by Isaac Asimov
“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 Mule’s 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, O 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 smidgen 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, incred
ulous 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 is 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 and 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 brainwave 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.”
PART II
SEARCH BY THE
FOUNDATION
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
7
ARCADIA
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 girl’s 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 corners of her eyes 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 corner 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 p
ulled 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 key 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 typeprint 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: