by Isaac Asimov
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 sunlit side.
Kalgan was only a night’s sleep away.
12
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 conquerer 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 hold. It lived instead under a succession of men whom the Foundation called the Lords of Kalgan, but who styled themselves First Citizens of the Galaxy, in imitation of the Mule’s only title, and who maintained the fiction that they were conquerers 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 he, 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 tuned 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?” He went on. “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,” said Meirus, “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 nuclear 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 nuclear 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 five 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 anymore, 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 Gray-beard 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.
13
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 anymore; 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 m
ilky-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 wellspring 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.