Second Foundation

Then Pappa said, huskily, “Give me your papers, Arcadia.”

Arcadia shook her head in panic, but Pappa nodded his head. “Don’t be afraid. Give them to me.”

Helplessly she reached out and let the documents change hands. Pappa fumbled them open and looked carefully through them, then handed them over. The lieutenant in his turn looked through them carefully. For a long moment, he raised his eyes to rest them on Arcadia, and then he closed the booklet with a sharp snap.

“All in order,” he said. “All right, men.”

He left, and in two minutes, scarcely more, the grid was gone, and the voice above signified a back-to- normal. The noise of the crowd, suddenly released, rose high.

Arcadia said: “How .?.?. how—”

Pappa said, “Sh-h. Don’t say a word. Let’s better go to the ship. It should be in the berth soon.”

They were on the ship. They had a private stateroom and a table to themselves in the dining room. Two light-years already separated them from Kalgan, and Arcadia finally dared to broach the subject again.

She said, “But they were after me, Mr. Palver, and they must have had my description and all the details. Why did he let me go?”

And Pappa smiled broadly over his roast beef. “Well, Arcadia, child, it was easy. When you’ve been dealing with agents and buyers and competing co-operatives, you learn some of the tricks. I’ve had twenty years or more to learn them in. You see, child, when the lieutenant opened your papers, he found a five-hundred-credit bill inside, folded up small. Simple, no?”

“I’ll pay you back— Honest, I’ve got lots of money.”

“Well,” Pappa’s broad face broke into an embarrassed smile, as he waved it away. “For a countrywoman —”

Arcadia desisted. “But what if he’d taken the money and turned me in anyway. And accused me of bribery.”

“And give up five hundred credits? I know these people better than you do, girl.”

But Arcadia knew that he did not know people better. Not these people. In her bed that night, she considered carefully, and knew that no bribe would have stopped a police lieutenant in the matter of catching her unless that had been planned. They didn’t want to catch her, yet had made every motion of doing so, nevertheless.

Why? To make sure she left? And for Trantor? Were the obtuse and soft-hearted couple she was with now only a pair of tools in the hands of the Second Foundation, as helpless as she herself?

They must be!

Or were they?

It was all so useless. How could she fight them? Whatever she did, it might only be what those terrible omnipotents wanted her to do.

Yet she had to outwit them. Had to. Had to! Had to!!

16 BEGINNING OF WAR

For reason or reasons unknown to members of the Galaxy at the time of the era under discussion, Intergalactic Standard Time defines its fundamental unit, the second, as the time in which light travels 299,776 kilometers. 86,400 seconds are arbitrarily set equal to one Intergalactic Standard Day; and 365 of these days to one Intergalactic Standard Year.

Why 299,776?— Or 86,400?— Or 365?

Tradition, says the historian, begging the question. Because of certain and various mysterious numerical relationships, say the mystics, cultists, numerologists, metaphysicists. Because the original home-planet of humanity had certain natural periods of rotation and revolution from which those relationships could be derived, say a very few.

No one really knew.

Nevertheless, the date on which the Foundation cruiser the Hober Mallow met the Kalganian squadron headed by the Fearless, and, upon refusing to allow a search party to board, was blasted into smoldering wreckage was 185; 11692 G.E. That is, it was the 185th day of the 11,692nd year of the Galactic Era which dated from the accession of the first Emperor of the traditional Kamble dynasty. It was also 185; 455 S.E.—dating from the birth of Seldon—or 185; 376 F.E.—dating from the establishment of the Foundation. On Kalgan it was 185; 76 F.C.—dating from the establishment of the First Citizenship by the Mule. In each case, of course, for convenience, the year was so arranged as to yield the same day number regardless of the actual day upon which the era began.

And, in addition to all the millions of worlds of the Galaxy, there were millions of local times, based on the motions of their own particular heavenly neighbors.

But whichever you choose: 185; 11692-455-376-76—or anything—it was this day which historians later pointed to when they spoke of the start of the Stettinian war.

Yet to Dr. Darell, it was none of these at all. It was simply and quite precisely the thirty-second day since Arcadia had left Terminus.

What it cost Darell to maintain stolidity through these days was not obvious to everyone.

But Elvett Semic thought he could guess. He was an old man and fond of saying that his neuronic sheaths had calcified to the point where his thinking processes were stiff and unwieldy. He invited and almost welcomed the universal underestimation of his decaying powers by being the first to laugh at them. But his eyes were none the less seeing for being faded; his mind none the less experienced and wise for being no longer agile.

He merely twisted his pinched lips and said, “Why don’t you do something about it?”

The sound was a physical jar to Darell, under which he winced. He said, gruffly, “Where were we?”

Semic regarded him with grave eyes. “You’d better do something about the girl.” His sparse, yellow teeth showed in a mouth that was open in inquiry.

But Darell replied coldly, “The question is: Can you get a Symes-Molff Resonator in the range required?”

“Well, I said I could and you weren’t listening—”

“I’m sorry, Elvett. It’s like this. What we’re doing now can be more important to everyone in the Galaxy than the question of whether Arcadia is safe. At least, to everyone but Arcadia and myself, and I’m willing to go along with the majority. How big would the Resonator be?”

Semic looked doubtful, “I don’t know. You can find it somewheres in the catalogues.”

“About how big? A ton? A pound? A block long?”

“Oh, I thought you meant exactly. It’s a little jigger.” He indicated the first joint of his thumb. “About that.”

“All right, can you do something like this?” He sketched rapidly on the pad he held in his lap, then passed it over to the old physicist, who peered at it doubtfully, then chuckled.

“Y’know, the brain gets calcified when you get as old as I am. What are you trying to do?”

Darell hesitated. He longed desperately, at the moment, for the physical knowledge locked in the other’s brain, so that he need not put his thought into words. But the longing was useless, and he explained.

Semic was shaking his head. “You’d need hyper-relays. The only things that would work fast enough. A thundering lot of them.”

“But it can be built?”

“Well, sure.”

“Can you get all the parts? I mean, without causing comment? In line with your general work.”