trembling, his wide-opened eyes glazed⁵.
    Hari Seldon's lips tightened⁶. If Gruber could but manage to say, "The Emperor's gardeners greet you all," that would be enough. Seldon himself would then take over.
    His eyes swept over the new contingent⁷ and he located Raych.
    His heart jumped a bit. It was the mustacheless Raych in the front row, standing⁸ more rigid⁹ than the rest, staring straight ahead. His eyes did not move to meet Seldon's; he showed no sign of recognition, however subtle.
    Good, thought Seldon. He's not supposed to. He's giving nothing away.
    Gruber muttered a weak welcome and Seldon jumped in.
    He advanced with an easy stride, putting himself immediately before Gruber, and said, "Thank you, Gardener First-Class. Men and women, gardeners of the Emperor, you are to undertake an important task. You will be responsible for the beauty and health of the only open land on our great world of Trantor, capital of the Galactic Empire. You will see to it that if we don't have the endless

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