Asimov’s Future History

Volume XVIII

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.

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

Search By The Mule - First published as Now You See It... in Astounding Science Fiction, January, 1948

Search By The Foundation -First published as ...And Now You Don't as a serial in Astounding Science Fiction, November, December, 1949 January, 1950

Foundation’s Edge - First published in September, 1982

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

Layout and design by Dead^Man

Cover art “Spaceship” by Integrity Ice 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

310 FE The Mule

5. The Psychologist

6. Conference

7. The Visi-Sonor

8. Fall of the Foundation

9. Start of the Search

10. Conspirator

11. Interlude in Space

12. Death on Neotrantor

13. The Ruins of Trantor

14. Convert

15. Death of a Psychologist

16. End of the Search

316 FE Search By The Mule

1. Two Men and the Mule

2. Two Men without the Mule

3. Two Men and a Peasant

4. Two Men and the Elders

5. One Man and the Mule

6. One Man, the Mule-and Another

376 FE Search By The Foundation

1. Arcadia

2. Seldon’s Plan

3. The Conspirators

4. Approaching Crisis

5. Stowaway

6. Lord

7. Lady

8. Anxiety

9. Through the Grid

10. Beginning of War

11. War

12. Ghost of a World

13. End of War

14. “I Know...”

15. The Answer That Satisfied

16. The Answer That Was True

498 FE Foundation’s Edge

Prologue

1. Councilman

2. Mayor

3. Historian

4. Space

5. Speaker

6. Earth

7. Farmer

8. Farmwoman

9. Hyperspace

10. Table

11. Sayshell

12. Agent

13. University

14. Forward!

Sources of Dates

The Mule

310-311 F.E. (12378-12379 G.E.)

5. The Psychologist

THERE WAS REASON to the fact that the element known as “pure science” was the freest form of life on the Foundation. In a Galaxy where the predominance-and even survival-of the Foundation still rested upon the superiority of its technology-even despite its large access of physical power in the last century and a half-a certain immunity adhered to The Scientist. He was needed, and he knew it.

Likewise, there was reason to the fact that Ebling Mis-only those who did not know him added his titles to his name-was the freest form of life in the “pure science” of the Foundation. In a world where science was respected, he was The Scientist-with capital letters and no smile. He was needed, and he knew it.

And so it happened, that when others bent their knee, he refused and added loudly that his ancestors in their time bowed no knee to any stinking mayor. And in his ancestors’ time the mayor was elected anyhow, and kicked out at will, and that the only people that inherited anything by right of birth were the congenital idiots.

So it also happened, that when Ebling Mis decided to allow Indbur to honor him with an audience, he did not wait for the usual rigid line of command to pass his request up and the favored reply down, but, having thrown the less disreputable of his two formal jackets over his shoulders and pounded an odd hat of impossible design on one side of his head, and lit a forbidden cigar into the bargain, he barged past two ineffectually bleating guards and into the mayor’s palace.

The first notice his excellence received of the intrusion was when from his garden he heard the gradually nearing uproar of expostulation and the answering bull-roar of inarticulate swearing.

Slowly, Indbur lay down his trowel; slowly, he stood up; and slowly, he frowned. For Indbur allowed himself a daily vacation from work, and for two hours in the early afternoon, weather permitting, he was in his garden. There in his garden, the blooms grew in squares and triangles, interlaced in a severe order of red and yellow, with little dashes of violet at the apices, and greenery bordering the whole in rigid lines. There in his garden no one disturbed him-no one!

Indbur peeled off his soil-stained gloves as he advanced toward the little garden door.

Inevitably, he said, “What is the meaning of this?”

It is the precise question and the precise wording thereof that has been put to the atmosphere on such occasions by an incredible variety of men since humanity was invented. It is not recorded that it has ever been asked for any purpose other than dignified effect.

But the answer was literal this time, for Mis’s body came plunging through with a bellow, and a shake of a fist at the ones who were still holding tatters of his cloak.

Indbur motioned them away with a solemn, displeased frown, and Mis bent to pick up his ruin of a hat, shake about a quarter of the gathered dirt off it, thrust it under his armpit and say:

“Look here, Indbur, those unprintable minions of yours will be charged for one good cloak. Lots of good wear left in this cloak.” He puffed and wiped his forehead with just a trace of theatricality.

The mayor stood stiff with displeasure, and said haughtily from the peak of his five-foot-two, “It has not been brought to my attention, Mis, that you have requested an audience. You have certainly not been assigned one.”

Ebling Mis looked down at his mayor with what was apparently shocked disbelief, “Ga-LAX-y, Indbur, didn’t you get my note yesterday? I handed it to a flunky in purple uniform day before. I would have handed it to you direct, but I know how you like formality.”

“Formality!” Indbur turned up exasperated eyes. Then, strenuously, “Have you ever heard of proper organization? At all future times you are to submit your request for an audience, properly made out in triplicate, at the government office intended for the purpose. You are then to wait until the ordinary course of events brings you notification of the time of audience to be granted. You are then to appear, properly clothed-properly clothed, do you understand-and with proper respect, too. You may leave.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” demanded Mis, hotly. “Best cloak I had till those unprintable fiends got their claws on it. I’ll leave just as soon as I deliver what I came to deliver. “Ga-LAX-y, if it didn’t involve a Seldon Crisis, I would leave right now.”

“Seldon crisis!” Indbur exhibited first interest. Mis was a great psychologist-a democrat, boor, and rebel certainly, but a psychologist, too. In his uncertainty, the mayor even failed to put into words the inner pang that stabbed suddenly when Mis plucked a casual bloom, held it to his nostrils expectantly, then flipped it away with a wrinkled nose.

Indbur said coldly, “Would you follow me? This garden wasn’t made for serious conversation.”

He felt better in his built-up chair behind his large desk from which he could look down on the few hairs that quite ineffectually hid Mis’s pink scalp-skin. He felt much better when Mis cast a series of automatic glances about him for a non-existent chair and then remained standing in uneasy shifting fashion. He felt best of all when in response to a careful pressure of the correct contact, a liveried underling scurried in, bowed his way to the desk, and laid thereon a bulky, metal-bound volume.

“Now, in order,” said Indbur, once more master of the situation, “to make this unauthorized interview as short as possible, make your statement in the fewest possible words.”

Ebling Mis said unhurriedly, “You know what I’m doing these days?”

“I have your reports here,” replied the mayor, with satisfaction, “together with authorized summaries of them. As I understand it, your investigations into the mathematics of psychohistory have been intended to duplicate Hari Seldon’s work and, eventually, trace the projected course of future history, for the use of the Foundation.”

“Exactly,” said Mis, dryly. “When Seldon first established the Foundation, he was wise enough to include no psychologists among the scientists placed here-so that the Foundation has always worked blindly along the course of historical necessity. In the course of my researches, I have based a good deal upon hints found at the Time Vault.”

“I am aware of that, Mis. It is a waste of time to repeat.”

“I’m not repeating,” blared Mis, “because what I’m going to tell you isn’t in any of those reports.”

“How do you mean, not in the reports?” said Indbur, stupidly. “How could-”

“Ga-LAX-y, Let me tell this my own way, you offensive little creature. Stop putting words into my mouth and questioning my every statement or I’ll tramp out of here and let everything crumble around you. Remember, you unprintable fool, the Foundation will come through because it must, but if I walk out of here now-you won’t.”

Dashing his hat on the floor, so that clods of earth scattered, he sprang up the stairs of the dais on which the wide desk stood and shoving papers violently, sat down upon a comer of it.

Indbur thought frantically of summoning the guard, or using the built-in blasters of his desk. But Mis’s face was glaring down upon him and there was nothing to do but cringe the best face upon it.

“Dr. Mis,” he began, with weak formality, “you must-”

“Shut up,” said Mis, ferociously, “and listen. If this thing here,” and his palm came down heavily on the metal of the bound data, “is a mess of my reports-throw it out. Any report I write goes up through some twenty-odd officials, gets to you, and then sort of winds down through twenty more. That’s fine if there’s nothing you don’t want kept secret. Well, I’ve got something confidential here. It’s so confidential, even the boys working for me haven’t got wind of it. They did the work, of course, but each just a little unconnected piece-and I put it together. You know what the Time Vault is?”

Indbur nodded his head, but Mis went on with loud enjoyment of the situation, “Well, I’ll tell you anyhow because I’ve been sort of imagining this unprintable situation for a “Ga-LAX-y, of a long time; I can read your mind, you puny fraud. You’ve got your hand right near a little knob that’ll call in about five hundred or so armed men to finish me off, but you’re afraid of what I know-you’re afraid of a Seldon Crisis. Besides which, if you touch anything on your desk, I’ll knock your unprintable head off before anyone gets here. You and your bandit father and pirate grandfather have been blood-sucking the Foundation long enough anyway.”

“This is treason,” gabbled Indbur.

“It certainly is,” gloated Mis, “but what are you going to do about it? Let me tell you about the Time Vault. That Time Vault is what Hari Seldon placed here at the beginning to help us over the rough spots. For every crisis, Seldon has prepared a personal simulacrum to help-and explain. Four crises so far-four appearances. The first time he appeared at the height of the first crisis. The second time, he appeared at the moment just after the successful evolution of the second crisis. Our ancestors were there to listen to him both times. At the third and fourth crises, he was ignored-probably because he was not needed, but recent investigations-not included in those reports you have-indicate that he appeared anyway, and at the proper times. Get it?”

He did not wait for any answer. His cigar, a tattered, dead ruin was finally disposed of, a new cigar groped for, and lit. The smoke puffed out violently.

He said, “Officially I’ve been trying to rebuild the science of psychohistory. Well, no one man is going to do that, and it won’t get done in any one century, either. But I’ve made advances in the more simple elements and I’ve been able to use it as an excuse to meddle with the Time Vault. What I have done, involves the determination, to a pretty fair kind of certainty, of the exact date of the next appearance of Hari Seldon. I can give you the exact day, in other words, that the coming Seldon Crisis, the fifth, will reach its climax. ”

“How far off?” demanded Indbur, tensely.

And Mis exploded his bomb with cheerful nonchalance,

“Four months,” he said. “Four unprintable months, less two days.”

“Four months,” said Indbur, with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Impossible.”

“Impossible, my unprintable eye.”

“Four months? Do you understand what that means? For a crisis to come to a head in four months would mean that it has been preparing for years.”

“And why not? Is there a law of Nature that requires the process to mature in the full light of day?”

“But nothing impends. Nothing hangs over us.” Indbur almost wrung his hands for anxiety. With a sudden spasmodic recrudescence of ferocity, he screamed, “Will you get off my desk and let me put it in order? How do you expect me to think?”

Mis, startled, lifted heavily and moved aside.

Indbur replaced objects in their appropriate niches with a feverish motion. He was speaking quickly, “You have no right to come here like this. If you had presented your theory-”

“It is not a theory.”

“I say it is a theory. If you had presented it together with your evidence and arguments, in appropriate fashion, it would have gone to the Bureau of Historical Sciences. There it could have been properly treated, the resulting analyses submitted to me, and then, of course, proper action would have been taken. As it is, you’ve vexed me to no purpose. Ah, here it is.”

He had a sheet of transparent, silvery paper in his hand which he shook at the bulbous psychologist beside him.

“This is a short summary I prepare myself-weekly-of foreign matters in progress. Listen-we have completed negotiations for a commercial treaty with Mores, continue negotiations for one with Lyonesse, sent a delegation to some celebration or other on Bonde, received some complaint or other from Kalgan and we’ve promised to look into it, protested some sharp trade practices in Asperta and they’ve promised to look into it-and so on and so on.” The mayor’s eyes swarmed down the list of coded notations, and then he carefully placed the sheet in its proper place in the proper folder in the proper pigeonhole.

I tell you, Mis, there’s not a thing there that breathes anything but order and peace-”

The door at the far, long end opened, and, in far too dramatically coincident a fashion to suggest anything but real life, a plainly-costumed notable stepped in.

Indbur half-rose. He had the curiously swirling sensation of unreality that comes upon those days when too much happens. After Mis’s intrusion and wild fumings there now came the equally improper, hence disturbing, intrusion unannounced, of his secretary, who at least knew the rules.

The secretary kneeled low.

Indbur said, sharply, “Well!”

The secretary addressed the floor, “Excellence, Captain Han Pritcher of Information, returning from Kalgan, in disobedience to your orders, has according to prior instructions-your order X20-513-been imprisoned, and awaits execution. Those accompanying him are being held for questioning. A full report has been filed.”

Indbur, in agony, said, “A full report has been received. Well!”

“Excellence, Captain Pritcher has reported, vaguely, dangerous designs on the part of the new warlord of Kalgan. He has been given, according to prior instructions-your order X20-651-no formal hearing, but his remarks have been recorded and a full report filed.”

Indbur screamed, “A full report has been received. Well!”

“Excellence, reports have within the quarter-hour been received from the Salinnian frontier. Ships identified as Kalganian have been entering Foundation territory, unauthorized. The ships are armed. Fighting has occurred.”

The secretary was bent nearly double. Indbur remained standing. Ebling Mis shook himself, clumped up to the secretary, and tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

“Here, you’d better have them release this Captain Pritcher, and have him sent here. Get out.”

The secretary left, and Mis turned to the mayor, “Hadn’t you better get the machinery moving, Indbur? Four months, you know.”

Indbur remained standing, glaze-eyed. Only one finger seemed alive-and it traced rapid jerky triangles on the smooth desk top before him.

6. Conference

WHEN THE TWENTY-seven independent Trading worlds, united only by their distrust of the mother planet of the Foundation, concert an assembly among themselves, and each is big with a pride grown of its smallness, hardened by its own insularity and embittered by eternal danger-there are preliminary negotiations to be overcome of a pettiness sufficiently staggering to heartsicken the most persevering.

It is not enough to fix in advance such details as methods of voting, type of representation-whether by world or by population. These are matters of involved political importance. It is not enough to fix matters of priority at the table, both council and dinner, those are matters of involved social importance.

It was the place of meeting-since that was a matter of overpowering provincialism. And in the end the devious routes of diplomacy led to the world of Radole, which some commentators had suggested at the start for logical reason of central position.

Radole was a small world-and, in military potential, perhaps the weakest of the twenty-seven. That, by the way, was another factor in the logic of the choice.

It was a ribbon world-of which the Galaxy boasts sufficient, but among which, the inhabited variety is a rarity for the physical requirements are difficult to meet. It was a world, in other words, where the two halves face the monotonous extremes of heat and cold, while the region of possible life is the girdling ribbon of the twilight zone.

Such a world invariably sounds uninviting to those who have not tried it, but there exist spots, strategically placed-and Radole City was located in such a one.

It spread along the soft slopes of the foothills before the hacked-out mountains that backed it along the rim of the cold hemisphere and held off the frightful ice. The warm, dry air of the sun-half spilled over, and from the mountains was piped the water-and between the two, Radole City became a continuous garden, swimming in the eternal morning of an eternal June.

Each house nestled among its flower garden, open to the fangless elements. Each garden was a horticultural forcing ground, where luxury plants grew in fantastic patterns for the sake of the foreign exchange they brought-until Radole had almost become a producing world, rather than a typical Trading world.

So, in its way, Radole City was a little point of softness and luxury on a horrible planet-a tiny scrap of Eden-and that, too, was a factor in the logic of the choice.

The strangers came from each of the twenty-six other Trading worlds: delegates, wives, secretaries, newsmen, ships, and crews-and Radole’s population nearly doubled and Radole’s resources strained themselves to the limit. One ate at will, and drank at will, and slept not at all.

Yet there were few among the roisterers who were not intensely aware that all that volume of the Galaxy burnt slowly in a sort of quiet, slumbrous war. And of those who were aware, there were dime classes. First, there were the many who knew little and were very confident.

Such as the young space pilot who wore the Haven cockade on the clasp of his cap, and who managed, in holding his glass before his eyes, to catch those of the faintly smiling Radolian girl opposite. He was saying:

“We came fight through the war-zone to get here-on purpose. We traveled about a light-minute or so, in neutral, right past Horleggor-”

“Horleggor?” broke in a long-legged native, who was playing host to that particular gathering. “That’s where the Mule got the guts beat out of him last week, wasn’t it?”

“Where’d you hear that the Mule got the guts beat out of him?” demanded the pilot, loftily.

“Foundation radio.”

“Yeah? Well, the Mule’s got Horleggor. We almost ran into a convoy of his ships, and that’s where they were coming from. It isn’t a gut-beating when you stay where you fought, and the gut-beater leaves in a hurry.”

Someone else said in a high, blurred voice, “Don’t talk like that. Foundation always takes it on the chin for a while. You watch; just sit tight and watch. Ol’ Foundation knows when to come back. And then-pow!” The thick voice concluded and was succeeded by a bleary grin.

“Anyway.” said the pilot from Haven, after a short pause, “As I say, we saw the Mule’s ships, and they looked pretty good, pretty good. I tell you what-they looked new.”

“New?” said the native, thoughtfully. “They build them themselves?” He broke a leaf from an overhanging branch, sniffed delicately at it, then crunched it between his teeth, the bruised tissues bleeding greenly and diffusing a minty odor. He said, “You trying to tell me they beat Foundation ships with homebuilt jobs? Go on.”

“We saw them, doc. And I can tell a ship from a comet, too, you know.”

The native leaned close. “You know what I think. Listen, don’t kid yourself. Wars don’t just start by themselves, and we have a bunch of shrewd apples running things. They know what they’re doing.”

The well-unthirsted one said with sudden loudness, “You watch ol’ Foundation. They wait for the last minute, then-pow!” He grinned with vacuously open mouth at the girl, who moved away from him.

The Radolian was saying, “For instance, old man, you think maybe that this Mule guy’s running things. No-o-o.” And he wagged a finger horizontally. “The way I hear it, and from pretty high up, mind you, he’s our boy. We’re paying him off, and we probably built those ships. Let’s be realistic about it-we probably did. Sure, he can’t beat the Foundation in the long run, but he can get them shaky, and when he does-we get in.”

The girl said, “Is that all you can talk about, Klev? The war? You make me tired.”

The pilot from Haven said, in an access of gallantry,

“Change the subject. Can’t make the girls tired.”

The bedewed one took up the refrain and banged a mug to the rhythm. The little groups of two that had formed broke up with giggles and swagger, and a few similar groups of twos emerged from the sun-house in the background.

The conversation became more general, more varied, more meaningless.

Then there were those who knew a little more and were less confident.

Such as the one-armed Fran, whose large bulk represented Haven as official delegated, and who lived high in consequence, and cultivated new friendships-with women when he could and with men when he had to.

It was on the sun platform of the hilltop home, of one of these new friends, that he relaxed for the first of what eventually proved to be a total of two times while on Radole. The new friend was Iwo Lyon, a kindred soul of Radole. Iwo’s house was apart from the general cluster, apparently alone in a sea of floral perfume and insect chatter. The sun platform was a grassy strip of lawn set at a forty-five degree angle, and upon it Fran stretched out and fairly sopped up sun.

He said, “Don’t have anything like this on Haven.”

Iwo replied, sleepily, “Ever seen the cold side. There’s a spot twenty miles from here where the oxygen runs like water. ”

“Go on.

“Fact.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Iwo-In the old days before my arm was chewed off I knocked around, see-and you won’t believe this, but”-The story that followed lasted considerably, and Iwo didn’t believe it.

Iwo said, through yawns, “They don’t make them like in the old days, that’s the truth.”

“No, guess they don’t. Well, now,” Fran fired up, “don’t say that. I told you about my son, didn’t I? He’s one of the old school, if you like. He’ll make a great Trader, blast it. He’s his old man up and down. Up and down, except that he gets married.”

“You mean legal contract? With a girl?”

“That’s right. Don’t see the sense in it myself. They went to Kalgan for their honeymoon.”

“Kalgan? Kalgan? When the Galaxy was this?”

Fran smiled broadly, and said with slow meaning, “Just before the Mule declared war on the Foundation.”

“That so?”

Fran nodded and motioned Iwo closer with his head. He said, hoarsely, “In fact, I can tell you something, if you don’t let it go any further. My boy was sent to Kalgan for a purpose. Now I wouldn’t like to let it out, you know, just what the purpose was, naturally, but you look at the situation now, and I suppose you can make a pretty good guess. In any case, my boy was the man for the job. We Traders needed some sort of ruckus.” He smiled, craftily. “It’s here. I’m not saying how we did it, but-my boy went to Kalgan, and the Mule sent out his ships. My son!”

Iwo was duly impressed. He grew confidential in his turn, “That’s good. You know, they say we’ve got five hundred ships ready to pitch in on our own at the right time. ”

Fran said authoritatively, “More than that, maybe. This is real strategy. This is the kind I like.” He clawed loudly at the skin of his abdomen. “But don’t you forget that the Mule is a smart boy, too. What happened at Horleggor worries me.”

“I heard he lost about ten ships.”

“Sure, but he had a hundred more, and the Foundation had to get out. It’s all to the good to have those tyrants beaten, but not as quickly as all that.” He shook his head.

“The question I ask is where does the Mule get his ships? There’s a widespread rumor we’re making them for him.”

“We? The Traders? Haven has the biggest ship factories anywhere in the independent worlds, and we haven’t made one for anyone but ourselves. Do you suppose any world is building a fleet for the Mule on its own, without taking the precaution of united action? That’s a... a fairy tale.”

“Well, where does he get them?”

And Fran shrugged, “Makes them himself, I suppose. That worries me, too.”

Fran blinked at the sun and curled his toes about the smooth wood of the polished foot-rest. Slowly, he fell asleep and the soft burr of his breathing mingled with the insect sibilance.

Lastly, there were the very few who knew considerable and were not confident at all.

Such as Randu, who on the fifth day of the all-Trader convention entered the Central Hall and found the two men he had asked to be there, waiting for him. The five hundred seats were empty-and were going to stay so.

Randu said quickly, almost before he sat down, “We three represent about half the military potential of the Independent Trading Worlds.”

“Yes,” said Mangin of Iss, “my colleague and I have already commented upon the fact.”

“I am ready,” said Randu, “to speak quickly and earnestly. I am not interested in bargaining or subtlety. Our position is radically in the worse.”

“As a result of-” urged Ovall Gri of Mnemon.

“Of developments of the last hour. Please! From the beginning. First, our position is not of our doing, and but doubtfully of our control. Our original dealings were not with the Mule, but with several others; notably the ex-warlord of Kalgan, whom the Mule defeated at a most inconvenient time for us.”

“Yes, but this Mule is a worthy substitute,” said Mangin. “I do not cavil at details.”

“You may when you know all the details.” Randu leaned forward and placed his hands upon the table palms-up in an obvious gesture.

He said, “A month ago I sent my nephew and my nephew’s wife to Kalgan.”

“Your nephew!” cried Ovall Gri, in surprise. “I did not know he was your nephew.”

“With what purpose,” asked Mangin, dryly. “This?” And his thumb drew an inclusive circle high in the air.

“No. If you mean the Mule’s war on the Foundation, no. How could I aim so high? The young man knew nothing-neither of our organization nor of our aims. He was told I was a minor member of an intra-Haven patriotic society, and his function at Kalgan was nothing but that of an amateur observer. My motives were, I must admit, rather obscure. Mainly, I was curious about the Mule. He is a strange phenomenon-but that’s a chewed cud; I’ll not go into it. Secondly, it would make an interesting and educational training project for a man who had experience with the Foundation and the Foundation underground and showed promise of future usefulness to us. You see-”

Ovall’s long face fell into vertical lines as he showed his large teeth, “You must have been surprised at the outcome, then, since there is not a world among the Traders, I believe, that does not know that this nephew of yours abducted a Mule underling in the name of the Foundation and furnished the Mule with a casus belli. Galaxy, Randu, you spin romances. I find it hard to believe you had no hand in that. Come, it was a skillful job.”

Randu shook his white head, “Not of my doing. Nor, willfully, of my nephew’s, who is now held prisoner at the Foundation, and may not live to see the completion of this so-skillful job. I have just heard from him. The Personal Capsule has been smuggled out somehow, come through the war zone, gone to Haven, and traveled from there to here. It has been a month on its travels.”

“And?-”

Randu leaned a heavy hand upon the heel of his palm and said, sadly, “I’m afraid we are cast for the same role that the onetime warlord of Kalgan played. The Mule is a mutant!”

There was a momentary qualm; a faint impression of quickened heartbeats. Randu might easily have imagined it.

When Mangin spoke, the evenness of his voice was unchanged, “How do you know?”

“Only because my nephew says so, but he was on Kalgan.

“What kind of a mutant? There are all kinds, you know.”

Randu forced the rising impatience down, “All kinds of mutants, yes, Mangin. All kinds! But only one kind of Mule. What kind of a mutant would start as an unknown, assemble an army, establish, they say, a five-mile asteroid as original base, capture a planet, then a system, then a region-and then attack the Foundation, and defeat them at Horleggor. And all in two or three years!”

Ovall Gri shrugged, “So you think he’ll beat the Foundation?”

“I don’t know. Suppose he does?”

“Sorry, I can’t go that far. You don’t beat the Foundation. Look, there’s not a new fact we have to go on except for the statements of a... well, of an inexperienced boy. Suppose we shelve it for a while. With all the Mule’s victories, we weren’t worried until now, and unless he goes a good deal further than he has, I see no reason to change that. Yes?”

Randu frowned and despaired at the cobweb texture of his argument. He said to both, “Have we yet made any contact with the Mule?”

“No,” both answered.

“It’s true, though, that we’ve tried, isn’t it? It’s true that there’s not much purpose to our meeting unless we do reach him, isn’t it? It’s true that so far there’s been more drinking than thinking, and more wooing than doing-I quote from an editorial in today’s Radole Tribune-and all because we can’t reach the Mule. Gentlemen, we have nearly a thousand ships waiting to be thrown into the fight at the proper moment to seize control of the Foundation. I say we should change that. I say, throw those thousand onto the board now-against the Mule.”

“You mean for the Tyrant Indbur and the bloodsuckers of the Foundation?” demanded Mangin, with quiet venom.

Randu raised a weary hand, “Spare me the adjectives. Against the Mule, I say, and for I-don’t-care-who.”

Ovall Gri rose, “Randu, I’ll have nothing to do with that, You present it to the full council tonight if you particularly hunger for political suicide.”

He left without another word and Mangin followed silently, leaving Randu to drag out a lonely hour of endless, insoluble consideration.

At the full council that night, he said nothing.

But it was Ovall Gri who pushed into his room the next morning; an Ovall Gri only sketchily dressed and who had neither shaved nor combed his hair.

Randu stared at him over a yet-uncleared breakfast table with an astonishment sufficiently open and strenuous to cause him to drop his pipe.

Ovall said baldly, harshly. “Mnemon has been bombarded from space by treacherous attack.”

Randu’s eyes narrowed, “The Foundation?”

“The Mule!” exploded Ovall. “The Mule!” His words raced, “It was unprovoked and deliberate. Most of our fleet had joined the international flotilla. The few left as Home Squadron were insufficient and were blown out of the sky. There have been no landings yet, and there may not be, for half the attackers are reported destroyed-but it is war-and I have come to ask how Haven stands on the matter.”

“Haven, I am sure, will adhere to the spirit of the Charter of Federation. But, you see? He attacks us as well.”

“This Mule is a madman. Can he defeat the universe?” He faltered and sat down to seize Randu’s wrist, “Our few survivors have reported the Mule’s poss... enemy’s possession of a new weapon. A nuclear-field depressor.”

“A what?”

Ovall said, “Most of our ships were lost because their nuclear weapons failed them. It could not have happened by either accident or sabotage. It must have been a weapon of the Mule. It didn’t work perfectly; the effect was intermittent; there were ways to neutralize-my dispatches are not detailed. But you see that such a tool would change the nature of war and, possibly, make our entire fleet obsolete.”

Randu felt an old, old man. His face sagged hopelessly, “I am afraid a monster is grown that will devour all of us. Yet we must fight him.”

7. The Visi-Sonor

EBLING MIS’S HOUSE in a not-so-pretentious neighborhood of Terminus City was well known to the intelligentsia, literati, and just-plain-well-read of the Foundation. Its notable characteristics depended, subjectively, upon the source material that was read. To a thoughtful biographer, it was the “symbolization of a retreat from a nonacademic reality,” a society columnist gushed silkily at its “frightfully masculine atmosphere of careless disorder,” a University Ph.D. called it brusquely, “bookish, but unorganized,” a nonuniversity friend said, “good for a drink anytime and you can put your feet on the sofa,” and a breezy newsweekly broadcast, that went in for color, spoke of the “rocky, down-to-earth, no-nonsense living quarters of blaspheming, Leftish, balding Ebling Mis.”

To Bayta, who thought for no audience but herself at the moment, and who had the advantage of first-hand information, it was merely sloppy.

Except for the first few days, her imprisonment had been a light burden. Far lighter, it seemed, that this half-hour wait in the psychologist’s home-under secret observation, perhaps? She had been with Toran then, at least.

Perhaps she might have grown wearier of the strain, had not Magnifico’s long nose drooped in a gesture that plainly showed his own far greater tension.

Magnifico’s pipe-stem legs were folded up under a pointed, sagging chin, as if he were trying to huddle himself into disappearance, and Bayta’s hand went out in a gentle and automatic gesture of reassurance. Magnifico winced, then smiled.

“Surely, my lady, it would seem that even yet my body denies the knowledge of my mind and expects of others’ hands a blow.”

“There’s no need for worry, Magnifico. I’m with you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The clown’s eyes sidled towards her, then drew away quickly. “But they kept me away from you earlier-and from your kind husband-and, on my word, you may laugh, but I was lonely for missing friendship.”

“I wouldn’t laugh at that. I was, too.”

The clown brightened, and he hugged his knees closer. He said, “You have not met this man who will see us?” It was a cautious question.

“No. But he is a famous man. I have seen him in the newscasts and heard quite a good deal of him. I think he’s a good man, Magnifico, who means us no harm.”

“Yes?” The clown stirred uneasily. “That may be, my lady, but he has questioned me before, and his manner is of an abruptness and loudness that bequivers me. He is full of strange words, so that the answers to his questions could not worm out of my throat. Almost, I might believe the romancer who once played on my ignorance with a tale that, at such moments, the heart lodged in the windpipe and prevented speech.”

“But it’s different now. We’re two to his one, and he won’t be able to frighten the both of us, will he?”

“No, my lady.”

A door slammed somewheres, and the roaring of a voice entered the house. Just outside the room, it coagulated into words with a fierce, “Get the “Ga-LAX-y out of here!” and two uniformed guards were momentarily visible through the opening door, in quick retreat.

Ebling Mis entered frowning, deposited a carefully wrapped bundle on the floor, and approached to shake Bayta’s hand with careless pressure. Bayta returned it vigorously, man-fashion. Mis did a double-take as he turned to the clown, and favored the girl with a longer look.

He said, “Married?”

“Yes. We went through the legal formalities.”

Mis paused. Then, “Happy about it?”

“So far.”

Mis shrugged, and turned again to Magnifico. He unwrapped the package, “Know what this is, boy?”

Magnifico fairly hurled himself out of his seat and caught the multi-keyed instrument. He fingered the myriad knobby contacts and threw a sudden back somersault of joy, to the imminent destruction of the nearby furniture.

He croaked, “A Visi-Sonor-and of a make to distill joy out of a dead man’s heart.” His long fingers caressed softly and slowly, pressing lightly on contacts with a rippling motion, resting momentarily on one key then another-and in the air before them there was a soft glowing rosiness, just inside the range of vision.

Ebling Mis said, “All right, boy, you said you could pound on one of those gadgets, and there’s your chance. You’d better tune it, though. It’s out of a museum.” Then, in an aside to Bayta, “Near as I can make it, no one on the Foundation can make it talk right.”

He leaned closer and said quickly, “The clown won’t talk without you. Will you help?”

She nodded.

“Good!” he said. “His state of fear is almost fixed, and I doubt that his mental strength would possibly stand a psychic probe. If I’m to get anything out of him otherwise, he’s got to feel absolutely at ease. You understand?”

She nodded again.

“This Visi-Sonor is the first step in the process. He says he can play it; and his reaction now makes it pretty certain that it’s one of the great joys of his life. So whether the playing is good or bad, be interested and appreciative. Then exhibit friendliness and confidence in me. Above all, follow my lead in everything.” There was a swift glance at Magnifico, huddled in a comer of the sofa, making rapid adjustments in the interior of the instrument. He was completely absorbed.

Mis said in a conversational tone to Bayta, “Ever hear a Visi-Sonor?”

“Once,” said Bayta, equally casually, “at a concert of rare instruments. I wasn’t impressed.”

“Well, I doubt that you came across good playing. There are very few really good players. It’s not so much that it requires physical co-ordination-a multi-bank piano requires more, for instance-as a certain type of free-wheeling mentality.” In a lower voice, “That’s why our living skeleton there might be better than we think. More often than not, good players are idiots otherwise. It’s one of those queer setups that makes psychology interesting.”

He added, in a patent effort to manufacture light conversation, “You know how the beblistered thing works? I looked it up for this purpose, and all I’ve made out so far is that its radiations stimulate the optic center of the brain directly, without ever touching the optic nerve. It’s actually the utilization of a sense never met with in ordinary nature. Remarkable, when you come to think of it. What you hear is all right. That’s ordinary. Eardrum, cochlea, all that. But-Shh! He’s ready. Will you kick that switch. It works better in the dark.”

In the darkness, Magnifico was a mere blob, Ebling Mis a heavy-breathing mass. Bayta found herself straining her eyes anxiously, and at first with no effect. There was a thin, reedy quaver in the air, that wavered raggedly up the scale. It hovered, dropped and caught itself, gained in body, and swooped into a booming crash that had the effect of a thunderous split in a veiling curtain.

A little globe of pulsing color grew in rhythmic spurts and burst in midair into formless gouts that swirled high and came down as curving streamers in interfacing patterns. They coalesced into little spheres, no two alike in color-and Bayta began discovering things.

She noticed that closing her eyes made the color pattern all the clearer; that each little movement of color had its own little pattern of sound; that she could not identify the colors; and, lastly, that the globes were not globes but little figures.

Little figures; little shifting flames, that danced and flickered in their myriads; that dropped out of sight and returned from nowhere; that whipped about one another and coalesced then into a new color.

Incongruously, Bayta thought of the little blobs of color that come at night when you close your eyelids till they hurt, and stare patiently. There was the old familiar effect of the marching polka dots of shifting color, of the contracting concentric circles, of the shapeless masses that quiver momentarily. All that, larger, multivaried-and each little dot of color a tiny figure.

They darted at her in pairs, and she lifted her hands with a sudden gasp, but they tumbled and for an instant she was the center of a brilliant snowstorm, while cold light slipped off her shoulders and down her arm in a luminous ski-slide, shooting off her stiff fingers and meeting slowly in a shining midair focus. Beneath it all, the sound of a hundred instruments flowed in liquid streams until she could not tell it from the light.

She wondered if Ebling Mis were seeing the same thing, and if not, what he did see, The wonder passed, and then-

She was watching again. The little figures-were they little figures?-little tiny women with burning hair that turned and bent too quickly for the mind to focus?-seized one another in star-shaped groups that turned-and the music was faint laughter-girls’ laughter that began inside the ear.

The stars drew together, sparked towards one another, grew slowly into structure-and from below, a palace shot upward in rapid evolution. Each brick a tiny color, each color a tiny spark, each spark a stabbing light that shifted patterns and led the eye skyward to twenty jeweled minarets.

A glittering carpet shot out and about, whirling, spinning an insubstantial web that engulfed all space, and from it luminous shoots stabbed upward and branched into trees that sang with a music all their own.

Bayta sat inclosed in it. The music welled about her in rapid, lyrical flights. She reached out to touch a fragile tree and blossoming spicules floated downwards and faded, each with its clear, tiny tinkle.

The music crashed in twenty cymbals, and before her an area flamed up in a spout and cascaded down invisible steps into Bayta’s lap, where it spilled over and flowed in rapid current, raising the fiery sparkle to her waist, while across her lap was a rainbow bridge and upon it the little figures-

A palace, and a garden, and tiny men and women on a bridge, stretching out as far as she could see, swimming through the stately swells of stringed music converging in upon her-

And then-there seemed a frightened pause, a hesitant, indrawn motion, a swift collapse. The colors fled, spun into a globe that shrank, and rose, and disappeared.

And it was merely dark again.

A heavy foot scratched for the pedal, reached it, and the light flooded in; the flat light of a prosy sun. Bayta blinked until the tears came, as though for the longing of what was gone. Ebling Mis was a podgy inertness with his eyes still round and his mouth still open.

Only Magnifico himself was alive, and he fondled his Visi-Sonor in a crooning ecstasy.

“My lady,” he gasped, “it is indeed of an effect the most magical. It is of balance and response almost beyond hope in its delicacy and stability. On this, it would seem I could work wonders. How liked you my composition, my lady?”

“Was it yours?” breathed Bayta. “Your own?”

At her awe, his thin face turned a glowing red to the tip of his mighty nose. “My very own, my lady. The Mule liked it not, but often and often I have played it for my own amusement. It was once, in my youth, that I saw the palace-a gigantic place of jeweled riches that I saw from a distance at a time of high carnival. There were people of a splendor undreamed of-and magnificence more than ever I saw afterwards, even in the Mule’s service. It is but a poor makeshift I have created, but my mind’s poverty precludes more. I call it, ‘The Memory of Heaven.’ ”

Now through the midst of the chatter, Mis shook himself to active life. “Here,” he said, “here, Magnifico, would you like to do that same thing for others?”

For a moment, the clown drew back. “For others?” he quavered.

“For thousands,” cried Mis, “in the great Halls of the Foundation. Would you like to be your own master, and honored by all, wealthy, and... and-” his imagination failed him. “And all that? Eh? What do you say?”

“But how may I be all that, mighty sir, for indeed I am but a poor clown ungiven to the great things of the world?”

The psychologist puffed out his lips, and passed the back of his hand across his brow. He said, “But your playing, man. The world is yours if you would play so for the mayor and his Trading Trusts. Wouldn’t you like that?”

The clown glanced briefly at Bayta, “Would she stay with me?”

Bayta laughed, “Of course, silly. Would it be likely that I’d leave you now that you’re on the point of becoming rich and famous?”

“It would all be yours,” he replied earnestly, “and surely the wealth of Galaxy itself would be yours before I could repay my debt to your kindness.”

“But,” said Mis, casually, “if you would first help me-”

“What is that?”

The psychologist paused, and smiled, “A little surface probe that doesn’t hurt. It wouldn’t touch but the peel of your brain.”

There was a flare of deadly fear in Magnifico’s eyes. “Not a probe. I have seen it used. It drains the mind and leaves an empty skull. The Mule did use it upon traitors and let them wander mindless through the streets, until out of mercy, they were killed.” He held up his hand to push Mis away.

“That was a psychic probe,” explained Mis, patiently, “and even that would only harm a person when misused. This probe I have is a surface probe that wouldn’t hurt a baby. ”

“That’s right, Magnifico,” urged Bayta. “It’s only to help beat the Mule and keep him far away. Once that’s done, you and I will be rich and famous all our lives.”

Magnifico held out a trembling hand, “Will you hold my hand, then?”

Bayta took it in both her own, and the clown watched the approach of the burnished terminal plates with large eyes.

Ebling Mis rested carelessly on the too-lavish chair in Mayor Indbur’s private quarters, unregenerately unthankful for the condescension shown him and watched the small mayor’s fidgeting unsympathetically. He tossed away a cigar stub and spat out a shred of tobacco.

“And, incidentally, if you want something for your next concert at Mallow Hall, Indbur,” he said, “you can dump out those electronic gadgeteers into the sewers they came from and have this little freak play the Visi-Sonor for you. Indbur-it’s out of this world.”

Indbur said peevishly, “I did not call you here to listen to your lectures on music. What of the Mule? Tell me that. What of the Mule?”

“The Mule? Well, I’ll tell you-I used a surface probe and got little. Can’t use the psychic probe because the freak is scared blind of it, so that his resistance will probably blow his unprintable mental fuses as soon as contact is made. But this is what I’ve got, if you’ll just stop tapping your fingernails-

“First place, de-stress the Mule’s physical strength. He’s probably strong, but most of the freak’s fairy tales about it are probably considerably blown up by his own fearful memory, He wears queer glasses and his eyes kill, he evidently has mental powers.”

“So much we had at the start,” commented the mayor, sourly.

“Then the probe confirms it, and from there on I’ve been working mathematically.”

“So? And how long will all this take? Your word-rattling will deafen me yet.”

“About a month, I should say, and I may have something for you. And I may not, of course. But what of it? If this is all outside Seldon’s plans, our chances are precious little, unprintable little.”

Indbur whirled on the psychologist fiercely, “Now I have you, traitor. Lie! Say you’re not one of these criminal rumormongers that are spreading defeatism and panic through the Foundation, and making my work doubly hard.”

“I? I?” Mis gathered anger slowly.

Indbur swore at him, “Because by the dust-clouds of space, the Foundation will win-the Foundation must win.”

“Despite the loss at Horleggor?”

“It was not a loss. You have swallowed that spreading lie, too? We were outnumbered and betreasoned-”

“By whom?” demanded Mis, contemptuously.

“By the lice-ridden democrats of the gutter,” shouted Indbur back at him. “I have known for long that the fleet has been riddled by democratic cells. Most have been wiped out, but enough remain for the unexplained surrender of twenty ships in the thickest of the swarming fight. Enough to force an apparent defeat.

“For that matter, my rough-tongued, simple patriot and epitome of the primitive virtues, what are your own connections with the democrats?”

Ebling Mis shrugged it off, “You rave, do you know that? What of the retreat since, and the loss of half of Siwenna? Democrats again?”

“No. Not democrats,” the little man smiled sharply. “We retreat-as the Foundation has always retreated under attack, until the inevitable march of history turns with us. Already, I see the outcome. Already, the so-called underground of the democrats has issued manifestoes swearing aid and allegiance to the Government. It could be a feint, a cover for a deeper treachery, but I make good use of it, and the propaganda distilled from it will have its effect, whatever the crawling traitors scheme. And better than that-”

“Even better than that, Indbur?”

“Judge for yourself. Two days ago, the so-called Association of Independent Traders declared war on the Mule, and the Foundation fleet is strengthened, at a stroke, by a thousand ships. You see, this Mule goes too far. He finds us divided and quarreling among ourselves and under the pressure of his attack we unite and grow strong. He must lose. It is inevitable-as always.”

Mis still exuded skepticism, “Then you tell me that Seldon planned even for the fortuitous occurrence of a mutant.”

“A mutant! I can’t tell him from a human, nor could you but for the ravings of a rebel captain, some outland youngsters, and an addled juggler and clown. You forget the most conclusive evidence of all-your own.”

“My own?” For just a moment, Mis was startled.

“Your own,” sneered the mayor. “The Time Vault opens in nine weeks. What of that? It opens for a crisis. If this attack of the Mule is not the crisis, where is the ‘real’ one, the one the Vault is opening for? Answer me, you lardish ball.”

The psychologist shrugged, “All tight. If it keeps you happy. Do me a favor, though. Just in case... just in case old Seldon makes his speech and it does go sour, suppose you let me attend the Grand Opening.”

“All right. Get out of here. And stay out of my sight for nine weeks.”

“With unprintable pleasure, you wizened horror,” muttered Mis to himself as he left.

8. Fall of the Foundation

THERE WAS AN atmosphere about the Time Vault that just missed definition in several directions at once. It was not one of decay, for it was well-lit and well-conditioned, with the color scheme of the walls lively, and the rows of fixed chairs comfortable and apparently designed for eternal use. It was not even ancient, for three centuries had left no obvious mark. There was certainly no effort at the creation of awe or reverence, for the appointments were simple and everyday-next door to bareness, in fact.

Yet after all the negatives were added and the sum disposed of, something was left-and that something centered about the glass cubicle that dominated half the room with its clear emptiness. Four times in three centuries, the living simulacrum of Hari Seldon himself had sat there and spoken. Twice he had spoken to no audience.

Through three centuries and nine generations, the old man who had seen the great days of universal empire projected himself-and still he understood more of the Galaxy of his great-ultra-great-grandchildren, than did those grandchildren themselves.

Patiently that empty cubicle waited.

The first to arrive was Mayor Indbur III, driving his ceremonial ground car through the hushed and anxious streets. Arriving with him was his own chair, higher than those that belonged there, and wider. It was placed before all the others, and Indbur dominated all but the empty glassiness before him.

The solemn official at his left bowed a reverent head. “Excellence, arrangements are completed for the widest possible sub-etheric spread for the official announcement by your excellence tonight.”

“Good. Meanwhile, special interplanetary programs concerning the Time Vault are to continue. There will, of course, be no predictions or speculations of any sort on the subject. Does popular reaction continue satisfactory?”

“Excellence, very much so. The vicious rumors prevailing of late have decreased further. Confidence is widespread.”

“Good!” He gestured the man away and adjusted his elaborate neckpiece to a nicety.

It was twenty minutes of noon!

A select group of the great props of the mayoralty-the leaders of the great Trading organizations-appeared in ones and twos with the degree of pomp appropriate to their financial status and place in mayoral favor. Each presented himself to the mayor, received a gracious word or two, took an assigned seat.

Somewhere, incongruous among the stilted ceremony of all this, Randu of Haven made his appearance and wormed his way unannounced to the mayor’s seat.

“Excellence!” he muttered, and bowed.

Indbur frowned. “You have not been granted an audience. ”

“Excellence, I have requested one for a week.”

“I regret that the matters of State involved in the appearance of Seldon have-”

“Excellence, I regret them, too, but I must ask you to rescind your order that the ships of the Independent Traders be distributed among the fleets of the Foundation.”

Indbur had flushed red at the interruption. “This is not the time for discussion.”

“Excellence, it is the only time,” Randu whispered urgently. “As representative of the Independent Trading Worlds, I tell you such a move can not be obeyed. It must be rescinded before Seldon solves our problem for us. Once the emergency is passed, it will be too late to conciliate and our alliance will melt away.”

Indbur stared at Randu coldly. “You realize that I am head of the Foundation armed forces? Have I the right to determine military policy or have I not?”

“Excellence, you have, but some things are inexpedient.”

“I recognize no inexpediency. It is dangerous to allow your people separate fleets in this emergency. Divided action plays into the hands of the enemy. We must unite, ambassador, militarily as well as politically.”

Randu felt his throat muscles tighten. He omitted the courtesy of the opening title. “You feet safe now that Seldon will speak, and you move against us. A month ago you were soft and yielding, when our ships defeated the Mule at Terel. I might remind you, sir, that it is the Foundation Fleet that has been defeated in open battle five times, and that the ships of the Independent Trading Worlds have won your victories for you.”

Indbur frowned dangerously, “You are no longer welcome upon Terminus, ambassador. Your return will be requested this evening. Furthermore, your connection with subversive democratic forces on Terminus will be-and has been-investigated.”

Randu replied, “When I leave, our ships will go with me. I know nothing of your democrats. I know only that your Foundation’s ships have surrendered to the Mule by the treason of their high officers, not their sailors, democratic or otherwise. I tell you that twenty ships of the Foundation surrendered at Horleggor at the orders of their rear admiral, when they were unharmed and unbeaten. The rear admiral was your own close associate-he presided at the trial of my nephew when he first arrived from Kalgan. It is not the only case we know of and our ships and men will not be risked under potential traitors.

Indbur said, “You will be placed under guard upon leaving here.”

Randu walked away under the silent stares of the contemptuous coterie of the rulers of Terminus.

It was ten minutes of twelve!

Bayta and Toran had already arrived. They rose in their back seats and beckoned to Randu as he passed.

Randu smiled gently, “You are here after all. How did you work it?”

“Magnifico was our politician,” grinned Toran. “Indbur insists upon his Visi-Sonor composition based on the Time Vault, with himself, no doubt, as hero. Magnifico refused to attend without us, and there was no arguing him out of it. Ebling Mis is with us, or was. He’s wandering about somewhere.” Then, with a sudden access of anxious gravity, “Why, what’s wrong, uncle? You don’t look well.”

Randu nodded, “I suppose not. We’re in for bad times, Toran. When the Mule is disposed of, our turn will come, I’m afraid. ”

A straight solemn figure in white approached, and greeted them with a stiff bow.

Bayta’s dark eyes smiled, as she held out her hand, “Captain Pritcher! Are you on space duty then?”

The captain took the hand and bowed lower, “Nothing like it. Dr. Mis, I understand, has been instrumental in bringing me here, but it’s only temporary. Back to home guard tomorrow. What time is it?”

It was three minutes of twelve!

Magnifico was the picture of misery and heartsick depression. His body curled up, in his eternal effort at self-effacement. His long nose was pinched at the nostrils and his large, down-slanted eyes darted uneasily about.

He clutched at Bayta’s hand, and when she bent down, he whispered, “Do you suppose, my lady, that all these great ones were in the audience, perhaps, when I... when I played the Visi-Sonor?”

“Everyone, I’m sure,” Bayta assured him, and shook him gently. “And I’m sure they all think you’re the most wonderful player in the Galaxy and that your concert was the greatest ever seen, so you just straighten yourself and sit correctly. We must have dignity.”

He smiled feebly at her mock-frown and unfolded his long-boned limbs slowly.

It was noon-and the glass cubicle was no longer empty.

It was doubtful that anyone had witnessed the appearance. It was a clean break; one moment not there and the next moment there.

In the cubicle was a figure in a wheelchair, old and shrunken, from whose wrinkled face bright eyes shone, and whose voice, as it turned out, was the livest thing about him. A book lay face downward in his lap, and the voice came softly.

“I am Hari Seldon!”

He spoke through a silence, thunderous in its intensity.

“I am Hari Seldon! I do not know if anyone is here at all by mere sense-perception but that is unimportant. I have few fears as yet of a breakdown in the Plan. For the first three centuries the percentage probability of nondeviation is nine-four point two.”

He paused to smile, and then said genially, “By the way, if any of you are standing, you may sit. If any would like to smoke, please do. I am not here in the flesh. I require no ceremony.

“Let us take up the problem of the moment, then. For the first time, the Foundation has been faced, or perhaps, is in the last stages of facing, civil war. Till now, the attacks from without have been adequately beaten off, and inevitably so, according to the strict laws of psychohistory. The attack at present is that of a too-undisciplined outer group of the Foundation against the too-authoritarian central government. The procedure was necessary, the result obvious.”

The dignity of the high-born audience was beginning to break. Indbur was half out of his chair.

Bayta leaned forward with troubled eyes. What was the great Seldon talking about? She had missed a few of the words-

“-that the compromise worked out is necessary in two respects. The revolt of the Independent Traders introduces an element of new uncertainty in a government perhaps grown over-confident. The element of striving is restored. Although beaten, a healthy increase of democracy-”

There were raised voices now. Whispers had ascended the scale of loudness, and the edge of panic was in them.

Bayta said in Toran’s ear, “Why doesn’t he talk about the Mule? The Traders never revolted.”

Toran shrugged his shoulders.

The seated figure spoke cheerfully across and through the increasing disorganization:

“-a new and firmer coalition government was the necessary and beneficial outcome of the logical civil war forced upon the Foundation. And now only the remnants of the old Empire stand in the way of further expansion, and in them, for the next few years, at any rate, is no problem. Of course, I can not reveal the nature of the next prob-”

In the complete uproar, Seldon’s lips moved soundlessly.

Ebling Mis was next to Randu, face ruddy. He was shouting. “Seldon is off his rocker. He’s got the wrong crisis. Were your Traders ever planning civil war?”

Randu said thinly, “We planned one, yes. We called it off in the face of the Mule.”

“Then the Mule is an added feature, unprepared for in Seldon’s psychohistory. Now what’s happened?”

In the sudden, frozen silence, Bayta found the cubicle once again empty. The nuclear glow of the walls was dead, the soft current of conditioned air absent.

Somewhere the sound of a shrill siren was rising and falling in the scale and Randu formed the words with his lips, “Space raid!”

And Ebling Mis held his wrist watch to his ears and shouted suddenly, “Stopped, by the “Ga-LAX-y, is there a watch in the room that is going?” His voice was a roar.

Twenty wrists went to twenty ears. And in far less than twenty seconds, it was quite certain that none were.

“Then,” said Mis, with a grim and horrible finality, “something has stopped all nuclear power in the Time Vault-and the Mule is attacking.”

Indbur’s wail rose high above the noise, “Take your seats! The Mule is fifty parsecs distant.”

“He was,” shouted back Mis, “a week ago. Right now, Terminus is being bombarded.”

Bayta felt a deep depression settle softly upon her. She felt its folds tighten close and thick, until her breath forced its way only with pain past her tightened throat.

The outer noise of a gathering crowd was evident. The doors were thrown open and a harried figure entered, and spoke rapidly to Indbur, who had rushed to him.

“Excellence,” he whispered, “not a vehicle is running in the city, not a communication line to the outside is open.

The Tenth Fleet is reported defeated and the Mule’s ships are outside the atmosphere. The general staff-”

Indbur crumpled, and was a collapsed figure of impotence upon the floor. In all that hall, not a voice was raised now. Even the growing crowd without was fearful, but silent, and the horror of cold panic hovered dangerously.

Indbur was raised. Wine was held to his lips. His lips moved before his eyes opened, and the word they formed was, “Surrender!”

Bayta found herself near to crying-not for sorrow or humiliation, but simply and plainly out of a vast frightened despair. Ebling Mis plucked at her sleeve. “Come, young lady-”

She was pulled out of her chair, bodily.

“We’re leaving,” he said, “and take your musician with you.” The plump scientist’s lips were trembling and colorless.

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, faintly. The clown shrank in horror. His eyes were glassy.

“The Mule,” he shrieked. “The Mule is coming for me.”

He thrashed wildly at her touch. Toran leaned over and brought his fist up sharply. Magnifico slumped into unconsciousness and Toran carried him out potato-sack fashion.

The next day, the ugly, battle-black ships of the Mule poured down upon the landing fields of the planet Terminus. The attacking general sped down the empty main street of Terminus City in a foreign-made ground car that ran where a whole city of atomic cars still stood useless.

The proclamation of occupation was made twenty-four hours to the minute after Seldon had appeared before the former mighty of the Foundation.

Of all the Foundation planets, only the Independent Traders still stood, and against them the power of the Mule-conqueror of the Foundation-now turned itself.

9. Start of the Search

THE LONELY PLANET, Haven-only planet of an only sun of a Galactic Sector that trailed raggedly off into intergalactic vacuum-was under siege.

In a strictly military sense, it was certainly under siege, since no area of space on the Galactic side further than twenty parsecs distance was outside range of the Mule’s advance bases. In the four months since the shattering fall of the Foundation, Haven’s communications had fallen apart like a spiderweb under the razor’s edge. The ships of Haven converged inwards upon the home world, and only Haven itself was now a fighting base.

And in other respects, the siege was even closer; for the shrouds of helplessness and doom had already invaded

Bayta plodded her way down the pink-waved aisle past the rows of milky plastic-topped tables and found her seat by blind reckoning. She eased on to the high, armless chair, answered half-heard greetings mechanically, rubbed a wearily-itching eye with the back of a weary hand, and reached for her menu.

She had time to register a violent mental reaction of distaste to the pronounced presence of various cultured-fungus dishes, which were considered high delicacies at Haven, and which her Foundation taste found highly inedible-and then she was aware of the sobbing near her and looked up.

Until then, her notice of Juddee, the plain, snub-nosed, indifferent blonde at the dining unit diagonally across had been the superficial one of the nonacquaintance. And now Juddee was crying, biting woefully at a moist handkerchief, and choking back sobs until her complexion was blotched with turgid red. Her shapeless radiation-proof costume was thrown back upon her shoulders, and her transparent face shield had tumbled forward into her dessert, and there remained.

Bayta joined the three girls who were taking turns at the eternally applied and eternally inefficacious remedies of shoulder-patting, hair-smoothing, and incoherent murmuring.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered.

One turned to her and shrugged a discreet, “I don’t know.” Then, feeling the inadequacy of the gesture, she pulled Bayta aside.

“She’s had a hard day, I guess. And she’s worrying about her husband.”

“Is he on space patrol?”

“Yes”.

Bayta reached a friendly hand out to Juddee.

“Why don’t you go home, Juddee?” Her voice was a cheerfully businesslike intrusion on the soft, flabby inanities that had preceded.

Juddee looked up half in resentment. “I’ve been out once this week already-”

“Then you’ll be out twice. If you try to stay on, you know, you’ll just be out three days next week-so going home now amounts to patriotism. Any of you girls work in her department? Well, then, suppose you take care of her card. Better go to the washroom first, Juddee, and get the peaches and cream back where it belongs. Go ahead! Shoo!”

Bayta returned to her seat and took up the menu again with a dismal relief. These moods were contagious. One weeping girl would have her entire department in a frenzy these nerve-torn days.

She made a distasteful decision, pressed the correct buttons at her elbow and put the menu back into its niche.

The tall, dark girl opposite her was saying, “Isn’t much any of us can do except cry, is there?”

Her amazingly full lips scarcely moved, and Bayta noticed that their ends were carefully touched to exhibit that artificial, just-so half-smile that was the current last word in sophistication.

Bayta investigated the insinuating thrust contained in the words with lashed eyes and welcomed the diversion of the arrival of her lunch, as the tile-top of her unit moved inward and the food lifted. She tore the wrappings carefully off her cutlery and handled them gingerly till they cooled.

She said, “Can’t you think of anything else to do, Hella?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hella. “I can!” She flicked her cigarette with a casual and expert finger-motion into the little recess provided and the tiny flash caught it before it hit shallow bottom.

“For instance,” and Hella clasped slender, well-kept hands under her chin, “I think we could make a very nice arrangement with the Mule and stop all this nonsense. But then I don’t have the... uh... facilities to manage to get out of places quickly when the Mule takes over.”

Bayta’s clear forehead remained clear. Her voice was light and indifferent. “You don’t happen to have a brother or husband in the fighting ships, do you?”

“No. All the more credit that I see no reason for the sacrifice of the brothers and husbands of others.”

“The sacrifice will come the more surely for surrender.”

“The Foundation surrendered and is at peace. Our men are away and the Galaxy is against us.”

Bayta shrugged, and said sweetly, “I’m afraid it is the first of the pair that bothers you.” She returned to her vegetable platter and ate it with the clammy realization of the silence about her. No one in ear-shot had cared to answer Hella’s cynicism.

She left quickly, after stabbing at the button which cleared her dining unit for the next shift’s occupant.

A new girl, three seats away, stage-whispered to Hella, “Who was she?”

Hella’s mobile lips curled in indifference. “She’s our coordinator’s niece. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yes?” Her eyes sought out the last glimpse of disappearing back. “What’s she doing here?”

“Just an assembly girl. Don’t you know it’s fashionable to be patriotic? It’s all so democratic, it makes me retch.”

“Now, Hella,” said the plump girl to her right. “She’s never pulled her uncle on us yet. Why don’t you lay off?”

Hella ignored her neighbor with a glazed sweep of eyes and lit another cigarette.

The new girl was listening to the chatter of the bright-eyed accountant opposite. The words were coming quickly,

“-and she’s supposed to have been in the Vault-actually in the Vault, you know-when Seldon spoke-and they say the mayor was in frothing furies and there were riots, and all of that sort of thing, you know. She got away before the Mule landed, and they say she had the most tha-rilling escape-had to go through the blockade, and all-and I do wonder she doesn’t write a book about it, these war books being so popular these days, you know. And she was supposed to be on this world of the Mule’s, too-Kalgan, you know-and-”

The time bell shrilled and the dining room emptied slowly. The accountant’s voice buzzed on, and the new girl interrupted only with the conventional and wide-eyed, “Really-y-y-y?” at appropriate points.

The huge cave lights were being shielded group-wise in the gradual descent towards the darkness that meant sleep for the righteous and hard-working, when Bayta returned home.

Toran met her at the door, with a slice of buttered bread in his hand.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, food-muffled. Then, more clearly, “I’ve got a dinner of sorts rassled up. If it isn’t much, don’t blame me.”

But she was circling him, wide-eyed. “Torie! Where’s your uniform? What are you doing in civvies?”

“Orders, Bay. Randu is holed up with Ebling Mis right now, and what it’s all about, I don’t know. So there you have everything.”

“Am I going?” She moved towards him impulsively.

He kissed her before he answered, “I believe so. It will probably be dangerous.”

“What isn’t dangerous?”

“Exactly. Oh, yes, and I’ve already sent for Magnifico, so he’s probably coming too.”

“You mean his concert at the Engine Factory will have to be cancelled.”

“Obviously.”

Bayta passed into the next room and sat down to a meal that definitely bore signs of having been “rassled-up.” She cut the sandwiches in two with quick efficiency and said:

“That’s too bad about the concert. The girls at the factory were looking forward to it. Magnifico, too, for that matter.” She shook her head. “He’s such a queer thing.”

“Stirs your mother-complex, Bay, that’s what he does. Some day we’ll have a baby, and then you’ll forget Magnifico.”

‘Bayta answered from the depths of her sandwich, “Strikes me that you’re all the stirring my mother-complex can stand.”

And then she laid the sandwich down, and was gravely serious in a moment.

“Torie.”

“M-m-m?”

“Torie, I was at City Hall today-at the Bureau of Production. That is why I was so late today.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Well...” she hesitated, uncertainly. “It’s been building up. I was getting so I couldn’t stand it at the factory. Morale just doesn’t exist. The girls go on crying jags for no particular reason. Those who don’t get sick become sullen. Even the little mousie types pout. In my particular section, production isn’t a quarter what it was when I came, and there isn’t a day that we have a full roster of workers.”

“All right,” said Toran, “tie in the B. of P. What did you do there?”

“Asked a few questions. And it’s so, Torie, it’s so all over Haven. Dropping production, increasing sedition and disaffection. The bureau chief just shrugged his shoulders-after I had sat in the anteroom an hour to see him, and only got in because I was the co-ordinator’s niece-and said it was beyond him. Frankly, I don’t think he cared.”

“Now, don’t go off base, Bay.”

“I don’t think he did.” She was strenuously fiery. “I tell you there’s something wrong. It’s that same horrible frustration that hit me in the Time Vault when Seldon deserted us. You felt it yourself.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, it’s back,” she continued savagely. “And we’ll never be able to resist the Mule. Even if we had the material, we lack the heart, the spirit, the will-Torie, there’s no use fighting-”

Bayta had never cried in Toran’s memory, and she did not cry now. Not really. But Toran laid a light hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Suppose you forget it, baby. I know what you mean. But there’s nothing-”

“Yes, there’s nothing we can do! Everyone says that-and we just sit and wait for the knife to come down.”

She returned to what was left of her sandwich and tea. Quietly, Toran was arranging the beds. It was quite dark outside.

Randu, as newly-appointed co-ordinator-in itself a wartime post-of the confederation of cities on Haven, had been assigned, at his own request, to an upper room, out of the window of which he could brood over the roof tops and greenery of the city. Now, in the fading of the cave lights, the city receded into the level lack of distinction of the shades. Randu did not care to meditate upon the symbolism.

He said to Ebling Mis-whose clear, little eyes seemed to have no further interest than the red-filled goblet in his hand-“There’s a saying on Haven that when the cave lights go out, it is time for the righteous and hard-working to sleep.”

“Do you sleep much lately?”

“No! Sorry to call you so late, Mis. I like the night better somehow these days. Isn’t that strange? The people on Haven condition themselves pretty strictly on the lack of light meaning sleep. Myself, too. But it’s different now-”

“You’re hiding,” said Mis, flatly. “You’re surrounded by people in the waking period, and you feel their eyes and their hopes on you. You can’t stand up under it. In the sleep period, you’re free.”

“Do you feel it, too, then? This miserable sense of defeat?”

Ebling Mis nodded slowly, “I do. It’s a mass psychosis, an unprintable mob panic. “Ga-LAX-y, Randu, what do you expect? Here you have a whole culture brought up to a blind, blubbering belief that a folk hero of the past has everything all planned out and is taking care of every little piece of their unprintable lives. The thought-pattern evoked has religious characteristics, and you know what that means.”

“Not a bit.”

Mis was not enthusiastic about the necessity of explanation. He never was. So he growled, stared at the long cigar he rolled thoughtfully between his fingers and said, “Characterized by strong faith reactions. Beliefs can’t be shaken short of a major shock, in which case, a fairly complete mental disruption results. Mild cases-hysteria, morbid sense of insecurity. Advanced cases-madness and suicide.”

Randu bit at a thumbnail. “When Seldon fails us, in other words, our prop disappears, and we’ve been leaning upon it so long, our muscles are atrophied to where we can not stand without it.”

“That’s it. Sort of a clumsy metaphor, but that’s it.”

“And you, Ebling, what of your own muscles?”

The psychologist filtered a long draught of air through his cigar, and let the smoke laze out. “Rusty, but not atrophied. My profession has resulted in just a bit of independent thinking.”

“And you see a way out?”

“No, but there must be one. Maybe Seldon made no provisions for the Mule. Maybe he didn’t guarantee our victory. But, then, neither did he guarantee defeat. He’s just out of the game and we’re on our own. The Mule can be licked.”

“How?”

“By the only way anyone can be licked-by attacking in strength at weakness. See here, Randu, the Mule isn’t a superman. If he is finally defeated, everyone will see that for himself. It’s just that he’s an unknown, and the legends cluster quickly. He’s supposed to be a mutant. Well, what of that? A mutant means a ‘superman’ to the ignoramuses of humanity. Nothing of the sort.

“It’s been estimated that several million mutants are born in the Galaxy every day. Of the several million, all but one or two percent can be detected only by means of microscopes and chemistry. Of the one or two percent macromutants, that is, those with mutations detectable to the naked eye or naked mind, all but one or two percent are freaks, fit for the amusement centers, the laboratories, and death. Of the few macromutants whose differences are to the good, almost all are harmless curiosities, unusual in some single respect, normal-and often subnormal-in most others. You see that, Randu?”

“I do. But what of the Mule?”

“Supposing the Mule to be a mutant then, we can assume that he has some attribute, undoubtedly mental, which can be used to conquer worlds. In other respects, he undoubtedly has his shortcomings, which we must locate. He would not be so secretive, so shy of others’ eyes, if these shortcomings were not apparent and fatal. If he’s a mutant.”

“Is there an alternative?”

“There might be. Evidence for mutation rests on Captain Han Pritcher of what used to be Foundation’s Intelligence. He drew his conclusions from the feeble memories of those who claimed to know the Mule-or somebody who might have been the Mule-in infancy and early childhood. Pritcher worked on slim pickings there, and what evidence he found might easily have been planted by the Mule for his own purposes, for it’s certain that the Mule has been vastly aided by his reputation as a mutant-superman.”

“This is interesting. How long have you thought that?”

“I never thought that, in the sense of believing it. It is merely an alternative to be considered. For instance, Randu, suppose the Mule has discovered a form of radiation capable of depressing mental energy just as he is in possession of one which depresses nuclear reactions. What then, eh? Could that explain what’s hitting us now-and what did hit the Foundation?”

Randu seemed immersed in a near-wordless gloom.

He said, “What of your own researches on the Mule’s clown.”

And now Ebling Mis hesitated. “Useless as yet. I spoke bravely to the mayor previous to the Foundation’s collapse, mainly to keep his courage up-partly to keep my own up as well. But, Randu, if my mathematical tools were up to it, then from the clown alone I could analyze the Mule completely. Then we would have him. Then we could solve the queer anomalies that have impressed me already.”

“Such as?”

“Think, man. The Mule defeated the navies of the Foundation at will, but he has not once managed to force the much weaker fleets of the Independent Traders to retreat in open combat. The Foundation fell at a blow; the Independent Traders hold out against all his strength. He first used Extinguishing Field upon the nuclear weapons of the Independent Traders of Mnemon. The element of surprise lost them that battle but they countered the Field. He was never able to use it successfully against the Independents again.

“But over and over again, it worked against Foundation forces. It worked on the Foundation itself. Why? With our present knowledge, it is all illogical. So there must be factors of which we are not aware.”

“Treachery?”

“That’s rattle-pated nonsense, Randu. Unprintable twaddle. There wasn’t a man on the Foundation who wasn’t sure of victory. Who would betray a certain-to-win side.”

Randu stepped to the curved window and stared unseeingly out into the unseeable. He said, “But we’re certain to lose now, if the Mule had a thousand weaknesses; if he were a network of holes-”

He did not turn. It was as if the slump of his back, the nervous groping for one another of the hands behind him that spoke. He said, “We escaped easily after the Time Vault episode, Ebling. Others might have escaped as well. A few did. Most did not. The Extinguishing Field could have been counteracted. It asked ingenuity and a certain amount of labor. All the ships of the Foundation Navy could have flown to Haven or other nearby planets to continue the fight as we did. Not one percent did so. In effect, they deserted to the enemy.

“The Foundation underground, upon which most people here seem to rely so heavily, has thus far done nothing of consequence. The Mule has been politic enough to promise to safeguard the property and profits of the great Traders and they have gone over to him.”

Ebling Mis said stubbornly, “The plutocrats have always been against us.”

“They always held the power, too. Listen, Ebling. We have reason to believe that the Mule or his tools have already been in contact with powerful men among the Independent Traders. At least ten of the twenty-seven Trading Worlds are known to have gone over to the Mule. Perhaps ten more waver. There are personalities on Haven itself who would not be unhappy over the Mule’s domination. It’s apparently an insurmountable temptation to give up endangered political power, if that will maintain your hold over economic affairs. ”

“You don’t think Haven can fight the Mule?”

“I don’t think Haven will.” And now Randu turned his troubled face full upon the psychologist. “I think Haven is waiting to surrender. It’s what I called you here to tell you. I want you to leave Haven.”

Ebling Mis puffed up his plump checks in amazement. “Already?”

Randu felt horribly tired. “Ebling, you are the Foundation’s greatest psychologist. The real master-psychologists went out with Seldon, but you’re the best we have. You’re our only chance of defeating the Mule. You can’t do that here; you’ll have to go to what’s left of the Empire.”

“To Trantor?”

“That’s right. What was once the Empire is bare bones today, but something must still be at the center. They’ve got the records there, Ebling. You may learn more of mathematical psychology; perhaps enough to be able to interpret the clown’s mind. He will go with you, of course.”

Mis responded dryly, “I doubt if he’d be willing to, even for fear of the Mule, unless your niece went with him.”

“I know that. Toran and Bayta are leaving with you for that very reason. And, Ebling, there’s another, greater purpose. Hari Seldon founded two Foundations three centuries ago; one at each end of the Galaxy. You must find that Second Foundation.”

10. Conspirator

THE MAYOR’S PALACE-what was once the mayor’s palace-was a looming smudge in the darkness. The city was quiet under its conquest and curfew, and the hazy milk of the great Galactic Lens, with here and there a lonely star, dominated the sky of the Foundation.

In three centuries the Foundation had grown from a private project of a small group of scientists to a tentacular trade empire sprawling deep into the Galaxy and half a year had flung it from its heights to the status of another conquered province.

Captain Han Pritcher refused to grasp that.

The city’s sullen nighttime quiet, the darkened palace, intruder-occupied, were symbolic enough, but Captain Han Pritcher, just within the outer gate of the palace, with the tiny nuclear bomb under his tongue, refused to understand.

A shape drifted closer-the captain bent his head.

The whisper came deathly low, “The alarm system is as it always was, captain. Proceed! It will register nothing.”

Softly, the captain ducked through the low archway, and down the fountain-lined path to what had been Indbur’s garden.

Four months ago had been the day in the Time Vault, the fullness of which his memory balked at. Singly and separately the impressions would come back, unwelcome, mostly at night.

Old Seldon speaking his benevolent words that were so shatteringly wrong-the jumbled confusion-Indbur, with his mayoral costume incongruously bright about his pinched, unconscious face-the frightened crowds gathering quickly, waiting noiselessly for the inevitable word of surrender-the young man, Toran, disappearing out of a side door with the Mule’s clown dangling over his shoulder.

And himself, somehow out of it all afterward, with his car unworkable.

Shouldering his way along and through the leaderless mob that was already leaving the city-destination unknown.

Making blindly for the various rat holes which were-which had once been-the headquarters for a democratic underground that for eighty years had been failing and dwindling.

And the rat holes were empty.

The next day, black alien ships were momentarily visible in the sky, sinking gently into the clustered buildings of the nearby city. Captain Han Pritcher felt an accumulation of helplessness and despair drown him.

He started his travels in earnest.

In thirty days he had covered nearly two hundred miles on foot, changed to the clothing of a worker in the hydroponic factories whose body he found newly-dead by the side of the road, grown a fierce beard of russet intensity

And found what was left of the underground.

The city was Newton, the district a residential one of one-time elegance slowly edging towards squalor, the house an undistinguished member of a row, and the man a small-eyed, big-boned whose knotted fists bulged through his pockets and whose wiry body remained unbudgingly in the narrow door opening.

The captain mumbled, “I come from Miran.”

The man returned the gambit, grimly. “Miran is early this year.”

The captain said, “No earlier than last year.”

But the man did not step aside. He said, “Who are you?”

“Aren’t you Fox?”

“Do you always answer by asking?”

The captain took an imperceptibly longer breath, and then said calmly, “I am Han Pritcher, Captain of the Fleet, and member of the Democratic Underground Party. Will you let me in?”

The Fox stepped aside. He said, “My real name is Orum Palley.”

He held out his hand. The captain took it.

The room was well-kept, but not lavish. In one comer stood a decorative book-film projector, which to the captain’s military eyes might easily have been a camouflaged blaster of respectable caliber. The projecting lens covered the doorway, and such could be remotely controlled.

The Fox followed his bearded guest’s eyes, and smiled tightly. He said, “Yes! But only in the days of Indbur and his lackey-hearted vampires. It wouldn’t do much against the Mule, eh? Nothing would help against the Mule. Are you hungry?”

The captain’s jaw muscles tightened beneath his beard, and he nodded.

“It’ll take a minute if you don’t mind waiting.” The Fox removed cans from a cupboard and placed two before Captain Pritcher. “Keep your finger on it, and break them when they’re hot enough. My heat-control unit’s out of whack. Things like that remind you there’s a war on-or was on, eh?”

His quick words had a jovial content, but were said in anything but a jovial tone-and his eyes were coldly thoughtful. He sat down opposite the captain and said, “There’ll be nothing but a burn-spot left where you’re sitting, if there’s anything about you I don’t like. Know that?”

The captain did not answer. The cans before him opened at a pressure.

The Fox said, shortly, “Stew! Sorry, but the food situation is short.”

“I know,” said the captain. He ate quickly; not looking up.

The Fox said, “I once saw you. I’m trying to remember, and the beard is definitely out of the picture.”

“I haven’t shaved in thirty days.” Then, fiercely, “What do you want? I had the correct passwords. I have identification.”

The other waved a hand, “Oh, I’ll grant you’re Pritcher all right. But there are plenty who have the passwords, and the identifications, and the identities-who are with the Mule. Ever hear of Levvaw, eh?”

“Yes.”

“He’s with the Mule.”

“What? He-”

“Yes. He was the man they called ‘No Surrender.’ “The Fox’s lips made laughing motions, with neither sound nor humor. “Then there’s Willig. With the Mule! Garre and Noth. With the Mule! Why not Pritcher as well, eh? How would I know?”

The captain merely shook his head.

“But it doesn’t matter,” said the Fox, softly. “They must have my name, if Noth has gone over-so if you’re legitimate, you’re in more new danger than I am over our acquaintanceship.”

The captain had finished eating. He leaned back, “If you have no organization here, where can I find one? The Foundation may have surrendered, but I haven’t.”

“So! You can’t wander forever, captain. Men of the Foundation must have travel permits to move from town to town these days. You know that? Also identity cards. You have one? Also, all officers of the old Navy have been requested to report to the nearest occupation headquarters. That’s you, eh?”

“Yes.” The captain’s voice was hard. “Do you think I run through fear. I was on Kalgan not long after its fall to the Mule. Within a month, not one of the old warlord’s officers was at large, because they were the natural military leaders of any revolt. It’s always been the underground’s knowledge that no revolution can be successful without the control of at least part of the Navy. The Mule evidently knows it, too.”

The Fox nodded thoughtfully, “Logical enough. The Mule is thorough.”

“I discarded the uniform as soon as I could. I grew the beard. Afterwards there may be a chance that others have taken the same action.”

“Are you married?”

“My wife is dead. I have no children.

“You’re hostage-immune, then.”

“Yes.”

“You want my advice?”

“If you have any.”

A don’t know what the Mule’s policy is or what he intends, but skilled workers have not been harmed so far. Pay rates have gone up. Production of all sorts of nuclear weapons is booming.”

“Yes? Sounds like a continuing offensive.”

“I don’t know. The Mule’s a subtle son of a drab, and he may merely be soothing the workers into submission. If Seldon couldn’t figure him out with all his psychohistory, I’m not going to try. But you’re wearing work clothes. That suggests something, eh?”

“I’m not a skilled worker.”

“You’ve had a military course in nucleics, haven’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“That’s enough. The Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc., is located here in town. Tell them you’ve had experience. The stinkers who used to run the factory for Indbur are still running it-for the Mule. They won’t ask questions, as long as they need more workers to make their fat hunk. They’ll give you an identity card and you can apply for a room in the Corporation’s housing district. You might start now.”

In that manner, Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet became Shield-man Lo Moro of the 45 Shop of Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc. And from an Intelligence agent, he descended the social scale to “conspirator”-a calling which led him months later to what had been Indbur’s private garden,

In the garden, Captain Pritcher consulted the radometer in the palm of his hand. The inner warning field was still in operation, and he waited. Half an hour remained to the life of the nuclear bomb in his mouth. He rolled it gingerly with his tongue.

The radometer died into an ominous darkness and the captain advanced quickly.

So far, matters had progressed well.

He reflected objectively that the life of the nuclear bomb was his as well; that its death was his death-and the Mule’s death.

And the grand climacteric of a four-month’s private war would be reached; a war that had passed from flight through a Newton factory

For two months, Captain Pritcher wore leaden aprons and heavy face shields, till all things military had been frictioned off his outer bearing. He was a laborer, who collected his pay, spent his evenings in town, and never discussed politics.

For two months, he did not see the Fox.

And then, one day, a man stumbled past his bench, and there was a scrap of paper in his pocket. The word “Fox” was on it. He tossed it into the nuclear chamber, where it vanished in a sightless puff, sending the energy output up a millimicrovolt-and turned back to his work.

That night he was at the Fox’s home, and took a hand in a game of cards with two other men he knew by reputation and one by name and face.

Over the cards and the passing and repassing tokens, they spoke.

The captain said, “It’s a fundamental error. You live in the exploded past. For eighty years our organization has been waiting for the correct historical moment. We’ve been blinded by Seldon’s psychohistory, one of the first propositions of which is that the individual does not count, does not make history, and that complex social and economic factors override him, make a puppet out of him.” He adjusted his cards carefully, appraised their value and said, as he put out a token. “Why not kill the Mule?”

“Well, now, and what good would that do?” demanded the man at his left, fiercely.

“You see,” said the captain, discarding two cards, “that’s the attitude. What is one man-out of quadrillions. The Galaxy won’t stop rotating because one man dies. But the Mule is not a man, he is a mutant. Already, he had upset Seldon’s plan, and if you’ll stop to analyze the implications, it means that he-one man-one mutant-upset all of Seldon’s psychohistory. If he had never lived, the Foundation would not have fallen. If he ceased living, it would not remain fallen.

“Come, the democrats have fought the mayors and the traders for eighty years by connivery. Let’s try assassination.”

“How?” interposed the Fox, with cold common sense.

The captain said, slowly, “I’ve spent three months of thought on that with no solution. I came here and had it in five minutes.” He glanced briefly at the man whose broad, pink melon of a face smiled from the place at his right. “You were once Mayor Indbur’s chamberlain. I did not know you were of the underground,”

“Nor I, that you were.”

“Well, then, in your capacity as chamberlain you periodically checked the working of the alarm system of the palace.”

“I did.”

“And the Mule occupies the palace now.”

“So it has been announced-though he is a modest conqueror who makes no speeches, proclamations nor public appearances of any sort.”

“That’s an old story, and affects nothing. You, my ex-chamberlain, are all we need.”

The cards were shown and the Fox collected the stakes. Slowly, he dealt a new hand.

The man who had once been chamberlain picked up his cards, singly. “Sorry, captain. I checked the alarm system, but it was routine. I know nothing about it.”

“I expected that, but your mind carries an eidetic memory of the controls if it can be probed deeply enough-with a psychic probe.”

The chamberlain’s ruddy face paled suddenly and sagged. The cards in his hand crumpled under sudden fist-pressure, “A psychic probe?”

“You needn’t worry,” said the captain, sharply. “I know how to use one. It will not harm you past a few days’ weakness. And if it did, it is the chance you take and the price you pay. There are some among us, no doubt, who from the controls of the alarm could determine the wavelength combinations. There are some among us who could manufacture a small bomb under time-control and I myself will carry it to the Mule.”

The men gathered over the table.

The captain announced, “On a given evening, a riot will start in Terminus City in the neighborhood of the palace. No real fighting. Disturbance-then flight. As long as the palace guard is attracted... or, at the very least, distracted-”

From that day for a month the preparations went on, and Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet having become conspirator descended further in the social scale and became an “assassin.”

Captain Pritcher, assassin, was in the palace itself, and found himself grimly pleased with his psychology. A thorough alarm system outside meant few guards within. In this case, it meant none at all.

The floor plan was clear in his mind. He was a blob moving noiselessly up the well-carpeted ramp. At its head, he flattened against the wall and waited.

The small closed door of a private room was before him. Behind that door must be the mutant who had beaten the unbeatable. He was early-the bomb had ten minutes of life in it.

Five of these passed, and still in all the world there was no sound. The Mule had five minutes to live-So had Captain Pritcher-

He stepped forward on sudden impulse. The plot could no longer fail. When the bomb went, the palace would go with it-all the palace. A door between-ten yards between-was nothing. But he wanted to see the Mule as they died together.

In a last, insolent gesture, he thundered upon the door.

And it opened and let out the blinding light.

Captain Pritcher staggered, then caught himself. The solemn man, standing in the center of the small room before a suspended fish bowl, looked up mildly.

His uniform was a somber black, and as he tapped the bowl in an absent gesture, it bobbed quickly and the feather-finned, orange and vermilion fish within darted wildly.

He said, “Come in, captain!”

To the captain’s quivering tongue the little metal globe beneath was swelling ominously-a physical impossibility, the captain knew. But it was in its last minute of life.

The uniformed man said, “You had better spit out the foolish pellet and free yourself for speech. It won’t blast.”

The minute passed and with a slow, sodden motion the captain bent his head and dropped the silvery globe into his palm. With a furious force it was flung against the wall. It rebounded with a tiny, sharp clangor, gleaming harmlessly as it flew.

The uniformed man shrugged. “So much for that, then. It would have done you no good in any case, captain. I am not the Mule. You will have to be satisfied with his viceroy.”

“How did you know?” muttered the captain, thickly.

“Blame it on an efficient counter-espionage system. I can name every member of your little gang, every step of their planning-”

“And you let it go this far?”

“Why not? It has been one of my great purposes here to find you and some others. Particularly you. I might have had you some months ago, while you were still a worker at the Newton Bearings Works, but this is much better. If you hadn’t suggested the main outlines of the plot yourself, one of my own men would have advanced something of much the same sort for you. The result is quite dramatic, and rather grimly humorous.”

The captain’s eyes were hard. “I find it so, too. Is it all over now?”

“Just begun. Come, captain, sit down. Let us leave heroics for the fools who are impressed by it. Captain, you are a capable man. According to the information I have, you were the first on the Foundation to recognize the power of the Mule. Since then you have interested yourself, rather daringly, in the Mule’s early life. You have been one of those who carried off his clown, who, incidentally, has not yet been found, and for which there will yet be full payment. Naturally, your ability is recognized and the Mule is not of those who fear the ability of his enemies as long as he can convert it into the ability of a new friend.”

“Is that what you’re hedging up to? Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! It was the purpose of tonight’s comedy. You are an intelligent man, yet your little conspiracies against die Mule fail humorously. You can scarcely dignify it with the name of conspiracy. Is it part of your military training to waste ships in hopeless actions?”

“One must first admit them to be hopeless.”

“One will,” the viceroy assured him, gently. “The Mule has conquered the Foundation, It is rapidly being turned into an arsenal for accomplishment of his greater aims.”

“What greater aims?”

“The conquest of the entire Galaxy. The reunion of all the tom worlds into a new Empire. The fulfillment, you dull-witted patriot, of your own Seldon’s dream seven hundred years before he hoped to see it. And in the fulfillment, you can help us.”

“I can, undoubtedly. But I won’t, undoubtedly.”

“I understand,” reasoned the viceroy, “that only three of the Independent Trading Worlds yet resist. They will not last much longer. It will be the last of all Foundation forces. You still hold out.”

“Yes.”

“Yet you won’t. A voluntary recruit is the, most efficient. But the other kind will do. Unfortunately, the Mule is absent. He leads the fight, as always, against the resisting Traders. But he is in continual contact with us. You will not have to wait long.”

“For what?”

“For your conversion.

“The Mule,” said the captain, frigidly, “will find that beyond his ability.”

“But he won’t. I was not beyond it. You don’t recognize me? Come, you were on Kalgan, so you have seen me. I wore a monocle, a fur-lined scarlet robe, a high-crowned hat-”

The captain stiffened in dismay. “You were the warlord of Kalgan.”

“Yes. And now I am the loyal viceroy of the Mule. You see, he is persuasive.”

11. Interlude in Space

THE BLOCKADE WAS run successfully. In the vast volume of space, not all the navies ever in existence could keep their watch in tight proximity. Given a single ship, a skillful pilot, and a moderate degree of luck, and there are holes and to spare.

With cold-eyed calm, Toran drove a protesting vessel from the vicinity of one star to that of another. If the neighborhood of great mass made an interstellar jump erratic and difficult, it also made the enemy detection devices useless or nearly so.

And once the girdle of ships had been passed the inner sphere of dead space, through whose blockaded sub-ether no message could be driven, was passed as well. For the first time in over three months Toran felt unisolated.

A week passed before the enemy news programs dealt with anything more than the dull, self-laudatory details of growing control over the Foundation. It was a week in which Toran’s armored trading ship fled inward from the Periphery in hasty jumps.

Ebling Mis called out to the pilot room and Toran rose blink-eyed from his charts.

“What’s the matter?” Toran stepped down into the small central chamber which Bayta had inevitably devised into a living room.

Mis shook his head, “Bescuppered if I know. The Mule’s newsmen are announcing a special bulletin. Thought you might want to get in on it.”

“Might as well. Where’s Bayta?”

“Setting the table in the diner and picking out a menuor some such frippery.”

Toran sat down upon the cot that served as Magnifico’s bed, and waited. The propaganda routine of the Mule’s “special bulletins” were monotonously similar. First the martial music, and then the buttery slickness of the announcer. The minor news items would come, following one another in patient lock step. Then the pause. Then the trumpets and the rising excitement and the climax.

Toran endured it. Mis muttered to himself.

The newscaster spilled out, in conventional war-correspondent phraseology, the unctuous words that translated into sound the molten metal and blasted flesh of a battle in space.

“Rapid cruiser squadrons under Lieutenant General Sammin hit back hard today at the task force striking out from Iss-” The carefully expressionless face of the speaker upon the screen faded into the blackness of a space cut through by the quick swaths of ships reeling across emptiness in deadly battle. The voice continued through the soundless thunder

“The most striking action of the battle was the subsidiary combat of the heavy cruiser Cluster against three enemy ships of the ‘Nova’ class-”

The screen’s view veered and closed in. A great ship sparked and one of the frantic attackers glowed angrily, twisted out of focus, swung back and rammed. The Cluster bowed wildly and survived the glancing blow that drove the attacker off in twisting reflection.

The newsman’s smooth unimpassioned delivery continued to the last blow and the last hulk.

Then a pause, and a large similar voice-and-picture of the fight off Mnemon, to which the novelty was added of a lengthy description of a hit-and-run landing-the picture of a blasted city-huddled and weary prisoners-and off again.

Mnemon had not long to live.

The pause again-and this time the raucous sound of the expected brasses. The screen faded into the long, impressively soldier-lined corridor up which the government spokesman in councilor’s uniform strode quickly.

The silence was oppressive.

The voice that came at last was solemn, slow and hard: “By order of our sovereign, it is announced that the planet, Haven, hitherto in warlike opposition to his will, has submitted to the acceptance of defeat. At this moment, the forces of our sovereign are occupying the planet. Opposition was scattered, unco-ordinated, and speedily crushed.”

The scene faded out, the original newsman returned to state importantly that other developments would be transmitted as they occurred.

Then there was dance music, and Ebling Mis threw the shield that cut the power.

Toran rose and walked unsteadily away, without a word. The psychologist made no move to stop him.

When Bayta stepped out of the kitchen, Mis motioned silence.

He said, “They’ve taken Haven.”

And Bayta said, “Already?” Her eyes were round, and sick with disbelief.

“Without a fight. Without an unprin-” He stopped and swallowed. “You’d better leave Toran alone. It’s not pleasant for him. Suppose we eat without him this once.”

Bayta looked once toward the pilot room, then turned hopelessly. “Very well!”

Magnifico sat unnoticed at the table. He neither spoke nor ate but stared ahead with a concentrated fear that seemed to drain all the vitality out of his thread of a body.

Ebling Mis pushed absently at his iced-fruit dessert and said, harshly, “Two Trading worlds fight. They fight, and bleed, and die and don’t surrender. Only at Haven-Just as at the Foundation-”

“But why? Why?”

The psychologist shook his head. “It’s of a piece with all the problem. Every queer facet is a hint at the nature of the Mule. First, the problem of how he could conquer the Foundation, with little blood, and at a single blow essentially-while the Independent Trading Worlds held out. The blanket on nuclear reactions was a puny weapon-we’ve discussed that back and forth till I’m sick of it-and it did not work on any but the Foundation.

“Randu suggested,” and Ebling’s grizzly eyebrows pulled together, “it might have been a radiant Will-Depresser. It’s what might have done the work on Haven. But then why wasn’t it used on Mnemon and Iss-which even now fight with such demonic intensity that it is taking half the Foundation fleet in addition to the Mule’s forces to beat them down. Yes, I recognized Foundation ships in the attack.”

Bayta whispered, “The Foundation, then Haven. Disaster seems to follow us, without touching. We always seem to get out by a hair. Will it last forever?”

Ebling Mis was not listening. To himself, he was making a point. “But there’s another problem-another problem. Bayta, you remember the news item that the Mule’s clown was not found on Terminus; that it was suspected he had fled to Haven, or been carried there by his original kidnappers. There is an importance attached to him, Bayta, that doesn’t fade, and we have not located it yet. Magnifico must know something that is fatal to the Mule. I’m sure of it. ”

Magnifico, white and stuttering, protested, “Sire... noble lord... indeed, I swear it is past my poor reckoning to penetrate your wants. I have told what I know to the utter limits, and with your probe, you have drawn out of my meager wit that which I knew, but knew not that I knew.”

“I know... I know. It is something small. A hint so small that neither you nor I recognize it for what it is. Yet I must find it-for Mnemon and Iss will go soon, and when they do, we are the last remnants, the last droplets of the independent Foundation.”

The stars begin to cluster closely when the core of the Galaxy is penetrated. Gravitational fields begin to overlap at intensities sufficient to introduce perturbations in an interstellar jump that can not be overlooked.

Toran became aware of that when a jump landed their ship in the full glare of a red giant which clutched viciously, and whose grip was loosed, then wrenched apart, only after twelve sleepless, soul-battering hours.

With charts limited in scope, and an experience not at all fully developed, either operationally or mathematically, Toran resigned himself to days of careful plotting between jumps.

It became a community project of a sort. Ebling Mis checked Toran’s mathematics and Bayta tested possible routes, by the various generalized methods, for the presence of real solutions. Even Magnifico was put to work on the calculating machine for routine computations, a type of work, which, once explained, was a source of great amusement to him and at which he was surprisingly proficient.

So at the end of a month, or nearly, Bayta was able to survey the red line that wormed its way through the ship’s trimensional model of the Galactic Lens halfway to its center, and say with Satiric relish, “You know what it looks like. It looks like a ten-foot earth-worm with a terrific case of indigestion. Eventually, you’ll land us back in Haven.”

“I will,” growled Toran, with a fierce rustle of his chart, “if you don’t shut up.”

“And at that,” continued Bayta, “there is probably a route fight through, straight as a meridian of longitude.”

“Yeah? Well, in the first place, dimwit, it probably took five hundred ships five hundred years to work out that route by hit-and-miss, and my lousy half-credit charts don’t give it. Besides, maybe those straight routes are a good thing to avoid. They’re probably choked up with ships. And besides-”

“Oh, for Galaxy’s sake, stop driveling and slavering so much righteous indignation.” Her hands were in his hair.

He yowled, “Ouch! Let go!” seized her wrists and whipped downward, whereupon Toran, Bayta, and chair formed a tangled threesome on the floor. It degenerated into a panting wrestling match, composed mostly of choking laughter and various foul blows.

Toran broke loose at Magnifico’s breathless entrance.

“What is it?”

The lines of anxiety puckered the clown’s face and tightened the skin whitely over the enormous bridge of his nose. “The instruments are behaving queerly, sir. I have not, in the knowledge of my ignorance, touched anything-”

In two seconds, Toran was in the pilot room. He said quietly to Magnifico, “Wake up Ebling Mis. Have him come down here.”

He said to Bayta, who was trying to get a basic order back to her hair by use of her fingers, “We’ve been detected, Bay.”

“Detected?” And Bayta’s arms dropped. “By whom?”

“Galaxy knows,” muttered Toran, “but I imagine by someone with blasters already ranged and trained.”

He sat down and in a low voice was already sending into the sub-ether the ship’s identification code.

And when Ebling Mis entered, bathrobed and blear-eyed, Toran said with a desperate calm, “It seems we’re inside the borders of a local Inner Kingdom which is called the Autarchy of Filia.”

“Never heard of it,” said Mis, abruptly.

“Well, neither did I,” replied Toran, “but we’re being stopped by a Filian ship just the same, and I don’t know what it will involve.”

The captain-inspector of the Filian ship crowded aboard with six armed men following him. He was short, thin-haired, thin-lipped, and dry-skinned. He coughed a sharp cough as he sat down and threw open the folio under his arm to a blank page.

“Your passports and ship’s clearance, please.”

“We have none,” said Toran.

“None, hey?” he snatched up a microphone suspended from his belt and spoke into it quickly, “Three men and one woman. Papers not in order.” He made an accompanying notation in the folio.

He said, “Where are you from?”

“Siwenna,” said Toran warily.

“Where is that?”

“Thirty thousand parsecs, eighty degrees west Trantor, forty degrees-”

“Never mind, never mind!” Toran could see that his inquisitor had written down: “Point of origin-Periphery.”

The Filian continued, “Where are you going?”

Toran said, “Trantor sector.”

“Purpose?”

“Pleasure trip.”

“Carrying any cargo?”

“No.”

“Hm-m-m. We’ll check on that.” He nodded and two men jumped to activity. Toran made no move to interfere.

“What brings you into Filian territory?” The Filian’s eyes gleamed unamiably.

“We didn’t know we were. I lack a proper chart.”

“You will be required to pay a hundred credits for that lack-and, of course, the usual fees required for tariff duties, et cetera.”

He spoke again into the microphone-but listened more than he spoke. Then, to Toran, “Know anything about nuclear technology?”

“A little,” replied Toran, guardedly.

“Yes?” The Filian closed his folio, and added, “The men of the Periphery have a knowledgeable reputation that way. Put on a suit and come with me.”

Bayta stepped forward, “What are you going to do with him?”

Toran put her aside gently, and asked coldly, “Where do you want me to come?”

“Our power plant needs minor adjustments. He’ll come with you.” His pointing finger aimed directly at Magnifico, whose brown eyes opened wide in a blubbery dismay.

“What’s he got to do with it?” demanded Toran fiercely.

The official looked up coldly. “I am informed of pirate activities in this vicinity. A description of one of the known thugs tallies roughly. It is a purely routine matter of identification. ”

Toran hesitated, but six men and six blasters are eloquent arguments. He reached into the cupboard for the suits.

An hour later, he rose upright in the bowels of the Filian ship and raged, “There’s not a thing wrong with the motors that I can see. The busbars are true, the L-tubes are feeding properly and the reaction analysis checks. Who’s in charge here?”

The head engineer said quietly, “I am.”

“Well, get me out of here-”

He was led to the officers’ level and the small anteroom held only an indifferent ensign.

“Where’s the man who came with me?”

“Please wait,” said the ensign.

It was fifteen minutes later that Magnifico was brought in.

“What did they do to you?” asked Toran quickly.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Magnifico’s head shook a slow negative.

It took two hundred and fifty credits to fulfill the demands of Filia-fifty credits of it for instant release-and they were in free space again.

Bayta said with a forced laugh, “Don’t we rate an escort? Don’t we get the usual figurative boot over the border?”

And Toran replied, grimly, “That was no Filian ship-and we’re not leaving for a while. Come in here.”

They gathered about him.

He said, whitely, “That was a Foundation ship, and those were the Mule’s men aboard.”

Ebling bent to pick up the cigar he had dropped. He said, “Here? We’re fifteen thousand parsecs from the Foundation. ”

“And we’re here. What’s to prevent them from making the same trip. Galaxy, Ebling, don’t you think I can tell ships apart? I saw their engines, and that’s enough for me. I tell you it was a Foundation engine in a Foundation ship.”

“And how did they get here?” asked Bayta, logically. “What are the chances of a random meeting of two given ships in space?”

“What’s that to do with it?” demanded Toran, hotly. “It would only show we’ve been followed.”

“Followed?” hooted Bayta. “Through hyperspace?”

Ebling Mis interposed wearily, “That can be done-given a good ship and a great pilot. But the possibility doesn’t impress me.”

“I haven’t been masking my trail,” insisted Toran. “I’ve been building up take-off speed on the straight. A blind man could have calculated our route.”

“The blazes he could,” cried Bayta. “With the cockeyed jumps you are making, observing our initial direction didn’t mean a thing. We came out of the jump wrong-end forwards more than once.”

“We’re wasting time,” blazed Toran, with gritted teeth. “It’s a Foundation ship under the Mule. It’s stopped us. It’s searched us. It’s had Magnifico-alone-with me as hostage to keep the rest of you quiet, in case you suspected. And we’re going to bum it out of space right now.”

“Hold on now,” and Ebling Mis clutched at him. “Are you going to destroy us for one ship you think is an enemy? Think, man, would those scuppers chase us over an impossible route half through the bestinkered Galaxy, look us over, and then let us go?”

“They’re still interested in where we’re going.”

“Then why stop us and put us on our guard? You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

“I’ll have it my way. Let go of me, Ebling, or I’ll knock you down.”

Magnifico leaned forward from his balanced perch on his favorite chair back. His long nostrils flared with excitement. “I crave your pardon for my interruption, but my poor mind is of a sudden plagued with a queer thought.”

Bayta anticipated Toran’s gesture of annoyance, and added her grip to Ebling’s. “Go ahead and speak, Magnifico. We will all listen faithfully.”

Magnifico said, “In my stay in their ship what addled wits I have were bemazed and bemused by a chattering fear that befell men. Of a truth I have a lack of memory of most that happened. Many men staring at me, and talk I did not understand. But towards the last-as though a beam of sunlight had dashed through a cloud rift-there was a face I knew. A glimpse, the merest glimmer-and yet it glows in my memory ever stronger and brighter.”

Toran said, “Who was it?”

“That captain who was with us so long a time ago, when first you saved me from slavery.”

It had obviously been Magnifico’s intention to create a sensation, and the delighted smile that curled broadly in the shadow of his proboscis, attested to his realization of the intention’s success.

“Captain... Han... Pritcher?” demanded Mis, sternly. “You’re sure of that? Certain sure now?”

“Sir, I swear,” and he laid a bone-thin hand upon his narrow chest. “I would uphold the truth of it before the Mule and swear it in his teeth, though all his power were behind him to deny it.”

Bayta said in pure wonder, “Then what’s it all about?” The clown faced her eagerly, “My lady, I have a theory. It came upon me, ready made, as though the Galactic Spirit had gently laid it in my mind.” He actually raised his voice above Toran’s interrupting objection.

“My lady,” he addressed himself exclusively to Bayta, “if this captain had, like us, escaped with a ship; if he, like us, were on a trip for a purpose of his own devising; if he blundered upon us-he would suspect us of following and waylaying him, as we suspect him of the like. What wonder he played this comedy to enter our ship?”

“Why would he want us in his ship, then?” demanded Toran. “That doesn’t fit.”

“Why, yes, it does,” clamored the clown, with a flowing inspiration. “He sent an underling who knew us not, but who described us into his microphone. The listening captain would be struck at my own poor likeness-for, of a truth there are not many in this great Galaxy who bear a resemblance to my scantiness. I was the proof of the identity of the rest of you.”

“And so he leaves us?”

“What do we know of his mission, and the secrecy thereof? lie has spied us out for not an enemy and having it done so, must he needs think it wise to risk his plan by widening the knowledge thereof?”

Bayta said slowly, “Don’t be stubborn, Torie. It does explain things.”

“It could be,” agreed Mis.

Toran seemed helpless in the face of united resistance. Something in the clown’s fluent explanations bothered him. Something was wrong. Yet he was bewildered and, in spite of himself, his anger ebbed.

“For a while,” he whispered, “I thought we might have had one of the Mule’s ships.”

And his eyes were dark with the pain of Haven’s loss.

The others understood.

12. Death on Neotrantor

NEOTRANTOR THE SMALL PLANET OF DELICASS, RENAMED AFTER THE GREAT SACK, WAS FOR NEARLY A CENTURY, THE SEAT OF THE LAST DYNASTY OF THE FIRST EMPIRE. IT WAS A SHADOW WORLD AND A SHADOW EMPIRE AND ITS EXISTENCE IS ONLY OF LEGALISTIC IMPORTANCE. UNDER THE FIRST OF THE NEOTRANTORIAN DYNASTY....

– ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

NEOTRANTOR WAS THE name! New Trantor! And when you have said the name you have exhausted at a stroke all the resemblances of the new Trantor to the great original. Two parsecs away, the sun of Old Trantor still shone and the Galaxy’s Imperial Capital of the previous century still cut through space in the silent and eternal repetition of its orbit.

Men even inhabited Old Trantor. Not many-a hundred million, perhaps, where fifty years before, forty billions had swarmed. The huge, metal world was in jagged splinters. The towering thrusts of the multi-towers from the single world-girdling base were torn and empty-still bearing the original blastholes and firegut-shards of the Great Sack of forty years earlier.

It was strange that a world which had been the center of a Galaxy for two thousand years-that had ruled limitless space and been home to legislators and rulers whose whims spanned the parsecs-could die in a month. It was strange that a world which had been untouched through the vast conquering sweeps and retreats of a millennia, and equally untouched by the civil wars and palace revolutions of other millennia-should lie dead at last. It was strange that the Glory of the Galaxy should be a rotting corpse.

And pathetic!

For centuries would yet pass before the mighty works of fifty generations of humans would decay past use. Only the declining powers of men, themselves, rendered them useless now.

The millions left after the billions had died tore up the gleaming metal base of the planet and exposed soil that had not felt the touch of sun in a thousand years.

Surrounded by the mechanical perfections of human efforts, encircled by the industrial marvels of mankind freed of the tyranny of environment-they returned to the land. In the huge traffic clearings, wheat and corn grew. In the shadow of the towers, sheep grazed.

But Neotrantor existed-an obscure village of a planet drowned in the shadow of mighty Trantor, until a heart-throttled royal family, racing before the fire and flame of the Great Sack sped to it as its last refuge-and held out there, barely, until the roaring wave of rebellion subsided. There it ruled in ghostly splendor over a cadaverous remnant of Imperium.

Twenty agricultural worlds were a Galactic Empire!

Dagobert IX, ruler of twenty worlds of refractory squires and sullen peasants, was Emperor of the Galaxy, Lord of the Universe.

Dagobert IX had been twenty-five on the bloody day he arrived with his father upon Neotrantor. His eyes and mind were still alive with the glory and the power of the Empire that was. But his son, who might one day be Dagobert X, was born on Neotrantor.

Twenty worlds were all he knew.

Jord Commason’s open air car was the finest vehicle of its type on all Neotrantor-and, after all, justly so. It did not end with the fact that Commason was the largest landowner on Neotrantor. It began there. For in earlier days he had been the companion and evil genius of a young crown prince, restive in the dominating grip of a middle-aged emperor. And now he was the companion and still the evil genius of a middle-aged crown prince who hated and dominated an old emperor.

So Jord Commason, in his air car, which in mother-of-pearl finish and gold-and-lumetron ornamentation needed no coat of arms as owner’s identification, surveyed the lands that were his, and the miles of rolling wheat that were his, and the huge threshers and harvesters that were his, and the tenant-farmers and machine-tenders that were his-and considered his problems cautiously.

Beside him, his bent and withered chauffeur guided the ship gently through the upper winds and smiled.

Jord Commason spoke to the wind, the air, and the sky, “You remember what I told you, Inchney?”

Inchney’s thin gray hair wisped lightly in the wind. His gap-toothed smile widened in its thin-lipped fashion and the vertical wrinkles of his cheeks deepened as though he were keeping an eternal secret from himself. The whisper of his voice whistled between his teeth.

“I remember, sire, and I have thought.”

“And what have you thought, Inchney?” There was an impatience about the question.

Inchney remembered that he had been young and handsome, and a lord on Old Trantor. Inchney remembered that he was a disfigured ancient on Neotrantor, who lived by grace of Squire Jord Commason, and paid for the grace by lending his subtlety on request. He sighed very softly.

He whispered again, “Visitors from the Foundation, sire, are a convenient thing to have. Especially, sire, when they come with but a single ship, and but a single fighting man. How welcome they might be.”

“Welcome?” said Commason, gloomily. “Perhaps so. But those men are magicians and may be powerful.”

“Pugh,” muttered Inchney, “the mistiness of distance hides the truth. The Foundation is but a world. Its citizens are but men. If you blast them, they die.”

Inchney held the ship on its course-A river was a winding sparkle below. He whispered, “And is there not a man they speak of now who stirs the worlds of the Periphery?”

Commason was suddenly suspicious. “What do you know of this?”

There was no smile on his chauffeur’s face. “Nothing, sire. It was but an idle question.”

The squire’s hesitation was short. He said, with brutal directness, “Nothing you ask is idle, and your method of acquiring knowledge will have your scrawny neck in a vise yet. But-I have it! This man is called the Mule, and a subject of his had been here some months ago on a... matter of business. I await another... now... for its conclusion.”

“And these newcomers? They are not the ones you want, perhaps?”

“They lack the identification they should have.”

“It has been reported that the Foundation has been captured-”

“I did not tell you that.”

“It has been so reported,” continued Inchney, coolly, “and if that is correct, then these may be refugees from the destruction, and may be held for the Mule’s man out of honest friendship.”

“Yes?” Commason was uncertain.

“And, sire, since it is well-known that the friend of a conqueror is but the last victim, it would be but a measure of honest self-defense. For there are such things as psychic probes, and here we have four Foundation brains. There is much about the Foundation it would be useful to know, much even about the Mule. And then the Mule’s friendship would be a trifle the less overpowering.”

Commason, in the quiet of the upper air, returned with a shiver to his first thought. “But if the Foundation has not fallen. If the reports are lies. It is said that it has been foretold it can not fall.”

“We are past the age of soothsayers, sire.”

“And yet if it did not fall, Inchney. Think! If it did not fall. The Mule made me promises, indeed-” He had gone too far, and backtracked. “That is, he made boasts. But boasts are wind and deeds are hard.”

Inchney laughed noiselessly. “Deeds are hard indeed, until begun. One could scarcely find a further fear than a Galaxy-end Foundation.”

“There is still the prince,” murmured Commason, almost to himself.

“He deals with the Mule also, then, sire?”

Commason could not quite choke down the complacent shift of features. “Not entirely. Not as I do. But he grows wilder, more uncontrollable. A demon is upon him. If I seize these people and he takes them away for his own use-for he does not lack a certain shrewdness-I am not yet ready to quarrel with him.” He frowned and his heavy cheeks bent downwards with dislike.

“I saw those strangers for a few moments yesterday,” said the gray chauffeur, irrelevantly, “and it is a strange woman, that dark one. she walks with the freedom of a man and she is of a startling paleness against the dark luster of hair.” There was almost a warmth in the husky whisper of the withered voice, so that Commason turned toward him in sudden surprise.

Inchney continued, “The prince, I think, would not find his shrewdness proof against a reasonable compromise. You could have the rest, if you left him the girl-”

A light broke upon Commason, “A thought! Indeed a thought! Inchney, turn back! And Inchney, if all turns well, we will discuss further this matter of your freedom.”

It was with an almost superstitious sense of symbolism that Commason found a Personal Capsule waiting for him in his private study when he returned. It had arrived by a wavelength known to few. Commason smiled a fat smile. The Mule’s man was coming and the Foundation had indeed fallen.

Bayta’s misty visions, when she had them, of an Imperial palace, did not jibe with the reality, and inside her, there was a vague sense of disappointment. The room was small, almost plain, almost ordinary. The palace did not even match the mayor’s residence back at the Foundation-and Dagobert IX-

Bayta had definite ideas of what an emperor ought to look like. He ought not look like somebody’s benevolent grandfather. He ought not be thin and white and faded-or serving cups of tea with his own hand in an expressed anxiety for the comfort of his visitors.

But so it was.

Dagobert IX chuckled as he poured tea into her stiffly outheld cup.

“This is a great pleasure for me, my dear. It is a moment away from ceremony and courtiers. I have not had the opportunity for welcoming visitors from my outer provinces for a time now. My son takes care of these details now that I’m older. You haven’t met my son? A fine boy. Headstrong, perhaps. But then he’s young. Do you care for a flavor capsule? No?”

Toran attempted an interruption, “Your imperial majesty-”

“Yes?”

“Your imperial majesty, it has not been our intention to intrude upon you-”

“Nonsense, there is no intrusion. Tonight there will be the official reception, but until then, we are free. Let’s see, where did you say you were from? It seems a long time since we had an official reception. You said you were from the Province of Anacreon?”

“From the Foundation, your imperial majesty!”

“Yes, the Foundation. I remember now. I had it located. It is in the Province of Anacreon. I have never been there. My doctor forbids extensive traveling. I don’t recall any recent reports from my viceroy at Anacreon. How are conditions there?” he concluded anxiously.

“Sire,” mumbled Toran, “I bring no complaints.”

“That is gratifying. I will commend my viceroy.”

Toran looked helplessly at Ebling Mis, whose brusque voice rose. “Sire, we have been told that it will require your permission for us to visit the Imperial University Library on Trantor.”

“Trantor?” questioned the emperor, mildly, “Trantor?”

Then a look of puzzled pain crossed his thin face. “Trantor?” he whispered. “I remember now. I am making plans now to return there with a flood of ships at my back. You shall come with me. Together we will destroy the rebel, Gilmer. Together we shall restore the empire!”

His bent back had straightened. His voice had strengthened. For a moment his eyes were hard. Then, he blinked and said softly, “But Gilmer is dead. I seem to remember-Yes. Yes! Gilmer is dead! Trantor is dead-For a moment, it seemed-Where was it you said you came from?”

Magnifico whispered to Bayta, “Is this really an emperor? For somehow I thought emperors were greater and wiser than ordinary men.”

Bayta motioned him quiet. She said, “If your imperial majesty would but sign an order permitting us to go to Trantor, it would avail greatly the common cause.”

“To Trantor?” The emperor was blank and uncomprehending.

“Sire, the Viceroy of Anacreon, in whose name we speak, sends word that Gilmer is yet alive-”

“Alive! Alive!” thundered Dagobert. “Where? It will be war!”

“Your imperial majesty, it must not yet be known. His whereabouts are uncertain. The viceroy sends us to acquaint you of the fact, and it is only on Trantor that we may find his hiding place. Once discovered-”

“Yes, yes-He must be found-” The old emperor doddered to the wall and touched the little photocell with a trembling finger. He muttered, after an ineffectual pause, “My servants do not come. I can not wait for them.”

He was scribbling on a blank sheet, and ended with a flourished “D.” He said, “Gilmer will yet learn the power of his emperor. Where was it you came from? Anacreon? What are the conditions there? Is the name of the emperor powerful?”

Bayta took the paper from his loose fingers, “Your imperial majesty is beloved by the people. Your love for them is widely known.”

“I shall have to visit my good people of Anacreon, but my doctor says... I don’t remember what he says, but-” He looked up, his old gray eyes sharp, “Were you saying something of Gilmer?”

“No, your imperial majesty.”

“He shall not advance further. Go back and tell your people that. Trantor shall hold! My father leads the fleet now, and the rebel vermin Gilmer shall freeze in space with his regicidal rabble.”

He staggered into a seat and his eyes were blank once more. “What was I saying?”

Toran rose and bowed low, “Your imperial majesty has been kind to us, but the time allotted us for an audience is over. ”

For a moment, Dagobert IX looked like an emperor indeed as he rose and stood stiff-backed while, one by one, his visitors retreated backward through the door

-to where twenty armed men intervened and locked a circle about them.

A hand-weapon flashed-

To Bayta, consciousness returned sluggishly, but without the “Where am I?” sensation. She remembered clearly the odd old man who called himself emperor, and the other men who waited outside. The arthritic tingle in her finger joints meant a stun pistol.

She kept her eyes closed, and listened with painful attention to the voices.

There were two of them. One was slow and cautious, with a slyness beneath the surface obsequity. The other was hoarse and thick, almost sodden, and blurted out in viscous spurts. Bayta liked neither.

The thick voice was predominant.

Bayta caught the last words, “He will live forever, that old madman. It wearies me. It annoys me. Commason, I will have it. I grow older, too.”

“Your highness, let us first see of what use these people are. It may be we shall have sources of strength other than your father still provides.”

The thick voice was lost in a bubbling whisper. Bayta caught only the phrase, “-the girl-” but the other, fawning voice was a nasty, low, running chuckle followed by a comradely, near-patronizing, “Dagobert, you do not age. They lie who say you are not a youth of twenty.”

They laughed together, and Bayta’s blood was an icy trickle. Dagobert-your highness-The old emperor had spoken of a headstrong son, and the implication of the whispers now beat dully upon her. But such things didn’t happen to people in real life-

Toran’s voice broke upon her in a slow, hard current of cursing.

She opened her eyes, and Toran’s, which were upon her, showed open relief. He said, fiercely, “This banditry will be answered by the emperor. Release us.”

It dawned upon Bayta that her wrists and ankles were fastened to wall and floor by a tight attraction field.

Thick Voice approached Toran. He was paunchy, his lower eyelids puffed darkly, and his hair was thinning out. There was a gay feather in his peaked hat, and the edging of his doublet was embroidered with silvery metal-foam.

He sneered with a heavy amusement. “The emperor? The poor, mad emperor?”

“I have his pass. No subject may hinder our freedom.”

“But I am no subject, space-garbage. I am the regent and crown prince and am to be addressed as such. As for my poor silly father, it amuses him to see visitors occasionally. And we humor him. It tickles his mock-imperial fancy. But, of course, it has no other meaning.”

And then he was before Bayta, and she looked up at him contemptuously. He leaned close and his breath was overpoweringly minted.

He said, “Her eyes suit well, Commason-she is even prettier with them open. I think she’ll do. It will be an exotic dish for a jaded taste, eh?”

There was a futile surge upwards on Toran’s part, which the crown prince ignored and Bayta felt the iciness travel outward to the skin. Ebling Mis was still out; head lolling weakly upon his chest, but, with a sensation of surprise, Bayta noted that Magnifico’s eyes were open, sharply open, as though awake for many minutes. Those large brown eyes swiveled towards Bayta and stared at her out of a doughy face.

He whimpered, and nodded with his head towards the crown prince, “That one has my Visi-Sonor.”

The crown prince turned sharply toward the new voice, “This is yours, monster?” He swung the instrument from his shoulder where it had hung, suspended by its green strap, unnoticed by Bayta.

He fingered it clumsily, tried to sound a chord and got nothing for his pains, “Can you play it, monster?”

Magnifico nodded once.

Toran said suddenly, “You’ve rifled a ship of the Foundation. If the emperor will not avenge, the Foundation will.”

It was the other, Commason, who answered slowly, “What Foundation? Or is the Mule no longer the Mule?”

There was no answer to that. The prince’s grin showed large uneven teeth. The clown’s binding field was broken and he was nudged ungently to his feet. The Visi-Sonor was thrust into his hand.

“Play for us, monster,” said the prince. “Play us a serenade of love and beauty for our foreign lady here. Tell her that my father’s country prison is no palace, but that I can take her to one where she can swim in rose water-and know what a prince’s love is. Sing of a prince’s love, monster.”

He placed one thick thigh upon a marble table and swung a leg idly, while his fatuous smiling stare swept Bayta into a silent rage. Toran’s sinews strained against the field, in painful, perspiring effort. Ebling Mis stirred and moaned.

Magnifico gasped, “My fingers are of useless stiffness-”

“Play, monster!” roared the prince. The lights dimmed at a gesture to Commason and in the dimness he crossed his arms and waited.

Magnifico drew his fingers in rapid, rhythmic jumps from end to end of the multikeyed instrument-and a sharp, gliding rainbow of light jumped across the room. A low, soft tone sounded-throbbing, tearful. It lifted in sad laughter, and underneath it there sounded a dull tolling.

The darkness seemed to intensify and grow thick. Music reached Bayta through the muffled folds of invisible blankets. Gleaming light reached her from the depths as though a single candle glowed at the bottom of a pit.

Automatically, her eyes strained. The light brightened, but remained blurred. It moved fuzzily, in confused color, and the music was suddenly brassy, evil-flourishing in high crescendo. The light flickered quickly, in swift motion to the wicked rhythm. Something writhed within the light. Something with poisonous metallic scales writhed and yawned. And the music writhed and yawned with it.

Bayta struggled with a strange emotion and then caught herself in a mental gasp. Almost, it reminded her of the time in the Time Vault, of those last days on Haven. It was that horrible, cloying, clinging spiderweb of horror and despair. She shrunk beneath it oppressed.

The music dinned upon her, laughing horribly, and the writhing terror at the wrong end of the telescope in the small circle of light was lost as she turned feverishly away. Her forehead was wet and cold.

The music died. It must have lasted fifteen minutes, and a vast pleasure at its absence flooded Bayta. Light glared, and Magnifico’s face was close to hers, sweaty, wild-eyed, lugubrious.

“My lady,” he gasped, “how fare you?”

“Well enough,” she whispered, “but why did you play like that?”

She became aware of the others in the room. Toran and Mis were limp and helpless against the wall, but her eyes skimmed over them. There was the prince, lying strangely still at the foot of the table. There was Commason, moaning wildly through an open, drooling mouth.

Commason flinched, and yelled mindlessly, as Magnifico took a step towards him.

Magnifico turned, and with a leap, turned the others loose.

Toran lunged upwards and with eager, taut fists seized the landowner by the neck, “You come with us. We’ll want you-to make sure we get to our ship.”

Two hours later, in the ship’s kitchen, Bayta served a walloping homemade pie, and Magnifico celebrated the return to space by attacking it with a magnificent disregard of table manners.

“Good, Magnifico?”

“Um-m-m-m!”

“Magnifico?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“What was it you played back there?”

The clown writhed, “I... I’d rather not say. I learned it once, and the Visi-Sonor is of an effect upon the nervous system most profound. Surely, it was an evil thing, and not for your sweet innocence, my lady.”

“Oh, now, come, Magnifico. I’m not as innocent as that. Don’t flatter so. Did I see anything like what they saw?”

“I hope not. I played it for them only. If you saw, it was but the rim of it-from afar.”

“And that was enough. Do you know you knocked the prince out?”

Magnifico spoke grimly through a large, muffling piece of pie. “I killed him, my lady.”

“What?” She swallowed, painfully.

“He was dead when I stopped, or I would have continued. I cared not for Commason. His greatest threat was death or torture. But, my lady, this prince looked upon you wickedly, and-” he choked in a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

Bayta felt strange thoughts come and repressed them sternly. “Magnifico, you’ve got a gallant soul.”

“Oh, my lady.” He bent a red nose into his pie, but, somehow did not eat.

Ebling Mis stared out the port. Trantor was near-its metallic shine fearfully bright. Toran was standing there, too.

He said with dull bitterness, “We’ve come for nothing, Ebling. The Mule’s man precedes us.”

Ebling Mis rubbed his forehead with a hand that seemed shriveled out of its former plumpness. His voice was an abstracted mutter.

Toran was annoyed. “I say those people know the Foundation has fallen. I say-”

“Eh?” Mis looked up, puzzled. Then, he placed a gentle hand upon Toran’s wrist, in complete oblivion of any previous conversation, “Toran, I... I’ve been looking at Trantor. Do you know... I have the queerest feeling... ever since we arrived on Neotrantor. It’s an urge, a driving urge that’s pushing and pushing inside. Toran, I can do it; I know I can do it. Things are becoming clear in my mind-they have never been so clear.”

Toran stared-and shrugged. The words brought him no confidence.

He said, tentatively, “Mis?”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t see a ship come down on Neotrantor as we left?”

Consideration was brief. “No.”

“I did. Imagination, I suppose, but it could have been that Filian ship.”

“The one with Captain Han Pritcher on it?”

“The one with space knows who upon it. Magnifico’s information-It followed us here, Mis.”

Ebling Mis said nothing,

Toran said strenuously, “is there anything wrong with you? Aren’t you well?”

Mis’s eyes were thoughtful, luminous, and strange. He did not answer.

13. The Ruins of Trantor

THE LOCATION OF an objective upon the great world of Trantor presents a problem unique in the Galaxy. There are no continents or oceans to locate from a thousand miles distance. There are no rivers, lakes, and islands to catch sight of through the cloud rifts.

The metal-covered world was-had been-one colossal city, and only the old Imperial palace could be identified readily from outer space by a stranger. The Bayta circled the world at almost air-car height in repeated painful search.

From polar regions, where the icy coating of the metal spires were somber evidence of the breakdown or neglect of the weather-conditioning machinery, they worked southwards. Occasionally they could experiment with the correlations-(or presumable correlations)-between what they saw and what the inadequate map obtained at Neotrantor showed.

But it was unmistakable when it came. The gap in the metal coat of the planet was fifty miles. The unusual greenery spread over hundreds of square miles, inclosing the mighty grace of the ancient Imperial residences.

The Bayta hovered and slowly oriented itself. There were only the huge supercauseways to guide them. Long straight arrows on the map, smooth, gleaming ribbons there below them.

What the map indicated to be the University area was reached by dead reckoning, and upon the flat area of what once must have been a busy landing-field, the ship lowered itself.

It was only as they submerged into the welter of metal that the smooth beauty apparent from the air dissolved into the broken, twisted near-wreckage that had been left in the wake of the Sack. Spires were truncated, smooth walls gouted and twisted, and just for an instant there was the glimpse of a shaven area of earth-perhaps several hundred acres in extent-dark and plowed.

Lee Senter waited as the ship settled downward cautiously. It was a strange ship, not from Neotrantor, and inwardly he sighed. Strange ships and confused dealings with the men of outer space could mean the end of the short days of peace, a return to the old grandiose times of death and battle. Senter was leader of the group; the old books were in his charge and he had read of those old days. He did not want them.

Perhaps ten minutes spent themselves as the strange ship came down to nestle upon the flatness, but long memories telescoped themselves in that time. There was first the great farm of his childhood-that remained in his mind merely as busy crowds of people. Then there was the trek of the young families to new lands. He was ten, then; an only child, puzzled, and frightened.

Then the new buildings; the great metal slabs to be uprooted and tom aside; the exposed soil to be turned, and freshened, and invigorated; neighboring buildings to be tom down and leveled; others to be transformed to living quarters.

There were crops to be grown and harvested; peaceful relations with neighboring farms to be established-

There was growth and expansion, and the quiet efficiency of self-rule. There was the coming of a new generation of hard, little youngsters born to the soil. There was the great day when he was chosen leader of the Group and for the first time since his eighteenth birthday he did not shave and saw the first stubble of his Leader’s Beard appear.

And now the Galaxy might intrude and put an end to the brief idyll of isolation-

The ship landed. He watched wordlessly as the port opened. Four emerged, cautious and watchful. There were three men, varied, old, young, thin and beaked. And a woman striding among them like an equal. His hand left the two glassy black tufts of his beard as he stepped forward.

He gave the universal gesture of peace. Both hands were before him; hard, calloused palms upward.

The young man approached two steps and duplicated the gesture. “I come in peace.”

The accent was strange, but the words were understandable, and welcome. He replied, deeply, “In peace be it. You are welcome to the hospitality of the Group. Are you hungry? You shall eat. Are you thirsty? You shall drink.”

Slowly, the reply came, “We thank you for your kindness, and shall bear good report of your Group when we return to our world.”

A queer answer, but good. Behind him, the men of the Group were smiling, and from the recesses of the surrounding structures, the women emerged.

In his own quarters, he removed the locked, mirror-walled box from its hidden place, and offered each of the guests the long, plump cigars that were reserved for great occasions. Before the woman, he hesitated. She had taken a seat among the men. The strangers evidently allowed, even expected, such effrontery. Stiffly, he offered the box.

She accepted one with a smile, and drew in its aromatic smoke, with all the relish one could expect. Lee Senter repressed a scandalized emotion.

The stiff conversation, in advance of the meal, touched politely upon the subject of fanning on Trantor.

It was the old man who asked, “What about hydroponics? Surely, for such a world as Trantor, hydroponics would be the answer.”

Senter shook his head slowly. He felt uncertain. His knowledge was the unfamiliar matter of the books he had read, “Artificial fanning in chemicals, I think? No, not on Trantor. This hydroponics requires a world of industy-for instance, a great chemical industry. And in war or disaster, when industry breaks down, the people starve. Nor can all foods be grown artificially. Some lose their food value. The soil is cheaper, still better-always more dependable.”

“And your food supply is sufficient?”

“Sufficient; perhaps monotonous. We have fowl that supply eggs, and milk-yielders for our dairy products-but our meat supply rests upon our foreign trade.”

“Trade.” The young man seemed roused to sudden interest. “You trade then. But what do you export?”

“Metal,” was the curt answer. “Look for yourself. We have an infinite supply, ready processed. They come from Neotrantor with ships, demolish an indicated area-increasing our growing space-and leave us in exchange meat, canned fruit, food concentrates, farm machinery and so on. They carry off the metal and both sides profit.”

They feasted on bread and cheese, and a vegetable stew that was unreservedly delicious. It was over the dessert of frosted fruit, the only imported item on the menu, that, for the first time, the Outlanders became other than mere guests. The young man produced a map of Trantor.

Calmly, Lee Senter studied it. He listened-and said gravely, “The University Grounds are a static area. We farmers do not grow crops on it. We do not, by preference, even enter it. It is one of our few relics of another time we would keep undisturbed. ”

“We are seekers after knowledge. We would disturb nothing. Our ship would be our hostage.” The old man offered this-eagerly, feverishly.

“I can take you there then,” said Senter.

That night the strangers slept, and that night Lee Senter sent a message to Neotrantor.

14. Convert

THE THIN LIFE of Trantor trickled to nothing when they entered among the wide-spaced buildings of the University grounds. There was a solemn and lonely silence over it.

The strangers of the Foundation knew nothing of the swirling days and nights of the bloody Sack that had left the University untouched. They knew nothing of the time after the collapse of the Imperial power, when the students, with their borrowed weapons, and their pale-faced inexperienced bravery, formed a protective volunteer army to protect the central shrine of the science of the Galaxy. They knew nothing of the Seven Days Fight, and the armistice that kept the University free, when even the Imperial palace clanged with the boots of Gilmer and his soldiers, during the short interval of their rule.

Those of the Foundation, approaching for the first time, realized only that in a world of transition from a gutted old to a strenuous new this area was a quiet, graceful museum-piece of ancient greatness.

They were intruders in a sense. The brooding emptiness rejected them. The academic atmosphere seemed still to live and to stir angrily at the disturbance.

The library was a deceptively small building which broadened out vastly underground into a mammoth volume of silence and reverie. Ebling Mis paused before the elaborate murals of the reception room.

He whispered-one had to whisper here: “I think we passed the catalog rooms back a way. I’ll stop there.”

His forehead was flushed, his hand trembling, “I mustn’t be disturbed, Toran. Will you bring my meals down to me?”

“Anything you say. We’ll do all we can to help. Do you want us to work under you-”

“No. I must be alone-”

“You think you will get what you want.”

And Ebling Mis replied with a soft certainty, “I know I will!”

Toran and Bayta came closer to “setting up housekeeping” in normal fashion than at any time in their year of married life. It was a strange sort of “housekeeping.” They lived in the middle of grandeur with an inappropriate simplicity. Their food was drawn largely from Lee Senter’s farm and was paid for in the little nuclear gadgets that may be found on any Trader’s ship.

Magnifico taught himself how to use the projectors in the library reading room, and sat over adventure novels and romances to the point where he was almost as forgetful of meals and sleep as was Ebling Mis.

Ebling himself was completely buried. He had insisted on a hammock being slung up for him in the Psychology Reference Room. His face grew thin and white. His vigor of speech was lost and his favorite curses had died a mild death. There were times when the recognition of either Toran or Bayta seemed a struggle.

He was more himself with Magnifico who brought him his meals and often sat watching him for hours at a time, with a queer, fascinated absorption, as the aging psychologist transcribed endless equations, cross-referred to endless book-films, scurried endlessly about in a wild mental effort towards an end he alone saw.

Toran came upon her in the darkened room, and said sharply, “Bayta!”

Bayta started guiltily. “Yes? You want me, Torie?”

“Sure I want you. What in Space are you sitting there for? You’ve been acting all wrong since we got to Trantor. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, Torie, stop,” she said, wearily.

And “Oh, Torie, stop!” he mimicked impatiently. Then, with sudden softness, “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong, Bay? Something’s bothering you.”

“No! Nothing is, Torie. If you keep on just nagging and nagging, you’ll have me mad. I’m just-thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“About nothing. Well, about the Mule, and Haven, and the Foundation, and everything. About Ebling Mis and whether he’ll find anything about the Second Foundation, and whether it will help us when he does find it-and a million other things. Are you satisfied?” Her voice was agitated.

“If you’re just brooding, do you mind stopping? It isn’t pleasant and it doesn’t help the situation.”

Bayta got to her feet and smiled weakly. “All right. I’m happy. See, I’m smiling and jolly. ”

Magnifico’s voice was an agitated cry outside. “My lady-”

“What is it? Come-”

Bayta’s voice choked off sharply when the opening door framed the large, hard-faced-

“Pritcher,” cried Toran.

Bayta gasped, “Captain! How did you find us?”

Han Pritcher stepped inside. His voice was clear and level, and utterly dead of feeling, “My rank is colonel now-under the Mule.”

“Under the... Mule!” Toran’s voice trailed off. They formed a tableau there, the three.

Magnifico stared wildly and shrank behind Toran. Nobody stopped to notice him.

Bayta said, her hands trembling in each other’s tight grasp, “You are arresting us? You have really gone over to them?”

The colonel replied quickly, “I have not come to arrest you. My instructions make no mention of you. With regard to you, I am free, and I choose to exercise our old friendship, if you will let me.”

Toran’s face was a twisted suppression of fury, “How did you find us? You were in the Filian ship, then? You followed us?”

The wooden lack of expression on Pritcher’s face might have flickered in embarrassment. “I was on the Filian ship! I met you in the first place... well... by chance.”

“It is a chance that is mathematically impossible.”

“No. Simply rather improbable, so my statement will have to stand. In any case, you admitted to the. Filians-there is, of course, no such nation as Filia actually-that you were heading for the Trantor sector, and since the Mule already had his contacts upon Neotrantor, it was easy to have you detained there. Unfortunately, you got away before I arrived, but not long before. I had time to have the farms on Trantor ordered to report your arrival. It was done and I am here. May I sit down? I come in friendliness, believe me.

He sat. Toran bent his head and thought futilely. With a numbed lack of emotion, Bayta prepared tea.

Toran looked up harshly. “Well, what are you waiting for-colonel? What’s your friendship? If it’s not arrest, what is it then? Protective custody? Call in your men and give your orders.”

Patiently, Pritcher shook his head. “No, Toran. I come of my own will to speak to you, to persuade you of the uselessness of what you are doing. If I fail I shall leave. That is all.”

“That is all? Well, then peddle your propaganda, give us your speech, and leave. I don’t want any tea, Bayta.”

Pritcher accepted a cup, with a grave word of thanks. He looked at Toran with a clear strength as he sipped lightly. Then he said, “The Mule is a mutant. He can not be beaten in the very nature of the mutation-”

“Why? What is the mutation?” asked Toran, with sour humor. “I suppose you’ll tell us now, eh?”

“Yes, I will. Your knowledge won’t hurt him. You see-he is capable of adjusting the emotional balance of human beings. It sounds like a little trick, but it’s quite unbeatable.”

Bayta broke in, “The emotional balance?” She frowned, “Won’t you explain that? I don’t quite understand.”

“I mean that it is an easy matter for him to instill into a capable general, say, the emotion of utter loyalty to the Mule and complete belief in the Mule’s victory. His generals are emotionally controlled. They can not betray him; they can not weaken-and the control is permanent. His most capable enemies become his most faithful subordinates, The warlord of Kalgan surrenders his planet and becomes his viceroy for the Foundation.”

“And you,” added Bayta, bitterly, “betray your cause and become Mule’s envoy to Trantor. I see!”

“I haven’t finished. The Mule’s gift works in reverse even more effectively. Despair is an emotion! At the crucial moment, keymen on the Foundation-keymen on Haven-despaired. Their worlds fell without too much struggle.”

“Do you mean to say,” demanded Bayta, tensely, “that the feeling I had in the Time Vault was the Mule juggling my emotional control.”

“Mine, too. Everyone’s. How was it on Haven towards the end?”

Bayta turned away.

Colonel Pritcher continued earnestly, “As it works for worlds, so it works for individuals. Can you fight a force which can make you surrender willingly when it so desires; can make you a faithful servant when it so desires?”

Toran said slowly, “How do I know this is the truth?”

“Can you explain the fall of the Foundation and of Haven otherwise? Can you explain my conversion otherwise? Think, man! What have you-or I-or the whole Galaxy accomplished against the Mule in all this time? What one little thing?”

Toran felt the challenge, “By the Galaxy, I can!” With a sudden touch of fierce satisfaction, he shouted, “Your wonderful Mule had contacts with Neotrantor you say that were to have detained us, eh? Those contacts are dead or worse. We killed the crown prince and left the other a whimpering idiot. The Mule did not stop us there, and that much has been undone.”

“Why, no, not at all. Those weren’t our men. The crown prince was a wine-soaked mediocrity. The other man, Commason, is phenomenally stupid. He was a power on his world but that didn’t prevent him from being vicious, evil, and completely incompetent. We had nothing really to do with them. They were, in a sense, merely feints-”

“It was they who detained us, or tried.”

“Again, no. Commason had a personal slave-a man called Inchney. Detention was his policy. He is old, but will serve our temporary purpose. You would not have killed him, you see.”

Bayta whirled on him. She had not touched her own tea. “But, by your very statement, your own emotions have been tampered with. You’ve got faith and belief in the Mule, an unnatural, a diseased faith in the Mule. Of what value are your opinions? You’ve lost all power of objective thought.”

“You are wrong.” Slowly, the colonel shook his head. “Only my emotions are fixed. My reason is as it always was. It may be influenced in a certain direction by my conditioned emotions, but it is not forced. And there are some things I can see more clearly now that I am freed of my earlier emotional trend.

“I can see that the Mule’s program is an intelligent and worthy one. In the time since I have been-converted, I have followed his career from its start seven years ago. With his mutant mental power, he began by winning over a condottiere and his band. With that-and his power-he won a planet. With that-and his power-he extended his grip until he could tackle the warlord of Kalgan. Each step followed the other logically. With Kalgan in his pocket, he had a first-class fleet, and with that-and his power-he could attack the Foundation.

“The Foundation is the key. It is the greatest area of industrial concentration in the Galaxy, and now that the nuclear techniques of the Foundation are in his hands, he is the actual master of the Galaxy. With those techniques-and his power-he can force the remnants of the Empire to acknowledge his rule, and eventually-with the death of the old emperor, who is mad and not long for this world-to crown him emperor. He will then have the name as well as the fact. With that-and his power-where is the world in the Galaxy that can oppose him?

“In these last seven years, he has established a new Empire. In seven years, in other words, he will have accomplished what all Seldon’s psychohistory could not have done in less than an additional seven hundred. The Galaxy will have peace and order at last.

“And you could not stop it-any more than you could stop a planet’s rush with your shoulders.”

A long silence followed Pritcher’s speech. What remained of his tea had grown cold. He emptied his cup, filled it again, and drained it slowly. Toran bit viciously at a thumbnail. Bayta’s face was cold, and distant, and white.

Then Bayta said in a thin voice, “We are not convinced. If the Mule wishes us to be, let him come here and condition us himself. You fought him until the last moment of your conversion, I imagine, didn’t you?”

“I did,” said Colonel Pritcher, solemnly.

“Then allow us the same privilege.”

Colonel Pritcher arose. With a crisp air of finality, he said, “Then I leave. As I said earlier, my mission at present concerns you in no way. Therefore, I don’t think it will be necessary to report your presence here. That is not too great a kindness. If the Mule wishes you stopped, he no doubt has other men assigned to the job, and you will be stopped. But, for what it is worth, I shall not contribute more than my requirement.”

“Thank you,” said Bayta faintly.

“As for Magnifico. Where is he? Come out, Magnifico, I won’t hurt you-”

“What about him?” demanded Bayta, with sudden animation.

“Nothing. My instructions make no mention of him, either. I have heard that he is searched for, but the Mule will find him when the time suits him. I shall say nothing. Will you shake hands?”

Bayta shook her head. Toran glared his frustrated contempt.

There was the slightest lowering of the colonel’s iron shoulders. He strode to the door, turned and said:

“One last thing. Don’t think I am not aware of the source of your stubbornness. It is known that you search for the Second Foundation. The Mule, in his time, will take his measures. Nothing will help you-But I knew you in other times; perhaps there is something in my conscience that urged me to this; at any rate, I tried to help you and remove you from the final danger before it was too late. Good-by.”

He saluted sharply-and was gone.

Bayta turned to a silent Toran, and whispered, “They even know about the Second Foundation.”

In the recesses of the library, Ebling Mis, unaware of all, crouched under the one spark of light amid the murky spaces and mumbled triumphantly to himself.

15. Death of a Psychologist

AFTER THAT THERE were only two weeks left to the life of Ebling Mis.

And in those two weeks, Bayta was with him three times. The first time was on the night after the evening upon which they saw Colonel Pritcher. The second was one week later. And the third was again a week later-on the last day-the day Mis died.

First, there was the night of Colonel Pritcher’s evening, the first hour of which was spent by a stricken pair in a brooding, unmerry merry-go-round.

Bayta said, “Torie, let’s tell Ebling.”

Toran said dully, “Think he can help?”

“We’re only two. We’ve got to take some of the weight off. Maybe he can help.”

Toran said, “He’s changed. He’s lost weight. He’s a little feathery; a little woolly.” His fingers groped in air, metaphorically. “Sometimes, I don’t think he’ll help us muchever. Sometimes, I don’t think anything will help.”

“Don’t!” Bayta’s voice caught and escaped a break, “Torie, don’t! When you say that, I think the Mule’s getting us. Let’s tell Ebling, Torie-now!”

Ebling Mis raised his head from the long desk, and bleared at them as they approached. His thinning hair was scuffed up, his lips made sleepy, smacking sounds.

“Eh?” he said. “Someone want me?”

Bayta bent to her knees, “Did we wake you? Shall we leave?”

“Leave? Who is it? Bayta? No, no, stay! Aren’t there chairs? I saw them-” His finger pointed vaguely.

Toran pushed two ahead of him. Bayta sat down and took one of the psychologist’s flaccid hands in hers. “May we talk to you, Doctor?” She rarely used the title.

“Is something wrong?” A little sparkle returned to his abstracted eyes. His sagging cheeks regained a touch of color. “Is something wrong?”

Bayta said, “Captain Pritcher has been here. Let me talk, Torie. You remember Captain Pritcher, Doctor?”

“Yes-Yes-” His fingers pinched his lips and released them. “Tall man. Democrat.”

“Yes, he. He’s discovered the Mule’s mutation. He was here, Doctor, and told us.”

“But that is nothing new. The Mule’s mutation is straightened out.” In honest astonishment, “Haven’t I told you? Have I forgotten to tell you?”

“Forgotten to tell us what?” put in Toran, quickly.

“About the Mule’s mutation, of course. He tampers with emotions. Emotional control! I haven’t told you? Now what made me forget?” Slowly, he sucked in his under lip and considered.

Then, slowly, life crept into his voice and his eyelids lifted wide, as though his sluggish brain had slid onto a well-greased single track. He spoke in a dream, looking between the two listeners rather than at them. “It is really so simple. It requires no specialized knowledge. In the mathematics of psychohistory, of course, it works out promptly, in a third-level equation involving no more-Never mind that. It can be put into ordinary words-roughly-and have it make sense, which isn’t usual with psychohistorical phenomena.

“Ask yourselves-What can upset Hari Seldon’s careful scheme of history, eh?” He peered from one to the other with a mild, questioning anxiety. “What were Seldon’s original assumptions? First, that there would be no fundamental change in human society over the next thousand years.

“For instance, suppose there were a major change in the Galaxy’s technology, such as finding a new principle for the utilization of energy, or perfecting the study of electronic neurobiology. Social changes would render Seldon’s original equations obsolete. But that hasn’t happened, has it now?”

“Or suppose that a new weapon were to be invented by forces outside the Foundation, capable of withstanding all the Foundation’s armaments. That might cause a ruinous deviation, though less certainly. But even that hasn’t happened. The Mule’s Nuclear Field-Depressor was a clumsy weapon and could be countered. And that was the only novelty he presented, poor as it was.

“But there was a second assumption, a more subtle one! Seldon assumed that human reaction to stimuli would remain constant. Granted that the first assumption held true, then the second must have broken down! Some factor must be twisting and distorting the emotional responses of human beings or Seldon couldn’t have failed and the Foundation couldn’t have fallen. And what factor but the Mule?

“Am I right? Is there a flaw in the reasoning?”

Bayta’s plump hand patted his gently. “No flaw, Ebling.”

Mis was joyful, like a child. “This and more comes so easily. I tell you I wonder sometimes what is going on inside me. I seem to recall the time when so much was a mystery to me and now things are so clear. Problems are absent. I come across what might be one, and somehow, inside me, I see and understand. And my guesses, my theories seem always to be borne out. There’s a drive in me... always onward... so that I can’t stop... and I don’t want to eat or sleep... but always go on... and on... and on-”

His voice was a whisper; his wasted, blue-veined hand rested tremblingly upon his forehead. There was a frenzy in his eyes that faded and went out.

He said more quietly, “Then I never told you about the Mule’s mutant powers, did I? But then... did you say you knew about it?”

“It was Captain Pritcher, Ebling,” said Bayta. “Remember?”

“He told you?” There was a tinge of outrage in his tone. “But how did he find out?”

“He’s been conditioned by the Mule. He’s a colonel now, a Mule’s man. He came to advise us to surrender to the Mule, and he told us-what you told us.”

“Then the Mule knows we’re here? I must hurry-Where’s Magnifico? Isn’t he with you?”

“Magnifico’s sleeping,” said Toran, impatiently. “It’s past midnight, you know.”

“It is? Then-Was I sleeping when you came in?”

“You were,” said Bayta decisively, “and you’re not going back to work, either. You’re getting into bed. Come on, Torie, help me. And you stop pushing at me, Ebling, because it’s just your luck I don’t shove you under a shower first. Pull off his shoes, Torie, and tomorrow you come down here and drag him out into the open air before he fades completely away. Look at you, Ebling, you’ll be growing cobwebs. Are you hungry?”

Ebling Mis shook his head and looked up from his cot in a peevish confusion. “I want you to send Magnifico down tomorrow,” he muttered.

Bayta tucked the sheet around his neck. “You’ll have me down tomorrow, with washed clothes. You’re going to take a good bath, and then get out and visit the farm and feel a little sun on you.”

“I won’t do it,” said Mis weakly. “You hear me? I’m too busy.”

His sparse hair spread out on the pillow like a silver fringe about his head. His voice was a confidential whisper. “You want that Second Foundation, don’t you?”

Toran turned quickly and squatted down on the cot beside him. “What about the Second Foundation, Ebling?”

The psychologist freed an arm from beneath the sheet and his tired fingers clutched at Toran’s sleeve. “The Foundations were established at a great Psychological Convention presided over by Hari Seldon. Toran, I have located the published minutes of that Convention. Twenty-five fat films. I have already looked through various summaries.”

“Well?”

“Well, do you know that it is very easy to find from them the exact location of the First Foundation, if you know anything at all about psychohistory. It is frequently referred to, when you understand the equations. But Toran, nobody mentions the Second Foundation, There has been no reference to it anywhere.”

Toran’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “It doesn’t exist?”

“Of course it exists,” cried Mis, angrily, “who said it didn’t? But there’s less talk of it. Its significance-and all about it-are better hidden, better obscured. Don’t you see? It’s the more important of the two. It’s the critical one; the one that counts! And I’ve got the minutes of the Seldon Convention. The Mule hasn’t won yet-”

Quietly, Bayta turned the lights down. “Go to sleep!”

Without speaking, Toran and Bayta made their way up to their own quarters.

The next day, Ebling Mis bathed and dressed himself, saw the sun of Trantor and felt the wind of Trantor for the last time. At the end of the day he was once again submerged in the gigantic recesses of the library, and never emerged thereafter.

In the week that followed, life settled again into its groove. The sun of Neotrantor was a calm, bright star in Trantor’s night sky. The farm was busy with its spring planting. The University grounds were silent in their desertion. The Galaxy seemed empty. The Mule might never have existed.

Bayta was thinking that as she watched Toran light his cigar carefully and look up at the sections of blue sky visible between the swarming metal spires that encircled the horizon.

“It’s a nice day,” he said.

“Yes, it is. Have you everything mentioned on the list, Torie?”

“Sure. Half pound butter, dozen eggs, string beans-Got it all down here, Bay. I’ll have it right.”

“Good. And make sure the vegetables are of the last harvest and not museum relics. Did you see Magnifico anywhere, by the way?”

“Not since breakfast. Guess he’s down with Ebling, watching a book-film.”

“All right. Don’t waste any time, because I’ll need the eggs for dinner.”

Toran left with a backward smile and a wave of the hand.

Bayta turned away as Toran slid out of sight among the maze of metal. She hesitated before the kitchen door, about-faced slowly, and entered the colonnade leading to the elevator that burrowed down into the recesses.

Ebling Mis was there, head bent down over the eyepieces of the projector, motionless, a frozen, questing body. Near him sat Magnifico, screwed up into a chair, eyes sharp and watching-a bundle of slatty limbs with a nose emphasizing his scrawny face.

Bayta said softly, “Magnifico-”

Magnifico scrambled to his feet. His voice was an eager whisper. “My lady!”

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, “Toran has left for the farm and won’t be back for a while. Would you be a good boy and go out after him with a message that I’ll write for you?”

“Gladly, my lady. My small services are but too eagerly yours, for the tiny uses you can put them to.”

She was alone with Ebling Mis, who had not moved. Firmly, she placed her hand upon his shoulder. “Ebling-”

The psychologist started, with a peevish cry, “What is it?” He wrinkled his eyes. “Is it you, Bayta? Where’s Magnifico?”

“I sent him away. I want to be alone with you for a while.” She enunciated her words with exaggerated distinctness. “I want to talk to you, Ebling.”

The psychologist made a move to return to his projector, but her hand on his shoulder was firm. She felt the bone under the sleeve clearly. The flesh seemed to have fairly melted away since their arrival on Trantor. His face was thin, yellowish, and bore a half-week stubble. His shoulders were visibly stooped, even in a sitting position.

Bayta said, “Magnifico isn’t bothering you, is he, Ebling? He seems to be down here night and day.”

“No, no, no! Not at all. Why, I don’t mind him. He is silent and never disturbs me. Sometimes he carries the films back and forth for me; seems to know what I want without my speaking. Just let him be.”

“Very well-but, Ebling, doesn’t he make you wonder? Do you hear me, Ebling? Doesn’t he make you wonder?”

She jerked a chair close to his and stared at him as though to pull the answer out of his eyes.

Ebling Mis shook his head. “No. What do you mean?”

“I mean that Colonel Pritcher and you both say the Mule can condition the emotions of human beings. But are you sure of it? Isn’t Magnifico himself a flaw in the theory?”

There was silence.

Bayta repressed a strong desire to shake the psychologist. “What’s wrong with you, Ebling? Magnifico was the Mule’s clown. Why wasn’t he conditioned to love and faith? Why should he, of all those in contact with the Mule, hate him so.

“But... but he was conditioned. Certainly, Bay!” He seemed to gather certainty as he spoke. “Do you suppose that the Mule treats his clown the way he treats his generals? He needs faith and loyalty in the latter, but in his clown he needs only fear. Didn’t you ever notice that Magnifico’s continual state of panic is pathological in nature? Do you suppose it is natural for a human being to be as frightened as that all the time? Fear to such an extent becomes comic. It was probably comic to the Mule-and helpful, too, since it obscured what help we might have gotten earlier from Magnifico.”

Bayta said, “You mean Magnifico’s information about the Mule was false?”

“it was misleading. It was colored by pathological fear. The Mule is not the physical giant Magnifico thinks. He is more probably an ordinary man outside his mental powers. But if it amused him to appear a superman to poor Magnifico-” The psychologist shrugged. “In any case, Magnifico’s information is no longer of importance.”

“What is, then?”

But Mis shook himself loose and returned to his projector.

“What is, then?” she repeated. “The Second Foundation?”

The psychologist’s eyes jerked towards her. “Have I told you anything about that? I don’t remember telling you anything. I’m not ready yet. What have I told you?”

“Nothing,” said Bayta, intensely. “Oh, Galaxy, you’ve told me nothing, but I wish you would because I’m deathly tired. When will it be over?”

Ebling Mis peered at her, vaguely rueful, “Well, now, my... my dear, I did not mean to hurt you. I forget sometimes... who my friends are. Sometimes it seems to me that I must not talk of all this. There’s a need for secrecy-but from the Mule, not from you, my dear.” He patted her shoulder with a weak amiability.

She said, “What about the Second Foundation?”

His voice was automatically a whisper, thin and sibilant. “Do you know the thoroughness with which Seldon covered his traces? The proceedings of the Seldon Convention would have been of no use to me at a as little as a month ago, before this strange insight came. Even now, it seems-tenuous. The papers put out by the Convention are often apparently unrelated; always obscure. More than once I wondered if the members of the Convention, themselves, knew all that was in Seldon’s mind. Sometimes I think he used the Convention only as a gigantic front, and single-handed erected the structure-”

“Of the Foundations?” urged Bayta.

“Of the Second Foundation! Our Foundation was simple. But the Second Foundation was only a name. It was mentioned, but if there was any elaboration, it was hidden deep in the mathematics. There is still much I don’t even begin to understand, but for seven days, the bits have been clumping together into a vague picture.

“Foundation Number One was a world of physical scientists. It represented a concentration of the dying science of the Galaxy under the conditions necessary to make it live again. No psychologists were included. It was a peculiar distortion, and must have had a purpose. The usual explanation was that Seldon’s psychohistory worked best where the individual working units-human beings-had no knowledge of what was coming, and could therefore react naturally to all situations. Do you follow me, my dear-”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Then listen carefully. Foundation Number Two was a world of mental scientists. It was the mirror image of our world. Psychology, not physics, was king.” Triumphantly. “You see?”

“I don’t.”

“But think, Bayta, use your head. Hari Seldon knew that his psychohistory could predict only probabilities, and not certainties. There was always a margin of error, and as time passed that margin increases in geometric progression. Seldon would naturally guard as well as he could against it. Our Foundation was scientifically vigorous. It could conquer armies and weapons. It could pit force against force. But what of the mental attack of a mutant such as the Mule?”

“That would be for the psychologists of the Second Foundation!” Bayta felt excitement rising within her.

“Yes, yes, yes! Certainly!”

“But they have done nothing so far.”

“How do you know they haven’t?”

Bayta considered that, “I don’t. Do you have evidence that they have?”

“No. There are many factors I know nothing of. The Second Foundation could not have been established full-grown, any more than we were. We developed slowly and grew in strength; they must have also. The stars know at what stage their strength is now. Are they strong enough to fight the Mule? Are they aware of the danger in the first place? Have they capable leaders?”

“But if they follow Seldon’s plan, then the Mule must be beaten by the Second Foundation.”

“Ah,” and Ebling Mis’s thin face wrinkled thoughtfully, “is it that again? But the Second Foundation was a more difficult job than the First. Its complexity is hugely greater; and consequently so is its possibility of error. And if the Second Foundation should not beat the Mule, it is bad-ultimately bad. It is the end, may be, of the human race as we know it.”

“No.

“Yes. If the Mule’s descendants inherit his mental powers-You see? Homo sapiens could not compete. There would be a new dominant race-a new aristocracy-with homo sapiens demoted to slave labor as an inferior race. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“And even if by some chance the Mule did not establish a dynasty, he would still establish a distorted new Empire upheld by his personal power only. It would die with his death; the Galaxy would be left where it was before he came, except that there would no longer be Foundations around which a real and healthy Second Empire could coalesce. It would mean thousands of years of barbarism. It would mean no end in sight.”

“What can we do? Can we warn the Second Foundation?”

“We must, or they may go under through ignorance, which we can not risk. But there is no way of warning them.”

“No way?”

“I don’t know where they are located. They are ‘at the other end of the Galaxy’ but that is all, and there are millions of worlds to choose from.”

“But, Ebling, don’t they say?” She pointed vaguely at the films that covered the table.

“No, they don’t. Not where I can find it-yet. The secrecy must mean something. There must be a reason-” A puzzled expression returned to his eyes. “But I wish you’d leave. I have wasted enough time, and it’s growing short-it’s growing short.”

He tore away, petulant and frowning.

Magnifico’s soft step approached. “Your husband is home, my lady.”

Ebling Mis did not greet the clown. He was back at his projector.

That evening Toran, having listened, spoke, “And you think he’s really right, Bay? You think he isn’t-” He hesitated.

“He is right, Torie. He’s sick, I know that. The change that’s come over him, the loss in weight, the way he speaks-he’s sick. But as soon as the subject of the Mule or the Second Foundation, or anything he is working on, comes up, listen to him. He is lucid and clear as the sky of outer space. He knows what he’s talking about. I believe him.”

“Then there’s hope.” It was half a question.

“I... I haven’t worked it out. Maybe! Maybe not! I’m carrying a blaster from now on.” The shiny-barreled weapon was in her hand as she spoke. “Just in case, Torie, just in case.”

“In case what?”

Bayta laughed with a touch of hysteria, “Never mind. Maybe I’m a little crazy, too-like Ebling Mis.”

Ebling Mis at that time had seven days to live, and the seven days slipped by, one after the other, quietly.

To Toran, there was a quality of stupor about them. The warming days and the dull silence covered him with lethargy. All life seemed to have lost its quality of action, and changed into an infinite sea of hibernation.

Mis was a hidden entity whose burrowing work produced nothing and did not make itself known. He had barricaded himself. Neither Toran nor Bayta could see him. Only Magnifico’s go-between characteristics were evidence of his existence. Magnifico, grown silent and thoughtful, with his tiptoed trays of food and his still, watchful witness in the gloom.

Bayta was more and more a creature of herself. The vivacity died, the self-assured competence wavered. She, too, sought her own worried, absorbed company, and once Toran bad come upon her, fingering her blaster. She had put it away quickly, forced a smile.

“What are you doing with it, Bay?”

“Holding it. Is that a crime?”

“You’ll blow your fool head off.”

“Then I’ll blow it off. Small loss!”

Married life had taught Toran the futility of arguing with a female in a dark-brown mood. He shrugged, and left her.

On the last day, Magnifico scampered breathless into their presence. He clutched at them, frightened. “The learned doctor calls for you. He is not well.”

And he wasn’t well. He was in bed, his eyes unnaturally large, unnaturally bright. He was dirty, unrecognizable.

“Ebling!” cried Bayta.

“Let me speak,” croaked the psychologist, lifting his weight to a thin elbow with an effort. “Let me speak. I am finished; the work I pass on to you. I have kept no notes; the scrap-figures I have destroyed. No other must know. All must remain in your minds.”

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, with rough directness. “Go upstairs!”

Reluctantly, the clown rose and took a backward step. His sad eyes were on Mis.

Mis gestured weakly, “He won’t matter; let him stay. Stay, Magnifico.”

The clown sat down quickly. Bayta gazed at the floor.

Slowly, slowly, her lower lip caught in her teeth.

Mis said, in a hoarse whisper, “I am convinced the Second Foundation can win, if it is not caught prematurely by the Mule. It has kept itself secret; the secrecy must be upheld; it has a purpose. You must go there; your information is vital... may make all the difference. Do you hear me?”

Toran cried in near-agony, “Yes, yes! Tell us how to get there, Ebling? Where is it?”

“I can tell you,” said the faint voice.

He never did.

Bayta, face frozen white, lifted her blaster and shot, with an echoing clap of noise. From the waist upward, Mis was not, and a ragged hole was in the wall behind. From numb fingers, Bayta’s blaster dropped to the floor.

16. End of the Search

THERE WAS NOT a word to be said. The echoes of the blast rolled away into the outer rooms and rumbled downward into a hoarse, dying whisper. Before its death, it had muffled the sharp clamor of Bayta’s falling blaster, smothered Magnifico’s high-pitched cry, drowned out Toran’s inarticulate roar.

There was a silence of agony.

Bayta’s head was bent into obscurity. A droplet caught the light as it fell. Bayta had never wept since her childhood.

Toran’s muscles almost cracked in their spasm, but he did not relax-he felt as if he would never unclench his teeth again. Magnifico’s face was a faded, lifeless mask.

Finally, from between teeth still tight, Toran choked out in an unrecognizable voice, “You’re a Mule’s woman, then. He got to you!”

Bayta looked up, and her mouth twisted with a painful merriment, “I, a Mule’s woman? That’s ironic.”

She smiled-a brittle effort-and tossed her hair back. Slowly, her voice verged back to the normal, or something near it. “It’s over, Toran; I can talk now. How much I will survive, I don’t know. But I can start talking-”

Toran’s tension had broken of its own weight and faded into a flaccid dullness, “Talk about what, Bay? What’s there to talk about?”

“About the calamity that’s followed us. We’ve remarked about it before, Torie. Don’t you remember? How defeat has always bitten at our heels and never actually managed to nip us? We were on the Foundation, and it collapsed while the Independent Traders still fought-but we got out in time to go to Haven. We were on Haven, and it collapsed while the others still fought-and again we got out in time. We went to Neotrantor, and by now it’s undoubtedly joined the Mule.”

Toran listened and shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

“Torie, such things don’t happen in real life. You and I are insignificant people; we don’t fall from one vortex of politics into another continuously for the space of a year-unless we carry the vortex with us. Unless we carry the source of infection with us! Now do you see?”

Toran’s lips tightened. His glance fixed horribly upon the bloody remnants of what had once been a human, and his eyes sickened.

“Let’s get out of here, Bay. Let’s get out into the open.”

It was cloudy outside. The wind scudded about them in drab spurts and disordered Bayta’s hair. Magnifico had crept after them and now he hovered at the edge of their conversation.

Toran said tightly, “You killed Ebling Mis because you believed him to be the focus of infection?” Something in her eyes struck him. He whispered, “He was the Mule?” He did not-could not-believe the implications of his own words.

Bayta laughed sharply, “Poor Ebling the Mule? Galaxy, no! I couldn’t have killed him if he were the Mule. He would have detected the emotion accompanying the move and changed it for me to love, devotion, adoration, terror, whatever he pleased. No, I killed Ebling because he was not the Mule. I killed him because he knew where the Second Foundation was, and in two seconds would have told the Mule the secret.”

“Would have told the Mule the secret,” Toran repeated stupidly. “Told the Mule-”

And then he emitted a sharp cry, and turned to stare in horror at the clown, who might have been crouching unconscious there for the apparent understanding he had of what he heard.

“Not Magnifico?” Toran whispered the question.

“Listen!” said Bayta. “Do you remember what happened on Neotrantor? Oh, think for yourself, Torie-”

But he shook his head and mumbled at her.

She went on, wearily, “A man died on Neotrantor. A man died with no one touching him. Isn’t that true? Magnifico played on his Visi-Sonor and when he was finished, the crown prince was dead. Now isn’t that strange? Isn’t it queer that a creature afraid of everything, apparently helpless with terror, has the capacity to kill at will.”

“The music and the light-effects,” said Toran, “have a profound emotional effect-”

“Yes, an emotional effect. A pretty big one. Emotional effects happen to be the Mule’s specialty. That, I suppose, can be considered a coincidence. And a creature who can kill by suggestion is so full of fright. Well, the Mule tampered with his mind, supposedly, so that can be explained. But, Toran, I caught a little of that Visi-Sonor selection that killed the crown prince. Just a little-but it was enough to give me that same feeling of despair I had in the Time Vault and on Haven. Toran, I can’t mistake that particular feeling.”

Toran’s face was darkening. “I... felt it, too. I forgot. I never thought-”

“It was then that it first occurred to me. It was just a vague feeling-intuition, if you like. I had nothing to go on. And then Pritcher told us of the Mule and his mutation, and it was clear in a moment. It was the Mule who had created the despair in the Time Vault; it was Magnifico who had created the despair on Neotrantor. It was the same emotion. Therefore, the Mule and Magnifico were the same person. Doesn’t it work out nicely, Torie? Isn’t it just like an axiom in geometry-things equal to the same thing are equal to each other?”

She was at the edge of hysteria, but dragged herself back to sobriety by main force. She continued, “The discovery scared me to death. If Magnifico were the Mule, he could know my emotions-and cure them for his own purposes. I dared not let him know. I avoided him. Luckily, he avoided me also; he was too interested in Ebling Mis. I planned killing Mis before he could talk. I planned it secretly-as secretly as I could-so secretly I didn’t dare tell it to myself.

“If I could have killed the Mule himself-But I couldn’t take the chance. He would have noticed, and I would have lost everything.”

She seemed drained of emotion.

Toran said harshly and with finality, “It’s impossible. Look at the miserable creature. He the Mule? He doesn’t even hear what we’re saying.”

But when his eyes followed his pointing finger, Magnifico was erect and alert, his eyes sharp and darkly bright. His voice was without a trace of an accent, “I hear her, my friend. It is merely that I have been sitting here and brooding on the fact that with all my cleverness and forethought I could make a mistake, and lose so much.”

Toran stumbled backward as if afraid the clown might touch him or that his breath might contaminate him.

Magnifico nodded, and answered the unspoken question. “I am the Mule.”

He seemed no longer a grotesque; his pipestem limbs, his beak of a nose lost their humor-compelling qualities. His fear was gone; his bearing was firm.

He was in command of the situation with an ease born of usage.

He said, tolerantly, “Seat yourselves. Go ahead; you might as well sprawl out and make yourselves comfortable. The game’s over, and I’d like to tell you a story. It’s a weakness of mine-I want people to understand me.”

And his eyes as he looked at Bayta were still the old, soft sad brown ones of Magnifico, the clown.

“There is nothing really to my childhood,” he began, plunging bodily into quick, impatient speech, “that I care to remember. Perhaps you can understand that. My meagerness is glandular; my nose I was born with. It was not possible for me to lead a normal childhood. My mother died before she saw me. I do not know my father. I grew up haphazard, wounded and tortured in mind, full of self-pity and hatred of others. I was known then as a queer child. All avoided me; most out of dislike; some out of fear. Queer incidents occurred-Well, never mind! Enough happened to enable Captain Pritcher, in his investigation of my childhood to realize that I was a mutant, which was more than I ever realized until I was in my twenties.”

Toran and Bayta listened distantly. The wash of his voice broke over them, seated on the ground as they were, unheeded almost. The clown-or the Mule-paced before them with little steps, speaking downward to his own folded arms.

“The whole notion of my unusual power seems to have broken on me so slowly, in such sluggish steps. Even toward the end, I couldn’t believe it. To me, men’s minds are dials, with pointers that indicate the prevailing emotion. It is a poor picture, but how else can I explain it? Slowly, I learned that I could reach into those minds and turn the pointer to the spot I wished, that I could nail it there forever. And then it took even longer to realize that others couldn’t.

“But the consciousness of power came, and with it, the desire to make up for the miserable position of my earlier life. Maybe you can understand it. Maybe you can try to understand it. It isn’t easy to be a freak-to have a mind and an understanding and be a freak. Laughter and cruelty! To be different! To be an outsider!

“You’ve never been through it!”

Magnifico looked up to the sky and teetered on the balls of his feet and reminisced stonily, “But I eventually did learn, and I decided that the Galaxy and I could take turns. Come, they had had their innings, and I had been patient about it-for twenty-two years. My turn! It would be up to the rest of you to take it! And the odds would be fair enough for the Galaxy. One of me! Quadrillions of them!”

He paused to glance at Bayta swiftly. “But I had a weakness. I was nothing in myself. If I could gain power, it could only be by means of others. Success came to me through middlemen. Always! It was as Pritcher said. Through a pirate, I obtained my first asteroidal base of operations. Through an industrialist I got my first foothold on a planet. Through a variety of others ending with the warlord of Kalgan, I won Kalgan itself and got a navy. After that, it was the Foundation-and you two come into the story.

“The Foundation,” he said, softly, “was the most difficult task I had met. To beat it, I would have to win over, break down, or render useless an extraordinary proportion of its ruling class. I could have done it from scratch-but a short cut was possible, and I looked for it. After all, if a strong man can lift five hundred pounds, it does not mean that he is eager to do so continuously. My emotional control is not an easy task, I prefer not to use it, where not fully necessary. So I accepted allies in my first attack upon the Foundation.

“As my clown, I looked for the agent, or agents, of the Foundation that must inevitably have been sent to Kalgan to investigate my humble self. I know now it was Han Pritcher I was looking for. By a stroke of fortune, I found you instead. I am a telepath, but not a complete one, and, my lady, you were from the Foundation. I was led astray by that. It was not fatal for Pritcher joined us afterward, but it was the starting point of an error that was fatal.”

Toran stirred for the first time. He spoke in an outraged tone, “Hold on, now. You mean that when I outfaced that lieutenant on Kalgan with only a stun pistol, and rescued you-that you had emotionally-controlled me into it.” He was spluttering. “You mean I’ve been tampered with all along.”

A thin smile played on Magnifico’s face. “Why not? You don’t think it’s likely? Ask yourself then-Would you have risked death for a strange grotesque you had never seen before, if you had been in your right mind? I imagine you were surprised at events in cold after-blood.”

“Yes,” said Bayta, distantly, “he was. It’s quite plain.”

“As it was,” continued the Mule, “Toran was in no danger. The lieutenant had his own strict instructions to let us go. So the three of us and Pritcher went to the Foundation-and see how my campaign shaped itself instantly. When Pritcher was court-martialed and we were present, I was busy. The military judges of that trial later commanded their squadrons in the war. They surrendered rather easily, and my Navy won the battle of Horleggor, and other lesser affairs.

“Through Pritcher, I met Dr. Mis, who brought me a Visi-Sonor, entirely of his own accord, and simplified my task immensely. Only it wasn’t entirely of his own accord.”

Bayta interrupted, “Those concerts! I’ve been trying to fit them in. Now I see.”

“Yes,” said Magnifico, “the Visi-Sonor acts as a focusing device. In a way, it is a primitive device for emotional control in itself. With it, I can handle people in quantity and single people more intensively. The concerts I gave on Terminus before it fell and Haven before it fell contributed to the general defeatism. I might have made the crown prince of Neotrantor very sick without the Visi-Sonor, but I could not have killed him. You see?

“But it was Ebling Mis who was my most important find. He might have been-” Magnifico said it with chagrin, then hurried on, “There is a special facet to emotional control you do not know about. Intuition or insight or hunch-tendency, whatever you wish to call it, can be treated as an emotion. At least, I can treat it so. You don’t understand it, do you?”

He waited for no negative, “The human mind works at low efficiency. Twenty percent is the figure usually given. When, momentarily, there is a flash of greater power it is termed a hunch, or insight, or intuition. I found early that I could induce a continual use of high brain-efficiency. It is a killing process for the person affected, but it is useful. The nuclear field-depressor which I used in the war against the Foundation was the result of high-pressuring a Kalgan technician. Again I work through others.

“Ebling Mis was the bull’s-eye. His potentialities were high, and I needed him. Even before my war with the Foundation had opened, I had already sent delegates to negotiate with the Empire. It was at that time I began my search for the Second Foundation. Naturally, I didn’t find it. Naturally, I knew that I must find it-and Ebling Mis was the answer. With his mind at high efficiency, he might possibly have duplicated the work of Hari Seldon.

“Partly, he did. I drove him to the utter limit. The process was ruthless, but had to be completed. He was dying at the end, but he lived-” Again, his chagrin interrupted him. “He would have lived long enough. Together, we three could have gone onward to the Second Foundation. It would have been the last battle-but for my mistake.”

Toran stirred his voice to hardness, “Why do you stretch it out so? What was your mistake, and... and have done with your speech.”

“Why, your wife was the mistake. Your wife was an unusual person. I had never met her like before in my life. I... I-” Quite suddenly, Magnifico’s voice broke. He recovered with difficulty. There was a grimness about him as he continued. “She liked me without my having to juggle her emotions. She was neither repelled by me nor amused by me. She liked me!

“Don’t you understand? Can’t you see what that would mean to me? Never before had anyone-Well, I... cherished that. My own emotions played me false, though I was master of all others. I stayed out of her mind, you see; I did not tamper with it. I cherished the natural feeling too greatly. It was my mistake-the first.

“You, Toran, were under control. You never suspected me; never questioned me; never saw anything peculiar or strange about me. As for instance, when the ‘Filian’ ship stopped us. They knew our location, by the way, because I was in communication with them, as I’ve remained in communication with my generals at all times. When they stopped us, I was taken aboard to adjust Han Pritcher, who was on it as a prisoner. When I left, he was a colonel, a Mule’s man, and in command. The whole procedure was too open even for you, Toran. Yet you accepted my explanation of the matter, which was full of fallacies. See what I mean?”

Toran grimaced, and challenged him, “How did you retain communications with your generals?”

“There was no difficulty to it. Hyperwave transmitters are easy to handle and eminently portable. Nor could I be detected in a real sense! Anyone who did catch me in the act would leave me with a slice gapped out of his memory. It happened, on occasion.

“On Neotrantor, my own foolish emotions betrayed me again. Bayta was not under my control, but even so might never have suspected me if I had kept my head about the crown prince. His intentions towards Bayta-annoyed me.

“I killed him. It was a foolish gesture. An unobtrusive flight would have served as well.

“And still your suspicions would not have been certainties, if I had stopped Pritcher in his well-intentioned babbling, or paid less attention to Mis and more to you-” He shrugged.

“That’s the end of it?” asked Bayta.

“That’s the end.”

“What now, then?”

“I’ll continue with my program. That I’ll find another as adequately brained and trained as Ebling Mis in these degenerate days, I doubt. I shall have to search for the Second Foundation otherwise. In a sense you have defeated me.”

And now Bayta was upon her feet, triumphant. “In a sense? Only in a sense? We have defeated you entirely! All your victories outside the Foundation count for nothing, since the Galaxy is a barbarian vacuum now. The Foundation itself is only a minor victory, since it wasn’t meant to stop your variety of crisis. It’s the Second Foundation you must beat-the Second Foundation-and it’s the Second Foundation that will defeat you. Your only chance was to locate it and strike it before it was prepared. You won’t do that now. Every minute from now on, they will be readier for you. At this moment, at this moment, the machinery may have started. You’ll know-when it strikes you, and your short term of power will be over, and you’ll be just another strutting conqueror, flashing quickly and meanly across the bloody face of history.”

She was breathing hard, nearly gasping in her vehemence, “And we’ve defeated you, Toran and I. I am satisfied to die.”

But the Mule’s sad, brown eyes were the sad, brown, loving eyes of Magnifico. “I won’t kill you or your husband. It is, after all, impossible for you two to hurt me further; and killing you won’t bring back Ebling Mis. My mistakes were my own, and I take responsibility for them. Your husband and yourself may leave! Go in peace, for the sake of what I call-friendship.”

Then, with a sudden touch of pride, “And meanwhile I am still the Mule, the most powerful man in the Galaxy. I shall still defeat the Second Foundation.”

And Bayta shot her last arrow with a firm, calm certitude, “You won’t! I have faith in the wisdom of Seldon yet. You shall be the last ruler of your dynasty, as well as the first.”

Something caught Magnifico. “Of my dynasty? Yes, I had thought of that, often. That I might establish a dynasty. That I might have a suitable consort.”

Bayta suddenly caught the meaning of the look in his eyes and froze horribly.

Magnifico shook his head. “I sense your revulsion, but that’s silly. If things were otherwise, I could make you happy very easily. It would be an artificial ecstasy, but there would be no difference between it and the genuine emotion. But things are not otherwise. I call myself the Mule-but not because of my strength-obviously-”

He left them, never looking back.

Search By The Mule

316 F.E. (12384 G.E.)

1. Two Men and the Mule

THE MULE - IT WAS AFTER THE FALL OF THE FIRST FOUNDATION THAT THE CONSTRUCTIVE ASPECTS OF THE MULE’S REGIME TOOK SHAPE. AFTER THE DEFINITE BREAK-UP AT THE FIRST GALACTIC EMPIRE, IT WAS HE WHO FIRST PRESENTED HISTORY WITH A UNIFIED VOLUME AT SPACE TRULY IMPERIAL IN SCOPE. THE EARLIER COMMERCIAL EMPIRE AT THE FALLEN FOUNDATION HAD BEEN DIVERSE AND LOOSELY KNIT, DESPITE THE IMPALPABLE BACKING AT THE PREDICTIONS OF PSYCHO-HISTORY. IT WAS NOT TO BE COMPARED WITH THE TIGHTLY CONTROLLED ‘UNION OF WORLDS’ UNDER THE MULE, COMPRISING AS IT DID, ONE-TENTH THE VOLUME OF THE GALAXY AND ONE-FIFTEENTH OF ITS POPULATION. PARTICULARLY DURING THE ERA OF THE SO-CALLED SEARCH....

–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.

THERE IS MUCH more that the Encyclopedia has to say on the subject of the Mule and his Empire but almost all of it is not germane to the issue at immediate hand, and most of it is considerably too dry for our purposes in any case. Mainly, the article concerns itself at this point with the economic conditions that led to the rise of the “First Citizen of the Union”–the Mule’s official title–and with the economic consequences thereof.

If, at any time, the writer of the article is mildly astonished at the colossal haste with which the Mule rose from nothing to vast dominion in five years, he conceals it. If he is further surprised at the sudden cessation of expansion in favor of a five-year consolidation of territory, he hides the fact.

We therefore abandon the Encyclopedia and continue on our own path for our own purposes and take up the history of the Great Interregnum–between the First and Second Galactic Empires–at the end of that five years of consolidation.

Politically, the Union is quiet. Economically, it is prosperous. Few would care to exchange the peace of the Mule’s steady grip for the chaos that had preceded, On the worlds that five years previously had known the Foundation, there might be a nostalgic regret, but no more. The Foundation’s leaders were dead, where useless; and Converted, where useful.

And of the Converted, the most useful was Han Pritcher, now lieutenant general.

In the days of the Foundation, Han Pritcher had been a captain and a member of the underground Democratic Opposition. When the Foundation fell to the Mule without a fight, Pritcher fought the Mule. Until, that is, he was Converted.

The Conversion was not the ordinary one brought on by the power of superior reason. Han Pritcher know that well enough. He had been changed because the Mule was a mutant with mental powers quite capable of adjusting the conditions of ordinary humans to suit himself. But that satisfied him completely. That was as it should be. The very contentment with the Conversion was a prime symptom of it, but Han Pritcher was no longer even curious about the matter.

And now that he was returning from his fifth major expedition into the boundlessness of the Galaxy outside the Union, it was with something approaching artless joy that the veteran spaceman and Intelligence agent considered his approaching audience with the “First Citizen.” His hard face, gouged out of a dark, grainless wood that did not seem to be capable of smiling without cracking, didn’t show it–but the outward indications were unnecessary. The Mule could see the emotions within, down to the smallest, much as an ordinary man could see the twitch of an eyebrow.

Pritcher left his air car at the old vice-regal hangars and entered the palace grounds on foot as was required. He walked one mile along the arrowed highway–which was empty and silent. Pritcher knew that over the square miles of Palace grounds, there was not one guard, not one soldier, not one armed man.

The Mule had need of no protection.

The Mule was his own best, all-powerful protector.

Pritcher’s footsteps beat softly in his own cars, as the palace reared its gleaming, incredibly light and incredibly strong metallic walls before him in the daring, overblown, near-hectic arches that characterized the architecture of the Late Empire. It brooded strongly over the empty grounds, over the crowded city on the horizon.

Within the palace was that one man–by himself–on whose inhuman mental attributes depended the new aristocracy, and the whole structure of the Union.

The huge, smooth door swung massively open at the general’s approach, and he entered. He stepped on to the wide, sweeping ramp that moved upward under him. He rose swiftly in the noiseless elevator. He stood before the small plain door of the Mule’s own room in the highest glitter of the palace spires.

It opened–

Bail Channis was young, and Bail Channis was Unconverted. That is, in plainer language, his emotional make-up had been unadjusted by the Mule. It remained exactly as it had been formed by the original shape of its heredity and the subsequent modifications of his environment. And that satisfied him, too.

At not quite thirty, he was in marvelously good odor in the capital. He was handsome and quick-witted–therefore successful in society. He was intelligent and self-possessed–therefore successful with the Mule. And he was thoroughly pleased at both successes.

And now, for the first time, the Mule had summoned him to personal audience.

His legs carried him down the long, glittering highway that led tautly to the sponge-aluminum spires that had been once the residence of the viceroy of Kalgan, who ruled under the old emperors; and that had been later the residence of the independent Princes of Kalgan, who ruled in their own name; and that was now the residence of the First Citizen of the Union, who ruled over an empire of his own.

Channis hummed softly to himself. He did not doubt what this was all about. The Second Foundation, naturally! That all-embracing bogey, the mere consideration of which had thrown the Mule back from his policy of limitless expansion into static caution. The official term was–” consolidation.”

Now there were rumors–you couldn’t stop rumors. The Mule was to begin the offensive once more. The Mule had discovered the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, and would attack The Mule had come to an agreement with the Second Foundation and divided the Galaxy. The Mule had decided the Second Foundation did not exist and would take over all the Galaxy.

No use listing all the varieties one heard in the anterooms. It was not even the first time such rumors had circulated. But now they seemed to have more body in them, and all the free, expansive Souls Who thrived on war, military adventure, and political chaos and withered in times of stability and stagnant peace were joyful.

Bail Channis was one of these. He did not fear the mysterious Second Foundation. For that matter, he did not fear the Mule, and boasted of it. Some, perhaps, who disapproved of one at once so young and so well-off, waited darkly for the reckoning with the gay ladies’ man who employed his wit openly at the expense of the Mule’s physical appearance and sequestered life. None dared join him and few dared laugh, but when nothing happened to him, his reputation rose accordingly.

Channis was improvising words to the tune he was humming. Nonsense words with the recurrent refrain: “Second Foundation threatens the Nation and all of Creation.”

He was at the palace.

The huge, smooth door swung massively open at his approach and he entered. He stepped on to the wide, sweeping ramp that moved upward under him. He rose swiftly in the noiseless elevator. He stood before the small plain door of the Mule’s own room in the highest glitter of the palace spires.

It opened–

The man who had no name other than the Mule, and no title other than First Citizen looked out through the one-way transparency of the wall to the light and lofty city on the horizon.

In the darkening twilight, the stars were emerging, and not one but owed allegiance to him.

He smiled with fleeting bitterness at the thought. The allegiance they owed was to a personality few had ever seen.

He was not a man to look at, the Mule–not a man to look at without derision. Not more than one hundred and twenty pounds was stretched out into his five-foot-eight length. His limbs were bony stalks that jutted out of his scrawniness in graceless angularity. And his thin face was nearly drowned out in the prominence of a fleshy beak that thrust three inches outward.

Only his eyes played false with the general farce that was the Mule. In their softness–a strange softness for the Galaxy’s greatest conqueror–sadness was never entirely subdued.

In the city was to be found all the gaiety of a luxurious capital on a luxurious world. He might have established his capital on the Foundation, the strongest of his now-conquered enemies, but it was far out on the very rim of the Galaxy. Kalgan, more centrally located, with a long tradition as aristocracy’s playground, suited him better–strategically.

But in its traditional gaiety, enhanced by unheard-of prosperity, he found no peace.

They feared him and obeyed him and, perhaps, even respected him–from a goodly distance. But who could look at him without contempt? Only those he had Converted. And of what value was their artificial loyalty? It lacked flavor. He might have adopted titles, and enforced ritual and invented elaborations, but even that would have changed nothing. Better–or at least, no worse–to be simply the First Citizen–and to hide himself.

There was a sudden surge of rebellion within him–strong and brutal. Not a portion of the Galaxy must be denied him, For five years he had remained silent and buried here on Kalgan because of the eternal, misty, space-ridden menace of the unseen, unheard, unknown Second Foundation. He was thirty-two. Not old–but he felt old. His body, whatever its mutant mental powers, was physically weak.

Every star! Every star he could see–and every star he couldnt see. It must all be his!

Revenge on all. On a humanity of which he wasn’t a part. On a Galaxy in which he didn’t fit.

The cool, overhead warning light flickered. He could follow the progress of the man who had entered the palace, and simultaneously, as though his mutant sense had been enhanced and sensitized in the lonely twilight, he felt the wash of emotional content touch the fibers of his brain.

He recognized the identity without an effort. It was Pritcher.

Captain Pritcher of the one-time Foundation. The Captain Pritcher who had been ignored and passed over by the bureaucrats of that decaying government. The Captain Pritcher whose job as petty spy he had wiped out and whom he had lifted from its slime. The Captain Pritcher whom he had made first colonel and then general; whose scope of activity he had made Galaxywide.

The now-General Pritcher who was, iron rebel though he began, completely loyal. And yet with all that, not loyal because of benefits gained, not loyal out of gratitude, not loyal as a fair return–but loyal only through the artifice of Conversion.

The Mule was conscious of that strong unalterable surface layer of loyalty and love that colored every swirl and eddy of the emotionality of Han Pritcher–the layer he had himself implanted five years before. Far underneath there were the original traces of stubborn individuality, impatience of rule, idealism–but even he, himself, could scarcely detect them any longer.

The door behind him opened, and he turned. The transparency of the wall faded to opacity, and the purple evening light gave way to the whitely blazing glow of atomic power.

Han Pritcher took the seat indicated. There was neither bowing, nor kneeling nor the use of honorifics in private audiences with the Mule. The Mule was merely “First Citizen.” He was addressed as “sir.” You sat in his presence, and you could turn your back on him if it so happened that you did.

To Han Pritcher this was all evidence of the sure and confident power of the man. He was warmly satisfied with it.

The Mule said: “Your final report reached me yesterday. I can’t deny that I find it somewhat depressing, Pritcher.”

The general’s eyebrows closed upon each other: “Yes, I imagine so–but I don’t see to what other conclusions I could have come. There just isn’t any Second Foundation, sir.”

Arid the Mule considered and then slowly shook his head, as he had done many a time before: “There’s the evidence of Ebling Mis. There is always the evidence of Ebling Mis.”

It was not a new story. Pritcher said without qualification: “Mis may have been the greatest psychologist of the Foundation, but he was a baby compared to Hari Seldon. At the time he was investigating Seldon’s works, he was under the artificial stimulation of your own brain control. You may have pushed him too far. He might have been wrong. Sir, he must have been wrong.”

The Mule sighed, his lugubrious face thrust forward on its thin stalk of a neck. “If only he had lived another minute. He was on the point of telling me where the Second Foundation was. He knew, I’m telling you. I need not have retreated. I need not have waited and waited. So much time lost. Five years gone for nothing.”

Pritcher could not have been censorious over the weak longing of his ruler; his controlled mental make-up forbade that. He was disturbed instead; vaguely uneasy. He said: “But what alternative explanation can there possibly be, sir? Five times I’ve gone out. You yourself have plotted the routes. And I’ve left no asteroid unturned. It was three hundred years ago that Hari Seldon of the old Empire supposedly established two Foundations to act as nuclei of a new Empire to replace the dying old one. One hundred years after Seldon, the First Foundation–the one we know so well–was known through all the Periphery. One hundred fifty years after Seldon–at the time of the last battle with the old Empire–it was known throughout the Galaxy. And now it’s three hundred years–and where should this mysterious Second be? In no eddy of the Galactic stream has it been heard of.”

“Ebling Mis said it kept itself secret. Only secrecy can turn its weakness to strength.”

“Secrecy as deep as this is past possibility without nonexistence as well.”

The Mule looked up, large eyes sharp and wary. “No. It does exist.” A bony finger pointed sharply. “There is going to be a slight change in tactics.”

Pritcher frowned. “You plan to leave yourself? I would scarcely advise it.”

“No, of course not. You will have to go out once again–one last time. But with another in joint command.”

There was a silence, and Pritcher’s voice was hard, “Who, Sir?”

“There’s a young man here in Kalgan. Bail Channis.”

“I’ve never heard of him, Sir.”

“No, I imagine not. But he’s got an agile mind, he’s ambitious–and he’s not Converted.”

Pritcher’s long jaw trembled for a bare instant, “I fail to see the advantage in that.”

“There is one, Pritcher. You’re a resourceful and experienced man. You have given me good service. But you are Converted. Your motivation is simply an enforced and helpless loyalty to myself. When you lost your native motivations, you lost something, some subtle drive, that I cannot possibly replace.”

“I don’t feel that, Sir,” said Pritcher grimly. “I recall myself quite well as I was in the days when I was an enemy of yours. I feel none the inferior.”

“Naturally not,” and the Mule’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Your judgment in this matter is scarcely objective. This Channis, now, is ambitious–for himself. He is completely trustworthy–out of no loyalty but to himself. He knows that it is on my coattails that he rides and he would do anything to increase my power that the ride might be long and far and that the destination might be glorious. If he goes with you, there is just that added push behind his seeking–that push for himself.’

“Then,” said Pritcher. still insistent, “why not remove my own Conversion, if you think that will improve me. I can scarcely be mistrusted, now.”

“That never, Pritcher. While you are within arm’s reach, or blaster reach, of myself, you will remain firmly held in Conversion. If I were to release you this minute, I would be dead the next.”

The general’s nostrils flared. “I am hurt that you should think so.”

“I don’t mean to hurt you, but it is impossible for you to realize what your feelings would be if free to form themselves along the lines of your natural motivation. The human mind resents control. The ordinary human hypnotist cannot hypnotize a person against his will for that reason. I can, because I’m not a hypnotist, and, believe me, Pritcher, the resentment that you cannot show and do not even know you possess is something I wouldn’t want to face.”

Pritcher’s head bowed. Futility wrenched him and left him gray and haggard inside. He said with an effort, “But how can you trust this man. I mean, completely–as you can trust me in my Conversion.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t entirely. That is why you must go with him. You see, Pritcher,” and the Mule buried himself in the large armchair against the soft back of which he looked like an angularly animated toothpick, “if he should stumble on the Second Foundation–if it should occur to him that an arrangement with them might be more profitable than with me–You understand?”

A profoundly satisfied light blazed in Pritcher’s eyes. “That is better, Sir.”

“Exactly. But remember, he must have a free rein as far as possible.”

“Certainly.”

“And... uh... Pritcher. The young man is handsome, pleasant and extremely charming. Don’t let him fool you. He’s a dangerous and unscrupulous character. Don’t get in his way unless you’re prepared to meet him properly. That’s all.”

The Mule was alone again. He let the lights die and the wall before him kicked to transparency again. The sky was purple now, and the city was a smudge of light on the horizon.

What was it all for? And if he were the master of all there was–what then? Would it really stop men like Pritcher. from being straight and tall, self-confident, strong? Would Bail Channis lose his looks? Would he himself be other than he was?

He cursed his doubts. What was he really after?

The cool, overhead warning light flickered. He could follow the progress of the man who had entered the palace and, almost against his will, he felt the soft wash of emotional content touch the fibers of his brain.

He recognized the identity without an effort. It was Channis. Here the Mule saw no uniformity, but the primitive diversity of a strong mind, untouched and unmolded except by the manifold disorganizations of the Universe. It writhed in floods and waves. There was caution on the surface, a thin, smoothing effect, but with touches of cynical ribaldry in the hidden eddies of it. And underneath there was the strong flow of self-interest and self-love, with a gush of cruel humor here and there, and a deep, still pool of ambition underlying all.

The Mule felt that he could reach out and dam the current, wrench the pool from its basin and turn it in another course, dry up one flow and begin another. But what of it? If he could bend Channis’ curly head in the profoundest adoration, would that change his own grotesquerie that made him shun the day and love the night, that made him a recluse inside an empire that was unconditionally big?

The door behind him opened, and he turned. The transparency of the wall faded to opacity, and the darkness gave way to the whitely blazing artifice of atomic power.

Bail Channis sat down lightly and said: “This is a not-quite-unexpected honor, sir.”

The Mule rubbed his proboscis with all four fingers at once and sounded a bit irritable in his response. “Why so, young man?”

“A hunch, I suppose. Unless I want to admit that I’ve been listening to rumors.”

“Rumors? Which one of the several dozen varieties are you referring to?”

“Those that say a renewal of the Galactic Offensive is being planned. It is a hope with me that such is true and that I might play an appropriate part.”

“Then you think there is a Second Foundation?”

“Why not? It would make things so much more interesting.”

“And you find interest in it as well?”

“Certainly. In the very mystery of it! What better subject could you find for conjecture? The newspaper supplements are full of nothing else lately–which is probably significant. The Cosmos had one of its feature writers compose a weirdie about a world consisting of beings of pure mind–the Second Foundation, you see–who had developed mental force to energies large enough to compete with any known to physical science. Spaceships could be blasted light-years away, planets could be turned out of their orbits–”

“Interesting. Yes. But do you have any notions on the subject? Do you subscribe to this mind-power notion?’

“Galaxy, no! Do you think creatures like that would stay on their own planet? No, sir. I think the Second Foundation remains hidden because it is weaker than we think.”

“In that case, I can explain myself very easily. How would you like to head an expedition to locate the Second Foundation?”

For a moment Channis seemed caught up by the sudden rush of events at just a little greater speed than he was prepared for. His tongue had apparently skidded to a halt in a lengthening silence.

The Mule said dryly: “Well?”

Channis corrugated his forehead. “Certainly. But where am I to go? Have you any information available?”

“General Pritcher will be with you–”

“Then I’m not to head it?”

“Judge for yourself when I’m done. Listen, you’re not of the Foundation. You’re a native of Kalgan, aren’t you? Yes. Well, then, your knowledge of the Seldon plan may be vague. When the first Galactic Empire was falling, Hari Seldon and a group of psychohistorians, analyzing the future course of history by mathematical tools no longer available in these degenerate times, set up two Foundations, one at each end of the Galaxy, in such a way that the economic and sociological forces that were slowly evolving, would make them serve as foci for the Second Empire. Hari Seldon planned on a thousand years to accomplish that–and it would have taken thirty thousand without the Foundations. But he couldn’t count on me. I am a mutant and I am unpredictable by psychohistory which can only deal with the average reactions of numbers. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir. But how does that involve me?’

“You’ll understand shortly. I intend to unite the Galaxy now–and reach Seldon’s thousand-year goal in three hundred. One Foundation–the world of physical scientists–is still flourishing, under me. Under the prosperity and order of the Union, the atomic weapons they have developed are capable of dealing with anything in the Galaxy–except perhaps the Second Foundation. So I must know more about it. General Pritcher is of the definite opinion that it does not exist at all. I know otherwise.”

Channis said delicately: “How do you know, sir?”

And the Mule’s words were suddenly liquid indignation: “Because minds under my control have been interfered with. Delicately! Subtly! But not so subtly that I couldn’t notice. And these interferences are increasing, and hitting valuable men at important times. Do you wonder now that a certain discretion has kept me motionless these years?

“That is your importance. General Pritcher is the best man left me, so he is no longer safe. Of course, he does not know that. But you are Unconverted and therefore not instantly detectable as a Mule’s man. You may fool the Second Foundation longer than one of my own men would–perhaps just sufficiently longer. Do you understand?”

“Um-m-m. Yes. But pardon me, sir, if I question you. How are these men of yours disturbed, so that I might detect change in General Pritcher, in case any occurs. Are they Unconverted again? Do they become disloyal?”

“No. I told you it was subtle. It’s more disturbing than that, because its harder to detect and sometimes I have to wait before acting, uncertain whether a key man is being normally erratic or has been tampered with. Their loyalty is left intact, but initiative and ingenuity are rubbed out. I’m left with a perfectly normal person, apparently, but one completely useless. In the last year, six have been so treated. Six of my best.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “They’re in charge of training bases now–and my most earnest wishes go with them that no emergencies come up for them to decide upon.”

“Suppose, sir... suppose it were not the Second Foundation. What if it were another, such as yourself–another mutant?”

“The planning is too careful, too long range. A single man would be in a greater hurry. No, it is a world, and you are to be my weapon against it.”

Channis’ eyes shone as he said: “I’m delighted at the chance.”

But the Mule caught the sudden emotional upwelling. He said: “Yes, apparently it occurs to you, that you will perform a unique service, worthy of a unique reward–perhaps even that of being my successor. Quite so. But there are unique punishments, too, you know. My emotional gymnastics are not confined to the creation of loyalty alone.”

And the little smile on his thin lips was grim, as Channis leaped out of his seat in horror.

For just an instant, just one, flashing instant, Channis had felt the pang of an overwhelming grief close over him. It had slammed down with a physical pain that had blackened his mind unbearably, and then lifted. Now nothing was left but the strong wash of anger.

The Mule said: “Anger won’t help... yes, you’re covering it up now, aren’t you? But I can see it. So just remember–that sort of business can be made more intense and kept up. I’ve killed men by emotional control, and there’s no death crueler.”

He paused: “That’s all!”

The Mule was alone again. He let the lights die and the wall before him kicked to transparency again. The sky was black, and the rising body of the Galactic Lens was spreading its bespanglement across the velvet depths of space.

All that haze of nebula was a mass of stars so numerous that they melted one into the other and left nothing but a cloud of light.

And all to be his–

And now but one last arrangement to make, and he could sleep.

First Interlude

THE EXECUTIVE COUNCIL of the Second Foundation was in session. To us they are merely voices. Neither the exact scene of the meeting nor the identity of those present are essential at the point.

Nor, strictly speaking, can we even consider an exact reproduction of any part of the session–unless we wish to sacrifice completely even the minimum comprehensibility we have a right to expect.

We deal here with psychologists–and not merely psychologists. Let us say, rather, scientists with a psychological orientation. That is, men whose fundamental conception of scientific philosophy is pointed in an entirely different direction from all of the orientations we know. The “psychology” of scientists brought up among the axioms deduced from the observational habits of physical science has only the vaguest relationship to PSYCHOLOGY.

Which is about as far as I can go in explaining color to a blind man–with myself as blind as the audience.

The point being made is that the minds assembled understood thoroughly the workings of each other, not only by general theory but by the specific application over a long period of these theories to particular individuals. Speech as known to us was unnecessary. A fragment of a sentence amounted almost to long-winded redundancy. A gesture, a grunt, the curve of a facial line–even a significantly timed pause yielded informational juice.

The liberty is taken, therefore, of freely translating a small portion of the conference into the extremely specific word-combinations necessary to minds oriented from childhood to a physical science philosophy, even at the risk of losing the more delicate nuances.

There was one “voice” predominant, and that belonged to the individual known simply as the First Speaker.

He said: “It is apparently quite definite now as to what stopped the Mule in his first mad rush. I can’t say that the matter reflects credit upon... well, upon the organization of the situation. Apparently, he almost located us, by means of the artificially heightened brain-energy of what they call a ‘psychologist’ on the First Foundation. This psychologist was killed just before he could communicate his discovery to the Mule. The events leading to that killing were completely fortuitous for all calculations below Phase Three. Suppose you take over.”

It was the Fifth Speaker who was indicated by an inflection of the voice. He said, in grim nuances: “It is certain that the situation was mishandled. We are, of course, highly vulnerable under mass attack, particularly an attack led by such a mental phenomenon as the Mule. Shortly after he first achieved Galactic eminence with the conquest of the First Foundation, half a year after to be exact, he was on Trantor. Within another half year he would have been here and the odds would have been stupendously against us–96.3 plus or minus 0.05% to be exact. We have spent considerable time analyzing the forces that stopped him. We know, of course, what was driving him on so in the first place. The internal ramifications of his physical deformity and mental uniqueness are obvious to all of us. However, it was only through penetration to Phase Three that we could determine–after the fact–tbe possibility of his anomalous action in the presence of another human being who had an honest affection for him.

“And since such an anomalous action would depend upon the presence of such another human being at the appropriate time, to that extent the whole affair was fortuitous. Our agents are certain that it was a girl that killed the Mule’s psychologist–a girl for whom the Mule felt trust out of sentiment, and whom he, therefore, did not control mentally–simply because she liked him.

“Since that event–and for those who want the details, a mathematical treatment of the subject has been drawn up for the Central Library–which warned us, we have held the Mule off by unorthodox methods with which we daily risk SeIdon’s entire scheme of history. That is all.”

The First Speaker paused an instant to allow the individuals assembled to absorb the full implications. He said: “The situation is then highly unstable. With Seldon’s original scheme bent to the fracture point–and I must emphasize that we have blundered badly in this whole matter, in our horrible lack of foresight–we are faced with an irreversible breakdown of the Plan. Time is passing us by. I think there is only one solution left us–and even that is risky.

“We must allow the Mule to find us–in a sense.”

Another pause, in which he gathered the reactions, then: “I repeat–in a sense!”

2. Two Men without the Mule

THE SHIP WAS in near-readiness. Nothing lacked, but the destination. The Mule had suggested a return to Trantor–the world that was the bulk of an incomparable Galactic metropolis of the hugest Empire mankind had ever known–the dead world that had been capital of all the stars.

Pritcher disapproved. It was an old path–sucked dry.

He found Bail Channis in the ship’s navigation room. The young man’s curly hair was just sufficiently disheveled to allow a single curl to droop over the forehead–as if it had been carefully placed there–and even teeth showed in a smile that matched it. Vaguely, the stiff officer felt himself harden against the other.

Channis’ excitement was evident, “Pritcher, it’s too far a coincidence.”

The general said coldly: “I’m not aware of the subject of conversation.”

“Oh–Well, then drag up a chair, old man, and let’s get into it. I’ve been going over your notes. I find them excellent.”

“How... pleasant that you do.”

“But I’m wondering if you’ve come to the conclusions I have. Have you ever tried analyzing the problem deductively? I mean, it’s all very well to comb the stars at random, and to have done all you did in five expeditions is quite a bit of star-hopping. That’s obvious. But have you calculated how long it would take to go through every known world at this rate?”

“Yes. Several times,” Pritcher felt no urge to meet the young man halfway, but there was the importance of filching the other’s mind–the other’s uncontrolled, and hence, unpredictable, mind.

“Well, then, suppose we’re analytical about it and try to decide just what we’re looking for?”

“The Second Foundation,” said Pritcher, grimly.

“A Foundation of psychologists,” corrected Channis, “who are is weak in physical science as the First Foundation was weak in psychology. Well, you’re from the First Foundation, which I’m not. The implications are probably obvious to you. We must find a world which rules by virtue of mental skills, and yet which is very backwards scientifically.”

“Is that necessarily so?” questioned Pritcher, quietly. “Our own ‘Union of Worlds’ isn’t backwards scientifically, even though our ruler owes his strength to his mental powers.”

“Because he has the skills of the First Foundation to draw upon,” came the slightly impatient answer, “and that is the only such reservoir of knowledge in the Galaxy. The Second Foundation must live among the dry crumbs of the broken Galactic Empire. There are no pickings there.”

“So then you postulate mental power sufficient to establish their rule over a group of worlds and physical helplessness as well?”

“Comparative physical helplessness. Against the decadent neighboring areas, they are competent to defend themselves. Against the resurgent forces of the Mule, with his background of a mature atomic economy, they cannot stand. Else, why is their location so well-hidden, both at the start by the founder, Hari Seldon, and now by themselves. Your own First Foundation made no secret of its existence and did not have it made for them, when they were an undefended single city on a lonely planet three hundred years ago.”

The smooth lines of Pritcher’s dark face twitched sardonically. ‘And now that you’ve finished your deep analysis, would you like a list of all the kingdoms, republics, planet states and dictatorships of one sort or another in that political wilderness out there that correspond to your description and to several factors besides?”

“All this has been considered then?” Channis lost none of his brashness.

“You won’t find it here, naturally, but we have a completely worked out guide to the political units of the Opposing Periphery. Really, did you suppose the Mule would work entirely hit-and-miss?”

“Well, then” and the young man’s voice rose in a burst of energy, “what of the Oligarchy of Tazenda?”

Pritcher touched his ear thoughtfully, “Tazenda? Oh, I think I know it. They’re not in the Periphery, are they? It seems to me they’re fully a third of the way towards the center of the Galaxy.”

“Yes. What of that?”

“The records we have place the Second Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy. Space knows it’s the only thing we have to go on. Why talk of Tazenda anyway? Its angular deviation from the First Foundation radian is only about one hundred ten to one hundred twenty degrees anyway. Nowhere near one hundred eighty.”

“There’s another point in the records. The Second Foundation was established at ‘Star’s End.’ ”

“No such region in the Galaxy has ever been located.”

“Because it was a local name, suppressed later for greater secrecy. Or maybe one invented for the purpose by Seldon and his group. Yet there’s some relationship between ‘Star’s End’ and ‘Tazenda,’ don’t you think?”

“A vague similarity in sound? Insufficient.”

‘Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“Yet it is mentioned in your records.”

“Where? Oh, yes, but that was merely to take on food and water. There was certainly nothing remarkable about the world.”

“Did you land at the ruling planet? The center of government?”

“I couldn’t possibly say.”

Channis brooded about it under the other’s cold gaze. Then, “Would you look at the Lens with me for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

The Lens was perhaps the newest feature of the interstellar cruisers of the day. Actually, it was a complicated calculating machine which could throw on a screen a reproduction of the night sky as seen from any given point of the Galaxy.

Channis adjusted the co-ordinate points and the wall lights of the pilot room were extinguished. In the dim red light at the control board of the Lens, Channis’ face glowed ruddily. Pritcher sat in the pilot seat, long legs crossed, face lost in the gloom.

Slowly, as the induction period passed, the points of light brightened on the screen. And then they were thick and bright with the generously populated star-groupings of the Galaxy’s center.

“This,” explained Channis, “is the winter night-sky as seen from Trantor. That is the important point that, as far as I know, has been neglected so far in your search. All intelligent orientation must start from Trantor as zero point. Trantor was the capital of the Galactic Empire. Even more so scientifically and culturally, than politically. And, therefore, the significance of any descriptive name should stem, nine times out of ten, from a Trantorian orientation. You’ll remember in this connection that, although Seldon was from Helicon, towards the Periphery, his group worked on Trantor itself.”

“What is it you’re trying to show me?” Pritcher’s level voice plunged icily into the gathering enthusiasm of the other.

“The map will explain it. Do you see the dark nebula?” The shadow of his arm fell upon the screen, which took on the bespanglement of the Galaxy. The pointing finger ended on a tiny patch of black that seemed a hole in the speckled fabric of light. “The stellagraphical records call it Pelot’s Nebula. Watch it. I’m going to expand the image.”

Pritcher had watched the phenomenon of Lens Image expansion before but he still caught his breath. It was like being at the visiplate of a spaceship storming through a horribly crowded Galaxy without entering hyperspace. The stars diverged towards them from a common center, flared outwards and tumbled off the edge of the screen. Single points became double, then globular. Hazy patches dissolved into myriad points. And always that illusion of motion.

Channis spoke through it all, “You’ll notice that we are moving along the direct line from Trantor to Pelot’s Nebula, so that in effect we are still looking at a stellar orientation equivalent to that of Trantor. There is probably a slight error because of the gravitic deviation of light that I haven’t the math to calculate for, but I’m sure it can’t be significant.”

The darkness was spreading over the screen. As the rate of magnification slowed, the stars slipped off the four ends of the screen in a regretful leave-taking. At the rims of the growing nebula, the brilliant universe of stars shone abruptly in token for that light which was merely hidden behind the swirling unradiating atom fragments of sodium and calcium that filled cubic parsecs of space.

And Channis pointed again, “This has been called ‘The Mouth’ by the inhabitants of that region of space. And that is significant because it is only from the Trantorian orientation that it looks like a mouth.” What he indicated was a rift in the body of the Nebula, shaped like a ragged, grinning mouth in profile, outlined by the glazing glory of the starlight with which it was filled.

“Follow The Mouth.’ “said Channis. “Follow ‘The Mouth’ towards the gullet as it narrows down to a thin, splintering line of light.

Again the screen expanded a trifle, until the Nebula stretched away from “The Mouth” to block off all the screen but that narrow trickle and Channis’ finger silently followed it down, to where it straggled to a halt, and then, as his finger continued moving onward, to a spot where one single star sparked lonesomely; and there his finger halted, for beyond that was blackness, unrelieved.

“‘Star’s End,’ “said the young man, simply. “The fabric of the Nebula is thin there and the light of that one star finds its way through in just that one direction–to shine on Trantor.”

“You’re tying to tell me that–” the voice of the Mule’s general died in suspicion.

“I’m not trying. That is Tazenda–Star’s End.”

The lights went on. The Lens flicked off. Pritcher reached Channis in three long strides, “What made you think of this?”

And Channis leaned back in his chair with a queerly puzzled expression on his face. “It was accidental. I’d like to take intellectual credit for this, but it was only accidental. In any case, however it happens, it fits. According to our references, Tazenda is an oligarchy. It rules twenty-seven inhabited planets. It is not advanced scientifically. And most of all, it is an obscure world that has adhered to a strict neutrality in the local politics of that stellar region, and is not expansionist. I think we ought to see it.”

“Have you informed the Mule of this?”

“No. Nor shall we. We’re in space now, about to make the first hop.”

Pritcher, in sudden horror, sprang to the visiplate. Cold space met his eyes when he adjusted it. He gazed fixedly at the view, then turned. Automatically, his hand reached for the hard, comfortable curve of the butt of his blaster.

“By whose order?”

“By my order, general”–it was the first time Channis had ever used the other’s title–” while I was engaging you here. You probably felt no acceleration, because it came at the moment I was expanding the field of the Lens and you undoubtedly imagined it to be an illusion of the apparent star motion.”

“Why? Just what are you doing? What was the point of your nonsense about Tazenda, then?”

“That was no nonsense. I was completely serious. We’re going there. We left today because we were scheduled to leave three days from now. General, you don’t believe there is a Second Foundation, and I do. You are merely following the Mule’s orders without faith; I recognize a serious danger. The Second Foundation has now had five years to prepare. How they’ve prepared, I don’t know, but what if they have agents on Kalgan. If I carry about in my mind the knowledge of the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, they may discover that. My life might be no longer safe, and I have a great affection for my life. Even on a thin and remote possibility such as that, I would rather play safe. So no one knows of Tazenda but you, and you found out only after we were out in space. And even so, there is the question of the crew.” Channis was smiling again, ironically, in obviously complete control of the situation.

Pritcher’s hand fell away from his blaster, and for a moment a vague discomfort pierced him. What kept him from action? What deadened him? There was a time when he was a rebellious and unpromoted captain of the First Foundation’s commercial empire, when it would have been himself rather than Channis who would have taken prompt and daring action such as that. Was the Mule right? Was his controlled mind so concerned with obedience as to lose initiative? He felt a thickening despondency drive him down into a strange lassitude.

He said, “Well done! However, you will consult me in the future before making decisions of this nature.”

The flickering signal caught his attention.

“That’s the engine room,” said Channis, casually. “They warmed up on five minutes’ notice and I asked them to let me know if there was any trouble. Want to hold the fort?”

Pritcher nodded mutely, and cogitated in the sudden loneliness on the evils of approaching fifty. The visiplate was sparsely starred. The main body of the Galaxy misted one end. What if he were free of the Mule’s influence–

But he recoiled in horror at the thought.

Chief Engineer Huxlani looked sharply at the young, ununiformed man who carried himself with the assurance of a Fleet officer and seemed to be in a position of authority. Huxlani, as a regular Fleet man from the days his chin had dripped milk, generally confused authority with specific insignia.

But the Mule had appointed this man, and the Mule was, of course, the last word. The only word for that matter. Not even subconsciously did he question that. Emotional control went deep.

He handed Channis the little oval object without a word.

Channis hefted it, and smiled engagingly.

“You’re a Foundation man, aren’t you, chief?”

“Yes, sir. I served in the Foundation Fleet eighteen years before the First Citizen took over.”

“Foundation training in engineering?”

“Qualified Technician, First Class–Central School on Anacreon.”

“Good enough. And you found this on the communication circuit, where I asked you to look?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Does it belong there?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then what is it?”

“A hypertracer, sir.”

“That’s not enough. I’m not a Foundation man. What is it?”

“It’s a device to allow the ship to be traced through hyperspace.”

“In other words we can be followed anywhere.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All right. It’s a recent invention, isn’t it? It was developed by one of the Research Institutes set up by the First Citizen, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so, Sir.”

“And its workings are a government secret. Right?”

“I, believe so, Sir.”

“Yet here it is. Intriguing.”

Channis tossed the hypertracer methodically from hand to hand for a few seconds. Then, sharply, he held it out, “Take it, then, and put it back exactly where you found it and exactly how you found it. Understand? And then forget this incident. Entirely!”

The chief choked down his near-automatic salute, turned sharply and left.

The ship bounded through the Galaxy, its path a wide-spaced dotted line through the stars. The dots, referred to, were the scant stretches of ten to sixty light-seconds spent in normal space and between them stretched the hundred-and-up light-year gaps that represented the “hops” through hyperspace.

Bail Channis sat at the control panel of the Lens and felt again the involuntary surge of near-worship at the contemplation of it.

He was not a Foundation man and the interplay of forces at the twist of a knob or the breaking of a contact was not second nature to him.

Not that the Lens ought quite to bore even a Foundation man. Within its unbelievably compact body were enough electronic circuits to pin-point accurately a hundred million separate stars in exact relationship to each other. And as if that were not a feat in itself, it was further capable of translating any given portion of the Galactic Field along any of the three spatial axes or to rotate any portion of the Field about a center.

It was because of that, that the Lens had performed a near-revolution in interstellar travel. In the younger days of interstellar travel, the calculation of each “hop” through hyperspace meant any amount of work from a day to a week–and the larger portion of such work was the more or less precise calculation of “Ship’s Position” on the Galactic scale of reference. Essentially that meant the accurate observation of at least three widely-spaced stars, the position of which, with reference to the arbitrary Galactic triple-zero, were known.

And it is the word “known,” that is the catch. To any who know the star field well from one certain reference point, stars are as individual as people. Jump ten parsecs, however, and not even your own sun is recognizable. It may not even be visible.

The answer was, of course, spectroscopic analysis. For centuries, the main object of interstellar engineering was the analysis of the “light signature” of more and more stars in greater and greater detail. With this, and the growing precision of the “hop” itself, standard routes of travel through the Galaxy were adopted and interstellar travel became less of an art and more of a science.

And yet, even under the Foundation with improved calculating machines and a new method of mechanically scanning the star field for a known “light signature,” it sometimes took days to locate three stars and then calculate position in regions not previously familiar to the pilot.

It was the Lens that changed all that. For one thing it required only a single known star. For another, even a space tyro such as Channis could operate it.

The nearest sizable star at the moment was Vincetori, according to “hop” calculations, and on the visiplate now, a bright star was centered. Channis hoped that it was Vincetori.

The field screen of the Lens was thrown directly next that of the visiplate and with careful fingers, Channis punched out the co-ordinates of Vincetori. He closed a relay, and the star field sprang to bright view. In it, too, a bright star was centered, but otherwise there seemed no relationship. He adjusted the Lens along the Z-Axis and expanded the Field to where the photometer showed both centered stars to be of equal brightness.

Channis looked for a second star, sizably bright, on the visiplate and found one on the field screen to correspond. Slowly, he rotated the screen to similar angular deflection. He twisted his mouth and rejected the result with a grimace. Again he rotated and another bright star was brought into position, and a third. And then he grinned. That did it. Perhaps a specialist with trained relationship perception might have clicked first try, but he’d settle for three.

That was the adjustment. In the final step, the two fields overlapped and merged into a sea of not-quite-rightness. Most of the stars were close doubles. But the fine adjustment did not take long. The double stars melted together, one field remained, and the “Ship’s Position” could now be read directly off the dials. The entire procedure had taken less than half an hour.

Channis found Han Pritcher in his private quarters. The general was quite apparently preparing for bed. He looked up.

“News?”

“Not particularly. We’ll be at Tazenda in another hop.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to bother you if you’re turning in, but have you looked through the film we picked up in Cil?”

Han Pritcher cast a disparaging look at the article in question, where it lay in its black case upon his low bookshelf, “Yes.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that if there was ever any science to History, it has been quite lost in this region of the Galaxy.”

Channis grinned broadly, “I know what you mean. Rather barren, isn’t it?”

“Not if you enjoy personal chronicles of rulers. Probably unreachable, I should say, in both directions. Where history concerns mainly personalities, the drawings become either black or white according to the interests of the writer. I find it all remarkably useless.”

“But there is talk about Tazenda. That’s the point I tried to make when I gave you the film. It’s the only one I could find that even mentioned them.”

“All right. They have good rulers and bad. They’ve conquered a few planets, won some battles, lost a few. There is nothing distinctive about them. I don’t think much of your theory, Channis.”

“But you’ve missed a few points. Didn’t you notice that they never formed coalitions? They always remained completely outside the politics of this corner of the star swarm. As you say, they conquered a few planets, but then they stopped–and that without any startling defeat of consequence. It’s just as if they spread out enough to protect themselves, but not enough to attract attention.”

“Very well,” came the unemotional response. “I have no objection to landing. At the worst–a little lost time.”

“Oh, no. At the worst–complete defeat. If it is the Second Foundation. Remember it would be a world of space-knows-how-many Mules.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Land on some minor subject planet. Find out as much as we can about Tazenda first, then improvise from that.”

“All right. No objection. If you don’t mind now, I would like the light out.”

Channis left with a wave of his hand.

And in the darkness of a tiny room in an island of driving metal lost in the vastness of space, General Han Pritcher remained awake, following the thoughts that led him through such fantastic reaches.

If everything he had so painfully decided were true–and how all the facts were beginning to fit–then Tazenda was the Second Foundation. There was no way out. But how? How?

Could it be Tazenda? An ordinary world? One without distinction? A slum lost amid the wreckage of an Empire? A splinter among the fragments? He remembered, as from a distance, the Mule’s shriveled face and his thin voice as he used to speak of the old Foundation psychologist, Ebling Mis, the one man who had–maybe–learned the secret of the Second Foundation.

Pritcher recalled the tension of the Mule’s words: “It was as if astonishment had overwhelmed Mis. It was as though something about the Second Foundation had surpassed all his expectations, had driven in a direction completely different from what he might have assumed. If I could only have read his thoughts rather than his emotions. Yet the emotions were plain–and above everything else was this vast surprise.”

Surprise was the keynote. Something supremely astonishing! And now came this boy, this grinning youngster, glibly joyful about Tazenda and its undistinguished subnormality. And he had to be right. He had to. Otherwise, nothing made sense.

Pritcher’s last conscious thought had a touch of grimness. That hypertracer along the Etheric tube was still there. He had checked it one hour back, with Channis well out of the way.

Second Interlude

IT WAS A casual meeting in the anteroom of the Council Chamber–just a few moments before passing into the Chamber to take up the business of the day–and the few thoughts flashed back and forth quickly.

“So the Mule is on his way.”

“That’s what I hear, too. Risky! Mighty risky!”

“Not if affairs adhere to the functions set up.”

“The Mule is not an ordinary man–and it is difficult to manipulate his chosen instruments without detection by him. The controlled minds are difficult to touch. They say he’s caught on to a few cases.”

“Yes, I don’t see how that can be avoided.”

“Uncontrolled minds are easier. But so few are in positions of authority under him–”

They entered the Chamber. Others of the Second Foundation followed them.

3. Two Men and a Peasant

ROSSEM IS ONE of those marginal worlds usually neglected in Galactic history and scarcely ever obtruding itself upon the notice of men of the myriad happier planets.

In the latter days of the Galactic Empire, a few political prisoners had inhabited its wastes, while an observatory and a small Naval garrison served to keep it from complete desertion. Later, in the evil days of strife, even before the time of Hari Seldon, the weaker sort of men, tired of the periodic decades of insecurity and danger; weary of sacked planets and a ghostly succession of ephemeral emperors making their way to the Purple for a few wicked, fruitless years–these men fled the populated centers and sought shelter in the barren nooks of the Galaxy.

Along the chilly wastes of Rossem, villages huddled. Its sun was a small ruddy niggard that clutched its dribble of heat to itself, while snow beat thinly down for nine months of the year. The tough native grain lay dormant in the soil those snow-filled months, then grew and ripened in almost panic speed, when the sun’s reluctant radiation brought the temperature to nearly fifty.

Small, goatlike animals cropped the grasslands, kicking the thin snow aside with tiny, tri-hooved feet.

The men of Rossem had, thus, their bread and their milk–and when they could spare an animal–even their meat. The darkly ominous forests that gnarled their way over half of the equatorial region of the planet supplied a tough, fine-grained wood for housing. This wood, together with certain furs and minerals, was even worth exporting, and the ships of the Empire came at times and brought in exchange farm machinery, atomic heaters, even televisor sets. The last was not really incongruous, for the long winter imposed a lonely hibernation upon the peasant.

Imperial history flowed past the peasants of Rossem. The trading ships might bring news in impatient spurts; occasionally new fugitives would arrive–at one time, a relatively large group arrived in a body and remained–and these usually had news of the Galaxy.

It was then that the Rossemites learned of sweeping battles and decimated populations or of tyrannical emperors and rebellious viceroys. And they would sigh and shake their heads, and draw their fur collars closer about their bearded faces as they sat about the village square in the weak sun and philosophized on the evil of men.

Then after a while, no trading ships arrived at all, and life grew harder. Supplies of foreign, soft food, of tobacco, of machinery stopped. Vague word from scraps gathered on the televisor brought increasingly disturbing news. And finally it spread that Trantor had been sacked. The great capital world of all the Galaxy, the splendid, storied, unapproachable and incomparable home of the emperors had been despoiled and ruined and brought to utter destruction.

It was something inconceivable, and to many of the peasants of Rossem, scratching away at their fields, it might well seem that the end of the Galaxy was at hand.

And then one day not unlike other days a ship arrived again. The old men of each village nodded wisely and lifted their old eyelids to whisper that thus it had been in their father’s time–but it wasn’t, quite.

This ship was not an Imperial ship. The glowing Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire was missing from its prow. It was a stubby affair made of scraps of older ships–and the men within called themselves soldiers of Tazenda.

The peasants were confused. They had not heard of Tazenda, but they greeted the soldiers nevertheless in the traditional fashion of hospitality. The newcomers inquired closely as to the nature of the planet, the number of its inhabitants, the number of its cities–a word mistaken by the peasants to mean “villages” to the confusion of all concerned–its type of economy and so on.

Other ships came and proclamations were issued all over the world that Tazenda was now the ruling world, that tax-collecting stations would be established girdling the equator–the inhabited region–that percentages of grain and furs according to certain numerical formulae would be collected annually.

The Rossemites had blinked solemnly, uncertain of the word “taxes.” When collection time came, many had paid, or had stood by in confusion while the uniformed, other-wordlings loaded the harvested corn and the pelts on to the broad ground-cars.

Here and there indignant peasants banded together and brought out ancient hunting weapons–but of this nothing ever came. Grumblingly they had disbanded when the men of Tazenda came and with dismay watched their hard struggle for existence become harder.

But a new equilibrium was reached. The Tazendian governor lived dourly in the village of Gentri, from which all Rossemites were barred. He and the officials under him were dim otherworld beings that rarely impinged on the Rossemite ken. The tax-farmers, Rossemites in the employ of Tazenda, came periodically, but they were creatures of custom now–and the peasant had learned how to hide his grain and drive his cattle into the forest, and refrain from having his hut appear too ostentatiously prosperous. Then with a dull, uncomprehending expression he would greet all sharp questioning as to his assets by merely pointing at what they could see.

Even that grew less, and taxes decreased, almost as If Tazenda wearied of extorting pennies from such a world.

Trading sprang up and perhaps Tazenda found that more profitable. The men of Rossem no longer received in exchange the polished creations of the Empire, but even Tazendian machines and Tazendian food was better than the native stuff. And there were clothes for the women of other than gray home-spun, which was a very important thing.

So once again, Galactic history glided past peacefully enough, and the peasants scrabbIed life out of the hard soil.

Narovi blew into his beard as he stepped out of his cottage.

The first snows were sifting across the hard ground and the sky was a dull, overcast pink. He squinted carefully upward and decided that no real storm was in sight. He could travel to Gentri without much trouble and get rid of his surplus grain in return for enough canned foods to last the winter.

He roared back through the door, which he opened a crack for the purpose: “Has the car been fed its fuel, yunker?”

A voice shouted from within, and then Narovi’s oldest son, his short, red beard not yet completely outgrown its boyish sparseness, joined him.

“The car,” he said, sullenly, “is fueled and rides well, but for the bad condition of the axles. For that I am of no blame. I have told you it needs expert repairs.”

The old man stepped back and surveyed his son through lowering eyebrows, then thrust his hairy chin outward: “And is the fault mine? Where and in what manner may I achieve expert repairs? Has the harvest then been anything but scanty for five years? Have my herds escaped the pest? Have the pelts climbed of themselves–”

“Narovi!” The well-known voice from within stopped him in mid-word. He grumbled, “Well, well–and now your mother must insert herself into the affairs of a father and his son. Bring out the car, and see to it that the storage trailers are securely attached.”

He pounded his gloved hands together, and looked upward again. The dimly-ruddy clouds were gathering and the gray sky that showed in the rifts bore no warmth. The sun was hidden.

He was at the point of looking away, when his dropping eyes caught and his finger almost automatically rose on high while his mouth fell open in a shout, in complete disregard of the cold air.

“Wife,” he called vigorously, “Old woman–come here.”

An indignant head appeared at a window. The woman’s eyes followed his finger, gaped. With a cry, she dashed down the wooden stairs, snatching up an old wrap and a square of linen as she went. She emerged with the linen wrapped insecurely over her head and ears, and the wrap dangling from her shoulders.

She snuffled: “It is a ship from outer space.”

And Narovi remarked impatiently: “And what else could it be? We have visitors, old woman, visitors!”

The ship was sinking slowly to a landing on the bare frozen field in the northern portions of Narovi’s farm.

“But what shall we do?” gasped the woman. “Can we offer these people hospitality? Is the dirt floor of our hovel to be theirs and the pickings of last week’s hoecake?”

“Shall they then go to our neighbors?” Narovi purpled past the crimson induced by the cold and his arms in their sleek fur covering lunged out and seized the woman’s brawny shoulders.

“Wife of my soul,” he purred, “you will take the two chairs from our room downstairs; you will see that a fat youngling is slaughtered and roasted with tubers; you will bake a fresh hoecake. I go now to greet these men of power from outer space... and... and–” He paused, placed his great cap awry, and scratched hesitantly. “Yes, I shall bring my jug of brewed grain as well. Hearty drink is pleasant.”

The woman’s mouth had flapped idly during this speech. Nothing came out. And when that stage passed, it was only a discordant screech that issued.

Narovi lifted a finger, “Old woman, what was it the village Elders said a se’nnight since? Eh? Stir your memory. The Elders went from farm to farm–themselves! Imagine the importance of it!–to ask us that should any ships from outer space land, they were to be informed immediately on the orders of the governor.

“And now shall I not seize the opportunity to win into the good graces of those in power? Regard that ship. Have you ever seen its like? These men from the outer worlds are rich, great. The governor himself sends such urgent messages concerning them that the Elders walk from farm to farm in the cooling weather. Perhaps the message is sent throughout all Rossem that these men are greatly desired by the Lords of Tazenda–and it is on my farm that they are landing.”

He fairly hopped for anxiety, “The proper hospitality now–the mention of my name to the governor–and what may not be ours?”

His wife was suddenly aware of the cold biting through her thin house-clothing. She leaped towards the door, shouting over her shoulders, “Leave then quickly.”

But she was speaking to a man who was even then racing towards the segment of the horizon against which the ship sank.

Neither the cold of the world, nor its bleak, empty spaces worried General Han Pritcher. Nor the poverty of their surroundings, nor the perspiring peasant himself.

What did bother him was the question of the wisdom of their tactics? He and Channis were alone here.

The ship, left in space, could take care of itself in ordinary circumstances, but still, he felt unsafe. It was Channis, of course, who was responsible for this move. He looked across at the young man and caught him winking cheerfully at the gap in the furred partition, in which a woman’s peeping eyes and gaping mouth momentarily appeared.

Channis, at least, seemed completely at ease. That fact Pritcher savored with a vinegary satisfaction. His game had not much longer to proceed exactly as he wished it. Yet, meanwhile their wrist ultrawave sender-receivers were their only connection with the ship.

And then the peasant host smiled enormously and bobbed his head several times and said in a voice oily with respect, “Noble Lords, I crave leave to tell you that my eldest son–a good, worthy lad whom my poverty prevents from educating as his wisdom deserves–has informed me that the Elders will arrive soon. I trust your stay here has been as pleasant as my humble means–for I am poverty-stricken, though a hard-working, honest, and humble farmer, as anyone here will tell you–could afford.”

“Elders?” said Channis, lightly. “The chief men of the region here?”

“So they are, Noble Lords, and honest, worthy men all of them, for our entire village is known throughout Rossem as a just and righteous spot–though living is hard and the returns of the fields and forests meager. Perhaps you will mention to the Elders, Noble Lords, of my respect and honor for travelers and it may happen that they will request a new motor wagon for our household as the old one can scarcely creep and upon the remnant of it depends our livelihood.”

He looked humbly eager and Han Pritcher nodded with thee properly aloof condescension required of the role of “Noble, Lords” bestowed upon them.

“A report of your hospitality shall reach the ears of your Elders.”

Pritcher seized the next moments of isolation to speak to the apparently half-sleeping Channis.

“I am not particularly fond of this meeting of the Elders,” he said. “Have you any thoughts on the subject?”

Channis seemed surprised. “No. What worries you?”

“It seems we have better things to do than to become conspicuous here.’

Channis spoke hastily, in a low monotoned voice: “It may be necessary to risk becoming conspicuous in our next moves. We won’t find the type of men we want, Pritcher, by simply reaching out a hand into a dark bag and groping. Men who rule by tricks of the mind need not necessarily be men in obvious power. In the first place, the psychologists of the Second Foundation are probably a very small minority of the total population, just as on your own First Foundation, the technicians and scientists formed a minority. The ordinary inhabitants are probably just that–very ordinary. The psychologists may even be well hidden, and the men in the apparently ruling position, may honestly think they are the true masters. Our solution to that problem may be found here on this frozen lump of a planet.”

“I don’t follow that at all.”

“Why, see here, it’s obvious enough. Tazenda is probably a huge world of millions or hundreds of millions. How could we identify the psychologists among them and be able to report truly to the Mule that we have located the Second Foundation? But here, on this tiny peasant world and subject planet, an the Tazendian rulers, our host informs us, are concentrated in their chief village of Gentri. There may be only a few hundred of them there, Pritcher, and among them must be one or more of the men of the Second Foundation. We will go there eventually, but let us see the Elders first–it’s a logical step on the way.”

They drew apart easily, as their black-bearded host tumbled into the room again, obviously agitated.

“Noble Lords, the Elders are arriving. I crave leave to beg you once more to mention a word, perhaps, on my behalf–” He almost bent double in a paroxysm of fawning.

“We shall certainly remember you,” said Channis. “Are these your Elders?”

They apparently were. There were three.

One approached. He bowed with a dignified respect and said: “We are honored. Transportation has been provided, Respected sirs, and we hope for the pleasure of your company at our Meeting Hall.”

Third Interlude

THE FIRST SPEAKER gazed wistfully at the night sky. Wispy clouds scudded across the faint stargleams. Space looked actively hostile. It was cold and awful at best but now it contained that strange creature, the Mule, and the very content seemed to darken and thicken it into ominous threat.

The meeting was over. It had not been long. There had been the doubts and questionings inspired by the difficult mathematical problem of dealing with a mental mutant of uncertain makeup. All the extreme permutations had had to be considered.

Were they even yet certain? Somewhere in this region of space–within reaching distance as Galactic spaces go–was the Mule. What would he do?

It was easy enough to handle his men. They reacted–and were reacting–according to plan.

But what of the Mule himself?

4. Two Men and the Elders

THE ELDERS OF this particular region of Rossem were not exactly what one might have expected. They were not a mere extrapolation of the peasantry; older, more authoritative, less friendly.

Not at all.

The dignity that had marked them at first meeting had grown in impression till it had reached the mark of being their predominant characteristic.

They sat about their oval table like so many grave and slow-moving thinkers. Most were a trifle past their physical prime, though the few who possessed beards wore them short and neatly arranged. Still, enough appeared younger than forty to make it quite obvious that “Elders” was a term of respect rather than entirely a literal description of age.

The two from outer space were at the head of the table and in the solemn silence that accompanied a rather frugal meal that seemed ceremonious rather than nourishing, absorbed the new, contrasting atmosphere.

After the meal and after one or two respectful remarks–too short and simple to be called speeches–had been made by those of the Elders apparently held most in esteem, an informality forced itself upon the assembly.

It was as if the dignity of greeting foreign personages had finally given way to the amiable rustic qualities of curiosity and friendliness.

They crowded around the two strangers and the flood of questions came.

They asked if it were difficult to handle a spaceship, how many men were required for the job, if better motors could be made for their ground-cars, if it was true that it rarely snowed on other worlds as was said to be the case with Tazenda, how many people lived on their world, if it was as large as Tazenda, if it was far away, how their clothes were woven and what gave them the metallic shimmer, why they did not wear furs, if they shaved every day, what sort of stone that was in Pritcher’s ring–The list stretched out.

And almost always the questions were addressed to Pritcher as though, as the elder, they automatically invested him with the greater authority. Pritcher found himself forced to answer at greater and greater length. It was like an immersion in a crowd of children. Their questions were those of utter and disarming wonder. Their eagerness to know was completely irresistible and would not be denied.

Pritcher explained that spaceships were not difficult to handle and that crews varied with the size, from one to many, that the motors of their ground-cars were unknown in detail to him but could doubtless be improved, that the climates of worlds varied almost infinitely, that many hundreds of millions lived on his world but that it was far smaller and more insignificant than the great empire of Tazenda, that their clothes were woven of silicone plastics in which metallic luster was artificially produced by proper orientation of the surface molecules, and that they could be artificially heated so that furs were unnecessary, that they shaved every day, that the stone in his ring was an amethyst. The list stretched out. He found himself thawing to these naive provincials against his will.

And always as he answered there was a rapid chatter among the Elders, as though they debated the information gained. It was difficult to follow these inner discussions of theirs for they lapsed into their own accented version of the universal Galactic language that, through long separation from the currents of living speech, had become archaic.

Almost, one might say, their curt comments among themselves hovered on the edge of understanding, but just managed to elude the clutching tendrils of comprehension.

Until finally Channis interrupted to say, “Good sirs, you must answer us for a while, for we are strangers and would be very much interested to know all we can of Tazenda.”

And what happened then was that a great silence fell and each of the hitherto voluble Elders grew silent. Their hands, which had been moving in such rapid and delicate accompaniment to their words as though to give them greater scope and varied shades of meaning, fell suddenly limp. They stared furtively at one another, apparently quite willing each to let the other have all the floor.

Pritcher interposed quickly, “My companion asks this in friendliness, for the fame of Tazenda fills the Galaxy and we, of course, shall inform the governor of the loyalty and love of the Elders of Rossem.”

No sigh of relief was heard but faces brightened. An Elder stroked his beard with thumb and forefinger, straightening its slight curl with a gentle pressure, and said: “We are faithful servants of the Lords of Tazenda.”

Pritcher’s annoyance at Channis’ bald question subsided. It was apparent, at least, that the age that he had felt creeping over him of late had not yet deprived him of his own capacity for making smooth the blunders of others.

He continued: “We do not know, in our far part of the universe, much of the past history of the Lords of Tazenda. We presume they have ruled benevolently here for a long time.”

The same Elder who spoke before, answered. In a soft, automatic way he had become spokesman. He said: “Not the grandfather of the oldest can recall a time in which the Lords were absent.”

“It has been a time of peace?”

“It has been a time of peace!” He hesitated. “The governor is a strong and powerful Lord who would not hesitate to punish traitors. None of us are traitors, of course.”

“He has punished some in the past, I imagine, as they deserve.”

Again hesitation, “None here have ever been traitors, or our fathers or our fathers’ fathers. But on other worlds, there have been such, and death followed for them quickly. It is not good to think of for we are humble men who are poor farmers and not concerned with matters of politics.”

The anxiety in his voice, the universal concern in the eyes of all of them was obvious.

Pritcher said smoothly: “Could you inform us as to how we can arrange an audience with your governor.”

And instantly an element of sudden bewilderment entered the situation.

For after a long moment, the elder said: “Why, did you not know? The governor will be here tomorrow. He has expected you. It has been a great honor for us. We... we hope earnestly that you will report to him satisfactorily as to our loyalty to him.”

Pritcher’s smile scarcely twitched. “Expected us?”

The Elder looked wonderingly from one to the other. “Why... it is now a week since we have been waiting for you.”

Their quarters were undoubtedly luxurious for the world. Pritcher had lived in worse. Channis showed nothing but indifference to externals.

But there was an element of tension between them of a different nature than hitherto. Pritcher, felt the time approaching for a definite decision and yet there was still the desirability of additional waiting. To see the governor first would be to increase the gamble to dangerous dimensions and yet to win that gamble might multi-double the winnings. He felt a surge of anger at the slight crease between Channis’ eyebrows, the delicate uncertainty with which the young man’s lower lip presented itself to an upper tooth. He detested the useless play-acting and yearned for an end to it.

He said: “We seem to be anticipated.”

“Yes,” said Channis, simply.

“Just that? You have no contribution of greater pith to make. We come here and find that the governor expects us. Presumably we shall find from the governor that Tazenda itself expects us. Of what value then is our entire mission?”

Channis looked up, without endeavoring to conceal the weary note in his voice: “To expect us is one thing; to know who we are and what we came for, is another.”

“Do you expect to conceal these things from men of the Second Foundation?”

“Perhaps. Why not? Are you ready to throw your hand in? Suppose our ship was detected in space. Is it unusual for a realm to maintain frontier observation posts? Even if we were ordinary strangers, we would be of interest.”

“Sufficient interest for a governor to come to us rather than the reverse?’

Channis shrugged: “We’ll have to meet that problem later. Let us see what this governor is like.”

Pritcher bared his teeth in a bloodless kind of scowl. The situation was becoming ridiculous.

Channis proceeded with an artificial animation: “At least we know one thing. Tazenda is the Second Foundation or a million shreds of evidence are unanimously pointing the wrong way. How do you interpret the obvious terror in which these natives hold Tazenda? I see no signs of political domination. Their groups of Elders apparently meet freely and without interference of any sort. The taxation they speak of doesn’t seem at all extensive to me or efficiently carried through. The natives speak much of poverty but seem sturdy and well-fed. The houses are uncouth and their villages rude, but are obviously adequate for the purpose.

“In fact, the world fascinates me. I have never seen a more forbidding one, yet I am convinced there is no suffering among the population and that their uncomplicated lives manage to contain a well-balanced happiness lacking in the sophisticated populations of the advanced centers.”

“Are you an admirer of peasant virtues, then?”

“The stars forbid.” Channis seemed amused at the idea. “I merely point out the significance of all this. Apparently, Tazenda is an efficient administrator–efficient in a sense far different from the efficiency of the old Empire or of the First Foundation, or even of our own Union. All these have brought mechanical efficiency to their subjects at the cost of more intangible values. Tazenda brings happiness and sufficiency. Don’t you see that the whole orientation of their domination is different? It is not physical, but psychological.”

“Really?” Pritcher, allowed himself irony. “And the terror with which the Elders spoke of the punishment of treason by these kind hearted psychologist administrators? How does that suit your thesis?”

“Were they the objects of the punishment? They speak of punishment only of others. It is as if knowledge of punishment has been so well implanted in them that punishment itself need never be used. The proper mental attitudes are so inserted into their minds that I am certain that not a Tazendian soldier exists on the planet. Don’t you see all this?”

“I’ll see perhaps,” said Pritcher, coldly, “when I see the governor. And what, by the way, if our mentalities are handled?”

Channis replied with brutal contempt: “You should be accustomed to that.”

Pritcher whitened perceptibly, and, with an effort, turned away. They spoke to one another no more that day.

It was in the silent windlessness of the frigid night, as he listened to the soft, sleeping motions of the other, that Pritcher silently adjusted his wrist-transmitter to the ultrawave region for which Channis’ was unadjustable and, with noiseless touches of his fingernail, contacted the ship.

The answer came in little periods of noiseless vibration that barely lifted themselves above the sensory threshold.

Twice Pritcher asked: “Any communications at all yet?”

Twice the answer came: “None. We wait always.”

He got out of bed. It was cold in the room and he pulled the furry blanket around him as he sat in the chair and stared out at the crowding stars so different in the brightness and complexity of their arrangement from the even fog of the Galactic Lens that dominated the night sky of his native Periphery.

Somewhere there between the stars was the answer to the complications that overwhelmed him, and he felt the yearning for that solution to arrive and end things.

For a moment he wondered again if the Mule were right–if Conversion had robbed him of the firm sharp edge of self-reliance. Or was it simply age and the fluctuations of these last years?

He didn’t really care.

He was tired.

The governor of Rossem arrived with minor ostentation. His only companion was the uniformed man at the controls of the ground-car.

The ground-car itself was of lush design but to Pritcher it appeared inefficient. It turned clumsily; more than once it apparently balked at what might have been a too-rapid change of gears. It was obvious at once from its design that it ran on chemical, and not on atomic, fuel.

The Tazendian governor stepped softly on to the thin layer of snow and advanced between two lines of respectful Elders. He did not look at them but entered quickly. They followed after him.

From the quarters assigned to them, the two men of the Mule’s Union watched. He–the governor–was thickset, rather stocky, short, unimpressive.

But what of that?

Pritcher cursed himself for a failure of nerve. His face, to be sure, remained icily calm. There was no humiliation before Channis–but he knew very well that his blood pressure had heightened and his throat had become dry.

It was not a case of physical fear. He was not one of those dull-witted, unimaginative men of nerveless meat who were too stupid ever to be afraid–but physical fear he could account for and discount.

But this was different. It was the other fear.

He glanced quickly at Channis. The young man glanced idly at the nails of one hand and poked leisurely at some trifling unevenness.

Something inside Pritcher became vastly indignant. What had Channis to fear of mental handling?

Pritcher caught a mental breath and tried to think back. How had he been before the Mule had Converted him from the die-hard Democrat that he was. It was hard to remember. He could not place himself mentally. He could not break the clinging wires that bound him emotionally to the Mule. Intellectually, he could remember that he had once tried to assassinate the Mule but not for all the straining he could endure, could he remember his emotions at the time. That might be the self-defense of his own mind, however, for at the intuitive thought of what those emotions might have been–not realizing the details, but merely comprehending the drift of it–his stomach grew queasy.

What if the governor tampered with his mind?

What if the insubstantial mental tendrils of a Second Foundationer insinuated itself down the emotional crevices of his makeup and pulled them apart and rejoined them?

There had been no sensation the first time. There had been no pain, no mental jar–not even a feeling of discontinuity. He had always loved the Mule. If there had ever been a time long before–as long before as five short years–when he had thought he hadn’t loved him, that he had hated him–that was just a horrid illusion. The thought of that illusion embarrassed him.

But there had been no pain.

Would meeting the governor duplicate that? Would all that had gone before–all his service for the Mule–all his life’s orientation–join the hazy, other-life dream that held the word, Democracy. The Mule also a dream, and only to Tazenda, his loyalty–

Sharply, he turned away.

There was that strong desire to retch.

And then Channis’ voice clashed on his ear, “I think this is it, general.”

Pritcher turned again. An Elder had opened the door silently and stood with a dignified and calm respect upon the threshold.

He said, “His Excellency, Governor of Rossem, in the name of the Lords of Tazenda, is pleased to present his permission for an audience and request your appearance before him.”

“Sure thing,” and Channis tightened his belt with a jerk and adjusted a Rossemian hood over his head.

Pritcher’s jaw set. This was the beginning of the real gamble.

The governor of Rossem was not of formidable appearance. For one thing, he was bareheaded, and his thinning hair, light brown, tending to gray, lent him mildness. His bony eye-ridges lowered at them, and his eyes, set in a fine network of surrounding wrinkles, seemed calculating, but his fresh-cropped chin was soft and small and, by the universal convention of followers of the pseudoscience of reading character by facial bony structure, seemed “weak.”

Pritcher, avoided the eyes and watched the chin. He didn’t know whether that would be effective–if anything would be.

The governor’s voice was high-pitched, indifferent: “Welcome to Tazenda. We greet you in peace. You have eaten?”

His hand–long fingers, gnarled veins–waved almost regally at the U-shaped table.

They bowed and sat down. The governor sat at the outer side of the base of the U, they on the inner; along both arms sat the double row of silent Elders.

The governor spoke in short, abrupt sentences–praising the food as Tazendian importations–and it had indeed a quality different if, somehow, not so much better, than the rougher food of the Elders–disparaging Rossemian weather, referring with an attempt at casualness to the intricacies of space travel.

Channis talked little. Pritcher not at all.

Then it was over. The small, stewed fruits were finished; the napkins used and discarded, and the governor leaned back.

His small eyes sparkled.

“I have inquired as to your ship. Naturally, I would like to see that it receives due care and overhaul. I am told its whereabouts are unknown.”

“True.” Channis replied lightly. “We have left it in space. It is a large ship, suitable for long journeys in sometimes hostile regions, and we felt that landing it here might give rise to doubts as to our peaceful intentions. We preferred to land alone, unarmed.”

“A friendly act,” commented the governor, without conviction. “A large ship, you say?”

“Not a vessel of war, excellency.”

“Ha, hum. Where is it you come from?”

“A small world of the Santanni sector, your excellency. It may be you are not aware of its existence for it lacks importance. We are interested in establishing trade relationships.”

“Trade, eh? And what have you to sell?’

“Machines of all sorts, excellency. In return, food, wood, ores

“Ha, hum.” The governor seemed doubtful. “I know little these matters. Perhaps mutual profit may be arranged. Perhaps, after I have examined your credentials at length–for much information will be required by my government before matters may proceed, you understand–and after I have looked over your ship, it would be advisable for you to proceed to Tazenda.”

There was no answer to that, and the governor’s attitude iced perceptibly.

“It is necessary that I see your ship, however.”

Channis said distantly: “The ship, unfortunately, is undergoing repairs at the moment. If your excellency would not object giving us forty-eight hours, it will be at your service.”

“I am not accustomed to waiting.”

For the first time, Pritcher met the glare of the other, eye to eye, and his breath exploded softly inside him. For a moment, he had the sensation of drowning, but then his eyes tore away.

Channis did not waver. He said: “The ship cannot be landed for forty-eight hours, excellency. We are here and unarmed. Can you doubt our honest intentions?”

There was a long silence, and then the governor said gruffly, “Tell me of the world from which you come.”

That was all. It passed with that. There was no more unpleasantness. The governor, having fulfilled his official duty, apparently lost interest and the audience died a dull death.

And when it was all over, Pritcher found himself back in their quarters and took stock of himself.

Carefully–holding his breath–he “felt” his emotions. Certainly he seemed no different to himself, but would he feel any difference? Had he felt different after the Mule’s Conversion? Had not everything seemed natural? As it should have been?

He experimented.

With cold purpose, he shouted inside the silent caverns of his mind, and the shout was, “The Second Foundation must be discovered and destroyed.”

And the emotion that accompanied it was honest hate. There was not as much as a hesitation involved in it.

And then it was in his mind to substitute the word “Mule” for the phrase “Second Foundation” and his breath caught at the mere emotion and his tongue clogged.

So far, good.

But had he been handled otherwise–more subtly? Had tiny changes been made? Changes that he couldn’t detect because their very existence warped his judgment.

There was no way to tell.

But he still felt absolute loyalty to the Mule! If that were unchanged, nothing else really mattered.

He turned his mind to action again. Channis was busy at his end of the room. Pritcher’s thumbnail idled at his wrist communicator.

And then at the response that came he felt a wave of relief surge over him and leave him weak.

The quiet muscles of his face did not betray him, but inside he was shouting with joy–and when Channis turned to face him, he knew that the farce was about over.

Fourth Interlude

THE TWO SPEAKERS passed each other on the road and one stopped the other.

“I have word from the First Speaker.”

There was a half-apprehensive flicker in the other’s eyes. “Intersection point?”

“Yes! May we live to see the dawn!”

5. One Man and the Mule

THERE WAS NO sign in any of Channis’ actions that he was aware of any subtle change in the attitude of Pritcher, and in their relations to each other. He leaned back on the hard wooden bench and spread-eagled his feet out in front of him.

“What did you make of the governor?”

Pritcher shrugged: “Nothing at all. He certainly seemed no mental genius to me. A very poor specimen of the Second Foundation, if that’s what he was supposed to be.”

“I don’t think he was, you know. I’m not sure what to make of it. Suppose you were a Second Foundationer,” Channis grew thoughtful, “what would you do? Suppose you had an idea of our purpose here. How would you handle us?”

“Conversion, of course.”

“Like the Mule?” Channis looked up, sharply. “Would we know if they had converted us? I wonder–And what if they were simply psychologists, but very clever ones.”

“In that case, I’d have us killed rather quickly.”

“And our ship? No.” Channis wagged a forefinger. “We’re playing a bluff, Pritcher, old man. It can only be a bluff. Even if they have emotional control down pat, we–you and I–are only fronts. It’s the Mule they must fight, and they’re being just as careful of us as we are of them. I’m assuming that they know who we are.”

Pritcher, stared coldly: “What do you intend doing?”

“Wait.” The word was bitten off. “Let them come to us. They’re worried, maybe about the ship, but probably about the Mule. They bluffed with the governor. It didn’t work. We stayed pat. The next person they’ll send will be a Second Foundationer, and he’ll propose a deal of some sort.”

“And then?”

“And then we make the deal.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Because you think it will double-cross the Mule? It won’t.”

“No, the Mule could handle your double-crosses, any you could invent. But I still don’t think so.”

“Because you think then we couldn’t double-cross the Foundationers?”

“Perhaps not. But that’s not the reason.”

Channis let his glance drop to what the other held in his fist, and said grimly: “You mean that’s the reason.”

Pritcher cradled his blaster, “That’s right. You are under arrest.”

“Why?”

“For treason to the First Citizen of the Union.”

Channis’ lips hardened upon one another: “What’s going on?”

“Treason! As I said. And correction of the matter, on my part.”

“Your proof? Or evidence, assumptions, daydreams? Are you mad?”

“No. Are you? Do you think the Mule sends out unweaned youngsters on ridiculous swashbuckling missions for nothing? It was queer to me at the time. But I wasted time in doubting myself. Why should he send you? Because you smile and dress well? Because you’re twenty-eight.”

“Perhaps because I can be trusted. Or aren’t you in the market for logical reasons?”

“Or perhaps because you can’t be trusted. Which is logical enough, as it turns out.”

“Are we matching paradoxes, or is this all a word game to see who can say the least in the most words?”

And the blaster advanced, with Pritcher after it. He stood erect before the younger man: “Stand up!”

Channis did so, in no particular hurry, and felt the muzzle of the blaster touch his belt with no shrinking of the stomach muscles.

Pritcher said: “What the Mule wanted was to find the Second Foundation. He had failed and I had failed, and the secret that neither of us can find is a well-hidden one. So there was one outstanding possibility left–and that was to find a seeker who ready knew the hiding-place.”

“Is that I?”

“Apparently it was. I didn’t know then, of course, but though my mind must be slowing, it still points in the right direction. How easily we found Star’s End! How miraculously you examined the correct Field Region of the Lens from among an infinite number of possibilties! And having done so, how nicely we observe just the correct point for observation! You clumsy fool! Did you so underestimate me that no combination of impossible fortuties struck you as being too much for me to swallow?”

“You mean I’ve been too successful?”

“Too successful by half for any loyal man.”

“Because the standards of success you set me were so low?”

And the blaster prodded, though in the face that confront Channis only the cold glitter of the eyes betrayed the growing anger: “Because you are in the pay of the Second Foundation.”

“Pay?”–infinite contempt. “Prove that.”

“Or under the mental influence.”

“Without the Mule’s knowledge? Ridiculous.”

“With the Mule’s knowledge. Exactly my point, my you dullard. With the Mule’s knowledge. Do you suppose else that you would be given a ship to play with? You led us to the Second Foundation as you were supposed to do.”

“I thresh a kernel of something or other out of this immensity of chaff. May I ask why I’m supposed to be doing all this? If were a traitor, why should I lead you to the Second Foundation? Why not hither and yon through the Galaxy, skipping gaily, finding no more than you ever did?’

“For the sake of the ship. And because the men of the Second Foundation quite obviously need atomic warfare for self-defense.”

‘You’ll have to do better than that. One ship won’t mean thing to them, and if they think they’ll learn science from it a build atomic power plants next year, they are very, very simple Second Foundationers, indeed. On the order of simplicity as yourself, I should say.”

“You will have the opportunity to explain that to the Mule.”

“We’re going back to Kalgan?”

“On the contrary. We’re staying here. And the Mule will join us in fifteen minutes–more or less. Do you think he hasn’t followed us, my sharp-witted, nimble-minded lump of self-admiration? You have played the decoy well in reverse. You may not have led our victims to us, but you have certainly led us to our victims.”

“May I sit down,” said Channis, “and explain something to you in picture drawings? Please.”

“You will remain standing.”

At that, I can say it as well standing. You think the Mule followed us because of the hypertracer on the communication circuit?”

The blaster might have wavered. Channis wouldn’t have sworn to it. He said: “You don’t look surprised. But I don’t waste time doubting that you feel surprised. Yes, I knew about it. And now, having shown you that I knew of something you didn’t think I did, I’ll tell you something you don’t know, that I know you don’t.”

“You allow yourself too many preliminaries, Channis. I should think your sense of invention was more smoothly greased.

“There’s on invention to this. There have been traitors, of course, or enemy agents, if you prefer that term. But the Mule knew of that in a rather curious way. It seems, you see, that some of his Converted men had been tampered with.”

The blaster did waver that time. Unmistakably.

“I emphasize that, Pritcher. It was why he needed me. I was an Unconverted man. Didn’t he emphasize to you that he needed an Unconverted? Whether he gave you the real reason or not?”

“Try something else, Channis. If I were against the Mule, I’d know it.” Quietly, rapidly, Pritcher was feeling his mind. It felt the same. It felt the same. Obviously the man was lying.

“You mean you feel loyal to the Mule. Perhaps. Loyalty wasn’t tampered with. Too easily detectable, the Mule said. But how do you feel mentally? Sluggish? Since you started this trip, have you always felt normal? Or have you felt strange sometimes, as though you weren’t quite yourself? What are you trying to do, bore a hole through me without touching the trigger?”

Pritcher withdrew his blaster half an inch, “What are you trying to say?”

“I say that you’ve been tampered with. You’ve been handled. You didn’t see the Mule install that hypertracer. You didn’t see anyone do it. You just found it there, and assumed it was the Mule, and ever since you’ve been assuming he was following us. Sure, the wrist receiver you’re wearing contacts the ship on a wave length mine isn’t good for. Do you think I didn’t know that?” He was speaking quickly now, angrily. His cloak of indifference had dissolved into savagery. “But it’s not the Mule that’s coming toward us from out there. It’s not the Mule.”

“Who, if not?”

“Well, who do you suppose? I found that hypertracer, the day we left. But I didn’t think it was the Mule. He had no reason for indirection at that point. Don’t you see the nonsense of it? If I were a traitor and he knew that, I could be Converted as easily as you were, and he would have the secret of the location of the Second Foundation out of my mind without sending me half across the Galaxy. Can you keep a secret from the Mule? And if I didn’t know, then I couldn’t lead him to it. So why send me in either case?

“Obviously, that hypertracer must have been put there by an agent of the Second Foundation. That’s who’s coming towards us now. And would you have been fooled if your precious mind hadn’t been tampered with? What kind of normality have you that you imagine immense folly to be wisdom? Me bring a ship to the Second Foundation? What would they do with a ship?

“It’s you they want, Pritcher. You know more about the Union than anyone but the Mule, and you’re not dangerous to them while he is. That’s why they put the direction of search into my mind. Of course, it was completely impossible for me to find Tazenda by random searchings of the Lens. I knew that. But I knew there was the Second Foundation after us, and I knew they engineered it. Why not play their game? It was a battle of bluffs. They wanted us and I wanted their location–and space take the one that couldn’t outbluff the other.

“But it’s we that will lose as long as you hold that blaster on me. And it obviously isn’t your idea. It’s theirs. Give me the blaster, Pritcher. I know it seems wrong to you, but it isn’t your mind speaking, it’s the Second Foundation within you. Give me the blaster, Pritcher, and we’ll face what’s coming now, together.”

Pritcher, faced a growing confusion in horror. Plausibility! Could he be so wrong? Why this eternal doubt of himself? Why wasn’t he sure? What made Channis sound so plausible?

Plausibility!

Or was it his own tortured mind fighting the invasion of the alien.

Was he split in two?

Hazily, he saw Channis standing before him, hand outstretched–and suddenly, he knew he was going to give him the blaster.

And as the muscles of his arm were on the point of contracting in the proper manner to do so, the door opened, not hastily, behind him–and he turned.

There are perhaps men in the Galaxy who can be confused for one another even by men at their peaceful leisure. Correspondingly, there may be conditions of mind when even unlikely pairs may be mis-recognized. But the Mule rises above any combination of the two factors.

Not all Pritcher’s agony of mind prevented the instantaneous mental flood of cool vigor that engulfed him.

Physically, the Mule could not dominate any situation. Nor did he dominate this one.

He was rather a ridiculous figure in his layers of clothing that thickened him past his normality without allowing him to reach normal dimensions even so. His face was muffled and the usually dominant beak covered what was left in a cold-red prominence.

Probably as a vision of rescue, no greater incongruity could exist.

He said: “Keep your blaster, Pritcher.”

Then he turned to Channis, who had shrugged and seated himself: “The emotional context here seems rather confusing and considerably in conflict. What’s this about someone other than myself following you?”

Pritcher intervened sharply: “Was a hypertracer placed upon our ship by your orders, sir?”

The Mule turned cool eyes upon him, “Certainly. Is it very likely that any organization in the Galaxy other than the Union of Worlds would have access to it?’

“He said–”

“Well, he’s here, general. Indirect quotation is not necessary. Have you been saying anything, Channis?”

“Yes. But mistakes apparently, sir. It has been my opinion that the tracer was put there by someone in the pay of the Second Foundation and that we had been led here for some purpose of theirs, which I was prepared to counter. I was under the further impression that the general was more or less in their hands.”

“You sound as if you think so no longer.”

“I’m afraid not. Or it would not have been you at the door.”

“Well, then, let us thresh this out.” The Mule peeled off the outer layers of padded, and electrically heated clothing. “Do you mind if I sit down as well? Now–we are safe here and perfectly free of any danger of intrusion. No native of this lump of ice will have any desire to approach this place. I assure you of that,” and there was a grim earnestness about his insistence upon his powers.

Channis showed his disgust. “Why privacy? Is someone going to serve tea and bring out the dancing girls?”

“Scarcely. What was this theory of yours, young man? A Second Foundationer was tracing you with a device which no one but I have and–how did you say you found this place?”

“Apparently, sir, it seems obvious, in order to account for known facts, that certain notions have been put into my head–”

“By these same Second Foundationers?”

“No one else, I imagine.”

“Then it did not occur to you that if a Second Foundationer could force, or entice, or inveigle you into going to the Second Foundation for purposes of his own–and I assume you imagined he used methods similar to mine, though, mind you, I can implant only emotions, not ideas–it did not occur to you that if he could do that there was little necessity to put a hypertracer on you.

And Channis looked up sharply and met his sovereign’s large eyes with sudden startle. Pritcher grunted and a visible relaxation showed itself in his shoulders.

“No,” said Channis, “that hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Or that if they were obliged to trace you, they couldn’t feel capable of directing you, and that, undirected, you could have precious little chance of finding your way here as you did. Did that occur to you?”

“That, neither.”

“Why not? Has your intellectual level receded to a so-much-greater-than-probable degree?”

“The only answer is a question, sir. Are you joining General Pritcher in accusing me of being a traitor?”

“You have a defense in case I am?”

“Only the one I presented to the general. If I were a traitor and knew the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, you could Convert me and learn the knowledge directly. If you felt it necessary to trace me, then I hadn’t the knowledge beforehand and wasn’t a traitor. So I answer your paradox with another.”

“Then your conclusion?”

“That I am not a traitor.”

“To which I must agree, since your argument is irrefutable.”

“Then may I ask you why you had us secretly followed?”

“Because to all the facts there is a third explanation. Both you and Pritcher explained some facts in your own individual ways, but not all. I–if you can spare me the time–will explain all. And in a rather short time, so there is little danger of boredom. Sit down, Pritcher, and give me your blaster. There is no danger of attack on us any longer. None from in here and none from out there. None in fact even from the Second Foundation. Thanks to you, Channis.”

The room was lit in the usual Rossemian fashion of electrically heated wire. A single bulb was suspended from the ceiling and in its dim yellow glow, the three cast their individual shadows.

The Mule said: “Since I felt it necessary to trace Channis, it was obvious I expect to gain something thereby. Since he went to the Second Foundation with a startling speed and directness, we can reasonably assume that that was what I was expecting to happen. Since I did not gain the knowledge from him directly, something must have been preventing me. Those are the facts. Channis, of course, knows the answer. So do I. Do you see it, Pritcher?”

And Pritcher said doggedly: “No, sir.”

“Then I’ll explain. Only one kind of man can both know the location of the Second Foundation and prevent me from learning it. Channis, I’m afraid you’re a Second Foundationer yourself.”

And Channis’ elbows rested on his knees as he leaned forward, and through stiff and angry lips said: “What is your direct evidence? Deduction has proven wrong twice today.”

“There is direct evidence, too, Channis. It was easy enough. I told you that my men had been tampered with. The tamperer must have been, obviously, someone who was a) Unconverted, and b) fairly close to the center of things. The field was large but not entirely unlimited. You were too successful, Channis. People liked you too much. You got along too well. I wondered–

“And then I summoned you to take over this expedition and it didn’t set you back. I watched your emotions. It didn’t bother you. You overplayed the confidence there, Channis. No man of real competence could have avoided a dash of uncertainty at a job like that. Since your mind did avoid it, it was either a foolish one or a controlled one.

It was easy to test the alternatives. I seized your mind at a moment of relaxation and filled it with grief for an instant and then removed it. You were angry afterwards with such accomplished art that I could have sworn it was a natural reaction, but for that which went first. For when I wrenched at your emotions, for just one instant, for one tiny instant before you could catch yourself, your mind resisted. It was all I needed to know.

“No one could have resisted me, even for that tiny instant, without control similar to mine.”

Channis’ voice was low and bitter: “Well, then? Now what?”

“And now you die–as a Second Foundationer. Quite necessary, as I believe you realize.”

And once again Channis stared into the muzzle of a blaster. A muzzle guided this time by a mind, not like Pritcher’s capable of offhand twisting to suit himself, but by one as mature as his own and as resistant to force as his own.

And the period of time allotted him for a correction of events was small.

What followed thereafter is difficult to describe by one with the normal complement of senses and the normal incapacity for emotional control.

Essentially, this is what Channis realized in the tiny space of time involved in the pushing of the Mule’s thumb upon the trigger contact.

The Mule’s current emotional makeup was one of a hard and polished determination, unmisted by hesitation in the least. Had Channis been sufficiently interested afterward to calculate the time involved from the determination to shoot to the arrival of the disintegrating energies, he might have realized that his leeway was about one-fifth of a second.

That was barely time.

What the Mule realized in that same tiny space of time was that the emotional potential of Channis’ brain had surged suddenly upwards without his own mind feeling any impact and that, simultaneously, a flood of pure, thrilling hatred cascaded upon him from an unexpected direction.

It was that new emotional element that jerked his thumb off the contact. Nothing else could have done it, and almost together with his change of action, came complete realization of the new situation.

It was a tableau that endured far less than the significance adhering to it should require from a dramatic standpoint. There was the Mule, thumb off the blaster, staring intently upon Channis There was Channis taut, not quite daring to breathe yet. And there was Pritcher, convulsed in his chair; every muscle at a spasmodic breaking point; every tendon writhing in an effort to hurl forward; his face twisted at last out of schooled woodenness into an unrecognizable death mask of horrid hate; and his eyes only and entirely and supremely upon the Mule.

Only a word or two passed between Channis and the Mule–only a word or two and that utterly revealing stream of emotional consciousness that remains forever the true interplay of understanding between such as they. For the sake of our own limits, it is necessary to translate into words what went on, then, and thenceforward.

Channis said, tensely: “You’re between two fires, First Citizen. You can’t control two minds simultaneously, not when one of them is mine–so you have your choice. Pritcher, is free of your Conversion now. I’ve snapped the bonds. He’s the old Pritcher; the one who tried to kill you once; the one who thinks you’re the enemy of all that is free and right and holy; and he’s the one besides who knows that you’ve debased him to helpless adulation for five years. I’m holding him back now by suppressing his will, but if you kill me, that ends, and in considerably less time than you could shift your blaster or even your will–he will kill you.”

The Mule quite plainly realized that. He did not move.

Channis continued: “If you turn to place him under control, to kill him, to do anything, you won’t ever be quick enough to turn again to stop me.”

The Mule still did not move. Only a soft sigh of realization.

“So,” said Channis, “throw down the blaster, and let us be on even terms again, and you can have Pritcher back.”

“I made a mistake,” said the Mule, finally. “It was wrong to have a third party present when I confronted you. It introduced one variable too many. It is a mistake that must be paid for, I suppose.”

He dropped the blaster carelessly, and kicked it to the other end of the room. Simultaneously, Pritcher crumpled into profound sleep.

“He’ll be normal when he awakes,” said the Mule, indifferently.

The entire exchange from the time the Mule’s thumb had begun pressing the trigger-contact to the time he dropped the blaster had occupied just under a second and a half of time.

But just beneath the borders of consciousness, for a time just above the borders of detection, Channis caught a fugitive emotional gleam in the Mule’s mind. And it was still one of sure and confident triumph.

6. One Man, the Mule–and Another

TWO MEN, APPARENTLY relaxed and entirely at ease, poles apart physically–with every nerve that served as emotional detector quivering tensely.

The Mule, for the first time in long years, had insufficient surety of his own way. Channis knew that, though he could protect himself for the moment, it was an effort–and that the attack upon him was none such for his opponent. In a test of endurance, Channis knew he would lose.

But it was deadly to think of that. To give away to the Mule an emotional weakness would be to hand him a weapon. There was already that glimpse of something–a winner’s something–in the Mule’s mind.

To gain time–

Why did the others delay? Was that the source of the Mule’s confidence? What did his opponent know that he didn’t? The mind he watched told nothing. If only he could read ideas. And yet–

Channis braked his own mental whirling roughly. There was only that; to gain time–

Channis said: “Since it is decided, and not denied by myself after our little duel over Pritcher, that I am a Second Foundationer, suppose you tell me why I came to Tazenda.”

“Oh, no,” and the Mule laughed, with high-pitched confidence, “I am not Pritcher. I need make no explanations to you. You had what you thought were reasons. Whatever they were, your actions suited me, and so I inquire no further.”

“Yet there must be such gaps in your conception of the story. Is Tazenda the Second Foundation you expected to find? Pritcher spoke much of your other attempt at finding it, and of your psychologist tool, Ebling Mis. He babbled a bit sometimes under my... uh... slight encouragement. Think back on Ebling Mis, First Citizen.”

“Why should I?” Confidence!

Channis felt that confidence edge out into the open, as if with the passage of time, any anxiety the Mule might be having was increasingly vanishing.

He said, firmly restraining the rush of desperation: “You lack curiosity, then? Pritcher told me of Mis’ vast surprise at something. There was his terribly drastic urging for speed, for a rapid warning of the Second Foundation? Why? Why? Ebling Mis died. The Second Foundation was not warned. And yet the Second Foundation exists.”

The Mule smiled in real pleasure, and with a sudden and surprising dash of cruelty that Channis felt advance and suddenly withdraw: “But apparently the Second Foundation was warned. Else how and why did one Bail Channis arrive on Kalgan to handle my men and to assume the rather thankless task of outwitting me. The warning came too late, that is all.”

“Then,” and Channis allowed pity to drench outward from him, “you don’t even know what the Second Foundation is, or anything of the deeper meaning of all that has been going on.”

To gain time!

The Mule felt the other’s pity, and his eyes narrowed with instant hostility. He rubbed his nose in his familiar four-fingered gesture, and snapped: “Amuse yourself, then. What of the Second Foundation?”

Channis spoke deliberately, in words rather than in emotional symbology. He said: “From what I have heard, it was the mystery that surrounded the Second Foundation that most puzzled Mis. Hari Seldon founded his two units so differently. The First Foundation was a splurge that in two centuries dazzled half the Galaxy. And the Second was an abyss that was dark.

“You won’t understand why that was, unless you can once again feel the intellectual atmosphere of the days of the dying Empire. It was a time of absolutes, of the great final generalities, at least in thought. It was a sign of decaying culture, of course, that dams had been built against the further development of ideas. It was his revolt against these dams that made Seldon famous. It was that one last spark of youthful creation in him that lit the Empire in a sunset glow and dimly foreshadowed the rising sun of the Second Empire.”

“Very dramatic. So what?”

“So he created his Foundations according to the laws of psychohistory, but who knew better than he that even those laws were relative. He never created a finished product. Finished products are for decadent minds. His was an evolving mechanism and the Second Foundation was the instrument of that evolution. We, First Citizen of your Temporary Union of Worlds, we are the guardians of Seldon’s Plan. Only we!”

“Are you trying to talk yourself into courage,” inquired the Mule, contemptuously, “or are you trying to impress me? For the Second Foundation, Seldon’s Plan, the Second Empire all impresses me not the least, nor touches any spring of compassion, sympathy, responsibility, nor any other source of emotional aid you may be trying to tap in me. And in any case, poor fool, speak of the Second Foundation in the past tense, for it is destroyed.”

Channis felt the emotional potential that pressed upon his mind rise in intensity as the Mule rose from his chair and approached. He fought back furiously, but something crept relentlessly on within him, battering and bending his mind back–and back.

He felt the wall behind him, and the Mule faced him, skinny arms akimbo, lips smiling terribly beneath that mountain of nose.

The Mule said: “Your game is through, Channis. The game of all of you-of all the men of what used to be the Second Foundation. Used to be! Used to be!

“What were you sitting here waiting for all this time, with your babble to Pritcher, when you might have struck him down and taken the blaster from him without the least effort of physical force? You were waiting for me, weren’t you, waiting to greet me in a situation that would not too arouse my suspicions.

“Too bad for you that I needed no arousal. I knew you. I knew you well, Channis of the Second Foundation.

“But what are you waiting for now? You still throw words at me desperately, as though the mere sound of your voice would freeze me to my seat. And all the while you speak, something in your mind is waiting and waiting and is still waiting. But no one is coming. None of those you expect–none of your allies. You are alone here, Channis, and you will remain alone. Do you know why?

“It is because your Second Foundation miscalculated me to the very dregs of the end. I knew their plan early. They thought I would follow you here and be proper meat for their cooking. You were to be a decoy indeed–a decoy for a poor, foolish weakling mutant, so hot on the trail of Empire that he would fall blindly into an obvious pit. But am I their prisoner?

“I wonder if it occurred to them that I’d scarcely be here without my fleet–against the artillery of any unit of which they are entirely and pitifully helpless? Did it occur to them that I would not pause for discussion or wait for events?

“My ships were launched against Tazenda twelve hours ago and they are quite, quite through with their mission. Tazenda is laid in ruins; its centers of population are wiped out. There was no resistance. The Second Foundation no longer exists, Channis–and I, the queer, ugly weakling, am the ruler of the Galaxy.”

Channis could do nothing but shake his head feebly. “No–No–”

“Yes–Yes–” mimicked the Mule. “And if you are the last one alive, and you may be, that will not be for long either.”

And then there followed a short, pregnant pause, and Channis almost howled with the sudden pain of that tearing penetration of the innermost tissues of his mind.

The Mule drew back and muttered: “Not enough. You do not pass the test after all. Your despair is pretense. Your fear is not the broad overwhelming that adheres to the destruction of an ideal, but the puny seeping fear of personal destruction.”

And the Mule’s weak hand seized Channis by the throat in a puny grip that Channis was somehow unable to break.

“You are my insurance, Channis. You are my director and safeguard against any underestimation I may make.” The Mule’s eyes bore down upon him. Insistent–Demanding–

“Have I calculated rightly, Channis? Have I outwitted your men of the Second Foundation? Tazenda is destroyed, Channis, tremendously destroyed; so why is your despair pretense? Where is the reality? I must have reality and truth! Talk, Channis talk. Have I penetrated then, not deeply enough? Does the danger still exist? Talk, Channis. Where have I done wrong?”

Channis felt the words drag out of his mouth. They did not come willingly. He clenched his teeth against them. He bit his tongue. He tensed every muscle of his throat.

And they came out–gasping–pulled out by force and tearing his throat and tongue and teeth on the way.

“Truth,” he squeaked, “truth–”

“Yes, truth. What is left to be done?”

“Seldon founded Second Foundation here. Here, as I said. I told no lie. The psychologists arrived and took control of the native population.”

“Of Tazenda?” The Mule plunged deeply into the flooding torture of the other’s emotional upwellings–tearing at them brutally. “It is Tazenda I have destroyed. You know what I want. Give it to me.”

“Not Tazenda. I said Second Foundationers might not be those apparently in power; Tazenda is the figurehead–” The words were almost unrecognizable, forming themselves against every atom of will of the Second Foundationer, “Rossem–Rossem–Rossem is the world–”

The Mule loosed his grip and Channis dropped into a huddle of pain and torture.

“And you thought to fool me?” said the Mule, softly.

“You were fooled.” It was the last dying shred of resistance in Channis.

“But not long enough for you and yours. I am in communication with my Fleet. And after Tazenda can come Rossem. But first–”

Channis felt the excruciating darkness rise against him, and the automatic lift of his arm to his tortured eyes could not ward it off. It was a darkness that throttled, and as he felt his tom, wounded mind reeling backwards, backwards into the everlasting black–there was that final picture of the triumphant Mule–laughing matchstick–that long, fleshy nose quivering with laughter.

The sound faded away. The darkness embraced him lovingly.

It ended with a cracking sensation that was like the jagged glare of a lightning flash, and Channis came slowly to earth while sight returned painfully in blurry transmission through tear-drenched eyes.

His head ached unbearably, and it was only with a stab of agony that he could bring up a hand to it.

Obviously, he was alive. Softly, like feathers caught up in an eddy of air that had passed, his thoughts steadied and drifted to rest. He felt comfort suck in–from outside. Slowly, torturedly, he bent his neck–and relief was a sharp pang.

For the door was open; and the First Speaker stood just inside the threshold. He tried to speak, to shout, to warn–but his tongue froze and he knew that a part of the Mule’s mighty mind still held him and clamped all speech within him.

He bent his neck once more. The Mule was still in the room. He was angry and hot-eyed. He laughed no longer, but his teeth were bared in a ferocious smile.

Channis felt the First Speaker’s mental influence moving gently over his mind with a healing touch and then there was the numbing sensation as it came into contact with the Mule’s defense for an instant of struggle and withdrew.

The Mule said gratingly, with a fury that was grotesque in his meagre body: “Then another comes to greet me.” His agile mind reached its tendrils out of the room–out–out–

“You are alone,” he said.

And the First Speaker interrupted with an acquiescence: “I am thoroughly alone. It is necessary that I be alone, since it was I who miscalculated your future five years ago. There would be a certain satisfaction to me in correcting that matter without aid. Unfortunately, I did not count on the strength of your Field of Emotional Repulsion that surrounded this place. It took me long to penetrate. I congratulate you upon the skill with which it was constructed.”

“Thank you for nothing,” came the hostile rejoinder. “Bandy no compliments with me. Have you come to add your brain splinter to that of yonder cracked pillar of your realm?”

The First Speaker smiled: “Why, the man you call Bail Channis performed his mission well, the more so since he was not your mental equal by far. I can see, of course, that you have mistreated him, yet it may be that we may restore him fully even yet. He is a brave man, sir. He volunteered for this mission although we were able to predict mathematically the huge chance of damage to his mind–a more fearful alternative than that of mere physical crippling.”

Channis’ mind pulsed futilely with what he wanted to say and couldn’t; the warning he wished to shout and was unable to. He could only emit that continuous stream of fear–fear–

The Mule was calm. “You know, of course, of the destruction of Tazenda.”

“I do. The assault by your fleet was foreseen.”

Grimly: “Yes, so I suppose. But not prevented, eh?”

“No, not prevented.” The First Speaker’s emotional symbology was plain. It was almost a self-horror; a complete self-disgust: “And the fault is much more mine than yours. Who could have imagined your powers five years ago. We suspected from the start–from the moment you captured Kalgan–that you had the powers of emotional control. That was not too surprising, First Citizen, as I can explain to you.

“Emotional contact such as you and I possess is not a very new development. Actually it is implicit in the human brain. Most humans can read emotion in a primitive manner by associating it pragmatically with facial expression, tone of voice and so on. A good many animals possess the faculty to a higher degree; they use the sense of smell to a good extent and the emotions involved are, of course, less complex.

“Actually, humans are capable of much more, but the faculty of direct emotional contact tended to atrophy with the development of speech a million years back. It has been the great advance of our Second Foundation that this forgotten sense has been restored to at least some of its potentialities.

“But we are not born with its full use. A million years of decay is a formidable obstacle, and we must educate the sense, exercise it as we exercise our muscles. And there you have the main difference. You were born with it.

“So much we could calculate. We could also calculate the effect of such a sense upon a person in a world of men who did not possess it. The seeing man in the kingdom of the blind–We calculated the extent to which a megalomania would take control of you and we thought we were prepared. But for two factors we were not prepared.

“The first was the great extent of your sense. We can induce emotional contact only when in eyeshot, which is why we are more helpless against physical weapons than you might think. Sight plays such an enormous part. Not so with you. You are definitely known to have had men under control, and, further, to have had intimate emotional contact with them when out of sight and out of earshot. That was discovered too late.

“Secondly, we did not know of your physical shortcomings, particularly the one that seemed so important to you, that you adopted the name of the Mule. We didn’t foresee that you were not merely a mutant, but a sterile mutant and the added psychic distortion due to your inferiority complex passed us by. We allowed only for a megalomania–not for an intensely psychopathic paranoia as well.

“It is myself that bears the responsibility for having missed all that, for I was the leader of the Second Foundation when you captured Kalgan. When you destroyed the First Foundation, we found out–but too late–and for that fault millions have died on Tazenda.”

“And you will correct things now?” The Mules thin lips curled, his mind pulsing with hate: “What will you do? Fatten me? Restore me to a masculine vigor? Take away from my past the long childhood in an alien environment. Do you regret my sufferings? Do you regret my unhappiness? I have no sorrow for what I did in my necessity. Let the Galaxy Protect itself as best it can, since it stirred not a whit for my protection when I needed it.”

Your emotions are, of course,” said the First Speaker, “only the children of your background and are not to be condemned–merely changed. The destruction of Tazenda was unavoidable. The alternative would have been a much greater destruction generally throughout the Galaxy over a period of centuries. We did our best in our limited way. We withdrew as many men from Tazenda as we could. We decentralized the rest of the world. Unfortunately, our measures were of necessity far from adequate. It left many millions to die–do you not regret that?”

“Not at all–any more than I regret the hundred thousand that must die on Rossem in not more than six hours.”

“On Rossem?” said the First Speaker, quickly.

He turned to Channis who had forced himself into a half-sitting posture, and his mind exerted its force. Channis, felt the duel of minds strain over him, and then there was a short snapping of the bond and the words came tumbling out of his mouth: “Sir, I have failed completely. He forced it from me not ten minutes before your arrival. I could not resist him and I offer no excuses. He knows Tazenda is not the Second Foundation. He knows that Rossem is.”

And the bonds closed down upon him again.

The First Speaker frowned: “I see. What is it you are planning to do?”

“Do you really wonder? Do you really find it difficult to penetrate the obvious? All this time that you have preached to me of the nature of emotional contact–all this time that you have been throwing words such as megalomania and paranoia at me, I have been working. I have been in contact with my Fleet and it has its orders. In six hours, unless I should for some reason counteract my orders, they are to bombard all of Rossem except this lone village and an area of a hundred square miles about it. They are to do a thorough job and are then to land here.

“You have six hours, and in six hours, you cannot beat down my mind, nor can you save the rest of Rossem.”

The Mule spread his hands and laughed again while the First Speaker seemed to find difficulty in absorbing this new state of affairs.

He said: “The alternative?”

“Why should there even be an alternative? I can stand to gain no more by any alternative. Is it the lives of those on Rossem I’m to be chary of? Perhaps if you allow my ships to land and submit, all of you–all the men on the Second Foundation–to mental control sufficient to suit myself, I may countermand the bombardment orders. It may be worthwhile to put so many men of high intelligence under my control. But then again it would be a considerable effort and perhaps not worth it after all, so I’m not particularly eager to have you agree to it. What do you say, Second Foundationer? What weapon have you against my mind which is as strong as yours at least and against my ships which are stronger than anything you have ever dreamed of possessing?”

“What have I?” repeated the First Speaker, slowly: “Why nothing–except a little grain–such a little grain of knowledge that even yet you do not possess.”

“Speak quickly,” laughed the Mule, “speak inventively. For squirm as you might, you won’t squirm out of this.”

“Poor mutant,” said the First Speaker, “I have nothing to squirm out of. Ask yourself–why was Bail Channis sent to Kalgan as a decoy–Bail Channis, who though young and brave is almost as much your mental inferior as is this sleeping officer of yours, this Han Pritcher. Why did not I go, or another of our leaders, who would be more your match?”

“Perhaps,” came the supremely confident reply, “you were not sufficiently foolish, since perhaps none of you are my match.”

“The true reason is more logical. You knew Channis to be a Second Foundationer. He lacked the capacity to hide that from you. And you knew, too, that you were his superior, so you were not afraid to play his game and follow him as he wished you to in order to outwit him later. Had I gone to Kalgan, you would have killed me for I would have been a real danger, or had I avoided death by concealing my identity, I would yet have failed in persuading you to follow me into space. It was only known inferiority that lured you on. And had you remained on Kalgan, not all the force of the Second Foundation could have harmed you, surrounded as you were by your men, your machines, and your mental power.”

“My mental power is yet with me, squirmer,” said the Mule, “and my men and machines are not far off.”

“Truly so, but you are not on Kalgan. You are here in the Kingdom of Tazenda, logically presented to you as the Second Foundation–very logically presented. It had to be so presented, for you are a wise man, First Citizen, and would follow only logic.”

“Correct, and it was a momentary victory for your side, but there was still time for me to worm the truth from your man, Channis, and still wisdom in me to realize that such a truth might exist.”

“And on our side, oh, not-quite-sufficiently-subtle one, was the realization that you might go that one step further and so Bail Channis was prepared for you.”

“That he most certainly was not, for I stripped his brain clean as any plucked chicken. It quivered bare and open before me and when he said Rossem was the Second Foundation, it was basic truth for I had ground him so flat and smooth that not the smidgeon of a deceit could have found refuge in any microscopic crevice.”

“True enough. So much the better for our foresight. For I have told you already that Bail Channis was a volunteer. Do you know what sort of a volunteer? Before he left our Foundation for Kalgan and you, he submitted to emotional surgery of a drastic nature. Do you think it was sufficient to deceive you? Do you think Bail Channis, mentally untouched, could possibly deceive you? No, Bail Channis was himself deceived, of necessity and voluntarily. Down to the inmost core of his mind, Bail Channis honestly believes that Rossem is the Second Foundation.

“And for three years now, we of the Second Foundation have built up the appearance of that here in the Kingdom of Tazenda, in preparation and waiting for you. And we have succeeded, have we not? You penetrated to Tazenda, and beyond that, to Rossem–but past that, you could not go.”

The Mule was upon his feet: “You dare tell me that Rossem also, is not the Second Foundation?”

Channis, from the floor, felt his bonds burst for good, under a stream of mental force on the part of the First Speaker and strained upright. He let out one long, incredulous cry: “You mean Rossem is not the Second Foundation?”

The memories of life, the knowledge of his mind–everything–whirled mistily about him in confusion.

The First Speaker smiled: “You see, First Citizen, Channis is as upset as you are. Of course, Rossem is not the Second Foundation. Are we madmen then, to lead you, our greatest, most powerful, most dangerous enemy to our own world? Oh, no!

“Let your Fleet bombard Rossem, First Citizen, if you must have it so. Let them destroy all they can. For at most they can kill only Channis and myself–and that will leave you in a situation improved not in the least.

“For the Second Foundation’s Expedition to Rossem which has been here for three years and has functioned, temporarily, as Elders in this village, embarked yesterday and are returning to Kalgan. They will evade your Fleet, of course, and they will arrive in Kalgan at least a day before you can, which is why I tell you all this. Unless I countermand my orders, when you return, you will find a revolting Empire, a disintegrated realm, and only the men with you in your Fleet here will be loyal to you. They will be hopelessly outnumbered. And moreover, the men of the Second Foundation will be with your Home Fleet and will see to it that you reconvert no one. Your Empire is done, mutant.”

Slowly, the Mule bowed his head, as anger and despair cornered his mind completely, “Yes. Too late–Too late–Now I see it.”

“Now you see it,” agreed the First Speaker, “and now you don’t.”

In the despair of that moment, when the Mule’s mind lay open, the First Speaker–ready for that moment and pre-sure of its nature–entered quickly. It required a rather insignificant fraction of a second to consummate the change completely.

The Mule looked up and said: “Then I shall return to Kalgan?

“Certainly. How do you feel?”

“Excellently well.” His brow puckered: “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” He dismissed the matter, and touched Pritcher’s shoulder: “Wake up, Pritcher, we’re going home.”

It was two hours later that Bail Channis felt strong enough to walk by himself. He said: “He won’t ever remember?”

“Never. He retains his mental powers and his Empire–but his motivations are now entirely different. The notion of a Second Foundation is a blank to him, and he is a man of peace. He will be a far happier man henceforward, too, for the few years of life left him by his maladjusted physique. And then, after he is dead Seldon’s Plan will go on–somehow.”

“And it is true,” urged Channis, “it is true that Rossem is not the Second Foundation? I could swear–I tell you I know it is. I am not mad.”

“You are not mad, Channis, merely, as I have said, changed. Rossem is not the Second Foundation. Come! We, too, will return home.”

Last Interlude

BAIL CHANNIS SAT in the small white-tiled room and allowed his mind to relax. He was content to live in the present. There were the walls and the window and the grass outside. They had no names. They were just things. There was a bed and a chair an books that developed themselves idly on the screen at the foot of his bed. There was the nurse who brought him his food.

At first he had made efforts to piece together the scraps of things he had heard. Such as those two men talking together.

One had said: “Complete aphasia now. It’s cleaned out, and I think without damage. It will only be necessary to return the recording of his original brain-wave makeup.”

He remembered the sounds by rote, and for some reason they seemed peculiar sounds–as if they meant something. But why bother.

Better to watch the pretty changing colors on the screen at the foot of the thing he lay on.

And then someone entered and did things to him and for a long time, he slept.

And when that had passed, the bed was suddenly a bed and he knew he was in a hospital, and the words he remembered made sense.

He sat up: “What’s happening?”

The First Speaker was beside him, “You’re on the Second Foundation, and you have your mind back–your original mind.”

“Yes! Yes!” Channis came to the realization that he was himself, and there was incredible triumph and joy in that.

“And now tell me,” said the First Speaker, “do you know where the Second Foundation is now?”

And the truth came flooding down in one enormous wave and Channis did not answer. Like Ebling Mis before him, he was conscious of only one vast, numbing surprise.

Until he finally nodded, and said: “By the Stars of the Galaxy–now, I know.”

Search By The Foundation

376-377 FE (12444-12445 GE)

1. Arcadia

DARELL, ARKADY - NOVELIST, BORN 11, 5, 362 F. E., DIED 1, 7, 443 F. E. ALTHOUGH PRIMARILY A WRITER OF FICTION, ARKADY DARELL IS BEST KNOWN FOR HER BIOGRAPHY OF HER GRANDMOTHER, BAYTA DARELL. BASED ON FIRST-HAND INFORMATION, IT HAS FOR CENTURIES SERVED AS A PRIMARY SOURCE OF INFORMATION CONCERNING THE MULE AND HIS TIMES.... LIKE “UNKEYED MEMORIES”, HER NOVEL “TIME AND TIME AND OVER” IS A STIRRING REFLECTION OF THE BRILLIANT KALGANIAN SOCIETY OF THE EARLY INTERREGNUM, BASED, IT IS SAID, ON A VISIT TO KALGAN IN HER YOUTH....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

ARCADIA DARELL DECLAIMED firmly into the mouthpiece of her transcriber:

“The Future of Seldon’s Plan, by A. Darell” and then thought darkly that some day when she was a great writer, she would write all her masterpieces under the pseudonym of Arkady. Just Arkady. No last name at all.

“A. Darell” would be just the sort of thing that she would have to put on all her themes for her class in Composition and Rhetoric–so tasteless. All the other kids had to do it, too, except for Olynthus Dam, because the class laughed so when he did it the first time, And “Arcadia” was a little girls name, wished on her because her great-grandmother had been called that; her parents just had no imagination at all.

Now that she was two days past fourteen, you’d think they’d recognize the simple fact of adulthood and call her Arkady. Her lips tightened as she thought of her father looking up from his book-viewer just long enough to say, “But if you’re going to pretend you’re nineteen, Arcadia, what will you do when you’re twenty-five and all the boys think you’re thirty?”

From where she sprawled across the arms and into the hollow of her own special armchair, she could see the mirror on her dresser. Her foot was a little in the way because her house slipper kept twirling about her big toe, so she pulled it in and sat up with an unnatural straightness to her neck that she felt sure, somehow, lengthened it a full two inches into slim regality.

For a moment, she considered her face thoughtfully–too fat. She opened her jaws half an inch behind closed lips, and caught the resultant trace of unnatural gauntness at every angle. She licked her lips with a quick touch of tongue and let them pout a bit in moist softness. Then she let her eyelids droop in a weary, worldly way–Oh, golly if only her cheeks weren’t that silly pink.

She tried putting her fingers to the outer comers of her eye and tilting the lids a bit to get that mysterious exotic languor of the women of the inner star systems, but her hands were in the way and she couldn’t see her face very well.

Then she lifted her chin, caught herself at a half-profile, and with her eyes a little strained from looking out the comer and her neck muscles faintly aching, she said, in a voice one octave below its natural pitch, “Really, father, if you think it makes a particle of difference to me what some silly old boys think you just–”

And then she remembered that she still had the transmitter open in her hand and said, drearily, “Oh, golly,” and shut it off.

The faintly violet paper with the peach margin line on the left had upon it the following:

THE FUTURE OF SELDON’S PLAN

“Really, father, if you think it makes a particle of difference to me what some silly old boys think you just

“Oh, golly.”

She pulled the sheet out of the machine with annoyance and another clicked neatly into place.

But her face smoothed out of its vexation, nevertheless, and her wide, little mouth stretched into a self-satisfied smile. She sniffed at the paper delicately. just right. Just that proper touch of elegance and charm. And the penmanship was just the last word.

The machine had been delivered two days ago on her first adult birthday. She had said, “But father, everybody–just everybody in the class who has the slightest pretensions to being anybody has one. Nobody but some old drips would use hand machines–”

The salesman had said, “There is no other model as compact on the one hand and as adaptable on the other. It will spell and punctuate correctly according to the sense of the sentence. Naturally, it is a great aid to education since it encourages the user to employ careful enunciation and breathing in order to make sure of the correct spelling, to say nothing of demanding a proper and elegant delivery for correct punctuation.”

Even then her father had tried to get one geared for type-print as if she were some dried-up, old-maid teacher.

But when it was delivered, it was the model she wanted–obtained perhaps with a little more wail and sniffle than quite went with the adulthood of fourteen–and copy was turned out in a charming and entirely feminine handwriting, with the most beautifully graceful capitals anyone ever saw.

Even the phrase, “Oh, golly.” somehow breathed glamour when the Transcriber was done with it.

But just the same she had to get it right, so she sat up straight in her chair, placed her first draft before her in businesslike fashion, and began again, crisply and clearly; her abdomen flat, her chest lifted, and her breathing carefully controlled. She intoned, with dramatic fervor:

The Future of Seldon’s Plan.

“The Foundation’s past history is, I am sure, well-known to all of us who have had the good fortune to be educated in our planet’s efficient and well-staffed school system.

(There! That would start things off right with Miss Erlking, that mean old hag.)

That past history is largely the past history of the great Plan of Hari Seldon. The two are one. But the question in the mind of most people today is whether this Plan will continue in all its great wisdom, or whether it will be foully destroyed, or, perhaps, has been so destroyed already.

“To understand this, it may be best to pass quickly over some of the highlights of the Plan as it has been revealed to humanity thus far.

(This part was easy because she had taken Modern History the semester before.)

“In the days, nearly four centuries ago, when the First Galactic Empire was decaying into the paralysis that preceded final death, one man–the great Hari Seldon–foresaw the approaching end. Through the science of psychohistory, the intrissacies of whose mathematics has long since been forgotten,

(She paused in a trifle of doubt. She was sure that “intricacies” was pronounced with soft c’s but the spelling didn’t look right. Oh, well, the machine couldn’t very well be wrong-)

he and the men who worked with him are able to foretell the course of the great social and economic currents sweeping the Galaxy at the time. It was possible for them to realize that, left to itself, the Empire would break up, and that thereafter there would be at least thirty thousand years of anarchic chaos prior to the establishment of a new Empire.

“It was too late to prevent the great Fall, but it was still possible, at least, to cut short the intermediate period of chaos. The Plan was, therefore, evolved whereby only a single millennium would separate the Second Empire from the First. We are completing the fourth century of that millennium, and many generations of men have lived and died while the Plan has continued its inexorable workings.

“Hari Seldon established two Foundations at the opposite ends of the Galaxy, in a manner and under such circumstances as would yield the best mathematical solution for his psychohistorical problem. In one of these, our Foundation, established here on Terminus, there was concentrated the physical science of the Empire, and through the possession of that science, the Foundation was able to withstand the attacks of the barbarous kingdoms which had broken away and become independent, out at the hinge of the Empire.

“The Foundation, indeed, was able to conquer in its turn these short-lived kingdoms by means of the leadership of a series of wise and heroic men like Salvor Hardin and Hober Mallow who were able to interpret the Plan intelligently and to guide our land through its

(She had written “intricacies” here also, but decided not to risk it a second time.)

complications. All our planets still revere their memories although centuries have passed.

“Eventually, the Foundation established a commercial system which controlled a large portion of the Siwennian and Anacreonian sectors of the Galaxy, and even defeated the remnants of the old Empire under its last great general, Bel Riose. It seemed that nothing could now stop the workings of Seldon’s plan. Every crisis that Seldon had planned had come at its appropriate time and had been solved, and with each solution the Foundation had taken another giant stride toward Second Empire and peace.

“And then,

(Her breath came short at this point, and she hissed the word, between her teeth, but the Transmitter simply wrote them calmly and gracefully.)

with the last remnants of the dead First Empire gone and with only ineffectual warlords ruling over the splinters and remnants of the decayed colossus,

(She got that phrase out of a thriller on the video last week, but old Miss Erlking never listened to anything but symphonies and lectures, so she’d never know.)

there came the Mule.

“This strange man was not allowed for in the Plan. He was a mutant, whose birth could not have been predicted. He had strange and mysterious power of controlling and manipulating human emotions and in this manner could bend all men to his will. With breath-taking swiftness, he became a conqueror and Empire-builder, until, finally, he even defeated the Foundation itself.

“Yet he never obtained universal dominion, since in his first overpowering lunge he was stopped by the wisdom and daring of a great woman

(Now there was that old problem again. Father would insist that she never bring up the fact that she was the grandchild of Bayta Darell. Everyone knew it and Bayta was just about the greatest woman there ever was and she had stopped the Mule singlehanded.)

in a manner the true story of which is known in its entirety to very few.

(There! If she had to read it to the class, that last could he said in a dark voice, and someone would be sure to ask what the true story was, and then–well, and then she couldn’t help tell the truth if they asked her, could she? In her mind, she was already wordlessly whizzing through a hurt and eloquent explanation to a stern and questioning paternal parent.)

“After five years of restricted rule, another change took place, the reasons for which are not known, and the Mule abandoned all plans for further conquest. His last five years were those of an enlightened despot.

“It is said by some that the change in the Mule was brought about by the intervention of the Second Foundation. However, no man has ever discovered the exact location of this other Foundation, nor knows its exact function, so that theory remains unproven.

“A whole generation has passed since the death of the Mule. What of the future, then, now that he has come and gone? He interrupted Seldon’s Plan and seemed to have burst it to fragments, yet as soon as he died, the Foundation rose again, like a nova from the dead ashes of a dying star.

(She had made that up herself.)

Once again, the planet Terminus houses the center of a commercial federation almost as great and as rich as before the conquest, and even more peaceful and democratic.

“Is this planned? Is Seldon’s great dream still alive, and will a Second Galactic Empire yet be formed six hundred years from now? I, myself, believe so, because

(This was the important part. Miss Erlking always had those large, ugly red-pencil scrawls that went: ‘But this is only descriptive. What are your personal reactions? Think! Express yourself! Penetrate your own soul!’ Penetrate your own soul. A lot she knew about souls, with her lemon face that never smiled in its life-)

never at any time has the political situation been so favorable. The old Empire is completely dead and the period of the Mule’s rule put an end to the era of warlords that preceded him. Most of the surrounding portions of the Galaxy are civilized and peaceful.

“Moreover the internal health of the Foundation is better than ever before. The despotic times of the pre-Conquest hereditary mayors have given way to the democratic elections of early times. There are no longer dissident worlds of independent Traders; no longer the injustices and dislocations that accompanied accumulations of great wealth in the hands of a few.

“There is no reason, therefore, to fear failure, unless it is true that the Second Foundation itself presents a danger. Those who think so have no evidence to back their claim, but merely vague fears and superstitions. I think that our confidence in ourselves, in our nation, and in Hari Seldon’s great Plan should drive from our hearts and minds all uncertainties and

(Hm-m-m. This was awfully corny, but something like this was expected at the end.)

so I say–”

That is as far as “The Future of Seldon’s Plan” got, at that moment, because there was the gentlest little tap on the window, and when Arcadia shot up to a balance on one arm of the chair, she found herself confronted by a smiling face beyond the glass, its even symmetry of feature interestingly accentuated by the short, vertical fine of a finger before its lips.

With the slight pause necessary to assume an attitude of bepuzzlement, Arcadia dismounted from the armchair, walked to the couch that fronted the wide window that held the apparition and, kneeling upon it, stared out thoughtfully.

The smile upon the man’s face faded quickly. While the fingers of one hand tightened whitely upon the sill, the other made a quick gesture. Arcadia obeyed calmly, and closed the latch that moved the lower third of the window smoothly into its socket in the wall, allowing the warm spring air to interfere with the conditioning within.

“You can’t get in,” she said, with comfortable smugness. “The windows are all screened, and keyed only to people who belong here. If you come in, all sorts of alarms will break loose.” A pause, then she added, “You look sort of silly balancing on that ledge underneath the window. If you’re not careful, you’ll fall and break your neck and a lot of valuable flowers.”

“In that case,” said the man at the window, who had been thinking that very thing–with a slightly different arrangement of adjectives–“will you shut off the screen and let me in?”

“No use in doing that’ “said Arcadia. “You’re probably thinking of a different house, because I’m not the kind of girl who lets strange men into their... her bedroom this time of night.” Her eyes, as she said it, took on a heavy-lidded sultriness–or an unreasonable facsimile thereof.

All traces of humor whatever had disappeared from the young stranger’s face. He muttered, “This is Dr. Darell’s house, isn’t it?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Oh, Galaxy–Good-by–”

“If you jump off, young man, I will personally give the alarm.” (This was intended as a refined and sophisticated thrust of irony, since to Arcadia’s enlightened eyes, the intruder was an obviously mature thirty, at least–quite elderly, in fact.)

Quite a pause. Then, tightly, he said, “Well, now, look here, girlie, if you don’t want me to stay, and don’t want me to go, what do you want me to do?”

“You can come in, I suppose. Dr. Darell does live here. I’ll shut off the screen now.”

Warily, after a searching look, the young man poked his hand through the window, then hunched himself up and through it. He brushed at his knees with an angry, slapping gesture, and lifted a reddened face at her.

“You’re quite sure that your character and reputation won’t suffer when they find me here, are you?”

“Not as much as yours would, because just as soon as I hear footsteps outside, I’ll just shout and yell and say you forced your way in here.”

“Yes?” he replied with heavy courtesy, “And how do you intend to explain the shut-off protective screen?”

“Poof! That would be easy. There wasn’t any there in the first place.”

The man’s eyes were wide with chagrin. “That was a bluff? How old are you, kid?”

“I consider that a very impertinent question, young man. And I am not accustomed to being addressed as ‘kid.’ ”

“I don’t wonder. You’re probably the Mule’s grandmother in disguise. Do you mind if I leave now before you arrange a lynching party with myself as star performer?”

“You had better not leave–because my father’s expecting you.”

The man’s look became a wary one, again. An eyebrow shot up as he said, lightly, “Oh? Anyone with your father?’

“No.”

“Anyone called on him lately?’

“Only tradespeople–and you.”

“Anything unusual happen at all?”

“Only you.”

“Forget me, will you? No, don’t forget me. Tell me, how did you know your father was expecting me?”

“Oh, that was easy. Last week, he received a Personal Capsule, keyed to him personally, with a self-oxidizing message, you know. He threw the capsule shell into the Trash Disinto, and yesterday, he gave Poli–that’s our maid, you see–a month’s vacation so she could visit her sister in Terminus City, and this afternoon, he made up the bed in the spare room. So I knew he expected somebody that I wasn’t supposed to know anything about. Usually, he tells me everything.”

“Really! I’m surprised he has to. I should think you’d know everything before he tells you.”

‘I usually do.” Then she laughed. She was beginning to feel very much at ease. The visitor was elderly, but very distinguished-looking with curly brown hair and very blue eyes. Maybe she could meet somebody like that again, sometimes, when she was old herself.

“And just how,” he asked, “did you know it was I he expected.”

“Well, who else could it be? He was expecting somebody in so secrety a way, if you know what I mean–and then you come gumping around trying to sneak through windows, instead of walking through the front door, the way you would if you had any sense.” She remembered a favorite line, and used it promptly. “Men are so stupid!”

“Pretty stuck on yourself, aren’t you, kid? I mean, Miss. You could be wrong, you know. What if I told you that all this is a mystery to me and that as far as I know, your father is expecting someone else, not me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I didn’t ask you to come in, until after I saw you drop your briefcase.”

“My what?”

“Your briefcase, young man. I’m not blind. You didn’t drop it by accident, because you looked down first, so as to make sure it would land right. Then you must have realized it would land just under the hedges and wouldn’t be seen, so you dropped it and didn’t look down afterwards. Now since you came to the window instead of the front door, it must mean that you were a little afraid to trust yourself in the house before investigating the place. And after you had a little trouble with me, you took care of your briefcase before taking care of yourself, which means that you consider whatever your briefcase has in it to be more valuable than your own safety, and that means that as long as you’re in here and the briefcase is out there and we know that it’s out there, you’re probably pretty helpless.”

She paused for a much-needed breath, and the man said, grittily, “Except that I think I’ll choke you just about medium dead and get out of here, with the briefcase.”

“Except, young man, that I happen to have a baseball bat under my bed, which I can reach in two seconds from where I’m sitting, and I’m very strong for a girl.”

Impasse. Finally, with a strained courtesy, the “young man” said, “Shall I introduce myself, since we’re being so chummy. I’m Pelleas Anthor. And your name?”

“I’m Arca–Arkady Darell. Pleased to meet you.”

“And now Arkady, would you be a good little girl and call your father?”

Arcadia bridled. “I’m not a little girl. I think you’re very rude–especially when you’re asking a favor.”

Pelleas Anthor sighed. “Very well. Would you be a good, kind, dear, little old lady, just chock full of lavender, and call your father?”

“That’s not what I meant either, but I’ll call him. Only not so I’ll take my eyes off you, young man.” And she stamped on the floor.

There came the sound of hurrying footsteps in the hall, and the door was flung open.

“Arcadia–” There was a tiny explosion of exhaled air, and Dr. Darell said, “Who are you, sir?”

Pelleas sprang to his feet in what was quite obviously relief. “Dr. Toran Darell? I am Pelleas Anthor. You’ve received word about me, I think. At least, your daughter says you have.”

“My daughter says I have?” He bent a frowning glance at her which caromed harmlessly off the wide-eyed and impenetrable web of innocence with which she met the accusation.

Dr. Darell said, finally: “I have been expecting you. Would you mind coming down with me, please?” And he stopped as his eye caught a flicker of motion, which Arcadia caught simultaneously.

She scrambled toward her Transcriber, but it was quite useless, since her father was standing right next to it. He said, sweetly, “You’ve left it going all this time, Arcadia.”

“Father,” she squeaked, in real anguish, “it is very ungentlemanly to read another person’s private correspondence, especially when it’s talking correspondence.”

“Ah,” said her father, “but ‘talking correspondence’ with a strange man in your bedroom! As a father, Arcadia, I must protect you against evil.”

“Oh, golly–it was nothing like that.”

Pelleas laughed suddenly, “Oh, but it was, Dr. Darell. The young lady was going to accuse me of all sorts of things, and I must insist that you read it, if only to clear my name.”

“Oh–” Arcadia held back her tears with an effort. Her own father didn’t even trust her. And that darned Transcriber–If that silly fool hadn’t come gooping at the window, and making her forget to turn it off. And now her father would be making long, gentle speeches about what young ladies aren’t supposed to do. There just wasn’t anything they were supposed to do, it looked like, except choke and die, maybe.

“Arcadia,” said her father, gently, “it strikes me that a young lady–”

She knew it. She knew it.

“–should not be quite so impertinent to men older than she is.

“Well, what did he want to come peeping around my window for? A young lady has a right to privacy–Now I’ll have to do my whole darned composition over.”

“It’s not up to you to question his propriety in coming to your window. You should simply not have let him in. You should have called me instantly–especially if you thought I was expecting him.”

She said, peevishly, “It’s just as well if you didn’t see him–stupid thing. Hell give the whole thing away if he keeps on going to windows, instead of doors.”

“Arcadia, nobody wants your opinion on matters you know nothing of.”

“I do, too. It’s the Second Foundation, that’s what it is.”

There was a silence. Even Arcadia felt a little nervous stirring in her abdomen.

Dr. Darell said, softly, “Where have you heard this?”

“Nowheres, but what else is there to be so secret about? And you don’t have to worry that I’ll tell anyone.”

“Mr. Anthor,” said Dr. Darell, “I must apologize for all this.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” came Anthor’s rather hollow response. “It’s not your fault if she’s sold herself to the forces of darkness. But do you mind if I ask her a question before we go. Miss Arcadia–”

“What do you want?”

“Why do you think it is stupid to go to windows instead of to doors?”

“Because you advertise what you’re trying to hide, silly. If I have a secret, I don’t put tape over my mouth and let everyone know I have a secret. I talk just as much as usual, only about something else. Didn’t you ever read any of the sayings of Salvor Hardin? He was our first Mayor, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, he used to say that only a he that wasn’t ashamed of itself could possibly succeed. He also said that nothing had to be true, but everything had to sound true. Well, when you come in through a window, it’s a lie that’s ashamed of itself and it doesn’t sound true.”

“Then what would you have done?”

“If I had wanted to see my father on top secret business, I would have made his acquaintance openly and seen him about all sorts of strictly legitimate things. And then when everyone knew all about you and connected you with my father as a matter of course, you could be as top secret as you want and nobody would ever think of questioning it.”

Anthor looked at the girl strangely, then at Dr. Darell. He said, “Let’s go. I have a briefcase I want to pick up in the garden. Wait! Just one last question. Arcadia, you don’t really have a baseball bat under your bed, do you?”

“No! I don’t.”

“Hah. I didn’t think so.”

Dr. Darell stopped at the door. “Arcadia,” he said, “when you rewrite your composition on the Seldon Plan, don’t be unnecessarily mysterious about your grandmother. There is no necessity to mention that part at all.”

He and Pelleas descended the stairs in silence. Then the visitor asked in a strained voice, “Do you mind, sir? How old is she?”

“Fourteen, day before yesterday.”

“Fourteen? Great Galaxy–Tell me, has she ever said she expects to marry some day?”

“No, she hasn’t. Not to me.”

Well, if she ever does, shoot him. The one she’s going to marry, I mean.” He stared earnestly into the older man’s eyes. “I’m serious. Life could hold no greater horror than living with what shell be like when she’s twenty. I don’t mean to offend you, of course.”

“You don’t offend me. I think I know what you mean.”

Upstairs, the object of their tender analyses faced the Transcriber with revolted weariness and said, dully: “Thefutureofseldonsplan.” The Transcriber with infinite aplomb, translated that into elegantly, complicated script capitals as:

“The Future of Seldon’s Plan.”

2. Seldon’s Plan

MATHEMATICS - THE SYNTHESIS OF THE CALCULUS OF N-VARIABLES AND OF N-DIMENSIONAL GEOMETRY IS THE BASIS OF WHAT SELDON ONCE CALLED “MY LITTLE ALGEBRA OF HUMANITY”....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

CONSIDER A ROOM!

The location of the room is not in question at the moment. It is merely sufficient to say that in that room, more than anywhere, the Second Foundation existed.

It was a room which, through the centuries, had been the abode of pure science–yet it had none of the gadgets with which, through millennia of association, science has come to be considered equivalent. It was a science, instead, which dealt with mathematical concepts only, in a manner similar to the speculation of ancient, ancient races in the primitive, prehistoric days before technology had come to be; before Man had spread beyond a single, now-unknown world.

For one thing, there was in that room–protected by a mental science as yet unassailable by the combined physical might of the rest of the Galaxy–the Prime Radiant, which held in its vitals the Seldon Plan–complete.

For another, there was a man, too, in that room–The First Speaker.

He was the twelfth in the line of chief guardians of the Plan, and his title bore no deeper significance than the fact that at the gatherings of the leaders of the Second Foundation, he spoke first.

His predecessor had beaten the Mule, but the wreckage of that gigantic struggle still littered the path of the Plan–For twenty-five years, he, and his administration, had been trying to force a Galaxy of stubborn and stupid human beings back to the path–It was a terrible task.

The First Speaker looked up at the opening door. Even while, in the loneliness of the room, he considered his quarter century of effort, which now so slowly and inevitably approached its climax; even while he had been so engaged, his mind had been considering the newcomer with a gentle expectation. A youth, a student, one of those who might take over, eventually.

The young man stood uncertainly at the door, so that the First Speaker had to walk to him and lead him in, with a friendly hand upon the shoulder.

The Student smiled shyly, and the First Speaker responded by saying, “First, I must tell you why you are here.”

They faced each other now, across the desk. Neither was speaking in any way that could be recognized as such by any man in the Galaxy who was not himself a member of the Second Foundation.

Speech, originally, was the device whereby Man learned, imperfectly, to transmit the thoughts and emotions of his mind. By setting up arbitrary sounds and combinations of sounds to represent certain mental nuances, be developed a method of communication–but one which in its clumsiness and thick-thumbed inadequacy degenerated all the delicacy of the mind into gross and guttural signaling.

Down–down–the results can be followed; and all the suffering that humanity ever knew can be traced to the one fact that no man in the history of the Galaxy, until Hari Seldon, and very few men thereafter, could really understand one another. Every human being lived behind an impenetrable wall of choking mist within which no other but he existed. Occasionally there were the dim signals from deep within the cavern in which another man was located-so that each might grope toward the other. Yet because they did not know one another, and could not understand one another, and dared not trust one another, and felt from infancy the terrors and insecurity of that ultimate isolation–there was the hunted fear of man for man, the savage rapacity of man toward man.

Feet, for tens of thousands of years, had clogged and shuffled in the mud–and held down the minds which, for an equal time, had been fit for the companionship of the stars.

Grimly, Man had instinctively sought to circumvent the prison bars of ordinary speech. Semantics, symbolic logic, psychoanalysis–they had all been devices whereby speech could either be refined or by-passed.

Psychohistory had been the development of mental science, the final mathematicization thereof, rather, which had finally succeeded. Through the development of the mathematics necessary to understand the facts of neural physiology and the electrochemistry of the nervous system, which themselves had to be, had to be, traced down to nuclear forces, it first became possible to truly develop psychology. And through the generalization of psychological knowledge from the individual to the group, sociology was also mathematicized.

The larger groups; the billions that occupied planets; the trillions that occupied Sectors; the quadrillions that occupied the whole Galaxy, became, not simply human beings, but gigantic forces amenable to statistical treatment–so that to Hari Seldon, the future became clear and inevitable, and the Plan could be set up.

The same basic developments of mental science that had brought about the development of the Seldon Plan, thus made it also unnecessary for the First Speaker to use words in addressing the Student.

Every reaction to a stimulus, however slight, was completely indicative of all the trifling changes, of all the flickering currents that went on in another’s mind. The First Speaker could not sense the emotional content of the Student’s instinctively, as the Mule would have been able to do–since the Mule was a mutant with powers not ever likely to become completely comprehensible to any ordinary man, even a Second Foundationer–rather he deduced them, as the result of intensive training.

Since, however, it is inherently impossible in a society based on speech to indicate truly the method of communication of Second Foundationers among themselves, the whole matter will be hereafter ignored. The First Speaker will be represented as speaking in ordinary fashion, and if the translation is not always entirely valid, it is at least the best that can be done under the circumstances.

It will be pretended therefore, that the First Speaker did actually say, “First, I must tell you why you are here,” instead of smiling just so and lifting a finger exactly thus.

The First Speaker said, “You have studied mental science hard and well for most of your life. You have absorbed all your teachers could give you. It is time for you and a few others like yourself to begin your apprenticeship for Speakerhood.”

Agitation from the other side of the desk.

“No–now you must take this phlegmatically. You had hoped you would qualify. You had feared you would not. Actually, both hope and fear are weaknesses. You knew you would qualify and you hesitate to admit the fact because such knowledge might stamp you as cocksure and therefore unfit. Nonsense! The most hopelessly stupid man is he who is not aware that he is wise. It is part of your qualification that you knew you would qualify.”

Relaxation on the other side of the desk.

“Exactly. Now you feel better and your guard is down. You are fitter to concentrate and fitter to understand. Remember, to be truly effective, it is not necessary to hold the mind under a tight, controlling barrier which to the intelligent probe is as informative as a naked mentality. Rather, one should cultivate an innocence, an awareness of self, and an unself-consciousness of self which leaves one nothing to hide. My mind is open to you. Let this be so for both of us.”

He went on. “It is not an easy thing to be a Speaker. It is not an easy thing to be a Psychohistorian in the first place; and not even the best Psychohistorian need necessarily qualify to be a Speaker. There is a distinction here. A Speaker must not only be aware of the mathematical intricacies of the Seldon Plan; he must have a sympathy for it and for its ends. He must love the Plan; to him it must be life and breath. More than that it must even be as a living friend.

“Do you know what this is?”

The First Speaker’s hand hovered gently over the black, shining cube in the middle of the desk. It was featureless.

“No, Speaker, I do not.”

“You have heard of the Prime Radiant?”

“This?”-Astonishment.

“You expected something more noble and awe-inspiring? Well, that is natural. It was created in the days of the Empire, by men of Seldon’s time. For nearly four hundred years, it has served our needs perfectly, without requiring repairs or adjustment. And fortunately so, since none of the Second Foundation is qualified to handle it in any technical fashion.” He smiled gently. “Those of the First Foundation might be able to duplicate this, but they must never know, of course.”

He depressed a lever on his side of the desk and the room was in darkness. But only for a moment, since with a gradually livening flush, the two long walls of the room glowed to life. First, a pearly white, unrelieved, then a trace of faint darkness here and there, and finally, the fine neatly printed equations in black, with an occasional red hairline that wavered through the darker forest like a staggering rillet.

“Come, my boy, step here before the wall. You will not cast a shadow. This light does not radiate from the Radiant in an ordinary manner. To tell you the truth, I do not know even faintly by what medium this effect is produced, but you will not cast a shadow. I know that.”

They stood together in the light. Each wall was thirty feet long, and ten high. The writing was small and covered every inch.

“This is not the whole Plan,” said the First Speaker. “To get it all upon both walls, the individual equations would have to be reduced to microscopic size–but that is not necessary. What you now see represents the main portions of the Plan till now. You have learned about this, have you not?”

“Yes, Speaker, I have.”

“Do you recognize any portion.”

A slow silence. The student pointed a finger and as he did so, the line of equations marched down the wall, until the single series of functions he had thought of–one could scarcely consider the quick, generalized gesture of the finger to have been sufficiently precise–was at eye-level.

The First Speaker laughed softly, “You will find the Prime Radiant to be attuned to your mind. You may expect more surprises from the little gadget. What were you about to say about the equation you have chosen?”

“It,” faltered the Student, “is a Rigellian integral, using a planetary distribution of a bias indicating the presence of two chief economic classes on the planet, or maybe a Sector, plus an unstable emotional pattern.”

“And what does it signify?”

“It represents the limit of tension, since we have here”–he pointed, and again the equations veered–” a converging series.”

“Good,” said the First Speaker. “And tell me, what do you think of all this. A finished work of art, is it not?”

“Definitely!”

“Wrong! It is not.” This, with sharpness. “It is the first lesson you must unlearn. The Seldon Plan is neither complete nor correct. Instead, it is merely the best that could be done at the time. Over a dozen generations of men have pored over these equations, worked at them, taken them apart to the last decimal place, and put them together again. They’ve done more than that. They’ve watched nearly four hundred years pass and against the predictions and equations, they’ve checked reality, and they have learned.

“They have learned more than Seldon ever knew, and if with the accumulated knowledge of the centuries we could repeat Seldon’s work, we could do a better job. Is that perfectly clear to you?”

The Student appeared a little shocked.

“Before you obtain your Speakerhood,” continued the First Speaker, “you yourself will have to make an original contribution to the Plan. It is not such great blasphemy. Every red mark you see on the wall is the contribution of a man among us who lived since Seldon. Why... why–” He looked upward, “There!”

The whole wall seemed to whirl down upon him.

“This,” he said, “is mine.” A fine red line encircled two forking arrows and included six square feet of deductions along each path. Between the two were a series of equations in red.

“It does not,” said the Speaker, “seem to be much. It is at a point in the Plan which we will not reach yet for a time as long as that which has already passed. It is at the period of coalescence, when the Second Empire that is to be is in the grip of rival personalities who will threaten to pull it apart if the fight is too even, or clamp it into rigidity, if the fight is too uneven. Both possibilities are considered here, followed, and the method of avoiding either indicated.

“Yet it is all a matter of probabilities and a third course can exist. It is one of comparatively low likelihood–twelve point six four percent, to be exact–but even smaller chances have already come to pass and the Plan is only forty percent complete. This third probability consists of a possible compromise between two or more of the conflicting personalities being considered. This, I showed, would first freeze the Second Empire into an unprofitable mold, and then, eventually, inflict more damage through civil wars than would have taken place had a compromise never been made in the first place. Fortunately, that could be prevented, too. And that was my contribution.”

“If I may interrupt, Speaker–How is a change made?”

“Through the agency of the Radiant. You will find in your own case, for instance, that your mathematics will be checked rigorously by five different boards; and that you will be required to defend it against a concerted and merciless attack. Two years will then pass, and your development will be reviewed again. It has happened more than once that a seemingly perfect piece of work has uncovered its fallacies only after an induction period of months or years. Sometimes, the contributor himself discovers the flaw.

“If, after two years, another examination, not less detailed than the first, still passes it, and–better still–if in the interim the young scientist has brought to light additional details, subsidiary evidence, the contribution will be added to the Plan. It was the climax of my career; it will be the climax of yours.

“The Prime Radiant can be adjusted to your mind, and all corrections and additions can be made through mental rapport. There will be nothing to indicate that the correction or addition is yours. In all the history of the Plan there has been no personalization. It is rather a creation of all of us together. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Speaker!”

“Then, enough of that.” A stride to the Prime Radiant, and the walls were blank again save for the ordinary room-lighting region along the upper borders. “Sit down here at my desk, and let me talk to you. It is enough for a Psychohistorian, as such, to know his Biostatistics and his Neurochemical Electromathematics. Some know nothing else and are fit only to be statistical technicians. But a Speaker must be able to discuss the Plan without mathematics. If not the Plan itself, at least its philosophy and its aims.

“First of all, what is the aim of the Plan? Please tell me in your own words–and don’t grope for fine sentiment. You won’t be judged on polish and suavity, I assure you.”

It was the Student’s first chance at more than a bisyllable, and he hesitated before plunging into the expectant space cleared away for him. He said, diffidently: “As a result of what I have learned, I believe that it is the intention of the Plan to establish a human civilization based on an orientation entirely different from anything that ever before existed. An orientation which, according to the findings of Psychohistory, could never spontaneously come into being–”

“Stop!” The First Speaker was insistent. ‘You must not say ‘never.’ That is a lazy slurring over of the facts. Actually, Psychohistory predicts only probabilities. A particular event may be infinitesimally probable, but the probability is always greater than zero.”

“Yes, Speaker. The orientation desired, if I may correct myself, then, is well known to possess no significant probability of spontaneously coming to pass.”

“Better. What is the orientation?”

“It is that of a civilization based on mental science. In all the known history of Mankind, advances have been made primarily in physical technology; in the capacity of handling the inanimate world about Man. Control of self and society has been left to chance or to the vague gropings of intuitive ethical systems based on inspiration and emotion. As a result, no culture of greater stability than about fifty-five percent has ever existed, and these only as the result of great human misery.”

“And why is the orientation we speak of a nonspontaneous one?”

“Because a large minority of human beings are mentally equipped to take part in the advance of physical science, and all receive the crude and visible benefits thereof. Only an insignificant minority, however, are inherently able to lead Man through the greater involvements of Mental Science; and the benefits derived therefrom, while longer lasting, are more subtle and less apparent. Furthermore, since such an orientation would lead to the development of a benevolent dictatorship of the mentally best–virtually a higher subdivision of Man–it would be resented and could not be stable without the application of a force which would depress the rest of Mankind to brute level. Such a development is repugnant to us and must be avoided.”

“What, then, is the solution?”

“The solution is the Seldon Plan. Conditions have been so arranged and so maintained that in a millennium from its beginnings–six hundred years from now, a Second Galactic Empire will have been established in which Mankind will be ready for the leadership of Mental Science. In that same interval, the Second Foundation in its development, will have brought forth a group of Psychologists ready to assume leadership. Or, as I have myself often thought, the First Foundation supplies the physical framework of a single political unit, and the Second Foundation supplies the mental framework of a ready-made ruling class.”

“I see. Fairly adequate. Do you think that any Second Empire, even if formed in the time set by Seldon, would do as a fulfillment of his Plan?”

“No, Speaker, I do not. There are several possible Second Empires that may be formed in the period of time stretching from nine hundred to seventeen hundred years after the inception of the Plan, but only one of these is the Second Empire.”

“And in view of all this, why is it necessary that the existence of the Second Foundation be hidden–above all, from the First Foundation?”

The Student probed for a hidden meaning to the question and failed to find it. He was troubled in his answer, “For the same reason that the details of the Plan as a whole must be hidden from Mankind in general. The laws of Psychohistory are statistical in nature and are rendered invalid if the actions of individual men are not random in nature. If a sizable group of human beings learned of key details of the Plan, their actions would be governed by that knowledge and would no longer be random in the meaning of the axioms of Psychohistory. In other words, they would no longer be perfectly predictable. Your pardon, Speaker, but I feel that the answer is not satisfactory.”

“It is well that you do. Your answer is quite incomplete. It is the Second Foundation itself which must be hidden, not simply the Plan. The Second Empire is not yet formed. We have still a society which would resent a ruling class of psychologists, and which would fear its development and fight against it. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Speaker, I do. The point has never been stressed–”

“Don’t minimize. It has never been made–in the classroom, though you should be capable of deducing it yourself. This and many other points we will make now and in the near future during your apprenticeship. You will see me again in a week. By that time, I would like to have comments from you as to a certain problem which I now set before you. I don’t want complete and rigorous mathematical treatment. That would take a year for an expert, and not a week for you. But I do want an indication as to trends and directions

“You have here a fork in the Plan at a period in time of about half a century ago. The necessary details are included. You will note that the path followed by the assumed reality diverges from all the plotted predictions; its probability being under one percent. You will estimate for how long the divergence may continue before it becomes uncorrectable. Estimate also the probable end if uncorrected, and a reasonable method of correction.”

The Student flipped the Viewer at random and looked stonily at the passages presented on the tiny, built-in screen.

He said: “Why this particular problem, Speaker? It obviously has significance other than purely academic.”

“Thank you, my boy. You are as quick as I had expected. The problem is not supposititious. Nearly half a century ago, the Mule burst into Galactic history and for ten years was the largest single fact in the universe. He was unprovided for; uncalculated for. He bent the Plan seriously, but not fatally.

“To stop him before he did become fatal, however, we were forced to take active part against him. We revealed our existence, and infinitely worse, a portion of our power. The First Foundation has learned of us, and their actions are now predicated on that knowledge. Observe in the problem presented. Here. And here.

“Naturally, you will not speak of this to anyone.”

There was an appalled pause, as realization seeped into the Student. He said: “Then the Seldon Plan has failed!”

“Not yet. It merely may have failed. The probabilities of success are still twenty-one point four percent, as of the last assessment.”

3. The Conspirators

FOR DR. DARELL and Pelleas Anthor, the evenings passed in friendly intercourse; the days in pleasant unimportance. It might have been an ordinary visit. Dr. Darell introduced the young man as a cousin from across space, and interest was dulled by the clichй.

Somehow, however, among the small talk, a name might be mentioned. There would be an easy thoughtfulness. Dr. Darell might say, “No,” or he might say, “Yes.” A call on the open Communi-wave issued a casual invitation, “Want you to meet my cousin.”

And Arcadia’s preparations proceeded in their own manner. In fact, her actions might be considered the least straightforward of all.

For instance, she induced Olynthus Dam at school to donate to her a home-built, self-contained sound-receiver by methods which indicated a future for her that promised peril to all males with whom she might come into contact. To avoid details, she merely exhibited such an interest in Olynthus’ self-publicized hobby–he had a home workshop-combined with such a well-modulated transfer of this interest to Olynthus’ own pudgy features, that the unfortunate youth found himself: 1) discoursing at great and animated length upon the principles of the hyperwave motor; 2) becoming dizzyingly aware of the great, absorbed eyes that rested so lightly upon his; and 3) forcing into her willing hands his own greatest creation, the aforesaid sound-receiver.

Arcadia cultivated Olynthus in diminishing degree thereafter for just long enough to remove all suspicion that the sound-receiver had been the cause of the friendship. For months afterwards, Olynthus felt the memory of that short period in his life over and over again with the tendrils of his mind, until finally, for lack of further addition, he gave up and let it slip away.

When the seventh evening came, and five men sat in the Darell living room with food within and tobacco without, Arcadia’s desk upstairs was occupied by this quite unrecognizable home-product of Olynthus’ ingenuity.

Five men then. Dr. Darell, of course, with graying hair and meticulous clothing, looking somewhat older than his forty-two years. Pelleas Author, serious and quick-eyed at the moment looking young and unsure of himself. And the three new men: Jole Turbor, visicastor, bulky and plump-lipped; Dr. Elvett Semic, professor-emeritus of physics at the University, scrawny and wrinkled, his clothes only half-filled; Homir Munn, librarian, lanky and terribly ill-at-ease.

Dr. Darell spoke easily, in a normal, matter-of-fact tone: “This gathering has been arranged, gentlemen, for a trifle more than merely social reasons. You may have guessed this. Since you have been deliberately chosen because of your backgrounds, you may also guess the danger involved. I won’t minimize it, but I will point out that we are all condemned men, in any case.

“You will notice that none of you have been invited with any attempt at secrecy. None of you have been asked to come here unseen. The windows are not adjusted to non-insight. No screen of any sort is about the room. We have only to attract the attention of the enemy to be ruined; and the best way to attract that attention is to assume a false and theatrical secrecy.

(Hah, thought Arcadia, bending over the voices coming–a bit screechily–out of the little box.)

“Do you understand that?”

Elvett Semic twitched his lower lip and bared his teeth in the screwup, wrinkled gesture that preceded his every sentence. “Oh, get on with it. Tell us about the youngster.”

Dr. Darell said, “Pelleas Anthor is his name. He was a student of my old colleague, Kleise, who died last year. Kleise sent me his brain-pattern to the fifth sublevel, before he died, which pattern has been now checked against that of the man before you. You know, of course, that a brain-pattern cannot be duplicated that far, even by men of the Science of Psychology. If you don’t know that, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Turbor said, purse-lipped, “We might as well make a beginning somewheres. We’ll take your word for it, especially since you’re the greatest electroneurologist in the Galaxy now that Kleise is dead. At least, that is the way I’ve described you in my visicast comment, and I even believe it myself. How old are you, Anthor?”

“Twenty-nine, Mr. Turbor.”

“Hm-m-m. And are you an electroneurologist, too? A great one?”

“Just a student of the science. But I work hard, and I’ve had the benefit of Kleise’s training.”

Munn broke in. He had a slight stammer at periods of tension. “I... I wish you’d g... get started. I think everyone’s t... talking too much.”

Dr. Darell lifted an eyebrow in Munn’s direction. you’re right, Homir. Take over, Pelleas.”

“Not for a while,” said Pelleas Anthor, slowly, “because before we can get started–although I appreciate Mr. Munn’s sentiment–I must request brain-wave data.”

Darell frowned. “What is this, Anthor? What brain-wave data do you refer to?”

“The patterns of all of you. You have taken mine, Dr. Darell. I must take yours and those of the rest of you. And I must take the measurements myself.”

Turbor said, “There’s no reason for him to trust us, Darell. The young man is within his rights.”

“Thank you,” said Anthor. “If you’ll lead the way to your laboratory then, Dr. Darell, well proceed. I took the liberty this morning of checking your apparatus.”

The science of electroencephalography was at once new and old. It was old in the sense that the knowledge of the microcurrents generated by nerve cells of living beings belonged to that immense category of human knowledge whose origin was completely lost It was knowledge that stretched back as far as the earliest remnants of human history–

And yet it was new, too. The fact of the existence of microcurrents slumbered through the tens of thousands of years of Galactic Empire as one of those vivid and whimsical, but quite useless, items of human knowledge. Some had attempted to form classifications of waves into waking and sleeping, calm and excited, well and ill–but even the broadest conceptions had had their hordes of vitiating exceptions.

Others had tried to show the existence of brain-wave groups, analogous to the well-known blood groups, and to show that external environment was the defining factor. These were the race-minded people who claimed that Man could be divided into subspecies. But such a philosophy could make no headway against the overwhelming ecumenical drive involved in the fact of Galactic Empire–one political unit covering twenty million stellar systems, involving all of Man from the central world of Trantor–now a gorgeous and impossible memory of the great past–to the loneliest asteroid on the periphery.

And then again, in a society given over, as that of the First Empire was, to the physical sciences and inanimate technology, there was a vague but mighty sociological push away from the study of the mind. It was less respectable because less immediately useful; and it was poorly financed since it was less profitable.

After the disintegration of the First Empire, there came the fragmentation of organized science, back, back–past even the fundamentals of atomic power into the chemical power of coal and oil. The one exception to this, of course, was the First Foundation where the spark of science, revitalized and grown more intense was maintained and fed to flame. Yet there, too, it was the physical that ruled, and the brain, except for surgery, was neglected ground.

Hari Seldon was the first to express what afterwards came to be accepted as truth.

“Neural microcurrents,” he once said, “carry within them the spark of every varying impulse and response, conscious and unconscious. The brain-waves recorded on neatly squared paper in trembling peaks and troughs are the mirrors of the combined thought-pulses of billions of cells. Theoretically, analysis should reveal the thoughts and emotions of the subject, to the last and least. Differences should be detected that are due not only to gross physical defects, inherited or acquired, but also to shifting states of emotion, to advancing education and experience, even to something as subtle as a change in the subject’s philosophy of life.”

But even Seldon could approach no further than speculation.

And now for fifty years, the men of the First Foundation had been tearing at that incredibly vast and complicated storehouse of new knowledge. The approach, naturally, was made through new techniques–as, for example, the use of electrodes at skull sutures by a newly-developed means which enabled contact to be made directly with the gray cells, without even the necessity of shaving a patch of skull. And then there was a recording device which automatically recorded the brain-wave data as an overall total, and as separate functions of six independent variables.

What was most significant, perhaps, was the growing respect in which encephalography and the encephalographer was held. Kleise, the greatest of them, sat at scientific conventions on an equal basis with the physicist. Dr. Darell, though no longer active in the science, was known for his brilliant advances in encephalographic analysis almost as much as for the fact that he was the son of Bayta Darell, the great heroine of the past generation.

And so now, Dr. Darell sat in his own chair, with the delicate touch of the feathery electrodes scarcely hinting at pressure upon his skull, while the vacuum-incased needles wavered to and fro. His back was to the recorder–otherwise, as was well known, the sight of the moving curves induced an unconscious effort to control them, with noticeable results–but he knew that the central dial was expressing the strongly rhythmic and little-varying Sigma curve, which was to be expected of his own powerful and disciplined mind. It would be strengthened and purified in the subsidiary dial dealing with the Cerebellar wave. There would be the sharp, near-discontinuous leaps from the frontal lobe, and the subdued shakiness from the subsurface regions with its narrow range of frequencies–

He knew his own brain-wave pattern much as an artist might be perfectly aware of the color of his eyes.

Pelleas Anthor made no comment when Darell rose from the reclining chair. The young man abstracted the seven recordings, glanced at them with the quick, all-embracing eyes of one who knows exactly what tiny facet of near-nothingness is being looked for.

“If you don’t mind, Dr. Semic.”

Semic’s age-yellowed face was serious. Electroencephalography was a science of his old age of which he knew little; an upstart that he faintly resented. He knew that he was old and that his wave-pattern would show it. The wrinkles on his face showed it, the stoop in his walk, the shaking of his hand–but they spoke only of his body. The brain-wave patterns might show that his mind was old, too. An embarrassing and unwarranted invasion of a man’s last protecting stronghold, his own mind.

The electrodes were adjusted. The process did not hurt, of course, from beginning to end. There was just that tiny tingle, far below the threshold of sensation.

And then came Turbor, who sat quietly and unemotionally through the fifteen minute process, and Munn, who jerked at the first touch of the electrodes and then spent the session rolling his eyes as though he wished he could turn them backwards and watch through a hole in his occiput.

“And now–” said Darell, when all was done.

“And now,” said Anthor, apologetically, “there is one more person in the house.”

Darell, frowning, said: “My daughter?”

‘Yes. I suggested that she stay home tonight, if you’ll remember.”

“For encephalographical analysis? What in the Galaxy for?”

“I cannot proceed without it.”

Darell shrugged and climbed the stairs. Arcadia, amply warned, had the sound-receiver off when he entered; then followed him down with mild obedience. It was the first time in her life–except for the taking of her basic mind pattern as an infant, for identification and registration purposes–that she found herself under the electrodes.

“May I see,” she asked, when it was over, holding out her hand.

Dr. Darell said, “You would not understand, Arcadia. Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

“Yes, father,” she said, demurely. “Good night, all.”

She ran up the stairs and plumped into bed with a minimum of basic preparation. With Olynthus’ sound-receiver propped beside her pillow, she felt like a character out of a book-film, and hugged every moment of it close to her chest in an ecstasy of “Spy-stuff.”

The first words she heard were Anthor’s and they were: “The analyses, gentlemen, are all satisfactory. The child’s as well.”

Child, she thought disgustedly, and bristled at Anthor in the darkness.

Anthor had opened his briefcase now, and out of it, he took several dozen brain-wave records. They were not originals. Nor had the briefcase been fitted with an ordinary lock. Had the key been held in any hand other than his own, the contents thereof would have silently and instantly oxidized to an indecipherable ash. Once removed from the briefcase, the records did so anyway after half an hour.

But during their short lifetime, Anthor spoke quickly. “I have the records here of several minor government officials at Anacreon. This is a psychologist at Locris University; this an industrialist at Siwenna. The rest are as you see.”

They crowded closely. To all but Darell, they were so many quivers on parchment. To Darell, they shouted with a million tongues.

Anthor pointed lightly, “I call your attention, Dr. Darell, to the plateau region among the secondary Tauian waves in the frontal lobe, which is what all these records have in common. Would you use my Analytical Rule, sir, to check my statement?”

The Analytical Rule might be considered a distant relation–as a skyscraper is to a shack–of that kindergarten toy, the logarithmic Slide Rule. Darell used it with the wristflip of long practice. He made freehand drawings of the result and, as Anthor stated, there were featureless plateaus in frontal lobe regions where strong swings should have been expected.

“How would you interpret that, Dr. Darell?” asked Anthor.

“I’m not sure. Offhand, I don’t see how it’s possible. Even in cases of amnesia, there is suppression, but not removal. Drastic brain surgery, perhaps?”

“Oh, something’s been cut out,” cried Anthor, impatiently, “yes! Not in the physical sense, however. You know, the Mule could have done just that. He could have suppressed completely all capacity for a certain emotion or attitude of mind, and leave nothing but just such a flatness. Or else–”

“Or else the Second Foundation could have done it. Is that it?” asked Turbor, with a slow smile.

There was no real need to answer that thoroughly rhetorical question.

“What made you suspicious, Mr. Anthor?” asked Munn.

“It wasn’t I. It was Dr. Kleise. He collected brain-wave patterns much as the Planetary Police do, but along different lines. He specialized in intellectuals, government officials and business leaders. You see, it’s quite obvious that if the Second Foundation is directing the historical course of the Galaxy–of us–that they must do it subtly and in as minimal a fashion as possible. If they work through minds, as they must, it is the minds of people with influence; culturally, industrially, or politically. And with those he concerned himself.”

“Yes,” objected Munn, “but is there corroboration? How do these people act–I mean the ones with the plateau. Maybe it’s all a perfectly normal phenomenon.” He looked hopelessly at the others out of his, somehow, childlike blue eyes, but met no encouraging return.

“I leave that to Dr. Darell,” said Anthor. “Ask him how many times he’s seen this phenomenon in his general studies, or in reported cases in the literature over the past generation. Then ask him the chances of it being discovered in almost one out of every thousand cases among the categories Dr. Kleise studied.”

“I suppose that there is no doubt,” said Darell, thoughtfully, “that these are artificial mentalities. They have been tampered with. In a way, I have suspected this–”

“I know that, Dr. Darell,” said Author. “I also know you once worked with Dr. Kleise. I would like to know why you stopped.”

There wasn’t actually hostility in his question. Perhaps nothing more than caution; but, at any rate, it resulted in a long pause. Darell looked from one to another of his guests, then said brusquely, “Because there was no point to Kleise’s battle. He was competing with an adversary too strong for him. He was detecting what we–he and I–knew he would detect–that we were not our own masters. And I didn’t want to know! I had my self-respect. I liked to think that our Foundation was captain of its collective soul; that our forefathers had not quite fought and died for nothing. I thought it would be most simple to turn my face away as long as I was not quite sure. I didn’t need my position since the Government pension awarded to my mother’s family in perpetuity would take care of my uncomplicated needs. My home laboratory would suffice to keep boredom away, and life would some day end–Then Kleise died–”

Semic showed his teeth and said: “This fellow Kleise; I don’t know him. How did he die?”

Anthor cut in: “He died. He thought he would. He told me half a year before that he was getting too close–”

“Now we’re too c... close, too, aren’t we?” suggested Munn, dry-mouthed, as his Adam’s apple jiggled.

“Yes,” said Anthor, flatly, “but we were, anyway–all of us. It’s why you’ve all been chosen. I’m Kleise’s student. Dr. Darell was his colleague. Jole Turbor has been denouncing our blind faith in the saving hand of the Second Foundation on the air, until the government shut him off–through the agency, I might mention, of a powerful financier whose brain shows what Kleise used to call the Tamper Plateau. Homir Munn has the largest home collection of Muliana–if I may use the phrase to signify collected data concerning the Mule–in existence, and has published some papers containing speculation on the nature and function of the Second Foundation. Dr. Semic has contributed as much as anyone to the mathematics of encephalographic analysis, though I don’t believe he realized that his mathematics could be so applied.”

Semic opened his eyes wide and chuckled gaspingly, “No, young fellow. I was analyzing intranuclear motions–the n-body problem, you know. I’m lost in encephalography.”

“Then we know where we stand. The government can, of course, do nothing about the matter. Whether the mayor or anyone in his administration is aware of the seriousness of the situation, I don’t know. But this I do know–we five have nothing to lose and stand to gain much. With every increase in our knowledge, we can widen ourselves in safe directions. We are but a beginning, you understand.”

“How widespread,” put in Turbor, “is this Second Foundation infiltration?”

“I don’t know. There’s a flat answer. All the infiltrations we have discovered were on the outer fringes of the nation. The capital world may yet be clean, though even that is not certain–else I would not have tested you. You were particularly suspicious, Dr. Darell, since you abandoned research with Kleise. Kleise never forgave you, you know. I thought that perhaps the Second Foundation had corrupted you, but Kleise always insisted that you were a coward. You’ll forgive me, Dr. Darell, if I explain this to make my own position clear. I, personally, think I understand your attitude, and, if it was cowardice, I consider it venial.”

Darell drew a breath before replying. “I ran away! Call it what you wish. I tried to maintain our friendship, however, yet he never wrote nor called me until the day he sent me your brainwave data, and that was scarcely a week before he died–”

“If you don’t mind,” interrupted Homir Munn, with a flash of nervous eloquence, “I d... don’t see what you think you’re doing. We’re a p... poor bunch of conspirators, if we’re just going to talk and talk and t... talk. And I don’t see what else we can do, anyway. This is v... very childish. B... brain-waves and mumbo jumbo and all that. Is there just one thing you intend to do?”

Pelleas Author’s eyes were bright, “Yes, there is. We need more information on the Second Foundation. It’s the prime necessity. The Mule spent the first five years of his rule in just that quest for information and failed–or so we have all been led to believe. But then he stopped looking. Why? Because he failed? Or because he succeeded?”

“M... more talk,” said Munn, bitterly. “How are we ever to know?”

“If you’ll listen to me–The Mule’s capital was on Kalgan. Kalgan was not part of the Foundation’s commercial sphere of influence before the Mule and it is not part of it now. Kalgan is ruled, at the moment, by the man, Stettin, unless there’s another palace revolution by tomorrow. Stettin calls himself First Citizen and considers himself the successor of the Mule. If there is any tradition in that world, it rests with the super-humanity and greatness of the Mule–a tradition almost superstitious in intensity. As a result, the Mule’s old palace is maintained as a shrine. No unauthorized person may enter; nothing within has ever been touched.”

“Well?”

“Well, why is that so? At times like these, nothing happens without a reason. What if it is not superstition only that makes the Mule’s palace inviolate? What if the Second Foundation has so arranged matters? In short what if the results of the Mule’s five-year search are within–”

“Oh, p... poppycock.”

“Why not?” demanded Anthor. “Throughout its history the Second Foundation has hidden itself and interfered in Galactic affairs in minimal fashion only. I know that to us it would seem more logical to destroy the Palace or, at the least, to remove the data. But you must consider the psychology of these master psychologists. They are Seldons; they are Mules and they work by indirection, through the mind. They would never destroy or remove when they could achieve their ends by creating a state of mind. Eh?”

No immediate answer, and Anthor continued, “And you, Munn, are just the one to get the information we need.”

“I?” It was an astounded yell. Munn looked from one to the other rapidly, “I can’t do such a thing. I’m no man of action; no hero of any teleview. I’m a librarian. If I can help you that way, all right, and I’ll risk the Second Foundation, but I’m not going out into space on any qu... quixotic thing like that.”

“Now, look,” said Anthor, patiently, “Dr. Darell and I have both agreed that you’re the man. It’s the only way to do it naturally. You say you’re a librarian. Fine! What is your main field of interest? Muliana! You already have the greatest collection of material on the Mule in the Galaxy. It is natural for you to want more; more natural for you than for anyone else. You could request entrance to the Kalgan Palace without arousing suspicion of ulterior motives. You might be refused but you would not be suspected. What’s more, you have a one-man cruiser. You’re known to have visited foreign planets during your annual vacation. You’ve even been on Kalgan before. Don’t you understand that you need only act as you always have?”

“But I can’t just say, ‘W... won’t you kindly let me in to your most sacred shrine, M... Mr. First Citizen?’”

“Why not?”

“Because, by the Galaxy, he won’t let me!”

“All right, then. So he won’t Then you’ll come home and we’ll think of something else.”

Munn looked about in helpless rebellion. He felt himself being talked into something he hated. No one offered to help him extricate himself.

So in the end two decisions were made in Dr. Darell’s house. The first was a reluctant one of agreement on the part of Munn to take off into space as soon as his summer vacation began.

The other was a highly unauthorized decision on the part of a thoroughly unofficial member of the gathering, made as she clicked off a sound-receiver and composed herself for a belated sleep. This second decision does not concern us just yet.

4. Approaching Crisis

A WEEK HAD passed on the Second Foundation, and the First Speaker was smiling once again upon the Student.

“You must have brought me interesting results, or you would not be so filled with anger.”

The Student put his hand upon the sheaf of calculating paper he had brought with him and said, “Are you sure that the problem is a factual one?”

“The premises are true. I have distorted nothing.”

“Then I must accept the results, and I do not want to.”

“Naturally. But what have your wants to do with it? Well, tell me what disturbs you so. No, no, put your derivations to one side. I will subject them to analysis afterward. Meanwhile, talk to me. Let me judge your understanding.”

“Well, then, Speaker–It becomes very apparent that a gross overall change in the basic psychology of the First Foundation has taken place. As long as they knew of the existence of a Seldon Plan, without knowing any of the details thereof, they were confident but uncertain. They knew they would succeed, but they didn’t know when or how. There was, therefore, a continuous atmosphere of tension and strain–which was what Seldon desired. The First Foundation, in other words, could be counted upon to work at maximum potential.”

“A doubtful metaphor,” said the First Speaker, “but I understand you.”

“But now, Speaker, they know of the existence of a Second Foundation in what amounts to detail, rather merely than as an ancient and vague statement of Seldon’s. They have an inkling as to its function as the guardian of the Plan. They know that an agency exists which watches their every step and will not let them fall. So they abandon their purposeful stride and allow themselves to be carried upon a litter. Another metaphor, I’m afraid.”

“Nevertheless, go on.”

“And that very abandonment of effort; that growing inertia; that lapse into softness and into a decadent and hedonistic culture, means the ruin of the Plan. They must be self-propelled.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there is more. The majority reaction is as described. But a great probability exists for a minority reaction. Knowledge of our guardianship and our control will rouse among a few, not complacence, but hostility. This follows from Korillov’s Theorem–”

“Yes, yes. I know the theorem.”

“I’m sorry, Speaker. It is difficult to avoid mathematics. In any case, the effect is that not only is the Foundation’s effort diluted, but part of it is turned against us, actively against us.”

“And is that all?”

“There remains one other factor of which the probability is moderately low–”

“Very good. What is that?”

“While the energies of the First Foundation were directed only to Empire; while their only enemies were huge and outmoded hulks that remained from the shambles of the past, they were obviously concerned only with the physical sciences. With us forming a new, large part of their environment, a change in view may well be imposed on them. They may try to become psychologists–”

“That change,” said the First Speaker, coolly, “has already taken place.”

The Student’s lips compressed themselves into a pale line. “Then all is over. It is the basic incompatibility with the Plan. Speaker, would I have known of this if I had lived–outside?”

The First Speaker spoke seriously, “You feel humiliated, my young man, because, thinking you understood so much so well, you suddenly find that many very apparent things were unknown to you. Thinking you were one of the Lords of the Galaxy; you suddenly find that you stand near to destruction. Naturally, you will resent the ivory tower in which you lived; the seclusion in which you were educated; the theories on which you were reared.

“I once had that feeling. It is normal. Yet it was necessary that in your formative years you have no direct contact with the Galaxy, that you remain here, where all knowledge is filtered to you, and your mind carefully sharpened. We could have shown you this... this part-failure of the Plan earlier and spared you the shock now, but you would not have understood the significance properly, as you now will. Then you find no solution at all to the problem?”

The Student shook his head and said hopelessly, “None!”

“Well, it is not surprising. Listen to me, young man. A course of action exists and has been followed for over a decade. It is not a usual course, but one that we have been forced into against our will. It involves low probabilities, dangerous assumptions–We have even been forced to deal with individual reactions at times, because that was the only possible way, and you know that Psychostatistics by its very nature has no meaning when applied to less than planetary numbers.”

“Are we succeeding?” gasped the Student.

“There’s no way of telling yet. We have kept the situation stable so far–but for the first time in the history of the Plan, it is possible for the unexpected actions of a single individual to destroy it. We have adjusted a minimum number of outsiders to a needful state of mind; we have our agents–but their paths are planned. They dare not improvise. That should be obvious to you. And I will not conceal the worst–if we are discovered, here, on this world, it will not only be the Plan that is destroyed, but ourselves, our physical selves. So you see, our solution is not very good.”

“But the little you have described does not sound like a solution at all, but like a desperate guess.”

“No. Let us say, an intelligent guess.”

“When is the crisis, Speaker? When will we know whether we have succeeded or not?”

“Well within the year, no doubt.”

The Student considered that, then nodded his head. He shook hands with the Speaker. “Well, it’s good to know.”

He turned on his heel and left.

The first Speaker looked out silently as the window gained transparency. Past the giant structures to the quite, crowding stars.

A year would pass quickly. Would any of them, any of Seldon’s heritage, be alive at its end?

5. Stowaway

IT WAS A little over a month before the summer could be said to have started. Started, that is, to the extent that Homir Munn had written his final financial report of the fiscal year, seen to it that the substitute librarian supplied by the Government was sufficiently aware of the subtleties of the post–last year’s man had been quite unsatisfactory–and arranged to have his little cruiser the Unimara–named after a tender and mysterious episode of twenty years past–taken out of its winter cobwebbery.

He left Terminus in a sullen distemper. No one was at the port to see him off. That would not have been natural since no one ever had in the past. He knew very well that it was important to have this trip in no way different from any he had made in the past, yet he felt drenched in a vague resentment. He, Homir Munn, was risking his neck in derring-doery of the most outrageous sort, and yet he left alone.

At least, so he thought.

And it was because he thought wrongly, that the following day was one of confusion, both on the Unimara and in Dr. Darell’s suburban home.

It hit Dr. Darell’s home first, in point of time, through the medium of Poli, the maid, whose month’s vacation was now quite a thing of the past. She flew down the stairs in a flurry and stutter.

The good doctor met her and she tried vainly to put emotion into words but ended by thrusting a sheet of paper and a cubical object at him.

He took them unwillingly and said: “What’s wrong, Poli?”

“She’s gone, doctor.”

“Who’s gone?”

“Arcadia!”

“What do you mean, gone? Gone where? What are you talking about?”

And she stamped her foot: ‘I don’t know. She’s gone, and there’s a suitcase and some clothes gone with her and there’s that letter. Why don’t you read it, instead of just standing there? Oh, you men!”

Dr. Darell shrugged and opened the envelope. The letter was not long, and except for the angular signature, “Arkady,” was in the ornate and flowing handwriting of Arcadia’s transcriber.

Dear Father:

It would have been simply too heartbreaking to say good-by to you in person. I might have cried like a little girl and you would have been ashamed of me. So I’m writing a letter instead to tell you how much III miss you, even while I’m having this perfectly wonderful summer vacation with Uncle Homir. III take good care of myself and it won’t be long before I’m home again. Meanwhile, I’m leaving you something that’s all my own. You can have it now.

Your loving daughter,

Arkady.

He read it through several times with an expression that grew blanker each time. He said stiffly, “Have you read this, Poli?”

Poli was instantly on the defensive. “I certainly can’t be blamed for that, doctor. The envelope has ‘Poli’ written on the outside, and I had no way of telling there was a letter for you on the inside. I’m no snoop, doctor, and in the years I’ve been with–”

Darell held up a placating hand, “Very well, Poli. It’s not important. I just wanted to make sure you understood what had happened.”

He was considering rapidly. It was no use telling her to forget the matter. With regard to the enemy, “forget” was a meaningless word; and the advice, insofar as it made the matter more important, would have had an opposite effect.

He said instead, “She’s a queer little girl, you know. Very romantic. Ever since we arranged to have her go off on a space trip this summer, she’s been quite excited.”

“And just why has no one told me about this space trip?”

“It was arranged while you were away, and we forgot It’s nothing more complicated than that.”

Poli’s original emotions now concentrated themselves into a single, overwhelming indignation, “Simple, is it? The poor chick has gone off with one suitcase, without a decent stitch of clothes to her, and alone at that. How long will she be away?”

“Now I won’t have you worrying about it, Poli. There will be plenty of clothes for her on the ship. It’s been all arranged. Will you tell Mr. Anthor, that I want to see him? Oh, and first–is this the object that Arcadia has left for me?” He turned it over in his hand.

Poli tossed her head. “I’m sure I don’t know. The letter was on top of it and that’s every bit I can tell you. Forget to tell me, indeed. If her mother were alive–”

Darell, waved her away. “Please call Mr. Anthor.”

Anthor’s viewpoint on the matter differed radically from that of Arcadia’s father. He punctuated his initial remarks with clenched fists and tom hair, and from there, passed on to bitterness.

“Great Space, what are you waiting for? What are we both waiting for? Get the spaceport on the viewer and have them contact the Unimara.”

“Softly, Pelleas, she’s my daughter.”

“But it’s not your Galaxy.”

“Now, wait. She’s an intelligent girl, Pelleas, and she’s thought this thing out carefully. We had better follow her thoughts while this thing is fresh. Do you know what this thing is?”

“No. Why should it matter what it is?’

“Because it’s a sound-receiver.”

“That thing?”

“It’s homemade, but it will work. I’ve tested it. Don’t you see? It’s her way of telling us that she’s been a party to our conversations of policy. She knows where Homir Munn is going and why. She’s decided it would be exciting to go along.”

“Oh, Great Space,” groaned the younger man. “Another mind for the Second Foundation to pick.”

“Except that there’s no reason why the Second Foundation should, a priori, suspect a fourteen-year-old girl of being a danger–unless we do anything to attract attention to her, such as calling back a ship out of space for no reason other than to take her off. Do you forget with whom we’re dealing? How narrow the margin is that separates us from discovery? How helpless we are thereafter?”

“But we can’t have everything depend on an insane child.”

She’s not insane, and we have no choice. She need not have written the letter, but she did it to keep us from going to the police after a lost child. Her letter suggests that we convert the entire matter into a friendly offer on the part of Munn to take an old friend’s daughter off for a short vacation. And why not? He’s been my friend for nearly twenty years. He’s known her since she was three, when I brought her back from Trantor. It’s a perfectIy natural thing, and, in fact, ought to decrease suspicion. A spy does not carry a fourteen-year-old niece about with him.”

“So. And what will Munn do when he finds her?”

Dr. Darell heaved his eyebrows once. “I can’t say–but I presume she’ll handle him.”

But the house was somehow very lonely at night and Dr. Darell found that the fate of the Galaxy made remarkably little difference while his daughter’s mad little life was in danger.

The excitement on the Unimara, if involving fewer people, was considerably more intense.

In the luggage compartment, Arcadia found herself, in the first place, aided by experience, and in the second, hampered by the reverse.

Thus, she met the initial acceleration with equanimity and the more subtle nausea that accompanied the inside-outness of the first jump through hyperspace with stoicism. Both had been experienced on space hops before, and she was tensed for them. She knew also that luggage compartments were included in the ship’s ventilation-system and that they could even be bathed in wall-light. This last, however, she excluded as being too unconscionably unromantic. She remained in the dark, as a conspirator should, breathing very softly, and listening to the little miscellany of noises that surrounded Homir Munn.

They were undistinguished noises, the kind made by a man alone. The shuffling of shoes, the rustle of fabric against metal, the soughing of an upholstered chair seat retreating under weight, the sharp click of a control unit, or the soft slap of a palm over a photoelectric cell.

Yet, eventually, it was the lack of experience that caught up with Arcadia. In the book films and on the videos, the stowaway seemed to have such an infinite capacity for obscurity. Of course, there was always the danger of dislodging something which would fall with a crash, or of sneezing–in videos you were almost sure to sneeze; it was an accepted matter. She knew all this, and was careful. There was also the realization that thirst and hunger might be encountered. For this, she was prepared with ration cans out of the pantry. But yet things remained that the films never mentioned, and it dawned upon Arcadia with a shock that, despite the best intentions in the world, she could stay hidden in the closet for only a limited time.

And on a one-man sports-cruiser, such as the Unimara, living space consisted, essentially, of a single room, so that there wasn’t even the risky possibility of sneaking out of the compartment while Munn was engaged elsewhere.

She waited frantically for the sounds of sleep to arise. If only she knew whether he snored. At least she knew where the bunk was and she could recognize the rolling protest of one when she heard it. There was a long breath and then a yawn. She waited through a gathering silence, punctuated by the bunk’s soft protest against a changed position or a shifted leg.

The door of the luggage compartment opened easily at the pressure of her finger, and her craning neck–

There was a definite human sound that broke off sharply.

Arcadia solidified. Silence! Still silence!

She tried to poke her eyes outside the door without moving her head and failed. The head followed the eyes.

Homir Munn was awake, of course–reading in bed, bathed in the soft, unspreading bed light, staring into the darkness with wide eyes, and groping one hand stealthily under the pillow.

Arcadia’s head moved sharply back of itself. Then, the light went out entirely and Munn’s voice said with shaky sharpness, “I’ve got a blaster, and I’m shooting, by the Galaxy–”

And Arcadia wailed, “It’s only me. Don’t shoot.”

Remarkable what a fragile flower romance is. A gun with a nervous operator behind it can spoil the whole thing.

The light was back on–all over the ship–and Munn was sitting up in bed. The somewhat grizzled hair on his thin chest and the sparse one-day growth on his chin lent him an entirely fallacious appearance of disreputability.

Arcadia stepped out, yanking at her metallene jacket which was supposed to be guaranteed wrinkleproof.

After a wild moment in which he almost jumped out of bed, but remembered, and instead yanked the sheet up to his shoulders, Munn gargled, “W... wha... what–”

He was completely incomprehensible.

Arcadia said meekly, “Would you excuse me for a minute? I’ve got to wash my hands.” She knew the geography of the vessel, and slipped away quickly. When she returned, with her courage oozing back, Homir Munn was standing before her with a faded bathrobe on the outside and a brilliant fury on the inside.

“What the black holes of Space are you d... doing aboard this ship? H... how did you get on here? What do you th... think I’m supposed to do with you? What’s going on here?”

He might have asked questions indefinitely, but Arcadia interrupted sweetly, “I just wanted to come along, Uncle Homir.”

“Why? I’m not going anywhere?”

“You’re going to Kalgan for information about the Second Foundation.”

And Munn let out a wild howl and collapsed completely. For one horrified moment, Arcadia thought he would have hysterics or beat his head against the wall. He was still holding the blaster and her stomach grew ice-cold as she watched it.

“Watch out–Take it easy–” was all she could think of to say.

But he struggled back to relative normality and threw the blaster on to the bunk with a force that should have set it off and blown a hole through the ship’s hull.

“How did you get on?” he asked slowly, as though gripping each word with his teeth very carefully to prevent it from trembling before letting it out.

“It was easy. I just came into the hangar with my suitcase, and said, ‘Mr. Munn’s baggage!’ and the man in charge just waved his thumb without even looking up.”

“I’ll have to take you back, you know,” said Homir, and there was a sudden wild glee within him at the thought. By Space, this wasn’t his fault.

“You can’t,” said Arcadia, calmly, “it would attract attention.”

“What?”

“You know. The whole purpose of your going to Kalgan was because it was natural for you to go and ask for permission to look into the Mule’s records. And you’ve got to be so natural that you’re to attract no attention at all. If you go back with a girl stowaway, it might even get into the tele-news reports.”

“Where did you g... get those notions about Kalgan? These... uh... childish–” He was far too flippant for conviction, of course, even to one who knew less than did Arcadia.

“I heard,” she couldn’t avoid pride completely, “with a sound-recorder. I know all about it–so you’ve got to let me come along.”

“What about your father?” He played a quick trump. “For all he knows, you’re kidnapped... dead.”

“I left a note,” she said, overtrumping, “and he probably knows he mustn’t make a fuss, or anything. You’ll probably get a space-gram from him.”

To Munn the only explanation was sorcery, because the receiving signal sounded wildly two seconds after she finished.

She said: “That’s my father, I bet,” and it was.

The message wasn’t long and it was addressed to Arcadia. It said: “Thank you for your lovely present, which I’m sure you put to good use. Have a good time.”

“You see,” she said, “that’s instructions.”

Homir grew used to her. After a while, he was glad she was there. Eventually, he wondered how he would have made it without her. She prattIed! She was excited! Most of all, she was completely unconcerned. She knew the Second Foundation was the enemy, yet it didn’t bother her. She knew that on Kalgan, he was to deal with a hostile officialdom, but she could hardly wait.

Maybe it came of being fourteen.

At any rate, the week-long trip now meant conversation rather than introspection. To be sure, it wasn’t a very enlightening conversation, since it concerned, almost entirely, the girl’s notions on the subject of how best to treat the Lord of Kalgan. Amusing and nonsensical, and yet delivered with weighty deliberation.

Homir found himself actually capable of smiling as he listened and wondered out of just which gem of historical fiction she got her twisted notion of the great universe.

It was the evening before the last jump. Kalgan was a bright star in the scarcely-twinkling emptiness of the outer reaches of the Galaxy. The ship’s telescope made it a sparkling blob of barely-perceptible diameter.

Arcadia sat cross-legged in the good chair. She was wearing a pair of slacks and a none-too-roomy shirt that belonged to Homir. Her own more feminine wardrobe had been washed and ironed for the landing.

She said, “I’m going to write historical novels, you know.” She was quite happy about the trip. Uncle Homir didn’t the least mind listening to her and it made conversation so much more pleasant when you could talk to a really intelligent person who was serious about what you said.

She continued: “I’ve read books and books about all the great men of Foundation history. You know, like Seldon, Hardin, Mallow, Devers and all the rest. I’ve even read most of what you’ve written about the Mule, except that it isn’t much fun to read those parts where the Foundation loses. Wouldn’t you rather read a history where they skipped the silly, tragic parts?”

“Yes, I would,” Munn assured her, gravely. “But it wouldn’t be a fair history, would it, Arkady? You’d never get academic respect, unless you give the whole story.”

“Oh, poof. Who cares about academic respect?” She found him delightful. He hadn’t missed calling her Arkady for days. “My novels are going to be interesting and are going to sell and be famous. What’s the use of writing books unless you sell them and become well-known? I don’t want just some old professors to know me. It’s got to be everybody.”

Her eyes darkened with pleasure at the thought and she wriggled into a more comfortable position. “In fact, as soon as I can get father to let me, I’m going to visit Trantor, so’s I can get background material on the First Empire, you know. I was born on Trantor; did you know that?”

He did, but he said, “You were?” and put just the right amount of amazement into his voice. He was rewarded with something between a beam and a simper.

“Uh-huh. My grandmother... you know, Bayta Darell, you’ve heard of her... was on Trantor once with my grandfather. In fact, that’s where they stopped the Mule, when all the Galaxy was at his feet; and my father and mother went there also when they were first married. I was born there. I even lived there till mother died, only I was just three then, and I don’t remember much about it. Were you ever on Trantor, Uncle Homir?”

“No, can’t say I was.” He leaned back against the cold bulkhead and listened idly. Kalgan was very close, and he felt his uneasiness flooding back.

“Isn’t it just the most romantic world? My father says that under Stannel V, it had more people than any ten worlds nowadays. He says it was just one big world of metals–one big city–that was the capital of all the Galaxy. He’s shown me pictures that he took on Trantor. It’s all in ruins now, but it’s still stupendous. I’d just love to see it again. In fact... Homir!”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we go there, when we’re finished with Kalgan?”

Some of the fright hurtled back into his face. “What? Now don’t start on that. This is business, not pleasure. Remember that.”

“But it is business” she squeaked. “There might be incredible amounts of information on Trantor, don’t you think so?*

“No, I don’t He scrambled to his feet “Now untangle yourself from the computer. We’ve got to make the last jump, and then you turn in.” One good thing about landing, anyway; he was about fed up with trying to sleep on an overcoat on the metal floor.

The calculations were not difficult. The “Space Route Handbook” was quite explicit on the Foundation-Kalgan route. There was the momentary twitch of the timeless passage through hyperspace and the final light-year dropped away.

The sun of Kalgan was a sun now–large, bright, and yellow-white; invisible behind the portholes that had automatically closed on the sun-lit side.

Kalgan was only a night’s sleep away.

6. Lord

OF ALL THE worlds of the Galaxy, Kalgan undoubtedly had the most unique history. That of the planet Terminus, for instance, was that of an almost uninterrupted rise. That of Trantor, once capital of the Galaxy, was that of an almost uninterrupted fall. But Kalgan–

Kalgan first gained fame as the pleasure world of the Galaxy two centuries before the birth of Hari Seldon. It was a pleasure world in the sense that it made an industry–and an immensely profitable one, at that–out of amusement.

And it was a stable industry. It was the most stable industry in the Galaxy. When all the Galaxy perished as a civilization, little by little, scarcely a feather’s weight of catastrophe fell upon Kalgan. No matter how the economy and sociology of the neighboring sectors of the Galaxy changed, there was always an elite; and it is always the characteristic of an elite that it possesses leisure as the great reward of its elite-hood.

Kalgan was at the service, therefore, successively–and successfully–of the effete and perfumed dandies of the Imperial Court with their sparkling and libidinous ladies; of the rough and raucous warlords who ruled in iron the worlds they had gained in blood, with their unbridled and lascivious wenches; of the plump and luxurious businessmen of the Foundation, with their lush and flagitious mistresses.

It was quite undiscriminating, since they all had money. And since Kalgan serviced all and barred none; since its commodity was in unfailing demand; since it had the wisdom to interfere in no world’s politics, to stand on no one’s legitimacy, it prospered when nothing else did, and remained fat when all grew thin.

That is, until the Mule. Then, somehow, it fell, too, before a conqueror who was impervious to amusement, or to anything but conquest. To him all planets were alike, even Kalgan.

So for a decade, Kalgan found itself in the strange role of Galactic metropolis; mistress of the greatest Empire since the end of the Galactic Empire itself.

And then, with the death of the Mule, as sudden as the zoom, came the drop. The Foundation broke away. With it and after it, much of the rest of the Mule’s dominions. Fifty years later there was left only the bewildering memory of that short space of power, like an opium dream. Kalgan never quite recovered. It could never return to the unconcerned pleasure world it had been, for the spell of power never quite releases its bold. It lived instead under a succession of men whom the Foundation called the Lords of Kalgan, but who styled themselves First Citizen of the Galaxy, in imitation of the Mule’s only title, and who maintained the fiction that they were conquerors too.

The current Lord of Kalgan had held that position for five months. He had gained it originally by virtue of his position at the head of the Kalganian navy, and through a lamentable lack of caution on the part of the previous lord. Yet no one on Kalgan was quite stupid enough to go into the question of legitimacy too long or too closely. These things happened, and are best accepted.

Yet that sort of survival of the fittest in addition to putting a premium on bloodiness and evil, occasionally allowed capability to come to the fore as well. Lord Stettin was competent enough and not easy to manage.

Not easy for his eminence, the First Minister, who, with fine impartiality, had served the last lord as well as the present; and who would, if he lived long enough, serve the next as honestly.

Nor easy for the Lady Callia, who was Stettin’s more than friend, yet less than wife.

In Lord Stettin’s private apartments the three were alone that evening. The First Citizen, bulky and glistening in the admiral’s uniform that he affected, scowled from out the unupholstered chair in which he sat as stiffly as the plastic of which it was composed. His First Minister Lev Meirus, faced him with a far-off unconcern, his long, nervous fingers stroking absently and rhythmically the deep line that curved from hooked nose along gaunt and sunken cheek to the point, nearly, of the gray-bearded chin. The Lady Callia disposed of herself gracefully on the deeply furred covering of a foamite couch, her full lips trembling a bit in an unheeded pout.

“Sir,” said Meirus–it was the only title adhering to a lord who was styled only First Citizen, “you lack a certain view of the continuity of history. Your own life, with its tremendous revolutions, leads you to think of the course of civilization as something equally amenable to sudden change. But it is not.”

“The Mule showed otherwise.”

“But who can follow in his footsteps. He was more than man, remember. And be, too, was not entirely successful.”

“Poochie,” whimpered the Lady Callia, suddenly, and then shrank into herself at the furious gesture from the First Citizen.

Lord Stettin said, harshly, “Do not interrupt, Callia. Meirus, I am tired of inaction. My predecessor spent his life polishing the navy into a finely-turned instrument that has not its equal in the Galaxy. And he died with the magnificent machine lying idle. Am I to continue that? I, an Admiral of the Navy?

“How long before the machine rusts? At present, it is a drain on the Treasury and returns nothing. Its officers long for dominion, its men for loot. All Kalgan desires the return of Empire and glory. Are you capable of understanding that?”

“These are but words that you use, but I grasp your meaning. Dominion, loot, glory–pleasant when they are obtained, but the process of obtaining them is often risky and always unpleasant. The first fine flush may not last. And in all history, it has never been wise to attack the Foundation. Even the Mule would have been wiser to refrain–”

There were tears in the Lady Callia’s blue, empty eyes. Of late, Poochie scarcely saw her, and now, when he had promised the evening to her, this horrible, thin, gray man, who always looked through her rather than at her, had forced his way in. And Poochie let him. She dared not say anything; was frightened even of the sob that forced its way out.

But Stettin was speaking now in the voice she hated, hard and Impatient. He was saying: “You’re a slave to the far past. The Foundation is greater in volume and population, but they are loosely knit and will fall apart at a blow. What holds them together these days is merely inertia; an inertia I am strong enough to smash. You are hypnotized by the old days when only the Foundation had atomic power. They were able to dodge the last hammer blows of the dying Empire and then faced only the unbrained anarchy of the warlords who would counter the Foundation’s atomic vessels only with hulks and relics.

“But the Mule, my dear Meirus, has changed that. He spread the knowledge, that the Foundation had hoarded to itself, through half the Galaxy and the monopoly in science is gone forever. We can match them.”

“And the Second Foundation?” questioned Meirus, coolly.

“And the Second Foundation?” repeated Stettin as coolly. “Do you know its intentions? It took ten years to stop the Mule, if, indeed, it was the factor, which some doubt. Are you unaware that a good many of the Foundation’s psychologists and sociologists are of the opinion that the Seldon Plan has been completely disrupted since the days of the Mule? If the Plan has gone, then a vacuum exists which I may fill as well as the next man.”

“Our knowledge of these matters is not great enough to warrant the gamble.”

“Our knowledge, perhaps, but we have a Foundation visitor on the planet. Did you know that? A Homir Munn–who, I understand, has written articles on the Mule, and has expressed exactly that opinion, that the Seldon Plan no longer exists.”

The First Minister nodded, “I have heard of him, or at least of his writings. What does he desire?”

“He asks permission to enter the Mule’s palace.”

“Indeed? It would be wise to refuse. It is never advisable to disturb the superstitions with which a planet is held.”

“I will consider that–and we will speak again.”

Meirus bowed himself out.

Lady Callia said tearfully, “Are you angry with me, Poochie?” Stettin turned on her savagely. “Have I not told you before never to call me by that ridiculous name in the presence of others?”

“You used to like it.”

“Well, I don’t any more, and it is not to happen again.”

He stared at her darkly. It was a mystery to him that he tolerated her these days. She was a soft, empty-headed thing, comfortable to the touch, with a pliable affection that was a convenient facet to a hard life. Yet, even that affection was becoming wearisome. She dreamed of marriage, of being First Lady.

Ridiculous!

She was all very well when he had been an admiral only–but now as First Citizen and future conqueror, he needed more. He needed heirs who could unite his future dominions, something the Mule had never had, which was why his Empire did not survive his strange nonhuman life. He, Stettin, needed someone of the great historic families of the Foundation with whom he could fuse dynasties.

He wondered testily why he did not rid himself of Callia now. It would be no trouble. She would whine a bit–He dismissed the thought. She had her points, occasionally.

Callia was cheering up now. The influence of Graybeard was gone and her Poochie’s granite face was softening now. She lifted herself in a single, fluid motion and melted toward him.

“You’re not going to scold me, are you?”

“No.” He patted her absently. “Now just sit quietly for a while, will you? I want to think.”

“About the man from the Foundation?”

“Yes.”

“Poochie?” This was a pause.

“What?”

“Poochie, the man has a little girl with him, you said. Remember? Could I see her when she comes? I never–”

“Now what do you think I want him to bring his brat with him for? Is my audience room to be a grammar school? Enough of your nonsense, Callia.”

“But I’ll take care of her, Poochie. You won’t even have to bother with her. It’s just that I hardly ever see children, and you know how I love them.”

He looked at her sardonically. She never tired of this approach. She loved children; i.e. his children; i.e. his legitimate children; i.e. marriage. He laughed.

“This particular little piece,” he said, “is a great girl of fourteen or fifteen. She’s probably as tall as you are.”

Callia looked crushed. “Well, could I, anyway? She could tell me about the Foundation? I’ve always wanted to go there, you know. My grandfather was a Foundation man. Won’t you take me there, sometime, Poochie?”

Stettin smiled at the thought. Perhaps he would, as conqueror. The good nature that the thought supplied him with made itself felt in his words, “I will, I will. And you can see the girl and talk Foundation to her all you want. But not near me, understand.”

“I won’t bother you, honestly. I’ll have her in my own rooms.” She was happy again. It was not very often these days that she was allowed to have her way. She put her arms about his neck and after the slightest hesitation, she felt its tendons relax and the large head come softly down upon her shoulder.

7. Lady

ARCADIA FELT TRIUMPHANT. How life had changed since Pelleas Anthor had stuck his silly face up against her window–and all because she had the vision and courage to do what needed to be done.

Here she was on Kalgan. She had been to the great Central Theater–the largest in the Galaxy–and seen in person some of the singing stars who were famous even in the distant Foundation. She had shopped all on her own along the Flowered Path, fashion center of the gayest world in Space. And she had made her own selections because Homir just didn’t know anything about it at all. The saleswomen raised no objections at all to long, shiny dresses with those vertical sweeps that made her look so tall–and Foundation money went a long, long way. Homir had given her a ten-credit bill and when she changed it to Kalganian “Kalganids,” it made a terribly thick sheaf.

She had even had her hair redone–sort of half-short in back, with two glistening curls over each temple. And it was treated so that it looked goldier than ever; it just shone.

But this, this was best of all. To be sure, the Palace of Lord Stettin wasn’t as grand and lavish as the theaters, or as mysterious and historical as the old palace of the Mule–of which, so far they had only glimpsed the lonely towers in their air flight across the planet–but, imagine, a real Lord. She was rapt in the glory of it.

And not only that. She was actually face to face with his Mistress. Arcadia capitalized the word in her mind, because she knew the role such women had played in history; knew their glamour and power. In fact, she had often thought of being an all-powerful and glittering creature, herself, but somehow mistresses weren’t in fashion at the Foundation just then and besides, her father probably wouldn’t let her, if it came to that.

Of course, the Lady Callia didn’t quite come up to Arcadia’s notion of the part. For one thing, she was rather plump, and didn’t look at all wicked and dangerous. just sort of faded and near-sighted. Her voice was high, too, instead of throaty, and–

Callia said, “Would you like more tea, child?”

“I’ll have another cup, thank you, your grace,”–or was it your highness?

Arcadia continued with a connoisseur’s condescension, “Those are lovely pearls you are wearing, my lady.” (On the whole, “my lady” seemed best.)

“Oh? Do you think so?” Callia seemed vaguely pleased. She removed them and let them swing milkily to and fro. “Would you like them? You can have them, if you like.”

“Oh, my–You really mean–” She found them in her hand, then, repelling them mournfully, she said, “Father wouldn’t like it.”

“He wouldn’t like the pearls? But they’re quite nice pearls.”

“He wouldn’t like my taking them, I mean. You’re not supposed to take expensive presents from other people, he says.”

“You aren’t? But... I mean, this was a present to me from Poo... from the First Citizen. Was that wrong, do you suppose?”

Arcadia reddened. “I didn’t mean–”

But Callia had tired of the subject. She let the pearls slide to the ground and said, “You were going to tell me about the Foundation. Please do so right now.”

And Arcadia was suddenly at a loss. What does one say about a world dull to tears. To her, the Foundation was a suburban town, a comfortable house, the annoying necessities of education, the uninteresting eternities of a quiet life. She said, uncertainly, “It’s just like you view in the book-films, I suppose.”

“Oh, do you view book-films? They give me such a headache when I try. But do you know I always love video stories about your Traders–such big, savage men. It’s always so exciting. Is your friend, Mr. Munn, one of them? He doesn’t seem nearly savage enough. Most of the Traders had beards and big bass voices, and were so domineering with women–don’t you think so?”

Arcadia smiled, glassily. “That’s just part of history, my lady. I mean, when the Foundation was Young, the Traders were the pioneers pushing back the frontiers and bringing civilization to the rest of the Galaxy. We learned all about that in school. But that time has passed. We don’t have Traders any more; just corporations and things.”

“Really? What a shame. Then what does Mr. Munn do? I mean, if he’s not a Trader.”

“Uncle Homir’s a librarian.”

Callia put a hand to her lips and tittered. “You mean he takes care of book-films. Oh, my! It seems like such a silly thing for a grown man to do.”

“He’s a very good librarian, my lady. It is an occupation that is very highly regarded at the Foundation.” She put down the little, iridescent teacup upon the milky-metaled table surface.

Her hostess was all concern. “But my dear child. I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you. He must be a very intelligent man. I could see it in his eyes as soon as I looked at him. They were so... so intelligent. And he must be brave, too, to want to see the Mule’s palace.”

“Brave?” Arcadia’s internal awareness twitched. This was what she was waiting for. Intrigue! Intrigue! With great indifference, she asked, staring idly at her thumbtip: “Why must one be brave to wish to see the Mule’s palace?”

“Didn’t you know?” Her eyes were round, and her voice sank. “There’s a curse on it. When he died, the Mule directed that no one ever enter it until the Empire of the Galaxy is established. Nobody on Kalgan would dare even to enter the grounds.”

Arcadia absorbed that. “But that’s superstition–”

“Don’t say that,” Callia was distressed. “Poochie always says that. He says it’s useful to say it isn’t though, in order to maintain his hold over the people. But I notice he’s never gone in himself. And neither did Thallos, who was First Citizen before Poochie.” A thought struck her and she was all curiosity again: “But why does Mr. Munn want to see the Palace?”

And it was here that Arcadia’s careful plan could be put into action. She knew well from the books she had read that a ruler’s mistress was the real power behind the throne, that she was the very well-spring of influence. Therefore, if Uncle Homir failed with Lord Stettin–and she was sure he would–she must retrieve that failure with Lady Callia. To be sure, Lady Callia was something of a puzzle. She didn’t seem at all bright. But, well, all history proved–

She said, “There’s a reason, my lady–but will you keep it in confidence?”

“Cross my heart,” said Callia, making the appropriate gesture on the soft, billowing whiteness of her breast.

Arcadia’s thoughts kept a sentence ahead of her words. “Uncle Homir is a great authority on the Mule, you know. He’s written books and books about it, and he thinks that all of Galactic history has been changed since the Mule conquered the Foundation.”

“Oh, my.”

“He thinks the Seldon Plan–”

Callia clapped her hands. “I know about the Seldon Plan. The videos about the Traders were always all about the Seldon Plan. It was supposed to arrange to have the Foundation win all the time. Science had something to do with it, though I could never quite see how. I always get so restless when I have to listen to explanations. But you go right ahead, my dear. It’s different when you explain. You make everything seem so clear.”

Arcadia continued, “Well, don’t you see then that when the Foundation was defeated by the Mule, the Seldon Plan didn’t work and it hasn’t worked since. So who will form the Second Empire?”

“The Second Empire?”

“Yes, one must be formed some day, but how? That’s the problem, you see. And there’s the Second Foundation.”

“The Second Foundation?” She was quite completely lost.

‘Yes, they’re the planners of history that are following in the footsteps of Seldon. They stopped the Mule because he was premature, but now, they may be supporting Kalgan.”

“Why?”

“Because Kalgan may now offer the best chance of being the nucleus for a new Empire.”

Dimly, Lady Callia seemed to grasp that. “You mean Poochie is going to make a new Empire.”

“We can’t tell for sure. Uncle Homir thinks so, but hell have to see the Mule’s records to find out.”

“It’s all very complicated,” said Lady Callia, doubtfully.

Arcadia gave up. She had done her best.

Lord Stettin was in a more-or-less savage humor. The session with the milksop from the Foundation had been quite unrewarding. It had been worse; it had been embarrassing. To be absolute ruler of twenty-seven worlds, master of the Galaxy’s greatest military machine, owner of the universe’s most vaulting ambition–and left to argue nonsense with an antiquarian.

Damnation!

He was to violate the customs of Kalgan, was he? To allow the Mule’s palace to be ransacked so that a fool could write another book? The cause of science! The sacredness of knowledge! Great Galaxy! Were these catchwords to be thrown in his face in all seriousness? Besides–and his flesh prickled slightly–there was the matter of the curse. He didn’t believe in it; no intelligent man could. But if he was going to defy it, it would have to be for a better reason than any the fool had advanced.

“What do you want?” he snapped, and Lady Callia cringed visibly in the doorway.

“Are you busy?”

“Yes. I am busy.”

“But there’s nobody here, Poochie. Couldn’t I even speak to you for a minute?”

“Oh, Galaxy! What do you want? Now hurry.”

Her words stumbled. “The little girl told me they were going into the Mule’s palace. I thought we could go with her. It must be gorgeous inside.”

“She told you that, did she? Well, she isn’t and we aren’t. Now go tend your own business. I’ve had about enough of you.”

“But, Poochie, why not? Aren’t you going to let them? The little girl said that you were going to make an Empire!”

“I don’t care what she said–What was that?” He strode to Callia, and caught her firmly above the elbow, so that his fingers sank deeply into the soft flesh, “What did she tell you?”

“You’re hurting me. I can’t remember what she said, if you’re going to look at me like that.”

He released her, and she stood there for a moment, rubbing vainly at the red marks. She whimpered, “The little girl made me promise not to tell.”

“That’s too bad. Tell me! Now!”

“Well, she said the Seldon Plan was changed and that there was another Foundation somewheres that was arranging to have you make an Empire. That’s all. She said Mr. Munn was a very important scientist and that the Mule’s palace would have proof of all that. That’s every bit of what she said. Are you angry?”

But Stettin did not answer. He left the room, hurriedly, with Callia’s cowlike eyes staring mournfully after him. Two orders were sent out over the official seal of the First Citizen before the hour was up. One had the effect of sending five hundred ships of the line into space on what were officially to be termed as “war games.” The other had the effect of throwing a single man into confusion.

Homir Munn ceased his preparations to leave when that second order reached him. It was, of course, official permission to enter the palace of the Mule. He read and reread it with anything but joy.

But Arcadia was delighted. She knew what had happened.

Or, at any rate, she thought she did.

8. Anxiety

POLI PLACED THE breakfast on the table, keeping one eye on the table news-recorder which quietly disgorged the bulletins of the day. It could be done easily enough without loss of efficiency, this one-eye-absent business. Since all items of food were sterilely packed in containers which served as discardable cooking units, her duties vis-a-vis breakfast consisted of nothing more than choosing the menu, placing the items on the table, and removing the residue thereafter.

She clacked her tongue at what she saw and moaned softly in retrospect.

“Oh, people are so wicked,” she said, and Darell merely hemmed in reply.

Her voice took on the high-pitched rasp which she automatically assumed when about to bewail the evil of the world. “Now why do these terrible Kalganese”–she accented the second syIlable and gave it a long “a”–” do like that? You’d think they’d give a body peace. But no, it’s just trouble, trouble, all the time.

“Now look at that headline: ‘Mobs Riot Before Foundation Consulate.’ Oh, would I like to give them a piece of my mind, if I could. That’s the trouble with people; they just don’t remember. They just don’t remember, Dr. Darell–got no memory at all. Look at the last war after the Mule died–of course I was just a little girl then–and oh, the fuss and trouble. My own uncle was killed, him being just in his twenties and only two years married, with a baby girl. I remember him even yet–blond hair he had, and a dimple in his chin. I have a trimensional cube of him somewheres–

“And now his baby girl has a son of her own in the navy and most like if anything happens–

“And we had the bombardment patrols, and all the old men taking turns in the stratospheric defense–I could imagine what they would have been able to do if the Kalganese had come that far. My mother used to tell us children about the food rationing and the prices and taxes. A body could hardly make ends meet–

“You’d think if they had sense people would just never want to start it again; just have nothing to do with it. And I suppose it’s not people that do it, either; I suppose even Kalganese would rather sit at home with their families and not go fooling around in ships and getting killed. It’s that awful man, Stettin. It’s a wonder people like that are let live. He kills the old man–what’s his name–Thallos, and now he’s just spoiling to be boss of everything.

“And why he wants to fight us, I don’t know. He’s bound to lose–like they always do. Maybe it’s all in the Plan, but sometimes I’m sure it must be a wicked plan to have so much fighting and killing in it, though to be sure I haven’t a word to say about Hari Seldon, who I’m sure knows much more about that than I do and perhaps I’m a fool to question him. And the other Foundation is as much to blame. They could stop Kalgan now and make everything fine. They’ll do it anyway in the end, and you’d think they’d do it before there’s any damage done.”

Dr. Darell looked up. “Did you say something, Poli?”

Poli’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed angrily. “Nothing, doctor, nothing at all. I haven’t got a word to say. A body could as soon choke to death as say a word in this house. It’s jump here, and jump there, but just try to say a word–” and she went off simmering.

Her leaving made as little impression on Darell as did her speaking.

Kalgan! Nonsense! A merely physical enemy! Those had always been beaten!

Yet he could not divorce himself of the current foolish crisis. Seven days earlier, the mayor had asked him to be Administrator of Research and Development. He had promised an answer today.

Well–

He stirred uneasily. Why, himself! Yet could he refuse? It would seem strange, and he dared not seem strange. After all, what did he care about Kalgan. To him there was only one enemy. Always had been.

While his wife had lived, he was only too glad to shirk the task; to hide. Those long, quiet days on Trantor, with the ruins of the past about them! The silence of a wrecked world and the forgetfulness of it all!

But she had died. Less than five years, all told, it had been; and after that he knew that he could live only by fighting that vague and fearful enemy that deprived him of the dignity of manhood by controlling his destiny; that made life a miserable struggle against a foreordained end; that made all the universe a hateful and deadly chess game.

Call it sublimation; he, himself did can it that–but the fight gave meaning to his life.

First to the University of Santanni, where he had joined Dr. Kleise. It had been five years well-spent.

And yet Kleise was merely a gatherer of data. He could not succeed in the real task–and when Darell had felt that as certainty, he knew it was time to leave.

Kleise may have worked in secret, yet he had to have men working for him and with him. He had subjects whose brains he probed. He had a University that backed him. All these were weaknesses.

Kleise could not understand that; and he, Darell, could not explain that. They parted enemies. It was well; they had to. He had to leave in surrender–in case someone watched.

Where Kleise worked with charts; Darell worked with mathematical concepts in the recesses of his mind. Kleise worked with many; Darell with none. Kleise in a University; Darell in the quiet of a suburban house.

And he was almost there.

A Second Foundationer is not human as far as his cerebrum is concerned. The cleverest physiologist, the most subtle neurochemist might detect nothing–yet the difference must be there.

And since the difference was one of the mind, it was there that it must be detectable.

Given a man like the Mule–and there was no doubt that the Second Foundationers had the Mule’s powers, whether inborn or acquired–with the power of detecting and controlling human emotions, deduce from that the electronic circuit required, and deduce from that the last details of the encephalograph on which it could not help but be betrayed.

And now Kleise had returned into his life, in the person of his ardent young pupil, Anthor.

Folly! Folly! With his graphs and charts of people who had been tampered with. He had learned to detect that years ago, but of what use was it. He wanted the arm; not the tool. Yet he had to agree to join Anthor, since it was the quieter course.

Just as now he would become Administrator of Research and Development. It was the quieter course! And so he remained a conspiracy within a conspiracy.

The thought of Arcadia teased him for a moment, and he shuddered away from it. Left to himself, it would never have happened. Left to himself, no one would ever have been endangered but himself. Left to himself–

He felt the anger rising-against the dead Kleise, the living Anthor, all the well-meaning fools–

Well, she could take care of herself. She was a very mature little girl.

She could take care of herself!

It was a whisper in his mind–

Yet could she?

At the moment, that Dr. Darell told himself mournfully that she could, she was sitting in the coldly austere anteroom of the Executive Offices of the First Citizen of the Galaxy. For half an hour she had been sitting there, her eyes sliding slowly about the walls. There had been two armed guards at the door when she had entered with Homir Munn. They hadn’t been there the other times.

She was alone, now, yet she sensed the unfriendliness of the very furnishings of the room. And for the first time.

Now, why should that be?

Homir was with Lord Stettin. Well, was that wrong?

It made her furious. In similar situations in the book-films and the videos, the hero foresaw the conclusion, was prepared for it when it came, and she–she just sat there. Anything could happen. Anything! And she just sat there.

Well, back again. Think it back. Maybe something would come.

For two weeks, Homir had nearly lived inside the Mule’s palace. He had taken her once, with Stettin’s permission. It was large and gloomily massive, shrinking from the touch of life to lie sleeping within its ringing memories, answering the footsteps with a hollow boom or a savage clatter. She hadn’t liked it.

Better the great, gay highways of the capital city; the theaters and spectacles of a world essentially poorer than the Foundation, yet spending more of its wealth on display.

Homir would return in the evening, awed–

“It’s a dream-world for me,” he would whisper. “If I could only chip the palace down stone by stone, layer by layer of the aluminum sponge. If I could carry it back to Terminus–What a museum it would make.”

He seemed to have lost that early reluctance. He was eager, instead; glowing. Arcadia knew that by the one sure sign; he practically never stuttered throughout that period.

One time, he said, “There are abstracts of the records of General Pritcher–”

“I know him. He was the Foundation renegade, who combed the Galaxy for the Second Foundation, wasn’t he?”

“Not exactly a renegade, Arkady. The Mule had Converted him.”

“Oh, it’s the same thing.”

“Galaxy, that combing you speak of was a hopeless task. The original records of the Seldon Convention that established both Foundations five hundred years ago, make only one reference to the Second Foundation. They say if’s located ‘at the other end of the Galaxy at Star’s End.’ That’s all the Mule and Pritcher had to go on. They had no method of recognizing the Second Foundation even if they found it. What madness!

“They have records”–he was speaking to himself, but Arcadia listened eagerly–” which must cover nearly a thousand worlds, yet the number of worlds available for study must have been closer to a million. And we are no better off–”

Arcadia broke in anxiously, “Shhh-h” in a tight hiss.

Homir froze, and slowly recovered. “Let’s not talk,” he mumbled.

And now Homir was with Lord Stettin and Arcadia waited outside alone and felt the blood squeezing out of her heart for no reason at all. That was more frightening than anything else. That there seemed no reason.

On the other side of the door, Homir, too, was living in a sea of gelatin. He was fighting, with furious intensity, to keep from stuttering and, of course, could scarcely speak two consecutive words clearly as a result.

Lord Stettin was in full uniform, six-feet-six, large-jawed, and hard-mouthed. His balled, arrogant fists kept a powerful time to his sentences.

“Well, you have had two weeks, and you come to me with tales of nothing. Come, sir, tell me the worst. Is my Navy to be cut to ribbons? Am I to fight the ghosts of the Second Foundation as well as the men of the First?”

“I... I repeat, my lord, I am no p... pre... predictor. I... I am at a complete... loss.”

“Or do you wish to go back to warn your countrymen? To deep Space with your play-acting. I want the truth or I’ll have it out of you along with half your guts.”

“I’m t... telling only the truth, and I’ll have you re... remember, my l... lord, that I am a citizen of the Foundation. Y... you cannot touch me without harvesting m... m... more than you count on.”

The Lord of Kalgan laughed uproariously. “A threat to frighten children. A horror with which to beat back an idiot. Come, Mr. Munn, I have been patient with you. I have listened to you for twenty minutes while you detailed wearisome nonsense to me which must have cost you sleepless nights to compose. It was wasted effort. I know you are here not merely to rake through the Mule’s dead ashes and to warm over the cinders you findyou come here for more than you have admitted. Is that not true?”

Homir Munn could no more have quenched the burning horror that grew in his eyes than, at that moment, he could have breathed. Lord Stettin saw that, and clapped the Foundation man upon his shoulder so that he and the chair he sat on reeled under the impact.

“Good. Now let us be frank. You are investigating the Seldon Plan. You know that it no longer holds. You know, perhaps, that I am the inevitable winner now; I and my heirs. Well, man, what matters it who established the Second Empire, so long as it is established. History plays no favorites, eh? Are you afraid to tell me? You see that I know your mission.”

Munn said thickly, “What is it y... you w... want?”

“Your presence. I would not wish the Plan spoiled through overconfidence. You understand more of these things than I do; you can detect small flaws that I might miss. Come, you will be rewarded in the end; you will have your fair glut of the loot. What can you expect at the Foundation? To turn the tide of a perhaps inevitable defeat? To lengthen the war? Or is it merely a patriotic desire to die for your country?”

“I... I–” He finally spluttered into silence. Not a word would come.

“You will stay,” said the Lord of Kalgan, confidently. “You have no choice. Wait”–an almost forgotten afterthought–” I have information to the effect that your niece is of the family of Bayta Darell.”

Homir uttered a startled: “Yes.” He could not trust himself at this point to be capable of weaving anything but cold truth.

“It is a family of note on the Foundation?”

Homir nodded, “To whom they would certainly b... brook no harm.”

“Harm! Don’t be a fool, man; I am meditating the reverse. How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Sol Well, not even the Second Foundation, or Hari Seldon, himself, could stop time from passing or girls from becoming women.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode to a draped door which he threw open violently.

He thundered, “What in Space have you dragged your shivering carcass here for?”

The Lady Callia blinked at him, and said in a small voice, “I didn’t know anyone was with you.”

“Well, there is. I’ll speak to you later of this, but now I want to see your back, and quickly.”

Her footsteps were a fading scurry in the corridor.

Stettin returned, “She is a remnant of an interlude that has lasted too long. It will end soon. Fourteen, you say?”

Homir stared at him with a brand-new horror!

Arcadia started at the noiseless opening of a door–jumping at the jangling sliver of movement it made in the comer of her eye. The finger that crooked frantically at her met no response for long moments, and then, as if in response to the cautions enforced by the very sight of that white, trembling figure, she tiptoed her way across the floor.

Their footsteps were a taut whisper in the corridor. It was the Lady Callia, of course, who held her hand so tightly that it hurt, and for some reason, she did not mind following her. Of the Lady Callia, at least, she was not afraid.

Now, why was that?

They were in a boudoir now, all pink fluff and spun sugar. Lady Callia stood with her back against the door.

She said, “This was our private way to me... to my room, you know, from his office. His, you know.” And she pointed with a thumb, as though even the thought of him were grinding her soul to death with fear.

“It’s so lucky... it’s so lucky–” Her pupils had blackened out the blue with their size.

“Can you tell me–” began Arcadia timidly.

And Callia was in frantic motion. “No, child, no. There is no time. Take off your clothes. Please. Please. I’ll get you more, and they won’t recognize you.”

She was in the closet, throwing useless bits of flummery in reckless heaps upon the ground, looking madly for something a girl could wear without becoming a living invitation to dalliance.

“Here, this will do. It will have to. Do you have money? Here, take it all–and this.” She was stripping her ears and fingers. “Just go home–go home to your Foundation.”

“But Homir... my uncle.” She protested vainly through the muffling folds of the sweet-smelling and luxurious spun-metal being forced over her head.

“He won’t leave. Poochie will hold him forever, but you mustn’t stay. Oh, dear, don’t you understand?”

“No.” Arcadia forced a standstill, “I don’t understand.”

Lady Callia squeezed her hands tightly together. “You must go back to warn your people there will be war. Isn’t that clear?” Absolute terror seemed paradoxically to have lent a lucidity to her thoughts and words that was entirely out of character. “Now come!”

Out another way! Past officials who stared after them, but saw no reason to stop one whom only the Lord of Kalgan could stop with impunity. Guards clicked heels and presented arms when they went through doors.

Arcadia breathed only on occasion through the years the trip seemed to take–yet from the first crooking of the white finger to the time she stood at the outer gate, with people and noise and traffic in the distance was only twenty-five minutes.

She looked back, with a sudden frightened pity. “I... I... don’t know why you’re doing this, my lady, but thanks–What’s going to happen to Uncle Homir?”

“I don’t know,” wailed the other. “Can’t you leave? Go straight to the spaceport. Don’t wait. He may be looking for you this very minute.”

And still Arcadia lingered. She would be leaving Homir; and, belatedly, now that she felt the free air about her, she was suspicious. “But what do you care if he does?”

Lady Callia bit her lower lip and muttered, “I can’t explain to a little girl like you. It would be improper. Well, you’ll be growing up and I... I met Poochie when I was sixteen. I can’t have you about, you know.” There was a half-ashamed hostility in her eyes.

The implications froze Arcadia. She whispered: “What will he do to you when he finds out?”

And she whimpered back: “I don’t know,” and threw her arm to her head as she left at a half-run, back along the wide way to the mansion of the Lord of Kalgan.

But for one eternal second, Arcadia still did not move, for in that last moment before Lady Callia left, Arcadia had seen something. Those frightened, frantic eyes had momentarily–flashingly–lit up with a cold amusement.

A vast, inhuman amusement.

It was much to see in such a quick flicker of a pair of eyes, but Arcadia had no doubt of what she saw.

She was running now–running wildly–searching madly for an unoccupied public booth at which one could press a button for public conveyance.

She was not running from Lord Stettin; not from him or from all the human hounds he could place at her heels–not from all his twenty-seven worlds rolled into a single gigantic phenomenon, hallooing at her shadow.

She was running from a single, frail woman who had helped her escape. From a creature who had loaded her with money and jewels; who had risked her own life to save her. From an entity she knew, certainly and finally, to be a woman of the Second Foundation.

An air-taxi came to a soft clicking halt in the cradle. The wind of its coming brushed against Arcadia’s face and stirred at the hair beneath the softly-furred hood Callia had given her.

“Where’ll it be, lady?”

She fought desperately to low-pitch her voice to make it not that of a child. “How many spaceports in the city?”

“Two. Which one ya want?”

“Which is closer?”

He stared at her: “Kalgan Central, lady.”

“The other one, please. I’ve got the money.” She had a twenty-Kalganid note in her hand. The denomination of the note made little difference to her, but the taxi-man grinned appreciatively.

“Anything ya say, lady. Sky-line cabs take ya anywhere.”

She cooled her cheek against the slightly musty upholstery. The lights of the city moved leisurely below her.

What should she do? What should she do?

It was in that moment that she knew she was a stupid, stupid little girl, away from her father, and frightened. Her eyes were full of tears, and deep down in her throat, there was a small, soundless cry that hurt her insides.

She wasn’t afraid that Lord Stettin would catch her. Lady Callia would see to that. Lady Callia! Old, fat, stupid, but she held on to her lord, somehow. Oh, it was clear enough, now. Everything was clear.

That tea with Callia at which she had been so smart. Clever little Arcadia! Something inside Arcadia choked and hated itself. That tea had been maneuvered, and then Stettin had probably been maneuvered so that Homir was allowed to inspect the Palace after all. She, the foolish Callia, has wanted it so, and arranged to have smart little Arcadia supply a foolproof excuse, one which would arouse no suspicions in the minds of the victims, and yet involve a minimum of interference on her part.

Then why was she free? Homir was a prisoner, of course–

Unless–

Unless she went back to the Foundation as a decoy–a decoy to lead others into the hands of... of them.

So she couldn’t return to the Foundation–

“Spaceport, lady.” The air-taxi had come to a halt. Strange! She hadn’t even noticed.

What a dream-world it was.

“Thanks,” she pushed the bill at him without seeing anything and was stumbling out the door, then running across the springy pavement.

Lights. Unconcerned men and women. Large gleaming bulletin boards, with the moving figures that followed every single spaceship that arrived and departed.

Where was she going? She didn’t care. She only knew that she wasn’t going to the Foundation! Anywhere else at all would suit.

Oh, thank Seldon, for that forgetful moment–that last split-second when Callia wearied of her act because she had to do only with a child and had let her amusement spring through.

And then something else occurred to Arcadia, something that had been stirring and moving at the base of her brain ever since the flight began–something that forever killed the fourteen in her.

And she knew that she must escape.

That above all. Though they located every conspirator on the Foundation; though they caught her own father; she could not dared not, risk a warning. She could not risk her own life–not in the slightest–for the entire realm of Terminus. She was the most important person in the Galaxy. She was the only important person in the Galaxy.

She knew that even as she stood before the ticket-machine and wondered where to go.

Because in all the Galaxy, she and she alone, except for they, themselves, knew the location of the Second Foundation.

9. Through the Grid

TRANTOR - BY THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERREGNUM, TRANTOR WAS A SHADOW. IN THE MIDST OF THE COLOSSAL RUINS, THERE LIVED A SMALL COMMUNITY OF FARMERS....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

THERE IS NOTHING, never has been anything, quite like a busy spaceport on the outskirts of a capital city of a populous planet. There are the huge machines resting mightily in their cradles. If you choose your time properly, there is the impressive sight of the sinking giant dropping to rest or, more hair-raising still, the swiftening departure of a bubble of steel. All processes involved are nearly noiseless. The motive power is the silent surge of nucleons shifting into more compact arrangements

In terms of area, ninety-five percent of the port has just been referred to. Square miles are reserved for the machines, and for the men who serve them and for the calculators that serve both.

Only five percent of the port is given over to the floods of humanity to whom it is the way station to all the stars of the Galaxy. It is certain that very few of the anonymous many-headed stop to consider the technological mesh that knits the spaceways. Perhaps some of them might itch occasionally at the thought of the thousands of tons represented by the sinking steel that looks so small off in the distance. One of those cyclopean cylinders could, conceivably, miss the guiding beam and crash half a mile from its expected landing point–through the glassite roof of the immense waiting room perhaps–so that only a thin organic vapor and some powdered phosphates would be left behind to mark the passing of a thousand men.

It could never happen, however, with the safety devices in use; and only the badly neurotic would consider the possibility for more than a moment.

Then what do they think about? It is not just a crowd, you see. It is a crowd with a purpose. That purpose hovers over the field and thickens the atmosphere. Lines queue up; parents herd their children; baggage is maneuvered in precise masses–people are going somewheres.

Consider then the complete psychic isolation of a single unit of this terribly intent mob that does not know where to go; yet at the same time feels more intensely than any of the others possibly can, the necessity of going somewheres; anywhere! Or almost anywhere!

Even lacking telepathy or any of the crudely definite methods of mind touching mind, there is a sufficient clash in atmosphere, in intangible mood, to suffice for despair.

To suffice? To overflow, and drench, and drown.

Arcadia Darell, dressed in borrowed clothes, standing on a borrowed planet in a borrowed situation of what seemed even to be a borrowed life, wanted earnestly the safety of the womb. She didn’t know that was what she wanted. She only knew that the very openness of the open world was a great danger. She wanted a closed spot somewhere–somewhere far–somewhere in an unexplored nook of the universe–where no one would ever look.

And there she was, age fourteen plus, weary enough for eighty plus, frightened enough for five minus.

What stranger of the hundreds that brushed past her–actually brushed past her, so that she could feel their touch–was a Second Foundationer? What stranger could not help but instantly destroy her for her guilty knowledge–her unique knowledge–of knowing where the Second Foundation was?

And the voice that cut in on her was a thunderclap that iced the scream in her throat into a voiceless slash.

“Look, miss,” it said, irritably, “are you using the ticket machine or are you just standing there?”

It was the first she realized that she was standing in front of a ticket machine. You put a high denomination bill into the clipper which sank out of sight. You pressed the button below your destination and a ticket came out together with the correct change as determined by an electronic scanning device that never made a mistake. It was a very ordinary thing and there is no cause for anyone to stand before it for five minutes.

Arcadia plunged a two-hundred credit into the clipper, and was suddenly aware of the button labeled “Trantor.” Trantor, dead capital of the dead Empire–the planet on which she was born. She pressed it in a dream. Nothing happened, except that the red letters flicked on and off, reading 172.18–172.18–172.18–

It was the amount she was short. Another two-hundred credit. The ticket was spit out towards her. It came loose when she touched it, and the change tumbled out afterward.

She seized it and ran. She felt the man behind her pressing close, anxious for his own chance at the machine, but she twisted out from before him and did not look behind.

Yet there was nowhere to run. They were all her enemies.

Without quite realizing it, she was watching the gigantic, glowing signs that puffed into the air: Steffani, Anacreon, Fermus–There was even one that ballooned, Terminus, and she longed for it, but did not dare–

For a trifling sum, she could have hired a notifier which could have been set for any destination she cared and which would, when placed in her purse, make itself heard only to her, fifteen minutes before take-off time. But such devices are for people who are reasonably secure, however; who can pause to think of them.

And then, attempting to look both ways simultaneously, she ran head-on into a soft abdomen. She felt the startled outbreath and grunt, and a hand come down on her arm. She writhed desperately but lacked breath to do more than mew a bit in the back of her throat.

Her captor held her firmly and waited. Slowly, he came into focus for her and she managed to look at him. He was rather plump and rather short. His hair was white and copious, being brushed back to give a pompadour effect that looked strangely incongruous above a round and ruddy face that shrieked its peasant origin.

“What’s the matter?” he said finally, with a frank and twinkling curiosity. “You look scared.”

“Sorry,” muttered Arcadia in a frenzy. “I’ve got to go. Pardon me.”

But he disregarded that entirely, and said, “Watch out, little girl. You’ll drop your ticket.” And he lifted it from her resistless white fingers and looked at it with every evidence of satisfaction.

“I thought so,” he said, and then bawled in bull-like tones, “Mommuh!”

A woman was instantly at his side, somewhat more short, somewhat more round, somewhat more ruddy. She wound a finger about a stray gray lock to shove it beneath a well-outmoded hat.

“Pappa,” she said, reprovingly, “why do you shout in a crowd like that? People look at you like you were crazy. Do you think you are on the farm?”

And she smiled sunnily at the unresponsive Arcadia, and added, “He has manners like a bear.” Then, sharply, “Pappa, let go the little girl. What are you doing?”

But Pappa simply waved the ticket at her. “Look,” he said, “she’s going to Trantor.”

Mamma’s face was a sudden beam, “You’re from Trantor? Let go her arm, I say, Pappa.” She turned the overstuffed valise she was carrying onto its side and forced Arcadia to sit down with a gentle but unrelenting pressure. “Sit down,” she said, “and rest your little feet. It will be no ship yet for an hour and the benches are crowded with sleeping loafers. You are from Trantor?”

Arcadia drew a deep breath and gave in. Huskily, she said, “I was born there.”

And Mamma clapped her hands gleefully, “One month we’ve been here and till now we met nobody from home. This is very nice. Your parents–” she looked about vaguely.

“I’m not with my parents,” Arcadia said, carefully.

“All alone? A little girl like you?” Mamma was at once a blend of indignation and sympathy, “How does that come to be?”

“Mamma,” Pappa plucked at her sleeve, “let me tell you. There’s something wrong. I think she’s frightened.” His voice, though obviously intended for a whisper was quite plainly audible to Arcadia. “She was running–I was watching her–and not looking where she was going. Before I could step out of the way, she bumped into me. And you know what? I think she’s in trouble.”

“So shut your mouth, Pappa. Into you, anybody could bump.” But she joined Arcadia on the valise, which creaked wearily under the added weight and put an arm about the girl’s trembling shoulder. “You’re running away from somebody, sweetheart? Don’t be afraid to tell me. III help you.”

Arcadia looked across at the kind gray eyes of the woman and felt her lips quivering. One part of her brain was telling her that here were people from Trantor, with whom she could go, who could help her remain on that planet until she could decide what next to do, where next to go. And another part of her brain, much the louder, was telling her in jumbled incoherence that she did not remember her mother, that she was weary to death of fighting the universe, that she wanted only to curl into a little hall with strong, gentle arms about her, that if her mother had lived, she might... she might–

And for the first time that night, she was crying; crying like a little baby, and glad of it; clutching tightly at the old-fashioned dress and dampening a corner of it thoroughly, while soft arms held her closely and a gentle hand stroked her curls.

Pappa stood helplessly looking at the pair, fumbling futilely for a handkerchief which, when produced, was snatched from his hand. Mamma glared an admonition of quietness at him. The crowds surged about the little group with the true indifference of disconnected crowds everywhere. They were effectively alone.

Finally, the weeping trickled to a halt, and Arcadia smiled weakly as she dabbed at red eyes with the borrowed handkerchief. “Golly,” she whispered,

“Shh. Shh. Don’t talk,” said Mamma, fussily, “just sit and rest for a while. Catch your breath. Then tell us what’s wrong, and you’ll see, we’ll fix it up, and everything will be all right.”

Arcadia scrabbled what remained of her wits together. She could not tell them the truth. She could tell nobody the truth–And yet she was too worn to invent a useful lie.

She said, whisperingly, “I’m better, now.”

“Good,” said Mamma. “Now tell me why you’re in trouble. You did nothing wrong? Of course, whatever you did, well help you; but tell us the truth.”

“For a friend from Trantor, anything,” added Pappa, expansively, “eh, Mamma?”

“Shut your mouth, Pappa,” was the response, without rancor.

Arcadia was groping in her purse. That, at least, was still hers, despite the rapid clothes-changing forced upon her in Lady Callia’s apartments. She found what she was looking for and handed it to Mamma.

“These are my papers,” she said, diffidently. It was shiny, synthetic parchment which had been issued her by the Foundation’s ambassador on the day of her arrival and which had been countersigned by the appropriate Kalganian official. It was large, florid, and impressive. Mamma looked at it helplessly, and passed it to Pappa who absorbed its contents with an impressive pursing of the lips.

He said, “You’re from the Foundation?”

“Yes. But I was born in Trantor. See it says that–”

“Ah-hah. It looks all right to me. You’re named Arcadia, eh? That’s a good Trantorian name. But where’s your uncle? It says here you came in the company of Homir Munn, uncle.”

“He’s been arrested,” said Arcadia, drearily.

“Arrested!”–from the two of them at once. “What for?” asked Mamma. “He did something?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. We were just on a visit. Uncle Homir had business with Lord Stettin but–” She needed no effort to act a shudder. It was there.

Pappa was impressed. “With Lord Stettin. Mm-m-m, your uncle must be a big man.”

“I don’t know what it was all about, but Lord Stettin wanted me to stay–” She was recalling the last words of Lady Callia, which had been acted out for her benefit. Since Callia, as she now knew, was an expert, the story could do for a second time.

She paused, and Mamma said interestedly, “And why you?”

“I’m not sure. He... he wanted to have dinner with me all alone, but I said no, because I wanted Uncle Homir along. He looked at me funny and kept holding my shoulder.”

Pappa’s mouth was a little open, but Mamma was suddenly red and angry. “How old are you, Arcadia?”

“Fourteen and a half, almost.”

Mamma drew a sharp breath and said, “That such people should be let live. The dogs in the streets are better. You’re running from him, dear, is not?”

Arcadia nodded.

Mamma said, “Pappa, go right to Information and find out exactly when the ship to Trantor comes to berth. Hurry!”

But Pappa took one step and stopped. Loud metallic words were booming overhead, and five thousand pairs of eyes looked startledly upwards.

“Men and women,” it said, with sharp force. “The airport is being searched for a dangerous fugitive, and it is now surrounded. No one can enter and no one can leave. The search will, however, be conducted with great speed and no ships will reach or leave berth during the interval, so you will not miss your ship. I repeat, no one will miss his ship. The grid will descend. None of you will move outside your square until the grid is removed, as otherwise we will be forced to use our neuronic whips.”

During the minute or less in which the voice dominated the vast dome of the spaceport’s waiting room, Arcadia could not have moved if all the evil in the Galaxy had concentrated itself into a ball and hurled itself at her.

They could mean only her. It was not even necessary to formulate that idea as a specific thought. But why–

Callia had engineered her escape. And Callia was of the Second Foundation. Why, then, the search now? Had Callia failed? Could Callia fail? Or was this part of the plan, the intricacies of which escaped her?

For a vertiginous moment, she wanted to jump up and shout that she gave up, that she would go with them, that... that–

But Mamma’s hand was on her wrist. “Quick! “Quick! Well go to the lady’s room before they start.”

Arcadia did not understand. She merely followed blindly. They oozed through the crowd, frozen as it was into clumps, with the voice still booming through its last words.

The grid was descending now, and Pappa, openmouthed, watched it come down. He had heard of it and read of it, but had never actually been the object of it. It glimmered in the air, simply a series of cross-hatched and tight radiation-beams that set the air aglow in a harmless network of flashing light.

It always was so arranged as to descend slowly from above in order that it might represent a falling net with all the terrific psychological implications of entrapment.

It was at waist-level now, ten feet between glowing lines in each direction. In his own hundred square feet, Pappa found himself alone, yet the adjoining squares were crowded. He felt himself conspicuously isolated but knew that to move into the greater anonymity of a group would have meant crossing one of those glowing lines, stirring an alarm, and bringing down the neuronic whip.

He waited.

He could make out over the heads of the eerily quiet and waiting mob, the far-off stir that was the line of policemen covering the vast floor area, lighted square by lighted square.

It was a long time before a uniform stepped into his square and carefully noted its co-ordinates into an official notebook.

“Papers!”

Pappa handed them over, and they were flipped through in expert fashion.

“You’re Preem Palver, native of Trantor, on Kalgan for a month, returning to Trantor. Answer, yes or no.”

“Yes, yes.”

“What’s your business on Kalgan?”

“I’m trading representative of our farm co-operative. I’ve been negotiating terms with the Department of Agriculture on Kalgan.

“Um-m-m. Your wife is with you? Where is she? She is mentioned in your papers.”

“Please. My wife is in the–” He pointed.

“Hanto,” roared the policeman. Another uniform joined him.

The first one said, dryly, “Another dame in the can, by the Galaxy. The place must be busting with them. Write down her name.” He indicated the entry in the papers which gave it.

“Anyone else with you?”

“My niece.”

“She’s not mentioned in the papers.”

“She came separately.”

“Where is she? Never mind, I know. Write down the niece’s name, too, Hanto. What’s her name? Write down Arcadia Palver. You stay right here, Palver. We’ll take care of the women before we leave.”

Pappa waited interminably. And then, long, long after, Mamma was marching toward him, Arcadia’s hand firmly in hers, the two policemen trailing behind her.

They entered Pappa’s square, and one said, “Is this noisy old woman your wife?”

“Yes, sir,” said Pappa, placatingly.

“Then you’d better tell her she’s liable to get into trouble if she talks the way she does to the First Citizen’s police.” He straightened his shoulders angrily. “Is this your niece?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want her papers.”

Looking straight at her husband, Mamma slightly, but no less firmly, shook her head.

A short pause, and Pappa said with a weak smile, “I don’t think I can do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t do that?” The policeman thrust out a hard palm. “Hand it over.”

“Diplomatic immunity,” said Pappa, softly.

“What do you mean?”

“I said I was trading representative of my farm co-operative. I’m accredited to the Kalganian government as an official foreign representative and my papers prove it. I showed them to you and now I don’t want to be bothered any more.”

For a moment, the policeman was taken aback. “I got to see your papers. It’s orders.”

“You go away,” broke in Mamma, suddenly. “When we want you, we’ll send for you, you... you bum.”

The policeman’s lips tightened. “Keep your eye on them, Hanto. I’ll get the lieutenant.”

“Break a leg!” called Mamma after him. Someone laughed, and then choked it off suddenly.

The search was approaching its end. The crowd was growing dangerously restless. Forty-five minutes had elapsed since the grid had started falling and that is too long for best effects. Lieutenant Dirige threaded his way hastily, therefore, toward the dense center of the mob.

“Is this the girl?” he asked wearily. He looked at her and she obviously fitted the description. All this for a child.

He said, “Her papers, if you please?”

Pappa began, “I have already explained–”

“I know what you have explained, and I’m sorry,” said the lieutenant, “but I have my orders, and I can’t help them. If you care to make a protest later, you may. Meanwhile, if necessary, I must use force.”

There was a pause, and the lieutenant waited patiently.

Then Pappa said, huskily, “Give me your papers, Arcadia.”

Arcadia shook her head in panic, but Pappa nodded his head. “Don’t be afraid. Give them to me.”

Helplessly she reached out and let the documents change hands. Pappa fumbled them open and looked carefully through them, then handed them over. The lieutenant in his turn looked through them carefully. For a long moment, he raised his eyes to rest them on Arcadia, and then he closed the booklet with a sharp snap.

“All in order,” he said. “All right, men.”

He left, and in two minutes, scarcely more, the grid was gone, and the voice above signified a back-to-normal. The noise of the crowd, suddenly released, rose high.

Arcadia said: “How... how–”

Pappa said, “Sh-h. Don’t say a word. Let’s better go to the ship. It should be in the berth soon.”

They were on the ship. They had a private stateroom and a table to themselves in the dining room. Two light-years already separated them from Kalgan, and Arcadia finally dared to broach the subject again.

She said, “But they were after me, Mr. Palver, and they must have had my description and all the details. Why did he let me go?”

And Pappa smiled broadly over his roast beef. “Well, Arcadia, child, it was easy. When you’ve been dealing with agents and buyers and competing co-operatives, you learn some of the tricks. I’ve had twenty years or more to learn them in. You see, child, when the lieutenant opened your papers, he found a five hundred credit bill inside, folded up small. Simple, no?”

“I’ll pay you back–Honest, I’ve got lots of money.”

“Well,” Pappa’s broad face broke into an embarrassed smile, as he waved it away. “For a country-woman–”

Arcadia desisted. “But what if he’d taken the money and turned me in anyway. And accused me of bribery.”

“And give up five hundred credits? I know these people better than you do, girl.”

But Arcadia knew that he did not know people better. Not these people. In her bed that night, she considered carefully, and knew that no bribe would have stopped a police lieutenant in the matter of catching her unless that had been planned. They didn’t want to catch her, yet had made every motion of doing so, nevertheless.

Why? To make sure she left? And for Trantor? Were the obtuse and soft-hearted couple she was with now only a pair of tools in the hands of the Second Foundation, as helpless as she herself?

They must be!

Or were they?

It was all so useless. How could she fight them. Whatever she did, it might only be what those terrible omnipotents wanted her to do.

Yet she had to outwit them. Had to. Had to! Had to!!

10. Beginning of War

FOR REASON OR reasons unknown to members of the Galaxy at the time of the era under discussion, Intergalactic Standard Time defines its fundamental unit, the second, as the time in which light travels 299,776 kilometers. 86,400 seconds are arbitrarily set equal to one Intergalactic Standard Day; and 365 of these days to one Intergalactic Standard Year.

Why 299,776?–Or 86,400?–Or 365?

Tradition, says the historian, begging the question. Because of certain and various mysterious numerical relationships, say the mystics, cultists, numerologists, metaphysicists. Because the original home-planet of humanity had certain natural periods of rotation and revolution from which those relationships could be derived, say a very few.

No one really knew.

Nevertheless, the date on which the Foundation cruiser, the Hober Mallow met the Kalganian squadron, headed by the Fearless, and, upon refusing to allow a search party to board, was blasted into smoldering wreckage was 185; 11692 G. E. That is, it was the 185th day of the 11,692nd year of the Galactic Era which dated from the accession of the first Emperor of the traditional Kamble dynasty. It was also 185; 419 A. S.–dating from the birth of Seldon–or 185; 348 Y. F.–dating from the establishment of the Foundation. On Kalgan it was 185; 56 F. C.–dating from the establishment of the First Citizenship by the Mule. In each case, of course, for convenience, the year was so arranged as to yield the same day number regardless of the actual day upon which the era began.

And, in addition, to all the millions of worlds of the Galaxy, there were millions of local times, based on the motions of their own particular heavenly neighbors.

But whichever you choose: 185; 11692-419-348-56–or anything–it was this day which historians later pointed to when they spoke of the start of the Stettinian war.

Yet to Dr. Darell, it was none of these at all. It was simply and quite precisely the thirty-second day since Arcadia had left Terminus.

What it cost Darell to maintain stolidity through these days was not obvious to everyone.

But Elvett Semic thought he could guess. He was an old man and fond of saying that his neuronic sheaths had calcified to the point where his thinking processes were stiff and unwieldy. He invited and almost welcomed the universal underestimation of his decaying powers by being the first to laugh at them. But his eyes were none the less seeing for being faded; his mind none the less experienced and wise, for being no longer agile.

He merely twisted his pinched lips and said, “Why don’t you do something about it?”

The sound was a physical jar to Darell, under which he winced. He said, gruffly, “Where were we?”

Semic regarded him with grave eyes. “You’d better do something about the girl.” His sparse, yellow teeth showed in a mouth that was open in inquiry.

But Darell replied coldly, “The question is: Can you get a Symes-Molff Resonator in the range required?”

Well, I said I could and you weren’t listening–”

“I’m sorry, Elvett. It’s like this. What we’re doing now can be more important to everyone in the Galaxy than the question of whether Arcadia is safe. At least, to everyone but Arcadia and myself, and I’m willing to go along with the majority. How big would the Resonator be?”

Semic looked doubtful, “I don’t know. You can find it somewheres in the catalogues.”

“About how big. A ton? A pound? A block long?”

“Oh, I thought you meant exactly. It’s a little jigger.” He indicated the first joint of his thumb. “About that.”

“All right, can you do something like this?” He sketched rapidly on the pad he held in his lap, then passed it over to the old physicist, who peered at it doubtfully, then chuckled.

“Y’know, the brain gets calcified when you get as old as I am. What are you trying to do?”

Darell hesitated. He longed desperately, at the moment, for the physical knowledge locked in the other’s brain, so that he need not put his thought into words. But the longing was useless, and he explained.

Semic was shaking his head. “You’d need hyper-relays. The only things that would work fast enough. A thundering lot of them.”

“But it can be built?”

“Well, sure.”

“Can you get all the parts? I mean, without causing comment? In line with your general work.”

Semic lifted his upper lip. “Can’t get fifty hyper-relays? I wouldn’t use that many in my whole life.”

“We’re on a defense project, now. Can’t you think of something harmless that would use them? We’ve got the money.”

“Hm-m-m. Maybe I can think of something.”

“How small can you make the whole gadget?”

“Hyper-relays can be had micro-size... wiring... tubes–Space, you’ve got a few hundred circuits there.”

“I know. How big?”

Semic indicated with his hands.

“Too big,” said Darell. “I’ve got to swing it from my belt”

Slowly, he was crumpling his sketch into a tight ball. When it was a hard, yellow grape, he dropped it into the ash tray and it was gone with the tiny white flare of molecular decomposition.

He said, “Who’s at your door?”

Semic leaned over his desk to the little milky screen above the door signal. He said, “The young fellow, Anthor. Someone with him, too.”

Darell scraped his chair back. “Nothing about this, Semic, to the others yet. It’s deadly knowledge, if they find out, and two lives are enough to risk.”

Pelleas Anthor was a pulsing vortex of activity in Semic’s office, which, somehow, managed to partake of the age of its occupant. In the slow turgor of the quiet room, the loose, summery sleeves of Anthor’s tunic seemed still a-quiver with the outer breezes.

He said, “Dr. Darell, Dr. Semic–Orum Dirige.”

The other man was tall. A long straight nose that lent his thin face a saturnine appearance. Dr. Darell held out a hand.

Anthor smiled slightly. “Police Lieutenant Dirige,” he amplified. Then, significantly, “Of Kalgan.”

And Darell turned to stare with force at the young man. “Police Lieutenant Dirige of Kalgan,” he repeated, distinctly. “And you bring him here. Why?”

“Because he was the last man on Kalgan to see your daughter. Hold, man.”

Anthor’s look of triumph was suddenly one of concern, and he was between the two, struggling violently with Darell. Slowly, and not gently, he forced the older man back into the chair.

“What are you trying to do?” Anthor brushed a lock of brown hair from his forehead, tossed a hip lightly upon the desk, and swung a leg, thoughtfully. “I thought I was bringing you good news.”

Darell addressed the policeman directly, “What does he mean by calling you the last man to see my daughter? Is my daughter dead? Please tell me without preliminary.” His face was white with apprehension.

Lieutenant Dirige said expressionlessly, “‘Last man on Kalgan’ was the phrase. She’s not on Kalgan now. I have no knowledge past that.”

“Here,” broke in Anthor, “let me put it straight. Sorry if I overplayed the drama a bit, Doc. You’re so inhuman about this, I forget you have feelings. In the first place, Lieutenant Dirige is one of us. He was born on Kalgan, but his father was a Foundation man brought to that planet in the service of the Mule. I answer for the lieutenant’s loyalty to the Foundation.

“Now I was in touch with him the day after we stopped getting the daily report from Munn–”

“Why?” broke in Darell, fiercely. “I thought it was quite decided that we were not to make a move in the matter. You were risking their lives and ours.”

“Because,” was the equally fierce retort, “I’ve been involved in this game for longer than you. Because I know of certain contacts on Kalgan of which you know nothing. Because I act from deeper knowledge, do you understand?”

“I think you’re completely mad.”

“Will you listen?”

A pause, and Darell’s eyes dropped.

Anthor’s lips quirked into a half smile, “All right, Doc. Give me a few minutes. Tell him, Dirige.”

Dirige spoke easily: “As far as I know, Dr. Darell, your daughter is at Trantor. At least, she had a ticket to Trantor at the Eastern Spaceport. She was with a Trading Representative from that planet who claimed she was his niece. Your daughter seems to have a queer collection of relatives, doctor. That was the second uncle she had in a period of two weeks, eh? The Trantorian even tried to bribe me–probably thinks that’s why they got away.” He smiled grimly at the thought.

“How was she?”

“Unharmed, as far as I could see. Frightened. I don’t blame her for that. The whole department was after her. I still don’t know why.”

Darell drew a breath for what seemed the first time in several minutes. He was conscious of the trembling of his hands and controlled them with an effort. “Then she’s all right. This Trading Representative, who was he? Go back to him. What part does he play in it?”

“I don’t know. Do you know anything about Trantor?”

“I lived there once.”

“It’s an agricultural world, now. Exports animal fodder and grains, mostly. High quality! They sell them all over the Galaxy. There are a dozen or two farm co-operatives on the planet and each has its representatives overseas. Shrewd sons of guns, too–I knew this one’s record. He’d been on Kalgan before, usually with his wife. Perfectly honest. Perfectly harmless.”

“Um-m-m,” said Anthor. “Arcadia was born in Trantor, wasn’t she, Doc?”

Darell nodded.

“It hangs together, you see. She wanted to go away–quickly and far–and Trantor would suggest itself. Don’t you think so?”

Darell said: “Why not back here?”

“Perhaps she was being pursued and felt that she had to double off in a new angle, eh?’

Dr. Darell lacked the heart to question further. Well, then, let her be safe on Trantor, or as safe as one could be anywhere in this dark and horrible Galaxy. He groped toward the door, felt Anthor’s light touch on his sleeve, and stopped, but did not turn.

“Mind if I go home with you, Doc?”

“You’re welcome,” was the automatic response.

By evening, the exteriormost reaches of Dr. Darell’s personality, the ones that made immediate contact with other people had solidified once more. He had refused to eat his evening meal and had, instead, with feverish insistence, returned to the inchwise advance into the intricate mathematics of encephalographic analysis.

It was not till nearly midnight, that he entered the living room again.

Pelleas Anthor was still there, twiddling at the controls of the video. The footsteps behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder.

“Hi. Aren’t you in bed yet? I’ve been spending hours on the video, trying to get something other than bulletins. It seems the F. S. Hober Mallow is delayed in course and hasn’t been heard from”

“Really? What do they suspect?”

“What do you think? Kalganian skulduggery. There are reports that Kalganian vessels were sighted in the general space sector in which the Hober Mallow was last heard from?”

Darell shrugged, and Anthor rubbed his forehead doubtfully.

“Look doc,” he said, “why don’t you go to Trantor?”

“Why should I?”

“Because “You’re no good to us here. You’re not yourself. You can’t be. And you could accomplish a purpose by going to Trantor, too. The old Imperial Library with the complete records of the Proceedings of the Seldon Commission are there–”

“No! The Library has been picked clean and it hasn’t helped anyone.”

“It helped Ebling Mis once.”

“How do you know? Yes, he said he found the Second Foundation, and my mother killed him five seconds later as the only way to keep him from unwittingly revealing its location to the Mule. But in doing so, she also, you realize, made it impossible ever to tell whether Mis really did know the location. After all, no one else has ever been able to deduce the truth from those records.”

“Ebling Mis, if you’ll remember, was working under the driving impetus of the Mule’s mind.”

“I know that, too, but Mis’ mind was, by that very token, in an abnormal state. Do you and I know anything about the properties of a mind under the emotional control of another; about its abilities and shortcomings? In any case, I will not go to Trantor.”

Anthor frowned, “Well, why the vehemence? I merely suggested it as–well, by Space, I don’t understand you. You look ten years older. You’re obviously having a hellish time of it. You’re not doing anything of value here. If I were you, I’d go and get the girl.”

“Exactly! It’s what I want to do, too. That’s why I won’t do it. Look, Anthor, and try to understand. You’re playing–we’re both playing–with something completely beyond our powers to fight. In cold blood, if you have any, you know that, whatever you may think in your moments of quixoticism.

“For fifty years, we’ve known that the Second Foundation is the real descendent and pupil of Seldonian mathematics. What that means, and you know that, too, is that nothing in the Galaxy happens which does not play a part in their reckoning. To us, all life is a series of accidents, to be met with by improvisations To them, all life is purposive and should be met by precalculation.

“But they have their weakness. Their work is statistical and only the mass action of humanity is truly inevitable. Now how I play a part, as an individual, in the foreseen course of history, I don’t know. Perhaps I have no definite part, since the Plan leaves individuals to indeterminacy and free will. But I am important and they–they, you understand–may at least have calculated my probable reaction. So I distrust, my impulses, my desires, my probable reactions.

“I would rather present them with an improbable reaction. I will stay here, despite the fact that I yearn very desperately to leave. “No! Because I yearn very desperately to leave.”

The younger man smiled sourly. “You don’t know your own mind as well as they might. Suppose that–knowing you–they might count on what you think, merely think, is the improbable reaction, simply by knowing in advance what your line of reasoning would be.”

“In that case, there is no escape. For if I follow the reasoning you have just outlined and go to Trantor, they may have foreseen that, too. There is an endless cycle of double-double-double-double-crosses. No matter how far I follow that cycle, I can only either go or stay. The intricate act of luring my daughter halfway across the Galaxy cannot be meant to make me stay where I am, since I would most certainly have stayed if they had done nothing. It can only be to make me move, and so I will stay.

“And besides, Anthor, not everything bears the breath of the Second Foundation; not all events are the results of their puppeting. They may have had nothing to do with Arcadia’s leave-taking, and she may be safe on Trantor when all the rest of us are dead.”

“No,” said Anthor, sharply, “now you are off the track.”

“You have an alternative interpretation?”

“I have–if you’ll listen.”

“Oh, go ahead. I don’t lack patience.”

“Well, then–how well do you know your own daughter?”

“How well can any individual know any other? Obviously, my knowledge is inadequate.”

“So is mine on that basis, perhaps even more so–but at least, I viewed her with fresh eyes. Item one: She is a ferocious little romantic, the only child of an ivory-tower academician, growing up in an unreal world of video and book-film adventure. She lives in a weird self-constructed fantasy of espionage and intrigue. Item two: She’s intelligent about it; intelligent enough to outwit us, at any rate. She planned carefully to overhear our first conference and succeeded. She planned carefully to go to Kalgan with Munn and succeeded. Item three: She has an unholy hero-worship of her grandmother–your mother–who defeated the Mule.

“I’m right so far, I think? All right, then. Now, unlike you, I’ve received a complete report from Lieutenant Dirige and, in addition, my sources of information on Kalgan are rather complete, and all sources check. We know, for instance, that Homir Munn, in conference with the Lord of Kalgan was refused admission to the Mule’s Palace, and that this refusal was suddenly abrogated after Arcadia had spoken to Lady Callia, the First Citizen’s very good friend.”

Darell interrupted. “And how do you know all this?”

“For one thing, Munn was interviewed by Dirige as part of the police campaign to locate Arcadia. Naturally, we have a complete transcript of the questions and answers.

“And take Lady Callia herself. It is rumored that she has lost Stettin’s interest, but the rumor isn’t borne out by facts. She not only remains unreplaced; is not only able to mediate the lord’s refusal to Munn into an acceptance; but can even engineer Arcadia’s escape openly. Why, a dozen of the soldiers about Stettin’s executive mansion testified that they were seen together on the last evening. Yet she remains unpunished. This despite the fact that Arcadia was searched for with every appearance of diligence.”

“But what is your conclusion from all this torrent of ill-connection?”

“That Arcadia’s escape was arranged.”

“As I said.”

“With this addition. That Arcadia must have known it was arranged; that Arcadia, the bright little girl who saw cabals everywhere, saw this one and followed your own type of reasoning. They wanted her to return to the Foundation, and so she went to Trantor, instead. But why Trantor?”

“Well, why?”

“Because that is where Bayta, her idolized grandmother, escaped when she was in flight. Consciously or unconsciously, Arcadia imitated that. I wonder, then, if Arcadia was fleeing the same enemy.”

“The Mule?” asked Darell with polite sarcasm.

“Of course not. I mean, by the enemy, a mentality that she could not fight. She was running from the Second Foundation, or such influence thereof as could be found on Kalgan.”

“What influence is this you speak of?”

“Do you expect Kalgan to be immune from that ubiquitous menace? We both have come to the conclusion, somehow, that Arcadia’s escape was arranged. Right? She was searched for and found, but deliberately allowed to slip away by Dirige. By Dirige, do you understand? But how was that? Because he was our man. But how did they know that? Were they counting on him to be a traitor? Eh, doc?”

“Now you’re saying that they honestly meant to recapture her. Frankly, you’re tiring me a bit, Anthor. Finish your say; I want to go to bed.”

“My say is quickly finished.” Anthor reached for a small group of photo-records in his inner pocket. It was the familiar wigglings of the encephalograph. “Dirige’s brainwaves,” Anthor said, casually, “taken since he returned.”

It was quite visible to Darell’s naked eye, and his face was gray when he looked up. “He is Controlled.”

“Exactly. He allowed Arcadia to escape not because he was our man but because he was the Second Foundation’s.”

“Even after he knew she was going to Trantor, and not to Terminus.”

Anthor shrugged. “He had been geared to let her go. There was no way he could modify that. He was only a tool, you see. It was just that Arcadia followed the least probable course, and is probably safe. Or at least safe until such time as the Second Foundation can modify the plans to take into account this changed state of affairs–”

He paused. The little signal light on the video set was flashing. On an independent circuit, it signified the presence of emergency news. Darell saw it, too, and with the mechanical movement of long habit turned on the video. They broke in upon the middle of a sentence but before its completion, they knew that the Hober Mallow, or the wreck thereof, had been found and that, for the first time in nearly half a century, the Foundation was again at war.

Anthor’s jaw was set in a hard line. “All right, doc, you heard that. Kalgan has attacked; and Kalgan is under the control of the Second Foundation. Will you follow your daughter’s lead and move to Trantor?”

“No. I will risk it. Here.”

“Dr. Darell. You are not as intelligent as your daughter. I wonder how far you can be trusted.” His long level stare held Darell for a moment, and then without a word, he left.

And Darell was left in uncertainty and–almost–despair.

Unheeded, the video was a medley of excited sight-sound, as it described in nervous detail the first hour of the war between Kalgan and the Foundation.

11. War

THE MAYOR OF the Foundation brushed futilely at the picket fence of hair that rimmed his skull. He sighed. “The years that we have wasted; the chances we have thrown away. I make no recriminations, Dr. Darell, but we deserve defeat.”

Darell said, quietly, “I see no reason for lack of confidence in events, sir.”

“Lack of confidence! Lack of confidence! By the Galaxy, Dr. Darell, on what would you base any other attitude? Come here–”

He half-led half-forced Darell toward the limpid ovoid cradled gracefully on its tiny force-field support. At a touch of the mayor’s hand, it glowed within–an accurate three-dimensional model of the Galactic double-spiral.

“In yellow,” said the mayor, excitedly, “we have that region of Space under Foundation control; in red, that under Kalgan.”

What Darell saw was a crimson sphere resting within a stretching yellow fist that surrounded it on all sides but that toward the center of the Galaxy.

“Galactography,” said the mayor, “is our greatest enemy. Our admirals make no secret of our almost hopeless, strategic position. Observe. The enemy has inner lines of communication. He is concentrated; can meet us on all sides with equal ease. He can defend himself with minimum force.

“We are expanded. The average distance between inhabited systems within the Foundation is nearly three times that within Kalgan. To go from Santanni to Locris, for instance, is a voyage of twenty-five hundred parsecs for us, but only eight hundred parsecs for them, if we remain within our respective territories–”

Darell said, “I understand all that, sir.”

“And you do not understand that it may mean defeat.”

“There is more than distance to war. I say we cannot lose. It is quite impossible.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because of my own interpretation of the Seldon Plan.”

“Oh,” the mayor’s lips twisted, and the hands behind his back flapped one within the other, “then you rely, too, on the mystical help of the Second Foundation.”

“No. Merely on the help of inevitability–and of courage and persistence.”

And yet behind his easy confidence, he wondered–

What if–

Well–What if Anthor were right, and Kalgan were a direct tool of the mental wizards. What if it was their purpose to defeat and destroy the Foundation. No! It made no sense!

And yet–

He smiled bitterly. Always the same. Always that peering and peering through the opaque granite which, to the enemy, was so transparent.

Nor were the galactographic verities of the situation lost upon Stettin.

The Lord of Kalgan stood before a twin of the Galactic model which the mayor and Darell had inspected. Except that where the mayor frowned, Stettin smiled.

His admiral’s uniform glistered imposingly upon his massive figure. The crimson sash of the Order of the Mule awarded him by the former First Citizen whom six months later he had replaced somewhat forcefully, spanned his chest diagonally from right shoulder to waist. The Silver Star with Double Comets and Swords sparkled brilliantly upon his left shoulder.

He addressed the six men of his general staff whose uniforms were only less grandiloquent than his own, and his First Minister as well, thin and gray–a darkling cobweb, lost in the brightness.

Stettin said, “I think the decisions are clear. We can afford to wait. To them, every day of delay will be another blow at their morale. If they attempt to defend all portions of their realm, they will be spread thin and we can strike through in two simultaneous thrusts here and here.” He indicated the directions on the Galactic model–two lances of pure white shooting through the yellow fist from the red ball it inclosed, cutting Terminus off on either side in a tight arc. “In such a manner, we cut their fleet into three parts which can be defeated in detail. If they concentrate, they give up two-thirds of their dominions voluntarily and will probably risk rebellion.”

The First Minister’s thin voice alone seeped through the hush that followed. “In six months,” he said, “the Foundation will grow six months stronger. Their resources are greater, as we all know, their navy is numerically stronger; their manpower is virtually inexhaustible. Perhaps a quick thrust would be safer.”

His was easily the least influential voice in the room. Lord Stettin smiled and made a flat gesture with his hand. “The six months–or a year, if necessary–will cost us nothing. The men of the Foundation cannot prepare; they are ideologically incapable of it. It is in their very philosophy to believe that the Second Foundation will save them. But not this time, eh?”

The men in the room stirred uneasily.

“You lack confidence, I believe,” said Stettin, frigidly. “Is it necessary once again to describe the reports of our agents in Foundation territory, or to repeat the findings of Mr. Homir Munn, the Foundation agent now in our... uh... service? Let us adjourn, gentlemen.”

Stettin returned to his private chambers with a fixed smile still on his face. He sometimes wondered about this Homir Munn. A queer water-spined fellow who certainly did not bear out his early promise. And yet he crawled with interesting information that carried conviction with it–particularly when Callia was present.

His smile broadened. That fat fool had her uses, after all. At least, she got more with her wheedling out of Munn than he could, and with less trouble. Why not give her to Munn? He frowned. Callia. She and her stupid jealousy. Space! If he still had the Darell girl–Why hadn’t he ground her skull to powder for that?

He couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason.

Maybe because she got along with Munn. And he needed Munn. It was Munn, for instance, who had demonstrated that, at least in the belief of the Mule, there was no Second Foundation. His admirals needed that assurance.

He would have liked to make the proofs public, but it was better to let the Foundation believe in their nonexistent help. Was it actually Callia who had pointed that out? That’s right. She had said–

Oh, nonsense! She couldn’t have said anything.

And yet–

He shook his head to clear it and passed on.

12. Ghost of a World

TRANTOR WAS A world in dregs and rebirth. Set like a faded jewel in the midst of the bewildering crowd of suns at the center of the Galaxy–in the heaps and clusters of stars piled high with aimless prodigality–it alternately dreamed of past and future.

Time had been when the insubstantial ribbons of control had stretched out from its metal coating to the very edges of stardom. It had been a single city, housing four hundred billion administrators; the mightiest capital that had ever been.

Until the decay of the Empire eventually reached it and in the Great Sack of a century ago, its drooping powers had been bent back upon themselves and broken forever. In the blasting ruin of death, the metal shell that circled the planet wrinkled and crumpled into an aching mock of its own grandeur.

The survivors tore up the metal plating and sold it to other planets for seed and cattle. The soil was uncovered once more and the planet returned to its beginnings. In the spreading areas of primitive agriculture, it forgot its intricate and colossal past.

Or would have but for the still mighty shards that heaped their massive ruins toward the sky in bitter and dignified silence.

Arcadia watched the metal rim of the horizon with a stirring of the heart. The village in which the Palvers lived was but a huddle of houses to her–small and primitive. The fields that surrounded it were golden-yellow, wheat-cIogged tracts.

But there, just past the reaching point was the memory of the past, still glowing in unrusted splendor, and burning with fire where the sun of Trantor caught it in gleaming highlights. She had been there once during the months since she had arrived at Trantor. She had climbed onto the smooth, unjointed pavement and ventured into the silent dust-streaked structures, where the light entered through the jags of broken walls and partitions.

It had been solidified heartache. It had been blasphemy.

She had left, clangingly–running until her feet pounded softly on earth once more.

And then she could only look back longingly. She dared not disturb that mighty brooding once more.

Somewhere on this world, she knew, she had been born–near the old Imperial Library, which was the veriest Trantor of Trantor. It was the sacred of the sacred; the holy of holies! Of all the world, it alone had survived the Great Sack and for a century it had remained complete and untouched; defiant of the universe.

There Hari Seldon and his group had woven their unimaginable web. There Ebling Mis pierced the secret, and sat numbed in his vast surprise, until he was killed to prevent the secret from going further.

There at the Imperial Library, her grandparents had lived for ten years, until the Mule died, and they could return to the reborn Foundation.

There at the Imperial Library, her own father returned with his bride to find the Second Foundation once again, but failed. There, she had been born and there her mother had died.

She would have liked to visit the Library, but Preem Palver shook his round head. “It’s thousands of miles, Arkady, and there’s so much to do here. Besides, it’s not good to bother there. You know; it’s a shrine–”

But Arcadia knew that he had no desire to visit the Library; that it was a case of the Mule’s Palace over again. There was this superstitious fear on the part of the pygmies of the present for the relies of the giants of the past.

Yet it would have been horrible to feel a grudge against the funny little man for that. She had been on Trantor now for nearly three months and in all that time, he and she–Pappa and Mamma–had been wonderful to her–

And what was her return? Why, to involve them in the common ruin. Had she warned them that she was marked for destruction, perhaps? No! She let them assume the deadly role of protectors.

Her conscience panged unbearably–yet what choice had she?

She stepped reluctantly down the stairs to breakfast. The voices reached her.

Preem Palver had tucked the napkin down his shirt collar with a twist of his plump neck and had reached for his poached eggs with an uninhibited satisfaction.

“I was down in the city yesterday, Mamma,” he said, wielding his fork and nearly drowning the words with a capacious mouthful.

“And what is down in the city, Pappa?” asked Mamma indifferently, sitting down, looking sharply about the table, and rising again for the salt.

“Ah, not so good. A ship came in from out Kalgan-way with newspapers from there. It’s war there.”

“War! So! Well, let them break their heads, if they have no more sense inside. Did your pay check come yet? Pappa, I’m telling you again. You warn old man Cosker this isn’t the only cooperative in the world. It’s bad enough they pay you what I’m ashamed to tell my friends, but at least on time they could be!”

“Time; shmime,” said Pappa, irritably. “Look, don’t make me silly talk at breakfast, it should choke me each bite in the throat,” and he wreaked havoc among the buttered toast as he said it. He added, somewhat more moderately, “The fighting is between Kalgan and the Foundation, and for two months, they’ve been at it.”

His hands lunged at one another in mock-representation of a space fight.

“Um-m-m. And what’s doing?”

“Bad for the Foundation. Well, you saw Kalgan; all soldiers. They were ready. The Foundation was not, and so–poof!”

And suddenly, Mamma laid down her fork and hissed, “Fool!”

“Huh?”

“Dumb-head! Your big mouth is always moving and wagging.”

She was pointing quickly and when Pappa looked over his shoulder, there was Arcadia, frozen in the doorway.

She said, “The Foundation is at war?”

Pappa looked helplessly at Mamma, then nodded.

“And they’re losing?”

Again the nod.

Arcadia felt the unbearable catch in her throat, and slowly approached the table. “Is it over?” she whispered.

“Over?” repeated Pappa, with false heartiness. “Who said it was over? In war, lots of things can happen. And... and–”

“Sit down, darling,” said Mamma, soothingly. “No one should talk before breakfast. You’re not in a healthy condition with no food in the stomach.”

But Arcadia ignored her. “Are the Kalganians on Terminus?”

“No,” said Pappa, seriously. “The news is from last week, and Terminus is still fighting. This is honest. I’m telling the truth. And the Foundation is still strong. Do you want me to get you the newspapers?”

“Yes!”

She read them over what she could eat of her breakfast and her eyes blurred as she read. Santanni and Korell were gone–without a fight. A squadron of the Foundation’s navy had been trapped in the sparsely-sunned Ifni sector and wiped out to almost the last ship.

And now the Foundation was back to the Four-Kingdom core–the original Realm which had been built up under Salvor Hardin, the first mayor. But still it fought–and still there might be a chance-and whatever happened, she must inform her father. She must somehow reach his ear. She must!

But how? With a war in the way.

She asked Pappa after breakfast, “Are you going out on a new mission soon, Mr. Palver?”

Pappa was on the large chair on the front lawn, sunning himself. A fat cigar smoldered between his plump fingers and he looked like a beatific pug-dog.

“A mission?” he repeated, lazily. “Who knows? It’s a nice vacation and my leave isn’t up. Why talk about new missions? You’re restless, Arkady?”

“Me? No, I like it here. You’re very good to me, you and Mrs. Palver.”

He waved his hand at her, brushing away her words.

Arcadia said, “I was thinking about the war.”

“But don’t think about it. What can you do? If it’s something you can’t help, why hurt yourself over it?”

“But I was thinking that the Foundation has lost most of its farming worlds. They’re probably rationing food there.”

Pappa looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

She scarcely listened. “I wish I could carry food to them, that’s what. You know after the Mule died, and the Foundation rebelled, Terminus was just about isolated for a time and General Han Pritcher, who succeeded the Mule for a while was laying siege to it. Food was running awfully low and my father says that his father told him that they only had dry amino-acid concentrates that tasted terrible. Why, one egg cost two hundred credits. And then they broke the siege just in time and food ships came through from Santanni. It must have been an awful time. Probably it’s happening all over, now.”

There was a pause, and then Arcadia said, “You know, I’ll bet the Foundation would be willing to pay smuggler’s prices for food now. Double and triple and more. Gee, if any co-operative, f’r instance, here on Trantor took over the job, they might lose some ships, but, I’ll bet they’d be war millionaires before it was over. The Foundation Traders in the old days used to do that all the time. There’d be a war, so they’d sell whatever was needed bad and take their chances. Golly, they used to make as much as two million dollars out of one trip–profit. That was just out of what they could carry on one ship, too.”

Pappa stirred. His cigar had gone out, unnoticed. “A deal for food, huh? Hm-m-m–But the Foundation is so far away.”

“Oh, I know. I guess you couldn’t do it from here. If you took a regular liner you probably couldn’t get closer than Massena or Smushyk, and after that you’d have to hire a small scoutship or something to slip you through the lines.”

Pappa’s hand brushed at his hair, as he calculated.

Two weeks later, arrangements for the mission were completed. Mamma railed for most of the time–First, at the incurable obstinacy with which he courted suicide. Then, at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to allow her to accompany him.

Pappa said, “Mamma, why do you act like an old lady. I can’t take you. It’s a man’s work. What do you think a war is? Fun? Child’s play?”

“Then why do you go? Are you a man, you old fool–with a leg and half an arm in the grave. Let some of the young ones go–not a fat bald-head like you?”

“I’m not a bald-head,” retorted Pappa, with dignity. “I got yet lots of hair. And why should it not be me that gets the commission? Why, a young fellow? Listen, this could mean millions?”

She knew that and she subsided.

Arcadia saw him once before he left.

She said, “Are you going to Terminus?”

“Why not? You say yourself they need bread and rice and potatoes. Well, I’ll make a deal with them, and they’ll get it.”

“Well, then–just one thing: If you’re going to Terminus, could you... would you see my father?”

And Pappa’s face crinkled and seemed to melt into sympathy, “Oh–and I have to wait for you to tell me. Sure, I’ll see him. I’ll tell him you’re safe and everything’s O.K., and when the war is over, I’ll bring you back.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell you how to find him. His name is Dr. Toran Darell and he lives in Stanmark. That’s just outside Terminus City, and you can get a little commuting plane that goes there. We’re at 55 Channel Drive.”

“Wait, and I’ll write it down.”

“No, no,” Arcadia’s arm shot out. “You mustn’t write anything down. You must remember–and find him without anybody’s help.”

Pappa looked puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. It’s 55 Channel Drive in Stanmark, outside Terminus City, and you commute there by plane. All right?”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Would you tell him something from me?”

“Sure.”

“I want to whisper it to you.”

He leaned his plump cheek toward her, and the little whispered sound passed from one to the other.

Pappa’s eyes were round. “That’s what you want me to say? But it doesn’t make sense.”

“He’ll know what you mean. Just say I sent it and that I said he would know what it means. And you say it exactly the way I told you. No different. You won’t forget it?”

“How can I forget it? Five little words. Look–”

“No, no.” She hopped up and down in the intensity of her feelings. “Don’t repeat it. Don’t ever repeat it to anyone. Forget all about it except to my father. Promise me.”

Pappa shrugged again. “I promise! All right!”

“All right,” she said, mournfully, and as he passed down the drive to where the air taxi waited to take him to the spaceport, she wondered if she had signed his death warrant. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

She scarcely dared to walk into the house again to face the good, kind Mamma. Maybe when it was all over, she had better kill herself for what she had done to them.

13. End of War

QUORISTON, BATTLE OF - FOUGHT ON 9, 17, 377 F. E. BETWEEN THE FORCES OF THE FOUNDATION AND THOSE OF LORD STETTIN OF KALGAN, IT WAS THE LAST BATTLE OF CONSEQUENCE DURING THE INTERREGNUM....

–ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

JOLE TURBOR, IN his new role of war correspondent, found his bulk incased in a naval uniform, and rather liked it. He enjoyed being back on the air, and some of the fierce helplessness of the futile fight against the Second Foundation left him in the excitement of another sort of fight with substantial ships and ordinary men.

To be sure, the Foundation’s fight had not been remarkable for victories, but it was still possible to be philosophic about the matter. After six months, the hard core of the Foundation was untouched, and the hard core of the Fleet was still in being. With the new additions since the start of the war, it was almost as strong numerically, and stronger technically, than before the defeat at Ifni.

And meanwhile, planetary defenses were being strengthened; the armed forces better trained; administrative efficiency was having some of the water squeezed out of it–and much of the Kalganian’s conquering fleet was being wallowed down through the necessity of occupying the “conquered” territory.

At the moment, Turbor was with the Third Fleet in the outer reaches of the Anacreonian sector. In line with his policy of making this a “little man’s war,” he was interviewing Fennel Leemor, Engineer Third Class, volunteer.

“Tell us a little about yourself, sailor,” said Turbor.

“Ain’t much to tell,” Leemor shuffled his feet and allowed a faint, bashful smile to cover his face, as though he could see all the millions that undoubtedly could see him at the moment. I’m a Locrian. Got a job in an air-car factory; section head and good pay. I’m married; got two kids, both girls. Say, I couldn’t say hello to them, could I–in case they’re listening.”

“Go ahead, sailor. The video is all yours.”

“Gosh, thanks.” He burbled, “Hello, Milla, in case you’re listening, I’m fine. Is Sunni all right? And Tomma? I think of you all the time and maybe I’ll be back on furlough after we get back to port. I got your food parcel but I’m sending it back. We get our regular mess, but they say the civilians are a little tight. I guess that’s all.”

“I’ll look her up next time I’m on Locris, sailor, and make sure she’s not short of food. O.K.?”

The young man smiled broadly and nodded his head. “Thank you, Mr. Turbor. I’d appreciate that.”

“All right. Suppose you tell us, then–You’re a volunteer, aren’t you?”

“Sure am. If anyone picks a fight with me, I don’t have to wait for anyone to drag me in. I joined up the day I heard about the Hober Mallow.”

“That’s a fine spirit. Have you seen much action? I notice “You’re wearing two battle stars.”

“Ptah.” The sailor spat. “Those weren’t battles, they were chases. The Kalganians don’t fight, unless they have odds of five to one or better in their favor. Even then they just edge in and try to cut us up ship by ship. Cousin of mine was at Ifni and he was on a ship that got away, the old Ebling Mis. He says it was the same there. They had their Main Fleet against just a wing division of ours, and down to where we only had five ships left, they kept stalking instead of fighting. We got twice as many of their ships at that fight.”

“Then you think we’re going to win the war?”

Sure bet; now that we aren’t retreating. Even if things got too bad, that’s when I’d expect the Second Foundation to step in. We still got the Seldon Plan–and they know it, too.”

Turbor’s lips curled a bit. “You’re counting on the Second Foundation, then?”

The answer came with honest surprise. “Well, doesn’t everyone?”

Junior Officer Tippellum stepped into Turbor’s room after the visicast. He shoved a cigarette at the correspondent and knocked his cap back to a perilous balance on the occiput.

“We picked up a prisoner,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Little crazy fellow. Claims to be a neutral–diplomatic immunity, no less. I don’t think they know what to do with him. His name’s Palvro, Palver, something like that, and he says he’s from Trantor. Don’t know what in space he’s doing in a war zone.”

But Turbor had swung to a sitting position on his bunk and the nap he had been about to take was forgotten. He remembered quite well his last interview with Darell, the day after war had been declared and he was shoving off.

“Preem Palver,” he said. It was a statement.

Tippellum paused and let the smoke trickle out the sides of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, “how in space did you know?”

“Never mind. Can I see him?”

“Space, I can’t say. The old man has him in his own room for questioning. Everyone figures he’s a spy.”

“You tell the old man that I know him, if he’s who he claims he is. I’II take the responsibility.”

Captain Dixyl on the flagship of the Third Fleet watched unremittingly at the Grand Detector. No ship could avoid being a source of subatomic radiation–not even if it were lying an inert mass–and each focal point of such radiation was a little sparkle in the three-dimensional field.

Each one of the Foundation’s ships were accounted for and no sparkle was left over, now that the little spy who claimed to be a neutral had been picked up. For a while, that outside ship had created a stir in the captain’s quarters. The tactics might have needed changing on short notice. As it was–

“Are you sure you have it?” he asked.

Commander Cenn nodded. “I will take my squadron through hyperspace: radius, 10.00 parsecs; theta, 268.52 degrees; phi, 84.15 degrees. Return to origin at 1330. Total absence 11.83 hours.”

“Right. Now we are going to count on pin-point return as regards both space and time. Understand?”

“Yes, captain.” He looked at his wrist watch, “My ships will be ready by 0140.”

“Good,” said Captain Dixyl.

The Kalganian squadron was not within detector range now, but they would be soon. There was independent information to that effect. Without Cenn’s squadron the Foundation forces would be badly outnumbered, but the captain was quite confident. Quite confident.

Preem Palver looked sadly about him. First at the tall, skinny admiral; then at the others, everyone in uniform; and now at this last one, big and stout, with his collar open and no tie–not like the rest–who said he wanted to speak to him.

Jole Turbor was saying: “I am perfectly aware, admiral, of the serious possibilities involved here, but I tell you that if I can be allowed to speak to him for a few minutes, I may be able to settle the current uncertainty.”

“Is there any reason why you can’t question him before me?”

Turbor pursed his lips and looked stubborn. “Admiral,” he said, “while I have been attached to your ships, the Third Fleet has received an excellent press. You may station men outside the door, if you like, and you may return in five minutes. But, meanwhile, humor me a bit, and your public relations will not suffer. Do you understand me?”

He did.

Then Turbor in the isolation that followed, turned to Palver, and said, “Quickly–what is the name of the girl you abducted.”

And Palver could simply stare round-eyed, and shake his head.

“No nonsense,” said Turbor. “If you do not answer, you will be a spy and spies are blasted without trial in war time.”

“Arcadia Darell!” gasped Palver.

“Well! All right, then. Is she safe?”

Palver nodded.

“You had better be sure of that, or it won’t be well for you.”

“She is in good health, perfectly safe,” said Palver, palely.

The admiral returned, “Well?”

“The man, sir, is not a spy. You may believe what he tells you. I vouch for him.”

“That so?” The admiral frowned. “Then he represents an agricultural co-operative on Trantor that wants to make a trade treaty with Terminus for the delivery of grains and potatoes. Well, all right, but he can’t leave now.”

“Why not?” asked Palver, quickly.

“Because we’re in the middle of a battle. After it is over–assuming we’re still alive–we’ll take you to Terminus.”

The Kalganian fleet that spanned through space detected the Foundation ships from an incredible distance and were themselves detected. Like little fireflies in each other’s Grand Detectors, they closed in across the emptiness.

And the Foundation’s admiral frowned and said, “This must be their main push. Look at the numbers.” Then, “They won’t stand up before us, though; not if Cenn’s detachment can be counted on.”

Commander Cenn had left hours before–at the first detection of the coming enemy. There was no way of altering the plan now. It worked or it didn’t, but the admiral felt quite comfortable. As did the officers. As did the men.

Again watch the fireflies.

Like a deadly ballet dance, in precise formations, they sparked.

The Foundation fleet edged slowly backwards. Hours passed and the fleet veered slowly off, teasing the advancing enemy slightly off course, then more so.

In the minds of the dictators of the battle plan, there was a certain volume of space that must be occupied by the Kalganian ships. Out from that volume crept the Foundationers; into it slipped the Kalganians. Those that passed out again were attacked, suddenly and fiercely. Those that stayed within were not touched.

It all depended on the reluctance of the ships of Lord Stettin to take the initiative themselves–on their willingness to remain where none attacked.

Captain Dixyl stared frigidly at his wrist watch. It was 1310, “We’ve got twenty minutes,” he said.

The lieutenant at his side nodded tensely, “It looks all right so far, captain. We’ve got more than ninety percent of them boxed. If we can keep them that way–”

“Yes! If–”

The Foundation ships were drifting forward again–very slowly. Not quick enough to urge a Kalganian retreat and just quickly enough to discourage a Kalganian advance. They preferred to wait.

And the minutes passed.

At 1325, the admiral’s buzzer sounded in seventy-five ships of the Foundation’s line, and they built up to a maximum acceleration towards the front-plane of the Kalganian fleet, itself three hundred strong. Kalganian shields flared into action, and the vast energy beams flicked out. Every one of the three hundred concentrated in the same direction, towards their mad attackers who bore down relentlessly, uncaringly and–

At 1330, fifty ships under Commander Cenn appeared from nowhere, in one single bound through hyperspace to a calculated spot at a calculated time–and were spaced in tearing fury at the unprepared Kalganian rear.

The trap worked perfectly.

The Kalganians still had numbers on their side, but they were in no mood to count. Their first effort was to escape and the formation once broken was only the more vulnerable, as the enemy ships bumbled into one another’s path.

After a while, it took on the proportions of a rat hunt.

Of three hundred Kalganian ships, the core and pride of their fleet, some sixty or less, many in a state of near-hopeless disrepair, reached Kalgan once more. The Foundation loss was eight ships out of a total of one hundred twenty-five.

Preem Palver landed on Terminus at the height of the celebration. He found the furore distracting, but before he left the planet, he had accomplished two things, and received one request.

The two things accomplished were: 1) the conclusion of an agreement whereby Palver’s co-operative was to deliver twenty shiploads of certain foodstuffs per month for the next year at a war price, without, thanks to the recent battle, a corresponding war risk, and 2) the transfer to Dr. Darell of Arcadia’s five short words.

For a startled moment, Darell had stared wide-eyed at him, and then he had made his request. It was to carry an answer back to Arcadia. Palver liked it; it was a simple answer and made sense. It was: “Come back now. There won’t be any danger.”

Lord Stettin was in raging frustration. To watch his every weapon break in his hands; to feel the firm fabric of his military might part like the rotten thread it suddenly turned out to be–would have turned phlegmaticism itself into flowing lava. And yet he was helpless, and knew it.

He hadn’t really slept well in weeks. He hadn’t shaved in three days. He had canceled all audiences. His admirals were left to themselves and none knew better than the Lord of Kalgan that very little time and no further defeats need elapse before he would have to contend with internal rebellion.

Lev Meirus, First Minister, was no help. He stood there, calm and indecently old, with his thin, nervous finger stroking, as always, the wrinkled line from nose to chin.

“Well,” shouted Stettin at him, “contribute something. We stand here defeated, do you understand? Defeated! And why? I don’t know why. There you have it. I don’t know why. Do you know why?”

“I think so,” said Meirus, calmly.

“Treason!” The word came out softly, and other words followed as softly. “You’ve known of treason, and you’ve kept quiet. You served the fool I ejected from the First Citizenship and you think you can serve whatever foul rat replaces me. If you have acted so, I will extract your entrails for it and burn them before your living eyes.”

Meirus was unmoved. “I have tried to fill you with my own doubts, not once, but many times. I have dinned it in your ears and you have preferred the advice of others because it stuffed your ego better. Matters have turned out not as I feared, but even worse. If you do not care to listen now, say so, sir, and I shall leave, and, in due course, deal with your successor, whose first act, no doubt, will be to sign a treaty of peace.”

Stettin stared at him red-eyed, enormous fists slowly clenching and unclenching. “Speak, you gray slug. Speak!”

“I have told you often, sir, that you are not the Mule. You may control ships and guns but you cannot control the minds of your subjects. Are you aware, sir, of who it is you are fighting? You fight the Foundation, which is never defeated–the Foundation, which is protected by the Seldon Plan–the Foundation, which is destined to form a new Empire.”

“There is no Plan. No longer. Munn has said so.”

“Then Munn is wrong. And if he were right, what then? You and I, sir, are not the people. The men and women of Kalgan and its subject worlds believe utterly and deeply in the Seldon Plan as do all the inhabitants of this end of the Galaxy. Nearly four hundred years of history teach the fact that the Foundation cannot be beaten. Neither the kingdoms nor the warlords nor the old Galactic Empire itself could do it.”

“The Mule did it.”

“Exactly, and he was beyond calculation–and you are not. What is worse, the people know that you are not. So your ships go into battle fearing defeat in some unknown way. The insubstantial fabric of the Plan hangs over them so that they are cautious and look before they attack and wonder a little too much. While on the other side, that same insubstantial fabric fills the enemy with confidence, removes fear, maintains morale in the face of early defeats. Why not? The Foundation has always been defeated at first and has always won in the end.

“And your own morale, sir? You stand everywhere on enemy territory. Your own dominions have not been invaded; are still not in danger of invasion–yet you are defeated. You don’t believe in the possibility, even, of victory, because you know there is none.

“Stoop, then, or you will be beaten to your knees. Stoop voluntarily, and you may save a remnant. You have depended on metal and power and they have sustained you as far as they could. You have ignored mind and morale and they have failed you. Now, take my advice. You have the Foundation man, Homir Munn. Release him. Send him back to Terminus and he will carry your peace offers.”

Stettin’s teeth ground behind his pale, set lips. But what choice had he?

On the first day of the new year, Homir Munn left Kalgan again. More than six months had passed since he had left Terminus and in the interim, a war had raged and faded.

He had come alone, but he left escorted. He had come a simple man of private life; he left the unappointed but nevertheless, actual, ambassador of peace.

And what had most changed was his early concern over the Second Foundation. He laughed at the thought of that: and pictured in luxuriant detail the final revelation to Dr. Darell, to that energetic, young competent, Anthor, to all of them–

He knew. He, Homir Munn, finally knew the truth.

14. “I Know...”

THE LAST TWO months of the Stettinian war did not lag for Homir. In his unusual office as Mediator Extraordinary, he found himself the center of interstellar affairs, a role he could not help but find pleasing.

There were no further major battles–a few accidental skirmishes that could scarcely count–and the terms of the treaty were hammered out with little necessity for concessions on the part of the Foundation. Stettin retained his office, but scarcely anything else. His navy was dismantled; his possessions outside the home system itself made autonomous and allowed to vote for return to previous status, full independence or confederation within the Foundation, as they chose.

The war was formally ended on an asteroid in Terminus’ own stellar system; site of the Foundation’s oldest naval base. Lev Meirus signed for Kalgan, and Homir was an interested spectator.

Throughout all that period he did not see Dr. Darell, nor any of the others. But it scarcely mattered. His news would keep–and, as always, he smiled at the thought.

Dr. Darell returned to Terminus some weeks after VK day, and that same evening, his house served as the meeting place for the five men who, ten months earlier, had laid their first plans.

They lingered over dinner and then over wine as though hesitating to return again to the old subject.

It was Jole Turbor, who, peering steadily into the purple depths of the wineglass with one eye, muttered, rather than said, “Well, Homir, you are a man of affairs now, I see. You handled matters well.”

“I?” Munn laughed loudly and joyously. For some reason, he had not stuttered in months. “I hadn’t a thing to do with it. It was Arcadia. By the by, Darell, how is she? She’s coming back from Trantor, I heard?”

“You heard correctly,” said Darell, quietly. “Her ship should dock within the week.” He looked, with veiled eyes, at the others, but there were only confused, amorphous exclamations of pleasure. Nothing else.

Turbor said, “Then it’s over, really. Who would have predicted all this ten months ago. Munn’s been to Kalgan and back. Arcadia’s been to Kalgan and Trantor and is coming back. We’ve had a war and won it, by Space. They tell you that the vast sweeps of history can be predicted, but doesn’t it seem conceivable that all that has just happened, with its absolute confusion to those of us who lived through it, couldn’t possibly have been predicted.”

“Nonsense,” said Anthor, acidly. “What makes you so triumphant, anyway? You talk as though we have really won a war, when actually we have won nothing but a petty brawl which has served only to distract our minds from the real enemy.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, in which only Homir Munn’s slight smile struck a discordant note.

And Anthor struck the arm of his chair with a balled and furyfilled fist, “Yes, I refer to the Second Foundation. There is no mention of it and, if I judge correctly, every effort to have no thought of it. Is it because this fallacious atmosphere of victory that palls over this world of idiots is so attractive that you feel you must participate? Turn somersaults then, handspring your way into a wall, pound one another’s back and throw confetti out the window. Do whatever you please, only get it out of your system–and when you are quite done and you are yourselves again, return and let us discuss that problem which exists now precisely as it did ten months ago when you sat here with eyes cocked over your shoulders for fear of you knew not what. Do you really think that the Mind-masters of the Second Foundation are less to be feared because you have beat down a foolish wielder of spaceships.”

He paused, red-faced and panting.

Munn said quietly, “Will you hear me speak now, Anthor? Or do you prefer to continue your role as ranting conspirator?”

“Have your say, Homir,” said Darell, “but let’s all of us refrain from over-picturesqueness of language. It’s a very good thing in its place, but at present, it bores me.”

Homir Munn leaned back in his armchair and carefully refilled his glass from the decanter at his elbow.

“I was sent to Kalgan,” he said, “to find out what I could from the records contained in the Mule’s Palace. I spent several months doing so. I seek no credit for that accomplishment. As I have indicated, it was Arcadia whose ingenuous intermeddling obtained the entry for me. Nevertheless, the fact remains that to my original knowledge of the Mule’s life and times, which, I submit, was not small, I have added the fruits of much labor among primary evidence which has been available to no one else.

“I am, therefore, in a unique position to estimate the true danger of the Second Foundation; much more so than is our excitable friend here.”

“And,” grated Anthor, “what is your estimate of that danger?”

“Why, zero.”

A short pause, and Elvett Semic asked with an air of surprised disbelief, “You mean zero danger?”

“Certainly. Friends, there is no Second Foundation!”

Anthor’s eyelids closed slowly and he sat there, face pale and expressionless.

Munn continued, aftention-centering and loving it, “And what is more, there was never one.”

“On what,” asked Darell, “do you base this surprising conclusion?”

“I deny,” said Munn, “that it is surprising. You all know the story of the Mule’s search for the Second Foundation. But what do you know of the intensity of that search–of the single-mindedness of it. He had tremendous resources at his disposal and he spared none of it. He was single-minded–and yet he failed. No Second Foundation was found.”

“One could scarcely expect it to be found,” pointed out Turbor, restlessly. “It had means of protecting itself against inquiring minds.”

“Even when the mind that is inquiring is the Mule’s mutant mentality? I think not. But come, you do not expect me to give you the gist of fifty volumes of reports in five minutes. All of it, by the terms of the peace treaty will be part of the Seldon Historical Museum eventually, and you will all be free to be as leisurely in your analysis as I have been. You will find his conclusion plainly stated, however, and that I have already expressed. There is not, and has never been, any Second Foundation.”

Semic interposed, “Well, what stopped the Mule, then?”

“Great Galaxy, what do you suppose stopped him? Death did; as it will stop all of us. The greatest superstition of the age is that the Mule was somehow stopped in an all-conquering career by some mysterious entities superior even to himself. It is the result of looking at everything in wrong focus.

“Certainly no one in the Galaxy can help knowing that the Mule was a freak, physical as well as mental. He died in his thirties because his ill-adjusted body could no longer struggle its creaking machinery along. For several years before his death he was an invalid. His best health was never more than an ordinary man’s feebleness. All right, then. He conquered the Galaxy and, in the ordinary course of nature, proceeded to die. It’s a wonder he proceeded as long and as well as he did. Friends, it’s down in the very clearest print. You have only to have patience. You have only to try to look at all facts in new focus.”

Darell said, thoughtfully, “Good, let us try that Munn. It would be an interesting attempt and, if nothing else, would help oil our thoughts. These tampered men–the records of which Anthor brought to us nearly a year ago, what of them? Help us to see them in focus.”

“Easily. How old a science is encephalographic analysis? Or, put it another way, how well-developed is the study of neuronic pathways.”

“We are at the beginning in this respect. Granted,” said Darell.

“Right. How certain can we be then as to the interpretation of what I’ve heard Anthor and yourself call the Tamper Plateau. You have your theories, but how certain can you be. Certain enough to consider it a firm basis for the existence of a mighty force for which all other evidence is negative? It’s always easy to explain the unknown by postulating a superhuman and arbitrary will.

“It’s a very human phenomenon. There have been cases all through Galactic history where isolated planetary systems have reverted to savagery, and what have we learned there? In every case, such savages attribute the to-them-incomprehensible forces of Nature–storms, pestilences, droughts–to sentient beings more powerful and more arbitrary than men.

“It is called anthropomorphism, I believe, and in this respect, we are savages and indulge in it. Knowing little of mental science, we blame anything we don’t know on supermen–those of the Second Foundation in this case, based on the hint thrown us by Seldon.”

“Oh,” broke in Anthor, “then you do remember Seldon. I thought you had forgotten. Seldon did say there was a Second Foundation. Get that in focus.

“And are you aware then of all Seldon’s purposes. Do you know what necessities were involved in his calculations? The Second Foundation may have been a very necessary scarecrow, with a highly specific end in view. How did we defeat Kalgan, for instance? What were you saying in your last series of articles, Turbor?”

Turbor stirred his bulk. “Yes, I see what “You’re driving at. I was on Kalgan towards the end, Darell, and it was quite obvious that morale on the planet was incredibly bad. I looked through their news-records and–well. they expected to be beaten. Actually, they were completely unmanned by the thought that eventually the Second Foundation would take a hand, on the side of the First, naturally.”

“Quite right,” said Munn. “I was there all through the war. I told Stettin there was no Second Foundation and he believed me. He felt safe. But there was no way of making the people suddenly disbelieve what they had believed all their lives, so that the myth eventually served a very useful purpose in Seldon’s cosmic chess game.”

But Anthor’s eyes opened, quite suddenly, and fixed themselves sardonically on Munn’s countenance. “I say you lie.”

Homir turned pale, “I don’t see that I have to accept, much less answer, an accusation of that nature.”

“I say it without any intention of personal offense. You cannot help lying; you don’t realize that you are. But you lie just the same.”

Semic laid his withered hand on the young man’s sleeve. “Take a breath, young fella.”

Anthor shook him off, none too gently, and said, “I’m out of patience with all of you. I haven’t seen this man more than half a dozen times in my life, yet I find the change in him unbelievable. The rest of you have known him for years, yet pass it by. It is enough to drive one mad. Do you call this man you’ve been listening to Homir Munn? He is not the Homir Munn I knew.”

A medley of shock; above which Munn’s voice cried, “You claim me to be an impostor?”

“Perhaps not in the ordinary sense,” shouted Anthor above the din, “but an impostor nonetheless. Quiet, everyone! I demand to be heard.”

He frowned them ferociously into obedience. “Do any of you remember Homir Munn as I do–the introverted librarian who never talked without obvious embarrassment; the man of tense and nervous voice, who stuttered out his uncertain sentences? Does this man sound like him? He’s fluent, he’s confident, he’s fun of theories, and, by Space, he doesn’t stutter. Is he the same person?”

Even Munn looked confused, and Pelleas Anthor drove on. “Well, shall we test him?”

“How?” asked Darell.

“You ask how? There is the obvious way. You have his encephalographic record of ten months ago, haven’t you? Run one again, and compare.”

He pointed at the frowning librarian, and said violently, “I dare him to refuse to subject himself to analysis.”

“I don’t object,” said Munn, defiantly. “I am the man I always was.”

“Can you know?” said Anthor with contempt. “I’ll go further. I trust no one here. I want everyone to undergo analysis. There has been a war. Munn has been on Kalgan; Turbor has been on board ship and all over the war areas. Darell and Semic have been absent, too–I have no idea where. Only I have remained here in seclusion and safety, and I no longer trust any of the rest of you. And to play fair, I’ll submit to testing as well. Are we agreed then? Or do I leave now and go my own way?”

Turbor shrugged and said, “I have no objection.”

“I have already said I don’t,” said Munn.

Semic moved a hand in silent assent, and Anthor waited for Darell. Finally, Darell nodded his head.

“Take me first,” said Anthor.

The needles traced their delicate way across the cross-hatchings as the young neurologist sat frozen in the reclining seat, with lidded eyes brooding heavily. From the files, Darell removed the folder containing Anthor’s old encephalographic record. He showed them to Anthor.

“That’s your own signature, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes. It’s my record. Make the comparison.”

The scanner threw old and new on to the screen. All six curves in each recording were there, and in the darkness, Munn’s voice sounded in harsh clarity. “Well, now, look there. There’s a change.”

“Those are the primary waves of the frontal lobe. It doesn’t mean a thing, Homir. Those additional jags you’re pointing to are just anger. It’s the others that count.”

He touched a control knob and the six pairs melted into one another and coincided. The deeper amplitude of primaries alone introduced doubling.

“Satisfied?” asked Anthor.

Darell nodded curtly and took the seat himself. Semic followed him and Turbor followed him. Silently the curves were collected; silently they were compared.

Munn was the last to take his seat. For a moment, he hesitated, then, with a touch of desperation in his voice, he said, “Well now, look, I’m coming in last and I’m under tension. I expect due allowance to be made for that.”

“There will be,” Darell assured him. “No conscious emotion of yours will affect more than the primaries and they are not important.”

It might have been hours, in the utter silence that followed

And then in the darkness of the comparison, Anthor said huskily: “Sure, sure, it’s only the onset of a complex. Isn’t that what he told us? No such thing as tampering; it’s all a silly anthropomorphic notion–but look at it! A coincidence I suppose.”

“What’s the matter?” shrieked Munn.

Darell’s hand was tight on the librarian’s shoulder. “Quiet, Munn–you’ve been handled; you’ve been adjusted by them.”

Then the light went on, and Munn was looking about him with broken eyes, making a horrible attempt to smile.

“You can’t be serious, surely. There is a purpose to this. You’re testing me.”

But Darell only shook his head. “No, no, Homir. It’s true.”

The librarian’s eyes were filled with tears, suddenly. “I don’t feel any different. I can’t believe it.” With sudden conviction: “You are all in this. It’s a conspiracy.”

Darell attempted a soothing gesture, and his hand was struck aside. Munn snarled, “You’re planning to kill me. By Space, you’re planning to kill me.”

With a lunge, Anthor was upon him. There was the sharp crack of bone against bone, and Homir was limp and flaccid with that look of fear frozen on his face.

Anthor rose shakily, and said, “We’d better tie and gag him. Later, we can decide what to do.” He brushed his long hair back.

Turbor said, “How did you guess there was something wrong with him?”

Anthor turned sardonically upon him. “It wasn’t difficult. You see, I happen to know where the Second Foundation really is.”

Successive shocks have a decreasing effect–

It was with actual mildness that Semic asked, “Are you sure? I mean we’ve just gone through this sort of business with Munn–”

This isn’t quite the same,” returned Anthor. “Darell, the day the war started, I spoke to you most seriously. I tried to have you leave Terminus. I would have told you then what I will tell you now, if I had been able to trust you.”

“You mean you have known the answer for half a year?” smiled Darell.

“I have known it from the time I learned that Arcadia had left for Trantor.”

And Darell started to his feet in sudden consternation. “What had Arcadia to do with it? What are you implying?”

“Absolutely nothing that is not plain on the face of all the events we know so well. Arcadia goes to Kalgan and flees in terror to the very center of the Galaxy, rather than return home. Lieutenant Dirige, our best agent on Kalgan is tampered with. Homir Munn goes to Kalgan and he is tampered with. The Mule conquered the Galaxy, but, queerly enough, he made Kalgan his headquarters, and it occurs to me to wonder if he was conqueror or, perhaps, tool. At every turn, we meet with Kalgan, Kalgan–nothing but Kalgan, the world that somehow survived untouched all the struggles of the warlords for over a century.”

“Your conclusion, then.”

“Is obvious,” Anthor’s eyes were intense. “The Second Foundation is on Kalgan.”

Turbor interrupted. “I was on Kalgan, Anthor. I was there last week. If there was any Second Foundation on it, I’m mad. Personally, I think you’re mad.”

The young man whirled on him savagely. “Then you’re a fat fool. What do you expect the Second Foundation to be? A grammar school? Do you think that Radiant Fields in tight beams spell out ‘Second Foundation’ in green and purple along the incoming spaceship routes? Listen to me, Turbor. Wherever they are, they form a tight oligarchy. They must be as well hidden on the world on which they exist, as the world itself is in the Galaxy as a whole.”

Turbor’s jaw muscles writhed. “I don’t like your attitude, Anthor.”

“That certainly disturbs me,” was the sarcastic response. “Take a look about you here on Terminus. We’re at the center–the core–the origin of the First Foundation with all its knowledge of physical science. Well, how many of the population are physical scientists? Can you operate an Energy Transmitting Station? What do you know of the operation of a hyperatomic motor? Eh? The number of real scientists on Terminus–even on Terminus–can be numbered at less than one percent of the population.

“And what then of the Second Foundation where secrecy must be preserved. There will still be less of the cognoscenti, and these will be hidden even from their own world.”

“Say,” said Semic, carefully. “We just licked Kalgan–”

“So we did. So we did,” said Anthor, sardonically. “Oh, we celebrate that victory. The cities are still illuminated; they are still shooting off fireworks; they are still shouting over the televisors. But now, now, when the search is on once more for the Second Foundation, where is the last place well look; where is the last place anyone will look? Right!” Kalgan!

“We haven’t hurt them, you know; not really. We’ve destroyed some ships, killed a few thousands, torn away their Empire, taken over some of their commercial and economic power–but that all means nothing. I’ll wager that not one member of the real ruling class of Kalgan is in the least discomfited. On the contrary, they are now safe from curiosity. But not from my curiosity. What do you say, Darell?”

Darell shrugged his shoulders. “Interesting. I’m trying to fit it in with a message I received from Arcadia a few months since.”

“Oh, a message?” asked Anthor. “And what was it?”

“Well, I’m not certain. Five short words. But its interesting.”

“Look,” broke in Semic, with a worried interest, “there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

Semic chose his words carefully, his old upper lip lifting with each word as if to let them out singly and reluctantly. “Well, now, Homir Munn was saying just a while ago that Hari Seldon was faking when he said that he had established a Second Foundation. Now you’re saying that it’s not so; that Seldon wasn’t faking, eh?”

“Right, he wasn’t faking. Seldon said he had established a Second Foundation and so he had.”

“All right, then, but he said something else, too. He said he established the two Foundations at opposite ends of the Galaxy. Now, young man, was that a fake–because Kalgan isn’t at the opposite end of the Galaxy.”

Anthor seemed annoyed, “That’s a minor point. That part may well have been a cover up to protect them. But after all, think–What real use would it serve to have the Mind-masters at the opposite end of the Galaxy? What is their function? To help preserve the Plan. Who are the main card players of the Plan? We, the First Foundation. Where can they best observe us, then, and serve their own ends? At the opposite end of the Galaxy? Ridiculous! They’re within fifty parsecs, actually, which is much more sensible.”

“I like that argument,” said Darell. “It makes sense. Look here, Munn’s been conscious for some time and I propose we loose him. He can’t do any harm, really.”

Anthor looked rebellious, but Homir was nodding vigorously. Five seconds later he was rubbing his wrists just as vigorously.

“How do you feel?” asked Darell.

“Rotten,” said Munn, sulkily, “but never mind. There’s something I want to ask this bright young thing here. I’ve heard what he’s had to say, and I’d just like permission to wonder what we do next.”

There was a queer and incongruous silence.

Munn smiled bitterly. “Well, suppose Kalgan is the Second Foundation. Who on Kalgan are they? How are you going to find them? How are you going to tackle them if you find them, eh?”

“Ah,” said Darell, “I can answer that, strangely enough. Shall I tell you what Semic and I have been doing this past half-year? It may give you another reason, Anthor, why I was anxious to remain on Terminus all this time.”

“In the first place,” he went on, “I’ve been working on encephalographic analysis with more purpose than any of you may suspect. Detecting Second Foundation minds is a little more subtle than simply finding a Tamper Plateau–and I did not actually succeed. But I came close enough.

“Do you know, any of you, how emotional control works? It’s been a popular subject with fiction writers since the time of the Mule and much nonsense has been written, spoken, and recorded about it. For the most part, it has been treated as something mysterious and occult. Of course, it isn’t. That the brain is the source of a myriad, tiny electromagnetic fields, everyone knows. Every fleeting emotion varies those fields in more or less intricate fashion, and everyone should know that, too.

“Now it is possible to conceive a mind which can sense these changing fields and even resonate with them. That is, a special organ of the cerebrum can exist which can take on whatever field-pattern it may detect. Exactly how it would do this, I have no idea, but that doesn’t matter. if I were blind, for instance, I could still learn the significance of photons and energy quanta and it could be reasonable to me that the absorption of a photon of such energy could create chemical changes in some organ of the body such that its presence would be detectable. But, of course, I would not be able, thereby, to understand color.

“Do all of you follow?”

There was a firm nod from Anthor; a doubtful nod from the others.

“Such a hypothetical Mind Resonating Organ, by adjusting itself to the Fields emitted by other minds could perform what is popularly known as ‘reading emotion’ or even ‘reading minds,’ which is actually something even more subtle. It is but an easy step from that to imagining a similar organ which could actually force an adjustment on another mind. It could orient with its stronger Field the weaker one of another mind–much as a strong magnet will orient the atomic dipoles in a bar of steel and leave it magnetized thereafter.

“I solved the mathematics of Second Foundationism in the sense that I evolved a function that would predict the necessary combination of neuronic paths that would allow for the formation of an organ such as I have just described–but, unfortunately, the function is too complicated to solve by any of the mathematical tools at present known. That is too bad, because it means that I can never detect a Mind-worker by his encephalographic pattern alone.

“But I could do something else. I could, with Semic’s help, construct what I shall describe as a Mental Static device. It is not beyond the ability of modem science to create an energy source that will duplicate an encephalograph-type pattern of electromagnetic field. Moreover, it can be made to shift at complete random, creating, as far as this particular mind-sense is concerned, a sort of ‘noise’ or ‘static’ which masks other minds with which it may be in contact.

“Do you still follow?”

Semic chuckled. He had helped create blindly, but he had guessed, and guessed correctly. The old man had a trick or two left–

Anthor said, “I think I do.”

“The device,” continued Darell, “is a fairly easy one to produce, and I had all the resources of the Foundation under my control as it came under the heading of war research. And now the mayor’s offices and the Legislative assemblies are surrounded with Mental Static. So are most of our key factories. So is this building. Eventually, any place we wish can be made absolutely safe from the Second Foundation or from any future Mule. And that’s it.”

He ended quite simply with a flat-palmed gesture of the hand.

Turbor seemed stunned. “Then it’s all over. Great Seldon, it’s all over.”

“Well,” said Darell, “not exactly.”

“How, not exactly? Is there something more?”

“Yes, we haven’t located the Second Foundation yet!”

“What,” roared Anthor, “are you trying to say–”

“Yes, I am. Kalgan is not the Second Foundation.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s easy,” grunted Darell. “You see I happen to know where the Second Foundation really is.”

15. The Answer That Satisfied

TURBOR LAUGHED SUDDENLY–laughed in huge, windy gusts that bounced ringingly off the walls and died in gasps. He shook his head, weakly, and said, “Great Galaxy, this goes on all night. One after another, we put up our straw men to be knocked down. We have fun, but we don’t get anywhere. Space! Maybe all planets are the Second Foundation. Maybe they have no planet, just key men spread on all the planets. And what does it matter, since Darell says we have the perfect defense?”

Darell smiled without humor. “The perfect defense is not enough, Turbor. Even my Mental Static device is only something that keeps us in the same place. We cannot remain forever with our fists doubled, frantically staring in all directions for the unknown enemy. We must know not only how to win, but whom to defeat. And there is a specific world on which the enemy exists.”

“Get to the point,” said Anthor, wearily. “What’s your information?”

“Arcadia,” said Darell, “sent me a message, and until I got it, I never saw the obvious. I probably would never have seen the obvious. Yet it was a simple message that went: ‘A circle has no end.’ Do you see?”

“No,” said Anthor, stubbornly, and he spoke, quite obviously, for the others.

“A circle has no end,” repeated Munn, thoughtfully, and his forehead furrowed.

“Well,” said Darell, impatiently, “it was clear to me–What is the one absolute fact we know about the Second Foundation, eh? I’ll tell you! We know that Hari Seldon located it at the opposite end of the Galaxy. Homir Munn theorized that Seldon lied about the existence of the Foundation. Pelleas Anthor theorized that Seldon had told the truth that far, but lied about the location of the Foundation. But I tell you that Hari Seldon lied in no particular; that he told the absolute truth.

“But, what is the other end? The Galaxy is a flat, lens-shaped object. A cross section along the flatness of it is a circle, and a circle had no end–as Arcadia realized. We–we, the First Foundation–are located on Terminus at the rim of that circle. We are at an end of the Galaxy, by definition. Now follow the rim of that circle and find the other end. Follow it, follow it, follow it, and you will find no other end. You will merely come back to your starting point–

“And there you will find the Second Foundation.”

“There?” repeated Anthor. “Do you mean here?”

“Yes, I mean here!” cried Darell, energetically. “Why, where else could it possibly be? You said yourself that if the Second Foundationers were the guardians of the Seldon Plan, it was unlikely that they could be located at the so-called other end of the Galaxy, where they would be as isolated as they could conceivably be. You thought that fifty parsecs distance was more sensible. I tell you that that is also too far. That no distance at all is more sensible. And where would they be safest? Who would look for them here? Oh, it’s the old principle of the most obvious place being the least suspicious.

“Why was poor Ebling Mis so surprised and unmanned by his discovery of the location of the Second Foundation? There he was, looking for it desperately in order to warn it of the coming of the Mule, only to find that the Mule had already captured both Foundations at a stroke. And why did the Mule himself fail. in his search? Why not? If one is searching for an unconquerable menace, one would scarcely look among the enemies already conquered. So the Mind-masters, in their own leisurely time, could lay their plans to stop the Mule, and succeeded in stopping him.

“Oh, it is maddeningly simple. For here we are with our plots and our schemes, thinking that we are keeping our secrecy–when all the time we are in the very heart and core of our enemy’s stronghold. It’s humorous.”

Anthor did not remove the skepticism from his face, “You honestly believe this theory, Dr. Darell?”

“I honestly believe it.”

“Then any of our neighbors, any man we pass in the street might be a Second Foundation superman, with his mind watching yours and feeling the pulse of its thoughts.”

“Exactly.”

“And we have been permitted to proceed all this time, without molestation?”

“Without molestation? Who told you we were not molested? You, yourself, showed that Munn has been tampered with. What makes you think that we sent him to Kalgan in the first place entirely of our own volition–or that Arcadia overheard us and followed him on her own volition? Hah! We have been molested without pause, probably. And after all, why should they do more than they have? It is far more to their benefit to mislead us, than merely to stop us.”

Anthor buried himself in meditation and emerged therefrom with a dissatisfied expression. “Well, then, I don’t like it. Your Mental Static isn’t worth a thought. We can’t stay in the house forever and as soon as we leave, we’re lost, with what we now think we know. Unless you can build a little machine for every inhabitant in the Galaxy.”

“Yes, but we’re not quite helpless, Anthor. These men of the Second Foundation have a special sense which we lack. It is their strength and also their weakness. For instance, is there any weapon of attack that will be effective against a normal, sighted man which is useless against a blind man?”

“Sure,” said Munn, promptly. “A light in the eyes.”

“Exactly,” said Darell. “A good, strong blinding light.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Turbor.

“But the analogy is clear. I have a Mind Static device. It sets up an artificial electromagnetic pattern, which to the mind of a man of the Second Foundation would be like a beam of light to us. But the Mind Static device is kaleidoscopic. It shifts quickly and continuously, faster than the receiving mind can follow. All right then, consider it a flickering light; the kind that would give you a headache, if continued long enough. Now intensify that light or that electromagnetic field until it is blinding–and it will become a pain, an unendurable pain. But only to those with the proper sense; not to the unsensed.”

“Really?” said Anthor, with the beginnings of enthusiasm. “Have you tried this?”

“On whom? Of course, I haven’t tried it. But it will work.”

“Well, where do you have the controls for the Field that surrounds the house? Id like to see this thing.”

“Here.” Darell reached into his jacket pocket. It was a small thing, scarcely bulging his pocket. He tossed the black, knob-studded cylinder to the other.

Anthor inspected it carefully and shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t make me any smarter to look at it. Look Darell, what mustn’t I touch? I don’t want to turn off the house defense by accident, you know.”

“You won’t,” said Darell, indifferently. “That control is locked in place.” He flicked at a toggle switch that didn’t move.

“And what’s this knob?”

“That one varies rate of shift of pattern. Here–this one varies the intensity. It’s that which I’ve been referring to.”

“May I–” asked Anthor, with his finger on the intensity knob. The others were crowding close.

“Why not?” shrugged DarelI. “It won’t affect us.”

Slowly, almost wincingly, Anthor turned the knob, first in one direction, then in another. Turbor was gritting his teeth, while Munn blinked his eyes rapidly. It was as though they were keening their inadequate sensory equipment to locate this impulse which could not affect them.

Finally, Anthor shrugged and tossed the control box back into Darell’s lap. “Well, I suppose we can take your word for it. But it’s certainly hard to imagine that anything was happening when I turned the knob.”

“But naturally, Pelleas Anthor,” said Darell, with a tight smile. “The one I gave you was a dummy. You see I have another.” He tossed his jacket aside and seized a duplicate of the control box that Anthor had been investigating, which swung from his belt.

“You see,” said Darell, and in one gesture turned the intensity knob to maximum.

And with an unearthly shriek, Pelleas Anthor sank to the floor. He rolled in his agony; whitened, gripping fingers clutching and tearing futilely at his hair.

Munn lifted his feet hastily to prevent contact with the squirming body, and his eyes were twin depths of horror. Semic and Turbor were a pair of plaster casts; stiff and white.

Darell, somber, turned the knob back once more. And Anthor twitched feebly once or twice and lay still. He was alive, his breath racking his body.

“Lift him on to the couch,” said Darell, grasping the young man’s head. “Help me here.”

Turbor reached for the feet. They might have been lifting a sack of flour. Then, after long minutes, the breathing grew quieter, and Anthor’s eyelids fluttered and lifted. His face was a horrid yellow; his hair and body was soaked in perspiration, and his voice, when he spoke, was cracked and unrecognizable.

“Don’t,” he muttered, “don’t! Don’t do that again! You don’t know–You don’t know–Oh-h-h.” It was a long, trembling moan.

“We won’t do it again,” said Darell, “if you will tell us the truth. You are a member of the Second Foundation?”

“Let me have some water,” pleaded Anthor.

“Get some, Turbor,” said Darell, “and bring the whiskey bottle.”

He repeated the question after pouring a jigger of whiskey and two glasses of water into Anthor. Something seemed to relax in the young man–

“Yes,” he said, wearily. “I am a member of the Second Foundation.”

“Which,” continued Darell, “is located on Terminus–here?”

“Yes, yes. You are right in every particular, Dr. Darell.”

“Good! Now explain what’s been happening this past half year. Tell us!”

“I would like to sleep,” whispered Anthor.

“Later! Speak now!”

A tremulous sigh. Then words, low and hurried. The others bent over him to catch the sound, “The situation was growing dangerous. We knew that Terminus and its physical scientists were becoming interested in brain-wave patterns and that the times were ripe for the development of something like the Mind Static device. And there was growing enmity toward the Second Foundation. We had to stop it without ruining SeIdon’s Plan.

“We... we tried to control the movement. We tried to join it. It would turn suspicion and efforts away from us. We saw to it that Kalgan declared war as a further distraction. That’s why I sent Munn to Kalgan. Stettin’s supposed mistress was one of us. She saw to it that Munn made the proper moves–”

“Callia is–” cried Munn, but Darell waved him silent.

Anthor continued, unaware of any interruption, “Arcadia followed. We hadn’t counted on that–can’t foresee everything–so Callia maneuvered her to Trantor to prevent interference. That’s all. Except that we lost.”

“You tried to get me to go to Trantor, didn’t you?” asked Darell.

Anthor nodded, “Had to get you out of the way. The growing triumph in your mind was clear enough. You were solving the problems of the Mind Static device.”

“Why didn’t you put me under control?”

“Couldn’t... couldn’t. Had my orders. We were working according to a Plan. If I improvised, I would have thrown everything off. Plan only predicts probabilities... you know that... like Seldon’s Plan.” He was talking in anguished pants, and almost incoherently. His head twisted from side to side in a restless fever. “We worked with individuals... not groups... very low probabilities involved... lost out. Besides... if control you... someone else invent device... no use... had to control times... more subtle... First Speaker’s own plan... don’t know all angles... except... didn’t work a-a-a–” He ran down.

Darell shook him roughly, “You can’t sleep yet. How many of you are there?”

“Huh? Whatjasay... oh... not many... be surprised fifty... don’t need more.”

“All here on Terminus?”

“Five... six out in Space... like Callia... got to sleep.”

He stirred himself suddenly as though to one giant effort, and his expressions gained in clarity. It was a last attempt at self-justification, at moderating his defeat.

“Almost got you at the end. Would have turned off defenses and seized you. Would have seen who was master. But you gave me dummy controls... suspected me all along–”

And finally he was asleep.

Turbor said, in awed tones, “How long did you suspect him, Darell?”

“Ever since he first came here,” was the quiet response. “He came from Kleise, he said. But I knew Kleise; and I knew on what terms we parted. He was a fanatic on the subject of the Second Foundation and I had deserted him. My own purposes were reasonable, since I thought it best and safest to pursue my own notions by myself. But I couldn’t tell Kleise that; and he wouldn’t have listened if I had. To him, I was a coward and a traitor, perhaps even an agent of the Second Foundation. He was an unforgiving man and from that time almost to the day of his death he had no dealings with me. Then, suddenly, in his last few weeks of life, he writes me–as an old friend–to greet his best and most promising pupil as a co-worker and begin again the old investigation.

“It was out of character. How could he possibly do such a thing without being under outside influence, and I began to wonder if the only purpose might not be to introduce into my confidence a real agent of the Second Foundation. Well, it was so–”

He sighed and closed his own eyes for a moment.

Semic put in hesitantly, “What will we do with all of them... these Second Foundation fellas?”

“I don’t know,” said Darell, sadly. “We could exile them, I suppose. There’s Zoranel, for instance. They can be placed there and the planet saturated with Mind Static. The sexes can be separated, or, better still, they can be sterilized–and in fifty years, the Second Foundation will be a thing of the past. Or perhaps a quiet death for all of them would be kinder.”

“Do you suppose,” said Turbor, “we could learn the use of this sense of theirs. Or are they born with it, like the Mule.”

“I don’t know. I think it is developed through long training, since there are indications from encephalography that the potentialities of it are latent in the human mind. But what do you want that sense for? It hasn’t helped them.”

He frowned.

Though he said nothing, his thoughts were shouting.

It had been too easy–too easy. They had fallen, these invincibles, fallen like book-villains, and he didn’t like it.

Galaxy! When can a man know he is not a puppet? How can a man know he is not a puppet?

Arcadia was coming home, and his thoughts shuddered away from that which he must face in the end.

She was home for a week, then two, and he could not loose the tight check upon those thoughts. How could he? She had changed from child to young woman in her absence, by some strange alchemy. She was his link to life; his fink to a bittersweet marriage that scarcely outlasted his honeymoon.

And then, late one evening, he said as casually as he could, “Arcadia, what made you decide that Terminus contained both Foundations?”

They had been to the theater; in the best seats with private trimensional viewers for each; her dress was new for the occasion, and she was happy.

She stared at him for a moment, then tossed it off. “Oh, I Don’t know, Father. It just came to me.”

A layer of ice thickened about Dr. Darell’s heart.

“Think,” he said, intensely. “This is important. What made you decide both Foundations were on Terminus.”

She frowned slightly. “Well, there was Lady Callia. I knew she was a Second Foundationer. Anthor said so, too.”

“But she was on Kalgan,” insisted Darell. “What made you decide on Terminus?”

And now Arcadia waited for several minutes before she answered. What had made her decide? What had made her decide?

She had the horrible sensation of something slipping just beyond her grasp.

She said, “She knew about things–Lady Callia did–and must have had her information from Terminus. Doesn’t that sound right, Father?

But he just shook his head at her.

“Father,” she cried, “I knew. The more I thought, the surer I was. It just made sense.”

There was that lost look in her father’s eyes, “It’s no good, Arcadia. Its no good. Intuition is suspicious when concerned with the Second Foundation. You see that, don’t you? It might have been intuition–and it might have been control!”

“Control! You mean they changed me? Oh, no. No, they couldn’t.” She was backing away from him. “But didn’t Anthor say I was right? He admitted it. He admitted everything. And you’ve found the whole bunch right here on Trantor. Didn’t you? Didn’t you?” She was breathing quickly.

“I know, but–Arcadia, will you let me make an encephalographic analysis of your brain?’

She shook her head violently, “No, no! I’m too scared.”

“Of me, Arcadia? There’s nothing to be afraid of. But we must know. You see that, don’t you?”

She interrupted him only once, after that. She clutched at his arm just before the last switch was thrown. “What if I am different, Father? What will you have to do?”

“I won’t have to do anything, Arcadia. If you’re different, well leave. Well go back to Trantor, you and I, and... and we won’t care about anything else in the Galaxy.”

Never in Darell’s life had an analysis proceeded so slowly, cost him so much, and when it was over, Arcadia huddled down and dared not look. Then she heard him laugh and that was information enough. She jumped up and threw herself into his opened arms.

He was babbling wildly as they squeezed one another, “The house is under maximum Mind Static and your brain-waves are normal. We really have trapped them, Arcadia, and we can go back to living.”

“Father,” she gasped, “can we let them give us medals now?”

“How did you know I’d asked to be left out of it?” He held her at arm’s mind; you know everything. All right, you can have your medal on a platform, with speeches.”

“And Father?”

“Yes?”

“Can you call me Arkady from now on.”

“But–Very well, Arkady.”

Slowly the magnitude of the victory was soaking into him and saturating him. The Foundation–the First Foundation–now the only Foundation–was absolute master of the Galaxy. No further barrier stood between themselves and the Second Empire–the final fulfillment of Seldon’s Plan.

They had only to reach for it–

Thanks to–

16. The Answer That Was True

AN UNLOCATED ROOM on an unlocated world!

And a man whose plan had worked.

The First Speaker looked up at the Student, “Fifty men and women,” he said. “Fifty martyrs! They knew it meant death or permanent imprisonment and they could not even be oriented to prevent weakening–since orientation might have been detected. Yet they did not weaken. They brought the plan through, because they loved the greater Plan.”

“Might they have been fewer?” asked the Student, doubtfully.

The First Speaker slowly shook his head, “It was the lower limit. Less could not possibly have carried conviction. In fact, pure objectivism would have demanded seventy-five to leave margin for error. Never mind. Have you studied the course of action as worked out by the Speakers’ Council fifteen years ago?”

“Yes, Speaker.”

“And compared it with actual developments?”

“Yes, Speaker.” Then, after a pause–

“I was quite amazed, Speaker.”

“I know. There is always amazement. If you knew how many men labored for how many months–years, in fact–to bring about the polish of perfection, you would be less amazed. Now tell me what happened–in words. I want your translation of the mathematics.”

“Yes, Speaker.” The young man marshaled his thoughts. “Essentially, it was necessary for the men of the First Foundation to be thoroughly convinced that they had located and destroyed the Second Foundation. In that way, there would be reversion to the intended original. To all intents, Terminus would once again know nothing about us; include us in none of their calculations. We are hidden once more, and safe–at the cost of fifty men.”

“And the purpose of the Kalganian war?”

“To show the Foundation that they could beat a physical enemy–to wipe out the damage done to their self-esteem and self-assuredness by the Mule.”

“There you are insufficient in your analysis. Remember, the population of Terminus regarded us with distinct ambivalence. They hated and envied our supposed superiority; yet they relied on us implicitly for protection. If we had been ‘destroyed’ before the Kalganian war, it would have meant panic throughout the Foundation. They would then never have had the courage to stand up against Stettin, when he then attacked; and he would have. Only in the full flush of victory could the ‘destruction’ have taken place with minimum ill-effects. Even waiting a year, thereafter, might have meant a too-great cooling off spirit for success.”

The Student nodded. “I see. Then the course of history will proceed without deviation in the direction indicated by the Plan.”

“Unless,” pointed out the First Speaker, “further accidents, unforeseen and individual, occur.”

“And for that,” said the Student, “we still exist. Except–Except–One facet of the present state of affairs worries me, Speaker. The First Foundation is left with the Mind Static device–a powerful weapon against us. That, at least, is not as it was before.”

“A good point. But they have no one to use it against. It has become a sterile device; just as without the spur of our own menace against them, encephalographic analysis will become a sterile science. Other varieties of knowledge will once again bring more important and immediate returns. So this first generation of mental scientists among the First Foundation will also be the last–and, in a century, Mind Static will be a nearly forgotten item of the past.”

“Well–” The Student was calculating mentally. “I suppose you’re right.”

But what I want you most to realize, young man, for the sake of your future in the Council is the consideration given to the tiny intermeshings that were forced into our plan of the last decade and a half simply because we dealt with individuals. There was the manner in which Anthor had to create suspicion against himself in such a way that it would mature at the right time, but that was relatively simple.

“There was the manner in which the atmosphere was so manipulated that to no one on Terminus would it occur, prematurely, that Terminus itself might be the center they were seeking. That knowledge had to be supplied to the young girl, Arcadia, who would be heeded by no one but her own father. She had to be sent to Trantor, thereafter, to make certain that there would be no premature contact with her father. Those two were the two poles of a hyperatomic motor; each being inactive without the other. And the switch had to be thrown–contact had to be made–at just the right moment. I saw to that!

“And the final battle had to be handled properly. The Foundation’s fleet had to be soaked in self-confidence, while the fleet of Kalgan made ready to run. I saw to that, also!”

Said the Student, “It seems to me, Speaker, that you... I mean, all of us... were counting on Dr. Darell not suspecting that Arcadia was our tool. According to my check on the calculations, there was something like a thirty percent probability that he would so suspect. What would have happened then?”

“We had taken care of that. What have you been taught about Tamper Plateaus? What are they? Certainly not evidence of the introduction of an emotional bias. That can be done without any chance of possible detection by the most refined conceivable encephalographic analysis. A consequence of Leffert’s Theorem, you know. It is the removal, the cutting-out, of previous emotional bias, that shows. It must show.

“And, of course, Anthor made certain that Darell knew all about Tamper Plateaus.

“However–When can an individual be placed under Control without showing it? Where there is no previous emotional bias to remove. In other words, when the individual is a new-born infant with a blank slate of a mind. Arcadia Darell was such an infant here on Trantor fifteen years ago, when the first line was drawn into the structure of the plan. She will never know that she has been Controlled, and will be all the better for it, since her Control involved the development of a precocious and intelligent personality.”

The First Speaker laughed shortly, “In a sense, it is the irony of it all that is most amazing. For four hundred years, so many men have been blinded by Seldon’s words ‘the other end of the Galaxy.’ They have brought their own peculiar, physical-science thought to the problem, measuring off the other end with protractors and rulers, ending up eventually either at a point in the periphery one hundred eighty degrees around the rim of the Galaxy, or back at the original point.

“Yet our very greatest danger lay in the fact that there was a possible solution based on physical modes of thought. The Galaxy, you know, is not simply a flat ovoid of any sort; nor is the periphery a closed curve. Actually, it is a double spiral, with at least eighty percent of the inhabited planets on the Main Arm. Terminus is the extreme outer end of the spiral arm, and we are at the other–since, what is the opposite end of a spiral? Why, the center.

“But that is trifling. It is an accidental and irrelevant solution. The solution could have been reached immediately, if the questioners had but remembered that Hari Seldon was a social scientist not a physical scientist and adjusted their thought processes accordingly. What could ‘opposite ends’ mean to a social scientist? Opposite ends on the map? Of course not. That’s the mechanical interpretation only.

“The First Foundation was at the periphery, where the original Empire was weakest, where its civilizing influence was least, where its wealth and culture were most nearly absent. And where is the social opposite end of the Galaxy? Why, at the place where the original Empire was strongest, where its civilizing influence was most, where its wealth and culture were most strongly present.

“Here! At the center! At Trantor, capital of the Empire of Seldon’s time.

“And it is so inevitable. Hari Seldon left the Second Foundation behind him to maintain, improve, and extend his work That has been known, or guessed at, for fifty years. But where could that best be done? At Trantor, where Seldon’s group had worked, and where the data of decades had been accumulated. And it was the purpose of the Second Foundation to protect the Plan against enemies. That, too, was known! And where was the source of greatest danger to Terminus and the Plan?

“Here! Here at Trantor, where the Empire dying though it was, could, for three centuries, still destroy the Foundation, if it could only have decided to do so.

“Then when Trantor fell and was sacked and utterly destroyed, a short century ago, we were naturally able to protect our headquarters, and, on all the planet, the Imperial Library and the grounds about it remained untouched. This was well-known to the Galaxy, but even that apparently overwhelming hint passed them by.

“It was here at Trantor that Ebling Mis discovered us; and here that we saw to it that he did not survive the discovery. To do so, it was necessary to arrange to have a normal Foundation girl defeat the tremendous mutant powers of the Mule. Surely, such a phenomenon might have attracted suspicion to the planet on which it happened–It was here that we first studied the Mule and planned his ultimate defeat. It was here that Arcadia was born and the train of events begun that led to the great return to the Seldon Plan.

“And all those flaws in our secrecy; those gaping holes; remained unnoticed because Seldon had spoken of ‘the other end’ in his way, and they had interpreted it in their way.”

The First Speaker had long since stopped speaking to the Student. It was an exposition to himself, really, as he stood before the window, looking up at the incredible blaze of the firmament, at the huge Galaxy that was now safe forever.

“Hari Seldon called Trantor, ‘Star’s End,’” he whispered, “and why not that bit of poetic imagery. All the universe was once guided from this rock; all the apron strings of the stars led here. ‘All roads lead to Trantor,’ says the old proverb, ‘and that is where all stars end.’ ”

Ten months earlier, the First Speaker had viewed those same crowding stars–nowhere as crowded as at the center of that huge cluster of matter Man calls the Galaxy–with misgivings; but now there was a somber satisfaction on the round and ruddy face of Preem Palver–First Speaker.

Foundation’s Edge

498 F.E. (12566 G.E.)

Prologue

THE FIRST GALACTIC Empire was falling. it had been decaying and breaking down for centuries and only one man fully realized that fact.

He was Hari Seldom the last great scientist of the First Empire, and it was he who perfected psychohistory–the science of human behavior reduced to mathematical equations.

The individual human being is unpredictable, but the reactions of human mobs, Seldon found, could be treated statistically. The larger the mob, the greater the accuracy that could be achieved. And the size of the human masses that Seldon worked with was no less than the population of all the inhabited millions of worlds of the Galaxy.

Seldon’s equations told him that, left to itself, the Empire would fall and that. thirty thousand years of human misery and agony would elapse before a Second Empire would arise from the ruins. And yet, if one could adjust some of the conditions that existed, that Interregnum could be decreased to a single millennium–just one thousand years.

It was to insure this that Seldon set up two colonies of scientists that he called “Foundations.” With deliberate intention, he set them up “at opposite ends of the Galaxy.” The First Foundation, which centered on physical science, was set up in the fuel daylight of publicity. The existence of the other, the Second Foundation, a world of psychohistorical and “mentalic” scientists, was drowned in silence.

In The Foundation Trilogy, the story of the first four centuries of the Interregnum is told. The First Foundation (commonly known as simply “The Foundation,” since the existence of another was unknown to almost all) began as a small community lost in the emptiness of the Outer Periphery of the Galaxy. Periodically it faced a crisis in which the variables of human intercourse –and of the social and economic currents of the time–constricted about it.  Its freedom to move lay along only one certain line and when it moved in that direction a new horizon of development opened before it. All had been planned by Hari Seldon, long dead now.

The First Foundation with its superior science, took over the barbarized planets that surrounded it. It faced the anarchic warlords who broke away frog, a dying, empire and beat them. It faced the remnant of the Empire itself under its last strong Emperor and its last strong general–and beat it.

It seemed as though the “Seldon Plan” was going through smoothly and that nothing would prevent the Second Empire from being established or, time–and with a minimum of intermediate devastation.

But psychohistory is a statistical science. Always there is a small chance that something will go wrong, and something did–something which Hari Seldon could not have foreseen. One man, called the Mule, appeared atom nowhere He had mental powers in a Galaxy that lacked them. He could mold men’s emotions and shape their minds so that his bitterest opponents were made into his devoted servants. Aries could not,  would not, fight him. The First Foundation fell and Seldon’s Plan seemed to lie in ruins.

There was left the mysterious Second Foundation, which had been caught unprepared by the sudden appearance of the Mule, but which was now slowly working out a counterattack. Its great defense was the fact of its unknown location. The Mule sought it in order to make his conquest of the Galaxy complete. The faithful of what was left of the First Foundation sought it to obtain help.

Neither found it.  The Mule was stopped first by the action of a woman, Bayta Darell and that bought enough time for the Second Foundation to organize the proper action and, with that, to stop the Mule permanently. Slowly they prepared to reinstate the Seldon Plan.

But, in a way, the cover of the Second Foundation was gone. The First Foundation knew of the second’s existence, and the First did not want a future in which they, were overseen by the mentalists. The First Foundation was the superior in physical force, while the Second Foundation was hampered not only by that fact, but by being faced by a double task: it had not only to stop the First Foundation but had also to regain its anonymity.

This the Second Foundation, under its greatest “First Speaker,” Preem Palver, manages to do. The First Foundation was allowed to seem to win, to seems to defeat the Second Foundation, and it moved on to greater and greater strength in the Galaxy, totally ignorant that the Second Foundation still existed.

It is now four hundred and ninety-eight years after the First Foundation had come into existence. It is at the peak of its strength, but one man does not accept appearances–

1. Councilman

1.

“I DON’T BELIEVE it, of course,” said Golan Trevize standing on the wide steps of Seldon Hall and looking out over the city as it sparkled in the sunlight.

Terminus was a mild planet, with a high water/land ratio. The introduction of weather control had made it all the more comfortable and considerably less interesting, Trevize often thought.

“I don’t believe any of it,” he repeated and smiled. His white, even teeth gleamed out of his youthful face.

His companion and fellow Councilman, Munn Li Compor who had adopted a middle name in defiance of Terminus tradition, shook his head uneasily. “What don’t you believe? That we saved the city?”

“Oh, I believe that. We did, didn’t we? And Seldon said that we would, and he said we would be right to do so, and that he knew all about it five hundred years ago.”

Compor’s voice dropped and he said in a half-whisper, “Look, I don’t mind your talking like this to me, because I take it as just talk, but if you shout it out in crowds others will hear and, frankly, I don’t want to be standing near you when the lightning strikes. I’m not sure how precise the aim will be.”

Trevize’s smile did not waver. He said, “Is there harm in saying that the city is saved? And that we did it without a war?”

“There was no one to fight,” said Compor. He had hair of a buttery yellow, eyes of a sky blue, and he always resisted the impulse to alter those unfashionable hues.

“Have you never heard of civil war, Compor?’’ said Trevize. He was tall, his hair was black, with a gentle wave to it, and he had a habit of walking with his thumbs hitched into the soft-fibered sash he always wore.

“A civil war over the location of the capital?”

“The question was enough to bring on a Seldon Crisis. It destroyed Hannis’s political career. It put you and me into the Council last election and the issue hung–” He heisted one hand slowly, back and forth, like a balance coming to rest on the level.

He paused on the steps, ignoring the other members of the government and the media, as well as the fashionable society types who had finagled an invitation to witness Seldon’s return (or the return of his image, at any rate).

All were walking down the stairs, talking, laughing, glorying in the correctness of everything, and basking in Seldon’s approval.

Trevize stood still and let the crowd swirl past him. Compor, having walked two steps ahead, paused–an invisible cord stretching between them. He said, “Aren’t you coming?”

“There’s no hurry. They won’t start the Council meeting until Mayor Branno has reviewed the situation in her usual flat-footed, one-syllable-at-a-time way. I’m in no hurry to endure another ponderous speech. –Look at the city!”

“I see it. I saw it yesterday, too.”

“Yes, but did you see it five hundred years ago when it was founded?”

“Four hundred ninety-eight,” Compor corrected him automatically. “Two years from now, they’ll have the hemimillennial celebration and Mayor Branno will still be in the office at the time, barring events of, we hope, minor probability.”

“We hope,” said Trevize dryly. “But what was it like five hundred years ago when it was founded? One city! One small city, occupied by a group of men preparing an Encyclopedia that was never finished!”

“Of course it was finished.”

“Are you referring to the Encyclopedia Galactica we have now? What we have isn’t what they were working on. What we have is in a computer and it’s revised daily. Have you ever looked at the uncompleted original?”

“You mean in the Hardin Museum?”

“The Salvor Hardin Museum of Origins. Let’s have the full name, please, since you’re so careful about exact dates. Have you looked at it?”

“No. Should I?”

“No, it isn’t worth it. But anyway–there they were–a group of Encyclopedists, forming the nucleus of a town–one small town in a world virtually without metals, circling a sun isolated from the rest of the Galaxy, at the edge, the very edge. And now, five hundred years later, we’re a suburban world. The whole place is one big park, with all the metal we want. We’re at the center of everything now?”

“Not really,” said Compor. “We’re still circling a sun isolated from the rest of the Galaxy. Still at the very edge of the Galaxy.”

“Ah no, you’re saying that without thinking. That was the whole point of this little Seldon Crisis. We are more than the single world of Terminus. We are the Foundation, which sends out its tentacles Galaxy-wide and rules that Galaxy from its position at the very edge. We can do it because we’re not isolated, except in position, and that doesn’t count.”

“All right. I’ll accept that.” Compor was clearly uninterested and took another step downward. The invisible cord between them stretched farther.

Trevize reached out a hand as though to haul his companion up the steps again. “Don’t you see the significance, Compor? There’s this enormous change, but we don’t accept it. In our hearts we want the small Foundation, the small one-world operation we had in the old days–the days of iron heroes and noble saints that are gone forever.”

“Come on!”

“I mean it. Look at Seldon Hall. To begin with, in the first crises in Salvor Hardin’s day, it was just the Time Vault, a small auditorium in which the holographic image of Seldon appeared. That was all. Now it’s a colossal mausoleum, but is there a force-field ramp in the place? A slideway? A gravitic lift? –No, just these steps, and we walk down them and we walk up them as Hardin would have had to do. At odd and unpredictable times, we cling in fright to the past.”

He flung his arm outward passionately. “Is there any structural component visible that is metal? Not one. It wouldn’t do to have any, since in Salvor Hardin’s day there was no native metal to speak of and hardly any imported metal. We even installed old plastic, pink with age, when we built this huge pile, so that visitors from other worlds can stop and say, ‘Galaxy! What lovely old plastics’ I tell you, Compor, it’s a sham.”

“Is that what you don’t believe, then? Seldon Hall?”

“And all its contents,” said Trevize in a fierce whisper. “I don’t really believe there’s any sense in hiding here at the edge of the Universe, just because our ancestors did. I believe we ought to be out there, in the middle of everything.”

“But Seldon says you’re wrong. The Seldon Plan is working out as it should.”

“I know. I know. And every child on Terminus is brought up to believe that Hari Seldon formulated a Plan, that he foresaw everything five centuries ago, that he set up the Foundation in such a way that he could spot certain crises, and that his image would appear holographically at those crises, and tell us the minimum we had to know to go on to the next crisis, and thus lead us through a thousand years of history until we could safely build a Second and Greater Galactic Empire on the ruins of the old decrepit structure that was falling apart five centuries ago and had disintegrated completely by two centuries ago.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Golan?”

“Because I’m telling you it’s a sham. It’s all a sham. –or if it was real to begin with, it’s a sham now! We are not our own masters. It is not we who are following the Plan.”

Compor looked at the other searchingly. “You’ve said things like this before, Golan, but I’ve always thought you were just saying ridiculous things to stir me up. By the Galaxy, I actually think you’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

“You can’t be. Either this is some complicated piece of fun at my expense or you’re out of your mind.”

“Neither. Neither,” said Trevize, quiet now, hitching his thumbs into his sash as though he no longer needed the gestures of hands to punctuate passion. “I speculated on it before, I admit, but that was just intuition. That farce in there this morning, however, has made it suddenly all. quite plain to me and I intend, in turn, to make it quite plain to the Council.”

Compor said, “You are crazy!”

“All right. Come with me and listen.”

The two walked down the stairs. They were the only ones left–the last to complete the descent. And as Trevize moved slightly to he fore, Compor’s lips moved silently, casting a voiceless word in the direction of the other’s back: “Fool!”

2.

MAYOR HARLA BRANNO called the session of the Executive Council to order. Her eyes had looked with no visible sign of interest at the gathering; yet no one there doubted that she had noted all who were present and all who had not yet arrived.

Her gray hair was carefully arranged in a style that was neither markedly feminine nor imitation masculine. It was simply the way she wore it, no more. Her matter-of-fact face was not notable for beauty, but somehow it was never for beauty that one searched there.

She was the most capable administrator on the planet. No one could, or did, accuse her of the brilliance of the Salvor Hardins and the Hober Mallows whose histories enlivened the first two centuries of the Foundation’s existence, but neither would anyone associate her with the follies of the hereditary Indburs who had ruled the Foundation just prior to the time of the Mule.

Her speeches did not stir men’s minds, nor did she have a gift for the dramatic gesture, but she had a capacity for making quiet decisions and sticking by them as long as she was convinced she was right. Without any obvious charisma, she had the knack of persuading the voters those quiet decisions would be right

Since by the Seldon doctrine, historical change is to a large degree difficult to swerve (always barring the unpredictable, something most Seldonists forget, despite the wrenching incident of the Mule), the Foundation might have retained its capital on Terminus under any conditions. That is a “might,” however. Seldon, in his just finished appearance as a five-century-old simulacrum, had calmly placed the probability of remaining on Terminus at 87.2 percent.

Nevertheless, even to Seldonists, that meant there was a 12.8 percent chance that the shift to some point closer to the center of the Foundation Federation would have been made, with all the dire consequences that Seldon had outlined. That this one-out-of-eight chance did not take place was surely due to Mayor Branno.

It was certain she would not have allowed it. Through periods of considerable unpopularity, she had held to her decision that Terminus was the traditional seat of the Foundation and there it would remain. Her political enemies had caricatured her strong jaw (with some effectiveness, it had to be admitted) as an underslung granite block.

And now Seldon had backed her point of view and, for the while at least, that would give her an overwhelming political advantage. She had been reported to have said a year earlier that if in the coming appearance Seldon did back her, she would consider her task successfully completed. She would then retire and take up the role of elder statesperson, rather than risk the dubious results of further political wars.

No one had really believed her. She was at home in the political wars to an extent few before her had been, and now that Seldon’s image had come and gone there was no hint of retirement about her.

She spoke in a perfectly clear voice with an unashamed Foundation accent (she had once served as Ambassador to Mandrels, but had not adopted the old Imperial style of speech that was so fashionable now–and was part of what had been a quasi-Imperial drive to the Inner Provinces).

She said, “The Seldon Crisis is over and it is a tradition, and a wise one, that no reprisals of any kind–either in deed or in speech –be taken against those who supported the wrong side. Many honest people believed they had good reason for wanting that which Seldon did not want. There is no point in humiliating them to the point where they can retrieve their self-respect only by denouncing the Seldon Plan itself. In turn, it is a strong and desirable custom that those who supported the lost side accept the loss cheerfully and without further discussion. The issue is behind us, on both sides, forever.”

She paused, gazed levelly at the assembled faces for a moment, then went on, “Half the time has passed, people of the Council– half the thousand-year stretch between Empires. It has been a time of difficulties, but we have come a fang way. We are, indeed, almost a Galactic Empire already and there remain no external enemies of consequence.

“The Interregnum would have endured thirty thousand years, were it not for the Seldon Plan. After thirty thousand years of disintegration, it might be there would be no strength left with which to form an Empire again. There might be left only isolated and probably dying worlds.

“What we have today we owe to Hari Seldom and it is upon his long-dead mind that we must rely far the rest. The danger henceforward, Councillors, is ourselves, and from this point on there must be no official doubt of the value of the Flan. Let us agree nosy, quietly and firmly, that there are to be no official doubts, criticisms, or condemnations of the Plan. We must support it completely. It has proved itself over five centuries. It is the security of humanity and it must not be tampered with. Is it agreed?”

There was a quiet murmur. The Mayor hardly looked up to seek visual proof of agreement. She knew every member of the Council and how each would react. In the wake of the victory, there would be no objection now. Next year perhaps. Not now. She would tackle the problems of next year next year.

Always except for–

“Thought control, Mayor Branno?” asked Golan Trevize, striding down the aisle and speaking loudly, as though to make up for the silence of the rest. He did not bother to take his seat which, since he was a new member, was in fine back row.

Branno still did not look up. She said, “Your views, Councilman Trevize?”

“That the government cannot impose a ban on free speech; that all individuals–most certainly including Councilmen and Councilwomen who have been elected for the purpose–have a right to discuss the political issues of the day; and that no political issue can possibly be divorced from the Seldon Plan:”

Branno folded her hands and looked up. Her face was expressionless. She said, “Councilman Trevize, you have entered this debate irregularly and were out of order in doing so. However, I asked you to state your views and I will now answer you.

“There is no limit to free speech within the context of the Seldon Plan. It is only the Plan itself that limits us by its very nature. There can be many ways of interpreting events before the image makes the final decision, but once he makes that decision it can be questioned no further in Council. Nor may it be questioned in advance as though one were to say, ‘If Hari Seldon were to state thus-and-so, he would be wrong.”‘

“And yet if one honestly felt so, Madam Mayor?”

“Then one could say so, if one were a private individual, discussing fine matter in a private context.”

“You mean, then, that the limitations on free speech which you propose are to apply entirely and specifically to government officials?”

“Exactly. This is not a new principle of Foundation law. It has been applied before by Mayors of all parties. A private point of view means nothing; an official expression of opinion carries weight and can be dangerous. We have not come this far to risk danger now.”

“May I point out, Madam Mayor, that this principle of yours has been applied, sparsely and occasionally, to specific acts of Council. It has never been applied to something as vast and indefinable as the Seldon Plan.”

“The Seldon Plan needs the protection most, for it is precisely there that questioning can be most fatal.”

“Will you not consider, Mayor Branno–” Trevize turned, addressing now the seated rows of Council members, who seemed one and ail to have caught their breath, as though awaiting the outcome of a duel. “Will you not consider, Council members, that there is every reason to think that there is no Seldon Plan at all?”

“We have all witnessed its workings today,” said Mayor Branno, even more quietly as Trevize became louder and more oratorical.

“It is precisely because we have seen its workings today, Councilmen and Councilwomen, that we can see that the Seldon Plan, as we have been taught to believe it to be, cannot exist.”

“Councilman Trevize, you are out of order and must not continue along these lines.”

“I have the privilege of office, Mayor.”

“That privilege has been withdrawn, Councilman.”

“You cannot withdraw the privilege. Your statement limiting free speech cannot, in itself, have the force of law. There has been no formal vote in Council, Mayor, and even if there were I would have the right to question its legality.”

“The withdrawal, Councilman, has nothing to do with my statement protecting the Seldon Plan.”

“On what, then, does it depend?”

“You are accused of treason, Councilman. I wish to do the Council the courtesy of not arresting you within the Council Chamber, but waiting at the door are members of Security who will take you into custody as you leave. I will ask you now to leave quietly. If you make any ill-considered move, then, of course, that will be considered a present danger and Security will enter the Chamber. I trust you will not make that necessary.”

Trevize frowned. There svgs absolute silence in the hall. (Did everyone expect this–everyone but himself and Compor?) He looked back at the exit. He saw nothing, but he had no doubt that Mayor Branno was not bluffing.

He stammered in rage. “I repre–represent an important constituency, Mayor Branno–”

“No doubt, they will be disappointed in you.”

“On what evidence do you bring forth this wild charge?”

“That will appear in due course, but be assured that we have all we need. You are a most indiscreet young man and should realize that someone may be your friend and yet not be willing to accompany you into treason:”

Trevize whirled to meet Compor’s blue eyes. They met his stonily.

Mayor Branno said calmly, “I call upon all to witness that when I made my last statement, Councilman Trevize turned to look at Councilman Compor. Will you leave now, Councilman, or will you force us to engage in the indignity of an arrest within the Chamber?”

Golan Trevize turned, mounted the steps again, and, at the door, two men in uniform, well armed, fell in on either side.

And Harla Branno, looking after him impassively, whispered through barely parted lips, “Fool!”

3.

LIONO KODELL HAD been Director of Security through all of Mayor Branno’s administration. It was not a backbreaking job, as he liked to say, but whether he was lying or not, one could not, of course, tell. He didn’t look like a liar, but that did not necessarily mean anything.

He looked comfortable and friendly, and it might well be that this was appropriate for the job. He was rather below the average height, rather above the average weight, had a bushy mustache (most unusual for a citizen of Terminus) that was now more white than gray, bright brown eyes, and a characteristic patch of primary color marking the outer breast pocket of his drab coverall.

He said, “Sit down, Trevize. Let us keep this on a friendly basis if we can.”

“Friendly? With a traitor?” Trevize hooked both his thumbs in his sash and remained standing.

“With an accused traitor. ‘We have not yet come to the point where accusation–even by the Mayor herself–is the equivalent of conviction. I trust we never do. My job is to clear you, if I can. I would much rather do so now while no harm is done–except, perhaps, to your pride–rather than be forced to make it all a matter of a public trial. I hope you are with me in this.”

Trevize didn’t soften. He said, “Let’s not bother with ingratiation. Your job is to badger me as though I were a traitor. I am not one, and I resent the necessity of having to have that point demonstrated to your satisfaction. Why should you not have to prove your loyalty to my satisfaction?”

“In principle, none. The sad fact, however, is that I have power on my side, and you have none on yours. Because of that, it is my privilege to question, and not yours. If any suspicion of disloyalty or treason fell upon me, by the way, I imagine I would find myself replaced, and I would then be questioned by someone else, who, I earnestly hope, would treat me no worse than I intend to treat you.”

“And how do you intend to treat me?”

“Like, I trust, a friend and an equal, if you will so treat me.”

“Shall I stand you a drink?” asked Trevize bitterly.

“Later, perhaps, but for now, please sit down. I ask it as a friend.”

Trevize hesitated, then sat. Any further defiance suddenly seemed meaningless to him. “What now?” he said.

“Now, may I ask that you will answer my questions truthfully and completely and without evasion?”

“And if not? What is the threat behind it? A Psychic Probe?”

“I trust not.”

“I trust not, too. Not on a Councilman. It will reveal no treason, and when I am then acquitted, I will have your political head and the Mayor’s too, perhaps. It might almost be worth making you try a Psychic Probe.”

Kodell frowned and shook his head slightly. “Oh no. Oh no. Too much danger of brain damage. It’s slow healing sometimes, and it would not be worth your while. Definitely. You know, sometimes, when the Probe is used in exasperation–”

“A threat, Kodell?”

“A statement of fact, Trevize. –Don’t mistake me, Councilman. If I must use the Probe I will, and even if you are innocent you will have no recourse.”

“What do you want to know?”

Kodell closed a switch on the desk before him. He said, “What I ask and what you answer to my questions will be recorded, both sight and sound. I do not want any volunteered statements from you, or anything nonresponsive. Not at this time. You understand that, I am sure.”

“I understand that you will record only what you please,” said Trevize contemptuously.

“That is right, but again, don’t mistake me. I wilt not distort anything you say. I will use it or not use it, that is all. But you will know what I will not use and you will not waste my time and yours.

“We’ll see.”

“We have reason to think, Councilman Trevize”–and somehow the touch of added formality in his voice was evidence enough that he was recording–”that you have stated openly, and on a number of occasions, that you do not believe in the existence of the Seldon Plan.”

Trevize said slowly, “If I have said so openly, and on a number of occasions, what more do you need?”

“Let us not waste time with quibbles, Councilman. You know that what I want is an open admission in your own voice, characterized by its own voiceprints, under conditions where you are clearly in perfect command of yourself.”

“Because, I suppose, the use of any hypno-effect, chemical or otherwise, would alter the voiceprints?”

“Quite noticeably.”

“And you are anxious to demonstrate that you have made use of no illegal methods in questioning a Councilman? I don’t blame you ..

“I’m glad you do not blame me, Councilman. Then let us continue. You have stated openly, and on a number of occasions, that you do not believe in the existence of the Seldon Plan. Do you admit that?”

Trevize said slowly, choosing his words, “I do not believe that what we call Seldon’s Plan has the significance we usually apply to it.

“A vague statement. Would you care to elaborate?”

“My view is that the usual concept that Hari Seldon, five hundred years ago, making use of the mathematical science of psychohistory, worked out the course of human events to the last detail and that we are following a course designed to take us from the First Galactic Empire to the Second Galactic Empire along the line of maximum probability, is naive. It cannot be so:’

“Do you mean that, in your opinion, Hari Seldon never existed?”

“Not at all. Of course he existed.”

“That he never evolved the science of psychohistory?”

“No, of course I don’t mean any such thing. See here, Director, I would have explained this to the Council if I had been allowed to, and I will explain it to you. The truth of what I am going to say is so plain–”

The Director of Security had quietly, and quite obviously, turned off the recording device.

Trevize paused and frowned. “Why did you do that?”

“You are wasting my time, Councilman. I am not asking you for speeches.”

“You are asking me to explain my views, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. I am asking you to answer questions–simply, directly, and straightforwardly. Answer only the questions and offer nothing that I do not ask for. Do that and this won’t take long.”

Trevize said, “You mean you will elicit statements from me that will reinforce the official version of what I am supposed to have done.”

“We ask you only to make truthful statements, and I assure you we will not distort them. Please, let me try again. We were talking about Hari Seldon.” The recording device was in action once more and Kodell repeated calmly, “That he never evolved the science of psychohistory?”

“Of course he evolved the science that we call psychohistory,” said Trevize, failing to mask his impatience, and gesturing with exasperated passion.

“Which you would define–how?”

“Galaxy! It is usually defined as that branch of mathematics that deals with the overall reactions of large groups of human beings to given stimuli under given conditions. In other words, it is supposed to predict social and historical changes:”

“You say ‘supposed to.’ Do you question that from the standpoint of mathematical expertise?”

“No,” said Trevize. “I am not a psychohistorian. Nor is any member of the Foundation government, nor any citizen of Terminus, nor any–”

Kodell’s hand raised. He said softly, “Councilman, please!” and Trevize was silent.

Kodell said, “Have you any reason to suppose that Hari Seldon did not make the necessary analysis that would combine, as efficiently as possible, the factors of maximum probability and shortest duration in the path leading from the First to the Second Empire by way of the Foundation?”

“I wasn’t there,” said Trevize sardonically. “How can I know?”

“Can you know he didn’t?”

“No.”

“Do you deny, perhaps, that the holographic image of Hari Seldon that has appeared during each of a number of historical crises over the past five hundred years is, in actual fact, a reproduction of Hari Seldon himself, made in the last year of his life, shortly before the establishment of the Foundation?”

“I suppose I can’t deny that.”

“You ‘suppose.’ Would you care to say that it is a fraud, a hoax devised by someone in past history for some purpose?”

Trevize sighed. “No. I am not maintaining that.”

“Are you prepared to maintain that the messages that Hari Seldon delivers are in any way manipulated by anyone at all?”

“No. I have no reason to think that such manipulation is either possible or useful.”

“I see. You witnessed this most recent appearance of Seldon’s image. Did you find that his analysis–prepared five hundred years ago–did not match the actual conditions of today quite closely?”

“On the contrary,” said Trevize with sudden glee. “It matched very closely.”

Kodell seemed indifferent to the other’s emotion. “And yet, Councilman, after the appearance of Seldon, you still maintain that the Seldon Plan does not exist.”

“Of course I do. I maintain it does not exist precisely because the analysis matched so perfectly–”

Kodell had turned off the recorder. “Councilman,” he said, shaking his head, “you put me to the trouble of erasing. I ask if you still maintain this odd belief of yours and you start giving me reasons. Let me repeat my question.”

He said, “And yet, Councilman, after the appearance of Seldon, you still maintain that the Seldon Plan does not exist.”

“How do you know that? No one had a chance to speak to my informer friend, Compor, after the appearance.”

“Let us say we guessed, Councilman. And let us say you have already answered, ‘Of course I do: If you will say that once more without volunteering added information, we can get on with it.”

“Of course I do,” said Trevize ironically.

“Well,” said Kodell, “I will choose whichever of the ‘Of course I do’s’ sounds more natural. Thank you, Councilman,” and the recording device was turned off again.

Trevize said, “Is that it?”

“For what I need, yes.”

“What you need, quite clearly, is a set of questions and answers that you can present to Terminus and to all the Foundation Federation which it rules, in order to show that I accept the legend of the Seldon Plan totally. That will make any denial of it that I later make seem quixotic or outright insane.”

“Or even treasonable in the eyes of an excited multitude which sees the Plan as essential to the Foundation’s safety. It will perhaps not be necessary to publicize this, Councilman Trevize, if we can come to some understanding, but if it should prove necessary we will see to it that the Federation hears.”

“Are you fool enough, sir,” said Trevize, frowning, “to be entirely uninterested in what I really have to say?”

“As a human being I am very interested, and if an appropriate time comes I will listen to you with interest and a certain amount of skepticism. As Director of Security, however, I have, at the present moment, exactly what I want”

“I hope you know that this will do you, and the Mayor, no good.”

“Oddly enough, I am not at all of that opinion. You will now leave. Under guard, of course.”

“Where am I to be taken?”

Kodell merely smiled. “Good-bye, Councilman. You were not perfectly co-operative, but it would have been unrealistic to have expected you to be.”

He held out his hand.

Trevize, standing up, ignored it. He smoothed the creases out of his sash and said, “You only delay the inevitable. Others must think as I do now, or will come to think that way later. To imprison me or to kill me will serve to inspire wonder and, eventually, accelerate such thinking. In the end the truth and I shall win.”

Kodell took back his hand and shook his head slowly. “Really, Trevize,” he said. “You are a fool.”

4.

IT WAS NOT till midnight that two guards came to remove Trevize from what was, he had to admit, a luxurious room at Security Headquarters. Luxurious but locked. A prison cell by any name.

Trevize had over four hours to second-guess himself bitterly, striding restlessly across the floor for much of the period.

Why did he trust Compor?

Why not? He had seemed so clearly in agreement. –No, not that. He had seemed so ready to be argued into agreement. –No, not that, either. He had seemed so stupid, so easily dominated, so surely lacking a mind and opinions of his own that Trevize enjoyed the chance of using him as a comfortable sounding board. Compor had helped Trevize improve and hone his opinions. He had been useful and Trevize had trusted him for no other reason than that it had been convenient to do so.

But it was useless now to try to decide whether he ought to have seen through Compor. He should have followed the simple generalization: Trust nobody.

Yet can one go through life trusting nobody?

Clearly one had to.

And who would have thought that Branno would have had the audacity to pluck a Councilman out of the Council–and that not one of the other Councilmen would move to protect one of their own? Though they had disagreed with Trevize to their very hearts; though they would have been ready to bet their blood, drop by drop, on Branno’s rightness; they should still, on principle, have interposed themselves against this violation of their prerogatives. Branno the Bronze she was sometimes called, and she certainly acted with metallic rigor–

Unless she herself was already in the grip–

No! That way led to paranoia!

And yet–

His mind tiptoed in circles, and had not broken out of uselessly repetitive thought when the guards came.

“You will have to come with us, Councilman,” the senior of the two said with unemotional gravity. His insignia showed him to be a lieutenant. He had a small scar on his right cheek, and he looked tired, as though he had been at his Job too long and had done too little–as might be expected of a soldier whose people had been at peace for over a century.

Trevize did not budge. “Your name, Lieutenant.”

“I am Lieutenant Evander Sopellor, Councilman.”

“You realize you are breaking the law, Lieutenant Sopellor. You cannot arrest a Councilman.”

The lieutenant said, “We have our direct orders, sir.”

“That does not matter. You cannot be ordered to arrest a Councilman. You must understand that you will be liable for court-martial as a result.”

The lieutenant said, “You are not being arrested, Councilman.”

“Then I don’t have to go with you, do I?”

“We have been instructed to escort you to your home.”

“I know the way.”

“And to protect you en route.”

“From what? –or from whom?”

“From any mob that may gather.”

“At midnight?”

“It is why we have waited for midnight, sir. –and now, sir, for your protection we must ask you to come with us. May I say–not as a threat but as a matter of information–that we are authorized to use force if necessary.”

Trevize was aware of the neuronic whips with which they were armed. He rose with what he hoped was dignity. “To my home, then. –or will I find out that you are going to take me to prison?”

“We have not been instructed to lie to you, sir,” said the lieutenant with a pride of his own. Trevize became aware that he was in the presence of a professional man who would require a direct order before he would lie–and that even then his expression and his tone of voice would give him away.

Trevize said, “I ask your pardon, Lieutenant. I did not mean to imply that I doubted your word.”

A ground-car was waiting for them outside. The street was empty and there was no sign of any human being, let alone a mob–but the lieutenant had been truthful. He had not said there was a mob outside or that one would form. He had referred to “any mob that may gather.” He had only said “may.”

The lieutenant had carefully kept Trevize between himself and the car. Trevize could not have twisted away and made a run for it. The lieutenant entered immediately after him and sat beside him in the back.

The car moved off.

Trevize said, “Once I am home, I presume I may then go about my business freely–that I may leave, for instance, if I choose.”

“We have no order to interfere with you, Councilman, in any way, except insofar as we are ordered to protect you.”

“Insofar? What does that mean in this case?”

“I am instructed to tell you that once you are home, you may not leave it. The streets are not safe for you and I am responsible for your safety.”

“You mean I am under house arrest.”

“I am not a lawyer, Councilman. I do not know what that means.”

He gazed straight ahead, but his elbow made contact with Trevize’s side. Trevize could not have moved, however slightly, without the lieutenant becoming aware of it.

The car stopped before Trevize’s small house in the suburb of Flexner. At the moment, he lacked a housemate–Flavella having wearied of the erratic life that Council membership had forced upon him–so he expected no one to be waiting for him.

“Do I get out now?” Trevize asked.

“I will get out first, Councilman. We will escort you in.”

“For my safety?”

“Yes, sir.”

There were two guards waiting inside his front door. A night-light was gleaming, but the windows had been opacified and it was not visible from outside.

For a moment, he was indignant at the invasion and then he dismissed it with an inward shrug. If the Council could not protect him in the Council Chamber itself, then surely his house could not serve as his castle.

Trevize said, “How many of you do I have in here altogether? A regiment?”

“No, Councilman,” came a voice, hard and steady. “Just one person aside from those you see, and I have been waiting for you long enough.”

Harla Branno, Mayor of Terminus, stood in the door that led into the living room. “Time enough, don’t you think, for us to talk?”

Trevize stared. “All this rigmarole to–”

But Branno said in a low, forceful voice. “Quiet, Councilman. –and you four, outside. Outside! –All will be well in here.”

The four guards saluted and turned on their heels. Trevize and Branno were alone.

2. Mayor

1.

BRANNO HAD BEEN waiting for an hour, thinking wearily.  Technically speaking, she was guilty of breaking and entering. What’s more, she had violated, quite unconstitutionally, the rights of a Councilman. By the strict laws that held Mayors to account since the days of Indbur III and the Mute, nearly two centuries before–she was impeachable.

On this one day, however, for twenty-four hours she could do no wrong.

But it would pass. She stirred restlessly.

The first two centuries had been the Golden Age of the Foundation, the Heroic Era–at least in retrospect, if not to the unfortunates who had lived in that insecure time. Salvor Hardin and Hober Mallow had been the two great heroes, semideified to the point of rivaling the incomparable Hari Seldon himself. The three were a tripod on which all Foundation legend (and even Foundation history) rested.

In those days, though, the Foundation had been one puny world, with a tenuous hold on the Four Kingdoms and with only a dim awareness of the extent to which the Seldon Plan was holding its protective hand over it, caring for it even against the remnant of the mighty Galactic Empire.

And the more powerful the Foundation grew as a political and commercial entity, the less significant its rulers and fighters had come to seem. Lathan Devers was almost forgotten. If he was remembered at all, it was for his tragic death in the slave mines, rather than for his unnecessary but successful fight against Bel Riose.

As for Bel Riose, the noblest of the Foundation’s adversaries, he too was nearly forgotten, overshadowed by the Mule, who alone among enemies had broken the Seldon Plan and defeated and ruled the Foundation. He alone was the Great Enemy–indeed, the last of the Greats.

It was little remembered that the Mule had been, in essence, defeated by one person–a woman, Bayta Darell–and that she had accomplished the victory without the help of anyone, without even the support of the Seldon Plan. So, too, was it almost forgotten that her son and granddaughter, Toran and Arkady Darrell, had defeated the Second Foundation, leaving the Foundation, the First Foundation, supreme.

These latter-day victors were no longer heroic figures. The times had become too expansive to do anything but shrink heroes into ordinary mortals. Then, too, Arkady’s biography of her grandmother had reduced her from a heroine to a figure of romance.

And since then there had been no heroes–not even figures of romance. The Kalganian war had been the last moment of violence engulfing the Foundation and that had been a minor conflict. Nearly two centuries of virtual peace! A hundred and twenty years without so much as a ship scratched.

It had been a good peace–Branno would not deny that–a profitable peace. The Foundation had not established a Second Galactic Empire–it was only halfway there by the Seldon Plan–but, as the Foundation Federation, it held a strong economic grip on over a third of the scattered political units of the Galaxy, and influenced what it didn’t control. There were few places where “I am of the Foundation” was not met with respect. There was no one who ranked higher in all the millions of inhabited worlds than the Mayor of Terminus.

That was still the title. It was inherited from the leader of a single small and almost disregarded city on a lonely world on the far edge of civilization, some five centuries before, but no one would dream of changing it or of giving it one atom more glory-in-sound. As it was, only the all-but-forgotten title of Imperial Majesty could rival it in awe.

–Except on Terminus itself, where the powers of the Mayor were carefully limited. The memory of the Indburs still remained. It was not their tyranny that people could not forget but the fact that they had lost to the Mule.

And here she was, Harla Branno, the strongest to rule since the Mule’s death (she knew that) and only the fifth woman to do so. On this day only had she been able to use her strength openly.

She had fought for her interpretation of what was right and what should be–against the dogged opposition of those who longed for the prestige-filled Interior of the Galaxy and for the aura of Imperial power–and she had won.

Not yet, she had said. Not yet! Jump too soon for the Interior and you will lose far this reason and for that. And Seldon had appeared and had supported her in language almost identical with her own.

It made her, for a time, in the eyes of all fine Foundation, as wise as Seldon himself. She knew they could forget that any hour, however.

And this young man dared to challenge her on this day of days.

And he dared to be right?

That was the danger of it. He was right? And by being right, he might destroy the Foundation!

And now she faced him and they were alone.

She said sadly, “Could you not have come to see me privately? Did you have to shout it all out in the Council Chamber in your idiotic desire to make a fool of me? What have you done, you mindless boy?”

2.

TREVIZE FELT HIMSELF flushing and fought to control his anger. The Mayor was an aging woman who would be sixty-three on her next birthday. He hesitated to engage in a shouting match with someone nearly twice his age.

Besides, she was well practiced in the political wars and knew that if she could place her opponent off-balance at the start then the battle was half-won. But it took an audience to make such a tactic effective and there was no audience before whom one might be humiliated. There were just the two of them.

So he ignored her words and did his best to survey her dispassionately. She was an old woman wearing the unisex fashions which had prevailed for two generations now. They did not become her. The Mayor, the leader of the Galaxy–if leader there could be–was just a plain old woman who might easily have been mistaken for an old man, except that her iron-gray hair was tied tightly back, instead of being worn free in the traditional male style.

Trevize smiled engagingly. However much an aged opponent strove to make the epithet “boy” sound like an insult, this particular “boy” had the advantage of youth and good looks–and the full awareness of both.

He said, “It’s true. I’m thirty-two and, therefore, a boy–in a manner of speaking. And I’m a Councilman and, therefore, ex officio, mindless. The first condition is unavoidable. For the second, I can only say I’m sorry.”

“Do you know what you’ve done? Don’t stand there and strive for wit. Sit down. Put your mind into gear, if you can, and answer me rationally.”

“I know what I’ve done. I’ve told the truth as I’ve seen it.”

“And on this day you try to defy me with it? On this one day when my prestige is such that I could pluck you out of the Council Chamber and arrest you, with no one daring to protest?”

“The Council will recover its breath and it will protest. They may be protesting now. And they will listen to me all the more for the persecution to which you are subjecting me.”

“No one will listen to you, because if I thought you would continue what you have been doing, I would continue to treat you as a traitor to the full extent of the law.”

“I would then have to be tried. I’d have my day in court.”

“Don’t count on that. A Mayor’s emergency powers are enormous, even if they are rarely used.”

“On what grounds would you declare an emergency?”

“I’ll invent the grounds. I have that much ingenuity left, and I do not fear taking the political risk. Don’t push me, young man. We are going to come to an agreement here or you will never be free again. You will be imprisoned for the rest of your life. I guarantee it.

They stared at each other: Branno in gray, Trevize in multishade brown.

Trevize said, “What kind of an agreement?”

“Ah. You’re curious. That’s better. Then we can engage in conversation instead of confrontation. What is your point of view?”

“You know it well. You have been crawling in the mud with Councilman Compor, have you not?”

“I want to hear it from you–in the light of the Seldon Crisis just passed.”

“Very well, if that’s what you want–Madam Mayor!” (He had been on the brink of saying “old woman.”) “The image of Seldon was too correct, too impossibly correct after five hundred years. It’s the eighth time he has appeared, I believe. On some occasions, no one was there to hear him. On at least one occasion, in the time of Indbur III, what he had to say was utterly out of synchronization with reality but that was in the time of the Mule, wasn’t it? But when, on any of those occasions, was he as correct as he was now?”

Trevize allowed himself a small smile. “Never before, Madam Mayor, as far as our recordings of the past are concerned, has Seldon managed to describe the situation so perfectly, in all its smallest details.”

Branno said, “Is it your suggestion that the Seldon appearance, the holographic image, is faked; that the Seldon recordings have been prepared by a contemporary such as myself, perhaps; that an actor was playing the Seldon role?”

“Not impossible, Madam Mayor, but that’s not what I mean. The truth is far worse. I believe that it is Seldon’s image we see, and that his description of the present moment in history is the description he prepared five hundred years ago. I have said as much to your man, Kodell, who carefully guided me through a charade in which I seemed to support the superstitions of the unthinking Foundationer.”

“Yes. The recording will be used, if necessary, to allow the Foundation to see that you were never really in the opposition.”

Trevize spread his arms. “But I am. There is no Seldon Plan in the sense that we believe there is, and there hasn’t been for perhaps two centuries. I have suspected that for years now, and what we went through in the Time Vault twelve hours ago proves it.”

“Because Seldon was too accurate?”

“Precisely. Don’t smile. That is the final proof.”

“I’m not smiling, as you can see. Go on.”

“How could he have been so accurate? Two centuries ago, Seldon’s analysis of what was then the present was completely wrong. Three hundred years had passed since the Foundation was set up and he was wide of the mark. Completely!”

“That, Councilman, you yourself explained a few moments ago. It was because of the Mule. The Mule was a mutant with intense mental power and there had been no way of allowing for him in the Plan.”

“But he was there just the same–allowed or not. The Seldon Plan was derailed. The Mule didn’t rule for long and he had no successor. The Foundation regained its independence and its domination, but how could the Seldon Plan have gotten back on target after so enormous a tearing of its fabric?”

Branno looked grim and her aging hands clasped together tightly. “You know the answer to that. ‘‘6’e were one of two Foundations. You’ve read the history books.”

“I’ve read Arkady’s biography of her grandmother–required reading in school, after all–and I’ve read her novels, too. I’ve read the official view of the history of the Mule and afterward. Am I to be allowed to doubt them?”

“In what way?”

“Officially we, the First Foundation, were to retain the knowledge of the physical sciences and to advance them. We were to operate openly, our historical development following–whether we knew it or not–the Seldon Plan. There was, however, also the Second Foundation, which was to preserve and further develop the psychological sciences, including psychohistory, and their existence was to be a secret even from us. The Second Foundation was the fine-tuning agency of the Plan, acting to adjust the currents of Galactic history, when they turned from the paths outlined by the Plan.”

“Then you answer yourself,” said the Mayor. “Bayta Darell defeated the Mule, perhaps under the inspiration of the Second Foundation, although her granddaughter insists that was not so. It was the Second Foundation without doubt, however, which labored to bring Galactic history back to the Plan after the Mule died and, quite obviously, they succeeded. –What on Terminus, then, are you talking about, Councilman?”

“Madam Mayor, if we follow Arkady Darell’s account, it is clear that the Second Foundation, in making the attempt to correct Galactic history, undermined Seldon’s entire scheme, since in their attempt to correct they destroyed their own secrecy. We, the First Foundation, realized that our mirror image, the Second Foundation, existed, and we could not live with the knowledge that we were being manipulated. We therefore labored to find the Second Foundation and to destroy it.”

Branno nodded. “And we succeeded, according to Arkady Darell’s account, but quite obviously, not until the Second Foundation had placed Galactic history firmly on track again after its disruption by the Mule. It is still on track.”

“Can you believe that? The Second Foundation, according to the account, was located and its various members dealt with. That was in 378 F.E., a hundred twenty years ago. For five generations, the have supposedly been operating without the Second Foundation, and yet have remained so close to target where the Plan is concerned that you and the image of Seldon spoke almost identically.”

“This might be interpreted to mean that I have seen into the significance of developing history with keen insight:”

“Forgive me. I do not intend to cast doubt upon your keen insight, but to me it seems that the more obvious explanation is that the Second Foundation was never destroyed. It still rules us. It still manipulates us. –And that is why we have returned to the track of the Seldon Plan.”

3.

IF THE MAYOR was shocked by the statement, she showed no sign of it.

It was past 1 A.m. and she wanted desperately to bring an end to it, and yet could not hasten. The young man had to be played and she did not want to have him break the fishing line. She did not want to have to dispose of him uselessly, when he might first be made to serve a function.

She said, “Indeed? You say then that Arkady’s tale of the Kalganian war and the destruction of the Second Foundation was false? Invented? A game? A lie?”

Trevize shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be. That’s beside the point. Suppose Arkady’s account were completely true, to the best of her knowledge. Suppose all took place exactly as Arkady said it did; that the nest of Second Foundationers was discovered, and that they were disposed of. How can we possibly say, though, that we got every last one of them? The Second Foundation was dealing with the entire Galaxy. They were not manipulating the history of Terminus alone or even of the Foundation alone. Their responsibilities involved more than our capital world or our entire Federation. There were bound to be some Second Foundationers that were a thousand –or more–parsecs away. Is it likely we would have gotten them all?

“And if we failed to get them all, could we say we had won? Could the Mule have said it in his time? He took Terminus, and with it all the worlds it directly controlled–but the Independent Trading Worlds still stood. He took the Trading Worlds–yet three fugitives remained: Ebling Mis, Bayta Darell, and her husband. He kept both men under control and left Bayta–only Bayta–uncontrolled. He did this out of sentiment, if we are to believe Arkady’s romance. And that was enough. According to Arkady’s account, one person–only Bayta–was left to do as she pleased, and because of her actions the Mule was not able to locate the Second Foundation and was therefore defeated.

“One person left untouched, and all was Lost! That’s the importance of one person, despite all the legends that surround Seldon’s Plan to the effect that the individual is nothing and the mass is all.

“And if we left not just one Second Foundationer behind, but several dozen, as seems perfectly likely, what then? Would they not gather together, rebuild their fortunes, take up their careers again, multiply their numbers by recruitment and training, and once mare make us all pawns?”

Branno said gravely, “Do you believe that?”

“I am sure of it.”

“But tell me, Councilman? Why should they bother? Why should the pitiful remnant continue to cling desperately to a duty no one welcomes? What drives them to keep the Galaxy along its path to the Second Galactic Empire? And if the small band insists on fulfilling its mission, why should we care? Why not accept the path of the Plan and be thankful that they will see to it that we do not stray or lose our way?”

Trevize put his hand over his eyes and rubbed them. Despite his youth, he seemed the more tired of the two. He stared at the Mayor and said, “I can’t believe you. Are you under the impression that the Second Foundation is doing this for us? That they are some sort of idealists? Isn’t it clear to you from your knowledge of politics–of the practical issues of power and manipulation–that they are doing it for themselves?

“We are the cutting edge. We are the engine, the force. We labor and sweat and bleed and weep. They merely control–adjusting an amplifier here, closing a contact there, and doing it all with ease and without risk to themselves. Then, when it is all done and when, after a thousand years of heaving and straining, we have set up the Second Galactic Empire, the people of the Second Foundation will move in as the ruling elite.”

Branno said, “Do you want to eliminate the Second Foundation then? Having moved halfway to the Second Empire, do you want to take the chance of completing the task on our own and serving as our own elite? Is that it?”

“Certainly! Certainly! Shouldn’t that be what you want, too? You and I won’t live to see it, but you have grandchildren and someday I may, and they will have grandchildren, and so on. I want them to have the fruit of our labors and I want them to look back to us as the source, and to praise us for what we have accomplished. I don’t want it all to fall to a hidden conspiracy devised by Seldon–who is no hero of mine. I tell you he is a greater threat than the Mule–if we allow his Plan to go through. By the Galaxy, I wish the Mule had disrupted the Plan altogether–and forever. We would have survived him. He was one of a kind and very mortal. The Second Foundation seems to be immortal.”

“But you would like to destroy the Second Foundation, is that not so?”

“If I knew how!”

“Since you don’t know how, don’t you think it quite likely they will destroy you?”

Trevize looked contemptuous. “I have had the thought that even you might be under their control. Your accurate guess as to what Seldon’s image would say and your subsequent treatment of me could be all Second Foundation. You could be a hollow shell with a Second Foundation content.”

“Then why are you talking to me as you are?”

“Because if you are under Second Foundation control, I am lost in any case and I might as well expel some of the anger within me–and because, in actual fact, I am gambling that you are not under their control, that you are merely unaware of what you do.”

Branno said, “You win that gamble, at any rate. I am not under anyone’s control but my own. Still, can you be sure I am telling the truth? Were I under control of the Second Foundation, would I admit it? Would I even myself know that I was under their control?

“But there is no profit in such questions. I believe I am not under control and you have no choice but to believe it, too. Consider this, however. If the Second Foundation exists, it is certain that their biggest need is to make sure that no one in the Galaxy knows they exist. The Seldon Plan only works well if the pawns–we–are not aware of how the Plan works and of how we are manipulated. It was because the Mule focused the attention of the Foundation on the Second Foundation that the Second Foundation was destroyed in Arkady’s time. –or should I say nearly destroyed, Councilman?

“From this we can deduce two corollaries. First, we can reasonably suppose that they interfere grossly as little as they can. We can assume it would be impossible to take us all over. Even the Second Foundation, if it exists, must have limits to its power. To take over some and allow others to guess the fact would introduce distortions to the Plan. Consequently, we come to the conclusion that their interference is as delicate, as indirect, as sparse as is possible–and therefore I am not controlled. Nor are you:”

Trevize said, “That is one corollary and I tend to accept it–out of wishful thinking, perhaps. What is the other?”

“A simpler and more inevitable one. If the Second Foundation exists and wishes to guard the secret of that existence, then one thing is sure. Anyone who thinks it still exists, and talks about it, and announces it, and shouts it to all the Galaxy must, in some subtle way, be removed by them at once, wiped out, done away with. Wouldn’t that be your conclusion, too?”

Trevize said, “Is that why you have taken me into custody, Madam Mayor? To protect me from the Second Foundation?”

“In a way. To an extent. Liono Kodell’s careful recording of your beliefs m11 be publicized not only in order to keep the people of Terminus and the Foundation from being unduly disturbed by your silly talk–but to keep the Second Foundation from being disturbed. If it exists, I do not want to have its attention drawn to you.”

“Imagine that,” said Trevize with heavy irony. “For my sake? For my lovely brown eyes?”

Branno stirred and then, quite without warning, laughed quietly. She said, “I am not so old, Councilman, that I am not unaware that you have lovely brown eyes and, thirty years ago, that might have been motive enough. At this time, however, I wouldn’t move a millimeter to save them–or all the rest of you–if only your eyes were involved. But if the Second Foundation exists, and if their attention, is drawn to you, they may not stop with you. There’s my life to consider, and that of a number of others far mare intelligent and valuable than you–and all the plans we have made.”

“Oh? Do you believe the Second Foundation exists, then, that you react so carefully to the possibility of their response?”

Branno brought her fist down upon the table before her. “Of course I do, you consummate fool! If I didn’t know the Second Foundation exists, and if I weren’t fighting them as hard and as effectively as I could, would I care what you say about such a subject? If the Second Foundation did not exist, would it matter that you are announcing they do? I’ve wanted for months to shut you up before you went public, but lacked the political power to deal roughly with a Councilman. Seldon’s appearance made me look good and gave me the power–if only temporarily–and at that moment, you did go public. I moved at once, and now I will have you killed without a twinge of conscience or a microsecond of hesitation–if you don’t do exactly as you’re told.

“Our entire conversation now, at an hour in which I would much rather be in bed and asleep, was designed to bring you to the point of believing me when I tell you this. I want you to know that the problem of the Second Foundation, which I was careful to have you outline, gives me reason enough and inclination to have you brainstopped without trial.”

Trevize half-rose from his seat.

Branno said, “Oh, don’t make any moves. I’m only an old woman, as you’re undoubtedly telling yourself, but before you could place a hand on me, you’d be dead. We are under observation, foolish young man, by my people.”

Trevize sat down. He said, just a bit shakily, “You make no sense. If you believed the Second Foundation existed, you wouldn’t be speaking of it so freely. You wouldn’t expose yourself to the dangers to which you say I am exposing myself.”

“You recognize, then, that I have a bit more good sense than you do. In other words, you believe the Second Foundation exists, yet you speak freely about it, because you are foolish. I believe it exists, and I speak freely, too–but only because I have taken precautions. Since you seem to have read Arkady’s history carefully, you may recall that she speaks of her father having invented what she called a ‘Mental Static Device.’ It serves as a shield to the kind of mental power the Second Foundation has. It still exists and has been improved on, too, under conditions of the greatest secrecy. This house is, for the moment, reasonably safe against their prying. With that understood, let me tell you what you are to do.”

“What’s that?”

“You are to find out whether what you and I think is so is indeed so. You are to find out if the Second Foundation still exists and, if so, where. That means you will have to leave Terminus and go I know not where–even though it may in the end turn out, as in Arkady’s day, that the Second Foundation exists among us. It means you will not return till you have something to tell us; and if you have nothing to tell us, you will never return, and the population of Terminus will be less one fool.”

Trevize found himself stammering. “How on Terminus can I look for them without giving away the fact? They will simply arrange a death for me, and you will be none the wiser.”

“Then don’t look for them, you naive child. Look for something else. Look for something else with all your heart and mind, and if, in the process, you come across them because they have not bothered to pay you any attention, then goods You may, in that case, send us the information by shielded and coded hyperwave, and you may then return as a reward.”

“I suppose you have something in mind that I should look for.”

“Of course I do. Do you know Janov Pelorat?”

“Never heard of him.”

“You will meet him tomorrow. He will tell you what you are looking for and he will leave with you in one of our most advanced ships. There will be just the two of you, for two are quite enough to risk. And if you ever try to return without satisfying us that you have the knowledge we want, then you will be blown out of space before you come within a parsec of Terminus. That’s all. This conversation is over.”

She arose, looked at her bare hands, then slowly drew on her gloves. She turned toward the door, and through it came two guards, weapons in hand. They stepped apart to let her pass.

At the doorway she turned. “There are other guards outside. Do nothing that disturbs them or you will save us all the trouble of your existence.”

“You will also then lose the benefits I might bring you,” said Trevize and, with an effort, lie managed to say it lightly.

“We’ll chance that,” said Branno with an unamused smile.

4.

OUTSIDE LIONO KODELL was waiting for her. He said, “I listened to the whole thing, Mayor. You were extraordinarily patient.”

“And I am extraordinarily tired. I think the day has been seventy-two hours long. You take over now.”

“I will, but tell me– Was there really a Mental Static Device about the house?”

“Oh, Kodell,” said Branno wearily. “You know better than that. What was the chance anyone was watching? Do you imagine the Second Foundation is watching everything, everywhere, always? I’m not the romantic young Trevize is; he might think that, but I don’t. And even if that were the case, if Second Foundational eyes and ears were everywhere, would not the presence of an MSD have given us away at once? For that matter, would not its use have shown the Second Foundation a shield against its powers existed–once they detected a region that was mentally opaque? Isn’t the secret of such a shield’s existence–until we are quite ready to use it to the full–something worth not only more than Trevize, but more than you and I together? And yet–”

They were in the ground-car, with Kodell driving. “And yet–” said Kodell.

“And yet what?” said Branno. “–Oh yes. And yet that young man is intelligent. I called him a fool in various ways half a dozen times just to keep him in his place, but he isn’t one. He’s young and he’s read too many of Arkady Darell’s novels, and they have made him think that that’s the way the Galaxy is–but he has a quick insight about him and it will be a pity to lose him.”

“You are sure then that he will be lost?”

“Quite sure,” said Branno sadly. “Just the same, it is better that way. We don’t need young romantics charging about blindly and smashing in an instant, perhaps, what it has taken us years to build. Besides, he will serve a purpose. He will surely attract the attention of the Second Foundationers–always assuming they exist and are indeed concerning themselves with us. And while they are attracted to him, they will, perchance, ignore us. Perhaps we can gain even more than the good fortune of being ignored. They may, we can hope, unwittingly give themselves away to us in their concern with Trevize, and let us have an opportunity and time to devise countermeasures.”

“Trevize, then, draws the lightning.”

Branno’s lips twitched. “Ah, the metaphor I’ve been looking for. He is our lightning rod, absorbing the stroke and protecting us from harm.”

“And this Pelorat, who wilt also be in the path of the lightning bolt?”

“He may suffer, too. That can’t be helped.”

Kodell nodded. “Well, you know what Salvor Hardin used to say– ‘Never let your sense of morals keep you from doing what is right.”‘

“At the moment, I haven’t got a sense of morals,” muttered Branno. “I have a sense of bone-weariness. And yet–I could name a number of people I would sooner lose than Golan Trevize. He is a handsome young man. –And, of course, he knows it.” Her tact words slurred as she closed her eyes and fell into a light sleep.

3. Historian

1.

JANOV PELORAT WAS white-haired and his face, in repose, looked rather empty. It was rarefy in anything but repose. He was of average height and weight and tended to move without haste and to speak with deliberation. He seemed considerably older than his fifty-two years.

He had never left Terminus, something that was most unusual, especially for one of his profession. He himself wasn’t sure whether his sedentary ways were because of–or in spite of–his obsession with history.

The obsession had come upon him quite suddenly at the age of fifteen when, during some indisposition, he was given a book of early, legends. In it, he found the repeated motif of a world that was alone and isolated–a world that was not even aware of its isolation, since it had never known anything else.

His indisposition began to clear up at once. Within two days, he had read the book three times and was out of bed. The day after that he was at his computer terminal, checking for any records that the Terminus University Library might have on similar legends.

It was precisely such legends that had occupied him ever since. The Terminus University Library had by no means been a great resource in this respect but, when he grew older, he discovered the joys of interlibrary loans. He had printouts in his possession which had been taken off hyper-radiational signals from as far away as Ifnia.

He had become a professor of ancient history and was now beginning his first sabbatical–one for which he had applied with the idea of taking a trip through space (his first) to Trantor itself–thirty-seven years later.

Pelorat was quite aware that it was most unusual for a person of Terminus to have never been in space. It had never been his intention to be notable in this particular way. It was just that whenever he might have gone into space, some new book, some new study, some new analysis came his way. He would delay his projected trip until he had wrung the new matter dry and had added, if possible, one more item of fact, or speculation, or imagination to the mountain he had collected. In the end, his only regret was that the particular trip to Trantor had never been made.

Trantor had been the capital of the First Galactic Empire. It had been the seat of Emperors for twelve thousand years and, before that, the capital of one of the most important pre-Imperial kingdoms, which had, little by little, captured or otherwise absorbed the other kingdoms to establish the Empire.

Trantor had been a world-girdling city, a metal-coated city. Pelorat had read of it in the works of Gaal Dornick, who had visited it in the time of Hari Seldon himself. Dornick’s volume no longer circulated and the one Pelorat owned might have been sold for half the historian’s annual salary. A suggestion that he might part with it would have horrified the historian.

Of course, what Pelorat cared about, as far as Trantor was concerned, was the Galactic Library, which in Imperial times (when it was the Imperial Library) had been the largest in the Galaxy. Trantor was the capital of the largest and most populous Empire humanity had ever seen. It had been a single worldwide city with a population well in excess of forty billion, and its Library had been the gathered record of all the creative (and not-so-creative) work of humanity, the full summary of its knowledge. And it was all computerized in so complex a manner that it took experts to handle the computers.

What was more, the Library had survived. To Pelorat, that was the amazing thing about it. When Trantor had fallen and been sacked, nearly two and a half centuries before, it had undergone appalling destruction, and the tales of human misery and death would not bear repeating–yet the Library had survived, protected (it was said) by the University students, who used ingeniously devised weapons.  (Some thought the defense by the students might well have been thoroughly romanticized.)

In any case, the Library had endured through the period of devastation. Ebling Mis had done his work in an intact Library in a ruined world when he had almost located the Second Foundation (according to the story which the people of the Foundation still believed, but which historians have always treated with reserve). The three generations of Darells–Bayta, Toran, and Arkady–had each, at one time or another, been on Trantor. However, Arkady had not visited the Library, and since her time the Library had not impinged on Galactic history.

No Foundationer had been on Trantor in a hundred and twenty years, but there was no reason to believe the Library was not still there. That it had made no impingement was the surest evidence in favor of its being there. Its destruction would surely have made a noise.

The Library was outmoded and archaic–it had been so even in Ebling Mis’s time–but that was all to the good. Pelorat always rubbed his hands with excitement when he thought of an old and outmoded Library. The older and the more outmoded, the more likely it was to have what he needed. In his dreams, he would enter the Library and ask in breathless alarm, “Has the Library been modernized? Have you thrown out the old tapes and computerizations?” And always he imagined the answer from dusty and ancient librarians, “As it has been, Professor, so is it still.”

And now his dream would come true. The Mayor herself had assured him of that. How she had known of his work, he wasn’t quite sure. He had not succeeded in publishing many papers. Little of what he had done was solid enough to be acceptable for publication and what had appeared had left no mark. Still, they said Branno the Bronze knew all that went on in Terminus and had eyes at the end of every finger and toe. Pelorat could almost believe it, but if she knew of his work, why on Terminus didn’t she see its importance and give him a little financial support before this?

Somehow, he thought, with as much bitterness as he could generate, the Foundation had its eyes fixed firmly on the future. It was the Second Empire and their destiny that absorbed them. They had no time, no desire, to peer back into the past–and they were irritated by those who did.

The more fools they, of course, but he could not single-handedly wipe out folly. And it might be better so. He could hug the great pursuit to his own chest and the day would come when he would be remembered as the great Pioneer of the Important.

That meant, of course (and he was too intellectually honest to refuse to perceive it), that he, too, was absorbed in the future–a future in which he would be recognized, and in which he would be a hero on a par with Hari Seldon. In fact, he would be the greater, for how could the working out of a clearly visualized future a millennium long stand comparison with the working out of a lost past at least twenty-five millennia old.

And this was the day; this was the day.

The Mayor had said it would be the day after Seldon’s image made its appearance. That was the only reason Pelorat had been interested in the Seldon Crisis that for months had occupied every mind on Terminus and indeed almost every mind in the Federation.

It had seemed to him to make the most trifling difference as to whether the capital of the Foundation had remained here at Terminus, or had been shifted somewhere else. And now that the crisis had been resolved, he remained unsure as to which side of the matter Hari Seldon had championed, or if the matter under dispute had been mentioned at all.

It was enough that Seldon had appeared and that now this was the day.

It was a little after two in the afternoon that a ground-car slid to a halt in the driveway of his somewhat isolated house just outside Terminus proper.

A rear door slid back. A guard in the uniform of the Mayoralty Security Corps stepped out, then a young man, then two more guards.

Pelorat was impressed despite himself. The Mayor not only knew of his work but clearly considered it of the highest importance. The person who was to be his companion was given an honor guard, and he had been promised a first-class vessel which his companion would be able to pilot. Most flattering! Most–

Pelorat’s housekeeper opened the door. The young man entered and the two guards positioned themselves on either side of the entrance. Through the window, Pelorat saw that the third guard remained outside and that a second ground-car had now pulled up. Additional guards!

Confusing!

He turned to find the young man in his room and was surprised to find that he recognized him. He had seen him on holocasts. He said, “You’re that Councilman. You’re Trevize!”

“Golan Trevize. That’s right. You are Professor Janov Pelorat?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pelorat. “Are you he who will–”

“We are going to be fellow travelers,” said Trevize woodenly. “Or so I have been told.”

“But you’re not a historian.”

“No, I’m not. As you said, I’m a Councilman, a politician.”

“Yes–Yes– But what am I thinking about? I am a historian, therefore what need for another? You can pilot a spaceship.”

“Yes, I’m pretty good at that.”

“Well, that’s what we need, then. Excellent! I’m afraid I’m not one of your practical thinkers, young man, so if it should happen that you are, we’ll make a good team.”

Trevize said, “I am not, at the moment, overwhelmed with the excellence of my own thinking, but it seems we have no choice but to try to make it a good team.”

“Let’s hope, then, that I can overcome my uncertainty about space. I’ve never been in space, you know, Councilman. I am a groundhog, if that’s the term. Would you like a glass of tea, by the way? I’ll have Moda prepare us something. It is my understanding that it will be some hours before we leave, after all. I am prepared right now, however. I have what is necessary for both of us. The Mayor has been most co-operative. Astonishing–her interest in the project.”

Trevize said, “You’ve known about this, then? How long?”

“The Mayor approached me” (here Pelorat frowned slightly and seemed to be making certain calculations) “two, or maybe three, weeks ago. I was delighted. And now that I have got it clear in my head that I need a pilot and not a second historian, I am also delighted that my companion will be you, my dear fellow.”

“Two, maybe three, weeks ago,” repeated Trevize, sounding a little dazed. “She was prepared all this time, then. And I–” He faded out.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing, Professor. I have a bad habit of muttering to myself. It is something you will have to grow accustomed to, if our trip extends itself.”

“It will. It will,” said Pelorat, bustling the other to the dining room table, where an elaborate tea was being; prepared by his housekeeper. “Quite open-ended. The Mayor said we were to take as long as we liked and that the Galaxy lay all before us and, indeed, that wherever we went we could call upon Foundation funds. She said, of course, that we would have to be reasonable. I promised that much.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands: “Sit down, my good fellow, sit down. This may be our last meal on Terminus for a very long time.”

Trevize sat down. He said, “Do you have a family, Professor?”

“I have a son. He’s on the faculty at Santanni University. A chemist, I believe, or something like that. He took after his mother’s side. She hasn’t been with me for a long time, so you see I have no responsibilities, no active hostages to fortune. I trust you have none–help yourself to the sandwiches, my boy.”

“No hostages at the moment. A few women. They come and go.”

“Yes. Yes. Delightful when it works out. Even more delightful when you find it need not be taken seriously. –No children, I take it.

“None.”

“Good! You know, I’m in the most remarkable good humor. I was taken aback when you first came in. I admit it. But I find you quite exhilarating now. What I need is youth and enthusiasm and someone who can find his way about the Galaxy. We’re on a search, you know. A remarkable search.” Pelorat’s quiet face and quiet voice achieved an unusual animation without any particular change in either expression or intonation. “I wonder if you have been told about this.

Trevize’s eyes narrowed. “A remarkable search?”

“Yes indeed. A pearl of great price is hidden among the tens of millions of inhabited worlds in the Galaxy and we have nothing but the faintest clues to guide us. just the same, it will be an incredible prize if we can find it. If you and I can carry it off, my boy–Trevize, I should say, for I don’t mean to patronize–our names will ring down the ages to the end of time.”

“The prize you speak of–this pearl of great price–”

“I sound like Arkady Darell–the writer, you know–speaking of the Second Foundation, don’t I? No wonder you look astonished.”  Pelorat leaned his head back as though he were going to break into loud laughter but he merely smiled. “Nothing so silly and unimportant, I assure you.”

Trevize said, “If you are not speaking of the Second Foundation, Professor, what are you speaking of?”

Pelorat was suddenly grave, even apologetic. “Ah, then the Mayor has not told you? –It is odd, you know. I’ve spent decades resenting the government and its inability to understand what I’m doing, and now Mayor Branno is being remarkably generous.”

“Yes,” said Trevize, not trying to conceal an intonation of irony, “she is a woman of remarkable hidden philanthropy, but she has not told me what this is all about.”

“You are not aware of my research, then?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“No need to excuse yourself. Perfectly all right. I have not exactly made a splash. Then let me tell you. You and I are going to search for–and find, for I have an excellent possibility in mind–Earth.”

2.

TREVIZE DID NOT sleep well that night.

Over and over, he thrashed about the prison that the old woman had built around him. Nowhere could he find a way out.

He was being driven into exile and he could do nothing about it. She had been calmly inexorable and did not even take the trouble to mask the unconstitutionality of it all. He had relied on his rights as a Councilman and as a citizen of the Federation, and she hadn’t even paid them lip service.

And now this Pelorat, this odd academic who seemed to be located in the world without being part of it, told him that the fearsome old woman had been making arrangements for this for weeks.

He felt like the “boy” that she had called him.

He was to be exiled with a historian who kept “dear fellowing” him and who seemed to be in a noiseless fit of joy over beginning a Galactic search for–Earth?

What in the name of the Mule’s grandmother was Earth?

He had asked. Of course! He had asked upon the moment of its mention.

He had said, “Pardon me, Professor. I am ignorant of your specialty and I trust you won’t be annoyed if I ask for an explanation in simple terms. What is Earth?”

Pelorat stared at him gravely while twenty seconds moved slowly past. He said, “It is a planet. The original planet. The one on which human beings first appeared, my dear fellow.”

Trevize stared. “First appeared? From where?”

“From nowhere. It’s the planet on which humanity developed through evolutionary processes from lower animals.”

Trevize thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

An annoyed expression crossed Pelorat’s face briefly. He cleared his throat and said, “There was a time when Terminus had no human beings upon it. It was settled by human beings from other worlds. You know that, I suppose?”

“Yes, of course,” said Trevize impatiently. He was irritated at the other’s sudden assumption of pedagogy.

“Very well. This is true of all the other worlds. Anacreon, Santanni, Kalgan–all of them. They were all, at some time in the past, founded. People arrived there from other worlds. It’s true even of Trantor. It may have been a great metropolis for twenty thousand years, but before that it wasn’t.”

“Why, what was it before that?”

“Empty? At least of human beings.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“It’s true. The old records show it.”

“Where did the people come from who first settled Trantor?”

“No one is certain. There are hundreds of planets which claim to have been populated in the dim mists of antiquity and whose people present fanciful tales about the nature of the first arrival of humanity. Historians tend to dismiss such things and to brood over the ‘Origin Question.

“What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. It’s not a popular historical problem now, I admit, but there was a time during the decay of the Empire when it roused a certain interest among intellectuals. Salvor Hardin mentions it briefly in his memoirs. It’s the question of the identity and location of the one Planet from which it all started. If ,we look backward in time, humanity flows inward from the most recently established worlds to older ones, to still older ones, until all concentrates on one–the original.”

Trevize thought at once of the obvious flaw in the argument. “Might there not have been a large number of originals?”

“Of course not. All human beings all over the Galaxy are of a single species. A single species cannot originate on more than one planet. Quite impossible.”

“How do you know?”

“In the first place–” Pelorat ticked off the first finger of his left hand with the first finger of his right, and then seemed to think better of what would undoubtedly have been a long and intricate exposition. He put both hands at his side and said with great earnestness, “My dear fellow, I give you my word of honor.”

Trevize bowed formally and said, “I would not dream of doubting it, Professor Pelorat. Let us say, then, that there is one planet of origin, but might there not be hundreds who lay claim to the honor?”

“There not only might be, there are. Yet every claim is without merit. Not one of those hundreds that aspire to the credit of priority shows any trace of a prehyperspatial society, let alone any trace of human evolution from prehuman organisms.”

“Then are you saying that there is a planet of origin, but that, for some reason, it is not making the claim?”

“You have hit it precisely.”

“And you are going to search for it?”

“We are. That is our mission. Mayor Branno has arranged it all. You will pilot our ship to Trantor.”

“To Trantor? It’s not the planet of origin. You said that much a while ago.”

“Of course Trantor isn’t. Earth is.”

“Then why aren’t you telling me to pilot the ship to Earth?”

“I am not making myself clear. Earth is a legendary name. It is enshrined in ancient myths. It has no meaning we can be certain of, but it is convenient to use the word as a one-syllable synonym for ‘the planet of origin of the human species.’ just which planet in real space is the one we are defining as ‘Earth’ is not known.”

“Will they know on Trantor?”

“I hope to find information there, certainly. Trantor possesses the Galactic Library, the greatest in the system.”

“Surely that Library has been searched by those people you said were interested in the ‘Origin Question’ in the time of the First Empire.”

Pelorat nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, but perhaps not well enough. I have learned a great deal about the ‘Origin Question’ that perhaps the Imperials of five centuries back did not know. I might search the old records with greater understanding, you see. I have been thinking about this for a long time and I have an excellent possibility in mind.”

“You have told Mayor Branno all this, I imagine, and she approves?”

“Approves? My dear fellow, she was ecstatic. She told me that Trantor was surely the place to find out all I needed to know.”

“No doubt,” muttered Trevize.

That was part of what occupied him that night. Mayor Branno was sending him out to find out what he could about the Second Foundation. She was sending him with Pelorat so that he might mask his real aim with the pretended search for Earth–a search that could carry him anywhere in the Galaxy. It was a perfect cover, in fact, and he admired the Mayor’s ingenuity.

But Trantor? Where was the sense in that? Once they were on Trantor, Pelorat would find his way into the Galactic Library and would never emerge. With endless stacks of books, films, and recordings, with innumerable computerizations and symbolic representations, he would surely never want to leave.

Besides that –

Ebling Mis had once gone to Trantor, in the Mule’s time. The story was that he had found the location of the Second Foundation there and had died before he could reveal it. But then, so had Arkady Darell, and she had succeeded in locating the Second Foundation. But the location she had found was on Terminus itself, and there the nest of Second Foundationers was wiped out. Wherever the Second Foundation was now would be elsewhere, so what more had Trantor to tell? If be were looking for the Second Foundation, it was best to go anywhere but Trantor.

Besides that –

What further plans Branno had, he did not know, but he was not in the mood to oblige her. Branno had been ecstatic, had she, about a trip to Trantor? Well, if Branno wanted Trantor, they were not going to Trantor! –Anywhere else. –But not Trantor!

And worn out, with the night verging toward dawn, Trevize fell at last into a fitful slumber.

3.

MAYOR BRANNO HAD had a good day on the one following the arrest of Trevize. She had been extolled far beyond her deserts and the incident was never mentioned.

Nevertheless, she knew well that the Council would soon emerge from its paralysis and that questions would be raised. She would have to act quickly. So, putting a great many matters to one side, she pursued the matter of Trevize.

At the time when Trevize and Pelorat were discussing Earth, Branno was facing Councilman Munn Li Compor in the Mayoralty Office. As he sat across the desk from her, perfectly at ease, she appraised him once again.

He was smaller and slighter than Trevize and only two years older. Both were freshmen Councilmen, young and brash, and that must have been the only thing that held them together, for they were different in all other respects.

Where Trevize seemed to radiate a glowering intensity, Compor shone with an almost serene self-confidence. Perhaps it was his blond hair and blue eyes, not at all common among Foundationers. They lent him an almost feminine delicacy that (Branno judged) made him less attractive to women than Trevize was. He was clearly vain of his looks, though, and made the most of them, wearing his hair rather long and making sure that it was carefully waved. He wore a faint blue shadowing under his eyebrows to accentuate the eye color. (Shadowing of various tints had become common among men these last ten years.)

He was no womanizer. He lived sedately with his wife, but had not yet registered parental intent and was not known to have a clandestine second companion. That, too, was different from Trevize, who changed housemates as often as he changed the loudly colored sashes for which he was notorious.

There was little about either young Councilman that Kodell’s department had not uncovered, and Kodell himself sat quietly in one corner of the room, exuding a comfortable good cheer as always.

Branno said, “Councilman Compor, you have done the Foundation good service, but unfortunately for yourself, it is not of the sort that can be praised in public or repaid in ordinary fashion.”

Compor smiled. He had white and even teeth, and Branno idly wondered, for one flashing moment if all the inhabitants of the Sirius Sector looked like that. Compor’s tale of stemming from that particular, rather peripheral, region went back to his maternal grandmother, who had also been blond-haired and blue-eyed and who had maintained that her mother was from the Sirius Sector. According to Kodell, however, there was no hard evidence in favor of that.

Women being what they were, Kodell had said, she might well have claimed distant and exotic ancestry to add to her glamour and her already formidable attractiveness.

“Is that how women are?” Branno had asked drily, and Kodell had smiled and muttered that he was referring to ordinary women, of course.

Compor said, “It is not necessary that the people of the Foundation know of my service–only that you do.”

“I know and I will not forget. What I also will not do is to let you assume that your obligations are now over. You have embarked on a complicated course and you must continue. We want more about Trevize.”

“I have told you all I know concerning him.”

“That may be what you would have me believe. That may even be what you truly believe yourself. Nevertheless, answer my questions. Do you know a gentleman named Janov Pelorat?”

For just a moment Compor’s forehead creased, then smoothed itself almost at once. He said carefully, “I might know him if I were to see him, but the name does not seem to cause any association within me.”

“He is a scholar.”

Compor’s mouth rounded into a rather contemptuous but unsounded “Oh?” as though he were surprised that the Mayor would expect him to know scholars.

Branno said, “Pelorat is an interesting person who, for reasons of his own, has the ambition of visiting Trantor. Councilman Trevize will accompany him. Now, since you have been a good friend of Trevize and .perhaps know his system of thinking, tell me– Do you think Trevize will consent to go to Trantor?”

Compor said, “If you see to it that Trevize gets on the ship, and if the ship is piloted to Trantor, what can he do but go there? Surely you don’t suggest he will mutiny and take over the ship.”

“You don’t understand. He and Pelorat will be alone on the ship and it will be Trevize at the controls.”

“You are asking whether he would go voluntarily to Trantor?”

“Yes, that is what I am asking.”

“Madam Mayor, how can I possibly know what he will do?”

“Councilman Compor, you have been close to Trevize. You know his belief in the existence of the Second Foundation. Has he never spoken to you of his theories as to where it might exist, where it might be found?”

“Never, Madam Mayor.”

“Do you think he will find it?”

Compor chuckled. “I think the Second Foundation, whatever it was and however important it might have been, was wiped out in the time of Arkady Darell. I believe her story.”

“Indeed? In that case, why did you betray your friend? If he were searching for something that does not exist, what harm could he have done by propounding his quaint theories?”

Compor said, “It is not the truth alone that can harm. His theories may have been merely quaint, but they might have succeeded in unsettling the people of Terminus and, by introducing doubts and fears as to the Foundation’s role in the great drama of Galactic history, have weakened its leadership of the Federation and its dreams of a Second Galactic Empire. Clearly you thought this yourself, or you would not have seized him on the floor of the Council, and you would not now be forcing him into exile without trial. Why have you done so, if I may ask, Mayor?”

“Shall we say that I was cautious enough to wonder if there were some faint chance that he might be right, and that the expression of his views might be actively and directly dangerous?”

Compor said nothing.

Branno said, “I agree with you, but I am forced by the responsibilities of my position to consider the possibility. Let me ask you again if you have any indication as to where he might think the Second Foundation exists, and where he might go.”

“I have none.”

“He has never given you any hints in that direction?”

“No, of course not.”

“Never? Don’t dismiss the thought easily. Think! Never?”

“Never,” said Compor firmly.

“No hints? No joking remarks? No doodles? No thoughtful abstractions at moments that achieve significance as you look back on them?”

“None. I tell you, Madam Mayor, his dreams of the Second Foundation are the most nebulous starshine. You know it, and you but waste your time and your emotions in your concern over it.”

“You are not by some chance suddenly changing sides again and protecting the friend you delivered into my hands?”

“No,” said Compor. “I turned him over to you for what seemed to me to be good and patriotic reasons. I have no reason to regret the action, or to change my attitude.”

“Then you can give me no hint as to where he might go once he has a ship at his disposal?”

“As I have already said–”

“And yet, Councilman,” and here the lines of the Mayor’s face so folded as to make her seem wistful, “I would like to know where he goes.”

“In that case, I think you ought to place a hyper-relay on his ship.”

“I have thought of that, Councilman. He is, however, a suspicious man and I suspect he will find it–however cleverly it might be placed. Of course, it might be placed in such a way that he cannot remove it without crippling the ship, and he might therefore be forced to leave it in place–”

“An excellent notion.”

“Except that,” said Branno, “he would then be inhibited. He might not go where he would go if he felt himself free and untrammeled. The knowledge I would gain would be useless to me.”

“In that case, it appears you cannot find out where he will go.”

“I might, for I intend to be very primitive. A person who expects the completely sophisticated and who guards against it is quite apt never to think of the primitive. –I’m thinking of having Trevize followed.”

“Followed?”

“Exactly. By, another pilot in another spaceship. See how astonished you are at the thought? He would be equally astonished. He might not think of scouring space for an accompanying mass and, in any case, we will see to it that his ship is not equipped with our latest mass-detection devices.”

Compor said, “Madam Mayor, I speak with all possible respect, but I must point out that you lack experience in space flight. To have one ship followed by another is never done–because it won’t work. Trevize will escape with the first hyperspatial jump. Even if he doesn’t know he is being followed, that first jump will be his path to freedom. If he doesn’t have a hyper-relay on board ship, he can’t be traced.”

“I admit my lack of experience. Unlike you and Trevize, I have had no naval training. Nevertheless, I am told by my advisers–who have had such training–that if a ship is observed immediately prior to a jump, its direction, speed, and acceleration make it possible to guess what the jump might be–in a general way. Given a good computer and an excellent sense of judgment, a follower might duplicate the jump closely enough to pick up the trail at the other end –especially if the follower has a good mass-detector.”

“That might happen once,” said Compor energetically, “even twice if the follower is very lucky, but that’s it. You can’t rely on such things.”

“Perhaps we can. –Councilman Compor, you have hyper-raced in your time. You see, I know a great deal about you. You are an excellent pilot and have done amazing things when it comes to following a competitor through a jump.”

Compor’s eyes widened. He almost squirmed in his chair. “I was in college then. I am older now.”

“Not too old. Not yet thirty-five. Consequently you are going to follow Trevize, Councilman. Where he goes, you will follow, and you will report back to me. You will leave soon after Trevize does, and he will be leaving in a few hours. If you refuse the task, Councilman, you will be imprisoned for treason. If you take the ship that we will provide for you, and if you fail to follow, you need not bother coming back. You will be shot out of space if you try.”

Compor rose sharply to his feet. “! have a life to live. I have work to do. I have a wife. I cannot leave it all.”

“You will have to. Those of us who choose to serve the Foundation must be prepared at ail times to serve it in a prolonged and uncomfortable fashion, if that should become necessary.”

“My wife must go with me, of course.”

“Do you take me for an idiot? She stays here, of course.”

“As a hostage?”

“If you like the word. I prefer to say that you will be taking yourself into danger and my kind heart wants her to stay here where she will not be in danger. –There is no room for discussion. You are as much under arrest as Trevize is, and I am sure you understand I must act quickly–before the euphoria enveloping Terminus wears off. I fear my star will soon be in the descendant.”

4.

KODELL SAID, “YOU were not easy on him, Madam Mayor.”

The Mayor said with a sniff, “Why should I have been? He betrayed a friend.”

“That was useful to us.”

“Yes, as it happened. His next betrayal, however, might not be.”

“Why should there be another?”

“Come, Liono,” said Branno impatiently, “don’t play games with me. Anyone who displays a capacity for double-dealing must forever be suspected of being capable of displaying it again.”

“He may use the capability to combine with Trevize once again. Together, they may–”

“You don’t believe that. With all his folly and naïveté, Trevize goes straight for his goal. He does not understand betrayal and he will never, under any circumstances, trust Compor a second time.”

Kodell said, “Pardon me, Mayor, but let me make sure I follow your thinking. How far, then, can you trust Compor? How do you know he will follow Trevize and report honestly? Do you count on his fears for the welfare of his wife as a restraint? His longing to return to her?”

“Both are factors, but I don’t entirely rely on that. On Compor’s ship there will be a hyper-relay. Trevize would suspect pursuit and would search for one. However Compor–being the pursuer–will, I assume, not suspect pursuit and will not search for one. –Of course, if he does, and if he finds it, then we must depend on the attractions of his wife.”

Kodell laughed. “To think I once had to give you lessons. And the purpose of the pursuit?”

“A double layer of protection. If Trevize is caught, it may be that

Compor will carry on and give us the information that Trevize will not be able to.”

“One more question. What if, by some chance, Trevize finds the Second Foundation, and we learn of it through him, or through Compor, or if we gain reason to suspect its existence–despite the deaths of both?”

“I’m hoping the Second Foundation does exist, Liono,” she said. “In any case, the Seldon Plan is not going to serve us much longer. The great Hari Seldon devised it in the dying days of the Empire, when technological advance had virtually stopped. Seldon was a product of his times, too, and however brilliant this semimythical science of psychohistory must have been, it could not rise out of its roots. It surely would not allow for rapid technological advance. The Foundation has been achieving that, especially in this last century. We have mass-detection devices of a kind undreamed of earlier, computers that can respond to thought, and–most of all–mental shielding. The Second Foundation cannot control us for much longer, if they can do so now. I want, in my final years in power, to be the one to start Terminus on a new path.”

“And if there is, in fact, no Second Foundation?”

“Then we start on a new path at once.”

5.

THE TROUBLED SLEEP that had finally come to Trevize did not last long. A touch on his shoulder was repeated a second time.

Trevize started up, bleary and utterly failing to understand why he should be in a strange bed. “What–What–?”

Pelorat said to him apologetically, “I’m sorry, Councilman Trevize. You are my guest and I owe you rest, but the Mayor is here.” He was standing at the side of the bed in flannel pajamas and shivering slightly. Trevize’s senses leaped to a weary wakefulness and he remembered.

The Mayor was in Pelorat’s living room, looking as composed as always. Kodell was with her, rubbing lightly at his white mustache.

Trevize adjusted his sash to the proper snugness and wondered how long the two of them–Branno and Kodell–were ever apart.

Trevize said mockingly, “ Has the Council recovered yet? Are its members concerned over the absence of one of them?”

The Mayor said, “There are signs of life, yes, but not enough to do you any good. There is no question but that I still have the power to force you to leave. You will be taken to Ultimate Spaceport–”

“Not Terminus Spaceport, Madam Mayor? Am I to be deprived of a proper farewell from weeping thousands?”

“I see you have recovered your penchant for teenage silliness, Councilman, and I am pleased. It stills what might otherwise be a certain rising twinge of conscience. At Ultimate Spaceport, you and Professor Pelorat will leave quietly.”

“And never return?”

“And perhaps never return. Of course,” and here she smiled briefly, “if you discover something of so great an importance and usefulness that even I will be glad to have you back with your information, you will return. You may even be treated with honor.”

Trevize nodded casually, “That may happen.”

“Almost anything may happen. –In any case, you will be comfortable. You are being assigned a recently completed pocket-cruiser, the Far Star, named for Hober Mallow’s cruiser. One person can handle it, though it will hold as many as three with reasonable comfort.”

Trevize was jolted out of his carefully assumed mood of light irony. “Fully armed?”

“Unarmed but otherwise fully equipped. Wherever you go, you will be citizens of the Foundation and there will always be a consul to whom you can turn, so you will not require arms. You will be able to draw on funds at need. –Not unlimited funds, I might add.”

“You are generous.”

“I know that, Councilman. But, Councilman, understand me. You are helping Professor Pelorat search for Earth. Whatever you think you are searching for, you are searching for Earth. All whom you meet must understand that. And always remember that the Far Star is not armed.”

“I am searching for Earth;” said Trevize. “I understand that perfectly.”

“Then you will go now.”

“Pardon me, but surely there is more to all of this than we have discussed. I have piloted ships in my time, but I have had no experience with a late-model pocket-cruiser. What if I cannot pilot it?”

“I am told that the Far Star is thoroughly computerized. –and before you ask, you don’t have to know how to handle a late-model ship’s computer. It will itself tell you anything you need to know. Is there anything else you need?”

Trevize looked down at himself ruefully. “A change of clothing.”

“You will find them on board ship. Including those girdles you wear, or sashes, whichever they are called. The professor is also supplied with what he needs. Everything reasonable is already aboard, although I hasten to add that this does not include female companions.”

“Too bad,” said Trevize. “It would be pleasant, but then, I have no likely candidate at the moment, as it happens. Still, I presume the Galaxy is populous and that once away from here I may do as I Please.”

“With regard to companions? Suit yourself.”

She rose heavily. “I will not take you to the spaceport,” she said, “but there are those who will, and you must make no effort to do anything you are not told to do. I believe they will kill you if you make an effort to escape. The fact that I will not be with them will remove any inhibition.”

Trevize said, “I will make no unauthorized effort, Madam Mayor, but one thing–”

“Yes?”

Trevize searched his mind rapidly and finally said with a smile that he very much hoped looked unforced, “The time may come, Madam Mayor, when you will ask me for an effort. I will then do as I choose, but I will remember the past two days.”

Mayor Branno sighed. “Spare me the melodrama. If the time comes, it will come, but for now–I am asking for nothing.”

4. Space

1.

THE SHIP LOOKED even more impressive than Trevize–with his memories of the time when the new cruiser-class had been glowingly publicized–had expected.

It was not the size that was impressive–for it was rather small. It was designed for maneuverability and speed, for totally gravitic engines, and most of all for advanced computerization. It didn’t need size–size would have defeated its purpose.

It was a one-man device that could replace, with advantage, the older ships that required a crew of a dozen or more. With a second or even a third person to establish shifts of duty, one such ship could fight off a flotilla of much larger non-Foundation ships. In addition, it could outspeed and escape from any other ship in existence.

There was a sleekness about it–not a wasted line, not a superfluous curve inside or out. Every cubic meter of volume was used to its maximum, so as to leave a paradoxical aura of spaciousness within. Nothing the Mayor might have said about the importance of his mission could have impressed Trevize more than the ship with which he was asked to perform it.

Branno the Bronze, he thought with chagrin, had maneuvered him into a dangerous mission of the greatest significance. He might not have accepted with such determination had she not so arranged matters that he wanted to show her what he could do.

As for Pelorat, he was transported with wonder. “Would you believe,” he said, placing a gentle finger on the hull before he had climbed inside, “that I’ve never been close to a spaceship?”

“I’ll believe it, of course, if you say so, Professor, but how did you manage it?”

“I scarcely know, to be honest with you, dear fel–, I mean, my dear Trevize. I presume I was overly concerned with my research. When one’s home has a really excellent computer capable of reaching other computers anywhere in the Galaxy, one scarcely needs to budge, you know. –Somehow I expected spaceships to be larger than this.”

“This is a small model, but even so, it’s much larger inside than any other ship of this size.”

“How can that be? You are making fun of my ignorance.”

“No, no. I’m serious. This is one of the first ships to be completely graviticized.”

“What does that mean? –but please don’t explain if it requires extensive physics. I will take your word, as you took mine yesterday in connection with the single species of humanity and the single world of origin.”

“Let’s try, Professor Pelorat. Through all the thousands of years of space flight, we’ve had chemical motors and ionic motors and hyperatomic motors, and all these things have been bulky. The old Imperial Navy had ships five hundred meters long with no more living space in them than would fit into a small apartment. Fortunately the Foundation has specialized in miniaturization through all the centuries of its existence, thanks to its lack of material resources. This ship is the culmination. It makes use of antigravity and the device that makes that possible takes up virtually no space and is actually included in the hull. If it weren’t that we still need the hyperatomic–”

A Security guard approached. “You will have to get on, gentlemen!”

The sky was grooving light, though sunrise was still half an hour off.

Trevize looked about. “Is my baggage loaded?”

“Yes, Councilman, you will find the ship fully equipped.”

“With clothing, I suppose, that is not my size or to my taste.”

The guard smiled, quite suddenly and almost boyishly. “I think it is,” he said. “The Mayor had us working overtime these last thirty or forty hours and we’ve matched what you had closely. Money no object. Listen,” he looked about as though to make sure no one noticed his sudden fraternization, “you two are lucky. Best ship in the world. Fully equipped, except for armament. You’re swimming in cream.”

“Sour cream, possibly,” said Trevize. “Well, Professor, are you ready?”

“With this I am,” Pelorat said and held up a square wafer about twenty centimeters to the side and encased in a jacket of silvery plastic. Trevize was suddenly aware that Pelorat had been holding it since they had left his home, shifting it from hand to hand and never putting it down, even when they had stopped for a quick breakfast.

“What’s that, Professor?”

“My library. It’s indexed by subject matter and origin and I’ve gotten it all into one wafer. If you think this ship is a marvel, how about this wafer? A whole library! Everything I have collected! Wonderful! Wonderful!”

“Well,” said Trevize, “we are swimming in cream.”

2.

TREVIZE MARVELED AT the inside of the ship. The utilization of space was ingenious. There was a storeroom, with supplies of food, clothing, films, and games. There was a gym, a parlor, and two nearly identical bedrooms.

“This one,” said Trevize, “must be yours, Professor. At least, it contains an FX Reader.”

“Good,” said Pelorat with satisfaction. “What an ass I have been to avoid space flight as I have. I could live here, my dear Trevize, in utter satisfaction.”

“Roomier than I expected,” said Trevize with pleasure.

“And the engines are really in the hull, as you said?”

“The controlling devices are, at any rate. We don’t have to store fuel or make use of it on the spot. We’re making use of the fundamental energy store of the Universe, so that the fuel and the engines are all–out there.” He gestured vaguely.

“Well, now that I think of it–what if something goes wrong?”

Trevize shrugged. “I’ve been trained in space navigation, but not on these ships. If something goes wrong with the gravitics, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“But can you run this ship? Pilot it?”

“I’m wondering that myself.”

Pelorat said, “Do you suppose this is an automated ship? Might we not merely be passengers? We might simply be expected to sit here.”

“They have such things in the case of ferries between planets and space stations within a stellar system, but I never heard of automated hyperspace travel. At least, not so far. –Not so far.”

He looked about again and there was a trickle of apprehension within him. Had that harridan Mayor managed to maneuver that far ahead of him? Had the Foundation automated interstellar travel, too, and was he going to be deposited on Trantor quite against his will, and with no more to say about it than any of the rest of the furniture aboard ship?

He said with a cheerful animation he didn’t feel, “Professor, you sit down. The Mayor said this ship was completely computerized. If your room has the FX Reader, mine ought to have a computer in it. Make yourself comfortable and let me look around a bit on my own.

Pelorat looked instantly anxious. “Trevize, my dear chap– You’re not getting off the ship, are you?”

“Not my plan at all, Professor. And if I tried, you can count on my being stopped. It is not the Mayor’s intention to allow me off. All I’m planning to do is to learn what operates the Far Star.” He smiled, “I won’t desert you, Professor.”

He was still smiling as he entered, what he felt to be his own bedroom, but his face grew sober as he closed the door softly behind him. Surely there must be some means of communicating with a planet in the neighborhood of the ship. It was impossible to imagine a ship deliberately sealed off from its surroundings and, therefore, somewhere–perhaps in a wall recess–there would have to be a Reacher. He could use it to call the Mayor’s office to ask about controls.

Carefully he inspected the walls, the headboard of the bed, and the neat, smooth furniture. If nothing turned up here, he would go through the rest of the ship.

He was about to turn away when his eye caught a glint of light on the smooth, light brown surface of the desk. A round circle of light, with neat lettering that read: COMPUTER INSTRUCTIONS.

Ah!

Nevertheless his heart beat rapidly. There were computers and computers, and there were programs that took a long time to master. Trevize had never made the mistake of underestimating his own intelligence, but, on the other hand, he was not a Grand Master. There were those who had a knack for using a computer, and those who had not–and Trevize knew very well into which class he fell.

In his hitch in the Foundation Navy, he had reached the rank of lieutenant and had, on occasion, been officer of the day and had had occasion to use the ship’s computer. He had never been in sole charge of it, however, and he had never been expected to know anything more than the routine maneuvers being officer of the day required.

He remembered, with a sinking feeling, the volumes taken up by a fully described program in printout, and he could recall the behavior of Technical Sergeant Krasnet at the console of the ship’s computer. He played it as though it were the most complex musical instrument in the Galaxy, and did it all with an air of nonchalance, as though he were bored at its simplicity–yet even he had had to consult the volumes at times, swearing at himself in embarrassment.

Hesitantly Trevize placed a finger on the circle of light and at once the light spread out to cover the desk top. On it were the outline of two hands: a right and a left. With a sudden, smooth movement, the desk top tilted to an angle of forty-five degrees.

Trevize took the seat before the desk. No words were necessary. It was clear what he was expected to do.

He placed his hands on the outlines on the desk, which were positioned for him to do so without strain. The desk top seemed soft, nearly velvety, where he touched it–and his hands sank in.

He stared at his hands with astonishment, for they had not sunk in at all. They were on the surface, his eyes told him. Yet to his sense of touch it was as though the desk surface had given way, and as though something were holding his hands softly and warmly.

Was that all?

Now what?

He looked about and then closed his eyes in response to a suggestion.

He had heard nothing. He had heard nothing!

But inside his brain, as though it were a vagrant thought of his own, there was the sentence, “Please close your eyes. Relax. We will make connection.”

Through the hands?

Somehow Trevize had always assumed that if one were going to communicate by thought with a computer, it would be through a hood placed over the head and with electrodes against the eyes and skull.

The hands?

But why not the hands? Trevize found himself floating away, almost drowsy, but with no loss of mental acuity. Why not the hands?

The eyes were no more than sense organs. The brain was no more than a central switchboard, encased in bone and removed from the working surface of the body. It was the hands that were the working surface, the hands that felt and manipulated the Universe.

Human beings thought with their hands. It was their hands that were the answer of curiosity, that felt and pinched and turned and lifted and hefted. There were animals that had brains of respectable size, but they had no hands and that made all the difference.

And as he and the computer held hands, their thinking merged and it no longer mattered whether his eyes were open or closed. Opening them did not improve his vision nor did closing them dim it.

Either way, he saw the room with complete clarity–not just in the direction in which he was looking, but all around and above and below.

He saw every room in the spaceship and he saw outside as well. The sun had risen and its brightness was dimmed in the morning mist, but he could look at it directly without being dazzled, for the computer automatically filtered the light waves.

He felt the gentle wind and its temperature, and the sounds of the world about him. He detected the planet’s magnetic field and the tiny electrical charges on the wall of the ship.

He became aware of the controls of the ship, without even knowing what they were in detail. He knew only that if he wanted to lift the ship, or turn it, or accelerate it, or make use of any of its abilities, the process was the same as that of performing the analogous process to his body. He had but to use his will.

Yet his will was not unalloyed. The computer itself could override. At the present moment, there was a formed sentence in his head and he knew exactly when and how the ship would take off. There was no flexibility where that was concerned. Thereafter, he knew just as surely, he would himself he able to deride.

He found–as he cast the net of his computer-enhanced consciousness outward–that he could sense the condition of the upper atmosphere; that he could see the weather patterns; that he could detect the other ships that were swarming upward and the others that were settling downward. All of this had to be taken into account and the computer was taking it into account. If the computer had not been doing so, Trevize realized, he need only desire the computer to do so–and it would be done.

So much for the volumes of programming; there were none. Trevize thought of Technical Sergeant Krasnet and smiled. He had read often enough of the immense revolution that gravities would make in the world, but the fusion of computer and mind was still a state secret. It would surely produce a still greater revolution.

He was aware of time passing. He knew exactly what time it was by Terminus Local and by Galactic Standard.

How did he let go?

And even as the thought entered his mind, his hands were released and the desk top moved back to its original position–and Trevize was left with his own unaided senses.

He felt blind and helpless as though, for a time, he had been held and protected by a superbeing and now was abandoned. Had he not known that he could make contact again at any time, the feeling might have reduced him to tears.

As it was he merely struggled for re-orientation, for adjustment to limits, then rose uncertainly to his feet and walked out of the room.

Pelorat looked up. He had adjusted his Reader, obviously, and he said, “It works very well. It has an excellent Search Program. –Did you find the controls, my boy?”

“Yes, Professor. All is well.”

“In that case, shouldn’t we do something about takeoff? I mean, self-protection? Aren’t we supposed to strap ourselves in or something? I looked about for instructions, but I didn’t find anything and that made me nervous. I had to turn to my library. Somehow when I am at my work–”

Trevize had been pushing his hands at the professor as though to dam and stop the flood of words. Now he had to speak loudly in order to override him. “None of that is necessary, Professor. Antigravity is the equivalent of noninertia. There is no feeling of acceleration when velocity changes, since everything on the ship undergoes the change simultaneously.”

“You mean, we won’t know when we are off the planet and out in space?”

“It’s exactly what I mean, because even as I speak to you, we have taken off. We will be cutting through the upper atmosphere in a very few minutes and within half an hour we will be in outer space.”

3.

PELORAT SEEMED TO shrink a little as he stared at Trevize. His long rectangle of a face grew so blank that, without showing any emotion at all, it radiated a vast uneasiness.

Then his eyes shifted right–Left.

Trevize remembered how he had felt on his own first trip beyond the atmosphere.

He said, in as matter-of-fact a manner as he could, “Janov,” (it was the first time he had addressed the professor familiarly, but in this case experience was addressing inexperience and it was necessary to seem the older of the two) “we are perfectly safe here. We are in the metal womb of a warship of the Foundation Navy. We are not fully armed, but there is no place in the Galaxy where the name of the Foundation will not protect us. Even if some ship went mad and attacked, we could move out of its reach in a moment. And I assure you I have discovered that I can handle the ship perfectly.”

Pelorat said, “It is the thought, Go–Golan, of nothingness–”

“Why, there’s nothingness all about Terminus. There’s just a thin layer of very tenuous air between ourselves on the surface and the nothingness just above. Ail we’re doing is to go past that inconsequential layer.”

“It may be inconsequential, but we breathe it.”

“We breathe here, too. The air on this ship is cleaner and purer, and will indefinitely remain cleaner and purer than the natural atmosphere of Terminus.”

“And the meteorites?”

“What about meteorites?”

“The atmosphere protects us from meteorites. Radiation, too, for that matter.”

Trevize said, “Humanity has been traveling through space for twenty millennia, I believe–”

“Twenty-two. If we go by the Hallblockian chronology, it is quite plain that, counting the–”

“Enough! Have you heard of meteorite accidents or of radiation deaths? –I mean, recently? –I mean, in the case of Foundation ships?”

“I have not really followed the news in such matters, but I am a historian, my boy, and–”

“Historically, yes, there have been such things, but technology improves. There isn’t a meteorite large enough to damage us that can possibly approach us before we take the necessary evasive action. Four meteorites–coming at us simultaneously from the four directions drawn from the vertices of a tetrahedron–might conceivably pin us down, but calculate the chances of that and you’ll find that you’ll die of old. age a trillion trillion times over before you will have a fifty-fifty chance of observing so interesting a phenomenon.”

“You mean, if you were at the computer?”

“No,” said Trevize in Scorn. “If I were running the computer on the basis of my own senses and responses, we would be hit before I ever knew what was happening. It is the computer itself that is at work, responding millions of times faster than you or I could.” He held out his hand abruptly. “Janov, come let me show you what the computer can do, and let me show you what space is like.”

Pelorat stared, goggling a bit. Then he laughed briefly. “I’m not sure I wish to know, Golan.”

“Of course you’re not sure, Janov, because you don’t know what it is that is waiting there to be known. Chance it! Come! Into my room!”

Trevize held the other’s hand, half leading him, half drawing him. He said, as he sat down at the computer, “Have you ever seen the Galaxy, Janov? Have you ever looked at it?”

Pelorat said, “You mean in the sky?”

“Yes, certainly. Where else?”

“I’ve seen it. Everyone has seen it. If one looks up, one sees it.”

“Have you ever stared at it on a dark, clear night, when the Diamonds are below the horizon?”

The “Diamonds” referred to those few stars that were luminous enough and close enough to shine with moderate brightness in the night sky of Terminus. They were a small group that spanned a width of no more than twenty degrees, and for large parts of the night they were all below the horizon. Aside from he group, there was a scattering of dim stars just barely visible to the unaided eye. There was nothing more but the faint milkiness of the Galaxy–the view one might expect when one dwelt on a world like Terminus which was at the extreme edge of the outermost spiral of the Galaxy.

“I suppose so, but why stare? It’s a common sight.”

“Of course it’s a common sight,” said Trevize. “That’s why no one sees it. Why see it if you can always see it? But now you’ll see it, and not from Terminus, where the mist and the clouds are forever interfering. You’ll see it as you’d never see it from Terminus–no matter how you stared, and no matter how clear and dark the night. How I wish I had never been in space before, so that–like you–I could see the Galaxy in its bare beauty for the first time.”

He pushed a chair in Pelorat’s direction. “Sit there, Janov. This may take a little time. I have to continue to grow accustomed to the computer. From what I’ve already felt, I know the viewing is holographic, so we won’t need a screen of any sort. It makes direct contact with my brain, but I think I can have it produce an objective image that you will see, too. –Put out the light, will you? –No, that’s foolish of me. I’ll have the computer do it. Stay where you are.”

Trevize made contact with the computer, holding hands warmly and intimately.

The light dimmed, then went out completely, and in the darkness, Pelorat stirred.

Trevize said, “Don’t get nervous, Janov. I may have a little trouble trying to control the computer, but I’ll start easy and you’ll have to be patient with me. Do you see it? The crescent?”

It hung in the darkness before them. A little dim and wavering at first, but getting sharper and brighter.

Pelorat’s voice sounded awed. “Is that Terminus? Are we that far from it?”

“Yes, the ship’s moving quickly.”

The ship was curving into the night shadow of Terminus, which appeared as a thick crescent of bright light. Trevize had a momentary urge to send the ship in a wide arc that would carry them over the daylit side of the planet to show it in all its beauty, but he held back.

Pelorat might find novelty in this, but the beauty would be tame. There were too many photographs, too many reaps, too many globes. Every child knew what Terminus looked like. A water planet more so than most–rich in water and poor in minerals, good in agriculture and poor in heavy industry, but the best in the Galaxy in high technology and in miniaturization.

If he could have the computer use microwaves and translate it into a visible model, they would see every one of Terminus’s ten thousand inhabited islands, together with the only one of them large enough to be considered a continent, the one that bore Terminus City and

Turn away!

It was just a thought, an exercise of the will, but the view shifted at once. The lighted crescent moved off toward the borders of vision and rolled off the edge. The darkness of starless space filled his eyes.

Pelorat cleared his throat. “I wish you would bring back Terminus, my boy. I feel as though I’ve been blinded.” There was a tightness in his voice.

“You’re not blind. Look!”

Into the field of vision came a filmy fog of pale translucence. It spread and became brighter, until the whole room seemed to glow.

Shrink!

Another exercise of will and the Galaxy drew off, as though seen through a diminishing telescope that was steadily growing more powerful in its ability to diminish. The Galaxy contracted and became a structure of varying luminosity.

Brighten!

It grew more luminous without changing size, and because the stellar system to which Terminus belonged was above the Galactic plane, the Galaxy was not seen exactly edge-on. It was a strongly foreshortened double spiral, with curving dark-nebula rifts streaking the glowing edge of the Terminus side. The creamy haze of the nucleus–far off and shrunken by the distance–looked unimportant.

Pelorat said in an awed whisper, “You are right. I have never seen it like this. I never dreamed it had so much detail.”

“How could you? You can’t see the outer half when Terminus’s atmosphere is between you and it. You can hardly see the nucleus from Terminus’s surface.’’

“What a pity we’re seeing it so nearly head-on.”

“We don’t have to. The computer can show it in any orientation. I just have to express the wish–and not even aloud.”

Shift co-ordinates!

This exercise of will was by no means a precise command. Yet as the image of Galaxy began to undergo a slow change, his mind guided the computer and had it do what he wished.

Slowly the Galaxy was turning so that it could be seen at right angles to the Galactic plane. It spread out like a gigantic, glowing whirlpool, with curves of darkness, and knots of brightness, and a central all-but-featureless blaze.

Pelorat asked, “How can the computer see it from a position in space that must be more than fifty thousand parsecs from this place?” Then he added, in a choked whisper, “Please forgive me that I ask. I know nothing about all this.”

Trevize said, “I know almost as little about this computer as you do. Even a simple computer, however, can adjust co-ordinates and show the Galaxy in any position, starting with what it can sense in the natural position, the one, that is, that would appear from the computer’s local position in space. Of course, it makes use only of the information it can sense to begin with, so when it changes to the broadside view we would find gaps and blurs in what it would show. In this case, though–”

“Yes?”

“We have an excellent view. I suspect that the computer is outfitted with a complete map of the Galaxy and can therefore view it from any angle with equal ease.”

“How do you mean, a complete map?”

“The spatial co-ordinates of every star in it must be in the computer’s memory banks.”

“Every star?” Pelorat seemed awed.

“Well, perhaps not all three hundred billion. It would include the stars shining down on populated planets, certainly, and probably every star of spectral class K and brighter. That means about seventy-five billion, at least.”

“Every star of a populated system?”

“I wouldn’t want to be pinned down; perhaps not all. There were, after all, twenty-five million inhabited systems in the time of Hari Seldon–which sounds like a lot but is only one star out of every twelve thousand. And then, in the five centuries since Seldon, the general breakup of the Empire didn’t prevent further colonization. I should think it would have encouraged it. There are still plenty of habitable planets to expand into, so there may be thirty million now. It’s possible that not all the new ones are in the Foundation’s records.”

“But the old ones? Surely they must all be there without exception.”

“I imagine so. I can’t guarantee it, of course, but I would be surprised if any long-established inhabited system were missing from the records. Let me show you something–if my ability to control the computer will go far enough.”

Trevize’s hands stiffened a bit with the effort and they seemed to sink further into the clasp of the computer. That might not have been necessary; he might only have had to think quietly and casually: Terminus!

He did think that and there was, in response, a sparkling red diamond at the very edge of the whirlpool.

“There’s our sun,” he said with excitement. “That’s the star that Terminus circles.”

“Ah,” said Pelorat with a low, tremulous sigh.

A bright yellow dot of light sprang into life in a rich cluster of stars deep in the heart of the Galaxy but well to one side of the central haze. It was rather closer to the Terminus edge of the Galaxy than to the other side.

“And that,” said Trevize, “is Trantor’s sun.”

Another sigh, then Pelorat said, “Are you sure? They always speak of Trantor as being located in the center of the Galaxy.”

“It is, in a way. It’s as close to the center as a planet can get and still be habitable. It’s closer than any other major populated system. The actual center of the Galaxy consists of a black hole with a mass of nearly a million stars, so that the center is a violent place. As far as we know, there is no life in the actual center and maybe there just can’t be any life there. Trantor is in the innermost subring of the spiral arms and, believe me, if you could see its night sky, you would think it was in the center of the Galaxy. It’s surrounded by an extremely rich clustering of stars.”

“Have you been on Trantor, Golan?” asked Pelorat in clear envy.

“Actually no, but I’ve seen holographic representations of its sky.”

Trevize stared at the Galaxy somberly. In the great search for the Second Foundation during the time of the Mule, how everyone had played with Galactic maps–and how many volumes had been written and filmed on the subject

And all because Hari Seldom had said, at the beginning, that the Second Foundation would be established “at the other end of the Galaxy,” calling the place “Star’s End.”

At the other end of the Galaxy! Even as Trevize thought it, a thin blue line sprang into view, stretching from Terminus, through the Galaxy’s central black hole, to the other end. Trevize nearly jumped. He had not directly ordered the line, but he had thought of it quite clearly and that had been enough for the computer.

But, of course, the straight-line route to the opposite side of the Galaxy was not necessarily an indication of the “other end” that Seldom had spoken of. It was Arkady Darell (if one could believe her autobiography) who had made use of the phrase “a circle has no end” to indicate what everyone now accepted as truth

And though Trevize suddenly tried to suppress the thought, the computer was too quick for him. The blue line vanished and was replaced with a circle that neatly rimmed the Galaxy in blue and that passed through the deep red dot of Terminus’s sun.

A circle has no end, and if the circle began at Terminus, then if we searched for the other end, it would merely return to Terminus, and there the Second Foundation had indeed been found, inhabiting the same world as the First.

But if, in reality, it had not been found–if the so-called finding of the Second Foundation had been an illusion–what then? What beside a straight line and a circle would make sense in this connection?

Pelorat said, “Are you creating illusions? Why is there a blue circle?”

“I was just testing my controls. –Would you like to locate Earth?”

There was silence for a moment or two, then Pelorat said, “Are you joking?”

“No. I’ll try.”

He did. Nothing happened.

“Sorry,” said Trevize.

“It’s not there? No Earth?”

“I suppose I might have misthought my command, but that doesn’t seem likely. I suppose it’s more likely that Earth isn’t listed in the computer’s vitals.”

Pelorat said, “It may be listed under another name.”

Trevize jumped at that quickly, “What other name, Janov?”

Pelorat said nothing and, in the darkness, Trevize smiled. It occurred to him that things might just possibly be falling into place. Let it go for a while. Let it ripen. He deliberately changed the subject and said, “I wonder if we can manipulate time.”

“Time! How can we do that?”

“The Galaxy is rotating. It takes nearly half a billion years for Terminus to move about the grand circumference of the Galaxy once. Stars that are closer to the center complete the journey much more quickly, of course. The motion of each star, relative to the central black hole, might be recorded in the computer and, if so, it may be possible to have the computer multiply each motion by millions of times and make the rotational effect visible. I can try to have it done.”

He did and he could not help his muscles tightening with the effort of will he was exerting–as though he were taking hold of the Galaxy and accelerating it, twisting it, forcing it to spin against terrible resistance.

The Galaxy was moving. Slowly, mightily, it was twisting in the direction that should be working to tighten the spiral arms.

Time was passing incredibly rapidly as they watched–a false, artificial time–and, as it did so, stars became evanescent things.

Some of the larger ones–here and there–reddened and grew brighter as they expanded into red giants. And then a star in the central clusters blew up soundlessly in a blinding blaze that, for a tiny fraction of a second, dimmed the Galaxy and then was gone. Then another in one of the spiral arms, then still another not very far away from it.

“Supernovas,” said Trevize a little shakily.

Was it possible that the computer could predict exactly which stars would explode and when? Or was it just using a simplified model that served to show the starry future in general terms, rather than precisely?

Pelorat said in a husky whisper, “The Galaxy looks like a living thing, crawling through space.”

“It does,” said Trevize, “but I’m growing tired. Unless I learn to do this less tensely, I’m not going to be able to play this kind of game for long.”

He let go. The Galaxy slowed, then halted, then tilted, until it was in the view-from-the-side from which they had seen it at the start.

Trevize closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was aware of Terminus shrinking behind them, with the last perceptible wisps of atmosphere gone from their surroundings. He was aware of all the ships filling Terminus’s near-space.

It did not occur to him to check whether there was anything special about any one of those ships. Was there one that was gravitic like his own and matched his trajectory more closely than chance would allow?

5. Speaker

1.

TRANTOR!

FOR EIGHT thousand years, it was the capital of a large and mighty political entity that spanned an ever-growing union of planetary systems. For twelve thousand years after that, it was the capital of a political entity that spanned the entire Galaxy. It was the center, the heart, the epitome of the Galactic Empire.

It was impossible to think of the Empire without thinking of Trantor.

Trantor did not reach its physical peak until the Empire was far gone in decay. In fact, no one noticed that the Empire had lost its drive, its forward look, because Trantor gleamed in shining metal.

Its growth had peaked at the point where it was a planet-girdling city. Its population was stabilized (by law) at forty-five billion and the only surface greenery was at the Imperial Palace and the Galactic University/Library complex.

Trantor’s land surface was metal-coated. Its deserts and its fertile areas were alike engulfed and made into warrens of humanity, administrative jungles, computerized elaborations, vast storehouses of food and replacement parts. its mountain ranges were beaten down; its chasms filled in. The city’s endless corridors burrowed under the continental shelves and the oceans were turned into huge underground aquacultural cisterns–the only (and insufficient native source of food and minerals.

The connections with the Outer Worlds, from which Trantor obtained the resources it required, depended upon its thousand spaceports, its ten thousand warships, its hundred thousand merchant ships, its million space freighters.

No city so vast was ever recycled so tightly. No planet in the Galaxy had ever made so much use of solar power or went to such extremes to rid itself of waste heat. Glittering radiators stretched up into the thin upper atmosphere upon the nightside and were withdrawn into the metal city on the dayside. As the planet turned, the radiators rose as night progressively fell around the world and sank as day progressively broke. So Trantor always had an artificial asymmetry that was almost its symbol.

At this peak, Trantor ran the Empire?

It ran it poorly, but nothing could have run the Empire well. The Empire was too large to be run from a single world–even under the most dynamic of Emperors. How could Trantor have helped but run it poorly when, in the ages of decay, the Imperial crown was traded back and forth by sly politicians and foolish incompetents and the bureaucracy had become a subculture of corruptibles?

But even at its worst, there was some self-propelled worth to the machinery. The Galactic Empire could not have been run without Trantor.

The Empire crumbled steadily, but as long as Trantor remained Trantor, a core of the Empire remained and it retained an air of pride, of millennia, of tradition and power and–exaltation.

Only when the unthinkable happened–when Trantor finally fell and was sacked; when its citizens were killed by the millions and left to starve by the billions; when its mighty metal coating was scarred and punctured and fused by the attack of the “barbarian” fleet–only then was the Empire considered to have fallen. The surviving remnants on the once-great world undid further what had been left and, in a generation, Trantor was transformed from the greatest planet the human race had ever seen to an inconceivable tangle of ruins.

That had been nearly two and a half centuries ago. In the rest of the Galaxy, Trantor-as-it-had-been still was not forgotten. It would live forever as the favored site of historical novels, the favored symbol and memory of the past, the favored word for sayings such as “All starships land on Trantor,” “Like looking for a person in Trantor,” and “No more alike than this and Trantor.”

In all the rest of the Galaxy–

But that was not true on Trantor itself! Here the old Trantor was forgotten. The surface metal seas gone, almost everywhere. Trantor was now a sparsely settled world of self-sufficient farmers, a place where trading ships rarely came and were not particularly welcome when they did come. The very word “Trantor,” though still in official use, had dropped out of popular speech. By present-day Trantorians, it was called “Name,” which in their dialect was what would be called “Home” in Galactic Standard.

Quindor Shandess thought of all this and much more as he sat quietly in a welcome state of half-drowse, in which he could allow his mind to run along a self-propelled and unorganized stream of thought.

He had been First Speaker of the Second Foundation for eighteen years, and he might well bold on for ten or twelve years more if his mind remained reasonably vigorous and if he could continue to fight the political wars.

He was the analog, the mirror image, of the Mayor of Terminus, who ruled over the First Foundation, but how different they were in every respect. The Mayor of Terminus was known to all the Galaxy and the First Foundation was therefore simply “the Foundation” to all the worlds. The First Speaker of the Second Foundation was known only to his associates.

And yet it was the Second Foundation, under himself and his predecessors, who held the real power. The First Foundation was supreme in the realm of physical power, of technology, of war weapons. The Second Foundation was supreme in the realm of mental power, of the mind, of the ability to control. In any conflict between the two, what would it matter how many ships and weapons the First Foundation disposed of, if the Second Foundation could control the minds of those who controlled the ships and weapons?

But how long could he revel in this realization of secret power?

He was the twenty-fifth First Speaker and his incumbency was already a shade longer than average. Ought he, perhaps, not be too keen on holding on and keeping out the younger aspirants? There was Speaker Gendibal, the keenest and newest at the Table. Tonight they would spend time together and Shandess looked forward to it. Ought he look forward also to Gendibal’s possible accession some day?

The answer to the question was that Shandess had no real thought of leaving his post. He enjoyed it too much.

He sat there, in his old age, still perfectly capable of performing his duties. His hair was gray, but it had always been light in color and he wore it cut an inch long so that the color scarcely mattered. His eyes were a faded blue and his clothing conformed to the drab styling of the Trantorian farmers.

The First Speaker could, if he wished, pass among the Hamish people as one of them, but his hidden power nevertheless existed. He could choose to focus his eyes and mind at any time and they would then act according to his will and recall nothing about it afterward.

It rarely happened. Almost never. The Golden Rule of the Second Foundation was, “Do nothing unless you must, and when you must act–hesitate.”

The First Speaker sighed softly. Living in the old University, with the brooding grandeur of the ruins of the Imperial Palace not too far distant, made one wonder on occasion how Golden the Rule might be.

In the days of the Great Sack, the Golden Rule had been strained to the breaking point. There was no way of saving Trantor without sacrificing the Seldon Plan for establishing a Second Empire. It would have been humane to spare the forty-five billion, but they could not have been spared without retention of the core of the First Empire and that would have only delayed the reckoning. If would have led to a greater destruction some centuries later and perhaps no Second Empire ever

The early First Speakers had worked over the clearly foreseen Sack for decades but had found no solution–no way of assuring both the salvation of Trantor and the eventual establishment of the Second Empire. The lesser evil had to be chosen and Trantor had died!

The Second Foundationers of the time had managed–by the narrowest of margins–to save the University/Library complex and there had been guilt forever after because of that, too. Though no one had ever demonstrated that saving the complex had led to the of the Mule, there was always the intuition that there was a connection.

How nearly that had wrecked everything!

Yet following the decades of the Sack and the Mule came the Golden Age of the Second Foundation.

Prior to that, for over two and a half centuries after Seldon’s death, the Second Foundation had burrowed like moles into the Library, intent only on staying out of the way of the Imperials. They served as librarians in a decaying society that cared less and less for the ever-more-misnamed Galactic Library, which fell into the desuetude that best suited the purpose of the Second Foundationers.

It was an ignoble life. They merely conserved the Plan, while out at the end of the Galaxy, the First Foundation fought for its life against always greater enemies with neither help from the Second Foundation nor any real knowledge of it.

It was the Great Sack that liberated the Second Foundation–another reason (young Gendibal–who had courage–had recently said that it was the chief reason) why the Sack was allowed to proceed.

After the Great Sack, the Empire was gone and, in all the later times, the Trantorian survivors never trespassed on Second Foundation territory uninvited. The Second Foundationers saw to it that the University/Library complex which had survived the Sack also survived the Great Renewal. The ruins of the Palace were preserved, too. The metal was gone over almost all the rest of the world. The great and endless corridors were covered up, filled in, twisted, destroyed, ignored; all under rock and soil–all except here, where metal still surrounded the ancient open places.

It might be viewed as a grand memorial of greatness, the sepulcher of Empire, but to the Trantorians–the Hamish people–these were haunted places, filled with ghosts, not to be stirred. Only the Second Foundationers ever set foot in the ancient corridors or touched the titanium gleam.

And even so, all had nearly come to nothing because of the Mule.

The Mule had actually been on Trantor. What if he had found out the nature of the world he had been standing on? His physical weapons were far greater than those at the disposal of the Second Foundation, his mental weapons almost as great. The Second Foundation would have been hampered always by the necessity of doing nothing but what they must, and by the knowledge that almost any hope of tinning the immediate fight might portend a greater eventual loss.

Had it not been for Banta Darell and her swift moment of action– And that, too, had been without the help of the Second Foundation?

And then–the Golden ?age, when somehow the First Speakers of the time found ways of becoming active, stopping the Mule in his career of conquest, controlling his mind at last; and then stopping the First Foundation itself when it grew wary and overcurious concerning the nature and identity of the Second Foundation. There was Preem Palver, nineteenth First Speaker and greatest of them all, who had managed to put an end to all danger–not without terrible sacrifice–and who had rescued the Seldon Plan.

Now, for a hundred and twenty years, the Second Foundation was again as it once had been, hiding in a haunted portion of Trantor. They were hiding no longer from the Imperials, but from the First Foundation still–a First Foundation almost as large as the Galactic Empire had been and even greater in technological expertise.

The First Speaker’s eyes closed in the pleasant warmth and he passed into that never-never state of relaxing hallucinatory experiences that were not quite dreams and not quite conscious thought.

Enough of gloom. All would be well. Trantor was still capital of the Galaxy, for the Second Foundation was here and it was mightier and more in control than ever the Emperor had been.

The First Foundation would be contained and guided and would move correctly. However formidable their ships and weapons, they could do nothing as long as key leaders could be, at need, mentally controlled.

And the Second Empire would come, but it would not be like the first. It would be a Federated Empire, with its parts possessing considerable self-rule, so that there would be none of the apparent strength and actual weakness of a unitary, centralized government. The new Empire would be looser, more pliant, more flexible, more capable of withstanding strain, and it would be guided always–always–by the hidden men and women of the Second Foundation. Trantor would then be still the capital, more powerful with its forty thousand psychohistorians than ever it had been with its forty-five billion

The First Speaker snapped awake. The sun was lower in the sky. Had he been mumbling? Had he said anything aloud’

If the Second Foundation had to know much and say little, the ruling Speakers had to know mere and say less, and the First Speaker lead to know mist and say least.

He smiled wryly. It was always so tempting to become a Trantorian patriot–to see the whole purpose of the Second Empire as that of bringing about Trantorian hegemony. Seldon had warned of it; he had foreseen even that, five centuries before it could come to pass.

The First Speaker had not slept too long, however. It was not yet time for Gendibal’s audience.

Shandess was looking forward to that private meeting. Gendibal was young enough to look at the Plan with new eyes, and keen enough to see what others might not. And it was not beyond possibility that Shandess would learn from what the youngster had to say.

No one would ever be certain how much Preem Palver–the great Palver himself–had profited from that day when the young Kol Benjoam, not yet thirty, came to talk to him about possible ways of handling the First Foundation. Benjoam, who was later recognized as the greatest theorist since Seldon, never spoke of that audience in later years, but eventually he became the twenty-first First Speaker. There were some who credited Benjoam, rather than Palver, for the great accomplishments of Palver’s administration.

Shandess amused himself with the thought of what Gendibal might say. It was traditional that keen youngsters, confronting the First Speaker alone for the first time, would place their entire thesis in the first sentence. And surely they would not ask for that precious first audience for something trivial–something that might ruin their entire subsequent career by convincing the First Speaker they were lightweights.

Four hours later, Gendibal faced him. The young man showed no sign of nervousness. He waited calmly for Shandess to speak first.

Shandess said, “You have asked for a private audience, Speaker, on a matter of importance. Could you please summarize the matter for me?”

And Gendibal, speaking quietly, almost as though he were describing what he had just eaten at dinner, said, “First Speaker, the Seldon Plan is meaningless!”

2.

STOR GENDIBAL DID not require the evidence of others to give him a sense of worth. He could not recall a time when he did not know himself to be unusual. He had been recruited for the Second Foundation when he was only a ten-year-old boy by an agent who had recognized the potentialities of his mind.

He had then done remarkably well at his studies and had taken to psychohistory as a spaceship responds to a gravitational field. Psychohistory had pulled at him and he had curved toward it, reading Seldon’s text on the fundamentals when others his age were merely trying to handle differential equations.

When he was fifteen, he entered Trantor’s Galactic University (as the University of Trantor had been officially renamed), after an interview during which, when asked what his ambitions were, he had answered firmly, “To be First Speaker before I am forty.”

He had not bothered to aim for the First Speaker’s chair without qualification. To gain it, one way or another, seemed to him to be a certainty. It was to do it in youth that seemed to him to be the goal. Even Preem Palver bad been forty-two on his accession.

The interviewer’s expression had flickered when Gendibal had said that, but the young man already had the feel of psycholanguage and could interpret that flicker. He knew, as certainly as though the interviewer had announced it, that a small notation would go on his records to the effect that he would be difficult to handle.

Well, of course!

Gendibal intended to be difficult to handle.

He was thirty now. He would be thirty-one in a matter of two months and he was already a member of the Council of Speakers. He had nine years, at most, to become First Speaker and he knew he would make it. This audience with the present First Speaker was crucial to his plans and, laboring to present precisely the proper impression, he had. spared no effort to polish his command of psycholanguage.

When two Speakers of the Second Foundation communicate with each other, the language is like no other in the Galaxy. It is as much a language of fleeting gestures as of words, as much a matter of detected mental-change patterns as anything else.

An outsider would hear little or nothing, but in a short time, much in the way of thought would be exchanged and the communication would be unreportable in its literal form to anyone but still another Speaker.

The language of Speakers had its advantage in speed and in infinite delicacy, but it had the disadvantage of making it almost impossible to mask true opinion.

Gendibal knew his own opinion of the First Speaker. He felt the First Speaker to be a man past his mental prime. The First Speaker–in Gendibal’s assessment–expected no crisis, was not trained to meet one, and lacked the sharpness to deal with one if it appeared. With all Shandess’s goodwill and amiability, he was the stuff of which disaster was made.

All of this Gendibal had to hide not merely from words, gestures, and facial expressions, but even from his thoughts. He knew no way of doing so efficiently enough to keep the First Speaker from catching a whiff of it.

Nor could Gendibal avoid knowing something of the First Speaker’s feeling toward him. Through bonhomie and goodwill–quite apparent and reasonably sincere–Gendibal could feel the distant edge of condescension and amusement, and tightened his own mental grip to avoid revealing any resentment in return–or as little as possible.

The First Speaker smiled and leaned back in his chair. He did not actually lift his feet to the desk top, but he got across just the right mixture of self-assured ease and informal friendship–just enough of each to leave Gendibal uncertain as to the effect of his statement.

Since Gendibal had not been invited to sit down, the actions and attitudes available to him that might be designed to minimize the uncertainty were limited. It was impossible that the First Speaker did not understand this.

Shandess said, “The Seldon Plan is meaningless? What a remarkable statement! Have you looked at the Prime Radiant lately, Speaker Gendibal?”

“I study it frequently, First Speaker. It is my duty to do so and my pleasure as well.”

“Do you, by any chance, study only those portions of it that fall under your purview, now and then? Do you observe it in microfashion–an equation system here, an adjustment rivulet there? Highly important, of course, but I have always thought it an excellent occasional exercise to observe the whole course. Studying the Prime Radiant, acre by acre, has its uses–but observing it as a continent is inspirational. To tell you the truth, Speaker, I have not done it for a long time myself. Would you join me?”

Gendibal dared not pause too long. It had to be done, and it must be done easily and pleasantly or it might as well not be done. “It would be an honor and a pleasure, First Speaker.”

The First Speaker depressed a lever on the side of his desk. T here was one such in the office of every Speaker and the one in Gendibal’s office was in no way inferior to that of the First Speaker. The Second Foundation was an equalitarian society in all its surface manifestations–the unimportant ones. In fact, the only official prerogative of the First Speaker was that which was explicit in his title he always spoke first.

The room grew dark with the depression of the lever but, almost at once, the darkness lifted into a pearly dimness. Both long walls turned faintly creamy, then brighter and whiter, and finally there appeared neatly printed equations–so small that they could not be easily read.

“If you have no objections,” said the First Speaker, making it quite clear that there would be none allowed, “we will reduce the magnification in order to see as much at one time as we can.”

The neat printing shrank down into fine hairlines, faint black meanderings over the pearly background.

The First Speaker touched the keys of the small console built into the arm of his chair. “We’ll bring it back to the start–to the lifetime of Hari Seldon–and we’ll adjust it to a small forward movement. We’ll shutter it so that we can only see a decade of development at a time. It gives one a wonderful feeling of the flow of history, with no distractions by the details. I wonder if you have ever done this.”

“Never exactly this way, First Speaker.”

“You should. It’s a marvelous feeling. Observe the sparseness of the black tracery at the start. There was not much chance for alternatives in the first few decades. The branch points, however, increase exponentially with time. Were it not for the fact that, as soon as a particular branch is taken, there is an extinction of a vast array of others in its future, all would soon become unmanageable. Of course, in dealing with the future, we must be careful what extinctions we rely upon.”

“I know, First Speaker.” There was a touch of dryness in Gendibal’s response that he could not quire remove.

The First Speaker did not respond to it. “Notice the winding lines of symbols in red. There is a pattern to them. To all appearances, they should exist randomly, as even Speaker earns his place by adding refinements to Seldon’s original Plan. It would seem there is no way, after all, of predicting where a refinement can be added easily or where a particular Speaker will find his interests or his ability tending, and yet I have long suspected that the admixture of Seldon Black and Speaker Red follows a strict law that is strongly dependent on time and on very little else.”

Gendibal watched as the years passed and as the black and red hairlines made an almost hypnotic interlacing pattern. The pattern meant nothing in itself, of course. What counted were the symbols of which it was composed.

Here and there a bright-blue rivulet made its appearance, bellying out; branching, and becoming prominent, then falling in upon itself and fading into the black or red.

The First Speaker said, “Deviation Blue,” and the feeling of distaste, originating in each, filled the space between them. “We catch it over and over, and we’ll be coming to the Century of Deviations eventually.”

They did. One could tell precisely when the shattering phonemenon of the Mule momentarily filled the Galaxy, as the Prime Radiant suddenly grew thick with branching rivulets of blue–more starting than could be closed down–until the room itself seemed to turn blue as the lines thickened and marked the wall with brighter and brighter pollution. (It was the only word.)

It reached its peak and then faded, thinned, and came together for a long century before it trickled to its end at last. When it was gone, and when the Plan had returned to black and red, it was clear that Preem Palver’s hand had been there.

Onward, onward–

“That’s the present,” said the First Speaker comfortably.

Onward, onward–

Then a narrowing into a veritable knot of close-knit black with little red in it.

“That’s the establishment of the Second Empire,” said the First Speaker.

He shut off the Prime Radiant and the room was bathed in ordinary light.

Gendibal said, “That was an emotional experience.”

“Yes,” smiled the First Speaker, “and you are careful not to identify the emotion, as far as you can manage to fail to identify it. It doesn’t matter. Let me make the points I wish to make.

“You will notice, first, the all-but-complete absence of Deviation Blue after the time of Preem Palver–over the last twelve decades, in other words. You will notice that there are no reasonable probabilities of Deviations above the fifth-class over the next five centuries. You will notice, too, that we have begun extending the refinements of psychohistory beyond the establishment of the Second Empire. As you undoubtedly know, Hari Seldon–although a transcendent genius–is not, and could not, be all-knowing. We have improved on him. We know more about psychohistory than he could possibly have known.

“Seldon ended his calculations with the Second Empire and we have continued beyond it. Indeed, if I may say so without offense, the new Hyper-Plan that goes past the establishment of the Second Empire is very largely my doing and has earned me my present post.

“I tell you all this so that you can spare me unnecessary talk. With all this, how do you manage to conclude that the Seldon Plan is meaningless? It is without flaw. The mere fact that it survived the Century of Deviations–with all due respect to Palver’s genius–is the best evidence we have that it is without flaw. Where is its weakness, young man, that you should brand the Plan as meaningless?”

Gendibal stood stiffly upright. “You are right, First Speaker. The Seldon Plan has no flaw.”

“You withdraw your remark, then?”

“No, First Speaker. Its lack of flaw is its flaw. Its flawlessness is fatal!”

3.

THE FIRST SPEAKER regarded Gendibal with equanimity. He had learned to control his expressions and it amused him to watch Gendibal’s ineptness in this respect. At every exchange, the young man did his best to hide his feelings, but each time, he exposed them completely.

Shandess studied him dispassionately. He was a thin young man, not much above the middle height, with thin lips and bony, restless hands. He had dark, humorless eyes that tended to smolder.

He would be, the First Speaker knew, a hard person to talk out of his convictions.

“You speak in paradoxes, Speaker,” he said.

“It sounds like a paradox, First Speaker, because there is so much about Seldon’s Plan that we take for granted and accept in so unquestioning a manner.”

“And what is it you question, then?”

“The Plan’s very basis. We all know that the Plan will not work if its nature–or even its existence–is known to too many of those whose behavior it is designed to predict.”

“I believe Hari Seldon understood that. I even believe he made it one of his two fundamental axioms of psychohistory.”

“He did not anticipate the Mule, First Speaker, and therefore he could not anticipate the extent to which the Second Foundation would become an obsession with the people of the First Foundation, once they had been shown its importance by the Mule.”

“Hari Seldon–” and for one moment, the First Speaker shuddered and fell silent.

Hari Seldon’s physical appearance was known to all the members of the Second Foundation. Reproductions of him in two and in three dimensions, photographic and holographic, in bas-relief and in the round, sitting and standing, were ubiquitous. They all represented him in the last few years of his life. All were of an old and benign man, face wrinkled with the wisdom of the aged, symbolizing the quintessence of well-ripened genius.

But the First Speaker now recalled seeing a photograph reputed to be Seldon as a young man. The photograph was neglected, since the thought of a young Seldon was almost a contradiction in terms. Yet Shandess had seen it, and the thought had suddenly come to him that Stor Gendibal looked remarkably like the young Seldon.

Ridiculous? It was the sort of superstition that afflicted everyone, now and then, however rational they might be. He was deceived by a fugitive similarity. If he had the photograph before him, he would see at once that the similarity was an illusion. Yet why should that silly thought have occurred to him now?

He recovered. It had been a momentary quaver–a transient derailment of thought–too brief to be noticed by anyone but a Speaker. Gendibal might interpret it as he pleased.

“Hari Seldon,” he said very firmly the second time, “knew well that there were an infinite number of possibilities he could not foresee, and it was for that reason that he set up the Second Foundation. We did not foresee the Mule either, but tie recognized him once he was upon us and we stopped him. We did not foresee the subsequent obsession of the First Foundation with ourselves, but we saw it when it came and we stopped it. What is it about this that you can possibly find fault with?”

“For one thing,” said Gendibal, “the obsession of the First Foundation with us is not yet over.”

There was a distinct ebb in the deference with which Gendibal had been speaking. He had noted the quaver in the First Speaker’s voice (Shandess decided) and had interpreted it as uncertainty. That had to be countered.

The First Speaker said briskly, “Let me anticipate. There would be people on the First Foundation, who–comparing the hectic difficulties of the first nearly four centuries of existence with the placidity of the last twelve decades–will come to the conclusion that this cannot be unless the Second Foundation is taking good care of the Plan–and, of course, they will be right in so concluding. They will decide that the Second Foundation may not have been destroyed after all–and, of course, they will be right in so deciding. In fact, we’ve received reports that there is a young man on the First Foundation’s capital world of Terminus, an official of their government, who is quite convinced of all this. -I forget his name–”

“Golan Trevize,” said Gendibal softly. “It was I who first noted the matter in the reports, and it was I who directed the matter to your office.”

“Oh?” said the First Speaker with exaggerated politeness. “And how did your attention come to be focused on him?”

“One of our agents on Terminus sent in a tedious report on the newly elected members of their Council–a perfectly routine matter usually sent to and ignored by all Speakers. This one caught my eye because of the nature of the description of one new Councilman, Golan Trevize. From the description, he seemed unusually self-assured and combative.”

“You recognized a kindred spirit, did you?”

“Not at all,” said Gendibal, stiffly. “He seemed a reckless person who enjoyed doing ridiculous things, a description which does not apply to me. In any case, I directed an in-depth study. It did not take long for me to decide that he would have made good material for us if he had been recruited at an early age.”

“Perhaps,” said the First Speaker, “but you know that we do not recruit on Terminus.”

“I know that well. In any case, even without our training, he has an unusual intuition. It is, of course, thoroughly undisciplined. I was, therefore. not particularly surprised that he had grasped the fact that the Second Foundation still exists. I felt it important enough, however, to direct a memo on the matter to your office.”

“And I take it from your manner that there is a new development?”

“Having grasped the fact that we still exist, thanks to his highly developed intuitive abilities, he then used it in a characteristically undisciplined fashion and has, as a result, been exiled from Terminus.”

The First Speaker lifted his eyebrows. “You stop suddenly. You want me to interpret the significance. Without using my computer, let me mentally apply a rough approximation of Seldon’s equations and guess that a shrewd Mayor, capable of suspecting that the Second Foundation exists, prefers not to have an undisciplined individual shout it to the Galaxy and thus alert said Second Foundation to the danger. I take it Branno the Bronze decided that Terminus is safer with Trevize off the planet.”

“She might have imprisoned Trevize or had him quietly assassinated.”

“The equations are not reliable when applied to individuals, as you well know. They deal only with humanity in mass. Individual behavior is therefore unpredictable and it is possible to assume that the Mayor is a humane individual who feels imprisonment, let alone assassination, is unmerciful.”

Gendibal said nothing for a while. It was an eloquent nothing, and he maintained it just long enough for the First Speaker to grow uncertain of himself but not so long as to induce a defensive anger.

He timed it to the second and then he said, “That is not my interpretation. I believe that Trevize, at this moment, represents the cutting edge of the greatest threat to the Second Foundation in its history–a greater danger even than the Mule!”

4.

GENDIBAL WAS SATISFIED. The force of the statement had worked well. The First Speaker had not expected it and was caught off-balance. From this moment, the whip hard was Gendibal’s. If he had any doubt of that at all, it vanished with Shandess’s next remark.

“Does this have anything to do with your contention that Seldon’s Plan is meaningless?”

Gendibal gambled on complete certainty, driving in with a didacticism that would not allow the First Speaker to recover. He said, “First Speaker, it is an article of faith that it was Preem Palver who restored the Plan to its course after the wild aberrance of the Century of Deviations. Study the Prime Radiant and you will see that the Deviations did not disappear till two decades after Palver’s death and that not one Deviation has appeared since. The credit might rest with the First Speakers since Palver, but that is improbable.”

“Improbable? Granted none of us have been Palvers, but–why improbable?”

“Will you allow me to demonstrate, First Speaker? Using the mathematics of psychohistory, I can clearly show that the chances of total disappearance of Deviation are too microscopically small to have taken place through anything the Second Foundation can do. You need not allow me if you lack the time or the desire for the demonstration, which will take half an hour of close attention. I can, as an alternative, call for a full meeting of the Speaker’s Table and demonstrate it there. But that would mean a loss of time for me and unnecessary controversy.”

“Yes, and a possible loss of face for me. –Demonstrate the matter to me now. But a word of warning.” The First Speaker was making a heroic effort to recover. “If what you show me is worthless, I will not forget that.”

“If it proves worthless,” said Gendibal with an effortless pride that overrode the other, “you will have my resignation on the spot.”

It took, actually, considerably more than half an hour, for the First Speaker questioned the mathematics with near-savage intensity.

Gendibal made up some of the time by his smooth use of his MicroRadiant. The device–which could locate any portion of the vast Plan holographically and with required n either wall nor desk sized console–had come into use only a decade ago and the First Speaker had never learned the knack of handling it. Gendibal was aware of that. The First Speaker knew that he was.

Gendibal hooked it over his right thumb and manipulated it with his four fingers, using his hand deliberately as though it were a musical instrument.  (Indeed, he had written a small paper on the analogies. )

The equations Gendibal produced (and found with sure ease) moved back and forth snakily to accompany his commentary. He could obtain definitions, if necessary; set up axioms; and produce graphics, both two-dimensional and three-dimensional (to say nothing of projections of multidimensional relationships).

Gendibal’s commentary was clear and incisive and the First Speaker abandoned the game. He was won over and said, “I do not recall having seen an analysis of this nature. Whose work is it?”

“First Speaker, it is my own. I have published the basic mathematics involved.”

“Very clever, Speaker Gendibal. Something like this will put you in line for the First Speakership, should I die–or retire.”

“I have given that matter no thought, First Speaker–but since there’s no chance of your believing that, I withdraw the comment. I have given it thought and I hope I will be First Speaker, since whoever succeeds to the post must follow a procedure that only I see clearly.”

“Yes,” said the First Speaker, “inappropriate modesty can be very dangerous. What procedure? Perhaps the present First Speaker may follow it, too. If I am too old to have made the creative leap you have, I am not so old that I cannot follow your direction.”

It was a graceful surrender and Gendibal’s heart warned, rather unexpectedly, toward the older man, even as he realized that this was precisely the First Speaker’s intention.

“Thank you, First Speaker, for I will need your help badly. I cannot expect to sway the Table without your enlightened leadership.” (Grace for grace.) “I assume, then, that you have already seen from what I have demonstrated that it is impossible for the Century of Deviations to have been corrected under our policies or for all Deviations to have ceased since then.”

“This is clear to me,” said the First Speaker. “If your mathematics is correct, then in order for the Plan to have recovered as it did and to work as perfectly as it seems to be working, it would be necessary for us to be able to predict the reactions of small groups of people–even of individuals–with some degree of assurance.”

“Quite so. Since the mathematics of psychohistory does not allow this, the Deviations should not have vanished and, even more so, should not have remained absent. You see, then, what I meant when I said earlier that the flaw in the Seldon Plan was its flawlessness.”

The First Speaker said, “Either the Seldon Plan does possess Deviations, then, or there is something wrong in your mathematics. Since I must admit that the Seldon Plan has not shown Deviations in a century and more, it follows that there is something wrong with your mathematics–except that I detected no fallacies or missteps.”

“You do wrong,” said Gendibal, “to exclude a third alternative. It is quite possible for the Seldon Plan to possess no Deviations and yet for there to be nothing wrong in my mathematics when it predicts that to be impossible.”

“I fail to see the third alternative.”

“Suppose the Seldon Plan is being controlled by means of a psychohistorical method so advanced that the reactions of small groups of people–even perhaps of individual persons–can be predicted, a method that we of the Second Foundation do not possess. Then, and only then, my mathematics would predict that the Seldon Plan should indeed experience no Deviations?”

For a while (by Second Foundation standards) the First Speaker made no response. He said, “There is no such advanced psychohistorical method that is known to me or, I am certain from your manner, to you. If you and I know of none, the chance that any other Speaker, or any group of Speakers, has developed such a micropsychohistory–if I may call it that–and has kept it secret from the rest of the Table is infinitesimally small. Don’t you agree?”

“I agree.”

“Then either your analysis is wrong or else micropsychohistory is in the hands of some group outside the Second Foundation.”

“Exactly, First Speaker, the latter alternative must be correct.”

“Can you demonstrate the truth of such a statement?”

“I cannot, in any formal way; but consider– Has there not already been a person who could affect the Seldon Plan by dealing with individual people?”

“I presume you are referring to the Mule.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“The Mule could only disrupt. The problem here is that the Seldon Plan is working too well, considerably closer to perfection than your mathematics would allow. You would need an Anti-Mule–someone who is as capable of overriding the Plan as the Mule was, but who acts for the opposite motive–overriding not to disrupt but to perfect.”

“Exactly, First Speaker. I wish I had thought of that expression. What was the Mule? A mutant. But where did he come from? How did he come to be? No one really knows. Might there not be more?”

“Apparently not. The one thing that is best known about the Mule is that he was sterile. Hence his name. Or do you think that is a myth?”

“I am not referring to descendants of the Mule. Might it not be that the Mule was an aberrant member of what is–or has now become–a sizable group of people with Mulish powers who–for some reason of their own–are not disrupting the Seldon Plan but supporting it?”

“Why in the Galaxy should they support it?”

“Why do we support it? We plan a Second Empire in which we –or, rather, our intellectual descendants–will be the decision makers. If, some other group is supporting the Plan even more efficiently than we are, they cannot be planning to leave the decision-making to us. They will make the decisions–but to what end? Ought we not try to find out what kind of a Second Empire they are sweeping us into?”

“And how do you propose to find out?”

“Well, why has the Mayor of Terminus exiled Golan Trevize? By doing so, she allows a possibly dangerous person to move freely about the Galaxy. That she does it out of motives of humanity, I cannot believe. Historically the rulers of the First Foundation have always acted realistically, which means, usually, without regard for ‘morality.’ One of their heroes–Salvor Hardin–counseled against morality, in fact. No, I think the Mayor acted under compulsion from agents of the Anti-Mules, to use your phrase. I think Trevize has been recruited by them and I think he is the spearhead of danger to us. Deadly danger.”

And the First Speaker said, “By Seldon, you may be right. But how will we ever convince the Table of this?”

“First Speaker, you underestimate your eminence.”

6. Earth

1.

TREVIZE WAS HOT and annoyed. He and Pelorat were sitting in the small dining area, having just completed their midday meal.

Pelorat said, “We’ve only been in space two days and I find myself quite comfortable, although I miss fresh air, nature, and all that. Strange! Never seemed to notice all that sort of thing when it was all round me. Still between my wafer and that remarkable computer of yours, I have my entire library with me–or all that matters, at any rate. And I don’t feel the least bit frightened of being out in space now. Astonishing!”

Trevize made a noncommittal sound. His eyes were inwardly focused.

Pelorat said gently, “I don’t mean to intrude, Golan, but I don’t really think you’re listening. Not that I’m a particularly interesting person always been a hit of a bore, you know. Still, you seem preoccupied in another way. –Are we in trouble? Needn’t be afraid to tell me, you know. Not much I could do, I suppose, but I won’t go into panic, dear fellow.”

“In trouble?” Trevize seemed to come to his senses, frowning slightly.

“I mean the ship. It’s a new model, so I suppose there could be something wrong:” Pelorat allowed himself a small, uncertain smile.

Trevize shook his head vigorously. “Stupid of me to leave you in such uncertainty, Janov. There’s nothing wrong at all with the ship. It’s working perfectly. It’s just that I’ve been looking for a hyper-relay.”

“Ah, I see. –Except that I don’t. What is a hyper-relay?”

“Well, let me explain, Janov. I am in communication with Terminus. At least, I can be anytime I wish and Terminus can, in reverse, be in communication with us. They know the ship’s location, having observed its trajectory. Even if they had not, they could locate us by scanning near-space for mass, which would warn them of the presence of a ship or, possibly, a meteoroid. But they could further detect an energy pattern, which would not only distinguish a ship from a meteoroid but would identify a particular ship, for no two ships make use of energy in quite the same way. In some way, our pattern remains characteristic, no matter what appliances or instruments we turn on and off. The ship may be unknown, of course, but if it is a ship whose energy pattern is on record in Terminus–as ours is–it can be identified as soon as detected:’

Pelorat said, “It seems to me, Golan, that the advance of civilization is nothing but an exercise in the limiting of privacy.”

“You may be right. Sooner or later, however, we must move through hyperspace or we will be condemned to remain within a parsec or two of Terminus for the rest of our lives. We will then be unable to engage in interstellar travel to any but the slightest degree. In passing through hyperspace, on the other hand, we undergo a discontinuity in ordinary space. We pass from here to there–and I mean across a gap of hundreds of parsecs sometimes–in an instant of experienced time. We are suddenly enormously far away in a direction that is very difficult to predict and, in a practical sense, we can no longer be detected.”

“I see that. Yes.”

“Unless, of course, they have planted a hyper-relay on board. A hyperrelay sends out a signal through hyperspace–a signal characteristic of this ship–and the authorities on Terminus would know where we are at all times. That answers your question, you see. There would be nowhere in the Galaxy we could hide and no combination of jumps through hyperspace would make it possible for us to evade their instruments:”

“But, Golan,” bald Pelorat softly, “don’t we want Foundation protection?”

“Yes, Janov, but only when we ask for it. You said the advance of civilization meant the continuing restriction of privacy. –Well. I don’t want to be that advanced. I want freedom to move undetected as I wish–unless and until I want protection So I would feel better, a great deal better, if there weren’t a hyper-relay on board.”

“Have you found one, Golan?”

“No, I have not. If I had, I might be able to render it inoperative somehow.”

“Would you know one if you saw it?”

“That’s one of the difficulties. I might not be able to recognize it. I know what a hyper-relay looks like generally and I know ways of testing a suspicious object–but this is a late-model ship, designed for special tasks. A hyper-relay may have been incorporated into its design in such a way as to show no signs of its presence.”

“On the other hand, maybe there is no hyper-relay present and that’s why you haven’t found it.”

“I don’t dare assume that and I don’t like the thought of making a jump until I know.”

Pelorat looked enlightened. “That’s why we’ve just been drifting through space. I’ve been wondering why we haven’t jumped. I’ve heard about jumps, you know. Been a little nervous about it, actually–been wandering when you’d order me to strap myself in or take a pill or something like that.”

Trevize managed a smile. “No need for apprehension. These aren’t ancient times. On a ship like this, you just leave it all to the computer. You give it your instructions and it does the rest. You won’t know that anything has happened at all, except that the view of space will suddenly change. If you’ve ever seen a slide show, you’ll know what happens when one slide is suddenly projected in place of another. Well, that’s what the jump will seem like.”

“Dear me. One won’t feel anything? Odd! I find that somewhat disappointing.”

“I’ve never felt anything and the ships I’ve been in haven’t been as advanced as this baby of ours. –but it’s not because of the hyperrelay that we haven’t jumped. We have to get a bit further away from Terminus–and from the sun, too. The farther we are from any massive abject, the easier to control the jump, to make re-emergence into space at exactly desired co-ordinates. In an emergency, you might risk a jump when you’re only two hundred kilometers off she surface of a planet and just trust to luck that you’ll end up safely. Since there is much mete safe than unsafe volume in the Galaxy, you can reasonably count on safety. Still, there’s always the possibility that random factors will cause you to re-emerge within a few million kilometers of a large star or in the Galactic core–and you will find yourself fried before you can blink. The further away you are from mass, the smaller those factors and the less likely it is that anything untoward will happen.”

“In that case, I commend your caution. We’re not in a tearing hurry,”

“Exactly. –Especially since I would dearly love to find the hyperrelay before I make a move. –or find a way of convincing myself there is no hyper-relay.”

Trevize seemed to drift off again into his private concentration and Pelorat said, raising his voice a little to surmount the preoccupation barrier, “How much longer do we have?”

“What?”

“I mean, when would you make the jump if you had no concerns over the hyper-relay, my dear chap?”

“At our present speed and trajectory, I should say on our fourth day out. I’ll work out the proper time on the computer.”

“Well, then, you still have two days for your search. May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“I have always found in my own work–quite different from yours, of course, but possibly we may generalize–that zeroing in tightly on a particular problem is self-defeating. Why not relax and talk about something else, and your unconscious mind–not laboring under the weight of concentrated thought–may solve the problem for you.”

Trevize looked momentarily annoyed and then laughed. “Well, why not? –Tell me, Professor, what got you interested in Earth? What brought up this odd notion of a particular planet from which we all started?”

“Ah!” Pelorat nodded his head reminiscently. “That’s going back a while. Over thirty years. I planned to be a biologist when I was going to college. I was particularly interested in the variation of species on different worlds. The variation, as you know–well, maybe you don’t know, so you won’t mind if I tell you–is very small. All forms of life throughout the Galaxy–at least all that we have yet encountered–share a water-based protein/nucleic acid chemistry.”

Trevize said, “I went to military college, which emphasized nucleonics and gravities, but I’m not exactly a narrow specialist. I know a bit about the chemical basis of life. We were taught that water, proteins, and nucleic acids are the only possible basis for life.”

“That, I think, is an unwarranted conclusion. It is safer to say that no other form of life has yet been found–or, at any rate, been recognized–and let it go at that. What is more surprising is that indigenous species–that is, species found on only a single planet and no other–are few in number. Most of the species that exist, including Homo sapiens in particular, are distributed through all or most of the inhabited worlds of the Galaxy and are closely related biochemically, physiologically, and morphologically. The indigenous species, on the other hand, are widely separated in characteristics from both the widespread forms and from each other.”

“Well, what of that?”

“The conclusion is that one world in the Galaxy–one world–is different from the rest. Tens of millions of worlds in the Galaxy–no one knows exactly how many–have developed life. It was simple life, sparse life, feeble life–not very variegated, not easily maintained, and not easily spread. One world, one world alone, developed life in millions of species–easily millions–some of it very specialized, highly developed, very prone to multiplication and to spreading, and including us. We were intelligent enough to form a civilization, to develop hyperspatial flight, and to colonize the Galaxy–and, in spreading through the Galaxy, we took many other forms of lifeforms related to each other and to ourselves–along with us.”

“If you stop to think of it,” said Trevize rather indifferently, “I suppose that stands to reason. I mean, here we are in a human Galaxy. If we assume that it all started on some one world, then that one world would have to be different. But why not? The chances of life developing in that riotous fashion must be very slim indeed–perhaps one in a hundred million–so the chances are that it happened in one life-bearing world out of a hundred million. It had to be one.”

“But what is it that made that particular one world so different from the others?” said Pelorat excitedly. “What were the conditions that made it unique?”

“Merely chance, perhaps. After all, human beings and the lifeforms they brought with them now exist on tens of millions of planets, all of which can support life, so all those worlds must be good enough.”

“No! Once the human species had evolved, once it had developed a technology, once it had toughened itself in the hard struggle for survival, it could then adapt to life on any world that is in the least hospitable–on Terminus, for instance. But can you imagine intelligent life having developed on Terminus? When Terminus was first occupied by human beings in the days of the EncycIopedists, the highest form of plant life it produced was a mosslike growth on rocks; the highest forms of animal life were small coral-like growths in the ocean and insectlike flying organisms on land. We just about wiped them out and stocked sea and land with fish and rabbits and goats and grass and grain and trees and so on. We have nothing left of the indigenous life, except for what exists in zoos and aquaria.”

“Hmm,” said Trevize.

Pelorat stared at him for a full minute, then sighed and said, “You don’t really care, do you? Remarkable! I find no one who does, somehow. My fault, I think. I cannot make it interesting, even though it interests me so much.”

Trevize said, “It’s interesting. It is. But–but–so what?”

“It doesn’t strike you that it might be interesting scientifically to study a world that gave rise to the only really flourishing indigenous ecological balance the Galaxy has ever seen?”

“Maybe, if you’re a biologist. –I’m not, you see. You must forgive me.”

“Of course, dear fellow. It’s just that I never found any biologists who were interested, either. I told you I was a biology major. I took it up with my professor and he wasn’t interested. He told me to turn to some practical problem. That so disgusted me I took up history instead–which had been rather a hobby of mine from my teenage years, in any case–and tackled the ‘Origin Question’ from that angle.”

Trevize said, “But at least it has given you a lifework, so you must be pleased that your professor was so unenlightened.”

“Yes, I suppose one might look at it that way. And the lifework is an interesting one, of which I have never tired. –but I do wish it interested you. I hate this feeling of forever talking to myself.”

Trevize leaned his bead back and laughed heartily.

Pelorat’s quiet face took or: a trace of hurt. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Not you, Janov,” said Trevize. “I was laughing at my own stupidity, Where you’re concerned, I am completely grateful. You were perfectly right, you know,”

“To take up the importance of human origins?”

“No, no. –Well, yes, that too. –but 1 meant you were right to tell me to stop consciously thinking of my problem and to turn my mind elsewhere. It worked. When you were talking about the manner in which life evolved, it finally occurred to me that I knew how to find that hyperrelay–if it existed.”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes, that! That’s my monomania at the moment. I’ve been looking for that hyper-relay as though I were on my old scow of a training ship, studying every part of the ship by eye, looking for something that stood out from the rest. I had forgotten that this ship is a developed product of thousands of years of technological evolution. Don’t you see?”

“No, Golan.”

“We have a computer aboard. How could I have forgotten?”

He waved his hand and passed into his own room, urging Pelorat along with him.

“I need only try to communicate,” he said, placing his hands onto the computer contact.

It was a matter of trying to reach Terminus, which was now some thousands of kilometers behind.

Reach! Speak! It was as though nerve endings sprouted and extended, reaching outward with bewildering speed–the speed of light, of course–to make contact.

Trevize felt himself touching–well, not quite touching, but sensing–well, not quite sensing, but–it didn’t matter, for there wasn’t a word for it.

He was aware of Terminus within reach and, although the distance between himself and it was lengthening by some twenty kilometers per second, contact persisted as though planet and ship were motionless and separated by a few meters.

He said nothing. He clamped shut. He was merely testing the principle of communication; he was not actively communicating.

Out beyond, eight parsecs away, was Anacreon, the nearest large planet–in their backyard, by Galactic standards. To send a message by the same light-speed system that had just worked for Terminus–and to receive an answer as well–would take fifty-two years.

Reach for Anacreon! Think Anacreon! Think it as clearly as you can. You know its position relative to Terminus and the Galactic core; you’ve studied its planetography and history; you’ve solved military problems where it was necessary to recapture Anacreon (in the impossible case–these days–that it was taken by an enemy).

Space! You’ve been on Anacreon.

Picture it! Picture it! You will sense being on it via hyper-relay.

Nothing! His nerve endings quivered and came to rest nowhere.

Trevize pulled loose. “There’s no hyper-relay on board the Far Star, Janov. I’m positive. –and if I hadn’t followed your suggestion, I wonder how long it would have taken me to reach this point.”

Pelorat, without moving a facial muscle, positively glowed. “I’m so pleased to have been of help. Does this mean we jump?”

“No, we still wait two more days, to be safe. We have to get away from mass, remember? –Ordinarily, considering that I have a new and untried ship with which I am thoroughly unacquainted, it would probably take me two days to calculate the exact procedure–the proper hyperthrust for the first jump, in particular. I have a feeling, though, the computer will do it all.”

“Dear me! That leaves us facing a rather boring stretch of time, it seems to me.”

“Boring?” Trevize smiled broadly. “Anything but! You and I, Janov, are going to talk about Earth.”

Pelorat said, “Indeed? You are trying to please an old man? That is kind of you. Really it is.”

“Nonsense! I’m trying to please myself. Janov, you have made a convert. As a result of what you have told me, I realize that Earth is the most important and the most devouringly interesting object in the Universe.”

2.

IT MUST SURELY have struck Trevize at the moment that Pelorat had presented his view of Earth. It was only because his mind was reverberating with the problem of the hyper-relay that he hadn’t responded at once. And the instant the problem had gone, he had responded.

Perhaps the one statement of Hari Seldon’s that was most often repeated was his remark concerning the Second Foundation being “at the other end of the Galaxy” from Terminus. Seldon had even named the spot. It was to be “at Star’s End.”

This had been included in Gaal Dornick’s account of the day of the trial before the Imperial court. “The other end of the Galaxy”‘–those were the words Seldon had used to Dornick and ever since that day their significance had been debated.

What was it that connected one end of the Galaxy with “the other end”? Was it a straight line, a spiral, a circle, or what?

And now, luminously, it was suddenly clear to Trevize that it was no line and no curve that should–or could–be drawn on the map of the Galaxy. It was more subtle than that.

It was perfectly clear that the one end of the Galaxy was Terminus. It was at the edge of the Galaxy, yes–our Foundation’s edge –which gave the word “end” a literal meaning. It was, however, also the newest world of the Galaxy at the time Seldon was speaking, a world that was about to be founded, that had not as yet been in existence for a single moment.

What would be the other end of the Galaxy, in that light? The other Foundation’s edge? Why, the oldest world of the Galaxy? And according to the argument Pelorat had presented–without knowing what he was presenting–that could only be Earth. The Second Foundation might well be on Earth.

Yet Seldon had said the other end of the Galaxy was “at Star’s End.” Who could say he was not speaking metaphorically? Trace the history of humanity backward as Pelorat did and the line would stretch back from each planetary system, each star that shone down on an inhabited planet, to some other planetary system, some other star from which the first migrants had come, then back to a star before that–until finally, all the lines stretched back to the planet on which humanity had originated. It was the star that shone upon Earth that was “Star’s End:”

Trevize smiled and said almost lovingly, “Tell me more about Earth, Janov.”

Pelorat shook his head. “I have told you all there is, really. We will find out more on Trantor.”

Trevize said, “No, we won’t, Janov. We’ll find out nothing there. Why? Because we’re not going to Trantor. I control this ship and I assure you we’re not.”

Pelorat’s mouth fell open. He struggled for breath for a moment and then said, woebegone, “Oh, my dear fellow!”

Trevize said, “Come an, Janov. Don’t look like that. We’re going to find Earth.”

“But it’s only on Trantor that–”

“No, it’s not. Trantor is just someplace you can study brittle films and dusty documents and turn brittle and dusty yourself.”

“For decades, I’ve dreamed–”

“You’ve dreamed of finding Earth.”

“But it’s only–”

Trevize stood up, leaned over, caught the slack of Pelorat’s tunic, and said, “Don’t repeat that, Professor. Don’t repeat it. When you first told me we were going to look for Earth, before ever we got onto this ship, you said we were sure to find it because, and I quote your own words, ‘I have an excellent possibility in mind: Now I don’t ever want to hear you say ‘Trantor’ again. I just want you to tell me about this excellent possibility.”

“But it must be confirmed. So far, it’s only a thought, a hope, a vague possibility.”

“Good! Tell me about it!”

“You don’t understand. You simply don’t understand. It is not a field in which anyone but myself has done research. There is nothing historical, nothing firm, nothing real. People talk about Earth as though it’s a fact, and also as though it’s a myth. There are a million contradictory tales–”

“Well then, what has your research consisted of?”

“I’ve been forced to collect every tale, every bit of supposed history, every legend, every misty myth. Even fiction. Anything that includes the name of Earth or the idea of a planet of origin. For over thirty years, I’ve been collecting everything I could find from every planet of the Galaxy. Now if I could only get something more reliable than all of these from the Galactic Library at– But you don’t want me to say the word.”

“That’s right. Don’t say it. Tell me instead that one of these items has caught your attention, and tell me your reasons for thinking why it, of them all, should be legitimate.”

Pelorat shook his head. “There, Golan, if you will excuse my saying so, you talk like a soldier or a politician. That is not the way history works.”

Trevize took a deep breath and kept his temper. “Tell me how it works, Janov. We’ve got two days. Educate me.”

“You can’t rely on any one myth or even on any one group. I’ve had to gather them all, analyze them, organize them, set up symbols to represent different aspects of their content–tales of impossible weather, astronomic details of planetary systems at variance with what actually exists, place of origin of culture heroes specifically stated not to be native, quite literally hundreds of other items. No use going through the entire list. Even two days wouldn’t be enough. I spent over thirty years, I tell you.

“I then worked up a computer program that searched through all these myths for common components and sought a transformation that would eliminate the true impossibilities. Gradually I worked up a model of what Earth must have been like. After all, if human beings all originated on a single planet, that single planet must represent the one fact that all origin myths, all culture–hero tales, have in common. –Well, do you want me to go into mathematical detail?”

Trevize said, “Not at the moment, thank you, but how do you know you won’t be misled by your mathematics? We know for a fact that Terminus was founded only five centuries ago and that the first human beings arrived as a colony from Trantor but had been assembled from dozens–if not hundreds–of other worlds. Yet someone who did not know this could assume that Hari Seldon and Salvor Hardin, neither of whom were born on Terminus, came from Earth and that Trantor was really a name that stood for Earth. Certainly, if the Trantor as described in Seldon’s time were searched for –a world with all its land surface coated with metal–it would not be found and it might be considered an impossible myth.”

Pelorat looked pleased. “I withdraw my earlier remark about soldiers and politicians, my dear fellow. You have a remarkable intuitive sense. Of course, I had to set up controls. I invented a hundred falsities based on distortions of actual history and imitating myths of the type I had collected. I then attempted to incorporate my inventions into the model. One of my inventions was even based on Terminus’s early history. The computer rejected them all. Every one. To be sure, that might have meant I simply lacked the fictional talents to make up something reasonable, but I did my best”

“I’m sure you did, Janov. And what did your model tell you about Earth?”

“A number of things of varying degrees of likelihood. A kind of profile. For instance, about 9o percent of the inhabited planets in the Galaxy have rotation periods of between twenty-two and twenty-six Galactic Standard Hours. Well–”

Trevize cut in. “I hope you didn’t pay any attention to that, Janov. There’s no mystery there. For a planet to be habitable, you don’t want it to rotate so quickly that air circulation patterns produce impossibly stormy conditions or so slowly that temperature variation patterns are extreme. It’s a property that’s self-selective. Human beings prefer to live on planets with suitable characteristics, and then when all habitable planets resemble each other in these characteristics, some say, ‘What an amazing coincidence,’ when it’s not amazing at all and not even a coincidence.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Pelorat calmly, “that’s a well-known phenomenon in social science. In physics, too, I believe–but I’m not a physicist and I’m not certain about that. In any case, it is called the ‘anthropic principle: The observer influences the events he observes by the mere act of observing them or by being there to observe them. But the question is: Where is the planet that served as a model? Which planet rotates in precisely one Galactic Standard Day of twenty-four Galactic Standard Hours?”

Trevize looked thoughtful and thrust out his lower lip. “You think that might be Earth? Surely Galactic Standard could have been based on the local characteristics of any world, might it not?”

“Not likely. It’s not the human way. Trantor was the capital world of the Galaxy for twelve thousand years–the most populous world for twenty thousand years–yet it did not impose its rotation period of 1.08 Galactic Standard Days on all the Galaxy. And Terminus’s rotation period is 0.91 GSD and we don’t enforce ours on the planets dominated by us. Every planet makes use of its own private calculations in its own Local Planetary Day system, and for matters of interplanetary importance converts–with the help of computers–back and forth between LPD and GSD. The Galactic Standard Day must come from Earth!”

“Why is it a must?”

“For one thing, Earth was once the only inhabited world, so naturally its day and year would be standard and would very likely remain standard out of social inertia as other worlds were populated. Then, too, the model I produced was that of an Earth that rotated on its axis in just twenty-four Galactic Standard Hours and that revolved about its sun in just one Galactic Standard Year.”

“Might that not be coincidence?”

Pelorat laughed. “Now it is you who are talking coincidence. Would you care to lay a wager on such a thing happening by coincidence?”

“Well well,” muttered Trevize.

“In fact, there’s more to it. There’s an archaic measure of time that’s called the month–”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It, apparently, about fits the period of revolution of Earth’s satellite about Earth. However–”

“Yes?”

“Well, one rather astonishing factor of the model is that the satellite I just mentioned is huge–over one quarter the diameter of the Earth itself.”

“Never heard of such a thing, Janov. There isn’t a populated planet in the Galaxy with a satellite like that.”

“But that’s good,” said Pelorat with animation. “If Earth is a unique world in its production of variegated species and the evolution of intelligence, then we want some physical uniqueness.”

“But what could a large satellite have to do with variegated species, intelligence, and all that?”

“Well now, there you hit a difficulty. I don’t really know. But it’s worth examination, don’t you think?”

Trevize rose to his feet and folded his arms across his chest. “But what’s the problem, then? Look up the statistics on inhabited planets and find one that has a period of rotation and of revolution that are exactly one Galactic Standard Day and one Galactic Standard Year in length, respectively. And if it also has a gigantic satellite, you’d have what you want. I presume, from your statement that you ‘have an excellent possibility in mind,’ that you’ve done just this, and that you have your world.”

Pelorat looked disconcerted. “Well, now, that’s not exactly what happened. I did look through the statistics, or at least I had it done by the astronomy department and–well, to put it bluntly, there’s no such world.”

Trevize sat down again abruptly. “But that means your whole argument falls to the ground.”

“Not quite, it seems to me.”

“What do you mean, not quite? You produce a model with all sorts of detailed descriptions and you can’t find anything that fits. Your model is useless, then. You must start from the beginning.”

“No. It just means that the statistics on populated planets are incomplete. After all, there are tens of millions of them and some are very obscure worlds. For instance, there is no good data on the population of nearly half. And concerning six hundred and forty thousand populated worlds there is almost no information other than their names and sometimes the location. Some galactographers have estimated that there may be up to ten thousand inhabited planets that aren’t listed at all. The worlds prefer it that way, presumably. During the Imperial Era, it might have helped them avoid taxation.”

“And in the centuries that followed,” said Trevize cynically. “It might have helped them serve as home bases for pirates, and that might have, on occasion, proved more enriching than ordinary trade.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Pelorat doubtfully.

Trevize said, “Just the same, it seems to me that Earth would have to be on the list of inhabited planets, whatever its own desires. It would be the oldest of them all, by definition, and it could not have been overlooked in the early centuries of Galactic civilization. And once on the list, it would stay on. Surely we could count on social inertia there.”

Pelorat hesitated and looked anguished. “Actually, there–there is a planet named Earth on the list of inhabited planets.”

Trevize stared. “I’m under the impression that you told me a while ago that Earth was not on the list?”

“As Earth, it is not. There is, however, a planet named Gaia.”

“What has that got to do with it? Gahyah?”

“It’s spelled G-A-I-A. It means ‘Earth.”‘

“Why should it mean Earth, Janov, any more than anything else? The name is meaningless to me.”

Pelorat’s ordinarily expressionless face came close to a grimace. “I’m not sure you’ll believe this– If I go by my analysis of the myths, there were several different, mutually unintelligible, languages on Earth.”

“What?”

“Yes. After all, we have a thousand different ways of speaking across the Galaxy–”

“Across the Galaxy, there are certainly dialectical variations, but these are not mutually unintelligible. And even if understanding some of them is a matter of difficulty, we all share Galactic Standard.”

“Certainly, but there is constant interstellar travel. What if some world was in isolation for a prolonged period?”

“But you’re talking of Earth. A single planet. Where’s the isolation?”

“Earth is the planet of origin, don’t forget, where humanity must at one time have been primitive beyond imagining. Without interstellar travel, without computers, without technology at all, struggling up from nonhuman ancestors.”

“This is so ridiculous.”

Pelorat hung his head in embarrassment at that. “There is perhaps no use discussing this, old chap. I never have managed to make it convincing to anyone. My own fault, I’m sure.”

Trevize was at once contrite. “Janov, I apologize. I spoke without thinking. These are views, after all, to which I am not accustomed. You have been developing your theories for over thirty years, while I’ve been introduced to them all at once. You must make allowances. –Look, I’ll imagine that we have primitive people on Earth who speak two completely different, mutually unintelligible, languages.”‘

“Half a dozen, perhaps,” said Pelorat diffidently. “Earth may have been divided into several large land masses and it may be that there were, at first, no communications among them. The inhabitants of each land mass might have developed an individual language.”

Trevize said with careful gravity, “And on each of these land masses, once they grew cognizant of one another, they might have argued an ‘origin Question’ and wondered on which one human beings had first arisen from other animals.”

“They might very well, Golan. It would be a very natural attitude for them to have.”

“And in one of those languages, Gaia means Earth. And the word ‘Earth’ itself is derived from another one of those languages.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And while Galactic Standard is the language that descended from the particular language in which ‘Earth’ means ‘Earth,’ the people of Earth for some reason call their planet ‘Gala’ from another of their languages.”

“Exactly! You are indeed quick, Golan.”

“But it seems to me that there’s no need to make a mystery of this. If Gaia is really Earth, despite the difference in names, then Gala, by your previous argument, ought to have a period of rotation of just one Galactic Day, a period of revolution of just one Galactic Year, and a giant satellite that revolves about it in just one month.”

“Yes, it would have to be so.”

“Well then, does it or doesn’t it fulfill these requirements?”

“Actually I can’t say. The information isn’t given in the tables.”

“Indeed? Well, then, Janov, shall we go to Gaia and time its periods and stare at its satellite?”

“I would like to, Golan,” Pelorat hesitated. “The trouble is that the location isn’t given exactly, either.”

“You mean, all you have is the name and nothing more, and that is your excellent possibility?”

“But that is just why I want to visit the Galactic Library!”

“Well, wait. You say the table doesn’t give the location exactly. Does it give any information at all?”

“It lists it in the Sayshell Sector–and adds a question mark.”

“Well, then– Janov, don’t be downcast. We will go to the Sayshell Sector and somehow we will find Gaia!”

7. Farmer

1.

STOR GENDIBAL JOGGED along the country road outside the university. It was not common practice for Second Foundationers to venture into the farming world of Trantor. They could do so, certainly, but when they did, they did not venture either far or for long.

Gendibal was an exception and he had, in times past, wondered why. Wondering meant exploring his own mind, something that Speakers, in particular, were encouraged to do. Their minds were at once their weapons and their targets, and they had to keep both offense and defense well honed.

Gendibal had decided, to his own satisfaction, that one reason he was different was because he had come from a planet that was both colder and more massive than the average inhabited planet. When he was brought to Trantor as a boy (through the net that was quietly cast throughout the Galaxy by agents of the Second Foundation on the lookout for talent), he found himself, therefore, in a lighter gravitational field and a delightfully mild climate. Naturally he enjoyed being in the open more than some of the others might.

In his early years on Trantor, he grew conscious of his puny, undersized frame, and he was afraid that settling back into the comfort of a benign world would turn him flabby indeed. He therefore undertook a series of self-developing exercises that had left him still puny in appearance but kept hint wiry and with a good wind. Part of his regimen were these long walks arid joggings–about which some at the Speaker’s Table muttered. Gendibal disregarded their chattering.

He kept his own ways, despite the fact that he was first-generation. All the others at the Table were second- and third-generation, with parents and grandparents who had been Second Foundationers. And they were all older than he, too. What, then, was to be expected but muttering?

By long custom, all minds at the Speaker’s Table were open (supposedly altogether, though it was a rare Speaker who didn’t maintain a comer of privacy somewhere–in the long run, ineffectively, of course) and Gendibal knew that what they felt was envy. So did they; just as Gendibal knew his own attitude was defensive, overcompensating ambition. And so did they.

Besides (Gendibal’s mind reverted to the reasons for his ventures into the hinterland) he had spent his childhood in a whole world–a large and expansive one, with grand and variegated scenery–and in a fertile valley of that world, surrounded by what he believed to be the most beautiful mountain ranges in the Galaxy. They were unbelievably spectacular in the grim winter of that world. He remembered his former world and the glories of a now-distant childhood. He dreamed about it often. How could he bring himself to be confined to a few dozen square miles of ancient architecture?

He looked about disparagingly as he jogged. Trantor was a mild and pleasant world, but it was not a rugged and beautiful one. Though it was a farming world, it was not a fertile planet.

It never had been. Perhaps that, as much as any other factor, had led to its becoming the administrative center of, first, an extensive union of planets and then of a Galactic Empire. There was no strong push to have it be anything else. It wasn’t extraordinarily good for anything else.

After the Great Sack, one thing that kept Trantor going was its enormous supply of metal. It was a great mine, supplying half a hundred worlds with cheap alloy steel, aluminum, titanium, copper, magnesium–returning, in this way, what it had collected over thousands of years; depleting its supplies at a rate hundreds of times faster than the original rate of accumulation.

There were still enormous metal supplies available, but they were underground and harder to obtain. The Hamish farmers (who never called themselves “Trantorians,” a term they considered ill-omened and which the Second Foundationers therefore reserved for themselves) had grown reluctant to deal with the metal any further. Superstition, undoubtedly.

Foolish of them. The metal that remained underground might well be poisoning the soil and further lowering its fertility. And yet, on the other hand, the population was thinly spread and the land supported them. And there were some sales of metal, always.

Gendibal’s eyes roved over the fiat horizon. Trantor was alive geologically, as almost all inhabited planets were, but it had been a hundred million years, at least, since the last major geological mountain-building period had occurred. What uplands existed had been eroded into gentle hills. Indeed, many of them had been leveled during the great metal-coating period of Trantor’s history.

Off to the south, well out of sight, was the shore of Capital Bay, and beyond that, the Eastern Ocean, both of which had been re-established after the disruption of the underground cisterns.

To the north were the towers of Galactic University, obscuring the comparatively squat-but-wide Library (most of which was underground), and the remains of the Imperial Palace still farther north.

Immediately on either side were farms, on which there was an occasional building. He passed groups of cattle, goats, chickens–the wide variety of domesticated animals found on any Trantorian farm. None of them paid him any mind.

Gendibal thought casually that anywhere in the Galaxy, on any of the vast number of inhabited worlds, he would see these animals and that on no two worlds would they be exactly alike. He remembered the goats of home and his own tame nanny whom he had once milked. They were much larger and more resolute than the small and philosophical specimens that had been brought to Trantor and established there since the Great Sack. Over the inhabited worlds of the Galaxy, there were varieties of each of these animals, in numbers almost beyond counting, and there was no sophisticate on any world who didn’t swear by his favorite variety, whether for meat, milk, eggs, wool, or anything else they could produce.

As usual, there were no Hamish in view. Gendibal had the feeling that the farmers avoided being seen by those whom they referred to as “scowlers” (a mispronunciation–perhaps deliberately–of the word “scholars” in their dialect). –Superstition, again.

Gendibal glanced up briefly at Trantor’s sun. It was quite high in the sky, but its heat was not oppressive. In this location, at this latitude, the warmth saved mild and the cold never bit. (Gendibal ever. missed the biting cold sometimes or so he imagined. He had never revisited his native world. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, because he didn’t want to be disillusioned.)

He had the pleasant feel of muscles that were sharpened and tightened to keenness and he decided he had jogged just long enough. He settled down to a walk, breathing deeply.

He would be ready for the upcoming Table meeting and for one last push to force a change in policy, a new attitude that would recognize the growing danger from the First Foundation and elsewhere and that would put an end to the fatal reliance on the “perfect” working of the Plan. When would they realize that the very perfection was the surest sign of danger?

Had anyone but himself proposed it, he knew, it would have gone through without trouble. As things stood now, there would be trouble, but it would go through, just the same, for old Shandess was supporting him and would undoubtedly continue to do so. He would not wish to enter the history books as the particular First Speaker under whom the Second Foundation had withered.

Hamish!

Gendibal was startled. He became aware of the distant tendril of mind well before he saw the person. It was Hamish mind–a farmer –coarse and unsubtle. Carefully Gendibal withdrew, leaving a touch so light as to be undetectable. Second Foundation policy was very firm in this respect. The farmers were the unwitting shields of the Second Foundation. They must be left as untouched as possible.

No one who came to Trantor for trade or tourism ever saw anything other than the farmers, plus perhaps a few unimportant scholars living in the past. Remove the farmers or merely tamper with their innocence and the scholars would become more noticeable–with catastrophic results. (That was one of the classic demonstrations which neophytes at the University were expected to work out for themselves. The tremendous Deviations displayed on the Prime Radiant when the farmer minds were even slightly tampered with were astonishing.)

Gendibal saw him. It was a farmer, certainly, Hamish to the core. He was almost a caricature of what a Trantorian farmer should be tall and wide, brown-skinned, roughly dressed, arms bare, dark-haired, dark-eyed, a long ungainly stride. Gendibal felt as though he could smell the barnyard about him. (Not too much scorn, he thought. Preem Palver had not minded playing the role of farmer, when that was necessary to his plans. Some farmer he was–short and plump and soft. It was his mind that had fooled the teenaged Arkady, never his body.)

The farmer was approaching him, clumping down the road, staring at him openly–something that made Gendibal frown. No Hamish man or woman had ever looked at him in this manner. Even the children ran away and peered from a distance.

Gendibal did not slow his own stride. There would be room enough to pass the other with neither comment nor glance and that would be best. He determined to stay away from the farmer’s mind.

Gendibal drifted to one side, but the farmer was not going to have that. He stopped, spread his legs wide, stretched out his large arms as though to block passage, and said, “Ho! Be you scowler?”

Try as he might, Gendibal could not refrain from sensing the wash of pugnacity in the approaching mind. He stopped. It would be impossible to attempt to pass by without conversation and that would be, in itself, a weary task. Used as one was to the swift and subtle interplay of sound and expression and thought and mentality that combined to make up the communication between Second Foundationers, it was wearisome to resort to word combination alone. It was like prying up a boulder by arm and shoulder, with a crowbar lying nearby.

Gendibal said, quietly and with careful lack of emotion, “I am a scholar. Yes.”

“Ho! You am a scowler. Don’t we speak outlandish now? And cannot I see that you be one or am one?” He ducked his head in a mocking bow. “Being, as you be, small and weazen and pale and upnosed.”

“What is it you want of me, Hamishman?” asked Gendibal, unmoved.

“I be titled Rufirant. And Karoll be my previous.” His accent became noticeably more Hamish. His r’s rolled throatily.

Gendibal said, “What is it you want with me, Karoll Rufirant?”

“And how be you titled, scowler?”

“Does it matter? You may continue to call me ‘scholar.”‘

“If I ask, it matters that I be answered, little up-nosed scowler.”

“Well then, I am titled Stor Gendibal and I will now go about my business.”

“What be your business?”

Gendibal felt the hair prickling on the back of his neck. There were other minds present. He did not have to turn to know there were three more Hamishmen behind him. Off in the distance, there were others. The farmer smell was strong.

“My business, Karoll Rufirant, is certainly none of yours.”

“Say you so?” Rufirant’s voice rose. “Mates, he says his business be not ours.”

There was a laugh from behind him and a voice sounded. “Right he be, for his business be book-mucking and ‘puter-rubbing, and that be naught for true men.”

“Whatever my business is,” said Gendibal firmly, “I will be about it now.”

“And how will you do that, wee scowler?” said Rufirant.

“By passing you.”

“You would try? You would not fear arm-stopping?”

“By you and all your mates? Or by you alone?” Gendibal suddenly dropped into thick Hamish dialect. “Art not feared alone?”

Strictly speaking, it was not proper to prod him in this manner, but it would stop a mass attack and that had to be stopped, lest it force a still greater indiscretion on his part.

It worked. Rufirant’s expression grew lowering. “If fear there be, bookboy, th’art the one to be full of it. Mates, make room. Stand back and let him pass that he may see if I be feared alane.”

Rufirant lifted his great arms and moved them about. Gendibal did not fear the farmer’s pugilistic science; but there was always a chance that a goodly blow might land.

Gendibal approached cautiously, working with delicate speed within Rufirant’s mind. Not much–just a touch, unfelt–but enough to slow reflexes that crucial notch. Then out, and into all the others, who were now gathering in greater numbers. Gendibal’s Speaker mind darted back and forth with virtuosity, never resting in one mind long enough to leave a mark, but just long enough for the detection of something that might be useful.

He approached the farmer catlike, watchful, aware and relieved that no one was making a move to interfere.

Rufirant struck suddenly, but Gendibal saw it in his mind before any muscle had begun to tighten and he stepped to one side. The blow whistled past, with little room to spare. Yet Gendibal still stood there, unshaken. There was a collective sigh from the others.

Gendibal made no attempt to either parry or return a blow. It would be difficult to parry without paralyzing his own arm and to return a blow would be of no use, far the farmer would withstand it without trouble.

He could only maneuver the man as though he were a bull, forcing him to miss. That would serve to break his morale as direct opposition would not.

Bull-like and roaring, Rufirant charged. Gendibal was ready and drifted to one side just sufficiently to allow the farmer to miss his clutch. Again the charge. Again the miss.

Gendibal felt his own breath begin to whistle through his nose. The physical effort was small, but the mental effort of trying to control without controlling was enormously difficult. He could not keep it up long.

He said–as calmly as he could while batting lightly at Rufirant’s fear-depressant mechanism, trying to rouse in a minimalist manner what must surely be the farmer’s superstitious dread of scholars–”I will now go about my business.”

Rufirant’s face distorted with rage, but for a moment he did not move. Gendibal could sense his thinking. The little scholar had melted away like magic. Gendibal could feel the other’s fear rise and for a moment

But then the Hamish rage surged higher and drowned the fear.

Rufirant shouted, “Mates! Scowler he dancer. He do duck on nimble toes and scorns the rules of honest Hamish blow-for-blow. Seize him. Hold him. We will trade blow for blow, then. He may be firststriker, gift of me, and I–I will be last-striker.”

Gendibal found the gaps among those who now surrounded him. His only chance was to maintain a gap long enough to get through, then to run, trusting to his own wind and to his ability to dull the farmers’ will.

Back and forth he dodged, with his mind cramping in effort.

It would rat work. There were too many of them and the necessity of abiding within the rules of Trantorian behavior was too constricting.

He felt hands on his arms. He was held.

He would have to interfere with at least a few of the minds. It would be unacceptable and his cancer would be destroyed. But his life–his very life–was at hazard.

How had this happened?

2.

THE MEETING OF the Table was not complete.

It was not the custom to wait if any Speaker were late. Nor, thought Shandess, was the Table in a mood to wait, in any case. Stor Gendibal was the youngest and far from sufficiently aware of the fact. He acted as though youth were in itself a virtue and age a matter of negligence on the part of those who should know better. Gendibal was not popular with the other Speakers. He was not, in point of fact, entirely popular with Shandess himself. But popularity was not at issue here.

Delora Delarmi broke in on his reverie. She was looking at him out of wide blue eyes, her round face–with its accustomed air of innocence and friendliness–masking an acute mind (to all but other Second Foundationers of her own rank) and ferocity of concentration.

She said, smiling, “First Speaker, do we wait longer?” (The meeting had not yet been formally called to order so that, strictly speaking, she could open the conversation, though another might have waited for Shandess to speak first by right of his title.)

Shandess looked at her disarmingly, despite the slight breach in courtesy. “Ordinarily we would not, Speaker Delarmi, but since the Table meets precisely to hear Speaker Gendibal, it is suitable to stretch the rules.”

“Where is he, First Speaker?”

“That, Speaker Delarmi, I do not know.”

Delarmi looked about the rectangle of faces. There was the First Speaker and what should have been eleven other Speakers. –Only twelve. Through five centuries, the Second Foundation had expanded its powers and its duties, but all attempts to expand the Table beyond twelve had failed.

Twelve it had been after Seldon’s death, when the second First Speaker (Seldon himself had always been considered as having been the first of the line) had established it, and twelve it still was.

Why twelve? That number divided itself easily into groups of identical size. It was small enough to consult as a whole and large enough to do work in subgroups. More would have been too unwieldy; fewer, too inflexible.

So went the explanations. In fact, no one knew why the number had been chosen–or why it should be immutable. But then, even the Second Foundation could find itself a slave to tradition.

It took Delarmi only a flashing moment to have her mind twiddle the matter as she looked from face to face, and mind to mind, and then, sardonically, at the empty seat–the junior seat.

She was satisfied that there was no sympathy at all with Gendibal. The young man, she had always felt, had all the charm of a centipede and was best treated as one. So far, only his unquestioned ability and talent had kept anyone from openly proposing trial for expulsion. (Only two Speakers had been impeached–but not convicted–in the hemimillennial history of the Second Foundation.)

The obvious contempt, however, of missing a meeting of the Table was worse than many an offense and Delarmi was pleased to sense that the mood for trial had moved forward rather more than a notch.

She said, “First Speaker, if you do not know the whereabouts of Speaker Gendibal, I would be pleased to tell you.”

“Yes, Speaker?”

“Who among us does not know that this young man” (she used no honorific in speaking of him, and it was something that everyone noted, of course) “finds business among the Hamish continually? What that business might be, I do not ask, but he is among them now and his concern with them is clearly important enough to take precedence over this Table.”

“I believe,” said another of the Speakers, “that he merely walks or jogs as a form of physical exercise.”

Delarmi smiled again. She enjoyed smiling. It cost her nothing. “The University, the Library, the Palace, and the entire region surrounding these are ours. It is small in comparison with the planet itself, but it contains room enough, I think, for physical exercise. –First Speaker, might we not begin?”

The First Speaker sighed inwardly. He had the full power to keep the Table waiting–or, indeed, to adjourn the meeting until a time when Gendibal was present.

No First Speaker could long function smoothly, however, without at least the passive support of the other Speakers and it was never wise to irritate them. Even Preem Palver had occasionally been forced into cajolery to get his way. –Besides, Gendibal’s absence was annoying, even to the First Speaker. The young Speaker might as well learn he was not a law unto himself.

And now, as First Speaker, he did speak first, saying, “We will begin. Speaker Gendibal has presented some startling deductions from Prime Radiant data. He believes that there is some organization that is working to. maintain the Seldon Plan more efficiently than we can and that it does so for its own purpose. We must, in his view therefore, learn more about it out of self-defense. You all have been informed of this, and this meeting is to allow you all a chance to question Speaker Gendibal, in order that we may come to some conclusion as to future policy.”

It was, in fact, even unnecessary to say this much. Shandess held his mind open, so they all knew. Speaking was a matter of courtesy.

Delarmi looked about swiftly. The other ten seemed content to allow her to take on the role of anti-Gendibal spokesperson. She said, “Yet Gendibal” (again the omission of the honorific) “does not know and cannot say what or who this other organization is.”

She phrased it unmistakably as a statement, which skirted the edge of rudeness. It was as much as to say: I can analyze your mind; you need not bother to explain.

The First Speaker recognized the rudeness and made the swift decision to ignore it. “The fact that Speaker Gendibal” (he punctiliously avoided the omission of the honorific and did not even point up the fact by stressing it) “does not know and cannot say what the other organization is, does not mean it does not exist. The people of the First Foundation, through most of their history, knew virtually nothing about us and, in fact, know next to nothing about us now. Do you question our existence?”

“It does not follow,” said Delarmi, “that because we are unknown and yet exist, that anything, in order to exist, need only be unknown.” And she laughed lightly.

“True enough. That is why Speaker Gendibal’s assertion must be examined most carefully. It is based on rigorous mathematical deduction, which I have gone over myself and which I urge you all to consider. It is” (he searched for a cast of mind that best expressed his views) “not unconvincing.”

“And this First Foundationer, Golan Trevize, who hovers in your mind but whom you do not mention?” (Another rudeness and this time the First Speaker flushed a bit.) “What of him?”

The First Speaker said, “It is Speaker Gendibal’s thought that this man, Trevize, is the tool–perhaps an unwitting one–of this organization and that we must not ignore him.”

“If,” said Delarmi, sitting back in her chair and pushing her graying hair backward and out of her eyes, “this organization–whatever it is–exists and if it is dangerously powerful in its mental capabilities and is so hidden, is it likely to be maneuvering so openly by way of someone as noticeable as an exiled Councilman of the First Foundation?”

The First Speaker said gravely, “One would think not. And yet I have noticed something that is most disquieting. I do not understand it.” Almost involuntarily he buried the thought in his mind, ashamed that others might see it.

Each of the Speakers noted the mental action and, as was rigorously required, respected the shame. Delarmi did, too, but she did so impatiently. She said, in accordance with the required formula, “May we request that you let us know your thoughts, since we understand and forgive any shame you may feel?”

The First Speaker said, “Like you, I do not see on what grounds one should suppose Councilman Trevize to be a tool of the other organization, or what purpose he could possibly serve if he were. Yet Speaker Gendibal seems sure of it, and one cannot ignore the possible value of intuition in anyone who has qualified for Speaker. I therefore attempted to apply the Plan to Trevize.”

“To a single person?” said one of the Speakers in low voiced surprise, and then indicated his contrition at once for having accompanied the question with a thought that was clearly the equivalent of: What a fool!

“To a single person,” said the First Speaker, “and you are right. What a fool I am! I know very well that the Plan cannot possibly apply to individuals, not even to small groups of individuals. Nevertheless, I was curious. I extrapolated the Interpersonal Intersections far past the reasonable limits, but I did it in sixteen different ways and chose a region rather than a point. I then made use of all the details we know about Trevize–a Councilman of the First Foundation does not go completely unnoticed–and of the Foundation’s Mayor. I then threw it all together, rather higgledy-piggledy, I’m afraid.” He paused.

“ Well?” said Delarmi. “I gather you– Were the results surprising?”

“There weren’t any results, as you might all expect,” said the First Speaker. “Nothing can be done with a single individual, and yet–and yet–”

“And yet?”

“I have spent forty years analyzing results and I have grown used to obtaining a clear feeling of what the results would be before they were analyzed–and I have rarely been mistaken. In this case, even though there were no results, I developed the strong feeling that Gendibal was right and that Trevize should not be left to himself.”

“Why not, First Speaker?” asked Delarmi, clearly taken aback at the strong feeling in the First Speaker’s mind.

“I am ashamed,” said the First Speaker, “that I have let myself be tempted into using the Plan for a purpose for which it is not fit. I am further ashamed now that I am allowing myself to be influenced by something that is purely intuitive. –Yet I must, for I feel this very strongly. If Speaker Gendibal is right–if we are in danger from an unknown direction–then I feel that when the time comes that our affairs are at a crisis, it will be Trevize who will hold and play the deciding card.”

“On what basis do you feel this?” said Delarmi, shocked.

First Speaker Shandess looked about the table miserably, “I have no basis. The psychohistorical mathematics produces nothing, but as I watched the interplay of relationships, it seemed to me that Trevize is the key to everything. Attention must be paid to this young man.”

3.

GENDIBAL KNEW THAT he would not get back in time to join the meeting of the Table. It might be that he would not get back at all.

He was held firmly and he tested desperately about him to see how he could best manage to force them to release him.

Rufirant stood before him now, exultant. “Be you ready now, scowler? Blow for blow, strike for strike, Hamish-fashion. Come then, art the smaller; strike then first.”

Gendibal said, “Will someone hold thee, then, as I be held?”

Rufirant said, “Let him go. Nah nah. His arms alane. Leave arms free, but hold legs strong. We want no dancing.”

Gendibal felt himself pinned to the ground. His arms were free.

“Strike, scowler,” said Rufirant. “Give us a blow.”

And then Gendibal’s probing mind found something that answered–indignation, a sense of injustice and pity. He had no choice; he would have to run the risk of outright strengthening and then improvising on the basis of There was no need! He had not touched this new mind, yet it reacted as he would have wished. Precisely.

He suddenly became aware of a small figure–stocky, with long, tangled black hair and arms thrust outward–careening madly into his field of view and pushing madly at the Hamish farmer.

The figure was that of a woman. Gendibal thought grimly that it was a measure of his tension and preoccupation that he had not noted this till his eyes told him so.

“Karoll Rufirant!” She shrieked at the farmer. “Art bully and coward! Strike for strike, Hamish-fashion? You be two times yon scowler’s size. You’ll be in more sore danger attacking me. Be there renown in pashing yon poor spalp? There be shame, I’m thinking. It will be a fair heap of finger-pointing and there’ll be full saying, ‘Yon be Rufirant, renowned baby-smasher.’ It’ll be laughter, I’m thinking, and no decent Hamishman will be drinking with you–and no decent Hamishwoman will be ought with you.”

Rufirant was trying to stem the torrent, warding off the blows she was aiming at him, attempting weakly to answer with a placating, “Now, Sura. Now, Sura.”

Gendibal was aware that hands no longer grasped him, that Rufirant no longer glared at him, that the minds of all were no longer concerned with him.

Sura was not concerned with him, either; her fury was concentrated solely on Rufirant. Gendibal, recovering, now looked to take measures to keep that fury alive and to strengthen the uneasy shame flooding Rufirant’s mind, and to do both so lightly and skillfully as to leave no mark. Again, there was no need.

The woman said, “All of you back-step. Look here. If it be not sufficient that this Karoll-heap be like giant to this starveling, there must be five or six more of you ally-friends to share in shame and go back to farm with glorious tale of dewing-do in baby-smashing. ‘I held the spalp’s arm,’ you’ll say, ‘and giant Rufirant-block pashed him in face when he was not to back-strike.’ And you’ll say, ‘But I held his foot, so give me also-glory.’ And Rufirant-chunk will say, ‘I could not have kiln on his lane, so my furrow-mates pinned him and, with help of all six, I gloried on him.”

“But Sura,” said Rufirant, almost whining, “I told scowler he might have first-shrike.”

“And fearful you were of the mighty blows of his thin arms, not so, Rufirant thickhead. Come. Let him go where he be going, and the rest of you to your homes back-crawl, if so be those homes will still find a welcome-making for you. You had all best hope the grand deeds of this day be forgotten. And they will not be, for I be spreading them far-wide, if you do make me any the more fiercely raging than I be raging now.”

They trooped off quietly, heads hanging, not looking back.

Gendibal stared after them, then back at the woman. She was dressed in blouse and trousers, with roughmade shoes on her feet. Her face was wet with perspiration and she breathed heavily. Her nose was rather large, her breasts heavy (as best Gendibal could tell through the looseness of her blouse), and her bare arms muscular. –but then, the Hamishwomen worked in the fields beside their men.

She was looking at him sternly, arms akimbo. “Well, scowler, why be lagging? Go on to Place of Scowlers. Be you feared? Shall I company you?”

Gendibal could smell the perspiration on clothes that were clearly not freshly laundered, but under the circumstances it would be most discourteous to show any repulsion.

“I thank you, Miss Sura–”

“The name be Novi,” she said gruffly. “Sura Novi. You may say Novi. It be unneeded to moresay.”

“I thank you, Novi. You have been very helpful. You be welcome to company me, not for fear of mine but for company-pleasure in you.” And he bowed gracefully, as he might have bowed to one of the young women at the University.

Novi flushed, seemed uncertain, and then tried to imitate his gesture. “Pleasure-be mine,” she said, as though searching for words that would adequately express her pleasure and lend an air of culture.

They walked together. Gendibal knew well that each leisurely step made him the more unforgiveably late for the Table meeting, but by now he had had a chance to think on the significance of what had taken place and he was icily content to let the lateness grow.

The University buildings were looming ahead of them when Sura Novi stopped and said hesitantly, “Master Scowler?”

Apparently, Gendibal thought, as she approached what she called the “Place of Scowlers,” she grew mare polite. He had a momentary urge to say, “Address you not yon poor spalp?” –but that would embarrass her beyond reason.

“Yes, Novi?”

“Be it very fine like and rich in Place of Scowlers?”

“It’s nice,” said Gendibal.

“I once dreamed I be in Place. And–and I be scowler.”

“Someday,” said Gendibal politely, “I’ll show it thee.”

Her look at him showed plainly she didn’t take it for mere politeness. She said, “I can write. I be taught by schoolmaster. If I write letter to thee,” she tried to make it casual, “how do I mark it so it come to thee?”

“Just say, ‘Speaker’s House, Apartment 27,’ and it will come to me. But I must go, Novi.”

He bowed again, and again she tried to imitate the action. They moved off in opposite directions and Gendibal promptly put her out of his mind. He thought instead of the Table meeting and, in particular, of Speaker Delora Delarmi. His thoughts were not gentle.

8. Farmwoman

1.

THE SPEAKERS SAT about the table, frozen in their mental shielding. It was as though all–with one accord–had hidden their minds to avoid irrevocable insult to the First Speaker after his statement concerning Trevize. Surreptitiously they glanced toward Delarmi and even that gave away much. Of them all, she was best known for her irreverence –Even Gendibal paid more lip service to convention.

Delarmi was aware of the glances and she knew that she had no choice but to face up to this impossible situation. In fact, she did not want to duck the issue. In all the history of the Second Foundation, no First Speaker had ever been impeached for misanalysis (and behind the term, which she had invented as cover-up, was the unacknowledged incompetence). Such impeachment now became possible. She would not hang back.

“First Speaker!” she said softly, her thin, colorless lips more nearly invisible than usual in the general whiteness of her face. “You yourself say you have no basis for your opinion, that the psychohistorical mathematics show nothing Do you ask us to base a crucial decision on a mystical feeling?”

The First Speaker looked up, his forehead corrugated. He was aware of the universal shielding at the Table. He knew what it meant. He said coldly, “I do not hide the lack of evidence. I present you with nothing falsely. What I offer is the strongly intuitive feeling of a First Speaker, one with decades of experience who has spent nearly a lifetime in the close analysis of the Seldon Plan.” He looked about him with a proud rigidity he rarely displayed, and one by one the mental shields softened and dropped. Delarmi’s (when he turned to stare at her) was the last.

She said, with a disarming frankness that filled her mind as though nothing else had ever been there, “I accept your statement, of course, First Speaker. Nevertheless, I think you might perhaps want to reconsider. As you think about it now, having already expressed shame at having to fall back on intuition, would you wish your remarks to be stricken from the record if, in your judgment they should be–”

And Gendibal’s voice cut in. “What are these remarks that should. be stricken from the record?”

Every pair of eyes turned in unison. Had their shields not been up during the crucial moments before, they would have been aware of his approach long before he was at the door.

“All shields up a moment ago? All unaware of my entrance?” said Gendibal sardonically. “What a commonplace meeting of the Table we have here. Was no one on their guard for my coming? Or did you all fully expect that I would not arrive?”

This outburst was a flagrant violation of all standards. For Gendibal to arrive late was bad enough. For him to then enter unannounced was worse. For him to speak before the First Speaker had acknowledged his attendance was worst of all.

The First Speaker turned to him. All else was superceded. The question of discipline came first.

“Speaker Gendibal,” he said, “you are late. You arrive unannounced. You speak. Is there any reason why you should not be suspended from your seat for thirty days?”

“Of course. The move for suspension should not be considered until first we consider who it was that made it certain I would be late–and why.” Gendibal’s words were cool and measured, but his mind clothed his thoughts with anger and he did not care who sensed it.

Certainly Delarmi sensed it. She said forcefully, “This man is mad.”

“Mad? This woman is mad to say so. Or aware of guilt. –First Speaker, I address myself to you and move a point of personal privilege,” said Gendibal.

“Personal privilege of what nature, Speaker?”

“First Speaker, I accuse someone here of attempted murder.”

The room exploded as every Speaker rose to his or her feet in a simultaneous babble of words, expression, and mentality.

The First Speaker raised his arms. He cried, “The Speaker must have his chance to express his point of personal privilege.” He found himself forced to intensify his authority, mentally, in a manner most inappropriate to the place–yet there was no choice.

The babble quieted.

Gendibal waited unmoved until the silence was both audibly and mentally profound. He said, “On my way here, moving along a Hamish road at a distance and approaching at a speed that would have easily assured my arrival in good time for the meeting, I was stopped by several farmers and narrowly escaped being beaten, perhaps being killed. As it was, I was delayed and have but just arrived. May I point out, to begin with, that I know of no instance since the Great Sack that a Second Foundationer has been spoken to disrespectfully–let alone manhandled–by one of these Hamish people.”

“Nor do I,” said the First Speaker.

Delarmi cried out, “Second Foundationers do not habitually walk alone in Hamish territory! You invite this by doing so?”

“It is true,” said Gendibal, “that I habitually walk alone in Hamish territory. I have walked there hundreds of times in every direction. Yet I have never been accosted before. Others do not walk with the freedom that I do, but no one exiles himself from the world or imprisons himself in the University and no one has ever been accosted. I recall occasions when Delarmi–” and then, as though remembering the honorific too late, he deliberately converted it into a deadly insult. “I mean to say, I recall when Speakeress Delarmi was in Hamish territory, at one time or another, and yet she was not accosted.”

“Perhaps,” said Delarmi, with eyes widened into a glare, “because I did not speak to them first and because I maintained my distance. Because I behaved as though I deserved respect, I was accorded it.”

“Strange,” said Gendibal, “and I was about to say that it was because you presented a more formidable appearance than I did. After all, few dare approach you even here. –but tell me, why should it be that of all times for interference, the Hamish would choose this day to face me, when I am to attend an important meeting of the Table?”

“If it were not because of your behavior, then it must ‘have been chance,” said Delarmi. “I have not heard that even all of Seldon’s mathematics has removed the role of chance from the Galaxy–certainly not in the case of individual events. Or are you, too, speaking from intuitional inspiration?” (There was a soft mental sigh from one or two Speakers at this sideways thrust at the First Speaker.)

“It was not my behavior. It was not chance. It was deliberate interference,” said Gendibal.

“How can we know that?” asked the First Speaker gently. He could not help but soften toward Gendibal as a result of Delarmi’s last remark.

“My mind is open to you, First Speaker. I give you–and all the Table–my memory of events.”

The transfer took but a few moments. The First Speaker said, “Shocking! You behaved very well, Speaker, under circumstances of considerable pressure. I agree that the Hamish behavior is anomalous and warrants investigation. In the meantime, please join our meeting–”

“A moment!” cut in Delarmi. “How certain are we that the Speaker’s account is accurate?”

Gendibal’s nostrils flared at the insult, but he retained his level composure. “My mind is open:”

“I have known open minds that were not open.”

“I have no doubt of that, Speaker,” said Gendibal, “since you, like the rest of us, must keep your own mind under inspection at all times. My mind, when open, however, is open.”

The First Speaker said, “Let us have no further–”

“A point of personal privilege, First Speaker, with apologies for the interruption,” said Delarmi.

“Personal privilege of what nature, Speaker?”

“Speaker Gendibal has accused one of us of attempted murder, presumably by instigating the farmer to attack him. As long as the accusation is not withdrawn, I must be viewed as a possible murderer, as would every person in this room–including you, First Speaker.”

The First Speaker said, “Would you withdraw the accusation, Speaker Gendibal?”

Gendibal took his seat and put his hands down upon its arms, gripping them tightly, as though taking ownership of it, and said, “I will do so, as soon as someone explains why a Hamish farmer, rallying several others, should deliberately set out to delay me on my way to this meeting.”

“A thousand reasons, perhaps,” said the First Speaker. “I repeat that this event will be investigated. Will you, for now, Speaker Gendibal, and in the interest of continuing the present discussion, withdraw your accusation?”

“I cannot, First Speaker. I spent long minutes trying, as delicately as I might, to search his mind for ways to alter his behavior without damage and failed. His mind lacked the give it should have had. His emotions were fixed, as though by an outside mind.”

Delarmi said with a sudden little smile, “And you think one of us was the outside mind? Might it not have been your mysterious organization that is competing with us, that is more powerful than we are?”

“It might,” said Gendibal.

“In that case, we–who are not members of this organization that only you know of–are not guilty and you should withdraw your accusation. Or can it be that you are accusing someone here of being under the control of this strange organization? Perhaps one of us here is not quite what he or she seems?”

“Perhaps,” said Gendibal stolidly, quite aware that Delarmi was feeding him rope with a noose at the end of it.

“It might seem,” said Delarmi, reaching the noose and preparing to tighten it, “that your dream of a secret, unknown, hidden, mysterious organization is a nightmare of paranoia. It would ft in with your paranoid fantasy that Hamish farmers are being influenced, that Speakers are under hidden control. I am willing, however, to follow this peculiar thought line of yours for a while longer. Which of us here, Speaker, do you think is under control? Might it be me?”

Gendibal said, “I would not think so, Speaker. If you were attempting to rid yourself of me in so indirect a manner, you would not so openly advertise your dislike for me.”

“A double-double-cross, perhaps?” said Delarmi. She was virtually purring. “That would be a common conclusion in a paranoid fantasy.”

“So it might be. You are more experienced in such matters than I.”

Speaker Lestim Gianni interrupted hotly. “See here, Speaker Gendibal, if you are exonerating Speaker Delarmi, you are directing your accusations the more tightly at the rest of us. What grounds would any of us have to delay your presence at this meeting, let alone wish you dead?”

Gendibal answered quickly, as though he had been waiting for the question. “When I entered, the point under discussion was the striking of remarks from the record, remarks made by the First Speaker. I was the only Speaker not in a position to hear those remarks. Let me know what they were and I rather think I will tell you the motive for delaying me.”

The First Speaker said, “I had stated–and it was something to which Speaker Delarmi and others took serious exception–that I had decided, on the basis of intuition and of a most inappropriate use of psychohistorical mathematics, that the entire future of the Plan may rest on the exile of First Foundationer Golan Trevize:”

Gendibal said, “What other Speakers may think is up to them. For my part, I agree with this hypothesis. Trevize is the key. I find his sudden ejection by the First Foundation too curious to be innocent.”

Delarmi said, “Would you care to say, Speaker Gendibal, that Trevize is in the grip of this mystery organization–or that the people who exiled him are? Is perhaps everyone and everything in their control except you and the First Speaker–and me, whom you have declared to be uncontrolled?”

Gendibal said, “These ravings require no answer. Instead let me ask if there is any Speaker here who would like to express agreement on this matter with the First Speaker and myself? You have read, I presume, the mathematical treatment that I have, with the First Speaker’s approval, circulated among you.”

There was silence.

“I repeat my request,” said Gendibal. “Anyone?”

There was silence.

Gendibal said, “First Speaker, you now have the motive for delaying me.”

The First Speaker said, “State it explicitly.”

“You have expressed the need to deal with Trevize, with this First Foundationer. It represents an important initiative in policy and if the Speakers had read my treatment, they would have known in a general way what was in the wind. If, nevertheless, they had unanimously disagreed with you–unanimously–then, by traditional self-limitation, you would have been unable to go forward. If even one Speaker backed you, then you would be able to implement this new policy. I was the one Speaker who would back yon, as anyone who had read my treatment would know, and it was necessary that I must, at all costs, be kept from the Table. That trick proved nearly successful, but I am now here and I back the First Speaker. I agree with him and he can, in accordance with tradition, disregard the disagreement of the ten other Speakers.”

Delarmi struck the table with her fist. “The implication is that someone knew in advance what the First Speaker would advise, knew in advance that Speaker Gendibal would support it and that all the rest would not–that someone knew what he could not have known. There is the further implication that this initiative is not to the liking of Speaker Gendibal’s paranoia-inspired organization and that they are fighting to prevent it and that, therefore, one or more of us is under the control of that organization:”

“The implication is there,” agreed Gendibal. “Your analysis is masterly.”

“Whom do you accuse?” cried out Delarmi.

“No one. I call upon the First Speaker to take up the matter. It is clear that there is someone in our organization who is working against us. I suggest that everyone working for the Second Foundation should undergo a thorough mental analysis. Everyone, including the Speakers themselves. Even including myself–and the First Speaker.”

The meeting of the Table broke up in greater confusion and greater excitement than any on record.

And when the First Speaker finally spoke the phrase of adjournment, Gendibal–without speaking to anyone–made his way back to his room. He knew well that he had not one friend among the Speakers, that even whatever support the First Speaker could give him would be half-hearted at best.

He could not tell whether he feared for himself or for the entire Second Foundation. The taste of doom was sour in his mouth.

2.

GENDIBAL DID NOT sleep well. His waking thoughts and his sleeping dreams were alike engaged in quarreling with Delora Delarmi. In one passage of one dream, there was even a confusion between her and the Hamish farmer, Rufirant, so that Gendibal found himself facing an out-of-proportion Delarmi advancing upon him with enormous fists and a sweet smile that revealed needlelike teeth.

He finally woke, later than usual, with no sensation of having rested and with the buzzer on his night table in muted action. He turned over to bring his hand down upon the contact.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Speaker!” The voice was that of the floor proctor, rather less than suitably respectful. “A visitor wishes to speak to you:”

“A visitor?” Gendibal punched his appointment schedule and the screen showed nothing before noon. He pushed the time button; it was 8:3i A.m. He said peevishly, “Who in space and time is it?”

“Will not give a name, Speaker.” Then, with clear disapproval, “One of these Hamishers, Speaker. Arrived at your invitation.” The last sentence was said with even clearer disapproval.

“Let him wait in the reception room till I come down. It will take time.”

Gendibal did not hurry. Throughout the morning ablutions, he remained lost in thought. That someone was using the Hamish to hamper his movements made sense–but he would like to know who that someone was. And what was this new intrusion of the Hamish into his very quarters? A complicated trap of some sort?

How in the name of Seldon would a Hamish farmer get into the University? What reason could he advance? What reason could he really have?

For one fleeting moment, Gendibal wondered if he ought to arm himself. He decided against it almost at once, since he felt contemptuously certain of being able to control any single farmer on the University grounds without any danger to himself–and without any unacceptable marking of a Hamish mind.

Gendibal decided he had been too strongly affected by the incident with Karoll Rufirant the day before. –Was it the very farmer, by the way? No longer under the influence, perhaps–of whatever or whoever it was–he might well have come to Gendibal to apologize for what he had done and with apprehension of punishment. –but how would Rufirant know where to go? Whom to approach?

Gendibal swung down the corridor resolutely and entered the waiting room. He stopped in astonishment, then fumed to the proctor, who was pretending to be busy in his glass-walled cubicle.

“Proctor, you did not say the visitor was a woman.”

The proctor said quietly, “Speaker, I said a Hamisher. You did not ask further.”

“Minimal information, Proctor? I must remember that as one of your characteristics.” (And he must check to see if the proctor was a Delarmi appointee. And he must remember, from now on, to note the functionaries who surrounded him, “Lowlies” whom it was too easy to ignore from the height of his still-new Speakership.) “Are any of the conference rooms available?”

The proctor said, “Number 4 is the only one available, Speaker. It will be free for three hours.” He glanced briefly at the Hamishwoman, then at Gendibal, with blank innocence.

“We will use Number 4, Proctor, and I would advise you to mind your thoughts.” Gendibal struck, not gently, and the proctor’s shield closed far too slowly. Gendibal knew well it was beneath his dignity to manhandle a lesser mind, but a person who was incapable of shielding an unpleasant conjecture against a superior ought to learn not to indulge in one. The proctor would have a mild headache for a few hours. It was well deserved.

3.

HER NAME DID not spring immediately to mind and Gendibal was in no mood to delve deeper. She could scarcely expect him to remember, in any case.

He said peevishly, “You are–”

“I be Novi, Master Scowler,” she said in what was almost a gasp. “My previous be Sura, but I be called Novi plain.”

“Yes. Novi. We met yesterday; I remember now. I have not forgotten that you came to my defense.” He could not bring himself to use the Hamish accent on the very University grounds. “Now how did you get here?”

“Master, you said I might write letter. You said, it should say, ‘Speaker’s House, Apartment 27–’ I self-bring it and I show the writing–my own writing, Master.” She said it with a kind of bashful pride. “They ask, ‘For whom be this writing?’ I heared your calling when you said it to that oafish bane-top, Rufirant. I say it be for Stor Gendibal, Master Scowler.”

“And they let you pass, Novi? Didn’t they ask to see the letter?”

“I be very frightened. I think maybe they feel gentle-sorry. I said, ‘Scowler Gendibal promise to show me Place of Scowlers,’ and they smile. One of them at gate-door say to other, ‘And that not all he be show her.’ And they show me where to go, and say not to go elseplace at all or I be thrown out moment-wise.”

Gendibal reddened faintly. By Seldon, if he felt the need for Hamish amusement, it would not be in so open a fashion and his choice would have been made more selectively. He looked at the Trantorian woman with an inward shake of his head.

She seemed quite young, younger perhaps than hard work had made her appear. She could not be more than twenty-five, at which age Hamishwomen were usually already married. She wore her dark hair in the braids that signified her to be unmarried–virginal, in fact–and he was not surprised. Her performance yesterday showed her to have enormous talent as a shrew and he doubted that a Hamishman could easily be found who would dare be yoked to her tongue and her ready fist. Nor was her appearance much of an attraction. Though she had gone to pains to make herself look presentable, her face was angular and plain, her hands red and knobby. What he could see of her figure seemed built for endurance rather than for grace.

Her lower lip began to tremble under his scrutiny. He could sense her embarrassment and fright quite plainly and felt pity. She had, indeed, been of use to him yesterday and that was what counted.

He said, in an attempt to be genial and soothing, “So you have come to see the–uh–Place of Scholars?”

She opened her dark eyes wide (they were rather fine) and said, “Master, be not ired with me, but I come to be scowler own-self.”

“You want to be a scholar?” Gendibal was thunderstruck. “My good woman–”

He paused. How on Trantor could one explain to a completely unsophisticated farmwoman the level of intelligence, training, and mental stamina required to be what Trantorians called a “scowler”?

But Sura Novi drove on fiercely. “I be a writer and a reader. I have read whole books to end and from beginning, too. And I have wish to be scowler. I do not wish to be farmer’s wife. I be no person for farm. I will not wed farmer or have farmer children.” She lifted her head and said proudly, “I be asked. Many times. I always say, ‘Nay! Politely, but ‘Nay.”‘

Gendibal could see plainly enough that she was lying. She had not been asked, but he kept his face straight. He said, “What will you do with your life if you do not marry?”

Novi brought her hand down on the table, palm flat. “I will be scowler. I not be farmwoman.”

“What if I cannot make you a scholar?”

“Then I be nothing and I wait to die. I be nothing in life if I be not a scowler.”

For a moment there was the impulse to search her mind and find out the extent of her motivation. But it would be wrong to do so. A Speaker did not amuse one’s self by rummaging through the helpless minds of others. There was a code to the science and technique of mental control–mentalics–as to other professions. Or there should be. (He was suddenly regretful he had struck out at the proctor.)

He said, “Why not be a farmwoman, Novi?” With a little manipulation, he could make her content with that and manipulate some Hamish lout into being happy to marry her–and she to marry him. It would do no harm. It would be a kindness. –but it was against the law and thus unthinkable.

She said, “I not be. A farmer is a clod. He works with earthlumps, and he becomes earth-lump. If I be farmwoman, I be earthlump, too. I will be timeless to read and write, and I will forget. My head,” she put her hand to her temple, “will grow sour and stale. No! A scowler be different. Thoughtful!” (She meant by the word, Gendibal noted, “intelligent” rather than “considerate.”)

“A scowler,” she said, “live with books and with–with–I forget what they be name-said.” She made a gesture as though she were making some sort of vague manipulations that would have meant nothing to Gendibal–if he did not have her mind radiations to guide him.

“Microfilms,” he said. “How do you know about microfilms?”

“In books, I read of many things,” she said proudly.

Gendibal could no longer fight off the desire to know more. This was an unusual Hamisher; he had never heard of one like this. The Hamish were never recruited, but if Novi were younger, say ten years old

What a waste? He would not disturb her; he would not disturb her in the least, but of what use was it to be a Speaker if one could not observe unusual minds and learn from them?

He said, “Novi, I want you to sit there for a moment. Be very quiet. Do not say anything. Do not think of saying anything. just think of falling asleep: Do you understand?”

Her fright returned at once, “Why must ‘ do this, Master?”

“Because I wish to think how you might become a scholar.”

After all, no matter what she had read, there was no possible way in which she could know what being a “scholar” truly meant. It was therefore necessary to find out what she thought a scholar was.

Very carefully and with infinite delicacy he probed her mind; sensing without actually touching–like placing one’s hand on a polished metal surface without leaving fingerprints. To her a scholar was someone who always read books. She had not the slightest idea of why one read books. For herself to be a scholar–the picture in her mind was that of doing the labor she knew–fetching, carrying, cooking, cleaning, following orders–but on the University grounds where books were available and where she would have time to read them and, very vaguely, “to become learned.” What it amounted to was that she wanted to be a servant–his servant.

Gendibal frowned. A Hamishwoman servant–and one who was plain, graceless, uneducated, barely literate. Unthinkable.

He would simply have to divert her. There would have to be some way of adjusting her desires to make her content to be a farmwoman, some way that would leave no mark, some way about which even Delarmi could not complain.

–or had she been sent by Delarmi? Was all this a complicated plan to lure him into tampering with a Hamish mind, so that he might be caught and impeached?

Ridiculous. He was in danger of growing paranoid. Somewhere in the simple tendrils of her uncomplicated mind, a trickle of mental current needed to be diverted. It would only take a tiny push.

It was against the letter of the law, but it would do no harm and no one would ever notice.

He paused.

Back. Back. Back.

Space! He had almost missed it!

Was he the victim of an illusion?

No! Now that his attention was drawn. to it, he could make it out clearly. There was the tiniest tendril disarrayed–an abnormal disarray. Yet it was so delicate, so ramification-free.

Gendibal emerged from .her mind. He said gently, “Novi.”

Her eyes focused. She said, “Yes, Master?”

Gendibal said, “You may work with me.  I will make you a scholar–”

Joyfully, eyes blazing, she said, “Master–”

He detected it at once. She was going to throw herself at his feet. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her tightly. “Don’t move, Novi. Stay where you are. –Stay!”

He might have been talking to a half-trained animal. When he could see the order had penetrated, he let her go. He was conscious of the hard muscles along her upper arms.

He said, “If you are to be a scholar, you must behave like one. That means you will have to be always quiet, always soft-spoken, always doing what I tell you to do. And you must try to learn to talk as I do. You will also have to meet other scholars. Will you be afraid?”

“I be not afeared–afraid, Master, if you be with me.”

“I will be with you. But now, first– I must find you a room, arrange to have you assigned a lavatory, a place in the dining room, and clothes, too. You will have to wear clothes more suitable to a scholar, Novi.”

“These be all I–” she began miserably.

“We will supply others.”

Clearly he would have to get a woman to arrange for a new supply of clothing for Novi. He would also need someone to teach the Hamisher the rudiments of personal hygiene. After all, though the clothes she wore were probably her best and though she had obviously spruced herself up, she still had a distinct odor that was faintly unpleasant.

And he would have to make sure that the relationship between them was understood. It was always an open secret that the men (and women, too) of the Second Foundation made occasional forays among the Hamish for their pleasure. If there was no interference with Hamish minds in the process, no one dreamed of making a fuss about it. Gendibal himself had never indulged in this, and he liked to think it was because he felt no need for sex that might be coarser and more highly spiced than was available at the University. The women of the Second Foundation might be pallid in comparison to the Hamish, but they were clean and their skins were smooth.

But even if the matter were misunderstood and there were sniggers at a Speaker who net only turned to the Hamish but brought one into his quarters, he would have to endure the embarrassment. As it stood, this farmwoman, Sura Novi, was his key to victory in the inevitable forthcoming duel with Speaker Delarmi and the rest of the Table.

4.

GENDIBAL DID NOT see Novi again till after dinnertime, at which time she was brought to him by the woman to whom he had endlessly explained the situation–at least, the nonsexual character of the situation. She had understood–or, at least, did not dare show any indication of failure to understand, which was perhaps just as good.

Novi stood before him now, bashful, proud, embarrassed, triumphant–all at once, in an incongruous mixture.

He said, “You look very nice, Novi.”

The clothes they had given her fit surprisingly well and there was no question that she did not look at all ludicrous. Had they pinched in her waist? Lifted her breasts? Or had that just been not particularly noticeable in her farmwoman clothing?

Her buttocks were prominent, but not displeasingly so. Her face, of course, remained plain, but when the tan of outdoor life faded and she learned how to care for her complexion, it would not look downright ugly.

By the Old Empire, that woman did think Novi was to be his mistress. She had tried to make her beautiful for him.

And then he thought: Well, why not?

Novi would have to face the Speaker’s Table–and the more attractive she seemed, the more easily he would be able to get his point across.

It was with this thought that the message from the First Speaker reached him. It had the kind of appropriateness that was common in a mentalic society. It was called, more or less informally, the “Coincidence Effect.” If you think vaguely of someone when someone is thinking vaguely of you, there is a mutual, escalating stimulation which in a matter of seconds makes the two thoughts sharp, decisive, and, to all appearances, simultaneous.

It can be startling even to those who understand it intellectually, particularly if the preliminary vague thoughts were so dim–on one side or the other (or both)–as to have gone consciously unnoticed.

“I can’t be with you this evening, Novi,” said Gendibal. “I have scholar work to do. I will take you to your room. There will be some books there and you can practice your reading. I will show you how to use the signal if you need help with anything–and I will see you tomorrow.”

5.

GENDIBAL SAID POLITELY, “First Speaker?”

Shandess merely nodded. He looked dour and fully his age. He looked as though he were a man who did not drink, but who could use a stiff one. He said finally, “I ‘called’ you–”

“No messenger. I presumed from the direct ‘call’ that it was important.”

“It is. Your quarry–the First Foundationer–Trevize–”

“Yes?”

“He is not coming to Trantor.”

Gendibal did not look surprised. “Why should he? The information we received was that he was leaving with a professor of ancient history who was seeking Earth.”

“Yes, the legendary Primal Planet. And that is why he should be coming to Trantor. After all, does the professor know where Earth is? Do you? Do I? Can we be sure it exists at all, or ever existed? Surely they would have to come to this Library to obtain the necessary information–if it were to be obtained anywhere. I have until this hour felt that the situation was not at crisis level–that the First Foundationer would come here and that we would, through him, learn what we need to know.”

“Which would certainly be the reason he is not allowed to come here.”

“But where is he going, then?”

“We have not yet found out, I see.”

The First Speaker said pettishly, “You seem calm about it.”

Gendibal said, “I wonder if it is not better so. You want him to come to Trantor to keep him safe and use him as a source of information. Will he not, however, prove a source of more important information, involving others still more important than himself, if he goes where he wants to go and does what he wants to do–provided we do not lose sight of him?”

“Not enough!” said the First Speaker. “You have persuaded me of the existence of this new enemy of ours and now I cannot rest. Worse, I have persuaded myself that we must secure Trevize or we have lost everything. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that he–and nothing else–is the key.”

Gendibal said intensely, “Whatever happens, we will not lose, First Speaker. That would only have been possible, if these Anti-Mules, to use your phrase again, had continued to burrow beneath us unnoticed. But we know they are there now. We no longer work blind. At the next meeting of the Table, if we can work together, we shall begin the counterattack.”

The First Speaker said, “It was not the matter of Trevize that had me send out the call to you. The subject came up first only because it seemed to me a personal defeat. I had misanalyzed that aspect of the situation. I was wrong to place personal pique above general policy and I apologize. There is something else.”

“More serious, First Speaker?”

“More serious, Speaker Gendibal.” The First Speaker sighed and drummed his fingers on the desk while Gendibal stood patiently before it and waited.

The First Speaker finally said, in a mild way, as though that would ease the blow, “At an emergency meeting of the Table, initiated by Speaker Delarmi–”

“Without your consent, First Speaker?”

“For what she wanted, she needed the consent of only three other Speakers, not including myself. At the emergency meeting that was then called, you were impeached, Speaker Gendibal. You have been accused as being unworthy of the post of Speaker and you must be tried. This is the first time in over three centuries that a bill of impeachment has been carried out against a Speaker–”

Gendibal said, fighting to keep down any sign of anger, “Surely you did not vote for my impeachment yourself.”

“I did not, but I was alone. The rest of the Table was unanimous and the vote was ten to one for impeachment. The requirement for impeachment, as you know, is eight votes including the First Speaker–or ten without him.”

“But I was not present.”

“You would not have been able to vote.”

“I might have spoken in my defense.”

“Not at that stage. The precedents are few, but clear. Your defense will be at the trial, which will come as soon as possible, naturally.”

Gendibal bowed his head in thought. Then he said, “This does not concern me overmuch, First Speaker. Your initial instinct, I think, was right. The matter of Trevize takes precedence. May I suggest you delay the trial on that ground?”

The First Speaker held up his hand. “I don’t blame you for not understanding the situation, Speaker. Impeachment is so rare an event that I myself have been forced to look up the legal procedures involved. Nothing takes precedence. We are forced to move directly to the trial, postponing everything else.”

Gendibal placed his fists on the desk and leaned toward the First Speaker. “You are not serious?”

“It is the law.”

“The law can’t be allowed to stand in the way of a clear and present danger.”

“To the Table, Speaker Gendibal, you are the clear and present danger. –No, listen to me! The law that is involved is based on the conviction that nothing can be more important than the possibility of corruption or the misuse of power on the part of a Speaker.”

“But I am guilty of neither, First Speaker, and you knew it. This is a matter of a personal vendetta on the part of Speaker Delarmi. If there is misuse of power, it is on her part. My crime is that I have never labored to make myself popular–I admit that much–and I have paid too little attention to fools who are old enough to be senile but young enough to have power.”

“Like myself, Speaker?”

Gendibal sighed. “You see, I’ve done it again. I don’t refer to you, First Speaker. –Very well, then, let us have an instant trial, then. Let us have it tomorrow. Better yet, tonight. Let us get it over with and then pass on to the matter of Trevize. We dare not wait.”

The First Speaker said, “Speaker Gendibal. I don’t think you understand the situation. We have had impeachments before–not many, just two. Neither of those resulted in a conviction. You, however, will be convicted! You will then no longer be a member of the Table and you will no longer have a say in public policy. You will not, in fact, even have a vote at the annual meeting of the Assembly.”

“And you will not act to prevent that?

“I cannot. I will be voted down unanimously. I will then lie forced to resign, which I think is what the Speakers would like to see.

“And Delarmi will become First Speaker?”

“That is certainly a strong possibility.”

“But that must not be allowed to happen!”

“Exactly! Which is why I will have to vote for your conviction.”

Gendibal drew a deep breath. “I still demand an instant trial.”

“You must have time to prepare your defense.”

“What defense? They will listen to no defense. Instant trial!”

“The Table must have time to prepare their case.”

“They have no case and will want none. They have me convicted in their minds and will require nothing more. In fact, they would rather convict me tomorrow than the day after–and tonight rather than tomorrow. Put it to them.”

The First Speaker rose to his feet. They faced each other across the desk. The First Speaker said, “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“The matter of Trevize will not wait.”

“Once you are convicted and I am rendered feeble in the face of a Table united against me, what will have been accomplished?”

Gendibal said in an intense whisper, “Have no fears! Despite everything, I will not be convicted.”

9. Hyperspace

1.

TREVIZE SAID, “ARE you ready, Janov?”

Pelorat looked up from the book he was viewing and said, “You mean, for the jump, old fellow?”

“For the hyperspatial jump. Yes.”

Pelorat swallowed. “Now, you’re sure that it will be in no way uncomfortable. I know it is a silly thing to fear, but the thought of having myself reduced to incorporeal tachyons, which no one has ever seen or detected–”

“Come, Janov, it’s a perfected thing. Upon my honor! The jump has been in use for twenty-two thousand years, as you explained, and I’ve never beard of a single fatality in hyperspace. We might come out of hyperspace in an uncomfortable place, but then the accident would happen in space–not while we are composed of tachyons.”

“Small consolation, it seems to me.”

“We won’t come out in error, either. To tell you the truth, I was thinking of carrying it through without telling you, so that you would never know it had happened. On the whole, though, I felt it would be better if you experienced it consciously, saw that it was no problem of any kind, and could forget it totally henceforward.”

“Well “ said Pelorat dubiously. “I suppose you’re right, but honestly I’m in no hurry.”

“I assure you–”

“No no, old fellow, I accept your assurances unequivocally. It’s just that–Did you ever read Sanertestil Matt?”

“Of course. I’m not illiterate.”

“Certainly. Certainly. I should not have asked. Do you remember it?”

“Neither am I an amnesiac.”

“I seem to have a talent for offending. All I mean is that I keep thinking of the scenes where Santerestil and his friend, Ban, have gotten away from Planet 17 and are lost in space. I think of those perfectly hypnotic scenes among the stars, lazily moving along in deep silence, in changelessness, in– Never believed it, you know. I loved it and I was moved by it, but I never really believed it. But now–after I got used to just the notion of being in space, I’m experiencing it and–it’s silly, I know–but I don’t want to give it up. It’s as though I’m Santerestil–”

“And I’m Ban,” said Trevize with just an edge of impatience.

“In a way. The small scattering of dim stars out there are motionless, except our sun, of course, which must be shrinking but which we don’t see. The Galaxy retains its dim majesty, unchanging. Space is silent and I have no distractions–”

“Except me.”

“Except you. –but then, Golan, dear chap, talking to you about Earth and trying to teach you a bit of prehistory has its pleasures, too. I don’t want that to come to an end, either.”

“It won’t. Not immediately, at any rate. You don’t suppose we’ll take the jump and come through on the surface of a planet, do you? We’ll still be in space and the jump will have taken no measurable time at ail. It may well be a week before we make surface of any kind, so do relax.”

“By surface, you surely don’t mean Gaia. We may be nowhere near Gaia when we come out of the jump.”

“I know that, Janov, but we’ll be in the right sector, if your information is correct. If it isn’t–well–”

Pelorat shook his head glumly. “How will being in the right sector help if we don’t know Gaia’s co-ordinates?”

Trevize said, “Janov, suppose you were on Terminus, heading for the town of Argyropol, and you didn’t know where that town was except that it was somewhere on the isthmus. Once you were on the isthmus, what would you do?”

Pelorat waited cautiously, as though feeling there must be a terribly sophisticated answer expected of him. Finally giving up, he said, “I suppose I’d ask somebody.”

“Exactly! What else is there to do? –Now, are you ready?”

“You mean, now?” Pelorat scrambled to his feet, his pleasantly unemotional face coming as near as it might to a look of concern. “What am I supposed to do? Sit? Stand? What?”

“Time and Space, Pelorat, you don’t do anything. Just come with me to my room so I can use the computer, then sit or stand or turn cartwheels–whatever will make you most comfortable. My suggestion is that you sit before the viewscreen and watch it. It’s sure to be interesting. Come!”

They stepped along the short corridor to Trevize’s room and he seated himself at the computer. “Would you like to do this, Janov?” he asked suddenly. “I’ll give you the figures and all you do is think them. The computer will do the rest.”

Pelorat said, “No thank you. The computer doesn’t work well with me, somehow. I know you say I just need practice, but I don’t believe that. There’s something about your mind, Golan–”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“No no. That computer just seems to fit you. You and it seem to be a single organism when you’re hooked up. When I’m hooked up, there are two objects involved–Janov Pelorat and a computer. It’s just not the same.”

“Ridiculous,” said Trevize, but he was vaguely pleased at the thought and stroked the hand-rests of the computer with loving fingertips.

“So I’d rather watch,” said Pelorat. “I mean, I’d rather it didn’t happen at all, but as long as it will, I’d rather watch.” He fixed . his eyes anxiously on the viewscreen and on the foggy Galaxy with the thin powdering of dim stars in the foreground. “Let me know when it’s about to happen.” Slowly he backed against the wall and braced himself.

Trevize smiled. He placed his hands on the rests and felt the mental union. It came more easily day by day, and more intimately, too, and however he might scoff at what Pelorat said–he actually felt it. It seemed to him he scarcely needed to think of the co-ordinates in any conscious way. It almost seemed the computer knew what he wanted, without the conscious process of “telling.” It lifted the information out of his brain for itself.

But Trevize “told” it and then asked for a two-minute interval before the jump.

“All right, Janov. We have two minutes: 120–115–110 Just watch the viewscreen.”

Pelorat did, with a slight tightness about the corners of his mouth and with a holding of his breath.

Trevize said softly, “15–10–5–4–3–2–1–0”

With no perceptible motion, no perceptible sensation, the view on the screen changed. There was a distinct thickening of the starfield and the Galaxy vanished.

Pelorat started and said, “Was that it?”

“Was what it? You flinched. But that was your fault. You felt nothing. Admit it.”

“I admit it.”

“Then that’s it. Way back when hyperspatial travel was relatively new–according to the books, anyway–there would be a queer internal sensation and some people felt dizziness or nausea. It was perhaps psychogenic, perhaps not. In any case, with more and more experience with hyperspatiality and with better equipment, that decreased. With a computer like the one on board this vessel, any effect is well below the threshold of sensation. At least, I find it so.”

“And I do, too, I must admit. Where are we, Golan?”

“Just a step forward. In the Kalganian region. There’s a long way to go yet and before we make another move, we’ll have to check the accuracy of the jump.”

“What bothers me is–where’s the Galaxy?”

“All around us, Janov. We’re weal inside it, now. If we focus the viewscreen properly, we can see the more distant parts of it as a luminous band across the sky.”

“The Milky Way!” Pelorat cried out joyfully. “Almost every world describes it in their sky, but it’s something we don’t see on Terminus. Show it to me, old fellow!”

The viewscreen tilted, giving the effect of a swimming of the starfield across it, and then there was a thick, pearly luminosity nearly filling the field. The screen followed it around, as it thinned, then swelled again.

Trevize said, “It’s thicker in the direction of the center of the Galaxy. Not as thick or as bright as it might be, however, because of the dark clouds in the spiral arms. You see something like this from most inhabited worlds.”

“And from Earth, too.”

“That’s no distinction. That would not be an identifying characteristic.”

“Of course not. But you know– You haven’t studied the history of science, have you?”

“Not really, though I’ve picked up some of it, naturally. Still, if you have questions to ask, don’t expect me to be an expert.”

“It’s just that making this jump has put me in mind of something that has always puzzled me. It’s possible to work out a description of the Universe in which hyperspatial travel is impossible and in which the speed of light traveling through a vacuum is the absolute maximum where speed is concerned.”

“Certainly.”

“Under those conditions, the geometry of the Universe is such that it is impossible to make the trip we have just undertaken in less time than a ray of light would make it. And if we did it at the speed of light, our experience of duration would not match that of the Universe generally. If this spot is, say, forty parsecs from Terminus, then if we had gotten here at the speed of light, we would have felt no time lapse–but on Terminus and in the entire Galaxy, about a hundred and thirty years would have passed. Now we have made a trip, not at the speed of light but at thousands of times the speed of light actually, and there has been no time advance anywhere. At least, I hope not.”

Trevize said, “Don’t expect me to give you the mathematics of the Olanjen Hyperspatial Theory to you. All I can say is that if you had traveled at the speed of light within normal space, time would indeed have advanced at the rate of 3.26 years per parsec, as you described. The so-called relativistic Universe, which humanity has understood as far back as we can probe inter prehistory–though that’s your department, I think–remains, and its laws have not been repealed. In our hyperspatial jumps, however, we do something out side the conditions under which relativity operates and the rules are different. Hyperspatially the Galaxy is a tiny object–ideally a nondimensional dot–and there are no relativistic effects at all.

“In fact, in the mathematical formulations of cosmology, there are two symbols for the Galaxy: Gr for the “relativistic Galaxy,” where the speed of light is a maximum, and Gh for the “hyperspatial Galaxy,” where speed does not really have a meaning.  Hyperspatially the value of all speed is zero and we do not move with reference to space itself, speed is infinite. I can’t explain things a bit more than that.

“Oh, except that one of the beautiful catches in theoretical physics is to place a symbol or a value that has meaning in Gr into an equation dealing with Gh–or vice versa–and leave it there for a student to deal with. The chances are enormous that the student falls into the trap and generally remains there, sweating and panting, with nothing seeming to work, till some kindly elder helps him out. I was neatly caught that way, once.”

Pelorat considered that gravely for a while, then said in a perplexed sort of way, “But which is the true Galaxy?”

“Either, depending on what you’re doing. If you’re back on Terminus, you can use a car to cover distance on land and a ship to cover distance across the sea. Conditions are different in every way, so which is the true Terminus, the land or the sea?”

Pelorat nodded. “Analogies are always risky,” he said, “but I’d rather accept that one than risk my sanity by thinking about hyperspace any further. I’ll concentrate on what we’re doing now.”

“Look upon what we just did,” said Trevize, “as our first stop toward Earth.”

And, he thought to himself, toward what else, I wonder.

2.

“WELL,” SAID TREVIZE. “I’ve wasted a day.”

“Oh?” Pelorat looked up from his careful indexing. “In what way?”

Trevize spread his arms. “I didn’t trust the computer. I didn’t dare to, so I checked our present position with the position we had aimed at in the jump. The difference was not measurable. There was no detectable error.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than good. It’s unbelievable. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I’ve gone through jumps and I’ve directed them, in all kinds of ways and with all kinds of devices. In school, I had to work one out with a hand computer and then I sent off a hyper-relay to check results. Naturally I couldn’t send a real ship, since–aside from the expense–I could easily have placed it in the middle of a star at the other end.

“I never did anything that bad, of course,” Trevize went on, “but there would always be a sizable error. There’s always some error, even with experts. There’s got to be, since there are so many variables. Put it this way–the geometry of space is too complicated to handle and hyperspace compounds all those complications with a complexity of its own that we can’t even pretend to understand. That’s why we have to go by steps, instead of making one big jump from here to Sayshell. The errors would grow worse with distance.”

Pelorat said, “But you said this computer didn’t make an error.”

“It said it didn’t make an error. I directed it to check our actual position with our precalculated position–’what is’ against ‘what was asked for.’ It said that the two were identical within its limits of measurement and I thought: What if it’s lying?”

Until that moment, Pelorat had held his printer in his hand. He now put it down and looked shaken. “Are you joking? A computer can’t lie. Unless you mean you thought it might be out of order.”

“No, that’s not what I thought. Space! I thought it was lying. This computer is so advanced I can’t think of it as anything but human–superhuman, maybe. Human enough to have pride–and to lie, perhaps. I gave it directions–to work out a course through hyperspace to a position near Sayshell Planet, the capital of the Sayshell Union. It did, and charted a course in twenty-nine steps, which is arrogance of the worst sort.”

“Why arrogance?”

“The error in the first jump makes the second jump that much less certain, and the added error then makes the third jump pretty wobbly and untrustworthy, and so on. How do you calculate twenty-nine steps all at once? The twenty-ninth could end up anywhere in the Galaxy, anywhere at all. So I directed it to make the first step only. Then we could check that before proceeding.”

“The cautious approach,” said Pelorat warmly. “I approve!”

“Yes, but having made the first step, might the computer not feel wounded at my having mistrusted it? Would it then be forced to salve its pride by telling me there was no error at all when I asked it? Would it find it impossible to admit a mistake, to own up to imperfection? If that were so, we might as well not have a computer.”

Pelorat’s long and gentle face saddened. “What can we do in that case, Golan?”

“We can do what I did–waste a day. I checked the position of several of the surrounding stars by the most primitive possible methods: telescopic observation, photography, and manual measurement. I compared each actual position with the position expected if there had been no error. The work of it took me all day and wore me down to nothing.”

“Yes, but what happened?”

“I found two whopping errors and checked them over and found them in my calculations. I had made the mistakes myself. I corrected the calculations, then ran them through the computer from scratch–just to see if it would come up with the same answers independently. Except that it worked them out to several more decimal places, it turned out that my figures were right and they showed that the computer had made no errors. The computer may be an arrogant son-of-the-Mule, but it’s got something to be arrogant about.”

Pelorat exhaled a long breath. “Well, that’s good.”

“Yes indeed! So I’m going to let it take the other twenty-eight steps.”

“All at once? But–”

“Not all at once. Don’t worry. I haven’t become a daredevil just yet. It will do them one after the other–but after each step it will check the surroundings and, if that is where it is supposed to be within tolerable limits, it can take the next one. Any time it finds the error too great–and, believe me, I didn’t set the limits generously at all–it will have to stop and recalculate the remaining steps.”

“When are you going to do this?”

“When? Right now. –Look, you’re working on indexing your Library–”

“Oh, but this is the chance to do it, Golan. I’ve been meaning to do it for years, but something always seemed to get in the way.”

“I have no objections. You go on and do it and don’t worry. Concentrate on the indexing. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Pelorat shook his head. “Don’t be foolish. I can’t relax till this is over. I’m scared stiff.”

“I shouldn’t have told you, then–but I had to tell someone and you’re the only one here. Let me explain frankly. There’s always the chance that we’ll come to rest in a perfect position in interstellar space and that that will happen to be the precise position which a speeding meteoroid is occupying, or a mini-black hole, and the ship is wrecked, and we’re dead. Such things could–in theory–happen.

“The chances are very small, however. After all, you could be at home, Janov–in your study and working on your films or in your bed sleeping–and a meteroid could be streaking toward you through Terminus’s atmosphere and hit you right in the head and you’d be dead. But the chances are small.

“In fact, the chance of intersecting the path of something fatal, but too small for the computer to know about, in the course of a hyperspatial jump is far, far smaller than that of berg hit by a meteor in your home. I’ve never heard of a ship being lost that way in all the history of hyperspatial travel. Any other type of risk–like ending in the middle of a star–is even smaller.”

Pelorat said, “Then why do you tell me all this, Golan?”

Trevize paused, then bent his head in thought, and finally said, “I don’t know. –Yes, I do. What I suppose it is, is that however small the chance of catastrophe might be, if enough people take enough chances, the catastrophe must happen eventually. No matter how sure I am that nothing will go wrong, there’s a small nagging voice inside me that says, ‘Maybe it will happen this time.’ And it makes me feel guilty. –I guess that’s it. Janov, if something goes wrong, forgive me!”

“But Golan, my dear chap, if something goes wrong, we will both be dead instantly. I will not be able to forgive, nor you to receive forgiveness.”

“I understand that, so forgive me now, will you?”

Pelorat smiled. “I don’t know why, but this cheers me up. There’s something pleasantly humorous about it. Of course, Golan, I’ll forgive you. There are plenty of myths about some form of afterlife in world literature and if there should happen to be such a place–about the same chance as landing on a mini-black hole, I suppose, or less–and we both turn up in the same one, then I will bear witness that you did your honest best and that my death should not be laid at your door.”

“Thank you! Now I’m relieved. I’m willing to take my chance, but I did not enjoy the thought of you taking my chance as well.”

Pelorat wrung the other’s hand. “You know, Golan, I’ve only known you less than a week and I suppose I shouldn’t make hasty judgments in these matters, but I think you’re an excellent chap. –and now let’s do it and get it over with.”

“Absolutely! All I have to do is touch that little contact. The computer has its instructions and it’s just waiting for me to say: ‘Starts’ Would you like to–”

“Never! It’s all yours? It’s your computer.”

“Very well. And it’s my responsibility. I’m still trying to duck it, you see. Keep your eye on the screen!”

With a remarkably steady hand and with his smile looking utterly genuine, Trevize made contact.

There was a momentary pause and then the starfield changed–and again–and again. The stars spread steadily thicker and brighter over the viewscreen.

Pelorat was counting under his breath. At “15” there was a halt, as though some piece of apparatus had jammed.

Pelorat whispered, clearly afraid that any noise might jar the mechanism fatally. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Trevize shrugged. “I imagine it’s recalculating. Some object in space is adding a perceptible bump to the general shape of the overall gravitational field–some object not taken into account–some uncharted dwarf star or rogue planet–”

“Dangerous?”

“Since we’re still alive, it’s almost certainly not dangerous. A planet could be a hundred million kilometers away and still introduce a large enough gravitational modification to require recalculation. A dwarf star could be ten billion kilometers away and–”

The screen shifted again and Trevize fell silent. It shifted again–and again– Finally, when Pelorat said, “28,” there was no further motion.

Trevize consulted the computer. “We’re here,” he said.

“I counted the first jump as ‘1.’ and in this series I started with ‘2.’ That’s twenty-eight jumps altogether. You said twenty-nine.”

“The recalculation at jump i5 probably saved us one jump. I can check with the computer if you wish, but there’s really no need. We’re in the vicinity of Sayshell Planet. The computer says so and I don’t doubt it. If I were to orient the screen properly, we’d see a nice, bright sun, but there’s no point in placing a needless strain on its screening capacity. Sayshell Planet is the fourth one out and it’s about 3.2 million kilometers away from our present position, which is about as close as we want to be at a jump conclusion. We can get there in three days–two, if we hurry.”

Trevize drew a deep breath and tried to let the tension drain.

“Do you realize what this means, Janov?” he said. “Every ship I’ve ever been in–or heard of–would have made those jumps with at least a day in between for painstaking calculation and re-checking, even with a computer. The trip would have taken nearly a month. Or perhaps two or three weeks, if they were willing to be reckless about it. We did it in half an hour. When every ship is equipped with a computer like this one–”

Pelorat said, “I wonder why the Mayor’ let us have a ship this advanced. It must be incredibly expensive.”

“It’s experimental,” said Trevize dryly. “Maybe fine good woman was perfectly willing to have us try it out and see what deficiencies might develop.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t get nervous. After all, there’s nothing to worry about. We haven’t found any deficiencies. I wouldn’t put it past her, though. Such a thing would put no great strain on her sense of humanity. Besides, she hasn’t trusted us with offensive weapons and that cuts the expense considerably.”

Pelorat said thoughtfully, “It’s the computer I’m thinking about. It seems to be adjusted so well for you–and it can’t be adjusted that well for everyone. It just barely works with me.”

“So much the better for us, that it works so well with one of us.”

“Yes, but is that merely chance?”

“What else, Janov?”

“Surely the Mayor knows you pretty well.”

“I think she does, the old battlecraft.”

“Might she not have had a computer designed particularly for you?”

“I just wonder if we’re not going where the computer wants to take us.”

Trevize stared. “You mean that while I’m connected to the computer, it is the computer–and not me–who is in real charge?”

“I just wonder.”

“That is ridiculous. Paranoid. Come on, Janov.”

Trevize turned back to the computer to focus Sayshell Planet on the screen and to plot a normal-space course to it.

Ridiculous!

But why had Pelorat put the notion into his head?

10. Table

1.

TWO DAYS HAD passed and Gendibal found himself not so much heavyhearted as enraged. There was no reason why there could not have been an immediate hearing. Had he been unprepared–had he needed time–they would have forced an immediate hearing on him, he was sure.

But since there was nothing more facing the Second Foundation than the greatest crisis since the Mule, they wasted time–and to no purpose but to irritate him.

They did irritate him and, by Seldon, that would make his counterstroke the heavier. He was determined on that.

He looked about him. The anteroom was empty. It had been like that for two days now. He was a marked man, a Speaker whom all knew would–by means of an action unprecedented in the five-century history of the Second Foundation–soon lose his position. He would be demoted to the ranks, demoted to the position of a Second Foundationer, plain and simple.

It was one thing, however–and a very honored thing–to be a Second Foundationer of the ranks, particularly if one held a respectable title, as Gendibal might even after the impeachment. It would be quite another thing to have once been a Speaker and to have been demoted.

It won’t happen though, thought Gendibal savagely, even though for two days he had been avoided. Only Sura Novi treated him as before, but she was too nave to understand the situation. To her, Gendibal was still “Master.”

It irritated Gendibal that he found a certain comfort in this. He felt ashamed when he began to notice that his spirits rose when he noticed her gazing at him worshipfully. Was he becoming grateful for gifts that small?

A clerk emerged from the Chamber to tell him that the Table was ready for him and Gendibal stalked in. The clerk was one Gendibal knew well; he was one who knew–to the tiniest fraction–the precise gradation of civility that each Speaker deserved. At the moment, that accorded Gendibal was appallingly low. Even the clerk thought him as good as convicted.

They were all sitting about the Table gravely, wearing the black robes of judgment. First Speaker Shandess looked a bit uncomfortable, but he did not allow his face to crease into the smallest touch of friendliness. Delarmi–one of the three Speakers who were women–did not even look at him.

The First Speaker said, “Speaker Stor Gendibal, you have been impeached for behaving in a manner unbecoming a Speaker. You have, before us all, accused the Table–vaguely and without evidence–of treason and attempted murder. You have implied that all Second Foundationers–including the Speakers and the First Speaker–require a thorough mental analysis to ascertain who among them are no longer to be trusted. Such behavior breaks the bonds of community, without which the Second Foundation cannot control an intricate and potentially hostile Galaxy and without which they cannot build, with surety, a viable Second Empire.

“Since we have all witnessed those offenses, we will forego the presentation of a formal case for the prosecution. We will therefore move directly to the next stage. Speaker Stor Gendibal, do you have a defense?”

Now Delarmi–still not looking at him–allowed herself a small catlike smile.

Gendibal said, “If truth be considered a defense, I have one. There are grounds for suspecting a breach of security. That breach may involve the mental control of one or more Second Foundationers–not excluding members here present–and this has created a deadly crisis for the Second Foundation. If, indeed, you hasten this trial because you cannot waste time, you may all perhaps dimly recognize the seriousness of the crisis, but in that case, why have you wasted two days after I had formally requested an immediate trial? I submit that it is this deadly crisis that has forced me to say what I have said. I would have behaved in a manner unbecoming a Speaker –had I not done so.”

“He but repeats the offense, First Speaker,” said Delarmi softly.

Gendibal’s seat was further removed from the Table than that of the others–a clear demotion already. He pushed it farther back, a5 though he cared nothing for that, and rose.

He said, “Will you convict me now, out of hand, in defiance of law–or may I present my defense in detail?”

The First Speaker said, “This is not a lawless assemblage, Speaker. Without much in fine way of precedent to guide us, we will lean in your direction, recognizing that if our too-human abilities should cause us to deviate from absolute justice, it is better to allow the guilty to go free than to convict the innocent. Therefore, although the case before us is so grave that we may not lightly allow the guilty to go free, we will permit you to present your case in such manner as you wish and for as long as you require, until it is decided by unanimous vote, including my own” (and he raised his voice at that phrase) “that enough has been heard.”

Gendibal said, “Let me begin, then, by saying that Golan Trevize –the First Foundationer who has been driven from Terminus and whom the First Speaker and I believe to be the knife-edge of the gathering crisis has moved off in an unexpected direction.”

“Point of information,” said Delarmi softly. “How does the speaker” (the intonation clearly indicated that the word was not capitalized) “know this?”

“I was informed of this by the First Speaker,” said Gendibal, “but I confirm it of my own knowledge. Under the circumstances, however, considering my suspicions concerning the level of the security of the Chamber, I must be allowed to keep my sources of information secret.”

The First Speaker said, “I will suspend judgment on that. Let us proceed without that item of information but if, in the judgment of the Table, the information must be obtained, Speaker Gendibal will have to yield it.”

Delarmi said, “If the speaker does not yield the information now, it is only fair to say that I assume he has an agent serving him–an agent who is privately employed by him and who is not responsible to the Table generally. We cannot be sure that such an agent is obeying the rules of behavior governing Second Foundation personnel.

The First Speaker said with some displeasure, “I see all the implications, Speaker Delarmi. There is no need to spell them out for me.”

“I merely mention it for the record, First Speaker, since this aggravates the offense and it is not an item mentioned in the bill of impeachment, which, I would like to say, has not been read in full and to which I move this item be added.”

“The clerk is directed to add the item,” said the First Speaker, “and the precise wording will be adjusted at the appropriate time. –Speaker Gendibal” (he, at least, capitalized) “your defense is indeed a step backward. Continue.”

Gendibal said, “Not only has this Trevize moved in an unexpected direction, but at an unprecedented speed. My information, which the First Speaker does not yet have, is that he has traveled nearly ten thousand parsecs in well under an hour.”

“In a single jump?” said one of the Speakers incredulously.

“In over two dozen jumps, one after the other, with virtually no time intervening,” said Gendibal, “something that is even more difficult to imagine than a single jump. Even if he is now located, it will take time to follow him and, if he detects us and really means to flee us, we will not be able to overtake him. –and you spend your time in games of impeachment and allow two days to pass so that you might savor them the more.”

The First Speaker managed to mask his anguish. “Please tell us, Speaker Gendibal, what you think the significance of this might be.”

“It is an indication, First Speaker, of the technological advances that are being made by the First Foundation, who are far more powerful now than they were in the time of Preem Palver. We could not stand up against them if they found us and were free to act.”

Speaker Delarmi rose to her feet. She said, “First Speaker, our time is being wasted with irrelevancies. We are not children to be frightened with tales by Grandmother Spacewarp. It does not matter how impressive the machinery of the First Foundation is when, in any crisis, their minds will be in our control.”

“What do you have to say to that, Speaker Gendibal?” asked the First Speaker.

“ Merely that we will come to the matter of minds in due course. For the moment, I merely wish to stress the superior–and increasing technological might of the First Foundation.”

The First Speaker said, “Pass on to the next point, Speaker Gendibal. Your first point, I must tell you, does not impress me as very pertinent to the matter contained in the bill of impeachment.”

There was a clear gesture of agreement from the Table generally.

Gendibal said, “I pass on. Trevize has a companion in his present journey” (he paused momentarily to consider pronunciation) “one Janov Pelorat, a rather ineffectual scholar who has devoted his life to tracking down myths and legends concerning Earth.”

“You know all this about him? Your hidden source, I presume?” said Delarmi, who had settled into her role of prosecutor with a clear feeling of comfort.

“Yes, I know all this about him,” said Gendibal stolidly. “A few months ago, the Mayor of Terminus, an energetic and capable woman, grew interested in this scholar for no clear reason, and so I grew interested, too, as a matter of course. Nor have I kept this to myself. All the information I have gained has been made available to the First Speaker.”

“I bear witness to that,” said the First Speaker in a low voice.

An elderly Speaker said, “What is this Earth? Is it the world of origin we keep coming across in fables? The one they made a fuss about in old Imperial times?”

Gendibal nodded. “In the tales of Grandmother Spacewarp, as Speaker Delarmi would say. –I suspect it was Pelorat’s dream to come to Trantor to consult the Galactic Library, in order to find information concerning Earth that he could not obtain in the interstellar library service available on Terminus.

“When he left Terminus with Trevize, he must have been under the impression that that dream was to be fulfilled. Certainly we were expecting the two and counted on having the opportunity to examine them–to our own profit. As it turns out–and as you all know by now–they are not coming. They have turned off to some destination that is not yet clear and for some reason that is not yet known.”

Delarmi’s round face looked positively cherubic as she said, “And why is this disturbing? We are no worse off for their absence, surely. Indeed, since they dismiss us so easily, we can deduce that the First Foundation does not know the true nature of Trantor and we can applaud the handiwork of Preem Palver.”

Gendibal said, “If we thought no further, we might indeed come to such a comforting solution. Could if be, though, that the turnoff was not the result of any failure to see the importance of Trantor? Could it be that the turnoff resulted from anxiety lest Trantor, by examining these two men, see the importance of Earth?”

There was a stir about the Table.

“Anyone,” said Delarmi coldly, “can invent formidable–sounding propositions and couch them in balanced sentences. But do they make sense when you do invent them? Why should anyone care what we of the Second Foundation think of Earth? Whether it is the true planet of origin, or whether it is a myth, or whether there is no one place of origin to begin with, is surely something that should interest only historians, anthropologists, and folk-tale collectors, such as this Pelorat of yours. Why us?”

“Why indeed?” said Gendibal. “How is it, then, that there are no references to Earth in the Library?”

For the first time, something in the atmosphere that was other than hostility made itself felt about the Table.

Delarmi said, “Aren’t there?”

Gendibal said quite calmly, “When word first reached me that Trevize and Pelorat might be coming here in search of information concerning Earth, I, as a matter of course, had our Library computer make a listing of documents containing such information. I was mildly interested when it turned up nothing. Not minor quantities. Not very little. –Nothing?

“But then you insisted I wait for two days before this hearing could take place, and at the same time, my curiosity was further piqued by the news that the First Foundationers were not coming here after all. I had to amuse myself somehow. While the rest of you therefore were, as the saying goes, sipping wine while the house was falling, I went through some history books in my own possession. I came across passages that specifically mentioned some of the investigations on the ‘Origin Question’ in late-Imperial times. Particular documents–both printed and filmed–were referred to and quoted from. I returned to the Library and made a personal check for those documents. I assure you there was nothing.”

Delarmi said, “Even if this is so, it need not be surprising. If Earth is indeed a myth–”

“Then I would find it in mythological references. If it were a story of Grandmother Spacewarp, I would find it in the collected tales of Grandmother Spacewarp. If it were a figment of the diseased mind, I would find it under psychopathology. The fact is that something about Earth exists or you would not all have heard of it and, indeed, immediately recognized it as the name of the putative planet of origin of the human species. Why, then, is there no reference to it in the Library, anywhere?”

Delarmi was silent for a moment and another Speaker interposed. He was Leonis Cheng, a rather small man with an encyclopedic knowledge of the minutiae of the Seldon Plan and a rather myopic attitude toward the actual Galaxy. His eyes tended to blink rapidly when he spoke.

He said, “It is well known that the Empire in its final days attempted to create an Imperial mystique by soft-pedaling all interest in pre-Imperial times.”

Gendibal nodded. “Soft-pedaled is the precise term, Speaker Cheng. That is not equivalent to destroying evidence. As you should know better than anyone, another characteristic of Imperial decay was a sudden interest in earlier–and presumably better–times. I have just referred to the interest in the ‘Origin Question’ in Hari Seldon’s time.”

Cheng interrupted with a formidable clearing of the throat. “I know this very well, young man, and know far more of these social problems of Imperial decay than you seem to think I do. The process of ‘Imperialization’ overtook these dilettantish games concerning Earth. Under Cleon II, during the Empire’s last resurgence, two centuries after Seldon, Imperialization reached its peak and all speculation on the question of Earth came to an end. There was even a directive in Cleon’s time concerning this, referring to the interest in such things as (and I think I quote it correctly) ‘stale and unproductive speculation that tends to undermine the people’s love of the Imperial throne.”‘

Gendibal smiled. “Then it was in the time of Cleon II, Speaker Cheng, that you would place the destruction of all reference to Earth?”

“I draw no conclusions. I have simply stated what I have stated.”

“It is shrewd of you to draw no conclusions. By Cleon’s time, the Empire may have been resurgent, but the University and Library, at least, were in our hands or, at any rate, in those of our predecessors. It would have been impossible for any material to be removed from the Library without the Speakers of the Second Foundation knowing it. In fact, it would have been the Speakers to whom the task would have had to be entrusted, though the dying Empire would not have known that.”

Gendibal paused, but Cheng, saying nothing, looked over the other’s head.

Gendibal said, “It follows that the Library could not have been emptied of material on Earth during Seldon’s time, since the ‘Origin Question’ was then an active preoccupation. It could not have been emptied afterward because the Second Foundation was in charge. Yet the Library is empty of it now. How can this be?”

Delarmi broke in impatiently, “You may stop weaving the dilemma, Gendibal. We see it. What is it that you suggest as a solution? That you have removed the documents yourself?”

“As usual, Delarmi, you penetrate to the heart.” And Gendibal bent his head to her in sardonic respect (at which she allowed herself a slight lifting of the lip). “One solution is that the cleansing was done by a Speaker of the Second Foundation, someone who would know how to use curators without leaving a memory behind –and computers without leaving a record behind:”

First Speaker Shandess turned red. “Ridiculous, Speaker Gendibal. I cannot imagine a Speaker doing this. What would the motivation be? Even if, for some reason, the material on Earth were removed, why keep it from the rest of the Table? Why risk a complete destruction of one’s career by tampering with the Library when the chances of its being discovered are so great? Besides, I don’t think that even the most skillful Speaker could perform the task without leaving a trace.”

“Then it must be, First Speaker, that you disagree with Speaker Delarmi in her suggestion that I did it”

“I certainly do,” said the First Speaker. “Sometimes I doubt your judgment, but I have yet to consider you downright insane.”

“Then it must never have happened, First Speaker. The material on Earth must still be in the Library, for we now seem to have eliminated all the possible ways in which it could have been removed–and yet the material is not there.”

Delarmi said with an affectation of weariness, “Well well, let us finish. Again, what is it you suggest as a solution? I am sure you think you have one.”

“If you are sure, Speaker, we may all be sure as well. My suggestion is that the Library was cleansed by someone of the Second Foundation who was under the control of a subtle force from outside the Second Foundation. The cleansing went unnoticed because that same force saw to it that it was not noticed.”

Delarmi laughed. “Until you found out. You–the uncontrolled. and uncontrollable. If this mysterious force existed, how did you find out about the absence of material from the Library? Why weren’t you controlled?”

Gendibal said gravely, “It’s not a laughing matter, Speaker. They feel, that all tampering should be held to a minimum. When my life was in danger a few days ago, I was more concerned with refraining from fiddling with a Hamish mind than with protecting myself. So it might be with these others–as soon as they felt it was safe they ceased tampering. That is the danger, the deadly danger. The fact that I could find out what has happened may mean they no longer care that I do. The fact that they no longer care may mean that they feel they have already won. And we continue to play our games here!”

“But what aim do they have in all this? What conceivable aim?” demanded Delarmi, shuffling her feet and biting her lips. She felt her power fading as the Table grew more interested–concerned–

Gendibal said, “Consider– The First Foundation, with its enormous arsenal of physical power, is searching for Earth. They pretend to send out two exiles, hoping we will think that is all they are, but would they equip them with ships of unbelievable power–ships that can move ten thousand parsecs in less than an hour–if that was all that they were?

“As for the Second Foundation, we have not been searching for Earth and, clearly, steps have been taken without our knowledge to keep any information of Earth away from us. The First Foundation is now so close to finding Earth and we are so far from doing so, that–”

Gendibal paused and Delarmi said, “That what? Finish your childish tale. Do you know anything or don’t you?”

“I don’t know everything, Speaker. I have not penetrated the total depth of the web that is encircling us, but I know the web is there. I don’t know what the significance of finding Earth might be, but I am certain the Second Foundation is in enormous danger and, with it, the Seldon Plan and the future of all humanity.”

Delarmi rose to her feet. She was not smiling and she spoke in a tense but tightly controlled voice. “Trash? First Speaker, put an end to this! What is at issue is the accused’s behavior. What he tells us is not only childish but irrelevant. He cannot extenuate his behavior by building a cobwebbery of theories that makes sense only in his own mind. I call for a vote on the matter now–a unanimous vote for conviction.”

“Wait,” said Gendibal sharply. “I have been told I would have an opportunity to defend myself, and there remains one more item–one more. Let me present that, and you may proceed to a vote with no further objection from me.”

The First Speaker rubbed his eyes wearily. “You may continue, Speaker Gendibal. Let me point out to the Table that the conviction of an impeached Speaker is so weighty and, indeed, unprecedented an action that we dare not give the appearance of not allowing a full defense. Remember, too, that even if the verdict satisfies us, it may not satisfy those who come after us, and I cannot believe that a Second Foundationer of any level–let alone the Speakers of the Table–would not have a full appreciation of the importance of historical perspective. Let us so act that we can be certain of the approval of the Speakers who will follow us in the coming centuries.”

Delarmi said bitterly, “We run the risk, First Speaker, of having posterity laugh at us for belaboring the obvious. To continue the defense is your decision.”

Gendibal drew a deep breath. “In line with your decision, then, First Speaker, I wish to call a witness–a young woman I met three days ago and without whom I might not have reached the Table meeting at all, instead of merely being late.”

“Is the woman you speak of known to the Table?” asked the First Speaker.

“No, First Speaker. She is native to this planet.”

Delarmi’s eyes opened wide. “A Hamishwoman?”

“Indeed! Just so!”

Delarmi said, “What have we to do with one of those? Nothing they say can be of any importance. They don’t exist!”

Gendibal’s lips drew back tightly over his teeth in something that could not possibly have been mistaken for a smile. He said sharply, “Physically all the Hamish exist. They are human beings and play their part in Seldon’s Plan. In their indirect protection of the Second Foundation, they play a crucial part. I wish to dissociate myself from Speaker Delarmi’s inhumanity and hope that her remark will be retained in the record and be considered hereafter as evidence for her possible unfitness for the position of Speaker. –Will the rest of the Table agree with the Speaker’s incredible remark and deprive me of my witness?”

The First Speaker said, “Call your witness, Speaker.”

Gendibal’s lips relaxed into the normal expressionless features of a Speaker under pressure. His mind was guarded and fenced in, but behind this protective barrier, he felt that the danger point had passed and that he had won.

2.

SURA NOVI LOOKED strained. Her eyes were wide and her lower lip was faintly trembling. Her hands were slowly clenching and unclenching and her chest was heaving slightly. Her hair had been pulled back and braided into a bun; her sun-darkened face twitched now and then. Her hands fumbled at the pleats of her long skirt. She looked hastily around the Table–from Speaker to Speaker–her wide eyes filled with awe.

They glanced back at her with varying degrees of contempt and discomfort. Delarmi kept her eyes well above the top of Novi’s head, oblivious to her presence.

Carefully Gendibal touched the skin of her mind, soothing and relaxing it. He might have done the same by patting her hand or stroking her cheek, but here, under these circumstances, that was impossible, of course.

He said, “First Speaker, I am numbing this woman’s conscious awareness so that her testimony wilt not be distorted by fear. Will you please observe–will the rest of you, if you wish, join me and observe that I will, in no way, modify her mind?”

Novi had started back in terror at Gendibal’s voice, and Gendibal was not surprised at that. He realized that she had never heard Second Foundationers of high rank speak among themselves. She had never experienced that odd swift combination of sound, tone, expression and thought. The terror, however, faded as quickly as it came, as he gentled her mind.

A look of placidity crossed her face.

“There is a chair behind you, Novi,” Gendibal said. “Please sit down.”

Novi curtsied in a small and clumsy manner and sat down, holding herself stiffly.

She talked quite clearly, but Gendibal made her repeat when her Hamish accent became too thick. And because he kept his own speech formal in deference to the Table, he occasionally had to repeat his own questions to her.

The tale of the fight between himself and Rufirant was described quietly and well.

Gendibal said, “Did you see all this yourself, Novi?”

“Nay, Master, or I would have sooner-stopped it. Rufirant be good fellow, but not quick in head.”

“But you described it all. How is that possible if you did not see it all?

“Rufirant be telling me thereof, on questioning. He be ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Have you ever known him to behave in this manner in earlier times?”

“Rufirant? Nay, Master. He be gentle, though he be large. He be no fighter and he be afeared of scowlers. He say often they are mighty and possessed of power.”

“ Why didn’t he feel this way when he met me?”

“It be strange. It be not understood.” She shook her head. “He be not his ain self. I said to him, ‘Thou blubber-head. Be it your place to assault scowler?’ And he said, ‘I know not how it happened. It be like I am to one side, standing and watching not-I.”‘

Speaker Cheng interrupted. “First Speaker, of what value is it to have this woman report what a man has told her? Is not the man available for questioning?”

Gendibal said, “He is. If, on completion of this woman’s testimony, the Table wishes to hear more evidence, I will be ready to call Karoll Rufirant–my recent antagonist–to the stand. If not, the Table can move directly to judgment when I am done with this witness.”

“Very well,” said the First Speaker. “Proceed with your witness.”

Gendibal said, “And you, Novi?  Was it like you to interfere in a fight in this manner?”

Novi did not say anything for a moment. A small frown appeared between her thick eyebrows and then disappeared. She said, “I know not. I wish no harm to scowlers. I be, driven, and without thought I in-middled myself.” A pause, then., “I be do it over if need arise.”

Gendibal said, “Novi, you will sleep now. You will think of nothing. You will rest and you will not even dream.”

Novi mumbled for a moment. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the headrest of her chair.

Gendibal waited a moment, then said, “First Speaker, with respect, follow me into this woman’s mind. You will find it remarkably simple and symmetrical, which is fortunate, for what you will see might not have been visible otherwise. –Here–here! Do you observe? –If the rest of you will enter–it will be easier if it is done one at a time.”

There was a rising buzz about the Table.

Gendibal said, “Is there any doubt among you?”

Delarmi said, “I doubt it, for–” She paused on the brink of what was–even for her–unsayable.

Gendibal said it for her. “You think I deliberately tampered with this mind in order to present false evidence? You think, therefore, that I am capable of bringing about so delicate an adjustment–one mental fiber clearly out of shape with nothing about it or its surroundings that is in the least disturbed? If I could do that, what need would I have to deal with any of you in this manner? Why subject myself to the indignity of a trial? Why labor to convince you? If I could do what is visible in this woman’s mind, you would all be helpless before me unless you were well prepared. –the blunt fact is that none of you could manipulate a mind as this woman’s has been manipulated. Neither can I. Yet it has been done.”

He paused, looking at all the Speakers in turn, then fixing his gaze on Delarmi. He spoke slowly. “Now, if anything more is required, I will call in the Hamish farmer, Karoll Rufirant, whom I have examined and whose mind has also been tampered with in this manner.”

“That will not be necessary,” said the First Speaker, who was wearing an appalled expression. “What we have seen is mindshaking.”

“In that case,” said Gendibal, “may I rouse this Hamishwoman and dismiss her? I have arranged for there to be those outside who will see to her recovery.”

When Novi had left, directed by Gendibal’s gentle hold on her elbow, be said, “Let me quickly summarize. Minds can be–and have been altered in ways that are beyond our power. In this way, the curators themselves could have been influenced to remove Earth material from the Library–without our knowledge or their own. We see how it was arranged that I should be delayed in arriving at a meeting of the Table. I was threatened; I was rescued. The result was that I was impeached. The result of this apparently natural concatenation of events is that I may be removed from a position of power–and the course of action which I champion and which threatens these people, whoever they are, may be negated.”

Delarmi leaned forward. She was clearly shaken. “If this secret organization is so clever, how were you able to discover all this?”

Gendibal felt free to smile, now. “No credit to me,” he said. “I lay no claim to expertise superior to that of other Speakers; certainly not to the First Speaker. However, neither are these Anti-Mules–as the First Speaker has rather engagingly called them–infinitely wise or infinitely immune to circumstance. Perhaps they chose this particular Hamishwoman as their instrument precisely because she needed very little adjustment. She was, of her own character, sympathetic to what she calls ‘scholars,’ and admired them intensely.

“But then, once this was over, her momentary contact with me strengthened her fantasy of becoming a ‘scholar’ herself. She came to me the next day with that purpose in mind. Curious at this peculiar ambition of hers, I studied her mind–which I certainly would not otherwise have done–and, more by accident than anything else, stumbled upon the adjustment and noted its significance. Had another woman been chosen–one with a less natural pro-scholar bias–the Anti-Mules might have had to labor more at the adjustment, but the consequences might well not have followed and I would have remained ignorant of all this. The Anti-Mules miscalculated–or could not sufficiently allow for the unforseen. That they can stumble so is heartening.”

Delarmi said, “The First Speaker and you call this–organization –the ‘Anti-Mules,’ I presume, because they seem to labor to keep tile Galaxy in the ,path of the. Seldon Plan, rather than to disrupt it as the Male himself did. If the Anti-Mules do this, why are they dangerous?”

“Why should then labor, if not for some purpose? We don’t know what that purpose as. A cynic might say that they intend to step in at some future time and thin the current in another direction, one tat mar please them far more than it would please ifs. That is my own feeling, even though I do riot major in cynicism. Is Speaker Delarmi prepared to maintain, out of the love and trust that we all know form so great a part of her character, that these are cosmic altruists, doing our work for us, without dream of reward?”

There was a gentle susurration of laughter about the Table at this and Gendibal knew that he had won. And Delarmi knew that she had lost, for there was a wash of rage that showed through her harsh mentalic control like a momentary ray of ruddy sunlight through a thick canopy of leaves.

Gendibal said, “When I first experienced the incident with the Hamish farmer, I leaped to the conclusion that another Speaker was behind it. When I noted the adjustment of the Hamishwoman’s mind, I knew that I was right as to the plot but wrong as to the plotter. I apologize for the misinterpretation and I plead the circumstances as an extenuation.”

The First Speaker said, “I believe this may be construed as an apology”

Delarmi interrupted. She was quite placid again–her face was friendly, her voice downright saccharine. “With total respect, First Speaker, if I may interrupt– Let us drop this matter of impeachment. At this moment, I would not vote for conviction and I imagine no one will. I would even suggest the impeachment be stricken from the Speaker’s unblemished record. Speaker Gendibal has exonerated himself ably. I congratulate him on that–and for uncovering a crisis that the rest of us might well have allowed to smolder on indefinitely, with incalculable results. I offer the Speaker my wholehearted apologies for my earlier hostility.”

She virtually beamed at Gendibal, who felt a reluctant admiration for the manner in which she shifted direction instantly in order to cut her losses. He also felt that all this was but preliminary to an attack from a new direction.

He was certain that what was coming would not be pleasant.

3.

WHEN SHE EXERTED herself to be charming, Speaker Delora Delarmi had a way of dominating the Speaker’s Table. Her voice grew soft, her smile indulgent, her eyes sparkling, all of her sweet. No one cared to interrupt her and everyone waited for the blow to fall.

She said, “Thanks to Speaker Gendibal, I think we all now understand what we must do. We do not see the Anti-Mules; we know nothing about them, except for their fugitive touches on the minds of people right here in the stronghold of the Second Foundation itself. We do not know what the power center of the First Foundation is planning. We may face an alliance of the Anti-Mules and the First Foundation. We don’t know.

“We do know that this Golan Trevize and his companion, whose name escapes me at the moment, are going we know not where– and that the First Speaker and Gendibal feel that Trevize holds the key to the outcome of this great crisis. What, then, are we to do? Clearly we must find out everything we can about Trevize; where he is going, what he is thinking, what his purpose may be; or, indeed, whether he has any destination, any thought, any purpose; whether he might not, in fact, be a mere tool of a force greater than he.”

Gendibal said, “He is under observation.”

Delarmi pursed her lips in an indulgent smile. “By whom? By one of our outworld agents? Are such agents to be expected to stand against those with the powers we have seen demonstrated here? Surely not. In the Mule’s time, and later on, too, the Second Foundation did not hesitate to send out–and even to sacrifice–volunteers from among the best we had, since nothing less would do. When it was necessary to restore the Seldon Plan, Preem Palver himself scoured the Galaxy as a Trantorian trader in order to bring back that girl, Arkady. We cannot sit here and wait, now, when the crisis may be greater than in either previous case. We cannot rely on minor functionaries–watchers and messenger boys.”

Gendibal said, “Surely you are not suggesting that the First Speaker leave Trantor at this time?”

Delarmi said, “Certainly not. We need him badly here. On the other hand, there is you, Speaker Gendibal. It is you who have correctly sensed and weighed the crisis. It is you who detected the subtle outside interference with the Library and with Hamish minds. It is you who have maintained your views against the united opposition of the Table–and won. No one here has seen as clearly as you have and no one can be trusted, as you can, to continue to see clearly. It is you who must, in my opinion, go out to confront the enemy. May I have the sense of the Table?”

There was no formal vote needed to reveal that sense. Each Speaker felt the minds of the others and it was clear to a suddenly appalled Gendibal that, at the moment of his victory and Delarmi’s defeat, this formidable woman was managing to send him irrevocably into exile on a task that might occupy him for some indefinite period, while she remained behind to control the Table and, therefore, the Second Foundation and, therefore, the Galaxy–sending all alike, perhaps, to their doom.

And if Gendibal-in-exile should, somehow, manage to gather the information that would enable the Second Foundation to avert the gathering crisis, it would be Delarmi who would have the credit for having arranged it, and his success would but confirm her power. The quicker Gendibal would be, the more efficiently he succeeded, the more surely he would confirm her power.

It was a beautiful maneuver, an unbelievable recovery.

And so clearly was she dominating the Table even now that she was virtually usurping the First Speaker’s role. Gendibal’s thought to that effect was overtaken by the rage he sensed from the First Speaker.

He turned. The First Speaker was making no effort to hide his anger–and it soon was clear that another internal crisis was building to replace the one that had been resolved.

4.

QUINDOR SHANDESS, THE twenty-fifth First Speaker, had no extraordinary illusions about himself.

He knew he was not one of those few dynamic First Speakers who had illuminated the five-century-long history of the Second Foundation–but then, he didn’t have to be. He controlled the Table in a quiet period of Galactic prosperity and it was not a time for dynamism. It had seemed to be a time to play a holding game and he had been the man for this role. His predecessor had chosen him for that reason.

“You are not an adventurer, you are a scholar,” the twenty-fourth First Speaker had said. “You will preserve the Plan, where an adventurer might ruin it. Preserve! Let that be the key word for your Table.”

He had tried, but it had meant a passive First Speakership and this had been, on occasion, interpreted as weakness. There had been recurrent rumors that he meant to resign and there had been open intrigue to assure the succession in one direction or another.

There was no doubt in Shandess’s mind that Delarmi had been a leader in the fight. She was the strongest personality at the Table and even Gendibal, with all the fire and folly of youth, retreated before her, as he was doing right now.

But, by Seldon, passive he might be, or even weak, but there was one prerogative of the First Speaker that not one in the line had ever given up, and neither would he do so.

He rose to speak and at once there was a hush about the Table. ‘When the First Speaker rose to speak, there could be no interruptions. Even Delarmi or Gendibal would not dare to interrupt.

He said, “Speakers! I agree that we face a dangerous crisis and that we must take strong measures. It is I who should go out to meet the enemy. Speaker Delarmi, with the gentleness that characterizes her, excuses me from the task by stating that I am needed here. The truth, however, is that I am needed neither here nor there. I grow old; I grow weary. There has long been expectation I would someday resign and perhaps I ought to. When this crisis is successfully surmounted, I shall resign.

“But, of course, it is the privilege of the First Speaker to choose his successor. I am going to do so now. There is one Speaker who has long dominated the proceedings of the Table; one Speaker who, by force of personality, has often supplied the leadership that I could not. You all know I am speaking of Speaker Delarmi.”

He paused, then said, “You alone, Speaker Gendibal, are registering disapproval. May I ask why?” He sat down, so that Gendibal might have the right to answer.

“I do not disapprove, First Speaker,” said Gendibal in a low voice. “It is your prerogative to choose your successor.”

“And so I will. ‘When you return–having succeeded in initiating the process that will put an end to this crisis–it will be time for my resignation. My successor will then be directly in charge of conducting whatever policies may be required to carry on and complete that process. –Do you have anything to say, Speaker Gendibal?”

Gendibal said quietly, “When you make Speaker Delarmi your successor, First Speaker, I hope you will see fit to advise her to–”

The First Speaker interrupted him roughly. “I have spoken of Speaker Delarmi, but I have not named her as my successor. Now what do you have to say?”

“My apologies, First Speaker. I should have said, assuming you make Speaker Delarmi your successor upon my return from this mission, would you see fit to advise her to–”

“Nor will I make her my successor in the future, under any conditions. Now what do you have to say?” The First Speaker was unable to make this announcement without a stab of satisfaction at the blow he was delivering to Delarmi. He could not have done it in a more humiliating fashion.

“Well, Speaker Gendibal,” he said, “what do you have to say?”

“That I am confused.”

The First Speaker rose again. He said, “Speaker Delarmi has dominated and led, but that is not all that is needed for the post of First Speaker. Speaker Gendibal has seen what we have not seen. He has faced the united hostility of the Table, and forced it to rethink matters, and has dragged it into agreement with him. I have my suspicions as to the motivation of Speaker Delarmi in placing the responsibility of the pursuit of Golan Trevize on the shoulders of Speaker Gendibal, but that is where the burden belongs. I know he will succeed–I trust my intuition in this–and when he returns, Speaker Gendibal will become the twenty-sixth First Speaker.”

He sat down abruptly and each Speaker began to make clear his opinion in a bedlam of sound, tone, thought, and expression. The First Speaker paid no attention to the cacophony, but stared indifferently before him. Now that it was done, he realized–with some surprise–the great comfort there was in laying down the mantle of responsibility. He should have done it before this–but he couldn’t have.

It was not till now that he had found his obvious successor.

And then, somehow, his mind caught that of Delarmi and he looked up at her.

By Seldon! She was calm and smiling. Her desperate disappointment did not show–she had not given up. He wondered if he had played into her hands. ‘What was there left for her to do?

5.

DELORA DELARMI WOULD freely have shown her desperation and disappointment, if that would have proven of any use whatever.

It would have given her a great deal of satisfaction to strike out at that senile fool who controlled the Table or at that juvenile idiot with whom Fortune had conspired–but satisfaction wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted something more.

She wanted to be First Speaker.

And while there was a card left to play, she would play it.

She smiled gently, and managed to lift her hand as though she were about to speak, and then held the pose just long enough to insure that when she did speak, all would be not merely normal, but radiantly quiet.

She said, “First Speaker, as Speaker Gendibal said earlier, I do not disapprove. It is your prerogative to choose your successor. If I speak now, it is in order that I may contribute–I hope–to the success of what has now become Speaker Gendibal’s mission. May I explain my thoughts, First Speaker?”

“Do so,” said the First Speaker curtly. She was entirely too smooth, too pliant, it seemed to him.

Delarmi bent her head gravely. She no longer smiled. She said, “We have ships. They are not as technologically magnificent as those of the First Foundation, but they will carry Speaker Gendibal He knows how to pilot one, I believe, as do we all. We have our representatives on every major planet in the Galaxy, and he will be welcomed everywhere. Moreover, he can defend himself against even these Anti-Mules, now that he is thoroughly aware of the danger. Even when we were unaware, I suspect they have preferred to work through the lower classes and even the Hamish farmers. We will, of course, thoroughly inspect the minds of all the Second Foundationers, including the Speakers, but I am sure they have remained inviolate. The Anti-Mules did not dare interfere with us.

“Nevertheless, there is no reason why Speaker Gendibal should risk more than he must. He is not intending to engage in derring-do and it will be best if his mission is to some extent disguised–if he takes them unaware. It will be useful if he goes in the role of a Hamish trader. Preem Palver, we all know, went off into the Galaxy as a supposed trader.”

The First Speaker said, “Preem Palver had a specific purpose in doing so; Speaker Gendibal has not. If it appears a disguise of some sort is necessary, I am sure he will be ingenious enough to adopt one.”

“With respect, First Speaker, I wish to point out a subtle disguise. Preem Palver, you will remember, took with him his wife and companion of many years. Nothing so thoroughly established the rustic nature of his character as the fact that he was traveling with his wife. It allayed all suspicion.”

Gendibal said, “I have no wife. I have had companions, but none who would now volunteer to assume the marital role.”

“This is well known, Speaker Gendibal,” said Delarmi, “but then people will take the role for granted if any woman is with you. Surely some volunteer can be found. And if you feel the need to be able to present documentary evidence, that can be provided. I think a woman should come with you.”

For a moment, Gendibal was breathless. Surely she did not mean–

Could it be a ploy to achieve a share in the success? Could she be playing for a joint–or rotating–occupation of the First Speakership?

Gendibal said grimly, “I am flattered that Speaker Delarmi should feel that she–”

And Delarmi broke into an open laugh and looked at Gendibal with what was almost true affection. He had fallen into the trap and looked foolish for having done so. The Table would not forget that.

She said, “Speaker Gendibal, I would not have the impertinence to attempt to share in this task. it is yours and yours alone, as the post of First Speaker will be yours and yours alone. I would not have thought you wanted me with you. Really, Speaker, at my age, I no longer think of myself as a charmer–”

There were smiles around the Table and even the First Speaker tried to hide one.

Gendibal felt the stroke and labored not to compound the loss by failing to match her lightness. It was labor lost.

He said, as unsavagely as he could, “Then what is it you would suggest? It was not in my thoughts, I assure you, that you would wish to accompany me. You are at your best at the Table and not in the hurly-burly of Galactic affairs, I know.”

“I agree, Speaker Gendibal, I agree,” said Delarmi. “My suggestion, however, refers back to your role as Hamish trader. To make it indisputably authentic, what better companion need you ask but a Hamishwoman?”

“A Hamishwoman?” For a second time in rapid succession, Gendibal was caught by surprise and the Table enjoyed it.

“The Hamishwoman,” Delarmi went on. “The one who saved you from a beating. The one who gazes at you worshipfully. The one whose mind you probed and who then, quite unwittingly, saved you a second time from considerably more than a beating. I suggest you take her.”

Gendibal’s impulse was to refuse, but he knew that she expected that. It would mean more enjoyment for the Table. It was clear now that the First Speaker, anxious to strike out at Delarmi, had made a mistake by naming Gendibal his successor–or, at the very least, that Delarmi had quickly converted it into one.

Gendibal was the youngest of the Speakers. He had angered the Table and had then avoided conviction by them. In a very real way, he had humiliated them. None could see him as the heir apparent without resentment.

That would have been hard enough to overcome, but now they would remember how easily Delarmi had twitched him into ridicule and how much they had enjoyed it. She would use that to convince them, all too easily, that he lacked the age and experience for the role of First Speaker. Their united pressure would force the First Speaker into changing his decision while Gendibal was off on his mission. Or, if the First Speaker held fast, Gendibal would eventually find himself with an office that would be forever helpless in the face of united opposition.

He saw it all in an instant and was able to answer as though with out hesitation.–

He said, “Speaker Delarmi, I admire your insight. I had thought to surprise you all. It was indeed my intention to take the Hamishwoman, though not quite for the very good reason you suggest. It was for her mind that I wished to take her with me. You have all examined that mind. You saw it for what it was: surprisingly intelligent but, more than that, clear, simple, utterly without guile. No touch upon it by others would go unnoticed, as I’m sure you all concluded.

“I wonder if it occurred to you, then, Speaker Delarmi, that she would serve as an excellent early-warning system. I would detect the first symptomatic presence of mentalism by way of her mind, earlier, I think, than by way of mine.”

There was a kind of astonished silence at that, and he said, lightly. “Ah, none of you saw that. Well well, not important! And I will take my leave now. There’s no time to lose.”

“Wait,” said Delarmi, her initiative lost a third time. “What do you intend to do?”

Gendibal said with a small shrug. “Why go into details? The less the Table knows, the less the Anti-Mules are likely to attempt to disturb it.”

He said it as though the safety of the Table was his prime concern. He filled his mind with that, and let it show.

It would flatter them. More than that, the satisfaction it would bring might keep them from wondering whether, in fact, Gendibal knew exactly what it was he intended to do.

6.

THE FIRST SPEAKER spoke to Gendibal alone that evening.

“You were right,” he said. “I could not help brushing below the surface of your mind. I saw you considered the announcement a mistake and it was. It was my eagerness to wipe that eternal smile off her face and to strike back at the casual way in which she so frequently usurps my role.”

Gendibal said gently, “It might have been better if you had told me privately and had then waited for my return to go further.”

“That would not have allowed me to strike out at her. –Poor motivation for a First Speaker, I know.”

“This won’t stop her, First Speaker. She will still intrigue for the post and perhaps with good reason. I’m sure there are some who would argue that I should have refused your nomination. It would not be hard to argue that Speaker Delarmi has the best mind at the Table and would make the best First Speaker.”

“The best mind at the Table, not away from it,” grumbled Shandess. “She recognizes no real enemies, except for other Speakers. She ought never to have been made a Speaker in the first place. –See here, shall I forbid you to take the Hamishwoman? She maneuvered you into that, I know.”

“No no, the reason I advanced for taking her is a true one. She will be an early-warning system and I am grateful to Speaker Delarmi for pushing me into realizing that. The woman will prove very useful, I’m convinced.”

“Good, then. By the way, I wasn’t lying, either. I am truly certain that you will accomplish whatever is needed to end this crisis–if you can trust my intuition.”

“I think I can trust it, for I agree with you. I promise you that whatever happens, I will return better than I receive. I will come back to be First Speaker, whatever the Anti-Mules–or Speaker Delarmi–can do.”

Gendibal studied his own satisfaction even as he spoke. Why was he so pleased, so insistent, on this one-ship venture into space? Ambition, of course. Preem Palver had once done just this sort of thing–and he was going to show that Stor Gendibal could do it, too. No one could withhold the First Speakership from him after that. And yet was there more than ambition? The lure of combat? The generalized desire for excitement in one who had been confined to a hidden patch on a backward planet all his adult life? –He didn’t entirely know, but he knew he was desperately intent on going.

11. Sayshell

1.

JANOV PELORAT WATCHED, for the first time in his life, as the bright star graduated into an orb after what Trevize had called a “micro-Jump.” The fourth planet–the habitable one and their immediate destination, Sayshell–then grew in size and prominence more slowly–over a period of days.

A map of the planet had been produced by the computer and was displayed on a portable screening device, which Pelorat held in his lap.

Trevize–with the aplomb of someone who had, in his time, touched down upon several dozen worlds–said, “Don’t start watching too hard too soon, Janov. We have to go through the entry station first and that can be tedious.”

Pelorat looked up. “Surely that’s just a formality.”

“It is. But it can still be tedious.”

“But it’s peacetime.”

“Of course. That means we’ll be passed through. First, though, there’s a little matter of the ecological balance. Every planet has its own and they don’t want it upset. So they make a natural point of checking the ship for undesirable organisms, or infections. It’s a reasonable precaution.”

“We don’t have such things, it seems to me.”

“No, we don’t and they’ll find that out. Remember, too, that Sayshell is not a member of the Foundation Federation, so there’s certain to be some leaning over backward to demonstrate their independence.”

A small ship came out to inspect them and a Sayshellian Customs official boarded. Trevize was brisk, not having forgotten his military days.

“The Far Star, out of Terminus,” he said. “Ship’s papers. Unarmed. Private vessel. My passport. There is one passenger. His passport. We are tourists.”

The Customs official wore a garish uniform in which crimson was the dominating color. Cheeks and upper lip were smooth-shaven, but he wore a short beard parted in such a way that tufts thrust out to both sides of his chin. He said, “Foundation ship?”

He pronounced it “Foundaysun sip,” but Trevize was careful neither to correct him nor to smile. There were as many varieties of dialects to Galactic Standard as there were planets, and you just spoke your own. As long as there was cross-comprehension, it didn’t matter.

“Yes, sir,” said Trevize. “Foundation ship. Privately owned.”

“Very nice. –Your lading, if you please.”

“My what?”

“Your lading. What are you carrying?”

“Ah, my cargo. Here is the itemized list. Personal property only. We are not here to trade. As I told you, we are simply tourists.”

The Customs official looked about curiously. “This is rather an elaborate vessel for tourists.”

“Not by Foundation standards,” said Trevize with a display of good humor. “And I’m well off and can afford this.”

“Are you suggesting that I might be richified?” The official looked at him briefly, then looked away.

Trevize hesitated a moment in order to interpret the meaning of the word, then another moment to decide his course of action. He said, “No, it is not my intention to bribe you. I have no reason to bribe you–and you don’t look like the kind of person who could be bribed, if that were my intention. You can look over the ship, if you wish.”

“No need,” said the official, putting away his pocket recorder. “You have already been examined for specific contraband infection and have passed. The ship has been assigned a radio wavelength that will serve as an approach beam.”

He left. The whole procedure had taken fifteen minutes.

Pelorat said in a low voice. “Could he have made trouble? Did he really expect a bribe?”

Trevize shrugged. “Tipping the Customs man is as old as the Galaxy and I would have done it readily if he had made a second try for it. As it is–well, I presume he prefers not to take a chance with a Foundation ship, and a fancy one, at that. The old Mayor, bless her cross-grained hide, said the name of the Foundation would protect us wherever we went and she wasn’t wrong. –It could have taken a great deal longer.”

“Why? He seemed to find out what he wanted to know.”

“Yes, but he was courteous enough to check us by remote radioscanning. If he had wished, he could have gone over the ship with a hand-machine and taken hours. He could have put us both in a field hospital and kept us days.”

“What? My dear fellow!”

“Don’t get excited. He didn’t do it. I thought he might, but he didn’t. Which means we’re free to land. I’d like to go down gravitically–which could take us fifteen minutes–but I don’t know where the permitted landing sites might be and I don’t want to cause trouble. That means we’ll have to follow the radio beam– which will take hours–as we spiral down through the atmosphere.”

Pelorat looked cheerful. “But that’s excellent, Golan. Will we be going slowly enough to watch the terrain?” He held up his portable viewscreen with the map spread out on it at low magnification.

“After a fashion. We’d have to get beneath the cloud deck, and we’ll be moving at a few kilometers per second. It won’t be ballooning through the atmosphere, but you’ll spot the planetography.”

“Excellent! Excellent!”

Trevize said thoughtfully, “I’m wondering, though, if we’ll be on Sayshell Planet long enough to make it worth our while to adjust the ship’s clock to local time.”

“It depends on what we plan to do, I suppose. What do you think we’ll be doing, Golan?”

“Our job is to find Gaia and I don’t know how long that will take.”

Pelorat said, “We can adjust our wrist-strips and leave the ship’s clock as is.”

“Good enough,” said Trevize. He looked down at the planet spreading broadly beneath them. “No use waiting any longer. I’ll adjust the computer to our assigned radio beam and it can use the gravities to mimic conventional flight. So! –Let’s go down, Janov, and see what we can find.”

He stared at the planet thoughtfully as the ship began to move on its smoothly adjusted gravitational potential-curve.

Trevize had never been in the Sayshell Union, but he knew that over the last century it had been steadfastly unfriendly to the Foundation. He was surprised–and a little dismayed–they had gotten through Customs so quickly.

It didn’t seem reasonable.

2.

THE CUSTOMS OFFICIAL’S name was Jogoroth Sobhaddartha and he had been serving on the station on and off for half his life.

He didn’t mind the life, for it gave him a chance–one month out of three–to view his books, to listen to his music, and to be away from his wife and growing son.

Of course, during the last two years the current Head of Customs had been a Dreamer, which was irritating. There is no one so insufferable as a person who gives no other excuse for a peculiar action than saying he had been directed to it in a dream.

Personally Sobhaddartha decided he believed none of it, though he was careful not to say so aloud, since most people on Sayshell rather disapproved of antipsychic doubts. To become known as a materialist might put his forthcoming pension at risk.

He stroked the two tufts of hair at his chin, one with his right hand and the other with his left, cleared his throat rather loudly, and then, with inappropriate casualness, said, “Was that the ship, Head?”

The Head, who bore the equally Sayshellian name of Namarath Godhisavatta, was concerned with a matter involving some computer-born data and did not look up. “What ship?” he said.

“The Far Star. The Foundation ship. The one I just sent past. The one that was holographed from every angle. Was that the one you dreamed of?”

Godhisavatta looked up now. He was a small man, with eyes that were almost black and that were surrounded by fine wrinkles that had not been produced by any penchant for smiling. He said, “Why do you ask?”

Sobhaddartha straightened up and allowed his dark and luxuriant eyebrows to approach each other. “They said they were tourists, but I’ve never seen a ship like that before and my own opinion is they’re Foundation agents.” –

Godhisavatta sat back in his chair. “See here, my man, try as I might I cannot recall asking for your opinion.”

“But Head, I consider it my patriotic duty to point out that–”

Godhisavatta crossed his arms over his chest and stared hard at the underling, who (though much the more impressive in physical stature and bearing) allowed himself to droop and take on a somehow bedraggled appearance under the gaze of his superior.

Godhisavatta said, “My man, if you know what is good for you, you will do your job without comment–or I’ll see to it that there will be no pension when you retire, which will be soon if I hear any more on a subject that does not concern you.”

In a low voice, Sobhaddartha said, “Yes, sir.” Then, with a suspicious degree of subservience in his voice, he added, “Is it within the range of my duties, sir, to report that a second ship is in range of our screens?”

“Consider it reported,” Godhisavatta said irritably, returning to his work.

“With,” said Sobhaddartha even more humbly, “characteristics very similar to the one I just sent through.”

Godhisavatta placed his hands on the desk and lifted himself to his feet. “A second one?”

Sobhaddartha smiled inwardly. That sanguinary person born of an irregular union (he was referring to the Head) had clearly not dreamed of two ships. He said, “Apparently, sir! I will now return to my post and await orders and I hope, sir–”

“Yes?”

Sobhaddartha could not resist, pension-risk notwithstanding. “And I hope, sir, we didn’t send the wrong one through.”

3.

THE FAR STAR moved rapidly across the face of Sayshell Planet and Pelorat watched with fascination. The cloud layer was thinner and more scattered than upon Terminus and, precisely as the map showed, the land surfaces were more compact and extensive–including broader desert areas, to judge by the rusty color of much of the continental expanse.

There were no signs of anything living. It seemed a world of sterile desert, gray plain, of endless wrinkles that might have represented mountainous areas, and, of course, of ocean.

“It looks lifeless,” muttered Pelorat.

“You don’t expect to see any life-signs at this height,” said Trevize. “As we get lower, you’ll see the land turn green in patches. Before that, in fact, you’ll see the twinkling landscape on the nightside. Human beings have a penchant for lighting their worlds when darkness falls; I’ve never heard of a world that’s an exception to that rule. In other words, the first sign of life you’ll see will not only be human but technological.”

Pelorat said thoughtfully, “Human beings are diurnal in nature, after all. It seems to me that among the very first tasks of a developing technology would be the conversion of night to day. In fact, if a world lacked technology and developed one, you ought to be able to follow the progress of technological development by the increase in light upon the darkened surface. How long would it take, do you suppose, to go from uniform darkness to uniform light?”

Trevize laughed. “You have odd thoughts, but I suppose that comes from being a mythologist. I don’t think a world would ever achieve a uniform glow. Night light would follow the pattern of population density, so that the continents would spark in knots and strings. Even Trantor at its height, when it was one huge structure, let light escape that structure only at scattered points.”

The land turned green as Trevize had predicted and, on the last circling of the globe, he pointed out markings that he said were cities. “It’s not a very urban world. I’ve never been in the Sayshell Union before, but according to the information the computer gives me, they tend to cling to the past. Technology, in the eyes of all the Galaxy, has been associated with the Foundation, and wherever the Foundation is unpopular, there is a tendency to cling to the past– except, of course, as far as weapons of war are concerned. I assure you Sayshell is quite modern in that respect.”

“Dear me, Golan, this is not going to be unpleasant, is it? We are Foundationers, after all, and being in enemy territory–”

“It’s not enemy territory, Janov. They’ll be perfectly polite, never fear. The Foundation just isn’t popular, that’s all. Sayshell is not part of the Foundation Federation. Therefore, because they’re proud of their independence and because they don’t like to remember that they are much weaker than the Foundation and remain independent only because we’re willing to let them remain so, they indulge in the luxury of disliking us.” –

“I fear it will still be unpleasant, then,” said Pelorat despondently.

“Not at all,” said Trevize. “Come on, Janov. I’m talking about the official attitude of the Sayshellian government. The individual people on the planet are just people, and if we’re pleasant and don’t act as though we’re Lords of the Galaxy, they’ll be pleasant, too. We’re not coming to Sayshell in order to establish Foundation mastery. We’re just tourists, asking the kind of questions about Sayshell that any tourist would ask.

“And we can have a little legitimate relaxation, too, if the situation permits. There’s nothing wrong with staying here a few days and experiencing what they have to offer. They may have an interesting culture, interesting scenery, interesting food, and–if all else fails–interesting women. We have money to spend.”

Pelorat frowned, “Oh, my dear chap.”

“Come on,” said Trevize. “You’re not that old. Wouldn’t you be interested?”

“I don’t say there wasn’t a time when I played that role properly, but surely this isn’t the time for it. We have a mission. We want to reach Gaia. I have nothing against a good time–I really don’t–but if we start involving ourselves, it might be difficult to pull free.” He shook his head and said mildly, “I think you feared that I might have too good a time at the Galactic Library on Trantor and would be unable to pull free. Surely, what the Library is to me, an attractive dark-eyed damsel–or five or six–might be to you.”

Trevize said, “I’m not a rakehell, Janov, but I have no intention of being ascetic, either. Very well, I promise you we’ll get on with this business of Gaia, but if something pleasant comes my way, there’s no reason in the Galaxy I ought not to respond normally.”

“If you’ll just put Gaia first–”

“I will. Just remember, though, don’t tell anyone we’re from the Foundation. They’ll know we are, because we’ve got Foundation credits and we speak with strong Terminus accents, but if we say nothing about it, they can pretend we are placeless strangers and be friendly. If we make a point of being Foundationers, they will speak politely enough, but they will tell us nothing, show us nothing, take us nowhere, and leave us strictly alone.”

Pelorat sighed. “I will never understand people.”

“There’s nothing to it. All you have to do is take a close look at yourself and you will understand everyone else. We’re in no way different ourselves. How would Seldon have worked out his Plan– and I don’t care how subtle his mathematics was–if he didn’t understand people; and how could he have done that if people weren’t easy to understand? You show me someone who can’t understand people and I’ll show you someone who has built up a false image of himself–no offense intended.”

“None taken. I’m willing to admit I’m inexperienced and that I’ve spent a rather self-centered and constricted life. It may be that I’ve never really taken a good look at myself, so I’ll let you be my guide and adviser where people are concerned.”

“Good. Then take my advice now and just watch the scenery. We’ll be landing soon and I assure you you’ll feel nothing. The computer and I will take care of everything.”

“Golan, don’t be annoyed. If a young woman should–”

“Forget it! Just let me take care of the landing.”

Pelorat turned to look at the world at the end of the ship’s contracting spiral. It would be the first foreign world upon which he would ever stand. This thought somehow filled him with foreboding, despite the fact that all the millions of inhabited planets in the Galaxy had been colonized by people who had not been born upon them.

All but one, he thought with a shudder of trepidation/delight.

4.

THE SPACEPORT WAS not large by Foundation standards, but it was well kept. Trevize watched the Far Star moved into a berth and locked in place. They were given an elaborate coded receipt.

Pelorat said in a low voice, “Do we just leave it here?”

Trevize nodded and placed his hand on the other’s shoulder in reassurance. “Don’t worry,” he said in an equally low voice.

They stepped into the ground-car they had rented and Trevize plugged in the map of the city, whose towers he could see on the horizon.

“Sayshell City,” he said, “the capital of the planet. City–planet–star–all named Sayshell.”

“I’m worried about the ship,” insisted Pelorat.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Trevize. “We’ll be back tonight, because it will be our sleeping quarters if we have to stay here more than a few hours. You have to understand, too, that there’s an interstellar code of spaceport ethics that–as far as I know–has never been broken, even in wartime. Spaceships that come in peace are inviolate. If that were not so, no one would be safe and trade would be impossible. Any world on which that code was broken would be boycotted by the space pilots of the Galaxy. I assure you, no world would risk that. Besides–”

“Besides?”

“Well, besides, I’ve arranged with the computer that anyone who doesn’t look and sound like one of us will be killed if he–or she– tries to board the ship. I’ve taken the liberty of explaining that to the Port Commander. I told him very politely that I would love to turn off that particular facility out of deference to the reputation that the Sayshell City Spaceport holds for absolute integrity and security–throughout the Galaxy, I said–but the ship is a new model and I didn’t know how to turn it off.”

“He didn’t believe that, surely.”

“Of course not! But he had to pretend he did, as otherwise he would have no choice but to be insulted. And since there would be nothing he could do about that, being insulted would only lead to humiliation. And since he didn’t want that, the simplest path to follow was to believe what I said.”

“And that’s another example of how people are?”

“Yes. You’ll get used to this.”

“How do you know this ground-car isn’t bugged?”

“I thought it might be. So when they offered me one, I took another one at random. If they’re all bugged–well, what have we been saying that’s so terrible?”

Pelorat looked unhappy. “I don’t know how to say this. It seems rather impolite to complain, but I don’t like the way it smells. There’s an–odor.”

“In the ground-car?”

“Well, in the spaceport, to begin with. I suppose that’s the way spaceports smell, but the ground-car carries the odor with it. Could we open the windows?”

Trevize laughed. “I suppose I could figure out which portion of the control panel will do that trick, but it won’t help. This planet stinks. Is it very bad?”

“It’s not very strong, but it’s noticeable–and somewhat repulsive. Does the whole world smell this way?”

“I keep forgetting you’ve never been on another world. Every inhabited world has its own odor. It’s the general vegetation, mostly, though I suppose the animals and even the human beings contribute. And as far as I know, nobody ever likes the smell of any world when he first lands on it. But you’ll get used to it, Janov. In a few hours, I promise you won’t notice.”

“Surely you don’t mean that all worlds smell like this.”

“No. As I said, each has its own. If we really paid attention or if our noses were a little keener–like those of Anacreonian dogs–we could probably tell which world we were on with one sniff. When I first entered the Navy I could never eat the first day on a new world; then I learned the old spacer trick of sniffing a handkerchief with the world-scent on it during the landing. By the time you get out into the open world, you don’t smell it. And after a while, you get hardened to the whole thing; you just learn to disregard it. –The worst of it is returning home, in fact.”

“Why?”

“Do you think Terminus doesn’t smell?”

“Are you telling me it does?”

“Of course it does. Once you get acclimated to the smell of another world, such as Sayshell, you’ll be surprised at the stench of Terminus. In the old days, whenever the locks opened on Terminus after a sizable tour of duty, all the crew would call out, ‘Back home to the crap.’”

Pelorat looked revolted.

The towers of the city were perceptibly closer, but Pelorat kept his eyes fixed on their immediate surroundings. There were other ground-cars moving in both directions and an occasional air-car above, but Pelorat was studying the trees.

He said, “The plant life seems strange. Do you suppose any of it is indigenous?”

“I doubt it,” said Trevize absently. He was studying the map and attempting to adjust the programming of the car’s computer. “There’s not much in the way of indigenous life on any human planet. Settlers always imported their own plants and animals– either at the time of settling or not too long afterward.”

“It seems strange, though.”

“You don’t expect the same varieties from world to world, Janov. I was once told that the Encyclopedia Galactica people put out an atlas of varieties which ran to eighty-seven fat computer-discs and was incomplete even so–and outdated anyway, by the time it was finished.”

The ground-car moved on and the outskirts of the city gaped and engulfed them. Pelorat shivered slightly, “I don’t think much of their city architecture.”

“To each his own,” said Trevize with the indifference of the seasoned space traveler.

“Where are we going, by the way?”

“Well,” said Trevize with a certain exasperation, “I’m trying to get the computer to guide this thing to the tourist center. I hope the computer knows the one-way streets and the traffic regulations, because I don’t.”

“What do we do there, Golan?”

“To begin with, we’re tourists, so that’s the place where we’d naturally go, and we want to be as inconspicuous and natural as we can. And secondly, where would you go to get information on Gaia?”

Pelorat said, “To a university–or an anthropological society–or a museum– Certainly not to a tourist center.”

“Well, you’re wrong. At the tourist center, we will be intellectual types who are eager to have a listing of the universities in the city and the museums and so on. We’ll decide where to go to first and there we may find the proper people to consult concerning ancient history, galactography, mythology, anthropology, or anything else you can think of. –But the whole thing starts at the tourist center.”

Pelorat was silent and the ground-car moved on in a tortuous manner as it joined and became part of the traffic pattern. They plunged into a sub-road and drove past signs that might have represented directions and traffic instructions but were in a style of lettering that made them all-but-unreadable.

Fortunately the ground-car behaved as though it knew the way, and when it stopped and drew itself into a parking spot, there was a sign that said: SAYSHELL OUT-WORLD MILIEU in the same difficult printing, and under it: SAYSHELL TOURIST CENTER in straightforward, easy-to-read Galactic Standard lettering.

They walked into the building, which was not as large as the façade had led them to believe. ft was certainly not busy inside.

There were a series of waiting booths, one of which was occupied by a man reading the news-strips emerging from a small ejector; another contained two women who seemed to be playing some intricate game with cards and tiles. Behind a counter too large for him, with winking computer controls that seemed far too complex for him, was a bored-looking Sayshellian functionary wearing what looked like a multicolored checkerboard.

Pelorat stared and whispered, “This is certainly a world of extroverted garb.”

“Yes,” said Trevize, “I noticed. Still, fashions change from world to world and even from region to region within a world sometimes. And they change with time. Fifty years ago, everyone on Sayshell might have worn black, for all we know. Take it as it comes, Janov.”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” said Pelorat, “but I prefer our own fashions. At least, they’re not an assault upon the optic nerve.”

“Because so many of us are gray on gray? That offends some people. I’ve heard it referred to as ‘dressing in dirt.’ Then too, it’s Foundation colorlessness that probably keeps these people in their rainbows–just to emphasize their independence. It’s all what you’re accustomed to, anyway. –Come on, Janov.”

The two headed toward the counter and, as they did so, the man in the booth forsook his news items, rose, and came to meet them, smiling as he did so. His clothing was in shades of gray.

Trevize didn’t look in his direction at first, but when he did he stopped dead.

He took a deep breath, “By the Galaxy– My friend, the traitor!”

12. Agent

1.

MUNN LI COMPOR, Councilman of Terminus, looked uncertain as he extended his right hand to Trevize.

Trevize looked at the hand sternly and did not take it. He said, apparently to open air, “I am in no position to create a situation in which I may find myself arrested for disturbing the peace on a foreign planet, but I will do so anyway if this individual comes a step closer.”

Compor stopped abruptly, hesitated, and finally said in a low voice after glancing uncertainly at Pelorat, “Am I to have a chance to talk? To explain? Will you listen?”

Pelorat looked from one to the other with a slight frown on his long face. He said, “What’s all this, Golan? Have we come to this far world and at once met someone you know?”

Trevize’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Compor, but he twisted his body slightly to make it clear that he was talking to Pelorat. Trevize said, “This–human being–we would judge that much from his shape–was once a friend of mine on Terminus. As is my habit with my friends, I trusted him. I told him my views, which were perhaps not the kind that should have received a general airing. He told them to the authorities in great detail, apparently, and did not take the trouble to tell me he had done so. For that reason, I walked neatly into a trap and now I find myself in exile. And now this–human being–wishes to be recognized as a friend.”

He turned to Compor full on and brushed his fingers through his hair, succeeding only in disarranging the curls further. “See here, you. I do have a question for you. What are you doing here? Of all the worlds in the Galaxy on which you could be, why are you on this one? And why now?”

Compor’s hand, which had remained outstretched throughout Trevize’s speech, now fell to his side and the smile left his face. The air of self-confidence, which was ordinarily so much a part of him, was gone and in its absence he looked younger than his thirty-four years and a bit woebegone. “I’ll explain,” he said, “but only from the start!”

Trevize looked about briefly. “Here? You really want to talk about it here? In a public place? You want me to knock you down here after I’ve listened to enough of your lies?”

Compor lifted both hands now, palms facing each other. “It’s the safest place, believe me.” And then, checking himself and realizing what the other was about to say, added hurriedly, “Or don’t believe me, it doesn’t matter. I’m telling the truth. I’ve been on the planet several hours longer than you and I’ve checked it out. This is some particular day they have here on Sayshell. It’s a day for meditation, for some reason. Almost everyone is at home–or should be. –You see how empty this place is. You don’t suppose it’s like this every day.”

Pelorat nodded and said, “I was wondering why it was so empty, at that.” He leaned toward Trevize’s ear and whispered, “Why not let him talk, Golan? He looks miserable, poor chap, and he may be trying to apologize. It seems unfair not to give him the chance to do so.’,

Trevize said, “Dr. Pelorat seems anxious to hear you. I’m willing to oblige him, but you’ll oblige me if you’re brief about it. This may be a good day on which to lose my temper. If everyone is meditating, any disturbance I cause may not produce the guardians of the law. I may not be so lucky tomorrow. Why waste an opportunity?”

Compor said in a strained voice, “Look, if you want to take a poke at me, do so. I won’t even defend myself, see? Go ahead, hit me–but listen!”

“Go ahead and talk, then. I’ll listen for a while.”

“In the first place, Golan–”

“Address me as Trevize, please. I am not on first-name terms with you.”

“In the first place, Trevize, you did too good a job convincing me of your views–”

“You hid that well. I could have sworn you were amused by me.”

“I tried to be amused to hide from myself the fact that you were being extremely disturbing. –Look, let us sit down up against the wall. Even if the place is empty, some few may come in and I don’t think we ought to be needlessly conspicuous.”

Slowly the three men walked most of the length of the large room. Compor was smiling tentatively again, but remained carefully at more than arm’s length from Trevize.

They sat each on a seat that gave as their weight was placed upon it and molded itself into the shape of their hips and buttocks. Pelorat looked surprised and made as though to stand up.

“Relax, Professor,” said Compor. “I’ve been through this already. They’re in advance of us in some ways. It’s a world that believes in small comforts.”

He turned to Trevize, placing one arm over the back of his chair and speaking easily now. “You disturbed me. You made me feel the Second Foundation did exist, and that was deeply upsetting. Consider the consequences if they did. Wasn’t it likely that they might take care of you somehow? Remove you as a menace? And if I behaved as though I believed you, I might be removed as well. Do you see my point?”

“I see a coward.”

“What good would it do to be storybook brave?” said Compor warmly, his blue eyes widening in indignation. “Can you or I stand up to an organization capable of molding our minds and emotions? The only way we could fight effectively would be to hide our knowledge to begin with.”

“So you hid it and were safe? –Yet you didn’t hide it from Mayor Branno, did you? Quite a risk there.”

“Yes! But I thought that was worth it. Just talking between ourselves might do nothing more than get ourselves mentally controlled–or our memories erased altogether. If I told the Mayor, on the other hand– She knew my father well, you know. My father and I were immigrants from Smyrno and the Mayor had a grandmother who–”

“Yes, yes,” said Trevize impatiently, “and several generations farther back you can trace ancestry to the Sirius Sector. You’ve told all that to everyone you know. Get on with it, Compor!”

“Well, I had her ear. If I could convince the Mayor that there was danger, using your arguments, the Federation might take some action. We’re not as helpless as we were in the days of the Mule and –at the worst–this dangerous knowledge would be spread more widely and we ourselves would not be in as much specific danger.”

Trevize said sardonically, “Endanger the Foundation, but keep ourselves safe. That’s good patriotic stuff.”

“That would be at the worst. I was counting on the best.” His forehead had become a little damp. He seemed to be straining against Trevize’s immovable contempt.

“And you didn’t tell me of this clever plan of yours, did you?”

“No, I didn’t and I’m sorry about that, Trevize. The Mayor ordered me not to. She said she wanted to know everything you knew but that you were the sort of person who would freeze if you knew that your remarks were being passed on.”

“How right she was!”

“I didn’t know–I couldn’t guess–I had no way of conceiving that she was planning to arrest you and throw you off the planet.”

“She was waiting for the right political moment, when my status as Councilman would not protect me. You didn’t foresee that?”

“How could I? You yourself did not.”

“Had I known that she knew my views, I would have.”

Compor said with a sudden trace of insolence, “That’s easy enough to say–in hindsight.”

“And what is it you want of me here? Now that you have a bit of hindsight, too.”

“To make up for all this. To make up for the harm I unwittingly–unwittingly–did you.”

“Goodness,” said Trevize dryly. “How kind of you! But you haven’t answered my original question. How did you come to be here? How do you happen to be on the very planet I am on?”

Compor said, “There’s no complicated answer necessary for that. I followed you!”

“Through hyperspace? With my ship making Jumps in series?”

Compor shook his head. “No mystery. I have the same kind of a ship you do, with the same kind of computer. You know I’ve always had this trick of being able to guess in which direction through hyperspace a ship would go. It’s not usually a very good guess and I’m wrong two times out of three, but with the computer I’m much better. And you hesitated quite a bit at the start and gave me a chance to evaluate the direction and speed in which you were going before entering hyperspace. I fed the data–together with my own intuitive extrapolations–into the computer and it did the rest.”

“And you actually got to the city ahead of me?”

“Yes. You didn’t use gravitics and I did. I guessed you would come to the capital city, so I went straight down, while you–” Compor made a short spiral motion with his finger as though it were a ship riding a directional beam.

“You took a chance on a run-in with Sayshellian officialdom.”

“Well–” Compor’s face broke into a smile that lent it an undeniable charm and Trevize felt himself almost warming to him. Compor said, “I’m not a coward at all times and in all things.”

Trevize steeled himself. “How did you happen to get a ship like mine?”

“In precisely the same way you got a ship like yours. The old lady –Mayor Branno–assigned it to me.”

“Why?”

“I’m being entirely frank with you. My assignment was to follow you. The Mayor wanted to know where you were going and what you would be doing.”

“And you’ve been reporting faithfully to her, I suppose. –Or have you been faithless to the Mayor also?”

“I reported to her. I had no choice, actually. She placed a hyperrelay on board ship, which I wasn’t supposed to find, but which I did find.”

“Well?”

“Unfortunately it’s hooked up so that I can’t remove it without immobilizing the vessel. At least, there’s no way I can remove it. Consequently she knows where I am–and she knows where you are.”

“Suppose you hadn’t been able to follow me. Then she wouldn’t have known where I was. Had you thought of that?”

“Of course I did. I thought of just reporting I had lost you–but she wouldn’t have believed me, would she? And I wouldn’t have been able to get back to Terminus for who knows how long. And I’m not like you, Trevize. I’m not a carefree person without attachments. I have a wife on Terminus–a pregnant wife–and I want to get back to her. You can afford to think only of yourself. I can’t.  –Besides, I’ve come to warn you. By Seldon, I’m trying to do that and you won’t listen. You keep talking about other things.”

“I’m not impressed by your sudden concern for me. What can you warn me against? It seems to me that you are the only thing I need be warned about. You betray me, and now you follow me in order to betray me again. No one else is doing me any harm.”

Compor said earnestly, “Forget the dramatics, man. Trevize, you’re a lightning rod! You’ve been sent out to draw Second Foundation response–if there is such a thing as the Second Foundation. I have an intuitive sense for things other than hyperspatial pursuit and I’m sure that’s what she’s planning. If you try to find the Second Foundation, they’ll become aware of it and they’ll act against you. If they do, they are very likely to tip their hand. And when they do, Mayor Branno will go for them.”

“A pity your famous intuition wasn’t working when Branno was planning my arrest.”

Compor flushed and muttered, “You know it doesn’t always work.”

“And now it tells you she’s planning to attack the Second Foundation. She wouldn’t dare.”

“I think she would. But that’s not the point. The point is that right now she is throwing you out as bait.”

“So?”

“So by all the black holes in space, don’t search for the Second Foundation. She won’t care if you’re killed in the search, but I care. I feel responsible for this and I care.”

“I’m touched,” said Trevize coldly, “but as it happens I have another task on hand at the moment.”

“You have?”

“Pelorat and I are on the track of Earth, the planet that some think was the original home of the human race. Aren’t we, Janov?”

Pelorat nodded his head. “Yes, it’s a purely scientific matter and a long-standing interest of mine.”

Compor looked blank for a moment. Then, “Looking for Earth? But why?”

“To study it,” said Pelorat. “As the one world on which human beings developed–presumably from lower forms of life, instead of, as on all others, merely arriving ready-made–it should be a fascinating study in uniqueness.”

“And,” said Trevize, “as a world where, just possibly, I may learn more of the Second Foundation. –Just possibly.”

Compor said, “But there isn’t any Earth. Didn’t you know that?”

“No Earth?” Pelorat looked utterly blank, as he always did when he was preparing to be stubborn. “Are you saying there was no planet on which the human species originated?”

“Oh no. Of course, there was an Earth. There’s no question of that! But there isn’t any Earth now. No inhabited Earth. It’s gone!”

Pelorat said, unmoved, “There are tales–”

“Hold on, Janov,” said Trevize. “Tell me, Compor, how do you know this?”

“What do you mean, how? It’s my heritage. I trace my ancestry from the Sirius Sector, if I may repeat that fact without boring you. We know all about Earth out there. It exists in that sector, which means it’s not part of the Foundation Federation, so apparently no one on Terminus bothers with it. But that’s where Earth is, just the same.”

“That is one suggestion, yes,” said Pelorat. “There was considerable enthusiasm for that ‘Sirius Alternative,’ as they called it, in the days of the Empire.”

Compor said vehemently. “It’s not an alternative. It’s a fact.”

Pelorat said, “What would you say if I told you I know of many different places in the Galaxy that are called Earth–or were called Earth–by the people who lived in its stellar neighborhood?”

“But this is the real thing,” said Compor. “The Sirius Sector is the longest-inhabited portion of the Galaxy. Everyone knows that.”

“The Sirians claim it, certainly,” said Pelorat, unmoved.

Compor looked frustrated. “I tell you–”

But Trevize said, “Tell us what happened to Earth. You say it’s not inhabited any longer. Why not?”

“Radioactivity. The whole planetary surface is radioactive because of nuclear reactions that went out of control, or nuclear explosions– I’m not sure–and now no life is possible there.”

The three stared at each other for a while and then Compor felt it necessary to repeat. He said, “I tell you, there’s no Earth. There’s no use looking for it.”

2.

JANOV PELORAT’S FACE was, for once, not expressionless. It was not that there was passion in it–or any of the more unstable emotions. It was that his eyes had narrowed–and that a kind of fierce intensity had filled every plane of his face.

He said, and his voice lacked any trace of its usual tentative quality, “How did you say you know all this?”

“I told you,” said Compor. “It’s my heritage.”

“Don’t be silly, young man. You are a Councilman. That means you must be born on one of the Federation worlds–Smyrno, I think you said earlier.”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, what heritage are you talking about? Are you telling me that you possess Sirian genes that fill you with inborn knowledge of the Sirian myths concerning Earth.”

Compor looked taken aback. “No, of course not.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

Compor paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. He said quietly, “My family has old books of Sirian history. An external heritage, not an internal one. It’s not something we talk about outside, especially if one is intent on political advancement. Trevize seems to think I am, but, believe me, I mention it only to good friends.”

There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Theoretically all Foundation citizens are alike, but those from the old worlds of the Federation are more alike than those from the newer ones–and those that trace from worlds outside the Federation are least alike of all. But, never mind that. Aside from the books, I once visited the old worlds. Trevize–hey, there–”

Trevize had wandered off toward one end of the room, looking out a triangular window. It served to let in a view of the sky and to diminish the view of the city–more light and more privacy. Trevize stretched upward to look down.

He returned through the empty room. “Interesting window design,” he said. “You called me, Councilman?”

“Yes. Remember the postcollegiate tour I took?”

“After graduation? I remember very well. We were pals. Pals forever. Foundation of trust. Two against the world. You went off on your tour. I joined the Navy, full of patriotism. Somehow I didn’t think I wanted to tour with you–some instinct told me not to. I wish the instinct had stayed with me.”

Compor did not rise to the bait. He said, “I visited Comporellon. Family tradition said that my ancestors had come from there–at least on my father’s side. We were of the ruling family in ancient times before the Empire absorbed us, and my name is derived from the world–or so the family tradition has it. We had an old, poetic name for the star Comporellon circled–Epsilon Eridani.”

“What does that mean?” asked Pelorat.

Compor shook his head. “I don’t know that it has any meaning. Just tradition. They live with a great deal of tradition. It’s an old world. They have long, detailed records of Earth’s history, but no one talks about it much. They’re superstitious about it. Every time they mention the word, they lift up both hands with first and second fingers crossed to ward off misfortune.”

“Did you tell this to anyone when you came back?”

“Of course not. Who would be interested? And I wasn’t going to force the tale on anyone. No, thank you! I had a political career to develop and the last thing I want is to stress my foreign origin.”

“What about the satellite? Describe Earth’s satellite,” said Pelorat sharply.

Compor looked astonished. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Does it have one?”

“I don’t recall reading or hearing about it. But I’m sure if you’ll consult the Comporellonian records, you can find out.”

“But you know nothing?”

“Not about the satellite. Not that I recall.”

“Huh! How did Earth come to be radioactive?”

Compor shook his head and said nothing.

Pelorat said, “Think! You must have heard something.”

“It was seven years ago, Professor. I didn’t know then you’d be questioning me about it now. There was some sort of legend–they considered it history–”

“What was the legend?”

“Earth was radioactive–ostracized and mistreated by the Empire, its population dwindling–and it was going to destroy the Empire somehow.”

“One dying world was going to destroy the whole Empire?” interposed Trevize.

Compor said defensively, “I said it was a legend. I don’t know the details. Bel Arvardan was involved in the tale, I know.”

“Who was he?” asked Trevize.

“A historical character. I looked him up. He was an honest-to-Galaxy archaeologist back in the early days of the Empire and he maintained that Earth was in the Sirius Sector.”

“I’ve heard the name,” said Pelorat.

“He’s a folk hero in Comporellon. Look, if you want to know these things–go to Comporellon. It’s no use hanging around here.”

Pelorat said, “Just how did they say Earth planned to destroy the Empire?”

“Don’t know.” A certain sullenness was entering Compor’s voice.

“Did the radiation have anything to do with it?”

“Don’t know. There were tales of some mind-expander developed on Earth–a Synapsifier or something.”

“Did it create superminds?” said Pelorat in deepest tones of incredulity.

“I don’t think so. What I chiefly remember is that it didn’t work. People became bright and died young.”

Trevize said, “It was probably a morality myth. If you ask for too much, you lose even that which you have.”

Pelorat turned on Trevize in annoyance. “What do you know of morality myths?”

Trevize raised his eyebrows. “Your field may not be my field, Janov, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally ignorant.”

“What else do you remember about what you call the Synapsifier, Councilman Compor?” asked Pelorat.

“Nothing, and I won’t submit to any further cross-examination. Look, I followed you on orders from the Mayor. I was not ordered to make personal contact with you. I have done so only to warn you that you were followed and to tell you that you had been sent out to serve the Mayor’s purposes, whatever those might be. There was nothing else I should have discussed with you, but you surprised me by suddenly bringing up the matter of Earth. Well, let me repeat: Whatever there has existed there in the past–Bel Arvardan, the Synapsifier, whatever–that has nothing to do with what exists now. I’ll tell you again: Earth is a dead world. I strongly advise you to go to Comporellon, where you’ll find out everything you want to know. Just get away from here.”

“And, of course, you will dutifully tell the Mayor that we’re going to Comporellon–and you’ll follow us to make sure. Or maybe the Mayor knows already. I imagine she has carefully instructed and rehearsed you in every word you have spoken to us here because, for her own purposes, it’s in Comporellon that she wants us. Right?”

Compor’s face paled. He rose to his feet and almost stuttered in his effort to control his voice. “I’ve tried to explain. I’ve tried to be helpful. I shouldn’t have tried. You can drop yourself into a black hole, Trevize.”

He turned on his heel and walked away briskly without looking back.

Pelorat seemed a bit stunned. “That was rather tactless of you, Golan, old fellow. I could have gotten more out of him.”

“No, you couldn’t,” said Trevize gravely. “You could not have gotten one thing out of him that he was not ready to let you have. Janov, you don’t know what he is –Until today, I didn’t know what he is.”

3.

PELORAT HESITATED TO disturb Trevize. Trevize sat motionless in his chair, deep in thought.

Finally Pelorat said, “Are we just sitting here all night, Golan?”

Trevize started. “No, you’re quite right. We’ll be better off with people around us. Come!”

Pelorat rose. He said, “There won’t be people around us. Compor said this was some sort of meditation day.”

“Is that what he said? Was there traffic when we came along the road in our ground-car?”

“Yes, some.”

“Quite a bit, I thought. And then, when we entered the city, was it empty?”

“Not particularly. –Still, you’ve got to admit that this place has been empty.”

“Yes, it has. I noticed that particularly. –But come, Janov, I’m hungry. There’s got to be someplace to eat and we can afford to find something good. At any rate, we can find a place in which we can try some interesting Sayshellian novelty or, if we lose our nerve, good standard Galactic fare. –Come, once we’re safely surrounded, I’ll tell you what I think really happened here.”

4.

TREVIZE LEANED BACK with a pleasant feeling of renewal. The restaurant was not expensive by Terminus standards, but it was certainly novel. It was heated, in part, by an open fire over which food was prepared. Meat tended to be served in bite-sized portions–in a variety of pungent sauces–which were picked up by fingers that were protected from grease and heat by smooth, green leaves that were cold, damp, and had a vaguely minty taste.

It was one leaf to each meat-bit and the whole was taken into the mouth. The waiter had carefully explained how it had to be done. Apparently accustomed to off-planet guests, he had smiled paternally as Trevize and Pelorat gingerly scooped at the steaming bits of meat, and was clearly delighted at the foreigners’ relief at finding that the leaves kept the fingers cool and cooled the meat, too, as one chewed.

Trevize said, “Delicious!” and eventually ordered a second helping. So did Pelorat.

They sat over a spongy, vaguely sweet dessert and a cup of coffee that had a caramelized flavor at which they shook dubious heads. They added syrup, at which the waiter shook his head.

Pelorat said, “Well, what happened back there at the tourist center?”

“You mean with Compor?”

“Was there anything else there we might discuss?”

Trevize looked about. They were in a deep alcove and had a certain limited privacy, but the restaurant was crowded and the natural hum of noise was a perfect cover.

He said in a low voice, “Isn’t it strange that he followed us to Sayshell?”

“He said he had this intuitive ability.”

“Yes, he was all-collegiate champion at hypertracking. I never questioned that till today. I quite see that you might be able to judge where someone was going to Jump by how he prepared for it if you had a certain developed skill at it, certain reflexes–but I don’t see how a tracker can judge a Jump series. You prepare only for the first one; the computer does all the others. The tracker can judge that first one, but by what magic can he guess what’s in the computer’s vitals?”

“But he did it, Golan.”

“He certainly did,” said Trevize, “and the only possible way I can imagine him doing so is by knowing in advance where we were going to go. By knowing, not judging.”

Pelorat considered that. “Quite impossible, my boy. How could he know? We didn’t decide on our destination till after we were on board the Far Star.”

“I know that. –And what about this day of meditation?”

“Compor didn’t lie to us. The waiter said it was a day of meditation when we came in here and asked him.”

“Yes, he did, but he said the restaurant wasn’t closed. In fact, what he said was: ‘Sayshell City isn’t the backwoods. It doesn’t close down.’ People meditate, in other words, but not in the big town, where everyone is sophisticated and there’s no place for small-town piety. So there’s traffic and it’s busy–perhaps not quite as busy as on ordinary days–but busy.”

“But, Golan, no one came into the tourist center while we were there. I was aware of that. Not one person entered.”

“I noticed that, too. I even went to the window at one point and looked out and saw clearly that the streets around the center had a good scattering of people on foot and in vehicles–and yet not one person entered. The day of meditation made a good cover. We would not have questioned the fortunate privacy we had if I simply hadn’t made up my mind not to trust that son of two strangers.”

Pelorat said, “What is the significance of all this, then?”

“I think it’s simple, Janov. We have here someone who knows where we’re going as soon as we do, even though he and we are in separate spaceships, and we also have here someone who can keep a public building empty when it is surrounded by people in order that we might talk in convenient privacy.”

“Would you have me believe he can perform miracles?”

“Certainly. If it so happens that Compor is an agent of the Second Foundation and can control minds; if he can read yours and mine in a distant spaceship; if he can influence his way through a customs station at once; if he can land gravitically, with no border patrol outraged at his defiance of the radio beams; and if he can influence minds in such a way as to keep people from entering a building he doesn’t want entered.

“By all the stars,” Trevize went on with a marked air of grievance, “I can even follow this back to graduation. I didn’t go on the tour with him. I remember not wanting to. Wasn’t that a matter of his influence? He had to be alone. Where was he really going?”

Pelorat pushed away the dishes before him, as though he wanted to clear a space about himself in order to have room to think. It seemed to be a gesture that signaled the busboy-robot, a self-moving table that stopped near them and waited while they placed their dishes and cutlery upon it.

When they were alone, Pelorat said, “But that’s mad. Nothing has happened that could not have happened naturally. Once you get it into your head that somebody is controlling events, you can interpret everything in that light and find no reasonable certainty anywhere. Come on, old fellow, it’s all circumstantial and a matter of interpretation. Don’t yield to paranoia.”

“I’m not going to yield to complacency, either.”

“Well, let us look at this logically. Suppose he was an agent of the Second Foundation. Why would he run the risk of rousing our suspicions by keeping the tourist center empty? What did he say that was so important that a few people at a distance–who would have been wrapped in their own concerns anyway–would have made a difference?”

“There’s an easy answer to that, Janov. He would have to keep our minds under close observation and he wanted no interference from other minds. No static. No chance of confusion.”

“Again, just your interpretation. What was so important about his conversation with us? It would make sense to suppose, as he himself insisted, that he met us only in order to explain what he had done, to apologize for it, and to warn us of the trouble that might await us. Why would we have to look further than that?”

The small card-receptacle at the farther rim of the table glittered unobtrusively and the figures representing the cost of the meal flashed briefly. Trevize groped beneath his sash for his credit card which, with its Foundation imprint, was good anywhere in the Galaxy–or anywhere a Foundation citizen was likely to go. He inserted it in the appropriate slot. It took a moment to complete the transaction and Trevize (with native caution) checked on the remaining balance before returning it to its pocket.

He looked about casually to make sure there was no undesirable interest in him on the faces of any of the few who still sat in the restaurant and then said, “Why look further than that? Why look further? That was not all he talked about. He talked about Earth. He told us it was dead and urged us very strongly to go to Comporellon. Shall we go?”

“It’s something I’ve been considering, Golan,” admitted Pelorat.

“Just leave here?”

“We can come back after we check Out the Sirius Sector.”

“It doesn’t occur to you that his whole purpose in seeing us was to deflect us from Sayshell and get us out of here? Get us anywhere but here?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. See here, they expected us to go to Trantor. That was what you wanted to do and maybe that’s what they counted on us doing. I messed things up by insisting we go to Sayshell, which is the last thing they wanted, and so now they have to get us out of here.”

Pelorat looked distinctly unhappy. “But Golan, you are just making statements. Why don’t they want us on Sayshell?”

“I don’t know, Janov. But it’s enough for me that they want us out. I’m staying here. I’m not going to leave.”

“But–but– Look, Golan, if the Second Foundation wanted us to leave, wouldn’t they just influence our minds to make us want to leave? Why bother reasoning with us?”

“Now that you bring up the point, haven’t they done that in your case, Professor?” and Trevize’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Don’t you want to leave?”

Pelorat looked at Trevize in surprise. “I just think there’s some sense to it.”

“Of course you would, if you’ve been influenced.”

“But I haven’t been–”

“Of course you would swear you hadn’t been if you had been.”

Pelorat said, “If you box me in this way, there is no way of disproving your bare assertion. What are you going to do?”

“I will remain in Sayshell. And you’ll stay here, too. You can’t navigate the ship without me, so if Compor has influenced you, he has influenced the wrong one.”

“Very well, Golan. We’ll stay in Sayshell until we have independent reasons to leave. The worst thing we can do, after all–worse than either staying or going–is to fall out with each other. Come, old chap, if I had been influenced, would I be able to change my mind and go along with you cheerfully, as I plan to do now?”

Trevize thought for a moment and then, as though with an inner shake, smiled and held out his hand. “Agreed, Janov. Now let’s get back to the ship and make another start tomorrow. –If we can think of one.”

5.

MUNN LI COMPOR did not remember when he had been recruited. For one thing, he had been a child at the time; for another, the agents of the Second Foundation were meticulous in removing their traces as far as that was possible.

Compor was an “Observer” and, to a Second Foundationer, he was instantly recognizable as such.

It meant that Compor was acquainted with mentalics and could converse with Second Foundationers in their own fashion to a degree, but he was in the lowest rank of the hierarchy. He could catch glimpses of minds, but he could not adjust them. The education he had received had never gone that far. He was an Observer, not a Doer.

It made him second-class at best, but he did not mind–much. He knew his importance in the scheme of things.

During the early centuries of the Second Foundation, it had underestimated the task before it. It had imagined that its handful of members could monitor the entire Galaxy and that Seldon’s Plan, to be maintained, would require only the most occasional, the lightest touch, here and there.

The Mule had stripped them of these delusions. Coming from nowhere, he had caught the Second Foundation (and, of course, the First–though that didn’t matter) utterly by surprise and had left them helpless. It took five years before a counterattack could be organized, and then only at the cost of a number of lives.

With Palver a full recovery was made, again at a distressing cost, and he finally took the appropriate measures. The operations of the Second Foundation, he decided, must be enormously expanded without at the same time increasing the chances of detection unduly, so he instituted the corps of Observers.

Compor did not know how many Observers were in the Galaxy or even how many there were on Terminus. It was not his business to know. Ideally there should be no detectable connection between any two Observers, so that the loss of one would not entail the loss of any other. All connections were with the upper echelons on Trantor.

It was Compor’s ambition to go to Trantor someday. Though he thought it extremely unlikely, he knew that occasionally an Observer might be brought to Trantor and promoted, but that was rare. The qualities that made for a good Observer were not those that pointed toward the Table.

There was Gendibal, for instance, who was four years younger than Compor. He must have been recruited as a boy, just as Compor was, but he had been taken directly to Trantor and was now a Speaker. Compor had no illusions as to why that should be. He had been much in contact with Gendibal of late and he had experienced the power of that young man’s mind. He could not have stood up against it for a second.

Compor was not often conscious of a lowly status. There was almost never occasion to consider it. After all (as in the case of other Observers, he imagined) it was only lowly by the standards of Trantor. On their own non-Trantorian worlds, in their own nonmentalic societies, it was easy for Observers to obtain high status.

Compor, for instance, had never had trouble getting into good schools or finding good company. He had been able to use his mentalics in a simple way to enhance his natural intuitive ability (that natural ability had been why he had been recruited in the first place, he was sure) and, in this way, to prove himself a star at hyperspatial pursuit. He became a hero at college and this set his foot on the first rung of a political career. Once this present crisis was over, there was no telling how much farther he might advance.

If the crisis resolved itself successfully, as surely it would, would it not be recalled that it was Compor who had first noted Trevize– not as a human being (anyone could have done that) but as a mind?

He had encountered Trevize in college and had seen him, at first, only as a jovial and quick-witted companion. One morning, however, he had stirred sluggishly out of slumber and, in the stream of consciousness that accompanied the never-never land of half-sleep, he felt what a pity it was that Trevize had never been recruited.

Trevize couldn’t have been recruited, of course, since he was Terminus-born and not, like Compor, a native of another world. And even with that aside, it was too late. Only the quite young are plastic enough to receive an education into mentalics; the painful introduction of that art–it was more than a science–into adult brains, set rustily in their mold, was a thing of the first two generations after Seldon only.

But then, if Trevize had been ineligible for recruiting in the first place and had outlived the possibility in the second, what had roused Compor’s concern over the matter?

On their next meeting, Compor had penetrated Trevize’s mind deeply and discovered what it was that must have initially disturbed him. Trevize’s mind had characteristics that did not fit the rules he had been taught. Over and over, it eluded him. As he followed its workings, he found gaps –No, they couldn’t be actual gaps–actual leaps of nonexistence. They were places where Trevize’s manner of mind dove too deeply to be followed.

Compor had no way of determining what this meant, but he watched Trevize’s behavior in the light of what he had discovered and he began to suspect that Trevize had an uncanny ability to reach right conclusions from what would seem to be insufficient data.

Did this have something to do with the gaps? Surely this was a matter for mentalism beyond his own powers–for the Table itself, perhaps. He had the uneasy feeling that Trevize’s powers of decision were unknown, in their full, to the man himself, and that he might be able to–

To do what? Compor’s knowledge did not suffice. He could almost see the meaning of what Trevize possessed–but not quite. There was only the intuitive conclusion–or perhaps just a guess– that Trevize might be, potentially, a person of the utmost importance.

He had to take the chance that this might be so and to risk seeming to be less than qualified for his post. After all, if he were correct–

He was not sure, looking back on it, how he had managed to find the courage to continue his efforts. He could not penetrate the administrative barriers that ringed the Table. He had all but reconciled himself to a broken reputation. He had worked himself down (despairingly) to the most junior member of the Table and, finally, Stor Gendibal had responded to his call.

Gendibal had listened patiently and from that time on there had been a special relationship between them. It was on Gendibal’s behalf that Compor had maintained his relationship with Trevize and on Gendibal’s direction that he had carefully set up the situation that had resulted in Trevize’s exile. And it was through Gendibal that Compor might yet (he was beginning to hope) achieve his dream of promotion to Trantor.

All preparations, however, had been designed to send Trevize to Trantor. Trevize’s refusal to do this had taken Compor entirely by surprise and (Compor thought) had been unforeseen by Gendibal as well.

At any rate, Gendibal was hurrying to the spot, and to Compor, that deepened the sense of crisis.

Compor sent out his hypersignal.

6.

GENDIBAL WAS ROUSED from his sleep by the touch on his mind. It was effective and not in the least disturbing. Since it affected the arousal center directly, he simply awoke.

He sat up in bed, the sheet falling from his well-shaped and smoothly muscular torso. He had recognized the touch; the differences were as distinctive to mentalists as were voices to those who communicated primarily by sound.

Gendibal sent out the standard signal, asking if a small delay were possible, and the “no emergency” call returned.

Without undue haste, then, Gendibal attended to the morning routine. He was still in the ship’s shower–with the used water draining into the recycling mechanisms–when he made contact again.

“Compor?”

“Yes, Speaker.”

“Have you spoken with Trevize and the other one.”

“Pelorat. Janov Pelorat. Yes, Speaker.”

“Good. Give me another five minutes and I’ll arrange visuals.”

He passed Sura Novi on his way to the controls. She looked at him questioningly and made as though to speak, but he placed a finger on his lips and she subsided at once. Gendibal still felt a bit uncomfortable at the intensity of adoration/respect in her mind, but it was coming to be a comfortingly normal part of his environment somehow.

He had hooked a small tendril of his mind to hers and there would now be no way to affect his mind without affecting hers. The simplicity of her mind (and there was an enormous aesthetic pleasure to be found in contemplating its unadorned symmetry, Gendibal couldn’t help thinking) made it impossible for any extraneous mind field to exist in their neighborhood without detection. He felt a surge of gratitude for the courteous impulse that had moved him that moment they had stood together outside the University, and that had led her to come to him precisely when she could be most useful.

He said, “Compor?”

“Yes, Speaker.”

“Relax, please. I must study your mind. No offense is intended.”

“As you wish, Speaker. May I ask the purpose?”

“To make certain you are untouched.”

Compor said, “I know you have political adversaries at the Table, Speaker, but surely none of them–”

“Do not speculate, Compor. Relax. –Yes, you are untouched. Now, if you will co-operate with me, we will establish visual contact.”

What followed was, in the ordinary sense of the word, an illusion, since no one but someone who was aided by the mentalic power of a well-trained Second Foundationer would have been able to detect anything at all, either by the senses or by any physical detecting device.

It was the building up of a face and its appearance from the contours of a mind, and even the best mentalist could succeed in producing only a shadowy and somewhat uncertain figure. Compor’s face was there in mid-space, as though it were seen through a thin but shifting curtain of gauze, and Gendibal knew that his own face appeared in an identical manner in front of Compor.

By physical hyperwave, communication could have been established through images so clear that speakers who were a thousand parsecs apart might judge themselves to be face-to-face. Gendibal’s ship was equipped for the purpose.

There were, however, advantages to the mentalist-vision. The chief was that it could not be tapped by any device known to the First Foundation. Nor, for that matter, could one Second Foundationer tap the mentalist-vision of another. The play of mind might be followed, but not the delicate change of facial expression that gave the communication its finer points.

As for the Anti-Mules– Well, the purity of Novi’s mind was sufficient to assure him that none were about.

He said, “Tell me precisely, Compor, the talk you had with Trevize and with this Pelorat. Precisely, to the level of mind.”

“Of course, Speaker,” said Compor.

It didn’t take long. The combination of sound, expression, and mentalism compressed matters considerably, despite the fact that there was far more to tell at the level of mind than if there had been a mere parroting of speech.

Gendibal watched intently. There was little redundancy, if any, in mentalist-vision. In true vision, or even in physical hypervision across the parsecs, one saw enormously more in the way of information bits than was absolutely necessary for comprehension and one could miss a great deal without losing anything significant.

Through the gauze of mentalist-vision, however, one bought absolute security at the price of losing the luxury of being able to miss bits. Every bit was significant.

There were always horror tales that passed from instructor to student on Trantor, tales that were designed to impress on the young the importance of concentration. The most often repeated was certainly the least reliable. It told of the first report on the progress of the Mule before he had taken over Kalgan–of the minor official who received the report and who had no more than the impression of a horselike animal because he did not see or understand the small flick that signified “personal name.” The official therefore decided that the whole thing was too unimportant to pass on to Trantor. By the time the next message came, it was too late to take immediate action and five more bitter years had to pass.

The event had almost certainly never happened, but that didn’t matter. It was a dramatic story and it served to motivate every student into the habit of intent concentration. Gendibal remembered his own student days when he made an error in reception that seemed, in his own mind, to be both insignificant and understandable. His teacher–old Kendast, a tyrant to the roots of his cerebellum–had simply sneered and said, “A horselike animal, Cub Gendibal?” and that had been enough to make him collapse in shame.

Compor finished.

Gendibal said, “Your estimate, please, of Trevize’s reaction. You know him better than I do, better than anyone does.”

Compor said, “It was clear enough. The mentalic indications were unmistakable. He thinks my words and actions represent my extreme anxiety to have him go to Trantor or to the Sirius Sector or to any place but where, in fact, he is actually going. It meant, in my opinion, that he would remain firmly where he was. The fact that I attached great importance to his shifting his position, in short, forced him to give it the same importance, and since he feels his own interests to be diametrically opposed to mine, he will deliberately act against what he interprets to be my wish.”

“You are certain of that?”

“Quite certain.”

Gendibal considered this and decided that Compor was correct. He said, “I am satisfied. You have done well. Your tale of Earth’s radioactive destruction was cleverly chosen to help produce the proper reaction without the need for direct manipulation of the mind. Commendable!”

Compor seemed to struggle with himself a short moment. “Speaker,” he said, “I cannot accept your praise. I did not invent the tale. It is true. There really is a planet called Earth in the Sirius Sector and it really is considered to be the original home of humanity. It was radioactive, either to begin with or eventually, and this grew worse till the planet died. There was indeed a mind-enhancing invention that came to nothing. All this is considered history on the home planet of my ancestors.”

“So? Interesting!” said Gendibal with no obvious conviction. “And better yet. To know when a truth will do is admirable, since no nontruth can be presented with the same sincerity. Palver once said, “The closer to the truth, the better the lie, and the truth itself, when it can be used, is the best lie.”

Compor said, “There is one thing more to say. In following instructions to keep Trevize in the Sayshell Sector until you arrived– and to do so at all costs–I had to go so far in my efforts that it is clear that he suspects me of being under the influence of the Second Foundation.”

Gendibal nodded. “That, I think, is unavoidable under the circumstances. His monomania on the subject would be sufficient to have him see Second Foundation even where it was not. We must simply take that into account.”

“Speaker, if it is absolutely necessary that Trevize stay where he is until you can reach him, it would simplify matters if I came to meet you, took you aboard my ship, and brought you back. It would take less than a day–”

“No, Observer,” said Gendibal sharply. “You will not do this. The people on Terminus know where you are. You have a hyper-relay on your ship which you cannot remove, have you not?”

“Yes, Speaker.”

“And if Terminus knows you have landed on Sayshell, their ambassador on Sayshell knows of it–and the ambassador knows also that Trevize has landed. Your hyper-relay will tell Terminus that you have left for a specific point hundreds of parsecs away and returned; and the ambassador will inform them that Trevize has, however, remained in the sector. From this, how much will the people at Terminus guess? The Mayor of Terminus is, by all accounts, a shrewd woman and the last thing we want to do is to alarm her by presenting her with an obscure puzzle. We don’t want her to lead a section of her fleet here. The chances of that are, in any case, uncomfortably high.”

Compor said, “With respect, Speaker– What reason do we have to fear a fleet if we can control a commander?”

“However little reason there might be, there is still less reason to fear if the fleet is not here. You stay where you are, Observer. ‘When I reach you, I will join you on your ship and then–”

“And then, Speaker?”

“Why, and then I will take over.”

7.

GENDIBAL SAT IN place after he dismantled the mentalist-vision–and stayed there for long minutes–considering.

During this long trip to Sayshell, unavoidably long in this ship of his which could in no way match the technological advancement of the products of the First Foundation, he had gone over every single report on Trevize. The reports had stretched over nearly a decade.

Seen as a whole and in the light of recent events, there was no longer any doubt Trevize would have been a marvelous recruit for the Second Foundation, if the policy of never touching the Terminus-born had not been in place since Palver’s time.

There was no telling how many recruits of highest quality had been lost to the Second Foundation over the centuries. There was no way of evaluating every one of the quadrillions of human beings populating the Galaxy. None of them was likely to have had more promise than Trevize, however, and certainly none could have been in a more sensitive spot.

Gendibal shook his head slightly. Trevize should never have been overlooked, Terminus-born or not. –And credit to Observer Compor for seeing it, even after the years had distorted him.

Trevize was of no use to them now, of course. He was too old for the molding, but he still had that inborn intuition, that ability to guess a solution on the basis of totally inadequate information, and something–something–

Old Shandess–who, despite being past his prime, was First Speaker and had, on the whole, been a good one–saw something there, even without the correlated data and the reasoning that Gendibal had worked out in the course of this trip. Trevize, Shandess had thought, was the key to the crisis.

Why was Trevize here at Sayshell? What was he planning? What was he doing?

And he couldn’t be touched! Of that Gendibal was sure. Until it was known precisely what Trevize’s role was, it would be totally wrong to try to modify him in any way. With the Anti-Mules– whoever they were–whatever they might be–in the field, a wrong move with respect to Trevize (Trevize, above all) might explode a wholly unexpected micro-sun in their faces.

He felt a mind hovering about his own and absently brushed at it as he might at one of the more annoying Trantorian insects– though with mind rather than hand. He felt the instant wash of other-pain and looked up.

Sura Novi had her palm to her furrowed brow. “Your pardon, Master, I be struck with sudden head-anguish.”

Gendibal was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Novi. I wasn’t thinking–or I was thinking too intently.” Instantly–and gently–he smoothed the ruffled mind tendrils.

Novi smiled with sudden brightness. “It passed with sudden vanishing. The kind sound of your words, Master, works well upon me.”

Gendibal said, “Coed! Is something wrong? Why are you here?” He forbore to enter her mind in greater detail in order to find out for himself. More and more, he felt a reluctance to invade her privacy.

Novi hesitated. She leaned toward him slightly. “I be concerned. You were looking at nothing and making sounds and your face was twitching. I stayed there, stick-frozen, afeared you were declining– ill–and unknowing what to do.”

“It was nothing, Novi. You are not to fear.” He patted her nearer hand. “There is nothing to fear. Do you understand?”

Fear–or any strong emotion–twisted and spoiled the symmetry of her mind somewhat. He preferred it calm and peaceful and happy, but he hesitated at the thought of adjusting it into that position by outer influence. She had felt the previous adjustment to be the effect of his words and it seemed to him that he preferred it that way.

He said, “Novi, why don’t I call you Sura?”

She looked up at him in sudden woe. “Oh, Master, do not do so.”

“But Rufirant did so on that day that we met. I know you well enough now–”

“I know well he did so, Master. It be how a man speak to girl who have no man, no betrothed, who is–not complete. You say her previous. It is more honorable for me if you say ‘Novi’ and I be proud that you say so. And if I have not man now, I have master and I be pleased. I hope it be not offensive to you to say ‘Novi.”

“It certainly isn’t, Novi.”

And her mind was beautifully smooth at that and Gendibal was pleased. Too pleased. Ought he to be so pleased?

A little shamefacedly, he remembered that the Mule was supposed to have been affected in this manner by that woman of the First Foundation, Bayta Darell, to his own undoing.

This, of course, was different. This Hamishwoman was his defense against alien minds and he wanted her to serve that purpose most efficiently.

No, that was not true– His function as a Speaker would be compromised if he ceased to understand his own mind or, worse, if he deliberately misconstrued it to avoid the truth. The truth was that it pleased him when she was calm and peaceful and happy endogenously–without his interference–and that it pleased him simply because she pleased him; and (he thought defiantly) there was nothing wrong with that.

He said, “Sit down, Novi.”

She did so, balancing herself precariously at the edge of the chair and sitting as far away as the confines of the room allowed. Her mind was flooded with respect.

He said, “When you saw me making sounds, Novi, I was speaking at a long distance, scholar-fashion.”

Novi said sadly, her eyes cast down, “I see, Master, that there be much to scowler-fashion I understand not and imagine not. It be difficult mountain-high art. I be ashamed to have come to you to be made scowler. How is it, Master, you did not be-laugh me?”

Gendibal said, “It is no shame to aspire to something even if it is beyond your reach. You are now too old to be made a scholar after my fashion, but you are never too old to learn more than you already know and to become able to do more than you already can. I will teach you something about this ship. By the time we reach our destination, you will know quite a bit about it.”

He felt delighted. Why not? He was deliberately turning his back on the stereotype of the Hamish people. What right, in any case, had the heterogeneous group of the Second Foundation to set up such a stereotype? The young produced by them were only occasionally suited to become high-level Second Foundationers themselves. The children of Speakers almost never qualified to be Speakers. There were the three generations of Linguesters three centuries ago, but there was always the suspicion that the middle Speaker of that series did not really belong. And if that were true, who were the people of the University to place themselves on so high a pedestal?

He watched Novi’s eyes glisten and was pleased that they did.

She said, “I try hard to learn all you teach me, Master.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said–and then hesitated. It occurred to him that, in his conversation with Compor, he had in no way indicated at any time that he was not alone. There was no hint of a companion.

A woman could be taken for granted, perhaps; at least, Compor would no doubt not be surprised. –But a Hamishwoman?

For a moment, despite anything Gendibal could do, the stereotype reigned supreme and he found himself glad that Compor had never been on Trantor and would not recognize Novi as a Hamishwoman.

He shook it off. It didn’t matter if Compor knew or knew not–or if anyone did. Gendibal was a Speaker of the Second Foundation and he could do as he pleased within the constraints of the Seldon Plan–and no one could interfere.

Novi said, “Master, once we reach our destination, will we part?”

He looked at her and said, with perhaps more force than he intended, “We will not be separated, Novi.”

And the Hamishwoman smiled shyly and looked for all the Galaxy as though she might have been–any woman.

13. University

1.

PELORAT WRINKLED HIS nose when he and Trevize re-entered the Far Star.

Trevize shrugged. “The human body is a powerful dispenser of odors. Recycling never works instantaneously and artificial scents merely overlay–they do not replace.”

“And I suppose no two ships smell quite alike, once they’ve been occupied for a period of time by different people.”

“That’s right, but did you smell Sayshell Planet after the first hour?”

“No,” admitted Pelorat.

“Well, you won’t smell this after a while, either. In fact, if you live in the ship long enough, you’ll welcome the odor that greets you on your return as signifying home. And by the way, if you become a Galactic rover after this, Janov, you’ll have to learn that it is impolite to comment on the odor of any ship or, for that matter, any world to those who live on that ship or world. Between us, of course, it is all right.”

“As a matter of fact, Golan, the funny thing is I do consider the Far Star home. At least it’s Foundation-made.” Pelorat smiled. “You know, I never considered myself a patriot. I like to think I recognize only humanity as my nation, but I must say that being away from the Foundation fills my heart with love for it.”

Trevize was making his bed. “You’re not very far from the Foundation, you know. The Sayshell Union is almost surrounded by Federation territory. We have an ambassador and an enormous presence here, from consuls on down. The Sayshellians like to oppose us in words, but they are usually very cautious about doing anything that gives us displeasure. –Janov, do turn in. We got nowhere today and we have to do better tomorrow.”

Still, there was no difficulty in hearing between the two rooms, however, and when the ship was dark, Pelorat, tossing restlessly, finally said in a not very loud voice, “Golan?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not sleeping?”

“Not while you’re talking.”

“We did get somewhere today. Your friend, Compor–”

“Ex-friend,” growled Trevize.

“Whatever his status, he talked about Earth and told us something I hadn’t come across in my researches before. Radioactivity!”

Trevize lifted himself to one elbow. “Look, Golan, if Earth is really dead, that doesn’t mean we return home. I still want to find Gaia.”

Pelorat made a puffing noise with his mouth as though he were blowing away feathers. “My dear chap, of course. So do I. Nor do I think Earth is dead. Compor may have been telling what he felt was the truth, but there’s scarcely a sector in the Galaxy that doesn’t have some tale or other that would place the origin of humanity on some local world. And they almost invariably call it Earth or some closely equivalent name.

“We call it ‘globocentrism’ in anthropology. People have a tendency to take it for granted that they are better than their neighbors; that their culture is older and superior to that of other worlds; that what is good in other worlds has been borrowed from them, while what is bad is distorted or perverted in the borrowing or invented elsewhere. And the tendency is to equate superiority in quality with superiority in duration. If they cannot reasonably maintain their own planet to be Earth or its equivalent–and the beginnings of the human species–they almost always do the best they can by placing Earth in their own sector, even when they cannot locate it exactly.”

Trevize said, “And you’re telling me that Compor was just following the common habit when he said Earth existed in the Sirius Sector. –Still, the Sirius Sector does have a long history, so every world in it should be well known and it should be easy to check the matter, even without going there.”

Pelorat chuckled. “Even if you were to show that no world in the Sirius Sector could possibly be Earth, that wouldn’t help. You underestimate the depths to which mysticism can bury rationality, Golan. There are at least half a dozen sectors in the Galaxy where respectable scholars repeat, with every appearance of solemnity and with no trace of a smile, local tales that Earth–or whatever they choose to call it–is located in hyperspace and cannot be reached, except by accident.”

“And do they say anyone has ever reached it by accident?”

“There are always tales and there is always a patriotic refusal to disbelieve, even though the tales are never in the least credible and are never believed by anyone not of the world that produces them.”

“Then, Janov, let’s not believe them ourselves. Let’s enter our own private hyperspace of sleep.”

“But, Golan, it’s this business of Earth’s radioactivity that interests me. To me, that seems to bear the mark of truth–or a kind of truth.”

“What do you mean, a kind of truth?”

“Well, a world that is radioactive would be a world in which hard radiation would be present in higher concentration than is usual. The rate of mutation would be higher on such a world and evolution would proceed more quickly–and more diversely. I told you, if you remember, that among the points on which almost all the tales agree is that life on Earth was incredibly diverse: millions of species of all kinds of life. It is this diversity of life–this explosive development–that might have brought intelligence to the Earth, and then the surge outward into the Galaxy. If Earth were for some reason radioactive–that is, more radioactive than other planets–that might account for everything else about Earth that is–or was– unique.”

Trevize was silent for a moment. Then, “In the first place, we have no reason to believe Compor was telling the truth. He may well have been lying freely in order to induce us to leave this place and go chasing madly off to Sirius. I believe that’s exactly what he was doing. And even if he were telling the truth, what he said was that there was so much radioactivity that life became impossible.”

Pelorat made the blowing gesture again. “There wasn’t too much radioactivity to allow life to develop on Earth and it is easier for life to maintain itself–once established–than to develop in the first place. Granted, then, that life was established and maintained on Earth. Therefore the level of radioactivity could not have been incompatible with life to begin with and it could only have fallen off with time. There is nothing that can raise the level.”

“Nuclear explosions?” suggested Trevize.

“What would that have to do with it?”

“I mean, suppose nuclear explosions took place on Earth?”

“On Earth’s surface? Impossible. There’s no record in the history of the Galaxy of any society being so foolish as to use nuclear explosions as a weapon of war. We would never have survived. During the Trigellian insurrections, when both sides were reduced to starvation and desperation and when Jendippurus Khoratt suggested the initiation of a fusion reaction in–”

“He was hanged by the sailors of his own fleet. I know Galactic history. I was thinking of accident.”

“There’s no record of accidents of that sort that are capable of significantly raising the intensity of radioactivity of a planet, generally.” He sighed. “I suppose that when we get around to it, we’ll have to go to the Sirius Sector and do a little prospecting there.”

“Someday, perhaps, we will. But for now–”

“Yes, yes, I’ll stop talking.”

He did and Trevize lay in the dark for nearly an hour considering whether he had attracted too much attention already and whether it might not be wise to go to the Sirius Sector and then return to Gaia when attention–everyone’s attention–was elsewhere.

He had arrived at no clear decision by the time he fell asleep. His dreams were troubled.

2.

THEY DID NOT arrive back in the city till midmorning. The tourist center was quite crowded this time, but they managed to obtain the necessary directions to a reference library, where in turn they received instruction in the use of the local models of data-gathering computers.

They went carefully through the museums and universities, beginning with those that were nearest, and checked out whatever information was available on anthropologists, archaeologists, and ancient historians.

Pelorat said, “Ah!”

“Ah?” said Trevize with some asperity. “Ah, what?”

“This name, Quintesetz. It seems familiar.”

“You know him?”

“No, of course not, but I may have read papers of his. Back at the ship, where I have my reference collection–”

“We’re not going back, Janov. If the name is familiar, that’s a starting point. If he can’t help us, he will undoubtedly be able to direct us further.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s find a way of getting to Sayshell University. And since there will be nobody there at lunchtime, let’s eat first.”

It was not till late afternoon that they had made their way out to the university, worked their way through its maze, and found themselves in an anteroom, waiting for a young woman who had gone off in search of information and who might–or might not–lead them to Quintesetz.

“I wonder,” said Pelorat uneasily, “how much longer we’ll have to wait. It must be getting toward the close of the schoolday.”

And, as though that were a cue, the young lady whom they had last seen half an hour before, walked rapidly toward them, her shoes glinting red and violet and striking the ground with a sharp musical tone as she walked. The pitch varied with the speed and force of her steps.

Pelorat winced. He supposed that each world had its own ways of assaulting the senses, just as each had its own smell. He wondered if, now that he no longer noticed the smell, he might also learn not to notice the cacophony of fashionable young women when they walked.

She came to Pelorat and stopped. “May I have your full name, Professor?”

“It’s Janov Pelorat, miss.”

“Your home planet?”

Trevize began to lift one hand as though to enjoin silence, but Pelorat, either not seeing or not regarding, said, “Terminus.”

The young woman smiled broadly, and looked pleased. “When I told Professor Quintesetz that a Professor Pelorat was inquiring for him, he said he would see you if you were Janov Pelorat of Terminus, but not otherwise.”

Pelorat blinked rapidly. “You–you mean, he’s heard of me?”

“It certainly seems so.”

And, almost creakily, Pelorat managed a smile as he turned to Trevize. “He’s heard of me. I honestly didn’t think– I mean, I’ve written very few papers and I didn’t think that anyone–” He shook his head. “They weren’t really important.”

“Well then,” said Trevize, smiling himself, “stop hugging yourself in an ecstasy of self-underestimation and let’s go.” He turned to the woman. “I presume, miss, there’s some sort of transportation to take us to him?”

“It’s within walking distance. We won’t even have to leave the building complex and I’ll be glad to take you there. –Are both of you from Terminus?” And off she went.

The two men followed and Trevize said, with a trace of annoyance, “Yes, we are. Does that make a difference?”

“Oh no, of course not. There are people on Sayshell that don’t like Foundationers, you know, but here at the university, we’re more cosmopolitan than that. Live and let live is what I always say. I mean, Foundationers are people, too. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Lots of us say that Sayshellians are people.”

“That’s just the way it should be. I’ve never seen Terminus. It must be a big city.”

“Actually it isn’t,” said Trevize matter-of-factly. “I suspect it’s smaller than Sayshell City.”

“You’re tweaking my finger,” she said. “It’s the capital of the Foundation Federation, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t another Terminus, is there?”

“No, there’s only one Terminus, as far as I know, and that’s where we’re from–the capital of the Foundation Federation.”

“Well then, it must be an enormous city. –And you’re coming all the way here to see the professor. We’re very proud of him, you know. He’s considered the biggest authority in the whole Galaxy.”

“Really?” said Trevize. “On what?”

Her eyes opened wide again, “You are a teaser. He knows more about ancient history than–than I know about my own family.” And she continued to walk on ahead on her musical feet.

One can only be called a teaser and a finger-tweaker so often without developing an actual impulse in that direction. Trevize smiled and said, “The professor knows all about Earth, I suppose?”

“Earth?” She stopped at an office door and looked at them blankly.

“You know. The world where humanity got its start.”

“Oh, you mean the planet-that-was-first. I guess so. I guess he should know all about it. After all, it’s located in the Sayshell Sector. Everyone knows that! –This is his office. Let me signal him.”

“No, don’t,” said Trevize. “Not for just a minute. Tell me about Earth.”

“Actually I never heard anyone call it Earth. I suppose that’s a Foundation word. We call it Gaia, here.”

Trevize cast a swift look at Pelorat. “Oh? And where is it located?”

“Nowhere. It’s in hyperspace and there’s no way anyone can get to it. When I was a little girl, my grandmother said that Gaia was once in real space, but it was so disgusted at the–”

“Crimes and stupidities of human beings,” muttered Pelorat, “that, out of shame, it left space and refused to have anything more to do with the human beings it had sent out into the Galaxy.”

“You know the story, then. See? –A girlfriend of mine says it’s superstition. Well, I’ll tell her. If it’s good enough for professors from the Foundation–”

A glittering section of lettering on the smoky glass of the door read: SOTAYN QUINTESETZ ABT in the hard-to-read Sayshellian calligraphy–and under it was printed, in the same fashion: DEPARTMENT OF ANCIENT HISTORY.

The woman placed her finger on a smooth metal circle. There was no sound, but the smokiness of the glass turned a milky white for a moment and a soft voice said, in an abstracted sort of way, “Identify yourself, please.”

“Janov Pelorat of Terminus,” said Pelorat, “with Golan Trevize of the same world.” The door swung open at once.

3.

THE MAN WHO stood up, walked around his desk, and advanced to meet them was tall and well into middle age. He was light brown in skin color and his hair, which was set in crisp curls over his head, was iron-gray. He held out his hand in greeting and his voice was soft and low. “I am S.Q. I am delighted to meet you, Professors.”

Trevize said, “I don’t own an academic title. I merely accompany Professor Pelorat. You may call me simply Trevize. I am pleased to meet you, Professor Abt.”

Quintesetz held up one hand in clear embarrassment. “No no. Abt is merely a foolish title of some sort that has no significance outside of Sayshell. Ignore it, please, and call me S.Q. We tend to use initials in ordinary social intercourse on Sayshell. I’m so pleased to meet two of you when I had been expecting but one.”

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then extended his right hand after wiping it unobtrusively on his trousers.

Trevize took it, wondering what the proper Sayshellian manner of greeting was.

Quintesetz said, “Please sit down. I’m afraid you’ll find these chairs to be lifeless ones, but I, for one, don’t want my chairs to hug me. It’s all the fashion for chairs to hug you nowadays, but I prefer a hug to mean something, hey?”

Trevize smiled and said, “Who would not? Your name, SQ., seems to be of the Rim Worlds and not Sayshellian. I apologize if the remark is impertinent.”

“I don’t mind. My family traces back, in part, to Askone. Five generations back, my great-great-grandparents left Askone when Foundation domination grew too heavy.”

Pelorat said, “And we are Foundationers. Our apologies.”

Quintesetz waved his hand genially, “I don’t hold a grudge across a stretch of five generations. Not that such things haven’t been done, more’s the pity. Would you like to have something to eat? To drink? Would you like music in the background?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Pelorat, “I’d be willing to get right to business, if Sayshellian ways would permit.”

“Sayshellian ways are not a barrier to that, I assure you. –You have no idea how remarkable this is, Dr. Pelorat. It was only about two weeks ago that I came across your article on origin myths in the Archaeological Review and it struck me as a remarkable synthesis– all too brief.”

Pelorat flushed with pleasure. “How delighted I am that you have read it. I had to condense it, of course, since the Review would not print a full study. I have been planning to do a treatise on the subject.”

“I wish you would. In any case, as soon as I had read it, I had this desire to see you. I even had the notion of visiting Terminus in order to do so, though that would have been hard to arrange–”

“Why so?” asked Trevize.

Quintesetz looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to say that Sayshell is not eager to join the Foundation Federation and rather discourages any social communication with the Foundation. We’ve a tradition of neutralism, you see. Even the Mule didn’t bother us, except to extort from us a specific statement of neutrality. For that reason, any application for permission to visit Foundation territory generally– and particularly Terminus–is viewed with suspicion, although a scholar such as myself, intent on academic business, would probably obtain his passport in the end. –But none of that was necessary; you have come to me. I can scarcely believe it. I ask myself: Why? Have you heard of me, as I have heard of you?”

Pelorat said, “I know your work, S.Q., and in my records I have abstracts of your papers. It is why I have come to you. I am exploring both the matter of Earth, which is the reputed planet of origin of the human species, and the early period of the exploration and settlement of the Galaxy. In particular, I have come here to inquire as to the founding of Sayshell.”

“From your paper,” said Quintesetz, “I presume you are interested in myths and legends.”

“Even more in history–actual facts–if such exist. Myths and legends, otherwise.”

Quintesetz rose and walked rapidly back and forth the length of his office, paused to stare at Pelorat, then walked again.

Trevize said impatiently, “Well, sir.”

Quintesetz said, “Odd! Really odd! It was only yesterday–”

Pelorat said, “What was only yesterday?”

Quintesetz said, “I told you, Dr. Pelorat–may I call you J.P., by the way? I find using a full-length name rather unnatural”

“Please do.”

“I told you, J.P., that I had admired your paper and that I had wanted to see you. The reason I wanted to see you was that you clearly had an extensive collection of legends concerning the beginnings of the worlds and yet didn’t have ours. In other words, I wanted to see you in order to tell you precisely what you have come to see me to find out.”

“What has this to do with yesterday, S.Q.?” asked Trevize.

“We have legends. A legend. An important one to our society, for it has become our central mystery–”

“Mystery?” said Trevize.

“I don’t mean a puzzle or anything of that sort. That, I believe, would be the usual meaning of the word in Galactic Standard. There’s a specialized meaning here. It means ‘something secret’; something only certain adepts know the full meaning of; something not to be spoken of to outsiders. –And yesterday was the day.”

“The day of what, S.Q.?” asked Trevize, slightly exaggerating his air of patience.

“Yesterday was the Day of Flight.”

“Ah,” said Trevize, “a day of meditation and quiet, when everyone is supposed to remain at home.”

“Something like that, in theory, except that in the larger cities, the more sophisticated regions, there is little observance in the older fashion. –But you know about it, I see.”

Pelorat, who had grown uneasy at Trevize’s annoyed tone, put in hastily, “We heard a little of it, having arrived yesterday.”

“Of all days,” said Trevize sarcastically. “See here, S.Q. As I said, I’m not an academic, but I have a question. You said you were speaking of a central mystery, meaning it was not to be spoken of to outsiders. Why, then, are you speaking of it to us? We are outsiders.”

“So you are. But I’m not an observer of the day and the depth of my superstition in this matter is slight at best. J.P.’s paper, however, reinforced a feeling I have had for a long time. A myth or legend is simply not made up out of a vacuum. Nothing is–or can be. Somehow there is a kernel of truth behind it, however distorted that might be, and I would like the truth behind our legend of the Day of Flight.”

Trevize said, “Is it safe to talk about it?”

Quintesetz shrugged. “Not entirely, I suppose. The conservative elements among our population would be horrified. However, they don’t control the government and haven’t for a century. The secularists are strong and would be stronger still, if the conservatives didn’t take advantage of our–if you’ll excuse me–anti-Foundation bias. Then, too, since I am discussing the matter out of my scholarly interest in ancient history, the League of Academicians will support me strongly, in case of need.”

“In that case,” said Pelorat, “would you tell us about your central mystery, SQ.?”

“Yes, but let me make sure we won’t be interrupted or, for that matter, overheard. Even if one must stare the bull in the face, one needn’t slap its muzzle, as the saying goes.”

He flicked a pattern on the work-face of an instrument on his desk and said, “We’re incommunicado now.”

“Are you sure you’re not bugged?” asked Trevize.

“Bugged?”

“Tapped! Eavesdropped! –Subjected to a device that will have you under observation–visual or auditory or both.”

Quintesetz looked shocked. “Not here on Sayshell!”

Trevize shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Please go on, SQ.,” said Pelorat.

Quintesetz pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair (which gave slightly under the pressure) and put the tips of his fingers together. He seemed to be speculating as to just how to begin.

He said, “Do you know what a robot is?”

“A robot?” said Pelorat. “No.”

Quintesetz looked in the direction of Trevize, who shook his head slowly.

“You know what a computer is, however?”

“Of course,” said Trevize impatiently.

“Well then, a mobile computerized tool–”

“Is a mobile computerized tool.” Trevize was still impatient. “There are endless varieties and I don’t know of any generalized term for it except mobile computerized tool.”

“–that looks exactly like a human being is a robot.” S.Q. completed his definition with equanimity. “The distinction of a robot is that it is humaniform.”

“Why humaniform?” asked Pelorat in honest amazement.

“I’m not sure. It’s a remarkably inefficient form for a tool, I grant you, but I’m just repeating the legend. ‘Robot’ is an old word from no recognizable language, though our scholars say it bears the connotation of ‘work.”

“I can’t think of any word,” said Trevize skeptically, “that sounds even vaguely like ‘robot’ and that has any connection with ‘work.”

“Nothing in Galactic, certainly,” said Quintesetz, “but that’s what they say.”

Pelorat said, “It may have been reverse etymology. These objects were used for work, and so the word was said to mean ‘work.’ –In any case, why do you tell us this?”

“Because it is a firmly fixed tradition here on Sayshell that when Earth was a single world and the Galaxy lay all uninhabited before it, robots were invented and devised. There were then two sorts of human beings: natural and invented, flesh and metal, biological and mechanical, complex and simple–”

Quintesetz came to a halt and said with a rueful laugh, “I’m sorry. It is impossible to talk about robots without quoting from the Book of Flight. The people of Earth devised robots–and I need say no more. That’s plain enough.”

“And why did they devise robots?” asked Trevize.

Quintesetz shrugged. “Who can tell at this distance in time? Perhaps they were few in numbers and needed help, particularly in the great task of exploring and populating the Galaxy.”

Trevize said, “That’s a reasonable suggestion. Once the Galaxy was colonized, the robots would no longer be needed. Certainly there are no humanoid mobile computerized tools in the Galaxy today.”

“In any case,” said Quintesetz, “the story is as follows–if I may vastly simplify and leave out many poetic ornamentations which, frankly, I don’t accept, though the general population does or pretends to. Around Earth, there grew up colony worlds circling neighboring stars and these colony worlds were far richer in robots than was Earth itself. There was more use for robots on raw, new worlds. Earth, in fact, retreated, wished no more robots, and rebelled against them.”

“What happened?” asked Pelorat.

“The Outer Worlds were the stronger. With the help of their robots, the children defeated and controlled Earth–the Mother. Pardon me, but I can’t help slipping into quotation. But there were those from Earth who fled their world–with better ships and stronger modes of hyperspatial travel. They fled to far distant stars and worlds, far beyond the closer worlds earlier colonized. New colonies were founded–without robots–in which human beings could live freely. Those were the Times of Flight, so-called, and the day upon which the first Earthmen reached the Sayshell Sector– this very planet, in fact–is the Day of Flight, celebrated annually for many thousands of years.”

Pelorat said, “My dear chap, what you are saying, then, is that Sayshell was founded directly from Earth.”

Quintesetz thought and hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “That is the official belief.”

“Obviously,” said Trevize, “you don’t accept it.”

“It seems to me–” Quintesetz began and then burst out, “Oh, Great Stars and Small Planets, I don’t! It is entirely too unlikely, but it’s official dogma and however secularized the government has become, lip service to that, at least, is essential. –Still, to the point. In your article, J.P., there is no indication that you’re aware of this story–of robots and of two waves of colonization, a lesser one with robots and a greater one without.”

“I certainly was not,” said Pelorat. “I hear it now for the first time and, my dear SQ., I am eternally grateful to you for making this known to me. I am astonished that no hint of this has appeared in any of the writings–”

“It shows,” said Quintesetz, “how effective our social system is. It’s our Sayshellian secret–our great mystery.”

“Perhaps,” said Trevize dryly. “Yet the second wave of colonization–the robotless wave–must have moved out in all directions. Why is it only on Sayshell that this great secret exists?”

Quintesetz said, “It may exist elsewhere and be just as secret. Our own conservatives believe that only Sayshell was settled from Earth and that all the rest of the Galaxy was settled from Sayshell. That, of course, is probably nonsense.”

Pelorat said, “These subsidiary puzzles can be worked out in time. Now that I have the starting point, I can seek out similar information on other worlds. What counts is that I have discovered the question to ask and a good question is, of course, the key by which infinite answers can be educed. How fortunate that I–”

Trevize said, “Yes, Janov, but the good SQ. has not told us the whole story, surely. What happened to the older colonies and their robots? Do your traditions say?”

“Not in detail, but in essence. Human and humanoid cannot live together, apparently. The worlds with robots died. They were not viable.”

“And Earth?”

“Humans left it and settled here and presumably (though the conservatives would disagree) on other planets as well.”

“Surely not every human being left Earth. The planet was not deserted.”

“Presumably not. I don’t know.”

Trevize said abruptly, “Was it left radioactive?”

Quintesetz looked astonished. “Radioactive?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Not to my knowledge. I never heard of such a thing.”

Trevize put a knuckle to his teeth and considered. Finally he said, “S.Q., it’s getting late and we have trespassed sufficiently on your time, perhaps.” (Pelorat made a motion as though he were about to protest, but Trevize’s hand was on the other’s knee and his grip tightened–so Pelorat, looking disturbed, subsided.)

Quintesetz said, “I was delighted to be of use.”

“You have been and if there’s anything we can do in exchange, name it.”

Quintesetz laughed gently. “If the good J.P. will be so kind as to refrain from mentioning my name in connection with any writing he does on our mystery, that will be sufficient repayment.”

Pelorat said eagerly, “You would be able to get the credit you deserve–and perhaps be more appreciated–if you were allowed to visit Terminus and even, perhaps, remain there as a visiting scholar at our university for an extended period. We might arrange that. Sayshell might not like the Federation, but they might not like refusing a direct request that you be allowed to come to Terminus to attend, let us say, a colloquium on some aspect of ancient history.”

The Sayshellian half-rose. “Are you saying you can pull strings to arrange that?”

Trevize said, “Why, I hadn’t thought of it, but J.P. is perfectly right. That would be feasible–if we tried. And, of course, the more grateful you make us, the harder we will try.”

Quintesetz paused, then frowned. “What do you mean, sir?”

“All you have to do is tell us about Gaia, S.Q.,” said Trevize.

And all the light in Quintesetz’s face died.

4.

QUINTESETZ LOOKED DOWN at his desk. His hand stroked absent-mindedly at his short, tightly curled hair. Then he looked at Trevize and pursed his lips tightly. It was as though he were determined not to speak.

Trevize lifted his eyebrows and waited and finally Quintesetz said in a strangled sort of way, “it is getting indeed late–quite glemmering.”

Until then he had spoken in good Galactic, but now his words took on a strange shape as though the Sayshellian mode of speech were pushing past his classical education.

“Glemmering, S.Q.?”

“It is nearly full night.”

Trevize nodded. “I am thoughtless. And I am hungry, too. Could you please join us for an evening meal, S.Q., at our expense? We could then, perhaps, continue our discussion–about Gaia.”

Quintesetz rose heavily to his feet. He was taller than either of the two men from Terminus, but he was older and pudgier and his height did not lend him the appearance of strength. He seemed more weary than when they had arrived.

He blinked at them and said, “I forget my hospitality. You are Outworlders and it would not be fitting that you entertain me. Come to my home. It is on campus and not far and, if you wish to carry on a conversation, I can do so in a more relaxed manner there than here. My only regret” (he seemed a little uneasy) “is that I can offer you only a limited meal. My wife and I are vegetarians and if you are meat-eating, I can Only express my apologies and regrets.”

Trevize said, “J.P. and I will be quite content to forego our carnivorous natures for one meal. Your conversation will more than make up for it–I hope.”

“I can promise you an interesting meal, whatever the conversation,” said Quintesetz, “if your taste should run to our Sayshellian spices. My wife and I have made a rare study of such things.”

“I look forward to any exoticism you choose to supply, S.Q.,” said Trevize coolly, though Pelorat looked a little nervous at the prospect.

Quintesetz led the way. The three left the room and walked down an apparently endless corridor, with the Sayshellian greeting students and colleagues now and then, but making no attempt to introduce his companions. Trevize was uneasily aware that others stared curiously at his sash, which happened to be one of his gray ones. A subdued color was not something that was de rigueur in campus clothing, apparently.

Finally they stepped through the door and out into the open. It was indeed dark and a little cool, with trees bulking in the distance and a rather rank stand of grass on either side of the walkway.

Pelorat came to a halt–with his back to the glimmer of lights that came from the building they had just left and from the glows that lined the walks of the campus. He looked straight upward.

“Beautiful!” he said. “There is a famous phrase in a verse by one of our better poets that speaks of ‘the speckle-shine of Sayshell’s soaring sky.”

Trevize gazed appreciately and said in a low voice, “Vie are from Terminus, S.Q., and my friend, at least, has seen no other skies. On Terminus, we see only the smooth dim fog of the Galaxy and a few barely visible stars. You would appreciate your own sky even more, had you lived with ours.”

Quintesetz said gravely, “We appreciate it to the full, I assure you. It’s not so much that we are in an uncrowded area of the Galaxy, but that the distribution of stars is remarkably even. I don’t think that you will find, anywhere in the Galaxy, first-magnitude stars so generally distributed. –And yet not too many, either. I have seen the skies of worlds that are inside the outer reaches of a globular cluster and there you will see too many bright stars. It spoils the darkness of the night sky and reduces the splendor considerably.”

“I quite agree with that,” said Trevize.

“Now I wonder,” said Quintesetz, “if you see that almost regular pentagon of almost equally bright stars. The Five Sisters, we call them. It’s in that direction, just above the line of trees. Do you see it?”

“I see it,” said Trevize. “Very attractive.”

“Yes,” said Quintesetz. “It’s supposed to symbolize success in love –and there’s no love letter that doesn’t end in a pentagon of dots to indicate a desire to make love. Each of the five stars stands for a different stage in the process and there are famous poems which have vied with each other in making each stage as explicitly erotic as possible. In my younger days, I attempted versifying on the subject myself and I wouldn’t have thought that the time would come when I would grow so indifferent to the Five Sisters, though I suppose it’s the common fate. –Do you see the dim star just about in the center of the Five Sisters.”

“Yes.”

“That,” said Quintesetz, “is supposed to represent unrequited love. There is a legend that the star was once as bright as the rest, but faded with grief.” And he walked on rapidly.

5.

THE DINNER, TREVIZE had been forced to admit to himself, was delightful. There was endless variety and the spicing and dressing were subtle but effective.

Trevize said, “All these vegetables–which have been a pleasure to eat, by the way–are part of the Galactic dietary, are they not, SQ.?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I presume, though, that there are indigenous forms of life, too.”

“Of course. Sayshell Planet was an oxygen world when the first settlers arrived, so it had to be life-bearing. And we have preserved some of the indigenous life, you may be sure. We have quite extensive natural parks in which both the flora and the fauna of Old Sayshell survive.”

Pelorat said sadly, “There you are in advance of us, S.Q. There was little land life on Terminus when human beings arrived and I’m afraid that for a long time no concerted effort was made to preserve the sea life, which had produced the oxygen that made Terminus habitable. Terminus has an ecology now that is purely Galactic in nature.”

“Sayshell,” said Quintesetz, with a smile of modest pride, “has a long and steady record of life-valuing.”

And Trevize chose that moment to say, “When we left your office, SQ., I believe it was your intention to feed us dinner and then tell us about Gaia.”

Quintesetz’s wife, a friendly woman–plump and quite dark, who had said little during the meal–looked up in astonishment, rose, and left the room without a word.

“My wife,” said Quintesetz uneasily, “is quite a conservative, I’m afraid, and is a bit uneasy at the mention of–the world. Please excuse her. But why do you ask about it?”

“Because it is important for J.P.’s work, I’m afraid.”

“But why do you ask it of me? We were discussing Earth, robots, the founding of Sayshell. What has all this to do with–what you ask?”

“Perhaps nothing, and yet there are so many oddnesses about the matter. Why is your wife uneasy at the mention of Gaia? Why are you uneasy? Some talk of it easily enough. We have been told only today that Gaia is Earth itself and that it has disappeared into hyperspace because of the evil done by human beings.”

A look of pain crossed Quintesetz’s face. “Who told you that gibberish?”

“Someone I met here at the university.”

“That’s just superstition.”

“Then it’s not part of the central dogma of your legends concerning the Flight?”

“No, of course not. It’s just a fable that arose among the ordinary, uneducated people.”

“Are you sure?” asked Trevize coldly.

Quintesetz sat back in his chair and stared at the remnant of the meal before him. “Come into the living room,” he said. “My wife will not allow this room to be cleared and set to rights while we are here and discussing–this.”

“Are you sure it is just a fable?” repeated Trevize, once they had seated themselves in another room, before a window that bellied upward and inward to give a clear view of Sayshell’s remarkable night sky. The lights within the room glimmered down to avoid competition and Quintesetz’s dark countenance melted into the shadow.

Quintesetz said, “Aren’t you sure? Do you think that any world can dissolve into hyperspace? You must understand that the average person has only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is.”

“The truth is,” said Trevize, “that I myself have only the vaguest notion of what hyperspace is and I’ve been through it hundreds of times.”

“Let me speak realities, then. I assure you that Earth–wherever it is–is not located within the borders of the Sayshell Union and that the world you mentioned is not Earth.”

“But even if you don’t know where Earth is, S.Q., you ought to know where the world I mentioned is. It is certainly within the borders of the Sayshell Union. We know that much, eh, Pelorat?”

Pelorat, who had been listening stolidly, started at being suddenly addressed and said, “If it comes to that, Golan, I know where it is.”

Trevize turned to look at him. “Since when, Janov?”

“Since earlier this evening, my dear Golan. You showed us the Five Sisters, S.Q., on our way from your office to your house. You pointed out a dim star at the center of the pentagon. I’m positive that’s Gaia.”

Quintesetz hesitated–his face, hidden in the dimness, was beyond any chance of interpretation. Finally he said, “Well, that’s what our astronomers tell us–privately. It is a planet that circles that star.”

Trevize gazed contemplatively at Pelorat, but the expression on the professor’s face was unreadable. Trevize turned to Quintesetz, “Then tell us about that star. Do you have its co-ordinates?”

“I? No.” He was almost violent in his denial. “I have no stellar co-ordinates here. You can get it from our astronomy department, though I imagine not without trouble. No travel to that star is permitted.”

“Why not? It’s within your territory, isn’t it?”

“Spaciographically, yes. Politically, no.”

Trevize waited for something more to be said. When that didn’t come, he rose. “Professor Quintesetz,” he said formally, “I am not a policeman, soldier, diplomat, or thug. I am not here to force information out of you. Instead, I shall, against my will, go to our ambassador. Surely, you must understand that it is not I, for my own personal interest, that request this information. This is Foundation business and I don’t want to make an interstellar incident out of this. I don’t think the Sayshell Union would want to, either.”

Quintesetz said uncertainly, “What is this Foundation business?”

“That’s not something I can discuss with you. If Gaia is not something you can discuss with me, then we will transfer it all to the government level and, under the circumstances, it may be the worse for Sayshell. Sayshell has kept its independence of the Federation and I have no objection to that. I have no reason to wish Sayshell ill and I do not wish to approach our ambassador. In fact, I will harm my own career in doing so, for I am under strict instruction to get this information without making a government matter of it. Please tell me, then, if there is some firm reason why you cannot discuss Gaia. Will you be arrested or otherwise punished, if you speak? Will you tell me plainly that I have no choice but to go to the ambassadorial height?”

“No no,” said Quintesetz, who sounded utterly confused. “I know nothing about government matters. We simply don’t speak of that world.”

“Superstition?”

“Well, yes! Superstition! –Skies of Sayshell, in what way am I better than that foolish person who told you that Gaia was in hyperspace–or than my wife who won’t even stay in a room where Gaia is mentioned and who may even have left the house for fear it will be smashed by–”

“Lightning?”

“By some stroke from afar. And I, even I, hesitate to pronounce the name. Gaia! Gaia! The syllables do not hurt! I am unharmed! Yet I hesitate. –But please believe me when I say that I honestly don’t know the co-ordinates for Gaia’s star. I can try to help you get it, if that will help, but let me tell you that we don’t discuss the world here in the Union. We keep hands and minds off it. I can tell you what little is known–really known, rather than supposed–and I doubt that you can learn anything more anywhere in these worlds of the Union.

“We know Gaia is an ancient world and there are some who think it is the oldest world in this sector of the Galaxy, but we are not certain. Patriotism tells us Sayshell Planet is the oldest; fear tells us Gaia Planet is. The only way of combining the two is to suppose that Gaia is Earth, since it is known that Sayshell was settled by Earthpeople.

“Most historians think–among themselves–that Gaia Planet was founded independently. They think it is not a colony of any world of our Union and that the Union was not colonized by Gaia. There is no consensus on comparative age, whether Gaia was settled before or after Sayshell was.”

Trevize said, “So far, what you know is nothing, since every possible alternative is believed by someone or other.”

Quintesetz nodded ruefully. “It would seem so. It was comparatively late in our history that we became conscious of the existence of Gaia. We had been preoccupied at first in forming the Union, then in fighting off the Galactic Empire, then in trying to find our proper role as an Imperial province and in limiting the power of the Viceroys.

“It wasn’t till the days of Imperial weakness were far advanced that one of the later Viceroys, who was under very weak central control by then, came to realize that Gaia existed and seemed to maintain its independence from the Sayshellian province and even from the Empire itself. It simply kept to itself in isolation and secrecy, so that virtually nothing was known about it, anymore than is now known. The Viceroy decided to take it over. We have no details what happened, but his expedition was broken and few ships returned. In those days, of course, the ships were neither very good nor very well led.

“Sayshell itself rejoiced at the defeat of the Viceroy, who was considered an Imperial oppressor, and the debacle led almost directly to the re-establishment of our independence. The Sayshell Union snapped its ties with the Empire and we still celebrate the anniversary of that event as Union Day. Almost out of gratitude we left Gaia alone for nearly a century, but the time came when we were strong enough to begin to think of a little imperialistic expansion of our own. Why not take over Gaia? Why not at least establish a Customs Union? We sent out a fleet and it was broken, too.

“Thereafter, we confined ourselves to an occasional attempt at trade–attempts that were invariably unsuccessful. Gaia remained in firm isolation and never–to anyone’s knowledge–made the slightest attempt to trade or communicate with any other world. It certainly never made the slightest hostile move against anyone in any direction. And then–”

Quintesetz turned up the light by touching a control in the arm of his chair. In the light, Quintesetz’s face took on a clearly sardonic expression. He went on, “Since you are citizens of the Foundation, you perhaps remember the Mule.”

Trevize flushed. In five centuries of existence, the Foundation had been conquered only once. The conquest had been only temporary and had not seriously interfered with its climb toward Second Empire, but surely no one who resented the Foundation and wished to puncture its self-satisfaction would fail to mention the Mule, its one conqueror. And it was likely (thought Trevize) that Quintesetz had raised the level of light in order that he might see Foundational self-satisfaction punctured.

He said, “Yes, we of the Foundation remember the Mule.”

“The Mule,” said Quintesetz, “ruled an Empire for a while, one that was as large as the Federation now controlled by the Foundation. He did not, however, rule us. He left us in peace. He passed through Sayshell at one time, however. We signed a declaration of neutrality and a statement of friendship. He asked nothing more. We were the only ones of whom he asked nothing more in the days before illness called a halt to his expansion and forced him to wait for death. He was not an unreasonable man, you know. He did not use unreasonable force, he was not bloody, and he ruled humanely.”

“It was just that he was a conqueror,” said Trevize sarcastically.

“Like the Foundation,” said Quintesetz.

Trevize, with no ready answer, said irritably, “Do you have more to say about Gaia?”

“Just a statement that the Mule made. According to the account of the historic meeting between the Mule and President Kallo of the Union, the Mule is described as having put his signature to the document with a flourish and to have said, “You are neutral even toward Gaia by this document, which is fortunate for you. Even I will not approach Gaia.”

Trevize shook his head. “Why should he? Sayshell was eager to pledge neutrality and Gaia had no record of ever troubling anyone. The Mule was planning the conquest of the entire Galaxy at the time, so why delay for trifles? Time enough to turn on Sayshell and Gaia, when that was done.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Quintesetz, “but according to one witness at the time, a person we tend to believe, the Mule put down his pen as he said, ‘Even I will not approach Gaia.’ His voice then dropped and, in a whisper not meant to be heard, he added ‘again.”

“Not meant to be heard, you say. Then how was it he was heard?”

“Because his pen rolled off the table when he put it down and a Sayshellian automatically approached and bent to pick it up. His ear was close to the Mule’s mouth when the word ‘again’ was spoken and he heard it. He said nothing until after the Mule’s death.”

“How can you prove it was not an invention.”

“The man’s life is not the kind that makes it probable he would invent something of this kind. His report is accepted.”

“And if it is?”

“The Mule was never in–or anywhere near–the Sayshell Union except on this one occasion, at least after he appeared on the Galactic scene. If he had ever been on Gaia, it had to be before he appeared on the Galactic scene.”

“Well?”

“Well, where was the Mule born?”

“I don’t think anyone knows,” said Trevize.

“In the Sayshell Union, there is a strong feeling he was born on Gaia.”

“Because of that one word?”

“Only partly. The Mule could not be defeated because he had strange mental powers. Gaia cannot be defeated either.”

“Gaia has not been defeated as yet. That does not necessarily prove it cannot be.”

“Even the Mule would not approach. Search the records of his Overlordship. See if any region other than the Sayshell Union was so gingerly treated. And do you know that no one who has ever gone to Gaia for the purpose of peaceful trade has ever returned? Why do you suppose we know so little about it?”

Trevize said, “Your attitude seems much like superstition.”

“Call it what you will. Since the time of the Mule, we have wiped Gaia out of our thinking. We don’t want it to think of us. We only feel safe if we pretend it isn’t there. It may be that the government has itself secretly initiated and encouraged the legend that Gaia has disappeared into hyperspace in the hope that people will forget that there is a real Star of that name.”

“You think that Gaia is a world of Mules, then?”

“It may be. I advise you, for your good, not to go there. If you do, you will never return. If the Foundation interferes with Gaia, it will show less intelligence than the Mule did. You might tell your ambassador that.”

Trevize said, “Get me the co-ordinates and I will be off your world at once. I will reach Gaia and I will return.”

Quintesetz said, “I will get you the co-ordinates. The astronomy department works nights, of course, and I will get it for you now, if I can. –But let me suggest once more that you make no attempt to reach Gaia.”

Trevize said, “I intend to make that attempt.”

And Quintesetz said heavily, “Then you intend suicide.”

14. Forward!

1.

JANOV PELORAT LOOKED out at the dim landscape in the graying dawn with an odd mixture of regret and uncertainty.

“We aren’t staying long enough, Golan. It seems a pleasant and interesting world. I would like to learn more about it.”

Trevize looked up from the computer with a wry smile. “You don’t think I would like to? We had three proper meals on the planet–totally different and each excellent. I’d like more. And the only women we saw, we saw briefly–and some of them looked quite enticing, for–well, for what I’ve got in mind.”

Pelorat wrinkled his nose slightly. “Oh, my dear chap. Those cowbells they call shoes, and all wrapped around in clashing colors, and whatever do they do to their eyelashes. Did you notice their eyelashes?”

“You might just as well believe I noticed everything, Janov. What you object to is superficial. They can easily be persuaded to wash their faces and, at the proper time, off come the shoes and the colors.”

Pelorat said, “I’ll take your word for that, Janov. However, I was thinking more of investigating the matter of Earth further. ‘What we’ve been told about Earth, thus far, is so unsatisfactory, so contradictory–radiation according to one person, robots according to another.”

“Death in either case.”

“True,” said Pelorat reluctantly, “but it may be that one is true and not the other, or that both are true to some extent, or that neither is true. Surely, Janov, when you hear tales that simply shroud matters in thickening mists of doubt, surely you must feel the itch to explore, to find out.”

“I do,” said Golan. “By every dwarf star in the Galaxy, I do. The problem at hand, however, is Gaia. Once that is straightened out, we can go to Earth, or come back here to Sayshell for a more extended stay. But first, Gaia.”

Pelorat nodded, “The problem at hand! If we accept what Quintesetz told us, death is waiting for us on Gaia. Ought we to be going?”

Trevize said, “I ask myself that. Are you afraid?”

Pelorat hesitated as though he were probing his own feelings. Then he said in a quite simple and matter-of-fact manner. “Yes. Terribly!”

Trevize sat back in his chair and swiveled to face the other. He said, just as quietly and matter-of-factly, “Janov, there’s no reason for you to chance this. Say the word and I’ll let you off on Sayshell with your personal belongings and with half our credits. I’ll pick you up when I return and it will be on to Sirius Sector, if you wish, and Earth, if that’s where it is. If I don’t return, the Foundation people on Sayshell will see to it that you get back to Terminus. No hard feelings if you stay behind, old friend.”

Pelorat’s eyes blinked rapidly and his lips pressed together for a few moments. Then he said, rather huskily, “Old friend? We’ve known each other what? A week or so? Isn’t it strange that I’m going to refuse to leave the ship? I am afraid, but I want to remain with you.”

Trevize moved his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “But why? I honestly don’t ask it of you.”

“I’m not sure why, but I ask it of myself. It’s–it’s– Golan, I have faith in you. It seems to me you always know what you’re doing. I wanted to go to Trantor where probably–as I now see– nothing would have happened. You insisted on Gaia and Gaia must somehow be a raw nerve in the Galaxy. Things seem to happen in connection with it. And if that’s not enough, Golan, I watched you force Quintesetz to give you the information about Gaia. That was such a skillful bluff. I was lost in admiration.”

“You have faith in me, then.”

Pelorat said, “Yes, I do.”

Trevize put his hand on the other’s upper arm and seemed, for a moment, to be searching for words. Finally he said, “Janov, will you forgive me in advance if my judgment is wrong, and if you in one way or another meet with–whatever unpleasant may be awaiting us?”

Pelorat said, “Oh, my dear fellow, why do you ask? I make the decision freely for my reasons, not yours. And, please–let us leave quickly. I don’t trust my cowardice not to seize me by the throat and shame me for the rest of my life.”

“As you say, Janov,” said Trevize. “We’ll leave at the earliest moment the computer will permit. This time, we’ll be moving gravitically–straight up–as soon as we can be assured the atmosphere above is clear of other ships. And as the surrounding atmosphere grows less and less dense, we’ll put on more and more speed. Well within the hour, we’ll be in open space.”

“Good,” Pelorat said and pinched the tip off a plastic coffee container. The opened orifice almost at once began steaming. Pelorat put the nipple to his mouth and sipped, allowing just enough air to enter his mouth to cool the coffee to a bearable temperature.

Trevize grinned. “You’ve learned how to use those things beautifully. You’re a space veteran, Janov.”

Pelorat stared at the plastic container for a moment and said, “Now that we have ships that can adjust a gravitational field at will, surely we can use ordinary containers, can’t we?”

“Of course, but you’re not going to get space people to give up their space-centered apparatus. How is a space rat going to put distance between himself and surface worms if he uses an openmouthed cup? See those rings on the walls and ceilings? Those have been traditional in spacecraft for twenty thousand years and more, but they’re absolutely useless in a gravitic ship. Yet they’re there and I’ll bet the entire ship to a cup of coffee that your space rat will pretend he’s being squashed into asphyxiation on takeoff and will then sway back and forth from those rings as though he’s under zero-gray when its gee-one–normal-grav, that is–on both occasions.”

“You’re joking.”

“Well, maybe a little, but there’s always social inertia to everything–even technological advance. Those useless wall rings are there and the cups they supply us have nipples.”

Pelorat nodded thoughtfully and continued to sip at his coffee. Finally he said, “And when do we take off?”

Trevize laughed heartily and said, “Got you. I began talking about wall rings and you never noticed that we were taking off right at that time. We’re a mile high right now.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“Look out.”

Pelorat did and then said, “But I never felt a thing.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“Aren’t we breaking the regulations? Surely we ought to have followed a radio beacon in an upward spiral, as we did in a downward spiral on landing?”

“No reason to, Janov. No one will stop us. No one at all.”

“Coming down, you said–”

“That was different. They weren’t anxious to see us arrive, but they’re ecstatic to see us go.”

“Why do you say that, Golan? The only person who talked to us about Gaia was Quintesetz and he begged us not to go.”

“Don’t you believe it, Janov. That was for form. He made sure we’d go to Gaia. –Janov, you admired the way I bluffed the information out of Quintesetz. I’m sorry, but I don’t deserve the admiration. If I had done nothing at all, he would have offered the information. If I had tried to plug my ears, he would have shouted it at me.”

“Why do you say that, Golan? That’s crazy.”

“Paranoid? Yes, I know.” Trevize turned to the computer and extended his sense intently. He said, “We’re not being stopped. No ships in interfering distance, no warning messages of any kind.”

Again he swiveled in the direction of Pelorat. He said, “Tell me, Janov, how did you find out about Gaia? You knew about Gaia while we were still on Terminus. You knew it was in the Sayshell Sector. You knew the name was, somehow, a form of Earth. Where did you hear all this?”

Pelorat seemed to stiffen. He said, “If I were back in my office on Terminus, I might consult my files. I have not brought everything with me–certainly not the dates on which I first encountered this piece of data or that.”

“Well, think about it,” said Trevize grimly. “Consider that the Sayshellians themselves are close-mouthed about the matter. They are so reluctant to talk about Gaia as it really is that they actually encourage a superstition that has the common people of the sector believing that no such planet exists in ordinary space. In fact, I can tell you something else. Watch this!”

Trevize swung to the computer, his fingers sweeping across the direction hand-rests with the ease and grace of long practice. When he placed his hands on the manuals, he welcomed their warm touch and enclosure. He felt, as always, a bit of his will oozing outward.

He said, “This is the computer’s Galactic map, as it existed within its memory banks before we landed on Sayshell. I am going to show you that portion of the map that represents the night sky of Sayshell as we saw it this past night.”

The room darkened and a representation of a night sky sprang out onto the screen.

Pelorat said in a low voice, “As beautiful as we saw it on Sayshell.”

“More beautiful,” said Trevize, impatiently. “There is no atmospheric interference of any kind, no clouds, no absorption at the horizon. But wait, let me make an adjustment”

The view shifted steadily, giving the two the uncomfortable impression that it was they who were moving. Pelorat instinctively took hold of the arms of his chair to steady himself.

“There!” said Trevize. “Do you recognize that?”

“Of course. Those are the Five Sisters–the pentagon of stars that Quintesetz pointed out. It is unmistakable.”

“Yes indeed. But where is Gaia?”

Pelorat blinked. There was no dim star at the center.

“It’s not there,” he said.

“That’s right. It’s not there. And that’s because its location is not included in the data banks of the computer. Since it passes the bounds of likelihood that those data banks were deliberately made incomplete in this respect for our benefit, I conclude that to the Foundation Gaiactographers who designed those data banks–and who had tremendous quantities of information at their disposal– Gaia was unknown.”

“Do you suppose if we had gone to Trantor–” began Pelorat.

“I suspect we would have found no data on Gaia there, either. Its existence is kept a secret by the Sayshellians–and even more so, I suspect, by the Gaians themselves. You yourself said a few days ago it was not entirely uncommon that some worlds deliberately stayed out of sight to avoid taxation or outside interference.”

“Usually,” said Pelorat, “when mapmakers and statisticians come across such a world, they are found to exist in thinly populated sections of the Galaxy. It’s isolation that makes it possible for them to hide. Gaia is not isolated.”

“That’s right. That’s another of the things that makes it unusual. So let’s leave this map on the screen so that you and I might continue to ponder the ignorance of our Gaiactographers–and let me ask you again– In view of this ignorance on the part of the most knowledgeable of people, how did you come to hear of Gaia?”

“I have been gathering data on Earth myths, Earth legends, and Earth histories for over thirty years, my good Golan. Without my complete records, how could I possibly–”

“We can begin somewhere, Janov. Did you learn about it in, say, the first fifteen years of your research or in the last fifteen?”

“Oh! Well, if we’re going to be that broad, it was later on.”

“You can do better than that. Suppose I suggest that you learned of Gaia only in the last couple of years.”

Trevize peered in Pelorat’s direction, felt the absence of any ability to read an unseen expression in the dimness, and raised the light level of the room a bit. The glory of the representation of the night sky on the screen dimmed in proportion. Pelorat’s expression was stony and revealed nothing.

“Well?” said Trevize.

“I’m thinking,” said Pelorat mildly. “You may be right. I wouldn’t swear to it. When I wrote Jimbor of Ledbet University, I didn’t mention Gaia, though in that case it would have been appropriate to do so, and that was in–let’s see–in ‘~ and that was three years ago. I think you’re right, Golan.”

“And how did you come upon it?” asked Trevize. “In a communication? A book? A scientific paper? Some ancient song? How? –Come on!”

Pelorat sat back and crossed his arms. He fell into deep thought and didn’t move. Trevize said nothing and waited.

Finally Pelorat said, “In a private communication. –But it’s no use asking me from whom, my dear chap. I don’t remember.”

Trevize moved his hands over his sash. They felt clammy as he continued his efforts to elicit information without too clearly forcing words into the other’s mouth. He said, “From a historian? From an expert in mythology? From a Gaiactographer?”

“No use. I cannot match a name to the communication.”

“Because, perhaps, there was none.”

“Oh no. That scarcely seems possible.”

“Why? Would you have rejected an anonymous communication?”

“I suppose not.”

“Did you ever receive any?”

“Once in a long while. In recent years, I had become well known in certain academic circles as a collector of particular types of myths and legends and some of my correspondents were occasionally kind enough to forward material they had picked up from nonacademic sources. Sometimes these might not be attributed to anyone in particular.”

Trevize said, “Yes, but did you ever receive anonymous information directly, and not by way of some academic correspondent?”

“That sometimes happened–but very rarely.”

“And can you be certain that this was not so in the case of Gaia?”

“Such anonymous communications took place so rarely that I should think I would remember if it had happened in this case. Still, I can’t say certainly that the information was not of anonymous origin. Mind, though, that’s not to say that I did receive the information from an anonymous source.”

“I realize that. But it remains a possibility, doesn’t it?”

Pelorat said, very reluctantly, “I suppose it does. But what’s all this about?”

“I’m not finished,” said Trevize peremptorily. “Where did you get the information from–anonymous or not? What world?”

Pelorat shrugged. “Come now, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Could it possibly have been from Sayshell?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“I’m suggesting you did get it from Sayshell.”

“You can suggest all you wish, but that does not necessarily make it so.”

“No? When Quintesetz pointed out the dim Star at the center of the Five Sisters, you knew at once it was Gaia. You said so later on to Quintesetz, identifying it before he did. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How was that possible? How did you recognize at once that the dim star was Gaia?”

“Because in the material I had on Gaia, it was rarely referred to by that name. Euphemisms were common, many different ones. One of the euphemisms, several times repeated, was ‘the little Brother of the Five Sisters.’ Another was ‘the Pentagon’s Center’ and sometimes it was called ‘o Pentagon.’ When Quintesetz pointed out the Five Sisters and the central star, the allusions came irresistibly to mind.”

“You never mentioned those allusions to me earlier.”

“I didn’t know what they meant and I didn’t think it would have been important to discuss the matter with you, who were a–” Pelorat hesitated.

“A nonspecialist?”

“Yes.”

“You realize, I hope, that the pentagon of the Five Sisters is an entirely relative form.”

“What do you mean?”

Trevize laughed affectionately. “You surface worm. Do you think the sky has an objective shape of its own? That the stars are nailed in place? The pentagon has the shape it has from the surface of the worlds of the planetary system to which Sayshell Planet belongs– and from there only. From a planet circling any other star, the appearance of the Five Sisters is different. They are seen from a different angle, for one thing. For another, the five stars of the pentagon are at different distances from Sayshell and, seen from other angles, there could be no visible relationship among them at all. One or two stars might be in one half of the sky, the others in the other half. See here–”

Trevize darkened the room again and leaned over the computer. “There are eighty-six populated planetary systems making up the Sayshell Union. Let us keep Gaia–or the spot where Gaia ought to be–in place” (as he said that, a small red circle appeared in the center of the pentagon of the Five Sisters) “and shift to the skies as seen from any of the other eighty-six worlds taken at random.”

The sky shifted and Pelorat blinked. The small red circle remained at the center of the screen, but the Five Sisters had disappeared. There were bright stars in the neighborhood but no tight pentagon. Again the sky shifted, and again, and again. It went on shifting. The red circle remained in place always, but at no time did a small pentagon of equally bright stars appear. Sometimes what might be a distorted pentagon of stars–unequally bright–appeared, but nothing like the beautiful asterism Quintesetz had pointed out.

“Had enough?” said Trevize. “I assure you, the Five Sisters can never be seen exactly as we have seen it from any populated world but the worlds of the Sayshell planetary system.”

Pelorat said, “The Sayshellian view might have been exported to other planets. There were many proverbs in Imperial times–some of which linger into our own, in fact–that are Trantor-centered.”

“With Sayshell as secretive about Gaia as we know it to be? And why should worlds outside the Sayshell Union be interested? Why would they care about a ‘little Brother of the Five Sisters’ if there were nothing in the skies at which to point?”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Then don’t you see that your original information must have come from Sayshell itself? Not just from somewhere in the Union, but precisely from the planetary system to which the capital world of the Union belongs.”

Pelorat shook his head. “You make it sound as though it must, but it’s not something I remember. I simply don’t.”

“Nevertheless, you do see the force of my argument, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Next– When do you suppose the legend could have originated?”

“Anytime. I should suppose it developed far back in the Imperial Era. It has the feel of an ancient–”

“You are wrong, Janov. The Five Sisters are moderately close to Sayshell Planet, which is why they’re so bright. Four of them have high proper motions in consequence and no two are part of a family, so that they move in different directions. Watch what happens as I shift the map backward in time slowly.”

Again the red circle that marked the site of Gaia remained in place, but the pentagon slowly fell apart, as four of the stars drifted in different directions and the fifth shifted slightly.

“Look at that, Janov,” said Trevize. “Would you say that was a regular pentagon?”

“Clearly lopsided,” said Pelorat.

“And is Gaia at the center?”

“No, it’s well to the side.”

“Very well. That is how the asterism looked one hundred and fifty years ago. One and a half centuries, that’s all. –The material you received concerning ‘the Pentagon’s Center’ and so on made no real sense till this century anywhere, not even in Sayshell. The material you received had to originate in Sayshell and sometime in this century, perhaps in the last decade. And you got it, even though Sayshell is so close-mouthed about Gaia.”

Trevize put the lights on, turned the star map off, and sat there staring sternly at Pelorat.

Pelorat said, “I’m confused. What’s this about?”

“You tell me. Consider! Somehow I got the idea into my head that the Second Foundation still existed. I was giving a talk during my election campaign. I started a bit of emotional byplay designed to squeeze votes out of the undecided with a dramatic ‘If the Second Foundation still existed–’ and later that day I thought to myself: What if it did still exist? I began reading history books and within a week, I was convinced. There was no real evidence, but I have always felt that I had the knack of snatching the right conclusion out of a welter of speculation. This time, though–”

Trevize brooded a bit, then went on. “And look at what has happened since. Of all people, I chose Compor as my confidant and he betrayed me. Whereupon Mayor Branno had me arrested and sent into exile. Why into exile, rather than just having me imprisoned, or trying to threaten me into silence? And why in a very late-model ship which gives me extraordinary powers of Jumping through the Galaxy? And why, of all things, does she insist I take you and suggest that I help you search for Earth?

“And why was I so certain that we should not go to Trantor? I was convinced you had a better target for our investigations and at once you come up with the mystery world of Gaia, concerning which, as it now turns out, you gained information under very puzzling circumstances.

“We go to Sayshell–the first natural stop–and at once we encounter Compor, who gives us a circumstantial story about Earth and its death. He then assures us its location is in the Sirius Sector and urges us to go there.”

Pelorat said, “There you are. You seem to be implying that all circumstances are forcing us toward Gaia, but, as you say, Compor tried to persuade us to go elsewhere.”

“And in response, I was determined to continue on our original line of investigation out of my sheer distrust for the man. Don’t you suppose that that was what he might have been counting on? He may have deliberately told us to go elsewhere just to keep us from doing so.”

“That’s mere romance,” muttered Pelorat.

“Is it? Let’s go on. We get in touch with Quintesetz simply because he was handy–”

“Not at all,” said Pelorat. “I recognized his name.”

“It seemed familiar to you. You had never read anything he had written–that you could recall. Why was it familiar to you? –In any case, it turned out he had read a paper of yours and was overwhelmed by it–and how likely was that? You yourself admit your work is not widely known.

“What’s more, the young lady leading us to him quite gratuitously mentions Gaia and goes on to tell us it is in hyperspace, as though to be sure we keep it in mind. When we ask Quintesetz about it, he behaves as though he doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t throw us out–even though I am rather rude to him. He takes us to his home instead and, on the way there, goes to the trouble of pointing out the Five Sisters. He even makes sure we note the dim star at the center. Why? Is not all this an extraordinary concatenation of coincidence?”

Pelorat said, “If you list it like that–”

“List it any way you please,” said Trevize. “I don’t believe in extraordinary concatenations of coincidence.”

“What does all this mean, then? That we are being maneuvered to Gaia?”

“By whom?”

Trevize said, “Surely there can be no question about that. Who is capable of adjusting minds, of giving gentle nudges to this one or that, of managing to divert progress in this direction or that?”

“You’re going to tell me it’s the Second Foundation.”

“Well, what have we been told about Gaia? It is untouchable. Fleets that move against it are destroyed. People who reach it do not return. Even the Mule didn’t dare move against it–and the Mule, in fact, was probably born there. Surely it seems that Gaia is the Second Foundation–and finding that, after all, is my ultimate goal.

Pelorat shook his head. “But according to some historians, the Second Foundation stopped the Mule. How could he have been one of them?”

“A renegade, I suppose.”

“But why should we be so relentlessly maneuvered toward the Second Foundation by the Second Foundation?”

Trevize’s eyes were unfocused, his brow furrowed. He said, “Let’s reason it out. It has always seemed important to the Second Foundation that as little information as possible about it should be available to the Galaxy. Ideally it wants its very existence to remain unknown. We know that much about them. For a hundred twenty years, the Second Foundation was thought to be extinct and that must have suited them right down to the Galactic core. Yet when I began to suspect that they did exist, they did nothing. Compor knew. They might have used him to shut me up one way or another–had me killed, even. Yet they did nothing.”

Pelorat said, “They had you arrested, if you want to blame that on the Second Foundation. According to what you told me, that resulted in the people of Terminus not knowing about your views. The people of the Second Foundation accomplished that much without violence and they may be devotees of Salvor Hardin’s remark that ‘Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.”

“But keeping it from the people of Terminus accomplishes nothing. Mayor Branno knows my view and–at the very least–must wonder if I am correct. So now, you see, it is too late for them to harm us. If they had gotten rid of me to begin with, they would be in the clear. If they had left me alone altogether, they might have still remained in the clear, for they might have maneuvered Terminus into believing I was an eccentric, perhaps a madman. The prospective ruin of my political career might even have forced me into silence as soon as I saw what the announcement of my beliefs would mean.

“And now it is too late for them to do anything. Mayor Branno was suspicious enough of the situation to send Compor after me and –having no faith in him either, being wiser than I was–she placed a hyper-relay on Compor’s ship. In consequence, she knows we are on Sayshell. And last night, while you were sleeping, I had our computer place a message directly into the computer of the Foundation ambassador here on Sayshell, explaining that we were on our way to Gaia. I took the trouble of giving its co-ordinates, too. If the Second Foundation does anything to us now, I am certain that Branno will have the matter investigated–and the concentrated attention of the Foundation must surely be what they don’t want.”

“Would they care about attracting the Foundation’s attention, if they are so powerful?”

“Yes,” said Trevize forcefully. “They lie hidden because, in some ways, they must be weak and because the Foundation is technologically advanced perhaps beyond even what Seldon himself might have foreseen. The very quiet, even stealthy, way in which they’ve been maneuvering us to their world would seem to show their eager desire to do nothing that will attract attention. And if so, then they have already lost, at least in part–for they’ve attracted attention and I doubt they can do anything to reverse the situation.”

Pelorat said, “But why do they go through all this? Why do they ruin themselves–if your analysis is correct–by angling for us across the Galaxy? What is it they want of us?”

Trevize stared at Pelorat and flushed. “Janov,” he said, “I have a feeling about this. I have this gift of coming to a correct conclusion on the basis of almost nothing. There’s a kind of sureness about me that tells me when I’m right–and I’m sure now. There’s something I have that they want–and want enough to risk their very existence for. I don’t know what it can be, but I’ve got to find out, because if I’ve got it and if it’s that powerful, then I want to be able to use it for what I feel is right.” He shrugged slightly. “Do you still want to come along with me, old friend, now that you see how much a madman I am?”

Pelorat said, “I told you I had faith in you. I still do.”

And Trevize laughed with enormous relief. “Marvelous! Because another feeling I have is that you are, for some reason, also essential to this whole thing. In that case, Janov, we move on to Gaia, full speed. Forward!”

2.

MAYOR HARLA BRANNO looked distinctly older than her sixty-two years. She did not always look older, but she did now. She had been sufficiently wrapped up in thought to forget to avoid the mirror and had seen her image on her way into the map room. So she was aware of the haggardness of her appearance.

She sighed. It drained the life out of one. Five years a Mayor and for twelve years before that the real power behind two figureheads. All of it had been quiet, all of it successful, all of it–draining. How would it have been, she wondered, if there had been strain–failure –disaster.

Not so bad for her personally, she suddenly decided. Action would have been invigorating. It was the horrible knowledge that nothing but drift was possible that had worn her out.

It was the Seldon Plan that was successful and it was the Second Foundation that made sure it would continue to be. She, as the strong hand at the helm of the Foundation (actually the First Foundation, but no one on Terminus ever thought of adding the adjective) merely rode the crest.

History would say little or nothing about her. She merely sat at the controls of a spaceship, while the spaceship was maneuvered from without.

Even Indbur III, who had presided over the Foundation’s catastrophic fall to the Mule, had done something. He had, at least, collapsed.

For Mayor Branno there would be nothing!

Unless this Golan Trevize, this thoughtless Councilman, this lightning rod, made it possible–

She looked at the map thoughtfully. It was not the kind of structure produced by a modern computer. It was, rather, a three-dimensional cluster of lights that pictured the Galaxy holographically in midair. Though it could not be made to move, to turn, to expand, or to contract, one could move about it and see it from any angle.

A large section of the Galaxy, perhaps a third of the whole (excluding the core, which was a “no-life’s land”) turned red when she touched a contact. That was the Foundation Federation, the more than seven million inhabited worlds ruled by the Council and by herself–the seven million inhabited worlds who voted for and were represented in the House of Worlds, which debated matters of minor importance, and then voted on them, and never, by any chance, dealt with anything of major importance.

Another contact and a faint pink jutted outward from the edges of the Federation, here and there. Spheres of influence! This was not Foundation territory, but the regions, though nominally independent, would never dream of resistance to any Foundation move.

There was no question in her mind that no power in the Galaxy could oppose the Foundation (not even the Second Foundation, if one but knew where it was), that the Foundation could, at will, reach out its fleet of modern ships and simply set up the Second Empire.

But only five centuries had passed since the beginning of the Plan. The Plan called for ten centuries before the Second Empire could be set up and the Second Foundation would make sure the Plan would hold. The Mayor shook her sad, gray head. If the Foundation acted now, it would somehow fail. Though its ships were irresistible, action now would fail.

Unless Trevize, the lightning rod, drew the lightning of the Second  Foundation–and the lightning could be traced back to its source.

She looked about. Where was Kodell? This was no time for him to be late.

It was as though her thought had called him, for he came striding in, smiling cheerfully, looking more grandfatherly than ever with his gray-white mustache and tanned complexion. Grandfatherly, but not old. To be sure, he was eight years younger than she was.

How was it he showed no marks of strain? Did not fifteen years as Director of Security leave its scar?

3.

KODELL NODDED SLOWLY in the formal greeting that was necessary in initiating a discussion with the Mayor. It was a tradition that had existed since the bad days of the Indburs. Almost everything had changed, but etiquette least of all.

He said, “Sorry I’m late, Mayor, but your arrest of Councilman Trevize is finally beginning to make its way through the anesthetized skin of the Council.”

“Oh?” said the Mayor phlegmatically. “Are we in for a palace revolution?”

“Not the least chance. We’re in control. But there’ll be noise.”

“Let them make noise. It will make them feel better, and I–I shall stay out of the way. I can count, I suppose, on general public opinion?”

“I think you can. Especially away from Terminus. No one outside Terminus cares what happens to a stray Councilman.”

“I do.”

“Ah? More news?”

“Liono,” said the Mayor, “I want to know about Sayshell.”

“I’m not a two-legged history book,” said Liono Kodell, smiling.

“I don’t want history. I want the truth. Why is Sayshell independent? –Look at it.” She pointed to the red of the Foundation on the holographic map and there, well into the inner spirals, was an in-pocketing of white.

Branno said, “We’ve got it almost encapsulated–almost sucked in–yet it’s white. Our map doesn’t even show it as a loyal-ally-in-pink.”

Kodell shrugged. “It’s not officially a loyal ally, but it never bothers us. It is neutral.”

“All right. See this, then.” Another touch at the controls. The red sprang out distinctly further. It covered nearly half the Galaxy. “That,” said Mayor Branno, “was the Mule’s realm at the time of his death. If you’ll peer in among the red, you’ll find the Sayshell Union, completely surrounded this time, but still white. it is the only enclave left free by the Mule.”

“It was neutral then, too.”

“The Mule had no great respect for neutrality.”

“He seems to have had, in this case.”

“Seems to have had. What has Sayshell got?”

Kodell said, “Nothing! Believe me, Mayor, she is ours any time we want her.”

“Is she? Yet somehow she isn’t ours.”

“There’s no need to want her.”

Branno sat back in her chair and, with a sweep of her arm over the controls, turned the Galaxy dark. “I think we now want her.”

“Pardon, Mayor?”

“Liono, I sent that foolish Councilman into space as a lightning rod. I felt that the Second Foundation would see him as a greater danger than he was and see the Foundation itself as the lesser danger. The lightning would strike him and reveal its origin to us.”

“Yes, Mayor!”

“My intention was that he go to the decayed ruins of Trantor to fumble through what–if anything–was left of its Library and search for the Earth. That’s the world, you remember, that these wearisome mystics tell us was the site of origin of humanity, as though that matters, even in the unlikely case it is true. The Second

Foundation couldn’t possibly have believed that was really what he was after and they would have moved to find out what he was really looking for.”

“But he didn’t go to Trantor.”

“No. Quite unexpectedly, he has gone to Sayshell. Why?”

“I don’t know. But please forgive an old bloodhound whose duty it is to suspect everything and tell me how you know he and this Pelorat have gone to Sayshell. I know that Compor reports it, but how far can we trust Compor?”

“The hyper-relay tells us that Compor’s ship has indeed landed on Sayshell Planet.”

“Undoubtedly, but how do you know that Trevize and Pelorat have? Compor may have gone to Sayshell for his own reasons and may not know–or care–where the others are.”

“The fact is, that our ambassador on Sayshell has informed us of the arrival of the ship on which we placed Trevize and Pelorat. I am not ready to believe the ship arrived at Sayshell without them. What is more, Compor reports having talked to them and, if he cannot be trusted, we have other reports placing them at Sayshell University, where they consulted with a historian of no particular note.”

“None of this,” said Kodell mildly, “has reached me.”

Branno sniffed. “Do not feel stepped on. I am dealing with this personally and the information has now reached you–with not much in the way of delay, either. The latest news–just received–is from the ambassador. Our lightning rod is moving on. He stayed on Sayshell Planet two days, then left. He is heading for another planetary system, he says, some ten parsecs away. He gave the name and the Galactic co-ordinates of his destination to the ambassador, who passed them on to us.”

“Is there anything corroborative from Compor?”

“Compor’s message that Trevize and Pelorat have left Sayshell came even before the ambassador’s message. Compor has not yet determined where Trevize is going. Presumably he will follow.”

Kodell said, “We are missing the why’s of the situation.” He popped a pastille into his mouth and sucked at it meditatively. “Why did Trevize go to Sayshell? Why did he leave?”

“The question that intrigues me most is: Where? Where is Trevize going?”

“You did say, Mayor, did you not, that he gave the name and coordinates of his destination to the ambassador. Are you implying that he lied to the ambassador? Or that the ambassador is lying to us?”

“Even assuming everyone told the truth all round and that no one made any errors, there is a name that interests me. Trevize told the ambassador he was going to Gaia. That’s G-A-I-A. Trevize was careful to spell it.”

Kodell said, “Gaia? I never heard of it.”

“Indeed? That’s not strange.” Branno pointed to the spot in the air where the map had been. “Upon the map in this room, I can set up, at a moment’s notice, every star–supposedly–around which there circles an inhabited world and many prominent stars with uninhabited systems. Over thirty million stars can be marked out–if I handle the controls properly–in single units, in pairs, in clusters. I can mark them out in any of five different colors, one at a time, or all together. What I cannot do is locate Gaia on the map. As far as the map is concerned, Gaia does not exist.”

Kodell said, “For every star the map shows, there are ten thousand it doesn’t show.”

“Granted, but the stars it doesn’t show lack inhabited planets and why would Trevize want to go to an uninhabited planet?”

“Have you tried the Central Computer? It has all three hundred billion Galactic stars listed.”

“I’ve been told it has, but does it? We know very well, you and 1, that there are thousands of inhabited planets that have escaped listing on any of our maps–not only on the one in this room, but even on the Central Computer. Gaia is apparently one of them.”

Kodell’s voice remained calm, even coaxing. “Mayor, there may well be nothing at all to be concerned about. Trevize may be off on a wild goose chase or he may be lying to us and there is no star called Gaia–and no star at all at the co-ordinates he gave us. He is trying to throw us off his scent, now that he has met Compor and perhaps guesses he is being traced.”

“How will this throw us off the scent? Compor will still follow. No, Liono, I have another possibility in mind, one with far greater potentiality for trouble. Listen to me–”

She paused and said, “This room is shielded, Liono. Understand that. We cannot be overheard by anyone, so please feel free to speak. And I will speak freely, as well.

“This Gaia is located, if we accept the information, ten parsecs from Sayshell Planet and is therefore part of the Sayshell Union. The Sayshell Union is a well-explored portion of the Galaxy. All its star systems–inhabited or not inhabited–are recorded and the inhabited ones are known in detail. Gaia is the one exception. Inhabited or not, none have heard of it; it is present in no map. Add to this that the Sayshell Union maintains a peculiar state of independence with respect to the Foundation Federation, and did so even with respect to the Mule’s former realm. It has been independent since the fall of the Galactic Empire.”

“What of all this?” asked Kodell cautiously.

“Surely the two points I have made must be connected. Sayshell incorporates a planetary system that is totally unknown and Sayshell is untouchable. The two cannot be independent. Whatever Gaia is, it protects itself. It sees to it that there is no knowledge of its existence outside its immediate surroundings and it protects those surroundings so that outsiders cannot take over.”

“You are telling me, Mayor, that Gaia is the seat of the Second Foundation?”

“I am telling you that Gaia deserves inspection.”

“May I mention an odd point that might be difficult to explain by this theory?”

“Please do.”

“If Gaia is the Second Foundation and if, for centuries, it has protected itself physically against intruders, protecting all of the Sayshell Union as a broad, deep shield for itself, and if it has even prevented knowledge of itself leaking into the Galaxy–then why has all that protection suddenly vanished? Trevize and Pelorat leave Terminus and, even though you had advised them to go to Trantor, they go immediately and without hesitation to Sayshell and now to Gaia. What is more, you can think of Gaia and speculate on it. Why are you not somehow prevented from doing So?”

Mayor Branno did not answer for a long time. Her head was bent and her gray hair gleamed dully in the light. Then she said, “Because I think Councilman Trevize has somehow upset things. He has done something–or is doing something–that is in some way endangering the Seldon Plan.”

“That surely is impossible, Mayor.”

“I suppose everything and everyone has its flaws. Even Hari Seldon was not perfect, surely. Somewhere the Plan has a flaw and Trevize has stumbled upon it, perhaps without even knowing that he has. We must know what is happening and we must be on the spot.”

Finally Kodell looked grave. “Don’t make decisions on your own, Mayor. We don’t want to move without adequate consideration.”

“Don’t take me for an idiot, Liono. I’m not going to make war. I’m not going to land an expeditionary force on Gaia. I just want to be on the spot–or near it, if you prefer. Liono, find out for me–I hate talking to a war office that is as ridiculously hidebound as one is sure to be after one hundred and twenty years of peace, but you don’t seem to mind–just how many warships are stationed close to Sayshell. Can we make their movements seem routine and not like a mobilization?”

“In these piping times of peace, there are not many ships in the vicinity, I am sure. But I will find out.”

“Even two or three will be sufficient, especially if one is of the Supernova class.”

“What do you want to do with them?”

“I want them to nudge as close to Sayshell as they can–without creating an incident–and I want them sufficiently close to each other to offer mutual support.”

“What’s all this intended for?”

“Flexibility. I want to be able to strike if I have to.”

“Against the Second Foundation? If Gaia can keep itself isolated and untouchable against the Mule, it can surely withstand a few ships now.”

Branno said, with the gleam of battle in her eyes, “My friend, I told you that nothing and no one is perfect, not even Hari Seldon. In setting up his Plan, he could not help being a person of his times. He was a mathematician of the days of the dying Empire, when technology was moribund. It followed that he could not have made sufficient allowance in his Plan for technological advance. Gravities, for instance, is a whole new direction of advance he could not possibly have guessed at. And there are other advances, too.

“Gaia might also have advanced.”

“In isolation? Come. There are ten quadrillion human beings within the Foundation Federation, from among whom contributors to technological advance can step forward. A single isolated world can do nothing in comparison. Our ships will advance and I will be with them.”

“Pardon me, Mayor. What was that?”

“I will be going myself to the ships that will gather at the borders of Sayshell. I wish to see the situation for myself.”

Kodell’s mouth fell open for a moment. He swallowed and made a distinct noise as he did so. “Mayor, that is–not wise.” If ever a man clearly intended a stronger remark, Kodell did.

“Wise or not,” said Branno violently, “I will do it. I am tired of Terminus and of its endless political battles, its infighting, its alliances and counteralliances, its betrayals and renewals. I’ve had seventeen years at the center of it and I want to do something else– anything else. Out there,” she waved her hand in a direction taken at random, “the whole history of the Galaxy may be changing and I want to take part in the process.”

“You know nothing about such things, Mayor.”

“Who does, Liono?” She rose stiffly to her feet. “As soon as you bring me the information I need on the ships and as soon as I can make arrangements for carrying on with the foolish business at home, I will go. –And, Liono, don’t try to maneuver me out of this decision in any way or I’ll wipe out our long friendship in a stroke and break you. I can still do that.”

Kodell nodded. “I know you can, Mayor, but before you decide, may I ask you to reconsider the power of Seldon’s Plan? What you intend may be suicide.”

“I have no fears on that score, Liono. It was wrong with respect to the Mule, whom it could not anticipate–and a failure to anticipate at one time implies the possibility of failure at another.”

Kodell sighed. “Well then, if you are really determined, I will support you to the best of my ability and with complete loyalty.”

“Good. I warn you once again that you had better mean that remark with all your heart. And with that in mind, Liono, let us move on to Gaia. Forward!”

... Continued in Volume 19

Sources of Dates

(For Volume 18)

AD =Anno Domini

GE =Galactic Era

FE =Foundational Era

“The Mule” Takes place 17 years after Han Pritcher joins the Army in 293 FE.

“Search by the Mule” Takes place five years after the end of “The Mule”.

“Search by the Foundation” Stated in the story.

Foundation’s Edge Stated in the novel.

Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright

Table of Contents

The Mule

5. The Psychologist

6. Conference

7. The Visi-Sonor

8. Fall of the Foundation

9. Start of the Search

10. Conspirator

11. Interlude in Space

12. Death on Neotrantor

13. The Ruins of Trantor

14. Convert

15. Death of a Psychologist

16. End of the Search

Search By The Mule

1. Two Men and the Mule

First Interlude

2. Two Men without the Mule

Second Interlude

3. Two Men and a Peasant

Third Interlude

4. Two Men and the Elders

Fourth Interlude

5. One Man and the Mule

6. One Man, the Mule-and Another

Last Interlude

Search By The Foundation

1. Arcadia

2. Seldon’s Plan

3. The Conspirators

4. Approaching Crisis

5. Stowaway

6. Lord

7. Lady

8. Anxiety

9. Through the Grid

10. Beginning of War

11. War

12. Ghost of a World

13. End of War

14. “I Know...”

15. The Answer That Satisfied

16. The Answer That Was True

Foundation’s Edge

Prologue

1. Councilman

1.

2.

3.

4.

2. Mayor

1.

2.

3.

4.

3. Historian

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

4. Space

1.

2.

3.

5. Speaker

1.

2.

3.

4.

6. Earth

1.

2.

7. Farmer

1.

2.

3.

8. Farmwoman

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

9. Hyperspace

1.

2.

10. Table

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

11. Sayshell

1.

2.

3.

4.

12. Agent

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

13. University

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

14. Forward!

1.

2.

3.

Sources of Dates