“But if they follow Seldon’s plan, then the Mule
“Ah,” and Ebling Mis’s thin face wrinkled thoughtfully, “is it that again? But the Second Foundation was a more difficult job than the First. Its complexity is hugely greater; and consequently so is its possibility of error. And if the Second Foundation should not beat the Mule, it is bad—ultimately bad. It is the end, maybe, of the human race as we know it.”
“No.”
“Yes. If the Mule’s descendants inherit his mental powers—You see? Homo sapiens could not compete. There would be a new dominant race—a new aristocracy—with homo sapiens demoted to slave labor as an inferior race. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, that is so.”
“And even if by some chance the Mule did not establish a dynasty, he would still establish a distorted new Empire upheld by his personal power only. It would die with his death; the Galaxy would be left where it was before he came, except that there would no longer be Foundations around which a real and healthy Second Empire could coalesce. It would mean thousands of years of barbarism. It would mean no end in sight.”
“What can we do? Can we warn the Second Foundation?”
“We must, or they may go under through ignorance, which we cannot risk. But there is no way of warning them.”
“No way?”
“I don’t know where they are located. They are ‘at the other end of the Galaxy’ but that is all, and there are millions of worlds to choose from.”
“But, Ebling, don’t they say?” She pointed vaguely at the films that covered the table.
“No, they don’t. Not where I can find it—yet. The secrecy must mean something. There must be a reason—” A puzzled expression returned to his eyes. “But I wish you’d leave. I have wasted enough time, and it’s growing short—it’s growing short.”
He tore away, petulant and frowning.
Magnifico’s soft step approached. “Your husband is home, my lady.”
Ebling Mis did not greet the clown. He was back at his projector.
That evening Toran, having listened, spoke, “And you think he’s really right, Bay? You think he isn’t—” He hesitated.
“He is right, Torie. He’s sick, I know that. The change that’s come over him, the loss in weight, the way he speaks—he’s sick. But as soon as the subject of the Mule or the Second Foundation, or anything he is working on, comes up, listen to him. He is lucid and clear as the sky of outer space. He knows what he’s talking about. I believe him.”
“Then there’s hope.” It was half a question.
“I .?.?. I haven’t worked it out. Maybe! Maybe not! I’m carrying a blaster from now on.” The shiny-barreled weapon was in her hand as she spoke. “Just in case, Torie, just in case.”
“In case what?”
Bayta laughed with a touch of hysteria, “Never mind. Maybe I’m a little crazy, too—like Ebling Mis.”
Ebling Mis at that time had seven days to live, and the seven days slipped by, one after the other, quietly.
To Toran, there was a quality of stupor about them. The warming days and the dull silence covered him with lethargy. All life seemed to have lost its quality of action, and changed into an infinite sea of hibernation.
Mis was a hidden entity whose burrowing work produced nothing and did not make itself known. He had barricaded himself. Neither Toran nor Bayta could see him. Only Magnifico’s go-between characteristics were evidence of his existence. Magnifico, grown silent and thoughtful, with his tiptoed trays of food and his still, watchful witness in the gloom.
Bayta was more and more a creature of herself. The vivacity died, the self-assured competence wavered. She, too, sought her own worried, absorbed company, and once Toran had come upon her, fingering her blaster. She had put it away quickly, forced a smile.
“What are you doing with it, Bay?”
“Holding it. Is that a crime?”
“You’ll blow your fool head off.”
“Then I’ll blow it off. Small loss!”
Married life had taught Toran the futility of arguing with a female in a dark-brown mood. He shrugged, and left her.
On the last day, Magnifico scampered breathless into their presence. He clutched at them, frightened. “The learned doctor calls for you. He is not well.”
And he wasn’t well. He was in bed, his eyes unnaturally large, unnaturally bright. He was dirty, unrecognizable.
“Ebling!” cried Bayta.
“Let me speak,” croaked the psychologist, lifting his weight to a thin elbow with an effort. “Let me speak. I am finished; the work I pass on to you. I have kept no notes; the scrap-figures I have destroyed. No other must know. All must remain in your minds.”
“Magnifico,” said Bayta, with rough directness. “Go upstairs!”
Reluctantly, the clown rose and took a backward step. His sad eyes were on Mis.
Mis gestured weakly, “He won’t matter; let him stay. Stay, Magnifico.”
The clown sat down quickly. Bayta gazed at the floor. Slowly, slowly, her lower lip caught in her teeth.
Mis said, in a hoarse whisper, “I am convinced the Second Foundation can win, if it is not caught prematurely by the Mule. It has kept itself secret; the secrecy must be upheld; it has a purpose. You must go there; your information is vital .?.?. may make all the difference. Do you hear me?”
Toran cried in near-agony, “Yes, yes! Tell us how to get there, Ebling? Where is it?”
“I can tell you,” said the faint voice.
He never did.
Bayta, face frozen white, lifted her blaster and shot, with an echoing clap of noise. From the waist upward, Mis was not, and a ragged hole was in the wall behind. From numb fingers, Bayta’s blaster dropped to the floor.
26
END OF THE SEARCH
There was not a word to be said. The echoes of the blast rolled away into the outer rooms and rumbled downward into a hoarse, dying whisper. Before its death, it had muffled the sharp clamor of Bayta’s falling blaster, smothered Magnifico’s high-pitched cry, drowned out Toran’s inarticulate roar.
There was a silence of agony.
Bayta’s head was bent into obscurity. A droplet caught the light as it fell. Bayta had never wept since her childhood.
Toran’s muscles almost cracked in their spasm, but he did not relax—he felt as if he would never unclench his teeth again. Magnifico’s face was a faded, lifeless mask.
Finally, from between teeth still tight, Toran choked out in an unrecognizable voice, “You’re a Mule’s woman, then. He got to you!”
Bayta looked up, and her mouth twisted with a painful merriment, “
She smiled—a brittle effort—and tossed her hair back. Slowly, her voice verged back to the normal, or something near it. “It’s over, Toran; I can talk now. How much I will survive, I don’t know. But I can start talking —”
Toran’s tension had broken of its own weight and faded into a flaccid dullness, “Talk about what, Bay?
