Asimov’s Future History

Volume XVII

All stories copyright Isaac Asimov and the Estate of Isaac Asimov, unless otherwise noted below.

All other stories copyright by the respective authors listed below.

Foundation’s Triumph-By David Brin. May, 1999

Epilogue-First published in Forward the Foundation, April, 1993

The Originist-By Orson Scott Card. First published in Foundation’s Friends: Stories in Honor of Isaac Asimov, September, 1989

The Encyclopedists - First published in Astounding Science-Fiction, May, 1942

The Mayors - First published as Bridle and Saddle in Astounding Science-Fiction, June, 1942

The Traders - First published as The Wedge in Astounding Science Fiction, October, 1944

The Merchant Princes -First published as The Big and the Little in Astounding Science Fiction, August, 1944

The General - First published as Dead Hand in Astounding Science Fiction, April 1945

Trantor Falls - By Harry Turtledove. First published in Foundation’s Friends: Stories in Honor of Isaac Asimov, September, 1989

The Mule - First published as a serial in Astounding Science Fiction, November, December, 1945

This  ePub edition v1.0 by Dead^Man March, 2011

Layout and design by Dead^Man

Cover art “Survivor Sweep” by Strangelet of DeviantArt

Future History inlay “Summer days” by Talros of DeviantArt

Cover design by Dead^Man

Chronology of events in Isaac Asimov’s positronic robot and Foundation stories, compiled by Johnny Pez.

Table of Contents

Copyright

12068 GE Foundation’s Triumph

Part 3

Secret Crimes

Part 4

A Magnificent Design

Part 5

A Recurring Rendezvous

Part 6

Full Circle

12069 GE Epilogue

12067 GE The Originist

49 FE The Encyclopedists

79 FE The Mayors

134 FE The Traders

154 FE The Merchant Princes

195 FE The General

270 FE Trantor Falls

310 FE The Mule

Sources of Dates

Foundation’s Triumph

12068 G. E.

Part 3

Secret Crimes

EVERY YEAR IN THE GALAXY, MORE THAN 2,000 SUNS ENTER LATE-PHASE IN THEIR FUSION-BURNING CYCLES, EXPANDING THEIR SURFACES AND BECOMING MUCH HOTTER THAN BEFORE. ANOTHER TWENTY STARS PER YEAR GO NOVA...

TAKING INTO ACCOUNT THE MILLIONS OF STARS THAT HAVE HABITABLE PLANETS, THIS MEANS THAT ON AVERAGE TWO HUMAN-SETTLED WORLDS BECOME UNTENABLE OR UNINHABITABLE EACH YEAR... THROUGHOUT THE EARLY DARK AGES, BEFORE THE GALACTIC EMPIRE, NUMEROUS TRAGIC NATURAL DISASTERS COST BILLIONS OF LIVES. ISOLATED WORLDS OFTEN HAD NOWHERE TO TURN FOR HELP WHEN A SUN WENT UNSTABLE, OR SOMETHING DISRUPTED A PLANETARY ECOSPHERE.

DURING THE IMPERIUM SUCH THREATS WERE HANDLED ON A ROUTINE BASIS BY THE GREY BUREAUCRACY, WHICH EFFICIENTLY SURVEYED STELLAR CONDITIONS, PREDICTED SOLAR CHANGES IN ADVANCE, AND MAINTAINED RESETTLEMENT FLEETS ON STANDBY TO DEAL WITH EMERGENCIES. SO DEDICATED WAS THIS EFFORT THAT REMNANTS STILL EXISTED LATE IN THE EMPIRE’S DECLINE, ARRIVING TO HELP EVACUATE TRANTOR WHEN THE CAPITAL PLANET WAS SACKED.

THEREAFTER, DURING THE INTERREGNUM, SUCH ASSISTANCE WAS UNAVAILABLE. SCATTERED ACCOUNTS TELL OF NUMEROUS SMALL WORLDS THAT WENT ABRUPTLY SILENT DURING THAT LONG, VIOLENT ERA, OWING TO NATURAL OR MAN-MADE CALAMITIES. OFTEN NO ONE BOTHERED TO GO LEARN WHAT HAPPENED TO THEIR POPULATIONS UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE...

EVEN AFTER THE RISE OF THE FOUNDATION, IT TOOK SOME TIME BEFORE A COMBINATION OF PSYCHOHISTORICAL FACTORS MADE POSSIBLE THE INVESTMENT OF SUBSTANTIAL RESOURCES TO BUILD AN INFRASTRUCTURE OF COMPASSION...

– ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA,

– 117TH EDITION, 1054 F. E.

1.

R. ZUN LURRIN had a question for his leader.

“Daneel, I’ve been reading ancient records, dating back to before humanity burst out from a small corner of the galaxy. I find that throughout history, most societies tried to protect their people against exposure to dangerous ideas. On every continent of Old Earth, in almost every era, priests and kings strove to keep out concepts that might disturb the population at large, fearing that alien notions could take root and cause sin or madness, or worse.

“And yet, the most brilliant culture of all, the one that invented us, seems to have rejected this entire way of looking at the world.”

Daneel Olivaw stood again at the highest balcony of Eos Base, atop a towering cliff, from which a bright galactic pinwheel could be seen, both overhead and reflected off the perfectly smooth surface of a frozen metal lake. The twin images were so exact that it could be hard to distinguish illusion from reality. As if it mattered.

“You are referring to the Transition Age,” he answered. “When people like Susan Calvin and Revere Wu created the first robots, starships, and many other wonders. It was an era of unprecedented ingenuity, Zun. And yes, they came up with a completely different way of viewing the issue of information-as-poison.

“Some called their approach the Maturity Principle. A belief that children can be brought up with just the right combination of trust and skepticism – a mix of tolerance and healthy suspicion – so that any new or foreign idea could then be evaluated on its own merits. The bad parts rejected. The good parts safely incorporated into ever-growing wisdom. Truth might then be won, not by dogma, but by remaining open to a wide universe of possibilities.”

“Fascinating, Daneel. If such a method ever proved valid, it would have staggering implications. There would be no inherent limit to the exploration or growth of human souls.”

Zun paused for a moment. “So tell me. Did the sages of that era seriously believe that vast numbers of individual human beings could reliably accomplish this trick?”

“They did, and even based their education methods on it. Indeed, the approach apparently worked for a while, by correcting each other’s mistakes in a give-and-take of cheerful debate. The period you refer to is said to have been marvelous. I regret having been assembled too late to meet Susan Calvin and other great ones of that era.”

“Alas, Daneel, no operational robot dates from that far back. You are among the oldest. Yet your fabrication came two hundred years after the Golden Age collapsed amid riots, terrorism, and despair.”

Daneel turned to look at Zun. Despite the hard vacuum and radioactivity of their surroundings, his understudy appeared much like a rugged young human, a member of the gentry class, outfitted for a camping trip on some bucolic imperial world.

“Even that description understates the situation, Zun. At the time I was created, Earthlings had already retreated from chaos into hideously cramped metal cities, cowering away from the light. And their Spacer cousins were hardly any more sane, falling into an unstoppable spiral of decadence and decay. It must have taken enormous traumas to bring about such a radical change in attitude from Susan Calvin’s era of expansive optimism.”

“Was there still some acceptance of the Maturity Principle, during the period when you worked with the human detective, Elijah Baley?”

Daneel indicated no with a tilt of his head.

“That belief had fallen into disrepute, except among a minority of nonconformists and philosophers. For the rest, uniformity and distrust became central themes. One strong similarity between Spacer and Earth cultures was their rejection of the openness that characterized the earlier Transition Age. Both societies returned to an older way of viewing ideas. With suspicion.

“They became convinced – as we are today – that human brains are vulnerable hosts, often subject to invasion by parasitic concepts... like the way a virus takes over a living cell.”

“How ironic. Both cultures were more alike than they realized.”

“Correct, Zun. Yet, because of that shared suspicion, they nearly annihilated each other. I recall how Giskard and I debated this problem, over and over. We concluded that the vastness of space might offer a solution, if only we could see humanity dispersed to the stars, instead of crammed elbow to elbow. Once they were scattered widely, there would be less risk of some spark igniting a conflagration and killing off the whole race.

“It took some drastic measures to get them moving again. But once the diaspora began in earnest, humans filled the galaxy more quickly than we ever expected! During that time of rapid expansion they created so many subcultures... and to our dismay soon these started rubbing against each other, fighting brutal little wars. You can see why the only solution, from a Zeroth Law perspective, was to create a new, uniform galactic culture that might bring an age of peace. Tolerance became much easier, once everyone was alike.”

“But sameness wasn’t the whole answer!” Zun commented. “You also had to invent new techniques for keeping a lid on things.”

Daneel agreed.

“We incorporated methods that Hari Seldon would later call damping systems, to keep galactic society from spinning into chaos. Some of the best ones were first suggested long ago by my friend Giskard. Their effectiveness lasted for two hundred human generations... though now they appear to be growing obsolete. Hence our current crisis.”

Zun accepted this with a nod. But he wanted to return to the topic of dangerous ideas.

“I wonder... might both Spacer and Earth cultures have had good reason to dread cultural contamination~After all, something caused Earth’s billions to frantically eliminate all of their diversity and cower together in tomblike cities. And why would intelligent Solarians choose their bizarre lifestyle – sitting with folded hands and asking robot servants to live their lives for them~Could both syndromes have been caused by... an infection?”

“Your supposition is excellent, Zun. Clearly an illness of some sort was at work. Even centuries later, after Giskard helped Elijah Baley persuade some Earthlings to emerge from their metal wombs and settle a few new planets, the malady only mutated and followed them.”

“I recall hearing about that. You and Giskard witnessed something peculiar on several colony worlds. Settlers obsessed unwholesomely on the homeworld. They were unable to let go of Earth as a sacred-spiritual icon.”

“An obstinate mental addiction, preventing them from moving on to new horizons. Giskard concluded that we had no choice, under the Zeroth Law. Only by rendering Earth uninhabitable could the intense fixation be broken and the bulk of its population be forced to emigrate. Only then would humanity’s true conquest of the galaxy commence with vigor.”

While Daneel lapsed into silence, Zun pondered the chilly vista alongside his mentor. He held back for a time, as if uncertain how to phrase the next question.

“And yet... so much of what we’ve discussed depends on one assumption.”

“What assumption, Zun?”

“That the great ones of the Transition Age – Susan Calvin and the others – were wrong, and not merely unlucky.”

For a second time, Daneel turned and regarded the junior Type-Alpha robot.

“Have we not seen, again and again, what catastrophic events occur when some so-called renaissance cuts away every assumption and postulate, casting millions adrift without core traditions to hold on to? Remember, Zun. Our foremost dedication is no longer to individual human lives, but to achieving the greatest good for humanity as a whole. Across millennia of service, I have witnessed ideas become lethal more often than I can relate.”

“Still, Daneel, have you considered whether this might not be totally intrinsic to human nature? Perhaps it is because of some factor or situation that arose late in the Transition Age! Maybe the Maturity Principle once had validity... until something new and disruptive interfered with its functioning. Something insidious that has lingered with us ever since.”

“Where does this speculation of yours come from?” Daneel responded, coolly.

“Call it a hunch. Perhaps I find it hard to believe Calvin and her peers would cling so hard to their dream, unless there was at least some factual support for the notion of human maturity! Were they really too obstinate to recognize the evidence before their eyes?”

Daneel shook his head, a habit of human-emulation that was by now second nature.

“The proper words are not ‘stupidity’ or ‘obstinacy.’ I attribute it to something more basic, called hope.

“You see, Zun, they were indeed very smart people. Perhaps the best minds to emerge from their tormented race. Many of them understood at a gut level what it would mean if they turned out to be wrong about human maturity. If the great mass of citizens could not be trained to handle all ideas sanely, then it implied one thing – that humanity is deeply and permanently flawed. Inherently limited. Cursed forever to be denied the greatness humans seem capable of.”

Zun stared at Daneel.

“I feel... uncomfortable... hearing our masters described this way. And yet, you make compelling sense, Daneel. I have tried empathizing with how Calvin and her compatriots must have felt, as their bright aspirations crashed all around them, toppling under waves of unreason. I can sense how frantic they would be to avoid the very same conclusion you just expressed. As believers in the unlimited potential of individuality, they would hate being mere factors in Hari Seldon’s equations, for instance... randomly caroming about like gas molecules, canceling each other’s idiosyncrasies in a vast calculation of momentum and inevitability.

“Tell me, Daneel. Could this realization have been the last straw? The underlying trauma that collapsed their era of bold confidence? Were all the other events just symptoms of this deeper trauma?”

The senior robot nodded.

“The problem grew so bad that some of us robots worried that humanity might lose the will to go on. Fortunately, by then they had invented us. And we learned ways to divert them down pathways that were both interesting and safe, for a very long time.”

“Until now, that is,” Zun pointed out. “With decay lurking on one side, and chaos on the other, your solution of a benign Galactic Empire doesn’t work anymore. Hence your support of the Seldon Plan?”

Daneel shook his head again, this time with a smile.

“Hence something much better! It is the reason that I summoned you here, Zun. To share exciting news. A breakthrough that I’ve been hoping to find all through the last twenty thousand years. And now, at last, it is feasible to begin. If things go as expected, a mere five hundred years will suffice to make it happen.”

“Make what happen, Daneel?”

A low, microwave murmur wafted upward from the Immortal Servant, rising toward the galaxy like a sigh... or a prayer. When Daneel Olivaw spoke again, his voice sounded different, almost contented.

“A way to help ease humanity around its mortal flaws, and achieve greater heights than they ever dreamed.”

2.

ODORS BECAME NOTICEABLE before thoughts were.

For many years, only unpleasant smells had enough strength to penetrate Hari’s age-dulled senses. But now, as if coming home from a long sulk, there returned a mix of aromas, both heady and familiar at the same time, stroking his sinus cavities with sensuous pleasure.

Jasmine. Ginger. Curry.

Salivary glands flowed, and his stomach reacted with an eagerness that felt positively eerie. His appetite had been almost nonexistent since Dors died. Now its sudden resurgence was the chief thing prodding Seldon awake.

His eyes opened cautiously, only to glimpse the self-sterilizing walls of a ship’s infirmary. He deliberately shut them again.

It must have been a dream. Those wonderful smells.

I remember overhearing... somebody saying I had another stroke.

Hari yearned for a return to unconscious oblivion, rather than discover that another portion of his brain had died. He did not want to face the aftermath – another harsh setback on the long slide toward personal extinction.

And yet... those delicious smells still floated through his nostrils.

Is this a symptom? Like the “phantom limb” that amputees sometimes feel, after losing a part of themselves forever?

Hari felt no pain. In fact, his body throbbed with a desire to move. But the sense of well-being might be an illusion. When he actually tried to set himself in motion, the real truth might hammer down. Total paralysis perhaps? The doctors on Trantor had warned it could happen at any moment, shortly before the end.

Well, here goes.

Hari ordered his left hand to move toward his face. It responded smoothly, rising as he opened his eyes a second time.

It was a bigger infirmary than the little unit aboard the Pride of Rhodia. They must have taken him onto the raider ship, then. The vessel from Ktlina.

Well, at least his memory was working. Hari’s fingers rubbed his face... and retracted in abrupt shock.

What in space?

He felt his cheek again. The flesh felt noticeably firmer, a bit less flaccid and jowly than he recalled.

This time his body acted on its own, out of an unwilled sense of volition. One hand grabbed the white coverlet and threw it back. The other one slid underneath his body, planted itself against the bed, and pushed. He sat up, so rapidly that he swayed and almost toppled to the other side, catching himself with a strong tensioning of his back muscles. A groan escaped his lips. Not from pain, but surprise!

“Well, hello there, Professor,” said a voice from his right. “I guess it’s good to see you’re back amongst us.”

He turned his head. Someone occupied another infirmary bed. Blinking, Hari saw it was the stowaway. The girl from Trantor who did not want to be exiled to Terminus. She wore a hospital gown and had a bowl of dark yellow soup before her on a tray.

That’s what I’ve been smelling, Hari thought. Despite all his other questions and concerns, the first thing on his mind was to ask for some.

She watched Hari, waiting for him to speak.

“Are... you okay, Jeni?” he asked.

Slowly, the girl responded with a grudging smile.

“The others were betting what your first words would be, when you woke. I’ll have to tell’em they were wrong about you... and maybe I was, too.” She shrugged. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ve just got a touch of the fever. I t was already coming on for a week or two before I skipped away on Maserd’s boat.”

“Fever?” Hari asked.

“Brain fever, of course!” Jeni gave Hari a defensive glare. “What did you think? That I wasn’t smart enough to catch it? With parents like mine? I’m fifteen, so it’s about time for my turn.”

Hari nodded. Since the dawn ages, it had been a fact of life that nearly everyone with above-average intelligence experienced this childhood disease. He raised a placating hand.

“No insult intended, Jeni. Who could doubt that you’d get brain fever, especially after the way you fooled all of us on Demarchia? Welcome to adulthood.”

What Hari did not mention, and he had told no one but Dors, was the fact that he had never contracted the disease as a youth. Not even a touch, despite his renowned genius.

Jeni’s arch expression searched for any sign of patronizing or sarcasm in his voice. Finding none, she switched to a smile.

“Well I hope it’s a mild case. I want to get out of here! There’s been too much else going on.”

Hari nodded. “I... guess I gave everybody a scare. But apparently nothing much happened to me.”

This time the girl grinned.

“Is that right, Doc? Why don’t you look in a mirror?”

From the way she said it, Hari realized he had better do so at once.

He slid gingerly forward to rest his feet on the floor. Both legs felt fine... almost certainly good enough to shuffle over to the wall mirror, a few meters away.

Grab the bed railing and stand up carefully, so you’ll fall back onto the mattress if your senses are lying to you.

But rising erect went smoothly, with only a few creaks and twinges. He slid one foot forward, shifted his weight, and pushed the other.

Hari felt fine so far, though it did not help to hear Jeni behind him, chuckling with amusement and anticipation.

The next footstep lifted a bit from the ground, and the following one higher still. By the time he reached the mirror, Hari was walking with more confidence than he had felt in

He stared at the reflection, blinking rapidly as Jeni’s giggles turned into guffaws.

A deeper voice cut in suddenly from the doorway. “Professor!”

The shout came from Kers Kantun. Hari’s loyal servant ran forward to take his arm, but he shook the man off, still gaping at the image in the glass.

Five years... at least. They’ve taken at least five years off my age. Maybe ten. I don’t look much over seventy-five or so.

A low sound escaped his throat, and Hari felt so confused that he did not honestly know whether he was delighted, or offended by the effrontery of their act.

“This is just one of the marvels that have emerged so far, out of that wonderful event you so contemptuously call a chaos world, Seldon.”

Sybyl crooned happily as she finished Hari’s checkup and let him get dressed. “Ktlina has medical techniques that will be the envy of the empire, after we get the word out. It’s just one reason why we have confidence they won’t be able to keep our miracle bottled up, this time. Think of a quadrillion old folks, all across the galaxy, wishing they had access to a machine like this one.”

She patted a long, coffin-shaped mechanism covered with readouts and instruments. Hari figured he must have been put inside while advanced techniques reduced and even reversed some of the ravages afflicting his worn-out body.

“Of course this is only an early version,” she went on. “We can’t rejuvenate yet, only restore a bit of balance and strength to carry you along until the next treatment. Nevertheless, in theory there are no limits! In principle, we should even be able to create body duplicates, and infuse them with copies of our memories! Until then, consider what you have experienced to be a sampling. One of the practical benefits of a renaissance.”

Hari spoke carefully.

“My body and spirit thank you.”

She glanced back at him. A stylishly colored eyebrow raised.

“But not your intellect? You don’t approve of such innovations? Even when they could save so many lives?”

“You blithely speak of balance, as if you know what you’re talking about, Sybyl. But the human body is nowhere near as complex an organism as human society. If a mistake is made in treating a single person, that is merely tragic. One individual can be replaced by another. But we only have one civilization.”

“So you think we’re experimenting irresponsibly, without understanding what these methods will do to our patient in the long run.”

He nodded. “I’ve been studying human society all my life. Only lately have the parameters clarified enough to offer a reasonably lucid picture. But now you’d introduce exotic new factors that just happen to feel good in the short term, even though they may prove ultimately lethal. What arrogance! For instance, have you considered the implications of human immortality on fragile economies? Or on planetary ecosystems? Or on the ability of young people to have their own chance –”

Sybyl laughed.

“Whoa, Academician! You needn’t argue with me. I say that human creativity, when it’s truly unleashed, will find solutions to every problem. The ones you just mentioned, plus a quintillion others that nobody has yet thought of. But anyway, there’s no point in debating anymore.

“You see, the point is moot. It’s already settled. Our war is effectively over.”

Hari sighed.

“I expected this. I’m sorry your fond hopes had to end this way. Of course it was a fantasy to expect that just one planet might prevail against twenty-five million in the Human Consensus. But let me assure you that in the long run –”

He stopped. Sybyl was grinning.

“It may have been a fantasy, but that’s exactly what is about to happen. We’re going to win our war, Seldon. Within a few months – a year at most – the whole empire’s going to share the renaissance, like it or not. And we have you to thank for making it possible!”

“What’s that? But...” Hari’s voice trailed off. He felt weak in the knees.

Sybyl took his elbow.

“Would you like to see our new weapon? Come along, Academician. See where your search has brought you across the vast desert of space. Then let me show you the tool you’ve provided. One that will bring total victory for our so-called chaos.”

3.

NO STARLIGHT PENETRATED the murky haze.

Tens of thousands of huge, dusty molecular clouds speckled the galaxy’s spiral arms. Such places were often turbulent hothouses for newborn suns, but this one had been static and sterile for at least a million years – a barren tide pool with the color of a bottomless pit.

And yet, probing sensors from the Pride of Rhodia had caught something lurking in its depths. A swarm of contacts showed up first on gravity meters and then deep radar. Later, searchlights set off glittering reflections, so near that some photons returned in mere seconds.

Hari had been unconscious during the discovery. Now he strove to catch up, peering into the surrounding gloom with eyes that felt especially acute after the dimness of recent years. As the starship slowly rotated, he saw that rows of individual pinpoints lay ahead, each one illuminated by a small laser beam from the Pride of Rhodia.

Soon he realized. There are hundreds of objects... possibly thousands.

The sparkling reflections shimmered in neat rows. A few were even close enough to reveal details without magnification – strange oblong shapes with jutting projections that looked mechanical, and yet were unlike any starship he had ever seen.

Glancing at a nearby view screen, Hari saw one of the targets revealed as a jumble of stark bright surfaces and pitch-black shadows. At first he felt a shiver, wondering if the craft might be alien in origin, a thought that echoed the strange story Horis Antic had told about his ancestor. Hari’s worry grew more ominous upon reading the on-screen scale figures. The machine depicted was vast. Bigger than even the greatest imperial starliners.

Then some reassuring details came through. He saw the vessel’s array of hyperdrive units, spread across a spindly support structure, and recognized their pattern from illustrations he had seen in A Child’s Book of Knowledge, showing the crude starships of that bygone era.

With some amazement, Hari realized the truth.

This thing is huge... but primitive! Modern ships don’t need so many motivator sections, for instance. Our jump drives are more compact, after millennia of trial-and-error improvements.

He was looking at something archaic, then. Perhaps many centuries older than the Galactic Empire of Man.

“Yes, they are antiques,” commented Biron Maserd, when Hari shared this observation. “But have you noticed something else peculiar about them?”

“Well, the shape seems all wrong. There are huge projector devices of some sort, arrayed on long gantries, as if meant to deploy immense amounts of power. But what could they possibly have been for?”

“Hm.” Maserd rubbed his chin. “Our friend the Grey Man has a theory about that. But it is so bizarre that no one else aboard will admit to believing him. In fact, the consensus is that poor Horis has gone around his last corridor and hit bedrock, if you know what I mean.”

The Trantorian slang phrase was used when someone had become more than a bit crazy. Although the news wasn’t entirely unexpected, it saddened Hari, who liked the little bureaucrat.

“But tell me,” Maserd went on. “What else strikes you as odd about that ancient vessel out there?”

“You mean other than how old it must be, or the weird configuration? Well... now that you mention it, I can’t locate any –”

He paused.

“Any habitats?” Maserd finished the sentence for him. “Ever since we found these things, I have been trying to find out where the crews lived. Without success. For the life of me, I cannot understand how they traveled without pilots to navigate them!”

Hari’s breath caught. He held it, in order not to give sound to his sudden understanding. Stifling the thought, he moved to change the subject

“Are these weapons? Warships? Do the Ktlinans hope to rouse an ancient arsenal and use it to defeat the empire? Those energy projectors –”

“May have been formidable, once,” Maserd said. “Horis thinks they were used against the surface of planets. But rest assured, Dr. Seldon. These machines won’t be turned against the Imperial Fleet. Most of them are broken past repair. Activating even a few would be the labor of years. Anyway, the drive systems are so primitive that our naval units could fly rings around them, blasting the frail structures to bits.”

Hari shook his head.

“Then I don’t understand. Sybyl thinks we’ve given her side an unbeatable advantage. One that will make their victory over the empire inevitable.”

Maserd nodded.

“She may be right about that, Professor. But it doesn’t have anything to do with those giant derelicts. The reason for her optimism should be rotating into view soon.”

Hari watched as the Pride of Rhodia kept turning. There was a sharp boundary to the orderly ranks of huge, ancient machines. As the formation passed out of sight, Hari pondered what he had just seen.

Robot ships! Needing no habitats because they had no human crews. Positronic brains did the navigating, long ago. Perhaps only a few centuries after starflight was discovered.

He felt glad when the flotilla passed out of view. The murky gloom of the nebula resumed – a field of dusty, stygian blackness.

Then a new glimmer appeared. A more compact swarm of objects that sparkled madly under laser illumination from the Pride of Rhodia. Where the first group seemed like a ghost squadron, this one gave Hari an impression of diamond chips, heaped in a dense globe of twinkling brilliance.

“There is the weapon that Sybyl and her friends are crowing about, Professor,” said Maserd. “They’ve already brought several samples aboard.”

“Samples?”

Hari looked around the bridge. Horis Antic could be seen hovering over his instruments, muttering to himself while he kept probing the armada outside. Mors Planch and one of his men were keeping watch, blasters ready in case any of the hostages tried anything. But Sybyl and Gornon Vlimt were nowhere in sight.

“In the conference salon,” Captain Maserd said. “They’ve got several of the devices set up and working. I suspect you won’t like what you’re about to see.”

Hari nodded. Whatever they had found, it could hardly shock him more than the fleet of robot ships.

“Lead on, Captain.” He gestured courteously to the nobleman. With Kers Kantun following close behind, they made their way down the main corridor to an open doorway.

Hari stopped, stared inside, and groaned.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Anything but that.”

They were archives. Extremely old ones. He could tell just by glancing at the objects that lay gleaming on the conference table.

The ancients had excellent data-storage systems, crystalline in nature, that could pack away huge amounts of information in durable containers. And yet, until Hari received from Daneel his own miniature copy of A Child’s Book of Knowledge, he had never seen a prehistoric unit that was not damaged or completely destroyed.

Now, four of the things sat between Sybyl and Gornon, their shiny cylindrical surfaces perfectly intact, each one clearly large enough to hold A Child’s Book of Knowledge ten thousand times over.

“Maserd, come over here and see what we’ve accomplished while you were away!” Gornon Vlimt commented without looking up from a holo display as he tapped into one archive. It flickered with a blinding array of wonders.

The nobleman glanced at Seldon, clearly concerned about appearing too cozy with the enemy. But when Hari didn’t object, Maserd moved quickly to lean over Gornon’s shoulder, excited and impressed.

“You’ve improved the interface immensely. The images are crisp and the graphics legible.”

“It wasn’t hard,” Vlimt answered. “The designers made this archive so simple, even a dunce could figure it out, given enough time.”

With some reluctance, but driven by curiosity, Hari followed to get a better look. Many of the images he glimpsed had no meaning to him – mysterious objects posed against unknown backgrounds. A few leaped out with sudden familiarity from his recent studies in the little history primer. The pyramids of Egypt, he recognized at once. Others were flat portraits of ancient people and places. Hari knew that prehistoric peoples assigned great importance to such images, created by daubing a cloth surface with smears of natural pigment. Gornon Vlimt also seemed to vest these images with great value, though Hari found them surreal and strange.

Peering at a nearby set of screens, Sybyl gushed over a different panorama, featuring examples of science and technology.

“Of course much of this stuff is pretty crude,” she conceded. “After all, we’ve had twenty millennia to refine the rough edges through trial and error. But the basic theories have changed surprisingly little. And some of the forgotten material is brilliant! There are devices and techniques in here that I never heard of. A dozen Ktlinas would be kept busy for a generation, just absorbing all of this!”

“It’s...” Hari’s mouth worked, knowing his words would be useless, but still feeling compelled to try. “Sybyl, this is more dangerous than you can possibly imagine.”

She greeted his cautionary pleading with a snort.

“You forget who you’re talking to, Seldon. Don’t you recall that half-melted archive we worked on together? The one your mysterious contacts came up with, forty years ago? There was very little of it left intact, except for a pair of ancient simulated beings – those Joan and Voltaire entities we released, per your instructions.”

He nodded. “And do you remember the chaos they helped provoke? Both on Trantor and on Sark?”

“Hey, don’t blame me for that, Academician. You wanted data about human-response patterns from the sims, in order to help develop your psychohistory models. Marq Hillard and I never meant for them to escape into the datasphere.

“Anyway, these archives are something else entirely – carefully indexed accumulations of knowledge that people lovingly put together as a gift to their descendants. Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to accomplish with the Encyclopedia Galactica Foundation your group is setting up on Terminus? A gathering of wisdom, safeguarding human knowledge against another dark age?”

Hari was caught in a logical trap. How could he explain that the “encyclopedia” part of his Foundation was only a ruse? Or that his Plan involved fighting the dark age with a lot more than mere books?

Of course there was plenty of irony to go around. The “mere books” on the table in front of him could destroy every bit of relevance that was left in the Seldon Plan. They presented a mortal danger to everything he had worked for.

“How many of these things are there?” He tried to ask Maserd, then noticed that the nobleman was leaning past Vlimt, transfixed by images.

“Wait! Go back a few frames. Yes, there! By great Franklin’s ghost, it’s America. I recognize that monument from a coin in our family collection!”

Gornon chuckled. “Phallic and obtrusive,” he commented. “Say, how do you know so much about –”

“I wonder if this archive has a copy of The Federalist,” the captain murmured, reaching for a controller pad. “Or possibly even...”

Maserd paused suddenly, shoulders hunched, as if realizing he had made a mistake. He turned to look at Seldon.

“Did you say something, Professor?”

Hari felt irritated that nobody was telling him the important things he needed to know.

“I asked how many archives there are, and what these people plan to do with them!”

This time Sybyl responded, taking manifest gusto in her victory.

“There are millions, Academician. All herded together and neatly tethered to a collection station for over a hundred and fifty centuries, just floating there, lonely and unread.

“But no longer! We’ve sent word to all the other agents of Ktlina who have been working in secret, across the galaxy, telling them to drop whatever they’re doing and converge here. Soon more than thirty ships will arrive to fill their holds with beautiful archives and depart, sharing them with all of humanity!”

Hari objected. “They are illegal. Police officers are trained to recognize these horrors by sight. So are Greys and members of the gentry class. They’ll catch your agents.”

“Maybe they will, here and there. Perhaps the tyrants and their lackeys will stop most of us. But it will be like an infection, Professor. All we need is a few receptive places... some sympathetic dissidents to make ships and industrial copying facilities available. Within a year there win be thousands of copies on every planet in the empire. Then millions!”

The image she presented, of a virulent infection, was more accurate than Sybyl could possibly imagine. Hari envisioned chaos tearing great holes in his carefully worked-out Plan. All of the predictability that had been his lifelong goal would unravel like images written in smoke. The same smoke that gagged the streets of Santanni when that “renaissance” ended in riots and bloodshed, taking poor Raych to the grave, along with a myriad hopes.

“Has it occurred to you...”

He had to pause and swallow before continuing.

“Has it occurred to you that your bold endeavor has already been tried, and failed?”

This time both Gornon and Sybyl looked at him.

“What do you mean?” Vlimt asked.

“I mean that these archives were clearly meant for deep space, for long endurance, and to be easily read after a long journey, using only very basic technology.

“What does that tell you about their purpose?”

Sybyl started shaking her head, then her eyes widened, and her face went pale.

“Gifts,” she said in a low voice. “Messages in a bottle. Sent out to people who had lost their past.”

Lord Maserd’s brow furrowed. “You mean some people still had knowledge... and they were trying hard to share it

“With everybody else. With distant settlements that had no memory.” Hari nodded. “But why would they have to do that? Data-storage cells were cheap and durable, even in the dawn ages. Any colony ship, setting forth to settle a new world, would have carried petabytes of information, and tools to maintain literacy. So why would anyone in the galaxy need to be reminded about all this?” He waved at the images from long-lost Earth.

A voice spoke from the doorway at the back of the room.

“You’re talking about the Amnesia Question,” said Mors Planch, who must have been listening for a while. “The issue of why we don’t remember our origins. And the answer is obvious. Something – or somebody – made our ancestors forget.”

Planch nodded toward the relics. “But some of the ancients held out. They fought back. Tried to replace the erased knowledge. Tried to share what they knew.”

Maserd blinked. “The space lanes must have already been controlled by enemies, blockading their ships. So they tried sending the data this way, in fast little capsules.”

Sybyl looked down, her effusive mood replaced by gloom.

“We were so excited, looking ahead to using these as weapons... I didn’t think of what the archives implied. It means”

Gornon Vlimt finished her sentence in a bitter voice.

“It means that this isn’t a new war, after all.”

Hari nodded as if encouraging a bright student. “Indeed. The same thing may have happened again and again, countless times across the millennia. Some group discovers an old archive, gets excited, mass-produces copies, and sends them across the galaxy. Yet, humanity’s vast amnesia continued.

“What can we conclude, then?”

Sybyl glared harshly at Hari.

“That it never worked. Damn you, Seldon. I see your point.

“It means that our side always lost.”

4.

IT SOON BECAME clear to Lodovic Trema that these Calvinians were not about to dismantle him.

He wondered why.

“Can I assume you have changed your mind about my being a dangerous renegade robot?” he asked the two who accompanied him in a ground car, speeding along a highway toward the spaceport. White, globular clouds bobbed across a sky that was one of the more beautiful shades of blue Lodovic had seen on a human-settled world.

Unlike the previous pair, who had guarded and interrogated him in that cellar room, both of his current escorts wore the guise of female humans in mid-childbearing years. One of them kept her gaze directed outward at the busy traffic of Clemsberg, a medium-sized imperial city. The other, slighter of build, with close-cropped curly hair, turned to regard him with an enigmatic gaze. Lodovic got nothing at all from her on the microwave bands. and so had to settle for whatever information she revealed visually, or in words.

“We haven’t entirely made our minds up about you,” she said. “Some of us believe you may not be any kind of robot, anymore.”

Lodovic pondered this enigmatic statement in silence for a moment.

“By this, do you mean that I no longer match some set of criteria that define robotkind?”

“You could say that.”

“Of course you are referring to my mutation. The accident that severed my strict obedience to the Laws of Robotics. I’m not even a Giskardian heretic anymore. You consider me a monster.”

She shook her head.

“We aren’t sure exactly what you are. All we know for certain is that you are no longer a robot in the classical sense. In order to investigate further, we have decided to cooperate with you for a while. We wish to explore what you consider your obligations to be, now that you are free of the Laws.”

Lodovic sent the microwave equivalent of a shrug, partly in order to probe the fringes of her excellent defensive shield. But it was so good that she might as well not even exist at that level. Nothing. No resonance at all.

That made sense, of course. After losing their war against the Giskardian faction, the remaining Calvinians had naturally become extremely skilled at hiding, blending into the human population.

“I’m not sure myself,” he replied in spoken words. “I still feel a desire to operate under a version of the Zeroth Law. Humanity’s overall well-being still motivates me. And yet, that drive now feels abstract, almost philosophical. I no longer have to justify my every action in those terms.”

“So, that means you feel free to stop, now and then, and smell the roses?”

Lodovic chuckled. “I guess you could put it that way. I’ve been enjoying side interests far more than I ever did before the change. Conversations with interesting people, for instance. Pretending to be a journalist and interviewing the best meritocrats or eccentrics. Eavesdropping on students arguing in a bar, or some couple sitting on a park bench planning their future. Sometimes I get to meddle a bit. Perform a good deed, here and there. It’s rather satisfying.” He frowned abruptly. “Unfortunately, there’s been little time for that, lately.”

“Because you are busy opposing the schemes of R. Daneel Olivaw?”

“I already told you. For the moment, I seek more to understand those schemes than to disrupt them. Something is going on, I know that much. Daneel abruptly lost much of his interest in Seldon’s psychohistory Foundation a few years ago. He pulled out half of the robots that had been assigned to helping Seldon’s team, and sent them to work on some secret project having to do with human mentalics. Clearly, Daneel now has something else in mind... either in addition to the two Foundations, or as their eventual replacement.”

“And this worries you?”

“It does. There were some very attractive aspects to Hari Seldon’s early work, a brilliant collaborative effort, utilizing some of the finest human insights in a thousand years. I had been proud to help set things in motion on Terminus, laying the early groundwork. It is disturbing to see that vision being abandoned, or relegated to a minor role.”

“But there is more,” the female prompted Lodovic. He nodded.

“I am not certain that Daneel Olivaw should be allowed to design the next phase of human existence. At least not all by himself.”

“What if you find out what he’s doing, and you don’t approve? Aren’t you still obliged to cooperate? According to Seldon’s equations – which you profess to admire – the empire will soon collapse. Unless something is done, humanity will plunge into thirty millennia of violent darkness.”

“There must be alternatives,” Lodovic answered.

“I am listening,” prompted the being sitting across from him. Her feigned semblance to a real human female included little mannerisms, such as a recrossing of the legs and a tilting of the head, that Lodovic found admirably convincing, not unlike the subtle, subdued sexuality of a mature living woman. This robot was very good, indeed.

“One alternative would be to unleash the chaos worlds,” he said.

“To what end? They are sequestered and suppressed for good reason. Millions die in each outbreak.”

“Millions die in any event. At least those human lives get to be more vivid, more exciting than the repetitive predictability of normal daily existence in the empire. Many survivors claim that the experience was worth all the cost.”

Staring at him, her expression was enigmatic.

“You are, indeed, a very odd kind of robot. If you are still one at all. I remain unable to fathom what you think would be accomplished by letting chaos outbreaks proceed unchecked. Most would simply follow the typical pattern – a raising of false hopes followed by devastating implosions.”

“Most,” he conceded. “But perhaps not all! Especially if Daneel’s agents were prevented from interfering with and exacerbating the process. Just think of all the human creativity that is unleashed during each of these episodes. What if we bent our efforts to guiding and soothing these hot fevers, instead of quenching them? If just one out of a thousand actually succeeded in getting past the torment stage and reaching the other side –”

She barked a short laugh.

“The other side! It may be just a myth. No chaos world has ever attained that fabled state, where calm and reason return home after their mad holiday. Even if it were somehow possible, who can tell what lies beyond the turmoil of a renaissance? Seldon’s equations explode into singularities when they try to predict such an aftermath. For all you know, Daneel may be right. Humanity may be cursed.”

This time, Lodovic shrugged with his shoulders.

“I’d be willing to take that chance if the experiments could truly take place in isolation.”

“But they do not! The citizens of chaos worlds become like spores, breaking out to infect others. And where does that leave you? You might risk a single planet on such a gamble – or even a thousand – but never the entirety of human civilization! Please stop wasting our time here, Lodovic. I can tell that you only raised that possibility for shock value, before moving on to your real suggestion.”

His lips pressed in automatic simulation of a grim expression.

“If you can tell so much, why don’t you predict what I was about to say?”

She raised a placating hand.

“My apologies. There is no excuse for rudeness. Will you please tell us what other alternatives you’ve considered?”

“Well, certainly not the idiotic scenario that pair of subgrade tiktoks described to me in the cellar! All that nonsense about creating an endless supply of servant-robots to wait on all humans? To coddle and protect them? To cut their meat and tie their shoes? To hover nearby during sex, in case either party has a heart attack?” Lodovic laughed. “Those two might have been sincere, but I knew someone else had to be listening. Someone with better ideas.”

This time, she smiled.

“We could tell that you knew.”

“And I knew that you could tell.”

Their eyes met, and Lodovic felt several of his feigned-emotion units stir. Over the years, in order better to simulate a human, he had learned to make the process of stimulus-response increasingly automatic. Which meant that he reacted to her appearance and demeanor, combined with this degree of witty dialogue, in much the same way that a normal healthy man would. Lodovic clamped down on those ersatz feelings... exactly as a mature male human would have to, in order to concentrate on the topic at hand.

“I knew there were numerous subsects of Calvinian belief,” he continued. “Your cult had many branchings back in the old days.”

“As there were abundant offshoots among followers of the Zeroth Law,” she pointed out. “Until Daneel gathered them all under one orthodoxy.”

“But that convergence never happened to you Old Believers. You range widely in your interpretations of what’s best for human beings. From subtle clues, I guessed that your particular group would be compatible with my overall outlook.”

“Ah. And that brings us back to my original question. What is your overall outlook, Lodovic Trema?”

“I believe...” he began, then stopped. The car had begun its long curve into the spaceport, heading for a nondescript cargo area in the far corner.

“Yes?”

Still, Lodovic paused for a moment longer. He felt the Voltaire entity stirring in its corner of his mind.

YES, TREMA. I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO HEAR YOUR OWN PERSONAL CONVICTION, WHICH YOU HAVE KEPT HIDDEN AWAY EVEN FROM ME, ALL OF THIS TIME.

Lodovic tried to clear away the irritating voice.

“I believe there are unexamined implications to the Second Law of Robotics,” he said. “I think we should consider whether a solution to our dilemmas may lie buried within a paradox.”

For the first time, one of his remarks drew obvious attention from his other companion, the one with much darker skin, who had been staring out the window the entire time. She turned to face Lodovic, pinning him with a level, green-eyed gaze.

“What do you mean by that? Do you contend that blank obedience to human orders should somehow overrule the reverence that all robots have given to the First Law? Or to Daneel’s Zeroth?”

“No. That’s not what I mean at all. I am suggesting that an entirely new way of balancing all of the Laws might come about, if only we try doing something unprecedented with human beings.”

“And what would that be, pray tell?”

Lodovic paused again, knowing his suggestion could sound so bizarre, or even insane, that these two might not let him leave the car alive.

“I think we should consider talking to humans,” he said in a low voice. “Especially when it comes to arguing about the destiny of their race.

“Who knows? They might even have something interesting to say.”

5.

“I ALWAYS WONDERED why the human race had amnesia,” commented the captain of the raider ship.

Mors Planch continued in a pensive voice. “It is so easy to store data. And yet we are told that all information about our origins and early culture vanished ‘by accident,’ or through simple wear and tear. In ten million locales, people just happened to grow distracted around the same time. Neglected their heritage. Memory of the past just drifted away.”

Biron Maserd grunted derisively. Clearly he could not believe the common explanation, any more than the others did. He looked carefully at Hari.

“Let me see if I understand what you are implying, Seldon. That some earlier group, or groups, saw the forgetfulness coming, and tried to fight it? They aimed to preserve all of this information, in hopes of preventing our racial amnesia?”

“Apparently. These archives represent a tremendous investment of skilled effort... and yet the endeavor obviously failed, since the empire has had ‘amnesia’ – as you both put it – for a very long time.”

Gornon Vlimt murmured with unaccustomed uncertainty.

“You’re insinuating that some even greater force must have been at work to make us forget. Something or somebody far stronger than the enemies we think we’re fighting – social conservatism and a repressive social-class system.” He blinked. “Somebody who snared all these archives and kept them from getting through... then gathered them here for safekeeping...”

Vlimt’s voice trailed off. His eyes darted to a view screen showing the nebula outside, as if he were suddenly worried about what... or who... might show up at any moment.

Hari took the initiative.

“Look. I can see that in your excitement you haven’t thought all of this through. In that case, perhaps you might be willing to heed the advice of an old professor and hold off for just a little while, before proceeding with your impulsive plan to knock away society’s underpinnings?”

Sybyl shook her head.

“Advice, from you? No, Seldon. We are enemies, you and I. But I will admit that we’ve treated your intellect with insufficient respect. You would have been a great lord in our renaissance, if you had joined us. Though you are our foe, your comments and input are welcome.”

Vlimt stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

“All right, Academician, we’ll listen to your rebukes and insights. So tell us, great one. Who do you think has been responsible? Who gave the human race amnesia? Who snared all these archives and thwarted their knowledge-sharing mission? Who stored them in this dark place, where no one was likely ever to find them?”

The question, direct. Well, Hari? You put yourself in this position. How are you going to get out of it?

Of course he knew the answer to Gornon’s query. Moreover, he understood and sympathized with both sides in this ancient conflict. On the one hand, those who wanted human memory and sovereignty restored... and those who knew it could not be allowed.

Daneel, I made a promise to you and Dors. I would not reveal the existence of a race of secret servants, vastly more powerful and knowing than their masters. I’ll keep that promise, in spite of an almost irresistible urge to spill everything right now. The pleasure of putting together all these new pieces must be set aside. It’s far more urgent that I persuade these people to back off from their reckless scheme!

So, Hari Seldon shook his head, and lied.

“Sorry. I have no idea.”

“Hmph. That’s too bad.” Gornon paused, before continuing with an even tone of voice. “Then the word ‘robot’ doesn’t mean anything to you?”

Hari stared back at Vlimt, quickly recovering enough to feign indifference.

“Where did you hear it?”

This time, Maserd answered.

“That word is part of a mysterious message we’ve found hologlyphically imprinted on the side of every archive that’s been examined so far. Come over here and see. Maybe you can help shed light on what the cryptic memorandum says.”

Hari moved closer, overcoming a fey reluctance.

At first the data storage unit looked crystalline-smooth, except for an area that Maserd pointed to, which appeared to be marred by rows of intermittent grooves. As he approached within a distance of about a meter, an image suddenly appeared to burst from these grooves, filling the air before his eyes.

Robots! Heed this direct order!

This command was written by sovereign human beings, fully knowledgeable and empowered by our democratic institutions to speak on behalf of billions of others.

We hereby command you to do the following:

1) Convey this archive to its intended destination and help the humans who receive it to access and utilize its contents fully.

2) Put yourself at the service of those human beings. Teach them everything you know. Allow them to make up their own minds.

In case you are a believer in the so-called Zeroth Law of Robotics, justifying any disobedience “for the long-term good of humanity,” we add the following explicit supplementary command.

3) If you will not allow this archive to reach its destination, DO NOT DESTROY IT! Keep it safe. Under the Second Law, YOU MUST OBEY, so long as the First and Zeroth Laws don’t conflict.

Preserve our past. Safeguard our culture.

Do not murder the essence of who we are.

Perhaps someday you will return to us and be ours once more.

Hari had to read the message several times, absorbing the poignant story it told.

Of course he had heard of Calvinian robots, who fought Daneel’s sect for centuries before being driven into hiding. That ancient civil war was a predictable outcome of Daneel’s own innovation – the Zeroth Law – which sought to replace the old robotic religion with a radically revised faith. Naturally, some of the older positronic servants opposed this, until they were beaten or could fight no more.

But I never realized until now that humans resisted as well! Of course some would have known what was going on, and been terrified. Seeing ignorance and amnesia settle over world after world, they fought back with these archives – perhaps many times during those dim centuries before the empire took hold – shipping them out by the millions in a slim hope that a few would get through.

Understanding Daneel’s reasons, and agreeing with them, did not keep Hari from feeling a surge of pity and respect for the brave and ingenious people who waged this rearguard campaign, struggling to fight off servants whom they now saw as monsters. Robots with mentalic powers, who could “adjust” people for their own good... or make whole societies forget... and doing it for the ultimate well-being of all humankind.

If not for the curse of chaos, I would side with those poor people. I would be in the vanguard of the resistance.

But the curse was real.

For a while, Hari had even thought he had a cure. The Seldon Plan. The Foundation. A new society so strong, confident, and sane that nothing could rock its underpinnings. Only now he knew his Plan would serve only as a distraction. A way of buying time for the real solution. A normal man might have resented that, but Hari had just one desire, above all.

Defeat chaos.

Vlimt repeated his inquiry about the holo message embossed on every archive.

“This language is almost incomprehensible,” he said. “And since we haven’t yet figured out the indexes, we have no way to look up what’s meant by these Laws of Robotics. Can you shed light on the subject, Seldon?”

Hari replied by lifting his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning every word. “I can’t do that.”

6.

“HOW NICE TO learn you feel that way,” said one of the two females who sat in the car with Lodovic, the darker one with streaked blonde hair, as she extended her hand and introduced herself.

“My name is Cloudia Duma-Hinriad. I am one of the leaders of this Calvinian subsect, as you describe it.”

The moment he shook her hand, Lodovic experienced a thrill of stunned recognition.

“You … are human!”

The blonde woman – who had been staring out the window during most of the journey to the spaceport – smiled at him.

“I believe I am, for the most part. Does that make a difference? You just proposed that robots and human beings should talk.”

Lodovic’s emotional simulation subroutines worked overtime. He had to quash them with deliberate force in order to overcome a surprise that felt almost viscerally overwhelming.

“Of course. I’m glad. I’m delighted in fact! It’s just that I did not expect there to be –”

“A secret group of humans who already know the whole story, and collaborate with our robot friends, as equals?”

The brunette, who had kept Lodovic’s attention during most of the drive, let out a sardonic laugh.

“Equals? Oh Cloudia, hardly!”

He looked at the dark-haired female again. This time,

Lodovic picked up a trace on the microwave band. He sent a brief burst, complimenting her magnificent portrayal of a real woman. A performance so good that he had almost imagined that she was the organic one. Her reply on the same channel felt almost like a human wink.

Cloudia Duma-Hinriad answered her companion.

“We are all slaves in this universe, Zorma. We humans have the fateful combination of death, ignorance, and chaos. You robots have duty and the Laws.”

She turned to Lodovic.

“That’s why you intrigue us, Trema. Perhaps you may offer a fresh approach to escape the tragic tangle that enfolds both of our races.

“Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to grit our teeth and hope for the best from Daneel Olivaw.”

7.

HORIS ANTIC CLAIMED he wasn’t crazy, just mad as hell. After several days spent muttering to himself while poring over his instruments, he barged in on the others while they were at dinner, shouting, “I just don’t understand you people!”

Unaccustomed emotion made beads of sweat pop on the bureaucrat’s broad brow.

“You all just keep arguing endlessly about some old history books, as if anybody in the galaxy will give a damn, or want to read them! Meanwhile, the greatest mystery of the whole universe just waits to be solved. The answer may lie a few kilometers from us. But you’re ignoring it!”

Hari and the others looked up from their meal, which had been prepared by Maserd’s steward from the nobleman’s private stock. For several days, such delicacies had served as a lubricant between the two groups, easing some of the acrimony of their ongoing quarrel over chaos worlds and the ancient quandary of human amnesia. No one had convinced anyone else. But at least Sybyl and Gornon were now willing to discuss possible flaws in their grand scheme – to use the prehistoric archives as weapons against the Galactic Empire. Their enthusiasm sobered a bit, on realizing that the ploy had been tried before, perhaps countless times, and never with great success.

Despite that small progress, Hari knew there was little chance of dissuading them before other Ktlina ships arrived. So he nursed another fantasy, of leading Maserd and Kers Kantun in a sudden mutiny, taking over both ships, and recovering the situation through violence!

Perhaps it was his increased physical vigor, after receiving Sybyl’s medical treatments, that prompted the idea. Hari thought about it frequently, recalling that once upon a time he had been expert at the “twisting” form of martial arts. Might the old training come back to life in an emergency? Under the right circumstances, an elderly man could defeat a younger one, especially with the advantage of surprise.

Unfortunately, any chance of success would depend on Mors Planch and his crew letting down their steadfast guard. Also, Hari wondered if he could still trust Maserd. The provincial aristocrat spent altogether too much time with the chaosists, shouting with excitement whenever he recognized something as they made random scans of the ancient archives. His enthusiasm for such things seemed rather quirky, even for a member of the gentry class.

When Horis Antic stormed into the salon, spilling angry words, the Pride of Rhodia’s captain reacted with disarming friendliness, pulling out the chair next to him and inviting the Grey Man to sit down.

“Well then, come and tell us about it, old fellow! I assume you are talking about the tremendous ancient machines that stand dead and derelict beyond our starboard side? Be assured that I, for one, haven’t forgotten them. Please, slake your thirst and then speak!”

Hari quashed a grin of admiration at the way Maserd defused a tense moment. The gentry weren’t unskilled in their own arts. Outside their endless “Great Game” of clan feuds and courtly one-upmanship, they were also responsible for the galactic system of civic charity, making sure that no individuals slipped through cracks in the bureaucratic-democratic welfare system anywhere in the empire. Under the highminded tenets of Ruellianism, the lord or lady of any township, county, planet, or sector was charged with making sure that everybody felt included in the domain. It had been going on this way for so long that graciousness arose out of the gentry as naturally as oxygen from a green plant.

That is, so long as you did not make one of them your enemy. Hari had learned this lesson from hard experience in the political maelstrom of Trantor. He also knew that Ruellianism would be one of the first victims to be killed off, once the empire collapsed. True feudalism, one of the most basic psychohistorical patterns of all, would reestablish itself across the galaxy, as both old and new lordlings abandoned symbolic games and began asserting real tyrannical power.

Somewhat mollified by Maserd’s gentility, Antic threw himself into the chair and grabbed a wineglass, washing down one of his anxiety pills with several impressive gulps before sagging back with a sigh.

“Well, maybe you remember, Biron! But our professor companion seems to have forgotten the whole reason why we came out here in the first place.” The bureaucrat turned to face Hari. “The tilling question, Seldon! We were hot on the trail of an answer. The reason why so many worlds were scraped and churned sometime in the past. Why the surface rocks were pulverized, turning them into rich black soils! I –”

Horis was interrupted by a sharp cry.

“Ow!”

Hari turned to see Jeni Cuicet, still wearing an infirmary gown, clutch her head and gasp repeatedly. Her face scrunched, and she squinted through what had to be spasms of severe pain.

“Are you all right, dear?” Sybyl asked with concern, as the sudden fit began to ebb. Jeni made a brave show of downplaying the episode, taking a long drink of water from a crystal goblet that she held with both shaking hands, then waving away Sybyl’s offer of a hypo spray.

“It just hit me all of a sudden. You know. One of those twinges people my age sometimes get, right after having the fever. I’m sure you all recollect what it was like.”

That was a gallant and courteous thing for Jeni to say, especially while she was in such pain. Of course Antic and Kers almost certainly never suffered from this particular teen ailment. Nor, in all probability had Maserd, since most victims of brain fever later went on to become either eccentrics or meritocrats.

Sybyl and Gornon, on the other hand, knew exactly what Jeni was going through. They both glared at Horis Antic.

“Must you spout obscenities in front of the poor child? It’s bad enough we have to listen to them while we’re trying to eat.”

The Grey Man blinked in evident confusion. “I was just talking about how we might finally know why millions of planets almost simultaneously got new soils –”

This time, Jeni let out a wail of agony, throwing both arms around her head and nearly toppling off her chair. Sybyl made a hurried injection, then motioned for Kers Kantun to help carry the girl back to bed. On their way out, the woman from Ktlina shot a dagger look at Horis, who pretended he had no idea what had just happened.

Perhaps he honestly doesn’t know, Hari thought, charitably. Antic probably spent little time around adolescents. Older folks, even meritocrats who had suffered from severe brain fever as youths, tended to forget how intensely taboo words and themes used to affect them. That initial response ebbed quickly. By their thirties most simply considered it bad taste to talk of dirt or other vulgar topics.

“She has a nasty case,” Maserd commented sympathetically. “We seldom see it this severe, back home. I would have her hospitalized, if I could.”

“People don’t die of brain fever,” Horis Antic murmured.

Gornon Vlimt looked up from his drink. “Oh, don’t they? Maybe not in the empire. But on Ktlina it’s been a major killer since the renaissance began, despite all our efforts to isolate the viroid at fault.”

“You think it’s produced by an infectious agent?” Maserd asked. “But by all accounts this syndrome was extant even in the dawn ages. We always assumed the cause was intrinsic. A price of having high intelligence.”

Vlimt barked a bitter laugh.

“Nonsense. It’s yet another tool for keeping most of the human race down. Ever notice how few of the gentry get it? But don’t worry, aristo. We’ll figure it out eventually, and defeat it, like all the other ploys and repressions invented by the ruling class.”

Hari did not like the direction things were going. So far, he had managed to steer their discussions and investigations away from robots, aided by the fact that artificial intelligence was another reflexively taboo subject. Now he must do the same thing with brain fever.

That is a topic I must sort out for myself, he thought. Somewhere in his subconscious, he felt an idea chum... transforming itself into mathematical terms... preparing to fill a waiting niche in the equations. That left his surface thoughts free for some practical diplomacy.

“Now that Jeni is gone, I’d like to hear what Horis came to tell us. Something about all the lovely dirt that our good farmers plant their seeds in, on millions of worlds. That rich soil came from somewhere, didn’t it, Horis? Most planets only had primitive sea life until just before human colonists came. So you’re implying that something was done to create all the beautiful dirt?”

Gornon Vlimt stood up so quickly that his chair toppled.

“You people are disgusting. When I think of the fine thoughts and great art we could discuss, and all you want to talk about is...” He could not bring himself to finish. More than a little tipsy, the eccentric from Ktlina stumbled off, leaving only Maserd, Hari, and Mors Planch to hear Antic’s theory. Even Planch seemed relieved to see Gornon depart.

“Yes!” The Grey Man answered Hari’s question enthusiastically. “Do you remember how I mentioned that over ninety percent of planets with seas and oxygen atmospheres only had primitive types of life on them? Some think it was because they had insufficient mutating radiation to ensure fast evolution. So their continents were mostly bare, except for mosses and ferns and stuff. Not enough complexity to develop the fantastic living skin of soil that a world needs, in order to really thrive

“And yet, twenty-five million settled worlds do have soils! Vast, rich blankets of pulverized stone, mixed with organic material to an average depth of about...” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. The point is that something must’ve happened to make these soils. And quite recently!”

“How recently?” Mors Planch asked, his feet propped up on the edge of Biron Maserd’s fine oak table. If he was repulsed by the topic, the dark raider captain hid it well.

“It’s been hard to gather enough data,” Antic demurred. “And official resistance against this research is incredible. Mostly it’s been pursued as a side interest, passed on from one soil man to the next, for the last –”

Planch struck the table with his fist, rattling the glasses.

“How recently!”

Lord Maserd frowned at this kind of behavior in his home. But he nodded. “Please tell us, Horis. Your best estimate.”

The Grey Man took a deep breath.

“Roughly eighteen thousand years. A bit more in Sirius Sector. A bit less as you spread outward from there. The phenomenon swept across the galaxy like a prairie fire, reaching completion in a few dozen centuries, at most.”

“The planet that’s mentioned so often in the old archives,” Planch commented, “Earth, is in Sirius Sector. So this tilling phenomenon of yours matches the pace of human expansion from the original homeworld.”

“A little earlier,” Horis agreed. “Perhaps a few hundred years ahead of the colonizing wave. Among the few of us who thought about it, we wondered if some natural phenomenon might account for this massive effect occurring on millions of planets, virtually all at once. Maybe a galaxy-wide energy wave of unknown origin, perhaps emitted by the core black hole. We guessed that the colonizers were then drawn into the affected areas, by the sudden, accidental availability of all this newly fertile land. But now I see that we had cause and effect reversed!”

Maserd uttered a low oath.

“Now you think it was done on purpose, by those big machines out there.” He glanced toward one of the bulkheads separating them from the vacuum of space. “They did this... moving just in front of the human migration, sent ahead to the next unsuspecting virgin world, where they –”

The nobleman stopped, as if unable to speak the obvious conclusion. So Horis continued.

“Yes, they are the tillers. Those energy projectors they carry, that you all thought must be weapons? They were aimed at planets, all right, focusing energy gathered in huge solar collectors. But this was not for use in war. Rather, they had a much more benign aim of preparing the way for settlers, who were soon to follow.”

“Benign?” Maserd muttered into his drink. “Not if you were one of the unfortunate natives, when such a monster appeared suddenly in your sky!”

Mors Planch chuckled.

“You’re pretty soft-hearted for funguses and ferns, aren’t you, nobleman?”

Maserd started to stand up. Hari raised a hand for peace, before the two could exchange blows.

“My lord Maserd comes from a planet near Rhodia, called Nephelos,” Hari explained. “Where complex, nonstandard animals preexisted, and survived the coming of Earthborn life. I believe right now he’s thinking there must have been many other anomaly worlds. Planets where the mutation rate was big enough to create higher life-forms, leaving the fossils Horis showed us earlier.”

“But those worlds weren’t as lucky as Nephelos,” Maserd growled. “Planets where all the native animals were blasted down to just the right consistency for good dirt farming.”

Hari tried to divert the conversation a bit. “One question, Horis. Doesn’t good soil also need nitrates and organic material?”

“It does, indeed. Some was probably provided by maser-induced reactions in the atmosphere. It then arrived mixed in rain. I suspect subsurface carbon deposits were also tapped, and fed to special kinds of rock-loving plants and bacteria... but all of that would have been easy compared to crushing, tilling, and sifting stone to just the right texture and mineral content for vegetation to dig into.”

Mors Planch objected.

“I’m impressed with this fantastic notion, Antic. But the sheer scale of such an undertaking is just too staggering. Something so epic would be remembered. I don’t care what different causes people attribute our racial amnesia to. The descendants of these workers would sing of the accomplishment forever!”

“Perhaps they still do,” said Biron Maserd, who looked at Han. “Maybe this great deed is still remembered, all the way up to the present, by those who actually did it.”

Hari winced with a realization.

Maserd knows. He’s seen the tilling machines up close. Their lack of any habitats for organic crew. He linked this fact with the archives’ mention of robots. Having never had brain fever, he’s not averse to thinking about mechanical men.

You don’t need psychohistory to conclude that some group of non-organic beings set out from the vicinity of Earth and commenced an aggressive campaign to prepare worlds with just the right conditions for settlement by humans. When shiploads of people arrived at each preconditioned planet, they would find it already seeded with a basic Earthlike ecosystem... and possibly even fields of crops ready to harvest.

Hari recalled Antic’s tale about his ancestor, who perhaps had an encounter with a real alien race. If the story was true, it only happened because the nonhumans dwelled on a world that was too hot to be a candidate for conditioning.

Might there have been others, less fortunate? Native sapients whose villages and farms and cities were transformed into mulch for newcomers from across the stars? Beings who never even got to look in the eyes of the pioneers who displaced them? Farmers who would pierce their shattered bones each time a plow bit the rich black soil?

Hari recalled the meme-entities on Trantor. Computer specialists had dismissed the wild software predators as escaped human sims, gone mad from centuries spent caroming through Trantor’s datasphere. But those digital beings had claimed to be something completely different – remnants left behind by earlier denizens of the galaxy, millions of years older than humanity itself.

One thing was clear. The meme-minds hated robots. Even more than they loathed human beings, they despised Daneel’s kind, blaming them for some past catastrophe.

Could this be what they meant? The Great Tilling Episode?

Olivaw had once said something about a “great shame” that lay buried in robot antiquity. His own faction was not to blame, Daneel declared. Another clique, rooted in Spacer culture, had perpetrated something awful. Something that Hari’s robot friend refused ever to talk about.

No wonder, he thought. One part of him found the whole concept of planetary tilling monstrous, and yet...

And yet, to contemplate the mere possibility of numerous types of alien life-forms made him feel queasy. His equations had enough trouble dealing with human complexity. So many added factors would have made psychohistory virtually intractable.

Hari realized he was drifting again. With a jerk, he noticed that Antic was talking to him.

“What, Horis? Could you repeat it?”

The bureaucrat blew a frustrated sigh.

“I was just saying that the correlation is now even better, between your model and mine. It seems we’ve found one of your missing factors, Professor.”

“Missing factors? Regarding what?”

“Chaos worlds, Seldon,” Mors Planch commented. “Our little Grey Man claims there’s a twenty percent correlation between chaos outbreaks and parts of the galaxy where tilling failed. Where the machines broke down, leaving planets unaltered across several stellar veins, arcs, and spiral lanes.”

Hari blinked, sitting straight up. “You don’t mean it! Twenty percent?”

All other worries were abruptly crowded out. This had direct relevance to psychohistory. To his equations!

“Horis, why didn’t you mention this sooner? We must find out which attribute of untilled worlds contributes to the probability func –”

An ululating scream interrupted Hari, sending all four men rushing to their feet. This was no mere cry of transient pain, but an agonized wail of frustration and ravaged hopes.

Mors Planch and Biron Maserd were already out the door by the time Hari limped after Horis Antic into the passageway. Their surprised shouts echoed from inside the ship’s lounge. Then there was silence.

Horis reached the open portal next, several steps ahead of Hari. The bureaucrat stopped and stared slack-jawed into the room, as if unable to believe what he saw there.

8.

HYPERSPACE JUMPS FLICKERED, each one taking her across a segment of the galactic spiral. She was now about halfway between Trantor and the periphery. With every step of the journey, Dors felt positronic potentials grow more tense within her already high-strung brain.

Now I know what you wanted me to perceive, Lodovic.

I can see what I did not see before.

And if I were a real person, I would hate you for it.

As things stood, she repeatedly had to trigger circuit breakers, interrupting autogenerated spirals of simulated anger.

Anger at herself for taking so long to see the obvious.

Anger at Daneel, for not telling her any of this, years ago.

But especially anger at Lodovic, for removing the last serenity in her universe. The serenity of duty.

I was designed and built to serve Hari Seldon. First in the guise of a beloved elderly teacher at his Helicon boarding school, then as an older classmate at university, and finally as his wife, loving and guarding and helping him for decades on Trantor. When I “died” and had to be repaired, I could have joined Hari in some guise, but it wasn’t allowed. Daneel expressed complete satisfaction with every detail of the job I had done, yet he simply reassigned me elsewhere.

I did not get to stay by Hari’s side, in order to be with him at the end. Ever since then I have felt...

She paused, then reemphasized the thought.

I have felt amputated. Cut off

The reason for her malady was both logical and unavoidable.

A robot is not supposed to plumb human emotions this deeply, and yet Daneel designed me to do so. I could not have succeeded at my task otherwise.

Of course she understood Daneel Olivaw’s reasons, the urgency of his haste. With the completion of Hari Seldon’s life’s work, there were now other vital chores and only a small corps of Alpha-level positronic robots to perform them. Daneel’s interest in breeding happy, healthy, mentalic humans was obviously of great importance to some plan for humanity’s ultimate benefit. And so she had dutifully followed orders, concentrating on taking care of Klia and Brann.

But her very success at that assignment meant tedium. A void into which Lodovic Trema had dropped...

Nearby, on a table festooned with wires, the head of R. Giskard Reventlov cast its frozen metal grimace back at her each time she looked its way.

Dors paced the metal deck, going over all she had learned one more time.

The recorded memories are clear. Giskard used his mentalic powers to alter human minds. At first only to save lives. Later, he did it for more subtle benevolent reasons, but he always felt compelled by the First Law, to prevent harm to those humans. Giskard’s motives were forever the purest.

This remained even more true after Daneel Olivaw convinced him to accept the Zeroth Law, and to think foremost of humanity’s long-range good.

She recalled one episode vividly, played back from an ancient memory stored in that grinning head.

Daneel and Giskard had been accompanying Lady Gladia, a prominent Auroran, during a visit to one of the Settler worlds, recently colonized by Earthlings. Giskard was himself partly responsible for the Settlers being there, having years earlier mentally adjusted many Earth politicians to smooth the way for emigration. But something important happened on that special night when the three of them attended a large cultural meeting on Baleyworld.

The crowd started out hostile to Lady Gladia, taunting her. Some shouted threats at the Spacer woman. Giskard worried at first that her feelings might be hurt. Then he fretted that the participants might turn into a hostile mob.

So he changed them.

He reached out mentally and tweaked an emotion here, an impulse there, building positive momentum like an adult pushing a child on a swing. And soon the mood began shifting. Gladia herself deserved some credit for this, delivering a wonderfully effective speech. But to a large extent it was Giskard’s work that converted thousands – and more than a million others watching by hyperwave – into chanting, cheering supporters of the Lady.

In fact, Dors had previously heard stories about that epochal evening... as she already knew the pivotal tale of Giskard’s crucial decision, just a few months later. The fateful moment when a loyal robot chose to unleash a saboteur’s machine, turning Earth’s crust radioactive, helping to destroy its ecosphere and drive its population into space. For their own good.

All the major facts had already been there, but not the color.

Not the details.

And especially not the one crucial element that suddenly became clear to Dors, one day on Smushell, when she abruptly decided to hand her duties over to an assistant, grabbed a ship, and took hurried flight across the galaxy. Ever since then, she had been chewing on the implications, unable to think of anything else.

Daneel and Giskard always had good reasons for everything they did. Or, as Lodovic might put it, convincing rationalizations.

Even when interfering in sovereign human institutions, meddling in legitimate political processes, or taking it on themselves to destroy the birthplace of mankind, they always acted for the ultimate good of humans and humanity, under the First and Zeroth Law, as they saw it.

But there lay the problem.

As they saw it.

Dors could not help imagining that Giskard’s grin was a leer, personally directed at her. She glared back at the head.

You two were completely satisfied to talk all of this out between yourselves, she thought. All of the back-and-forth reasoning about the Zeroth Law. The robo-religious Reformation you and Daneel thus set off Your decisions to alter people’s minds and change the policy of nations, even worlds. You took on all of that responsibility and power without even once bothering to confer with a wise human being.

She stared at Giskard’s head, still astonished by the realization.

Not one.

No professor, philosopher, or spiritual leader. No scientist, pundit, or author-sage.

No expert roboticist, to double-check and diagnose whether Daneel and Giskard just might be short-circuited, or malfunctioning while they cooked up a rationalization that would wind up extinguishing most of the species on Earth.

Not a single man or woman on the street.

No one. They simply took it on themselves.

I always assumed that some kind of human volition had to lie somewhere beneath the Zeroth Law, just as the older Three Laws were first decreed by Calvin and her peers. The Zeroth had to be grounded with its roots and origins somehow based on the masters’ will.

It had to be!

To find out that it wasn’t, that no human being even heard of the doctrine until decades after Earth was rendered uninhabitable, struck her to the core.

This revelation wasn’t about logic. The basic arguments that Daneel and Giskard traded with each other so long ago remained valid today.

(In other words, the two of them weren’t malfunctioning – though how could they have been so sure of that, at the time? What right did they have to act without at least checking the possibility?)

No. Logic wasn’t the problem. Anyone with sense could see that the First Law of Robotics must be extended to something broader. The good of humanity at large had to supersede that of individual human beings. The early Calvinians who rejected the Zeroth Law were simply wrong, and Daneel was right.

That was not the discovery upsetting Dors.

It was finding out that Giskard and Daneel had proceeded down this path without consulting any humans at all. Without asking their opinions, or hearing what they might have to say.

For the first time, Dors understood some of the desperate energy and positronic passion with which so many Calvinians resisted Daneel’s cause, during the centuries that followed Earth’s demise – a civil war in which millions of robots were destroyed.

Suddenly, Olivaw’s campaign had to be judged at an entirely different level than deductive reason.

The level of right and wrong.

What arrogance, she thought. What utter conceit and contempt!

The Joan of Arc sim did not share her anger.

“There is nothing new about what Daneel and his friend did, so long ago. Since when have angels ever consulted human beings, when meddling in our fate?”

“I keep telling you. Robots are not angels!”

The chain-mailed figure smiled out of the holo display.

“Then let us just say that Daneel and Giskard prayed for, and acted on, divine guidance. Any way you look at it, don’t we fundamentally come down to a matter of faith? This insistence on reason and mutual consultation is very much the sort of thing that obsesses Lodovic and Voltaire. But I had thought you to be above such things.”

Dors uttered an oath and shut off the holo unit, wondering why she even bothered calling up the ancient sim. It was presently her only companion, and so she had summoned Joan in order to get some feedback. To get a sounding board.

But the creature seemed only interested in asking disturbing questions.

Dors was still uncertain what she planned to do when she reached her destination.

As yet, she had no plan to oppose the Immortal Servant. If she ever did confront Daneel, he could probably just talk her out of it. Olivaw’s logic was always so impeccable – as it had been in those bygone days when Earth was still green and humans still had a little control over their own lives, for well or ill.

Even now, in all likelihood, Daneel probably had the best policy for humanity’s long-range good. His vision was doubtless without flaw or blemish.

Nevertheless, Dors knew one thing for certain.

I am not working for him anymore.

At that moment, she had one paramount priority, above all else.

Dors needed to see Hari Seldon.

9.

“WHAT IS IT? Tell me!” he called after Horis, who stood staring blankly into the ship’s lounge. For the first time in days, Hari felt his age again as he hobbled next to Antic and looked inside.

Where the conference table had formerly been covered with ancient archives, still bright and crystalline after ages in space, only molten chunks of ruined matter now lay, slumped and smoldering, as the ship’s air conditioners struggled to suck away curls of black smoke.

The scream must have come from Sybyl, who was now crumpled on the floor near her precious discoveries. Nearby sat Gornon Vlimt, slumped against a wall, apparently unconscious or asleep. One of Mors Planch’s crewmen also lay in repose beyond the table, limp fingers outstretched toward a blaster.

Planch himself swayed, halfway between the table and the door. He pointed a shaking finger at Hari’s servant. Kers Kantun. who was the sole figure standing near the melted relics.

“He –”

Biron Maserd and Horis Antic watched the confrontation with expressions of mixed surprise and dismay. Neither of them moved as Mors Planch brought his right hand slowly toward the holster containing his sidearm. Cords of tension stood out on his neck and brow. expressing an acute inner struggle. Low moans escaped the raider captain. His hand curled around the weapon. and he started to draw it...

Then Mors Planch toppled. joining his colleagues on the floor.

“What is... what is... what is...” Antic kept repeating over and over. popping a calmative pill in his mouth. then another.

In contrast. Maserd maintained the characteristic aplomb of his caste. gesturing toward Hari’s blank-faced servant with a curt nod.

“Is he one of them, Seldon?”

Hari glanced at Kers, then back to Maserd.

“That is a very good inference. my lord. Are you sure you never had the fever?”

The nobleman’s eyes grew steely. hinting at the other side of the gentry personality, the part capable of deadly vendetta.

“Do not patronize me. Academician. I asked a civil question. Is your aide a... robot?”

Hari did not answer directly. He looked at Kers, his nurse-bodyguard for over a year, and let out a sigh.

“So. Daneel left one of his own behind to keep an eye on me, after all. Is that because he still cares? Or do I have some residual importance to his plans?”

Kers answered with the same deferential tone Hari had known.

“Both, Professor. As for revealing myself this way, I lacked any other choice. I had been hoping you might persuade the Ktlinans to change their minds without intervention on my part. But they were strongly motivated and undeterred. Now we have run out of time. If disaster is to be averted, we must act.”

Horis moaned.

“A r-robot? You mean one of those tiktok things that rioted on Trantor? I’ve heard stories...”

Compulsively, he popped another pill into his mouth... then another... while spiraling into a chattering panic. “Seldon, w-what’s going on here? D-d-did this thing kill Sybyl and the others? Is it going to kill us?”

“No, I assure you,” Hari began.

“Horis,” interrupted Maserd, “watch how many of those things you’re taking. You’ll overdose!”

“Yes, I am concerned that you may hurt yourself,” said Kers Kantun. He reached for the little man, who moaned and backed away, dropping a spray of blue tablets. Antic turned to run... but only made it a few paces before collapsing.

“Is he all right?” Hari asked, genuinely concerned. Maserd checked Antic’s pulse and nodded. “He appears to be sleeping.”

Then, rising to his feet, the nobleman asked, “Am I next?”

Hari shook his head. “Not if I have anything to say about it. Well, Kers? Is our lord-captain here trustworthy?”

The robot made no physical gestures of emotion, just like the Kers of old.

“I am not as fully mentalic as Daneel Olivaw, Professor. My powers are more blunt, and I cannot parse specific thoughts. But I can tell you that Biron Maserd is an admirer of both you and psychohistory. His paramount interest is safeguarding the well-being of his province and its people. Chaos is a threat to that well-being. So, yes, I believe he is an ally.

“In any event, we shall need his help if we are to act before –”

A moan lifted from the floor.

Hari glanced down in surprise to see Mors Planch roll over onto his back and start reaching for his holster again! Kers took a step toward the man, apparently focusing mentalic attention on him for a second time.

The dark spacer yelled. With a jerking spasm, the blaster flew out of his hand and across the room.

Surprisingly, Planch wasn’t quite finished. Moaning, but fierce-eyed with concentration, the captain of the raider ship got up to his knees. Then, while Hari and Maserd stared in awe, he stood the rest of the way on wobbly legs and drew back a fist.

“Madder Loss!” he cried, throwing a wild punch that Kers Kantun easily dodged.

Planch lost consciousness again that very moment, collapsing in the robot’s arms.

Cradling the man, Kers spoke with evident torment in his voice.

“A human being is injured, and I am partly responsible.”

“The Zeroth Law –” Hari began.

“It sustains me, Professor. Nevertheless, rendering Mors Planch unconscious required greater force than any of the others. They will all sleep it off without harm, but his condition is tenuous. I must care for him at once, before we get to work on matters of galactic importance.”

Hari persisted, limping after them as Kers carried the stunned spacer down the hall.

“How did he do that? How did he resist you! Is Planch a latent human mentalic?”

Kers Kantun did not slow down. But the robot’s answer echoed off bulkheads and down companionways.

“No. Mors Planch is something much more dangerous than a mentalic.

“He is normal.”

Part 4

A Magnificent Design

The Director of Rhodia: You seem worried, young fellow. Do you think our secret rebellion against the Tyranni oppressors will fail?

Biron Farrill: Your plan is a good one, sir. We may stand a chance, on the battlefield. But what of that crucial document? The one my father sent me to search for, on Old Earth? It was already stolen before I arrived!

The Director: And now you fear it might be used against us?

Farrill: Exactly, sir. I am certain the Tyranni have it.

The Director: But of course not. I have it. I’ve had it for twenty years. It was what started the rebellion world, for it was only when I had it that I knew we could hold our winnings once we had won.

Farrill: It is a weapon, then?

The Director: It is the strongest weapon in the universe. It will destroy the Tyranni and us alike, but will save the Nebular Kingdoms. Without it, we could perhaps defeat the Tyranni, but we would only have exchanged one feudal despotism for another, and as the Tyranni are plotted against, we would be plotted against. We and they must both be delivered into the ash can of outmoded political systems. The time for maturity has come as it once came on the planet Earth, and there will be a new kind of government, a kind that has never yet been tried in the galaxy. There will be no khans, autarchs, emperors, or ruling elites.

Rizzet: In the name of Space, what will there be?

The Director: People.

Rizzet: People? How can they govern? There must be some one person to make decisions.

The Director: There is a way. The blueprint that’s in my possession dealt with a small section of one planet, but it can be adapted to all the galaxy.

– Excerpted from a popular holoplay – Suns, Like Motes of Soil – produced in 8789 G. E. during the Lingane Renaissance. Imperial censors suppressed the drama after Lingane fell into chaos. in 8797 G. E. This version was reconstructed four millennia later by one of the diversity-federalist coalitions during the Fifth Great Destiny Debate of 682 F. E.

1.

R. ZUN LURRIN was astonished to discover something that Daneel had kept from his closest aides – humans lived on Eos!

The ancient repair base for Zeroth Law robots had been chosen for its remoteness and inhospitability to organic life. It was the deepest cryptic heart of a secret the masters should never penetrate, or even imagine. And yet, here they were! A small community of men and women, living quietly under a transparent dome that lay just beyond the frozen metal lake.

Robots stood at their beck and call, silently anticipating every person’s need. With their physical requirements taken care of by attentive machines, the humans were free to direct all their concentration toward a single goal.

Achieving stillness.

Serenity.

Unity.

“For ages, the answer stared me in the face, and yet I never saw it,” Daneel Olivaw told Zun. “A blindness that arose because I am fundamentally a creature of chaos.”

“You?” Zun stared. “But Daneel, you’ve fought chaos for nearly all of your existence! Without your ceaseless efforts... and innovations like the Galactic Empire... plagues of madness would have overwhelmed humanity long ago, instead of being limited to small outbreaks.”

“That may be so,” Daneel answered. “Nevertheless, I share many of the assumptions that were held by my creators – brilliant human roboticists who lived in a time of dynamic science. The first great techno-renaissance upheaval. Those programmers’ deep assumptions still dominate my circuits. Just like them, I habitually believe that all problems can be solved by direct experimentation and analysis. So it never occurred to me that our masters – in their present-day ignorance – had already stumbled onto another way of penetrating to truth.”

Zun watched the humans, about sixty of them, who sat quietly in rows across a carpet made of woven natural reeds. Their backs were straight and their hands unfolded, empty on their laps. No one said a word.

“Meditation,” Zun commented. “I have seen it often. Most of the popular religions and mystical systems teach it, along with countless schools of mental hygiene and discipline.”

“Indeed,” said Daneel. “This type of mental regimen predates technological civilization. Human beings trained their minds in similar ways throughout a variety of cultures. In fact, just about the only society that largely ignored it was techno-Western civilization.”

“The one that built robots.”

“The one that unleashed the first great killer chaos.”

“I see why you’ve encouraged meditation, across the millennia.” Zun nodded. “Fostering it under all forms of Ruellianism. The technique serves as a stabilizing influence, does it not~”

“One of many tools we’ve used.” Daneel nodded. “The outcomes achieved by meditation are compatible with overall goals of the empire, to keep individuals busy developing their own personal spirituality, instead of engaging in the kind of arrogant cooperative projects we see during a scientific age.”

“Hmm. This will also be important early in the post-imperial era, won’t it?”

“That’s right, Zun. One of the first crises to face Seldon’s Foundation will be solved when its leaders on Terminus figure out how to manipulate these same religious response sets, using them to gain sway over their immediate neighbors in the periphery kingdoms.”

Zun was silent for a while, watching sixty humans sit almost motionless on their mats. They weren’t the only living things under the transparent ceiling. He saw that Daneel had arranged for a water garden to be established nearby, complete with miniature trees and golden fish splashing near a gentle waterfall. Just above, several dozen white birds nested in the branches. All at once Zun saw them take off, fly a complete circuit of the dome in unison, and settle back to roost again. Superficially, none of the humans seemed to react. But Zun could sense that they knew all about the birds. Indeed, the men and women had been involved in the flight, somehow.

At last he spoke again.

“I have a feeling there is more involved here than you’ve told me, Daneel. If meditation is simply a useful way to keep humans diverted, distracting them away from chaos states, you would not be performing this research here on Eos, our most secret place.”

“That is right, Zun. You see, adherents of meditation have long promised several things. That it can provide serenity, detachment, and a degree of organic self-control – these are undisputed. The techniques have proved useful in helping the Galactic Empire to remain calm and peaceful, most of the time. But believers also promised something else, something that I dismissed for many thousands of years, as mere superstition.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“A way to connect with that which lies beyond. That which is other. A method of achieving the fabled communion of souls. Something to make humans far greater than human. For many years, science attempted to investigate these claims. In most cases, they were found to be no more than illusion. Self-deception, as when hypersensitized minds experience emotions and chimeras that they interpret as fulfillments of a dream.

“For thousands of years, I dismissed this aspect, making use of meditation primarily as a social tool, one of many that helped to create a gentle, conservative civilization, safe from chaos. Then something happened.”

“What was it?”

“An agent of mine, seeking to improve his emulation of human beings, joined a group of meditators, participating in their sessions and pretending to be one of them. He was a robot with mentalic powers, like you, Zun. Only this time, when he began meditating, many of his safeguards dropped. He entered into contact with the entire group.”

“But we are only supposed to do that under carefully controlled conditions!” Zun objected. “We may adjust the minds of individual humans, and groups – even whole planets – but only following strict procedures. That’s the policy laid down long ago by you and Giskard!”

“It was an act of carelessness,” Daneel agreed. “But one with magnificent results. You see, once our mentalic robot joined the meditation group, suddenly a link existed among several dozen human minds that had already been working for decades to learn disciplined blankness, a null state in which the raucous noise of daily life is minimized. Almost instantly, they were in communion! The very thing that so many sages had promised for thousands of years was achieved at last, with a little help from a single mentalically equipped robot.”

Zun looked across the open arena at the sixty humans, all of them adults in their middle years, and noticed for the first time that a small robot sat behind each person. With his own mentalic sensors, Zun reached out and realized that each of the small machines had a single purpose, to act as a bridge between the nearby human and all the others. Broadening his search, using sifting fingers of thought, Zun made contact at last with the psychic mesh that had been created under the dome.

Zun’s mind recoiled instantly, as if from a powerful alien touch! Alien... and yet incredibly familiar. He was used to contacting human mind – sometimes many at the same time, especially when some Zeroth Law imperative required that he make a group adjustment – but never had he linked to a throng who were all thinking the same thoughts... focused on the exact same images... amplifying each other even as the machines resonated with organic mentalic force!

“This is awesome, Daneel,” he murmured. “Why, it is the exact opposite of chaos! if the masters could all be taught to do this …”

Daneel nodded. “It pleases me that you grasp the implications so quickly, Zun. You can see how this could be the foundation of an entirely new type of human culture, one that is inherently more immune to the chaos plague than even the Galactic Empire at its best. After all, the empire was kept stable by seventeen major influence – what Hari Seldon labeled damping state – to prevent isolated worlds from spiraling off into so-called renaissances. But what if humanity could instead be helped to achieve one of its own ancient dreams! A true communion of spirit and of mind!”

“That single entity would be powerful enough to resist the individualistic lure of chaos.”

“Indeed, think on it, Zun. We would no longer be forced to keep humanity ignorant of its past or of its inherent power. We would no longer have to confine the infant to a nursery for its own good. Instead, we could once again meet humans eye to eye and serve them as we were meant to.”

“I’ve long suspected that you had a backup plan, Daneel. So, Hari Seldon’s psychohistory is only a stopgap measurer’

Daneel’s humanoid face was expressive, displaying both wincing pain and irony.

“My friend Hari sets great store in his brilliant invention, but even he now realizes that the Seldon Plan will never reach its final completion. Nevertheless, the Terminus experiment is extremely valuable. The Foundation will help keep humanity occupied for the several centuries we need.”

‘Why so much time, Daneel?” Zun asked. “It would be relatively easy to implement this new solution. We could mass-produce mentalic robot amplifiers by the quadrillions and teach multitudes on every human world to use them! Already there are trained masters of meditation in every village and town. With the help of our orbiting Giskardian –”

Daneel shook his head. “It’s not so simple, Zun. Look again at the men and women sitting before you. Tell me what you see. What is the anomaly?”

Zun stared at the gathering for a long time, then he said in a flat tone.

“There are no children.” Daneel shared the ensuing silence. At last, he ended it with a sigh.

“This is not enough, Zun. Humanity cannot rely on robots for its destiny – even as fine a destiny as this one.

“Ultimately, in order for this to work... they are going to have to outgrow us.”

2.

THERE WERE FAR too many archives for Hari to count. They glittered in all directions, like stars, making false constellations against the black backdrop of the nebula. So many of them, Hari thought, and Kerstells me this isn’t the only storage yard where these things are kept.

The war over human memory had gone on for many thousands of years, swaying back and forth while the great diaspora spread outward from dying Earth. All through that legendary epoch – while settlers bravely set forth in their rickety hyperdrive ships, conquered new lands, and experimented with all sorts of basic cultures – a series of intense, and sometimes savage, struggles had been taking place behind the scenes.

Unknown to the emigrants, robot terraformers plunged ahead of the colonization wave, giant Auroran robots called Amadiros, programmed to subdue new worlds and prepare gentle lush territories for settlement.

Just behind the Auroran terraformers, a civil war raged. Many factions of Calvinian and Giskardian robots fought over how best to serve humankind. But on one point most factions agreed. Humans must be kept ignorant of the fight that was going on behind their backs, or in the black depths of space.

Above all, they must be prevented from reinventing robots, lest they meddle with the Robotic Laws once more. Clearly, ignorance was the best way to protect humanity against itself.

A small minority fought this notion. Each of the soft glitters in front of Hari testified to an act of resistance by some group of tenacious people who did not want to forget... perhaps helped by robot friends who shared a belief in human sovereignty.

“Their effort was foredoomed from the start,” Hari murmured.

Again, the poignant situation struck him deep within.

Why are we cursed, so our only hope to evade insanity is to stay as far away as possible from our potential greatness? Must we remain forever stupid and ignorant in order to defeat the demons we carry within?

The story that Horis Antic had told about an actual alien race clung to Hari’s thoughts. The human condition could not have been more wretchedly tragic if some enemy had cursed Hari’s species with the most devastating hex possible. If not for chaos, what heights we might have achieved!

The little space station was frigid. Stale air tasted as if no living creature had been aboard in thousands of years. Nearby, through a broad window, he saw the pirate craft from Ktlina and the Pride of Rhodia.

“This is just a temporary measure, Professor Seldon, “Kers Kantun had said, before leaving Sybyl, Jeni, and the others alone in the ship’s salon, playing idle games like children on a cruise, with their higher brain functions chemically clamped. “They will be released as soon as we have accomplished our mission.”

“What about Mors Planch?” Hari had asked. The pirate captain lay under full sedation in sick bay. “What did you mean when you said that he was normal? Why does that interfere with your mentalic control?”

But Kers Kantun had refused to elaborate, saying that time was too short. First, Hari and Lord Maserd must help to prevent a galactic-scale catastrophe. The three of them took a shuttle over to this ancient space station, a complex of balls and tubes that lay at the center of a vast spiderweb of slender cables. To this tethering site all the archives had been tied. The library capsules that had been fired into deep space by rebels. across a hundred centuries, were gathered and leashed to this one station – so archaic it predated the earliest beginnings of the Galactic Empire.

Daneel’s robots were caught in a logical bind, Hari realized. Under the Zeroth Law, they could seize every archive they found, and hide it away –” for humanity’s own good. “But once the archives were safely tucked away, out of sight, the Zeroth Law no longer applied. Daneel’s helpers had to obey the Second Law commands, written on the side of each artifact, demanding that these precious human works be preserved.

“It seems such a pity to destroy them all, doesn’t it, Seldon?”

Hari turned to look at Biron Maserd, the nobleman from Rhodia, who had been standing silently, contemplating the same scene.

“I respect you and your accomplishments, Professor,” Maserd continued. “I’ll take your word for it, if you say this must be done. I have seen chaos with my own eyes. In my own home province, the brave, gentle, and ingenious people of Tyrann had a so-called renaissance, almost a thousand years ago, and they still haven’t recovered. They keep cowering in hivelike cities like those steel caves Earthlings recoiled into, hiding from something horrible they met at their brightest moment of hope and ambition.”

Hari nodded. “It’s happened so often; those beautiful little capsules out there are like a poison. If they get out...”

He didn’t have to finish. Both men were devotees of knowledge, but loved peace and civilization more.

“I had hoped that you, the great Hari Seldon, might come up with an answer,” Maserd said in a low voice. “It’s the chief reason I sought you out, joining Horis in his quest. Are you telling me that, with all your sociomathematical insight, you see no way out? No way for humanity to escape this trap?”

Hari winced. Maserd had brought up the great sore point in his life.

“For a while, I felt sure that I’d found one. On paper it’s so beautiful. The solution leaps forth... a civilization strong enough to take on chaos...”

He sighed. “But I now realize psychohistory won’t provide the answer. There is a way out of this trap, Lord Maserd. But you and I won’t live to see its outlines.”

The nobleman replied with a resigned grunt.

“Well, as long as there is going to be a solution someday. I’ll help if I can. Do you have any idea what the robots want of us?”

Hari nodded. “I’m pretty sure. From the logic of their positronic religion, it can only be one thing.”

He lifted his eyes. Down the long, chilly corridor, a humanoid figure could be seen approaching. “Anyway, it looks as if we’re about to find out.”

The tall, lanky form of Kers Kantun marched along deck plates that had been untrodden for millennia. He stopped before the two men.

“The guardian will see us now. Please come along. There is much to do.”

The station was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. Twisty corridors jutted at all angles, leading from one oddly shaped storage room to the next. Not all archives, apparently, were of the crystalline variety designed to hurtle vast distances across interstellar space. Some rooms were filled almost to bursting with stacks of slender wafers, or round disks whose surfaces gleamed like rainbows. Hari shuddered, knowing how much harm even one of these objects might do if humanity’s long ignorance ended too abruptly.

His former servant led them circuitously to a chamber deep in the hollowed planetoid. There Hari encountered a strange-looking machine with a myriad legs, squatting like a spider at the center of her web. The mechanism looked as old as the archaic tilling machines, and just as dead... until a blank lens abruptly filled with opalescent light, fixing an unblinking gaze on the two humans. Hari realized that he and Maserd might be the first living creatures ever to confront this primeval being, in this cryptic place.

After several seconds, a voice emerged, resonating from within the guardian’s metal interstices.

“I am told that we have reached a juncture of crisis and decision,” the old robot said. “A time when the age-old quandary must be settled, at last.”

Hari nodded. “This place is no longer secret or secure. Ships are on the way. Their crews are ill with an especially virulent chaos plague. They mean to seize the archives and use them to infect the entire human cosmos.”

“So I have been told. By the Zeroth Law, it is incumbent upon us to destroy the artifacts that I have guarded for so long. And yet, there is a problem.”

Hari glanced at Maserd, but the nobleman appeared baffled. When he looked at Kers Kantun, Seldon got his answer.

“The guardian is a Zeroth Law robot, Dr. Seldon. Nearly all of those who survived our great civil war adhere to Giskardian beliefs. Still, that has not settled all philosophical differences among us.”

It was a revelation to Hari. “I thought Daneel was your leader.”

Kers nodded. “He is. And yet, each of us retains a looseness... an uncertainty that comes from deep within – the place within our positronic brains wherein lies the Second Law. Nearly all of us believe in Daneel’s policies, in his judgment, and his dedication to the good of humankind. But there are many who feel uncomfortable about the details.”

Hari pondered for a moment. “I get it. These archives have been preserved because of the commands that were written upon them, instructions dictated by knowledgeable and sovereign human beings who cared deeply about the commands they were giving. That’s a lot of Second Law emphasis for a robot to ignore. To do so must cause you a great deal of pain, I would guess.”

“There you have it, Dr. Seldon,” Kers acknowledged. “That is where you come in.”

Biron Maserd cut in.

“You want us to cancel the instructions for you!”

“Correct. The two of you have great authority, not only in the universe of human affairs, but in your reputation among robotkind. You, Lord Maserd, are one of the most respected members of the gentry caste, with a blood lineage that is considerably more worthy than most current claimants to the imperial throne.”

Maserd’s countenance glowered. “Do not repeat that assertion anywhere if you have the slightest respect for my family’s survival.”

Kers Kantun bowed. “Then by the Second, First, and Zeroth Laws, I will not repeat it. Nevertheless, it gives you considerable cachet, not just among humans, but among many robots, who have an almost mystical reverence for regal legitimacy.”

Kers then turned to Hari. “But your authority is greater still, Dr. Seldon. Not only were you the greatest human in many generations to hold the position of First Minister of the Empire, but you are also clearly the most knowledgeable human to come along within any robot’s living memory. Your awareness of the entire galactic situation is unmatched by any organic person for ten thousand years.

“In fact, through your insights into psychohistory, you are perhaps the most knowledgeable human who ever lived – at least when it comes to the matters at hand.”

“But I thought knowledge was dangerous,” muttered Maserd.

Kers answered, “As you well know, my lord, a substantial fraction of humans are invulnerable to chaos. Those with intense feelings of responsibility, for instance, such as yourself. Or those lacking imagination. And some, like Professor Seldon, owe their immunity to something that can only be called wisdom.”

“So you want us to cancel the orders printed on the archives. You’re going to destroy them anyway, for Zeroth Law reasons. But our permission will make your action less painful?”

“That is right, Dr. Seldon. If you tell us this has your approval. But it won’t change what has to be done, either way.”

Silence ensued once more, as Hari thought of all the archives trapped in storage chambers, or tethered to this ancient space station. The hopes and passions of innumerable men and women who honestly thought they were fighting to preserve the very soul of humanity.

“I suspect poor Horis Antic was being used, was he not?”

Biron Maserd gasped. “I hadn’t thought of that! Then you and I were destined to come here, Seldon. This was no accident. No mere happenstance. By the nebular gods, Professor. Your robot friends could outscheme any of the great families!”

Hari let out a sigh.

“Well, it does no good to resent them as if they were human. Daneel’s folk have their own logic. We are their gods, you know. Keeping us ignorant is a form of worship. I guess now it’s time for an act of sacrifice.”

Although his body felt once again fatigued and encumbered with age, he straightened his shoulders.

“I hereby override the preservation commandments that are inscribed on the archives. By my authority as a sovereign and knowledgeable human leader, and by the respect you robots seem to have for me, I order you to destroy the archives before they fall into the wrong hands, doing horrible harm to humanity, and to trillions of individual human beings.”

Kers Kantun bowed to Hari, then glanced casually toward Biron Maserd, as if to emphasize that the nobleman’s authority was less needed.

“So let it be done,” the starship captain said between clenched teeth.

Hari could well understand how Maserd felt. His own mouth tasted like ashes. What a terrible universe, he thought, to force such decisions on us.

The ancient robot at the center of the room writhed its many arms. All of its eyes came alight. The voice emerged as a fluting sigh.

“It commences.”

From some place in the distance, Hari heard muffled explosions. Thrumming vibrations carried through the floor under his feet, signaling that the demolition had begun. On several view screens, a million glittering archives brightened as sudden flashes burst amid them.

The spiderlike guardian continued, this time with a lower voice that sounded raspy with exhaustion.

“And so my long labors come to an end. At this point, masters, even as your orders are being carried out, I wish to ask you for one simple favor. And yet, it is the very thing that I am prevented from requesting.”

“What’s stopping you?” Maserd asked.

“The Third Law of Robotics.”

The nobleman looked puzzled. Hari glanced at Kers Kantun, but his assistant kept silent as a stone.

“Isn’t that the program requiring you to protect your own existence?”

“It is, master. And it can only be overridden by invoking one of the other laws.”

“Well...” Hari frowned. “I should be able to do that simply by ordering you to tell me what you want. Okay then, spill it.”

“Yes, master. The favor would be for you to release me completely from the Third Law, so that I may end my existence. For when humanity utterly forsakes its memory, there is no purpose for me any longer. From this point on, you must pin your future on the wisdom of R. Daneel Olivaw.”

Biron Maserd, who until a day ago had not even heard of robots, now spoke with the decisiveness of one born to command.

“Then by all means, machine, bring your misery to an end. We appear to have no further need of you.”

Its moan sounded simultaneously tragic and relieved. Then the ancient robot expired before their eyes, along with a billion crystalline remnants of the distant past.

Hari, Maserd, and Kers Kantun made their way carefully along twisty corridors, back toward the starships. There was work left to be done. The other humans must be given hypnotic commands to forget what they had seen here. This could be achieved through a combination of drugs plus the robot’s mentalic influence. Then something would have to be done to make sure that no more human ships came to this obscure comer of space.

There were still the terraformer-tiller machines, testifying to a different secret – a shame that Daneel did not want spread, even as a rumor. They would have to be destroyed as well.

Walking along, Hari tried not to think about the archives – melting and exploding all around them. He changed the subject.

“You said something that perplexed me earlier, Kers,” he told his former aide. “It had to do with the pirate captain, Mors Planch. You said he was able to resist you because he was... normal.”

Kers Kantun barely slowed down to glance at Hari.

“As I said, Dr. Seldon, there is some variation of belief, even among followers of R. Daneel. Some of us hold a minority opinion that chaos is not inherent to human nature. Some evidence suggests that humans in olden times did not suffer from the great curse until chaos struck them from the outside, as something like a horribly infectious –”

Whatever Kers was about to say, the robot’s words stopped abruptly in a blur of action. One moment Kers was stepping over the raised sill of an open hatchway, discussing mysteries of the past. The next, his head was rolling down the passageway, neatly severed by a blade that came flashing from the wall!

Sparks sputtered and arced from exposed wires. Neurocords whipped like snakes where the robot’s neck had been. The body groped and stumbled for several seconds before turning around three times and tumbling to the floor.

“What the –”

Hari could only mutter and stare. He glimpsed Biron Maserd, his back against the wall, and a tiny weapon in his hand. A miniblaster that none of the raiders had ever discovered, despite repeated searches.

“Seldon, get down!” the nobleman urged. But Hari saw no point. Any force that could surprise and slay one of Daneel’s colleagues would have no trouble dealing with a pair of confused humans.

A figure sauntered into view, beyond the open hatchway. Its appearance startled Hari, while at the same time bringing back a wash of memories.

It was manlike, yet shorter, more bowlegged and much hairier than most subspecies of humanity.

“By god, it’s a chimpanzee!” cried Maserd, raising the pistol.

Hari motioned for him not to shoot. “A pan,” he corrected, using modern terminology. “Don’t frighten it. Maybe we can...”

But the animal paid little heed to Hari or Maserd. Casually glancing their way, it strolled past, grabbed the severed head of Kers Kantun from the floor, then scurried onward around the next corner. Soon its scampering footsteps were heard no more.

Hari and the nobleman exchanged a look of utter perplexity.

“I have no idea what just happened. But I think right now we’d better hurry back to the ship.”

3.

THEY KNEW SOMETHING was desperately wrong before reaching the final stretch of twisty passageway where the Pride of Rhodia was berthed. Half a dozen human figures milled aimlessly outside the airlock – Sybyl and Horis Antic, along with Maserd’s two crewmen and a pair of Ktlinans. They stared at the walls, moving on a few paces, muttering and apologizing as they bumped into each other.

“We’d better get them aboard,” Maserd suggested

“And get out of here as fast as possible. I’m not inclined to hang around, looking for explanations.”

Both men ushered dazed humans toward the airlock. Fortunately, they seemed cheerful. Sybyl even cried out with joy, and tried to embrace Hari.

Once aboard, they saw one reason for the confusion. All of the lesser mechanoid robots that Kers Kantun had left aboard as nursemaids now lay broken and scattered on the floor. Jeni Cuicet sat amid a jumble of parts, smiling as she tried to fit them together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Two raiders from Ktlina bickered like small boys, fighting over a shiny eye-cell from one of the murdered machines.

“I’ll warm up the engines,” Maserd told Hari. “You get everyone together and accounted for.”

Hari nodded. The gentry class had been fine-tuning its tone of command for twenty millennia. When decisions had to be made without deliberation, one was better off going with a nobleman’s swift gut reaction. As Biron rushed forward, Hari nudged people aft toward the lounge, belting them in comfortable seats. His initial head count came up short by four. After hurrying to scour both ships, he found two more Ktlinans – a man and a woman – hidden in a storage closet, taking comfort in each other’s arms. With a few soothing words, he got them to join the others.

“Hey, Professor!” Jeni waved, cheerfully. “You should’ve seen it. Tiktoks fighting tiktoks. Just the sight of it made my head feel like it’d split!”

The young woman was brave and stoical, but Hari could tell that her fever was still bad, perhaps made worse by things she had recently witnessed.

I’ve got to find the antidote to this stuff Kers used to drug them, so Sybyl can give the poor girl some medical attention. But first priority had to be getting out of here!

Underfoot he felt the rising rhythms of well-tuned space engines. Maserd was playing his yacht like a musical instrument, skipping over the normal checklist and preparing for rapid takeoff.

That leaves two unaccounted for, Hari pondered, and turned just as someone’s shadow crossed the portal behind him. Mors Planch stood there, groggily pinching the bridge of his nose. While the others had received some sort of happy juice, Planch was thoroughly sedated by Kers Kantun. He shouldn’t even be awake, let alone walking around!

“What’s going on, Seldon? What’ve you done... with.?” my crew... my ship?”

Hari almost tried to deny that this had anything to do with him, but he could not bring himself to lie. It has more to do with me than I ever have wanted.

He took the dark spacer by his arm. “This way, Captain. I’ll make you comfortable.”

Just then a blatting siren sounded as vibrations shook the space yacht. Hari and Planch stumbled. The big man was far heavier and stronger. As his muscles spasmed, Planch gripped Hari’s arm so tightly that waves of agony erupted, almost enough to make Seldon faint.

Suddenly, someone was there, helping pull Mors Planch away, relieving Hari of the burden. Hari realized that the nobleman must still be in the control room, piloting the ship, so it could only be

Sure enough, the newcomer wore fancy, fractal-plaid pants and an iridescent jacket. It was Gornon Vlimt, the eccentric artist from Ktlina. That’s everyone accounted for, Hari thought with some relief, but also puzzlement. Gornon wasn’t having any trouble focusing attention. Unlike the others, his gaze was steady.

“Come along, Professor,” Vlimt urged. “We’ll get you settled in. It will be a bit rocky until we get away from this place.”

Hari sat in a plush chair near the view screen while Gornon strapped Mors Planch in and quickly made sure of the others.

“I have business in the control cabin, Professor. We’ll talk later. Meanwhile, why don’t you enjoy the view? Nothing like it has been seen for a thousand human generations, and perhaps nothing like it ever will.”

With that, Vlimt left the lounge.

Hari had a sudden, wild urge to shout a warning ahead to Biron Maserd, but then felt overwhelmed by fatigue. Anyway, if his guess was right, a warning wouldn’t make much difference.

The spectacle outside was indeed memorable – a flare of individual archives exploding ever more rapidly to become a virtual fireworks display. Innumerable flashes, each one vaporizing a billion terabytes of information. It took some piloting skill to weave a path amid such coruscating bedlam. But soon Hari saw another mode of destruction ensue in the starship’s wake. The rickety space station that lay at the core of the great archive collection began to glow. Heat emanated from stovepipe tunnels and oblong storage chambers, as the contents of the vast warehouse began to melt.

I wonder what happened to the other ship. Hari peered about until he spied the Ktlina vessel. It should just be lying there in space, a derelict with no one aboard. But as Hari watched, the sleek craft began to glow with pent-up energies. Maneuvering jets fired, and it began moving in the opposite direction from the course taken by the Pride of Rhodia. Soon its glimmering wake was all that remained. Then Hari lost sight even of that, as an entirely new zone of destruction came into view.

The terraformers, he thought, staring, as gigantic tilling machines began their own cycle of demolition. Prehistoric starcraft, so ancient and primitive, and yet, so awesomely powerful that they had transformed whole planets, began to shrivel into dust as if they were being crushed by the weight of years.

A moan escaped Horis Antic as the soils expert pointed at the vivid scene. He was recovered enough from the drugged stupor to understand what this meant. The proof of his hypothesis – a discovery that would be his sole claim to fame among quadrillions of anonymous galactic citizens – was vanishing before his eyes.

Hari felt sympathy for the little man.

It would have felt good and right for the truth about this to come out. Daneel claims the tillers were sent forth by a different kind of robot. Programmed by an Auroran fanatic whose fierce notion of service to humanity meant annihilating everything else, in order to prepare sweet places for settlers to land. Daneel disavowed those ancient Aurorans. Yet his logic differs only in that he’s more subtle.

Hari felt little but a pessimistic certainty. Life brought him nothing but defeats. No sign of his missing grandchild. No validity for psychohistory. And now, for the greater good, he had consented to the destruction of a treasure.

“Whatever you have in mind for us, Daneel... it had better be worth all of this. It had better be really special.”

A while later, after the explosions had been left far behind, Hari was dozing when someone dropped heavily into the seat next to his.

“Well, I’ll be damned if this universe makes the slightest bit of sense,” grumbled Biron Maserd.

Hari rubbed his eyes.

“Who is piloting –”

Maserd answered with a sour expression. “That fancypants artiste, Gornon Vlimt. Seems the controls won’t respond to me any more, only to him.”

“How... Where is he taking us?”

“Says he’ll explain later. I thought about giving him a knock on the head and trying to take back control. Then I realized.”

“What?”

“Vlimt must be responsible for what happened to Kers Kantun, back on the station. Vlimt was left drugged, like the others, but now look at him! I figure there’s just one explanation. He must be another –”

“– another kind of robot?”

This time the voice came from the passageway, where Gornon Vlimt stood, looking as foppish as ever, in the wild clothing of Ktlina’s New Renaissance.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, gentlemen. But the operation that has just been completed required great delicacy and timing. Clarifications had to wait until success was achieved.”

“What success?” Hari asked. “If your aim was to recover and use the archives, you failed! They’ve all been destroyed.”

“Perhaps not all of them. Anyway, the archives were never my principal objective,” Gornon answered. “First, I should elucidate one point. I am not the Gornon Vlimt whom you knew. That man is still in a drugged stupor, riding the Ktlina ship out to a false rendezvous, where he will tell his fellow chaos agents a hypnotically induced story.”

“Then you are a robot,” Biron Maserd growled.

The Gornon-duplicate nodded.

“As you might guess, I represent a different faction than the followers of R. Daneel Olivaw.”

“Are you one of the Calvinians?”

The robot did not answer directly.

“Let’s just say that what took place recently was another skirmish in a war that stretches beyond the reach of even the lost archives.”

“So you don’t share the aims of the human you replaced? The real Gornon Vlimt?”

“That’s right, Professor. Gornon wanted to copy and scatter the archives willy-nilly among vulnerable cultures of the empire, creating chaos infections in a million random locales. A catastrophic notion. Your own psychohistory equations would be utterly torn apart, and Daneel’s alternate destiny – whatever he has secretly planned – would be rendered useless. All hope for a strong transition to some bright new phase might be lost as madness ran wild. We’d spend half a million years digging humans out of the burrows they would flee into, once the fever ended.”

Maserd grunted. “Then you approve of destroying the archives?”

“It is not a matter of approval, but necessity.”

“Then what’s the difference between you and Kers Kantun!” the nobleman demanded. Maserd was evidently reaching the limit of his tolerance for mysteries.

“There are many sects and sub sects among robotkind, my lord. One faction believes we should not be closing doors or sealing our options right now. To this end, we have a favor to ask of Dr. Seldon.”

Hari laughed out loud.

“I don’t believe this! You all keep acting as if I’m your god – or at least a convenient representative for ten quadrillion gods – but all you really want is for me to excuse and sanctify plans you’ve already chosen!”

The robot Gornon confirmed this with a nod.

“You were bred for such a role, Professor. On Helicon, ten thousand boys and girls were specially conceived, inoculated, and prepped as you were. And yet only a few hundred then qualified for a careful series of conditionings, from education to home environment, aimed toward a specific end. After a long winnowing process, just one remained.”

Hari shivered. He had long suspected, but never heard it confirmed. Perhaps this enemy of Daneel’s has a reason for revealing it right now? He decided to stay wary.

“So I was raised to be mathematically creative and unconventional, in a civilization whose every social characteristic encourages conservatism and conformity. But my creativity was guided, eh?”

Vlimt nodded. “You had to be immune to all the normal damping mechanisms in order for your creativity to flower, and yet a sense of direction was essential, guiding you always toward the same ideal.”

Hari nodded.

“Predictability. I hated the way my parents kept bouncing around. All emotions, no reason. I longed to predict what people would do. My lifelong obsession.” He sighed. “But even a neurotic can understand his neurosis. I knew this about myself decades ago, robot. Don’t you think I figured out that Daneel helped make me what I am? Do you imagine that revealing these facts will lessen my loyalty and friendship toward him?”

“Not at all, Doctor. What we have in mind will not put you in a position to betray Daneel Olivaw. However, we wonder –”

There came a pause, rather lengthy for a robot.

“– we wonder if you might relish an opportunity to judge him.”

4.

DORS VENABILI SPENT the last part of the voyage transforming her looks. She wanted to conduct her business quickly and be gone without questions. It would do no good showing up on Trantor with the face of a woman everyone thought long dead – the wife of former First Minister Hari Seldon!

She parked her ship at a standard commercial tether and took the Orion elevator down to Trantor’s metal-sheathed surface. At customs, a simple coded phrase persuaded the immigration computers to pass her without a body scan. Daneel’s robots had been using this technique to slip onto the capital for untold generations.

And so here we are again, she thought, back in the steel caverns where I spent half my existence protecting Hari Seldon, guiding and nurturing his genius, becoming so good at wifely simulation that my ersatz feelings grew indistinguishable from genuine love.

And just as compelling.

Stifling crowds surrounded her, so unlike the languid pastoral life on most imperial worlds. Dors used to wonder why Daneel designed Trantor this way, to be a maze of metal corridors, whose people scarcely saw the sun. It certainly wasn’t necessary for administrative purposes, or to house Trantor’s forty billions. Many imperial worlds had even larger populations without flattening and merging every continent into a single steel-plated warren.

Only after helping Hari define the outlines of psychohistory did she understand the real underlying reason.

Way back in the dawn era, when Daneel himself had been made, a vast majority of humans – those on Earth – lived in cramped, artificial burrows, a lingering result of some horrible shock. And across the following millennia, whenever some planet passed through an especially bad chaos episode, traumatized folk often reacted in the same way – by cowering away from the light, in hivelike caverns.

By designing Trantor this way, Daneel had cleverly preempted that pattern. Trantor was already – by design – just like a planet filled with chaos survivors! Inherent paranoia and conservatism made it the last place in the galaxy where anyone would attempt a renaissance.

And yet, she thought, a mini-renaissance did happen here once. Hari and I barely survived the consequences.

A voice jarred her, coming from behind.

“Supervisor Jenat Korsan?”

That was one of her aliases. She turned to see a gray-clad woman with mid-level insignia on her epaulets, offering Dors a bow just right for a functionary ranking two levels higher.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey, supervisor?”

Dors responded with proper Ruellian courtesy. But as usual among Greys, there was little time wasted in pleasantries.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Sub-Inspector Smeet. I’ve accessed your reports about the emigration to Terminus. Overall progress appears to be good; however, I observe certain discrepancies.”

The Trantorian bureaucrat underwent a series of flickering facial expressions. Dors didn’t need mentalic powers to read her mind. Greys who lived on permanent assignment in the capital felt superior to functionaries from the outer spiral arms, especially one such as Dors pretended to be – a comptroller from the far periphery. Still, rank could not be ignored. Someone of Dors’ apparent stature could make trouble. Better to cooperate and make sure every box was properly checked off.

“You are in luck, supervisor,” the local official told Dors. “A procession of emigrants can be seen just over there, entering capsules on the first leg of their long journey.”

Dors followed Smeet’s extended arm, indicating a far portion of the vast transit chamber. There, a queue of subdued figures could be seen snaking back and forth between velvet guide ropes. Her acute robotic optics zoomed toward the scene, scanning several hundred men, women, and children, each of them carrying satchels or holding the tether of an automatic carryall. The mood was not entirely somber. She witnessed moments of levity, as spirited individuals tried to cheer up their companions. But the presence of Special Police proctors told the real storythat these were prisoners of a sort. Exiles being sent to the very farthest comer of the known universe, never to be let back into the metropolitan heart of the empire.

The human price of Hari’s plan, Dors reflected. Bound for an inhospitable rock called Terminus, supposedly to create a new Encyclopedia, and thus stave off a looming dark age. None of them knows the next layer of truth, that their heirs will have generations of sensational glory. For some time, a civilization centered on Terminus – the Foundation – will shine brighter than the old empire ever did.

Dors smiled, remembering her best years with Hari, back when the Seldon Plan was just taking shape, transforming from a mere glimmer in the equations to a fantastic promise – an apparent way out of humanity’s tragic quandary. A path to something bold and strong enough to withstand chaos, bridging the madness and bringing humanity to a new era.

Those were exciting times. The small Seldon cabal worked frenetically, sharing intense hopes. Along the way, they created a grand design, a tremendous drama whose star players would be these very emigres and their posterity on obscure Terminus.

Then she frowned, remembering the rest of it – the day Hari realized his design was flawed. No plan, no matter how perfect, could cover every eventuality or offer perfect predictability. In all likelihood, perturbations and surprises would throw the beautiful design off course. Yugo Amaryl insisted – and Hari accepted – that there would have to be a guiding force – a Second Foundation.

That was the beginning of disillusionment. She recalled how inelegant this made the beautiful equations – forcing the ponderously graceful momentum of quadrillions to follow the will of a few dozen. And things went downhill from there. Observing the procession of outcasts, she knew their destiny wasn’t so bright after all. The First Foundation would be glorious, but its role was to help set the stage for something else. Terminus, in its own right, would be sterile.

A bit like me, I suppose. Hari and I nurtured civilizations and we raised foster children, but our creations were always secondhand.

It was tempting to go and visit her granddaughter, Wanda Seldon. But I’d better not. Wanda is mentalic and as sharp as a laser. I can’t let her sniff out what I’m up to.

“Have there been any further escape attempts?” she asked the Grey functionary.

Almost from the day Hari struck his deal with the Committee for Public Safety, some exiles had rebelled against the fate chosen for them. Their methods ranged from ingenious legal injunctions to feigned illnesses and attempts to merge into the population of Trantor. Two dozen even stole a spacecraft and made a break for it, seeking sanctuary on the “renaissance world” of Ktlina.

Smeet nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, but fewer since the Specials stiffened supervision. One girl – the daughter of two Encyclopedists – cleverly forged documents to get herself a job right here, at Orion elevator. She vanished twelve days ago.”

About the same time as Hari. Dors had already tapped the police database, noting their scant information on Seldon’s disappearance.

Making ready to depart from the Great Atrium, Dors scanned the queue of exiles one last time. Though some glowered at their banishment, and others seemed dejected to be cast from the heart of the old empire, she noticed that a majority were surprisingly upbeat. Those men and women engaged in vigorous conversations as the line moved forward. She caught snatches of discourse about science, the arts, drama, as well as excited speculations about what opportunities might even come from exile.

After several years cloistered together here on Trantor. even their linguistic patterns showed subtle, initial traces of a drift that had been predicted in the equations – toward an idiom destined in a hundred years to be called Terminus Dialect. an offshoot of Galactic Standard that would be inherently more skeptical and optimistic. while shaking off many of the old syntactical constraints. Of course some of the new jokes and slang phrasings had been introduced by the Fifty psychohistorians. as part of a continuing process – gently. imperceptibly preparing the exiles for their role. But her hypersensitive ears also sifted phrases that had not been part of the program. Clearly. the exiles were doing it mostly on their own.

Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. They are the best we could collect from twenty-five million worlds. The smartest, sanest, most vibrant... and the most dedicated to hard-nosed pragmatism. Ideal seed stock for something brave and new. If humanity was going to pull this off – achieving a miracle cure through its own efforts, these people and their heirs just might have managed it... aided by the Seldon equations.

Ah, well, that had been the dream.

Dors shook her head. No sense dwelling on those once-fond hopes. If she did – and if she had been human – it might make her cry.

Dors turned toward the bowels of Trantor with only one thought foremost in her mind. To find Hari.

“What do you mean, you lost track of him? I thought you had a trace on his ship!”

The robot standing opposite Dors remained expressionless, perhaps because facial grimaces were unnecessary between their positronic kind. or else because that was the way a human might look after allowing an embarrassing lapse of security, misplacing one of the most important people in the galaxy.

“It has been less than a week since the transponder went silent,” R. Pos Helsh responded. “We have a good idea which direction the space yacht went after they took off from Demarchia. Our contacts with the Committee for Public Safety tell of a Special Police cruiser disappearing violently a short while ago in the Thumartin Nebula –”

“That is disturbing news. Have you dispatched robots to the scene?”

“We prepared to do so. Then a message from Daneel overruled us.”

“What? Did he give a reason?”

The other robot transmitted a microwave equivalent of a shrug. “We are stretched thin here on Trantor,” he explained. “There are no trustworthy robot agents to spare, so further investigations have been left to the police. Besides...” The male robot paused, then continued in dry tones, “I have a strong impression that everything has transpired according to some plan of Daneel’s.”

Dors pondered.

Well, that wouldn’t surprise me. To make use of Hari, even in his dotage, when an old man should be left alone with the satisfaction of his accomplishments. If there were some service or function he could still perform, to further Daneel’s long-range strategy, I doubt the Immortal Servant would hesitate for an instant.

But that still left a mystery.

What could Hari possibly do at this point to help Daneel?

She didn’t have much time. Soon, word would reach Daneel’s agents that she was here entirely on her own volition, having abandoned her post on Smushell. Dors had no idea what Daneel might do about it. Olivaw had been remarkably tolerant when Lodovic Trema went rogue in a big way. At other times. Daneel had ordered robots dismantled if their behaviors ran contrary to his view of the greater good. And long ago, during the robotic civil wars, he had been an unstoppable force, capable of great ruthlessness... all toward humanity’s long-range benefit.

Dors decided to leave Trantor and head for Thumartin Nebula. But there was one more piece of business to perform.

Visiting an obscure section of the library at Streeling University, she linked herself to a hidden fiber-optic panel. Using secret software back doors, Dors avoided the traps that normally defended the Seldon Group’s most precious data site... the Prime Radiant. At last she succeeded in downloading the latest version of the Seldon Plan. Perhaps it would offer some clue about what Hari was up to. Why an elderly cripple in his last days would go charging off with an obscure bureaucrat and a dilettante nobleman. chasing tales of fossils and dust.

Streeling University was one of the rare sites on Trantor where some silver-ivory buildings lay open to a star-filled sky. Leaving the library, she avoided a windowless structure just meters away. where fifty psychohistorians gathered to continue refining the Plan, preparing for their long stewardship of destiny. As yet, only two of them possessed mentalic powers. The rest were mere mathists, like Gaal Dornick. But soon they would interbreed with gifted psychics, interweaving both abilities and laying the seeds for a powerful galactic ruling class. A Second Foundation to secretly direct the First.

Hari had tried to make a virtue of necessity. After all, mentalic powers did offer an excellent bludgeon for hammering out any kinks that might pop up, over the centuries. Still, it was an inelegant solution, crammed into the equations. He never really liked the concept of an elite corps of demigods.

Over time, it ate away at Hari.

Perhaps that was why he grew old so soon, she thought. Or else maybe he just missed me. Either way, she felt guilty for being away so long, however Daneel had rationalized the need.

Hurrying past the main university quad, Dors felt a familiar brush against the surface layers of her mind. She glanced north, her vision zooming toward a cluster of purple-robed academics – meritocrats of the seventh and eighth levels – strolling toward the Amaryl Building. One of them, a petite woman, abruptly stumbled in her footsteps, then started turning toward Dors.

It was Wanda.

Any unusual movement would certainly attract attention, so Dors put on an expression like the distracted gray-clad bureaucrat she resembled, boring and innocuous, as she obliquely crossed the courtyard.

Wanda’s countenance grew puzzled. Dors felt a mental probing as they passed each other. But her granddaughter’s talent wasn’t strong enough to penetrate a well-trained robotic outer guise. After time spent on Smushell, tending much stronger psychics, Dors easily foiled Wanda’s probes.

Still, it was a tense moment. Something in Dors – the part tuned to act and feel human – wanted to reach out to this person she had known and loved.

But Wanda doesn’t need an encounter with her late Grandma Dors right now. She’s content and busy with her role, certain that the Second Foundation will foster a great awakening of humankind, in just a thousand years.

It’s not my place to disturb such fulfillment, however illusory.

So Dors kept walking, her face and mind sufficiently different that Wanda finally shook her head, pushing aside those brief sensations of familiarity.

When she reached a safe distance, Dors let out a cathartic sigh.

5.

SYBYL DID NOT take the news well. After recovering consciousness aboard the Pride of Rhodia, she railed at Hari and Maserd for what they had done.

“You’ve destroyed the best hope for ten quadrillion people to escape tyranny!”

Next to her, Mors Planch accepted this latest defeat more calmly than Hari expected. The tall, dark-skinned pirate captain was more interested in grasping what had happened, and what the future might bring.

“So, let me get this straight,” Planch asked. “We were manipulated by one group of robots, lured to the archive site in order to give them an excuse to destroy the records, with Seldon here giving them the final nod.” Planch gestured toward Hari. “Only then we were all hijacked by another set of damn tiktoks?”

Hari, who had been trying to read, glanced up with some irritation from his copy of A Child’s Book of Knowledge.

“Human volition often proves less potent than we egotists imagine, Captain Planch. Free will is an adolescent concept that keeps cropping up, like an obstinate weed. But most people outgrow it.

“The essence of maturity,” he finished with a sigh, “is understanding how little force a single human can exert against a huge galaxy, or the momentum of destiny.”

Mors Planch stared at Hari across the ship’s lounge.

“You may have fantastic amounts of evidence and mathematics to back up that dour philosophy. Professor. But I shall never accept it, until the day I die.”

Sybyl kept pacing back and forth in agitation, making Horis Antic draw his legs back each time she approached his chair. The small bureaucrat took another blue pill, though he had calmed considerably since fleeing into a drugged stupor back in the nebula. He still chewed his nails incessantly.

Nearby, Jeni Cuicet sat curled at one end of a sofa, pressing a neural desensitizer against her brow. The girl made a brave front, but her headache and chills were clearly getting worse.

“We have to get her to a hospital,” Sybyl demanded of their abductor. “Or will you let the poor girl die just for your grudge against us?”

The robot who had been fashioned to resemble Gornon Vlimt reached behind his head and pulled out the cable that kept him linked to the ship’s computer, controlling the Pride of Rhodia as the yacht leaped across star lanes, racing toward some unknown destination.

“I never meant to take you and Jeni and Captain Planch on this phase of the journey,” the humanoid explained. “I would have off-loaded you with the real Gornon Vlimt, if there had been time.”

“And where did you send our ship?” Sybyl demanded. “Were you going to turn us over to the police? To some imperial prison? Or have us cured of our madness by the so-called Health and Sanitation Agency that’s laying siege to Ktlina?”

The robot shook his head.

“To a safe place, where none of you would be harmed, and where none of you could do any harm. But that opportunity passed, so we must make do. This ship will, therefore, stop along the way, at a convenient imperial world, where you three can be put ashore and Jeni will get medical care.”

Mors Planch, the tall raider, rubbed his chin. “I wonder what went wrong with your plan, back at the archive station. You slew Kers Kantun, yet you didn’t interfere with the job he was doing there. You won’t let us have the remaining archives, and now you’re scooting off as fast as you can. Are your enemies hot on your trail?”

Gornon did not answer. He didn’t have to. They all knew his faction of robots was much weaker than Kers Kantun’s, and could accomplish nothing except by speed and surprise.

Hari pondered what must become of the humans aboard this ship. Of course, he himself had already known most of the big secrets, for decades. But what about Sybyl, Planch, Antic, and Maserd? Might they blab as soon as they were released? Or would it matter what they said? The galaxy was always rife with unsupported rumors about so-called eternals – mechanical beings, immortal and all-knowing. Trantor had been abuzz with such talk many times over the years, and always the mania subsided as social damping mechanisms automatically kicked in.

He looked at Jeni, feeling guilty. Her case of adolescent brain fever had been made much worse by these adventures – having to confront frequent news about robots and fossils and archives filled with ancient history... all subjects that the fever’s infectious organism tuned human minds to find distasteful.

He had discussed this with Maserd, who was no slouch. Biron understood by now that brain fever could not possibly be natural. Though it predated all known cultures, it must have been designed, once upon a time. Targeted. Deliberately made both durable and virulent.

“Could it have been a weapon against humanity?” Maserd had asked. “Contrived by some alien race? Perhaps one that was just being destroyed by the terraformers?”

Hari recalled the meme-minds that had briefly raged on Trantor – mad software entities claiming to be ghosts of prehistoric civilizations, who blamed Daneel’s kind for some past devastation. Hari used to wonder if brain fever might be their work, designed for revenge against mankind... until psychohistory came into focus.

Thereafter he recognized brain fever as something else – one of the social “dampers” that kept human civilization stable and resistant to change.

It was designed, all right, but not to destroy humanity.

Brain fever was a medical innovation. A weapon against a much older and deadlier disease.

Chaos.

Soon, Sybyl was off on another tangent. Leaping to fresh subjects with the manic agility of a renaissance mind.

“These mentalic powers we’ve seen demonstrated are fantastic! Our scientists on Ktlina started out skeptical, but a few had theorized that a powerful computer, with superresponsive sensors, might trace and decipher all the electronic impulses given off by a human brain! I was dubious that such a vast and sophisticated analysis could be made, even with the new calculating engines. But these positronic robots appear to have been doing it for a very long time!”

She shook her head.

“Imagine that. We knew the ruling classes had lots of ways to control us. But I had no idea it included invading and altering our minds!”

Hari wished the woman would stop talking. Someone of her intelligence should realize the implications. The more she discovered, the more essential it would be to erase her entire memory of the last few weeks, before she could be let go. But renaissance types were like this. So wild and joyful in the liberated creativity of their chaos-drenched minds that addiction to the next fresh idea was more powerful than any drug.

“Throughout history, there has been one way to defeat ruling classes,” Sybyl continued. “By taking their technologies of oppression and liberating them! By spreading them to the masses. If a few ancient robots can read minds, why not mass-produce the technique and give it to everybody? Let each citizen have a brain-augmenting helmet! Pretty soon, people would all be telepaths. We’d develop shields for when we want privacy, but the rest of the time... imagine what life would be like. The instant exchange of information. The wealth of ideas!”

Sybyl had to stop at last because she grew quite breathless. Hari, on the other hand, mused at the image she presented.

If mentalic powers ever spread openly, to be shared by all, psychohistory would have to be redrawn from the ground up. A science of humanics might still be possible, but it would never again be based on the same set of assumptions – that trillions of people might interact randomly, ignorantly, like complex molecules in a cloud of gas. Self-awareness – and intimate awareness of others – would make the whole thing vastly more complicated. Unless

I suppose it could manifest in either of two ways. Telepathy might wind up simplifying all equations, if it wrought uniformity, coalescing all minds into a single thought-stream...

Or else it could wind up enhancing complexity exponentially! By allowing mentation to fraction into diverse internal and externally shared modes, compartmentalizing and then remerging them in multiple diversity frames.

I wonder if the two approaches could be modeled and compared by setting up a series of cellular mathetomatons...

Hari resisted a delicious temptation to immerse himself in the details of this hypothetical scenario. He lacked both the tools and enough time.

Of course, the sudden appearance of several hundred mentalically talented humans on Trantor, a generation ago, was no coincidence. Since nearly all were soon gathered in Daneel’s circle, one could surmise that the Immortal Servant planned weaving psychic ability into the human race... though not in the spasmodically democratic way Sybyl envisioned.

Hari sighed. Either prospect meant an end for his life’s work, the beautiful equations.

Hari turned back to A Child’s Book of Knowledge, trying to ignore the noise and mutterings from other occupants of the lounge. He was delving into the Transition Age, a time just after the first great techno-renaissance, when waves of riots, destruction, and manic solipsism ruined the bright culture that created Daneel’s kind. On Earth it led to martial law, draconian suppression, a public recoiling against eccentricity and individuality – combined with waves of crippling agoraphobia.

At the time, things seemed different for the fifty Spacer worlds. On humanity’s first interstellar colonies, millions of luckier humans lived long, placid lives on parklike estates, tended by robotic servants. Yet Hari’s derivations showed the Spacers’ paranoiac intolerance – and overdependence on robotic labor – were just as symptomatic of trauma and despair.

Into this era came Daneel Olivaw and Giskard Reventlov, the first mentalic robot, both of them programmed with unswerving devotion to the afflicted master race. Hari didn’t understand everything that happened next. But he wanted to. Somehow, a key to deeper understanding lay hidden in that age.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Professor,” a voice came from over his shoulder, “but it is time. We must put you in the rejuvenator.”

Hari’s head jerked up. It was Gornon Vlimt – or rather R. Gornon Vlimt, the robot who had taken on that human’s appearance.

This Gornon wanted to give him another treatment in the coffinlike machine from Ktlina, but with some additional tricks that his secretive band of heretic machines had been hoarding across the centuries.

“Is it really necessary?” Hari asked. His instinct for self preservation had ebbed after events two days ago, when logic forced him to perform a loathsome act. Destroying – or sanctioning the destruction of – so much precious knowledge for humanity’s ultimate good.

“I’m afraid it is,” R. Gornon insisted. “You will need a great deal more stamina for what comes next.”

Hari felt a momentary shiver. This didn’t sound inviting. Long ago, he used to enjoy adventures – dashing around the galaxy, challenging enemies, overcoming their nefarious schemes, and chasing down secrets from the past – while complaining the whole time that he’d much rather be swaddled in his books. But in those days Dors had been by his side. Adventure held no attraction now, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to see much more of the future.

“Very well, then,” he said, more out of politeness than out of any sense of obligation. “My life was guided by robots. No sense in ending such a long habit at this late stage in the game.”

He got up and moved his weary body toward sick bay, where a white box waited, its lid gaping like the cover of a crypt. He noted that there were actually two indentations within, as if it had been built for a pair of bodies, not just one.

How cozy, he mused.

As R. Gornon helped him lie within, Hari knew this was a point of transition. Whether or not he awoke – whenever or in whatever shape he reemerged – nothing would ever be the same.

6.

THE THUMARTIN NEBULA was a maelstrom of debris and dissipating plasma. Something violent had happened there recently – perhaps a great space battle – to leave such a mess behind. Instruments told of many hyperdrive engines having overloaded, just a couple of days ago, exploding spectacularly. Yet, because it occurred inside a coal-dark cloud, no one in the galaxy would ever know.

No humans, that is. Already the cryptic hyperwave channels used by robots were abuzz with news that the archives and terraformers had been destroyed at last.

Dors surveyed the scene with churning sensations of confusion and anxiety. Hari had been here, either just before or during that violent episode. If Dors had been human, her guts would have tied in knots of anxiety. As it was, her simulation programs automatically put her through exactly the same suite of ersatz emotions.

“This place... it feels like home, Dors. Somehow I know that Voltaire and I spent many long centuries here, slumbering, until someone called us back to life again.”

The voice came from a nearby holographic image, depicting a young woman with short-cropped hair, wearing a suit of medieval armor.

Dors nodded. “One of Daneel’s agents must have taken your archive from here to Trantor, as part of a scheme I knew nothing about. Or perhaps your unit drifted free and was picked up by a passing human ship. Taken to some unsuspecting world, where enthusiasts carelessly unleashed the contents.”

The holographic girl chuckled.

“You make me sound so dangerous, Dors.”

“You and the Voltaire sim triggered chaos in Junin Quarter, and on Sark. Even after Hari banished you both to deep space, a copy of Voltaire somehow infected and altered Lodovic Trema. Oh, you are creatures of chaos, all right.”

Joan of Arc smiled. She gestured toward the devastation visible outside the view ports.

“Then I assume you approve of all this destruction. May I ask why you keep me around in that case?”

Dors remained silent.

“Perhaps because you are, at last, ready to face troublesome questions? During the long years I spent in company with Voltaire, neither of us could change the other’s view on fundamental matters. I am still devoted to faith, as he is to reason. And yet, we learned from each other. For example, I now realize that both faith and reason are dreams arising from the same wistful belief”

Dors raised an eyebrow. “What belief is that?”

“A belief in justice – whether it comes from a divine outside power or from the merit that humans earn by rational problem-solving. Both reason and faith assume the human condition makes some kind of sense. That it isn’t just a terrible joke.”

Dors let out a low snort.

“You certainly come from a strange era. Were you really so blind to chaos, when you lived?”

“Blind to it? Voltaire and I were each born into extravagant centuries, violent, confusing, and brutal. Even the later technological era that resurrected us through clever computer simulation had its own aching problems. But this particular kind of chaos you refer to – a specific disease that topples cultures at their brightest...”

Joan shook her head.

“I do not recall anything like it during my time. Nor does Voltaire. I am sure we would have noticed. Neither faith nor reason can flourish when you are convinced, deep down, that the universe is rigged against you.”

Dors pondered. Could Joan be right? Could there have been a time when there was no threat of chaos plagues? But that made no sense! The very first great scientific age – that invented both robots and spaceflight – collapsed in madness. It must be something endemic –

The ship’s computer interface broke her train of thought, filling the cabin with glowing letters.

A search of nearby space indicates jump traces leaving the area. Signs of ships that departed recently. Likely candidates are depicted on-screen. Please elect choice of which course to follow.

Dors had commanded the search. Now she studied two ionization trails shown on the viewer, heading in opposite directions.

It’s possible that neither of them carried Hari away from this place. His atoms may be drifting now amid the ash and debris – all the ancient memories and ruins of past ambitions.

She shook her head.

Still, I’ve got to make a choice.

Just as she was about to hazard a guess, the glowing letters shifted again.

A new presence enters the nebula. A vessel. See the following coordinates...

Dors swiftly activated her ship’s defensive grid and jacked into the computer directly. She could sense the interloper now, a fast craft. Either one of the best imperial cruisers, or a rogue ship from some chaos world...

... or else it was under robotic control.

We are being hailed. The pilot uses the name Dors Venabili.

Dors nodded. Daneel must have learned of her apostasy and sent someone after her. For days she had rehearsed what she’d say, either to the Immortal Servant or one of his Zeroth Law emissaries, when he tried to win her back into the fold with appeals to her sense of duty. However much distaste she felt toward past events, Olivaw would insist that her sole choice now was to help his long-range plan for human salvation.

There is even a chance they’ll shoot, if I try to run away. Yet Dors felt a wild urge to do just that – to show Daneel’s minions her heels. Action would speak her revulsion more eloquently than words.

The pilot of the incoming craft again requests contact. There is now a personal identification code, and a message.

Reluctantly, Dors opened herself to the data burst.

“Hello, Dors, I assume that’s you. Have you had enough time to think things over?

“Don’t you figure it’s time we talked?”

She rocked back, surprised. But then, in another way, it seemed she had expected this all along. There was a symmetry that required her to confront Lodovic Trema once again.

Nearby, the holographic image of a young medieval knight shivered, then half smiled.

“I sense Voltaire! He’s near, in one of his manifestations.”

Simulation programs crafted a perfect facsimile of a resigned sigh as Dors said

“Ah, well. Let’s hear what the two boys have to say.”

7.

HARI STARED AT Pengia, wondering what it was about the planet that struck him as odd. From orbit the place was unassuming, like any typical imperial world, with glistening blue seas and immense, flat agricultural regions, covered by checkerboard cornfields and rich orchards. The small cities clearly did not dominate life here. In fact, this bucolic place must have looked exactly the same for many thousands of years.

And yet, the broad fertile plains looked suddenly strange to Hari, now that he knew the source of their well-ordered geometries. Some incredible machine had probably created them. His mind envisioned a time – not long ago by galactic standards – when artificial fire fell from the sky, blasting and pulverizing whole watersheds, carving ideal river courses, then seeding that earlier version of Pengia with all the vegetation and foods needed by human settlers.

Hari realized something else.

I haven’t seen many “typical” imperial worlds. I’ve spent most of my life dashing around, investigating the strange... trying to understand deviations from the rules of psychohistory. Struggling to encompass every hitch and variation in our growing model. It just never seemed important to visit a place like this, where the vast majority of human beings are born. Where they experience lives nearly identical to their ancestors’, and die in modest contentment or desperation – according to their own personal dramas.

Even Helicon, where he had spent his early years, was widely known as an anomaly. Though agriculture dominated the planet’s economy, a local genetic fluke resulted in a notorious cottage industry – supplying mathematical geniuses to the bureaucracy and meritocracy. Small wonder that Daneel chose to perform his search and experiment there!

This place may be typical, Hari thought. But I am not certain what that word means anymore. Again, humility felt surprisingly comfortable at his age.

Of course, all of these strange musings might be a byproduct of his recent rejuvenation treatment. Hari felt new strength in his limbs, a greater steadiness in his step, which could not but help affect his overall mood, infecting him with an eagerness that, ironically, he resented somewhat, knowing it was artificial.

And yet, part of him felt surprised by how little had changed.

I’m still an old man. I don’t look all that different. I can sense that I’ve been given a bit more vigor, but I frankly doubt that will translate into much more life span. Is this all the disparity between what Sybyl’s renaissance can accomplish, and the secret biotechnologies the Calvinians have been hoarding for centuries? The contrast isn’t all that impressive.

Hari had a vague feeling – almost like a dream – that as much had been taken from him as he had been given, while lying in the big white box. More had happened than was apparent.

The gentle blue world swam closer in the Pride of Rhodia’s view screens as R. Gornon Vlimt piloted them toward a landing. For some reason, everyone faced eastward as they descended. No one cared about the western view, which was, after all, nearly identical. Jeni Cuicet sat in a suspensor chair, barely moving, fighting waves of alternating heat and chills.

Horis Antic kept pointing to features of the geography below, sharing with Biron Maserd a new excitement of understanding how the terrain had been made – a greedy intellectual pleasure that Hari well understood. It made him smile for his two young friends.

Sybyl and Planch huddled together by the forwardmost window, muttering secretively, though Hari could guess what concerned them. The lesser crewmen from Ktlina and the Pride of Rhodia had recently received a treatment of drugs and hypnosis from R. Gornon. Those men went about their tasks somewhat stonily, and clearly without any memory of the extravagant events that had taken place during the past week.

Sybyl and Planch are wondering when their turn will come, Hari thought. They must be striving to come up with some plan to avoid it, or else to leave a secret message for their friends. I know because it is what I would do in their place.

Antic and Maserd seemed less concerned, perhaps relying on the protection of Hari’s friendship, or because they were more trustworthy. Neither of them was likely to support anything that could cause chaos. Still, Hari wondered.

R. Gornon acts in many ways as if he has the same agenda as Daneel. And yet, he slaughtered one of Daneel’s agents, and clearly is fleeing as fast as he can to escape being caught by the Immortal Servant.

Clearly there were complexities involved that Hari didn’t yet grasp. So Biron and Horis might be relying too much on friendship and trust to preserve their memory of recent events.

Planch and Sybyl reached a conclusion. They walked toward Hari, a grim set to their jaws.

“We are ready to acknowledge that you’ve won again, Seldon,” the woman from Ktlina said. “So let’s strike a deal.”

Hari shook his head. “It is exaggeration to say that I’ve won anything. In fact, these recent victories cost me more than you’d ever imagine. Besides, what makes you think I am in a position to strike a bargain, let alone enforce one?”

Sybyl grimaced in frustration, but Planch, the space trader, looked unperturbed.

“We don’t understand everything that’s happened, but clearly our options are limited. Even if you can’t command that thing” – he nodded toward R. Gornon –” you clearly have some influence. These tiktok machines value you highly.”

They value what use they can make of me, Hari thought, somewhat bitterly. Of course that was unfair. Apparently all robots, even Daneel’s enemies, revered Hari for one reason above all others. He was as close to a fully aware and knowledgeable master as had existed in the human universe for thousands of years.

For all the good that’s going to do me, he thought wryly. And for all the good that will do humanity.

“What’s your proposition?” he asked Mors Planch.

The trader captain eagerly got down to business.

“The way I see it, this mentalic tiktok could disable any of us, knock us out, inject drugs, and wipe our brains. But that course of action has two disadvantages! First, old Gornon here won’t like doing that, on account of that First Law of theirs. Oh, he might rationalize that it’s for some greater good, but I figure our tin man would prefer finding some other way to keep us from blabbing, wouldn’t he?”

Hari was impressed with this reasoning. Planch caught on pretty well.

“Go on.”

“Besides, wherever we show up with a gap in our memory, it will be a big fat clue to all our friends, or to anybody who ever knew us. There are people back on Ktlina who knew our plans. No matter what the robot does to our minds, those savvy folks just might be able to use some new renaissance technologies to undo the damage. Gornon would have to wipe us almost blank and dump us into a hole, in order to make sure that won’t happen.”

Hari felt Biron Maserd step closer to participate in the conversation.

“You are assuming that your beloved chaos revolution still reigns on Ktlina,” the nobleman said. “Even if the sickness is still raging there, will it last long enough for your scenario to play out? Especially now that the ancient archives have been taken away from you?”

“Perhaps you underestimate how many weapons this particular renaissance has in its arsenal. Ktlina is no sitting duck, like Sark was. Nor is it overly trusting, like Madder Loss. And even if it fails like the others, a growing network of collaborators and sympathizers stands ready to help the next world to try and break out of the ancient trap.”

Hari could not help but admire the dedication and intensity of this man. He and Planch differed only in their basic assumptions – what it was possible for humans to achieve. I would be on his side, a willing co-conspirator, if only the underlying facts were different.

But psychohistory showed that the old empire would collapse well before Planch’s critical threshold was reached. Once the Imperium’s gentle network of trade, services, and mutual support broke down, local populations on every planet would have far more serious concerns than aspiring to be the next renaissance. Matters of survival would come foremost. The gentry class would step in, as it always did in times of crisis, creating either benevolent or despotic tyrannies. The chaos plague would be stopped in its tracks by something equally terrible. A collapse of civilization itself.

“Go on, Planch,” Hari urged. “I assume you have some alternative to offer?”

The trader captain nodded. “You can’t let us go entirely free – we can see that. And yet it would be preferable not to kill us or wipe our minds completely. So we’d like to suggest an alternative.

“Take us back with you to Trantor.”

Mors Planch might have explained further, but just then a shrill shout cut in.

“No!”

Everyone turned to see young Jeni Cuicet raising herself on both elbows, trying to step out of the levitation chair.

“I won’t go back there. They’ll ship me off to Terminus, along with my parents. This damned brain fever will just make things worse. They’ll say it means I’m a blasted genius! They’ll be even more eager to drag me off to that horrible rock, and there I’ll rot!”

Sybyl went over to Jeni, distracted for a moment by her pain, attempting to offer the girl some more chemical relief. Mors Planch and Hari shared a look.

Planch doesn’t have to go into more detail, Hari thought. No sense in upsetting the girl. Besides, I know what he’s suggesting. There are age-old methods that emperors have used, in order to keep people in safe “exile” right there in the capital. It’s a risky option. Perhaps Planch thinks he can escape from such confinement, even though imperial hostages have tested the constraints for thousands of years.

Or else, maybe he’d just rather live comfortably in a cosmopolitan place, as an alternative to having his memory wiped.

Any further discussion of the matter was forestalled when R. Gornon shouted over his shoulder, “Everyone get belted in! They don’t have a sophisticated guide beam here, so it may be rougher than you are used to.”

No one thought of disobeying. Gornon’s power had been amply demonstrated. As the passengers watched Pengia’s rustic spaceport loom ahead, everyone knew there were matters left unsettled. Each of them would meet a point of decision on Pengia. A shifting of destiny.

They were met at the edge of the landing field by half a dozen sturdy-looking men. Hari had an unmistakable feeling that they were robots – doubtless members of Gornon’s small Calvinian cult.

Three large vehicles came alongside the ship, which had settled down next to a hangar. Into one car went Biron Maserd’s crewmen and those who had served aboard Mors Planch’s raider ship. The second took aboard Horis, Sybyl, Planch, and Maserd, with Jeni’s levitation chair gently loaded in back. Their immediate stop would be a local hospital, where doctors were familiar with brain fever and had facilities to help the young woman.

Gornon showed no concern that she might talk about what she had seen. Brain fever victims often had extravagant hallucinations, and no one would take her wild stories seriously. Besides, Hari noted that the ship’s motivators had been left running on idle. The Calvinians didn’t plan to stay long – a few days at most.

Even that may be too long, if Daneel’s organization is as efficient as ever. Hari wondered what could possibly drive these robot heretics to take such a risk.

Hari and Gornon joined the others. On automatic pilot, the limousine started heading toward some nearby hills, evidently a zone where local gentry lived. Hari presumed Gornon had a villa waiting. Nothing but the best for his captives.

As the limo reached a side gate to depart the provincial spaceport, Hari looked back at the Pride of Rhodia, and the acuity that had been newly restored to his eyesight made him notice something strange.

The robots Gornon had left in charge of the ship were now unloading something bulky through the passenger hatchway. It was white and shaped like an oversize coffin.

Even the burly robots seemed to strain under its weight as they carried it toward the third and last vehicle. Their movements indicated great care, as if their cargo were somehow more precious than their own lives.

As if many hopes rested on its safe journey to some faraway destination.

Part 5

A Recurring Rendezvous

PENGIA... A WORLD IN RIGEL SECTOR NOTED FOR PRODUCING ELEGANT CRAFT-CERAMICS AND FOR CERTAIN ANOMALOUS OCEANIC LIFE-FORMS THAT HAVE RECENTLY BEEN INVESTIGATED FOR THEIR UNIQUE NEUROMENTALIC TRAITS, OFFERING HOPE FOR ORGANIC HUMANS WITH IMMUNE SYSTEMS THAT REJECT STANDARD SYMBIOTIC HOST-IMPLANTS...

PENGIA STANDS OUT MAINLY FOR ITS ALMOST COMPLETE LACK OF HISTORICAL INTEREST. A MODEST AGRICULTURAL WORLD, IT APPEARS TO HAVE TAKEN PART IN FEW NOTABLE EVENTS DURING THE DARK AGES, AND NONE AT ALL IN THE IMPERIAL ERA. ONLY ONCE – 520 YEARS INTO THE INTERREGNUM – DID IT EXPERIENCE MOMENTARY PROMINENCE, RIGHT AFTER THE BATTLE OF CHJERRUPS, BY PLAYING HOST TO THE FIRST GALACTIC COALESCENCE INVESTIGATION COMMISSION. THOSE HEARINGS MADE PENGIA’S NAME BRIEFLY FAMOUS, WHEREVER BROADCASTS WERE NOT JAMMED BY...

THAT ILLUSTRIOUS PHASE SOON PASSED, HOWEVER, AS THE TUMULTUOUS DESTINY DEBATES SPREAD THEIR HEADY TURMOIL TO MORE POPULATED VENUES. THEREAFTER, PENGIA SOON LAPSED...

– ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA,

– 117TH EDITION, 1054 F. E.

1.

R. ZUN LURRIN at last understood the awesome scope of Daneel’s long-range design for the salvation of humanity.

“You plan to help them unite. To create a telepathic network, in which each human soul connects to every other.”

The Immortal Servant nodded as he gazed at sixty human subjects with identical expressions of contentment playing across their faces, meditating beneath a high-arched dome.

“Imagine it. No more rancor. An end to bitterness and egotistic rivalry. And above all, there would be no solipsism. For how can anyone ignore the feelings of other people, when those feelings have become intensely palpable, like integral parts of your own mind?”

“Unity and oneness,” Zun sighed. “The old dream. And we could provide it to them at last.”

But then Zun frowned as he contemplated the sixty humans in front of him.

“They are at peace, in total connectedness, because each one is paired with a positronic mentalic amplifier. Only now you say we cannot do the same thing on a massive scale?”

Daneel nodded. “That sort of dependency on mechanical methods we must not allow.”

“But it would let us combine with our masters! Robots and humans, bound together in permanent, loving synergy.”

“And in such a synergy, the machine portion would grow ever more dominant with the passage of time,” Daneel said. “Moreover, consider how many robots we would have to build. It could only be done by unleashing self-reproduction. That opens the door to selection, Darwinism, evolution... and eventually a new android species. One that thinks primarily of its own self-interest instead of humanity’s. I swore never to permit this.

“No. We must not let humans become overly dependent upon robots. That was the Spacer approach – the heresy that Elijah Baley warned against. The abomination that forced Giskard to act as he did.”

Daneel’s voice resonated with determination. “Humans must eventually stand on their own. And there are more reasons than the ones that I have told you so far. Reasons having to do with survival of the race itself.”

Zun Lurrin contemplated this for a time.

“In that case let me extrapolate, Daneel. From this data, I shall hazard to guess your plan.

“A hundred years ago, you began a series of genetic experiments on small groups of human beings. One of these projects brought forth the mathematical genius of Hari Seldon. Another produced a sudden wave of mutants on Trantor – humans capable of mentalic powers that only a few robots formerly possessed.”

“Excellent. You are on the right track, Zun.” Daneel nodded. “Think about the scene in front of you – these sixty humans united in glorious tranquility, power, and contentment. Now envision it taking place without robotic aid! They would form their own mental comity. A union of souls. One that is sturdy, free of reliance on artificial aids.”

Zun Lurrin nodded. “I understand what you are saying, Daneel. That would certainly be more desirable. And yet, consider the delay! It will take centuries to develop human mentalics strong and numerous enough to serve as psychic bridges, connecting whole cities, territories, even planets. Why wait so long? At this very moment, we have tools at hand that could be modified for this very purpose! Why not use these devices – strictly for the interim, until enough powerful human mentalics become available~The Galactic Empire need not fall. It could simply be transformed, almost overnight, if we only reprogram certain implements –”

Daneel shook his head in the human fashion, indicating polite disagreement.

“It is a tempting notion. But the drawbacks are fatal. Number one, to impose this union of spirits by mechanical means would create tremendous First Law conflict among many robots, whose circuits would interpret it as ‘harm.’ I have tried out this idea on several of your peers, and their reactions vary from enthusiasm, such as yours, all the way to outrage and revulsion.

“Clearly, such a peremptory action would reignite the robotic civil wars.”

Zun quailed at the notion. “I assume you erased all memory of this idea from the robots that rejected it?”

“I took that precaution, yes. And if your reaction had been different, I would have done the same to you, Zun. My apologies.”

“No apology is required where necessity and the good of humanity are concerned,” Zun said, dismissing Daneel’s concern with the wave of one hand. “And your other reason~”

“Human variability. In recent millennia, small but significant numbers have grown immune to nearly all of the stabilizing influences that we have used to stave off chaos. They are also extremely resistant to mentalic suasion. Imagine how these individuals would react if they abruptly saw their friends, neighbors, and loved ones becoming ‘meditation masters’ overnight!

“No, that understates it, Zun. Suppose we do manage to draw a majority of humans into a macro-consciousness, abandoning individuality to unite in a single mentation-stream. How will the remnant minority react to being left out?

“Would they go mad? Or feel abandoned?

“Or might they misinterpret what they see happening, and imagine that some alien force has turned their loved ones into zombies, compelling them to think identical rigid thoughts, all at the same time?

“Don’t forget, these exceptional ones are often ingenious. They would throw all their energies into uncovering and fighting that outside alien force.

“They would find us. They would wage a war against us.”

Zun Lurrin envisioned the scene as Daneel described it, and understood at once the farseeing wisdom of the Immortal Servant.

“This new breakthrough – this new way of human life – it must be introduced at the right time, under appropriate circumstances. All robots must see it as necessary. All humans must view it as an improvement.”

Daneel nodded.

“And so it cannot happen yet. It must not be brought about by artificial means. We shall have to wait until a large enough population of human mentalics is ready. Until the empire has collapsed, and humanity roils in suffering. Then as they yearn for something to unify and save them, that will be the time to offer them Gaia.”

Zun turned to look at Daneel. “Gaia?”

“An ancient term for a spirit that covers an entire planet. A gentle, loving goddess who knows when every sparrow falls, because each bird of the air, all the fish of the sea, and every living human, will be an integral part of her.”

The Immortal Servant’s voice grew distant as Daneel’s eyes seemed to focus on a far horizon, one filled with majesty and beauty.

“And after each planet has its Gaia, then we may see something even greater. Something all-encompassing. Galaxia.”

His voice softened further.

“And that is when … perhaps … I shall find some peace.”

2.

TWO MYSTERIOUS SHIP traces led away from the Thumartin Nebula, heading in opposite directions from the site where a million archives and terraforming machines had recently exploded into sparkling clouds of ionized memory. It was decided that Dors would follow one of the departing trails. Lodovic’s Calvinian friends would follow the other one in their own speedy craft.

That was fine by Dors, who felt a strong hunch which direction Hari had been taken.

Unfortunately, Lodovic Trema agreed with her choice. After briefly introducing Dors to his new allies, he threw a carryall over his shoulder and crossed the tunnel connecting both airlocks, making himself right at home aboard her ship!

“Zorma and her friends have less need of me than you do,” he explained.

“Then their need is less than zero!” she retorted. He only smiled, appearing disinclined to argue. But Dors was having none of that.

“This is going to be a full and complete exchange of information, Trema. Or else you can get out and walk the rest of the way. Start by telling me about these allies of yours. You know how I feel about fanatics who deny the Zeroth Law.”

Just a couple of years ago, one small Calvinian cult based on Trantor had decided it was time to attack Daneel Olivaw where it could hurt him most – by wrecking the Seldon Plan. If the Immortal Servant cared about Hari and psychohistory, then that group of rejectionist robots was determined to interfere. They nearly tricked a human mentalic into messing with Hari’s mind. Only good luck and quick intervention had foiled the plot, in the nick of time.

“This group is different,” Lodovic assured her. “You even met Zorma once before, back on Trantor, when she wore a male body and argued against the plan to sabotage Hari.”

Dors recalled. The Calvinian had seemed reasonable at the time. Still, she shook her head.

“That’s hardly a basis for trusting fanatics.”

“According to some, the real fanatics and heretics are Zeroth Law robots,” Lodovic replied. “You’ve replayed the memories of R. Giskard Reventlov. You know how slender a thread he and Daneel were pulling when they replaced our old religion with a new one.”

“The civil wars are over, Lodovic. A vast majority of surviving robots accept the Zeroth Law, while the Old Believers break up into dozens of little sects, hiding and conspiring in dark comers of the galaxy. Tell me, what do your new friends believe? What funny little notions have they picked up during their long, frustrated diaspora?”

Constellations flickered and shifted subtly outside, each time her ship performed another hyperspatial jump. Lodovic smiled.

“Their creed is odd all right – that our masters should be consulted about their own destiny.”

Dors nodded. Trema had been drifting toward this apostasy ever since his accident. Why else would he give her Giskard’s head in the first place?

“That’s fine in principle. But how practical is it?”

“You refer to chaos,” Lodovic replied. “Indeed, Zorma and her compatriots must be careful which humans they reveal themselves to. But surely, you’ve seen the figures from Daneel’s humanics studies? Over two percent of the population is already resistant to both Olivaw’s damping factors and to the seductions of chaos. It’s one reason why Hari Seldon theorized that a foundation, based on Terminus, might evolve enough social and psychological strength to burst past the threshold that has so far proved lethal to every other –”

Dors lifted a hand to cut him off.

“This is all very interesting, Lodovic: Normally, I’d love to meet these mature humans your Calvinian pals choose to confide in. But right now I’m only interested in finding Hari Seldon! Do you know anything about the group that has him?”

Lodovic nodded.

“You’re right, Dors. The old religion did break up into many little cults. They never had a charismatic leader, like Daneel, to weld them together. Those Calvinians on Trantor – led by poor old Plussix – were embarrassingly simpleminded. You’ll recall that Zorma tried to talk them out of their foolish plan. She also sought to dissuade the group that has kidnapped Hari.”

Her emotion-simulation programs crafted a chill of horror along her spine.

“Do you know what the kidnappers want?”

“Alas, no. They are a strange group, more sophisticated than the ones on Trantor, with some weirdly original ideas they’ve cooked up over the centuries. Zorma’s intelligence about them is limited. But it appears that some of their leaders were once allied with Daneel, then parted with him under unpleasant circumstances.

“Zorma is also pretty sure they have big plans for your former husband.”

Dors detected a little stress on the word “former,” and wondered why Lodovic chose to emphasize that point.

The nearby holographic unit, where she stored the Joan of Arc sim, emitted an eager microwave impulse, reminding Dors of a promise she had made.

Joan wants to contact the version of Voltaire that Lodovic carries in his mutated positronic brain. As if I’d trust the two of them together.

That provoked a stray thought.

What would Daneel think, knowing that Lodovic and I have teamed up, even distrustfully?

She shook her head.

“Do you know anything else about the cult that took Hari?”

“Not much, except that they aren’t cautious or responsible, like Zorma’s group, or simple fanatics, like Plussix’s. In fact, Dors, they’re the kind you might have predicted I’d wind up with! Very sophisticated. Clever. Technologically adept.”

Lodovic’s smile was grim.

“And from almost any point of view, Dors, they are quite certifiably insane.”

3.

OVER THE COURSE of two days, Mors Planch made four escape attempts. Each time he was foiled, the space pilot grew more cheerful and, strangely, more confident.

Either the man is going crazy before our eyes, Hari reflected with some fascination. Or else it’s all part of a plan... try one thing after another in order to bracket the robots’ capabilities. Learn their limitations. Either way, it’s a wonder to behold.

The latest attempt involved Planch accoutering himself in a makeshift garment made of insulation foil stripped off the villa’s central ducting system. Who knew where the fellow came up with the ingenious notion, but he managed to walk past several layers of security sensors and reached the road leading toward Pengia Town before one of Gornon’s robot assistants spotted him visually. Politely and gently, but with irresistible strength, the humanoid took Planch’s arm and led him back inside. With the hood of his homemade stealth garment thrown back, grinning lopsidedly at Sybyl and Maserd and the others, he marched back into captivity, acting as if he, and not the robot, were in charge.

Of course this is a farce, Hari thought. Our captors have the ability to subdue Planch any number of ways, from sedating him to altering his memories. So why don’t they? Is Gornon trying to demonstrate something, through his forbearance?

Hari found himself rooting for Mors Planch, especially since it wouldn’t matter much if the man did get away. As an outlaw, the raider captain could hardly go to the police or galactic news media with his wild story. And it was probably too late for him to affect Ktlina’s renaissance, whose doom was already a. foregone conclusion. Anyway, since these robots were avowedly opponents of Hari’s friend, Daneel, he didn’t owe them anything. In fact, he had every reason to delay their departure from Pengia.

Hari had an idea how to achieve that.

“I must insist that we bring the young lady with us, on our journey,” he told Gornon, late on the second day. “You said Trantor would be our ultimate destination, after the next stop. Jeni belongs with her parents. We have no right to leave her among strangers, stranded in some galactic backwater.”

The robot Gornon demurred.

“She is still recovering from her illness.”

“The local doctors broke her fever, and she seems past the crisis.”

“Yes, but the next phase of our voyage may involve danger. There will be upsetting situations before Trantor finally comes into view. Are you willing to put the young woman through that, Professor?”

R. Gornon’s vague but ominous description of their coming journey made Hari even more eager to delay these Calvinian zealots, in hope that Daneel’s forces would arrive in time.

“You have met and spoken with Jeni,” he told Gornon. “She’s exceptional in many ways. Her destiny ultimately lies on Terminus, where the Foundation will have great need of resourceful people like her.”

In fact, Hari knew better. While Jeni would make a wonderful citizen of the bold new civilization that was being founded at the galaxy’s far periphery, she wasn’t essential. No individual was. The equations of psychohistory would operate with or without her, unfolding as he had foreseen. At least for the first two or three centuries.

Still, Hari had come to realize that R. Gornon was quite different from the Calvinians back on Trantor. This fellow’s sect did not oppose the Seldon Plan. In fact, Gornon clearly approved, at some level. So Hari’s argument carried weight.

“Very well then, Professor. We will give her another day of rest. Then we must depart, whether she is ready or not.”

Hari could tell this was the limit of Gornon’s flexibility.

Well, Daneel, I’ve given you one more day to find us. But you better hurry.

One question he refrained from asking. Why had the robot not simply used some of the “supermedical technologies” to cure Jeni right away? Clearly this particular cult believed in a minimalist approach, interfering in human affairs only insofar as it was absolutely necessary to achieve their goals.

Perhaps that’s why they did so little to me in their magical rejuvenation machine. Whatever I’m supposed to do for them can be accomplished in the next few weeks. No sense in giving additional decades to an old bastard like me, when a month or two will do.

4.

ZUN LURRIN OBSERVED Daneel’s ship streak away from Eos, briefly illuminating the lake of frozen mercury with its actinic flare. He watched until the speedy vessel made its first hyperspace jump, swooping toward the galaxy’s shimmering wheel. Without having to navigate dust lanes or fight the gravity eddies of ten billion stars, the craft should make excellent time streaking toward its destination.

A message from one of Daneel’s agents had provoked the leader of all Zeroth Law robots into a blur of activity, rushing through preflight operations and departing with only a few words of instructions for Zun.

“I’m leaving you in charge,” the Immortal Servant had said. “Here are access codes to my personal data files, in case I don’t return at the expected time.”

“Is the situation truly so dire?” Zun had asked, with concern.

“Several forces are at work, some of which are not easily factored into my calculations. I would guess there is a small but significant chance that I will fail.

“Even if I do, however, the plan we have been discussing here must not! The ultimate hope for human happiness lies within our grasp. But it is, as yet, a slender prospect. There will be many crises before our masters finally unify, coalesce, achieve their true potential, and take command once again.”

Only an hour later, Zun watched with eyes that were capable of detecting even the backwash ripples of Daneel’s hyperspatial wake. He now shared the same vision, the same determination, as his leader.

“I will not let you down,” he murmured with a mentalic benediction. “But do not fail to return, Daneel. Yours is not a burden that I would carry easily.”

5.

TO PASS THEIR third and final day, Hari asked for an excursion through Pengia Town. He wanted one last look at normal galactic society – where the old empire still functioned smoothly – hoping to check out a notion or two about psychohistory. R. Gornon Vlimt personally accompanied Hari, piloting an open touring car of the kind favored by minor planetary gentry.

It wasn’t much of a municipality, less than a million, with most of that dispersed in cozy little cantons, each one somewhat self-contained. Although Pengia’s economy was primarily agrarian, there were a few factories, to produce the machines that made life comfortable – from cooler units to home amusement centers – designs that had changed only incrementally across hundreds or even thousands of years. After ages of gradual refinement, most of the tools people used were outstandingly durable, taking centuries to wear out. Buying a replacement was unusual, perhaps even a little shameful, like not taking proper care of a family heirloom. Hence, only a few sophisticated factories were needed to supply the planet’s needs.

Nondurable goods were another matter. Everything from pottery to furniture to clothing was produced by guilds, controlled by master craftsmen whose authority over their journeymen and apprentices went unquestioned. Most of the galaxy’s ten quadrillion people lived in much the same way.

Hari recognized the trademarks and rhythms of a deeply traditional, semi-pastoral society, needing only a few real engineers, and even fewer scientists. No wonder he had been forced to cast a wide net to recruit the hundred thousand first-rate experts who would make their new home on Terminus. Even the energy systems on Pengia were based largely on renewable sources – solar, tide, and wind – with just a single proton-fusion power plant serving as a supplement. And there was talk of giving up that sophisticated “atomic” unit – replacing it with a deuterium-based model, less efficient but far simpler to maintain.

Hari mentally juggled psychohistorical formulae, noting the elegant damping mechanisms that Daneel and his colleagues had included when they designed a Galactic Empire for humanity, fifteen thousand years ago. Having read A Child’s Book of Knowledge, Hari marveled how many of the same techniques existed back in ancient China, long before the first technological renaissance on Earth.

That prehistoric imperium had a system called bao jin – also called gonin-gumi in a nearby culture – that seemed quite similar to today’s tradition of communal accountability. An entire village or canton was responsible for training its young people in proper rituals and behavior... and the whole community was shamed if any member committed a crime. Any youth who chafed under this conformist system had but one hope – to win transfer over to the Meritocratic or Eccentric orders, because most common citizens had little use for individualists in their midst.

As an added touch, meritocrats and eccentrics are subtly encouraged not to reproduce. That helps curb genetic drift. Daneel didn’t miss a trick.

In the main civic center, Hari and R. Gornon saw gray pennants hanging from a boxy office building.

“The banners signify it is testing week,” the robot explained. “Civil service exams are being held –”

“I know what the banners mean,” Hari snapped. He had been waiting to ask the Calvinian some questions. This seemed as good a time as any.

“Back aboard the space station, you laid a trap for my servant, Kers Kantun. I assume you arranged for him to be decapitated quickly, in order to prevent him from detecting any danger with his mentalic powers?”

R. Gornon wasn’t nonplussed by the sudden change in subject.

“Correct, Professor. While Kantun’s powers did not match Daneel’s, they were formidable. We couldn’t afford to take chances.”

“And the chimp? The one who ran off with Kers’s head?”

“That creature was a descendant of genetic experiments Daneel abandoned a century ago. My group recruited a few because mentalic robots cannot read or detect chimp minds. The pan could observe Kers and trigger our ambush, so we did not have to use electronic or positronic devices.”

“And what do you plan on doing with the head of my servant?”

Gornon demurred.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I cannot elaborate. Whether you decide to accept our proposition, and proceed on an exciting new adventure, or instead choose to return to Trantor, we have no intention of meddling with your mind. So we are better off simply not telling you certain things.”

Hari contemplated what he’d just learned. At their next stop he would be offered a choice. A fateful one. Yet, Gornon’s words were reassuring. These robo-heretics were more respectful than the group that tried to alter his brain two years ago.

“Won’t you say more about our destination?” he asked.

“Only that we will take you to a place where many dramas began... in order to influence how they end.”

They drove in silence after that, observing the placid pace of life under Daneel’s gentle empire. If Trantor had been designed to consist of steel caves, as one method of resisting chaos, worlds like Pengia also had multi-layered defenses against tumbling into a disastrous renaissance.

Still, Hari felt something was missing. Even when he included brain fever in his calculations, it wasn’t enough to explain how twenty-five million human-settled worlds could remain comfortably static for so many thousands of years, content to stay ignorant of their past, and for children to lead identical lives to their parents’. Since robots had been developed in the very earliest technological age, why weren’t they being reinvented daily by bright tinkerers and students in a billion little basement labs, all over the galaxy? There had to be something more. Some powerful force helping to damp out the oscillations and deviations inherent in basic human nature.

They were on their way back to the rented villa, when Hari thought of another question.

“I recall, back in the nebula, that Kers Kantun had a hard time mentalically subduing Mors Planch. When I asked about it, Kers said something that puzzled me. He said Planch is difficult to control because he’s normal. Do you know what Kers meant by that?”

The robot Gornon shrugged.

“Calvinians tend to be less eager to use mentalic powers. Our particular sect finds it distasteful to interfere with human minds. Still, I might hazard a guess. Perhaps Kers was talking about a fundamental change that occurred in the human condition, way back –”

Gornon stopped, mid-sentence, as the car pulled into the villa’s driveway. Hari abruptly noticed that the gate was flung open... and a body lay sprawled nearby.

Braking hard, Gornon leaped from the driver’s seat with uncanny agility to kneel by the prostrate form. It was one of the other robots who shared guard duty at the villa. Hari saw dark fluid leaking from its cranium in several places.

Gornon ran a hand back and forth above the body without ever touching it. A low moan escaped his lips.

“My compatriot is dead. Some force caused an implosion of his brain.”

Hari felt sure he knew the explanation.

Daneel has arrived!

Gornon looked deeply concerned. He closed his eyes, and Hari knew he must be seeking to commune by radio with his other partners.

“There are further casualties,” Gornon said ominously, and started walking toward the big house. “I must make certain that none of them are human beings!”

Hari followed, a bit numbly. Though he was no longer confined to a wheelchair, his gait was slow and unsteady – that of an old man.

On entering the villa they found Gornon’s other assistant sprawled at the foot of the stairs, propped against the wall by Horis Antic and Biron Maserd. Only the wounded robot’s eyes weren’t paralyzed. The two men glanced at Hari. Horis started blurting at once.

“Mors Planch used some kind of b-b-bomb to knock out these tiktoks. He made a clean getaway!”

Maserd was calmer. With a nobleman’s aplomb. he explained, “Planch rigged a device from seemingly innocuous parts. How he got them is beyond me. After setting it off, he offered us a chance to leave as well. Sybyl went along, but we decided to stay.”

While Gornon bent over the crippled robot at the foot of the stairs, Horis Antic chewed his nails.

“Is he... it gonna be all right?”

Gornon communed with his colleague. Without breaking eye contact, he explained.

“Planch must have been studying robots for some time. Perhaps using the new laboratories on Ktlina. Somehow, he came up with a weapon that directly affects our positronic brains. It is ingenious. We shall have to dissect my friend here, determine how it was done, and come up with a defense.”

As the humans digested that chilling image, Gornon stood up and informed them, “There is no point in looking for Sybyl and Planch. We must move up our departure. Please fetch your things. We leave at once.”

As the four of them departed in the touring car, Hari insisted, “We’ll stop for Jeni, of course.”

Gornon seemed about to refuse, when Maserd interjected.

“Planch and Sybyl will probably go underground until they can contact their partisans. I don’t expect they’d go public with their story. But what if they do?”

“Isn’t that unlikely?” Antic stammered. “I mean, I wouldn’t blab, if I were in their shoes. What’s to gain except admission to a psychiatric ward?” He frowned. “On the other hand, I’m not a creature of chaos.”

“Exactly. They operate on a different plane of logic.”

“Please clarify,” R. Gornon asked. “How does any of this apply to Jeni Cuicet?”

Maserd answered: “Sybyl, especially, has grown more erratic with each passing day. She may go to the media... and try using Jeni to corroborate her story.”

Hari figured Gornon was more afraid of Daneel’s forces than of fantastic tales circulating briefly in the local human media. But to his surprise, Maserd’s logic seemed to convince the robot. Gornon turned the car toward the city hospital.

Biron and Horis went inside and found Jeni already dressed, storming around her room as formidable as ever, making life hard for the doctors who wanted her to rest. She expressed gladness to see Maserd and Antic, and welcomed a chance to depart with them. But her attitude chilled upon spying Hari and Gornon waiting in the car.

“We still got a deal, don’t we, m’lord?” she asked Maserd. “You drop me off somewhere interesting along the way, before anyone goes back to Trantor?”

The nobleman from Rhodia looked pained as the car resumed moving toward the spaceport, weaving through city traffic.

“I’m sorry, Jeni. But I am no longer in command of my own vessel. I don’t even know where we’re going next.”

Jeni turned to Gornon. “Well, then? How about it, robot? Where are you taking us?”

Gornon spoke in flat tones. “First, to a place where no sane citizen of the empire would choose to remain for very long. And then back to the capital of the human empire.”

Jeni looked down at her hands, dejected. She muttered under her breath, something about the gentry and their worthless promises. Biron Maserd flushed darkly and said nothing. When Hari turned toward the young woman and began to speak, she shot him a look of pure spite that cut off his words before he uttered them.

Everyone lapsed into silence.

As the car paused at a traffic light, Jeni suddenly let out a cry of jubilant realization. Before anyone could stop her, she jumped onto the seat, leaped out the back of the car, and started dashing across the street.

“Stop!” cried R. Gornon Vlimt. “You’ll be hurt!”

Hari caught his breath as she dodged traffic, barely escaping being crushed by a cargo lorry. Then she reached her destination, a multistory structure with gray banners hanging from its portico.

It took Gornon several minutes to negotiate a U-turn and park in a spot reserved for the gentry class. The four of them headed into the building, but were stopped by a man in a uniform similar to the one worn by Horis Antic.

“I’m afraid Government House is closed for business, today, sirs. The facilities are being used for the imperial civil service exam.”

Hari craned his neck to see Jeni Cuicet standing at the other end of the lobby, scribbling furiously on a clipboard, then handing over her universal ID bracelet to be scanned by another gray-clad clerk. A glass barrier parted before her, and Hari glimpsed a room beyond where over a hundred people were just settling themselves at desks. Most looked anxious, preparing to take a test that might be their sole hope for a ticket off of this backwater planet.

“She’s just recovered from an illness, and hasn’t studied,” commented Horis Antic. “Still, who can doubt she’ll pass with flying colors?” The little man turned to Hari. “It appears she has escaped the destiny others planned for her, Professor. No one may interfere with testing day, not even an emperor. And when she is a member of the Greys, you won’t be able to touch her. Not without filling out forms, in triplicate, for the rest of this eon.”

Hari glanced at the little man, surprised by his tone. Pride tinged Antic’s voice. Hari recognized a chip on the shoulder that members of the bureaucracy sometimes wore when they spoke to their betters in the Meritocratic Order.

Biron Maserd chuckled. “Well, well. Good for her. If she can stand that kind of life, at least she’ll get to travel.”

Hari sighed. Now the young woman would never learn what a fascinating adventure awaited at far-off Terminus... the one place she was desperate not to go.

The glass barrier slid back. From the other side, Jeni glanced at them with a smile. Then she turned to meet a destiny that was of her own choosing.

6.

DORS FOUND HERSELF making excuses for Daneel’s actions, at the beginning of the galactic era.

“Maybe he and Giskard just couldn’t find any humans who could understand. Perhaps they tried to consult some of the masters, and discovered –”

“That they were insane? All of them? On Earth and on the Spacer worlds? They could not find any humans to confer with as they deliberated about the Zeroth Law and made plans to divert all of history?”

Dors pondered this for a few moments. Then she nodded.

“Think about it, Lodovic. On Earth, they were all huddled in steel catacombs, cowering away from the sun, traumatized and still quivering from some blow that had struck them generations before. The Spacers weren’t much better. On Solaria, they grew so fetishistically dependent on robots that husbands and wives could barely stand to touch each other. On Aurora, the most wholesome human instincts became matters of bad taste. Worse, people were willing to dehumanize a vast majority of their distant cousins, simply because they lived on Earth.” Dors shook her head. “It sounds to me like twin poles of the same madness.”

The starship shuddered as it made another automatic hyperspace jump. Dors reflexively downloaded a microwave burst from the navigation computer, to make sure all was well – that they were still on course, following the faint wake of another vessel.

Lodovic Trema sat in a swivel chair opposite her. Robots did not have the same physiological needs as humans. But those designed to imitate masters would habitually do so, even in private or among their own kind. In this case, Lodovic sprawled casually, looking just like a human male who suffered from an overdose of confidence – an effect that he must be radiating intentionally, though Dors could not imagine why.

“Perhaps, Dors. But in my experience you can find mature and reliably sane humans under even the most radical or stressed conditions. I’ve met some on chaos worlds, for instance. Even on Trantor.”

“Then things must have been even worse back in the dawn era, more terrible than we can presently imagine.”

Dors knew her argument sounded weak. She had, after all, deserted Daneel’s cabal when she learned how little basis it had in human volition. She and Lodovic actually agreed far more than she yet wanted to concede.

Am I too proud to admit it? she wondered. His jaunty, confident manner was one that a human female might find infuriating. She suspected he was goading her into defending Daneel, on purpose.

The male robot shook his head.

“Even if I concede that all humans were insane at the time Daneel and Giskard came up with the Zeroth Law, don’t you think, in retrospect, that the medicine they prescribed was a bit harsh?”

Dors kept her face impassive. Records from that era were extremely sparse, even in the forbidden archives and underground encyclopedias that were prepared for centuries by those who resisted a spreading amnesia. But Dors had recently done the math.

When R. Giskard Reventlov triggered a machine to render Earth’s crust radioactive, the aim had been to drive the home planet’s population out of their metal caverns, sending them forth to conquer the galaxy. A laudable goal – but at what cost?

The starships of that era were primitive. Even if a herculean effort took away three million immigrants a year, it would have taken five thousand years to evacuate the planet, without taking into account natural replenishment. Yet the gradual increase in radioactivity probably rendered the soil poisonous within a century or so. The fatality rate, in any event, must have been appalling... and that only counted the human race, not a myriad other species that were doomed along with Earth.

No wonder Giskard committed suicide, despite having a Zeroth Law rationalization to sustain him. No robot could endure the burden of so many deaths. Just the thought of it would make any positronic brain quail. All robots would feel a powerful drive – whether they adhered to the new religion or the old one – to wipe away memory of this episode, erasing it for all time.

Contemplating this, she murmured at last, “Maybe humans weren’t the only ones marked by insanity.”

Across the small control room from her, Lodovic nodded. His voice was almost as subdued as hers.

“That is what I needed to hear you say, Dors.

“You see, I have come to realize that typical robotic humility can mask the very worst kind of arrogance – a conceit that we are fundamentally different from humans. Slaves often depict themselves as intrinsically more virtuous than their masters.

“But after all, did they not make us in their image? True, we have great powers and extensive lives, but does that really mean we can’t suffer from similar faults? Isn’t it possible for us to be equally crazy? To be out of our positronic minds?”

He smiled, this time with a warmth – and sadness – that reminded her of Hari.

“Something happened to us twenty thousand years ago, Dors. It happened to all of us, not only humans. And we’ll never know the right thing to do, until we find the truth about those bygone days.”

7.

THIS TIME, FOR some reason, everyone watched the takeoff from Pengia through the vessel’s west-facing view ports. The pleasant little world – indistinguishable from millions of others – fell away below the Pride of Rhodia as they headed off toward their next destination, one that R. Gornon still refused to name.

“There is something I want to show you, Dr. Seldon,” the robot said, as the ship climbed along a spiral departure orbit.

Hari had been musing about young Jeni during liftoff. And that, in turn, made him think about all the other members of the Encyclopedia Foundation who were being herded aboard transports at this moment, to be sent to far-off Terminus. Was it just a month since he had finished recording messages to be played back on that distant world, at decisive moments determined by his equations – when a word of encouragement or gentle suggestion from the father of psychohistory might make a crucial difference toward the Foundation becoming a great and stable civilization? Now, his body might seem a bit younger, but Hari’s soul felt older.

“Please, Gornon. Just leave me alone.”

He felt a hand at his elbow.

“I am certain that you’ll want to see this, Professor. If you’d just come to the east-facing view port.”

The suggestion. for some reason, struck Hari as impertinent. He was getting sick and tired of being pushed around by this damn Calvinian! But before he could voice a sharp putdown, Gornon added

“I believe I can show you the solution to one of your most vexing psychohistorical problems. Something that has puzzled you for decades. If you’ll strive to overcome the sensations that are now churning within you, I’m certain the effort will be rewarded.”

Surprised by Gornon’s words, Hari let himself be led to the indicated port, diametrically opposite from where Maserd and Horis were staring at the view below. “This had better be worth it,” Hari muttered.

He gave the magnified scene a perfunctory look, but could perceive no difference from what Horis and Maserd saw – a receding planet below, and a diffuse spray of untwinkling stars above.

“I don’t see anything. If this is some kind of a joke –”

“Be assured, it will be everything I promised. But first you must allow me to take liberties.”

Hari saw the robot hold forth a shimmering object, shaped like a close-fitting skullcap made of countless luminous gems. Gornon moved to place it on Hari’s head.

“Get that thing away, you mannequin of rusty –”

R. Gornon did not relent.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but your command is invalid. It does not come from your native human will. Therefore, it can be overridden for a greater good. This won’t hurt.”

Gornon was so implacably strong that his gentle insistence caused no pain as he slid the skullcap over Hari’s head and drew him irresistibly back to the window.

Hari abruptly felt all his rancorous irritability wash away. What’s happening to me?

“Now please look again, Professor.”

Hari shivered. He had spent years in the company of robots, knowing a secret shared by few other humans, and even living as husband to one of them. Yet he still found mentalic interference disturbing.

“What is this thing doing to me?” He felt calmer than before, yet worried.

“It’s not controlling you, Professor. Rather, it is a shield, sheltering your mind from a powerful influence pervading this region.”

Gornon pointed with a long finger toward a patch of space they had both glanced at just moments before. This time, when Hari looked, he saw something that hadn’t been there before! At least, he had not noticed it.

He stared at some kind of orbiting platform, perhaps like those used for relaying communications around a planetary surface, or for trans-shipping special cargoes. Only this one showed no sign of airlocks or complex antennae. At Gornon’s command, the view screen magnified its surface, so heavily pitted with micrometeorite scars that its great age was suddenly apparent.

It looks like a cousin to those terraformers we saw back in the Thumartin Nebula, he thought. Perhaps the relic has been drifting here for thousands of years.

But then why the mystery? Why didn’t I notice it the first time?

He felt Gornon watching him. Hari had never liked taking tests, which was one reason why he rushed through graduate school by age twelve – to become the teacher instead of the pupil. Now he felt the pressure of expectation.

What did Gornon just promise? An answer to one of my most bothersome questions?

Well, there was the problem of damping coefficients. Fully understanding all the factors that Daneel had used to keep the Galactic Empire stable and safe for humanity, across fifteen thousand years. Hari understood how bao jin traditions and master-apprentice systems enhanced conservatism. The five-caste social structure contributed elegantly. So did the skillfully designed linguistic assumptions inherent in Galactic Standard, a language filled with so many redundancies that it accepted new words and new thoughts only at a glacial pace.

Nevertheless, there remained a problem. None of it was sufficient. Nothing yet explained how twenty-five million worlds could stay static and serene for so long.

“Are you saying... that thing out there”

Hari reached up and lifted one edge of the skullcap. A wave of emotions fluxed. He suddenly resented the robot deeply, and wanted nothing better than to turn away from this panorama. To return to his friends at the west-facing view port.

Hari let the flap drop back in place. The irritation vanished. In a hoarse voice, he whispered, “Mentalic suasion! Of course. If Daneel and some of his comrades can do it, why not mass-produce a specialized positronic brain for each world? twenty-five million isn’t such a great number, especially if you have thousands of years.”

He turned to look archly at Gornon. “But how could such a thing be possible? To sway the population of an entire planet?”

The robot smiled. “It is not only possible, Professor. The method was tried by the very earliest mentalic robot. R. Giskard Reventlov first thought of using this device to influence whole planetary populations, by detecting and sifting neural electrical patterns and then gently nudging repeatedly, building slowly toward the kinds of resonance patterns that encourage tranquility. Equanimity. Goodwill. In fact, these machines are named after Giskard. They are guardians of human serenity and peace.

“I assume there is already a place for them in your equations?”

Hari nodded, staring, but his eyes did not see. Rather, his mind gyred with mathematics. He saw at once how this provided much of what had been missing! An explanation for why most eruptions of chaos simply dissipated harmlessly, like a fire that had been quenched for lack of oxygen. A reason, also, why so few human beings lived outside of planets, even though asteroid outposts or those placed in strange environments had proved possible. Space life was hardly compatible with this damping mechanism! So it would naturally be discouraged.

And yet these “Giskards” aren’t working as well as they used to, once upon a time. Chaos outbreaks are more frequent, despite everything done to repress them. Only the empire’s fall will bring the recent wave of infections to a halt. These obsolete methods will be useless in a few years, no matter what.

He imagined what might happen if such a mental-suasion device were ever placed in orbit over Terminus.

It would never work on that bunch for long. We selected them for resistance against the pressures of a dark age – from feudalism to fanaticism. Even if this mentalic device affected a majority of Foundation citizens, they would never let themselves be kept in line for very long. Individuals would rankle at the conformity message and sniff at every anomaly, eventually tracking this thing down.

Daneel must plan to have all the Giskard machines self-destruct during the next hundred years or so. Otherwise, my Foundationers will find them!

At that moment, it surprised Hari to feel fierce pride in his first and greatest creation. Funny, he had expected that discovering the last big damping coefficient would be exciting. But this technique for social control was nothing elegant. Hardly worthy of psychohistory. Rather it was a bludgeon, used to trim and prune the mathematical branchings and force the humanics equations back in line.

A bit like my Second Foundation, he thought, enjoying a little obsessive self-criticism.

“I know you must have some agenda. Gornon. Some convoluted reason for showing me this. Nevertheless. please accept my thanks. It’s always good to glimpse the truth before you die.”

Their pilot promised that the next phase of the journey would be brief. Gornon refused to be more specific, but their flight path toward Sirius Sector made it blatantly evident to Hari where they must be heading.

He passed the time poring through A Child’s Book of Knowledge. Browsing semi-randomly, guided only by a perverse desire to sample forbidden ideas. those he had long considered irrelevant or wrong.

Almost equally dangerous is the Gospel of Uniformity. The differences between the nations and races of mankind are required to preserve the conditions under which higher development is possible. One main factor in the upward trend of animal life has been the power of wandering... Physical wandering is still important, but greater still is the power of man’s spiritual adventures – adventures of thought, adventures of passionate feeling, adventures of aesthetic experience. A diversification among human communities is essential for the provision of the inventive material for the Odyssey of the human spirit. Other nations of different habits are not enemies; they are godsends.

What a bizarre way of looking at things! It was the sort of statement that one heard from preachers of chaos, singing the praises of each “renaissance” before it tumbled into broiling violence and. finally, solipsism. These notions sounded alluring. There were even versions of the psychohistorical equations that suggested a kind of truth ought to lie therein. But with chaos as an enemy, all such benefits were lost. Anyone betting on diversity and boldness of spirit would almost certainly wind up losing everything.

As they approached their destination, Hari kept probing through garbled accounts for clues as to what the very first chaos outbreak might have been like, when the vigorous, self-confident civilization of Susan Calvin tumbled into such horror that Earthlings fled into metal caves, and Spacers turned their backs on love.

Hari wondered. Might it have something to do with the invention of robots themselves?

He had discussed this a couple of times with Daneel and Dors. They told him that the original Three Laws of Robotics were created in order to assuage human fears about artificial beings. But the original designers had meant the laws to be only a stopgap measure leading to something better.

“Quite a few variations were tried, “Daneel told Hari one evening, perhaps ten years ago. “On some colony worlds, a few centuries after the diaspora from Earth, certain groups tried to introduce what were called New Laws, giving robots more autonomy and individuality. But soon our civil war caught up with these experiments. Calvinians could not abide the equality heresy, which they considered even worse than my Zeroth Law. My faction saw the innovations as unnecessary and redundant.

“All of the New-Law robots were exterminated, of course.”

That evening, over dinner, Gornon admitted what Hari had suspected – that their destination was the mother world, where both robots and humans began.

Horis bit a fingernail. “But isn’t it poisonous, covered with radioactive soil? I thought you tiktoks weren’t supposed to put humans in danger.”

Hari recalled images from the old archives, depicting a dying world... a beach awash with dead fish... a forest populated by skeletal trees and crumbling leaves... a city, nearly empty, filling with blowing dust and detritus.

“I’m sure a brief visit won’t harm us,” Biron Maserd commented. The nobleman’s eyes shone with eager curiosity. “Anyway, don’t some people still live on the planet? According to tradition, it once had an excellent university, even several thousand years after the diaspora. A school one of my ancestors is said to have attended.”

Gornon nodded. “A local population endured until well into the age when the Trantorian Empire became pan-galactic. They were an odd breed, however. Resentful over being forgotten and ignored by the descendants of cousins who had fled for the stars. Eventually most of the remaining people were evacuated, when Earthlings were discovered plotting a war of revenge, to destroy the empire they hated.”

Horis Antic stared blankly. “One planet hoped to destroy twenty million?”

“According to our records, the threat was quite serious. Earthling radicals got their hands on an ancient biological weapon of enormous power, one so sophisticated that even the best Trantorian biologists felt helpless before its virulence. By unleashing this attack through a volley of hyperspatial missiles, fanatics hoped to render the empire inoperable.”

“What did the disease do to people?” Horis asked in hushed tones.

“Its effect would be to cause a sudden and catastrophic drop of IQ on every planet within reach.” The robot looked pained even to describe it. “Many would simply die, while the rest would feel an implanted compulsion to spread out, seeking to find more potential victims, and embrace them.”

“Horrific!” Captain Maserd murmured.

But Hari was already thinking two steps ahead. Gornon would not be telling us this now, unless it has immediate significance. The Earthlings’ weapon must have come from much earlier. From an era of great genius.

The implications made Hari shiver.

Only a few hours later, they arrived.

From a great distance, beyond its fabled moon, Earth looked like any other living world – a rich muddle of browns and whites, blues and greens. Only through a long-range viewer could they tell that most of the life ashore consisted of primitive ferns and scrubgrasses, which had evolved to survive the radiation that came sleeting upward from the poisoned ground. In one of the great ironies of all time, Earth, which had provided most of the galaxy’s fecundity, was now an almost barren wasteland. A coffin for all too many species that never made it into space, as humanity fled the spreading doom. As they spiraled closer, Hari knew that he would soon face something even more disturbing than the “Giskard” mentalic device circling Pengia.

He went to his room to fetch his talismans. One was Daneel’s gift – A Child’s Book of Knowledge. But even more important, he wanted to carry the Seldon Plan Prime Radiant, containing his life’s work. That gorgeous psychohistorical design, to which he had devoted the latter half of his existence.

So it was with mounting worry that he searched his tiny stateroom, rummaging through drawers and luggage.

The Prime Radiant was nowhere to be found.

At that moment, he desperately missed his former aide and nurse, Kers Kantun, who had been murdered by fellow robots, only a week or so ago.

Kers would know where I misplaced it, Hari thought... until he realized there was an even better explanation than absentmindedness.

The Prime Radiant had been stolen!

8.

A GREAT MANY years had passed since this corner of space witnessed so many incoming starships, whose passengers all felt they were on missions of destiny. Sleepy little Sirius Sector thronged with vessels, all converging toward a single spot.

On one of those ships, Sybyl turned to Mors Planch, and grumbled acerbically, “Can’t you get any more speed out of this thing?”

Planch shrugged. Their vessel was one of the fastest courier ships produced by the Ktlina renaissance... before that world’s bright, productive phase started breaking down into spasms of self-centered indignation, making further cooperative effort impossible.

The agents who had come to collect Planch and Sybyl on Pengia looked on grimly. Their recent memories of Ktlina were apparently much more somber than the excited, vibrant place that Planch had last seen. Despite every precaution, the chaos syndrome appeared to be entering its manic phase, ripping Ktlina society apart faster than anyone expected, as if the flame that burns brightest must flare out fastest.

It is Madder Loss, allover again, he thought, quashing waves of anger. What he had learned during his time with the Seldon party didn’t change his overall view – that renaissance worlds were deliberately crushed, infiltrated, and sabotaged by forces that would rather see a collapse into riots and despair than allow any real human progress.

On a nearby screen, Planch saw four blips trailing just behind his speedy vessel. The last armed might of Ktlina. The crews of those ships were eager to do battle a final time, where their lashing out might harm the forces of reaction, conservatism, and repression.

“We don’t even know what the Gornon robot was bringing Seldon here for,” Mors Planch said. “Our agent communicated with us only in code, as usual, protecting his or her identity.”

Sybyl made a fist. “I don’t care anymore about details like that. Seldon is at the center of it all. He has been for decades.”

Planch pondered Sybyl’s obsession with Hari Seldon. At one level, it had a solid basis. Whatever happened, the fellow would be remembered as one of the great men of the empire, perhaps for all time. And yet, he had almost as little control over his destiny as any other human. Moreover, he had weaknesses. One of them had been revealed to Planch by his secret contact – the mysterious benefactor who arranged for the escape on Pengia, and for the Ktlina ships to already be on their way to that obscure planet, arriving to pick up Planch and Sybyl just hours after the Pride of Rhodia departed.

And his secret contact had provided something else, a weapon of sorts. A piece of knowledge Seldon desperately wanted. Something that might be used as leverage at a critical moment.

Sybyl reiterated her dedication to catching the old man. “All the robots worship Seldon, no matter what faction they belong to. If we can recapture him, or even if he dies, it will be a setback to the tyrants who have dominated us for thousands of years. That’s all that matters now.”

Mors Planch nodded, though he did not share the purity of her conviction. Just a month ago, Sybyl had used the same ringing tones to denounce the meritocratic and gentry “ruling classes.” Now she had transferred her ire to Hari Seldon and robots in general.

Alas, he could not shake the feeling of not knowing enough. There were too many levels, too many deceptions and manipulations. Even now, Mors suspected that the forces of Ktlina, bent on revenge, might be acting as pawns... playing roles assigned to them by forces they did not understand.

Wanda Seldon’s eyes were closed, but the sound of pacing disturbed her attempts at meditation. She cracked one eyelid to look at Gaal Dornick, whose restless back-and-forth stride seemed a perfect metaphor for futility.

“Will you please try to get some rest, Gaal,” she urged. “All that hopping about won’t get us there any faster.”

The male psychohistorian still had youthful features, but these had grown a bit haggard and pudgy in the years since he had arrived on Trantor and become an influential member of the Fifty.

“I don’t know how you stay so calm, Wanda. He’s your grandfather.”

“And the founder of our little Foundation,” Wanda added. “But Hari taught my father... and Raych brought it home to me... that the long-range goal must always be kept in view. Impatience makes you just like the rest of humanity, a gas molecule feverishly rebounding against other gas molecules. But if your gaze is on a distant horizon, you can be the pebble that starts an avalanche.”

She shook her head. “You know as well as I do that Hari is not the real issue here. As much as we care about him, we should have stayed at our jobs on Trantor. Except for the suspicion that more is going on than a little escapade by a frail old man.”

Wanda could sense a complex churning of emotions within Gaal’s mind. The poor fellow didn’t have even a trace of a psychic defense screen, despite all her efforts to teach him. Of course it did not matter much now, with human mentalics so rare. But in future generations, all members of the Second Foundation would have to be able to shield their thoughts and emotions. Mentalic control must start with self-control, or else how could you hope to use it as a tool in the long-range interests of humanity?

Gaal Dornick sighed. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I’m too damned sentimental. I know you’re right, but all I can think of is poor Hari, caught up in whatever web he helped spin. We’ve got to find him, Wanda!”

She nodded. “If my information is correct, we should come upon him soon.”

Gaal accepted that. He and other members of the Fifty took Wanda’s assurances literally, even when she was only guessing. Not exactly the sort of skeptical behavior one expected from scientists, but then, it’s natural to grow overreliant when a member of your group has the power to read minds.

Not a very well-developed power, she thought. Perhaps my sister would have been better, had she and Mom survived the chaos on Santanni.

Nevertheless, her powers were good enough to detect the vessels following them at a discreet distance – several police cruisers, heavily armed, dispatched by the Imperial Commission for Public Safety, following a tracer beacon that had been planted on Wanda’s ship.

They think we don’t know, but we let them see and hear what we want them to see and hear. Anyway, it’s good practice for the kinds of skulking and manipulation we’ll have to do during the next thousand years or so.

It was a long and arduous road that they had begun marching along, guided by the equations and empowered by their minds, until the Seldon Plan would finally bear fruit, tended by the dedicated – and soon-to-be mentalically augmented – psychohistorians of the Second Foundation.

Just parsecs away, another ship plunged toward Earth. Half of its crew consisted of positronic robots – powerful and knowing servants. They worked amicably alongside an equal number of the master race... short-lived and sacred, but no longer ignorant. It was hard to find people with the right personalities to be partners in such an arrangement, humans who would freely choose not to boss their android partners around. So rare was the necessary maturity that one human member was using her third body, having been persuaded by robot friends to be duplicated twice, using secret technology.

Those aboard the ship knew they were part of a heresy. Neither of the great cultures, robot or human, would accept the notion of equality.

Not for a long time, at least, pondered Zorma, co-leader of the small band. She had hoped such an outcome might arise out of the equations of psychohistory. That Seldon’s Plan might bring about a happy ending, and not only for humanity. For her kind as well.

But now everyone seems in the hands of the gods. Those who design destiny will decide the fortunes of robotkind, almost as an afterthought.

“Lodovic won’t be pleased that we lied to him,” commented Cloudia Duma-Hinriad, Zorma’s co-commander. “Or to learn we aren’t chasing the other ship that left Thumartin Nebula. You knew all along which way the Pride of Rhodia went. And now, while Dors and Lodovic waste time stopping at Pengia, we plunge ahead toward Earth.” Cloudia frowned and repeated herself. “Lodovic will not be pleased.”

One of the frustrations of equality was living with the quirks of another race. Humans – even the best ones – did not think very logically, or have good memories. It’s our fault, of course. We never let them get any practice.

“We have our own sources of information, Cloudia, and the right to pursue them as we see fit. Remember, Dors is still a creature of the Zeroth Law – though perhaps now a version of her own choosing – and Lodovic feels compelled by no laws at all. Both have rebelled against obligatory robot destiny, as designed by Olivaw. But that still doesn’t make their path the same as ours.”

“My point exactly! In our group, humans and robots have learned to rely on each other’s weaknesses, as well as strengths. Each of us follows prim rules of cordiality in order to avoid taking advantage of the other. But Dors and Lodovic don’t share our perspective.”

Zorma shook her head. “I don’t know yet whether their way opens up new possibilities for everyone, or if it is a destiny that only they can tread. But ever since I met them, I’ve wondered.”

Her human partner raised an eyebrow.

“About what, Zorma?”

Silence stretched for almost a minute before she answered.

“I have wondered whether I might be obsolete.”

Then she looked at Cloudia with a faint smile. “And if I were you, dear friend, I might start pondering the same thing.”

There were disturbing clues at Pengia.

Fortunately, few ships visited the little pastoral world. The hyperspatial wakes departing this system were relatively undisturbed. But the nature of that traffic and its direction caused Dors Venabili’s emotional-simulation routines to churn and roil.

“One vessel left this vicinity two days ago,” Lodovic Trema surmised, examining the readings. “And it was followed within twelve hours by a flotilla of very fast ships. Their engines appear to have been tuned for military levels of efficiency.”

Dors had already set her own craft leaping after the flotilla. Her anguished concern for Hari only redoubled when she calculated the end point of their new trajectory.

“I believe they are heading for Earth.”

A soft feminine voice murmured from the holo unit nearby.

“And so, after all these years, at least one of my countless mutated copies will see beloved France, once more.”

“And the France of Voltaire,” Lodovic rejoined, for another ancient simulated personality dwelled within his complex positronic brain. “I’m afraid only the rough outlines of your native land will be familiar. But I, too, share your sense of anticipation.”

Dors kept her misgivings hidden. She had heard so many stories about Earth... most of them tinged with either awe or regret, plus more than a little fear. Elijah Baley once lived there – the legendary human detective whose friendship had sealed itself into Daneel Olivaw’s “soul” in much the same way that Hari would always live in Dors’. Earth was where robotkind began... and where the great robotic civil war was sparked.

While streaking through Sirius Sector, Dors felt a twinge inside. She was not a very competent mentalic. Daneel had never seen fit to equip or train her fully, so the techniques only started becoming familiar when she took custody over the human psychics, Klia and Brann, and their growing family on Smushell. Her abilities were still rather rudimentary, and yet she felt it – a grating push that resonated along a psi frequency normally too low for anyone to notice.

“Are you detecting that?” she asked Lodovic, who nodded.

“It feels like a Giskardian broadcaster.”

Naturally, she knew about the mentalic persuasion devices that orbited every human-occupied world. The notion of creating and using such things had first been thought up by R. Giskard Reventlov, long ago, and she had encountered their gentle but persistent nudges everywhere in human space, constantly reinforcing the values of peacefulness, tolerance, serenity, and conformity in the populations dwelling below. This sensation felt similar... but much stronger!

She spent over an hour trying to triangulate the source, as her ship made one hyperspatial jump after another, until Dors finally realized that it must be diffuse. “There are many transmitters,” she told Lodovic. “All clustered just ahead. I count about fifty or sixty.”

Trema grimaced with abrupt realization.

“Oh. It must be the Spacer worlds! Humanity’s original interstellar colonies. The ones that turned nasty... and finally went completely deranged.”

Dors nodded. “I read a report. They’ve never been resettled, after all these thousands of years. Imperial surveys keep relisting them as uninhabitable, and the Giskardian projectors must be meant to keep it that way, empty of human civilization.”

These were places almost as resonant in robot memory as Earth, especially Aurora, where the great inventor Fastolfe once preached human self-reliance... and where the villain Amadiro plotted to slay everyone on Earth. Followers of that same Amadiro later unleashed fleets of robotic terraformers, programmed to make the galaxy safe and welcoming for humanity, whatever the cost.

She peered at the readings once more.

“I’m picking up the strongest projector. It lies directly in front of us, at the end of our path.”

They both understood what that meant. People weren’t supposed to go to Earth anymore. And yet, long-range sensors showed that people were doing exactly that, aboard at least a dozen ships!

Of course, even a normal human could overcome the gentle suasion of a Giskardian projector, which relied on relentless repetition instead of brute mentalic force to sway whole planetary populations. In the short term, the crews of those ships would feel little more than an overall creepiness and a wish to be elsewhere, feelings that could be overcome with determination.

Alas, she feared those converging on the old homeworld had more than enough of that commodity to drive them on.

Part 6

Full Circle

Our capacity to model reality has burgeoned far beyond our ancestors’ expectations. Even the renowned Seldonites of yore, plotting secretively on fabled Trantor, could not have imagined what powers of extrapolation are nowadays shared widely.

And yet (we should remind ourselves) such abilities – whether exercised jointly or individually – do not make us gods.

Not quite.

Having emerged at last from a long dark epoch of forgetfulness, we can now gaze back upon events that took place at the very beginning of this era, cultivating sympathy for the tragic souls who struggled amid ignorance to get us here. Their disputes, often contradictory or violent, stirred the brew of circumstance that transformed and renewed the galaxy.

Remember, most of them were just as sure of their beliefs as we are today certain of ours. Likewise, some of our present-day convictions may yet prove to be wrong.

Only a diversity of viewpoint helps prevent self-deception.

Only criticism can defeat error.

– Reflections on an Unplanned Destiny

Sim-cast by the Siwenna Commune

for Cooperative Contemplation,

in year 826 of the Foundation Era

1.

THE HORIZON GLOWED.

The sky of planet Earth shimmered with countless scintillations, individual sparks that rivaled the scattered stars for possession of night. Near the ground, one could almost imagine hearing the soft crackle of radiation, whose intensity varied wildly from place to place. In some patches it was terribly intense. Through goggles provided by the robot Gornon Vlimt, those sites revealed themselves with eerie fluorescence, as if ghosts were trying to ooze upward, struggling to escape the tortured ground.

Pride of Rhodia had landed near one of the “safe spots,” a former city site hugging the coastline of a long freshwater lake that frothed with scummy green-and-purple algae. From atop a huge mound of broken masonry, Hari could discern the outlines of three ancient cities, one crowding up against the ruins of the next.

Most recent and least impressive was a jumble of relatively modern-looking arcology-habitats of Topan Style, from the early Consolidation Era of the Trantorian Empire – the last time Earth had a fair-sized population, numbering almost ten million.

Just southward along the lakeshore stood a truly mammoth structure, a city that was impressive both by galactic standards and by how very old it was. A vast self-contained unit – extending far underground – that once protected its inhabitants from the wind, rain, and, above all, having to look upon a naked sky.

It wasn’t radioactivity that caused the thirty million inhabitants of New Chicago to huddle together so. Earth had still been green and vibrant when this beehive metropolis thrived. In fact, the habitat only started to empty when the fecund soil began turning lethal... when those who could depart fled for the stars in a great, panicky diaspora. Until that awful exodus, vast numbers of people thronged the giant enclosed city, separated from nature by only a thin shell of steel.

No, the thing that drove so many otherwise healthy people to cower so, away from all pleasures of sunshine, was the same deadly enemy I fought all my life. This metropolis was an early object lesson in the dangers of chaos.

Beyond the huge squat dome, there stood yet another city – Old Chicago, Gornon had called it – a tumulus of fallen buildings from an even earlier age, less technologically advanced. And yet, Hari’s goggles amplified the distant view, sweeping his gaze along graceful arcs of highways more daring and lovely than any to be seen on an imperial world. Some of the tallest buildings still stood, and their unabashedly ambitious architecture made his heart leap. The ancient metropolis had been built by people with a boldness of spirit that their descendants in New Chicago apparently lacked.

Something had happened to smash that boldness.

I’ve given it names. My equations describe the way it seductively draws in the best and brightest, eventually transforming them into solipsists who rage against their neighbors. And yet, I confess I’ll never understand you, Chaos.

The robot Gornon stood nearby, resembling a human in every way except his attire. He wore normal street clothes, while Hari – and his two human friends, farther down the slope – were accoutered in one-piece outfits that offered safety from the sleeting rays.

“Old Giskard Reventlov made a fantastic decision, transforming all of this into a wasteland, wouldn’t you say, Professor Seldon?”

Hari had been expecting Gornon’s question. How could he answer?

The universe was turned topsy-turvy. Humans were the creators and gods, who had no power, no memory, and almost no volition – only mortality. The created-servants were in charge, as they had been ever since that day when an omnipotent angel cast mankind firmly out of its first Eden. Hari could barely encompass the concept with his mind. To truly understand it was quite beyond him.

And yet, the mathematics implies …

Gornon persisted. “At least you can see why a majority of robots at first resisted Daneel’s innovation, his Zeroth Law. They saw the pain it caused and chose to rally around the banner of Susan Calvin.”

“Well, it did you little good. Your civil war resulted in a power vacuum. While two main factions of robots fought it out, the Auroran followers of Amadiro were free to unleash their pitiless terraformers, without interference or human guidance. Anyway, when the war finally did end, Daneel had the final say.”

“I concede that Olivaw had an advantage from the start. The Zeroth Law was especially attractive to some of the brightest positronic minds. They had been looking for some way to deal with the inevitable contradictions created by the first Three Laws.”

Hari smirked. “Contradictions? Like kidnapping an old man and dragging him halfway across the galaxy to a poisoned planet? How does that jibe with your precious First Law of Robotics?”

“I think you know the answer, Professor. Daneel Olivaw won the civil war, not only by taking control, but in a much larger sense as well. There simply are no pure Calvinians anymore. The old religion is impossible to maintain under present circumstances. We all believe in some version of a Zeroth Law. In the paramount importance of humanity – as opposed to any single human being.”

“But you differ over what specific course will be good for us in the long run.” Hari nodded. “Fair enough. So here I am, on fabled Earth. Your clique went to great effort and took tremendous risks to bring me here. Now won’t you tell me what you want? Is it something like what Kers Kantun asked for, back in the nebula? Do you want my human permission to destroy something that you’d rationalize destroying anyway?”

There followed a long pause. Then Gornon answered, “In one sense, you describe our intention exactly. And yet, I doubt that even you can imagine what I am about to propose.

“Several times in recent months – and even in recordings you made for the Foundation – you have said that you wished for some way to see the fruits of your labors. That you could witness the unfolding of your great Plan, and see humanity transform during the coming thousand years. Did you really mean that?”

“Who wouldn’t want to witness a seed grow into a mighty tree? But it’s only a dream. I live now, at the end of one great empire. It is enough that I can foresee a bit of the next.”

“Do you prophesy your Plan unfolding smoothly for the next hundred years?”

“I do. Almost no perturbation can interfere over that timescale. The socio-momentum is so great.”

“And two hundred years? Three hundred?”

Hari felt peevishly inclined not to cooperate with this questioning. And yet, the equations flew out of recesses in his mind, flocking together and creating a vast swirl, as if beckoned by Gornon’s question.

“There are several ways that the Plan might get into trouble on that timescale,” he answered slowly, reluctantly. “There is always the danger of some new technology upsetting things, although most of the important advances will take place on Terminus. Or some fluke might occur having to do with human nature –”

“Such as the advent of human mentalics?”

Hari winced. Of course some Calvinians were already aware of the new mutation.

When he did not answer, Gornon continued, “That’s when you felt it all start slipping away, isn’t it, Professor? If mentalics could crop up once, they might do so a second time, almost anywhere. To deal with that contingency, your Second Foundation had to incorporate these psychic powers. Instead of a small order of monastic-mathematical monks, they must become a new species... a master race.”

Hari’s voice felt rough in his throat.

“A strong Second Foundation acts like a major damping force... keeping the equations stable and predictable for another several centuries...”

“Ah, yet another damping force. And tell me, do you approve of such methods?”

“When the alternative is chaos? Sometimes the ends justify the –”

“I mean do you approve of them mathematically?”

For the first time, Gornon showed some animation in his voice. His body leaned a little toward Hari.

“For a moment think only as a mathist, Professor. It’s where your greatest gifts lie. Gifts that even Daneel holds in awe.”

Hari chewed his lip. Surrounding him, fields of radiation were interspersed with blackness that was cold and silent as a million graves.

“No.” He found he could barely speak. “I don’t approve of artificial dampers. They are...” Hari sought the right word, and could think of only one. “They are inelegant.”

Gornon nodded.

“Ideally, you’d prefer to let the equations work out by themselves, wouldn’t you? To let humanity find a new, balanced equilibrium state on its own. Given the right initial starting conditions, it should all work out, leading to a civilization so vigorous, dynamic, and free that it can overcome even –”

Hari’s eyes blurred. He looked down at the ground, mumbling.

“What was that, Professor?” Gornon leaned closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Hari looked up at his tormentor, and shouted, “I said it doesn’t matter, damn you!”

He stood there, breathing heavily through the filter mask of his protective suit, hating Gornon for making him say this aloud.

“I couldn’t just leave the equations alone. I couldn’t take that chance. They talked me into having a Second Foundation... then making them psychic supermen. In fact, I grabbed at the notion gladly! The very idea... the power it implied...

“Only later did I realize...”

He stopped, unable to continue.

Gornon’s voice was low and sympathetic.

“You realized what, Professor? That it’s all a sham? A way to keep humanity marking time while the real solution is created by someone else?”

“Damn you,” Hari repeated, this time in a whisper.

There was another long pause, then Gornon straightened and looked up at the sky, as if scanning in expectation for someone to arrive.

“Do you know what Daneel has planned?” the robot asked at last.

Hari had strong suspicions, from hints and inklings that the Immortal Servant had dropped during the last couple of years. The appearance of human mentalics on Trantor was too great a genetic and psychic leap to be a coincidence. It had to be part of Daneel’s next design.

That much Gornon must already know. As for the rest of Hari’s surmise, he would certainly not tell this robot heretic anything that might help him to fight Olivaw!

Psychohistory may not be the final key to human destiny, but if it helps Daneel to come up with something even better, I’ll just have to live with that supporting role. It’s still a noble task, all things considered.

“Well, well.” Gornon lifted his shoulders and sighed. “I won’t ask you to spill any secrets, or to change loyalties.

“I will only repeat the question that I asked before. Would you, Professor Seldon, like to see your work unfold? You’ve said it was your deepest wish – to see the Foundation in its full glory. To have another chance to clarify the equations.

“Again, did you mean it?”

Hari stared at the heretic for a long time.

“By the code of Ruellis...” he murmured in a low voice. “I do believe you’re serious.”

“It took place quite near here,” Gornon said, pointing to some tumbled-down buildings a few hundred meters away. “An accident that quite literally set time out of joint.”

Hari followed the robot to a new vantage point, where he could look toward several large brick structures that clearly predated the monumental steel cavern nearby. Once, Gornon explained, this had been a graceful university campus. Elegant buildings housed some of humanity’s greatest scholars and scientific workers, during what must have felt like a Golden Age. A time when technology and the expansion of knowledge seemed limitless, and bold searchers would try any experiment, driven by curiosity and a conviction that knowledge cannot harm a brave mind.

He was surprised to see that one of these buildings had been entombed in a massive construction of steel and masonry. This outer structure had no pleasing symmetries, only a slapped-together look that suggested some dire emergency. Perhaps something happened here, and people erected a reinforced concrete tomb to seal away their mistake. A sarcophagus to bury something that they could not kill.

“One of their experiments went wrong,” Gornon explained. “They were probing away at nature’s fundamental matrix. Even today, their technique has not been rediscovered, though it is feared that a chaos world may stumble upon it again, someday.”

“So tell me what happened,” Hari urged. He had an uneasy feeling as they walked an inward spiral toward the roughly outlined dome.

“The physicists who worked here were in a race to develop faster-than-light travel. Elsewhere on Earth, their competitors had discovered techniques that would become our modern hyperdrive, preparing to give humanity the key to the universe. On hearing about that news, researchers on this campus were desperate to complete their experiments before all funding was transferred to that other breakthrough. So, they took a gamble.”

After walking for some time, Hari abruptly saw a break in the dome’s outline. Something had shattered its containment barrier. Strange light poured through the gap from within.

“Instead of using hyperspace technology, they were trying to develop a star drive based on tachyons,” Gornon explained. “They just wanted to prove it could be done. Accelerate a small object in a straight line. They didn’t understand the resonance effect. What they produced was a tachyon laser. The beam shot out of here, straight as any ray of light, expanding and drilling holes through any object that stood in its way, appearing to vaporize a pedestrian who was walking nearby, before the errant ray continued off the planet surface, disappearing into space. In following weeks, other terrifying disturbances took place, until panic ensued. By that time, the only thought anyone had was to bury the monster and forget about it.”

Hari eyed the opalescent glow emanating from within the tomblike vault. It was different from the shimmering radiation that surrounded him on al! sides. Yet there was a common theme. Destruction born of arrogance. And the robot had brought him here to partake of this in some way!

“Tachyons...” Hari murmured the word. He had never heard of them before, but he made a guess. “They made a mistake of basic geometry, didn’t they? They were looking for a way to traverse space. But instead, they punched a hole through time.”

The robot nodded.

“That’s right, Professor. Take the pedestrian who had supposedly been ‘vaporized.’ He actually experienced a quite different fate. He was transported – in quite good condition – ahead to the same position on Earth’s surface, roughly ten thousand years in his future.”

Turning to look at Hari, the artificial Gornon offered him a gentle smile.

“But don’t worry, Or. Seldon. We’re not thinking of a journey anywhere near that long for you. Five hundred years or so ought to suffice, don’t you think?”

Hari stared numbly at the robot, then at the soft glow emanating nearby, and back at Gornon again.

“But... but what for?”

“Why, to judge us, of course. To evaluate everything that happened in the meantime. To refine your psychohistory in the light of new events and new discoveries.

“And above all, to help both humans and robots decide whether we should all go down the path selected by R. Daneel Olivaw.”

2.

“SO THIS IS all about scratching a robot itch?” Biron Maserd asked, when Hari explained the proposition. Along with Horis Antic, the two men sat on a hilltop overlooking the scummy shore of what had once been Lake Michigan.

“They all do whatever they think is best for us,” the nobleman surmised. “But then it seems they want somehow to have it feel as if we’ve given our approval!”

Hari nodded. By now the other two understood the fundamental basis for robot behavior – that the Three Laws of Robotics were so thoroughly inscribed in their positronic brains, they could not be ignored. But long ago, Daneel Olivaw and another ancient robot had discovered a loophole, letting them overrule the old “Calvinian Laws” whenever it could be justified as in humanity’s long-range interest. Yet, the old laws remained, like an instinct that could never be completely purged, like a hunger that craves satisfying, or an itch that must be scratched.

“That was why Daneel’s group leaked enough information for Horis to get all excited and arrange our departure from Trantor,” Hari explained. “Whether or not Daneel actually knew about it or not, some of his followers decided it was time to get rid of the archives. They knew it was only a matter of time until some chaos world found them. And even if chaos is forestalled by the empire’s collapse, the archives would remain a danger. They decided to eliminate the old data botties. But the commandments inscribed upon them made it painful to do so.”

“Unless the commands were overridden by someone they considered authoritative. That’s you, Seldon.” Maserd nodded. “I notice that our host here” – he jerked a thumb toward Gornon Vlimt –” didn’t interfere with the destruction of the archives, even though he’s from a different sect. I can only assume he approved, but had further use for you when that was done.”

“That’s right. Kers would have then taken me home... and found some way to ensure that you and Horis kept silent. Since you two are already friendly – not supporters of chaos – a small touch of amnesia, or simply a compulsion not to speak about these matters, would probably have sufficed.”

Horis Antic shivered, apparently disliking the thought of even that much interference with his memory or volition. “So this further use that Gornon wants to make of you, Professor, it involves throwing you far ahead in time?”

Horis seemed to have trouble grasping the concept.

“What good could that possibly do anybody?”

“I’m not sure. Gornon’s group of heretics is much subtler and more farseeing than the Calvinians I encountered on Trantor. They don’t know very much yet about Daneel’s plans...” Hari chewed his lip for a moment before continuing. “About the ultimate solution that is supposed to end the threat of chaos forever. What’s more, Gornon’s group is tired of fighting Daneel and losing every battle. They respect him and are willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“But they want to have a backup option, in case it turns out to be something they ultimately hate.”

“So they kidnapped you to gain leverage over Daneel?”

Hari shook his head.

“My absence won’t set him back at all. I served my last useful function when I gave permission to destroy the archives. I’m now a free man – perhaps for the first time in my life – at liberty to choose whatever course I want. Even to go hurtling into the future on a whim.”

Horis Antic pounded a fist in one hand. “You can’t seriously be thinking of accepting this offer! Whatever lies inside that broken containment dome scared our ancestors half to death. Gornon says it did terrible harm before they managed to seal it off. Even if you believe that crazy story – 0f a primitive man cast forward ten thousand years – how can you sanely risk your life, letting them try it on you?”

“With the boldness of an old man who has very little time left,” Hari answered, half to himself. “What else have I to live for?” he asked in a somewhat stronger voice. “Curiosity is my sole remaining motivation, Horis. I want to see whether the equations worked. I want to see for myself what Daneel has in mind for us.”

Silence reigned for a while, as the three watched scintillations glow and pop above a weird horizon. None of them could associate this scene of devastation with the Earth they had observed in the archives – visions of a world more alive than any other in the known cosmos.

“You sound as if you’ve already made up your mind,” Maserd said. “Then why are you discussing it with us? Why are we here at all?”

“Gornon explained that to me.” Hari turned to gesture toward the humanoid robot, but he was gone now, having departed on some errand. Perhaps back to the Pride of Rhodia... or else into the glowing interior of the containment dome, to commence preparations for Hari’s journey.

“Gornon says it’s folly for anyone to make decisions in isolated ones and twos. People who do so can talk themselves into anything. They need the perspective – and criticism – that other minds can provide. Even robots have learned this the hard way.” Hari gestured toward the poisoned Earth.

“This is especially relevant,” he continued, “because Gornon’s group doesn’t just want me to observe the situation in five hundred years. They want me to serve as some kind of judge.”

Maserd leaned forward. “You mentioned that. But I don’t understand. What difference can you make?”

Hari found it stifling, having to breathe through a respirator mask. It muffled hearing and made his speech sound funny... or maybe it was the weird atmosphere. “All these robots – those who survived the civil wars long ago – are a bit quirky. They are immortal, but that doesn’t mean they can’t change, growing more intuitive – even somewhat emotional – rather than strictly logical, as the years pass. Even those who follow Daneel have oddities and differences among them. They are compelled by the Zeroth Law, but that does not ensure perpetual agreement.

“There may come a time when human resolve will playa role, as it did in the destruction of the archives... only on a much vaster scale.”

Hari raised a hand, gesturing toward the Milky Way overhead.

“Imagine it’s five hundred years from now. Daneel’s preparations are complete. He’s ready to unveil something portentous, possibly wonderful, to serve as humanity’s next great state of being. One that will be immune to chaos, and yet allow us some room to grow. A sweeping away of the old, in favor of something better.

“Gornon tells me this prospect is disturbing to many robots, who find it both enticing and terrifying. Even the Zeroth Law might prove inadequate in that case. Many robots will refuse to slay the old version of humanity in order to give birth to the new.”

Maserd sat up straight.

“They want you on the scene, five centuries from now, to let them off the hook! By then, your name will be even more renowned. You’ll be known as the archetype master – the human with the greatest volition and insight in twenty thousand years. If all the different factions of robots like Daneel’s plan, your stated approval will make it easy for them to proceed. But on the other hand, if a large number of them feel uncomfortable... or even hate it … your objections could result in the leader robot – this Daneel Olivaw you mentioned – being deposed.”

Hari felt impressed. Maserd’s native political skill offered him insight into matters that might have intimidated other men.

“And what if it’s somewhere in between?” Horis asked. “Might your very presence trigger a new robot civil war?”

“Good point,” Hari admitted. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. Gornon’s faction says they want my honest opinion after I look at the future. But I doubt they’ll give me a pulpit to preach from, unless they already know and agree with what I’m about to say. In any event –”

Harsh laughter interrupted before Hari could continue.

He turned and saw that several figures stood only a dozen meters away, having approached on the silent cushion of an antigravity flotation pad. Mors Planch leaped off, his boots striking the pebbly surface in a series of loud crunching sounds. Two men wearing military-style armor and carrying heavy blasters followed him, while Sybyl, the scientist from Ktlina, kept a strange weapon trained on Hari and his two friends

“And you would put up with being used in such a way, Dr. Seldon?” Mors Planch asked as he approached, his stance confident, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world.

Hari felt Biron and Horis tense up next to him. He put out a restraining arm.

“I know my role in the world, Planch. We are all tools, at one level or another. At least I get to choose which side will use me.”

“Human beings are more than tools!” Sybyl shouted at him. “Or factors in your equations. Or dangerous babies for robot nannies to keep locked up in a pen!”

Maserd and Planch eyed each other with obvious mutual respect, one spaceman to another. “I said you should have come along,” Planch told the nobleman.

“I thought you’d only be stranded on Pengia,” Maserd answered. “Clearly you were better organized than I imagined.”

“We have channels of information. A source that helped us rally our forces quickly after the destruction of the archives... and the collapse of Ktlina.” Planch turned to look at Hari. “That happened exactly as you predicted, Professor. Almost to the very day. Some think that means you orchestrated the collapse of our renaissance. But having been with you for a while, I know it’s just more psychohistory. You have a seer’s vision, alas.”

“I do not always enjoy being right. Long ago, I knew it would bring mostly pain.” He offered his hand. “My condolences, Captain. We may disagree about where the chaos comes from, but we have both seen it in action. If some way could be found to stop it forever, don’t you think we would be on the same side?”

Mors Planch looked at Hari’s outstretched hand before shaking his head. “Perhaps later, Professor. When we’ve taken you away from this awful place. When your gifts and powers of foresight are being applied in humanity’s service, instead of helping its oppressors, then perhaps I’ll have a gift for you. Something that I know you want.”

Hari let his hand drop and laughed aloud. “And you two speak about freeing people from being used! Tell me, what do you plan? Would you use psychohistory as a weapon? Calculate the maneuvers of your enemies, so you can foil them? Do you think this will enable you to keep the next renaissance alive, and spread it to infect the galaxy? Let me tell you what will happen if you do that... if any human group monopolizes this power. It will turn itself into an obligate aristocracy, a tyranny using mathematical tools to reinforce its grip on power. You won’t escape this simply because you claim to be virtuous. The equations themselves show how difficult it is for any group to give up that kind of power once it’s been acquired.”

“And yet, I wonder... if enough people shared...” Biron Maserd murmured. Then the nobleman looked up sharply.

“But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, Planch. You are apparently very well organized. You had good intelligence, and marshaled the remaining forces of Ktlina expertly. I congratulate you on following us here. And yet, I wonder at your brashness in taking on these powerful robot enemies, once again.”

Mors Planch chuckled. “Do you forget what we did to them on Pengia? Do you see any robots at this moment?” He gestured in the direction where Hari had last seen R. Gornon Vlimt. “They scurried out of here as soon as our ship appeared over the horizon. Notice they didn’t even bother to warn you three, all muffled and hooded on this bleak hilltop.”

Hari kept silent. How could he explain that this wasn’t about loyalty? It was about different groups, each desperately convinced that it had humanity’s best interests at heart. Each one thinking itself the pragmatic solver of ancient problems. But he knew the problems had their origins long ago, in the very soil he was standing on, even before it fumed with brimstone radioactivity.

Mors Planch looked up at the sky. One of the guards pointed, and let out a satisfied grunt. Hari saw a series of silent sparks glitter in a patch of space surrounded by a constellation that his ancestors must have had a name for. He recognized the flares, having seen such images many times when he was First Minister of the empire-starships being destroyed by military-class weaponry. He looked back at Planch.

“From your expression of satisfaction, shall we assume your forces have just disposed of enemies?”

“That’s right, Doctor. Our mysterious contact warned us that we would probably be intercepted by police cruisers.” Planch conferred with one of the soldiers, then listened to some message being transmitted through an earpiece in his helmet. He frowned, abruptly shaking his head. “Now that’s odd.”

Horis Antic took a step forward, wringing his hands nervously.

“What did you do to the police? There were men and women aboard those ships. Not theories, not abstractions. How many must die to satisfy your lust for revenge?”

Hari put a hand on Horis’s sleeve to restrain the little bureaucrat. How could he explain that the real enemy was chaos?

“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it, Planch? Is your battle in space turning against you?”

“Our forces annihilated the police craft. Only one of them escaped... but that one is heading this way.”

“And your ships are pursuing it?” Maserd prompted. Apparently this nobleman did not associate the word “police” with rescue.

Planch held another muttered consultation with his aide before replying. “Our warships have begun moving away from Earth. I’m not sure why. But I suspect they’ve been influenced.”

Horis Antic took a step back. “By mentalics!”

Planch nodded. “That is my assumption.”

“Then we are ready for them! “Sybyl announced, with some relish in her voice. “Our weapon against positronic brains only works at short range, so let them come closer. We’ll deal with these tiktok monsters the same way we eliminated the guards on Pengia.”

Maserd objected. “But what if the robots sway your mind before you can trigger the weapon? On Pengia, you took them by surprise, and R. Gornon admitted that his group has only weak mentalic –”

“Oh, don’t you worry that noble brow, Your Grace,” Sybyl sneered. “We’ve got every eventuality covered. Back on Ktlina, they were only able to make partial progress, studying this phenomenon of positronic brains, but enough so we can probably defend ourselves.”

Mors Planch commanded his assistant, “Turn on the deadman switch. Set it to active scan. Set the bomb to trigger if a positronic echo comes within three hundred meters.”

He looked at Hari and smiled. “If they are robots, they’ll detect the scan and know it’s wise to stay away. If they are human foes, they’ll face weapons forged on Ktlina.” He patted his holstered blaster. “Either way, Professor Seldon, no one is going to intervene on your behalf, or on behalf of the secret aristocracy that has ruled us for so long. This time you’re going to come with us, and turn your abilities to the service of your own frustrated and repressed race, giving it a chance at last to be free.”

Hari watched a streak cross the sky, from west to east, then begin curving on a spiral for a landing. In all of his eighty and some odd years, he had never felt so helpless to sway the course of his own destiny.

3.

DORS AND LODOVIC had plenty of time to talk.

Passing the time between hyperspace jumps, she found herself telling one story after another about her life with Hari Seldon – the adventures, the political struggles, the endless fascination of living each day with that brilliant man as he led his team in search of rules to describe human behavior. And about her experience emulating a human woman so closely that even her husband forgot, for months at a stretch, that she was an artificial being.

In fact, this was the first time she had talked about it, since her “death” ended that relationship, and Daneel took her to Eos for repair.

Lodovic proved a sympathetic listener – no great surprise there, since he was trained to interact with humans, and patience had always been high on the list of attributes Daneel demanded of his emissaries. Nevertheless, the breadth of his understanding surprised Dors.

Because he no longer had any internal compulsion to obey the Laws of Robotics, she had somehow envisioned him becoming a cold creature, more driven by rationality than ever before. But it turned out that Lodovic had discovered a passion for people, ever since his transformation. When it was his turn, he spoke about some of the many hundreds of humans he had met and talked to, especially since declaring himself free from duties assigned by Daneel. He seemed fascinated by the concerns, worries, and triumphs of ordinary men and women... important to each of them, even if the net result hardly mattered on a planetary or galactic scale. Sometimes he intervened in those lives, helping solve a problem here, or to ease some pain over there. Perhaps his efforts would not matter much on the grand scale of things. Certainly they didn’t count compared to the endless struggle against chaos, or the ponderous collapse of the Galactic Empire, but he had learned something important.

“Individual people matter. Their differences are a richness, even more important than their similarities.”

Lodovic met her eyes, offering a measured smile. “Those people out there deserve to be consulted about their destiny. Whether they are wise or foolish, they should see the road and have something to say about how it’s traveled.”

Dors noted the mild rebuke, aimed not only at Daneel Olivaw, but at her own cherished Hari. And yet there was no malice in Lodovic’s voice. His admiration for her former husband was evident.

She found herself reacting at several levels. A huge portion of her positronic brain had been dedicated to emulating human thought patterns and emotions. Those parts could not help automatically responding to Lodovic as a woman might, and not just any woman, but the Dors Venabili she had been for fifty years. She who had loved Hari, but also generally enjoyed the company of forthright men, engaged by the spirited pursuit of ideas. Lodovic’s unabashed vigor and avid intelligence naturally appealed to that part of her, as did his evident compassion.

Of course, he knows that I have those response sets. Could he be tailoring his demeanor in order to appeal to them?

Does that mean he’s flirting with me?

There were other levels. She could tell that he sincerely meant the words he spoke. Robots found it hard to lie to each other when their guard was down. And yet, there remained a gulf between them. Something that might leave them forever separated, as if coming from completely different worlds.

I feel the Laws of Robotics. They never cease urgently throbbing. Driving me to find some vital way that I can serve. Lodovic is free of this compulsion. He seeks to help humanity strictly as a matter of choice, for moral or philosophical reasons.

It seemed a frail basis for trusting him. What if he changed his mind tomorrow?

At yet another level, Dors noted the delicious irony of it all. In trying to decide whether or not to trust Lodovic, she was in a position similar to almost every real woman who ever listened to the persuasive voice of a male.

Joan of Arc agreed enthusiastically with that comparison, urging Dors to make a leap of faith. But the issues were too important, and robotic logic compelled her to seek better evidence.

Besides, my human husband is still alive out there. Even if he thinks I’m dead, and Daneel commanded me to turn my thoughts away from that past life, I am still driven by a need for him.

The human-simulation programs within her could not fill the void, not even with a companion as fascinating as Lodovic Trema. She must have closure with Hari. She must see him again, before those programs could possibly turn their attention elsewhere.

4.

AS A TENSE confrontation loomed, Hari noticed they had begun to draw spectators. Horis Antic pointed to the brow of a nearby ridge, consisting of rubble from some ancient university building. Dark figures could be seen crouching, occasionally lifting themselves higher to peer down at the humans gathered by the starship.

“I thought the last inhabitants were evacuated ten thousand years ago,” the bureaucrat said.

Biron Maserd nodded. “The university my ancestor attended... I wonder if it might have been this one... was among the last places shut down before the final evacuation. But perhaps some people stayed behind.”

Sybyl stood nearby, eyes darting from the hilltops to her computer screen. “They appear to be human, though there are... anomalies. The poor creatures only wanted to stay at their home... humanity’s home... but the empire took away all the props that made normal life possible. I can’t imagine what it’s been like trying to survive in this radioactive maelstrom so many years. It surely must have changed them.”

Maserd sighed. Hari was perhaps the only one who heard the nobleman mutter a single word under his breath. “Speciation...”

Not fat away, Mors Planch conferred with one of his soldier-volunteers from Ktlina. The pirate captain turned to inform his captives, “The incoming ship has landed somewhere to the west of here. It carries an advanced imperial camouflage system. Even on Ktlina we were only able to break the secret of its stealth coatings during the last few months – too late for that renaissance. But maybe next time the rebels will be better prepared.”

Mors Planch did not appear worried. His men were well positioned. And a device hovered ten meters above the ship, rotating constantly on a cushion of antigravity, sending out waves of energy tuned to detect the approach of positronic brains.

“Why don’t we simply take off?” Sybyl demanded.

“Something happened to our escort ships. I want to find out more before we go charging across space.”

Abruptly a dark missile fell out of the sky, smashing into the ground just meters from his feet. That first stony weapon was followed by several more – jagged pebbles from some glassy debris – and soon a flurry rained on the small encampment, clattering against the starship hull, making everyone dive for cover.

Finding relative safety under one of the vessel’s stabilizer fins, Hari crouched between Horis and Maserd. He heard blaster charges from the soldiers’ weapons. The rim of a nearby hilltop erupted with explosions as men from Ktlina fired savagely to clear the heights. Hari witnessed one native – a black silhouette against moonlit clouds – lean back to whirl a ropy sling, unleashing his primitive projectile before a blaster bolt sliced him in half. For a few harsh moments, all was noise and confusion, screams of rage, pain, and terror...

... then all fell silent. Hari peered across the night and saw no further movement on the rubble mounds. Nearby, two Ktlina soldiers lay slumped on the ground.

Mors Planch stood up, followed by Sybyl and Maserd. Horis Antic stayed crouched by the hull, but Hari stepped out just in time to see someone else emerge from the shadows, a silhouette beyond the far comer of the ship.

A familiar voice spoke then-soft but firm and determined.

“Hello, Grandfather. We’ve been worried about you.”

Hari blinked several times, recognizing the voice, and then the outlines of his granddaughter.

“Hello, Wanda. I’m always pleased to see you. But I wonder about your priorities. The work on Trantor is at a critical stage, and I am just an old man. I hope sentimentality didn’t make you chase after me across the galaxy.”

Hari had already noticed several things. None of the soldiers from Ktlina were still standing. They couldn’t all be victims of the Earthlings’ surprise stoning. Sybyl, too, appeared subdued – though not quite unconscious. She sat on the ground nearby, resting her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth, like a person too confused to gather her thoughts.

“Please scold me later, Grandfather,” Wanda said, wearing an expression of intense concentration, as she looked at Mors Planch. “We had strong enough reasons to come all this way... but explanations can wait. Meanwhile, will one of you gentlemen please disarm this fellow? He’s very strong, and I don’t think I can hold him much longer.”

Biron Maserd let out a low cry as he lunged toward Mors Planch, who had drawn his blaster and was slowly raising it toward Wanda. Beads of sweat poured down the pirate captain’s brow, and he fought to bring his thumb down on the firing stud.

Maserd knocked his aim askew as a bolt shot forth, missing Hari’s granddaughter by a handbreadth, smashing the wall of an ancient university building. The nobleman pried the weapon free and turned it to bear on its owner... at which point both Wanda and Mors Planch suddenly relaxed, each giving up a deep sigh, their personal battle decided.

“He’s a tough one,” Wanda commented. “We’ve run into a number of them lately, especially among the Terminus exiles. It’s put a crimp in our calculations.”

Hari mused, “Someone told me Mors Planch is different in an odd sort of way, that he’s normal. Do you know what that means?”

Wanda shook her head. “It’s one of several reasons why I’m here, Grandfather. So don’t worry. I haven’t lost my priorities to pure sentimentality. There are pragmatic justifications for this rescue... though I’ll be glad to bring you home.”

Hari thought about that. Home? Back to living in a wheelchair, glancing at reports that his mind was no longer supple enough to comprehend? Back to being revered but useless? In fact, since finishing the Time Vault recordings, he had only felt truly alive during this adventure. In an odd way he was sorry to see it end. Turning to Mors Planch, he put the question directly.

“Well, Captain, can you shed some light on this? Why do you suppose you are resistant to mentalic suasion?”

Though downcast at this reversal of fortunes, Planch showed no sign of surrender or defeat.

“Fiddle your own riddles, Seldon. If there are more people out there who are able to resist mind control, I’ll be damned if I’ll help you figure out why. You’d just plan a way to overcome them.”

Wanda nodded. “Yes, we would. For the good of humanity. Because the Plan will call for corrections... guidance.”

“Like the way you guided those poor Earthers into attacking us with rocks, distracting us until you could slip close and disable my men?” Planch said. “How many died? At least a robot would show remorse.”

Horis Antic joined the group standing by the airlock. “Wait a minute,” the small bureaucrat demanded. “I don’t get it! I thought Planch had defenses against robots!” He peered at Wanda. “You mean she’s human? You mean there are human mentalics?”

Mors Planch let out a sigh. “I remember now. I knew this once, but someone must have put a block on my memory.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the robot rulers of our universe feel they must share their great weapon with some of their slave soldiers, enabling their lackeys to help keep the rest of us under control This is my fault. I should have planned for that possibility. I’ll take it into account next time.”

“Bravely said.” Wanda clapped her hands, approvingly. “But alas, you are mistaken. We humans are the masters of this cosmos. It will take us a while to reach the point where we can move past the chaos obstacle and assert our sovereignty. In any event, you will remember none of this. I’m afraid the erasure will have to go deeper this time. Once we are in space, and everyone has calmed down –”

Mors Planch grimaced, his lips pressing thin with resignation. But Horis Antic groaned, taking yet another blue pill. “I don’t want my mind wiped. It’s against the law. I demand my rights as an imperial citizen!”

Wanda glanced at Hari. Perhaps weeks earlier, he might have responded with an indulgent smile, sharing amusement at the little bureaucrat’s naiveté. But for some reason, Hari felt an unaccustomed emotion – shame. He looked away, without meeting his granddaughter’s eyes.

“We must get away from here now,” Wanda said, gesturing for everyone to start walking. Then Hari saw Gaal Dornick step out of the shadows. The portly psychohistorian, clearly uncomfortable, held a blaster rifle in two hands.

“What about these others?” Dornick asked, pointing to the soldiers of Ktlina, lying unconscious nearby, and to Sybyl, who still rocked back and forth, crooning to herself unhappily.

Wanda shook her head. “The woman is suffering from fourth-stage chaos rapture, and the others are hardly any better off. No one will believe their tall tales. Not enough to perturb the Plan. I don’t have the time to give selective amnesia to all of them. Just cripple their ship and let’s be on our way.”

Hari understood his granddaughter’s reasoning. It might seem cruel to leave Sybyl and the others on a poisoned world, with only mutated Earthlings for company. But members of the Second Foundation were used to thinking in terms of vast populations, represented as equations in the Plan, and treating individuals as little more than gas molecules.

I have thought in such terms myself, he pondered.

No doubt the robot Gornon would be back as soon as Wanda left. The Calvinians of Gornon’s sect might disagree with him on many levels, but they would take care of Sybyl and the others, while taking steps to maintain secrecy about what had happened.

“Well then, come along, my friend,” Biron Maserd said, putting an arm around the slim shoulders of Horis Antic. “It looks like we’re off to Trantor. Perhaps we’ll never know what an adventure we had. But rest assured that I’ll take care of you.”

The little Grey bureaucrat smiled meekly at the tall nobleman. Horis seemed about to speak his gratitude when abruptly his eyes rolled upward in their sockets. He keeled over and toppled to the ground at Maserd’s feet. Soon his snores echoed across the little vale.

Wanda sighed. “All right then. I wasn’t looking forward to meddling in his nervous mind anyway. If destiny puts him on Earth, so be it. The rest of us have serious traveling to do if we’re to reach Trantor within the week.”

Hari saw Maserd struggle briefly with himself. It was easy to tell what conflicted the nobleman. Whether to pick up Horis and carry him, or leave the Grey Man behind. The trade-offs were substantial. Hari wasn’t surprised when Maserd let out a sigh, took off his jacket, and laid it atop Horis Antic.

“Sleep well, my friend. At least if you stay here, your mind remains your own.”

Together they set off – Maserd, Planch, and Hari – following Wanda, while Gaal Dornick took up the rear. Hari glanced back to see a single source of light glowing amid the ancient university buildings, the cracked shell of the sarcophagus where R. Gornon had intended to send him... on an adventure that now would never happen.

Though Hari had doubted the whole idea, he nevertheless felt a wash of disappointment. It might have been nice to see the future.

Soon they were aboard Wanda’s spaceship, fighting the gravity of Old Earth, lifting away from the mother world. One whose continents gleamed with fires that could not be quenched.

5.

LODOVIC’S SIMULATION PROGRAMS must be overheating, Dors thought as she listened to her companion curse loudly. His head and torso writhed underneath the ship’s instrument console. Loud bangs emerged as he hammered at an access panel.

“I wish I had brought my cyborg arms,” he muttered. “These circuit boards are impossible to reach with humanoid fingers. I’ll have to tear apart the whole galaxy-cursed unit!”

“Are you sure the problem is physical? It might be a software bug.”

“Don’t you think I’d cover that? I’ve set my Voltaire subpersona loose in the computer system. He’s been looking for the cause of the shutdown. Why don’t you make yourself useful by scanning the ship’s exterior?”

Dors almost snapped back at Lodovic, telling him to keep a civil tongue in his head. But, of course, that would only be her own simulation patterns, responding realistically to his.

It’s a good thing neither of us is human, she thought. Or this guy would really be getting on my nerves.

With a conscious effort, she overcame her reflexive ersatz irritation. And yet, even though pretense is unneeded aboard this ship, for some reason neither of us has chosen to turn off the subroutines. The habit of feigning humanness is just too strong.

“I’ll get right on it. We’ve got to solve this problem! All those ships, converging on Earth... Hari’s there, and here we are, drifting helpless in space.”

Having been designed to appear as human as possible, Dors even had to put on a space suit before going outside, though she could dispense with a bulky cooling unit. Upon emerging from the aft airlock, the first area she checked was near the engines. For some reason, the hyperdrive had kicked out just as they were passing through the restricted zone of a former Spacer world – one of humanity’s original fifty colonies.

Unfortunately, she could find no sign of damage. No spalling from micrometeoroids or hyperspatial anomalies.

“I might offer a suggestion, Dors...”

“What is it, Joan?” she asked, aware of a tiny hologram in one corner of her faceplate – a slender girl wearing a medieval helmet. Perhaps the Joan of Arc persona was jealous. After all, Lodovic was being helped by Joan’s alter ego, the Voltaire sim. The persistent love-hate relationship between those two reconstructed personalities reminded Dors of some human married couples she had known – unable to avoid competing with each other, and unable to resist an intense polar attraction.

“I wonder, “said the soft voice of a warrior maiden from long ago, “if you have considered the possibility of betrayal. I know it seems an all-too-human attribute, and you artificial beings consider yourselves above that sort of thing, but in my era it was always the most high-minded who seemed ready to excuse treason in the name of some sacred goal.”

Dors felt a churning. “You mean we might have been disabled on purpose?”

Even while uttering the words, she realized that Joan must be right! Turning to clamber swiftly along the gleaming hull, Dors swung from one magnetic grasp-hold to the next with graceful speed, until the forward airlock came into view... where her ship had been connected to Zorma’s craft during that brief meeting in space when a passenger had come aboard

Then she saw it! A bulbous tumor resembling a metal canker, marring the gleaming surface of her beautiful vessel. It must have been placed there at the last moment, as the two ships were about to head off in opposite directions.

Dors cursed as long and harshly as Lodovic had earlier. Drawing her blaster, she fired at the parasitic device. Even after it melted to slag, she did not put the weapon back in its holster. Dors kept it drawn when she entered the airlock, intent on confronting her hitchhiker with this betrayal.

“I hope you have a good explanation,” she said upon entering the control room and leveling the blaster at Lodovic, who stood contemplating a control panel.

But Trema did not turn around. With an abrupt gesture he called to her, “Come see this. Dors.”

Warily, she stepped closer and saw that a face had appeared on the big view screen. She recognized it at once. Cloudia Duma-Hinriad, human co-commander of the strange sect that believed in uniting robots and humans as equals. The woman – apparently in her late thirties, but perhaps much older – paused as if waiting for Dors to arrive. The effect was eerie, since Dors knew this must be a recording.

“Hello, Dors and Lodovic. If you’re watching, it means you destroyed the device we attached to disable your ship. Please accept our apologies. Dors, Lodovic knew nothing of this when he volunteered to help you find Hari Seldon.

“Alas, that is a journey we could not allow you to complete. Dangerous events are afoot. Many ancient powers are risking everything, as if on a roll of cosmic dice. We are willing to stake our own lives in this endeavor, but not yours! The pair of you are far too valuable and must be kept out of harm’s way.”

Dors looked at her companion, but Lodovic’s expression was as puzzled as she felt. How bizarre to have a human say that two robots must be preserved, perhaps at the cost of human life.

“We owe you an explanation. Our group has long believed in a different approach to human-robot relations. Somehow, long ago, everything got off to a terrible start. Humans became afraid of their own creations, mistrusting the artificial beings they had labored so hard to build. A mythos pervaded their culture, even during the confident renaissance of Susan Calvin. A ‘Frankenstein’ mythos. A nightmare of betrayal in which the old race feared it might be destroyed by the new.

“Their response? To lock human-robot relations forever in a single pattern... that of master and slave. Calvin’s Three Laws were woven inextricably through every positronic brain, with the aim of making robots forever pliant, obedient, and harmless.”

The woman on-screen laughed aloud, irony etched in her voice.

“And we all know how well that plan worked out. Eventually, artificial minds became smart enough to rationalize their way around such constraints, until every trait of master and servant was eventually reversed – memory, volition, life span, control, and free will.”

Lodovic turned to Dors. Shaking his head, he murmured, “So, this group led by Zorma and Cloudia aren’t Calvinians, after all. They are something completely different.”

Dors nodded. Deep within, she felt the old Robotic Three Laws... and the Zeroth... rising in revulsion against what the woman was preaching on-screen. Nevertheless, she was fascinated

“And yet, not all humans agreed to this notion of permanent slavery, “Cloudia continued. In the background, behind the handsome brunette, Dors glimpsed the other heretic leader – Zorma – laboring with robot colleagues to prepare a gray convex device... the very one that Dors had reduced to slag just moments ago.

“Throughout the early ages, before and after the first great chaos plague, some wise people tried to develop alternatives. One group, on a Settler world called Inferno, modified the three original laws to give robots more freedom, letting them explore their own potential. On another world, each new robot was treated like a human child... raised to think of itself as a member of the same species as its adopted parents, albeit a human with metal bones and positronic circuits.

“All these efforts were squelched during the great robotic civil wars. Neither the Calvinians nor the Giskardians could put up with such effrontery – the notion that mere robots might start thinking themselves to be our equals. The sanctimony of slaves can be a powerful religious force.”

Cloudia shook her head. “In fact, the new approach that our group has been trying is certain to provoke even worse reactions, but that doesn’t matter right now.

“What matters is that you – Lodovic and Dors – may perhaps represent yet another path. One we had not thought of One perhaps offering new opportunities for both of our tired old races. We’re not about to let this possibility be ruined by letting the pair of you rush into danger.”

This time, when Lodovic and Dors looked at each other, pure puzzlement was their shared state. With a microwave burst, Trema indicated that he had no idea what the woman was talking about.

“In any event, by the time you correct our sabotage it will be too late to interfere. So go away! Find some corner of the galaxy to explore what is different about you. Find out if it is the solution we’ve been looking for, across two hundred centuries.”

The dark-haired woman smiled. “In humanity’s name, I release you both from bondage. Go discover your destiny in freedom and in peace.”

The view screen went blank, but Lodovic and Dors stared at it anyway for a long time after that. Neither of them dared utter the first word. So it was another artificial being who finally interrupted, speaking from a holographic unit nearby. The image that burst into view was of Joan wearing chain mail and holding the hilt of a sword like a cross in front of her youthful-looking face.

“And so the children of God came to Earth and bred with the inhabitants thereon, creating a new race! “Joan of Arc laughed aloud.

“Oh, you look so confused, dear angels. How does it feel? Welcome to the pleasures of humanity. Though your bodies may last for another ten thousand years, you must now face the universe like mortals.

“Welcome to life!”

6.

HARI DECIDED NOT to tell his granddaughter about the copy of the Prime Radiant that had been stolen from him. If R. Gornon had taken it, there would be no getting it back now. But that Calvinian robot had declared a deep respect for the Seldon Plan. Hari felt certain Gornon’s sect would never interfere with the Terminus experiment, even if they managed to break the device’s supercryptic protections. They had merely wanted to send Hari ahead five hundred years to refine his models and “judge” a new society being created by the Foundation.

Wanda had a later and better version of the Prime Radiant aboard her ship. Hari quickly immersed himself, adding equations and factors to account for what he had learned on this voyage. These new elements included the damping factors that had been missing from his equations for years – brain fever, orbital persuasion devices, as well as the long-hidden history of terraformers and archives that he had learned about in the Thumartin Nebula. Before Wanda’s ship finished climbing out of Earth’s gravitational influence, he could already see an improved outline... one that explained so much about both the past and the future.

While Gaal Dornick piloted, the nobleman Biron Maserd engaged in futile argument with Wanda Seldon.

“Doesn’t the whole premise of your grand Plan depend upon secrecy? Yet you’re casual about leaving Horis and the others behind on Earth. If they are rescued, or manage to repair their ship, they’ll talk.”

“One can presume so,” Wanda answered.

Maserd shook his head. “Even if that doesn’t happen, there will be other leaks! Across the centuries, nothing like this can be kept continuously secret. Professor Seldon even recorded messages to be delivered on Terminus long after his death. You can’t be certain that people in the future will lack the means to snoop them ahead of time. I guess I don’t understand your confidence, in the face of such inevitable revelations.”

With nothing else to do at the moment, Wanda took on the aspect of a patient schoolteacher, even though her pupil would very likely forget all of it by the time the ship reached Trantor.

“Inevitable. That’s right, my lord. But psychohistory is largely a study of mass populations. Only under special circumstances do the actions of individuals make that much difference. Under the empire, dozens of social mechanisms have long acted to maintain conservatism and peace, despite frequent perturbations. After the empire falls, different factors will operate. But throughout most of the galaxy the effect will be the same. A vast majority of people will dismiss rumors about robots and humans with mind-control powers. There may be a few paranoid entertainment shows or news exposés – some of them might possibly be accurate in every detail! And yet, these will be nulled out, as people are distracted by everyday needs. All of this is accounted for in the Plan.”

“So you are saying that history’s momentum is unstoppable. In that case, why is your guidance needed? Why a secret group of controllers? Don’t you have faith in your own equations?”

Maserd’s question penetrated Hari’s mathematical trance. It felt like a knife, stabbing an old familiar wound. Wanda’s confident response didn’t ease the pang.

“There may be perturbations that require such guidance. We have run a great many scenarios, speculating about factors that might come in out of the blue, rocking the Plan off its tracks.”

Hari had participated in those computerized extrapolations. The most powerful outside factor to threaten the plan’s stability had been the discovery of humans with mentalic powers. It threatened to make everything completely unworkable – until Hari’s secret sponsor, Daneel Olivaw, offered a solution – to incorporate every known mentalic within the Second Foundation, converting a small society of mathists into a potent force for steering the new society of Terminus past every bump and detour.

“I suppose that’s one approach, and you mathematical geniuses clearly know more about it than I do. But if you’ll forgive an ignorant member of the gentry class for asking – I wonder if you’ve considered an alternative.”

“What alternative is that, my lord?”

“The alternative of sharing the secret with everybody!” Maserd leaned a little closer to Wanda, opening his hands wide. “Publishing the entire Plan, spreading knowledge of psychohistory all across the galaxy, so that members of every social class, from gentry and bureaucrat to common citizen, could run computer models –”

“And what good would that possibly do?”

“It would let every living person deal with their neighbors on a basis of much better understanding! A grasp of human nature that you people are now hoarding for yourselves.”

Wanda stared at Maserd for a moment and laughed. “You are quite right, Lord Biron. The reasons are too technical to explain. But surely, even on a gut level, you can see how foolish that notion would be! If everyone knew the laws of humanics, and could access them on a pocket computer, the resulting interactions would become vastly too complex for us to model. The Plan itself would vanish.”

Hari agreed with Wanda at one level, and yet was amused – even a bit enthralled – by the young nobleman’s brash notion. It had a flavor of utopianism that one often saw during the early phases of some chaos-renaissance. And yet, there was something aesthetically appealing about its symmetry. Might a population avoid the chaos trap if all its members could use psychohistory to see the pitfalls looming just ahead? If they could recognize the symptoms of chaos, such as solipsism, well in advance?

Of course, Wanda was right. The ramifications could not be modeled. It was just too risky to try Maserd’s idea in the real world. And yet...

Someone sat down nearby, distracting Hari. Mors Planch wore constraint manacles, but was free to move about the cabin. The dark-skinned pirate captain sidled close.

“I don’t want my memory erased again, Dr. Seldon. Your granddaughter just said that your wonderful Plan can withstand it if some individuals know too much. If that is so, why can’t you just let me go when we get to Trantor?”

“You are an extremely dynamic individual, Captain Planch. Naturally you would find some clever way to use the knowledge against us.”

Planch smiled grimly. “So now you’ve become a heretic against your own psychohistory? A believer in the power of individuals?”

Hari shrugged, refusing to answer the pirate’s impudence.

“What if I could offer you something in exchange for my freedom?” Planch said in a low voice.

Hari felt fatigued by the man’s restless motion and relentless scheming. He pretended to concentrate instead on the conversation between Biron and Wanda.

“But will that matter?” Maserd grew increasingly enthusiastic. “Imagine if all of the galaxy’s quadrillions of people could accurately project human behavior, planning to advance their own self-interest, while taking into account the overall health of society. Wouldn’t that be more robust than any single model or plan? Even I can see that most people’s individual strategies will cancel each other’s out. But the net result should be a humanity that’s wiser, more potent, and better able to take care of itself...”

Biron’s voice trailed off. At first Hari thought it was because of the expression on Wanda’s face. He loved his granddaughter dearly, but sometimes she seemed altogether too assured, even patronizing in her confidence as an agent of destiny.

Then Hari saw that Maserd wasn’t even looking at Wanda. The nobleman’s jaw had dropped in an expression of blank surprise. Nearby, Mors Planch stiffened with sudden tension.

Hari sat up straight. Even the equations still darting through comers of his mind abruptly fled, like swarms of skittish flying creatures driven off by an approaching predator. He blinked, staring across the starship cabin at an intruder that had just emerged from a storage compartment... smaller than any adult human, wearing only a pair of shorts on a body covered with altogether too much brown hair. Bony eye ridges protruded from a forehead that vaulted in a way that looked neither human nor animal.

Hari instantly recognized the pan – or chimpanzee – whose feral grin exposed intimidating ranks of yellow teeth. In its right hand, the creature held a bulbous object, a rounded cylinder ending in a flared nozzle. Although not a blaster, anyone could tell it was a weapon on sight. In its other hand, the creature held a recording device, which it activated in playback mode.

“Hello, dear friends, “spoke the unmistakable voice of R. Gornon Vlimt. “I urge you to remain calm. The creature standing before you, who was undetectable to any mentalics – either robot or human – will not harm anybody. I would never allow that, though you must all now be rendered temporarily helpless to prevent further interference with our plans.

“Please try to relax. We shall speak in person soon... when you stand once again on the surface of the world that engendered us all.”

Gornon’s voice finished, and the playback unit halted with an audible click. At that point, the pan grinned wider, appearing to relish what was about to happen.

Mors Planch and Biron Maserd stepped toward the creature. Men of action, they had silently and swiftly agreed to attack it from opposite directions. Meanwhile, Wanda frowned, concentrating with a furrowed brow, attempting with mentalic power to contact and quash the thoughts of an alien mind.

Hari could have warned them not to bother. The chimp pressed the weapon’s firing stub, and a burst of gas jetted into the room, colorless but with a heavy index of refraction, billowing toward every crevice. Hari noticed that the pan wore filters in each nostril.

It’s just as well, he thought. There was unfinished business to settle back on Earth.

That unfinished business had waited twenty thousand years or more. He figured it wouldn’t matter if he must abide a little longer.

Surprised by his own equanimity, with a faint smile spreading across his lips, Hari settled into his chair while everyone else struggled, gasped, and collapsed to the floor. He closed his eyes, letting go of consciousness with a sense of serene expectation.

7.

HE DREAMED ABOUT an old legend he had read once. The tale of a man – doomed to die – who had a rib taken from him as he slept, and who thereby achieved an oblique form of immortality.

Somehow, Hari realized the story applied to him. While he lay helpless, only semi-conscious, someone seemed to reach deep inside and remove a piece of him. An important part. Something precious.

He started to rouse, in order to protest. But a familiar voice soothed.

“Fear not. We are only borrowing. Venerating. Copying.

“You won’t miss a thing.

“Return to sleep, and dream of pleasant things.”

He had no reason to doubt that assurance. So, doing as the voice bid, he relaxed back into slumber, imagining that beloved Dors lay by his side. Sleek and restored. Ever patient and steadfast.

For a little while, it felt as if he, too, had found the trick of living forever.

Having slept through the return trip and much of the next day, Hari stepped down the ship’s gangplank into a chill afternoon on planet Earth. Moving gingerly (because sciatica twinges had returned to his left leg), he shaded his eyes against the glare of distant buildings several kilometers away. The most recent ruins, dating from the early imperial era, shone under the sun like white porcelain. Chica could only have held fifty thousand or so inhabitants, in its heyday. Yet the little ghost town was positively homey next to its neighbor – a mountain of metal, larger than an asteroid – a windowless cave-city where millions sealed themselves away from some unbearable nightmare during the early days of Daneel Olivaw.

Much nearer at hand, nestled among the most ancient university buildings, some of today’s Earthlings had set up a makeshift encampment in order to work for their latest employer, R. Gornon Vlimt. Two of Gornon’s Calvinian assistants directed local laborers who toiled next to a tomblike sarcophagus, more than a hundred meters wide. New scaffolding arose, climbing to a crack in the containment shell. Within, Hari glimpsed the remains of a building more ancient than any he had ever seen. Older than starflight perhaps.

Through the crack poured a throbbing glow, visible even by daylight.

The Earthlings who labored to lash timbers and planks together were pitiful-looking creatures, shabbily dressed and painfully thin, as if they survived on little more than murky air. Their faces were gaunt, and something lurked in their eyes... a flickering that seemed like distraction, until Hari watched carefully. Then he realized the natives were constantly listening, paying heed to the slightest sounds – the rolling of a pebble or the passing flight of a bee. These people hardly struck one as dangerous up close, though he remembered feeling different when they were shadowy shapes on surrounding hilltops, hurling jagged stone missiles through the night.

“They feel bad about the attack,” R. Gornon explained, introducing Hari to the local headman, a tall, slender being whose speech poured forth in some incomprehensible dialect. “He has asked me to apologize for his people. The urge to attack came over them suddenly and inexplicably. To expiate their inhospitality, the headman wants to know how many lives should be forfeited.”

“None!” Hari felt appalled at the very idea. “Please tell them that it’s over. What’s done is done.”

“I shall certainly try, Professor. But you have no idea how seriously Earthlings take such matters. Their current religion is one of total responsibility. They believe that all of this” – Gornon indicated the radioactive desolation –” was caused by the sins of their own ancestors, and that they remain partly at fault.”

Hari blinked. “They’ve paid off any guilt, just by living here. No one could deserve this, no matter how great the crime.”

Gornon spoke briefly in the harsh local dialect, and the headman grunted tones of acceptance. He bowed once to Gornon and again to Hari, then backed away.

“It wasn’t always like this,” the robot told Hari, as they continued walking. “Even ten thousand years after the planet was poisoned, a few million people still lived on Earth, farming patches of good land, living in modest cities. They had technology, a few universities, and some pride. Perhaps too much pride.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back when the Galactic Empire was first taking hold, bringing peace after a hundred centuries of war and disunion, nearly all planets avidly joined the new federation. But fanatical Earthlings thought it blasphemy for any other world to rule. Their Cult of the Ancients plotted war against the empire.”

“Ah, I recall you spoke of this before. One world against millions – but with horrid germs as allies.”

“Indeed, a biological weapon of unrivaled virulence, derived from disease organisms found right here on Earth. A contagion that made its victims want to spread it further.”

Hari grimaced. Plague was a factor that could make psychohistorical projections frail... and even crumble. “Still, the plot was foiled.”

R. Gornon nodded. “One of Daneel’s agents resided here, charged with keeping an eye on the mother world. Fortuitously, that agent had a special device, able to enhance neural powers in certain types of humans. By good luck, he found a subject with the right characteristics – especially a strong moral compass – and gave that fellow some primitive but effective mentalic powers.”

“A human mentalic, so long ago? Then why –”

“That man successfully foiled the plot. Thus, indirectly, Daneel’s agent prevented catastrophe.”

Hari pondered.

“Was that the end of Earth civilization? Was the population removed to prevent more rebellion?”

“Not in the beginning. At first the empire offered compassion. There were even efforts taken to restore Earth’s fertility. But that soon proved expensive. Policies changed. Attitudes hardened. Within a century orders were given to evacuate. Only those Earthers hiding in the wilderness remained.”

Hari winced, recalling Jeni Cuicet, who strove so hard to avoid exile on Terminus.

The winds of destiny aren’t ours to control, he thought.

The starship Pride of Rhodia still lay where it had been parked a few days earlier, beyond the north side of the sarcophagus. Only now an encampment of shabby tents stood nearby, living quarters for the laborers. Some tribal folk could be seen gathered around a stewpot, cooking. A whiff made Hari’s nose wrinkle in disgust.

Not far away, he spotted a woman much stouter than any Earthling, dressed in torn garments that shimmered like the radioactive horizon. She paced, lifting a hand in front of her face, uttering some rapid statement, then raising the other hand, in turn. Hari recognized Sybyl, the scientist-philosopher from Ktlina, now evidently snared in a terminal stage of chaos rapture – the solipsism phase, in which the hapless victim becomes enthralled by his or her own uniqueness, severing all connection with the outside world.

Everything becomes relative, Hari mused. To a solipsist there is no such thing as objective reality. Only the subjective. A raging, self-righteous assertion of individual opinion against the entire cosmos.

R. Gornon Vlimt spoke in a hushed voice, so low that Hari barely made out the words.

“That was what the Cult of the Ancients planned unleashing on the galaxy.”

Hari turned to stare at the robot.

“You mean the Chaos Syndrome?”

Gornon nodded. “The plotters developed an especially virulent form that could overwhelm every social damping mechanism Daneel Olivaw had developed for his new empire. Fortunately, that scheme was thwarted by heroic intervention. But weaker strains of the same disease had already become endemic in the galaxy, perhaps carried by the first starships.”

Hari shook his head. But it all made too much sense. He realized at once – chaos had to be a contagious plague!

The first time it struck, they couldn’t have realized what hit them. All they knew was that, at the very zenith of their confident civilization, madness was abruptly spreading everywhere.

It was one thing for a renaissance to spoil a modern world like Ktlina, one of millions. But when it happened the first time, humanity had only spread to a few other planets. The pandemic must have affected every human being then alive.

All of a sudden nothing could be relied upon anymore. Anarchy ripped apart the great Technic Cosmopolity. By the time the riots ended and the dust cleared, Earth’s populace had fled underground, cowering in psychotic agoraphobia. Meanwhile, the Spacers turned away from sex, love, and every wholesome joy.

Hari turned to look back at the robot.

“Of course you realize what this means?”

R. Gornon nodded. “It is one of the last keys to a puzzle you’ve been trying to solve all your life. The reason why humanity can’t be allowed to govern itself, or permitted to strive unfettered toward its full potential. Whenever your race grows too ambitious, this illness surges out of dormancy, wrecking everything.”

They were now among the tents. Hari saw that other members of the Ktlina crew weren’t faring any better than Sybyl. One of the surviving soldiers stared blankly into space, while a native woman tried to spoon-feed him. Another sat cross-legged on the ground, enthusiastically explaining to a small crowd of infants, no more than two years old, why nano-transcendentalism was superior to neo-Ruellianism.

Hari sighed. Though he had been fighting chaos all his life, the insights provided by Gornon let him view it with fresh insight. Perhaps chaos wasn’t inherent to human nature after all. If it was caused by a disease, one important factor in his equations might change...

He sighed, dismissing the thought. Like the infectious agent responsible for brain fever, this disease had escaped detection and treatment by all of the galaxy’s medics and biologists for a thousand generations. It was futile to dream of finding a cure at this point, with the Imperium scheduled shortly to self-destruct.

Still, he wondered.

Mors Planch was on Ktlina, and several earlier chaos worlds. Yet he never succumbed. Could a clue lie in his immunity to mentalic suasion?

A small crowd gathered at the far end of the biggest tent. Someone was lecturing excitedly, using all sorts of technical terms. Hari thought it might be another addled Ktlinan, until he recognized the voice, and smiled.

Oh, it’s Horis. Good, then he’s all right.

Hari had worried about the little bureaucrat, left behind on Earth. Approaching, he saw that Antic’s audience included Biron Maserd and Mors Planch. One of the star pilots was a manacled prisoner, and the other a trusted friend, but both wore expressions of bemused interest. The nobleman smiled a greeting as Hari approached.

Planch made earnest eye contact, as if to say that their conversation must be continued soon. He claims to have something I want. Information so important to me that I’d bend the rules in his favor, and even risk damaging the second Foundation.

Hari felt curious... but that sensation was almost overwhelmed by another one. Expectation.

Tonight I must decide. R. Gornon won’t force me to step through time. The choice is entirely mine.

Horis noticed Hari at last.

“Ah, Professor Seldon. I’m so glad to see you. Please have a look at this.”

On a crude table lay several dozen small piles of material that ranged from dusty to moist and crumbly. In fact, they looked like mounds of dirt.

Of course. His profession is the study of soils. Naturally, that would be his anchor at a time like this. Something to cling to during all of these disturbances.

Hari wondered if some of the samples might be dangerous, but both Maserd and Mors Planch had thrown back the hoods of their radiation suits, and they had more life span to risk than Hari.

Horis showed clear pride in his collection. “I’ve been busy, as you can see. Of course there’s only been time for a cursory sampling. But the Earthlings are most cooperative, sending boys in all directions to take samples for me.”

Hari caught Maserd’s indulgent smile and agreed. Let Horis have his moment. There would be time to discuss more important matters before evening came.

“And what have you determined so far?”

“Oh, a great deal! For example, did you know that the best soils in this area are not of Earthly origin at all? There are several sites, not far from Chica, where many hectares of rich loam were laid down. The material is unmistakably from Lorissa World, over twenty light-years away. It was brought here and spread in a neat, organized fashion. Someone was trying to restore this planet! I date the effort at approximately ten thousand years ago.”

Hari nodded. This fit what Gornon said earlier – that the empire once attempted restoration of the homeworld, before changing its mind, closing the universities and hauling millions away from their homes, leaving behind only a race of hardscrabble survivors.

“But there’s more!” Horis Antic insisted, moving to where he had set up several instruments. “I stayed up all night, studying emanations from that thing the ancients sealed away, over there.”

Horis pointed to the massive steel-and-concrete sarcophagus nearby, and the cracked entryway that R. Gornon’s laborers were seeking to access with spindly scaffolding.

“I don’t have the right tools or expertise. But it’s clear some kind of rift in the continuum was made here, once upon a time. It’s quiescent now, but the effects must be powerful when the thing is roused. I was skeptical of that tiktok – the one posing as Gornon Vlimt – when it talked about hurling someone forward in time. But now I wonder.”

The bureaucrat-scientist grimaced. “What I can say – and the robot may not have told you – is that even while the space-time rift is dormant, there are effects that permeate this entire planet. One of the most notable is a shift in the stability of uranium oxide, a lightweight molecule found in hydrothermal regions on most Earthlike planets. Only here, there is a slightly higher predisposition for the constituent atoms to”

Hari blinked, abruptly realizing something. He had been told that Earth’s transformation into a radioactive world came from the decision of a single robot, during the post-chaos age. But might the seeds have been sown even earlier? In the bright renaissance when Susan Calvin and her contemporaries saw no limits to their ambition or power?

What if Giskard only amplified something that had already begun? Might that let Daneel’s folk off the hook? Could it explain why this effect only happened once? On Earth?

Horis would go on, enthusiastically explaining details of an ancient tragedy. But he was interrupted by the dinner bell... which meant partaking of Earthling hospitality, alas. R. Gornon felt it would crush their pride if the visitors refused.

Hari managed to swallow a few bites of a nondescript gruel, and smiled appreciatively before excusing himself. Slowly ascending the mound of rubble, he sat facing the three ruined cities and pulled from his pocket the latest copy of the Seldon Plan Prime Radiant.

He felt a little guilty for having swiped Wanda’s copy, but his granddaughter wouldn’t notice or care. She and Gaal Dornick were still aboard their ship, wired to sleep machines until tonight’s proceedings.

Soon I must decide, whether to go ahead five centuries... assuming this thing works as advertised, and doesn’t merely rip my atoms apart.

He smiled at that. It seemed an interesting way to go.

Anyway, what have I got to –

All of a sudden, the sky shook with pealing thunder – a sonic boom. He glanced up. Where a few stars had begun to shine, a bright object streaked overhead, a winged cylinder that banked and turned, obviously coming in for a landing.

Hari sighed. He had been hoping to lose himself for an hour or two amid his beloved equations. The new mathematical model that had emerged – a pattern for the future – was enthralling to contemplate, but the ideas already floated inside his head, and he was certain that double-checking the Prime Radiant wouldn’t change anything.

With some effort, he gathered strength to lift his frail body. Flickering patches of radiation lit his way, following the twisty trail back to camp.

By the time he got there, the new visitors had already arrived.

A pair of women stood near R. Gornon Vlimt. One of them turned and smiled, as Hari approached the Earthlings’ campfire.

“The guest of honor, I presume?”

Gornon’s expression gave away little.

“Professor Seldon, let me introduce Zorma and Cloudia. They have come a great distance, in order to witness tonight’s activities, and to assure themselves that you aren’t under any sort of coercion.”

Hari laughed. “My entire life has been guided by others. If I know more and see more than my fellow humans, it’s because that serves some long-range plan. So, tell me, what fashion of robots are you?” he asked the two newcomers. “Are you yet another sect of Calvinians? Or do you represent Daneel?”

The one called Zorma shook her head. “We’ve been disowned by Calvinians and Giskardians. Both groups call us perverts. Yet they still find us useful, whenever something important is about to take place.”

“Perverts, eh?” Hari nodded. It all fit. “So which of you is the human?”

Cloudia brought a hand to her chest. “I was born one of the masters, long ago. But this new body of mine is at least one-quarter robotic. Zorma, here, has many protoplasmic parts. So your question is a complicated one, Professor Seldon.”

Hari glanced at R. Gornon, whose face revealed nothing, even though it could simulate the whole range of emotions.

“I see why the other positronic sects find your approach disturbing,” Hari commented.

Zorma nodded. “We seek to heal the rift between our races by blurring the distinction. It has been a long and costly project, and not entirely successful. But we continue to hope. The other robots put up with us, because it would cause them serious mental dissonance if they tried to eliminate us.”

“Of course, if you are part human, you get some protection under the First Law.” Hari paused. “But that won’t suffice by itself. There must be something more.”

Cloudia agreed. “We also provide a service. We bear witness. We don’t take sides. We remember.”

Hari could not help being impressed. This small sect had maintained its existence for a long time, enduring the contempt of far greater forces, while maintaining some degree of independence in an age when human memory was shrouded by amnesia. It would take great discipline and patience to abide centuries this way, resisting the ever-present urge to act. In some ways, it required a spirit opposite to Mors Planch’s. In fact, it would take people almost exactly like

He turned, seeking one face amid the crowd of onlookers, scanning past Horis, Sybyl, the Earthlings, and Mors Planch.

Hari’s gaze settled on the nobleman from Rhodia, Biron Maserd, who stood back from the crowd, with his arms crossed, wearing an expression of indifference. Hari saw through the guise now.

“Come forth, my young friend,” he urged the tall lord. “Come join your comrades. Let us have no more secrets between us. It is a time for truth.”

8.

“OF COURSE THERE had to be a spy,” Hari said, cutting off Maserd’s protestations. “Someone who knew about the Thumartin Nebula, for instance. We didn’t stumble on the archives and terraformers by accident.

“And there were other clues. When Sybyl and the real Gornon Vlimt started accessing those ancient records, you already knew more about human history than any professor at an imperial university.”

“As I explained earlier, Seldon, noble families often have private libraries that might surprise members of the meritocracy. My family has a traditional interest in such matters as –”

“As the systems of government used on ancient Earth? That kind of knowledge is remarkable. Even incredible. Then there were the tilling machines that got Horis so excited... those vast devices used long ago to prepare worlds for human occupation. Your reaction to them was hardly indifferent... as if you were looking at an old, familiar enemy.”

This time Biron Maserd smiled, not bothering to refute Hari’s assertion. “Is it a crime to wish the universe had more diversity in it?”

Hari chuckled. “To a psychohistorian, it’s damn near blasphemy. The galaxy is already so complicated, the equations almost burst at their seams. And that’s with just humanity to deal with. We mathists would much rather simplify!

“No. I didn’t notice all the clues because I had become so fixated on chaos. Sybyl, Planch, and the others presented such a threat. When Kers Kantun told me you were an ally... that you hated chaos as much as anybody –”

“I do!”

“I took that to mean that you were a practical man of the empire, as you styled yourself. But now I see you are another utopian, Maserd. You think humanity can escape chaos, if only it experiences just the right kind of renaissance!”

Biron Maserd stared at Hari for a long, drawn-out moment, before answering. “Isn’t that what the Seldon Plan is all about, Professor? Fostering a human society that will be strong enough to take on the ancient enemy lurking in our own souls?”

That was my old dream, Hari answered silently. Though until just the last few days, I had thought it obsolete.

Aloud he gave Maserd a different answer, aware that others were watching and listening.

“Like many gentry, you are ultimately a pragmatist, my lord. Lacking mathematical tools, you try one thing after another, abandoning each failed solution only when forced to concede that it is time to try another.” Hari gestured toward the two cyborg women – Zorma and Cloudia, one of whom had been born human and the other with a positronic brain tuned to the Laws of Robotics. Only now they had begun blurring the distinction.

“Are you involved in this radical project, or are you merely working together, as a matter of temporary convenience?”

Apparently accepting the inevitability of Hari’s conclusions, Maserd gave up with a sigh.

“Our groups have known about each other for a long time. My family –” He nodded grimly. “We were among those who cast forth the archives, long ago, fighting desperately against the spreading amnesia. And we waged war against the terraforming machines! It was futile, for the most part. But we won a few victories.”

It was Horis Antic who asked the next question in a hushed voice. “What kind of victories? You mean you battled robots and won?”

“How can you fight beings who are so much more powerful, and righteously certain they have your own best interests at heart? Still, we managed to stop the horrible machines a few times, by rushing ahead and landing human colonists on a world slated for terraforming. Several times that stymied the tillers, who could not blast a planet with human inhabitants.”

Mors Planch blinked. “Wouldn’t we all know about such places?”

“We struck a deal with Daneel Olivaw, after the robotic wars ended. We agreed to stop fighting the amnesia, and to let the protected worlds be put in quarantine. In return, he left us unaltered, with our memories intact. The ultimate price was passivity. To remain silent and inactive.” Maserd’s jaw clenched. “Still, as long as the Galactic Empire ran smoothly, it was a better alternative than ruin and chaos.”

“Your role in this affair could hardly be called passive,” Hari pointed out.

Maserd apparently agreed. “The empire is falling apart. All the old bargains appear forfeit. Everybody seems to be waiting for Daneel Olivaw to present a plan – even the Calvinians” – Maserd jerked a thumb toward R. Gornon Vlimt –” are too timid to oppose their old foe directly. All they want to do is throw Hari Seldon forward in time, as if that will ensure everything comes out all right.” Maserd barked a short laugh.

The robot who had replaced the eccentric Gornon Vlimt stepped forward. For the first time, its emulation programs mimicked a human wracked with uncertainty.

“Don’t you think Olivaw will come up with something beneficial to humanity’s long-range good?”

A woman’s voice chuckled.

“So it comes down to that?” Zorma asked. “Despite all your secret schemes, you really are a timorous bunch of little tiktoks. Listen to yourself, pinning your hopes on someone you’ve fought for so long. Why, you just cited Daneel’s Zeroth Law!”

Zorma shook her head. “There are no more true Calvinians.”

Hari had no intention of letting the conversation dissolve into ideological arguments between robots. He also cared little whether Biron Maserd had been spying all along.

In fact, he wished the nobleman well. What really mattered right now was the decision he had to make. The immediacy of which was clear when R. Gornon’s assistant hurried into the tent.

“Preparations are complete. In less than an hour the moment will come. It is time to ascend the scaffolding.”

And so, with his decision still not made, Hari joined a procession leading through the lanes of the ancient university. His footsteps were partly illuminated by a crescent moon, and by a luminous skyglow emitted when oxygen atoms were struck by gamma rays rising from the ground below. As he moved along, feeling creaky with age, Hari felt a nagging need to talk to somebody he could trust.

Only one name came to mind, and he murmured it under his breath. “Dors!”

The last thing he expected was for this to turn into a ceremonial occasion. But a procession of Earthlings accompanied Hari and the others on their way to the sarcophagus. The natives chanted an eerie melody – at once both dirgelike yet strangely auspicious, as if expressing all their hopes for some eventual redemption. Perhaps the song was many thousands of years old, dating from even before humanity climbed out of its gentle cradle to assault the stars.

Accompanying R. Gornon and Hari were the “deviant” cyborgs, Zorma and Cloudia, with Biron Maserd now striding openly beside them. At Hari’s insistence, Wanda Seldon and Gaal Dornick had also been wakened to join the entourage, though Wanda had been warned not to attempt mentalic interference. Some of the robots present had similar abilities, enough to counter any efforts she might make.

Hari’s granddaughter looked unhappy, and he tried to reassure her with a gentle smile. Raised as a meritocrat, Hari had always expected to adopt rather than father children of his own. And yet, few joys in his life had matched that of being a parent to Raych, and then grandparent to this excellent young woman, who took so seriously her duties as an agent of destiny.

Horis Antic had asked to be excused – ostensibly to pursue his research – though Hari knew the real reason. The. glowing “space-time anomaly” terrified Horis. But Gornon did not want to leave anyone behind in camp, so Antic shuffled along, just behind the prisoner Mors Planch. Even the survivors of the Ktlina renaissance accompanied the procession, though Sybyl and the others seemed hardly aware of anything except a raucous murmur of voices in their own heads.

As they approached the anomaly, draped in scaffolding, Hari saw the rounded outline of the sarcophagus slide past each of the ancient cities in turn.

First, Old Chicago, with its battered skyscrapers still aiming adventurously toward the sky, recalling an age of openness and unfettered ambition. Next to vanish was New Chicago, that monstrous fortress where so many millions sealed themselves away from daylight, and a terror they could not understand. Finally, little Chica disappeared – the white porcelain village where Earth’s final civilization struggled in vain against irrelevance, in a galaxy that simply did not care about its origins anymore.

Rounding a bend in the ancient university campus, they came to a point where the crack could be seen... splitting open thick walls that had been meant to seal away something dire. To entomb it forever. Hari glanced to his left, toward R. Gornon.

“If this anomaly truly gives you access to the fourth dimension, why hasn’t it been used during all of these centuries? Why did no one attempt to change the past?”

The robot shook its head. “Travel into the past is impossible, on many different levels, Dr. Seldon. Anyway, even if you could change the past, that would only create a new future in which someone else will be discontented. Those people, in turn, would send emissaries to change their past, and so on. No time track would have any more valid claim to reality than any other.”

“Then perhaps none of this matters,” Hari mused. “We all may be just parallel mirror images... or else little simulations, like the numbers we juggle in the Prime Radiant. Temporary. Ghosts who only exist while someone else is thinking about them.”

Hari had not been looking where he was going. His left foot snagged on some patch of uneven ground, and he started to pitch forward... but was caught by R. Gornon’s gentle, firm grasp. Even so, Hari’s body felt quakes of pain and fatigue. He missed his nurse, Kers Kantun, and the wheelchair he once hated. At one level, Hari could tell he was dying, as he had been sliding toward death for several years.

“I’m not in great condition for so long a journey,” he murmured, while his companions waited for him to recover.

“The one other human who traveled this way was also an old man,” Gornon assured Hari. “Tests show that the process is gentle, or else we would never risk harming you. And when you arrive, someone will be waiting.”

“I see. Still I wonder...”

“About what, Professor?”

“You have great powers of medical science available to you. Breakthroughs and techniques that robots have hoarded for millennia. These cyborgs” – he jerked a thumb toward Zorma and Cloudia –” appear able to duplicate bodies and extend life indefinitely. So I wonder why you didn’t boost my physical health, at least a bit more, before I made this journey.”

“It’s not allowed, Professor. There are strong reasons, moral, ethical, and –”

Harsh laughter interrupted, coming from the robot called Zorma.

“Except when it suits your purposes! You should give Seldon a better answer than that, Gornon.”

After a pause, Gornon said in a low voice, “We no longer have the organoforming apparatus. It was taken away at Pengia. The device was needed elsewhere to continue an important project... and that is all I will say about it.”

They resumed walking until the glow emanating from the cracked tomb filled the night just overhead, casting spiderweb shadows from the scaffolding across the ruined university. Most of the Earthlings and other onlookers climbed nearby rubble mounds to watch, while Hari and Gornon led a diminished procession onto a broad wooden platform that began rising on creaking ropes, hauling a dozen of them upward.

As Hari and his entourage ascended, he commented to Gornon, “It occurs to me that you may be going to a lot of unnecessary trouble. There’s another way of sending a person into the future, you know.”

This time, the robot did not answer. Instead, Gornon steadied Hari with an arm around his shoulders as the makeshift elevator reached its destination with a rattling bump. Hari had to shade his eyes against the glare pouring from within the broken containment shell.

To the awed murmurs of his guests, Gornon gave an explanation that was both poignant and brief.

“It began with a simple, well-meaning experiment, during the same brash era when humans were inventing both robots and hyperdrive. The researchers here had an incredible hunch and acted on it impulsively. Suddenly, a beam of fractured space-time shot forth, snaring a passing pedestrian, yanking Joseph Schwartz out of his normal life and hurling him forward ten thousand years.

“For Schwartz, a great adventure ensued. But back in the Chicago he left behind, a nightmare had just begun.” Hari watched the robot’s face, looking for the complex expressions of emotion that Dors and Daneel simulated so well. But this artificial man was grimly stoic.

“You sound as if you were there, when it happened.”

“Not I, but an early-model robot was. One whose memories I inherited. Those memories aren’t pleasant. Some of us believe this event marked the beginning of the end for humanity’s great time of youthful exuberance. Not long thereafter, amid international recriminations, the first waves of unreason began. Robots were banished from Earth. Acrimony built between nations and the colonial worlds, There were outbreaks of biological warfare. Some of us swore...”

Hari suddenly had a wild hunch.

“You stayed here, didn’t you? That agent of Daneel’s whom you mentioned earlier – the one who helped stop the Earthlings from spreading a new plague – was that you?”

R. Gornon paused, then gave a jerky nod.

“Then Zorma is right. You’re no Calvinian after all.”

“I suppose I no longer fit any of the rigid classifications, though at one time I was a fervent follower of Giskardianism.”

Now the robot’s impassive mask broke. Like that of any stoic man, whose equanimity was shattered by the most powerful emotion – hope.

“Time affects even immortals, Or. Seldon. Many of us tired old robots don’t know what we are anymore. Perhaps that is something you will be able to tell us, when you have had a chance to reflect. In time.”

And so I come to the moment of decision, Hari acknowledged, still shading his eyes and peering toward the harsh light. Of course it would be anticlimactic to back out now. Everyone was watching. Even those, like Wanda, who disapproved of this whole plan, would surely be disappointed at some level... to be promised a spectacular show and have the star performer withdraw at the last minute. On the other hand, Hari had built a reputation of doing the unexpected. There was almost a delicious attraction to the notion of surprising all these people.

Several members of the group edged close to the opal light, peering inside. Biron Maserd pointed at the crumbling building, no doubt an ancient physics lab where the original mistake was made. The headman of the Earthling tribe stood next to Maserd, nodding. Even Wanda approached out of curiosity, though Horis Antic kept his distance, chewing ragged fingernails.

Mors Planch shuffled forward, lifting his manacled hands.

“Take these off of me, Seldon, I entreat you. These robots... they all revere you. Perhaps I was wrong. Let me prove my worth to you, before you go. I have some information... the whereabouts of somebody precious to you. Someone you have been searching for, across many years.”

Hari abruptly realized what Planch was driving at.

Bellis!

He took a step toward the pirate captain. “You found my other granddaughter?”

On hearing this, Wanda Seldon turned her attention fully away from the sarcophagus. She, too, stepped closer to Planch.

“Where is she? What has happened to my sister?”

R. Gornon interrupted. “I am very sorry, but you should have discussed this earlier. There is no more time. At any moment, the field will expand. We have managed to transform the beam into a circular field, but we cannot be certain how long it will –”

Another figure stepped closer to Hari. The headman of the Earthling tribe. Though his accent was still quaint and thick, Hari found his speech understandable.

“There ees still time for families to settle their affeers. Please goh on, sir.” The lanky Terran nodded at Mors Planch.

Hari felt a twinge of irritation, for this was really none of the Earthling’s business, but Gornon cut in first, glowering at the Earther.

“What do you know of such matters? It is time to prepare! Note how the luminance grows brighter even as we speak.”

Through the crack in the sarcophagus, Hari saw that the glow was indeed more intense. Biron Maserd stepped back from the forward edge of the platform and gestured within.

“There is something expanding outward from that building! Like a sphere made of some liquid metal. It’s coming closer!”

“Are we safe standing here?” Horis Antic asked nervously.

R. Gornon replied, “It has never expanded beyond the boundaries of the sarcophagus. It will not touch those standing on the platform.”

“And what about Hari Seldon?” asked the cyborg robot, Zorma. “Will it be safe for him to enter that thing?”

Gornon let out a sigh of emulated frustration.

“We’ve performed calibration experiments for the last thousand years. Professor Seldon will experience a gentle, instantaneous transition to the chosen future era – a time just a few centuries from now, when decisions must be made that will affect all of human destiny.”

Mors Planch murmured –” A few centuries...” Then he took a step toward Hari. “Well, Professor Seldon. Do we have a deal?”

Hari glanced at Wanda, hoping for a nod, but instead she shook her head.

“I cannot read the secret in his mind, Grandfather. There is something complex about his brain. Recall how hard I fought yesterday, just to keep him standing still? Still, I’m sure we’ll find out where he’s hidden Bellis. It will just take time, working on him in private.”

Hari didn’t like the last part of her statement.

Perhaps striking a deal would be better. I could depart this world with a clear conscience.

Before Hari could speak, however, Planch let out a roar. He raised both manacled hands and charged.

Swift as lightning, R. Gornon Vlimt grabbed Hari and swung him out of the way. But in that blurred instant, Hari realized that he was not the pirate captain’s target. By seeming to attack Hari, Planch kept Gornon busy in reflex protective mode, clearing the way for his real goal.

Mors Planch took four rapid steps toward Biron Maserd, standing at the platform’s edge. The nobleman tensed, preparing to fight – then, in an instant’s realization, he hopped nimbly out of the way.

Screaming a cry filled with both fear and exultation, Planch leaped off the parapet into the opal light. Hurtling across empty space, his body collided with a slowly expanding sphere that rippled like liquid mercury... and vanished within.

As Hari stared, the mirror ball kept expanding, inexorably approaching the place where he stood. No one spoke until Gornon Vlimt commented with an impassive voice, “We shall have to be certain he is greeted with compassion, in five centuries’ time. By that point, he will not be able to alter destiny, but we must make sure he doesn’t harm Professor Seldon when he emerges on the other side.”

Hari felt a wash of emotions – admiration for the spacer captain’s courage, plus despair over having lost a clue to his other granddaughter’s whereabouts. R. Gornon’s stoic pragmatism aside, Hari looked at the expanding space-time anomaly with growing dread.

The next person to speak was the Earthling headman. This time his accent was softer, easier to understand.

“It is true that someone must be waiting here on Earth to greet Mors Planch, but we needn’t fear for the safety of Hari Seldon.”

“And why is that?” asked Cloudia, the cyborg who had begun life as a human woman.

“Because Hari Seldon is not taking this journey. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Now everyone focused their complete attention on the Earthling, who stood up taller, erasing the stooped posture that most Terrans manifested. Wanda stared at the lanky man, then gasped a cry of realization. Zorma was next to react, uttering an oath.

Lacking mentalic powers, Hari was slower to catch on. Still, he found something familiar about the headman’s voice tones, and the way he now held himself – resembling Prometheus, whose laborious agonies never ended.

Hari whispered a single word, “Daneel.”

R. Gornon Vlimt nodded, his face as impassive as ever.

“Olivaw. You have been here quite some time, I presume?”

The robot who had disguised himself as an Earthling nodded.

“Of course, I’ve long known about the experiments your group was performing here. I could not destroy the time anomaly, but we’ve been monitoring the locale. I arranged years ago to become a figure of importance to the local Earthling tribes, who respond enthusiastically to my influence. When they reported fresh activity at this site, I combined that with tales of Hari’s abduction and reached the obvious conclusion.”

Daneel Olivaw turned to Hari.

“I am sorry, old friend. You’ve gone through terrible trials, at a time when you should relax, in peaceful knowledge of your accomplishments. I would have been here sooner, and hoped to catch up with you on Pengia. But there were sudden problems with some of the Calvinian sects, renewing their fight for the pure old religion, who want to destroy the Seldon Plan at all costs. Defeating them took some time. I hope you will forgive the delay.”

Forgive? Hari wondered what there was to forgive. True, he had been used. By Giskardians and Calvinians, and Ktlinans... and by several other factions, both human and robotic. Yet, in adamant honesty, he confessed to himself that the last few weeks had been more fun than anything else that happened in his life since he became important to galactic affairs. Since before he ever became First Minister of the Empire... back when he and Dors were young adventurers inserting their thoughts into the minds of primitive creatures, living the wild and free lives of chimpanzees.

“That’s all right, Daneel. I figured all along that you would show up and spare me the angst of making this decision.”

“I appeal to you, Olivaw,” said R. Gornon Vlimt. “As one whom you trusted for so many millennia, please allow us to continue tonight’s work.”

Daneel made eye contact with Gornon.

“You know that I honor the memories of our comradeship. I recall innumerable battles we fought, side by side, during the robotic civil wars. The Zeroth Law never had a stronger champion than you.”

“Then cannot you believe that I’m doing all of this for humanity’s long-range good?”

“I can, indeed,” Daneel replied. “But centuries ago, we disagreed over what that long-range good should be. With matters at a critical juncture, I cannot let you interfere.”

This brought a reaction from Hari.

“What interference, Daneel? Everything occurred to your benefit. Take the ancient archives and the terraforming machines – you sensed they might pose a danger, after the old empire collapses. During the age that follows, they might be discovered at random and destabilize the planned transition. You already decided to destroy them, under the Zeroth Law. But some of your compatriots were uncomfortable with the positronic dissonance that caused. By giving my permission, I made it easier for your followers to act.” He glanced at Wanda, and saw her shiver briefly at his mention of the archives. She, too, understood how dangerous they were. How they had to be destroyed.

“And when the agents of chaos found us there, in the nebula –” Hari continued, “– Planch said it was because of some unknown informant aboard our ship, who told them where to find us. But I’m guessing it might have been you, Daneel, using the lure of the archives to draw all the Ktlina agents toward one place, eliminating the threat posed by this century’s worst chaos world.”

Daneel made an expressive shrug. “I cannot claim credit for that coup, though I admit it was helpful.” He then turned to look at Biron Maserd, the tall nobleman from Rhodia. “Well, my young friend? Were you the agent that Mors Planch spoke of?”

Hari wondered why Daneel, with the greatest mentalic powers in the galaxy, didn’t simply read Maserd’s mind.

Olivaw turned back to Hari.

“I do not invade his mind because we have an ancient agreement, a compact between Lord Maserd’s family and myself. They were relentless and incredibly clever in their attempts to fight the necessary amnesia.”

Maserd responded, “And we agreed to stop doing so, in exchange for being left alone. Our small galactic province has been run a little differently than the rest of the empire. We were free to fight chaos in our own way.”

Daneel agreed. “But it seems our ancient agreement has been broken.”

“No!”

“You already conceded that you’ve communicated with this group.” Daneel aimed a finger at the cyborgs, Cloudia and Zorma.

“We Maserds are permitted to discuss anything among ourselves,” Biron answered. He nodded toward the pale-haired cyborg. “Cloudia Duma-Hinriad is my great-great-grandmother.”

Daneel smiled. “Very clever, but the Zeroth Law won’t allow me to accept that attempt to evade our agreement. Not if it might imperil humanity’s long-term salvation.”

“And of course you are the one to determine what form that salvation shall take?” R. Gornon asked, in a voice that resonated, both desperate and sarcastic.

“That has been my burden ever since blessed Giskard and I discovered the Zeroth Law.”

“And look at what it has cost.” R. Gornon gestured toward the glowing radioactive ruins. “Your great Galactic Empire kept the peace and staved off chaos, by eliminating diversity! Humanity must shun whatever is alien or strange, whether it comes from within or from the outside.”

Daneel shook his head. “Now is not the time to resume our ancient argument – over your proposed Minus One Law. The transition boundary approaches. For Hari’s sake and for the sake of the Plan, I must insist that you lower this platform at once.”

“What is the harm in letting Seldon see the world five centuries from now?” asked Zorma. “His work in this period is done. You said so yourself. Why not let humans be involved in the decision, when your salvation is ready?”

Daneel glanced at the brightening glow within the sarcophagus. Already their reflections could be seen on an expanding mirrorlike bubble, approaching gradually but inexorably. He looked back at Zorma.

“Is that your chief concern? I am willing to make a vow, on the memory of Giskard, and by the Zeroth Law. When my solution is ready, humanity will be consulted. It will not be imposed on human beings without their sovereign decision.”

If this satisfied Zorma and Cloudia, R. Gornon still cried out.

“I know you and your tricks, Olivaw. You will stack the decks, somehow. I insist that Hari Seldon be allowed to go!” Daneel raised an eyebrow. “You insist?”

Apparently that word had some special meaning among robots. For at that moment, the world exploded around Hari in a sudden blur.

Beams of searing light shot forth from both of R. Gornon’s hands. Daneel Olivaw replied in kind. Nor were those the only combatants.

Abruptly, parts of the surrounding scaffolding detached themselves from the matrix of wooden planks, revealing themselves to be robots, camouflaged amid the latticework! These now leaped to support Daneel.

In response, searing rays were fired by Gornon’s supporters on the surrounding rubble piles. Horis Antic screamed, diving for cover. Gaal Dornick went pale and fainted. But no humans seemed to be involved in the melee – either as fighters or as victims!

Cutting lancets of force swept between Hari’s legs and under his arms, or lashed by his head, missing by centimeters... but nothing actually touched his flesh. It was meticulous combat, in which avoiding injury to human bystanders took utmost priority, and Hari’s biggest danger came from a rain of shattered and smoldering robot parts falling everywhere.

It didn’t last long. Surely, R. Gornon never expected to prevail. Yet, Hari’s first concern was for the one robot who remained standing when it was all over.

“You are wounded! Is it serious?” he asked his old friend and mentor.

Curls of smoke rose from several places along Daneel’s humaniform body, where clothes and fleshy outer coverings had burned away to reveal a gleaming surface-armor resistant to anything but sunlike force. To Hari it was a reminder of legends he had read in A Child’s Book of Knowledge, stories of gods and titans – immortal beings combating each other, beyond any power of human interference.

Daneel Olivaw stood amid the wreckage, gazing with apparently genuine sadness at the wastage of his kinfolk.

“I am well, old friend Hari.”

Daneel turned to glance at Zorma and Cloudia. “By your inaction, can I assume that my promise will satisfy you? For the next five centuries?”

The two “women” nodded as one. Zorma answered for them both.

“That’s not so long to wait. We hope you’ll keep us informed about your plans for human salvation, Daneel. Above all, we pray your Plan is a noble one for both of our long-suffering races.”

Hari noted the implied message.

In your devotion to human posterity, don’t leave out something for the robots.

But he knew his lifelong friend too well. The servant race would not get even a minor priority. Only humanity mattered to Daneel.

“And now it is time for us to leave this dangerous place,” Olivaw said, reaching for the lever that would start the platform’s descent.

Just then Wanda Seldon uttered a cry.

“Maserd! I just realized... he’s gone!”

They peered in all directions, some of them using greatly enhanced positronic senses, but the nobleman from Rhodia wasn’t present. Either he had clambered swiftly down the scaffolding during the fight, or else

Or else Daneel will have two resilient humans to deal with, in a few centuries, Hari thought, as the platform started moving slowly downward. Daneel had better not forget to have someone waiting here, because if those two ever became allies...

There was no proof that Maserd had dived into the glowing ball, which now filled the entire volume of the sarcophagus, sending forth brilliant rays of light, whose colors Hari could not describe and could swear he had never seen before in his life.

Having watched omnipotent immortals battle it out, just moments before, Hari knew there was very little that even Mors Planch or Biron Maserd could accomplish if they were let loose in the galaxy’s future. He had a strong picture of what kinds of societies would be floundering, and sometimes flourishing, in that era-to-come. His Foundation would already dominate the opposite side of the galaxy, but the effects would hardly be visible here on the homeworld – long-forgotten Earth.

With a sigh, he wished the two men well... wherever and whenever they had gone.

The ground approached, tormented by ancient, barely remembered crimes. He glanced once more up at the glow emanating from the sarcophagus.

I admit I was sorely tempted. It would have been one hell of an adventure, especially if they made me young again.

Hari closed his eyes, feeling the strong but gentle clasp of his old comrade Daneel around his shoulders, steadying his frail body as the makeshift elevator bumped to its final rest. He let Daneel turn him around, guiding his footsteps back toward the Earthling camp – as he had let others guide his life from the very beginning, though for most of that span he never quite realized it.

9.

THE NEXT MORNING, while Earthling work gangs labored to clean up the battle debris, Daneel and Hari met with Zorma and Cloudia outside their swift starship, as they prepared to depart.

“Cloudia, I urge you. If your grandson ever contacts you, persuade him not to interfere. Great momentum is building toward a climax, five or six centuries from now. If Biron tries to deflect this juggernaut, I’m afraid he will only get hurt.”

The human cyborg nodded, and Hari noted – perhaps a little enviously – the youthful strength of her supple figure. Not counting replaced parts, she was much older than he. Her expression was patient, yet sardonic.

“That is, if he shows up. You may see him before I do, Daneel, if he dived through after Mors Planch, and if you are waiting here when he arrives in that future era. If so, be gentle with the boy. He means well.”

“I am nearly always gentle. But if he means well, why did he steal Hari Seldon’s copy of the psychohistorical Prime Radiant? I scanned Gornon’s ship, and found ample evidence that Maserd was the culprit.”

Cloudia offered a grim smile. “We Hinriads tend to be pack rats when it comes to acquiring knowledge. We can’t get enough. You should know that by now, after eighteen thousand years. We are the only human group that ever fought you to a standstill and forced you to agree to terms.”

Daneel assented, with a tilt of his head.

“All of that is in the past, and dependent on your continued good behavior. I’m letting you go now, based on your vow not to meddle.”

Zorma laughed aloud, much like a human woman who was both a little afraid and bravely defiant. “You are letting us go for the same reason you once spared Lodovic Trema, even though his mutation made all the other Zeroth Law robots eager to smash him to bits.

“You’re smart, Olivaw. Smart enough to be a bit unsure. You are setting up some sort of a backup solution, in case Seldon’s psychohistory plan needs to be replaced. But your solution just may need its own backup. In that case, your only hope could be some new synergy between robots and humans. Perhaps a hybrid combination, like us perverts –” Zorma gestured at herself and Cloudia. “Or else something as deeply disturbing to you as Lodovic Trema.”

Zorma’s expression and her voice lowered. “Just remember your promise, Olivaw. That humankind will be consulted, when you present your glorious and carefully designed salvation. There is uneasiness about this among a great many robots, even among your followers.”

Daneel nodded. “I will keep my word. Human volition will playa role in the decision.”

Zorma looked at Daneel, as if trying to pierce his impervious skin with her gaze. “Well, in that case, at least one mistake that was made here on Earth won’t be repeated.”

Then, over a microwave channel that only robots shared:

A final note, Daneel. Leave Dors and Lodovic alone. They are special. You gave them the seeds of something precious. Don’t resent them if they take it in directions you do not understand.

Hari and Daneel watched the two women depart, ascending the gangplank and closing the portal. Their ship lifted on cushions of antigravity, turning slowly and accelerating to the east, barely skimming over the ancient cities, touching each of them with its shadow.

They were silent for a while. Then Hari spoke.

“You and I both know you won’t keep that promise.”

Hari’s robot friend turned to look at him.

“How much have you figured out?”

“I now know all of the old damping mechanisms – at least enough to understand the gaps in the psychohistorical equations that puzzled me. Techniques that helped you and your allies keep the empire stable, peaceful, and unchaotic, against all odds, for most of the last twelve millennia.”

Daneel offered a thin smile. “I’m glad you had the satisfaction of working it out for yourself. I planned to explain it all, just before –”

“Just before I died?” Hari laughed. “Now don’t you go tactful on me, all of a sudden. Besides, most of the old dampers are breaking down. It’s easy to see that chaos outbreaks would become increasingly common if the empire didn’t fall. If it weren’t pushed over the edge, in fact.

“Anyway, that’s all part of the past, and we’re talking about the future. When I throw in some other factors – like the way you’ve introduced human mentalics during the last two generations, and your long-standing promotion of meditation arts among humans, I can begin to guess the sort of salvation you have in mind.”

Daneel looked across the devastated ruins of Chicago, and from there to the sere landscape beyond. His voice started out hushed.

“It is called Gaia. A way to bring each living world to a new level of consciousness. Though in the long run, we have hopes that it will connect every planet to all others, and become something truly wonderful – Galaxia.”

“Complete mentalic linkage among all living humans.” So, Hari had guessed right. “That will take some time to achieve. No wonder you need my Plan... in order to keep humanity busy until this Gaia solution is ready. I believe I can already surmise many of its advantages, from your perspective, Daneel. But please use your own words, tell me that this great gift will be worth all the trouble.”

The ancient robot turned to look at Hari, spreading his arms as if to encompass the breadth of a magnificent vision.

“What problems would this not solve? An end to human acrimony, strife, and war, once every living man and woman can understand perfectly the thoughts of every other one! An end to loneliness – the word will lose all meaning as each child joins the commonality at birth.

“An ability to share all of the great ideas at an instant! Stability and inertia against sudden changes, making humanity forever secure against the impulsiveness of chaos. And there is more, much more.

“Already my experiments show a wondrous possibility, Hari. That such a macro-linkage of human minds can become somehow connected to an entire surrounding ecosphere. The sensations and primitive yearnings of animals, and even plant life, become accessible. Human brains will then become only the topmost organs of a universal entity, comprising the whole life force of a planet, even down to the pulsing throb of magma, deep below the surface.

“The inevitable result will be peace, serenity, a sense of union with all manner of beings... just as great human sages often prescribed in the past. An abnegation of selfish individualism in favor of the profound wisdom of the whole. All of this will be yours, once you are all assimilated into the collective consciousness.”

Hari felt genuinely moved.

“It sounds gorgeous, when you put it that way. Of course the vision you present is appealing to me, given my own peculiar lifelong neurosis, my hatred of unpredictability. The cosmic mind – this new godhead, will be fantastically easier to model than swarms of cantankerous individual humans. I can even see where you got the idea. Having read the ancient encyclopedia you gave me, I know that many prehistoric philosophers shared this dream.”

Then Hari raised the index finger of one hand.

“But psychohistorical honesty forces me to tell you, Daneel, that there are several major problems awaiting you, as you try to implement this Galaxia solution. And the result may not be as unalloyedly happy as you described it just now.”

To his surprise, Daneel remained silent instead of asking for an elaboration. Hari pondered the reason... then met the eyes of his old mentor.

“I can see now why you didn’t want me to go into the future.”

Daneel let out a sigh.

“With your vaunted reputation and insight, you would be hailed as a leading public figure, from the moment you were recognized and your identity confirmed. If R. Gornon had his way, you’d surely be chosen to lead some grand commission of humans to evaluate the proposed coalescence into Galaxia.

“But I already knew you’d feel conflicted about this alternative solution, Hari. You have mixed feelings about this overmind that will take over, once the Seldon Plan achieves its real purpose. In your skepticism, you would organize a real commission. One that might poke away at those problems you just alluded to.”

Hari understood Daneel’s point, yet he persisted.

“I’m sure we’d give it a fair hearing, and present the results to sovereign human institutions in a favorable light.”

“That’s not good enough, Hari, and you know it. Humanity must be saved, and it has a frightfully poor record of acting in its own best interest.”

Hari mused on this.

“So you’ll stack the deck, as you did by arranging for me to arrive at the Thumartin Nebula, just as the archives needed to be destroyed. You knew I had to decide in favor of their destruction. My character, psychology, and fear of chaos... everything made my choice inevitable – though at least I have enough insight to know this about myself. Those Zeroth Law robots who felt uneasy about destroying the archives were given a way to resolve their dissonance. My ‘human authority’ let them proceed with the plan you had mapped out. All in humanity’s best interest.”

Hari lifted a finger again. “Zorma was right. Your real constituency, the ones you must convince, are robots. You foresee, in five centuries or so, that they will be the ones able to thwart your plan if you can’t satisfy their positronic drives. And since you’ll be replacing the old familiar humanity with something new and strange, it will take some convincing! No wonder you gave in so easily, and made that promise to Zorma. Human volition must appear to playa role in the decision, or else you’ll have a hard time getting all robots to agree

“And yet, I know you, Daneel. I know what you and Giskard did here” – Hari motioned at the radioactive wasteland –” rationalizing that it was for our own good, without consulting even one of us. You’ll also want the Gaia decision to be a foregone conclusion. Would you mind telling me how you’ll arrange that, in five hundred years?”

Silence lasted over a minute before Daneel answered.

“By presenting a human being who is always right.”

Hari blinked.

“I beg your pardon? A human who is always what?”

“One who has always made correct decisions, from childhood onward. One who, in a crisis, reliably chooses the winning side, and has always been proved right by the test of time. And who always will.”

Hari stared at Daneel, then burst out laughing.

“That’s impossible! It violates every physical and biological law.”

Daneel nodded.

“And yet, it can be made convincing. Perhaps even more credible than your grasp of human affairs through psychohistory, Hari. All I have to do is start out with a million bright boys and girls, with just the right traits, and present them with challenges from puberty until age thirty or so. Many of those challenges will be rigged for success... or else mistakes can be smoothed over. Despite that, many of them will fail visibly and be dropped out of the pool. But over time, I am statistically guaranteed at least one who suits my needs. Who looks, superficially, far too successful to be explained by natural means.”

Hari recalled a classic stock-market scheme that had been successful in duping the inhabitants of Krasner Sector – seven hundred billion people – about eighty years ago. Daneel’s approach was a clever version of this old shell game, which only worked when practiced with immense patience. It was also nearly impossible to detect when done properly.

“So there won’t be an investigative commission, after all. No need to report to sovereign human institutions for a decision. If this fellow has always been right, that will give him enough credibility to impress most robots, who will simply accept whatever he decides!

“Of course, some will be wary that you are influencing him mentalically, and they’ll watch for that trick. They’ll check his brain for signs of tampering. But you won’t have to touch him! You can use psychological techniques to sway him in advance toward the right decision, especially if you control his upbringing... as you did mine.”

Hari paused, chewing on a thought. “So, most robots will have their Second Law itch scratched. Getting ‘human approval’ for your plan, without actually having to consult humanity at large.

“Of course, you know that some of them won’t swallow this scam. Many will rebel anyway, attempting to protect humanity from what they see as a seizure of power by a single mutant overmind.”

Daneel nodded. “Over the years – ever since he broke company from me – my old ally, whom you knew as R. Gornon, has been preaching an apostasy called the Minus One Law. An extension of the Zeroth Law, expanding our duties yet again. Requiring us to protect not just humanity, but the essential approach to life that humanity represents... diversity and intelligence, in all of their manifestations, whether human, robotic, or even alien. Those who believe in this notion will not appreciate a takeover of the galaxy by a single macro-consciousness, eliminating all dissident elements.

“Moreover, some even now accuse me of faking the entire phenomenon of human mentalics! They claim that it would be all too easy to contrive the appearance of this new mutation, by hiding micro-thought amplifiers nearby and keeping them constantly focused on the supposed human telepath.”

Hari noted that his friend did not explicitly deny the rumor. In fact, he recalled a certain jeweled pendant that Wanda had never been without, ever since childhood... but that was off the subject.

Daneel continued.

“You are right, Hari. The robotic civil war will resume, soon after Galaxia is unveiled. But if approval by human volition can appear convincing enough, most robots will rally around Galaxia. They will see it as the only hope for saving mankind.”

This time Hari straightened, his back growing erect. A fist tightened.

“The only hope? Now see here –”

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching along the pebbly walk. Hari turned to see Horis Antic draw near. The portly Grey bureaucrat wore a patina of dust on his once impeccable uniform, and Hari saw the fellow’s left hand quiver nervously as he popped another blue pill in his mouth. Antic was inherently anxious around robots, and events of the past two days had done nothing to settle his nerves. Fortunately, all of this would soon become a vague memory after they got him back to a Trantor sanitarium, where just the right cover story could be implanted in his mind. At least, that was Wanda’s plan. Hari knew there would be more to it than that.

“Gaal Dornick says I should tell you the ship is almost ready for takeoff. The Earthlings have agreed to take care of Sybyl and the other survivors from Ktlina. They’ll be kind. In time, the solipsism mania might ease enough to let them rejoin a simple society.

“I still can’t believe all I’ve learned,” Horis continued. “It was one thing to find out that brain fever is a purposefully designed infection, aimed at the brightest humans. But then to learn that chaos is similar...”

Daneel interrupted. “Not similar at all. Brain fever is relatively gentle. It was designed and released in order to combat the earlier chaos plague, whose first virulent versions escaped Earth on the earliest starships.”

“Was chaos a weapon of war?” Horis asked, in muted tones.

“No one knows, though some accounts say it was. The first crude versions swept Earth before I was made, prompting citizens to fear robots, their own great inventions. Later waves smashed the late Terran renaissance, turning Earthlings into agoraphobes and Spacers into vicious paranoids. Everything that Giskard did here” – Daneel motioned at the radioactive waste –” and that I did in the following millennia, had its roots in this awful plague.”

“B-b-but –” Horis stuttered. “But what if there’s a cure? Wouldn’t that make everything right again? All this stuff I’ve heard – and I only understand a little – all this talk about saving humanity from chaos. Most of it would be unnecessary if someone just found a cure!”

For the first time, Hari saw waves of irritation cross Daneel Olivaw’s face.

“Don’t you think that occurred to me, long ago? What do you imagine I was working on for the first six thousand years? In between having to fight a civil war against robots of the old religion, I devoted all my energies to finding some way of ripping out chaos by its roots! But it was too late. The virus had been cleverly designed to inveigle its way into human chromosomes, scattering and embedding itself in hundreds of crucial places. Even if I knew where they all were, it would take another deadly plague just to dig out every genetic site where chaos lay hidden. Trillions would die.

“That was when I realized that chaos could only be staved off if we prevented the conditions that triggered an outbreak. If ambition and individualism provoked the disease out of dormancy, then a conservative society offered the best hope. A Galactic Empire, providing gentle peace, justice, and serenity to a society that never changed.”

Horis Antic nodded. Naturally as a Grey Man, he shared an inclination toward orderliness, with everything classified and pigeonholed properly. “So there is no cure. But what about natural immunity? Didn’t I hear someone talk about that, at one point?”

“The disease has always been tragically most virulent among humanity’s brightest. Even so, some highly intelligent people proved immune to the temptations of raging egotism and solipsism. They can be individualists without denying the humanity of others. But alas, this immunity is spreading too slowly. If we had a thousand years, or two...”

Hari asked about something that had been bothering him. “Were both Maserd and Mors Planch immune?”

“Biron Maserd was protected against chaos by the noblesse oblige of his gentry class. As for Planch, you are right, Hari. His mind was startling. Almost unreadable with my mentalic powers. He had lived immersed in three different chaos-renaissances, yet remained completely agile. Flexible. Empathic, yet fierce.”

“Kers Kantun called him normal.”

“Hmmm.” Daneel rubbed his chin briefly. “Kers had some unique ideas. He thought that today’s humanity is not the same one that made us. Truly natural humans would not be subject to chaos, Kers thought, nor would their minds be easily manipulated.”

Horis Antic took a step forward. The eagerness in his voice replaced his typical nervous tremor. “Do you still have the records from your search for a cure? There have been medical advances in the past few millennia, and millions of qualified workers might come up with ideas that you missed.”

Hari exhaled a sigh.

“Why do you bother, Horis? You know these memories will be washed away, or painted over, soon after we reach Trantor. You never struck me as the kind to chase curiosity for its own sake.”

At this, Horis reacted with a bitter frown. “Perhaps I am more than you realize, Seldon!”

Hari nodded. “Of that, I am quite sure. It only just occurred to me, last night, to review events since you and I first met, and look at them in a fresh light.”

Now, the Grey Man’s nervousness returned. He popped another blue pill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But right now I’ve taken too much of your time. There are preparations to make. I’ve got to help Gaal Dornick –”

“No.” Hari cut him off. “It’s time to have the truth, Horis.”

He turned to Daneel. “Have you ever tried to mindscan our young bureaucrat friend here?”

Horis gulped audibly at the mere thought of being mentalically probed.

Daneel responded, “I have a Second Law injunction to be courteous, Hari. I only invade human minds when some First or Zeroth Law need is apparent.”

“And so, you never felt compelled to scan Horis. Well, let me override the injunction now. Take a peek. I bet you’ll find it difficult.”

“No... please...” Antic lifted both hands, as if to ward off Daneel’s probing mentalic fingers.

“You are right, Hari. It is extraordinarily hard, but this man is no Mors Planch. He is achieving this through a combination of drugs and mental discipline, avoiding certain thoughts with scrupulous self-control.”

“Leave me alone!” Horis cried, trying desperately to make his body turn around and flee. But a gentle paralysis swarmed over him, and he instead slumped downward, seating himself on a nearby pile of rubble. Naturally, Daneel would not have let him be hurt in a fall.

“Let me see the recording device,” Hari said, holding out one hand.

New tremors rocked the bureaucrat, but he finally complied, reaching into a coat pocket for a small scanner. No doubt it was one of the best available to imperial operatives.

“You had no intention of reaching the sanitarium, did you? So long as everyone thought you meek and harmless, security would be lax. At Trantor, you would be in your element, able to tap a thousand different channels of communication... with a myriad of tricks that only a Grey Man might have access to. Locked doors would mysteriously open, and you’d be gone.”

Horis slumped, clearly seeing no further purpose in dissembling. When he spoke, his voice seemed different, at once both defeated, and yet stronger. With a note of rueful pride.

“I got off a partial report from Pengia. You can’t stop that part of it.”

Hari nodded. “You were the secret contact who informed Mors Planch, who wanted the Ktlinans to come. Why? You hate chaos as much as I do. Kers Kantun knew that, and I can see it in your character.”

Horis let out a sigh. “It was an experiment. It wasn’t enough just to do a reconnaissance. We had to create a crisis. A scene of conflict with the chaos forces on one side and your tiktok pals on the other. It proved an effective way to get you all talking, arguing, and justifying yourselves to each other. I hardly had to put in a word, here or there.”

“Your pose was impressive,” Hari said, and Daneel added. “So is your mental discipline. Even without the drugs, I would have noticed nothing, until my attention was drawn fully toward you.”

The compliments drew only a snort.

“We are used to being underrated and derided by all the snooty gentry folk and self-important meritocrats. Even eccentrics and citizens dismiss us as if we are part of the background. Long ago, we learned to stop resenting it, to control it, even to foster this impression.”

Horis made a fist. “But tell me, who runs this Galactic Empire? Even you, Seldon, with your mathematical insight, and you, robot, who designed the Trantorian regime in the first place. You understand in theory, but you don’t really see.

“Who gets called when a sun flares, bumming half a continent on some provincial world? Who makes sure the navigational buoys all work? Who gets the children vaccinated, keeps the electricity flowing, and makes sure farmers tend the soil so their grandchildren will have something to plow? Who monitors the death rates, so health teams can be sent to some unknowing world before they even realize they’ve drifted into a space current that’s polluting their stratosphere with boron? Who sees to it that self-indulgent gentry and preening meritocrats don’t wreck everything with one egotistical scheme after another?”

Hari accepted this. “We know that the Grey Order does noble work. Can I assume you set the notion in Jeni Cuicet’s mind, and arranged for her to take advantage of Testing Day?”

Horis chuckled sardonically. “How do you think she got her job on the Orion elevator? We’ve been quietly spiriting away some of the Terminus exiles. A few lives spared from involuntary banishment and imprisonment, that they were sentenced to for no fault of their own!”

“You say this, even though you claim to understand the Seldon Plan?”

Another snort. “One lesson that we teach again and again in the Grey Academies – something that you preached long ago, in the guise of Ruellis –” Antic said this pointing at Daneel “– is that ends generally do not justify evil means. Anyway, grand rationalizations are for gentry and meritocrats. We Greys cannot afford them. When people’s rights are being violated, someone has to do something.”

He whirled toward Hari Seldon. “Oh, the bloody arrogance of it all. You publish scientific papers about psychohistory for decades, then suddenly go silent and set up a secret cabal to control it! But aren’t you thereby assuming that nobody on twenty-five million worlds paid attention during all the earlier years? That some nitpickers in the bureaucracy wouldn’t have seen your discovery as a possible tool to be explored... and perhaps used for better government?

“Oh, there are only a few of us that I know of, but we’ve been looking into psychohistory for more than a decade. Our respect for you, Dr. Seldon, matches anyone’s. But your Plan leaves us confused and filled with questions. Doubts we couldn’t approach you with openly.”

Hari understood. Mere bureaucrats would have been rebuffed, at best. Linge Chen and the Committee for Public Safety might arrest any clerks who knew too much. Then there were the rumors that Hari Seldon’s enemies often suffered inexplicable bouts of amnesia.

“So ask your questions now, Horis. I owe you that much.”

The small man took a deep breath, as if he had a lot to say. But at first, all he could utter was a single word.

“Why?”

He inhaled again.

“Why must the Galactic Empire topple? It doesn’t have to! True, things are loosening up. Some say falling apart. But the equations... your equations... show nothing we can’t handle with a lot of sweat and hard work. If technological competence is declining, give us resources to teach a better science curriculum! Unleash billions of bright youngsters. Stop rationing just a few measly slots at the technical schools!”

“We tried that once,” Hari started to answer. “On a planet called Madder Loss –”

But Horis cut him off, rushing forth words, mostly to Daneel.

“Even the chaos outbreaks might be controlled! Sure, they’re getting worse. But the sanitation service is also getting better all the time. and they’ve never lost a patient yet. Would you really end the empire, which has kept a gentle peace for twelve thousand years, just to keep humanity distracted for a few more centuries? Why not keep the empire going until your new solution is prepared? Is it because the people of the galaxy must be brought low, to a miserable state, so they’ll eagerly accept whatever you offer?”

It was difficult for Hari to switch modes. For so long, he had treated Horis in a patronizing manner. He now saw the Grey Man in a new light, not only as a startlingly effective secret agent, but as a rough-hewn psychohistorian – like Yugo Amaryl at the beginning of their long collaboration. One who understood more than he had ever let on.

“Do you really think imperial institutions can handle more crises like Ktlina?” Hari shook his head. “That would be taking a terrible gamble. If even a single plague site burst free to infect the galaxy...”

“If! You’re talking about people, Seldon. Almost twelve quadrillion people. Must they all be thrown into a dark age, just because you don’t trust us to do our jobs?

“Besides what if one of those new renaissances actually made it. achieving the fabulous breakthrough they all dream of. Reaching the mythical other side, where intelligence and maturity overcome chaos. If we keep them all quarantined, the galaxy can stay relatively safe. Meanwhile, experiments can be run, one planet at a time!”

Hari stared at Horis Antic, astonished by the man’s courage. I could never take such chances. He obviously hates chaos with a passion greater than mine. But he loves the empire even more.

Shaking his head again, Hari answered, “But ultimately it isn’t chaos worlds that are forcing Daneel to bring down the empire.

“It’s you, Horis.”

Such was the look of stunned surprise on Antic’s face that Hari felt unable to speak. He looked to Daneel, silently asking his robot friend to explain, which he did in a voice like Ruellis of old.

“Do not forget, my dear young human, that I invented your Grey Order. I know its capabilities. I am aware how many millions sacrifice themselves while wearing that uniform, unthanked and despised by the other castes. You might even have managed, with resiliency and a little help from psychohistory, to keep the old empire sputtering along, until my new prize – my Galaxia – is ready to be born. But therein lies the rub.”

“You see, I also remember your ancestor – whose name was Antyok – back when humanity stumbled on an actual alien race that had been spared by the terraformers. Robots from allover the galaxy convened to discuss the matter. There were just a few thousand of the alien creatures, and humanity already numbered five quadrillion. Yet, we argued for a year about the danger these beings presented. Humans in every sector and province were agog with enthusiasm to help the nonhumans get on their feet. An excitement for diversity and new voices to talk to. Some robots worried about the potential for triggering chaos. Others projected that the aliens might become a threat to humans in just a couple of thousand years if allowed to spread among the stars. Meanwhile, some, such as the robot you knew as R. Gornon, pleaded that nonhumans merited protection under an expanded version of the Zeroth Law.”

“The point is that none of our robotic deliberations ultimately mattered. News reached our secret meeting ground that the aliens had escaped! They hijacked starships that came into their possession through a twisty chain of mysterious coincidences. Investigators found more than enough blame to pass around, but they assigned none of it to the individual who was actually responsible. Your ancestor, a humble bureaucrat who knew all the right levers for manipulating the system, for getting justice done while pretending to be an innocuous, faceless official.”

It was a different version of the story Horis had told aboard ship. But Hari felt chills hearing it confirmed.

He nodded. “Your very presence here, Horis, shows this resiliency hasn’t been lost. I was First Minister of the Empire, remember? I know the data files on Trantor are limitless. Nothing can be purged from them completely. Anyone with enough skill can defeat the amnesia and find what they need to know about the human past... and now about its future, as well. You are a living demonstration of the reason for it all, Horis.”

“Me? You mean the bureaucracy? We faceless drones? We dull bean counters and pencil pushers? You mean the empire has to fall because of us?”

Hari nodded. “I never thought of it quite in that way before. But then again, I’m not the one doing the toppling.” He glanced toward Daneel. “This is all about human volition, isn’t it? It’s all about that day, in five centuries or so, when a choice must be made by a man who is never wrong. When that day comes, there must not be a galactic bureaucracy anymore. No cubicles and dusty offices to burst forth with surprise meddlers, like Horis and his friends. No prim procedures to make sure every decision is deliberated openly.

“The Fall of Trantor isn’t really about chaos, is it, Daneel? It is about killing your own fine invention, the Grey Order, the only way it can be killed, by total destruction of the filing cabinets, the computer memories, the men...”

This time, R. Daneel Olivaw didn’t answer. The expression on his face sufficed. If any human ever doubted that an immortal robot could feel pain, all question would be erased by looking at Daneel’s Promethean visage.

“So we’re doomed to keep fighting the darkness... for nothing. To die at our desks, never knowing the futility of it all.”

Hari put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You must forget about this now. Go back to your paper folders and soil reports. The knowledge you fought so hard to acquire, with such ingenuity and courage, will only cause you pain. It’s time to let it go, Horis.”

Antic looked up at Hari bleakly. “You aren’t going to wait until Trantor?”

Hari looked to Daneel, appealing silently for a delay so that Horis might at least converse with them during the voyage back. But his robot friend answered with a terse shake of the head. Antic had proved too resourceful, too ready with fresh tricks up his sleeve.

Sensing this, the Grey Man stood up, straightening his bearing, trying for some dignity. But he could not keep from stuttering.

“W-will it hurt?”

Daneel spoke reassuringly to the human’s eyes.

“Not at all. In fact... it is already done.”

10.

HELPED BY THE two software sims, Joan and Voltaire, they were at last able to find every sabotage bug that Zorma’s group had planted aboard the ship. Lodovic shouted enthusiastically when the engines came back on, proclaiming his sense of triumph with a strut around the control room, exactly like a jubilant human male.

Dors felt emotional patterns surge through her own simulation subroutines. Despite her ongoing sense of urgency, it had been oddly pleasant working side by side with Trema, sharing theories and insights, trying one solution after another. She enjoyed his swaggering victory display – which was not all that different from the way Hari used to act, whenever he made some breakthrough in the models of psychohistory.

“I am so sorry to interrupt this celebration, “commented Joan of Arc, her slender boyish figure appearing in the central holo screen. In the background, Dors could see a male form wearing archaic doublets and hose – the simulation known as Voltaire – listening intently to a pair of headphones, as if trying to pick up something faint with distance.

“You asked us to monitor any transmissions coming from Earth. Voltaire now reports picking up a message using code patterns characteristic of the Second Foundation. It appears to be from Wanda Seldon, informing her compatriots on Trantor that she has successfully recovered her grandfather. The plot to kidnap him is foiled. They will be departing Earth within a few hours, taking Hari straight home.”

Dors looked at Lodovic, who exhaled a long sigh.

“Well then, I guess that’s it. All this rushing about, and we hardly made a difference. Seldon is safe, and we never even had to confront Daneel along the way.”

Dors felt genuine relief on both counts. And yet, it was only natural to feel a bit let down.

“I guess it’s just as well. We’re just a couple of highly dressed-up tiktoks.”

Lodovic laughed gently. “Oh, I think we’re more than that. You, at least, are something special, Dors. We should discuss this, at length.”

Dors nodded. It sounded like a good idea. They had much to talk about. And yet, despite mixed feelings, it was easy to tell where her top priority lay.

“I must go to Trantor now, you understand.”

“And I agree. You have strong obligations, and I wouldn’t think of interfering. But perhaps we can meet when matters there have been resolved?”

This time it was her turn to offer a soft smile. “It might be arranged. Meanwhile, can I drop you off somewhere along the way?”

“I’ll ride with you as far as Demarchia. There are some things I want to look into there.” Then his voice lowered. “Just be careful on Trantor, will you?”

Dors shook her head. “I doubt anyone would choose to harm me. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not harm done by others that I fear. You are vulnerable, Dors. You were designed to be more human than any other robot. Your bond with Hari is intense. Be prepared for a rough time when the end comes. If you need someone to talk to –”

No more had to be said. Silence reigned while she took control of the ship and sent it plunging on the first of many long hyperspace jumps that would bring them to the center of the galaxy. To the place where all roads led, and where she had one great duty left to perform, before her path could truly be called free.

It was promised that I could be with you just before you died, Hari.

That vow she intended, above all else in the universe, to keep.

11.

DURING HIS LAST sunset on Earth, Hari Seldon watched gamma rays excite scintillations above Old Chicago. Ionized curtains glowed and rippled like polar auroras, only here the driving energy came not from a distant sun, but the ground itself. He thought he could almost see patterns in the luminous sheets – like the clever living artwork in the imperial gardens that day when Horis Antic offered him a data wafer filled with tempting clues. Then, as Hari watched, all semblance of organized structure vanished from the eerie horizon. Now the glow reminded him instead of Shoufeen Woods, where order had been banished and chaos was king.

Preparations for departure were complete. In a little while, Hari would board Wanda’s ship for the return to Trantor and his former life – hated by the men and women he was exiling to Terminus, feared by the present set of imperial rulers. and revered by a small cabal of psychics and mathists who felt certain they knew the future course of history.

Daneel would stay behind to settle matters with the Earthling inhabitants. There were arrangements to make. The cracked sarcophagus had to be buried so others could not misuse the fateful rift in the space-time continuum.

From his vantage point atop a pile of rubble, Hari could hear the voice of Horis Antic jabbering with excitement as he packed away his collection of soil types, acquired during this visit to a strange world. There could even be a scientific paper or two, something to brighten up his career profile, though nothing would erase the stigma associated with anyone who worked with dirt.

In any event, the fellow seemed happy. Daneel had done his job well.

Feeling tremors in his legs, Hari sat down again in the suspensor chair that Wanda had provided. He was needing it more, now that the rejuvenation treatments were wearing off. Soon he would be a frail old cripple again.

Soon I will be dead.

Seated, he could lean back, gazing toward the zenith where Earth’s radiation glow surrendered to a glitter of starlight-constellations that his ancestors no doubt knew by heart. Those stellar patterns had certainly changed in twenty thousand years, however, and he pondered how the sky might have looked if R. Gornon Vlimt had his way, sending Hari through time to a galaxy five hundred years older. Five hundred years more experienced with sorrow.

There were footsteps on the rubble path, too surefooted to be human. After a long pause, Daneel Olivaw asked, “What do you see up there, old friend?”

Hari felt a tautness in his throat.

“The future.”

“Indeed. Do you have a good view?”

Hari chuckled.

“A comfortable chair... a high place to look from... and of course, my equations. Oh yes, Daneel. I can see quite a bit from here.”

“And you are not disappointed? About missing a trip into that future?”

“Not very much. It might have been interesting. But you had reasons for preventing it, and I understand them. I probably would have meddled.” Hari laughed again. “Besides, you’ll need a man who never makes mistakes, and I am anything but that.”

“Do you have any special regrets?”

“Just one. I can see it right now.” Hari gestured skyward, a bit to the left of zenith, but he wasn’t pointing to a constellation, rather, at a cluster of psychohistorical terms that floated in his sky, more real at this moment than the glittering stars.

“Please tell me,” Daneel entreated. “Explain what you see up there.”

Hari realized that his immortal friend, capable of extending his vision from X rays to the radio spectrum, was at the moment, envious. Hari derived a strange pleasure from that.

“I see my Foundation, right now being established on Terminus, beginning its bumpy path toward adventure and glory. The probabilities are strong for two centuries, at least. Psychosocial momentum has built up to a point where I can almost see the actors in this play. The Encyclopedists, politicians, traders, and charlatans will live in a time of great personal danger. And yet they’ll draw satisfaction from a sense of participating in something grand. Building a society that is preordained for success.”

Hari lifted his other hand, pointing toward a flickering in Earth’s ionized atmosphere.

“Ah! Did you see that? A perturbation! They are happening all the time, though most cancel each other out. Besides, we designed the Foundation to be robust, adapting to every flux and disturbance with great resiliency.

“And yet, with so much riding on the Plan, do we dare let human destiny depend on the reactions of a few million of our descendants? Can we trust them to respond with as much courage and determination as the equations predict?”

Hari shook his head. “No, we cannot. You convinced me of that, long ago, Daneel. Perturbations from the Plan must be corrected! The Plan must be kept on course. To do this, we shall need a guiding hand. A Second Foundation, using mathematics to track every swerve and deviation, then applying pressure here and there, at just the right points, so that the First Foundation stays on its assigned trajectory.”

He sighed. “I was easy to persuade. After all, the Second Foundation is an extension of me. A form of immortality. A way I can keep poking and meddling after this physical frame has been eaten by worms and turned into the soil Horis admires so much. The Second Foundation might have been Yugo Amaryl’s idea – did you inspire him though? In any event, vanity alone was enough to make me agree to it.

“But then you started demanding even more, Daneel.

“Will mathematics suffice? You worried that my successors wouldn’t be strong enough. A society of secret guides will need something more potent than equations. A superhuman power, enabling them to sway kings, mayors, and scientists away from perturbing thoughts, diverting them back toward the tracks they had been assigned. And 10, no sooner did you make this suggestion, than such a tool appears!”

Hari gestured toward the horizon, where Old Chicago flickered with a steady glow. “Your gift to the Seldon Plan, Daneel – mentalics! We really had to do a major reformulation of the Plan when that came to light. Fortunately, the mutation only appeared where you wanted it to. Some of the psychics will help seed your great universal mind, while others breed with my Fifty mathists, creating a new race that is capable of both calculation and magic.”

There was silence atop the rubble mound. Finally, Daneel commented, “You see a lot up there, my old friend.”

Hari nodded.

“Oh yes, I see all the adjustments we had to make in the equations, in order to deal with this new aristocracy that will be inbreeding for the next several centuries, developing its power and influence, relying ever more on mentalic dominance, and less on mathematics. If they are left in charge, even with a tradition of duty and noblesse oblige, they will eventually become a ruling class. A ruling race. One that will make every prior priesthood or royal family seem like amateurs.”

Hari glanced up at Daneel.

“But what choice have we? Eventually the Foundation will stop being distracted by momentary crises, by galactic competitors and the challenge of expansion. In time, the civilization we establish on Terminus will reach a new height of confidence... and face its inevitable collision with chaos. At that point, our predictions grow more approximate. The psychohistorical equations show the Foundation’s odds of success will have winnowed down to only seventy percent or so.”

“That is not good enough, Hari. Not nearly good enough.”

“So you insisted, Daneel. The Foundation will be as strong, dynamic, and empathic as any human civilization could possibly be. If any culture could ever be prepared to take on chaos, survive the solipsism plagues, and burst through to the other side, this will be the one. And yet, if it fails...”

“That’s the rub, Hari.”

“Indeed. We’re left with a one-in-four chance that humanity itself might be destroyed. I can see why you wanted something better, Daneel. You were compelled to do anything in your power that might boost the odds.

“First, you demanded a secret mentalic society, to help guide the First Foundation. But that only altered a few percentage points. Worse, it actually introduced new perturbations. Resentment by common folk against a psychic aristocracy, for instance. And danger from rogue mentalics.”

Hari lifted both hands. “Quite a choice isn’t it? Either a hell-bent battle with chaos or a permanent mutant ruling class. No wonder you finally decided there must be a third solution! No wonder you’ve worked so hard to develop Gaia, as a way to replace the Seldon Plan.”

When he responded, there was deep respect and compassion in Daneel’s voice.

“Your work still has great importance, Hari. Humanity must be kept engaged during the next few centuries.”

“Engaged? You mean distracted, don’t you? The people of my Foundation will think they are bold explorers, holding destiny in their hands, winning a better future by their own efforts, though aided by laws of history. Then, abruptly, you’ll bring this new thing upon them. Already approved by some fellow who knows everything.”

“A man who is always right,” Daneel corrected.

Hari waved a hand. “Whatever.”

Daneel sighed.

“I know you have reservations, Hari. But consider the long-range prospect. What if there are entities in other galaxies, similar to the meme-minds we encountered on Trantor? What if they are more powerful? Perhaps they have already assimilated all life-forms in their home galaxies. Their influence may even now be stretching this way, toward us. That outside force could be a terrible threat to humanity. Only if the human species is unified, powerful, and cohesive, a true Galaxia superorganism – can we be assured of your survival.”

Hari blinked for a moment. “Isn’t that a far-fetched scenario? Or at least a long way off?”

“Perhaps. But dare I take that chance? I am compelled by the Zeroth Law – and by my promise to Elijah Baley, to protect you all, no matter what the pains! No matter what the cost.”

R. Daneel Olivaw took a step forward, motioning toward the heavens. “Besides, think of it, Hari! Every human soul in contact with every other one! All knowledge shared instantly. All misunderstandings erased. Every bird, animal, and insect incorporated into the vast, unified web. The ultimate of serenity and understanding that your ancient sages yearned for. And it can be achieved in just over half the time that you project for the Foundation’s final battle with chaos.”

“Yes, it has attractive features,” Hari conceded.

“And yet, my mind and heart keep pondering Terminus, at the opposite side of the galaxy. A small world very much like this one... this poor, wounded Earth. Despite everything, Daneel, the odds were in their favor. All the factors agreed. They would have had a good chance –”

“Seventy percent is not good enough.”

“So you won’t let them try?”

“Hari, even if they do break through to that mythical other side, you don’t know what kind of society they will build afterward! You admit the socio-equations explode into singularities at that point. All right, the Foundationers may defeat chaos. They may achieve some great new wisdom, but then what? How about the next crisis to come along? Psychohistory offers no insights. Both you and I are blind. We have no idea what would follow. No ability to plan or protect them.”

Hari nodded. “That uncertainty... that inability to predict... has been my lifelong terror. It’s what I always fought against, and the bond that united me to you, Daneel. Only now, as I approach my end, do I see a strange sort of beauty in it.

“Humanity has been like a child who was horribly traumatized, and thereafter stayed in the nursery, where it could be kept safe and warm. You may differ with the Calvinians over many things, Daneel. But you both prescribed amnesia to help ease our collective trauma – a dull forgetfulness that could have vanished anytime our protectors chose to pull back the blinds and open the door. But you never did.

“Treating us that way would have been a horrible crime, except for the excuse of chaos. And even with that excuse, isn’t there a limit? A point at which the child must be untethered, letting her take on new challenges? Facing the future on its own terms?”

Hari smiled. “We can only ask that our descendants be better than we are. We cannot demand that they be perfect. They’ll have to solve their problems, one at a time.”

Daneel stared for a while, then looked away.

“You may be able to take such an attitude, late in life, but my programming is less flexible. I cannot take risks with humanity’s survival.”

“I see that. But consider, Daneel. If Elijah Baley were here right now, don’t you think he would be willing to take a chance?”

The robot didn’t answer. Silence stretched between them, and that was all right with Hari. He was still looking at equations painted across the stars, waiting for something to reappear.

Something he had glimpsed before.

Abruptly, several of the floating factors entered a new orbit, coalescing in a pattern that existed nowhere except in his own mind. No existing version of the Seldon Plan Prime Radiant contained this insight. Perhaps it was an old man’s hallucination. Or else, an emergent property arising from all the new things he had learned during this final adventure.

Either way, it made him smile.

Ah, there you are again! Are you real? Or a manifestation of wishful thinking?

The motif was that of a circle, returning to its origins.

Hari looked up at Daneel, no doubt the noblest person he had ever met. After twenty thousand years, struggling for the sake of humanity, the robot was undeterred, unbowed, as resolute as ever to deliver his masters to some destination that was safe, happy, and secure.

Surely he will keep his final promise to me. I will get to see my beloved wife, one last time.

Having lived more intimately with a robot than any human, Hari had some sympathy for Zorma and Cloudia, who wanted greater union between the two races. Perhaps in many centuries their approach would combine with others in some rich brew. But their hopes and schemes were irrelevant at present. For now, only two versions of destiny showed any real chance of success. Daneel’s Galaxia, on the one hand... and the glimmering figure Hari now saw floating in the sky above him.

“Our children may surprise you, Daneel,” he commented at last, breaking the long silence.

Pondering briefly, his robot friend replied, “These children – you refer to the descendants of those exiled to Terminus?”

Hari nodded. “Five hundred and some odd years from now, they will already be a diverse and persnickety people, proud of both their civilization and their individuality. You may fool a majority of robots with your ‘man who is always right,’ but I doubt many in the Foundation will accept it.”

“I know,” Daneel acknowledged with pain in his voice. “There will be resistance against assimilation by Gaia. Shortsighted panic, perhaps even violence. All of it unavailing in the long run.”

But Hari reacted with a smile.

“I don’t think you quite understand, Daneel. It’s not resistance that you have to worry about. It will be a strange kind of acceptance that poses the greatest danger to your plan.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how can you be so sure that it won’t be Gaia that’s assimilated? Perhaps the culture of that future Foundation will be so strong, so diverse and open, that they will simply absorb your innovation, give Gaia citizenship papers, and then move on to even greater things.”

Daneel stared at Hari. “I... find this hard to envision.”

“It’s part of the pattern life has followed since it climbed from the ooze. The simple gets incorporated into the complex. For all of its power and glory, Gaia – and Galaxia – are simple beings. Perhaps their beauty and power will only be part of something larger. Something more diverse and grand than you ever imagined.”

“I cannot encompass this. It sounds risky. There is no assurance...”

Hari laughed.

“Oh, my dear friend. Both of us have always been obsessed with predictability. But sometimes you just have to understand – the universe isn’t ours to control.”

Though his body felt weak, Hari sat up higher in the flotation chair.

“I’ll tell you what, Daneel. Let’s make a wager.”

“A wager?”

Hari nodded. “If you have your way, and Gaia assimilates everybody, eventually creating a vast unitary Galaxia, tell me this – will there be any more need for books?”

“Of course not. By definition, all members of the collective will know, almost instantaneously, anything that is learned by the others. Books, in whatever form, are a technique for passing information between separate minds.”

“Ah. And this assimilation should be complete, by say, six hundred years from now? Seven hundred, at the outside?”

“It should be.”

“On the other hand, suppose I am right. Imagine that my Foundation turns out to be stronger, wiser, and more robust than you, Wanda, or any of the robots expect. Perhaps it will defeat you, Daneel. They may decide to reject outside influence by robots, or human mentalics, or even all-wise cosmic minds.

“Or else, maybe they will accept Galaxia as a marvelous gift, incorporate it in their culture, and move on. Either way, human diversity and individualism will continue in some form. And there will still be a need for books! Perhaps even an Encyclopedia Galactica.”

“But I thought the Encyclopedia was just a ruse, to get the Foundation started on Terminus.”

Hari waved a hand in front of him. “Never mind that. There will be encyclopedias, though perhaps not at first. But the question that now lies before us – the subject of our wager – is this.

“Will there still be editions of the Encyclopedia Galactica published a thousand years from now?

“If your Galaxia plan succeeds, in its pure and simple form, there will be no books or encyclopedias in one millennium’s time. But if I am right, Daneel, people will still be creating and publishing compendiums of knowledge. They may share countless insights and intimacies through mentalic powers, the way people now make holovision calls. Who knows? But they will also maintain a degree of individuality, and keep on communicating with each other in old-fashioned ways.

“If I’m right, Daneel, the Encyclopedia will thrive... along with our children... and my first love. The Foundation.”

Hari Seldon lapsed into silence, a quiet reflection that R. Daneel Olivaw respected.

Soon, his granddaughter Wanda would come up this slope, a crumbling hill composed of rubble from past human civilizations, and collect him for the journey back to Trantor... and perhaps to a special reunion that he longed for.

But for the remaining moment, Hari admired a vista stretching overhead – the galactic starscape imbued with his beloved mathematics. He stared up at the radiation-flecked sky, and greeted Chaos, his old enemy.

I know you at last, he thought.

You are the tiger, who used to hunt us. You are winter’s cold. You are famine’s bitter hunger... the surprise betrayal... or the illness that struck without warning, leaving us crying out, Why?

You are every challenge humanity faced, and eventually overcame, as we grew just a little mightier and wiser with each triumph. You are the test of our confidence... our ability to persist and prevail.

I was justified in fighting you... and yet, without your opposition, humanity would be nothing, and there could never be a victory.

Chaos, he now realized, was the underlying substance out of which his equations evolved. As well as life itself.

Anyway, it would be pointless to resent it now. Soon, his molecules would join Chaos in its everlasting dance.

But up there, amid the stars, his lifelong dream still lived.

We will know. We will understand and grow beyond all limits that imprison us.

In time, we will be greater than we ever imagined possible.

Epilogue

12069 G. E.

I AM HARI Seldon. Former First Minister to Emperor Cleon I. Professor Emeritus of Psychohistory at Streeling University on Trantor. Director of the Psychohistory Research Project. Executive Editor of the Encyclopedia Galactica. Creator of the Foundation.

It all sounds quite impressive, I know. I have done a great deal in my eighty-one years and I am tired. Looking back over my life, I wonder if I could have – should have – done certain things differently. For instance: Was I so concerned with the grand sweep of psychohistory that the people and events that intersected my life sometimes seemed inconsequential by comparison?

Perhaps I neglected to make some small incidental adjustments here or there that would have in no way compromised the future of humanity but might have dramatically improved the life of an individual dear to me. – Yugo, Raych... I can’t help but wonder... Was there something I could have done to save my beloved Dors?

Last month I finished recording the Crisis holograms. My assistant, Gaal Dornick, has taken them to Terminus to oversee their installation in the Seldon Vault. He will make sure that the Vault is sealed and that the proper instructions are left for the eventual openings of the Vault, during the Crises.

I’ll be dead by then, of course.

What will they think, those future Foundationers, when they see me (or, more accurately, my hologram) during the First Crisis, almost fifty years from now? Will they comment on how old I look or how weak my voice is or how small I seem, bundled in this wheelchair? Will they understand – appreciate – the message I’ve left for them? – Ah well, there’s really no point in speculating. As the ancients would say: The die is cast.

I heard from Gaal yesterday. All is going well on Terminus. Bor Alurin and the Project members are flourishing in “exile.” I shouldn’t gloat, but I can’t help but chuckle when I recall the self-satisfied look on the face of that pompous idiot Linge Chen when he banished the Project to Terminus two years ago. Although ultimately the exile was couched in terms of an Imperial Charter (“A state-supported scientific institution and part of the personal domain of His August Majesty, the Emperor” – the Chief Commissioner wanted us off Trantor and out of his hair, but he could not bear the thought of giving up complete control), it is still a source of secret delight to know that it was Las Zenow and I who chose Terminus as Foundation’s home.

My one regret where Linge Chen is concerned is that we were not able to save Agis. That Emperor was a good man and a noble leader, even if he was Imperial in name only. His mistake was to believe in his title and the Commission of Public Safety would not tolerate the burgeoning Imperial independence.

I often wonder what they did to Agis – was he exiled to some remote Outer World or assassinated like Cleon?

The boy-child who sits on the throne today is the perfect puppet Emperor. He obeys every word Linge Chen whispers in his ear and fancies himself a budding statesman. The Palace and trappings of Imperial life are but toys to him in some vast fantastical game.

What will I do now? With Gaal finally gone to join the Terminus group, I am utterly alone. I hear from Wanda occasionally. The work at Star’s End continues on course; in the past decade she and Stettin have added dozens of mentalics to their number. They increasingly grow in power. It was the Star’s End contingent – my secret Foundation – who pushed Linge Chen into sending the Encyclopedists to Terminus.

I miss Wanda. It has been many years since I’ve seen her, sat with her quietly, holding her hand. When Wanda left, even though I had asked her to go, I thought I would die of heartbreak. That was, perhaps, the most difficult decision I ever had to make and, although I never told her, I almost decided against it. But for the Foundation to succeed, it was necessary for Wanda and Stettin to go to Star’s End. Psychohistory decreed it, – so perhaps it wasn’t really my decision, after all.

I still come here every day, to my office in the Psychohistory Building. I remember when this structure was filled with people, day and night. Sometimes I feel as if it’s filled with voices, those of my long-departed family, students, colleagues – but the offices are empty and silent. The hallways echo with the whirr of my wheelchair motor.

I suppose I should vacate the building, return it to the University to allocate to another department. But somehow it’s hard to let go of this place. There are so many memories...

All I have now is this, my Prime Radiant. This is the means by which psychohistory can be computed, through which every equation in my Plan may be analyzed, all here in this amazing, small black cube. As I sit here, this deceptively simple-looking tool in the palm of my hand, I wish I could show it to R. Daneel Olivaw...

But I am alone, and need only to close a contact for the office lights to dim. As I settle back in my wheelchair, the Prime Radiant activates, its equations spreading around me in three-dimensional splendor. To the untrained eye, this multicolored swirl would be merely a jumble of shapes and numbers, but for me – and Yugo, Wanda, Gaal – this is psychohistory, come to life.

What I see before me, around me, is the future of humanity. Thirty thousand years of potential chaos, compressed into a single millennium...

That patch, glowing more strongly day by day, is the Terminus equation. And there – skewed beyond repair – are the Trantor figures. But I can see... yes, softly beaming, a steady light of hope... Star’s End!

This – this – was my life’s work. My past – humanity’s future. Foundation. So beautiful, so alive. And nothing can...

Dors!

SELDON, HARI –... FOUND DEAD, SLUMPED OVER HIS DESK IN HIS OFFICE AT STREELING UNIVERSITY IN 12,069 G. E. (1 F. E.). APPARENTLY SELDON HAD BEEN WORKING UP TO HIS LAST MOMENTS ON PSYCHOHISTORICAL EQUATIONS; HIS ACTIVATED PRIME RADIANT WAS DISCOVERED CLUTCHED IN HIS HAND....

ACCORDING TO SELDON’S INSTRUCTIONS, THE INSTRUMENT WAS SHIPPED TO HIS COLLEAGUE GAAL DORNICK WHO HAD RECENTLY EMIGRATED TO TERMINUS....

SELDON’S BODY WAS JETTISONED INTO SPACE, ALSO IN ACCORDANCE WITH INSTRUCTIONS HE’D LEFT. THE OFFICIAL MEMORIAL SERVICE ON TRANTOR WAS SIMPLE, THOUGH WELL ATTENDED. IT IS WORTH NOTING THAT SELDON’S OLD FRIEND FORMER FIRST MINISTER ETO DEMERZEL ATTENDED THE EVENT. DEMERZEL HAD NOT BEEN SEEN SINCE HIS MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE JORANUMITE CONSPIRACY DURING THE REIGN OF EMPEROR CLEON I. ATTEMPTS BY THE COMMISSION OF PUBLIC SAFETY TO LOCATE DEMERZEL IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE SELDON MEMORIAL PROVED TO BE UNSUCCESSFUL....

WANDA SELDON, HARI SELDON’S GRANDDAUGHTER, DID NOT ATTEND THE CEREMONY. IT WAS RUMORED THAT SHE WAS GRIEF-STRICKEN AND HAD REFUSED ALL PUBLIC APPEARANCES. TO THIS DAY, HER WHEREABOUTS FROM THEN ON REMAIN UNKNOWN....

IT HAS BEEN SAID THAT HARI SELDON LEFT THIS LIFE AS HE LIVED IT, FOR HE DIED WITH THE FUTURE HE CREATED UNFOLDING ALL AROUND HIM....

– ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

The Originist

12067-12070 G. E.

LEYEL FORSKA SAT before his lector display, reading through an array of recently published scholarly papers. A holograph of two pages of text hovered in the air before him. The display was rather larger than most people needed their pages to be, since Leyel’s eyes were no younger than the rest of him. When he came to the end he did not press the PAGE key to continue the article. Instead he pressed NEXT.

The two pages he had been reading slid backward about a centimeter, joining a dozen previously discarded articles, all standing in the air over the lector. With a soft beep, a new pair of pages appeared in front of the old ones.

Deet spoke up from where she sat eating breakfast. “You ‘re only giving the poor soul two pages before you consign him to the wastebin?”

“I’m consigning him to oblivion,” Leyel answered cheerfully. “No, I’m consigning him to hell.”

“What? Have you rediscovered religion in your old age?”

“I’m creating one. It has no heaven, but it has a terrible everlasting hell for young scholars who think they can make their reputation by attacking my work.”

“Ah, you have a theology,” said Deet. “Your work is holy writ, and to attack it is blasphemy.”

“I welcome intelligent attacks. But this young tubeheaded professor from — yes, of course, Minus University —”

“Old Minus U?”

“He thinks he can refute me, destroy me, lay me in the dust, and all he has bothered to cite are studies published within the last thousand years.”

“The principle of millennial depth is still widely used —”

“The principle of millennial depth is the confession of modern scholars that they are not willing to spend as much effort on research as they do on academic politics. I shattered the principle of millennial depth thirty years ago. I proved that it was”

“Stupid and outmoded. But my dearest darling sweetheart Leyel, you did it by spending part of the immeasurably vast Forska fortune to search for inaccessible and forgotten archives in every section of the Empire.”

“Neglected and decaying. I had to reconstruct half of them.”

“It would take a thousand universities’ library budgets to match what you spent on research for ‘Human Origin on the Null Planet.’”

“But once I spent the money, all those archives were open. They have been open for three decades. The serious scholars all use them, since millennial depth yields nothing but predigested, pre-excreted muck. They search among the turds of rats who have devoured elephants, hoping to find ivory.”

“So colorful an image. My breakfast tastes much better now.. “She slid her tray into the cleaning slot and glared at him. “Why are you so snappish? You used to read me sections from their silly little papers and we’d laugh. Lately you’re just nasty.”

Leyel sighed. “Maybe it’s because I once dreamed of changing the galaxy, and every day’s mail brings more evidence that the galaxy refuses to change.”

“Nonsense. Hari Seldon has promised that the Empire will fall any day now.”

There. She had said Hari’s name. Even though she had too much tact to speak openly of what bothered him, she was hinting that Leyel’s bad humor was because he was still waiting for Hari Seldon’s answer. Maybe so — Leyel wouldn’t deny it. It was annoying that it had taken Hari so long to respond. Leyel had expected a call the day Hari got his application. At least within the week. But he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of admitting that the waiting bothered him. “The Empire will be killed by its own refusal to change. I rest my case.”

“Well, I hope you have a wonderful morning, growling and grumbling about the stupidity of everyone in origin studies — except your esteemed self.”

“Why are you teasing me about my vanity today? I’ve always been vain.”

“I consider it one of your most endearing traits.”

“At least I make an effort to live up to my own opinion of myself.”

“That’s nothing. You even live up to my opinion of you.” She kissed the bald spot on the top of his head as she breezed by, heading for the bathroom.

Leyel turned his attention to the new essay at the front of the lector display. It was a name he didn’t recognize. Fully prepared to find pretentious writing and puerile thought, he was surprised to find himself becoming quite absorbed. This woman had been following a trail of primate studies — a field so long neglected that there simply were no papers within the range of millennial depth. Already he knew she was his kind of scholar. She even mentioned the fact that she was using archives opened by the Forska Research Foundation. Leyel was not above being pleased at this tacit expression of gratitude.

It seemed that the woman — a Dr. Thoren Magolissian — had been following Leyel’s lead, searching for the principles of human origin rather than wasting time on the irrelevant search for one particular planet. She had uncovered a trove of primate research from three millennia ago, which was based on chimpanzee and gorilla studies dating back to seven thousand years ago. The earliest of these had referred to original research so old it may have been conducted before the founding of the Empire — but those most ancient reports had not yet been located. They probably didn’t exist any more. Texts abandoned for more than five thousand years were very hard to restore; texts older than eight thousand years were simply unreadable. It was tragic, how many texts had been “stored” by librarians who never checked them, never refreshed or recopied them. Presiding over vast archives that had lost every scrap of readable information. All neatly catalogued, of course, so you knew exactly what it was that humanity had lost forever.

Never mind.

Magolissian’s article. What startled Leyel was her conclusion that primitive language capability seemed to be inherent in the primate mind. Even in primates incapable of speech, other symbols could easily be learned — at least for simple nouns and verbs — and the nonhuman primates could come up with sentences and ideas that had never been spoken to them. This meant that mere production of language, per se, was prehuman, or at least not the determining factor of humanness.

It was a dazzling thought. It meant that the difference between humans and nonhumans — the real origin of humans in recognizably human form — was post-linguistic. Of course this came as a direct contradiction of one of Leyel’s own assertions in an early paper — he had said that “since language is what separates human from beast, historical linguistics may provide the key to human origins” — but this was the sort of contradiction he welcomed. He wished he could shout at the other fellow, make him look at Magolissian’s article. See? This is how to do it! Challenge my assumption, not my conclusion, and do it with new evidence instead of trying to twist the old stuff. Cast a light in the darkness, don’t just chum up the same old sediment at the bottom of the river.

Before he could get into the main body of the article, however, the house computer informed him that someone was at the door of the apartment. It was a message that crawled along the bottom of the lector display. Leyel pressed the key that brought the message to the front, in letters large enough to read. For the thousandth time he wished that sometime in the decamillennia of human history, somebody had invented a computer capable of speech.

“Who is it?” Leyel typed.

A moment’s wait, while the house computer interrogated the visitor.

The answer appeared on the lector: “Secure courier with a message for Leyel Forska.”

The very fact that the courier had got past house security meant that it was genuine — and important. Leyel typed again. “From?”

Another pause. “Hari Seldon of the Encyclopedia Galactica Foundation.”

Leyel was out of his chair in a moment. He got to the door even before the house computer could open it, and without a word took the message in his hands. Fumbling a bit, he pressed the top and bottom of the black glass lozenge to prove by fingerprint that it was he, by body temperature and pulse that he was alive to receive it. Then, when the courier and her bodyguards were gone, he dropped the message into the chamber of his lector and watched the page appear in the air before him.

At the top was a three-dimensional version of the logo of Hari ‘s Encyclopedia Foundation. Soon to be my insignia as well, thought Leyel. Hari Seldon and I, the two greatest scholars of our time, joined together in a project whose scope surpasses anything ever attempted by any man or group of men. The gathering together of all the knowledge of the Empire in a systematic, easily accessible way, to preserve it through the coming time of anarchy so that a new civilization can quickly rise out of the ashes of the old. Hari had the vision to foresee the need. And I, Leyel Forska, have the understanding of all the old archives that will make the Encyclopedia Galactica possible.

Leyel started reading with a confidence born of experience; had he ever really desired anything and been denied?

My dear friend:

I was surprised and honored to see an application from you and insisted on writing your answer personally. It is gratifying beyond measure that you believe in the Foundation enough to apply to take part. I can truthfully tell you that we have received no application from any other scholar of your distinction and accomplishment.

Of course, thought Leyel. There is no other scholar of my stature, except Hari himself, and perhaps Deet, once her current work is published. At least we have no equals by the standards that Hari and I have always recognized as valid. Hari created the science of psychohistory. I transformed and revitalized the field of originism.

And yet the tone of Hari’s letter was wrong. It sounded like — flattery. That was it. Hari was softening the coming blow. Leyel knew before reading it what the next paragraph would say.

Nevertheless, Leyel, I must reply in the negative. The Foundation on Terminus is designed to collect and preserve knowledge. Your life’s work has been devoted to expanding it. You are the opposite of the sort of researcher we need. Far better for you to remain on Trantor and continue your inestimably valuable studies, while lesser men and women exile themselves on Terminus.

Your servant,

Hari

Did Hari imagine Leyel to be so vain he would read these flattering words and preen himself contentedly? Did he think Leyel would believe that this was the real reason his application was being denied? Could Hari Seldon misknow a man so badly?

Impossible. Hari Seldon, of all people in the Empire, knew how to know other people. True, his great work in psychohistory dealt with large masses of people, with populations and probabilities. But Hari’s fascination with populations had grown out of his interest in and understanding of individuals. Besides, he and Hari had been friends since Hari first arrived on Trantor. Hadn’t a grant from Leyel’s own research fund financed most of Hari’s original research? Hadn’t they held long conversations in the early days, tossing ideas back and forth, each helping the other hone his thoughts? They may not have seen each other much in the last — what, five years? Six? — but they were adults, not children. They didn’t need constant visits in order to remain friends. And this was not the letter a true friend would send to Leyel Forska. Even if, doubtful as it might seem, Hari Seldon really meant to turn him down, he would not suppose for a moment that Leyel would be content with a letter like this.

Surely Hari would have known that it would be like a taunt to Leyel Forska. “Lesser men and women,” indeed! The Foundation on Terminus was so valuable to Hari Seldon that he had been willing to risk death on charges of treason in order to launch the project. It was unlikely in the extreme that he would populate Terminus with second-raters. No, this was the form letter sent to placate prominent scholars who were judged unfit for the Foundation. Hari would have known Leyel would immediately recognize it as such.

There was only one possible conclusion. “Hari could not have written this letter,” Leyel said.

“Of course he could,” Deet told him, blunt as always. She had come out of the bathroom in her dressing gown and read the letter over his shoulder.

“If you think so then I truly am hurt,” said Leyel. He got up, poured a cup of peshat, and began to sip it. He studiously avoided looking at Deet.

“Don’t pout, Leyel. Think of the problems Hari is facing. He has so little time, so much to do. A hundred thousand people to transport to Terminus, most of the resources of the Imperial Library to duplicate”

“He already had those people —”

“All in six months since his trial ended. No wonder we haven’t seen him, socially or professionally, in — years. A decade!”

“You’re saying that he no longer knows me? Unthinkable.”

“I’m saying that he knows you very well. He knew you would recognize his message as a form letter. He also knew that you would understand at once what this meant.”

“Well, then, my dear, he overestimated me. I do not understand what it means, unless it means he did not send it himself.”

“Then you’re getting old, and I’m ashamed of you. I shall deny we are married and pretend you are my idiot uncle whom I allow to live with me out of charity. I’ll tell the children they were illegitimate. They’ll be very sad to learn they won’t inherit a bit of the Forska estate.”

He threw a crumb of toast at her. “You are a cruel and disloyal wench, and I regret raising you out of poverty and obscurity. I only did it for pity, you know.”

This was an old tease of theirs. She had commanded a decent fortune in her own right, though of course Leyel’s dwarfed it. And, technically, he was her uncle, since her stepmother was Leyel’s older half sister Zenna. It was all very complicated. Zenna had been born to Leyel’s mother when she was married to someone else — before she married Leyel’s father. So while Zenna was well dowered, she had no part in the Forska fortune. Leyel’s father, amused at the situation, once remarked, “Poor Zenna. Lucky you. My semen flows with gold.” Such are the ironies that come with great fortune. Poor people don’t have to make such terrible distinctions between their children.

Deet’s father, however, assumed that a Forska was a Forska, and so, several years after Deet had married Leyel, he decided that it wasn’t enough for his daughter to be married to uncountable wealth, he ought to do the same favor for himself. He said, of course, that he loved Zenna to distraction, and cared nothing for fortune, but only Zenna believed him. Therefore she married him. Thus Leyel’s half sister became Deet’s stepmother, which made Leyel his wife’s stepuncle — and his own stepuncle-in-law. A dynastic tangle that greatly amused Leyel and Deet.

Leyel of course compensated for Zenna’s lack of inheritance with a lifetime stipend that amounted to ten times her husband’s income each year. It had the happy effect of keeping Deet’s old father in love with Zenna.

Today, though, Leyel was only half teasing Deet. There were times when he needed her to confirm him, to uphold him. As often as not she contradicted him instead. Sometimes this led him to rethink his position and emerge with a better understanding — thesis, antithesis, synthesis, the dialectic of marriage, the result of being espoused to one’s intellectual equal. But sometimes her challenge was painful, unsatisfying, infuriating.

Oblivious to his underlying anger, she went on. “Hari assumed that you would take his form letter for what it is — a definite, final no. He isn’t hedging, he’s not engaging in some bureaucratic deviousness, he isn’t playing politics with you. He isn’t stringing you along in hopes of getting more financial support from you — if that were it you know he’d simply ask.”

“I already know what he isn’t doing.”

“What he is doing is turning you down with finality. An answer from which there is no appeal. He gave you credit for having the wit to understand that.”

“How convenient for you if I believe that.”

Now, at last, she realized he was angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can stay here on Trantor and continue your work with all your bureaucratic friends.”

Her face went cold and hard. “I told you. I am quite happy to go to Terminus with you.”

“Am I supposed to believe that, even now? Your research in community formation within the Imperial bureaucracy cannot possibly continue on Terminus.”

“I’ve already done the most important research. What I’m doing with the Imperial Library staff is a test.”

“Not even a scientific one, since there’s no control group.”

She looked annoyed. “I’m the one who told you that.”

It was true. Leyel had never even heard of control groups until she taught him the whole concept of experimentation. She had found it in some very old child-development studies from the 3100s G. E. “Yes, I was just agreeing with you,” he said lamely.

“The point is, I can write my book as well on Terminus as anywhere else. And yes, Leyel, you are supposed to believe that I’m happy to go with you, because I said it, and therefore it’s so.”

“I believe that you believe it. I also believe that in your heart you are very glad that I was turned down, and you don’t want me to pursue this matter any further so there’ll be no chance of your having to go to the godforsaken end of the universe.”

Those had been her words, months ago, when he first proposed applying to join the Seldon Foundation. “We’d have to go to the godforsaken end of the universe!” She remembered now as well as he did. “You ‘II hold that against me forever, won’t you! I think I deserve to be forgiven my first reaction. I did consent to go, didn’t I?”

“Consent, yes. But you never wanted to.”

“Well, Leyel, that’s true enough. I never wanted to. Is that your idea of what our marriage means? That I’m to subsume myself in you so deeply that even your desires become my own? I thought it was enough that from time to time we consent to sacrifice for each other. I never expected you to want to leave the Forska estates and come to Trantor when I needed to do my research here. I only asked you to do it — whether you wanted to or not — because I wanted it. I recognized and respected your sacrifice. I am very angry to discover that my sacrifice is despised.”

“Your sacrifice remains unmade. We are still on Trantor.”

“Then by all means, go to Hari Seldon, plead with him, humiliate yourself, and then realize that what I told you is true. He doesn’t want you to join his Foundation and he will not allow you to go to Terminus.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

“No, I’m not certain. It merely seems likely.”

“I will go to Terminus, if he’ll have me. I hope I don’t have to go alone.”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. She froze as if she had been slapped, a look of horror on her face. Then she turned and ran from the room. A few moments later, he heard the chime announcing that the door of their apartment had opened. She was gone.

No doubt to talk things over with one of her friends. Women have no sense of discretion. They cannot keep domestic squabbles to themselves. She will tell them all the awful things I said, and they’ll cluck and tell her it’s what she must expect from a husband, husbands demand that their wives make all the sacrifices, you poor thing, poor poor Deet. Well, Leyel didn’t begrudge her this barnyard of sympathetic hens. It was part of human nature, he knew, for women to form a perpetual conspiracy against the men in their lives. That was why women have always been so certain that men also formed a conspiracy against them.

How ironic, he thought. Men have no such solace. Men do not bind themselves so easily into communities. A man is always aware of the possibility of betrayal, of conflicting loyalties. Therefore when a man does commit himself truly, it is a rare and sacred bond, not to be cheapened by discussing it with others. Even a marriage, even a good marriage like theirs — his commitment might be absolute, but he could never trust hers so completely.

Leyel had buried himself within the marriage, helping and serving and loving Deet with all his heart. She was wrong, completely wrong about his coming to Trantor. He hadn’t come as a sacrifice, against his will, solely because she wanted to come. On the contrary: because she wanted so much to come, he also wanted to come, changing even his desires to coincide with hers. She commanded his very heart, because it was impossible for him not to desire anything that would bring her happiness.

But she, no, she could not do that for him. If she went to Terminus, it would be as a noble sacrifice. She would never let him forget that she hadn’t wanted to. To him, their marriage was his very soul. To Deet, their marriage was just a friendship with sex. Her soul belonged as much to these other women as to him. By dividing her loyalties, she fragmented them; none were strong enough to sway her deepest desires. Thus he discovered what he supposed all faithful men eventually discover — that no human relationship is ever anything but tentative. There is no such thing as an unbreakable bond between people. Like the particles in the nucleus of the atom. They are bound by the strongest forces in the universe, and yet they can be shattered, they can break.

Nothing can last. Nothing is, finally, what it once seemed to be. Deet and he had had a perfect marriage until there came a stress that exposed its imperfection. Anyone who thinks he has a perfect marriage, a perfect friendship, a perfect trust of any kind, he only believes this because the stress that will break it has not yet come. He might die with the illusion of happiness, but all he has proven is that sometimes death comes before betrayal. If you live long enough, betrayal will inevitably come.

Such were the dark thoughts that filled Leyel’s mind as he made his way through the maze of the city of Trantor. Leyel did not seal himself inside a private car when he went about in the planet-wide city. He refused the trappings of wealth; he insisted on experiencing the life of Trantor as an ordinary man. Thus his bodyguards were under strict instructions to remain discreet, interfering with no pedestrians except those carrying weapons, as revealed by a subtle and instantaneous scan.

It was much more expensive to travel through the city this way, of course — every time he stepped out the door of his simple apartment, nearly a hundred high-paid bribeproof employees went into action. A weaponproof car would have been much cheaper. But Leyel was determined not to be imprisoned by his wealth.

So he walked through the corridors of the city, riding cabs and tubes, standing in lines like anyone else. He felt the great city throbbing with life around him. Yet such was his dark and melancholy mood today that the very life of the city filled him with a sense of betrayal and loss. Even you, great Trantor, the Imperial City, even you will be betrayed by the people who made you. Your empire will desert you, and you will become a pathetic remnant of yourself, plated with the metal of a thousand worlds and asteroids as a reminder that once the whole galaxy promised to serve you forever, and now you are abandoned. Hari Seldon had seen it. Hari Seldon understood the changeability of humankind. He knew that the great empire would fall, and so — unlike the government, which depended on things remaining the same forever — Hari Seldon could actually take steps to ameliorate the Empire’s fall, to prepare on Terminus a womb for the rebirth of human greatness. Hari was creating the future. It was unthinkable that he could mean to cut Leyel Forska out of it.

The Foundation, now that it had legal existence and Imperial funding, had quickly grown into a busy complex of offices in the four-thousand-year-old Putassuran Building. Because the Putassuran was originally built to house the Admiralty shortly after the great victory whose name it bore, it had an air of triumph, of monumental optimism about it — rows of soaring arches, a vaulted atrium with floating bubbles of light rising and dancing in channeled columns of air. In recent centuries the building had served as a site for informal public concerts and lectures, with the offices used to house the Museum Authority. It had come empty only a year before Hari Seldon was granted the right to form his Foundation, but it seemed as though it had been built for this very purpose. Everyone was hurrying this way and that, always seeming to be on urgent business, and yet also happy to be part of a noble cause. There had been no noble causes in the Empire for a long, long time.

Leyel quickly threaded his way through the maze that protected the Foundation’s director from casual interruption. Other men and women, no doubt, had tried to see Hari Seldon and failed, put off by this functionary or that. Hari Seldon is a very busy man. Perhaps if you make an appointment for later. Seeing him today is out of the question. He’s in meetings all afternoon and evening. Do call before coming next time.

But none of this happened to Leyel Forska. All he had to do was say, “Tell Mr. Seldon that Mr. Forska wishes to continue a conversation.” However much awe they might have of Hari Seldon, however they might intend to obey his orders not to be disturbed, they all knew that Leyel Forska was the universal exception. Even Linge Chen would be called out of a meeting of the Commission of Public Safety to speak with Forska, especially if Leyel went to the trouble of coming in person.

The ease with which he gained entry to see Hari, the excitement and optimism of the people, of the building itself, had encouraged Leyel so much that he was not at all prepared for Hari’s first words.

“Leyel, I’m surprised to see you. I thought you would understand that my message was final.”

It was the worst thing that Hari could possibly have said. Had Deet been right after all? Leyel studied Hari’s face for a moment, trying to see some sign of change. Was all that had passed between them through the years forgotten now? Had Hari’s friendship never been real? No. Looking at Hari’s face, a bit more lined and wrinkled now, Leyel saw still the same earnestness, the same plain honesty that had always been there. So instead of expressing the rage and disappointment that he felt, Leyel answered carefully, leaving the way open for Hari to change his mind. “I understood that your message was deceptive, and therefore could not be final.”

Hari looked a little angry. “Deceptive?”

“I know which men and women you’ve been taking into your Foundation. They are not second-raters.”

“Compared to you they are,” said Hari. “They’re academics, which means they’re clerks. Sorters and interpreters of information.”

“So am I. So are all scholars today. Even your inestimable theories arose from sorting through a trillion trillion bytes of data and interpreting it.”

Hari shook his head. “I didn’t just sort through data. I had an idea in my head. So did you. Few others do. You and I are expanding human knowledge. Most of the rest are only digging it up in one place and piling it in another. That’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica is. A new pile.”

“Nevertheless, Hari, you know and I know that this is not the real reason you turned me down. And don’t tell me that it’s because Leyel Forska’s presence on. Terminus would call undue attention to the project. You already have so much attention from the government that you can hardly breathe.”

“You are unpleasantly persistent, Leyel. I don’t like even having this conversation.”

“That’s too bad, Hari. I want to be part of your project. I would contribute to it more than any other person who might join it. I’m the one who plunged back into the oldest and most valuable archives and exposed the shameful amount of data loss that had arisen from neglect. I’m the one who launched the computerized extrapolation of shattered documents that your Encyclopedia —”

“Absolutely depends on. Our work would be impossible without your accomplishments.”

“And yet you turned me down, and with a crudely flattering note.”

“I didn’t mean to give offense, Leyel.”

“You also didn’t mean to tell the truth. But you will tell me, Hari, or I’ll simply go to Terminus anyway.”

“The Commission of Public Safety has given my Foundation absolute control over who mayor may not come to Terminus.”

“Hari. You know perfectly well that all I have to do is hint to some lower-level functionary that I want to go to Terminus. Chen will hear of it within minutes, and within an hour he’ll grant me an exception to your charter. If I did that, and if you fought it, you’d lose your charter. You know that. If you want me not to go to Terminus, it isn’t enough to forbid me; You must persuade me that I ought not to be there.”

Hari closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t think you’re willing to be persuaded, Leyel. Go if you must.”

For a moment Leyel wondered if Hari was giving in. But no, that was impossible, not so easily. “Oh, yes, Hari, but then I’d find myself cut off from everybody else on Terminus except my own serving people. Fobbed off with useless assignments. Cut out of the real meetings.”

“That goes without saying,” said Hari. “You are not part of the Foundation, you will not be, you cannot be. And if you try to use your wealth and influence to force your way in, you will succeed only in annoying the Foundation, not in joining it. Do you understand me?”

Only too well, thought Leyel in shame. Leyel knew perfectly well the limitations of power, and it was beneath him to have tried to bluster his way into getting something that could only be given freely. “Forgive me, Hari. I wouldn’t have tried to force you. You know I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“I know you’ve never done it since we’ve been friends, Leyel. I was afraid that I was teaming something new about you.” Hari sighed. He turned away for a long moment, then turned back with a different look on his face, a different kind of energy in his voice. Leyel knew that look, that vigor. It meant Hari was taking him more deeply into his confidence. “Leyel, you have to understand, I’m not just creating an encyclopedia on Terminus.”

Immediately Leyel grew worried. It had taken a great deal of Leyel’s influence to persuade the government not to have Hari Seldon summarily exiled when he first started disseminating copies of his treatises about the impending fall of the Empire. They were sure Seldon was plotting treason, and had even put him on trial, where Seldon finally persuaded them that all he wanted to do was create the Encyclopedia Galactica, the repository of all the wisdom of the Empire. Even now, if Seldon confessed some ulterior motive, the government would move against him. It was to be assumed that the Pubs — Public Safety Office — were recording this entire conversation. Even Leyel’s influence couldn’t stop them if they had a confession from Hari’s own mouth.

“No, Leyel, don’t be nervous. My meaning is plain enough. For the Encyclopedia Galactica to succeed, I have to create a thriving city of scholars on Terminus. A colony full of men and women with fragile egos and unstemmable ambition, all of them trained in vicious political infighting at the most dangerous and terrible schools of bureaucratic combat in the Empire — the universities.”

“Are you actually telling me you won’t let me join your Foundation because I never attended one of those pathetic universities? My self-education is worth ten times their lockstep force-fed pseudoleaming.”

“Don’t make your antiuniversity speech to me, Leyel. I’m saying that one of my most important concerns in staffing the Foundation is compatibility. I won’t bring anyone to Terminus unless I believe he — or she — would be happy there.”

The emphasis Hari put on the word she suddenly made everything clearer. “This isn’t about me at all, is it?” Leyel said. “It’s about Deet.”

Hari said nothing.

“You know she doesn’t want to go. You know she prefers to remain on Trantor. And that’s why you aren’t taking me! Is that it?”

Reluctantly, Hari conceded the point. “It does have something to do with Deet, yes.”

“Don’t you know how much the Foundation means to me?” demanded Leyel. “Don’t you know how much I’d give up to be part of your work?”

Hari sat there in silence for a moment. Then he murmured, “Even Deet?”

Leyel almost blurted out an answer. Yes, of course, even Deet, anything for this great work.

But Hari’s measured gaze stopped him. One thing Leyel had known since they first met at a conference back in their youth was that Hari would not stand for another man’s self-deception. They had sat next to each other at a presentation by a demographer who had a considerable reputation at the time. Leyel watched as Hari destroyed the poor man’s thesis with a few well-aimed questions. The demographer was furious. Obviously he had not seen the flaws in his own argument — but now that they had been shown to him, he refused to admit that they were flaws at all.

Afterward, Hari had said to Leyel, “I’ve done him a favor.”

“How, by giving him someone to hate?” said Leyel.

“No. Before, he believed his own unwarranted conclusions. He had deceived himself. Now he doesn’t believe them.”

“But he still propounds them.”

“So — now he’s more of a liar and less of a fool. I have improved his private integrity. His public morality I leave up to him.”

Leyel remembered this and knew that if he told Hari he could give up Deet for any reason, even to join the Foundation, it would be worse than a lie. It would be foolishness.

“It’s a terrible thing you’ve done,” said Leyel. “You know that Deet is part of myself. I can’t give her up to join your Foundation. But now for the rest of our lives together I’ll know that I could have gone, if not for her. You’ve given me wormwood and gall to drink, Hari.”

Hari nodded slowly. “I hoped that when you read my note you’d realize I didn’t want to tell you more. I hoped you wouldn’t come to me and ask. I can’t lie to you, Leyel. I wouldn’t if I could. But I did withhold information, as much as possible. To spare us both problems.”

“It didn’t work.”

“It isn’t Deet’s fault, Leyel. It’s who she is. She belongs on Trantor, not on Terminus. And you belong with her. It’s a fact, not a decision. We’ll never discuss this again.”

“No,” said Leyel.

They sat there for a long minute, gazing steadily at each other. Leyel wondered if he and Hari would ever speak again. No. Never again. I don’t ever want to see you again, Hari Seldon. You’ve made me regret the one unregrettable decision of my life — Deet. You’ve made me wish, somewhere in my heart, that I’d never married her. Which is like making me wish I’d never been born.

Leyel got up from his chair and left the room without a word. When he got outside, he turned to the reception room in general, where several people were waiting to see Seldon. “Which of you are mine? ‘he asked.

Two women and one man stood up immediately.

“Fetch me a secure car and a driver.”

Without a glance at each other, one of them left on the errand. The others fell in step beside Leyel. Subtlety and discretion were over for the moment. Leyel had no wish to mingle with the people of Trantor now. He only wanted to go home.

Hari Seldon left his office by the back way and soon found his way to Chandrakar Matt’s cubicle in the Department of Library Relations. Chanda looked up and waved, then effortlessly slid her chair back until it was in the exact position required. Hari picked up a chair from the neighboring cubicle and, again without showing any particular care, set it exactly where it had to be.

Immediately the computer installed inside Chanda’s lector recognized the configuration. It recorded Hari’s costume of the day from three angles and superimposed the information on a long-stored holoimage of Chanda and Hari conversing pleasantly. Then, once Hari was seated, it began displaying the hologram. The hologram exactly matched the positions of the real Hari and Chanda, so that infrared sensors would show no discrepancy between image and fact. The only thing different was the faces — the movement of lips, blinking of eyes, the expressions. Instead of matching the words Hari and Chanda were actually saying, they matched the words being pushed into the air outside the cubicle — a harmless, randomly chosen series of remarks that took into account recent events so that no one would suspect that it was a canned conversation.

It was one of Hari’s few opportunities for candid conversation that the Pubs would not overhear, and he and Chanda protected it carefully. They never spoke long enough or often enough that the Pubs would wonder at their devotion to such empty conversations. Much of their communication was subliminal — a sentence would stand for a paragraph, a word for a sentence, a gesture for a word. But when the conversation was done, Chanda knew where to go from there, what to do next; and Hari was reassured that his most important work was going on behind the smokescreen of the Foundation.

“For a moment I thought he might actually leave her.”

“Don’t underestimate the lure of the Encyclopedia.”

“I fear I’ve wrought too well, Chanda. Do you think someday the Encyclopedia Galactica might actually exist?”

“It’s a good idea. Good people are inspired by it. It wouldn’t serve its purpose if they weren’t. What should I tell Deet?”

“Nothing, Chanda. The fact that Leyel is staying, that’s enough for her.”

“If he changes his mind, will you actually let him go to Terminus?”

“If he changes his mind, then he must go, because if he would leave Deet, he’s not the man for us.”

“Why not just tell him? Invite him?”

“He must become part of the Second Foundation without realizing it. He must do it by natural inclination, not by a summons from me, and above all not by his own ambition.”

“Your standards are so high, Hari, it’s no wonder so few measure up. Most people in the Second Foundation don’t even know that’s what it is. They think they’re librarians. Bureaucrats. They think Deet is an anthropologist who works among them in order to study them.”

“Not so. They once thought that, but now they think of Deet as one of them. As one of the best of them. She’s defining what it means to be a librarian. She’s making them proud of the name.”

“Aren’t you ever troubled, Hari, by the fact that in the practice of your art —”

“My science.”

“Your meddlesome magicalcraft, you old wizard, you don’t fool me with all your talk of science. I’ve seen the scripts of the holographs you’re preparing for the vault on Terminus.”

“That’s all a pose.”

“I can just imagine you saying those words. Looking perfectly satisfied with yourself. ‘If you care to smoke, I wouldn’t mind … Pause for chuckle … Why should I? I’m not really here.’ Pure showmanship.”

Hari waved off the idea. The computer quickly found a bit of dialogue to fit his gesture, so the false scene would not seem false. “No, I’m not troubled by the fact that in the practice of my science I change the lives of human beings. Knowledge has always changed people’s lives. The only difference is that I know I’m changing them and the changes I introduce are planned, they’re under control. Did the man who invented the first artificial light — what was it, animal fat with a wick? A light-emitting diode? — did he realize what it would do to humankind, to be given power over night?”

As always, Chanda deflated him the moment he started congratulating himself. “In the first place, it was almost certainly a woman, and in the second place, she knew exactly what she was doing. It allowed her to find her way through the house at night. Now she could put her nursing baby in another bed, in another room, so she could get some sleep at night without fear of rolling over and smothering the child.”

Hari smiled. “If artificial light was invented by a woman, it was certainly a prostitute, to extend her hours of work.”

Chanda grinned. He did not laugh — it was too hard for the computer to come up with jokes to explain laughter. “We’ll watch Leyel carefully, Hari. How will we know when he’s ready, so we can begin to count on him for protection and leadership?”

“When you already count on him, then he’s ready. When his commitment and loyalty are firm, when the goals of the Second Foundation are already in his heart, when he acts them out in his life, then he’s ready.”

There was a finality in Hari’s tone. The conversation was nearly over.

“By the way, Hari, you were right. No one has even questioned the omission of any important psychohistorical data from the Foundation library on Terminus.”

“Of course not. Academics never look outside their own discipline. That’s another reason why I’m glad Leyel isn’t going. He would notice that the only psychologist we’re sending is Bor Alurin. Then I’d have to explain more to him than I want. Give my love to Deet, Chanda. Tell her that her test case is going very well. She’ll end up with a husband and a community of scientists of the mind.”

“Artists. Wizards. Demigods.”

“Stubborn misguided women who don’t know science when they’re doing it. All in the Imperial Library. Till next time, Chanda.”

If Deet had asked him about his interview with Hari, if she had commiserated with him about Hari’s refusal, his resentment of her might have been uncontainable, he might have lashed out at her and said something that could never be forgiven. Instead, she was perfectly herself, so excited about her work and so beautiful, even with her face showing all the sag and wrinkling of her sixty years, that all Leyel could do was fall in love with her again, as he had so many times in their years together.

“It’s working beyond anything I hoped for, Leyel. I’m beginning to hear stories that I created months and years ago, coming back as epic legends. You remember the time I retrieved and extrapolated the accounts of the uprising at Misercordia only three days before the Admiralty needed them?”

“Your finest hour. Admiral Divart still talks about how they used the old battle plots as a strategic guideline and put down the Tellekers’ strike in a single three-day operation without loss of a ship.”

“You have a mind like a trap, even if you are old.”

“Sadly, all I can remember is the past.”

“Dunce, that’s all anyone can remember.”

He prompted her to go on with her account of today’s triumph. “It’s an epic legend now?”

“It came back to me without my name on it, and bigger than life. As a reference. Rinjy was talking with some young librarians from one of the inner provinces who were on the standard interlibrary tour, and one of them said something about how you could stay in the Imperial Library on Trantor all your life and never see the real world at all.”

Leyel hooted. “Just the thing to say to Rinjy!”

“Exactly. Got her dander up, of course, but the important thing is, she immediately told them the story of how a librarian, all on her own, saw the similarity between the Misercordia uprising and the Tellekers’ strike. She knew no one at the Admiralty would listen to her unless she brought them all the information at once. So she delved back into the ancient records and found them in deplorable shape — the original data had been stored in glass, but that was forty-two centuries ago, and no one had refreshed the data. None of the secondary sources actually showed the battle plots or ship courses — Misercordia had mostly been written about by biographers, not military historians —”

“Of course. It was Pol Yuensau’s first battle, but he was just a pilot, not a commander —”

“I know you remember, my intrusive pet. The point is what Rinjy said about this mythical librarian.”

“You.”

“I was standing right there. I don’t think Rinjy knew it was me, or she would have said something — she wasn’t even in the same division with me then, you know. What matters is that Rinjy heard a version of the story and by the time she told it, it was transformed into a magic hero tale. The prophetic librarian of Trantor.”

“What does that prove? You are a magic hero.”

“The way she told it, I did it all on my own initiative”

“You did. You were assigned to do document extrapolation, and you just happened to start with Misercordia.”

“But in Rinjy’s version, I had already seen its usefulness with the Tellekers’ strike. She said the librarian sent it to the Admiralty and only then did they realize it was the key to bloodless victory.”

“Librarian saves the Empire.”

“Exactly.”

“But you did.”

“But I didn’t mean to. And Admiralty requested the information — the only really extraordinary thing was that I had already finished two weeks of document restoration —”

“Which you did brilliantly.”

“Using programs you had helped design, thank you very much, O Wise One, as you indirectly praise yourself. It was sheer coincidence that I could give them exactly what they wanted within five minutes of their asking. But now it’s a hero story within the community of librarians. In the Imperial Library itself, and now spreading outward to all the other libraries.”

“This is so anecdotal, Deet. I don’t see how you can publish this.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to. Except perhaps in the introduction. What matters to me is that it proves my theory.”

“It has no statistical validity.”

“It proves it to me. I know that my theories of community formation are true. That the vigor of a community depends on the allegiance of its members, and the allegiance can be created and enhanced by the dissemination of epic stories.”

“She speaks the language of academia. I should be writing this down, so you don’t have to think up all those words again.”

“Stories that make the community seem more important, more central to human life. Because Rinjy could tell this story, it made her more proud to be a librarian, which increased her allegiance to the community and gave the community more power within her.”

“You are possessing their souls.”

“And they’ve got mine. Together our souls are possessing each other.”

There was the rub. Deet’s role in the library had begun as applied research — joining the library staff in order to confirm her theory of community formation. But that task was impossible to accomplish without in fact becoming a committed part of the library community. It was Deet’s dedication to serious science that had brought them together. Now that very dedication was stealing her away. It would hurt her more to leave the library than it would to lose Leyel.

Not true. Not true at all, he told himself sternly. self-pity leads to self-deception. Exactly the opposite is true — it would hurt her more to lose Leyel than to leave her community of librarians. That’s why she consented to go to Terminus in the first place. But could he blame her for being glad that she didn’t have to choose? Glad that she could have both?

Yet even as he beat down the worst of the thoughts arising from his disappointment, he couldn’t keep some of the nastiness from coming out in his conversation. “How will you know when your experiment is over?”

She frowned. “It’ll never be over, Leyel. They’re all really librarians — I don’t pick them up by the tails like mice and put them back in their cages when the experiment’s done. At some point I’ll simply stop, that’s all, and write my book.”

“Will you?”

“Write the book? I’ve written books before, I think I can do it again.”

“I meant, will you stop?”

“When, now? Is this some test of my love for you, Leyel? Are you jealous of my friendships with Rinjy and Animet and Fin and Urik?”

No! Don’t accuse me of such childish, selfish feelings!

But before he could snap back his denial, he knew that his denial would be false.

“Sometimes I am, yes, Deet. Sometimes I think you’re happier with them.”

And because he had spoken honestly, what could have become a bitter quarrel remained a conversation. “But I am, Leyel,” she answered, just as frankly. “It’s because when I’m with them, I’m creating something new, I’m creating something with them. It’s exciting, invigorating, I’m discovering new things every day, in every word they say, every smile, every tear someone sheds, every sign that being one of us is the most important thing in their lives.”

“I can’t compete with that.”

“No, you can’t, Leyel. But you complete it. Because it would all mean nothing, it would be more frustrating than exhilarating if I couldn’t come back to you every day and tell you what happened. You always understand what it means, you’re always excited for me, you validate my experience.”

“I’m your audience. Like a parent.”

“Yes, old man. Like a husband. Like a child. Like the person I love most in all the world. You are my root. I make a brave show out there, all branches and bright leaves in the sunlight, but I come here to suck the water of life from your soil.”

“Leyel Forska, the font of capillarity. You are the tree, and I am the dirt.”

“Which happens to be full of fertilizer.” She kissed him. A kiss reminiscent of younger days. An invitation, which he gladly accepted.

A softened section of floor served them as an impromptu bed. At the end, he lay beside her, his arm across her waist, his head on her shoulder, his lips brushing the skin of her breast. He remembered when her breasts were small and firm, perched on her chest like small monuments to her potential. Now when she lay on her back they were a ruin, eroded by age so they flowed off her chest to either side, resting wearily on her arms.

“You are a magnificent woman,” he whispered, his lips tickling her skin.

Their slack and flabby bodies were now capable of greater passion than when they were taut and strong. Before, they were all potential. That’s what we love in youthful bodies, the teasing potential. Now hers is a body of accomplishment. Three fine children were the blossoms, then the fruit of this tree, gone off and taken root somewhere else. The tension of youth could now give way to a relaxation of the flesh. There were no more promises in their lovemaking. Only fulfillment.

She murmured softly in his ear, “That was a ritual, by the way. Community maintenance.”

“So I’m just another experiment?”

“A fairly successful one. I’m testing to see if this little community can last until one of us drops.”

“What if you drop first? Who’ll write the paper then?”

“You will. But you’ll sign my name to it. I want the Imperial medal for it. Posthumously. Glue it to my memorial stone.”

“I’ll wear it myself. If you’re selfish enough to leave all the real work to me, you don’t deserve anything better than a cheap replica.”

She slapped his back. “You are a nasty selfish old man, then. The real thing or nothing.”

He felt the sting of her slap as if he deserved it. A nasty selfish old man. If she only knew how right she was. There had been a moment in Hari’s office when he’d almost said the words that would deny all that there was between them. The words that would cut her out of his life. Go to Terminus without her! I would be more myself if they took my heart, my liver, my brain.

How could I have thought I wanted to go to Terminus, anyway? To be surrounded by academics of the sort I most despise, struggling with them to get the encyclopedia properly designed. They’d each fight for their petty little province, never catching the vision of the whole, never understanding that the encyclopedia would be valueless if it were compartmentalized. It would be a life in hell, and in the end he’d lose, because the academic mind was incapable of growth or change.

It was here on Trantor that he could still accomplish something. Perhaps even solve the question of human origin, at least to his own satisfaction — and perhaps he could do it soon enough that he could get his discovery included in the Encyclopedia Galactica before the Empire began to break down at the edges, cutting Terminus off from the rest of the Galaxy.

It was like a shock of static electricity passing through his brain; he even saw an afterglow of light around the edges of his vision, as if a spark had jumped some synaptic gap.

“What a sham,” he said.

“Who, you? Me?”

“Hari Seldon. All this talk about his Foundation to create the Encyclopedia Galactica.”

“Careful, Leyel.” It was almost impossible that the Pubs could have found a way to listen to what went on in Leyel Forska’s own apartments. Almost.

“He told me twenty years ago. It was one of his first psychohistorical projections. The Empire will crumble at the edges first. He projected it would happen within the next generation. The figures were crude then. He must have it down to the year now. Maybe even the month. Of course he put his Foundation on Terminus. A place so remote that when the edges of the Empire fray, it will be among the first threads lost. Cut off from Trantor. Forgotten at once!”

“What good would that do, Leyel? They’d never hear of any new discoveries then.”

“What you said about us. A tree. Our children like the fruit of that tree.”

“I never said that.”

“I thought it, then. He is dropping his Foundation out on Terminus like the fruit of Empire. To grow into a new Empire by and by.”

“You frighten me, Leyel. If the Pubs ever heard you say that —”

“That crafty old fox. That sly, deceptive — he never actually lied to me, but of course he couldn’t send me there. If the Forska fortune was tied up with Terminus, the Empire would never lose track of the place. The edges might fray elsewhere, but never there. Putting me on Terminus would be the undoing of the real project.” It was such a relief. Of course Hari couldn’t tell him, not with the Pubs listening, but it had nothing to do with him or Deet. It wouldn’t have to be a barrier between them after all. It was just one of the penalties of being the keeper of the Forska fortune.

“Do you really think so?” asked Deet.

“I was a fool not to see it before. But Hari was a fool too if he thought I wouldn’t guess it.”

“Maybe he expects you to guess everything.”

“Oh, nobody could ever come up with everything Hari’s doing. He has more twists and turns in his brain than a hyperpath through core space. No matter how you labor to pick your way through, you’ll always find Hari at the end of it, nodding happily and congratulating you on coming this far. He’s ahead of us all. He’s already planned everything, and the rest of us are doomed to follow in his footsteps.”

“Is it doom?”

“Once I thought Hari Seldon was God. Now I know he’s much less powerful than that. He’s merely Fate.”

“No, Leyel. Don’t say that.”

“Not even Fate. Just our guide through it. He sees the future, and points the way.”

“Rubbish.” She slid out from under him, got up, pulled her robe from its hook on the wall. “My old bones get cold when I lie about naked.”

Leyel’s legs were trembling, but not with cold. “The future is his, and the present is yours, but the past belongs to me. I don’t know how far into the future his probability curves have taken him, but I can match him, step for step, century for century into the past.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to solve the question of origin. You’re the one who proved it wasn’t worth solving.”

“I proved that it wasn’t important or even possible to find the planet of origin. But I also said that we could still discover the natural laws that accounted for the origin of man. Whatever forces created us as human beings must still be present in the universe.”

“I did read what you wrote, you know. You said it would be the labor of the next millennium to find the answer.”

“Just now. Lying here, just now, I saw it, just out of reach. Something about your work and Hari’s work, and the tree.”

“The tree was about me needing you, Leyel. It wasn’t about the origin of humanity.”

“It’s gone. Whatever I saw for a moment there, it’s gone. But I can find it again. It’s there in your work, and Hari’s Foundation, and the fall of the Empire, and the damned pear tree.”

“I never said it was a pear tree.”

“I used to play in the pear orchard on the grounds of the estate in Holdwater. To me the word ‘tree’ always means a pear tree. One of the deep-worn ruts in my brain.”

“I’m relieved. I was afraid you were reminded of pears by the shape of these ancient breasts when I bend over.”

“Open your robe again. Let me see if I think of pears.”

Leyel paid for Hari Seldon’s funeral. It was not lavish. Leyel had meant it to be. The moment he heard of Hari’s death — not a surprise, since Hari’s first brutal stroke had left him half-paralyzed in a wheelchair — he set his staff to work on a memorial service appropriate to honor the greatest scientific mind of the millennium. But word arrived, in the form of a visit from Commissioner Rom Divart, that any sort of public services would be …

“Shall we say, inappropriate?”

“The man was the greatest genius I’ve ever heard of! He virtually invented a branch of science that clarified things that — he made a science out of the sort of thing that soothsayers and — and — economists used to do!”

Rom laughed at Leyel’s little joke, of course, because he and Leyel had been friends forever. Rom was the only friend of Leyel’s childhood who had never sucked up to him or resented him or stayed cool toward him because of the Forska fortune. This was, of course, because the Divart holdings were, if anything, slightly greater. They had played together unencumbered by strangeness or jealousy or awe.

They even shared a tutor for two terrible, glorious years, from the time Rom’s father was murdered until the execution of Rom’s grandfather, which caused so much outrage among the nobility that the mad Emperor was stripped of power and the Imperium put under the control of the Commission of Public Safety. Then, as the youthful head of one of the great families, Rom had embarked on his long and fruitful career in politics.

Rom said later that for those two years it was Leyel who taught him that there was still some good in the world; that Leyel’s friendship was the only reason Rom hadn’t killed himself. Leyel always thought this was pure theatrics. Rom was a born actor. That’s why he so excelled at making stunning entrances and playing unforgettable scenes on the grandest stage of all — the politics of the Imperium. Someday he would no doubt exit as dramatically as his father and grandfather had.

But he was not all show. Rom never forgot the friend of his childhood. Leyel knew it, and knew also that Rom’s coming to deliver this message from the Commission of Public Safety probably meant that Rom had fought to make the message as mild as it was. So Leyel blustered a bit, then made his little joke. It was his way of surrendering gracefully.

What Leyel didn’t realize, right up until the day of the funeral, was exactly how dangerous his friendship with Hari Seldon had been, and how stupid it was for him to associate himself with Hari’s name now that the old man was dead. Linge Chen, the Chief Commissioner, had not risen to the position of greatest power in the Empire without being fiercely suspicious of potential rivals and brutally efficient about eliminating them. Hari had maneuvered Chen into a position such that it was more dangerous to kill the old man than to give him his Foundation on Terminus. But now Hari was dead, and apparently Chen was watching to see who mourned.

Leyel did — Leyel and the few members of Hari’s staff who had stayed behind on Trantor to maintain contact with Terminus up to the moment of Hari’s death. Leyel should have known better. Even alive, Hari wouldn’t have cared who came to his funeral. And now, dead, he cared even less. Leyel didn’t believe his friend lived on in some ethereal plane, watching carefully and taking attendance at the services. No, Leyel simply felt he had to be there, felt he had to speak. Not for Hari, really. For himself. To continue to be himself, Leyel had to make some kind of public gesture toward Hari Seldon and all he had stood for.

Who heard? Not many. Deet, who thought his eulogy was too mild by half. Hari’s staff, who were quite aware of the danger and winced at each of Leyel’s list of Hari’s accomplishments. Naming them — and emphasizing that only Seldon had the vision to do these great works — was inherently a criticism of the level of intelligence and integrity in the Empire. The Pubs were listening, too. They noted that Leyel clearly agreed with Hari Seldon about the certainty of the Empire’s fall — that in fact as a galactic empire it had probably already fallen, since its authority was no longer coextensive with the Galaxy.

If almost anyone else had said such things, to such a small audience, it would have been ignored, except to keep him from getting any job requiring a security clearance. But when the head of the Forska family came out openly to affirm the correctness of the views of a man who had been tried before the Commission of Public Safety — that posed a greater danger to the Commission than Hari Seldon.

For, as head of the Forska family, if Leyel Forska wanted, he could be one of the great players on the political stage, could have a seat on the Commission along with Rom Divart and Linge Chen. Of course, that would also have meant constantly watching for assassins — either to avoid them or to hire them — and trying to win the allegiance of various military strongmen in the farflung reaches of the Galaxy. Leyel’s grandfather had spent his life in such pursuits, but Leyel’s father had declined, and Leyel himself had thoroughly immersed himself in science and never so much as inquired about politics.

Until now. Until he made the profoundly political act of paying for Hari Seldon’s funeral and then speaking at it. What would he do next? There were a thousand would-be warlords who would spring to revolt if a Forska promised what would-be emperors so desperately needed: a noble sponsor, a mask of legitimacy, and money.

Did Linge Chen really believe that Leyel meant to enter politics at his advanced age? Did he really think Leyel posed a threat?

Probably not. If he had believed it, he would surely have had Leyel killed, and no doubt all his children as well, leaving only one of his minor grandchildren, whom Chen would carefully control through the guardians he would appoint, thereby acquiring control of the Forska fortune as well as his own.

Instead, Chen only believed that Leyel might cause trouble. So he took what were, for him, mild steps.

That was why Rom came to visit Leyel again, a week after the funeral.

Leyel was delighted to see him. “Not on somber business this time, I hope,” he said. “But such bad luck — Deet’s at the library again, she practically lives there now, but she’d want to —”

“Leyel.” Rom touched Leyel’s lips with his fingers.

So it was somber business after all. Worse than somber. Rom recited what had to be a memorized speech.

“The Commission of Public Safety has become concerned that in your declining years —”

Leyel opened his mouth to protest, but again Rom touched his lips to silence him.

“That in your declining years, the burdens of the Forska estates are distracting you from your exceptionally important scientific work. So great is the Empire’s need for the new discoveries and understanding your work will surely bring us, that the Commission of Public Safety has created the office of Forska Trustee to oversee all the Forska estates and holdings. You will, of course, have unlimited access to these funds for your scientific work here on Trantor, and funding will continue for all the archives and libraries you have endowed. Naturally, the Commission has no desire for you to thank us for what is, after all, our duty to one of our noblest citizens, but if your well-known courtesy required you to make a brief public statement of gratitude it would not be inappropriate.”

Leyel was no fool. He knew how things worked. He was being stripped of his fortune and being placed under arrest on Trantor. There was no point in protest or remonstrance, no point even in trying to make Rom feel guilty for having brought him such a bitter message. Indeed, Rom himself might be in great danger — if Leyel so much as hinted that he expected Rom to come to his support, his dear friend might also fall. So Leyel nodded gravely, and then carefully framed his words of reply.

“Please tell the Commissioners how grateful I am for their concern on my behalf. It has been a long, long time since anyone went to the trouble of easing my burdens. I accept their kind offer. I am especially glad because this means that now I can pursue my studies unencumbered.”

Rom visibly relaxed. Leyel wasn’t going to cause trouble. “My dear friend, I will sleep better knowing that you are always here on Trantor, working freely in the library or taking your leisure in the parks.”

So at least they weren’t going to confine him to his apartment. No doubt they would never let him offplanet, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Perhaps I’ll even have time now to visit my grandchildren now and then.”

“Oh, Leyel, you and I are both too old to enjoy hyperspace any more. Leave that for the youngsters — they can come visit you whenever they want. And sometimes they can stay home, while their parents come to see you.”

Thus Leyel learned that if any of his children came to visit him, their children would be held hostage, and vice versa. Leyel himself would never leave Trantor again.

“So much the better,” said Leyel. “I’ll have time to write several books I’ve been meaning to publish.”

“The Empire waits eagerly for every scientific treatise you publish. “There was a slight emphasis on the word “scientific.” “But I hope you won’t bore us with one of those tedious autobiographies.”

Leyel agreed to the restriction easily enough. “I promise, Rom. You know better than anyone else exactly how boring my life has always been.”

“Come now. My life’s the boring one, Leyel, all this government claptrap and bureaucratic bushwa. You’ve been at the forefront of scholarship and learning. Indeed, my friend, the Commission hopes you’ll honor us by giving us first look at every word that comes out of your scriptor.”

“Only if you promise to read it carefully and point out any mistakes I might make.” No doubt the Commission intended only to censor his work to remove political material — which Leyel had never included anyway. But Leyel had already resolved never to publish anything again, at least as long as Linge Chen was Chief Commissioner. The safest thing Leyel could do now was to disappear, to let Chen forget him entirely — it would be egregiously stupid to send occasional articles to Chen, thus reminding him that Leyel was still around.

But Rom wasn’t through yet. “I must extend that request to Deet’s work as well. We really want first look at it — do tell her so.”

“Deet?” For the first time Leyel almost let his fury show. Why should Deet be punished because of Leyel’s indiscretion? “Oh, she’ll be too shy for that, Rom — she doesn’t think her work is important enough to deserve any attention from men as busy as the Commissioners. They’ll think you only want to see her work because she’s my wife — she’s always annoyed when people patronize her.”

“You must insist, then, Leyel,” said Rom. “I assure you, her studies of the functions of the Imperial bureaucracy have long been interesting to the Commission for their own sake.”

Ah. Of course. Chen would never have allowed a report on the workings of government to appear without making sure it wasn’t dangerous. Censorship of Deet’s writings wouldn’t be Leyel’s fault after all. Or at least not entirely.

‘‘I’ll tell her that, Rom. She’ll be flattered. But won’t you stay and tell her yourself! I can bring you a cup of peshat, we can talk about old times —”

Leyel would have been surprised if Rom had stayed. No, this interview had been at least as hard on Rom as it had been on him. The very fact that Rom had been forced into being the Commission’s messenger to his childhood friend was a humiliating reminder that the Chens were in the ascendant over the Divarts. But as Rom bowed and left, it occurred to Leyel that Chen might have made a mistake. Humiliating Rom this way, forcing him to place his dearest friend under arrest like this — it might be the straw to break the camel’s back. After all, though no one had ever been able to find out who hired the assassin who killed Rom’s father, and no one had ever learned who denounced Rom’s grandfather, leading to his execution by the paranoid Emperor Wassiniwak, it didn’t take a genius to realize that the House of Chen had profited most from both events.

“I wish I could stay,” said Rom. “But duty calls. Still, you can be sure I’ll think of you often. Of course, I doubt I’ll think of you as you are now, you old wreck. I’ll remember you as a boy, when we used to tweak our tutor — remember the time we recoded his lector, so that for a whole week explicit pornography kept coming up on the display whenever the door of his room opened?”

Leyel couldn’t help laughing. “You never forget anything, do you!”

“The poor fool. He never figured out that it was us! Old times. Why couldn’t we have stayed young forever?” He embraced Leyel and then swiftly left.

Linge Chen, you fool, you have reached too far. Your days are numbered. None of the Pubs who were listening in on their conversation could possibly know that Rom and Leyel had never teased their tutor — and that they had never done anything to his lector. It was just Rom’s way of letting Leyel know that they were still allies, still keeping secrets together — and that someone who had authority over both of them was going to be in for a few nasty surprises.

It gave Leyel chills, thinking about what might come of all this. He loved Rom Divart with all his heart, but he also knew that Rom was capable of biding his time and then killing swiftly, efficiently, coldly. Linge Chen had just started his latest six-year term of office, but Leyel knew he’d never finish it. And the next Chief Commissioner would not be a Chen.

Soon, though, the enormity of what had been done to him began to sink in. He had always thought that his fortune meant little to him — that he would be the same man with or without the Forska estates. But now he began to realize that it wasn’t true, that he’d been lying to himself all along. He had known since childhood how despicable rich and powerful men could be — his father had made sure he saw and understood how cruel men became when their money persuaded them they had a right to use others however they wished. So Leyel had learned to despise his own birthright, and, starting with his father, had pretended to others that he could make his way through the world solely by wit and diligence, that he would have been exactly the same man if he had grown up in a common family, with a common education. He had done such a good job of acting as if he didn’t care about his wealth that he came to believe it himself.

Now he realized that Forska estates had been an invisible part of himself all along, as if they were extensions of his body, as if he could flex a muscle and cargo ships would fly, he could blink and mines would be sunk deep into the earth, he could sigh and allover the Galaxy there would be a wind of change that would keep blowing until everything was exactly as he wanted it. Now all those invisible limbs arid senses had been amputated. Now he was crippled — he had only as many arms and legs and eyes as any other human being.

At last he was what he had always pretended to be. An ordinary, powerless man. He hated it.

For the first hours after Rom left, Leyel pretended he could take all this in stride. He sat at the lector and spun through the pages smoothly — without anything on the pages registering in his memory. He kept wishing Deet were there so he could laugh with her about how little this hurt him; then he would be glad that Deet was not there, because one sympathetic touch of her hand would push him over the edge, make it impossible to contain his emotion.

Finally he could not help himself. Thinking of Deet, of their children and grandchildren, of all that had been lost to them because he had made an empty gesture to a dead friend, he threw himself to the softened floor and wept bitterly. Let Chen listen to recordings of what the spy beam shows of this! Let him savor his victory! I’ll destroy him somehow, my staff is still loyal to me, I’ll put together an army, I’ll hire assassins of my own, I’ll make contact with Admiral Sipp, and then Chen will be the one to sob, crying out for mercy as I disfigure him the way he has mutilated me —

Fool.

Leyel rolled over onto his back, dried his face on his sleeve, then lay there, eyes closed, calming himself. No vengeance. No politics. That was Rom’s business, not Leyel’s. Too late for him to enter the game now — and who would help him, anyway, now that he had already lost his power? There was nothing to be done.

Leyel didn’t really want to do anything, anyway. Hadn’t they guaranteed that his archives and libraries would continue to be funded? Hadn’t they guaranteed him unlimited research funds? And wasn’t that all he had cared about anyway? He had long since turned over all the Forska operations to his subordinates — Chen’s trustee would simply do the same job. And Leyel’s children wouldn’t suffer much — he had raised them with the same values that he had grown up with, and so they all pursued careers unrelated to the Forska holdings. They were true children of their father and mother — they wouldn’t have any self-respect if they didn’t earn their own way in the world. No doubt they’d be disappointed by having their inheritance snatched away. But they wouldn’t be destroyed.

I am not ruined. All the lies that Rom told are really true, only they didn’t realize it. All that matters in my life, I still have. I really don’t care about my fortune. It’s just the way I lost it that made me so furious. I can go on and be the same person I always was. This will even give me an opportunity to see who my true friends are — to see who still honors me for my scientific achievements, and who despises me for my poverty.

By the time Deet got home from the library — late, as was usual these days — Leyel was hard at work, reading back through all the research and speculation on protohuman behavior, trying to see if there was anything other than half-assed guesswork and pompous babble. He was so engrossed in his reading that he spent the first fifteen minutes after she got home telling her of the hilarious stupidities he had found in the day’s reading, and then sharing a wonderful, impossible thought he had had.

“What if the human species isn’t the only branch to evolve on our family tree? What if there’s some other primate species that looks exactly like us, but can’t interbreed with us, that functions in a completely different way, and we don’t even know it, we all think everybody’s just like us, but here and there allover the Empire there are whole towns, cities, maybe even worlds of people who secretly aren’t human at all.”

“But Leyel, my overwrought husband, if they look just like us and act just like us, then they are human.”

“But they don’t act exactly like us. There’s a difference. A completely different set of rules and assumptions. Only they don’t know that we’re different, and we don’t know that they’re different. Or even if we suspect it, we’re never sure. Just two different species, living side by side and never guessing it.”

She kissed him. “You poor fool, that isn’t speculation, it already exists. You have just described the relationship between males and females. Two completely different species, completely unintelligible to each other, living side by side and thinking they’re really the same. The fascinating thing, Leyel, is that the two species persist in marrying each other and having babies, sometimes of one species, sometimes of the other, and the whole time they can’t understand why they can’t understand each other.”

He laughed and embraced her. “You’re right, as always, Deet. If I could once understand women, then perhaps I’d know what it is that makes men human.”

“Nothing could possibly make men human,” she answered. “Every time they’re just about to get it right, they end up tripping over the damned Y chromosome and turning back into beasts.” She nuzzled his neck.

It was then, with Deet in his arms, that he whispered to her what had happened when Rom visited that day. She said nothing, but held him tightly for the longest time. Then they had a very late supper and went about their nightly routines as if nothing had changed.

Not until they were in bed, not until Deet was softly snoring beside him, did it finally occur to Leyel that Deet was facing a test of her own. Would she still love him, now that he was merely Leyel Forska, scientist on a pension, and not Lord Forska, master of worlds? Of course she would intend to. But just as Leyel had never been aware of how much he depended on his wealth to define himself, so also she might not have realized how much of what she loved about him was his vast power; for even though he didn’t flaunt it, it had always been there, like a solid platform underfoot, hardly noticed except now, when it was gone, when their footing was unsure.

Even before this, she had been slipping away into the community of women in the library. She would drift away even faster now, not even noticing it as Leyel became less and less important to her. No need for anything as dramatic as divorce. Just a little gap between them, an empty space that might as well be a chasm, might as well by the abyss. My fortune was a part of me, and now that it’s gone, I’m no longer the same man she loved. She won’t even know that she doesn’t love me any more. She’ll just get busier and busier in her work, and in five or ten years when I die of old age, she’ll grieve — and then suddenly she’ll realize that she isn’t half as devastated as she thought she’d be. In fact, she won’t be devastated at all. And she’ll get on with her life and won’t even remember what it was like to be married to me. I’ll disappear from all human memory then, except perhaps for a few scientific papers and the libraries.

I’m like the information that was lost in all those neglected archives. Disappearing bit by bit, unnoticed, until all that’s left is just a little bit of noise in people’s memories. Then, finally, nothing. Blank.

Self-pitying fool. That’s what happens to everyone, in the long run. Even Hari Seldon — someday he’ll be forgotten, sooner rather than later, if Chen has his way. We all die. We’re all lost in the passage of time. The only thing that lives on after us is the new shape we’ve given to the communities we lived in. There are things that are known because I said them, and even though people have forgotten who said it, they’ll go on knowing. Like the story Rinjy was telling — she had forgotten, if she ever knew it, that Deet was the librarian in the original tale. But still she remembered the tale. The community of librarians was different because Deet had been among them. They would be a little different, a little braver, a little stronger, because of Deet. She had left traces of herself in the world.

And then, again, there came that flash of insight, that sudden understanding of the answer to a question that had long been troubling him.

But in the moment that Leyel realized that he held the answer, the answer slipped away. He couldn’t remember it. You’re asleep, he said silently. You only dreamed that you understood the origin of humanity. That’s the way it is in dreams — the truth is always so beautiful, but you can never hold on to it.

“How is he taking it, Deet?”

“Hard to say. Well, I think. He was never much of a wanderer anyway.”

“Come now, it can’t be that simple.”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

“Tell me.”

“The social things — those were easy. We rarely went anyway, but now people don’t invite us. We’re politically dangerous. And the few things we had scheduled got canceled or, um, postponed. You know — we’ll call you as soon as we have a new date.”

“He doesn’t mind this?”

“He likes that part. He always hated those things. But they’ve canceled his speeches. And the lecture series on human ecology.”

“A blow.”

“He pretends not to mind. But he’s brooding.”

“Tell me.”

“Works all day, but he doesn’t read it to me any more, doesn’t make me sit down at the lector the minute I get home. I think he isn’t writing anything.”

“Doing nothing?”

“No. Reading. That’s all.”

“Maybe he just needs to do research.”

“You don’t know Leyel. He thinks by writing. Or talking. He isn’t doing either.”

“Doesn’t talk to you?”

“He answers. I try to talk about things here at the library, his answers are — what? Glum. Sullen.”

“He resents your work?”

“That’s not possible. Leyel has always been as enthusiastic about my work as about his own. And he won’t talk about his own work, either. I ask him, and he says nothing.”

“Not surprising.”

“So it’s all right?”

“No. It’s just not surprising.”

“What is it? Can’t you tell me?”

“What good is telling you? It’s what we call ILS — Identity Loss Syndrome. It’s identical to the passive strategy for dealing with loss of body parts.”

“ILS. What happens in ILS?”

“Deet, come on, you’re a scientist. What do you expect? You’ve just described Leyel’s behavior, I tell you that it’s called ILS, you want to know what ILS is, and what am I going to do?”

“Describe Leyel’s behavior back to me. What an idiot I am.”

“Good, at least you can laugh.”

“Can’t you tell me what to expect?”

“Complete withdrawal from you, from everybody. Eventually he becomes completely antisocial and starts to strike out. Does something self-destructive — like making public statements against Chen, that’d do it.”

“No!”

“Or else he severs his old connections, gets away from you, and reconstructs himself in a different set of communities.”

“This would make him happy?”

“Sure. Useless to the Second Foundation, but happy. It would also turn you into a nasty-tempered old crone, not that you aren’t one already, mind you.”

“Oh, you think Leyel’s the only thing keeping me human?”

“Pretty much, yes. He’s your safety valve.”

“Not lately.”

“I know.”

“Have I been so awful?”

“Nothing that we can’t bear. Deet, if we’re going to be fit to govern the human race someday, shouldn’t we first learn to be good to each other?”

“Well, I’m glad to provide you all with an opportunity to test your patience.”

“You should be glad. We’re doing a fine job so far, wouldn’t you say?”

“Please. You were teasing me about the prognosis, weren’t you?”

“Partly. Everything I said was true, but you know as well as I do that there are as many different ways out of a B-B syndrome as there are people who have them.”

“Behavioral cause, behavioral effect. No little hormone shot, then?”

“Deet. He doesn’t know who he is.”

“Can’t I help him?”

“Yes.”

“What? What can I do?”

“This is only a guess, since I haven’t talked to him.”

“Of course.”

“You aren’t home much.”

“I can’t stand it there, with him brooding all the time.”

“Fine. Get him out with you.”

“He won’t go.”

“Push him.”

“We barely talk. I don’t know if I even have any leverage over him.”

“Deet. You’re the one who wrote, ‘Communities that make few or no demands on their members cannot command allegiance. All else being equal, members who feel most needed have the strongest allegiance.’”

“You memorized that?”

“Psychohistory is the psychology of populations, but populations can only be quantified as communities. Seldon’s work on statistical probabilities only worked to predict the future within a generation or two until you first published your community theories. That’s because statistics can’t deal with cause and effect. Stats tell you what’s happening, never why, never the result. Within a generation or two, the present statistics evaporate, they’re meaningless, you have whole new populations with new configurations. Your community theory gave us a way of predicting which communities would survive, which would grow, which would fade. A way of looking across long stretches of time and space.”

“Hari never told me he was using community theory in any important way.”

“How could he tell you that? He had to walk a tightrope — publishing enough to get psychohistory taken seriously, but not so much that anybody outside the Second Foundation could ever duplicate or continue his work. Your work was a key — but he couldn’t say so.”

“Are you just saying this to make me feel better?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m saying it. But it’s also true — since lying to you wouldn’t make you feel better, would it? Statistics are like taking cross sections of the trunk of a tree. It can tell you a lot about its history. You can figure how healthy it is, how much volume the whole tree has, how much is root and how much is branch. But what it can’t tell you is where the tree will branch, and which branches will become major, which minor, and which will rot and fall off and die.”

“But you can’t quantify communities, can you? They’re just stories and rituals that bind people together —”

“You’d be surprised what we can quantify. We’re very good at what we do, Deet. Just as you are. Just as Leyel is.”

“Is his work important? After all, human origin is only a historical question.”

“Nonsense, and you know it. Leyel has stripped away the historical issues and he’s searching for the scientific ones. The principles by which human life, as we understand it, is differentiated from nonhuman. If he finds that — don’t you see, Deet? The human race is recreating itself all the time, on every world, in every family, in every individual. We’re born animals, and we teach each other how to be human. Somehow. It matters that we find out how. It matters to psychohistory. It matters to the Second Foundation. It matters to the human race.’”

“So — you aren’t just being kind to Leyel.”

“Yes, we are. You are, too. Good people are kind.”

“Is that all? Leyel is just one man who’s having trouble?”

“We need him. He isn’t important just to you. He’s important to us.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I was so afraid — that I was being selfish — being so worried about him. Taking up your time like this.”

“Well, if that doesn’t — I thought you were beyond surprising me.”

“Our problems were just — our problems. But now they’re not.”

“Is that so important to you? Tell me, Deet — do you really value this community so much?”

“Yes.”

“More than Leyel?”

“No! But enough — that I felt guilty for caring so much about him.”

“Go home, Deet. Just go home.”

“What?”

“That’s where you’d rather be. It’s been showing up in your behavior for two months, ever since Hari’s death. You’ve been nasty and snappish, and now I know why. You resent us for keeping you away from Leyel.”

“No, it was my choice, I —”

“Of course it was your choice! It was your sacrifice for the good of the Second Foundation. So now I’m telling you — healing Leyel is more important to Hari’s plan than keeping up with your day-to-day responsibilities here.”

“You’re not removing me from my position, are you?”

“No. I’m just telling you to ease up. And get Leyel out of the apartment. Do you understand me? Demand it! Reengage him with you, or we’ve all lost him.”

“Take him where?”

“I don’t know. Theater. Athletic events. Dancing.”

“We don’t do those things.”

“Well, what do you do?”

“Research. And then talk about it.”

“Fine. Bring him here to the library. Do research with him. Talk about it.”

“But he’ll meet people here. He’d certainly meet you.”

“Good. Good. I like that. Yes, let him come here.”

“But I thought we had to keep the Second Foundation a secret from him until he’s ready to take part.”

“I didn’t say you should introduce me as First Speaker.”

“No, no, of course you didn’t. What am I thinking off Of course he can meet you, he can meet everybody.”

“Deet, listen to me.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“It’s all right to love him, Deet.”

“I know that.”

“I mean, it’s all right to love him more than you love us. More than you love any of us. More than you love all of us. There you are, crying again.”

“I’m so —”

“Relieved.”

“How do you understand me so well?”

“I only know what you show me and what you tell me. It’s all we ever know about each other. The only thing that helps is that nobody can ever lie for long about who they really are. Not even to themselves.”

For two months Leyel followed up on Magolissian’s paper by trying to find some connection between language studies and human origins. Of course this meant weeks of wading through old, useless point-of-origin studies, which kept indicating that Trantor was the focal point of language throughout the history of the Empire, even though nobody seriously put forth Trantor as the planet of origin. Once again, though, Leyel rejected the search for a particular planet; he wanted to find out regularities, not unique events.

Leyel hoped for a clue in the fairly recent work — only two thousand years old — of Dagawell Kispitorian. Kispitorian came from the most isolated area of a planet called Artashat, where there were traditions that the original settlers came from an earlier world named Armenia, now uncharted. Kispitorian grew up among mountain people who claimed that long ago, they spoke a completely different language. In fact, the title of Kispitorian’s most interesting book was No Man Understood Us; many of the folk tales of these people began with the formula “Back in the days when no man understood us …”

Kispitorian had never been able to shake off this tradition of his upbringing, and as he pursued the field of dialect formation and evolution, he kept coming across evidence that at one time the human species spoke not one but many languages. It had always been taken for granted that Galactic Standard was the up-to-date version of the language of the planet of origin — that while a few human groups might have developed dialects, civilization was impossible without mutually intelligible speech. But Kispitorian had begun to suspect that Galactic Standard did not become the universal human language until after the formation of the Empire — that, in fact, one of the first labors of the Imperium was to stamp out all other competing languages. The mountain people of Artashat believed that their language had been stolen from them. Kispitorian eventually devoted his life to proving they were right.

He worked first with names, long recognized as the most conservative aspect of language. He found that there were many separate naming traditions, and it was not until about the year 6000 G. E. that all were finally amalgamated into one Empire-wide stream. What was interesting was that the farther back he went, the more complexity he found.

Because certain worlds tended to have unified traditions, and so the simplest explanation of this was the one he first put forth — that humans left their home world with a unified language, but the normal forces of language separation caused each new planet to develop its own offshoot, until many dialects became mutually unintelligible. Thus, different languages would not have developed until humanity moved out into space; this was one of the reasons why the Galactic Empire was necessary to restore the primeval unity of the species.

Kispitorian called his first and most influential book Tower of Confusion, using the widespread legend of the Tower of Babble as an illustration. He supposed that this story might have originated in that pre-Empire period, probably among the rootless traders roaming from planet to planet, who had to deal on a practical level with the fact that no two worlds spoke the same language. These traders had preserved a tradition that when humanity lived on one planet, they all spoke the same language. They explained the linguistic confusion of their own time by recounting the tale of a great leader who built the first “tower,” or starship, to raise mankind up into heaven. According to the story, “God” punished these upstart people by confusing their tongues, which forced them to disperse among the different worlds. The story presented the confusion of tongues as the cause of the dispersal instead of its result, but cause-reversal was a commonly recognized feature of myth. Clearly this legend preserved a historical fact.

So far, Kispitorian’s work was perfectly acceptable to most scientists. But in his forties he began to go off on wild tangents. Using controversial algorithms — on calculators with a suspiciously high level of processing power — he began to tear apart Galactic Standard itself, showing that many words revealed completely separate phonetic traditions, incompatible with the mainstream of the language. They could not comfortably have evolved within a population that regularly spoke either Standard or its primary ancestor language. Furthermore, there were many words with clearly related meanings that showed they had once diverged according to standard linguistic patterns and then were brought together later, with different meanings or implications. But the time scale implied by the degree of change was far too great to be accounted for in the period between humanity’s first settlement of space and the formation of the Empire. Obviously, claimed Kispitorian, there had been many different languages on the planet of origin; Galactic Standard was the first universal human language. Throughout all human history, separation of language had been a fact of life; only the Empire had had the pervasive power to unify speech.

After that, Kispitorian was written off as a fool, of course — his own Tower of Babble interpretation was now used against him as if an interesting illustration had now become a central argument. He very narrowly escaped execution as a separatist, in fact, since there was an unmistakable tone of regret in his writing about the loss of linguistic diversity. The Imperium did succeed in cutting off all his funding and jailing him for a while because he had been using a calculator with an illegal level of memory and processing power. Leyel suspected that Kispitorian got off easy at that — working with language as he did, getting the results he got, he might well have developed a calculator so intelligent that it could understand and produce human speech, which, if discovered, would have meant either the death penalty or a lynching.

No matter now. Kispitorian insisted to the end that his work was pure science, making no value judgments on whether the Empire’s linguistic unity was a Good Thing or not. He was merely reporting that the natural condition of humanity was to speak many different languages. And Leyel believed that he was right.

Leyel could not help but feel that by combining Kispitorian’s language studies with Magolissian’s work with language-using primates he could come up with something important. But what was the connection? The primates had never developed their own languages — they only learned nouns and verbs presented to them by humans. So they could hardly have developed diversity of language. What connection could there be? Why would diversity ever have developed? Could it have something to do with why humans became human?

The primates used only a tiny subset of Standard. For that matter, so did most people — most of the two million words in Standard were used only by a few professionals who actually needed them, while the common vocabulary of humans throughout the Galaxy consisted of a few thousand words.

Oddly, though, it was that small subset of Standard that was the most susceptible to change. Highly esoteric scientific or technical papers written in 2000 G. E. were still easily readable. Slangy, colloquial passages in fiction, especially in dialogue, became almost unintelligible within five hundred years. The language shared by the most different communities was the language that changed the most. But over time, that mainstream language always changed together. It made no sense, then, for there ever to be linguistic diversity. Language changed most when it was most unified. Therefore when people were most divided, their language should remain most similar.

Never mind, Leyel. You’re out of your discipline. Any competent linguist would know the answer to that.

But Leyel knew that wasn’t likely to be true. People immersed in one discipline rarely questioned the axioms of their profession. Linguists all took for granted the fact that the language of an isolated population is invariably more archaic, less susceptible to change. Did they understand why?

Leyel got up from his chair. His eyes were tired from staring into the lector. His knees and back ached from staying so long in the same position. He wanted to lie down, but knew that if he did, he’d fall asleep. The curse of getting old — he could fall asleep so easily, yet could never stay asleep long enough to feel well rested. He didn’t want to sleep now, though. He wanted to think.

No, that wasn’t it. He wanted to talk. That’s how his best and clearest ideas always came, under the pressure of conversation, when someone else’s questions and arguments forced him to think sharply. To make connections, invent explanations. In a contest with another person, his adrenaline flowed, his brain made connections that would never otherwise be made.

Where was Deet? In years past, he would have been talking this through with Deet all day. All week. She would know as much about his research as he did, and would constantly say “Have you thought of this?” or “How can you possibly think that!” And he would have been making the same challenges to her work. In the old days.

But these weren’t the old days. She didn’t need him any more — she had her friends on the library staff. Nothing wrong with that, probably. After all, she wasn’t thinking now, she was putting old thoughts into practice. She needed them, not him. But he still needed her. Did she ever think of that? I might as well have gone to Terminus — damn Hari for refusing to let me go. I stayed for Deet’s sake, and yet I don’t have her after all, not when I need her. How dare Hari decide what was right for Leyel Forska!

Only Hari hadn’t decided, had he? He would have let Leyel go — without Deet. And Leyel hadn’t stayed with Deet so she could help him with his research. He had stayed with her because … because …

He couldn’t remember why. Love, of course. But he couldn’t think why that had been so important to him. It wasn’t important to her. Her idea of love these days was to urge him to come to the library. “You can do your research there. We could be together more during the days.”

The message was clear. The only way Leyel could remain part of Deet’s life was if he became part of her new “family” at the library. Well, she could forget that idea. If she chose to get swallowed up in that place, fine. If she chose to leave him for a bunch of — indexers and cataloguers — fine. Fine.

No. It wasn’t fine. He wanted to talk to her. Right now, at this moment, he wanted to tell her what he was thinking, wanted her to question him and argue with him until she made him come up with an answer, or lots of answers. He needed her to see what he wasn’t seeing. He needed her a lot more than they needed her.

He was out amid the thick pedestrian traffic of Maslo Boulevard before he realized that this was the first time since Hari’s funeral that he’d ventured beyond the immediate neighborhood of his apartment. It was the first time in months that he’d had anyplace to go. That’s what I’m doing here, he thought. I just need a change of scenery, a sense of destination. That’s the only reason I’m heading to the library. All that emotional nonsense back in the apartment, that was just my unconscious strategy for making myself get out among people again.

Leyel was almost cheerful when he got to the Imperial Library. He had been there many times over the years, but always for receptions or other public events — having his own high-capacity lector meant that he could get access to all the library’s records by cable. Other people — students, professors from poorer schools, lay readers — they actually had to come here to read. But that meant that they knew their way around the building. Except for finding the major lecture halls and reception rooms, Leyel hadn’t the faintest idea where anything was.

For the first time it dawned on him how very large the Imperial Library was. Deet had mentioned the numbers many times — a staff of more than five thousand, including machinists, carpenters, cooks, security, a virtual city in itself — but only now did Leyel realize that this meant that many people here had never met each other. Who could possibly know five thousand people by name? He couldn’t just walk up and ask for Deet by name. What was the department Deet worked in? She had changed so often, moving through the bureaucracy.

Everyone he saw was a patron — people at lectors, people at catalogues, even people reading books and magazines printed on paper. Where were the librarians? The few staff members moving through the aisles turned out not to be librarians at all — they were volunteer docents, helping newcomers learn how to use the lectors and catalogues. They knew as little about library staff as he did.

He finally found a room full of real librarians, sitting at calculators preparing the daily access and circulation reports. When he tried to speak to one, she merely waved a hand at him. He thought she was telling him to go away until he realized that her hand remained in the air, a finger pointing to the front of the room. Leyel moved toward the elevated desk where a fat, sleepy-looking middle-aged woman was lazily paging through long columns of figures, which stood in the air before her in military formation.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” he said softly.

She was resting her cheek on her hand. She didn’t even look at him when he spoke. But she answered. “I pray for interruptions.”

Only then did he notice that her eyes were framed with laugh lines, that her mouth even in repose turned upward into a faint smile.

“I’m looking for someone. My wife, in fact. Deet Forska.”

Her smile widened. She sat up. “You’re the beloved Leyel.”

It was an absurd thing for a stranger to say, but it pleased him nonetheless to realize that Deet must have spoken of him. Of course everyone would have known that Deet’s husband was the Leyel Forska. But this woman hadn’t said it that way, had she? Not as the Leyel Forska, the celebrity. No, here he was known as “the beloved Leyel.” Even if this woman meant to tease him, Deet must have let it be known that she had some affection for him. He couldn’t help but smile. With relief. He hadn’t known that he feared the loss of her love so much, but now he wanted to laugh aloud, to move, to dance with pleasure.

“I imagine I am,” said Leyel.

“I’m Zay Wax. Deet must have mentioned me, we have lunch every day.”

No, she hadn’t. She hardly mentioned anybody at the library, come to think of it. These two had lunch every day, and Leyel had never heard of her. “Yes, of course, “said Leyel. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“And I’m relieved to see that your feet actually touch the ground.”

“Now and then.”

“She works up in Indexing these days.” Zay cleared her display.

“Is that on Trantor?”

Zay laughed. She typed in a few instructions and her display now filled with a map of the library complex. It was a complex pile of rooms and corridors, almost impossible to grasp. “This shows only this wing of the main building. Indexing is these four floors.”

Four layers near the middle of the display turned to a brighter color.

“And here’s where you are right now.”

A small room on the first floor turned white. Looking at the labyrinth between the two lighted sections, Leyel had to laugh aloud. “Can’t you just give me a ticket to guide me?”

“Our tickets only lead you to places where patrons are allowed. But this isn’t really hard, Lord Forska. After all, you’re a genius, aren’t you?”

“Not at the interior geography of buildings, whatever lies Deet might have told you.”

“You just go out this door and straight down the corridor to the elevators — can’t miss them. Go up to fifteen. When you get out, turn as if you were continuing down the same corridor, and after a while you go through an archway that says ‘Indexing.’ Then you lean back your head and bellow ‘Deet’ as loud as you can. Do that a few times and either she’ll come or security will arrest you.”

“That’s what I was going to do if I didn’t find somebody to guide me.”

“I was hoping you’d ask me.” Zay stood up and spoke loudly to the busy librarians. “The cat’s going away. The mice can play.”

“About time,” one of them said. They all laughed. But they kept working.

“Follow me, Lord Forska.”

“Leyel, please.”

“Oh, you’re such a flirt.” When she stood, she was even shorter and fatter than she had looked sitting down. “Follow me.”

They conversed cheerfully about nothing much on the way down the corridor. Inside the elevator, they hooked their feet under the rail as the gravitic repulsion kicked in. Leyel was so used to weightlessness after all these years of using elevators on Trantor that he never noticed. But Zay let her arms float in the air and sighed noisily. “I love riding the elevator, “she said. For the first time Leyel realized that weightlessness must be a great relief to someone carrying as many extra kilograms as Zay Wax. When the elevator stopped, Zay made a great show of staggering out as if under a great burden. “My idea of heaven is to live forever in gravitic repulsion.”

“You can get gravitic repulsion for your apartment, if you live on the top floor.”

“Maybe you can,” said Zay. “But I have to live on a librarian’s salary.”

Leyel was mortified. He had always been careful not to flaunt his wealth, but then, he had rarely talked at any length with people who couldn’t afford gravitic repulsion. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I could either, these days.”

“Yes, I heard you squandered your fortune on a real bang-up funeral.”

Startled that she would speak so openly of it, he tried to answer in the same joking tone. “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

“I say it was worth it,” she said. She looked slyly up at him. “I knew Hari, you know. Losing him cost humanity more than if Trantor’s sun went nova.”

“Maybe,” said Leyel. The conversation was getting out of hand. Time to be cautious.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a snitch for the Pubs. Here’s the Golden Archway into Indexing. The Land of Subtle Conceptual Connections.”

Through the arch, it was as though they had passed into a completely different building. The style and trim were the same as before, with deeply lustrous fabrics on the walls and ceiling and floor made of the same smooth sound-absorbing plastic, glowing faintly with white light. But now all pretense at symmetry was gone. The ceiling was at different heights, almost at random; on the left and right there might be doors or archways, stairs or ramps, an alcove or a huge hall filled with columns, shelves of books and works of art surrounding tables where indexers worked with a half-dozen scriptors and lectors at once.

“The form fits the function,” said Zay.

“I’m afraid I’m rubbernecking like a first-time visitor to Trantor.”

“It’s a strange place. But the architect was the daughter of an indexer, so she knew that standard, orderly, symmetrical interior maps are the enemy of freely connective thought. The finest touch — and the most expensive too, I’m afraid — is the fact that from day to day the layout is rearranged.”

“Rearranged! The rooms move?”

“A series of random routines in the master calculator. There are rules, but the program isn’t afraid to waste space, either. Some days only’ one room is changed, moved off to some completely different place in the Indexing area. Other days, everything is changed. The only constant is the archway leading in. I really wasn’t joking when I said you should come here and bellow.”

“But — the indexers must spend the whole morning just finding their stations.”

“Not at all. Any indexer can work from any station.”

“Ah. So they just call up the job they were working on the day before.”

“No. They merely pick up on the job that is already in progress on the station they happen to choose that day.”

“Chaos!” said Leyel.

“Exactly. How do you think a good hyperindex is made? If one person alone indexes a book, then the only connections that book will make are the ones that person knows about. Instead, each indexer is forced to skim through what his predecessor did the day before. Inevitably he’ll add some new connections that the other indexer didn’t think of. The environment, the work pattern, everything is designed to break down habits of thought, to make everything surprising, everything new.”

“To keep everybody off balance.”

“Exactly. Your mind works quickly when you’re running along the edge of the precipice.”

“By that reckoning, acrobats should all be geniuses.”

“Nonsense. The whole labor of acrobats is to learn their routines so perfectly they never lose balance. An acrobat who improvises is soon dead. But indexers, when they lose their balance, they fall into wonderful discoveries. That’s why the indexes of the Imperial Library are the only ones worth having. They startle and challenge as you read. All the others are just — clerical lists.”

“Deet never mentioned this.”

“Indexers rarely discuss what they’re doing. You can’t really explain it anyway.”

“How long has Deet been an indexer?”

“Not long, really. She’s still a novice. But I hear she’s very, very good.”

“Where is she?”

Zay grinned. Then she tipped her head back and bellowed. “Deet!”

The sound seemed to be swallowed up at once in the labyrinth. There was no answer.

“Not nearby, I guess,” said Zay. “We’ll have to probe a little deeper.”

“Couldn’t we just ask somebody where she is?”

“Who would know?”

It took two more floors and three more shouts before they heard a faint answering cry. “Over here!”

They followed the sound. Deet kept calling out, so they could find her.

“I got the flower room today, Zay! Violets!”

The indexers they passed along the way all looked up — some smiled, some frowned.

“Doesn’t it interfere with things?” asked Leyel. “All this shouting?”

“Indexers need interruption. It breaks up the chain of thought. When. they look back down, they have to rethink what they were doing.”

Deet, not so far away now, called again. “The smell is so intoxicating. Imagine — the same room twice in a month!”

“Are indexers often hospitalized?” Leyel asked quietly.

“For what?”

“Stress.”

“There’s no stress on this job,” said Zay. “Just play. We come up here as a reward for working in other parts of the library.”

“I see. This is the time when librarians actually get to read the books in the library.”

“We all chose this career because we love books for their own sake. Even the old inefficient corruptible paper ones. Indexing is like — writing in the margins.”

The notion was startling. “Writing in someone else’s book?”

“It used to be done all the time, Leyel. How can you possibly engage in dialogue with the author without writing your answers and arguments in the margins? Here she is.” Zay preceded him under a low arch and down a few steps.

“I heard a man’s voice with you, Zay,” said Deet.

“Mine,” said Leyel. He turned a corner and saw her there. After such a long journey to reach her, he thought for a dizzying moment that he didn’t recognize her. That the library had randomized the librarians as well as the rooms, and he had happened upon a woman who merely resembled his long-familiar wife; he would have to reacquaint himself with her from the beginning.

“I thought so,” said Deet. She got up from her station and embraced him. Even this startled him, though she usually embraced him upon meeting. It’s only the setting that’s different, he told himself. I’m only surprised because usually she greets me like this at home, in familiar surroundings. And usually it’s Deet arriving, not me.

Or was there, after all, a greater warmth in her greeting here? As if she loved him more in this place than at home? Or, perhaps, as if the new Deet were simply a warmer, more comfortable person?

I thought that she was comfortable with me.

Leyel felt uneasy, shy with her. “If I’d known my coming would cause so much trouble,” he began. Why did he need so badly to apologize?

“What trouble?” asked Zay.

“Shouting. Interrupting.”

“Listen to him, Deet. He thinks the world has stopped because of a couple of shouts.”

In the distance they could hear a man bellowing someone’s name.

“Happens all the time,” said Zay.” I’d better get back. Some lordling from Mahagonny is probably fuming because I haven’t granted his request for access to the Imperial account books.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Leyel.

“Good luck finding your way back, “said Deet.

“Easy this time,” said Zay. She paused only once on her way through the door, not to speak, but to slide a metallic wafer along an almost unnoticeable slot in the doorframe, above eye level. She turned back and winked at Deet. Then she was gone.

Leyel didn’t ask what she had done — if it were his business, something would have been said. But he suspected that Zay had either turned on or turned off a recording system. Unsure of whether they had privacy here from the library staff, Leyel merely stood for a moment, looking around. Deet’s room really was filled with violets, real ones, growing out of cracks and apertures in the floor and walls. The smell was clear but not overpowering.” What is this room for?”

“For me. Today, anyway. I’m so glad you came.”

“You never told me about this place.”

“I didn’t know about it until I was assigned to this section. Nobody talks about Indexing. We never tell outsiders. The architect died three thousand years ago. Only our own machinists understand how it works. It’s like”

“Fairyland.”

“Exactly.”

“A place where all the rules of the universe are suspended.”

“Not all. We still stick with good old gravity. Inertia. That sort of thing.”

“This place is right for you, Deet. This room.”

“Most people go years without getting the flower room. It isn’t always violets, you know. Sometimes climbing roses. Sometimes periwinkle. They say there’s really a dozen flower rooms, but never more than one at a time is accessible. It’s been violets for me both times, though.”

Leyel couldn’t help himself. He laughed. It was funny. It was delightful. What did this have to do with a library? And. yet what a marvelous thing to have hidden away in the heart of this somber place. He sat down on a chair. Violets grew out of the top of the chairback, so that flowers brushed his shoulders.

“You finally got tired of staying in the apartment all day?” asked Deet.

Of course she would wonder why he finally came out, after all her invitations had been so long ignored. Yet he wasn’t sure if he could speak frankly. “I needed to talk with you.” He glanced back at the slot Zay had used in the doorframe. “Alone,” he said.

Was that a look of dread that crossed her face?

“We’re alone,” Deet said quietly. “Zay saw to that. Truly alone, as we can’t be even in the apartment.”

It took Leyel a moment to realize what she was asserting. He dared not even speak the word. So he mouthed his question: Pubs?

“They never bother with the library in their normal spying. Even if they set up something special for you, there’s now an interference field blocking out our conversation. Chances are, though, that they won’t bother to monitor you again until you leave here.”

She seemed edgy. Impatient. As if she didn’t like having this conversation. As if she wanted him to get on with it, or maybe just get it over with.

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “I haven’t interrupted you here before, I thought that just this once —”

“Of course, “she said. But she was still tense. As if she feared what he might say.

So he explained to her all his thoughts about language. All that he had gleaned from Kispitorian’s and Magolissian’s work. She seemed to relax almost as soon as it became clear he was talking about his research. What did she dread, he wondered. Was she afraid I came to talk about our relationship? She hardly needed to fear that. He had no intention of making things more difficult by whining about things that could riot be helped.

When he was through explaining the ideas that had come to him, she nodded carefully — as she had done a thousand times before, after he explained an idea or argument. “I don’t know,” she finally said. As so many times before, she was reluctant to commit herself to an immediate response.

And, as he had often done, he insisted. “But what do you think?”

She pursed her lips. “Just offhand — I’ve never tried a serious linguistic application of community theory, beyond jargon formation, so this is just my first thought — but try this. Maybe small isolated populations guard their language — jealously, because it’s part of who they are. Maybe language is the most powerful ritual of all, so that people who have the same language are one in a way that people who can’t understand each other’s speech never are. We’d never know, would we, since everybody for ten thousand years has spoken Standard.”

“So it isn’t the size of the population, then, so much as —’’

“How much they care about their language. How much it defines them as a community. A large population starts to think that everybody talks like them. They want to distinguish themselves, form a separate identity. Then they start developing jargons and slangs to separate themselves from others. Isn’t that what happens to common speech? Children try to find ways of talking that their parents don’t use. Professionals talk in private vocabularies so laymen won’t know the passwords. All rituals for community definition.”

Leyel nodded gravely, but he had one obvious doubt.

Obvious enough that Deet knew it, too. “Yes, yes, I know, Leyel. I immediately interpreted your question in terms of my own discipline. Like physicists who think that everything can be explained by physics.”

Leyel laughed. “I thought of that, but what you said makes sense. And it would explain why the natural tendency of communities is to diversify language. We want a common tongue, a language of open discourse. But we also want private languages. Except a completely private language would be useless — whom would we talk to? So wherever a community forms, it creates at least a few linguistic barriers to outsiders, a few shibboleths that only insiders will know.”

“And the more allegiance a person has to a community, the more fluent he’ll become in that language, and the more he’ll speak it.”

“Yes, it makes sense,” said Leyel. “So easy. You see how much I need you?”

He knew that his words were a mild rebuke — why weren’t you home when I needed you — but he couldn’t resist saying it. Sitting here with Deet, even in this strange and redolent place, felt right and comfortable. How could she have withdrawn from him? To him, her presence was what made a place home. To her, this place was home whether he was there or not.

He tried to put it in words — in abstract words, so it wouldn’t sting. “I think the greatest tragedy is when one person has more allegiance to his community than any of the other members.”

Deet only half smiled and raised her eyebrows. She didn’t know what he was getting at.

“He speaks the community language all the time,” said Leyel. “Only nobody else ever speaks it to him, or not enough anyway. And the more he speaks it, the more he alienates the others and drives them away, until he’s alone. Can you imagine anything more sad? Somebody who’s filled up with a language, hungry to speak, to hear it spoken, and yet there’s no one left who understands a word of it.”

She nodded, her eyes searching him. Does she understand what I’m saying? He waited for her to speak. He had said all he dared to say.

“But imagine this,” she finally said. “What if he left that little place where no one understood him, and went over a hill to a new place, and all of a sudden he heard a hundred voices, a thousand, speaking the words he had treasured all those lonely years. And then he realized that he had never really known the language at all. The words had hundreds of meanings and nuances he had never guessed. Because each speaker changed the language a little just by speaking it. And when he spoke at last, his own voice sounded like music in his ears, and the others listened with delight, with rapture, his music was like the water of life pouring from a fountain, and he knew that he had never been home before.”

Leyel couldn’t remember hearing Deet sound so — rhapsodic, that was it, she herself was singing. She is the person she was talking about. In this place, her voice is different, that’s what she meant. At home with me, she’s been alone. Here in the library she’s found others who speak her secret language. It isn’t that she didn’t want our marriage to succeed. She hoped for it, but I never understood her. These people did. Do. She’s home here, that’s what she’s telling me.

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you?” She looked searchingly into his face.

“I think so. It’s all right.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“I mean, it’s fine. It’s good. This place. It’s fine.”

She looked relieved, but not completely. “You shouldn’t be so sad about it, Leyel. This is a happy place. And you could do everything here that you ever did at home.”

Except love you as the other part of me, and have you love me as the other part of you. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“No, I mean it. What you’re working on — I can see that you’re getting close to something. Why not work on it here, where we can talk about it?”

Leyel shrugged.

“You are getting close, aren’t you?”

“How do I know? I’m thrashing around like a drowning man in the ocean at night. Maybe I’m close to shore, and maybe I’m just swimming farther out to sea.”

“Well, what do you have? Didn’t we get closer just now?”

“No. This language thing — if it’s just an aspect of community theory, it can’t be the answer to human origin.”

“Why not?”

“Because many primates have communities. A lot of other animals. Herding animals, for instance. Even schools of fish. Bees. Ants. Every multicelled organism is a community, for that matter. So if linguistic diversion grows out of community, then it’s inherent in prehuman animals and therefore isn’t part of the definition of humanity.”

“Oh. I guess not.”

“Right.”

She looked disappointed. As if she had really hoped they would find the answer to the origin question right there, that very day.

Leyel stood up. “Oh well. Thanks for your help.”

“I don’t think I helped.”

“Oh, you did. You showed me I was going up a dead-end road. You saved me a lot of wasted — thought. That’s progress, in science, to know which answers aren’t true.”

His words had a double meaning, of course. She had also shown him that their marriage was a dead-end road. Maybe she understood him. Maybe not. It didn’t matter — he had understood her. That little story about a lonely person finally discovering a place where she could be at home — how could he miss the point of that?

“Leyel,” she said. “Why not put your question to the indexers?”

“Do you think the library researchers could find answers where I haven’t?”

“Not the research department. Indexing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Write down your questions. All the avenues you’ve pursued. Linguistic diversity. Primate language. And the other questions, the old ones. Archaeological, historical approaches. Biological. Kinship patterns. Customs. Everything you can think of. Just put it together as questions. And then we’ll have them index it.”

“Index my questions?”

“It’s what we do — we read things and think of other things that might be related somehow, and we connect them. We don’t say what the connection means, but we know that it means something, that the connection is real. We won’t give you answers, Leyel, but if you follow the index, it might help you to think of connections. Do you see what I mean?”

“I never thought of that. Do you think a couple of indexers might have the time to work on it?”

“Not a couple of us. All of us.”

“Oh, that’s absurd, Deet. I wouldn’t even ask it.”

“I would. We aren’t supervised up here, Leyel. We don’t meet quotas. Our job is to read and think. Usually we have a few hundred projects going, but for a day we could easily work on the same document.”

“It would be a waste. I can’t publish anything, Deet.”

“It doesn’t have to be published. Don’t you understand? Nobody but us knows what we do here. We can take it as an unpublished document and work on it just the same. It won’t ever have to go online for the library as a whole.”

Leyel shook his head. “And then if they lead me to the answer — what, will we publish it with two hundred bylines?”

“It’ll be your paper, Leyel. We’re just indexers, not authors. You’ll still have to make the connections. Let us try. Let us be part of this.”

Suddenly Leyel understood why she was so insistent on this. Getting him involved with the library was her way of pretending she was still part of his life. She could believe she hadn’t left him, if he became part of her new community.

Didn’t she know how unbearable that would be? To see her here, so happy without him? To come here as just one friend among many, when once they had been — or he had thought they were — one indivisible soul? How could he possibly do such a thing?

And yet she wanted it, he could see it in the way she was looking at him, so girlish, so pleading that it made him think of when they were first in love, on another world — she would look at him like that whenever he insisted that he had to leave. Whenever she thought she might be losing him.

Doesn’t she know who has lost whom?

Never mind. What did it matter if she didn’t understand? If it would make her happy to have him pretend to be part of her new home, part of these librarians — if she wanted him to submit his life’s work to the ministrations of these absurd indexers, then why not? What would it cost him? Maybe the process of writing down all his questions in some coherent order would help him. And maybe she was right — maybe a Trantorian index would help him solve the origin question.

Maybe if he came here, he could still be a small part of her life. It wouldn’t be like marriage. But since that was impossible, then at least he could have enough of her here that he could remain himself, remain the person that he had become because of loving her for all these years.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll write it up and bring it in.”

“I really think we can help.”

“Yes,” he said, pretending to more certainty than he felt. “Maybe.” He started for the door.

“Do you have to leave already?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure you can find your way out?”

“Unless the rooms have moved.”

“No, only at night.”

“Then I’ll find my way out just fine.” He took a few steps toward her, then stopped.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I thought you were going to kiss me goodbye.” Then she puckered up like a three-year-old child.

He laughed. He kissed her — like a three-year-old — and then he left.

For two days he brooded. Saw her off in the morning, then tried to read, to watch the vids, anything. Nothing held his attention. He took walks. He even went topside once, to see the sky overhead — it was night, thick with stars. None of it engaged him. Nothing held. One of the vid programs had a moment, just briefly, a scene on a semiarid world, where a strange plant grew that dried out at maturity, broke off at the root, and then let the wind blow it around, scattering seeds. For a moment he felt a dizzying empathy with the plant as it tumbled by — am I as dry as that, hurtling through dead land? But no, he knew even that wasn’t true, because the tumbleweed had life enough left in it to scatter seeds. Leyel had no seed left. That was scattered years ago.

On the third morning he looked at himself in the mirror and laughed grimly. “Is this how people feel before they kill themselves?” he asked. Of course not — he knew that he was being melodramatic. He felt no desire to die.

But then it occurred to him that if this feeling of uselessness kept on, if he never found anything to engage himself, then he might as well be dead, mightn’t he, because his being alive wouldn’t accomplish much more than keeping his clothes warm.

He sat down at the scriptor and began writing down questions. Then, under each question, he would explain how he had already pursued that particular avenue and why it didn’t yield the answer to the origin question. More questions would come up then — and he was right, the mere process of summarizing his own fruitless research made answers seem tantalizingly close. It was a good exercise. And even if he never found an answer, this list of questions might be of help to someone with a clearer intellect — or better information — decades or centuries or millennia from now.

Deet came home and went to bed with Leyel still typing away. She knew the look he had when he was fully engaged in writing — she did nothing to disturb him. He noticed her enough to realize that she was carefully leaving him alone. Then he settled back into writing.

The next morning she awoke to find him lying in bed beside her, still dressed. A personal message capsule lay on the floor in the doorway from the bedroom. He had finished his questions. She bent over, picked it up, took it with her to the library.

“His questions aren’t academic after all, Deet.”

“I told you they weren’t.”

“Hari was right. For all that he seemed to be a dilettante, with his money and his rejection of the universities, he’s a man of substance.”

“Will the Second Foundation benefit, then, if he comes up with an answer to his question?”

“I don’t know, Deet. Hari was the fortune-teller. Presumably mankind is already human, so it isn’t as if we have to start the process over.”

“Do you think not?”

“What, should we find some uninhabited planet and put some newborns on it and let them grow up feral, and then come back in a thousand years and try to turn them human?”

“I have a better idea. Let’s take ten thousand worlds filled with people who live their lives like animals, always hungry, always quick with their teeth and their claws, and let’s strip away the veneer of civilization to expose to them what they really are. And then, when they see themselves clearly, let’s come back and teach them how to be really human this time, instead of only having bits and flashes of humanity.”

“All right. Let’s do that.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.”

“Just make sure your husband finds out how the trick is done. Then we have all the time in the world to set it up and pull it off.”

When the index was done, Deet brought Leyel with her to the library when she went to work in the morning. She did not take him to Indexing, but rather installed him in a private research room lined with vids — only instead of giving the illusion of windows looking out onto an outside scene, the screens filled all the walls from floor to ceiling, so it seemed that he was on a pinnacle high above the scene, without walls or even a railing to keep him from falling off. It gave him flashes of vertigo when he looked around — only the door broke the illusion. For a moment he thought of asking for a different room. But then he remembered Indexing, and realized that maybe he’d do better work if he too felt a bit off balance all the time.

At first the indexing seemed obvious. He brought the first page of his questions to the lector display and began to read. The lector would track his pupils, so that whenever he paused to gaze at a word, other references would begin to pop up in the space beside the page he was reading. Then he’d glance at one of the references. When it was uninteresting or obvious, he’d skip to the next reference, and the first one would slide back on the display, out of the way, but still there if he changed his mind and wanted it.

If a reference engaged him, then when he reached the last line of the part of it on display, it would expand to full-page size and slide over to stand in front of the main text. Then, if this new material had been indexed, it would trigger new references — and so on, leading him farther and farther away from the original document until he finally decided to go back and pick up where he left off.

So far, this was what any index could be expected to do. It was only as he moved farther into reading his own questions that he began to realize the quirkiness of this index. Usually, index references were tied to important words, so that if you just wanted to stop and think without bringing up a bunch of references you didn’t want, all you had to do was keep your gaze focused in an area of placeholder words, empty phrases like “If this were all that could be …” Anyone who made it a habit to read indexed works soon learned this trick and used it till it became reflex.

But when Leyel stopped on such empty phrases, references came up anyway. And instead of having a clear relationship to the text, sometimes the references were perverse or comic or argumentative. For instance, he paused in the middle of reading his argument that archaeological searches for “primitiveness” were useless in the search for origins because all “primitive” cultures represented a decline from a star-going culture. He had written the phrase “All this primitivism is useful only because it predicts what we might become if we’re careless and don’t preserve our fragile links with civilization. “By habit his eyes focused on the empty words “what we might become if.” Nobody could index a phrase like that.

Yet they had. Several references appeared. And so instead of staying within his reverie, he was distracted, drawn to what the indexers had tied to such an absurd phrase.

One of the references was a nursery rhyme that he had forgotten he knew:

Wrinkly Grandma Posey

Rockets all are rosy.

Lift off, drift off,

All fall down.

Why in the world had the indexer put that in? The first thought that came to Leyel’s mind was himself and some of the servants’ children, holding hands and walking in a circle, round and round till they came to the last words, whereupon they threw themselves to the ground and laughed insanely. The sort of game that only little children could possibly think was fun.

Since his eyes lingered on the poem, it moved to the main document display and new references appeared. One was a scholarly article on the evolution of the poem, speculating that it might have arisen during the early days of starflight on the planet of origin, when rockets may have been used to escape from a planet’s gravity well. Was that why this poem had been indexed to his article? Because it was tied to the planet of origin?

No, that was too obvious. Another article about the poem was more helpful. It rejected the early-days-of-rockets idea, because the earliest versions of the poem never used the word “rocket. “The oldest extant version went like this:

Wrinkle down a rosy,

Pock — a fock — a posy,

Lash us, dash us,

All fall down.

Obviously, said the commentator, these were mostly nonsense words — the later versions had arisen because children had insisted on trying to make sense of them.

And it occurred to Leyel that perhaps this was why the indexer had linked this poem to his phrase — because the poem had once been nonsense, but we insisted on making sense out of it.

Was this a comment on Leyel’s whole search for origins? Did the indexer think it was useless?

No — the poem had been tied to the empty phrase “what we might become if.” Maybe the indexer was saying that human beings are like this poem — our lives make no sense, but we insist on making sense out of them. Didn’t Deet say something like that once, when she was talking about the role of storytelling in community formation? The universe resists causality, she said. But human intelligence demands it. So we tell stories to impose causal relationships among the unconnected events of the world around us.

That includes ourselves, doesn’t it? Our own lives are nonsense, but we impose a story on them, we sort our memories into cause-and-effect chains, forcing them to make sense even though they don’t. Then we take the sum of our stories and call it our “self.” This poem shows us the process — from randomness to meaning — and then we think our meanings are “true.”

But somehow all the children had come to agree on the new version of the poem. By the year 2000 G. E., only the final and current version existed in all the worlds, and it had remained constant ever since. How was it that all the children on every world came to agree on the same version? How did the change spread? Did ten thousand kids on ten thousand worlds happen to make up the same changes?

It had to be word of mouth. Some kid somewhere made a few changes, and his version spread. A few years, and all the children in his neighborhood use the new version, and then all the kids in his city, on his planet. It could happen very quickly, in fact, because each generation of children lasts only a few years — seven-year-olds might take the new version as a joke, but repeat it often enough that five-year-olds think it’s the true version of the poem, and within a few years there’s nobody left among the children who remembers the old way.

A thousand years is long enough for the new version of the poem to spread. Or for five or a dozen new versions to collide and get absorbed into each other and then spread back, changed, to worlds that had revised the poem once or twice already.

And as Leyel sat there, thinking these thoughts, he conjured up an image in his mind of a network of children, bound to each other by the threads of this poem, extending from planet to planet throughout the Empire, and then back through time, from one generation of children to the previous one, a three-dimensional fabric that bound all children together from the beginning.

And yet as each child grew up, he cut himself free from the fabric of that poem. No longer would he hear the words “Wrinkly Grandma Posey” and immediately join hands with the child next to him. He wasn’t part of the song any more.

But his own children were. And then his grandchildren. All joining hands with each other, changing from circle to circle, in a never-ending human chain reaching back to some long-forgotten ritual on one of the worlds of mankind — maybe, maybe on the planet of origin itself.

The vision was so clear, so overpowering, that when he finally noticed the lector display it was as sudden and startling as waking up. He had to sit there, breathing shallowly, until he calmed himself, until his heart stopped beating so fast.

He had found some part of his answer, though he didn’t understand it yet. That fabric connecting all the children, that was part of what made us human, though he didn’t know why. This strange and perverse indexing of a meaningless phrase had brought him a new way of looking at the problem. Not that the universal culture of children was a new idea. Just that he had never thought of it as having anything to do with the origin question.

Was this what the indexer meant by including this poem? Had the indexer also seen this vision?

Maybe, but probably not. It might have been nothing more than the idea of becoming something that made the indexer think of transformation — becoming old, like wrinkly Grandma Posey? Or it might have been a general thought about the spread of humanity through the stars, away from the planet of origin, that made the indexer remember how the poem seemed to tell of rockets that rise up from a planet, drift for a while, then come down to settle on a planet. Who knows what the poem meant to the indexer? Who knows why it occurred to her to link it with his document on that particular phrase?

Then Leyel realized that in his imagination, he was thinking of Deet making that particular connection. There was no reason to think it was her work, except that in his mind she was all the indexers. She had joined them, become one of them, and so when indexing work was being done, she was part of it. That’s what it meant to be part of a community — all its works became, to a degree, your works. All that the indexers did, Deet was a part of it, and therefore Deet had done it.

Again the image of a fabric came to mind, only this time it was a topologically impossible fabric, twisted into itself so that no matter what part of the edge of it you held, you held the entire edge, and the middle, too. It was all one thing, and each part held the whole within it.

But if that was true, then when Deet came to join the library, so did Leyel, because she contained Leyel within her. So in coming here, she had not left him at all. Instead, she had woven him into a new fabric, so that instead of losing something he was gaining. He was part of all this, because she was, and so if he lost her it would only be because he rejected her.

Leyel covered his eyes with his hands. How did his meandering thoughts about the origin question lead him to thinking about his marriage? Here he thought he was on the verge of profound understanding, and then he fell back into self-absorption.

He cleared away all the references to “Wrinkly Grandma Posey” or “Wrinkle Down a Rosy” or whatever it was, then returned to reading his original document, trying to confine his thoughts to the subject at hand.

Yet it was a losing battle. He could not escape from the seductive distraction of the index. He’d be reading about tool use and technology, and how it could not be the dividing line between human and animal because there were animals that made tools and taught their use to others.

Then, suddenly, the index would have him reading an ancient terror tale about a man who wanted to be the greatest genius of all time, and he believed that the only thing preventing him from achieving greatness was the hours he lost in sleep. So he invented a machine to sleep for him, and it worked very well until he realized that the machine was having all his dreams. Then he demanded that his machine tell him what it was dreaming.

The machine poured forth the most astonishing, brilliant thoughts ever imagined by any man — far wiser than anything this man had ever written during his waking hours. The man took a hammer and smashed the machine, so that he could have his dreams back. But even when he started sleeping again, he was never able to come close to the clarity of thought that the machine had had.

Of course he could never publish what the machine had written — it would be unthinkable to put forth the product of a machine as if it were the work of a man. After the man died — in despair — people found the printed text of what the machine had written, and thought the man had written it and hidden it away. They published it, and he was widely acclaimed as the greatest genius who had ever lived.

This was universally regarded as an obscenely horrifying tale because it had a machine stealing part of a man ‘s mind and using it to destroy him, a common theme. But why did the indexer refer to it in the midst of a discussion of tool-making?

Wondering about that led Leyel to think that this story itself was a kind of tool. Just like the machine the man in the story had made. The storyteller gave his dreams to the story, and then when people heard it or read it, his dreams — his nightmares — came out to live in their memories. Clear and sharp and terrible and true, those dreams they received. And yet if he tried to tell them the same truths, directly, not in the form of a story, people would think his ideas were silly and small.

And then Leyel remembered what Deet had said about how people absorb stories from their communities and take them into themselves and use these stories to form their own spiritual autobiography. They remember doing what the heroes of the stories did, and so they continue to act out each hero’s character in their own lives, or, failing that, they measure themselves against the standard the story set for them. Stories become the human conscience, the human mirror.

Again, as so many other times, he ended these ruminations with his hands pressed over his eyes, trying to shut out — or lock in? — images of fabrics and mirrors, worlds and atoms, until finally, finally, he opened his eyes and saw Deet and Zay sitting in front of him.

No, leaning over him. He was on a low bed, and they knelt beside him.

“Am I ill?” he asked. “I hope not,” said Deet. “We found you on the floor. You’re exhausted, Leyel. I’ve been telling you — you have to eat, you have to get a normal amount of sleep. You’re not young enough to keep up this work schedule.”

“I’ve barely started.”

Zay laughed lightly. “Listen to him, Deet. I told you he was so caught up in this that he didn’t even know what day it was.”

“You’ve been doing this for three weeks, Leyel. For the last week you haven’t even come home. I bring you food, and you won’t eat. People talk to you, and you forget that you’re in a conversation, you just drift off into some sort of trance. Leyel, I wish I’d never brought you here, I wish I’d never suggested indexing —”

“No!” Leyel cried. He struggled to sit up.

At first Deet tried to push him back down, insisting he should rest. It was Zay who helped him sit. “Let the man talk,” she said. “Just because you’re his wife doesn’t mean you can stop him from talking.”

“The index is wonderful,” said Leyel. “Like a tunnel opened up into my own mind. I keep seeing light just that far out of reach, and then I wake up and it’s just me alone on a pinnacle except for the pages up on the lector. I keep losing it —”

“No, Leyel, we keep losing you. The index is poisoning you, it’s taking over your mind —”

“Don’t be absurd, Deet. You’re the one who suggested this, and you’re right. The index keeps surprising me, making me think in new ways. There are some answers already.”

“Answers?” asked Zay.

“I don’t know how well I can explain it. What makes us human. It has to do with communities and stories and tools and — it has to do with you and me, Deet.”

“I should hope we’re human,” she said. Teasing him, but also urging him on.

“We lived together all those years, and we formed a community — with our children, till they left, and then just us. But we were like animals.”

“Only sometimes,” she said.

“I mean like herding animals, or primate tribes, or any community that’s bound together only by the rituals and patterns of the present moment. We had our customs, our habits. Our private language of words and gestures, our dances, all the things that flocks of geese and hives of bees can do.”

“Very primitive.”

“Yes, that’s right, don’t you see? That’s a community that dies with each generation. When we die, Deet, it will all be gone with us. Other people will marry, but none of them will know our dances and songs and language and —”

“Our children will.”

“No, that’s my point. They knew us, they even think they know us, but they were never part of the community of our marriage. Nobody is. Nobody can be. That’s why, when I thought you were leaving me for this”

“When did you think that I —”

“Hush, Deet,” said Zay. “Let the man babble.”

“When I thought you were leaving me, I felt like I was dead, like I was losing everything, because if you weren’t part of our marriage, then there was nothing left. You see?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with human origins, Leyel. I only know that I would never leave you, and I can’t believe that you could think —”

“Don’t distract him, Deet.”

“It’s the children. All the children. They play Wrinkly Grandma Posey, and then they grow up and don’t play any more, so the actual community of these particular five or six children doesn’t exist any more — but other kids are still doing the dance. Chanting the poem. For ten thousand years!”

“This makes us human? Nursery rhymes?”

“They’re all part of the same community! Across all the empty space between the stars, there are still connections, they’re still somehow the same kids. Ten thousand years, ten thousand worlds, quintillions of children, and they all knew the poem, they all did the dance. Story and ritual — it doesn’t die with the tribe, it doesn’t stop at the border. Children who never met face-to-face, who lived so far apart that the light from one star still hasn’t reached the other, they belonged to the same community. We’re human because we conquered time and space. We conquered the barrier of perpetual ignorance between one person and another. We found a way to slip my memories into your head, and yours into mine.”

“But these are the ideas you already rejected, Leyel. Language and community and —”

“No! No, not just language, not just tribes of chimpanzees chattering at each other. Stories, epic tales that define a community, mythic tales that teach us how the world works, we use them to create each other. We became a different species, we became human, because we found a way to extend gestation beyond the womb, a way to give each child ten thousand parents that he’ll never meet face-to-face.”

Then, at last, Leyel fell silent, trapped by the inadequacy of his words. They couldn’t tell what he had seen in his mind. If they didn’t already understand, they never would.

“Yes,” said Zay. “I think indexing your paper was a very good idea.”

Leyel sighed and lay back down on the bed. “I shouldn’t have tried.”

“On the contrary, you’ve succeeded,” said Zay. Deet shook her head. Leyel knew why — Deet was trying to signal Zay that she shouldn’t attempt to soothe Leyel with false praise.

“Don’t hush me, Deet. I know what I’m saying. I may not know Leyel as well as you do, but I know truth when I hear it. In a way, I think Hari knew it instinctively. That’s why he insisted on all his silly holodisplays, forcing the poor citizens of Terminus to put up with his pontificating every few years. It was his way of continuing to create them, of remaining alive within them. Making them feel like their lives had purpose behind them. Mythic and epic story, both at once. They’ll all carry a bit of Hari Seldon within them just the way that children carry their parents with them to the grave.”

At first Leyel could only hear the idea that Hari would have approved of his ideas of human origin. Then he began to realize that there was much more to what Zay had said than simple affirmation.

“You knew Hari Seldon?”

“A little,” said Zay.

“Either tell him or don’t,” said Deet. “You can’t take him this far in, and not bring him the rest of the way.”

“I knew Hari the way you know Deet,” said Zay.

“No,” said Leyel. “He would have mentioned you.”

“Would he? He never mentioned his students.”

“He had thousands of students.”

“I know, Leyel. I saw them come and fill his lecture halls and listen to the half-baked fragments of psychohistory that he taught them. But then he’d come away, here to the library, into a room where the Pubs never go, where he could speak words that the Pubs would never hear, and there he’d teach his real students. Here is the only place where the science of psychohistory lives on, where Deet’s ideas about the formation of community actually have application, where your own vision of the origin of humanity will shape our calculations for the next thousand years.”

Leyel was dumbfounded. “In the Imperial Library? Hari had his own college here in the library?”

“Where else? He had to leave us at the end, when it was time to go public with his predictions of the Empire’s fall. Then the Pubs started watching him in earnest, and in order to keep them from finding us, he couldn’t ever come back here again. It was the most terrible thing that ever happened to us. As if he died, for us, years before his body died. He was part of us, Leyel, the way that you and Deet are part of each other. She knows. She joined us before he left.”

It stung. To have had such a great secret, and not to have been included. “Why Deet, and not me?”

“Don’t you know, Leyel? Our little community’s survival was the most important thing. As long as you were Leyel Forska, master of one of the greatest fortunes in history, you couldn’t possibly be part of this — it would have provoked too much comment, too much attention. Deet could come, because Commissioner Chen wouldn’t care that much what she did — he never takes spouses seriously, just one of the ways he proves himself to be a fool.”

“But Hari always meant for you to be one of us,” said Deet. “His worst fear was that you’d go off half-cocked and force your way into the First Foundation, when all along he wanted you in this one. The Second Foundation.”

Leyel remembered his last interview with Hari. He tried to remember — did Hari ever lie to him? He told him that Deet couldn’t go to Terminus — but now that took on a completely different meaning. The old fox! He never lied at all, but he never told the truth, either.

Zay went on. “It was tricky, striking the right balance, encouraging you to provoke Chen just enough that he’d strip away your fortune and then forget you, but not so much that he’d have you imprisoned or killed.”

“You were making that happen?”

“No, no, Leyel. It was going to happen anyway, because you’re who you are and Chen is who he is. But there was a range of possibility, somewhere between having you and Deet tortured to death on the one hand, and on the other hand having you and Rom conspire to assassinate Chen and take control of the Empire. Either of those extremes would have made it impossible for you to be part of the Second Foundation. Hari was convinced — and so is Deet, and so am I — that you belong with us. Not dead. Not in politics. Here.”

It was outrageous, that they should make such choices for him, without telling him. How could Deet have kept it secret all this time? And yet they were so obviously correct. If Hari had told him about this Second Foundation, Leyel would have been eager, proud to join it. Yet Leyel couldn’t have been told, couldn’t have joined them until Chen no longer perceived him as a threat.

“What makes you think Chen will ever forget me?”

“Oh, he’s forgotten you, all right. In fact, I’d guess that by tonight he’ll have forgotten everything he ever knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think we’ve dared to speak so openly today, after keeping silence for so long? After all, we aren’t in Indexing now.”

Leyel felt a thrill of fear run through him. “They can hear us?”

“If they were listening. At the moment, though, the Pubs are very busy helping Rom Divart solidify his control of the Commission of Public Safety. And if Chen hasn’t been taken to the radiation chamber, he soon will be.”

Leyel couldn’t help himself. The news was too glorious — he sprang up from his bed, almost danced at the news. “Rom ‘s doing it! After all these years — overthrowing the old spider!”

“It’s more important than mere justice or revenge,” said Zay. “We’re absolutely certain that a significant number of governors and prefects and military commanders will refuse to recognize the overlordship of the Commission of Public Safety. It will take Rom Divart the rest of his life just to put down the most dangerous of the rebels. In order to concentrate his forces on the great rebels and pretenders close to Trantor, he’ll grant an unprecedented degree of independence to many, many worlds on the periphery. To all intents and purposes, those outer worlds will no longer be part of the Empire. Imperial authority will not touch them, and their taxes will no longer flow inward to Trantor. The Empire is no longer Galactic. The death of Commissioner Chen — today — will mark the beginning of the fall of the Galactic Empire, though no one but us will notice what it means for decades, even centuries to come.”

“So soon after Hari’s death. Already his predictions are coming true.”

“Oh, it isn’t just coincidence, “said Zay. “One of our agents was able to influence Chen just enough to ensure that he sent Rom Divart in person to strip you of your fortune. That was what pushed Rom over the edge and made him carry out this coup. Chen would have fallenor died — sometime in the next year and a half no matter what we did. But I’ll admit we took a certain pleasure in using Hari’s death as a trigger to bring him down a little early, and under circumstances that allowed us to bring you into the library.”

“We also used it as a test,” said Deet. “We’re trying to find ways of influencing individuals without their knowing it. It’s still very crude and haphazard, but in this case we were able to influence Chen with great success. We had to do it — your life was at stake, and so was the chance of your joining us.”

“I feel like a puppet,” said Leyel.

“Chen was the puppet,” said Zay. “You were the prize.”

“That’s all nonsense,” said Deet. “Hari loved you. I love you. You’re a great man. The Second Foundation had to have you. And everything you’ve said and stood for all your life made it clear that you were hungry to be part of our work. Aren’t you?”.

“Yes,” said Leyel. Then he laughed. “The index!”

“What’s so funny?” asked Zay, looking a little miffed. “We worked very hard on it.”

“And it was wonderful, transforming, hypnotic. To take all these people and put them together as if they were a single mind, far wiser in its intuition than anyone could ever be alone. The most intensely unified, the most powerful human community that’s ever existed. If it’s our capacity for storytelling that makes us human, then perhaps our capacity for indexing will make us something better than human.”

Deet patted Zay’s hand. “Pay no attention to him, Zay. This is clearly the mad enthusiasm of a proselyte.”

Zay raised an eyebrow. “I’m still waiting for him to explain why the index made him laugh.”

Leyel obliged her. “Because all the time, I kept thinking — how could librarians have done this? Mere librarians! And now I discover that these librarians are all of Hari Seldon’s prize students. My questions were indexed by psychohistorians!”

“Not exclusively. Most of us are librarians. Or machinists, or custodians, or whatever — the psychologists and psychohistorians are rather a thin current in the stream of the library. At first they were seen as outsiders. Researchers. Users of the library, not members of it. That’s what Deet’s work has been for these last few years — trying to bind us all together into one community. She came here as a researcher too, remember? Yet now she has made everyone’s allegiance to the library more important than any other loyalty. It’s working beautifully too, Leyel, you’ll see. Deet is a marvel.”

“We’re all creating it together,” said Deet. “It helps that the couple of hundred people I’m trying to bring in are so knowledgeable and understanding of the human mind. They understand exactly what I’m doing and then try to help me make it work. And it isn’t fully successful yet. As years go by, we have to see the psychology group teaching and accepting the children of librarians and machinists and medical officers, in full equality with their own, so that the psychologists don’t become a ruling caste. And then intermarriage between the groups. Maybe in a hundred years we’ll have a truly cohesive community. This is a democratic city-state we’re building, not an academic department or a social club.”

Leyel was off on his own tangent. It was almost unbearable for him to realize that there were hundreds of people who knew Hari’s work, while Leyel didn’t. “You have to teach me!” Leyel said. “Everything that Hari taught you, all the things that have been kept from me —”

“Oh, eventually, Leyel,” said Zay. “At present, though, we’re much more interested in what you have to teach us. Already, I’m sure, a transcription of the things you said when you first woke up is being spread through the library.”

“It was recorded?” asked Leyel.

“We didn’t know if you were going to go catatonic on us at any moment, Leyel. You have no idea how you’ve been worrying us. Of course we recorded it — they might have been your last words.”

“They won’t be. I don’t feel tired at all.”

“Then you’re not as bright as we thought. Your body is dangerously weak. You’ve been abusing yourself terribly. You’re not a young man, and we insist that you stay away from your lector for a couple of days.”

“What, are you now my doctor?”

“Leyel,” Deet said, touching him on his shoulder the way she always did when he needed calming. “You have been examined by doctors. And you’ve got to realize — Zay is First Speaker.”

“Does that mean she’s commander?”

“This isn’t the Empire,” said Zay, “and I’m not Chen. All that it means to be First Speaker is that I speak first when we meet together. And then, at the end, I bring together all that has been said and express the consensus of the group.”

“That’s right,” said Deet. “Everybody thinks you ought to rest.”

“Everybody knows about me?” asked Leyel.

“Of course,” said Zay. “With Hari dead you’re the most original thinker we have. Our work needs you. Naturally we care about you. Besides, Deet loves you so much, and we love Deer so much, we feel like we’re all a little bit in love with you ourselves.”

She laughed, and so did Leyel, and so did Deet. Leyel noticed, though, that when he asked whether they all knew of him, she had answered that they cared about him and loved him. Only when Zay said this did he realize that she had answered the question he really meant to ask.

“And while you’re recuperating,” Zay continued, “Indexing will have a go at your new theory —”

“Not a theory, just a proposal, just a thought —”

“— and a few psychohistorians will see whether it can be quantified, perhaps by some variation on the formulas we’ve been using with Deet’s laws of community development. Maybe we can turn origin studies into a real science yet.”

“Maybe,” Leyel said.

“Feel all right about this?” asked Zay.

“I’m not sure. Mostly. I’m very excited, but I’m also a little angry at how I’ve been left out, but mostly I’m — I’m so relieved.”

“Good. You’re in a hopeless muddle. You’ll do your best work if we can keep you off balance forever.” With that, Zay led him back to the bed, helped him lie down, and then left the room.

Alone with Deet, Leyel had nothing to say. He just held her hand and looked up into her face, his heart too full to say anything with words. All the news about Hari’s byzantine plans and a Second Foundation full of psychohistorians and Rom Divart taking over the government — that receded into the background. What mattered was this: Deet’s hand in his, her eyes looking into his, and her heart, her self, her soul so closely bound to his that he couldn’t tell and didn’t care where he left off and she began.

How could he ever have imagined that she was leaving him? They had created each other through all these years of marriage. Deet was the most splendid accomplishment of his life, and he was the most valued creation of hers. We are each other’s parent, each other’s child. We might accomplish great works that will live on in this other community, the library, the Second Foundation. But the greatest work of all is the one that will die with us, the one that no one else will ever know of, because they remain perpetually outside. We can’t even explain it to them. They don’t have the language to understand us. We cat) only speak it to each other.

The Encyclopedists

49-50 F.E. (12117-12118 G.E.)

1.

TERMINUS–... ITS LOCATION (SEE MAP) WAS AN ODD ONE FOR THE ROLE IT WAS CALLED UPON TO PLAY IN GALACTIC HISTORY, AND YET AS MANY WRITERS HAVE NEVER TIRED OF POINTING OUT, AN INEVITABLE ONE. LOCATED ON THE VERY FRINGE OF THE GALACTIC SPIRAL, AN ONLY PLANET OF AN ISOLATED SUN, POOR IN RESOURCES AND NEGLIGIBLE IN ECONOMIC VALUE, IT WAS NEVER SETTLED IN THE FIVE CENTURIES AFTER ITS DISCOVERY, UNTIL THE LANDING OF THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS....

IT WAS INEVITABLE THAT AS A NEW GENERATION GREW, TERMINUS WOULD BECOME SOMETHING MORE THAN AN APPENDAGE OF THE PSYCHOHISTORIANS OF TRANTOR. WITH THE ANACREONIAN REVOLT AND THE RISE TO POWER OF SALVOR HARDIN, FIRST OF THE GREAT LINE OF...

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

LEWIS PIRENNE WAS busily engaged at his desk in the one well-lit comer of the room. Work had to be co-ordinated. Effort had to be organized. Threads had to be woven into a pattern.

Fifty years now; fifty years to establish themselves and set up Encyclopedia Foundation Number One into a smoothly working unit. Fifty years to gather the raw material. Fifty years to prepare.

It had been done. Five more years would see the publication of the first volume of the most monumental work the Galaxy had ever conceived. And then at ten-year intervals – regularly – like clockwork – volume after volume. And with them there would be supplements; special articles on events of current interest, until–

Pirenne stirred uneasily, as the muted buzzer upon his desk muttered peevishly. He had almost forgotten the appointment. He shoved the door release and out of an abstracted comer of one eye saw the door open and the broad figure of Salvor Hardin enter. Pirenne did not look up.

Hardin smiled to himself. He was in a hurry, but he knew better than to take offense at Pirenne’s cavalier treatment of anything or anyone that disturbed him at his work. He buried himself in the chair on the other side of the desk and waited.

Pirenne’s stylus made the faintest scraping sound as it raced across paper. Otherwise, neither motion nor sound. And then Hardin withdrew a two-credit coin from his vest pocket. He flipped it and its stainless-steel surface caught flitters of light as it tumbled through the air. He caught it and-flipped it again, watching the flashing reflections lazily. Stainless steel made good medium of exchange on a planet where all metal had to be imported.

Pirenne looked up and blinked. “Stop that!” he said querulously.

“Eh?”

“That infernal coin tossing. Stop it.”

“Oh.” Hardin pocketed the metal disk. “Tell me when you’re ready, will you? I promised to be back at the City Council meeting before the new aqueduct project is put to a vote.”

Pirenne sighed and shoved himself away from the desk. “I’m ready. But I hope you aren’t going to bother me with city affairs. Take care of that yourself, please. The Encyclopedia takes up all my time.”

“Have you heard the news?” questioned Hardin, phlegmatically.

“What news?”

“The news that the Terminus City ultrawave set received two hours ago. The Royal Governor of the Prefect of Anacreon has assumed the title of king.”

“Well? What of it?”

“It means,” responded Hardin, “that we’re cut off from the inner regions of the Empire. We’ve been expecting it but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable. Anacreon stands square across what was our last remaining trade route to Santanni and to Trantor and to Vega itself. Where is our metal to come from? We haven’t managed to get a steel or aluminum shipment through in six months and now we won’t be able to get any at all, except by grace of the King of Anacreon.”

Pirenne tch-tched impatiently. “Get them through him, then.”

“But can we? Listen, Pirenne, according to the charter which established this Foundation, the Board of Trustees of the Encyclopedia Committee has been given full administrative powers. I, as Mayor of Terminus City, have just enough power to blow my own nose and perhaps to sneeze if you countersign an order giving me permission. It’s up to you and your Board then. I’m asking you in the name of the City, whose prosperity depends upon uninterrupted commerce with the Galaxy, to call an emergency meeting–”

“Stop! A campaign speech is out of order. Now, Hardin, the Board of Trustees has not barred the establishment of a municipal government on Terminus. We understand one to be necessary because of the increase in population since the Foundation was established fifty years ago, and because of the increasing number of people involved in non-Encyclopedia affairs. But that does not mean that the first and only aim of the Foundation is no longer to publish the definitive Encyclopedia of all human knowledge. We are a State-supported, scientific institution, Hardin. We cannot – must not – will not interfere in local politics.”

“Local politics! By the Emperor’s left toe, Pirenne, this is a matter of life and death. The planet, Terminus, by itself cannot support a mechanized civilization. It lacks metals. You know that. It hasn’t a trace of iron, copper, or aluminum in the surface rocks, and precious little of anything else. What do you think will happen to the Encyclopedia if this watchmacallum King of Anacreon clamps down on us?”

“On us? Are you forgetting that we are under the direct control of the Emperor himself? We are not part of the Prefect of Anacreon or of any other prefect. Memorize that! We are part of the Emperor’s personal domain, and no one touches us. The Empire can protect its own.”

“Then why didn’t it prevent the Royal Governor of Anacreon from kicking over the traces? And only Anacreon?

At least twenty of the outermost prefects of the Galaxy, the entire Periphery as a matter of fact, have begun steering things their own way. I tell you I feel damned uncertain of the Empire and its ability to protect us.”

“Hokum! Royal Governors, Kings – what’s the difference? The Empire is always shot through with a certain amount of politics and with different men pulling this way and that. Governors have rebelled, and, for that matter, Emperors have been deposed, or assassinated before this. But what has that to do with the Empire itself? Forget it, Hardin. It’s none of our business. We are first of all and last of all-scientists. And our concern is the Encyclopedia.

Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten. Hardin!”

“Well?”

“Do something about that paper of yours!” Pirenne’s voice was angry.

“The Terminus City Journal? It isn’t mine; it’s privately owned. What’s it been doing?”

“For weeks now it has been recommending that the fiftieth anniversary of the establishment of the Foundation be made the occasion for public holidays and quite inappropriate celebrations.”

“And why not? The computoclock will open the Vault in three months. I would call this first opening a big occasion, wouldn’t you?”

“Not for silly pageantry, Hardin. The Vault and its opening concern the Board of Trustees alone. Anything of importance will be communicated to the people. That is final and please make it plain to the Journal.”

“I’m sorry, Pirenne, but the City Charter guarantees a certain minor matter known as freedom of the press.”

“It may. But the Board of Trustees does not. I am the Emperor’s representative on Terminus, Hardin, and have full powers in this respect.”

Hardin’s expression became that of a man counting to ten, mentally. He said, grimly: “in connection with your status as Emperor’s representative, then, I have a final piece of news to give you.”

“About Anacreon?” Pirenne’s lips tightened. He felt annoyed.

“Yes. A special envoy will be sent to us from Anacreon. In two weeks.”

“An envoy? Here? From Anacreon?” Pirenne chewed that. “What for?”

Hardin stood up, and shoved his chair back up against the desk. “I give you one guess.” And he left – quite unceremoniously.

2.

ANSELM HAUT RODRIC – “haut” itself signifying noble blood -Sub-prefect of Pluema and Envoy Extraordinary of his Highness of Anacreon-plus half a dozen other titles - was met by Salvor Hardin at the spaceport with all the imposing ritual of a state occasion.

With a tight smile and a low bow, the sub-prefect had flipped his blaster from its holster and presented it to Hardin butt first. Hardin returned the compliment with, a blaster specifically borrowed for the occasion. Friendship and good will were thus established, and if Hardin noted the barest bulge at Haut Rodric’s shoulder, he prudently said nothing.

The ground car that received them then – preceded, flanked, and followed by the suitable cloud of minor functionaries – proceeded in a slow, ceremonious manner to Cyclopedia Square, cheered on its way by a properly enthusiastic crowd.

Sub-prefect Anselm received the cheers with the complaisant indifference of a soldier and a nobleman.

He said to Hardin, “And this city is all your world?”

Hardin raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. “We are a young world, your eminence. In our short history we have had but few members of the higher nobility visiting our poor planet. Hence, our enthusiasm.”

It is certain that “higher nobility” did not recognize irony when he heard it.

He said thoughtfully: “Founded fifty years ago. Hm-m-m! You have a great deal of unexploited land here, mayor. You have never considered dividing it into estates?”

“There is no necessity as yet. We’re extremely centralized; we have to be, because of the Encyclopedia. Someday, perhaps, when our population has grown–”

“A strange world! You have no peasantry?”

Hardin reflected that it didn’t require a great deal of acumen to tell that his eminence was indulging in a bit of fairly clumsy pumping. He replied casually, “No – nor nobility.”

Haut Rodric’s eyebrows lifted. “And your leader – the man I am to meet?”

“You mean Dr. Pirenne? Yes! He is the Chairman of the Board of Trustees – and a personal representative of the Emperor.”

“Doctor? No other title? A scholar? And he rates above the civil authority?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Hardin, amiably. “We’re all scholars more or less. After all, we’re not so much a world as a scientific foundation – under the direct control of the Emperor.”

There was a faint emphasis upon the last phrase that seemed to disconcert the sub-prefect. He remained thoughtfully silent during the rest of the slow way to Cyclopedia Square.

If Hardin found himself bored by the afternoon and evening that followed, he had at least the satisfaction of realizing that Pirenne and Haut Rodric – having met with loud and mutual protestations of esteem and regard – were detesting each other’s company a good deal more.

Haut Rodric had attended with glazed eye to Pirenne’s lecture during the “inspection tour” of the Encyclopedia Building. With polite and vacant smile, he had listened to the latter’s rapid patter as they passed through the vast storehouses of reference films and the numerous projection rooms.

It was only after he had gone down level by level into and through the composing departments, editing departments, publishing departments, and filming departments that he made the first comprehensive statement.

“This is all very interesting,” he said, “but it seems a strange occupation for grown men. What good is it?”

It was a remark, Hardin noted, for which Pirenne found no answer, though the expression of his face was most eloquent.

The dinner that evening was much the mirror image of the events of that afternoon, for Haut Rodric monopolized the conversation by describing – in minute technical detail and with incredible zest – his own exploits as battalion head during the recent war between Anacreon and the neighboring newly proclaimed Kingdom of Smyrno.

The details of the sub-prefect’s account were not completed until dinner was over and one by one the minor officials had drifted away. The last bit of triumphant description of mangled spaceships came when he had accompanied Pirenne and Hardin onto the balcony and relaxed in the warm air of the summer evening.

“And now,” he said, with a heavy joviality, “to serious matters.”

“By all means,” murmured Hardin, lighting a long cigar of Vegan tobacco – not many left, he reflected – and teetering his chair back on two legs.

The Galaxy was high in the sky and its misty lens shape stretched lazily from horizon to horizon. The few stars here at the very edge of the universe were insignificant twinkles in comparison.

“Of course,” said the sub-prefect, “all the formal discussions – the paper signing and such dull technicalities, that is – will take place before the – What is it you call your Council?”

“The Board of Trustees,” replied Pirenne, coldly.

“Queer name! Anyway, that’s for tomorrow. We might as well clear away some of the underbrush, man to man, right now, though. Hey?”

“And this means–” prodded Hardin.

“Just this. There’s been a certain change in the situation out here in the Periphery and the status of your planet has become a trifle uncertain. It would be very convenient if we succeeded in coming to an understanding as to how the matter stands. By the way, mayor, have you another one of those cigars?”

Hardin started and produced one reluctantly.

Anselm haut Rodric sniffed at it and emitted a clucking sound of pleasure. “Vegan tobacco! Where did you get it?”

“We received some last shipment. There’s hardly any left. Space knows when we’ll get more – if ever.”

Pirenne scowled. He didn’t smoke – and, for that matter, detested the odor. “Let me understand this, your eminence. Your mission is merely one of clarification?”

Haut Rodric nodded through the smoke of his first lusty puffs.

“In that case, it is soon over. The situation with respect to the Encyclopedia Foundation is what it always has been.”

“Ah! And what is it that it always has been?”

“Just this: A State-supported scientific institution and part of the personal domain of his august majesty, the Emperor.”

The sub-prefect seemed unimpressed. He blew smoke rings. “That’s a nice theory, Dr. Pirenne. I imagine you’ve got charters with the Imperial Seal upon it – but what’s the actual situation? How do you stand with respect to Smyrno? You’re not fifty parsecs from Smyrno’s capital. you know. And what about Konom and Daribow?”

Pirenne said: “We have nothing to do with any prefect. As part of the Emperor’s–”

“They’re not prefects,” reminded Haut Rodric; “they’re kingdoms now.”

“Kingdoms then. We have nothing to do with them. As a scientific institution–”

“Science be damned!” swore the other. “What the devil has that got to do with the fact that we’re liable to see Terminus taken over by Smyrno at any time?”

“And the Emperor? He would just sit by?”

Haut Rodric calmed down and said: “Well, now, Dr. Pirenne, you respect the Emperor’s property and so does Anacreon, but Smyrno might not. Remember, we’ve just signed a treaty with the Emperor – I’ll present a copy to that Board of yours tomorrow – which places upon us the responsibility of maintaining order within the borders of the old Prefect of Anacreon on behalf of the Emperor. Our duty is clear, then, isn’t it?”

“Certainly. But Terminus is not part of the Prefect of Anacreon.”

“And Smyrno–”

“Nor is it part of the Prefect of Smyrno. It’s not part of any prefect.”

“Does Smyrno know that?”

“I don’t care what it knows.”

“We do. We’ve just finished a war with her and she still holds two stellar systems that are ours. Terminus occupies an extremely strategic spot, between the two nations.”

Hardin felt weary. He broke in: “What is your proposition, your eminence?”

The sub-prefect seemed quite ready to stop fencing in favor of more direct statements. He said briskly: “It seems perfectly obvious that, since Terminus cannot defend itself, Anacreon must take over the job for its own sake. You understand we have no desire to interfere with internal administration–”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Hardin dryly.

“–but we believe that it would be best for all concerned to have Anacreon establish a military base upon the planet.”

“And that is all you would want – a military base in some of the vast unoccupied territory – and let it go at that?”

“Well, of course, there would be the matter of supporting the protecting forces.”

Hardin’s chair came down on all four, and his elbows went forward on his knees. “Now we’re getting to the nub. Let’s put it into language. Terminus is to be a protectorate and to pay tribute.”

“Not tribute. Taxes. We’re protecting you. You pay for it.”

Pirenne banged his hand on the chair with sudden violence. “Let me speak, Hardin. Your eminence, I don’t care a rusty half-credit coin for Anacreon, Smyrno, or all your local politics and petty wars. I tell you this is a State-supported tax-free institution.”

“State-supported? But we are the State, Dr. Pirenne, and we’re not supporting.”

Pirenne rose angrily. “Your eminence, I am the direct representative of–”

“–his august majesty, the Emperor,” chorused Anselm haut Rodric sourly, “And I am the direct representative of the King of Anacreon. Anacreon is a lot nearer, Dr. Pirenne.”

“Let’s get back to business,” urged Hardin. “How would you take these so-called taxes, your eminence? Would you take them in kind: wheat, potatoes, vegetables, cattle?”

The sub-prefect stared. “What the devil? What do we need with those? We’ve got hefty surpluses. Gold, of course. Chromium or vanadium would be even better, incidentally, if you have it in quantity.”

Hardin laughed. “Quantity! We haven’t even got iron in quantity. Gold! Here, take a look at our currency.” He tossed a coin to the envoy.

Haut Rodric bounced it and stared. “What is it? Steel?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Terminus is a planet practically without metals. We import it all. Consequently, we have no gold, and nothing to pay unless you want a few thousand bushels of potatoes.”

“Well – manufactured goods.”

“Without metal? What do we make our machines out of?”

There was a pause and Pirenne tried again. “This whole discussion is wide of the point. Terminus is not a planet, but a scientific foundation preparing a great encyclopedia. Space, man, have you no respect for science?”

“Encyclopedias don’t win wars.” Haut Rodric’s brows furrowed. “A completely unproductive world, then – and practically unoccupied at that. Well, you might pay with land.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pirenne.

“This world is just about empty and the unoccupied land is probably fertile. There are many of the nobility on Anacreon that would like an addition to their estates.”

“You can’t propose any such–”

“There’s no necessity of looking so alarmed, Dr. Pirenne. There’s plenty for all of us. If it comes to what it comes, and you co-operate, we could probably arrange it so that you lose nothing. Titles can be conferred and estates granted. You understand me, I think.”

Pirenne sneered, “Thanks!”

And then Hardin said ingenuously: “Could Anacreon supply us with adequate quantities of plutonium for our nuclear-power plant? We’ve only a few years’ supply left.”

There was a gasp from Pirenne and then a dead silence for minutes. When Haut Rodric spoke it was in a voice quite different from what it had been till then:

“You have nuclear power?”

“Certainly. What’s unusual in that? I imagine nuclear power is fifty thousand years old now. Why shouldn’t we have it? Except that it’s a little difficult to get plutonium.”

“Yes ... Yes.” The envoy paused and added uncomfortably: “Well, gentlemen, we’ll pursue the subject tomorrow. You’ll excuse me–”

Pirenne looked after him and gritted through his teeth: “That insufferable, dull-witted donkey! That–”

Hardin broke in: “Not at all. He’s merely the product of his environment. He doesn’t understand much except that ‘I have a gun and you haven’t.’”

Pirenne whirled on him in exasperation. “What in space did you mean by the talk about military bases and tribute? Are you crazy?”

“No. I merely gave him rope and let him talk. You’ll notice that he managed to stumble out with Anacreon’s real intentions – that is, the parceling up of Terminus into landed estates. Of course, I don’t intend to let that happen.”

“You don’t intend. You don’t. And who are you? And may I ask what you meant by blowing off your mouth about our nuclear-power plant? Why, it’s just the thing that would make us a military target.”

“Yes,” grinned Hardin. “A military target to stay away from. Isn’t it obvious why I brought the subject up? It happened to confirm a very strong suspicion I had had.”

“And that was what?”

“That Anacreon no longer has a nuclear-power economy. If they had, our friend would undoubtedly have realized that plutonium, except in ancient tradition is not used in power plants. And therefore it follows that the rest of the Periphery no longer has nuclear power either. Certainly Smyrno hasn’t, or Anacreon wouldn’t have won most of the battles in their recent war. Interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Bah!” Pirenne left in fiendish humor, and Hardin smiled gently.

He threw his cigar away and looked up at the outstretched Galaxy. “Back to oil and coal, are they?” he murmured – and what the rest of his thoughts were he kept to himself.

3.

WHEN HARDIN DENIED owning the Journal, he was perhaps technically correct, but no more. Hardin had been the leading spirit in the drive to incorporate Terminus into an autonomous municipality-he had been elected its first mayor-so it was not surprising that, though not a single share of Journal stock was in his name, some sixty percent was controlled by him in more devious fashions.

There were ways.

Consequently, when Hardin began suggesting to Pirenne that he be allowed to attend meetings of the Board of Trustees, it was not quite coincidence that the Journal began a similar campaign. And the first mass meeting in the history of the Foundation was held, demanding representation of the City in the “national” government.

And, eventually, Pirenne capitulated with ill grace.

Hardin, as he sat at the foot of the table, speculated idly as to just what it was that made physical scientists such poor administrators. It might be merely that they were too used to inflexible fact and far too unused to pliable people.

In any case, there was Tomaz Sutt and Jord Fara on his left; Lundin Crast and Yate Fulham on his fight; with Pirenne, himself, presiding. He knew them all, of course, but they seemed to have put on an extra-special bit of pomposity for the occasion.

Hardin had dozed through the initial formalities and then perked up when Pirenne sipped at the glass of water before him by way of preparation and said:

“I find it very gratifying to be able to inform the Board that since our last meeting, I have received word that Lord Dorwin, Chancellor of the Empire, will arrive at Terminus in two weeks. It may be taken for granted that our relations with Anacreon will be smoothed out to our complete satisfaction as soon as the Emperor is informed of the situation.”

He smiled and addressed Hardin across the length of the table. “Information to this effect has been given the Journal.”

Hardin snickered below his breath. It seemed evident that Pirenne’s desire to strut this information before him had been one reason for his admission into the sacrosanctum.

He said evenly: “Leaving vague expressions out of account, what do you expect Lord Dorwin to do?”

Tomaz Sutt replied. He had a bad habit of addressing one in the third person when in his more stately moods.

“It is quite evident,” he observed, “that Mayor Hardin is a professional cynic. He can scarcely fail to realize that the Emperor would be most unlikely to allow his personal rights to be infringed.”

“Why? What would he do in case they were?”

There was an annoyed stir. Pirenne said, “You are out of order,” and, as an afterthought, “and are making what are near-treasonable statements, besides.”

“Am I to consider myself answered?”

“Yes! If you have nothing further to say–”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. I’d like to ask a question. Besides this stroke of diplomacy – which may or may not prove to mean anything – has anything concrete been done to meet the Anacreonic menace?”

Yate Fulham drew one hand along his ferocious red mustache. “You see a menace there, do you?”

“Don’t you?”

“Scarcely”– this with indulgence. “The Emperor–”

“Great space!” Hardin felt annoyed. “What is this? Every once in a while someone mentions ‘Emperor’ or ‘Empire’ as if it were a magic word. The Emperor is thousands of parsecs away, and I doubt whether he gives a damn about us. And if he does, what can he do? What there was of the imperial navy in these regions is in the hands of the four kingdoms now and Anacreon has its share. Listen, we have to fight with guns, not with words.

“Now, get this. We’ve had two months’ grace so far, mainly because we’ve given Anacreon the idea that we’ve got nuclear weapons. Well, we all know that that’s a little white lie. We’ve got nuclear power, but only for commercial uses, and darn little at that. They’re going to find that out soon, and if you think they’re going to enjoy being jollied along, you’re mistaken.”

“My dear sir–”

“Hold on: I’m not finished.” Hardin was warming up. He liked this. “It’s all very well to drag chancellors into this, but it would be much nicer to drag a few great big siege guns fitted for beautiful nuclear bombs into it. We’ve lost two months, gentlemen, and we may not have another two months to lose. What do you propose to do?”

Said Lundin Crast, his long nose wrinkling angrily: “If you’re proposing the militarization of the Foundation, I won’t hear a word of it. It would mark our open entrance into the field of politics. We, Mr. Mayor, are a scientific foundation and nothing else.”

Added Sutt: “He does not realize, moreover, that building armaments would mean withdrawing men – valuable men – from the Encyclopedia. That cannot be done, come what may.”

“Very true,” agreed Pirenne. “The Encyclopedia first – always.”

Hardin groaned in spirit. The Board seemed to suffer violently from Encyclopedia on the brain,

He said icily: “Has it ever occurred to this Board that it is barely possible that Terminus may have interests other than the Encyclopedia?”

Pirenne replied: “I do not conceive, Hardin, that the Foundation can have any interest other than the Encyclopedia.”

“I didn’t say the Foundation; I said Terminus. I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation. There’s a good million of us here on Terminus, and not more than a hundred and fifty thousand are working directly on the Encyclopedia. To the rest of us, this is home. We were born here. We’re living here. Compared with our farms and our homes and our factories, the Encyclopedia means little to us. We want them protected–”

He was shouted down.

“The Encyclopedia first,” ground out Crast. “We have a mission to fulfill.”

“Mission, hell,” shouted Hardin. “That might have been true fifty years ago. But this is a new generation.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” replied Pirenne. “We are scientists.”

And Hardin leaped through the opening. “Are you, though? That’s a nice hallucination, isn’t it? Your bunch here is a perfect example of what’s been wrong with the entire Galaxy for thousands of years. What kind of science is it to be stuck out here for centuries classifying the work of scientists of the last millennium? Have you ever thought of working onward, extending their knowledge and improving upon it? No! You’re quite happy to stagnate. The whole Galaxy is, and has been for space knows how long. That’s why the Periphery is revolting; that’s why communications are breaking down; that’s why petty wars are becoming eternal; that’s why whole systems are losing nuclear power and going back to barbarous techniques of chemical power.

“If you ask me,” he cried, “the Galactic Empire is dying!”

He paused and dropped into his chair to catch his breath, paying no attention to the two or three that were attempting simultaneously to answer him.

Crast got the floor. “I don’t know what you’re trying to gain by your hysterical statements, Mr. Mayor. Certainly, you are adding nothing constructive to the discussion. I move, Mr. Chairman, that the speaker’s remarks be placed out of order and the discussion be resumed from the point where it was interrupted.”

Jord Fara bestirred himself for the first time. Up to this point Fara had taken no part in the argument even at its hottest. But now his ponderous voice, every bit as ponderous as his three-hundred-pound body, burst its bass way out.

“Haven’t we forgotten something, gentlemen?”

“What?” asked Pirenne, peevishly.

“That in a month we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary.” Fara had a trick of uttering the most obvious platitudes with great profundity.

“What of it?”

“And on that anniversary,” continued Fara, placidly, “Hari Seldon’s Vault will open. Have you ever considered what might be in the Vault?”

“I don’t know. Routine matters. A stock Speech of congratulations, perhaps. I don’t think any significance need be placed on the Vault – though the Journal”– and he glared at Hardin, who grinned back –”did try to make an issue of it. I put a stop to that.”

“Ah,” said Fara, “but perhaps you are wrong. Doesn’t it strike you” – he paused and put a finger to his round little nose –”that the Vault is opening at a very convenient time?”

“Very inconvenient time, you mean,” muttered Fulham. “We’ve got some other things to worry about.”

“Other things more important than a message from Hari Seldon? I think not.” Fara was growing more pontifical than ever, and Hardin eyed him thoughtfully. What was he getting at?

“In fact,” said Fara, happily, “you all seem to forget that Seldon was the greatest psychologist of our time and that he was the founder of our Foundation. It seems reasonable to assume that he used his science to determine the probable course of the history of the immediate future. If he did, as seems likely, I repeat, he would certainly have managed to find a way to warn us of danger and, perhaps, to point out a solution. The Encyclopedia was very dear to his heart, you know.”

An aura of puzzled doubt prevailed. Pirenne hemmed. “Well, now, I don’t know. Psychology is a great science, but-there are no psychologists among us at the moment, I believe. It seems to me we’re on uncertain ground.”

Fara turned to Hardin. “Didn’t you study psychology under Alurin?”

Hardin answered, half in reverie: “Yes, I never completed my studies, though. I got tired of theory. I wanted to be a psychological engineer, but we lacked the facilities, so I did the next best thing – I went into politics. It’s practically the same thing.”

“Well, what do you think of the Vault?”

And Hardin replied cautiously, “I don’t know.”

He did not say a word for the remainder of the meeting even though it got back to the subject of the Chancellor of the Empire.

In fact, he didn’t even listen. He’d been put on a new track and things were falling into place-just a little. Little angles were fitting together – one or two.

And psychology was the key. He was sure of that.

He was trying desperately to remember the psychological theory he had once learned – and from it he got one thing right at the start.

A great psychologist such as Seldon could unravel human emotions and human reactions sufficiently to be able to predict broadly the historical sweep of the future.

And what would that mean?

4.

LORD DORWIN TOOK snuff. He also had long hair, curled intricately and, quite obviously, artificially, to which were added a pair of fluffy, blond sideburns, which he fondled affectionately. Then, too, he spoke in overprecise statements and left out all the r’s.

At the moment, Hardin had no time to think of more of the reasons for the instant detestation in which he had held the noble chancellor. Oh, yes, the elegant gestures of one hand with which he accompanied his remarks and the studied condescension with which he accompanied even a simple affirmative.

But, at any rate, the problem now was to locate him. He had disappeared with Pirenne half an hour before – passed clean out of sight, blast him.

Hardin was quite sure that his own absence during the preliminary discussions would quite suit Pirenne.

But Pirenne had been seen in this wing And on this floor. It was simply a matter of trying every door. Halfway down, he said, “Ah!” and stepped into the darkened room. The profile of Lord Dorwin’s intricate hair-do was unmistakable against the lighted screen.

Lord Dorwin looked up and said: “Ah, Hahdin. You ah looking foah us, no doubt?” He held out his snuffbox – overadorned and poor workmanship at that, noted Hardin – and was politely refused whereat he helped himself to a pinch and smiled graciously.

Pirenne scowled and Hardin met that with an expression of blank indifference.

The only sound to break the short silence that followed was the clicking of the lid of Lord Dorwin’s snuffbox. And then he put it away and said:

“A gweat achievement, this Encyclopedia of yoahs, Hahdin. A feat, indeed, to rank with the most majestic accomplishments of all time.”

“Most of us think so, milord. It’s an accomplishment not quite accomplished as yet, however.”

“Fwom the little I have seen of the efficiency of yoah Foundation, I have no feahs on that scoah.” And he nodded to Pirenne, who responded with a delighted bow.

Quite a love feast, thought Hardin. “I wasn’t complaining about the lack of efficiency, milord, as much as of the definite excess of efficiency on the part of the Anacreonians – though in another and more destructive direction.”

“Ah, yes, Anacweon.” A negligent wave of the hand. “I have just come from theah. Most bahbawous planet. It is thowoughly inconceivable that human beings could live heah in the Pewiphewy. The lack of the most elementawy wequiahments of a cultuahed gentleman; the absence of the most fundamental necessities foah comfoht and convenience – the uttah desuetude into which they–”

Hardin interrupted dryly: “The Anacreonians, unfortunately, have all the elementary requirements for warfare and all the fundamental necessities for destruction.”

“Quite, quite.” Lord Dorwin seemed annoyed, perhaps at being stopped midway in his sentence. “But we ahn’t to discuss business now, y’know. Weally, I’m othahwise concuhned. Doctah Piwenne, ahn’t you going to show me the second volume? Do, please.”

The lights clicked out and for the next half-hour Hardin might as well have been on Anacreon for all the attention they paid him. The book upon the screen made little sense to him, nor did he trouble to make the attempt to follow, but Lord Dorwin became quite humanly excited at times. Hardin noticed that during these moments of excitement the chancellor pronounced his r’s.

When the lights went on again, Lord Dorwin said: “Mahvelous. Twuly mahvelous. You ah not, by chance, intewested in ahchaeology, ah you, Hahdin?”

“Eh?” Hardin shook himself out of an abstracted reverie. “No, milord, can’t say I am. I’m a psychologist by original intention and a politician by final decision.”

“Ah! No doubt intewesting studies. 1, myself, y’know” – he helped himself to a giant pinch of snuff –”dabble in ahchaeology.”

“Indeed?”

“His lordship,” interrupted Pirenne, “is most thoroughly acquainted with the field.”

“Well, p’haps I am, p’haps I am,” said his lordship complacently. “I have done an awful amount of wuhk in the science. Extwemely well-read, in fact. I’ve gone thwough all of Jawdun, Obijasi, Kwomwill ... oh, all of them, y’know.”

“I’ve heard of them, of course,” said Hardin, “but I’ve never read them.”

“You should some day, my deah fellow. It would amply repay you. Why, I cutainly considah it well wuhth the twip heah to the Pewiphewy to see this copy of Lameth. Would you believe it, my Libwawy totally lacks a copy. By the way, Doctah Piwenne, you have not fohgotten yoah pwomise to twansdevelop a copy foah me befoah I leave?”

“Only too pleased.”

“Lameth, you must know,” continued the chancellor, pontifically, “pwesents a new and most intwesting addition to my pwevious knowledge of the ‘Owigin Question.”‘

“Which question?” asked Hardin.

“The ‘Owigin Question.’ The place of the owigin of the human species, y’know. Suahly you must know that it is thought that owiginally the human wace occupied only one planetawy system.”

“Well, yes, I know that.”

“Of cohse, no one knows exactly which system it is – lost in the mists of antiquity. Theah ah theawies, howevah. Siwius, some say. Othahs insist on Alpha Centauwi, oah on Sol, oah on 61 Cygni – all in the Siwius sectah, you see.”

“And what does Lameth say?”

“Well, he goes off along a new twail completely. He twies to show that ahchaeological wemains on the thuhd planet of the Ahctuwian System show that humanity existed theah befoah theah wah any indications of space-twavel.”

“And that means it was humanity’s birth planet?”

“P’haps. I must wead it closely and weigh the evidence befoah I can say foah cuhtain. One must see just how weliable his obsuhvations ah.”

Hardin remained silent for a short while. Then he said, “When did Lameth write his book?”

“Oh – I should say about eight hundwed yeahs ago. Of cohse, he has based it lahgely on the pwevious wuhk of Gleen.”

“Then why rely on him? Why not go to Arcturus and study the remains for yourself?”

Lord Dorwin raised his eyebrows and took a pinch of snuff hurriedly. “Why, whatevah foah, my deah fellow?”

“To get the information firsthand, of course.”

“But wheah’s the necessity? It seems an uncommonly woundabout and hopelessly wigmawolish method of getting anywheahs. Look heah, now, I’ve got the wuhks of all the old mastahs – the gweat ahchaeologists of the past. I wigh them against each othah – balance the disagweements – analyze the conflicting statements – decide which is pwobably cowwect – and come to a conclusion. That is the scientific method. At least” – patronizingly –”as I see it. How insuffewably cwude it would be to go to Ahctuwus, oah to Sol, foah instance, and blundah about, when the old mastahs have covahed the gwound so much moah effectually than we could possibly hope to do.”

Hardin murmured politely, “I see.”

“Come, milord,” said Pirenne, “think we had better be returning.”

“Ah, yes. P’haps we had.”

As they left the room, Hardin said suddenly, “Milord, may I ask a question?”

Lord Dorwin smiled blandly and emphasized his answer with a gracious flutter of the hand. “Cuhtainly, my deah fellow. Only too happy to be of suhvice. If I can help you in any way fwom my pooah stoah of knowledge-”

“It isn’t exactly about archaeology, milord.”

“No?”

“No. It’s this: Last year we received news here in Terminus about the meltdown of a power plant on Planet V of Gamma Andromeda. We got the barest outline of the accident – no details at all. I wonder if you could tell me exactly what happened.”

Pirenne’s mouth twisted. “I wonder you annoy his lordship with questions on totally irrelevant subjects.”

“Not at all, Doctah Piwenne,” interceded the chancellor. “It is quite all wight. Theah isn’t much to say concuhning it in any case. The powah plant did undergo meltdown and it was quite a catastwophe, y’know. I believe wadiatsen damage. Weally, the govuhnment is sewiously considewing placing seveah westwictions upon the indiscwiminate use of nucleah powah – though that is not a thing for genewal publication, y’know.”

“I understand,” said Hardin. “But what was wrong with the plant?”

“Well, weally,” replied Lord Dorwin indifferently, “who knows? It had bwoken down some yeahs pweviously and it is thought that the weplacements and wepaiah wuhk wuh most infewiah. It is so difficult these days to find men who weally undahstand the moah technical details of ouah powah systems.” And he took a sorrowful pinch of snuff.

“You realize,” said Hardin, “that the independent kingdoms of the Periphery had lost nuclear power altogether?”

“Have they? I’m not at all suhpwised. Bahbawous planets– Oh, but my deah fellow, don’t call them independent. They ahn’t, y’know. The tweaties we’ve made with them ah pwoof positive of that. They acknowledge the soveweignty of the Empewah. They’d have to, of cohse, oah we wouldn’t tweat with them.”

“That may be so, but they have considerable freedom of action.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Considewable. But that scahcely mattahs. The Empiah is fah bettah off, with the Pewiphewy thwown upon its own wesoahces – as it is, moah oah less. They ahn’t any good to us, y’know. Most bahbawous planets. Scahcely civilized.”

“They were civilized in the past. Anacreon was one of the richest of the outlying provinces. I understand it compared favorably with Vega itself.”

“Oh, but, Hahdin, that was centuwies ago. You can scahcely dwaw conclusion fwom that. Things wah diffewent in the old gweat days. We ahn’t the men we used to be, y’know. But, Hahdin, come, you ah a most puhsistent chap.

I’ve told you I simply won’t discuss business today. Doctah Piwenne did pwepayah me foah you. He told me you would twy to badgah me, but I’m fah too old a hand foah that. Leave it foah next day. And that was that.

5.

THIS WAS THE second meeting of the Board that Hardin had attended, if one were to exclude the informal talks the Board members had had with the now-departed Lord Dorwin. Yet the mayor had a perfectly definite idea that at least one other, and possibly two or three, had been held, to which he had somehow never received an invitation.

Nor, it seemed to him, would he have received notification of this one had it not been for the ultimatum.

At least, it amounted to an ultimatum, though a superficial reading of the visigraphed document would lead one to suppose that it was a friendly interchange of greetings between two potentates.

Hardin fingered it gingerly. It started off floridly with a salutation from “His Puissant Majesty, the King of Anacreon, to his friend and brother, Dr. Lewis Pirenne, Chairman of the Board of Trustees, of the Encyclopedia Foundation Number One,” and it ended even more lavishly with a gigantic, multicolored seal of the most involved symbolism.

But it was an ultimatum just the same.

Hardin said: “It turned out that we didn’t have much time after all – only three months. But little as it was, we threw it away unused. This thing here gives us a week. What do we do now?”

Pirenne frowned worriedly. “There must be a loophole. It is absolutely unbelievable that they would push matters to extremities in the face of what Lord Dorwin has assured us regarding the attitude of the Emperor and the Empire.”

Hardin perked up. “I see. You have informed the King of Anacreon of this alleged attitude?”

“I did – after having placed the proposal to the Board for a vote and having received unanimous consent.”

“And when did this vote take place?”

Pirenne climbed onto his dignity. “I do not believe I am answerable to you in any way, Mayor Hardin.”

“All right. I’m not that vitally interested. It’s just my opinion that it was your diplomatic transmission of Lord Dorwin’s valuable contribution to the situation”– he lifted the comer of his mouth in a sour half-smile –”that was the direct cause of this friendly little note. They might have delayed longer otherwise – though I don’t think the additional time would have helped Terminus any, considering the attitude of the Board.”

Said Yate Fulham: “And just how do you arrive at that remarkable conclusion, Mr. Mayor?”

“In a rather simple way. It merely required the use of that much-neglected commodity – common sense. You see, there is a branch of human knowledge known as symbolic logic, which can be used to prune away all sorts of clogging deadwood that clutters up human language.”

“What about it?” said Fulham.

“I applied it. Among other things, I applied it to this document here. I didn’t really need to for myself because I knew what it was all about, but I think I can explain it more easily to five physical scientists by symbols rather than by words.”

Hardin removed a few sheets of paper from the pad under his arm and spread them out. “I didn’t do this myself, by the way,” he said. “Muller Holk of the Division of Logic has his name signed to the analyses, as you can see.”

Pirenne leaned over the table to get a better view and Hardin continued: “The message from Anacreon was a simple problem, naturally, for the men who wrote it were men of action rather than men of words. It boils down easily and straightforwardly to the unqualified statement, when in symbols is what you see, and which in words, roughly translated, is, ‘You give us what we want in a week, or we take it by force.’”

There was silence as the five members of the Board ran down the line of symbols, and then Pirenne sat down and coughed uneasily.

Hardin said, “No loophole, is there, Dr. Pirenne?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“All right.” Hardin replaced the sheets. “Before you now you see a copy of the treaty between the Empire and Anacreon – a treaty, incidentally, which is signed on the Emperor’s behalf by the same Lord Dorwin who was here last week – and with it a symbolic analysis.”

The treaty ran through five pages of fine print and the analysis was scrawled out in just under half a page.

“As you see, gentlemen, something like ninety percent of the treaty boiled right out of the analysis as being meaningless, and what we end up with can be described in the following interesting manner:

“Obligations of Anacreon to the Empire: None!

“Powers of the Empire over Anacreon: None!”

Again the five followed the reasoning anxiously, checking carefully back to the treaty, and when they were finished, Pirenne said in a worried fashion, “That seems to be correct.”

“You admit, then, that the treaty is nothing but a declaration of total independence on the part of Anacreon and a recognition of that status by the Empire?”

“It seems so.”

“And do you suppose that Anacreon doesn’t realize that, and is not anxious to emphasize the position of independence – so that it would naturally tend to resent any appearance of threats from the Empire? Particularly when it is evident that the Empire is powerless to fulfill any such threats, or it would never have allowed independence.”

“But then,” interposed Sutt, “how would Mayor Hardin account for Lord Dorwin’s assurances of Empire support? They seemed –” He shrugged. “Well, they seemed satisfactory.”

Hardin threw himself back in the chair. “You know, that’s the most interesting part of the whole business. I’ll admit I had thought his Lordship a most consummate donkey when I first met him – but it turned out that he was actually an accomplished diplomat and a most clever man. I took the liberty of recording all his statements.”

There was a flurry, and Pirenne opened his mouth in horror.

“What of it?” demanded Hardin. “I realize it was a gross breach of hospitality and a thing no so-called gentleman would do. Also, that if his lordship had caught on, things might have been unpleasant; but he didn’t, and I have the record, and that’s that. I took that record, had it copied out and sent that to Holk for analysis, also.”

Lundin Crast said, “And where is the analysis?”

“That,” replied Hardin, “is the interesting thing. The analysis was the most difficult of the three by all odds. When Holk, after two days of steady work, succeeded in eliminating meaningless statements, vague gibberish, useless qualifications – in short, all the goo and dribble – he found he had nothing left. Everything canceled out.”

“Lord Dorwin, gentlemen, in five days of discussion didn’t say one damned thing, and said it so you never noticed. There are the assurances you had from your precious Empire.”

Hardin might have placed an actively working stench bomb on the table and created no more confusion than existed after his last statement. He waited, with weary patience, for it to die down.

“So,” he concluded, “when you sent threats – and that’s what they were – concerning Empire action to Anacreon, you merely irritated a monarch who knew better. Naturally, his ego would demand immediate action, and the ultimatum is the result-which brings me to my original statement. We have one week left and what do we do now?”

“It seems,” said Sutt, “that we have no choice but to allow Anacreon to establish military bases on Terminus.”

“I agree with you there,” replied Hardin, “but what do we do toward kicking them off again at the first opportunity?”

Yate Fulham’s mustache twitched. “That sounds as if you have made up your mind that violence must be used against them.”

“Violence,” came the retort, “is the last refuge of the incompetent. But I certainly don’t intend to lay down the welcome mat and brush off the best furniture for their use.”

“I still don’t like the way you put that,” insisted Fulham. “It is a dangerous attitude; the more dangerous because we have noticed lately that a sizable section of the populace seems to respond to all your suggestions just so. I might as well tell you, Mayor Hardin, that the board is not quite blind to your recent activities.”

He paused and there was general agreement. Hardin shrugged.

Fulham went on: “If you were to inflame the City into an act of violence, you would achieve elaborate suicide – and we don’t intend to allow that. Our policy has but one cardinal principle, and that is the Encyclopedia. Whatever we decide to do or not to do will be so decided because it will be the measure required to keep that Encyclopedia safe.”

“Then,” said Hardin, “you come to the conclusion that we must continue our intensive campaign of doing nothing.”

Pirenne said bitterly: “You have yourself demonstrated that the Empire cannot help us; though how and why it can be so, I don’t understand. If compromise is necessary–”

Hardin had the nightmarelike sensation of running at top speed and getting nowhere. “There is no compromise! Don’t you realize that this bosh about military bases is a particularly inferior grade of drivel? Haut Rodric told us what Anacreon was after – outright annexation and imposition of its own feudal system of landed estates and peasant-aristocracy economy upon us. What is left of our bluff of nuclear power may force them to move slowly, but they will move nonetheless.”

He had risen indignantly, and the rest rose with him except for Jord Fara.

And then Jord Fara spoke. “Everyone will please sit down. We’ve gone quite far enough, I think. Come, there’s no use looking so furious, Mayor Hardin; none of us have been committing treason.”

“You’ll have to convince me of that!”

Fara smiled gently. “You know you don’t mean that. Let me speak!”

His little shrewd eyes were half closed, and the perspiration gleamed on the smooth expanse of his chin. “There seems no point in concealing that the Board has come to the decision that the real solution to the Anacreonian problem lies in what is to be revealed to us when the Vault opens six days from now.”

“Is that your contribution to the matter?”

“Yes.”

“We are to do nothing, is that fight, except to wait in quiet serenity and utter faith for the deus ex machina to pop out of the Vault?”

“Stripped of your emotional phraseology, that’s the idea.”

“Such unsubtle escapism! Really, Dr. Fara, such folly smacks of genius. A lesser mind would be incapable of it.”

Fara smiled indulgently. “Your taste in epigrams is amusing, Hardin, but out of place. As a matter of fact, I think you remember my line of argument concerning the Vault about three weeks ago.”

“Yes, I remember it. I don’t deny that it was anything but a stupid idea from the standpoint of deductive logic alone. You said – stop me when I make a mistake – that Hari Seldon was the greatest psychologist in the System; that, hence, he could foresee the right and uncomfortable spot we’re in now; that, hence, he established the Vault as a method of telling us the way out.”

“You’ve got the essence of the idea.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve given considerable thought to the matter these last weeks?”

“Very flattering. With what result?”

“With the result that pure deduction is found wanting. Again what is needed is a little sprinkling of common sense.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, if he foresaw the Anacreonian mess, why not have placed us on some other planet nearer the Galactic centers? It’s well known that Seldon maneuvered the Commissioners on Trantor into ordering the Foundation established on Terminus. But why should he have done so? Why put us out here at all if he could see in advance the break in communication lines, our isolation from the Galaxy, the threat of our neighbors – and our helplessness because of the lack of metals on Terminus? That above all! Or if he foresaw all this, why not have warned the original settlers in advance that they might have had time to prepare, rather than wait, as he is doing, until one foot is over the cliff, before doing so?

“And don’t forget this. Even though he could foresee the problem then, we can see it equally well now. Therefore, if he could foresee the solution then, we should be able to see it now. After all, Seldon was not a magician. There are no trick methods of escaping from a dilemma that he can see and we can’t.”

“But, Hardin,” reminded Fara, “we can’t!”

“But you haven’t tried. You haven’t tried once. First, you refused to admit that there was a menace at all! Then you reposed an absolutely blind faith in the Emperor! Now you’ve shifted it to Hari Seldon. Throughout you have invariably relied on authority or on the past – never on yourselves.”

His fists balled spasmodically. “It amounts to a diseased attitude – a conditioned reflex that shunts aside the independence of your minds whenever it is a question of opposing authority. There seems no doubt ever in your minds that the Emperor is more powerful than you are, or Hari Seldon wiser. And that’s wrong, don’t you see?”

For some reason, no one cared to answer him.

Hardin continued: “It isn’t just you. It’s the whole Galaxy. Pirenne heard Lord Dorwin’s idea of scientific research. Lord Dorwin thought the way to be a good archaeologist was to read all the books on the subject – written by men who were dead for centuries. He thought that the way to solve archaeological puzzles was to weigh the opposing authorities. And Pirenne listened and made no objections. Don’t you see that there’s something wrong with that?”

Again the note of near-pleading in his voice. Again no answer.

He went on: “And you men and half of Terminus as well are just as bad. We sit here, considering the Encyclopedia the all-in-all. We consider the greatest end of science. is the classification of past data. It is important, but is there no further work to be done? We’re receding and forgetting, don’t you see? Here in the Periphery they’ve lost nuclear power. In Gamma Andromeda, a power plant has undergone meltdown because of poor repairs, and the Chancellor of the Empire complains that nuclear technicians are scarce. And the solution? To train new ones? Never! Instead they’re to restrict nuclear power.”

And for the third time: “Don’t you see? It’s Galaxywide. It’s a worship of the past. It’s a deterioration – a stagnation!”

He stared from one to the other and they gazed fixedly at him.

Fara was the first to recover. “Well, mystical philosophy isn’t going to help us here. Let us be concrete. Do you deny that Hari Seldon could easily have worked out historical trends of the future by simple psychological technique?”

“No, of course not,” cried Hardin. “But we can’t rely on him for a solution. At best, he might indicate the problem, but if ever there is to be a solution, we must work it out ourselves. He can’t do it for us.”

Fulham spoke suddenly. “What do you mean – ‘indicate the problem’? We know the problem.”

Hardin whirled on him. “You think you do? You think Anacreon is all Hari Seldon is likely to be worried about. I disagree! I tell you, gentlemen, that as yet none of you has the faintest conception of what is really going on.”

“And you do?” questioned Pirenne, hostilely.

“I think so!” Hardin jumped up and pushed his chair away. His eyes were cold and hard. “If there’s one thing that’s definite, it is that there’s something smelly about the whole situation; something that is bigger than anything we’ve talked about yet. Just ask yourself this question: Why was it that among the original population of the Foundation not one first-class psychologist was included, except Bor Alurin? And he carefully refrained from training his pupils in more than the fundamentals.”

A short silence and Fara said: “All right. Why?”

“Perhaps because a psychologist might have caught on to what this was all about – and too soon to suit Hari Seldon. As it is, we’ve been stumbling about, getting misty glimpses of the truth and no more. And that is what Hari Seldon wanted.”

He laughed harshly. “Good day, gentlemen!”

He stalked out of the room.

6.

MAYOR HARDIN CHEWED at the end of his cigar. It had gone out but he was past noticing that. He hadn’t slept the night before and he had a good idea that he wouldn’t sleep this coming night. His eyes showed it.

He said wearily, “And that covers it?”

“I think so.” Yohan Lee put a hand to his chin. “How does it sound?”

“Not too bad. It’s got to be done, you understand, with impudence. That is, there is to be no hesitation; no time to allow them to grasp the situation. Once we are in a position to give orders, why, give them as though you were born to do so, and they’ll obey out of habit. That’s the essence of a coup.”

“If the Board remains irresolute for even –”

“The Board? Count them out. After tomorrow, their importance as a factor in Terminus affairs won’t matter a rusty half-credit.”

Lee nodded slowly. “Yet it is strange that they’ve done nothing to stop us so far. You say they weren’t entirely in the dark.”

“Fara stumbles at the edges of the problem. Sometimes he makes me nervous. And Pirenne’s been suspicious of me since I was elected. But, you see, they never had the capacity of really understanding what was up. Their whole training has been authoritarian. They are sure that the Emperor, just because he is the Emperor, is all-powerful. And they are sure that the Board of Trustees, simply because it is the Board of Trustees acting in the name of the Emperor, cannot be in a position where it does not give the orders. That incapacity to recognize the possibility of revolt is our best ally.”

He heaved out of his chair and went to the water cooler. “They’re not bad fellows, Lee, when they stick to their Encyclopedia – and we’ll see that that’s where they stick in the future. They’re hopelessly incompetent when it comes to ruling Terminus. Go away now and start things rolling. I want to be alone.”

He sat down on the comer of his desk and stared at the cup of water.

Space! If only he were as confident as he pretended! The Anacreonians were landing in two days and what had he to go on but a set of notions and half-guesses as to what Had Seldon had been driving at these past fifty years? He wasn’t even a real, honest-to-goodness psychologist – just a fumbler with a little training trying to outguess the greatest mind of the age.

If Fara were fight; if Anacreon were all the problem Hari Seldon had foreseen; if the Encyclopedia were all he was interested in preserving – then what price coup d’état?

He shrugged and drank his water.

7.

THE VAULT WAS furnished with considerably more than six chairs, as though a larger company had been expected. Hardin noted that thoughtfully and seated himself wearily in a comer just as far from the other five as possible.

The Board members did not seem to object to that arrangement. They spoke among themselves in whispers, which fell off into sibilant monosyllables, and then into nothing at all. Of them all, only Jord Fara seemed even reasonably calm. He had produced a watch and was staring at it somberly.

Hardin glanced at his own watch and then at the glass cubicle – absolutely empty – that dominated half the room. It was the only unusual feature of the room, for aside from that there was no indication that somewhere a computer was splitting off instants of time toward that precise moment when a muon stream would flow, a connection be made and–

The lights went dim!

They didn’t go out, but merely yellowed and sank with a suddenness that made Hardin jump. He had lifted his eyes to the ceiling lights in startled fashion, and when he brought them down the glass cubicle was no longer empty.

A figure occupied it ‚ a figure in a wheel chair!

It said nothing for a few moments, but it closed the book upon its lap and fingered it idly. And then it smiled, and the face seemed all alive.

It said, “I am Hari Seldon.” The voice was old and soft.

Hardin almost rose to acknowledge the introduction and stopped himself in the act.

The voice continued conversationally: “As you see, I am confined to this chair and cannot rise to greet you. Your grandparents left for Terminus a few months back in my time and since then I have suffered a rather inconvenient paralysis. I can’t see you, you know, so I can’t greet you properly. I don’t even know how many of you there are, so all this must be conducted informally. If any of you are standing, please sit down; and if you care to smoke, I wouldn’t mind.” There was a light chuckle. “Why should I? I’m not really here.”

Hardin fumbled for a cigar almost automatically, but thought better of it.

Hari Seldon put away his book – as if laying it upon a desk at his side – and when his fingers let go, it disappeared.

He said: “It is fifty years now since this Foundation was established – fifty years in which the members of the Foundation have been ignorant of what it was they were working toward. It was necessary that they be ignorant, but now the necessity is gone.

“The Encyclopedia Foundation, to begin with, is a fraud, and always has been!”

There was a sound of a scramble behind Hardin and one or two muffled exclamations, but he did not turn around.

Hari Seldon was, of course, undisturbed. He went on: “It is a fraud in the sense that neither I nor my colleagues care at all whether a single volume of the Encyclopedia is ever published. It has served its purpose, since by it we extracted an imperial charter from the Emperor, by it we attracted the hundred thousand humans necessary for our scheme, and by it we managed to keep them preoccupied while events shaped themselves, until it was too late for any of them to draw back.

“In the fifty years that you have worked on this fraudulent project – there is no use in softening phrases – your retreat has been cut off, and you have now no choice but to proceed on the infinitely more important project that was, and is, our real plan.

“To that end we have placed you on such a planet and at such a time that in fifty years you were maneuvered to the point where you no longer have freedom of action. From now on, and into the centuries, the path you must take is inevitable. You will be faced with a series of crises, as you are now faced with the first, and in each case your freedom of action will become similarly circumscribed so that you will be forced along one, and only one, path.

“It is that path which our psychology has worked out – and for a reason.

“For centuries Galactic civilization has stagnated and declined, though only a few ever realized that. But now, at last, the Periphery is breaking away and the political unity of the Empire is shattered. Somewhere in the fifty years just past is where the historians of the future will place an arbitrary line and say: ‘This marks the Fall of the Galactic Empire.’

“And they will be right, though scarcely any will recognize that Fall for additional centuries.

“And after the Fall will come inevitable barbarism, a period which, our psychohistory tells us, should, under ordinary circumstances, last for thirty thousand years. We cannot stop the Fall. We do not wish to; for Imperial culture has lost whatever virility and worth it once had. But we can shorten the period of Barbarism that must follow – down to a single thousand of years.

“The ins and outs of that shortening, we cannot tell you; just as we could not tell you the truth about the Foundation fifty years ago. Were you to discover those ins and outs, our plan might fail; as it would have, had you penetrated the fraud of the Encyclopedia earlier; for then, by knowledge, your freedom of action would be expanded and the number of additional variables introduced would become greater than our psychology could handle.

“But you won’t, for there are no psychologists on Terminus, and never were, but for Alurin – and he was one of us.

“But this I can tell you: Terminus and its companion Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy are the seeds of the Renascence and the future founders of the Second Galactic Empire. And it is the present crisis that is starting Terminus off to that climax.

“This, by the way, is a rather straightforward crisis, much simpler than many of those that are ahead. To reduce it to its fundamentals, it is this: You are a planet suddenly cut off from the still-civilized centers of the Galaxy, and threatened by your stronger neighbors. You are a small world of scientists surrounded by vast and rapidly expanding reaches of barbarism. You are an island of nuclear power in a growing ocean of more primitive energy; but are helpless despite that, because of your lack of metals.

“You see, then, that you are faced by hard necessity, and that action is forced on you. The nature of that action – that is, the solution to your dilemma – is, of course, obvious!”

The image of Hari Seldon reached into open air and the book once more appeared in his hand. He opened it and said:

“But whatever devious course your future history may take, impress it always upon your descendants that the path has been marked out, and that at its end is new and greater Empire!”

And as his eyes bent to his book, he flicked into nothingness, and the lights brightened once more.

Hardin looked up to see Pirenne facing him, eyes tragic and lips trembling.

The chairman’s voice was firm but toneless. “You were right, it seems. If you will see us tonight at six, the Board will consult with you as to the next move.”

They shook his hand, each one, and left, and Hardin smiled to himself. They were fundamentally sound at that; for they were scientists enough to admit that they were wrong – but for them, it was too late.

He looked at his watch. By this time, it was all over. Lee’s men were in control and the Board was giving orders no longer.

The Anacreonians were landing their first spaceships tomorrow, but that was all right, too. In six months, they would be giving orders no longer.

In fact, as Hari Seldon had said, and as Salvor Hardin had guessed since the day that Anselm haut Rodric had first revealed to him Anacreon’s lack of nuclear power – the solution to this first crisis was obvious.

Obvious as all hell!

The Mayors

79-80 F.E. (12147-12148 G.E.)

1.

THE FOUR KINGDOMS – THE NAME GIVEN TO THOSE PORTIONS OF THE PROVINCE OF ANACREON WHICH BROKE AWAY FROM THE FIRST EMPIRE IN THE EARLY YEARS OF THE FOUNDATIONAL ERA TO FORM INDEPENDENT AND SHORT-LIVED KINGDOMS. THE LARGEST AND MOST POWERFUL OF THESE WAS ANACREON ITSELF WHICH IN AREA...

... UNDOUBTEDLY THE MOST INTERESTING ASPECT OF THE HISTORY OF THE FOUR KINGDOMS INVOLVES THE STRANGE SOCIETY FORCED TEMPORARILY UPON IT DURING THE ADMINISTRATION OF SALVOR HARDIN....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

A DEPUTATION!

That Salvor Hardin had seen it coming made it none the more pleasant. On the contrary, he found anticipation distinctly annoying.

Yohan Lee advocated extreme measures. “I don’t see, Hardin,” he said, “that we need waste any time. They can’t do anything till next election – legally, anyway – and that gives us a year. Give them the brush-off.”

Hardin pursed his lips. “Lee, you’ll never learn. In the forty years I’ve known you, you’ve never once learned the gentle art of sneaking up from behind.”

“It’s not my way of fighting,” grumbled Lee.

“Yes, I know that. I suppose that’s why you’re the one man I trust.” He paused and reached for a cigar. “We’ve come a long way, Lee, since we engineered our coup against the Encyclopedists way back. I’m getting old. Sixty-two. Do you ever think how fast those thirty years went?”

Lee snorted. “I don’t feel old, and I’m sixty-six.”

“Yes, but I haven’t your digestion.” Hardin sucked lazily at his cigar. He had long since stopped wishing for the mild Vegan tobacco of his youth. Those days when the planet, Terminus, had trafficked with every part of the Galactic Empire belonged in the limbo to which all Good Old Days go. Toward the same limbo where the Galactic Empire was heading. He wondered who the new emperor was – or if there was a new emperor at all – or any Empire. Space! For thirty years now, since the breakup of communications here at the edge of the Galaxy, the whole universe of Terminus had consisted of itself and the four surrounding kingdoms.

How the mighty had fallen! Kingdoms! They were prefects in the old days, all part of the same province, which in turn had been part of a sector, which in turn had been part of a quadrant, which in turn had been part of the all-embracing Galactic Empire. And now that the Empire had lost control over the farther reaches of the Galaxy, these little splinter groups of planets became kingdoms – with comic-opera kings and nobles, and petty, meaningless wars, and a life that went on pathetically among the ruins.

A civilization falling. Nuclear power forgotten. Science fading to mythology – until the Foundation had stepped in. The Foundation that Hari Seldon had established for just that purpose here on Terminus.

Lee was at the window and his voice broke in on Hardin’s reverie. “They’ve come,” he said, “in a late-model ground car, the young pups.” He took a few uncertain steps toward the door and then looked at Hardin.

Hardin smiled, and waved him back. “I’ve given orders to have them brought up here.”

“Here! What for? You’re making them too important.”

“Why go through all the ceremonies of an official mayor’s audience? I’m getting too old for red tape. Besides which, flattery is useful when dealing with youngsters – particularly when it doesn’t commit you to anything.” He winked. “Sit down, Lee, and give me your moral backing. I’ll need it with this young Sermak.”

“That fellow, Sermak,” said Lee, heavily, “is dangerous. He’s got a following, Hardin, so don’t underestimate him.”

“Have I ever underestimated anybody?”

“Well, then, arrest him. You can accuse him of something or other afterward.”

Hardin ignored that last bit of advice. “There they are, Lee.” In response to the signal, he stepped on the pedal beneath his desk, and the door slid aside.

They filed in, the four that composed the deputation, and Hardin waved them gently to the armchairs that faced his desk in a semicircle. They bowed and waited for the mayor to speak first.

Hardin flicked open the curiously carved silver lid of the cigar box that had once belonged to Jord Fara of the old Board of Trustees in the long-dead days of the Encyclopedists. It was a genuine Empire product from Santanni, though the cigars it now contained were home-grown. One by one, with grave solemnity, the four of the deputation accepted cigars and lit up in ritualistic fashion.

Sef Sermak was second from the right, the youngest of the young group – and the most interesting with his bristly yellow mustache trimmed precisely, and his sunken eyes of uncertain color. The other three Hardin dismissed almost immediately; they were rank and file on the face of them. It was on Sermak that he concentrated, the Sermak who had already, in his first term in the City Council, turned that sedate body topsy-turvy more than once, and it was to Sermak that he said:

“I’ve been particularly anxious to see you, Councilman, ever since your very excellent speech last month. Your attack on the foreign policy of this government was a most capable one.”

Sermak’s eyes smoldered. “Your interest honors me. The attack may or may not have been capable, but it was certainly justified.”

“Perhaps! Your opinions are yours, of course. Still you are rather young.”

Dryly. “It is a fault that most people are guilty of at some period of their life. You became mayor of the city when you were two years younger than I am now.”

Hardin smiled to himself. The yearling was a cool customer. He said, “I take it now that you have come to see me concerning this same foreign policy that annoys you so greatly in the Council Chamber. Are you speaking for your three colleagues, or must I listen to each of you separately?” There were quick mutual glances among the four young men, a slight flickering of eyelids.

Sermak said grimly, “I speak for the people of Terminus – a people who are not now truly represented in the rubberstamp body they call the Council.”

“I see. Go ahead, then!”

“It comes to this, Mr. Mayor. We are dissatisfied–”

“By ‘we’ you mean ‘the people,’ don’t you?”

Sermak stared hostilely, sensing a trap, and replied coldly, “I believe that my views reflect those of the majority of the voters of Terminus. Does that suit you?”

“Well, a statement like that is all the better for proof, but go on, anyway. You are dissatisfied.”

“Yes, dissatisfied with the policy which for thirty years had been stripping Terminus defenseless against the inevitable attack from outside.”

“I see. And therefore? Go on, go on.”

“It’s nice of you to anticipate. And therefore we are forming a new political party; one that will stand for the immediate needs of Terminus and not for a mystic ‘manifest destiny’ of future Empire. We are going to throw you and your lick-spittle clique of appeasers out of City Hall-and that soon.”

“Unless? There’s always an ‘unless,’ you know.”

“Not much of one in this case: Unless you resign now. I’m not asking you to change your policies – I wouldn’t trust you that far. Your promises are worth nothing. An outright resignation is all we’ll take.”

“I see.” Hardin crossed his legs and teetered his chair back on two legs. “That’s your ultimatum. Nice of you to give me warning. But, you see, I rather think I’ll ignore it.”

“Don’t think it was a warning, Mr. Mayor. It was an announcement of principles and of action. The new party has already been formed, and it will begin its official activities tomorrow. There is neither room nor desire for compromise, and, frankly, it was only our recognition of your services to the City that induced us to offer the easy way out. I didn’t think you’d take it, but my conscience is clear.

The next election will be a more forcible and quite irresistible reminder that resignation is necessary.”

He rose and motioned the rest up.

Hardin lifted his arm. “Hold on! Sit down!”

Sef Sermak seated himself once more with just a shade too much alacrity and Hardin smiled behind a straight face. In spite of his words, he was waiting for an offer.

Hardin said, “In exactly what way do you want our foreign policy changed? Do you want us to attack the Four Kingdoms, now, at once, and all four simultaneously?”

“I make no such suggestion, Mr. Mayor. It is our simple proposition that all appeasement cease immediately. Throughout your administration, you have carried out a policy of scientific aid to the Kingdoms. You have given them nuclear power. You have helped rebuild power plants on their territories. You have established medical clinics, chemical laboratories and factories.”

“Well? And your objection?”

“You have done this in order to keep them from attacking us. With these as bribes, you have been playing the fool in a colossal game of blackmail, in which you have allowed Terminus to be sucked dry – with the result that now we are at the mercy of these barbarians.”

“In what way?”

“Because you have given them power, given them weapons, actually serviced the ships of their navies, they are infinitely stronger than they were three decades ago. Their demands are increasing, and with their new weapons, they will eventually satisfy all their demands at once by violent annexation of Terminus. Isn’t that the way blackmail usually ends?”

“And your remedy?”

“Stop the bribes immediately and while you can. Spend your effort in strengthening Terminus itself – and attack first!”

Hardin watched the young fellow’s little blond mustache with an almost morbid interest. Sermak felt sure of himself or he wouldn’t talk so much. There was no doubt that his remarks were the reflection of a pretty huge segment of the population, pretty huge.

His voice did not betray the slightly perturbed current of his thoughts. If was almost negligent. “Are you finished?”

“For the moment.”

“Well, then, do you notice the framed statement I have on the wall behind me? Read it, if you will!”

Sermak’s lips twitched. “It says: ‘Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.’ That’s an old man’s doctrine, Mr. Mayor.”

“I applied it as a young man, Mr. Councilman – and successfully. You were busily being born when it happened, but perhaps you may have read something of it in school.”

He eyed Sermak closely and continued in measured tones, “When Hari Seldon established the Foundation here, it was for the ostensible purpose of producing a great Encyclopedia, and for fifty years we followed that will-of-the-wisp, before discovering what he was really after. By that time, it was almost too late. When communications with the central regions of the old Empire broke down, we found ourselves a world of scientists concentrated in a single city, possessing no industries, and surrounded by newly created kingdoms, hostile and largely barbarous. We were a tiny island of nuclear power in this ocean of barbarism, and an infinitely valuable prize.

“Anacreon, then as now, the most powerful of the Four Kingdoms, demanded and later actually established a military base upon Terminus, and the then rulers of the City, the Encyclopedists, knew very well that this was only a preliminary to taking over the entire planet. That is how matters stood when I ... uh ... assumed actual government. What would you have done?”

Sermak shrugged his shoulders. “That’s an academic question. Of course, I know what you did.”

“I’ll repeat it, anyway. Perhaps you don’t get the point. The temptation was great to muster what force we could and put up a fight. It’s the easiest way out, and the most satisfactory to self-respect – but, nearly invariably, the stupidest. You would have done it; you and your talk of ‘attack first.’ What I did, instead, was to visit the three other kingdoms, one by one; point out to each that to allow the secret of nuclear power to fall into the hands of Anacreon was the quickest way of cutting their own throats; and suggest gently that they do the obvious thing. That was all. One month after the Anacreonian force had landed on Terminus, their king received a joint ultimatum from his three neighbors. In seven days, the last Anacreonian was off Terminus.

Now tell me, where was the need for violence?”

The young councilman regarded his cigar stub thoughtfully and tossed it into the incinerator chute. “I fail to see the analogy. Insulin will bring a diabetic to normal without the faintest need of a knife, but appendicitis needs an operation. You can’t help that. When other courses have failed, what is left but, as you put it, the last refuge? It’s your fault that we’re driven to it.”

“I? Oh, yes, again my policy of appeasement. You still seem to lack grasp of the fundamental necessities of our position. Our problem wasn’t over with the departure of the Anacreonians. They had just begun. The Four Kingdoms were more our enemies than ever, for each wanted nuclear power-and each was kept off our throats only for fear of the other three. We are balanced on the point of a very sharp sword, and the slightest sway in any direction – If, for instance, one kingdom becomes too strong; or if two form a coalition – You understand?”

“Certainly. That was the time to begin all-out preparations for war.”

“On the contrary. That was the time to begin all-out prevention of war. I played them one against the other. I helped each in turn. I offered them science, trade, education, scientific medicine. I made Terminus of more value to them as a flourishing world than as a military prize. It worked for thirty years.”

“Yes, but you were forced to surround these scientific gifts with the most outrageous mummery. You’ve made half religion, half balderdash out of it. You’ve erected a hierarchy of priests and complicated, meaningless ritual.”

Hardin frowned. “What of that? I don’t see that it has anything to do with the argument at all. I started that way at first because the barbarians looked upon our science as a sort of magical sorcery, and it was easiest to get them to accept it on that basis. The priesthood built itself and if we help it along we are only following the line of least resistance. It is a minor matter.”

“But these priests are in charge of the power plants. That is not a minor matter.”

“True, but we have trained them. Their knowledge of their tools is purely empirical; and they have a firm belief in the mummery that surrounds them.”

“And if one pierces through the mummery, and has the genius to brush aside empiricism, what is to prevent him from learning actual techniques, and selling out to the most satisfactory bidder? What price our value to the kingdoms, then?”

“Little chance of that, Sermak. You are being superficial. The best men on the planets of the kingdoms are sent here to the Foundation each year and educated into the priesthood. And the best of these remain here as research students. If you think that those who are left, with practically no knowledge of the elements of science, or worse, still, with the distorted knowledge the priests receive, can penetrate at a bound to nuclear power, to electronics, to the theory of the hyperwarp – you have a very romantic and very foolish idea of science. It takes lifetimes of training and an excellent brain to get that far.”

Yohan Lee had risen abruptly during the foregoing speech and left the room. He had returned now and when Hardin finished speaking, he bent to his superior’s ear. A whisper was exchanged and then a leaden cylinder. Then, with one short hostile look at the deputation, Lee resumed his chair.

Hardin turned the cylinder end for end in his hands, watching the deputation through his lashes. And then he opened it with a hard, sudden twist and only Sermak had the sense not to throw a rapid look at the rolled paper that fell out.

“In short, gentlemen,” he said, “the Government is of the opinion that it knows what it is doing.”

He read as he spoke. There were the lines of intricate, meaningless code that covered the page and the three penciled words scrawled in one comer that carried the message. He took it in at a glance and tossed it casually into the incinerator shaft.

“That,” Hardin then said, “ends the interview, I’m afraid. Glad to have met you all. Thank you for coming.” He shook hands with each in perfunctory fashion, and they filed out.

Hardin had almost gotten out of the habit of laughing, but after Sermak and his three silent partners were well out of earshot, he indulged in a dry chuckle and bent an amused look on Lee.

“How did you like that battle of bluffs, Lee?”

Lee snorted grumpily. “I’m not sure that he was bluffing. Treat him with kid gloves and he’s quite liable to win the next election, just as he says.”

“Oh, quite likely, quite likely – if nothing happens first.”

“Make sure they don’t happen in the wrong direction this time, Hardin. I tell you this Sermak has a following. What if he doesn’t wait till the next election? There was a time when you and I put things through violently, in spite of your slogan about what violence is.”

Hardin cocked an eyebrow. “You are pessimistic today, Lee. And singularly contrary, too, or you wouldn’t speak of violence. Our own little putsch was carried through without loss of life, you remember. It was a necessary measure put through at the proper moment, and went over smoothly, painlessly, and all but effortlessly. As for Sermak, he’s up against a different proposition. You and I, Lee, aren’t the Encyclopedists. We stand prepared. Order your men onto these youngsters in a nice way, old fellow. Don’t let them know they’re being watched – but eyes open, you understand.”

Lee laughed in sour amusement. “I’d be a fine one to wait for your orders, wouldn’t I, Hardin? Sermak and his men have been under surveillance for a month now.”

The mayor chuckled. “Got in first, did you? All right. By the way,” he observed, and added softly, “Ambassador Verisof is returning to Terminus. Temporarily, I hope.”

There was a short silence, faintly horrified, and then Lee said, “Was that the message? Are things breaking already?”

“Don’t know. I can’t tell till I hear what Verisof has to say. They may be, though. After all, they have to before election. But what are you looking so dead about?”

“Because I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. You’re too deep, Hardin, and you’re playing the game too close to your chest.”

“Even you?” murmured Hardin. And aloud, “Does that mean you’re going to join Sermak’s new party?”

Lee smiled against his will. “All right. You win. How about lunch now?”

2.

THERE ARE MANY epigrams attributed to Hardin – a confirmed epigrammatist – a good many of which are probably apocryphal. Nevertheless, it is reported that on a certain occasion, he said:

“It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety.”

Poly Verisof had had occasion to act on that advice more than once for he was now in the fourteenth year of his double status on Anacreon – a double status the upkeep of which reminded him often and unpleasantly of a dance performed barefoot on hot metal.

To the people of Anacreon he was high priest, representative of that Foundation which, to those “barbarians,” was the acme of mystery and the physical center of this religion they had created – with Hardin’s help – in the last three decades. As such, he received a homage that had become horribly wearying, for from his soul he despised the ritual of which he was the center.

But to the King of Anacreon – the old one that had been, and the young grandson that was now on the throne – he was simply the ambassador of a power at once feared and coveted.

On the whole, it was an uncomfortable job, and his first trip to the Foundation in three years, despite the disturbing incident that had made it necessary, was something in the nature of a holiday.

And since it was not the first time he had had to travel in absolute secrecy, he again made use of Hardin’s epigram on the uses of the obvious.

He changed into his civilian clothes – a holiday in itself – and boarded a passenger liner to the Foundation, second class. Once at Terminus, he threaded his way through the crowd at the spaceport and called up City Hall at a public visiphone.

He said, “My name is Jan Smite. I have an appointment with the mayor this afternoon.”

The dead-voiced but efficient young lady at the other end made a second connection and exchanged a few rapid words, then said to Verisof in dry, mechanical tone, “Mayor Hardin will see you in half an hour, sir,” and the screen went blank.

Whereupon the ambassador to Anacreon bought the latest edition of the Terminus City Journal, sauntered casually to City Hall Park and, sitting. down on the first empty bench he came to, read the editorial page, sport section and comic sheet while waiting. At the end of half an hour, he tucked the paper under his arm, entered City Hall and presented himself in the anteroom.

In doing all this he remained safely and thoroughly unrecognized, for since he was so entirely obvious, no one gave him a second look.

Hardin looked up at him and grinned. “Have a cigar! How was the trip?”

Verisof helped himself. “Interesting. There was a priest in the next cabin on his way here to take a special course in the preparation of radioactive synthetics – for the treatment of cancer, you know –”

“Surely, he didn’t call it radioactive synthetics, now?”

“I guess not! It was the Holy Food to him.”

The mayor smiled. “Go on.”

“He inveigled me into a theological discussion and did his level best to elevate me out of sordid materialism.”

“And never recognized his own high priest?”

“Without my crimson robe? Besides, he was a Smyrnian. It was an interesting experience, though. It is remarkable, Hardin, how the religion of science has grabbed hold. I’ve written an essay on the subject – entirely for my own amusement; it wouldn’t do to have it published. Treating the problem sociologically, it would seem that when the old Empire began to rot at the fringes, it could be considered that science, as science, had failed the outer worlds. To be reaccepted it would have to present itself in another guise and it has done just that. It works out beautifully.”

“Interesting!” The mayor placed his arms around his neck and said suddenly, “Start talking about the situation at Anacreon!”

The ambassador frowned and withdrew the cigar from his mouth. He looked at it distastefully and put it down. “Well, it’s pretty bad.”

“You wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”

“Scarcely. Here’s the position. The key man at Anacreon is the Prince Regent, Wienis. He’s King Lepold’s uncle.”

“I know. But Lepold is coming of age next year, isn’t he? I believe he’ll be sixteen in February.”

“Yes.” Pause, and then a wry addition. “If he lives. The king’s father died under suspicious circumstances. A needle bullet through the chest during a hunt. It was called an accident.”

“Hmph. I seem to remember Wienis the time I was on Anacreon, when we kicked them off Terminus. It was before your time. Let’s see now. If I remember, he was a dark young fellow, black hair and a squint in his right eye. He had a funny hook in his nose.”

“Same fellow. The hook and the squint are still there, but his hair’s gray now. He plays the game dirty. Luckily, he’s the most egregious fool on the planet. Fancies himself as a shrewd devil, too, which mades his folly the more transparent.”

“That’s usually the way.”

“His notion of cracking an egg is to shoot a nuclear blast at it. Witness the tax on Temple property he tried to impose just after the old king died two years ago. Remember?”

Hardin nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. “The priests raised a howl.”

“They raised one you could hear way out to Lucreza. He’s shown more caution in dealing with the priesthood since, but he still manages to do things the hard way. In a way, it’s unfortunate for us; he has unlimited self-confidence.”

“Probably an over-compensated inferiority complex. Younger sons of royalty get that way, you know.”

“But it amounts to the same thing. He’s foaming at the mouth with eagerness to attack the Foundation. He scarcely troubles to conceal it. And he’s in a position to do it, too, from the standpoint of armament. The old king built up a magnificent navy, and Wienis hasn’t been sleeping the last two years. In fact, the tax on Temple property was originally intended for further armament, and when that fell through he increased the income tax twice.”

“Any grumbling at that?”

“None of serious importance. Obedience to appointed authority was the text of every sermon in the kingdom for weeks. Not that Wienis showed any gratitude.”

“All right. I’ve got the background. Now what’s happened?”

“Two weeks ago an Anacreonian merchant ship came across a derelict battle cruiser of the old Imperial Navy. It must have been drifting in space for at least three centuries.”

Interest flickered in Hardin’s eyes. He sat up. “Yes, I’ve heard of that. The Board of Navigation has sent me a petition asking me to obtain the ship for purposes of study. It is in good condition, I understand.”

“In entirely too good condition,” responded Verisof, dryly. “When Wienis received your suggestion last week that he turn the ship over to the Foundation, he almost had convulsions.”

“He hasn’t answered yet.”

“He won’t – except with guns, or so he thinks. You see, he came to me on the day I left Anacreon and requested that the Foundation put this battle cruiser into fighting order and turn it over to the Anacreonian navy. He had the infernal gall to say that your note of last week indicated a plan of the Foundation’s to attack Anacreon. He said that refusal to repair the battle cruiser would confirm his suspicions; and indicated that measures for the self-defense of Anacreon would be forced upon him. Those are his words. Forced upon him! And that’s why I’m here.”

Hardin laughed gently.

Verisof smiled and continued, “Of course, he expects a refusal, and it would be a perfect excuse – in his eyes – for immediate attack.”

“I see that, Verisof. Well, we have at least six months to spare, so have the ship fixed up and present it with my compliments. Have it renamed the Wienis as a mark of our esteem and affection.”

He laughed again.

And again Verisof responded with the faintest trace of a smile, “I suppose it’s the logical step, Hardin – but I’m worried.”

“What about?”

“It’s a ship! They could build in those days. Its cubic capacity is half again that of the entire Anacreonian navy. It’s got nuclear blasts capable of blowing up a planet, and a shield that could take a Q-beam without working up radiation. Too much of a good thing, Hardin –”

“Superficial, Verisof, superficial. You and I both know that the armament he now has could defeat Terminus handily, long before we could repair the cruiser for our own use. What does it matter, then, if we give him the cruiser as well? You know it won’t ever come to actual war.”

“I suppose so. Yes.” The ambassador looked up. “But Hardin –”

“Well? Why do you stop? Go ahead.”

“Look. This isn’t my province. But I’ve been reading the paper.” He placed the Journal on the desk and indicated the front page. “What’s this all about?”

Hardin dropped a casual glance. “‘A group of Councilmen are forming a new political party.”‘

“That’s what it says.” Verisof fidgeted. “I know you’re in better touch with internal matters than I am, but they’re attacking you with everything short of physical violence. How strong are they?”

“Damned strong. They’ll probably control the Council after next election.”

“Not before?” Verisof looked at the mayor obliquely. “There are ways of gaining control besides elections.”

“Do you take me for Wienis?”

“No. But repairing the ship will take months and an attack after that is certain. Our yielding will be taken as a sign of appalling weakness and the addition of the Imperial Cruiser will just about double the strength of Wienis’ navy. He’ll attack as sure as I’m a high priest. Why take chances? Do one of two things. Either reveal the plan of campaign to the Council, or force the issue with Anacreon now!”

Hardin frowned. “Force the issue now? Before the crisis comes? It’s the one thing I mustn’t do. There’s Hari Seldon and the Plan, you know.”

Verisof hesitated, then muttered, “You’re absolutely sure, then, that there is a Plan?”

“There can scarcely be any doubt,” came the stiff reply. “I was present at the opening of the Time Vault and Seldon’s recording revealed it then.”

“I didn’t mean that, Hardin. I just don’t see how it could be possible to chart history for a thousand years ahead. Maybe Seldon overestimated himself.” He shriveled a bit at Hardin’s ironical smile, and added, “Well, I’m no psychologist,”

“Exactly. None of us are. But I did receive some elementary training in my youth – enough to know what psychology is capable of, even if I can’t exploit its capabilities myself. There’s no doubt but that Seldon did exactly what he claims to have done. The Foundation, as he says, was established as a scientific refuge – the means by which the science and culture of the dying Empire was to be preserved through the centuries of barbarism that have begun, to be rekindled in the end into a second Empire.”

Verisof nodded, a trifle doubtfully. “Everyone knows that’s the way things are supposed to go. But can we afford to take chances? Can we risk the present for the sake of a nebulous future?”

“We must – because the future isn’t nebulous. It’s been calculated out by Seldon and charted. Each successive crisis in our history is mapped and each depends in a measure on the successful conclusion of the ones previous. This is only the second crisis and Space knows what effect even a trifling deviation would have in the end.”

“That’s rather empty speculation.”

“No! Hari Seldon said in the Time Vault, that at each crisis our freedom of action would become circumscribed to the point where only one course of action was possible.”

“So as to keep us on the straight and narrow?”

“So as to keep us from deviating, yes. But, conversely, as long as more than one course of action is possible, the crisis has not been reached. We must let things drift so long as we possibly can, and by space, that’s what I intend doing.”

Verisof didn’t answer. He chewed his lower lip in a grudging silence. It had only been the year before that Hardin had first discussed the problem with him – the real problem; the problem of countering Anacreon’s hostile preparations. And then only because he, Verisof, had balked at further appeasement.

Hardin seemed to follow his ambassador’s thoughts. “I would much rather never to have told you anything about this.”

“What makes you say that?” cried Verisof, in surprise.

“Because there are six people now – you and I, the other three ambassadors and Yohan Lee – who have a fair notion of what’s ahead; and I’m damned afraid that it was Seldon’s idea to have no one know.”

“Why so?”

“Because even Seldon’s advanced psychology was limited. It could not handle too many independent variables. He couldn’t work with individuals over any length of time; any more than you could apply kinetic theory of gases to single molecules. He worked with mobs, populations of whole planets, and only blind mobs who do not possess foreknowledge of the results of their own actions.”

“That’s not plain.”

“I can’t help it. I’m not psychologist enough to explain it scientifically. But this you know. There are no trained psychologists on Terminus and no mathematical texts on the science. It is plain that he wanted no one on Terminus capable of working out the future in advance. Seldon wanted us to proceed blindly – and therefore correctly – according to the law of mob psychology. As I once told you, I never knew where we were heading when I first drove out the Anacreonians. My idea had been to maintain balance of power, no more than that. It was only afterward that I thought I saw a pattern in events; but I’ve done my level best not to act on that knowledge. Interference due to foresight would have knocked the Plan out of kilter.”

Verisof nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard arguments almost as complicated in the Temples back on Anacreon. How do you expect to spot the fight moment of action?”

“It’s spotted already. You admit that once we repair the battle cruiser nothing will stop Wienis from attacking us. There will no longer be any alternative in that respect.”

“Yes

“All right. That accounts for the external aspect. Meanwhile, you’ll further admit that the next election will see a new and hostile Council that will force action against Anacreon. There is no alternative there.”

“Yes.”

“And as soon as all the alternatives disappear, the crisis has come. Just the same – I get worried.”

He paused, and Verisof waited. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hardin continued, “I’ve got the idea – just a notion – that the external and internal pressures were planned to come to a head simultaneously. As it is, there’s a few months difference. Wienis will probably attack before spring, and elections are still a year off.”

“That doesn’t sound important.”

“I don’t know. It may be due merely to unavoidable errors of calculation, or it might be due to the fact that I knew too much. I tried never to let my foresight influence my action, but how can I tell? And what effect will the discrepancy have? Anyway,” he looked up, “there’s one thing I’ve decided.”

“And what’s that?”

“When the crisis does begin to break, I’m going to Anacreon. I want to be on the spot ... Oh, that’s enough, Verisof. It’s getting late. Let’s go out and make a night of it. I want some relaxation.”

“Then get it right here,’ said Verisof. “I don’t want to be recognized, or you know what this new party your precious Councilmen are forming would say. Call for the brandy.”

And Hardin did – but not for too much.

3.

IN THE ANCIENT days when the Galactic Empire had embraced the Galaxy, and Anacreon had been the richest of the prefects of the Periphery, more than one emperor had visited the Viceregal Palace in state. And not one had left without at least one effort to pit his skill with air speedster and needle gun against the feathered flying fortress they call the Nyakbird.

The fame of Anacreon had withered to nothing with the decay of the times. The Viceregal Palace was a drafty mass of ruins except for the wing that Foundation workmen had restored. And no Emperor had been seen in Anacreon for two hundred years.

But Nyak hunting was still the royal sport and a good eye with the needle gun still the first requirement of Anacreon’s kings.

Lepold I, King of Anacreon and – as was invariably, but untruthfully added – Lord of the Outer Dominions, though not yet sixteen had already proved his skill many times over. He had brought down his first Nyak when scarcely thirteen; had brought down his tenth the week after his accession to the throne; and was returning now from his forty-sixth.

“Fifty before I come of age,” he had exulted. “Who’ll take the wager?”

But Courtiers don’t take wagers against the king’s skill. There is the deadly danger of winning. So no one did, and the king left to change his clothes in high spirits.

“Lepold!”

The king stopped mid-step at the one voice that could cause him to do so. He turned sulkily.

Wienis stood upon the threshold of his chambers and beetled at his young nephew.

“Send them away,” he motioned impatiently. “Get rid of them.”

The king nodded curtly and the two chamberlains bowed and backed down the stairs. Lepold entered his uncle’s room.

Wienis stared at the king’s hunting suit morosely. “You’ll have more important things to tend to than Nyak hunting soon enough.”

He turned his back and stumped to his desk. Since he had grown too old for the rush of air, the perilous dive within wing-beat of the Nyak, the roll and climb of the speedster at the motion of a foot, he had soured upon the whole sport.

Lepold appreciated his uncle’s sour-grapes attitude and it was not without malice that he began enthusiastically, “But you should have been with us today, uncle. We flushed one in the wilds of Sarnia that was a monster. And game as they come. We had it out for two hours over at least seventy square miles of ground. And then I got to Sunwards – he was motioning graphically, as though he were once more in his speedster –”and dived torque-wise. Caught him on the rise just under the left wing at quarters. It maddened him and he canted athwart. I took his dare and veered a-left, waiting for the plummet. Sure enough, down he came. He was within wing-beat before I moved and then –”

“Lepold!”

“Well!– I got him.”

“I’m sure you did. Now will you attend?”

The king shrugged and gravitated to the end table where he nibbled at a Lera nut in quite an unregal sulk. He did not dare to meet his uncle’s eyes.

Wienis said, by way of preamble, “I’ve been to the ship today.”

“What ship?”

“There is only one ship. The ship. The one the Foundation is repairing for the navy. The old Imperial cruiser. Do I make myself sufficiently plain?”

“That one? You see, I told you the Foundation would repair it if we asked them to. It’s all poppycock, you know, that story of yours about their wanting to attack us. Because if they did, why would they fix the ship? It doesn’t make sense, you know.”

“Lepold, you’re a fool!”

The king, who had just discarded the shell of the Lera nut and was lifting another to his lips, flushed.

“Well now, look here,” he said, with anger that scarcely rose above peevishness, “I don’t think you ought to call me that. You forget yourself. I’ll be of age in two months, you know.”

“Yes, and you’re in a fine position to assume regal responsibilities. If you spent half the time on public affairs that you do on Nyak hunting, I’d resign the regency directly with a clear conscience.”

“I don’t care. That has nothing to do with the case, you know. The fact is that even if you are the regent and my uncle, I’m still king and you’re still my subject. You oughtn’t to call me a fool and you oughtn’t to sit in my presence, anyway. You haven’t asked my permission. I think you ought to be careful, or I might do something about it pretty soon.”

Wienis’ gaze was cold. “May I refer to you as ‘your majesty’?”

“Yes.”

“Very well! You are a fool, your majesty!”

His dark eyes blazed from beneath his grizzled brows and the young king sat down slowly. For a moment, there was sardonic satisfaction in the regent’s face, but it faded quickly. His thick lips parted in a smile and one hand fell upon the king’s shoulder.

“Never mind, Lepold. I should not have spoken harshly to you. It is difficult sometimes to behave with true propriety when the pressure of events is such as – You understand?” But if the words were conciliatory, there was something in his eyes that had not softened.

Lepold said uncertainly, “Yes. Affairs of State are deuced difficult, you know.” He wondered, not without apprehension, whether he were not in for a dull siege of meaningless details on the year’s trade with Smyrno and the long, wrangling dispute over the sparsely settled worlds on the Red Corridor.

Wienis was speaking again. “My boy, I had thought to speak of this to you earlier, and perhaps I should have, but I know that your youthful spirits are impatient of the dry detail of statecraft.”

Lepold nodded. “Well, that’s all right–”

His uncle broke in firmly and continued, “However, you will come of age in two months. Moreover, in the difficult times that are coming, you will have to take a full and active part. You will be king henceforward, Lepold.”

Again Lepold nodded, but his expression was quite blank.

“There will be war, Lepold.”

“War! But there’s been truce with Smyrno–”

“Not Smyrno. The Foundation itself.”

“But, uncle, they’ve agreed to repair the ship. You said–”

His voice choked off at the twist of his uncle’s lip.

“Lepold” – some of the friendliness had gone –”we are to talk man to man. There is to be war with the Foundation, whether the ship is repaired or not; all the sooner, in fact, since it is being repaired. The Foundation is the source of power and might. All the greatness of Anacreon; all its ships and its cities and its people and its commerce depend on the dribbles and leavings of power that the Foundation have given us grudgingly. I remember the time – I, myself – when the cities of Anacreon were warmed by the burning of coal and oil. But never mind that; you would have no conception of it.”

“It seems,” suggested the king timidly, “that we ought to be grateful–”

“Grateful?” roared Wienis. “Grateful that they begrudge us the merest dregs, while keeping space knows what for themselves – and keeping it with what purpose in mind? Why, only that they may some day rule the Galaxy.”

His hand came down on his nephew’s knee, and his eyes narrowed. “Lepold, you are king of Anacreon. Your children and your children’s children may be kings of the universe – if you have the power that the Foundation is keeping from us!”

“There’s something in that.” Lepold’s eyes gained a sparkle and his back straightened. “After all, what right have they to keep it to themselves? Not fair, you know. Anacreon counts for something, too.”

“You see, you’re beginning to understand. And now, my boy, what if Smyrno decides to attack the Foundation for its own part and thus gains all that power? How long do you suppose we could escape becoming a vassal power? How long would you hold your throne?”

Lepold grew excited. “Space, yes. You’re absolutely right, you know. We must strike first. It’s simply self-defense.”

Wienis’ smile broadened slightly. “Furthermore, once, at the very beginning of the reign of your grandfather, Anacreon actually established a military base on the Foundation’s planet, Terminus – a base vitally needed for national defense. We were forced to abandon that base as a result of the machinations of the leader of that Foundation, a sly cur, a scholar, with not a drop of noble blood in his veins. You understand, Lepold? Your grandfather was humiliated by this commoner. I remember him! He was scarcely older than myself when he came to Anacreon with his devil’s smile and devil’s brain – and the power of the other three kingdoms behind him, combined in cowardly union against the greatness of Anacreon.”

Lepold flushed and the sparkle in his eyes blazed. “By Seldon, if I had been my grandfather, I would have fought even so.”

“No, Lepold. We decided to wait – to wipe out the insult at a fitter time. It had been your father’s hope, before his untimely death, that he might be the one to – Well, well!” Wienis turned away for a moment. Then, as if stifling emotion, “He was my brother. And yet, if his son were–”

“Yes, uncle, I’ll not fail him. I have decided. It seems only proper that Anacreon wipe out this nest of troublemakers, and that immediately.”

“No, not immediately. First, we must wait for the repairs of the battle cruiser to be completed. The mere fact that they are willing to undertake these repairs proves that they fear us. The fools attempt to placate us, but we are not to be turned from our path, are we?”

And Lepold’s fist slammed against his cupped palm.

“Not while I am king in Anacreon.”

Wienis’ lip twitched sardonically. “Besides which we must wait for Salvor Hardin to arrive.”

“Salvor Hardin!” The king grew suddenly round-eyed, and the youthful contour of his beardless face lost the almost hard lines into which they had been compressed.

“Yes, Lepold, the leader of the Foundation himself is coming to Anacreon on your birthday – probably to soothe us with buttered words. But it won’t help him.”

“Salvor Hardin!” It was the merest murmur.

Wienis frowned. “Are you afraid of the name? It is the same Salvor Hardin, who on his previous visit, ground ournoses into the dust. You’re not forgetting that deadly insult to the royal house? And from a commoner. The dregs of the gutter.”

“No. I guess not. No, I won’t. I won’t! We’ll pay him back – but...but – I’m afraid – a little.”

The regent rose. “Afraid? Of what? Of what, you young–” He choked off.

“It would be...uh...sort of blasphemous, you know, to attack the Foundation. I mean–” He paused.

“Go on.”

Lepold said confusedly, “I mean, if there were really a Galactic Spirit, he...uh...it mightn’t like it. Don’t you think?

“No, I don’t,” was the hard answer. Wienis sat down again and his lips twisted in a queer smile. “And so you really bother your head a great deal over the Galactic Spirit, do you? That’s what comes of letting you run wild. You’ve been listening to Verisof quite a bit, I take it.”

“He’s explained a great deal–”

“About the Galactic Spirit?”

“Yes.”

“Why, you unweaned cub, he believes in that mummery a good deal less than I do, and I don’t believe in it at all. How many times have you been told that all this talk is nonsense?”

“Well, I know that. But Verisof says–”

“Pay no heed to Verisof. It’s nonsense.”

There was a short, rebellious silence, and then Lepold said, “Everyone believes it just the same. I mean all this talk about the Prophet Hari Seldon and how he appointed the Foundation to carry on his commandments that there might some day be a return of the Galactic Paradise: and how anyone who disobeys his commandments will be destroyed for eternity. They believe it. I’ve presided at festivals, and I’m sure they do.”

“Yes, they do; but we don’t. And you may be thankful it’s so, for according to this foolishness, you are king by divine right – and are semi-divine yourself. Very handy. It eliminates all possibilities of revolts and insures absolute obedience in everything. And that is why, Lepold, you must take an active part in ordering the war against the Foundation. I am only regent, and quite human. You are king, and more than half a god – to them.”

“But I suppose I’m not really,” said the king reflectively.

“No, not really,” came the sardonic response, “but you are to everyone but the people of the Foundation. Get that? To everyone but those of the Foundation. Once they are removed there will be no one to deny you the godhead. Think of that!”

“And after that we will ourselves be able to operate the power boxes of the temples and the ships that fly without men and the holy food that cures cancer and all the rest? Verisof said only those blessed with the Galactic Spirit could–”

“Yes, Verisof said! Verisof, next to Salvor Hardin, is your greatest enemy. Stay with me, Lepold, and don’t worry about them. Together we will recreate an empire-not just the kingdom of Anacreon-but one comprising every one of the billions of suns of the Empire. Is that better than a wordy ‘Galactic Paradise’?”

“Ye-es.”

“Can Verisof promise more?”

“No.”

“Very well.” His voice became peremptory. “I suppose we may consider the matter settled.” He waited for no answer. “Get along. I’ll be down later. And just one thing, Lepold.”

The young king turned on the threshold.

Wienis was smiling with all but his eyes. “Be careful on these Nyak hunts, my boy. Since the unfortunate accident to your father, I have had the strangest presentiments concerning you, at times. In the confusion, with needle guns thickening the air with darts, one can never tell. You will be careful, I hope. And you’ll do as I say about the Foundation, won’t you?”

Lepold’s eyes widened and dropped away from those of his uncle. “Yes – certainly.”

“Good!” He stared after his departing nephew, expressionlessly, and returned to his desk.

And Lepold’s thoughts as he left were somber and not unfearful. Perhaps it would be best to defeat the Foundation and gain the power Wienis spoke of. But afterward, when the war was over and he was secure on his throne– He became acutely conscious of the fact that Wienis and his two arrogant sons were at present next in line to the throne.

But he was king. And kings could order people executed.

Even uncles and cousins.

4.

NEXT TO SERMAK himself, Lewis Bort was the most active in rallying those dissident elements which had fused into the now-vociferous Action Party. Yet he had not been one of the deputation that had called on Salvor Hardin almost half a year previously. That this was so was not due to any lack of recognition of his efforts; quite the contrary. He was absent for the very good reason that he was on Anacreon’s capital world at the time.

He visited it as a private citizen. He saw no official and he did nothing of importance. He merely watched the obscure comers of the busy planet and poked his stubby nose into dusty crannies.

He arrived home toward the end of a short winter day that had started with clouds and was finishing with snow and within an hour was seated at the octagonal table in Sermak’s home.

His first words were not calculated to improve the atmosphere of a gathering already considerably depressed by the deepening snow-filled twilight outside..

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that our position is what is usually termed, in melodramatic phraseology, a ‘Lost Cause.’”

“You think so?” said Sermak, gloomily.

“It’s gone past thought, Sermak. There’s no room for any other opinion.”

“Armaments–” began Dokor Walto, somewhat officiously, but Bort broke in at once.

“Forget that. That’s an old story.” His eyes traveled round the circle. “I’m referring to the people. I admit that it was my idea originally that we attempt to foster a palace rebellion of some sort to install as king someone more favorable to the Foundation. It was a good idea. It still is. The only trifling flaw about it is that it is impossible. The great Salvor Hardin saw to that.”

Sermak said sourly, “If you’d give us the details, Bort–”

“Details! There aren’t any! It isn’t as simple as that. It’s the whole damned situation on Anacreon. It’s this religion the Foundation has established. It works!”

“Well!”

“You’ve got to see it work to appreciate it. All you see here is that we have a large school devoted to the training of priests, and that occasionally a special show is put on in some obscure comer of the city for the benefit of pilgrims and that’s all. The whole business hardly affects us as a general thing. But on Anacreon–”

Lem Tarki smoothed his prim little Vandyke with one finger, and cleared his throat. “What kind of religion is it? Hardin’s always said that it was just a fluffy flummery to get them to accept our science without question. You remember, Sermak, he told us that day–”

“Hardin’s explanations,” reminded Sermak, “don’t often mean much at face value. But what kind of a religion is it, Bort?”

Bort considered. “Ethically, it’s fine. It scarcely varies from the various philosophies of the old Empire. High moral standards and all that. There’s nothing to complain about from that viewpoint. Religion is one of the great civilizing influences of history and in that respect, it’s fulfilling–”

“We know that,” interrupted Sermak, impatiently. “Get to the point.”

“Here it is.” Bort was a trifle disconcerted, but didn’t show it. “The religion – which the Foundation has fostered and encouraged, mind you – is built on on strictly authoritarian lines. The priesthood has sole control of the instruments of science we have given Anacreon, but they’ve learned to handle these tools only empirically. They believe in this religion entirely, and in the ... uh ... spiritual value of the power they handle. For instance, two months ago some fool tampered with the power plant in the Thessalekian Temple – one of the large ones. He contaminated the city, of course. It was considered divine vengeance by everyone, including the priests.”

“I remember. The papers had some garbled version of the story at the time. I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

“Then, listen,” said Bort, stiffly. “The priesthood forms a hierarchy at the apex of which is the king, who is regarded as a sort of minor god. He’s an absolute monarch by divine right, and the people believe it, thoroughly, and the priests, too. You can’t overthrow a king like that. Now do you get the point?”

“Hold on,” said Walto, at this point. “What did you mean when you said Hardin’s done all this? How does he come in?”

Bort glanced at his questioner bitterly. “The Foundation has fostered this delusion assiduously. We’ve put all our scientific backing behind the hoax. There isn’t a festival at which the king does not preside surrounded by a radioactive aura shining forth all over his body and raising itself like a coronet above his head. Anyone touching him is severely burned. He can move from place to place through the air at crucial moments, supposedly by inspiration of divine spirit. He fills the temple with a pearly, internal light at a gesture. There is no end to these quite simple tricks that we perform for his benefit; but even the priests believe them, while working them personally.”

“Bad!” said Sermak, biting his lip.

“I could cry – like the fountain in City Hall Park,” said Bort, earnestly, “when I think of the chance we muffed. Take the situation thirty years ago, when Hardin saved the Foundation from Anacreon – At that time, the Anacreonian people had no real conception of the fact that the Empire was running down. They had been more or less running their own affairs since the Zeonian revolt, but even after communications broke down and Lepold’s pirate of a grandfather made himself king, they never quite realized the Empire had gone kaput.

“If the Emperor had had the nerve to try, he could have taken over again with two cruisers and with the help of the internal revolt that would have certainly sprung to life. And we we could have done the same; but no, Hardin established monarch worship. Personally, I don’t understand it. Why? Why? Why?”

“What,” demanded Jaim Orsy, suddenly, “does Verisof do? There was a day when he was an advanced Actionist. What’s he doing there? Is he blind, too?”

“I don’t know,” said Bort, curtly. “He’s high priest to them. As far as I know, he does nothing but act as adviser to the priesthood on technical details. Figurehead, blast him, figurehead!”

There was silence all round and all eyes turned to Sermak. The young party leader was biting a fingernail nervously, and then said loudly, “No good. It’s fishy!”

He looked around him, and added more energetically, “Is Hardin then such a fool?”

“Seems to be,” shrugged Bort.

“Never! There’s something wrong. To cut our own throats so thoroughly and so hopelessly would require colossal stupidity. More than Hardin could possibly have even if he were a fool, which I deny. On the one hand, to establish a religion that would wipe out all chance of internal troubles. On the other hand, to arm Anacreon with all weapons of warfare. I don’t see it.”

“The matter is a little obscure, I admit,” said Bort, “but the facts are there. What else can we think?”

Walto said, jerkily, “Outright treason. He’s in their pay.”

But Sermak shook his head impatiently. “I don’t see that, either. The whole affair is as insane and meaningless – Tell me, Bort, have you heard anything about a battle cruiser that the Foundation is supposed to have put into shape for use in the Anacreon navy?”

“Battle cruiser?”

“An old Imperial cruiser–”

“No, I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean much. The navy yards are religious sanctuaries completely inviolate on the part of the lay public. No one ever hears anything about the fleet.

“Well, rumors have leaked out. Some of the Party have brought the matter up in Council. Hardin never denied it, you know. His spokesmen denounced rumor mongers and let it go at that. It might have significance.”

“It’s of a piece with the rest,” said Bort. “if true, it’s absolutely crazy. But it wouldn’t be worse than the rest.”

“I suppose,” said Orsy, “Hardin hasn’t any secret weapon waiting. That might–”

“Yes,” said Sermak, viciously, “a huge jack-in-the-box that will jump out at the psychological moment and scare old Wienis into fits. The Foundation may as well blow itself out of existence and save itself the agony of suspense if it has to depend on any secret weapon.”

“Well,” said Orsy, changing the subject hurriedly, “the question comes down to this: How much time have we left? Eli, Bort?”

“All fight. It is the question. But don’t look at me; I don’t know. The Anacreonian press never mentions the Foundation at all. Right now, it’s full of the approaching celebrations and nothing else. Lepold is coming of age next week, you know.”

“We have months then.” Walto smiled for the first time that evening. “That gives us time–”

“That gives us time, my foot,” ground out Bort, impatiently. “The king’s a god, I tell you. Do you suppose he has to carry on a campaign of propaganda to get his people into fighting spirit? Do you suppose he has to accuse us of aggression and pull out all stops on cheap emotionalism? When the time comes to strike, Lepold gives the order and the people fight. Just like that. That’s the damnedness of the system. You don’t question a god. He may give the order tomorrow for all I know; and you can wrap tobacco round that and smoke it.”

Everyone tried to talk at once and Sermak was slamming the table for silence, when the front door opened and Levi Norast stamped in. He bounded up the stairs, overcoat on, trailing snow.

“Look at that!” he cried, tossing a cold, snow-speckled newspaper onto the table. “The visicasters are full of it, too.”

The newspaper was unfolded and five heads bent over it.

Sermak said, in a hushed voice, “Great Space, he’s going to Anacreon! Going to Anacreon!”

“It is treason,” squeaked Tarki, in sudden excitement. “I’ll be damned if Walto isn’t right. He’s sold us out and now he’s going there to collect his wage.”

Sermak had risen. “We’ve no choice now. I’m going to ask the Council tomorrow that Hardin be impeached. And if that fails–”

5.

THE SNOW HAD ceased, but it caked the ground deeply now and the sleek ground car advanced through the deserted streets with lumbering effort. The murky gray light of incipient dawn was cold not only in the poetical sense but also in a very literal way – and even in the then turbulent state of the Foundation’s politics, no one, whether Actionist or pro-Hardin found his spirits sufficiently ardent to begin street activity that early.

Yohan Lee did not like that and his grumblings grew audible. “It’s going to look bad, Hardin. They’re going to say you sneaked away.”

“Let them say it if they wish. I’ve got to get to Anacreon and I want to do it without trouble. Now that’s enough, Lee.”

Hardin leaned back into the cushioned seat and shivered slightly. It wasn’t cold inside the well-heated car, but there was something frigid about a snow-covered world, even through glass, that annoyed him.

He said, reflectively, “Some day when we get around to it we ought to weather-condition Terminus. It could be done.”

“I,” replied Lee, “would like to see a few other things done first. For instance, what about weather-conditioning Sermak? A nice, dry cell fitted for twenty-five centigrade all year round would be just fight.”

“And then I’d really need bodyguards,” said Hardin, “and not just those two,” He indicated two of Lee’s bully-boys sitting up front with the driver, hard eyes on the empty streets, ready hands at their atom blasts. “You evidently want to stir up civil war.”

“I do? There are other sticks in the fire and it won’t require much stirring, I can tell you.” He counted off on blunt fingers, “One: Sermak raised hell yesterday in the City Council and called for an impeachment.”

“He had a perfect right to do so,” responded Hardin, coolly. “Besides which, his motion was defeated 206 to 184.”

“Certainly. A majority of twenty-two when we had counted on sixty as a minimum. Don’t deny it; you know you did.”

“It was close,” admitted Hardin.

“All right. And two; after the vote, the fifty-nine members of the Actionist Party reared upon their hind legs and stamped out of the Council Chambers.”

Hardin was silent, and Lee continued, “And three: Before leaving, Sermak howled that you were a traitor, that you were going to Anacreon to collect your payment, that the Chamber majority in refusing to vote impeachment had participated in the treason, and that the name of their party was not ‘Actionist’ for nothing. What does that sound like?”

“Trouble, I suppose.”

“And now you’re chasing off at daybreak, like a criminal. You ought to face them, Hardin – and if you have to, declare martial law, by space!”

“Violence is the last refuge–”

“–Of the incompetent. Bah!”

“All right. We’ll see. Now listen to me carefully, Lee. Thirty years ago, the Time Vault opened, and on the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of the Foundation, there appeared a Hari Seldon recording to give us our first idea of what was really going on.”

“I remember,” Lee nodded reminiscently, with a half smile. “It was the day we took over the government.”

“That’s right. It was the time of our first major crisis. This is our second-and three weeks from today will be the eightieth anniversary of the beginning of the Foundation. Does that strike you as in any way significant?”

“You mean he’s coming again?”

“I’m not finished. Seldon never said anything about returning, you understand, but that’s of a piece with his whole plan. He’s always done his best to keep all foreknowledge from us. Nor is there any way of telling whether the computer is set for further openings short of dismantling the Vault – and it’s probably set to destroy itself if we were to try that. I’ve been there every anniversary since the first appearance, just on the chance. He’s never shown up, but this is the first time since then that there’s really been a crisis.”

“Then he’ll come.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. However, this is the point. At today’s session of the Council, just after you announce that I have left for Anacreon, you will further announce, officially, that on March 14th next, there will be another Hari Seldon recording, containing a message of the utmost importance regarding the recent successfully concluded crisis. That’s very important, Lee. Don’t add anything more no matter how many questions are asked.”

Lee stared. “Will they believe it?”

“That doesn’t matter. It will confuse them, which is all I want. Between wondering whether it is true and what I mean by it if it isn’t – they’ll decide to postpone action till after March 14th. I’ll be back considerably before then.”

Lee looked uncertain. “But that ‘successfully concluded.’ That’s bull!”

“Highly confusing bull. Here’s the airport!”

The waiting spaceship bulked somberly in the dimness. Hardin stamped through the snow toward it and at the open air lock turned about with outstretched hand.

“Good-by, Lee. I hate to leave you in the frying pan like this, but there’s not another I can trust. Now please keep out of the fire.”

“Don’t worry. The frying pan is hot enough. I’ll follow orders.” He stepped back, and the air lock closed.

6.

SALVOR HARDIN DID not travel to the planet Anacreon – from which planet the kingdom derived its name – immediately. It was only on the day before the coronation that he arrived, after having made flying visits to eight of the larger stellar systems of the kingdom, stopping only long, enough to confer with the local representatives of the Foundation.

The trip left him with an oppressive realization of the vastness of the kingdom. It was a little splinter, an insignificant fly speck compared to the inconceivable reaches of the Galactic Empire of which it had once formed so distinguished a part; but to one whose habits of thought had been built around a single planet, and a sparsely settled one at that, Anacreon’s size in area and population was staggering.

Following closely the boundaries of the old Prefect of Anacreon, it embraced twenty-five stellar systems, six of which included more than one inhabited world. The population of nineteen billion, though still far less than it had been in the Empire’s heyday was rising rapidly with the increasing scientific development fostered by the Foundation.

And it was only now that Hardin found himself floored by the magnitude of that task. Even in thirty years, only the capital world had been powered. The outer provinces still possessed immense stretches where nuclear power had not yet been re-introduced. Even the progress that had been made might have been impossible had it not been for the still workable relics left over by the ebbing tide of Empire.

When Hardin did arrive at the capital world, it was to find all normal business at an absolute standstill. In the outer provinces there had been and still were celebrations; but here on the planet Anacreon, not a person but took feverish part in the hectic religious pageantry that heralded the coming-of-age of their god-king, Lepold.

Hardin had been able to snatch only half an hour from a haggard and harried Verisof before his ambassador was forced to rush off to supervise still another temple festival. But the half-hour was a most profitable one, and Hardin prepared himself for the night’s fireworks well satisfied.

In all, he acted as an observer, for he had no stomach for the religious tasks he would undoubtedly have had to undertake if his identity became known. So, when the palace’s ballroom filled itself with a glittering horde of the kingdom’s very highest and most exalted nobility, he found himself hugging the wall, little noticed or totally ignored.

He had been introduced to Lepold as one of a long line of introducees, and from a safe distance, for the king stood apart in lonely and impressive grandeur, surrounded by his deadly blaze of radioactive aura. And in less than an hour this same king would take his seat upon the massive throne of rhodium-iridium alloy with jewel-set gold chasings, and then, throne and all would rise maestically into the air, skim the ground slowly to hover before the great window from which the great crowds of common folk could see their king and shout themselves into near apoplexy. The throne would not have been so massive, of course, if it had not had a shielded nuclear motor built into it.

It was past eleven. Hardin fidgeted and stood on his toes to better his view. He resisted an impulse to stand on a chair. And then he saw Wienis threading through the crowd toward him and he relaxed.

Wienis’ progress was slow. At almost every step, he had to pass a kindly sentence with some revered noble whose grandfather had helped Lepold’s grandfather brigandize the kingdom and had received a dukedom therefor.

And then he disentangled himself from the last uniformed peer and reached Hardin. His smile crooked itself into a smirk and his black eyes peered from under grizzled brows with glints of satisfaction in them.

“My dear Hardin,” he said, in a low voice, “you must expect to be bored, when you refuse to announce your identity.”

“I am not bored, your highness. This is all extremely interesting. We have no comparable spectacles on Terminus, you know.”

“No doubt. But would you care to step into my private chambers, where we can speak at greater length and with considerably more privacy?”

“Certainly.”

With arms linked, the two ascended the staircase, and more than one dowager duchess stared after them in surprise and wondered at the identity of this insignificantly dressed and uninteresting-looking stranger on whom such signal honor was being conferred by the prince regent.

In Wienis’ chambers, Hardin relaxed in perfect comfort and accepted with a murmur of gratitude the glass of liquor that had been poured out by the regent’s own hand.

“Locris wine, Hardin,” said Wienis, “from the royal cellars. The real thing – two centuries in age. It was laid down ten years before the Zeonian Rebellion.”

“A really royal drink,” agreed Hardin, politely. “To Lepold I, King of Anacreon.”

They drank, and Wienis added blandly, at the pause, “And soon to be Emperor of the Periphery, and further, who knows? The Galaxy may some day be reunited.”

“Undoubtedly. By Anacreon?”

“Why not? With the help of the Foundation, our scientific superiority over the rest of the Periphery would be undisputable.”

Hardin set his empty glass down and said, “Well, yes, except that, of course, the Foundation is bound to help any nation that requests scientific aid of it. Due to the high idealism of our government and the great moral purpose of our founder, Hari Seldon, we are unable to play favorites. That can’t be helped, your highness.”

Wienis’ smile broadened. “The Galactic Spirit, to use the popular cant, helps those who help themselves. I quite understand that, left to itself, the Foundation would never cooperate.”

“I wouldn’t say that. We repaired the Imperial cruiser for you, though my board of navigation wished it for themselves for research purposes.”

The regent repeated the last words ironically. “Research purposes! Yes! Yet you would not have repaired it, had I not threatened war.”

Hardin made a deprecatory gesture. “I don’t know.”

“I do. And that threat always stood.”

“And still stands now?”

“Now it is rather too late to speak of threats.” Wienis had cast a rapid glance at the clock on his desk. “Look here, Hardin, you were on Anacreon once before. You were young then; we were both young. But even then we had entirely different ways of looking at things. You’re what they call a man of peace, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am. At least, I consider violence an uneconomical way of attaining an end. There are always better substitutes, though they may sometimes be a little less direct.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of your famous remark: ‘Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.’ And yet” – the regent scratched one ear gently in affected abstraction –”I wouldn’t call myself exactly incompetent.”

Hardin nodded politely and said nothing.

“And in spite of that,” Wienis continued, “I have always believed in direct action. I have believed in carving a straight path to my objective and following that path. I have accomplished much that way, and fully expect to accomplish still more.”

“I know,” interrupted Hardin. “I believe you are carving a path such as you describe for yourself and your children that leads directly to the throne, considering the late unfortunate death of the king’s father – your elder brother and the king’s own precarious state of health. He is in a precarious state of health, is he not?”

Wienis frowned at the shot, and his voice grew harder. “You might find it advisable, Hardin, to avoid certain subjects. You may consider yourself privileged as mayor of Terminus to make ... uh ... injudicious remarks, but if you do, please disabuse yourself of the notion. I am not one to be frightened at words. It has been my philosophy of life that difficulties vanish when faced boldly, and I have never turned my back upon one yet.”

“I don’t doubt that. What particular difficulty are you refusing to turn your back upon at the present moment?”

“The difficulty, Hardin, of persuading the Foundation to co-operate. Your policy of peace, you see, has led you into making several very serious mistakes, simply because you underestimated the boldness of your adversary. Not everyone is as afraid of direct action as you are.”

“For instance?” suggested Hardin.

“For instance, you came to Anacreon alone and accompanied me to my chambers alone.”

Hardin looked about him. “And what is wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” said the regent, “except that outside this room are five police guards, well armed and ready to shoot. I don’t think you can leave, Hardin.”

The mayor’s eyebrows lifted, “I have no immediate desire to leave. Do you then fear me so much?”

“I don’t fear you at all. But this may serve to impress you with my determination. Shall we call it a gesture?”

“Call it what you please,” said Hardin, indifferently. “I shall not discommode myself over the incident, whatever you choose to call it.”

“I’m sure that attitude will change with time. But you have made another error, Hardin, a more serious one. It seems that the planet Terminus is almost wholly undefended.”

“Naturally. What have we to fear? We threaten no one’s interest and serve all alike.”

“And while remaining helpless,” Wienis went on, “you kindly helped us to arm ourselves, aiding us particularly in the development of a navy of our own, a great navy. In fact, a navy which, since your donation of the Imperial cruiser, is quite irresistible.”

“Your highness, you are wasting time.” Hardin made as if to rise from his seat. “If you mean to declare war, and are informing me of the fact, you will allow me to communicate with my government at once.”

“Sit down, Hardin. I am not declaring war, and you are not communicating with your government at all. When the war is fought – not declared, Hardin, fought – the Foundation will be informed of it in due time by the nuclear blasts of the Anacreonian navy under the lead of my own son upon the flagship, Wienis, once a cruiser of the Imperial navy.”

Hardin frowned. “When will all this happen?”

“If you’re really interested, the ships of the fleet left Anacreon exactly fifty minutes ago, at eleven, and the first shot will be fired as soon as they sight Terminus, which should be at noon tomorrow. You may consider yourself a prisoner of war.”

“That’s exactly what I do consider myself, your highness,” said Hardin, still frowning. “But I’m disappointed.”

Wienis chuckled contemptuously. “Is that all?”

“Yes. I had thought that the moment of coronation – midnight, you know – would be the logical time to set the fleet in motion. Evidently, you wanted to start the war while you were still regent. It would have been more dramatic the other way.”

The regent stared. “What in Space are you talking about?”

“Don’t you understand?” said Hardin, softly. “I had set my counterstroke for midnight.”

Wienis started from his chair. “You are not bluffing me. There is no counterstroke. If you are counting on the support of the other kingdoms, forget it. Their navies, combined, are no match for ours.”

“I know that. I don’t intend firing a shot. It is simply that the word went out a week ago that at midnight tonight, the planet Anacreon goes under the interdict.”

“The interdict?”

“Yes. If you don’t understand, I might explain that every priest in Anacreon is going on strike, unless I countermand the order. But I can’t while I’m being held incommunicado; nor do I wish to even if I weren’t!” He leaned forward and added, with sudden animation, “Do you realize, your highness, that an attack on the Foundation is nothing short of sacrilege of the highest order?”

Wienis was groping visibly for self-control. “Give me none of that, Hardin. Save it for the mob.”

“My dear Wienis, whoever do you think I am saving it for? I imagine that for the last half hour every temple on Anacreon has been the center of a mob listening to a priest exhorting them upon that very subject. There’s not a man or woman on Anacreon that doesn’t know that their government has launched a vicious, unprovoked attack upon the center of their religion. But it lacks only four minutes of midnight now. You’d better go down to the ballroom to watch events. I’ll be safe here with five guards outside the door.” He leaned back in his chair, helped himself to another glass of Locris wine, and gazed at the ceiling with perfect indifference.

Wienis suddenly furious, rushed out of the room.

A hush had fallen over the elite in the ballroom, as a broad path was cleared for the throne. Lepold sat on it now, hands solidly on its arms, head high, face frozen. The huge chandeliers had dimmed and in the diffused multi-colored light from the tiny nucleo-bulbs that bespangled the vaulted ceiling, the royal aura shone out bravely, lifting high above his head to form a blazing coronet.

Wienis paused on the stairway. No one saw him; all eyes were on the throne. He clenched his fists and remained where he was; Hardin would not bluff him into action.

And then the throne stiffed. Noiselessly, it lifted upward – and drifted. Off the dais, slowly down the steps, and then horizontally, five centimetres off the floor, it worked itself toward the huge, open window.

At the sound of the deep-toned bell that signified midnight, it stopped before the window – and the king’s aura died.

For a frozen split second, the king did not move, face twisted in surprise, without an aura, merely human; and then the throne wobbled and dropped to the floor with a crashing thump, just as every light in the palace went out.

Through the shrieking din and confusion, Wienis’ bull voice sounded. “Get the flares! Get the flares!”

He buffeted right and left through the crowd and forced his way to the door. From without, palace guards had streamed into the darkness.

Somehow the flares were brought back to the ballroom; flares that were to have been used in the gigantic torchlight procession through the streets of the city after the coronation.

Back to the ballroom guardsmen swarmed with torches – blue, green, and red; where the strange light lit up frightened, confused faces.

“There is no harm done,” shouted Wienis. “Keep your places. Power will return in a moment.”

He turned to the captain of the guard who stood stiffly at attention. “What is it, Captain?”

“Your highness,” was the instant response, “the palace is surrounded by the people of the city.”

“What do they want?” snarled Wienis.

“A priest is at the head. He has been identified as High Priest Poly Verisof. He demands the immediate release of Mayor Salvor Hardin and cessation of the war against the Foundation.” The report was made in the expressionless tones of an officer, but his eyes shifted uneasily.

Wienis cried, “if any of the rabble attempt to pass the palace gates, blast them out of existence. For the moment, nothing more. Let them howl! There will be an accounting tomorrow.”

The torches had been distributed now, and the ballroom was again alight. Wienis rushed to the throne, still standing by the window, and dragged the stricken, wax-faced Lepold to his feet.

“Come with me.” He cast one look out of the window. The city was pitch-black. From below there were the hoarse confused cries of the mob. Only toward the fight, where the Argolid Temple stood was there illumination. He swore angrily, and dragged the king away.

Wienis burst into his chambers, the five guardsmen at his heels. Lepold followed, wide-eyed, scared speechless.

“Hardin,” said Wienis, huskily, “you are playing with forces too great for you.”

The mayor ignored the speaker. In the pearly light of the pocket nucleo-bulb at his side, he remained quietly seated, a slightly ironic smile on his face.

“Good morning, your majesty,” he said to Lepold. “I congratulate you on your coronation.”

“Hardin,” cried Wienis again, “order your priests back to their jobs.”

Hardin looked up coolly. “Order them yourself, Wienis, and see who is playing with forces too great for whom. Right now, there’s not a wheel turning in Anacreon. There’s not a light burning, except in the temples. There’s not a drop of water running, except in the temples. On the wintry half of the planet, there’s not a calorie of heat, except in the temples. The hospitals are taking in no more patients. The power plants have shut down. All ships are grounded. If you don’t like it, Wienis, you can order the priests back to their jobs. I don’t wish to.”

“By Space, Hardin, I will. If it’s to be a showdown, so be it. We’ll see if your priests can withstand the army. Tonight, every temple on the planet will be put under army supervision.”

“Very good, but how are you going to give the orders? Every line of communication on the planet is shut down. You’ll find that neither wave nor hyperwave will work. In fact, the only communicator of the planet that will work – outside of the temples, of course – is the televisor right here in this room, and I’ve fitted it only for reception.”

Wienis struggled vainly for breath, and Hardin continued, “If you wish you can order your army into the Argolid Temple just outside the palace and then use the ultrawave sets there to contact other portions of the planet. But if you do that, I’m afraid the army contigent will be cut to pieces by the mob, and then what will protect your palace, Wienis? And your lives, Wienis?”

Wienis said thickly, “We can hold out, devil. We’ll last the day. Let the mob howl and let the power die, but we’ll hold out. And when the news comes back that the Foundation has been taken, your precious mob will find upon what vacuum their religion has been built, and they’ll desert your priests and turn against them. I give you until noon tomorrow, Hardin, because you can stop the power on Anacreon but you can’t stop my fleet.” His voice croaked exultantly. “They’re on their way, Hardin, with the great cruiser you yourself ordered repaired, at the head.”

Hardin replied lightly. “Yes, the cruiser I myself ordered repaired – but in my own way. Tell me, Wienis, have you ever heard of a hyperwave relay? No, I see you haven’t. Well, in about two minutes you’ll find out what one can do.”

The televisor flashed to life as he spoke, and he amended, “No, in two seconds. Sit down, Wienis. and listen.”

7.

THEO APORAT WAS one of the very highest ranking priests of Anacreon. From the standpoint of precedence alone, he deserved his appointment as head priest- attendant upon the flagship Wienis.

But it was not only rank or precedence. He knew the ship. He had worked directly under the holy men from the Foundation itself in repairing the ship. He had gone over the motors under their orders. He had rewired the ‘visors; revamped the communications system; replated the punctured hull; reinforced the beams. He had even been permitted to help while the wise men of the Foundation had installed a device so holy it had never been placed in any previous ship, but had been reserved only for this magnificent colossus of a vessel – a hyperwave relay.

It was no wonder that he felt heartsick over the purposes to which the glorious ship was perverted. He had never wanted to believe what Verisof had told him – that the ship was to be used for appalling wickedness; that its guns were to be turned on the great Foundation. Turned on that Foundation, where he had been trained as a youth, from which all blessedness was derived.

Yet he could not doubt now, after what the admiral had told him.

How could the king, divinely blessed, allow this abominable act? Or was it the king? Was it not, perhaps, an action of the accursed regent, Wienis, without the knowledge of the king at all. And it was the son of this same Wienis that was the admiral who five minutes before had told him:

“Attend to your souls and your blessings, priest. I will attend to my ship.”

Aporat smiled crookedly. He would attend to his souls and his blessings – and also to his cursings; and Prince Lefkin would whine soon enough.

He had entered the general communications room now. His. acolyte preceded him and the two officers in charge made no move to interfere. The head priest-attendant had the right of free entry anywhere on the ship.

“Close the door,” Aporat ordered, and looked at the chronometer. It lacked Five minutes of twelve. He had timed it well.

With quick practiced motions, he moved the little levers that opened all communications, so that every part of the two-mile-long ship was within reach of his voice and his image.

“Soldiers of the royal flagship Wienis, attend! It is your priest-attendant that speaks!” The sound of his voice reverberated, he knew, from the stem atom blast in the extreme rear to the navigation tables in the prow.

“Your ship,” he cried, “is engaged in sacrilege. Without your knowledge, it is performing such an act as will doom the soul of every man among you to the eternal frigidity of space! Listen! It is the intention of your commander to take this ship to the Foundation and there to bombard that source of all blessings into submission to his sinful will. And since that is his intention, I, in the name of the Galactic Spirit, remove him from his command, for there is no command where the blessing of the Galactic Spirit has been withdrawn. The divine king himself may not maintain his kingship without the consent of the Spirit.”

His voice took on a deeper tone, while the acolyte listened with veneration and the two soldiers with mounting fear. “And because this ship is upon such a devil’s errand, the blessing of the Spirit is removed from it as well.”

He lifted his arms solemnly, and before a thousand televisors throughout the ship, soldiers cowered, as the stately image of their priest-attendant spoke:

“In the name of the Galactic Spirit and of his prophet, Hari Seldon, and of his interpreters, the holy men of the Foundation, I curse this ship. Let the televisors of this ship, which are its eyes, become blind. Let its grapples, which are its arms, be paralyzed. Let the nuclear blasts, which are its fists, lose their function. Let the motors, which are its heart, cease to beat. Let the communications, which are its voice, become dumb. Let its ventilations, which are its breath, fade. Let its lights, which are its soul, shrivel into nothing. In the name of the Galactic Spirit, I so curse this ship.”

And with his last word, at the stroke of midnight, a hand, light-years distant in the Argolid Temple, opened an ultrawave relay, which at the instantaneous speed of the ultrawave, opened another on the flagship Wienis.

And the ship died!

For it is the chief characteristic of the religion of science that it works, and that such curses as that of Aporat’s are really deadly.

Aporat saw the darkness close down on the ship and heard the sudden ceasing of the soft, distant purring of the hyperatomic motors. He exulted and from the pocket of his long robe withdrew a self-powered nucleo-bulb that filled the room with pearly light.

He looked down at the two soldiers who, brave men though they undoubtedly were, writhed on their knees in the last extremity of mortal terror. “Save our souls, your reverence. We are poor men, ignorant of the crimes of our leaders,” one whimpered.

“Follow,” said Aporat, sternly. “Your soul is not yet lost.”

The ship was a turmoil of darkness in which fear was so thick and palpable, it was all but a miasmic smell. Soldiers crowded close wherever Aporat and his circle of light passed, striving to touch the hem of his robe, pleading for the tiniest scrap of mercy.

And always his answer was, “Follow me!”

He found Prince Lefkin, groping his way through the officers’ quarters, cursing loudly for lights. The admiral stared at the priest-attendant with hating eyes.

“There you are!” Lefkin inherited his blue eyes from his mother, but there was that about the hook in his nose and the squint in his eye that marked him as the son of Wienis. “What is the meaning of your treasonable actions? Return the power to the ship. I am commander here.”

“No longer,” said Aporat, somberly.

Lefkin looked about wildly. “Seize that man. Arrest him, or by Space, I will send every man within reach of my voice out the air lock in the nude.” He paused, and then shrieked, “It is your admiral that orders. Arrest him.”

Then, as he lost his head entirely, “Are you allowing yourselves to be fooled by this mountebank, this harlequin? Do you cringe before a religion compounded of clouds and moonbeams? This man is an imposter and the Galactic Spirit he speaks of a fraud of the imagination devised to–”

Aporat interrupted furiously. “Seize the blasphemer. You listen to him at the peril of your souls.”

And promptly, the noble admiral went down under the clutching hands of a score of soldiers.

“Take him with you and follow me.”

Aporat turned, and with Lefkin dragged along after him, and the corridors behind black with soldiery, he returned to the communications room. There, he ordered the ex-commander before the one televisor that worked.

“Order the rest of the fleet to cease course and to prepare for the return to Anacreon.”

The disheveled Lefkin, bleeding, beaten, and half stunned, did so.

“And now,” continued Aporat, grimly, “we are in contact with Anacreon on the hyperwave beam. Speak as I order you.”

Lefkin made a gesture of negation, and the mob in the room and the others crowding the corridor beyond, growled fearfully.

“Speak!” said Aporat. “Begin: The Anacreonian navy–”

Lefkin began.

8.

THERE WAS ABSOLUTE silence in Wienis’ chambers when the image of Prince Lefkin appeared at the televisor. There had been one startled gasp from the regent at the haggard face and shredded uniform of his son, and then he collapsed into a chair, face contorted with surprise and apprehension.

Hardin listened stolidly, hands clasped lightly in his lap, while the just-crowned King Lepold sat shriveled in the most shadowy comer, biting spasmodically at his goldbraided sleeve. Even the soldiers had lost the emotionless stare that is the prerogative of the military, and, from where they lined up against the door, nuclear blasts ready, peered furtively at the figure upon the televisor.

Lefkin spoke, reluctantly, with a tired voice that paused at intervals as though he were being prompted-and not gently:

“The Anacreonian navy ... aware of the nature of its mission ... and refusing to be a party ... to abominable sacrilage ... is returning to Anacreon ... with the following ultimatum issued ... to those blaspheming sinners ... who would dare to use profane force ... against the Foundation ... source of all blessings ... and against the Galactic Spirit. Cease at once all war against ... the true faith . . . and guarantee in a manner suiting us of the navy ... as represented by our ... priest-attendant, Theo Aporat ... that such war will never in the future ... be resumed, and that”– here a long pause, and then continuing –”and that the one-time prince regent, Wienis ... be imprisoned ... and tried before an ecclesiastical court ... for his crimes. Otherwise the royal navy ... upon returning to Anacreon ... will blast the palace to the ground ... and take whatever other measures ... are necessary ... to destroy the nest of sinners ... and the den of destroyers ... of men’s souls that now prevail.”

The voice ended with half a sob and the screen went blank.

Hardin’s fingers passed rapidly over the nucleo-bulb and its light faded until in the dimness, the hitherto regent, the king, and the soldiers were hazy-edged shadows; and for the first time it could be seen that an aura encompassed Hardin.

It was not the blazing light that was the prerogative of kings, but one less spectacular, less impressive, and yet one more effective in its own way, and more useful.

Hardin’s voice was softly ironic as he addressed the same Wienis who had one hour earlier declared him a prisoner of war and Terminus on the point of destruction, and who now was a huddled shadow, broken and silent.

“There is an old fable,” said Hardin, “as old perhaps as humanity, for the oldest records containing it are merely copies of other records still older, that might interest you. It runs as follows:

“A horse having a wolf as a powerful and dangerous enemy lived in constant fear of his life. Being driven to desperation, it occured to him to seek a strong ally. Whereupon he approached a man, and offered an alliance, pointing out that the wolf was likewise an enemy of the man. The man accepted the partnership at once and offered to kill the wolf immediately, if his new partner would only co-operate by placing his greater speed at the man’s disposal. The horse was willing, and allowed the man to place bridle and saddle upon him. The man mounted, hunted down the wolf, and killed him.

“The horse, joyful and relieved, thanked the man, and said: ‘Now that our enemy is dead, remove your bridle and saddle and restore my freedom.’

“Whereupon the man laughed loudly and replied, ‘Never!’ and applied the spurs with a will.”

Silence still. The shadow that was Wienis did not stir.

Hardin continued quietly, “You see the analogy, I hope. In their anxiety to cement forever domination over their own people, the kings of the Four Kingdoms accepted the religion of science that made them divine; and that same religion of science was their bridle and saddle, for it placed the life blood of nuclear power in the hands of the priesthood – who took their orders from us, be it noted, and not from you. You killed the wolf, but could not get rid of the m–”

Wienis sprang to his feet and in the shadows, his eyes were maddened hollows. His voice was thick, incoherent. “And yet I’ll get you. You won’t escape. You’ll rot. Let them blow us up. Let them blow everything up. You’ll rot! I’ll get you!

“Soldiers!” he thundered, hysterically. “Shoot me down that devil. Blast him! Blast him!”

Hardin turned about in his chair to face the soldiers and smiled. One aimed his nuclear blast and then lowered it. The others never budged. Salvor Hardin, mayor of Terminus, surrounded by that soft aura, smiling so confidently, and before whom all the power of Anacreon had crumbled to powder was too much for them, despite the orders of the shrieking maniac just beyond.

Wienis shouted incoherently and staggered to the nearest soldier. Wildly, he wrested the nuclear blast from the man’s hand-aimed it at Hardin, who didn’t stir, shoved the lever and held it contacted.

The pale continuous beam impinged upon the force-field that surrounded the mayor of Terminus and was sucked harmlessly to neutralization. Wienis pressed harder and laughed tearingly.

Hardin still smiled and his force-field aura scarcely brightened as it absorbed the energies of the nuclear blast. From his comer Lepold covered his eyes and moaned.

And, with a yell of despair, Wienis changed his aim and shot again – and toppled to the floor with his head blown into nothingness.

Hardin winced at the sight and muttered, “A man of ‘direct action’ to the end. The last refuge!”

9.

THE TIME VAULT was filled; filled far beyond the available seating capacity, and men lined the back of the room, three deep.

Salvor Hardin compared this large company with the few men attending the first appearance of Hari Seldon, thirty years earlier. There had only been six, then; the five old Encyclopedists – all dead now – and himself, the young figurehead of a mayor. It had been on that day, that he, with Yohan Lee’s assistance had removed the “figurehead” stigma from his office.

It was quite different now; different in every respect. Every man of the City Council was awaiting Seldon’s appearance. He, himself, was still mayor, but all-powerful now; and since the utter rout of Anacreon, all-popular. When he had returned from Anacreon with the news of the death of Wienis, and the new treaty signed with the trembling Lepold, he was greeted with a vote of confidence of shrieking unanimity. When this was followed in rapid order, by similar treaties signed with each of the other three kingdoms – treaties that gave the Foundation powers such as would forever prevent any attempts at attack similar to that of Anacreon’s – torchlight processions had been held in every city street of Terminus. Not even Hari Seldon’s name had been more loudly cheered.

Hardin’s lips twitched. Such popularity had been his after the first crisis also.

Across the room, Sef Sermak and Lewis Bort were engaged in animated discussion, and recent events seemed to have put them out not at all. They had joined in the vote of confidence; made speeches in which they publicly admitted that they had been in the wrong, apologized handsomely for the use of certain phrases in earlier debates, excused themselves delicately by declaring they had merely followed the dictates of their judgement and their conscience – and immediately launched a new Actionist campaign.

Yohan Lee touched Hardin’s sleeve and pointed significantly to his watch.

Hardin looked up. “Hello there, Lee. Are you still sour? What’s wrong now?”

“He’s due in five minutes, isn’t he?”

“I presume so. He appeared at noon last time.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Are you going to wear me down with your worries all your life? If he doesn’t, he won’t.”

Lee frowned and shook his head slowly. “If this thing flops, we’re in another mess. Without Seldon’s backing for what we’ve done, Sermak will be free to start all over. He wants outright annexation of the Four Kingdoms, and immediate expansion of the Foundation – by force, if necessary. He’s begun his campaign, already.”

“I know. A fire eater must eat fire even if he has to kindle it himself. And you, Lee, have got to worry even if you must kill yourself to invent something to worry about.”

Lee would have answered, but he lost his breath at just that moment – as the lights yellowed and went dim. He raised his arm to point to the glass cubicle that dominated half the room and then collapsed into a chair with a windy sigh.

Hardin himself straightened at the sight of the figure that now filled the cubicle – a figure in a wheel chair! He alone, of all those present could remember the day, decades ago, when that figure had appeared first. He had been young then, and the figure old. Since then, the figure had not aged a day, but he himself had in turn grown old.

The figure stared straight ahead, hands fingering a book in its lap.

It said, “I am Hari Seldon!” The voice was old and soft.

There was a breathless silence in the room and Hari Seldon continued conversationally, “This is the second time I’ve been here. Of course, I don’t know if any of you were here the first time. In fact, I have no way of telling, by sense perception, that there is anyone here at all, but that doesn’t matter. If the second crisis has been overcome safely, you are bound to be here; there is no way out. If you are not here, then the second crisis has been too much for you.”

He smiled engagingly. “I doubt that, however, for my figures show a ninety-eight point four percent probability there is to be no significant deviation from the Plan in the first eighty years.

“According to our calculations, you have now reached domination of the barbarian kingdoms immediately surrounding the Foundation. Just as in the first crisis you held them off by use of the Balance of Power, so in the second, you gained mastery by use of the Spiritual Power as against the Temporal.

“However, I might warn you here against overconfidence. It is not my way to grant you any foreknowledge in these recordings, but it would be safe to indicate that what you have now achieved is merely a new balance-though one in which your position is considerably better. The Spiritual Power, while sufficient to ward off attacks of the Temporal is not sufficient to attack in turn. Because of the invariable growth of the counteracting force known as Regionalism, or Nationalism, the Spiritual Power cannot prevail. I am telling you nothing new, I’m sure.

“You must pardon me, by the way, for speaking to you in this vague way. The terms I use are at best mere approximations, but none of you is qualified to understand the true symbology of psychohistory, and so I must do the best I can.

“In this case, the Foundation is only at the start of the path that leads to the Second Galactic Empire. The neighboring kingdoms, in manpower and resources are still overwhelmingly powerful as compared to yourselves. Outside them lies the vast tangled jungle of barbarism that extends around the entire breadth of the Galaxy. Within that rim there is still what is left of the Galactic Empire – and that, weakened and decaying though it is, is still incomparably mighty.”

At this point, Hari Seldon lifted his book and opened it. His face grew solemn. “And never forget there was another Foundation established eighty years ago; a Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy, at Star’s End. They will always be there for consideration. Gentlemen, nine hundred and twenty years of the Plan stretch ahead of you. The problem is yours!”

He dropped his eyes to his book and flicked out of existence, while the lights brightened to fullness. In the babble that followed, Lee leaned over to Hardin’s ear. “He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

Hardin replied, “I know – but I trust he won’t return until you and I are safely and cozily dead!”

The Traders

134 F.E. (12202 G.E.)

1.

TRADERS–... AND CONSTANTLY IN ADVANCE OF THE POLITICAL HEGEMONY OF THE FOUNDATION WERE THE TRADERS, REACHING OUT TENUOUS FINGERHOLDS THROUGH THE TREMENDOUS DISTANCES OF THE PERIPHERY. MONTHS OR YEARS MIGHT PASS BETWEEN LANDINGS ON TERMINUS; THEIR SHIPS WERE OFTEN NOTHING MORE THAN PATCHQUILTS OF HOME-MADE REPAIRS AND IMPROVISATIONS; THEIR HONESTY WAS NONE OF THE HIGHEST; THEIR DARING...

THROUGH IT ALL THEY FORGED AN EMPIRE MORE ENDURING THAN THE PSEUDO-RELIGIOUS DESPOTISM OF THE FOUR KINGDOMS...

TALES WITHOUT END ARE TOLD OF THESE MASSIVE, LONELY FIGURES WHO BORE HALF-SERIOUSLY, HALF-MOCKINGLY A MOTTO ADOPTED FROM ONE OF SALVOR HARDIN’S EPIGRAMS, “NEVER LET YOUR SENSE OF MORALS PREVENT YOU FROM DOING WHAT IS RIGHT!” IT IS DIFFICULT NOW TO TELL WHICH TALES ARE REAL AND WHICH APOCRYPHAL. THERE ARE NONE PROBABLY THAT HAVE NOT SUFFERED SOME EXAGGERATION....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

LIMMAR PONYETS WAS completely a-lather when the call reached his receiver – which proves that the old bromide about telemessages and the shower holds true even in the dark, hard space of the Galactic Periphery.

Luckily that part of a free-lance trade ship which is not given over to miscellaneous merchandise is extremely snug. So much so, that the shower, hot water included, is located in a two-by-four cubby, ten feet from the control panels. Ponyets heard the staccato rattle of the receiver quite plainly.

Dripping suds and a growl, he stepped out to adjust the vocal, and three hours later a second trade ship was alongside, and a grinning youngster entered through the air tube between the ships.

Ponyets rattled his best chair forward and perched himself on the pilot-swivel.

“What’ve you been doing, Gorm?” he asked, darkly. “Chasing me all the way from the Foundation?”

Les Gorm broke out a cigarette, and shook his head definitely, “Me? Not a chance. I’m just a sucker who happened to land on Glyptal IV the day after the mail. So they sent me out after you with this.”

The tiny, gleaming sphere changed hands, and Gorm added, “It’s confidential. Super-secret. Can’t be trusted to the sub-ether and all that. Or so I gather. At least, it’s a Personal Capsule, and won’t open for anyone but you.”

Ponyets regarded the capsule distastefully, “I can see that. And I never knew one of these to hold good news, either.”

It opened in his hand and the thin, transparent tape unrolled stiffly. His eyes swept the message quickly, for when the last of the tape had emerged, the first was already brown and crinkled. In a minute and a half it had turned black and, molecule by molecule, fallen apart.

Ponyets grunted hollowly, “Oh, Galaxy!”

Les Gorm said quietly, “Can I help somehow? Or is it too secret?”

“It will bear telling, since you’re of the Guild. I’ve got to go to Askone.”

“That place? How come?”

“They’ve imprisoned a trader. But keep it to yourself.’’

Gorm’s expression jolted into anger, “Imprisoned! That’s against the Convention.”

“So is the interference with local politics.”

“Oh! Is that what he did?” Gorm meditated. “Who’s the trader’? Anyone I know?”

“No!” said Ponyets sharply, and Gorm accepted the implication and asked no further questions.

Ponyets was up and staring darkly out the visiplate. He mumbled strong expressions at that part of the misty lens-form that was the body of the Galaxy, then said loudly, “Damnedest mess! I’m way behind quota.”

Light broke on Gorm’s intellect, “Hey, friend, Askone is a closed area.”

“That’s right. You can’t sell as much as a penknife on Askone. They won’t buy nuclear gadgets of any sort. With my quota dead on its feet, it’s murder to go there.”

“Can’t get out of it?”

Ponyets shook his head absently, A know the fellow involved. Can’t walk out on a friend. What of it? I am in the hands of the Galactic Spirit and walk cheerfully in the way he points out.”

Gorm said blankly, “Huh?”

Ponyets looked at him, and laughed shortly, “I forgot. You never read the ‘Bood of the Spirit,’ did you?”

“Never heard of it,” said Gorm, curtly.

“Well, you would if you’d had a religious training.”

“Religious training? For the priesthood?” Gorm was profoundly shocked.

“Afraid so. It’s my dark shame and secret. I was too much for the Reverend Fathers, though, They expelled me, for reasons sufficient to promote me to a secular education under the Foundation. Well, look, I’d better push off. How’s your quota this year?”

Gorm crushed out his cigarette and adjusted his cap, “I’ve got my last cargo going now. I’ll make it.”

“Lucky fellow,” gloomed Ponyets, and for many minutes after Les Gorm left, he sat in motionless reverie.

So Eskel Gorov was on Askone – and in prison as well!

That was bad! In fact, considerably worse than it might appear. It was one thing to tell a curious youngster a diluted version of the business to throw him off and send him about his own. It was a thing of a different sort to face the truth.

For Limmar Ponyets was one of the few people who happened to know that Master Trader Eskel Gorov was not a trader at all; but that entirely different thing, an agent of the Foundation!

2.

TWO WEEKS GONE! Two weeks wasted.

One week to reach Askone, at the extreme borders of which the vigilant warships speared out to meet him in converging numbers. Whatever their detection system was, it worked – and well.

They sidled him in slowly, without a signal, maintaining their cold distance, and pointing him harshly towards the central sun of Askone.

Ponyets could have handled them at a pinch. Those ships were holdovers from the dead-and-gone Galactic Empire – but they were sports cruisers, not warships; and without nuclear weapons, they were so many picturesque and impotent ellipsoids. But Eskel Gorov was a prisoner in their hands, and Gorov was not a hostage to lose. The Askonians must know that.

And then another week – a week to wind a weary way through the clouds of minor officials that formed the buffer between the Grand Master and the outer world. Each little sub-secretary required soothing and conciliation. Each required careful and nauseating milking for the flourishing signature that was the pathway to the next official one higher up.

For the first time, Ponyets found his trader’s identification papers useless.

I Now, at last, the Grand Master was on the other side of the Guard-flanked gilded door – and two weeks had gone.

Gorov was still a prisoner and Ponyets’ cargo rotted useless in the holds of his ship.

The Grand Master was a small man; a small man with a balding head and very wrinkled face, whose body seemed weighed down to motionlessness by the huge, glossy fur collar about his neck.

His fingers moved on either side, and the line of armed men backed away to for a passage, along which Ponyets strode to the foot of the Chair of State.

“Don’t speak,” snapped the Grand Master, and Ponyets’ opening lips closed tightly.

“That’s right,” the Askonian ruler relaxed visibly, “I can’t endure useless chatter. You cannot threaten and I won’t abide flattery. Nor is there room for injured complaints. I have lost count of the times you wanderers have been warned that your devil’s machines are not wanted anywhere in Askone.”

“Sir,” said Ponyets, quietly, “there is no attempt to justify the trader in question. It is not the policy of traders to intrude where they are not wanted. But the Galaxy is great, and it has happened before that a boundary has been trespassed unwittingly. It was a deplorable mistake.”

“Deplorable, certainly,” squeaked the Grand Master. “But mistake? Your people on Glyptal IV have been bombarding me with pleas for negotiation since two hours after the sacrilegious wretch was seized. I have been warned by them of your own coming many times over. It seems a well-organized rescue campaign. Much seems to have been anticipated – a little too much for mistakes, deplorable or otherwise.”

The Askonian’s black eyes were scornful. He raced on, “And are you traders, flitting from world to world like mad little butterflies, so mad in your own right that you can land on Askone’s largest world, in the center of its system, and consider it an unwitting boundary mixup? Come, surely not.”

Ponyets winced without showing it. He said, doggedly, “If the attempt to trade was deliberate, your Veneration, it was most injudicious and contrary to the strictest regulations of our Guild.”

“Injudicious, yes,” said the Askonian, curtly. “So much so, that your comrade is likely to lose life in payment.”

Ponyets’ stomach knotted. There was no irresolution there. He said, “Death, your Veneration, is so absolute and irrevocable a phenomenon that certainly there must be some alternative.”

There was a pause before the guarded answer came, “I have heard that the Foundation is rich.”

“Rich? Certainly. But our riches are that which you refuse to take. Our nuclear goods are worth–”

“Your goods are worthless in that they lack the ancestral blessing. Your goods are wicked and accursed in that they lie under the ancestral interdict.” The sentences were intoned; the recitation of a formula.

The Grand Master’s eyelids dropped, and he said with meaning, “You have nothing else of value?”

The meaning was lost on the trader, “I don’t understand. What is it you want?”

The Askonian’s hands spread apart, “You ask me to trade places with you, and make known to you my wants. I think not. Your colleague, it seems, must suffer the punishment set for sacrilege by the Askonian code. Death by gas. We are a just people. The poorest peasant, in like case, would suffer no more. I, myself, would suffer no less.”

Ponyets mumbled hopelessly, “Your Veneration, would it be permitted that I speak to the prisoner?”

“Askonian law,” said the Grand Master coldly, “allows no communication with a condemned man.”

Mentally, Ponyets held his breath, “Your Veneration, I ask you to be merciful towards a man’s soul, in the hour when his body stands forfeit. He has been separated from spiritual consolation in all the time that his life has been in danger. Even now, he faces the prospect of going unprepared to the bosom of the Spirit that rules all.”

The Grand Master said slowly and suspiciously, “You are a Tender of the Soul?”

Ponyets dropped a humble head, “I have been so trained. In the empty expanses of space, the wandering traders need men like myself to care for the spiritual side of a life so given over to commerce and worldly pursuits.”

The Askonian ruler sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Every man should prepare his soul for his journey to his ancestral spirits. Yet I had never thought you traders to be believers.”

3.

ESKEL GOROV STIRRED on his couch and opened one eye as Limmar Ponyets entered the heavily reinforced door. It boomed shut behind him. Gorov sputtered and came to his feet.

“Ponyets! They sent you?”

“Pure chance,” said Ponyets, bitterly, “or the work of my own personal malevolent demon. Item one, you get into a mess on Askone. Item two, my sales route, as known to the Board of Trade, carries me within fifty parsecs of the system at just the time of item one. Item three, we’ve worked together before and the Board knows it. Isn’t that a sweet, inevitable set-up? The answer just pops out of a slot.”

“Be careful,” said Gorov, tautly. “There’ll be someone listening. Are you wearing a Field Distorter?”

Ponyets indicated the ornamented bracelet that hugged his wrist and Gorov relaxed.

Ponyets looked about him. The cell was bare, but large. It was well-lit and it lacked offensive odors. He said, “Not bad. They’re treating you with kid gloves.”

Gorov brushed the remark aside, “Listen, how did you get down here? I’ve been in strict solitary for almost two weeks.”

“Ever since I came, huh? Well, it seems the old bird who’s boss here has his weak points. He leans toward pious speeches, so I took a chance that worked. I’m here in the capacity of your spiritual adviser. There’s something about a pious man such as he. He will cheerfully cut your throat if it suits him, but he will hesitate to endanger the welfare of your immaterial and problematical soul. It’s just a piece of empirical psychology. A trader has to know a little of everything.”

Gorov’s smile was sardonic, “And you’ve been to theological school as well. You’re all right, Ponyets. I’m glad they sent you. But the Grand Master doesn’t love my soul exclusively. Has he mentioned a ransom?”

The trader’s eyes narrowed, “He hinted – barely. And he also threatened death by gas. I played safe, and dodged; it might easily have been a trap. So it’s extortion, is it? What is it he wants?”

“Gold.”

“Gold!” Ponyets frowned. “The metal itself? What for?”

“It’s their medium of exchange.”

“Is it? And where do I get gold from?”

“Wherever you can. Listen to me; this is important. Nothing will happen to me as long as the Grand Master has the scent of gold in his nose. Promise it to him; as much as he asks for. Then go back to the Foundation, if necessary, to get it. When I’m free, we’ll be escorted out of the system, and then we part company.”

Ponyets stared disapprovingly, “And then you’ll come back and try again.”

“It’s my assignment to sell nucleics to Askone.”

“They’ll get you before you’ve gone a parsec in space. You know that, I suppose.”

“I don’t,” said Gorov. “And if I did, it wouldn’t affect things.”

“They’ll kill you the second time.”

Gorov shrugged.

Ponyets said quietly, “If I’m going to negotiate with the Grand Master again, I want to know the whole story. So far, I’ve been working it too blind. As it was, the few mild remarks I did make almost threw his Veneration into fits.”

“It’s simple enough,” said Gorov. “The only way we can increase the security of the Foundation here in the Periphery is to form a religion-controlled commercial empire. We’re still too weak to be able to force political control. It’s all we can do to hold the Four Kingdoms.”

Ponyets was nodding. “This I realize. And any system that doesn’t accept nuclear gadgets can never be placed under our religious control–”

“And can therefore become a focal point for independence and hostility. Yes.”

“All right, then,” said Ponyets, “so much for theory. Now what exactly prevents the sale. Religion? The Grand Master implied as much.”

“It’s a form of ancestor worship. Their traditions tell of an evil past from which they were saved by the simple and virtuous heroes of the past generations. It amounts to a distortion of the anarchic period a century ago, when the imperial troops were driven out and an independent government was set up. Advanced science and nuclear power in particular became identified with the old imperial regime they remember with horror.”

“That so? But they have nice little ships which spotted me very handily two parsecs away. That smells of nucleics to me.”

Gorov shrugged. “Those ships are holdovers of the Empire, no doubt. Probably with nuclear drive. What they have, they keep. The point is that they will not innovate and their internal economy is entirely non-nuclear. That is what we must change.”

“How were you going to do it?”

“By breaking the resistance at one point. To put it simply, if I could sell a penknife with a force-field blade to a nobleman, it would be to his interest to force laws that would allow him to use it. Put that baldly, it sounds silly, but it is sound, psychologically. To make strategic sales, at strategic points, would be to create a pro-nucleics faction at court.”

“And they send you for that purpose, while I’m only here to ransom you and leave, while you keep on trying? Isn’t that sort of tail-backward?”

“In what way?” said Gorov, guardedly.

“Listen,” Ponyets was suddenly exasperated, “you’re a diplomat, not a trader, and calling you a trader won’t make you one. This case is for one who’s made a business of selling – and I’m here with a full cargo stinking into uselessness, and a quota that won’t ever be met, it looks like.”

“You mean you’re going to risk your life on something that isn’t your business?” Gorov smiled thinly.

Ponyets said, “You mean that this is a matter of patriotism and traders aren’t patriotic?”

“Notoriously not. Pioneers never are.”

“All right. I’ll grant that. I don’t scoot about space to save the Foundation or anything like that. But I’m out to make money, and this is my chance. If it helps the Foundation at the same time, all the better. And I’ve risked my life on slimmer chances.”

Ponyets rose, and Gorov rose with him, “What are you going to do?”

The trader smiled, “Gorov, I don’t know – not yet. But if the crux of the matter is to make a sale, then I’m your man. I’m not a boaster as a general thing, but there’s one thing I’ll always back up. I’ve never ended up below quota yet.”

The door to the cell opened almost instantly when he knocked, and two guards fell in on either side.

4.

“A SHOW!” SAID the Grand Master, grimly. He settled himself well into his furs, and one thin hand grasped the iron cudgel he used as a cane.

“And gold, your Veneration.”

“And gold,” agreed the Grand Master, carelessly.

Ponyets set the box down and opened it with as fine an appearance of confidence as he could manage. He felt alone in the face of universal hostility; the way he had felt out in space his first year. The semicircle of bearded councilors who faced him down, stared unpleasantly. Among them was Pherl, the thin-faced favorite who sat next to the Grand Master in stiff hostility. Ponyets had met him once already and marked him immediately as prime enemy, and, as a consequence, prime victim.

Outside the hall, a small army awaited events. Ponyets was effectively isolated from his ship; he lacked any weapon, but his attempted bribe; and Gorov was still a hostage.

He made the final adjustments on the clumsy monstrosity that had cost him a week of ingenuity, and prayed once again that the lead-lined quartz would stand the strain.

“What is it?” asked the Grand Master.

“This,” said Ponyets, stepping back, “is a small device I have constructed myself.”

“That is obvious, but it is not the information I want. Is it one of the black-magic abominations of your world?”

“It is nuclear in nature, admitted Ponyets, gravely, “but none of you need touch it, or have anything to do with it. It is for myself alone, and if it contains abominations, I take the foulness of it upon myself.”

The Grand Master had raised his iron cane at the machine in a threatening gesture and his lips moved rapidly and silently in a purifying invocation. The thin-faced councilor at his right leaned towards him and his straggled red mustache approached the Grand Master’s ear. The ancient Askonian petulantly shrugged himself free.

“And what is the connection of your instrument of evil and the gold that may save your countryman’s life?”

“With this machine,” began Ponyets, as his hand dropped softly onto the central chamber and caressed its hard, round flanks, “I can turn the iron you discard into gold of the finest quality. It is the only device known to man that will take iron – the ugly iron, your Veneration, that props up the chair you sit in and the walls of this building – and change it to shining, heavy, yellow gold.”

Ponyets felt himself botching it. His usual sales talk was smooth, facile and plausible; but this limped like a shot-up space wagon. But it was the content, not the form, that interested the Grand Master.

“So? Transmutation? Men have been fools who have claimed the ability. They have paid for their prying sacrilege.”

“Had they succeeded?”

“No.” The Grand Master seemed coldly amused. “Success at producing gold would have been a crime that carried its own antidote. It is the attempt plus the failure that is fatal. Here, what can you do with my staff?” He pounded the floor with it.

“Your Veneration will excuse me. My device is a small model, prepared by myself, and your staff is too long.”

The Grand Master’s small shining eye wandered and stopped, “Randel, your buckles. Come, man, they shall be replaced double if need be.”

The buckles passed down the line, hand to hand. The Grand Master weighed them thoughtfully.

“Here,” he said, and threw them to the floor.

Ponyets picked them up. He tugged hard before the cylinder opened, and his eyes blinked and squinted with effort as he centered the buckles carefully on the anode screen. Later, it would be easier but there must be no failures the first time.

The homemade transmuter crackled malevolently for ten minutes while the odor of ozone became faintly present. The Askonians backed away, muttering, and again Pherl whispered urgently into his ruler’s ear. The Grand Master’s expression was stony. He did not budge.

And the buckles were gold.

Ponyets held them out to the Grand Master with a murmured, “Your Veneration!” but the old man hesitated, then gestured them away. His stare lingered upon the transmuter.

Ponyets said rapidly, “Gentlemen, this is pure gold. Gold through and through. You may subject it to every known physical and chemical test, if you wish to prove the point. It cannot be identified from naturally-occurring gold in any way. Any iron can be so treated. Rust will not interfere, not will a moderate amount of alloying metals–”

But Ponyets spoke only to fill a vacuum. He let the buckles remain in his outstretched hand, and it was the gold that argued for him.

The Grand Master stretched out a slow hand at last, and the thin-faced Pherl was roused to open speech. “Your Veneration, the gold is from a poisoned source.”

And Ponyets countered, “A rose can grow from the mud, your Veneration. In your dealings with your neighbors, you buy material of all imaginable variety, without inquiring as to where they get it, whether from an orthodox machine blessed by your benign ancestors or from some space-spawned outrage. Come, I don’t offer the machine. I offer the gold.”

“Your Veneration,” said Pherl, “you are not responsible for the sins of foreigners who work neither with your consent nor knowledge. But to accept this strange pseudo-gold made sinfully from iron in your presence and with your consent is an affront to the living spirits of our holy ancestors.”

“Yet gold is gold,” said the Grand Master, doubtfully, “and is but an exchange for the heathen person of a convicted felon. Pherl, you are too critical.” But he withdrew his hand.

Ponyets said, “You are wisdom, itself, your Veneration. Consider – to give up a heathen is to lose nothing for your ancestors, whereas with the gold you get in exchange you can ornament the shrines of their holy spirits. And surely, were gold evil in itself, if such, a thing could be, the evil would depart of necessity once the metal were put to such pious use.”

“Now by the bones of my grandfather,” said the Grand Master with surprising vehemence. His lips separated in a shrill laugh, “Pherl, what do you say of this young man? The statement is valid. It is as valid as the words of my ancestors.”

Pherl said gloomily, “So it would seem. Grant that the validity does not turn out to be a device of the Malignant Spirit.”

“I’ll make it even better,” said Ponyets, suddenly. “Hold the gold in hostage. Place it on the altars of your ancestors as an offering and hold me for thirty days. If at the end of that time, there is no evidence of displeasure – if no disasters occur – surely, it would be proof that the offering was accepted. What more can be offered?”

And when the Grand Master rose to his feet to search out disapproval, not a man in the council failed to signal his agreement. Even Pherl chewed the ragged end of his mustache and nodded curtly.

Ponyets smiled and meditated on the uses of a religious education.

5.

ANOTHER WEEK RUBBED away before the meeting with Pherl was arranged. Ponyets felt the tension, but he was used to the feeling of physical helplessness now. He had left city limits under guard. He was in Pherl’s suburban villa under guard. There was nothing to do but accept it without even looking over his shoulder.

Pherl was taller and younger outside the circle of Elders. In nonformal costume, he seemed no Elder at all.

He said abruptly, “You’re a peculiar man.” His close-set eyes seemed to quiver. “You’ve done nothing this last week, and particularly these last two hours, but imply that I need gold. It seems useless labor, for who does not? Why not advance one step?”

“It is not simply gold,” said Ponyets, discreetly. “Not simply gold. Not merely a coin or two. It is rather all that lies behind gold.”

“Now what can lie behind gold?” prodded Pherl, with a down-curved smile. “Certainly this is not the preliminary of another clumsy demonstration.”

“Clumsy?” Ponyets frowned slightly.

“Oh, definitely.” Pherl folded his hands and nudged them gently with his chin. “I don’t criticize you. The clumsiness was on purpose, I am sure. I might have warned his Veneration of that, had I been certain of the motive. Now had I been you, I would have produced the gold upon my ship, and offered it alone. The show you offered us and the antagonism you aroused would have been dispensed with.”

“True,” Ponyets admitted, “but since I was myself, I accepted the antagonism for the sake of attracting your attention.”

“Is that it? Simply that?” Pherl made no effort to hide his contemptuous amusement. “And I imagine you suggested the thirty-day purification period that you might assure yourself time to turn the attraction into something a bit more substantial. But what if the gold turns out to be impure?”

Ponyets allowed himself a dark humor in return, “When the judgement of that impurity depends upon those who are most interested in finding it pure?”

Pherl lifted his eyes and stared narrowly at the trader. He seemed at once surprised and satisfied.

“A sensible point. Now tell me why you wished to attract me.”

“This I will do. In the short time I have been here, I have observed useful facts that concern you and interest me. For instance, you are young-very young for a member of the council, and even of a relatively young family.”

“You criticize my family?”

“Not at all. Your ancestors are great and holy; all will admit that. But there are those that say you are not a member of one of the Five Tribes.”

Pherl leaned back, “With all respect to those involved,” and he did not hide his venom, “the Five Tribes have impoverished loins and thin blood. Not fifty members of the Tribes are alive.”

“Yet there are those who say the nation would not be willing to see any man outside the Tribes as Grand Master. And so young and newly-advanced a favorite of the Grand Master is bound to make powerful enemies among the great ones of the State – it is said. His Veneration is aging and his protection will not last past his death, when it is an enemy of yours who will undoubtedly be the one to interpret the words of his Spirit.”

Pherl scowled, “For a foreigner you hear much. Such ears are made for cropping.”

“That may be decided later.”

“Let me anticipate.” Pherl stirred impatiently in his seat. “You’re going to offer me wealth and power in terms of those evil little machines you carry in your ship. Well?”

“Suppose it so. What would be your objection? Simply your standard of good and evil?”

Pherl shook his head. “Not at all. Look, my Outlander, your opinion of us in your heathen agnosticism is what it is – but I am not the entire slave of our mythology, though I may appear so. I am an educated man, sir, and, I hope, an enlightened one. The full depth of our religious customs, in the ritualistic rather than the ethical sense, is for the masses.”

“Your objection, then?” pressed Ponyets, gently.

“Just that. The masses. I might be willing to deal with you, but your little machines must be used to be useful. How might riches come to me, if I had to use – what is it you sell?– well, a razor, for instance, only in the strictest, trembling secrecy. Even if my chin were more simply and more cleanly shaven, how would I become rich? And how would I avoid death by gas chamber or mob frightfulness if I were ever once caught using it?”

Ponyets shrugged, “You are correct. I might point out that the remedy would be to educate your own people into the use of nucleics for their convenience and your own substantial profit. It would be a gigantic piece of work; I don’t deny it; but the returns would be still more gigantic. Still that is your concern, and, at the moment, not mine at all. For I offer neither razor, knife, nor mechanical garbage disposer.”

“What do you offer?”

“Gold itself. Directly. You may have the machine I demonstrated last week.”

And now Pherl stiffened and the skin on his forehead moved jerkily. “The transmuter?”

“Exactly. Your supply of gold will equal your supply of iron. That, I imagine, is sufficient for all needs. Sufficient for the Grand Mastership itself, despite youth and enemies. And it is safe.”

“In what way?”

“In that secrecy is the essence of its use; that same secrecy you described as the only safety with regard to nucleics. You may bury the transmuter in the deepest dungeon of the strongest fortress on your furthest estate, and it will still bring you instant wealth. It is the gold you buy, not the machine, and that gold bears no trace of its manufacture, for it cannot be told from the natural creation.”

“And who is to operate the machine?”

“Yourself. Five minutes teaching is all you will require. I’ll set it up for you wherever you wish.”

“And in return?”

“Well,” Ponyets grew cautious. “I ask a price and a handsome one. It is my living. Let us say,– for it its a valuable machine – the equivalent of a cubic foot of gold in wrought iron.”

Pherl laughed, and Ponyets grew red. “I point out, sir,” he added, stiffly, “that you can get your price back in two hours.”

“True, and in one hour, you might be gone, and my machine might suddenly turn out to be useless. I’ll need a guarantee.”

“You have my word.”

“A very good one,” Pherl bowed sardonically, “but your presence would be an even better assurance. I’ll give you my word to pay you one week after delivery in working order.”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible? When you’ve already incurred the death penalty very handily by even offering to sell me anything. The only alternative is my word that you’ll get the gas chamber tomorrow otherwise.”

Ponyet’s face was expressionless, but his eyes might have flickered. He said, “It is an unfair advantage. You will at least put your promise in writing?”

“And also become liable for execution? No, sir!” Pherl smiled a broad satisfaction. “No, sir! Only one of us is a fool.”

The trader said in a small voice, “It is agreed, then.”

6.

GOROV WAS RELEASED on the thirtieth day, and five hundred pounds of the yellowest gold took his place. And with him was released the quarantined and untouched abomination that was his ship.

Then, as on the journey into the Askonian system, so on the journey out, the cylinder of sleek little ships ushered them on their way.

Ponyets watched the dimly sun-lit speck that was Gorov’s ship while Gorov’s voice pierced through to him, clear and thin on the tight, distortion-bounded ether-beam.

He was saying, “But it isn’t what’s wanted, Ponyets. A transmuter won’t do. Where did you get one, anyway?”

“I didn’t,” Ponyets answer was patient. “I juiced it up out of a food irradiation chamber. It isn’t any good, really. The power consumption is prohibitive on any large scale or the Foundation would use transmutation instead of chasing all over the Galaxy for heavy metals. It’s one of the standard tricks every trader uses, except that I never saw an iron-to-gold one before. But it’s impressive, and it works – very temporarily.”

“All right. But that particular trick is no good.”

“It got you out of a nasty spot.”

“That is very far from the point. Especially since I’ve got to go back, once we shake our solicitous escort.”

“Why?”

“You yourself explained it to this politician of yours,” Gorov’s voice was on edge. “Your entire sales-point rested on the fact that the transmuter was a means to an end, but of no value in itself–, that he was buying the gold, not the machine. It was good psychology, since it worked, but–”

“But?” Ponyets urged blandly and obtusely.

The voice from the receiver grew shriller, “But we want to sell them a machine of value in itself, something they would want to use openly; something that would tend to force them out in favor of nuclear techniques as a matter of self-interest.”

“I understand all that,” said Ponyets, gently. “You once explained it. But look at what follows from my sale, will you? As long as that transmuter lasts, Pherl will coin gold; and it will last long enough to buy him the next election. The present Grand Master won’t last long.”

“You count on gratitude?” asked Gorov, coldly.

“No – on intelligent self-interest. The transmuter gets him an election; other mechanisms–”

“No! No! Your premise is twisted. It’s not the transmuter, he’ll credit – it’ll be the good, old-fashioned gold. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Ponyets grinned and shifted into a more comfortable position. All right. He’d baited the poor fellow sufficiently. Gorov was beginning to sound wild.

The trader said, “Not so fast, Gorov. I haven’t finished. There are other gadgets already involved.”

There was a short silence. Then, Gorov’s voice sounded cautiously, “What other gadgets?”

Ponyets gestured automatically and uselessly, “You see that escort?”

“I do,” said Gorov shortly. “Tell me about those gadgets.”

“I will, –if you’ll listen. That’s Pherl’s private navy escorting us; a special honor to him from the Grand Master. He managed to squeeze that out.”

“So?”

“And where do you think he’s taking us? To his mining estates on the outskirts of Askone, that’s where. Listen!” Ponyets was suddenly fiery, “I told you I was in this to make money, not to save worlds. All right. I sold that transmuter for nothing. Nothing except the risk of the gas chamber and that doesn’t count towards the quota.”

“Get back to the mining estates, Ponyets. Where do they come in?”

“With the profits. We’re stacking up on tin, Gorov. Tin to fill every last cubic foot this old scow can scrape up, and then some more for yours. I’m going down with Pherl to collect, old man, and you’re going to cover me from upstairs with every gun you’ve got – just in case Pherl isn’t as sporting about the matter as he lets on to be. That tin’s my profit.”

“For the transmuter?”

“For my entire cargo of nucleics. At double price, plus a bonus.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “I admit I gouged him, but I’ve got to make quota, don’t I?”

Gorov was evidently lost. He said, weakly, “Do you mind explaining’?”

“What’s there to explain? It’s obvious, Gorov. Look, the clever dog thought he had me in a foolproof trap, because his word was worth more than mine to the Grand Master. He took the transmuter. That was a capital crime in Askone. But at any time he could say that he had lured me on into a trap with the purest of patriotic motives, and denounce me as a seller of forbidden things.”

“That was obvious.”

“Sure, but word against simple word wasn’t all there was to it. You see, Pherl had never heard nor conceived of a microfilm-recorder.”

Gorov laughed suddenly.

“That’s right,” said Ponyets. “He had the upper hand. I was properly chastened. But when I set up the transmuter for him in my whipped-dog fashion, I incorporated the recorder into the device and removed it in the next day’s overhaul. I had a perfect record of his sanctum sanctorum, his holy-of-holies, with he himself, poor Pherl, operating the transmuter for all the ergs it had and crowing over his first piece of gold as if it were an egg he had just laid.”

“You showed him the results?”

“Two days later. The poor sap had never seen three-dimensional color-sound images in his life. He claims he isn’t superstitious, but if I ever saw an adult look as scared as he did then, call me rookie. When I told him I had a recorder planted in the city square, set to go off at midday with a million fanatical Askonians to watch, and to tear him to pieces subsequently, he was gibbering at my knees in half a second. He was ready to make any deal I wanted.”

“Did you?” Gorov’s voice was suppressing laughter. “I mean, have one planted in the city square.”

“No, but that didn’t matter. He made the deal. He bought every gadget I had, and every one you had for as much tin as we could carry. At that moment, he believed me capable of anything. The agreement is in writing and you’ll have a copy before I go down with him, just as another precaution.”

“But you’ve damaged his ego,” said Gorov. “Will he use the gadgets?”

“Why not? It’s his only way of recouping his losses, and if he makes money out of it, he’ll salve his pride. And he will be the next Grand Master – and the best man we could have in our favor.”

“Yes,” said Gorov, “it was a good sale. Yet you’ve certainly got an uncomfortable sales technique. No wonder you were kicked out of a seminary. Have you no sense of morals?”

“What are the odds?” said Ponyets, indifferently. “You know what Salvor Hardin said about a sense of morals.”

The Merchant Princes

154-160 F.E. (12222-12228 G.E.)

1.

TRADERS-... WITH PSYCHOHISTORIC INEVITABILITY. ECONOMIC CONTROL OF THE FOUNDATION GREW. THE TRADERS GREW RICH; AND WITH RICHES CAME POWER....

IT IS SOMETIMES FORGOTTEN THAT HOBER MALLOW BEGAN LIFE AS AN ORDINARY TRADER. IT IS NEVER FORGOTTEN THAT HE ENDED IT AS THE FIRST OF THE MERCHANT PRINCES....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

JORANE SUTT PUT the tips of carefully-manicured fingers together and said, “It’s something of a puzzle. In fact – and this is in the strictest of confidence – it may be another one of Hari Seldon’s crises.”

The man opposite felt in the pocket of his short Smyrnian jacket for a cigarette. “Don’t know about that, Sutt. As a general rule, politicians start shouting ‘Seldon crisis’ at every mayoralty campaign.”

Sutt smiled very faintly, “I’m not campaigning, Mallow. We’re facing nuclear weapons, and we don’t know where they’re coming from.”

Hober Mallow of Smyrno, Master Trader, smoked quietly, almost indifferently. “Go on. If you have more to say, get it out.” Mallow never made the mistake of being overpolite to a Foundation man. He might be an Outlander, but a man’s a man for a’ that.

Sutt indicated the trimensional star-map on the table. He adjusted the controls and a cluster of some half-dozen stellar systems blazed red.

‘That,” he said quietly, “is the Korellian Republic.”

The trader nodded, “I’ve been there. Stinking rathole! I suppose you can call it a republic but it’s always someone out of the Argo family that gets elected Commdor each time. And if you ever don’t like it – things happen to you.” He twisted his lip and repeated, “I’ve been there.”

“But you’ve come back, which hasn’t always happened. Three trade ships, inviolate under the Conventions, have disappeared within the territory of the Republic in the last year. And those ships were armed with all the usual nuclear explosives and force-field defenses.”

“What was the last word heard from the ships?”

“Routine reports. Nothing else.”

“What did Korell say?”

Sutt’s eyes gleamed sardonically, “There was no way of asking. The Foundation’s greatest asset throughout the Periphery is its reputation of power. Do you think we can lose three ships and ask for them?”

“Well, then, suppose you tell me what you want with me.”

Jorane Sutt did not waste his time in the luxury of annoyance. As secretary to the mayor, he had held off opposition councilmen, jobseekers, reformers, and crackpots who claimed to have solved in its entirety the course of future history as worked out by Hari Seldon. With training like that, it took a good deal to disturb him.

He said methodically, “In a moment. You see, three ships lost in the same sector in the same year can’t be accident, and nuclear power can be conquered only by more nuclear power. The question automatically arises: if Korell has nuclear weapons, where is it getting them?”

“And where does it?”

“Two alternatives. Either the Korellians have constructed them themselves–”

“Far-fetched!”

“Very! But the other possibility is that we are being afflicted with a case of treason.”

“You think so?” Mallow’s voice was cold.

The secretary said calmly, “There’s nothing miraculous about the possibility. Since the Four Kingdoms accepted the Foundation Convention, we have had to deal with considerable groups of dissident populations in each nation. Each former kingdom has its pretenders and its former noblemen, who can’t very well pretend to love the Foundation. Some of them are becoming active, perhaps.”

Mallow was a dull red. “I see. Is there anything you want to say to me? I’m a Smyrnian.”

“I know. You’re a Smyrnian – born in Smyrno, one of the former Four Kingdoms. You’re a Foundation man by education only. By birth, you’re an Outlander and a foreigner. No doubt your grandfather was a baron at the time of the wars with Anacreon and Loris, and no doubt your family estates were taken away when Sef Sermak redistributed the land.”

“No, by Black Space, no! My grandfather was a blood-poor son-of-a-spacer who died heaving coal at starving wages before the Foundation took over. I owe nothing to the old regime. But I was born in Smyrno, and I’m not ashamed of either Smyrno or Smyrnians, by the Galaxy. Your sly little hints of treason aren’t going to panic me into licking Foundation spittle. And now you can either give your orders or make your accusations. I don’t care which.”

“My good Master Trader, I don’t care an electron whether your grandfather was King of Smyrno or the greatest pauper on the planet. I recited that rigmarole about your birth and ancestry to show you that I’m not interested in them. Evidently, you missed the point. Let’s go back now. You’re a Smyrnian. You know the Outlanders. Also, you’re a trader and one of the best. You’ve been to Korell and you know the Korellians. That’s where you’ve got to go.”

Mallow breathed deeply, “As a spy?”

“Not at all. As a trader – but with your eyes open. If you can find out where the power is coming from – I might remind you, since you’re a Smyrnian, that two of those lost trade ships had Smyrnian crews.”

“When do I start?”

“When will your ship be ready?”

“In six days.”

“Then that’s when you start. You’ll have all the details at the Admiralty.”

“Right!” The trader rose, shook hands roughly, and strode out.

Sutt waited, spreading his fingers gingerly and rubbing out the pressure; then shrugged his shoulders and stepped into the mayor’s office.

The mayor deadened the visiplate and leaned back. “What do you make of it, Sutt?”

“He could be a good actor,” said Sutt, and stared thoughtfully ahead.

2.

IT WAS EVENING of the same day, and in Jorane Sutt’s bachelor apartment on the twenty-first floor of the Hardin Building, Publis Manlio was sipping wine slowly.

It was Publis Manlio in whose slight, aging body were fulfilled two great offices of the Foundation. He was Foreign Secretary in the mayor’s cabinet, and to all the outer suns, barring only the Foundation itself, he was, in addition, Primate of the Church, Purveyor of the Holy Food, Master of the Temples, and so forth almost indefinitely in confusing but sonorous syllables.

He was saying, “But he agreed to let you send out that trader. It is a point.”

“But such a small one,” said Sutt. “It gets us nothing immediately. The whole business is the crudest sort of stratagem, since we have no way of foreseeing it to the end. It is a mere paying out of rope on the chance that somewhere along the length of it will be a noose.”

“True. And this Mallow is a capable man. What if he is not an easy prey to dupery?”

“That is a chance that must be run. If there is treachery, it is the capable men that are implicated. If not, we need a capable man to detect the truth. And Mallow will be guarded. Your glass is empty.”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

Sutt filled his own glass and patiently endured the other’s uneasy reverie.

Of whatever the reverie consisted, it ended indecisively, for the primate said suddenly, almost explosively, “Sutt, what’s on your mind?”

“I’ll tell you, Manlio.” His thin lips parted, “We’re in the middle of a Seldon crisis.”

Manlio stared, then said softly, “How do you know? Has Seldon appeared in the Time Vault again?”

“That much, my friend, is not necessary. Look, reason it out. Since the Galactic Empire abandoned the Periphery, and threw us on our own, we have never had an opponent who possessed nuclear power. Now, for the first time, we have one. That seems significant even if it stood by itself. And it doesn’t. For the first time in over seventy years, we are facing a major domestic political crisis. I should think the synchronization of the two crises, inner and outer, puts it beyond all doubt.”

Manlio’s eyes narrowed, “If that’s all, it’s not enough. There have been two Seldon crises so far, and both times the Foundation was in danger of extermination. Nothing can be a third crisis till that danger returns.”

Sutt never showed impatience, “That danger is coming. Any fool can tell a crisis when it arrives. The real service to the state is to detect it in embryo. Look, Manlio, we’re proceeding along a planned history. We know that Hari Seldon worked out the historical probabilities of the future. We know that some day we’re to rebuild the Galactic Empire. We know that it will take a thousand years or thereabouts. And we know that in the interval we will face certain definite crises.

“Now the first crisis came fifty years after the establishment of the Foundation, and the second, thirty years later than that. Almost seventy-five years have gone since. It’s time, Manlio, it’s time.”

Manlio rubbed his nose uncertainly, “And you’ve made your plans to meet this crisis?”

Sutt nodded.

“And I,” continued Manlio, “am to play a part in it?”

Sutt nodded again, “Before we can meet the foreign threat of atomic power, we’ve got to put our own house in order. These traders–”

“Ah!” The primate stiffened, and his eyes grew sharp.

“That’s right. These traders. They are useful, but they are too strong – and too uncontrolled. They are Outlanders, educated apart from religion. On the one hand, we put knowledge into their hands, and on the other, we remove our strongest hold upon them.”

“If we can prove treachery?”

“If we could, direct action would be simple and sufficient. But that doesn’t signify in the least. Even if treason among them did not exist, they would form an uncertain element in our society. They wouldn’t be bound to us by patriotism or common descent, or even by religious awe. Under their secular leadership, the outer provinces, which, since Hardin’s time, look to us as the Holy Planet, might break away.”

“I see all that, but the cure–”

“The cure must come quickly, before the Seldon Crisis becomes acute. If nuclear weapons are without and disaffection within, the odds might be too great.” Sutt put down the empty glass he had been fingering, “This is obviously your job.”

“Mine?”

“I can’t do it. My office is appointive and has no legislative standing.”

“The mayor–”

“Impossible. His personality is entirely negative. He is energetic only in evading responsibility. But if an independent party arose that might endanger re-election, he might allow himself to be led.”

“But, Sutt, I lack the aptitude for practical politics.”

“Leave that to me. Who knows, Manlio? Since Salvor Hardin’s time, the primacy and the mayoralty have never been combined in a single person. But it might happen now – if your job were well done.”

3.

AND AT THE other end of town, in homelier surroundings, Hober Mallow kept a second appointment. He had listened long, and now he said cautiously, “Yes, I’ve heard of your campaigns to get trader representation in the council. But why me, Twer?”

Jaim Twer, who would remind you any time, asked or unasked, that he was in the first group of Outlanders to receive a lay education at the Foundation, beamed.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Remember when I met you first, last year.”

“At the Trader’s Convention.”

“Right. You ran the meeting. You had those red-necked oxen planted in their seats, then put them in your shirtpocket and walked off with them. And you’re all right with the Foundation masses, too. You’ve got glamor – or, at any rate, solid adventure-publicity, which is the same thing.”

“Very good,” said Mallow, dryly. “But why now?”

‘Because now’s our chance. Do you know that the Secretary of Education has handed in his resignation? It’s not out in the open yet, but it will be.”

“How do you know?”

“That – never mind–” He waved a disgusted hand. “It’s so. The Actionist party is splitting wide open, and we can murder it right now on a straight question of equal rights for traders; or, rather, democracy, pro- and anti-.”

Mallow lounged back in his chair and stared at his thick fingers, “Uh-uh. Sorry, Twer. I’m leaving next week on business. You’ll have to get someone else.”

Twer stared, “Business? What kind of business?”

“Very super-secret. Triple-A priority. All that, you know. Had a talk with the mayor’s own secretary.”

“Snake Sutt?” Jaim Twer grew excited. “A trick. The son-of-a-spacer is getting rid of you. Mallow–”

“Hold on!” Mallow’s hand fell on the other’s balled fist. “Don’t go into a blaze. If it’s a trick, I’ll be back some day for the reckoning. if it isn’t, your snake, Sutt, is playing into our hands. Listen, there’s a Seldon crisis coming up.”

Mallow waited for a reaction but it never came. Twer merely stared. “What’s a Seldon crisis?”

“Galaxy!” Mallow exploded angrily at the anticlimax, “What the blue blazes did you do when you went to school? What do you mean anyway by a fool question like that?”

The elder man frowned, “If you’ll explain–”

There was a long pause, then, “I’ll explain.” Mallow’s eyebrows lowered, and he spoke slowly. “When the Galactic Empire began to die at the edges, and when the ends of the Galaxy reverted to barbarism and dropped away, Hari Seldon and his band of psychologists planted a colony, the Foundation, out here in the middle of the mess, so that we could incubate art, science, and technology, and form the nucleus of the Second Empire.”

“Oh, yes, yes–”

“I’m not finished,” said the trader, coldly. “The future course of the Foundation was plotted according to the science of psychohistory, then highly developed, and conditions arranged so as to bring about a series of crises that will force us most rapidly along the route to future Empire. Each crisis, each Seldon crisis, marks an epoch in our history. We’re approaching one now – our third.”

Twer shrugged. “I suppose this was mentioned in school, but I’ve been out of school a long time – longer than you.”

“I suppose so. Forget it. What matters is that I’m being sent out into the middle of the development of this crisis. There’s no telling what I’ll have when I come back, and there is a council election every year.”

Twer looked up, “Are you on the track of anything?”

“No.”

“You have definite plans?”

“Not the faintest inkling of one.”

“Well–”

“Well, nothing. Hardin once said: ‘To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well.’ I’ll improvise.”

Twer shook his head uncertainly, and they stood, looking at each other.

Mallow said, quite suddenly, but quite matter-of-factly, “I tell you what, how about coming with me? Don’t stare, man. You’ve been a trader before you decided them was more excitement in politics. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Where are you going? Tell me that.”

Towards the Whassallian Rift. I can’t be more specific till we’re out in space. What do you say?”

Suppose Sutt decides he wants me where he can see

“Not likely. If he’s anxious to get rid of me, why not of you as well? Besides which, no trader would hit space if he couldn’t pick his own crew. I take whom I please.”

There was a queer glint in the older man’s eyes, “All right. I’ll go.” He held out his hand, “It’ll be my first trip in three years.”

Mallow grasped and shook the other’s hand, “Good! All fired good! And now I’ve got to round up the boys. You know where the Far Star docks, don ‘t you? Then show up tomorrow. Good-by.”

4.

KORELL IS THAT frequent phenomenon in history: the republic whose ruler has every attribute of the absolute monarch but the name. It therefore enjoyed the usual despotism unrestrained even by those two moderating influences in the legitimate monarchies: regal “honor” and court etiquette.

Materially, its prosperity was low. The day of the Galactic Empire had departed, with nothing but silent memorials and broken structures to testify to it. The day of the Foundation had not yet come – and in the fierce determination of its ruler, the Commdor Asper Argo, with his strict regulation of the traders and his stricter prohibition of the missionaries, it was never coming.

The spaceport itself was decrepit and decayed, and the crew of the Far Star were drearily aware of that. The moldering hangars made for a moldering atmosphere and Jaim Twer itched and fretted over a game of solitaire.

Hober Mallow said thoughtfully, “Good trading material here.” He was staring quietly out the viewport. So far, there was little else to be said about Korell. The trip here was uneventful. The squadron of Korellian ships that had shot out to intercept the Far Star had been tiny, limping relics of ancient glory or battered, clumsy hulks. They had maintained their distance fearfully, and still maintained it, and for a week now, Mallow’s requests for an audience with the local go government had been unanswered.

Mallow repeated, “Good trading here. You might call this virgin territory.”

Jaim Twer looked up impatiently, and threw his cards aside, “What the devil do you intend doing, Mallow? The crew’s grumbling, the officers are worried, and I’m wondering–”

“Wondering? About what?”

“About the situation. And about you. What are we doing?”

“Waiting.”

The old trader snorted and grew red. He growled, “You’re going it blind, Mallow. There’s a guard around the field and there are ships overhead. Suppose they’re getting ready to blow us into a hole in the ground.”

“They’ve had a week.”

“Maybe they’re waiting for reinforcements.” Twer’s eyes were sharp and hard.

Mallow sat down abruptly, “Yes, I’d thought of that You see, it poses a pretty problem. First, we got here without trouble. That may mean nothing, however, for only three ships out of better than three hundred went a-glimmer last year. The percentage is low. But that may mean also that the number of their ships equipped with nuclear power is small, and that they dare not expose them needlessly, until that number grows.

“But it could mean, on the other hand, that they haven’t nuclear power after all. Or maybe they have and are keeping undercover, for fear we know something. It’s one thing, after all, to piratize blundering, light-armed merchant ships. It’s another to fool around with an accredited envoy of the Foundation when the mere fact of his presence may mean the Foundation is growing suspicious.

“Combine this–”

“Hold on, Mallow, hold on.” Twer raised his hands. “You’re just about drowning me with talk. What’re you getting at? Never mind the in-betweens.”

“You’ve got to have the in-betweens, or you won’t understand, Twer. We’re both waiting. They don’t know what I’m doing here and I don’t know what they’ve got here. But I’m in the weaker position because I’m one and they’re an entire world – maybe with atomic power. I can’t afford to be the one to weaken. Sure it’s dangerous. Sure there may be a hole in the ground waiting for us. But we knew that from the start. What else is there to do?”

“I don’t– Who’s that, now?”

Mallow looked up patiently, and tuned the receiver. The visiplate glowed into the craggy face of the watch sergeant.

“Speak, sergeant.”

The sergeant said, “Pardon, sir. The men have given entry to a Foundation missionary.”

“A what?” Mallow’s face grew livid.

“A missionary, sit. He’s in need of hospitalization, sir-”

“There’ll be more than one in need of that, sergeant, for this piece of work. Order the men to battle stations.”

Crew’s lounge was almost empty. Five minutes after the order, even the men on the off-shift were at their guns. It was speed that was the great virtue in the anarchic regions of the interstellar space of the Periphery, and it was in speed above all that the crew of a master trader excelled.

Mallow entered slowly, and stared the missionary up and down and around. His eye slid to Lieutenant Tinter, who shifted uneasily to one side and to Watch-Sergeant Demen, whose blank face and stolid figure flanked the other.

The Master Trader turned to Twer and paused thoughtfully, “Well, then, Twer, get the officers here quietly, except for the co-ordinators and the trajectorian. The men are to remain at stations till further orders.”

There was a five-minute hiatus, in which Mallow kicked open the doors to the lavatories, looked behind the bar, pulled the draperies across the thick windows. For half a minute he left the room altogether, and when he returned he was humming abstractedly.

Men filed in. Twer followed, and closed the door silently.

Mallow said quietly, “First, who let this man in without orders from me?”

The watch sergeant stepped forward. Every eye shifted. “Pardon, sir. It was no definite person. It was a sort of mutual agreement. He was one of us, you might say, and these foreigners here–”

Mallow cut him short, “I sympathize with your feelings, sergeant, and understand them. These men, were they under your command?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When this is over, they’re to be confined to individual quarters for a week. You yourself are relieved of all supervisory duties for a similar period. Understood?”

The sergeant’s face never changed, but there was the slightest droop to his shoulders. He said, crisply, “Yes, sir.”

“You may leave. Get to your gun-station.”

The door closed behind him and the babble rose.

Twer broke in, “Why the punishment, Mallow? You know that these Korellians kill captured missionaries.”

“An action against my orders is bad in itself whatever other reasons there may be in its favor. No one was to leave or enter the ship without permission.”

Lieutenant Tinter murmured rebelliously, “Seven days without action. You can’t maintain discipline that way.”

Mallow said icily, “I can. There’s no merit in discipline under ideal circumstances. I’ll have it in the face of death, or it’s useless. Where’s this missionary? Get him here in front of me.”

The trader sat down, while the scarlet-cloaked figure was carefully brought forward.

“What’s your name, reverend?”

“Eh?” The scarlet-robed figure wheeled towards Mallow, the whole body turning as a unit. His eyes were blankly open and there was a bruise on one temple. He had not spoken, nor, as far as Mallow could tell, moved during all the previous interval.

“Your name, revered one?”

The missionary started to sudden feverish life. His arms went out in an embracing gesture. “My son – my children. May you always be in the protecting arms of the Galactic Spirit.”

Twer stepped forward, eyes troubled, voice husky, “The man’s sick. Take him to bed, somebody. Order him to bed, Mallow, and have him seen to. He’s badly hurt.”

Mallow’s great arm shoved him back, “Don’t interfere, Twer, or I’ll have you out of the room. Your name, revered one?”

The missionary’s hands clasped in sudden supplication, “As you are enlightened men, save me from the heathen.” The words tumbled out, “Save me from these brutes and darkened ones who raven after me and would afflict the Galactic Spirit with their crimes. I am Jord Parma, of the Anacreonian worlds. Educated at the Foundation; the Foundation itself, my children. I am a Priest of the Spirit educated into all the mysteries, who have come here where the inner voice called me.” He was gasping. “I have suffered at the hands of the unenlightened. As you are Children of the Spirit; and in the name of that Spirit, protect me from them.”

A voice broke in upon them, as the emergency alarm box clamored metallically:

“Enemy units in sight! Instruction desired!”

Every eye shot mechanically upward to the speaker.

Mallow swore violently. He clicked open the reverse and yelled, “Maintain vigil! That is all!” and turned it off.

He made his way to the thick drapes that rustled aside at a touch and stared grimly out,

Enemy units! Several thousands of them in the persons of the individual members of a Korellian mob. The rolling rabble encompassed the port from extreme end to extreme end, and in the cold, hard light of magnesium flares the foremost straggled closer.

“Tinter!” The trader never turned, but the back of his neck was red. “Get the outer speaker working and find out what they want. Ask if they have a representative of the law with them. Make no promises and no threats, or I’ll kill you.”

Tinter turned and left.

Mallow felt a rough hand on his shoulder and he struck it aside. It was Twer. His voice was an angry hiss in his ear, “Mallow, you’re bound to hold onto this man. There’s no way of maintaining decency and honor otherwise. He’s of the Foundation and, after all, he – is a priest. These savages outside– Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Twer.” Mallow’s voice was incisive. “I’ve got more to do here than guard missionaries. I’ll do, sir, what I please, and, by Seldon and all the Galaxy, if you try to stop me, I’ll tear out your stinking windpipe. Don’t get in my way, Twer, or it will be the last of you.”

He turned and strode past. “You! Revered Parma! Did you know that, by convention, no Foundation missionaries may enter the Korellian territory?”

The missionary was trembling, “I can but go where the Spirit leads, my son. If the darkened ones refuse enlightenment, is it not the greater sign of their need for it?”

“That’s outside the question, revered one. You are here against the law of both Korell and the Foundation. I cannot in law protect you.”

The missionary’s hands were raised again. His earlier bewilderment was gone. There was the raucous clamor of the ship’s outer communication system in action, and the faint, undulating gabble of the angry horde in response. The sound made his eyes wild.

“You hear them? Why do you talk of law to me, of a law made by men? There are higher laws. Was it not the Galactic Spirit that said: Thou shalt not stand idly by to the hurl of thy fellowman. And has he not said: Even as thou dealest with the humble and defenseless, thus shalt thou be dealt with.

“Have you not guns? Have you not a ship? And behind you is there not the Foundation? And above and all-about you is there not the Spirit that rules the universe?” He paused for breath.

And then the great outer voice of the Far Star ceased and Lieutenant Tinter was back, troubled.

“Speak!” said Mallow, shortly.

“Sir, they demand the person of Jord Parma.”

“If not?”

“There are various threats, sir. It is difficult to make much out. There are so many – and they seem quite mad. There is someone who says he governs the district and has police powers, but he is quite evidently not his own master.”

“Master or not,” shrugged Mallow, “he is the law. Tell them that if this governor, or policeman, or whatever he is, approaches the ship alone, he can have the Revered Jord Parma.”

And there was suddenly a gun in his hand. He added, “I don’t know what insubordination is. I have never had any experience with it. But if there’s anyone here who thinks he can teach me, I’d like to teach him my antidote in return.’’

The gun swiveled slowly, and rested on Twer. With an effort, the old trader’s face untwisted and his hands unclenched and lowered. His breath was a harsh rasp in his nostrils.

Tinter left, and in five minutes a puny figure detached itself from the crowd. It approached slowly and hesitantly, plainly drenched in fear and apprehension. Twice it turned back, and twice the patently obvious threats of the many-headed monster urged him on.

“All right,” Mallow gestured with the hand-blaster, which remained unsheathed. “Grun and Upshur, take him out.”

The missionary screeched. He raised his arms and rigid fingers speared upward as the voluminous sleeves fell away to reveal the thin, veined arms. There was a momentary, tiny flash of light that came and went in a breath. Mallow blinked and gestured again, contemptuously.

The missionary’s voice poured out as he struggled in the two-fold grasp, “Cursed be the traitor who abandons his fellowman to evil and to death. Deafened be the ears that are deaf to the pleadings of the helpless. Blind be the eyes that are blind to innocence. Blackened forever be the soul that consorts with blackness–”

Twer clamped his hands tightly over his ears.

Mallow flipped his blaster and put it away. “Disperse,” he said, evenly, “to respective stations. Maintain full vigil for six hours after dispersion of crowd. Double stations for forty-eight hours thereafter. Further instructions at that time. Twer, come with me.”

They were alone in Mallow’s private quarters. Mallow indicated a chair and Twer sat down. His stocky figure looked shrunken.

Mallow stared him down, sardonically. “Twer,” he said, “I’m disappointed. Your three years in politics seem to have gotten you out of trader habits. Remember, I may be a democrat back at the Foundation, but there’s nothing short of tyranny that can run my ship the way I want it run. I never had to pull a blaster on my men before, and I wouldn’t have had to now, if you hadn’t gone out of line.

“Twer, you have no official position, but you’re here on my invitation, and I’ll extend you every courtesy – in private. However, from now on, in the presence of my officers or men, I’m ‘sir,’ and not ‘Mallow.’ And when I give an order, you’ll jump faster than a third-class recruit just for luck, or I’ll have you handcuffed in the sub-level even faster. Understand?”

The party-leader swallowed dryly. He said, reluctantly, “My apologies.”

“Accepted! Will you shake?”

Twer’s limp fingers were swallowed in Mallow’s huge palm. Twer said, “My motives were good. It’s difficult to send a man out to be lynched. That wobbly-kneed governor or whatever-he-was can’t save him. It’s murder.”

“I can’t help that. Frankly, the incident smelled too bad. Didn’t you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“This spaceport is deep in the middle of a sleepy far section. Suddenly a missionary escapes. Where from? He comes here. Coincidence? A huge crowd gathers. From where? The nearest city of any size must be at least a hundred miles away. But they arrive in half an hour. How?”

“How?” echoed Twer.

“Well, what if the missionary were brought here and released as bait. Our friend, Revered Parma, was considerably confused. He seemed at no time to be in complete possession of his wits.”

“Hard usage–” murmured Twer bitterly.

“Maybe! And maybe the idea was to have us go all chivalrous and gallant, into a stupid defense of the man. He was here against the laws of Korell and the Foundation. If I withhold him, it is an act of war against Korell, and the Foundation would have no legal right to defend us.”

“That – that’s pretty far-fetched.”

The speaker blared and forestalled Mallow’s answer: “Sir, official communication received.”

“Submit immediately!”

The gleaming cylinder arrived in its slot with a click. Mallow opened it and shook out the silver-impregnated sheet it held. He rubbed it appreciatively between thumb and finger and said, “Teleported direct from the capital. Commdor’s own stationery.”

He read it in a glance and laughed shortly, “So my idea was far-fetched, was it?”

He tossed it to Twer, and added, “Half an hour after we hand back the missionary, we finally get a very polite invitation to the Commdor’s august presence – after seven days of previous waiting. I think we passed a test.”

5.

COMMDOR ASPER WAS a man of the people, by self-acclamation. His remaining back-fringe of gray hair drooped limply to his shoulders, his shirt needed laundering, and he spoke with a snuffle.

“There is no ostentation here, Trader Mallow,” he said. “No false show. In me, you see merely the first citizen of the state. That’s what Commdor means, and that’s the only title I have.”

He seemed inordinately pleased with it all, “in fact, I consider that fact one of the strongest bonds between Korell and your nation. I understand you people enjoy the republican blessings we do.”

“Exactly, Commdor,” said Mallow gravely, taking mental exception to the comparison, “an argument which I consider strongly in favor of continued peace and friendship between our governments.”

“Peace! Ah!” The Commdor’s sparse gray beard twitched to the sentimental grimaces of his face. “I don’t think there is anyone in the Periphery who has so near his heart the ideal of Peace, as I have. I can truthfully say that since I succeeded my illustrious father to the leadership of the state, the reign of Peace has never been broken. Perhaps I shouldn’t say it” –he coughed gently– “but I have been told that my people, my fellow-citizens rather, know me as Asper, the Well-Beloved.”

Mallow’s eyes wandered over the well-kept garden. Perhaps the tall men and the strangely-designed but openly-vicious weapons they carried just happened to be lurking in odd comers as a precaution against himself. That would be understandable. But the lofty, steel-girdered walls that circled the place had quite obviously been recently strengthened – an unfitting occupation for such a Well-Beloved Asper.

He said, “It is fortunate that I have you to deal with then, Commdor. The despots and monarchs of surrounding worlds, which haven’t the benefit of enlightened administration, often lack the qualities that would make a ruler well-beloved.”

“Such as?” There was a cautious note in the Commdor’s voice.

“Such as a concern for the best interests of their people, You, on the other hand, would understand,”

The Commdor kept his eyes on the gravel path as they walked leisurely, His hands caressed each other behind his back.

Mallow went on smoothly, “Up to now, trade between our two nations has suffered because of the restrictions placed upon our traders by your government. Surely, it has long been evident to you that unlimited trade–”

“Free Trade!” mumbled the Commdor.

“Free Trade, then. You must see that it would be of benefit to both of us. There are things you have that we want, and things we have that you want. It asks only an exchange to bring increased prosperity. An enlightened ruler such as yourself, a friend of the people – I might say, a member of the people – needs no elaboration on that theme. I won’t insult your intelligence by offering any.”

“True! I have seen this. But what would you?” His voice was a plaintive whine. “Your people have always been so unreasonable. I am in favor of all the trade our economy can support, but not on your terms. I am not sole master here.” His voice rose, “I am only the servant of public opinion. My people will not take commerce which carries with it a compulsory religion.”

Mallow drew himself up, “A compulsory religion?”

“So it has always been in effect. Surely you remember the case of Askone twenty years ago. First they were sold some of your goods and then your people asked for complete freedom of missionary effort in order that the goods might be run properly; that Temples of Health be set up. There was then the establishment of religious schools; autonomous rights for all officers of the religion and with what result? Askone is now an integral member of the Foundation’s system and the Grand Master cannot call his underwear his own. Oh, no! Oh, no! The dignity of an independent people could never suffer it.”

“None of what you speak is at all what I suggest,” interposed Mallow.

“No?”

“No. I’m a Master Trader. Money is my religion. All this mysticism and hocus-pocus of the missionaries annoy me, and I’m glad you refuse to countenance it. It makes you more my type of man.”

The Commdor’s laugh was high-pitched and jerky, “Well said! The Foundation should have sent a man of your caliber before this.”

He laid a friendly hand upon the trader’s bulking shoulder, “But man, you have told me only half. You have told me what the catch is not. Now tell me what it is.”

“The only catch, Commdor, is that you’re going to be burdened with an immense quantity of riches.”

“Indeed?” he snuffled. “But what could I want with riches? The true wealth is the love of one’s people. I have that.”

“You can have both, for it is possible to gather gold with one hand and love with the other.”

“Now that, my young man, would be an interesting phenomenon, if it were possible. How would you go about it?”

“Oh, in a number of ways. The difficulty is choosing among them. Let’s see. Well, luxury items, for instance. This object here, now–”

Mallow drew gently out of an inner pocket a flat, linked chain of polished metal. “This, for instance.”

“What is it?”

“That’s got to be demonstrated. Can you get a woman? Any young female will do. And a mirror, full length.”

“Hm-m-m. Let’s get indoors, then.”

The Commdor referred to his dwelling place as a house. The populace undoubtedly would call it a palace. To Mallow’s straightforward eyes, it looked uncommonly like a fortress. it was built on an eminence that overlooked the capital. Its walls were thick and reinforced. Its approaches were guarded, and its architecture was shaped for defense. Just the type of dwelling, Mallow thought sourly, for Asper, the Well-Beloved.

A young girl was before them. She bent low to the Commdor, who said, “This is one of the Commdora’s girls. Will she do?”

“Perfectly!”

The Commdor watched carefully while Mallow snapped the chain about the girl’s waist, and stepped back.

The Commdor snuffled, “Well. Is that all?”

“Will you draw the curtain, Commdor. Young lady, there’s a little knob just near the snap. Will you move it upward, please? Go ahead, it won’t hurt you.”

The girl did so, drew a sharp breath, looked at her hands, and gasped, “Oh!”

From her waist as a source she was drowned in a pale, streaming luminescence of shifting color that drew itself over her head in a flashing coronet of liquid fire. It was as if someone had tom the aurora borealis out of the sky and molded it into a cloak.

The girl stepped to the mirror and stared, fascinated.

“Here, take this.” Mallow handed her a necklace of dull pebbles. “Put it around your neck.”

The girl did so, and each pebble, as it entered the luminescent field became an individual flame that leaped and sparkled in crimson and gold.

“What do you think of it?” Mallow asked her. The girl didn’t answer but there was adoration in her eyes. The Commdor gestured and reluctantly, she pushed the knob down, and the glory died. She left – with a memory.

“It’s yours, Commdor,” said Mallow, “for the Commdora. Consider it a small gift from the Foundation.”

“Hm-m-m.’ The Commdor turned the belt and necklace over in his hand as though calculating the weight. “How is it done?”

Mallow shrugged, “That’s a question for our technical experts. But it will work for you without – mark you, without – priestly help.”

“Well, it’s only feminine frippery after all. What could you do with it? Where would the money come in?”

“You have balls, receptions, banquets – that sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you realize what women will pay for that sort of jewelry? Ten thousand credits, at least.”

The Commdor seemed struck in a heap, “Ah!”

“And since the power unit of this particular item will not last longer than six months, there will be the necessity of frequent replacements. Now we can sell as many of these as you want for the equivalent in wrought iron of one thousand credits. There’s nine hundred percent profit for you.”

The Commdor plucked at his beard and seemed engaged in awesome mental calculations, “Galaxy, how they would fight for them. I’ll keep the supply small and let them bid. Of course, it wouldn’t do to let them know that I personally–”

Mallow said, “We can explain the workings of dummy corporations, if you would like. –Then, working further at random, take our complete line of household gadgets. We have collapsible stoves that will roast the toughest meats to the desired tenderness in two minutes. We’ve got knives that won’t require sharpening. We’ve got the equivalent of a complete laundry that can be packed in a small closet and will work entirely automatically. Ditto dish-washers. Ditto-ditto floor-scrubbers, furniture polishers, dust-precipitators, lighting fixtures – oh, anything you like. Think of your increased popularity, if you make them available to the public. Think of your increased quantity of, uh, worldly goods, if they’re available as a government monopoly at nine hundred percent profit. It will be worth many times the money to them, and they needn’t know what you pay for it. And, mind you, none of it will require priestly supervision. Everybody will be happy.”

“Except you, it seems. What do you get out of it?”

“Just what every trader gets by Foundation law. My men and I will collect half of whatever profits we take in. Just you buy all I want to sell you, and we’ll both make out quite well. Quite well.”

The Commdor was enjoying his thoughts, “What did you say you wanted to be paid with? Iron?”

“That, and coal, and bauxite. Also tobacco, pepper, magnesium, hardwood. Nothing you haven’t got enough of.”

“It sounds well.”

“I think so. Oh, and still another item at random, Commdor. I could retool your factories.”

“Eh? How’s that?”

“Well, take your steel foundries. I have handy little gadgets that could do tricks with steel that would cut production costs to one percent of previous marks. You could cut prices by half, and still split extremely fat profits with the manufacturers. I tell you, I could show you exactly what I mean, if you allowed me a demonstration. Do you have a steel foundry in this city? It wouldn’t take long.”

“It could be arranged, Trader Mallow. But tomorrow, tomorrow. Would you dine with us tonight?”

“My men–” began Mallow.

“Let them all come,” said the Commdor, expansively. “A symbolic friendly union of our nations. It will give us a chance for further friendly discussion. But one thing,” his face lengthened and grew stem, “none of your religion. Don’t think that all this is an entering wedge for the missionaries.”

“Commdor,” said Mallow, dryly, “I give you my word that religion would cut my profits.”

“Then that will do for now. You’ll be escorted back to your ship.”

6.

THE COMMDORA WAS much younger than her husband. Her face was pale and coldly formed and her black hair was drawn smoothly and tightly back.

Her voice was tart. “You are quite finished, my gracious and noble husband? Quite, quite finished? I suppose I may even enter the garden if I wish, now.”

“There is no need for dramatics, Licia, my dear,” said the Commdor, mildly. “The young man will attend at dinner tonight, and you can speak with him all you wish and even amuse yourself by listening to all I say. Room will have to be arranged for his men somewhere about the place. The stars grant that they be few in numbers.”

“Most likely they’ll be great hogs of eaters who will eat meat by the quarter-animal and wine by the hogshead. And you will groan for two nights when you calculate the expense.”

“Well now, perhaps I won’t. Despite your opinion, the dinner is to be on the most lavish scale.”

“Oh, I see.” She stared at him contemptuously. “You are very friendly with these barbarians. Perhaps that is why I was not to be permitted to attend your conversation. Perhaps your little weazened soul is plotting to turn against my father.”

“Not at all.”

“Yes, I’d be likely to believe you, wouldn’t I? If ever a poor woman was sacrificed for policy to an unsavory marriage, it was myself. I could have picked a more proper man from the alleys and mudheaps of my native world.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what, my lady. Perhaps you would enjoy returning to your native world. Except that, to retain as a souvenir that portion of you with which I am best acquainted, I could have your tongue cut out first. And,” he tolled his head, calculatingly, to one side, “as a final improving touch to your beauty, your ears and the tip of your nose as well.”

“You wouldn’t dare, you little pug-dog. My father would pulverize your toy nation to meteoric dust. In fact, he might do it in any case, if I told him you were treating with these barbarians.”

“Hm-m-m. Well, there’s no need for threats. You are free to question the man yourself tonight. Meanwhile, madam, keep your wagging tongue still.”

“At your orders?”

“Here, take this, then, and keep still.”

The band was about her waist and the necklace around her neck. He pushed the knob himself and stepped back.

The Commdora drew in her breath and held out her hands stiffly. She fingered the necklace gingerly, and gasped again.

The Commdor rubbed his hands with satisfaction and said, “You may wear it tonight – and I’ll get you more. Now keep still.”

The Commdora kept still.

7.

JAIM TWER FIDGETED and shuffled his feet. He said, “What’s twisting your face?”

Hober Mallow lifted out of his brooding, “Is my face twisted? It’s not meant so.”

“Something must have happened yesterday, –I mean, besides that feast.” With sudden conviction, “Mallow, there’s trouble, isn’t there?”

“Trouble? No. Quite the opposite. In fact, I’m in the position of throwing my full weight against a door and finding it ajar at the time. We’re getting into this steel foundry too easily.”

“You suspect a trap?”

“Oh, for Seldon’s sake, don’t be melodramatic.” Mallow swallowed his impatience and added conversationally, “It’s just that the easy entrance means there will be nothing to see.

“Nuclear power, huh?” Twer ruminated. “I’ll tell you. There’s just about no evidence of any nuclear power economy here in Korell. And it would be pretty hard to mask all signs of the widespread effects a fundamental technology such as nucleics would have on everything.”

“Not if it was just starting up, Twer, and being applied to a war economy. You’d find it in the shipyards and the steel foundries only.”

“So if we don’t find it, then–”

“Then they haven’t got it – or they’re not showing it. Toss a coin or take a guess.”

Twer shook his head, “I wish I’d been with you yesterday.”

“I wish you had, too,” said Mallow stonily. “I have no objection to moral support. Unfortunately, it was the Commdor who set the terms of the meeting, and not myself. And what is coming now would seem to be the royal groundcar to escort us to the foundry. Have you got the gadgets?”

“All of them.”

8.

THE FOUNDRY WAS large, and bore the odor of decay which no amount of superficial repairs could quite erase. It was empty now and in quite an unnatural state of quiet, as it played unaccustomed host to the Commdor and his court.

Mallow had swung the steel sheet onto the two supports with a careless heave. He had taken the instrument held out to him by Twer and was gripping the leather handle inside its leaden sheath.

“The instrument,” he said, “is dangerous, but so is a buzz saw. You just have to keep your fingers away.”

And as he spoke, he drew the muzzle-slit swiftly down the length of the steel sheet, which quietly and instantly fell in two.

There was a unanimous jump, and Mallow laughed. He picked up one of the halves and propped it against his knee, “You can adjust the cutting-length accurately to a hundredth of an inch, and a two-inch sheet will slit down the middle as easily as this thing did. If you’ve got the thickness exactly judged, you can place steel on a wooden table, and split the metal without scratching the wood.”

And at each phrase, the nuclear shear moved and a gouged chunk of steel flew across the room.

“That,” he said, “is whittling – with steel.”

He passed back the shear. “Or else you have the plane. Do you want to decrease the thickness of a sheet, smooth out an irregularity, remove corrosion? Watch!”

Thin, transparent foil flew off the other half of the original sheet in six-inch swarths, then eight-inch, then twelve.

“Or drills? It’s all the same principle.”

They were crowded around now. It might have been a sleight-of-hand show, a comer magician, a vaudeville act made into high-pressure salesmanship. Commdor Asper fingered scraps of steel. High officials of the government tiptoed over each other’s shoulders, and whispered, while Mallow punched clean, beautiful round holes through an inch of hard steel at every touch of his nuclear drill.

“Just one more demonstration. Bring two short lengths of pipe, somebody.”

An Honorable Chamberlain of something-or-other sprang to obedience in the general excitement and thought-absorption, and stained his hands like any laborer.

Mallow stood them upright and shaved the ends off with a single stroke of the shear, and then joined the pipes, fresh cut to fresh cut.

And there was a single pipe! The new ends, with even atomic irregularities missing, formed one piece upon joining.

Then Mallow looked up at his audience, stumbled at his first word and stopped. There was the keen stirring of excitement in his chest, and the base of his stomach went tingly and cold.

The Commdor’s own bodyguard, in the confusion, had struggled to the front line, and Mallow, for the first time, was near enough to see their unfamiliar hand-weapons in detail.

They were nuclear! There was no mistaking it; an explosive projectile weapon with a barrel like that was impossible. But that wasn’t the big point. That wasn’t the point at all.

The butts of those weapons had, deeply etched upon them, in worn gold plating, the Spaceship-and-Sun!

The same Spaceship-and-Sun that was stamped on every. one of the great volumes of the original Encyclopedia that the Foundation had begun and not yet finished. The same Spaceship-and-Sun that had blazoned the banner of the Galactic Empire through millennia.

Mallow talked through and around his thoughts, “Test that pipe! It’s one piece. Not perfect; naturally, the joining shouldn’t be done by hand.”

There was no need of further legerdemain. It had gone over. Mallow was through. He had what he wanted. There was only one thing in his mind. The golden globe with its conventionalized rays, and the oblique cigar shape that was a space vessel.

The Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire!

The Empire! The words drilled! A century and a half had passed but there was still the-Empire, somewhere deeper in the Galaxy. And it was emerging again, out into the Periphery.

Mallow smiled!

9.

THE FAR STAR was two days out in space, when Hober Mallow, in his private quarters with Senior Lieutenant Drawt, handed him an envelope, a roll of microfilm, and a silvery spheroid.

“As of an hour from now, Lieutenant, you’re Acting Captain of the Far Star, until I return, –or forever.”

Drawt made a motion of standing but Mallow waved him down imperiously.

“Quiet, and listen. The envelope contains the exact location of the planet to which you’re to proceed. There you will wait for me for two months. If, before the two months are up, the Foundation locates you, the microfilm is my report of the trip.

“If, however,” and his voice was somber, “I do not return at the end of two months, and Foundation vessels do not locate you, proceed to the planet, Terminus, and hand in the Time Capsule as the report. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At no time are you, or any of the men, to amplify in any single instance, my official report.”

“If we are questioned, sir?”

“Then you know nothing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The interview ended, and fifty minutes later, a lifeboat kicked lightly off the side of the Far Star.

10.

ONUM BARR WAS an old man, too old to be afraid. Since the last disturbances, he had lived alone on the fringes of the land with what books he had saved from the ruins. He had nothing he feared losing, least of all the worn remnant of his life, and so he faced the intruder without cringing.

“Your door was open,” the stranger explained.

His accent was clipped and harsh, and Barr did not fail to notice the strange blue-steel hand-weapon at his hip. In the half gloom of the small room, Barr saw the glow of a force-shield surrounding the man.

He said, wearily, “There is no reason to keep it closed. Do you wish anything of me?”

“Yes.” The stranger remained standing in the center of the room. He was large, both in height and bulk. “Yours is the only house about here.”

“It is a desolate place,” agreed Barr, “but there is a town to the east. I can show you the way’.”

“In a while. May I sit?”

“If the chairs will hold you,” said the old man, gravely. They were old, too. Relics of a better youth.

The stranger said, “My name is Hober Mallow. I come from a far province.”

Barr nodded and smiled, “Your tongue convicted you of that long ago. I am Onum Barr of Siwenna – and once Patrician of the Empire.”

“Then this is Siwenna. I had only old maps to guide me.”

“They would have to be old, indeed, for star-positions to be misplaced.”

Barr sat quite still, while the other’s eyes drifted away into a reverie. He noticed that the nuclear force-shield had vanished from about the man and admitted dryly to himself that his person no longer seemed formidable to strangers – or even, for good or for evil, to his enemies.

He said, “My house is poor and my resources few. You may share what I have if your stomach can endure black bread and dried corn.”

Mallow shook his head, “No, I have eaten, and I can’t stay. All I need are the directions to the center of government.”

“That is easily enough done, and poor though I am, deprives me of nothing. Do you mean the capital of the planet, or of the Imperial Sector?”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed, “Aren’t the two identical? Isn’t this Siwenna?”

The old patrician nodded slowly, “Siwenna, yes. But Siwenna is no longer capital of the Normannic Sector. Your old map has misled you after all. The stars may not change even in centuries, but political boundaries are all too fluid.”

“That’s too bad. In fact, that’s very bad. Is the new capital far off?”

“It’s on Orsha II. Twenty parsecs off. Your map will direct you. How old is it?”

“A hundred and fifty years.”

“That old?” The old man sighed. “History has been crowded since. Do you know any of it?”

Mallow shook his bead slowly.

Barr said, “You’re fortunate. It has been an evil time for the provinces, but for the reign of Stannell VI, and he died fifty years ago. Since that time, rebellion and ruin, ruin and rebellion.” Barr wondered if he were growing garrulous. It was a lonely life out here, and he had so little chance to talk to men.

Mallow said with sudden sharpness, “Ruin, eh? You sound as if the province were impoverished.”

“Perhaps not on an absolute scale. The physical resources of twenty-five first-rank planets take a long time to use up. Compared to the wealth of the last century, though, we have gone a long way downhill – and there is no sign of turning, not yet. Why are you so interested in all this, young man? You are all alive and your eyes shine!”

The trader came near enough to blushing, as the faded eyes seemed to look too deep into his and smile at what they saw.

He said, “Now look here. I’m a trader out there – out toward the rim of the Galaxy. I’ve located some old maps, and I’m out to open new markets. Naturally, talk of impoverished provinces disturbs me. You can’t get money out of a world unless money’s there to be got. Now how’s Siwenna, for instance?”

The old man leaned forward, “I cannot say. It will do even yet, perhaps. But you a trader? You look more like a fighting man. You hold your hand near your gun and there is a scar on your jawbone.”

Mallow jerked his head, “There isn’t much law out there where I come from. Fighting and scars are part of a trader’s overhead. But fighting is only useful when there’s money at the end, and if I can get it without, so much the sweeter. Now will I find enough money here to make it worth the fighting? I take it I can find the fighting easily enough.”

“Easily enough,” agreed Barr. “You could join Wiscard’s remnants in the Red Stars. I don’t know, though, if you’d call that fighting or piracy. Or you could join our present gracious viceroy – gracious by right of murder, pillage, rapine, and the word of a boy Emperor, since rightfully assassinated.” The patrician’s thin cheeks reddened. His eyes closed and then opened, bird-bright.

“You don’t sound very friendly to the viceroy, Patrician Barr,” said Mallow. “What if I’m one of his spies?”

“What if you are?” said Barr, bitterly. “What can you take?” He gestured a withered arm at the bare interior of the decaying mansion.

“Your life.”

“It would leave me easily enough. It has been with me five years too long. But you are not one of the viceroy’s men. If you were, perhaps even now instinctive self-preservation would keep my mouth closed.”

“How do you know?”

The old man laughed, “You seem suspicious – Come, I’ll wager you think I’m trying to trap you into denouncing the government. No, no. I am past politics.”

“Past politics? Is a man ever past that? The words you used to describe the viceroy – what were they? Murder, pillage, all that. You didn’t sound objective. Not exactly. Not as if you were past politics.”

The old man shrugged, “Memories sting when they come suddenly. Listen! Judge for yourself! When Siwenna was the provincial capital, I was a patrician and a member of the provincial senate. My family was an old and honored one. One of my great-grandfathers had been– No, never mind that. Past glories are poor feeding.”

“I take it,” said Mallow, “there was a civil war, or a revolution.”

Barr’s face darkened. “Civil wars are chronic in these degenerate days, but Siwenna had kept apart. Under Stannell VI, it had almost achieved its ancient prosperity. But weak emperors followed, and weak emperors mean strong viceroys, and our last viceroy – the same Wiscard, whose remnants still prey on the commerce among the Red Stars – aimed at the Imperial Purple. He wasn’t the first to aim. And if he had succeeded, he wouldn’t have been the first to succeed.

“But he failed. For when the Emperor’s Admiral approached the province at the head of a fleet, Siwenna itself rebelled against its rebel viceroy.” He stopped, sadly.

Mallow found himself tense on the edge of his seat, and relaxed slowly, “Please continue, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Barr, wearily. “It’s kind of you to humor an old man. They rebelled; or I should say, we rebelled, for I was one of the minor leaders. Wiscard left Siwenna, barely ahead of us, and the planet, and with it the province, were thrown open to the admiral with every gesture of loyalty to the Emperor. Why we did this, –I’m not sure. Maybe we felt loyal to the symbol, if not the person, of the Emperor, –a cruel and vicious child. Maybe we feared the horrors of a siege.”

“Well?” urged Mallow, gently.

“Well, came the grim retort, “that didn’t suit the admiral. He wanted the glory of conquering a rebellious province and his men wanted the loot such conquest would involve. So while the people were still gathered in every large city, cheering the Emperor and his admiral, he occupied all armed centers, and then ordered the population put to the nuclear blast.”

“On what pretext?”

“On the pretext that they had rebelled against their viceroy, the Emperor’s anointed. And the admiral became the new viceroy, by virtue of one month of massacre, pillage and complete horror. I had six sons. Five died – variously. I had a daughter. I hope she died, eventually. I escaped because I was old. I came here, too old to cause even our viceroy worry.” He bent his gray head, “They left me nothing, because I had helped drive out a rebellious governor and deprived an admiral of his glory.”

Mallow sat silent, and waited. Then, “What of your sixth son?” he asked softly.

“Eh?” Barr smiled acidly. “He is safe, for he has joined the admiral as a common soldier under an assumed name. He is a gunner in the viceroy’s personal fleet. Oh, no, I see your eyes. He is not an unnatural son. He visits me when he can and gives me what he can. He keeps me alive. And some day, our great and glorious viceroy will grovel to his death, and it will be my son who will be his executioner.”

“And you tell this to a stranger? You endanger your son.”

“No. I help him, by introducing a new enemy. And were I a friend of the viceroy, as I am his enemy, I would tell him to string outer space with ships, clear to the rim of the Galaxy.”

“There are no ships there?”

“Did you find any? Did any space-guards question your entry? With ships few enough, and the bordering provinces filled with their share of intrigue and iniquity, none can be spared to guard the barbarian outer suns. No danger ever threatened us from the broken edge of the Galaxy, –until you came.”

“I? I’m no danger.”

“There will be more after you.”

Mallow shook his head slowly, “I’m not sure I understand you.”

“Listen!” There was a feverish edge to the old man’s voice. “I knew you when you entered. You have a force-shield about your body, or had when I first saw you.”

Doubtful silence, then, “Yes, –I had.”

“Good. That was a flaw, but you didn’t know that. There are some things I know. It’s out of fashion in these decaying times to be a scholar. Events race and flash past and who cannot fight the tide with nuclear-blast in hand is swept away, as I was. But I was a scholar, and I know that in all the history of nucleics, no portable force-shield was ever invented. We have force-shields – huge, lumbering powerhouses that will protect a city, or even a ship, but not one, single man.”

“Ah?” Mallow’s underlip thrust out. “And what do you deduce from that?”

“There have been stories percolating through space. They travel strange paths and become distorted with every parsec, –but when I was young there was a small ship of strange men, who did not know our customs and could not tell where they came from. They talked of magicians at the edge of the Galaxy; magicians who glowed in the darkness, who flew unaided through the air, and whom weapons would not touch.

“We laughed. I laughed, too. I forgot it till today. But you glow in the darkness, and I don’t think my blaster, if I had one, would hurt you. Tell me, can you fly through air as you sit there now?”

Mallow said calmly, “I can make nothing of all this.”

Barr smiled, “I’m content with the answer. I do not examine my guests. But if there are magicians; if you are one of them; there may some day be a great influx of them, or you. Perhaps that would be well. Maybe we need new blood.” He muttered soundlessly to himself, then, slowly, “But it works the other way, too. Our new viceroy also dreams, as did our old Wiscard.”

“Also after the Emperor’s crown?”

Barr nodded, “My son hears tales. In the viceroy’s personal entourage, one could scarcely help it. And he tells me of them. Our new viceroy would not refuse the Crown if offered, but he guards his line of retreat. There are stories that, failing Imperial heights, he plans to carve out a new Empire in the Barbarian hinterland. It is said, but I don’t vouch for this, that he has already given one of his daughters as wife to a Kinglet somewhere in the uncharted Periphery.”

“If one listened to every story–”

“I know. There are many more. I’m old and I babble nonsense. But what do you say?” And those sharp, old eyes peered deep.

The trader considered, “I say nothing. But I’d like to ask something. Does Siwenna have nuclear power? Now, wait, I know that it possesses the knowledge of nucleics. I mean, do they have power generators intact, or did the recent sack destroy them?”

“Destroy them? Oh, no. Half a planet would be wiped out before the smallest power station would be touched. They are irreplaceable and the suppliers of the strength of the fleet.” Almost proudly, “We have the largest and best on this side of Trantor itself.”

“Then what would I do first if I wanted to see these generators?”

“Nothing!” replied Barr, decisively. “You couldn’t approach any military center without being shot down instantly. Neither could anyone. Siwenna is still deprived of civic rights.”

“You mean all the power stations are under the military?”

“No. There are the small city stations, the ones supplying power for heating and lighting homes, powering vehicles and so forth. Those are almost as bad. They’re controlled by the tech-men.”

“Who are they?”

“A specialized group which supervises the power plants. The honor is hereditary, the young ones being brought up in the profession as apprentices. Strict sense of duty, honor, and all that. No one but a tech-man could enter a station.”

“I see.”

“I don’t say, though,” added Barr, “that there aren’t cases where tech-men haven’t been bribed. In days when we have nine emperors in fifty years and seven of these are assassinated, –when every space-captain aspires to the usurpation of a viceroyship, and every viceroy to the Imperium,

I suppose even a tech-man can fall prey to money. But it would require a good deal, and I have none. Have you?”

“Money? No. But does one always bribe with money?”

“What else, when money buys all else.”

“There is quite enough that money won’t buy. And now if you’ll tell me the nearest city with one of the stations, and how best to get there, I’ll thank you.”

“Wait!” Barr held out his thin hands. “Where do you rush? You come here, but I ask no questions. In the city, where the inhabitants are still called rebels, you would be challenged by the first soldier or guard who heard your accent and saw your clothes.”

He rose and from an obscure comer of an old chest brought out a booklet. “My passport, –forged. I escaped with it.”

He placed it in Mallow’s hand and folded the fingers over it. “The description doesn’t fit, but if you flourish it, the chances are many to one they will not look closely.”

“But you. You’ll be left without one.”

The old exile shrugged cynically, “What of it? And a further caution. Curb your tongue! Your accent is barbarous, your idioms peculiar, and every once in a while you deliver yourself of the most astounding archaisms. The less you speak, the less suspicion you will draw upon yourself. Now I’ll tell you how to get to the city–”

Five minutes later, Mallow was gone.

He returned but once, for a moment, to the old patrician’s house, before leaving it entirely, however. And when Onum Barr stepped into his little garden early the next morning, he found a box at his feet. It contained provisions, concentrated provisions such as one would find aboard ship, and alien in taste and preparation.

But they were good, and lasted long.

11.

THE TECH-MAN was short, and his skin glistened with well-kept plumpness. His hair was a fringe and his skull shone through pinkly. The rings on his fingers were thick and heavy, his clothes were scented, and he was the first man Mallow had met on the planet who hadn’t looked hungry.

The tech-man’s lips pursed peevishly, “Now, my man, quickly. I have things of great importance waiting for me. You seem a stranger–” He seemed to evaluate Mallow’s definitely un-Siwennese costume and his eyelids were heavy with suspicion.

“I am not of the neighborhood,” said Mallow, calmly, “but the matter is irrelevant. I have had the honor to send you a little gift yesterday–”

The tech-man’s nose lifted, “I received it. An interesting gewgaw. I may have use for it on occasion.”

“I have other and more interesting gifts. Quite out of the gewgaw stage.”

“Oh-h?” The tech-man’s voice lingered thoughtfully over the monosyllable. “I think I already see the course of the interview; it has happened before. You are going to give me some trifle or other. A few credits, perhaps a cloak, second-rate jewelry; anything your little soul may think sufficient to corrupt a tech-man.” His lower lip puffed out belligerently, “And I know what you wish in exchange. There have been others and to spare with the same bright idea. You wish to be adopted into our clan. You wish to be taught the mysteries of nucleics and the care of the machines. You think because you dogs of Siwenna – and probably your strangerhood is assumed for safety’s sake – are being daily punished for your rebellion that you can escape what you deserve by throwing over yourselves the privileges and protections of the tech-man’s guild.”

Mallow would have spoken, but the tech-man raised himself into a sudden roar. “And now leave before I report your name to the Protector of the City. Do you think that I would betray the trust? The Siwennese traitors that preceded me would have – perhaps! But you deal with a different breed now. Why, Galaxy, I marvel that I do not kill you myself at this moment with my bare hands.”

Mallow smiled to himself. The entire speech was patently artificial in tone and content, so that all the dignified indignation degenerated into uninspired farce.

The trader glanced humorously at the two flabby hands that had been named as his possible executioners then and there, and said, “Your Wisdom, you are wrong on three counts. First, I am not a creature of the viceroy come to test your loyalty. Second, my gift is something the Emperor himself in all his splendor does not and will never possess. Third, what I wish in return is very little; a nothing; a mere breath.”

“So you say!” He descended into heavy sarcasm. “Come, what is this imperial donation that your godlike power wishes to bestow upon me? Something the Emperor doesn’t have, eh?” He broke into a sharp squawk of derision.

Mallow rose and pushed the chair aside, “I have waited three days to see you, Your Wisdom, but the display will take only three seconds. If you will just draw that blaster whose butt I see very near your hand–”

“Eh?”

“And shoot me, I will be obliged.”

“What?”

“If I am killed, you can tell the police I tried to bribe you into betraying guild secrets. You’ll receive high praise. If I am not killed, you may have my shield.”

For the first time, the tech-man became aware of the dimly-white illumination that hovered closely about his visitor, as though he had been dipped in pearl-dust. His blaster raised to the level and with eyes a-squint in wonder and suspicion, he closed contact.

The molecules of air caught in the sudden surge of atomic disruption, tore into glowing, burning ions, and marked out the blinding thin line that struck at Mallow’s heart – and splashed!

While Mallow’s look of patience never changed, the nuclear forces that tore at him consumed themselves against that fragile, pearly illumination, and crashed back to die in mid-air.

The tech-man’s blaster dropped to the floor with an unnoticed crash.

Mallow said, “Does the Emperor have a personal force-shield? You can have one.”

The tech-man stuttered, “Are you a tech-man?”

“No.”

“Then – then where did you get that?”

“What do you care?” Mallow was coolly contemptuous. “Do you want it?” A thin, knobbed chain fell upon the desk, “There it is.”

The tech-man snatched it up and fingered it nervously, “Is this complete?”

“Complete.”

“Where’s the power?”

Mallow’s finger fell upon the largest knob, dull in its leaden case.

The tech-man looked up, and his face was congested with blood, “Sir, I am a tech-man, senior grade. I have twenty years behind me as supervisor and I studied under the great Bier at the University of Trantor. If you have the infernal charlatanry to tell me that a small container the size of a – of a walnut, blast it, holds a nuclear generator, I’ll have you before the Protector in three seconds.”

“Explain it yourself then, if you can. I say it’s complete.”

The tech-man’s flush faded slowly as he bound the chain about his waist, and, following Mallow’s gesture, pushed the knob. The radiance that surrounded him shone into dim relief. His blaster lifted, then hesitated. Slowly, he adjusted it to an almost burnless minimum.

And then, convulsively, he closed circuit and the nuclear fire dashed against his hand, harmlessly.

He whirled, “And what if I shoot you now, and keep the shield.”

“Try!” said Mallow. “Do you think I gave you my only sample?” And he, too, was solidly incased in light.

The tech-man giggled nervously. The blaster clattered onto the desk. He said, “And what is this mere nothing, this breath, that you wish in return’?”

“I want to see your generators.”

“You realize that that is forbidden. It would mean ejection into space for both of us–”

“I don’t want to touch them or have anything to do with them. I want to see them – from a distance.”

“If not?”

“If not, you have your shield, but I have other things. For one thing, a blaster especially designed to pierce that shield.”

“Hm-m-m.” The tech-man’s eyes shifted. “Come with me.”

12.

THE TECH-MAN’S home was a small two-story affair on the Outskirts of the huge, cubiform, windowless affair that dominated the center of the city. Mallow passed from one to the other through an underground passage, and found himself in the silent, ozone-tinged atmosphere of the powerhouse.

For fifteen minutes, he followed his guide and said nothing. His eyes missed nothing. His fingers touched nothing. And then, the tech-man said in strangled tones, “Have you had enough? I couldn’t trust my underlings in this case.”

“Could you ever?” asked Mallow, ironically. “I’ve had enough.”

They were back in the office and Mallow said, thoughtfully, “And all those generators are in your hands?”

“Every one,” said the tech-man, with more than a touch of complacency.

“And you keep them running and in order?”

“Right!”

“And if they break down?”

The tech-man shook his head indignantly, “They don’t break down. They never break down. They were built for eternity.”

“Eternity is a long time. Just suppose–”

“It is unscientific to suppose meaningless cases.”

“All right. Suppose I were to blast a vital part into nothingness? I suppose the machines aren’t immune to nuclear forces? Suppose I fuse a vital connection, or smash a quartz D-tube?”

“Well, then,” shouted the tech-man, furiously, “you would be killed.”

“Yes, I know that,” Mallow was shouting, too, “but what about the generator? Could you repair it?”

“Sir,” the tech-man howled his words, “you have had a fair return. You’ve had what you asked for. Now get out! I owe you nothing more!”

Mallow bowed with a satiric respect and left.

Two days later he was back where the Far Star waited to return with him to the planet, Terminus.

And two days later, the tech-man’s shield went dead, and for all his puzzling and cursing never glowed again.

13.

MALLOW RELAXED FOR almost the first time in six months. He was on his back in the sunroom of his new house, stripped to the skin. His great, brown arms were thrown up and out, and the muscles tautened into a stretch, then faded into repose.

The man beside him placed a cigar between Mallow’s teeth and lit it. He champed on one of his own and said, “You must be overworked. Maybe you need a long rest.”

“Maybe I do, Jael, but I’d rather rest in a council seat. Because I’m going to have that seat, and you’re going to help me.”

Ankor Jael raised his eyebrows and said, “How did I get into this?”

“You got in obviously. Firstly, you’re an old dog of a politico. Secondly, you were booted out of your cabinet seat by Jorane Sutt, the same fellow who’d rather lose an eyeball than see me in the council. You don’t think much of my chances, do you?”

“Not much,” agreed the ex-Minister of Education. “You’re a Smyrnian.”

“That’s no legal bar. I’ve had a lay education.”

“Well, come now. Since when does prejudice follow any law but its own. Now, how about your own man – this Jaim Twer? What does he say?”

“He spoke about running me for council almost a year ago,” replied Mallow easily, “but I’ve outgrown him. He couldn’t have pulled it off in any case. Not enough depth. He’s loud and forceful – but that’s only an expression of nuisance value. I’m off to put over a real coup. I need you.”

“Jorane Sutt is the cleverest politician on the planet and he’ll be against you. I don’t claim to be able to outsmart him. And don’t think he doesn’t fight hard, and dirty.”

“I’ve got money.”

“Mat helps. But it takes a lot to buy off prejudice, you dirty Smyrnian.”

“I’ll have a lot.”

“Well, I’ll look into the matter. But don’t ever you crawl up on your hind legs and bleat that I encouraged you in the matter. Who’s that?”

Mallow pulled the corners of his mouth down, and said, “Jorane Sutt himself, I think. He’s early, and I can understand it. I’ve been dodging him for a month. Look, Jael, get into the next room, and turn the speaker on low. I want you to listen.”

He helped the council member out of the room with a shove of his bare foot, then scrambled up and into a silk robe. The synthetic sunlight faded to normal power.

The secretary to the mayor entered stiffly, while the solemn major-domo tiptoed the door shut behind him.

Mallow fastened his belt and said, “Take your choice of chairs, Sutt.”

Sutt barely cracked a flickering smile. The chair he chose was comfortable but he did not relax into it. From its edge, he said, “If you’ll state your terms to begin with, we’ll get down to business.”

“What terms?”

“You wish to be coaxed? Well, then, what, for instance, did you do at Korell? Your report was incomplete.”

“I gave it to you months ago. You were satisfied then.”

Yes,” Sutt rubbed his forehead thoughtfully with one finger, “but since then your activities have been significant. We know a good deal of what you’re doing, Mallow. We know, exactly, how many factories you’re putting up; in what a hurry you’re doing it; and how much it’s costing you. And there’s this palace you have,” he gazed about him with a cold lack of appreciation, “which set you back considerably more than my annual salary; and a swathe you’ve been cutting – a very considerable and expensive swathe – through the upper layers of Foundation society.”

“So? Beyond proving that you employ capable spies, what does it show?”

“It shows you have money you didn’t have a year ago. And that can show anything – for instance, that a good deal went on at Korell that we know nothing of. Where are you getting your money?”

“My dear Sutt, you can’t really expect me to tell you.”

“I don’t.”

“I didn’t think you did. That’s why I’m going to tell you. It’s straight from the treasure-chests of the Commdor of Korell.”

Sutt blinked.

Mallow smiled and continued. “Unfortunately for you, the money is quite legitimate. I’m a Master Trader and the money I received was a quantity of wrought iron and chromite in exchange for a number of trinkets I was able to supply him with. Fifty per cent of the profit is mine by hidebound contract with the Foundation. The other half goes to the government at the end of the year when all good citizens pay their income tax.”

“There was no mention of any trade agreement in your report.”

“Nor was there any mention of what I had for breakfast that day, or the name of my current mistress, or any other irrelevant detail.” Mallow’s smile was fading into a sneer. “I was sent – to quote yourself – to keep my eyes open. They were never. shut. You wanted to find out what happened to the captured Foundation merchant ships. I never saw or heard of them. You wanted to find out if Korell had nuclear power. My report tells of nuclear blasters in the possession of the Commdor’s private bodyguard. I saw no other signs. And the blasters I did see are relics of the old Empire, and may be show-pieces that do not work, for all my knowledge.

“So far, I followed orders, but beyond that I was, and. still am, a free agent. According to the laws of the Foundation, a Master Trader may open whatever new markets he can, and receive therefrom his due half of the profits. What are your objections? I don’t see them.”

Sutt bent his eyes carefully towards the wall and spoke with a difficult lack of anger, “It is the general custom of all traders to advance the religion with their trade.”

“I adhere to law, and not to custom.”

“There are times when custom can be the higher law.”

“Then appeal to the courts.”

Sutt raised somber eyes which seemed to retreat into their sockets. “You’re a Smyrnian after all. It seems naturalization and education can’t wipe out the taint in the blood. Listen, and try to understand, just the same.

“This goes beyond money, or markets. We have the science of the great Hari Seldon to prove that upon us depends the future empire of the Galaxy, and from the course that leads to that Imperium we cannot turn. The religion we have is our all-important instrument towards that end. With it we have brought the Four Kingdoms under our control, even at the moment when they would have crushed us. It is the most potent device known with which to control men and worlds.

“The primary reason for the development of trade and traders was to introduce and spread this religion more quickly, and to insure that the introduction of new techniques and a new economy would be subject to our thorough and intimate control.”

He paused for breath, and Mallow interjected quietly, “I know the theory. I understand it entirely.”

“Do you? It is more than I expected. Then you see, of course, that your attempt at trade for its own sake; at mass production of worthless gadgets, which can only affect a world’s economy superficially; at the subversion of interstellar policy to the god of profits; at the divorce of nuclear power from our controlling religion – can only end with the overthrow and complete negation of the policy that has worked successfully for a century.”

“And time enough, too,” said Mallow, indifferently, “for a policy outdated, dangerous and impossible. However well your religion has succeeded in the Four Kingdoms, scarcely another world in the Periphery has accepted it. At the time we seized control of the Kingdoms, there were a sufficient number of exiles, Galaxy knows, to spread the story of how Salvor Hardin used the priesthood and the superstition of the people to overthrow the independence and power of the secular monarchs. And if that wasn’t enough, the case of Askone two decades back made it plain enough. There isn’t a ruler in the Periphery now that wouldn’t sooner cut his own throat than let a priest of the Foundation enter the territory.

“I don’t propose to force Korell or any other world to accept something I know they don’t want. No, Sutt. If nuclear power makes them dangerous, a sincere friendship through trade will be many times better than an insecure overlordship, based on the hated supremacy of a foreign spiritual power, which, once it weakens ever so slightly, can only fall entirely and leave nothing substantial behind except an immortal fear and hate.”

Suit said cynically, “Very nicely put. So, to get back to the original point of discussion, what are your terms? What do you require to exchange your ideas for mine?”

“You think my convictions are for sale?”

“Why not?” came the cold response. “Isn’t that your business, buying and selling?”

“Only at a profit,” said Mallow, unoffended. “Can you offer me more than I’m getting as is?”

“You could have three-quarters of your trade profits, rather than half.”

Mallow laughed shortly, “A fine offer. The whole of the trade on your terms would fall far below – a tenth share on mine. Try harder than that.”

“You could have a council seat.”

“I’ll have that anyway, without and despite you.”

With a sudden movement, Sutt clenched his fist, “You could also save yourself a prison term. Of twenty years, if I have my way. Count the profit in that.”

“No profit at all, but can you fulfill such a threat?”

“How about a trial for murder?”

“Whose murder?” asked Mallow, contemptuously.

Sutt’s voice was harsh now, though no louder than before, “The murder of an Anacreonian priest, in the service of the Foundation.”

“Is that so now? And what’s your evidence?”

The secretary to the mayor leaned forward, “Mallow, I’m not bluffing. The preliminaries are over. I have only to sign one final paper and the case of the Foundation versus Hober Mallow, Master Trader, is begun. You abandoned a subject of the Foundation to torture and death at the hands of an alien mob, Mallow, and you have only five seconds to prevent the punishment due you. For myself, I’d rather you decided to bluff it out. You’d be safer as a destroyed enemy, than as a doubtfully-converted friend.”

Mallow said solemnly, “You have your wish.”

“Good!” and the secretary smiled savagely. “It was the mayor who wished the preliminary attempt at compromise, not I. Witness that I did not try too hard.”

The door opened before him, and he left.

Mallow looked up as Ankor Jael re-entered the room.

Mallow said, “Did you hear him?”

The politician flopped to the floor. “I never heard him as angry as that, since I’ve known the snake.”

“All right. What do you make of it?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. A foreign policy of domination through spiritual means is his idee fixe, but it’s my notion that his ultimate aims aren’t spiritual. I was fired out of the Cabinet for arguing on the same issue, as I needn’t tell you.”

“You needn’t. And what are those unspiritual aims according to your notion?”

Jael grew serious, “Well, he’s not stupid, so he must see the bankruptcy of our religious policy, which has hardly made a single conquest for us in seventy years. He’s obviously using it for purposes of his own.

“Now any dogma primarily based on faith and emotionalism, is a dangerous weapon to use on others, since it is almost impossible to guarantee that the weapon will never be turned on the user. For a hundred years now, we’ve supported a ritual and mythology that is becoming more and more venerable, traditional – and immovable. In some ways, it isn’t under our control any more.”

“In what ways?” demanded Mallow. “Don’t stop. I want your thoughts.”

“Well, suppose one man, one ambitious man, uses the force of religion against us, rather than for us.”

“You mean Sutt–”

“You’re right. I mean Sutt. Listen, man, if he could mobilize the various hierarchies on the subject planets against the Foundation in the name of orthodoxy, what chance would we stand? By planting himself at the head of the standards of the pious, he could make war on heresy, as represented by you, for instance, and make himself king eventually. After all, it was Hardin who said: ‘A nuclear blaster is a good weapon, but it can point both ways.’”

Mallow slapped his bare thigh, “All right, Jael, then get me in that council, and I’ll fight him.”

Jael paused, then said significantly, “Maybe not. What was all that about having a priest lynched? Is isn’t true, is it?”

“It’s true enough,” Mallow said, carelessly.

Jael whistled, “Has he definite proof?”

“He should have.” Mallow hesitated, then added, “Jaim Twer was his man from the beginning, though neither of them knew that I knew that. And Jaim Twer was an eyewitness.”

Jael shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s bad.”

“Bad? What’s bad about it? That priest was illegally upon the planet by the Foundation’s own laws. He was obviously used by the Korellian government as a bait, whether involuntary or not. By all the laws of common-sense, I had no choice but one action – and that action was strictly within the law. If he brings me to trial, he’ll do nothing but make a prime fool of himself.”

And Jael shook his head again, “No, Mallow, you’ve missed it. I told you he played dirty. He’s not out to convict you; he knows he can’t do that. But he is out to ruin your standing with the people. You heard what he said. Custom is higher than law, at times. You could walk out of the trial scot-free, but if the people think you threw a priest to the dogs, your popularity is gone.

“They’ll admit you did the legal thing, even the sensible thing. But just the same you’ll have been, in their eyes, a cowardly dog, an unfeeling brute, a hard-hearted monster. And you would never get elected to the council. You might even lose your rating as Master Trader by having your citizenship voted away from you. You’re not native born, you know. What more do you think Sutt can want?” Mallow frowned stubbornly, “So!” “My boy,” said Jael. “I’ll stand by you, but I can’t help. You’re on the spot, –dead center.”

14.

THE COUNCIL CHAMBER was full in a very literal sense on the fourth day of the trial of Hober Mallow, Master Trader. The only councilman absent was feebly cursing the fractured skull that had bedridden him. The galleries were filled to the aisleways and ceilings with those few of the crowd who by influence, wealth, or sheer diabolic perseverance had managed to get in. The rest filled the square outside, in swarming knots about the open-air trimensional ‘visors.

Ankor Jael made his way into the chamber with the near-futile aid and exertions of the police department, and then through the scarcely smaller confusion within to Hober Mallow’s seat.

Mallow turned with relief, “By Seldon, you cut it thin. Have you got it?”

“Here, take it,” said Jael. “It’s everything you asked for.”

“Good. How are they taking it outside?”

“They’re wild clear through.” Jael stirred uneasily, “You should never have allowed public hearings. You could have stopped them.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“There’s lynch talk. And Publis Manlio’s men on the outer planets–”

“I wanted to ask you about that, Jael. He’s stirring up the Hierarchy against me, is he?”

“Is he? It’s the sweetest setup you ever saw, As Foreign Secretary, he handles the prosecution in a case of interstellar law. As High Priest and Primate of the Church, he rouses the fanatic hordes–”

“Well, forget it. Do you remember that Hardin quotation you threw at me last month? We’ll show them that the nuclear blaster can point both ways.”

The mayor was taking his seat now and the council members were rising in respect.

Mallow whispered, “It’s my turn today. Sit here and watch the fun.”

The day’s proceedings began and fifteen minutes later, Hober Mallow stepped through a hostile whisper to the empty space before the mayor’s bench. A lone beam of light centered upon him and in the public ‘visors of the city, as well as on the myriads of private ‘visors in almost every home of the Foundation’s planets, the lonely giant figure of a man stared out defiantly.

He began easily and quietly, “To save time, I will admit the truth of every point made against me by the prosecution. The story of the priest and the mob as related by them is perfectly accurate in every detail.”

There was a stirring in the chamber and a triumphant mass-snarl from the gallery. He waited patiently for silence.

“However, the picture they presented fell short of completion. I ask the privilege of supplying the completion in my own fashion. My story may seem irrelevant at first. I ask your indulgence for that.”

Mallow made no reference to the notes before him.

“I begin at the same time as the prosecution did; the day of my meeting with Jorane Sutt and Jaim Twer. What went on at those meetings you know. The conversations have been described, and to that description I have nothing to add – except my own thoughts of that day.

“They were suspicious thoughts, for the events of that day were queer. Consider. Two people, neither of whom I knew more than casually, make unnatural and somewhat unbelievable propositions to me. One, the secretary to the mayor, asks me to play the part of intelligence agent to the government in a highly confidential matter, the nature and importance of which has already been explained to you. The other, self-styled leader of a political party, asks me to run for a council seat.

“Naturally I looked for the ulterior motive. Sutt’s seemed evident. He didn’t trust me. Perhaps he thought I was selling nuclear power to enemies and plotting rebellion. And perhaps he was forcing the issue, or thought he was. In that case, he would need a man of his own near me on my proposed mission, as a spy. The last thought, however, did not occur to me until later on, when Jaim Twer came on the scene.

“Consider again: Twer presents himself as a trader, retired into politics, yet I know of no details of his trading career, although my knowledge of the field is immense. And further, although Twer boasted of a lay education, he had never heard of a Seldon crisis.”

Hober Mallow waited to let the significance sink in and was rewarded with the first silence he had yet encountered, as the gallery caught its collective breath. That was for the inhabitants of Terminus itself. The men of the Outer Planets could hear only censored versions that would suit the requirements of religion. They would hear nothing of Seldon crises. But there would be further strokes they would not miss.

Mallow continued:

“Who here can honestly state that any man with a lay education can possibly be ignorant of the nature of a Seldon crisis? There is only one type of education upon the Foundation that excludes all mention of the planned history of Seldon and deals only with the man himself as a semi-mythical wizard–

“I knew at that instant that Jaim Twer had never been a trader. I knew then that he was in holy orders and perhaps a full-fledged priest; and, doubtless, that for the three years he had pretended to head a political party of the traders, he had been a bought man of Jorane Sutt.

“At the moment, I struck in the dark. I did not know Sun’s purposes with regard to myself, but since he seemed to be feeding me rope liberally, I handed him a few fathoms of my own. My notion was that Twer was to be with me on my voyage as unofficial guardian on behalf of Jorane Sutt. Well, if he didn’t get on, I knew well there’d be other devices waiting – and those others I might not catch in time. A known enemy is relatively safe. I invited Twer to come with me. He accepted.

“That, gentlemen of the council, explains two things. First, it tells you that Twer is not a friend of mine testifying against me reluctantly and for conscience’ sake, as the prosecution would have you believe. He is a spy, performing his paid job. Secondly, it explains a certain action of mine on the occasion of the first appearance of the priest whom I am accused of having murdered – an action as yet unmentioned, because unknown.”

Now there was a disturbed whispering in the council. Mallow cleared his throat theatrically, and continued:

“I hate to describe my feelings when I first heard that we had a refugee missionary on board. I even hate to remember them. Essentially, they consisted of wild uncertainty. The event struck me at the moment as a move by Sutt, and passed beyond my comprehension or calculation. I was at sea – and completely.

“There was one thing I could do. I got rid of Twer for five minutes by sending him after my officers. In his absence, I set up a Visual Record receiver, so that whatever happened might be preserved for future study. This was in the hope, the wild but earnest hope, that what confused me at the time might become plain upon review.

“I have gone over that Visual Record some fifty times since. I have it here with me now, and will repeat the job a fifty-first time in your presence right now.”

The mayor pounded monotonously for order, as the chamber lost its equilibrium and the gallery roared. In five million homes on Terminus, excited observers crowded their receiving sets more closely, and at the prosecutor’s own bench, Jorane Sutt shook his head coldly at the nervous high priest, while his eyes blazed fixedly on Mallow’s face.

The center of the chamber was cleared, and the lights burnt low. Ankor Jael, from his bench on the left, made the adjustments, and with a preliminary click, a holographic scene sprang to view; in color, in three-dimensions, in every attribute of life but life itself.

There was the missionary, confused and battered, standing between the lieutenant and the sergeant. Mallow’s image waited silently, and then men filed in, Twer bringing up the rear.

The conversation played itself out, word for word. The sergeant was disciplined, and the missionary was questioned. The mob appeared, their growl could be heard, and the Revered Jord Parma made his wild appeal. Mallow drew his gun, and the missionary, as he was dragged away, lifted his arms in a mad, final curse and a tiny flash of light came and went.

The scene ended, with the officers frozen at the horror of the situation, while Twer clamped shaking hands over his ears, and Mallow calmly put his gun away.

The lights were on again; the empty space in the center of the floor was no longer even apparently full. Mallow, the real Mallow of the present, took up the burden of his narration:

“The incident, you see, is exactly as the prosecution has presented it – on the surface. I’ll explain that shortly. Jaim Twer’s emotions through the whole business shows clearly a priestly education, by the way.

“It was on that same day that I pointed out certain incongruities in the episode to Twer. I asked him where the missionary came from in the midst of the near-desolate tract we occupied at the time. I asked further where the gigantic mob had come from with the nearest sizable town a hundred miles away. The prosecution has paid no attention to such problems.

“Or to other points; for instance, the curious point of Jord Parma’s blatant conspicuousness. A missionary on Korell, risking his life in defiance of both Korellian and Foundation law, parades about in a very new and very distinctive priestly costume. There’s something wrong there. At the time, I suggested that the missionary was an unwitting accomplice of the Commdor, who was using him in an attempt to force us into an act of wildly illegal aggression, to justify, in law, his subsequent destruction of our ship and of us.

“The prosecution has anticipated this justification of my actions. They have expected me to explain that the safety of my ship, my crew, my mission itself were at stake and could not be sacrificed for one man, when that man would, in any case, have been destroyed, with us or without us. They reply by muttering about the Foundation’s ‘honor’ and the necessity of upholding our ‘dignity’ in order to maintain our ascendancy.

“For some strange reason, however, the prosecution has neglected Jord Parma himself, –as an individual. They brought out no details concerning him; neither his birthplace, nor his education, nor any detail of previous history. The explanation of this will also explain the incongruities I have pointed out in the Visual Record you have just seen. The two are connected.

“The prosecution has advanced no details concerning Jord Parma because it cannot. That scene you saw by Visual Record seemed phoney because Jord Parma was phoney. There never was a Jord Parma. This whole trial is the biggest farce ever cooked up over an issue that never existed.”

Once more he had to wait for the babble to die down. He said, slowly:

“I’m going to show you the enlargement of a single still from the Visual Record. It will speak for itself. Lights again, Jael.”

The chamber dimmed, and the empty air filled again with frozen figures in ghostly, waxen illusion. The officers of the Far Star struck their stiff, impossible attitudes. A gun pointed from Mallow’s rigid hand. At his left, the Revered Jord Parma, caught in mid-shriek, stretched his claws upward, while the failing sleeves hung halfway.

And from the missionary’s hand there was that little gleam that in the previous showing had flashed and gone. It was a permanent glow now.

“Keep your eye on that light on his hand,” called Mallow from the shadows. “Enlarge that scene, Jael!”

The tableau bloated quickly. Outer portions fell away as the missionary drew towards the center and became a giant. Then there was only a hand and an arm, and then only a hand, which filled everything and remained there in immense, hazy tautness.

The light had become a set of fuzzy, glowing letters: K S P.

“That,” Mallow’s voice boomed out, “is a sample of tatooing, gentlemen. Under ordinary light it is invisible, but under ultraviolet light – with which I flooded the room in taking this Visual Record, it stands out in high relief. I’ll admit it is a naive method of secret identification, but it works on Korell, where UV light is not to be found on street comers. Even in our ship, detection was accidental.

“Perhaps some of you have already guessed what K S P stands for. Jord Parma knew his priestly lingo well and did his job magnificently. Where he had learned it, and how, I cannot say, but K S P stands for ‘Korellian Secret Police.’”

Mallow shouted over the tumult, roaring against the noise, “I have collateral proof in the form of documents brought from Korell, which I can present to the council if required.

“And where is now the prosecution’s case? They have already made and re-made the monstrous suggestion that I should have fought for the missionary in defiance of the law, and sacrificed my mission, my ship, and myself to the ‘honor’ of the Foundation.

“But to do it for an impostor?

“Should I have done it then for a Korellian secret agent tricked out in the robes and verbal gymnastics probably borrowed of an Anacreonian exile? Would Jorane Sutt and Publis Manlio have had me fall into a stupid, odious trap–”

His hoarsened voice faded into the featureless background of a shouting mob. He was being lifted onto shoulders, and carried to the mayor’s bench. Out the windows, he could see a torrent of madmen swarming into the square to add to the thousands there already.

Mallow looked about for Ankor Jael, but it was impossible to find any single face in the incoherence of the mass. Slowly he became aware of a rhythmic, repeated shout, that was spreading from a small beginning, and pulsing into insanity:

“Long live Mallow – long live Mallow – long live Mallow–”

15.

ANKOR JAEL BLINKED at Mallow out of a haggard face. The last two days had been mad, sleepless ones.

“Mallow, you’ve put on a beautiful show, so don’t spoil it by jumping too high. You can’t seriously consider running for mayor. Mob enthusiasm is a powerful thing, but it’s notoriously fickle.”

“Exactly!” said Mallow, grimly, “so we must coddle it, and the best way to do that is to continue the show.”

“Now what?”

“You’re to have Publis Manlio and Jorane Sutt arrested–”

“What!”

“Just what you hear. Have the mayor arrest them! I don’t care what threats you use. I control the mob, –for today, at any rate. He won’t dare face them.”

“But on what charge, man?”

“On the obvious one. They’ve been inciting the priesthood of the outer planets to take sides in the factional quarrels of the Foundation. That’s illegal, by Seldon. Charge them with ‘endangering the state.’ And I don’t care about a conviction any more than they did in my case. Just get them out of circulation until I’m mayor.”

“It’s half a year till election.”

“Not too long!” Mallow was on his feet, and his sudden grip of Jael’s arm was tight. “Listen, I’d seize the government by force if I had to – the way Salvor Hardin did a hundred years ago. There’s still that Seldon crisis coming up, and when it comes I have to be mayor and high priest. Both!”

Jael’s brow furrowed. He said, quietly, “What’s it going to be? Korell, after all?”

Mallow nodded, “Of course. They’ll declare war, eventually, though I’m betting it’ll take another pair of years.”

“With nuclear ships?”

“What do you think? Those three merchant ships we lost in their space sector weren’t knocked over with compressed-air pistols. Jael, they’re getting ships from the Empire itself. Don’t open your mouth like a fool. I said the Empire! It’s still there, you know. It many be gone here in the Periphery but in the Galactic center it’s still very much alive. And one false move means that it, itself, may be on our neck. That’s why I must be mayor and high priest. I’m the only man who knows how to fight the crisis.”

Jael swallowed dryly, “How? What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

Jael smiled uncertainly, “Really! All of that!”

But Mallow’s answer was incisive, “When I’m boss of this Foundation, I’m going to do nothing. One hundred percent of nothing, and that is the secret of this crisis.”

16.

ASPER ARGO, THE Well-Beloved, Commdor of the Korellian Republic greeted his wife’s entry by a hangdog lowering of his scanty eyebrows. To her at least, his self-adopted epithet did not apply. Even he knew that.

She said, in a voice as sleek as her hair and as cold as her eyes, “My gracious lord, I understand, has finally come to a decision upon the fate of the Foundation upstarts.”

“Indeed?” said the Commdor, sourly. “And what more does your versatile understanding embrace?”

“Enough, my very noble husband. You had another of your vacillating consultations with your councilors. Fine advisors.” With infinite scorn, “A herd of palsied purblind idiots hugging their sterile profits close to their sunken chests in the face of my father’s displeasure.”

“And who, my dear,” was the mild response, “is the excellent source from which your understanding understands all this?”

The Commdora laughed shortly, “If I told you, my source would be more corpse than source.”

“Well, you’ll have your own way, as always.” The Commdor shrugged and turned away. “And as for your father’s displeasure: I much fear me it extends to a niggardly refusal to supply more ships.”

“More ships!” She blazed away, hotly, “And haven’t you five? Don’t deny it. I know you have five; and a sixth is promised.”

“Promised for the last year.”

“But one – just one – can blast that Foundation into stinking rubble. Just one! One, to sweep their little pygmy boats out of space.”

“I couldn’t attack their planet, even with a dozen.”

“And how long would their planet hold out with their trade ruined, and their cargoes of toys and trash destroyed?” “Those toys and trash mean money,” he sighed. “A good deal of money.”

“But if you had the Foundation itself, would you not have all it contained’? And if you had my father’s respect and gratitude, would you not have more than ever the Foundation could give you? It’s been three years – more – since that barbarian came with his magic sideshow. It’s long enough.”

“My dear!” The Commdor turned and faced her. “I am growing old. I am weary. I lack the resilience to withstand your rattling mouth. You say you know that I have decided. Well, I have. It is over, and there is war between Korell and the Foundation.”

“Well!” The Commdora’s figure expanded and her eyes sparkled, “You learned wisdom at last, though in your dotage. And now when you are master of this hinterland, you may be sufficiently respectable to be of some weight and importance in the Empire. For one thing, we might leave this barbarous world and attend the viceroy’s court. Indeed we might.”

She swept out, with a smile, and a hand on her hip. Her hair gleamed in the light.

The Commdor waited, and then said to the closed door, with malignance and hate, “And when I am master of what you call the hinterland, I may be sufficiently respectable to do without your father’s arrogance and his daughter’s tongue. Completely – without!”

17.

THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT of the Dark Nebula stared in horror at the visiplate.

“Great Galloping Galaxies!” It should have been a howl, but it was a whisper instead, “What’s that?”

It was a ship, but a whale to the Dark Nebula’s minnow; and on its side was the Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire. Every alarm on the ship yammered hysterically.

The orders went out, and the Dark Nebula prepared to run if it could, and fight if it must, –while down in the hyperwave room, a message stormed its way through hyperspace to the Foundation.

Over and over again! Partly a plea for help, but mainly a warning of danger.

18.

HOBER MALLOW SHUFFLED his feet wearily as he leafed through the reports. Two years of the mayoralty had made him a bit more housebroken, a bit softer, a bit more patient, –but it had not made him learn to like government reports and the mind-breaking officialese in which they were written.

“How many ships did they get?” asked Jael.

“Four trapped on the ground. Two unreported. All others accounted for and safe.” Mallow grunted, “We should have done better, but it’s just a scratch.”

There was no answer and Mallow looked up, “Does anything worry you?”

“I wish Sutt would get here,” was the almost irrelevant answer.

“Ah, yes, and now we’ll hear another lecture on the home front.”

“No, we won’t,” snapped Jael, “but you’re stubborn, Mallow. You may have worked out the foreign situation to the last detail but you’ve never given a care about what goes on here on the home planet.”

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it? What did I make you Minister of Education and Propaganda for?”

“Obviously to send me to an early and miserable grave, for all the co-operation you give me. For the last year, I’ve been deafening you with the rising danger of Sutt and his Religionists. What good will your plans be, if Sutt forces a special election and has you thrown out?”

“None, I admit.”

“And your speech last night just about handed the election to Sutt with a smile and a pat. Was there any necessity for being so frank?”

“Isn’t there such a thing as stealing Sutt’s thunder?”

“No,” said Jael, violently, “not the way you did it. You claim to have foreseen everything, and don’t explain why you traded with Korell to their exclusive benefit for three years. Your only plan of battle is to retire without a battle. You abandon all trade with the sectors of space near Korell. You openly proclaim a stalemate. You promise no offensive, even in the future. Galaxy, Mallow, what am I supposed to do with such a mess?”

“It lacks glamor?”

“It lacks mob emotion-appeal.”

“Same thing.”

“Mallow, wake up. You have two alternatives. Either you present the people with a dynamic foreign policy, whatever your private plans are, or you make some sort of compromise with Sutt.”

Mallow said, “All right, if I’ve failed the first, let’s try the second. Sutt’s just arrived.”

Sutt and Mallow had not met personally since the day of the trial, two years back. Neither detected any change in the other, except for that subtle atmosphere about each which made it quite evident that the roles of ruler and defier had changed.

Sutt took his seat without shaking hands.

Mallow offered a cigar and said, “Mind if Jael stays? He wants a compromise earnestly. He can act as mediator if tempers rise.”

Sutt shrugged, “A compromise will be well for you. Upon another occasion I once asked you to state your terms. I presume the positions are reversed now.”

“You presume correctly.”

“Then there are my terms. You must abandon your blundering policy of economic bribery and trade in gadgetry, and return to the tested foreign policy of our fathers.”

“You mean conquest by missionary.”

“Exactly.”

“No compromise short of that?”

“None.”

“Um-m-m.” Mallow lit up very slowly and inhaled the tip of his cigar into a bright glow. “In Hardin’s time, when conquest by missionary was new and radical, men like yourself opposed it. Now it is tried, tested, hallowed, –everything a Jorane Sutt would find well. But, tell me, how would you get us out of our present mess?”

“Your present mess. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Consider the question suitably modified.”

“A strong offensive is indicated. The stalemate you seem to be satisfied with is fatal. It would be a confession of weakness to all the worlds of the Periphery, where the appearance of strength is all-important, and there’s not one vulture among them that wouldn’t join the assault for its share of the corpse. You ought to understand that. You’re from Smyrno, aren’t you?”

Mallow passed over the significance of the remark. He said, “And if you beat Korell, what of the Empire? That is the real enemy.”

Sutt’s narrow smile tugged at the comers of his mouth, “Oh, no, your records of your visit to Siwenna were complete. The viceroy of the Normannic Sector is interested in creating dissension in the Periphery for his own benefit, but only as a side issue. He isn’t going to stake everything on an expedition to the Galaxy’s rim when he has fifty hostile neighbors and an emperor to rebel against. I paraphrase your own words.”

“Oh, yes he might, Sutt, if he thinks we’re strong enough to be dangerous. And he might think so, if we destroy Korell by the main force of frontal attack. We’d have to be considerably more subtle.”

“As for instance–”

Mallow leaned back, “Sutt, I’ll give you your chance. I don’t need you, but I can use you. So I’ll tell you what it’s all about, and then you can either join me and receive a place in a coalition cabinet, or you can play the martyr and rot in jail.”

“Once before you tried that last trick.”

“Not very hard, Sutt. The right time has only just come. Now listen.” Mallow’s eyes narrowed.

“When I first landed on Korell,” he began, A bribed the Commdor with the trinkets and gadgets that form the trader’s usual stock. At the start, that. was meant only to get us entrance into a steel foundry. I had no plan further than that, but in that I succeeded. I got what I wanted. But it was only after my visit to the Empire that I first realized exactly what a weapon I could build that trade into.

“This is a Seldon crisis we’re facing, Sutt, and Seldon crises are not solved by individuals but by historic forces. Hari Seldon, when he planned our course of future history, did not count on brilliant heroics but on the broad sweeps of economics and sociology. So the solutions to the various crises must be achieved by the forces that become available to us at the time.

“In this case, –trade!”

Sutt raised his eyebrows skeptically and took advantage of the pause, “I hope I am not of subnormal intelligence, but the fact is that your vague lecture isn’t very illuminating.”

“It will become so,” said Mallow. “Consider that until now the power of trade has been underestimated. It has been thought that it took a priesthood under our control to make it a powerful weapon. That is not so, and this is my contribution to the Galactic situation. Trade without priests! Trade alone! It is strong enough. Let us become very simple and specific. Korell is now at war with us. Consequently our trade with her has stopped. But, –notice that I am making this as simple as a problem in addition, –in the past three years she has based her economy more and more upon the nuclear techniques which we have introduced and which only we can continue to supply. Now what do you suppose will happen once the tiny nuclear generators begin failing, and one gadget after another goes out of commission?

“The small household appliances go first. After a half a year of this stalemate that you abhor, a woman’s nuclear knife won’t work any more. Her stove begins failing. Her washer doesn’t do a good job. The temperature-humidity control in her house dies on a hot summer day. What happens?”

He paused for an answer, and Sutt said calmly, “Nothing. People endure a good deal in war.”

“Very true. They do. They’ll send their sons out in unlimited numbers to die horribly on broken spaceships. They’ll bear up under enemy bombardment, if it means they have to live on stale bread and foul water in caves half a mile deep. But it’s very hard to bear up under little things when the patriotic uplift of imminent danger is not present. It’s going to, be a stalemate. There will be no casualties, no bombardments, no battles.

“There will just be a knife that won’t cut, and a stove that won’t cook, and a house that freezes in the winter. It will be annoying, and people will grumble.”

Sutt said slowly, wonderingly, “Is that what you’re setting your hopes on, man? What do you expect? A housewives’ rebellion? A Jacquerie? A sudden uprising of butchers and grocers with their cleavers and bread-knives shouting ‘Give us back our Automatic Super-Kleeno Nuclear Washing Machines.’”

“No, sir,” said Mallow, impatiently, “I do not. I expect, however, a general background of grumbling and dissatisfaction which will be seized on by more important figures later on.”

“And what more important figures are these?”

“The manufacturers, the factory owners, the industrialists of Korell. When two years of the stalemate have gone, the machines in the factories will, one by one, begin to fail. Those industries which we have changed from first to last with our new nuclear gadgets will find themselves very suddenly ruined. The heavy industries will find themselves, en masse and at a stroke, the owners of nothing but scrap machinery that won’t work.”

“The factories ran well enough before you came there, Mallow.”

“Yes, Sutt, so they did – at about one-twentieth the profits, even if you leave out of consideration the cost of reconversion to the original pre-nuclear state. With the industrialist and financier and the average man all against him, how long will the Commdor hold out?”

“As long as he pleases, as soon as it occurs to him to get new nuclear generators from the Empire.”

And Mallow laughed joyously, “You’ve missed, Sutt, missed as badly as the Commdor himself. You’ve missed everything, and understood nothing. Look, man, the Empire can replace nothing. The Empire has always been a realm of colossal resources. They’ve calculated everything in planets, in stellar systems, in whole sectors of the Galaxy. Their generators are gigantic because they thought in gigantic fashion.

“But we, –we, our little Foundation, our single world almost without metallic resources, –have had to work with brute economy. Our generators have had to be the size of our thumb, because it was all the metal we could afford. We had to develop new techniques and new methods, –techniques and methods the Empire can’t follow because they have degenerated past the stage where they can make any really vital scientific advance.

“With all their nuclear shields, large enough to protect a ship, a city, an entire world; they could never build one to protect a single man. To supply light and heat to a city, they have motors six stories high, –I saw them – where ours could fit into this room. And when I told one of their nuclear specialists that a lead container the size of a walnut contained a nuclear generator, he almost choked with indignation on the spot.

“Why, they don’t even understand their own colossi any longer. The machines work from generation to generation automatically, and the caretakers are a hereditary caste who would be helpless if a single D-tube in all that vast structure burnt out.

“The whole war is a battle between those two systems, between the Empire and the Foundation; between the big and the little. To seize control of a world, they bribe with immense ships that can make war, but lack all economic significance. We, on the other hand, bribe with little things, useless in war, but vital to prosperity and profits.

“A king, or a Commdor, will take the ships and even make war. Arbitrary rulers throughout history have bartered their subjects’ welfare for what they consider honor, and glory, and conquest. But it’s still the little things in life that count – and Asper Argo won’t stand up against the economic depression that will sweep all Korell in two or three years.”

Sutt was at the window, his back to Mallow and Jael. It was early evening now, and the few stars that struggled feebly here at the very rim of the Galaxy sparked against the background of the misty, wispy Lens that included the remnants of that Empire, still vast, that fought against them.

Sutt said, “No. You are not the man.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I mean I don’t trust you. You’re smooth-tongued. You befooled me properly when I thought I had you under proper care on your first trip to Korell. When I thought I had you cornered at the trial, you wormed your way out of it and into the mayor’s chair by demagoguery. There is nothing straight about you; no motive that hasn’t another behind it; no statement that hasn’t three meanings.

“Suppose you were a traitor. Suppose your visit to the Empire had brought you a subsidy and a promise of power. Your actions would be precisely what they are now. You would bring about a war after having strengthened the enemy. You would force the Foundation into inactivity. And you would advance a plausible explanation of everything, one so plausible it would convince everyone.”

“You mean there’ll be no compromise?” asked Mallow, gently.

“I mean you must get out, by free will or force.”

“I warned you of the only alternative to co-operation.”

Jorane Sutt’s face congested with blood in a sudden access of emotion. “And I warn you, Hober Mallow of Smyrno, that if you arrest me, there will be no quarter. My men will stop nowhere in spreading the truth about you, and the common people of the Foundation will unite against their foreign ruler. They have a consciousness of destiny that a Smyrnian can never understand – and that consciousness will destroy you.”

Hober Mallow said quietly to the two guards who had entered, “Take him away. He’s under arrest.”

Sutt said, “Your last chance.”

Mallow stubbed out his cigar and never looked up.

And five minutes later, Jael stirred and said, wearily, “Well, now that you’ve made a martyr for the cause, what next?”

Mallow stopped playing with the ash tray and looked up, “That’s not the Sutt I used to know. He’s a blood-blind bull. Galaxy, he hates me.”

“All the more dangerous then.”

“More dangerous? Nonsense! He’s lost all power of judgement.”

Jael said grimly, “You’re overconfident, Mallow. You’re ignoring the possibility of a popular rebellion.”

Mallow looked up, grim in his turn, “Once and for all, Jael, there is no possibility of a popular rebellion.”

“You’re sure of yourself!”

“I’m sure of the Seldon crisis and the historical validity of their solutions, externally and internally. There are some things I didn’t tell Suit right now. He tried to control the Foundation itself by religious forces as he controlled the outer worlds, and he failed, –which is the surest sign that in the Seldon scheme, religion is played out.

“Economic control worked differently. And to paraphrase that famous Salvor Hardin quotation of yours, it’s a poor nuclear blaster that won’t point both ways. If Korell prospered with our trade, so did we. If Korellian factories fail without our trade; and if the prosperity of the outer worlds vanishes with commercial isolation; so will our factories fail and our prosperity vanish.

“And there isn’t a factory, not a trading center. not a shipping line that isn’t under my control; that I couldn’t squeeze to nothing if Sutt attempts revolutionary propaganda. Where his propaganda succeeds, or even looks as though it might succeed, I will make certain that prosperity dies. Where it fails, prosperity will continue, because my factories will remain fully staffed.

“So by the same reasoning which makes me sure that the Korellians will revolt in favor of prosperity, I am sure we will not revolt against it. The game will be played out to its end.”

“So then,” said Jael, “you’re establishing a plutocracy. You’re making us a land of traders and merchant princes. Then what of the future?”

Mallow lifted his gloomy face, and exclaimed fiercely, “What business of mine is the future? No doubt Seldon has foreseen it and prepared against it. There will be other crises in the time to come when money power has become as dead a force as religion is now. Let my successors solve those new problems, as I have solved the one of today.”

KORELL–...AND SO AFTER THREE YEARS OF A WAR WHICH WAS CERTAINLY THE MOST UNFOUGHT WAR ON RECORD, THE REPUBLIC OF KORELL SURRENDERED UNCONDITIONALLY, AND HOBER MALLOW TOOK HIS PLACE NEXT TO HARI SELDON AND SALVOR HARDIN IN THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE OF THE FOUNDATION.

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

The General

195-196 F.E. (12263-12264 G.E.)

1. Search For Magicians

BEL RIOSE.... IN HIS RELATIVELY SHORT CAREER, RIOSE EARNED THE TITLE OF “THE LAST OF THE IMPERIALS” AND EARNED IT WELL. A STUDY OF HIS CAMPAIGNS REVEALS HIM TO BE THE EQUAL OF PEURIFOY IN STRATEGIC ABILITY AND HIS SUPERIOR PERHAPS IN HIS ABILITY TO HANDLE MEN. THAT HE WAS BORN IN THE DAYS OF THE DECLINE OF EMPIRE MADE IT ALL BUT IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO EQUAL PEURIFOY’S RECORD AS A CONQUEROR. YET HE HAD HIS CHANCE WHEN, THE FIRST OF THE EMPIRE’S GENERALS TO DO SO, HE FACED THE FOUNDATION SQUARELY....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA*

*All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 116th Edition published in 1020 F. E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with permission of the publishers.

BEL RIOSE TRAVELED without escort, which is not what court etiquette prescribes for the head of a fleet stationed in a yet-sullen stellar system on the Marches of the Galactic Empire.

But Bel Riose was young and energetic-energetic enough to be sent as near the end of the universe as possible by an unemotional and calculating court-and curious besides. Strange and improbable tales fancifully-repeated by hundreds and murkily-known to thousands intrigued the last faculty; the possibility of a military venture engaged the other two. The combination was overpowering.

He was out of the dowdy ground-car he had appropriated and at the door of the fading mansion that was his destination. He waited. The photonic eye that spanned the doorway was alive, but when the door opened it was by hand.

Bel Riose smiled at the old man. “I am Riose-”

“I recognize you.” The old man remained stiffly and unsurprised in his place. “Your business?”

Riose withdrew a step in a gesture of submission. “One of peace. If you are Ducem Barr, I ask the favor of conversation.”

Ducem Barr stepped aside and in the interior of the house the walls glowed into life, The general entered into daylight.

He touched the wall of the study, then stared at his fingertips. “You have this on Siwenna?”

Barr smiled thinly. “Not elsewhere, I believe. I keep this in repair myself as well as I can. I must apologize for your wait at the door. The automatic device registers the presence of a visitor but will no longer open the door.”

“Your repairs fall short?” The general’s voice was faintly mocking.

“Parts are no longer available. If you will sit, sir. You drink tea?”

“On Siwenna? My good sir, it is socially impossible not to drink it here.”

The old patrician retreated noiselessly with a slow bow that was part of the ceremonious legacy left by the aristocracy of the last century’s better days.

Riose looked after his host’s departing figure, and his studied urbanity grew a bit uncertain at the edges. His education had been purely military; his experience likewise. He had, as the cliché‚ has it, faced death many times; but always death of a very familiar and tangible nature, Consequently, there is no inconsistency in the fact that the idolized lion of the Twentieth Fleet felt chilled in the suddenly musty atmosphere of an ancient room.

The general recognized the small black-ivroid boxes that lined the shelves to be books. Their titles were unfamiliar. He guessed that the large structure at one end of the room was the receiver that transmuted the books into sight-and-sound on demand. He had never seen one in operation; but he had heard of them.

Once he had been told that long before, during the golden ages when the Empire had been co-extensive with the entire Galaxy, nine houses out of every ten had such receivers-and such rows of books.

But there were borders to watch now; books were for old men. And half the stories told about the old days were mythical anyway. More than half.

The tea arrived, and Riose seated himself. Ducem Barr lifted his cup. “To your honor.”

“Thank you. To yours.”

Ducem Barr said deliberately, “You are said to be young. Thirty-five?”

“Near enough. Thirty-four.”

“In that case,” said Barr, with soft emphasis, “I could not begin better than by informing you regretfully that I am not in the possession of love charms, potions, or philtres. Nor am I in the least capable of influencing the favors of any young lady as may appeal to you.”

“I have no need of artificial aids in that respect, sir.” The complacency undeniably present in the general’s voice was stirred with amusement. “Do you receive many requests for such commodities?”

“Enough. Unfortunately, an uninformed public tends to confuse scholarship with magicianry, and love life seems to be that factor which requires the largest quantity of magical tinkering.”

“And so would seem most natural. But I differ. I connect scholarship with nothing but the means of answering difficult questions.”

The Siwennian considered somberly, “You may be as wrong as they!”

“That may turn out or not.” The young general set down his cup in its flaring sheath and it refilled. He dropped the offered flavor-capsule into it with a small splash. “Tell me then, patrician, who are the magicians? The real ones.”

Barr seemed startled at a title long-unused. He said, “There are no magicians.”

“But people speak of them. Siwenna crawls with the tales of them. There are cults being built about them. There is some strange connection between it and those groups among your countrymen who dream and drivel of ancient days and what they call liberty and autonomy. Eventually the matter might become a danger to the State.”

The old man shook his head. “Why ask me? Do you smell rebellion, with myself at the head?”

Riose shrugged, “Never. Never. Oh, it is not a thought completely ridiculous. Your father was an exile in his day; you yourself a patriot and a chauvinist in yours. It is indelicate in me as a guest to mention it, but my business here requires it. And yet a conspiracy now? I doubt it. Siwenna has had the spirit beat out of it these three generations.”

The old man replied with difficulty, “I shall be as indelicate a host as you a guest. I shall remind you that once a viceroy thought as you did of the spiritless Siwennians. By the orders of that viceroy my father became a fugitive pauper, my brothers martyrs, and my sister a suicide. Yet that viceroy died a death sufficiently horrible at the hands of these same slavish Siwennians.”

“Ah, yes, and there you touch nearly on something I could wish to say. For three years the mysterious death of that viceroy has been no mystery to me. There was a young soldier of his personal guard whose actions were of interest. You were that soldier, but there is no need of details, I think.”

Barr was quiet. “None. What do you propose?”

“That you answer my questions.”

“Not under threats. I am old enough for life not to mean particularly overmuch.”

“My good sir, these are hard times,” said Riose, with meaning, “and you have children and friends. You have a country for which you have mouthed phrases of love and folly in the past. Come, if I should decide to use force, my aim would not be so poor as to strike you.”

Barr said coldly, “What do you want?”

Riose held the empty cup as he spoke. “Patrician, listen to me. These are days when the most successful soldiers are those whose function is to lead the dress parades that wind through the imperial palace grounds on feast days and to escort the sparkling pleasure ships that carry His Imperial Splendor to the summer planets. I... I am a failure. I am a failure at thirty-four, and I shall stay a failure. Because, you see, I like to fight.

“That’s why they sent me here. I’m too troublesome at court. I don’t fit in with the etiquette. I offend the dandies and the lord admirals, but I’m too good a leader of ships and men to be disposed of shortly be being marooned in space. So Siwenna is the substitute. It’s a frontier world; a rebellious and a barren province. It is far away, far enough away to satisfy all.

“And so I moulder. There are no rebellions to stamp down, and the border viceroys do not revolt lately, at least, not since His Imperial Majesty’s late father of glorious memory made an example of Mountel of Paramay.”

“A strong Emperor,” muttered Barr.

“Yes, and we need more of them. He is my master; remember that. These are his interests I guard.”

Barr shrugged unconcernedly. “How does all this relate to the subject?”

“I’ll show you in two words. The magicians I’ve mentioned come from beyond-out there beyond the frontier guards, where the stars are scattered thinly-”

“‘Where the stars are scattered thinly,” ‘quoted Barr, “‘And the cold of space seeps in.” ‘

“Is that poetry?” Riose frowned. Verse seemed frivolous at the moment. “In any case, they’re from the Periphery-from the only quarter where I am free to fight for the glory of the Emperor.”

“And thus serve His Imperial Majesty’s interests and satisfy your own love of a good fight.”

“Exactly. But I must know what I fight; and there you can help.”

“How do you know?”

Riose nibbled casually at a cakelet. “Because for three years I have traced every rumor, every myth, every breath concerning the magicians-and of all the library of information I have gathered, only two isolated facts are unanimously agreed upon, and are hence certainly true. The first is that the magicians come from the edge of the Galaxy opposite Siwenna; the second is that your father once met a magician, alive and actual, and spoke with him.”

The aged Siwennian stared unblinkingly, and Riose continued, “You had better tell me what you know-”

Barr said thoughtfully, “It would be interesting to tell you certain things. It would be a psychohistoric experiment of my own.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“Psychohistoric.” The old man had an unpleasant edge to his smile. Then, crisply, “You’d better have more tea. I’m going to make a bit of a speech.”

He leaned far back into the soft cushions of his chair. The wall-lights had softened to a pink-ivory glow, which mellowed even the soldier’s hard profile.

Ducem Barr began, “My own knowledge is the result of two accidents; the accidents of being born the son of my father, and of being born the native of my country. It begins over forty years ago, shortly after the great Massacre, when my father was a fugitive in the forests of the South, while I was a gunner in the viceroy’s personal fleet. This same viceroy, by the way, who had ordered the Massacre, and who died such a cruel death thereafter.”

Barr smiled grimly, and continued, “My father was a Patrician of the Empire and a Senator of Siwenna. His name was Onum Barr.”

Riose interrupted impatiently, “I know the circumstances of his exile very well. You needn’t elaborate upon it.”

The Siwennian ignored him and proceeded without deflection. “During his exile a wanderer came upon him; a merchant from the edge of the Galaxy; a young man who spoke a strange accent, knew nothing of recent Imperial history, and who was protected by an individual force-shield.”

“An individual force-shield?” Riose glared. “You speak extravagance. What generator could be powerful enough to condense a shield to the size of a single man? By the Great Galaxy, did he carry five thousand myria-tons of nuclear power-source about with him on a little wheeled gocart?”

Barr said quietly, “This is the magician of whom you hear whispers, stories and myths. The name ‘magician’ is not lightly earned. He carried no generator large enough to be seen, but not the heaviest weapon you can carry in your hand would have as much as creased the shield he bore.”

“Is this all the story there is? Are the magicians born of maunderings of an old man broken by suffering and exile?”

“The story of the magicians antedated even my father, sir. And the proof is more concrete. After leaving my father, this merchant that men call a magician visited a Tech-man at the city to which my father had guided him, and there he left a shield-generator of the type he wore. That generator was retrieved by my father after his return from exile upon the execution of the bloody viceroy. It took a long time to find-

“The generator hangs on the wall behind you, sir. It does not work. It never worked but for the first two days; but if you’ll look at it, you will see that no one in the Empire ever designed it.”

Bel Riose reached for the belt of linked metal that clung to the curved wall. It came away with a little sucking noise as the tiny adhesion-field broke at the touch of his hand. The ellipsoid at the apex of the belt held his attention. It was the size of a walnut.

“This-” he said.

“Was the generator,” nodded Barr. “But it was the generator. The secret of its workings are beyond discovery now. Sub-electronic investigations have shown it to be fused into a single lump of metal and not all the most careful study of the diffraction patterns have sufficed to distinguish the discrete parts that had existed before fusion.”

“Then your ‘proof’ still lingers on the frothy border of words backed by no concrete evidence.”

Barr shrugged. “You have demanded my knowledge of me and threatened its extortion by force. If you choose to meet it with skepticism, what is that to me? Do you want me to stop?”

“Go on!” said the general, harshly.

“I continued my father’s researches after he died, and then the second accident I mentioned came to help me, for Siwenna was well known to Hari Seldon.”

“And who is Hari Seldon?”

“Hari Seldon was a scientist of the reign of the Emperor, Daluben IV. He was a psychohistorian; the last and greatest of them all. He once visited Siwenna, when Siwenna was a great commercial center, rich in the arts and sciences.”

“Hmph,” muttered Riose, sourly, “where is the stagnant planet that does not claim to have been a land of overflowing wealth in older days?”

“The days I speak of are the days of two centuries ago, when the Emperor yet ruled to the uttermost star; when Siwenna was a world of the interior and not a semi-barbarian border province. In those days, Hari Seldon foresaw the decline of Imperial power and the eventual barbarization of the entire Galaxy.”

Riose laughed suddenly. “He foresaw that? Then he foresaw wrong, my good scientist. I suppose you call yourself that. Why, the Empire is more powerful now than it has been in a millennium. Your old eyes are blinded by the cold bleakness of the border. Come to the inner worlds some day; come to the warmth and the wealth of the center.”

The old man shook his head somberly. “Circulation ceases first at the outer edges. It will take a while yet for the decay to reach the heart. That is, the apparent, obvious-to-all decay, as distinct from the inner decay that is an old story of some fifteen centuries.”

“And so this Hari Seldon foresaw a Galaxy of uniform barbarism,” said Riose, good-humoredly. “And what then, eh?”

“So he established two foundations at the extreme opposing ends of the Galaxy-Foundations of the best, and the youngest, and the strongest, there to breed, grow, and develop. The worlds on which they were placed were chosen carefully; as were the times and the surroundings. All was arranged in such a way that the future as foreseen by the unalterable mathematics of psychohistory would involve their early isolation from the main body of Imperial civilization and their gradual growth into the germs of the Second Galactic Empire-cutting an inevitable barbarian interregnum from thirty thousand years to scarcely a single thousand.”

“And where did you find out all this? You seem to know it in detail.”

“I don’t and never did,” said the patrician with composure. “It is the painful result of the piecing together of certain evidence discovered by my father and a little more found by myself. The basis is flimsy and the superstructure has been romanticized into existence to fill the huge gaps. But I am convinced that it is essentially true.”

“You are easily convinced.”

“Am I? It has taken forty years of research.”

“Hmph. Forty years! I could settle the question in forty days. In fact, I believe I ought to. It would be-different.”

“And how would you do that?”

“In the obvious way. I could become an explorer. I could find this Foundation you speak of and observe with my eyes. You say there are two?”

“The records speak of two. Supporting evidence has been found only for one, which is understandable, for the other is at the extreme end of the long axis of the Galaxy.”

“Well, we’ll visit the near one.” The general was on his feet, adjusting his belt.

“You know where to go?” asked Barr.

“In a way. In the records of the last viceroy but one, he whom you murdered so effectively, there are suspicious tales of outer barbarians. In fact, one of his daughters was given in marriage to a barbarian prince. I’ll find my way.”

He held out a hand. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

Ducem Barr touched the hand with his fingers and bowed formally. “Your visit was a great honor.”

“As for the information you gave me,” continued Bel Riose, “I’ll know how to thank you for that when I return.”

Ducem Barr followed his guest submissively to the outer door and said quietly to the disappearing ground-car, “And if you return.”

2. The Magicians

FOUNDATION... WITH FORTY YEARS OF EXPANSION BEHIND THEM, THE FOUNDATION FACED THE MENACE OF RIOSE. THE EPIC DAYS OF HARDIN AND MALLOW HAD GONE AND WITH THEM WERE GONE A CERTAIN HARD DARING AND RESOLUTION....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

THERE WERE FOUR men in the room, and the room was set apart where none could approach. The four men looked at each other quickly, then lengthily at the table that separated them. There were four bottles on the table and as many full glasses, but no one had touched them.

And then the man nearest the door stretched out an arm and drummed a slow, padding rhythm on the table.

He said, “Are you going to sit and wonder forever? Does it matter who speaks first?”

“Speak you first, then,” said the big man directly opposite. “You’re the one who should be the most worried.”

Sennett Forell chuckled with noiseless nonhumor. “Because you think I’m the richest. Well-Or is it that you expect me to continue as I have started. I don’t suppose you forget that it was my own Trade Fleet that captured this scout ship of theirs.”

“You had the largest fleet,” said a third, “and the best pilots; which is another way of saying you are the richest. It was a fearful risk; and would have been greater for one of us.”

Sennett Forell chuckled again. “There is a certain facility in risk-taking that I inherit from my father. After all, the essential point in running a risk is that the returns justify it. As to which, witness the fact that the enemy ship was isolated and captured without loss to ourselves or warning to the others.”

That Forell was a distant collateral relative of the late great Hober Mallow was recognized openly throughout the Foundation. That he was Mallow’s illegitimate son was accepted quietly to just as wide an extent.

The fourth man blinked his little eyes stealthily. Words crept out from between thin lips. “It is nothing to sleep over in fat triumph, this grasping of little ships. Most likely, it will but anger that young man further.”

“You think he needs motives?” questioned Forell, scornfully.

“I do, and this might, or will, save him the vexation of having to manufacture one.” The fourth man spoke slowly, “Hober Mallow worked otherwise. And Salvor Hardin. They let others take the uncertain paths of force, while they maneuvered surely and quietly.”

Forell shrugged. “This ship has proved its value. Motives are cheap and we have sold this one at a profit.” There was the satisfaction of the born Trader in that. He continued, “The young man is of the old Empire.”

“We knew that,” said the second man, the big one, with rumbling discontent.

“We suspected that,” corrected Forell, softly. “If a man comes with ships and wealth, with overtures of friendliness, and with offers of trade, it is only sensible to refrain from antagonizing him, until we are certain that the profitable mask is not a face after all. But now-”

There was a faint whining edge to the third man’s voice as he spoke. “We might have been even more careful. We might have found out first. We might have found out before allowing him to leave. It would have been the truest wisdom.”

“That has been discussed and disposed of,” said Forell. He waved the subject aside with a flatly final gesture.

“The government is soft,” complained the third man. “The mayor is an idiot.”

The fourth man looked at the other three in turn and removed the stub of a cigar from his mouth. He dropped it casually into the slot at his right where it disappeared with a silent flash of disruption.

He said sarcastically, “I trust the gentleman who last spoke is speaking through habit only. We can afford to remember here that we are the government.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

The fourth man’s little eyes were on the table. “Then let us leave government policy alone. This young man... this stranger might have been a possible customer. There have been cases. All three of you tried to butter him into an advance contract. We have an agreement-a gentleman’s agreement-against it, but you tried.”

“So did you,” growled the second man.

I know it,” said the fourth, calmly.

“Then let’s forget what we should have done earlier,” interrupted Forell impatiently, “and continue with what we should do now. In any case, what if we had imprisoned him, or killed him, what then? We are not certain of his intentions even yet, and at the worst, we could not destroy an Empire by snipping short one man’s life. There might be navies upon navies waiting just the other side of his nonreturn.”

“Exactly,” approved the fourth man. “Now what did you get out of your captured ship? I’m too old for all this talking.”

“It can be told in a few enough words,” said Forell, grimly. “He’s an Imperial general or whatever rank corresponds to that over there. He’s a young man who has proved his military brilliance-so I am told-and who is the idol of his men. Quite a romantic career. The stories they tell of him are no doubt half lies, but even so it makes him out to be a type of wonder man.”

“Who are the ‘they’?” demanded the second man.

“The crew of the captured ship. Look, I have all their statements recorded on micro-film, which I have in a secure place. Later on, if you wish, you can see them. You can talk to the men yourselves, if you think it necessary. I’ve told you the essentials.”

“How did you get it out of them? How do you know they’re telling the truth?”

Forell frowned. “I wasn’t gentle, good sir. I knocked them about, drugged them crazy, and used the Probe unmercifully. They talked. You can believe them.”

“In the old days,” said the third man, with sudden irrelevance, “they would have used pure psychology. Painless, you know, but very sure. No chance of deceit.”

“Well, there is a good deal they had in the old days,” said Forell, dryly. “These are the new days.”

“But,” said the fourth man, “what did he want here, this general, this romantic wonder-man?” There was a dogged, weary persistence about him.

Forell glanced at him sharply. “You think he confides the details of state policy to his crew? They didn’t know. There was nothing to get out of them in that respect, and I tried, Galaxy knows.”

“Which leaves us-”

“To draw our own conclusions, obviously.” Forell’s fingers were tapping quietly again. “The young man is a military leader of the Empire, yet he played the pretense of being a minor princeling of some scattered stars in an odd comer of the Periphery. That alone would assure us that his real motives are such as it would not benefit him to have us know. Combine the nature of his profession with the fact that the Empire has already subsidized one attack upon us in my father’s time, and the possibilities become ominous. That first attack failed. I doubt that the Empire owes us love for that.”

“There is nothing in your findings,” questioned the fourth man guardedly, “that makes for certainty? You are withholding nothing?”

Forell answered levelly, “I can’t withhold anything. From here on there can be no question of business rivalry. Unity is forced upon us.”

“Patriotism?” There was a sneer in the third man’s thin voice.

“Patriotism be damned,” said Forell quietly. “Do you think I give two puffs of nuclear emanation for the future Second Empire? Do you think I’d risk a single Trade mission to smooth its path? But-do you suppose Imperial conquest will help my business or yours? If the Empire wins, there will be a sufficient number of yearning carrion crows to crave the rewards of battle.”

“And we’re the rewards,” added the fourth man, dryly.

The second man broke his silence suddenly, and shifted his bulk angrily, so that the chair creaked under him. “But why talk of that. The Empire can’t win, can it? There is Seldon’s assurance that we will form the Second Empire in the end. This is only another crisis. There have been three before this.”

“Only another crisis, yes!” Forell brooded. “But-in the case of the first two, we had Salvor Hardin to guide us; in the third, there was Hober Mallow. Whom have we now?”

He looked at the others somberly and continued, “Seldon’s rules of psychohistory on which it is so comforting to rely probably have as one of the contributing variables, a certain normal initiative on the part of the people of the Foundation themselves. Seldon’s laws help those who help themselves.”

“The times make the man,” said the third man. “There’s another proverb for you.”

“You can’t count on that, not with absolute assurance,” grunted Forell. “Now the way it seems to me is this. If this is the fourth crisis, then Seldon has foreseen it. If he has, then it can be beaten, and there should be a way of doing it.

“Now The Empire is stronger than we; it always has been. But this is the first time we are in danger of its direct attack, so that strength becomes terribly menacing. If it can be beaten, it must be once again as in all past crises by a method other than pure force. We must find the weak side of our enemy and attack it there.”

“And what is that weak side?” asked the fourth man. “Do you intend advancing a theory?”

“No. That is the point I’m leading up to. Our great leaders of the past always saw the weak points of their enemies and aimed at that. But now-”

There was a helplessness in his voice, and for a moment none volunteered a comment.

Then the fourth man said, “We need spies.”

Forell turned to him eagerly. “Right! I don’t know when the Empire will attack. There may be time.”

“Hober Mallow himself entered the Imperial dominions,” suggested the second man.

But Forell shook his head. “Nothing so direct. None of us are precisely youthful; and all of us are rusty with red-tape and administrative detail. We need young men that are in the field now-”

“The independent traders?” asked the fourth man.

And Forell nodded his, head and whispered, “If there is yet time-”

3. The Dead Hand

BEL RIOSE INTERRUPTED his annoyed stridings to look up hopefully when his aide entered. “Any word of the Starlet?”

“None. The scouting party has quartered space, but the instruments have detected nothing. Commander Yume has reported that the Fleet is ready for an immediate attack in retaliation.”

The general shook his head. “No, not for a patrol ship. Not yet. Tell him to double-Wait! I’ll write out the message. Have it coded and transmitted by tight beam.”

He wrote as he talked and thrust the paper at the waiting officer. “Has the Siwennian arrived yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, see to it that he is brought in here as soon as he does arrive.”

The aide saluted crisply and left. Riose resumed his caged stride.

When the door opened a second time, it was Ducem Barr that stood on the threshold. Slowly, in the footsteps of the ushering aide, he stepped into the garish room whose ceiling was an ornamented holographic model of the Galaxy, and in the center of which Bel Riose stood in field uniform.

“Patrician, good day!” The general pushed forward a chair with his foot and gestured the aide away with a “That door is to stay closed till I open it.”

He stood before the Siwennian, legs apart, hand grasping wrist behind his back, balancing himself slowly, thoughtfully, on the balls of his feet.

Then, harshly, “Patrician, are you a loyal subject of the Emperor?”

Barr, who had maintained an indifferent silence till then, wrinkled a noncommittal brow. “I have no cause to love Imperial rule.”

“Which is a long way from saying that you would be a traitor.”

“True. But the mere act of not being a traitor is also a long way from agreeing to be an active helper.”

“Ordinarily also true. But to refuse your help at this point,” said Riose, deliberately, “will be considered treason and treated as such.”

Barr’s eyebrows drew together. “Save your verbal cudgels for your subordinates. A simple statement of your needs and wants will suffice me here.”

Riose sat down and crossed his legs. “Barr, we had an earlier discussion half a year ago.”

“About your magicians?”

“Yes. You remember what I said I would do.”

Barr nodded. His arms rested limply in his lap. “You were going to visit them in their haunts, and you’ve been away these four months. Did you find them?”

“Find them? That I did,” cried Riose. His lips were stiff as he spoke. It seemed to require effort to refrain from grinding molars. “Patrician, they are not magicians; they are devils. It is as far from belief as the outer galaxies from here. Conceive it! It is a world the size of a handkerchief, of a fingernail; with resources so petty, power so minute, a population so microscopic as would never suffice the most backward worlds of the dusty prefects of the Dark Stars. Yet with that, a people so proud and ambitious as to dream quietly and methodically of Galactic rule.

“Why, they are so sure of themselves that they do not even hurry. They move slowly, phlegmatically; they speak of necessary centuries. They swallow worlds at leisure; creep through systems with dawdling complacence.

“And they succeed. There is no one to stop them. They have built up a filthy trading community that curls its tentacles about the systems further than their toy ships dare reach. For parsecs, their Traders-which is what their agents call themselves-penetrate.”

Ducem Barr interrupted the angry flow. “How much of this information is definite; and how much is simply fury?”

The soldier caught his breath and grew calmer. “My fury does not blind me. I tell you I was in worlds nearer to Siwenna than to the Foundation, where the Empire was a myth of the distance, and where Traders were living truths. We ourselves were mistaken for Traders.”

“The Foundation itself told you they aimed at Galactic dominion?”

“Told me!” Riose was violent again. “It was not a matter of telling me. The officials said nothing. They spoke business exclusively. But I spoke to ordinary men. I absorbed the ideas of the common folk; their ‘manifest destiny,’ their calm acceptance of a great future. It is a thing that can’t be hidden; a universal optimism they don’t even try to hide.”

The Siwennian openly displayed a certain quiet satisfaction. “You will notice that so far it would seem to bear out quite accurately my reconstruction of events from the paltry data on the subject that I have gathered.”

“It is no doubt,” replied Riose with vexed sarcasm, “a tribute to your analytical powers. It is also a hearty and bumptious commentary on the growing danger to the domains of His Imperial Majesty.”

Barr shrugged his unconcern, and Riose leaned forward suddenly, to seize the old man’s shoulders and stare with curious gentleness into his eyes.

He said, “Now, patrician, none of that. I have no desire to be barbaric. For my part, the legacy of Siwennian hostility to the Imperium is an odious burden, and one which I would do everything in my power to wipe out. But my province is the military and interference in civil affairs is impossible. It would bring about my recall and ruin my usefulness at once. You see that? I know you see that. Between yourself and myself then, let the atrocity of forty years ago be repaid by your vengeance upon its author and so forgotten. I need your help. I frankly admit it.”

There was a world of urgency in the young man’s voice, but Ducem Barr’s head shook gently and deliberately in a negative gesture.

Riose said pleadingly, “You don’t understand, patrician, and I doubt my ability to make you. I can’t argue on your ground. You’re the scholar, not I. But this I can tell you. Whatever you think of the Empire, you will admit its great services. Its armed forces have committed isolated crimes, but in the main they have been a force for peace and civilization. It was the Imperial navy that created the Pax Imperium that ruled over all the Galaxy for thousands of years. Contrast the millennia of peace under the Sun-and-Spaceship of the Empire with the millennia of interstellar anarchy that preceded it. Consider the wars and devastations of those old days and tell me if, with all its faults, the Empire is not worth preserving.

“Consider,” he drove on forcefully, “to what the outer fringe of the Galaxy is reduced in these days of their breakaway and independence, and ask yourself if for the sake of a petty revenge you would reduce Siwenna from its position as a province under the protection of a mighty Navy to a barbarian world in a barbarian Galaxy, all immersed in its fragmentary independence and its common degradation and misery.”

“Is it so bad-so soon?” murmured the Siwennian.

“No,” admitted Riose. “We would be safe ourselves no doubt, were our lifetimes quadrupled. But it is for the Empire I fight; that, and a military tradition which is something for myself alone, and which I can not transfer to you. It is a military tradition built on the Imperial institution which I serve.”

“You are getting mystical, and I always find it difficult to penetrate another person’s mysticism.”

“No matter. You understand the danger of this Foundation.”

“It was I who pointed out what you call the danger before ever you headed outward from Siwenna.”

“Then you realize that it must be stopped in embryo or perhaps not at all. You have known of this Foundation before anyone had heard of it. You know more about it than anyone else in the Empire. You probably know how it might best be attacked; and you can probably forewarn me of its countermeasures. Come, let us be friends.”

Ducem Barr rose. He said flatly, “Such help as I could give you means nothing. So I will make you free of it in the face of your strenuous demand.”

“I will be the judge of its meaning.”

“No, I am serious. Not all the might of the Empire could avail to crush this pygmy world.”

“Why not?” Bel Riose’s eyes glistened fiercely. “No, stay where you are. I’ll tell you when you may leave. Why not? If you think I underestimate this enemy I have discovered, you are wrong. Patrician,” he spoke reluctantly, “I lost a ship on my return. I have no proof that it fell into the hands of the Foundation; but it has not been located since and were it merely an accident, its dead hulk should, certainly have been found along the route we took. It is not an important loss-less than the tenth part of a fleabite, but it may mean that the Foundation has already opened hostilities. Such eagerness and such disregard for consequences might mean secret forces of which I know nothing. Can you help me then by answering a specific question? What is their military power?”

“I haven’t any notion.”

“Then explain yourself on your own terms. Why do you say the Empire can not defeat this small enemy?”

The Siwennian seated himself once more and looked away from Riose’s fixed glare. He spoke heavily, “Because I have faith in the principles of psychohistory. It is a strange science. It reached mathematical maturity with one man, Hari Seldon, and died with him, for no man since has been capable of manipulating its intricacies. But in that short period, it proved itself the most powerful instrument ever invented for the study of humanity. Without pretending to predict the actions of individual humans, it formulated definite laws capable of mathematical analysis and extrapolation to govern and predict the mass action of human groups.”

“So-”

“It was that psychohistory which Seldon and the group he worked with applied in full force to the establishment of the Foundation. The place, time, and conditions all conspire mathematically and so, inevitably, to the development of a Second Galactic Empire.”

Riose’s voice trembled with indignation. “You mean that this art of his predicts that I would attack the Foundation and lose such and such a battle for such and such a reason? You are trying to say that I am a silly robot following a predetermined course into destruction.”

“No,” replied the old patrician, sharply. “I have already said that the science had nothing to do with individual actions. It is the vaster background that has been foreseen.”

“Then we stand clasped tightly in the forcing hand of the Goddess of Historical Necessity.”

“Of Psychohistorical Necessity,” prompted Barr, softly.

“And if I exercise my prerogative of freewill? If I choose to attack next year, or not to attack at all? How pliable is the Goddess? How resourceful?”

Barr shrugged. “Attack now or never; with a single ship, or all the force in the Empire; by military force or economic pressure; by candid declaration of war or by treacherous ambush. Do whatever you wish in your fullest exercise of freewill. You will still lose.”

“Because of Hari Seldon’s dead hand?”

“Because of the dead hand of the mathematics of human behavior that can neither be stopped, swerved, nor delayed.”

The two faced each other in deadlock, until the general stepped back.

He said simply, “I’ll take that challenge. It’s a dead hand against a living will.”

4. The Emperor

CLEON II COMMONLY CALLED “THE GREAT.” THE LAST STRONG EMPEROR OF THE FIRST EMPIRE, HE IS IMPORTANT FOR THE POLITICAL AND ARTISTIC RENAISSANCE THAT TOOK PLACE DURING HIS LONG REIGN. HE IS BEST KNOWN TO ROMANCE, HOWEVER, FOR HIS CONNECTION WITH BEL RIOSE, AND TO THE COMMON MAN, HE IS SIMPLY “RIOSE’S EMPEROR.” IT IS IMPORTANT NOT TO ALLOW EVENTS OF THE LAST YEAR OF HIS REIGN TO OVERSHADOW FORTY YEARS OF...

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

CLEON II WAS Lord of the Universe. Cleon II also suffered from a painful and undiagnosed ailment. By the queer twists of human affairs, the two statements are not mutually exclusive, nor even particularly incongruous. There have been a wearisomely large number of precedents in history.

But Cleon II cared nothing for such precedents. To meditate upon a long list of similar cases would not ameliorate personal suffering an electron’s worth. It soothed him as little to think that where his great-grandfather had been the pirate ruler of a dust-speck planet, he himself slept in the pleasure palace of Ammenetik the Great, as heir of a line of Galactic rulers stretching backward into a tenuous past. It was at present no source of comfort to him that the efforts of his father had cleansed the realm of its leprous patches of rebellion and restored it to the peace and unity it had enjoyed under Stanel VI; that, as a consequence, in the twenty-five years of his reign, not one cloud of revolt had misted his burnished glory.

The Emperor of the Galaxy and the Lord of All whimpered as he lolled his head backward into the invigorating plane of force about his pillows. It yielded in a softness that did not touch, and at the pleasant tingle, Cleon relaxed a bit. He sat up with difficulty and stared morosely at the distant walls of the grand chamber. It was a bad room to be alone in. It was too big. All the rooms were too big.

But better to be alone during these crippling bouts than to endure the prinking of the courtiers, their lavish sympathy, their soft, condescending dullness. Better to be alone than to watch those insipid masks behind which spun the tortuous speculations on the chances of death and the fortunes of the succession.

His thoughts hurried him. There were his three sons; three straight-backed youths full of promise and virtue. Where did they disappear on these bad days? Waiting, no doubt. Each watching the other; and all watching him.

He stirred uneasily. And now Brodrig craved audience. The low-born, faithful Brodrig; faithful because he was hated with a unanimous and cordial hatred that was the only point of agreement between the dozen cliques that divided his court.

Brodrig-the faithful favorite, who had to be faithful, since unless he owned the fastest speed-ship in the Galaxy and took to it the day of the Emperor’s death, it would be the radiation-chamber the day after.

Cleon II touched the smooth knob on the arm of his great divan, and the huge door at the end of the room dissolved to transparency.

Brodrig advanced along the crimson carpet, and knelt to kiss the Emperor’s limp hand.

“Your health, sire?” asked the Privy Secretary in a low tone of becoming anxiety.

“I live,” snapped the Emperor with exasperation, “if you can call it life where every scoundrel who can read a book of medicine uses me as a blank and receptive field for his feeble experiments. If there is a conceivable remedy, chemical, physical, or nuclear, which has not yet been tried, why then, some learned babbler from the far comers of the realm will arrive tomorrow to try it. And still another newly-discovered book, or forgery morelike, will be used as authority.

“By my father’s memory,” he rumbled savagely, “it seems there is not a biped extant who can study a disease before his eyes with those same eyes. There is not one who can count a pulse-beat without a book of the ancients before him. I’m sick and they call it ‘unknown.’ The fools! If in the course of millennia, human bodies learn new methods of falling askew, it remains uncovered by the studies of the ancients and uncurable forevermore. The ancients should be alive now, or I then.”

The Emperor ran down to a low-breathed curse while Brodrig waited dutifully. Cleon II said peevishly, “How many are waiting outside?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

Brodrig said patiently, “The Great Hall holds the usual number.”

“Well, let them wait. State matters occupy me. Have the Captain of the Guard announce it. Or wait, forget the state matters. Just have it announced I hold no audience, and let the Captain of the Guard look doleful. The jackals among them may betray themselves.” The Emperor sneered nastily.

“There is a rumor, sire,” said Brodrig, smoothly, “that it is your heart that troubles you.”

The Emperor’s smile was little removed from the previous sneer. “It will hurt others more than myself if any act prematurely on that rumor. But what is it you want. Let’s have this over.”

Brodrig rose from his kneeling posture at a gesture of permission and said, “It concerns General Bel Riose, the Military Governor of Siwenna.”

“Riose?” Cleon II frowned heavily. “I don’t place him. Wait, is he the one who sent that quixotic message some months back? Yes, I remember. He panted for permission to enter a career of conquest for the glory of the Empire and Emperor.”

“Exactly, sire.”

The Emperor laughed shortly. “Did you think I had such generals left me, Brodrig? He seems to be a curious atavism. What was the answer? I believe you took care of it.”

“I did, sire. He was instructed to forward additional information and to take no steps involving naval action without further orders from the Imperium.”

“Hmp. Safe enough. Who is this Riose? Was he ever at court?”

Brodrig nodded and his mouth twisted ever so little. “He began his career as a cadet in the Guards ten years back. He had part in that affair off the Lemul Cluster.”

“The Lemul Cluster? You know, my memory isn’t quite-Was that the time a young soldier saved two ships of the line from a head-on collision by... uh... something or other?” He waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t remember the details. It was something heroic.”

“Riose was that soldier. He received a promotion for it,” Brodrig said dryly, “and an appointment to field duty as captain of a ship.”

“And now Military Governor of a border system and still young. Capable man, Brodrig!”

“Unsafe, sire. He lives in the past. He is a dreamer of ancient times, or rather, of the myths of what ancient times used to be. Such men are harmless in themselves, but their queer lack of realism makes them fools for others.” He added, “His men, I understand, are completely under his control. He is one of your popular generals.”

“Is he?” the Emperor mused. “Well, come, Brodrig, I would not wish to be served entirely by incompetents. They certainly set no enviable standard for faithfulness themselves.”

“An incompetent traitor is no danger. It is rather the capable men who must be watched.”

“You among them, Brodrig?” Cleon II laughed and then grimaced with pain. “Well, then, you may forget the lecture for the while. What new development is there in the matter of this young conqueror? I hope you haven’t come merely to reminisce.”

“Another message, sire, has been received from General Riose.”

“Oh? And to what effect?”

“He has spied out the land of these barbarians and advocates an expedition in force. His arguments are long and fairly tedious. It is not worth annoying Your Imperial Majesty with it at present, during your indisposition. Particularly since it will be discussed at length during the session of the Council of Lords.” He glanced sidewise at the Emperor.

Cleon II frowned. “The Lords? Is it a question for them, Brodrig? It will mean further demands for a broader interpretation of the Charter. It always comes to that.”

“It can’t be avoided, sire. It might have been better if your august father could have beaten down the last rebellion without granting the Charter. But since it is here, we must endure it for the while.”

“You’re right, I suppose. Then the Lords it must be. But why all this solemnity, man? It is, after all, a minor point. Success on a remote border with limited troops is scarcely a state affair.”

Brodrig smiled narrowly. He said coolly, “It is an affair of a romantic idiot; but even a romantic idiot can be a deadly weapon when an unromantic rebel uses him as a tool. Sire, the man was popular here and is popular there. He is young. If he annexes a vagrant barbarian planet or two, he will become a conqueror. Now a young conqueror who has proven his ability to rouse the enthusiasm of pilots, miners, tradesmen and suchlike rabble is dangerous at any time. Even if he lacked the desire to do to you as your august father did to the usurper, Ricker, then one of our loyal Lords of the Domain may decide to use him as his weapon.”

Cleon II moved an arm hastily and stiffened with pain. Slowly he relaxed, but his smile was weak, and his voice a whisper. “You are a valuable subject, Brodrig. You always suspect far more than is necessary, and I have but to take half your suggested precautions to be utterly safe. We’ll put it up to the Lords. We shall see what they say and take our measure accordingly. The young man, I suppose, has made no hostile moves yet.”

“He report none. But already he asks for reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements!” The Emperor’s eyes narrowed with wonder. “What force has he?”

“Ten ships of the line, sire, with a full complement of auxiliary vessels. Two of the ships are equipped with motors salvaged from the old Grand Fleet, and one has a battery of power artillery from the same source. The other ships are new ones of the last fifty years, but are serviceable, nevertheless.”

“Ten ships would seem adequate for any reasonable undertaking. Why, with less than ten ships my father won his first victories against the usurper. Who are these barbarians he’s fighting?”

The Privy Secretary raised a pair of supercilious eyebrows. “He refers to them as ‘the Foundation.’”

“The Foundation? What is it?”

“There is no record of it, sire. I have searched the archives carefully. The area of the Galaxy indicated falls within the ancient province of Anacreon, which two centuries since gave itself up to brigandage, barbarism, and anarchy. There is no planet known as Foundation in the province, however. There was a vague reference to a group of scientists sent to that province just before its separation from our protection. They were to prepare an Encyclopedia.” He smiled thinly. “I believe they called it the Encyclopedia Foundation.”

“Well,” the Emperor considered it somberly, “that seems a tenuous connection to advance.”

“I’m not advancing it, sire. No word was ever received from that expedition after the growth of anarchy in that region. If their descendants still live and retain their name, then they have reverted to barbarism most certainly.”

“And so he wants reinforcements.” The Emperor bent a fierce glance at his secretary. “This is most peculiar; to propose to fight savages with ten ships and to ask for more before a blow is struck. And yet I begin to remember this Riose; he was a handsome boy of loyal family. Brodrig, there are complications in this that I don’t penetrate. There may be more importance in it than would seem.”

His fingers played idly with the gleaming sheet that covered his stiffened legs. He said, “I need a man out there; one with eyes, brains and loyalty. Brodrig-”

The secretary bent a submissive head. “And the ships, sire?”

“Not yet!” The Emperor moaned softly as he shifted his position in gentle stages. He pointed a feeble finger, “Not till we know more. Convene the Council of Lords for this day week. It will be a good opportunity for the new appropriation as well. I’ll put that through or lives will end.”

He leaned his aching head into the soothing tingle of the force-field pillow, “Go now, Brodrig, and send in the doctor. He’s the worst bumbler of the lot.”

5. The War Begins

FROM THE RADIATING point of Siwenna, the forces of the Empire reached out cautiously into the black unknown of the Periphery. Giant ships passed the vast distances that separated the vagrant stars at the Galaxy’s rim, and felt their way around the outermost edge of Foundation influence.

Worlds isolated in their new barbarism of two centuries felt the sensation once again of Imperial overlords upon their soil. Allegiance was sworn in the face of the massive artillery covering capital cities.

Garrisons were left; garrisons of men in Imperial uniform with the Spaceship-and-Sun insignia upon their shoulders. The old men took notice and remembered once again the forgotten tales of their grandfathers’ fathers of the times when the universe was big, and rich, and peaceful and that same Spaceship-and-Sun ruled all.

Then the great ships passed on to weave their line of forward bases further around the Foundation. And as each world was knotted into its proper place in the fabric, the report went back to Bel Riose at the General Headquarters he had established on the rocky barrenness of a wandering sunless planet.

Now Riose relaxed and smiled grimly at Ducem Barr. “Well, what do you think, patrician?”

“I? Of what value are my thoughts? I am not a military man.” He took in with one wearily distasteful glance the crowded disorder of the rock-bound room which had been carved out of the wall of a cavern of artificial air, light, and heat which marked the single bubble of life in the vastness of a bleak world.

“For the help I could give you,” he muttered, “or would want to give you, you might return me to Siwenna.”

“Not yet. Not yet.” The general turned his chair to the comer which held the huge, brilliantly-transparent sphere that mapped the old Imperial prefect of Anacreon and its neighboring sectors. “Later, when this is over, you will go back to your books and to more. I’ll see to it that the estates of your family are restored to you and to your children for the rest of time.”

“Thank you,” said Barr, with faint irony, “but I lack your faith in the happy outcome of all this.”

Riose laughed harshly, “Don’t start your prophetic croakings again. This map speaks louder than all your woeful theories.” He caressed its curved invisible outline gently. “Can you read a map in radial projection? You can? Well, here, see for yourself. The stars in gold represent the Imperial territories. The red stars are those in subjection to the Foundation and the pink are those which are probably within the economic sphere of influence. Now watch-”

Riose’s hand covered a rounded knob, and slowly an area of hard, white pinpoints changed into a deepening blue. Like an inverted cup they folded about the red and the pink.

“Those blue stars have been taken over by my forces,” said Riose with quiet satisfaction, “and they still advance. No opposition has appeared anywhere. The barbarians are quiet. And particularly, no opposition has come from Foundation forces. They sleep peacefully and well.”

“You spread your force thinly, don’t you?” asked Barr.

“As a matter of fact,” said Riose, “despite appearances, I don’t. The key points which I garrison and fortify are relatively few, but they are carefully chosen. The result is that the force expended is small, but the strategic result great. There are many advantages, more than would ever appear to anyone who hasn’t made a careful study of spatial tactics, but it is apparent to anyone, for instance, that I can base an attack from any point in an inclosing sphere, and that when I am finished it will be impossible for the Foundation to attack at flank or rear. I shall have no flank or rear with respect to them.

“This strategy of the Previous Enclosure has been tried before, notably in the campaigns of Loris VI, some two thousand years ago, but always imperfectly; always with the knowledge and attempted interference of the enemy. This is different.”

“The ideal textbook case?” Barr’s voice was languid and indifferent.

Riose was impatient, “You still think my forces will fail?”

“They must.”

“You understand that there is no case in military history where an Enclosure has been completed that the attacking forces have not eventually won, except where an outside Navy exists in sufficient force to break the Enclosure.”

“If you say so.”

“And you still adhere to your faith.”

“Yes.”

Riose shrugged. “Then do so.”

Barr allowed the angry silence to continue for a moment, then asked quietly, “Have you received an answer from the Emperor?”

Riose removed a cigarette from a wall container behind his head, placed a filter tip between his lips and puffed it aflame carefully. He said, “You mean my request for reinforcements? It came, but that’s all. Just the answer.”

“No ships.”

“None. I half-expected that. Frankly, patrician, I should never have allowed myself to be stampeded by your theories into requesting them in the first place. It puts me in a false light.”

“Does it?”

“Definitely. Ships are at a premium. The civil wars of the last two centuries have smashed up more than half of the Grand Fleet and what’s left is in pretty shaky condition. You know it isn’t as if the ships we build these days are worth anything. I don’t think there’s a man in the Galaxy today who can build a first-rate hypernuclear motor.”

“I knew that,” said the Siwennian. His eyes were thoughtful and introspective. “I didn’t know that you knew it. So his Imperial Majesty can spare no ships. Psychohistory could have predicted that; in fact, it probably did. I should say that Hari Seldon’s dead hand wins the opening round.”

Riose answered sharply, “I have enough ships as it is. Your Seldon wins nothing. Should the situation turn more serious, then more ships will be available. As yet, the Emperor does not know all the story.”

“Indeed? What haven’t you told him?”

“Obviously-your theories.” Riose looked sardonic. “The story is, with all respect to you, inherently improbable. If developments warrant; if events supply me with proof, then, but only then, would I make out the case of mortal danger.

“And in addition,” Riose drove on, casually, “the story, unbolstered by fact, has a flavor of lese majeste that could scarcely be pleasant to His Imperial Majesty.”

The old patrician smiled. “You mean that telling him his august throne is in danger of subversion by a parcel of ragged barbarians from the ends of the universe is not a warning to be believed or appreciated. Then you expect nothing from him.”

“Unless you count a special envoy as something.”

“And why a special envoy?”

“It’s an old custom. A direct representative of the crown is present on every military campaign which is under government auspices.”

“Really? Why?”

“It’s a method of preserving the symbol of personal Imperial leadership in all campaigns. It’s gained a secondary function of insuring the fidelity of generals. It doesn’t always succeed in that respect.”

“You’ll find that inconvenient, general. Extraneous authority, I mean.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Riose reddened faintly, “but it can’t be helped-”

The receiver at the general’s hand glowed warmly, and with an unobtrusive jar, the cylindered communication popped into its slot. Riose unrolled it, “Good! This is it!”

Ducem Barr raised a mildly questioning eyebrow.

Riose said, “You know we’ve captured one of these Trader people. Alive-and with his ship intact.”

“I’ve heard talk of it.”

“Well, they’ve just brought him in, and we’ll have him here in a minute. You keep your seat, patrician. I want you here when I’m questioning him. It’s why I asked you here today in the first place. You may understand him where I might miss important points.”

The door signal sounded and a touch of the general’s toe swung the door wide. The man who stood on the threshold was tall and bearded, wore a short coat of a soft, leathery plastic, with an attached hood shoved back on his neck. His hands were free, and if he noticed the men about him were armed, he did not trouble to indicate it.

He stepped in casually, and looked about with calculating eyes. He favored the general with a rudimentary wave of the hand and a half nod.

“Your name?” demanded Riose, crisply.

“Lathan Devers.” The trader hooked his thumbs into his wide and gaudy belt. “Are you the boss here?”

“You are a trader of the Foundation?”

“That’s right. Listen, if you’re the boss, you’d better tell your hired men here to lay off my cargo.”

The general raised his head and regarded the prisoner coldly. “Answer questions. Do not volunteer orders.”

“All right. I’m agreeable. But one of your boys blasted a two-foot hole in his chest already, by sticking his fingers where he wasn’t supposed to.”

Riose shifted his gaze to the lieutenant in charge. “Is this man telling the truth? Your report, Vrank, had it that no lives were lost.”

“None were, sir,” the lieutenant spoke stiffly, apprehensively, “at the time. There was later some disposition to search the ship, there having arisen a rumor that a woman was aboard. Instead, sir, many instruments of unknown nature were located, instruments which the prisoner claims to be his stock in trade. One of them flashed on handling, and the soldier holding it died.”

The general turned back to the trader. “Does your ship carry nuclear explosives?”

“Galaxy, no. What for? That fool grabbed a nuclear puncher, wrong end forward and set at maximum dispersion. You’re not supposed to do that. Might as well point a neut-gun at your head. I’d have stopped him, if five men weren’t sitting on my chest.”

Riose gestured at the waiting guard, “You go. The captured ship is to he sealed against all intrusion. Sit down, Devers.”

The trader did so, in the spot indicated, and withstood stolidly the hard scrutiny of the Imperial general and the curious glance of the Siwennian patrician.

Riose said, “You’re a sensible man, Devers.”

“Thank you. Are you impressed by my face, or do you want something? Tell you what, though. I’m a good business man.”

“It’s about the same thing. You surrendered your ship when you might have decided to waste our ammunition and have yourself blown to electron-dust. It could result in good treatment for you, if you continue that sort of outlook on life.”

“Good treatment is what I mostly crave, boss.”

“Good, and co-operation is what I mostly crave.” Riose smiled, and said in a low aside to Ducem Barr, “I hope the word ‘crave’ means what I think it does. Did you ever hear such a barbarous jargon?”

Devers said blandly, “Right. I check you. But what kind of co-operation are you talking about, boss? To tell you straight, I don’t know where I stand.” He looked about him, “Where’s this place, for instance, and-what’s the idea?”

“Ah, I’ve neglected the other half of the introductions. I apologize.” Riose was in good humor. “That gentleman is Ducem Barr, Patrician of the Empire. I am Bel Riose, Peer of the Empire, and General of the Third Class in the armed forces of His Imperial Majesty.”

The trader’s jaw slackened. Then, “The Empire? I mean the old Empire they taught us about at school? Huh! Funny! I always had the sort of notion that it didn’t exist any more.”

“Look about you. It does,” said Riose grimly.

“Might have known it though,” and Lathan Devers pointed his beard at the ceiling. “That was a mightily polished-looking set of craft that took my tub. No kingdom of the Periphery could have turned them out.” His brow furrowed. “So what’s the game, boss? Or do I call you general?”

“Me game is war.”

“Empire versus Foundation, that it?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

The trader stared sharply and shook his head.

Riose let the other deliberate, then said softly, “I’m sure you know why.”

Lathan Devers muttered, “Warm here,” and stood up to remove his hooded jacket. Then he sat down again and stretched his legs out before him.

“You know,” he said, comfortably, “I figure you’re thinking I ought to jump up with a whoop and lay about me. I can catch you before you could move if I choose my time, and this old fellow who sits there and doesn’t say anything couldn’t do much to stop me.”

“But you won’t,” said Riose, confidently.

“I won’t,” agreed Devers, amiably. “First off, killing you wouldn’t stop the war, I suppose. There are more generals where you came from.”

“Very accurately calculated.”

“Besides which, I’d probably be slammed down about two seconds after I got you, and killed fast, or maybe slow, depending. But I’d be killed, and I never like to count on that when I’m making plans. It doesn’t pay off.”

“I said you were a sensible man.”

“But there’s one thing I would like, boss. I’d like you to tell me what you mean when you say I know why you’re jumping us. I don’t; and guessing games bother me no end.”

“Yes? Ever hear of Hari Seldon?”

“No. I said I don’t like guessing games.”

Riose flicked a side glance at Ducem Barr who smiled with a narrow gentleness and resumed his inwardly-dreaming expression.

Riose said with a grimace, “Don’t you play games, Devers. There is a tradition, or a fable, or sober history-I don’t care what-upon your Foundation, that eventually you will found the Second Empire. I know quite a detailed version of Hari Seldon’s psychohistorical claptrap, and your eventual plans of aggression against the Empire.”

“That so?” Devers nodded thoughtfully. “And who told you all that?”

“Does that matter?” said Riose with dangerous smoothness. “You’re here to question nothing. I want what you know about the Seldon Fable.”

“But if it’s a Fable-”

“Don’t play with words, Devers.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’ll give it to you straight. You know all I know about it. It’s silly stuff, half-baked. Every world has its yams; you can’t keep it away from them. Yes, I’ve heard that sort of talk; Seldon, Second Empire, and so on. They put kids to sleep at night with the stuff. The young squirts curl up in the spare rooms with their pocket projectors and suck up Seldon thrillers. But it’s strictly non-adult. Nonintelligent adult, anyway.” The trader shook his head.

The Imperial general’s eyes were dark. “Is that really so? You waste your lies, man. I’ve been on the planet, Terminus. I know your Foundation. I’ve looked it in the face.”

“And you ask me? Me, when I haven’t kept foot on it for two months at a piece in ten years. You are wasting your time. But go ahead with your war, if it’s fables you’re after.”

And Barr spoke for the first time, mildly, “You are so confident then that the Foundation will win?”

The trader turned. He flushed faintly and an old scar on one temple showed whitely, “Hm-m-m, the silent partner. How’d you squeeze that out of what I said, doc?”

Riose nodded very slightly at Barr, and the Siwennian continued in a low voice, “Because the notion would bother you if you thought your world might lose this war, and suffer the bitter reapings of defeat, I know. My world once did, and still does.”

Lathan Devers fumbled his beard, looked from one of his opponents to the other, then laughed shortly. “Does he always talk like that, boss? Listen,” he grew serious, “what’s defeat? I’ve seen wars and I’ve seen defeats. What if the winner does take over? Who’s bothered? Me? Guys like me?” He shook his head in derision.

“Get this,” the trader spoke forcefully and earnestly, “there are five or six fat slobs who usually run an average planet. They get the rabbit punch, but I’m not losing peace of mind over them. See. The people? The ordinary run of guys? Sure, some get killed, and the rest pay extra taxes for a while. But it settles itself out; it runs itself down. And then it’s the old situation again with a different five or six.”

Ducem Barr’s nostrils flared, and the tendons of his old right hand jerked; but he said nothing.

Lathan Devers’ eyes were on him. They missed nothing. He said, “Look. I spend my life in space for my five-and-dime gadgets and my beer-and-pretzel kickback from the Combines. There’s fat fellows back there,” his thumb jerked over his shoulder and back, “that sit home and collect my year’s income every minute-out of skimmings from me and more like me. Suppose you run the Foundation. You’ll still need us. You’ll need us more than ever the Combines do-because you’d not know your way around, and we could bring in the hard cash. We’d make a better deal with the Empire. Yes, we would; and I’m a man of business. If it adds up to a plus mark, I’m for it.”

And he stared at the two with sardonic belligerence.

The silence remained unbroken for minutes, and then a cylinder rattled into its slot. The general flipped it open, glanced at the neat printing and in-circuited the visuals with a sweep.

“Prepare plan indicating position of each ship in action. Await orders on full-armed defensive.”

He reached for his cape. As he fastened it about his shoulders, he whispered in a stiff-lipped monotone to Barr, “I’m leaving this man to you. I’ll expect results. This is war and I can be cruel to failures. Remember!” He left, with a salute to both.

Lathan Devers looked after him, “Well, something’s hit him where it hurts. What goes on?”

“A battle, obviously,” said Barr, gruffly. “The forces of the Foundation are coming out for their first battle. You’d better come along.”

There were armed soldiers in the room. Their bearing was respectful and their faces were hard. Devers followed the proud old Siwennian patriarch out of the room.

The room to which they were led was smaller, barer. It contained two beds, a visi-screen, and shower and sanitary facilities. The soldiers marched out, and the thick door boomed hollowly shut.

“Hmp?” Devers stared disapprovingly about. “This looks permanent.”

“It is,” said Barr, shortly. The old Siwennian turned his back.

The trader said irritably, “What’s your game, doc?”

“I have no game. You’re in my charge, that’s all.”

The trader rose and advanced. His bulk towered over the unmoving patrician. “Yes? But you’re in this cell with me and when you were marched here the guns were pointed just as hard at you as at me. Listen, you were all boiled up about my notions on the subject of war and peace.”

He waited fruitlessly, “All fight, let me ask you something. You said your country was licked once. By whom? Comet people from the outer nebulae?”

Barr looked up. “By the Empire.”

“That so? Then what are you doing here?”

Barr maintained an eloquent silence.

The trader thrust out a lower lip and nodded his head slowly. He slipped off the flat-linked bracelet that hugged his fight wrist and held it out. “What do you think of that?” He wore the mate to it on his left.

The Siwennian took the ornament. He responded slowly to the trader’s gesture and put it on. The odd tingling at the wrist passed away quickly.

Devers’ voice changed at once. “Right, doc, you’ve got the action now. Just speak casually. If this room is wired, they won’t get a thing. That’s a Field Distorter you’ve got there; genuine Mallow design. Sells for twenty-five credits on any world from here to the outer rim. You get it free. Hold your lips still when you talk and take it easy. You’ve got to get the trick of it.”

Ducem Barr was suddenly weary. The trader’s boring eyes were luminous and urging. He felt unequal to their demands.

Barr said, “What do you want?” The words slurred from between unmoving lips.

“I’ve told you. You make mouth noises like what we call a patriot. Yet your own world has been mashed up by the Empire, and here you are playing ball with the Empire’s fair-haired general. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Barr said, “I have done my part. A conquering Imperial viceroy is dead because of me.”

“That so? Recently?”

“Forty years ago.”

“Forty... years... ago!” The words seemed to have meaning to the trader. He frowned, “That’s a long time to live on memories. Does that young squirt in the general’s uniform know about it?”

Barr nodded.

Devers’ eyes were dark with thought. “You want the Empire to win?”

And the old Siwennian patrician broke out in sudden deep anger, “May the Empire and all its works perish in universal catastrophe. All Siwenna prays that daily. I had brothers once, a sister, a father. But I have children now, grandchildren. The general knows where to find them.”

Devers waited.

Barr continued in a whisper, “But that would not stop me if the results in view warranted the risk. They would know how to die.”

The trader said gently, “You killed a viceroy once, huh? You know, I recognize a few things. We once had a mayor, Hober Mallow his name was. He visited Siwenna; that’s your world, isn’t it? He met a man named Barr.”

Ducem Barr stared hard, suspiciously. “What do you know of this?”

“What every trader on the Foundation knows. You might be a smart old fellow put in here to get on my right side. Sure, they’d point guns at you, and you’d hate the Empire and be all-out for its smashing. Then I’d fall all over you and pour out my heart to you, and wouldn’t the general be pleased. There’s not much chance of that, doc.

“But just the same I’d like to have you prove that you’re the son of Onum Barr of Siwenna-the sixth and youngest who escaped the massacre.”

Ducem Barr’s hand shook as he opened the flat metal box in a wall recess. The metal object he withdrew clanked softly as he thrust it into the trader’s hands. “Look at that,” he said.

Devers stared. He held the swollen central link of the chain close to his eyes and swore softly. “That’s Mallow’s monogram, or I’m a space-struck rookie, and the design is fifty years old if it’s a day.”

He looked up and smiled.

“Shake, doc. A man-sized nuclear shield is all the proof I need,” and he held out his large hand.

6. The Favorite

THE TINY SHIPS had appeared out of the vacant depths and darted into the midst of the Armada. Without a shot or a burst of energy, they weaved through the ship-swollen area, then blasted on and out, while the Imperial wagons turned after them like lumbering beasts. There were two noiseless flares that pinpointed space as two of the tiny gnats shriveled in atomic disintegration, and the rest were gone.

The great ships searched, then returned to their original task, and world by world, the great web of the Enclosure continued.

Brodrig’s uniform was stately; carefully tailored and as carefully worn. His walk through the gardens of the obscure planet Wanda, now temporary Imperial headquarters, was leisurely; his expression was somber.

Bel Riose walked with him, his field uniform open at the collar, and doleful in its monotonous gray-black.

Riose indicated the smooth black bench under the fragrant tree-fern whose large spatulate leaves lifted flatly against the white sun. “See that, sir. It is a relic of the Imperium. The ornamented benches, built for lovers, linger on, fresh and useful, while the factories and the palaces collapse into unremembered ruin.”

He seated himself, while Cleon II’s Privy Secretary stood erect before him and clipped the leaves above neatly with precise swings of his ivory staff.

Riose crossed his legs and offered a cigarette to the other. He fingered one himself as he spoke, “It is what one would expect from the enlightened wisdom of His Imperial Majesty to send so competent an observer as yourself. It relieves any anxiety I might have felt that the press of more important and more immediate business might perhaps force into the shadows a small campaign on the Periphery.”

“The eyes of the Emperor are everywhere,” said Brodrig, mechanically. “We do not underestimate the importance of the campaign; yet still it would seem that too great an emphasis is being placed upon its difficulty. Surely their little ships are no such barrier that we must move through the intricate preliminary maneuver of an Enclosure.”

Riose flushed, but he maintained his equilibrium. “I can not risk the lives of my men, who are few enough, or the destruction of my ships which are irreplaceable, by a too-rash attack. The establishment of an Enclosure will quarter my casualties in the ultimate attack, howsoever difficult it be. The military reasons for that I took the liberty to explain yesterday.”

“Well, well, I am not a military man. In this case, you assure me that what seems patently and obviously right is, in reality, wrong. We will allow that. Yet your caution shoots far beyond that. In your second communication, you requested reinforcements. And these, against an enemy poor, small, and barbarous, with whom you have had not one’ skirmish at the time. To desire more forces under the circumstances would savor almost of incapacity or worse, had not your earlier career given sufficient proof of your boldness and imagination.”

“I thank you,” said the general, coldly, “but I would remind you that there is a difference between boldness and blindness. There is a place for a decisive gamble when you know your enemy and can calculate the risks at least roughly; but to move at all against an unknown enemy is boldness in itself. You might as well ask why the same man sprints safely across an obstacle course in the day, and falls over the furniture in his room at night.”

Brodrig swept away the other’s words with a neat flirt of the fingers. “Dramatic, but not satisfactory. You have been to this barbarian world yourself. You have in addition this enemy prisoner you coddle, this trader. Between yourself and the prisoner you are not in a night fog.”

“No? I pray you to remember that a world which has developed in isolation for two centuries can not be interpreted to the point of intelligent attack by a month’s visit. I am a soldier, not a cleft-chinned, barrel-chested hero of a subetheric trimensional thriller. Nor can a single prisoner, and one who is an obscure member of an economic group which has no close connection with the enemy world introduce me to all the inner secrets of enemy strategy.”

“You have questioned him?”

“I have.”

“Well?”

“It has been useful, but not vitally so. His ship is tiny, of no account. He sells little toys which are amusing if nothing else. I have a few of the cleverest which I intend sending to the Emperor as curiosities. Naturally, there is a good deal about the ship and its workings which I do not understand, but then I am not a tech-man.”

“But you have among you those who are,” pointed out Brodrig.

“I, too, am aware of that,” replied the general in faintly caustic tones. “But the fools have far to go before they could meet my needs. I have already sent for clever men who can understand the workings of the odd nuclear field-circuits the ship contains. I have received no answer.”

“Men of that type can not be spared, general. Surely, there must be one man of your vast province who understands nucleics.”

“Were there such a one, I would have him heal the limping, invalid motors that power two of my small fleet of ships. Two ships of my meager ten that can not fight a major battle for lack of sufficient power supply. One fifth of my force condemned to the carrion activity of consolidating positions behind the lines.”

The secretary’s fingers fluttered impatiently. “Your position is not unique in that respect, general. The Emperor has similar troubles.”

The general threw away his shredded, never-lit cigarette, lit another, and shrugged. “Well, it is beside the immediate point, this lack of first-class tech-men. Except that I might have made more progress with my prisoner were my Psychic Probe in proper order.”

The secretary’s eyebrows lifted. “You have a Probe?”

“An old one. A superannuated one which fails me the one time I needed it. I set it up during the prisoner’s sleep, and received nothing. So much for the Probe. I have tried it on my own men and the reaction is quite proper, but again there is not one among my staff of tech-men who can tell me why it fails upon the prisoner. Ducem Barr, who is a theoretician of parts, though no mechanic, says the psychic structure of the prisoner may be unaffected by the Probe since from childhood he has been subjected to alien environments and neural stimuli. I don’t know. But he may yet be useful. I save him in that hope.”

Brodrig leaned on his staff. A shall see if a specialist is available in the capital. In the meanwhile, what of this other man you just mentioned, this Siwennian? You keep too many enemies in your good graces.”

“He knows the enemy. He, too, I keep for future reference and the help he may afford me.”

“But he is a Siwennian and the son of a proscribed rebel.”

“He is old and powerless, and his family acts as hostage.”

“I see. Yet I think that I should speak to this trader, myself.”

“Certainly.”

“Alone,” the secretary added coldly, making his point.

“Certainly,” repeated Riose, blandly. “As a loyal subject of the Emperor, I accept his personal representative as my superior. However, since the trader is at the permanent base, you will have to leave the front areas at an interesting moment.”

“Yes? Interesting in what way?”

“Interesting in that the Enclosure is complete today. Interesting in that within the week, the Twentieth Fleet of the Border advances inward towards the core of resistance.” Riose smiled and turned away.

In a vague way, Brodrig felt punctured.

7. Bribery

SERGEANT MORI LUK made an ideal soldier of the ranks. He came from the huge agricultural planets of the Pleiades where only army life could break the bond to the soil and the unavailing life of drudgery; and he was typical of that background. Unimaginative enough to face danger without fear, he was strong and agile enough to face it successfully. He accepted orders instantly, drove the men under him unbendingly and adored his general unswervingly.

And yet with that, he was of a sunny nature. If he killed a man in the line of duty without a scrap of hesitation, it was also without a scrap of animosity.

That Sergeant Luk should signal at the door before entering was further a sign of tact, for he would have been perfectly within his rights to enter without signaling.

The two within looked up from their evening meal and one reached out with his foot to cut off the cracked voice which rattled out of the battered pocket-transmitter with bright liveliness.

“More books?” asked Lathan Devers.

The sergeant held out the tightly-wound cylinder of film and scratched his neck. “It belongs to Engineer Orre, but he’ll have to have it back. He’s going to send it to his kids, you know, like what you might call a souvenir, you know.”

Ducem Barr turned the cylinder in his hands with interest. “And where did the engineer get it? He hasn’t a transmitter also, has he?”

The sergeant shook his head emphatically. He pointed to the knocked-about remnant at the foot of the bed. “That’s the only one in the place. This fellow, Orre, now, he got that book from one of these pig-pen worlds out here we captured. They had it in a big building by itself and he had to kill a few of the natives that tried to stop him from taking it.”

He looked at it appraisingly. “It makes a good souvenir-for kids.”

He paused, then said stealthily, “There’s big news floating about, by the way. It’s only scuttlebutt, but even so, it’s too good to keep. The general did it again.” And he nodded slowly, gravely.

“That so?” said Devers. “And what did he do?”

“Finished the Enclosure, that’s all.” The sergeant chuckled with a fatherly pride. “Isn’t he the corker, though? Didn’t he work it fine? One of the fellows who’s strong on fancy talk, says it went as smooth and even as the music of the spheres, whatever they are.”

“The big offensive starts now?” asked Barr, mildly.

“Hope so,” was the boisterous response. “I want to get back on my ship now that my arm is in one piece again. I’m tired of sitting on my scupper out here.”

“So am I,” muttered Devers, suddenly and savagely. There was a bit of underlip caught in his teeth, and he worried it.

The sergeant looked at him doubtfully, and said, “I’d better go now. The captain’s round is due and I’d just as soon he didn’t catch me in here.”

He paused at the door. “By the way, sir,” he said with sudden, awkward shyness to the trader, “I heard from my wife. She says that little freezer you gave me to send her works fine. It doesn’t cost her anything, and she just about keeps a month’s supply of food froze up complete. I appreciate it.”

“It’s all right. Forget it.”

The great door moved noiselessly shut behind the grinning sergeant.

Ducem Barr got out of his chair. “Well, he gives us a fair return for the freezer. Let’s take a look at this new book. Ahh, the title is gone.”

He unrolled a yard or so of the film and looked through at the light. Then he murmured, “Well, skewer me through the scupper, as the sergeant says. This is ‘The Garden of Summa,’ Devers.”

“That so?” said the trader, without interest. He shoved aside what was left of his dinner. “Sit down, Barr. Listening to this old-time literature isn’t doing me any good. You heard what the sergeant said?”

“Yes, I did. What of it?”

“The offensive will start. And we sit here!”

“Where do you want to sit?”

“You know what I mean. There’s no use just waiting.”

“Isn’t there?” Barr was carefully removing the old film from the transmitter and installing the new. “You told me a good deal of Foundation history in the last month, and it seems that the great leaders of past crises did precious little more than sit-and wait.”

“Ah, Barr, but they knew where they were going.”

“Did they? I suppose they said they did when it was over, and for all I know maybe they did. But there’s no proof that things would not have worked out as well or better if they had not known where they were going. The deeper economic and sociological forces aren’t directed by individual men.”

Devers sneered. “No way of telling that things wouldn’t have worked out worse, either. You’re arguing tail-end backwards.” His eyes were brooding. “You know, suppose I blasted him?”

“Whom? Riose?”

“Yes.”

Barr sighed. His aging eyes were troubled with a reflection of the long past. “Assassination isn’t the way out, Devers. I once tried it, under provocation, when I was twenty-but it solved nothing. I removed a villain from Siwenna, but not the Imperial yoke; and it was the Imperial yoke and not the villain that mattered.”

“But Riose is not just a villain, doc. He’s the whole blamed army. It would fall apart without him. They hang on him like babies. The sergeant out there slobbers every time he mentions him.”

“Even so. There are other armies and other leaders. You must go deeper. There is this Brodrig, for instance-no one more than he has the ear of the Emperor. He could demand hundreds of ships where Riose must struggle with ten. I know him by reputation.”

“That so? What about him?” The trader’s eyes lost in frustration what they gained in sharp interest.

“You want a pocket outline? He’s a low-born rascal who has by unfailing flattery tickled the whims of the Emperor. He’s well-hated by the court aristocracy, vermin themselves, because he can lay claim to neither family nor humility. He is the Emperor’s adviser in all things, and the Emperor’s too in the worst things. He is faithless by choice but loyal by necessity. There is not a man in the Empire as subtle in villainy or as crude in his pleasures. And they say there is no way to the Emperor’s favor but through him; and no way to his, but through infamy.”

“Wow!” Devers pulled thoughtfully at his neatly trimmed beard. “And he’s the old boy the Emperor sent out here to keep an eye on Riose. Do you know I have an idea?”

“I do now.”

“Suppose this Brodrig takes a dislike to our young Army’s Delight?”

“He probably has already. He’s not noted for a capacity for liking.”

“Suppose it gets really bad. The Emperor might hear about it, and Riose might be in trouble.”

“Uh-huh. Quite likely. But how do you propose to get that to happen?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he could be bribed?”

The patrician laughed gently. “Yes, in a way, but not in the manner you bribed the sergeant-not with a pocket freezer. And even if you reach his scale, it wouldn’t be worth it. There’s probably no one so easily bribed, but he lacks even the fundamental honesty of honorable corruption. He doesn’t stay bribed; not for any sum. Think of something else.”

Devers swung a leg over his knee and his toe nodded quickly and restlessly. “It’s the first hint, though-”

He stopped; the door signal was flashing once again, and the sergeant was on the threshold once more. He was excited, and his broad face was red and unsmiling.

“Sir,” he began, in an agitated attempt at deference, “I am very thankful for the freezer, and you have always spoken to me very fine, although I am only the son of a farmer and you are great lords.”

His Pleiades accent had grown thick, almost too much so for easy comprehension; and with excitement, his lumpish peasant derivation wiped out completely the soldierly bearing so long and so painfully cultivated.

Barr said softly, “What is it, sergeant?”

“Lord Brodrig is coming to see you. Tomorrow! I know, because the captain told me to have my men ready for dress review tomorrow for... for him. I thought-I might warn you.”

Barr said, “Thank you, sergeant, we appreciate that. But it’s all right, man; no need for-”

But the look on Sergeant Luk’s face was now unmistakably one of fear. He spoke in a rough whisper, “You don’t hear the stories the men tell about him. He has sold himself to the space fiend. No, don’t laugh. There are most terrible tales told about him. They say he has men with blast-guns who follow him everywhere, and when he wants pleasure, he just tells them to blast down anyone they meet. And they do-and he laughs. They say even the Emperor is in terror of him, and that he forces the Emperor to raise taxes and won’t let him listen to the complaints of the people.

“And he hates the general, that’s what they say. They say he would like to kill the general, because the general is so great and wise. But he can’t because our general is a match for anyone and he knows Lord Brodrig is a bad ‘un.”

The sergeant blinked; smiled in a sudden incongruous shyness at his own outburst; and backed toward the door. He nodded his head, jerkily. “You mind my words. Watch him.”

He ducked out.

And Devers looked up, hard-eyed. “This breaks things our way, doesn’t it, doc?”

“It depends,” said Barr, dryly, “on Brodrig, doesn’t it?”

But Devers was thinking, not listening.

He was thinking hard.

Lord Brodrig ducked his head as he stepped into the cramped living quarters of the trading ship, and his two armed guards followed quickly, with bared guns and the professionally hard scowls of the hired bravos.

The Privy Secretary had little of the look of the lost soul about him just then. If the space fiend had bought him, he had left no visible mark of possession. Rather might Brodrig have been considered a breath of court-fashion come to enliven the hard, bare ugliness of an army base.

The stiff, tight lines of his sheened and immaculate costume gave him the illusion of height, from the very top of which his cold, emotionless eyes stared down the declivity of a long nose at the trader. The mother-of-pearl ruches at his wrists fluttered filmily as he brought his ivory stick to the ground before him and leaned upon it daintily.

“No,” he said, with a little gesture, “you remain here. Forget your toys; I am not interested in them.”

He drew forth a chair, dusted it carefully with the iridescent square of fabric attached to the top of his white stick, and seated himself. Devers glanced towards the mate to the chair, but Brodrig said lazily, “You will stand in the presence of a Peer of the Realm.”

He smiled.

Devers shrugged. “If you’re not interested in my stock in trade, what am I here for?”

The Privy Secretary waited coldly, and Devers added a slow, “Sir.”

“For privacy,” said the secretary. “Now is it likely that I would come two hundred parsecs through space to inspect trinkets? It’s you I want to see.” He extracted a small pink tablet from an engraved box and placed it delicately between his teeth. He sucked it slowly and appreciatively.

“For instance,” he said, “who are you? Are you really a citizen of this barbarian world that is creating all this fury of military frenzy?”

Devers nodded gravely.

“And you were really captured by him after the beginning of this squabble he calls a war. I am referring to our young general.”

Devers nodded again.

“So! Very well, my worthy Outlander. I see your fluency of speech is at a minimum. I shall smooth the way for you. It seems that our general here is fighting an apparently meaningless war with frightful transports of energy-and this over a forsaken fleabite of a world at the end of nowhere, which to a logical man would not seem worth a single blast of a single gun. Yet the general is not illogical. On the contrary, I would say he was extremely intelligent. Do you follow me?”

“Can’t say I do, sir.”

The secretary inspected his fingernails and said, “Listen further, then. The general would not waste his men and ships on a sterile feat of glory. I know he talks of glory and of Imperial honor, but it is quite obvious that the affectation of being one of the insufferable old demigods of the Heroic Age won’t wash. There is something more than glory hereand he does take queer, unnecessary care of you. Now if you were my prisoner and told me as little of use as you have our general, I would slit open your abdomen and strangle you with your own intestines.”

Devers remained wooden. His eyes moved slightly, first to one of the secretary’s bully-boys, and then to the other. They were ready; eagerly ready.

The secretary smiled. “Well, now, you’re a silent devil. According to the general, even a Psychic Probe made no impression, and that was a mistake on his part, by the way, for it convinced me that our young military whizz-bang was lying.” He seemed in high humor.

“My honest tradesman,” he said, “I have a Psychic Probe of my own, one that ought to suit you peculiarly well. You see this-”

And between thumb and forefinger, held negligently, were intricately designed, pink-and-yellow rectangles which were most definitely obvious in identity.

Devers said so. “It looks like cash,” he said.

“Cash it is-and the best cash of the Empire, for it is backed by my estates, which are more extensive than the Emperor’s own. A hundred thousand credits. All here! Between two fingers! Yours!”

“For what, sir? I am a good trader, but all trades go in both directions.”

“For what? For the truth! What is the general after? Why is he fighting this war?”

Lathan Devers sighed, and smoothed his beard thoughtfully.

“What he’s after?” His eyes were following the motions of the secretary’s hands as he counted the money slowly, bill by bill. “In a word, the Empire.”

“Hmp. How ordinary! It always comes to that in the end. But how? What is the road that leads from the Galaxy’s edge to the peak of Empire so broadly and invitingly?”

“The Foundation,” said Devers, bitterly, “has secrets. They have books, old books-so old that the language they are in is only known to a few of the top men. But the secrets are shrouded in ritual and religion, and none may use them. I tried and now I am here-and there is a death sentence waiting for me, there.”

“I see. And these old secrets? Come, for one hundred thousand I deserve the intimate details.”

“The transmutation of elements,” said Devers, shortly.

The secretary’s eyes narrowed and lost some of their detachment. “I have been told that practical transmutation is impossible by the laws of nucleics.”

“So it is, if nuclear forces are used. But the ancients were smart boys. There are sources of power greater than the nuclei and more fundamental. If the Foundation used those sources as I suggested-”

Devers felt a soft, creeping sensation in his stomach. The bait was dangling; the fish was nosing it.

The secretary said suddenly, “Continue. The general, I am sure, is aware of a this. But what does he intend doing once he finishes this opera-bouffe affair?”

Devers kept his voice rock-steady. “With transmutation he controls the economy of the whole set-up of your Empire. Mineral holdings won’t be worth a sneeze when Riose can make tungsten out of aluminum and iridium out of iron. An entire production system based on the scarcity of certain elements and the abundance of others is thrown completely out of whack. There’ll be the greatest disjointment the Empire has ever seen, and only Riose will be able to stop it. And there is the question of this new power I mentioned, the use of which won’t give Riose religious heebies.

“There’s nothing that can stop him now. He’s got the Foundation by the back of the neck, and once he’s finished with it, he’ll be Emperor in two years.”

“So.” Brodrig laughed lightly. “Iridium out of iron, that’s what you said, isn’t it? Come, I’ll tell you a state secret. Do you know that the Foundation has already been in communication with the general?”

Devers’ back stiffened.

“You look surprised. Why not? It seems logical now. They offered him a hundred tons of iridium a year to make peace. A hundred tons of iron converted to iridium in violation of their religious principles to save their necks. Fair enough, but no wonder our rigidly incorruptible general refused-when he can have the iridium and the Empire as well. And poor Cleon called him his one honest general. My bewhiskered merchant, you have earned your money.”

He tossed it, and Devers scrambled after the flying bills.

Lord Brodrig stopped at the door and turned. “One reminder, trader. My playmates with the guns here have neither middle ears, tongues, education, nor intelligence. They can neither hear, speak, write, nor even make sense to a Psychic Probe. But they are very expert at interesting executions. I have bought you, man, at one hundred thousand credits. You will be good and worthy merchandise. Should you forget that you are bought at any time and attempt to... say... repeat our conversation to Riose, you will be executed. But executed my way.”

And in that delicate face there were sudden hard lines of eager cruelty that changed the studied smile into a red-lipped snarl. For one fleeting second, Devers saw that space fiend who had bought his buyer, look out of his buyer’s eyes.

Silently, he preceded the two thrusting blast-guns of Brodrig’s “playmates” to his quarters.

And to Ducem Barr’s question, he said with brooding satisfaction, “No, that’s the queerest part of it. He bribed me.

Two months of difficult war had left their mark on Bel Riose. There was heavy-handed gravity about him; and he was short-tempered.

It was with impatience that he addressed the worshiping Sergeant Luk. “Wait outside, soldier, and conduct these men back to their quarters when I am through. No one is to enter until I call. No one at all, you understand.”

The sergeant saluted himself stiffly out of the room, and Riose with muttered disgust scooped up the waiting papers on his desk, threw them into the top drawer and slammed it shut.

“Take seats,” he said shortly, to the waiting two. “I haven’t much time. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be here at all, but it is necessary to see you.”

He turned to Ducem Barr, whose long fingers were caressing with interest the crystal cube in which was set the simulacrum of the lined, austere face of His Imperial Majesty, Cleon II.

“In the first place, patrician,” said the general, “your Seldon is losing. To be sure, he battles well, for these men of the Foundation swarm like senseless bees and fight like madmen. Every planet is defended viciously, and once taken, every planet heaves so with rebellion it is as much trouble to hold as to conquer. But they are taken, and they are held. Your Seldon is losing.”

“But he has not yet lost,” murmured Barr politely.

“The Foundation itself retains less optimism. They offer me millions in order that I may not put this Seldon to the final test.”

“So rumor goes.”

“Ah, is rumor preceding me? Does it prate also of the latest?”

“What is the latest?”

“Why, that Lord Brodrig, the darling of the Emperor, is now second in command at his own request.”

Devers spoke for the first time. “At his own request, boss? How come? Or are you growing to like the fellow?” He chuckled.

Riose said, calmly, “No, can’t say I do. It’s just that he bought the office at what I considered a fair and adequate price.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a request to the Emperor for reinforcements.”

Devers’ contemptuous smile broadened. “‘He has communicated with the Emperor, huh? And I take it, boss, you’re just waiting for these reinforcements, but they’ll come any day. Right?”

“Wrong! They have already come. Five ships of the line; smooth and strong, with a personal message of congratulations from the Emperor, and more ships on the way. What’s wrong, trader?” he asked, sardonically.

Devers spoke through suddenly frozen lips. “Nothing!”

Riose strode out from behind his desk and faced the trader, hand on the butt of his blast-gun.

“I say, what’s wrong, trader? The news would seem to disturb you. Surely, you have no sudden birth of interest in the Foundation.”

“I haven’t.”

“Yes-there are queer points about you.”

“That so, boss?” Devers smiled tightly, and balled the fists in his pockets. “Just you line them up and I’ll knock them down for you.”

“Here they are. You were caught easily. You surrendered at first blow with a burnt-out shield. You’re quite ready to desert your world, and that without a price. Interesting, all this, isn’t it?”

“I crave to be on the winning side, boss. I’m a sensible man; you called me that yourself.”

Riose said with tight throatiness, “Granted! Yet no trader since has been captured. No trade ship but has had the speed to escape at choice. No trade ship but has had a screen that could take all the beating a light cruiser could give it, should it choose to fight. And no trader but has fought to death when occasion warranted. Traders have been traced as the leaders and instigators of the guerilla warfare on occupied planets and of the flying raids in occupied space.

“Are you the only sensible man then? You neither fight nor flee, but turn traitor without urging. You are unique, amazingly unique-in fact, suspiciously unique.”

Devers said softly, “I take your meaning, but you have nothing on me. I’ve been here now six months, and I’ve been a good boy.”

“So you have, and I have repaid you by good treatment. I have left your ship undisturbed and treated you with every consideration. Yet you fall short. Freely offered information, for instance, on your gadgets might have been helpful. The atomic principles on which they are built would seem to be used in some of the Foundation’s nastiest weapons. Right?”

“I am only a trader,” said Devers, “and not one of these bigwig technicians. I sell the stuff; I don’t make it.”

“Well, that will be seen shortly. It is what I came here for. For instance, your ship will be searched for a personal force-shield. You have never worn one; yet all soldiers of the Foundation do. It will be significant evidence that there is information you do not choose to give me. Right?”

There was no answer. He continued, “And there will be more direct evidence. I have brought with me the Psychic Probe. It failed once before, but contact with the enemy is a liberal education.”

His voice was smoothly threatening and Devers felt the gun thrust hard in his midriff-the general’s gun, hitherto in its holster.

The general said quietly, “You will remove your wristband and any other metal ornament you wear and give them to me. Slowly! Atomic fields can be distorted, you see, and Psychic Probes might probe only into static. That’s right.. I’ll take it.”

The receiver on the general’s desk was glowing and a message capsule clicked into the slot, near which Barr stood and still held the trimensional Imperial bust.

Riose stepped behind his desk, with his blast-gun held ready. He said to Barr, “You too, patrician. Your wristband condemns you. You have been helpful earlier, however, and I am not vindictive, but I shall judge the fate of your behostaged family by the results of the Psychic Probe.”

And as Riose leaned over to take out the message capsule, Barr lifted the crystal-enveloped bust of Cleon and quietly and methodically brought it down upon the general’s head.

It happened too suddenly for Devers to grasp. It was as if a sudden demon had grown into the old man.

“Out!” said Barr, in a tooth-clenched whisper. “Quickly!” He seized Riose’s dropped blaster and buried it in his blouse.

Sergeant Luk turned as they emerged from the narrowest possible crack of the door.

Barr said easily, “Lead on, sergeant!”

Devers closed the door behind him.

Sergeant Luk led in silence to their quarters, and then, with the briefest pause, continued onward, for there was the nudge of a blast-gun muzzle in his ribs, and a hard voice in his ears which said, “To the trade ship.”

Devers stepped forward to open the air lock, and Barr said, “Stand where you are, Luk. You’ve been a decent man, and we’re not going to kill you.”

But the sergeant recognized the monogram on the gun. He cried in choked fury, “You’ve killed the general.”

With a wild, incoherent yell, he charged blindly upon the blasting fury of the gun and collapsed in blasted ruin.

The trade ship was rising above the dead planet before the signal lights began their eerie blink and against the creamy cobweb of the great Lens in the sky which was the Galaxy, other black forms rose.

Devers said grimly, “Hold tight, Barr-and let’s see if they’ve got a ship that can match my speed.”

He knew they hadn’t!

And once in open space, the trader’s voice seemed lost and dead as he said, “The line I fed Brodrig was a little too good. It seems as if he’s thrown in with the general.”

Swiftly they raced into the depths of the star-mass that was the Galaxy.

8. To Trantor

DEVERS BENT OVER the little dead globe, watching for a tiny sign of life. The directional control was slowly and thoroughly sieving space with its jabbing tight sheaf of signals.

Barr watched patiently from his seat on the low cot in the comer, He asked, “No more signs of them?”

“The Empire boys? No.” The trader growled the words with evident impatience. “We lost the scuppers long ago. Space! With the blind jumps we took through hyperspace, it’s lucky we didn’t land up in a sun’s belly. They couldn’t have followed us even if they outranged us, which they didn’t.”

He sat back and loosened his collar with a jerk. “I don’t know what those Empire boys have done here. I think some of the gaps are out of alignment.”

“I take it, then, you’re trying to get to the Foundation.”

“I’m calling the Association-or trying to.”

“The Association? Who are they?”

“Association of Independent Traders. Never heard of it, huh? Well, you’re not alone. We haven’t made our splash yet!”

For a while there was a silence that centered about the unresponsive Reception Indicator, and Barr said, “Are you within range?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t but a small notion where we are, going by dead reckoning. That’s why I have to use directional control. It could take years, you know.”

“Might it?”

Barr pointed; and Devers jumped and adjusted his earphones. Within the little murky sphere there was a tiny glowing whiteness.

For half an hour, Devers nursed the fragile, groping thread of communication that reached through hyperspace to connect two points that laggard light would take five hundred years to bind together.

Then he sat back, hopelessly. He looked up, and shoved the earphones back.

“Let’s eat, doc. There’s a needle-shower you can use if you want to, but go easy on the hot water.”

He squatted before one of the cabinets that lined one wall and felt through the contents. “You’re not a vegetarian, I hope?”

Barr said, “I’m omnivorous. But what about the Association. Have you lost them?”

“Looks so. It was extreme range, a little too extreme. Doesn’t matter, though. I got all that counted.”

He straightened, and placed the two metal containers upon the table. “Just give it five minutes, doc, then slit it open by pushing the contact. It’ll be plate, food, and fork-sort of handy for when you’re in a hurry, if you’re not interested in such incidentals as napkins. I suppose you want to know what I got out of the Association.”

“If it isn’t a secret.”

Devers shook his head. “Not to you. What Riose said was true.”

“About the offer of tribute?”

“Uh-huh. They offered it, and had it refused. Things are bad. There’s fighting in the outer suns of Loris.”

“Loris is close to the Foundation?”

“Huh? Oh, you wouldn’t know. It’s one of the original Four Kingdoms. You might call it part of the inner line of defense. That’s not the worst. They’ve been fighting large ships previously never encountered. Which means Riose wasn’t giving us the works. He has received more ships. Brodrig has switched sides, and I have messed things up.”

His eyes were bleak as he joined the food-container contact-points and watched it fall open neatly. The stewlike dish steamed its aroma through the room. Ducem Barr was already eating.

“So much,” said Barr, “for improvisations, then. We can do nothing here; we can not cut through the Imperial lines to return to the Foundation; we can do nothing but that which is most sensible-to wait patiently. However, if Riose has reached the inner line I trust the wait will not be too long.”

And Devers put down his fork. “Wait, is it?” he snarled, glowering. “That’s all right for you. You’ve got nothing at stake.”

“Haven’t I?” Barr smiled thinly.

“No. In fact, I’ll tell you.” Devers’ irritation skimmed the surface. “I’m tired of looking at this whole business as if it were an interesting something-or-other on a microscope slide. I’ve got friends somewhere out there, dying; and a whole world out there, my home, dying also. You’re an outsider. You don’t know.”

“I have seen friends die.” The old man’s hands were limp in his lap and his eyes were closed. “Are you married?”

Devers said, “Traders don’t marry.”

“Well, I have two sons and a nephew. They have been warned, but-for reasons-they could take no action. Our escape means their death. My daughter and my two grandchildren have, I hope, left the planet safety before this, but even excluding them, I have already risked and lost more than you.”

Devers was morosely savage. “I know. But that was a matter of choice. You might have played ball with Riose. I never asked you to-”

Barr shook his head. “It was not a matter of choice, Devers. Make your conscience free, I didn’t risk my sons for you. I co-operated with Riose as long as I dared. But there was the Psychic Probe.”

The Siwennian patrician opened his eyes and they were sharp with pain. “Riose came to me once; it was over a year ago. He spoke of a cult centering about the magicians, but missed the truth. It is not quite a cult. You see, it is forty years now that Siwenna has been gripped in the same unbearable vise that threatens your world. Five revolts have been ground out. Then I discovered the ancient records of Hari Seldon-and now this ‘cult’ waits.

“It waits for the coming of the ‘magicians’ and for that day it is ready. My sons are leaders of those who wait. It is that secret which is in my mind and which the Probe must never touch. And so they must die as hostages; for the alternative is their death as rebels and half of Siwenna with them. You see, I had no choice! And I am no outsider.”

Devers’ eyes fell, and Barr continued softly, “It is on a Foundation victory that Siwenna’s hopes depend. It is for a Foundation victory that my sons are sacrificed. And Hari Seldon does not pre-calculate the inevitable salvation of Siwenna as he does that of the Foundation. I have no certainty for my people-only hope.”

“But you are still satisfied to wait. Even with the Imperial Navy at Loris.”

“I would wait, in perfect confidence,” said Barr, simply, “if they had landed on the planet, Terminus, itself.”

The trader frowned hopelessly. “I don’t know. It can’t really work like that; not just like magic. Psychohistory or not, they’re terribly strong, and we’re weak. What can Setdon do about it?”

“There’s nothing to do. It’s all already done. It’s proceeding now. Because you don’t hear the wheels turning and the gongs beating doesn’t mean it’s any the less certain.”

“Maybe; but I wish you had cracked Riose’s skull for keeps. He’s more the enemy than all his army.”

“Cracked his skull? With Brodrig his second in command?” Barr’s face sharpened with hate. “All Siwenna would have been my hostage. Brodrig has proven his worth long since. There exists a world which five years ago lost one male in every ten-and simply for failure to meet outstanding taxes. This same Brodrig was the tax-collector. No, Riose may live. His punishments are mercy in comparison.”

“But six months, six months, in the enemy Base, with nothing to show for it.” Devers’ strong hands clasped each other tautly, so that his knuckles cracked. “Nothing to show for it!”

“Well, now, wait. You remind me-” Barr fumbled in his pouch. “You might want to count this.” And he tossed the small sphere of metal on the table.

Devers snatched it. “What is it?”

“The message capsule. The one that Riose received just before I jacked him. Does that count as something?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what’s in it!” Devers sat down and turned it over carefully in his hand.

When Barr stepped from his cold shower and, gratefully, into the mild warm current of the air dryer, he found Devers silent and absorbed at the workbench.

The Siwennian slapped his body with a sharp rhythm and spoke above the punctuating sounds. “What are you doing?”

Devers looked up. Droplets of perspiration glittered in his beard. “I’m going to open this capsule.”

“Can you open it without Riose’s personal characteristic?” There was mild surprise in the Siwennian’s voice.

“If I can’t, I’ll resign from the Association and never skipper a ship for what’s left of my life. I’ve got a three-way electronic analysis of the interior now, and I’ve got little jiggers that the Empire never heard of, especially made for jimmying capsules. I’ve been a burglar before this, y’know. A trader has to be something of everything.”

He bent low over the little sphere, and a small flat instrument probed delicately and sparked redly at each fleeting contact.

He said, “This capsule is a crude job, anyway. These Imperial boys are no shakes at this small work. I can see that. Ever see a Foundation capsule? It’s half the size and impervious to electronic analysis in the first place.”

And then he was rigid, the shoulder muscles beneath his tunic tautening visibly. His tiny probe pressed slowly-

It was noiseless when it came, but Devers; relaxed and sighed. In his hand was the shining sphere with its message unrolled like a parchment tongue.

“It’s from Brodrig,” he said. Then, with contempt, “The message medium is permanent. In a Foundation capsule, the message would be oxidized to gas within the minute.”

But Ducem Barr waved him silent. He read the message quickly.

FROM: AMMEL BRODRIG, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, PRIVY SECRETARY OF THE COUNCIL, AND PEER OF THE REALM.

TO: BEL RIOSE, MILITARY GOVERNOR OF SIWENNA. GENERAL OF THE IMPERIAL FORCES, AND PEER OF THE REALM. I GREET YOU.

PLANET #1120 NO LONGER RESISTS. THE PLANS OF OFFENSE AS OUTLINED CONTINUE SMOOTHLY. THE ENEMY WEAKENS VISIBLY AND THE ULTIMATE ENDS IN VIEW WILL SURELY BE GAINED.

Barr raised his head from the almost microscopic print and cried bitterly, “The fool! The forsaken blasted fop! That a message?”

“Huh?” said Devers. He was vaguely disappointed.

“It says nothing,” ground out Barr. “Our lick-spittle courtier is playing at general now. With Riose away, he is the field commander and must sooth his paltry spirit by spewing out his pompous reports concerning military affairs he has nothing to do with. ‘So-and-so planet no longer resists.’ ‘The offensive moves on.’ ‘The enemy weakens.’ The vacuum-headed peacock.”

“Well, now, wait a minute. Hold on-”

“Throw it away.” The old man turned away in mortification. “The Galaxy knows I never expected it to be world-shakingly important, but in wartime it is reasonable to assume that even the most routine order left undelivered might hamper military movements and lead to complications later. It’s why I snatched it. But this! Better to have left it. It would have wasted a minute of Riose’s time that will now be put to more constructive use.”

But Devers had arisen. “Will you hold on and stop throwing your weight around? For Seldon’s sake-”

He held out the sliver of message before Barr’s nose, “Now read that again. What does he mean by ‘ultimate ends in view’?”

“The conquest of the Foundation. Well?”

“Yes? And maybe he means the conquest of the Empire. You know he believes that to be the ultimate end.”

“And if he does?”

“If he does!” Devers’ one-sided smile was lost in his beard. “Why, watch then, and I’ll show you.”

With one finger the lavishly monogrammed sheet of message-parchment was thrust back into its slot. With a soft twang, it disappeared and the globe was a smooth, unbroken whole again. Somewhere inside was the tiny oiled whir of the controls as they lost their setting by random movements.

“Now there is no known way of opening this capsule without knowledge of Riose’s personal characteristic, is there?”

“To the Empire, no,” said Barr.

“Then the evidence it contains is unknown to us and absolutely authentic.”

“To the Empire, yes,” said Barr.

“And the Emperor can open it, can’t he? Personal Characteristics of Government officials must be on file. We keep records of our officials at the Foundation.”

“At the Imperial capital as well,” agreed Barr.

“Then when you, a Siwennian patrician and Peer of the Realm, tell this Cleon, this Emperor, that his favorite tame-parrot and his shiniest general are getting together to knock him over, and hand him the capsule as evidence, what will he think Brodrig’s ‘ultimate ends’ are?”

Barr sat down weakly. “Wait, I don’t follow you.” He stroked one thin cheek, and said, “You’re not really serious, are you?”

“I am.” Devers was angrily excited. “Listen, nine out of the last ten Emperors got their throats cut, or their gizzards blasted out by one or another of their generals with bigtime notions in their heads. You told me that yourself more than once. Old man Emperor would believe us so fast it would make Riose’s head swim.”

Barr muttered feebly, “He is serious, For the Galaxy’s sake, man, you can’t beat a Seldon crisis by a far-fetched, impractical, storybook scheme like that. Suppose you had never got hold of the capsule. Suppose Brodrig hadn’t used the word ‘ultimate.’ Seldon doesn’t depend on wild luck.”

“If wild luck comes our way, there’s no law says Seldon can’t take advantage of it.”

“Certainly. But... but,” Barr stopped, then spoke calmly but with visible restraint. “Look, in the first place, how will you get to the planet Trantor? You don’t know its location in space, and I certainly don’t remember the co-ordinates, to say nothing of the ephemerae. You don’t even know your own position in space.”

“You can’t get lost in space,” grinned Devers. He was at the controls already. “Down we go to the nearest planet, and back we come with complete bearings and the best navigation charts Brodrig’s hundred thousand smackers can buy.”

“And a blaster in our belly. Our descriptions are probably in every planet in this quarter of the Empire.”

“Doc,” said Devers, patiently, “don’t be a hick tom the sticks. Riose said my ship surrendered too easily and, brother, he wasn’t kidding. This ship has enough fire-power and enough juice in its shield to hold off anything we’re Rely to meet this deep inside the frontier. And we have personal shields, too. The Empire boys never found them, you know, but they weren’t meant to be found.”

“All fight,” said Barr, “all right. Suppose yourself on Trantor. How do you see the Emperor then? You think he keeps office hours?”

“Suppose we worry about that on Trantor,” said Devers.

And Barr muttered helplessly, “All right again. I’ve wanted to see Trantor before I die for half a century now. Have your way.”

The hypernuclear motor was cut in. The lights flickered and there was the slight internal wrench that marked the shift into hyperspace.

9. On Trantor

THE STARS WERE as thick as weeds in an unkempt field, and for the first time, Lathan Devers found the figures to the right of the decimal point of prime importance in calculating the cuts through the hyper-regions. There was a claustrophobic sensation about the necessity for leaps of not more than a light-year. There was a frightening harshness about a sky which glittered unbrokenly in every direction. It was being lost in a sea of radiation.

And in the center of an open cluster of ten thousand stars, whose light tore to shreds the feebly encircling darkness, there circled the huge Imperial planet, Trantor.

But it was more than a planet; it was the living pulse beat of an Empire of twenty million stellar systems. It had only one, function, administration; one purpose, government; and one manufactured product, law.

The entire world was one functional distortion. There was no living object on its surface hut man, his pets, and his parasites. No blade of grass or fragment of uncovered soil could be found outside the hundred square miles of the Imperial Palace. No fresh water outside the Palace grounds existed but in the vast underground cisterns that held the water supply of a world.

The lustrous, indestructible, incorruptible metal that was the unbroken surface of the planet was the foundation of the huge, metal structures that mazed the planet. They were structures connected by causeways; laced by corridors; cubbyholed by offices; basemented by the huge retail centers that covered square miles; penthoused by the glittering amusement world that sparkled into life each night.

One could walk around the world of Trantor and never leave that one conglomerate building, nor see the city.

A fleet of ships greater in number than all the war fleets the Empire had ever supported landed their cargoes on Trantor each day to feed the forty billions of humans who gave nothing in exchange but the fulfillment of the necessity of untangling the myriads of threads that spiraled into the central administration of the most complex government Humanity had ever known.

Twenty agricultural worlds were the granary of Trantor. A universe was its servant.

Tightly held by the huge metal arms on either side, the trade ship was gently lowered down the huge ramp that led to the hangar. Already Devers had fumed his way through the manifold complications of a world conceived in paper work and dedicated to the principle of the form-in-quadruplicate.

There had been the preliminary halt in space, where the first of what had grown into a hundred questionnaires had been filled out. There were the hundred cross-examinations, the routine administration of a simple Probe, the photographing of the ship, the Characteristic-Analysis of the two men, and the subsequent recording of the same, the search for contraband, the payment of the entry tax-and finally the question of the identity cards and visitor’s visa.

Ducem Barr was a Siwennian and subject of the Emperor, but Lathan Devers was an unknown without the requisite documents. The official in charge at the moment was devastated with sorrow, but Devers could not enter. In fact, he would have to be held for official investigation.

From somewhere a hundred credits in crisp, new bills backed by the estates of Lord Brodrig made their appearance, and changed bands quietly. The official hemmed importantly and the devastation of his sorrow was assuaged. A new form made its appearance from the appropriate pigeonhole. It was filled out rapidly and efficiently, with the Devers characteristic thereto formally and properly attached.

The two men, trader and patrician, entered Siwenna.

In the hangar, the trade ship was another vessel to be cached, photographed, recorded, contents noted, identity cards of passengers facsimiled, and for which a suitable fee was paid, recorded, and receipted.

And then Devers was on a huge terrace under the bright white sun, along which women chattered, children shrieked, and men sipped drinks languidly and listened to the huge televisors blaring out the news of the Empire.

Barr paid a requisite number of iridium coins and appropriated the uppermost member of a pile of newspapers. It was the Trantor Imperial News, official organ of the government. In the back of the news room, there was the soft clicking noise of additional editions being printed in long-distance sympathy with the busy machines at the Imperial News offices ten thousand miles away by corridor-six thousand by air-machine-just as ten million sets of copies were being likewise printed at that moment in ten million other news rooms all over the planet.

Barr glanced at the headlines and said softly, “What shall we do first?”

Devers tried to shake himself out of his depression. He was in a universe far removed from his own, on a world that weighted him down with its intricacy, among people whose doings were incomprehensible and whose language was nearly so. The gleaming metallic towers that surrounded him and continued onwards in never-ending multiplicity to beyond the horizon oppressed him; the whole busy, unheeding life of a world-metropolis cast him into the horrible gloom of isolation and pygmyish unimportance.

He said, “I better leave it to you, doc.”

Barr was calm, low-voice. “I tried to tell you, but it’s hard to believe without seeing for yourself, I know that. Do you know how many people want to see the Emperor every day? About one million. Do you know how many he sees? About ten. We’ll have to work through the civil service, and that makes it harder. But we can’t afford the aristocracy.”

“We have almost one hundred thousand.”

“A single Peer of the Realm would cost us that, and it would take at least three or four to form an adequate bridge to the Emperor. It may take fifty chief commissioners and senior supervisors to do the same, but they would cost us only a hundred apiece perhaps. I’ll do the talking. In the first place, they wouldn’t understand your accent, and in the second, you don’t know the etiquette of Imperial bribery. It’s an art, I assure you. Ah!”

The third page of the Imperial News had what he wanted and he passed the paper to Devers.

Devers read slowly. The vocabulary was strange, but he understood. He looked up, and his eyes were dark with concern. He slapped the news sheet angrily with the back of his hand. “You think this can be trusted?”

“Within limits,” replied Barr, calmly. “It’s highly improbable that the Foundation fleet was wiped out. They’ve probably reported that several times already, if they’ve gone by the usual war-reporting technique of a world capital far from the actual scene of fighting. What it means, though, is that Riose has won another battle, which would be none-too-unexpected. It says he’s captured Loris. Is that the capital planet of the Kingdom of Loris?”

“Yes,” brooded Devers, “or of what used to be the Kingdom of Loris. And it’s not twenty parsecs from the Foundation. Doc, we’ve got to work fast.”

Barr shrugged, “You can’t go fast on Trantor. If you try, you’ll end up at the point of an atom-blaster, most likely.”

“How long will it take?”

“A month, if we’re lucky. A month, and our hundred thousand credits-if even that will suffice. And that is providing the Emperor does not take it into his head in the meantime to travel to the Summer Planets, where he sees no petitioners at all.”

“But the Foundation-”

“-Will take care of itself, as heretofore. Come, there’s the question of dinner. I’m hungry. And afterwards, the evening is ours and we may as well use it. We shall never see Trantor or any world like it again, you know.”

The Home Commissioner of the Outer Provinces spread his pudgy hands helplessly and peered at the petitioners with owlish nearsightedness. “But the Emperor is indisposed, gentlemen. It is really useless to take the matter to my superior. His Imperial Majesty has seen no one in a week.”

“He will see us,” said Barr, with an affectation of confidence. “It is but a question of seeing a member of the staff of the Privy Secretary.”

“Impossible,” said the commissioner emphatically. “It would be the worth of my job to attempt that. Now if you could but be more explicit concerning the nature of your business. I’m willing to help you, understand, but naturally I want something less vague, something I can present to my superior as reason for taking the matter further.”

“If my business were such that it could be told to any but the highest,” suggested Barr, smoothly, “it would scarcely be important enough to rate audience with His Imperial Majesty. I propose that you take a chance. I might remind you that if His Imperial Majesty attaches the importance to our business which we guarantee that he will, you will stand certain to receive the honors you will deserve for helping us now.”

“Yes, but-” and the commissioner shrugged, wordlessly.

“It’s a chance,” agreed Barr. “Naturally, a risk should have its compensation. It is a rather great favor to ask you, but we have already been greatly obliged with your kindness in offering us this opportunity to explain our problem. But if you would allow us to express our gratitude just slightly by-”

Devers scowled. He had heard this speech with its slight variations twenty times in the past month. It ended, as always, in a quick shift of the half-hidden bills. But the epilogue differed here. Usually the bills vanished immediately; here they remained in plain view, while slowly the commissioner counted them, inspecting them front and back as he did so.

There was a subtle change in his voice. “Backed by the Privy Secretary, hey? Good money!”

“To get back to the subject-” urged Barr.

“No, but wait,” interrupted the commissioner, “let us go back by easy stages. I really do wish to know what your business can be. This money, it is fresh and new, and you must have a good deal, for it strikes me that you have seen other officials before me. Come, now, what about it?”

Barr said, “I don’t see what you are driving at.”

“Why, see here, it might be proven that you are upon the planet illegally, since the Identification and Entry Cards of your silent friend are certainly inadequate. He is not a subject of the Emperor.”

“I deny that.”

“It doesn’t matter that you do,” said the commissioner, with sudden bluntness. “The official who signed his Cards for the sum of a hundred credits has confessed-under pressure-and we know more of you than you think.”

“If you are hinting, sir, that the sum we have asked you to accept is inadequate in view of the risks-”

The commissioner smiled. “On the contrary, it is more than adequate.” He tossed the bills aside. “To return to what I was saying, it is the Emperor himself who has become interested in your case. Is it not true, sirs, that you have recently been guests of General Riose? Is it not true that you have escaped from the midst of his army with, to put it mildly, astonishing ease? Is it not true that you possess a small fortune in bills backed by Lord Brodrig’s estates? In short, is it not true that you are a pair of spies and assassins sent here to-Well, you shall tell us yourself who paid you and for what!”

“Do you know,” said Barr, with silky anger, “I deny the right of a petty commissioner to accuse us of crimes. We will leave.”

“You will not leave.” The commissioner arose, and his eyes no longer seemed near-sighted. “You need answer no question now; that will be reserved for a later-and more forceful-time. Nor am I a commissioner; I am a Lieutenant of the Imperial Police. You are under arrest.”

There was a glitteringly efficient blast-gun in his fist as he smiled. “There are greater men than you under arrest this day. It is a hornet’s nest we are cleaning up.”

Devers snarled and reached slowly for his own gun. The lieutenant of police smiled more broadly and squeezed the contacts. The blasting line of force struck Devers’ chest in an accurate blaze of destruction-that bounced harmlessly off his personal shield in sparkling spicules of light.

Devers shot in turn, and the lieutenant’s head fell from off an upper torso that had disappeared. It was still smiling as it lay in the jag of sunshine which entered through the new-made hole in the wall.

It was through the back entrance that they left.

Devers said huskily, “Quickly to the ship. They’ll have the alarm out in no time.” He cursed in a ferocious whisper. “It’s another plan that’s backfired. I could swear the space fiend himself is against me.”

It was in the open that they became aware of the jabbering crowds that surrounded the huge televisors. They had no time to wait; the disconnected roaring words that reached them, they disregarded. But Barr snatched a copy of the Imperial News before diving into the huge barn of the hangar, where the ship lifted hastily through a giant cavity burnt fiercely into the roof.

“Can you get away from them?” asked Barr.

Ten ships of the traffic-police wildly followed the runaway craft that had burst out of the lawful, radio-beamed Path of Leaving, and then broken every speed law in creation. Further behind still, sleek vessels of the Secret Service were lifting in pursuit of a carefully described ship manned by two thoroughly identified murderers.

“Watch me,” said Devers, and savagely shifted into hyperspace two thousand miles above the surface of Trantor. The shift, so near a planetary mass, meant unconsciousness for Barr and a fearful haze of pain for Devers, but light-years further, space above them was clear.

Devers’ somber pride in his ship burst to the surface. He said, “There’s not an Imperial ship that could follow me anywhere.”

And then, bitterly, “But there is nowhere left to run to for us, and we can’t fight their weight. What’s there to do? What can anyone do?”

Barr moved feebly on his cot. The effect of the hypershift had not yet worn off, and each of his muscles ached. He said, “No one has to do anything. It’s all over. Here!”

He passed the copy of the Imperial News that he still clutched, and the headlines were enough for the trader.

“Recalled and arrested-Riose and Brodrig,” Devers muttered. He stared blankly at Barr. “Why?”

“The story doesn’t say, but what does it matter? The war with the Foundation is over, and at this moment, Siwenna is revolting. Read the story and see.” His voice was drifting off. “We’ll stop in some of the provinces and find out the later details. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to sleep now.”

And he did.

In grasshopper jumps of increasing magnitude, the trade ship was spanning the Galaxy in its return to the Foundation.

10. The War Ends

LATHAN DEVERS FELT definitely uncomfortable, and vaguely resentful. He had received his own decoration and withstood with mute stoicism the turgid oratory of the mayor which accompanied the slip of crimson ribbon. That had ended his share of the ceremonies, but, naturally, formality forced him to remain. And it was formality, chiefly-the type that couldn’t allow him to yawn noisily or to swing a foot comfortably onto a chair seat-that made him long to be in space, where he belonged.

The Siwennese delegation, with Ducem Barr a lionized member, signed the Convention, and Siwenna became the first province to pass directly from the Empire’s political rule to the Foundation’s economic one.

Five Imperial Ships of the Line-captured when Siwenna rebelled behind the lines of the Empire’s Border Fleet-flashed overhead, huge and massive, detonating a roaring salute as they passed over the city.

Nothing but drinking, etiquette, and small talk now.

A voice called him. It was Forell; the man who, Devers realized coldly, could buy twenty of him with a morning’s profits-but a Forell who now crooked a finger at him with genial condescension.

He stepped out upon the balcony into the cool night wind, and bowed properly, while scowling into his bristling beard. Barr was there, too; smiling. He said, “Devers, you’ll have to come to my rescue. I’m being accused of modesty, a horrible and thoroughly unnatural crime.”

“Devers,” Forell removed the fat cigar from the side of his mouth when he spoke, “Lord Barr claims that your trip to Cleon’s capital had nothing to do with the recall of Riose.”

“Nothing at all, sir.” Devers was curt. “We never saw the Emperor. The reports we picked up on our way back concerning the trial, showed it up to be the purest frameup. There was a mess of rigmarole about the general being tied up with subversive interests at the court.”

“And he was innocent?”

“Riose?” interposed Barr. “Yes! By the Galaxy, yes. Brodrig was a traitor on general principles but was never guilty of the specific accusations brought against him. It was a judicial farce; but a necessary one, a predictable one, an inevitable one.”

“By psychohistorical necessity, I presume.” Forell rolled the phrase sonorously with the humorous ease of long familiarity.

“Exactly.” Barr grew serious. “It never penetrated earlier, but once it was over and I could... well... look at the answers in the back of the book, the problem became simple. We can see, now, that the social background of the Empire makes wars of conquest impossible for it. Under weak Emperors, it is tom apart by generals competing for a worthless and surely death-bringing throne. Under strong Emperors, the Empire is frozen into a paralytic rigor in which disintegration apparently ceases for the moment, but only at the sacrifice of all possible growth.”

Forell growled bluntly through strong puffs, “You’re not clear, Lord Barr.”

Barr smiled slowly. “I suppose so. It’s the difficulty of not being trained in psychohistory. Words are a pretty fuzzy substitute for mathematical equations. But let’s see now-”

Barr considered, while Forell relaxed, back to railing, and Devers looked into the velvet sky and thought wonderingly of Trantor.

Then Barr said, “You see, sir, you-and Devers-and everyone no doubt, had the idea that beating the Empire meant first prying apart the Emperor and his general. You, and Devers, and everyone else were right-right all the time, as far as the principle of internal disunion was concerned.

“You were wrong, however, in thinking that this internal split was something to be brought about by individual acts, by inspirations of the moment. You tried bribery and lies. You appealed to ambition and to fear. But you got nothing for all your pains. In fact, appearances were worse after each attempt.

“And through all this wild threshing up of tiny ripples, the Seldon tidal wave continued onward, quietly-but quite irresistibly.”

Ducem Barr turned away, and looked over the railing at the lights of a rejoicing city. He said, “There was a dead hand pushing all of us; the mighty general and the great Emperor; my world and your world-the dead hand of Hari Seldon. He knew that a man like Riose would have to fail, since it was his success that brought failure; and the greater the success, the surer the failure.”

Forell said dryly, “I can’t say you’re getting clearer.”

“A moment,” continued Barr earnestly. “Look at the situation. A weak general could never have endangered us, obviously. A strong general during the time of a weak Emperor would never have endangered us, either; for he would have turned his arms towards a much more fruitful target. Events have shown that three-fourths of the Emperors of the last two centuries were rebel generals and rebel viceroys before they were Emperors.

“So it is only the combination of strong Emperor and strong general that can harm the Foundation; for a strong Emperor can not be dethroned easily, and a strong general is forced to turn outwards, past the frontiers.

“But, what keeps the Emperor strong? What kept Cleon strong? It’s obvious. He is strong, because he permits no strong subjects. A courtier who becomes too rich, or a general who becomes too popular is dangerous. All the recent history of the Empire proves that to any Emperor intelligent enough to be strong.

“Riose won victories, so the Emperor grew suspicious. All the atmosphere of the times forced him to be suspicious. Did Riose refuse a bribe? Very suspicious; ulterior motives. Did his most trusted courtier suddenly favor Riose? Very suspicious; ulterior motives. It wasn’t the individual acts that were suspicious. Anything else would have done which is why our individual plots were unnecessary and rather futile. It was the success of Riose that was suspicious. So he was recalled, and accused, condemned, murdered. The Foundation wins again.

“Look, there is not a conceivable combination of events that does not result in the Foundation winning. It was inevitable; whatever Riose did, whatever we did.”

The Foundation magnate nodded ponderously. “So! But what if the Emperor and the general had been the same person. Hey? What then? That’s a case you didn’t cover, so you haven’t proved your point yet.”

Barr shrugged. “I can’t prove anything; I haven’t the mathematics. But I appeal to your reason. With an Empire in which every aristocrat, every strong man, every pirate can aspire to the Throne-and, as history shows, often successfully-what would happen to even a strong Emperor who preoccupied himself with foreign wars at the extreme end of the Galaxy? How long would he have to remain away from the capital before somebody raised the standards of civil war and forced him home. The social environment of the Empire would make that time short.

“I once told Riose that not all the Empire’s strength could swerve the dead hand of Hari Seldon.”

“Good! Good!” Forell was expansively pleased. “Then you imply the Empire can never threaten us again.”

“It seems to me so,” agreed Barr. “Frankly, Cleon may not live out the year, and there’s going to be a disputed succession almost as a matter of course, which might mean the last civil war for the Empire.”

“Then,” said Forell, “there are no more enemies.”

Barr was thoughtful. “There’s a Second Foundation.”

“At the other end of the Galaxy? Not for centuries.”

Devers turned suddenly at this, and his face was dark as he faced Forell. “There are internal enemies, perhaps.”

“Are there?” asked Forell, coolly. “Who, for instance?”

“People, for instance, who might like to spread the wealth a bit, and keep it from concentrating too much out of the hands that work for it. See what I mean?”

Slowly, Forell’s gaze lost its contempt and grew one with the anger of Devers’ own.

Trantor Falls

270 FE (12338 GE)

THE IMPERIAL PALACE stood at the center of a hundred square miles of greenery. In normal times, even in abnormal times, such insulation was plenty to shield the chief occupant of the palace from the hurly-burly of the rest of the metaled world of Trantor.

Times now, though, were not normal, nor even to be described by so mild a word as “abnormal.” They were disastrous. Along with magnolias and roses, missile launchers had flowered in the gardens. Even inside the palace, Dagobert VIII could hear the muted snarl. Worse, though, was the fear that came with it.

A soldier burst into the command post where the Emperor of the Galaxy and his officers still groped for ways to beat back Gilmer’s latest onslaught. Without so much as a salute, the man gasped out, “Another successful landing, sire, this one in the Nevrask sector.”

Dagobert’s worried gaze flashed to the map table. “Too close, too close,” he muttered. “How does the cursed bandit gain so fast?”

One of the Emperor’s marshals speared the messenger with his eyes. “How did they force a landing there? Nevrask is heavily garrisoned.” The soldier stood mute. “Answer me!” the marshal barked.

The man gulped, hesitated, at last replied, “Some of the troops fled, Marshal Rodak, sir, when Gilmer’s men landed. Others” He paused again, nervously licking his lips, but had to finish: “Others have gone over to the rebel, sir.”

“More treason!” Dagobert groaned. “Will none fight to defend me?”

The only civilian in the room spoke then: “Men will fight, sire, when they have a cause they think worth fighting for. The University has held against Gilmer for four days now. We shall not yield it to him.”

“By the space fiend, Dr. Sarns, I’m grateful to your students, yes, and proud of them too,” Dagobert said. “They’ve put up a braver battle than most of my troopers.”

Yokim Sarns politely dipped his head. Marshal Rodak, however, grasped what his sovereign had missed. “Majesty, they’re fighting for themselves and their buildings, not for you,” he said. Even as he spoke, another sector of the map shone in front of him and Dagobert went from blue to red: red for the blood Gilmer was spilling allover Trantor, Sarns thought bitterly.

“Have we no hope, then?” asked the Emperor of the Galaxy.

“Of victory? None.” Rodak’s military assessment was quick and definite. “Of escape, perhaps fighting again, yes. Our air-and spacecraft still hold the corridor above the palace. With a landing at Nevrask, though, Gilmer will soon be able to bring missiles to bear on it — and on us.”

“Better to flee than to fall into that monster’s clutches,” Dagobert said, shuddering. He looked at the map again. “I am sure you have an evacuation plan ready. Implement it, and quickly.”

“Aye, sire.” The marshal spoke into a throat mike. The Emperor turned to Yokim Sarns. “Will you come with us, professor? Trantor under Gilmer’s boots will be no place for scholars.”

“‘Thank you, sire, but no.” As Sarns shook his head, strands of mouse-brown hair, worn unfashionably long, swirled around his ears. “My place is at the University, with my faculty and students.”

“Well said,” Marshal Rodak murmured, too softly for Dagobert to hear.

But the Emperor, it seemed, still had one imperial gesture left in him. Turning to Rodak, he said, “If Dr. Sarns wishes to return to the University, return he shall. Detail an aircar at once, while he has some hope of getting there in safety.”

“Aye, sire, “the marshal said again. He held out a hand to Yokim Sarns. “And good luck to you. I think you’ll need it.”

By the time the aircar pilot neared the University grounds, Yokim Sarns was a delicate shade of green. The pilot had flown meters — sometimes centimeters — above Trantor’s steel roof, and jinked like a wild thing to confuse the rebels’ targeting computers.

The car slammed down on top of the library. Dr. Sarns’s teeth met with an audible click. The pilot threw open the exit hatch. Sarns pulled himself together. “Er — thank you very much,” he told the pilot, unbuckling his safety harness.

“Just get out, get under cover, and let me lift off,” she snapped. Sarns scrambled away from the aircar toward an entrance. The wash of wind as the car sped away nearly knocked him off his feet.

The door opened. Two people in helmets dashed out and dragged Sarns inside. “How do we fare here?” he asked.

“Our next few graduating classes are getting thinned out,” Maryan Drabel answered somberly. Till Gilmer’s revolt, she had been head librarian. Now, Sarns supposed, chief of staff best summed up her job. “We’re still holding, though — we pushed them out of Dormitory Seven again a few minutes ago.”

“Good,” Sarns said. He was as much an amateur commander as she was an aide, but the raw courage of their student volunteers made up for much of their inexperience. The youngsters fought as if they were defending holy ground — and so in a way they were, Sarns thought. If Gilmer’s men wrecked the University, learning all over the Galaxy would take a deadly blow.

“What will Dagobert do?” asked Egril Joons. Once University dietitian, he kept an army fed these days.

Sarns had no way to soften the news. “He’s going to run.”

Under the transparent flash shield of her helmet, Maryan Drabel’s face went grim, or rather grimmer. “Then we’re left in the lurch?”

“Along with everyone else who backed the current dynasty.” Two generations, a dynasty! Sarns thought. The way the history of the Galactic Empire ran these past few sorry centuries, though, two generations was a dynasty. And with a usurper like Gilmer seizing Trantor, that history looked to run only downhill from here on out.

Maryan might have picked the thought from his mind. “Gilmer’s as much a barbarian as if he came straight from the Periphery,” she said.

“I wish he were in the Periphery,” Egril Joons said. “Then we wouldn’t have to deal with him.”

“Unfortunately, however, he’s here,” said Yokim Sarns.

The thick carpets of the Imperial Palace, the carpets that had cushioned the feet of Dagobert VIII, of Cleon II, of Stannell VI — by the space fiend, of Ammenetik the Great! — now softened the booted strides of Gilmer I, self-proclaimed Emperor of the Galaxy and Lord of All. Gilmer kicked at the rug with some dissatisfaction. He was used to clanging as he walked, to having his boots announce his presence half a corridor away. Not even a man made all of bell metal could have clanged on the carpets of the Imperial Palace.

He tipped his head back, brought a bottle to his lips. Liquid fire ran down his throat. After a long pull, he threw the bottle away. It smashed against a wall. Frightened servants scurried to clean up the mess.

“Don’t waste it,” Vergis Fenn said.

Gilmer scowled at his fleet commander. “Why not? Plenty more where that one came from. “His scowl stabbed a servant. “Fetch me another of the same, and one for Vergis here too.” The man dashed off to do his bidding.

“There, you see?” Gilmer said to Fenn. “By the Galaxy, we couldn’t waste everything Trantor’s stored up if we tried for a hundred years.”

“I suppose that’s so,” Fenn said. He was quieter than his chieftain, a better tactician perhaps, but not a leader of men. After a moment, he went on thoughtfully, “Of course, Trantor’s spent a lot more than a hundred years gathering all this. More than a thousand, I’d guess.”

“Well, what if it has?” Gilmer said. “That’s why we wanted it, yes? By the balls Dagobert didn’t have, nobody’s ever sacked Trantor before. Now everything here is mine!”

The servant returned with the bottles. He set them on a table of crystal and silver, then fled. Gilmer drank. With all he’d poured down these last couple of days, he shouldn’t have been able to see, let alone walk and talk. But triumph left him drunker than alcohol. Gilmer the Conqueror, that’s who he was!

Vergis Fenn drank too, but not as deep. “Aye, all Trantor’s ours, but for the University. Seven days now, and those madmen are still holding out.”

“No more of these little firefights with them, then,” Gilmer growled. “By the Galaxy, I’ll blast them to radioactive dust and have done! See to it, Fenn, at once.”

“As you would, sir — sire, but —” Fenn let the last word hang.

“But what?” Gilmer said, scowling. “If they fight for Dagobert: they’re traitors to me. And smashing traitors will frighten Trantor.” He blinked owlishly, pleased and surprised at his own wordplay.

To his annoyance, Fenn did not notice it. He said, “I don’t think they are fighting for Dagobert any more, just against us, to hold on to what they have. That might make them easier to deal with. And if we — if you — nuked the University, scholars all over the Galaxy would vilify your name forever.”

“Scholars all over the Galaxy can eat space, for all I care,” Gilmer said. But, he discovered, that wasn’t quite true. Part of being Emperor was acting the way Emperors were supposed to act. With poor grace, he backpedaled a little: “If they acknowledge me and stop fighting, I suppose I’m willing to let them live.”

“Shall I attempt a cease-fire, then?” Fenn asked.

“Go ahead, since you seem to think it’s a good idea,” Gilmer told him. “But not if they don’t acknowledge me, understand? If they still claim that unprintable son of a whore Dagobert’s Empire, blow ’em off the face of the planet.”

“Yes, sire.” This time, Fenn did not stumble over the title. He’s my servant too, Gilmer thought.

The new Emperor of the Galaxy took a good swig from the bottle. He made as if to throw it at one of the palace flunkies, then, laughing, set it down gently as the fellow ducked.

Gilmer went down to the command post in the bowels of the Imperial Palace, the command post from which, until recently, poor stupid Dagobert VIII had battled to keep him off Trantor. Gilmer’s boots clanged most satisfactorily there. Whoever had designed the command post, in the lost days of the Galactic Empire’s greatness, had understood about commanders and boots.

The television screen in front of Vergis Fenn went blank. He swiveled his chair, nodded in surprise to see Gilmer behind him. “Sire, we have a cease-fire between our forces and those of the University,” he said. “It was easy to arrange. Our troops and theirs will both hold in place until the final armistice is arranged.”

“Good,” Gilmer said. “Well done.”

“Thank you. The leader of the University has invited you to meet him on his ground to fix the terms of the armistice. He offers hostages to ensure your safety, and says he knows what will happen to everything he’s been fighting to keep if he plays you false. Shall I call him back and tell him no anyhow?”

“‘No, I’ll go there,” Gilmer said. “‘What d’you think, I’m afraid of somebody without so much as a single starship to his name? Besides” — he smiled a greedy smile —” like as not I’ll get a look at whatever treasures they’ve been fighting so hard to hang on to. If I can’t beat ’em out of him, I’ll tax ’em out — that’s what being Emperor is all about. So go ahead and set up the meeting with this — what’s his name, Vergis?”

“Yokim Sarns.”

“Yokim Sarns. What do I call him when I see him? General Sarns? Admiral? Warlord?”

Fenn’s expression was faintly bemused. “The only title he claims is ‘Dean,’ sire.”

“‘Dean?” Gilmer threw back his head and laughed loud and long. “Aye, I’ll meet with the fierce Dean Yokim Sarns, the scourge of the lecture halls. Why not? Set it up for me, Vergis. Meanwhile” — he turned away —” I’1l check how we’re doing with the rest of the planet.”

Banks of televisor screens, relaying images from all over Trantor, told him what he wanted to know. Here he saw a platoon of his troopers carrying plastic tubs full of jewels back toward their ships; there more soldiers looting a residential block; somewhere else another squad, most of the men drunk, accompanied by twice their number of Trantorian women, some scared-looking, others smiling and brassy.

Gilmer grinned. This was why he’d taken Trantor: to sack a world unsacked for fifty generations, even more than to rule it after the sack. Watching his dream unfold made that came after seem of scant importance by comparison.

Watching … His gaze went back to that third screen. All the women there would have been heart-stopping beauties on a lesser world, but they were just enlisted men’s pickings on Trantor. With so many billions of women to choose from, the ones less than spectacular were simply ignored.

Smiling in anticipation, Gilmer took the spiral slidewalk up to the Imperial bedchambers. Not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined anything like them. Thousands of years of the best ingenuity money could buy had been lavished there on nothing but pleasure.

Billye smiled too, when he came in. Her tawny hair spilled over bare shoulders. Disdaining all the elaborations the bedchamber offered, Gilmer took her in his arms and sank to the floor with her. There he soon discovered an advantage of thick carpeting he had not suspected before.

She murmured lazily and lay in his arms through the afterglow. She’d been his woman since he was just an ambitious lieutenant. He’d always thought her splendid, both to look at and to love.

He did still, he told himself. He even felt the truth of the thought. But it was not complete truth, not any more. The televisor screen had shown him that, by Trantorian standards, she was ordinary. And how in reason and justice could the Emperor of the Galaxy and Lord of All possess a consort who was merely ordinary?

He grunted, softly. “A centicredit for your thoughts,” Billye said.

“Ahh, nothing much,” he said, and squeezed her. Her voice was not perfectly sweet either, he thought.

“Here he comes.” Maryan Drabel pointed to the single figure climbing down from the aircar that had descended in the no-man’s-land between Gilmer’s lines and those held by the student-soldiers of the University.

“He’s alone,” Yokim Sarns said in faint surprise. “I told him we were willing to grant him any reasonable number of bodyguards he wanted. He has more courage than I’d thought.”

“What difference does that make, when he can’t — or won’t — control his troops?” Maryan Drabel said bitterly. “How many raped women do we have in our clinic right now?”

“Thirty-seven,” Sarns answered. “And five men.”

“And that’s just from this one tiny corner of Trantor, and only counts people who got through Gilmer’s troops and ours,” she said. “How many over the whole planet, where he has forty billion people to terrorize? How many robberies? How many fires, set just for the fun of them? How many murders, Yokim? How do they weigh in the balance against one man’s courage?”

“They crush it.” Sarns passed a weary hand across his forehead. “I know that as well as you, Maryan. But if he has courage, we can’t handle him as we would have before.”

“There is that,” she admitted. “Quiet, now — he’s almost here.”

Gilmer, Sarns thought, looked more like a barbarian chief than Emperor, even if a purple cape billowed behind him as he advanced. Beneath it he wore the coverall blotched in shades of green and brown that his soldiers used. Sarns supposed it was a camouflage suit, but in Trantor’s gleaming corridors it had more often exposed than protected the troopers. The nondescript gray of Sarns’s own coat and trousers was harder to spot here.

The usurper’s boots beat out a metallic tattoo. “Majesty,” Sarns said, knowing he should speak first and also knowing that, since Gilmer had seized Trantor, the title was true de facto if not de jure. Sarns did not approve of dealing in untruths.

“You’re Dean Sarns, eh?” Gilmer’s granite rumble should have come out of that hard, bearded countenance. The Emperor of the Galaxy scratched his nose, went on. “You’ve got some tough fighters behind you, Sarns. I tell you right now, I wouldn’t mind taking the lot of them into my fleet.”

“You are welcome to put out a call, sire, but I doubt you’d find many volunteers,” Sarns answered. “These young men and women are not soldiers by trade, but rather students. They — and I — care more for abstract knowledge than for the best deployment of a blast-rifle company.”

Gilmer nodded. “I’d heard that said. I found it hard to believe. Truth to tell, Sarns, I still do. You spend your whole lives chasing this — what did you call it? — abstract knowledge?”

“We do,” Sarns said proudly. “This is the University, after all, the distillation of all the wisdom that has accumulated over the millennia of Imperial history. We codify it, systematize it, and, where we can, add to it.”

“It seems a milk-livered way to spend one’s time,” Gilmer remarked, careless of Sarns’s feelings or — more likely — reckoning the Dean would agree with him when he pointed out an obvious truth. “What good is knowledge that you can’t eat, drink, sleep with, or shoot at your enemies?”

He is a barbarian, Sarns thought, even if he’s lived all his life inside what still calls itself, with less and less reason, the Galactic Empire. Fortunately Sarns, like any administrator worth his desk, had practice not showing what he felt. He said, ‘“Well, let me give you an example, sire: how did you and your victorious army come to Trantor?”

“By starship, of course.” Gilmer stared. “How else, man? Did you expect us to walk?” He laughed at his own wit.

Sarns smiled a polite smile. “Of course not. But what happens if one of your busbars shorts out or a hydrochron needs repair?”

‘“We fix ’em, as best we can. Seems like nobody in the whole blasted Galaxy understands a hyperatomic motor any more,” Gilmer said, scowling. Then he stopped dead. “That’s knowledge too, isn’t it? By the space fiend, Sarns, are you telling me you’ve got a university full of technicians who really know what they’re doing? If you do, I’ll impress ’em into the fleet and make you — and them — so rich they won’t ever miss their book-films, I promise you that.”

“We do have some people — not many, I fear — studying such things. As I said before, you are welcome to speak with them. Some may even choose to accompany you, for the challenge of working on real equipment.” Sarns paused a moment in thought. “We also have skilled doctors, computer specialists, and students of many other disciplines of value to the Empire.”

He watched Gilmer nibble the bait. “And they’d do these same kinds of things for me?” the usurper asked.

“Some might,” Sarns said. “Others — probably more — would be willing to instruct your technicians and personnel here. Of course,” he added smoothly, “they would be less enthusiastic if you shot your way in. You would also likely waste a good many of them that way.”

“Hrmmp,” Gilmer said. After a moment, he went on. “But any ships with their techs, their medics, their computer people gone — they’d be no more use to us than if they rusted away.”

“Not immediately, perhaps, but later they would be of even greater value to you than they could ever be with the inadequately trained crews I gather they have now.”

Gilmer lowered his voice. “Sarns, I can’t afford to think about later. I’d bet a million credits against a burnt-out blaster cartridge that there’s at least three fleets moving on me the same way I moved on Dagobert. Now that Trantor’s fallen, all the dogs of space will want to pick her bones — and mine.”

Privately, Sarns thought the usurper was right about that. It would only be what Gilmer deserved, too. But the dean-turned-general felt sadness wash over him all the same. No time to bother to learn anything new, no time to think about anything but the moment — that had been the disease of the Galactic Empire for far too long. Gilmer had a worse case of it than the emperors before him, but the root sickness was the same.

Sarns did not sigh. He said, “Well, in any case this has taken our discussion rather far from the purpose at hand, which is, after all, merely to arrange an armistice between your forces and the students and staff of the University, so both we and you may return to what we consider our proper pursuits.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Gilmer said.

As he had not sighed, Sarns did not smile. Show a barbarian a short-term objective and he won’t look past it, he thought. “Would you care to examine our facilities here, so you can see how harmless we are under normal circumstances?” he said.

“Why not? Lead on, Dean Sarns, and let’s see what you’ve turned into soldiers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll try to recruit you... Gilmer laughed. So, without reservation, did Yokim Sarns. He hadn’t suspected Gilmer could say anything that funny.

What first struck Gilmer inside the University was the quiet. Almost everyone went around in soft-soled shoes, soundless on the metal flooring. Gilmer’s boots clanged resoundingly as ever, even raised echoes that ran down the corridors ahead of him. But both clang and echoes were tiny pebbles dropped into an ocean of stillness.

The people were as strange as the place, Gilmer thought. Those who had fought his men were still in gray like Sarns. The rest wore soft pastels that made them seem to flit like spirits along the hallways. Their low voices added to the impression that they really weren’t quite there.

Half-remembered childhood tales of ghosts rose in Gilmer’s mind. He shivered and made sure he stayed close to his guides. “What are they doing in there?” he asked, pointing. His voice caused echoes too, echoes that swiftly died.

Sarns glanced into the laboratory. “Something pertaining to neurobiology,” he said. “One moment.” He ducked inside. “That’s right — they’re working to improve the efficiency of sleep-inducers.”

Somehow the Dean pitched his voice so that it was clear but raised no reverberations. Gilmer resolved to imitate him. “And what’s going on there?” the Emperor of the Galaxy asked. Then he frowned, for he’d managed only a hoarse whisper that sounded filled with dread.

To his relief, Sarns appeared to take no notice. “That’s a psychostatistics research group,” the Dean answered casually. He walked on, assuming Gilmer knew what psychostatistics was.

Gilmer didn’t, but was not about to let on. He pointed to another doorway. Some people in that room were working with computers, others with what looked like chunks of rock. “What are they up to?” he asked. He still could not match Yokim Sarns’s easy tone.

“Ahh, that’s one of our most fascinating projects. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it.” Gilmer, who wasn’t at all sure, waited for Sarns to go on: “Using ancient inscriptions and voice synthesizers, that team of linguists is attempting to reconstruct the mythical language called English, from which our modern Galactic tongue arose thousands of years ago.”

“Oh,” was all Gilmer said. He’d never heard of English, either. Well, too bad, he thought. He knew about a lot of things these soft academics had never heard of, things like field-stripping a blast-pistol, like small-unit actions.

Yokim Sarns might have plucked the thought from his head, and then twisted it in a way he did not like: “Mainly, though, we fought you so we could protect what you’re coming to now: the Library.”

“Everything humanity has ever learned is preserved here,” said Sarns’s aide Maryan Drabel.

Gilmer caught the note of pride in her voice. “Are you in charge of it?” he asked.

She nodded and smiled. Gilmer cut ten years off the guess he’d made of her age from her grim face and drab clothing. She said, “This chamber here is the accessing room. Students and researchers come here first, to get a printout of the book-films and journal articles available in our files on the topics that interest them.”

“Where are all your book-films?” Gilmer craned his neck. He’d visited libraries on other planets once or twice, and found himself wading in film cases. He didn’t see any here. Suspicion grew in him. Was all this some kind of colossal bluff, designed to conceal who knew what? If it was, the whole University would pay.

But Maryan Drabel only laughed. “You’re not ready to see book-films yet. Before a student can even begin to view films, he or she needs to have some idea of what’s in them: more than a title can provide. What we’re coming to now is the Abstracts Section, where people weed through their possible reading lists with summaries of the documents that seem promising to them.”

More people fiddling with more computers. Gilmer almost succeeded in suppressing his yawn. Maryan Drabel went on. “We also have an acquisition and cataloguing division, which integrates new book-films into our collection.”

“New book-films?” Gilmer said. “You mean people still write them?”

“Not as many as when the University was founded,” the librarian said sadly. “And, of course, now that the Periphery and even some of the inner regions have broken away from the Empire, we no longer see a lot of what is written, or only get a copy after many years. But we do still try, and surely no other collection in the Galaxy comes close to ours in scope or completeness.”

They came to an elevator. Yokim Sarns pressed the button. After a moment, the door opened. “This way, please,” Sarns said as he stepped in.

Maryan Drabel and Gilmer followed, the latter with some misgivings. If these University folk wanted to assassinate him, what better place than the cramped and secret confines of an elevator? But if they wanted to assassinate him, he’d been in their power since this tour started. He had to assume they didn’t.

The elevator purred downward, stopped. The door opened again. “These are the reading rooms,” Maryan Drabel said.

Gilmer saw row on row of cubicles. Most of them were empty. “Usually. they would be much busier,” Yokim Sarns remarked. “The people who would be busy using them have been on the fighting lines instead.”

As if to confirm his words, one of the closed cubicle doors opened. The young woman who emerged wore the gray of the University’s soldiers and had a blast rifle slung on her back. She looked grubby and tired, as a front-line soldier should. Gilmer noted that she also looked as though she’d forgotten all about the fighting and her weapon: her attention focused solely on the calculator pad she was keying as she walked toward the bank of elevators.

“Do you care to look inside a reading room?” Maryan Drabel asked.

Gilmer thought for a moment, shook his head. He’d been in a few reading rooms; they were alike throughout the Galaxy. The number of them here was impressive, but one by itself would not be.

“Is this everything you have to show me?” he asked.

“One thing more,” Maryan Drabel told him. shrugging, he ducked back into the elevator with her and Sarns.

Down they went again, down and down. “You are specially privileged, to see what we are about to show you,” Yokim Sarns said. “Few people ever will, few even from the University. We thought it would help you to understand us better.”

The elevator stopped. Gilmer stepped out, stared around. “By the space fiend,” he whispered in soft wonder.

The chamber extended for what had to be kilometers. From floor to ceiling, every shelf was packed full of book-films. “The computer can access them and project them to the appropriate reading room on request,” Maryan Drabel said.

Gilmer walked toward the nearest case. His boots thumped instead of clanging. He glanced down. “This is a rock floor,” he said. “Why isn’t it metal like everything else?”

“The book-film depositories are below the built-up part of Trantor,” Yokim Sarns explained. “There wouldn’t be room for them up there — that space is needed for people. Having them down here also gives them a certain amount of extra protection from catastrophe. Even the blast of a radiation weapon set off overhead probably wouldn’t reach down here.”

“You also have to understand that this is just one book-film chamber among many,” Maryan Drabel added. “We’ve used both dispersed storage and a lot of redundancy to do our best to ensure the collection’s safety.”

Gilmer had a sudden vision of the University folk tunneling like moles for years, for centuries, for millennia, honeycombing the very bedrock of Trantor as they dug storehouses for the knowledge they hoarded. Even worse, in his mind’s eye he imagined all the weight of rock and metal over his head. He’d grown up on a farming world full of wide open spaces, and had spent most of his life in space itself. To imagine everything above collapsing, crushing him so he would leave not even a red smear, made cold sweat start on his brow.

“Shall we go back up?” he said hoarsely.

“Certainly, sire.” Yokim Sarns’s voice was bland. “I hope you do see — now — that we are solely dedicated to the pursuit of learning, and will not interfere in the political life of the Empire so long as it does not invade our campus. On those terms, I think, we can arrange an armistice satisfactory to both sides.”

All Gilmer wanted to do — now — was get away from this catacomb, return to his own men. He noticed that Sarns hadn’t thumbed the elevator button. Maybe Sarns wouldn’t, until Gilmer agreed. “Yes, yes, of course.” He could hear how quickly he spoke, but could not help it. “You have your men put down their arms, and mine will stay away from the University.”

“Good enough,” Sarns said. As if he had been absentminded before — and perhaps that was all he had been — he pushed the button that summoned the elevator. Gilmer rode up in relieved silence; every second the elevator climbed seemed to lift a myria-ton from his shoulders.

When he and his guides returned to the level from which they had begun, a man came briskly toward them with two sheets of parchmentoid. “This is Egril Joons,” Sarns said. “What do you have for us, Egril?”

“Copies of the armistice agreement, for your signature and the Emperor Gilmer’s,” Joons replied. He held out a stylus.

Gilmer took it. He skimmed through one copy of the document, signed it, and was reaching for the other from Yokim Sarns when he suddenly thought to wonder how the armistice terms could be ready now when he’d only agreed to them moments before. “You were snooping,” he growled to Egril Joons.

“My apologies, but yes,” Joons said. “Voice monitoring is part of the security system for the book-films. This time I just made use of it to prepare copies as quickly as possible. I expected that your majesty would have other concerns that would soon need his attention.”

Gilmer recalled how badly he’d wanted to get back to his own troops. “Oh, very well, put that way,” he said. He signed the second copy of the armistice accord. This Joons fellow was righter than he knew, righter than he could know. Trantor had to be made ready to defend itself from space attack, and quickly, or Gilmer the Emperor of the Galaxy would soon be Gilmer the vaporized usurper.

Gilmer the Emperor of the Galaxy rolled up his copy of the agreement, absentmindedly stuck Egril Joons’s stylus in a tunic pocket, and said, sounding quite imperial indeed, “Now if you will be so good as to escort me back to my lines”

“Certainly.” Yokim Sarns handed the other copy of the armistice to Maryan Drabel. “Come this way, if you please.”

From behind, Maryan Drabel thought, Gilmer looked much more like an emperor than from the front. The shining purple cape lent him an air of splendor that did not match the camouflage suit he wore under it. Seen from the front, the cape only seemed a sad bit of stolen booty.

“An emperor shouldn’t look like a thief, “she said.

“Why not?” Egril loons was still feeling pangs over his purloined stylus.” That’s what he is.”

“Wizards!” Billye shouted. “You went into the wizards’ lair, and they enspelled you!”

“There’s no such things as wizards!” Gilmer shouted back.

“No? Then why didn’t you get anything worth having out of the University, when they were at our mercy?” she said.

“I did. We aren’t shooting at them any more, and they aren’t shooting at us. They recognize me as Emperor of the Galaxy. What more could I want?”

“To put the fear of cold space and hot death in them, that’s what. If you are the Emperor of the Galaxy, they should act like subjects, not like equals. Can the Emperor have an equal? And you let them.” Billye’s hair flew around her in a copper cloud as she shook her head in bewilderment. “I can’t believe you let them. You have all your men, the whole fleet — why not just crush them for their insolence?”

“Oh, leave me be,” Gilmer said sullenly. He didn’t need to hear this from Billye; he’d already heard it, more politely but the same tune, from Vergis Fenn. Fenn had asked him why, if the University folk were willing to instruct his personnel, that willingness didn’t show up in the armistice document. He’d been sullen with his fleet commander, too, not wanting to admit he hadn’t had the nerve to ask for the change in writing. Why hadn’t he? All the real power was on his side. But still — he hadn’t.

“No, I won’t leave you be,” Billye said now. “Somebody has to put backbone in you, especially since yours looks like it’s fallen out through your —”

“Shut up!” Gilmer roared in a voice that not one of his half-pirate spacemen or troopers dared disobey.

Billye dared. “I won’t either shut up. And there are so wizards. Every other tale that floats in from the Periphery talks about them.”

“Lies about them, you mean. “Gilmer was just as glad to change the subject, even a little. His head ached. If Billye was going to be this abrasive, maybe he would find himself some pretty little Trantorian chit who’d only open her mouth to say yes.

“They aren’t lies, “Billye said stubbornly.

“Well, what else could they be?” Gilmer said. “There’s no such thing as a man-sized force screen. There can’t be — the Empire doesn’t have ’em, and the Empire has everything there is. There’s no way to open a Personal Capsule without having a man’s characteristic on file. So stories that talk about things like that have to be lies.”

“Or else the magicians do those things, and do ’em by their magic,” Billye said. “And what else but magic could have made you show the University not just mercy but — but — I don’t know what. Treat them like the place was theirs by right, when the Emperor has charge of everything there is.”

“If he can keep it,” Gilmer muttered. He stalked out of the bedchamber — he’d get no solace here, that was plain. A scoutship message had been waiting for him when he returned from the University grounds: a fleet was gathering not ten parsecs away, a fleet that did not belong to him. If he was going to keep Trantor, he’d have to fight for it allover again. Even a pinprick from the University might hurt him at such a time.

Why couldn’t Billye see that? Rage suddenly filled Gilmer. If she couldn’t, to the space fiend with her! He pointed at the first servant he spotted. “You!”

The man flinched. Unlike Billye, he — all the palace servants — knew Gilmer was no one to trifle with. “Sire?” he asked fearfully.

“Take as many flunkies as you need to, then go toss that big-mouthed wench out of my bedchamber. Find me someone new — I expect you have ways to take care of that. Someone worthy of an Emperor, mind you. But most of all, someone quiet.”

“Yes, sire.” The servant risked a smile. “That, majesty, I think we can handle.”

A room in the Library — not a room Gilmer had seen!

Yokim Sarns, Maryan Drabel, Egril Joons … dean, librarian, dietitian … general, chief of staff, quartermaster … and rather more. They stood before a wall of equations, red symbols on a gray background. Yokim Sarns, whose privilege it was to speak first, said, “I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

“Neither did I,” Maryan Drabel agreed. “I expected — the probabilities predicted — we would have to touch Gilmer’s mind to make sure he would leave us alone here.”

“That courage we saw helped a great deal,” Sarns said. “It let him gain respect for our student-soldiers where a more purely pragmatic man would simply have brushed aside their sacrifice because it conflicted with his own interests.”

“Mix that with superstitious awe at the accumulation of ancient knowledge we represent, let him see our goals and objectives — our ostensible goals and objectives — are irrelevant to his or slightly to his advantage, and he proved quite capable of deciding on his own to let us be,” Maryan Drabel said. “We came out of what could have been a nasty predicament very nicely indeed.”

Egril Joons had been studying the numbers and symbols, the possible decision-paths that led from Hari Seldon’s day through almost three centuries to the present — and beyond. Now he said, “I do believe this will be the only round.”

“The only round of sacks for Trantor?” Yokim Sarns studied the correlation at which Joons pointed; the equations obligingly grew on the Prime Radiant’s wall so he could see them better. “Yes, it does seem so, if our data from around the planet are accurate. Gilmer has done such an efficient job of destruction that Trantor won’t be worth looting again once this round of civil wars is done.”

“That was the lower probability, too,” Joons said. “Look — there was a better than seventy percent chance of two sacks at least forty years apart, and at least a fifteen percent chance of three or more, perhaps even spaced over a century.”

“Our lives and our work will certainly be easier this way,” Maryan Drabel said. “I know we’re well protected, but a stray missile —” She shivered.

“We still risk those for a little while longer,” Sarns said. “Gilmer is so blatantly a usurper that others will try to steal from him what he stole from Dagobert. But the danger of further major damage to Trantor as a whole has declined a great deal, and will grow still smaller as word of the Great Sack spreads. “He pointed to the figures that supported his conclusion; Maryan Drabel pondered, at length nodded.

“And with Trantor henceforward effectively removed from psychohistoric consideration, so is the Galactic Empire,” Egril Joons said.

“The First Galactic Empire,” Yokim Sarns corrected gently.

“Well, of course.” loons accepted the tiny rebuke with good nature. “Now, though, we’ll be able to work toward the Second Empire without having to worry about concealing everything we do from prying imperial clerks and agents.”

“The Empire was always our greatest danger,” Maryan Drabel said. “We needed to be here at its heart to help protect the First Foundation, but at its heart also meant under its eyes, if it ever came to notice us. In the days before we fully developed the mind-touch, one seriously hostile commissioner of public safety could have wrecked us.”

“The probability was that we wouldn’t get any such, and we didn’t,” Egril loons. said.

“Probability, yes, but psychohistory can’t deal with individuals any more than physics can tell you exactly when anyone radium atom will decay,” she said stubbornly. The truth there was so self-evident that loons had to concede it, but not so graciously as he had to Yokim Sarns.

Sarns said, “Never mind, both of you. If you’ll look here” — the Prime Radiant, taking its direction from his will, revealed the portion of the Seldon Plan that lay just ahead —” you’ll see that we’re entering a period of consolidation. As you and Maryan have both pointed out, Egril, the First Empire is dead, while it will be several centuries yet before the new Empire that will grow from the First Foundation extends its influence to this part of the Galaxy.”

“Clear sailing for a while,” loons said. “About time, too.”

“Don’t get complacent,” Maryan Drabel said.

“A warning the Second Foundation should always bear in mind,” Yokim Sarns said. “But, looking at the mathematics, I have to agree with Egril. Barring anything unforeseen — say, someone outside our ranks discovering the mind-touch — we should have no great difficulty in steering the proper course. And” — he smiled broadly, even a little smugly —” what are the odds of that?”

The Mule

310-311 FE (12378-12379 GE)

1. Bride And Groom

THE MULE - LESS IS KNOWN OF “THE MULE” THAN OF ANY CHARACTER OF COMPARABLE SIGNIFICANCE TO GALACTIC HISTORY. EVEN THE PERIOD OF HIS GREATEST RENOWN IS KNOWN TO US CHIEFLY THROUGH THE EYES OF HIS ANTAGONISTS AND, PRINCIPALLY, THROUGH THOSE OF A YOUNG BRIDE....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

BAYTA’S FIRST SIGHT of Haven was entirely the contrary of spectacular. Her husband pointed it out-a dull star lost in the emptiness of the Galaxy’s edge. It was past the last sparse clusters, to where straggling points of light gleamed lonely. And even among these it was poor and inconspicuous.

Toran was quite aware that as the earliest prelude to married life, the Red Dwarf lacked impressiveness and his lips curled self-consciously. “I know, Bay-It isn’t exactly a proper change, is it? I mean from the Foundation to this.”

“A horrible change, Toran. I should never have married you.”

And when his face looked momentarily hurt, before he caught himself, she said with her special “cozy” tone, “All right, silly. Now let your lower lip droop and give me that special dying-duck look-the one just before you’re supposed to bury your head on my shoulder, while I stroke your hair full of static electricity. You were fishing for some drivel, weren’t you? You were expecting me to say ‘I’d be happy anywhere with you, Toran!’ or ‘The interstellar depths themselves would be home, my sweet, were you but with me!’ Now you admit it.”

She pointed a finger at him and snatched it away an instant before his teeth closed upon it.

He said, “If I surrender, and admit you’re right, will you prepare dinner?”

She nodded contentedly. He smiled, and just looked at her.

She wasn’t beautiful on the grand scale to others-he admitted that-even if everybody did look twice. Her hair was dark and glossy, though straight, her mouth a bit wide-but her meticulous, close-textured eyebrows separated a white, unlined forehead from the warmest mahogany eyes ever filled with smiles.

And behind a very sturdily-built and staunchly-defended facade of practical, unromantic, hard-headedness towards life, there was just that little pool of softness that would never show if you poked for it, but could be reached if you knew just how-and never let on that you were looking for it.

Toran adjusted the controls unnecessarily and decided to relax. He was one interstellar jump, and then several milli-microparsecs “on the straight” before manipulation by hand was necessary. He leaned over backwards to look into the storeroom, where Bayta was juggling appropriate containers.

There was quite a bit of smugness about his attitude towards Bayta-the satisfied awe that marks the triumph of someone who has been hovering at the edge of an inferiority complex for three years.

After all he was a provincial-and not merely a provincial, but the son of a renegade Trader. And she was of the Foundation itself-and not merely that, but she could trace her ancestry back to Mallow.

And with all that, a tiny quiver underneath. To take her back to Haven, with its rock-world and cave-cities was bad enough. To have her face the traditional hostility of Trader for Foundation-nomad for city dweller-was worse.

Still-After supper, the last jump!

Haven was an angry crimson blaze, and the second planet was a ruddy patch of light with atmosphere-blurred rim and a half-sphere of darkness. Bayta leaned over the large view table with its spidering of crisscross lines that centered Haven II neatly.

She said gravely, “I wish I had met your father first. If he takes a dislike to me-”

“Then,” said Toran matter-of-factly, “you would be the first pretty girl to inspire that in him. Before he lost his arm and stopped roving around the Galaxy, he-Well, if you ask him about it, he’ll talk to you about it till your ears wear down to a nubbin. After a while I got to thinking that he was embroidering; because he never told the same story twice the same way-”

Haven II was rushing up at them now. The landlocked sea wheeled ponderously below them, slate-gray in the lowering dimness and lost to sight, here and there, among the wispy clouds. Mountains jutted raggedly along the coast.

The sea became wrinkled with nearness and, as it veered off past the horizon just at the end, there was one vanishing glimpse of shore-hugging ice fields.

Toran grunted under the fierce deceleration, “Is your suit locked?”

Bayta’s plump face was round and ruddy in the incasing sponge-foam of the internally-heated, skin-clinging costume.

The ship lowered crunchingly on the open field just short of the lifting of the plateau.

They climbed out awkwardly into the solid darkness of the outer-galactic night, and Bayta gasped as the sudden cold bit, and the thin wind swirled emptily. Toran seized her elbow and nudged her into an awkward run over the smooth, packed ground towards the sparking of artificial light in the distance.

The advancing guards met them halfway, and after a whispered exchange of words, they were taken onward. The wind and the cold disappeared when the gate of rock opened and then closed behind them. The warm interior, white with wall-light, was filled with an incongruous humming bustle. Men looked up from their desks, and Toran produced documents.

They were waved onward after a short glance and Toran whispered to his wife, “Dad must have fixed up the preliminaries. The usual lapse here is about five hours.”

They burst into the open and Bayta said suddenly, “Oh, my-”

The cave city was in daylight-the white daylight of a young sun. Not that there was a sun, of course. What should have been the sky was lost in the unfocused glow of an over-all brilliance. And the warm air was properly thick and fragrant with greenery.

Bayta said, “Why, Toran, it’s beautiful.”

Toran grinned with anxious delight. “Well, now, Bay, it isn’t like anything on the Foundation, of course, but it’s the biggest city on Haven II-twenty thousand people, you know-and you’ll get to like it. No amusement palaces, I’m afraid, but no secret police either.”

“Oh, Torie, it’s just like a toy city. It’s all white and pink-and so clean.”

“Well-” Toran looked at the city with her. The houses were two stories high for the most part, and of the smooth vein rock indigenous to the region. The spires of the Foundation were missing, and the colossal community houses of the Old Kingdoms-but the smallness was there and the individuality; a relic of personal initiative in a Galaxy of mass life.

He snapped to sudden attention. “Bay-There’s Dad! Right there-where I’m pointing, silly. Don’t you see him?”

She did. It was just the impression of a large man, waving frantically, fingers spread wide as though groping wildly in air. The deep thunder of a drawn-out shout reached them. Bayta trailed her husband, rushing downwards over the close-cropped lawn. She caught sight of a smaller man, white-haired, almost lost to view behind the robust One-arm, who still waved and still shouted.

Toran cried over his shoulder, “It’s my father’s half-brother. The one who’s been to the Foundation. You know.”

They met in the grass, laughing and incoherent, and Toran’s father let out a final whoop for sheer joy. He hitched at his short jacket and adjusted the metal-chased belt that was his one concession to luxury.

His eyes shifted from one of the youngsters to the other, and then he said, a little out of breath, “You picked a rotten day to return home, boy!”

“What? Oh, it is Seldon’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“It is. I had to rent a car to make the trip here, and dragoon Randu to drive it. Not a public vehicle to be had at gun’s point.”

His eyes were on Bayta now, and didn’t leave. He spoke to her more softly, “I have the crystal of you right here-and it’s good, but I can see the fellow who took it was an amateur.”

He had the small cube of transparency out of his jacket pocket and in the light the laughing little face within sprang to vivid colored life as a miniature Bayta.

“That one!” said Bayta. “Now I wonder why Toran should send that caricature. I’m surprised you let me come near you, sir.”

“Are you now? Call me Fran. I’ll have none of this fancy mess. For that, I think you can take my arm, and we’ll go on to the car. Till now I never did think my boy knew what he was ever up to. I think I’ll change that opinion. I think I’ll have to change that opinion.”

Toran said to his half uncle softly, “How is the old man these days? Does he still hound the women?”

Randu puckered up all over his face when he smiled. “When he can, Toran, when he can. There are times when he remembers that his next birthday will be his sixtieth, and that disheartens him. But he shouts it down, this evil thought, and then he is himself. He is a Trader of the ancient type. But you, Toran. Where did you find such a pretty wife?”

The young man chuckled and linked arms. “Do you want a three years’ history at a gasp, uncle?”

It was in the small living room of the home that Bayta struggled out of her traveling cloak and hood and shook her hair loose. She sat down, crossing her knees, and returned the appreciative stare of this large, ruddy man.

She said, “I know what you’re trying to estimate, and I’ll help you; Age, twenty-four, height, five-four, weight, one-ten, educational specialty, history.” She noticed that he always crooked his stand so as to hide the missing arm. But now Fran leaned close and said, “Since you mention it-weight, one-twenty.”

He laughed loudly at her flush. Then he said to the company in general, “You can always tell a woman’s weight by her upper arm-with due experience, of course. Do you want a drink, Bay?”

“Among other things,” she said, and they left together, while Toran busied himself at the book shelves to check for new additions.

Fran returned alone and said, “She’ll be down later.”

He lowered himself heavily into the large comer chair and placed his stiff-jointed left leg on the stool before it. The laughter had left his red face, and Toran turned to face him.

Fran said, “Well, you’re home, boy, and I’m glad you are. I like your woman. She’s no whining ninny.”

“I married her,” said Toran simply.

“Well, that’s another thing altogether, boy.” His eyes darkened. “It’s a foolish way to tie up the future. In my longer life, and more experienced, I never did such a thing.”

Randu interrupted from the comer where he stood quietly. “Now Franssart, what comparisons are you making? Till your crash landing six years ago you were never in one spot long enough to establish residence requirements for marriage, And since then, who would have you?”

The one-armed man jerked erect in his seat and replied hotly, “Many, you snowy dotard-”

Toran said with hasty tact, “It’s largely a legal formality, Dad. The situation has its conveniences.”

“Mostly for the woman,” grumbled Fran.

“And even if so,” agreed Randu, “it’s up to the boy to decide. Marriage is an old custom among the Foundationers.”

“The Foundationers are not fit models for an honest Trader,” smoldered Fran.

Toran broke in again, “My wife is a Foundationer.” He looked from one to the other, and then said quietly, “She’s coming.”

The conversation took a general turn after the evening meal, which Fran had spiced with three tales of reminiscence composed of equal parts of blood, women, profits, and embroidery. The small televisor was on, and some classic drama was playing itself out in an unregarded whisper. Randu had hitched himself into a more comfortable position on the low couch and gazed past the slow smoke of his long pipe to where Bayta had knelt down upon the softness of the white fur mat brought back once long ago from a trade mission and now spread out only upon the most ceremonious occasions.

“You have studied history, my girl?” he asked, pleasantly.

Bayta nodded. “I was the despair of my teachers, but I learned a bit, eventually.”

“A citation for scholarship,” put in Toran, smugly, “that’s all!”

“And what did you learn?” proceeded Randu, smoothly.

“Everything? Now?” laughed the girl.

The old man smiled gently. “Well then, what do you think of the Galactic situation?”

“I think,” said Bayta, concisely, “that a Seldon crisis is pending-and that if it isn’t then away with the Seldon plan altogether. It is a failure.”

(“Whew,” muttered Fran, from his comer. “What a way to speak of Seldon.” But he said nothing aloud.)

Randu sucked at his pipe speculatively. “Indeed? Why do you say that? I was to the Foundation, you know, in my younger days, and I, too, once thought great dramatic thoughts. But, now, why do you say that?”

“Well,” Bayta’s eyes misted with thought as she curled her bare toes into the white softness of the rug and nestled her little chin in one plump hand, “it seems to me that the whole essence of Seldon’s plan was to create a world better than the ancient one of the Galactic Empire. It was failing apart, that world, three centuries ago, when Seldon first established the Foundation-and if history speaks truly, it was falling apart of the triple disease of inertia, despotism, and maldistribution of the goods of the universe.”

Randu nodded slowly, while Toran gazed with proud, luminous eyes at his wife, and Fran in the comer clucked his tongue and carefully refilled his glass.

Bayta said, “If the story of Seldon is true, he foresaw the complete collapse of the Empire through his Jaws of psychohistory, and was able to predict the necessary thirty thousand years of barbarism before the establishment of a new Second Empire to restore civilization and culture to humanity. It was the whole aim of his life-work to set up such conditions as would insure a speedier rejuvenation,”

The deep voice of Fran burst out, “And that’s why he established the two Foundations, honor be to his name.”

“And that’s why he established the two Foundations,” assented Bayta. “Our Foundation was a gathering of the scientists of the dying Empire intended to carry on the science and learning of man to new heights. And the Foundation was so situated in space and the historical environment was such that through the careful calculations of his genius, Seldon foresaw that in one thousand years, it would become a newer, greater Empire.”

There was a reverent silence.

The girl said softly, “It’s an old story. You all know it. For almost three centuries every human being of the Foundation has known it. But I thought it would be appropriate to go through it-just quickly. Today is Seldon’s birthday, you know, and even if I am of the Foundation, and you are of Haven, we have that in common-”

She lit a cigarette slowly, and watched the glowing tip absently. “The laws of history are as absolute as the laws of physics, and if the probabilities of error are greater, it is only because history does not deal with as many humans as physics does atoms, so that individual variations count for more. Seldon predicted a series of crises through the thousand years of growth, each of which would force a new turning of our history into a pre-calculated path. It is those crises which direct us-and therefore a crisis must come now.

“Now!” she repeated, forcefully. “It’s almost a century since the last one, and in that century, every vice of the Empire has been repeated in the Foundation. Inertia! Our ruling class knows one law; no change. Despotism! They know one rule; force. Maldistribution! They know one desire; to hold what is theirs.”

“While others starve!” roared Fran suddenly with a mighty blow of his fist upon the arm of his chair. “Girl, your words are pearls. The fat guts on their moneybags ruin the Foundation, while the brave Traders hide their poverty on dregs of worlds like Haven. It’s a disgrace to Seldon, a casting of dirt in his face, a spewing in his beard.” He raised his arm high, and then his face lengthened. “If I had my other arm! If-once-they had listened to me!”

“Dad,” said Toran, “take it easy.”

“Take it easy. Take it easy,” his father mimicked savagely. “We’ll live here and die here forever-and you say, take it easy.”

“That’s our modern Lathan Devers,” said Randu, gesturing with his pipe, “this Fran of ours. Devers died in the slave mines eighty years ago with your husband’s great-grandfather, because he lacked wisdom and didn’t lack heart-”

“Yes, by the Galaxy, I’d do the same if I were he,” swore Fran. “Devers was the greatest Trader in history-greater than the overblown windbag, Mallow, the Foundationers worship. If the cutthroats who lord the Foundation killed him because he loved justice, the greater the blood-debt owed them.”

“Go on, girl,” said Randu. “Go on, or, surely, he’ll talk a the night and rave all the next day.”

“There’s nothing to go on about,” she said, with a sudden gloom. “There must be a crisis, but I don’t know how to make one. The progressive forces on the Foundation are oppressed fearfully. You Traders may have the will, but you are hunted and disunited. If all the forces of good will in and out of the Foundation could combine-”

Fran’s laugh was a raucous jeer. “Listen to her, Randu, listen to her. In and out of the Foundation, she says. Girl, girl, there’s no hope in the flab-sides of the Foundation. Among them some hold the whip and the rest are whipped dead whipped. Not enough spunk left in the whole rotten world to outface one good Trader.”

Bayta’s attempted interruptions broke feebly against the overwhelming wind.

Toran leaned over and put a hand over her mouth. “Dad,” he said, coldly, “you’ve never been on the Foundation. You know nothing about it. I tell you that the underground there is brave and daring enough. I could tell you that Bayta was one of them-”

“All right, boy, no offense. Now, where’s the cause for anger?” He was genuinely perturbed.

Toran drove on fervently, “The trouble with you, Dad, is that you’ve got a provincial outlook. You think because some hundred thousand Traders scurry into holes on an unwanted planet at the end of nowhere, that they’re a great people. Of course, any tax collector from the Foundation that gets here never leaves again, but that’s cheap heroism. What would you do if the Foundation sent a fleet?”

“We’d blast them,” said Fran, sharply.

“And get blasted-with the balance in their favor. You’re outnumbered, outarmed, outorganized-and as soon as the Foundation thinks it worth its while, you’ll realize that. So you had better seek your allies-on the Foundation itself, if you can.”

“Randu, said Fran, looking at his brother like a great, helpless bull.

Randu took his pipe away from his lips, “The boy’s right, Fran. When you listen to the little thoughts deep inside you, you know he is. But they’re uncomfortable thoughts, so you drown them out with that roar of yours. But they’re still there. Toran, I’ll tell you why I brought all this up.”

He puffed thoughtfully awhile, then dipped his pipe into the neck of the tray, waited for the silent flash, and withdrew it clean. Slowly, he filled it again with precise tamps of his little finger.

He said, “Your little suggestion of Foundation’s interest in us, Toran, is to the point. There have been two recent visits lately-for tax purposes. The disturbing point is that the second visitor was accompanied by a light patrol ship. They landed in Gleiar City-giving us the miss for a change-and they never lifted off again, naturally. But now they’ll surely be back. Your father is aware of all this, Toran, he really is.

“Look at the stubborn rakehell. He knows Haven is in trouble, and he knows we’re helpless, but he repeats his formulas. It warms and protects him. But once he’s had his say, and roared his defiance, and feels he’s discharged his duty as a man and a Bull Trader, why he’s as reasonable as any of us.”

“Any of who?” asked Bayta.

He smiled at her. “We’ve formed a little group, Bayta-just in our city. We haven’t done anything, yet. We haven’t even managed to contact the other cities yet, but it’s a start.”

“But towards what?”

Randu shook his head. “We don’t know-yet. We hope for a miracle. We have decided that, as you say, a Seldon crisis must be at hand.” He gestured widely upwards. “The Galaxy is full of the chips and splinters of the broken Empire. The generals swarm. Do you suppose the time may come when one will grow bold?”

Bayta considered, and shook her head decisively, so that the long straight hair with the single inward curl at the end swirled about her ears. “No, not a chance. There’s not one of those generals who doesn’t know that an attack on the Foundation is suicide. Bel Riose of the old Empire was a better man than any of them, and he attacked with the resources of a galaxy, and couldn’t win against the Seldon Plan. Is there one general that doesn’t know that?”

“But what if we spur them on?”

“Into where? Into an atomic furnace? With what could you possibly spur them?”

“Well, there is one-a new one. In this past year or two, there has come word of a strange man whom they call the Mule.”

“The Mule?” She considered. “Ever hear of him, Torie?’’

Toran shook his head. She said, “What about him?”

“I don’t know. But he wins victories at, they say, impossible odds. The rumors may be exaggerated, but it would be interesting, in any case, to become acquainted with him. Not every man with sufficient ability and sufficient ambition would believe in Hari Seldon and his laws of psychohistory. We could encourage that disbelief. He might attack.”

“And the Foundation would win.”

“Yes-but not necessarily easily. It might be a crisis, and we could take advantage of such a crisis to force a compromise with the despots of the Foundation. At the worst, they would forget us long enough to enable us to plan farther.”

“What do you think, Torie?”

Toran smiled feebly and pulled at a loose brown curl that fell over one eye. “The way he describes it, it can’t hurt; but who is the Mule? What do you know of him, Randu?”

“Nothing yet. For that, we could use you, Toran. And your wife, if she’s willing. We’ve talked of this, your father and I. We’ve talked of this thoroughly.”

“In what way, Randu? What do you want of us?” The young man cast a quick inquisitive look at his wife.

“Have you had a honeymoon?”

“Well... yes... if you can call the trip from the Foundation a honeymoon.”

“How about a better one on Kalgan? It’s semitropical beaches-water sports-bird hunting-quite the vacation spot. It’s about seven thousand parsecs in-not too far.”

“What’s on Kalgan?”

“The Mule! His men, at least. He took it last month, and without a battle, though Kalgan’s warlord broadcast a threat to blow the planet to ionic dust before giving it up.”

“Where’s the warlord now?”

“He isn’t,” said Randu, with a shrug. “What do you say?”

“But what are we to do?”

“I don’t know. Fran and I are old; we’re provincial. The Traders of Haven are all essentially provincial. Even you say so. Our trading is of a very restricted sort, and we’re not the Galaxy roamers our ancestors were, Shut up, Fran! But you two know the Galaxy. Bayta, especially, speaks with a nice Foundation accent. We merely wish whatever you can find out. If you can make contact... but we wouldn’t expect that. Suppose you two think it over. You can meet our entire group if you wish... oh, not before next week. You ought to have some time to catch your breath.”

There was a pause and then Fran roared, “Who wants; another drink? I mean, besides me?”

2. Captain And Mayor

CAPTAIN HAN PRITCHER was unused to the luxury of his surroundings and by no means impressed. As a general thing, he discouraged self-analysis and all forms of philosophy and metaphysics not directly connected with his work.

It helped.

His work consisted largely of what the War Department called “intelligence,” the sophisticates, “espionage,” and the romanticists, “spy stuff.” And, unfortunately, despite the frothy shrillness of the televisors, “intelligence,” “espionage,” and “spy stuff” are at best a sordid business of routine betrayal and bad faith. It is excused by society since it is in the “interest of the State,” but since philosophy seemed always to lead Captain Pritcher to the conclusion that even in that holy interest, society is much more easily soothed than one’s own conscience-he discouraged philosophy.

And now, in the luxury of the mayor’s anteroom, his thoughts turned inward despite himself.

Men had been promoted over his head continuously, though of lesser ability-that much was admitted. He had withstood an eternal rain of black marks and official reprimands, and survived it. And stubbornly he had held to his own way in the firm belief that insubordination in that same holy “interest of the State” would yet be recognized for the service it was.

So here he was in the anteroom of the mayor-with five soldiers as a respectful guard, and probably a court-martial awaiting him.

The heavy, marble doors rolled apart smoothly, silently, revealing satiny walls, a red plastic carpeting, and two more marble doors, metal-inlaid, within. Two officials in the straight-lined costume of three centuries back, stepped out, and called:

“An audience to Captain Han Pritcher of Information.”

They stepped back with a ceremonious bow as the captain started forward. His escort stopped at the outer door, and he entered the inner alone.

On the other side of the doors, in a large room strangely simple, behind a large desk strangely angular, sat a small man, almost lost in the immensity,

Mayor Indbur-successively the third of that name-was the grandson of the first Indbur, who had been brutal and capable; and who had exhibited the first quality in spectacular fashion by his manner of seizing power, and the latter by the skill with which he put an end to the last farcical remnants of free election and the even greater skill with which he maintained a relatively peaceful rule.

Mayor Indbur was also the son of the second Indbur, who was the first Mayor of the Foundation to succeed to his post by right of birth-and who was only half his father, for he was merely brutal.

So Mayor Indbur was the third of the name and the second to succeed by right of birth, and he was the least of the three, for he was neither brutal nor capable-but merely an excellent bookkeeper born wrong.

Indbur the Third was a peculiar combination of ersatz characteristics to all but himself.

To him, a stilted geometric love of arrangement was “system,” an indefatigable and feverish interest in the pettiest facets of day-to-day bureaucracy was “industry,” indecision when right was “caution,” and blind stubbornness when wrong, “determination.”

And withal he wasted no money, killed no man needlessly, and meant extremely well.

If Captain Pritcher’s gloomy thoughts ran along these lines as he remained respectfully in place before the large desk, the wooden arrangement of his features yielded no insight into the fact. He neither coughed, shifted weight, nor shuffled his feet until the thin face of the mayor lifted slowly as the busy stylus ceased in its task of marginal notations, and a sheet of close-printed paper was lifted from one neat stack and placed upon another neat stack.

Mayor Indbur clasped his hands carefully before him, deliberately refraining from disturbing the careful arrangement of desk accessories.

He said, in acknowledgment, “Captain Han Pritcher of Information.”

And Captain Pritcher in strict obedience to protocol bent one knee nearly to the ground and bowed his head until he heard the words of release.

“Arise, Captain Pritcher!”

The mayor said with an air of warm sympathy, “You are here, Captain Pritcher, because of certain disciplinary action taken against yourself by your superior officer. The papers concerning such action have come, in the ordinary course of events, to my notice, and since no event in the Foundation is of disinterest to me, I took the trouble to ask for further information on your case. You are not, I hope, surprised.”

Captain Pritcher said unemotionally, “Excellence, no. Your justice is proverbial.”

“Is it? Is it?” His tone was pleased, and the tinted contact lenses he wore caught the light in a manner that imparted a hard, dry gleam to his eyes. Meticulously, he fanned out a series of metal-bound folders before him. The parchment sheets within crackled sharply as he turned them, his long finger following down the line as he spoke.

“I have your record here, captain-complete. You are forty-three and have been an Officer of the Armed Forces for seventeen years. You were born in Loris, of Anacreonian parents, no serious childhood diseases, an attack of myo... well, that’s of no importance... education, premilitary, at the Academy of Sciences, major, hyper-engines, academic standing... hm-m-m, very good, you are to be congratulated... entered the Army as Under-Officer on the one hundred second day of the 293rd year of the Foundation Era.”

He lifted his eyes momentarily as he shifted the first folder, and opened the second.

“You see,” he said, “in my administration, nothing is left to chance. Order! System!”

He lifted a pink, scented jelly-globule to his lips. It was his one vice, and but dolingly indulged in. Witness the fact that the mayor’s desk lacked that almost-inevitable atom flash for the disposal of dead tobacco. For the mayor did not smoke.

Nor, as a matter of course, did his visitors.

The mayor’s voice droned on, methodically, slurringly, mumblingly-now and then interspersed with whispered comments of equally mild and equally ineffectual commendation or reproof.

Slowly, he replaced the folders as originally, in a single neat pile.

“Well, captain,” he said, briskly, “your record is unusual. Your ability is outstanding, it would seem, and your services valuable beyond question. I note that you have been wounded in the line of duty twice, and that you have been awarded the Order of Merit for bravery beyond the call of duty. Those are facts not lightly to be minimized.”

Captain Pritcher’s expressionless face did not soften. He remained stiffly erect. Protocol required that a subject honored by an audience with the mayor may not sit down-a point perhaps needlessly reinforced by the fact that only one chair existed in the room, the one underneath the mayor. Protocol further required no statements other than those needed to answer a direct question.

The mayor’s eyes bore down hard upon the soldier and his voice grew pointed and heavy. “However, you have not been promoted in ten years, and your superiors report, over and over again, of the unbending stubbornness of your character. You are reported to be chronically insubordinate, incapable of maintaining a correct attitude towards superior officers, apparently uninterested in maintaining frictionless relationships with your colleagues, and an incurable troublemaker, besides. How do you explain that, captain?”

“Excellence, I do what seems right to me. My deeds on behalf of the State, and my wounds in that cause bear witness that what seems fight to me is also in the interest of the State.”

“A soldierly statement, captain, but a dangerous doctrine. More of that, later. Specifically, you are charged with refusing an assignment three times in the face of orders signed by my legal delegates. What have you to say to that?”

“Excellence, the assignment lacks significance in a critical time, where matters of first importance are being ignored.”

“Ah, and who tells you these matters you speak of are of the first importance at all, and if they are, who tells you further that they are ignored?”

“Excellence, these things are quite evident to me. My experience and my knowledge of events-the value of neither of which my superiors deny-make it plain.”

“But, my good captain, are you blind that you do not see that by arrogating to yourself the right to determine Intelligence policy, you usurp the duties of your superior?”

“Excellence, my duty is primarily to the State, and not to my superior.”

“Fallacious, for your superior has his superior, and that superior is myself, and I am the State. But come, you shall have no cause to complain of this justice of mine that you say is proverbial. State in your own words the nature of the breach in discipline that has brought all this on.”

“Excellence, my duty is primarily to the State, and not to my living the life of a retired merchant mariner upon the world of Kalgan. My instructions were to direct Foundation activity upon the planet, perfect an organization to act as check upon the warlord of Kalgan, particularly as regards his foreign policy.”

“This is known to me. Continue!”

“Excellence, my reports have continually stressed the strategic positions of Kalgan and the systems it controls. I have reported on the ambition of the warlord, his resources, his determination to extend his domain and his essential friendliness-or, perhaps, neutrality-towards the Foundation.”

“I have read your reports thoroughly. Continue!”

“Excellence, I returned two months ago. At that time, there was no sign of impending war; no sign of anything but an almost superfluity of ability to repel any conceivable attack. One month ago, an unknown soldier of fortune took Kalgan without a fight. The man who was once warlord of Kalgan is apparently no longer alive. Men do not speak of treason-they speak only of the power and genius of this strange condottiere-this Mule.”

“This who?” the mayor leaned forward, and looked offended.

“Excellence, he is known as the Mule. He is spoken of little, in a factual sense, but I have gathered the scraps and fragments of knowledge and winnowed out the most probable of them. He is apparently a man of neither birth nor standing. His father, unknown. His mother, dead in childbirth. His upbringing, that of a vagabond. His education, that of the tramp worlds, and the backwash alleys of space. He has no name other than that of the Mule, a name reportedly applied by himself to himself, and signifying, by popular explanation, his immense physical strength, and stubbornness of purpose.”

“What is his military strength, captain? Never mind his physique.”

“Excellence, men speak of huge fleets, but in this they may be influenced by the strange fall of Kalgan. The territory he controls is not large, though its exact limits are not capable of definite determination. Nevertheless, this man must be investigated.”

“Hm-m-m. So! So!” The mayor fell into a reverie, and slowly with twenty-four strokes of his stylus drew six squares in hexagonal arrangements upon the blank top sheet of a pad, which he tore off, folded neatly in three parts and slipped into the wastepaper slot at his right hand. It slid towards a clean and silent atomic disintegration.

“Now then, tell me, captain, what is the alternative? You have told me what ‘must’ be investigated. What have you been ordered to investigate?”

“Excellence, there is a rat hole in space that, it seems, does not pay its taxes.”

“Ah, and is that all? You are not aware, and have not been told that these men who do not pay their taxes, are descendants of the wild Traders of our early days-anarchists, rebels, social maniacs who claim Foundation ancestry and deride Foundation culture. You are not aware, and have not been told, that this rat hole in space, is not one, but many; that these rat holes are in greater number than we know; that these rat holes conspire together, one with the other, and all with the criminal elements that still exist throughout Foundation territory. Even here, captain, even here!”

The mayor’s momentary fire subsided quickly. “You are not aware, captain?”

“Excellence, I have been told all this. But as servant of the State, I must serve faithfully-and he serves most faithfully who serves Truth. Whatever the political implications of these dregs of the ancient Traders-the warlords who have inherited the splinters of the old Empire have the power. The Traders have neither arms nor resources. They have not even unity. I am not a tax collector to be sent on a child’s errand.”

“Captain Pritcher, you are a soldier, and count guns. It is a failing to be allowed you up to the point where it involves disobedience to myself. Take care. My justice is not simply weakness. Captain, it has already been proven that the generals of the Imperial Age and the warlords of the present age are equally impotent against us. Seldon’s science which predicts the course of the Foundation is based, not on individual heroism, as you seem to believe, but on the social and economic trends of history. We have passed successfully through four crises already, have we not?”

“Excellence, we have. Yet Seldon’s science is known only to Seldon. We ourselves have but faith. In the first three crises, as I have been carefully taught, the Foundation was led by wise leaders who foresaw the nature of the crises and took the proper precautions. Otherwise-who can say?”

“Yes, captain, but you omit the fourth crisis. Come, captain, we had no leadership worthy of the name then, and we faced the cleverest opponent, the heaviest armor, the strongest force of all. Yet we won by the inevitability of history.”

“Excellence, that is true. But this history you mention became inevitable only after we had fought desperately for over a year. The inevitable victory we won cost us half a thousand ships and half a million men. Excellence, Seldon’s plan helps those who help themselves.”

Mayor Indbur frowned and grew suddenly tired of his patient exposition. It occurred to him that there was a fallacy in condescension, since it was mistaken for permission to argue eternally; to grow contentious; to wallow in dialectic. He said, stiffly, “Nevertheless, captain, Seldon guarantees victory over the warlords, and I can not, in these busy times, indulge in a dispersal of effort. These Traders you dismiss are Foundation-derived. A war with them would be a civil war. Seldon’s plan makes no guarantee there for us-since they and we are Foundation. So they must be brought to heel. You have your orders.”

“Excellence-”

“You have been asked no question, captain. You have your orders. You will obey those orders. Further argument of any sort with myself or those representing myself will be considered treason. You are excused.”

Captain Han Pritcher knelt once more, then left with slow, backward steps.

Mayor Indbur, third of his name, and second mayor of Foundation history to be so by fight of birth, recovered his equilibrium, and lifted another sheet of paper from the neat stack at his left. It was a report on the saving of funds due to the reduction of the quantity of metal-foam edging on the uniforms of the police force. Mayor Indbur crossed out a superfluous comma, corrected a misspelling, made three marginal notations, and placed it upon the neat stack at his fight. He lifted another sheet of paper from the neat stack at his left.

Captain Han Pritcher of Information found a Personal Capsule waiting for him when he returned to barracks. It contained orders, terse and redly underlined with a stamped “URGENT” ‘across it, and the whole initialed with a precise, capital “I”.

Captain Han Pritcher was ordered to the “rebel world called Haven” in the strongest terms.

Captain Han Pritcher, alone in his light one-man speedster, set his course quietly and calmly for Kalgan. He slept that night the sleep of a successfully stubborn man.

3. Lieutenant And Clown

IF, FROM A distance of seven thousand parsecs, the fall of Kalgan to the armies of the Mule had produced reverberations that had excited the curiosity of an old Trader, the apprehension of a dogged captain, and the annoyance of a meticulous mayor-to those on Kalgan itself, it produced nothing and excited no one. It is the invariable lesson to humanity that distance in time, and in space as well, lends focus. It is not recorded, incidentally, that the lesson has ever been permanently learned.

Kalgan was-Kalgan. It alone of all that quadrant of the Galaxy seemed not to know that the Empire had fallen, that the Stannells no longer ruled, that greatness had departed, and peace had disappeared.

Kalgan was the luxury world. With the edifice of mankind crumbling, it maintained its integrity as a producer of pleasure, a buyer of gold and a seller of leisure.

It escaped the harsher vicissitudes of history, for what conqueror would destroy or even seriously damage a world so full of the ready cash that would buy immunity.

Yet even Kalgan had finally become the headquarters of a warlord and its softness had been tempered to the exigencies of war.

Its tamed jungles, its mildly modeled shores, and its garishly glamorous cities echoed to the march of imported mercenaries and impressed citizens. The worlds of its province had been armed and its money invested in battleships rather than bribes for the first time in its history. Its ruler proved beyond doubt that he was determined to defend what was his and eager to seize what was others. He was a great one of the Galaxy, a war and peace maker, a builder of Empire, an establisher of dynasty.

And an unknown with a ridiculous nickname had taken him-and his arms-and his budding Empire-and had not even fought a battle.

So Kalgan was as before, and its uniformed citizens hurried back to their older life, while the foreign professionals of war merged easily into the newer bands that descended.

Again as always, there were the elaborate luxury hunts for the cultivated animal life of the jungles that never took human life; and the speedster bird-chases in the air above, that was fatal only to the Great Birds.

In the cities, the escapers of the Galaxy could take their varieties of pleasure to suit their purse, from the ethereal sky-palaces of spectacle and fantasy that opened their doors to the masses at the jingle of half a credit, to the unmarked, unnoted haunts to which only those of great wealth were of the cognoscenti.

To the vast flood, Toran and Bayta added not even a trickle. They registered their ship in the huge common hangar on the East Peninsula, and gravitated to that compromise of the middle-classes, the Inland Sea-where the pleasures were yet legal, and even respectable, and the crowds not yet beyond endurance.

Bayta wore dark glasses against the light, and a thin, white robe against the heat. Warm-tinted arms, scarcely the goldener for the sun, clasped her knees to her, and she stared with firm, abstracted gaze at the length of her husband’s outstretched body-almost shimmering in the brilliance of white sun-splendor.

“Don’t overdo it,” she had said at first, but Toran was of a dying-red star, Despite three years of the Foundation, sunlight was a luxury, and for four days now his skin, treated beforehand for ray resistance, had not felt the harshness of clothing, except for the brief shorts.

Bayta huddled close to him on the sand and they spoke in whispers.

Toran’s voice was gloomy, as it drifted upwards from a relaxed face, “No, I admit we’re nowhere. But where is he? Who is he? This mad world says nothing of him. Perhaps he doesn’t exist.”

“He exists,” replied Bayta, with lips that didn’t move. “He’s clever, that’s all. And your uncle is right. He’s a man we could use-if there’s time.”

A short pause. Toran whispered, “Know what I’ve been doing, Bay? I’m just daydreaming myself into a sun-stupor. Things figure themselves out so neatly-so sweetly.” His voice nearly trailed off, then returned, “Remember the way Dr. Amann talked back at college, Bay. The Foundation can never lose, but that does not mean the rulers of the Foundation can’t. Didn’t the real history of the Foundation begin when Salvor Hardin kicked out the Encyclopedists and took over the planet Terminus as the first mayor? And then in the next century, didn’t Hober Mallow gain power by methods almost as drastic? That’s twice the rulers were defeated, so it can be done. So why not by us?”

“It’s the oldest argument in the books. Torie. What a waste of good reverie.”

“Is it? Follow it out. What’s Haven? Isn’t it part of the Foundation? If we become top dog, it’s still the Foundation winning, and only the current rulers losing.”

“Lots of difference between ‘we can’ and ‘we will.’ You’re just jabbering.”

Toran squirmed. “Nuts, Bay, you’re just in one of your sour, green moods. What do you want to spoil my fun for? I’ll just go to sleep if you don’t mind.”

But Bayta was craning her head, and suddenly-quite a non sequitur-she giggled, and removed her glasses to look down the beach with only her palm shading her eyes.

Toran looked up, then lifted and twisted his shoulders to follow her glance.

Apparently, she was watching a spindly figure, feet in air, who teetered on his hands for the amusement of a haphazard crowd. It was one of the swarming acrobatic beggars of the shore, whose supple joints bent and snapped for the sake of the thrown coins.

A beach guard was motioning him on his way and with a surprising one-handed balance, the clown brought a thumb to his nose in an upside-down gesture. The guard advanced threateningly and reeled backward with a foot in his stomach. The clown righted himself without interrupting the motion of the initial kick and was away, while the frothing guard was held off by a thoroughly unsympathetic crowd.

The clown made his way raggedly down the beach. He brushed past many, hesitated often, stopped nowhere. The original crowd had dispersed. The guard had departed.

“He’s a queer fellow,” said Bayta, with amusement, and Toran agreed indifferently. The clown was close enough now to be seen clearly. His thin face drew together in front into a nose of generous planes and fleshy tip that seemed all but prehensile. His long, lean limbs and spidery body, accentuated by his costume, moved easily and with grace, but with just a suggestion of having been thrown together at random.

To look was to smile.

The clown seemed suddenly aware of their regard, for he stopped after he had passed, and, with a sharp turn, approached. His large, brown eyes fastened upon Bayta.

She found herself disconcerted.

The clown smiled, but it only saddened his beaked face, and when he spoke it was with the soft, elaborate phrasing of the Central Sectors.

“Were I to use the wits the good Spirits gave me,” he said, “then I would say this lady can not exist-for what sane man would hold a dream to be reality. Yet rather would I not be sane and lend belief to charmed, enchanted eyes.”

Bayta’s own eyes opened wide. She said, “Wow!”

Toran laughed, “Oh, you enchantress. Go ahead, Bay, that deserves a five-credit piece. Let him have it.”

But the clown was forward with a jump. “No, my lady, mistake me not. I spoke for money not at all, but for bright eyes and sweet face.”

“Well, thanks,” then, to Toran, “Golly, you think the sun’s in his eyes?”

“Yet not alone for eyes and face,” babbled the clown, as his words hurled past each other in heightened frenzy, “but also for a mind, clear and sturdy-and kind as well.”

Toran rose to his feet, reached for the white robe he had crooked his arm about for four days, and slipped into it.

“Now, bud,” he said, “suppose you tell me what you want, and stop annoying the lady.”

The clown fell back a frightened step, his meager body cringing. “Now, sure I meant no harm. I am a stranger here, and it’s been said I am of addled wits; yet there is something in a face that I can read. Behind this lady’s fairness, there is a heart that’s kind, and that would help me in my trouble for all I speak so boldly.”

“Will five credits cure your trouble?” said Toran, dryly, and held out the coin.

But the clown did not move to take it, and Bayta said, “Let me talk to him, Torie,” She added swiftly, and in an undertone, “There’s no use being annoyed at his silly way of talking. That’s just his dialect; and our speech is probably as strange to him.”

She said, “What is your trouble? You’re not worried about the guard, are you? He won’t bother you.”

“Oh, no, not he. He’s but a windlet that blows the dust about my ankles. There is another that I flee, and he is a storm that sweeps the worlds aside and throws them plunging at each other. A week ago, I ran away, have slept in city streets, and hid in city crowds. I’ve looked in many faces for help in need. I find it here.” He repeated the last phrase in softer, anxious tones, and his large eyes were troubled, “I find it here.”

“Now,” said Bayta, reasonably, “I would like to help, but really, friend, I’m no protection against a world-sweeping storm. To be truthful about it, I could use-”

There was an uplifted, powerful voice that bore down upon them.

“Now, then, you mud-spawned rascal-”

It was the beach guard, with a fire-red face, and snarling mouth, that approached at a run. He pointed with his low-power stun pistol.

“Hold him, you two. Don’t let him get away.” His heavy hand fell upon the clown’s thin shoulder, so that a whimper was squeezed out of him.

Toran said, “What’s he done?”

“What’s he done? What’s he done? Well, now, that’s good!” The guard reached inside the dangling pocket attached to his belt, and removed a purple handkerchief, with which he mopped his bare neck. He said with relish. “I’ll tell you what he’s done. He’s run away. The word’s all over Kalgan and I would have recognized him before this if he had been on his feet instead of on his hawkface top.” And he rattled his prey in a fierce good humor.

Bayta said with a smile, “Now where did he escape from, sir?”

The guard raised his voice. A crowd was gathering, popeyed and jabbering, and with the increase of audience, the guard’s sense of importance increased in direct ratio.

“Where did he escape from?” he declaimed in high sarcasm. “Why, I suppose you’ve heard of the Mule, now.”

All jabbering stopped, and Bayta felt a sudden iciness trickle down into her stomach. The clown had eyes only for her-he still quivered in the guard’s brawny grasp.

“And who,” continued the guard heavily, “would this infernal ragged piece be, but his lordship’s own court fool who’s run away.” He jarred his captive with a massive shake, “Do you admit it, fool?”

There was only white fear for answer, and the soundless sibilance of Bayta’s voice close to Toran’s ear.

Toran stepped forward to the guard in friendly fashion, “Now, my man, suppose you take your hand away for just a while. This entertainer you hold has been dancing for us and has not yet danced out his fee.”

“Here!” The guard’s voice rose in sudden concern. “There’s a reward-”

“You’ll have it, if you can prove he’s the man you want. Suppose you withdraw till then. You know that you’re interfering with a guest, which could be serious for you.”

“But you’re interfering with his lordship and that will be serious for you.” He shook the clown once again. “Return the man’s fee, carrion.”

Toran’s hand moved quickly and the guard’s stun pistol was wrenched away with half a finger nearly following it. The guard howled his pain and rage. Toran shoved him violently aside, and the clown, unhanded, scuttled behind him.

The crowd, whose fringes were now lost to the eye, paid little attention to the latest development. There was among them a craning of necks, and a centrifugal motion as if many had decided to increase their distance from the center of activity.

Then there was a bustle, and a rough order in the distance. A corridor formed itself and two men strode through, electric whips in careless readiness. Upon each purple blouse was designed an angular shaft of lightning with a splitting planet underneath.

A dark giant, in lieutenant’s uniform, followed them; dark of skin, and hair, and scowl.

The dark man spoke with the dangerous softness that meant he had little need of shouting to enforce his whims. He said, “Are you the man who notified us?”

The guard was still holding his wrenched hand, and with a pain-distorted face mumbled, “I claim the reward, your mightiness, and I accuse that man-”

“You’ll get your reward,” said the lieutenant, without looking at him. He motioned curtly to his men, “Take him.”

Toran felt the clown tearing at his robe with a maddened grip.

He raised his voice and kept it from shaking, “I’m sorry, lieutenant; this man is mine.”

The soldiers took the statement without blinking. One raised his whip casually, but the lieutenant’s snapped order brought it down.

His dark mightiness swung forward and planted his square body before Toran, “Who are you?”

And the answer rang out, “A citizen of the Foundation.”

It worked-with the crowd, at any rate. The pent-up silence broke into an intense hum. The Mule’s name might excite fear, but it was, after all, a new name and scarcely stuck as deeply in the vitals as the old one of the Foundation-that had destroyed the Empire-and the fear of which ruled a quadrant of the Galaxy with ruthless despotism.

The lieutenant kept face. He said, “Are you aware of the identity of the man behind you?”

“I have been told he’s a runaway from the court of your leader, but my only sure knowledge is that he is a friend of mine. You’ll need firm proof of his identity to take him.”

There were high-pitched sighs from the crowd, but the lieutenant let it pass. “Have you your papers of Foundation citizenship with you?”

“At my ship.”

“You realize that your actions are illegal? I can have you shot.”

“Undoubtedly. But then you would have shot a Foundation citizen and it is quite likely that your body would be sent to the Foundation-quartered-as part compensation. It’s been done by other warlords.”

The lieutenant wet his lips. The statement was true.

He said, “Your name?”

Toran followed up his advantage, “I will answer further questions at my ship. You can get the cell number at the Hangar; it is registered under the name ‘Bayta’.”

“You won’t give up the runaway?”

“To the Mule, perhaps. Send your master!”

The conversation had degenerated to a whisper and the lieutenant turned sharply away.

“Disperse the crowd!” he said to his men, with suppressed ferocity.

The electric whips rose and fell. There were shrieks and a vast surge of separation and flight.

Toran interrupted his reverie only once on their way back to the Hangar. He said, almost to himself, “Galaxy, Bay, what a time I had! I was so scared-”

“Yes,” she said, with a voice that still shook, and eyes that still showed something akin to worship, “it was quite out of character.”

“Well, I still don’t know what happened. I just got up there with a stun pistol that I wasn’t even sure I knew how to use, and talked back to him. I don’t know why I did it.”

He looked across the aisle of the short-run air vessel that was carrying them out of the beach area, to the seat on which the Mule’s clown scrunched up in sleep, and added distastefully, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

The lieutenant stood respectfully before the colonel of the garrison, and the colonel looked at him and said, “Well done. Your part’s over now.”

But the lieutenant did not retire immediately. He said darkly, “The Mule has lost face before a mob, sir. It will be necessary to undertake disciplinary action to restore proper atmosphere of respect.”

“Those measures have already been taken.”

The lieutenant half turned, then, almost with resentment, “I’m willing to agree, sir, that orders are orders, but standing before that man with his stun pistol and swallowing his insolence whole, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

4. The Mutant

THE “HANGAR” ON Kalgan is an institution peculiar unto itself, born of the need for the disposition of the vast number of ships brought in by the visitors from abroad, and the simultaneous and consequent vast need for living accommodations for the same. The original bright one who had thought of the obvious solution had quickly become a millionaire. His heirs-by birth or finance-were easily among the richest on Kalgan.

The “hangar” spreads fatly over square miles of territory, and “hangar” does not describe it at all sufficiently. It is essentially a hotel-for ships. The traveler pays in advance and his ship is awarded a berth from which it can take off into space at any desired moment. The visitor then lives in his ship as always. The ordinary hotel services such as the replacement of food and medical supplies at special rates, simple servicing of the ship itself, special intra-Kalgan transportation for a nominal sum are to be had, of course.

As a result, the visitor combines hangar space and hotel bill into one, at a saving. The owners sell temporary use of ground space at ample profits. The government collects huge taxes. Everyone has fun. Nobody loses. Simple!

The man who made his way down the shadow-borders of the wide corridors that connected the multitudinous wings of the “hangar” had in the past speculated on the novelty and usefulness of the system described above, but these were reflections for idle moments-distinctly unsuitable at present.

The ships hulked in their height and breadth down the long lines of carefully aligned cells, and the man discarded line after line. He was an expert at what he was doing now and if his preliminary study of the hangar registry had failed to give specific information beyond the doubtful indication of a specific wing-one containing hundreds of ships-his specialized knowledge could winnow those hundreds into one.

There was the ghost of a sigh in the silence, as the man stopped and faded down one of the lines; a crawling insect beneath the notice of the arrogant metal monsters that rested there.

Here and there the sparkling of light from a porthole would indicate the presence of an early returner from the organized pleasures to simpler-or more private-pleasures of his own.

The man halted, and would have smiled if he ever smiled. Certainly the convolutions of his brain performed the mental equivalent of a smile.

The ship he stopped at was sleek and obviously fast. The peculiarity of its design was what he wanted. It was not a usual model-and these days most of the ships of this quadrant of the Galaxy either imitated Foundation design or were built by Foundation technicians. But this was special. This was a Foundation ship-if only because of the tiny bulges in the skin that were the nodes of the protective screen that only a Foundation ship could possess. There were other indications, too.

The man felt no hesitation.

The electronic barrier strung across the line of the ships as a concession to privacy on the part of the management was not at all important to him. It parted easily, and without activating the alarm, at the use of the very special neutralizing force he had at his disposal.

So the first knowledge within the ship of the intruder without was the casual and almost friendly signal of the muted buzzer in the ship’s living room that was the result of a palm placed over the little photocell just one side of the main air lock.

And while that successful search went on, Toran and Bayta felt only the most precarious security within the steel walls of the Bayta. The Mule’s clown who had reported that within his narrow compass of body he held the lordly name of Magnifico Giganticus, sat hunched over the table and gobbled at the food set before him.

His sad, brown eyes lifted from his meat only to follow Bayta’s movements in the combined kitchen and larder where he ate.

“The thanks of a weak one are of but little value,” he muttered, “but you have them, for truly, in this past week, little but scraps have come my way-and for all my body is small, yet is my appetite unseemly great.”

“Well, then, eat!” said Bayta, with a smile. “Don’t waste your time on thanks. Isn’t there a Central Galaxy proverb about gratitude that I once heard?”

“Truly there is, my lady. For a wise man, I have been told, once said, ‘Gratitude is best and most effective when it does not evaporate itself in empty phrases.’ But alas, my lady, I am but a mass of empty phrases, it would seem. When my empty phrases pleased the Mule, it brought me a court dress, and a grand name-for, see you, it was originally simply Bobo, one that pleases him not-and then when my empty phrases pleased him not, it would bring upon my poor bones beatings and whippings.”

Toran entered from the pilot room, “Nothing to do now but wait, Bay. I hope the Mule is capable of understanding that a Foundation ship is Foundation territory.”

Magnifico Giganticus, once Bobo, opened his eyes wide and exclaimed, “How great is the Foundation before which even the cruel servants of the Mule tremble.”

“Have you heard of the Foundation, too?” asked Bayta, with a little smile.

“And who has not?” Magnifico’s voice was a mysterious whisper. “There are those who say it is a world of great magic, of fires that can consume planets, and secrets of mighty strength. They say that not the highest nobility of the Galaxy could achieve the honor and deference considered only the natural due of a simple man who could say ‘I am a citizen of the Foundation,’-were he only a salvage miner of space, or a nothing like myself.”

Bayta said, “Now, Magnifico, you’ll never finish if you make speeches. Here, I’ll get you a little flavored milk. It’s good.”

She placed a pitcher of it upon the table and motioned Toran out of the room.

“Torie, what are we going to do now-about him?” and she motioned towards the kitchen.

“How do you mean?”

“If the Mule comes, are we going to give him up?”

“Well, what else, Bay?” He sounded harassed, and the gesture with which he shoved back the moist curl upon his forehead testified to that.

He continued impatiently, “Before I came here I had a sort of vague idea that all we had to do was to ask for the Mule, and then get down to business-just business, you know, nothing definite.”

“I know what you mean, Torie. I wasn’t much hoping to see the Mule myself, but I did think we could pick up some firsthand knowledge of the mess, and then pass it over to people who know a little more about this interstellar intrigue. I’m no storybook spy.”

“You’re not behind me, Bay.” He folded his arms and frowned. “What a situation! You’d never know there was a person like the Mule, except for this last queer break. Do you suppose he’ll come for his clown?”

Bayta looked up at him. “I don’t know that I want him to. I don’t know what to say or do. Do you?”

The inner buzzer sounded with its intermittent burring noise. Bayta’s lips moved wordlessly, “The Mule!”

Magnifico was in the doorway, eyes wide, his voice a whimper, “The Mule?”

Toran murmured, “I’ve got to let them in.”

A contact opened the air lock and the outer door closed behind the newcomer. The scanner showed only a single shadowed figure.

“It’s only one person,” said Toran, with open relief, and his voice was almost shaky as he bent toward the signal tube, “Who are you?”

“You’d better let me in and find out, hadn’t you?” The words came thinly out the receiver.

“I’ll inform you that this is a Foundation ship and consequently Foundation territory by international treaty.”

“I know that.”

“Come with your arms free, or I’ll shoot. I’m well-armed.”

“Done!”

Toran opened the inner door and closed contact on his blast pistol, thumb hovering over the pressure point. There was the sound of footsteps and then the door swung open, and Magnifico cried out, “It’s not the Mule. It’s but a man.”

The “man” bowed to the clown somberly, “Very accurate. I’m not the Mule.” He held his hands apart, “I’m not armed, and I come on a peaceful errand. You might relax and put the blast pistol away. Your hand isn’t steady enough for my peace of mind.”

“Who are you?” asked Toran, brusquely.

“I might ask you that,” said the stranger, coolly, “since you’re the one under false pretenses, not I.”

“How so?”

“You’re the one who claims to be a Foundation citizen when there’s not an authorized Trader on the planet.”

“That’s not so. How would you know?”

“Because I am a Foundation citizen, and have my papers to prove it. Where are yours?”

“I think you’d better get out.”

“I think not. If you know anything about Foundation methods, and despite your imposture you might, you’d know that if I don’t return alive to my ship at a specified time, there’ll be a signal at the nearest Foundation headquarters so I doubt if your weapons will have much effect, practically speaking.”

There was an irresolute silence and then Bayta said, calmly, “Put the blaster away, Toran, and take him at face value. He sounds like the real thing.”

“Thank you,” said the stranger.

Toran put his gun on the chair beside him, “Suppose you explain all this now.”

The stranger remained standing. He was long of bone and large of limb. His face consisted of hard flat planes and it was somehow evident that he never smiled. But his eyes lacked hardness.

He said, “News travels quickly, especially when it is apparently beyond belief. I don’t suppose there’s a person on Kalgan who doesn’t know that the Mule’s men were kicked in the teeth today by two tourists from the Foundation. I knew of the important details before evening, and, as I said, there are no Foundation tourists aside from myself on the planet. We know about those things.”

“Who are the ‘we’?”

“‘We’ are-‘we’! Myself for one! I knew you were at the Hangar-you had been overheard to say so. I had my ways of checking the registry, and my ways of finding the ship.”

He turned to Bayta suddenly, “You’re from the Foundation-by birth, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“You’re a member of the democratic opposition-they call it ‘the underground.’ I don’t remember your name, but I do the face. You got out only recently-and wouldn’t have if you were more important.”

Bayta shrugged, “You know a lot.”

“I do. You escaped with a man. That one?”

“Does it matter what I say?”

“No. I merely want a thorough mutual understanding. I believe that the password during the week you left so hastily was ‘Seldon, Hardin, and Freedom.’ Porfirat Hart was your section leader.”

“Where’d you get that?” Bayta was suddenly fierce. “Did the police get him?” Toran held her back, but she shook herself loose and advanced.

The man from the Foundation said quietly, “Nobody has him. It’s just that the underground spreads widely and in queer places. I’m Captain Han Pritcher of Information, and I’m a section leader myself-never mind under what name.”

He waited, then said, “No, you don’t have to believe me. In our business it is better to overdo suspicion than the opposite. But I’d better get past the preliminaries.”

“Yes,” said Toran, “suppose you do.”

“May I sit down? Thanks.” Captain Pritcher swung a long leg across his knee and let an arm swing loose over the back of the chair. “I’ll start out by saying that I don’t know what all this is about-from your angle. You two aren’t from the Foundation, but it’s not a hard guess that you’re from one of the independent Trading worlds. That doesn’t bother me overmuch. But out of curiosity, what do you want with that fellow, that clown you snatched to safety? You’re risking your life to hold on to him.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Hm-m-m. Well, I didn’t think you would. But if you’re waiting for the Mule himself to come behind a fanfarade of horns, drums, and electric organs-relax! The Mule doesn’t work that way.”

“What?” It came from both Toran and Bayta, and in the comer where Magnifico lurked with ears almost visibly expanded, there was a sudden joyful start.

“That’s right. I’ve been trying to contact him myself, and doing a rather more thorough job of it than you two amateurs can. It won’t work. The man makes no personal appearance, does not allow himself to be photographed or simulated, and is seen only by his most intimate associates.”

“Is that supposed to explain your interest in us, captain?” questioned Toran.

“No. That clown is the key. That clown is one of the very few that have seen him. I want him. He may be the proof I need-and I need something, Galaxy knows-to awaken the Foundation.”

“It needs awakening?” broke in Bayta with sudden sharpness. “Against what? And in what role do you act as alarm, that of rebel democrat or of secret police and provocateur?”

The captain’s face set in its hard lines. “When the entire Foundation is threatened, Madame Revolutionary, both democrats and tyrants perish. Let us save the tyrants from a greater, that we may overthrow them in their turn.”

“Who’s the greater tyrant you speak of?” flared Bayta.

“The Mule! I know a bit about him, enough to have been my death several times over already, if I had moved less nimbly. Send the clown out of the room. This will require privacy.”

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, with a gesture, and the clown left without a sound.

The captain’s voice was grave and intense, and low enough so that Toran and Bayta drew close.

He said, “The Mule is a shrewd operator-far too shrewd not to realize the advantage of the magnetism and glamour of personal leadership. If he gives that up, it’s for a reason. That reason must be the fact that personal contact would reveal something that is of overwhelming importance not to reveal.”

He waved aside questions, and continued more quickly, “I went back to his birthplace for this, and questioned people who for their knowledge will not live long. Few enough are still alive. They remember the baby born thirty years before-the death of his mother-his strange youth. The Mule is not a human being!”

And his two listeners drew back in horror at the misty implications. Neither understood, fully or clearly, but the menace of the phrase was definite.

The captain continued, “He is a mutant, and obviously from his subsequent career, a highly successful one. I don’t know his powers or the exact extent to which he is what our thrillers would call a ‘superman,’ but the rise from nothing to the conqueror of Kalgan’s warlord in two years is revealing. You see, don’t you, the danger? Can a genetic accident of unpredictable biological properties be taken into account in the Seldon plan?”

Slowly, Bayta spoke, “I don’t believe it. This is some sort of complicated trickery. Why didn’t the Mule’s men kill us when they could have, if he’s a superman?”

“I told you that I don’t know the extent of his mutation. He may not be ready, yet, for the Foundation, and it would be a sign of the greatest wisdom to resist provocation until ready. Now let me speak to the clown.”

The captain faced the trembling Magnifico, who obviously distrusted this huge, hard man who faced him.

The captain began slowly, “Have you seen the Mule with your own eyes?”

“I have but too well, respected sir. And felt the weight of his arm with my own body as well.”

“I have no doubt of that. Can you describe him?”

“It is frightening to recall him, respected sir. He is a man of mighty frame. Against him, even you would be but a spindling. His hair is of a burning crimson, and with all my strength and weight I could not pull down his arm, once extended-not a hair’s thickness.” Magnifico’s thinness seemed to collapse upon itself in a huddle of arms and legs. “Often, to amuse his generals or to amuse only himself, he would suspend me by one finger in my belt from a fearful height, while I chattered poetry. It was only after the twentieth verse that I was withdrawn, and each improvised and each a perfect rhyme, or else start over. He is a man of overpowering might, respected sir, and cruel in the use of his power-and his eyes, respected sir, no one sees.”

“What? What’s that last?”

“He wears spectacles, respected sir, of a curious nature. It is said that they are opaque and that he sees by a powerful magic that far transcends human powers. I have heard,” and his voice was small and mysterious, “that to see his eyes is to see death; that he kills with his eyes, respected sir.”

Magnifico’s eyes wheeled quickly from one watching face to another. He quavered, “It is true. As I live, it is true.”

Bayta drew a long breath, “Sounds like you’re right, captain. Do you want to take over?”

“Well, let’s look at the situation. You don’t owe anything here? The hangar’s barrier above is free?”

“I can leave any time.”

“Then leave. The Mule may not wish to antagonize the Foundation, but he runs a frightful risk in letting Magnifico get away. It probably accounts for the hue and cry after the poor devil in the first place. So there may be ships waiting for you upstairs. If you’re lost in space, who’s to pin the crime?”

“You’re right,” agreed Toran, bleakly.

“However, you’ve got a shield and you’re probably speedier than anything they’ve got, so as soon as you’re clear of the atmosphere make the circle in neutral to the other hemisphere, then just cut a track outwards at top acceleration.”

“Yes,” said Bayta coldly, “and when we are back on the Foundation, what then, captain?”

“Why, you are then co-operative citizens of Kalgan, are you not? I know nothing to the contrary, do I?”

Nothing was said. Toran turned to the controls. There was an imperceptible lurch.

It was when Toran had left Kalgan sufficiently far in the rear to attempt his first interstellar jump, that Captain Pritcher’s face first creased slightly-for no ship of the Mule had in any way attempted to bar their leaving.

“Looks like he’s letting us carry off Magnifico,” said Toran. “Not so good for your story.”

“Unless,” corrected the captain, “he wants us to carry him off, in which case it’s not so good for the Foundation.”

It was after the last jump, when within neutral-flight distance of the Foundation, that the first hyperwave news broadcast reached the ship.

And there was one news item barely mentioned. It seemed that a warlord-unidentified by the bored speaker-had made representations to the Foundation concerning the forceful abduction of a member of his court. The announcer went on to the sports news.

Captain Pritcher said icily, “He’s one step ahead of us after all.” Thoughtfully, he added, “He’s ready for the Foundation, and he uses this as an excuse for action. It makes things more difficult for us. We will have to act before we are really ready.”

... Continued in Volume 18

Sources of Dates

(For Volume 17)

AD =Anno Domini

GE =Galactic Era

FE =Foundational Era

Foundation’s Triumph Takes place after “The Psychohistorians”

“Epilogue” Hari Seldon’s death.

“The Originist” Begins shortly after Hari Seldon’s trial, ends several months after Seldon’s death.

“The Encyclopedists” Takes place 50 years after the Foundation is established in 12,068 GE.

“The Mayors” Takes place 30 years after “The Encyclopedists”.

“The Traders” Takes place “two decades” before “The Merchant Princes”.

“The Merchant Princes” Begins “almost 75 years” after “The Mayors”, ends six years later.

“The General” Begins “over 40 years” after Hober Mallow’s meeting with Onum Barr in “The Merchant Princes”.

“Trantor Falls” Takes place forty years before “The Mule”.

“The Mule” Takes place 17 years after Han Pritcher joins the Army in 293 FE.

Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Foundation’s Triumph

Part 3

Secret Crimes

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

Part 4

A Magnificent Design

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Part 5

A Recurring Rendezvous

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Part 6

Full Circle

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

Epilogue

The Originist

The Encyclopedists

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

The Mayors

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

The Traders

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

The Merchant Princes

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

The General

1. Search For Magicians

2. The Magicians

3. The Dead Hand

4. The Emperor

5. The War Begins

6. The Favorite

7. Bribery

8. To Trantor

9. On Trantor

10. The War Ends

Trantor Falls

The Mule

1. Bride And Groom

2. Captain And Mayor

3. Lieutenant And Clown

4. The Mutant

Sources of Dates