Foundation f-3

by Isaac Asimov

  Lefkin spoke, reluctantly, with a tired voice that paused at intervals as though he were being prompted—and not gently:

  “The Anacreonian navy . . . aware of the nature of its mission . . . and refusing to be a party . . . to abominable sacrilege . . . is returning to Anacreon . . . with the following ultimatum issued . . . to those blaspheming sinners . . . who would dare to use profane force . . . against the Foundation . . . source of all blessings . . . and against the Galactic Spirit. Cease at once all war against . . . the true faith . . . and guarantee in a manner suiting us of the navy . . . as represented by our . . . priest-attendant, Theo Aporat . . . that such war will never in the future . . . be resumed, and that”—here a long pause, and then continuing—“and that the one-time prince regent, Wienis . . . be imprisoned . . . and tried before an ecclesiastical court . . . for his crimes. Otherwise the royal navy . . . upon returning to Anacreon . . . will blast the palace to the ground . . . and take whatever other measures . . . are necessary . . . to destroy the nest of sinners . . . and the den of destroyers . . . of men’s souls that now prevail.”

  The voice ended with half a sob and the screen went blank.

  Hardin’s fingers passed rapidly over the nucleo-bulb and its light faded until in the dimness, the hitherto regent, the king, and the soldiers were hazy-edged shadows; and for the first time it could be seen that an aura encompassed Hardin.

  It was not the blazing light that was the prerogative of kings, but one less spectacular, less impressive, and yet one more effective in its own way, and more useful.

  Hardin’s voice was softly ironic as he addressed the same Wienis who had one hour earlier declared him a prisoner of war and Terminus on the point of destruction, and who now was a huddled shadow, broken and silent.

  “There is an old fable,” said Hardin, “as old perhaps as humanity, for the oldest records containing it are merely copies of other records still older, that might interest you. It runs as follows:

  “A horse having a wolf as a powerful and dangerous enemy lived in constant fear of his life. Being driven to desperation, it occurred to him to seek a strong ally. Whereupon he approached a man, and offered an alliance, pointing out that the wolf was likewise an enemy of the man. The man accepted the partnership at once and offered to kill the wolf immediately, if his new partner would only co-operate by placing his greater speed at the man’s disposal. The horse was willing, and allowed the man to place bridle and saddle upon him. The man mounted, hunted down the wolf, and killed him.

  “The horse, joyful and relieved, thanked the man, and said: ‘Now that our enemy is dead, remove your bridle and saddle and restore my freedom.’

  “Whereupon the man laughed loudly and replied, ‘Never!’ and applied the spurs with a will.”

  Silence still. The shadow that was Wienis did not stir.

  Hardin continued quietly, “You see the analogy, I hope. In their anxiety to cement forever domination over their own people, the kings of the Four Kingdoms accepted the religion of science that made them divine; and that same religion of science was their bridle and saddle, for it placed the life blood of nuclear power in the hands of the priesthood—who took their orders from us, be it noted, and not from you. You killed the wolf, but could not get rid of the m—”

  Wienis sprang to his feet and in the shadows, his eyes were maddened hollows. His voice was thick, incoherent. “And yet I’ll get you. You won’t escape. You’ll rot. Let them blow us up. Let them blow everything up. You’ll rot! I’ll get you!

  “Soldiers!” he thundered, hysterically. “Shoot me down that devil. Blast him! Blast him!”

  Hardin turned about in his chair to face the soldiers and smiled. One aimed his nuclear blast and then lowered it. The others never budged. Salvor Hardin, mayor of Terminus, surrounded by that soft aura, smiling so confidently, and before whom all the power of Anacreon had crumbled to powder, was too much for them, despite the orders of the shrieking maniac just beyond.

  Wienis shouted incoherently and staggered to the nearest soldier. Wildly, he wrested the nuclear blast from the man’s hand—aimed it at Hardin, who didn’t stir, shoved the lever and held it contacted.

  The pale continuous beam impinged upon the forcefield that surrounded the mayor of Terminus and was sucked harmlessly to neutralization. Wienis pressed harder and laughed tearingly.

  Hardin still smiled and his force-field aura scarcely brightened as it absorbed the energies of the nuclear blast. From his corner Lepold covered his eyes and moaned.

  And, with a yell of despair, Wienis changed his aim and shot again—and toppled to the floor with his head blown into nothingness.

  Hardin winced at the sight and muttered, “A man of ‘direct action’ to the end. The last refuge!”

  9

  The Time Vault was filled; filled far beyond the available seating capacity, and men lined the back of the room, three deep.

  Salvor Hardin compared this large company with the few men attending the first appearance of Hari Seldon, thirty years earlier. There had only been six, then; the five old Encyclopedists—all dead now—and himself, the young figurehead of a mayor. It had been on that day, that he, with Yohan Lee’s assistance, had removed the “figurehead” stigma from his office.

  It was quite different now; different in every respect. Every man of the City Council was awaiting Seldon’s appearance. He, himself, was still mayor, but all-powerful now; and since the utter rout of Anacreon, all-popular. When he had returned from Anacreon with the news of the death of Wienis, and the new treaty signed with the trembling Lepold, he was greeted with a vote of confidence of shrieking unanimity. When this was followed in rapid order by similar treaties signed with each of the other three kingdoms—treaties that gave the Foundation powers such as would forever prevent any attempts at attack similar to that of Anacreon’s—torchlight processions had been held in every city street of Terminus. Not even Hari Seldon’s name had been more loudly cheered.

  Hardin’s lips twitched. Such popularity had been his after the first crisis also.

  Across the room, Sef Sermak and Lewis Bort were engaged in animated discussion, and recent events seemed to have put them out not at all. They had joined in the vote of confidence; made speeches in which they publicly admitted that they had been in the wrong, apologized handsomely for the use of certain phrases in earlier debates, excused themselves delicately by declaring they had merely followed the dictates of their judgment and their conscience—and immediately launched a new Actionist campaign.

  Yohan Lee touched Hardin’s sleeve and pointed significantly to his watch.

  Hardin looked up. “Hello there, Lee. Are you still sour? What’s wrong now?”

  “He’s due in five minutes, isn’t he?”

  “I presume so. He appeared at noon last time.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Are you going to wear me down with your worries all your life? If he doesn’t, he won’t.”

  Lee frowned and shook his head slowly. “If this thing flops, we’re in another mess. Without Seldon’s backing for what we’ve done, Sermak will be free to start all over. He wants outright annexation of the Four Kingdoms, and immediate expansion of the Foundation—by force, if necessary. He’s begun his campaign, already.”

  “I know. A fire eater must eat fire even if he has to kindle it himself. And you, Lee, have got to worry even if you must kill yourself to invent something to worry about.”

  Lee would have answered, but he lost his breath at just that moment—as the lights yellowed and went dim. He raised his arm to point to the glass cubicle that dominated half the room and then collapsed into a chair with a windy sigh.

  Hardin himself straightened at the sight of the figure that now filled the cubicle—a figure in a wheel chair! He alone of all those present could remember the day, decades ago, when that figure had appeared first. He had been young the
n, and the figure old. Since then, the figure had not aged a day, but he himself had in turn grown old.

  The figure stared straight ahead, hands fingering a book in its lap.

  It said, “I am Hari Seldon!” The voice was old and soft.

  There was a breathless silence in the room and Hari Seldon continued conversationally. “This is the second time I’ve been here. Of course, I don’t know if any of you were here the first time. In fact, I have no way of telling, by sense perception, that there is anyone here at all, but that doesn’t matter. If the second crisis has been overcome safely, you are bound to be here; there is no way out. If you are not here, then the second crisis has been too much for you.”

  He smiled engagingly. “I doubt that, however, for my figures show a ninety-eight point four percent probability there is to be no significant deviation from the Plan in the first eighty years.

  “According to our calculations, you have now reached domination of the barbarian kingdoms immediately surrounding the Foundation. Just as in the first crisis you held them off by use of the Balance of Power, so in the second, you gained mastery by use of the Spiritual Power as against the Temporal.

  “However, I might warn you here against overconfidence. It is not my way to grant you any foreknowledge in these recordings, but it would be safe to indicate that what you have now achieved is merely a new balance—though one in which your position is considerably better. The Spiritual Power, while sufficient to ward off attacks of the Temporal, is not sufficient to attack in turn. Because of the invariable growth of the counteracting force known as Regionalism, or Nationalism, the Spiritual Power cannot prevail. I am telling you nothing new, I’m sure.

  “You must pardon me, by the way, for speaking to you in this vague way. The terms I use are at best mere approximations, but none of you is qualified to understand the true symbology of psychohistory, and so I must do the best I can.

  “In this case, the Foundation is only at the start of the path that leads to the Second Galactic Empire. The neighboring kingdoms, in manpower and resources, are still overwhelmingly powerful as compared to yourselves. Outside them lies the vast tangled jungle of barbarism that extends around the entire breadth of the Galaxy. Within that rim there is still what is left of the Galactic Empire—and that, weakened and decaying though it is, is still incomparably mighty.”

  At this point, Hari Seldon lifted his book and opened it. His face grew solemn. “And never forget there was another Foundation established eighty years ago; a Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy, at Star’s End. They will always be there for consideration. Gentlemen, nine hundred and twenty years of the Plan stretch ahead of you. The problem is yours!”

  He dropped his eyes to his book and flicked out of existence, while the lights brightened to fullness. In the babble that followed, Lee leaned over to Hardin’s ear. “He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

  Hardin replied, “I know—but I trust he won’t return until you and I are safely and cozily dead!”

  PART IV

  THE TRADERS

  TRADERS— . . . and constantly in advance of the political hegemony of the Foundation were the Traders, reaching out tenuous fingerholds through the tremendous distances of the Periphery. Months or years might pass between landings on Terminus; their ships were often nothing more than patchquilts of home-made repairs and improvisations; their honesty was none of the highest; their daring . . .

  Through it all they forged an empire more enduring than the pseudo-religious despotism of the Four Kingdoms. . . .

  Tales without end are told of these massive, lonely figures who bore half-seriously, half-mockingly a motto adopted from one of Salvor Hardin’s epigrams, “Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right!” It is difficult now to tell which tales are real and which apocryphal. There are none probably that have not suffered some exaggeration. . . .

  ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA

  1

  Limmar Ponyets was completely a-lather when the call reached his receiver—which proves that the old bromide about telemessages and the shower holds true even in the dark, hard space of the Galactic Periphery.

  Luckily that part of a free-lance trade ship which is not given over to miscellaneous merchandise is extremely snug. So much so, that the shower, hot water included, is located in a two-by-four cubby, ten feet from the control panels. Ponyets heard the staccato rattle of the receiver quite plainly.

  Dripping suds and a growl, he stepped out to adjust the vocal, and three hours later a second trade ship was alongside, and a grinning youngster entered through the air tube between the ships.

  Ponyets rattled his best chair forward and perched himself on the pilot-swivel.

  “What’ve you been doing, Gorm?” he asked, darkly. “Chasing me all the way from the Foundation?”

  Les Gorm broke out a cigarette, and shook his head definitely, “Me? Not a chance. I’m just a sucker who happened to land on Glyptal IV the day after the mail. So they sent me out after you with this.”

  The tiny, gleaming sphere changed hands, and Gorm added, “It’s confidential. Super-secret. Can’t be trusted to the sub-ether and all that. Or so I gather. At least, it’s a Personal Capsule, and won’t open for anyone but you.”

  Ponyets regarded the capsule distastefully, “I can see that. And I never knew one of these to hold good news, either.”

  It opened in his hand and the thin, transparent tape unrolled stiffly. His eyes swept the message quickly, for when the last of the tape had emerged, the first was already brown and crinkled. In a minute and a half it had turned black and, molecule by molecule, fallen apart.

  Ponyets grunted hollowly, “Oh, Galaxy!”

  Les Gorm said quietly, “Can I help somehow? Or is it too secret?”

  “It will bear telling, since you’re of the Guild. I’ve got to go to Askone.”

  “That place? How come?”

  “They’ve imprisoned a trader. But keep it to yourself.”

  Gorm’s expression jolted into anger. “Imprisoned! That’s against the Convention.”

  “So is the interference with local politics.”

  “Oh! Is that what he did?” Gorm meditated. “Who’s the trader? Anyone I know?”

  “No!” said Ponyets sharply, and Gorm accepted the implication and asked no further questions.

  Ponyets was up and staring darkly out the visiplate. He mumbled strong expressions at that part of the misty lens-form that was the body of the Galaxy, then said loudly, “Damnedest mess! I’m way behind quota.”

  Light broke on Gorm’s intellect, “Hey, friend, Askone is a closed area.”

  “That’s right. You can’t sell as much as a penknife on Askone. They won’t buy nuclear gadgets of any sort. With my quota dead on its feet, it’s murder to go there.”

  “Can’t get out of it?”

  Ponyets shook his head absently. “I know the fellow involved. Can’t walk out on a friend. What of it? I am in the hands of the Galactic Spirit and walk cheerfully in the way he points out.”

  Gorm said blankly, “Huh?”

  Ponyets looked at him, and laughed shortly. “I forgot. You never read the ‘Book of the Spirit,’ did you?”

  “Never heard of it,” said Gorm, curtly.

  “Well, you would if you’d had a religious training.”

  “Religious training? For the priesthood?” Gorm was profoundly shocked.

  “Afraid so. It’s my dark shame and secret. I was too much for the Reverend Fathers, though. They expelled me, for reasons sufficient to promote me to a secular education under the Foundation. Well, look, I’d better push off. How’s your quota this year?”

  Gorm crushed out his cigarette and adjusted his cap. “I’ve got my last cargo going now. I’ll make it.”

  “Lucky fellow,” gloomed Ponyets, and for many minutes after Les Gorm left, he sat in motionless reverie.

  So Eskel Gorov was on Askone—and in prison as well!

 
; That was bad! In fact, considerably worse than it might appear. It was one thing to tell a curious youngster a diluted version of the business to throw him off and send him about his own. It was a thing of a different sort to face the truth.

  For Limmar Ponyets was one of the few people who happened to know that Master Trader Eskel Gorov was not a trader at all; but that entirely different thing, an agent of the Foundation!

  2

  Two weeks gone! Two weeks wasted.

  One week to reach Askone, at the extreme borders of which the vigilant warships speared out to meet him in converging numbers. Whatever their detection system was, it worked—and well.

  They sidled him in slowly, without a signal, maintaining their cold distance, and pointing him harshly towards the central sun of Askone.

  Ponyets could have handled them at a pinch. Those ships were holdovers from the dead-and-gone Galactic Empire—but they were sports cruisers, not warships; and without nuclear weapons, they were so many picturesque and impotent ellipsoids. But Eskel Gorov was a prisoner in their hands, and Gorov was not a hostage to lose. The Askonians must know that.

  And then another week—a week to wind a weary way through the clouds of minor officials that formed the buffer between the Grand Master and the outer world. Each little sub-secretary required soothing and conciliation. Each required careful and nauseating milking for the flourishing signature that was the pathway to the next official one higher up.

  For the first time, Ponyets found his trader’s identification papers useless.

  Now, at last, the Grand Master was on the other side of the guard-flanked gilded door—and two weeks had gone.