each world was knotted into its proper place in the fabric, the report went back to Bel Riose at the General Headquarters he had established on the rocky barrenness of a wandering sunless planet.
Now Riose relaxed and smiled grimly at Ducem Barr. “Well, what do
“I? Of what value are my thoughts? I am not a military man.” He took in with one wearily distasteful glance the crowded disorder of the rock-bound room which had been carved out of the wall of a cavern of artificial air, light, and heat which marked the single bubble of life in the vastness of a bleak world.
“For the help I could give you,” he muttered, “or would want to give you, you might return me to Siwenna.”
“Not yet. Not yet.” The general turned his chair to the corner which held the huge, brilliantly transparent sphere that mapped the old Imperial prefect of Anacreon and its neighboring sectors. “Later, when this is over, you will go back to your books and to more. I’ll see to it that the estates of your family are restored to you and to your children for the rest of time.”
“Thank you,” said Barr, with faint irony, “but I lack your faith in the happy outcome of all this.”
Riose laughed harshly, “Don’t start your prophetic croakings again. This map speaks louder than all your woeful theories.” He caressed its curved invisible outline gently. “Can you read a map in radial projection? You can? Well, here, see for yourself. The stars in gold represent the Imperial territories. The red stars are those in subjection to the Foundation and the pink are those which are probably within the economic sphere of influence. Now watch—”
Riose’s hand covered a rounded knob, and slowly an area of hard, white pinpoints changed into a deepening blue. Like an inverted cup they folded about the red and the pink.
“Those blue stars have been taken over by my forces,” said Riose with quiet satisfaction, “and they still advance. No opposition has appeared anywhere. The barbarians are quiet. And particularly, no opposition has come from Foundation forces. They sleep peacefully and well.”
“You spread your force thinly, don’t you?” asked Barr.
“As a matter of fact,” said Riose, “despite appearances, I don’t. The key points which I garrison and fortify are relatively few, but they are carefully chosen. The result is that the force expended is small, but the strategic result great. There are many advantages, more than would ever appear to anyone who hasn’t made a careful study of spatial tactics, but it is apparent to anyone, for instance, that I can base an attack from any point in an enclosing sphere, and that when I am finished it will be impossible for the Foundation to attack at flank or rear. I shall have no flank or rear with respect to them.
“This strategy of the Previous Enclosure has been tried before, notably in the campaigns of Loris VI, some two thousand years ago, but always imperfectly; always with the knowledge and attempted interference of the enemy. This is different.”
“The ideal textbook case?” Barr’s voice was languid and indifferent.
Riose was impatient, “You still think my forces will fail?”
“They must.”
“You understand that there is no case in military history where an Enclosure has been completed that the attacking forces have not eventually won, except where an outside Navy exists in sufficient force to break the Enclosure.”
“If you say so.”
“And you still adhere to your faith.”
“Yes.”
Riose shrugged. “Then do so.”
Barr allowed the angry silence to continue for a moment, then asked quietly, “Have you received an answer from the Emperor?”
Riose removed a cigarette from a wall container behind his head, placed a filter tip between his lips, and puffed it aflame carefully. He said, “You mean my request for reinforcements? It came, but that’s all. Just the answer.”
“No ships.”
“None. I half-expected that. Frankly, patrician, I should never have allowed myself to be stampeded by your theories into requesting them in the first place. It puts me in a false light.”
“Does it?”
“Definitely. Ships are at a premium. The civil wars of the last two centuries have smashed up more than half of the Grand Fleet and what’s left is in pretty shaky condition. You know it isn’t as if the ships we build these days are worth anything. I don’t think there’s a man in the Galaxy today who can build a first-rate hypernuclear motor.”
“I knew that,” said the Siwennian. His eyes were thoughtful and introspective. “I didn’t know that
Riose answered sharply, “I have enough ships as it is. Your Seldon wins nothing. Should the situation turn more serious, then more ships
“Indeed? What haven’t you told him?”
“Obviously—your theories.” Riose looked sardonic. “The story is, with all respect to you, inherently improbable. If developments warrant; if events supply me with proof, then, but only then, would I make out the case of mortal danger.
“And in addition,” Riose drove on, casually, “the story, unbolstered by fact, has a flavor of lese-majeste that could scarcely be pleasant to His Imperial Majesty.”
The old patrician smiled. “You mean that telling him his august throne is in danger of subversion by a parcel of ragged barbarians from the ends of the universe is not a warning to be believed or appreciated. Then you expect nothing from him.”
“Unless you count a special envoy as something.”
“And why a special envoy?”
“It’s an old custom. A direct representative of the crown is present on every military campaign which is under government auspices.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s a method of preserving the symbol of personal Imperial leadership in all campaigns. It’s gained a secondary function of insuring the fidelity of generals. It doesn’t always succeed in that respect.”
“You’ll find that inconvenient, general. Extraneous authority, I mean.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Riose reddened faintly, “but it can’t be helped—”
The receiver at the general’s hand glowed warmly, and with an unobtrusive jar, the cylindered communication popped into its slot. Riose unrolled it. “Good! This is it!”
Ducem Barr raised a mildly questioning eyebrow.
Riose said, “You know we’ve captured one of these Trader people. Alive—and with his ship intact.”
“I’ve heard talk of it.”
“Well, they’ve just brought him in, and we’ll have him here in a minute. You keep your seat, patrician. I want you here when I’m questioning him. It’s why I asked you here today in the first place. You may understand him where I might miss important points.”
The door signal sounded and a touch of the general’s toe swung the door wide. The man who stood on the threshold was tall and bearded, wore a short coat of a soft, leathery plastic, with an attached hood shoved back on his neck. His hands were free, and if he noticed the men about him were armed, he did not trouble to indicate it.
He stepped in casually, and looked about with calculating eyes. He favored the general with a rudimentary wave of the hand and a half nod.
“Your name?” demanded Riose, crisply.
“Lathan Devers.” The Trader hooked his thumbs into his wide and gaudy belt. “Are you the boss here?”
“You are a Trader of the Foundation?”
“That’s right. Listen, if you’re the boss, you’d better tell your hired men here to lay off my cargo.”
