Foundation

by Isaac Asimov

  Lieutenant Tinter murmured rebelliously, “Seven days without action. You can’t maintain discipline that way.”

  Mallow said icily, “I can. There’s no merit in discipline under ideal circumstances. I’ll have it in the face of death, or it’s useless. Where’s this missionary? Get him here in front of me.”

  The trader sat down, while the scarlet-cloaked figure was carefully brought forward.

  “What’s your name, reverend?”

  “Eh?” The scarlet-robed figure wheeled towards Mallow, the whole body turning as a unit. His eyes were blankly open and there was a bruise on one temple. He had not spoken, nor, as far as Mallow could tell, moved during all the previous interval.

  “Your name, revered one?”

  The missionary started to sudden feverish life. His arms went out in an embracing gesture. “My son—my children. May you always be in the protecting arms of the Galactic Spirit.”

  Twer stepped forward, eyes troubled, voice husky, “The man’s sick. Take him to bed, somebody. Order him to bed, Mallow, and have him seen to. He’s badly hurt.”

  Mallow’s great arm shoved him back. “Don’t interfere, Twer, or I’ll have you out of the room. Your name, revered one?”

  The missionary’s hands clasped in sudden supplication, “As you are enlightened men, save me from the heathen.” The words tumbled out. “Save me from these brutes and darkened ones who raven after me and would afflict the Galactic Spirit with their crimes. I am Jord Parma, of the Anacreonian worlds. Educated at the Foundation; the Foundation itself, my children. I am a Priest of the Spirit educated into all the mysteries, who have come here where the inner voice called me.” He was gasping. “I have suffered at the hands of the unenlightened. As you are Children of the Spirit; and in the name of that Spirit, protect me from them.”

  A voice broke in upon them, as the emergency alarm box clamored metallically:

  “Enemy units in sight! Instruction desired!”

  Every eye shot mechanically upward to the speaker.

  Mallow swore violently. He clicked open the reverse and yelled, “Maintain vigil! That is all!” and turned it off.

  He made his way to the thick drapes that rustled aside at a touch and stared grimly out.

  Enemy units! Several thousands of them in the persons of the individual members of a Korellian mob. The rolling rabble encompassed the pod from extreme end to extreme end, and in the cold, hard light of magnesium flares the foremost straggled closer.

  “Tinter!” The trader never turned, but the back of his neck was red. “Get the outer speaker working and find out what they want. Ask if they have a representative of the law with them. Make no promises and no threats, or I’ll kill you.”

  Tinter turned and left.

  Mallow felt a rough hand on his shoulder and he struck it aside. It was Twer. His voice was an angry hiss in his ear. “Mallow, you’re bound to hold onto this man. There’s no way of maintaining decency and honor otherwise. He’s of the Foundation and, after all, he—is a priest. These savages outside—Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Twer.” Mallow’s voice was incisive. “I’ve got more to do here than guard missionaries. I’ll do, sir, what I please, and, by Seldon and all the Galaxy, if you try to stop me, I’ll tear out your stinking windpipe. Don’t get in my way, Twer, or it will be the last of you.”

  He turned and strode past. “You! Revered Parma! Did you know that, by convention, no Foundation missionaries may enter the Korellian territory?”

  The missionary was trembling. “I can but go where the Spirit leads, my son. If the darkened ones refuse enlightenment, is it not the greater sign of their need for it?”

  “That’s outside the question, revered one. You are here against the law of both Korell and the Foundation. I cannot in law protect you.”

  The missionary’s hands were raised again. His earlier bewilderment was gone. There was the raucous clamor of the ship’s outer communication system in action, and the faint, undulating gabble of the angry horde in response. The sound made his eyes wild.

  “You hear them? Why do you talk of law to me, of a law made by men? There are higher laws. Was it not the Galactic Spirit that said: Thou shalt not stand idly by to the hurt of thy fellowman. And has he not said: Even as thou dealest with the humble and defenseless, thus shalt thou be dealt with.

  “Have you not guns? Have you not a ship? And behind you is there not the Foundation? And above and all about you is there not the Spirit that rules the universe?” He paused for breath.

  And then the great outer voice of the Far Star ceased and Lieutenant Tinter was back, troubled.

  “Speak!” said Mallow, shortly.

  “Sir, they demand the person of Jord Parma.”

  “If not?”

  “There are various threats, sir. It is difficult to make much out. There are so many—and they seem quite mad. There is someone who says he governs the district and has police powers, but he is quite evidently not his own master.”

  “Master or not,” shrugged Mallow, “he is the law. Tell them that if this governor, or policeman, or whatever he is, approaches the ship alone, he can have the Revered Jord Parma.”

  And there was suddenly a gun in his hand. He added, “I don’t know what insubordination is. I have never had any experience with it. But if there’s anyone here who thinks he can teach me, I’d like to teach him my antidote in return.”

  The gun swiveled slowly, and rested on Twer. With an effort, the old trader’s face untwisted and his hands unclenched and lowered. His breath was a harsh rasp in his nostrils.

  Tinter left, and in five minutes a puny figure detached itself from the crowd. It approached slowly and hesitantly, plainly drenched in fear and apprehension. Twice it turned back, and twice the patently obvious threats of the many-headed monster urged him on.

  “All right.” Mallow gestured with the hand-blaster, which remained unsheathed. “Grun and Upshur, take him out.”

  The missionary screeched. He raised his arms and rigid fingers speared upward as the voluminous sleeves fell away to reveal the thin, veined arms. There was a momentary, tiny flash of light that came and went in a breath. Mallow blinked and gestured again, contemptuously.

  The missionary’s voice poured out as he struggled in the two-fold grasp. “Cursed be the traitor who abandons his fellowman to evil and to death. Deafened be the ears that are deaf to the pleadings of the helpless. Blind be the eyes that are blind to innocence. Blackened forever be the soul that consorts with blackness—”

  Twer clamped his hands tightly over his ears.

  Mallow flipped his blaster and put it away. “Disperse,” he said, evenly, “to respective stations. Maintain full vigil for six hours after dispersion of crowd. Double stations for forty-eight hours thereafter. Further instructions at that time. Twer, come with me.”

  They were alone in Mallow’s private quarters. Mallow indicated a chair and Twer sat down. His stocky figure looked shrunken.

  Mallow stared him down, sardonically. “Twer,” he said, “I’m disappointed. Your three years in politics seem to have gotten you out of trader habits. Remember, I may be a democrat back at the Foundation, but there’s nothing short of tyranny that can run my ship the way I want it run. I never had to pull a blaster on my men before, and I wouldn’t have had to now, if you hadn’t gone out of line.

  “Twer, you have no official position, but you’re here on my invitation, and I’ll extend you every courtesy—in private. However, from now on, in the presence of my officers or men, I’m ‘sir,’ and not ‘Mallow.’ And when I give an order, you’ll jump faster than a third-class recruit just for luck, or I’ll have you handcuffed in the sub-level even faster. Understand?”

  The party-leader swallowed dryly. He said, reluctantly, “My apologies.”

  “Accepted! Will you shake?”

  Twer’s limp fingers were swallowed in Mallow’s huge palm. Twer said, “My motives were good. It’s difficult to send a man out to be lynche
d. That wobbly-kneed governor or whatever-he-was can’t save him. It’s murder.”

  “I can’t help that. Frankly, the incident smelled too bad. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “This spaceport is deep in the middle of a sleepy far section. Suddenly a missionary escapes. Where from? He comes here. Coincidence? A huge crowd gathers. From where? The nearest city of any size must be at least a hundred miles away. But they arrive in half an hour. How?”

  “How?” echoed Twer.

  “Well, what if the missionary were brought here and released as bait. Our friend, Revered Parma, was considerably confused. He seemed at no time to be in complete possession of his wits.”

  “Hard usage—” murmured Twer bitterly.

  “Maybe! And maybe the idea was to have us go all chivalrous and gallant, into a stupid defense of the man. He was here against the laws of Korell and the Foundation. If I withhold him, it is an act of war against Korell, and the Foundation would have no legal right to defend us.”

  “That—that’s pretty far-fetched.”

  The speaker blared and forestalled Mallow’s answer: “Sir, official communication received.”

  “Submit immediately!”

  The gleaming cylinder arrived in its slot with a click. Mallow opened it and shook out the silver-impregnated sheet it held. He rubbed it appreciatively between thumb and finger and said, “Teleported direct from the capital. Commdor’s own stationery.”

  He read it in a glance and laughed shortly. “So my idea was far-fetched, was it?”

  He tossed it to Twer, and added, “Half an hour after we hand back the missionary, we finally get a very polite invitation to the Commdor’s august presence—after seven days of previous waiting. I think we passed a test.”

  5

  Commdor Asper was a man of the people, by self-acclamation. His remaining back-fringe of gray hair drooped limply to his shoulders, his shirt needed laundering, and he spoke with a snuffle.

  “There is no ostentation here, Trader Mallow,” he said. “No false show. In me, you see merely the first citizen of the state. That’s what Commdor means, and that’s the only title I have.”

  He seemed inordinately pleased with it all. “In fact, I consider that fact one of the strongest bonds between Korell and your nation. I understand you people enjoy the republican blessings we do.”

  “Exactly, Commdor,” said Mallow gravely, taking mental exception to the comparison, “an argument which I consider strongly in favor of continued peace and friendship between our governments.”

  “Peace! Ah!” The Commdor’s sparse gray beard twitched to the sentimental grimaces of his face. “I don’t think there is anyone in the Periphery who has so near his heart the ideal of Peace, as I have. I can truthfully say that since I succeeded my illustrious father to the leadership of the state, the reign of Peace has never been broken. Perhaps I shouldn’t say it”—he coughed gently—“but I have been told that my people, my fellow-citizens rather, know me as Asper, the Well-Beloved.”

  Mallow’s eyes wandered over the well-kept garden. Perhaps the tall men and the strangely designed but openly vicious weapons they carried just happened to be lurking in odd corners as a precaution against himself. That would be understandable. But the lofty, steel-girdered walls that circled the place had quite obviously been recently strengthened—an unfitting occupation for such a Well-Beloved Asper.

  He said, “It is fortunate that I have you to deal with then, Commdor. The despots and monarchs of surrounding worlds, which haven’t the benefit of enlightened administration, often lack the qualities that would make a ruler well-beloved.”

  “Such as?” There was a cautious note in the Commdor’s voice.

  “Such as a concern for the best interests of their people. You, on the other hand, would understand.”

  The Commdor kept his eyes on the gravel path as they walked leisurely. His hands caressed each other behind his back.

  Mallow went on smoothly. “Up to now, trade between our two nations has suffered because of the restrictions placed upon our traders by your government. Surely, it has long been evident to you that unlimited trade—”

  “Free Trade!” mumbled the Commdor.

  “Free Trade, then. You must see that it would be of benefit to both of us. There are things you have that we want, and things we have that you want. It asks only an exchange to bring increased prosperity. An enlightened ruler such as yourself, a friend of the people—I might say, a member of the people—needs no elaboration on that theme. I won’t insult your intelligence by offering any.”

  “True! I have seen this. But what would you?” His voice was a plaintive whine. “Your people have always been so unreasonable. I am in favor of all the trade our economy can support, but not on your terms. I am not sole master here.” His voice rose. “I am only the servant of public opinion. My people will not take commerce which carries with it a compulsory religion.”

  Mallow drew himself up. “A compulsory religion?”

  “So it has always been in effect. Surely you remember the case of Askone twenty years ago. First they were sold some of your goods and then your people asked for complete freedom of missionary effort in order that the goods might be run properly; that Temples of Health be set up. There was then the establishment of religious schools; autonomous rights for all officers of the religion and with what result? Askone is now an integral member of the Foundation’s system and the Grand Master cannot call his underwear his own. Oh, no! Oh, no! The dignity of an independent people could never suffer it.”

  “None of what you speak is at all what I suggest,” interposed Mallow.

  “No?”

  “No. I’m a Master Trader. Money is my religion. All this mysticism and hocus-pocus of the missionaries annoy me, and I’m glad you refuse to countenance it. It makes you more my type of man.”

  The Commdor’s laugh was high-pitched and jerky. “Well said! The Foundation should have sent a man of your caliber before this.”

  He laid a friendly hand upon the trader’s bulking shoulder. “But man, you have told me only half. You have told me what the catch is not. Now tell me what it is.”

  “The only catch, Commdor, is that you’re going to be burdened with an immense quantity of riches.”

  “Indeed?” he snuffled. “But what could I want with riches? The true wealth is the love of one’s people. I have that.”

  “You can have both, for it is possible to gather gold with one hand and love with the other.”

  “Now that, my young man, would be an interesting phenomenon, if it were possible. How would you go about it?”

  “Oh, in a number of ways. The difficulty is choosing among them. Let’s see. Well, luxury items, for instance. This object here, now—”

  Mallow drew gently out of an inner pocket a flat, linked chain of polished metal. “This, for instance.”

  “What is it?”

  “That’s got to be demonstrated. Can you get a woman? Any young female will do. And a mirror, full length.”

  “Hm-m-m. Let’s get indoors, then.”

  The Commdor referred to his dwelling place as a house. The populace undoubtedly would call it a palace. To Mallow’s straightforward eyes, it looked uncommonly like a fortress. It was built on an eminence that overlooked the capital. Its walls were thick and reinforced. Its approaches were guarded, and its architecture was shaped for defense. Just the type of dwelling, Mallow thought sourly, for Asper, the Well-Beloved.

  A young girl was before them. She bent low to the Commdor, who said, “This is one of the Commdora’s girls. Will she do?”

  “Perfectly!”

  The Commdor watched carefully while Mallow snapped the chain about the girl’s waist, and stepped back.

  The Commdor snuffled, “Well. Is that all?”

  “Will you draw the curtain, Commdor. Young lady, there’s a little knob just near the snap. Will you move it upward, please? Go ahead, it won’t hurt you.”

>   The girl did so, drew a sharp breath, looked at her hands, and gasped, “Oh!”

  From her waist as a source she was drowned in a pale, streaming luminescence of shifting color that drew itself over her head in a flashing coronet of liquid fire. It was as if someone had torn the aurora borealis out of the sky and molded it into a cloak.

  The girl stepped to the mirror and stared, fascinated.

  “Here, take this.” Mallow handed her a necklace of dull pebbles. “Put it around your neck.”

  The girl did so, and each pebble, as it entered the luminescent field, became an individual flame that leaped and sparkled in crimson and gold.

  “What do you think of it?” Mallow asked her. The girl didn’t answer but there was adoration in her eyes. The Commdor gestured and reluctantly, she pushed the knob down, and the glory died. She left—with a memory.

  “It’s yours, Commdor,” said Mallow, “for the Commdora. Consider it a small gift from the Foundation.”

  “Hm-m-m.” The Commdor turned the belt and necklace over in his hand as though calculating the weight. “How is it done?”

  Mallow shrugged, “That’s a question for our technical experts. But it will work for you without—mark you, without—priestly help.”

  “Well, it’s only feminine frippery after all. What could you do with it? Where would the money come in?”

  “You have balls, receptions, banquets—that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you realize what women will pay for that sort of jewelry? Ten thousand credits, at least.”

  The Commdor seemed struck in a heap. “Ah!”

  “And since the power unit of this particular item will not last longer than six months, there will be the necessity of frequent replacements. Now we can sell as many of these as you want for the equivalent in wrought iron of one thousand credits. There’s nine hundred percent profit for you.”

  The Commdor plucked at his beard and seemed engaged in awesome mental calculations, “Galaxy, how they would fight for them. I’ll keep the supply small and let them bid. Of course, it wouldn’t do to let them know that I personally—”