Semic lifted his upper lip. “Can’t get fifty hyper-relays. I wouldn’t use that many in my whole life.”
“We’re on a defense project, now. Can’t you think of something harmless that would use them? We’ve got the money.”
“Hm-m-m. Maybe I can think of something.”
“How small can you make the whole gadget?”
“Hyper-relays can be had micro-size .?.?. wiring .?.?. chips—Space, you’ve got a few hundred circuits there.”
“I know. How big?”
Semic indicated with his hands.
“Too big,” said Darell. “I’ve got to swing it from my belt.”
Slowly, he was crumpling his sketch into a tight ball. When it was a hard, yellow grape, he dropped it into the ash tray and it was gone with the tiny white flare of molecular decomposition.
He said, “Who’s at your door?”
Semic leaned over his desk to the little milky screen above the door signal. He said, “The young fellow, Anthor. Someone with him, too.”
Darell scraped his chair back. “Nothing about this, Semic, to the others yet. It’s deadly knowledge, if
Pelleas Anthor was a pulsing vortex of activity in Semic’s office, which, somehow, managed to partake of the age of its occupant. In the slow turgor of the quiet room, the loose, summery sleeves of Anthor’s tunic seemed still a-quiver with the outer breezes.
He said, “Dr. Darell, Dr. Semic—Orum Dirige.”
The other man was tall. A long straight nose that lent his thin face a saturnine appearance. Dr. Darell held out a hand.
Anthor smiled slightly. “Police Lieutenant Dirige,” he amplified. Then, significantly, “Of Kalgan.”
And Darell turned to stare with force at the young man. “Police Lieutenant Dirige of Kalgan,” he repeated, distinctly. “And you bring him here. Why?”
“Because he was the last man on Kalgan to see your daughter. Hold, man.”
Anthor’s look of triumph was suddenly one of concern, and he was between the two, struggling violently with Darell. Slowly, and not gently, he forced the older man back into the chair.
“What are you trying to do?” Anthor brushed a lock of brown hair from his forehead, tossed a hip lightly upon the desk, and swung a leg, thoughtfully. “I thought I was bringing you good news.”
Darell addressed the policeman directly. “What does he mean by calling you the last man to see my daughter? Is my daughter dead? Please tell me without preliminary.” His face was white with apprehension.
Lieutenant Dirige said expressionlessly, “?‘Last man on Kalgan’ was the phrase. She’s not on Kalgan now. I have no knowledge past that.”
“Here,” broke in Anthor, “let me put it straight. Sorry if I overplayed the drama a bit, doc. You’re so inhuman about this, I forget you have feelings. In the first place, Lieutenant Dirige is one of us. He was born on Kalgan, but his father was a Foundation man brought to that planet in the service of the Mule. I answer for the lieutenant’s loyalty to the Foundation.
“Now I was in touch with him the day after we stopped getting the daily report from Munn—”
“Why?” broke in Darell, fiercely. “I thought it was quite decided that we were not to make a move in the matter. You were risking their lives and ours.”
“Because,” was the equally fierce retort, “I’ve been involved in this game for longer than you. Because I know of certain contacts on Kalgan of which you know nothing. Because I act from deeper knowledge, do you understand?”
“I think you’re completely mad.”
“Will you listen?”
A pause, and Darell’s eyes dropped.
Anthor’s lips quirked into a half smile. “All right, doc. Give me a few minutes. Tell him, Dirige.”
Dirige spoke easily: “As far as I know, Dr. Darell, your daughter is at Trantor. At least, she had a ticket to Trantor at the Eastern Spaceport. She was with a trading representative from that planet who claimed she was his niece. Your daughter seems to have a queer collection of relatives, doctor. That was the second uncle she had in a period of two weeks, eh? The Trantorian even tried to bribe me—probably thinks that’s why they got away.” He smiled grimly at the thought.
“How was she?”
“Unharmed, as far as I could see. Frightened. I don’t blame her for that. The whole department was after her. I still don’t know why.”
Darell drew a breath for what seemed the first time in several minutes. He was conscious of the trembling of his hands and controlled them with an effort. “Then she’s all right. This trading representative, who was he? Go back to him. What part does he play in it?”
“
“I lived there once.”
“It’s an agricultural world, now. Exports animal fodder and grains, mostly. High quality! They sell them all over the Galaxy. There are a dozen or two farm co-operatives on the planet and each has its representatives overseas. Shrewd sons of guns, too—I knew this one’s record. He’d been on Kalgan before, usually with his wife. Perfectly honest. Perfectly harmless.”
“Um-m-m,” said Anthor. “Arcadia was born on Trantor, wasn’t she, doc?”
Darell nodded.
“It hangs together, you see. She wanted to go away—quickly and far—and Trantor would suggest itself. Don’t
Darell said: “Why not back here?”
“Perhaps she was being pursued and felt that she had to double off in a new angle, eh?”
Dr. Darell lacked the heart to question further. Well, then, let her be safe on Trantor, or as safe as one could be anywhere in this dark and horrible Galaxy. He groped toward the door, felt Anthor’s light touch on his sleeve, and stopped, but did not turn.
“Mind if I go home with you, doc?”
“You’re welcome,” was the automatic response.
By evening, the exteriormost reaches of Dr. Darell’s personality, the ones that made immediate contact with other people, had solidified once more. He had refused to eat his evening meal and had, instead, with feverish insistence, returned to the inchwise advance into the intricate mathematics of encephalographic analysis.
It was not till nearly midnight that he entered the living room again.
Pelleas Anthor was still there, twiddling at the controls of the video. The footsteps behind him caused him to glance over his shoulder.
“Hi. Aren’t you in bed yet? I’ve been spending hours on the video, trying to get something other than bulletins. It seems the
“Really? What do they suspect?”
“What do you think? Kalganian skulduggery? There are reports that Kalganian vessels were sighted in the general space sector in which the
Darell shrugged, and Anthor rubbed his forehead doubtfully.
“Look, doc,” he said, “why don’t you go to Trantor?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you’re no good to us here. You’re not yourself. You can’t be. And you could accomplish a purpose by going to Trantor, too. The old Imperial Library with the complete records of the Proceedings of the Seldon Commission are there—”
“No! The Library has been picked clean and it hasn’t helped anyone.”
“It helped Ebling Mis once.”
