Second Foundation

The Lens was perhaps the newest feature of the interstellar cruisers of the day. Actually, it was a complicated computer which could throw on a screen a reproduction of the night sky as seen from any given point of the Galaxy.

Channis adjusted the co-ordinate points and the wall lights of the pilot room were extinguished. In the dim red light at the control board of the Lens, Channis’ face glowed ruddily. Pritcher sat in the pilot seat, long legs crossed, face lost in the gloom.

Slowly, as the induction period passed, the points of light brightened on the screen. And then they were thick and bright with the generously populated star-groupings nearer the Galaxy’s center.

“This,” explained Channis, “is the winter night sky as seen from Trantor. That is the important point that, as far as I know, has been neglected so far in your search. All intelligent orientation must start from Trantor as zero point. Trantor was the capital of the Galactic Empire. Even more so scientifically and culturally than politically. And, therefore, the significance of any descriptive name should stem, nine times out of ten, from a Trantorian orientation. You’ll remember in this connection that, although Seldon was from Helicon, toward the Periphery, his group worked on Trantor itself.”

“What is it you’re trying to show me?” Pritcher’s level voice plunged icily into the gathering enthusiasm of the other.

“The map will explain it. Do you see the dark nebula?” The shadow of his arm fell upon the screen, which took on the bespanglement of the Galaxy. The pointing finger ended on a tiny patch of black that seemed a hole in the speckled fabric of light. “The stellagraphical records call it Pellot’s Nebula. Watch it. I’m going to expand the image.”

Pritcher had watched the phenomenon of Lens Image expansion before but he still caught his breath. It was like being at the visiplate of a spaceship storming through a horribly crowded Galaxy without entering hyperspace. The stars diverged toward them from a common center, flared outwards and tumbled off the edge of the screen. Single points became double, then globular. Hazy patches dissolved into myriad points. And always that illusion of motion.

Channis spoke through it all, “You’ll notice that we are moving along the direct line from Trantor to Pellot’s Nebula, so that in effect we are still looking at a stellar orientation equivalent to that of Trantor. There is probably a slight error because of the gravitic deviation of light that I haven’t the math to calculate for, but I’m sure it can’t be significant.”

The darkness was spreading over the screen. As the rate of magnification slowed, the stars slipped off the four ends of the screen in a regretful leave-taking. At the rims of the growing Nebula, the brilliant universe of stars shone abruptly in token for that light which was merely hidden behind the swirling unradiating atom fragments of sodium and calcium that filled cubic parsecs of space.

And Channis pointed again, “This has been called ‘The Mouth’ by the inhabitants of that region of space. And that is significant because it is only from the Trantorian orientation that it looks like a mouth.” What he indicated was a rift in the body of the Nebula, shaped like a ragged, grinning mouth in profile, outlined by the blazing glory of the starlight with which it was filled.

“Follow ‘The Mouth,’?” said Channis. “Follow ‘The Mouth’ toward the gullet as it narrows down to a thin, splintering line of light.”

Again the screen expanded a trifle, until the Nebula stretched away from “The Mouth” to block off all the screen but that narrow trickle and Channis’ finger silently followed it down, to where it straggled to a halt, and then, as his finger continued moving onward, to a spot where one single star sparked lonesomely; and there his finger halted, for beyond that was blackness, unrelieved.

“?‘Star’s End,’?” said the young man, simply. “The fabric of the Nebula is thin there and the light of that one star finds its way through in just that one direction—to shine on Trantor.”

“You’re trying to tell me that—” the voice of the Mule’s general died in suspicion.

“I’m not trying. That is Tazenda—Star’s End.”

The lights went on. The Lens flicked off. Pritcher reached Channis in three long strides, “What made you think of this?”

And Channis leaned back in his chair with a queerly puzzled expression on his face. “It was accidental. I’d like to take intellectual credit for this, but it was only accidental. In any case, however it happens, it fits. According to our references, Tazenda is an oligarchy. It rules twenty-seven inhabited planets. It is not advanced scientifically. And most of all, it is an obscure world that has adhered to a strict neutrality in the local politics of that stellar region, and is not expansionist. I think we ought to see it.”

“Have you informed the Mule of this?”

“No. Nor shall we. We’re in space now, about to make the first hop.”

Pritcher, in sudden horror, sprang to the visiplate. Cold space met his eyes when he adjusted it. He gazed fixedly at the view, then turned. Automatically, his hand reached for the hard, comfortable curve of the butt of his blaster.

“By whose order?”

“By my order, general”—it was the first time Channis had ever used the other’s title—“while I was engaging you here. You probably felt no acceleration, because it came at the moment I was expanding the field of the Lens and you undoubtedly imagined it to be an illusion of the apparent star motion.”

“Why? Just what are you doing? What was the point of your nonsense about Tazenda, then?”

“That was no nonsense. I was completely serious. We’re going there. We left today because we were scheduled to leave three days from now. General, you don’t believe there is a Second Foundation, and I do. You are merely following the Mule’s orders without faith; I recognize a serious danger. The Second Foundation has now had five years to prepare. How they’ve prepared, I don’t know, but what if they have agents on Kalgan? If I carry about in my mind the knowledge of the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, they may discover that. My life might be no longer safe, and I have a great affection for my life. Even on a thin and remote possibility such as that, I would rather play safe. So no one knows of Tazenda but you, and you found out only after we were out in space. And even so, there is the question of the crew.” Channis was smiling again, ironically, in obviously complete control of the situation.

Pritcher’s hand fell away from his blaster, and for a moment a vague discomfort pierced him. What kept him from action? What deadened him? There was a time when he was a rebellious and unpromoted captain of the First Foundation’s commercial empire, when it would have been himself rather than Channis who would have taken prompt and daring action such as that. Was the Mule right? Was his controlled mind so concerned with obedience as to lose initiative? He felt a thickening despondency drive him down into a strange lassitude.

He said, “Well done! However, you will consult me in the future before making decisions of this nature.”

The flickering signal caught his attention.

“That’s the engine room,” said Channis, casually. “They warmed up on five minutes’ notice and I asked them to let me know if there was any trouble. Want to hold the fort?”

Pritcher nodded mutely, and cogitated in the sudden loneliness on the evils of approaching fifty. The visiplate was sparsely starred. The main body of the Galaxy misted one end. What if he were free of the Mule’s influence—

But he recoiled in horror at the thought.

Chief Engineer Huxlani looked sharply at the young, ununiformed man who carried himself with the assurance of a Fleet officer and seemed to be in a position of authority. Huxlani, as a regular Fleet man from the days his chin had dripped milk, generally confused authority with specific insignia.

But the Mule had appointed this man, and the Mule was, of course, the last word. The only word, for that matter. Not even subconsciously did he question that. Emotional control went deep.

He handed Channis the little oval object without a word.

Channis hefted it, and smiled engagingly.

“You’re a Foundation man, aren’t you, chief?”

“Yes, sir. I served in the Foundation Fleet eighteen years before the First Citizen took over.”

“Foundation training in engineering?”