Foundation and Empire

“They lack the identification they should have.”

“It has been reported that the Foundation has been captured—”

“I did not tell you that.”

“It has been so reported,” continued Inchney, coolly, “and if that is correct, then these may be refugees from the destruction, and may be held for the Mule’s man out of honest friendship.”

“Yes?” Commason was uncertain.

“And, sire, since it is well known that the friend of a conqueror is but the last victim, it would be but a measure of honest self-defense. For there are such things as Psychic Probes, and here we have four Foundation brains. There is much about the Foundation it would be useful to know, much even about the Mule. And then the Mule’s friendship would be a trifle the less overpowering.”

Commason, in the quiet of the upper air, returned with a shiver to his first thought. “But if the Foundation has not fallen. If the reports are lies. It is said that it has been foretold it cannot fall.”

“We are past the age of soothsayers, sire.”

“And yet if it did not fall, Inchney. Think! If it did not fall. The Mule made me promises, indeed—” He had gone too far, and backtracked. “That is, he made boasts. But boasts are wind and deeds are hard.”

Inchney laughed noiselessly. “Deeds are hard indeed, until begun. One could scarcely find a further fear than a Galaxy-end Foundation.”

“There is still the prince,” murmured Commason, almost to himself.

“He deals with the Mule also, then, sire?”

Commason could not quite choke down the complacent shift of features. “Not entirely. Not as I do. But he grows wilder, more uncontrollable. A demon is upon him. If I seize these people and he takes them away for his own use—for he does not lack a certain shrewdness—I am not yet ready to quarrel with him.” He frowned and his heavy cheeks bent downwards with dislike.

“I saw those strangers for a few moments yesterday,” said the gray chauffeur, irrelevantly, “and it is a strange woman, that dark one. She walks with the freedom of a man and she is of a startling paleness against the dark luster of hair.” There was almost a warmth in the husky whisper of the withered voice, so that Commason turned toward him in sudden surprise.

Inchney continued, “The prince, I think, would not find his shrewdness proof against a reasonable compromise. You could have the rest, if you left him the girl—”

A light broke upon Commason, “A thought! Indeed a thought! Inchney, turn back! And, Inchney, if all turns well, we will discuss further this matter of your freedom.”

It was with an almost superstitious sense of symbolism that Commason found a Personal Capsule waiting for him in his private study when he returned. It had arrived by a wavelength known to few. Commason smiled a fat smile. The Mule’s man was coming and the Foundation had indeed fallen.

Bayta’s misty visions, when she had them, of an Imperial palace, did not jibe with the reality, and inside her, there was a vague sense of disappointment. The room was small, almost plain, almost ordinary. The palace did not even match the mayor’s residence back at the Foundation—and Dagobert IX—

Bayta had definite ideas of what an emperor ought to look like. He ought not look like somebody’s benevolent grandfather. He ought not be thin and white and faded—or serving cups of tea with his own hand in an expressed anxiety for the comfort of his visitors.

But so it was.

Dagobert IX chuckled as he poured tea into her stiffly outheld cup.

“This is a great pleasure for me, my dear. It is a moment away from ceremony and courtiers. I have not had the opportunity for welcoming visitors from my outer provinces for a time now. My son takes care of these details now that I’m older. You haven’t met my son? A fine boy. Headstrong, perhaps. But then he’s young. Do you care for a flavor capsule? No?”

Toran attempted an interruption, “Your imperial majesty—”

“Yes?”

“Your imperial majesty, it has not been our intention to intrude upon you—”

“Nonsense, there is no intrusion. Tonight there will be the official reception, but until then, we are free. Let’s see, where did you say you were from? It seems a long time since we had an official reception. You said you were from the Province of Anacreon?”

“From the Foundation, your imperial majesty!”

“Yes, the Foundation. I remember now. I had it located. It is in the Province of Anacreon. I have never been there. My doctor forbids extensive traveling. I don’t recall any recent reports from my viceroy at Anacreon. How are conditions there?” he concluded anxiously.

“Sire,” mumbled Toran, “I bring no complaints.”

“That is gratifying. I will commend my viceroy.”

Toran looked helplessly at Ebling Mis, whose brusque voice rose. “Sire, we have been told that it will require your permission for us to visit the Imperial University Library on Trantor.”

“Trantor?” questioned the emperor, mildly, “Trantor?”

Then a look of puzzled pain crossed his thin face. “Trantor?” he whispered. “I remember now. I am making plans now to return there with a flood of ships at my back. You shall come with me. Together we will destroy the rebel, Gilmer. Together we shall restore the empire!”

His bent back had straightened. His voice had strengthened. For a moment his eyes were hard. Then, he blinked and said softly, “But Gilmer is dead. I seem to remember—Yes. Yes! Gilmer is dead! Trantor is dead—For a moment, it seemed—Where was it you said you came from?”

Magnifico whispered to Bayta, “Is this really an emperor? For somehow I thought emperors were greater and wiser than ordinary men.”

Bayta motioned him quiet. She said, “If your imperial majesty would but sign an order permitting us to go to Trantor, it would avail greatly the common cause.”

“To Trantor?” The emperor was blank and uncomprehending.

“Sire, the Viceroy of Anacreon, in whose name we speak, sends word that Gilmer is yet alive—”

“Alive! Alive!” thundered Dagobert. “Where? It will be war!”

“Your imperial majesty, it must not yet be known. His whereabouts are uncertain. The viceroy sends us to acquaint you of the fact, and it is only on Trantor that we may find his hiding place. Once discovered—”

“Yes, yes—He must be found—” The old emperor doddered to the wall and touched the little photocell with a trembling finger. He muttered, after an ineffectual pause, “My servants do not come. I cannot wait for them.”

He was scribbling on a blank sheet, and ended with a flourished “D.” He said, “Gilmer will yet learn the power of his emperor. Where was it you came from? Anacreon? What are the conditions there? Is the name of the emperor powerful?”

Bayta took the paper from his loose fingers, “Your imperial majesty is beloved by the people. Your love for them is widely known.”

“I shall have to visit my good people of Anacreon, but my doctor says .?.?. I don’t remember what he says, but—” He looked up, his old gray eyes sharp, “Were you saying something of Gilmer?”

“No, your imperial majesty.”

“He shall not advance further. Go back and tell your people that. Trantor shall hold! My father leads the fleet now, and the rebel vermin Gilmer shall freeze in space with his regicidal rabble.”

He staggered into a seat and his eyes were blank once more. “What was I saying?”

Toran rose and bowed low. “Your imperial majesty has been kind to us, but the time allotted us for an audience is over.”

For a moment, Dagobert IX looked like an emperor indeed as he rose and stood stiff-backed while, one by one, his visitors retreated backward through the door—

—to where twenty armed men intervened and locked a circle about them.

A hand-weapon flashed—

To Bayta, consciousness returned sluggishly, but without the “Where am I?” sensation. She remembered clearly the odd old man who called himself emperor, and the other men who waited outside. The arthritic tingle in her finger joints meant a stun pistol.