Second Foundation. Айзек Азимов
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‘Shall they then go to our neighbours?’ Narovi purpled past the crimson induced by the cold and his arms in their sleek fur covering lunged out and seized the woman’s brawny shoulders.
‘Wife of my soul,’ he purred, ‘you will take the two chairs from our room downstairs; you will see that a fat youngling is slaughtered and roasted with tubers; you will bake a fresh hoecake. I go now to greet these men of power from outer space … and … and—’ He paused, placed his great cap awry, and scratched hesitantly. ‘Yes, I shall bring my jug of brewed grain as well. Hearty drink is pleasant.’
The woman’s mouth had flapped idly during this speech. Nothing came out. And when that stage passed, it was only a discordant screech that issued.
Narovi lifted a finger, ‘Old woman, what was it the village Elders said a se’nnight since? Eh? Stir your memory. The Elders went from farm to farm – themselves! Imagine the importance of it! – to ask us that should any ships from outer space land, they were to be informed immediately on the orders of the governor.
‘And now shall I not seize the opportunity to win into the good graces of those in power? Regard that ship. Have you ever seen its like? These men from the outer world are rich, great. The governor himself sends such urgent messages concerning them that the Elders walk from farm to farm in the cooling weather. Perhaps the message is sent throughout all Rossem that these men are greatly desired by the Lords of Tazenda – and it is on my farm that they are landing.’
He fairly hopped for anxiety, ‘The proper hospitality now – the mention of my name to the governor – and what may not be ours?’
His wife was suddenly aware of the cold biting through her thin house-clothing. She leaped towards the door, shouting over her shoulders, ‘Leave then quickly.’
But she was speaking to a man who was even then racing towards the segment of the horizon against which the ship sank.
Neither the cold of the world, nor its bleak, empty spaces worried General Han Pritcher. Nor the poverty of their surroundings, nor the perspiring peasant himself.
What did bother him was the question of the wisdom of their tactics? He and Channis were alone here.
The ship, left in space, could take care of itself in ordinary circumstances, but still, he felt unsafe. It was Channis, of course, who was responsible for this move. He looked across at the young man and caught him winking cheerfully at the gap in the furred partition, in which a woman’s peeping eyes and gaping mouth momentarily appeared.
Channis, at least, seemed completely at ease. That fact Pritcher savoured with a vinegary satisfaction. His game had not much longer to proceed exactly as he wished it. Yet, meanwhile their wrist ultrawave sender-receivers were their only connection with the ship.
And then the peasant host smiled enormously and bobbed his head several times and said in a voice oily with respect, ‘Noble Lords, I crave leave to tell you that my eldest son – a good, worthy lad whom my poverty prevents from educating as his wisdom deserves – has informed me that the Elders will arrive soon. I trust your stay here has been as pleasant as my humble means – for I am poverty-stricken, though a hard-working, honest, and humble farmer, as anyone here will tell you – could afford.’
‘Elders?’ said Channis, lightly. ‘The chief men of the region here?’
‘So they are, Noble Lords, and honest, worthy men all of them, for our entire village is known throughout Rossem as a just and righteous spot – though living is hard and the returns of the fields and forests meagre. Perhaps you will mention to the Elders, Noble Lords, of my respect and honour for travellers and it may happen that they will request a new motor wagon for our household as the old one can scarcely creep and upon the remnant of it depends our livelihood.’
He looked humbly eager and Han Pritcher nodded with the properly aloof condescension required of the role of ‘Noble Lords’ bestowed upon them.
‘A report of your hospitality shall reach the ears of your Elders.’
Pritcher seized the next moments of isolation to speak to the apparently half-sleeping Channis.
‘I am not particularly fond of this meeting of the Elders,’ he said. ‘Have you any thoughts on the subject?’
Channis seemed surprised. ‘No. What worries you?’
‘It seems we have better things to do than to become conspicuous here.’
Channis spoke hastily, in a low monotoned voice: ‘It may be necessary to risk becoming conspicuous in our next moves. We won’t find the type of men we want, Pritcher, by simply reaching out a hand into a dark bag and groping. Men who rule by tricks of the mind need not necessarily be men in obvious power. In the first place, the psychologists of the Second Foundation are probably a very small minority of the total population, just as on your own First Foundation, the technicians and scientists formed a minority. The ordinary inhabitants are probably just that – very ordinary. The psychologists may even be well hidden, and the men in the apparently ruling position may honestly think they are the true masters. Our solution to that problem may be found here on this frozen lump of a planet.’
‘I don’t follow that at all.’
‘Why, see here, it’s obvious enough. Tazenda is probably a huge world of millions or hundreds of millions. How could we identify the psychologists among them and be able to report truly to the Mule that we have located the Second Foundation? But here, on this tiny peasant world and subject planet, all the Tazendian rulers, our host informs us, are concentrated in their chief village of Gentri. There may be only a few hundred of them there, Pritcher, and among them must be one or more of the men of the Second Foundation. We will go there eventually, but let us see the Elders first – it’s a logical step on the way.’
They drew apart easily, as their black-bearded host tumbled into the room again, obviously agitated.
‘Noble Lords, the Elders are arriving. I crave leave to beg you once more to mention a word, perhaps, on my behalf—’ He almost bent double in a paroxysm of fawning.
‘We shall certainly remember you,’ said Channis. ‘Are these your Elders?’
They apparently were. There were three.
One approached. He bowed with a dignified respect and said: ‘We are honoured. Transportation has been provided. Respected sirs, and we hope for the pleasure of your company at our Meeting Hall.’
THIRD INTERLUDE
The First Speaker gazed wistfully at the night sky. Wispy clouds scudded across the faint stargleams. Space looked actively hostile. It was cold and awful at best but now it contained that strange creature, the Mule, and the very content seemed to darken and thicken it into ominous threat.
The meeting was over. It had not been long. There had been the doubts and questionings inspired by the difficult mathematical problem of dealing with a mental mutant of uncertain makeup. All the extreme permutations had had to be considered.
Were they even yet certain? Somewhere in this region of space – within reaching distance as Galactic spaces go – was the Mule. What would he do?
It was easy enough to handle his men. They reacted – and were reacting – according to plan.
But what of the Mule himself?
The Elders of this particular region of Rossem were not exactly what one might have expected. They were not a mere extrapolation of the peasantry; older, more authoritative, less friendly.
Not at all.
The dignity that had marked them at first meeting had grown in impression