Second Foundation

Pappa looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

She scarcely listened. “I wish I could carry food to them, that’s what. You know after the Mule died, and the Foundation rebelled, Terminus was just about isolated for a time and General Han Pritcher, who succeeded the Mule for a while, was laying siege to it. Food was running awfully low and my father says that his father told him that they only had dry amino-acid concentrates that tasted terrible. Why, one egg cost two hundred credits. And then they broke the siege just in time and food ships came through from Santanni. It must have been an awful time. Probably it’s happening all over, now.”

There was a pause, and then Arcadia said, “You know, I’ll bet the Foundation would be willing to pay smuggler’s prices for food now. Double and triple and more. Gee, if any co-operative, f’r instance, here on Trantor took over the job, they might lose some ships, but I’ll bet they’d be war millionaires before it was over. The Foundation Traders in the old days used to do that all the time. There’d be a war, so they’d sell whatever was needed bad and take their chances. Golly, they used to make as much as two million credits out of one trip— profit. That was just out of what they could carry on one ship, too.”

Pappa stirred. His cigar had gone out, unnoticed. “A deal for food, huh? Hm-m-m— But the Foundation is so far away.”

“Oh, I know. I guess you couldn’t do it from here. If you took a regular liner you probably couldn’t get closer than Massena or Smushyk, and after that you’d have to hire a small scoutship or something to slip you through the lines.”

Pappa’s hand brushed at his hair, as he calculated.

Two weeks later, arrangements for the mission were completed. Mamma railed for most of the time—First, at the incurable obstinacy with which he courted suicide. Then, at the incredible obstinacy with which he refused to allow her to accompany him.

Pappa said, “Mamma, why do you act like an old lady? I can’t take you. It’s a man’s work. What do you think a war is? Fun? Child’s play?”

“Then why do you go? Are you a man, you old fool—with a leg and half an arm in the grave? Let some of the young ones go—not a fat bald-head like you.”

“I’m not a bald-head,” retorted Pappa, with dignity. “I got yet lots of hair. And why should it not be me that gets the commission? Why a young fellow? Listen, this could mean millions.”

She knew that and she subsided.

Arcadia saw him once before he left.

She said, “Are you going to Terminus?”

“Why not? You say yourself they need bread and rice and potatoes. Well, I’ll make a deal with them, and they’ll get it.”

“Well, then—just one thing: If you’re going to Terminus, could you .?.?. would you see my father?”

And Pappa’s face crinkled and seemed to melt into sympathy, “Oh—and I have to wait for you to tell me. Sure, I’ll see him. I’ll tell him you’re safe and everything’s O.K., and when the war is over, I’ll bring you back.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell you how to find him. His name is Dr. Toran Darell and he lives in Stanmark. That’s just outside Terminus City, and you can get a little commuting plane that goes there. We’re at 55 Channel Drive.”

“Wait, and I’ll write it down.”

“No, no,” Arcadia’s arm shot out. “You mustn’t write anything down. You must remember—and find him without anybody’s help.”

Pappa looked puzzled. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then. It’s 55 Channel Drive in Stanmark, outside Terminus City, and you commute there by plane. All right?”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Would you tell him something from me?”

“Sure.”

“I want to whisper it to you.”

He leaned his plump cheek toward her, and the little whispered sound passed from one to the other.

Pappa’s eyes were round. “That’s what you want me to say? But it doesn’t make sense.”

“He’ll know what you mean. Just say I sent it and that I said he would know what it means. And you say it exactly the way I told you. No different. You won’t forget it?”

“How can I forget it? Five little words. Look—”

“No, no.” She hopped up and down in the intensity of her feelings. “Don’t repeat it. Don’t ever repeat it to anyone. Forget all about it except to my father. Promise me.”

Pappa shrugged again. “I promise! All right!”

“All right,” she said, mournfully, and as he passed down the drive to where the air-taxi waited to take him to the spaceport, she wondered if she had signed his death warrant. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

She scarcely dared to walk into the house again to face the good, kind Mamma. Maybe when it was all over, she had better kill herself for what she had done to them.

19 END OF WAR

QUORISTON, BATTLE OF Fought on 1, 3, 377 F.E. between the forces of the Foundation and those of Lord Stettin of Kalgan, it was the last battle of consequence during the Interregnum.?.?.?.

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

Jole Turbor, in his new role of war correspondent, found his bulk incased in a naval uniform, and rather liked it. He enjoyed being back on the air, and some of the fierce helplessness of the futile fight against the Second Foundation left him in the excitement of another sort of fight with substantial ships and ordinary men.

To be sure, the Foundation’s fight had not been remarkable for victories, but it was still possible to be philosophic about the matter. After six months, the hard core of the Foundation was untouched, and the hard core of the Fleet was still in being. With the new additions since the start of the war, it was almost as strong numerically, and stronger technically, than before the defeat at Ifni.

And meanwhile, planetary defenses were being strengthened; the armed forces better trained; administrative efficiency was having some of the water squeezed out of it—and much of the Kalganian’s conquering fleet was being wallowed down through the necessity of occupying the “conquered” territory.

At the moment, Turbor was with the Third Fleet in the outer reaches of the Anacreonian sector. In line with his policy of making this a “little man’s war,” he was interviewing Fennel Leemor, Engineer Third Class, volunteer.

“Tell us a little about yourself, sailor,” said Turbor.

“Ain’t much to tell,” Leemor shuffled his feet and allowed a faint, bashful smile to cover his face, as though he could see all the millions that undoubtedly could see him at the moment. “I’m a Locrian. Got a job in an air-car factory; section head and good pay. I’m married; got two kids, both girls. Say, I couldn’t say hello to them, could I —in case they’re listening.”

“Go ahead, sailor. The video is all yours.”

“Gosh, thanks.” He burbled, “Hello, Milla, in case you’re listening, I’m fine. Is Sunni all right? And Tomma? I think of you all the time and maybe I’ll be back on furlough after we get back to port. I got your food parcel but I’m sending it back. We get our regular mess, but they say the civilians are a little tight. I guess that’s all.”

“I’ll look her up next time I’m on Locris, sailor, and make sure she’s not short of food. O.K.?”

The young man smiled broadly and nodded his head. “Thank you, Mr. Turbor. I’d appreciate that.”

“All right. Suppose you tell us, then— You’re a volunteer, aren’t you?”

“Sure am. If anyone picks a fight with me, I don’t have to wait for anyone to drag me in. I joined up the day I heard about the Hober Mallow.”