“But it doesn’t matter,” said the Fox, softly. “They must have my name, if Noth has gone over—so if you’re legitimate, you’re in more new danger than I am over our acquaintanceship.”
The captain had finished eating. He leaned back, “If you have no organization here, where can I find one? The Foundation may have surrendered, but I haven’t.”
“So! You can’t wander forever, captain. Men of the Foundation must have travel permits to move from town to town these days. You know that? Also identity cards. You have one? Also, all officers of the old Navy have been requested to report to the nearest occupation headquarters. That’s you, eh?”
“Yes.” The captain’s voice was hard. “Do you think I run through fear? I was on Kalgan not long after
The Fox nodded thoughtfully, “Logical enough. The Mule is thorough.”
“I discarded the uniform as soon as I could. I grew the beard. Afterwards there may be a chance that others have taken the same action.”
“Are you married?”
“My wife is dead. I have no children.”
“You’re hostage-immune, then.”
“Yes.”
“You want my advice?”
“If you have any.”
“I don’t know what the Mule’s policy is or what he intends, but skilled workers have not been harmed so far. Pay rates have gone up. Production of all sorts of nuclear weapons is booming.”
“Yes? Sounds like a continuing offensive.”
“I don’t know. The Mule’s a subtle son of a drab, and he may merely be soothing the workers into submission. If Seldon couldn’t figure him out with all his psychohistory, I’m not going to try. But you’re wearing work clothes. That suggests something, eh?”
“I’m not a skilled worker.”
“You’ve had a military course in nucleics, haven’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“That’s enough. The Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc., is located here in town. Tell them you’ve had experience. The stinkers who used to run the factory for Indbur are still running it—for the Mule. They won’t ask questions, as long as they need more workers to make their fat hunk. They’ll give you an identity card and you can apply for a room in the Corporation’s housing district. You might start now.”
In that manner, Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet became Shield-man Lo Moro of the 45 Shop of Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc. And from an Intelligence agent, he descended the social scale to “conspirator”—a calling which led him months later to what had been Indbur’s private garden.
In the garden, Captain Pritcher consulted the radometer in the palm of his hand. The inner warning field was still in operation, and he waited. Half an hour remained to the life of the nuclear bomb in his mouth. He rolled it gingerly with his tongue.
The radometer died into an ominous darkness and the captain advanced quickly.
So far, matters had progressed well.
He reflected objectively that the life of the nuclear bomb was his as well; that its death was his death—and the Mule’s death.
And the grand climacteric of a four-months’ private war would be reached; a war that had passed from flight through a Newton factory—
For two months, Captain Pritcher wore leaden aprons and heavy face shields, till all things military had been frictioned off his outer bearing. He was a laborer, who collected his pay, spent his evenings in town, and never discussed politics.
For two months, he did not see the Fox.
And then, one day, a man stumbled past his bench, and there was a scrap of paper in his pocket. The word “Fox” was on it. He tossed it into the nuclear chamber, where it vanished in a sightless puff, sending the energy output up a millimicrovolt—and turned back to his work.
That night he was at the Fox’s home, and took a hand in a game of cards with two other men he knew by reputation and one by name and face.
Over the cards and the passing and repassing tokens, they spoke.
The captain said, “It’s a fundamental error. You live in the exploded past. For eighty years our organization has been waiting for the correct historical moment. We’ve been blinded by Seldon’s psychohistory, one of the first propositions of which is that the individual does not count, does not make history, and that complex social and economic factors override him, make a puppet out of him.” He adjusted his cards carefully, appraised their value and said, as he put out a token, “Why not kill the Mule?”
“Well, now, and what good would that do?” demanded the man at his left, fiercely.
“You see,” said the captain, discarding two cards, “that’s the attitude. What is one man—out of quadrillions? The Galaxy won’t stop rotating because one man dies. But the Mule is not a man, he is a mutant. Already, he has upset Seldon’s plan, and if you’ll stop to analyze the implications, it means that he—one man—one mutant—upset all of Seldon’s psychohistory. If he had never lived, the Foundation would not have fallen. If he ceased living, it would not remain fallen.
“Come, the democrats have fought the mayors and the Traders for eighty years by connivery. Let’s try assassination.”
“How?” interposed the Fox, with cold common sense.
The captain said slowly, “I’ve spent three months of thought on that with no solution. I came here and had it in five minutes.” He glanced briefly at the man whose broad, pink melon of a face smiled from the place at his right. “You were once Mayor Indbur’s chamberlain. I did not know you were of the underground.”
“Nor I, that you were.”
“Well, then, in your capacity as chamberlain you periodically checked the working of the alarm system of the palace.”
“I did.”
“And the Mule occupies the palace now.”
“So it has been announced—though he is a modest conqueror who makes no speeches, proclamations, nor public appearances of any sort.”
“That’s an old story, and affects nothing. You, my ex-chamberlain, are all we need.”
The cards were shown and the Fox collected the stakes. Slowly, he dealt a new hand.
The man who had once been chamberlain picked up his cards, singly. “Sorry, captain. I checked the alarm system, but it was routine. I know nothing about it.”
“I expected that, but your mind carries an eidetic memory of the controls if it can be probed deeply enough —with a Psychic Probe.”
The chamberlain’s ruddy face paled suddenly and sagged. The cards in his hand crumpled under sudden fist pressure, “A Psychic Probe?”
“You needn’t worry,” said the captain, sharply. “I know how to use one. It will not harm you past a few days’ weakness. And if it did, it is the chance you take and the price you pay. There are some among us, no doubt, who from the controls of the alarm could determine the wavelength combinations. There are some among us who could manufacture a small bomb under time control, and I myself will carry it to the Mule.”
The men gathered over the table.
The captain announced, “On a given evening, a riot will start in Terminus City in the neighborhood of the palace. No real fighting. Disturbance—then flight. As long as the palace guard is attracted .?.?. or, at the very least, distracted—”
From that day for a month the preparations went on, and Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet having become conspirator descended further in the social scale and became an “assassin.”
Captain Pritcher, assassin, was in the palace itself, and found himself grimly pleased with his psychology. A thorough alarm system outside meant few guards within. In this case, it meant none at all.
