Second Foundation

Channis, from the floor, felt his bonds burst for good, under a stream of mental force on the part of the First Speaker and strained upright. He let out one long, incredulous cry: “You mean Rossem is not the Second Foundation?”

The memories of life, the knowledge of his mind—everything—whirled mistily about him in confusion.

The First Speaker smiled: “You see, First Citizen. Channis is as upset as you are. Of course, Rossem is not the Second Foundation. Are we madmen then, to lead you, our greatest, most powerful, most dangerous enemy to our own world? Oh, no!

“Let your Fleet bombard Rossem, First Citizen, if you must have it so. Let them destroy all they can. For at most they can kill only Channis and myself—and that will leave you in a situation improved not in the least.

“For the Second Foundation’s Expedition to Rossem, which has been here for three years and has functioned, temporarily, as Elders in this village, embarked yesterday and is returning to Kalgan. They will evade your Fleet, of course, and they will arrive in Kalgan at least a day before you can, which is why I tell you all this. Unless I countermand my orders, when you return, you will find a revolting Empire, a disintegrated realm, and only the men with you in your Fleet here will be loyal to you. They will be hopelessly outnumbered. And moreover, the men of the Second Foundation will be with your Home Fleet and will see to it that you reconvert no one. Your Empire is done, mutant.”

Slowly, the Mule bowed his head, as anger and despair cornered his mind completely, “Yes. Too late—Too late—Now I see it.”

“Now you see it,” agreed the First Speaker, “and now you don’t.”

In the despair of that moment, when the Mule’s mind lay open, the First Speaker—ready for that moment and pre-sure of its nature—entered quickly. It required a rather insignificant fraction of a second to consummate the change completely.

The Mule looked up and said: “Then I shall return to Kalgan?”

“Certainly. How do you feel?”

“Excellently well.” His brow puckered: “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” He dismissed the matter, and touched Pritcher’s shoulder: “Wake up, Pritcher, we’re going home.”

It was two hours later that Bail Channis felt strong enough to walk by himself. He said: “He won’t ever remember?”

“Never. He retains his mental powers and his Empire—but his motivations are now entirely different. The notion of a Second Foundation is a blank to him, and he is a man of peace. He will be a far happier man henceforward, too, for the few years of life left him by his maladjusted physique. And then, after he is dead, Seldon’s Plan will go on—somehow.”

“And it is true,” urged Channis, “it is true that Rossem is not the Second Foundation? I could swear—I tell you I know it is. I am not mad.”

“You are not mad, Channis, merely, as I have said, changed. Rossem is not the Second Foundation. Come! We, too, will return home.”

LAST INTERLUDE

Bail Channis sat in the small white-tiled room and allowed his mind to relax. He was content to live in the present. There were the walls and the window and the grass outside. They had no names. They were just things. There was a bed and a chair and books that developed themselves idly on the screen at the foot of his bed. There was the nurse who brought him his food.

At first he had made efforts to piece together the scraps of things he had heard. Such as those two men talking together.

One had said: “Complete aphasia now. It’s cleaned out, and I think without damage. It will only be necessary to return the recording of his original brainwave makeup.”

He remembered the sounds by rote, and for some reason they seemed peculiar sounds—as if they meant something. But why bother?

Better to watch the pretty changing colors on the screen at the foot of the thing he lay on.

And then someone entered and did things to him and for a long time, he slept.

And when that had passed, the bed was suddenly a bed and he knew he was in a hospital, and the words he remembered made sense.

He sat up: “What’s happening?”

The First Speaker was beside him, “You’re on the Second Foundation, and you have your mind back—your original mind.”

“Yes! Yes!” Channis came to the realization that he was himself, and there was incredible triumph and joy in that.

“And now tell me,” said the First Speaker, “do you know where the Second Foundation is now?”

And the truth came flooding down in one enormous wave and Channis did not answer. Like Ebling Mis before him, he was conscious of only one vast, numbing surprise.

Until he finally nodded, and said: “By the Stars of the Galaxy—now, I know.”

PART II SEARCH BY THE FOUNDATION

7 ARCADIA

DARELL, ARKADY novelist, born 11, 5, 362 F.E., died 1, 7, 443 F.E. Although primarily a writer of fiction, Arkady Darell is best known for her biography of her grandmother, Bayta Darell. Based on first- hand information, it has for centuries served as a primary source of information concerning the Mule and his times.?.?.?. Like “Unkeyed Memories,” her novel “Time and Time and Over” is a stirring reflection of the brilliant Kalganian society of the early Interregnum, based, it is said, on a visit to Kalgan in her youth.?.?.?.

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

Arcadia Darell declaimed firmly into the mouthpiece of her Transcriber:

“The Future of Seldon’s Plan, by A. Darell” and then thought darkly that some day when she was a great writer, she would write all her masterpieces under the pseudonym of Arkady. Just Arkady. No last name at all.

“A. Darell” would be just the sort of thing that she would have to put on all her themes for her class in Composition and Rhetoric—so tasteless. All the other kids had to do it, too, except for Olynthus Dam, because the class laughed so when he did it the first time. And “Arcadia” was a little girl’s name, wished on her because her great-grandmother had been called that; her parents just had no imagination at all.

Now that she was two days past fourteen, you’d think they’d recognize the simple fact of adulthood and call her Arkady. Her lips tightened as she thought of her father looking up from his book-viewer just long enough to say, “But if you’re going to pretend you’re nineteen, Arcadia, what will you do when you’re twenty-five and all the boys think you’re thirty?”