Foundation and Empire

by Isaac Asimov

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

  Hella’s mobile lips curled in indifference. “She’s our co-ordinator’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 groupwise in the gradual descent towards the darkness that meant sleep for the righteous and hardworking, 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. Someday 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 coordinator’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 rooftops 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 hardworking 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 cannot 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 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 cheeks 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.”

  20

  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 crowd
s 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 onetime elegance slowly edging towards squalor, the house an undistinguished member of a row, and the man a small-eyed, big-boned person 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 corner 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.