Second Foundation

“Yes.”

“Poochie?” This was a pause.

“What?”

“Poochie, the man has a little girl with him, you said. Remember? Could I see her when she comes? I never—”

“Now what do you think I want him to bring his brat with him for? Is my audience room to be a grammar school? Enough of your nonsense, Callia.”

“But I’ll take care of her, Poochie. You won’t even have to bother with her. It’s just that I hardly ever see children, and you know how I love them.”

He looked at her sardonically. She never tired of this approach. She loved children; i.e., his children; i.e., his legitimate children; i.e., marriage. He laughed.

“This particular little piece,” he said, “is a great girl of fourteen or fifteen. She’s probably as tall as you are.”

Callia looked crushed. “Well, could I, anyway? She could tell me about the Foundation. I’ve always wanted to go there, you know. My grandfather was a Foundation man. Won’t you take me there, sometime, Poochie?”

Stettin smiled at the thought. Perhaps he would, as conqueror. The good nature that the thought supplied him with made itself felt in his words, “I will, I will. And you can see the girl and talk Foundation to her all you want. But not near me, understand.”

“I won’t bother you, honestly. I’ll have her in my own rooms.” She was happy again. It was not very often these days that she was allowed to have her way. She put her arms about his neck and after the slightest hesitation, she felt its tendons relax and the large head come softly down upon her shoulder.

13 LADY

Arcadia felt triumphant. How life had changed since Pelleas Anthor had stuck his silly face up against her window—and all because she had the vision and courage to do what needed to be done.

Here she was on Kalgan. She had been to the great Central Theater—the largest in the Galaxy—and seen in person some of the singing stars who were famous even in the distant Foundation. She had shopped all on her own along the Flowered Path, fashion center of the gayest world in space. And she had made her own selections because Homir just didn’t know anything about it at all. The saleswomen raised no objections at all to long, shiny dresses with those vertical sweeps that made her look so tall—and Foundation money went a long, long way. Homir had given her a ten-credit bill and when she changed it to Kalganian “Kalganids,” it made a terribly thick sheaf.

She had even had her hair redone—sort of half-short in back, with two glistening curls over each temple. And it was treated so that it looked goldier than ever; it just shone.

But this; this was best of all. To be sure, the Palace of Lord Stettin wasn’t as grand and lavish as the theaters, or as mysterious and historical as the old palace of the Mule—of which, so far they had only glimpsed the lonely towers in their air flight across the planet—but, imagine, a real Lord. She was rapt in the glory of it.

And not only that. She was actually face to face with his Mistress. Arcadia capitalized the word in her mind, because she knew the role such women had played in history; knew their glamour and power. In fact, she had often thought of being an all-powerful and glittering creature herself, but somehow mistresses weren’t in fashion at the Foundation just then and besides, her father probably wouldn’t let her, if it came to that.

Of course, the Lady Callia didn’t quite come up to Arcadia’s notion of the part. For one thing, she was rather plump, and didn’t look at all wicked and dangerous. Just sort of faded and near-sighted. Her voice was high, too, instead of throaty, and—

Callia said, “Would you like more tea, child?”

“I’ll have another cup, thank you, your grace,”—or was it your highness?

Arcadia continued with a connoisseur’s condescension, “Those are lovely pearls you are wearing, my lady.” (On the whole, “my lady” seemed best.)

“Oh? Do you think so?” Callia seemed vaguely pleased. She removed them and let them swing milkily to and fro. “Would you like them? You can have them, if you like.”

“Oh, my— You really mean—” She found them in her hand, then, repelling them mournfully, she said, “Father wouldn’t like it.”

“He wouldn’t like the pearls? But they’re quite nice pearls.”

“He wouldn’t like my taking them, I mean. You’re not supposed to take expensive presents from other people, he says.”

“You aren’t? But .?.?. I mean, this was a present to me from Poo .?.?. from the First Citizen. Was that wrong, do you suppose?”

Arcadia reddened. “I didn’t mean—”

But Callia had tired of the subject. She let the pearls slide to the ground and said, “You were going to tell me about the Foundation. Please do so right now.”

And Arcadia was suddenly at a loss. What does one say about a world dull to tears? To her, the Foundation was a suburban town, a comfortable house, the annoying necessities of education, the uninteresting eternities of a quiet life. She said, uncertainly, “It’s just like you view in the book-films, I suppose.”

“Oh, do you view book-films? They give me such a headache when I try. But do you know, I always love video stories about your Traders—such big, savage men. It’s always so exciting. Is your friend, Mr. Munn, one of them? He doesn’t seem nearly savage enough. Most of the Traders had beards and big bass voices, and were so domineering with women—don’t you think so?”

Arcadia smiled, glassily. “That’s just part of history, my lady. I mean, when the Foundation was young, the Traders were the pioneers pushing back the frontiers and bringing civilization to the rest of the Galaxy. We learned all about that in school. But that time has passed. We don’t have Traders anymore; just corporations and things.”

“Really? What a shame. Then what does Mr. Munn do? I mean, if he’s not a Trader.”

“Uncle Homir’s a librarian.”

Callia put a hand to her lips and tittered. “You mean he takes care of book-films. Oh, my! It seems like such a silly thing for a grown man to do.”

“He’s a very good librarian, my lady. It is an occupation that is very highly regarded at the Foundation.” She put down the little, iridescent teacup upon the milky-metaled table surface.

Her hostess was all concern. “But my dear child. I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you. He must be a very intelligent man. I could see it in his eyes as soon as I looked at him. They were so .?.?. so intelligent. And he must be brave, too, to want to see the Mule’s palace.”

“Brave?” Arcadia’s internal awareness twitched. This was what she was waiting for. Intrigue! Intrigue! With great indifference, she asked, staring idly at her thumbtip: “Why must one be brave to wish to see the Mule’s palace?”

“Didn’t you know?” Her eyes were round, and her voice sank. “There’s a curse on it. When he died, the Mule directed that no one ever enter it until the Empire of the Galaxy is established. Nobody on Kalgan would dare even to enter the grounds.”

Arcadia absorbed that. “But that’s superstition—”

“Don’t say that,” Callia was distressed. “Poochie always says that. He says it’s useful to say it isn’t though, in order to maintain his hold over the people. But I notice he’s never gone in himself. And neither did Thallos, who was First Citizen before Poochie.” A thought struck her and she was all curiosity again: “But why does Mr. Munn want to see the palace?”

And it was here that Arcadia’s careful plan could be put into action. She knew well from the books she had