His sad brown eyes lifted from his meal only to follow Bayta’s movements in the combined kitchen and larder where he ate.
“The thanks of a weak one are of but little value,” he muttered, “but you have them, for truly, in this past week, little but scraps have come my way—and for all my body is small, yet is my appetite unseemly great.”
“Well, then, eat!” said Bayta, with a smile. “Don’t waste your time on thanks. Isn’t there a Central Galaxy proverb about gratitude that I once heard?”
“Truly there is, my lady. For a wise man, I have been told, once said, ‘Gratitude is best and most effective when it does not evaporate itself in empty phrases.’ But alas, my lady, I am but a mass of empty phrases, it would seem. When my empty phrases pleased the Mule, it brought me a court dress, and a grand name—for, see you, it was originally simply Bobo, one that pleases him not—and then when my empty phrases pleased him not, it would bring upon my poor bones beatings and whippings.”
Toran entered from the pilot room, “Nothing to do now but wait, Bay. I hope the Mule is capable of understanding that a Foundation ship is Foundation territory.”
Magnifico Giganticus, once Bobo, opened his eyes wide and exclaimed, “How great is the Foundation before which even the cruel servants of the Mule tremble.”
“Have you heard of the Foundation, too?” asked Bayta, with a little smile.
“And who has not?” Magnifico’s voice was a mysterious whisper. “There are those who say it is a world of great magic, of fires that can consume planets, and secrets of mighty strength. They say that not the highest nobility of the Galaxy could achieve the honor and deference considered only the natural due of a simple man who could say ‘I am a citizen of the Foundation,’—were he only a salvage miner of space, or a nothing like myself.”
Bayta said, “Now, Magnifico, you’ll never finish if you make speeches. Here, I’ll get you a little flavored milk. It’s good.”
She placed a pitcher of it upon the table and motioned Toran out of the room.
“Torie, what are we going to do now—about him?” and she motioned toward the kitchen.
“How do you mean?”
“If the Mule comes, are we going to give him up?”
“Well, what else, Bay?” He sounded harassed, and the gesture with which he shoved back the moist curl upon his forehead testified to that.
He continued impatiently, “Before I came here I had a sort of vague idea that all we had to do was to ask for the Mule, and then get down to business—just business, you know, nothing definite.”
“I know what you mean, Torie. I wasn’t much hoping to see the Mule myself, but I did think we could pick up
“You’re not behind me, Bay.” He folded his arms and frowned. “What a situation! You’d never know there was a person like the Mule, except for this last queer break. Do you suppose he’ll come for his clown?”
Bayta looked up at him. “I don’t know that I want him to. I don’t know what to say or do. Do you?”
The inner buzzer sounded with its intermittent burring noise. Bayta’s lips moved wordlessly, “The Mule!”
Magnifico was in the doorway, eyes wide, his voice a whimper, “The Mule?”
Toran murmured, “I’ve got to let them in.”
A contact opened the air lock and the outer door closed behind the newcomer. The scanner showed only a single shadowed figure.
“It’s only one person,” said Toran, with open relief, and his voice was almost shaky as he bent toward the signal tube, “Who are you?”
“You’d better let me in and find out, hadn’t you?” The words came thinly out of the receiver.
“I’ll inform you that this is a Foundation ship and consequently Foundation territory by international treaty.”
“I know that.”
“Come with your arms free, or I’ll shoot. I’m well-armed.”
“Done!”
Toran opened the inner door and closed contact on his blast pistol, thumb hovering over the pressure point. There was the sound of footsteps and then the door swung open, and Magnifico cried out, “It’s not the Mule. It’s but a man.”
The “man” bowed to the clown somberly, “Very accurate. I’m not the Mule.” He held his hands apart, “I’m not armed, and I come on a peaceful errand. You might relax and put the blast pistol away. Your hand isn’t steady enough for my peace of mind.”
“Who are you?” asked Toran, brusquely.
“I might ask
“How so?”
“You’re the one who claims to be a Foundation citizen when there’s not an authorized Trader on the planet.”
“That’s not so. How would you know?”
“Because I
“I think you’d better get out.”
“I think not. If you know anything about Foundation methods, and despite your imposture you might, you’d know that if I don’t return alive to my ship at a specified time, there’ll be a signal at the nearest Foundation headquarters—so I doubt if your weapons will have much effect, practically speaking.”
There was an irresolute silence and then Bayta said, calmly, “Put the blaster away, Toran, and take him at face value. He sounds like the real thing.”
“Thank you,” said the stranger.
Toran put his gun on the chair beside him, “Suppose you explain all this now.”
The stranger remained standing. He was long of bone and large of limb. His face consisted of hard flat planes and it was somehow evident that he never smiled. But his eyes lacked hardness.
He said, “News travels quickly, especially when it is apparently beyond belief. I don’t suppose there’s a person on Kalgan who doesn’t know that the Mule’s men were kicked in the teeth today by two tourists from the Foundation. I knew of the important details before evening, and, as I said, there are no Foundation tourists aside from myself on the planet. We know about those things.”
“Who are the ‘we’?”
“?‘We’ are—‘we’! Myself for one! I knew you were at the Hangar—you had been overheard to say so. I had my ways of checking the registry, and my ways of finding the ship.”
He turned to Bayta suddenly, “You’re from the Foundation—by birth, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“You’re a member of the democratic opposition—they call it ‘the underground.’ I don’t remember your name, but I do the face. You got out only recently—and wouldn’t have if you were more important.”
Bayta shrugged, “You know a lot.”
“I do. You escaped with a man. That one?”
“Does it matter what I say?”
“No. I merely want a thorough mutual understanding. I believe that the password during the week you left so hastily was ‘Seldon, Hardin, and Freedom.’ Porfirat Hart was your section leader.”
“Where’d you get that?” Bayta was suddenly fierce. “Did the police get him?” Toran held her back, but she shook herself loose and advanced.
The man from the Foundation said quietly, “Nobody has him. It’s just that the underground spreads widely and in queer places. I’m Captain Han Pritcher of Information, and I’m a section leader myself—never mind under what name.”
He waited, then said, “No, you don’t have to believe me. In our business it is better to overdo suspicion than the opposite. But I’d better get past the preliminaries.”
“Yes,” said Toran, “suppose you do.”
