"Mule..."
Summary: My AU version of the Asimov tale from his collection of Foundation and Second Foundation tales.
As she consolidates her new Empire, the First Citizen, Magnifica Gigantica, i.e. Bobo the Clown/Musician is one step away from Galactic conquest. But that step requires the locating and defeat of Seldon's hidden Second Foundation.
Book III: "Foundation and Union..."
Part VI…
The ship bounded through the Galaxy, its path a wide¬spaced dotted line through the stars. The dots, referred to, were the scant stretches of ten to sixty light-seconds spent in normal space and between them stretched the hundred-and-up light-year gaps that represented the "hops" through hyperspace.
Bail Channis sat at the control panel of the Lens and felt again the involuntary surge of near-worship at the contemplation of it.
He was not a Foundation man and the interplay offerees at the twist of a knob or the breaking of a contact was not second nature to him.
Not that the Lens ought quite to bore even a Foundation man. Within its unbelievably compact body were enough electronic circuits to holographically pin-point accurately three hundred billion separate stars in exact relationship to each other. And as if that were not a feat in itself, it was further capable of translating any given portion of the Galactic Field along any of the three spatial axes or to rotate any portion of the Held about a center.
It was because of that, that the Lens had performed a near¬ revolution in interstellar travel. In the younger days of interstellar travel, the calculation of each "hop" through hyperspace meant any amount of work from an hour to a week - and the larger portion of such work was the more or less precise calculation of "Ship's Position" on the Galactic scale of reference. Essentially that meant the accurate observation of at least three widely-spaced stars, the position of which, with reference to the arbitrary Galactic triple-zero, were known.
And it is the word "known," that is the catch. To any who know the star field well from one certain reference point, stars are as individual as people. Jump ten parsecs, however, and not even your own sun is recognizable. It may not even be visible.
The answer was, of course, spectroscopic analysis. For centuries, the main object of interstellar engineering was the analysis of the "light signature" of more and more stars in greater and greater detail. With this, and the growing precision of the "hop" itself, standard routes of travel through the Galaxy were adopted and interstellar travel became less of an art and more of a science.
And yet, even under the Foundation with improved computers and a new method of mechanically scanning the star field for a known "light signature," it sometimes took days to locate three stars and then calculate position in regions not previously familiar to the pilot to the degree of accuracy needed to ensure safe transit.
It was the Lens that changed all that. For one thing it required only a single known star. For another, even a space tyro such as Channis could operate it.
The nearest sizable star at the moment was Vincetori, according to "hop" calculations, and on the visiplate now, a bright star was centered. Channis hoped that it was Vincetori.
The Field screen of the Lens was thrown directly next that of the visiplate and with careful fingers, Channis punched out the co-ordinates of Vincetori. He closed a relay, and the star field sprang to bright view. In it, too, a bright star was centered, but otherwise there seemed no relationship. He adjusted the Lens along the Z-Axis and expanded the Field to where the photometer showed both centered stars to be of equal brightness.
Channis looked for a second star, sizably bright, on the visiplate and found one on the field screen to correspond. Slowly, he rotated the screen to similar angular deflection.
He twisted his mouth and rejected the result with a grimace. Again, he rotated and another bright star was brought into position, and a third. And then he grinned. That did it. Perhaps a specialist with trained relationship perception might have clicked first try, but he'd settle for three.
That was the adjustment. In the final step, the two Fields overlapped and merged into a sea of not-quite-rightness.
Most of the stars were close doubles. But the fine adjustment did not take long. The double stars melted together, one Field remained, and the "Ship's Position" could now be read directly off the dials. The entire procedure had taken less than half an hour.
Channis found Han Pritcher in his private quarters. The general was quite apparently preparing for bed. He looked up.
"News?"
"Not particularly. We'll be at Tazenda in another hop."
"I know."
"I don't want to bother you if you're turning in, but have you looked through the film we picked up in Cil?"
Han Pritcher cast a disparaging look at the article in question, where it lay in its black case upon his low bookshelf, "Yes."
"And what do you think?"
"I think that if there was ever any science to History, it has been quite lost in this region of the Galaxy."
Channis grinned broadly, "I know what you mean. Rather barren, isn't it?"
"Not if you enjoy personal chronicles of rulers. Probably unreachable, I should say, in both directions. Where history concerns mainly personalities, the drawings become either black or white according to the interests of the writer. I find it all remarkably useless."
"But there is talk about Tazenda. That's the point I tried to make when I gave you the film. It's the only one I could find that even mentioned them."
"All right. Since the Galactic Empire withdrew, they've had good rulers and bad. They've conquered a few planets, won some battles, lost a few. There is nothing distinctive about them. I don't think much of your theory, Channis."
"But you've missed a few points. Didn't you notice that they never formed coalitions? They always remained completely outside the politics of this corner of the star swarm. As you say, they conquered a few planets, but then they stopped and that without any startling defeat of consequence. It's just as if they spread out enough to protect themselves, but not enough to attract attention."
"Very well," came the unemotional response. "I have no objection to landing. At the worst, a little lost time."
"Oh, no. At the worst-complete defeat. If it is the Second Foundation. Remember it would be a world of space-knows-how-many Mules."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Land on some minor subject planet. Find out as much as we can about Tazenda first, then improvise from that."
"All right. No objection. If you don't mind now, I would like the light out."
Channis left with a wave of his hand.
And in the darkness of a tiny room in an island of driving metal lost in the vastness of space. General Han Pritcher remained awake, following the thoughts that led him through such fantastic reaches.
If everything he had so painfully decided were true, and how all the facts were beginning to fit, then Tazenda was the Second Foundation. There was no way out. But how? How?
Could it be Tazenda? An ordinary world? One without distinction? A slum lost amid the wreckage of an Empire? A splinter among the fragments? Had not the Mule been born on such a world, the grim drab little planet, Sesa. And there, who had there been but a Second Foundationer when he'd first gone there. And wasn't it strange, that several governmental figures had disappeared on his return, a Convert to the Mule. But Sesa wasn't the one. The Mule had come to confirm that, though she was sure the Second Foundation had been seeking information on her. Yes, a world like Sesa, grim, drab, forgotten, would be perfect for them. They could keep their use of mentalic power to a minimum and yet not worry that their lack of heavy scientific technology would expose them.
He remembered, as from a distance, the Mule's shriveled face and her thin voice as she used to speak of the old Foundation psychologist, Ebling Mis, the one man who had, maybe, learned the secret of the Second Foundation.
Pritcher recalled the tension of the Mule's words, "It was as if astonishment had overwhelmed Mis. It was as though something about the Second Foundation had surpassed all his expectations, had driven in a direction completely different from what he might have assumed."
"If I could only have read his thoughts rather than his emotions. Yet the emotions were plain, and above everything else was this vast surprise."
Surprise was the keynote. Something supremely astonishing! And now came this boy, this grinning youngster, glibly joyful about Tazenda and its undistinguished subnormality. And he had to be right. He had to be. Otherwise, nothing made sense.
Pritcher's last conscious thought had a touch of grimness. That hypertracer along the Etherictube was still there. He had checked it one hour back, with Channis well out of the way.
…
It was a casual meeting in the anteroom of the Council Chamber, just a few moments before passing into the Chamber to take up the business of the day, and the few thoughts flashed back and forth quickly.
"So, the Mule is on her way."
"That's what I hear, too. Risky! Mighty risky!"
"Not if affairs adhere to the functions set up."
"The Mule is not an ordinary human, it's difficult to manipulate her chosen instruments without detection by her. The controlled minds are difficult to touch. They say she's caught on to a few cases."
"Yes, I don't see how that can be avoided."
"Uncontrolled minds are easier. But so few are in positions of authority under her…"
They entered the Chamber. Others of the Second Foundation followed them.
…
Rossem is one of those marginal worlds usually neglected in Galactic history and scarcely ever obtruding itself upon the notice of the inhabitants of the myriad happier planets.
In the latter days of the Galactic Empire, a few political prisoners had inhabited its wastes, while an observatory and a small Imperial Naval garrison served to keep it from complete desertion. Later, in the evil days of strife, even before the time of Hari Seldon, the sort of men and women, tired of the periodic decades of insecurity and danger, weary of sacked planets and a ghostly succession of ephemeral emperors making their way to the Purple for a few wicked, fruitless years. some of these fled the populated centers and sought shelter in the barren nooks of the Galaxy.
Along the chilly wastes of Rossem, villages huddled. Its sun was a small ruddy niggard that clutched its dribble of heat to itself, while snow beat thinly down for nine months of the year.
The tough native grain lay dormant in the soil those snowfilled months, then grew and ripened in almost panic speed, when the sun's reluctant radiation brought the temperature to nearly fifty.
Small, goatlike animals cropped the grasslands, kicking the thin snow aside with tiny, tri-hooved feet.
The men of Rossem had, thus, their bread and their milk and when they could spare an animal - even their meat. The darkly ominous forests that gnarled their way over half of the equatorial region of the planet supplied a tough, fine-grained wood for housing. This wood, together with certain furs and minerals, was even worth exporting, and the ships of the Empire came at times and brought in exchange farm machinery, atomic heaters, even televisor sets. The last was not really incongruous, for the long winter imposed a lonely hibernation upon the peasant.
Imperial history flowed past the farmers of Rossem. The trading ships might bring news in impatient spurts, occasionally new fugitives would arrive-at one time, a relatively large group arrived in a body and remained, and these usually had news of the Galaxy.
It was then that the Rossemites learned of sweeping battles and decimated populations or of tyrannical emperors and rebellious viceroys. And they would sigh and shake their heads, and draw their fur collars closer about their bearded faces as they sat about the village square in the weak sun and philosophized on the evil of men.
Then after a while, no trading ships arrived at all, and life grew harder. Supplies of foreign, soft food, of tobacco, of machinery stopped. Vague word from scraps gathered on the televisor brought increasingly disturbing news. And finally it spread that Trantor had been sacked. The great capital world of all the Galaxy, the splendid, storied, unapproachable and incomparable home of the emperors had been despoiled and ruined and brought to utter destruction.
It was something inconceivable, and to many of the people of Rossem, scratching away at their heads, it might well seem that the end of the Galaxy was at hand.
And then one day not unlike other days a ship arrived again. The old men of each village nodded wisely and lifted their old eyelids to whisper that thus it had been in their father's time, but it wasn't, quite.
This ship was not an Imperial ship. The glowing Space-and-Sun of the Empire was missing from its prow. It was a stubby affair made of scraps of older ships, and the men within called themselves soldiers of Tazenda.
The peasants were confused. They had not heard of Tazenda, but they greeted the soldiers nevertheless in the traditional fashion of hospitality. The newcomers inquired closely as to the nature of the planet, the number of its inhabitants, the number of its cities, a word mistaken by the peasants to mean "villages" to the confusion of all concerned, its type of economy and so on.
Other ships came and proclamations were issued all over the world that Tazenda was now the ruling world, that tax¬collecting stations would be established girdling the equator…The sole habitable region…That percentages of grain and furs according to certain numerical formulae would be collected annually.
The Rossemites had blinked solemnly, uncertain of the word "taxes." When collection time came, many had paid, or had stood by in confusion while the uniformed, other-wordlings loaded the harvested corn and the pelts on to the broad ground-cars.
Here and there indignant citizens banded together and brought out ancient hunting weapons- but of this nothing ever came. Grumblingly they had disbanded when the men of Tazenda came and with dismay watched their hard struggle for existence become harder.
But a new equilibrium was reached. The Tazendian governor lived dourly in the village of Gentri, from which all Rossemites were barred. He and the officials under him were dim otherworld beings that rarely impinged on the Rossemite ken. The tax-farmers, Rossemites in the employ of Tazenda, came periodically, but they were creatures of custom now, and the farmer had learned how to hide his grain and drive his cattle into the forest, and refrain from having his hut appear too ostentatiously prosperous. Then with a dull, uncomprehending expression he would greet all sharp questioning as to his assets by merely pointing at what they could see.
Even that grew less, and taxes decreased, almost as If Tazenda wearied of extorting pennies from such a world.
Trading sprang up and perhaps Tazenda found that more profitable. The men of Rossem no longer received in exchange the polished creations of the Empire, but even Tazendian machines and Tazendian food was better than the native stuff. And there were clothes for the women of other than gray home-spun, which was a very important thing.
So once again, Galactic history glided past peacefully enough, and the peoples scrabbled life out of the hard soil.
…
Narovi blew into his beard as he stepped out of his cottage.
The first snows were sifting across the hard ground and the sky was a dull, overcast pink. He squinted carefully upward and decided that no real storm was in sight. He could travel to Gentri without much trouble and get rid of his surplus grain in return for enough canned foods to last the winter.
He roared back through the door, which he opened a crack for the purpose: "Has the car been fed its fuel, yunker?"
A voice shouted from within, and then Narovi's oldest son, his short, red beard not yet completely outgrown its boyish sparseness, joined him.
"The car," he said, sullenly, "is fueled and rides well, but for the bad condition of the axles. For that I am of no blame. I have told you it needs expert repairs."
The old man stepped back and surveyed his son through lowering eyebrows, then thrust his hairy chin outward: "And is the fault mine? Where and in what manner may I achieve expert repairs? Has the harvest then been anything but scanty for five years? Have my herds escaped the pest?
Have the pelts climbed of themselves…?"
"Narovi!" The well-known voice from within stopped him in mid-word. He grumbled, "Well, well, and now your mother must insert herself into the affairs of a father and his son. Bring out the car and see to it that the storage trailers are securely attached."
He pounded his gloved hands together, and looked upward again. The dimly-ruddy clouds were gathering and the gray sky that showed in the rifts bore no warmth. The sun was hidden.
He was at the point of looking away, when his dropping eyes caught and his finger almost automatically rose on high while his mouth fell open in a shout, in complete disregard of the cold air.
"Wife," he called vigorously, "Old woman, come here."
An indignant head appeared at a window. The woman's eyes followed his finger, gaped. With a cry, she dashed down the wooden stairs, snatching up an old wrap and a square of linen as she went. She emerged with the linen wrapped insecurely over her head and ears, and the wrap dangling from her shoulders.
She snuffled: "It is a ship from outer space."
And Narovi remarked impatiently: "And what else could it be? We have visitors, old woman, visitors!"
The ship was sinking slowly to a landing on the bare frozen field in the northern portions of Narovi's farm.
"But what shall we do?" gasped the woman. "Can we offer these people hospitality? Is the dirt floor of our hovel to be theirs and the pickings of last week's hoecake?"
"Shall they then go to our neighbours?" Narovi purpled past the crimson induced by the cold and his arms in their sleek fur covering lunged out and seized the woman's brawny shoulders.
"Wife of my soul," he purred, "you will take the two chairs from our room downstairs. You will see that a fat youngling is slaughtered and roasted with tubers. You will bake a fresh hoecake. I go now to greet these men of power from outer space…and…and…" He paused, placed his great cap awry, and scratched hesitantly. "Yes, I shall bring my jug of brewed grain as well. Hearty drink is pleasant."
The woman's mouth had flapped idly during this speech. Nothing came out. And when that stage passed, it was only a discordant screech that issued.
Narovi lifted a finger, "Old woman, what was it the village Elders said a se'n night since? Eh? Stir your memory. The Elders went from farm to farm themselves! Imagine the importance of it! To ask us that should any ships from outer space land, they were to be informed immediately on the orders of the governor.
"And now shall I not seize the opportunity to win into the good graces of those in power?"
"Regard that ship. Have you ever seen its like? These men from the outer worlds are rich, great. The governor himself sends such urgent messages concerning them that the Elders walk from farm to farm in the cooling weather. Perhaps the message is sent throughout all Rossem that these men are greatly desired by the Lords of Tazenda…And it is on my farm that they are landing."
He fairly hopped for anxiety, "The proper hospitality now the mention of my name to the governor, and what may not be ours?!"
His wife was suddenly aware of the cold biting through her thin house-clothing. She leaped towards the door, shouting over her shoulders, "Leave then quickly."
But she was speaking to a man who was even then racing towards the segment of the horizon against which the ship sank.
…
Kalgan…
"It's always such an honor, First Citizen…" a slightly flustered but radiant Captain Lena Merv of Union Intelligence, formerly one of the Galaxy's biggest entertainment stars, Lena Botos, struggled to keep her composure as she stood in the Mule's simple, stark office in her formal uniform at stiff attention.
True, she met many famous people in the course of her former career and dealt with some of the Galaxy's top agents in her current, but this was…The…First Citizen.
Not even her husband, the famous General Loris Merv, formerly the top general of the ex-Warlord of Kalgan, now Foundation governor, Bulis Keffin, had ever directly met the First. And he'd been just a boy when she'd told him she'd been summoned, yet again, to the Presence. Desperately pleading with her to try to get a holograph or at least carefully picture the Mule's features for him. And the children, even if they were as yet too young to comprehend.
Of course, everyone in the Union and the civilized Galaxy now knew the First was a woman…Wow…And about time we put in our oar to rule the Galaxy, Lena had thought, smile as she'd assured her dear husband she'd do her best. But few indeed ever got the chance to be so close to her, to gaze upon her glory directly, to hear her voice speak in a room. Or to get an assignment crucial to her reunification of the Galaxy, directly from her.
Wow.
Just wow. Even meeting the Emperor which she'd done even before her conversion, at a concert on NeoTrantor, couldn't compare.
"Thank you and at ease, Captain Merv." Slight twinkle. "You've gotten quite the hang of your military career I see."
"I try, thanks, First Citizen." Faint smile.
"How is your husband, my good General Merv?" Magnifica eyed the woman.
Just a slight moment of frustrated despair…Why couldn't I have had that figure? Especially that rounded bump of yet another pregnancy her uniform bares conceals…What is that? Her third?
"Loris is well, First Citizen. He sends his greetings and his devotion."
"I've very sure of his devotion." Magnifica nodded. "As I am of yours. We must have you all and your children at the next possible reception."
"I'd imagine your Loris would enjoy that." Smile.
"He'd be ecstatic, ma'am. He's wanted to see you in the flesh for years." Eager nod.
"My fault that he hasn't, press of events…" offhand wave. "And I must be cautious in my public appearances. But I am grateful for his service and yours, know that."
"Thank you, ma'am." The Captain bowed deeply. "I owe you not only my new life and career, but my family. You having brought us together."
"How are your children…Four with this one?"
"Yes, ma'am. The boys are a handful, my sole daughter, the last one, is worse." Smile. "But they are my joy, but for my Loris, and above all, the chance to serve you. How may I?" Alert look.
"Well…Lena, to get down to it, I need your help in our new plan to locate the Second Foundation. It must be kept secret. In fact, I want you to forget everything I tell you now, but keep it buried deep in your mind, to surface at a trigger I will implant. You did me good service helping to locate that key technology hidden in the former Foundation. I have another important mission for you. And it involves that technology." Careful stare.
…
Neither the cold of the world, nor its bleak, empty spaces worried General Han Pritcher. Nor the poverty of their surroundings, nor the perspiring farmer presenting himself before him, himself.
What did bother him was the question of the wisdom of their tactics? He and Channis were alone here.
The ship, left in space, could take care of itself in ordinary circumstances, but still, he felt unsafe. It was Channis, of course, who was responsible for this move. He looked across at the young man and caught him winking cheerfully at the gap in the furred partition, in which a woman's peeping eyes and gaping mouth momentarily appeared.
Channis, at least, seemed completely at ease. That fact Pritcher savored with a vinegary satisfaction. His game had not much longer to proceed exactly as he wished it. Yet, meanwhile their wrist ultrawave sender-receivers were their only connection with the ship.
And then their host smiled enormously and bobbed his head several times and said in a voice oily with respect, "Noble Lords, I crave leave to tell you that my eldest son…A good, worthy lad whom my poverty prevents from educating as his wisdom deserves…Has informed me that the Elders will arrive soon. I trust your stay here has been as pleasant as my humble means…For I am poverty-stricken, though a hard-working, honest, and humble farmer, as anyone here will tell you…Could afford."
"Elders?" said Channis, lightly. "The chief men of the region here?"
"So they are. Noble Lords, and honest, worthy men all of them, for our entire village is known throughout Rossem as a just and righteous spot…Though living is hard and the returns of the fields and forests meager. Perhaps you will mention to the Elders, Noble Lords, of my respect and honour for travelers, and it may happen that they will request a new motor wagon for our household as the old one can scarcely creep and upon the remnant of it depends our livelihood."
He looked humbly eager, and Han Pritcher nodded with the properly aloof condescension required of the role of "Noble, Lords" bestowed upon them.
"A report of your hospitality shall reach the ears of your Elders."
Pritcher seized the next moments of isolation to speak to the apparently half-sleeping Channis.
"I am not particularly fond of this meeting of the Elders," he said. "Have you any thoughts on the subject?"
Channis seemed surprised. "No. What worries you?"
"It seems we have better things to do than to become conspicuous here.'
Channis spoke hastily, in a low monotoned voice… "It may be necessary to risk becoming conspicuous in our next moves. We won't find the type of men we want, Pritcher, by simply reaching out a hand into a dark bag and groping. Men who rule by tricks of the mind need not necessarily be men in obvious power. In the first place, the psychologists of the Second Foundation are probably a very small minority of the total population, just as on your own First Foundation, the technicians and scientists formed a minority. The ordinary inhabitants are probably just that, very ordinary. The psychologists may even be well hidden, and the men in the apparently ruling position, may honestly think they are the true masters. Our solution to that problem may be found here on this frozen lump of a planet."
"I don't follow that at all."
"Why, see here, it's obvious enough. Tazenda is probably a huge world of millions or hundreds of millions. How could we identify the psychologists among them and be able to report truly to the Mule that we have located the Second Foundation? But here, on this tiny peasant world and subject planet, the Tazendian rulers, our host informs us, are concentrated in their chief village of Gentri. There may be only a few hundred of them there, Pritcher, and among them must be one or more of the men of the Second Foundation. We will go there eventually, but let us see the Elders first, it's a logical step on the way."
They drew apart easily, as their black-bearded host tumbled into the room again, obviously agitated.
"Noble Lords, the Elders are arriving. I crave leave to beg you once more to mention a word, perhaps, on my behalf…?" He almost bent double in a paroxysm of fawning.
"We shall certainly remember you," said Channis. "Are these your Elders?"
They apparently were. There were three.
One approached. He bowed with a dignified respect and said… "We are honoured. Transportation has been provided. Respected sirs, and we hope for the pleasure of your company at our Meeting Hall."
…
The First Speaker gazed wistfully at the night sky. Wispy clouds scudded across the faint stargleams. Space looked actively hostile. It was cold and awful at best but now it contained that strange creature, the Mule, and the very content seemed to darken and thicken it into ominous threat.
The meeting was over. It had not been long. There had been the doubts and questionings inspired by the difficult mathematical problem of dealing with a mental mutant of uncertain makeup. All the extreme permutations had had to be considered. Difficult to do when it was necessary to restrict the use of telepathic communication and speak in words.
Were they even yet certain? Somewhere in this region of space, within reaching distance as Galactic spaces go, was the Mule. What would she do?
It was easy enough to handle her Converted. They reacted…And were reacting…According to plan. But what of the Mule herself? She'd proven herself a creature quite capable of thinking outside any predetermined constraints, the weakness of those who lived by the calculations of Hari Seldon. For the first time in many a year, they were having to rely not on those calculations, brilliant but confining…And now demonstrated to be a potential trap. Though to his mind, the trap was as much their own arrogance as any flaws in Seldon's calculations.
He'd always had his doubts. In the Plan even before his recruitment as a teen. In Seldon as he'd asked why…Why the delay of 700 years? Why the limitation of human potential in Psychohistory, via their own Second Foundation? Why had it been necessary even to let the Empire and beautiful, glorious Trantor fall?
And for what? Did Seldon's dream really offer hope for Humanity? Or a grim return to an Empire even more static and rigid than the one he'd known?
And the Mule herself. She wasn't simply a conqueror. She and even a few of her Unconverted truly believed in what she was doing. As poor old, dreaming, but admittedly brilliant and courageous, Lord Habeus Rox had believed in setting out desperately to save his Empire.
And now, his "treasure", as he'd named her on discovering her abilities when he'd found her stowawayed on his pirate fleet…The closest thing he'd had to a daughter…The closest thing she'd had to a father in him…Was fulfilling his dream of rebuilding the Empire. And of course, destroying the two Foundations he'd believed had brought it low.
But…He was First Speaker, however much he'd fought against his destiny at times in his life. And he had a duty.
Yet…Not merely to the Seldon Plan…Or even the Second Foundation. He had a duty to the Galaxy.
…
The Elders of this particular region of Rossem were not exactly what one might have expected. They were not a mere extrapolation of the simple farmers of the region; older, more authoritative, less friendly.
Not at all.
The dignity that had marked them at first meeting had grown in impression till it had reached the mark of being their predominant characteristic.
They sat about their oval table like so many grave and slowmoving thinkers. Most were a trifle past their physical prime, though the few who possessed beards wore them short and neatly arranged. Still, enough appeared younger than forty to make it quite obvious that "Elders" was a term of respect rather than entirely a literal description of age.
The two from outer space were at the head of the table and in the solemn silence that accompanied a rather frugal meal that seemed ceremonious rather than nourishing, absorbed the new, contrasting atmosphere.
After the meal and after one or two respectful remarks…Too short and simple to be called speeches… Had been made by those of the Elders apparently held most in esteem, an informality forced itself upon the assembly.
It was as if the dignity of greeting foreign personages had finally given way to the amiable rustic qualities of curiosity and friendliness.
They crowded around the two strangers and the flood of questions came.
They asked if it were difficult to handle a spaceship, how many men were required for the job, if better motors could be made for their ground-cars, if it was true that it rarely snowed on other worlds as was said to be the case with Tazenda, how many people lived on their world, if it was as large as Tazenda, if it was far away, did they marry, did they have children freely or were heavy limits set, how their clothes were woven and what gave them the metallic shimmer, why they did not wear furs, if they shaved every day, what sort of stone that was in Pritcher's ring…The list stretched out.
And almost always the questions were addressed to Pritcher as though, as the elder, they automatically invested him with the greater authority. Pritcher found himself forced to answer at greater and greater length. It was like an immersion in a crowd of children. Their questions were those of utter and disarming wonder. Their eagerness to know was completely irresistible and would not be denied.
Pritcher explained that spaceships were not difficult to handle and that crews varied with the size, from one to many, that the motors of their ground-cars were unknown in detail to him but could doubtless be improved, that the climates of worlds varied almost infinitely, that many hundreds of millions lived on his world but that it was far smaller and more insignificant than the great empire of Tazenda, yes, he himself was married though young Channis…A smile by said young Channis…Was not. He had a son and hoped for more but no one was forced to limit birth on the worlds that he was familiar with, their clothes were woven of silicone plastics in which metallic luster was artificially produced by proper orientation of the surface molecules, and that they could be artificially heated so that furs were unnecessary, that they shaved every day, that the stone in his ring was an amethyst. The list stretched out. He found himself thawing to these naive provincials against his will.
And always as he answered there was a rapid chatter among the Elders, as though they debated the information gained.
It was difficult to follow these inner discussions of theirs for they lapsed into their own accented version of the universal Galactic language that, through long separation from the currents of living speech, had become archaic.
Almost, one might say, their curt comments among themselves hovered on the edge of understanding, but just managed to elude the clutching tendrils of comprehension.
Until finally Channis interrupted to say, "Good sirs, you must answer us for a while, for we are strangers and would be very much interested to know all we can of Tazenda."
And what happened then was that a great silence fell and each of the hitherto voluble Elders grew silent. Their hands, which had been moving in such rapid and delicate accompaniment to their words as though to give them greater scope and varied shades of meaning, fell suddenly limp. They stared furtively at one another, apparently quite willing each to let the other have all the floor.
Pritcher interposed quickly, "My companion asks this in friendliness, for the fame of Tazenda fills the Galaxy and we, of course, shall inform the governor of the loyalty and love of the Elders of Rossem."
No sigh of relief was heard but faces brightened. An Elder stroked his beard with thumb and forefinger, straightening its slight curl with a gentle pressure, and said… "We are faithful servants of the Lords of Tazenda."
Pritcher's annoyance at Channis' bald question subsided. It was apparent, at least, that the age that he had felt creeping over him of late had not yet deprived him of his own capacity for making smooth the blunders of others.
…
He continued… "We do not know, in our far part of the universe, much of the past history of the Lords of Tazenda. We presume they have ruled benevolently here for a long time."
The same Elder who spoke before, answered. In a soft, automatic way he had become spokesman. He said… "Not the grandfather of the oldest can recall a time in which the Lords were absent."
"It has been a time of peace?"
"It has been a time of peace!" He hesitated. "The governor is a strong and powerful Lord who would not hesitate to punish traitors. None of us are traitors, of course."
"He has punished some in the past, I imagine, as they deserve."
Again hesitation, "None here have ever been traitors, or our fathers or our fathers' fathers. But on other worlds, there have been such, and death followed for them quickly. It is not good to think of for we are humble men who are poor farmers and not concerned with matters of politics."
The anxiety in his voice, the universal concern in the eyes of all of them was obvious.
Pritcher said smoothly: "Could you inform us as to how we can arrange an audience with your governor?"
And instantly an element of sudden bewilderment entered the situation.
For after a long moment, the elder said… "Why, did you not know? The governor will be here tomorrow. He has expected you. It has been a great honour for us. We…we hope earnestly that you will report to him satisfactorily as to our loyalty to him."
Pritcher's smile scarcely twitched. "Expected us?"
The Elder looked wonderingly from one to the other. "Why…It is now a week since we have been waiting for you."
…
Kalgan…Next morning…
The Mylin Mis Memorial Research Institute…In a city a bit removed from the capital city, a city largely founded after the takeover of Kalgan by the Mule and dedicated to pure research, though largely of a kind to enhance military technology over many years. Not too dissimilar to certain Imperial research institutes established in the Ascent of Trantor over the centuries to its glorious fulfillment as the center of the Empire, it was not expected to achieve instantaneous results…Indeed its efforts might well produce no results at all. Though in this particular case, to some extent, it had.
Lena Merv, seated, still in her official uniform but wearing over it a thin, transparent plastic shawl with a web of carbon fibers running through out.
The Mule, her odd stick form curled up a bit to fit, seated with several officials including Iriana Pritcher, observing.
"Is this safe for you, Ma'am?" Iriana asked the Mule, nervously.
"Utterly. Don't be concerned." She shook head. "In fact, I truly wish to know the outcome and effect of this for my own benefit. I'm quite safe, I promise you."
"First Citizen…" a tall technician emerged. "We are ready for the test…If you…?"
She nodded.
"Activate level one, Mind static." The technician called.
Lena's shawl glowed slightly.
"I feel…Something…" Magnifica noted, nodding..
"Should we reduce?" the technician, anxiously. Iriana and the other officials seated by the Mule looking anxious as well.
"No, no…I'm quite fine. Continue." Magnifica urged. "Captain? Are you well?"
"Fine, First Citizen…" Lena nodded.
"Do you feel…Anything?"
"Not as yet, ma'am."
"Level Two…" the technician called.
"Yes, there's definitely a block…Nothing very dense but…Lena? Listen for me, inside your mind. Watch, people, I'm not a telepath in the full sense of being able to read minds but I can project thoughts and words and images. Can you see an image in your mind?"
"Yes…" Lena nodded. "It's…A Visi-sonar. I've played one before."
"Excellent." Magnifica nodded.
"The Mind-Static shield is having no affect?" the technician asked.
"On the contrary, it's providing a certain degree of resistance." Magnifica noted. "We'd didn't expect it to be able to block me or do that much, even in this primitive copy. Can you go higher? But only if there's no danger to Captain Merv."
"Yes, we can go one level higher, with no danger to the Captain but we experience distortion of the field. We're sure it's why our Foundation scientists secretly working on it were finding it difficult to advance."
"All right, go to the third level…" Magnifica insisted.
"Hmmn…" Lena cocked head. "I think…The image is fading…"
"Wait…" Magnifica insisted.
"I see it clearly again." Lena nodded.
"Are you all right, First Citizen?" Iriana asked.
"I'm fine but I need to concentrate to get through. Very good, you may shut it down." Magnifica turned to the technician, who signaled for power to be cut off.
"All right…We have a working Mind-Static shield." She noted. "Weak and full of leaks but on the right path. And I'd guess the Foundation prototype is superior to some extent."
"We'll redouble our efforts to find where Anton Sessions hid it." Iriana insisted.
"It hardly matters. Sessions knew it wouldn't block me…Whoever I was. He was quite clear on that to Ebling Mis. " Magnifica shrugged. "However…" she smiled. "Not only is it a good first step towards a working shield…Fine job, Mr. Blig and yours in finding Mr. Blig on Lorus, Lena." She noted to a beaming Captain Merv. "But it should serve for my immediate purpose as well, if you can adjust its frequency as I asked." She eyed Blig, who nodded.
"We can, First Citizen."
"Then our little game may proceed. Lena? Just one more thing to do to make your role here convincing…" she smiled at the Captain.
"Easy enough…I've done pigment alteration to change my appearance, depending on where I was going or what was fashionable." Lena shrugged.
I hadn't realized Merv and the First had a certain faint similarity in appearance…And same height, Iriana thought. And Lena can play Visi-sonar, slightly. And with enhancement by the First, she can probably get a few tunes out.
This could work. At the very least, it could protect Her if she must risk so much.
"If I may…" Iriana spoke up. Magnifica nodding…
"Mr. Blig, can you continue to enhance the Mind-Static shield, quickly?"
"I will do all possible." He nodded.
Different attitude from when I hunted him down on Lorus…Lena thought, eyeing him. He was ready to die to protect the secret of the shield, though he hadn't been entrusted with the actual device. Sadly, given Sessions' suicide when we attacked Terminus, we may never locate that needle in the haystack of space. But this is a fair start, if crude.
…
Their quarters were undoubtedly luxurious for the world. Pritcher had lived in worse. Channis showed nothing but indifference to externals.
But there was an element of tension between them of a different nature than hitherto. Pritcher, felt the time approaching for a definite decision and yet there was still the desirability of additional waiting. To see the governor first would be to increase the gamble to dangerous dimensions and yet to win that gamble might multi-double the winnings. He felt a surge of anger at the slight crease between Channis' eyebrows, the delicate uncertainty with which theyoung man's lower lip presented itself to an upper tooth. He detested the useless play-actingand yearned for an end to it.
He said: "We seem to be anticipated."
'Yes," said Channis, simply.
"Just that? You have no contribution of greater pith to make. We come here and find that the governor expects us. Presumably we shall find from the governor that Tazenda itself expects us. Of what value then is our entire mission?"
Channis looked up, without endeavoring to conceal the weary note in his voice: "To expect us is one thing; to know who we are and what we came for, is another."
"Do you expect to conceal these things from men of the Second Foundation?"
"Perhaps. Why not? Are you ready to throw your hand in? Suppose our ship was detected in space. Is it unusual for a realm to maintain frontier observation posts? Even if we were ordinary strangers, we would be of interest."
"Sufficient interest for a governor to come to us rather than the reverse?'
Channis shrugged: "We'll have to meet that problem later. Let us see what this governor is like."
Pritcher bared his teeth in a bloodless kind of scowl. The situation was becoming ridiculous.
Channis proceeded with an artificial animation: "At least we know one thing. Tazenda is the Second Foundation or a million shreds of evidence are unanimously pointing the wrong way."
"How do you interpret the obvious terror in which these natives hold Tazenda? I see no signs of political domination. Their groups of Elders apparently meet freely and without interference of any sort. The taxation they speak of doesn't seem at all extensive to me or efficiently carried through."
"The natives speak much of poverty but seem sturdy and well-fed. The houses are uncouth and their villages rude, but are obviously adequate for the purpose."
"In fact, the world fascinates me. I have never seen a more forbidding one, yet I am convinced there is no suffering among the population and that their uncomplicated lives manage to contain a well-balanced happiness lacking in the sophisticated populations of the advanced centers."
"Are you an admirer of peasant virtues, then?"
"The stars forbid." Channis seemed amused at the idea. "I merely point out the significance of all this. Apparently, Tazenda is an efficient administrator…Efficient in a sense far different from the efficiency of the old Empire or of the First Foundation, or even of our own Union. All these have brought mechanical efficiency to their subjects at the cost of more intangible values. Tazenda brings happiness and sufficiency. Don't you see that the whole orientation of their domination is different? It is not physical, but psychological."
"Really?" Pritcher, allowed himself irony. "And the terror with which the Elders spoke of the punishment of treason by these kind-hearted psychologist administrators? How does that suit your thesis?"
"Were they the objects of the punishment? They speak of punishment only of others. It is as if knowledge of punishment has been so well implanted in them that punishment itself need never be used. The proper mental attitudes are so inserted into their minds that I am certain that not a Tazendian soldier exists on the planet. Don't you see all this?"
"I'll see perhaps," said Pritcher, coldly, "When I see the governor. And what, by the way, if our mentalities are handled?"
Channis replied with brutal contempt: "You should be accustomed to that."
Pritcher whitened perceptibly, and, with an effort, turned away. They spoke to one another no more that day.
…
It was in the silent windlessness of the frigid night, as he listened to the soft, sleeping motions of the other, that Pritcher silently adjusted his wrist-transmitter to the ultrawave region for which Channis' was unadjustable and, with noiseless touches of his fingernail, contacted the ship.
The answer came in little periods of noiseless vibration that barely lifted themselves above the sensory threshold.
Twice Pritcher asked… "Any communications at all yet?"
Twice the answer came… "None. We wait always."
…
He got out of bed. It was cold in the room and he pulled the furry blanket around him as he sat in the chair and stared out at the crowding stars so different in the brightness and complexity of their arrangement from the even fog of the Galactic Lens that dominated the night sky of his native Periphery.
Somewhere there between the stars was the answer to the complications that overwhelmed him, and he felt the yearning for that solution to arrive and end things.
For a moment he wondered again if the Mule were right, if Conversion had robbed him of the firm sharp edge of self reliance. Or was it simply age and the fluctuations of these last years?
He didn't really care.
He was tired. Tired and wishing he was home, with Iriana and his child. If that was old age or dullness due to Conversion, so be it.
But, he would do his Duty. That, in him, at least, never changed.
The comforting face of Iriana smiling came to him as he fell asleep…
…
The governor of Rossem arrived with minor ostentation. His only companion was the uniformed man at the controls of the ground car.
The ground car itself was of lush design but to Pritcher it appeared a bit antique and inefficient. It turned clumsily, more than once it apparently balked at what might have been a too-rapid change of gears. It was obvious at once from its design that it ran on chemical, and not on atomic, fuel.
The Tazendian governor stepped softly on to the thin layer of snow and advanced between two lines of respectful Elders. He did not look at them but entered quickly. They followed after him.
From the quarters assigned to them, the two men of the Mule's Union watched. He…The governor…Was thickset, rather stocky, short, unimpressive.
But what of that?
Pritcher cursed himself for a failure of nerve. His face, to be sure, remained icily calm. There was no humiliation before Channis, but he knew very well that his blood pressure had heightened and his throat had become dry.
It was not a case of physical fear. He was not one of those dull-witted, unimaginative men of nerveless meat who were too stupid ever to be afraid, but physical fear he could account for and discount.
But this was different. It was the other fear.
He glanced quickly at Channis. The young man glanced idly at the nails of one hand and poked leisurely at some trifling unevenness.
Something inside Pritcher became vastly indignant. What had Channis to fear of mental handling?
Pritcher caught a mental breath and tried to think back. How had he been before the Mule had Converted him from the die-hard democratic patriot that he'd been. It was hard to remember. He could not place himself mentally. He could not break the clinging wires that bound him emotionally to the Mule. Intellectually, he could remember that he had journeyed the Galaxy to defeat and once tried to assassinate the Mule but not for all the straining he could endure, could he remember his emotions at the time. That might be the self-defense of his own mind, however, for at the intuitive thought of what those emotions might have been…Not realizing the details, but merely comprehending the drift of it, his stomach grew queasy.
What if the governor tampered with his mind?
What if the insubstantial mental tendrils of a Second Foundationer insinuated itself down the emotional crevices of his makeup and pulled them apart and rejoined them?
There had been no sensation the first time. There had been no pain, no mental jar…Not even a feeling of discontinuity that he could remember. Iriana had been the same, according to her rather cautious telling. It had seemed an intimate thing, though telling each other of their Conversions seemed to help bind them.
He had always loved the Mule. If there had ever been a time long before, As long before as five short years when he had thought he hadn't loved her, that he had hated her…That was just a horrid illusion. The thought of that illusion embarrassed him. As Iriana had confessed it shamed her.
But there had been no pain.
Would meeting the governor duplicate that? Would all that had gone before…All his service for the Mule…All his life's current orientation…Even the family the Mule had given him…His love for Iriana and their child…Would it all join the hazy, other-life dream that held the word, Democracy? The Mule also a dream, and only to Tazenda, his loyalty?
Sharply, he turned away.
There was that strong desire to retch.
And then Channis' voice clashed on his ear, "I think this is it, General."
…
The Mule's stark office…
Lena Merv seated across from the First Citizen…Dressed in the same simple white robe of office the Mule choose. Concealed underneath, the lacy web of the Mind Static device...
"I thank you again for your help, Captain." Magnifica eyed the woman. "Not only in testing the Mind Static device but in this. It's essential."
"Yes, ma'am…" Lena nodded.
"We do look a bit alike…" Magnifica smiled at the now darker-skinned woman. "Sorry for the insult."
"Not at all, ma'am. It's an honor."
"Well, amusingly once I hid myself constantly, now I must project myself a bit, awful as that might be." Sardonic grin. "But, fortunately, only few have seen me up close. You should pass in the usual reception holograms and with most visitors, just keep to the sidelines and let all focus be on His Majesty. And if a Second Foundationer should appear and try to probe, the Mind Static is a reasonable approximation of my natural mentalic shielding. The only thing leift now is the Emperor."
"Is it really necessary to tell him, ma'am?" Lena asked. "Surely you could adjust him to perceive me as you."
"I could but it would be quite unnatural. A manipulation that could be easily detected by an expert mind. Besides Dagobert may be a bit woolly at times, but he can comprehend the need to operate in secret and to forget what needs to be forgotten." She noted. "What?" she eyed Lena's worked face.
"I hope you're not offended, but I fear sometimes you put a great deal of reliance on such a weak old man, ma'am. I'm only being honest in my concern." Lena, anxiously. "And I mean no offense to His Majesty."
"Perhaps but it's my risk. And I think you may find Dagobert stronger than you realize. Like me, he has endured a great deal." Magnifica, gently. "And I'm not offended, dear."
"Yes, First Citizen." Nod.
…