inside you, you know he is. But they’re uncomfortable thoughts, so you drown them out with that roar of yours. But they’re still there. Toran, I’ll tell you why I brought all this up.”
He puffed thoughtfully awhile, then dipped his pipe into the neck of the tray, waited for the silent flash, and withdrew it clean. Slowly, he filled it again with precise tamps of his little finger.
He said, “Your little suggestion of Foundation’s interest in us, Toran, is to the point. There have been two recent visits lately—for tax purposes. The disturbing point is that the second visitor was accompanied by a light patrol ship. They landed in Gleiar City—giving us the miss for a change—and they never lifted off again, naturally. But now they’ll surely be back. Your father is aware of all this, Toran, he really is.
“Look at the stubborn rakehell. He knows Haven is in trouble, and he knows we’re helpless, but he repeats his formulas. It warms and protects him. But once he’s had his say, and roared his defiance, and feels he’s discharged his duty as a man and a Bull Trader, why, he’s as reasonable as any of us.”
“Any of who?” asked Bayta.
He smiled at her. “We’ve formed a little group, Bayta—just in our city. We haven’t done anything, yet. We haven’t even managed to contact the other cities yet, but it’s a start.”
“But towards what?”
Randu shook his head. “We don’t know—yet. We hope for a miracle. We have decided that, as you say, a Seldon crisis must be at hand.” He gestured widely upwards. “The Galaxy is full of the chips and splinters of the broken Empire. The generals swarm. Do you suppose the time may come when one will grow bold?”
Bayta considered, and shook her head decisively, so that the long straight hair with the single inward curl at the end swirled about her ears. “No, not a chance. There’s not one of those generals who doesn’t know that an attack on the Foundation is suicide. Bel Riose of the old Empire was a better man than any of them, and he attacked with the resources of a galaxy, and couldn’t win against the Seldon Plan. Is there one general that doesn’t know that?”
“But what if we spur them on?”
“Into where? Into an atomic furnace? With what could you possibly spur them?”
“Well, there is one—a new one. In this past year or two, there has come word of a strange man whom they call the Mule.”
“The Mule?” She considered. “Ever hear of him, Torie?”
Toran shook his head. She said, “What about him?”
“I don’t know. But he wins victories at, they say, impossible odds. The rumors may be exaggerated, but it would be interesting, in any case, to become acquainted with him. Not every man with sufficient ability and sufficient ambition would believe in Hari Seldon and his laws of psychohistory. We could encourage that disbelief. He might attack.”
“And the Foundation would win.”
“Yes—but not necessarily easily. It might be a crisis, and we could take advantage of such a crisis to force a compromise with the despots of the Foundation. At the worst, they would forget us long enough to enable us to plan farther.”
“What do you think, Torie?”
Toran smiled feebly and pulled at a loose brown curl that fell over one eye. “The way he describes it, it can’t hurt; but who is the Mule? What do you know of him, Randu?”
“Nothing yet. For that, we could use you, Toran. And your wife, if she’s willing. We’ve talked of this, your father and I. We’ve talked of this thoroughly.”
“In what way, Randu? What do you want of us?” The young man cast a quick inquisitive look at his wife.
“Have you had a honeymoon?”
“Well .?.?. yes .?.?. if you can call the trip from the Foundation a honeymoon.”
“How about a better one on Kalgan? It’s semitropical—beaches—water sports—bird hunting—quite the vacation spot. It’s about seven thousand parsecs in—not too far.”
“What’s on Kalgan?”
“The Mule! His men, at least. He took it last month, and without a battle, though Kalgan’s warlord broadcast a threat to blow the planet to ionic dust before giving it up.”
“Where’s the warlord now?”
“He isn’t,” said Randu, with a shrug. “What do you say?”
“But what are we to do?”
“I don’t know. Fran and I are old; we’re provincial. The Traders of Haven are all essentially provincial. Even you say so. Our trading is of a very restricted sort, and we’re not the Galaxy roamers our ancestors were. Shut up, Fran! But you two know the Galaxy. Bayta, especially, speaks with a nice Foundation accent. We merely wish whatever you can find out. If you can make contact .?.?. but we wouldn’t expect that. Suppose you two think it over. You can meet our entire group if you wish .?.?. oh, not before next week. You ought to have some time to catch your breath.”
There was a pause and then Fran roared, “Who wants another drink? I mean, besides me?”
12
CAPTAIN AND MAYOR
Captain Han Pritcher was unused to the luxury of his surroundings and by no means impressed. As a general thing, he discouraged self-analysis and all forms of philosophy and metaphysics not directly connected with his work.
It helped.
His work consisted largely of what the War Department called “intelligence,” the sophisticates, “espionage,” and the romanticists, “spy stuff.” And, unfortunately, despite the frothy shrillness of the televisors, “intelligence,” “espionage,” and “spy stuff” are at best a sordid business of routine betrayal and bad faith. It is excused by society since it is in the “interest of the State,” but since philosophy seemed always to lead Captain Pritcher to the conclusion that even in that holy interest, society is much more easily soothed than one’s own conscience—he discouraged philosophy.
And now, in the luxury of the mayor’s anteroom, his thoughts turned inward despite himself.
Men had been promoted over his head continuously, though of lesser ability—that much was admitted. He had withstood an eternal rain of black marks and official reprimands, and survived it. And stubbornly he had held to his own way in the firm belief that insubordination in that same holy “interest of the State” would yet be recognized for the service it was.
So here he was in the anteroom of the mayor—with five soldiers as a respectful guard, and probably a court-martial awaiting him.
The heavy marble doors rolled apart smoothly, silently, revealing satiny walls, red plastic carpeting, and two more marble doors, metal-inlaid, within. Two officials in the straight-lined costume of three centuries back stepped out, and called:
“An audience to Captain Han Pritcher of Information.”
They stepped back with a ceremonious bow as the captain started forward. His escort stopped at the outer door, and he entered the inner alone.
On the other side of the doors, in a large room strangely simple, behind a large desk strangely angular, sat a small man, almost lost in the immensity.
Mayor Indbur—successively the third of that name—was the grandson of the first Indbur, who had been brutal and capable; and who had exhibited the first quality in spectacular fashion by his manner of seizing power, and the latter by the skill with which he put an end to the last farcical remnants of free election and the even greater skill with which he maintained a relatively peaceful rule.
Mayor Indbur was also the son of the second Indbur, who was the first mayor of the Foundation to succeed to his post by right of birth—and who was only half his father, for he was merely brutal.
So Mayor Indbur was the third of the name and the second to succeed by right of birth, and he was the least
