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ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 5 page

Now through the midst of the chatter, Mis shook himself to active life. “Here,” he said, “here, Magnifico, would you like to do that same thing for others?”

For a moment, the clown drew back. “For others?” he quavered.

“For thousands,” cried Mis, “in the great Halls of the Foundation. Would you like to be your own master, and honored by all, wealthy, and... and—” his imagination failed him. “And all that? Eh? What do you say?”

“But how may I be all that, mighty sir, for indeed I am but a poor clown ungiven to the great things of the world?”

The psychologist puffed out his lips, and passed the back of his hand across his brow. He said, “But your playing, man. The world is yours if you would play so for the mayor and his Trading Trusts. Wouldn't you like that?”

The clown glanced briefly at Bayta, “Would she stay with me?”

Bayta laughed, “Of course, silly. Would it be likely that I'd leave you now that you're on the point of becoming rich and famous?”

“It would all be yours,” he replied earnestly, “and surely the wealth of Galaxy itself would be yours before I could repay my debt to your kindness.”

“But,” said Mis, casually, “if you would first help me—”

“What is that?”

The psychologist paused, and smiled, “A little surface probe that doesn't hurt. It wouldn't touch but the peel of your brain.”

There was a flare of deadly fear in Magnifico's eyes. “Not a probe. I have seen it used. It drains the mind and leaves an empty skull. The Mule did use it upon traitors and let them wander mindless through the streets, until out of mercy, they were killed.” He held up his hand to push Mis away.

“That was a psychic probe,” explained Mis, patiently, “and even that would only harm a person when misused. This probe I have is a surface probe that wouldn't hurt a baby. “

“That's right, Magnifico,” urged Bayta. “It's only to help beat the Mule and keep him far away. Once that's done, you and I will be rich and famous all our lives.”

Magnifico held out a trembling hand, “Will you hold my hand, then?”

Bayta took it in both her own, and the clown watched the approach of the burnished terminal plates with large eyes.

Ebling Mis rested carelessly on the too-lavish chair in Mayor Indbur's private quarters, unregenerately unthankful for the condescension shown him and watched the small mayor's fidgeting unsympathetically. He tossed away a cigar stub and spat out a shred of tobacco.

“And, incidentally, if you want something for your next concert at Mallow Hall, Indbur,” he said, “you can dump out those electronic gadgeteers into the sewers they came from and have this little freak play the Visi-Sonor for you. Indbur—it's out of this world.”

Indbur said peevishly, “I did not call you here to listen to your lectures on music. What of the Mule? Tell me that. What of the Mule?”

“The Mule? Well, I'll tell you—I used a surface probe and got little. Can't use the psychic probe because the freak is scared blind of it, so that his resistance will probably blow his unprintable mental fuses as soon as contact is made. But this is what I've got, if you'll just stop tapping your fingernails—



“First place, de-stress the Mule's physical strength. He's probably strong, but most of the freak's fairy tales about it are probably considerably blown up by his own fearful memory, He wears queer glasses and his eyes kill, he evidently has mental powers.”

“So much we had at the start,” commented the mayor, sourly.

“Then the probe confirms it, and from there on I've been working mathematically.”

“So? And how long will all this take? Your word-rattling will deafen me yet.”

“About a month, I should say, and I may have something for you. And I may not, of course. But what of it? If this is all outside Seldon's plans, our chances are precious little, unprintable little.”

Indbur whirled on the psychologist fiercely, “Now I have you, traitor. Lie! Say you're not one of these criminal rumormongers that are spreading defeatism and panic through the Foundation, and making my work doubly hard.”

“I? I?” Mis gathered anger slowly.

Indbur swore at him, “Because by the dust-clouds of space, the Foundation will win—the Foundation must win.”

“Despite the loss at Horleggor?”

“It was not a loss. You have swallowed that spreading lie, too? We were outnumbered and betreasoned—”

“By whom?” demanded Mis, contemptuously.

“By the lice-ridden democrats of the gutter,” shouted Indbur back at him. “I have known for long that the fleet has been riddled by democratic cells. Most have been wiped out, but enough remain for the unexplained surrender of twenty ships in the thickest of the swarming fight. Enough to force an apparent defeat.

“For that matter, my rough-tongued, simple patriot and epitome of the primitive virtues, what are your own connections with the democrats?”

Ebling Mis shrugged it off, “You rave, do you know that? What of the retreat since, and the loss of half of Siwenna? Democrats again?”

“No. Not democrats,” the little man smiled sharply. “We retreat—as the Foundation has always retreated under attack, until the inevitable march of history turns with us. Already, I see the outcome. Already, the so-called underground of the democrats has issued manifestoes swearing aid and allegiance to the Government. It could be a feint, a cover for a deeper treachery, but I make good use of it, and the propaganda distilled from it will have its effect, whatever the crawling traitors scheme. And better than that—”

“Even better than that, Indbur?”

“Judge for yourself. Two days ago, the so-called Association of Independent Traders declared war on the Mule, and the Foundation fleet is strengthened, at a stroke, by a thousand ships. You see, this Mule goes too far. He finds us divided and quarreling among ourselves and under the pressure of his attack we unite and grow strong. He must lose. It is inevitable—as always.”

Mis still exuded skepticism, “Then you tell me that Seldon planned even for the fortuitous occurrence of a mutant.”

“A mutant! I can't tell him from a human, nor could you but for the ravings of a rebel captain, some outland youngsters, and an addled juggler and clown. You forget the most conclusive evidence of all—your own.”

“My own?” For just a moment, Mis was startled.

“Your own,” sneered the mayor. “The Time Vault opens in nine weeks. What of that? It opens for a crisis. If this attack of the Mule is not the crisis, where is the 'real' one, the one the Vault is opening for? Answer me, you lardish ball.”

The psychologist shrugged, “All tight. If it keeps you happy. Do me a favor, though. Just in case... just in case old Seldon makes his speech and it does go sour, suppose you let me attend the Grand Opening.”

“All right. Get out of here. And stay out of my sight for nine weeks.”

“With unprintable pleasure, you wizened horror,” muttered Mis to himself as he left.

 

 

18. FALL OF THE FOUNDATION

 

There was an atmosphere about the Time Vault that just missed definition in several directions at once. It was not one of decay, for it was well-lit and well-conditioned, with the color scheme of the walls lively, and the rows of fixed chairs comfortable and apparently designed for eternal use. It was not even ancient, for three centuries had left no obvious mark. There was certainly no effort at the creation of awe or reverence, for the appointments were simple and everyday—next door to bareness, in fact.

Yet after all the negatives were added and the sum disposed of, something was left—and that something centered about the glass cubicle that dominated half the room with its clear emptiness. Four times in three centuries, the living simulacrum of Hari Seldon himself had sat there and spoken. Twice he had spoken to no audience.

Through three centuries and nine generations, the old man who had seen the great days of universal empire projected himself—and still he understood more of the Galaxy of his great-ultra-great-grandchildren, than did those grandchildren themselves.

Patiently that empty cubicle waited.

The first to arrive was Mayor Indbur III, driving his ceremonial ground car through the hushed and anxious streets. Arriving with him was his own chair, higher than those that belonged there, and wider. It was placed before all the others, and Indbur dominated all but the empty glassiness before him.

The solemn official at his left bowed a reverent head. “Excellence, arrangements are completed for the widest possible sub-etheric spread for the official announcement by your excellence tonight.”

“Good. Meanwhile, special interplanetary programs concerning the Time Vault are to continue. There will, of course, be no predictions or speculations of any sort on the subject. Does popular reaction continue satisfactory?”

“Excellence, very much so. The vicious rumors prevailing of late have decreased further. Confidence is widespread.”

“Good!” He gestured the man away and adjusted his elaborate neckpiece to a nicety.

It was twenty minutes of noon!

A select group of the great props of the mayoralty—the leaders of the great Trading organizations—appeared in ones and twos with the degree of pomp appropriate to their financial status and place in mayoral favor. Each presented himself to the mayor, received a gracious word or two, took an assigned seat.

Somewhere, incongruous among the stilted ceremony of all this, Randu of Haven made his appearance and wormed his way unannounced to the mayor's seat.

“Excellence!” he muttered, and bowed.

Indbur frowned. “You have not been granted an audience. “

“Excellence, I have requested one for a week.”

“I regret that the matters of State involved in the appearance of Seldon have—”

“Excellence, I regret them, too, but I must ask you to rescind your order that the ships of the Independent Traders be distributed among the fleets of the Foundation.”

Indbur had flushed red at the interruption. “This is not the time for discussion.”

“Excellence, it is the only time,” Randu whispered urgently. “As representative of the Independent Trading Worlds, I tell you such a move can not be obeyed. It must be rescinded before Seldon solves our problem for us. Once the emergency is passed, it will be too late to conciliate and our alliance will melt away.”

Indbur stared at Randu coldly. “You realize that I am head of the Foundation armed forces? Have I the right to determine military policy or have I not?”

“Excellence, you have, but some things are inexpedient.”

“I recognize no inexpediency. It is dangerous to allow your people separate fleets in this emergency. Divided action plays into the hands of the enemy. We must unite, ambassador, militarily as well as politically.”

Randu felt his throat muscles tighten. He omitted the courtesy of the opening title. “You feet safe now that Seldon will speak, and you move against us. A month ago you were soft and yielding, when our ships defeated the Mule at Terel. I might remind you, sir, that it is the Foundation Fleet that has been defeated in open battle five times, and that the ships of the Independent Trading Worlds have won your victories for you.”

Indbur frowned dangerously, “You are no longer welcome upon Terminus, ambassador. Your return will be requested this evening. Furthermore, your connection with subversive democratic forces on Terminus will be—and has been—investigated.”

Randu replied, “When I leave, our ships will go with me. I know nothing of your democrats. I know only that your Foundation's ships have surrendered to the Mule by the treason of their high officers, not their sailors, democratic or otherwise. I tell you that twenty ships of the Foundation surrendered at Horleggor at the orders of their rear admiral, when they were unharmed and unbeaten. The rear admiral was your own close associate—he presided at the trial of my nephew when he first arrived from Kalgan. It is not the only case we know of and our ships and men will not be risked under potential traitors.

Indbur said, “You will be placed under guard upon leaving here.”

Randu walked away under the silent stares of the contemptuous coterie of the rulers of Terminus.

It was ten minutes of twelve!

Bayta and Toran had already arrived. They rose in their back seats and beckoned to Randu as he passed.

Randu smiled gently, “You are here after all. How did you work it?”

“Magnifico was our politician,” grinned Toran. “Indbur insists upon his Visi-Sonor composition based on the Time Vault, with himself, no doubt, as hero. Magnifico refused to attend without us, and there was no arguing him out of it. Ebling Mis is with us, or was. He's wandering about somewhere.” Then, with a sudden access of anxious gravity, “Why, what's wrong, uncle? You don't look well.”

Randu nodded, “I suppose not. We're in for bad times, Toran. When the Mule is disposed of, our turn will come, I'm afraid. “

A straight solemn figure in white approached, and greeted them with a stiff bow.

Bayta's dark eyes smiled, as she held out her hand, “Captain Pritcher! Are you on space duty then?”

The captain took the hand and bowed lower, “Nothing like it. Dr. Mis, I understand, has been instrumental in bringing me here, but it's only temporary. Back to home guard tomorrow. What time is it?”

It was three minutes of twelve!

Magnifico was the picture of misery and heartsick depression. His body curled up, in his eternal effort at self-effacement. His long nose was pinched at the nostrils and his large, down-slanted eyes darted uneasily about.

He clutched at Bayta's hand, and when she bent down, he whispered, “Do you suppose, my lady, that all these great ones were in the audience, perhaps, when I... when I played the Visi-Sonor?”

“Everyone, I'm sure,” Bayta assured him, and shook him gently. “And I'm sure they all think you're the most wonderful player in the Galaxy and that your concert was the greatest ever seen, so you just straighten yourself and sit correctly. We must have dignity.”

He smiled feebly at her mock-frown and unfolded his long-boned limbs slowly.

It was noon—and the glass cubicle was no longer empty.

It was doubtful that anyone had witnessed the appearance. It was a clean break; one moment not there and the next moment there.

In the cubicle was a figure in a wheelchair, old and shrunken, from whose wrinkled face bright eyes shone, and whose voice, as it turned out, was the livest thing about him. A book lay face downward in his lap, and the voice came softly.

“I am Hari Seldon!”

He spoke through a silence, thunderous in its intensity.

“I am Hari Seldon! I do not know if anyone is here at all by mere sense-perception but that is unimportant. I have few fears as yet of a breakdown in the Plan. For the first three centuries the percentage probability of nondeviation is nine-four point two.”

He paused to smile, and then said genially, “By the way, if any of you are standing, you may sit. If any would like to smoke, please do. I am not here in the flesh. I require no ceremony.

“Let us take up the problem of the moment, then. For the first time, the Foundation has been faced, or perhaps, is in the last stages of facing, civil war. Till now, the attacks from without have been adequately beaten off, and inevitably so, according to the strict laws of psychohistory. The attack at present is that of a too-undisciplined outer group of the Foundation against the too-authoritarian central government. The procedure was necessary, the result obvious.”

The dignity of the high-born audience was beginning to break. Indbur was half out of his chair.

Bayta leaned forward with troubled eyes. What was the great Seldon talking about? She had missed a few of the words—

“—that the compromise worked out is necessary in two respects. The revolt of the Independent Traders introduces an element of new uncertainty in a government perhaps grown over-confident. The element of striving is restored. Although beaten, a healthy increase of democracy—”

There were raised voices now. Whispers had ascended the scale of loudness, and the edge of panic was in them.

Bayta said in Toran's ear, “Why doesn't he talk about the Mule? The Traders never revolted.”

Toran shrugged his shoulders.

The seated figure spoke cheerfully across and through the increasing disorganization:

“—a new and firmer coalition government was the necessary and beneficial outcome of the logical civil war forced upon the Foundation. And now only the remnants of the old Empire stand in the way of further expansion, and in them, for the next few years, at any rate, is no problem. Of course, I can not reveal the nature of the next prob—”

In the complete uproar, Seldon's lips moved soundlessly.

Ebling Mis was next to Randu, face ruddy. He was shouting. “Seldon is off his rocker. He's got the wrong crisis. Were your Traders ever planning civil war?”

Randu said thinly, “We planned one, yes. We called it off in the face of the Mule.”

“Then the Mule is an added feature, unprepared for in Seldon's psychohistory. Now what's happened?”

In the sudden, frozen silence, Bayta found the cubicle once again empty. The nuclear glow of the walls was dead, the soft current of conditioned air absent.

Somewhere the sound of a shrill siren was rising and falling in the scale and Randu formed the words with his lips, “Space raid!”

And Ebling Mis held his wrist watch to his ears and shouted suddenly, “Stopped, by the “Ga-LAX-y, is there a watch in the room that is going?” His voice was a roar.

Twenty wrists went to twenty ears. And in far less than twenty seconds, it was quite certain that none were.

“Then,” said Mis, with a grim and horrible finality, “something has stopped all nuclear power in the Time Vault—and the Mule is attacking.”

Indbur's wail rose high above the noise, “Take your seats! The Mule is fifty parsecs distant.”

“He was,” shouted back Mis, “a week ago. Right now, Terminus is being bombarded.”

Bayta felt a deep depression settle softly upon her. She felt its folds tighten close and thick, until her breath forced its way only with pain past her tightened throat.

The outer noise of a gathering crowd was evident. The doors were thrown open and a harried figure entered, and spoke rapidly to Indbur, who had rushed to him.

“Excellence,” he whispered, “not a vehicle is running in the city, not a communication line to the outside is open.

The Tenth Fleet is reported defeated and the Mule's ships are outside the atmosphere. The general staff—”

Indbur crumpled, and was a collapsed figure of impotence upon the floor. In all that hall, not a voice was raised now. Even the growing crowd without was fearful, but silent, and the horror of cold panic hovered dangerously.

Indbur was raised. Wine was held to his lips. His lips moved before his eyes opened, and the word they formed was, “Surrender!”

Bayta found herself near to crying—not for sorrow or humiliation, but simply and plainly out of a vast frightened despair. Ebling Mis plucked at her sleeve. “Come, young lady—”

She was pulled out of her chair, bodily.

“We're leaving,” he said, “and take your musician with you.” The plump scientist's lips were trembling and colorless.

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, faintly. The clown shrank in horror. His eyes were glassy.

“The Mule,” he shrieked. “The Mule is coming for me.”

He thrashed wildly at her touch. Toran leaned over and brought his fist up sharply. Magnifico slumped into unconsciousness and Toran carried him out potato-sack fashion.

The next day, the ugly, battle-black ships of the Mule poured down upon the landing fields of the planet Terminus. The attacking general sped down the empty main street of Terminus City in a foreign-made ground car that ran where a whole city of atomic cars still stood useless.

The proclamation of occupation was made twenty-four hours to the minute after Seldon had appeared before the former mighty of the Foundation.

Of all the Foundation planets, only the Independent Traders still stood, and against them the power of the Mule—conqueror of the Foundation—now turned itself.

 

 

19. START OF THE SEARCH

 

The lonely planet, Haven—only planet of an only sun of a Galactic Sector that trailed raggedly off into intergalactic vacuum—was under siege.

In a strictly military sense, it was certainly under siege, since no area of space on the Galactic side further than twenty parsecs distance was outside range of the Mule's advance bases. In the four months since the shattering fall of the Foundation, Haven's communications had fallen apart like a spiderweb under the razor's edge. The ships of Haven converged inwards upon the home world, and only Haven itself was now a fighting base.

And in other respects, the siege was even closer; for the shrouds of helplessness and doom had already invaded

Bayta plodded her way down the pink-waved aisle past the rows of milky plastic-topped tables and found her seat by blind reckoning. She eased on to the high, armless chair, answered half-heard greetings mechanically, rubbed a wearily-itching eye with the back of a weary hand, and reached for her menu.

She had time to register a violent mental reaction of distaste to the pronounced presence of various cultured-fungus dishes, which were considered high delicacies at Haven, and which her Foundation taste found highly inedible—and then she was aware of the sobbing near her and looked up.

Until then, her notice of Juddee, the plain, snub-nosed, indifferent blonde at the dining unit diagonally across had been the superficial one of the nonacquaintance. And now Juddee was crying, biting woefully at a moist handkerchief, and choking back sobs until her complexion was blotched with turgid red. Her shapeless radiation-proof costume was thrown back upon her shoulders, and her transparent face shield had tumbled forward into her dessert, and there remained.

Bayta joined the three girls who were taking turns at the eternally applied and eternally inefficacious remedies of shoulder-patting, hair-smoothing, and incoherent murmuring.

“What's the matter?” she whispered.

One turned to her and shrugged a discreet, “I don't know.” Then, feeling the inadequacy of the gesture, she pulled Bayta aside.

“She's had a hard day, I guess. And she's worrying about her husband.”

“Is he on space patrol?”

“Yes”.

Bayta reached a friendly hand out to Juddee.

“Why don't you go home, Juddee?” Her voice was a cheerfully businesslike intrusion on the soft, flabby inanities that had preceded.

Juddee looked up half in resentment. “I've been out once this week already—”

“Then you'll be out twice. If you try to stay on, you know, you'll just be out three days next week—so going home now amounts to patriotism. Any of you girls work in her department? Well, then, suppose you take care of her card. Better go to the washroom first, Juddee, and get the peaches and cream back where it belongs. Go ahead! Shoo!”

Bayta returned to her seat and took up the menu again with a dismal relief. These moods were contagious. One weeping girl would have her entire department in a frenzy these nerve-torn days.

She made a distasteful decision, pressed the correct buttons at her elbow and put the menu back into its niche.

The tall, dark girl opposite her was saying, “Isn't much any of us can do except cry, is there?”

Her amazingly full lips scarcely moved, and Bayta noticed that their ends were carefully touched to exhibit that artificial, just-so half-smile that was the current last word in sophistication.

Bayta investigated the insinuating thrust contained in the words with lashed eyes and welcomed the diversion of the arrival of her lunch, as the tile-top of her unit moved inward and the food lifted. She tore the wrappings carefully off her cutlery and handled them gingerly till they cooled.

She said, “Can't you think of anything else to do, Hella?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hella. “I can!” She flicked her cigarette with a casual and expert finger-motion into the little recess provided and the tiny flash caught it before it hit shallow bottom.

“For instance,” and Hella clasped slender, well-kept hands under her chin, “I think we could make a very nice arrangement with the Mule and stop all this nonsense. But then I don't have the... uh... facilities to manage to get out of places quickly when the Mule takes over.”

Bayta's clear forehead remained clear. Her voice was light and indifferent. “You don't happen to have a brother or husband in the fighting ships, do you?”

“No. All the more credit that I see no reason for the sacrifice of the brothers and husbands of others.”

“The sacrifice will come the more surely for surrender.”

“The Foundation surrendered and is at peace. Our men are away and the Galaxy is against us.”

Bayta shrugged, and said sweetly, “I'm afraid it is the first of the pair that bothers you.” She returned to her vegetable platter and ate it with the clammy realization of the silence about her. No one in ear-shot had cared to answer Hella's cynicism.

She left quickly, after stabbing at the button which cleared her dining unit for the next shift's occupant.

A new girl, three seats away, stage-whispered to Hella, “Who was she?”

Hella's mobile lips curled in indifference. “She's our coordinator's niece. Didn't you know that?”

“Yes?” Her eyes sought out the last glimpse of disappearing back. “What's she doing here?”

“Just an assembly girl. Don't you know it's fashionable to be patriotic? It's all so democratic, it makes me retch.”

“Now, Hella,” said the plump girl to her right. “She's never pulled her uncle on us yet. Why don't you lay off?”

Hella ignored her neighbor with a glazed sweep of eyes and lit another cigarette.

The new girl was listening to the chatter of the bright-eyed accountant opposite. The words were coming quickly,

“—and she's supposed to have been in the Vault—actually in the Vault, you know—when Seldon spoke—and they say the mayor was in frothing furies and there were riots, and all of that sort of thing, you know. She got away before the Mule landed, and they say she had the most tha-rilling escape—had to go through the blockade, and all—and I do wonder she doesn't write a book about it, these war books being so popular these days, you know. And she was supposed to be on this world of the Mule's, too—Kalgan, you know—and—”

The time bell shrilled and the dining room emptied slowly. The accountant's voice buzzed on, and the new girl interrupted only with the conventional and wide-eyed, “Really-y-y-y?” at appropriate points.

The huge cave lights were being shielded group-wise in the gradual descent towards the darkness that meant sleep for the righteous and hard-working, when Bayta returned home.

Toran met her at the door, with a slice of buttered bread in his hand.

“Where've you been?” he asked, food-muffled. Then, more clearly, “I've got a dinner of sorts rassled up. If it isn't much, don't blame me.”

But she was circling him, wide-eyed. “Torie! Where's your uniform? What are you doing in civvies?”

“Orders, Bay. Randu is holed up with Ebling Mis right now, and what it's all about, I don't know. So there you have everything.”

“Am I going?” She moved towards him impulsively.

He kissed her before he answered, “I believe so. It will probably be dangerous.”

“What isn't dangerous?”

“Exactly. Oh, yes, and I've already sent for Magnifico, so he's probably coming too.”

“You mean his concert at the Engine Factory will have to be cancelled.”

“Obviously.”

Bayta passed into the next room and sat down to a meal that definitely bore signs of having been “rassled-up.” She cut the sandwiches in two with quick efficiency and said:

“That's too bad about the concert. The girls at the factory were looking forward to it. Magnifico, too, for that matter.” She shook her head. “He's such a queer thing.”

“Stirs your mother-complex, Bay, that's what he does. Some day we'll have a baby, and then you'll forget Magnifico.”

'Bayta answered from the depths of her sandwich, “Strikes me that you're all the stirring my mother-complex can stand.”

And then she laid the sandwich down, and was gravely serious in a moment.

“Torie.”

“M-m-m?”

“Torie, I was at City Hall today—at the Bureau of Production. That is why I was so late today.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Well...” she hesitated, uncertainly. “It's been building up. I was getting so I couldn't stand it at the factory. Morale just doesn't exist. The girls go on crying jags for no particular reason. Those who don't get sick become sullen. Even the little mousie types pout. In my particular section, production isn't a quarter what it was when I came, and there isn't a day that we have a full roster of workers.”


Date: 2016-04-22; view: 527


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