Hari Seldon sat at Yugo Amaryl's bedside-patiently, sadly. Yugo was utterly¹ spent. He was beyond medical help, even if he would have consented to avail himself of such help, which he refused.
    He was only fifty-five. Seldon was himself sixty-six and yet he was in fine shape, except for the twinge of sciatica-or whatever it was-that occasionally lamed² him.
    Amaryl's eyes opened. "You're still here, Hari?"
    Seldon nodded. "I won't leave you."
    "Till I die?"
    "Yes." Then, in an outburst of grief, he said, "Why have you done this, Yugo? If you had lived sensibly, you could have had twenty to thirty more years of life."
    Amaryl smiled faintly. "Live sensibly? You mean, take time off? Go to resorts? Amuse myself with trifles?"
    "Yes. Yes."
    "And I would either have longed to return to my work or I would have learned to like wasting my time and, in the additional twenty to thirty years you speak of, I would have accomplished³ no more. Look at you."
    "What about me?"
    "For ten years you were First Minister under Cleon. How much science did you do then?"
    "I spent about a quarter of my time on psychohistory," said Seldon gently.
    "You exaggerate. If it hadn't been for me, plugging away, psychohistorical advance would have screeched⁴ to a halt."
    Seldon nodded. "You are right, Yugo. For that I am grateful."
    "And before and since, when you spend at least half your time on administrative⁵ duties, who does--did-the real work? Eh?"
    "You, Yugo."
    "Absolutely." His eyes closed again.
    Seldon said, "Yet you always wanted to take over those administrative duties if you survived me."
    "No! I wanted to head the Project to keep it moving in the direction it had to move in, but I would have delegated all administration."

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