Foundation Fear by Gregory Benford

grasped Hari's hand and he
     realized from her squeeze that this had somehow turned into something important. He could
     not see why, but there was no time to size up the situation.
    Lamurk said, “Then this psychohistory thing I hear about, it's not useful?”
    “Not to you, sir,” Hari said.
    Lamurk's eyes narrowed, but his affable grin remained. “Too tough for us?”
    “Not ready for use, I'm afraid. I don't have the logic of it yet.”
    Lamurk chuckled, beamed at the still growing crowd, and said jovially, “A logical thinker!
     -- what a refreshing contrast with the real world.”
    General laughter. Hari tried to think of something to say. He saw one of his bodyguards
     block a man nearby, inspect something in the man's suit, then let him go.
    “Y'see, Academician, on the High Council we can't be spending our time on theory.” Lamurk
     paused for effect, as though making a campaign speech. “We've got to be just ... and
     sometimes, folks, we've got to be hard.”
    Hari raised an eyebrow. “My father used to say, 'It's a hard man who's only just, and a
     sad man who's only wise.'”
    A few ooohs in the crowd told him he had scored a hit. Lamurk's eyes confirmed the cut.
    “Well, we do try on the Council, we do. No doubt we can use some help from the learned
     quarters of the Empire. I'll have to read one of your books, Academician.” He shot a look
     with raised eyebrows at the crowd. “Assuming I can.”
    Hari shrugged. “I will send you my monograph on transfinite geometric calculus.”
    “Impressive title,” Lamurk said, eyes playing to the audience.
    “It's the same with books as with men -- a very small number play great parts; the rest
     are lost in the multitude.”
    “And which would you rather be?” Lamurk shot back.
    “Among the multitudes. At least I wouldn't have to attend so many receptions.”
    This got a big laugh, surprising Hari. Lamurk said, “Well, I'm sure the Emperor won't tire
     you out with too much socializing. But you'll get invited everywhere. You've got a sharp
     tongue on you, Academician.”
    “My father had another saying, too. 'Wit is like a razor. Razors are more likely to cut
     those who use them when they've lost their edge.'”
    His father had also told him that in a public trade of barbs, the one who lost temper
     first lost the exchange. He had not recalled that until this instant. Hari remembered too
     late that Lamurk was known for his humor in High Council meetings. Probably scripted for
     him; certainly he displayed none here.
    A quick tightening of the cheeks spread into a bloodless white line of lip. Lamurk's
     features twisted into an expression of distaste -- not a long way to go, for most of them
     -- and he gave an ugly, wet laugh.
    The crowd stood absolutely silent. Something had happened.
    “Ah, there are other people who would like to meet the Academician,” Hari's lieutenant
     said, sliding neatly into the growing, awkward silence.
    Hari shook hands, murmured meaningless pleasantries, and let himself be whisked away.
    He had another stim to calm himself. Somehow he was more jittery afterward than during the
     social collision. Lamurk had given Hari a cold, angry stare as they parted.
    “I'll keep track of him,” Dors said. “You just enjoy your fame.”
    To Hari this was a flat impossibility, but he tried. Seldom did one see such a variety of
     people, and he calmed himself by lapsing into a habitual role: polite observer. It was not
     as though the usual social chitchat demanded much concentration. A warm smile would do
     most of the work for him here.
    The party was a microcosm of Trantorian society. In spare moments, Hari watched the social
     orders interact.
    Cleon's grandfather had reinstated many Ruellian traditions, and one of those customs
     required that members of all five classes be present at any grand Imperial function. Cleon
     seemed especially keen on this practice, as if it would raise his popularity