“Then you think we’re going to win the war?”
“Sure bet; now that we aren’t retreating. Even if things got too bad, that’s when I’d expect the Second Foundation to step in. We still got the Seldon Plan—and they know it, too.”
Turbor’s lips curled a bit. “You’re counting on the Second Foundation, then?”
The answer came with honest surprise. “Well, doesn’t everyone?”
Junior Officer Tippellum stepped into Turbor’s room after the visicast. He shoved a cigarette at the correspondent and knocked his cap back to a perilous balance on the occiput.
“We picked up a prisoner,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Little crazy fellow. Claims to be a neutral—diplomatic immunity, no less. I don’t think they know what to do with him. His name’s Palvro, Palver, something like that, and he says he’s from Trantor. Don’t know what in Space he’s doing in a war zone.”
But Turbor had swung to a sitting position on his bunk and the nap he had been about to take was forgotten. He remembered quite well his last interview with Darell, the day after war had been declared and he was shoving off.
“Preem Palver,” he said. It was a statement.
Tippellum paused and let the smoke trickle out the sides of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, “how in Space did you know?”
“Never mind. Can I see him?”
“Space, I can’t say. The old man has him in his own room for questioning. Everyone figures he’s a spy.”
“You tell the old man that I know him, if he’s who he claims he is. I’ll take the responsibility.”
Captain Dixyl on the flagship of the Third Fleet watched unremittingly at the Grand Detector. No ship could avoid being a source of nuclear radiation—not even if it were lying an inert mass—and each focal point of such radiation was a little sparkle in the three-dimensional field.
Each one of the Foundation’s ships were accounted for and no sparkle was left over, now that the little spy who claimed to be a neutral had been picked up. For a while, that outside ship had created a stir in the captain’s quarters. The tactics might have needed changing on short notice. As it was—
“Are you sure you have it?” he asked.
Commander Cenn nodded. “I will take my squadron through hyperspace: radius, 10.00 parsecs; theta, 268.52 degrees; phi, 84.15 degrees. Return to origin at 1330. Total absence 11.83 hours.”
“Right. Now we are going to count on pinpoint return as regards both space and time. Understand?”
“Yes, captain.” He looked at his wristwatch, “My ships will be ready by 0140.”
“Good,” said Captain Dixyl.
The Kalganian squadron was not within detector range now, but they would be soon. There was independent information to that effect. Without Cenn’s squadron the Foundation forces would be badly outnumbered, but the captain was quite confident. Quite confident.
Preem Palver looked sadly about him. First at the tall, skinny admiral; then at the others, everyone in uniform; and now at this last one, big and stout, with his collar open and no tie—not like the rest—who said he wanted to speak to him.
Jole Turbor was saying: “I am perfectly aware, admiral, of the serious possibilities involved here, but I tell you that if I can be allowed to speak to him for a few minutes, I may be able to settle the current uncertainty.”
“Is there any reason why you can’t question him before me?”
Turbor pursed his lips and looked stubborn. “Admiral,” he said, “while I have been attached to your ships, the Third Fleet has received an excellent press. You may station men outside the door, if you like, and you may return in five minutes. But, meanwhile, humor me a bit, and your public relations will not suffer. Do you understand me?”
He did.
Then Turbor, in the isolation that followed, turned to Palver, and said, “Quickly—what is the name of the girl you abducted?”
And Palver could simply stare round-eyed, and shake his head.
“No nonsense,” said Turbor. “If you do not answer, you will be a spy and spies are blasted without trial in wartime.”
“Arcadia Darell!” gasped Palver.
“Well! All right, then. Is she safe?”
Palver nodded.
“You had better be sure of that, or it won’t be well for you.”
“She is in good health, perfectly safe,” said Palver, palely.
The admiral returned, “Well?”
“The man, sir, is not a spy. You may believe what he tells you. I vouch for him.”
“That so?” The admiral frowned. “Then he represents an agricultural co-operative on Trantor that wants to make a trade treaty with Terminus for the delivery of grains and potatoes. Well, all right, but he can’t leave now.”
“Why not?” asked Palver, quickly.
“Because we’re in the middle of a battle. After it is over—assuming we’re still alive—we’ll take you to Terminus.”
The Kalganian fleet that spanned through space detected the Foundation ships from an incredible distance and were themselves detected. Like little fireflies in each other’s Grand Detectors, they closed in across the emptiness.
And the Foundation’s admiral frowned and said, “This must be their main push. Look at the numbers.” Then, “They won’t stand up before us, though; not if Cenn’s detachment can be counted on.”
Commander Cenn had left hours before—at the first detection of the coming enemy. There was no way of altering the plan now. It worked or it didn’t, but the admiral felt quite comfortable. As did the officers. As did the men.
Again watch the fireflies.
Like a deadly ballet dance, in precise formations, they sparked.
The Foundation fleet edged slowly backwards. Hours passed and the fleet veered slowly off, teasing the advancing enemy slightly off course, then more so.
In the minds of the dictators of the battle plan, there was a certain volume of space that must be occupied by the Kalganian ships. Out from that volume crept the Foundationers; into it slipped the Kalganians. Those that passed out again were attacked, suddenly and fiercely. Those that stayed within were not touched.
It all depended on the reluctance of the ships of Lord Stettin to take the initiative themselves—on their willingness to remain where none attacked.
Captain Dixyl stared frigidly at his wristwatch. It was 1310.
“We’ve got twenty minutes,” he said.
The lieutenant at his side nodded tensely, “It looks all right so far, captain. We’ve got more than ninety percent of them boxed. If we can keep them that way—”
“Yes! If—”
The Foundation ships were drifting forward again—very slowly. Not quick enough to urge a Kalganian retreat and just quickly enough to discourage a Kalganian advance. They preferred to wait.
And the minutes passed.
At 1325, the admiral’s buzzer sounded in seventy-five ships of the Foundation’s line, and they built up to a maximum acceleration toward the front-plane of the Kalganian fleet, itself three hundred strong. Kalganian shields flared into action, and the vast energy beams flicked out. Every one of the three hundred concentrated in the same direction, toward their mad attackers who bore down relentlessly, uncaringly and—
At 1330, fifty ships under Commander Cenn appeared from nowhere, in one single bound through hyperspace to a calculated spot at a calculated time—and were spaced in tearing fury at the unprepared Kalganian rear.
The trap worked perfectly.
The Kalganians still had numbers on their side, but they were in no mood to count. Their first effort was to escape and the formation once broken was only the more vulnerable, as the enemy ships bumbled into one another’s path.
After a while, it took on the proportions of a rat hunt.
Of three hundred Kalganian ships, the core and pride of their fleet, some sixty or less, many in a state of near-hopeless disrepair, reached Kalgan once more. The Foundation loss was eight ships o
ut of a total of one hundred twenty-five. It was the third day of the new year of 377.
Preem Palver landed on Terminus at the height of the celebration. He found the furor distracting, but before he left the planet, he had accomplished two things, and received one request.
The two things accomplished were: 1) the conclusion of an agreement whereby Palver’s co-operative was to deliver twenty shiploads of certain foodstuffs per month for the next year at a war price, without, thanks to the recent battle, a corresponding war risk, and 2) the transfer to Dr. Darell of Arcadia’s five short words.
For a startled moment, Darell had stared wide-eyed at him, and then he had made his request. It was to carry an answer back to Arcadia. Palver liked it; it was a simple answer and made sense. It was: “Come back now. There won’t be any danger.”
Lord Stettin was in raging frustration. To watch his every weapon break in his hands; to feel the firm fabric of his military might part like the rotten thread it suddenly turned out to be—would have turned phlegmaticism itself into flowing lava. And yet he was helpless, and knew it.
He hadn’t really slept well in weeks. He hadn’t shaved in three days. He had canceled all audiences. His admirals were left to themselves and none knew better than the Lord of Kalgan that very little time and no further defeats need elapse before he would have to contend with internal rebellion.
Lev Meirus, First Minister, was no help. He stood there, calm and indecently old, with his thin, nervous finger stroking, as always, the wrinkled line from nose to chin.
“Well,” shouted Stettin at him, “contribute something. We stand here defeated, do you understand? Defeated! And why? I don’t know why. There you have it. I don’t know why. Do you know why?”
“I think so,” said Meirus, calmly.
“Treason!” The word came out softly, and other words followed as softly. “You’ve known of treason, and you’ve kept quiet. You served the fool I ejected from the First Citizenship and you think you can serve whatever foul rat replaces me. If you have acted so, I will extract your entrails for it and burn them before your living eyes.”
Meirus was unmoved. “I have tried to fill you with my own doubts, not once, but many times. I have dinned it in your ears and you have preferred the advice of others because it stuffed your ego better. Matters have turned out not as I feared, but even worse. If you do not care to listen now, say so, sir, and I shall leave, and, in due course, deal with your successor, whose first act, no doubt, will be to sign a treaty of peace.”
Stettin stared at him red-eyed, enormous fists slowly clenching and unclenching. “Speak, you gray slug. Speak!”
“I have told you often, sir, that you are not the Mule. You may control ships and guns but you cannot control the minds of your subjects. Are you aware, sir, of who it is you are fighting? You fight the Foundation, which is never defeated—the Foundation, which is protected by the Seldon Plan—the Foundation, which is destined to form a new Empire.”
“There is no Plan. No longer. Munn has said so.”
“Then Munn is wrong. And if he were right, what then? You and I, sir, are not the people. The men and women of Kalgan and its subject worlds believe utterly and deeply in the Seldon Plan, as do all the inhabitants of this end of the Galaxy. Nearly four hundred years of history teach the fact that the Foundation cannot be beaten. Neither the kingdoms nor the warlords nor the old Galactic Empire itself could do it.”
“The Mule did it.”
“Exactly, and he was beyond calculation—and you are not. What is worse, the people know that you are not. So your ships go into battle fearing defeat in some unknown way. The insubstantial fabric of the Plan hangs over them so that they are cautious and look before they attack and wonder a little too much. While on the other side, that same insubstantial fabric fills the enemy with confidence, removes fear, maintains morale in the face of early defeats. Why not? The Foundation has always been defeated at first and has always won in the end.
“And your own morale, sir? You stand everywhere on enemy territory. Your own dominions have not been invaded; are still not in danger of invasion—yet you are defeated. You don’t believe in the possibility, even, of victory, because you know there is none.
“Stoop, then, or you will be beaten to your knees. Stoop voluntarily, and you may save a remnant. You have depended on metal and power and they have sustained you as far as they could. You have ignored mind and morale and they have failed you. Now, take my advice. You have the Foundation man, Homir Munn. Release him. Send him back to Terminus and he will carry your peace offers.”
Stettin’s teeth ground behind his pale, set lips. But what choice had he?
On the eighth day of the new year, Homir Munn left Kalgan again. More than six months had passed since he had left Terminus and in the interim, a war had raged and reached its climax.
He had come alone, but he left escorted. He had come a simple man of private life; he left the unappointed but nevertheless, actual, ambassador of peace.
And what had most changed was his early concern over the Second Foundation. He laughed at the thought of that: and pictured in luxuriant detail the final revelation to Dr. Darell, to that energetic, young competent, Anthor, to all of them—
He knew. He, Homir Munn, finally knew the truth.
20
“I KNOW . . .”
The final two months of the Kalganian war did not lag for Homir. In his unusual office as Mediator Extraordinary, he found himself the center of interstellar affairs, a role he could not help but find pleasing.
There were no further major battles—a few accidental skirmishes that could scarcely count—and the terms of the treaty were hammered out with little necessity for concessions on the part of the Foundation. Stettin retained his office, but scarcely anything else. His navy was dismantled; his possessions outside the home system itself made autonomous and allowed to vote for return to previous status, full independence or confederation within the Foundation, as they chose.
The war was formally ended on an asteroid in Terminus’ own stellar system; site of the Foundation’s oldest naval base. Lev Meirus signed for Kalgan, and Homir was an interested spectator.
Throughout all that period he did not see Dr. Darell, nor any of the others. But it scarcely mattered. His news would keep—and, as always, he smiled at the thought.
Dr. Darell returned to Terminus some weeks after VK day, 62;377, and that same evening, his house served as the meeting place for the five men who, ten months earlier, had laid their first plans.
They lingered over dinner and then over wine as though hesitating to return again to the old subject.
It was Jole Turbor, who, peering steadily into the purple depths of the wineglass with one eye, muttered, rather than said, “Well, Homir, you are a man of affairs now, I see. You handled matters well.”
“I?” Munn laughed loudly and joyously. For some reason, he had not stuttered in months. “I hadn’t a thing to do with it. It was Arcadia. By the by, Darell, how is she? She’s coming back from Trantor, I heard?”
“You heard correctly,” said Darell, quietly. “Her ship should dock within the week.” He looked, with veiled eyes, at the others, but there were only confused, amorphous exclamations of pleasure. Nothing else.
Turbor said, “Then it’s over, really. Who would have predicted all this last spring? Munn’s been to Kalgan and back. Arcadia’s been to Kalgan and Trantor and is coming back. We’ve had a war and won it, by Space. They tell you that the vast sweeps of history can be predicted, but doesn’t it seem conceivable that all that has just happened, with its absolute confusion to those of us who lived through it, couldn’t possibly have been predicted?”
“Nonsense,” said Anthor, acidly. “What makes you so triumphant, anyway? You talk as though we have really won a war, when actually we have won nothing but a petty brawl which has served only to distract our minds from the real enemy.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, in which only Homir Munn’s
slight smile struck a discordant note.
And Anthor struck the arm of his chair with a balled and fury-filled fist, “Yes, I refer to the Second Foundation. There is no mention of it and, if I judge correctly, every effort to have no thought of it. Is it because the fallacious atmosphere of victory that palls over this world of idiots is so attractive that you feel you must participate? Turn somersaults then, handspring your way into a wall, pound one another’s back and throw confetti out the window. Do whatever you please, only get it out of your system—and when you are quite done and you are yourselves again, return and let us discuss that problem which exists now precisely as it did last spring when you sat here with eyes cocked over your shoulders for fear of you knew not what. Do you really think that the Mind-masters of the Second Foundation are less to be feared because you have beat down a foolish wielder of spaceships?”
He paused, red-faced and panting.
Munn said quietly, “Will you hear me speak now, Anthor? Or do you prefer to continue your role as ranting conspirator?”
“Have your say, Homir,” said Darell, “but let’s all of us refrain from over-picturesqueness of language. It’s a very good thing in its place, but at present, it bores me.”
Homir Munn leaned back in his armchair and carefully refilled his glass from the decanter at his elbow.
“I was sent to Kalgan,” he said, “to find out what I could from the records contained in the Mule’s palace. I spent several months doing so. I seek no credit for that accomplishment. As I have indicated, it was Arcadia whose ingenuous intermeddling obtained the entry for me. Nevertheless, the fact remains that to my original knowledge of the Mule’s life and times, which, I submit, was not small, I have added the fruits of much labor among primary evidence which has been available to no one else.