Foundation and Empire

three-way electronic analysis of the interior now, and I’ve got little jiggers that the Empire never heard of, especially made for jimmying capsules. I’ve been a burglar before this, y’know. A Trader has to be something of everything.”

He bent low over the little sphere, and a small flat instrument probed delicately and sparked redly at each fleeting contact.

He said, “This capsule is a crude job, anyway. These Imperial boys are no shakes at this small work. I can see that. Ever see a Foundation capsule? It’s half the size and impervious to electronic analysis in the first place.”

And then he was rigid, the shoulder muscles beneath his tunic tautening visibly. His tiny probe pressed slowly—

It was noiseless when it came, but Devers relaxed and sighed. In his hand was the shining sphere with its message unrolled like a parchment tongue.

“It’s from Brodrig,” he said. Then, with contempt, “The message medium is permanent. In a Foundation capsule, the message would be oxidized to gas within the minute.”

But Ducem Barr waved him silent. He read the message quickly.

FROM: AMMEL BRODRIG, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, PRIVY SECRETARY OF THE COUNCIL, AND PEER OF THE REALM.

TO: BEL RIOSE, MILITARY GOVERNOR OF SIWENNA, GENERAL OF THE IMPERIAL FORCES, AND PEER OF THE REALM. I GREET YOU.

PLANET # 1120 NO LONGER RESISTS. THE PLANS OF OFFENSE AS OUTLINED CONTINUE SMOOTHLY. THE ENEMY WEAKENS VISIBLY AND THE ULTIMATE ENDS IN VIEW WILL SURELY BE GAINED.

Barr raised his head from the almost microscopic print and cried bitterly, “The fool! The forsaken blasted fop! That a message?”

“Huh?” said Devers. He was vaguely disappointed.

“It says nothing,” ground out Barr. “Our lickspittle courtier is playing at general now. With Riose away, he is the field commander and must soothe his paltry spirit by spewing out his pompous reports concerning military affairs he has nothing to do with. ‘So-and-so planet no longer resists.’ ‘The offensive moves on.’ ‘The enemy weakens.’ The vacuum-headed peacock.”

“Well, now, wait a minute. Hold on—”

“Throw it away.” The old man turned away in mortification. “The Galaxy knows I never expected it to be world-shakingly important, but in wartime it is reasonable to assume that even the most routine order left undelivered might hamper military movements and lead to complications later. It’s why I snatched it. But this! Better to have left it. It would have wasted a minute of Riose’s time that will now be put to more constructive use.”

But Devers had arisen. “Will you hold on and stop throwing your weight around? For Seldon’s sake—”

He held out the sliver of message before Barr’s nose, “Now read that again. What does he mean by ‘ultimate ends in view’?”

“The conquest of the Foundation. Well?”

“Yes? And maybe he means the conquest of the Empire. You know he believes that to be the ultimate end.”

“And if he does?”

“If he does!” Devers’ one-sided smile was lost in his beard. “Why, watch, then, and I’ll show you.”

With one finger the lavishly monogrammed sheet of message-parchment was thrust back into its slot. With a soft twang, it disappeared and the globe was a smooth, unbroken whole again. Somewhere inside was the tiny oiled whir of the controls as they lost their setting by random movements.

“Now there is no known way of opening this capsule without knowledge of Riose’s personal characteristic, is there?”

“To the Empire, no,” said Barr.

“Then the evidence it contains is unknown to us and absolutely authentic.”

“To the Empire, yes,” said Barr.

“And the Emperor can open it, can’t he? Personal Characteristics of Government officials must be on file. We keep records of our officials at the Foundation.”

“At the Imperial capital as well,” agreed Barr.

“Then when you, a Siwennian patrician and Peer of the Realm, tell this Cleon, this Emperor, that his favorite tame parrot and his shiniest general are getting together to knock him over, and hand him the capsule as evidence, what will he think Brodrig’s ‘ultimate ends’ are?”

Barr sat down weakly. “Wait, I don’t follow you.” He stroked one thin cheek, and said, “You’re not really serious, are you?”

“I am.” Devers was angrily excited. “Listen, nine out of the last ten Emperors got their throats cut, or their gizzards blasted out by one or another of their generals with big-time notions in their heads. You told me that yourself more than once. Old man Emperor would believe us so fast it would make Riose’s head swim.”

Barr muttered feebly, “He is serious. For the Galaxy’s sake, man, you can’t beat a Seldon crisis by a far-fetched, impractical, storybook scheme like that. Suppose you had never got hold of the capsule. Suppose Brodrig hadn’t used the word ‘ultimate.’ Seldon doesn’t depend on wild luck.”

“If wild luck comes our way there’s no law says Seldon can’t take advantage of it.”

“Certainly. But .?.?. but,” Barr stopped, then spoke calmly but with visible restraint. “Look, in the first place, how will you get to the planet Trantor? You don’t know its location in space, and I certainly don’t remember the co-ordinates, to say nothing of the ephemerae. You don’t even know your own position in space.”

“You can’t get lost in space,” grinned Devers. He was at the controls already. “Down we go to the nearest planet, and back we come with complete bearings and the best navigation charts Brodrig’s hundred thousand smackers can buy.”

“And a blaster in our belly. Our descriptions are probably in every planet in this quarter of the Empire.”

“Doc,” said Devers, patiently, “don’t be a hick from the sticks. Riose said my ship surrendered too easily and, brother, he wasn’t kidding. This ship has enough firepower and enough juice in its shield to hold off anything we’re likely to meet this deep inside the frontier. And we have personal shields, too. The Empire boys never found them, you know, but they weren’t meant to be found.”

“All right,” said Barr, “all right. Suppose yourself on Trantor. How do you see the Emperor then? You think he keeps office hours?”

“Suppose we worry about that on Trantor,” said Devers.

And Barr muttered helplessly, “All right again. I’ve wanted to see Trantor before I die for half a century now. Have your way.”

The hypernuclear motor was cut in. The lights flickered and there was the slight internal wrench that marked the shift into hyperspace.

9 ON TRANTOR

The stars were as thick as weeds in an unkempt field, and for the first time, Lathan Devers found the figures to the right of the decimal point of prime importance in calculating the cuts through the hyper-regions. There was a claustrophobic sensation about the necessity for leaps of not more than a light-year. There was a frightening harshness about a sky which glittered unbrokenly in every direction. It was being lost in a sea of radiation.

And in the center of an open cluster of ten thousand stars, whose light tore to shreds the feebly encircling darkness, there circled the huge Imperial planet Trantor.

But it was more than a planet; it was the living pulse beat of an Empire of twenty million stellar systems. It