"Mule…"

Summary: My AU version of the Asimov tale from his collection of Foundation and Second Foundation tales. The Foundation has fallen to the mysterious Galactic conqueror, the Mule but the small band lead by the brilliant Ebling Mis seek to find Seldon's mythical Second Foundation and ally with them to destroy the Mule.

Book II: "The Search…"

Part VI…

It's one thing to reach Trantor, the ancient capital of the Galactic Empire, a world once completely of metal and plastic on the surface and still mostly covered, once home to over forty billion and now at most one hundred million, and quite another to locate an objective on the ground. Indeed, it presents a problem unique in the Galaxy and used, in the last days of Empire as a protection for vital power sources, defences, and civilian shelters. There are no continents or oceans to locate from a thousand miles' distance. There are no rivers, lakes, and islands to catch sight of th

rough the cloud rifts. The metal-covered world was…Had been…A single colossal city, and despite the damage of the Gelmer raids, the Sack and lesser attacks, 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 correlation…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, enclosing 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 torn aside, the exposed soil to be turned, and freshened, and invigorated, neighboring buildings to be torn 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 and peace.

The ship landed. He watched wordlessly as the port opened. Four adults emerged, one carrying an infant, the adults cautious and watchful, varied, old, young, thin, and beaked. And one of the women striding among them like an equal, the other, a strange creature of limbs and thinness, barely recognizable as a woman, who seemed far less forceful. She carried the infant, perhaps explaining her more docile stance.

He approached slowly. 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, callused 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 women, he hesitated. They had taken seat among the men. The strangers evidently allowed, even expected, such effrontery. True, he had read of the great ladies of Trantor who were bold and held high office, fought in great battles. Some among the Group did occasionally speak out in favor of some action or another. But it had become custom that the women of his Group, ironically, most, descendants of once great ladies who were not accustomed to hard labor, rarely did the work of the fields, kept to house, and therefore would generally leave the business of the Group to men. Yet other Groups felt differently, he reflected. He negotiated routinely with the female leader of Group Kalen, named after the near-forgetton old Trantor sector, who spoke with force and insisted on equal treatment. He could therefore accept such custom as Leader, where others might be scandalized.

Stiffly, he offered the box to the bold woman. She accepted one with a smile, and drew in its aromatic smoke, with all the relish one could expect. The other, politely refrained, showing proper deference. The stiff conversation, in advance of the meal, touched politely upon the subject of farming 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 farming in chemicals, I think? No, not on Trantor. This hydroponics requires a world of industry…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 mainly 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.

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 Gelmer 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. To their surprise a few knots of students, apparently both of Trantor descent and from other worlds, still studied, still took classes at various buildings from men and women who ranged from middle age to ancient. They found themselves welcomed to attend such but it was difficult to follow the high Galactic maintained there, though Mis, rather impatiently, noted when brought with Toran and Bayta to one on general science that the woman teaching seemed to know her stuff. Though Toran and Bayta…And Magnifica, mainly curious to see the students in ancient Imperial dress strolling, were fascinated to learn that the Foundation was in fact not the sole remaining home of Learning in the Galaxy, even if little new research seemed to be pursued, it was the library alone which interested him.

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.

"This is the last place…" he noted quietly to Bayta, as Toran approached the wizened figure at the entrance who eyed his signed pass from Dagobert with considerable reverence, then nodded.

"Yes." Bayta nodded gently. Magnifica with Torie in arms, peering at the well-preserved wonder of the holomurals, still glowing with power, still speaking of ancients and long-forgotten events.

"I should never have sent her. But now I'm here…I won't leave till I succeed or die trying." Mis, quietly.

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? I'll need to work here constantly. Sir?" he turned to the administrator Toran had addressed. "It is necessary I work here throughout the day and night. I should like to keep my sleeping cot here as well, to avoid returning to our ship. Is that allowable?"

"The Galactic Library is always open to authorized users, sir." The administrator replied in highly formalized Galactic. "You are welcome to use its facilities and to bring what you need. All that is required is that no materials be removed without proper authorization and on a specified time schedule."

"It won't be necessary to remove anything." Mis absently shook head. "Thank you."

"We are pleased to be of service, sir." The man nodded. "Let me or my staff know of anything you require."

"You've maintained this place…All these years?" Bayta asked.

"As my father and his mother and father before him, so do I, Miss." Nod.

"Toran? Bayta?" Mis turned to them

"Anything you say. We'll do all we can to help. Do you want us to work under you…?" Bayta asked.

"No, I must be alone." Mis, impatiently.

"You think you will get what you want?" Toran asked.

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. Magnifica taught herself 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 Magnifica, 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 toward an end he alone saw.

Bayta was nervous…Anxious about Mis, uncertain about the Trantorians, farmers and University students and staff, though she admitted they seemed fine, accepting even. Her temper seemed to have risen, which she attributed apologetically to Toran and Magnifica, to that anxiety. She noted to Toran that she worried about Mis' obsession with the work and his guilt over Flavia and Mylin. It was devouring him, it seemed to her. He was aging decades before their eyes.

"He is eating, isn't he, Magnifica?" Toran asked.

"Oh, yes, Lord. I am charged to make sure he does." She nodded. "Though my Lady is right, the great one seems mightily buried in his great works. I have heard him speak of poor Lady Mylin and Lady Flavia."

"Of course." Toran nodded. "Keep an eye on him, girl. See he eats and try to get him out for air. We'll try too, right Bay?"

"Sure." Bayta, tensely. "Perhaps I should bring him some meals, though. You should be getting out yourself, Magnifica."

"Oh, I be quite well, my Lady. Though if you wish, I can care for the little one when you go."

"I'll take him with me. Mis likes to see him." Offhand tone.

"Yes, My Lady." Magnifica, a bit subdued.

"No need to hurt her, Bay." Toran noted later when they were alone. Bayta glared at him.

"Oh?"

"I just mean…She loves caring for Torie. And I've noticed you taking him more these days. Now you want to cut in on her doing things for Mis? She likes feeling she's needed."

"Well, maybe I do too. And I want to spend more time with my baby, what's wrong there?"

"Nothing. Just it seems to me, you're not leaving her much. At least let her do things for Mis. She's fond of him. And she gets on with him pretty well."

"Sure." Curtly.

"Don't get mad."

"I don't get anything, these days." She sighed. "Fine…I just want to see Mis once in a while. Is that ok?" brittlely.

"Bay."

"Sorry. I'm just worried about him."

"He couldn't help either Flavia or Mylin or save the Foundation…I kinda know how he feels. I wish I were doing something, anything to help. He can, now."

"Sure." She nodded.

Toran came upon her in their darkened bedroom, sitting in the dark 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.

"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."

Magnifica'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. Magnifica stared wildly and shrank behind Toran. Nobody stopped to notice her.

Bayta said, her hands trembling with Toran's 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 do 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, Magnifica having anxiously slipped out of the cabin to her own. "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 fully understand your feelings, but 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 cannot 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…While not exactly a mindreader, 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 staff, his administrators, his officers and generals are emotionally controlled on an individual level. They cannot betray him; they cannot weaken…And the control is permanent. His most capable enemies become his most faithful subordinates. The warlord of Kalgan happily surrenders his planet and becomes his viceroy for the Foundation. And on a population level, he can instill the same feelings, though it takes more time and multiple exposures. Kalgan, Droxima, Calthonia, Sagosa, even Terminus, and soon most of the Foundation worlds are utterly loyal to him, convinced of his benevolence and his mission to unite the Galaxy."

"And you," added Bayta, bitterly, "Betray your cause and become the Mule's envoy to Trantor. I see!"

"I haven't finished." Pritcher sighed.

"The Mule's gift works in reverse even more effectively. Despair is an emotion! At the crucial moment, key men on the Foundation…Sagosa…Key men 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?" Pritcher eyed her.

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 own conversion otherwise? Think, man! What have you and your people…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 that you say were to have detained us, eh? Those contacts are dead or worse. We killed the crown prince Dagobert 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 winesoaked 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 is a good man who joined us voluntarily and will serve our purpose far better. 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 the crew of Lord Rox and his band. Rox had sought out mentalics, using the Gaian genetics as a fast guide…Hoping to prop up the Empire and defeat the Seldon Plan. He believed that the Plan was not only the cause of the Fall, but it had stopped his uncle from saving the Empire through recovering the science of the Foundation for the Empire, then forcing reform. He failed to find Gaians but he stumbled upon the Mule on Sesa, or rather the Mule stumbled upon him and his fleet. The Mule learned of his dream…Indeed he already had his own, a similar one. Rox was a learned man, you know. And one of the greatest administrators as well as commanders the Empire has had, only too late to make a real difference. He considered his title a responsibility, not a bauble. And he believed whole-heartedly that a reformed, democratic Empire would be far better for Humanity than Seldon's elitist Empire, an elite upon an elite even worse than that of the aristocracy of the First, which at least was an open one, till late in the Empire. And the Mule agreed. He saw Rox's dream as one that would allow a place for those like him, the forgotten and suffering of the Galaxy. While he did control Rox, he was also admiring of him and for want of a better word, a close friend, perhaps even almost a child to him. He even tried to limit the humiliation Rox felt with his crew by staging a mutiny that he helped repress to 'explain' why the crew had turned on him. Rox for his part, realized, over time, despite the Mule's emotional control that he was in the presence of one who could make his dream a reality."

"His…Treasure…" Bayta whispered.

"Exactly…" Pritcher nodded. "Not even Gaian, actually, by the genetic testing, simply a lucky accident of natural mutation. Well, with that pirate fleet, which soon was expanded and his power…He won a planet. Then 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 good industrial base and a first-class fleet, and with that…And his power…He could attack and eventually even risk taking on his most dangerous foe, the power that had collapsed the old Empire, the Foundation." He paused.

"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…That technologic edge…And his own abilities…He can force the remnants of the Empire to acknowledge his place behind the restored throne…That restoration his tribute to his friend Lord Rox, and eventually, with the death of the old emperor, who as you know is all but 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 ability…Where is the world in the Galaxy that can oppose him?" Pritcher regarded her and Toran.

"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 a better, freer state than Seldon and his mind-controllers and technocrats could ever have built."

"And you could not stop it…I could not…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?" slight easing of her face, even the slightest pity.

"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. Toran quiet.

"As for Magnifica. Where is she? Come out, Magnifica. I won't hurt you…"

"What about her?" demanded Bayta, with sudden animation.

"Nothing. My instructions make no mention of her, either. I have heard that she is searched for, but the Mule will recall her if he wishes when the time suits him. I shall say nothing. Will you shake hands?" Bayta shook her head.

"I understand." Pritcher calmly.

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 and I remember your kindness to me then. 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-bye." 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.

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. Magnifica can watch Torie."

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 much…Ever. 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? Mylin? No?"

"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?" he repeated.

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…Making complete transfer of human thought to say, a positronic brain. Social changes that 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. "I'm so close now. I can feel it. I can feel Flavia and Mylin calling to me, trying to reach me with the answers. You know Mylin was to carry it all, all of it in her positronic brain…The one she was reborn with. It was hers, you know."

"Yes, Eb." Bayta, gently. "But she'd not want you to drive yourself like this."

"No?" he stared. "But I have to, I owe them."

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 learned a bit on Kalgan and Sesa…You remember, he brought the knowledge to us on Terminus."

"Yes, yes…But that was speculation. We weren't sure what it meant then. Now, I know. I know."

"And so does he. 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 Magnifica? Isn't she with you?"

"Magnifica'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 Magnifica 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 holofilms. 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 mostly silent in their desertion, many of the few students away for a holiday time. 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 Magnifica anywhere, by the way?"

"Not since breakfast. Guess she'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 Magnifica, screwed up into a chair, eyes sharp and watching…A bundle of slatty limbs with a nose emphasizing her scrawny face.

Bayta said softly, "Magnifica…" Magnifica scrambled to her feet. Her voice was an eager whisper. "My lady!"

"Magnifica," said Bayta, "Toran has left for the farm and won't be back for a while. Would you be a help 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 Magnifica?"

"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, "Magnifica isn't bothering you, is she, Ebling? She seems to be down here night and day." "No, no, no! Not at all. Why, I don't mind her. She's silent and never disturbs me. Sometimes she carries the films back and forth for me, seems to know what I want without my speaking. Just let her be."

"Very well…But, Ebling, doesn't she make you wonder? Do you hear me, Ebling? Doesn't she 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 Magnifica herself a flaw in the theory?"

There was silence. Bayta repressed a strong desire to shake the psychologist. "What's wrong with you, Ebling? Magnifica was the Mule's clown and jester. Why wasn't she conditioned to love and faith? Why should she, of all those in contact with the Mule, hate him so?"

"But…But she 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 Magnifica'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 Magnifica."

Bayta said, "You mean Magnifica's information about the Mule was false?"

"It was misleading. It was colored by pathological fear. The Mule is not the physical giant Magnifica thinks. He is more probably an ordinary man outside his mental powers. But if it amused him to appear a superman to poor Magnifica…" The psychologist shrugged.

"In any case, Magnifica'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 toward 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 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 all 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."

"Listen…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 by intent, though some developed later. 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? A mutant he couldn't predict for?"

"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 was developed to protect the plan through mentalic development, though Seldon probably never considered a mutant so powerful as the Mule. And it could not have been established full-grown, any more than we were. We developed slowly and grew in strength, they must have also. With the further complication that mentalics is a poorly developed science, thousands of years of Imperial research produced, that we know of, little. 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, maybe, 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. But…Mis…"

"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 cannot 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'…At Star's End…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.

"But Eb…" Bayta paused, eyeing him. "You say the Mule might make us a slave race. But if the Second Foundation has power, like his…They must also have mental abilities that could be passed on. And even if not, their power could control us, like his."

"Perhaps…But we must deal with the Mule first, then…" Mis noted. "Then there's another secret, our secret, the Foundation's secret. And no one can know it, I have to keep it even from the Second Foundation. Sessons, Flavia…They died for it. And once I give you the secret, the secret of where the Second Foundation is…It'll be my turn to die for it. Trust me, I won't give it up, not even to them."

"Mis…" Bayta, distressed.

Magnifica's soft step approached. "Your husband is home, my lady."

Ebling Mis did not greet the girl. He was back at his holoprojector, viewing the ancient recordings.

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.

"But there's danger too. In the Second Foundation as well as the Mule. 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 Magnifica's go-between characteristics were evidence of his existence. Magnifica, grown silent and thoughtful, with her tiptoed trays of food and her still, watchful witness in the gloom.

Bayta was more and more a creature of herself. The vivacity died, the selfassured competence wavered. She, too, sought her own worried, absorbed company, and once Toran had 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. Or Torie's."

A grim look cut him off… "Sorry." He sighed. "I just worry about you too, now."

"I won't ever hurt Torie, don't even suggest that!" tense tone. "As for my own fool head…Then I'll blow it off. Small loss!"

Married life had taught Toran the futility of arguing with a female in a darkbrown mood. He shrugged, and left her.

On the last day, Magnifica scampered breathless into their presence. She clutched at them, frightened. "My lord, my lady! 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. Mylin's not here, she can't…" He paused.

"Eb…" Toran gently.

"Yes, yes…I know she's dead. I know I killed her." Ebling waved it off.

"The Mule killed her, Ebling." Bayta, firmly.

"Magnifica," said Bayta, with rough directness. "Go upstairs!"

Reluctantly nodding, the girl rose and took a backward step. Her sad eyes were on Mis. Mis gestured weakly, "She won't matter; let her stay. Stay, Magnifica." She 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. But I cannot. There is knowledge I possess they cannot have but might take. So, it's for the best that I'm done. 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….