Foundation and Empire

What’s there to talk about?”

“About the calamity that’s followed us. We’ve remarked about it before, Torie. Don’t you remember? How defeat has always bitten at our heels and never actually managed to nip us? We were on the Foundation, and it collapsed while the Independent Traders still fought—but we got out in time to go to Haven. We were on Haven, and it collapsed while the others still fought—and again we got out in time. We went to Neotrantor, and by now it’s undoubtedly joined the Mule.”

Toran listened and shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

“Torie, such things don’t happen in real life. You and I are insignificant people; we don’t fall from one vortex of politics into another continuously for the space of a year—unless we carry the vortex with us. Unless we carry the source of infection with us! Now do you see?”

Toran’s lips tightened. His glance fixed horribly upon the bloody remnants of what had once been a human, and his eyes sickened.

“Let’s get out of here, Bay. Let’s get out into the open.”

It was cloudy outside. The wind scudded about them in drab spurts and disordered Bayta’s hair. Magnifico had crept after them and now he hovered at the edge of their conversation.

Toran said tightly, “You killed Ebling Mis because you believed him to be the focus of infection?” Something in her eyes struck him. He whispered, “He was the Mule?” He did not—could not—believe the implications of his own words.

Bayta laughed sharply, “Poor Ebling the Mule? Galaxy, no! I couldn’t have killed him if he were the Mule. He would have detected the emotion accompanying the move and changed it for me to love, devotion, adoration, terror, whatever he pleased. No, I killed Ebling because he was not the Mule. I killed him because he knew where the Second Foundation was, and in two seconds would have told the Mule the secret.”

“Would have told the Mule the secret,” Toran repeated stupidly. “Told the Mule—”

And then he emitted a sharp cry, and turned to stare in horror at the clown, who might have been crouching unconscious there for the apparent understanding he had of what he heard.

“Not Magnifico?” Toran whispered the question.

“Listen!” said Bayta. “Do you remember what happened on Neotrantor? Oh, think for yourself, Torie—”

But he shook his head and mumbled at her.

She went on, wearily, “A man died on Neotrantor. A man died with no one touching him. Isn’t that true? Magnifico played on his Visi-Sonor and when he was finished, the crown prince was dead. Now isn’t that strange? Isn’t it queer that a creature afraid of everything, apparently helpless with terror, has the capacity to kill at will.”

“The music and the light-effects,” said Toran, “have a profound emotional effect—”

“Yes, an emotional effect. A pretty big one. Emotional effects happen to be the Mule’s specialty. That, I suppose, can be considered a coincidence. And a creature who can kill by suggestion is so full of fright. Well, the Mule tampered with his mind, supposedly, so that can be explained. But, Toran, I caught a little of that Visi-Sonor selection that killed the crown prince. Just a little—but it was enough to give me that same feeling of despair I had in the Time Vault and on Haven. Toran, I can’t mistake that particular feeling.”

Toran’s face was darkening. “I .?.?. felt it, too. I forgot. I never thought—”

“It was then that it first occurred to me. It was just a vague feeling—intuition, if you like. I had nothing to go on. And then Pritcher told us of the Mule and his mutation, and it was clear in a moment. It was the Mule who had created the despair in the Time Vault; it was Magnifico who had created the despair on Neotrantor. It was the same emotion. Therefore, the Mule and Magnifico were the same person. Doesn’t it work out nicely, Torie? Isn’t it just like an axiom in geometry—things equal to the same thing are equal to each other?”

She was at the edge of hysteria, but dragged herself back to sobriety by main force. She continued, “The discovery scared me to death. If Magnifico were the Mule, he could know my emotions—and cure them for his own purposes. I dared not let him know. I avoided him. Luckily, he avoided me also; he was too interested in Ebling Mis. I planned killing Mis before he could talk. I planned it secretly—as secretly as I could—so secretly I didn’t dare tell it to myself. If I could have killed the Mule himself—But I couldn’t take the chance. He would have noticed, and I would have lost everything.”

She seemed drained of emotion.

Toran said harshly and with finality, “It’s impossible. Look at the miserable creature. He the Mule? He doesn’t even hear what we’re saying.”

But when his eyes followed his pointing finger, Magnifico was erect and alert, his eyes sharp and darkly bright. His voice was without a trace of an accent, “I hear her, my friend. It is merely that I have been sitting here and brooding on the fact that with all my cleverness and forethought I could make a mistake, and lose so much.”

Toran stumbled backward as if afraid the clown might touch him or that his breath might contaminate him.

Magnifico nodded, and answered the unspoken question. “I am the Mule.”

He seemed no longer a grotesque; his pipestem limbs, his beak of a nose lost their humor-compelling qualities. His fear was gone; his bearing was firm.

He was in command of the situation with an ease born of usage.

He said, tolerantly, “Seat yourselves. Go ahead; you might as well sprawl out and make yourselves comfortable. The game’s over, and I’d like to tell you a story. It’s a weakness of mine—I want people to understand me.”

And his eyes as he looked at Bayta were still the old, soft, sad brown ones of Magnifico, the clown.

“There is nothing really to my childhood,” he began, plunging bodily into quick, impatient speech, “that I care to remember. Perhaps you can understand that. My meagerness is glandular; my nose I was born with. It was not possible for me to lead a normal childhood. My mother died before she saw me. I do not know my father. I grew up haphazard, wounded and tortured in mind, full of self-pity and hatred of others. I was known then as a queer child. All avoided me; most out of dislike; some out of fear. Queer incidents occurred—Well, never mind! Enough happened to enable Captain Pritcher, in his investigation of my childhood, to realize that I was a mutant, which was more than I ever realized until I was in my twenties.”

Toran and Bayta listened distantly. The wash of his voice broke over them, seated on the ground as they were, unheeded almost. The clown—or the Mule—paced before them with little steps, speaking downward to his own folded arms.

“The whole notion of my unusual power seems to have broken on me so slowly, in such sluggish steps. Even toward the end, I couldn’t believe it. To me, men’s minds are dials, with pointers that indicate the prevailing emotion. It is a poor picture, but how else can I explain it? Slowly, I learned that I could reach into those minds and turn the pointer to the spot I wished, that I could nail it there forever. And then it took even longer to realize that others couldn’t.

“But the consciousness of power came, and with it, the desire to make up for the miserable position of my earlier life. Maybe you can understand it. Maybe you can try to understand it. It isn’t easy to be a freak—to have a mind and an understanding and be a freak. Laughter and cruelty! To be different! To be an outsider!

“You’ve never been through it!”

Magnifico looked up to the sky and teetered on the balls of his feet and reminisced stonily, “But I eventually did learn, and I decided that the Galaxy and I could take turns. Come, they had had their innings, and I had been patient about it—for twenty-two years. My turn! It would be up to the rest of you to take it! And the odds would be fair enough for the Galaxy. One of me! Quadrillions of them!”

He paused to glance at Bayta swiftly. “But I had a weakness. I was nothing in myself. If I could gain power, it could only be by means of others. Success came to me through middlemen. Always! It was as Pritcher said. Through a pirate, I obtained my first asteroidal base of operations. Through an industrialist, I got my first foothold on a planet. Through a variety of others ending with the warlord of Kalgan, I won Kalgan itself and got a navy. After that, it was the Foundation—and you two come into the story.

“The Foundation,” he said, softly, “was the most difficult task I had met. To beat it, I would have to win over, break down, or render useless an extraordinary proportion of its ruling class. I could have done it from scratch—but a shortcut was possible, and I looked for it. After all, if a strong man can lift five hundred pounds, it