Isaac Asimov - Second Foundation

“Yes,” objected Munn, “but is there corroboration? How do these people act—I mean the ones with the plateau? Maybe it’s all a perfectly normal phenomenon.” He looked hopelessly at the others out of his somehow childlike blue eyes, but met no encouraging return.

“I leave that to Dr. Darell,” said Anthor. “Ask him how many times he’s seen this phenomenon in his general studies, or in reported cases in the literature over the past generation. Then ask him the chances of it being discovered in almost one out of every thousand cases among the categories Dr. Kleise studied.”

“I suppose that there is no doubt,” said Darell, thoughtfully, “that these are artificial mentalities. They have been tampered with. In a way, I have suspected this—”

“I know that, Dr. Darell,” said Anthor. “I also know you once worked with Dr. Kleise. I would like to know why you stopped.”

There wasn’t actually hostility in his question. Perhaps nothing more than caution; but, at any rate, it resulted in a long pause. Darell looked from one to another of his guests, then said brusquely, “Because there was no point to Kleise’s battle. He was competing with an adversary too strong for him. He was detecting what we—he and I—knew he would detect—that we were not our own masters. And I didn’t want to know! I had my self-respect. I liked to think that our Foundation was captain of its collective soul; that our forefathers had not quite fought and died for nothing. I thought it would be most simple to turn my face away as long as I was not quite sure. I didn’t need my position since the government pension awarded to my mother’s family in perpetuity would take care of my uncomplicated needs. My home laboratory would suffice to keep boredom away, and life would someday end— Then Kleise died—”

Semic showed his teeth and said: “This fellow Kleise; I don’t know him. How did he die?”

Another cut in: “He died . He thought he would. He told me half a year before that he was getting too close—”

“Now we’re too c . . . close, too, aren’t we?” suggested Munn, dry-mouthed, as his Adam’s apple jiggled.

“Yes,” said Anthor, flatly, “but we were, anyway—all of us. It’s why you’ve all been chosen. I’m Kleise’s student. Dr. Darell was his colleague. Jole Turbor has been denouncing our blind faith in the saving hand of the Second Foundation on the air, until the government shut him off—through the agency, I might mention, of a powerful financier whose brain shows what Kleise used to call the Tamper Plateau. Homir Munn has the largest home collection of Muliana—if I may use the phrase to signify collected data concerning the Mule—in existence, and has published some papers containing speculation on the nature and function of the Second Foundation. Dr. Semic has contributed as much as anyone to the mathematics of encephalographic analysis, though I don’t believe he realized that his mathematics could be so applied.”

Semic opened his eyes wide and chuckled gaspingly, “No, young fellow. I was analyzing intranuclear motions—the n-body problem, you know. I’m lost in encephalography.”

“Then we know where we stand. The government can, of course, do nothing about the matter. Whether the mayor or anyone in his administration is aware of the seriousness of the situation, I don’t know. But this I do know—we five have nothing to lose and stand to gain much. With every increase in our knowledge, we can widen ourselves in safe directions. We are but a beginning, you understand.”

“How widespread,” put in Turbor, “is this Second Foundation infiltration?”

“I don’t know. There’s a flat answer. All the infiltrations we have discovered were on the outer fringes of the nation. The capital world may yet be clean, though even that is not certain—else I would not have tested you. You were particularly suspect, Dr. Darell, since you abandoned research with Kleise. Kleise never forgave you, you know. I thought that perhaps the Second Foundation had corrupted you, but Kleise always insisted that you were a coward. You’ll forgive me, Dr. Darell, if I explain this to make my own position clear. I, personally, think I understand your attitude, and, if it was cowardice, I consider it venial.”

Darell drew a breath before replying. “I ran away! Call it what you wish. I tried to maintain our friendship, however, yet he never wrote nor called me until the day he sent me your brain-wave data, and that was scarcely a week before he died—”

“If you don’t mind,” interrupted Homir Munn, with a flash of nervous eloquence, “I d . . . don’t see what you think you’re doing. We’re a p . . . poor bunch of conspirators, if we’re just going to talk and talk and t . . . talk. And I don’t see what else we can do, anyway. This is v . . . very childish. B . . . brainwaves and mumbo jumbo and all that. Is there just one thing you intend to do ?”

Pelleas Anthor’s eyes were bright, “Yes, there is. We need more information on the Second Foundation. It’s the prime necessity. The Mule spent the first five years of his rule in just that quest for information and failed—or so we have all been led to believe. But then he stopped looking. Why? Because he failed? Or because he succeeded?”

“M . . . more talk,” said Munn, bitterly. “How are we ever to know?”

“If you’ll listen to me— The Mule’s capital was on Kalgan. Kalgan was not part of the Foundation’s commercial sphere of influence before the Mule and it is not part of it now. Kalgan is ruled, at the moment, by the man Stettin, unless there’s another palace revolution by tomorrow. Stettin calls himself First Citizen and considers himself the successor of the Mule. If there is any tradition in that world, it rests with the super-humanity and greatness of the Mule—a tradition almost superstitious in intensity. As a result, the Mule’s old palace is maintained as a shrine. No unauthorized person may enter; nothing within has ever been touched.”

“Well?”

“Well, why is that so? At times like these, nothing happens without a reason. What if it is not superstition only that makes the Mule’s palace inviolate? What if the Second Foundation has so arranged matters? In short, what if the results of the Mule’s five-year search are within—”

“Oh, p . . . poppycock.”

“Why not?” demanded Anthor. “Throughout its history the Second Foundation has hidden itself and interfered in Galactic affairs in minimal fashion only. I know that to us it would seem more logical to destroy the palace or, at the least, to remove the data. But you must consider the psychology of these master psychologists. They are Seldons; they are Mules and they work by indirection, through the mind. They would never destroy or remove when they could achieve their ends by creating a state of mind. Eh?”

No immediate answer, and Anthor continued, “And you, Munn, are just the one to get the information we need.”

“ I? ” It was an astounded yell. Munn looked from one to the other rapidly, “I can’t do such a thing. I’m no man of action; no hero of any teleview. I’m a librarian. If I can help you that way, all right, and I’ll risk the Second Foundation, but I’m not going out into space on any qu . . . quixotic thing like that.”

“Now, look,” said Anthor, patiently, “Dr. Darell and I have both agreed that you’re the man. It’s the only way to do it naturally. You say you’re a librarian. Fine! What is your main field of interest? Muliana! You already have the greatest collection of material on the Mule in the Galaxy. It is natural for you to want more; more natural for you than for anyone else. You could request entrance to the Kalgan Palace without arousing suspicion of ulterior motives. You might be refused but you would not be suspected. What’s more, you have a one-man cruiser. You’re known to have visited foreign planets during your annual vacation. You’ve even been on Kalgan before. Don’t you understand that you need only act as you always have?”