Second Foundation

with it.

The Mule said: “Your final report reached me yesterday. I can’t deny that I find it somewhat depressing, Pritcher.”

The general’s eyebrows closed upon each other: “Yes, I imagine so—but I don’t see to what other conclusions I could have come. There just isn’t any Second Foundation, sir.”

And the Mule considered and then slowly shook his head, as he had done many a time before: “There’s the evidence of Ebling Mis. There is always the evidence of Ebling Mis.”

It was not a new story. Pritcher said without qualification: “Mis may have been the greatest psychologist of the Foundation, but he was a baby compared to Hari Seldon. At the time he was investigating Seldon’s works, he was under the artificial stimulation of your own brain control. You may have pushed him too far. He might have been wrong. Sir, he must have been wrong.”

The Mule sighed, his lugubrious face thrust forward on its thin stalk of a neck. “If only he had lived another minute. He was on the point of telling me where the Second Foundation was. He knew, I’m telling you. I need not have retreated. I need not have waited and waited. So much time lost. Five years gone for nothing.”

Pritcher could not have been censorious over the weak longing of his ruler; his controlled mental makeup forbade that. He was disturbed instead; vaguely uneasy. He said: “But what alternative explanation can there possibly be, sir? Five times I’ve gone out. You yourself have plotted the routes. And I’ve left no asteroid unturned. It was three hundred years ago—that Hari Seldon of the old Empire supposedly established two Foundations to act as nuclei of a new Empire to replace the dying old one. One hundred years after Seldon, the First Foundation—the one we know so well—was known through all the Periphery. One hundred fifty years after Seldon—at the time of the last battle with the old Empire—it was known throughout the Galaxy. And now it’s three hundred years—and where should this mysterious Second be? In no eddy of the Galactic stream has it been heard of.”

“Ebling Mis said it kept itself secret. Only secrecy can turn its weakness to strength.”

“Secrecy as deep as this is past possibility without nonexistence as well.”

The Mule looked up, large eyes sharp and wary. “No. It does exist.” A bony finger pointed sharply. “There is going to be a slight change in tactics.”

Pritcher frowned. “You plan to leave yourself? I would scarcely advise it.”

“No, of course not. You will have to go out once again—one last time. But with another in joint command.”

There was a silence, and Pritcher’s voice was hard, “Who, sir?”

“There’s a young man here in Kalgan. Bail Channis.”

“I’ve never heard of him, sir.”

“No, I imagine not. But he’s got an agile mind, he’s ambitious—and he’s not Converted.”

Pritcher’s long jaw trembled for a bare instant, “I fail to see the advantage in that.”

“There is one, Pritcher. You’re a resourceful and experienced man. You have given me good service. But you are Converted. Your motivation is simply an enforced and helpless loyalty to myself. When you lost your native motivations, you lost something, some subtle drive, that I cannot possibly replace.”

“I don’t feel that, sir,” said Pritcher, grimly. “I recall myself quite well as I was in the days when I was an enemy of yours. I feel none the inferior.”

“Naturally not,” and the Mule’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Your judgment in this matter is scarcely objective. This Channis, now, is ambitious—for himself. He is completely trustworthy—out of no loyalty but to himself. He knows that it is on my coattails that he rides and he would do anything to increase my power that the ride might be long and far and that the destination might be glorious. If he goes with you, there is just that added push behind his seeking—that push for himself.”

“Then,” said Pritcher, still insistent, “why not remove my own Conversion, if you think that will improve me. I can scarcely be mistrusted, now.”

“That never, Pritcher. While you are within arm’s reach, or blaster reach, of myself, you will remain firmly held in Conversion. If I were to release you this minute, I would be dead the next.”

The general’s nostrils flared. “I am hurt that you should think so.”

“I don’t mean to hurt you, but it is impossible for you to realize what your feelings would be if free to form themselves along the lines of your natural motivation. The human mind resents control. The ordinary human hypnotist cannot hypnotize a person against his will for that reason. I can, because I’m not a hypnotist, and, believe me, Pritcher, the resentment that you cannot show and do not even know you possess is something I wouldn’t want to face.”

Pritcher’s head bowed. Futility wrenched him and left him gray and haggard inside. He said with an effort: “But how can you trust this man? I mean, completely—as you can trust me in my Conversion.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t entirely. That is why you must go with him. You see, Pritcher,” and the Mule buried himself in the large armchair against the soft back of which he looked like an angularly animated toothpick, “if he should stumble on the Second Foundation—if it should occur to him that an arrangement with them might be more profitable than with me—You understand?”

A profoundly satisfied light blazed in Pritcher’s eyes. “That is better, sir.”

“Exactly. But remember, he must have a free rein as far as possible.”

“Certainly.”

“And .?.?. uh .?.?. Pritcher. The young man is handsome, pleasant, and extremely charming. Don’t let him fool you. He’s a dangerous and unscrupulous character. Don’t get in his way unless you’re prepared to meet him properly. That’s all.”

The Mule was alone again. He let the lights die and the wall before him kicked to transparency again. The sky was purple now, and the city was a smudge of light on the horizon.

What was it all for? And if he were the master of all there was—what then? Would it really stop men like Pritcher from being straight and tall, self-confident, strong? Would Bail Channis lose his looks? Would he himself be other than he was?

He cursed his doubts. What was he really after?

The cool, overhead warning light flickered. He could follow the progress of the man who had entered the palace and, almost against his will, he felt the soft wash of emotional content touch the fibers of his brain.

He recognized the identity without an effort. It was Channis. Here the Mule saw no uniformity, but the primitive diversity of a strong mind, untouched and unmolded except by the manifold disorganizations of the universe. It writhed in floods and waves. There was caution on the surface, a thin, smoothing effect, but with touches of cynical ribaldry in the hidden eddies of it. And underneath there was the strong flow of self-interest and self-love, with a gush of cruel humor here and there, and a deep, still pool of ambition underlying all.

The Mule felt that he could reach out and dam the current, wrench the pool from its basin and turn it in another course, dry up one flow and begin another. But what of it? If he could bend Channis’ curly head in the profoundest adoration, would that change his own grotesquerie that made him shun the day and love the night, that made him a recluse inside an empire that was unconditionally his?

The door behind him opened, and he turned. The transparency of the wall faded to opacity, and the darkness gave way to the whitely blazing artifice of nuclear power.

Bail Channis sat down lightly and said: “This is a not-quite-unexpected honor, sir.”

The Mule rubbed his proboscis with all four fingers at once and sounded a bit irritable in his response. “Why so, young man?”

“A hunch, I suppose. Unless I want to admit that I’ve been listening to rumors.”

“Rumors? Which one of the several dozen varieties are you referring to?”

“Those that say a renewal of the Galactic Offensive is being planned. It is a hope with me that such is true and that I might play an appropriate part.”

“Then you think there is a Second Foundation?”

“Why not? It would make things so much more interesting.”

“And you find interest in it as well?”

“Certainly. In the very mystery of it! What better subject could you find for conjecture? The newspaper