ment toward the more urban planets
and the more densely populated centers. A trend downward in
employment--nonworking population increasing by about .0001 per cent
annually. Not that they were building better robots; they were just
building them faster than they wore out. They all told the same story--a
stable economy, a static population, a peaceful and undisturbed Empire;
eight centuries, five at least, of historyless tranquility. Well, that
was what everybody wanted, wasn't it?

He flipped through the rest of the charts, and began getting summarized
Ministry reports. Economics had denied a request from the Mining Cartel
to authorize operations on a couple of uninhabited planets; danger of
local market gluts and overstimulation of manufacturing. Permission
granted to Robotics Cartel to---- Request from planetary government of
Durendal for increase of cereal export quotas under consideration--they
wouldn't want to turn that down while King Ranulf was here. Impulsively,
he punched out a combination on the communication screen and got Count
Duklass, Minister of Economics.

Count Duklass had thinning red hair and a plump, agreeable, extrovert's
face. He smiled and waited to be addressed.

"Sorry to bother Your Lordship," Paul greeted him. "What's the story on
this export quota request from Durendal? We have their king here, now.
Think he's come to lobby for it?"

Count Duklass chuckled. "He's not doing anything about it, himself. Have
you met him yet, sir?"

"Not yet. He's to be presented this evening."

"Well, when you see him--I think the masculine pronoun is
permissible--you'll see what I mean, sir. It's this Lord Koreff, the
Marshal. He came here on business, and had to bring the king along, for
fear somebody else would grab him while he was gone. The whole object of
Durendalian politics, as I understand, is to get possession of the
person of the king. Koreff was on my screen for half an hour; I just got
rid of him. Planet's pretty heavily agricultural, they had a couple of
very good crop years in a row, and now they have grain running out their
ears, and they want to export it and cash in."

"Well?"

"Can't let them do it, Your Majesty. They're not suffering any hardship;
they're just not making as much money as they think they ought to. If
they start dumping their surplus into interstellar trade, they'll cause
all kinds of dislocations on other agricultural planets. At least,
that's what our computers all